So Tempting (7 page)

He would rule in her stead one day. All would admire him. So much power at his fingertips, once they understood.

"Lower your eyes." Her voice lashed like a whip.

"Yes, Priestess." Beneath his own mask, he burned.

It was not his time yet.

But that day would come.

Meanwhile, he would be more careful. The girl's death was...regrettable. The new compound was not yet perfected. The base potion was unstable. He'd been promised that the mixture wouldn't be fatal the next time.

But he got hard remembering the girl's face glowing with ecstasy, her body writhing with an animal hunger so powerful even seven of them could not satisfy her. He'd wanted to transfuse that unleashed power straight into his own body, to suck her dry of every ounce and feed on it himself. It had been like an electric shock to be inside her.

He could barely keep from touching himself now to gain release, so powerful was the memory, so instantly arousing.

"Come here," the Priestess ordered, something new in her tone.

He looked up but could tell nothing behind her mask. He crossed the ten feet between them. Now he could see her pupils dark and huge as she looked first at his face, then down to his groin. She licked her scarlet lips, leaving them slightly parted. "On your knees, Keeper." Scarlet nails opened a slit in the gathers of her robe. The scent of her arousal curled into his nostrils.

This, her carnal appetite, would be her undoing. Smiling to himself, he sank to the floor.

GREECE

Nineteen years ago

Dante roared down the long driveway, the growl of the motorcycle engine suiting the melody of anger and grief battling for his heart.

Papa was dead. Had been gone for days and no one had told him. Dante had forever missed his chance to say goodbye. To make things right.

Deep inside his chest, the ache for revenge clawed. He knew who had made the decision to rob him of the opportunity to connect, one last time, with the man whose blood he bore.

His brother. Who hated him.

He only knew now because Papa's lawyer had called him to the reading of the will. It meant, he guessed, that Papa hadn't forgotten him after all.

But the only thing he truly wanted, to be recognized as his father's son, he would never have. To be part of his father's daily life, to share the small moments with him, the normal ones.

He'd never be tucked in bed at night and know his father and his mother were in the next room, guardians of his sleep. Or relish the simple pleasure of a father's visit to his school, of walking down the street, small hand in his father's larger one.

Or, now that he was a man of nineteen, to take his place at his father's side. To join his father's company, Prince Laboratories, and make him proud.

All those pleasures his brother had enjoyed all his life. Dante would never experience them, never have the slightest passing acquaintance with that joy, forever out of his reach.

As he parked the bike outside his father's mansion, he stilled the urge to turn around and ride away, to seek comfort in the arms of his Caterina, so sweet and kind. To sit on the porch and comfort Mama, who'd been inconsolable at the news.

A mere glance at the sturdy stone exterior pierced his heart with grief. His father would not be waiting inside. Their goodbye, when he'd been given the amulet, had been the last words they would ever exchange.

Instead, his brother, his enemy, would be waiting.

He climbed the stairs with reluctance. Inside he would find the proof of what he wanted so badly to deny. His father would not come to visit again, would not stroke his hair or laugh with pride. Never speak to him again of the secrets of their shared blood, the blood of the Light Walkers, healers and warriors who fought battles to save lives. He had these dreams he had expected Papa to explain.

But Papa had never visited. Never spoken to him again. The child within rose up to cry out, to beg for another chance. He should have been able to find a way to change all this.

The butler opened the study door, and he reluctantly strode past. That boy was long gone, as dead as the father.

From a chair in front of the desk, Markos rose. Triumph and malice glowed from his eyes. His brother, too, had matured. He was a man now, his frame filled out. His victory complete.

Dante tore his gaze away, taking in the sight of the stranger sitting behind his father's desk. He nodded a curt greeting and took his own seat at his brother's side.

The older man cleared his throat, his eyes dark and assessing. "Shall we proceed?"

Cut and dried, then. It would be better that way. He would grieve in his own manner. In his own time.

With a sideways glance he saw the muscle jumping in his brother's jaw, the fingers of one hand gripping the arm of the chair until the knuckles stood out like bleached bones.

All Dante could think of was the last time he'd been in this room, when his father had talked of rescuing this brother, of making him whole. Though he'd doubted such could be accomplished, Dante had allowed himself to hope Papa would succeed, would give them another chance to be true brothers as he had always craved.

