by Jenna Ryan
“It’s Botello, sir. Carson has two bullets in him, shoulder and arm. They’re being extracted as we speak. Rowena tried to kill him.”
“If she’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Remember that about her.”
“She gassed us, sir.”
“Fuck that,” Mockerie retorted. “It was McCabe who got you.” And Rowena who’d gotten him, he recalled with a fresh spurt of loathing. “I need a stealth man. Who do you have?”
“We don’t—”
Mockerie cut him off. “Say those words again and you might as well keelhaul yourself. It’ll be preferable to what I’ll do. Stealth man.”
“Joe Lee.”
“Is he aboard the Irish Lady?”
“He’s on the gun boat off Laurel Key. Where do you need him?”
“I want him on the Key itself. But not until after nightfall. He’s to get Rowena away from McCabe. Kill either of them and he’s dead. Slowly. No one can see him enter the house or know he and Rowena are gone. I want magic. No clues, no trace. Nothing for McCabe to track. I’m on my way to Miami.”
He disconnected before Botello could reply, swore to himself about losing Carson, and hoped for Joe Lee’s sake he was a martial arts expert.
A headache pounded in his skull. His ear-to-the-ground spy had informed him that his mother was on Laurel Key.
“Fuck you, too, Robbie,” he said under his breath.
Not far enough under apparently. An elderly woman in a flowered jacket arched a reproving brow at him. He snarled and she looked quickly away.
What would she have done, he wondered, if he’d removed his hat and showed her his scarred face? Did he care? Not anymore. But once upon a very long time ago, he’d cared so much he’d begun maiming other creatures. Not the creature he’d wanted to maim most, only those he could outmuscle and outwit.
McCabe…
The name oozed through his head like black slime. It coated every thought, tainted every emotion. Except anger. And revenge. Oh, yes, one day, there would be revenge.
Rowena first, however. She needed to die, in pain and forever. No coming back from the grave a second time. He’d bury her himself. Piece by bloody piece.
…
Rowena’s fevered brain struggled for thought. Her lungs struggled for air. But even as her heart slammed up against her intellect, her mouth opened for McCabe’s seeking tongue.
Her skin felt seared as if by a blowtorch. He invaded, he assaulted, and he took. He filled her with desires she’d forgotten she possessed. Energy sparked between them, electric bursts of need. Of hunger and greed. She wanted to tear his shirt off and shove him onto the soft, white bedspread.
He explored her mouth with a thoroughness that nearly drove her mad. She nipped at his lips, then kissed away the sting.
His hands, strong, capable, and somewhat calloused, ran up and down her body, from breast to hips and back.
She grabbed hold of his waistband but stopped short of unzipping his fly. She wanted to feel him, almost more than she wanted to breathe, but she had to rein herself in. It was too much too soon. He’d ripped her heart out when he’d traded what they had for a leave of absence and trumped-up offer of government contract work in the Middle East. She didn’t dare let him back in before she was certain of what she wanted for herself.
“Doesn’t make sense,” she murmured against his mouth.
“What doesn’t?” He took her lower lip between his teeth and savored.
“Nothing. Everything.” Her head spun. Her thoughts fragmented into a thousand colorful pieces. “I can’t trust the choices I make where you’re concerned.” She kissed him deep and urgently. “I’m not a good judge of men.” And damn it, he’d left her. Closing her eyes, she said, “McCabe, stop. Please.”
He did, the moment the words were out of her mouth. His eyes gleamed. He didn’t move away or step back, but he also didn’t press when they both knew he could have.
Stubble heading toward a short beard, dark hair in serious need of a trim, unfathomable eyes, and an aura any god in Olympus would have killed to possess. How was she supposed to resist that?
“Mockerie wasn’t a bad choice, Ro; he was Loki.”
“Who?” Her spinning head refused to clear.
“Thor’s brother. Stepbrother.”
“Yes, I know that, but what does that have to do with James?”
“Loki was a deceiver. Silver tongued, persuasive, a master of disguise. Mockerie can be all those things. For a while. I already told you that. I’ll also warn you, it’s in the family.”
