Vigilante Mine (18 page)

"Amanda?"

She tossed the little business card on the nightstand and pushed herself off the bed. "I was hoping for something later."

"I've got screen time with News 9 later. More work," he added, and Amanda could hear the smile.

Charlie's bar-hopping suggestion would have to do. At least then she wouldn't have to wonder if she could handle stealing a kiss that would subsequently be televised across the state.

"Amanda, my evening appointment's on the other line. I'll see you around eleven for our date."

"What?" She almost dropped the handset. "Ryan, lunch won't
—
"

He hung up.

"Lunch it is." She flung the unresponsive phone onto her sheets and shoved open her bedroom door. "'Evening appointment.' Right. With who? Another skinny little one-night stand with more gold on her fingers than Midas?"

The impulsive spurt of jealousy dissolved into tingles of delight. An opportunity to see Ryan again, another chance to figure him out. Her heart ping-ponged around her ribcage. There was hope for the day yet.

Basking in the glow of anticipation, it took Amanda's brain a moment to realize what was different about her kitchen.

Roses.

A perfect dozen in a ruby shade that defied winter, next to a pristine white box topped with a pair of blood red, spiky high heels.

Klepto's dog slept, out cold on the tile floor between the counter and the island, but he wasn't what curdled the warmth from her phone call in the bottom of her stomach.

She'd danced in those heels.

Klepto had returned in the early morning hours and he'd gone through the shoe rack in her closet. He'd been in her bedroom. While she'd slept.

Amanda shuddered. What had she gotten herself into? She'd locked everything before bed, but her bedroom doorknob hadn't been locked a moment ago. Forcing herself to slide the shoes off the box, she lifted the lid.

A folded piece of beige paper topped a mass of sheer, slinky black fabric
—
more lingerie than dress. The note was handwritten.

"Don't forget to wear the heels," she read aloud, then flipped the note onto the counter. "What kind of sick bastard . . . "

She looked at the sleek dress again and swallowed hard. He expected her to wear it Friday.

Rejection and shock boiled up like a kettle. She shoved the box from the counter and blew out a soundless scream. Fury bled through the shock. Amanda whirled into action, grabbing the shoes and flinging them into the furthest corner of her closet. Determination and more than a little violence bristled through her veins, a pounding drive to hunt him down creeping like red film over her vision as she threw on jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of hardy sneakers. She tied her hair back with a scarf and half-ran to Mrs. Byron's with anger for a coat.

Amanda hadn't felt this much draw to vengeance since she'd woken in the hospital, needles jabbing her limbs and her shoulder feeling as though it'd been shredded. She'd been arrogant to believe she could defend herself against a home invasion. How could she have slept through Klepto's break-in? She ducked into the comforting arms of the neighborhood kitchen nook, needing the sanity. Normal people, normal lives. Life. Not death.

News of more death greeted her as murder scenes continued to unfurl throughout the city.

Listening and breathing through breakfast took the edge off bloodthirsty revenge. Another hour of brisk jogging through clean snow and a stop by an electronics store for a temporary security fixture restored the calm of purpose. She could handle Klepto. She'd handle anything to protect a city from more horror and tragedy, to seek justice for each and every victim. Her line of work danced with the monsters, put the killers behind bars. Accidental, intentional, messy, clinical, icy murders, all of it death, death, more death.

And then justice.

She entered her house to find the dog gone and her back door wide open. First order of business
—
install the new alarm system on that door. Amanda did a sweep of the nooks and crannies before locking up, the front and back doors secure and keyed to blare loudly. She flashed through a blistering shower then dressed with quick, efficient movements. Dreams and desire were in check. Focus ruled. With her heart stonewalled, she couldn't be distracted by emotion or hormones, could simply tackle facts. Like her mother's research and Charlie's intel
—
and the fact Klepto, since she now had his street name, could be in public record. She slid her laptop onto the kitchen counter and booted it up as she brushed out her hair.

What she found surprised her. He'd been a thief, a safe-cracker. A pro with a specialty for high-end merch. Never caught. The last theft attributed to his name came two years prior, with only glimpses of him since.

It made sense; he wouldn't want to be on the radar if he'd started working for the syndicates. Yet, it didn't add up. He'd never gone after the law, sparked a fight, or taken life or limb during his more visible reign. All reports pointed to him having gone out of his way to avoid an assault record. Article after article spoke of Klepto as a non-violent criminal. Not true of the man who'd shot her.

"People change." Amanda brushed aside a flicker of doubt and chewed on her bottom lip as she scrolled for more articles. "Not always for the better."

The screen failed to produce more recent news and she was shuffling through Charlie's hastily copied notes when the honk of a car horn in her driveway signaled a break for lunch. She pulled on a light coat and a pair of cute, button-up suede boots, grateful she hadn't canceled with Ryan. Couldn't consider it a date, not in her current mindset, but the lunch interruption would give her the time she needed to recover objectivity . . . and to breathe.

She glanced back at her rose-free kitchen island before stepping into the snow on her front step. Whoever he had been, Klepto was a changed criminal, a ghost who knew the streets and cut deals with syndicate bosses. Her shoulder was physical proof he'd broken from his former path of non-violence. Far enough to turn a former thief into a cold-blooded killer?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The phone connection
was garbled almost beyond recognition with his modulator, further assured by the work he'd undertaken on the region's cell spots in recent weeks. Interference caused irritation, a slow degeneration, not enough to call out the work trucks and dole out man-hours. Not until it had crumbled too far, and too late. By the time it was determined it wasn't a single affected tower or company, but the bulk of the grid, the whole city would be without cell service. Satellite. Wireless transmission. Anything that opened Relek to the outside world.

