by Donna Young
Unlike Prometheus and Cerberus.
His friends, Quamar had learned over time, did nothing simply. The concept was foreign to their driving nature. Why should love come to them any differently?
The scent of tobacco drifted through the air and Quamar slipped into the shadows just before the heavy step of a boot cracked a nearby branch. Quamar shook his head in disgust as he watched the red glow of a cigarette bounce through the night air as a guard passed by. It seemed Prometheus was correct. Breaching the mansion would be child’s play, especially to someone of Gabriel’s caliber.
Deciding he’d given the guard enough time, Quamar stood, checked the grid and gauged the next perimeter point.
Mid step, the pain him hit like an ax, cleaving his skull from crown to chin. Quamar dropped to his knees. He absorbed the shock and tried to stand. Another swing of pain—this time leaving stars—jagged with razor-sharp points—bursting behind his eyes. Bile thickened his tongue, even as the ground rose to meet him, cold and hard like a slab of concrete.
Through it all, Quamar felt the wind, its soft edges hastening past.
Then he felt nothing.
THE MOON broke free of the clouds, holding off the soft hues of dawn. A thin streak of light trailed across the walls, giving Celeste her first real look at the bedroom. She was surprised to find that it was nearly wall-to-wall king-size bed—sturdy pine with yards of breathing space and lots of wood.
In what little floor remained open sat a large oak dresser, a matching nightstand—and beige. Beige comforter, beige curtains—she tipped her head over the side of the bed—beige carpet. All understated in their elegance, and all accented with rich, earthy-brown walls. Simple, masculine.
Celeste gazed at Cain, who sprawled across most of the bed, his arm trapping her waist. Sometime during the night, he’d pushed away the warmth of the covers, leaving the sleek lines of his body naked to the cool air that danced in the room.
He’d had called her Celeste. Not Gypsy, not Diana, but Celeste. In his sleep, he moved his arm. His hand cupped her breast. From top to toe, goose bumps ran amuck, and in their wake came a series of slow, sweet shivers. She bit her lip, suppressing the sigh that threatened to slip past.
Even while he dozed, she sensed the barely controlled power that lay coiled in long, lean muscles. The man was a contradiction in terms. Lethal yet safe, powerful yet gentle.
Her gaze skimmed over the scars that patterned his back. Celeste ached to know what had happened, but she’d have to ask. And something she’d seen before in Cain’s eyes—dark, wicked shadows—had warned her not to. He would never risk sharing that much of himself with her.
Cautiously, she touched one of the hard lines. A knife wound that hadn’t been there the last time she’d last slept with him. A disfigurement that came with a history—one that ran much deeper than the skin, one that ripped through the soul, leaving unfathomable ramifications.
A past that had created the man.
She adjusted the down comforter, tugging the trapped corner from under her waist and pulling it to her chin. Sometime during the night, Cain had carried her to bed. The heat from their lovemaking had dissipated, leaving her slightly vulnerable and chilled.
No undying declaration of love would follow their lovemaking, now or ever. Even though the realization hurt, she didn’t blame Cain this time. She’d taken the chance, had known the consequences. And in her heart, she knew she’d do it again.
Just as she knew he wouldn’t.
A fist pounded the front door, startling Celeste. In an instant Cain was awake, his feet planted beside the bed, his gun leveled, his body naked. “Stay here.”
He pulled on his jeans, only pausing long enough to zip them, swearing when the attack on the front door continued.
As Cain stepped from the bedroom, Celeste grabbed one of his sweaters lying by the bed—time permitting only accessibility, not modesty—and slipped it on, grateful when the hem fell just past her knees. Seconds later when she joined Cain, Sheriff Lassiter was standing on the porch, his face blotchy with irritation, his frown turning his eyebrows into one bushy line. White plumes of breath puffed from his mouth as he talked, reminding Celeste of a spotted dragon.
“I want some answers, MacAlister.”
A very angry dragon.
“It’s five-thirty in the morning, Sheriff,” Celeste responded. “Couldn’t this have waited a few more hours?”
