So Tempting (3 page)

"You can't believe in anything you can't touch or taste or see, can you?" His bitter laugh stung her heart. "Jace knows best. Ms. Cop-to-the-Bone can always see the evil that's at the heart of everyone's soul."

Jace stiffened. "I don't think everyone is evil."

"Oh, yeah? When's the last time you really trusted anyone? When did you ever open up your heart and quit looking for the sucker punch?"

Anger ripped into her again. "Who else was going to take care of things, huh? When Mom was passed out on the couch, who made sure you had food in your belly and the rent was paid?" Her voice sharpened; she couldn't stop it. Wouldn't. "I never had time to be trusting and tender, for your information. I was all that stood between you and a foster home."

"Oh, yeah? Well, maybe it wouldn't have been so bad, ever think of that? Maybe I didn't want to have you riding my back over every little thing. Mom would have taken care of us if you'd given her half a chance."

The pain staggered her. "You ungrateful little shit! She had lots of chances, and what did she do? Stole the money I'd saved to buy myself a prom dress and spent it on liquor. Took grocery money, hell, what I'd put away for your
birthday
and used it to drink away her sorrows." Chest heaving, she poked him in the sternum. "If I didn't hand the rent money direct to the landlord, she'd spend that, too. I had to work weekends for that sleazy bastard so we wouldn't be out on the street until I could make up the three months' worth of rent she threw away on liquor and lottery tickets. Don't you talk about what you don't know. All you could do was whine because you couldn't have every toy you wanted."

His eyes were bleak and tortured. "Yeah, I'm a fuck-up, all right. Next to St. Justine, I could never measure up. And you won't ever let me forget it, will you?"

Was that what he thought, that she took pleasure in his eternal refusal to grow up? Her hand covered a mouth that tasted of ashes. It was
her
fault that he couldn't get his act together?

Jimmy gave her one last, long look ripe with pity. "I'd better go before this gets any uglier." He opened the door.

"Wait! Don't leave." She grabbed his arm.

He shook her off. "Have a nice life, Jace. We're supposed to make peace with our families before we leave to join with the Priestess." Hazel eyes stared at her as though she was the one in need of help. "I guess peace was too much to expect."

Before she could stop him, he vanished into the darkness.

Jace hovered on the porch, her stomach hollow, her heart aching. Would he ever get his act together?

A memory danced before her, a little redheaded boy in footed pajamas, broken toy truck in his hand and tears in his eyes.
It's broken, Justine. Can you fix it?

Exhaustion swept over her. Of course she had; she always would. No matter that he'd go right back out and break something else. He and she were inextricably entwined, Jimmy as much her son as her brother.

He'd come back. When he was too tired, too sick, too broke, he always returned to Jace to repair his mistakes.

She walked back into the cabin, feeling the darkness as never before.

* * *

The dark corners of the abandoned warehouse roared with life, the stinging whip-ends of trance-techno music lashing the girl's hearing. Beneath the space-age high notes, a steady bass throbbed, arousing ancient rhythms in the blood.

The young girl had never felt like this before, as though the night's magic had been absorbed into her skin, warming her body from the core out. She swayed to the music, head thrown back, eyes closed, hips grinding. Hunger sharpened as consciousness dimmed.

Hands clasped her hips. A man glued himself to her back and she writhed. Desire bit. Clawed. She slid her arms around his neck, offered her throat. "Please..."

Fingers pinched tender breasts. Sparks shot straight down to her belly. More hands...more...she was desperate to fill the void that threatened to eat her alive.

Instead, they retreated.

"Please...I'll do anything...just make it stop."

Her eyes would not open, her ears buzzed. Music writhed inside her, melting in her blood, buzzing down her nerve paths. Heat surrounded her, glowed from within. She was burning alive. Had to have relief.

Jerking her hands free with strength she didn't recognize, she yanked her blouse off. Held her breasts in her palms, hips gyrating. Pleading.

Soft, wet lips on one nipple. She sighed.

More on the other.

She whimpered.

