“My cousins needed a way to work off some excess energy.”
“But beating up on wolves?”
“What makes you think we won?”
To effectively reply to that, Vic just stared at her and raised one side of his mouth.
“All right, all right,” she said around a laugh.
“You know how emotionally vested the wolves get about dominance. Why don’t you just go beat up some puppies, too?”
Vic heard what sounded suspiciously like a giggle.
“Okay! I get it,” she said. “I’ll send them an ‘I’m sorry’ basket of Milk-Bones to make it up to them.”
“You are so mean.”
“I know. It’s a genetic flaw.”
“Speaking of genetic flaws, where are the cousins you played paintball with?”
“They went out to eat. But I wanted to come home and see you.”
Vic placed his hand under Livy’s, wincing at the size difference. His hands looked like giant dinner plates next to hers. But when she curled her fingers in between his, clasping their hands together, Vic realized that the size difference didn’t matter.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he asked.
“And go where?”
“My house. Just for the night.”
Her nose wrinkled a bit when she grimaced. “We shouldn’t leave Coop, Cherise, and Kyle alone in the house.”
“Because of what Coop and Cherise might do to the kid when they can’t take it anymore?”
“Kyle will have to learn to deal with his siblings on his own. I’m just concerned that with my family out doing what they do—”
“Shen’s here. He’ll watch out for them.”
“Why is Shen here? Doesn’t he have a home?”
“Somewhere, but hell if I know where it is. But it’s not in Manhattan. Or any of the five buroughs. So until we’re done with this, he’s not going anywhere.”
“You think he’ll mind?”
“Coop just ordered Mexican for dinner. Shen will not mind staying.”
“Big Mexican food fan, is he?”
“He’s a big fan of food in general.” Tightening his fingers a bit so Livy couldn’t pull away, Vic stood, tugging until she got up, as well. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. Just for tonight.”
“As long as Shen is watching out for them, that’s probably a good idea.”
Vic led Livy down the street to where he’d parked his SUV. While they walked, he pulled out his cell phone and sent Shen a quick text to let him know what was going on.
He reached his vehicle and opened the door for Livy. Because of its enormous size, she had to step up and then into the SUV. But she turned and faced him before sitting down in the seat, her hands resting on the frame.
She gazed at him for a long moment, then asked, “Do you have honey at your house?”
Vic swallowed. “We can stop at a place I know to pick some up. It’s open late. Bear owned.”
Livy reached out with one hand, stroked her fingers down his jaw. “Good plan.”
Vic waited until Livy was in her seat before he closed the door. He moved around the SUV, trying really hard not to run. It wasn’t easy. He wanted to run. And speed. All the way back to his house. That would be tacky, though. He didn’t want to be tacky.
Right? He didn’t want to be tacky?
Coop was having a pleasant evening. He was sitting on the couch, working on the symphony he’d started to write a few days ago on a whim. Cherise was on one end of the couch, the remote control in her hand, indulging her secret love of reality television. His music had him pretty well sucked in, but it was entertaining to occasionally look up and see people yell at each other for ratings. On the other end of the couch was Kyle. He was in a sketching mood tonight, and Coop was grateful. When Kyle sketched, he was so absorbed by his work that he was quiet for once. Wonderfully, beautifully, amazingly quiet.
It was nice. Three prodigies, sitting around, being casual . . . while creating work that would last hundreds of years. See? They could be normal like everyone else.
The giant panda, Shen, walked into the living room. He had his cell phone in one hand and one of his many bamboo stalks in the other.
Staring at his phone he said, “Got a text from Vic. He and Livy are heading to his house for the night. He wants me to keep an eye on you guys while they’re gone.”
“Great,” Coop said, suddenly not liking the flow of what he’d just written. “Thanks.” He reached for the eraser he kept next to him and removed the offending notes, started again.
“You know”—Cherise lowered the sound on the dramatic yelling—“I think Livy’s really into Vic.”
“Really?” Coop asked, still erasing. He hated seeing the remnants of his failures.
“I’m worried, though.”
“Why?”
“He’s awfully nice. Maybe too nice. You know, for Livy.”
“He’s not that nice,” Kyle tossed in. “He’s seen enough of life and death to be able to handle the darker side of Livy’s personality and needs. And Livy doesn’t need someone who is like her. She doesn’t need a honey badger as a mate. She knows, at least subconsciously, that connecting with someone like her would lead to what her parents once had. She fears that. She is, much to her surprise, a one-man woman. She will never be comfortable with the yelling, cheating, and lying that her parents thought of as sport so things never got too boring. For an artist she’s surprisingly conventional about relationships.”
After staring at each other, Coop and Cherise gazed at their younger brother with wide eyes and opened mouths.
He glanced away from what Coop realized was a sketch of the Arc de Triomphe, which they’d seen on their three-day stopover in Paris before heading back to New York. And it was meticulous and wonderful and . . . perfection. Still . . . Coop wondered if his brother might be missing another possible career.
“Have you thought about studying psychology, Kyle?” he asked.
