First You Run (15 page)

I
F IT HADN’T
been so absurd, Miranda would have laughed.

They had imagination, she’d give them that. And they knew the secrets of the Maya.

The bright blue ball of light had ricocheted from the top of the stelae around the curved ceiling of the rotunda, emitting a strange smell and eliciting gasps of disbelief. Enough people in the room knew of the ghostly “Indian light” that many Maya believed held the ancestral souls and the “energy light” that supposedly meant one of the gods was present.
Kyopa
. It was the stuff of fantasy and folklore, something many had heard of but few ever witnessed.

They still hadn’t. But it had been a clever, ingenious imitation of the lightning ball, a brilliant way to attract all the attention in the room. Even Miranda had stared at it, captivated by the laserlike effect, as everyone in the room had been. Although that might not have been enough to ruin the reading, the odor it left in its wake smelled enough like gas to send plenty of the audience straight to the door.

Once again, some unknown, unnamed force had managed to crush her message and squash book sales.

“I have no idea what that was,” Suzette said, making her way to the podium through a group of people who were headed toward the door. “But fire code says we have to get everyone out of here and investigate the cause of that stink.”

The bitter smell lingered, although the light had disappeared. “It was an optical illusion,” Miranda said. “We must have had a magician in our midst. Who was up there today?”

“There were workers everywhere today. I’m not exactly sure what they were doing or who they were or who even approved their work, and I don’t have time to find out now.”

’Scuse me, Doctor
. The voice of one of them—one who knew her—floated back in her head. He’d been right next to her, with a ladder. She hadn’t even questioned how that man had known her title; she’d assumed he worked for the museum and knew she was the night’s speaker. Or she could have been inches from someone trying to ruin her tour. But it hadn’t been Wild Eyes; she would have noticed him.

Suzette gave Miranda an apologetic squeeze on the arm. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to leave like everyone else. We’re closing the building, and the fire department is on its way.” She waved her hand in front of her nose. “Whew, that’s quite a stench.”

Miranda started gathering her notes, then scanned the room for Adrien. She found him between the murals in the front, walking toward her with a dark expression.

“You gotta give them credit,” she said calmly when he reached her, despite the black anger in her stomach. “They’re creative.”

“And I’ve got one now, so let’s go.” He took her elbow and headed her toward the door.

“You got one? Wild Eyes?”

“Not even close. This guy was younger, darker. I’ve never seen him before, but I know who did this. And we need to hurry, because we want to get him before he discovers my cell phone in his jacket pocket.”

Her jaw dropped. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“That’s totally brilliant.”

“Or monumentally stupid.” He inclined his head to the door. “Let’s run back to the hotel and check the locator software. Then we go.”

“Where?”

“Wherever that little weasel goes.” He urged her through the crowd. “Timing is everything now.”

As they headed south on the freeway, Fletch gave Miranda instructions about the software, and she typed on the computer on her lap.

He punched the address into the GPS system, then studied the map that appeared on the small screen built into the dash of the Range Rover. “This isn’t the tony section of San Diego.”

Miranda shrugged. “So what exactly did this guy look like? And what did he do?”

“He’s young, thin, and geeky, but this bloke had a much calmer demeanor than Wild Eyes—more calculated and focused. And he was hiding something; I knew it the moment I saw him.”

“How did he do it, do you think?”

“Smoke and mirrors, operated by whatever he was fondling in his pants pocket.” Fletch took the exit to K Street. He’d need to keep his weapon very handy here. Behind the weather-worn housing and inside the pimped-up cars, bad news was everywhere. Street lights were blown out. Windows were boarded up. A few unsavory characters loitered at the corner, making no effort to hide their interest in the big black beast he drove through their turf.

“No security specialist in his right mind would bring a woman he was protecting here,” he said, cursing himself. “I want to get in and out of here as quickly as possible. Just give me the closest address you can get.”

She clicked a key, having quickly got the hang of operating the satellite image. “K Street and…Jefferson, I think. There.” She pointed to a street sign. “K Street. I think we have to go about six more blocks east.”

