The Reunited (10 page)

But she couldn’t find the elusive happiness, the escape she’d come here seeking.

Her mind was too focused on
him
.

Rest
. He’d told her to rest.

Why? What was he about? she wondered. There had to be something. He’d been careful to keep her under close watch, almost like he was guarding her. It was obsessive how often he seemed to spend the evenings with her. If he wasn’t with her, he was out doing things that made her long to kill him.

The days she didn’t see him at all were the bad ones, even when she relished not having to deal with him. Because when she faced him again, she knew there would be more evil in his head. He used those evenings away from her to see to his . . . business. That was how he thought of those girls.

His business.

Bastard. Soulless, evil bastard.

Making his money by selling flesh—death was just too good for him.

That was why she had to see this through . . . end it. Make sure he couldn’t ever do it again . . . couldn’t ever take anybody’s daughter. Anybody’s sister. Anybody’s girlfriend or wife. She had to find out where they were. She’d gotten into this job for
one
reason—a missing runaway. A pretty teenaged girl, her name had been Sarah Hale . . . and she’d disappeared more than two years ago.

Swaying out of the way of a family posing in front of the castle, she veered off to the left, unsure exactly where she was going as she thought back. She really had given more than two years of her life to this.

The girl’s father had come to her. His name was David Hale. Sarah had run away after an argument, determined to go live with her mother in New Jersey.

The body had been found in Pennsylvania eight months after Dru had agreed to take the case. She’d returned the retainer he paid her. Wrapped up the odds and ends of all other jobs she’d been working on. And started following the threads of this one.

It hadn’t been anything directly connected to Sarah that had led her to Florida. It had been a tangled web, and one of those threads had led to Orlando. A source had hinted at something rather twisted that took place among some of the jet set, and she’d made her way through a short list of those people until she’d found the right thread to pull on. All it took was the right memory, the right connection . . . and one of those men had a memory, a connection to Patrick.

Like everything else, it had come to her in a flash, a solid chunk of memory—he’d bought a young woman, a pretty woman in her twenties who’d come to America from Cuba, thinking she’d get citizenship and a new life. She’d ended up some man’s slave, courtesy of Patrick and his . . .
associates
.

Ever since then, Dru had been in a state of hyperawareness as she tugged at those strands, pulling those threads. Her mind made connections that didn’t seem possible, but sure enough, all the pieces fell into place.

Except the past few months she’d just been . . . stuck.

Waiting. Digging, slowly, patiently. Patient as a bloody saint, in her opinion, but it was taking too long.

There was darkness here. All tied in to money and lust and greed, and it went deep, very deep. Still following her leads, working the case on her own, she’d placed herself in Patrick’s way.

He had a thing for long, leggy brunettes, and that’s one thing she had working for her. The other thing—she could get a glimmer of what he wanted with just a touch. It wasn’t anything she’d consider true mind reading. She knew she had psychic skill, but her strongest ability lay in picking up things already past, those memory flashes that haunted her so.

But that weaker gift was still enough for her to pick up on his needs, his wants, his likes . . . his perversions . . . and she used it. Manipulated herself until she was the very image of the type of woman he was looking for. And she got deeper, and deeper, into this mess until there was no way she could get out, not unless she saw it through.

Seeing it through . . . that would require one simple thing.

Hard evidence.

It wasn’t like she could go to the police and say,
Pardon me, sir, but the man who wants to marry me is a slaver. Yes, yes, I know slavery is illegal, but it still happens and I think you should investigate him.

That would go over rather well, she was sure.

Proof. Had to have proof. And she had to be careful, too. He already had plans in place for what he’d do if he suspected he was being watched. Those girls would die, and they’d die horribly, in a way that was unlikely their bodies would ever be found.

She needed
proof.
She needed to protect the women, the girls he still had tucked away somewhere on a compound. And she had to do it all without him realizing what she was up to. No big deal, right? If she had to take more of his abuse, if she had to tolerate his touch . . . her skin crawled just thinking about it, but she could handle it.

Whatever it took to see this through, to make sure there were no more screams once she walked away from here.

Exhaustion pulled at her. Weary, she sank down on a bench and covered her face with her hands. Out here, under the fading summer sun, it was easier to pretend she wasn’t afraid. But she was. She could pretend she wasn’t running on the very edge of her wits, even though she knew she lied.

“You can do this.” She rubbed her temples. “Just see it through. A little bit longer.”

Exhaustion pushed closer and she welcomed it. A few minutes, maybe. Just a few minutes to relax . . . But even as some of the tension started to drain away, one of those fragmented nightmares snaked in, tried to pull her under. The blackness tried to surround her, grabbing at her—gasping for air, she threw it off and stumbled upright.

