Warrior Betrayed: The Sons of the Zodiac 3 (2 page)

New York City—Present Day

Quinn Tanner reveled in the night air as it whipped around his body, battering him with the force of an oncoming subway train. The late October night was unexpectedly chilly, the blustery air a clear indication winter was on its way.

He wended his way up Fifth Avenue, the heavy foot traffic of Midtown giving way to a tonier look and feel as he crossed into the Upper East Side. Despite the evidence of increased wealth and more sedate foot traffic the farther north he walked, the vibe of the city wasn’t completely lost.

Three teenagers in matching plaid school uniforms squealed in a huddled mass over the middle girl’s cell phone.

A food deliveryman fought in a mix of English—and was that Italian?—with a doorman as he juggled a cardboard box of food on the handlebars of his bike.

Several taxis let up a cacophony of horns when a Ford Focus in the lead didn’t move the moment the light turned green.

Gods, he loved New York.

He’d lived in nearly every major city in the world at some point in his life in service as a Taurus Warrior to Themis, the great goddess of justice. From ancient Rome to London during the Dark Ages to a brief stint helping to colonize Australia and even more places that had blended into a mental soup of blurred memories. None came even remotely close to New York in the early twenty-first century.

Wild energy, pulsing with life.

As he crossed over the next crosswalk, Quinn’s gaze scanned the large apartment building that dominated the entire block. His mental tally accounted for four video cameras and an eagle-eyed doorman whose harsh, craggy face and hulking body screamed “bodyguard” far louder than it did “I accept packages and visitors.”

Stepping into the ornate marble-arched doorway, where he noticed his own frame was about two inches larger than the doorman’s, Quinn stated his business. “I’d like to see Ms. Montana Grant.”

The doorman’s face never flinched, but his blue eyes went flinty and cold. “Ms. Grant doesn’t accept visitors.”

“Not even those with appointments?”

Again, not a flinch, nor did the man even glance at the calendar in front of him at his station. “Ms. Grant doesn’t have any appointments today.”

Quinn moved a few inches closer, tossing a pointed stare at the date book. “You didn’t even check your book.”

“I know.”

Quinn was impressed with the man’s stoicism. He had the exact qualities Quinn looked for in his staff—firm, harsh demeanor and a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude that would keep most people from thinking twice about making trouble. Alas, Quinn wasn’t on a hiring spree at the moment.

He was on a fact-finding mission.

The elevator doors opened across the lobby as an older couple tottered out, the woman in a large fur that touched the floor and the man in a hat that had gone out of fashion sometime in the fifties. To the untrained eye, it would look as if Quinn were observing the couple, but what he really saw was the open elevator.

And as the lobby doors swished closed, Quinn knew he had what he needed. Now that he had an image of the inside of the elevator, he had the visual he required to port back to the apartment later that evening.

Quinn left the sullen slab of meat at his post in the lobby and whistled a light tune for effect. He had no doubt his image would be reviewed on the apartment cameras later. While he itched to remedy that small fact, Quinn left things alone.

The bodyguard had seen him because Quinn had wanted him to.

Later, he wouldn’t.

Moving swiftly for the street corner, Quinn nearly tripped over a bag lady before righting the two of them. The fragile bones of her shoulders felt as if they would snap in two with the barest pressure of his fingers and the frightened look in her eyes had him dropping his hands as soon as he was assured she had her balance.

As he searched her face to confirm she was okay, her frightened visage morphed as the light of recognition filled her clear blue gaze.

“You came.” The words rushed out in a reverent whisper.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

“You came. To help me. Just as I knew you would.”

The city’s homeless problem was well known, and Quinn paid little attention to her words, his focus on getting her resettled where she’d been—or, even better—into a public shelter for the evening.

Which was why her next comment had his breath freezing in his chest.

“Themis sent you, didn’t she? I just knew all wasn’t lost.”

Themis?

Quinn stared deeply into that crystal-clear gaze again, searching for answers that would surely explain how this feeble homeless woman had any idea who he worked for.

The woman leaned in to him, relief palpable in her exhale of breath. “She sent you. She’s not fully immune to my pleas.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Montana is in danger. You’re the only one who can help her.”

Danger?

Several missing pieces fell into place in the mental puzzle he’d been trying to solve.

Was this woman the reason Montana Grant had made an outreach to him?

And why would one of the world’s wealthiest women listen to or confide in an ordinary bag lady?

Quinn had spent the last month dialing up his watch on the heiress. She’d come to his attention a few years back when her firm had tried to hire him and, for reasons he’d never been able to fully understand—and despite turning her business down—he’d kept an eye on her.

What had been, up to now, a bit of keeping tabs had ratcheted up to a full-blown investigation. For no apparent reason, Montana Grant had magically appeared and diplomatically fixed a political problem in Africa, which, on the surface, suggested corporate leadership mixed with a benevolent soul.

That was the suggestion, of course, until Quinn also got wind her company was responsible for a very large shipment of smuggled diamonds that arrived one week later on the black market in New York.

Seeing as how he put absolutely no stock in coincidences of any kind, Ms. Montana Grant had landed smack on top of his watch list. What he still couldn’t quite puzzle through was why she’d made a call to him the day before, making a new, personal outreach to hire his services.

Now he had a bag lady standing outside Montana Grant’s apartment connecting him with Themis?

Quinn felt her small hand at his forearm and he looked down again into that clear blue gaze. Although he recognized pain in those bright blue irises, he saw no hints of madness.

In fact, the clarity with which she stared up at him sent a jolt of awareness down his spine.

Whatever she may appear to be, this woman wasn’t playing around. She
knew
who he was. And she
knew
who he worked for. The only question was, if he spent a bit more time with her, could he erase whatever memories she was so fixated on?

“Come on, ma’am. Let’s get you into a shelter for the evening.”