Two gangsta types sitting on a wall watched them make the turn. “Stay very low, Miranda,” he said. “In fact, you should be lying down on the floor of the backseat.”

“You need me to work the computer.”

“His location hasn’t moved for forty-five minutes.”

“Do you think that means he found the phone and ditched it?”

“Or took his jacket off and left it somewhere.”

She sighed. “We are so close. He’s here, somewhere.”

At the next corner, Fletch slowed down. “Staying here tonight, I’d guess.” The two-story motel looked like the definition of seedy, with two letters of its plastic sign missing and no security lights. It ran perpendicular to the street, and the rooms farthest away were deep in the darkest of shadows. At the front, the lobby—not much more than a room with a counter—appeared deserted.

Fletch parked the Range Rover where they could see the whole side of the motel.

“We’re not going to knock on doors,” he said.

“Want to try the lobby? Maybe there’s a phone to reach management.”

He threw her a look. “That’s assuming there
is
management.”

She wrapped her arms around her waist and squinted through the windshield. “What would he be doing in a place like this? What would anyone be doing?”

“Crack. Meth. Prostitution. The list is long.”

She turned to him, her eyes bright. “How do we find him?”

“We just did.” Two people had emerged from one of the rooms upstairs, and one was the right build and hair color to be the geek from the museum, without his jeans jacket. The other was a flippin’ monster.

“Is that him?”

“The little one,” he said. “I think so.”

They came down the steps together, deep in conversation, then walked to a red sedan parked outside one of the first-floor rooms. They talked some more. The bigger guy lumbered to the door of the room, unlocked it, and went inside. The littler one climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

As the big man came out carrying a large square box, the driver flipped open the trunk from inside. The other man dropped the box in, then climbed into the passenger side, and away they went.

“Are you going to follow them?” Miranda asked.

“Look at that.” He pointed to the motel-room door, which was still open. In the doorway was a young woman, wearing nothing but a short white T-shirt and underpants, her cigarette burning in the dark. She watched them leave and closed the door.

“Let’s follow them,” she said.

Fletch blew out a breath. “Or talk to her.”

“Come on,” she insisted, banging her door in frustration. “These guys are at the root of whatever or whoever is after me. She could be anybody. And he doesn’t have the jacket on, so we might not get a signal on them. If we talk to her, we could lose them.”

She made good sense. But still, he could hear Jack’s voice.
I have it on very good authority that someone—I don’t know who, so don’t ask—knows we’re looking for Eileen Stafford’s daughter, and she could be in real trouble because of it.

“Adrien, please, I want to know why they have targeted me. I can’t sleep until I do.”

And another voice. That bunyip that growled warnings in his ear.

He closed his eyes and put the car in drive. “Right. Let’s roll.”

They stayed far enough behind the target not to be observed, but Fletch kept the taillights in his line of vision.

“The locator is moving, too,” Miranda said. “He must still have your phone. It’s probably in the car.”

“Perfect, because he’s getting on the freeway, and we could lose him very easily.”

Even at this late hour, the wide California freeway was crowded as they followed the Taurus south. Fletch memorized the license plate and would get the Bullet Catchers to run it tomorrow.

He threw a glance at his passenger. “You could quit the tour, Miranda. You could…do something else this summer.”
Like go meet your real mum
. “This is a fool’s errand.”

“I can’t believe you would say that,” she shot back. “This is my career. I really believe what I wrote in that book. I really believe that there are misguided people who are already going to ridiculous lengths because they think the world is going to end in 2012. I can save—oh! He’s getting off.”

He swerved quickly into the right lane.

“Faster,” she demanded. “He’s flying down that exit ramp.”

He squinted into the night and swore. “We lost him. Which way?”

“He went east,” she said, sitting forward, gripping the laptop.

“All right, let’s just follow the locator, then.” They did, and it stopped completely after five more blocks. “Give it a second,” he told her. “See if he moves again.” The signal stopped. The phone, at least, was still.

