by Marie Harte
Praying her sweater hid the effect the stranger was having on her body, she folded her arms over her chest and tore her gaze away. The tall blond on Jurek’s left sat on Max’s overstuffed sofa, oblivious to the strain in the room.
“Please, Jurek, Hunter, sit down.” Max motioned to the couch, then frowned at Hunter, who had yet to look away from her.
Hunter finally blinked and, like a large cat, padded to the couch and sat gracefully next to the man already seated. Jurek sat on the other side, caging the blond between them.
Max waited for Alex and Cole to join him in the seats facing the couch. Together, the six of them sat in a large circle, staring at each other. Alex could literally feel the energy thrumming between them. The enemy, as she likened the men of Westlake Enterprises, resonated power.
Jurek Westlake owned and operated the rival investigative firm. Whereas Buchanan Investigations catered to private, discreet clients, Westlake’s firm often worked high-profile cases and did occasional government work.
Alex found it telling that Jurek’s people could get away with just about murder, cutting through legal red tape with ease, whereas Buchanan Investigations had to move creatively, dancing around the fringes of legal propriety. Max didn’t have the government connections that Westlake did, nor did he want them, as he’d said on more than one occasion.
She didn’t know details, but her uncle had at one time worked for Uncle Sam. “I know better than to trust Big Brother,” he was fond of saying.
“I’m sure we’re all curious to know what exactly you’re doing here before eight o’clock on a Friday morning,” Max said pleasantly, his deep voice soothing while he verbally nudged Westlake for answers. “But please, forgive my manners. My nephew and niece, Cole and Alexandra Sainte.”
Westlake grinned, charisma fairly oozing out of the snake charmer. No wonder he gets so many clients. Hell, I’d do anything to keep him smiling. And that’s damned weird.
“Pleased to meet you both,” Jurek said in an equally pleasant voice. “I’m Jurek Westlake. These are two of my finest men. J.D. Morgan.” He pointed to the handsome blond sitting closest to him on the couch. “And Hunter Greye,” he added, nodding at her mystery man with the predatory eyes.
Hunter certainly fit. He had yet to project an air of calm. Even sitting, he seemed dangerous, as if poised to spring at a moment’s notice. Though he lounged indolently on the luxurious couch, he had an air of stillness about him at odds with his lazy grace.
“You two look familiar,” he murmured, his gaze shifting from Cole to Alex, and lingering. His voice settled over her with uncomfortable appeal, and she fought the urge to squirm in her chair.
What the hell is wrong with me? Irritated by her strange reaction, Alex frowned. “Wish I could say the same,” she muttered. By the look on Hunter’s face, he was anything but fooled.
Max cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “Let’s quit screwing around. You’re here for a reason, and we’ve all got better things to do than play twenty questions.”
Jurek chuckled. “You know, Max, it’s funny we haven’t personally crossed paths before now. It’s been what, ten years?”
“What do you want, Jurek?” Max asked again. He stared at Westlake in silence.
Alex could feel the power struggle through the tense air.
“Damn, Max, you’ve still got it,” Westlake rasped.
She exchanged a glance with her brother. Could Westlake have been testing her uncle in that way? Her skin tingled, and she turned to find Hunter focused on her. His gaze didn’t soften or stray from her face. He stared fixatedly at her eyes.
Alex felt a curious weakening in the pit of her stomach and an almost overwhelming urge to escape the room. Cole rested a protective hand on her shoulder, and his touch jolted her to break eye contact, concentrating on Westlake and her uncle once more.
Westlake sighed. “Fine, Max. I’ll get right down to it. We believe one or two of your folks may have intruded on a case we’re currently working. Wednesday night, one of our men saw two figures break into a private warehouse.”
“A burglary? Why not call the police? They’re friends of yours, aren’t they?” Max asked pointedly.
“Let’s just say this particular warehouse has been under our surveillance for a while. If we inform the police of our suspicions, we risk exposure and the possibility of tipping off our target.”
“Who’s your target?” Cole interrupted.
