No One Lives Forever no-3 Read online

  For the first time in her life she felt completely powerless. That was inexcusable.

  Her mind began to formulate a strategy. Due to Nicky's reputation, she was not sure how her demand for help would be received. She would direct the attention of the local law enforcement, overseeing the efforts herself. The nearest American consulate would be contacted tonight, the U.S. State Department tomorrow. Time was of the essence.

  Surely she could garner support, even in this uncivilized corner of the world. And if money were required, she knew how to get it.

  Christian Delacorte owed her a very big favor. Despite Nicky's orders to the contrary, perhaps it was time for Christian to learn about his rightful connection to Nicholas Charboneau.

  CHAPTER 2

  Downtown Chicago

  Three days later

  An odd sensation contributed to Christian Dela-corte's fitful sleep, a steady unyielding feeling.

  Lying in bed, restless, he stared into the twenty-foot wooden rafters of the old warehouse, an arm wedged between his head and the pillow. Deep shadows edged the pale light of wall sconces he left burning through the night, a necessity since he was ten years old.

  Long ago he learned to stay attuned to his feelings, to trust them. Like a sixth sense, his intuition served him well. But this persistent feeling of expectation had been haunting him for days, making sleep almost impossible. He glanced at the red digital clock on his nightstand. Five-twenty in the morning.

  Damn! Shake it off, Delacorte.

  Maybe it was his new place. Taking a deep breath, he raised up on his elbows to gaze upon his unique accommodations. He had only recently purchased the old three-story building in downtown Chicago off Michigan Avenue, renovating it for his use. He made the top floor into his living quarters. The middle floor was converted to his personal dojo, filled with martial arts weapons and workout gear. And the ground floor held his new business venture. Delacorte Protective Services offered executive protection to wealthy clientele. After quitting Dunhill Corporation as head of security, it was the next logical step—even if logic had little to do with his decision to leave the international conglomerate.

  He ran fingers through his dark hair and heaved air from his lungs. A futile attempt to expel the doldrums. Despite the success of his burgeoning enterprise, he felt like a stranger in these surroundings. The old warehouse was not yet home. That would take time. His newfound independence had an empty feel to it, in spite of the fresh start.

  Most days, he endured a disconnection from it all. Living near the Chicago Loop with its cultural offerings, exclusive shops, and the yacht club nearby, he watched the energized downtown hurl past him as if he stood still. Adrift under the influence of a strong current, he sensed its pull out to a turbulent sea of an uncertain future. He didn't have the will to stop it. Mindlessly, he took one day at a time to reinvent his life. It was the best he could do.

  Barely out of boxes, his personal possessions were close at hand, giving him an anchor of stability. His former home had been a small yet comfortable cottage situated by the pool on the pristine grounds of the Dunhill Estate, a heavily guarded fortress set in the countryside north of Chicago. In his new urban locale, only the red brick walls defined the open living space. A stainless steel kitchen glistened at one end, with a large bed on the other. A seating area separated the two with a leather sofa and chairs sitting on a colorful Persian rug.

  Taken from the estate, his unique collection of ornately framed oil paintings and oversized tapestries adorned the massive walls of rough brick, the artwork glorifying ancient battles and death forever frozen in time. As his eyes drifted from one piece to the other, the violence depicted conjured up savage imagery from his past. A dark memorial to mind-numbing loss.

  When his somber mood threatened to influence his entire morning, a faint scent kindled his senses with a remembrance.

  Her perfume.

  He closed his eyes, filling his lungs with the fragrance of Raven Mackenzie. The subtle aroma of her skin, mixed with perfume, created an intoxicating blend. An image of her dark eyes possessed him even when she was not around—eyes capable of great passion, fiery anger, and unforgettable good humor. Feeling like an addict, Christian reached for the pillow next to him, holding it to his face for a fix. He cradled its softness to his bare chest.

  God, she's burrowed under my skin!

