Drake Sisters 06 - Turbulent Sea

by Christine Feehan

  "I'm sorry, what did you ask me?" Joley said. "I can't seem to take this in. Did someone identify the body? When did this happen? I just saw him, before I took off for my run. He was in the parking lot, heading over to his bus. Are you absolutely certain it's Dean?"

  "Yes. I'm sorry," Branscomb said. "Several members of your band came forward and positively identified him. You said he was angry with you."

  Joley nodded and rubbed at the relentless pounding in her temples. "I have a rule about minors partying with any band or crew member. It's actually written into the contract they sign with us when we go on the road. After the show in New York, I went out to a party to deliver a message to one of the band members, and I saw a group of girls who looked too young to be there. Dean was with one of them. He had his arm around her, and when I called out to him, they took off running."

  "How old was this girl?"

  Joley sighed. "Thirteen, I later found out. I was going to talk to him about it, but in all honesty, with the traveling and everything else going on, I didn't have a chance and even forgot about it until Chicago. A woman came up to me after the concert and said her daughter had been missing since my show in New York. She handed me a photograph, and I swear, it's the same girl." She looked around the bus. "It's here somewhere."

  Ilya retrieved the photograph from the stand by the bed and handed it to the detective. He didn't want to draw attention, so he did what he did best, faded into the shadows and masked his presence with a small, influential push to keep the detective from really noticing him.

  "I called the police in New York, and the girl was still missing, so I asked my manager, Jerry St. Ives, and one of the band members, Brian Rigger, to find Dean and ask him about the girl when we reached Red Rocks this morning, before the crew set up. I told Jerry, if Dean had violated our agreement and invited this girl to the party, he was to be fired."

  "So they both talked to him this morning."

  Joley nodded. "I got ready for my run and stepped off the bus. Tish, the wife of my sax player, had just arrived and I haven't seen her for some time, so I went over to say hello. I saw Brian, Jerry and Dean talking together. They were standing over by the stage. I couldn't hear what was said, but Dean was angry and he kept looking over at me. Eventually he flipped me off and walked to the parking lot. I went for my run, and the last I saw of Dean, he was alone, over by the crew bus."

  Ilya stepped out of the shadows. "I observed them as well. He was angry and he stalked off toward his bus. I didn't hear what was said, but he was evidently quite upset at Miss Drake."

  "Did your manager fire him?"

  Joley leaned her head against the back of the couch. Her headache was getting worse. "I don't know. I haven't had a chance to talk to Jerry about it. I wanted to get in a run before the sound check, and this morning was my only opportunity."

  "Did you see the argument becoming heated?"

  Joley took a deep breath and let it out. "It got loud, yes. But if you think either Jerry or Brian could have harmed Dean, you're wrong. They just aren't like that." She frowned at the detective, leaning forward so that he would look her directly in the eye. "I've known Brian forever and he doesn't have a mean bone in his body. And Jerry has too much authority over everyone to have to resort to murder. You didn't say what happened. Could it have been an accident?"

  "He was shot between the eyes. No, ma'am, I don't think we could call it an accident. Do you know if Rigger or St. Ives own a gun?"

  "No. God, no. I'm telling you, they would never do something like that—kill Dean, I mean. Brian is incredibly gentle and Jerry just plain wouldn't bother."

  "And you never talked to Walters?"

  Joley shook her head. "No. And when I saw he was so angry, I didn't want to." She pressed her fingers to her temples again. "I really have a headache. I've never had one this bad."

  Ilya studied her pale face. The headache was worsening. It was essential to keep a low profile, but he couldn't stand by and watch Joley suffer needlessly, not when he could help her. With a small sigh, he moved from the shadows, sat down beside her and turned her face toward his. He rested the pads of his fingers on either side of her head. "You're pale, Joley. Do you get migraines?"

  "Not as a rule," she admitted. "But occasionally. This one is bad." And getting worse by the moment. It made her feel vulnerable in front of the detective. Already, her stomach was churning and little white dots flashed in front of her eyes.

