HardWind (23 page)

roaring out of control.

“Someone tried to kill her, officer,” the trucker said. “Sure as I’m sitting here,

someone has it in for this little lady, and that person would have finished her off if I

hadn’t been there.”

“Ma’am,” the trooper tried again. “Are you hurt?” He knew better than to touch her

for fear she’d react in a way that could cause her further damage.

Star was locked in a weird kind of silence in which nothing—not even the blaring of

the sirens bearing down on them—could penetrate. She didn’t feel the concussion she

had sustained. She didn’t feel the broken left wrist.

When the emergency medics arrived, Star was simply staring into space. Unable to

get any response from her, the EMTs gingerly placed a rigid cervical collar around her

neck, laid her upon a long backboard then transported her into the ambulance. The

closest hospital was in Milton and it was there she was taken.

* * * * *

It was well after midnight before Star came out of the deep fugue into which she’d

fallen. She found herself in a hospital bed with an IV dripping fluids into her right arm,

her left arm in a cast, an oxygen tube in her nostrils. Her head ached miserably and

every muscle in her body felt bruised. She lay there for a moment trying to puzzle out

what had happened, but then the fog cleared away in her mind and the image of her car

with flames shooting from it brought tears to her eyes.

She hadn’t seen the Hummer bearing down on her. Her cell phone had taken that

moment to ring and she had fumbled it open. Just as she put the cell to her ear, she’d

caught a dark shadow rushing toward her. Before she could look out her driver-side

window, a voice hissed in her ear.

“Goodbye, you bitch.”

The words hung in the air, stunning Star, just as the horrendous crash hit her side of

the car and she lost control. The main airbag and the head airbag had deployed,

blocking her view of what had hit her. All she could feel was shattered glass hitting her

face and arms. All she could hear was the roar of a mighty engine, the squeal of her

car’s protesting tires on the pavement, the grinding of metal against metal, a loud

explosion then utter, complete silence.

She didn’t remember being helped from her car, but she remembered sitting on the

grassy slope, watching her sweet little car being destroyed.

“We were beginning to think you weren’t going to wake up.”

The voice came from her bedside and Star—with some effort—turned her face

toward the sound. A tall man in a white lab coat was standing by her bed. He had a

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stethoscope hanging around his neck and he was carrying a metal record holder in his

hand. He wasn’t smiling. His expressionless face made the hair stand up on Star’s arms.

“There’s a policeman right outside your door,” the man said softly.

Star’s eyes shifted to the partially open door.

“I wouldn’t suggest you call him, Miss Kiernan,” her visitor said. “He has a wife,

two little boys and a third on the way.” His eyes narrowed. “We want him to go home

to that family in the morning, now don’t we?”

“What do you want?” she asked, terror making her heart thud hard in her chest.

“Me?” the man asked. “I don’t want anything from you. Miss Gentry is another

matter.”

For a moment the name didn’t register, but then Star remembered Dáire using it

when she’d told him about the woman who had come to visit her after she’d given birth

to Jillian.

“Miss Gentry would have come herself, but with the security surrounding you, she

thought it best to send me.” He smiled and the smile was pure evil. “I am expendable,

you see.” The smile widened. “Just as the man who fucked up and didn’t do his job

right on the interstate this morning was expendable. Just as
you
are expendable, slut.”

“Where’s Dáire?” she asked. It had been a shock to hear he’d been abducted from

the hospital the night of the donation. She didn’t need to wonder who had taken him.

She knew.

“I believe he and Jackson are still in France,” the man replied. “He’ll be there a

while longer while Jackson recuperates.”

“Jackson is hurt? How—?”

“I am here to deliver a message from Miss Gentry,” the man cut her off. “I am to tell

you that you lied to her. You told her you had broken it off with Dáire Cronin but that

has proven to be a lie. She wants me to warn you that if you continue seeing him, there

will be one less child in that group home in Pensacola.”