Suddenly, she was swept from the floor, suspended by hands braced along her back. Stronger fingers clamped on her thighs. Spread her open.

A delicious shudder rocked her. "More," she gasped.

A low voice laughed. "Another drink, baby?"

For one trembling second, her consciousness shivered. Her mind struggled to comprehend what had come over her.

Her jaw was shoved open. Cool liquid slid down her throat, spilled past the corners of her mouth. She swallowed. Coughed. "What—"

Brutal music pounded. With the little strength left, she shoved at the heads bent over her. Struggled to regain her feet.

"Easy, baby, sh-h, here's what you need..." A low voice soothed.

The buzz became an angry hive. Hunger slapped. Sparks flared and stung.

Hands gripped her buttocks. Hot, hard flesh filled her.

She screamed with ecstasy.

The darkness rolled her under.

A grateful soughing of breath.

Then...surrender.

SWITZERLAND

Twenty-five years ago

In the quadrangle of the exclusive Swiss boarding school to which his father had sent him, thirteen-year-old Dante endured his mother's stroking hand and the teasing that would result if anyone saw them. He understood that she was lonely and that kept him still. He didn't want to be at this school, but his mother had placed so much store in it that he couldn't disappoint her when life had already dealt her such blows.

There was one other reason he had come without complaint. His father's other son was here—Markos Petrakis, nearly a year older and the legal heir. Dante had wanted to get a look at this son whose existence meant that Dante and his mother would forever be relegated to the background, the forgotten mistress and the bastard son.

Throughout his lonely childhood, ever since he'd known of his brother, a tiny seed had sprouted, a forbidden longing to know this other son. Within Dante's heart had grown a treacherous yearning. Perhaps his brother would love him, and then Dante could live in his father's world.

Too bad none of that had happened. Instead, his brother had taken an instant dislike to Dante though they'd scarcely exchanged a word, and every success of Dante's had only fueled the hatred more.

"Are you sure you're happy here, my son?"

Happy? He stifled the honest response. He'd been happy when he could still believe that his father loved him, when he'd gathered herbs and continued to mix the potions and pastes that were part of his heritage, bastard or not. For a long time, he'd tried to live according to their shared secrets, handed down for generations. He was
magos
, descendent of the Star People, men who healed, who cast spells, who were charged with protection of the amulet that held the power to turn death to life. Now, however, only barely could he remember hearing the Song of the Soul Star, how it had made his heart race, sent power sizzling through him, blood and bone. He was older now and stronger, but his father's promise had been forgotten. He would never be the Protector.

But if Dante had never found the magic elixir to conjure the family of his longings, still he had plied his skills as he could. He'd bartered plants with the old women of his village, asked incessant questions. His own reputation had grown as he performed minor cures here and there.

He couldn't do any of that here at school, and daily he drifted further from what he and his father had once shared, the part of them that had been one heart, one mind. One proud lineage.

"Dante?"

"I'm fine, Mother."

Her eyes turned sad. She smoothed the front of his shirt. "You've never really had the chance to be a child." Her eyes glistened as tears pooled on her lashes. "I should say I'm sorry. It is my sin that created you," she whispered, "but, God forgive me, I cannot regret anything but that you have paid such a price." One lone tear descended, marking its passage with a slender silvery trail. "I am sorry that I never provided you with a proper father. Your own has not been fair to you."

"It doesn't matter."

Dark eyes snapped. "It matters. He's here today, but he hasn't bothered to see you."

"He is?" Hope rose in his chest. "Maybe he doesn't know."

His mother glanced away.

With a dull thud, hope foundered. "He does."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure approaching. He took a step back, summoning nonchalance though his throat pinched tight. "Never mind. I don't care."

"I do." Her voice rose. "He can't—"

Then he realized who was nearing. His brother, the crown prince. His father's only acknowledged son.

He had to get her out of here. "I'll walk you to your car, Mother."

"But—"

"I don't want you on the roads after dark."

