No One Left to Tell (16 page)

Glancing down at her delicate hands, he remembered the time that he'd witnessed those graceful fingers taking a life, when she was barely out of her teen years. In a rough area of downtown Chicago, he'd accompanied a rather shady friend to some forgettable jazz club. Not much remained in his memory of that night, except for the vivid details of Jasmine. The man had been many times her size and looked as if he had instigated the confrontation. In actuality, she had quietly spurred him on and wielded a knife to make her point. For her part, and to witnesses, it would appear to be self-defense, but he recognized premeditation when he saw it. And he'd noticed with admiration that fear never once shadowed her face. The attack was over almost before it began, and she never hesitated to do what had to be done.

But it wasn't her efficiency that piqued his interest.

It was the essence behind her enigmatic eyes, vessels brimming with a lust for life—and death. She seemed to enjoy the kill, such a rare and valuable quality in an employee, much less one so beautiful. Yet she held her vulnerability restrained, not letting it show until later. She had killed the man for a sin he had committed against her family. It wasn't until later that she told him the whole story, and he admired her all the more.

The adrenaline rush compelled him to act, to take her into his life and eventually hire her. Yet a deeper desire to harness her savagery, for his own benefit, drew her into his inner circle—and into his bed. Her loyalty knew no bounds.

"We're almost there, Mantis."

His affectionate nickname for her brought a graceful curve to her lips, pleasing him immensely. The female praying mantis always devoured the head of the male in the throes of copulation. He often wondered if the male of the species believed such sacrifice to be worth the extra effort.

"I apologize for subjecting you to this unpleasant business. As soon as we conclude this distasteful interlude, I shall make it up to you over dinner."

"Just being in your company comforts me, Nicky."

Nicky.
Prior to Jasmine, it had been many years since someone had called him by that name. His bodyguard and confidante had no idea that the nickname engendered many bittersweet memories in him. Only one other person called him Nicky. And he had already taken a course of action to destroy a woman he still loved. Memories flooded his mind, back to his early twenties—a lifetime ago.

Feeling like Romeo to her Juliet, Nicholas couldn't resist a young woman named Fiona Fitzgerald. In her late teens, she'd captivated his complete attention during an intermission in the opera
La Bohème,
her lithe form made even more beautiful by the white beaded gown she wore. Although their affair had been torrid from the start, it was all too brief, cut short by her arranged betrothal to Charles Dunhill, the heir apparent of a rival crime family to his own.

He never understood why she chose another. Especially since he felt so sure she loved him. Fortified by the invincibility of youth, he begged her to marry him instead, in total disregard of his own safety. For her love, he'd been willing to wage war against his rival. But in the end, she refused to see him, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer. His throat clenched with the memory.

But his Fiona gave him a precious gift, something her husband would never claim. Given such innocence, no gift ever touched him quite as much.

Despite his feelings for her, Nicholas had seen Fiona become his new rival after the unsolved murder of her husband. Conducting his own investigation of the assassination, he'd found the chink in the Dunhill armor, and discovered his lover had grown a spine—and a ruthless nature. To not take advantage of such an opportunity would have been foolish. And he no longer considered himself a foolish young man. Business was business.

Drawing him back to the present, the late-afternoon sun stabbed through the gray clouds and warmed his face through tinted windows. Even with dark glasses, he squinted against the light, catching his image in the glass when the sun cooperated.

His dark hair, infused with gray at the temples, glistened in the light. The deep blue of his eyes flashed in the warm rays, even under his designer frames. He had changed from the man Fiona knew. Time and cynicism had weathered him.

Yet in spite of being in his late fifties, he still garnered the attention of women, even before they discovered his identity. His reputation as a powerful and wealthy man drew them like bees to warm honey, augmented even more by his notoriety as an accomplished lover. He'd cultivated his celebrity over the years on all fronts. But he had never proposed marriage to any woman other than Fiona, preferring his solitude to anything second best.

"Perhaps some entertainment might distract you." Jasmine's soft voice kept him from falling victim to his memories. Her gaze directed him elsewhere. "I know how you are so easily bored."

A motion to his left snared his attention to a darkened corner of the vehicle. A drama played silently on a small television. A DVD looped images that served to inspire him. Scene after scene of death played out before his eyes. Even now, a pride of lions devoured a wildebeest, their muzzles red with blood from a successful hunt, their half-lidded eyes satiated with the kill.

The brutality made a mockery of the classical music lilting in the background. Yet, such was his paradoxical life—the exhilarating adrenaline rush of his criminal endeavors tempered by the civility he favored. He had been truly blessed, and cursed.

"Yes, you understand me indeed," he muttered under his breath, not taking his eyes off the screen.

No pretext of love existed between him and Jasmine. They filled a need in each other that no one else understood. And she knew merely what he allowed her to know. Only one woman understood his softer underbelly. It had been the last time he felt so vulnerable to another living soul. Love was a weakness. And it'd been a painful lesson indeed.

Dismissing his unsettling reflections, he watched the drama played out on the screen. A cheetah slowly stalked a herd of gazelle in search of the weakest—a fine example of Darwin's theory on survival. Terror in the eyes of prey infused him with a sense of power as menacing death pursued its next victim.
Truly an inspiration!
Yes, he'd never feel vulnerable again.

His driver slowed and turned onto another side street. He glanced at his watch. Just past three. If this had been a peer in his social circle, he would've been embarrassed by his own tardiness. But he planned to meet with one of his more depraved contractors—a necessary evil in his line of work.

Logan McBride could wait. The man was a bleak illustration of how much he'd changed over the years. Harnessing a beast like McBride reminded him of the power broker he'd become—one of the many reasons he minimized face-to-face meetings with the man.

