He refused to feel anything beyond fondness for Fiona, for if he did, he could very well face his greatest fear—losing someone else that he loved once she realized how flawed he had been, and still was.
Yet in the deepest recesses of his soul, in a place where he harbored memories of the past and the power of love, he wondered if perhaps he was already too late.
Nine
Fiona had never seen pain that intense in a man’s eyes. Had never heard such abject grief even though he had tried to mask it with an even tone. She had been right. Darin was afraid to love, and with good reason. Death, not careless disregard, had taken the woman he loved from him.
That did nothing to assuage Fiona’s wish that he was capable of loving her back. No matter how hard she’d fought it, she was starting to fall in love with him.
Starting? She’d already taken that leap as easily as if she’d been pole vaulting over a crack in the sidewalk.
While she perched on the edge of the bed wearing nothing but the sheet, the bathroom door opened and Scorpio came out dressed in the tuxedo, sans tie. Even though he wasn’t smiling and didn’t seem remotely pleased despite their incredible lovemaking, he still looked no less gorgeous.
“Going somewhere?” Fiona asked, affecting a casualness she didn’t feel.
Without affording her even a cursory glance, he walked to the dresser mirror and repositioned the square of linen on his head and secured it with the ornate gold band. “I told you, I will be leaving now to return to the casino. After my departure, you should lock the door and not answer it unless you are certain it is me.” His tone was devoid of emotion, dispassionate. Heartbreaking.
She gripped the sheet tightly in her fists. “I’m going with you.”
“No, you are not.” He turned and gave her a hard look. “From this point forward, I will work alone.”
Anger seeped in, splintering Fiona’s former euphoria. “That’s the way you like it, isn’t it, Darin? Always alone. Always running away, this time from me.”
He folded his arms across his broad chest and stared at her as if she were a petulant child. “I have been charged with apprehending a criminal. You’ve known that from the beginning. When I have accomplished that, I will be gone.”
She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “Yeah. Here today, gone tomorrow, chasing after the next villain, but still running.”
He slipped his wallet and keys into his pocket. “I will call to check on you.”
She bolted to her feet. “Don’t bother. I wouldn’t want you to put yourself out on my account.”
“It is my duty to keep you safe.”
“I don’t think it was duty that put us in bed together.”
“I do not remember you protesting our recent activities.”
“Activities?” For the first time in her life, she knew what it meant to see red beyond the color of her hair. “You mean lovemaking, don’t you? Oh, wait. You wouldn’t mean lovemaking because you’re terrified of love. And I pity you for that.”
His eyes looked like a firestorm. “I do not need your pity.”
“And you don’t need me, either, right?”
“My life does not accommodate need or love of another person.”
She took a few steps forward until she was standing directly in front of him and breezed a fingertip over his clenched jaw. “I dare you, Scorpio.”
His hands open and closed into tight fists at his sides, as if he was struggling not to reach for her. “Dare me to do what?”
“I dare you not to touch me.” She slid a fingertip from the top button on his shirt down his belly then over the ridge beneath his slacks. “And I double dare you not to fall in love with me.”
He clasped her hand and held it over his heart, which thrummed against his chest. “I find dares unappealing.”
She untucked the sheet with her free hand and let it fall to the floor, leaving her completely naked. “But you don’t find me unappealing, do you?”
Indecision warred in his dark, dark eyes as his gaze roamed over her body, then came back to her face. “True, I find you very appealing. That should be obvious by now. But again, I have no use for love.”
Releasing his grip on her hand, he limped away without saying another word. But the slam of the hotel door told Fiona she had gotten to him on some level. And she would be damned if she sat alone in an empty hotel room without him.
Fiona quickly dressed in the evening gown and the stiletto heels invented by some sick dominatrix or a sadistic man. Minor payment for being in Scorpio’s presence, whether he admitted he wanted her with him or not. Maybe he couldn’t love her, but she did love him enough to make sure he was okay.
After slipping the spare room key into her purse and sliding the strap over her shoulder, she strode out of the hotel room, bound for a mission that didn’t involve maniacs. Bound and determined to find Scorpio and force him to see the logic in her joining him. If he wanted her back in the room, then he would have to carry her there. And after that, she would pull out all the stops, use her feminine wiles and convince him that his time would be better spent in bed instead of chasing after a madman who was probably long gone.
She walked with head held high, with confidence and control—until she got to the elevator. She glanced at the doorway leading to the stairs, then back at the doors leading to the chamber of horrors. If she wanted to get to Scorpio quickly, she would have to convene her courage and banish her phobia for the ride down to the lobby.
Fiona willed her breathing to steady, told herself that she now had some mighty fine memories of what could be accomplished in an elevator to see her to the first floor. After all, what was the worst thing that could happen? Oh, she might hyperventilate a moment. She could start biting her nails again. She could go into a regular screaming-bloody-murder fit.
Nothing would happen other than when the elevator arrived, she was going to grow up and get on the thing.
After another deep breath, she pressed the down button, prepared to enter the vehicle that would take her to the man she wanted more than life itself—even if he didn’t want her.
