Broken

by Cynthia Eden

  His hand pushed open her clenched fist. There were a few more faint scars there, too. Little slices.

  A surge of anger caught him by surprise. “Who did it?”

  “It’s rude to ask questions like that.” She actually sounded as if she were chiding him. “Didn’t they teach you a better interview technique at the FBI?”

  “I’m not with the FBI.”

  “Well, not any longer, of course,” she said. Her smile flashed, only this time he recognized it for the distraction that it was. Hell, he bet plenty of men got lost in that wide smile.

  He wasn’t plenty of men.

  And he knew better than to fall for a pretty face.

  “The girl,” Dean gritted out. “Tell me everything you know about her.”

  Her gaze slid to the left. To the right. And Dean realized that the others close by were watching them.

  “You are seriously bad for business,” she said, sounding annoyed. “It looks like you’re an angry lover who’s having some public spat with me. You need to let me go, now.”

  An angry lover? Okay, so he was holding her pretty close, but he wasn’t backing off. And that sweet jasmine scent was definitely coming from her. “Tell me what I need to know and—”

  “Is there a problem here?” A male voice. Close. Sharp.

  Dean turned his head just a bit and saw the uniformed police officer, frowning at them.

  “Ms. Castille? This guy bothering you?”

  Dean mentally filed away the lady’s last name even as he made himself step back and release her. “I’m not bothering her.” Okay, he had been.

  The cop came even closer. His face was tight with suspicion, and it was a young face. The guy was in his early twenties and had ROOKIE written all over him. “It looked like you were bothering her, so I’m gonna suggest that you keep walking now, buddy.”

  “It’s all right.” Ms. Castille put her hand on the cop’s shoulder. “Thanks, Beau, it sure is nice to know you’re looking out for me.”

  Beau smiled at her. Dean figured the cop’s smile flashed because she’d just fired him that megawatt smile of hers, dimples included.

  “Always here for you, ma’am,” he told her, flushing a bit. Then the cop glanced back at Dean, and his frown was back. “I’d like to see your ID, mister.”

  Hell. But, whatever. Dean tossed the cop his wallet.

  Beau pulled out his driver’s license. Ms. Castille was right next to him as the cop read, “Dean Bannon, age thirty-six, from Atlanta, Georgia.” Beau whistled. “Love me some Braves.”

  Dean waited.

  “What brings you down to Atlanta?” the cop asked him.

  “Keep looking in the wallet,” Dean said.

  The cop’s brows scrunched when he pulled out one of Dean’s cards. “LOST,” he said, and his frown deepened. “I’ve . . . heard of that group.” His gaze shot to Dean. “The LOST team caught that serial killer over on Dauphin Island a while back!”

  Yes, they had. And since Dauphin Island, Alabama, was just a few hours away, Dean wasn’t real surprised that the cop had heard about that incident. “We didn’t bring him in alive,” Dean said. Because the Lady Killer hadn’t given them that option.

  “You stopped him,” Beau said, sounding more than impressed. “That’s good enough in my book.”

  LOST. The organization that Dean worked for was gaining more and more attention these days. Last Option Search Team. Dean’s buddy Gabe Spencer had been the one to put the team together. The ex-SEAL had wanted to bring in a group with varied backgrounds, a team that knew how to get the job done.

  When local law enforcement gave up the hunt for the missing, when the families still needed hope, they turned to LOST.

  Just like Ann Finney had done. No one else had helped her find Julia. Runaways disappeared every day. With Julia being an older teen, the cops hadn’t spent a lot of time looking for her . . .

  But Dean wasn’t going to give up.

  “There’s a picture of a missing girl on Ms. Castille’s table,” Dean said. “We were just talking because I thought she might know where I could find Julia.”

  Beau tossed Dean’s wallet back to him. Then the cop went to stare at the photo.

  The woman didn’t move, though. She kept her eyes on Dean. “I haven’t seen Julia in over a week,” she said, voice soft. “But I can tell you this . . . the last time that I did see her, she was scared.”

