Night Shadow Page 8

  Very carefully, he set his cup back in its saucer. “Does this have anything to do with Parino?”

  Her eyes sharpened. “What do you know about Parino?”

  “I still have contacts at the twenty-fifth. Don’t you have enough to do with the Slagerman trial?”

  “I don’t have the luxury of working on one case at a time.”

  “This is one you shouldn’t be working on at all.”

  “Excuse me?” Her tone had dropped twenty degrees.

  “It’s dangerous. The men who had Parino murdered are dangerous. You don’t have any idea what you’re playing with.”

  “I’m not playing.”

  “No, and neither are they. They’re well protected, and well-informed. They’ll know what your next move is before you do.” His eyes darkened, seemed to turn inward. “If they see you as an obstacle, they’ll remove you, very quickly, very finally.”

  “How do you know so much about the men who killed Parino?”

  He brought himself back. “I was a cop, remember? This isn’t something you should be involved in. I want you to turn it over to someone else.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  He gripped her hand before she could spring up. “I don’t want you hurt.”

  “I wish people would stop saying that to me.” Pulling her hand away, she rose. “This is my case, and it’s going to stay mine.”

  His eyes darkened, but he remained seated. “Ambition is another attractive trait, Deborah. Until you let it blind you.”

  She turned back to him slowly, fury shimmering around her. “All right, part of it is ambition. But that’s not all of it, not nearly. I believe in what I do, Gage, and in my ability to do it well. It started out with a kid named Rico Mendez. He wasn’t a pillar of the community. In fact, he was a petty thief who had already done time, and would have done more. But he was gunned down while standing on a street corner. Because he belonged to the wrong gang, wore the wrong colors.”

  She began to pace, her hands gesturing and emphasizing. “Then his killer is killed, because he talked to me. Because I made a deal with him. So when does it stop? When do we stop and say this is not acceptable, I’ll take the responsibility and change it?”

  He stood then and came toward her. “I’m not questioning your integrity, Deborah.”

  “Just my judgment?”

  “Yes, and my own.” His hands slid up, inside the sleeves of her robe. “I care about you.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “No, don’t. Don’t think.” He covered her mouth with his, his fingers tightening on her arms as he pulled her against him.

  Instant heat, instant need. How was she to fight it? His body was so solid against hers, his lips were so skilled. And she could feel the waves, not just of desire, but of something deeper and truer, pouring out of him and into her. As if he were already inside her.

  She was everything. When he held her he didn’t question the power she had to both empty his mind and fill it, to sate his hunger even as she incited it. She made him strong; she left him weak. With her, he began, almost, to believe in miracles again.

  When he stepped away, his hands were still on her arms. She struggled for balance. How could he do this to her each time, every time, with only a touch?

  “I’m not ready for this,” she managed.

  “Neither am I. I don’t think it matters.” He brought her close again. “I want to see you tonight.” He crushed his mouth to hers. “I want to be with you tonight.”

  “No, I can’t.” She could hardly breathe. “The trial.”

  He bit back an oath. “All right. After the trial is over. Neither one of us can keep walking away from this.”

  “No.” He was right. It was time to resolve it. “No, we can’t. But I need time. Please don’t push me.”

  “I may have to.” He turned for the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. “Deborah, is there someone else?”

  She started to deny it, but found she could only be honest with him. “I don’t know.”

  Nodding, he closed the door at his back. With a bitter kind of irony, he realized he was competing with himself.

  ***

  She worked late that night, poring over papers and law books at the desk in her bedroom. After court she had spent hours cleaning her already clean apartment. It was one of the best ways she knew to relieve tension. Or to ignore it. The other was work, and she had dived into it, knowing sleep was impossible.

  As she reached for her mug of coffee, the phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “O’Roarke? Deborah O’Roarke?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “Santiago.”

  Instantly alert, she grabbed a pencil. “Mr. Santiago, we’ve been looking for you.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “I’d like very much to talk to you. The D.A.’s office is prepared to offer you cooperation and protection.”

  “Like Parino got?”

  She smothered the quick pang of guilt. “You’ll be safer with us than on your own.”

