Bloodfever (8 page)

“They never told us. We assumed. It was easier that way; we liked the finality of it. No worries that one day someone out there might come to their senses and try to take our girls away. Legal nightmares like that happen all the time.”

“Did you and Mom ever go back and try to find out more about us?”

Dad nodded. “I don't know if you recall, but Alina was very ill when she was eight and the doctors wanted more information about her medical history than we had. We found the church had burned to the ground, the adoption agency had closed, and the private investigator I hired to look into things couldn't locate a single ex-employee.” He absorbed the look on my face and smiled faintly. “I know. Odd again. You must understand, Mac, the two of you were
ours.
We didn't care where you'd come from, only that you'd come. And that you're coming home with me now,” he added pointedly. “How long will it take you to pack?”

I sighed. “I'm not packing, Dad.”

“I'm not leaving without you, Mac,” he said.

“You must be Jack Lane,” said Barrons.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. “I wish you'd quit doing that.” I craned my neck to shoot him an over-the-shoulder glare. How did such a large man move so silently? Once again, he was standing behind me while I was having a conversation, and neither of us had heard him approach. It aggravated me even more that he knew my father's first name. I'd never told him.

Dad rose in that way big, self-assured men have, slowly, stretching to the last quarter inch of his height, and seeming to fill out even larger along the way. His expression was reserved but interested; he was curious to meet my new employer—despite the fact that he'd already decided I wouldn't be working for him anymore.

His expression changed the instant he saw Barrons. It frosted, shuttered, hardened.

“Jericho Barrons.” Barrons extended his hand.

Dad stared at it, and for a few moments I wasn't sure he'd take it. Then he inclined his head and the men clasped hands, and held.

And
held. Like it was some kind of pissing contest, and whichever man let go first might have to forfeit a ball.

I looked from one to the other, and realized that Barrons and my dad were having one of those wordless conversations he and I have from time to time. Though the language was, by nature, foreign to me, I grew up in the Deep South where a man's ego is roughly the size of his pickup truck, and women get an early and interesting education in the not-so-subtle roar of testosterone.

She's my daughter, you prick, and if you're thinking about your prick when you're looking at her, I'll rip it off and hang you by it.

Try.

You're too old for her. Leave her alone.
(I wanted to tell my dad he was way off base with this one, but despite the dogged determination with which I tried to interrupt and force my ocular two cents' worth in, neither of them would look at me.)

You think? I bet she doesn't think I'm too old. Why don't you ask her?
(Barrons said that just to irritate him. Of course, I think he's too old for me. Not that I think about him that way at all.)

I'm taking her home.

Try.
(Barrons can be a man of annoyingly few words.)

She'll choose me over you,
Dad told him proudly.

Barrons laughed.

“Mac, baby,” my dad said without ever taking his eyes off Barrons, “get your things. We're going home.”

I groaned. Of course, I'd choose my dad over Barrons, if given a fair choice. But it wasn't a fair choice. I hadn't been given many of them lately. I knew my refusal was going to hurt him. And I needed to hurt him, because I needed to make him leave.

“I'm sorry, Daddy, but I'm staying here,” I said softly.

Jack Lane flinched. His gaze cut away from Barrons to stab at me with cool reproof, but not before I saw the hurt and betrayal beneath the lawyer-face he didn't paste on quick enough to mask.

Barrons' dark eyes gleamed. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.

I went with Dad to the airport the next morning to see him off.

Last night I wouldn't have believed I'd get him to go, and frankly I'm not sure
I'm
the one that did.

He'd stayed at the bookstore, in one of the extra fourth-floor bedrooms, and kept me up until three o'clock in the morning, arguing every angle he could think of—and believe me, attorneys can wear you out with them—trying to change my mind. We'd done something we never do: gone to bed mad at each other.

This morning, however, he'd been an entirely different man. I'd woken up to find him already downstairs, having coffee with Barrons in the study. He'd greeted me with one of those big all-encompassing hugs I love so much. He'd been relaxed, affectionate, his usual charismatic self, a man that, even at twice their age, had made most of my high school girlfriends giggle like morons. He'd been robust, cheerful, in all-around better spirits than I'd seen him since Alina's death.

He'd smiled and shaken Barrons' hand when we'd left, with what had looked like genuine friendliness, even respect.

