Don't Say a Word (18 page)

“Maybe Bolton had another girl on the side besides Braudaway's daughter,” Cal suggested. “There's no way the one in the house survived. I stayed and watched the building crumble to ashes.”

The thunderous roar of the house crashing around them echoed in Damon's head as if it had happened yesterday. The wood splintering, glass shattering, flames shooting up in the sky. The burning embers. He'd watched, too. No woman had crawled out….

Although, God knows how many times he'd prayed that she had.

“You're probably right.” Damon kicked at the weeds choking the crack in the sidewalk. He must be trying to convince himself that Jacqueline was that woman to assuage his guilt.

Still, the instincts that had kept him alive during the most dangerous of his missions niggled at him—he'd show Jacqueline a photo of Diego Bolton, see if she recognized him.

Find out for sure if she and Diego had been involved. If she was the woman in the fire with him, that damn baby rattle had belonged to her. Which meant that not only had she been involved with the assassin, she might have been carrying his child.

A child he'd killed as well.

* * *

L
EX
V
AN
W
ORMER STROLLED
the halls of the hospital, struggling for enough energy to give his spiritual form physicality. He understood some spirits could move things, touch surfaces, create noise. He wanted that gift, that power so he could stop Pace from scheming to hurt Crystal and Dubois.

Pace was insane. Lex had heard him mutter that if he couldn't have Crystal, no one would.

Lex had to protect her. Let her and Dubois know that Pace had lied…

Frustration filled him as he remembered the virile soldier he once had been.

A warrior who'd wielded a machete, a machine gun—what he could do with even a goddamn switchblade, if needed. Now he was not only dead but fucking helpless.

He shouted in rage and went to pound at the door with balled fists, but his hands slid through the wood and no sound came from his mouth. Instead, flaky, dry, dead skin fell from his hands and arms like ashes.

He screamed again, knowing that if he was alive, blood might spurt from his cracked skin as he clawed at the wooden door. Dying was worse than he'd expected. It should have brought relief from the unbearable pain of his skin affliction, but a different raw emotional pain had replaced it.

Yet he clung to the gray realm anyway, that invisible bridge between the worlds that left him in limbo. Still in pain, not quite dead, not quite living.

Granted, he deserved this punishment. He'd inflicted suffering on others more times than he wanted to remember, but had justified his actions through the notion of war. He was a soldier for the good and well-being of others.

His one downfall had not been his conscience. Not like Dubois who'd been haunted by the vile evil of their justified murders.

No, his downfall had been the fact that he'd trusted his own men, the secret soldiers of the E-team. Now, the fiery gates of the world below had a burning stake with his name on it. But a sliver of hope for redemption had stolen into the darkness. Crystal. In the dead zone, she had floated from her earthly body for a bit and they connected in the spiritual realm.

If he had still been alive, he'd have thought she was his soul mate.

Yet his time had already ended, the life had been sucked from him in agonizing currents caused by the chemical that had eaten away his surface. And now as his body lay in the casket six feet under, his flesh was rotting away. Sliding off the bone and crumbling to dirt and ashes.

Yet God had granted him a reprieve by allowing Crystal to see him, which had given him a chance for redemption. He had completed part of his mission. He had kept Crystal alive in her darkest hours. His voice, his encouragement, his whispers that she had hope of loved ones waiting on her had helped her fight for her life. Keeping Crystal alive and helping her find her soul mate was the only way he could redeem his own soul, and avoid burning in hell with Satan for eternity.

Now she was gone, and her fate lay in Dubois's hands.

But what if Dubois failed?

Lex had to find a way to help him.

D
AMON'S PALMS FELT SWEATY
as he clutched the photo of Diego in his hands. Curses sputtered off his tongue as he mentally reviewed the heinous crimes the man had been responsible for. Not only men's lives taken, but innocent women and children's, and more than once. Diego had dropped a bomb in a village near Beirut and killed thousands. Then he'd wiped out an orphanage in China as a vendetta against one of his enemies. He'd also instigated a plan to attack numerous schools in the States just to remind the Americans of the power of terrorism and the vulnerability of their state. Thankfully, the E-team had intercepted those last plans and thwarted the plot.

The thought that Crystal—Jacqueline—had been involved with a man as coldhearted as Diego, that she might have slept with him, fueled Damon's rage.

The fact that she might have known who Diego was and what he did and had supported him, even loved him, turned Damon's stomach.

No—it was impossible that she'd known the truth about Diego. Jacqueline would not hurt anyone. She had volunteered in Third World countries, had taught kids in need. She could never harm a soul.

She triggered every protective instinct in him, every yearning to be better himself, every desire to be her hero and have the life with her that he could never have.

Because of who he'd been in the past.

He dropped his face into his hands. For God's sake, she might be the woman he thought he'd killed. Might have been burned and undergone months of mental and physical pain, surgeries and rehab therapy because of
him
.

