Unleashed

by Lois Greiman

  I froze. Yes, I would have been willing to serve up my brothers with apples in their mouths, but Laney had been the one to foot the bill, and she was in a league of her own. Mind whirring, I tried to invent a fictional friend, but he shook his head, already sensing the lie like a drug dog on a crack scent.

  “I can’t tell you that,” I said.

  “Because you have forgotten her name or because you are loyal?”

  “Because she’s perfect.”

  He watched me very closely, as if assessing everything I was. Everything I might be. “So you returned D’s money.”

  I nodded, relieved he had moved on.

  “But it wasn’t enough.”

  My extremities jerked in surprise. “How did you know that?”

  “So you agreed to find me for him.”

  “No.” I lurched to my feet. He held the knife as if it was forgotten, but my memory’s pretty sharp when it comes to cutlery. I sat abruptly, knees weak, voice the same. “That’s when I…that’s when I agreed to have dinner with him.”

  He scanned me: face, boobs, hips, thighs. Not with avarice or even with any real interest, but more as if he were questioning whether someone else might possibly be interested.

  “When was that?”

  I shrugged. Perhaps most folks would remember the exact date when they dined with a liver-stealing urban cowboy thug, but the rest of my life made such dates forgettable. “Eighteen months ago?”

  “Was that the last time you saw him?”

  “No, I…he, um, he showed up when I was in…” I paused, not too keen to share the tale about how he and Rivera had gone at it like mad dogs outside the Mandarin Hotel.

  “The shower?” he guessed.

  I shook my head.

  “The circus? The attic? The sanitarium?”

  “I’m not crazy,” I reminded him, but the denial sounded a little uncertain.

  I’m not sure if I saw doubt or humor in his eyes. “When you were what?” he asked.

  “With my boyfriend.” When I conjured up Rivera’s memory—those high-octane eyes, that tight-muscled body, his sharp-edged intensity—it seemed a strange way to refer to him. Like claiming a shark for a pet. Or keeping a wolf on a—

  “They fought over you,” he said.

  I jerked. “How do you know that?”

  He raised his startling eyes to mine, but I held his gaze and remained where I was.

  “How?” I whispered.

  “Hand-to-hand combat over someone else’s mate is D’s favored activity,” he said.

  The idea made me feel funny. I don’t know why. It’s not as if I was jealous. D was certifiably insane. I would have to be the same to care that I wasn’t the only girl over which he’d dueled.

  “What happened to him?” he asked.

  I snapped my mind back to the matter at hand. “D?”

  “Your boyfriend.”

  “Oh.” I fiddled with a loose thread on my camouflage pants. “He wasn’t mine…really.”

  “Out on loan?”

  “We were just dating…casually.”

  The cabin was silent.

  “It was my idea to break up,” I added.

  He said nothing.

  “He just…we’re not…” I could feel my emotions winding up like tangled yarn. “What kind of man…” I cleared my throat. What the hell was wrong with me? This guy was probably going to kill me in thirty-five and a half hours and I was telling him about my dates? “D didn’t send me,” I said finally. “That’s a promise.”

  “Are you running from him?”

  “From D? No.”

  True interest shone in his eyes now. “You know someone more likely to kill you than Dagwood Daly?”

  “D’s got his problems,” I admitted. “But I believe the name given him at birth precipitated…” I blinked, managing to stop myself. “No one’s trying to kill me.”

  “You just grew tired of the city, I believe you said.”

  “That’s right.”

  He shook his head. “You are a terrible liar.”

  “Am not.”

  He ignored me, stuck his knife, casual as sin, into the nearby end table, and paced, steps slow and panther smooth. “If neither Cal nor D sent you, who did?”

  “No one.”

  “Trouble with the police, then,” he said.

  “What? No.”

  “So you won’t mind if I call the LAPD and tell them I found a Lieutenant Rivera’s Jeep?”

  For a moment my mind went entirely numb, and then it sputtered to life like a Roman candle. A thousand thoughts whizzed through my brain: Dirty cops, vengeful octogenarians, disturbed clients…who was trying to kill me this time?

