Roaring Shadows: Macey Book 2 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 8) (20 page)

Instead of spirits and wine, the official beverage being served was hot tea in small, handle-less cups. The waiters lifted short, flat iron-cast pots to pour the fragrant green tea in an elegant stream before offering a steaming cup to each guest.

Though the tea was the official drink, there were plenty of dim corners where the furtive glint of bottle or flask could be seen.

Despite noticing all of these details with interest, Macey simply couldn’t relax and partake of the festivities. She was too busy waiting for the back of her neck to get cold—which would actually be a relief, she freely admitted, for she knew how to deal with that—and both dreading and anticipating the possibility that she would encounter Grady.

When it happened, however, she wasn’t expecting it.

She was at
Hakone
, admiring the vibrant hues of the elegant, arched green mountains overlooking the subtle shades of blue ocean, when the back of her bare neck prickled with awareness. Not with undead awareness, but with something far more potent.

She didn’t have to turn to know it was Grady standing behind her. But when she did turn, her palms damp and her insides a basket of butterflies, she wasn’t prepared to encounter Grady
and
the young blond woman standing there with him.

“Miss Denton,” he said in a detached voice. “I thought that was you. I noticed your companion’s arrival, and assumed that would be you on his arm, though there were so many cameramen taking photographs I couldn’t see your face. But it appears I was correct.”

His voice was cool and detached, but his eyes…they were not. Oh, not by a long shot. They were a dark, wild blue, hot and probing as they caught her gaze. She found it difficult to look away, even more difficult to form words. What was that storming through his eyes? Anger? Accusation? Disgust?

Relief?

When she finally broke the connection, her attention bounced around to take in Grady’s whole person: his unruly cocoa-brown hair, combed back neatly except for a tiny curl flipping up behind his ear; the crisp black tuxedo jacket that made his shoulders look broader than ever; the pristine white bowtie, shirt, and textured white-on-white waistcoat; the faint ink stain on his hand that indicated he’d recently been taking notes—even here, during this formal occasion.

Macey dragged her eyes away and was doing her best to find something to say when Grady rescued her—so to speak. “Pardon me for my lapse. Miss McCormick, meet Miss Denton. She’s an
associate
of Mr. Capone’s.”

The venom in his voice when he said “associate” took Macey by surprise. It felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach; painful and as if she couldn’t snatch in a good breath.

Grady continued, “Miss Denton, please meet Miss Carol McCormick. The Colonel—er, my boss—is her cousin, in case you hadn’t guessed.” He smiled at his companion, whose hand was linked to his arm, and she smiled up in return. How cozy. Macey couldn’t help but notice there wasn’t a trace of the Irish in his tone tonight. Instead, they were stilted and formal, as if he were taking care with each word or syllable.

“The pleasure is mine,” replied Miss McCormick, bestowing the same warm, open smile on Macey. Apparently, she was oblivious to the undercurrents between her escort and Macey—or she was simply gracious enough to be able to ignore them.

Or perhaps there weren’t any undercurrents at all and Macey was exaggerating them in her own mind.

Which, really, would be the very best thing that could happen, she realized suddenly.

In fact…determination and relief took hold of her. This
was
the best thing that could happen. Capone could no longer use Grady as a threat to Macey if she didn’t care a fig for him—and vice versa.

And tonight would be her chance to demonstrate that to Big Al. To finally sever the ties, so to speak.

“And mine,” Macey managed to say. Now her smile was genuine, but when she transferred her attention to Grady, she made her expression turn cool and remote.

“Since he’s obviously not giving up the details, allow me to ask how you know Jameson,” said Miss McCormick, looking up at him as if he were a moving pictures star. “Obviously, I know him because he’s my cousin’s star reporter—you did hear about the counterfeit gang he busted up, didn’t you, Miss Denton? What a hero he was, nearly getting burned up in that warehouse fire!”

Several reactions pinged in Macey’s brain during Miss McCormick’s enthusiastic speech, but the one that settled right in the front of her mind was “
Jameson.
” So the J was for Jameson.

Quickly following that tidbit of information was shock that he’d nearly died. And she’d had no idea any of it had happened.

