Covet fa-1

by J. R. Ward

  The guy was still wearing the black suit that he'd had on when he and the woman had shown up, and also the same bloodred tie. With his dark hair combed back and just a dusting of beard across his hard face, he presented himself to be exactly who he was: rich and in charge.

  Surely it wasn't possible that Vin diPietro was the first assignment.

  “Hello?” DiPietro waved. “You in there?”

  Nah, Jim thought. Can't be. That would be above and beyond any call of duty. Over the guy's shoulder, the commercial that was on the TV suddenly showed a price of $49.99— no, $29.99, with a little red arrow that…considering where Vin was standing, pointed right at his head.

  “Shit, no,” Jim muttered. This was the guy?

  On the TV screen, some woman in a pink bathrobe smiled up at the camera and mouthed, Yes, it is!

  DiPietro frowned and leaned over the bed. “You need a nurse?”

  No, he needed a beer. Or six. “I'm cool.” Jim rubbed his eyes again, smelled fresh grass, and wanted to curse until he ran out of breath.

  “Listen,” diPietro said, “I'm assuming you don't have health insurance, so I'll cover all your bills. And if you need to take a couple of days off, I won't dock your wages. Sound good?”

  Jim let his hands flop down on the bed and was grateful to see that the grass stains had magically disappeared. DiPietro, on the other hand, was evidently going nowhere. At least not until he had a sense of what Jim might sue him for. It was so frickin' obvious that the guy was not bedside offering up his no doubt limitless credit card because he gave two shits about how Jim was feeling. He didn't want a workers -comp action against his corporation.

  Whatever. The accident was not even on Jim's radar; all he could think of was what had happened the night before in his truck. DiPietro was exactly the kind of man who'd have a Blue Dress on his arm, but the coldness in that stare meant he was also the type who could find imperfection in a perfectly beautiful woman. God knew the SOB saw faults in everything that happened at the site, from the way the cement settled in the basement foundation to the tree clearing to the grading of the acres to the position of the nail heads on the framing boards.

  No wonder she'd sought out someone else.

  And if Jim had to handicap which of the seven sins diPietro was guilty of, there wasn't much of a contest: Avarice was stamped all over not only the guy's designer wardrobe but his car, his woman, and his taste in real estate. He liked his money, this one.

  “Listen, I'm going to get a nurse—”

  “No.” Jim pushed himself up on the pillows. “I don't like nurses.”

  Or doctors. Or dogs. Or angels…saints…whatever those four lads were.

  “Well, then,” diPietro said smoothly, “what can I do for you?”

  “Nothing.” Thanks to the way destiny had reached up and nailed Jim in the balls, the question was what he could do for his “boss.”

  What was it going to take to turn this guy's life around? Did Jim just berate him into a massive donation to a soup kitchen? Would that be enough? Or, shit, was he going to have to get this silk-suited, M6-driving, misogynistic motherfucker to renounce everything material and turn his ass into a monk?

  Wait…crossroads. DiPietro was supposed to be at some kind of crossroads. But how the hell was Jim supposed to know what that was?

  He winced and massaged his temples.

  “You sure you don't want a nurse?”

  Just as frustration put him on the verge of an aneurysm, the images on the TV switched and two chefs appeared on screen. And what do you know. The one who had dark hair looked like Colin and the blond guy next to him sported the exact same bossy expression Nigel had. The pair were leaning into the camera with a covered silver tray, and when the lid was popped off, a dinner plate with some kind of itty-bitty fancy food on it was revealed.

  Goddamn it, Jim thought as he glared at the TV. Don't make me do that. By all that's holy—

  DiPietro put his face in Jim's field of vision. “What can I do for you?”

  As if on cue, the chefs on TV grinned, all ta-da!

  “I think I., want to have dinner with you.”

  “Dinner?” DiPietro's eyebrows rose. “As in…dinner.”

  Jim resisted the urge to flip off the chefs. “Yeah…but not like dinner, dinner. Just food. Dinner.”

  “That's it.”

