Читать книгу Possessed by a Warrior - Sharon Ashwood - Страница 11

Chapter 3

Death. That had been Jack’s code name.

So who killed Death? It was almost a joke.

Irony sucks. Sam finally left the bedroom, taking a last look at Chloe Anderson bent over the white froth of the wedding dress. The image of her, sad and beautiful, stroking the symbol of so many feminine hopes and wishes—it brought a rush of something that was neither lust nor hunger, but held a hint of both. Strangely unnerved, he had elected to retreat. He could tell she wanted to be alone with her memories of Jack, and Sam appreciated that. The soft-spoken beauty was the only one in the family who seemed to care the man was dead.

And someone had to do the weepy thing. Sam was better at revenge.

The thought made his fangs descend, prepared to rip and tear in savage retribution.

His mind went back to Jack’s last phone call, wringing each word dry of meaning. Jack had been running from his killer. Ambushed. Not much made Death run.

Sam banged out of the side door of the house, grateful to be in the clear air. The sun had just dipped behind the trees, making the outdoors safe for the undead. He took a huge breath, smelling green trees and the sweet pungency of the sun-warmed dirt. This was what he liked: solitude and no walls to hem him in. The past few days at Oakwood had been pure torture.

The people were the worst, and not just because they were a banquet of veins he couldn’t touch. They were nasty. He didn’t mind good, honest greed, but he couldn’t stand all the whispered speculation about who would score big-time in Jack’s will. And Sam called himself a mercenary. He was a rank amateur compared to Jack’s aunt Mavis and that litter of useless, grasping cousins.

No wonder Jack was so good at covert operations. He’d needed them to survive his relatives.

Jack had been good. There went that verb tense thing again. It was hard to think of Jack in the past.

Sam swore under his breath. What were the Horsemen going to do now? There were only three of them left: Sam, the werewolf Kenyon, and Dr. Mark Winspear, the vampire they called Plague. Jack was—had been—their team leader.

He started toward the gate, his shoes crunching on the white gravel drive. It was so clean, Sam could imagine the hired help dusting each tiny pebble every morning, working inch by inch across the broad sweep that led back to the road.

Sam walked through the gates, approaching the oak tree where the Porsche had crashed. The tree had survived better than the car, but not by much. It would have to be felled before there were any serious windstorms. One heavy branch dangled from the trunk, hanging on by a thin layer of bark.

Plague was frowning at the ground around the roots of the oak. He was tall, olive-skinned, and dressed in chinos and a short-sleeved shirt. The doctor looked enviably casual.

In contrast, Sam felt hot and irritable in the black suit he’d put on for the paperwork-signing and safe-opening portion of the entertainment. “Find anything?”

Winspear looked up, his dark eyes serious. “About half a mile down the road. Shell casings. The local cops missed them. Kenyon is going over the woods again, sniffing for more. Maybe he’ll find a bullet in a tree.”

His voice still held a faint trace of an indefinable accent. Despite the English-sounding name, he’d once mentioned growing up in Italy. The last of the Horsemen to join, he was by far the most private. No one could actually say they knew Mark Winspear. Still, he was the best at what he did. He was not only an accomplished doctor, but was what the vampires called an “eraser”—someone who possessed a rare ability to manipulate human memory.

“Kenyon looked at the casings and believes the bullets were silver,” the doctor added. “We’ll know more once we’ve gone over the car.”

“So it was assassination,” Sam said, stating what was rapidly becoming the obvious.

The doctor was peering awkwardly under the dangling branch, examining the marks in the soil, and made a sound that held a world of resignation. “The car had to be going eighty, by the amount of damage. That raises questions. Jack loved his Porsche too much to risk it at that speed on these roads. And you know how slim the odds are of a vampire actually getting drunk, despite the headlines.”

Playboy Dies Living Fast and Hard. Sam swore. “He might have been drugged. Can you do a tox screen?”

Winspear’s mouth was a grim line. “The body was badly burned, but if it’s possible, I’ll get the information we need.”

He looked stricken, and for a moment Sam felt sorry for him. It didn’t seem right that he had to do an autopsy on a friend, but who else had the expertise to examine dead vampires? Not the city morgue.

Sam shifted impatiently. “You have any theories about all this yet?”

Winspear stood, folding his arms. “I don’t like to speculate before I have all the facts.”

“Jack had a lot of enemies. We all do. We need some way to narrow down the list.”

Winspear shrugged. “What stands out? What was Jack up to during the last month?”

“I don’t know.” The Horsemen had been taking a short break from the job and from each other—a necessary thing when so much of their work was all about death and carnage.

“I can’t answer that, either—I was out at my cabin. It was just by chance that I’d arrived back in town when you called.”