  “Maybe.” There was fear in his voice, tight and nervy.

  “I’m willing to set up an interview any time you agree to come in.”

  “No way. I’m not going nowhere. They’d hit me before I got two blocks.” He began to talk quickly, words tumbling over each other. “You come to me. Listen, I got more than Parino had. Lots more. I got names, I got papers. You want to hear about it, sister, you come to me.”

  “All right. I’ll have the police—”

  “No cops!” His voice turned vicious with terror. “No cops or no deal. You come, and you come alone. That’s it.”

  “We’ll do it your way, then. When?”

  “Now, right now. I’m at the Darcy Hotel, 38 East 167th. Room 27.”

  “Give me twenty minutes.”

  ***

  “You’re sure this is where you want to go, lady?” Though his fare was wearing worn jeans and a T-shirt, the cabbie could see she had too much class for an armpit like the Darcy.

  Deborah looked through the hard mean rain that was falling. She could see the dark windows, the scarred surface of the building and the deserted street. “Yes. I don’t suppose I could convince you to wait.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I didn’t think so.” She pushed a bill through the slot in the thick security glass. “Keep it.” Taking a breath, holding it, she plunged into the rain and up the broken steps to the entrance.

  In the lobby she stood, dripping. The check-in desk was behind rusty iron bars and was deserted. There was a light, shooting its yellow beam over the sticky linoleum floor. The air smelled of sweat and garbage and something worse. Turning, she started up the stairs.

  A baby was crying in long, steady wails. The sound of misery rolled down the graffiti-washed stairwell. Deborah watched something small and quick scuttle past her foot and into a crack. With a shudder, she continued up.

  She could hear a man and woman, voices raised in a vicious argument. As she turned into the hallway of the second floor, a door creaked open. She saw a pair of small, frightened eyes before it creaked shut again and a chain rattled into place.

  Her feet crunched over broken glass that had once been the ceiling light. Down the dim hall, she heard the bad-tempered squeal of brakes from a television car chase. Lightning flashed outside the windows as the storm broke directly overhead.

  At Room 27, she stopped. The raucous television boomed on the other side of the door. Lifting a hand, she knocked hard.

  “Mr. Santiago.”

  When she received no response, she knocked and called again. Cautious, she tried the knob. The door opened easily.

  In the gray, flickering light of the television, she saw a cramped room with one dingy window. There were heaps of clothes and garbage. The single dresser had a drawer missing. There was the stench of beer gone hot and food gone bad.

  She saw the figure stretched across the bed and swore. Not only wou
ld she have the pleasure of conducting an interview in this hellhole, she would have to sober up her witness first.

  Annoyed, she switched off the television so that there was only the sound of drumming rain and the shouts of the argument down the hall. She spotted a stained sink bolted to the wall, a chunk of its porcelain missing. It would come in handy, she thought, if she could manage to hold Santiago’s head in it.

  “Mr. Santiago.” She raised her voice as she picked her way across the room, trying to avoid greasy take-out bags and spilled beer. “Ray.” Reaching him, she started to shake him by the shoulder, then noted his eyes were open. “I’m Deborah O’Roarke,” she began. Then she realized he wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t looking at all. Lifting her trembling hand, she saw it was wet with blood.

  “Oh, God.” She took one stumbling step back, fighting down the hot nausea that churned in her stomach. Another drunken step, then another. She turned and all but ran into a small well-built man with a mustache.

  “Señorita,” he said quietly.

  “The police,” she managed. “We have to call the police. He’s dead.”

  “I know.” He smiled. She saw the glint of gold in his mouth. And the glint of silver when he lifted the stiletto. “Miss O’Roarke. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  He grabbed her by the hair when she lunged toward the door. She cried out in pain, then was silent, deathly still as she felt the prick of the knife at the base of her throat.

  “No one listens to screams in a place such as this,” he said, and the gentleness in his voice made her shudder as he turned her to face him. “You are very beautiful, señorita. What a pity it would be to damage that cheek.” Watching her, he laid the shaft of the knife against it. “You will tell me, por favor, what Parino discussed with you before his … accident. All names, all details. And with whom you shared this information.”