So intent was he on recapturing the beloved sound of his father's voice that he didn't register the lawyer's words until his brother had leapt to his feet, chair crashing to the floor.

"He cannot do that! I am his son, his heir. He cannot let the bastard—"

Fists clenched, Markos whirled, his face purple with rage. "If you think for a moment that you'll ever take the helm of Prince, you're a fool. I'll see you dead first." His fist plowed into Dante's belly.

Air exploded from Dante's chest. He hit the floor with a thud. His brother was on him before he could rise. Itching for long-overdue revenge, he welcomed the fight. They clashed with fists and teeth and kicks until four burly men pulled them apart.

Chests heaving, they glared and struggled to rejoin battle. Dante still didn't understand what had happened, but he strained against his captors, relishing the chance to wade in with fists doubled and smash his brother into pulp.

"Stop!" the lawyer ordered. He cast a nervous glance at Markos as if waiting for the explosion to ignite again.

Dante had to discover what he'd missed. "Say it again."

But the lawyer never got the chance. His brother spoke first. "It seems that our father decided to play a little practical joke." His eyes were bright and hard with menace.

"What do you mean?"

The lawyer cleared his throat. "He left the house and the bulk of his estate to his legal son, though he left you a small bequest." He cast another glance at Markos, whose frame was as rigid as his fists. "But the ownership of Prince Laboratories is not to be decided yet. You and your...brother are both to take positions there, to learn the business from the ground up. Each of you has the opportunity to wind up at the helm, and the matter will not be decided until five years have passed."

Dante frowned, trying to absorb it all. "I have a chance?"

"Don't get your hopes up. It will never happen. No one knows you there. They will be loyal to me," his brother said. Then he turned to the lawyer. "What of the amulet?"

Instinctively Dante covered the amulet that never left his throat.

His brother's gaze narrowed. Quicker than a cat, he leaped, tearing open Dante's shirt. He hissed, and his hand darted toward the necklace, poised to rip it from his neck.

A murky ripple...the stench of corrupted flesh...

His brother would use this for evil. Papa had failed.

All those years alone...for what?

Markos didn't have the advantage of surprise this time. Dante was now as tall as Markos and very near the same breadth, but he had not led his brother's pampered life. He grabbed Markos's wrist and squeezed until drops of sweat broke out on his brother's forehead.

"It is mine. You cannot have it."

"You are nothing," his brother spat. "You have no power. I will crush you."

"Enough!" roared the lawyer.

At his nod, the servants separated the two again. Markos held fast to the amulet until Dante feared the thong would break. He tightened his fingers, using a special pressure to break Markos's grasp.

His brother fell back with a roar of pain. "Damn you, you will pay for this. The Eye of the
Magos
will be mine—"

"It will not," the lawyer shouted over him. "Your father's will states that all gifts before death will remain the property of the recipient."

Dante relaxed only slightly. He could see the hatred flashing in his brother's eyes and knew this would not be the end of it.

"The hour is late," the lawyer said. "There is a bed made up for you in the east wing," he said to Dante.

"I do not wish to stay."

"But you must. There are other papers that will arrive in the morning related to the company, along with executives who will answer your questions and ready you to begin. If you wish to succeed your father, you will remain. Before you go, however, your father left something else for both of you." He produced two small carved wooden boxes and hand one to each of them.

Dante opened his, and inside was a heavy silver ring with an intricate design, a dolphin surrounded by spirals, one of the symbols of Thera, ancient name of Papa's home island of Santorini. A glance to his right told him his brother had received one, as well, but the design featured a bull's head in the center, another of the traditional symbols.

"You are brothers. Your father wished for you to remember the bond, to honor your shared blood." His tone made it clear that their father would be extremely disappointed that even in shared grief, they could not put aside their enmity.

Dante closed his eyes. There was nothing he wanted less than to pass a night under the same roof as his brother. He wanted silence and space to grieve, but he forced patience, reminding himself that the tests were only beginning. It would require every ounce of brains and guile and courage he possessed to secure the place he had always wanted to occupy—true heir to his father.

"Very well." He slipped on his ring and lifted one eyebrow in challenge to Markos. "I will stay—and I will succeed. Count on it." He shook off the men who had restrained him and walked with as much dignity as he could muster through the halls of his father's house.

* * *

In the night, he jolted awake not to music but to otherworldly screams. Strong bodies held his arms and legs bound.