“No, it can’t.” The blue eyes, now rimmed with black fury caught hers over Cain’s shoulder. “The car your fiancé raced against yesterday was stolen.”
“It makes sense,” Celeste said, then glanced surreptitiously at Cain. “Kids probably joy-riding after boosting a car.”
“I would agree, but this car had more than a dozen 9mm slugs embedded in it. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”
“No, we don’t,” Cain said easily and leaned against the doorjamb, his body blocking any movement of the sheriff’s to step inside. “Why don’t you ask the truck driver who spotted us racing?”
Celeste’s hand slid easily over the warm skin of Cain’s back until she hit the cool metal tucked safely in the waistband of his jeans.
“I wasn’t asking you, MacAlister.” Judging from the early hour, the sheriff’s shadow of whiskers and red-rimmed eyes, Celeste figured on that top of everything else, the sheriff wasn’t happy about the extra work hours he’d probably put in. “Let the lady answer for herself, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind. The lady has been through hell in the last ten hours.” Cain’s arm tightened on her waist, drawing her to his side. She leaned in and allowed him to support most of her weight.
“I don’t know about any bullets, Sheriff,” she stated.
“No one’s made any threats to your person in the last twenty-four hours? No one, let’s say, who might want to torch your store?”
“Even if someone had,” Celeste replied carefully, “I’m sure you can appreciate that we don’t want to accuse anyone without proof.”
“Since it’s my job to investigate arson, I believe that’s my call, isn’t it?”
“I think—”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” Celeste inserted, when Cain took a step forward. Her hand stopped him in mid-stride. “I’d hate to see what the media would do if they got a hold of my name and Cain’s connected with unsubstantiated charges of arson.”
“Look. Don’t talk to me about the media,” Lassiter snapped. “The day hasn’t even started and already mine is in the crapper. I’m not much in the mood for games. Besides your fire…” He jerked his thumb in the general direction of town. “I finally nabbed the burglar who’s been ripping off people. Except I find out that not only has he killed two security guards out at the old airstrip, but, as we speak, Olivia Cambridge is lying on a slab down at the morgue with a broken neck. Strangled with her own damned necklace.”
Horror slithered through Celeste, coiling deep in the pit of her stomach. Cain’s body tightened, ever so slightly. Celeste felt it only because she was still against his side. “Olivia Cambridge is dead?”
“Stone-cold.” Lassiter shoved his hat back on his head. “And the media you’re so worried about won’t be interested in you. In fact, I’m sure that every reporter within a two-thousand-mile radius is racing here to get the scoop on the president’s dead mother. Can’t keep something like that a secret. The only consolation is that someone put a bullet in the guy before he escaped.”
“Who?” The question came from Cain, short and flat.
“The guards. A partner. Who the hell knows? The guards were firing at shadows when my deputies got there. Olivia Cambridge was lying in her study, dead and our killer was lying out on the lawn, bleeding a river from a head wound—jewelry spilling from his pocket.”
“What time?”
“A little over two hours ago.” Lassiter’s eyes slanted, suspicious. “Why?”
“She must’ve interrupted a robbery,” Celeste guessed, realizing that th
e sheriff hadn’t mentioned any coins. Either he was keeping it a secret or there hadn’t been any.
Maybe Quamar—
“I’ve seen stranger,” Lassiter responded, his gaze resting pointedly on Celeste. “Like the fact…” He switched his attention back to Cain. “…that only a few hours before, Miss Pavenic’s building was torched. And let’s not forget the mutilated cat left on her doorstep—and, by the way, preliminary forensics have found nothing on that.”
“The timing could be nothing more than a coincidence,” Cain answered, his tone and his expression both smooth as glass.
“I don’t believe in coincidences. Not in my jurisdiction. Especially when a foreigner who looks like a reject from the World Wrestlers’ Foundation, ends up shot on the president’s mother’s front lawn.”
“A foreigner?” Celeste made her question seem nothing more than casual curiosity. But a deep-down dread twisted the muscles of her stomach.
