Trust No One

by Velvet Vaughn

  He towed her roughly down the stairs and shoved her through the door to an alley that ran behind the hotel. The air reeked of smoldering garbage and car exhaust. Something skittered away as he dragged her beside an overflowing dumpster. More sirens blasted in the distance, warring with honking cars and rushing traffic. Everything seemed surreal. Her friends were dead and now this cop blamed her for the heinous crime.

  As they passed under a streetlight, she noticed the gloved hand clasping her arm and the gruesome scar encircling his wrist.

  Chapter Two

  Kendall gasped in dismay. The man painfully clutching her arm was one of the men who gunned down Kiki and Bridget and Stefani. A cold-blooded killer.

  She had to get away from him…her life depended on it. She had no doubt he led her to the alley to kill her, too. With her free hand, she fumbled in her pocket for the only weapon she could find. She waited until he urged her closer to an unmarked car. Using the element of surprise, she spun around, knocked off his glasses and depressed the button, aiming for his pupils.

  The man screamed in pain, releasing his grip to grab his face. His gun clattered to the ground. Without giving herself time to think about the ramifications of assault on a police officer, she slammed a knee into his groin. He cried out, crumpling first to his knees and then to the ground in a fetal position, one hand leaving his face to clutch his manhood.

  Kendall snagged his gun and tore off down the alley, skirting empty cardboard boxes and puddles of water, not bothering to glance back. Turning a corner, she raced down the block as police cars with flashing lights and blaring sirens sped by. She jammed the gun in the waistband of her jeans and tugged her shirt over it to hide it as she weaved down sidewalks, around pedestrians, across streets until she was sure she wasn’t followed. Stumbling to a tree in a small park, she rested her back against it and slowly slid to the ground. The gun poked her stomach so she pulled it out and placed it on the ground next to her. Somewhere between here and the alley, her bun came undone and she lost her hat. She didn't even notice when it came off.

  Bending her knees, she cradled her head in her hands, fighting the urge to give in to the grief. Three of her friends had been murdered and now the killer was after her. She had to come up with a plan…she didn’t have time to fall apart. That would come later.

  Blocking out the faces of her friends, she catalogued the facts. Having worked with several law enforcement officials during her career, she was positive the badge of the man trying to arrest her had been real. That didn’t necessarily mean he was legit—he could have stolen it. But he had an air of authority. Some investigative reporter she turned out to be…she didn’t even get his name, badge number or the license plate from his cruiser. Robbery could have been the motive since they rifled through all the bags, but there had to be something more for the men to risk blowing away three women in a busy hotel.

  Remembering the phone in her pocket, she tugged it out. She couldn’t do this alone, she needed help. Her roommate would know what to do.

  While she waited for the call to go through, she recalled the first time she met Olivia Larrson at a banquet after Olivia broke the story of a serial killer in Vermont. Her award-winning coverage landed her a job at a rival station in New York. They struck up a conversation, became fast friends and moved into a tiny apartment together to share the outrageous expense of living in the greatest city in the world. Even though they worked for competing networks, there was no rivalry in the friendship. She would do anything for her friend and knew Olivia felt the same way. Her roommate was the sweetest, most sincere person she'd ever met, but she could be a bulldozer when necessary.

  She caught Olivia in the make-up chair getting ready for her last report of the evening. "Hey Ken, how’s the reunion?"

  Just hearing her voice comforted Kendall and the words tumbled out in a sob. "I’m in trouble, Liv."

  "Oh no," Olivia gasped after she relayed the entire story. "I’m so sorry." There was a rustling in the background and low murmuring. She could picture Olivia shooing away the make-up artist and ripping off the protective sheet covering her clothes.

  "I’m on my way. I’ll book a flight right now."

  "No!" Panic had Kendall blurting out the word harsher than necessary. She softened her tone. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so abrupt but I don’t want you anywhere near here, Olivia. The same heartless bastards who killed my friends are after me. I don’t want you caught in the crosshairs."

  Olivia took no offense. "You need help, and I know just who to call. Hang on while I patch together a three-way call with Jake Kincaid."