  “Yeah.” Jim shifted his legs around so they hung off the edge of the bed. “That's it.”

  Reaching over to the IV in his arm, he peeled the tape off the insertion and popped the needle free of his vein. As saline or whatever was in the bag by the bed started to leak onto the floor, he went under the sheets and grunted as he pulled the catheter out of his cock. The electrical pads on his chest were next, and then he leaned to the side and quieted the monitoring equipment.

  “Dinner,” he said gruffly. “That's all I want.”

  Well, that and a clue about what he should be doing with the guy. But hopefully a side order of here's-an-idea would come with the meal.

  As he stood up, the world spun and he had to use the wall for balance. After a couple of deep breaths, he lurched for the bathroom—and knew when the hospital johnny broke open because diPietro said fuck under his breath.

  Clearly the guy was getting a look-see of what was all over Jim's back.

  Pausing at the door, Jim looked over his shoulder. “Is 'fuuuuuuck' the way rich people say yes?”

  As their eyes met, diPietro's suspicious stare narrowed even further. “Why the hell do you want to have dinner with me?”

  “Because we have to start somewhere. Tonight's good for me. Eight o'clock.”

  When all that came back at him was tense silence, Jim smiled a little. “Just to help you along, it's either dinner or I file a workers'-comp action against you that will make your checkbook bleed. Your choice and I'm good with either outcome.”

  * * *

  Vin diPietro had dealt with a lot of SOBs in his lifetime, but this Jim Heron guy was high on the list. It wasn't the outright threat, necessarily. Or the two hundred pounds on that big frame. Or even all that attitude.

  The real trouble was the guy's eyes: Anytime a stranger looked at you like he knew you better than family, you had to wonder what the angle was. Had he done his research? Did he know where your bodies were buried?

  What kind of threat was he to you?

  And dinner? The bastard could have squeezed him for cash, but all he wanted was meat and two veg?

  Unless the real ask was going to come outside of the hospital. “Dinner at eight,” Vin said.

  “And because I'm a fair guy, I'll let you pick the place.”

  Well, hell, that was easy. If there was going to be trouble, a public peanut gallery was not the kind of condiment Vin was after. “My duplex at the Commodore. You know the building?” Heron's eyes went to the window over the bed and then returned.

  “What floor?”

  “Twenty-eighth. I'll tell the doorman to let you up.”

  “See you tonight then.”

  Heron turned away, flashing that back of his again.

  Vin swallowed another curse as he got a second gander at the black tattoo that covered every inch of skin Heron was showing. Against the vista of a graveyard, the Grim Reaper stared out of that muscled back, a hood shielding its face, its eyes glowing through the shadow created by the robe. One bony hand was locked on its scythe, and the body was leaning forward, its free palm reaching out as if in a moment it was going to snatch your soul. Equally as creepy, there seemed to be a tally at the bottom: Underneath the fringe of the Reaper's robes, there were two rows of little line marks grouped in fives.

  You added that shit up and you got to a hundred pretty damn easy. The bathroom door shut just as a nurse came rushing in, her crepe-soled shoes squeaking on the floor. “What…where is he?”

  “He unplugged himself. I think he's taking a piss and then leaving.”

  “He can't do that.”

  “Good luck changing his
mind.”

  Vin headed out and walked down to the waiting room. Leaning inside, he got the attention of the two workmen who had insisted on hanging around until Heron woke up. The one on the left had piercings on his face and the hard-ass, kinked-out air of someone who enjoyed pain. The other was huge with a long, dark braid over the shoulder of his leather jacket.

  “He's ready to go home.”

  Pierced got to his feet. “The doctors are releasing him already?”

  “Got nothing to do with the docs. He made the decision himself.” Vin nodded down the hall. “He's in room six sixty-six. And he's going to need a ride home.”

  “We're on it,” Pierced said, his silver eyes serious. “We'll get him where he needs to go.”