“Not now,” she whispered.

Water . . . closing over her head . . .

You have to get away from him—

That memory flash, the one that made no sense, danced through her head, the man’s voice getting louder, louder with each refrain until it was a shriek inside her head. Groaning, she squeezed her eyes closed, tried to block it out.

Couldn’t breathe . . .

Get away—

“I’m going mad,” she said. “Stark, raving mad.”

Here she was, dealing with a psychotic son of a bitch, and instead of thinking that through, she was dealing with dreams and flashes of drowning, while her mind played back warnings of that voice.
You have to get away from him—

Him? Him,
who
? Patrick? Oh, she
knew
that.

Yes. The logical thing was to get the hell away from him—she was more and more afraid that he was going to kill her. She knew he
would
if he found out what she was up to. Is that what the nightmares were? Some new manifestation of her ability or something? A warning?

Bugger all. She didn’t
need
a warning.

“What am I supposed to do? Just walk away?”

Not an option.

She owed those girls. Their screams.

They haunted her. Every time he touched her, she heard those screams. And it got worse. He’d hurt so many people, ruined so many lives.

If she walked, they’d haunt her, every moment for the rest of her life. It wasn’t going to happen.

So if the nightmares were some nebulous warning, they could just shut their nebulous ass up.

Looking up at the sky, she mentally squared her shoulders. And
damn
if she’d sit here, feeling sorry for herself. She’d come here to get away from him, to try and breathe away from the stifling presence of his ever-watchful eyes, those bloody cameras. She’d damn well try to enjoy herself while she was at it.

She’d have herself a slice or two of pizza.

She’d ride some rides.

It was Disney World, for pity’s sake.

She could find a way to have a bit of fun.

TEN

"T
HE
happiest place on earth.” Joss stood in the middle of Main Street USA, looking all around and trying to figure out just what he’d gotten himself into.

The one good thing—Jillian hadn’t lied to him when she’d said she had control.

She had it in spades. Once he’d adjusted to the sync, gotten that badly needed sleep and a solid meal, he’d acclimated enough to imagine that door she used. He shut it down tight, and then he went the extra step . . . every damn body had a door, one that led to their mind, and he shut those doors as well, leaving him in the blissful silence of his own mind.

Granted, it didn’t do anything for the occasional icy chill of a ghost’s touch, their calls, but he could deal with those. People died, and when they died before their time, they left echoes. He didn’t like it, but he had to concern himself with saving the ones who were still alive, so he moved the ghosts down on his list. He was good at compartmentalizing.

Now . . . if he could just figure out what in the hell he was doing in Disney World.

What had led him here . . . well, there was that dream. A mere figment, a blind hope.

And instinct.

Actually, instinct wasn’t a bad thing to rely on, he told himself, forcing himself to take a step after he saw one of the photographers flash a smile in his direction.

Oh, no. Did he
really
look like he wanted to pose in front of that stupid castle?

Hands jammed in his pockets, he headed down the strip, no particular destination in mind. As a tiny little girl—dressed in a wide-skirted dress of sunny yellow—cut in front of him, he almost tripped over his feet to keep from tripping over
her
. Geez, what did she have on her feet, rockets?

Her mother came running out of a store after her, and automatically, Joss took a step to cut the child off. The little girl stopped in her tracks and smiled up at him, her mouth smeared with chocolate, a rather marked contrast with the glittery stuff on her eyes, her hair.

“I think somebody’s looking for you,” he said, nodding to the frazzled woman just before she could catch the girl’s arm.

The woman gave him a thankful look, and as they melted back into the crowd, Joss did the same, moving with the flow.

Nothing here
, he thought, distracted,
nothing . . .

The road veered in a path off to the left. It wasn’t a conscious decision to follow it, but he did so, following it around the curve, passing behind a shop to a small alcove.

And he came up short, freezing in his tracks.

There she was . . . it was the woman he’d glimpsed earlier, in that figment of a vision, just before the dream had fallen apart, but that gut-deep recognition . . . he
knew
her.

He knew her face.

Joss Crawford wasn’t prone to melodrama, he wasn’t prone to wishful thinking, and he didn’t much believe in fairy tales. He didn’t buy into those crazy stories of love at first sight.

But he knew there was a woman for him—he’d been searching for her his entire life, had dreamed about her always. He looked for her in every face he saw, waited for the moment he’d find her again.