Ten minutes went by, and he could sense that Miranda was ready to bolt from the car and run after the damn phone. She shifted and tapped and sighed heavily as they waited.

“All right, all right,” he said. “Let’s find it.”

A few minutes later, they spotted the Taurus parked on a side street between two massive warehouses.

“Dangerous ground, Miranda,” he said as they turned down the street. “Very dangerous ground. I am not going into a warehouse with or without you. Not happening.”

“Just drive by the car. See if he’s hiding in it.”

He wasn’t. No one was around, anywhere. Fletch drove around the block again, U-turned, and, one more time, drove up to the Taurus, positioning the vehicles so that the drivers’ windows faced each other.

From his high seat, he could see right into the little car. “The jacket’s in the backseat.”

“Are you going to get it?” she asked. “Because you could open the glove box and maybe get some ID.”

“It could be a trap.”

“He obviously doesn’t know we’re following him, or he’d have ditched the phone.”

Fletch pushed down his window and listened.

Nothing but the distant sound of traffic on the freeway and the murky smell of the harbor less than a mile away.

“When they left the house, the car was unlocked.” He opened his door and put one foot on the ground. “I’m hoping the geek is a creature of bad habit.”

He was, and Fletch had the jacket in his hands in two seconds.

“The glove box,” she insisted, leaning over the console to whisper to him. “Just try.”

The instant she said it, a light flashed, a gunshot cracked, and the windshield popped with the impact of a bullet. Fletch dove toward Miranda, shoving her down to the floor as he yanked the door behind him and threw the car into Drive as a second shot
thwumped
right into the leather seat.

“Stay down!” he bellowed, stomping his foot on the accelerator and screaming down the side street. A gunshot at the back window told him he was going in the right direction—away—and he kept the pedal on the floor as he made a wide right so fast only the power of his pull on the wheel kept them from toppling over.

Miranda was silent as he flew through the street without another hit, running a red light and whizzing through two stop signs. He headed straight back to the freeway, barreling up the ramp without even a glance in the rearview mirror, watching the traffic through the spiderwebs that spread out from the two bulletholes.

The only reason she wasn’t dead was that she’d been leaning over into the driver’s side, and the bullet missed her. The
only
reason.

They were two more exits down the freeway until he was certain no one was following them. “You can get up now, Miranda.” He reached to pull her back up, closing his hand over her narrow wrist, feeling her pulse pounding through her skin like a jackhammer. “C’mon, luv. Just be careful. There might be some glass. We’re all right, though.”

“All right is relative.” She slid into the seat, taking a tentative peek over her shoulder before pulling on the seatbelt. “They shot at us!”

Yes, and he had her there, right in the middle of danger. Impulsive and stupid merged into one bad move.

“Who in God’s name
are
they?” She turned to look out the back, as though they might appear.

“Dangerous. Deadly. Doesn’t matter who, we’re not going onto their turf anymore.”

She lifted the jeans jacket from the floor. “So we got the phone back, but we’re no closer to identifying them than we were before.” She sounded disgusted as she stuck her hand in the pocket. “Ow!” She jerked her hand out and pressed it to her lips. “Something cut me.”

He took her hand and tried to see it in the light.

“Damn, that hurts.” She gingerly set the jacket on her lap, and Fletch turned on the dome light to help her see. “It’s a piece of glass,” she said, inching out a bright sliver that glinted in the light.

“Windshield?” he asked.

But she just sat there, staring at a pie-shaped piece of glass that glinted and shot a reflection of the dome light into his eyes.

“No.” She lifted the shard, moving it so the light danced over two large lemon-yellow stones set in silver, as blood oozed between her thumb and index finger. “It’s a piece of Taliña’s
toli
.”

“I
F THE SIGHT
of blood makes you panic, luv, you might want to keep your eyes closed when we unwrap your hand.” Fletch slid the hotel room deadbolt and glanced down at the blood-splattered white dress, covered from her view by the tourniquet she’d fashioned from the jeans jacket.

“I’m fine,” she assured him.