She backed up with her gaze still locked on his. “Are you saying Amanda and Robbie wear disguises?”
“Amanda was an actor. It goes without saying. And a mother might do a great deal to protect her child.”
The clouds in her head separated like curtains being yanked apart. “A great deal,” she repeated. “Would she contact him and tell him we’re here?”
“No. Robbie’s his mother, but she wouldn’t go that far. She fears him too much to want him anywhere near her. Still, I’m not about to tell her where Parker is.”
“I couldn’t if I wanted to, could I, since I have no idea where he is myself.”
“Better for Parker at this point. What you don’t know, you can’t divulge.”
Her insides went cold. “I’d never divulge his whereabouts.”
“I tend to believe that, but don’t put it to the test, Ro. Pain of the kind Mockerie can inflict has made the toughest people talk.”
Her heart stuttered. Love for Parker filled it and rushed out to cool her resentment. “Parker’s life matters more than mine,” she agreed. “I’ll give you the safety thing.”
The first golden rays of dawn crept over the horizon, streaking across the Caribbean and lighting the blue Florida sky. Setting his hands on her shoulders, McCabe drew her briefly back against him and kissed the top of her head.
“You need sleep, and I have things to do. Grab a shower, throw some sheets on the bed, and rest up here until I come for you. Trust me, Beckett’s french toast isn’t to be missed. I’ll make sure your pack gets to the right room. Check out the closets when you have a chance.”
The cryptic smile on his face should have piqued her curiosity. However, after all that had taken place since her aborted B and E in Colombia, Rowena was too tired to care. She stayed on her feet long enough to shower with lilac-scented gel and wash her hair with a delicious purple shampoo that smelled like wild berries. She found the sheets, made the bed, closed the curtains, and toppled onto the mattress.
Sleep swept over her like a hand running across white sand, smoothing away any imprints and leaving a blank slate where her mind could paint all the pictures it wanted.
She didn’t know how long she slept, but when she woke up, it was twilight.
She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 8:00 p.m. She’d slept for over twelve hours. She spotted her pack, then remembered another thing McCabe had mentioned and crossed to a bank of white louvered closets.
“My God. Seriously?” A disbelieving laugh escaped. The wall-to-wall closets held a boutique of female clothes, everything from thin cotton robes to elegant evening gowns. Lingerie spilled from shelves, and there was rack after rack of shoes. Not her size, but very, very sexy.
She borrowed a creamy white robe. It was short on her, slinky silk, with sweeping bell sleeves and a matching thong in the pocket.
Okay, no to the thong, but the robe made her feel like a spoiled princess.
Had James made her feel like that? Maybe. Or she might have fallen into the trap and done it to herself. Someday she’d sit down and try to figure it out. For now, she needed to get ready to face the day. Or night, as the case may be.
Picking up her pack, she walked into the bathroom. And found herself face-to-face with a man wearing head-to-toe black and carrying a long, slender knife.
Chapter Seven
Robbie came to his room as McCabe had expected she would. She gave him time to sleep an
d think and just be alone, but by sundown of the next day she was knocking at his door.
She always wore suits. Very stylish, very proper. Nothing fussy or loud. She’d worked for a government agency for close to forty years, and she took her job seriously.
Her head poked in. “I’m not disturbing you, am I?”
He blanked his computer screen. “Not really. I need a break anyway.”
While he stretched, she frowned at him. “You’re half naked.”
He grinned. “Boxers cover more than most bathing suits. And this is my room.”
“But not the one you’re supposed to be in.” She walked past him as he pulled on a pair of jeans and a blue plaid shirt. “Don’t you trust anyone, Ryan? I don’t listen at AC ducts, you know.”
“Points of egress.” He considered buttoning the shirt but left it open and nodded at the balcony. “There are exterior stairways at both ends of the wraparound porch on the second floor. Third’s more cut off.”
“Ah. Then my feelings aren’t hurt. Rowena strikes me as an extraordinary woman. Beautiful and bright. James was a fool to treat her badly.”