A sense of foreboding as sharp as a machete impaled Darin as he left the elevator on the ground floor. He wrote it off as an illogical need to be with Fiona, as if he could not survive without her by his side. Ridiculous. Insane. He worked alone. He did not need her company, even if he admittedly craved it. Right now he must search the premises for Birkenfeld. Wait in the shadows and hope for his appearance.
As he walked the corridor leading to the casino, his ankle throbbed with the effort. But with every step he took toward his goal, his instincts shouted danger, blocking the pain from his mind.
Well-honed instincts turned him around, sent him back toward the elevator to see about Fiona, to make certain she was safe. Then he would return. Then he would resume the search. If all else failed, including his resistance to Fiona’s charms, he would begin again tomorrow.
As he reached the bank of elevators, he punched the button twice, impatient for the car to heed his call. He stepped back and noted that only two of the four seemed to be operating at present. Considering that most of the die-hard gamblers were sequestered in the casino and not traveling to the top-floor restaurant, he assumed this was common practice.
The seconds ticked off slowly and with each passing moment, Darin’s concern escalated. His intuition had never before failed him, the reason why he trusted it now. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
Backing away a few more steps, he looked up as one car began its descent from the upper floors—and immediately spotted someone standing at the glass wall, looking out over the lobby, palms flattened against the surface as if trying to escape. After it traveled a few more floors, he identified the party as a woman. But not just any woman.
Fiona.
Perhaps that was what his instincts had been telling him, that her stubbornness had driven her onto the elevator alone so she could seek him out. Although he should be furious ov
er her refusal to follow his directives, he was pleased to know she was safe. Until someone came up behind her.
Again Darin experienced a great deal of relief when he noted the figure was another woman. As best he could tell, a matriarchal type who wore sensible shoes and loose-fitting clothing. Nonthreatening and probably kindly, considering she was conversing with Fiona as they neared the lower level.
Then Darin saw the presumed “woman” grab Fiona and hold the blade at her throat. Saw the demonic eyes and the vicious, sardonic smile as she ripped the wig away and tossed it aside.
Birkenfeld’s eyes. Birkenfeld’s smile. Birkenfeld dressed as a woman.
And Fiona, who had fulfilled Darin’s fantasies and captured a good deal of his reluctant heart, looked panic-stricken, while Darin could do nothing but stare.
When the elevator halted on the second floor and the pair disappeared from sight, fury and fear and determination propelled him forward. He sprinted toward the stairwell in hopes of intercepting before the deviant could harm Fiona, praying for the first time in years that he would not be too late.
He slammed back the door and took the stairs two at a time, stumbling on the landing and clawing at the wall to keep his balance. He cursed his injured ankle, cursed Birkenfeld for taking another innocent female victim when his battle should be with him.
The man was a coward. An insane, spineless, pathetic example of a man. And he would pay dearly.
Darin drew his gun and threw open the door simultaneously, finding the hallway that housed conference rooms empty. He suspected Birkenfeld would take Fiona into one of those chambers and await Darin’s arrival. Or perhaps he would have Darin believe that and escort her somewhere else.
The sound of the familiar voice shouting, “I have to get out of here!” spun Darin toward the opposite end of the hallway where he spotted a service elevator, the doors in the process of closing, but not before he once again saw Birkenfeld holding Fiona captive, the blade still at her throat.
And Sheikh Darin Shakir came face-to-face with his greatest fear once more.
Fiona’s lungs burned as she struggled for air, the walls closing in on her as the knife bit into her neck, her mind caught in a web of confusion. Everything had happened so fast. She’d entered the main elevator, proud that she had found the courage and somewhat relieved to discover she wouldn’t be alone on her journey.
After a friendly hello to her female companion, she’d turned toward the glass and commented on the impressive statue of the man panning for gold in the fountain that served as the focal point in the lobby.
Fiona hadn’t given the silence a second thought; after all, the woman hadn’t seemed too affable in the boutique. She hadn’t worried that her conversation had been one-sided; that hadn’t ceased her nervous chatter. She had even begun to relax when she’d caught sight of Scorpio standing in the lobby, looking up at her with his midnight eyes and an expression that showed he’d been happy to see her, much to her surprise and delight. But the sense of satisfaction had faded away when the arms had come around her. Hairy arms threaded with thick veins. Brutal arms that had held her so forcefully she thought she might faint from the pressure on her lungs and ribs.
Only then had she looked back and registered the woman wasn’t a woman at all—she was a man with features that might have been deemed handsome except for the satanic eyes glaring at her from the owl-like glasses.
“So we meet again,” he’d said, his voice equally evil as he’d discarded the glasses and wig.
Fiona hadn’t spoken another word, even when he’d yanked her off the main elevator and shoved her into the one where they now stood. Only then had she voiced her fear, yelled at him to let her out, let her go. And he had only laughed.
He wasn’t laughing now but he was mumbling, “Stupid Shakir. I’ve got you now. Come and get me. Come and get your whore.”
