Dark of the Night

by Dee Davis

  And he’d listened.

  So here he was, in the middle of fucking nowhere, in a rental car that shook if he accelerated past fifty, with a radio that only worked some of the time and an air conditioner that had stopped before he’d gone a hundred miles. Another of his partners’ brilliant ideas. “Don’t drive your own car in Mexico, Jonathan. Just rent one. It’s cheap, it’s . . .” Crap. The goddamned thing was crap.

  Oh yeah, this was the life.

  Hopefully the trip would be worth it, but based on the way things were going he sincerely doubted it. He did not feel refreshed. He didn’t even feel like he was on vacation—more like he was exiled in hell. Angrily he punched at the fan button, pushing it to high. Sun-heated air blasted out of the vent, and he gritted his teeth, reaching over to roll down the window. Nothing was worth this kind of torture.

  Truth was, he wasn’t the rough-it-out-in-the-wilds type. He smiled at the thought, glancing down at his pressed jeans and polo shirt. Even they felt odd. He spent his days dressed for success, Armani his uniform of choice. The rest of the world might believe in dress-down Friday’s but Jonathan thought it was bullshit. A way for people who couldn’t afford the best to justify their situation. And he wasn’t falling for it.

  With a murmured curse, he pressed down on the accelerator. The little car shook, but held its course. Oh yeah, this was turning into a hell of a day. Hopefully things were going better in Austin. Danny had promised he’d solve their little problem. Get to the bottom of it once and for all. He trusted the man, but sometimes things had a way of getting out of control, and if news leaked out that there was something going on, it could cause the company serious damage. And that was something he wanted to avoid at all costs.

  He sighed, tipping back his head against the headrest. He put everything he had into Guardian. It was like a child. And he wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow anything to happen to it. If it died, so did he.

  A horn sounded behind him, breaking into his reverie. He hadn’t even heard the truck coming up behind him. Three hours in the desert and he was already losing his edge. With a frown, he pulled the rental over onto the shoulder.

  The truck, its red paint faded to orangey-brown, started to pass, then slowed, matching its pace to Jonathan’s car, a stocky man in the passenger seat smiling, gesturing for him to stop. Jonathan held his speed steady, concentrating on the rutted shoulder. The truck stayed with him.

  Just what he needed to top off an already perfect day—a couple of crazy Mexicans in a beat up pickup truck. Jonathan accelerated, the car protesting its mistreatment. The pickup followed suit, the man waving his hand now in agitation, his smile fading.

  Something glinted in the man’s hand. A badge. The son of a bitch was waving a badge. Jonathan blew out a breath, relief mixing with anger. Where the hell was his siren? Pulling the car to a stop, he turned off the ignition, already reaching for his wallet.

  The cop walked up to the car and leaned down, his beefy face glistening with sweat. “Salga del coche.” Get out of the car.

  Jonathan reached for the car handle, but before he could open it, the door jerked outward, the man’s beefy hand closing on Jonathan’s shoulder.

  “¡Ahora mismo!”

  He nodded and stepped from the car. The big man’s partner joined them, his eyes hidden behind the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses.

  “Su licencia, por favor.” Despite the word please, Jonathan recognized that the request was in fact an order.

  He opened his wallet, digging for his license. “Yo no hablo el español.” He actually did speak the language, but it had been a hell of a long time, and until he understood what was happening, he thought it best to keep the fact to himself.

  The two men conferred for a moment, and then the second man handed the license back, his fat friend heading for their truck. “Where are you going?” Jonathan returned his attention to the policeman in sunglasses. He was speaking English now, his words heavily accented.

  “I’m on my way to the mountains. A place just outside of Satillo.” He was actually heading for a little village near Torreon, but again it seemed prudent to keep his destination private.

  The man nodded. “You are on vacation here in our country?”

  “Yeah. I needed a little peace and quiet.” Which was turning out to be a whole lot less soothing than advertised.

