Betrayed by Shadows Page 2

  He looked happy. What more had she ever wanted for him?

  This was her brother’s wedding day, and she was here to share it with him.

  And she wasn’t about to do it looking as though she’d spent the last forty-eight sleepless hours thumbing for rides, afraid for her life.

  “Miz MacCreedy?”

  She gave a slight jump and glanced up at the man standing beside her. Way up. How had such a huge fellow managed to approach so stealthily?

  “Name’s Giles St. Clair. I’m your ride.”

  With a frame close to six and a half feet and all of it muscle, he looked like he could carry her all the way back to Nevada on his back without breaking a sweat. His slow smile hinted that he wouldn’t mind giving her a more personal lift anywhere she chose to go.

  Like that was going to happen with one of Max Savoie’s mobster goons.

  “My bag’s by the door,” she snapped.

  His grin widened. “Yes, ma’am. Follow me.”

  After the cool, crisp Lake Tahoe altitude, New Orleans met her on the front steps of the parish church like a wet fog. An unpleasant-smelling fog. Her nose crinkled. Of all the places they’d lived, she couldn’t fathom her brother’s attraction to this dank, dirty place, any more than she understood the appeal of the humans he worked with as a police detective. Or, for that matter, the female he chose to bond with.

  The behemoth driver popped the trunk of a sleek black Town Car. Before she could tell him to be careful, he’d slung her suitcase inside with all the TLC of a budget airline baggage handler. Then he had the audacity to reach for the door handle on the front passenger side, as if she were going to sit up there next to him. She waited pointedly at the rear door. Still smiling, he opened it for her.

  At least the car was first-class all the way. Probably paid for with the blood of the city’s criminal elite.

  She’d just started to relax into the seat’s buttery leather folds when Giles started the car. The soft purr of the motor was swallowed by a jarring blast of Jimi Hendrix’s “Foxy Lady” from interior speakers.

  “Sorry,” he called, dialing the music down from its ear-bleeding level. “Wasn’t expecting company. Anything in particular you’d like to listen to?”

  “Silence would be nice.”

  A cheerful “Yes, ma’am” was followed by blissful quiet.

  For the first time since she and Kendra had landed in Reno months ago, Brigit felt safe enough to let down her guard. A shaky sigh escaped as she closed her eyes and allowed the dark sea of exhaustion to tempt her. As she started to sink into its calm embrace, her gregarious chauffeur decided silence didn’t apply to conversation.

  “So, you’re MacCreedy’s little sister.”

  She slit one eye open to glare at his rugged reflection in the rearview mirror.

  He went on, “I’ve got two little sisters. Haven’t talked to them in a while, though.”

  “I’m sure they’d appreciate hearing from you.”

  The man obviously couldn’t take a hint unless it was delivered with a length of pipe, because he shrugged good-naturedly. “Well, maybe. They do say blood’s thicker than water, so maybe you’re right.”

  Brigit rubbed at her eyes in frustration. “I’m sure you and your family are absolutely fascinating, but at the moment, I’m too tired to pay attention. So would you mind keeping your eyes on the road?”

  When he didn’t reply, she glanced back up at the rearview to see his gaze fixed on her, the cheeky grin in place. Nice mild blue-gray eyes, she noticed, warmed with an affable interest. Good grief, it was like swatting a puppy.

  “Eyes,” she reminded sternly. “Road.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Shutting her own determinedly, Brigit settled back once more, lulled by the silence and the gentle vibration of the vehicle. Her thoughts drifted, floating through darkness, swirling with weariness, until they began to collect and reluctantly focus on the last frantic forty-eight hours.

  Wait until you get someplace where you won’t be disturbed, then kill the bitch. And don’t be nice about it. Make sure the body never turns up.

  She’d stood outside the door to Cale Terriot’s cluttered office, her suitcase in hand, her heart lunging into her throat. So that was their plan. Not to simply exile her, as she and Kendra had been told, but to remove her permanently.

  Liars. Bastards!

  Fools.