She’d held it together for the past twenty-five minutes, but that could change, Fletch thought wryly. As soon as he told her the truth.

“Why don’t we go in the bathroom and take a look-see.” He shrugged out of his jacket and stashed it with his gun on an end table. “I’m fairly handy with a first aid kit, and I bet we can get one from the hotel.”

“Good thinking,” she said over her shoulder as she headed to the closest bedroom and, presumably, the bath. “Because from the way this feels, we’ll definitely need something.”

She’d need something, all right. Maybe a shot of whiskey when she found out she was adopted on the black market, tattooed by her birth mother, and had to fly across the country to meet the woman who happened to be dying in a prison where she was finishing her life sentence for first degree murder, unless, of course Miranda happened to agree to donate healthy bone marrow. If she matched.

And don’t forget the bit about him knowing about it since the night they met, and how he spent the better part of a few days trying to get her naked so he could prove it all to her.

“You better come in here.” She called from the bathroom. “This is worse than I thought.”

In an instant he was in the bathroom, his arms around her as soon as he saw blood dripping into the white porcelain sink.

“Let me take a look,” he said, flipping on the water to wash his hands. “Do you think you can stand to rinse it?”

She braced herself against the marble vanity, then gingerly placed her hand under the water, letting out a soft
ugh
of pain. The gash ran from the base of her index finger at least four centimeters to her thumb, taking a decent slice out of the skin but not the muscle beneath it.

“Do you have mobility in that thumb?” he asked, lathering his hands, then rinsing. “If you’ve damaged the muscle or nerves, we should get to a doctor.”

She wiggled her index finger, and barely moved her thumb. “It’s okay,” she said. “I just need to get it cleaned and bandaged.”

He took her hand in his, studying the cut. “You’re going to have a scar.” He caught her reflection in the mirror. “A good ER plastic surgeon can make sure that it’s small and fades with time. It’s a cosmetic thing, but you have particularly lovely hands and I’d hate to see them ruined.”

She shook her head. “I don’t need to go the ER. I heal easily.”

God, he hoped so. Because what he had to tell her was going to leave the deepest scar she’d ever known. And she’d blame him, of course. He was the messenger, and she’d hate him for the message he carried.

She closed her eyes and blew out a long, slow breath. “Just clean it and wrap it, okay?”

He guided her hand back under the water, then grabbed clean towels and washcloths from the shelf.

“Oh, God, that hurts.”

His stomach constricted at the pain in her voice. “I’m sorry, luv.” With as much tenderness as he could muster, he rinsed again, working to keep the water from going directly into the gash and stinging.

“I’ll go down and get the first aid kit, rather than wait here for it,” he said. “Maybe they’ll have a butterfly bandage. That’ll help with the scar. Otherwise you look at this hand for the rest of your life, and you’re going to remember—”

“You.”

He looked up and met her eyes, warm with affection. A knife of remorse twisted in his gut.

“I’ll remember how you took care of me and helped me and didn’t leave me,” she said softly. “I’ll remember how good you were to me, how you went headlong into trouble to find whoever is trying to hurt me.”

The knife in his gut twisted harder. “You dodged the bullet all by yourself, luv. Give yourself some credit.”

If only there was some way out of the inevitable. A delay. A change in plans. A reason not to tell her.

But there was none.

“Let’s wrap this in a clean towel, and I’ll go get the first aid kit. Unless you want to change your mind and hit the hospital.”

And give him another few hours before he had to break the news.

“No, I think a butterfly bandage will do the trick.”

“Up you go, then.” He tapped the wide marble counter next to the sink. “I’ll do my best so you don’t have a horrid slash on pretty hands and say ‘that bastard should have taken me to the ER.’”

She laughed softly, scooting her backside onto the marble. “No, I won’t.”

No. More like ‘that bastard ruined my perfectly nice life with information I was quite happy not having.’ He started wrapping a washcloth tightly around her palm and knuckles, making a clean, tight tourniquet that stopped the flow of blood.

