Lure of the Wicked (20 page)

To show her what he tried to say.

Her heartbeat shuddered in her chest, spiked in her pulse beneath his hands. It echoed the hammer of his own heart, the rush of water in his ears.

Her fingers slid over cheek. Into his hair.

Tightened.

And then she wrenched her face away. “No,” she said. Rough, throaty. She pushed at his shoulders.

He eased back, giving her the space she needed, the room to breathe. His stomach in vicious knots, he watched her as she clambered to her feet, surging past him in a wild scramble of soaked denim. “You have some nerve, slick. I’ll give you that.”

Phin watched that so-practiced mask of hers slide firmly in place. He read it in the line of her shoulders, in the cool, faintly amused cast to her features so at odds with the ravaged color in her cheeks.

Missionary mode.

Slowly he stood. “Oh?”

“You love me?” She snorted, wildly unladylike. Pure Naomi. “Unbelievable. What kind of bullshit blackmail is that? You don’t know me, Phin. You can’t possibly.”

Again, because he didn’t know what else to say, how to frame the concern, the anxiety tightening his throat, he repeated, “Oh?”

She spun, throwing a soaking hand out toward the locker room. “Look at this,” she scoffed. “Look at you! You’re wearing a designer that costs more than I make in a solid year, and you just ruined it without even thinking. This fucking place is so isolated and so exclusive, you’re out of touch with everything.”

Phin stepped out of the shower stall. He blinked away the water that dripped into his eyes. Hard. “You think so?”

Her mouth twisted. “You have a couple of moss lickers for parents, slick.” He flinched. “They haven’t been murdered yet because you live nice and tidy up here where the bad shit doesn’t happen.”

His fists clenched by his sides.

Her jaw tightened. “The only reason you’re all sweet and happy and alive is because you’re
rich.
The Church wants your money, which I’ll bet,” she added scathingly, “you pay with a fucking smile, don’t you?”

“The taxes—”

“Are bullshit hush money.”

“What do you want me to say, Naomi?”

She pulled at her sweater, struggling to peel the sodden wool over her head. She threw it at his feet with a
splat
, jerking her chin up. Her dark hair clung to her lips in damp tendrils.

Phin shook his head. “What are you trying to do?”

She sliced a hand through the air. It flexed the lean, missionary muscle of her arms, bared by the black lace camisole hugging her body. She was gorgeous.

And trying hard to piss him off.

Jesus Christ, it was working.

“Fuck you,” she said softly. Coolly. “Fuck you and your whole puppy love thing. That’s not my problem. Jesus, fuck.” She turned, stalked for the door. “I don’t need your therapy, I don’t need your goddamn massage, yoga,
bullshit
. You’ve been trying to fix me since I got here.”

“You’re at a spa,” Phin pointed out, but his voice lashed. Growled.

Her hand jerked as she reached for the door. Her grip whitened around the handle. “You don’t get it, Phin. Take your family, pack up what you need, and
get out
. As soon as I’ve killed everyone I need to, you can come back and live your pretty little life, and run your rich people spa, and go back to pretending like a fling means more than it does with some airheaded money-bunny who’ll appreciate the lie.”

“I never—”

The look she shot him over her shoulder was so contemptuous, so pitying, that anger surged hot and bright through his vision. “Don’t try. I’ve seen what you’re capable of, and, baby, this is it.”

Fury pounded through his chest. His head. “Is that what you think?” he demanded softly.

Her eyes flickered. “It’s what I know. Get out. I’ll let you know when to collect the bodies.”

She walked out without a backward glance. The door shut behind her; it didn’t creak or clatter, there was no sound but the muted hum of the backup power holding steady. No sound but the echo of her voice.

Her scorn.

Phin stared at the slowly swinging door and told himself it didn’t matter. That she was right. That she’d done him a favor, saved him the time and effort of falling for a woman who would
never
trust him. He didn’t have to tell her about the underground now.

He wouldn’t have to deal with her recriminations. Her accusations.

She’d never believe that he loved her. She’d saved him the heartache.

He was a fucking bad liar.