McCabe figured he was the one who’d treated her badly. Mockerie had simply allowed his mask to slip a few too many times.
Rather than sit, Robbie paced the room, fidgeting with her hands. It was her habit and betrayed the nerves flying around inside.
“You still can’t settle, can you?” Straddling a chair, McCabe watched her. She alternated between pressing her palms together and twisting her interlinked fingers. “It doesn’t matter what you think or say or do. He won’t come after you.”
A sorrowful expression crossed her face. “He killed his own father. We both know he did.”
McCabe kept his eyes on her. “Yes, we do know.”
She released a long-suffering sigh and finally perched on the arm of a rattan chair. “What are you planning to do, Ryan? Stay here? Run and hide? Bait a trap and fight? I suspect the last thing is what he wants. A head to head with you.”
McCabe shrugged. “I suspect you’re right. But not until he’s vented a large portion of his fury on Rowena.”
She looked away, toward the unshuttered window and the view of the sea beyond it. “So much of what he is is my fault. I’m his mother. I should have seen where he was headed and tried to correct the problem.”
James had been his mother’s son, McCabe reflected, just as he himself had been his father’s son. Because he didn’t want to go there in his mind, he said, “Tell me why you’re here.”
She laughed again and clasped her hands tight. “Here on Laurel Key or in your room?”
“Both.” His gaze never left her. Like Mockerie, her body language revealed a great deal. “Start with the key.”
“Always the complicated question first. I had a dream,” she told him. “I saw Amanda in danger. Beckett and I have been working quite hard lately. When I mentioned I was worried, he said I should go and visit her for a while. A few days, he suggested, but then I heard about Daisy’s kidney stone, and I turned a few days into a week. And, of course, Beckett likes any excuse to get out of DC, so he asked if he could tag along. I know you don’t believe in dreams and premonitions, but I do. Sometimes. And in this particular dream, I saw Amanda lying injured and bleeding on the floor of her screening room. Bleeding, possibly dead. I couldn’t be sure.”
“You’re projecting. Has Mock— James contacted you recently?”
“No.” She looked at her lap. “I sent him an email several months ago. I told him I knew he’d killed his father. I shouldn’t have done it, but I was upset. It would have been our fortieth wedding anniversary.” Rising, she went to the dresser to look in the mirror. “Can you stop him? Is that your intent?”
“It’s always been my intent.” Though he’d shoved it aside on more than one occasion. “I don’t want him dead, just stopped.”
Using her fingers, she began to spike her hair. “He’ll never let you put him in prison.”
“He won’t have a choice.”
“You sound very certain of that.”
“I have to be. And he’ll have to deal.”
Her eyes sharpened and caught his with her reflection. “You love her, don’t you? Rowena.”
“From the day I met her.”
“That could be a problem for you.” Planting her palms on the glass top of the dresser, she said, “Beckett thinks I should take a leave of absence. He believes the push-me, pull-me pressure is getting to me. I told him it wasn’t, but he’s insistent.”
McCabe smiled at their reflections. “There you go, then.” Bending down, he kissed her cheek. “Go find Beckett and tell him to start working on that french toast. Pour a glass of sherry for yourself while you’re at it.”
She patted his hand. “Maybe I’ll do just that. But I believe I’ll make it a Madeira…” She frowned. “What was that? Did you hear a thump?”
But he was gone, grabbing his gun and slipping through the door without a sound.
Rowena’s room was next to his. That’s where the small thud had come from.
Fuck. The porch.
Shoving the door open, he ran in. The room was already heavily shadowed, but there was no sign of her and the bathroom door was open. He swore to himself as he raced for the wraparound porch.
Benefits and drawbacks, he realized, looking left first then right. Staircases at both ends… And damn it, he caught a glimpse of white fabric at one of the corners.
Holding his gun up, he took off in the opposite direction. He’d reach whoever had her on the path to the water. It was an educated guess, but he needed to throw the guy off, make him think he’d eluded any pursuit.
At ground level, he flattened himself against an outer wall and took a quick look around the edge. Someone had her all right, and he hadn’t knocked her out. Gagged her, yes, and tied her hands behind her back. But the fact that she was walking with him and he didn’t see a weapon concerned him.
