"If you kill her, you lose your shield."
"A risk we both take. No closer." He slid the blade more truly against her throat until she whimpered.
There was fear now, and fury. "If you hurt her, I will do things to you that even in your own nightmares you have never imagined."
Then he saw the face, the full looping mustache, the gleam of gold. He was back, back on the docks with the smell of fish and garbage, the sound of water lapping. He felt the hot explosion in his chest and nearly staggered.
"I know you, Montega." His voice was low, harsh. "I've been looking for you for a long time."
"So, you have found me." Though his tone was arrogant, Deborah could smell his sweat. It gave her hope. "Put down your weapon."
"I don't have a weapon," Nemesis said, his hands held out from his sides. "I don't need one."
"Then you are a fool." Montega eased his arm from around Deborah's waist and slipped a hand into his pocket. Just as the shot rang out, Nemesis lunged to the side.
It happened so fast. Afterward, Deborah couldn't be sure who had moved first. She saw the bullet smash into the stained wallpaper and plaster of the wall, saw Nemesis fall. With a strength fueled by rage and terror, she slammed her elbow into Montega's stomach.
More concerned with his new quarry than her, he shoved her away. Her head struck the edge of the sink. There was another flash of lightning. Then the dark.
"Deborah. Deborah, I need you to open your eyes. Please." She didn't want to. Small vicious explosions were going off behind them. But the voice was so desperate, so pleading. She forced her eyelids to lift. Nemesis swam into focus.
He was holding her, cradling her head, rocking her. For a moment, she could only see his eyes. Beautiful eyes, she thought dizzily. She had fallen in love with them the first time she'd seen them. She had looked through the crowd of people through the dazzle of lights and had seen him, seen them.
With a little groan, she lifted a hand to the knot already forming on her temple. She must be concussed, she thought. The first time she had seen Nemesis she had been in a dark alley. And there had been a knife. Like tonight.
"A knife," she murmured. "He had a knife."
Stunned by relief, he lowered his brow to hers. "It's all right. He didn't get a chance to use it."
"I thought he'd killed you." She lifted a hand to his face, found it warm.
"No."
"Did you kill him?"
His eyes changed. Concern rushed out as fury rushed in. "No." He had seen Deborah crumpled on the floor and had known such blank terror, the kind he thought he'd forgotten how to feel. It had been easy for Montega to get away. But there would be another time. He promised himself that. And he would have his justice. And his revenge.
"He got away?"
"For now."
"You knew him." Over the pounding in her head, she tried to think. "You called him by name."
"Yes, I knew him."
"He had a gun." She squeezed her eyes tight, but the pain continued to roll. "Where did he have a gun?"
"In his pocket. He makes it a habit to ruin his suits."
That was something she would have to consider later. "We have to call the police." She put a hand on his arm for balance and felt the warm stickiness on her fingers. "You're bleeding."
He glanced down to where the bullet had grazed him. "Some."
"How badly?" Ignoring the throbbing in her temple, she pushed away. Before he could answer, she was ripping his sleeve to expose the wound. The long, ugly graze had her stomach doing flip-flops. "We need to stop the bleeding."
She couldn't see his lifted brow, but heard it in his voice. "You could tear your T-shirt into a tourniquet."
"You should be so lucky." She glanced around the room, scrupulously avoiding looking at the form sprawled over the bed. "There's nothing in here that wouldn't give you blood poisoning."
"Try this." He offered her a square of black cloth. She fumbled with the bandage. "It's my first gunshot wound, but I think this should be cleaned."
"I'll see to it later." He enjoyed having her tend to him. Her fingers were gentle on his skin, her brows drawn together in concentration. She had found a murdered man, had nearly been murdered herself. But she had bounced back and was doing competently what needed to be done.
Practicality. His lips curved slightly. Yes, it could be very attractive. Added to that, he could smell her hair as she bent close, feel the softness of it as it brushed against his cheek. He heard her breathing, slow, steady, under the sound of the quieting rain.
