Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) (24 page)

“Oh, no doubt Lord Aldron has played his role well. He is, after all, a highly successful seducer and quite accustomed to doing whatever necessary to please a lady.” He lifted a deliberate brow. “I wonder, however, if you have considered why the gentleman has shown such a marked interest in you after so assiduously avoiding debutantes?”

Bianca had a sudden vision of a cat toying with a mouse.

And she wasn’t the cat.

“He finds me . . . fascinating.”

“No, my child. What he finds fascinating is your rumored dowry.”

She blinked in shock. Then blinked again.

“Father.”

“The man is without a feather to fly with,” the duke retorted in hard tones. “Despite having hocked every belonging he possesses, he is still mired in debt. There is not a gambling house in town that will allow him across the threshold, and his clubs have long since turned him away. His only hope to avoid fleeing to the Continent is to snatch a bride too naïve to see beyond a handsome countenance and shallow charm.”

Bianca gritted her teeth. She would not listen to her father. She could not. To do so would mean that the gentleman who had stolen her heart, the one who had offered her the promise of a glorious future without tedious rules and expectations, was nothing more than a lie.

The servants had been wise to go into hiding.

“I will not listen to such slander. Stephen loves me.”

The duke curled his lip in disgust. “Lord Aldron loves no one but himself.”

“You do not know him as I do.”

“I know him far better than you, Bianca.” There was a brief pause before her father lifted his chin to a stubborn angle. “Which is precisely why he will never be your husband.”

Her chin tilted to match his. Damn and blast, but she was weary of being dictated to as if she were mindless dolt.

At least Stephen made the pretense of listening to her desires.

“I am two-and-twenty, Father, and quite at liberty to do whatever I please. You cannot halt me from wedding Stephen.” Her hands were planted on her hips in the unlikely event that the duke did not realize the extent of her resolution.

The duke calmly adjusted the cuffs of his elegant coat. Her teeth snapped together at his deliberate nonchalance.

“Perhaps not, but do you truly believe that either of you will be content living in some decrepit cottage or renting rooms in the stews?” He smiled without humor. “I assure you that it might seem charming enough in storybooks, but there is nothing pleasurable in scrubbing your own floors or freezing before an empty grate. Besides which, Lord Aldron would barter off his own mother before becoming a pauper.”

“Pauper?” Her momentary bravado faltered with stunning speed. “You would disinherit me?”

Without warning, her father’s eyes darkened with what seemed strangely close to regret.

“There would be no need for such drastic measures. I simply have nothing to offer as a dowry.”

“But . . . that is absurd.”

“It is the simple truth.”

“I do not understand.”

“Because I never intended you to understand,” her father admitted with a harsh sigh. “With your beauty and position, I simply presumed that when you chose your husband, you would have the good sense to select one with a large fortune. It is, after all, what most maidens do.”

Her brows snapped together. Most maidens were not the daughter of a duke, she thought with a tingle of panic. For God’s sake, she had never devoted a moment to considering something so tedious as wealth.

“But what of my dowry?” she demanded.

“What do you think has funded your very expensive seasons for the past four years?”

For perhaps the first time in her young life, Bianca’s swift wits deserted her. Her brain froze and she was forced to open and close her mouth several times before she at last managed to speak.

“Are you telling me that we have no money?”

There was a moment of silence before her father turned to stroll toward the large bay window. He kept his back turned as he at last cleared his throat.

“Being a duke is an expensive business, my dear. I have estates that need constant upkeep, a near battalion of servants to keep paid and pensioned, tenants to keep housed, your brothers schooled, and of course you and your mother properly clothed and bejeweled.”

“But what of your rents and investments?”

His gaze remained trained upon the Mayfair street below him. “They would be adequate as a rule, but while London has devoted itself to pleasure, war has ravaged the world. Trade has all but disappeared, and not nearly enough able-bodied men remain to tend to the lands.” He gave a frustrated shake of his head. “Put on top of that last year’s unseasonable cold, and more fields than not lie fallow. Would you have me stand aside and watch my tenants starve?”

Well, for goodness’ sakes. Of course she would not wish for anyone to starve.

Still, she found it difficult to accept that matters had come to such a desperate quagmire. Surely being a duke must count for something?

“But the war has ended,” she lamely pointed out.

“That does not bring young men back from the grave to plant my fields, or fill empty pantries. Such devastation will take years to repair.”

“Why have you not said something before?” she rasped.

Slowly he turned to regard her with a somber expression. “As I said, I simply presumed that when you chose to wed it would be to a gentleman of means.”

The sickness in the pit of her stomach became outright nausea. The glorious future she had dreamed of for months was crumbling into dust.

