The Reunited

THIRTEEN





NOTHING out of place so far.

He was pretty sure Chapman was chasing windmills on this one, but so far, she’d managed to point him in very odd directions that had yielded some disturbing results.

Too bad they’d yet to find any evidence.

Just coincidences.

Tucker Collins couldn’t exactly see the local cops doing shit to Patrick Whitmore based on coincidences. The bastard had deep pockets, and he had more than a few high-society bastards on his payroll, too. Collins had learned that a long time ago.

Granted, he hadn’t thought Whitmore would be doing anything this twisted. Drugs, sure.

But this . . . nah. He hadn’t planned on anything quite this deep. Still, Chapman wasn’t often wrong. And they were friends. He didn’t have too many people he could say that about. He’d hold tight for a little while, see what he could see.

Then he’d—

A woman appeared in his line of vision.

And dayyum.

What a woman.

He snapped a picture of her, although he wasn’t here to troll for babes. Chapman wanted him to watch for the mark, and that’s what he’d do.

Although this woman . . . man. She was practically a piece of art, strutting down the road, a little purse hooked over her arm, her ass swinging with each step, long legs, a pair of f*ck-me shoes, that short little skirt . . .

Just looking at her made him itch. He wanted to keep on looking, just enjoy that view for as long as he could.

But he was here to work the job. And the jobs Chapman called him for were always the weird kind. That meant he had to to keep his eyes open . . . and not on that gorgeous woman . . .

* * *

HER name was Nalini. At least, that was what she usually went by. It wasn’t a name she gave out easily. Honestly, she preferred not to give it out at all, but there were certain people who did need to know her real name.

When she didn’t need to give a real name, she had a handful of fakes she gave out that were close enough. Nala. Lini. Nali.

The names varied, along with her appearance.

Lately, she’d decided to let her hair go back to her natural pale blond, just a few shades darker than platinum. There was nothing normal about the style she’d gone for, though. As if the unusually pale locks weren’t odd enough, she’d let her hair grow long, and it grew fast.

A while back, she’d had the odd urge to do the thick mess into dreadlocks. And that had been a nightmare. The initial process hadn’t been too bad. One day, and several long, tedious hours with her ass stuck in a chair while a woman who must have excelled in torture back-combed, twisted, and teased Nalini’s hair into submission.

But the time after it? That was the pain in the ass.

There had been days when she wanted to just cut them off. White women just weren’t the ideal specimen for dreads, she knew.

But the effect was stunning, and she was either honest enough, or vain enough, to admit it. When she looked into the mirror, the woman looking back at her was stunningly exotic, the long, dense hair falling more than halfway down her back. Her eyes were large, dominating the clean, elegant oval of her face. They had a faint, upward tilted slant at the corners, a sharp, clean line echoed in her cheekbones, her jawline. Her mouth was full, and although she rarely bothered with much makeup, she had a fondness for deep, dark red lipstick. It was stunning against her pale skin, and she liked that a lot.

Before she slid out of her ridiculously priced cabin, she slicked a shade just a bit darker than blood over her lips, paused to study the effect, and smiled.

She was dressed to impress these days, trying to catch the eye of a particular man.

Not that he seemed to be paying much attention.

But he would. He’d notice sooner or later.

It was, after all, why Nalini was here.

Grabbing a little purse that echoed the snakeskin design of her skirt, she headed to the door. Her heels clacked on the tile, a sharp, decisive sound.

Maybe it would happen tonight.

But then again, if it didn’t, it didn’t matter.

She had reasons for being here, and in the end, her patience would pay off.

* * *

THE f*cker took forever, Joss thought, brooding as he slumped on the couch.

He’d been out there for more than a few minutes, and Joss knew exactly why he was taking so long—the stream of his thoughts was unending. He could shut that door, but he needed to know what he was dealing with—shutting the door just wasn’t an option.