Having done her best, Deborah sat back on her heels. "Well, so much for invulnerability."
He smiled and stopped her heart. "There goes my reputation." She could only stare, spellbound as they knelt on the floor of the filthy little room. She forgot where she was, who she was. Unable to stop herself, she lowered her gaze to his mouth. What tastes would she find there? What wonders would he show her?
He could barely breathe when she lifted her eyes to his again. In hers he saw passion smoldering, and an acceptance that was terrifying. Her fingers were still on his skin, gently stroking. He could see each quick beat of her heart in the pulse that hammered at her throat. "I dream of you." He reached out to bring her unresistingly against him. "Even when I'm awake I dream of you. Of touching you." His hands slid up to cup, to caress her breasts. "Of tasting you." Compelled, he buried his mouth at her throat where the flavor and the scent were hot.
She leaned toward him, into him, stunned and shattered by the wildly primitive urges beating in her blood. His lips were like a brand on her skin. And his hands… Oh, Lord, his hands. With a deep, throaty moan, she arched back, eager and willing.
And Gage's face swam in front of her eyes.
"No." She jerked away, shocked and shamed. "No, this isn't right."
He cursed himself. Her. Circumstance. How could he have touched her now, here? "No, it isn't." He rose, stepped away. "You don't belong here."
Because she was on the verge of tears, her voice was sharp. "And you do?"
"More than you," he murmured. "Much more than you."
"I was doing my job. Santiago called me."
"Santiago's dead."
"He wasn't." She pressed her fingers to her eyes and prayed for composure. "He called, asked me to come."
"Montega got here first."
"Yes." Telling herself she was strong, she lowered her hands and looked at him. "But how? How did he know where to find Santiago? How did he know I was coming here tonight? He was waiting for me. He called me by name."
Interested, Nemesis studied her. "Did you tell anyone you were coming here tonight?"
"No."
"I'm beginning to believe you are a fool." He swung away from her. "You come here, to a place like this, alone, to see a man who would as soon put a bullet in your brain as speak to you."
"He wouldn't have hurt me. He was terrified, ready to talk. And I know what I'm doing."
He turned back. "You don't begin to know."
"But you do, of course." She pushed at her tousled hair and had fresh pain shooting through her head. "Oh, why the hell don't you go away? Stay away? I don't need this kind of grief from you. I've got work to do."
"You need to go home, leave this to others."
"Santiago didn't call others," she snapped. "He called me, talked to me. And if I had gotten to him first I would know everything I need to know. I don't…" She trailed off as a thought struck. "My phone. Damn it, they've got a tap on my phone. They knew I was coming here tonight. My office phone, too. That's how they knew I was about to get a court order to deal with the antique shop." Her eyes blazed. "Well, we can fix that in a hurry."
She sprang up. The room spun. He caught her before she slid to the floor again.
"You're not going to be doing anything in a hurry for a day or two." Smoothly he hooked an arm under her knees and lifted her.
She liked the feeling of being carried by him, a bit too much. "I walked into this room, Zo
rro, I'll walk out."
He carried her into the hall. "Are you always so thickheaded?"
"Yes. I don't need your help."
"I can see you're doing just dandy on your own."
"I may have had some trouble before," she said as he started down the stairs. "But now I have a name. Montega. Five-eight, a hundred and sixty. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown mustache. Two gold incisors. It shouldn't be too hard to run a make on him." He stopped and his eyes were ice. "Montega's mine."
"The law doesn't make room for personal vendettas."
"You're right. The law doesn't." He shifted her slightly as he came to the base of the stairs.
There was something in his tone—disillusionment?—that had her lifting a hand to his cheek. "Was it very bad?"
"Yes." God, how he wished he could turn to her, bury his face in her hair and let her soothe him. "It was very bad."
"Let me help you. Tell me what you know and I swear I'll do everything I can do to see that Montega and whoever is behind him pays for what they've done to you."
She would try. Realizing it moved something in him, even as it frightened him. "I pay my own debts, my own way."