  The policeman smiled, revealing a gold front tooth. “You have come to the right place, my friend. I think we can guarantee you nothing but peace and quiet from now on.”

  Jonathan smiled back, but the hairs on his neck rose as some part of his body responded to a thread of something else in the man’s voice. For the first time he realized that neither of the men was wearing a uniform. Laughter off to his left signaled that fatty had moved, and Jonathan turned, his heart pounding as adrenaline pumped through his body.

  The heavy-set man was standing a few feet away, the hot sunshine highlighting the pistol in his hand. “Duerme bien, amigo.”

  There was a flash, and before Jonathan had time to think, let alone act, the sound of the gun’s report filled his ears. Then for a moment everything was quiet, the world seeming to move in slow motion. He watched as a bead of sweat dropped from the shooter’s heavily jowled face, waiting for the inevitable, and it came—in an explosion of heat and light that obliterated all other thoughts.

  He struggled to hold on, fighting to maintain consciousness. There was still so much he wanted to do. Somewhere amid the pain in his head, he heard tires squealing as his assailants’ truck pulled back onto the highway, leaving him alone on the side of the road.

  If he could have he’d have laughed. It was an inglorious way to die, ironic really. The diametric opposite of the life he’d led. Always pushing for more. As the darkness swirled up to swallow him, his last thoughts were of all that had been left undone. What he could have been. But nothing—not his money, not his connections, and certainly not his company—could save him now.

  With a sigh, Jonathan Brighton gave in to the dark.

  Chapter 1

  Austin, Texas—Six months later

  All he had to do was lift the goddamned pen. Which was easier said than done. John Brighton concentrated on the writing implement, willing his right hand to move. He was halfway there. He’d managed to get his fingers to close around the thing. Now all he had to do was lift it up.

  His hand quivered and for a moment rose off the table. He closed his eyes, trying to visualize the action. How could something so seemingly inconsequential be so difficult? Six months of rehab and he was no better than a newborn. Weak and untried.

  He swallowed, concentrating on the implement in his hand. This might be the biggest challenge he’d ever faced, but he wasn’t about to go down for the count. Some low-life Mexican thugs were not going to get the best of him.

  The pen lifted, his fingers shaking with the effort.

  “Hey, bro. Ready to blow this pop stand?”

  The pen dropped to the bed, then rolled to the floor. “Danny.” John looked up, trying to conceal his annoyance.

  Maybe he was jealous of the fact that his brother had full use of his faculties. Or maybe he was just in a generally crappy mood. Either way, there was no point in taking it out on Danny.

  His brother hung a garment bag on a hook, and dropped into a chair by the hospital bed. “Having a little trouble signing out?” He bent down to retrieve the pen.

  “I could have done it.” John sounded petulant and he knew it. “You surprised me. That’s all.”

  “Look, Jonathan, there’s no need to push yourself like this. Your recovery is nothing short of miraculous as it is. What you need is a little downtime. Let your body come back at its own pace.”

  “I’ve had six months of downtime. And believe me when I tell you it isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.” He wasn’t surprised to hear bitterness in his voice. So much had been lost. Things he might never recover. Gaping holes in his life. A darkness that sometimes threatened to swallow
him whole.

  Danny held up a hand in apology. “I didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers. I just want you to take a breath and maybe move a little slower. Let me help. It’s about time I get the chance to be the big brother.” His expression belied the lightness in his voice.

  “And how exactly do you propose to do that?” John swung his legs carefully out of the bed, using his left leg to propel his right.

  “Well, to start with I can sign these.” Danny reached for the dismissal papers. “I doubt anyone will look too closely.” His grin was contagious, and John felt his mood lightening. Maybe things would feel more normal once he was home.

  “Whatever it takes to get me out of here.” He watched as his brother signed the release papers, envying the ease with which he wielded the pen. But then things had always come easy for Danny. The golden boy.

