Hidden Currents (4 page)

“You’re going to stay, Sheena, and you’re going to have my babies. I’ve been looking for a woman like you for years. I’m not about to let you slip away now.” He pushed her farther into the room and glanced at his watch. “You are to stay here in this room until I come for you. The door will be locked, Sheena, and you are to stay.”

There was no missing the iron in his voice or the warning. Elle stood very still in the center of the room. He was showing his hand now, blatantly letting her know that not only had he kidnapped her, but that he expected total cooperation. She said nothing as he closed the door, waiting before moving until she heard the lock snick into place.

Elle opened her bag only to find it empty. Someone had already unpacked her things and put them away. After a brief search, she found her clothes neatly hanging in the spacious, walk-in closet. Elle stripped off her gown and changed into a pair of slim cotton pants and a snug cotton T-shirt. She swiftly braided her waist-length hair and pulled on her climbing shoes before going to the window.

Below her room, large boulders and rocks formed the cliffs leading to the dazzling sea. Ordinarily the sight would have soothed her, but the way the house hung out over the ocean made climbing dangerous. It interested her to find the window wired for security. She could open the window but an alarm would trigger if she so much as stuck her arm out. With the way the house was built, it would have been nearly impossible for anyone to break in, so was he keeping women prisoners here at his whim? Had he brought others here?

Elle studied the room carefully, gliding her palm over the walls and bed, seeking psychic energy left behind by any others. She felt nothing at all but that faint, annoying buzzing in her head. As far as she could tell, only the housekeeper had been in her room. Now that she was alone, she needed to send a message home and let them know where she was.

She opened the window and inhaled the sea and salt. The moment the salty mist touched her face she felt better—lighter, more hopeful. Elle lifted her arms and called the wind. Pain crashed through her head. She barely managed to suppress the cry welling up as stars burst behind her eyes and everything around her swirled black. She bent, retching, gagging, staggering toward the bed, pressing both hands to her pounding head.

Stavros was psychic and he had somehow managed to deploy some kind of energy field to prevent psychic energy from being used. Why would he do that? He wouldn’t be able to use it either. Weak, she slid her back down the wall and put her head between her legs, breathing deeply to keep from fainting. She wasn’t going to be able to summon help until she was off the island or she could find the source of the energy field.

Once she could breathe again, she rose unsteadily and dealt with the security, a small beam she redirected so she could slip through the window and cling like a spider to the side of the glass villa. And spiders were much better at clinging to glass than she was. She slid until her toes and fingers found purchase.

Elle clung to the edge, reaching with her toes, wishing she was at least another inch taller as she tried to gain the roof. For several heart-stopping moments she found herself staring down at the rocks and sea a good hundred feet below her, afraid she couldn’t reach it and would fall. She studied the distance above her. She would have to lever her body up using the power of her legs and catch the edge. One chance. That’s all she’d have—and she was going to take it.

Elle had climbed rocks and mountains all over the world. The slick roof was not going to be her undoing. She rehearsed every move in her mind and pushed off, using her powerful leg muscles to propel her upward. Her hands caught, slipped and her fingers dug into the roof, holding. She let her breath out and gathered strength before drawing her leg up and over. Once positioned, she could pull herself all the way up.

She took a moment to recover and then ran lightly across the roof to the other side of the house where Stavros was conducting his meeting. She stayed low, knowing she would show up easily against the bright sunlit roof. She could see Sid escorting four men up the path to the house. Frowning, she lay flat. The men wore biker colors with patches, of the standard 1 percent symbol and an intricate sword with blood dripping down the blade. She’d seen the patches before.

Outlaw bikers from one of the most notorious clubs rising on three continents were the only ones who would dare to wear the symbol of the Sword. Some said the origins of the group were Russian, and it quickly spread across Europe to the United States. The recruits were brutal, prison-hardened and willing to kill over the slightest insult. She had run across them in several cases related to trafficking guns and drugs, as well as murder for hire. The club, known as the Sword, was fast gaining a deadly reputation that rivaled existing crime lords. Convictions were rare because only a handful of witnesses had ever agreed to testify against them. And of those few, not one had ever lived out the day after a death sentence was handed down from the club’s notorious leader, Evan Shackler.