He fought, but it was no use. Even with his eyes blinded, Dante felt it missing before he had climbed fully out of sleep, a loss as piercing as if he were minus a limb. Praying to be wrong, he touched his throat, but only neatly-sliced ends remained of the leather thong that had held the amulet in place.

At dawn the servants came to free him. Dante tore through the house like a madman, the screams in his head piercing.

His brother was gone without a word. He would return, no doubt, but he would never admit to the theft of what others considered only a piece of jewelry. Papa had long stressed that the true power of the amulet was never to be revealed to one outside the blood.

What would Markos do with it? He wouldn't know how to care for it, he didn't have the knowledge to guard it, to use it for good, even if Markos cared one whit about goodness and peace. But what would happen to it in Markos's hands?

Even as he grieved, the younger man vowed never to stop seeking, though dread shuddered down his spine. Would he ever see the amulet again?
Oh, Papa, I am so sorry.

Only in darkness does the Eye lose the True Path.

Chapter Five

"Nothing useful turned up in the screening, Jace. No alcohol, no prescriptions, only marijuana." The forensic chemist's monotone shifted slightly at the end.

"But?" she prodded.

He hesitated. "Nothing that I can lay my fingers on, exactly. Just an unexplained spike when we did the thin-layer chromatography."

"Can you run more tests?"

"Maybe. If I knew what I was looking for."

"Sam was a known drug user, yet suddenly he dies and nothing but pot is found in his blood. Doesn't that raise some questions?"

"Not to me. Could have been natural causes. I just run the tests and interpret the results. It's up to the investigator to put everything together."

"But what about the unexplained spike?"

"There could be a lot of reasons for that. We're stretched here, Jace. I'd have to have other tests ordered to be able to spend any more time on this. We're a private lab—fee for service. You get me orders, I'll dig deeper."

Jace sighed, wondering if she could convince Earl that they were needed. "I'll get back to you, Victor."

"You do that."

Hanging up the phone, she took her feet off the desk and rose to seek out Earl. He was on the phone. Signaling with one finger that it wouldn't be long, Earl spoke into the receiver trapped between his ear and shoulder.

A moment later, he hung up. "Whatcha got?"

Jace leaned back against the edge of his desk, sighing. "Lab reports only show pot in Sam's blood."

Earl frowned. "So, natural causes."

"He wasn't that old."

"He was in lousy shape." Distracted, he perused his messages, then glanced up at her. "Just got a message with the results on the girl's blood screening. No rohypnol."

Jace cocked her head. "Anything else?"

"Weird chemical names I don't recognize." He shook his head, reaching for the phone.

Jace stilled his hand. "Earl, there was something odd in Sam's blood test results, too."

His gaze snapped to hers. "What is it?"

"Victor doesn't know without more tests. I was going to ask you to let me order them."

Earl shook his head. "What's the connection? What does a middle-class teenager have in common with an old drifter?"

Jace shrugged. "No illegal drugs in her system?"

"Nothing but a trace of pot."

"His, too. Could the pot be laced with something, and they got it from the same supplier?"

"But why hasn't anyone else turned up dead? The supplier wouldn't likely be selling to just the two of them."

"I don't know. Maybe there is no connection."

"You're probably right."

"So I can order the other tests on Sam?"

Earl chuckled. "Yeah. I'll clear it with Gonzales."

Jace rose to return to her desk but stopped when she heard him call her name. "Yes?"

"While you're at it, ask Victor to explain the results on the girl."

"Will do." Jace puzzled over their conversation while she was on hold, but nothing came to her.

"That was quick." Victor's voice sounded amused.

"Hey, what can I say? They love me around here."

He chuckled. "I'll try to have the results in a couple of days. See you, Jace."

"Wait—I need to ask you about another case."

"Go ahead."

"Sarah Brown, the rape victim found dead in an industrial park. Did you handle that?"

"No, but I just got her report. Hold on." She heard keys clicking. "Okay, what do you need?"

"Tell me about those compounds found in her blood."

"Some kind of cocktail you don't see—atropine, scopolamine, hyoscamine—"

"Wait—spell those."

He sighed, then patiently spelled them out. "Some other weird reading—some macro molecule I've never seen."

"Any relationship to the spike on Sam?"

"Can't tell. It'll take more tests. No idea what this one is."

"You say you've never seen that combination before."

"Nope."