“But . . . this is horrible.”

“Not so horrible.” Her father moved to gently pat her shoulder. “There are any number of suitable gentlemen who will be eager to wed the daughter of a duke. Especially one who happens to be as lovely as an angel.”

She abruptly pulled away from his comforting touch, her eyes glittering with suppressed tears.

“Do you have no feelings at all? I love Stephen. I do not want any other gentleman.” Her expression became one of deepest scorn. “Especially not one who only wishes to wed me because I happen to be your daughter.”

With an insulting lack of sympathy for her wounded heart, her father gave a vague shrug. “Then approach Lord Aldron and tell him that you wish to wed without a dowry or a prospect for an allowance from me. Let us see precisely how quickly he leaps at the opportunity to have you for his wife.”

Bianca did not even consider the notion of approaching Stephen. Not because she feared he would slither away the moment he discovered she was penniless, she hastily reassured herself. But simply because she would never wish for him to sacrifice himself in such a manner.

No matter how much it might hurt.

Knowing she could not hold back her tears for much longer, she glared at the gentleman who had managed to ruin her life in a few short minutes. Unwittingly, her hand lifted to clutch the silver locket that lay against her pounding heart. The necklace had been a gift from Stephen and held his precious portrait.

“I will never forget Stephen. Never,” she announced in dramatic tones, then turning on her heel, she flounced from the room and headed for her private chambers to cry out her misery.

Valhalla had always been shrouded in mystery.

The leaders of the sprawling compound, named for the home of the Norse gods, claimed that it was a safe house for those people too unique to live among normal society.

Of course, everyone knew that was just a polite way of saying that it was a home for freaks.

Witches, psychics, necromancers, Sentinels, and god only knew what else roamed the grounds protected by a layer of powerful spells.

For the past century, Valhalla had been a source of fear and fascination throughout the entire world, but most especially for the citizens of the small Midwest town who could see the shimmer of blue reflecting off the protective dome that hid the buildings from view.

Not surprisingly, there were citizens who called for the entire place to be nuked. The freaks were dangerous, they insisted, with powers that none of them truly understood. Who knew what the monsters would do if someone pissed them off?

Then there were others who said they should be locked away and studied like lab rats. Perhaps their mutations could be used to help normal people.

Most, however, preferred to ignore Valhalla and the high-bloods . . . as they preferred to be called . . . living behind the dome.

Until, of course, they needed them.

 

Sergeant Duncan O’Conner was late to the party.

Nursing a hangover from hell, he took two painkillers with a gallon of hot coffee and steered his POS cop car through the light Sunday traffic and entered the gated community in the South-west suburbs.

The call had hit his cell phone at three in the afternoon. An hour before, he’d hauled his sorry ass out of bed. It’d taken another half hour under the shower to peel his throbbing eyes open and get rid of the stench of cheap whiskey and even cheaper cigars.

His first thought had been to call in and tell them to find someone else. Wasn’t it supposed to be his damned weekend off rotation? Let Caleb deal with the latest stiff.

Then the thought that the entire station would suspect he’d spent the night of his ex-wife’s latest wedding getting shit-faced drunk sent him stumbling to his car. Yeah, like his bloodshot eyes and old man shuffle weren’t going to give the game away, he acknowledged wryly. But while he could take the razzing, he couldn’t take the thought of them feeling sorry for him.

Never that.

He might be a pathetic loser, but he was a pathetic loser who was damned good at his job.

Entering the cul-de-sac, Duncan parked his car and headed into the brick house. He ignored the speculative glances from the neighbors who had gathered in a little clutch across the street. He was accustomed to females checking out his spare, well-honed body shown to advantage in a pair of faded jeans and black tee. Even with his short, pale blond hair damp from the shower and his stubborn jaw shadowed with a golden stubble, he had the look of a man who knew what to do with a woman. Match that with a pair of hazel eyes that sparkled with wicked charm and they were like putty in his hands.

The men tended to be more interested in the gun holstered at his side and the hard expression on his lean face that warned he only needed an excuse to kick someone’s ass.

His own attention was focused on the house as he stepped into the small but elegant foyer. Not the sort of house a young woman could afford without some help. From daddy. Or more likely, from sugar daddy.

Not that he was being sexist. He couldn’t afford a damned toolshed in this frou-frou neighborhood. Even if his old da chipped in every penny he made driving a cab.

He continued to size up the bold black and white furnishings as a uniformed officer handed him a file with the pertinent details of the case. A beat later another officer arrived to lead him to the back of the house and a sunny kitchen with a perfect view of the pool.