  Kendall had never met Jake, but knew all about him from Olivia. Her friend kept in touch with the former FBI agent who captured a serial killer in Vermont, and his wife, who was the ultimate target of the killer—and almost one of his victims. Jake worked for a world-class private security firm—exactly what she needed. She couldn’t go to the authorities in case the killers were cops.

  Kendall jumped anytime a car drove past or she heard a siren. She scanned the park while she waited, seeing no suspicious shapes lurking in the shadows. Olivia came back on the line and made the introductions.

  "Hell," Jake said after Kendall recounted the entire story. "You're sure the cop is in on it?"

  "There was no mistaking that scar. It was very distinctive."

  "And you're sure he was official?"

  "Reasonably sure," she responded. "The badge looked real, but I don’t know that it was his, and I could hear police chatter on his walkie-talkie."

  "How did you get away if he had a gun on you?"

  "I Biancaed him."

  "You what-ed him? Is that some kind of jujitsu move or something?"

  If she wasn’t suffering the effects of shock, she might have given in to a wry smile. "No it’s a breath freshener kind of thing. I squirted cinnamon Bianca in his eyes."

  Jake grunted appreciatively. "Quick thinking."

  "That was before I kneed him in the balls with every ounce of weight I could manage."

  Jake hissed in male sympathy. "Remind me not to piss off your roommate, Olivia. Where did you say you were, Kendall?"

  She glanced around the area to gather her bearings. "Heading west along the river. I’m pretty close to Wacker Drive."

  "It just so happens that we have an agent very close. He was injured in the line of duty and is recuperating at his mother’s place. He may not be at one hundred percent, but even at half that, he’s better than ninety-nine percent of the population. He’s a former SEAL."

  "How can he help me if he’s injured?"

  "He’ll help. Hero complex and all that. Are you familiar with Greek Town?"

  "Yes."

  "His name is Dorian Demarchis. His mother owns a restaurant on South Halstead Street."

  "I’m not far from there, less than a mile." She scrambled to her feet, a small burst of hope flaring to life. Her knees buckled and she had to steady her legs before pushing away from the tree. "I’m heading that way now."

  "His family owns the building. They live above the restaurant. That’s where Demarchis is staying. I’ll give him a heads-up, let him know you're on the way."

  "Thanks Jake, I really appreciate this," Olivia said. "I owe you one."

  "I owe you one, too," Kendall added.

  "Just stay the hell safe and we’ll call it even, Kendall. Larrson, you’re still on the hook."

  Kendall disconnected as Jake and Olivia bantered back and forth good-naturedly. A shiver raced down her spine as she glanced around. She'd never been a coward and she refused to be one now. Sliding the phone into her pocket, she headed north to the address Jake provided. She was closer than she thought. The dinner crowd was in full swing. Light spilled out onto the sidewalk, music trilled gaily and decadent smells scented the air. Her stomach recoiled. She didn’t think she'd ever be able to eat again.

  Though she wasn’t sure which apartment to try first, she knew she couldn’t go into the restaurant. A Sher
iff's cruiser was parked across the street. If he was inside, and if the killer really was a cop, there could be a BOLO—be on the lookout—on her right now.

  Maneuvering to the back of the sturdy red brick building, she glanced up to the apartment where Jake told her Mr. Demarchis would be staying, dismayed to find no lights shining in the windows.

  Spying a metal fire escape clinging to the back of the building, she judged the distance to the bottom rung. It was too high for her to reach. Her eyes canvassed the dark area and she spotted two wooden crates propped beside a brown metal dumpster. A cat leaped across the alley, scaring the breath from her lungs. When her pulse slowed, she retrieved the crates and stacked them on top of each other, wincing when a shard of wood pierced her finger. With her nails, she dislodged the splinter and then sucked the injured digit in her mouth. Gingerly, she climbed on top of her makeshift stepstool and reached for the ladder. With a leap, she caught the bottom rung and managed to pull herself up. When she got to the first landing, she said a silent thank you to her Pilates teacher and started for the next level.

