Losers weepers. Finders keepers.
Hatcher licked his lips. Of course, Kate didn’t really know him, either. But that would change soon. He’d plant the camera with the flash card full of photos in Michael’s car. Other evidence, too. If Michael thought he was going to get back with Kate, he had another thing coming. Michael would only drag her down. The public put Kate on a pedestal. She needed someone who could help her connect on a more down-to-earth level. Hatcher hoped that someone would be him.
He glanced around the street. It was empty. The Marauder was parked next door, behind a large SUV. The houses on Kate’s street were each at least a couple of acres and fairly spaced out. She probably wouldn’t see his car.
After glancing around once more, he climbed a nearby tree to gain access over the wall surrounding Kate’s property. He dropped to the ground and jogged around the house to the kitchen entrance. Peeking through the windows, he could see the alarm panel. Kate had been careless again. Every once in a while, she didn’t set the alarm. He picked the lock and let himself in.
The house was dark and quiet. He had no idea where she’d gone or when she’d be home. But Michael would be here soon, and he’d be ready for him.
Until then, it was time to do a little exploring. He had to get to know Kate even better. Learn more of her interests. It’d be easier that way. She’d need someone to lean on once she found out that her stalker was her delusional ex. Hatcher had every intention of being there for her just like he had been on the set. Kate would confide in him, and then she’d see just how much they had in common. While she could date anyone in Hollywood she wanted, he was willing to bet she’d had enough of that lifestyle. Kate needed a regular working-class guy. Like him.
The fridge contained pineapple juice, some eggs, milk, fruit, yogurt, a few bottles of beer, and some Chinese take-out. He opened the cartons; egg foo young. In the drawers, he found a few kinds of cheese, along with some spinach and apples. He checked the date on the beer. It was set to expire soon, which meant it was probably Michael’s. Why hadn’t Kate poured it out yet?
Because they’re back together, the voice in his head said.
Shut up! They’re not! Michael was lying!
He thought about emptying the bottles for her, but set the beer back in the fridge, careful to turn the label to the front—exactly as he’d found it.
Good thing he was a decent cook. He’d cook for Kate. Make fabulous meals for her. She’d like that.
Quietly he made his way through the house. He’d have to talk to her about the alarm. She used to set it all the time, back when he had left her letters attached to the front gate. When he stopped writing her, she eased up on the security. Kate was trusting. Kate. His Kate. He liked the sound of that.
He rummaged through the living room, searching for CDs, DVDs, books, magazines. While she had a nice sound system and TV, his search proved fruitless. Kate was a minimalist. Sure, the house had to be at least four thousand square feet, give or take, but that only meant Kate liked her space. He pictured her as tech savvy and figured she probably kept her media in digital format. Except for the books. There weren’t a lot, and what she had was mostly hardcover: a few mysteries, a couple romance novels, and the entire set of Dark Fall books. Research. Kate worked hard on and off the set.
He walked through the rest of the downstairs, noting Kate’s taste in furniture and artwork. The furniture was tasteful and simple. Not modern, but not exactly old English, either. Shaker? He didn’t know. It looked very natural, earthy. Her favorite accent colors seemed to be blue and green. All muted shades. He climbed the stairs, listening to each step. A step near the top creaked ever so slightly. This was the only time someone might see him from the outside as there were windows above the front entrance. Still, they’d just think Kate had a visitor. He’d watched Kate walk up and down this same flight of stairs a dozen times or more. Sometimes she was dressed in something fancy; other times she wore a T-shirt and yoga pants. Then there were the mornings when Kate came down the stairs dressed in a thin, spaghetti strap tank top and shorts. He loved those mornings. Especially with the super zoom.
He headed straight to her bedroom. Thanks to the camera, he knew where it was—to the right of the staircase, down the hall. The bedroom ran the length of the house.
