So Tempting (17 page)

With her, he'd heard the Song more clearly than anytime since he was a child. He'd Walked the Light, making his way through strands she'd separated for him as the Prism, and he'd followed note after note, longing to continue to the end, to find the Soul Star. Her powers were strong but untutored, and all too soon the strand had begun to fray under the weight of her disbelief. He couldn't risk it snapping.

He had spells that would compel her, but that would betray the principles he lived by and the code of the amulet. He was a healer, and what he'd done last night by erasing her memory troubled him greatly. She was the Prism and he needed her desperately, but he could not take her with him in the search against her will. If they were not working in concert, the Soul Star might be lost forever.

And then there was the very personal way in which she called to him on a level he'd never felt before. The yearnings she stirred only made her more dangerous.

Dante shook his head brusquely. He'd foolishly gambled, longing to share the truth with her, wishing for someone to understand him and all his secrets, but she'd rejected his truths. She wasn't ready, and he would not risk her, just as he would not risk Cassandra. He was vulnerable now, vulnerable through caring.

Justine was a wild card. He hadn't liked erasing her memory, but the stakes were too high. Why the one person who could shorten his search had to be a woman who believed in nothing she couldn't experience with the five ordinary senses...

Regardless of her intransigence, he would not let Markos hurt anyone else, seeking revenge. It was between the two of them. This game had to end, before anyone else died.

Especially not the impetuous teenager who did not understand why he watched her so closely. Maybe he would try to explain the stakes to Cassandra once she cooled off. Dante smiled wryly. Being locked in her room couldn't have done Cassandra's volatile temper any good, but maybe now that he'd said she could have the run of the house, she'd be more willing to listen.

Turning from the window, he crossed the library and opened the door. "Manolo, is Cassandra up yet?"

"Yes, Boss. She was in the greenhouse, last time I saw."

"Please ask her if she would come visit with me at her convenience." He smiled. "Has she quit throwing things at the door?"

Manolo grinned in answer. "Yes, sir. But she told me to just go ahead and shoot her because she wasn't going back in that room." He headed toward the greenhouse.

Dante turned away, shaking his head. That was Cassandra. She'd walk straight into mortar fire, if it stood between her and something she wanted.

Manolo was back in minutes, his face strained. "I can't find her, Boss. I've looked everywhere."

"Who saw her last?"

"She was talking with Antonia, but then Antonia left. Cassandra wasn't with her."

Antonia.

Markos's lover.

His blood ran cold.

"Search the grounds. I'll ask Mrs. Montoya to call Melinda and see if Cassandra's with her."

What do you know of someone called the Keeper?

If Cassandra had been to The Club, she could have met Simon. Or she could be in Markos's hands right now.

He wasn't sure which one would be worse.

If Markos didn't have her, Dante couldn't risk letting his enemy know she was gone. He had to find his impetuous, naïve charge quickly.

But with exquisite stealth and caution.

GREECE

Eighteen years ago

Impatiently, Dante stared out the bus window. Four kilometers to go, and he would see Caterina, the love of his life. He'd been gone for almost a year, posted to Italy to a manufacturing arm of his father's business, working on the line. Learning...soaking up every scrap of knowledge against the day he would have to prove himself worthy.

It had been hard, but he had done well. At last he was back in Greece, ready for the next step in his journey to win his father's company.

Out of habit, he reached for the amulet, only to come up empty. It was a missing limb, a part of his soul brutally amputated, the only evidence of his father's love.

Now vanished.

Not that he hadn't tried to recover it, though he'd known his brother's guile. Before he'd left his father's estate after the reading of the will, he'd searched Markos's room, barely caring if he were caught. When they'd met again with the lawyer and the men from Papa's firm, he'd seen the flash of triumph in his brother's eyes.

Markos had not worn the amulet, though. As if to taunt him, his brother had donned an open-necked shirt. Dante knew it would do no good to tell anyone. His brother would deny the theft. He would get away, as always.

But he would pay. One day Dante would have enough money, enough power. He would find the amulet and reclaim it. He would punish his brother.

But not yet. The time was not ripe. Nothing could stand in the way of wresting what should have been his birthright from the brother who did not deserve to bear their father's name.

The bus pulled into the terminal and he saw Mama, waiting and waving, joy a banner rippling the air around her. He searched the crowd for Caterina but could not see her.

"My son!" his mother cried, throwing her arms around his neck. "Oh, let me see you—you've grown so. You're a man now, so tall and strong." Tears sprang to her eyes.