“A male, approximately six-six, late thirties to early forties, bald. Nationality undetermined. No identification, of course. In his car or on his person. That would make my job too easy.” He paused for a beat. “You two wouldn’t know him by any chance? Or you’ve maybe seen him around town? Or in that stolen vehicle?”
“No.” Cain’s answer was short, clipped.
Quamar? Shot? It took all Celeste’s willpower to squelch her reaction. “You said he didn’t die…”
“Not yet. But he is in surgery. Airlifted to Saginaw. Lucky for him some of the best surgeons in the country work from that hospital. But if he survives the night, I’ll be surprised.”
There was nothing they could do for Quamar, not right now—except pray. One glance at Cain’s rock-hard features, told her he’d concluded the same.
“Damnedest thing I ever saw,” Lassiter continued, pulling his ear. “Whoever this guy was, he came prepared. He was wearing a knit cap that seemed to deflect most of the force of the bullet.” The lines in Lassiter’s face deepened with uncertainty. “I don’t know about you, MacAlister, but I’ve never seen a hat, other than a military helmet, that could stop lead. I’ve sent this one to the lab for a breakdown of the material. If that cap was made here in the United States, I’ll find out where.”
“How about the security tapes from the estate? Do you have them?” Cain asked, seemingly unconcerned.
Lassiter grunted in disgust. “Useless. Somehow, he managed to breach the outside security system, then jammed the cameras. Found a whole bunch of electronic gadgets on his person and in his car. But all we got on the film is static. By the time her personal guards noticed and reached Mrs. Cambridge, it was too late. Seems they were paying too much attention to the Red Wings game and not enough to the monitors. Complacent bastards.”
“What’s going to happen now?” Celeste asked, already working through the possibilities herself.
“You’re kidding right?” He snorted. “The news is slowly leaking out in town which means the media won’t be far behind. I imagine once the president gets the message from the governor, who I notified a while ago, he’ll be flying in to see to his mother. They’ll put a cap on the information going out. They’ve already shut down the airspace within a hundred square miles of Shadow Point. Besides the Secret Service, I’m sure he’ll be bringing the FBI, CIA, Merchant Marines—and anyone else he can think of to interfere with the investigation. And all I can do is wait for the circus to begin.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t have been more help, Sheriff,” Celeste offered, hoping to end their conversation.
“But you can, Miss Pavenic. Both of you can.” His gaze encompassed them both. “Don’t plan on leaving the area anytime soon. I’ve a feeling that somehow the fire last night ties in with the murder. And I might have more questions later.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” Cain said easily.
“Good.” Lassiter removed his hat. He hit it against his thigh, knocking off a thin film of snow before stepping off the porch. “And to think I left Detroit for this.”
HER FURY had faded more quickly than she’d thought it would. Only grief mingled with the ache of self-contempt remained, thrumming quietly yet insistently. “I should’ve seen it coming.” Celeste moved away from Cain and dropped into a blue gingham chair. She pictured Olivia, slender and frail, only a little bit taller then Celeste herself. At seventy-six, Olivia would never have had a chance in a fight with Gabriel. “Quamar—”
“Roman’s checking into his status, Celeste.” But Cain’s voice was grim, his features arctic-cold. Whoever had shot Quamar would pay, Celeste was sure. “When he knows something, we’ll know something.”
After the sheriff left, Cain had called Roman. It seemed Quamar hadn’t laid enough satellites to give them a good reading on what had happened to their friend.
“The sheriff didn’t mention any quarters.” Tired, she rubbed the tension from her temples and studied the ones she had retrieved from the guard at the warehouse. She handed them to Cain. “All New York with the Statue of Liberty on the back.”
“Olivia?”
“Maybe,” she acknowledged. “But why not leave more by her body?”
“Lassiter could’ve been withholding the fact they found more coins.”
“Possibly, but I don’t think so,” Celeste said. “Not when he already has his suspect nailed. He’d mentioned the jewels, why not the coins? Especially when he would’ve put them together with the quarters found by the dead cat?” Celeste shoved her fingers through her hair. “Quamar must’ve come across Gabriel after Olivia Cambridge was murdered.”
