Shock Waves (3 page)

And when the clouds cleared, someone would be dead.

* * *

Dreams. Ethan knew all about those fleeting images that seduced from the fringes of sleep. He knew the temptation to believe, the price of succumbing. He knew reality had nothing to do with what occurred when a man was in bed with his eyes closed. Reality came only through the light of the day, when a man had his eyes open. Wide open.

There was very little of that light now. The sun had set, but the clouds prevented the moon from taking over. The water running to his right swirled darkly, invitingly. It had been the ultimate high of his teenage years, nabbing a six-pack with his buddies and swimming across the James.

Until the night Pete Kirkpatrick never made it to the other side.

He ran faster, harder, enjoying the feel of sweat bathing his body. He lengthened his stride and pumped his arms, not giving a damn about the occasional branch littering the path, the knobby knee of an oak. His sisters thought he punished himself, but to him, exertion was the ultimate reward.

Somewhere in the distance, back toward the parking lot, a scream ripped into the steady hum of crickets. He swung around, his heart still racing forward, realized it had only been an owl. Scowling, he continued down the path, needing to work off the sense of being stuck with his hands tied behind his back. He’d become an endorphin junkie during his years at the Virginia Military Institute. The natural high rivaled that of any illegal substance, with the added benefit of no hangover. Often, in the heat of a case, he crafted the majority of his closing argument while pounding the shady streets of
Richmond
‘s
Fan District.

Frustration kept time with adrenaline. He’d been so sure, damn it. So sure. The woman’s vague phone call had carried all the hallmarks of one of Z’s ploys. Finally he’d believed he’d found a real and tangible link to the man who’d destroyed everything Ethan had once believed in.

Christ, he realized, testing himself with a wind sprint. He’d never even gotten her name.

He broke through the invisible finish line of the dying sycamore and stopped, leaning forward and bracing his hands on
his damp thighs. He sucked in a breath, but the thick, humid air brought little relief. His body screamed for oxygen.

Refusing to indulge, he turned around and headed back. Tonight was not a night for cutting slack. He’d already wasted too much time chasing shadows. He, better than most, knew the price of letting his imagination run away with him. He knew the danger of following paths that led nowhere. But the second she’d said Z’s name in that mind-blowing throaty voice of hers, something inside him had surged to life. He’d been blind with the need to find her, get on with the game.

The path ahead of him brightened, prompting him to glance upward. The clouds had thinned, allowing the light from the moon to leak through.

I had a dream.

In his years as a prosecutor, he’d heard a lot of cockamamie stories and lame excuses. Claims of visions were nothing new. But, Christ, never once had he found himself tempted to believe.

Wanting to believe.

She’d sounded so sure, damn it. So … unsettled. When she’d looked into his eyes and warned him to be careful, that men like Jorak don’t go down without a fight, she’d sounded as if she knew what she was talking about. And God, yes, some stupid part of him had wanted to believe her.

It wasn’t a good dream.

Frowning, Ethan pushed himself harder, enjoying the way the night closed in on him like a tomb with a heartbeat.

My dreams come true.

What did the woman with the eerie fairy eyes think she saw in the darkness of her sleep? What had she dreamed that disturbed her so, that made the color drain from her face and the light in her gaze go dark, that she refused even to speak of?

Nothing. The answer slapped Ethan harder than a low hanging branch from a pawpaw. She’d seen nothing.

He’d be a fool to think differently. He needed to finish his run, go home, shower. Call Hawk. Regroup. And above all else, he needed to forget that ridiculous moment she’d revealed that she’d dreamed of him, the images that had come to him immediately, an unstoppable current breaking through a dam, a man and woman intertwined, heat, intensity, a sense of urgency, a desperation he’d never felt before.

Darkness again, the clouds stealing the moon. Ethan ignored the sensation tightening through him and focused on the night, the land, the sense of release he always found alongside the James.

His family had been in
Richmond
for over
150
years. His great-great-great-grandfather had fought with Lee himself. Young Max Carrington had been full of bluster and righteousness until the moment he was felled by a Yankee musket and wound up in a field hospital across enemy lines. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness for days, comforted by the sweetest, softest voice he’d ever heard, and images of the most fascinating, green eyes he’d ever seen. He’d always fancied himself marrying sweet Olivia from
Jamestown
, not falling in love with a daughter of
Boston
, but from the moment he’d regained his strength, he’d vowed to move heaven and earth to keep Flora Marie Brown in his life.