“Yes, who?” Max seconded.
“That’s confidential information,” Westlake answered. “Suffice it to say that anything obtained in that warehouse was done so illegally, and that in doing so you might be interfering in a government matter. We all know how much Buchanan Investigations dislikes doing business with Uncle Sam.”
“Not so, Jurek.” Max paused. “We just don’t like the back-stabbing bureaucrats and candy-assed politicians more concerned with making a name for themselves than protecting the innocent.”
“Amen,” J.D. Morgan muttered.
Westlake scowled at him, and Alex watched in amusement as J.D. nudged Hunter with an elbow to the ribs and rolled his eyes. Apparently, Westlake’s men had a bit of irreverence in them.
She studied J.D., noting the differences between him and Hunter. J.D. had model good looks—blond hair, bright blue eyes, and the high cheekbones and sharp features of a Scandinavian ancestor.
Hunter, on the other hand, looked like a tomcat dragged in off the street. Where his partner looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of GQ, Hunter looked like a suspect off America’s Most Wanted. His dark hair and the hint of shadow along his jaw only added to his menacing air. Though he sat quietly, Alex could almost feel his impatience and frustration for some answers.
“Right, Alex?” Max said again. “Get your head together, girl,” he whispered in her mind.
“Right, Max.” She had no idea to what she’d just agreed. She ignored her brother’s pointed stare and tried to follow the conversation.
“So you see, Jurek, there’s no way my people could have been in that warehouse Wednesday night,” Max repeated. “Tell me whose warehouse it was. What exactly was taken?”
“I should have known better.” Westlake shook his head, surprising Alex when he gave Max a sincere smile. Even more disturbing, her uncle returned the grin, looking happier than he had in months.
She knew her uncle and Westlake had a history, but she hadn’t thought them amicable.
“Damn, but it was a good excuse to see you.” Westlake and his men stood. “I’ll look forward to our future run-ins.”
“As will I.” Max met him at the door and held out his hand.
They shook, then Westlake and J.D. filed out. Hunter paused next to Alex’s chair.
She didn’t want to look, but refused to take the easy way out. She deliberately met his gaze. A mistake. His eyes gleamed like gold, capturing her with his intensity.
“I’ll be watching for you,” he murmured. He nodded to both Cole and Max. When Westlake called after him, he left without looking back.
AS SOON AS HUNTER LEFT the office, Max breathed a sigh of relief. “Damn. Those are some powerful people.” He rubbed his temples and yelled for Christine.
“Max?” She appeared in the doorway as if she’d been waiting for his call.
“Would you mind grabbing us some coffee and the files on Mitchell?” he asked Christine. She nodded and left. Alex and her brother exchanged a knowing glance.
“What?” Max grumbled, any softness gone as he stared in vexation at his family. “Now, maybe you’d like to explain what the hell you were doing in Omaney’s warehouse Wednesday night?”
There would be no getting around this one. Not with Westlake’s men also involved. Alex resigned herself to an unpleasant lecture. “Well, you see, Cole accidentally touched the lipstick from Rebecca’s purse—”
“Accidentally? You mean you accidentally took a piece of hard evidence from the police station?” Max’s voice ro
se. “What’s the matter with you two? Didn’t you think there was a good reason I hadn’t handed you anything of Rebecca’s before now, Cole?”
Cole hung his head. Even at thirty, he couldn’t escape his uncle’s wrath, which amused Alex to no end.
“And you.” Max glared at Alex. “I know you put him up to this.”
No matter that Alex remained the younger sister by three years, or that no one forced her brother to do anything he didn’t want to. Somehow, she’d garnered the reputation as the troublemaker in the family. Though, to be fair, taking the lipstick had been her idea.
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. Alex, you work in the office, not out in the field. Gathering information, doing research. I won’t have you risking your neck when you’re not ready for this kind of work.”
“Uncle Max, I can do it.”
“You haven’t been trained.”
And I never will be, not with you and Cole constantly mothering me.
