The Reunited (4 page)

It was a business arrangement, and that had never been in any doubt.

It’s time I found a wife. I believe we suit each other. Neither of us are looking for emotional entanglements, after all.

No. She wasn’t looking for an emotional entanglement. She was looking for a way to ruin his life, but that wasn’t emotional. Or it hadn’t started out that way, at least.

“So, enough with the nerves, right, Ella?” he said, eyeing her narrowly.

“Of course.” She smiled at him over the rim of her glass. “It’s a business arrangement, naturally. But a wedding is an important thing for a woman. Easier said than done, trying to not be nervous. I’ll do better about it, I promise.”

“Glad to hear.” He studied her critically. “Worrying does you no good. It will give you wrinkles.”

Wrinkles—

It was almost laughable. If only that were the worst of her problems.

She had much bigger things to worry about . . . staying alive. Staying two steps ahead of him. Actually, ten would be ideal.

FOUR

"W
E’RE
closing in on what I think may be the core group for a large human trafficking operation.” Special Agent in Charge Taylor Jones sat across from Joss, still wearing a perfectly pressed three-piece suit.

Joss knew enough about clothes to realize it probably cost more than Joss usually spent on clothes in six months. He also knew that the guy had probably been wearing the damn thing all day, but Jones looked like he’d just stepped off the front of a magazine—polished and smooth. That suit might fool a lot of people, just like the impassive face.

Taylor Jones projected the image of a cool, uncaring son of a bitch.

And very often, he was a cool son of a bitch.

Some of the others in the unit thought he had auspicious, lofty desires—maybe political aspirations.

They were wrong, Joss knew.

Taylor’s aspirations were simple and not particularly lofty at all. He wanted to put away the monsters. As many of them as he could. The men and women in his unit were the weapons he used to fight the monsters.

It was something he and Joss had in common; it was one of the reasons they got along well enough. They understood each other.

Normally. Right now, Joss was still pissed off. He’d been looking forward to that downtime. More important, he really hated it when Taylor had him get mind-fucked. It was a brutal, awful experience he’d had to do more than once, and each time, he hoped it was done, even though he knew better.

“Just how large an op?” he asked, snagging a French fry from Dez and popping it into his mouth. He’d polished off his Big Mac and fries on the drive over. He was still hungry.

Dez scowled at him. “Leave my fries alone.”

He winked at her.

“Children, please,” Jones said. He reached down and grabbed a bag, placed it on the table, and pushed it over to Joss. “You’ll end up dead of a coronary, the way you eat, Crawford.”

“Yeah, well, if it happens, just don’t let anybody send flowers . . . I don’t want flowers at my funeral.” He opened the bag and glanced inside. It was another order of fries. “Man, it’s like you read my mind . . . oh, wait, that’s my thing.”

“You’re so juvenile.” Dez glanced at him. “Who did you sync him to for the mind reading? Will it hold?”

“No.”

Joss and Jones spoke at once.

Dez arched a brow.

Jones gestured and remained silent.

“I’ll get overridden. Whoever you want to put in my head, it has to be at the same time. The previous gift will get wiped out—think of me as a computer, sort of. Each time I sync with somebody, whatever gift I had before gets erased. I get rebooted.”

For a second, Dez stared at him, her dark eyes unreadable, and then finally, she shook her head. “Man, that’s gotta really suck. How do you control it, taking it in like that?”

“Well, that’s the cool part.” He grinned at her. “As long as our brave and fearless leader syncs me to somebody with some modicum of control, I take in what they have—again, it’s like my brain is a computer and I just copy the data. If you give me bad data? I’m screwed and I’ve gotta go through the bad data and clean things up before I’m any good, but if you give me solid, good data to work with? Then I’m fine.”

“You mean, as long as you’re hooking up to somebody who’s trained, you’re picking up on their training, too?” She glared at him.

“That’s it in a nutshell.” He shrugged and dragged a French fry through the remaining ketchup, popping it in his mouth. “Before you glare at me, remember . . . if he sticks me with somebody who’s screwed up, I’m screwed up until I get a handle on it.”

Dark memories rolled through him—he’d dealt with that more often than he cared to remember, but rarely had it been at Jones’s hands. It had happened before he realized just what was going on in his head. Jones had been the one to help him get a handle on things.

