Everything but her pallor, which was now far too white. There was a thin veneer of frost that coated every surface of her skin and dusted her perfectly tweezed brows and the thick fringe of her lashes, making them look brittle but beautiful.
“Is everything all right?” Sara asked, her breath coming out in a plume of steam that only Violet could see. Sara’s eyebrows furrowed and Violet knew she was staring, but she couldn’t stop herself.
It was the most striking imprint she’d ever witnessed.
“You’re wrong,” Violet breathed, her voice filled with wonder. “He’s already dead.” She blinked slowly. “James Nua. He just died.”
Sara thought about that. “You . . . you can feel it?”
Violet stared at the woman in front of her. “See it, actually.”
Blinking, Sara glanced down at her hands, the only part of herself she could really look at. “And you’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Bonding
HE CHECKED HIS REFLECTION AS HE PASSED THE oversized gilded mirror in the lobby of the upscale boutique hotel. Typical, he thought. This is exactly the type of place she would want to meet. Someplace where she could remind him that she was better than him.
But he couldn’t help grinning at the image that stared back at him. He wondered if she’d be surprised. He was no longer the gawky child he once was. No longer bashful and afraid. No longer ordinary.
A woman draped in a designer dress and glittering jewels turned her head. She practically tripped in her expensive heels, so she could watch him as she walked by despite the fact that she was clutching her date’s—or possibly her husband’s—arm. He was aware of the image he presented to the world. He was tall and handsome and charming.
But, of course, he could appear serious and shy too, when the need arose.
He’d become something of a chameleon. It was how he found so many of his girlfriends.
Right now, however, in this instance, the look he was going for was refined, and he smoothed his hands over the front of his jacket one last time before entering the main dining room.
He spotted her immediately; very little had changed in the past years. His stomach roiled nervously, despite his constant internal reiterations: I am good enough. She can’t hurt me unless I let her. Words are only words.
He hated that she still held this much power over him, and as he approached he felt his steps grow clumsier and his shoulders hunching. He concentrated, not wanting to trip in front of her, and as he reached the table he straightened to his full, impressive height.
“Mother,” he said, his voice not sounding nearly as pathetic as he felt.
She glanced up, as if she’d only just realized it was him, even though he’d felt her ruthless gaze on him the entire time. “Well, don’t just stand there. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
His jaw clenched, but he took a seat without a word.
A pretty, brown-eyed waitress brought their menus. She was exactly the type of girl he’d normally notice. But not tonight. Tonight another woman demanded his attention.
The waitress smiled warmly as she took his drink order—nothing stronger than tonic water. He needed to keep a clear head. He couldn’t afford to give his mother any advantage. She took far too much pleasure in cutting him down.
“Forget it. You don’t have a chance,” his mother announced in an all-too-familiar tone, bringing back painful childhood memories.
She can’t hurt me unless I let her. The mantra repeated in his head as he glanced up at her, pretending he had no idea she was referring to the waitress. She was wrong, though; he’d seen it in the girl’s eyes.
He took a breath. “You look . . . rested.” And she did. Four years abroad had been good to her. She’d shopped and spa’d her way across most of Europe. Her skin looked youthful and refreshed, and her eyes sparkled as maliciously as ever.
The years had been better for him, though, he silently congratulated himself. Four years away from her dictatorial rule. Four years rebuilding the boy she’d spent twenty years tearing down. Four years of deciding who he really wanted to be.
He grinned inwardly over his accomplishments—over all of the girls his mother thought he’d never be able to get.
The waitress came back with their drinks and he flashed his most devastating smile at her as he thanked her, his practiced voice the perfect blend of confidence and boyish charm. He felt a surge of smug satisfaction when she giggled nervously, and nearly spilled the white wine spritzer his mother had ordered.
“I brought you something,” he said once they were alone again, pulling a small package from his pocket. He’d wrapped it in tissue and tied it with ribbon himself, hating that, even after all these years, he still wanted to please her so badly.
When she just stared at it, her eyes filled with rancor as if it would be beneath her to open the handmade package with her own hands, he leaned forward. “Here,” he said, trying to hide the disappointment from his voice. “Let me.”
His fingers trembled as he untied the bow, and then tore through the insubstantial paper, revealing an antique filigree locket with a tiny luminous pearl at its center . . . a gift from one of his girls.
He thought it was perfect. He thought it would be beautiful on his mother, accenting her lovely throat.
He waited for her to say something, but there was silence. Virulent silence.
She glared at him as she reached for her drink, and he noticed her hands for the first time since meeting her here tonight.
Some things never changed, he realized belatedly, as he gazed at her impeccably manicured, lilac-polished fingernails.
Chapter 17
HER PARENTS HAD MET THEM AT THE FRONT door, and as much as Jay might have wanted to bolt, Violet was grateful that he’d stayed by her side. If she thought the police were thorough, it was nothing compared to the barrage of questions she’d faced at home.
And in the end, when all was said and done, Violet couldn’t stop her mom from blaming Sara and her team for what had happened to Violet.
