Burn for Me: A Hidden Legacy Novel (27 page)

My mom had a very neutral expression on her face. “And he’s unattached?”

“I don’t know, actually. He strikes me as the kind of person who has a very liberal interpretation of that word. Why do you ask?”

“Look outside your window.”

I got up and snuck to the window, trying not to wake Bern. Brilliant red carnations filled the parking lot. Some bright red, some dark, almost purple, they rose from planters—hundreds, no, probably thousands, illuminated by small red lights thrust between the planters, blending together into one giant beautiful carnation flower.

I closed my mouth with a click.

“They arrived around two,” Mom said. “Two trucks with flowers and eight people. Took them almost three hours—they just left a few minutes ago.”

“That’s crazy.” What was he thinking?

“It’s none of my business, but are the two of you involved?”

I spun to her. “No. No, we are not.”

“Does he know that?”

“He knows. I told him specifically not to bring me flowers. That’s why he did it. He probably thought it was funny.”

My mother sighed. “Nevada, even if he got these carnations for a dollar apiece, there are about five thousand of them down there, not including the labor and the time of the night. He must’ve given them enough money to drop everything and do this. That’s not a joke. That’s probably the price of a decent used car.”

“He probably dug it out of his couch.” I pictured Mad Rogan fishing for change in an ultramodern furniture. “I should’ve told him not to give me car parts. He would’ve brought a whole tank just to be contrary. Grandma would’ve loved it.”

“It’s your life,” Mom said. “I just never pictured you with someone like Mad Rogan.”

Oh no, not the unsuitable boyfriend lecture. I winked at her. “Who did you picture me with?”

She frowned, stumped. “I don’t know. Someone tall. Athletic.”

I giggled. “That’s it? That’s all you want from your son-in-law? Because Mad Rogan is tall and athletic.”

My mom waved her hands, flustered. “Someone like us. Normal. Money and magical pedigree, it’s a curse. Trust me on this.”

“Mom, I have no plans on doing anything with Mad Rogan.” I leaned against the window. “He kidnapped me and chained me in his basement. He doesn’t even understand no. The last thing I want to do is get emotionally or sexually involved with him. The man has no brakes, and that kind of power . . . it’s like . . . like . . .”

“A hurricane,” Mother said.

“Yes. Like that. I’m going to mind my p’s and q’s and keep him at arm’s length if I can.”

“What the heck are we going to do with all those carnations?”

“I don’t know.” I grinned. “We’ll figure something out.”

My mother shook her head and left.

I opened the window and looked at the sea of red below. The air smelled like flowers, a delicate but slightly spicy scent promising wondrous things. They were so gorgeous, my carnations. I didn’t know why he’d given them to me. It was probably a trap or some sort of manipulation. Maybe it was an apology. I had no idea, but I was sure that no matter how long I lived, no man would ever give me five thousand carnations again. This was a magical thing that could happen only once, so I stood there, breathed in the scent, and let myself dream.

I
walked into the shark fin building of Montgomery International Investigations armed with my laptop, phone, and Bern. My cousin surveyed the ultramodern lobby as we made our way to the elevator. He didn’t seem impressed.

“Think Mad Rogan will show?” Bern asked.

“I hope so.” I’d texted him before we’d left the house: “I know what Adam’s trying to do. Meet me at MII in Augustine’s office at nine.” He hadn’t replied. We needed Rogan. This was now too big for me and Bern, and I wasn’t sure where Augustine’s loyalties lay. He and Rogan clearly had some sort of problem, but I was sure that Rogan wanted to get his hands on Adam Pierce. For all I knew, Augustine might have been helping Adam and whoever his mysterious backers were the entire time.

The elevator brought us to the seventeenth floor. I checked my phone. Three minutes before nine. When we emerged from the elevator, the receptionist met us at the door and led us down a corridor.

She glanced at me. “I understand you’re working with Mad Rogan.”

