Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  He opened the storm door and knocked on the wooden front door — waited. He started to knock again when the door opened and there she stood in a white nightgown with a pistol in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. She looked beautiful.

  “Do you know what time it is, Rook?” She stared him up and down, her eyes stopping at the flowers and candy. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t think you’d be in bed yet. I figured you’d keep pretty much the same hours as your work schedule.”

  “Did you?”

  “Well, yeah, sure.” He looked at the half empty bottle. “Are you drunk?”

  She looked him up and down, her expression unreadable. “Not yet.”

  “Good,” he said. “Mind if I come in?”

  She pursed her lips. “I’m not sure.”

  “I brought these for you.” He held the flowers and candy out like the offering they were.

  “I can see that.” The silence stretched out between them. “Look, it’s been a real bad day, so it’s probably best for you to just take those and leave.”

  He decided to try humor and held out the chocolate. “You know, psychologists say that chocolate boosts endorphin and serotonin levels, and it’s loaded with the antioxidant resveratrol, the same stuff that’s in red wine.”

  “I hate psychologists, and the way I’m feeling I’d rather get my res-whatever-all from the booze, and lots of it.”

  Dominic pulled back the chocolate and pushed forward the flowers. “Roses, they make everybody feel better.”

  “Roses make me think of funerals.” She wedged a hip against the screen door, tucked the gun under one arm and the whisky under the other and held out her hands. “Give me those and get in here.”

  He gave her the gifts and slipped past her into the front room. He caught a whiff of soap and shampoo and alcohol as he squeezed by and thought she must have taken a shower. “You smell nice,” he said, “fresh.”

  Sarah let the storm door work its hydraulic magic and closed the front door behind her. “Probably the roses.” She walked past him. “Come on, we’ll sit in the kitchen.”

  She led the way, sat the gun on the counter and pulled a vase from a cupboard. She filled it halfway with water from the sink and plopped the flower’s long stems into the water. She fluffed them a bit, then took two glasses from another cupboard along with the bottle of whisky and sat them on the table. She unscrewed the cap and splashed a good amount into each glass, then screwed the cap back on and ripped open the plastic wrapping on the box of chocolates. She pulled out a maraschino cherry and popped it into her mouth, closing her eyes and taking a slow deep breath.

  Dominic looked at the two glasses of whisky, then back at Sarah.

  “What?” she asked. “I wasn’t joking about preferring to get the good stuff from booze over chocolate. She popped another candy past her lips and spoke around it. “Besides, this way I get double. Can’t beat that, can you?”

  “I guess not,” he said.

  Sarah picked up her glass and downed it. She gave her head a good shake and smacked her lips. “Whoa! That goes good together.” She pointed at his glass. “Have a seat and a drink.”

  Dominic pulled out a chair and sat. “Thanks, I don’t drink though.”

  “Oh, that Christian thing, huh?”

  “Not really, I just don’t like the taste, and I don’t like the idea of being out of control.”

  “Yeah? Well, I do like the taste — you should try it with chocolate — and sometimes it’s nice to let yourself get a little out of control.” She picked up his glass and downed it as well. Her eyes watered and she held a hand to her chest. “Mama!” She sat down across from him. “So, what do you want, Rook?” She unscrewed the cap on the whisky and poured about the same amount into both glasses.

  “I wanted to see you. I heard about the fight today and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  Sarah picked out a concoction of chocolate and nuts and ate it. She threw a wink at Dominic and toasted him with the glass. “The whisky’s a nice chaser.” She threw it back and this time barely winced.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I’m fine as fine can be.”

  “You didn’t get hurt?”

  “Do I look hurt?” She had a strange glint in her eyes and he could smell the pungent tang of the whisky on her breath.

  He looked her over.

  “Do I look okay?”

  “You look…great,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt. Sometimes it takes hours or even a day or so to really feel it.”