He hugged her close, grateful to be with her again, but all the time, his eyes scanned the crowd. "Where is she, Mama?"

One hand cradled his cheek. Sorrow darkened her gaze. She gripped his hand. "Oh, my son, this will be hard for you to hear. Do not be angry with her. She is a little bird whose wings are broken."

"Tell me." His heartbeat thudded.

"She is...not well."

"What's wrong with her?"

"She is...with child."

"What?" Shock plowed a huge fist into his stomach. 

"Her father is beside himself, but I tell him that we must make her see the happy side of this, the joy of a new life."

Chest tight with agony, he couldn't seem to draw a breath. "How can—she is—"
A virgin.
They'd only traded kisses, first sweet and tentative, then fevered. But he'd always known he must wait. Her purity had been his pride as much as his burden. "She can't have—" He turned anguished eyes to his mother. "Who? Who is it?"

"I do not know. She will not speak of it."

"She has a lover." Betrayal gouged deep ruts in his heart. "I asked her to wait, but—"

"No!" His mother's voice went sharp and stinging. "You cannot think that she betrayed you. She has been violated, of this I am sure. The knowledge screams from her eyes, no matter that she remains silent. This child was not conceived willingly."

Rape. His beloved had been violated and he hadn't been there to protect her. How could he not have felt it?

Thoughts whirling, he grasped at one. "What are the police doing about it?" Rage clamped his fingers into fists. Caterina was so pure, so fragile. Rape. My God.

"They do not know. No one does but her papa and me, and I would not be aware if he were not out of his mind with worry."

"Why not?" he exploded. "How can you sit by and do nothing?"

"Do not speak to me in that tone. You think we did not want to seek help? But you have not seen her. You have not heard her despair, her terror of being an outcast. You know the village." In her eyes was remembered pain, a woman who had raised a bastard child. At least he had been a child of love. This one...

"Christos. I must go to her." His voice faltered as he realized how unequal to the task he was. "What do I say?" 

"Son, you must take it slowly. Perhaps you should wait."

"Wait? Are you insane?" If he thought about her much more, he would lose his mind.

"She is afraid to see you."

"What?" He couldn't take it in. "Why? She loves me, Mama. I love her."

"Any woman would be, in her place. And you must understand she is not herself. You know how fragile she is. She is much worse now. Terrified of everyone. She doesn't sleep, doesn't eat. Her father is afraid this will kill her. He..." her voice died off to a whisper. "He fears she will harm herself."

"No!" he shouted, drawing stares around them. Ruthlessly, he stifled his outrage. "Where is she now, Mama? I must be with her."

"What will you say?"

"What business is it of yours?" Impotent fury raged, a savage animal careening around inside him, clawing to get out. He wanted to hurt someone.

His own mother flinched from him.

It sobered him as little else could. "I am sorry. You are trying to help me. To help her." To his humiliation, his voice broke like a boy's. Tears rushed to his eyes. "Oh, God, Mama..."

Her arms went around him. She was a tall woman, but still not near his height. Hunched over awkwardly, he wished to be a boy again, small enough to burrow in her lap.

But if he'd ever been one, it had been many years, regardless that he was only twenty. He hugged his mother for another brief span, then straightened and dashed away the moisture.

Caterina needed him. He could not be weak.

His mother's eyes filled with pride. "You are a good man, my son. You will know the words when the time comes."

He picked up his bags. "I pray you are right."

* * *

Her father had not wanted to let him in, but at last he had relented. Now Dante stood in the doorway, watching her lying so still in dappled shade.

The golden tones of her skin had washed away to parchment. To fragile onionskin. Bruised shadows stained the hollows of a face that he'd last seen full of tears for the parting but also brimming with life and hope for the future.

She was insubstantial now, the sweet curves that had tempted him so badly melted away, leaving sharp bones and visible suffering.

Finally, he forced himself to look there, at the precious span where he'd imagined his children growing one day. It was the only rounding on her body, but it loomed huge, like a tumor. A parasite draining every drop of juice and youth and happiness from her delicate frame.

He knew little of pregnancy, but even he could tell it was far too late to rid her of the child. In his bones, he heard the whisper of fate.

This child would kill her.

Just then she stirred, long, lacy lashes drifting upward, moth wing-light. Fear bloomed in her eyes, and he wanted to do murder. When she curled up protectively, it destroyed something in his soul.

He crossed the room, discarding first one phrase, then another. Rage, hope, love, fear...they were fire and fury in his blood.