  "Just close your eyes. This won't take more than a moment."

  Ilya sighed to himself. Even with the ability to fade the detective's memories, Branscomb would remember this. Joley was too famous, too beautiful and sexy not to make an impact. A bodyguard ridding her of her headache was something too intimate not to be noted. And Ilya couldn't touch her without being intimate. His hands were that little bit too gentle. His touch more of a caress than anything else. This was the reason a man like Ilya Prakenskii didn't get involved emotionally, because in the end, it was dangerous to both of them.

  Inwardly he cursed, but he maintained his expressionless mask. He couldn't hide the body language warning the other man off, or the gentleness of his own touch, but his face gave nothing away as he placed his fingers at her temples and pushed healing energy from his soul to hers. Healing was intimate—giving Joley a part of himself, taking a part from her.

  Better, laskovaya moya?

  Joley nodded. "Thank you, it's much better."

  Ilya glanced at the detective. Shrewd eyes. Cops eyes. Ilya recognized that look.

  "You two went running," Branscomb said, his voice almost casual.

  "Running keeps me in shape," Ilya said, "and allows us a small measure of time alone together." He picked up Joley's hand and ran his thumb over the back of it.

  "You have an accent. Are you Russian?"

  "Yes."

  Beside him, Joley stirred. "I need to talk with Brian and Jerry. Where are they?"

  The detective closed his notebook. "Mr. Rigger and Mr. St. Ives both agreed to come down to the station and give their statements. Mr. St. Ives insisted on bringing an attorney, but stated they would both cooperate fully."

  "This sounds terrible, but we either have to do the show tonight or cancel on all these people, and we have to pull out tonight to make it to Dallas on time for that concert."

  "Our forensic people will be working as fast as they can. I've got officers taking statements from everyone. Obviously if we can allow you to go ahead with the performance, it would be better for everyone, so we'll do our best."

  "Thank you," Joley said, "although to be honest, it seems horrible to put on a show after someone is murdered."

  The detective rose, taking the photograph of the missing girl with him. "Do you know if Mr. Walters was in any way involved with the mob—specifically the Russian mob?" He asked the question of Joley, but he studied Ilya with his cop's eyes.

  "No, but I didn't know him very well. He's been working with us on and off for two years, but we never had much contact. He had a couple of close friends in the crew. I couldn't tell you who they are, although I might recognize them if I saw them." And she was going to look, because there'd been a crew member with Dean that night in New York. She hadn't seen his face, but she'd seen his aura—and fragments of his melody. "Why do you ask about the Russian mob?"

  "There were things done to him that are fairly signature mob, things warning others to play ball or else."

  Joley glanced at Ilya, took a deep breath and exhaled. "In New York, the party was held by a man named Sergei Nikitin. He surrounds himself with armed guards, and I believe most of them are Russian."

  "Do you know Mr. Nikitin?" Branscomb asked Ilya.

  "Of course. I work for him often in my capacity as a bodyguard. He's a businessman with powerful enemies."

  "Do his enemies include the Russian mob?"

  "You would have to ask him that," Ilya said.

  Branscomb took a few steps down the corridor. "Thank you for your time, Miss Dra
ke. As for your performance tonight, hopefully we'll have an answer for you within the next hour."

  "We'll need to do sound checks," Joley said.

  "There's no reason not to. You won't be in the crime scene area. He was killed where we found him. I do want to speak to every one of your crew."

  "I'll tell them to cooperate fully with you."

  "I would appreciate that." Branscomb turned back, his hand on the door. "Miss Drake. Is there a reason Dean Walters might want to harm you?"

  Joley's heart jerked. She remembered the malevolent look he'd shot her as he walked toward the crew bus. There had been genuine, naked hatred on his face. "Harm me?" she echoed, fear tugging at her.

  "It looked as if he were heading up the running path after you. Several people mentioned he watched you take off running and that you were alone. They were worried about your lack of security." His gaze flicked to Ilya. "And he had a knife."

