First You Run (4 page)

“I don’t know much about the uni system in this country, but I guess a professor at a school like Berkeley is tall poppies in the field.”

“Not such tall poppies.” She imitated his accent nicely. “Assistant professor is pretty much the first floor of the ivory tower, and the way up is steep and crowded with competitors. Few of them are willing to make room for a thirty-one-year-old who hit the publishing lottery instead of toiling away in classrooms for decades.”

He nodded, anxious to get back to where she was born and who gave birth to her. Or not. “So, does your mum tell you the story of how you were born on a plane? I imagine it’s rather spiffy, as birth tales go.”

“My ‘mum’”—she grinned at the word—“does not. She says it traumatized her. But then, lots of stuff traumatizes my mother—like her baby moving to California. She’s still not sure I can cross the street by myself, let alone the country.”

“Overprotective, is she?” Wouldn’t that be just like an adopted mother who doesn’t want anything to happen to her illegally obtained daughter?

“If you look that word up in Webster’s, you should find a nice picture of her.”

“What’s she protecting you from?”

She smiled slowly, reached across the table and lifted the sleeve of his T-shirt, revealing the spiky swirl of the black axe blade that decorated his bicep. Heat raced straight down to his gut—and below.

“From men like you.” She let the shirt sleeve fall down.

He grinned and nodded enthusiastically. “Good call, Mum.”

Some lovely electricity arced as they held eye contact. It would be so easy to ask her now.
What about you, Miranda? Got ink?

But direct questions would put her off, and if she had no clue she was adopted, which she obviously didn’t, she’d freak, and his plan to go tattoo hunting would end as fast as this dinner. Instead he moved closer, trailed a finger over her knuckles, and saw her eyes darken in response.

“And Dad?” He offered her the last piece of unagi, and she took it. “Does he protect you from the wrong kind of man?”

Her smile was wide and genuine and just too pretty. “My dad is amazing. He’s the greatest guy. I always say that’s why God gives you two parents.”

Or four, as the case may be.

If he had the right woman, he was truly about to wreck what was probably an ideal childhood in Marietta, Georgia. But he had a job to do, and a friend to help.

Besides, a full-body inspection wouldn’t hurt either of them, judging by the sparks crackling between them. If he didn’t find the tattoo, he’d never mention what he knew about her real birth, and she would continue on her merry way with just a blissful memory.

“Miranda,” he said softly, taking both her hands this time. “Let’s get out of here.”

He felt her pulse jump under his fingertips. “No more sushi and small talk?”

“You’re leaving tomorrow morning. Do you really want to spend one more minute with a table between us?”

He watched her chest rise and fall in an unsteady breath. “Where are we going?”

“If you have to ask, maybe we’re not going there after all.”

She wet her lips and gave him a direct gaze. “I’ve never slept with a stranger.”

He stood, placed a few twenties on the table, snagged the book, and then helped her out of the chair. “Then let’s keep talking, so we won’t be strangers anymore.”

He wrapped his arm around her to guide her to the door, pulling her to his flank and settling his hand over a slender but nicely curved hip.

“Is it my turn to ask questions now?” she asked.

“Absolutely. What would you like me to tell you?”

She gave him a flirtatious smile. “Anything I should know before we walk out of this restaurant together.”

“Fair enough. Let’s see…I’m a former member of the Tasmanian Special Ops police, the best kicker on my rugby team, a stellar bodyguard, an exemplary employee, a trustworthy mate, a half-decent surfer, a lousy cook”—he pushed open the restaurant door, walked her around the corner, and pressed her against the brick wall—“and a helluva good kisser.”

H
OT, POSSESSIVE LIPS
covered Miranda’s mouth with a kiss that blended skill and impatience and power. Jagged bricks scraped her silk blouse as she lifted her arms to pull him closer and give it right back to him.

She felt his heat, his muscles, his heartbeat…and, before that kiss had gone on thirty seconds, the outline of a stiff, sizable erection. He probed her mouth, his tongue seeking every corner, stroking and penetrating. Her book thunked to the concrete as he ran his hands down to her waist, her hips, her buttocks, rocking her slowly against him once, twice. The third time, she swore she’d have an orgasm right there against the wall.

