He struggled to control his anger. It was hard to let go of the past. But for Raven and Fiona's sake, he had to get beyond it. Self-pity wasn't an option.
"I was h-hoping y-you'd say that. Thank you." The wounded detective grimaced. "Now I gotta heal up. I'm gonna eat everything. Anything they put in fr-front of me, even if the f-food kills me. That's my plan."
"If that's the best you can come up with, you must be hurting." Christian reached for Tony's wrist, giving it a gentle shake. "Take care, man."
After leaving the ICU room, he quietly walked down the corridor toward the waiting room with Raven by his side. Numb to his surroundings, he was steeped in thought. He'd spent his whole life building a foundation of resentment toward the police. And in a matter of days, he had come to grips with the frailty of that cornerstone. Dread gnawed at his belly.
So hard to let go of the hatred. He'd nurtured it for so long, believing it fortified him. But perhaps his changed feelings toward the police and Raven Mackenzie would serve a purpose, to help him search for the truth alongside a very unexpected ally. Someone sinister had risked a great deal to stir up the past, killing a man to make a very public point. None of it made sense.
Who had passed judgment on Mickey? And why bad they picked Christian to bring the truth to light? Time to find the answers.
The jet engine droned, making it easy to block out the world. He stared out the small window, his eyes not fixed on anything in particular. Night settled upon him as he left France, embracing him in black velvet, only a dress rehearsal for the real thing. With the time difference, he'd gain hours, landing on American soil to experience sunset in its finality, like opening night at the theater when little else remained but to raise the curtain. Feathery tufts drifted by, weightless. He felt lost in them.
The world had grown smaller—and he had been the cause.
Nicholas Charboneau replayed his long-awaited confrontation with Fiona in his mind. The woman held firm to her secrets. He knew when she was avoiding the truth. At least, he thought he could tell. So much time had been squandered between them, dulling his understanding of the only woman who'd made him vulnerable to love.
The steady vibration of his cell phone pulled him from his self-inflicted misery. He considered not answering the call, but his better judgment forced him to reach for his tether to the present.
"Speak."
"I thought you should know." Without greeting, the woman got down to business.
The sensual voice of Mantis prickled his ear. Normally, her lusty tone conjured up delightful images of his lethal flower. But only one woman plagued him now, lurking in the shadows of his memory.
"Yes, Jasmine, what is it?" His curt tone would be noticed. The young woman was most sensitive to his needs. The prolonged silence on the other end of the line confirmed it. Finally, she spoke.
"You should have let me come with you," she admonished tenderly. "Are you okay, Nicky?"
Rarely had he ever heard such doubt in her voice. The unexpected quiver of blame troubled him. He didn't like this sign of weakness in himself, nipping at his potency. It came much too naturally, and without warning. Was he suddenly developing a conscience? Briefly, he shut his eyes, dismissing the thought.
"I will be. Where are you?"
"Perilously lost in suburbia, counting my blessings that I met you. How do people live like this? I doubt I will ever understand the endearing qualities of the minivan." The disgust in her tone had returned. Jasmine was never sentimental for long. "You were right. Our ravenous predator is hunting. And as you predicted, he lacks subtlety and any semblance of discretion."
Under the surface of her sulking, childlike voice slithered the menace of death that he found most appealing. Sensuality and murderous intent wrapped in one tantalizing package. Nicholas had assigned his bodyguard to discreetly tail Logan McBride, suspecting the man would tempt fate by disregarding his not-so-subtle warning at their last rendezvous. Yet, he had to admit, the vulgar man had been right—an animal does remain true to its nature.
"He's marking his territory, pissing where he doesn't belong," she warned, her femininity neatly disguised by her crude choice of words, a delicious paradox.
Even using a high-tech secured phone, Mantis always avoided any incriminating references. A gesture he appreciated. She cautioned that McBride had escalated his interest in the fair detective who was investigating Blair's murder. He had dangled the detective as incentive to McBride, for a job well done, not realizing the bonus would be more like tossing blood in shark-infested waters. Perhaps the man wasn't as predictable as he'd once imagined.
"And he paid a visit to the other. I believe we should send flowers to the hospital—or the mortuary," she added in a grim tone. "The outcome hasn't been decided."
Silence. His once useful contractor knew better than to lead police to his door. But the man had launched his own campaign of retribution, without regard to his warning. Anger surged deep inside his chest. To a point, McBride's vile nature had been custom-made for his little endeavor. Now, the man had outgrown his usefulness. Tension set his jaw, but his voice remained steady.
"I will be landing later this evening. Keep in contact if there are any further developments. By the time I arrive, I shall have a plan to remedy the situation."
"I look forward to it," she purred. "And Nicky, when I see you, I will have a remedy of my own concoction." Her purposeful diction and the intimacy of her voice pierced the distance between them. "Guaranteed to make you forget your troubles."
"Until then, Mantis."
He ended the call, turning his attention once more to the clouds spiraling by his window. On the horizon, the sea of soft texture held substance, backlit by the fire of a waning sun. Light gained its fleeting stronghold, spearing its tendrils through holes in the sky. The constant struggle between light and dark was a battle doomed to failure from both sides. A winner would never be declared. Considering himself a poet with an appreciation for bloodlust, he appreciated the analogy.
"If only it were that simple, my dear. If only—" he whispered.
She thought the day would never end. Her eyes felt thick with exhaustion; an ache overwhelmed her muscles.
As Raven drove up to her house, accompanied by the two squad cars assigned to her, darkness settled. A trace chill of violation still lingered in her memory. Her safe haven had been forever tainted by the break-in. Turning the key to the side entrance off the carport, she glanced overhead, remembering her intruder had pulled the bulb from her security light. It would have to be replaced.
Uncharacteristically, she drew her weapon to walk into her dark kitchen, Lieutenant Sam Winters at her side. Though pitch-black, the room echoed its emptiness. She knew they were alone. As she flipped on the lights, the aftermath of her ruined dinner with Christian doused her with melancholy. The tainted aroma of spaghetti sauce hung in the air, its remains still splattered on the stovetop. The image forged its imprint on her mind.
Backing up Lieutenant Winters, she conducted a search of her home before lowering her dock. Her fellow officer and family friend had volunteered to oversee the night shift. Close to retirement, he had partnered with Raven's father and visited her house on many occasions. Her first night under police protection would be strained enough, but she felt reassured having Sam watch over her.