“I’ll say that bastard shouldn’t have taken so long to get me in bed.” She reached to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.

Now there was a worthy delay. Guaranteeing that she’d hate him in the morning. “A wounded woman with one hand? I’m not that much of a sook.”

He finished by tucking one corner of the washcloth into another so that she wore a white terry boxing glove. Her expression was a little hungry, a little brazen. A woman ready to ease the horror of near death with sexual pleasure. The invitation in her eyes made his groin stir.

“There you go, sheila. You want to lie down a bit?”

She just lifted one eyebrow, silently saying that she wanted to lie down, all right—under him. The thought kicked him up to semihardness.

He cleared his throat and stepped back. “Want me to pour you a drink? Something to dull the pain?”

She shook her head, her eyes cloudy with a hurt that had nothing to do with the gash on her hand. It slayed him.

“You think I can take a shower with this wrapping on?”

“Wait for me. You might need help.”

“Now you want to help me shower?” A smile curved her lips. “You are one confused man, Adrien Fletcher.”

He laughed softly at the accurate and surprising assessment. “Not confused, really.” Dreading the inevitable, aching to kiss that mouth, wondering like hell how he could tell her the truth and not be the messenger she’d want to shoot. He shrugged, still smiling, tugging at his earring. “Yeah. Maybe confused.”

She reached up and closed her hand over his. “You know that you do this”—she pulled on the fingers that clasped the gold hoop—“whenever you are uncomfortable and not completely honest.”

“Do I?”

She nodded.

He flipped his hand to hold hers. “I’m not uncomfortable, luv. Unless you count the fact that every time I’m six inches from your body, no matter what the hell is going on around us, all my red blood cells take the train south.”

She smiled at that, a little twinkle of victory in her eyes. “Then you’re not being completely honest.”

Too right.

“So there’s not someone else, and you admit you’re physically attracted to me. And just a few hours ago, you promised you’d make my heart pound and my breath catch and my pulse race.”

He grinned. “And didn’t all of that happen during our little adventure?”

She gave a frustrated laugh. “Never mind. I’m not going to beg, Adrien. Go get the bandages.”

Beg? She didn’t need to beg. All she needed to do was walk into a room or look at him with those blueberry eyes or brush his cheek with a touch, and he wanted her. Couldn’t she tell that his entire being ached for how much he just wanted to lean forward, cover her lips, and hold her so tightly they could feel each other’s blood flow? Any other time in his life, he’d tear that bloodied dress off her and lick her clean. Then he’d throw her onto the bed and root himself so deep into her neither one of them would remember their names.

Then, when the sun came up and she wanted to go another round, he would tell her the good news.
Let’s talk about you mum, luv.
Wouldn’t that be some fine postcoital conversation?

“Why are you staring at me?” she asked softly.

He tugged his earring. “Because I’m confused and uncomfortable?”

“I didn’t say that. I said uncomfortable or dishonest.” She narrowed her eyes to underscore the last word. “Now, go.” Her voice cracked a little as she pushed off the counter and stood. “Hurry. My hand hurts.”

He left, closing the hotel room door before he spilled out the whole bloody truth.

Or worse, before he didn’t and hurt her more by doing exactly what she wanted.

For almost five minutes after he left, Miranda didn’t move. Finally she looked down at the splatters on her white silk dress, and then up, to see wide, haunted eyes in a pale face, surrounded by a chaotic mess of hair tumbling halfway down her shoulders.

With her left hand, she reached into the bodice of the dress and pulled the single string that held the wrap in place. It opened, revealing her completely bare skin. She’d dressed with
undressing
in mind.

So much for that fantasy.

The one where he gasped with shock and delight when he realized she’d been naked underneath that dress. For him.

“Good onya, luv,” he’d say with that whiskey splash of danger in his eyes. “All ready, are ya?”

But once again, it wasn’t going to happen. Heat pooled low in her stomach, and her breasts ached, heavy with desire. She opened the dress and let it fluff to the ground.