But he’d been a mess for a while there. A nightmare that he’d rather not have to go through again.

*   *   *

I
T
was nearly eleven before Patrick finally left.

Dru locked the door and stood there, her head pressed against the cool, smooth surface, and took a deep breath in, blew it out. Her mouth hurt from the kiss he’d just given her. Although it hadn’t really been a kiss.

The son of a bitch had bitten her.

One more mental mark. One more thing he would eventually pay for, Dru told herself.

And if she didn’t
need
to finish this job . . . well, she might have put a bullet in his brain before he even made it to the elevator.

But there was the job.

Of course, she’d gotten a good, solid reminder of that right when he’d sunk his teeth into her lip, hard enough to draw blood, hard enough to hurt. She’d felt his pleasure in it—not sexual, precisely. Just a pleasure for causing pain, and then . . .
flash, flash, flash
 . . . she was there. It was like a brilliant whirl of light as the memory transfer took place, all happening in the blink of an eye—too fast for her to process, as the memories burned from his mind into hers.

It lasted microseconds for him—he never even seemed to notice. But for her, it was slow, insidious torture, being trapped in the filth of his mind as her awful gift connected them.

Trapped inside his mind was even worse than suffering his touch; it was an ugly place. Filled with memories and thoughts she’d rather never know.

The chunk of memory had lodged inside her head, rather like a bit of food she hadn’t properly chewed. It sat there, trapped in her mind, choking her and waiting for her to either get it down or die.

She’d deal with it. He wouldn’t do her in as easily as that, the wanker.

First things first, though . . . she dumped the dry red wine she’d poured herself earlier. She hated that fucking shite. Give her a mixed drink, give her a beer, or give her a decent wine that didn’t leave her feeling like her mouth was full of sand and she was fine, but those dry reds that Patrick loved . . . she hated them.

After she’d dumped it down the drain, she rinsed out the sink and the glass then mixed herself a rum and diet, heavy on the rum. As she took a sip, she headed over to the wall, dimmed the light.

Once she’d done that, she made her way back to the door. It wasn’t the most comfortable spot, but if he came back, she’d rather have a warning and all it took was a physical nudge to pull her back. Having the door open at her back would do it.

Stretching out her legs, she grabbed the book she kept on the table nearby. She’d done this more than once. Being prepared just might save her life.

After she’d downed a third of her drink in one swallow, she closed her eyes. And then she opened her mind . . . fell into his, into that little chunk of memory she’d lifted from him. Fell into a nightmare.

*   *   *

“. . . THAT
one should suit him.”

“Awful fucking skinny,” somebody muttered. “Be like boning a damn chicken.”

The girl hovered on the floor, clutching her knees to her chest, as though she could just disappear into the hard slab of concrete under her naked butt. But she couldn’t disappear, and try as she might, she couldn’t shake their notice, either.

Patrick hauled her up, eyeing her critically. “She’s his type. Clean her up. A red dress. It should suit her coloring. We want classy, not one of those whore’s dresses you like.” He tossed the words over his shoulder before looking back at the woman. “You need a shower. You’ll bathe. You’ll wash your hair. You’ll wear the dress.”

And she just nodded.

He smiled at her. Two weeks ago, one of his girls had tried to argue, tried to fight. And all of them had been witness to what happened after. He’d turned her over to his men. By the time they were done, she’d been bleeding. They’d hauled her bleeding, argumentative ass out into the swamps.

She’d made a nice meal for one of the alligators once his men had broken her legs, her hands. She’d been left just outside the fencing, gagged and crippled. He’d watched her struggle for a while, watched as she tried to crawl. She had even managed to drag herself a few dozen yards.

He’d sat in his security room and watched, recording it. It wasn’t that he’d enjoyed watching the woman die, her screams muffled by the gag as the gator tore into her flesh. But they all had to understand how things were done. They were done his way. And only his way.

He’d recorded it, and the women had watched it the next day. A useful training tool for those who’d try to fight.

Rule with an iron fist. It might cost the lives of a few in the end, but most of them got the point early on.

This had been a lesson none here would forget.

Certainly not this lovely piece. He could still see the fear, the lurking horror in her eyes.