Chapter Seventeen

“S
orry!” Cally swung out of her way, pressing herself flat to the family wing wall as Naomi barreled past. “Hey, where are you—”

Naomi made a sound. Maybe she didn’t. Her brain screamed, growled a warning, but all she knew was that she swung around, ready to fight. To hurt.

The redhead threw up her hands, fragile ward against Naomi’s wild rage. “Easy,” she said softly, as if talking down a rabid dog. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Her grunted curse raw, Naomi threw her weight against the garage door Phin had shown her earlier and slammed it hard enough behind her that it echoed like a gunshot through the parking garage. Cally’s voice cut off.

Cars lined up in her pulsating vision, sleek and polished and the perfect getaway. Naomi didn’t stop to weigh her options. She didn’t care. Adrenaline battered her system, swirled in her chest until she was gasping for air.

She just needed out. She needed another goddamned gun, she needed—

She needed to escape. Herself. Him. Everything.

Forcing the lock on one of Phin’s gorgeous sports cars was too damn easy. She tore through the echoing vault like a maniac out for blood.

Where the hell could she go?

Naomi’s grip tightened on the wheel as she spun the car wildly around a corner. Drivers blared at her, vehicles swerved to avoid her as she screeched into traffic. Her chest felt too tight, but the speed, the sheer power of the engine beneath her was all that mattered now.

Crying would only make her crash.

And she’d be damned if she died for the idiocy of some asshole of a man.

He loved her. What the hell did he know? He loved an heiress. Fuck him. That’s all she’d done. Sex and love; why the hell did so many people confuse the two?

That was all it was. Just lust.

Something vicious and sharp twisted in her chest.

As if by rote, she found herself on the New Seattle carousel, clouds gathering gray and dark around her. She frowned at the high-tech steering wheel, at the gadgets and buttons that filled almost every inch of the panel.

When the first fat drops of rain splattered the windshield, Naomi jerked. Swore as she nearly slammed the car into a wide, boxy luxury vehicle pacing her in the next lane. Swore again, harder, angrier as white-hot fury bubbled up from deep inside.

Her mother was dead. Killed by some madman out for blood inside Timeless, and now she was dead.

Wasn’t she?

Would it matter?

There wasn’t a word, a description, a feeling strong enough to fill the black, raging emptiness inside her head.

Of course it wouldn’t matter.

Tears gathered, harsh and acidic. They burned, filled the ache in her throat until she thought she’d vomit from the swirl of bile. She swallowed, gritted her teeth. Adjusting her fingers around the steering wheel, she slammed the gas pedal down to the floor.

The coiling highway wrapped around the layered city like a snake, and traffic flowed like water around her. There were no security points to pass from topside to the mid-lows; they didn’t care about the wealthy and bored who wanted to slum for a night.

It was coming the other way that would be a problem.

She’d gun down that issue when she got to it. For now she concentrated on making it to her small, mid-level apartment alive. She managed to do all the right things to get inside, bypass all her own Mission-verified security measures. She didn’t notice. She barely cared.

She stepped around the untidy piles of clothing scattered around the floor, already pulling off the lacy camisole. She kicked off the loathed boots, the slim designer jeans, and concentrated on finding her own clothes to put on.

When she found a pair of shredded denim on the floor, its white threads at the thighs and seat as familiar as breathing, something in her chest loosened. Relaxed.

Suddenly Naomi could breathe again.

Running her hands over the rough nap of the jeans, she focused on the cluttered mess of what had been her home for only the past several years. She didn’t stay here much.

Home was where one slept.

But now it looked old. Barren. The carpet was stained and worn thin in places, the rusted water spots on the ceiling and walls looked like blood soaked into discolored plaster. She twisted her mouth into a semblance of a smile. “Honey, this is all you’ve got,” she said aloud. The sound of her own voice anchored her somewhat.

The past few days had been only a nightmare. Not real. This was real.

Bullets and blood,
that
was real.

That shiny, glittering place towering above the mid-level poverty lines? Sure, it gleamed. Like a diamond, it glittered in the muted sunlight that only barely scraped the streets she knew, and the fuckers topside could keep it.

She had no use for diamonds.

