Drake Sisters 06 - Turbulent Sea

by Christine Feehan

  Stunned and uncomprehending, Joley raised her arms to try to cover her head as shards of glass pierced her skin. Splintered wood, paper and materials fell all around her. Her vision blurred, eyes burning. She barely realized what happened as she fought for breath. She'd hit the ground so hard it had knocked the wind out of her. Panic rose sharp and fast. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't get air, and fiery embers and sharp glass rained down on her.

  Joley! Breathe, damn it, take a breath. Protect yourself.

  She felt hands on her, lifting her rib cage, but they weren't Ilya's hands, and she fought, doubling her fist, striking out blindly, kicking to fight her way free. Someone was trying to kill her—that much registered, and she fought wildly.

  I can't see. There was panic in her voice, in her mind, filling her when she should have been worried about breathing. Where are you? Because he had to come. If he was there, the world would be right again. He would keep her safe. He had to come. She kicked out blindly, swinging her fist, crying when she didn't connect.

  "Joley! Stop it."

  Hard hands tried to hold her down. Her ears were ringing so loud the voice was distorted. She didn't recognize the touch. It wasn't him. It wasn't Ilya.

  I'm coming, lyubimaya moya. Take a breath. Breathe for me.

  The hands pinned her to the ground, and something rubbed across her face and eyes. She forced air through her lungs. No matter what, Ilya would come for her. If someone was trying to harm her, they'd never get away with it.

  "Let me look, Joley. There's blood everywhere. Stop fighting."

  This time she recognized the voice of her manager, Jerry. She wiped at her face, blinked rapidly and looked at his blurry face through stinging eyes. Her hands were covered in blood. Shocked, she stared at the mess around her, the dust settling to the ground, her ears still ringing from the explosion.

  She was barely aware of her manager crouching beside her, wiping at her face again. "Are you all right, Joley? Answer me. Should I call an ambulance?"

  She could barely see, her vision blurry, but she peered around her at the debris that had been her trailer. Smoke and dust littered the air, while splintered furniture and her belongings were scattered around her.

  "Joley!" Brian rushed to her, followed by Denny. "Are you hurt? Is she hurt, Jerry? There's blood all over her. Get an ambulance. Get one now, Denny!"

  She blinked up at him, shock in her eyes. "My God, Brian. This has something to do with that girl's disappearance. It does." She tried to think, but her brain seemed scrambled, thoughts bouncing so fast she couldn't catch them. She caught a glimpse of Steve off to the side, staring as if dazed at the wreckage.

  "She's in shock," Jerry said.

  She shook her head, although she was certain he was right. She was cold—too cold—and she couldn't stop shaking. Even her teeth chattered. "No, I'm not. And I don't need an ambulance." She wiped her face and stared down in surprise at the blood smearing her hand. "It's a small cut, nothing serious." She hoped it was true.

  "You're bleeding from your leg and arm, too, Joley," Brian said.

  She hurt, but in so many places she couldn't process it all. Her hands were trembling. The ringing in her ears was so loud it sounded like a swarm of angry bees. She pressed her hands to her ears in an effort to stop it. "It's nothing, small cuts." They didn't feel small. She couldn't quite move, her, body refusing to obey her, and that was terrifying. Where are you? He had to come; she didn't know what to do.

  "The cuts aren't small," Jerry protested. "And you're losing blood all over the place."

  "This is crazy, Jerry." Joley peered around her, more dazed than coherent, her body shaking involuntarily. "Brian, look at this, look at my bus." She couldn't get her mind to work. She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn't hold her up.

  Brian kept a hand on her shoulder, keeping her still. "Stay there, Joley. The police are swarming the place, security's everywhere, and they'll be sending in a doctor to look at you, so just sit still until someone gets here and clears you."

  "This is about that little girl who went missing. That's what the bomb was all about—getting us to back off trying to find out who she was with. Someone put this on my bus." She still had the picture clutched in her hands and she held it up.

