No One Left to Tell (44 page)
He was pleased to see Christian standing in the light of day. The significance of this was not missed on him. Death no longer haunted his new friend. A woman's love reflected in his eyes now.
"You've awakened the voice of your heart, Christian. Perhaps in her eyes, you'll find the peace you've been looking for. I hope so, my friend."
Eager to share the significance of this day with his friends, he turned to leave. But the sight of two strangers compelled him to stop. An elegantly dressed man in a long, dark coat stood in the tree line along the wrought-iron fence. A stunning young Asian woman stood by his side. Her face looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. A feeling of dread slowly crept into his mind, tainting his optimism.
After his unfounded misgivings about Christian, he should have dismissed the silly notion about these strangers. But the man and woman held his attention with their peculiar behavior. Intent on only one thing, they stood along the periphery of the cemetery, with eyes fixed on Christian and Raven. They had no interest in any of the headstones, nor did they hold any tokens of remembrance in their hands. And their eyes had not wavered. They continued to stare at the lovers. He furrowed his brow, then breathed a sigh.
"Not very charitable, Antonio." He shook his head, chastising himself as he turned from the window.
Had he not learned a thing about standing in judgment of another human being?
Jasmine's gaze drifted toward the man by her side. Staring beyond the shadows, Nicholas stood with his hands in the pocket of his overcoat. His jaw flinched in controlled anger.
"And how did you know he would be here today?" His voice lacked emotion, but Jasmine knew otherwise.
"The birth date on the tombstone for John Delacorte. I suspected Christian might pay his respects to the man who—" She cut herself short, unsure how he would take her presumption. "Today is the man's birthday."
"You know I am not pleased that you kept this little bit of information from me—the fact that I have a son."
Slowly, his eyes found hers. Normally, his expression disclosed nothing of his true nature, but today, he allowed an unbridled contempt to rise to the surface. His look of disdain shot through her like a deadly jolt of electricity.
She swallowed, fighting against the lump in her throat. In all the years she had known him, Jasmine had denied her affection and dependence on a man as ruthless as her Nicky. But perhaps deep in her mind she knew this day would come—when she could no longer deny the love she felt for him. Love meant vulnerability, a weakness she could not afford.
"I was concerned for you, actually," she postured.
Her bold move captured his complete focus.
"Oh?" His glare was tinged with curiosity. "How so?"
"Such sentimentality is beneath you, Nicky." She hoped her curt remark would be enough explanation. Jasmine stared straight ahead, avoiding his eyes.
Slowly, he raised his chin and returned his attention to the sight of Christian leaving the cemetery with the police detective, heading for the chapel.
"You may be right," he agreed. Jasmine ventured a look, catching the subtleties of his smile. But Nicky was not done. "I would never be suitable father material, but I resent the implication that Fiona concurred. She never allowed me to come to my own conclusions on the subject. And that, my dear, is inexcusable."
Jasmine's worst fear was realized; Nicholas would not let this go.
Calmly, she slid her arm into his. Ever the gentleman, he allowed the gesture. He escorted her back to his limousine parked on the street.
"What will you do, Nicky?" She found herself holding her breath.
"Revenge is an act of passion, Mantis." A haunting laughter rolled from his chest. "And as you know, I am a very passionate man."
Jasmine knew exactly what he meant.
For me, this book focused on family—a foundation we all share in one fashion or another. My grandfather Ignacio was the historian and writer in my family. I sometimes feel him with me guiding my hand, particularly with this story. But I feel others too. My grandmothers, Pearl and Hortense, both had green eyes like mine that sparkled with good humor. And according to my dad, he will always love me more than I love him. To him, home is wherever he's at. Can't argue with that. The latest news is that my mom has her own version of e-mail that's faster than bandwidth. It's called t-mail. She invented it. We're still working out the bugs. It seems that whatever news goes in, turns into something else by the time it's delivered via a quick phone call from her, but at least it happens fast. And don't get me started about the rest of my fam-damily. My zany relatives up north have taught me there's no subject matter off limits when it comes to poking fun. Believe me, we have tested the boundaries of good taste. And my sibs—Ed, Ignacio, Debbie, and Denise—had shaped my world growing up. One thing I can say with certainty: If I was bad, it was always their fault. If they think otherwise, let them write their own book. Simply put, we are all products of our life's experiences and those who have come before. Our own piece of immortality—or justification. And despite what I have previously stated, I feel blessed in that regard. You can quote me.
To the joy of my life, my husband and best friend John, words can't express how I feel. Surprising for an author, huh? Oftentimes, I don't know where I leave off and you begin. You are truly my better half.
Special thanks to Dana Taylor, who has always been a believer, even when I had my doubts. And to my dear friend Katie Kuhne, who always has my back. One day, Kates, we're gonna have to meet. And with every story comes plenty of research. For things I enhanced for the sake of fiction, no one is accountable except me. But for everything I got right, special gratitude to the police department of the City of Edmond, Oklahoma, for the training I received as part of the Citizen's Police Academy, a wonderful program conducted by Lieutenant Cleo Land, a role model and real life hero. (When he reads this, he'll blush as red as his hair.)
Last, but certainly not least, I'd like to express special thanks to my agent, Meredith Bernstein, for believing in my talent. And I'd also like to extend my heartfelt gratitude to my discerning editor, Lucia Macro, who took a chance on an unknown and still has a sense of humor about it.
After JORDAN DANE sold her first three books to HarperCollins in June 2006, her debut title,
No One Heard Her Scream,
held more significance.
Everyone
heard her scream!
Pursuing publication since 2003, Jordan received awards in thirty-three writing competitions, including her 2005 Golden Heart final. Formerly an energy sales manager in the oil and gas industry, she is now following her passion to write full time. Jordan and her husband share their residence with an intelligent canine and two cats of highborn lineage.
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