Dead Sexy (36 page)

As might be expected, Regan slept late the following morning. Rising, she took a long hot shower and then, dressed in a pair of black slacks and a short-sleeved pink sweater and matching sandals, she ate a quick breakfast of toast, orange juice, and coffee, and headed for the nearest mall where she spent the rest of the morning and the early part of the afternoon trying on wedding dresses, veils, and shoes, and buying sexy lingerie and a black nightie that was so sheer, it was nearly invisible. And always, in the back of her mind, a happy little voice reminded her that she would be Santiago's wife before the night was over.

Mrs. Joaquin Santiago. Nothing in her life had ever sounded so good or felt so right. Never before had she been so sure that she was doing the right thing, and that everything would work out for the best. Deciding she might as well grab something to eat before she went home, she stopped at her favorite Italian restaurant for a late lunch.

She had just been seated when Mike came in.

He saw her, hesitated, and then made his way to her table.

"Hey, Reggie," he said, his eyes lighting with pleasure at seeing her.

"Hi, Mike."

He glanced around. "Are you here alone?"

She nodded. "Yes, you?"

"Yeah. Mind if I join you?"

"No, of course not. Are you working?"

"Yeah, but things are mighty slow. The most excitement I've had this afternoon was a false alarm over on Fifth and Tigrina."

The waitress arrived then to take their order. Regan ordered a turkey sandwich, then searched her mind for a safe topic of conversation while Mike spoke with the waitress. She knew she should tell Mike she was getting married, but somehow she didn't think that would lend itself to congenial small talk.

She smiled at Mike when the waitress moved away from the table. "So…"

Mike cleared his throat. "I'm leaving the city. Tomorrow's my last day."

Regan stared at him. "What? Why? You didn't quit?"

"No, I asked to be transferred to another division."

"But why? Is it because they promoted Holloway in front of you?"

"No."

She felt a rush of guilt because she knew with sudden certainty that he was leaving because of her. "Mike…"

He held up a hand, staying her words. "Don't say anything, Reggie. I'm not blaming you. Anyway," he said with forced enthusiasm, "I'm glad I ran into you. If there's ever anything I can do… if you ever need anything…" He pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to her. "This is where I'll be."

Taking the card, she tucked it into her pocket. "Thanks, Mike."

They made desultory conversation during lunch, careful to keep things light between them.

When the meal was over, he walked her to her car. "Keep in touch, Reggie."

"You, too." Opening the door, she slid behind the wheel and punched in the ignition code. Nothing happened. She hit it again, thinking she might have entered it wrong. Nothing.

She slammed her hand against the steering wheel. She didn't have time for this. She was getting married in less than four hours.

"Looks like it needs charging," Mike suggested.

"I guess so. Can you give me a ride home?"

"Sure, come on."

"Wait, I've got some packages in the trunk." Thankfully, her wedding dress had been packed in a box, then placed in a large sack. She was careful to keep the name of the store hidden against her leg as she carried the package across the street to where Mike stood beside his car.

When he opened the back door, she laid the sack logo side down and piled her other packages on top of it.

"I guess I don't have to ask what you did today." Mike said, holding the door open for her.

She forced a laugh. "I went on quite a shopping spree."

"Any special occasion?"

"No," she said quickly. "Why do you ask?"

He shrugged. "I've known you quite a while and I've never known you to like shopping."

"Well, sometimes shopping's a necessary evil, like going to the dentist."

He pulled up in front of her condo a few minutes later. Being Mike, he offered to help carry her bags inside, and because she couldn't think of any logical reason to object, she let him carry everything but her dress. In the living room, she dropped her handbag on the sofa, then hurried into the bedroom. She hung the dress in the closet and then closed the door.

Pausing in front of the dresser, she picked up her brush and ran it through her hair.

"Mike, do you want some coffee before you go?"

Instead of an answer, she heard a heavy thud.

"Mike?" she called, walking toward the bedroom door, "You're in big trouble if you broke my new…"

Her voice trailed off when she reached the living room and saw Mike lying facedown on the floor. Concern for his welfare was swallowed up in stark fear for her own life when a tall figure stepped into view.

"You!" Her gaze flew to her handbag, lying out of reach on the sofa.

"Hello, Regan," Vasile said with a wicked grin. "I've come to take you home."

Santiago rose with the setting sun. He showered and dressed, then went out to feed before driving to Regan's apartment.

Regan was going to be his bride. It was a miracle, he thought, and he had long ago stopped believing in miracles.

He glanced up at the sky. He had long ago stopped believing in just about everything but his own abilities. Perhaps he had been wrong to stop believing.

"I will make her happy," he murmured, "every day of her life."

Happy. A small word. Mortals used it for so many things. Graduating from college would make them happy. A pizza would make them happy. A new car would make them happy. More money, a bigger house, a trip around the world, a nose job, a tummy tuck; all would bring them happiness yet never did.

