Marie Harte - [PowerUp! 08]

by Killer Thoughts

  Ian perked up. A chance to sit behind the wheel of Owen’s new Porsche Boxter? Hell, yeah. He practically skipped out of the gym and waited impatiently next to the car, excited to feel the wind in his hair, and ignored the fact that it was Owen, more than the vehicle, who aroused his passion.

  OWEN STARED AFTER Ian, amused and satisfied more than he should have been. Ian Ryder had looks, a brain, and the ability to screw with Owen’s concentration—which in itself was a cause for alarm. But Owen hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he needed Ian’s talent.

  A forger without compare, Ian could copy anything and reproduce it with such authenticity that even the original artist couldn’t tell the difference. His unique talent had never been duplicated, not even by the many scientists in Washington who’d tried so hard to make another Ian.

  Owen remembered seeing Ian a decade ago, back when Ian had been a kid barely into his twenties. So handsome, a heartbreaker with brass balls. He’d been a scammer then, like he was now. But in the years that passed, Ian had grown in strength and beauty. His looks made him stand out no matter where he went. And that new haircut had nearly brought Owen to his knees.

  With long black hair and bright blue eyes, a square jaw, high cheekbones, and long lashes, Ian had appeared like an Adonis. But cutting that hair short gave him a rakish appearance, showcasing the naughty side of the charmer who could get anyone to do anything he asked. Just about.

  Jack, fortunately, saw through Ian’s bullshit and had often saved the slighter man from himself. The shortest male member of the PowerUp! team, as well as the leanest, Ian didn’t have the same athletic build as his teammates. Instead, he had a quick mind, nimble fingers, and the muscle tone of a man used to running for his life.

  Owen watched critically as Ian waited impatiently by the driver’s side door. “You need to eat more.”

  Ian rolled his eyes. “So feed me. Now can I have the keys or what?”

  Owen hit a button on the key remote to unlock the doors. He opened the passenger door and tossed the keys to Ian. After seating himself next to the man who stirred his blood and challenged him in ways no one had in a long time, Owen settled back and watched Ian’s competent hands control the vehicle. The top hummed as it went down, and Ian maneuvered the car like a professional race-car driver.

  “We’re not going to my office this time. I’m working straight from home now.” Not that he had to give Ian directions. The arrogant thief had already broken into the place at least three times that Owen knew of.

  Soon enough they sped down the road toward Owen’s private retreat, which overlooked the Cascade Mountains and had plenty of solitude. It was a short drive but long enough to give Owen time to control his impulses and figure out a few very important things.

  Like how to finally get Ian in his bed, in his home, and in his life. Permanently.

  And how to catch a killer before he murdered not only Owen but Heather as well, extinguishing the Stallbridges from the earth, forever.

  Chapter Two

  Owen let out a breath when they pulled into the drive.

  “Man. This car is just fabulous.”

  Ian ran his long-fingered hands over the red-leather-covered wheel and dash. An artist’s hands. A thief’s hands.

  “Yes. Nice driving.” Competent, just a tiny bit reckless. Owen wondered what Ian would think if he knew how much he gave away about himself with the littlest details.

  A huge risk taker would drive the Porsche like a bat out of hell. Ian drove over the speed limit, but not so that he lost control. He seemed to love the wind through his hair but held on to common sense by not taking the turns too fast. He tossed around words like fabulous and darling and acted like a drama queen but always followed his theatrics with a sly look Owen’s way. The affectation wasn’t the real Ian, just the one Ian wanted others to see.

  Ian was gay and proud of it. Owen knew, though, that Ian couldn’t be sure about his orientation, because Owen worked hard to maintain a shred of mystery. Though he’d been with both genders, Owen preferred men. And recently, one man in particular. The press had linked him with heiresses and actors and CEOs of Fortune 500 companies of both genders. Yet nothing but speculation ever hit the tabloids. Unlike the latest A-listers, he kept his private life private and steered clear of the cameras.

  Here in Bend, they pretty much left him alone. But the minute he stepped foot in LA or New York, he had the attention of the press.