  John shook his head, dispelling his thoughts. Danny was who he was, and their roles in life had long since been cast in stone. Except that now he wasn’t able to play his part. He fought against a wave of despondency. Life was too damn short for all this wallowing in self-pity. “So what’d you bring me to wear?” he asked, striving to keep his voice light.

  “Armani.” Danny smiled. “What else? I made a special trip to get it.” He unzipped the bag and pulled out the beautifully tailored suit.

  John swallowed back a wave of frustration. The suit had enough closures to keep him occupied for a century. He forced a smile. “Thanks. But I think I might have preferred something a little simpler.”

  Danny frowned. “Yeah, right. This coming from a guy whose friends wager about whether he wears a tie to bed at night.”

  John winced at the reference. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it. But repetitions didn’t make it seem any more real. He supposed people were telling him the truth. After all, their brains were perfectly functional. So unless there was a hell of a conspiracy, the reminiscences were bound to be accurate. Unfortunately, they didn’t fit with his impressions of himself.

  He’d seen pictures, and in some vague way they looked and felt familiar. But the memories lacked emotion. It was as though that part of him had been damaged, twisted—the mirror image of what he’d once been.

  And no one seemed to understand. He was Jonathan Brighton.

  And he wasn’t.

  All at the same time. Hell, he didn’t really understand it himself. He only knew he no longer wanted to wear Armani, even if he did have an entire closet of it.

  “Well, I hope I’m not an odds-on favorite, because I don’t think I’ll be tying ties anytime soon.” He tried for lightness and missed, fighting to close his hand. Even the simple act of making a fist eluded him. With his good hand he levered himself up, careful to center his weight, slightly favoring his good leg.

  “Which brings me back to my original point. You’re pushing yourself too fast.” Danny reached for the suit coat, sliding it off of the hanger. “Mrs. Tedesky said you were even thinking of coming back to work.”

  “It’s time. I’ve been out of commission too long as it is.”

  His brother frowned. “So you’re displeased with the way I’ve been running things?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just feel like I need to be back at the helm. It is my company after all.”

  “It’s our company, Jonathan, and I’m perfectly capable of handling things until you get it all together.”

  “It’s John.” He mumbled the words, but Danny heard him.

  “Case in point. What kind of man changes his name at thirty-five?”

  He managed a shrug, a left-sided affair that still conveyed his feelings. “One that gets shot in the head. Besides, I didn’t change it. I shortened it. And one thing has nothing to do with the other. I’m perfectly capable of making business decisions.”

  “I’m not questioning whether you’ll be able to come back, John. I’m just questioning whether now is the time. You still aren’t a hundred percent. The truth is you may never remember what you’ve lost.” Danny leaned against the bureau, his relaxed stance at odds with his tone.

  John sighed, running his good hand through his hair. “So says the doctor. But I haven’t lost anything that affects my ability to work. And that’s all that matters.”

  “There’s still your physical recovery.” Danny’s eyes narrowed in thought. “You’re moving better, but you’re having problems. Hell, you can’t even hold a pen.” He tipped his head toward the pen on the table.

  John swallowed back a retort. There was no sense taking his anger out on his brother. “I’m getting better.”

  “I know that. I just worry about you.” Danny paused, dropping his gaze to study his wingtips.

  “I know you do.” John closed his eyes, massaging his temple. “But the fact remains that it’s my call. And I say I’m ready to come back.” Anger, hot and heavy, swelled through him. “What I need now is work. And the work I choose is here.” He banged his fist down on the table. “At my company. Do I make myself clear?”

  Some part of him, deep inside, was appalled at his tone of voice, surprised at the depth of his anger, but it held no sway. He glared at the man he considered his best friend, waiting for an answer.

  Danny sighed, obviously working to contain his emotions. “I just want you to be yourself again. And you have to understand that I have to do what I think is necessary to make that happen.”