Pleasure and pride painted her glorious features. Even if Dante had been blind, the reactions of others would tell him of his mother's remarkable beauty. She smiled fondly and patted his cheek again. "You're such a good son."

One quick glance told him his brother was watching.

Dante escorted his mother to the car and endured the hugs and tears of her leaving. As he watched her drive away, the loneliness that was his constant companion edged back, but this time it was worse, knowing that for reasons he would never understand, his father was lost to him. That the years he had labored to be a son good enough to be acknowledged had all been a waste.

Despair wrapped him like a shroud. He couldn't forget the feel of the amulet, the ancient silver alive in his hand, the sense of belonging, of connection so intimate it was bone and blood. A deep, unholy anger stirred, and suddenly Dante wanted to strike out at something, anything, to take away the bitter knowledge that his father didn't want him. That he never would.

Within the bubbling cauldron of fury and hurt, Dante never saw his brother step into his path until he'd bumped the older boy's shoulder.

Markos shoved him hard. Dante shoved back. A second blow from his brother knocked him to the ground. Though a year younger, Dante was nearly the same height, but there was little meat on him. It took no effort for his brother to shove him back down as he tried to rise.

"Who is she?" his brother demanded.

"Who?"

"That woman. That black-haired whore. I saw her with my father earlier."

Dante sprang upward, ramming his head into his brother's chest, knocking him off-balance. "Don't you call my mother a whore!" He slugged Markos in the gut, and the older boy doubled over.

"She is," his brother wheezed. Suddenly, his fist shot out and slammed into Dante's chin. "You tell her to stay away from my father, do you hear me?" He struck again, and Dante went down.

But he didn't stay. The long months of wondering what he'd done wrong, the years of watching his mother grow more bitter, the sting of knowing that Papa had been there today and hadn't cared enough to see him—all gave him new strength. "She has as much right to see him as anyone," he shouted, throwing blows and never realizing that his face was wet with tears. "Just because you and your mother have his name doesn't mean anything, you hear me? You're not everything to him," Dante shouted, wishing he could believe that as he once had.

The older boy tripped him, then threw him to the ground. He rose to a crouch over Dante, a smear of dirt on his face and a terrible sick fury on his features. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice cracking. "What the hell are you saying?"

Dante understood then that he'd gone too far, that his brother didn't know. He felt a moment when the earth shifted beneath him, a premonition that everything would change if he spoke another word. Visceral dread seized him. He shook his head and began to rise.

Markos put a knee in his chest to pin him. The animal cunning that often rode his face sharpened now, laced with a cruelty that was frightening. "Tell me, you little shit. Tell me or I'll break your arm." He grasped Dante's arm and twisted it savagely.

Dante bit back a cry, frantically trying to figure out how to unbalance the bigger boy, but instead a slow buzzing filled his brain as his brother increased the pressure.

The crack was audible to them both.

Oddly, the pain diminished when the bone gave way. He smiled as his head grew light and fuzzy, watching his brother study him, confusion in his eyes.

Fighting to stay conscious, Dante knew the moment his brother realized the truth. With savage satisfaction, he nodded and smiled while darkness narrowed his vision to a pinpoint. He licked his lips and summoned the breath to speak.

"Hello, brother."

With a roar, Markos grasped the shattered bone in both his fists, squeezing hard.

The last thing Dante heard was the cry he could no longer stifle...drowned out by the chilling sound of his brother's unearthly howl.

Chapter Three

Markos Petrakis surveyed the crowd filling his restored Spanish colonial in downtown Santa Fe, a glittering gathering of life at the top. Diamonds and leather fringe, cowboy boots and sequins, the crème de la crème of Santa Fe gathered to honor the cause of Native American art.

At his side, his wife Marcella constantly scanned the rooms for any sign that the service was less than perfect. "He's not here," she murmured.

Markos examined her for tell-tale signs. Did the pulse in her slender neck pound more quickly? "Do you care, my dear?"

She continued her scrutiny. "It would be a social coup. He's been a recluse since he first arrived, and he—"  Her head rose swiftly, a tiny line of displeasure between her brows. Placing one hand on his arm to mark her passage, she headed off to make her disfavor known.

