He moved back around the corner of the church and out of sight. Her compassion wasn’t on trial, yet what sort of woman used a funeral to cover up a drug deal? The sort who kept more than a million dollars in an offshore bank account but claimed poverty?
That’s what he’d learned that morning. That’s what his meeting in Paisley was all about. Sorcha Logan’s numbered Swiss bank account.
Pissed with wasting time, Ben pushed away from the wall. The best thing he could do was check out the back of the van and find some solid evidence. It might not be legal, but he was willing to take a risk to get results.
He glanced around when he got to the van before trying the rear door. It opened, surprising the crap out of him. Who the hell left money or drugs in the back of an unlocked vehicle?
The stink of fish was overpowering and took his breath. Covering his nose, he leaned inside and frowned. It was clean. Immaculate even. There was nothing there except a stack of white plastic trays that must be used to transport fish. He searched around, slid his fingers along the side panels, came up empty. He eyed the stack of trays again. Removed the top box. Saw zilch in the one below. Removed the next box and his heart stopped.
Holy Mother of God.
The timer on the explosives showed fifteen minutes and counting. He backed out of the van and glanced up. Mourners began to filter away from the church.
Hell.
He’d dealt with bombs before, knew enough to get himself blown to smithereens. The detonator cord could be yanked out, but if there was a motion-detector hidden beneath that wad of plastique, his ass was fried.
What to do? Call the bomb squad and blow his cover? Risk innocent lives in a blast that was sure to happen before they arrived? Let Sorcha drive off and get obliterated?
Ben flinched.
He tried not to give into panic as he closed the door of the van, but sweat dripped down his face and made his palms slippery. It took him three seconds to hotwire the engine, five seconds to drive past the church. He glanced at his watch.
Goddamn
. What had the woman got herself involved in? Ben punched the gas. Drove like a maniac. Checked his watch again. It seemed to take forever to get where he was going. Every second counted off in his head like an invocation of death.
There. Ahead of him was a sign for the beach. He took the turn. Noticed throngs of people taking in the sunshine and golden sand and slammed on the brakes.
Damn!
Too many people. Too many kids.
His breathing was jerky, adrenaline beating the hell out of his heart.
Desperate, he looked around, craning his neck. Spotted a golf course with a deep sand bunker carved into the side of a green.
Following the track the golf carts used, Ben bounced along the fairway. Ignored the flailing clubs and excited shouts and drove straight into the sand trap.
The van shook hard. He hit the brakes before he crashed into the steep face, jumped out and ran onto the fairway, yelling at four men who were approaching fast.
“Run.” He ran toward them, needing their cooperation so no one got hurt. “There’s a bomb in that car, guys.” He eyed one gentleman who looked to be at least eighty. “I’m not kidding. Let’s move it.”
Ben hustled the men to get them out of there. He checked his watch. Out of time. “Get down!”
He shielded the old guy with his body and plastered his hands over his ears in expectation of a blast. The boom didn’t disappoint. Doors flew off their hinges and flames exploded thirty feet into the air. Acrid smoke billowed from the engine.
Ben rose to stand and stare. He swallowed the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. Someone had gone to a hell of a lot of trouble to ensure that Sorcha Logan burned to a crisp.
This was her lucky day.
***
Fingers bored into his temples, harder and harder, trying to silence the shrieks of laughter.
Bastards.
He screamed the obscenity over and over, trying to drown out the laughter. So pure was his rage, so potent his fury, he was terrified sparks might shoot out of his mouth if he spoke.
So he didn’t make a sound.
She
would hear. The bitch.
And he hated her more than he hated Sorcha Logan and her stupid friend.
His hands shook, blue veins standing up in relief from the tension of his blood. Each strike of his heart pumped alarm through his head like machinegun fire.
Was she dead yet?
He gripped his hands tight together. The thumbnail of his right hand cut deep into the flesh of the left. He tried to make it bleed, tried to release the building anger that engulfed his body.
Was she dead yet? Was she dead?