And keep her he had.

Over the ensuing century and a half, the Carringtons had thrived. There’d been many children, but only one son per generation. And it was up to that son to preserve the family legacy.

It was a duty Ethan took seriously.

His former lover, Carly, had never understood that about him. She’d never understood the drive, the passion, the unquenchable thirst for life. It still stunned him to realize how close he’d come to marrying her, that once he’d thought she might be the one. Illusion, he knew. Fantasy. Dreams. They were dangerous commodities he had no time for, couldn’t trust, not when he had a cold-blooded killer to land behind bars.

Not ever.

The clearing opened twenty yards ahead of him. He kicked it in, giving the last of his run all that he had. When his feet crunched down on gravel, he allowed himself to stop. Again he leaned forward and braced his hands against his thighs, found his skin hot and damp, just the way he liked it.

Then he noticed the insects caught in a stream of headlights. He looked up abruptly, saw the black stretch limousine, felt a fresh flood of adrenaline.

Slowly he stood to his full height and smiled. One darkly tinted window rolled down, revealing the pale glow of an overhead light inside. He saw her then, sitting perfectly still, watching him through those disturbing blue eyes.

His heart kicked hard. He started toward her, heard the crunch behind him too late. Something hard slammed down against the back of his head, and the world went dark.

Chapter 2

«
^
»

”
N
o!” Brenna lunged across the leather seat and grabbed the recessed handle, but the door didn’t budge. “Ethan!”

He went down hard, his big body collapsing like a felled sycamore to the gravel of the parking lot. Horror jammed through her, broke from her throat. She climbed through the open window, heard the low hum too late. The sheet of glass pushed against her neck.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” came the accented voice from behind her. Then the feel of cool steel against her neck. “You were warned what would happen if you fight us.”

She had been. She just didn’t care. Not when Ethan Carrington lay sprawled on the ground. Not moving. She’d tried, damn it. Tried to warn him. Tried to prevent this from happening.

But like so many other times, warnings changed nothing.

Because like so many others, Ethan had not believed.

A wiry man in black stared down at him in triumph, as though he’d felled him after a long hard battle, rather than with a cheap shot from behind. Leering, he kicked Ethan in the gut.

“He’s of no good to you dead,” she gritted out, but the man with the gun on her laughed.

“He’s not dead.”

She knew that. He would live to reach the beach compound. He would live to see the woman he loved in jeopardy. After that, everything became shrouded in darkness.

The thin man dragged Ethan’s body toward the limo like nothing more than a sack of sweet potatoes. She cringed at the sight, gasped when she was yanked back from the widow. The door came open, and he was shoved inside. He landed against her, forced her back against the seat.

“There’s champagne chilling,” the man who’d held the gun to her head said. Like an obscenely civil host, he gestured toward a bucket against the far seat, where a green bottle with foil across the top winked from inside an ice bucket. Two crystal goblets waited nearby. “The boss says you can pass the time any way you like.”

Before she could respond, he stepped from the limo and closed the door. The window zoomed the rest of the way up, and the two front doors slammed shut. Brenna reached for the door handle, not at all surprised to find it wouldn’t budge. For the window button, not at all surprised to find it did nothing.

“He’s hurt!” She pounded fists against the dark glass, much as she had when they’d first locked her inside. Her bone and cartilage ached from the abuse, but she didn’t care. “He needs a doctor.”

The limo’s engine purred to life, and the sleek car slipped into the night, gained speed. Trees rushed past them, slowly at first, quickly faster, and even though she could see beyond, she knew no one could see within.

“Ethan.” His name came out on a hoarse whisper. Her heart beat harder, scraping the inside of her chest. “Why?” she murmured, easing him into her lap. The sight jarred her, seeing such a big man so still. “Why didn’t you put up a fight?”

The warmth of his breath feathered across her cool flesh. With her fingertips she found his throat, the knobby protrusion of his jugular. The flutter pulsed, strong, true, bringing with it a ridiculous surge of relief. She slid her palm to his jaw, the newly formed stubble of whiskers, the moist warmth of his slightly parted mouth. Then his strong nose. Cheekbones. Eyes, closed. Then his forehead. His closely cut hair.