And the irony was…his near-death hadn’t been at the hands of Capone
or
the undead.

“Miss Denton don’t get around to reading the newspapers all that often.”

Macey’s heart lurched as Capone’s hard Brooklyn tones cut into the conversation. She shot a look at Grady, who’d gone rigid and stone-faced, then turned as Big Al continued, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grady. I want to personally thank you for your work exposing the counterfeiting scheme.” He offered his hand.

“Thank you.” Grady didn’t sound as if he meant it. In fact, he did very little to hide his loathing for the crime boss, though he didn’t go as far as ignoring the proffered handshake.

Capone wasn’t the powerful man he was without being aware of his effect on people, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Those scumbags took me for over a hundred thousand bucks with their fake tenners,” he continued. He held one of the small teacups in his hand and gestured a little, sloshing the liquid over his French-cuffed sleeve. “I got a lotta hands in a lotta pies, but there’s one thing I ain’t interested in, and it’s fake money.” He leaned closer to Grady. His voice dropped lower, but Macey could still hear him when he said, “You ever want a job’t pays better than sniffing out news stories, you come see me.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Capone,” Grady replied. “You and I operate on different sides of the law—and I have no interest in crossing that river. Excuse me.” Without another look at Macey, he turned smoothly, taking Carol McCormick with him. They strolled off through the crowd of glittering jewels, black evening jackets, and rainbows of silk and satin: a tall, confident figure partnered with a slender, elegant, glittering blond one.

That left Capone and Macey alone, and she steeled her expression into a cold, emotionless mask. “And there he goes—your last bit of leverage over me, Scarface. You wouldn’t take the risk of hurting someone you admire so much—and quite frankly, after the way he spoke to me tonight, I wouldn’t care if you did.”

“I’m not so certain about that, doll.” Capone waved at one of the Japanese-garbed waiters and gestured sharply with his empty teacup. The waiter produced a flask and covertly filled the mobster’s glass, neatly replacing the contraband bottle back into the pocket of his loose kimono in mere seconds.

She leaned closer, dropping her voice. “Well, you can be certain about this, Mr. Capone: as of tonight, I’m no longer in your employ. And as of tonight, if anything happens to any of my friends or anyone with a connection to me, I’m placing the blame squarely on
you
.”

“That oughta be interesting.”

It was Capone’s sly, dismissive comment that sent her over the edge. “Just try me, Alphonsus.”

He laughed. “You don’t frighten me, you dumb broad. You’re—”

Macey stepped closer, right up to him so she brushed against his belly. “I should frighten the hell out of you. I know far too much about you—and I’m certain Nicholas Iscariot would be delighted to know that you wear the
vis bulla
. More than that, he’d be even more pleased to foil the ‘dauntless one’s’ prophecy by ridding the earth of you and your Chianti-swilling ass. You’ve already indicated how incapable you are of protecting yourself from the undead without a woman to protect you,” she said from between her teeth.

“Why, you little
bitch
. You know what happened to da last person who made vague threats at me? He ended up in the goddamn
morgue
wid a bullet through his head.” His Brooklyn accent came through like a thick and chunky pasta sauce.

“Then let me clear up any
vagueness
. This is not a threat, Alphonsus. This is
fact
. If any harm comes to Grady or any other of my friends or associates, I’ll make certain the undead know
exactly
where to find you…and precisely how to get to you. And I can guarantee that if anything happens to
me
, every single Venator on this earth—including my father, if he happens to be alive—will be out for you before you can load your gun.”

She fixed him with one last hard, steady look. Then, as if she were a queen, Macey turned deliberately and gracefully—and blundered off into the crowd, hardly noticing where she was going.

Her lungs were heaving, and, admittedly, her knees were more than a little trembly, but she was liberated. The line in the sand had been drawn.

Capone had a lot more to lose than she did.

It was her own damned fault she had taken so long to realize it.

EIGHTEEN

~ Miss McCormick Becomes a Topic ~

Macey walked away as if
she had a destination, even though she had nowhere in mind except to get as far from Capone and Grady as possible. Then—yes.
There.