If she knew, she'd hate him.

Steeling himself against his guilt, and the emotions and desire Jacqueline unleashed in him, he strode back in the room. Her pale green eyes searched his, the strain of remembering that her father had died a horrible death evident in her tightly set mouth.

He reined in the need to go to her and kiss those lips until they were soft and pliant against his, until she relaxed and forgot about her grief and could only feel the pleasure he would give her. Pleasure that would never end as his fingers massaged and teased her sensitive skin, as his lips glided against her mouth, neck, breasts, and her hidden secrets. Pleasure from their bodies joining together until both of their nightmares disappeared forever, until they were fused together as one—

“Damon?”

He forced himself to place the picture on the desk. “This is a photo of Diego Bolton. Do you recognize him?”

Jacqueline bit down on her lip and looked at the photograph as Damon described the man's dossier.

Diego Bolton was a terrorist who killed countless innocents. Silently, Damon added that Diego was a different breed of hired killer than the men of the E-team. Even though they'd used violence as their means, they had fought for justice, to protect the citizens. Diego had no affiliations with any group that wanted justice. No conscience at all.

A strangled sound suddenly escaped her. “God…” Then she clutched her stomach, ran from the office and down the hall.

Damon followed, but paused at the door to the ladies' room.

Her choked sobs and the sound of her violent retching came through the closed door, giving him his answers.

* * *

J
ACQUELINE DROPPED HER HEAD
against her arms atop the toilet lid, sobs wracking her body. She'd lost the contents of her stomach but still roiled with nausea.

The man in the photograph—she had known him.

A series of brief flashes invaded the dark spaces in her mind like lightning strikes splitting a cloudy sky. A mental picture of her dancing with Diego Bolton at a ritzy party. Then one of her lying beside him in bed, kissing him, letting him touch her body.

Then a feeling of dawning horror that he was not the man he'd portrayed himself to be. Hints here and there that he might be violent. His hand gripping her arm too tightly. Photos of Diego with suspected terrorists.

The camera in her mind rolled forward in fast motion. Kendra…Kendra meeting her in private. Telling her that she suspected Diego might be trouble, that he might be using her to get to her father. Dear God, had he? And if so, why? Where was Diego now?

“Jacqueline?”

Damon's gruff voice sounded through the closed door. Jacqueline couldn't face him yet.

“Are you all right?”

She swallowed, struggling to pull herself together. “Yes. Please, give me a minute.”

Heaving to steady the nausea still rising in her chest, she dragged her weary body up and shuffled from the stall to the sink. She leaned against it, splashed cold water on her face, dampened a paper towel and pressed it to the back of her clammy neck, then rinsed out her mouth and retrieved a breath mint from her purse. She stared into the mirror at her face.

Rather, the face of her cousin.

Like a camera out of focus, the picture bled from Kendra's face to her old one, then blurred somewhere in between.

“Kendra…Oh, God, what did I do?” She lifted her fingers and traced over the delicate new skin, more tears welling in her eyes, blurring her image, yet the face of her cousin still shone through. A strong face that had belonged to a brave, gutsy woman.

A woman who'd been on the verge of exposing a dirty cop and Swafford.

And Diego, her lover.

Why had Kendra needed to die?

Why not her? And how had she wound up with Dr. Pace, a man who'd later stolen her cousin's skin and given it to her?

The fact that Kendra had questioned her about Diego and that Kendra had been murdered seemed too much of a coincidence.

Her lungs constricted.

Wasn't she somehow responsible for her cousin's death?

Guilt clouded her vision again, and the image of her own face returned to float in front of the mirror. Like a slide show of the past, a glimpse of her and Kendra at age five wearing fuzzy bathrobes standing before a Christmas tree, holding identical baby dolls. Another snippet of them playing tea party when they were six. Then making mud pies in the woods. Stringing beads to make friendship bracelets. And later, as teens, when they'd joined a mission trip to Africa together. Kendra taking notes in her journal, talking about investigative reporting. Her collecting information on the schools and the needs of the children.

Then a frame of her and Kendra beside her father's coffin.

Cousins linked now by a common face and the horror that had ended Kendra's life.

Jacqueline's throat clogged. How could she live like this? How could she go on wearing Kendra's face while her cousin lay in the ground, her life stolen?

She trembled; grief, guilt, fear, anger colliding in a firestorm of determination. If she had caused Kendra's death, she didn't deserve happiness for herself. But she would find out who had killed her cousin if it was the last thing she ever did.

And she'd make sure the killer rotted in jail for the savage violence he had inflicted on her cousin and aunt.

* * *

D
AMON COULDN'T STAND IT
any longer. He knew Jacqueline was upset, probably torturing herself with guilt over her involvement with the man who'd murdered her father. But had she known about Diego or discovered his darker side before she'd been injured?

Had she been the woman in the explosion?

When he got home, he'd send that baby rattle out for testing and see if the prints matched hers. Then he'd know….