Absolute terror drove straight through Star’s heart. She gasped, jerking her right

hand to her mouth. She stared at the man, watching the nastiness filling his hard stare.

“I don’t like children,” he said. “I especially don’t like deformed children.” He

leaned over her bed, piercing her with his hateful glare. “It would make my day to

eliminate a greedy, taxpayer, money-sucking retard from the state’s coffers.” He cocked

his head to one side. “Give me a reason to smother that abomination you and Cronin

call a daughter in her drooling sleep.”

“No,” Star whispered.

“Then stay the hell away from Cronin!” the man ordered.

“Don’t hurt my little girl,” she pleaded. “Please don’t hurt her.”

“That’s up to you,” the man said then straightened up. He made a notation on the

chart in his hand then turned his back on her. “Try to rest now. You really don’t look so

good.”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

She watched him go out the door, heard him greet the policeman, and it was all she

could do not to scream. Fear was racing through her body, paralyzing her, bringing a

tremor that made her teeth click together. When the nurse came in to check on her, she

found Star sobbing uncontrollably into her pillow.

* * * * *

Jackson was shooting the breeze with one of the French orderlies at the clinic and

eyeing a pretty little nurse sitting by herself at the next table over. Now and again she’d

cast him a saucy look then go back to the paperback novel she was reading.

“There’s no accounting for taste,” Dáire said as he hooked a leg over a chair placed

beside Jackson’s wheelchair and slid down into the seat. “She looks like she could eat

you for lunch.”

Jackson bid the orderly adieu then turned to look at Dáire. “I could sure enough

gobble her up for lunch or any other meal.”

“Frenchwomen taste like fish down there,” Dáire observed.

“I love fish,” Jackson replied, lacing his fingers together over his belly. He let his

head fall back so he could look up at the overcast sky through the window behind him.

“Ever notice how American women taste like boiled potatoes?”

“Star doesn’t,” Dáire told him. “She tastes sweet. Sorta like oatmeal.”

Jackson winced. “More information there than I needed, Dairy Crow.” He lowered

his head and glared at Dáire. “Now I’m going to have that stuck in my head, and every

time I see her, I’m going to be thinking of oatmeal.” He smacked his lips. “I’ll never eat

gruel again.”

“Gentry’s here. She got in an hour ago,” Dáire said. He tipped his chair back. “She’s

in with the director of the clinic.”

“No doubt inquiring after my health,” Jackson said with a snort. He caught the eye

of the little nurse and winked broadly at her.

“That Transylvanian bodyguard of hers came looking for me. He told me to get our

things together. We’ll be leaving for the airport when she’s finished with the director.”

Jackson reluctantly tore his attention from the pretty nurse. “Do you know where

we’ll be heading?”

“To the
HardWind
according to the bloodsucker.” Dáire narrowed his eyes. “From

there? Who the fuck knows?”

“Vlad’s really a pretty decent guy,” Jackson said.

Dáire’s eyebrow shot up. “That’s his name? Really?”

“Vlad Tepes,” Jackson said, nodding at Dáire’s disbelieving look. “I’m not joking.

That’s his name.”

“Yeah, right,” Dáire scoffed.

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HardWind

“Could be an assumed name, of course,” Jackson surmised. “I’ve been thinking of

changing mine to Love Machine.”

“Now if you’d said Dud Machine, I’d have believed you,” Dáire said dryly.

“Ah, Dairy Crow, I think you are being summoned,” Jackson said in a low voice.

Dáire turned to see Tyndall Gentry standing in the doorway of the cafeteria. She

crooked a finger at him then spun around on her heel and walked off.

“Your mistress calls,” Jackson muttered.

Dáire let the legs of the chair crash loudly to the floor then got up. “I had the

orderlies pack your stuff. I’ll meet you at the limo.”

“That’s providing I’ll be allowed to accompany you and the Wicked Witch,”

Jackson reminded him. “She might want you to herself.”