She touched her lips and her throat and lightly fingered the bud of her nipple. What would it feel like for Adrien to touch her there again? For him to lick and suckle her, pull her breast to an agonizing peak, then tongue, kiss, and suck hard and furious, until she spread her legs and let him inside her?

Her knees wobbled, and her body clenched. God, she wanted him so much it truly hurt. She wanted his mouth on her. She wanted his hands on her. She wanted that giant, imposing man
inside
her.

But what did he want?

He wants your soul
.

Miranda froze as she remembered Taliña’s prophetic words, the warning buried in every syllable of her lilting Mexican-accented English.

He wants something you have
.
He’s not with you by accident or chance
.
He will ruin your life
.
Give him your flesh, not your soul
.

But he didn’t seem to want her flesh, so why was he sticking around? Was he just protective, a professional bodyguard down to the bone? Or had Taliña seen something dark and dangerous in Adrien…in her
toli?

Miranda practically dove for the jacket she’d dropped on the floor. A jacket owned by someone who knew Taliña, who had been at Canopy, who’d followed her here, who’d ruined yet another event for her.

The splinter of mirror told her that Canopy was the connection to the Armageddon Movement. She was certain of that. Just as certain that she’d go back there tomorrow, taking that piece of mirror and demanding an explanation. As soon as Adrien left.

A ferocious disappointment gripped her. She didn’t
want
Adrien to leave.

Is that what Taliña meant when she said he would steal her soul? That she would fall so hard for him she couldn’t stand to see their unexpected encounter end? What had the shaman seen in her bejeweled magic mirror?

Miranda carefully reached into the pocket, sliding out the offending glass with two fingers. She sat on the cool tile floor, folded her legs, and stared at the gaudy topazes along the edge of the thick, jagged shard that had wounded her.

What had Taliña seen when she examined Miranda in this mirror?

She lifted the pie-shaped mirror, looked at the fractured image of her eye. The pupil was so wide that only a rim of her normal deep blue iris showed. She tilted the mirror, watching her nostrils flare slightly with each breath, her lips open, wet, quivering. Angling the mirror down, she studied the flushed color of her neck and chest and the hard, round bead of her nipple. And lower, down to the wet curls and ripe flesh between her legs.

She didn’t know what Taliña saw that night in Santa Barbara, but tonight, naked and crosslegged on the floor of a bathroom, Miranda saw a woman utterly and completely aroused.

And utterly and completely alone.

She set the mirror down and touched her breast again, skimming down the skin to her stomach and lower, to the moist folds between her legs.

Alone and aroused.

She dipped her finger into the flesh, then made a small circle around her clitoris, the sudden intensity making her twitch. Only then did she realize how fast and labored her breathing had become, how loud the pulse of blood in her ears had grown.

Like on the night he’d found her in the crypt, excitement shimmered through her, blinding her temporarily. She’d been possessed, so needy for him it was beyond an ache.

Was it the glass? Did it have that kind of power?

Or was this just the result of a lightning strike in every erogenous zone in her body from being around a man she wanted so much?

She stood on shaky legs, pushing damp strands of hair behind her ears, her brain shortcircuiting with flashes of need, with images of Adrien’s mouth, his hands, his hair…his dark, menacing tattoos.

With a soft groan, she put both hands on her face, not surprised to feel the heat of her skin and a sheen of perspiration. Facing the mirror she ran her hands down her throat, over her chest, onto her breasts. The rough terry of the makeshift bandage scraped her tender nipple and whipped more desire between her legs. She dropped her head back, closed her eyes, and rubbed her body, breathing, sighing, longing. Losing the fight to a fantasy.

“Miranda.”

She opened her eyes to see…reality. Or, at least, a reflection of her fantasy in the bathroom mirror.

Adrien stood in the doorway, his eyes as dark as hers, his chest rising and falling with the same strained breaths that she took. He was every bit as aroused as she was.

For a long, hot moment, they said nothing. Then he reached out his hand, and she turned and let him guide her into the darkened bedroom. He sat her on the edge of the bed and stood directly in front of her.