  Vin good-bye'd the pair and went over to catch an elevator down to the first floor. As he stepped inside the car, he took out his BlackBerry and called Devina to let her know they were having a guest for dinner. When he got voice mail, he kept it short and sweet and tried not to wonder what the hell she was doing while he was leaving his message.

  Or who, as was the case.

  Halfway down, the elevator bumped to a halt and the doors opened to let a pair of men in. As the trip downward resumed, the two traded affirming noises, like they'd just concluded a conversation satisfactorily and were reinforcing the fact. They were both dressed in slacks and sweaters, and the one on the left was balding at the crown, his brown hair pulling away like it was afraid being on top of the mountain…

  Vin blinked. And then blinked again.

  A shadow bloomed all around the balding man, the glimmering, shifting aura the color of pencil lead and the consistency of heat waves on pavement.

  It couldn't be…oh, God, no…after all these years of quiet, it couldn't be back.

  Curling his hands into fists, Vin closed his eyes and willed away the vision, kicking it out of his brain, denying it access to his neurons. He did not just see that. And if he had, it was a misread of the overhead lighting.

  The shit was not back. He'd gotten rid of it. It was not back.

  He cracked a lid, looked over at the guy…and felt like he'd been punched in the gut: The translucent shadow was as obvious as the clothes the man was wearing and as tangible as the person standing next to him.

  Vin saw dead people, all right. Before they died.

  The double doors opened at the lobby, and after the pair filed out, Vin dropped his head and walked as fast as he could for the exit. He was making good time, running from the side of himself he'd never understood and didn't want anything to do with, when he slammed into a white coat who was carrying an armful of files. As paperwork and manila folders took flight like startled birds, Vin helped steady the woman and then dropped down to help her clean the mess up.

  The balding man who'd stood ahead of him in the elevator did the same.

  Vin's eyes locked on the guy and refused to budge. The smoke was emanating from the left side of the man's chest…boiling up into the air from a specific spot.

  “Go see a doctor,” Vin heard himself say. “Go see one right away. It's in your lungs.”

  Before anyone could ask him what the hell he was talking about, Vin scrambled to his feet and tore out of the building, heart in his throat, breath coming in short blasts.

  His hands were shaking by the time he got to his car, so it was a good thing BMWs let you get inside and start the engine without plugging the key into anything.

  Gripping his steering wheel, he shook his head back and forth.

  He'd thought he'd left all that freaky bullshit behind. He thought that second-sight crap was solidly in his past. He'd done what he'd been told to do, and even though he hadn't believed in the actions he'd taken, they had appeared to work for almost twenty years.

  Ah, shit…he couldn't go back to the way it had been before.

  Just couldn't.

  Chapter 7

  When Jim came out of the bathroom, diPietro was gone and a nurse with a lot to say had taken his place. While she went on about…shit, whatever the hell it was…Jim focused over her shoulder in hopes of cutting short the tirade.

  “Are you done?” he asked when she took more than a single breath.

  Crossing her arms over her large bosom, she looked at him like she was hoping she'd be the one to put his catheter back in. “I'm going to call the doctor.”

  “Well, good for you, but it's not going to change my mind.” He glanced around, figuring the private room he'd gotten was diPietro's influence. “What happened to my things?”

  “Sir, you were nonresponsive up until about fifteen minutes ago, and you were dead when they brought you in. So before you take off like you had the common cold, you should—”

  “Clothes. That's really all I'm interested in.”

  The nurse stared at him with a kind of hatred, like she was so done with patients giving her lip. “Do you think you're immortal?”

  “At least for the time being,” he muttered. “Look, I'm through with arguing. Get me something to wear and tell me where my wallet is, or I'm walking out in this and making the hospital pay for my taxi home.”

  “Wait. Here.”

  “Not. For. Long.”

  As the door eased shut, he paced around, energy burning through him. He'd woken up logy, but that was all gone now. Man, he could remember this feeling, back when he'd been in the service. Once again, he had a goal, and as before, that gave him the power to throw off exhaustion and injury and anyone who threatened to divert him from his target.

  Which meant that nurse had better get out of his way.