  After Ian parked the car, they both got out and headed toward the front door of Owen’s home. Not a place he used simply as a spot to crash when he did business, but his actual home. He loved it here, away from the crush of people who always wanted something from him. Here he could feel like a real person, a brother and friend. Not just a wallet.

  Before they reached the door, it opened.

  “Sir.” Tim Mallory nodded at him. “Ian.”

  Ian gaped up at Tim. “Do I know you?”

  “No, but he knows you.” Owen nodded at Tim. “We all set?”

  “Yes, sir.” Tim stood back from the door. The six-foot-seven former ultimate fighter had accepted Owen’s offer of employment a year ago without a backward glance. While with the security division, he’d done everything Owen needed. He was efficient and discreet, two traits Owen prized, so Owen had started using him more often. Now Tim spent his time wearing several hats—bodyguard, butler, organizer. Tim did it all and without complaint. Then again, with the salary Owen paid him, Tim had nothing to complain about. But what made him worth every penny—his unswerving loyalty.

  Ian frowned over his shoulder at Owen as Owen prodded him to enter.

  Tim closed the door behind them and held out his hand. “The keys, Ian?”

  “How do you know I have them?”

  Tim said nothing, just stared down at Ian with an intimidating mien.

  Owen nodded. “Tim knows and sees all. He’s my new assistant.”

  Ian flushed and withdrew the car keys from his pocket and handed them to Tim. “I wasn’t planning on keeping them, you know.” He turned to Owen. “So what’s the deal with Harry if Tim’s your new guy? You fire him or what?”

  Owen didn’t flinch, though inside the rage still burned. When he found his former assistant—and he would find the backstabbing asshole—he’d make him pray for a quick death. Harry Barker had been with Owen for five years, during which time Owen had given the younger man more and more responsibility, gradually letting go of his reserve to trust Harry fully. A mistake.

  Harry had become Owen’s right hand, and then a month ago, he’d shown his true colors, turning on Owen for nothing more than money. Carl Kerr, that bastard, had bought Harry’s loyalty. Tim had proven his worth, taking a bullet meant for Owen.

  Owen stared at Tim’s shoulder, now covered by the short-sleeved polo he wore. He could still see in his mind’s eye the bloody wound. Nothing serious, but it could have been for Owen if Tim hadn’t been present to shove him out of the way. Not to be outsmarted again, Owen had borrowed a few of Jack’s people to vet his new assistant. Deemed solid by people who could read his thoughts, Tim had joined Owen’s personal team, and Owen hadn’t looked back since.

  “Harry’s gone,” Owen said bluntly. “If you see him again, you need to let me or Tim know right away. He’s not part of the organization any longer. Consider him a dangerous threat.”

  Ian blinked. “Ah, okay.”

  They walked past the entryway into the main living area. Five thousand square feet of comfort had cost Owen a pretty penny, especially with the views he had of Mount Bachelor. But he’d gladly pay more to feel at peace, protected. He had two more men on staff for security, as well as a cook and a housekeeper who lived on the premises. Two guesthouses on the periphery of the property, as well as a swim house for an indoor pool, took up the space outside. But the main home was a gem all on its own.

  “I sure do like your style,” Ian murmured.

  Owen watched as he walked past the living room, with its grand leath
er sectionals, rock wall and fireplace, and expensive artwork. A Van Gogh and a Matisse had special places on the walls away from the heat generated by the fireplace, while other sculptures and local artwork gave the room a comfortable feel. Owen liked nice things, but he didn’t want to feel as though he lived in an art gallery.

  “That’s new.” Ian pointed to one particular piece in the corner, Coyote Dreams.

  “Yes. It’s a Dane Hanson original.” Dane’s work had recently taken the art world by storm. In a few years, the piece would easily be worth three times what Owen had paid for it. Yet Owen had bought it because he liked it.

  Ian grinned. “Does Kitty know you have her new boy toy’s artwork in your house? Does Dane?” Just a few short months ago, Kitty and Dane had worked a case that involved a cursed statue and Owen’s ex-girlfriend. A woman who’d done her best to kill Owen while Ian had watched from the closet, yet she’d ended up dead instead.