I suppose Barrons must have confided something of himself in my father that revealed a hidden integrity of character I have yet to see, that set Jack Lane's legal-eagle mind at ease. Whatever he and Barrons had found to talk about, it'd worked wonders.

After a quick stop at Dad's hotel to grab his luggage, a bag of croissants, and coffee, we filled our time on the way to the airport discussing one of our favorite topics: cars and the new designs unveiled at the latest auto show.

At the terminal I soaked up another hug, sent my love to Mom, promised to call soon, and managed to make it back to the bookstore just in time to open up for business.

I had a good day, but I've begun to realize that's when life
likes
to kick you in the teeth—the moment you start to relax and let your guard down.

By six o'clock, I'd had fifty-six patrons, rung up an impressive amount of sales, and discovered that I loved being a bookseller. I'd found my calling. Instead of serving drinks and watching people turn into drunken idiots, I was being paid to give people wonderful stories to escape into, full of mystery, mayhem, and romance. Instead of splashing anesthetizing alcohol into glasses, I was pouring fictional tonics to alleviate the stress, hardship, and drudgery of their lives.

I wasn't corroding anybody's liver. I didn't have to watch balding, middle-aged men hitting on pretty young coeds, trying to recapture their glory days. I wasn't deluged by the sordid sob stories of the recently and so often well deservedly jilted, while I stood behind my counter. I didn't have to watch a single person cheat on their spouse, urinate on the floor, or pick a fight all day.

At six o'clock, I should have counted my blessings and closed early.

But I didn't, and just when I was starting to feel almost happy and good about myself, my life went to hell again.

SEVEN

N
ice place you have here,” said my latest customer, as the door banged shut behind him. “I wouldn't have thought the interior was so big from out on the sidewalk.”

I'd had the same thought the first time I entered Barrons Books and Baubles. The building just didn't look large enough on the outside to contain all the room it held on the inside.

“Hi,” I said. “Welcome to Barrons. Are you looking for something special?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“You've come to the right place, then,” I told him. “If we don't have the book you want in stock, we can order it, and we've got some great collectibles up on the second and third floors.” He was a good-looking man in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, dark-haired and nicely built. I seem to be surrounded by attractive men lately.

When I stepped around the counter, he gave me an appreciative once-over, making me glad I'd dressed up. I hadn't wanted my dad to go home carrying a mental snapshot of his daughter, bedraggled, bruised, and gloomily attired, so I'd chosen my outfit with care this morning. I'd dug out a frothy peach skirt that kicked flirtatiously when I walked, a pretty camisole, and gold sandals that laced up my calves. I'd woven a brilliantly painted silk scarf through my short Arabian Night curls, and knotted it at my nape, letting the ends trail across my bare shoulders. I'd taken time with my makeup, concealing my bruises, and dusting a shimmery bronzer across my nose, cheeks, and breastbone. Dangly crystal earrings brushed my neck when I moved, and a single large teardrop rested in my cleavage.

Glam-girl Mac felt fantastic.

Savage Mac was pleased only by the spear strapped to the inside of my right thigh. And the short dirk I'd found on a display pedestal in Barrons' study and strapped to my left one. And the small flashlight tucked into my pocket. And the four pairs of scissors behind the counter. And the research I'd been doing in my spare time today on gun laws in Ireland and how to go about acquiring one. I thought the semiautomatics looked good.

“American?” he said.

I was beginning to get the hang of being a tourist in Dublin. In college the question was “What's your major?” Abroad everyone guesses your nationality. I nodded. “And you're definitely Irish.” I smiled. He had a deep voice, a lilting accent, and looked like he'd been born to wear that thick, cream Irish fisherman's sweater, faded jeans, and rugged boots. He moved with easy grace, born of muscle and machismo. He was a rightie, I couldn't help but notice. Blushing, I busied myself neatening the evening newspapers on the counter.

For the next few minutes we indulged in the light banter of a male and female who find each other attractive and enjoy the timeless ritual of flirtation. Not everyone does, and frankly I think it's a lost art form. Flirtation doesn't have to go somewhere; it certainly doesn't need to end up in bed. I like to think of it as a little friendlier than a handshake, a little less intimate than a kiss. It's a way of saying hi, you look great, have a wonderful day. A tasteful flirtation, played out by people who understand the rules, leaves everyone feeling good and can perk up the bluest mood.

