The Reunited (6 page)

He hated it. Taige, Cullen, they had no idea how much he hated it.

He’d never track her down, but in the end, it wouldn’t matter, because she’d come to him.

His phone started to ring, cutting through the dark, heavy cloud of his thoughts.

He wasn’t the least bit amused, or surprised, when Evanescence’s “Haunted” came blaring from it. Dez had programmed the ring. He didn’t do ringtones—exactly what he needed, to have a ringtone like that go off in the middle of a meeting. But his wife wasn’t part of his unit . . . not anymore . . . and she had a sense of humor that was, at best, strange.

It was the ringtone she’d programmed for Taige. Thankfully, he could count on his hands the number of times Taige had called him.

Sighing, he accepted the call, already bracing himself.
Jilly, kid, what have you done now . . .

“What is your damned room number?”

SIX

"E
LLA . . .
I’d like you to meet Patrick Whitmore.”

Finally. Dru had damn near had to bend over backward just to get a damned invite to the party, and then she’d spent most of the night working the crowd just to get this close to Whitmore.

Just as she’d done three other times, all unsuccessfully.

Whitmore wasn’t exactly the easiest man to get up close and personal with, something she’d discovered the hard way. She’d used the time to learn everything she could about him. The type of woman who seemed to catch his eye, their style, their looks . . . she’d made them her own and it was finally paying off.

As Whitmore gave her a casual glance, then a longer second look, Dru smiled, pretending to be just a little nervous as she held out a hand.

Mentally, she braced herself. It wasn’t always pleasant, that first touch of bared skin on bared skin, leaving an impression for her to study, for her to learn and understand . . .
her ability might be labeled as psychometry. She didn’t know. It worked best on people rather than things and it didn’t work on everybody. But sometimes when she touched a person, she took in chunks of memory—good things, bad things, she never knew which it would be.

The second Whitmore’s fingers closed over her hand, she wanted to jerk away.

Flash, flash, flash.

Screams, terror, pain . . . and it made him smile. She pushed it all down inside and locked it down tight.

As his hand tightened, ever so intimately, on hers, she gave him a demure smile.

As he leaned in closer to her, she resisted the urge to pull away.

“Ella . . . a lovely name.” He lifted her hand to his lips.

She wanted to back away and put as much distance between her and the monster as she could—that wasn’t an option, so she would have been happy to grab something big and heavy—like a sledgehammer—and pound him across the head with it.

In reality, she did none of that.

She pretended to be pleased with his attention, letting her hand linger in his . . . even as the screams continued to rage.

Nobody else heard it, of course. It was just in his mind, buried in his memories. But that was where she excelled . . . peering into those dark places. Unraveling sticky threads . . .

Dru sat at the table across from Patrick and fought the urge to scream. Her head pounded. Her gut was a quesy, roiling mess. Nothing like a hangover and her murderous, slaving fiancé to make for a lovely breakfast.

He’d shown up while she was still in the shower, and when she’d come out to find him in her bedroom, she hadn’t had time to brace herself,
shield
herself, before he touched her.

And the memory flash was just . . . a blow.

Heavy, solid, almost completely formed. He’d looked at her as she came out of the bathroom, and something had made him think of the first time he’d seen her.

Now she had
that
in her head, and it had triggered her own memories.

“Are you all right?”

Looking up, she met Patrick’s gaze and smiled. “Yes, I’m quite lovely . . . I was just thinking of the time we first met, actually.”

“Hmmm.” He continued to study her, that critical, dark look on his face, like he was measuring everything about her. Measuring and something about her was lacking today. “Did you sleep well?”

Dru reached for her tea and took a sip. “Yes. It took a while to fall asleep . . . the fireworks.” She gave a deprecating smile. “I’d forgotten about the fireworks.”

“If you need other accommodations, let me know. You need to have your rest.”

“Not necessary, Patrick.” She set her cup down and said, “I’ll just see about buying some earplugs or perhaps one of those little machines that make white noise. I used to have one, but it broke and I never got around to purchasing a new one.”

“I’ll take care of it.” He rose from the table and came around to stand beside her.