Finally, he let her breathe. But only to nestle his lips against her throat, sucking gently and, just as she’d imagined, tickling her with that hint of beard that made every hair on the back of her neck dance with delight.

She nuzzled to get his mouth. “Kiss me again.” Was that
her
voice begging a stranger for another taste of tongue?

He slid his hand up past her waist, caressing the side of her breast, then thumbing the nipple into a hard peak as he fulfilled her request.

When he broke the kiss, she eased far enough back to see the arousal that darkened his golden eyes. He played with her nipple, torturing her with two fingers, his erection pulsing against her stomach.

“How far do you live?” he asked.

A helpless breath escaped as her pelvis moved as if it had a mind of its own. Could she take this big, sexy animal to her sanctuary of a converted garage apartment? No man had spent the night there yet.

But
this
man, this night…

Miranda wanted him. She was young, single, free, and juiced up on sexual attraction to a man who made a living protecting people. A former police officer. What could be safer? She ran her palms down the planes of his chest, over the dips and cuts that showed he took tremendous care of his body, down, down, down, until her wrists grazed his belt.

“I’m about a mile from here. We can walk.”

He grinned and pressed one of her hands against the huge tent in his pants.
“You
can walk. I might limp.”

Blood drained from her head. She’d never felt anything like that. Closing her eyes, she stroked the outline that outsized her hand by an inch or two.

“We could wait…until you, um, cool off.”

“That won’t be anytime soon.” He took a step away, leaving her instantly chilled and bereft. “And you’re shivering.”

“Not from cold,” she admitted, turning so he could help her into the jacket. He used the opportunity to plant a few more kisses on her neck, and she moaned softly, tilting her head in absolute delight.

“You like that?” he asked playfully, sliding hair pins from the knot she’d created.

“I love that.”

“Ah, there you go.” He sighed at the freedom of loose hair, then tickled his fingers on her scalp and planted more fiery kisses on her neck. “What do you call this color? Auburn? Russet? Umber?”

“Brown.”

“Not hardly. It’s gorgeous, like the rest of you. Just beautiful.”

A hum of sexual anticipation vibrated every cell in her body. She nudged him impatiently. “Come on, Adrien. Let’s go home.”

He picked up the bag he’d dropped, then draped an arm around her to lead her out of the narrow street onto College Avenue.

“No one calls me Adrien,” he said, “unless they’re mad at me.”

“Like your mother?”

“No. Not like my mum.”

The dryness of his tone surprised her. “She doesn’t call you Adrien?”

“She doesn’t call me.” He sidestepped them around group of college students.

“Ever?” Miranda asked as he tucked her firmly to his side again.

“If you really want me to cool off fast, just keep talking about my mum.”

She pointed toward the tree-lined road of Hillegrass, the dark shadows so inviting now that she had a strong, sexy man at her side. “There’s a shortcut to my house on Regent, up this street.”

“Good on that, luv.” He picked up their pace. “Now, why don’t you give me your travel itinerary, and please tell me you are not seriously leaving town for the next six weeks.”

Maybe this was a one-night stand, but at least he was making her feel as if it weren’t, which touched her.

“Yep, six weeks. And I have to leave tomorrow because I’ve been invited to an event in Santa Barbara, which I’m slipping in before a TV interview and signing in LA.”

“Cancel it,” he said, the suggestion so quick and heartfelt she wasn’t sure she understood. “I’m serious,” he added at her look. “Stay an extra day.”

“Sorry, nothing could make me miss seeing this place.” Not even the hottest guy she’d ever met.

“Nothing?” He squeezed her flirtatiously. “You might change your mind by tomorrow.”

She might. “I doubt it. I’ve been wanting to go to Canopy for a long time.”

“What is Canopy?”

“An amazing real-life model of Maya ruins, on acres of private land near Santa Barbara. They have replicas of several famous temples completely re-created, right down to the last detail.”

“Like Mayan Disney?”