Sam grunted in irritation. Patient deduction wasn’t his forte. He liked the part where he got to hit things. “Jack seems to have been close to his niece. He might have mentioned something. Small details can provide clues.”

“Maybe.” Winspear looked away.

Sam understood his doubts. The Horsemen were the only ones who knew who and what Jack really was. The rest was all playacting, learning to fit in with the latest slang and electronic gadgets. Remembering to hide every second of every day.

An unexpected jolt of melancholy hit Sam. He swatted it away with an answering annoyance. “I’ll ask some questions. A few odd things have come up in the estate.”

Winspear raised a dark brow. “Such as?”

“He left his niece a wedding dress.” The image of Chloe and the dress came back, along with that strange, restless feeling.

“A dress hardly seems alarming. Unless it was, as I have heard human girls exclaim, a dress to die for?”

Sam closed his eyes, fighting down a sarcastic retort. “Never mind. It’s a puzzle piece I can’t make fit.”

“Then I would talk to the niece. Maybe there’s a dressmaker or a delivery company that can provide a clue.”

Sam gave a small, ironic salute. “Shall do.”

Winspear looked dubious. “Can you talk to—what’s her name? Chloe? Or do you want me to do that?”

“I think I can handle her.” In fact, handling her sounded like a solid plan—he could spend hours executing that particular mission, if he left his scruples at the door.

A faint trace of a smile lurked in Winspear’s face. “I’d be careful if I were you. She looks like the smart, quiet type. They’re dangerous.”

“I’m a vampire. She’s just a wedding planner.”

Winspear gave a rare, low laugh. “So was Cinderella’s fairy godmother. Don’t underestimate her.”

Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’ll steer clear of mice and pumpkins.”

* * *

It took little time for Sam to track Chloe down. She had taken the dress from Jack’s suite to the room where she was staying. The door was ajar, allowing Sam to pause a moment before he had to knock. He used the time to study the location, as he always did before mounting an assault. It was a large chamber, one window, sparse furniture. Definitely a feminine space, with flowery prints on the walls and bedspread.

Chloe was standing in the middle of the room with her back to the door, looking sleek and polished from her high-heeled shoes to the twist in her dark blond hair. She was staring at the dress. It was hooked to the front of a huge, mahogany wardrobe, the dark wood showing off the white foam of lace.

Sam knew nothing about gowns, but he was pretty sure this one was exceptional. There was something in the proportions and detailing that said this wasn’t some off-the-rack number.

The same could be said for Chloe. The curve of her spine drew his eyes, his gaze lingering on her exposed neck. Ever since he’d arrived at Oakwood, she’d drawn him. Sam desired women and had them, well and often, but few provided more than a moment’s interest. War was not prone to the softer emotions—they were anathema to everything he was.

This woman, though, brushed his senses like the scent of a delicate perfume. She was pretty, but it was a sense of poised energy that made her remarkable—like an arrow about to fly. He couldn’t help watching, expectant for the moment, wondering what would happen if she finally sprang loose.

Sam imagined that release of energy, feeling it with his whole body. It would be exquisite. The thought made his fangs descend, and he quickly began thinking of dull paperwork instead. She’s not for you. Women like her die around creatures like you.

She turned, her brows drawing together when she saw him there. “Something I can help you with?” Her words were quiet and low, but her voice resonated right through him.

You have no idea. A sudden stab of hunger pushed to the fore, reminding him again of what he was: a weapon meant for blood sports. She looked soft and delicious, as if she would taste of summer. Once again, his body tightened in anticipation.

Sam swallowed hard, wrestling himself as he had Kenyon’s wolf, holding back the snapping jaws of the beast. Small talk. Make small talk.

“I can’t help wondering what Jack was doing with that.” He nodded toward the dress.

She relaxed a bit. “Me, too.”

“It’s good quality, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She folded her arms and walked toward it. Sam trailed after her, using the moment as an excuse to get closer. The room was redolent with her perfume—something that reminded him of sunshine and lemonade.

He realized he was stalking her, and forced himself to stand still. “Should it be out of the safe?” he asked.

“Maybe not, but I can’t learn anything about it when it’s locked away.”

Sam nodded. She had a point. “That’s right. You’re the wedding expert. Any insights?”

With a professional air, Chloe eyed the dress. “There’s no label, but I’m sure it’s made to order. The beading is hand-done. It’s probably unique.”

“Expensive?”

“It’s worth a fortune. That’s Italian silk or I’m a duck.”

Sam slanted a glance at her. She was definitely not a duck. “None of your relatives tried to make off with it yet?”

She gave a rueful smile. “They don’t know about it. Fortunately, the last of the happy horde is leaving in the morning.”

“How long will you be here?” He wouldn’t be leaving a moment sooner.