“Mom,” Violet interrupted again, not wanting to have this conversation now—or ever, really—as she tried, once more, to explain. “It wasn’t Sara’s fault.” She collapsed onto the couch, too tired to do anything else as she glanced up at her mother. “It could’ve happened to anyone,” she said, still trying to convince herself it was partly true since she still didn’t know where her purse was.
“Mugged? Are you honestly going to sit there and tell me this had nothing to do with one of the cases you’re working on? That this was some sort of coincidence?”
Violet thought about that, sagging deeper into the cushion. Technically, James Nua was never her case. Or Sara’s. She’d just run into him at the police station after she’d been caught in Antonia Cornett’s apartment. “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Violet answered, trying not to choke on her own words. “The case we’re working on had nothing at all to do with this.”
Jay frowned at Violet over the top of her mom’s head, but Violet ignored him.
“Sara came as soon as she knew there was trouble,” Violet added.
Maggie Ambrose sighed, her shoulders drooping as she knelt down in front of her daughter. “Mugged, Violet? Come on. I don’t have to be ‘special’ to know you’re keeping something from me. Both of you.” And then she took both of Violet’s hands in her own. “You can’t blame us for being worried—or even upset. You’ve asked us to trust you and we have . . .” She met Violet’s gaze, but even though Violet didn’t want to hear what her mother had to say, it didn’t stop her from continuing. “At some point you have to trust us.”
“What . . . what are you trying to say?”
“I’m not saying anything yet. I’m just saying your dad and I need to talk things out. We need to think about what happened and what it means.”
Jerking her hands from her mother’s grip, Violet folded them tightly in her lap as she stubbornly blinked back tears. Her cheek ached, as
did almost everything now. But nothing as much as the ache in her chest.
There was no way she could stop working with her team . . . not now that she’d finally found them.
Having Jay there with her was the best kind of medicine. Once they were alone, he was both sweet and attentive, and more gentle than Violet would have thought possible.
“I can’t believe this happened to you. When are you going to stop putting yourself in danger?” His voice was laced with outrage. He was furious that someone—anyone—had laid hands on her, had hurt her in that way. He sighed heavily. “I wish I’d’ve been there, Vi. I would’ve never let him hurt you like this.”
Violet didn’t tease him about his threats to stand up to a gang member; he was too serious, and she was still too dazed to make jokes about it. The only thing that made either of them feel better was that Violet was certain James Nua was dead.
Jay brought her a hand mirror from the bathroom, and together they curled up on her bed and began exploring her injuries, each of them running their fingers carefully over the bruise beneath her eye, testing the feel of her swollen skin, and examining each scraped finger.
When he was finished, he climbed down from the bed and sat on his knees, leaning over her. He gently unclasped the necklace Krystal had given her, and Violet was glad he didn’t ask her what it was or where she’d gotten it. She didn’t want to talk about her team right now.
She watched as he lifted the hem of her shirt so he could look for bruises beneath, and she smiled, doubting he wouldn’t find any, but was awed by the reverence she saw on his face. By the time his eyes lifted to hers, his expression was calm again, reassuring.
He flattened his hand lightly over the surface of her stomach, softly letting his palm glide over her skin in a feather-soft caress. He brushed lightly across a scrape along the side of her rib cage, from where Nua had dragged her while she’d struggled against him. Jay’s fingers just barely grazed it. And then he bent forward, letting lips touch the tender abrasions. He took his time, his mouth—and his warm breath—giving her goose bumps. Violet sifted her fingers through his soft hair, tugging him closer until she was torn between two very different kinds of agony—the kind just below her skin’s surface, and the one that came from deep within her.
When she realized she was only torturing herself, she released the soft waves of his hair. “Are you almost done?” she breathed raggedly.
Jay grinned, raising only his eyes to hers. His lips moved lower, until at last he found the faintest bruise at her hip. It was where James Nua’s foot had clipped her.
She felt his lips then, tenderly—so, so tenderly—press against it. His tongue flickered lightly over her skin’s surface. Heat surged through her, making her nearly forget there was any pain at all. Then he moved all the way up and kissed her lips, more firmly than she would have imagined she could bear, one final time.
“Now I’m done,” he retorted, one brow raised as he scrutinized her glazed expression with complacent satisfaction.
He stood and Violet felt a stab of panic. “You’re not leaving, are you? It’s barely five o’clock.”
“Is that your way of asking me to stay?” He was grinning again, and his hair was a wild, tangled mess. She hated how desperate she sounded.
“No. If you have to go . . .” She sulked, wrapping her arms defensively over her chest, pretending it wouldn’t bother her to see him walk out the door.
Jay half-frowned, half-smiled, a look that only he could manage and still be disarmingly handsome. “Of course I’m staying, Vi. I’m not sure I’m ever leaving you alone again.”
Violet sighed, a relieved sound that came from deep in the back of her throat. “Whatever. I’m pretty sure this is a one-time thing you’ve got goin’ on here. The only reason my parents gave you an all-access pass to my bedroom is because they’re pretty sure we can’t mess around. I mean . . . look at me. After tonight, it turns back into an isolation chamber.”