And here she was, striding down the pavement, her face grim, her eyes dark . . . the sight of her was a punch, straight to his heart. She didn’t
look
like she should, part of his brain insisted. The rest of him didn’t care. He knew her, in his gut, in his heart, in his soul.

Standing rigid, barely able to breathe, much less move, he waited for her to look at him, to see him . . . to
know
him. But it didn’t happen.

In fact, she was so busy staring at the pavement and making a concentrated effort to ignore everything around her, she didn’t even seem to notice him. She went to go around him and he just couldn’t stop himself—he stepped right into her path so that she crashed straight into his chest, all lean limbs and long muscles and golden, sun-kissed skin, a nice, solid weight that he figured would fit his body just about perfectly. She stumbled and he reached up, closed his hands around her upper arms, where the cotton of her shirt kept him from touching bare flesh.

He wanted to touch bare flesh . . . after all this time, he figured he just about
needed
to. But not now.

Right now, she was watching him with dazed, distrustful eyes—wariness flashed through her gaze and he felt her tense.

“You . . .” He didn’t even know what to say. A total stranger, and that’s what he’d seem like to her, he knew. How could he tell her he’d been dreaming of her for always? Waiting. Searching. Absently, without realizing it, he stroked his thumb across her arm, and it rubbed across the bare skin just below the sleeve of her shirt.

As bare skin touched bare skin, he felt something . . . a buzz in his brain.

And more . . . he felt the echo of it in
her
brain. Followed by a blinding rush of knowledge.

Her pupils flared. She sucked in a breath.
“You . .

Her eyes widened.

And a rush of images slammed into them both as that gift he’d absorbed from Jillian faltered under his grasp.

“You’ll come away with me, won’t you, Amelie?”

“And how are we to live, Thom? Hmmm? I do not think there’s room for me on the boat where you work.”

Pushing her golden hair back from her face, he tipped her chin back, kissed her gently. “We’ll be together. And we’ll find a way. I’ll find other work. Just say you’ll come away with me.”

His head was spinning, blood roaring, as he jerked his mind and those hazed memories from another life back under his grasp, shoving his shields up. Her eyes, wide and dazed, stared into his.

“You . . .”

Her pupils spiked, flared, and she sucked in a desperate breath.

She swayed closer, and logically, Joss knew it wasn’t because she was suddenly overcome, like he was. She didn’t
know
him—he would have known it if she had. But she was closer, and she was there, and he could feel the warmth of her, feel
her
, and fuck it, he was just too weak.

Groaning, he dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers.

He was fully prepared for the fact that she was going to haul off and belt him.

He was fully prepared for her to jerk away and scream.

What he wasn’t prepared for was for her to sigh against his lips, then open her mouth for him.

What he wasn’t prepared for was for her hands to come up, curl into the front of his shirt, tugging him closer.

But that was what she did, and the top of his head almost came off as he caught the first hint of her taste.

The tip of her tongue stroked along his lower lip before pushing into his mouth. He nipped it gently and returned the favor, stroking her tongue with his, tracing the outline of her mouth. She moved closer, her hands moving down to his waist, tugging him closer still, and Joss figured maybe it might be okay to touch her, too.

Fisting one hand in the back of her shirt, he used the other hand on her braid and tugged, angled her head farther back. She was long, and lean, fitting so perfectly against him, and he fucking loved it.

Long and lean, but soft, too, cradling him so perfectly. He could feel the curve of her belly, her breasts, all of her and it was fan-fucking-tastic. Under her shirt, he could feel the silken warmth of her back, and he wanted to drag the shirt away, learn all the curves and hollows and sweet delights of her body.

More . . . he needed more. Couldn’t wait to peel her out of those clothes and get her naked—

“Mommy, look, they’re kissing!”

The high-pitched laughter managed to penetrate the drunken fog of need that wrapped around his head, and Joss lifted his head, staring into those pale green eyes for an endless moment. By the time he’d slanted a look over, the little girl was being herded away by a grinning set of parents.

In the two seconds it took to check out their potential audience, his potential partner decided to extricate herself from his hands and Joss wanted to howl.

He felt empty—needed to haul her back against him, but how could he explain that?

“Ah . . .” She stared at him, a rosy blush staining her cheeks.

He figured he could say something to help with the embarrassment he knew she was feeling, but he wasn’t exactly sure what he should say. If he lied and apologized, she’d know. He wasn’t so far gone he’d forgotten about that buzz he’d felt in her brain.

He’d have to be careful here. Very careful.

She continued to stare at him, her head half lowered so that she watched him through her lashes.

“If you’re waiting for me to apologize, we’re probably going to have a problem,” he finally said. “If I said it, I’d be lying. You’d know it.”

