The Taken

by Vicki Pettersson

  “Vintage,” Kit corrected shortly.

  “So you wear things that have been worn before? By . . . old people?”

  Smoothing her gloved fingertips over the cupcake skirt, Kit replied, “I wear things made in America and made to last, yes. I have a tactual addiction.”

  Raven tilted her head up, pouting at Paul in a way Kit was sure they both found cute. “What does that even mean?”

  Kit smiled cutely, too. “It means cheap textiles make me break out in hives, and that I don’t take fashion cues from something called a Snooki.”

  Grif snorted, quickly covering it with a cough.

  Raven straightened so that her breasts nearly popped from her stretch bodice. “How long did you say you two were married?”

  “Short enough that it was a long time ago,” Kit shot back, before biting her tongue. It bothered her that Paul wasn’t standing up for her, and it annoyed her that she was bothered. Besides, how could she blame Raven? Even Kit was beginning to find their marital union hard to believe.

  “Some things never change,” Paul said, pointedly raising his brows. “Which is why I’m sure you’ll understand when I say please, whatever you do tonight, be discreet.”

  “Darling, everything about me is discreet.”

  He canvassed her body the way his girlfriend had—from the white stripe in her dark Marilyn do to her Roger Vivier stilettos and her gold beaded clutch in between. Then he looked at Grif. “It’s my reputation here.”

  “Then maybe we should be worried,” Grif said, and took Kit’s arm before Paul could reply. “Come on. Let’s dance.”

  The last thing she saw was Paul’s frown as Grif wheeled her away.

  “Thank you,” she said, as they headed to the makeshift dance floor. “I was about to make an ass of myself.”

  And she’d already seen half a dozen men in this room that were on her list. She couldn’t afford to get wrapped up in what Paul and his walking, talking blow-up doll thought of her.

  “Yeah, well. The stench was getting to me,” Grif replied, leading her through a particularly dense cluster of the well-heeled.

  “I’m happy to see someone else considers the ‘Bordello Blonde’ scent a bit obvious.”

  Grif shook his head as he wheeled her onto the dance floor. “I was talking about him. Didn’t you smell that?”

  Kit shrugged. “I’m immune to his bullshit by now.”

  Fortunately, if anything could shake off her lingering irritation, it was dancing. And if there was anything that could alter her mood altogether, it was great dancing.

  Grif apparently didn’t feel the same. “What are you doing?”

  She slid to the right, the beat moving through the room to syncopate with her heartbeat, moving through her chest, out her arms, and into his. The band was live, she was alive, and though she wasn’t sure she should be, she was also swinging around the dance floor in a dangerous man’s arms. Well, one moment couldn’t hurt anything, right?

  “Oh. I dunno,” she said, twirling, eyes half-closed. “I just kinda like to lead.”

  “What a surprise,” Grif said drily.

  The corner of her mouth lifted in reply as she continued to sway, but Grif suddenly dug in his heels. The entire dance floor moved around them, but he just leveled her with a hard stare.

  “What?” she asked, pulling his arm, edging right. He didn’t budge.

  “I know my way.” And he swung her to the left.

  It took a moment before Kit caught her breath, and another before she allowed herself to relax into Grif’s arms. He moved as if he was possessed by the song, his touch sure as he guided her with a mere shift of his fingertips. He anticipated her movements so seamlessly it was like stepping right through the notes, and heat rose inside of her so that she had to force it away.

  She wasn’t going to open to him again.

  But, damn, if he hadn’t already told her he didn’t want her, she would have sworn he did.

  And that’s why she finally pulled back, dizzy but determined not to lose herself in the music, the footwork, or him.

  “So what do you think?” she asked, lifting her head. But Grif’s eyes were glazed, and he jolted like she’d awoken him from a dream. “I mean, would you keep all your wives here if you were a polygamist?”

  Grif glanced around, making the movement a part of the dance. Again, Kit’s heart surged with an extra beat. “Hard to say. I always thought one spouse was enough.”

  “Funny,” she said, spying the back of Paul’s head. “I thought one was too many.”