He noted her destination and smiled. Pity the poor waiter who caused a single ripple in Marcella's grand design.

"I thought she'd never leave your side." The low, husky voice emerged from behind his shoulder.

Markos shrugged. "She is my wife, you know."

"That could be changed," Antonia Montoya observed, her own face neutral, unless one looked at her eyes. Some might say it was a dangerous game he played, having his attorney also his lover. But what was life without amusement?

She was a superb creature, those she-cat claws sharp, her insatiable hunger invigorating. Right now, long dark hair captured in a severe French braid, her breasts loose under white silk and the heavy squash blossom necklace, she tempted him to do something foolish.

But he was not a foolish man.

"Isn't there somewhere we can go?" Her low, edgy whisper excited him.

"Not tonight, Antonia."

She cut a sideways glance at him, promising retribution.

Delicious prospect.

He smiled back, then redirected his attention. A young woman standing at the fringes caught his eye. Very young, likely not yet out of her teens, but her curves already ripe. Dressed in a short red sheath at odds with her virginal demeanor, she moved like a nun, he mused, though her looks were pure Lolita.

"Don't even think about it," Antonia warned. "She's barely past jailbait."

But fresh...lovely and dewy as a rose holding one perfect drop of moisture before the sun would burn it away.

"Too young for me," he pronounced. "It's mere curiosity. I haven't seen her before."

"Few have. She's been in a Swiss boarding school, kept safe and untouched. Her brother guards her like the crown jewels. I can't imagine why she's here tonight."

Markos watched the girl's eyes shift nervously. "Perhaps he doesn't know."

Antonia laughed. "You can bet Dante doesn't know or she wouldn't be here."

Markos schooled his features carefully. "Dante Sabanne?" The girl's existence had been only rumored. Perhaps she was the key to all he wanted.

"Her name's Cassandra. My mother is their housekeeper. Dante will have her hide if he finds out she's here."

"We will have to make sure that doesn't happen, won't we?" He turned to face her. "If you'll excuse me, I'd better circulate. I'm sure you understand."

Her eyes telegraphed her displeasure. Perhaps he should rethink their liaison. Antonia was a gifted attorney whose sharp mind had proven invaluable, but jealous mistresses could become tiresome.

Stopping to greet guests along the way, he reined in his impatience to cross the room, never letting Cassandra Sabanne out of his sight.

* * *

Cassie kept to the wall, more and more certain she'd made a mistake in coming to this reception. When she'd seen the invitation addressed to Dante, she'd sneaked it up to her room, certain he'd never attend.

She'd thought this would be a good place to find out about The Club. She'd heard that a lot of the rich, sophisticated crowd hung out there, and there was plenty of money in this group.

Dante probably had more money than anyone here, but he seldom went anywhere interesting. He spent much of his time, when he wasn't conducting business on the phone or traveling to visit his companies, in his study poring over musty old texts.

And preventing her from having any fun herself.

Sometimes she could barely remember the Dante who laughed and had tea parties with her, so big and out of place with her dolls but so patient. He'd been the one to teach her to swim, who'd often carried her high on his shoulders and urged her to touch the sky.

But not anymore. Not since their mother had died and left her in Dante's care.

Thank goodness he was out of town now; she'd never have pulled this off, otherwise. If Mrs. Montoya checked her bed too closely, she'd be in trouble. Mrs. Montoya slept deeply, however, and though Melinda had been too chicken to come, she'd promised to cover for her.

Anyway, Cassie would be home long before Mrs. Montoya woke up, none the wiser. She could actually leave right now. These people were all stuffy and boring, as far as she could tell. Her idea was a bust.

Uh-oh. Cassie ducked into a corner.

Melinda's Aunt Antonia. What was
she
doing here? She knew Dante. Cassie searched for the best way to escape without being seen.

Ms. Montoya's eyes scanned the room, and for a second, Cassie thought she was busted. Then the crowd between them shifted, and Cassie turned to make her escape. As she threaded her way around the edges, suddenly someone stepped squarely into her path.