"So how am I going to identify it?"

"You could wait for me to find time to do the research. Or you could call Dante Sabanne."

"Who's he?" The name sounded vaguely familiar.

"Zillionaire recluse, lives up on top of a mountain, big wall all around his property?"

Now she remembered. The name carried a mystique that had tongues wagging and people eagerly awaiting his infrequent appearances on the social scene.

Not her bailiwick. "What's he got to do with this?"

"I hear that one of his interests is exotic poisons. These are alkaloids, Jace. They could be synthetic formulations, but they would originally come from plants. Lots of poisons originate in plants or animals."

"Would he talk to me?"

"You're the cop—how can he say no?"

"Pretty easily, if he's not a suspect. Somehow I don't think I'm going to get a subpoena issued, as little as I have to go on."

"Only one way to find out. Gotta go, Jace. Duty calls. You're not the only one in a rush, you know."

The phone went dead in her ear.

Well. One reclusive zillionaire, coming up.

* * *

Eyes agog, Jace stood at the doorway of the—well, mansion was the only word for it. Glancing over her shoulder, she noted the high walls that were the only thing standing between her and an endless vista of sky and city and mountains. She'd been buzzed in at the security gate and had driven up a long, winding drive to encounter this adobe palace.

Golden walls in the traditional style flanked two massive doors carved in elaborate detail, the wood rich and gleaming. Jace reached for the doorbell, but before she could press it, one of the heavy doors swung open to reveal a massive man with brows drawn together in displeasure.

"I'm here to see Mr. Sabanne."

The giant grunted. "You have no appointment."

"I'm Detective Carroll with the Santa Fe PD." She flashed her shield. "I spoke with Mr. Sabanne on the phone a few minutes ago." In a polite but remote voice, Sabanne had granted her an interview, but she'd gotten the clear message that he was busy.

The man stepped back. "This way."

As he closed the door behind her, Jace registered the deep hush that pervaded the house. Walls the same adobe as the outside glowed a deeper, rosy hue, looking almost polished instead. A faint scent of beeswax perfumed the air, coupled with darker, richer aromas. Coffee. Flowers and...incense? Curving stairs rose through an arch to her right, disappearing from sight. Unusual objects reposed in softly-lit niches tucked into the curved walls, and Jace moved closer to inspect them.

Before she could, the giant called her. "Come along." He pointed toward a doorway on the left.

Just as Jace crossed the tile entry, she heard voices from the stairwell.

"But, Dante, I only want to spend the night with Melinda." A young woman's plaintive tone.

"I have made it clear that you are welcome to invite her here." It was the voice Jace had heard on the phone—peremptory, impatient.

She caught a quick glimpse of a teenage girl, petite and beautiful, long dark hair falling almost to her waist. His daughter? But no, she'd called him by his first name.

"But—"

"Enough, Cassandra. I have work to do."

"Miss, you wait in here."

Busted
. She stopped eavesdropping and complied.

High, arched windows framed a stunning vista of the Sangre de Cristos rising in the distance. The room itself topped the same glowing rose-gold walls with a high ceiling of intricately carved dark paneling. An immense stone fireplace dominated one side of the room across from an imposing mahogany desk. Behind the desk and opposite the windows stood row after row of bookshelves. An assortment of objects, not all readily recognizable, nestled in random openings between books.

She headed for an unusual sword on the wall.

A voice spoke behind her. "Are you interested in ancient weaponry, Detective Carroll?"

"I don't know anything about it," Jace said as she turned, expecting a dried-up old scholar, finding instead someone much younger, with a striking face noble enough to grace an ancient gold coin. His dark hair was scraped back with a carved bone clasp, bringing into sharp relief the harsh planes of his face. There was about this man a coiled intensity, a watchfulness that belied his neutral expression. He moved with a severe, savage grace, his tall frame overlaid with lean muscle. Dressed all in black, he exuded an aura of immense power held under rigid control.

Something inside her uncurled. Awoke.

"Detective?"

Crap
. She scrambled to cover the prolonged silence. "Are you a collector?"

"I am. There are many facets of the ancient world that interest me—rituals, traditional healing methods, the weaponry, the sexual practices...I've studied them all over the world."

"Is that what brings you to Santa Fe?"

"Indeed. New Mexico is a spiritual place and one I had not yet visited. I decided to investigate the area, and Santa Fe is a good home base."