  “Really,” she gazed at him with a half-smile and drawn down eyebrows, “is it doctor you came over to play? Do you think I need a more thorough examination?” She dropped another chocolate, ran her tongue across her lips and chugged his glass of whisky. “And just what kind of examination would you perform?”

  Dominic was used to women coming on to him, but for some reason this felt different.

  Sarah reached out for the whisky bottle but Dominic reached it ahead of her and stopped her from lifting it.

  “I think maybe you’ve had enough,” he said.

  She grinned mischievously at him. “You started it. Besides, this is my house and I’m all grown up, so I’ll drink as much as I like. If it makes you nervous, you can leave.”

  Dominic didn’t know how to answer that. It was her house, and she was an adult woman, and he didn’t want to leave. He let the bottle go and watched as she poured half a glass into each. She went back to the chocolates, played a quick game of one potato two potato three potato four before plucking out a dark little nugget and eating it whole. She took up the closest glass and tried to down it. She got about half way before having to pause, catch her breath, wipe her eyes, take two quick breaths, then finish the glass. She slammed it down hard on the table making Dominic jump.

  “Now that’s chocolate!” she said huskily. She looked at Dominic with a blazing heat in her eyes. “How about that examination?”

  Dominic held up his hands, shook his head. “Sarah…”

  She leaned over the table, grabbed his shirt with both hands, pulled him roughly to her and kissed him hard on the mouth.

  Dominic tasted the chocolate, the whisky…and her. And it was good — exciting — intoxicating — wonderful. He wanted more. He pulled her to him and she turned — her back finding the table — him leaning over and onto her. He felt her breasts pushing against his chest, her lips, her hips, the flat muscles of her stomach. Felt the tight pull of her arms, the grip of her fingers, the fierceness of her embrace, the passion of her kiss. But then he felt her fingers working at the buckle of his belt and realized what was about to happen. He pushed back, breaking the kiss.

  “No, wait,” he said. “Not like this.”

  “Yes, just like this.”

  “No, really.”

  “What, you don’t like the taste?”

  “No, this time it is a Christian thing. I won’t disrespect you like this.”

  She grabbed at him, trying to pull him back to her. “Disrespect me — please disrespect me — I’m your FTO, I order you to disrespect me!”

  He kissed her a last time, then pulled away and pushed back from the table. “No, no you deserve better than this. We have to wait.”

  Sarah spun around and up, sitting on the table, her legs drawn up beneath her. She stared at him from under her brows, looking sleek and feline. “You don’t decide what I deserve. And like I said before, this is my house — so get back over here and take those clothes off — now.”

  She was incredible — beautiful and seductive. How could he ever have thought her plane or unattractive? She was the most alluring woman he’d ever known or seen. How could he resist her? He didn’t want to. No, he wanted to go to her, to crush her to him, but that would be wrong. He had to get control of himself, had to…

  Sarah slipped the nightgown down over one shoulder, then the other, and he saw the same glint i
n her eyes he’d seen on the night when he fought the guy with the piggy light and she had to wade into the crowd smacking people left and right with her night stick to get to him.

  On that night the look had been battle lust, tonight it was just lust.

  47

  Cinnamon Twist

  * * *

  The Meeting

  * * *

  Cinnamon lit up a cigarette. Glorious. How could something so sinfully pleasurable be legal? Governments usually outlawed anything that could make someone feel so good. It wasn’t coke of course, or sex, but close. Of course this was Colorado and weren’t they legalizing everything? She started to take another pull when she saw the man standing in front of her.

  It was such a shock that it almost wasn’t. She had been staring right there — at that exact spot — and he hadn’t been there, but now he was.

  She understood instantly, the knowledge somehow calming her so that she didn’t jerk or scream or even start. She just looked at him, took in another lungful of smoke and smiled.

  “Perfect timing,” she said. “Dinner’s ready.”