  "That's crazy. It's only drawing more attention to her disappearance." Brian pressed a cloth to her forehead. Ignoring her wince, he pressed hard. "And why go for you? You have nothing to do with it. Jerry maybe and me, certainly. We're the ones asking questions, not you."

  She pushed harder at his arm. "That hurts."

  "You're going to need stitches, so just sit there until we get a doctor in here." Brian scratched his head. "Joley, this doesn't make sense. Why bother warning you to back off and then try to kill you? How stupid is that?"

  Joley could barely think with her ears ringing, the throbbing cut at her temple and the way her heart squeezed hard and painful in her chest. She was really afraid now. Someone wanted her dead. She should have gone into the bus, would have if Jerry hadn't called out to her.

  Sirens wailed and voices grew louder. Joley stiffened, feeling energy surging toward her aggressively.

  Joley! Answer me. Are you all right?

  The voice in her head trembled with anxiety, but held a firm, commanding note, pushing at her mind to obey instantly.

  Finally, Ilya Prakenskii, and he was close. Her heart leapt, began pounding a welcome. Adrenaline surged. She clenched her teeth against the need to run to him and fling herself into his arms. She hated weakness in herself, and Ilya was a huge weakness. Cameras were everywhere now. If she turned to him, it would be all over the tabloids, but she wanted to—needed to—be held by him.

  Joley. There was a tinge of fear this time, and God help her, she found that small note thrilling.

  The voice swore, and the surge of energy grew darker. Someone behind her screamed, and she turned to see Ilya mowing people down as if they were cardboard figures, his glittering blue eyes locked on her, his face grim. He looked like an avenging god, breathtaking, power in motion, his masculine body moving with fluid, lethal grace. The paparazzi, the gathering crowd, even his own security people were knocked flat as he came for her.

  He took her breath away. The sheer beauty and energy of him, as if he was power personified, as if he understood the very force of nature and somehow was part of it. Men moved out of his way until he flowed past like the wind of death, holding their breath to keep from taking a chance that they might draw his attention.

  Joley couldn't stop the way her body rose and her feet began to run. Her vision blurred again, and this time she was afraid she was crying. She'd been fine—fine—in control—until she saw him. Now she couldn't get to him fast enough.

  His arms closed around her and he dragged her against his chest. He was so strong—a rock, hard and unyielding, when she needed an anchor to cling to. She knew she was safe. Flashes went off around them, and Joley huddled closer to him, keeping her face buried. Sobs shook her body, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn't stop crying. And the press was already there.

  I'm getting you out of here. Dover'sya mne.

  He didn't ask. Ordinarily that would have made her crazy, but she didn't want to have to think. He just said trust me and had her in his arms, cradling her close to his chest. Her head hurt and her ears were ringing and her world had just gone up in smoke. She circled his neck with her arms and pressed her face there, accepting his protection.

  "Brian," Ilya snapped. "I'm taking her somewhere secure."

  "She needs to go to the hospital," Brian called in desperation.

  Joley stirred as if she might protest, but she could feel Ilya's absolute resolve and she didn't have the energy to argue with him. Ilya was always a force to be reckoned with, and right now she wanted to just curl up and cry, so she allowed him to take her over.

  She felt the brush of his mouth on the top of her head, the strength in his arms, the shift of his muscles as he took her through the crowd
to a waiting car. The door of the Town Car was open and he slid in, an easy, fluid move, never once jostling her. The door slammed closed.

  "Go," Ilya ordered. "Hurry."

  "They're going to follow us, Ilya," Joley warned. "The reporters. They won't stop."

  "They're giving chase," the driver confirmed, glancing in the rearview mirror.

  "I don't want anyone to see me like this," Joley protested, without lifting her head. She could live with the tabloids falsely portraying her as a partying, hard-living rock-and-roll icon, but she couldn't bear for anyone to see her vulnerable.

  "Go to the house," Ilya ordered.

  Everything in her stilled. Joley pulled away—or rather tried to. Ilya's arms remained around her like steel bands.

  "Nikitin's house?"

