This sweet torment would last, until they could be alone again. When their gazes met, his contained sweet promises in those jungle depths.
He held her hand during the drive and the music of harp and flute filled the SUV. She rested her head on his shoulder and watched the road curve ahead of them. So much had changed since the first time she drove this road with him.
Today she felt full and overflowing, her heart as bright as those harp chords. She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of him.
“What is this? Blackmail?” he asked, eyeing the phone.
“No, my friends Jen and Beth have been demanding pictures of the wildlife. I haven’t had a chance until now. They’ll never believe you unless they see you.”
“Oh, is that right? I have brothers, you know. Don’t send them after me. I’m taken and my lady is fucking dangerous.”
When he smiled sweetly at her from the side of his eye, she snapped another picture. This one caught the warmth of his playful grin.
Hers. Her Christopher. They would never believe her. She hardly believed it herself. With heart pounding, she sent the picture and then dropped her cell phone so she could lean into him, catching his hand in hers.
Thank you, Amy, she thought to herself as his fingers tightened through hers. This is just what I wanted. I could never have dreamed of more.
Chapter 20
Eating Crow
If anyone would have asked Dave a year ago, if he would be impacted by Frankie leaving, he would have laughed in their face. Frankie Welton was a great friend, kick-ass fighter and the rock he counted on, but Dave Yarrow could take care of himself.
Fate mocked him now.
His nights were haunted by the frosty look she tossed over her shoulder at the airport. Contempt blazed cold in her sage-green eyes as she looked down her crooked nose at him. The cold left him breathless in the wake of the devastation.
She dismissed him.
Frankie Welton didn’t need him. The last thing he saw was her orange curls bouncing through security, steps long and proud while he tumbled, tether snapped, into darkness.
“You’re in freefall,” Mr. California said without concern when he’d called last night to beg. Again. “It’s nothing to worry about. It is all perfectly natural.”
Natural.
Dying inside.
“Okay, you have got to see this.” Jennifer turned her phone as she leaned across to Bethany. The three of them were drinking another night away at LeGrange. She seemed to bubble over with cheer as she and Bethany oohed over images on the phone.
“Hot. God. Damn!” Bethany cursed and fanned herself. “Is that even legal?”
Dave blinked up from his misery and focused on the two women. They had hauled him out of his apartment after he had shut himself in for the past two days for a serious meltdown. Drinking alone was never good. As he squinted at Frankie’s best friends, he wasn’t sure this was any better. “What is it?”
Jen pursed her lips and tried to angle the phone away with a wary look. “Frankie sent us pictures,” she said.
“You really don’t need to see this,” Bethany assured him while Jen nodded her agreement.
Which only made him want to see more. His stomach knotted into a sick little coil. The liquid diet wasn’t doing him any favors. “Let me see the damn thing.”
The growl made Jen roll her eyes and she turned the phone around to display the picture.
It was some Californian douchebag.
He wore a huge, shit-eating grin of delight, green-gold eyes shining.
“Who the fuck is that?” He blinked at the picture, hating the guy with irrational venom. From the curled black hair, to the dark, bronzed skin, he screamed ‘pretentious asshole’. He had dimples and a fucking chin cleft for Christ’s sake. “What the hell, Jen? Beth?” He tried to reach for the phone to get a better look of the jerk.
“Christopher Harris-Wallace,” Jen said with a dreamy sigh. “I could go on a long jungle adventure in those eyes and just dip my fingers in those cute dimples.”
“Mmm, he needs three names to hold in all that hotness. You kidding me? I can’t take my eyes off that mouth. Lord have mercy. Our little Frankie is all grown up.”
The two women leaned together and squealed happily.
His heart squeezed tighter by the moment. The darkness deepened and he hunched over his drink. A mixture of jealousy and rage blotted out reason for a moment. “Frankie doesn’t date anyone.” He snarled, slamming his fist on the bar.