  “They will at the Christmas party this year. Heather convinced me to have it here.” Owen shrugged. For his sister, he’d do anything. To include keeping her safe and away from him. Thank God she had Jack. Owen didn’t worry so much with that hulking brute to watch over her.

  “I still don’t understand what Heather sees in Jack. I mean, I get the muscle and the tough-guy thing he’s got going on. But she’s so nice.” Ian shook his head and gave Owen a sour look. “Not like you at all.”

  “Ian, behave.” Owen saw Tim try to hide a grin before the big man walked past them to the kitchen.

  “Lunch is waiting for you on the table, sir.”

  Owen sighed. “You can call me Owen, you know.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tim disappeared.

  Ian smirked. “If you didn’t have that lord-of-the-manor attitude, I’m sure your staff would be friendlier.”

  “I don’t see you calling me sir.”

  Ian stopped moving, propped his hands on his hips, and glared. “I’m not part of your staff.”

  Owen drew closer, invading Ian’s personal space. To his gratification, Ian swallowed audibly. A nice show of nerves. “You could be, Ian. I’d love to hire you to work me.”

  “You mean work for you.” Ian’s gaze dropped to Owen’s mouth.

  Owen had been waiting for months to make his move, and now that he had Ian at his beck and call, for however long it took to finish this Kerr business, he’d indulge. Hell, he’d more than earned it. Keeping his distance from the handsome con man had been difficult at best. When Owen found something he wanted, he didn’t stop until he got it. And he wanted Ian. Badly. Owen raised a hand and pushed Ian’s long bangs off his forehead so he could see into those beautiful blue eyes.

  “Yes, you’d work me hard, wouldn’t you?” he murmured, pleased to see Ian lick his lips, his eyes glazed over with lust. Owen smiled, dropped his hand, and stepped back. “I mean, you’d work hard for me. Now let’s get some lunch, and I’ll fill you in on where we stand.”

  He thought he heard Ian swear behind him. Good. Ian wasn’t unaffected. As it was, it took Owen a moment to calm his raging hormones. Being so close to Ian, inhaling the sexy cologne he wore, gave Owen the hard-on from hell.

  To his relief, he entered the kitchen without an erection and found the large marble table laid out with a full lunch. Cold cuts, sandwich rolls, a pasta salad, fruit, and glasses filled with tea had been arranged to perfection. He loved Beverly. The older woman cooked like a dream. She’d been with the family since before his parents died, nearly seventeen years ago, and she kept getting better with age.

  “Pays to have money,” Ian said and sat down without being asked. He filled his plate with food and commenced to eating, not waiting on Owen. “So what now, Your Highness?” he said between bites. “Damn. This is good ham.”

  Owen sat and watched his future lover wolfing down lunch. “Good. You need to eat more.”

  “Feed me like this, and we won’t have a problem.”

  Ian grinned, and a face that could have made a fortune in magazines brightened up the room. Then that grin faded. “You know, this great lunch aside, we need to be real about what you need from me. It’s not that I don’t want to help you. But I’ve done all I can. If my sources can’t find it, it can’t be found.”

  “But you did find it. Or rather, him.”

  “Come again?”

  I’d like to come between those full lips the first time. Then in your tight ass after. Owen frowned, annoyed to let Ian distract him with thoughts of sex. But really, Owen had a right to fantasize. Ian had no lack of male attention. His looks saw to the initial attraction, while his charm kept them coming back for more.

  “Uh, Owen? What? Do I have mustard on my face or something?”

  The flush on Ian’s cheeks told Owen he knew what Owen wanted. But he wanted to pretend otherwise. Fine. Owen would let it stand for now, considering he’d wanted to talk about Kerr in the first place.

  He concentrated on business. “The pattern you thought you saw last week. Tell me again what struck you.”

  Ian shrugged. “Something in those newspaper articles linked for me. I don’t know. They didn’t seem related, but those deaths connected. All five businessmen had their throats slit. They were each involved in illegal arms, small-time, but still. All of them in northern states. Not too far-fetched, but it struck a bell. The Canadian ties really clued me in. When you put that together with their financial backers buried under a lot of paperwork and false trails, all of which led them back to northwestern-based companies, I don’t know. It seemed like that’s what you were looking for. Made sense to me.”

