Emitting a hushed laugh, he crossed to her side. “Here. Let’s try something else.” He batted her hands away and firmly gripped the bottom of the shirt.
With careful tugs he brought the material over her head and removed it. He strode to the closet and grabbed a denim button-down from a hanger. Ignoring her barely covered breasts, he quickly guided her injured arm through the hole, his knuckles brushing subtle shivers along her skin. She shoved her good arm through the other sleeve but fumbled at the buttons. Cursing beneath his breath, Ethan swiftly latched the slippery plastic disks, his hands barely steady.
As soon as he finished, Mara reared away and reached for the bottoms, prepared to dislocate her arm rather than have him touch her again. She gritted her teeth and prepared to endure.
Knowing the Mara he remembered would never ask, he plucked the boxers from her fingers and tapped her foot. Defeated, she lifted her legs at his commands, standing when he lightly tapped her hip. Ethan carefully avoided his handiwork on her shin. At her waist, he flipped the waistband over to reach the drawstring inside. His knuckles grazed her stomach, and both of them inhaled sharply. Ethan pulled away as though stung and bounded to his feet.
“They’re not so big,” he muttered.
“No, they’re fine.” Mara yanked at the hem of the shirt once more, for good measure. “Thank you.”
Ethan shrugged. “No problem.” He returned to the kitchen and set to work opening a can of soup. While it warmed in the microwave, he retrieved a box of crackers from the cabinet. The timer beeped imperiously, and he absently reached for the serving bowl without an oven mitt. The ring of the phone trilled into the room, an unexpected interruption.
He dropped the serving bowl, cursing. Hot soup splattered across the counter, its droplets stinging his arm. He jerked his arm away and knocked over the open box of crackers. Soup dripped over the sides of the countertop, falling to the floor. And the phone continued to shrill for attention.
“Should I get it?” Mara ventured.
“The machine will pick up,” he responded tersely. When she winced, he refused to feel guilty. Serves her right, he told himself. If he didn’t trust her, that wasn’t his fault. But he had to grit his teeth to stall the apology that sprang to his lips. No conversation, no recriminations, nothing that would show that he had ever cared. Stoic, distant politeness might protect him, he imagined, from slipping too easily into past patterns.
The ringing of the phone stopped and the machine picked up. “You’ve reached Dr. Ethan Stuart. Please leave a message at the tone.”
Lesley’s voice wound through the speakers. “Ethan? It’s me. I suppose you’re down in your lab, playing with your bodies. Enjoy yourself now, because I’m coming on Friday, ready or not. Remember, my flight arrives at six P.M. Make sure you’ve refrigerated your cadavers before I get there…I don’t plan to share.”
The machine beeped to signal the end of the message. Ethan busied himself mopping up the rest of the spilled soup. The silence lengthened, and again he found himself on the verge of an apology. But Mara had no rights in his life anymore. None. She had forfeited any claim to him ages ago. “Dinner will be ready in a second. Can you sit at the table, or do you need me to feed it to you?”
Deflated and unwilling to have him come that close, Mara hurriedly levered herself off the futon and made her way to the table. She pulled out one of the two ladder-backed chairs decorated in the same nickel plating as the nightstand and the table. “I can eat here.”
“Water or juice?” Ethan held up a carton of orange juice. “You need fluids.”
She nodded. Between her race through the city and the minor blood loss, she needed to drink as much as possible. According to the mysterious Lesley, she had to be in fighting form by Friday, if not before. “Both, if you don’t mind.”
“No, I don’t mind.” He placed the glasses and bowls and silverware on a tray and carried the lot to the table. With the effortlessness of one who’d waited a thousand tables in his youth, he served them both and returned to the kitchen to discard the tray.
They ate in tense silence, until Mara could feel her nerves tighten and fray. If she was going to be here for even a day, this couldn’t continue. So she’d go first.
“‘Dr. Ethan Stuart’? So I did see dead bodies downstairs.”