  But none of it made a lick of difference, because in the next second I snatched up his knife and faced him with a snarl.

  Chapter 18

  All you need is love? Really? Try going fourteen days without chocolate and get back to me to me on that.

  —Chrissy McMullen, who is not a particularly romantic individual

  Somehow my fingers had become curled like talons in his shirtfront, while my other hand thrust the knife up against his throat. “Who are you?” My voice was a breathy baritone.

  Hiro stood very still, head cocked back as he watched me. His expression, God damn him to hell, was still bored. I tightened my grip. “You’re the Carver, aren’t you?”

  “The what?”

  “The Carver!”

  He tilted his head as if only mildly curious. “This Carver, is he a friend of yours?”

  “No! Why would I…Are you or aren’t you?”

  “Avery sent you. Did she not?”

  “I don’t know any…” I began, but just then I noticed the dog.

  She was standing not three feet to my right, legs braced, attention riveted on my throat.

  “Call off…” My voice squeaked. I tried again. “Call off your hound.”

  He watched me in silence for half a lifetime before he spoke. “Wending,” he said finally.

  The dog eased back a quarter of an inch. Her eyes matched her master’s, attentive with a smattering of almost hidden amusement.

  Nevertheless, I tightened my grip and focused. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “So you did not want to be found?”

  “How did you get here so fast?”

  “You must relax, Ms. O’Tara. Find your inner quietude.”

  “Relax!” I laughed. It sounded five beans short of a full pot. “You want me to relax now that I’ve got the advantage?”

  His right brow rose a millimeter, as if questioning my definition of the word. “I would suggest meditation.”

  “Shut up!” I snarled.

  “That blade is quite sharp,” he said, but his lips quirked up a little, as if the fact was nothing but amusing.

  “I know it’s sharp,” I growled, and pushed the point into his skin. A droplet of blood swelled onto the tip and trickled down the blade. My stomach heaved in concert, but I held steady. “That’s why you’re gonna tell me everything.”

  If I was hoping he would start babbling like a cockatoo on crack, I was sadly disappointed. In fact, he said nothing. Nothing at all.

  I licked my lips, uncertain where to begin with my planned interrogation; I wasn’t sure how waterboarding worked, and I’d neglected to bring my favorite rack. “How much do you know?”

  “I am rather ignorant on the subject of agribusiness.”

  “Don’t get smart with me,” I warned, and fidgeted a little, searching for my tough-guy stance. “I might seem like a harmless country bumpkin but I can get—”

  I never saw him move. But suddenly the knife had been snatched away and I was thrust face-first against the wall. His body pressed into mine. Terror screamed through me. I didn’t move a muscle. Not so much as a capillary. “You promised not to kill me.” My voice had gone from baritone to whimper in an instant.

  His was as steady as a metronome. “You believe me to be a murderer.”
r />   It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway. Ever polite.

  “Yet you think I would be averse to breaking a vow to someone who just threatened me with corporal retribution?”

  It was a decent point. I licked my lips, mind spinning. “Honor among thieves?”

  “You think me a thief, also?”

  My left cheek was pressed up against the wall, while my right arm was twisted behind my back in a manner that suggested there might be a great deal of pain to come. “A thief?” I tried to make a pfssting sound, but my mouth had gone dry. “No. Of course not. Not that you couldn’t be,” I hurried to add. “I’m sure you could be anything you put your mind to. A pickpocket or a—”

  “Who are you?”

  I squeezed my eyes closed. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “I do not like to break a vow,” he said, and lifted my arm a smidgeon.

  “Christina McMullen.” I rasped the words and waited for him to kill me, but he spoke instead.

  “Who?”

  Does it seem strange that his ignorance infuriated me? “Christina McMullen,” I gritted. “PhD.”

  “Yet you do not know the location of the saphenous artery?”

  “Will you forget about that damned artery?” Sounding haughty is no simple task when your face is being pressed into the rough logs of a cabin wall.