  “Yeah, because you were married to a total sap.”

  She couldn’t argue that. “Marriage isn’t all it’s made out to be.”

  “But being alone is?”

  “Being single,” she corrected, “is about hope. It’s about the future . . . the person you might meet at Starbucks or online or in the next aisle at the grocery store. But being married is about the past. How you met, what choices you made early on when there were still choices to make. Eventually memories of wonderful things have to make up for all the disappointments since.”

  Grif almost stopped dancing. “That’s . . .”

  “Awful, I know.” She wrinkled her nose. “Never mind. Marriage and I just weren’t a good fit.”

  “Stop it.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “No, I mean you’re trying to lead again. Stop.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Anyway, you’re painting in too broad of strokes there, Kitty-cat.”

  The endearment had been automatic. She saw the regret flash over his face before he could hide it, and clenched her jaws. “Am I?”

  He nodded without hesitation. “Same as your reverence for all things fifties.”

  “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. You were alive back then. You remember.”

  “Hey, I don’t care if you believe me—”

  “Good.”

  “But you and your friends think things were so great back then, yet there’s always been trouble in the world, and enough people willing to cause it.”

  Kit shrugged. “It was still a simpler time.”

  “No. It wasn’t.” And he stopped dancing, though he still held her tight. “A black woman was arrested for refusing to give up her seat on the bus—”

  Kit stiffened. “Are you lecturing me? Can we just go back to dancing?”

  But Grif’s face had taken on a deeper red. “We were battling the Commies on Earth and in outer space—”

  “Are angels supposed to call people Commies?”

  He ignored her. “The Cold War was the scariest damn thing this planet had seen, and we lived in fear of our own neighbors.”

  “Yes, and it was before people knew that smoking would kill you,” Kit pointed out, “and well before sex really could.”

  “Yeah, well one thing was exactly the same.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Women were still murdered by men who thought they could get away with it.”

  Kit clenched her teeth. “If you’re trying to prove that you’re an angel again, it’s not working.”

  “I don’t have to prove anything. I know what I know.”

  “Just like Tony, eh?” Kit scoffed, because the old man had told her the same thing.

  Grif shook his head. “No, I know way more than old Tony Prima. I know something you don’t know, too. Marriage ain’t about the past. You just chose a man without any drive.”

  Bridget Moore’s words revisited Kit like a gut punch. A man who’s driven in his life’s pursuits will be equally driven when it comes to you.

  Tears unexpectedly welled in Kit’s eyes.

  “Oh, geez.” Grif immediately guided her from the dance floor and over to giant bay windows, the center open to allow in fresh air.

  You can lose yourself to a man like that.

  “I’m sorry,” Grif was muttering, but Kit was too busy wondering how a prostitute could know such things, how a crazy man who thought he was an a
ngel who’d died in 1960 could know it. And how she could not.

  Pulling a cloth handkerchief from her clutch, Kit waved him off. She’d been right about one thing, at least. This man was dangerous.

  “Oh, my. Tears at a charity ball. That won’t do.”

  The voice popped up behind them, smooth as whiskey poured over ice, and Kit turned to find a handsome man with silver hair, a dark tuxedo, and a gaze that was both open and calculating at once.

  “Mr. Chambers,” Kit blurted, tucking the cloth away. Sniffling, she nodded at the petite woman next to him, and gave a small smile to the young girl on his other side. “I’m Kit Craig. This is my date, Griffin Shaw.”

  “I know who you are, Ms. Craig. Read your paper every day,” Chambers said pleasantly. He then turned his blinding smile on Grif, who managed a sort of grimace in return. “Pleasure, Mr. Shaw. This is my wife, Anabelle. One of my girls, Charlotte.”

  Though she was chic in black, with golden hair as glossy as her lips, the hand that Mrs. Chambers offered Kit was as insincere and brittle as her smile. Charlotte, who looked to be around thirteen, ducked her head and gave a soft hello. She, too, was in black, and though the dress was age appropriate, she was swimming in it. She wriggled at the introduction, a bit nervous, a bit bored, and it was clear to Kit that she’d been introduced to people all night.