“It’s Maya; Mayan is the language. But this place isn’t open to the public, and that’s why I can’t miss the event. Canopy is one man’s home. Well, one woman’s, really. Doña Taliña Vasquez-Marcesa Blake, a Mexican shaman married to a very rich American, who, she told me when we talked on the phone, was so worried she’d get homesick and leave that he built her a rain forest and ruins. That is Canopy.”

“Like the tops of the trees in the rain forest.”

“Precisely. She’s evidently a fan of my book, and she’s arranged a book party with all sorts of important people. So as flattering as your suggestion is, I’m going to Canopy.”

“Then we’ll have to make the most of this one night together.”

They held tight to each other, like lovers on a mission to get horizontal, pausing periodically to kiss and whisper. As they walked past parked cars and overgrown shrubbery, they fell into a sweet silence, with just a cool spring breeze and a steady current of sexual electricity in the air.

“Here,” Miranda said, pointing to the brown-shingled Craftsman that abutted the property she rented.

“You live there?” He sounded surprised.

“I live in a converted garage on the property behind it, but it’s easier to get there this way. There are lots of reconverted houses in Berkeley. That’s the charm of the place.”

The Devlins’ backyard was pitch-black, and no light spilled from her garage apartment on the other side of the shrubs dividing the properties. “At the end of the row, there’s a break in the hedge. This is much faster than going all the way around the front.”

“I’ll remember that for next time,” he said.

“Next time?” She raised her eyebrows. “You said you’d be gone before I get back.”

“You never know what life’s going to throw at you, Miranda. I certainly didn’t expect to end my evening”—he watched her step into the narrow opening between the shrubs and an overgrown wisteria—“climbing through bushes with a beautiful woman.” He followed her into the space, stopping to lock his arms around her and steady her feet on the twisted roots under them. “But I’m not complaining.”

“Well, I sure didn’t expect to get booed offstage and end up making out with an Australian bodyguard.” The branches forced them into a tight squeeze, and she could feel he was still hard, and his heart was beating almost as fast as hers. “But I’m not complaining, either.”

He lowered his head and kissed her gently, as though the desperation was gone now that the bedroom was no more than fifty steps away.

“As far as next time,” she whispered in between kisses, “I guess we’ll just have to see how it goes tonight.”

He groaned. “You want to know how it’s going to go tonight?” He kissed her forehead, chastely. “First, we’re going to have a wee spot of wine and conversation.” He eased his hand inside her jacket, gliding over her breast in a slow circle. “Then we’re going to help each other undress.” He lowered his head and licked her bottom lip. “Then we’re going to taste every single inch of each other’s body.” He nibbled. “With the light on, so I don’t miss a thing.”

Her legs were so weak she could have fallen backward into the trees and not cared. There was just moonlight and wisteria and the hottest, most seductive man she’d ever met. She closed her eyes, let him touch her and kiss her and sweet-talk her with his sexy accent.

“Then”—his hand tightened on her breast, his mighty erection against her—“we’ll do this.” He slipped his tongue between her lips, withdrew it, and slid it in again. “That’s how it’s going to go tonight, luv.”

Dizzy, breathless, and aching with arousal, she nudged him out of the trees. “My front door is twenty feet away around that corner.”

As they stepped forward, he suddenly froze, going taut, sharp, and alert. He pulled away and put one hand up to stop her from taking another step.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Do you smell that?”

She shook her head and sniffed. “Smell what? Fire? Smoke?”

“Blood.”

“Blood?”
She jerked away and blinked into the darkness. “You smell blood?”

“Right around there.”

“That’s my front door.”

He went first, then stared and muttered something under his breath.

She closed the space between them and gasped, clutching her throat to keep from screaming.

It looked like black oil, slick and wet and
everywhere
. On her front door, over the steps, and drenching the stones surrounding her entrance. Blood smeared the garage door and stained the concrete driveway. The sickening odor wafted toward them.

At the doorstep lay the bright green feathers and long tail of a quetzal, its beak twisted at a freakish angle.

“Is that a bird?” he said, incredulous.

She stared, the message clear and horrifying. “It’s a sacrifice to the Maya gods.” And it warned of death.

