Turbulent Sea (19 page)

"I don't tease men, Ilya, that's not what I'm trying to do."

"I know that."

"Why is it like this between us? We're so obviously wrong for each other."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "We're so obviously right, even our songs merge."

That startled her. "You do see melodies."

"And colors. Yours are all over mine."

She shook her head. "No, if that were true, I wouldn't be so afraid. Your colors cover mine until I don't know where one of us starts and the other leaves off."

He kissed her again, long and hard and heartstoppingly slow. "We have to get somewhere safe, Joley. If we stay here alone, this isn't going to turn out the way either of us wants. I'll race you down the mountain."

"No way. I don't like losing, and it doesn't take a genius to see that you're in good shape. We'll go, but casually, no hurry, no competing." She circled his neck with her arms and pulled his head back to hers, kissing him one last time, savoring the taste of him.

Ilya didn't take over. He let her direct the kiss, explore his mouth, caress the nape of his neck with her fingertips. When she pulled away, they looked at each other.

Joley smiled. "You taste good."

"We have to get out of here," he reiterated, tugging at her hand to urge her back onto the trail.

Her smile widened. He definitely was as affected by her kiss as she was his. She didn't say anything else as they took off running, side by side. Ilya allowed her to set the pace, keeping up easily. She was very aware of him beside her, the smooth way his muscles rippled beneath his shirt, the way the wind ruffled his thick hair, the swing of his arms and his steady breath. Their melodies merged, just as their auras always seemed to when they were close. Joley actually slowed her pace in order to prolong her time with him.

Ilya seemed content to jog beside her quietly. He made no attempt to talk and she was grateful. He was right. She wasn't ready to commit herself to a relationship with him. she had too many doubts about what and who he was, yet she was the one always flinging herself at him, and that was as humiliating as it was disturbing.

They were nearly walking as they rounded the last bend, which opened to a long straight stretch to the beginning of the trail below them. People milled around, and yellow tape surrounded the rocks about halfway down near the bottom and off to the left side.

Joley slowed her pace and caught at Ilya's arm. "Something's wrong; that's a medical examiner's van."

"It doesn't look good." He caught her hand when she would have headed down toward the commotion. "Don't. Let me check it out first."

"It could be one of the band members or my crew. We're practically the only ones here." Her mouth was dry. Something terrible had happened here. She felt violent energy swirling through the rocks. Auras were dark and subdued. The medical examiner's van was parked to one side along with several sheriff cars.

Ilya walked with her toward the officers and security people milling outside the tape. She gripped his arm tightly as a man dressed in a gray suit approached them.

"Miss Drake? Joley Drake?"

"Yes. Tell me what happened." She couldn't stop the anxiety in her voice.

"One of your crew has been killed—murdered. My name is James Branscomb, I'm a detective. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

She wished she could say the murder came as a complete surprise, but with the sick dread weighing so heavily on her, she had expected trouble. She glanced at Ilya. As usual, his expression was unreadable, the calm mask in place, but he had to have known, had to have felt the deep, violent disturbance permeating the amphitheater, just as she had.

"Who? Who was killed?" Unknowingly she stepped closer to Ilya.

He pulled her beneath his shoulder. "I'm Ilya Prakenskii—bodyguard. We've been running up the trail and have no idea what's going on. If you could fill us in, we'd be grateful." He glanced around, his eyes sharp. "You've got several paparazzi here, Detective. Perhaps we should get Miss Drake into her bus and away from the photographers." His voice made the suggestion a command.

The detective's eyes narrowed, but he nodded. "We'll talk inside the bus then."

Ilya slid his arm around Joley's waist, keeping her beneath the protection of his shoulder, his body shielding hers, sheltering her face from long-range lenses as he started her moving past the yellow tape.

"I want to know who it is," Joley insisted.

"A man by the name of Dean Walters." The detective watched her with shrewd eyes.

Joley's breath caught in her lungs. "Dean? I just saw him. Before my run. He was angry with me."

"You spoke to him?"

