Warrior Betrayed

by Addison Fox

  “You’re welcome.” Satisfied he’d passed some sort of test, Quinn continued. “Your father’s been gone only six months. Maybe she felt she could approach you. Thought it might be easier to deal with you, instead of you and your father.”

  Montana turned it over in her mind, his words making an odd sort of sense. “I hadn’t thought about that, but—” She stopped short. “It doesn’t fit.”

  “Why? Talk me through it.”

  “In my few interactions with her, my mother hasn’t really spoken of my dad. She just rambles on and on with these weird comments.”

  “Does she seem afraid? Angry?” Quinn’s voice quieted. “I’m sorry to be harsh, but do you think there’s mental illness?”

  “I’ve been through the same questions myself. Despite the odd rambling, there’s some lucidity in her comments.” She held up her hands. “Weird, I know. And likely it’s just what I want to believe. But still. I can’t explain it, but I don’t think she’s mentally ill.”

  “We have instincts for a reason.”

  “I do think she’s ill, though. She’s so frail and she coughs uncontrollably. I’ve tried to get her help, but—”

  “She resists you? Your attempts to help her?”

  Montana nodded and couldn’t help the way her eyes traveled over his powerful frame as he sat there, listening to her. For someone so masculine—so imposing—he had a way about him that was actually quite comforting.

  Calming.

  Refocusing on the discussion, Montana sought the right words to explain the past few months. “She gets very agitated. I brought it up the first few times, that she should get help. That I’d help her get help, but I finally stopped the last time I saw her. I just couldn’t stand it if she didn’t come back.”

  “And you don’t think this has anything to do with your father’s death?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Did she finally contact me because of it? Who knows?”

  “What do you think?”

  “My father loved my mother, and from the accounts of the few people willing to discuss the subject with me, she was crazy in love with him.”

  “So why’d she leave?”

  The question hung between them, unanswered.

  Quinn knew he played with fire, interrogating Montana Grant about things she would likely prefer to leave quietly buried.

  Montana shrugged, but the careless gesture didn’t match the bleak emptiness in her gaze. “Why do people do anything? She must have decided marriage and kids weren’t for her.”

  “She had an awfully nice life.”

  “One would think.” Montana waved a hand at her surroundings, the gesture clearly indicative of the obvious wealth in the room. In addition to the Monet hanging above the fireplace, the Italian marble inlaid in the floor and the antiques filling the room alone would be worth millions. “But clearly she didn’t think so.”

  “Some people are never satisfied.”

  “Exactly.”

  Quinn watched the play of emotions across her face, puzzled at the obvious retreat. Whatever vulnerabilities had gripped Montana as they’d entered the apartment were long gone, her standard armor now firmly in place.

  He could no longer find any evidence of the frightened waif. Instead, a cool, collected heiress sat opposite him on the couch.

  Before he could second-guess the impulse, Quinn reached out and took a thick lock of hair in his hands. The rich red strands were as soft as cashmere as he wrapped one errant curl around his fingertip.

  Catching himself, Quinn dropped his hand, the moment scattering away like the last few seconds of daylight. Forcing his thoughts back to the conversation, he pressed his point.

  “And you don’t see any connection between your mother’s recent return to your life and the attacks on you?”

  “She might have abandoned me, but she’s hardly a danger.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Montana leaped from the couch and crossed the room to a small writing desk he hadn’t seen when they’d first walked in. She reached for a folder on the desk, then recrossed the room and thrust it at him. “Take a look at those pictures and tell me what you see.”

  Quinn flipped the folder open, his attention immediately riveted.

  The woman in the pictures was the bag lady from outside Montana’s apartment earlier that evening. “This is your mother?”

  “Yes. That frail, sickly, likely crazy woman is my mother. Do you really think this woman could plot to kill me? That anyone would take her seriously if she even tried?”

  Several thoughts hit him in rapid succession. Montana’s mother really did know who he was.

  And who Themis was.

  And that her daughter needed protecting.

  Chapter Four

  Montana toed off her strappy shoes and slipped out of the evening gown. She gave the long wave of silver a sad glance, knowing she wouldn’t wear it again. Even if it weren’t covered in street dirt, tears and bad memories, she couldn’t wear it again. It just wouldn’t do. One of the world’s wealthiest women never wore a dress twice.

  No matter how much she liked it.

  She dragged on a T-shirt and sleep shorts and moved in front of the mirror on her dresser to grab a clip for her hair. As she reached to twist the thick mass into a knot at the back of her head, an image of Quinn flashed across her mind and the breath caught in her throat.

  That moment on the couch.

  That delicious, wonderful moment when he’d reached out and taken the lock of hair that rested against her cheek. A light shiver ran down her spine as she relived those precious few seconds. The way her pulse had sped up as a dark curl of warmth had unfurled in her stomach.

  It was only a brief moment. Not even a full minute.

  But damn, it had been one of the most sensual experiences of her life.

  On a soft sigh, Montana reached for a lock of hair and pulled it from the quick knot she’d twisted up, allowing it to rest against her cheek. With a small, feminine smile at herself in the mirror, she turned and padded down the hall to her office.

