She emerged from her jeep and took the steps two at a time, arming herself to deal with him as a cop, nothing more. She hadn't called first, in order to catch him unprepared.
The silent mountain was gone. In his place was a tiny Mexican woman, smiling.
"I'm Detective Carroll, here to see Mr. Sabanne." She pulled out her shield.
"Señor Sabanne is not here."
"When will he return?"
"No sé," she shrugged.
"What's your name?"
"Señora Montoya."
"Mind if I ask you a few questions, Mrs. Montoya?"
The little woman's eyes narrowed. "Me? Por qué?"
"How long have you worked for Mr. Sabanne?"
"Oh, since he first came to Santa Fe."
"What do you think of him?"
She hesitated, a tiny frown appearing on her face. "Why do you ask?"
"It's all right, Mrs. Montoya." The dark voice of her dreams spoke from the shadows. "Go ahead and tell Detective Carroll anything she wants to know."
Jace felt the impact all the way down to her toes and cursed herself that it was so. "Never mind, Mrs. Montoya. We can talk later." She'd get no good answers with him standing there.
Then she was alone with the man who haunted her nights and her days.
"Good to see you, Detective." The polite tone of a host.
Her impulse was to search the eerie gray eyes for some trace of that night at The Club, some sense that it had truly been him. That he'd been marked by it as well.
Instead, she kept her glance as disinterested as she could muster.
One eyebrow arched. "This way, Detective. Mrs. Montoya, please bring us..." He turned toward Jace. "Iced tea on such a warm day?"
"This isn't a social visit." Forget being gracious. She wanted him rattled. Maybe then he'd tell her the truth about the night at The Club that had shaken her foundation to the roots. The pieces of dreams...the feeling of him inside her.
Christ. She'd never been prone to fantasies, but they had to be, didn't they?
No matter how she dreaded it, she had to know if she'd dreamed all of it—or if not, why she couldn't remember more. She also wanted to hear what the note-sender knew that Dante wasn't revealing. "Do you own controlling shares in Prince Laboratories?" There. No playing around.
Smooth as silk, he responded. "Good day to you, too, Detective...Justine," his voice almost caressed.
"I'm here on business."
"So I see." He walked behind his desk and sat down, gesturing for her to do the same. "Why do you ask?"
"Stop answering my questions with questions. Do you have something to hide?"
He spread his arms wide. "My life is an open book. Ask me anything."
Damn it. Why do I know how you feel inside me? But she had an investigation to conduct. "Fine," she snapped. "Do you own controlling shares in Prince Laboratories?"
"Is that a criminal offense?" The cool, indulgent smile never reached his eyes. "Will you arrest me?"
"What makes you think you're a suspect?"
His voice frosted. "You speak to everyone this way?"
She had to obtain his help with the lab tests, first and foremost. Then she needed answers. Pissing him off wasn't likely to gain either. Stiffly, she conceded. "I...apologize. I—" Touching the bandage at her forehead, she glanced up. "I have a headache."
"What happened?" His voice slid to intimate. "Are you all right?"
She didn't want to feel caressed by his tone. "I'm fine. Just...I hit my head on the kitchen cabinet."
"No other ill effects except the headache?"
Why was he so solicitous? "No. Not...really." For a long moment, their gazes lingered.
"I am sorry it happened."
She had the strangest sense that he meant something beyond her hurting her head.
Christ. He was doing it to her again. She had to stop reacting to him at such a visceral level. "I have a hard head. I'll get over it. So you do own controlling shares in Prince Labs?"
He retracted his gaze slowly, then stared at his hands on the leather blotter. When he looked up again, she thought she saw a glimpse she'd almost call regret, but it was gone before she could be sure.
"I have never tried to conceal that I hold the major portion of the stock. Is that important?"
"I need to request a favor."
At last, she'd surprised him. "What would that be?"