He grimaced as the late spring sunlight sent a stab of agony through his throbbing brain, then lowered his gaze to the female who was lying naked in the middle of the tiled floor.

He wasn’t surprised that she was beautiful. Stunningly beautiful with long hair that glistened with chestnut highlights, pretty features, and a slender body that was tight with the muscles of an athlete.

What did surprise him was the lack of any sort of violence. She looked like she’d simply lain down in the middle of the floor and quietly passed away.

In his experience, lovely young women who were killed on Sunday morning were beaten to death by a jealous boyfriend or raped and killed by a passing psycho.

Not . . . what?

His brows jerked together as he took a swift inventory of the kitchen, noting everything was in pristine place, not so much as a coffee mug left in the sink. It could be the female never used the kitchen, preferring to eat out, or at her lover’s place. It could be she was OCD and her kitchen was always spotless.

But his gut was telling him that she hadn’t lived here long enough to stop caring if the place was a mess.

“Hola, O’Conner. Looking a little rough around the edges,” the silver-haired coroner drawled, unfolding a white sheet to drape it over the body. “Heard that Susan found herself a decent man to make an honest woman of her.”

Yeah, so decent he was banging her in Duncan’s own bed.

Flipping off his companion, Duncan opened the file and glanced through the meager info that had been gathered on the female.

“Who found the body?”

“A silent alarm was tripped.”

“Cause of death?”

“She’s missing her heart.”

Duncan froze, his gaze searching the victim’s unmarred skin and the obvious lack of blood.

“How the hell could she be missing her heart?”

“I don’t know,” Frank Sanchez admitted, the bite in his raspy voice expressing his opinion of “I don’t know.” “But I ran the portable MRI over her three times to be sure.”

The older man could be a pain in the ass to work with, but he knew his shit. Nothing got past his eagle gaze. If he said the female was missing her heart, then she was missing her heart.

Crap. Duncan hated mysteries.

“No DNA?”

“It’s clean.” Another growl as Frank gathered the tools of his trade to pack them in a black leather bag. “Too clean.”

“So a freak?”

“That would be my guess.”

Confused, Duncan read through the file.

Leah Meadows.

Twenty-six.

Single, originally from Little Rock.

Current occupation, dancer at the Rabbit Hutch.

That would explain her location, he cynically concluded. Her salary as a dancer wouldn’t cover the rent, but the clients who frequented the high-end strip club would easily be able to afford this place to keep a current mistress.

It didn’t, however, explain why she was lying naked in her kitchen without her heart.

Lifting his head, he met Frank’s troubled gaze. “You made the call?”

The older man grimaced, not needing any further explanation.

When there was a murder that didn’t have an eyewitness or a legitimate suspect, it was protocol to call in one of the mutants. And when it might involve another mutant, they were called ASAP.

“Yep. She should be—”

On cue one of the uniforms stepped into the kitchen. “The necro is here.”

“Perfect timing,” Duncan muttered. “Show her in.” For whatever reason, necros were almost always females.

The young man nodded, disappearing back down the hallway while Frank snapped shut his black bag.

“That’s my cue for a quick exit.”

Duncan grinned. “Scared?”

“Damned straight,” the older man said without apology. “Freaks give me the heebie-jeebies. I don’t know how you can be in the same room with one.”

A bitter smile touched Duncan’s lips.
Like draws to like . . .

No. He grimly crushed the mocking words in the back of his aching head. He wasn’t like those mutants from Valhalla.

He swallowed his grim urge to laugh, tilting his head toward the sheet on the floor. “You can be in the same room with a corpse, but not a necro?”

Frank shrugged. “I respect the dead. No one should be screwing around with their heads.”

“Even if it takes a murderer off the streets?”

“I like getting my criminals the old-fashioned way. Necros should be abolished along with the rest of the—”

“I prefer the term ‘diviner’ if you don’t mind,” a soft, compelling voice whispered through the room, turning both men toward the door like a magnet.

Even prepared, Duncan felt the air being jerked from his lungs at the sight of Callie Brown.

It wasn’t just that she was a stunning beauty with her short, spiky hair that was so dark red it shimmered like fire in the sunlight. Her pale features were perfectly carved with a sensual invitation for a mouth and a proud nose.

And her body . . . hell, it was slender with just enough curves to make a man think of black silk sheets and long weekends. Today it was displayed to perfection in a pair of black spandex pants and a white stretchy top.

But for Duncan it was the white aura that flickered around her diminutive body that made his blood burn.

So pure. So completely and utterly innocent.

And like any bastard, he ached to be the one who debauched that wholesomeness even as he savored the rare beauty of her soul.

“Shit,” Frank muttered, heading for the door leading to the back patio. “Adios, amigo.”

