The Reunited

EIGHTEEN





ALL day, he hovered just outside her mind, never once trying to push inside, but just . . . letting her know he was there.

Dru could feel the soft, patient warmth of his presence, but she couldn’t do it right now.

Couldn’t risk it, not with the day she had laid out before her.

Soon, she’d have to do the stupid-ass party, but more important, she’d have a chance to work through Patrick’s social set again. It was there, that connection she needed. She knew it.

She’d find it somehow.

Everything inside her thrummed, hummed, burned. Ready and waiting, aching, just under her skin.

She’d felt like this before, more than once.

Just before a job got really hot. And it was about damn time. Which meant it was even more vital that she focus. With her mind carefully, tightly contained, she spent most of the day exercising, then meditating. She took a few minutes to slip out one of the concealed phones, make a call. Be ready—

Before Tucker could ask anything else, she’d hung up. It was harder than normal to dispose of it and in the end, she’d retreated to the bathroom and dismantled it down to bits and pieces, flushing it over a period of thirty minutes. Let the f*cker think she was in there getting sick, she didn’t care.

A long, blistering shower, scrubbing away the very echo of Patrick’s touch. Then a hot soak, to relax, easing the relatively minor aches. She wished she could wipe away the deeper pains as easily, but she couldn’t.

A late lunch of soup and a sandwich, easy, simple food. Although she wasn’t at all hungry, she knew she needed fuel. Needed it to get through this day, to keep her mind sharp.

If she could get her hands on it, she’d be chugging some Red Bull or Monster like a camel at an oasis after a few weeks in the desert, but it wasn’t something kept in the small kitchen here and she wasn’t about to leave the room. She needed all the isolation she could get right now, all the seconds she could eke out of the day to focus her mind. Focus everything.

Soon . . .

She stared at her reflection in the mirror as she carefully applied makeup. As she swept her hair back from her face into a sleek, sophisticated knot. Very soon.

It was the only reason to explain this sense of hyperawareness, she knew.

Something would happen tonight.

Finally . . . something would pop on this damned job.

Soon.

But not soon enough.

* * *

THIS day couldn’t end soon enough.

Joss’s head ached. His lip throbbed. Dru still wasn’t talking to him. And this p-ssy was standing in his way. All Joss wanted to do was knock him out of the way and get this done, but somehow, he didn’t think that would leave a good impression on his “boss.”

“If you deliver damaged goods, the boss is going to have your ass,” the p-ssy said, his weasel-like face twisted in a scowl, his dark, nervous eyes darting all over the place.

That was Joss’s introduction to Whitmore’s team.

“What makes you think I damaged her?” Joss drawled.

“What, you want me to think you hit your face on the door this morning?” The little f*cker sneered at him.

Joss ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth, probing the cut Vaughnne had so kindly given him. Then he smiled. He was fully aware of just what sort of reaction that smile elicited. Getting bloodied didn’t help much, it seemed.

What kind of psycho did they find us this time?

Inwardly, Joss smirked. Oh, the worst kind. He continued to smile, watched as a shadow moved across the man’s face. Something about that face bothered him, but Joss couldn’t quite place it. Didn’t know what about him was so familiar.

Then the guy started to shift his hand to his waist.

I’ve got him going for the gun already. It wasn’t a record, but it was pretty damn close.

Joss dropped his gaze to the hand inching closer to the weapon he carried, still smiling.

If he drew it, they could have problems. But Joss was close, the man was nervous, and Joss was going to bet he could stop the guy without relying on any firepower but his fists.

“You really want to have that talk with your boss and explain why I had to beat the shit out of you when you pulled your gun all because you didn’t like my face?” Joss asked, keeping his voice polite and friendly.

He figured it might be the best approach after all, since he’d already made the guy dislike him on sight.

The bastard curled his lip and lowered his hand. “Like you could. Keep it together.” He paused and then added, “Or maybe you shouldn’t. I’d like to see you go the way of the last one.”

Joss saw it play out through the man’s mind. He didn’t know what bothered him more . . . the spray of blood as his apparent predecessor became gator bait or the way this f*cker had enjoyed it.

F*ck him. Joss wanted to beat that smile off his face, but it wasn’t an option right now. Maybe not ever. The job. Focus on the job.

Shifting his attention away, he looked at the gate. “Am I going in or not?”

There was no question of whether he was in the right place.

They waved him in and he followed along behind the three-wheeler that had come up out of the dense, heavy growth of green. Lots of places to hide shit here, he thought.

Lots of places to hide those bodies . . .

A scream rang through his mind on the tail end of that thought.

Nobody else heard the scream. Nobody else heard the woman begging for help.

But he sensed Vaughnne’s discomfort, heard her ragged intake of breath, sensed the disquiet of her mind behind her shields.

You okay?

I’m fine, she assured him, but her mental voice was hard and tight. Shut it down. Dunno if any of these people are sensitives.

Well, she didn’t know that. But he had a pretty good feeling. They weren’t. He would have already picked up on that. Besides, the rampant pain, fear, and death here wouldn’t work very well for anybody who tried to linger in this place, he knew.