She lifted a brow. Simple. Eloquent.

“Have dinner with me.” Screw the case. He was still trying to wrap his head around the mess that Jillian had thrown into his brain, and he could take a few more hours to adjust, right?

“That’s not possible, Mr. . . .”

Shit, what name was he using . . . hell, hopefully if she picked up on any nervousness, she’d relate it to the kiss and the awkwardness of the situation, and
not
realize he’d given her a false name. “Baldwin,” he said, grabbing one of his aliases out of the air. “Why not?”

“I’m spoken for.” She lifted a hand and glanced down at it, scowling at the pale strip on her finger.

He reached out and caught her hand, rubbing his thumb over the area where the ring had rested. He remembered now . . . that odd dream. The vision. Seeing her staring at the ring, snarling like a caged beast as she tore the bit of jewelry from her hand and threw it. Seeing the rage on her face. “He doesn’t make you happy.”

Tugging her closer, he slid his free hand up her arm, cupped her cheek. “He doesn’t even know much about you, does he?” He brushed his thumb across the satin of her skin and thought about kissing her again.

“No. And that’s probably for the best.” She tipped her head back to meet his gaze. “Look, this is all terribly . . . well. It’s quite intriguing, and I wish I’d met you a few years ago, but I’m engaged and that’s all there is to it.”

Joss grinned at her. “Is it?” Dipping his head, he pressed his mouth to hers. “Will you do one thing?”

“What?”

He shuddered as he felt her lips moving against his. “Tell me your name.”

“It’s Dru.” She eased her head back and glanced around, a quick, subtle look. Then she looked back at him, and those pretty green eyes held something of sadness. A flash of something he couldn’t quite read lingered there. “You feel odd to my head . . . it’s almost like you burn. I haven’t met too many who did that.”

She eased back and reached up, touched his cheek. “I really do wish you’d found me before this.”

“I’ll find you again, Dru.”

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s best if you don’t.”

He said nothing. He wasn’t going to argue with her, and he already knew it didn’t matter . . . he could already see it happening.

They’d see each other again, and soon.

As she turned away, he murmured her name to himself.
Dru
. He supposed he hadn’t exactly expected her to be called the same name.

And Dru suited her now.

Simple. Efficient. And if the look in her eyes was any indicator, she was a lot more equipped at taking care of herself than she had been.

He kept his eyes on her narrow back until she was lost among the crowd of people and then he blew out a breath, tipped his head back.

Damn.

“Maybe there’s something to be said for this Magic Kingdom shit, after all.”

*   *   *

S
HE
was on adrenaline overload by the time she made it back to her room.

The flood of memories swimming through her mind weren’t
hers
, but they sure as hell felt like it.

“You’ll come away with me, won’t you?”

A man’s face. Familiar in a way she just couldn’t place. But she knew she knew him.

“Why didn’t I get his name?”

Better off not having it, she tried to tell herself, tried to console herself. But it wasn’t working. Already, she missed him, already she wished she hadn’t told him no. Although wouldn’t
that
have been a lark, having dinner with another man and then having to explain it to Patrick? And he
would
find out. That was just how he was.

Swallowing, she swiped her key card and let herself in, groaning and falling back against the door, sinking down. Her legs felt like Jell-O as she drew them upward, buried her face against them. What had she been thinking, letting him kiss her like that?

Kissing him
back
?

Those eyes of his . . . damn those eyes, they’d all but gutted her. Left her low.

And when he kissed her, she had the strangest sensation he’d kissed her before. Had the strangest sensation he’d touched her before. She didn’t usually like kissing. But his kiss, she could get addicted to it. She could come to crave it.

Sex, yes, she usually liked sex, but she was rather good at using her own body to get what she needed from a man, and her hands, if she had to. Kisses were a different story. Too many men were either too bloody hesitant, or they acted like they were trying to ram their tongues down her throat and choke her. Or they acted like they were a damn vacuum and went about sucking her tongue off.

This man, though . . . he kissed like he was made to do just that.

Sighing, she let herself remember it. A wonderful kiss. She had almost lost herself in it.

Then there were his hands, the way he’d stroked them down her back, how he’d pulled her against him as though he had every right to do so—and it
felt
like he had every right.

Dru had lost her mind. It was as simple as that.

No other reason to explain why she’d risk something so utterly dangerous.

Why she was willing to risk it again. Why she was already craving another touch.

Her sex drive had withered away and died the past year, and it was no wonder, considering what she had plunged herself into, and what she had to live with, but now, it had flared to burning, sultry life.