Yeah, you check those plates, dumb ass, Joss thought sourly. He’d done the same himself and the car tracked back to Mr. Mike Sellers, nice, normal dude who did indeed have himself listed as a computer system tech, freelance. Contract labor. Sellers always paid his bills on time, paid his taxes on time, and had a modest monthly budget that he stuck to without fail.

There was nothing a quick surface look would tell him about Mike Sellers. Joss knew because Taylor had already done one.

Joss muttered to himself as he got up and headed back to the bar. He splashed some more whiskey into his glass and tossed it back. It was smoother than he was used to and, he had to admit, there just might be something to be said for paying an arm and a leg for the good shit.

Still, he would settle for a bottle of Jack Daniels and he planned on having one after this mess was said and done. Getting shit-faced drunk might dull some of the images in his mind, and as soon as humanly possible, he was going to get resynced so he could strip away this excessive power surge.

He didn’t know how Jillian—

If this goes well—

The thoughts in the man’s mind came to a halt. Joss stiffened as he felt the predatory surge of interest and he closed his eyes, focused, concentrated. The man had seen something—no, somebody.

A woman.

Walking down the long, winding road, swinging a little purse, swinging her ass, every move a physical seduction. She was almost even with the monster standing outside Joss’s cabin, and something about her face was familiar . . . the hair was wrong. Long and blond, hanging in a thick fall down her back, but those eyes.

Yeah. Familiar.

She glanced over, like she’d just noticed the man watching her.

Joss hissed out a breath.

The slow curl of her lips, those wide, dark eyes.

Then she winked.

He growled and pushed out with that gift.

But all he could touch were the same minds he’d felt earlier. All those open, vulnerable minds. Not hers. Hers wasn’t open, wasn’t vulnerable.

As the woman continued walking, strutting with every step, Joss closed his eyes.

“What in the . . .”

Then he groaned.

He had the weirdest damn feeling that wink had been meant for him. As though she was aware of him, although that shouldn’t be possible.

“Shit, isn’t this job complicated enough?”

There was no time even to contemplate the complications, though, because his visitor decided he’d waited long enough. Joss felt him moving closer—literally felt it, like the guy’s very brain waves grew in frequency or something. No. Like a radio was moving closer to him.

How in the hell did Jillian manage to function like this?

He shoved it out of his mind and did one last mental exercise to calm himself—blue seas, unfurling out before him, the sun sinking down to meet the horizon. At his back were mountains and there was nobody around . . .

The knock came. It was polite. Firm.

Joss felt it to the very essence of his soul, and with it, he felt the man’s evil.

Wiping his emotions from his face, he shored up his shields. Modify the f*cking door . . . let me see what I need to see, he thought. If Jillian’s power was that strong, he should be able to control something of what he was taking in.

He didn’t want a damned window into this man’s soul.

Crossing the floor, he opened the door, ready to face the devil.

* * *

THE towering, broad man was a little rougher than Patrick would have thought. He’d been told the man was big. And he was. Possibly six and half feet. Dark hair and dark eyes, very intense eyes, Patrick thought. He’d catch attention . . . catch notice. With those dark eyes set under the thick slashes of his eyebrows, a hard, unsmiling face. Yes, if Patrick saw him on the street, he’d remember him. Remember him and go the other way.

He’d gotten where he was by avoiding trouble.

This man . . . he looked like trouble.

But still, he’d come highly recommended. Patrick couldn’t say he trusted the men who’d offered the recommendations, but he could say he knew those men wouldn’t willingly f*ck him over. Not because they feared Patrick . . . they moved in the same waters and it was just bad form.

So he’d withhold judgment for now.

For the past twenty seconds, they’d just stood there, assessing one another, and it was past time to be done with that. Patrick lifted a brow and cocked his head, waiting for the man he knew only as Mike to invite him in.

“Hey.”

That was it. The man continued to stand there, arms crossed over that brawny chest so that the muscles of his biceps bulged out. Those piercing eyes studied Patrick’s face as though he was copying it to memory. I don’t think this is what I’m in the market for, Patrick thought.