She lifted her head to gaze up at him, pasting that fake as hell, demure smile on her face.
I hate you, you sodding bastard.
He cupped her chin and stroked his thumb across her lower lip. “Will you be running today?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. I might just take a lazy day or call your assistant about setting up the spa day. I haven’t decided.”

He nodded. “The fitting is coming up. Don’t forget about it,” he reminded her as he dipped his head.

And as his mouth brushed hers, her breath locked up in her throat and her heart slammed hard against her ribs.

Flash, flash, flash.

“The disposal is complete?”

“Yes, Mr. Whitmore.”

She felt his satisfaction. Not
pleasure
. He wasn’t
pleased
, Dru knew. He was irritated over the loss of money. There . . . an image floated through his mind, a woman, as she’d been before she died.

Dru locked on it, froze it in her mind.

He was satisfied that his point had been made, even as he was disgusted by the loss of merchandise. But he was willing to admit sometimes a loss was needed to make a point.

A point—as she tried to puzzle that through, the memories she’d taken from him were revealed to her.

“Make sure the others see the recording. This should make sure everybody understands what happens when they cause trouble.”
Patrick, again. Recording . . .

And just like that, the connection severed.

Dru couldn’t hold it any longer, because she was fighting the urge to puke her guts out, fighting not to let him see as he pulled away and then said something else. Through the rush of blood, she heard his voice, but the words didn’t connect.

All that mattered was that he was leaving.

Once the door clicked, she wiped her lips on a napkin and rose.

Even though her knees were shaking, even though she wanted to scream, she walked carefully, slowly, sedately into the bathroom. Once there, she went to her knees in front of the toilet. If the cameras or audio devices outside the bathroom caught the sound of her puking, so what? She’d lie and say she had a stomach virus.

Maybe it would get her out of Patrick’s tender charms for a few days.

*   *   *

“C
AN
you describe her any better than that?”

Dru glanced around, keeping it subtle.

She’d swiped the phone. It was one of her best tactics for making untraceable phone calls. But she still had to get off the phone before one of her babysitters showed up—they’d follow her into the loo if she took too long, public or not.

“Not much. They’d worked her over rather bad,” she said. “Young, early twenties, I would think. Brown and brown, hair was straight and short, looked like that style where it was longer in the front, shorter in the back. Highlights. Biracial. Early twenties, max. Light-skinned. Can’t speak to height, so her weight would be hard to guess, but I can say she was slender, verging on skinny. Had an almost muscular look, like she was really into fitness. Maybe an instructor or something.” The muscles she’d seen on that woman didn’t come from hitting the gym three or four times a week, she knew that much. “If I could sit down with a sketch artist, I could do better, but I don’t see me getting access to one just yet.”

On the other end of the phone, her contact sighed. “I’ll do what I can, honey, but that’s not much to work with.”

“I know . . . I’ll try to get more info.”
Go back into the memory. Look for more.

“Be careful.”

She grimaced as she finished the phone call. She went into the phone’s memory and deleted it. It would show on the phone bill, but that would be some time from now and the call had been short. Hopefully, nobody would think to look twice. Carefully, she wiped it down and left it sitting in one of the stalls before she slid out of the bathroom.

She had a
spa day
ahead of her. What a bloody joke.

*   *   *

B
IG
blue eyes stared up at hers.

Taige Morgan stared right back at her stepdaughter, not the least bit swayed by that projected air of innocence.

She might have been, once. But she was no longer a newbie at the mom game, and Jillian was going to have to try just a little bit harder and do more than bat her eyes to get out of this mess. The girl was fourteen years old and bordering on genius, too. She should know better than to think batting her lashes was going to do the trick.

Jillian would drive her crazy, Taige thought. Fear, frustration, and love tangled in her gut. She was a mess. And it wasn’t going to get any better anytime soon, she knew.

“You can’t let him go up there first,” Jillian said again.

“Yes.” Taige smiled. “I can. I just did.”

She’d already given Cullen, her husband, and Jillian’s very protective father, Taylor’s room number. He’d disappeared into the elevator. She was giving him a five-minute head start. Much longer than that and she might have to bail his fine ass out of jail.

Of course, it might be worth it.

And if Cullen didn’t pop Taylor one, Taige was going to. That son of a bitch had pulled her baby into his world . . . she’d warned him about doing that. She’d warned him. He hadn’t listened.