"Damn it, talk about thickheaded." She squirmed as he carried her into the rain. "I'm willing to bend my principles and work with you, to form a partnership, and you—"I don't want a partner." She could feel him stiffen with the words, all but feel the pain rush through him. But she wouldn't soften. Not again. "Fine, just great. Oh, put me down, you can hardly carry me a hundred blocks."
"I don't intend to." But he could have. He could imagine carrying her through the rain to her apartment, inside, to the bed. Instead, he walked to the end of the block, toward the lights and the traffic. At the curb he stopped. "Hail a cab."
"Hail a cab? Like this?"
He wondered why she could make him burn and want to laugh at the same time. He turned his head and watched the heat flare in her eyes as their lips hovered an inch apart. "You can still lift your arm, can't you?"
"Yes, I can lift my arm." She did so, stewing as they stood and waited. After five soaking minutes, a cab cruised up the curb. Miffed as she was, she had to bite back a smile at the way the driver's mouth fell open when he got a load of her companion.
"Jeez, you're him, ain't ya? You're Nemesis. Hey, buddy, want a ride?"
"No, but the lady does." Effortlessly he slid Deborah into the back seat. His gloved hand brushed once over her cheek, like a memory. "I'd try an ice pack and some aspirin."
"Thanks. Thanks a lot. Listen, I'm not finished—"
But he stepped back, disappearing into the dark, thin rain.
"That was really him, wasn't it?" The cabbie craned his neck around to Deborah, ignoring the bad-tempered honks around him. "What'd he do, save your life or something?"
"Or something," she muttered.
"Jeez. Wait till I tell the wife." Grinning, he switched off the meter. "This ride's on me."
Chapter 6
Grunting, his body running with sweat, Gage lifted the weights again. He was on his back on the bench press, stripped down to a pair of jogging shorts. His muscles were singing, but he was determined to reach his quota of a hundred presses. Perspiration soaked his sweatband and ran into his eyes as he concentrated on one small spot on the ceiling. There was a satisfaction even in pain.
He remembered, too well, when he'd been so weak he'd barely been able to lift a magazine. There had been a time when his legs had turned to rubber and his breath had been ragged at trying to walk the length of the hospital corridor. He remembered the frustration of it, and more, the helplessness.
He'd resisted therapy at first, preferring to sit alone and brood. Then he'd used it, like a punishment because he'd been alive and Jack had been dead. The pain had been excruciating.
And one day, weak, sick, darkly depressed, he'd stood weaving in his hospital room, braced against the wall. He'd wished with all of his strength, with all of his will, that he could simply vanish.
And he had.
He'd thought he'd been hallucinating. Going mad. Then, terrified and fascinated, he'd tried it again and again, going so far as to tilt a mirror across the room so that he could watch himself fade back, fade into the pastel wall beside his bed.
He would never forget the morning a nurse came in with his breakfast tray, walked right past him without seeing him, grumbling about patients who didn't stay in bed where they belonged.
And he'd known what he'd brought out of the coma with him. He'd known it had come with him for a purpose.
So therapy had become like a religion, something he'd dedicated every ounce of strength to, every particle of will. He'd pushed himself harder, harder still, until his muscles had toned and firmed. He had thrown himself into lessons in the martial arts, spent hours with weight lifting, the treadmills, the punishing laps in the pool every day.
He had exercised his mind, as well, reading everything, pushing himself to understand the myriad businesses he had inherited, spending hours day after day until he was skilled with complex computer systems.
Now he was stronger, faster, sharper than he had been during his years on the force. But he would never wear a badge again. He would never take another partner.
He would never be helpless.
His breath hissed out, and he continued to lift when Frank strolled in with a tall glass of iced juice.
Setting the glass on the table beside the bench press, Frank watched in silence for a moment. "Pushing it a bit today," he commented. " 'Course you pushed it a bit yesterday, too, and the day before." Frank grinned. "What is it about some women that makes guys go out and lift heavy objects?''