“I plan to get my PhD in that. To get my PhD in art history just seems so . . . useless. I study art and its history every second of every day. I mean, when you think about it . . . I’m art history in the making. But a PhD in psychology would allow me to understand my enemies so I can destroy them and their careers before they get in my way.”
Cherise leaned over and whispered in Coop’s ear, “If he starts wondering about the taste of human flesh, you do understand we will have to stop him before his murder spree begins?”
“I’m more worried,” Cooper whispered back, “that he’ll become ruling overlord of the universe and we’ll have to find some kind of magic sword if we hope to destroy him.”
They both shuddered and returned to their work.
But after a few minutes, all three siblings looked up and saw the giant panda standing by the TV, eating his bamboo and staring at them.
“Something wrong?” Cooper asked him.
“Just keeping an eye on you three. Like I promised Vic. And thanks for not going to different rooms. It makes it easier to do my job.”
Coop glanced at Cherise and Kyle. Since none of them had any ideas on how to handle this, they again focused on what they were doing. But at least Cherise turned up the TV quite a bit to help drown out the sound of the panda’s munching.
That did help. At least a little.
Allison Whitlan walked into her beautiful home. She removed her cashmere coat and placed it in the closet. She removed her Jimmy Choos, sighing at the cold marble in the hallway against her feet. With the shoes hanging from one hand and her Chanel purse in the other, she went to her living room.
She was halfway across when she stopped, the hairs on the back of her neck raised, and goose bumps spreading up her spine and down the backs of her arms. Slowly, she turned and faced the beautiful but powerfully built Asian woman standing by the gift Allison’s worthless father had sent her. She’d kept the gift, as she’d kept all his gifts over the years, but only because it was unique and interesting.
Her friends, great world travelers, had been fascinated by such a large honey badger. They’d all been under the assumption that the African animal was much smaller in size.
“How the hell did you get in here?” she demanded of the woman, who was dressed brazenly in a tight red dress, with bold gold jewelry on her neck and arms.
“I need a name from you.”
“What?” Allison took a step toward the woman, but the intruder raised her forefinger, swung it back and forth while clicking her tongue against her teeth. At that moment, in that very second, Allison knew she was in grave danger. That this . . . person could and would kill her without a second’s thought.
Allison knew it, and it terrified her as nothing ever had before.
“I need a name.”
“It’s my father you want, isn’t it?” Allison shook her head. “You can threaten me if you want, but it won’t matter to my father. He won’t care. All you see here, all the money I have, is because of my mother and stepfather.”
The woman gazed at her with the blackest eyes Allison had ever seen, and after a moment, she pointed at the stuffed honey badger with one perfectly manicured nail.
“Did your father give you this?”
“Yes.”
“Did he bring it himself?”
Allison blinked at the question. She was used to these kinds of questions from the police. The FBI. All of them had been at her door more than once over the years. All looking for her father. Her criminal father. The best thing her mother had ever done was leave that man and marry Allison’s stepfather. Not only had he been ridiculously wealthy, but he’d actually cared about Allison and her mother. Took care of them. Even now he and her mother were still together, currently on her stepfather’s yacht in the Caymans.
“No,” Allison replied. “He didn’t bring it himself. I haven’t seen my father in . . .” she thought a moment. “Ten . . . maybe fifteen years.”
“Then who brought this to you?”
Allison hesitated. But the woman suddenly started walking toward her. Slowly. Taking her time crossing the space between them. She was shorter than Allison, even in those fifteen-hundred-dollar shoes she wore. But good God! Those shoulders! She looked like she could take Allison’s stainless steel front door down with those shoulders.
The woman reached her hand out, and Allison struggled not to jerk away, feeling a movement—any movement at all—would get her killed.
The woman gently pushed a loose curl behind Allison’s ear. “Don’t start lying to me now, sweetie.”
She had an accent, but she was trying to hide it. Her words were clipped, almost British. But she wasn’t from Hong Kong. Allison had lots of friends who were, she traveled there often, and this woman didn’t sound like them.
Nor did she seem like anyone Allison had met before. Ever. In fact, now that Allison was close to her, there was something so primal about this woman, so base, that Allison had to struggle not to cry in abject fear.
Instead, she swallowed back her tears and her fears and she answered the woman honestly. “Some delivery company. Out of Florida. There was no note. Or return address.”
“Then how did you know it was from your father?”
“The deliveryman told me.”
The woman took Allison at her word, maybe because she could actually smell Allison’s fear. It wouldn’t surprise Allison. This woman knew fear, understood it, and thrived on it.
Finally, the woman stepped away from Allison, absently patting her arm. “Very good,” she said, turning away from her and heading across the room.
“If you don’t mind,” she added as she moved away, “I’ll be taking this with me.”
And, out of the darkness of Allison’s living room, Asian men appeared. She hadn’t even sensed they were there. Hadn’t known that she wasn’t alone with this woman. They were Asian, like the woman, and broad. Short, but so powerfully built, Allison had no doubt any of them could have killed her with one blow.
