Out of Control (2 page)

“I am shocked at your attitude. The Callahan woman is worthless as anything but a prop. Finish the job. I want to hear the tragic conclusion of the Caruso/Callahan saga on the eleven
PM
news tonight. Failure is unacceptable. Do we understand each other? Faris?”

Faris broke the connection and turned his attention back to the girl. The cheap synthetic bedspread was not worthy of her. She should be lying on an altar of crimson velvet, draped with cloth of gold.

He checked her pulse, fingers lingering over the tender skin of her wrist. He prepared a dose of a drug that would keep her unconscious for two more hours and slid the needle tenderly into her arm.

He considered tying her to the bed, just in case he was delayed, but he was reluctant to start off their love affair by scaring her.

He wanted to be tender with her. Indulgent. Two hours was plenty of time to recover the mold for Marcus. A few minutes with Faris's needles, and Caruso had been very forthcoming about where he'd left it.

This was a pathetically easy job, in fact. Almost beneath his dignity. If all went smoothly, he would not even have to torture her.

He hoped not. Faris was a master at the art of torture, but he preferred that she love him. If he had to torture her, things would be much more complicated. Women took things so personally.

Faris lingered by the bed, hating to leave her so soon after he had found her. He groped for his snake pendant, the symbol of his order, and lifted her head to place it around her neck, arranging it carefully between her perfect breasts. His most prized possession. He stroked the soft skin, the lush curves. There. Better. It was tangible proof of his commitment. It would protect her until his return. She looked perfect.

This ecstatic emotion made him giddy. Strong enough to bear even Marcus's anger. He left the room, imagining how grateful and admiring she would be when he came back to wake her.

She owed her very existence to him. Every moment of her life was now his. She should be grateful to him for every breath she took.

A detailed and highly sensual fantasy of all the ways she would express her gratitude kept him pleasantly entertained as he drove.

Seattle, Washington, eight months later

D
ragon sinks into the ocean…

Davy McCloud's body flowed through the form, unencumbered by conscious thought, in harmony with the ancient sequence of movements. Grab with dragon claw. Sink down to pull his phantom adversary to the ground. Breathe low and soft, to pull qi down into his vital organs and circulate it. His body was fluid and relaxed, his attention focused, mind, body and spirit in perfect equilibrium. Qi focused out through the eyes.

He was the dragon, the cloud where it formed, the ocean where it lived. Balanced on air. Suspended in space.

The door of the dojo made no sound as it opened, but his heightened senses felt every minute change in temperature and air currents. He recognized her energy without even turning. He knew the way it felt in the back of his head. Like the ringing of a zillion tiny bells.

Seconds later her scent hit him. Spicy. Ginger or clove. Woodsy, like cedar, with a hint of orange. Mouthwatering. It strengthened as she approached the tatami where he was practicing, and damned if he wasn't making a tiger claw now, a downward ripping movement instead of the softer, circular dragon claw. He corrected himself instantly and took a split second to gather his concentration.

Dragon stretches out his left claw…
she must have just finished teaching her aerobics class at the Women's Wellness Center, the all-women gym next door. He'd heard the pounding music ease off a timeless infinity ago, which the tracking mechanism in his brain identified as about fifteen minutes. Deep into that remote no-man's-land in his brain, he'd barely registered the high-pitched chatter of the women heading out of the gym into the pedestrian mall towards the parking lot, buzzed on endorphins.

And here she was. In his face. In his space.

Dragon stretches out his right claw…
what the hell was she doing in here? He'd been so fucking careful to avoid her, and now his breathing was hard, too tense and dynamic, too high in the chest. His heart beat fast, thudding against his ribs as if he were afraid.

Concentrate, goddamnit. He softened his breathing, but that just let still more of her warm female scent into his lungs. Damp sweetness. Perfumed soap, shampoo, or whatever other female goop she smeared on her body, activated by the heat of exercise. If he turned and looked at her, her perfect skin would be glowing with a pearly sheen of sweat.

He did not look. He did not even look at her, and still his groin tightened. It made him furious with his own body.

Dragon grabs the rainbow…
the bright pink spandex workout gear she was wearing jarred the corner of his eye as he turned. Distraction was just another challenge to face and overcome, he reminded himself. So were surges of irrational anger. He knew the drill. Dispassionately observe his reaction. Let it go. Move on.