“Research.” Ethan lifted his beer and drank deeply. His plan of absolute silence wasn’t exactly practical, he decided. Grudgingly, he elaborated, “I’m a forensic anthropologist.”
Nibbling at a cracker, Mara sensed a thaw and pressed a bit more. “I’m not sure I understand what that means. I thought anthropologists studied culture or something.”
“We do. I study culture through the examination of dead bodies, usually to resolve legal matters or answer scientific queries. What caused their deaths? What were the communal illnesses and what do they tell us about life? What did a people look like, feel like? How did they act?”
“And Lesley? Is she an anthropologist too?”
Ethan lifted shaded eyes to meet hers. “No. A geology professor.” He sipped at his soup, not wanting to continue the conversation about Lesley. The less he explained about his business in Kiev, the better. She’d be gone before Lesley arrived anyway. Besides, he had his own questions that demanded answers. “Why were those men chasing you?”
Mara shrugged, as though being shot at was a routine part of her day. “I cheated the lead guy. I guess it’s pique.” She met his shocked gaze with a lazy smile. “You know I’m a thief and a liar, Ethan. Don’t look so astonished.”
“Is that what you do for a living? Cheat thugs and hide out from killers?” Embarrassed hurt clouded his baritone voice as he ground out the question that had preyed on him. “Was I your first victim or had you been doing this for a while?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I don’t ask idle questions, Mara.” He took a deep draft from the bottle. She owed him this explanation, if nothing else. “Was being with me a game for you? Did I ever mean anything?”
“Ethan!” Abashed that he wondered, she stared at him. “How could you ask me that?”
“How could I not?” he countered evenly. “I thought about it afterward. Here I was, this geeky foster kid, and you were the mysterious urchin who’d do anything. You had your demons, and maybe I was simply a diversion.”
“You weren’t.” Explanations crowded on her tongue, but before she could speak, he shrugged.
“Forget I asked.”
“No. I’m sorry, Ethan.” She offered the quiet apology without fanfare. Setting her spoon down beside her bowl, she clasped her hands together to stop herself from covering his. “I know saying it doesn’t help. Meaning it won’t make it better. But I am sorry for what I did to you.”
“Which part?” he prodded.
“All of it. The lying. The stealing. Not saying good-bye.” Her fingers clenched briefly as she thought about the why of it all. The part of the apology she could never give him. “You deserved better. You always had.”
“I deserved you.” Ethan pushed away from the table with a harsh shove. He gained his feet easily and paced over to the island with his bowl. Resentment steeped over a dozen years bubbled to the surface. He switched on the taps and began to scrub the bowl with a determined fury. “I woke up on the roof that morning and you weren’t there. I even rode out to the church. I went to see your grandmother, but she wouldn’t talk to me. Neither would your father.”
At that news, Mara blanched. “You spoke to my father?”
“I didn’t know what else to do. But he claimed that he hadn’t seen you either.” Ethan returned for her dishes, jerking them up from the table. He remembered the scene clearly, his frantic demand for answers on the porch of Mara’s house. Reverend Reed’s easy denials. The sight of the others peering out from behind tattered curtains and flimsy doorways. “I nearly believed him, but then I saw your shoe.”
“What?”
“The shoes you were wearing that
night. Those absurdly high heels with the gold buckle. I saw it at the edge of the yard and I knew you’d been there. But no one would tell me where you’d gone.”
Trapped in that morning again, he twisted at the tap and angrily wiped his hands on his jeans. He hunched his shoulders, bracing for what had come next. “I woke that morning to find nothing of you left. Your clothes, your perfume. All gone. But even then I didn’t think you’d stolen from me. I only noticed when I came back from the church because I wanted to use the money to try to find you.”
“Ethan.” Shame, sour and strong, choked her. Instinctively, she rubbed at her hip. “I’ll pay you back.”
The hushed offer forced a mirthless laugh from him. “You think I want the money? God, I never did know you, did I?” He shook his head, weary with resignation. “And you sure as hell never knew me.”
Mara stared at his back as he walked to the door. He paused there, one hand braced against the wood.