His entire body vibrating with an awareness that went way beyond sexual attraction, Duncan barely noticed the hasty departure of the coroner. Not that he wouldn’t have Callie flat on her back and her legs wrapped around his waist with the least hint of encouragement.

It was a sensation that should have scared the hell out of him. Instead a wicked smile curved his lips.

“Hello, Callie.”

She turned her head, regarding him through the reflective sunglasses that hid her eyes, her expression unreadable.

On the half dozen occasions Duncan had worked with Callie, he’d never seen her be anything but serene. Which, of course, only encouraged him to try and provoke a response from her. Anything to know there was a flesh and blood woman beneath that image of calm.

Why it was so important to find that woman was another one of those things he put on the list of “don’t fucking care.”

“Sergeant O’Conner,” she said, moving with an unearthly grace to stand beside the sheet.

“Duncan,” he insisted, shifting to stand across the body, his gaze never leaving Callie’s pale face.

“Has the body been processed?”

“As much as can be done in the field. You’re free to do your thing.”

“Time of death?”

“At least an hour ago.”

“Then I should have time.” She knelt down, reaching for the edge of the sheet. “The spark—”

“Yeah, no need explain.” He held up a restraining hand. He might not share the prejudices of most of society against the freaks, but that didn’t mean he wanted an insider’s guide to necromancy. Christ. The mere thought made his stomach clench. “Just see what you can do.”

“Fine.” Cool, indifferent. Then her body tensed. “So young,” she murmured softly.

“Twenty-six.” He crouched down, studying her silken skin unmarred by wrinkles. “Older than you?”

“A woman never shares that information.”

“You share nothing.”

“Do you blame me?”

His lips twisted at the smooth thrust. Most people went out of their way to avoid freaks, but there were others who thought the only good freak was a dead freak. There were even a handful of cults where people trained to kill them. Mostly simpleminded idiots who needed someone to tell them what to think and angry outcasts who had nowhere else to go, but that didn’t make them any less dangerous.

“No, not really.”

“What was her name?”

His jaw tightened. Okay, he was vain. He’d spent most of his life knowing women found him irresistible. The fact he wasn’t certain if Callie had even noticed he was a male annoyed the hell out of him.

Then with a silent curse he shoved aside his ego and concentrated on the only thing important at the moment. Finding the son of a bitch who’d killed this woman.

“Leah Meadows.”

“Is that her real name?”

He shrugged. “That’s all I got for now.”

She paused before giving a slow nod. “It should do.”

“Why do you need her name?” He asked the question that he’d wondered about more than once.

By law they couldn’t give details of the death in the fear that the necro might be swayed into naming a murderer even if the victim couldn’t reveal the truth.

But a necro always asked for a name.

“It helps me to connect with her mind.”

He shuddered. “Christ.”

“You asked,” she reminded him in a low voice.

“Do you need any other details?”

“I need to touch her.”

“There.” He pointed toward the forearm where Frank would have prepped the victim. “It’s been sanitized.”

She at last lifted her head. “Would you make sure—”

“That no one enters?” he finished for her.

“Yes.”

He abruptly frowned. “Where’s your Sentinel?”

A necro never left the compound without a guardian Sentinel. Not only were they capable of opening portals to travel from place to place (a mysterious talent that was never discussed among the mundane mortals), but they were also trained warriors who were covered in intricate tattoos. From what little Duncan had been able to learn, the ceremonial markings protected the warriors from magic as well as any attempt at mind control.

And, oh yeah, they were capable of killing with their bare hands.

There were also rumors that there were other Sentinels—hunters who weren’t marked and could travel among the humans unnoticed. But info on them was kept top secret.

“I asked him to wait outside.”

He lifted a brow. “Why?”

“Because you take such pleasure in tormenting him and he’s too well trained to fight back.”

“Are you saying I’m not well trained?”

She ignored the open invitation to point out that he was barely civilized and instead returned her attention to the victim.

“The door, please.”

He slowly straightened, swallowing his groan as his head gave another protesting throb. Whiskey was the devil’s brew, just as his ma had always claimed.

“No one’s coming in,” he muttered, “but I’ll keep guard at the door if it makes you feel better.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Duncan.” His headache forgotten, he flashed a smile of pure challenge. “One day you’ll say it. Hell, one day you might even scream it.”

No response. With a low growl, Duncan made his way to the door, leaning on the doorjamb to make sure no one could enter, while keeping his attention on the woman kneeling beside the corpse.

She ignored his unwavering attention, lifting a hand to remove her sunglasses and setting them aside. At the same time the slanting sunlight spilled over her, catching in the sapphire blue of her eyes.