Jace snorted. "These days, Santa Fe's only spiritual if you worship money."

A tiny smile ghosted across his lips. "You are one of those who do not welcome the influx of new residents?"

She shrugged.

"Let me guess. You are not enamored of the so-called New Age mindset."

She couldn't help a small grin in return. "What about you, Mr. Sabanne?"

He studied her, and she realized his eyes were so light they were almost...silvery. "As it happens, I find the movement well-meaning but misguided. The truths I seek are much older."

Well-meaning but misguided.
Myra and her bunch, to a tee.

"Would you care to look around at my collection?"

"Actually, I would, but first I need to see if you can help us with an investigation."

He inclined his head gravely and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Please be seated. May I offer you something to drink?"

Deep, soft cushions enfolded her. "No, thank you." 

 Seating himself behind his massive desk, Dante Sabanne clasped his hands on the leather blotter. "What is it you want of me?"

Jace's gaze arrested at the sight of those lean and graceful hands.

The large silver ring on one finger.

Startled, she thought of the man last night. Tried to picture this one in a mask, his bound hair falling to his shoulders instead.

Focus
. She yanked herself back to her reason for being here. "It's my understanding that you're an expert on exotic poisons. One of the victims had traces of scopolamine, atropine, and—" She consulted her notes. "Hyoscamine in her blood. Do you have any idea why?"

"
Datura
is most likely, in the form of a plant commonly called jimsonweed."

"Is it fatal?"

"In high enough concentrations, it could be. It acts upon the central nervous system."

"Why would someone take jimsonweed?" Jace wrinkled up her forehead. "Don't I remember that cowboys had to keep their horses from eating it?"

"Yes, but it's hallucinogenic and was once commonly used in rituals, as well as for pleasure."

"Pleasure?"

"Scopolamine has a marked aphrodisiac effect on some people."

Aphrodisiac
. Her pulse picked up. "How?"

"It disconnects the central nervous system from the autonomic nervous system. For example, in the past it was used in cesarean deliveries. The mother stayed awake but couldn't feel the pain, nor could she remember it later. It also had a notable side effect. Doctors sometimes experienced women on the delivery table making lewd suggestions to them, often very proper women who would never dream of behaving that way in daily life, yet under the influence of scopolamine, they would be utterly abandoned in their comportment. After the drug disappeared from their systems, the women would recall nothing. Their doctors often thought it kinder not to tell them."

A thought struck her. "So this drug could resemble rohypnol?"

"In what way?"

"Rendering a woman unable to remember having been raped?"

"Perhaps, but the dosage is quite difficult to calibrate with alkaloids unless they're distilled or synthesized under laboratory conditions."

"How would
datura
be given?"

"A variety of ways exist. The roots can be dried and ground into powder, then made into a tea. The seeds also can be dried and ground. Either can be made into a paste and applied to the skin, sniffed, or mixed into food."

"How does it taste? Would someone know they'd ingested it?"

"Most such powders can be mixed with other substances to make them palatable, say, fruit juices or tea laced with honey."

"How hard is it to obtain?"

"Not at all. One finds the plant throughout the Americas and in some parts of Europe. There is a particularly potent species called
Datura metel
found in India. The secret society called Thugees once used it to drug wayfarers before they robbed and strangled them in sacrifice to the goddess Kali."

He really did study this stuff. The history lesson was interesting, but she was only concerned with the practical. "So you're telling me that the victim could have ingested or snorted the substance, but if ingested, she might not have detected its presence."

"That's correct."

"So as with rohypnol, the only way to be certain is to neither eat nor drink anything."

"Not necessarily. There's one other method of delivery, though it would hardly be fatal."

"What's that?"

"Incense. Burned, it would serve to incapacitate the victim somewhat, as well as to wield some of its hallucinogenic impact."

Uneasily, Jace recalled the smoke at The Club. How dizzy she'd felt, how out of control. "What about its other effects?"

"Other?" One brow lifted.

"The...aphrodisiac." Unaccustomed heat stained her cheeks. 

"Ah." He nodded, a faint curve to his lips. "Yes, that's also possible."

She ignored his amusement. "How would you sample smoke to test it?"

"Do you believe this to have been done?"

She stared at him, attempting to superimpose his image on the man last night whose hair had been unbound. Whose impact she still couldn't shake, damn it.