Max continued to rant. “I knew Omaney had some involvement in Rebecca’s disappearance. Hell, don’t you think I do some work around here besides ordering everyone around?”
Christine entered with their coffees and three folders, giving Cole and Alex a moment’s peace. But Max started in on them the moment she left the office.
“Now, where were we?” he asked after a large sip of coffee.
“It’s my fault.” Cole spoke quickly to fend off another attack. Always her protector, her brother strove to intercede. As usual, his protection irritated her.
“No. It’s my fault.” Alex turned to Max. “I know Mrs. Mitchell came to see you Tuesday. I overheard her mention Rebecca’s disappearance before she left your office. I just thought that if we could get a jump on Rebecca’s past whereabouts, it could only help matters.”
Grabbing the lipstick from the police station had been easy. A little flirting, a bit of telekinesis, some slight of hand, and she’d pocketed Rebecca’s lipstick without touching it once. Once in Cole’s hands, they’d learned about Peter Omaney. And after some more digging—and her cousin Luc’s help—they’d found out about his dirty little warehouse.
“‘Only help matters?’” Max repeated. He swore, but as he stared at her, his ire faded. “This is partially my fault for trying to keep a secret from you two.”
Cole agreed. “You know keeping secrets around here is damned near impossible.”
“Yes, well, for a bunch of psychics, we don’t seem to be doing very well. Regardless of the danger, the reason I didn’t want you checking on Peter Omaney is that he’s been under Westlake surveillance for a good while.”
“Damn.” Alex shared a guilty look with her brother. “Then I guess it’s a good thing we wore masks. They can’t prove we were there.”
“I’m afraid they will be able to.” Max ran a hand through his hair. “While Rebecca’s mother wants us to look into her disappearance, her father, the head of Mitchell Dynamics—which just happens to hold several large, government contracts—has contracted Westlake Enterprises for help. Boys and girls, we’re not the only psychics working this case anymore.”
OVER STEEPLED FINGERS, Jurek Westlake tracked the wild creature pacing in front of his desk and pondered Hunter’s intensity. No longer having to put up a calm front in front of Max and his people, his agent reverted to form as he tried to contain that raging energy.
Hunter was large of frame and sound of mind. His predatory instincts made him a natural fit for Jurek’s private security firm. A successful operation from its inception, Westlake Enterprises hired only the brightest and the best. Since hiring those men and women fell to him, Jurek naturally felt great confidence in the firm’s ability to succeed.
But as he watched one of his most dangerous field agents pace in front of him, Jurek started to wonder if he’d have to keep a closer eye on his people. “Hunter, would you sit down? You’re making me dizzy.”
“You know they were lying through their teeth, don’t you?” Hunter asked in a hard voice. Everything about him was hard, from his muscular frame to his rough hands to his granite-like face.
Jurek didn’t answer.
Hunter huffed and threw himself into a chair on the other side of the desk. “So, what did they download from Omaney’s computer?” he asked, just as J.D., their resident computer whiz, entered the office unannounced with the answer.
He sat next to Hunter, who regarded him with frustration. As usual, J.D. ignored him. “From the information Hunter brought me, I pieced together what little we already had on Omaney with what our thieves copied. After a quick look at that hard drive, I noticed activity in two large folders labeled Hotels and Properties. Considering much of Omaney’s fortune stems from his real estate ventures, those files shouldn’t have run a red flag. However, the security on those particular folders exceeds everything else on his computer, including his finances.”
“And?” Hunter prodded.
J.D. eyed him warily and continued. “And, after some scrutiny, some outstanding research, and brilliant deduction, I found a list of hotels he’s recently visited that match with the last seven reported disappearances, of which Rebecca Mitchell happens to be one.”
Jurek nodded. “Good work, J.D., Hunter. As you’ve no doubt realized, Max’s folks are working this case. Rebecca disappeared Monday night. Harlan reported her missing Tuesday, when we took the case. This is definitely tied to the other missing women. No one witnessed Rebecca’s disappearance.”
“No one ever sees anything,” J.D. grumbled.