  “You truly are unfamiliar with Cal.”

  “I believe I’ve mentioned that.”

  “So who are you?”

  “I told you I’m—”

  “In a broader sense.”

  “I’m nobody.” The truth hurt a little, but if it was going to save my life I was willing to give it a try.

  He was still for several seconds. There was not a sound in the world. Finally, he released my arm and stepped back. “Nobody would not be as frightened as you.”

  I drew a deep breath and rubbed my neck. “I wish that were true.”

  “Who threatens you?”

  In for a penny, in for a pound. “The Black Flames.”

  I thought I saw surprise sprint across his face, but all expression was gone before I was entirely sure. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Vicious gang members are not usually so bored as to target those who have done nothing.”

  “Rivera…” Saying his name made my throat close up. “Lieutenant Rivera was investigating them.” I drew a deep breath, enjoying the feel of it. IMHO, people don’t appreciate oxygen nearly enough. It’s pretty close to chocolate on the must-have list. “He was afraid they intended to take me as a hostage.”

  I could almost see the thoughts running through his brain and headed off his next question. “I guess they didn’t get the memo that we broke up.”

  “They came for you?”

  I nodded.

  “Where were you at the time?”

  I cleared my throat, fighting back the terror the memories incited. “Rivera’s house.”

  “Perhaps that was why they were confused about your separation.”

  “I was just there because…” I shook my head, remembering that I had run to Rivera at the first sign of trouble, but that maybe…just maybe…it had simply been an excuse to see him again, to be held in his arms. “It doesn’t matter. He made me leave.”

  “To keep you safe?”

  “Of course,” I said, but a nagging little insect of doubt questioned the validity of that statement. Surely there must have been another way to ensure my well-being.

  “So you plan to spend the remainder of your life in the employment of Bess Hughes?”

  “No.” I swallowed, exhaled, forced myself to say the truth I had just realized. “I’m going back to L.A. soon.”

  “To challenge the most bloodthirsty gang in modern history.”

  I raised my chin. “If I have to.”

  “I am certain your lieutenant will miss you.”

  Subtle. But I caught his meaning. “Maybe you underestimate me.”

  He watched me for an amused second, then turned and trekked quietly into the kitchen. “I have seen your skills.”

  I followed him. “Not everyone can be a deranged kil—” I stopped myself just in time. “Teach me to fight.”

  “No,” he said, and opened the fridge.

  I glanced at the malamute/demon. Harlequin likes to squeeze into my refrigerator at every possible opportunity, but Danshov’s dog remained exactly where she was, not even mildly interested that he had opened the door to culinary delights. It was disturbing; even the hound had more self-control than I did.

  “Teach me,” I said, “and I won’t tell anyone who you really are.”

  “And who am I, really?”

  “I don’t know. But I bet D does.”

  Our gazes met over his just-retrieved veggies.

  “Tell me, Christina McMullen, are you trying to convince me to help you or to kill you?” he asked, and without dropping his gaze, chopped the stalks into small, perfectly identical segments.

  If I hadn’t been concerned that I was about to end up in whatever dish he was preparing, I would have been as impressed as hell. “I can pay you,” I breathed.

  “I do not need money,” he said, and took a cutting board from a drawer.

  “What? What do you mean, you don’t need money? That’s un-American.”

  “I am also not American.”

  “Then what do you need?” I asked, and grabbed his arm.

  The world stood still between us. He gazed at my hand for an eternity, then lifted his indolent attention to my face. Blue fire sparked in his eyes.

  “What do you offer?” he asked.

  “I…” resisted squirming and looked up at him through stubby, unvarnished lashes. “I need help.”

  He nodded as if that was the only obvious truth in a world rife with uncertainty.

  “You could help me,” I said, and tightened my fingers on his biceps. They felt as taut and hard as the limbs of a sycamore. Beneath his simple garments, he was probably hotter than a pistol. But it wasn’t as if I meant to seduce him or anything.