“Yes. Did he arrive?”

“Yes, he did. Have you set your affairs in order? You know, in case.”

Bern’s eyes got really big.

“My aunt and uncle run a funeral home,” she said. “Let me know if you need any help. It pays to be prepared. That way you’re not a burden on the family.”

Before I could say anything else, the hallway ended and we stepped into the ice-painted privacy of Augustine’s office. He sat behind his desk, his hair, clothes, and the rest of him impeccably perfect. Mad Rogan was in a chair across from him, drinking coffee. His muscular body was clad in a dark suit that fit him like a glove. Well. They hadn’t ripped each other’s throats out.

I looked around the office.

“What are you looking for?” Augustine asked.

“Blood and severed limbs.”

“What you witnessed last night was personal,” Mad Rogan said. “This is business. We’re remarkably civil when it comes to business.”

“We?”

“The heads and heirs of the Houses,” Mad Rogan said. “Your message made it seem like you’ve had a breakthrough. We both want Adam Pierce, so we’re willing to put our differences aside. Besides, if we were going to brawl, we wouldn’t do it in corporate headquarters.”

“Precisely,” Augustine said. “We observe all necessary formalities before murdering each other.”

Okay then. I put the laptop on the desk and opened it to the picture of Shiva’s third eye. “I think Adam Pierce is planning to destroy Houston.”

It took me about twenty minutes to explain the Great Chicago Fire, Emmens, Shiva, and the legend of his third eye.

“I believe that this amulet wasn’t destroyed. I think it was separated into three pieces, and Adam’s trying to reassemble it. We have a piece, Adam has the piece he retrieved from First National, and there is still a third piece out there somewhere. If I’m right,” I said, “we’re now responsible for this knowledge. I think I’m right. I asked my family to leave town. I also called Professor Itou and suggested that his family leave town as well.”

Augustine sighed. “Ms. Baylor, are you trying to start a panic?”

“No, I’m paying back the man who helped me. I’ve gone with this as far as I can go. I’m at a dead end. If I take this to the authorities—and I have no idea who and where these mysterious authorities are—I probably won’t be believed. The Emmens family, if anyone is still alive, is unlikely to speak to me.” I pushed the laptop toward them. “This is now yours. You’re both Primes. You’re responsible for Houston.”

Rogan and Augustine looked at each other.

“Do you have it on you?” Augustine asked.

Rogan reached into his inner pocket, produced an object wrapped in silk, and passed it to Augustine. Augustine unwrapped the silk and lifted the section of the amulet we’d found. He positioned it in a beam of light, and the quartz stones shone as they caught the sun.

“You’re right,” Augustine murmured. “Considering its worth, it’s probably the real thing.”

“I wouldn’t think quartz was worth that much,” I said.

“It’s not quartz,” Rogan said.

“These are uncut diamonds,” Augustine said. “Excellent quality. Each of these would be about one point seventy-five karats after being cut. I’d estimate a twenty-to thirty-thousand-dollar range per stone.”

There were at least a hundred diamonds. I nearly choked.

“You’re thinking Lenora?” Augustine asked.

Lenora Jordan, Harris County District Attorney? Lenora Jordan, my high school heroine who bound criminals in chains? She would be the only Lenora I knew who was in a position of authority. “Did you mean Lenora Jordan?” I tried to keep excitement out of my voice and failed.

Mad Rogan glanced at me, then looked back at Augustine. “You know her. She’ll take it.”

“If it’s an amplifier, you can’t keep it anyway.” Augustine passed the jeweled piece back to Rogan. “The Houses won’t stand for it. They’ll come for you with pitchforks, tear the artifact from your dead body, and then fight to the death over it. Even you can’t fight all of us.”

Rogan grimaced. “Do you want Emmens or Lenora?”