  Branscomb had known all along they hadn't left together. Ilya had to give him points for that. Of course suspicion would fall on him. He was Russian. He was a bodyguard and very strong. He knew that Dean's death had been a hit, and Nikitin had probably ordered it; he just didn't know why. He had known the body was there. He'd felt the dark, violent energy and gone to investigate, worried for Joley. Fortunately he'd approached the area from above, and he'd seen the body and the mess that had been made of it. Walters had died of a bullet to the head, but they'd stomped every bone in his body first.

  Ilya remained silent, waiting for Joley to give him up. He prepared himself for Joley's betrayal. He shouldn't look at it that way. She would think she had to tell the exact truth, and maybe there wasn't anything else for her to do. But the thought of being handcuffed and taken in, and his past brought up to further cast doubt on him in the midst of his investigation, was doubly dangerous.

  Joley flicked a glance from Ilya to the detective. It was very obvious where he was going with his questioning. She put a hand on Ilya's arm, her mouth suddenly dry, heart pounding. There was a strange roaring in her ears. Ilya couldn't have killed Dean Walters. He couldn't have. She would have known the moment she touched him. Yes, he was violent, and yes, he had killed, but under what circumstances she didn't know, and right now it didn't matter because he hadn't killed Walters. She trusted her instincts, and her instincts said, not even for her had he done this.

  "It's difficult to have a relationship with someone with the paparazzi following everywhere you go and photographing your every move. The things they print—all the lies and innuendos—it ruins any chance at a real bond. We try to be careful so we have the opportunity to build a foundation before it's all over the media and we're both hounded into the ground."

  Her voice was soft, persuasive, held a note of pure truth the detective couldn't fail to respond to. Ilya didn't even know if she was aware of the compulsion buried in it. His hand slid against hers, fingers tangling and then enveloping with hers. He brought her knuckles up to his mouth. Thank you.

  He knew she was protecting him, implying, without saying it, that he had joined her immediately. No one had ever done that for him, stood in front of him, not at their own risk—and she was risking a lot. If Branscomb discovered she was shielding Ilya by deliberately misleading the detective, there was no doubt he'd haul her into his office and make life very uncomfortable for her.

  Ilya was fairly certain that strange sensation in his chest was his heart melting. She yanked emotion out of him when all feeling had been buried so deep he'd thought—he'd hoped—it was lost for all time. He loved her in that moment, yet at the same time, a part of him was terrified that she could do that to him, and that part was dangerous and cunning and hated her, because anyone who could make him that vulnerable held power over him—endless power—and he had vowed that would never happen again in his lifetime.

  She turned her head and looked at him, her eyes soft and loving, twisting him up inside because she wasn't even aware of it yet. He could rule her sexually, he knew that, and he knew he could bind her to him, and that he'd always be bound to her, but this was more—way, way more than he had bargained for. Joley was more than just his—she was so deep inside of him she was a part of him—and just as she had protected him, he would protect her with his last breath.

  Ilya read the cop as intelligent, and he was already cutting Joley a break. "Nikitin sent several of his security force here to sweep the area for bombs. He's had many death threats, as has Miss Drake. And I spotted at least four photographers busily filming the argument as well as the band members from the rocks. If you can find them, they might have caught something on camera that would help."

  It was a risk—although a small one. Ilya had a way of blending into the background, making it difficult for people and lenses to spot him. As he was nearly always aware of the photographers, he found it easy enough to hide his presence from them. Branscomb deserved a little help, and in any case, he had probably already thought of it.

  Branscomb nodded. "I'll be in touch. If you think of anything more, call my number. I left my card on the table."

  Chapter 8

  THE door closed behind the detective. Joley stood very still in the ensuing silence, her gaze locked on Ilya's face, her body trembling. He crossed the distance between them and put his arms around her, pulling her close. She burst into tears.