“Excuse me, your royal fuck-nuts?” Jennifer asked in her light Spanish accent. “You will not have another temper tantrum right here. You need to put your boy panties on and man up.”
“Seriously, Dave. If we had a quarter for every time we patched Frankie together after you yanked her chain, we would be in California right now and not here wiping your snotty nose. Face it, you can’t handle her. Next girl you screw? Think about what you’re doing before you keep pushing her away.” Bethany showed him no pity, her dark gaze burning. “It’s not a game, now. Is it?”
No. It had not been a game for years. He opened his mouth to explain, but they wouldn’t understand.
Was this poor sucker in danger of burning up like he had? Did Mr. California think about the risks?
Dave Yarrow ate his crow, washing it down with tequila. He tried to forget the lucky son of a bitch orbiting Frankie Welton’s sun.
But he couldn’t.
That night he dreamed of black hair and jungle-green eyes. He dreamed of blood and fire and woke in a cold sweat, heart pounding and head aching.
Chapter 21
Truth
The activity before Frankie was a storm of organized chaos. She stared at the various trucks and delivery vans with horror and awe. Relief washed over her when Juan’s wave caught her attention. He met her with a cup of coffee in hand.
“What in the world is all of this?” Frankie asked, motioning to the people moving boxes and items into the Pickled Salamander.
“Replacement items for the bar,” he said, as though it were just part of some insurance plan. “You had a list.” He grinned at her. “Come on in and have a look.”
There were boxes stacked everywhere inside and people were assembling shelves and installing a brand-new mirror. Her mouth opened to demand why the furnishings were purchased without consulting her, and then closed. They were exactly what she would have picked. Everything reflected the original theme except the mirror.
She could not afford that mirror.
It looked like an antique and had no place in a bar that could be vandalized. She couldn’t make out the fine detail but the rococo style gleamed with gold curls that suggested frolicking cherubs, birds or something else with wings.
For a second her heart lurched as she realized she had left the token Christopher had given her on the bar. What if one of these people took it? Or—
No, it stood just where she’d left it. Untouched. She hurried forward and snatched it up, hugging it against her. The movement made a couple men glance over and they instantly performed that respectful fist-to-chest thing for her.
With a lurch, she realized these were the same men she’d seen at the wake in their stylish suits. Today, they looked like mere day laborers in jeans and T-shirts.
She nodded back, uncertain of the right motion. Salute? Wave? Middle finger?
Fuck.
Turning to Juan, she whispered, “Who am I paying for all of this?” She gripped the knight in one hand and her coffee with the other, feeling poorly armed for this sort of shock.
“You’re not paying for any of this,” a voice said from the back room, the arrogant amusement vaguely familiar.
She closed her eyes, willed herself to be calm and turned to squint down her nose at the little blond who came swaggering through the maze of boxes and new tables. For a moment, she couldn’t reconcile this man with the one from the wake.
Oh, his face was the same, the beard and mustache curled into to pre
cise points but the clothing was all wrong. Mambo had shucked his expensive suit for a faded black T-shirt, baggy jeans and a leather jacket that must be uncomfortable in the August heat. His boots were heavy and roughened at the toes like the knees of the denim. Unfastened, his blond hair hung loose down his back. His silvery eyes gleamed up at her as he grinned at her baffled expression.
“I owe someone for all this.” She used her own steel-toed boot to tap the box that held replacement liquor for the shelves being installed. “There’s no way you can—”
He regarded her so intensely her words withered on her tongue. She could feel his attention go from amused at the marks left by Christopher to cold fury when he noticed the wounds she earned in the scuffle.
“What happened to your face?” he asked through clenched jaws. His lips curled from his teeth, his gaze silvery ice shards. Cold anger radiated from him.
“Fell in the shower.” She lied. “So, Mambo is your real name?”
“I was born Mano Ka’aukai.” One golden eyebrow arched, seeming expecting her answer.