Over the past few hours, Jillian had explained just
why
she hadn’t been sleeping. Just
why
she hadn’t been eating. Just
why
she’d been having nightmares. And just
why
they’d caught her slipping out of the house. Taige sometimes wished she hadn’t trained the girl so well.

But that wouldn’t have been a blessing. As strong as Jillian was, she needed to be trained. Unfortunately, Taige now stood in Jillian’s shadow—the girl’s abilities far eclipsed her own, and it had been sheer dumb luck that she’d sensed something . . . off earlier in the day.

If Taige hadn’t picked up on that strange little vibe, they wouldn’t have realized Jillian was planning anything until the kid had already disappeared.

“Look, Mom . . .” Jillian shuffled her feet, acting like the teenager she was, for once. Sheepish, nervous, embarrassed at being caught in the act. “It’s not Taylor’s fault I was trying to sneak out.
I
was doing it. It was my idea. I just knew . . . well, I knew he needed me. It’s not like he told me to do it or anything.”

Taige just stared at her. “Not impressed, darling. You see . . .
Taylor
knows how you are. And he should have called me the second he knew something was going on with you.”

“If he’d done that, you and Dad wouldn’t have let me
help
.” She crossed her arms across her chest, glaring at Taige. Sullen temper sparked in those pretty eyes now.

It made Taige smile inwardly. Too often, this kid didn’t act anything like the kid she still was. Even when she was completely in the wrong, it was nice to see Jillian
act
like a teenager. Hell, it was even kind of nice to see her screw up, see her rebel.

Although Taige wished it had been over almost anything but this.

Not this world,
she thought, her heart aching.
Not my world.

“There’s no other world I belong in, Mom.”

Sighing, Taige closed her eyes. “Shut the door, Jilly.”

“I can’t always do it.” They’d trained Jillian to keep out unwanted thoughts by envisioning other people’s minds as rooms . . . and she kept those thoughts out of her head by shutting the door. It usually worked. Not always.

There was a muffled noise and Taige opened her eyes to see the girl coming across the heavily carpeted floor. They were waiting in a little alcove of the hotel, waiting while Cullen and Taylor had a “chat.”

Jillian stopped in front of Taige, her eyes solemn and sad.

The look on the child’s face was far too adult, far too wise. It just about broke Taige’s heart.

“Mom . . . this is what I’m meant for.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” She brushed back the dark, spiraling curls from Jillian’s face. Man, she was growing up so fast. It seemed like just yesterday . . .

Unable to think about that . . . about all the yesterdays, while the very pressing reality of
today
was right
here
, Taige pushed it aside. “You’re a bright girl, Jilly. You’ve got so much more you can do, but you’ve always been so focused on this, sometimes I wonder if you’ve ever let yourself look at the other options you have.”

“Other options.” Jillian shook her head and held out a hand. “Can I show you?”

Taige’s gut clenched. She didn’t ask what. It wasn’t like Jillian often asked to do this. How could she say no . . . even when everything inside her rebelled. Jillian saw things so much clearer than Taige ever had, felt things so much more acutely. If Jillian could live with that in her head, then Taige would accept what Jillian had to show her. Even if some part of her would rather hide from it.

Screw being a coward . . . this was her child.

Laying her hand in her daughter’s, she glanced around and then back at Jillian. They were alone, or as alone as they were going to be.

“You do things that matter,” Jillian whispered. “You always have.”

And with that, Taige fell into that bright, shining void that was her daughter’s mind.

It wasn’t bright for long.

In seconds, they were in darkness. Surrounded by screams. And pain. And death.

*   *   *

P
ATRICK
eyed the skinny mess of bones Dontrez had pulled out of the holding cell.

She’d been a lot prettier than this when they’d grabbed her.

But she’d stopped eating.

A lot of them did that.

She’d start eating again.

All it would take was the right incentive.

He knew all about finding the right incentive.

He gestured to Lydia and said, “Clean her up.”

Lydia beckoned for Dontrez to bring the girl. There were screams and tears and struggles. Moments later, there was a slap. Patrick smiled. Lydia dealt with things efficiently. It was why he kept her around.