McCabe sized the man up from behind. Tall, wiry, sleek as a cat and just as agile. He had to be a trained martial arts expert. No way McCabe wanted to get into a hand to hand with that one.
He moved quickly, circling the trees. His mind streaked through possibilities, probabilities, and potential solutions. He’d have to be fast and accurate.
They were headed to the beach, that much he could see. There was only one small strip of dock for a boat to tie up and nowhere to pull it out onto the sand. Not that the man would have done that in any case. It would take too long to relaunch and clear the shallows.
So, the dock it was.
The man kept Rowena slightly in front of him. She wasn’t even struggling to free her wrists, McCabe noticed. Definitely bad news.
Not wanting to delve into just how bad it might be, he made his way to the dock, careful to keep out of sight and as silent as his opponent.
The man gave Rowena a little push when they reached the step up. She jerked away from him, glared briefly, then climbed.
“Fuck.” McCabe closed his eyes, visualized, and scrambled for a solution.
Mockerie wouldn’t want her dead; that was a given. The man’s orders would be firm, and they’d apply to him as well. That didn’t mean McCabe could or would win by default. If hurting Rowena was what it took to get her to where Mockerie wanted her, then he imagined the man would do it.
Swearing again, McCabe positioned himself and waited until he got a clear look at the man’s face. Shit. He should have known.
Raising his gun, he called softly, “I’m right behind you, Joe Lee. Turn and show me your hands.”
Joe made sure Rowena was in full view before he spun slowly on his heel and smiled at his pursuer.
“Long time, no see, hear, or speak to, McCabe. I put the odds at me getting her out clean on the high side of seventy percent. Guess I overrated my skills where you’re concerned.”
“Oh, somehow I doubt that.” McCabe had a hard time seeing Rowena’s face in the shadowy light. “Are you okay, Ro?�
�� he asked her.
Joe chuckled and removed the gag from her mouth.
“I’m fine, for the moment.” Her response was calm but tense. “He wired me up with an explosive device.”
McCabe’s stomach knotted, although he’d already suspected as much. “Don’t worry, he won’t set it off. Mockerie will cut him into bite-sized pieces if he does.”
Joe’s smile widened. “If needs must, we’ll die together, McCabe. Me and the pretty lady. We’re a package deal at this point. I believe she understands that. I trust you do, too.”
McCabe had come up against Joe overseas. The man was a formidable opponent. A martial arts and weapons specialist famous for getting the job done.
He lowered his gun. “I thought you were planning to retire.”
“Only from kicking asses and knocking people like you senseless.” Joe shrugged. “I can still put a bullet through a dragonfly’s wing at two hundred yards when so ordered.”
“You were on the gun boat, shooting at us.”
“Shooting near you,” Joe corrected. “I was about to put bullets in your respective legs when you vanished into a large shadow. No matter. You knew you were trapped. It was enough for the moment.”
“And now?” McCabe asked him.
“Now you have a gun and excellent aim, and I have a detonation device and fast fingers. Who will win between us, do you think?”
His steady stare told McCabe he knew exactly who the victim would be.
Cursing, he lowered his gun the rest of the way. “So what now? I’m not going to let you walk with Rowena. No fucking way.”
“Maybe we’ll all die in that case.” Joe leaned closer to Rowena and laughed. “The lady says, ‘Fuck that.’ You’ve been teaching her bad language, McCabe.”
“Trust me, she could teach both of us a thing or two. Let her go, Joe. Your reflexes aren’t what they used to be. Mine still are.”
“Ah. Now it’s my turn to say ‘Fuck that.’ But I’ll tell you what. Let’s see who’s best one on one. I’ll put down my device. You put down your many guns. We’ll meet at the water’s edge and decide this like men of honor.”
McCabe glanced at Rowena. Her hands were tied behind her back. He imagined the explosive device was strapped to her chest or waist. Maybe to one of her legs. It was unlikely to go off unaided. Joe knew his stuff in that way.