Inked Magic (45 page)

He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the dead speaker. Inside it were the Taser and duct tape and syringe, ready for tomorrow. He couldn’t give her
up.

They could have argued a hundred times. It wouldn’t have mattered.

He hadn’t even told Kevin his plan because he knew Kevin wouldn’t
go along with it, wouldn’t have anything to do with her until after she was at their special place.

“I’m sorry, Kevin. I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll make it up to you. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

No! This wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know how the police had found the apartment, but it wasn’t his fault.

If anything, it was
her
fault. She was the reason he and Kevin weren’t on their way to New York right
now.

He shivered at the truth of it. It was just like their mother all over again. Everything bad that had ever happened to Kevin and him had been because of
her.

A shuddering breath left him. His nostrils were clogged with snot.

Resolve filled him as he breathed through his mouth. He’d wanted her to remember him after their time together, like all the others before the last one had. But she had to pay for what had happened to Kevin.

His stomach quivered and threatened to flip over as he remembered the way it felt and sounded when a skull started to cave in. But some of the familiar excitement came back, too, when he realized it would make taking her from the fund-raiser easier. If she wasn’t going to remember their time together, then it didn’t matter if she saw his face.

E
taín stepped back, studying the tattoos on Cathal’s forearms. They were mirror images of each other. Perfect. They were more, though she didn’t know what, only that she felt a fierce satisfaction at seeing them on his skin, at his acceptance of them.

It had taken most of the day, with lengthy breaks, not because it had to but because neither of them wanted to leave the apartment. She was grateful for the respite, for the chance to talk, more about music than anything else, and Eamon not at all—something she let slide because she needed a timeout from turmoil before the organized chaos that would define the fund-raiser tomorrow.

“What do you think?” she asked, setting the hand-needle next to
the ink she’d made herself and taking his hands, warmth flowing into her, a mellow tide rather than an electric buzz of desire.

“Worried I’m going to lie?” he asked, fingers tightening on hers so she couldn’t break the contact, ensuring she understood he was making a joke.

“Wouldn’t be much point in it.”

He laughed, attention shifting to his extended arms. “You do beautiful work, Etaín. Seeing them there is going to take some getting used to. But . . . no regrets. Definitely no regrets.”

“I’m glad.” She pulled her hands from his. She’d already gone over aftercare instructions, even though she’d be around to take care of the artwork. It took only a few minutes to cover the fresh tattoos with ointment and bandages. When it was done she wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed him, a long thorough reunion of lips and tongues.

“I’m going to need more of those to make it all better,” he said, voice husky when she lifted her mouth from his.

“I’ll keep that in mind. And I’ll go easy on you tonight.”

His eyes flicked to the bed. “What about going easy on me now?”

“And I thought I was a sex addict.”

He smiled against her mouth. “Like to like.”

She couldn’t bring herself to ruin the moment by telling him that’s how it was with Eamon. She would. The subject couldn’t be avoided much longer.

“Shelter next,” she said. “I’ve got to make sure everything’s set for tomorrow. Then I can crawl in bed and stay there until morning.”

“Stay at my place tonight?”

It made sense. “Yes.”

Her phone rang before they were ready to leave. Relief hit her when she saw Trent’s number in the display.

“Tell me you’re calling to say you got him,” she said instead of hello.

“I take it you don’t watch TV or listen to the radio much.”

“I don’t. Bad habit.” Left over from those years with her mother, when it seemed nothing going on in the world around them mattered.

“He’s dead,” Trent said. “Tried his best to take the SWAT team with him but no one else was hurt. Sick pervert had pictures in his bedroom, enough evidence to have put him on death row even if we never find the place where he took his victims.”

She heard Parker’s voice in the background and stiffened. “Be right there,” Trent said, obviously talking to her brother.

“Gotta go,” he said to her. “Press conference is about to start. Get to a TV or turn on the radio. This is important, Etaín.”

She put the phone in her jacket pocket. “That was one of the taskforce members. Turn on the TV. The Harlequin Rapist is dead.”

They settled on her couch and watched as the taskforce members filed into a room filled with reporters. She steeled herself against feeling anything at seeing Parker, but couldn’t suppress the ache that came when the captain joined the others.

The press conference went as she expected, with the spokesman claiming a tip had led them to the suspect. He gave minimal details of what they’d found in Kevin Wheat’s apartment, but enough of them so women in the Bay Area could feel safe—at least when it came to this particular predator—and interest in the story would die down as far as the media went.

She tried to stop herself from repeatedly glancing at the captain. It’d been months since they’d talked, and that had ended in a familiar argument about her wasting her talent using skin as a canvas instead of producing work to be sold in galleries.

He didn’t like that she worked in Bryce’s shop. Didn’t like that word got back to him she was often out with musicians. He thought at any minute she was going to spiral downward on drugs because of her choice of friends and profession.

She forced her attention back to the spokesman but he was stepping aside and the captain was taking his place behind the podium. “I’ve been asked to participate in order to clear up the rumor concerning
my daughter’s involvement with the taskforce,” he said, and her heart gave a lurch, knowing her anonymity was about to be stripped away.

“Though Etaín is an artist, and has on occasion worked with the authorities, she was asked to visit Tyra Nelson in the hospital, and the subsequent rumors about it circulated in an effort to draw the Harlequin Rapist out. She fit the profile of the type of woman the taskforce believed he would choose as his next victim. That was the extent of her involvement. It was a long shot, and at no time was she ever in danger, nor did he make an attempt to take her. In the end, it was solid police work and a tip from a citizen that led to his being identified and stopped.”