  The next thing she knew, a large hand covered her mouth and she was shoved roughly against the side of the building. She hadn't heard anyone else on the metal structure. Brick bit into her flesh. Something big and heavy crushed her, forcing all the air from her lungs. Oh God, he found her. All she could think about was her need to avenge her friends' deaths and how much she didn’t want to die.

  #

  Dorian Demarchis loved his mother. He really did. But if he had to put up with her over-protectiveness much longer, he would go insane.

  His shoulder was recuperating. Hell, he’d been injured worse as a SEAL and it didn’t stop him then. He should be out in the field, solving cases, helping his co-workers instead of cooped up like a pansy-ass in his mother’s apartment.

  Okay, so he had to admit he enjoyed the food. His mom was the best cook in all of Chicago. Her moussaka couldn’t be beat. If he didn’t watch it, he’d gain ten pounds lying around like a useless piece of shit.

  As he usually did when he started to feel sorry for himself, he cursed his good buddy and former teammate Logan Bradley. Killer, Bradley’s nickname when he was a SEAL—given for his performance with women, not his tactical ability, though that was an equally accurate description—ordered him to rest and then sicced his mother on him. That was low. And dammit, Bradley was now his boss, so he couldn’t just tell him to piss off.

  Contemplating the rapid decline of his pathetic life, a scraping noise in the alley snagged his attention. Powering off the television, the only source of light in the room, he removed the ice pack from his shoulder, tossed it on a table and inched to the window. The sound came from a small figure rummaging around the dumpster. From the golden glow of a streetlight, he could see it was a woman. Her clothes were torn and stained and he’d put money down it was blood. That couldn’t be good. Her silky black pony-tail snapped back and forth as she surveyed the area before bending over to hoist two crates. She hefted the wood frames to the fire escape, stacked them, paused to look at her finger and then stick it in her mouth. A sharp bolt of lust had Dorian sucking in a harsh breath. He didn't even have time to dwell on it before she started climbing the black metal ladder.

  Reaching on top of a bookshelf, he palmed his Glock and tucked it in the back waistband of his jeans, not bothering with a shirt. She didn’t look like a typical burglar, but with the things he'd seen in the world, he took no chances. Sometimes the deadliest villains were disguised as beautiful women, a painful lesson he learned the hard way. He rolled his damaged shoulder.

  Metal clanged lightly as she clambered up the steps. Easing the window open, he silently slipped out and moved to the shadows, waiting. As soon as she came into view, he plastered her against the building, one hand around her mouth, the other trapping her arm behind her back.

  "You better have a good reason for being here," he growled in her ear.

  Her brows snapped together and her breath fanned his palm.

  "Tell me one thing, the blood…is it yours?"

  She glanced down, and when she lifted her head, her wide blue eyes were traumatized. Slowly her head rocked from side to side.

  "Come-on, let's go."

  She struggled against him, fighting him for all she was worth. She tried to bite his hand but he cupped it so her teeth couldn’t pierce flesh. Her legs flailed but he effectively stopped them by pressing her harder against the building. Suddenly she stopped fighting altogether. Her chest began heaving, her pupils huge blue disks.

  She was hyperventilating.

  "Dammit," Dorian grumbled. "Calm down. Take slow, deep breaths."

  The woman’s chest heaved harder and faster. With a curse, he removed his hand and inched back. That was all the opening she needed. She spun around and jammed something solid against his stomach.

  "Let me go or I swear to God, I will blow you away."

  Dorian’s lip twitched. She was five-four, possibly five-five, weighed maybe one-five, one-ten. Tendrils of long black hair escaped a high ponytail to curl around a heart-shaped face. Square black glasses framed light blue eyes that just a few seconds ago were softened with misery but now sparked with angry fire. The muted glow from a streetlight illuminated her tan, flawless skin.

  She was lethally beautiful, but fatally stupid if she thought she could get the best of a six-four, two-thirty SEAL. He had her disarmed—it was a cell phone for Pete's sake—and unconscious in two seconds flat.

  He caught her dead weight easily before she hit the platform and hefted her into his arms. His injured shoulder protested but he ignored it as he ducked through the window to deposit her on his mother’s sofa. Easing her down to the cushions, he checked her pockets. He tried hard not to enjoy the pat-down but hell, he was a man and she had a knockout body. He rationalized by deciding he had to find out if she really had a gun stashed somewhere. She might just be inclined to use it on him when she woke up.