Her walk-in closet was neat and well organized. Gowns hung with gowns. Dresses with dresses. Nothing was intermixed. Purses lined the top shelf. Decorative boxes were stacked in a corner. Hatcher opened the top one, finding scarves. He’d never seen Kate wear a scarf. He opened the box under that one. Inside was a gun. A 9 mm Beretta. Not surprising. Kate handled the prop guns on the set like a pro. Word had it that she had spent considerable time at a shooting range with a trainer.
Hatcher smiled. Odds were that only Michael knew where Kate hid the gun. He’d planned on something a little different for the setup, but this was perfect. He took the Beretta and closed the box.
After leaving the closet, he stared at her bed. He ran a hand down the bedspread, from the headboard to the foot. Kate slept on the right side. He knew this because there was a notepad and pen on the nightstand. He studied the placement of both pen and pad before picking the pad up to read.
He didn’t like what he saw. Not at all.
I can’t stay away. He’s trouble, but the way I felt around him . . . It was nice . . .
Michael! Damn it, Michael’s plan was working. How had he missed it? He’d been so certain that Michael had lied on the phone. She was falling for his crap, his lies! He’d only betray her again.
Told you, the voice in his head said.
Hatcher hadn’t realized how hard he’d clenched his fists until he registered pain. He forced himself to take a deep breath. He’d planned for this. He’d hoped it wouldn’t have to happen like this, but Michael left him no choice. He’d thought that Kate was moving on. Tonight would hurt her, and he could only hope this would be the last time.
He felt someone watching and whirled around. A tall, dark-haired man in a black suit disappeared into a room down the hall. Hatcher hadn’t expected anyone other than Michael. He flicked the safety off the gun and walked back down the hallway.
No one was in the room. There wasn’t any way out—unless the guy in the suit had slipped out the window, which was closed. He opened the closet doors. Except for a few hangers, the closet was bare. The bed was too low for anyone to hide under. Hatcher wiped his eyes. He could have sworn he’d seen someone. He peeked out the window. The driveway was empty. Michael hadn’t shown up yet—he’d have heard the Porsche drive up.
The step at the top of the stairs hadn’t creaked.
He stood and listened carefully. Nothing. Not a single sound. His feelings for Kate were clouding his mind. Yes, that was it. He was inside her house, inside her bedroom. He’d been thinking of him and Kate together. It was just ghosts. Not real ghosts—just ghosts conjured by his imagination.
Like the voices that happened sometimes.
Hatcher went back to Kate’s bedroom and stared at the bed. Despite his best attempts to see himself with Kate, the only person he saw was Michael. Michael with his hands on her, Kate on top of him.
He couldn’t let that happen. Never again.
I can’t stay away.
He stood watching the imaginary scene of Kate and Michael’s renewed and fervent lovemaking and thinking about what Kate had written on the notepad. She must have woken from a dream, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what it had been about.
A door closed downstairs. Hatcher peered out the window and spotted Michael’s Porsche in the driveway. He had been so engrossed in what might have been going on in Kate’s bed that he hadn’t heard the engine.
Michael had the code to get through the gate. He hadn’t rung the doorbell. She’d given him the new gate code. And he had a key. Michael had told the truth—he and Kate were back together.
“I’ll fix everything, Kate. You’re not thinking clearly. You’re too stress
ed. Overworked.” Hatcher turned to brush a hand once more over the bed where he’d last imagined Kate. But she was no longer there, and Michael was to blame. He was hiding her somewhere.
This changed the plan a bit.
Now he’d have to get Michael to tell him where Kate was first.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Ian
“Stay,” Ian said as he stroked the side of Kate’s face. She was even more beautiful in the warm morning light as she lay in bed next to him. She curled up against him, and the feeling of her skin on his was both comforting and sensual.
“I can’t,” she said softly. “I really should get back. It won’t take long. Just long enough to take care of a few things.”
He kissed the top of her head. He didn’t ask why she couldn’t e-mail her agent from here. Kate was thinking about the sentinel job. She had some decisions to make and needed to be back in her world for a bit. “I’ll hold down the fort. Hurry back. We have unfinished business.”