  "No. My house. I do have one or two when needed." He caught her chin in his fingers and lifted her face so he could examine the cut. "You'll need stitches."

  For the first time she really looked at him. There was an angry scrape along his cheekbone, a bloody gash at his ribs and a bloodsoaked cloth wrapped around his upper arm. "Oh my God. Ilya. Oh my God." She tried to kneel up on the seat to examine him. "You're hurt. You need a doctor worse than I do. What happened? Tell me. And tell the driver to take us to the hospital."

  She touched his raw cheekbone with gentle fingers. "I'm not Libby, but I can help. Where else? Your side. Your arm." Blood soaked through the makeshift bandage on his upper arm, and more spread in a widening patch at his side. "Ilya, this doesn't look good."

  "Shh, laskovaya, moya, the driver will get us somewhere safe and we'll take care of everything. You've got a concussion and you're in shock. Lie quietly."

  He settled her back in his arms, holding her to him, his heart still stuttering from the close call. Someone was going to die over this. Threats were a nuisance, but trying to kill Joley was a death sentence.

  "You look like you've been in a war," she said softly. "Tell me what happened." She brushed at her head several times, smearing more blood, wincing, and repeating the action.

  Ilya pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her to stop the involuntary movement. He nuzzled the top of her head, feeling the tremors inside his body that never showed on the outside. Joley was far more to him than sex. There was no getting around his emotional ties to her. He might not like them, but they were there, and he was man enough to realize he was no longer the same and never would be. His comfortable world of detachment was gone for all time. Joley had managed to creep inside him and twist herself around his heart so tightly, there was no shaking her loose.

  "You look like you've been in a war as well, Joley," he murmured. "Let's just get to a safe house and we'll sort it all out."

  She needed the sound of his voice desperately. The ringing in her ears was so loud, and fear clawed and raked at her stomach—fear for her—for him.

  "You have a home? Here?" She thought of him as a loner, a lone warrior who moved restlessly through the world. No friends. No family. Never in one place long. She couldn't imagine him with a home—or a family. Shifting in his arms, she glanced at the front to try to glimpse the driver, but the tinted window had already slid smoothly into place, preventing her from being able to see, and later identify, his face.

  She shifted again, her legs moving restlessly. She reached for the door handle, but Ilya caught her wrist and brought her hand to his chest.

  She should have been afraid, but she felt safe—protected even. Her head throbbed terribly, the cuts and scrapes burning, and she was having trouble reining in her scattered thoughts. The urge to get out of the car was strong, as if she had to run, but Ilya lessened the need by his comforting presence.

  Her world was upside down. She couldn't begin to sort through everything—the accidents, the threats, the missing teenager. Her bus had been blown up, and the paparazzi followed her through the streets to catch a photograph of her with blood running down her face. It wasn't like her condition mattered at all to them, just getting a photograph to show the world that she was injured. She moved restlessly again, the urge to run strong.

  "Not exactly a home," Ilya said, soothing her with his voice, "but it will do for now and you'll be safe enough there. No reporters are going to get within miles of it."

  "They always do, Ilya." She didn't want him to leave her, but she had to be honest. "If you have anything at all to hide—if you don't want to be photographed with me—you should take me to a hotel and just let me out of the car."

  His ice-blue eyes flickered, and just for a moment she caught her breath at what she saw there—raw desire, smoky need—and something else. Affection? Love even? That couldn't be, but there was enough concern in his eyes to melt her heart and give her hope when she shouldn't dare to hope.

  "Are you trying to look out for me?"

  His voice nearly curled her toes. For one moment all the pain was gone and she felt safe and loved and wrapped up in velvet. She sighed and made herself be strong.

  "You value your privacy, and…" It had to be said. She rarely asked him about his lifestyle, or the things he did, other than when she was censuring him, but a man in his kind of work couldn't afford to be splashed all over the tabloids. "Your life might depend on it. If they photograph you even once with me, the reporters will be relentless. They'll uncover every secret you've ever had. It would be better to drop me off at the hospital and disappear. You got me out of there and I'm grateful to you."