Naomi stepped into the tiny cramped bathroom, so different from the luxurious decadence of Timeless’s beautiful suites. The bolted mirror was mottled with rust and age, but Naomi forced herself to ignore the spots that marred the edges. The orange stains and cracked porcelain that made up her life.

She brushed her hair, pulled it hard into a twisted coil, and frowned at the bandage fraying from her shoulder.

The shoulder that didn’t hurt.

Leaning into the mirror, she studied the faint line that was all that remained of the slash across her nose. Her eyes narrowed.

Her breath shorted.

Tearing off the bandage, she stared at the vaguely mottled strip of flesh where a bullet crease should have been. Her fingers shook as she traced it.

“Shitfucker
,” she breathed, and felt it like a kick to the gut. Like a punch that stole her air. She braced herself on the sink, her forehead meeting the mirror with a solid
thunk
.

The small pain did nothing to ease the slow, creeping onslaught of fear.

People didn’t heal like that. Medicine couldn’t take away a bullet crease as if it had only been a love tap.

Magic could.

Witches
could.

Witches everywhere. The whole fucking family? Just one? “Jesus bastard Christ!”

She launched herself into motion. Adrenaline spiked hard, jerked a knot in her chest so sharp, she almost doubled over from it. She couldn’t afford to do that.

Couldn’t take the time to think about this.

Joe Carson, first. Then. . .

Then she’d turn in the Clarkes. Them and the witches they were so obviously colluding with.

“I warned you,” she whispered, kneeling to retrieve her favorite gun from beneath the mattress. “I told you what I do.” The Colt was larger than Mission standard, but by God, it’d blow a hole in anyone stupid enough to get in her way.

She wiped at her cheek, scowled when her hand came away damp. Damn it, she wasn’t crying. Not for witches.

Not for Phin.

“I
demand to know exactly what is going on here.” Michael Rook’s voice rose above the others, a cacophony of discord and questions and attitude that battered at Phin’s calm like a hurricane. The lobby echoed, music and fountain drowned out under the chaos of raised voices.

He spread his hands. “I’m so sorry,” he said, not for the first, second, even seventeenth time. “I understand how problematic this is for you all, but we will get you to where you need to be.”

“I need to be here,” wailed Jordana, her hair a tumbled mass of curls around her shoulders. “What if Katie comes back looking for me?”

The gaunt man waved that away. “She’s a hell of a lot smarter than you are. She’ll be fine.”

Jordana sucked in a breath. “You—”

“For the love of God, shut her up.” One of Timeless’s more reclusive guests, Grace Latterby looked frumpy and worn out. She had arrived frumpy and even more worn out, but as the forty-six-year-old owner and head of a multibillion-dollar importing company, she had that right.

She had also demanded exclusive privacy, complete seclusion, and to be left the hell alone.

Today he’d broken all of those demands.

Phin rubbed at his forehead.

“Everyone, please remain calm.” Lillian stepped into the crowd, as stern as anything he’d ever seen. Her voice didn’t rise, it simply pitched, carried in a way that commanded attention. Brought authority. “Ladies and gentlemen, we sincerely apologize for this inconvenience, but understand we are closing Timeless for your own safety. Until we can locate the problem—”

“The
problem
is your staff, clearly,” Rook blustered. “You’re too easy on them! They get the run of the place, get sloppy.”

Murmurs of agreement made Phin want to climb outside his own skin for just the second it’d take to punch the man in the mouth.

“We are already aware of the cause, Mr. Rook,” Lillian said firmly. “Now we just need to find it. Until then, we have no intentions of risking anyone else’s safety.”

It was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

As the guests filed out and staff carried their baggage with them, Phin leaned against the lobby desk and watched the world crumble to pieces at his feet.

He saw the same tired smudge of certainty around Lillian’s eyes, in the line of her mouth.

Still, as she crossed the marble floor to lean against the desk beside him, she smiled. “Abigail will recover, in time. The accidents weren’t fatal.”

“They weren’t accidents, either.” A flicker in her eyes told him she’d thought the very same thing. Phin rubbed his face with both hands. It didn’t help the exhaustion thick in his head. “Timeless is finished.”