Ilya kept Joley moving. She seemed stunned. Ilya wanted to be able to watch the cop, to feel his emotions as he questioned Joley, but until he got her in a safe place, he couldn't do that. He didn't want to take a chance on prying eyes, or worse, a photographer, recording Joley's emotions and making money off her distress. And he didn't trust the cop, or anyone for that matter, not to take advantage of the fact that Joley was a high-profile celebrity. He yanked open the door to the bus and almost pushed Joley inside before she could answer. He kept his body between hers and the detective's.

Joley flung herself into a chair and covered her face for a moment. When she looked up, the detective was seated across from her and Ilya was pulling water bottles from the refrigerator. He handed one to her, offered one to the detective, who declined, and took one himself.

"I'm sorry, what did you ask me?" Joley said. "I can't seem to take this in. Did someone identify the body? When did this happen? I just saw him, before I took off for my run. He was in the parking lot, heading over to his bus. Are you absolutely certain it's Dean?"

"Yes. I'm sorry," Branscomb said. "Several members of your band came forward and positively identified him. You said he was angry with you."

Joley nodded and rubbed at the relentless pounding in her temples. "I have a rule about minors partying with any band or crew member. It's actually written into the contract they sign with us when we go on the road. After the show in New York, I went out to a party to deliver a message to one of the band members, and I saw a group of girls who looked too young to be there. Dean was with one of them. He had his arm around her, and when I called out to him, they took off running."

"How old was this girl?"

Joley sighed. "Thirteen, I later found out. I was going to talk to him about it, but in all honesty, with the traveling and everything else going on, I didn't have a chance and even forgot about it until Chicago. A woman came up to me after the concert and said her daughter had been missing since my show in New York. She handed me a photograph, and I swear, it's the same girl." She looked around the bus. "It's here somewhere."

Ilya retrieved the photograph from the stand by the bed and handed it to the detective. He didn't want to draw attention, so he did what he did best, faded into the shadows and masked his presence with a small, influential push to keep the detective from really noticing him.

"I called the police in New York, and the girl was still missing, so I asked my manager, Jerry St. Ives, and one of the band members, Brian Rigger, to find Dean and ask him about the girl when we reached Red Rocks this morning, before the crew set up. I told Jerry, if Dean had violated our agreement and invited this girl to the party, he was to be fired."

"So they both talked to him this morning."

Joley nodded. "I got ready for my run and stepped off the bus. Tish, the wife of my sax player, had just arrived and I haven't seen her for some time, so I went over to say hello. I saw Brian, Jerry and Dean talking together. They were standing over by the stage. I couldn't hear what was said, but Dean was angry and he kept looking over at me. Eventually he flipped me off and walked to the parking lot. I went for my run, and the last I saw of Dean, he was alone, over by the crew bus."

Ilya stepped out of the shadows. "I observed them as well. He was angry and he stalked off toward his bus. I didn't hear what was said, but he was evidently quite upset at Miss Drake."

"Did your manager fire him?"

Joley leaned her head against the back of the couch. Her headache was getting worse. "I don't know. I haven't had a chance to talk to Jerry about it. I wanted to get in a run before the sound check, and this morning was my only opportunity."

"Did you see the argument becoming heated?"

Joley took a deep breath and let it out. "It got loud, yes. But if you think either Jerry or Brian could have harmed Dean, you're wrong. They just aren't like that." She frowned at the detective, leaning forward so that he would look her directly in the eye. "I've known Brian forever and he doesn't have a mean bone in his body. And Jerry has too much authority over everyone to have to resort to murder. You didn't say what happened. Could it have been an accident?"

"He was shot between the eyes. No, ma'am, I don't think we could call it an accident. Do you know if Rigger or St. Ives own a gun?"

"No. God, no. I'm telling you, they would never do something like that—kill Dean, I mean. Brian is incredibly gentle and Jerry just plain wouldn't bother."

"And you never talked to Walters?"

Joley shook her head. "No. And when I saw he was so angry, I didn't want to." She pressed her fingers to her temples again. "I really have a headache. I've never had one this bad."