In the end, love spread oil over the storm's surge. He dropped to his knees and grabbed her hand. "I love you. Let me help you."

She rolled quickly, giving him her back. "Please...go away," she whispered. "I do not want you to see me." He heard only despair, as though there was no love left in her.

The loss maddened him. He pulled her to face him. Her eyes remained downcast.

"Fight, damn it," he demanded. "Fight for us."

Hopeless tears leaked from her eyes, and he wanted to shake her.
Her
, his love—

Anger as hard as a rock, as brutal as blood, spread like acid. He would kill whoever did this. For her, and for himself.

Suddenly, he felt her touch and realized he was weeping. Tears of torment she drew to her lips and tasted.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know, I swear it. He told me—" Her face contorted in agony. Suddenly, she doubled over and cried out.

"What? What's happening?" He saw her hand cup her belly. "Is it the child?"

Her other hand gripped his sleeve so tightly her knuckles were white. She jackknifed to her side with another cry of pain.

He scooped her up and ran for the house.

The hours afterward wore away at all of them like water dripping on stone. At every sound, he leaped up. His mother prayed endlessly; her father did so, as well.

There were no prayers in him. Frantically, he thought through every spell, each potion he'd ever learned at Papa's knee, but her father had put her in the hands of men in white coats. Impotent rage kept him on his feet. If he'd had the amulet—

The Eye of the Magos heals when honor defeats hate—

He laughed without mirth. Was this his punishment for failing to protect it? 

Finally, the doors opened. A solemn man emerged. In his eyes, all was told. "I'm sorry," he said. "There is nothing more we can do. She wants to see you, but I warn you: she does not have long."

No one asked about the child. The young man knew he would not. Fury rode high in his chest. She could not die. He would not let her. As he followed her father into the room, hope and determination stirred.

Until he saw her.

And knew.

He waited until her father had kissed her and held her and listened to the words so urgently whispered. Finally, the older man stood back.

Her hands were so cold, yet she gripped his with a fierce strength. "Promise me," she demanded through cracked lips.

"You are not going to die. I will not let you."

Her smile was fond and full of pity. "You cannot change what will be."

"I have—" But he stopped. Once he had believed his father that he had magic in his veins. He believed no more. "We can fight this," he said urgently. "You cannot give up."

Her lids were drooping. Her face was drained of all color. "Please, there is no time." She swallowed with effort. "You must hide my child. Promise me."

Her child? For a moment he was blinded by anger and grief for everything that was lost, all that might have been. How could he ever look upon the face of the parasite that had cost her life?

"Please...the child is innocent. It is I who deserve punishment."

"Why?" he asked, agony careening inside him.

"I was the fool. I—I missed you so much. I was so lonely. When he came to me with your message and told me stories of your childhood, I welcomed the chance to feel closer. You'd never spoken of him, but he seemed to pine for you, too. I thought he cared for you as I did, but—" Her voice failed.

 If he'd thought he'd experienced the worst already, he understood that what had transpired before was only a pale shadow. He sensed the truth before she told him, but still, he wanted the words.

"What message?" His voice cracked. "Who was he?"

For a long time she was silent as if gathering her strength for one last climb to consciousness. Death hovered around her with pale wings.

Finally, her eyes opened, and they were fierce. "It was a lie, wasn't it? I was wrong to trust him. You must despise me, but I swear to you, I did not welcome what he did. He was so strong. So brutal. He—he laughed when he took what I had saved for you." Tears leaked into her hair, but she didn't seem to have the strength to wipe them.

He did. His own eyes burned with moisture he would never shed, but as gently as he knew how, he absorbed hers with his skin. "I could never despise you. None of this is your fault. It is all mine."

"Why?" she whispered brokenly. "Why did he—?"

"He hates me. He always has." Malice was an answering flame inside him, devouring all in its path. If he lost her, it was a sign.
Love breeds Light. Light grants Power. Where is the power now, Papa?
Lies, all lies
.

He gripped her hand. "You have to live. You must rob him of this victory. Can't you see it's what he wants? I don't care if I will not be the first—you have to live, damn it. For your child. For—" His voice broke.
Live for me.

He saw her struggle, but she had nothing left. She could not win, no matter how hard he willed it. Brokenly, he bent over her, pressing their cheeks together. "I love you," he murmured into her ear. "I will always love you. I will avenge you, I promise you that."

Her breath was a rattle now. "The child...promise..."

He squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to howl out his rage. "I promise," he managed, though every fiber of him resisted.

But his fury would be reserved for one person. He would make his brother pay, if it cost him his own life.