Still, his deadline was looming close, and he wasn’t going to be able to get the goods he needed on his own, not with everything else he had on his plate. He had a few others who managed to snag a choice piece every now and then, but he didn’t want to rely on luck. Not now. He needed skill.

“Interested in a job?” he said mildly, putting the first part of the pass code out there.

The man’s mouth tugged up a bit at the corner, just the faintest bit of a smile. “Jobs are always nice. Especially in the current economy.”

“Having the right kind of work is nice, too. It doesn’t matter what the economy is—if you’re not the right man for the work, it just leads to trouble.”

“Trouble is never good.” He moved off to the side, the invitation to enter clear. Dark eyes glinted in challenge as he said the required response.

Well, that was all said and done.

“I assume you can meet my fee?”

Patrick inclined his head. “Of course.” He really hated it when people put money out there so openly. “Shall we discuss this inside?”

* * *

THREE women.

All taken within the next two weeks.

One white, one mixed, one Hispanic. Very exacting details. Joss kept his hands linked together loosely between his knees as he sat on the couch, studying the neat little note cards in front of him. The blond f*ck had laid them out in a nice, straight row as he explained the merchandise he needed to procure in a timely fashion.

Merchandise.

Like he was shopping for a new set of dishes.

Pretty women. Unharmed. Delivered in time to be prepared for their . . . big event.

“This is your only chance to get this job right, and your only chance to get in on a very lucrative project,” the man said as Joss lifted one card and studied all the notes made. “Get it right, and I’ll make you a rich man. Get it wrong . . .” He let the words trail off, smiling a little.

Joss figured he was supposed to be suitably threatened there. He grunted and read the final few details on the card. Blond. Slender. Elegant. Porcelain complexion—no tanning bed beauties, please. “‘Tanning bed beauties’?”

“My client has specific requests.”

“I see that.” He eyed the next card. Light-skinned biracial woman. Light-skinned. Sons of bitches. The third was to be a Latina, slightly plump with long black hair.

Tossing the cards down on the table, Joss said, “Three weeks is a very short amount of time for such a big job.”

The answers were there . . . right there, on the surface of the man’s brain, but even that light touch flooded Joss with thoughts and memories he just couldn’t stand. He made himself do it anyway, keeping his face expressionless as he grabbed the information he needed. He was too rough—watched as the man went white, his eyes tightening around the corners, eyes clouding from the pain.

Patrick . . . his name was Patrick . . .

The second Joss pulled back, Patrick shook it off. He frowned, absently reaching up to rub his temple.

Pretending not to notice, Joss said, “So what happens if I don’t succeed?”

“You don’t want to know that.” Patrick smoothed his tie down. “Succeed and your life will be much easier.”

“I take it the last broker you had didn’t do a smashing job.”

“Perhaps he asked too many questions,” Patrick said.

Joss snorted. “Well, I haven’t accepted the job yet. And I need to understand the . . . situation, seeing as how I’m running on a very tight timetable. Knowledge is power, you know? And I can’t do my job if I’m handicapped.”

“You’ll accept the job,” Patrick said, his tone bored. “And you can do it in three weeks. You’re a resourceful man, I’ve heard.”

Resourceful.

Yeah. Joss was a resourceful man. He had a modern-day slaver tied up in one closet, and another one sitting in front of him, and he was doing his damnedest to figure out the best way to kill them both without getting caught, without having his boss find out . . . and even if he could do that, he still needed a few days to track down his lady before he got yanked off onto another assignment.

If he was a resourceful man, it should be a piece of cake.

* * *

ONCE Whitmore drove away, Tucker relaxed a little. Job done. He assumed.

Although what Chapman thought he would accomplish out here, he didn’t know. But she was running this show. Out of curiosity more than anything else, he continued to study the cabin.

Instinct didn’t let him go any closer. He knew that much without lowering his shields at all.

Trouble lay inside that cabin, and he wasn’t getting paid to get in trouble. Shit, he wasn’t getting paid to do anything. He was just helping Dru because he’d realized she was in over her head and she was one of the few people he called friend. He’d rather not lose her. That was a thought that left a weird little ache inside.

