The Taken (14 page)

“You’re sweet,” Kit practically sang. She hopped in, and waited until he’d done the same to look over at him. “And I bet you already have a plan for trapping Schmidt.”

“Sure.” He ignored the seat belt.

“See.” She turned to him. “What is it?”

Grif smiled sweetly. “I’m going to use you as bait.”

Chapter Eleven

A
ll Grif wanted was a drink. The headache that’d been dogging him was regaining force, despite the shut-eye he’d managed to squeeze in once he finally convinced Tony to let Kit into the fishbowl. Though that had been another headache altogether.

“C’mon, Tony. She won’t break nothing but your heart,” he said, edging in and putting out the dogs himself. Tony protested, and Kit took it as a compliment, both of which caused Grif to shake his head as he made for his room. The last thing he heard before slamming the bedroom door was her blue-jay voice asking her reluctant host for Internet access.

Of course, he knew why his headache wouldn’t abate. Ol’ Kitty-cat had gut-punched him with the news that he was the prime suspect in Evie’s death. As if anyone who knew him, or them, could think such a thing. At least now he knew why Tony initially asked if he was there to kill him, and why he seemed unsure of Grif still.

Five hours later, zipping down Charleston in Kit’s foreign tin can, Grif had figured a few other things out. Whoever had offed him in the bungalow all those years ago had immediately moved his body and set him up . . . though knowing that didn’t make it any more palatable. He was still dead. So was dear Evie. No wonder Grif’s soul couldn’t move on. No wonder his head pounded like the ocean crested inside of it.

It was only when Kit sighed next to him that he realized she’d silenced the car. Lifting his head, he caught her gazing at a pink neon sign, her face turned up so that her profile damn near glowed. His breath caught, and another pulsing began inside of him, this one lower.

I promise to protect you,
he thought, as if speaking aloud. He watched her chest rise and fall with the breath she was entitled to because she was good and innocent and in his charge.

I won’t allow another woman to die because of me.

It was as if she heard him. Slowly, she turned her head, and the warmth in her eyes was like a spotlight, centered on thoughts so deep and feelings so acute that Grif could almost feel them.

“Frankie’s Tiki Room,” Kit said solemnly. “The only twenty-four-hour tiki bar in the country.”

Grif sighed.

“Nic’s favorite bar.”

Grif canvassed the parking lot for danger, though he relaxed his guard as soon as they entered the bar. The whole joint has been marinated in 120-proof rum.

Lighted blowfish and miniature tiki huts were pinned to a ceiling covered in fishing nets, with a poker-playing tiki god positioned dead-center of the entrance. The bar was directly across from that, wall-to-wall bottles broken up only by a screen at either end, currently showing what looked like old black-and-white Hawaiian porn. To get there, though, you had to cross an expanse of walls made of woven grass mats, bamboo spears, and carved tiki masks. The ceiling was black lava. The music was James Bond.

This was where they were going to celebrate a dead girl’s life?

“Kitty!” A high-pitched voice reached out from the crowded room to grab Kit’s attention. She waved back, and set off in that direction. Edging cautiously around the tiki god, Grif shot the statue and its base of faux flame an uncertain look, and followed Kit to the bamboo bar. Waiting for him was a coterie of women so brightly dressed and painted that they looked like exotic birds tucked into the tropical environment. Grif had to clench his teeth against the racket of their chirping voices until the greetings were over.

“Girls,” Kit said, when the ruckus had died down. “This is Griffin Shaw. Grif, this is Fleur Fontaine, Lil DeVille, Merrily Monroe, and the knocked-up one is Charis.”

Charis gave a little wave, then pointed at a car seat next to her. “This one is mine, too. But I figured out how it’s done now, so there won’t be a third.”

Kit put her arm around Charis’s shoulders and squeezed encouragingly, then turned to Grif. “Along with Nicole Nouveau—whom you knew as Nicole Rockwell—we are the Pretty Kitty Posse.”

The five women beamed. The miniature one in the safety seat—outfitted in a black dress dotted with white skulls—gurgled. Grif frowned. “Don’t any of you have normal names?”

“Just Kit-Kat,” said Lil, flicking a hand Kit’s way before straightening the collar on her blue-and-white sailor’s dress.

