Darkest Desire (4 page)

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Authors: Tawny Taylor

BOOK: Darkest Desire
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Drako stood, gathered his empty bowl, spoon, and glass, and took them to the sink. “I need to get back to packing.”
“Talen can help you,” Malek offered as he shut the refrigerator door. “He's got nothing better to do.”
“Sure, I could use the help. My wife is packing half the house. Talen.” Drako jerked his head toward the hall.
“Yeah, I'd be happy to help.” Talen trudged along, trailing behind their eldest brother.
Finally, he was alone with Lei. He had some damage control to do. He started by shoving a cut bagel into the toaster.
“So, are you really thinking about taking a sewing class?” Lei asked as she settled down on a stool at the raised counter.
Sewing wasn't manly.
Sewing wasn't sexy.
Sewing wasn't even enjoyable.
He mumbled, “Well . . .”
Her eyes turned sparkly. Her lips curled into a sweet little smile that made his heart thump and his cock thicken. “Are you embarrassed to admit the truth?” She spooned some yogurt to her mouth. The utensil slid between her lips, in, then out. The tip of her tongue darted out, licking away a bit of yogurt that had remained on the spoon.
Damn, he could watch her eat yogurt all day long.
His cock twitched. “Maybe.”
“I'm taking a sewing class this semester, too. I changed majors.”
“You did?” he asked, watching, mesmerized as she ate another spoonful of yogurt. He swore he didn't get this hard watching porn.
“Yeah, I just wasn't enjoying the science classes as much as I thought. When I heard the university was expanding its arts and fibers program to include fashion design, I decided to make a change.”
“Fashion design? Sounds interesting.” Malek's bagel popped out of the toaster at the same time as the microwave oven chirped. He pulled his plate out, dropped the bagel on it, then pulled a knife out of the block to slice the sausage.
“Sure, I've always had an interest in fashion. I bet there will be plenty of men in my classes. You wouldn't be the only one.”
“Maybe.” He arranged the sausage on the bagel, added a slice of cheese and the eggs, and plopped the second half on top of the first, creating a healthy (not) sandwich.
“Of course.” She tracked him as he made his way around the counter to the side with the stools. “You should go for it.”
He sat next to her. “Sewing?” he repeated. He took a bite, chewed. “If I was able to get in the same class with you, maybe we could drive together?”
“Maybe. It would depend upon our schedules. Were you thinking about taking anything else?”
“I haven't decided yet.” Taking a second class, something to help replenish his testosterone levels might be needed. This whole sewing thing was a bad idea. He didn't know a damn thing about sewing. He couldn't even thread a needle. And that was because he'd never wanted to learn how.
If something needed alterations, he paid someone to do them.
If something needed repairing, he generally threw it away or donated it to charity and replaced it.
Why the hell did he need to know how to sew?
Then she ate some more yogurt and that was it. If it took learning how to sew to get closer to Lei, then . . . what the hell?
“So . . . what other classes were you taking this semester?” he asked.
4
T
he funeral home was gorgeous. But sadly, it was empty.
At the direction of the silver-haired funeral director, Lei reluctantly stepped into room C, where Eve was being displayed for just one day. Rooms A and B were empty. As her gaze scanned the area, the lack of visitors hit her hard. It seemed that nobody cared that Eve had died. Nobody but an elderly woman, sitting in the first row of chairs lined up in front of the casket.
Lei hoped that woman knew something about Eve's death. But how to bring it up . . . ?
Her heart started pounding hard against her breastbone as she slowly approached the casket.
How had this happened? How had a woman who'd escaped the horrid world they'd both been trapped in ended up dead in an alley?
Lei felt a little sick as she stood in front of the casket, looking down at the woman who'd befriended her when she'd first arrived in Detroit. She was the one who'd told her which girls to avoid and which to trust. She was the one who'd talked her through one of the lowest days of her life.
Dead.
When she turned around, the woman in the front row was looking directly at her. Lei took a seat beside her, hands folded in her lap.
The woman placed one heavily wrinkled hand on hers. “Thank you for coming.”
At a total loss as to what to say, Lei simply nodded.
“My granddaughter didn't have many friends. I appreciate your being here.”
“She was a good person,” Lei said.
“Yes, she was. If only she had learned to make better choices. If she had, she might be alive today.” The woman's voice wavered.
“I'm very sorry.”
Neither Lei nor the woman said anything for several minutes. Lei didn't have the heart to ask any questions. This was not the time or place. The best she could do was hang around the funeral home and see who else, if anyone, showed up.
And so she did.
She sat with Eve's grandmother, Irene, for a couple of hours, went and bought some lunch for them both, and brought it back. As they ate submarine sandwiches and chips, Irene told her stories about the girl she called Evelyn. About how she'd dreamed of being a ballerina when she was eight, after going to see a local production of
The Nutcracker.
About getting the lead in her high-school musical her freshman year. About the mural she'd painted in her high school and the award she'd received for it. And about the eventual plummet into addiction that led to her becoming what Lei had known she was but Irene was too embarrassed to admit.
Lei had known there was something special about Eve from the first moment she'd met her, but she hadn't realized how special she was. Or what might have been if she hadn't become addicted to heroin.
She wasn't sure what saddened her more: Eve's death or the loss of all that potential.
If only. If . . . only.
After lunch, Lei sat with Irene in that front row for another hour before she became too antsy to sit any longer. Feeling like she was wasting her time, but unable to convince herself to leave, she resorted to strolling around the property. The building was a gorgeous Victorian house converted into a funeral home. It was positioned on a main street cutting through a quaint little town on a wide lot. Outside, just beyond the parking lot, there was a small garden with a fountain. It was peaceful. Pretty. Even at this time of year when the shrubbery was bare, the flowers long gone. She sat on a concrete bench at the far end of the garden. From her position, she could watch the parking lot, see who was coming and going.
About one hour before Eve's showing was scheduled to end, Lei watched a car pull into the lot. It was silver. A man who looked very familiar came out of it and strolled around to the front of the building.
Curious, and wracking her brain, trying to remember where she'd seen that man before—
if
she'd seen that man before—she followed at a distance.
He went in, looked at the sign in the entryway, started toward room C, halted at the door, lifted a hand, and a moment later did a one-eighty before Lei could duck out of sight. His gaze snapped to hers, and a tense moment passed. He said, “A message for you.” A second later, he charged past her, slamming through the front door.
“What message?” Lei stood frozen for a moment, then scurried out after him. She caught his car skidding out onto the road. As it zoomed past her, she squinted to read the license plate. All she caught were the letters WVM.
Confused, and still unable to remember where she'd seen the man before, she wandered back inside room C. Thinking she'd ask Irene if she knew him, she headed toward the front row of chairs.
Irene was lying on the floor, between the chairs and the casket.
Dead.
Eyes staring blindly. Lips frozen in a grimace.
Deep scarlet blood seeping from the wound in her forehead.
Lei clapped a hand over her mouth, but it did nothing to muffle the scream.
 