Her dark, dazed eyes just stared into his.

“Am I understood?” he asked softly, touching her cheek.

Again, she nodded.

“You’ll have to speak tonight. My buyer likes a woman who can talk. Speak up.”

“Yes.” Tears rolled down her face. “I understand, sir.”

His buyer . . .

The flash of memory ended there.

But it was something. A compound. That was a new thing—Dru hadn’t ever picked up that much from him before. He didn’t own anything in
his
name that could be considered a compound. At least not that she’d been able to unearth. She’d unearthed plenty, too, but that had been a while back, before she went so deep into this lie she lived.

Who knows what he’d obtained in the months since then?

Her contact was always watching, always digging up more, but they had to keep their discussions brief. Until one of them had solid proof, he didn’t tell her anything she didn’t need to know.

A compound. Would have to be big, she knew. Gators. Her belly rebelled as that memory rolled through her. She’d watched . . . aw, hell. Tears stung her eyes. Nausea churned in her belly and horror left her numb. Lifting her hands to her face, she gave herself a minute. Just a minute to mourn, to shudder and cringe. The need to vomit churned through her and she breathed shallowly, waiting for the urge to pass.

This was why she was here.

Why she had to do this.

Even if that was a memory she’d rather never, ever have in her mind, it served to remind her.

Somebody, damn it, somebody had to stop him.

And so far, it seemed that somebody was her.

With trembling hands, she reached for her drink, drained the glass. It didn’t do a damn thing to numb the horror, so she shoved herself upright and lurched her way back over to the bar. More alcohol. That was what she needed, just to think through this.

He’d let that girl get eaten . . . had crippled her. Just so it would happen.

“Fuck
.
”
She groaned, closing her eyes. This was way more than she was capable of handling. She was so far in over her head . . .

I could kill you . . .

Sensation swamped her—

Awful cold closing over her head. Sucking her under. Stealing her away . . . and she welcomed it.

“Not now,” she whispered, pressing a fisted hand to her temple. Mental breakdowns later. Much later.

*   *   *

T
WO
drinks later, Dru stumbled to bed.

She was so bloody tired of all this, her head aching from the stress, body sore, eyes gritty. It wasn’t just the memory flashing, although it hit her hard. It was everything. The constant fear, her anger, the knowledge that it was just a matter of time before she was trapped into marrying that arse . . . it was a no-win situation. She would either find the evidence she needed
before
she married him, or she did it after.

Well, not that it would be a real marriage. After all, she couldn’t exactly enter into a binding contract if she was lying through her teeth about who she was, could she?

Yet another fear she carried. That Patrick would find out who she was . . . really. Oh, the false persona she was operating under was solid. It had been crafted by the best in the business. But all it would take was one person who knew her. One mistake. Anything.

“Anything,” she mumbled.
And I could be the next alligator meal.

Sinking down on the bed, she curled into a ball and hugged her legs to her chest, still wearing her pants and tank top. Lying there in the dark, she closed her eyes and tried not to think. Tried not to think about all the ways this could go wrong. Just one slip-up. One mistake . . .

Sometimes the urge to cry was overwhelming, but she never let the tears break free. The monster who was her
fiancé
had her room bugged. She’d found them all the first day she’d been in there. She was careful to ignore them, but she’d be damned if she showed her weakness in front of them. Snagging a pillow, she buried her face against it and fought to battle back the tears of weariness and frustration.

Soon
, she told herself. It was the mantra that had gotten her through all of this.
Soon
.

Because it was better to sleep angry than scared, she pulled the image of that girl to her mind and let herself think about her.

Sarah.

A runaway.

A girl who had been dead for well over a year, and who,
somehow
, was connected to Patrick.

Just thinking of her, concentrating on the girl’s face was enough to let it happen, and one of the memory connections flared to life . . .

*   *   *

F
LASH,
flash flash . . .

“Please . . . just let me go!”

She huddled in the corner. He ignored the tears on her face as he studied her features. She was younger than some of the women he usually took, but she was too pretty for him
not
to take. “Are you a virgin?”

Her porcelain-pale complexion flushed and she flinched as though he’d struck her, shaking even harder. “Let me go, please,” she pleaded. “My mom, my dad . . . they’ll pay. They have lots of money.”