  Struggling to think through her terror, she looked into his eyes. And saw her fate. “You’ll kill me anyway.”

  He smiled again. “Wise and beautiful. But there are ways, and ways. Some are very slow, very painful.” He glided the blade lightly down her cheek. “You will tell me what I need to know.”

  She had no names, nothing to bargain with. She had only her wits. “I wrote them down, I wrote all of it down and locked it away.”

  “And told?”

  “No one.” She swallowed. “I told no one.”

  He studied her for a moment, twirling the stiletto. “I think you lie. Perhaps after I show you what I can do with this, you’ll be willing to cooperate. Ah, that cheek. Like satin. What a pity I must tear it.”

  Even as she braced, there was another flash of lightning and the sound of the window glass crashing.

  He was there, all in black, illuminated by a new spear of lightning. This time the thunder shook the room. Before she could so much as breathe, the knife was at her throat and a beefy arm banded her waist.

  “Come closer,” her captor warned, “and I will slit her throat from ear to ear.”

  Nemesis stood where he was. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t dare. But in his mind’s eye he could see her, face pale with fear. Eyes glazed with it. Was it her fear or his own that had made him unable to concentrate, unable to come into the room as a shadow instead of a man? If he was able to do so now, to divorce himself from his fear for her and vanish, would it be a weapon, or would it cause the stiletto to strike home before he could act? He hadn’t been quick enough to save her. Now he had to be clever enough.

  “If you kill her, you lose your shield.”

  “A risk we both take. No closer.” He slid the blade more truly against her throat until she whimpered.

  There was fear now, and fury. “If you hurt her, I will do things to you that even in your own nightmares you have never imagined.”

  Then he saw the face, the full looping mustache, the gleam of gold. He was back, back on the docks with the smell of fish and garbage, the sound of water lapping. He felt the hot explosion in his chest and nearly staggered.

  “I know you, Montega.” His voice was low, harsh. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

  “So, you have found me.” Though his tone was arrogant, Deborah could smell his sweat. It gave her hope. “Put down your weapon.”

  “I don’t have a weapon,” Nemesis said, his hands held out from his sides. “I don’t need one.”

  “Then you are a fool.” Montega eased his arm from around Deborah’s waist and slipped a hand into his pocket. Just as the shot rang out, Nemesis lunged to the side.

  It happened so fast. Afterward, Deborah couldn’t be sure who had moved first. She saw the bullet smash into the stained wallpaper and plaster of the wall, saw Nemesis fall. With a strength fueled by rage and terror, she slammed her elbow into Montega’s stomach.

  More concerned with his new quarry than with her, he shoved her away. Her head struck the edge of the sink. There was another flash of lightning. Then the dark.

  ***

  “Deborah. Deborah, I need you to open your eyes. Please.”

  She didn’t want to. Small vicious explosions were going off behind them. But the voice was so desperate, so pleading. She forced her eyelids to lift. Nemesis swam into focus.

  He was holding her, cradling her head, rocking her. For a moment, she could only see his eyes. Beautiful eyes, she thought dizzily. She had fallen in love with them the first time she’d seen them. She had looked through the crowd of people through the dazzle of lights and had seen him, seen them.

  With a little groan, she lifted a hand to the knot already forming on her temple. She must be concussed, she thought. The first time she had seen Nemesis she had been in a dark alley. And there had been a knife. Like tonight.

  “A knife,” she murmured. “He had a knife.”

  Stunned by relief, he lowered his brow to hers. “It’s all right. He didn’t get a chance to use it.”

  “I thought he’d killed you.” She lifted a hand to his face, found it warm.

  “No.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  His eyes changed. Concern rushed out as fury rushed in. “No.” He had seen Deborah crumpled on the floor and had known such blank terror, the kind he thought he’d forgotten how to feel. It had been easy for Montega to get away. But there would be another time. He promised himself that. And he would have his justice. And his revenge.

  “He got away?”

  “For now.”

  “You knew him.” Over the pounding in her head, she tried to think. “You called him by name.”