The limo turned right and entered a cyclone-fenced parking lot near a warehouse. Standing by a loading dock, McBride waited, his hands stuffed into the pockets of a coat draped over a cheap suit. The driver pulled alongside the man. The vehicle stopped only long enough for him to grant entrance to the unwanted intrusion.

"Thanks for meeting me. I know this is a risk—" McBride spoke as he slid inside, his eyes cagily searching the interior. "Oh, my. I wasn't expecting company."

Charboneau kept his eyes on McBride, who was quite charmed by his Mantis. From experience, he knew that her expression would not change with the flattery. Her hand tightened on his thigh ever so slightly, communicating her dislike for the man. But McBride was obviously pleased at finding a beautiful woman so near. Charboneau had seen the look before. Taken by her beauty, many men underestimated her—another one of his distinct advantages.

"You said it was urgent. I trust your judgment," Charboneau interrupted. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. But stroking the man's ego felt prudent.

A long, tedious moment passed before McBride shifted his eyes away from Mantis. Eventually, the man's gaze dropped to the decanter of Cognac, and with a nod, he gestured his intention. "May I?"

Motioning his permission, Charboneau made a mental note to fumigate the interior of the vehicle and toss what was left of a very fine family blend of liquor.

"What is so very important, Mr. McBride? I had hoped to keep our meetings to a minimum, for both our sakes."

Without an ounce of appreciation, the man tossed back the liquor as if it were cheap swill, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Yeah, I know, but something came up." Setting down his empty glass, McBride shifted his eyes to the woman, then back to him. "Can I speak freely?"

"Certainly," he replied, ignoring the usual social etiquette of an introduction to his female companion. Mantis slid closer to him, insinuating her intimacy without so much as a word.

"Before I get into it, I have to ask. Did you deliberately arrange for Detective Raven Mackenzie to be the homicide cop on this case?" The man smiled. Spikes of short blond hair stood at attention atop his head. Icy gray eyes awaited his reply.

A brooding Beethoven filled the void in conversation. Charboneau's eyes drifted toward the television screen once more, finding it more suitable viewing than the crass man sitting before him. The cheetah inched its way through the brush, then leapt from cover to launch an attack, its lean, muscular body poised for the kill. A smirk fought for freedom. He indulged it.

"It was kismet. I couldn't pass up such an opportunity on your behalf. And fringe benefits are plentiful with a job well done. Do you approve of my idea of job satisfaction, Mr. McBride?"

"I don't know how you arranged it, Blue Blood. I am truly in awe of your influence and abilities. But surely you must know how much I hate cops and that I have a long memory when it comes to settling an old score." McBride's eyes darted to the TV, clearly avoiding his.

He knew McBride had no appreciation for the raw power portrayed on the small screen. So for a brief moment, he allowed himself to indulge in his pleasure, but one thought nagged him.

Perhaps McBride had become a liability.

The music began a foreboding crescendo, rousing his blood. Yet despite the tension in the moment, he remained calm, unreadable. His gaze settled on the man.

"I knew you would want to tempt fate with a little retribution, but this mustn't interfere with my plan. What you do with her after our business arrangement is concluded, that is certainly up to you. Do we have an understanding, Mr. McBride?"

Silence. A long moment passed between them.

Logan finally replied, "I have no doubt we understand each other."

On the surface, the man's remark might appear conciliatory, but Charboneau suspected otherwise. McBride had indeed become a liability.

"For now, you have the ability to shape our future association, Mr. McBride. And I, for one, eagerly await your course of action. Whether you work with me or choose another direction, I assure you I am up for the challenge."

Without saying a word, Mantis tensed, her muscles preparing to attack if necessary. He felt her body stiffen, anticipating trouble.

"I'll consider your advice." Logan glanced out the window, then returned his stare. "Let me out here. I believe we've conveyed our intentions."

"I believe we have," he agreed, his expression rigid with contempt.

Signaling his driver to pull over, he watched in silence as McBride left the limo, but the man turned back for a final point.

"Sometimes an animal must remain true to his nature, don't you agree?"

"You will get no argument here, sir." A lazy smile crooked his lips. "I'm sure this goes without saying, but if you divulge our business arrangement to the authorities in any fashion, being torn apart and devoured by savage beasts will seem like the mythological Elysian fields. And as you've seen, my influence transcends many boundaries. Consider your future carefully, Mr. McBride."

As the door slammed shut, he watched the smug expression of the man standing at the curb, waving farewell as the limo pulled away. McBride would be too impetuous to heed his warning.

"It would be quite gratifying to kill that man, in a most painful manner."

"Yes, it would, Nicky." With a demure smile, Mantis slid her slender arm through his. "Would you like me to take care of that?"

"Eventually, my dear. But for now, Mr. McBride will determine his own fate. If he can postpone his revenge, then he might prove a useful ally, and live awhile longer."

"And if he cannot?"

"Then you and I may contrive a DVD of our own, featuring the vulgar Logan McBride."

Her soft, feminine laughter made him smile as his cell phone rang.

"Yes?" His greeting was cryptic; very few people had his personal cell phone number. The familiar voice on the other end needed no introduction.

"The package that you wanted traced? We've located it. When can I meet you to discuss the particulars?"

"Good work. Meet me in an hour at the usual location." Without a word more, he ended the call and turned to his lovely companion.

"Mantis, my dear, I'm afraid I must indulge in another diversion before we have dinner. I hope you don't mind."

Her only response was to softly touch his cheek with a velvet stroke of a finger. Shifting his gaze toward the window, he inhaled deeply, then slowly released it, in anticipation of his next meeting.

He'd paid a lot of money to locate Fiona Dunhill. In his heart of hearts, could he destroy her, or would he ultimately settle for something short of complete annihilation? Regardless, he steeled himself for the next step of his plan.

Only a face-to-face would determine her fate.