“Or Gabriel took him down right before.” Cain pocketed the quarters. “If Gabriel is the burglar.”
“It’s logical. He sets a precedent with the other robberies, then kills Olivia under the same circumstances.”
“To make her murder seem unplanned?” Cain frowned. “Are you saying she was the target?”
“She certainly could’ve been, but why play the game with us if he took care of Olivia himself?”
“He wouldn’t have,” Cain said. “Which means—”
“She wasn’t the contracted hit.” Celeste started pacing. “But the bait.”
“Meaning her death was setting a trap for the real target.”
“Don’t you see? It makes sense. If you kill Olivia Cambridge, whose attention are you going to get? Besides the media’s, I mean.”
“You’re telling me Gabriel wants the president’s attention?”
“He wants more than that, he wants the president here.” Celeste stopped pacing, pausing long enough to sort through the facts. “Olivia’s murder certainly exonerates the president as a suspect. No advantage will come for his career through the death of his mother. That makes him the victim.” Her tone hardened, determined. “Gabriel wants the president. I don’t know the hows and the whys or even the when. But the where will be here. An unanticipated trip to Michigan makes the president vulnerable.” Her eyes caught his, absorbing strength from their tough, steady gaze. “You have to make the president listen. Tell him to stay away.”
“That’s simple.” His sarcasm wasn’t lost on Celeste. “After all, his mother’s murdered with a Labyrinth operative found half dead on her front lawn. And to top it off, the woman who conspired to kill his son lives in the same town. A goddamn nuclear bomb wouldn’t keep him away.”
“You have to try.”
“I need hard evidence, Celeste.”
“You won’t have it.” Her chin hitched only slightly when she continued. “Most people thought President Cambridge wouldn’t run for a second term after his son’s death—that he’d roll over and die from grief. Instead, he got angry. Turned some of it toward me, but more importantly, he turned the rest of the anger against terrorists and other organized crime. The man’s not going to back down. You know that, I know that and Gabriel knows that. If I’m right, Gabriel’s counting on it.”
“I see where you’re going with this, Celeste, but you’re speculating all of this—”
“The most logical reason to kill Olivia Cambridge is to bring her son to Shadow Point. With his father buried here, the president isn’t going to allow his mother to be buried anywhere else. It’s a guaranteed point of contact. One predetermined by Gabriel.” She stood, suddenly restless. Or maybe she’d just felt like a sitting duck in the cottage.
“And if you’re wrong?” He’d asked the question calmly, but even so, Celeste felt a piercing chill.
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” She sighed. “But right now, this is all I have, and we’re running out of time.” Lord, she wished he’d do something. Berate her because she wasn’t finding a definitive answer, wasn’t doing her job. Scream at her.
Take her in his arms and lie to her that everything would be all right.
Anything as long as he did it with some kind of emotion.
“You need to stop him, Cain. The possibility that I’m right is too high for you to ignore me. Tell him that somehow I was involved with his mother’s death.” She rubbed the goose bumps from her arms, wishing it was just as simple to rub away the past. “That I’m on the loose, that his life is in danger.”
“I’ll decide what’s right for the mission.”
He didn’t touch her. Didn’t kiss her. Rejection stiffened her back, tensed her muscles. She wouldn’t beg. Not for his forgiveness, not for his love.
Cain knew what she wanted, saw the appeal shadowing her face. He rolled his shoulders, resisting the urge to answer her silent plea, sure that if he did, she might be able to convince him to use her.
He’d done it so easily in the past, but now…
“I’m taking a shower.” He tipped her chin up, ran a finger underneath finding comfort in the smooth, softer skin that hid there. He couldn’t remember any other time he’d felt so beaten up. “Eat something. There’s toast. Once I’m out of the shower, we’ll go to the Cambridge mansion for answers.” He kissed her forehead. He gave himself that, knowing it had to be enough for the moment. “We’ll figure this out, Celeste.”
He’d used we again. At least there was that, she mused as she slipped back into the bedroom. Not love, not even lust anymore. She had no doubt that only duty remained for him—that and the need to protect her.