by Lisa Childs
The woman shrugged. “Jealousy? Greed? Mr. St. John is a powerful man. Every man wants to be him.” Her brown eyes narrowed with another threat. “Every woman wants to be with him.”
Jillian barely resisted the urge to shudder again as the woman obviously warned her away from seducing the man. “Are you more than his employee?”
“What I am is none of your business, Miss Drake.
You better leave.” The woman’s breath caught with a gasp of fear. “You won’t want Mr. St. John to return and find out that you’re still poking around.”
While Susan was obviously involved with her employer, she also feared him. Just as his daughter did.
“See Miss Drake to her car,” the woman said, gesturing toward the guards who’d just walked in the open door. She must have summoned them.
But when? When she’d noticed the child gone from her bed or when she’d seen Jillian talking to Tabitha?
Jillian shook her head, trying to clear it of the notion the little girl had put there. The nanny wouldn’t have needed muscle to track down a child missing from her bed. She’d only wanted to get rid of the reporter. Jillian was used to that; she wasn’t used to dealing with children and their overactive imaginations.
Of course, Tobias was really the little girl’s father.
The man looked exactly as he had on those few occasions over the years when she’d gotten close to him. He also looked like all those photos Jillian had collected of him for her research. And he had no family but his daughter. Who else could he be?
“I’m leaving,” Jillian assured all of St. John’s employees. But as she backed toward the door, she glanced up the stairs, to where the little girl stood on the landing.
The child mouthed the words, Help me…
Chapter Four
“Where the hell were you?” Mike Hanson demanded. “All hell’s breaking loose in the city and you’re not answering your damn phone! If the public didn’t love you, I’d fire your ass right now.”
Jillian flinched at the shouting coming through her earpiece. Then she forced a smile as Charlie turned on the camera. “Jillian Drake reporting from the scene of the latest attack on River City. Unlike previous incidents, tonight there was a fatality in the explosion that followed the breakin at St. John’s Jewelry Shoppe. Police have yet to identify the body, but from the size of the man they found, they believe him to be the suspect responsible for the reign of terror that’s plagued our city over the past two weeks.”
While she held on to her broadcaster’s expressionless face, her heart contracted with regret. Just last night he had saved her life—only to lose his twenty-four hours later. At least now the wild stories would stop. Despite the claims, he was mortal; he’d died in one of the explosions he’d undoubtedly set.
But what about those women? Had he been responsible for their deaths, too? If he’d killed them, why hadn’t he killed her, too?
“However, the mayor has refused to rescind the city’s curfew until the suspect’s identity is confirmed. Please stay tuned to WXXM, Channel 13, for more information as it becomes available.” She hung on to a smile until Charlie indicated he’d shut off the camera.
“Let’s get down to the morgue to see if the coroner knows anything yet,” she said. She’d arrived at the burning building just as the body bag had been loaded into the back of the van. As she’d reported, the man had been huge; three morgue attendants had had to lift the stretcher on which he lay. With the bag zipped, she hadn’t been able to see the body, but one of the attendants had remarked that he hadn’t had a face.
Just like the man who’d pulled her from danger the night before. Except he must have had a face; she just hadn’t seen it. The dead man’s face—whatever it had been—was gone now, burned by the explosion, according to one of the coroner’s assistants.
“Want to ride in the van with me and Vicky?” Charlie asked as he loaded his equipment into the back of it.
She shook her head. “I brought my car. I better drive myself.”
“Remember the curfew hasn’t been lifted. The police might not let you through the barricades,” Vicky warned her as she hurried to help Charlie. In addition to the cuts on his face, he’d bruised some ribs in the explosion the night before.
“I doubt that they’re going to enforce the curfew tonight. They think the reign of terror is over.” Tobias St. John did; that was why he’d left her alone in his fortress. Jillian’s instincts warned her otherwise.
“You don’t?” Charlie asked.
She shrugged. “Only time will tell.”
“It’s late,” Vicky said with a fearful glance at the night sky. “You really should ride with us.”
And feel like a third wheel as the assistant producer gazed adoringly at the cameraman? “No, I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself.” She’d been doing it for a long time now.
Jillian handed back the earpiece and the mike. “I’ll meet you two at the morgue.”
Vicky shuddered. “That doesn’t sound very reassuring.”
“Really, I’ll be fine. You need to go down there and get set up before those national networks steal all the good spots. This is our city and our damn story.” She slammed the door shut and pounded on the side of the van, waving them off.
Even if they didn’t get stopped at police barricades, they probably wouldn’t get close to the morgue. All the other crews had already left, leaving the scene deserted but for the yellow crime-scene tape and the tendrils of smoke rising from the debris into the dark night sky. The force of the explosion had broken the streetlamps so that Jillian had only the faint glow from stars high overhead to guide her way back to her car. Glass ground beneath the heels of her shoes as she hurried down the street to where she’d parked a few blocks from the scene.