“Only because I have to play it straight for the byline,” Kit said, wrinkling her nose like that was a bad thing. It was then that it finally came together for Grif. The girls were corner pieces in a puzzle that set the whole picture to light: the furnishings in Kit’s house, one where Grif felt perfectly at home. Her car, her clothes, her friends and their hairstyles—the likes of which he hadn’t seen since he was alive. Even this place, Grif thought, studying the woven grass-mat walls. It was a modern nod to kitsch, to Vegas’s heyday, to the South Seas and the world war he remembered . . . yet his time wasn’t modern anymore.

“Let me get this straight. You all dress up like you’re from the fifties? You—what’d you call ’em, billies?—live your lives in the past?”

“We live nostalgically,” Merrily corrected. Grif looked at her, eyes catching on a cherry tattoo peeking from the sleeve of her right arm. “It’s fun.”

“Fun,” Grif repeated flatly, pulling his gaze from her inked arm, only to have it fall on Fleur’s, who also had two cherries seared to her arm. They were integrated with a horseshoe, and a row of flaming dice. What the hell?

“It’s not just women,” Fleur said, amusement lacing her tone as she shifted, revealing more ink. A mermaid flicked its blue-green tail Grif’s way. “Plenty of men live the rockabilly lifestyle, too.”

Grif looked around, realizing she was right. There were as many men here as women, all greased and suited up, either playing an electric guitar or dancing to one.

“And it’s not only the fifties,” Kit put in, “though that’s my favorite, too.”

“You just like crinoline,” said Fleur.

“I do,” Kit admitted, with a small shudder. “And the capris, the knit sweaters, the cupcake dresses . . .”

“The boys with pomps and high-waisted jeans,” Charis said dreamily, chucking her baby under her chin. The little girl smiled.

“Nic loved the music,” Kit said. “She always said it was so
alive.
”

They were all silent for a time after that. Grif, feeling the pressure to stave off some serious waterworks, huffed and crossed his arms. “Yeah, but none of you really lived it.” His assertion was met with dumb silence. “I mean, it’s swell that you’d romanticize an entire era, but you don’t know what it was really like.”

“Excuse me,” Fleur said sharply, hands on her hips, “but that’s a straight-razored do, if I’m not mistaken, and I can see the pomade greasing each strand. What brand do you use?”

“Pluko.”

She smirked, red shiny lips twisting knowingly. “That and no other, I bet. And those are vintage Stacy Adams wingtips, am I right?”

Grif looked at his shoes. She was. But Grif was also the original owner.

“Taking the retro-P.I. thing a bit far, aren’t we?” she teased, with a raised brow.

“No such thing,” Kit said, mistakenly thinking Grif needed rescue. “I personally find it a refreshing change from all the greasers and swing kids.”

“So do I,” said a new voice, directly over Grif’s shoulder. The faces of the women in front of him soured and he turned to find a platinum blonde poured into leopard print. Long black lashes winged from doe-soft eyes, and her red lips were cushioned in a pout rather than a sneer.

“Bombshell” was the first word that came to Grif’s mind. “Calculating” was the second. She edged between Fleur and Grif like the giant cat she was fashioned after. “Though I prefer the pinup period. Neo-burlesque is my poison. Perhaps because I do it so well.”

“Grif, this is Layla Love,” Kit said, and though she hadn’t moved an inch, her voice was tighter than it’d been moments before. “Layla, Griffin Shaw.”

Layla’s mouth twitched as she inched closer so that her arm was touching his. “So. I hear you’re Kit’s knight in shining armor. A real hero.”

“Not exactly,” Grif said, taking a full step back. The woman smiled like it was some sort of battle won.

“A protector, though.” She tilted her head, and sent long blond waves swinging. “Like some sort of guardian angel?”

“I wouldn’t say guardian.”

“Good,” she said, and her hand closed over his, and squeezed. “Then Kit won’t mind if I borrow you. I love this song. And I’m always looking for a new partner.”

Layla commandeered the crook of his arm, but Fleur intervened, and her touch—laid over them both—was less gentle. “There aren’t really enough boys to go around, but since my man is busy rocking out, I’ll dance with you, Layla. You know how I love to Lindy.”

