Her gaze was drawn to his hands on the steering wheel. They were large, square hands, with nails that had never been manicured. Strong hands, she mused, remembering how they'd felt stroking her body the other night.
She suppressed the slight tremor of reaction and reminded herself that she had unfinished business. "Are you letting me go?"
"No."
She stifled her frustration. "Then where are you taking me?"
"You'll see."
"I have rights, you know."
"Not tonight you don't."
She gave him a disgusted look and then turned her attention to the passing landscape, absently rubbing her arm.
"What's the matter?"
She eyed him disdainfully. "My arm hurts."
"What'd you do to it?"
"Me?" Was he kidding?
"You body-slammed me to the ground last night.
Or have you forgotten?"
He took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at her, giving her a raised eyebrow. "What I remember is you trying to cut off my head with a sword."
She glared at him. "I wasn't after you."
He laughed. "Yeah, that makes me feel better."
They drove on in silence, leaving the city limits, going God only knew where. As he drove, the detective reached behind his seat. "Here, I have something of yours." He dumped her purse into her lap.
The significance of his having it made her uneasy. "Where'd you get it?"
"A patrol unit found your rental car and towed it to the impound yard."
"What about my suitcases?"
"In the trunk."
"—and my sword?"
"It, too."
She opened her bag and searched its contents.
"They're not there," he told her.
"What?" She tried to sound innocent, though she supposed it was too late.
She knew she was right when he gave her a look that said "nice try." "That nasty-looking dagger and odd assortment of—what were those? Wooden stakes?"
"You searched my purse," she accused him, feeling violated.
"No shit. That's my job, Jessica.
Jessica Winslow, from
Hocksley
,
England
."
He reached into his front jacket pocket and pulled her passport up far enough for her to see it. She held out her hand, but he ignored it.
"You have my things. I want them back—all of them."
He shot her a dark look. "Yeah, I don't think so. I'll hold on to them."
"For how long?"
"Until I'm ready to give them back," he snapped. "How the hell did you get through airport security with all that hardware anyway? Never mind," he grumbled when she opened her mouth. "I don't think I want to know. I might have to arrest you again."
John watched her fall quiet and remembered the moment he'd found out who she was. Somehow it had seemed only fitting that she turn out to be a Winslow.
Lately, it seemed all of his problems were related to Admiral Winslow and his security team. And right now, the woman sitting beside him was the personification of all those problems, albeit wrapped in a very appealing package.
As the object of his current frustration retrieved a brush from her purse and started to work through the tangles in her hair, John focused his attention on the area through which they were driving. On one side of the road were open fields, and on the other were trees so thick and tall, it was hard to see what lay beyond them. Somewhere in those trees was a driveway, and John slowed the car so he wouldn't miss it.
In the past year, John had been to Admiral Winslow's mansion only once—and he'd been expected. This time, however, he didn't want to give anyone a chance to prepare for his visit. The time for secrets was well past.
Taking the turnoff, John drove up the long driveway. The trees on either side thinned, and it was possible to make out the large two-story mansion up ahead. The setting sun shone like a bright orange ball, backlighting the home so that the front was cast into dark shadows broken only by the warm glow coming through the front windows.
Even before he pulled to a stop and shut off the engine, the door opened and two men, one with dark hair, the other with blond, stepped outside.
If John hadn't already known that Mac Knight and Dirk Adams were once Navy
SEALs
, it would have been an easy guess. Both were in peak physical condition and carried themselves with the air of quiet confidence and controlled power only years of stringent military training can give a man.
"Hey, John.
What's up?" Dirk came forward to shake John's hand as he stepped from the car.
"Dirk.
Mac.
Hope I'm not catching you at a bad time." John walked around the car to open the passenger door, pausing once along the way to shake Mac's outstretched hand. "Let's go," he said quietly to Jessica.
"No, we're good," Mac assured him, his gaze drifting to the car door.
"Is the admiral home?" John asked Mac while wondering what was taking his passenger so long to get out of the car. He glanced at her and saw the stubborn set of her jaw. She clearly had no intention of getting out, so he leaned inside, putting his face close to hers. "Get out of the damn car, now," he growled softly. "If you don't, I promise that I will haul you out."
Just a few more minutes, he told himself, leashing in his temper. If he was right about her being related to the admiral, then it was only a matter of minutes before he was free of her. He saw her gaze shift to the mansion and, behind the defiance, flashed a spark of something else.
Fear?
Uncertainty?
John tried to be sympathetic. "This isn't another mental institution."
Her gaze cut to him. "And I should trust you because
… ?"
His sympathy evaporated. "I can always take you back if that's what you prefer."
"John, this is a surprise." Admiral Winslow's loud voice interrupted from the doorway of the mansion.
"Hello, Admiral. I brought someone to meet you. Jessica, say hello to Admiral Charles Winslow."
John saw the minute the name registered with her. "Charles?" She gave John a curious look and then slid out of the car, ignoring his proffered hand as she moved past him.
"Jessica?" The admiral sounded both pleased and surprised. "We were expecting you two nights ago. I tried calling Gerard when you didn't arrive, but he wasn't home." He hurried forward, glancing at John as he enfolded Jessica in his arms. "We've been worried."
"I take it you
do
know her?" John asked, watching them.