  John dropped heavily back onto the bed. “I know that. I didn’t mean to lose my temper. It’s just that right now, Guardian is all I have. And for the time being I need to be there. I need to try and make it all work again.”

  “And I’ll be there to help you.” Danny’s troubled gaze met his. “Look, one way or the other, I swear it’ll be all right.”

  Tears pricked the back of John’s eyes. He was so fucking emotional these days. He forced a smile, certain that it was at best lopsided. “I hope so, Danny. Sweet Jesus, I hope so.”

  Danny sighed, forcing a smile. “All right then, what do you say we start by getting you dressed.” He reached for the suit.

  “I think Armani might be overkill for a casual afternoon of recovery.” The voice was decidedly feminine, deep and smoky. Like aged whiskey, it washed over him, deceptively smooth, ending with a swift kick. He liked it.

  A lot.

  He swung around, curious to see the woman behind the words. He wasn’t disappointed.

  She stood in the doorway, dressed in faded green scrubs, the cotton hugging every sweet curve. Neither tall nor short, she simply was. Inhabiting space as if it belonged to her.

  A single braid hung casually over her shoulder, her hair brown with golden highlights. Sun-kissed was the word that popped into his head. He smiled at the imagery, wondering if he’d lost his mind, and then ruefully accepted the fact that, woman or no, he was no longer playing with a full deck. Still, he was in the game, and that had to count for something.

  “So you guys want to quit staring, or shall I give you a run-way turn?” She smiled slowly, green eyes sparkling, and stepped into the room, breaking the spell. He shot a glance at his brother who was standing slack-jawed, eyes riveted on the new arrival. Evidently he wasn’t the only one attracted to their visitor.

  Danny closed his mouth with an audible click, his smile turning predatory. Jealousy surged through John, surprising him with its force. Yet another emotion out of control. Hell, he didn’t even know the woman.

  But then neither did Danny.

  Almost as if they had choreographed it, they moved toward her, like two awkward adolescents. Or moths to the flame. John closed his eyes, fighting to keep his balance. His leg was much better, but walking required his full attention, distraction almost certainly spelling disaster.

  And this woman was definitely a distraction.

  She moved before he had a chance to think about her intent, steadying him with gentle hands, the soft smell of her surrounding him with tantalizing hints of vanilla.

  He reached up with his good hand, planning to push her backwa
rd, to protect his space, but she’d already moved, standing again in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the door frame.

  “Who the hell are you?” His words came out sharper than he’d intended. The woman’s scrubs marked her as a hospital employee. A nurse of some kind, no doubt. He shouldn’t have snapped, but he wasn’t a man who liked to be coddled and he was more than capable of standing on his own two feet.

  “Apparently your dresser.” She held up a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. “Can you lift your arm?”

  Shooting her what he hoped was an indignant look, he slowly raised his arm, stopping when it reached shoulder height, the effort costing him more than he wanted to admit. “How’s this?”

  “It’s a good start. Can you get it any higher?” She watched him dispassionately, but he could see a spark of something in her eyes. Pity or maybe compassion. It didn’t really matter. Either sentiment was abhorrent. And he wasn’t about to tolerate it from a stranger—hospital staff or no.

  He let his arm drop. “I don’t see that it matters.”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t—to me. But I’d think sometime in your life you’d like to be able to pull something off the top of a shelf, or hang the star on the Christmas tree.”

  He studied her through narrowed eyes, responding to the challenge in her voice. “And you care about this because . . .”

  She smiled, the gesture changing her from formidable to impish in an instant. “I get paid if you touch the stars.”

  There was a world of meaning in her words, but only in John’s imagination.

  “Does that go for me, too?” Danny’s tone was a cross between wistful and wolfish.

  John shook his head, pulling himself back to reality. The woman was a witch. He’d completely forgotten his brother was in the room.

  “Only if you’ve suffered major head trauma.” Her gaze brushed over Danny, dismissing him. “I’m John’s physical therapist.”