  Besides the phone, she had a set of keys, a small cylinder of breath spray, a driver’s license and a credit card. The name on the license read Kendall Buckley, age thirty, from New York City. No weapons.

  Why the hell was she carrying everything in her pockets and not a purse? She looked like the kind that would go for an outrageously expensive one, probably lined in pure gold or endangered mink or something.

  His cell buzzed the ring tone from his office and he snatched it off the table. "Demarchis".

  "It’s Kincaid. Listen, I know you are still on IR, and Bradley would kill me if he knew, but I have a job for you right there on your home turf."

  Adrenalin coursed through Dorian’s veins. He was itching to get back to work and if he could do it while recuperating, all the better. "Lay it on me."

  "First of all, how’s the shoulder?"

  "Never better," he lied, shoving the ice pack out of sight even though Kincaid couldn’t see it through the phone lines.

  "Good. So you sure you are up to this?"

  "Absolutely."

  "I sent a woman to you. She’s a friend of a friend and she’s in trouble."

  Ah, hell. Dorian’s eyes closed and he rubbed his forehead. "Kendall Buckley?"

  "Wow, she got there fast. You’ve met her already?"

  "In a manner of speaking." So she wasn’t a thief. Kincaid sent her. "She arrived a few minutes ago."

  "Great. That’s a huge relief. Can I talk to her for a second?"

  Yeah, that’d be difficult. "She’s a little…indisposed at the moment."

  A pause, then, "What the hell did you do to her, Demarchis?" Kincaid growled.

  "She’s fine," he uttered belligerently.

  "Don’t you hurt her," Kincaid warned. "She’s been through hell tonight."

  Judging from all the blood, he didn’t doubt it. "Look, she was sneaking around the building, acting suspicious. Then she aimed a weapon," weapon, cell phone, whatever, "so I just gave her a little tap to the carotid."

  A heavy sigh. "Well,
it’s my fault. I should have called you sooner. I really didn’t think she'd get there that fast. Do what you can to help her and if I can get this case wrapped up, I’ll be there to take over."

  "Will do," Dorian promised. "What’s her story?"

  "It’s not pretty, but I’ll let her fill you in on the details. Keep me posted."

  Dorian disconnected and grabbed a T-shirt. Stared at the woman. She really had the most beautiful skin, not one blemish nor wrinkle dared mar the surface. In sleep, she looked younger, vulnerable. He brushed a tendril of hair off her face and ran the back of his hand down her cheek, waiting for those baby blues to open.

  #

  Kendall felt the soft caress and turned into it. Blinking awake, she waited for her eyes to adjust. Where was she? Suddenly images assailed her…Kiki’s face, Bridget’s eyes and Stefani, all dead, blood everywhere. With a strangled cry, she jerked upright.

  Two hands gripped her shoulders and lowered her back to the cushion. "Easy now, it's okay. You're safe."

  She gasped at the voice and plastered her back against the sofa. A man stared at her with concern. "Who are you?"

  "I think that’s my question."

  Her brows pulled together as she glanced around the room. How did she get here? She remembered climbing a fire escape and then being trapped against the building by a half-naked man…this man. He'd done something to her. Her hand strayed to her neck. "What did you do to me?"

  "Nothing permanent," he evaded. "Your name?"

  For some reason, she couldn’t look away from his whiskey colored eyes. He wasn’t classically handsome, his features were too rough. His jaw was square and covered with a light dusting of whiskers. His nose had been broken before, probably more than once, and his cheekbones were angular. His dark hair was cut short but had a definite curl to it, judging from the lock falling across his forehead. His body was carved from granite…there was no other way to describe it. His muscles were abundant and well-defined beneath a black t-shirt that he must have thrown on while she was unconscious. He was in the right place in Greek Town because with the body of a warrior, he looked like Ares, the Greek God of war. No, he wasn’t handsome…he was striking, exquisite. And he was snapping fingers in her face.