“She can want in one hand and shit in the other for all I care,” Dáire snapped.

Jackson watched his friend and partner walk off then glanced at the pretty nurse

one last time. He sighed deeply then motioned an orderly over to wheel him back to his

room.

* * * * *

Gentry was waiting down the hallway, standing at a wide sweep of windows that

overlooked the lush, green countryside. She was nervously tapping the toe of her black

pump, her arms wrapped around the bright yellow tweed suit that fit her much too

snuggly. The hemline of the skirt was much too short for a woman of Gentry’s age.

Dáire said nothing as he joined her at the window. He recognized all too well the

telltale signs of colossal fury in the woman. She was chewing on her bottom lip as she

stared out at the beautiful scenery—another sign of her agitation. Folding his arms, he

waited for her to vent that anger on him.

Casting the handsome man at her side a quick look, Gentry stood there striving to

get her anger under control. She’d lost three good men that morning, learned a fourth

had been decapitated in Iraq and a fifth was missing, presumed dead. Between dealing

with the incompetence of the man she’d sent to dispatch Dáire’s slutty lover and a notso-good report on her personal health from the director of the clinic, Tyndall Gentry

was not in a good state of mind.

“Walk with me,” she demanded, and reached out to take his arm. She pretended

not to notice that he stiffened beneath her touch as she led him down the hall. She

turned to look at him again.

He was dressed in a lightweight cotton long-sleeve shirt, the cuffs rolled up

sensually to the middle of his tanned forearm, with the top four buttons left undone so

that the crisp hairs on his chest showed through the opening. The black jeans looked as

though he’d been poured into them and molded his hard ass lovingly. The stark

whiteness of his sneakers was just the right touch to make him irresistible to every

woman they passed in the hall.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Dr. Francois says Jackson is healing well enough to go home,” she said, and when

Dáire did not respond to her comment, she leaned closer against him. This time it was

hard not to notice that he moved away from her touch.

Dáire felt the pressure on the crook of his arm increase and then she was in his face,

glaring up at him as they stood toe to toe.

“Don’t fuck with me, Cronin,” she warned. “You really don’t want to do that.” Her

gray eyes bore into him. “You do remember what happened the last time you fucked

with me.”

He said nothing, just stared down at her with no emotion at all on his still face. Not

even his eyes moved as he held her look.

“How’s your supply of tenerse?” she asked hatefully. “Do you have enough? Is it

staving off your discomfort, or should I ask Dr. Francois to provide you with a stronger

dose?”

The warning was there. He didn’t even blink. “I have all I need,” he replied.

“Perhaps I should take you back to Sinavar,” she said, her mouth twisted in a sneer.

“I don’t think you learned all you could have when you were there last.”

“What good would my cock be to you if I’m out of my mind in a locked room?” he

asked quietly. “Unless, of course, you don’t mind whose dick you have shoved up

inside your cunt.”

She lashed out, slapping him as hard as she could. The imprint of her hand was

vivid on his cheek. “How dare you?” she hissed. “I am not a slut like that piece of trash

who bore your mongoloid child.”

He was on her in the flash of an eye, the fingers of his right hand spanning her

throat, cutting off her air as he shoved her against the wall, holding her there with the

solid bulk of his body. His left hand dug cruelly into her right shoulder, pinning that

arm between them. He ignored her raking his hand with her long nails, drawing blood,

and pressed harder until true fear showed in the depths of her stricken gaze.

“Don’t you ever call my little girl that again,” he spat at her. “Not ever again!”

He used his knee, shoving it between her legs so she was riding his hard thigh.

“Do you hear me, Gentry?”

Lights were flashing across Gentry’s vision and she was struggling to get him off

her. She couldn’t breathe and was fast losing consciousness. Her hand was slick with

his blood from where she’d clawed into him but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Do you fucking hear me?” he repeated from between tightly clenched teeth.

“Yes!” she managed to get out.