  The man smiled back at her. Average height, with a good build, strong features. His nose straight and proud, very Roman, his eyes dark, guttered with heavy, dark brows and long eyelashes. A bandage on his cheek and another covering one ear. Handsome, radiating power the way some very wealthy men do.

  “Lead the way,” said the man, and his voice held a trace of Italy.

  Sarah put out the cigarette and stood. She went to him, looking up at his dark eyes. Her head came to his belt. She held out a hand.

  The man took her fingers, bowed, kissed her hand, smiled.

  “So now that you’ve seen me in person, kissed my hand, am I worth all you’ve gone through to get here?”

  He nodded gravely. “I think so. But do you really know what I’ve gone through?”

  “Some at least. Let’s talk about it over dinner.” She led him to the table and waited as he pulled back her specially made chair that hydraulically raised her to the correct height.

  He took his seat across from her and lifted the silver cover from his plate. A thick filet with au gratin potatoes and buttered asparagus tips. They were still hot.

  Cinnamon smiled. “Not knowing your tastes I took a guess and had your steak prepared rare. I can cook it longer if you’d like.”

  “Rare is exactly right, thank you.” He picked up his knife and fork and cut into the meat. Red juices ran out onto the plate. He ate. “My complements. Very good.”

  “You’re hurt.” She pointed to the bandage on his ear and cheek. “Did that happen in Chicago?”

  He smiled. “And what do you know of Chicago?” He set down his knife and fork and pulled one of the bottles of Champaign from the ice bucket. He examined the vintage, raised his eyebrows in approval and carefully undid the top and popped the cork. He poured for both of them, raised his glass in salute and they both drank.

  “That you killed Barney Marko — and just about everyone else in Chicago.”

  “How do you know this?”

  Cinnamon took another sip, ate a small bite of steak and potatoes, looked across at him. “Sammy told me some of it, the rest I figured out on my own.”

  “Sammy, the detective you’re sleeping with?”

  She picked up an asparagus and nibbled at the tip. “That would be the one. Are you jealous?”

  “Very.”

  She smiled. “Good. Only you needn’t be. I’m just using him to get information and for protection.”

  “Information about what, and protection from whom?”

  She took another sip of wine, another bite of asparagus. “Information about you, and originally protection from Barney.”

  “He doesn’t know anything about me and you don’t need anyone else to protect you.”

  Cinnamon nodded. “I know that — now. But I wasn’t certain at the beginning that you weren’t going to kill me, for Barney.”

  “I was,” said Enrico. “Or at least that is what I was paid to do.”

  “And were you paid to kill all the people from my past?”

  “No. That I did on my own.”

  “All those people?”

  Enrico shrugged. “One or one thousand, what is the difference? I assure you there is no difference to the one.” He took another bite of steak. “Death is a very personal issue. The death of a thousand is really only the death of one, a thousand times. Each person is unique to themselves. When I take a life I am taking all that that person was or might ever have been. It is the most intimate act that two people can ever share. So while I took the lives of those who did you harm, it is important that you know that each was a very personal, a very private, a very cherished moment in time both for me and for them. They died for a reason, for a purpose. It was so that you could know that what you are, what you think you are, is not who you are, but rather a product of what they wanted to make you into so they could profit from you in one way or another. Because they saw in you what they lacked in themselves. And what you have they lusted after. They lusted after it and tried to steal it from you. But what you have, what you are, cannot be stolen. It cannot be taken from you because it is you. And you can only be shared — and even then only if you decide to do so freely. That is why they had to die. So you would be free from your past. Free to decide.

  “You are very special.”

  Cinnamon’s voice snapped sharp and cynical. “Special, as in Special Olympics, as in handicapped, as in freak.”

  Enrico took another sip of Champaign. “Is that how you see yourself?”

  “It’s what I am.”

