Читать книгу Raven's Cove - Jenna Ryan - Страница 12

Chapter Four

“I’m so sorry. Really, so very sorry. Don’t know how she got away from me like that.”

The driver, a fifty-something man in a wrinkled business suit, looked more baffled than shaken. He also smelled like a brewery. His female passenger remained in the car, arms tightly folded, eyes pointed straight ahead, tight skirt riding high on stockinged legs.

You just never know how a night might go, Jasmine thought with mild sympathy as the newly arrived highway patrol officers approached the woman.

Rogan had avoided both the head-on collision and the power pole that had appeared out of nowhere. The man in the silver Subaru hadn’t been so lucky. He’d sideswiped a tree, done a wobbly one-eighty and smashed the front end of his car into the pole’s now-dented base. All in all, the incident had cost them an hour and given Jasmine much more time to think than could possibly be good.

Not that her thoughts followed any kind of logical path, but then, considering the raven’s feather she’d received, she might have to get used to that.

With her coat and hair dripping, she headed back to the truck, tried Daniel’s number again and wound up tossing her phone on the dash.

“I sense irritation.” At a wave from the patrolman, Rogan got in next to her and swung his truck back onto the river that was the interstate. “Want to clue me in?”

Like the woman in the other car, Jasmine folded her arms and stared through the windshield. “Daniel did this kind of thing the whole time we were married, all two and a half years of it. He’d call me from wherever he happened to be, freak me out with stories about subversive activities, riots, roadside bombings or some vast grow-op he’d managed to unearth. ‘Just so you know, Jas,’ he’d say. ‘In case I don’t come home.’ He’s drawn to it.”

“To danger or the prospect of death?”

She started to say “both,” then shook her head. “Death and danger are your drugs, Rogan. For Daniel it’s the thrill of the hunt.”

“Like your mother.”

“Yes, except she’s chasing mythical creatures, not crime lords, terrorists and power-hungry third-world generals. I met Daniel while I was in college. The whole Bohemian-rebel-fight-for-a-cause idea intrigued me. It was challenging, and at the same time it seemed worthwhile. Then reality hit, and I realized there were less radical ways to make a statement than by jumping off metaphorical cliffs into the middle of international drug rings.”

“Jumping can work,” Rogan said.

The fact that she knew he was trying not to grin drew a warning sound from her throat. “You believe that because you’re all about shadows and intrigue.”

“You make me sound like a WWII spy.”

“There’s cause for comparison. Daniel has the pseudo-hippie vibe. You’ve got the mystery. Well, and the law.”

A blast of wind pummeled the truck as Rogan traded the interstate for a bumpy off-ramp. “Big gun doesn’t hurt, either.”

“No, it doesn’t, but I don’t think that’s my point.”

Despite the thickening shadows, she felt his eyes on her face. “What is your point? That under the surface I’m a lot like Daniel?”

“God.” She laughed. “You are so not. In fact, you’re as unlike as two people can be, jumping-in tendency aside. You see and act. Daniel hears and reacts. You think. He emotes. You consider. He fixates. Still not my point, though.”

“And that is…?”

“More people are going to die. More than the ones who are already dead. I don’t blame Daniel for that, I’m just tired of being dragged back into a life I tried to say goodbye to three years ago. It stands to reason that I’ll know someone who gets killed before this ends. It could be Daniel, it could be a person I meet in Raven’s Cove, it could be Boris.” She ground her teeth. “It could be you.”

Using the mirror, Rogan eyed the German shepherd, curled up and sleeping behind them. “I trained Boris at the safe house. It’s his job to protect you, and you can believe me when I tell you he knows how to take down an armed adversary.”

“Yes, I’m sure you showed him the moves personally, and you could probably dodge a hundred bullets between you. But there’s always that random shot, the one fired by the guy you didn’t see. Maybe that shot kills you. Maybe it doesn’t, and you can get to a hospital in time. But it could also hit and not kill you right away, yet you know death’s imminent because there’s no one around to help you.”

His eyes flicked to hers. “You’re thinking about Dukes, aren’t you?”

“Partly,” she admitted. “Dukes was that teddy-bear uncle you automatically love. Captain Ballard said they never found his body.” Her heart gave a painful twist. “There were only two days left before Daniel’s court appearance. Forty-eight hours. Then the wind changed, a storm blew in, and Wainwright’s men came out of the night like cockroaches.”

“There were only twenty. And we expected them.”

“It didn’t matter, though, did it? Two police officers still died. And we’ll never know what happened to Dukes. Well, yes, we will, because—what was it you said to me when he didn’t come back? A missing cop is a dead cop. Which means Wainwright’s people took him, and whether he lived long enough to be tortured, or died before they could question him, he’s gone.” She pushed on her throbbing right temple. “This isn’t helping, is it?”

“You have feelings, Jasmine. And yours are more compassionate than some. Dukes’s mother thought Daniel should have been sent up alongside Wainwright for blundering into the investigation.”