There were plenty of psychics, plenty of sensitives who weren’t decent people, plenty who did ugly, awful things, and he knew that, too.

But the ghosts here . . . they’d drive somebody insane. And an insane person wouldn’t last long in this place. Not working for Whitmore. He wanted them without morals, without compassion, but clear minded as hell.

Another ghost sobbed in the back of his mind, broken and desperate, and he edged up another layer to his shields. This place was . . . hell, he realized.

Hell on earth.

Goose bumps danced along his flesh, and even in the sweltering heat, he felt oddly cool. Behind those solid shields, he heard endless, broken sighs. Quiet sobs. And screams . . . broken, tortured wails.

The cries of the dead.

This wasn’t the place Dez had been.

It was worse.

Joss didn’t want to know how many people had died here.

It was going to be an experience trying to work in there, find what he needed to find, without dropping the shields so much that he went stark raving mad. He could cut himself away from the ghosts, and he knew he handled their presence, for the short term, better than Dez did. Not dealing wasn’t good in the long run, but since he didn’t have to have these gifts for the long haul, he wasn’t worried about it.

A shrink would have a field day with him.

Reaching out to those voices, he did what he could to ease them, although he doubted it would do much good. I’ll do what I can, I swear.

He wasn’t Dez . . . he didn’t have her heart, or her compassion. But he’d find a way to help these troubled souls . . . because he was damned good at putting killers away. That’s what the lost wanted. Justice. Peace.

Once he did that, it would be safe and he could step aside. Dez could come in and clean house. He’d take his vacation . . . and find his woman.

* * *

DRU stared at her reflection.

The cocktail dress was ivory silk, and it glowed against her skin. The one-shouldered design did a stunning job of highlighting her figure without making her look completely flat-chested. It had a jeweled clip on her left shoulder, and she suspected the sparklies there were real diamonds. Her monstrous fiancé just wouldn’t go for anything so base as that.

She looked elegant. Classy.

His high-priced whore.

Bracing her hands on the ivory-and-gold marble, she stood there, eyeing her reflection. Preparing herself. Bracing herself. And if she was giving herself another mental pep talk, so what?

This was so much more than she’d been prepared for. So much more. So much worse. So damned ugly . . . and the ugliness had seeped inside her, stained her. Changed her.

Ruined me—

“No.” Allowing herself to voice that one thing out loud, she closed her eyes and tried to view this objectively. If it was happening to somebody else . . . how would she feel if a friend was telling her this horrid, awful story?

She felt stained, yes. Changed, no doubt about it.

But she wasn’t ruined . . . unless she let that happen. And if she managed to do what she’d set out to do . . . stop this? Stop him? Then it was all worth it . . . every bit of pain, of shame, was worth it, to stop the death, the misery. To stop a monster.

She’d see this through.

Then she’d get away.

You have to get away.

Don’t let him take you away again . . .

The ghostly echo of the dream danced through her mind.

Odd that it was the very thing to give her strength. But it did. In her mind’s eye, she saw him. Joss . . . his name was Joss, and somehow, they mattered to each other. She’d get through this, because she had to find him. Had to understand what they were, who they had been . . . who they were meant to be.

She’d get through this because the scum that was Patrick Whitmore didn’t deserve to draw another breath.

Because those girls deserved freedom, and the dead deserved justice.

Resolved, she lifted her head and stared at her reflection. Pale green eyes glittered and color flooded her cheeks. She studied her reflection one more time. The makeup was understated. Elegant.

And wrong.

She needed to feel like herself. Not even time to start from scratch, but she could do something. Darken the eye shadow . . . yes, that helped. She removed the lip dye she’d chosen and went for a darker shade. The softer color she’d had on was definitely an Ella color, but it wasn’t for Dru. Dru wore lush, rich colors. Like this vibrant red. A bit more color on her cheeks.

Instead of the perfume she’d bought for Ella, she used her own. She’d kept some of that stuff from her real life handy, although she hadn’t let herself use it in months. So many months.

Straightening, she studied her reflection, and for the first time in all those months, she felt just a little bit more in control.

It would be coming to a head soon.

Very soon.

In the back of her mind, she felt a soft, warm brush . . . Joss’s presence.

She yearned to let him in, but not yet. Not right now. Couldn’t get rattled when she was due downstairs with Patrick.

The bloody party. She’d go to the bloody party. Mingle. Talk. Laugh and play the good little fiancée. And she’d find what she needed so she could end this.

One last lingering look in the mirror . . . her appearance was just a little off. The dress was right, she knew that. But the makeup, her demeanor . . . it was all Dru.

She was Dru. She’d come here to kick ass. She needed to remember that.

Turning away from the mirror, she moved to the door.

As she opened it, she could hear the soft play of music drifting upward. Her rooms were in the east wing, and as she moved through the house, the music grew louder, but not terribly so. Patrick wouldn’t want people to have to shout to be heard over the music, after all.

At the top of the stairs, she paused, eyeing the man waiting for her. He wore a tux, stretched across his shoulders, fitted to perfection. He wore it well, she knew. Kind of like the way a king cobra wore his skin, she supposed. But that was insulting to the cobra.