  In his life, serenity was a fleeting commodity. She had been a welcome change, a lush tropical oasis set amidst a fierce, sun-baked desert. Rare and refreshing like a pond of cool water in a thousand miles of hot sand.

  Even with the recent upheaval of his past and the misery it launched, Raven's growing influence dominated his well-being. Saying her name aloud had become his mantra to calm his anxiety when he woke up drenched in sweat from another nightmare. And the touch of her cool fingers on his scorching flesh would sweep through his system like a panacea. Somehow, she made all the changes in his life bearable. Using compassion and gentle persuasion, she wielded a power over him unlike anyone else.

  "Raven," he whispered as he opened his eyes. Her name was like a morning prayer—or a beckoning.

  His phone ringing on the nightstand drew him from his thoughts. Only one person would call him at this hour. He had a smile on his face when he reached for it, and before he had a chance to say hello, her sultry greeting teased his senses.

  "What are you wearing, hotshot?"

  His smile broadened to a grin. Blood rushed to his cheeks. And elsewhere.

  "Nothing . . . but a smile." His body reacted to the honeyed sound of her voice. He moved under the sheets, a morning erection inspired by Raven. "I missed you this morning."

  "Oh, I like the sound of that. And have I ever told you how much I love your sleepy voice?" Her deep sigh teased his ear, as if she were next to him. He imagined the hot velvet of her skin driving him to the brink of sanity. But the reality of her job, as homicide detective for the Chicago PD, broke the spell.

  "Tony and I got called out on a domestic turned bad. Open and shut homicide, but the paperwork still adds up. Not sure when I'll finish here, but I'm heading your way when I'm done, honey. And I'll bring breakfast. Keep the light burning for me?"

  "Always. And I'll unlock the elevator, send it down. I'm gonna work out, so look for me in the dojo."

  "You should save your strength for my kind of workout," she purred, whispering another suggestion into the receiver. "Maybe we can compromise. When I get there . . . keep the blindfold on. I love a man of mystery."

  Christian was a sucker for her blindfold game, Raven's sensual idea of foreplay.

  "Can't wait." He laughed softly at her teasing directed at his workout routine.

  She had witnessed how he immersed himself in total darkness with a blindfold to hone his hunting skills. His self-contrived method to overcome his fear of the dark had been his redemption and his curse, isolating him from others. But Raven never criticized him for his fixation. She accepted him—demons and all. One of the things he loved most about her. Only one item on a growing list.

  After hanging up the phone, he threw the covers back and sat on the edge of his bed, his thoughts lingering on her.

  Yet even she couldn't distract him enough to shake the feeling that had plagued him for days. Anxious would not begin to describe the hollowness he felt— or the inexplicable anticipation. The combination punch of dread and exhilaration manifested itself in waves of nervous energy and lack of focus. Something had to give. He needed a workout in the worst way. Only complete exhaustion might remedy the unsettling sensation.

  Dressed only in his pa jama bottoms, he headed for his bathroom. A faint murmur forced him to stop. A premonition tugged at his awareness. Surrendering to the moment, he looked back over his shoulder until his eyes found what he searched for with his heart.

  A black and white photograph of Fiona Dunhill hung on a far wall.

  Her eyes found his from across the room. The noise he heard earlier held a familiarity. It had so
unded like the whisper of a woman, or perhaps merely a distorted recollection. It nudged his consciousness, more of an illusion with words indistinct. Whatever headed his way had something to do with the woman he recently discovered was his mother. As he gazed at her photo, the feeling of dread swelled in his chest and confirmed his suspicion.

  He feared the worst. One of his many demons stood at the threshold of his mind. And Christian felt certain it wouldn't wait for an invitation to walk through the door.

  A cool morning breeze swept off Lake Michigan and through the city, stirring vitality in its wake. The pale orange dawn prodded the last vestiges of the night sky aside, leaving the wakening sun to spear its brightness across the skyline of downtown Chicago, spreading its warmth. Raven Mackenzie squinted as she stepped out the glass door, the front entrance to Central Station, with Tony Rodriguez at her side. It had been a very long night, but her partner was working off a caffeine high in his usual fashion, sharing his unique view of the world.