Lingering in the shadows, he continued to watch the cabin.

It was quiet.

Damn quiet.

Sighing, he settled down. He could head home, he knew. He’d done his part.

But he wasn’t quite ready to do that yet.

* * *

DRU wished she hadn’t destroyed the phone.

Lying in the bed, she wished she had a way to contact Tucker, but it would be tomorrow before she dared. If she hadn’t destroyed . . .

Bugger all.

She was so tired, her mind frayed out and stretched thin. She wasn’t thinking. She’d been shattered from everything that had happened that day, from the odd man she’d met, her reaction to him . . . both when he kissed her, and when she’d thought of him as Patrick was there. All of it left her not thinking well.

There had been no reason to dispose of the phone so hastily.

None.

She could have gotten up for her run early, as she always did, and disposed of it then. But no. She’d panicked.

Had he learned anything?

She wished she had a skill that was a bit more useful, able to reach out and touch his mind. Tucker had a mind that was open to that, when he allowed it. He couldn’t talk back, but if she was telepathic at all, all she would have to do was initiate the contact and they could have a nice little chat, right inside his head.

He’d spent quite a few years hiding from his abilities, a self-defense mechanism more than anything else. And he hid well. She felt nothing from him. Not a burn on her brain like what she’d felt earlier with . . . him. Not a spark of recognition that sometimes passed when she sensed another like her. With Tucker, she felt nothing.

But her gift didn’t work that way. She had no way to contact him that wouldn’t catch attention. Not until she could swipe another phone. She had a few more throwaways stashed, but she had to be careful not to use all of them, and getting one out now was just being silly.

She lay there, in the silence of the room, worrying, brooding.

It was a long, sleepless night. But she’d had a lot of those lately.

* * *

“RUN that by me again.”

If Joss hadn’t been so pissed off, he might have been amused at the tone he heard in Jones’s voice.

“I have a body.” He paused for a count of five and then added, “Relax. I didn’t kill him. I want to, and if you don’t get here soon, I just might let myself. He’s in the trunk of a car that I’m stealing from him. I don’t know what to do with him, but we can’t exactly just let him start making all those free phone calls he’s entitled to.”

Joss believed in rights—he believed in rights even for the guilty—the very f*cking guilty, in this case. But he also knew that if this guy went and lawyered up right now, he’d be making phone calls that would endanger their case . . . and lives.

That was a pickle, he supposed.

One he was glad Jones would have to juggle.

“I’m starting to think you enjoy this,” Taylor muttered. “All of you. Complicating my life has become a pastime in this unit.”

“Nah.”

“If it’s not a pastime, it sure as hell ought to be.”

“Oh, it’s a pastime. But you said has become. It’s more like always been. We love seeing you get a little hot and sweaty and smoothing down those ties you like to wear. I told people that was the one sign you showed when you were getting pissed—you smooth your tie down. Dez used to make you do it three or four times a day.”

Taylor didn’t sound amused as he said, “I’m not smoothing my tie right now. I’m about ready to take it off in preparation to strangle you with it.”

“Nah, you won’t do that. Then you’d have to find somebody else to stick in here, and you can’t exactly stick your lady in here, can you? Call me when you’re ready to meet.” Joss hung up and glanced around. He didn’t see anybody, sense anybody.

It had been a fun thing, rolling the body in a blanket and then lugging it out to the car. If anybody had looked, really looked, they would have figured out what he was moving, but fortunately, nobody had seen.

He was ninety-nine percent certain that no cameras could have caught it, either. He had a few small gadgets on him, but he’d get more sophisticated ones after he hooked up with Jones. His scanner told him there was nothing in the area currently. More than likely, it was correct.

More than likely.

Now he just had to worry about getting out of here without being stopped. Get this bozo to Jones. Get back here. Get some rest. Figure out how he was supposed to pretend to kidnap three girls . . .

Think about her . . .