Fiona realized that Shakir must be Scorpio’s real name. Darin Shakir most likely. And no doubt she was the designated whore. This maniac could think what he would about her now, but he might change his mind later because as soon as she had the opportunity, she would fight him. As soon as they arrived wherever they were going, she would land a proper punch in an improper place, gouge his eyes if she had to, do something to survive. Anything to live until Scorpio showed up. If he showed up.
He would. He had to. But if he didn’t, then she would have to make it on her own. And if she did end up dead, her biggest regret would be waiting so long to tell him how she felt about him. Now she might never have the chance.
The doors opened to what appeared to be a dimly lit, deserted basement storage area lined with shelves that contained various cleaning supplies and equipment. Birkenfeld muttered, “Walk, whore,” then shoved Fiona forward. She stumbled but caught herself before she landed face first on the cement floor, thinking this might be her chance at escape, until she felt the knife at her back.
“Keep moving,” he said. “Don’t turn around or I’ll kill you.”
“You are really something, Dr. B,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm to mask her fear. “That’s really clever, a disgusting doctor in drag. But I have to say, you don’t make a very good-looking woman.”
“Shut up!”
Although she recognized she should stop taunting him, she didn’t want to. If he was going to kill her, she might as well get in a few digs. “I bet you look like your mother. Did your mother steal babies, too? Was she a blackjack junkie?”
He poked the tip of the knife in her lower back, not quite breaking the skin but coming close. “Stop talking!” His voice had an edge of hysteria. “Stop laughing!”
Odd, Fiona hadn’t laughed at all but obviously he thought she was laughing at him. The man was certifiable, ready for the loony bin, and decidedly dangerous. She considered that as they continued on, heading who knew where. Probably a hell of his own making.
If he tried to force her into a vehicle, Fiona decided then and there she would refuse to go because that would mean certain doom. Even if he did manage to stab her, she would stand a better chance at being rescued in the open. If he intended to go someplace out in the open, and that wasn’t very likely.
The thought of him locking her up somewhere confining, like a closet, almost brought Fiona to her knees. She pushed that fear from her mind. Considering his continued nonsensical tirade about the evils of women—“All whores” he said repeatedly—she had much more to be afraid of at the moment, namely that he would completely lose it and attempt to cut her to shreds before they took another step.
She needed to stall for time and searched her addled brain, trying to remember his first name. Roman. That was it. “You know, Roman, these shoes are hurting my feet. You could stop a minute so I can take them off. We could go much faster then.”
He pushed the knife harder into her back and for a moment Fiona thought it was all over. “Keep moving. Keep moving now. Go forward. Don’t turn around or I’ll kill you here, before Shakir can watch.”
Bile rose in Fiona’s throat when she realized Birkenfeld’s sick plan—to set a trap for Scorpio and kill her before his eyes. Oh, God. She couldn’t let that happen. As much as she wanted him to come to her rescue, she didn’t want him to witness her death. But how could she possibly prevent that? She knew Darin Shakir well enough to know he wouldn’t leave her alone. He would find her, whatever it took.
“Okay, Roman, I’ll keep moving. You don’t have to keep sticking me, though.”
“I’ll kill you soon.” His voice was surprisingly calm, eerily so, and that sent chills snaking up Fiona’s spine.
“Mind telling me where we’re going?” she asked, hating the tremble in her voice.
He laughed. A skin-crawling, maniacal laugh. “Someplace dark.”
When Darin reached the bowels of the building, he tried to push through a heavy door but found it locked. Overcome with frustration, he pounded his fist into the metal, breaking the skin at his knuckles. He was numb to the pain in both his
hand and ankle. He felt nothing but desperation and the bitter taste of impending disaster.
He kicked the door once, twice, yet it failed to budge. Frantically he searched the area, coming upon a transparent case containing a fire extinguisher and an ax, provided to break the glass, mounted on the wall. After shoving his gun into the holster, he grabbed the ax and broke through the small rectangular window in the door. He reached inside, groping for the release that continued to evade him for a time until finally, he hit the metal bar and shoved the door open.
He sprinted through the empty corridor, disregarding his aching foot pounding the concrete as he tuned his senses in to the surroundings, listening for voices yet hearing nothing. He picked up his pace, running as fast as his injuries would allow, stumbling twice, then halting when he heard a closing door in the distance. He advanced toward the sound, hoping he was heading closer to Fiona and Birkenfeld and not away from them. Once he reached the exit leading outside, he paused to listen once more and discerned muffled voices, one male, one female.
He had found them.
Yet he faced a certain dilemma if he walked out the door. Birkenfeld could be armed with a gun. He could slash Fiona’s throat before Darin had a chance to fire his own gun. He would not risk it. He could not watch her die, helpless once more to prevent it. He would find a way to save her.
Stepping back, he looked around and saw two elongated windows set into the wall several feet above his head, almost to the top of the high ceiling. If he could reach one and open it, he could fire off a shot and hit his mark.
He had been trained by the best during his military career. He had learned to shoot accurately, with deadly force, showing no mercy, his goal after his attempts to rescue Tamra from Habib had failed.
The Millionaires’ Club: Ryan, Alex & Darin Page 40