  Fury held her panic at bay, allowing Brigit’s mind to move swiftly over her options. Escape? Not possible. Petition for help? To whom? Run? Where? Her breathing quickened into quick, shallow pants, forcing a struggle for control.

  Fight back.

  Survive.

  She heard her brother’s quiet wisdom in that once-whispered word. Survive to fight another day.

  And when that day came, she wouldn’t be so nice about it.

  She managed an icy smile as her two escorts came out into the hallway. Pit bulls in suits. Could they be tricked, seduced, outmaneuvered? They were killers for the Terriots, professionally hardened, without pity. She held her head high and met their deadly stares with her own.

  “Ready to go?” the taller of the two asked.

  When the other reached for her bag, she pulled it back with a contemptuous “I can manage. I’m not completely helpless.”

  He smirked at her claim but stepped aside to let her pass.

  No, not helpless at all.

  As they started down the mountain, Brigit sat still and silent in the backseat while her thoughts raced ahead. If she were to have any advantage, she’d have to take them by surprise. Not in the car while they were speeding down the twisty, narrow blacktop. Definitely not when they pulled over to make their move.

  She waited, tense and beginning to tremble, until opportunity presented itself. “Pull in at that little store. I need to use the facilities.”

  When the front passenger checked his watch, she gave an impatient sigh.

  “We have plenty of time before my flight leaves, and I’d just as soon be comfortable,” she insisted in a petulant tone that usually got results.

  The Shifter duo exchanged a glance, and the driver shrugged, steering the vehicle into the bumpy parking area. He stopped the car at the far end of the empty lot, where the pines cast heavy shadows, then told his partner, “Go with her. Grab me some smokes while you’re in there. I’m down to my last one.”

  Suitcase in hand, Brigit got out of the car only to have the watchdog step in her way.

  “What do you need that for?” He gestured at her bag.

  She leveled an unmanning stare. “I need to freshen up. My female things are in it.”

  “Oh.” He moved out of her way with an uncomfortable flush.

  The store was a tiny tourist trap filled with useless junk and high carbohydrates. The counter boy looked about fourteen. No help there. As her escort began rummaging through the snack-cake selection, she flashed her most charming smile at the young employee, and he nearly melted on the spot.

  “Is there a restroom I can use?” she asked.

  “We just have one for the employees . . . but go ahead. Right through the curtains there on the left.”

  “You are a doll. Thank you.”

  The curtain separated the selling floor from a crowded storeroom and closet-sized washroom. It also separated her from watchful eyes, but only for a moment. She turned on the water in the dingy sink and closed the door as if she were inside, then darted between the stacks of boxes toward the rear exit, grabbing up anything she might use in defense. She slipped out the back, where the air was crisp with the scent of firs and potential freedom. She’d taken one hasty step when a large hand caught her by the collar of her silk shirt.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Brigit twisted in the cruel grasp, reaching back with the box cutter she’d snatched off the desk inside to rake the blade across her assailant’s forearm. He let her go, howling in pain and surprise. Brigit ran for the trees, suitcase banging against her leg.

&
nbsp; She’d almost reached the woods when he hit her from behind like a defensive end, driving her face-first onto a spongy bed of pine needles.

  “Treacherous little whore. Knew you were up to something. Now you’re gonna pay for it.” He mistakenly thought he’d have a weepy, hysterical female in designer clothing on his hands as he snarled, “Cut me, will you?”

  He didn’t know her at all.

  “Yes,” Brigit hissed, using the momentum of their roll to slash the blade across the thick cords of his neck with a quick, hard stroke. “Thanks for the suggestion.” Blood splattered her face and arms as she shoved him off her and scrambled to her feet.

  “What’s going on?” the young clerk called from the doorway, eyes going round at the sight of her gore-drenched figure.

  “He tried to attack me,” Brigit panted. She hadn’t wanted to involve the boy, but now she had no choice. “Call 911. There’s another man out in the car—”

  Her words broke off as the kid staggered and went down soundlessly. She took a shaky step back as the driver wiped his blade on the boy’s uniform shirt after jerking it free.