Cassie looked up and barely contained a gasp. It was the older man who'd been with Ms. Montoya. Sharp brown eyes shaded by bushy dark brows studied her, while amusement curved thin lips that looked as if they rarely smiled.

"Leaving us so soon?"

"I..." Cassie peered past him, attempting to spot Antonia. He was not as tall as Dante, but he still topped her by several inches.

"Looking for someone?" One dark eyebrow arched, his voice amused.

"I—no, I just..." She glanced up. "I, uh, wanted a drink."

His eyes narrowed for a second, then he crooked a finger, and a waiter instantly appeared. The dark man lifted a flute of champagne from the tray and presented it to her.

Awesome. He couldn't tell she was underage.

"Americans are so provincial in their attitudes, wouldn't you agree?"

Okay, so he could tell...but he was cool about it. Cassie nodded cautiously and sipped her drink. The little bubbles tickled her throat. Maybe this party wouldn't be so bad, after all—if she could escape Antonia Montoya. She craned to look behind him again.

"If you are not careful, you will hurt my feelings. After all, the host should be able to claim a guest's attention for a little while, don't you think?"

Host? She choked a little on her champagne, then could have groaned. How juvenile. "You—you're Markos Petrakis?"

An elegant nod and faint bow. "At your service, Ms—?"

She chewed her lip for an instant. If she told him her name, he might know Dante. "Cassie. Just...Cassie." Better to be safe.

"Beauteous Cassie, I'm delighted to make your acquaintance." Taking her free hand, he pressed his lips to her fingers. "Please call me Markos."

Her tummy felt a little odd and feathery. He was very charming.

"So what do you think of our little gathering?" He studied her closely as though he truly wanted to know.

"It's all right."

"All right? You wound me," he said, hand clutched to his chest.

"I didn't mean..." Just like a dumb little kid, she'd blown it. She should have said something witty, but what?

"Markos, darling, you're neglecting our other guests." The slender, almost bony woman who appeared at his side looked down her nose at Cassie as though she had some disease.

The dislike was instant and mutual. The woman might be dressed to the nines in her black sequins and diamonds, but she was mean to the core, Cassie could tell. Just like Sister Agatha, her Latin teacher.

"My dear, I'd like you to meet Cassie." He winked at her, and Cassie had to suppress a grin. "This is my wife, Marcella."

"How do you do?" A cool nod, no offered hand. Turning back to her husband, she touched his arm, the demand clear. "There's someone you need to meet, Markos." She walked away, seeming confident that he'd follow.

He sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically at Cassie. "Duty calls, I'm afraid." Reaching for her hand again, he pressed warm lips to her fingers like she'd seen in old movies. "I'll make it around this way again. Enjoy yourself, Cassie."

She watched him go and sipped again, the warm glow of champagne combining with Markos's welcome to make her reconsider her opinion of the gathering.

Then she spotted Antonia Montoya headed her way, though she didn't think the older woman had seen her yet.

Cassie set her glass down on a nearby table and aimed for the door. She'd better not tempt fate anymore. Except for Markos, they were all losers anyway. She'd have to come up with another way to find out where The Club was going to be held next.

* * *

Jace drove by downtown on her way to the station, her gaze sweeping doorways and alleys for Jimmy. When she saw the lights on inside Myra's shop, she parked and went to the door, knocking to alert her landlady and friend that she had a visitor.

Myra looked up from the table where she pored over a Tarot deck and grinned, then rose to unlock the door and usher Jace inside. A blast of incense and potpourri assaulted Jace's nose while her eyes contended with a shower of rainbows spilling from the crystals in Myra's front window.

"Well, stranger, just the person I wanted to see." Myra's delight brought a reluctant smile to Jace's face. Bottle-blonde and blowsy, truly one of the kindest souls on earth, Myra True Heart nèe Daniels could drag a smile from a dead man.

"Don't tell me. You saw me in your crystal ball."