Ilya studied her pale face. The headache was worsening. It was essential to keep a low profile, but he couldn't stand by and watch Joley suffer needlessly, not when he could help her. With a small sigh, he moved from the shadows, sat down beside her and turned her face toward his. He rested the pads of his fingers on either side of her head. "You're pale, Joley. Do you get migraines?"

"Not as a rule," she admitted. "But occasionally. This one is bad." And getting worse by the moment. It made her feel vulnerable in front of the detective. Already, her stomach was churning and little white dots flashed in front of her eyes.

"Just close your eyes. This won't take more than a moment."

Ilya sighed to himself. Even with the ability to fade the detective's memories, Branscomb would remember this. Joley was too famous, too beautiful and sexy not to make an impact. A bodyguard ridding her of her headache was something too intimate not to be noted. And Ilya couldn't touch her without being intimate. His hands were that little bit too gentle. His touch more of a caress than anything else. This was the reason a man like Ilya Prakenskii didn't get involved emotionally, because in the end, it was dangerous to both of them.

Inwardly he cursed, but he maintained his expressionless mask. He couldn't hide the body language warning the other man off, or the gentleness of his own touch, but his face gave nothing away as he placed his fingers at her temples and pushed healing energy from his soul to hers. Healing was intimate—giving Joley a part of himself, taking a part from her.

Better
, laskovaya moya?

Joley nodded. "Thank you, it's much better."

Ilya glanced at the detective. Shrewd eyes. Cops eyes. Ilya recognized that look.

"You two went running," Branscomb said, his voice almost casual.

"Running keeps me in shape," Ilya said, "and allows us a small measure of time alone together." He picked up Joley's hand and ran his thumb over the back of it.

"You have an accent. Are you Russian?"

"Yes."

Beside him, Joley stirred. "I need to talk with Brian and Jerry. Where are they?"

The detective closed his notebook. "Mr. Rigger and Mr. St. Ives both agreed to come down to the station and give their statements. Mr. St. Ives insisted on bringing an attorney, but stated they would both cooperate fully."

"This sounds terrible, but we either have to do the show tonight or cancel on all these people, and we have to pull out tonight to make it to Dallas on time for that concert."

"Our forensic people will be working as fast as they can. I've got officers taking statements from everyone. Obviously if we can allow you to go ahead with the performance, it would be better for everyone, so we'll do our best."

"Thank you," Joley said, "although to be honest, it seems horrible to put on a show after someone is murdered."

The detective rose, taking the photograph of the missing girl with him. "Do you know if Mr. Walters was in any way involved with the mob—specifically the Russian mob?" He asked the question of Joley, but he studied Ilya with his cop's eyes.

"No, but I didn't know him very well. He's been working with us on and off for two years, but we never had much contact. He had a couple of close friends in the crew. I couldn't tell you who they are, although I might recognize them if I saw them." And she was going to look, because there'd been a crew member with Dean that night in New York. She hadn't seen his face, but she'd seen his aura—and fragments of his melody. "Why do you ask about the Russian mob?"

"There were things done to him that are fairly signature mob, things warning others to play ball or else."

Joley glanced at Ilya, took a deep breath and exhaled. "In New York, the party was held by a man named Sergei Nikitin. He surrounds himself with armed guards, and I believe most of them are Russian."

"Do you know Mr. Nikitin?" Branscomb asked Ilya.

"Of course. I work for him often in my capacity as a bodyguard. He's a businessman with powerful enemies."

"Do his enemies include the Russian mob?"

"You would have to ask him that," Ilya said.

Branscomb took a few steps down the corridor. "Thank you for your time, Miss Drake. As for your performance tonight, hopefully we'll have an answer for you within the next hour."

"We'll need to do sound checks," Joley said.

"There's no reason not to. You won't be in the crime scene area. He was killed where we found him. I do want to speak to every one of your crew."

"I'll tell them to cooperate fully with you."

"I would appreciate that." Branscomb turned back, his hand on the door. "Miss Drake. Is there a reason Dean Walters might want to harm you?"