An hour later, Lei was sitting in her car, shaking hands gripping the steering wheel. She hadn't started the engine. She wasn't sure if she was in any condition to drive yet. But by the same token, she'd looked a cold-blooded killer in the eye. He'd not only gotten a good look at her, but he'd actually spoken to her. His words were still echoing in her head.
A message for you
. What message?
The police were packing up and leaving. She wasn't feeling very safe sitting around there, waiting for him to come back and kill her, too. That had to be what he was trying to say. Right?
She'd done her part, given a detailed description to the detective. She'd retold her story at least a dozen times. Now she needed—somehow—to push this whole ugly thing out of her head.
Then again, she'd come looking for answers, wondering if Eve's death might have anything to do with their common history. With what she'd done when she was still a slave.
It's too dangerous. Leave the investigating to the professionals
.
She turned the key and the car started. Still trembling, she glanced over her shoulder and maneuvered the car out of the parking space. She slowly drove past the line of police cars angled in front of the pretty Victorian house . . . turned funeral home . . . turned crime scene.
A chill crept up her spine.
One question kept whirling around in her mind as she drove home. One nagging question.
Why hadn't the killer shot her, too? Why leave a witness alive?
She constantly checked her rearview mirror as she drove home. Was he waiting for her? Was he following her? She wound through twisty-turny subdivision streets along the way, hoping she'd lose him if he was. Not once did she spy a suspicious car following her.
By the time she pulled into the driveway, she was pretty sure she hadn't been followed. But she still had no answer to that nagging question.
Why?
She let herself into the house and went straight to her room. All she wanted to do was curl up and hide. She didn't want to talk to anyone. Because then she'd have to feel that terror again. That horrid, gut-wrenching shock.
She didn't want to think.
She didn't want to feel.
Escape.
She downed a couple of sleeping pills and let the soothing darkness carry her away.
 