  "All I'm sayin' is, you should take a vacation together. Now that's a real test. Maybe a little heart-shaped hot tub action in the Poconos or helping each other pick sand out of every nook and cranny on Waikiki beach, slathered in coconut oil. If you survive that, then maybe it's meant to be."

  "Surviving a vacation? Sounds like a pitch for a new reality TV show." Raven shrugged into her windbreaker as she stood on the top step. After zipping the lower half of the jacket, she adjusted the waistband over her Glock and the detective's badge fastened to her belt. "It's hard to picture Christian doing the whole vacation thing."

  "You mean the camera around the neck, plaid Bermuda shorts, black socks and sandals thing?" Tony reached for the sunglasses in the pocket of his jacket. But before he slipped them over his dark eyes, he grimaced. "God, I just got a mental picture of my uncle Ray in that touristo gear. That's an image I didn't need."

  She shook her head and heaved a sigh, infusing her lungs with fresh air. After pulling an all-nighter, she knew that stale coffee and the smoke-tainted air of the bullpen had permeated her clothes. It shaded her disposition with a funk that even Tony's humor couldn't cure.

  "It's just that Christian's been so busy setting up his new business, meeting new clients, hiring people, and getting all the renovation done on his new home. Sometimes I think . . ."

  Tony squared off in front of her, hands in his slacks. Even through the dark glasses, she saw the concern in her partner's eyes. "What? You can tell me, Mac."

  Raven stepped aside, leaning up against the metal railing of the stairs, her eyes on Tony. She had no secrets from a man she considered family. He had proven himself trustworthy on so many fronts.

  "I know how he feels about me, Tony. And the way I love him, it scares me sometimes." She stared out toward the lake, its undulating waves glistening in the morning light between the office buildings. A gust of wind caught her next breath, making her shiver. "But he's never shared his grief with me, even after he's grappled with one of his nightmares. It's like a black hole. A bottomless pit that's all bottled up inside him. I can see a memory flash across his eyes, when he thinks I'm not watching, and he looks so lost."

  "You ever ask him about that?" He sat next to her, so close she felt the reassuring warmth of his shoulder against hers.

  "It's never felt like the right time, so I don't push it. I keep . . . waiting. And you know how much I love the waiting game."

  For a moment Tony fell silent. He gazed straight ahead, then dropped his chin to speak, "He's probably still working it out for himself. Guys do that. It gives us an aloof mystique. Women can't resist it. Maybe when the puzzle starts to take shape, he may ask you to help him finish it." He drew her attention when he made eye contact again. "But whatever it is you're feeling, it might be a rift that's permanent. He may never open up. Can you live with that?"

  Raven tilted her face toward the sun. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth caress her skin. Her partner was a very perceptive man, latching onto the very question she'd been asking herself for weeks. When she opened her eyes again, she nudged his shoulder with her own.

  "I don't know. I want to help him. It's torture to sit back and watch him go through it alone."

  "He's not alone. He's got you. And I'm sure he feels your support. Give him time, Mac. Christian loves you. I can see it. But a pain like that takes time." Tony stared down at his boots, nudging the tip of one over a crack in the cement. "It amazes me he's as normal as he is. You talk about having the rug pulled out from under you. A ten-year-old kid having to deal with the massacre of his family overnight, then finding out the ugly reason all those years later. It takes a pretty strong person to pull through it like he has. I admire the guy."

  "I don't know if I'm doing him any favors by standing on the sidelines."

  "You've got good instincts when it comes to people. Trust yourself. Just be there when he needs to talk." Tony lifted the corner of his mouth into a crooked grin. "You seeing him with what's left of your weekend?"

  "Yeah. I've got a stop to make first, but I'm heading over for a little one on one." She returned his smile.

  "Just take it a day at a time, Mackenzie."

  "I hear ya, partner. And thanks for listening."

  "Anytime."