"Our lab has analyzed blood samples from both the old man and the girl found dead outside The Club. More extensive test results just in show traces of some compound which the lab doesn't have the equipment to identify."
"And you want me to help you run further tests." No trace of emotion.
"Yes. Will you?"
"Of course. Do you have the samples with you?"
She hadn't expected such quick acquiescence. "No. Our toxicologist will have to supervise the testing. Where will the tests be run?"
"Give me his name. I will make the arrangements."
"He's a fan of yours."
That seemed to amuse him. "A fan?"
"Victor holds you in high regard. He's the one who told me to come to you in the first place."
His gaze held hers. "A lucky accident."
Jace shivered. "Was it?"
When he rose and prowled toward her like a big cat, Jace hastened to put the width of the room between them. "Did you warn your sister?"
He stopped; his eyes narrowed. "Cassandra?"
"Is she here? I'd like to meet her."
"No—" he said sharply. Too sharply. "She is asleep at the moment."
Something about the topic of his sister made him uneasy. Why? "Will she listen to you?"
A hint of vulnerability crossed his face, immediately masked. "I will take better care of her. She will not go there again." He hesitated. "Justine, I..."
Jace leaned forward slightly, every nerve on alert.
Instead he withdrew. Straightened, his tone glacial, expression remote. "Will that be all, Detective?" He walked toward the door.
"I'll watch out for her when I go back there."
He stopped in his tracks. "When you go back where?"
"To The Club. To ask questions."
"Do you think that is wise?"
"It's my job. I'm a cop, remember?"
A shadow drifted across his eyes. "I remember that very well, Justine. There are many things I recall about you."
Now. Ask him. Make him admit it was him. Ask him about your dreams.
Jace froze, shaken by conflicting urges. To run from him, to return to her safe, normal life.
Almost as much as she longed to lay her head against that shoulder...to open her mouth on his and see if his body could deny hers. But touching him was dangerous, she remembered that much. As off-balance as she was, she wasn't remotely eager to go spinning off in space again...whatever the hell that was about.
Still, she was haunted by a feeling that he had the key to something she needed...that somewhere within him, he wanted her as badly as she—
"I am sorry, Detective. I regret that I must rush you, but I have another appointment."
Shame fought with temper. Jace jerked herself out of her thoughts and headed toward the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Mask of the Dark Priestess and stumbled. Stared at it. Her head throbbed with a feeling that she'd seen it somewhere else, if only she could remember...
"Detective?" Impatience layered his voice. "Anything more?"
She shook her head as if emerging from a dream. Jace turned back. Though his face was stone, something burned at her from his eyes.
He blinked, and it was as if she'd imagined it.
Get out of here, Jace. You got what you came for.
No, that wasn't true. She'd gotten what Detective Carroll had come for, but not Jace.
Not Justine. "Why do you call me that? Justine?"
"Is it not your name?"
"Yes, but everyone—"
"Surely by now you know I am not e
veryone." Standing only inches away, he surrounded her with his presence.
If she rose to her toes, she could press her mouth to the pulse that beat at his throat—
Damn it. She jutted her chin, tried her best to ignore the jumble inside her. "I'm not sure what you are, but I intend to find out. Thank you for your help, Mr. Sabanne." She headed for the door.
"Be careful, Justine."
She whirled at the odd tone.
But he was nowhere in sight.
* * *
Dante stared out the window, watching her leave, wishing he could follow and bring her back...draw her against his body and stem the ache that gnawed at his bones more every time she was near. Last night had proven to him that she was the one...his One. His Prism.
But so much was at stake, and she was so far from being ready to listen. She danced too close to the flames and had no idea of the danger lying in wait.
Dancing...images of her at The Club assaulted his brain. Her pale breasts emerging as he drew down the zipper...the feel of her hips under his hands...the taste of her skin...
He remembered her stretched across his lap in the cabin...the hot, wet sweetness of her inner muscles enfolding his finger...watching her fight the surrender he was so determined to have from her. No matter that it was beyond insanity.