She wasn’t ready to be candid with this man. “What sort of name is Ka’aukai?”
“I shared a truth with you and you lie. The name is Hawaiian. You’re a horrible liar. What happened?”
“You don’t look Hawaiian,” Frankie said instead.
She noticed the covert glances of the workers trying to glimpse her scrapes and bruises, old and new. One of the rougher-looking men whistled through his gapped teeth. Frankie kept her attention on the blond Hawaiian.
“You’re avoiding my question,” he said. “That is rude. Didn’t those savages teach you anything? My mother’s blood is real strong. I ask again. What. The fuck. Happened?” He said fuck like he did face, only with a more teeth showing, the drawn-out F a furious growl.
The heat of stare stabbed her. The sensation spread from her eyes to the base of her skull. Automatically she reached for her walls and yanked them up. He slammed her defenses down and she used it to slap him with. He smiled at her and inclined his head as though they’d just been sparing and she got in a good strike.
“Mambo.” Juan’s voice rumbled a warning from beside her.
“Juan? Do you see her fucking face? What the fuck is going on?” Mambo didn’t break eye contact, his words spoken too quietly.
Oh, God. This man was very dangerous.
But so was Frankie. She adjusted her stance, balancing herself, and smirked down at him. As she settled into an obvious aggressive posture, he rolled his eyes.
Turning away, he rubbed a hand over his face and muttered under his breath. The workers, his buddies, watched with wonder and interest like witnessing an unstoppable traffic accident.
When he turned, she read the words on the back of his jacket in script that arched over a winged warrior holding a sword. Fallen Angels. An uncomfortable heat crawled up her throat. Fuck if that didn’t look like Hot Wings. The art and the little man shared the same smirk, using it like a weapon.
“Are you training to be Hells Angels? Do they have a copyright on that name or something?” she asked with forced levity.
“You are funny.” Mambo faced her, pain lined his features. “Your daddy would have liked that.” When he spoke again, his voice was even lower. “I’ve answered your questions and you avoid mine. Why?”
“I don’t owe you anything. Who do you think you are?”
One of the men chuckled and crossed his arms over his wide chest. He leaned a massive shoulder against the wall and twirled his hammer while waiting for the action to really begin.
Mambo shoulders relaxed, eyes twinkling. “You’re just like your daddy,” he rumbled, eyes half lidded in a supreme satisfaction. “Except the broken nose. What the hell were you thinking letting someone do that to your nose? Your trainer should be horse whipped.”
“Huh? I was really green when that… Wait, why am I explaining this to you?”
“She obviously hasn’t learned to keep her hands up if her face looks like that, Mano,” the ugly man growled. “Goddamn, Welton.” He grinned a ferocious smile, his lazy eye made it hard to tell if he was focused on her, or Mambo. The man bore a horrific scar across his leathery throat and she wondered if it had altered his voice. His growl was so deep and gravelly it was difficult to understand.
“It’s all right, Chaze. She’s still green as grass. Poor little one.” Mambo put his first to his chest and bowed forward. “I will tell you who I think I am. I am the man who fixes shit.” His knuckles resting against his chest a moment longer before he swept his hand the bar. He smirked at her. “If you can’t keep your hands up, you need to stop fighting.”
His tone brought up her defenses. How dare he dictate what she did.
“Oh, okay, Dad,” she growled, but the words ended in a startled yelp when the man lunged forward and grabbed her chin.
He moved fast and she couldn’t wrench herself free from the strength of his grip. She swung her fist down at his face out of reflex to drive him away. Without shifting his posture, he caught her fist.
It felt like hitting a wall, the impact vibrating through her.
Blood calls to blood.
Oh. Fuck.
There was no mistaking that call. His gaze burned her as he pulled her down to him and snarled low into her ear.
“Number one, you are not too big for me to put over my knee and shame you in front of these nice people. Number two, fighting should not be your first and only response. Number three, never disrespect your father again. Am I clear?”