H
E WAS DEFINITELY
not going to do the naughty with Miranda Lang tonight, which left Fletch as frustrated above the waist as below. Instead of the full-body inspection he’d planned, he was sitting in her small garage flat, listening to two Berkeley cops who didn’t have a full quid of smarts between them.

“Did you fail any students this last semester, Dr. Lang?” Young Officer Solar seemed certain that the symbolic mutilation of the national bird of Guatemala was the work of an unhappy underclassman. He wasn’t the least bit interested in the melee that had taken place at Miranda’s signing. The other one, the more seasoned McMurphy, took notes when Fletch offered detailed descriptions of six or seven of the worst offenders, but his notes were not very copious.

Solar continued to ask about students, which was starting to piss Fletch off. Miranda’s crazies were well versed in this type of symbolism, and they’d just demonstrated a pretty violent opposition to her work. Why was this sook trying to pin it on a failing student?

And wouldn’t an investigator worth a tinny of beer ask who the hell he himself was and what he was doing with the victim? They’d simply accepted that the two had just met, dined, and come home, but no one questioned him, let alone searched him. If they had, they’d find a Glock 19 on his ankle, one that he’d already revealed to Miranda when he secured the property and the house. And in his wallet, they’d find a bodyguard’s license to carry concealed in the state of California. And in his head, they’d find some brains they might put to good use.

After an hour, they left, promising to follow up and taking the quetzal in a plastic bag as evidence of what they were calling “off-campus vandalism.”

By then, all that fire he’d whipped up had turned to ash. Seduction was out of the question tonight, but he still needed to find out if she had the mark on her body. Jack’s friend in jail wouldn’t reveal where it was, if she even knew.

Since no tattoos were evident on any of Miranda’s visible flesh, he’d have to figure out some way to disrobe her. The nicely furnished flat had one thing in its favor: it was minuscule, with one main room, a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a ladder that led to a sleeping loft.

Although she was working hard to maintain her composure, Miranda Lang was definitely scared right now. That could either get him booted out the door or, if he played the game right, jones him an invitation to keep her company.

“Do you have any ratty old towels?” he asked, rising from the bar stool at the tiny kitchen counter.

Curled in a club chair, she looked at him as though she’d forgotten he was in the room. “Towels?”

“I thought I’d clean up the mess outside for you.”

She gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you. I really appreciate you helping with the police; you obviously speak their language. But you were a policeman in Tasmania, right?”

“Sort of. Special Ops. It’s a subset of the Tassie police, specially trained. Would your rags be in the kitchen?”

“No.” She stood and indicated the bathroom door. “I’ll get something for you.”

He stayed where he was as she walked away, the angle not giving him a view into the little room where she’d disappeared. But after a few minutes, he followed. “You okay, Miranda?”

He found her leaning against the sink, a wicker cabinet open next to her, but she was gripping the porcelain and staring into the mirror. From behind, he caught her gaze in the glass and saw raw terror in her deep blue eyes. She took a slow, shallow breath, her jaw quivering and her skin the shade of goat’s milk.

Instantly, he grasped her shoulders to turn her to him. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m having a panic attack.” She didn’t turn, her body rigid. She put a hand to her breastbone, and he could see a pulse throbbing in her neck. Her breaths were so superficial and fast they couldn’t possibly send any oxygen to her body.

“I haven’t had…” Another ragged breath. “One…for a long…” And another. “Time.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Relax.” He folded her in his arms and tried to hold her, but she remained stiff, a completely different woman from the one who melted with one kiss and responded to his touch with spirit and sensuality. “Are you prone to panic attacks?”

“Not anymore.” She ground the words out as though just by saying them, she could stop whatever had taken hold of her. “Not since I moved here.”

He eased her out of the bathroom. “I’ll get the cleanup work done later. Let’s get you to bed.”

Her eyes flashed with more panic, but then she nodded, seeing the sense of the suggestion. “I do need to lie down. Once I deep-breathe, it’ll pass.”

“Upstairs, right? Can you make it up the ladder? There you go.” He guided her toward the steps. “I’ll be right behind you.”