Layla edged back toward Grif. “Well, I don’t—”

“And this was Nic’s favorite jive,” Fleur added with a sigh, and even Grif could tell there was nothing Layla could say to that. They turned arm in arm, Layla shooting one final glance at Grif over her bare shoulder, but tension left the bar like a giant exhalation. Charis promptly groaned. “Good Jesus, look what else the cat dragged in.”

“You mean, coughed up,” Merrily muttered into her tiki mug, staring at the entrance like she wanted to open fire.

Before Grif could turn, Kit rose from her barstool, putting a staying hand on his shoulder as she edged around him. “Will you excuse me?”

“Who’s that?” Grif muttered, and this time it was his voice that was tight as he watched Kit approach a man who was tall, well dressed, and so good-looking he was almost pretty.

Merrily read his mind. “Oh, that’s Pretty Paul,” she said, painted mouth curled in distaste.

Charis tsk-ed. “Don’t let Kit hear you say that.”

“Why?” Grif asked, feeling something in his belly grow claws as the two drew close.

“Because digging on him is old sport and she’d rather have moved on to the new.” Charis looked at Grif pointedly, then jerked her head. “Paul Raggio is Kit’s ex-husband.”

Grif did a double take, and the clawed thing in his stomach also grew fangs.

K
it headed toward Paul as if forced at gunpoint. She was annoyed with him for reasons she couldn’t name—even though he’d tried to call her back, and she’d been the one to respond with silence. She was also annoyed with herself for being annoyed. Nothing he did should matter to her anymore. He’d made that clear enough last night. “Hello, Paul. Slumming?”

He didn’t correct her. Instead, he quirked a perfectly waxed brow and dug a deeper hole. “Can we talk outside, Katherine? The colors in this place are making me nauseous.”

His automatic turn toward the door, and unspoken assumption that she’d follow, didn’t endear him to her any further. She planted herself next to a wooden island warrior with far more personality than her ex-husband would ever have. “It’s Nic’s wake, Paul.”

He glanced over at her sharpened tone, caught the way her arms were folded over her chest—let his gaze linger, too, on the flare of her hip—then predictably honed his own voice. “I know. I had to convince Marin to tell me where it was.”

Considering the way Paul and her aunt felt about each other, it
was
a lot of trouble. Kit softened, giving him a short nod. “Well, Nic would have been glad you came.”

“Oh.” Paul’s brows pulled low. “Yeah.”

Kit’s hard exhale hugged a silent curse, and she shook her head and turned away. Paul lunged, his hand tense on her forearm. “Hey,” he said. “You’re the one who wanted my help, remember?”

Yes, she remembered. She remembered begging him to stay with her. She also recalled being left alone to face a night that could easily have been her last. That, she realized, was why she was miffed. He’d walked away again. He’d left her vulnerable. Again.

“Well, I don’t need your help anymore,” she said, surprising them both. She yanked her arm away, but he held on tight. “Grif and I are working on it.”

“Who’s Grif?”

“I am.” The voice rose over her shoulder just as the shadow stretched over Paul. Kit’s back warmed with his body heat, though chills raced over the front of her body—either pleasure at the way he leaned into her or satisfaction at the way Paul straightened. Probably both.

“Griffin Shaw,” she introduced, without looking back. “Paul Raggio. Paul,
this
is Grif.”

Paul spared Grif the same look he gave all her billy boys, offensively dismissive until Grif also placed his hand on Kit’s arm, causing Paul’s to fall away. “Who are you supposed to be?” Paul asked, eyes narrowing at the way Grif tucked Kit close to his side. It felt like she was nesting there. Like she fit, and was safe.

“Whoever she needs me to be.”

Usually Kit would have worked to smooth over the awkward silence, but Paul’s normally placid face had gone puce in the torchlight. His expression also hardened, not dissimilar to a tiki god about to rip the top off of a volcano. But it was Grif who really held her in thrall. His hands were shoved into his pockets, a casualness belied by his wide stance. And he was too still. Like he was waiting. Like he was hunting.

Paul waved Grif away with manicured fingers, and reached around him for Kit again. “Well, can you give us some privacy, please?”