“Emmens,” Augustine said. “Lenora always disliked you less. Also House Pierce will have to be told.” He looked like he had gulped a mouth full of sour milk. “Ugh. This will be a joyous experience, I’m sure. I’ll also have to put my people onto Pierce.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I thought you tried to avoid dealing with Adam?”

Augustine sighed. “Like you said, I am a Prime of a Houston House. The welfare of the city is my responsibility.”

I looked at Rogan.

“If Adam burns an office building or two, it’s somewhat annoying,” Rogan said. “If he burns downtown or any of the financial centers, the economic impact on the Houses will be enormous. Every major local House and many families from out of state own property in the city. Aside from the immediate financial hit, the blow to the reputation of affected Houses would be catastrophic. Our people, our retainers, would die in huge numbers.”

“Nobody would do business with a House that can’t protect its own employees,” Augustine said.

“If this happens,” Rogan said, “the Houses will look for a scapegoat, and Augustine here was charged with apprehending Adam Pierce.”

“But so is the Houston PD,” Bern said.

“We expect Houston PD to fail,” Augustine said, his voice dry.

“Your record as a top-notch investigative outfit might fool House Pierce, but it wouldn’t stand up to an enraged National Assembly,” Mad Rogan added. “They’ll figure out exactly what Augustine tried to pull, and they’ll tear House Montgomery to pieces.”

Augustine’s face rippled slightly, as if his illusion tried to slide off his features. He bared his teeth. “They’ll try. I’m going after Emmens. We’ll know where the third piece is in twenty-four hours.”

“Have fun.” Rogan rose.

“You too.” Augustine looked at me. “Are you going with him to see Lenora Jordan?”

“Yes,” Rogan and I said at the same time.

“Don’t joke with Lenora, don’t volunteer information, and keep your answers short,” Augustine said. “If you get locked up, you’re responsible for your own bail.”

We exited the building together, Bern, Rogan, and I. Bern and I turned left, Rogan turned right.

“Nevada,” Rogan said. “My car is this way.”

“We’ll follow you.”

“Do you want to meet Lenora?” he asked. “If so, you ride with me.”

I wanted to meet Lenora Jordan. Half of my high school time was spent idolizing her.

“You should go,” Bern said. “I’ll follow you and post bail if I have to.”

Mad Rogan winked at me. Somehow that bastard figured me out and was now dangling Lenora like a carrot on a stick. Must’ve been the way my voice spiked when I said her name.

Control, control . . . I gave Rogan my best business smile and started walking toward him. “Thank you so much for your generous offer.”

Mad Rogan chuckled. A tantalizing, feather-light heat washed over me, dancing on my shoulders, and an exhilarating mixture of warmth and pressure rolled down my neck. I almost jumped. Breath caught in my throat. I quashed the urge to stretch against that phantom touch like a cat.

“Do it again, and I will hurt you.”

The phantom touch slowly melted away and part of me wanted to follow, wherever it was going.

Mad Rogan was walking next to me with that same confident stride that had made me notice him back in the arboretum, and I knew precisely where he was and how much distance separated us. My whole body was focused on him. I wanted him to touch me. I didn’t want him touching me. I was waiting for him to touch me. I didn’t know what the hell I wanted.

“Did you like the carnations?”

I reached into my pocket and handed him a small red card. “Texas Children’s Hospital is grateful to you for your generous donation. Thanks to you, every one of their rooms has beautiful flowers this morning. They think it might be at least partially tax deductible, and if your people talk to their people, the hospital will provide the necessary paperwork.”

Mad Rogan took the card, brushing my hand with his warm, dry fingers. The card shot out of his hand and landed in the nearby trash bin.

My skin tingled where he’d touched me. This was some kind of torture.

A black Audi sat in a parking spot about twenty feet away. A wide, elegant car, it seemed to imply power and quiet aggression. It was the kind of car a rich man would buy when he decided his adolescent-dream Maserati was too flashy.