  His muscles locked. “How do you know that?”

  The cop’s radio had crackled to life. Beau took a few steps away, turned his back and pulled out that radio.

  “Because I know what fear looks like.” Her lips pressed together, then she said, “And I also know what bruises look like. She had bruises on her wrists. Someone had been hurting Julia.”

  He lunged toward her. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that before?”

  She glanced over at Beau. He was on his radio, still staring down at that picture as he paced and talked. “Because you said you wanted to send her back home. Julia didn’t want to go home. She was afraid of her family.” Her eyes darkened with sadness. “There’s a reason people run away, you know. If life were perfect, why would a girl like that leave?”

  The cop was coming back toward them. He’d put up his radio. “You need to go down to the station,” he told Dean. “You can check in with the detectives—”

  “My partner is already at the station.” While he hit the streets, Sarah Jacobs had wanted to check with the local authorities to see if they might have any leads. Dean wasn’t exactly holding out much hope on that end. But since he had a cop right in front of him, one who worked this beat, he asked, “Have you seen the girl, officer?”

  Beau shook his head. “She looks just like a hundred others I see every day. Sorry.” His radio crackled to life once again. “Got to go. See you soon, Ms. Castille.”

  Thunder rumbled as the cop headed away. Dean looked up. There were a few dark clouds sprinkling over the sky.

  “Storms come up fast down South. They rage hard, then they die away as quickly as they come.” She turned away. Started shutting down her booth. “Good luck finding the girl.”

  Did she really think he was just going to walk away? “You’re my best lead.” So far she was the only person who’d actually seen Julia.

  Provided, of course, that she hadn’t just been blowing smoke up his ass.

  She pulled down her umbrella. “Bourbon Street.”

  His brows climbed.

  “The last time I saw her, she was headed over there. But then, most folks wind up there eventually, right?”

  Dean pulled his card from his wallet. “If you remember anything else, call me.”

  She didn’t take the card. “I won’t remember anything.”

  He reached for her hand. Put the card in her palm. Stared at the faint scars. “They’re defensive wounds,” he told her as another rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.

  Her too bright eyes held his.

  “Someone attacked you with a knife. You raised your hands, and that someone”—a fucking bastard in his book—“sliced you. The blade cut across your palm. It sliced into your forearm.”

  Her fingers closed around the card. “You left the FBI because you got tired of all the death.”

  He stiffened.

  “You have scars hidden beneath your clothes. Scars on your skin. Scars beneath the skin.” Her head gave a little shake. “You don’t really think you’ll find Julia alive, you don’t think you’ll find any of them alive.”

  What the hell?

  “But at least you try.” She backed away from him. Collected her bag. Her table. Started walking away. “Good-bye, Dean Bannon.”

  “Wait!” He hadn’t meant to call out like that.

  She glanced back at him.

  “Do you . . . need help?” And why was he stuttering like some kid right then?

  “I’ve never needed help.” She turned away. Kept going. “I hope you find her.”

  Dean�
�s legs had locked as he stared after her. He watched as she disappeared, not heading very far away at all, but going toward a little shop on the corner. A small place that he almost hadn’t even seen before.

  A crystal shop.

  I hope I find her, too.

  And the sexy fortune-teller had been wrong. He did want to find Julia alive. He needed to find the missing . . . still alive.

  Because he’d found too many dead already.

  He tucked the picture of Julia back into his pocket. A drop of rain fell down on him, but Dean didn’t move. The dark-haired woman had vanished now. There had been something familiar about her. Something that kept nagging at him.

  Another raindrop fell.

  Where have I seen you before, Ms. Castille?

  And . . . who the fuck hurt you?

  DEAN STRIPPED OFF his soaked shirt. Lightning flashed just outside of his hotel room. For an instant his gaze slid to the window. Being on the thirty-eighth floor gave him a killer view of the city. The river was below, dark and turbulent, and the clouds were swirling so close that it looked as if he could reach out and touch them.