  A little sexual allure, on the other hand, wouldn’t hurt anything. “Please,” I breathed.

  He stared at my lips. I could feel the heat of his perusal and leaned in. I’m not proud of myself. But I was desperate. Desperate enough to kiss him.

  And that’s just what I did.

  Chapter 19

  Smarter than a fifth grader? I’d be thrilled to death if he could beat out dental floss.

  —Chrissy McMullen, regarding her amour du jour

  His lips were warm and firm. He tilted his head and slipped his fingers into my hair, pulling me closer. He smelled of power and dark chocolate, the greatest aphrodisiacs known to womankind. But I wasn’t enjoying this. I was far too smart for that. I was playing him for all I was worth, leaning into the kiss, drawing him in.

  That’s when he stepped back.

  I stumbled, unsteady in the wake of his reversal…and watched him shrug.

  “I do not believe I can afford the price,” he said, and nonchalantly turned away. In a moment, he was chopping veggies again. In that same span of time, I was tempted almost beyond control to hit him in the back of the head with a table, but I controlled myself with sterling aplomb.

  Still, my mind was spinning. I don’t like to brag, but back in my teenage days, I was said to have lips like a Hoover. I may have had acne. I may have had hips wide enough to sink a ship, proverbial or otherwise, but no one argued that I could kiss. And I wasn’t ready to believe that eighty-odd men and a couple of decades had diminished that stellar ability. Which meant there was only one explanation.

  “You could have told me you were gay. I wouldn’t have judged you.” My voice was admirably level, not even hinting at the insecurities and hormones that writhed like ugly snakes below the surface.

  His lips quirked the slightest amount as he added bok choy and morel mushrooms to his growing pile of vegetables.

  Laconic. Damn it. I hated laconic
. Turns out, I’d rather deal with felonious. “So…” I leaned my ass against the table that might at any moment be called into service as a deadly weapon and tried to look cool. “If you’re not interested in money or sex, what are you into?”

  The cabin was silent to the beat of my ovaries pumping out estrogen like toxic gasses.

  “Solitude,” he said, making me realize my mistake. It would be so much easier to hit him with a chair than a table.

  “Well,” I said, and added a casual shrug to my chill repertoire, “the sooner you teach me self-defense, the sooner you’ll be alone.”

  He glanced at me from beneath his brows. They were some low-ass brows, but not so much Cro-Magnon as say…early murderer.

  “Unless you kill me,” I said, attempting to make it sound like a joke. “But the police can be kind of intrusive when murder is involved.” He still didn’t speak. “Maybe you’re already aware of that.” I watched him add oil to a pan and tried for the life of me to read him. Who the hell was he? What was he doing here? How could I make him help me? “I suppose that’s why you’re here. To avoid certain…authorities?”

  He inhaled deeply, causing his nostrils to flare in a manner that should not have been sexy. “Are you a fortune teller, Ms. McMullen?”

  “Let’s just stick to O’Tara. Scarlet,” I said. “So as not to confuse the natives.”

  His eyes met mine. “Are you a fortune teller, Ms. O’Tara?”

  I gave him a why-not shrug. “A psychologist.”

  He chuckled, low and quiet. I didn’t know what it meant, but I gotta tell you, it didn’t do a whole hell of a bunch to improve my mood.

  I felt my brows lower a little. “I happen to be an excellent therapist.”

  Skepticism didn’t quite sum up his expression. It was closer to a scoop of cynicism with a garnish of I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass. Retrieving a bowl of deveined shrimp, he dropped them into the pan. They sizzled merrily.

  “I’m very intelligent,” I said.

  He glanced at me. If he was half as bored as he looked he would probably slip into a coma at any moment.

  “And intuitive.”

  He gave no indication he had heard me, but I was on a roll. “You, for instance,” I began, and narrowed my eyes as if thinking, though honest to God, I believe I may have given that up days before. “I would surmise that you have unresolved issues with your dad. A father complex, if you will.” It was a safe bet. Even normal people, of which I’ve met several, tend to want to slap their old man now and again.