As Mike had griped, everyone else had beaten her there. Because she’d lingered behind at the estate, talking to a confused child. The kid had to just be con fused; she probably had no idea what her father had been going through as the empire he’d spent his life building crumbled around him. Angry and frustrated, he must have seemed like a completely different man to his daughter.
Hell, even to Jillian who hardly knew him, he’d seemed like a completely different man. He definitely hadn’t been the man who’d fascinated and attracted her the past few years. But then she’d been more attracted to the myth than the reality. Was he the reality or someone else? An imposter?
“You’re losing it, Jill,” she scoffed at herself. She was getting almost as paranoid as those people who proclaimed the end was near. She saw monsters every where now…because she’d missed seeing them when she should have.
She clicked the remote keyless entry on her car and pulled open her door. As she slid behind the wheel, she sniffed the air. Even inside, it was thick with smoke from the building blocks away. But mingled with the smoke was the faint odor of leather…and blood. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she realized she was not the only one in her car. Her hand trembling, she reached for the door handle, but a black glove closed over her mouth. And a steely arm locked around her shoulders, holding her against the seat.
She thrashed, fighting against his grasp. Lifting her keys, she swung them backward.
“You didn’t fight me last night,” he murmured in that raspy whisper. His glove slid away from her mouth, the leather gliding across her cheek, before he twisted the ring of keys from her grasp.
He was supposed to be dead; she’d seen for herself what she’d believed was his body being carried from the remains of the bombed-out building.
She shivered and gasped for breath. And ignored that traitorous flash of relief that he lived. But then, no matter what destruction he’d caused, she owed him. “Last night you saved my life.”
Irony in his raspy voice, he asked, “So that I could take it tonight?”
She’d like to know why he had saved her, but something else was more important. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “But
I’m not.”
She glanced into the rearview mirror, but all she glimpsed was her own pale face and the hulking shadow looming over her. “Who was in that body bag?”
“You don’t need to know that,” he replied, his voice never rising above that raspy whisper.
“I’ll find out soon enough,” she reminded him, “when the autopsy is complete.”
“There won’t be an autopsy,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because there is no body.”
She tried to fight again, thrashing on the seat, but his grasp was too tight. She’d thought him crazy before for taking on Tobias St. John. Now she had her proof. Panting from her futile exertion, she said, “I saw them load the body into the van. We have footage of it.”
“The body won’t make it to the morgue.”
She shivered again. “How can you know that…unless…?”
“I’m here,” he pointed out. “With you. I won’t be the one hijacking the hearse.”
“Why are you here?” she asked. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
“So many questions, Miss Drake.” He tsked with a rusty-sounding chuckle.
“Are you going to answer any of them?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t understand what you want with me.” Except that maybe he regretted having spared her life the night before…
“I WANT YOU…” His throat closed—probably from the smoke he’d inhaled. Not with desire. Sure, Jillian Drake was beautiful, but she was also dangerous—with all her questions and all her ambition. That was why he had always stayed away from her. And why he shouldn’t be around her now.
Except that he needed her.
“I want you to report a story.”
In the rearview mirror, her green eyes widened with surprise and sparkled with excitement. “You’re going to give me an exclusive?”
“I’m going to give you a statement.”
“Let me call my crew. We’ll do an on-camera interview.” She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone, but he grabbed it from her.
“You don’t need this,” he assured her as he tossed the phone onto the floor. His grip loosened; she squirmed around on the seat, her breasts pushing against his arm.
“Let me go!” she demanded.
As beautiful as she was, she was undoubtedly used to men rushing to do her bidding. He did no one’s bidding but his own. He tightened his grip again, grunting as his bruised ribs pushed against the seat between them.
“You’re hurt?” she asked, her body stilling. “Were you wounded in the explosion?”
“Enough with the questions,” he snapped. He couldn’t waste any more time with her, not with what was at stake. St. John might think he had no reason to hold on to his leverage any longer. He had to prove the man wrong. Again.
“Please, tell me what’s going on,” she urged him. “You can trust me.”
He’d learned long ago to never trust a woman, but he needed her. “There’s only one thing you need to know, that you have to report as soon as possible.”
“Your statement,” she said. “What is it? What do you want me to tell the city?”
“I’m not dead.”
Her lips parted on a short laugh. “That’s it? That’s my big exclusive?”
“It’s something no one else knows,” he pointed out.
Something he could have shared with any other reporter, but he’d wanted her to be the one to break the news.
“You’re right,” she agreed. “Even before tonight, everyone called you a ghost, a phantom. After tonight, after footage of that body being loaded into the coroner’s van, no one will believe you’re alive.”
“Then you’ll have to convince them.” Because he needed one man to believe that he was alive, but he couldn’t risk telling St. John personally. Not yet.
And that was why he’d chosen her. It was the only reason he could have had. “People trust you.”
“People,” she said with a slight smile. “But not you.”
He shook his head, and then realizing she couldn’t see his action, he replied, “No.”