Quinn turned and walked about ten feet to retrieve her possessions from where she’d left them against the side of the apartment building.

When he turned back around, she was gone.

With a glance out at the crowded hotel ballroom, Montana Grant took a deep breath and smoothed the waist-line of her evening gown, her fingers snagging on the heavy sequins of the bodice.

She hated these things.

Thousand-dollar rubber chicken dinners with a side of lumpy mashed potatoes and a serving of vegetables that presumably grew out of a garden somewhere, yet often looked like they were grown in the marshy grasslands of northern New Jersey.

Of course, the food was hardly the worst part. It was the obsequious fawning from the crowd, desperate to “get on her calendar,” or “plan a lunch,” or worse—invite her to speak at the next one of these events.

How had her life turned into one gala after another?

A row of flashbulbs went off as she mounted the dais at the front of the room.

As she walked toward the podium, the clear screen of the teleprompter offered her a small moment of comfort. Although she could probably give the speech in her sleep, Montana believed in always having backup.

At least professionally speaking.

Matthew Stone, the celebrity spokesperson for the environmental organization honoring her, held out his hand with a small, flirty smile. She took it as soon as she was within arm’s length of him, then tilted her head up to place a small peck on his cheek. The action ensured the next round of popping flashbulbs would be tied to at least half-a-dozen newspaper stories linking the two of them together in the morning.

The month prior, the borderless, worldwide goodwill organization now honoring her had contacted Grant Shipping. Peace talks had taken a decided turn for the worse between two North African nations after a pirate attack off the southern coast of the smaller nation. The attack was seen as an act of aggression and battle had nearly broken out before Grant Shipping stepped in and helped settle the dispute.

Even now, Montana couldn’t understand how it had happened or why anyone thought her interference was worth honoring. While she’d fully believed in offering her help—Grant Shipping’s vast, worldwide resources made it easy enough; her belief in being a citizen of the world made it necessary—the fact that she was being credited with avoiding war between two countries was a tough one to swallow.

Matt finished his remarks and stepped away from the podium to allow her access.

Another round of camera flashes, coupled with a standing ovation, greeted her as she said hello to the crowd. Montana held her remarks and fought to keep a serene smile pasted across her face. Despite her discomfort—or maybe because of it—the moment seemed to stretch on interminably. And with it, a small kernel of unease whispered up her exposed backbone.

“Thank you. Please—” She held up her hand when the crowd wouldn’t quiet.

Another whisper-light frisson of apprehension followed the last and she focused her gaze, seeking a clearer view of the audience standing before her.

Was someone out there?

Although Montana hated public speaking, it was a part of her job—a part of her life—and she accepted it as such. So why did she feel this weird, almost preternatural sense of discomfort?

The clapping slowed naturally and the crowd began to take their seats. Montana took another deep breath, eyeing the clear teleprompter screens that flanked either side of the podium. As she shifted to focus on the screen to her right, her gaze skated oh so briefly across the far end of the ballroom.

And into the dark, dark eyes of a man who embodied every sinful thought she’d ever had.

His frame was draped in the finest-cut tuxedo, clearly custom-made. The black fabric stretched across his shoulders, making them look enormous where he stood at attention against the ballroom wall. She followed the line of the suit, admiring the muscular look of his body and the long legs encased in black silk.

Wow, was this guy a piece of work.

Was he the reason for her unease?

Even as the thought flittered across her mind, she had to admit he didn’t set off any internal warning bells.

Montana did a quick scroll through her mental Rolodex. Who was this guy? And why did she have a vague sense of the familiar, like she
should
know him, even as she knew with certainty they’d never met? And why was he standing up, looking as if he were guarding something?

She knew she’d never seen him before. That wasn’t a body a woman forgot easily. Add in the thick, wavy hair that was a luscious sable brown and the impressively corded neck that looked like a very nice place to grab on to and, well…

With a startled glance, Montana saw the videographer standing below the dais wave at her to begin.

With another quick thank-you, Montana shifted her focus toward the teleprompter and the opening lines of her speech. The words scrolled as she spoke, the visual a welcome distraction from her thoughts of the large man across the room. Switching to the cadence she reserved for public speaking, she vowed to ignore the mysterious stranger as she extolled the virtues of the organization that had invited her.

“The continued efforts of this organization to bring and keep peace the world over are to be commended.”

A small bead of sweat ran the length of her spinal column. The unease that had gripped her upon taking the stage spread through her again, morphing distinctly into fear as it did a merry dance along her stomach lining. What was wrong with her this evening?

“Th-the belief in the equality of all humanity isn’t simply a noble cause—it’s a necessary one.”

Montana made a pretense of pushing a lock of hair behind her ear as a way to wipe at the moisture covering her hairline. The move did little to make her feel better as the moments ticked by along with the words on her teleprompter. The normal rhythm that took over after her nerves calmed simply wouldn’t materialize. Instead, the small waves of panic began to grow larger and more pronounced.

Feral.

Shifting her gaze from the teleprompter to scan the rest of the room, Montana fought to keep her voice even and level. The words of her speech were so practiced they were virtually memorized and she used that shift into mental autopilot to her advantage.

Quadrant by quadrant, she scanned the room, searching for something out of the ordinary as she allowed the benign words about corporate responsibility and what it means to be the world’s largest shipping company float toward the audience. All that looked back at her was a sea of smiling people dressed to the nines and in various stages of happy, glowing, open-bar inebriation.

Even as she told herself this reaction was silly, Montana’s gaze sought the corner where
he
had been. The tuxedoed man no longer stood against the wall and for some reason, that small fact made the fear coursing through her system spike uncontrollably.

Suddenly, unease morphed into a desperate need to get out of there.

The flicker of the teleprompter drew her attention brief moments before two things registered.