  Ilya pressed her face against his chest, his fingers sliding into her hair to massage her scalp, murmuring softly to her. He didn't know where the words came from, most of it made no sense, just soothing noises, but her distress was so genuine. He hadn't known he could actually feel gentle, or tender; he'd thought those things had long ago been beaten out of him, but she brought out a softer response and he was grateful.

  "You feel too much for others, Joley," he said, pressing his lips into the soft disarray of her hair. "This was not a good man."

  "He has family. And we don't know that he wasn't good."

  "If he had anything to do with the Russian mob, believe me, laskovaya moya, he wasn't good. And contrary to popular belief, members of the mob don't kill indiscriminately. If he drew their attention, he was in bed with them." He nuzzled the top of her head, his chin sliding through the soft strands of hair. He loved holding her, and that was terrifying. She made him soft inside, different. This woman could turn him inside out with one look. And dark eyes drowning in tears were enough to turn stone into molten gold.

  She sighed and turned her head so her cheek rested against him. "Do you think he was using our band, traveling from one city to another in order to run drugs or something?"

  He brushed tears from her cheeks with his fingertips. "Or something."

  She pulled away just enough to look up at him. "You knew he was dead, didn't you, when you came up the mountain? Did you see who did it? Do you know why?"

  "If I saw who had done it, I would have told the detective and I would have called for help immediately. Do you think I had anything to do with that man's death?"

  "No. No, of course not." She wrapped one hand around the nape of his neck and rested against his solid strength. "But the detective was suspicious, I could tell."

  "It was dangerous handing him Nikitin," Ilya pointed out. "Nikitin isn't kind to his enemies, and you've skated for a while on the edge of slighting him by refusing his invitations to his parties."

  "Branscomb was going to get that connection anyway," Joley said and reluctantly pulled away from him. "There was someone with Dean at the party. I saw him with three other men and the group of girls. One of three was another member of my crew. I recognized that I'd seen him working on the equipment, but I never saw his face. The others I'd never seen before, and I assumed they were other guests. I was hoping Dean might know the names of the other girls so the police could question them."

  "You're not thinking of finding the other man who was with Dean." Ilya made it a statement. "Joley, you always rush into things without thinking. You're not a cop, you're a superstar, with cameras on you every second. You can
't conduct a secret investigation into a murder or a child's disappearance."

  "Well I can't just do nothing! Dean was in my crew. He worked for me. And the girl went to a party thinking she was going to party with the band. My band. Sarah and Elle would investigate. They'd never let it go until they found out the truth."

  "Well you aren't your sisters. Stay out of it and let the professionals handle it." Even as he said it, her eyes flashed fire and her mouth set in a firm line. Her chin lifted a little and he cursed under his breath. Joley was a powder keg, and telling her what to do was the same as lighting a match.

  "Like you? You said you were going to talk to Dean, that you were looking into that girl's disappearance."

  He had the urge to shake her. "You're not a defiant child, rebelling against a parent. I'm telling you this is dangerous and to stay the hell out of it. What good is it going to do if you get yourself—or Brian or Jerry—killed?"

  Joley paled visibly. "Why would anyone want to kill Jerry or Brian?"

  "They asked Walters questions, didn't they? Has it occurred to you that whoever killed him might not have wanted him to answer questions? He knew something and they didn't want it out, so he's dead. This friend of his. still on your crew, is either part of what Dean was into or entirely innocent. If you question him, you could draw attention to him and the killer might think he knows something, or worse for you, if he's in on it, they might target both of you for execution." He stepped closer to her again, catching her arm and pulling her against his body. "You stay away from all of them. Don't ask questions and let the cops take care of it."

  Her large eyes darkened, glittering with anger, and he felt lust hit with a hard punch to the gut. His belly burned and his blood pooled hot and demanding in his groin. He bent his head, one hand anchoring in her hair, and he took her mouth, effectively stopping the protest he knew was coming. Heat spread through his body, rockets went off in his head, and colors burst behind his eyes. He pulled her closer, locking her tight against him, so that he could feel every lush curve of her soft, feminine body.