The captain stepped away from the podium and the spokesman opened the conference to questions. Cathal captured her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “What’s the truth? Did they make you a target? Or are they trying to kill any media interest in you?”

She wanted to believe the captain’s presence and his speech were about deflecting attention, and given the fund-raiser tomorrow, she appreciated it. But . . .

“I don’t know what the truth is,” she said, her thoughts going to Liam’s showing up at the bar, and the fight that ensued when Eamon followed. “Except that I’ve been kept safe.”

A reporter’s question intruded, cutting through the air with a sharp-voiced, “Has a taskforce been formed to deal with last night’s murder of a diplomat’s son and three other boys?”

“I can’t comment on that.”

Another question about Brianna’s rapists came after that one. Cathal rose from the couch and turned off the TV. His back still to her, he asked, “Did you know they’d been killed before the police showed up here?”

“No.”

She went to him, arms going around his waist, cheek rubbing against the solid muscles of his back. “It can’t be undone.”

“I know. I’m not sure I wish it could be even though I’ve been fighting against being like my father and uncle since I was thirteen.”

The same age she’d been when the call to ink had come. “A turning point?”

He laughed but there was no humor in it. “You could call it that.”

“What happened?”

“I fell in love with poker. I played it online some but for the wins to be satisfying, I had to pit myself against people who were
real
to me, not names on a screen. My parents’ house is a couple of blocks away from Uncle Denis’s. The kids in my social network had money, the same as I did. Even at the start, these weren’t low-stakes games, and I had a talent for cards.

“At thirteen, I had a couple hundred grand in winnings. Cash, just sitting around my room. And for a cut, one of the guys my father kept around for protection had fifty or sixty K in jewelry he was converting into cash for me.”

“Your father and uncle knew what you were doing?”

“At the time, I didn’t think so. Looking back, they knew. They just didn’t say anything because letting things play out is how they operate. They wanted to see where I’d go with it. If it would bother me kids might be stealing to cover their losses. And what I’d do when someone gambled big and couldn’t pay up.”

“And that happened?”

“Yes.”

Cathal forced himself to face the memory, knowing if she chose to, she could see it. “There was this one boy who was a degenerate gambler at seventeen. He also played football. He was twice my size. Popular. I extended him credit, a huge line of it. He used it up then told me he wasn’t going to pay and I couldn’t make him.”

Cathal tensed, bracing himself to have her pull away. “He was wrong. I did make him.”

She tightened her arms rather than reject him. “How?”

“Access to guns wasn’t a problem. I can’t remember the first time
my father put one in my hand and let me fire it, that’s how young I must have been. He drew the line at letting me keep one in my room, but it was easy enough to take one of his.

“I waited in the backseat of the kid’s car. He got in and as soon as he started driving, I sat up and put the barrel against his head, then proceeded to convince him he could either pay his debt or live in fear of an injury that might leave him unable to play football if he survived at all. The car smelled like piss and shit by the time I was done talking, that’s how effective I was.”

“Would you have gone through with your threat if he hadn’t paid?”

He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, facing the ugliness. “When I made it, it was real. After I got out of the car and he drove away, I puked.”

“You scared yourself straight.”

“I thought so.”

She bit his shoulder before he could express the doubts he’d experienced as he looked at the drawings, feeding them to the fire one-by-one. “Given no good options,” she said, “you chose the best one and I’m here with you as a result of it. You tried to change the course of something you knew you couldn’t stop, but you weren’t able to. The only innocent victims are Brianna and Caitlyn.”

Turning in her arms he rubbed his nose against hers. “Let’s go away after the fund-raiser. You name the place. Hawaii. Europe. The Caribbean. My treat. We’ll go for a week at least. Stay longer if we decide we want to.”

She was tempted. Beyond tempted.

It wouldn’t be a working vacation. The only skin she’d touch was his and he was safe from her gift. Her
changing
gift.

She sighed, finally confronting what she hadn’t been willing to for most of the day. She closed her hands, a sign she had no intention of reading him. “What about Eamon?”

Cathal stiffened in answer, but when she would have pulled out of his arms, he stopped her with the tightening of them. “You can invite
him. Just promise to pick a place and let me take you there after the fund-raiser.”

“I’ll need to wrap things up and reschedule some appointments.”

“Same here.” He nuzzled her ear, took the lobe between his lips and gave a sweet suck. “Promise, Etaín.”

“I promise.”

E
amon took a final sip of coffee and set the mug down on the elegant table. “Shall we leave, gentlemen?”

Liam exchanged a glance with Rhys. “And here I was beginning to think having a woman in his life definitely
didn’t
improve his personality.”

Rhys gave a small tilt of his head. “I had the same fear, especially given yesterday’s testiness.”

Eamon could afford to be amused by them. Today marked the end of his allowing Etaín the unfettered freedom to do as she pleased. Adjustments would be required due to her involvement with Cathal. And he found himself willing to grant her more leeway than he once would have thought possible, but certain risky behaviors would cease.

Involving herself with the police was one of them. Tattooing anyone other than those he gave approval to was another. Despite what he felt for her, he would be Lord, and she the Lady who answered to him.

“The humans are organized?” he asked Liam.

“They should be arriving at the shelter now. Twenty to begin with and another twenty to come later if necessary. They’ll pay, sign waivers, and get their artist tickets so they can be in Etaín’s line as soon she settles at a workstation.”