  Time to get some work done. She didn’t sleep well under the best of circumstances, but tonight’s events ensured she’d see the sun rise.

  As the memory of the two attacks swamped her senses, replacing that small intimacy with Quinn, a harsh, metallic taste flooded her taste buds, her insides roiling and turning like she’d just gotten off a roller coaster.

  There was a nameless evil that waited out in the shadows to strike at her.

  A faceless enemy who had targeted her and she had no idea why.

  Desperate to stop the surge of panic, Montana inhaled a deep breath and imagined Quinn Tanner’s arms wrapped around her. The image had an oddly calming effect.

  Safe.

  She felt safe when she thought of him.

  And didn’t that just beat all?

  Not only was he insanely hot, but he had given her something in a few hours no one had managed to do in her life.

  Ever.

  He’d comforted her.

  Even if his high-handed tactics made the CEO inside sit up and want to put him in his place, even she couldn’t argue the man had some serious mojo when it came to the art of protection.

  The fact he sported an acre of well-defined chest—a detail clearly evident without even seeing said chest—had nothing to do with it.

  Nope.

  Nothing at all.

  Shifting gears as she reached her private office, Montana spoke a few quick voice instructions into a panel on the wall, then watched the door slide open.

  All her paperwork was laid out on her desk, just as she preferred. Her personal assistant, Jackson, was incredibly efficient, not to mention nearly as anal as she was. Montana knew she’d find each note carefully dated and ordered by priority. A corresponding page of overview notes would reinforce all elements that needed her attention.

  “Well, you may finally be in luck,” she muttered to herself as she crossed the room t
o take the oversized leather chair behind her desk. “There’s enough paperwork here to put you to sleep in ten minutes or less.”

  Montana swiped her finger over the edge of her laptop screen, then followed it with a typed password. If her father had taught her anything, it was to be careful with her data. He’d also spent quite a bit of time lecturing her on the importance of keeping a poker face and how to dress to impress.

  Sadly, he’d taught her little else.

  If Jack Grant had ever suspected he’d leave this earth, he certainly didn’t expect to do it at age sixty-five. Nothing was in order, a fact she’d realized after taking the helm of the company six months ago.

  On a sigh, Montana dived into the paperwork and quickly lost herself in a stack of top-level performance reviews. This latest inspiration—to review what her managers’ managers had to say about the company’s leaders—had sprung this morning and, bless Jackson, he’d pulled together all the required paperwork on nearly three hundred people without blinking an eye.

  Montana focused on the expats stationed in the Cape Town office first. She couldn’t define why, but something about the African part of the organization seemed off. Lush offices, well-respected office leaders and a balance sheet that suggested only modest success.

  Something wasn’t right.

  With a quick shake, Montana brushed it off, willfully ignoring the idea it could mean anything.

  A light knock at the door jarred her from her computer screen. She was even more surprised to realize she’d wrapped that lock of hair around her finger as she read the reports Jackson had left for her.

  And then the thought was forgotten entirely as her night maid offered a small, rueful smile from the doorway. “Ms. Grant. I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but…”

  “What is it, Laura?”

  Before the maid could say anything further, a lined, weathered face peeked around the doorway. “I’m sorry to bother you. I shouldn’t have come. I’m so sorry.”

  Montana leaped out of her chair and raced across the room. “Mother! What are you doing here?”

  She wrapped her arms around her mother, instructing Laura as she went to bring some tea, soup and sandwiches. Montana didn’t miss the sad speculation in Laura’s eyes as she headed out the door.

  A glance down at the frail woman in her arms indicated exactly why.

  “Mom. What’s this?” Montana touched the stocking cap on her mother’s head, then ran a hand down her stained, padded coat. A sigh bubbled up in her throat, but she held it back. The coat had been brand-new when she’d given it to her mother last week, as had the leather gloves she’d placed in the pockets. Weathered hands peeked out of the sleeves—sans gloves—and a soft moan escaped her chapped lips when Montana pulled off the hat.

  “Come on. Let’s get these things off of you and get you into fresh clothes.” God only knew where the hat had come from—likely a trade with someone for the noticeably absent gloves—and the only sound thing to do for the coat was to burn it.

  Montana knew enough not to suggest bathing. She’d made that mistake only once, and got an earful. Apparently, the outerwear could become as stained as she wanted, but her mother was fiercely maniacal about taking a daily bath.

  “I’m sorry I came.”

  “Never be sorry. I’ve told you, I want to see you. I’d like you to stay here with me. This is your home, too, if you’d like it to be.”

  “Black Jack would roll in his grave if he knew I was living here.”

  Quinn’s words echoed in her head as she worked to settle her mother. “And you don’t see any connection between your mother’s recent return to your life and the attacks on you?”

  Was her mother really behind what was happening to her?

  Montana tugged on one of the sleeves, pushing the doubts to the side. Her mother may be any number of things—things that pained her in a way she could never have imagined—but mastermind behind some setup to kill her only daughter?

  Montana just couldn’t fathom it.

  The material of the jacket fell away sharply from the emaciated shoulders as Montana continued what she could only hope were soothing words. “Daddy would be happy to know you have a home.”

  “I have a home.”