  Kit smiled at the little girl. “You have six daughters, if my research is correct?”

  “Research, is it?” Chambers laughed, and even that was warm and rich, like hot chocolate. “Actually it’s six daughters and two boys now. Another on the way.”

  “Congratulations,” Kit said to Anabelle, surprised. The woman was so thin she wouldn’t have guessed. But what do I know, she thought, kicking herself mentally. Mrs. Chambers, who—research showed—had four children by the time she was Kit’s age, was the expert. Not her.

  The woman placed a hand over the near-imperceptible bump rising beneath her plain tunic. “We’re very blessed.”

  “But why the tears, dear?” Chambers asked, shunting their blessings aside, his voice dripping concern. “I saw you dancing, looking happy enough, only minutes ago.”

  “Well, she had a friend who liked to dance, too,” Grif said, getting right to the point. Kit would have kicked him if she could’ve done so without being seen.

  Chambers’s smooth brow furrowed. “Oh?”

  Kit cleared her throat. “My best friend, a photographer at the paper, died earlier this week.”

  “Murdered, actually,” Grif clarified, and while Chambers’s attention was on him, Kit saw his wife’s face briefly crumble, then clear. Chambers, though, remained as implacable as before.

  “Oh, yes. I read about that. A lovely young girl, if the photo was any indication. What was her name again? Rocky, Rockson—”

  “Rockwell,” Kit said, still following Grif’s lead. This time she was grateful. “Nicole Rockwell.”

  Tsking, Chambers shook his head. “Do the police have any leads?”

  “No,” Grif said. “But we were hoping you might provide one.”

  Now Anabelle let out a surprised gasp. Charlotte inched closer to her mother and grasped at her hand. A frown appeared between the slim brows, and it was clear she understood there was something else going on here, even if she didn’t know what.

  A flicker, the slightest irritation, flashed in the older man’s eyes. “I can’t see how.”

  Kit laid a hand atop Grif’s arm. If he was playing bad cop, she would play good. “Your name was on a list that was delivered to us, that’s all.”

  A silver brow raised in surprise. “Any idea who sent the list?”

  “No, but the names on it are rather remarkable. In fact, most of the men on it are present here tonight.”

  “So let me get this straight,” Chambers said, eyes narrowed. “You’re not really here to support my charity for children in need?”

  “Not here for the canapés, either,” Grif said coolly.

  “Mama,” Charlotte clutched at her mother, holding her by the forearms as the woman’s face drained of color, and she staggered back.

  The look Chambers gave Grif this time was downright hostile. Progress, Kit thought, even as he turned smoothly to his wife. “Please take Charlotte upstairs now. She may have some ice cream before she goes to bed.”

  If his curt tone or lack of comfort bothered Anabelle, she didn’t show it. Instead, she turned on her sensible heels and steered Charlotte stiffly through the crowd. Or was it the other way around? Kit wondered, watching them carefully. They headed directly up the right side of the staircase splitting the room, nodding at guests but never stopping. And if Kit wasn’t mistaken, there was a perceptible relief in Anabelle’s shoulders, and yes, there it was. Charlotte took the lead, guiding her mother instead of the reverse. Kit frowned . . . but by then Chambers had whirled back around.

  “I don’t know what you two are after, but that was entirely inappropriate. This is not the time or place for gross accusations.”

  Grif tilted his head. “There’s a time and place for those?”

  Chambers grew so still the whole room seemed to hold its breath. Then he leaned close. “Some nosy little girl gets taken out by bad guys in a bad place she had no business being, well . . . I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

  “She was investigating a prostitution ring,” Kit said, just as pointedly, if louder. “A source told her that you, and many of the men here tonight, were involved.”

  “Then maybe she should have been a bit more selective about her sources.” He straightened his tux impatiently. “I’ve been the target of rumor, innuendo, and extortion for too long to get worked up by some young reporter’s overactive imagination. But when I’ve invited you into my own home, for a holiday charity event, then I expect you to bring your manners along with you.”