He eased the door open, and the sight before him wrenched his heart. Jacqueline stood before the mirror, staring at her reflection as if she'd seen a ghost. Maybe she had—Kendra's.

Forgetting every reason he shouldn't go to her, and ignoring every cop instinct screaming at him to treat her like a suspect, as Diego's possible accomplice, he strode toward her and pulled her in his arms.

“Shh. It's all right.”

She fell against his chest, her body trembling, her wet cheeks dampening his shirt.

“Damon, what if I'm the reason Kendra died?”

He rubbed her back in slow circles, inhaled the scent of her shampoo, the scent of the soft spot at her neck that smelled like rain…but also the smell of fear. Her pain bled into his, shutting out his own guilty voice with the need to alleviate her agony.

“Kendra was an investigative reporter, Jacqueline. She knew the risks she took when she looked into Diego, and Swafford, and corruption on the police force. You aren't to blame for the fact that she ended up on dangerous ground. That's what she did,
who
she was, just like Antwaun and Jean-Paul are cops and I'm a federal agent.” He gently stroked her hair from her tearstained cheek and pressed a kiss to her temple, then one to her cheek. She clung to him as if she needed his strength, and for the first time since the failed mission, he felt as if he could be a hero again. “And she loved you or she wouldn't have come to you to warn you about Diego.”

She turned her angst-ridden face up to him, and licked her lips as if they were parched. His were, too. Dry for the taste of her. For the feel of the sweetness and salvation she offered. For the chance to be a whole man again. A man worthy of being cared for and loved.

“Damon…”

Her gaze locked with his, and heat speared his body, driving his need to a frenzy that robbed him of reason. They needed to escape their pain. Without thinking about where they were or the consequences, he lowered his head and claimed her mouth with his.

Her soft sigh of acquiescence only strummed his desire, and he slid his hands into the tumbling mass of her hair, threading the silky length between his fingers and pulling her closer to his body, so close her breasts grazed his chest. He felt the tight bud of her nipples as they peaked and begged for attention, and wanted her naked and in his arms.

She parted her lips, and he thrust his tongue inside her mouth, tasting and exploring until she sighed and ran her hands around his back and into his hair, drawing him closer as she arched into him. A groan escaped him, and he deepened the kiss, his hunger mounting as she played her tongue against his.

One moment they were kissing and the next, he moved his hands beneath her top. Heat flared inside him as he felt the smooth contours of her flat stomach, the curve of the underside of her breasts, the mounds he wanted to hold in his hands as he took her nipple into his mouth. He released her mouth and bowed his head to find his way to her breast, his hand already loosening the front clasp, her skin grazing his fingers. But the door to the bathroom opened and a female officer walked in. He jerked up, suddenly realizing where he was and what he was doing.

Taking advantage of Jacqueline when she needed his comfort and help.

Disgusted with himself and knowing he might be compromising the investigation by losing his objectivity, he released her and stepped back. “I'll meet you outside.”

Avoiding the other woman's eyes, he strode past her, wondering at his sanity and professional reputation as he stepped through the door.

Jean-Paul stood in the hallway, arms crossed. “Is she all right?”

No.

Neither was he. She was so damn hot he wanted to go back to her now. Forget the case and take her home to bed.

But she needed his help, just as Antwaun did. Antwaun, who was sitting in jail. Who'd loved Kendra. A woman whose face Jacqueline now wore.

“She's starting to have flashbacks. I'm taking her to visit her mother. Maybe that will trigger more memories and we can piece together this mess.”

“Good. Get back to me. I'm on my way to talk to Antwaun's partner. He may be responsible for framing Antwaun. And the murders.”

* * *

T
HE HOWL OF SOME UNKNOWN
creature shattered the quiet of the bayou as darkness descended across the swampland. Esmeralda cocked her head sideways listening to the feral cry, reading the signs of frustration and warning of the evil forces at work in the backwoods. The devil's vile breath bathed her neck. The greedy bastard.

She spread her hands before her and began to chant in the ancient language of the witches who had come before her, calling upon the good magic and fairies to draw on their powers, protect the bayou and the good people of New Orleans.

Damon Dubois was one of them, though he would argue that he was not.

He had been lost in the darkness for a while now, had walked the ledge between the forces many times, as Lex had. But the aura around Damon was shifting now, the black rim tinged with intermittent flashes of gold like heat lightning against a night sky.

Lex was also changing.

All because of the woman.

She needed all of them, but they needed her as well. God had commanded it, and he had chosen well. Even Kendra…the woman with the lost face…was not lost completely.

Sounds of evil warriors erupted in the distance, limbs and brush crackling. The gators surged upward from low-slung resting spots beneath the muddy Mississippi's surface and vented their shrill cry of attack, knifelike teeth ready to tear the limbs off of unseen prey.

The cats arched their backs and snarled, claws bared, ears perched as they surrounded her with their magic protective circle.