  “It did. Does.” Owen helped himself to a sandwich, hungrier than he’d thought. He glanced to his right and peered out the window. Overlooking the guesthouse where the Knox brothers, his personal security, lived, the majestic Cascade Mountains stood like sentries, clear against a crisp blue sky. He wanted to go running or maybe take a day hike. But duty called.

  “How so?” Ian asked and started on a second sandwich.

  Pleased to see the man eat more, Owen explained. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with my history.”

  “You mean, besides you mysteriously killing Linda Cavendish?”

  His ex-girlfriend and a woman sent to plague him by none other than Carl fucking Kerr. Owen ignored the reference to Linda’s death. “Years ago, my family had a loose tie with Jacob Kerr, founder of what used to be known as JHC Industries.”

  Ian’s eyes narrowed. “Now known as Precision Tech. A Stallbridge concern.”

  “Yes.” Ian had done his homework. He reminded himself not to underestimate the man again. “What you don’t know is we didn’t just buy out the company. My father threatened to go to the police and tell them exactly what Jacob had been up to if he didn’t sell to my father. Making guns for the military was one thing; selling them to unfriendly foreigners with a lot of money was another. Jacob sold the company back to us, then killed my parents.”

  Ian stared, wide-eyed. “Really? So that business about an unfortunate plane mishap was made-up?”

  Owen nodded. “I thought it best to keep quiet. My father had warned me there might be trouble. And there was.”

  “You were what? Seventeen, eighteen at the time?”

  “Yes. Just out of high school.” Owen smiled, but not with joy. Remembering how he’d handled the Kerrs gave him a savage sense of pleasure. His sister had always known she could heal. But none of them had known what Owen could do, not until he’d been pushed. “I refused to sell the company back to Jacob. Then he had an unfortunate aneurism and died. Jacob’s sons, Henry and Carl, naturally came after me.”

  “The battles between your companies made headlines for years. Back when the Kerrs were legit, that is.”

  Owen nodded, not surprised Ian would keep abreast of the company’s history. Since working with Owen, Ian would have found out everything he possibly could to stay ahead of his perceived adversary. Something Owen would do. “And then a few years ago, Henry made a mistake. He came after H
eather, although Heather has no idea the attack was personal. She thought someone was after our money, a kidnapping we managed to forestall.”

  Owen had known he’d given Henry and Carl too much leeway. He’d hoped they might turn out different than their father. Hating each other as business rivals was one thing. But when they’d gone after Heather, everything had changed.

  “So it was the Kerrs.” Ian’s eyes narrowed. “And then Henry died of a heart attack. Another early death for a Kerr. Bad family history.”

  Owen smiled through his teeth. “Bad, yes.” Back then he’d had help. A spotter to pinpoint his talent, a way to lock on to his target from a distance, then point and kill with a psychic blast no one could survive. “Henry died, leaving his younger brother Carl all alone.”

  “And Carl blamed you.”

  Owen nodded. “And Carl blamed me. There was no proof. No evidence to the contrary. Henry died when his heart stopped beating. They said it was a blocked coronary, a massive buildup of plaque that killed him. A natural death by all accounts. Yet Carl pointed the finger at me.”

  “Go figure,” Ian drawled. “So Carl came after you. That’s why he stole that book of yours a few months ago. He’s been trying to bring you down for years. Financially he can’t touch you. But to destroy your reputation…”

  “I don’t care. He can do and say what he wants. He knew I wanted the book back; that’s why he went after it and kept it. My warehouse getting broken into has caused me all sorts of problems.” Owen sighed. Over a year ago someone—he still didn’t know who—had broken into a family warehouse in France, a place he’d thought secret, and stolen a hoard of enchanted and cursed objects. Family heirlooms that had Stallbridge energy locked inside them. A powerful locket, a haunted painting, a clock that stopped time, and Chronicles—a book recounting his family’s odd history, as well as some sexually explicit material his grandfather had thought to put in for fun. But the book had been so much more. Fortunately, his sister had recovered it and fallen in love with Jack in the process.