No one could be allowed to interfere with the salvation of his city.

Police frequencies, crumbling by the day, had merely been his first step toward communication blackout. Cell service was a button for another hour.

He clicked the volume button on the remote and frowned at the television. The president of some company touting his goodwill and bumping up ratings with his shareholders, no doubt.

Except . . . he wasn't.

The volume went louder and he leaned toward the TV. A planned benefit dinner for the 16th precinct. A direct counterpoint to his own hard work.

No. That would never do.

Money from city-wide businesses and wealthy philanthropists, supporting the very thing he had to eradicate? No, the filth of the city could not be buoyed by the likes of this man.

Without him, without all of them, the money would go uncollected, the quick fix impossible. Damage must remain, a reminder, an example, until his purge had run its course. Only then could the city be rebuilt from the ashes, with sweat and effort, not words and grand gestures.

He grabbed his modulator and dialed the phone. He hadn't figured private industry into his original plans. But he was flexible enough to realize when things had to change for the better. And really, wasn't that what all of this effort was for? He smiled as the phone rang.

"Lieutenant Dale speaking."

"It's good to hear your voice again, Sir," he said.

"You."

"Yes."

"You said you were after elected officials."

"The rot is deep. I gave you the honor of delivering my promise. Instead, I had to do so myself. Time-consuming, but we all make sacrifices." His arm was still sore from the repetitive kickback on the Sigs. A minor irritant. Nothing more. Certainly nothing to dissuade him from seeing this blessed mission to its end. "So you see, Lieutenant, this is your fault."

"You've got every cop in the city after you. We'll stop you."

"No, you won't. But I'd watch those cops closely if I were you. So many are actors. Pawns in a game."

"There are no dirty cops on my payroll." A growl of such certainty.

"You're a fool. Their numbers dwindle, but they remain like weeds." He smiled wider and turned up the volume on the television. "Is it so difficult to believe the syndicate arms stretch so far?" He paused. "Are you tracing this call, Lieutenant?"

"Would you believe me if I said no?"

"Before you head for wherever you think I am, I'll leave you with a final thought."

"What's that?"

"Just as my hand is forced against these syndicate plants, it is forced against those who seek to undo my work. The great mission cannot be stopped by something as paltry as money." He chuckled. What better example to start with than a man who thought to celebrate corruption? His path would not falter, his plans well in motion. "Let them try to undermine my promise. It's already too late."

He hung up and turned off the TV. A calculated risk. His thumb and forefinger pressed together in a pinch, the electrical tape residue from the handset pulling at his skin as he pried them apart. The stinging sensation reminded him of his constant pain. His betrayal. This round required more finesse. Whatever the final outcome, even at the cost of the messenger
—
his own life
—
they'd never stop the rebirth.

Destiny didn't allow failure.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Where are you
, Amanda?
Ryan watched her fingers wander to the glass pane instead of her plate.

Fanciful snowflake etchings on the bistro's enormous windows brought winter ambiance indoors without the chill. They sat high above the city, overlooking the world at a cozy table for two. She may as well have been on the other side of the planet, for all the attention she'd given their date.

"Such intricate work." Her voice slid under his filters like a gentle massage. "They've got an artist on staff."

"The interior panes are interchangeable by the season." He set his fork down and pointed to a hidden slide-hinge on the frame. "In the spring, you'd see blossoms."

"Elegant."

Ryan echoed the word silently. It suited his detective, a lethal grace outside the bounds of high society. She'd donned a tight knit sweater in cream and emerald and dark gray slacks, the deliciously clingy fit emphasizing toned muscles and promising curves. Amanda was quiet, straightforward intensity, coupled with a to-hell-with-social-circles attitude. She'd survived a bullet and faced hardened criminals with a spine of steel. He smiled. The universe had brought this woman into his world and he'd be a fool to deny she belonged. Amanda had claws to fend off those who'd claim otherwise.

Claws she'd turn on him the instant she learned his other identity.

She closed her eyes and long lashes fanned over her cheeks, her face still tilted toward the windows. "Why are you staring at me?"

"I don't know you that well." He shrugged and reached for the crystal water pitcher. "But I'd like to."

"This is just lunch, Ryan." Her arms crossed over generous breasts. "I thought we
—
Are you honestly coming on to me again?"

"Again? I never stopped." Under her sweater was sexy, tantalizing lace
—
he'd bet on it.

Too bad he'd never find out.

Amanda's gaze landed on him, measuring, thoughtful. But so very distant, a glacial wall he hadn't seen even as Klepto. She'd sounded amenable, if nervous, on the phone that morning. What was wrong? What had happened to close her off so thoroughly? He didn't deserve trust, but that didn't stop him from wishing she'd lean on him. Just a little.

Ryan topped off his drink and set the pitcher to the side. It disappeared an instant later, spirited away by attentive wait staff. "Talk to me, Amanda. It's clear something's bothering you."

She let out a long, slow breath, the ice in her eyes wavering so slightly he could have imagined it. "And that bothers you?"

"Sitting across from a beautiful woman, unable to fix what haunts her? Yes. Yes, that bothers me."

There. The corner of her mouth crept up and she lowered her hands to the tablecloth. "Okay, Mr. Fix-it. If you were fired, what's the first thing you'd do?"

He wasn't in danger of a pink slip, but Klepto's syndicate deals could very well pull McLelas Financial into the red. A mistake of such magnitude would destroy them. Ryan locked that mental door. He would not entertain more failure.