“Is that an A8 L Security series?” His Range Rover was armored. I seriously doubted the Audi wouldn’t be. Most Houses owned several armored cars. That’s what kept Grandma Frida in business.

“It’s an A8 customized.” Mad Rogan touched the car door and the engine purred in response. “I’ve made some modifications.”

Of course he had. I slid into the leather passenger seat. The cabin was surprisingly roomy, all sophisticated lines and sleek design, clean, elegant, and efficient. Nice.

Rogan pulled out of the parking lot. The car practically glided. The luxury aspect of the car didn’t do that much for me, but the quality was really nice. Grandma once told me that it took almost five hundred man-hours to assemble one of these, and it showed. He drove it well too. No matter what they tell you, a high-performance luxury car didn’t handle like a typical sedan, and an armored luxury car didn’t handle like one either.

“Did you want something more maneuverable for the city?” I asked. Not that there was anything wrong with the Range Rover.

“Yes. You never know, we might encounter squirrels.”

The Audi slid into traffic.

“We should have sex.”

I must’ve misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”

He glanced at me. His blue eyes were warm, as if heated from within. Wow.

“I said, we should have sex. You and me.”

“No.” Alarm made me sit up straighter.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean no. Has it been so long since you heard the word that you might have forgotten what it meant?” Okay, that was probably rude. I had to keep this as professional as possible. Calm, just very calm and firm.

“I’m attracted to you.” His voice was confident and assured, as if this whole conversation was simply a formality and he knew he would win in the end. “I know you’re attracted to me.”

Just had to rub it in, did he?

“We’re both consenting adults. Why wouldn’t we have sex?”

Because you’re dangerous as hell, you scare me, and because it would be mind-blowingly good. Which would mean I would want more and more and I really, really can’t afford to fall in love with you.
“Because we don’t have that kind of relationship.”

“I’m suggesting we change our relationship.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

He glanced at me again, his face slightly wolfish. He was giving me just a hint of that intensity, a tiny glimpse of what it would be like. It was more seductive than Adam stripping completely naked. I had to be careful, so, so careful . . .

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Mad Rogan said.

“I don’t even know you. I don’t trust you.”

“You trusted me with your life just yesterday,” he said.

“We were in a life-threatening situation and it was in your interests to keep me alive. By the same criteria, the men with whom you served trusted you with their lives daily. Did you all have sex as well? It must’ve been an interesting army unit.”

“So you want seduction? Dinners, flowers, gifts?” His voice hinted at a mild disapproval.

“No.”

“Seduction is a game,” Rogan said. “You dazzle, entice, and finally seduce. Both parties know what is happening, but they go through the motions anyway. If you pay enough of the right commodity—attention, flattery, money—you will get the desired result. I thought you were above the game.”

“I don’t want to play the game.”

“You want me, Nevada. You thought about it, you imagined it, and you probably touched yourself while you pictured it.”

Oh my God. He just went there.

“Have sex with me, Nevada. You will enjoy it.”

“Do you know what I want? I want a human connection. I want to be in bed with someone who is worth being with.”

“And I’m not?” A dangerous intensity crept into his voice. I might have pushed things a little too far.

We shot out onto Franklin Street. The rectangular tower of the Harris County Criminal Justice Center loomed on our right. Bridge Park, with its iconic
Riding Cowboy
statue, was on our left. The street was filled with parallel-parked cars. No spots except for the short space between a blue Honda and a red sedan on the opposite side of the street by the park. Rogan couldn’t possibly be aiming for it. We were coming in way too fast. This was an armored vehicle, not a stunt car.

Rogan was looking at me instead of the traffic.

We barreled down the road. The Audi cut into the opposite lane, right in front of a giant pickup. He was still looking at me and not the street.

“Rogan!”

He braked, his gaze on me. Tires squealed as the car’s rear slid. My heart jumped into my throat. The Audi spun 180 degrees, and we skidded into the parking spot inches from either car’s bumper.