  She walked with him down the steps and onto the sidewalk in front of the station house. Heading for her car, she parted company with Tony knowing he was right. She considered every day with Christian a blessing.

  Yet why did it feel like those precious days were numbered?

  Christian hit the zone where his body reacted on pure instinct, even without the benefit of eyesight. A dark blindfold covered his eyes, yet he sensed absolutely everything from the sweat trailing down the small of his back to the cool air raising the hair on his taut forearms. Holding the sharp katana sword in a two-fisted grip, he cut through air, drawing a whisper from the blade. A distinctive sound.

  Wearing only the black Samurai pants known as the Hakama, and an iai obi—a traditional sword belt cinched at his waist—he moved across the wooden floor of his dojo without effort. As part of the drill, he pictured an imaginary enemy, adapting his kata movements to combat his foe. The blindfold made it easier. Only the soft rustle of the wide pant legs accompanied his steady breaths and the lethal murmur of the blade.

  When he hunted, he felt true freedom. Fear forged an alliance with discipline, allowing him to focus on his target. With an appreciation for irony, he understood this process infused him with serenity. A balance and symmetry to the art.

  He had studied Kenjitsu for years using his favorite katana, an elegant, sleek sword. But he also developed his skill with spears and throwing knives. Despite his preparation with weaponry, he preferred the avoidance of conflict—the art of self-defense. Such discipline reflected his own conflict between the violence that fettered his earlier life and his pursuit of tranquility to redirect his future.

  The hum of the elevator broke his concentration. Yet he persisted with the blade, cutting at angles to battle his relentless adversary. Vertically down . . . then up in fluid motion. A decisive thrust, forward and back. Rotating his attack, he quickened his cuts.

  As the elevator came to rest on the second floor, its wooden freight doors rattled open. He heard her step onto the dojo floor. Almost imperceptibly, the wooden planks echoed her approach.

  His blade came to rest in his right hand. In a single motion he resheathed the weapon when she drew closer. And as she instructed, he kept the blindfold in place, awaiting the cool touch of her fingers.

  He wasn't disappointed.

  "Good timing. I missed you," he said in a hushed tone. His words echoed in the stillness of the large chamber.

  Without a word, she placed both hands on his broad chest, splaying her fingers across his muscles. Slowly, she moved down his taut stomach. Minus his eyesight, the move caught him by surprise. He gasped.

  "That feels good." His chest heaved in an increasing rhythm. His reaction had more to do with his excitement
at having her so near—and the prospect of what would follow. He had lost himself in the moment. Forgetting his discipline, he pleaded, "Don't stop."

  He gulped air, almost choking on his hunger.

  Still, she did not speak. Her tantalizing game. Instead she moved around to his back, trailing the tips of her fingers up his arm and across his shoulders. Cool satin floated over his inflamed skin. Her nails prickled his body with anticipation. Christian felt a subtle difference in the way she touched him. Raven was usually more direct. The woman's desires matched his need, but this teasing-prolonged fore-play stimulated all his senses. A new level of sensuality. Amazing!

  Silence fueled his imagination as he conjured up erotic images of Raven, the blindfold enhancing his perception. Vivid mental pictures spawned from his memory. Creamy pale skin and enticing curves of flesh tempted his lips. Dark hair and hypnotic eyes shoved reason from his brain, compelling his body to react. And as her finger traced his left nipple, making it constrict, blood rushed below his waist and hardened him with a familiar sensation.

  God, this woman knew bow to punch his hot button! His brain raged with pleasure.

  "Awhh . . . yes," he gasped. Her hands found the clasp to the sword belt. She undipped it and released the weapon.

  "Oh God, Raven. You're driving me insane. How long do I have to—" Before he finished his question, the distant sound of a slamming door distracted him.

  "Those stairs are murder. Why didn't you leave the elevator—"

  He recognized the voice. Even from under his blindfold he knew something was terribly wrong. And a loud crash confirmed it.

  "What the hell!" he bellowed.

  "Am I interrupting something?"