He should welcome challenges to his concentration. It was just a mind game. Ideally, he should be able to maintain perfect focus even if the sky fell around his ears.
Dragon stretches out his left claw…

Yeah, but the falling sky didn't have that sweet, spicy smell that punched through his defences like armor-piercing rounds.

He spun around, leg extended, and couldn't help but note again that she was wearing the hot pink two-piece leotard, a seductive French-cut thong. One of his favorites. He'd memorized her workout gear in the six weeks since she'd started working next door. Every last piece.

Vaguely perverted of him, once he thought about it.

But he shouldn't be thinking at all. At this point, no more than twenty-five percent of his concentration was focused on the form. The other seventy-five was hyperconscious of Margot Vetter watching him as he practiced in the twilit, silent dojo, making him as self-conscious as a teenage boy. He'd taken off the cotton jacket of his gi, and his bare torso dripped with sweat. If he could smell her from this distance, she could smell him, too, and after teaching two karate classes back to back, it wasn't pretty. A nose full of ripe, sweaty male animal.

Stop it, forget it, cancel it out. He sank down into the opening pose once again, grimly determined to get through it.
Crane flies into the sky…
leap, land lightfooted in left cat stance, right hand scooped under left into
crane cools his wings…
and it was fucking useless, with those tiny bells ringing, shooting his concentration to hell.

He finished the form, just because his own nature would not permit him to leave a thing unfinished once he had begun it, and sank down into
crane guards its nest.

Wasted effort.

Nothing should knock him off balance when he was in that meditative zone. Nothing ever had until Margot Vetter had shown up at Women's Wellness next door to teach the aerobics classes. He was thirty-eight years old, and he had a stupid-ass crush on the woman.

Which is all it could ever be. He'd known it since the evening that Tilda, his tenant who ran the Women's Wellness Center, had introduced them. A night spent tossing in bed until all the sheets were ripped off the mattress and wrapped around his sweating body. Imagining Margot twined around him, on top of him, bent over in front of him. He'd given up on sleep halfway through the night and gone to the computer to do what any man with a functioning brain should do when contemplating getting involved with a woman. A comprehensive background check.

The results of that check had put him in a foul mood for weeks.

He took a deep breath, and let it out very slowly before he turned.

“No shoes on the tatami,” he said.

“I'm already barefoot,” she said. “I left my flip-flops at the door.”

Her husky alto voice brushed over the nerves on the surface of his skin. His hairs prickled, and his groin was heavy, and he was angry at himself for being angry, embarrassed for being embarrassed. His gaze traveled rapidly over the length of her body: slim bare feet, graceful ankles, turquoise leggings clinging to long, muscular legs, the hot pink spandex leotard hugging every lush curve. She was tall, broad-shouldered, wide-hipped. Not too skinny, with that round ass that stuck out a little in back, and the soft, lush swell of her belly. Head high, back straight. An uppity, hip-swaying walk that could hypnotize a man into driving up onto the sidewalk and into a parking meter.

Which he had nearly done the first day he'd caught sight of her.

The sports bra top that went with the thong contained big, soft-looking tits. One of these days he would have to stroll through the gym next door under the guise of a neighborly visit and look in on one of her aerobics classes, just to monitor that bra's performance. But he would have to see those breasts bare and unbound to truly believe them. Until then, he would remain skeptical about God's existence.

Wrong. No. Wouldn't be going there, wouldn't be doing that. He'd slammed the door on that possibility weeks ago, but still the images spun through his mind, and now the heaviness in his crotch was solidifying into an official hard-on. The thin cotton trousers that he wore to practice kung fu would be no help in preserving his male dignity. He was so screwed.

Her eyes were a ragbag of bright colors; irises rimmed with indigo that faded to bluish green and then to gold around the pupil. They met his so directly, he had to fight the impulse to drop his gaze and stare at his own feet. Jesus. Next he was going to start to stammer and blush.

The charged silence was driving him nuts.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. Embarrassment made his voice harsher than he'd intended.

She sucked her full, rosy bottom lip between her teeth and chewed on it. “I'm…I'm, uh, sorry to have interrupted you.”

He shrugged. Waited.

“Your kata looks great,” she offered. “You've got amazing technique. I'm no expert, but…well, wow. It's just beautiful.”