I was certainly feeling perky by the time I steered the conversation back around to business. “So what can I help you find, Mr …?” I nudged delicately for a name.

“O'Bannion.” He offered his hand. “Derek O'Bannion. And I'm hoping you can help me find my brother, Rocky.”

 

Have you ever had one of those moments when time just freezes? You know, when the world suddenly goes deathly still, and you could hear a pin drop, and the squishing sound your heart makes is so loud in your ears you feel like you're drowning in blood, and you stand there in that suspended moment and die a thousand deaths, but not really, and the moment passes and dumps you out on the other side of it, with your mouth hanging open, and an erased blackboard where your mind used to be?

I think I've been watching too many old movies lately, in the middle of the night when I can't sleep, because the disembodied voice that offered counsel at that moment sounded a lot like John Wayne.

Buck up, little buckaroo, it said, in a dry, gravelly drawl. You wouldn't believe how many things that advice has gotten me through since. When everything else is gone, balls are all any of us really have left. The question is: Are yours made of flesh and blood, or steel?

 

When I shook Derek O'Bannion's hand, the spear I'd stolen from his brother before I'd led him to his unwitting death burned like a brand from hell against my inner thigh. I ignored it. “Goodness, is your brother missing?” I blinked up at him.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“He was last seen two weeks ago.”

“How awful!” I exclaimed. “What brings you to our bookstore?”

He stared down at me, and I suddenly wondered how I could have missed the resemblance. The same cold eyes that had watched me two weeks ago from inside a mobster's den wallpapered with crosses and religious iconography gazed down at me now. Some would have pegged Rocky and his brother Derek as Black Irish, but I knew from Barrons, who knows everything about everyone, that the fierce, ruthless blood of a long-ago Saudi ancestor runs in O'Bannion veins.

“I've been stopping in at all the businesses along this street. There are three cars in the alley behind this shop. Do you know anything about them?”

I shook my head. “No. Why?”

“They belong to … associates of my brother. I was wondering if you knew when they'd been left there and why. If you heard or saw anything. Maybe a fourth black car? A very expensive one?”

I shook my head again. “I really don't go out back at all, and I don't much notice cars. My boss disposes of the trash. I just work here. I try to stay inside most of the time. Alleys scare me.” I was babbling. I bit down lightly on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from talking. “Have you spoken to the police?” I encouraged. Go there, leave here, I willed silently.

Derek O'Bannion's smile was sharp as knives. “O'Bannions don't trouble the police with our problems. We take care of them ourselves.” He studied me with clinical detachment, all flirtation gone. “How long have you been working here?”

“Three days,” I said truthfully.

“You're new to town.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“What's your name?”

“Mac.”

He laughed. “You don't look like a Mac.”

Was this safer ground presenting itself? “What do I look like?” I asked lightly, leaning a hip against the counter and subtly arching my spine. Go back to flirting with me, my body posture invited.

He scanned me from head to toe. “Trouble,” he said after a moment, with a faint, sexually charged smile.

I laughed. “I'm really not.”

“Too bad,” he parried. But I could tell his mind wasn't fully on flirting. It was on his brother. And something else I could completely understand; it was on a hunt for the truth, for retribution. What vagaries of fate had made kindred souls of us—me and this man? Oh, excuse me, it hadn't been vagaries. It was
me
.

He took a business card from his wallet, a pen from his pocket, and scribbled on the back. “If you should see or hear anything, you'll tell me, won't you, Mac?” He took my hand, turned it palm up, and dropped a kiss in it before the card. “Anytime. Day or night. Anything. No matter how inconsequential you think it seems.”

I nodded.

“I think he's dead,” Derek O'Bannion told me. “And I'm going to kill the fuck that did it.”

I nodded again.

“He was my brother.”

I nodded a third time. “My sister was murdered,” I blurted.

His gaze sharpened with new interest. I was suddenly more in his eyes than another flirty, pretty girl. “Then you understand vengeance,” he said softly.

“I understand vengeance,” I agreed.

“Call me anytime, Mac,” he said. “I think I like you.”

I watched him leave in silence.

When the door closed behind him, I raced to the bathroom, locked myself in, and leaned back against the door, where I stood staring at myself in the mirror trying to reconcile dual images.

