She hoped not, but people were hurrying away, either on their own or with help from bystanders. Percy’s Tensor bandage trailed from his injured hand as he made his way to the other side of the street.
There must have been a lot of noise—cries and shouts and frantic motion. But all Melia thought about was Johnny. All she heard was panic beating its fists in her head. She couldn’t let it out, but it clamored inside and obliterated every other sound.
He was stirring by the time she reached him. Not much, but enough to tell her he wasn’t dead. She collapsed onto her knees beside him. “Don’t move,” she said in a voice so raw from smoke she barely recognized it. “You might have a head injury.”
“Screw that.” Laidlaw plunked himself down with his back to the opposite wall. “His skull’s thicker than these bricks I’m leaning against.”
Johnny pushed upright, despite Melia’s attempts to stop him. He made it to a crouch, then raised his eyes to squint at her. “Are you hurt?”
“Not especially.” Taking his head in her hands, she examined his face. Blackened from smoke in spots, with a scrape across one cheekbone and a small amount of blood at the corner of his mouth, but otherwise, he was all Johnny.
“Thank God,” she breathed. And, leaning in, set her lips on his.
It was knee-jerk—the need to taste the life in him, to be certain she wasn’t dreaming, that he really was alive. That they were both alive.
The fear that continued to ripple through her mind and body slowly subsided. Before she could draw back, Johnny gripped her nape and held her in place for more.
“No way, babe. I’m not missing this golden opportunity.”
He used his tongue to tease, to inject heat directly into her bloodstream. Need spiked, hot and fast. Flames from the past fused with the now and took her on a slow slide to a world she hadn’t expected to visit again.
She’d been waiting for this, too, Melia realized through the lovely haze that enveloped her. Hunger for him shot straight to her belly and spiraled lower. She let him draw her closer, felt the bite in his kiss.
He had a fantastic mouth, always had. Persuasive and arousing, with a hint of excitement. As her fists bunched his T-shirt, he took the kiss deeper and brought a greedy purr to her throat.
Behind them, the shriek of sirens grew to deafening proportions. Feet thumped. A heavy palm landed on Melia’s head. “Knock it off,” Laidlaw growled. He pried them apart. “Time and place, people. We’re about to get foamed.”
Did she care? Well, yes, she did. She had to. People could be hurt. Johnny might still be hurt. And anyone could be watching.
“Our step-cousin story might have to change.” Johnny released her with obvious reluctance. “I hope you have another one ready.”
Removed from the hypnotic effect of his kiss, she pushed on his shoulders. “You shouldn’t have let me do that.” A sigh escaped. “I shouldn’t have let me do that.”
A heavy hose hit the pavement. Fire crackled inside the clinic, but it was the smoke that got her moving. That and Johnny lifting her to her feet.
“Do what you have to do,” he said, and kissed her again before she could stop him.
It took five full seconds for her vision to clear and her brain to settle. She shook herself hard and took a good look around. Laidlaw was right. Time and place. Firefighters had gone into the clinic with foam and water hoses. Catching sight of her elderly patients, dazed, disheveled, and still clutching their balls of yarn, she started toward them.
Halfway there, however, a shadow moved across her path. When the smoke around it cleared, she found herself under intense scrutiny from Cas Travers.
“You kissed the weasel,” he said.
Beneath his obvious puzzlement, she sensed resentment. But she simply nodded. “Yes, I did. I kissed him, and it’s okay. He’s not really my cousin, not even my step-cousin.”
“I wondered about that.” Ethan Travers stepped into her line of sight. Gone was his happy-go-lucky smile. In its place, she saw disappointment and, worse, pain. “What exactly is he to you, Mel? A former lover?”
“In a way.” Time to fess up, she decided. “Johnny Hunt was my husband.”
…
In his head, Ben Satyr replayed the report he’d received from his man in Deception Cove—minus the hawking and spitting, which surely to God, the man didn’t do in public. He had an excellent memory and the ability to freeze frame certain key words and phrases.
Melia had survived the gas and grenade episode. He wasn’t surprised. Johnny-on-the-spot had apparently been just that. Again. No shock, he’d had help from an outside source. Someone named Laidlaw who was an unknown commodity and a royal pain in the ass.
He might have to deal with that, because at some point, Melia Rose needed to die.
The casino was clinking and dinging along, as it always did in the afternoon. Dusty locals liked to drink and gamble. Other regulars, looking somewhat more desperate, headed straight for the back rooms via an inconspicuous entrance.
It disturbed him a little to look over and see Mockerie standing in front of a slot machine, contemplating its colorful facade.
“I swear this thing is smiling at me,” Mockerie remarked before Satyr announced his presence from behind.
Did the bastard have eyes in the back of his fucking head? Satyr shrugged the question aside and joined him. “Must be a psychological trick. These machines are relics from the 1960s. The whole ‘lure ’em in and hook ’em’ deal was really starting to roll back then.”
Mockerie cocked his head. “It’s taunting me.”
“Ignore it.”
“I don’t like being taunted.”
Satyr recognized the tone. Fuck. He motioned one of the cigarette girls over. “Do you want to play a few private rounds of blackjack with Chloe? She’ll take your mind off whatever’s got you looking like you want to destroy one of my best slots.”
Balling his fists, Mockerie punched the machine. Not hard enough to damage it, but with sufficient force to have Chloe taking a hasty step back.
“If you’re annoyed about the situation with Johnny Hunt,” Satyr said, “I’ve got it under control.”
Mockerie balled his fists again and cocked his head the other way. He stared for a moment, then shrugged and turned. “I know.”
Know what? It took Satyr a moment to remember. “Ah, right. About Hunt.” He frowned. “How?”
“Do I know?”
Mockerie smiled, and while a crisis of destruction might have been averted, Satyr felt his own temper beginning to stir.
“I have sources,” Mockerie informed him. “Maybe they’re the same as yours, maybe not.” He fingered the scar on his cheek. “You want to be very careful not to question my decisions. I said I wouldn’t interfere with your plan. That doesn’t mean I’m not interested in the play and, of course, the outcome.”
“Because Hunt works with McCabe?”
Mockerie held fast to his smile, though it looked to be straining at the seams. “McCabe and I have a history. We go back. Further than you and Johnny Hunt.”
“Johnny and I go back further than you might think, probably ten years, all told. We spent several months of those ten years living together in hell. Timelines lengthen exponentially under circumstances like the ones we faced.”
“He got an early reprieve.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t.”
Satyr breathed through his nose. The air rushing out felt like fire. “He left me to rot. They both did. Two of them—the guard and another man named Morris—are dead. Not by my hand. Johnny’s all there is, and I want him to pay for what he did to me. And to Julie.”
Mockerie appeared intrigued. “Was what he did done with intent or through fallout?”