  Not surprisingly, when she came back a couple of minutes later, she brought not one, but three reinforcements. Which was not going to help her. While the doctors formed a circle of rational thinking' around Jim, he just watched their mouths move and their eyebrows go up and down and their elegant hands gesticulate.

  As he thought about his new job—because he sure as hell wasn't listening to the MD brigade—he wondered how he was going to know what to do. Yeah, he had a date with diPietro…but then what? And, holy hell, was that girlfriend going to be there?

  Talk about “guess who's coming to dinner.”

  He focused on the peanut gallery. “I'm done. I'm leaving. Can I have my clothes now, thanks.”

  Crickets in the background. Then everyone walked out in a huff, proving that they thought he was stupid, but not mentally compromised—because adults who had their marbles were allowed to make bad choices.

  As the door was shutting, Adrian and Eddie stuck their heads in the room. Ad smiled. “So you tossed the white coats out on their asses, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  The guy chuckled as he and his roommate stepped inside. “Why does this not surprise me—” The whistle-blower nurse barged past them with a pair of hospital scrubs and a large Hawaiian shirt draped over her forearm. Ignoring Eddie and Adrian as if they weren't even there, she tossed the threads onto the bed and presented Jim with a clipboard. “Your things are in that closet and your bill's been taken care of. Sign this. It's a form stating that you are releasing yourself AMA. Against medical advice.”

  Jim took the black Bic from her and drew an X on the signature line. The nurse looked down at the mark. “What is that?”

  “My signature. An X is legally sufficient. Now will you excuse me?” He untied the neck ribbon on the johnny and let the thing drop from his body.

  Full-frontal got her out of the room without further conversation.

  As she took off at a dead run, Adrian laughed. “Not much on the words, but you know how to get things done.”

  Jim turned around and drew on the scrub bottoms.

  “Hell of a tat you got there,” Adrian said softly.

  Jim just shrugged and reached for the ugly-ass shirt. The color combination was red and orange on a white background, and he felt like a frickin' Christmas present with the damn thing on.

  “She gave you that because she hates you,” Adrian said.

  “Or mayb
e she's just color-blind.” More likely it was the former, though.

  Jim went to the closet and found his boots lined up on the bottom and a plastic bag with the St. Francis Hospital seal hanging on a hook. He put his bare feet into his Timberlands and took his jacket out of the bag, covering up the damn shirt. His wallet was still in his coat's inside pocket, and he went through the folds. Everything was there. His fake driver's license, his false social security card, and the VISA debit card that linked to his Evergreen Bank account. Oh, and the seven dollars that was change from his having bought the turkey sandwich and the coffee and the Coke that morning.

  Before life had FUBAR'd out big-time.

  “Any chance either of you didn't come on a motorcycle?” he asked the roommates. “I need a ride back to the site to pick up my truck.”

  Although to get out of here, he'd hop on the back bump of a Harley if he had to.

  Adrian grinned and swept a hand through that gorgeous hair of his. “Brought my other wheels. Figured you'd need transport.”

  “I'll take a clown car at this point.”

  “Give me a little more credit than that.”

  The three of them left, and when they passed by the nursing station, no one got in their way, even though all the staff stopped what they were doing and glared.

  The trip from St. Francis to diPietro's nascent temple took about twenty minutes in Adrian's Explorer, and he had AC/DC playing the entire time. Which wouldn't have been a problem, except for the fact that the guy sang every word of every song and was never going to be the next American Idol: Fucker wasn't just tone-deaf—he had white-boy rhythm and way too much enthusiasm.

  As Eddie stared out the window like he'd turned to stone, Jim cranked the volume even louder in hopes of drowning out the wounded badger behind the wheel.

  When they finally turned onto diPietro's dirt drive, the sun had set and the light was draining from the sky, the tree stumps and the raw patches casting sharper shadows because of the angle of illumination. The hacked-up land was utterly stark and unappealing, and contrasted badly with the unrazed opposite shore, but no doubt diPietro was going to replant it with specimen everything.