He followed her up, holding her with one hand as she took the steep rungs one at a time. The tiny three-walled loft held only a full-size bed, a nightstand, and an armoire. Enough light seeped up from the room below that he didn’t bother with a lamp. He would have, under Plan A. But even Adrien Fletcher wasn’t enough of a larrikin to strip-search a panicked woman.

He laid her on the bed and sat next to her, shushing and cooing to quiet her jitters. Her breathing steadier, she stayed on her back, her eyes closed. He stroked her hair, her arm, and held her hand, brushing the knuckles.

Finally, she seemed at ease. “I can’t believe my good fortune in finding you tonight.”

“I found you,” he said, hoping the truth would assuage the guilt that drop-kicked in his stomach. “And I’m happy to help you.”

“You were right about not knowing what surprises life holds.”

He threaded his fingers through hers. “That’s what makes it interesting.”

“Or terrifying.” Her voice was rich with self-deprecation.

“What are you terrified of, Miranda?” He slid down next to her, and she inched over to make room for him.

“Before, everything. Now I’ve got it down to flying—though I’m no fan of small, dark spaces, either.”

He propped himself on his elbow and studied her. “Why were you afraid of everything?

“I told you my mother was overprotective. Consider that an understatement. I love her dearly, but she’s fragile and scared and did everything in her power to make me the same way. I was the little girl in a parka when it was sixty degrees out. I was the one not allowed to go to the amusement park for fear I’d fall off a roller coaster. I was the one who was home-schooled to keep me away from all the dangers that lurked in the locker room. She never wanted me to go anywhere or do anything or meet anyone.”

“So you ran away to California.” To escape parents who not only created fear but lied to their child about her birth.

Her smile was tight. “My dad, bless him, secretly pushed me from the nest. Quietly, and when Mom wasn’t around, Dad urged me to apply for positions at schools far away.”

“Have you had help? Professional counseling?”

She shook her head. “No. I just needed to be on my own for a while, and I’ve been here more than two years. I’ve made friends, had a few boyfriends, read a lot of self-help books, and attended seminars. I thought I’d beaten it. Then tonight, at that signing, it almost started again. When you showed up, I felt much better. But when I saw that bird…” She closed her eyes and visibly dug for control. “Once the police left, I couldn’t fight off the panic any longer. It was a flat-out warning that someone wants to kill me.”

He lifted his head from his hand. “What? You said it was a sacrifice to the gods or some such thing.”

“It’s ancient Maya symbolism, known to a very few experts in the field. The broken neck of the quetzal is a plea to Itzamna, a high-ranking god who is considered the inventor of writing and the patron of the sciences. To a purist Maya, he would be
my
god, for obvious reasons. That purist would believe that Itzamna has told someone that he doesn’t approve of my writing or my science and that someone should sacrifice me to stop me.”

Fletch scooted up a bit, squinting at her. “Do you believe that shonky nonsense?”

She didn’t
not
believe. “I know that someone, somewhere, is warning me.”

“One of the crazies?”

“Who else?”

He put his arm around her shoulder and turned her to him. “Listen to me, Miranda. Cancel your trip. Just jettison the whole thing. How many books are you going to sell signing in little mum-and-pop bookstores around the country or at some shindig at fake ruins? Is it worth it?”

She shot up, the fire suddenly back in her eyes. “I can’t give in to them. Canceling my trip is the coward’s way out, and I will
not
let fear win. I’m just going to be careful. I just need to…to…” Her expression brightened as an idea took hold. “Come with me.”

“Pardon?”

She gripped him by the shoulder, her narrow fingers surprisingly strong. “You’re a professional. You can protect me. Be my bodyguard.”

“I have to…”
Find a woman, get her naked, and ruin her life.
“I have work to do.”

“A job in the Bay Area, and then you’re leaving in a month?”

“I…I…” How could he tell her? “I might leave even before that.”

She sank back onto the pillow. “Sorry, I got carried away. I went from one-night stand to full-time job in less than ten minutes. I understand.”

No, she didn’t understand at all. He had twenty days left, and if she wasn’t the sheila he was looking for, then he had five more women to track down and interview. And if she was, then he had to persuade her to take a trip to South Carolina to meet a convicted prisoner who claimed to be her birth mum, take a DNA test, and possibly donate her marrow to the cause.