"Yes; she's my cousin's daughter from
England
," the admiral replied before turning to Jessica. "Are you all right? You look a mess. What's going on here?"
Standing tucked against the admiral's side, she glared at John. "I would have been here sooner, but for the last two days, I've been locked in a hospital for the criminally insane—compliments of Detective
Boehler
."
"What?" The admiral sounded aghast and three sets of protective male eyes turned on John.
He reluctantly gave her credit for twisting the story in such a way that he came out the bad guy. "I think you should tell them the rest of it."
She opened her eyes a little wider, all innocence and sweetness. "Oh, you mean the part about how you threw me to the ground, roughed me up, cuffed me, and then interrogated me?"
John clenched his fists in an effort not to strangle her, but couldn't help his involuntary step toward her. "Back off," he muttered to Mac and Dirk when they moved to intercept him. "If I haven't killed her by now, I'm not going to."
Mac and Dirk stopped in their tracks, but their expressions said they were clearly concerned.
"Is this true, John?" the admiral asked sharply.
"Technically?
Yes." John shook his head in exasperation. "But do you really think I'd do something like that without having a damn good reason?"
Charles's tone was almost frosty. "I think I'd like to hear what reason you have for treating my cousin that way."
"How about attempted murder?"
"What?" Now all the attention turned to Jessica, and John was glad to see her squirm beneath it.
Taking advantage of the moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys, which he tossed to Dirk. "There's something in the trunk that you'll want to see."
Dirk moved to the trunk and opened it. Seconds later, he lifted out the ornate sword.
"I remember seeing that in the admiral's study once," John explained.
"Not this one," Dirk said, sounding awed as he pulled the sword from its scabbard and sliced the air a couple of times with it. In the fading outdoor light, his eyes gleamed with an unnatural reddish hue, which gave John a start. He'd only seen that trick of the lighting once before—on the man in the park.
"My cousin in
England
forges these swords," Charles explained. "That's why Jessica came to the States. She's delivering the sword to me."
"Well, I guess she took a slight detour because I found her running through Thompson Park the other night, waving that thing in the air, looking like she meant business. Since she was headed my way, I felt compelled to protect myself. When she resisted, things got a little rough and because she refused to tell me who she was, I had her placed under protective observation. It wasn't until her car was brought into the station with her purse and ID that I discovered her name."
The admiral shifted so he could pin her under his glare. "Jessica? Am I to understand that you were running through a public place with
that
particular sword?"
Jessica wasn't looking too happy. "There were extenuating circumstances," she said with enough emphasis that John felt certain the admiral and the others understood what she meant. After seeing their quick exchange of glances, he decided it was time to call a spade a spade.
"Extenuating circumstances," he repeated. "That would be the vampire."
Suddenly the focus of everyone's full attention, John pressed his point. "Yeah, I know about vampires. So, if you don't mind, I've got questions and I'd appreciate honest answers; no more bullshit about terrorists, okay?"
Jessica felt Charles tense beside her as she stared at the detective, feelings of shock and dread washing over her. She shouldn't have gone after a vampire while there were witnesses around, but at the time she'd thought he was one of them. When she realized he was human, she knew she had to save him. What she hadn't expected was for him to tackle her and lock her up in an institution.
To make matters worse, as a member of the Winslow family, charged for centuries with the responsibility of hunting down and destroying vampires, she was supposed to guard the secret of their existence from others, not broadcast it. One rare moment of spontaneity had thrust her into an unending nightmare of one disaster after another.
She quickly glanced at the other men, trying to read their thoughts, watching the play of emotions across their faces. Mac's and Dirk's expressions were guarded as they studied the detective, who looked like he'd just received confirmation of something he'd rather not have known. She almost felt sorry for him, but not quite. After all, she was in much bigger trouble than he was.
"Why don't we all go inside," Charles suggested, gesturing toward the house. "Knowing Julia, she's got a pot of coffee ready, and we might as well talk someplace comfortable."
"We'll get Jessica's bags and join you as soon as we put them in her room," Mac said, joining Dirk at the back of the car where the two exchanged comments too soft to overhear.
Alone with Charles and John, Jess felt ill at ease.
She might be family, but that was merely a technicality. The reality was that she and Charles were practically strangers. And the only thing she had in common with the detective was this mutual hate thing they had going on.
She watched him now, walking with Charles. He was almost the same height as her cousin, which meant he was only slightly taller than she was, and he moved with an easy, masculine gait. She could well imagine women everywhere falling over themselves vying for his attention. It wasn't because he was drop-dead gorgeous, because he wasn't. His dark hair was prematurely streaked with gray and it seemed that the dark stubble across his jaw that she'd noticed the other night was a permanent feature. The combination should have made him look old and unkempt. Instead, it gave him character. Beneath his long coat, she knew he was lean, hard muscle, though she tried not to dwell on the memory of the way his body felt when he'd tackled her. In a totally objective light, she thought, there was nothing special about his looks. The thing was
,
he commanded such presence that no one could be around him and stay objective for long.
Feeling uncomfortable, she stepped through the mansion's front door and into a vaulted foyer that was surprisingly warm and
cozy
despite its size. Looking around, she was impressed with the quiet elegance that surrounded her. It was much lighter and friendlier than the decor of the old English castle where she'd grown up.