Her heart hammered as fight response shifted to flight and she struggled to get loose from his grasp. He held her without effort. The sad fact was she did not understand. Her heart tightened with a horrible realization. This little man was related to her.
They have guarded my secrets for a lifetime and would take them to their graves to protect you. Amy’s journal said Mano was one of those people.
Secrets.
“Clear?” he whispered, still holding her.
She hissed through her teeth, “Yes!”
His expression softened and his hold on her eased. He pressed the pad of his thumb to the center of her chin before she yanked free, gasping for the breath she’d been denied.
Casually he held up his hand, showing his palm. The curled feather on his skin was the same as hers except unblemished by the scars. When she looked from it into his eyes, he gripped his fist closed and pressed the index finger to his lips. “We should have the remainder of this conversation in private. As fun as it is to school you in front of the big kids, even I am not bold enough to press my luck too far.”
“Damn, Welton,” Chaze said with a low rumble of approval. He pressed his fist to his chest formally. His massive body bowed, snaggletooth smile, lazy eye, horrible throat scar and all. Frankie knew in that moment this man would throw himself into harm’s way for her.
“Chaze,” Mambo sighed out the name. “Show is over. Back to work, please.” He turned to Juan, who frowned darkly at him. “Mercy. I am fulfilling Amy’s wishes.” He smiled. “For once, tradition is in my favor. Ah, tradition,” he sang.
Juan looked at Frankie. “Are you all right?” he asked, ignoring Mambo. “If you don’t feel safe—”
“Just let Christopher know I’m in the office with him.” She jerked a thumb at Mambo, rubbing her aching chin with the other hand.
Mambo was unconcerned, and he tucked his hands behind him, clasping them at the small of his back assuming a harmless posture. He slipped behind his mask as natural as drawing breath. From deadly to meek in a blink.
Tapping the corner of his eye, Juan glared at Mambo until Frankie squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “Let me get this over with,” she whispered. She left the knight and the coffee behind on the bar.
The office looked immaculate now. New book cases and shelves housed the wreckage from the day before. The coat of fresh paint covered the insulting graffiti and the room smelled new and clean. Blank walls closed in around her when s
he slammed the door closed.
“So help me, I will put another dimple in that stubborn chin if you keep shoving it out at me,” Mambo said as he perched on the corner of the new desk, crossing one leg over the other. He folded his hands on his knee, peering up at her with bright interest. The smile was uncomfortably paternal.
She walked around the desk, settled into the plush leather seat and smoothed her hands down the arms. All the while, he measured and calculated her.
“Did you really teach Christopher how to use a sword?” she asked.
He squinted at her. “Yes.” He breathed into the silence and said, “There are three things every child should be taught for a proper education. How to fight with a sword, how to ride a horse, and how to play an instrument.”
“I guess I didn’t rate a proper—”
“Tell me what happened to your fucking face!” There was nothing friendly about his quiet tone.
When he leaned across the desk she didn’t draw back. She would not be intimidated by this little shit. He got close enough for her to feel the bristle of his beard on her cheek. He smelled like wood smoke and rain. His voice lowered as he asked, “What is stuck in your belly?”
Her stomach dropped like she was falling, and a stab of raw emotion shot through her. Stubbornly, she refused to look away and stared him down. This was not a conversation she wanted to have with anyone, particularly not this dangerous man.
His eyes were no longer sharp pewter. They were filled with the sea. The roar of the ocean filled her with surf and foam and the beautiful, deadly force of the waves as her walls crumbled against the crash as they washed over her.
The words rushed from her unexpectedly as her mouth started moving. At first, she only explained the vandalism and the knife. He didn’t say anything but she found herself telling him about the attack on Christopher. With an effort she left out the part where he had slipped his skin. She focused on Joey and the resulting poison and damage. She told him about the expression of her talent and how she fixed Christopher. Saved him.
Lies That Blind Page 16