  And she was. She would have hated for the tabloids to get pictures of her so vulnerable, but more than that, she didn't want to make Ilya's life any harder or more complicated than she already knew it was. "There's no reason to risk everything, Ilya."

  "They won't find us. The driver will have a diversion."

  "He can do that?" She glanced at the tinted partition. "I'll have to lure him away to work for me. And I've got to call my sisters and let them know I'm all right and where I'll be."

  She was chattering too much, something she did when she was nervous, and right now she was very nervous. Her beloved bus was gone. Dean Walters had been murdered. She had cuts and bruises everywhere, and her head hurt so bad she could barely think. But she knew one thing for certain—she was with the only person in the world who could make her feel that he could keep her absolutely safe.

  "Better wait," Ilya said, and took her cell phone out of her hand. "We can't take any chances until we're safe inside the gates without the reporters hounding us."

  Joley bit back a protest. What difference did a few minutes make? "My head really hurts, Ilya." Her hand went to the door handle again as the urge to move, to keep moving drove her. It was more than pain in her head; there was a roaring, as if her mind couldn't be still when she needed calm most. The noise made it impossible to think.

  "I know, laskovaya moya. Another few minutes and I'll take care of it."

  He pressed his hand to the cut on her head. That was the one he was most worried about. The ones on her arms and legs were from glass shards or flying metal. They hurt and a couple might need a stitch or two, but the one on her head was larger and she was obviously still dazed. She was attempting to stay focused by chattering, but she kept trying to move, to get out of the car, to brush at her head, and she didn't even realize she was doing it.

  His heart ached with love for her. She was courageous, looking out for his safety when she should have been weeping in his arms.

  "That hurts," Joley said, trying to pull away.

  "I know, devochka moya. I need to slow down the bleeding. It will help get the healing started as well. Relax for me and just let me take care of things."

  He kept his hand pressed to her forehead, palm over the cut, warmth moving from his center to her head. Colors spun for a moment, many different ones, spinning in an ever tightening circle until white light burst through, taking all the colors and turning them into flashes of heat.

  She had forgotten that he possessed all the talents, just as Elle, her youngest sibling, did, and healing
was among them. She knew from experience, watching Libby, that a cut as deep as the one she had wouldn't magically disappear, but he certainly helped slow the flow of blood and took away a great deal of the throbbing. Even the ringing in her ears was better.

  "I think I was in shock."

  Joley tried to sit up, but Ilya tightened his hold. "Stay still. Relax. Breathe. Let me take care of you for a few more minutes, at least until my heart slows down." He nuzzled the top of her head. "You scared me this time."

  "I didn't blow up my bus," she pointed out.

  "Who did you make angry this time?" he asked.

  She found a small smile forming, and the coldness inside receded a little. "You can compare notes with my security people. They think I'm a nightmare."

  "They're right. And don't think I won't be talking to them. What the hell were they doing holding a line instead of getting you the hell out of there? One explosion doesn't mean there's not going to be another. And if you were the target, they should have secured your protection before anything else."

  There was an edge to him, not his voice, but his melody, his aura—she felt it and shivered. She was astonished that he could hold her the way he was when he had his own injuries.

  "Just let it go, Joley," he murmured softly. "Relax and let me take care of you."

  But who was going to take care of him? She closed her eyes and inhaled him. He smelled of blood and sweat, but also that strange, male musk she found so enticing about him.

  "You can't go to sleep on me," Ilya warned. "We're pulling through the gates now. No one knows about this house, not Nikitin, not anyone. I'm going to have my driver contact the police to send a detective out to interview you after I take care of your wounds. Then you can rest."

  "He can't see you," she protested. "No police, Ilya. I'll go down to the station after I take care of my head." Her aching head. Even with his healing energy, her brain was shaken.

  He carried her from the car, once again disregarding his own wounds, sheltering her against his heart as he crossed open ground to the door. Once inside, he carried her into an enormous tiled bathroom and set her on the sink.