What would Evan Shackler or any of his bikers be doing on the island of a wealthy shipping magnate? And why was Stavros clapping him on the back as if they were old friends? More than old friends . . . Brothers? They greeted one another in a traditional Greek manner, kissing both cheeks, which wasn’t a sign that they were relatives, but they looked uncannily alike. As they walked side by side, she could see a huge resemblance, although Evan looked wild and unkempt with his long hair and shadowed face beside Stavros’s handsome executive image. They were close in height and weight and had the same mannerisms, even moving their hands in the same way. She’d have to look into the files for Shackler and meticulously check his background.

But if Shackler was in some way related to Stavros—which she admitted was a leap—could he be psychic? Had Stavros protected his island to prevent a relative from using psychic ability against him? That would make sense. If Stavros was psychic, he would want to be able to use his abilities just as she and her sisters did in the privacy of their home. Never once had she thought of constructing an energy field to prevent psychic talents from being used, so Stavros had to have a good reason for doing so.

Something bit the back of her shoulder, a vicious sting that was hard enough to send her spinning around. The sound of a gunshot registered almost before the fact that she had been hit did. Blood stained the front of her shirt and down her arm, bursting across the roof like an artist’s spray.

Stavros was shoved to the ground by Sid, one hand preventing him from moving while Sid’s gun tracked someone behind her.

“No one touches her!” Stavros screamed. “Kill him. Shoot him.”

Sid’s gun blazed and she heard a body fall behind her, realizing Sid’s gun was trained on the guard who shot her, not her, and she scrambled back over the roof, crawling because she couldn’t stand, couldn’t use her useless arm. Breathing was difficult as she made her way to the edge of the roof overlooking the cliffs. Her body hurt so badly she didn’t think she could make it back into the room even if she wanted to. She couldn’t let Stavros keep her. She wouldn’t be able to defend herself and she knew what he wanted now. He would keep her in this house—this prison—and she would be like the women she had tried to help—trapped in a world serving Stavros’s will.

“Sheena!” Stavros was on his feet. “Don’t!”

Sid went up the side of the house, moving fast, but her vision was blurring and she knew she had to jump while she could. He would reach her if she didn’t get the nerve to take her chances in the sea and rocks below. Once away from the energy field, she’d have more power. She leapt out into space and lifted her arm to summon the wind.

The wind roared at her, shoving her slender body out away from the rocks to the welcoming water. Behind her, Stavros lifted his arms and sent his countercommand. As capricious as ever, the wind shifted, dropping her the remaining feet. She hit hard, her mind exploding into a million fragments as the cool water closed over her head, accepting her into its soothing arms. For a moment, she thought someone had landed beside her and that an arm brushed against her, but then she was sinking, not fighting, letting the sea take her home, far away from fear and a life she didn’t believe would ever be hers.

Jackson.
She whispered his name in her mind as she floated away.

2

JACKSON Deveau stepped through the doorway onto the front porch to stare up at the gathering clouds churning above the choppy waters of the sea. The storm was moving in faster than predicted, as it often did on the northern California coast. Fingers of fog, pushed by the building wind, reached shore ahead of the storm, covering the coastline in a wet, gray blanket.

She was out there somewhere. Alone. Alive. He knew she was alive. She had to be alive. Elle Drake, youngest of the Drake sisters, had been missing for a month now. Something terrible had happened to her or she would have reported in. Her undercover job had taken her into the seamiest side of life—human trafficking—and somehow her handlers had lost her. Her family had been told she was presumed dead, but he didn’t believe it any more than her sisters did. He would know. They would know. The Drakes were psychically connected and, although Elle’s sisters were devastated over her disappearance, the one thing they agreed upon was that she was alive. He wouldn’t—
couldn’t
—believe anything else.