Her face rose in his mind, that lush mouth of hers, the pale green eyes with their feline tilt, at times sparking outrage, never giving him an inch. Audacious and challenging, chin tilted up. She did not need him, did not want to lean on him. In her own way, she was as strong as he was.
And those eyes, soft and confused and vulnerable in a manner he now knew most unusual for her...they captured a corner of a heart he'd thought long ago dead.
With her, he'd heard the Song more clearly than anytime since he was a child. He'd Walked the Light, making his way through strands she'd separated for him as the Prism, and he'd followed note after note, longing to continue to the end, to find the Soul Star. Her powers were strong but untutored, and all too soon the strand had begun to fray under the weight of her disbelief. He couldn't risk it snapping.
He had spells that would compel her, but that would betray the principles he lived by and the code of the amulet. He was a healer, and what he'd done last night by erasing her memory troubled him greatly. She was the Prism and he needed her desperately, but he could not take her with him in the search against her will. If they were not working in concert, the Soul Star might be lost forever.
And then there was the very personal way in which she called to him on a level he'd never felt before. The yearnings she stirred only made her more dangerous.
Dante shook his head brusquely. He'd foolishly gambled, longing to share the truth with her, wishing for someone to understand him and all his secrets, but she'd rejected his truths. She wasn't ready, and he would not risk her, just as he would not risk Cassandra. He was vulnerable now, vulnerable through caring.
Justine was a wild card. He hadn't liked erasing her memory, but the stakes were too high. Why the one person who could shorten his search had to be a woman who believed in nothing she couldn't experience with the five ordinary senses...
Regardless of her intransigence, he would not let Markos hurt anyone else, seeking revenge. It was between the two of them. This game had to end, before anyone else died.
Especially not the impetuous teenager who did not understand why he watched her so closely. Maybe he would try to explain the stakes to Cassandra once she cooled off. Dante smiled wryly. Being locked in her room couldn't have done Cassandra's volatile temper any good, but maybe now that he'd said she could have the run of the house, she'd be more willing to listen.
Turning from the window, he crossed the library and opened the door. "Manolo, is Cassandra up yet?"
"Yes, Boss. She was in the greenhouse, last time I saw."
"Please ask her if she would come visit with me at her convenience." He smiled. "Has she quit throwing things at the door?"
Manolo grinned in answer. "Yes, sir. But she told me to just go ahead and shoot her because she wasn't going back in that room." He headed toward the greenhouse.
Dante turned away, shaking his head. That was Cassandra. She'd walk straight into mortar fire, if it stood between her and something she wanted.
Manolo was back in minutes, his face strained. "I can't find her, Boss. I've looked everywhere."
"Who saw her last?"
"She was talking with Antonia, but then Antonia left. Cassandra wasn't with her."
Antonia.
Markos's lover.
His blood ran cold.
"Search the grounds. I'll ask Mrs. Montoya to call Melinda and see if Cassandra's with her."
What do you know of someone called the Keeper?
If Cassandra had been to The Club, she could have met Simon. Or she could be in Markos's hands right now.
He wasn't sure which one would be worse.
If Markos didn't have her, Dante couldn't risk letting his enemy know she was gone. He had to find his impetuous, naïve charge quickly.
But with exquisite stealth and caution.
GREECE
Eighteen years ago
Impatiently, Dante stared out the bus window. Four kilometers to go, and he would see Caterina, the love of his life. He'd been gone for almost a year, posted to Italy to a manufacturing arm of his father's business, working on the line. Learning...soaking up every scrap of knowledge against the day he would have to prove himself worthy.
It had been hard, but he had done well. At last he was back in Greece, ready for the next step in his journey to win his father's company.
Out of habit, he reached for the amulet, only to come up empty. It was a missing limb, a part of his soul brutally amputated, the only evidence of his father's love.
Now vanished.