“So how does Buchanan tie in to this?” Hunter frowned. “We only got wind of Mitchell’s daughter recently. It’s not in the papers. No one outside our agency or the Bureau’s task force has tied Mitchell’s daughter to the other disappearances over the past month.”
“Harlan trusts us, but his wife decided to use the help of an old school friend—her old flame, Max Buchanan.”
J.D. whistled. “Great. Now we’re running a concurrent case with a bunch of amateurs. Granted, they have a reputation of getting the job done, but half the things they do border on being just this side of legal. You know that, don’t you? They could make a real mess of this case. What do you want us to do? Take ’em out?”
Hunter snorted. “‘Take ’em out?’ How would you plan to do that? With a keystroke, maybe?”
While his agents traded barbs, Jurek firmed his decision. Time to turn this odd glitch into an opportunity. “J.D., I want you to stay on top of Omaney’s files. See what else you can find without letting him know you’ve been there. Be careful. Hunter?”
“Yes, boss?” Hunter’s laconic reply once again seemed at odds with the energy balled up inside him. One minute he was snarling, the next he was half asleep.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Hunter narrowed his eyes, a slight flush high on his cheeks. “Nothing.”
After an awkward moment of silence, Jurek decided to let the matter drop for the time being. Hunter wouldn’t tell him anything until he was ready to. “Stick to the Buchanans. I want to know who they talk to, what they read, hell, what they eat for breakfast for the next few days. My gut tells me they’ll break into this, being fresh on Rebecca’s case. Not that our older info isn’t any good,” he reassured them.
Though his agency had been doing their best, they’d been running off cold kidnappings. The latest disappearance prior to Rebecca had occurred a week before they’d gotten this case. In that time, the trail had turned stale fast.
“I’m on it.” J.D. shot him a mock salute, stood, then left.
Hunter waited, his amber gaze fierce. “Just how much do you know about Buchanan’s family?”
“Quite a bit, actually. Years ago, Max and I worked together doing things I can’t tell you about for the government. He’s intelligent, built like a brick, and charming to those he wants to manipulate. And he has the ability to communicate telepathically.”
Hunter didn’t look surprised. “His family, are they special too?”
Ah, the crux of the matter. Jurek hadn’t imagined Hunter’s interest in the girl. “Max has a gift, his brother has it, and his deceased sister had it in spades. So, if I had to make a guess, on a psychic scale of one to ten, I’d say Buchanan and his brood rate an eleven.”
“Psychic criminals, terrific. They’re going to be a huge pain in the ass. I can feel it already, and I’m no psychic.”
Again, with the denial. Jurek shook his head. “Haul that extrasensory ass out of my office and get to work.” Now, how to convince the Feds to let Max play ball...
HUNTER STRODE PURPOSEFULLY back to the office he rarely used and sat in his chair. Wiping absently at the dust that had settled on the arms, he noticed a folder on his desk. Yet he couldn’t stop envisioning the large gray-green eyes of the woman from the warehouse. Alexandra Sainte. An eleven on the psychic scale, Jurek had said. What the hell could she do?
And why did the thought of a psychic female thrill instead of scare him?
Because it’s another affirmation that you’re not a freak. There are more like you out there. Rafe, J.D., Jurek, now Buchanan and his family.
Hunter had spent most of his life in hiding. But his innate gifts, his extraordinarily sharp senses and amazing speed, had made joining the Marine Corps a solid choice. Unfortunately, his consistently successful performance garnered him attention he didn’t want.
From the Corps, he’d been handpicked to work in a covert sect of the CIA that protected the country from South American drug cartels and suspected terrorists. At first gratifying, the work had soon turned into more than he could bear. He’d begun losing himself in the primitive instincts of a true predator, killing without remorse, enjoying the hunt until all he could think about was killing again.
Four years ago, when Jurek Westlake had requested a sit-in on his last military debriefing, he’d been nearly out of his mind. Overstimulated to the point of constant aggression, Hunter had feared he’d never be able to live a normal life again.