“Why should I report your statement?” she asked.
“What’s in it for me?”
Damn. She had just proven why he shouldn’t trust her. Rage coursed through him, and he tightened his arm around her. “Your life.”
“What? Are you threatening me?” she asked, her voice cracking with anger rather than fear. But her green eyes widened with apprehension that belied her bravado. “If I don’t say what you want, you’re going to kill me? Like you killed those other women?”
“Do you really think I had something to do with those women dying?” If she did, he suspected she’d be fighting him harder than she had.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m not sure you were even around when those murders happened.”
God, she was good. But he wasn’t about to supply her with his alibi.
“Tell me if you hurt them,” she said. “Tell me if you’re going to hurt me….”
Until tonight he hadn’t realized that people might die, that people might have to die, in order for him to achieve his goal. But could he actually kill?
“WHILE THE CORONER’S office confirms that the body from the explosion has disappeared, this reporter can personally assure you that the suspect that witnesses have described as the man with no face—among some other colorful nicknames—is still alive.”
St. John hurled his glass at the flat screen. Scotch streamed down the beautiful face of Jillian Drake. “You’re lying!” he accused the image on TV.
“I don’t think so,” a soft voice murmured.
He whirled toward the woman who’d stepped inside the dark-paneled den. “She’s a liar. She has to be.”
Susan shook her head. “No. She told me earlier tonight—after you left her here—that she would never report anything she couldn’t prove.”
With a shaking fist, he gestured toward the screen. “She has no proof. Nothing but her word.”
Susan’s shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “I don’t think she’d give her word unless she knew for certain.”
“You think she’s seen him?” Son of a bitch—the man had to be dead. He had to be….
Susan nodded. “Yes.”
“But I saw him—his body.” An hour ago, before he’d had it destroyed. “He was the same build, with the same tattoo on his arm.”
She shuddered and asked, “Did you see his face?”
“No.” He’d had no face left. St. John had laughed at the irony of that. But was the last laugh on him? “Damn him!”
“What about fingerprints or DNA?” she asked anxiously. “Can you test for that?”
“Not now.” Not with the body completely burned up. He’d had to destroy it, so that no one else would be able to confirm the identity of the dead man. But now he had no confirmation, either.
He’d wanted—he needed—the man to be dead, but every instinct had screamed at him that he wasn’t. His enemy had already proved he was not that easy to get rid of….
“So what do we do?” Susan asked.
“We beef up security.” He’d already done that at the estate, and even as each business had been attacked, he hadn’t spared any of the staff to guard them, which many people—including his security staff—had questioned. But he knew the plan was to distract him from what his enemy wanted most. St. John would not be distracted.
Susan turned to the windows and gestured toward the bars on them. “The place is already a fortress.”
“It’s not good enough!” he shouted at her. “If he’s still out there, he’ll be coming for…” He swallowed hard. He wasn’t certain what his enemy wanted. If it were him, he’d be after the money, the power and the vengeance. But he didn’t know his enemy as well as he thought he had, as he should.
“If you think you know what he wants, why don’t we just get rid of it?” she asked, her dark eyes wide with fear.
&
nbsp; He laughed at her ignorance. But her stupidity was the only reason he’d kept her around. “If we got rid of what he wants, he’d have nothing to lose.”
She shuddered again. “Oh, God…”
“And there’s no one more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose.” A lesson he had learned long ago. The one that had brought him to River City.
Susan must have been smart enough to sense the desperation he felt because she backed toward the door. “I better go up. I better check on the little girl—makes sure she’s really sleeping now.”
He waved her off, then clicked an intercom button. “I need to see you.”
Within minutes the chief of the security team stood before him. Unlike everyone else, this man—Morris—was the only one who wasn’t a new hire. St. John had gotten rid of the old team because he’d needed men he could trust. He still wasn’t sure he could trust Morris so he hadn’t let him too close and mostly assigned him to just guard the gates. But St. John needed him. No one knew the estate like Nick Morris.
“Did you see Jillian Drake’s report on the eleven o’clock news?” he asked the blond man. “She claims the dead man wasn’t the one who’s been behind all the breakins and explosions.”
“You saw him.”
St. John had made certain he’d been the only one, besides the coroner’s assistants, who had seen the body. Those men had had no idea who they’d been looking at, especially as the man had had no face.
“So was it him?” Morris asked.
“I thought so.” He’d hoped so. “But now she’s reporting that he’s still alive. Could she be lying?” He wanted Susan to be wrong; after all, she was new to River City and not the best judge of character. “Reporters lie, right?”
Morris shook his head. “Not Jillian Drake. She has a reputation for reporting facts. Not rumors or myths like some of the other networks. Hell, she’s never specifically reported anything about him until tonight. He must have talked to her. He must be alive.”
“You know what this means,” St. John said, pouring himself another drink to replace the one that had stained the plasma screen.
Morris sighed. “He’s still out there.”