Meet it head on, woman! Face it. . . deal with it.
She shifted focus to the remnants of their dinner, congealed on her mother's best china. She had hoped for a quiet dinner at her bungalow in the 'burbs, a chance to reason with him. Instead, neither of them had eaten much. Her pasta Alfredo sat cold on the plate, with salads nearly untouched. Ivory candlesticks had melted down, their flicker casting shadows on his handsome face.
Christian had been overly polite, awkward around her. She thought she'd seen the last of that behavior . . . so long ago. Now it returned with gusto. Something lay in ambush within his brain. She saw it coming—like a train wreck.
"You've been quiet. And you haven't said much about the visit you had with Fiona today. Want to talk about it?"
He shook his head, staring into his wineglass, rolling the crystal stem between his fingers. Candlelight speared through swirling chardonnay, its golden haze dancing over lace. "I don't know how you can love somebody so much . . . and hurt them like that."
"Being a member of law enforcement, I can't condone what she did . . . but Fiona acted out of love."
"I'm not talking about what she did to hurt me. I'm the bastard who dished it out today." Darkness shrouded his face. He avoided her eyes. "I used her . . . to get what I wanted."
"To help your father, Christian. There's a big difference."
Struggling for words, he looked at her, his jaw torqued in anger. "It doesn't feel so different, Raven."
"Look. This is not a good situation. None of it. Will you let me inside long enough to help? Can we talk about this?"
She pleaded her case, laying it all out as plain as the red stain on lace.
His gaze drifted to her, a somber, unreadable change. The stillness of the room wedged between them. Only the soft ticking from a wall clock tempered the silence. Time slipping away. Too much time. She knew by his reticence she had lost him.
"Nothing to talk about. I gotta go. Thanks for dinner." He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and tossed it on the table by his plate. When he stood and started to help her clear off the table, she stopped him.
"Please don't. Leave 'em. I want to talk."
Christian hesitated only for a moment, set his plate down and said, "Sorry. I can't stay. I've got a lot to ... think about." He headed for her front door, looking eager to be free of her accusing stare.
"Oh, no. I'd say the thinking has been done. You've made up your mind, haven't you?"
Voice raised, she kept pace with him, maneuvering through her small living room. By his actions, he had drawn a line in the sand. A line he didn't want her to cross.
You should know better, Christian!
Framed portraits of her family witnessed their argument. Her father posed in police uniform, the photo taken a month before he was killed in the line of duty. The face of a mother she never knew, smiling. They had been the foundation of her life, but Christian . . . She hoped he'd be her future.
You're my family now, Delacorte . . . like it or not.
In her experience, life never played fair. After her family had been taken from her by tragedy, she developed a pretty tough hide over the years. Yet with Christian, she'd let her guard down, not wanting any barriers to stand between them.
Hell, love made you downright defenseless.
And he was the one man who could hurt her . . . deeply. But in her heart, she trusted him not to.
"You're shutting me out. Why?" she demanded. "If you're so hell-bent on doing this, then I'm going with you."
Her words stopped him dead in his tracks, something logic and common sense couldn't do. Christian turned to face her.
"Yeah? Well, what if I don't want you to go? Do I have any say in the matter of my life?" he argued, gesturing to make his point. "I'd just be worrying about you . . . maybe make mistakes that could cost both of us. I couldn't live with that."
He grimaced as if he were in pain, raked a hand through his dark hair. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be . . . please." His gaze softened for only an instant. "I love you. That hasn't changed."
"But not enough to stay here . . . with me." She blurted out those words, without thinking how needy she sounded. In her brain, the clock ticked louder, harsh and abrasive. The sound mocked her. It reminded her that those precious days with him might have been numbered all along.
"Don't make me choose between the life of my father ... and you." In the dim light, his green eyes muted to dark gray.
Raven crossed her arms, clutching them to her chest. She paced the floor and blocked his escape.