The jolt struck like lightning. She braced herself against the current, but didn’t block. She allowed the images to surge, needing to know as much about this man as she could. She felt no fear in him, no doubt, no mercy, only a cold hard certainty, a determination made of unbendable steel. Then a flash of blinding pain. A blow to the head. A kick to the gut.

Instinctively she cradled his head close and started to rock. He was bigger than she’d realized watching him downtown. Taller, more broad in the shoulder. The beautifully tailored business suit had contained him somehow. But here, now, like this, in loose-fitting gray workout shorts and a torn old VMI T-shirt, there was nothing contained or restrained about the man. His skin was hot, damp, the muscle beneath hard.

Muttering something unintelligible, he turned toward her and buried his head against her abdomen. The urge to hold him closer, to kiss away his pain, staggered her. This man was not her friend, not her ally. He’d made that clear. And because of that, he was going to pay the ultimate price.

Still, she kept one hand on him, lifted the other to the chain around her neck and closed her fingers around her grandmother’s cross.

Slowly, gradually, a sense of calm whispered through her. She breathed in deeply, pulling oxygen to the floor of her diaphragm and held the breath, let it out slowly. Over and over. All the while she eased a hand along Ethan’s roughened cheek and murmured nonsensical words her grandmother had often used to comfort.

The future isn’t etched in stone,
her grandmother had always promised. Once, the chanted lullaby had soothed. Now, it scraped.
It’s fluid, ever changing. Something to be cherished, not feared.

Once, Brenna had believed. Because she’d wanted to believe. Desperately she’d wanted to believe. But then she’d learned the truth, that wanting only led to devastation. The future
was
etched in stone, couldn’t be changed.

At least not by Brenna.

Swallowing hard, she looked down at the chiseled planes of Ethan Carrington’s impossibly handsome face, and some place deep inside slowly, steadily started to bleed.

Time turned backward, returning her to an eerily quiet spring morning, when she and her cousin had stood side by side, with a warm breeze feathering between them. Leanne’s hands had been as cold as ice, her eyes rimmed with red.

For Brenna, there’d been only numbness.

Saying goodbye to her grandmother had been the hardest moment of her life.

Knowing it was her fault had destroyed her.

She’d tried. She’d tried so hard. She’d only wanted to help, to stop the darkness. Instead, she’d invited it into her home. For as long as she lived, she’d never forget the flash of horror, the chilling instant of awareness. The blind run through the darkness. The broken window.

The smear of blood on the doorstep—

No. She wouldn’t go back there. Not ever, ever again. Refusing to dwell, she focused on the man in her lap. He’d looked invincible standing against the night, with the
James River
ambling along behind him. She’d seen him on television before, countless times, and he’d always been imposing. But nothing had prepared her for the intensity of his presence, even something as simple as his walk. The take-no-prisoners voice. The way those penetrating green eyes had locked on to her and never let go.

“Why didn’t you listen to me?” she whispered. He’d fought her, Brenna, the woman who’d come to help, but not the men who’d knocked him unconscious. He’d just stood there with a faint, knowing smile curving his lips, as though the limousine was the most cherished sight in the world.

Another moan, this one deeper, stronger. He shifted in her lap, and through the darkness, one of his hands settled against her inner thigh. The tingle of awareness was immediate. Warmth penetrated denim and sank beneath her flesh, trickled deep. Instinct demanded that she pull away from him, his touch, but her body refused to obey.

So long. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself physical human contact, other than her cousin Leanne and a few co-workers. To have a man touch her, even though he didn’t know what he was doing or who she was, to feel his fingers inch along her thigh, jammed the breath in her throat.

“Ethan.” She tried for nonchalance, but his name rasped against the emotion in her throat.

“Mmm.” His big hand kept moving. Each finger seared into her, left a lasting imprint. His thumb rubbed along her hip bone, another finger stretched along her stomach, his pinkie skimmed along her pubic bone.

And this time the heat tickled lower.

The limousine stopped abruptly. Brenna jerked her gaze from the sight of Ethan’s hand exploring her body, toward the window, where a pickup truck with the windows rolled down idled beside them. The driver had his arm draped over the frame, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Help!” She slammed a palm against the window, felt the sting deep, but the light turned green, and they resumed their forward motion.