Lillian glanced at him, tilting her head. “Maybe. But if so, we’ll rebuild. Somewhere else, something else. We’ll manage.”

“Unbelievable.” He rested his elbows back on the desk and let his head hang back. He closed his eyes. “Absolutely unbelievable. Timeless has been around for so long, and then one person can take it down? Just one. And it ruins so many lives.”

“Phin,” Lillian said softly, sympathy and reassurance shining from the single word.

“What are we going to do about the staff? We can’t employ them all to do nothing.” He straightened. “And the accused we send to safety? Where will they go now? How many will be caught, executed by the Church without us to keep them safe?”

“Phin, love.”

“It’s not fair,” he snapped. Knowing it for the petulant rant it was, he knuckled his forehead, sucked in a deep breath, and repeated quietly, “It’s just not fair to any of them. Or us.”

Lillian slid her arms around his shoulders. “Come here, baby.” Despite his taller height, he hunched, allowing himself to rest his head against her chest, her heartbeat.

His fingers twined together, arms around his mother’s back, and for a single, perfect moment, everything was all right. Her pulse beat strongly in his ear, her warmth seeped into the cold fear that gripped him, strangled him.

Her nonsensical soothing sounds of love and reassurance eased the bitter sting of Naomi’s wild accusations from his mind.

“Mother,” he said against her shoulder.

“Mmm?”

“I want you both to go pack and get out somewhere safe. Go visit someone.”

Her chuckle thrummed through his head. He straightened, frowned down at her beloved face as she shook her head. “You know we won’t do that.”

“This Carson guy is dangerous. Naomi wasn’t making that up, Mother. You said it yourself! Two people are dead.” Phin shifted, gripped her shoulders. “I don’t know what I’d do if you get hurt. You have to go. Please.”

Long fingers smoothed over his cheek. “We’re a family, Phin. We’re strongest when we’re together.”

“But I—”

The lobby doors swung open. Michael Rook strode back inside, his tall, gaunt figure vibrating with thinly leashed self-righteousness. Clearly the leader of his own little protest, he led Jordana back inside. She sashayed with intent, her mouth set in a purposeful pout.

“Oh, God.” Phin sighed and stepped away from the desk to catch them before they crossed the lobby. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t up for debate.”

Behind them, Joel hurried back after them. His fingers curled, palm to palm, throttling thin air in sheer frustration.

Rook didn’t stop. “No, you know what? We paid for our time and we intend to get it, one way or another. Now I suggest you contact whatever fancy-pants lawyer you’ve got tucked away—”

The power flickered.

Everyone paused. Frozen like a tableau of surprise, sudden panic. The doors in the lobby slid closed, and Jordana jumped, muffling a scream.

“Delayed response,” the thin man informed her irritably. “Get ahold of yourself.”

She flushed, and Phin couldn’t help himself from redirecting Rook’s attention back to him. “Excuse me,” he said firmly. “We do have the right to refuse service to anyone, and we’re obligated to enforce that right when the safety of clients is in danger.”

“Given the extravagant fees you charge here—”

The first slam, the first screech and slide of metal on metal seemed too surreal. Rook stopped speaking, frowning as if he wasn’t sure what he heard.

Clang
.
Creeeaaak
. . .
clang
.

Phin knew. He knew exactly what was happening as one by one, the vast windows of the lobby blanked out beneath a sheet of reinforced metal.

Lillian moved first. “Everyone, group together.”

Phin spun around, dove for the comm on the desk. Behind him, Jordana’s voice rose on a terrified wail. Rook snapped at her to shut up.

He dialed security, clenching his teeth on an angry, fearful curse as he waited. And waited.

“Get them to the lounge,” he yelled over his shoulder, and sprinted for the interior double doors. As daylight turned into false night, as the power flickered around them, Phin prayed that this would end without bloodshed.

That whatever the ghost wanted, he could give.

If not, they were trapped inside the fortifications they’d had installed specifically for future disasters. They were locked down, sealed tight.

Trapped with a man who didn’t mind killing to get his way. Two people dead.

His jaw clenched.

As he sprinted for the staff hallway, the intercom crackled to life. “Good afternoon. As you may have noticed, security measures have now locked you all inside this building.”