"We're almost there, Mantis."
His affectionate nickname for her brought a graceful curve to her lips, pleasing him immensely. The female praying mantis always devoured the head of the male in the throes of copulation. He often wondered if the male of the species believed such sacrifice to be worth the extra effort.
"I apologize for subjecting you to this unpleasant business. As soon as we conclude this distasteful interlude, I shall make it up to you over dinner."
"Just being in your company comforts me, Nicky."
Nicky. Prior to Jasmine, it had been many years since someone had called him by that name. His bodyguard and confidante had no idea that the nickname engendered many bittersweet memories in him. Only one other person called him Nicky. And he had already taken a course of action to destroy a woman he still loved. Memories flooded his mind, back to his early twenties—a lifetime ago.
Feeling like Romeo to her Juliet, Nicholas couldn't resist a young woman named Fiona Fitzgerald. In her late teens, she'd captivated his complete attention during an intermission in the opera La Bohème, her lithe form made even more beautiful by the white beaded gown she wore. Although their affair had been torrid from the start, it was all too brief, cut short by her arranged betrothal to Charles Dunhill, the heir apparent of a rival crime family to his own.
He never understood why she chose another. Especially since he felt so sure she loved him. Fortified by the invincibility of youth, he begged her to marry him instead, in total disregard of his own safety. For her love, he'd been willing to wage war against his rival. But in the end, she refused to see him, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer. His throat clenched with the memory.
But his Fiona gave him a precious gift, something her husband would never claim. Given such innocence, no gift ever touched him quite as much.
Despite his feelings for her, Nicholas had seen Fiona become his new rival after the unsolved murder of her husband. Conducting his own investigation of the assassination, he'd found the chink in the Dunhill armor, and discovered his lover had grown a spine—and a ruthless nature. To not take advantage of such an opportunity would have been foolish. And he no longer considered himself a foolish young man. Business was business.
Drawing him back to the present, the late-afternoon sun stabbed through the gray clouds and warmed his face through tinted windows. Even with dark glasses, he squinted against the light, catching his image in the glass when the sun cooperated.
His dark hair, infused with gray at the temples, glistened in the light. The deep blue of his eyes flashed in the warm rays, even under his designer frames. He had changed from the man Fiona knew. Time and cynicism had weathered him.
Yet in spite of being in his late fifties, he still garnered the attention of women, even before they discovered his identity. His reputation as a powerful and wealthy man drew them like bees to warm honey, augmented even more by his notoriety as an accomplished lover. He'd cultivated his celebrity over the years on all fronts. But he had never proposed marriage to any woman other than Fiona, preferring his solitude to anything second best.
"Perhaps some entertainment might distract you." Jasmine's soft voice kept him from falling victim to his memories. Her gaze directed him elsewhere. "I know how you are so easily bored."
A motion to his left snared his attention to a darkened corner of the vehicle. A drama played silently on a small television. A DVD looped images that served to inspire him. Scene after scene of death played out before his eyes. Even now, a pride of lions devoured a wildebeest, their muzzles red with blood from a successful hunt, their half-lidded eyes satiated with the kill.
The brutality made a mockery of the classical music lilting in the background. Yet, such was his paradoxical life—the exhilarating adrenaline rush of his criminal endeavors tempered by the civility he favored. He had been truly blessed, and cursed.
"Yes, you understand me indeed," he muttered under his breath, not taking his eyes off the screen.
No pretext of love existed between him and Jasmine. They filled a need in each other that no one else understood. And she knew merely what he allowed her to know. Only one woman understood his softer underbelly. It had been the last time he felt so vulnerable to another living soul. Love was a weakness. And it'd been a painful lesson indeed.
Dismissing his unsettling reflections, he watched the drama played out on the screen. A cheetah slowly stalked a herd of gazelle in search of the weakest—a fine example of Darwin's theory on survival. Terror in the eyes of prey infused him with a sense of power as menacing death pursued its next victim. Truly an inspiration! Yes, he'd never feel vulnerable again.
His driver slowed and turned onto another side street. He glanced at his watch. Just past three. If this had been a peer in his social circle, he would've been embarrassed by his own tardiness. But he planned to meet with one of his more depraved contractors—a necessary evil in his line of work.
Logan McBride could wait. The man was a bleak illustration of how much he'd changed over the years. Harnessing a beast like McBride reminded him of the power broker he'd become—one of the many reasons he minimized face-to-face meetings with the man.
The limo turned right and entered a cyclone-fenced parking lot near a warehouse. Standing by a loading dock, McBride waited, his hands stuffed into the pockets of a coat draped over a cheap suit. The driver pulled alongside the man. The vehicle stopped only long enough for him to grant entrance to the unwanted intrusion.
"Thanks for meeting me. I know this is a risk—" McBride spoke as he slid inside, his eyes cagily searching the interior. "Oh, my. I wasn't expecting company."
Charboneau kept his eyes on McBride, who was quite charmed by his Mantis. From experience, he knew that her expression would not change with the flattery. Her hand tightened on his thigh ever so slightly, communicating her dislike for the man. But McBride was obviously pleased at finding a beautiful woman so near. Charboneau had seen the look before. Taken by her beauty, many men underestimated her—another one of his distinct advantages.
"You said it was urgent. I trust your judgment," Charboneau interrupted. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. But stroking the man's ego felt prudent.
A long, tedious moment passed before McBride shifted his eyes away from Mantis. Eventually, the man's gaze dropped to the decanter of Cognac, and with a nod, he gestured his intention. "May I?"
Motioning his permission, Charboneau made a mental note to fumigate the interior of the vehicle and toss what was left of a very fine family blend of liquor.
"What is so very important, Mr. McBride? I had hoped to keep our meetings to a minimum, for both our sakes."
Without an ounce of appreciation, the man tossed back the liquor as if it were cheap swill, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Yeah, I know, but something came up." Setting down his empty glass, McBride shifted his eyes to the woman, then back to him. "Can I speak freely?"
"Certainly," he replied, ignoring the usual social etiquette of an introduction to his female companion. Mantis slid closer to him, insinuating her intimacy without so much as a word.
"Before I get into it, I have to ask. Did you deliberately arrange for Detective Raven Mackenzie to be the homicide cop on this case?" The man smiled. Spikes of short blond hair stood at attention atop his head. Icy gray eyes awaited his reply.
A brooding Beethoven filled the void in conversation. Charboneau's eyes drifted toward the television screen once more, finding it more suitable viewing than the crass man sitting before him. The cheetah inched its way through the brush, then leapt from cover to launch an attack, its lean, muscular body poised for the kill. A smirk fought for freedom. He indulged it.