Not that he hadn't tried to recover it, though he'd known his brother's guile. Before he'd left his father's estate after the reading of the will, he'd searched Markos's room, barely caring if he were caught. When they'd met again with the lawyer and the men from Papa's firm, he'd seen the flash of triumph in his brother's eyes.
Markos had not worn the amulet, though. As if to taunt him, his brother had donned an open-necked shirt. Dante knew it would do no good to tell anyone. His brother would deny the theft. He would get away, as always.
But he would pay. One day Dante would have enough money, enough power. He would find the amulet and reclaim it. He would punish his brother.
But not yet. The time was not ripe. Nothing could stand in the way of wresting what should have been his birthright from the brother who did not deserve to bear their father's name.
The bus pulled into the terminal and he saw Mama, waiting and waving, joy a banner rippling the air around her. He searched the crowd for Caterina but could not see her.
"My son!" his mother cried, throwing her arms around his neck. "Oh, let me see you—you've grown so. You're a man now, so tall and strong." Tears sprang to her eyes.
He hugged her close, grateful to be with her again, but all the time, his eyes scanned the crowd. "Where is she, Mama?"
One hand cradled his cheek. Sorrow darkened her gaze. She gripped his hand. "Oh, my son, this will be hard for you to hear. Do not be angry with her. She is a little bird whose wings are broken."
"Tell me." His heartbeat thudded.
"She is...not well."
"What's wrong with her?"
"She is...with child."
"What?" Shock plowed a huge fist into his stomach.
"Her father is beside himself, but I tell him that we must make her see the happy side of this, the joy of a new life."
Chest tight with agony, he couldn't seem to draw a breath. "How can—she is—" A virgin. They'd only traded kisses, first sweet and tentative, then fevered. But he'd always known he must wait. Her purity had been his pride as much as his burden. "She can't have—" He turned anguished eyes to his mother. "Who? Who is it?"
"I do not know.
She will not speak of it."
"She has a lover." Betrayal gouged deep ruts in his heart. "I asked her to wait, but—"
"No!" His mother's voice went sharp and stinging. "You cannot think that she betrayed you. She has been violated, of this I am sure. The knowledge screams from her eyes, no matter that she remains silent. This child was not conceived willingly."
Rape. His beloved had been violated and he hadn't been there to protect her. How could he not have felt it?
Thoughts whirling, he grasped at one. "What are the police doing about it?" Rage clamped his fingers into fists. Caterina was so pure, so fragile. Rape. My God.
"They do not know. No one does but her papa and me, and I would not be aware if he were not out of his mind with worry."
"Why not?" he exploded. "How can you sit by and do nothing?"
"Do not speak to me in that tone. You think we did not want to seek help? But you have not seen her. You have not heard her despair, her terror of being an outcast. You know the village." In her eyes was remembered pain, a woman who had raised a bastard child. At least he had been a child of love. This one...
"Christos. I must go to her." His voice faltered as he realized how unequal to the task he was. "What do I say?"
"Son, you must take it slowly. Perhaps you should wait."
"Wait? Are you insane?" If he thought about her much more, he would lose his mind.
"She is afraid to see you."
"What?" He couldn't take it in. "Why? She loves me, Mama. I love her."
"Any woman would be, in her place. And you must understand she is not herself. You know how fragile she is. She is much worse now. Terrified of everyone. She doesn't sleep, doesn't eat. Her father is afraid this will kill her. He..." her voice died off to a whisper. "He fears she will harm herself."
"No!" he shouted, drawing stares around them. Ruthlessly, he stifled his outrage. "Where is she now, Mama? I must be with her."
"What will you say?"
"What business is it of yours?" Impotent fury raged, a savage animal careening around inside him, clawing to get out. He wanted to hurt someone.
His own mother flinched from him.
It sobered him as little else could. "I am sorry. You are trying to help me. To help her." To his humiliation, his voice broke like a boy's. Tears rushed to his eyes. "Oh, God, Mama..."
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