It was almost hard to believe that they’d once been given free rein to her bedroom, with closed-door privileges and all . . . especially considering they’d now been relegated to the public areas of the house only. Not that she blamed her parents, really. Back then, before Violet and Jay had been a couple, the worst her parents had had to worry about was how much junk food they were sneaking before dinner. Or whether they were actually doing their homework or just playing around on the internet.
Now there were other things they could be doing when no one was watching.
Either because of Violet’s injuries, or because they felt guilty about trying to force her off the team, tonight was different. Not only was Jay in her bedroom, but the door was closed.
And Violet was too hurt to make it count.
Jay crossed the room to her dresser and pulled the top drawer open. “I don’t know if anyone’s told you this, but you’re kind of a mess,” he teased, pulling a T-shirt out and tossing it onto the foot of her bed. “Besides, you should probably put something more comfortable on.” He was just pushing the drawer closed again when he paused.
Violet saw the bottle in his hand when he turned back around to face her, the transparent brown pill container he held. “What’s this?” he asked, his tone serious now.
She shrugged. “Dr. Lee gave them to me. I was having trouble sleeping.”
“Maybe you should take one now,” he said, glancing pensively at the bottle.
She thought about how fuzzy she’d felt when she’d taken them before. “I don’t think so. I’m fine . . . really.”
“Come on, Vi,” he implored as he drew her curtains closed, his brows raised. “Stop trying to be so tough. I mean, look at you. You’ve been shivering ever since I picked you up. It seems like sleep might be exactly what you need.” He read the handwritten label and shook one of the white caplets into his palm.
Violet didn’t argue when he offered it to her. She knew he was right. Her body ached and she was exhausted. And the doctor had prescribed them for just that reason. She reached for the water on her nightstand and swallowed it. Then she climbed beneath the covers, grimacing as she rolled onto her side, trying to get comfortable.
Jay turned off the overhead light, leaving just the light coming in from between her curtains as he crossed back to her bed. He tucked the covers around her before climbing on top of them, curling his body around her.
As his heavy arm draped over her gently, she heard herself ask, “Why not under the blankets?”
His arm tightened, just the barest of squeezes, and she felt his breath in her hair. “Because there’s no way I’d ever be invited back if your dad caught me in the bed with you.” And then his lips brushed the back of her head. “Now, go to sleep, Violet.”
At some point Violet was aware Jay was no longer in the bed with her, even though she’d never actually heard him telling her good-bye or felt the shift of the bed as he’d gotten up to leave.
But, now, hours later, as morning approached, she became distinctly aware of the fact that someone else was in her room with her.
Shuffling footsteps found their way through the blackness of her bedroom, and she forced her eyes to stay shut. There was the soft clink of glass on her bedside table and then the sound of pills clattering inside a plastic bottle. Violet thought of the pills tucked away in her dresser drawer, the ones Jay had given her earlier, and realized she still felt hazy. But the effects were beginning to wear off, if only slightly. “I brought you some more Tylenol,” her mother’s voice said softly. “In case you need them . . .” There was a heavy sigh, and then her bed dipped.
Her mom’s hand reached out and gently brushed her cheek, so lightly that Violet almost didn’t feel it at first. “You understand why we’re worried, don’t you, Vi?” she asked softly.
It didn’t matter why, Violet thought, bracing herself against her mother’s explanations. Their reasons didn’t change anything; they were talking about forcing her to give up the one place she felt . . . normal.
�
�I know you do.” Her mother went on, not seeming to care—or even notice—that this was a one-sided conversation. “I can’t let anything else happen to you. I’ve been second-guessing my decision to let you do this . . . with them . . . since the very first day. And every time you walked out that door. Do you know how many nights I’ve lain awake, waiting until I heard you come in again? Do you think I ever slept until I knew—for sure—that you were safe?” There was another pause, but it was brief. “This,” she said, her thumb moving gently to the bruise beneath Violet’s eye, “is nothing. This isn’t my biggest fear and you know it.”
There was a long pause, a weighted, expectant pause. Violet held her breath, waiting for what was coming.
“Sara called to say they found Casey Atkins. They got a call that she was in a warehouse downtown, just like the other girl.”
Her mom didn’t have to say that Casey was dead. Violet understood. She lay there, silently mourning for the girl, wishing she’d been able to do something for her. Wishing she’d been able to find a way to stop her killer.
Wishing her parents weren’t thinking of pulling her from her team.
“I can’t lose you.” Her mom’s voice sounded steely. Determined. “I won’t.” She stood then, and again Violet forced herself not to groan against the discomfort of her bed shifting.
When she thought she was alone again, Violet opened her eyes, but her mother was propped against the doorframe, light filtering in from the hallway behind her, outlining her like an apparition. “I knew you were listening.”
Violet’s expression was wooden as she answered. “Just because I understand your reasons doesn’t mean I have to accept them.”
Chapter 18
VIOLET WASN’T SURPRISED THAT NO ONE HAD come in to wake her. She’d assumed her parents were letting her take a sick day.
But it was worth it. The last thing she wanted to do was to explain her black eye each time she changed classes. And what was she supposed to say, anyway? That she got beat up by a gang member? One who’d been killed by a former FBI agent, the lady who ran the team of psychic investigators Violet worked for?
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