"I don't trust Jasmine, Christian. She'll have a million dollars and the Dunhill jet at her disposal ... and you. She could parlay the money, up the ante on her next victim." Raven raised her voice, heaping any argument before him. Desperation hammered her sense of reason. "If Fiona would pay a million bucks for her precious Nicky, what would she pay for you? And what if Jasmine is behind your father's kidnapping? I don't like it."
"And I can't walk away." Christian matched her tone, squaring off in front of her. "I'm not gonna start a new life here and wonder whatever happened to my . . . He's the last piece to this puzzle of my life. I have to do this. Why can't you understand?"
"I do understand, Christian. I just wish you'd let me help. Let me go with you," she pleaded. But when she stepped closer, he raised a hand to stop her.
"Out of the question." He shook his head and stepped around her to grab the door, but stopped when she spoke.
"When it comes to your family . . . and the hurt you've got festering inside, you shut me out, Christian." She let her words hang in the air, waiting for him to face her.
With head down in profile, he sighed as he stood in the open doorway, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. A gust of cool night air drifted by him and soothed her cheek with its caress, making her ache for his touch.
With barely a glance back, he said softly, "I'll call you when we get there. That is, if you're still speaking to me."
He would leave her behind. Gritting her teeth, she responded in kind, letting anger get the better of her. "Try calling collect. If I don't accept the charges, then you'll know."
He narrowed his eyes and raised his chin in defiance, but didn't say another word. He shut the door behind him, leaving her feeling empty.
Damn!
Everything had gone to hell, right before her eyes. And she'd been powerless to stop it. She fought the lump in her throat and a blur of tears, listening as he drove away.
"God, Christian. You'd better come back to me." She knew him well enough to believe if he didn't return from Brazil, there would only be one reason. And that reality made her heart ache with regret. "Damn it."
He'd taken a shot to the gut, the wind knocked out of him. Seeing the hurt in her eyes felt every bit as painful.
You, bastard!
Christian gripped the steering wheel, glaring out his windshield with only the drone of his SUV's engine and his self-recriminations to keep him company. Center lane stripes zipped by his wheels, illuminated by his headlights. He set a course for downtown with the anonymity of darkness closing in—the faces of Fiona and Raven haunting his conscience.
Today, he'd hurt the two people he loved most. And Raven's voice replayed in his head, over and over again. Picking a fight with her had been deliberate on his part.
Yeah, you're a real gentleman, Delacorte.
For her sake, he had severed their tightening bond, knowing she would've tried to accompany him to Brazil. The trip would be risky enough, given the scenarios Jasmine presented. He wouldn't give Raven the option. He loved her too much.
For much of his life, he felt alone even in a crowd. Raven tempered the feeling after Fiona had been sentenced to prison, giving him a reason to look forward to each and every day. A miraculous gift. But with the possibility of losing her now, the hollowness of being lonely, once again stretched across his horizon—an endless, familiar chasm.
He couldn't face such a bleak future—not now. Somehow, he'd make it up to her, become the kind of man she deserved. With great effort, he cleared his mind, dismissing the guilt and the emptiness.
He started to compile lists in his head, things he would need. Plans took shape. As it was, he'd be up half the night, packing and making arrangements. Only the mission to rescue Charboneau would take center stage now.
But aligning himself with Jasmine would be tricky. With the holes in her story, he might bring down the wrath of Charboneau's syndicate on his head. And the dangerous tri-border area of Brazil would be no place to outrun a well-funded criminal organization. With his main operation in Chicago, what the hell was Charboneaii doing in Cuiabá, Brazil? Maybe he could pull something off the Internet. One more item to add to his growing list of things to do. Yet the answer to that question might be the key.
His mind conjured up images of a face he'd never seen—his father.
"You look just like him," Jasmine
had said.
If he would ever see Raven again, he'd have to dig deep and rely on his discipline and training to steer clear of trouble. He glanced into the rearview mirror, seeing his face wavering in and out of shadows. Given his distrust of Jasmine and the corrupt world of his notorious father, he found his only ally staring back.
You better trust yourself, Delacorte. 'Cause you 're on your own, pal.