  “Got tired of waiting for you to make your move.”

  He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew jets of smoke out his nostrils. After giving his gurgling partner a brief glance to determine the zero chance of his recovery, the driver focused on the threat she presented.

  Not much of one, yet she took a defensive stance, waving the puny box cutter as if it would keep him at bay. Her gulping breaths shook as badly as her knees, but she made sure there was no sign of weakness in her goading “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  He smiled unpleasantly and promised, “Oh, you’re going to,” as he sheathed his weapon.

  He was so fast.

  With a few blurringly quick strides, he caught her about the throat, lifting her off her feet with that choke hold to body-slam her down atop a rickety picnic table. With the breath but not the fight smacked from her, Brigit tried to rake at his face with the razor blade. He knocked the utility knife from her hand and almost fractured her jaw with the return stroke. Her world shattered into a prism of bright lights and exquisite pain.

  Her attacker was breathing heavily, and not from exertion, as he pushed his way in between her thrashing legs. His features began to blur and change behind the glowing tip of the cigarette clenched between his teeth . . . teeth now wickedly sharp. Brow thickening, jaw elongating, lips curling back for a rumbling snarl, he became the beast he was inside.

  “Let’s not make this any more unpleasant than it’s already going to be,” he advised, reaching for his belt buckle.

  Head ringing, gut spasming with sickness and fear, Brigit choked on her own blood and tried to hang on to consciousness. Survive. Survive!

  Straightening with a gasp, Brigit stared up into gentle blue eyes for a long moment without recognition. Sweat dappled her skin despite the cool of the car’s interior, and her breath chugged in anxious gulps.

  “Sorry to wake you, Miz MacCreedy. We’re here.”

  As the large figure of Giles St. Clair backed from the open door and light came flooding in, Brigit’s awareness of time and place returned. She scrubbed her hands over her face, then stared at her palms, half expecting to see stains upon them. Relief left her shivering.

  Giles reached a big hand toward her, and she took it tentatively, letting him draw her from the vehicle onto unsteady legs. His grasp moved to her elbow, providing firm support until her strength returned, and with it, a testy temper.

  “I’m fine. Get my bag, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He released her gradually, making sure she had her balance. Then he went to retrieve the suitcase without comment, giving her time to pull her ragged edges together as she took in Max Savoie’s estate.

  The house was a huge rambling wreck with cracked pillars and junglelike surroundings that threatened to swallow it alive. Any elegance it might have had was as faded as its peeling paint. She climbed the wide front steps and crossed the porch. Giles was there to open the door for her.

  The interior was blissfully cool and scrupulously clean. A long central hall opened into countless rooms with a massive curved staircase at the end, rising to the upper floor.

  A pretty, slender young woman hurried to meet them, drawing up to exchange a perplexed look with Giles. Brigit assumed she didn’t look like the anticipated wedding guest.

  “Jasmine, Miz MacCreedy will be wanting to wash up, I suspect,” Giles was saying. “Be a love and make sure there are fresh towels in the guest room at the top of the stairs.”

  After another curious look at the visitor, she trotted up the steps to see to it.

  Giles set down the suitcase. Brigit gave a slight start as his hands touched her shoulders. “Let me take your coat.”

  His voice was low and soothing, making it easy for her to comply. He drew off the ill-fitting denim jacket that obviously wasn’t hers, again saying nothing. Working inside this establishment of crime and violence, he probably saw little that surprised him enough to risk comment or opinion.

  Folding the coat over his arm, Giles lifted the suitcase and preceded her up the stairs. Jasmine passed them on the way down, nodding slightly to him.

  The guest room was small but inviting, from the four-poster bed with its pristine coverlet to floor-to-ceiling, lace-covered windows. All she was interested in was the shower and a long-overdue change of clothes. Giles set her bag at the door to the adjoining bathroom. “There you go, ma’am. Take your time. I’ll let Silas know you’re tidying up.”