She pushed open the door to the ladies’ lounge with relief, aware that her heart was pounding with what doctors called adrenaline.

I’m free
.

She stopped in front of the nearest stretch of mirror and stared at herself. Other than bright red patches of emotion on each cheek, she had to admit, she looked pretty good. Strong. Bold. Fearsome. And put together just as beautifully as the lovely Miss McCormick—thanks to her now-former employer.

But now that she was done with Capone, she wouldn’t be dressing like this anymore. Except for the hats she’d get from Temple’s Aunt Cookie, which were quite exquisite.

Macey fixed an awkward curl, pinning it above her ear with a jet-and-ruby-beaded hairpin with a hand that was now steady. She also made certain the long jet-black earrings were still screwed tightly in place, adjusting them slightly because her earlobes were beginning to ache. Then, realizing she had no reason to stay here—in the lounge or at the Art Institute—she went through the door and found herself back in the midst of the glittering gala. Not wanting to be noticed, however, she slipped behind one of the big columns near a corner and took a look around to get her bearings.

From her safe corner out of sight of the party attendees, she scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Grady (she told herself it was simply because she didn’t want to run into him again), but she didn’t see him—or the beacon-haired Miss McCormick.

Had they ducked out for a bit of privacy? Were they walking through one of the deserted galleries, searching for a private corner—like the one in which she was lingering?

She scowled a little at the reminder of how good Grady was at taking advantage of private corners—or high-walled booth tables, for that matter—sliding closer and pulling a gal near for a thorough bit of kissing and hugging while he looked into her eyes and called her “lass” in that delicious brogue. A little shiver of memory caught her by surprise and she shoved it away, forcibly replacing the memory of his face with that of Chas.

“Hey there, doll,” came a smooth voice behind her. “You look a little lost.”

Macey turned. The man behind her was tall and wide, and he edged far too close to her with his powerful body. She didn’t recognize him—nor was he an undead—but his demeanor wasn’t one that instilled comfort or pleasure; in fact, the barely veiled lasciviousness in his eyes made her frown.

“I’m not,” she said. “Lost. Thank you for your concern.” She would have brushed past him, but he caught her arm.

“What’s the hurry, tootsie?” His fingers were tight and he quickly and neatly pivoted her back into the shadows, following with his bulky body. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be walking around by yourself in a place like this.”

“In a place like what?” she asked calmly. The fury, guilt, and other unpleasant emotions she’d tamped down and away throughout the evening were bubbling nicely to the surface—and the lout in front of her had no idea he was about to be the recipient of their explosion. “And I wasn’t walking. Let go of me.”

“Come on now, tootsie roll,” he said, pushing her back toward the wall. His eyes were dark and hungry and he brushed a finger over the bare skin of her throat. “You look lonely.”

“I won’t say it again. Take your hands off me.” She kept her voice pleasant, but her eyes were steely and hard. Inside, she was smiling. What was that old saying? The bigger they were…

“Now don’t be shy, dollface. I know how to make a gal—”

A loud
pop!
followed by a flash of light had Macey’s assailant spinning around in shock.

“That’s a great shot there, Mr. Badgley. How about a nice smile now, while I get another one of the woman you’re accosting in the corner, still cowering away from you as you hold her in place.” Grady stood there, speaking through a cold, humorless smile. “Would you care to finish your statement about you know how to make a gal…what was it you were going to say? Cringe? I’m sure Mrs. Badgley will appreciate it when the story hits the front page tomorrow.” He let the heavy camera hang from its strap around his neck and pulled out a notebook and pencil.

Badgley growled something and took a threatening step toward Grady, but the other man didn’t back down. “Is that a ‘no comment’?” His voice was hard, and Macey noticed his pencil hand gripped the camera as if it were a weapon.

“Give me that damned film,” snarled Badgley.

“Just try and take it.” Grady met him, glare for glare, steady and calm. When Badgley eased back, the news hawk growled, “Now get the hell away from here. And if I see you with your hands on any other woman who’s not your wife, I’ll print these pictures. Or better yet—I’ll send copies of them to your wife. I suspect her rich daddy won’t appreciate it at all. Now get your arse away from here.”