They went over to the stuffed honey badger and picked it up. And she couldn’t explain it, but they seemed to do it with . . . respect. With honor. As if carrying the casket of a fallen soldier.
With care, they lifted the carcass up, stopping briefly by the woman. She rested her hand on the back of it, her head momentarily bowed. That was when Allison felt real . . . pain. Grief. Yes. She felt grief from the woman.
Confused, she watched the woman remove her hand and toss her head back. She let out a breath and made a motion. The men walked out, and the woman looked back at Allison.
“We’ll be leaving through the front door here and then the lobby. You will not call the police. You will tell no one we were here. Anyone. I don’t care who it is. Understand?”
Allison nodded, and the woman walked across the living room, but she stopped one more time when she reached the archway. The woman faced her.
Allison took in a breath, steeling herself for whatever nightmare was about to come next. Threats? Had this woman changed her mind? Would she now kill Allison?
Gazing at her with those cold black eyes, the woman said, “I love your shoes. Are those from the new line?”
Shocked, Allison swallowed, and said, “Next year’s fall line. I have a male friend who works with the company.”
“Lucky you!” The woman smiled. “I’d kill for that.”
Then the woman was gone. The steel door slammed shut.
Allison dropped to her knees, urine running down her legs and into a puddle beneath her, while her entire body shook senselessly for hours.
While Joan’s brothers put poor Damon into the back of the van, she called Balt.
“Yes, my beauty.”
She grinned. The man would just never give up, would he? She liked that. “She didn’t have a name.”
“You believe her?”
“I do. She couldn’t have lied to me if she’d wanted to.”
“We will take from here then, yes?”
“Good luck. See you when you get back.” She disconnected the call and got into the front passenger side of the van.
“Where now?” her younger brother asked.
Joan glanced back at the remains of her mate, but she couldn’t look at him for long. It was too painful.
Focusing on the streets in front of her, she said, “Crematorium.” Her brother stared at her, and she added, “You don’t really think he’s going to shift back to human now, do you?”
“You have a point.” Her brother started the van, and waited to pull into traffic. That was when he added, “But if I find out there’s any insurance policy out there with my name on it . . . me and you? We got problems.”
“Don’t worry. There’s nothing like that out there.”
Then to turn that lie into a truth, Joan put a reminder in her phone to cancel the insurance policies she had on her brothers.
John Lindow had come home early from the party, and he was glad he had. There was someone in his office. A room even his bitch of a wife didn’t go into. And even if she was brave enough to try, she was out of the country for the next month, spending his money in France. His own fault, though. He didn’t have to marry a “model,” as she still liked to call herself.
With his two bodyguards behind him, John quietly walked up the stairs of his Miami mansion and stopped outside the office.
There was a man working at his computer. A man he didn’t know. Because he had an amazing view from this room and bodyguards to protect him, John’s desk faced the big windows, so the man’s back was to the door.
John held his hand out, and one of his guards handed him a .22 he kept on him for this sort of thing.
He took aim and shot the man in the back. The power of the shot pushed the man forward, and then he fell out of the chair and onto the floor.
John handed the gun back to his guard and walked into the room. He didn’t want to kill the man right away. Not until he knew what he was doing here.
Leaning down, John studied his computer screen, ignoring the
splatter of blood.
“Ahh. I see.” This man wanted to know who was involved in the shipment that went to Allison Whitlan. Frankie Whitlan’s daughter. John’s company delivered all sorts of things for anyone who could afford their prices. From expensive rugs legally sent from France to elephant tusks illegally sent from Africa, John’s company did it all. But the illegal jobs were dealt with differently. There might be a record of a package going to a certain location, but he wasn’t stupid enough to actually write “nearly extinct tiger meat inside. Handle with care” on the box.
Knowing the man hadn’t found anything he could use, John stood. “Okay, guys, let’s—”
John frowned. His guards were gone. He walked out into the hallway, but they weren’t there, either. Had they heard a noise? Maybe, but even when that happened, one guard always stayed with John while the other investigated.
A cracking noise behind him had John spinning around. The man he’d shot was standing now, and that noise John had heard was the man cracking his back.
“You know,” the man said, “it’ll take them hours to get that bullet out of my back.”
John didn’t understand. The man hadn’t been wearing a bulletproof vest. Or any protection but a long-sleeved T-shirt. A .22 in the back might not kill, but it should still damage. A lot.
The man took a deep breath and let it out. “But I’m not going to get mad.” John backed up as the man walked toward him. He turned to run, but he was caught by his neck. John fought hard. He wasn’t a weak person. He had bodyguards, but he knew there was only so much they could do. He still knew how to take care of himself. Yet no matter how many times or how hard he hit the man dragging him down the hallway, John couldn’t seem to hurt him.
The man took him down the stairs, down the hallway, through the kitchen and mudroom, until they were out the back door. It was late, so the woman who cleaned his house was in her little bungalow. And John knew she’d never come out to investigate. She’d learned a long time ago that was a quick way to see something she didn’t want to see. Yet, even understanding that, John still screamed for help. But he knew it wouldn’t make any difference.
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