  Something in the gentle tone and kind gaze bolstered her like a comforting embrace, making the tone of her response sound unusually gracious. “Thank you.”

  His gaze did a slow assessment of her standing there, all travel-worn and weary, then he gave a brisk nod and was gone.

  Brigit stepped into the bathroom, sighing aloud at the sight of the welcoming tub. Then her gaze fixed on her reflection in dismay.

  Her short-sleeved silk shirt was not only horribly wrinkled but spattered with the same dried blood that streaked her forearms.

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  “Sorry, what?”

  Giles turned to the woman standing at his side to find Charlotte Caissie regarding him with an all too insightful smile.

  “If you stare any harder, you’re going to knock her over.”

  He grinned, not bothering to deny it, and continued his rapt perusal of Brigit MacCreedy as she descended the stairs.

  By all the saints, who’d have guessed the bedraggled female who’d collapsed in his backseat would clean up to such an eyeful!

  With her pale porcelain skin and blazing red hair, she was smoldering sex appeal in a curvy bottle-green dress. And the way she moved said she knew it. Brigit MacCreedy was a woman who could work an entrance.

  Giles had a healthy appreciation for all things fine and female. His admiration for the NOPD detective currently busting his chops was a prime example. The image of her flashing his boss in lusty Big Easy fashion was burned in a favorite part of his memory. He viewed women the way a connoisseur valued art, noting textures, exquisite lines, and technique: with an eye for the beauty of things he could never possess.

  Brigit MacCreedy was worthy of her own special showing. She had a rare, almost mythical appeal, so earthy in her sexuality yet unblemished in her perfection. The impossibly red hair blazed like a setting sun searing water. The tempting curve of her cheek and long, graceful neck, the artfully rouged lips with their pouty upper peaks and luscious lower swell, the arch of her brows so descriptively beckoning and yet disdainful. The way the sinuous drape of her dress cupped full breasts, showed off a tiny waist, and flared over sassy hips, leaving delicious legs bare all the way down to the kind of sexy shoes worn to get a lover all juiced up. The fact that she was an unnatural creature, like her brother, only heightened the appeal.

  Because looking was stirring a need for some forbidden touching, Giles was wise enough to dir
ect his stare elsewhere.

  “What’s her story?” he asked, already intrigued by the teasers he’d glimpsed so far.

  “The last time she was in town, her lover died trying to kill Max. If her story was from Grimm’s, she wouldn’t be one of the characters you’d root for.”

  Why wasn’t he surprised? Still . . .

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Giles mused, risking another quick peek that quickly became a drawn-out inspection. “I rather like a lady with a little darkness in her heart.”

  A snort. “Careful, or this one will feed you yours.”

  “Advice noted.”

  “But not necessarily taken.” Charlotte shook her head. “Men. Flash a little cleavage and lead them around by the oral fixation.”

  He pried his attention from the generous crevice in question to laugh. “We’re all just big dumb animals. Some just a little more animal than others.” He draped an arm about her shoulders for a fond squeeze. A similar grip suddenly had him by the heart as he remarked, “It’s good to see you smile. Are you here to stay for a while? We’ve seen too little of you lately.”

  The detective’s animation faded. “I’ll be going back into the city tonight. I want to be close in case . . . in case there are any changes.”

  “There will be.” He punctuated that statement with another crushing hug.

  “I’m not looking for miracles, Giles. I’m just holding on for the day he’ll recognize me.” Her voice trembled slightly, then toughened. “That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

  “No, love, not too much at all.”

  They stood together in somber silence, both thinking about Max Savoie, the man Giles worked for, the man he respected more than any other. The man who wasn’t a man at all but, rather, the Shape-shifter leader of the New Orleans clan and perhaps of their entire species. Someone for whom they’d both give their lives, who could no longer remember who they were, or who he himself was, thanks to the brutal treatment he’d received from his enemies in the North. Giles had followed this brave woman to the clinical facility in Chicago to exact his daring rescue without a single question, but now he had plenty. Like what the hell he was supposed to do in Savoie’s powerful shoes if his friend never recovered.