“Making her not the warm-and-fuzzy aunt people automatically love.” Thunder rumbled, but it was a distant sound. “I didn’t anticipate a return visit to hell, Rogan. I pictured all of us moving forward with our lives.”

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” he remarked.

“It will unless I take it in a more philosophical direction. I’ll work on it,” she promised when his lips twitched. “But don’t expect a miracle in two hours. My museum friends tend to be more pragmatic than the ones I had in San Diego. It rubs off.”

“I met some of your San Diego friends. You’re on a safer path in Salem.”

Probably true, she thought. Then she set her head on the leather rest and told herself not to question what his definition of safe might be.

The highway resembled a long, wet snake, complete with serpentine twists, shadowy dips and slippery rises. Rogan’s musical taste ranged from Clapton and Thorogood to remastered Louis Armstrong. As eclectic and unpredictable a mix as the man himself. Layer in the cloak of mystery he wore so well, and how could she have avoided tumbling into love? The question was, could she tumble back out? Because Rogan was absolutely not the kind of man who stuck around.

An hour ticked by. In that time, they traded the local highway for a two-lane back road and eventually a pitted sliver of asphalt barely wide enough to support a single vehicle.

“I’m told it improves,” Rogan said, reading her mind.

She pushed at her damp hair and peered into the murky nothing that stretched endlessly out in front of them. “So if the potholes shrink from the size of lakes to the size of ponds, we’ll know we’re on the right track. Uh…” She pointed, winced, then breathed out when he avoided a huge expanse of rippling water. She swiveled her head. “Did I see a sign floating in that puddle?”

“It said Welcome to Raven’s Cove. Population 976. Tortured souls and ravens not included.”

She shot him a dry look. “You’re a great help. Look, I know all men believe they have tracking systems built into their DNA, but do you actually know where we are?”

“Still in the continental United States isn’t good enough for you, huh?”

“Still on the continent will do for now.” She watched a large stand of pines bend almost in half. “Is this what they call a nor’easter? Because if it isn’t, I do not want to experience one.”

“Forget the weather. We need to find a cottage called the Bird’s Nest, and like Raven’s Cove, it’s not on the GPS.”

“Good luck to us then, because either there are no lights in this town or the power’s out from here to, well, wherever here leads.”

They were bouncing through a series of bone-jarring ruts when the headlights revealed a fork in the road. And a fence, Jasmine realized. A sagging, possibly white fence missing several pickets.

“There’s a sign on the gate.” She tipped her head and tried to read the wildly blowing plaque suspended from the gatepost by a chain. “It says something Nest. And there’s a huddled black building to my right.”

Rogan halted the truck, but snagged her wrist before she could move. “Daniel’s name is Leonard Grant. He goes by Lenny or Len. He teaches English at the local middle school. His hobbies are bird-watching and cooking. He does Sunday dinners for seniors. His ex-wife, Sally, lived in Tulsa until her death four years ago. Brain aneurysm. No kids, no pets. I’m a football buddy from Michigan State. You’re my wife of seven years.”

Torn between laughing and making him go through it all again just for the hell of it, Jasmine opted for boggier ground and offered a guileless smile. “Interesting.” Leaning in, she stroked a fingernail from his cheek to his mouth. “Tell me, are we happily married?”

His slow grin caused her pulse to jump. “Do you want us to be?”

“It would be a new experience.”

His gaze dropped to her lips. “You’re playing with fire, love. I hope you know that.”

She was playing with dynamite, lighting matches and not ready to stop. Bringing her mouth temptingly closer, she lowered her lashes. “I’m pretty sure at least one of us will get burned no matter how this turns out. But remember, I’ve done the marriage thing for real. I know how to avoid the flames.”

His smile didn’t change; but the gleam in his eyes warned her she’d gone too far. In that split second of time, the hand on her wrist moved to her neck, and his mouth covered hers in a kiss that drained every thought from her head.

Because she knew this was something she’d asked for, she made no effort to pull free. Instead, she let a satisfied purr escape from her throat.

There was need and hunger on both sides. Jasmine also recognized and savored a punch of excitement. The taste of Rogan was one of pure sex. He wanted and he took, but so did she, with abandon.

While his lips explored, she ran her hands under his jacket, felt the heat and strength of his body, the warmth of his skin. Greed threatened to overtake her as his tongue dipped and rediscovered every part of her mouth. Her heart knocked against her ribs. But when he started to push the top of her dress aside, a red flag began to wave.

Tempted, highly tempted, to ignore it, she soldiered up and dragged her mouth free. She needed air and balance and a long moment for sanity to take root.

His half smile might have done her in if she hadn’t spied the arrogance behind it. Temper replaced hunger in a heartbeat, and she shoved him back.

“You set me up—”

He crushed his lips back onto hers, cutting her off swiftly. But only briefly, and with just enough heat to dissipate her anger.

