Then he turned the envelope back over and stared at the handwriting. He was willing to bet his almost-mortgage-free house that analysis would show the writing was Leon Roberts’s. If it didn’t, it was because he’d tried to disguise his cursive by using his opposite hand.
The man had been going to Rio directly because he didn’t trust internal channels, not even internal affairs.
And he’d known her life was in danger.
The question, almost as important as what Stan had gotten for the intel . . . was why Stephan Fontaine would need or want to know who Rio was.
Lucan would have let his wolven out to run if he hadn’t needed to keep a set of clothes on himself. As it was, he got through the woods as fast as his two-legged form could take him, even though under his skin, his other side chomped at the proverbial bit to get free and four-paw the ground.
Now was not the time for that.
And that abandoned farmhouse was only a mile or two away.
He was about two hundred yards from the property, scaling a fallen tree in a hurdle, when the scent first reached his nose. Slowing, he had to make sure he was catching it right.
Gasoline. In the middle of the woods?
And it was fresh—accompanied by oil and exhaust. The bouquet of it all was faint, but unmistakable.
Tracking the smell, he changed direction, moving laterally over the acreage to make sure he didn’t catch anyone’s attention—
There it was. Tucked into a thicket of brambles that was so dense, the silver SUV might as well have been covered by a tarp of evergreen vegetation.
Was it possible, he thought as his heart quickened.
“Rio?” he whispered as he closed in on the vehicle.
Circling the tinted windows, he couldn’t see much inside, but it was locked.
Lucan turned and looked through the interlacing branches of the tangle. That farmhouse was just in the distance—but he felt like it was across the country. Surging forward, he all but shot himself out of a cannon as he raced to the back door. But just as he grabbed the knob, he stopped and made sure his instincts weren’t sensing anything.
“Rio,” he said out loud. “It’s me. Don’t shoot.”
Lucan knocked. A couple of times. Called out her name again.
The door squeaked as he opened it, and he spoke up louder as he leaned into the kitchen. “Rio. Don’t shoot.”
His voice echoed around the abandoned rooms.
“Rio?” He stepped in. Closed the door. “It’s me.”
What if she were injured, he thought—
Across the way, the cellar entry opened a crack, and he put his hands in the air. “Just me. No one else—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Rio raced out and threw herself at him. As his arms wrapped around her, he held her so tight, he had to force himself to loosen his grip for fear of crushing her.
“I thought you were going to Caldwell,” he said.
She pulled back. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
When she just shook her head, he felt his fangs tingle. “What’s going on?”
Rio broke away and walked around the fallen plaster pieces, the discarded trash, the broken kitchen chair that was just organized kindling as opposed to anything you could actually sit on.
“It’s not safe for me right now. I came here because I needed a place to think for a minute.”
There was a temptation to get into her mind, to take all of her secrets and consume them because he was impatient and frustrated. But that would be a violation of her, sure as if he touched her when she didn’t want to be or spied on her when she was naked and didn’t know he was there.
It was wholly inappropriate.
“Mozart came after you, didn’t he.” As she looked over at him sharply, he knew he was right. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. But you can’t pretend I didn’t save your life back in that shitty apartment building. It had to be him.”
“He’s a powerful man.”
“What went wrong? I thought you were his second in command.”
“Look, the less you know, the better.” She put her hands up. “And I may not be who you should deal with anymore.”
“But Mickie is dead. So who do I go to?”
“Mozart himself,” she said with a harsh laugh. Then she shook her head. “No, that was a joke. Do not go try to find him—”
“What do you know about the man.”
She didn’t even hesitate. “Nothing. He’s impossible to find, a ghost.”
“No one is that good at cover. No one.”
Rio came back at him, her eyes pleading. “He’ll kill you. That man is a soulless monster.”
He thought of those drawings she’d done of the building and knew the head of the guards was right. They were not mementos of her stay; they were blueprints for an infiltration.
She was using him. And yet . . . her body couldn’t fake arousal.
And was he any better than she was, with all he wasn’t telling her?
“I’m not worried about Mozart, I have some tricks up my sleeve.” Lucan brushed the side of her face. Then he paused as things took on a different intensity. “You know something, I love when you look at me like this.”
“Like how.”
“Like you want me to touch you.”
The next thing he knew, her hands were on his shoulders. And he was leaning into her.
“Rio . . .” There was no time for them. There was no future to be had. All they had was the present. “Rio.”
“Kiss me,” she moaned, like she’d read his mind.
Lucan dropped his head and found her lips like she was the air he needed, the food he craved, the sunlight he could no longer be in. And against his own, her mouth was as hungry as his was, the contact desperate and needy.
Without any rational thought in his head, and every sexual instinct in his body roaring, he maneuvered them over to the door she’d emerged out of.
“Come on,” he said, taking her hand.
As they started down the cellar stairs, he turned back and threw the dead bolt. It wasn’t copper, so it wasn’t going to do shit to keep out any vampires, but at least humans would be denied access.
For as long as it took for an intruder to break down the damn door.