“Ian—”
He was probably pushing it too fast, too soon, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I care about you, Kate. I really do. I know you’re not ready for a relationship yet, but I’m right here if you change your mind. And if I’m not here, and Von Hiller finds a way to wipe all this from my mind, find me. I want to be with you. Just you.”
She propped her head on her arm and looked in his eyes as though searching for a lie or a line. He was confident she’d see neither.
Last night, the way she’d touched him and how she responded to his caress and his words, he knew in his heart that Kate wanted to let down the wall she’d built around herself. If she left now, would she ever return? Would she track him down?
He cared enough to let her go, to let her make that decision. But first he pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her.
Ian leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying not to think about the inevitable and to simply enjoy the moment. After a few minutes, Kate slipped from his arms. He watched her get dressed, hating to see her put on the last of her clothing.
She leaned in and kissed him. “I just need a little time.”
“I know. I understand, Kate.”
She hesitated, clearly waiting to see if he’d stop her—either with words or by pulling her to him a final time. He did neither. He knew he would only push her farther away. If she needed time, he’d give it to her. She was supposed to stay—it’d been his job to make that happen. Not that Declan had said that directly; it was more inferred than anything. He wasn’t sure how Declan was going to react to Kate’s departure, but if Kate had to be the sentinel, Declan wouldn’t have made leaving an option. Ian understood that Declan was also giving Kate some breathing room. He watched wordlessly as she left, closing the door behind her. Once she was gone, he lay back and closed his eyes. All they could do now was wait.
Thirty minutes later, feeling annoyed and anxious with a side of helplessness, Ian walked out of the dining hall after a late breakfast and onto the back lawn, heading for the woods. A long walk might help clear his mind. He found himself walking along the lake. He stopped at the small pier and watched the boats swaying and bobbing on the water. A sense of emptiness washed over him. He’d hoped to take Kate out on the lake today.
He turned toward the woods, taking a well-worn path across from the boat dock. Ian fully expected Sara or one of the werewolves to show up, or to hear a howl in the distance, but other than an occasional birdcall, the forest remained silent. Wolves by nature were shy and often kept from sight. Since Roland’s behavior at dinner, Sara had assigned Ian and Kate two wolf bodyguards each. Just because he couldn’t see them didn’t mean they weren’t there—somewhere.
Fallen leaves littered the path, but he had no problem following it deeper into the woods. Here the forest took on an earthy smell, and the boughs of some of the more barren trees creaked and groaned with the breeze. A rabbit darted in front of him and into the surrounding underbrush. Above him, a squirrel chattered, protesting Ian’s presence.
The woods felt both calming and lonely. As he ventured farther, the path narrowed slightly and forked off in two directions. Pausing, he decided to take the one to the right, which, if he were correct, would lead him back toward the castle.
A twig snapped, making him jump. A young buck leapt over a log and disappeared from sight. Ian stopped on the path and listened. Something had changed. The birds had stopped singing.
Nice. What could be creepier than being in the woods when suddenly there wasn’t a single, solitary sound?
He glanced upward, searching for a hawk or some other reason for the birds to have gone silent, but what he could see of the sky was void of any winged predator. Maybe it was Sara or one of the pack watching from a nearby clearing.
He continued on until the path became almost impossible to follow. The branches of the trees slapped at his face, and he soon found the going more of a hassle than it was worth. He turned and walked back, spotting a trail he hadn’t seen before on the other side of the fallen log the buck had sailed over earlier.
Carefully he stepped over the downed tree. Back home, a hiker could never tell if a snake might be coiled up on the other side. He didn’t think that Scotland had many snakes, much less venomous ones, but this was Shadow Wood, and there was no telling what might be on the other side of the fallen tree.
The canopy of trees filtered out some of the sunlight, leaving the forest in a faded dappled light. The smell of the dank undergrowth grew stronger. The path widened.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of movement behind one of the larger trees. He stopped and scanned the area, but whatever it was had gone—without so much as a snap of a twig or rustle of leaves.