“Stay up here. There’s more pain medication in the bathroom. Take a couple of pills before you go to sleep.”
She had to ask. “What are you going to do?”
He straightened but didn’t turn around. “Get as far away from you as I possibly can. And wonder why in the hell I bothered to open the door.”
“I don’t know what happened to her,” Rabbe whined into the cell phone. “It’s like she vanished into thin air.”
“But we do know that magicks aren’t real, don’t we, Rabbe?” The calm question did not disguise the menace that lurked on the other end. “Are you sure she went down the alley?”
“Uh-huh. I saw her turn the corner. I had Guffin drive around the other side to block her in. There were only three streets, and I checked every one. But nothing.”
“Did you search the buildings on those streets? Ask the patrons inside if they’d seen a young woman?”
Rabbe squirmed, but answered honestly. “Uh, no. It was pretty early in the morning, and I couldn’t see as anything was open yet. I jerked on the door handles, but none of them budged.”
“Then that poses a problem for you, doesn’t it? Because you are quickly running out of time. And my patience is wearing quite thin.” The soft voice carried quite well over the phone lines because Davis Conroy was a big man. He had topped six feet by the seventh grade, and continued to shoot up until he was nearly twenty. Built like a semi, he had never learned to allow others to have their way. There was no need.
He was also a rich man. Decades sweating out labor on oil rigs and hewing black gold from unyielding ground had given him an instinct for tapping undiscovered finds. If the wells he dug inched too close to legitimate claims, he consistently found a way to keep the disadvantaged quiet. These days, he left his settlement work to others.
But one grand pursuit had eluded him, until a recent discovery. One that Rabbe allowed to be stolen from him. Conroy fingered his father’s key, the brass gleaming from its regular polish. “I’ve paid you well to bring me what I wanted, and I expect to receive it. Are we clear, Rabbe?”
The affirmation squeaked out. “Y-Yes.”
When the call clicked off, Rabbe could feel his chest easing, his muscles relaxing. A tough guy all his life, few struck the fear of God into his jaded heart. The client on the phone was one of them. From a voice that sounded like an angel of death, to a supernatural way of knowing what was going on, it was fuckin’ scary. Rabbe didn’t believe the story Conroy had spun about a treasure map and millions in gold, but when he’d heard the bounty on Mara Reed’s head, he couldn’t resist.
The bitch had played him for a fool, which was bad enough. Worse, though, she’d stolen Conroy’s property and a wad of cash from him, and for that she’d have to pay. If Conroy got what he needed from her, Rabbe would get his $50,000 and pocket another $250,000 that he’d split with Seth. Plus, he’d get back his pride. Conroy said nothing about bringing her in unused.
He’d use her, all right, he thought, rubbing himself through his pants. Might even give Guffin a ride on her. She was fine as well as sneaky, and she’d suckered him by promising to let him have a taste. But that too had been a lie.
So now he’d break her in and break her down, and then he’d deliver her to someone who wanted her badly enough to pay a king’s ransom.
Mara Reed was gonna get hers coming and going. He guaranteed it.
Chapter 4
“Mara…Mara…Mara, wake up.” Ethan sat near her crooked knee, tapping her flannel-covered hip smartly. “It’s time to take your antibiotics, Mara. Wake up right now or we do this the hard way.”
He’d been nudging her toward wakefulness for nearly two minutes, and his patience was nearing the loose knot at the end of its tether. Years ago he’d have waited patiently for those huge cinnamon-colored eyes to blink sleepily and for that slow, satisfied smile to smirk across her face. Then, his life had revolved around her needs, had found its meaning in loving her.
He’d been a fool. A smitten, soulful fool. Honesty required that he admit his culpability. He’d fallen for her first because of her streak of exploration, and her fearlessness. How she relied on no more than her wit and guile. His exact opposite. He could blame her for leaving, but he should have known better. Now he did.
Ethan swatted at her butt again, eager to move on with his day and away from her. Quickly. “Damnit, Mara. Sit up and take your medicine.”