Dunhill Hangar, Chicago
7:47 a.m., Day five
He smelled foreboding in the air like impending rain. A steel gray morning cleaved to an ominous night sky. Clouds darkened the horizon, masking the downtown Chicago skyline. He imagined the storm carried its usual rumble, but the incessant drone of airplane engines flying in and out of the private airstrip muffled the distant thunder. The ground crew had worked efficiently as they prepared the Dunhill jet for departure, but now the flurry of activity on the tarmac dwindled. Christian knew it was only a matter of time.
Put up ... or shut up, Delacorte. No turning back, hero.
With their imminent departure, he knew they'd beat the onslaught of rain once they reached cruising altitude. Still, the dismal morning made it tough to shake the blues.
Raven's dark eyes haunted him without mercy.
Slow and deliberate, Christian sipped his black coffee. Holding the steaming mug close to his lips, he stared out the window of the small waiting area, letting the heat linger on his skin. He half expected to see her.
"You looking for someone, boss?" A familiar voice drew him back. As he looked over his shoulder, he heard the Dunhill man say, "We've got the jet loaded. Waiting for anyone else?"
A faint smile crossed his lips. "I'm not your boss anymore, Coop." When the man shrugged and returned a grin, he added, "And no, not expecting anyone else."
Christian turned back toward the window, his eyes on the front gate of the hangar. The cyclone fence gaped open. No sign of Raven. A part of him felt grateful she remained behind and would stay safe, but a nagging selfish side of his nature prayed like hell she'd drive through those gates, ready for round two. No such luck.
"How's Mrs. Dunhill?" Cooper asked.
"Holding up . . . considering. Thanks for having the balls to ask about her. Everyone's been walking on eggshells around the subject."
Fiona being in prison, serving time for an age-old murder for hire scheme, had become the elephant standing in the middle of the room that everyone chose to ignore. Cooper's candor struck him as refreshingly honest by comparison.
Once he'd uncovered the truth about Fiona being his mother, he kept the information to himself. No one needed to know. Most people asked too many questions, more out of morbid curiosity than from any real concern. Only a handful of Dunhill employees knew the real story of why he'd quit. He preferred it that way.
"I've been working for Mrs. Dunhill too long not to ask about her. Doesn't mean she's not in my prayers." Cooper smiled, then added, "Anytime you're ready."
Christian nodded his acknowledgment, gulping more coffee as the man left the room. Alone and rapt in his thoughts, he watched the gate, eyes fixed. Then a scent teased his awareness. He felt a subtle shift. A presence displaced the air in the room. Closing his eyes for an instant, he focused on his senses, waiting for her.
With expectation tugging at his gut, he turned, fighting a smile as his heart lifted. But his mood quickly changed.
"The detective isn't coming?" Jasmine entered the room so quietly he almost hadn't noticed.
"No," he replied.
The woman didn't bother to hide her amusement. It hit him the wrong way.
"Don't read anything into it. Thelma isn't making the road trip, Louise. That's all." With eyes downcast, he looked into his empty mug and muttered. "It's for the best."
Christian got a refill on coffee and stared steadfast at Jasmine. "I did some research last night on the Internet. Got a lot of hits off the name Charboneau."
As expected, the woman flinched, a slight move he might have missed if he hadn't been watching. Feeling encouraged, he went on.
"That genetics research facility Charboneau has been associated with? It was one of the organizations working on the human genome-mapping project, identifying the gene linked to drug and alcohol addiction a few years back."
He stepped closer to her, a hand in his pocket. He nursed his coffee and waited for the right moment to bait her.
"But I find it hard to believe a man who allegedly makes a living off the drug-addicted fringe of society would suddenly have a change in heart. How do you explain that?"
"Ah, the key word is 'allegedly.' But as you well know, I am only a bodyguard. I know nothing about—"
"Just . . . stop." He raised a hand and shook his head. "Save the bullshit for someone who might buy what you're slinging."
The woman stood her ground, not backing down. To the contrary, she smiled and stepped closer. Jasmine placed a hand on his chest. A bold move.
"Despite my preferences toward complete candor, I won't betray him," she said, her voice throaty and sensual.