“S-soft.” The word was faint, reverent, and it brought her attention back to the man whose falsely intimate touch was slowly, surely, skillfully, unraveling her. His hand cruised higher, along the leather of her jacket and over her rib cage to her breasts, and everywhere he touched, skimmed, she died a little death.

The voice of reason screamed for her to jerk away, but another voice, this one softer, less used, pointed out there was nothing sexual to the slide of his fingers along her chest. He wasn’t trying to make her breasts ache. He wasn’t trying to make a low moan throb in her throat. He wasn’t trying to unfurl a ribbon of sensation from her chest down between her legs. He was just using his hands to orient himself.

“Ethan.” She felt the vibration of her voice against his palm as he slid it along her throat. “Can you hear me?”

“H-hear you.” His hand slipped over her jaw, cradled. His index finger skimmed her lower lip. “F-Flora.”

Brenna went very still. The name echoed between them, curled around her heart. He spoke it with an aching tenderness she hadn’t thought possible from him. The quick slice of longing stunned her. She sucked in a sharp breath, felt his finger dip inside. Instinctively she closed her mouth, but his finger remained between her lips, against her teeth, bringing with it the coppery taste of blood.

“Ethan,” she whispered again. “It’s me. The woman from the river. Brenna Scott.” Not Flora. “Are you—”

He moved so fast the rest of the question jammed in her throat. He jerked out of her lap and into an upright position on the plush leather seat. Through the dim, foolishly romantic lighting, she saw the lines of his face go hard. The hand that had been on her face dropped to snag her wrist. And when he spoke, his voice was that of the cutthroat prosecutor, not the raw whisper of the man whose touch brought her body humming to life.

“What,” he demanded very slowly, very succinctly, “do you think you’re doing?”

The question stung. Not so much the words, but the ragged edge to his voice, the harsh, mistrusting tone.

“You’re hurt.” She opted for the obvious, knowing he would believe nothing else. “I was trying to help.”

“Help?” He made the word sound like an accusation. “Is that what you call it?”

She’d been born with sharp instincts, had trained them to be even sharper. They hummed now, hard, deep, in a primal rhythm she hadn’t felt since the night she’d run into her darkened house, five minutes too late.

“You were unconscious.” For a few fleeting moments the invincible lawyer’s guard had been down, his defenses lowered. He’d reached for her, touched her tenderly. Called her Flora.

It was a side she innately sensed this man denied.

“You’re bleeding,” she added, and though she rubbed her fingers together, his blood remained on her hand, in more ways than one. “I think it’s from the back of your head.”

A hard sound broke from low in his throat, but he said nothing. Not at first anyway. The silence spun out between them, thick, pulsing, filling the plush limousine like a dense fog rolling off the river. His hand remained curled around her wrist, his body coiled inches from hers.

“Tell me, angel,” he said at last, and his voice dipped low. His eyes were gleaming, almost amused. “Was this part of your dream, too?”

She yanked her wrist from the manacle of his hand and narrowed her eyes, reminded herself not to let emotion interfere. “No.”

“You sure about that?” he asked lazily. A slow smile curved his mouth. “I mean, I may be a bit woozy, but I don’t recall you fighting to get my hands off you.” He paused, prosecuted her with his eyes. “Not this time.”

It took effort, but she kept her temper from leaking through. “I was trying to help you.” Trying to do the impossible.

He scooted closer, lifted a hand to her face. “I want more,” he murmured, and his eyes, hard, forbidding, such a dark, primitive green they were almost black, met hers. “About this dream of yours.” Slowly, deliberately, he dragged a finger along her cheekbone. “I want details.”

The heat of his hand soaked into her, through her. She felt the tip of his finger skim the side of her face, felt her heart kick a little harder. Felt heat chase away the chill.

This man wanted, all right. Wanted with a raw intensity that could never be satisfied. She saw that truth in every rigid line of his body, felt it in his touch, saw it glowing in his eyes. But he wanted more than words, more than images from her dreams. He wanted something indefinable, something long denied.

Something she could not give him.

But, God, for a fleeting moment, a disturbing moment, she wanted, too. Her body tingled from it, melted. Reached.

“There’s a beach,” she said, careful to keep her voice bland. Ethan Carrington was a man of cold hard fact and irrefutable evidence. He would never believe her without details. “The water is an incredible shade of turquoise.” Like a painting, so vivid it could hardly be real, glimmering like jewels in the hot afternoon sun. “The sand is like sugar.”