  Instead, he turned away from that window and reached for his laptop. In seconds he had the thing booted up and he was searching—for her.

  Castille.

  The name had struck a chord with him, stirring up memories of an old FBI case. Ms. Castille had appeared to be about twenty-five, and he’d first joined the FBI ten years ago.

  He started tapping on the keyboard. Going through searches. Accessing records most people didn’t know about but that LOST operatives had managed to reach long ago.

  Castille . . .

  The memory of that name teased at him.

  So he typed in . . . Castille . . . psychic.

  The search results were instant.

  House of Death . . . Psychic John Castille Arrives Too Late to Save Missing Teens . . .

  “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. He leaned forward as he read the first search article.

  HE WAS BACK.

  Emma kept staring at her client, nodding her head as the woman talked, but her focus was on the tall, dark, and far too dangerous man who stood a few feet away.

  Dean Bannon.

  He was wearing another dress shirt today. A crisp white shirt in the ridiculous New Orleans heat. He’d rolled up his sleeves, like that was going to do much good. He was also wearing another pair of too expensive pants.

  Seriously, the guy was so out of place . . . and he just looked like a federal agent. How had he not expected her to tag him right away?

  “Thank you so much, hon,” Mrs. Jones was saying. Mrs. Jones was a weekly client. A sweet grandmother in her early seventies. “I love our talks.”

  Emma almost smiled at that. A real smile, but she caught herself just in time.

  Mrs. Jones handed her a twenty. Emma reached for the money, but instead of taking it, she leaned close to Mrs. Jones and caught her trembling hand. “I want you to see a doctor tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Jones’s dark eyes widened. “Wh-Why?”

  Because she could feel the tremble in Mrs. Jones’s hand. Because the woman’s skin was paler than it had been the week before. Because her voice kept getting breathless when it shouldn’t have. “Because you need to be checked out. It’s been far too long since you’ve paid a visit to your doctor.”

  “I . . . how did you know?”

  Emma stared into her eyes. “I’m worried about you, and I want you to go and see a doctor right away.”

  Dean inched closer. Eavesdropping? Sad. So sad.

  “I—I think I’m fine . . .”

  Emma pushed the money back at Mrs. Jones. “Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  The woman shook her head. “That’s why I come to you.”

  No, Mrs. Jones came to her because she was lonely and she just wanted to talk with someone who would listen to her.

  “Then listen to me now. See a doctor.”

  Mrs. Jones nodded. Then she was off, hurrying away, and Dean Bannon was closing in. Great. Emma narrowed her eyes on the man. “You’re terrible for business.” Hadn’t she told the guy that yesterday?

  He smiled, but it wasn’t a real smile. Emma knew because she gave plenty of her own, fake smiles. Dean’s smile just lifted his sensual lips, but the smile never lit his dark eyes. The man was handsome, in a too polished sort of way. She’d like to see his hair longer, his tanned cheeks flushed more with a fury or passion, and she’d like—

  “You’re not who you pretend to be.”

  Uh-oh.

  Her gaze slowly swept over his face as she tried to figure out just what the guy could have learned about her. Unfortunately . . . he could know too much. In this Internet-filled world, secrets were just a search engine away.

  Dean Bannon had closed in on her, his powerful body moving with a grace that the guy shouldn’t possess. He was controlled—definitely controlled. Everything about him screamed control, and she . . . well, she’d never had much use for control.

  Emma let emotions rule her. She lived for passion, she lived for the moment.

  Why live for anything else? Especially when nothing else was ever guaranteed. The past is a nightmare. The future could vanish. So why not live in that wonderful here and now?

  Only the here and now wasn’t always so wonderful.

  His hair was cut a bit too short. His expression was too hard. That deliciously square jaw of his appeared to be clenched—again, and his eyes had locked on her as if he were a predator and she his prey.