“Go away,” she mumbled into the bunched down pillow she’d pulled over her face. “I’m not sick. I’m asleep. Take your own medicine.”
The guttural growl that rumbled out of Ethan’s throat would have terrified a lesser woman, but his intended victim failed to take note. With the soft, dark voice his students recognized as incipient fury, Ethan calmly threatened, “You can either drink the water, Mara, or you can wear it. Count of three.” He pushed up from the futon and gained his feet lithely, cup at the ready.
“One…”
In silent response, Mara snuggled deeper into the pillow, unconcerned.
“Two…”
She reached behind with her good arm to tug the blanket over her head.
“Three.”
With a swift, studied move, Ethan snapped the blanket free and tipped the cup. The cascade of ice-cold liquid drew an immediate response.
“You four-eyed son of a two-legged jackal!” Mara yelped as the water splashed in her face, soaking her hair and the pillow beneath. Instantly alert, she awkwardly levered herself into a sitting position. The stream of curses continued as water ran cool rivulets down the borrowed nightshirt and along her sleep-warmed skin. “I would have gotten up,” she muttered crossly. “Five more minutes wouldn’t have killed you.”
“I’m not operating on your timetable.” Ethan serenely returned to the refrigerator and refilled the empty glass. “As long as you’re a fugitive in my home, you’re on my schedule. Understand?” He offered her the refilled cup with one hand, and extended his open palm with two pale beige pills. When she reached for them, he closed his fist. “Understand?”
Mara pushed soggy curls back from her eyes and arched a single insolent brow. “Yes, I get it, Nurse Ratchett. Loud and clear. One more step out of line and it’s the plank for me.”
“You’re mixing your metaphors,” Ethan corrected mildly. When she poked her tongue out at him, he quickly dropped the pills on the healthy pink flesh. And thought heatedly of the feats he knew that tongue could do.
Memories, like his libido, were hard to suppress. Every look, every gesture she made, served as a searing reminder of a different time. His body cared nothing for resentment when she slept in a T-shirt and little else and looked soft from sleep. Like she probably looked for all of her customers. The thought settled into his gut like acid, and he jerkily extended the glass.
Mara took the water and gulped the pills down. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a specimen on a petri dish.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“No, I’m not. I study people, Ethan, and you’ve got something on your mind. What is it?”
The question swirled in his thoughts, but he refused to give it voice. Are you a prostitute? Is that what you’re running from? Yet when she poked her tongue out again in insolence, he didn’t care if she traded sex for money. Enthralled, he leaned close and murmured, “Keep at it and I’ll take you up on your offer. But I won’t be the one to pay.”
Mara swiftly closed her mouth, finding it suddenly difficult to swallow. An accusation pulsed inside the warning, but she couldn’t fathom its meaning.
“Smart girl.” He turned away from the futon, unable to see the sudden rise in color in her cheeks. Instead, he walked to the bathroom to grab a towel from the rack. Returning to the studio, he tossed the plush green fabric to her, and she snagged it in midair with her good arm. “Clean yourself up. I’ve got to go into town for supplies. Stay inside. Don’t touch anything or answer the phone. And don’t go down to the warehouse.”
The orders were barked out while Ethan collected his wallet and a slip of paper scrawled with letters. Mara assumed the paper was his shopping list. Hopefully, she thought, it included an appointment to have his stick removed.
“Excuse me?”
Mara looked up to find Ethan glaring at her, and she realized she’d muttered her thoughts aloud. He’d been sniping at her for nearly forty-eight hours, and she was fed up. Never one to back down, she shrugged. “You’ve been in a pissy mood for two days now, Ethan. Either stop treating me like a rabid infection or send me on my way.”
He fixed her with a narrow look and retorted caustically, “Where, exactly, would you go? The Lucky Lake Lodge? Or maybe the Starburst Motel? Or somewhere else where you can ply your trade? Kiev doesn’t have a bordello in town, but I’m sure we can find you suitable employment, if that’s what you want.”
“Bordello?” Mara stared at him, incredulous. “What?”
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