She wouldn’t even get on a plane to South Carolina, let alone—

“Sorry, bad idea,” she whispered, brushing his hair back.

He turned her hand that touched his cheek so he could kiss her palm. “It’s just a work conflict, or I’d go in a heartbeat.”

She nodded, clearly not believing him. “It’s okay. I might not sleep with you now, but it’s okay.” She gave him a teasing smile, but he saw the sadness in her eyes.

“This wasn’t about sex, Miranda.”

“Oh, now I know you’re lying.” She poked him in the chest.

“I’m not,” he insisted, his heart folding over at the way she was working to act as if his rejection hadn’t hurt her pride. “And if I could…”

She quieted him with two fingers to his lips. “Don’t say things to make me feel better. You’ve been wonderful. A lifesaver, literally. You can go anytime you like. I’m fine now.”

“I don’t want to go.” He couldn’t mean it more. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”

“I’m not having sex with you,” she reminded him.

“I don’t expect you to. But I’d like to stay to be sure you’re all right.”

“I’m fine. In fact”—she pushed herself up and sat on the side of the bed—“I’m going to spend the next few hours packing, so you might as well go.” She reached to the nightstand and flipped on the light.

“How about if I sleep downstairs on the futon?”

She opened her mouth, clearly about to say no, then thought better of it. “All right.” She shooed him away. “Now, go, I have to pack.”

Downstairs, on a mattress meant for someone much smaller and lighter, he listened to Miranda move about, pull out suitcases, open drawers, zip the cases shut, and finally breathe softly in sleep. All the while, he considered his options.

Miranda did need protection, and he needed her. The problem was, if he got the proof that she was Eileen Stafford’s long-lost baby, then he’d screw up her life. And if she wasn’t, then he’d have to ditch her and go off for the next lady on the list.

The solution, when it presented itself, seemed like a doable compromise. He levered himself off the miserable mattress and climbed the ladder to her loft. Before he reached the top, he heard her sheets rustle.

“What do you want, Adrien?” she asked.

“I just want to ask you a question. Would you like a date for that party at Maya Land tomorrow? I don’t have to work for a few days.”

He waited four, five, six heartbeats, surprised at how much he wanted to hear the right answer.

“Yes,” she finally said. “I would like a date.”

“What happens the next day?”

“I’m driving to Los Angeles for the day, then to San Diego.”

“I could go to LA and fly back on Monday.” By then, he’d have managed to see every inch of her body, one way or another.

“You must really want to sleep with me.” There was a smile in her voice.

“I told you, Miranda. It’s not about sex.”

“Right.” She imitated his accent perfectly, making him grin as he went back down the ladder without a sound.

In the filthy bathroom of a Chevron gas station, K’inich Ahkal Mo’ Nahb washed the blood from his noble hands. It stained under his fingernails, brown like the earth. The very earth that had buried him and suffocated him and cradled him for so many years.

He looked up from the sink, but the mirror was long ago stolen from the public bathroom. Graffiti marked the walls, along with chunks of peeling paint and filth. But Ahkal Mo’ Nahb needed no man-made glass to see what he looked like. His image had been sculpted in stone for centuries. Leaning over the sink, he turned the faucet and began to wash his face.

Brilliant blue paint poured into the stained sink, blinding blue, royal blue. The color of kings. He’d painted his face for the sacrifice and enjoyed it. The act gave him power, immortality, and hardened him.

When he was clean, he turned out the yellow light, sat on the urine-stained concrete, and chanted, soft and low. It made him harder. He hung his head, staring at how his erection strained the cloth he wore, proud of his night’s work.

“Put a move on it, for Christ’s sake!” A heavy fist clobbered the metal door, then a solid kick. “You can’t sleep in there, pal!”

He closed his eyes, finished his chant, and stood before whipping the door open.

The man jumped back, the fluorescent lights bathing his surprised face in yellow as Ahkal stepped out of the darkness. The other man blinked, sucked in a breath, and stared. “What the fuck…”

Ahkal ignored him and continued to walk to his car.