  He shook his head, cut another slice of steak. “No. You are not a freak.” He ate the bite of steak. “You are the opposite of that word.” He waved his fork in the air. “The rest of the world, what people call normal, they’re really the freaks. The world is filled with warped, ugly, horrible, creations that carry just a spark of perfection somewhere in their physical, mental, or spiritual beings. It is that spark that points out the true hideousness of the rest of what they are.” He swallowed, ate a forkful of au gratin potatoes, aimed the prongs of the fork at her. “But you — you are the opposite.” He squinted his eyes, cocked his head. “You are perfection itself — except for that tiny spark of imperfection that allows you to still be human. Without that slight mar you would be a goddess, unattainable, unapproachable by mere man.” He picked up his glass. “You are art — perfect art exactly because you are not quite perfect.” He smiled. “I worship you.” He drank.

  Cinnamon shook her head, set down her silverware. “Why? Just because I’m pretty?”

  “You are not pretty. You are beauty incarnate. You are the pure essence of art. You are what I attain to, but will never achieve.” He ate a little more, took another sip of Champaign. “I fancy myself an artist. I am in fact a direct descendant of the great master Leonardo himself. Do I paint — do I sculpt? No. Not in the traditional sense. My art is death, and the manner in which I bring it about. I am the greatest assassin that has ever lived; and why? Because I see to the heart of the art of death. I see to your heart too, and I know you for what you truly are. And that is why I worship you. That is why I protect you. It is why I love you. And it is why you must be mine.”

  Cinnamon’s eyes welled with tears, spilled down her cheeks. “You don’t know me — the things I’ve done — the things I’ve had to do.”

  “I know everything about you — everything. I’ve heard it from the very lips of those who have abused you. I’ve heard it in the moments and seconds before they were to die and, more importantly, in the moments and seconds that they knew would be their last. And so there was no reason to lie any longer. In fact the opposite, their only hope at any chance of redemption was to be completely honest before going to face God Himself. And so I know you. I know you better than any of them knew you. Better even than you know yourself. Because what you think to be your fault, the things you think yourself to be guilty of, I
know better. I know where the blame lies and it is not, nor has it ever been, with you.”

  Cinnamon sobbed now, her shoulders trembling, her breath coming in short little hiccups. “Who…who are you?”

  He pushed back his chair, went to her; turned her chair to face him. “I am Enrico Da Vinci, and I am yours forever.” He bent and kissed her.

  Cinnamon kissed him back, her tears adding to the heat of her passion. She pulled him tight, and even tighter as he lifted her from her chair and carried her to the bedroom. And then the tears stopped.

  Men were so simple, even the deadliest of them, simple and easy. Signs of vulnerability, a few tears, a little lovemaking, and they became putty in her hands. But a special putty that could be shaped and molded into anything she wanted. Anything she needed. She needed him to be a sacrifice, just as those he had killed for her, but first — first, she needed him to be a weapon.

  48

  Sarah Hampton

  * * *

  Salvation Lost

  * * *

  Sarah was drunk. Not a little drunk — a lot drunk. She’d purposely thrown back drink after drink, either not able or unwilling to face Dominic on sober terms. She didn’t know if he was baiting her to win some sort of favor, or infatuated with hero worship, or playing some sort of cruel game, or just plain nuts. What she did know was that there was no way a guy as brave, heroic, funny and handsome as him could possibly be seriously interested in her in a romantic or sexual way; just not possible.

  Sarah had nothing to offer.

  A better than average cop, with a plane face, blasé personality, manly muscles, and as mad as a hatter.

  What a catch.

  She stared at him from the top of the table. Her foot rested next to the bottle of whisky; she’d best be careful or she might knock it to the floor and what a waste of good liquor that would be.

  The rook looked scared. He looked tasty too. He couldn’t really want her; that’s what her sober mind would have told her, but her sober mind was long gone. Now there remained only drunk Sarah. And drunk Sarah saw the boulder shoulders, the deep, powerfully muscled chest, the flat stomach, lean hips, tight butt, muscular thighs, gorgeous brown hair, dreamy eyes, and she wanted him. She wanted him now.