But he would make Regan happy. He would grant her anything within his power to give no matter how large or how small.

Happy, Santiago thought. For the first time in hundreds of years, he, himself, was happy.

He was smiling when he pulled up in front of Regan's condo. Whistling softly, he got out of the car and ran up the stairs, eager to see his bride.

His steps slowed as he neared her apartment, his nostrils filling with a familiar, unwelcome scent.

Muttering an oath, he knocked on the door, swore again as it swung open and the smell of blood and impending death surrounded him.

"Regan!"

But it wasn't Regan's body lying in a pool of blood on the floor.

Kneeling, Santiago rolled the body over. It was the cop, Michael Flynn. His body had been badly savaged.

Flynn groaned, his eyelids fluttering open. "Regan…"

"Where is she?" Santiago demanded.

Flynn shook his head weakly. "A man…"

"Vasile? Was it Vasile?"

"Don't… know." Flynn's eyes closed. "Find… her."

"Do you know where he was taking her?" Santiago shook Flynn. "Where, dammit, where did they go?"

Flynn's eyes opened again and with his last breath, he whispered, "Home…"

Santiago closed Michael Flynn's eyes. He stared at the dead man a moment, then swore a vile oath. Vasile had taken Regan. Judging from Flynn's wounds and the way the blood had congealed, Santiago figured Vasile had a good head start—three hours, maybe four.

Rising, Santiago left the house. Outside, he closed his eyes and opened his senses. Sifting through the multitude of smells that assailed him, he sought for Regan's unique scent.

It was faint, hours old. It led him away from the city to the airport. Going into the terminal, he checked all the flights that had left in the last four hours. None were headed to Romania.

Going to one of the windows, Santiago smiled at the woman behind the counter. "Hi, Sarah," he said, reading her name off the badge she wore on her breast pocket. "I need to know if a private flight left here in the last five hours."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not allowed to give out that kind of information."

Santiago swore under his breath. He didn't have time for this. Capturing her gaze with his, he said, "I need to know, Sarah, and I need to know now."

"Yes, of course, sir, I'll find that for you right now." She typed a few words into her computer. "A private jet took off four and a half hours ago bound for Romania."

Santiago muttered an oath. "Do you know if there was a woman on board?"

"No, sir."

"Is there anyone here who would know?"

"The ground crew might have seen something, sir."

"Thank you, Sarah." Releasing her mind from his control, Santiago left the terminal and went outside to speak to the ground crew.

It took only moments to discover that a man and a woman had boarded a private plane on runway number eight.

"The woman," Santiago said, "what did she look like?"

"I'm sorry, sir, we never saw her. She was ill."

"The man," Santiago said, fear for Regan's life growing with every passing moment, "was he tall, with long blond hair? Spoke with a faint accent?"

"Yes, sir."

Santiago released the man with a wave of his hand and strode away, his fear and his anger growing as he returned to the terminal. He found a public phone and dialed information. Ten minutes later he had chartered a private plane to fly him to Romania. The flight was scheduled to leave tomorrow at dusk.

He only hoped he would reach his destination before it was too late.

Regan woke with a headache, a horrible taste in her mouth, and a sense of disorientation.

Where was she?

Glancing around, she saw that she was in a small bedroom. The walls were a forgettable shade of beige; the curtains at the single window were brown. A glance to the left showed a closed door; a large dresser took up most of the wall to her right. She lay on a canopied bed. Feeling as if she had been asleep for a week, she tried to sit up, only to discover that her arms were drawn above her head and her hands were tied to the bedposts.

Fear was a cold hard knot in the pit of her stomach.

She took a deep breath. She told herself not to panic and repeated it over and over again in her mind.
Don't panic, Regan, don't panic, don't panic
…

Too late, she thought as she tugged frantically against the ropes. She had gone beyond panic! Nothing good ever came of being tied up in a strange place.

Where was she?

Vasile… oh, Lord, she remembered now. Vasile had been in her apartment. And Michael… where was Michael?

She closed her eyes, praying that this was all just a bad dream, that she would wake up and everything would be all right. It had to be a nightmare… nothing this awful could be real.

When she woke again, a middle-aged woman with short, dark hair was staring down at her. The expression in the woman's eyes sent a chill down Regan's spine. Never, in all her life, had anyone looked at her with such hatred.

It took every ounce of willpower Regan possessed to meet the woman's baleful stare, but she knew somehow that looking away or showing any sign of fear would be the worst thing she could do.

The woman glared at her for another few moments, then turned and left the room without saying a word.

As soon as she was alone again, Regan began to struggle against the ropes that bound her to the bed. She didn't know where she was, but she was certain Vasile was nearby, and that she wouldn't like whatever it was he had in store for her.