He kept his fingers around her neck when he pulled away. “I wasn’t baiting you, Jasmine, or trying to take either of us where we know better than to go.”

She planted her hands on his chest, not trusting him or herself enough to let them drop. “You have a strange sense of direction. But then so do I sometimes.”

“Which explains why I’ll still be able to walk when we get out of this truck.”

“If you didn’t want me to use the moves, you shouldn’t have taught them to me.”

His fingers tightened, forcing her head up. “Did your eyes just give a witchy flash?”

She found she could smile. “You can let go. I’m not going to try to cripple you. I’m not even going to ask why you kissed me when I know very well I started it.”

His lips curved. “You make it hard for me to resist. And I have a high level of resistance.”

Frustration allayed, she gave his chest a precautionary pat and removed her hands. “Okay, we’re good then. And square. For the moment. As for our fake marriage—you said seven years, right?”

“Yes—to that, and to your loaded earlier question. We’re happy.”

She breathed out a shaky laugh. “That must have been some sensitive trigger I pulled.”

“Squeezed. And it was. FYI, Jasmine, you could seduce my cold-as-ice great-grandfather, and he’s been dead for fifteen years.”

Amused, she made a questioning motion with her hand. “Do we have fake identities to go with our happy marriage?”

“Your middle name’s Elizabeth, so we’ll go with that. We’re Elizabeth and Michael. McCabe.”

“You’re making this up as you go, aren’t you?”

With the shadows shifting, she heard rather than saw his wry smile. “Welcome to my life, love. We’re on a road trip. We come from…”

“Ork?” she inserted when he paused. “Krypton? Vulcan?”

“Somewhere closer to home would be better. You still good in the kitchen?”

“I can still whip up a mean chicken tetrazzini—if that was a literal question.”

She saw the smile this time. “I’ll leave the innuendo alone and say we own and operate a restaurant called Fontino’s in New Orleans.”

“Will that story hold if anyone checks?”

“No one will before morning. By then, it’ll stand.”

“Not going to ask,” she promised herself and gave her temples a tap. “Okay, summing up. Lenny Grant, teacher and bird-watcher. Elizabeth and Michael McCabe, Fontino’s, New Orleans. Entered and stored. Can Boris still be Boris, or does he get a code name, too?”

Rogan inspected his backup firearm. “You’re not warming to this spy thing, are you?”

“Truthfully, I’d rather be tracking Bigfoot with my mother. Sorry if that hurts your feelings.”

“It doesn’t. But speaking of hurt, we should probably go inside and see what if anything’s up with Lenny.”

“Bet we really are on Krypton,” she murmured and set a hand on the door. “Come on, Boris. Michael McCabe has a door to jimmy. Like he did with ours.”

Sliding out, Rogan pulled her across to the driver’s seat, then set his hands on her waist and lifted her down. “Walk where I walk.” He reached back inside for a flashlight. “And stay close.”

A gust of wind blew her hair in all directions. Swiping it from her face, she peered around him. “Can I know why we’re playing follow the leader?”

“Land mines,” he said over his shoulder.

She stopped dead. “In the driveway?” Then she spotted his grin and considered ordering Boris to attack.

A moment later, however, she had her answer. The driveway, though paved, was a sea of cracks and potholes. It also sloped sharply sideways, and twice they had to step over exposed tree roots that reached almost to her knees.

A minefield, she reflected, might have been easier to navigate.

Because Rogan had his beam trained on the ground, a glimmer of light next to the cottage brought her up short. “Did you see…?”

“Yeah.” When they reached the porch, he eased her aside. “No sound,” he cautioned. “Wait here with Boris until I get back.” Then he was gone.

She leaned a hip on the railing. “I could have worked later than late at the museum tonight,” she told the dog. “Huge shipment, boxes galore. Hours of overtime.”

Despite the roar of wind that refused to subside, Jasmine managed to hear the protracted creak behind her. Whirling, she spied a large hanging pot swinging drunkenly toward her.

She reacted swiftly, grabbing the fat base and glaring into the shadows behind her. What in God’s name had prompted her to come here?

Daniel, her brain piped up. Death threat. Raven’s feather. Sliced power line.

Time stretched out. So did Jasmine’s nerves. The wind howled like a demon through the rafters. The chain holding the pot protested loudly.

Wainwright’s men had burst out of a night very similar to this one. She’d been watching the storm when she’d seen the shadows mutate. What she’d initially identified as bushes had morphed into humans. Fit, agile humans, packing three weapons apiece…

The wind wailed again. Thankfully, the memory passed. This was a different night, a different place. Here in Maine, the bushes were bushes, and the only danger she could see came from the evergreens that were swaying back and forth like drunk giants ready to topple.

As if responding to her thought, Jasmine heard a crack in the yard. She released the hanging pot as an object, possibly a branch, hit the ground with a resounding thunk.

That’s when the darkness to her right came alive. …