Her scream tore through his body like a jagged-edged cleaver.
Instantly breathless, Malek sprinted up the staircase, following the sound of Lei's voice. Before he made it to her room, another scream echoed through the house, the sound igniting every nerve in his body.
Three seconds later, he stormed into Lei's room. His gaze jerked to her bed. She was sitting upright, eyes wild, hands clutching the front of her clothes, her face the color of milk.
Without saying a word, he ran to her, hauled her into his arms. She was trembling. Her ragged gasps sawed in and out of her chest.
“I'm okay,” she repeated over and over.
He didn't let go. She was shaking. She wasn't okay.
“I'm okay, Malek.” She pushed against his chest, but he only loosened his hold on her, he didn't release her. “Malek.”
He cupped the back of her head and looked down into her eyes. The pupils were still dilated, so wide he could barely see the ring of brown circling them. “I heard what you said, but are you really okay?”
“Yes.” Her lip quivered as the corners tilted up into what he assumed was meant to be a smile. Lei was a terrible liar. “It was just a nightmare. That's all.”
He searched her eyes. His hand, the one palming her head, began smoothing back the wisps of hair that had been thrown over her face. The other one, the one currently flattened against her side, remained still. She'd given up a little fight when he'd first grabbed her, but she wasn't wriggling anymore. He wasn't ready to let go of her yet. Hell no. “That must've been one hell of a nightmare.”
“It was the pills.” Shrinking back from his touch now, as if she'd suddenly realized he was holding her, she jerked backward.
Damn.
“Pills?” he echoed.
“I took a couple of sleeping pills.”
He glanced at the clock. It was a little after five in the evening. “You're retiring for the night a little early, aren't you?”
“I wasn't feeling well.”
“Are you sick?”
“No, I just had a headache. A migraine.” She rubbed a temple.
“And now . . . ?”
“It's a little better now.”
“I'm glad. Listen, I brought home some dinner. From Antonio's. There's more than enough for me and Talen. So why don't you help us out?”
She flattened her hand over her stomach. “I am a little hungry.”
“Excellent.” He stood, then offered her a hand as she scooted to the edge of the bed. After flicking a glance at his extended hand, she accepted it, pushed to her feet, and looked up at him with those glorious dark eyes.
“Thanks.” She tugged her hand free.
He fought the urge to cup her chin and claim her mouth.
Whether he wanted to admit it to himself or anyone else, his body had decided there was only one woman who could be his wife. And that woman was Lei.
Now all he had to do was convince her to accept his proposal. And that was going to be no easy task.
But he had an idea.
While she headed into the bathroom to freshen up, he went down to the kitchen to dish out the pasta. Talen was standing at the counter, a foam container in one hand, chewing on a mouthful of eggplant parmesan.
“How much would it cost to make you disappear for the next couple of weeks?” Malek asked.
“Two weeks?” Talen shrugged. “Make me an offer.”
“One thousand.”
“Five,” Talen countered.
“Damn, that's not even reasonable.” The echo of little footsteps sounded through the foyer. She was coming. “Three thousand.”
“Done. You've got two weeks. I'll pack up and head out after I finish eating.” Talen took his carton and a bottle of beer, and headed toward Drako's office. Before stepping into the office, he turned around and gave Malek what he could only describe as a pitying look. “Dude, you've got it bad for her.”
Malek grunted and shooed him out just before she rounded the bend, coming into the kitchen. He'd set some plates and glasses out on the dining table and was digging out some silverware when she entered the room.
“Smells great,” she said, taking in the set table, then him, as he gathered the rest of the things they needed. “Can I help?”
“Nope, I think I have everything.” Napkins and utensils in hand, a bottle of wine tucked under an arm, he headed for the table to finish up the preparations. “Go ahead and take a seat.”
He set down the bottle, then folded her napkin and set it next to her plate.
“Such service,” she said, watching him.
He uncorked the wine and filled her glass, then his. Next, he opened the foam cartons and lifted the first. “What do you think of Alfredo sauce?”
“Love it.”
“Good.” He spooned a portion onto each of their plates, added some salad, and finally took his seat.
She gave him a sparkly eyed smile. “This looks wonderful. Thanks for sharing.” Her brows scrunched slightly. “Where's Talen?”
“Drako's office, I think. He said he had some important things to do tonight. He's heading out of town on a business trip tomorrow.” He lifted his glass. “A toast?”

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