Courtesy demanded some polite acknowledgment of this remark, but all he could manage was a grunt and a nod. She waited in vain for him to pick up his cue. He clenched his teeth and concentrated on clamping down on his body's physiological response. The biofeedback equivalent of trying not to think about a pink elephant.

Her cheeks flushed pinker. “I, ah…I had a couple questions for you, actually. I heard you're a private investigator, and—”

“Who'd you hear it from?”

She looked taken aback at his curt tone. “That blond guy who teaches the kickboxing classes here. He told me that you—”

“Sean,” he said. “My brother. Never could keep his mouth shut.”

A perplexed crease appeared between her straight dark brows. Probably wondering how he could possibly be related to Sean, the quintessential calendar pinup male with the flirtatious charm to match. There wasn't much resemblance between the two of them, other than the dirt-blond shade of their hair and their bizarre background.

“Oh.” Her voice was cautious. “Is it some big secret, then?”

The thought of Sean chatting Margot up made his jaw clench. The fact that his reaction was stupid and irrational made him even angrier, like an endless feedback loop. “I'm phasing that business out. I'm still licensed, but I'm not taking on any new clients. As Sean knows damn good and well.”

“Oh.” Her voice was subdued. “Why are you phasing it out?”

He crossed his arms over his bare chest and longed for his jacket, which was draped over the weight rack all the way across the room.

“Boredom. Burn-out.” He made his voice curt and dismissive. “I'm moving on to other things.”

Her eyes dropped. She took a step back, chilled.

It was working. He'd put her off. She wouldn't be back. Exactly what he'd intended. All according to plan.

So why did he feel like such an asshole?

“I see. Sorry I bothered you, then,” she mumbled as she turned away. “I won't take up any more of your time—”

“Wait,” he heard himself say.

She turned back slowly. Her face looked pale in the fading twilight. Her hair was cinched into a clip, a wild explosion of spiky wisps up top. Those hollows beneath her high cheekbones were new. She'd lost weight in the last few days, and her pallor confirmed what he'd suspected the minute he saw her. That dull, dark brown hair color was false, like her name, her driver's license, everything about her.

She looked different tonight. Fragile. An image of Kevin flashed through his mind, triggering a dull ache of pain. His younger brother, killed years ago when he ran his truck off a cliff. Davy had been in the Persian Gulf at the time, but he'd dreamed of his brother the night before he got the news. He'd seen a shadow lying over Kevin's face.

Margot Vetter had a shadow like that hanging over her tonight.

He was deviating from his script. The woman was trouble he did not need. A walking, breathing question mark. He had enough to deal with, with the new business he was starting up.

Margot Vetter's checkered past was not his business, no matter how curious he was. He didn't need to know what she was running from, what responsibilities she was evading. With his constant efforts at self-mastery, he'd be damned if he would let his dick drag him into the snakepit of somebody else's bad decisions and rotten judgment.

No more rescue missions, either. He'd tried the hero routine years ago, with Fleur, and had fuck-all to show for it.

Unless you counted the scars.

Margot jerked her shoulders, impatient with the long silence. “So?” she demanded. “Wait for what? Why are you staring at me?”

He played for time. “Why do you need a detective?”

Her full lips tightened. “What do you care? It's irrelevant, since you're no longer in the business. And I would hate to bore you.”

“I'm not bored. And I'll decide what's relevant.”

She grew three inches in a breath. “Will you? Gee, that's arrogant.”

Arrogant. Huh. Women had thrown that at him before, but he just shrugged it off. There were worse things a woman could call a guy.

“Just tell me.” He concentrated on his command stare, which he'd used to great effect as the sole authority figure for three unruly younger brothers. He'd developed it further in the army, and honed it to perfection as a martial arts master. All the force of his will, blazing out through the eyes. Legend held that a true master of the dragon form could terrify his enemies into submission with a single glance. He hadn't made it to that point yet, but he did all right, for the most part.

Didn't work worth a damn on Margot Vetter, though. She just wrapped her arms over her tits and glared right back at him. “I don't have time for idle curiosity, buddy. I've got a body sculpture class to teach in”—she consulted her watch—“three minutes. So go on back to your karate moves, and don't stress yourself about—”

“Kung fu,” he said.

She gave him a death ray stare. “Excuse me?”