Myra shook her head, blonde curls frothing over the colorful scarf that banded her head, concentric circle dangles tinkling at each ear. "Such a cynic, Jace. You know I use the cards."

Jace grinned. Their banter was of long standing. Hearts Speak True was the name of Myra's New Age shop, and somewhere in the clutter, all of Santa Fe's metaphysical needs could be met, from séance to crystal cleansing, herbal baths to Swedish massage to reiki. The rich aroma of incense permeated everything, and the store reflected Myra's own eclectic tastes—in clothing, in men and, lucky for Jace, in friends. The older woman was accepting of everyone; she'd champion a bum just as easily as a cop.

Sam Sunshine and Myra had once been lovers, in their salad days, as Myra called them.

Jace got down to business. "I'd like to plane off the bottom of the front door, Myra, just enough to keep it from dragging."

"Sure, sugar, whatever you want. Do you need some help?"

Jace shuddered at the thought. The months she'd spent in the cabin had been devoted to reversing her landlady's previous repairs. "No, thanks. I can handle it. I'll borrow a plane from Earl."

"Get that good-looking Gabriel to help you take off the heavy door, sugar."

"Stop matchmaking, Myra."

"You get to be my age, and you wish you'd concentrated on one good man instead of playing around. All that freedom and time don't keep you warm at night."

Here was Jace's opening. "Was that what happened with Sam?"

Myra's eyes glistened. She dabbed unashamedly at the tears. "Sam was...well, I don't know if he and I could ever have made a go of a relationship."

"Why not?"

"Sam had a fire in him for saving the world from itself. That mission was more important to him than any one person."

"So how did Sam become—" She stopped, noting the pain that made effervescent Myra look suddenly old.

"An addict? Homeless?" She stared into a past Jace couldn't see. "I think the world didn't want saving, and it broke Sam's heart."

"We don't have the autopsy results back yet, but do you know who he hung out with, who might have seen him last?"

"He came around here sometimes, but I don't think he had that many friends."

"Where did he sleep?"

"Wherever he could."

"In the winter?"

"He..." Her voice was barely a whisper now. "Sometimes, when he could still—when he could understand it was me, he would..." Myra's head rose, her eyes blazed defiance. "He stayed with me when he was able to tolerate being inside a house."

"And when he couldn't?"

"Sometimes he'd sleep in my storage area. I left it unlocked for him every night."

"Left the back of your store unlocked? Good grief, don't you know better than that?"

"Don't lecture me. I'm old enough to be your mother. My spirit guides told me it would be fine, and it was." Her eyes appealed. "Don't you see, Jace? I couldn't let him stay out in the cold. He didn't always take drugs. There was just something wrong inside his head. He was desperately lonely. I had to help."

Jace rubbed her arm in sympathy. "You're a good friend, Myra."

She shrugged. "Yes, well, that and a nickel..." She studied Jace. "You look tired. Weary from more than lack of sleep. What's wrong?"

"I'm fine."

"Is it Gabriel?"

"I don't want to talk about him right now."

"Why not? I thought you two were getting close."

"It's just sex. We're fine."

"You're both wasting valuable time." But she dropped the subject. "Heard from Jimmy?"

Jace's gaze shifted. "Have you seen him?"

"He's back?"

Jace sagged. "In a manner of speaking."

"Oh, hon." Compassion filled Myra's voice. She was the only person to whom Jace had ever admitted how disturbing she found her brother's inability to cope, his restlessness. Gabriel urged her to cut the ties, but she just couldn't. Jimmy was her brother, no matter how he screwed up.

She shrugged. "He's in town but he's not with me. We had a big fight. He's gotten involved with some cult."

"Cult?"

"Yeah, some savior who's going to lead them all into the light, going to make their lives meaningful." What had he said? "Something about the ancient gods speaking to mankind or some bullshit like that."

"He needs a center, Jace."

"He has me!" Jace's voice went shrill. As quickly, she fell silent. Through all the anger at being the sole support, she'd never realized that she'd counted on being needed.