“Doing a little exploring?” Roland’s voice echoed from above, startling Ian so that he backed up a couple of steps.
“Don’t you ever announce yourself?” Ian called up to him. He listened for any other movement—for Sara or another member of the pack—but he heard nothing. Now he wondered if he’d been foolish to assume the pack had followed him into the woods. He’d left in such a hurry, and he didn’t remember seeing any of them on his way here. They might still think he was in the castle. No doubt they’d be looking for him by now.
Roland easily navigated the treetops, gracefully stepping from one branch to another as he descended. Ian kept an eye on him, backing up as the vampire drew closer. He couldn’t outrun Roland, but he had every intention of keeping his distance until the wolves figured out where he was. His foot hit a root, and he tried to keep his balance while watching Roland, but tumbled backward instead, landing squarely on his tailbone.
Roland hopped to the ground effortlessly and towered over Ian, arms folded across his chest.
“Shouldn’t be exploring alone in the forest, Mr. McGuire. Something bad might happen to you.”
“Then lucky for me you’re here,” Ian replied sarcastically.
Roland extended his arm to help Ian off the ground. “No thanks,” Ian said, scooting backward.
“Very bad things indeed. You could get lost! Eaten by almost anything. Just like the last sentinel. It’d be terrible for you, of course. After all, who’d want to become dinner?” Roland said as he inched forward.
Ian tried to stand and winced. The vampire moved quickly, and before Ian could get his legs under him, Roland was on him, grabbing him by the throat.
“But you are mortal, and you do look tasty.” Roland’s expression contorted into something dark and ugly. The lines in his face were jagged. His eyes were pools of black—Ian couldn’t see any whites at all.
“What is your blood type, Mr. McGuire? It’s like wine to us, you know. Type A is like a good merlot. O is like a nice shiraz.”
No. He wouldn’t die here. Not like this, and certainly not at the hands of Roland. Ian tried to loosen the vampire’s grip on his throat, but he was too strong. Ian struck out at him, but Roland didn’t even flinch.
Spots flashed before Ian’s
eyes, and he fought to stay conscious.
“I like a good type A,” Roland continued. “Although AB is particularly exquisite, like a fine zinfandel.” He studied Ian’s neck and sniffed the air as though he were indeed judging a glass of wine.
“Ah, yes. AB positive,” he said, his voice full of contempt. “And a very good year at that, it seems.”
Suddenly Ian heard growling, deep and guttural. Roland loosened his grip slightly and glared at the bushes to his right. Gulping in air, Ian strained to turn his head, but Roland kept a firm grasp around his neck. Ian couldn’t move without cutting off his own air supply.
A raven landed on one of the branches overhead. It cawed and flitted its wings, possibly finding the scene below agitating or enjoyable—Ian couldn’t tell which. The growl drew closer, and although Roland hadn’t relinquished his hold on Ian’s throat, he’d loosened it enough for Ian to catch his breath and turn to see what was emerging from the underbrush.
The black wolf’s hackles grew erect as it entered the clearing. It snarled, revealing huge, curved canines. Its gold-flinted eyes were intent on Roland.
Ian tried to push away from both Roland and the wolf. Which member of the pack was it? Sara? The man Ian had seen at the table with the bandage on his arm?
“Stay put!” Roland ordered as he tightened his grip on Ian’s throat. Choking, Ian clutched at Roland’s arm with both hands. The veins in his temples pulsed with the pressure that Roland was exerting against his windpipe.
He couldn’t breathe. Panic set in.
The wolf lunged forward a few feet and then crouched, planning its attack.
“This time the mortal is mine,” Roland said to the wolf. “You alone are no match for me,” he added coldly.
Ian struggled for air. His eyes were burning now, and his lungs felt as though they might burst.
The wolf twitched its tail and stood its ground, continuing to snarl and growl, its eyes never wavering from Roland.
Roland glared at the wolf. “Back away, Sara, and I’ll kill you as painlessly as I can. Call it a penalty for interrupting my feast.”
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