  “I didn’t think psychics were supposed to tell bad fortunes.”

  Now he’d caught her by surprise. I don’t remember saying I was psychic. Emma always tried to choose her words very carefully. Whenever possible, she opted not to lie.

  Her father had told too many lies. Emma had discovered that she didn’t really have a taste for them. Even if she had inherited his . . . other . . . talents. Talents that weren’t always savory. Talents that weren’t exactly legal in some places. Most places.

  “Were you trying to scare that woman?” he asked, voice sharp.

  “I was trying to get her to see a doctor.” Emma shrugged. “Horrible, I know, to want to make certain that a friend is in good health.” Her eyes widened. “I guess that means I’m just a terrible, wretched person on the inside.”

  His frown got worse.

  Emma sighed. “You’d be so much better looking if you just smiled. Like, a real smile.”

  He blinked at her.

  “Right, no smile.” So she smiled brightly for them both. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company today? Come for a reading, did you?”

  Because she really didn’t want to waste time talking with him. As it was, she’d spent most of the night staying up, thinking about Julia.

  Now I have a name to go with her face.

  And when sleep still hadn’t come at midnight, Emma had slipped away and gone to Bourbon Street, but there had been no sign of Julia.

  He pulled out the folding chair that she’d set up. The guy surprised her by tossing a twenty on the table and sitting down in front of her.

  Intrigued now, Emma made herself comfortable in her chair, shifting a bit, as she kept her gaze on him.

  “A reading . . .” he said. She almost shivered. The guy had one of those amazing voices that, once a woman heard it, she didn’t forget. Deep and rumbly. A voice made for darkness.

  And sex.

  She’d detected no accent in his voice, and Emma was very good at recognizing accents. Accents, habits, behavior—she noticed them all.

  Like the way Dean Bannon had a habit of rubbing his jaw with his index finger and thumb. He did that when he was thinking. When he was annoyed, she’d noticed that a muscle flexed along the left-hand side of his jaw. And—

  “Your name is Emma Castille.”

  She leaned forward. “I can use the cards if you want. Some people like that part.” She actually did know what all of the cards meant, so she could shuffle
them and give a reading, no problem. But she preferred to work in other ways.

  “You’re not psychic.”

  Were they back to that?

  Emma put her hands in her lap. She didn’t believe in making nervous gestures. She didn’t believe in giving away anything at all with her body language.

  “What you are . . .” Ah, now he did smile. Her father would have called it a shit-eating grin. The more PC term was probably a Cheshire cat smile. Whatever the name, that smile annoyed her. “What you are, Ms. Castille . . . is a criminal. A fraud.”

  Maybe she should grab her chest and dramatically gasp. She didn’t. “Wonderful for you,” Emma said. “You pulled up a background report on me.” She let her eyes widen a bit. “It’s amazing what one can find if a person just knows how to use a search engine.”

  A furrow appeared between his eyes.

  “How about I say what . . . you are?” Emma asked him. “A washed-up FBI agent who snapped on the job. You held your control tight every single day, but the bad guys—they just didn’t stop, did they? You hunted them, you stopped them, and more appeared. While you were fighting the system, they kept coming, and the bodies kept piling up on your watch.”

  He shot right back to his feet. The folding chair slammed down behind him.

  “You and your father bilked desperate people,” he accused. “You told them you were psychic, that you could help find their missing children. And you—”

  “We found them.” Two girls who’d vanished. They’d found them. “We just didn’t get to them in time.” And she would not go back to that place.

  She motioned toward Manuel. He knew the signal meant he could take over her booth. There was no way, no way, that she was going to stay there with this prick while he slammed the most painful moments from her past in her face.

  Manuel, pale, tattooed, with piercings in his lips and eyebrows, quickly claimed her spot.

  Emma jumped to her feet, muttered her thanks, and fled right past the guy she was starting to think of as Agent Jackass.