Patrick turned his head, smiling at her as she started down the stairs. There was a flicker in his eyes.

She accepted the hand he held out, smiling at him as she felt a rush of . . . disgruntlement. Even as she inwardly laughed, she kept a pleasant smile on her face. Pleasant, working hard to keep it from turning smug. She couldn’t break her cover now, but oh, how she wanted to.

“You look . . . lovely,” he said, pausing as he studied her face.

“Thank you.”

I should win an award for the acting job I’ve done here, she thought as he stroked one finger up her bare arm. “I knew this dress would suit you,” he said softly.

“I’m glad it pleases you.” As she met his gaze, she thought about turning around, grabbing his wrist, and snapping his fingers, one by one.

He studied her face. “Is something troubling you, Ella?”

Cocking her head, she held his gaze. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

His flat blue eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. You just seem . . . never mind.”

One of those random flashes hit her. Too aware . . . That was the problem. She was too aware, and not the blissfully stupid, insipid twit he always saw when he looked at her. Too bad, she thought. She toned it back a little, but she’d be damned if she shoved herself back into that confining little box. It had been choking her . . . killing her.

Don’t let him take you away from me again . . .

She could do this without letting him destroy her.

Mentally squaring her shoulders, she smiled her sweet, docile little smile. “Shall we go, Patrick?”

* * *

“YOU’LL meet a number of business acquaintances here,” Patrick informed her a few moments later. The guests were starting to arrive . . . the party was set to begin at seven. It was 6:58. If she knew a thing about the man at her side, not many guests would even think about arriving before the set time. “Naturally, I’ll be with you much of the time, but occasionally, I won’t be. Please keep in mind who you are.”

What you are.

The flash she heard from him made her want to curl her lip, but Dru nodded soberly. “Of course, Patrick.”

There was music playing in the background, understated and low. Servers were ready with drinks and far too much food. Patrick gestured to one of the servers, and a few seconds later, she had a glass of champagne in her hand. Wonderful . . . just wonderful. She hated the stuff.

“Hmm.” She lifted it to her lips and took a sip. “Lovely, thank you.”

She was saved from having to listen to him say anything else by the arrival of their first guests.

Show time, she thought.

Judging by how tight her skin felt, the way adrenaline crashed inside her . . . how utterly hyper she felt . . .

Soon . . . soon.

Her heart knocked against her ribs. Hard, heavy beats that nearly stole her breath. Must get a grip on this, and soon, she thought, staring into the pale, bubbling liquid in the flute she held.

It wasn’t long before she was surrounded by people, too many of them. There were air kisses to be exchanged, hands to shake. One brave, half-drunk soul actually palmed her ass. Drunken idiot, but harmless. Hopefully Patrick hadn’t seen that.

Random flashes from many of them, but few of them held the blackness she was looking for. Not an innocent lot of people, but nothing she needed. Some of them were cheating on their husbands, their wives. One appeared to be cheating his boss, but that wouldn’t be her concern unless she was hired on for it and how likely was that?

Nearly an hour later, she had a horrid headache and pleaded the need to visit the ladies’ room just to escape.

She didn’t use the one made available to guests, though. She dashed upstairs, bypassing a few people who’d decided to venture up to the second floor—brave souls, those people. She wouldn’t have gone anywhere in this house she wasn’t given outright permission to. Actually, if she didn’t need to be here, she wouldn’t be.

Apparently Patrick was prepared for all eventualities and the other wings were guarded, including the one where her rooms were.

The ugly arse who stood in the middle of the hall was a man she was all too familiar with. His shoulders seemed big enough to blot out the sun, his dark eyes were set under a prominent brow ridge, and his nose looked like it had been broken a good four or five times.

“Hello, Mr. Morris,” she said brightly, smiling at him.

He didn’t smile back.

In fact, she thought he seemed pissed off. Guess he was still put off that she’d lost him on the run the other day. Well, he could get stuffed for all she cared. “I need to use the loo and I wanted a bit of privacy.”

He just stared at her.

She smiled brighter. “The restroom. There are so many people down there.”

Slowly, still watching her with those sullen, angry eyes, he stepped aside.

She moved past him, and although she tried to avoid contact, her arm brushed his as he shifted.

Flash, flash, flash.

Excitement . . . new girl coming . . . can’t touch . . . f*ck, what fun is that . . .

Stupid bitch—

An image of her, with him kneeling over her, his hands around her neck.

Followed by another image. Him, on the ground. Legs broken. Hands and arms broken. And that alligator.

She stumbled a bit, caught herself on one of the lovely antique tables in the hallway, a few feet away from her suite of rooms. Just before he would have touched her . . . deepened that connection. He couldn’t touch her. Not ever. She thought it would drive her insane.

No. No, I won’t let that happen.

She wouldn’t get sick, damn it.

She’d find out who in the hell this new girl was.

Carefully, without looking back, she eased away from the table and carefully walked to her room. Opened the door and slipped inside. Without looking back at Morris, she shut the door.

That wanker.

Both of them. All of them.

As the flash pieced together, bit by bit, Dru set her shoulders.

She was done playing around.

Nobody else.

Nobody. Else.