  He gestured to someone behind them. Kit had an image of being escorted out into the dark by Schmidt, and her heart jumped.

  “Kicking us out?” said Grif, reading at least part of her thoughts.

  “On the contrary,” Chambers said, as a hostess arrived with a tray full of drinks. He removed two fresh flutes and offered them to Kit and Grif. “Make yourselves at home. Enjoy the festivities while you can.”

  He turned, but paused in his retreat to stare her down. Kit’s mouth dried, her pulse quickened, and she had to concentrate just to hold on to her champagne flute. Had she ever been looked at in such a way before? Like he was seeing her and not. Like she was an object that had been propped in the wrong place.

  “If you ever have so-called evidence linking me to a horrific crime again, I suggest running it by the police before you go running your mouth. Or you might find yourself on the losing end of a very large lawsuit. And I don’t believe your little family newspaper needs that, do you?” Then he straightened, blinked like he was coming out of a trance, jerked at his jacket lapels, and walked away as if they didn’t exist.

  “Was that a veiled threat?” Kit asked Grif, ignoring a pointed glare from Paul as he headed directly toward Chambers.

  “I didn’t see any veil.”

  Neither had Kit. Sipping from her flute, trying not to shake, she looked around again for Schmidt, but saw only other guests, most now eyeing them warily.

  “Notice he didn’t ask exactly what kind of list he was on,” Grif said. “Grocery list. Mailing list. Prize chump of the year list.”

  “I did notice. But we still have no evidence linking him to the Wayfarer.” And now she was also on the bad side of the most powerful man in the city.

  Grif tsk-ed insincerely, jerking his head at Paul, who’d finally caught up to Chambers, though he looked like he wished he hadn’t. “And with his reputation at stake, too.”

  “It’s not funny, Grif.” Kit whirled to the windows and placed her flute on the sill so she could cover her face with her hands. Outside the wind ripped around trees that had no business being in the desert, the sound as foreign to Kit as an ocean rushing the
shore. For a moment, she imagined herself far away.

  Then Grif’s arm slid over her shoulders, and he pulled her close. “Hey, now. It’s all right. I don’t think you were going to make his Christmas card list this year anyway.”

  Kit knew he was right, but was suddenly overwhelmed with the enormity of what she was doing. She really could lose it all—her reputation, the paper . . . her life. Who the hell was she? And what was she trying to prove? “This whole thing is a catastrophe.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s it?” A disbelieving snort escaped her. “Shouldn’t an angel be better at cheering me up?”

  Grif removed his arm, making her wish she hadn’t swiped at him, but then he lowered his elbows to the sill and joined her in looking out at the dark. “I can tell you one thing.”

  “What?” Kit asked, not sure she wanted to know.

  “Top-secret angel stuff. Gotta promise not to put it in print.”

  “Shaw.”

  He smiled slightly as he lifted his gaze to the stars. “You can’t quit, Kitty-cat. You call this a catastrophe, but take it from me, the line between a catastrophe and a miracle is a fine one.”

  Kit shook her head. “You say the damnedest things, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Thank you, Miss Craig.” Straightening, he offered his arm. “Now, come on . . . there’s got to be someone else in here we can piss off.”

  “Yes.” Kit sighed. “We seem to be very good at that.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Grif and Kit remained at the ball despite a sudden and clear non-grata status, a state made more apparent when the waitresses ceased offering them drinks. But Kit redeemed herself by participating in the auction, doing brief battle with another woman before winning a spa package for two to some chichi Strip resort, earning an acknowledging nod from Chambers.

  There was something about the man, Grif thought, studying Chambers’s demeanor as he moved, too smooth, through the room. Ignore the monkey suit, the moneyed air, the constant ass-kissing that Chambers had to practically swivel to avoid. Forget that they’d just met. Grif knew this guy. He reminded him of a fighter who’d once sucker-punched Grif in the ring. Neither the largest nor the strongest, the man had a meanness to his eye that Grif had been on the lookout for ever since. Chambers had it, too.