  Tamping down on the urge to scream in frustration that a city shelter wasn’t a home, Montana gently tugged on the other sleeve.

  And fought the tears that pricked the backs of her eyes in hot jabs.

  Her mother was skin and bones. Literally.

  “What did you do with the money I gave you? For food.”

  “Gave it to Bobby and Celia. They needed it more.”

  Bobby and Celia likely shoved every last cent of it right into their veins, but Montana bit down on the criticism as it sprang to her tongue. Their previous visits had been all too short, and she had learned quickly that agitating her mother was a sure method for ending them even more prematurely.

  “It’s cold tonight, Mom. Will you stay with me?”

  “Can’t. I only came to warn you. And I told you to call me Eirene. I’m not worthy of the word ‘Mom.’”

  The words pierced her heart, but Montana ignored the sharp stabs of pain as she led her mother across the room to a large leather couch that rested against the far wall.

  Not for the first time, hopeless questions spun through her thoughts, leaving only an aching emptiness in their wake. What could possibly have brought Eirene Grant to this state?

  Terrified, mad and alone.

  And why had she ever left her husband and daughter in the first place?

  Ignoring her lifetime wish for what might have been, Montana forced brisk efficiency into her tone. “I’ll be the judge of that.” She reached for a blanket and draped it around her mother—Eirene—before settling her into a sitting position. “Warn me about what?”

  “He’s rising in power. Don’t you feel it?”

  “Who? Who’s rising in power? You never tell me who.”

  “The one who puts you in danger.”

  “Mom. I’m not in danger.” Even as she said the words, Montana couldn’t keep the chill from her skin, couldn’t stop the cold fingers that sent shivers down her spine.

  “I tell you the truth.”

  Montana patted the blanket-wrapped arm. “I know you do. I know.”

  “But now he’s here to help you. To take care of you.”

  “He who? The one rising in power?”

  On an agitated head shake, Eirene leaned closer and Montana felt her mother’s long, thin fingers close around the skin of her forearms. Her mother’s grip was surprisingly strong for someone who looked so frail. “The only one who can protect you. The one I asked for.”

  “Mom? Who?”

  “Quinn.”

  Montana felt her muscles stiffen, her mother’s words even more effective at freezing her in place than whatever had happened to her up on the dais earlier at the hotel.

  “Quinn?”

  Eirene’s blue eyes were bright with certainty. “Quinn Tanner, the Taurus Warrior. He’ll save you. I know it.”

  Fuck, he was losing his touch. How the hell had he walked out of a meet like he’d been hit with a two-by-four? He’d been doing this for far too long to get tripped up by anything.

  And he’d known far too many women in his very long life to let one mortal heiress make him feel like a horny teenager.

  Quinn drained the last drop of his scotch as the heavy rhythm of Equinox pulsed around him. Although he wanted another one, he knew a bender wasn’t the cure for this evening’s ailment.

  It was rarely the cure for anything. He’d learned that lesson a long time ago. Hell, he even had a few lingering scars across his lower back to prove it.

  From his mortal days, of course.

  Now everything healed. Healed as if it had never been.

  Except his rotten, wasted soul, which had grown so miserable and so incomprehensibly small that he knew he’d never heal. Would never be whole again.

  He�
��d suspected it for decades now, but a few months ago had proved the theory correct.

  Kane Montague, his friend—his Warrior brother— had needed him and he’d abandoned him. In Kane’s moment of need, the stubborn streak of the bull that lived inside of him stood its ground.

  A fucking cop-out if he’d ever heard one. The truth was a bitch, but he was never one to shrink from it.

  He’d stood his ground.

  He’d put stubborn pride before a friend and it had nearly gotten Kane killed.

  He’d refused to help and it had nearly killed the woman Kane loved, too.

  The two of them had survived—thrived, actually, no thanks to him—after they overcame Ilsa’s past and defeated the poison that had lived in Kane’s blood, threatening his well-being once a year.

  Now they thrived while Quinn died a little more each day.

  “You want another one, Quinn?”

  Josey, a valkyrie who picked up shifts at Equinox on the side to make a few bucks, flitted over to his table. The ample bosom on display normally drew his attention, but at that moment, a slight wisp of a memory swamped him.

  The delicate line of Montana Grant’s throat as she swallowed her water. The daring cut of her gown, slit at the thigh just enough to leave less to the imagination than was normally considered proper.

  She was a vision. Pure and worldly, all at the same time. A dynamic package that suggested the elegance of pearls mixed with the excitement and daring of youth.

  “Earth to Quinn.” Josey flailed her green order pad at him. “Yes or no on the drink?”

  “Don’t worry yourself over it, Josey. I’ve got it right here.”

  Quinn glanced up and straight into the laughing pewter gaze of Grey Bennett. Owner of Equinox and the most lethal Aries of all Themis’s Rams, Grey lived by a special code none of them had ever really been able to crack.

  Lightning-quick reflexes.

  Stubborn refusal to bend his will in any circumstance.

  Lethal ability to stalk his prey.

  Even after all this time, Quinn knew there was a side to Grey none of them ever saw.

  A side that said KEEP OUT in blinking, neon letters.