I was hunting the monster that had killed my sister.

I
was
the monster that had killed his brother.

 

When I came out of the bathroom, I glanced around, relieved to find no customers had entered the store. I'd forgotten to slap one of the Back in five minutes signs that I'd made up yesterday to cover my bathroom breaks on the front door.

I hurried now to turn over the sign. Once again I was closing early. Barrons was just going to have to deal with it. It wasn't much early, and it wasn't like he needed the money.

As I flipped the placard, I made the mistake of glancing out the window.

It was nearly dark, that time of day folks around these parts call “gloaming,” or twilight, when the day gently bruises into night.

And I was unable to decide which was worse: Inspector Jayne sitting on a bench a few doors down to the right not even pretending to be reading the newspaper he held; the black-shrouded specter standing directly across the street, watching me from beneath the ashy shadows of a dimly flickering streetlamp; or Derek O'Bannion exiting a shop two doors down, turning left, and heading straight into the Dark Zone.

 

“Where the
hell
have you been?” Barrons yanked open the cab door and pried me out with a hand around my upper arm. My feet left the ground for a moment.

“Don't start with me,” I growled. Shaking off his grip, I pushed past him. Inspector Jayne's cab was just pulling up behind me. I wonder if he missed his family yet. I hoped he'd get tired of me soon and go home.

“I'm getting you a cell phone, Ms. Lane,” he barked at my back. “You will carry it at all times, like the spear. You will do nothing without it. Need I remind you of all the things you won't be doing without it?”

I told him where he could put my as-yet-unpurchased cell phone—the sun didn't shine there and I didn't call it by a flower's name—and stomped into the store.

He stomped in after me. “Have you forgotten the dangers out there in the Dublin night, Ms. Lane? Shall we go for a little walk?” Once before when he'd thought I was being intractable he'd threatened to drag me into the Dark Zone at night. Tonight, I was too numb to care. Dead bolts rang out like bullets against steel as he slammed them home. “Have you forgotten your purpose here, Ms. Lane?”

“How could I?” I said bitterly. “Every time I try to, something worse happens.”

I was halfway to the connecting doors when he caught me and spun me around. He gave me a furious once-over that seemed to get tangled up for a moment on the crystal dangling between my breasts. Or was it my breasts? “And there you are, dressed like a two-bit floozy, going out for a drink. What the fuck were you thinking?
Were
you thinking?”

“Two-bit floozy? Get with the times, Barrons. I don't look like a two-bit anything. In fact, I'm positively overdressed by lots of people's standards these days, and certainly wearing more than that stupid little black dress you made me wear when we—” I broke off; where I'd worn that skimpy halter dress was hitting too close to home right now. “And for the record,” I said stiffly, “I did
not
go out for a drink.”

“Don't lie to me, Ms. Lane. I smell it on you. And other things. Who was the man?” His dark, exotic face was cold. His nostrils flared and constricted like an animal scenting prey.

Barrons has extraordinary senses. I'd not had even the tiniest sip of alcohol. “I said I didn't have a drink,” I repeated. I'd had an awful night, one of the absolute worst of my life.

“You had something. What was it?” he demanded.

“An alcohol-laced kiss,” I said tightly. “Two, to be precise.” But only because I hadn't moved fast enough to avoid the second one. I turned away, hating myself, hating my choices.

His hand shot out and closed on my shoulder. He spun me back to him with such vehemence that I might have whirled in dizzying toplike circles if he hadn't caught me by the shoulders. He seemed to realize he was holding me too hard at the precise moment I was about to snap at him, and his fingers relaxed on my skin, but his body seemed to doubly absorb the tension. His gaze dropped to my necklace again, to its soft cushion between my breasts. “From who?”

“From
whom,
I believe is the correct phrasing.”

“All right, from-the-fuck-
whom,
Ms. Lane?”

“Derek O'Bannion. Any other questions?”

He regarded me a moment, then a slow half-smile curved his lips. Just as O'Bannion had earlier, he suddenly seemed to find me much more interesting. “Well, well.” He brushed the pad of his thumb across my mouth, then cupped my chin and angled my face back up to the light, searching my eyes. For a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me himself, to taste the complexity and complicity of me. Or was that duplicity? “And you were kissing the brother of the man you killed—why?” he murmured silkily.