So he had to find her. Today. If her cover had been blown as was suspected, whoever had her would keep her far away, out of the United States, if they didn’t kill her first. Her family had tried numerous times, he had tried, but all of them had failed to even get so much as a direction on her. He had heard her soft voice nearly a month earlier and as many times as he replayed it in his head, he was certain she sounded afraid. And Elle wasn’t afraid of much.

The storm would provide a much needed boost of energy and the plan was simple. All of them would gather together in Elle’s protected house, home of her ancestors, gather the storm’s energy, send it out into the universe and find her. And it was going to happen, because there was no other alternative.

He whistled and his dog, Bomber, bounded around the corner and paced with him to his truck. The big German Shepherd jumped inside and settled on the seat next to him. “Today, baby,” he whispered softly into the wind, letting it carry his words away from him.

The drive through Sea Haven was familiar now. He’d moved to the small village on the coast after serving first as an Army Ranger and then in the DEA with his friend Jonas Harrington. Things had gone to hell more than once, both in the army when he was taken prisoner and later on an undercover assignment. Jonas had wanted to go home to Sea Haven and had talked Jackson into moving with him. He’d joined the sheriff’s office and patrolled the coastline, not realizing for a long time what the inhabitants of Sea Haven had come to mean to him. He was a man of few words and even fewer friends, but he had been accepted in the small, tight-knit community.

The village was mourning Elle Drake, just as her family—and he—was mourning for her. There was a sense of quiet, of dread, as he drove through the streets. Everywhere he looked, he could see the small yellow ribbons on businesses and homes, waving from fences and trees. One of their own was missing and they all wanted her home. The wind continued to drive the fog until the coastal highway was thick and gray and mist covered his windshield. Gloom hung like a cloud as he continued down the highway until he came to the winding drive that led up to the Drake estate.

The multistoried house stood at the top of a cliff, surrounded by trees and a beautiful, colorful garden that even in the cold of winter grew and blossomed. The music of chimes in the wind hit him first and as the wind blew in from the sea, the various chimes danced and played an assortment of notes that seemed to ease the terrible weight on his chest. The wrought-iron double gate was closed and he sat at the bottom of the hill studying the symbols and the words etched in both Latin and Italian.
The seven become one when united
.

The Drakes had a magic that few possessed and when they came together, the things they could accomplish were extraordinary. Jackson found them all extraordinary women. Somehow he had been brought into their circle through Jonas.

Elle.
He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and breathed away his fear for her. He had been a prisoner of war, without too much hope that anyone would find him. He was moved every few days, and as a sniper with a reputation, his captors had no intention of returning him for even political reasons. The scars from those long weeks of torture were on his skin and ran deep beneath it as well. It wasn’t as if he had much to live for back in those days, and he hadn’t believed in much either. Until a voice began whispering in his head telling him to live, to fight, that he wasn’t alone.

He had thought he was going insane at first. That voice was soft—feminine—and eventually over time, sensual. He loved the sound of her voice.
Elle.
His mysterious, elusive Elle Drake. In his pain he had somehow connected with her and she had been able to find him. He didn’t understand their connection, but he knew she belonged to him. She was meant for him. He had followed Jonas to Sea Haven to see her, to know she was real. And once he had, he should have been man enough to walk away but he couldn’t. He sighed. He had baggage, unresolved and far too dangerous, and he had to find a way to resolve those issues before he claimed the woman he knew was meant for him.

The large padlock on the gate fell to the ground of its own accord and the gates began to swing open. There was intense satisfaction in that. The Drake gate only opened for those who belonged. No one knew how it recognized the family and their men, but the house, capable of protecting those within, welcomed him.

“See, Elle?” he whispered. “Even your home says it’s time.” Past time. He should have acted a long time ago, started a war, or rather ended one, and then just locked her to his side. If he’d done so, this wouldn’t have happened.