  “Yes, I knew him.”

  “He had a gun.” She squeezed her eyes tight, but the pain continued to roll. “Where did he have a gun?”

  “In his pocket. He makes it a habit to ruin his suits.”

  That was something she would have to consider later. “We have to call the police.” She put a hand on his arm for balance and felt the warm stickiness on her fingers. “You’re bleeding.”

  He glanced down to where the bullet had grazed him. “Some.”

  “How badly?” Ignoring the throbbing in her temple, she pushed away. Before he could answer, she was ripping his sleeve to expose the wound. The long, ugly graze had her stomach doing flip-flops. “We need to stop the bleeding.”

  She couldn’t see his lifted brow, but heard it in his voice. “You could tear your T-shirt into a tourniquet.”

  “You should be so lucky.” She glanced around the room, scrupulously avoiding looking at the form sprawled over the bed. “There’s nothing in here that wouldn’t give you blood poisoning.”

  “Try this.” He offered her a square of black cloth.

  She fumbled with the bandage. “It’s my first gunshot wound, but I think this should be cleaned.”

  “I’ll see to it later.” He enjoyed having her tend to him. Her fingers were gentle on his skin, her brows drawn together in concentration. She had found a murdered man, had nearly been murdered herself. But she had bounced back and was doing competently w
hat needed to be done.

  Practicality. His lips curved slightly. Yes, it could be very attractive. Added to that, he could smell her hair as she bent close, feel the softness of it as it brushed against his cheek. He heard her breathing, slow, steady, under the sound of the quieting rain.

  Having done her best, Deborah sat back on her heels. “Well, so much for invulnerability.”

  He smiled and stopped her heart. “There goes my reputation.”

  She could only stare, spellbound as they knelt on the floor of the filthy little room. She forgot where she was, who she was. Unable to stop herself, she lowered her gaze to his mouth. What tastes would she find there? What wonders would he show her?

  He could barely breathe when she lifted her eyes to his again. In hers he saw passion smoldering, and an acceptance that was terrifying. Her fingers were still on his skin, gently stroking. He could see each quick beat of her heart in the pulse that hammered at her throat.

  “I dream of you.” He reached out to bring her unresistingly against him. “Even when I’m awake I dream of you. Of touching you.” His hands slid up to cup, to caress, her breasts. “Of tasting you.” Compelled, he buried his mouth at her throat, where the flavor and the scent were hot.

  She leaned toward him, into him, stunned and shattered by the wildly primitive urges beating in her blood. His lips were like a brand on her skin. And his hands … Oh, Lord, his hands. With a deep, throaty moan, she arched back, eager and willing.

  And Gage’s face swam in front of her eyes.

  “No.” She jerked away, shocked and shamed. “No, this isn’t right.”

  He cursed himself. Her. Circumstance. How could he have touched her now, here? “No, it isn’t.” He rose, stepped away. “You don’t belong here.”

  Because she was on the verge of tears, her voice was sharp. “And you do?”

  “More than you,” he murmured. “Much more than you.”

  “I was doing my job. Santiago called me.”

  “Santiago’s dead.”

  “He wasn’t.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes and prayed for composure. “He called, asked me to come.”

  “Montega got here first.”

  “Yes.” Telling herself she was strong, she lowered her hands and looked at him. “But how? How did he know where to find Santiago? How did he know I was coming here tonight? He was waiting for me. He called me by name.”

  Interested, Nemesis studied her. “Did you tell anyone you were coming here tonight?”

  “No.”

  “I’m beginning to believe you are a fool.” He swung away from her. “You come here, to a place like this, alone, to see a man who would as soon put a bullet in your brain as speak to you.”

  “He wouldn’t have hurt me. He was terrified, ready to talk. And I know what I’m doing.”

  He turned back. “You don’t begin to know.”

  “But you do, of course.” She pushed at her tousled hair and had fresh pain shooting through her head. “Oh, why the hell don’t you go away? Stay away? I don’t need this kind of grief from you. I’ve got work to do.”

  “You need to go home, leave this to others.”