She looked up. Her eyes were dark blue. “Until the end of the week or so. After that the house will be going on the market.”

“You don’t waste time.”

She gave a soft sigh that made his skin tingle. “It’s not me. Everyone wants their piece of the estate.”

Sam watched her eyes sparkle with tears. Forgetting himself, he brushed her wrist with his fingertips, the lightest gesture of sympathy. One he would never normally make. She blinked, folding her arms across her stomach. Sam dropped his hand, the feel of her skin clinging to the pads of his fingers. Silky.

He forced his mind to the task of asking questions, doing his best to shut off his senses. The woman was like a drug, scrambling his thoughts. “Was Jack close to any family but you?”

“Not really. My father, but he died when I was fourteen. Along with my mother.” She looked away. “Long story.”

Something told Sam now was not the moment to ask for details. “No one was close, but the rest still think they should get a piece of all this?” He made a gesture indicating the house.

“Of course.” Chloe made a slight movement, almost a shudder, as if she was trying to shake off a distasteful memory. “Jack had a talent for making money.”

He also had centuries of financial experience, but Chloe didn’t know that.

“Who were Jack’s friends?” he asked abruptly.

“I thought that was you.”

Winspear was right. He sucked at interrogation. Frustration made him resort to his usual bluntness. “You’re in the wedding business. You said the dress was unique. Is there any way to figure out who owned it?”

“What did you say you did for a living?” She narrowed her eyes.

Too blunt. Oops. “Trust fund baby,” Sam said lightly. “I don’t do anything.” But I want to know Jack’s exact schedule for the last six weeks.

The set of her mouth said she didn’t believe him. “But obviously you like solving mysteries.”

“Why not?”

“Well, here’s one for you to chew on. I don’t think Jack died the way the police say he did.”

Sam nearly started. He kept his voice very neutral. “Oh?”

Chloe sat on the edge of the bed, looking suddenly tired and much younger than she had a moment ago. “Jack had a hidden side. I don’t think most people even noticed, but if there was a loud noise, he’d reach for a gun even if he wasn’t wearing one. I never knew what that was all about, but I’d bet good money you and your friends do.”

A very, very smart girl.

“Did Jack have enemies?” she asked, her voice even.

“They’re mostly dead.” Or undead.

Her hand, so fine-boned and soft, made a fist. “I think you guys missed one.”

“What are you talking about?”

She shot him a look. “You’ve got that whole brothers-in-arms vibe going on. I think you watch each other’s backs pretty closely, and I don’t mean around the boardroom table. Well, try this one on. I don’t think Uncle Jack smashed up his car by accident.”

Sam stayed mute.

Chloe pushed on, her jaw set in a stubborn line. “He never drank as much as he pretended to. The whole playboy thing was a game, like a mask he wore when it suited him.”

Her fierce tone was doing something to Sam’s insides, a painful, hot, sweet feeling radiating from deep in his gut. He was getting turned on in a big way. Oh, good timing, Ralston.

“I don’t know,” he said casually. “Once in a very rare while, Jack could tie one on.”

Chloe grimaced. “He wasn’t stupid. Not where the Porsche was involved.”

God, she did know her uncle. Jack loved that car. This whole conversation offended his sense of fair play. She deserves to know she’s not the only one who thinks Jack was killed. But if he broke cover, it wasn’t just his existence on the line. Women like her die around creatures like you. The thought repeated in his mind like a tolling bell. He knew that from bitter experience. Everything about who he was, what he did, invited danger.

“Leave it to the police,” he said reasonably. “They know what they’re looking for.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Which is why your two friends are all over the scene of the accident? They’ve been there since day one like a pair of designer-casual bloodhounds.”

Sam stomped on a snort of laughter before it could get away. “You’re imagining things.”

“Lame.” The heat in her eyes said she didn’t like being dismissed.

“You’re just upset because he died suddenly. It’s understandable.”

“Lame.” A flush of pink was climbing her cheeks. “I’m not a clueless child, Mr. Ralston. Don’t try to hide information from me.”

Irritation flashed through him. “What do you think happened? One of your relatives hired a gunman to get Jack’s estate?”

Her blue eyes didn’t waver. “I bet you’d know how to find out if they did.”

He gave up. “I can’t help you.”

“Then get out of my bedroom.”

Her expression was hard. Unexpectedly, Sam felt it dent his ego. He wanted to reach across the gulf his job and his nature put between them. It was a rare impulse, and one he couldn’t do a damned thing about.

Probably just as well.

His gaze wandered to the wedding dress, taking it in for a brief moment. Marriage was just one more human entanglement he’d left behind, but for a split second he wondered what it would be like to be that unguarded with somebody. It had been too long to remember.

Sam turned and walked out of the room, leaving Chloe alone on the bed.

For now.