"Go to hell, Frank."
"She's a looker, all right," he said, unoffended. "Smart, too, I guess, being a lawyer and all. Must be hard to think about her mind, though, when she looks at you with those big, blue eyes."
With a last grunt, Gage set the bar in the safety. "Go lift a wallet."
"Now, you know I don't do that anymore." His wide face split with a new grin. "Nemesis might get me." He plucked up a towel from the neatly folded pile beside the bench.
Saying nothing, Gage took it and swiped at the sweat on his face and chest.
"How's the arm?"
"Fine." Gage didn't bother to glance at the neat white bandage Frank had used to replace Deborah's effort.
"Must be getting slow. Never known you to catch one before."
"Do you want to be fired?"
"Again? Nah." He waited, patient, while Gage switched to leg presses. "I'm looking for job security. If you go out and get yourself killed, I'll have to go back to fleecing tourists."
"Then I'll have to stay alive. The tourists have enough trouble in
Urbana."
"Wouldn't have happened if I'd been with you."
Gage flashed him a look and continued to push. "I work alone. You know the deal."
"She was there."
"And that was the problem. She doesn't belong on the streets, she belongs in a courtroom."
"You don't want her in a courtroom, you want her in the bedroom."
The weights came down with a crash. "Drop it."
He'd known Gage too long to be intimidated. "Look, you're crazy about her, and it's throwing you off, messing up your concentration. It isn't good for you."
"I'm not good for her." He stood and grabbed the glass of juice. "She has feelings for me, and she has feelings for Nemesis. It's making her unhappy."
"So, tell her she's only got feelings for one guy, and make her happy."
"What the hell am I supposed to do?'' He drained the glass and barely prevented himself from heaving it against the wall. "Take her out to dinner, and over cocktails I could say, oh, by the way, Deborah, besides being a businessman and a pillar of the damn community, I have this sideline. An alter ego. The press likes to call him Nemesis. And we're both nuts about you. So, when I take you to bed, do you want it with the mask or without?"
Frank considered a moment.
"Something like that." With a half laugh, Gage set down the glass. "She's a straight arrow, Frank. I know, because I used to be one myself. She sees things in black and white—the law and the crime." Suddenly tired, he looked out over the sparkling water of the pool. "She'd never understand what I do or why I do it. And she'd hate me for lying to her, because every time I'm with her, I'm deceiving her."
"I don't think you're giving her enough credit. You've got reasons for what you do."
"Yeah." Absently he touched the jagged scar on his chest. "I've got reasons."
"You could make her understand. If she really does have feelings for you, she'd have to understand."
"Maybe, just maybe she'd listen, even accept without agreeing. She might even forgive the lies. But what about the rest?" He set his hand down on the bench, waited, watched it disappear into the damp leather. "How do I ask her to share her life with a freak?"
Frank swore once, violently. "You're not a freak. You've got a gift."
"Yeah." Gage lifted his hand, flexed his fingers. "But I'm the one who has to live with it."
At twelve-fifteen sharp, Deborah walked into City Hall. She made her way to the mayor's office, walking under the stern-faced portraits of former mayors, governors, presidents. She moved past marble busts of the country's founding fathers. The current mayor of Urbana liked having his walls lined with tradition, his floor carpeted in red.
She didn't begrudge him. In fact, Deborah appreciated the hushed, reverential feel of tradition. She enjoyed walking past the doors and hearing the quiet hum of keyboards, the click of copiers, the muted phone conversations as people worked for the city.
She paused in the reception area. Tucker Fields's secretary glanced up and, recognizing her, smiled. "Miss O'Roarke. He's expecting you. Just let me buzz him."
Within an efficient twenty seconds, she was escorted into the mayor's office. Fields sat behind his desk, a trim and tidy man with a fringe of snowy hair and the ruddy outdoor complexion of his farmer forebears. Beside him, Jerry looked like a preppy executive.
Fields had earned a reputation during his six years in office as a man not afraid to get his hands dirty to keep his city clean.
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