In his dreams they died together…inextricably linked by flames and water.
Was she dead yet? Was she dead?
Destiny could be changed…throw in another element…add something unexpected…destiny
could
be changed.
Sweat dampened his T-shirt as he rocked back and forth on his bed. Back and forth. Back and forth. Springs creaking as though he was jacking off.
Was she dead yet? Was she dead?
The spirits kept laughing and he knew the answer.
Sorcha crawled off the bus three stops from home more bone-weary and shattered than she’d ever been in her life. It was only 6 p.m., but already full dark this far north. Hefting her bag higher on her shoulder, she cursed her high-heeled boots. They were her only smart pair, but her feet ached so wickedly she was tempted to kick them off.
She cursed the people who’d stolen her uncle’s van. Probably joy riders, the police said. But stealing a car from a funeral…what sort of delinquent behaved with such a shocking lack of morality?
And hadn’t
that
been fun, calling Uncle Angus and reporting that not only had his van been stolen, but it had been found burned out too. Thank God he had full insurance.
Christ.
More remorse pressed down on her shoulders.
Alec McCabe’s funeral had been dreadful, the faces of his stricken family so reminiscent of her own long-ago grief that it had hurt to watch. The cloying stigma of suicide resonated through the mourners with silent recrimination. The fact that Alec was being buried in the churchyard suggested there was a seed of doubt about his death, but the faces of his friends and family wore culpability like a mantle.
She recognized it. Knew it. Owned it.
She’d wanted to tell them it would get better but, looking into his mother’s eyes, she didn’t think so. What parent reconciled the loss of a child?
What child reconciled the death of a parent?
She’d introduced herself to his parents. Explained how she’d found his body. Alec’s mother had reached for her then, wrapped her arms tight around Sorcha as if she were the last link to her dead son. Wrapped her up with such fierce gratitude Sorcha hadn’t wanted to let go.
Being able to bury Alec had given the family closure. And even getting involved with Ben Foley was worth that.
So why didn’t
she
have closure?
Her father’s sorrow had reached out as she’d stood at that fresh grave, and shame had twisted her insides. She hadn’t visited his grave since the day they’d put him in the ground and she couldn’t put it off any longer.
Sorcha walked toward the old churchyard, her feet dragging. She’d tried to deny it, but he tugged at her the way the moon pulled the tide and she could no longer resist the pleading entreaty.
Rounding the corner, Sorcha trailed a finger along the eight-foot wall enclosing St. Adrian’s church. The rough stone sent a cool tingle through her fingertips. At the entrance she stopped and noted without surprise the cast-iron gate was unlocked. She fisted one hand around an iron bar, let the coldness burn her fingers. Closing her eyes, she absorbed the strength of that frigid metal flush against her skin.
She had to do this.
Had to do it.
Maybe it would end the ill fortune that shadowed her…soothe her daddy’s spirit.
The hinges grated and squealed as she pushed open the gate.
Pools of light from nearby streetlamps spilled over the wall into the graveyard, gave it the spot-lit appearance of a theatre. Mist clung to the ground like cold smoke. Tombstones stood as black shadows, markers of death and gloom. She shivered, followed the gravel path, headed to the far corner of the churchyard where they’d buried her father.
The spectral mist rose up and surrounded her. Damp sank into her bones and she started to shake.
Misery clouded her mind, an abysmal wave of loss and loneliness clamoring to get in.
Why did she ever return to Scotland?
Scents of earth and grass choked the air. She took a deep breath, inhaled the sweetness of the earth that cradled her family’s remains. And suddenly other memories were bringing light. Visits to the graveside of a Tahitian princess buried here. A child clutching handpicked daisies and holding her daddy’s hand. Memories trickled back. Sunshine and hope. Not eternal damnation.
Tears prickled her eyes as she reached the corner of the graveyard and gave in to the urge to cry. What was one more crying jag in a day that had started badly and gone downhill from there? Having sex with a stranger? She shuddered. Jeez, no matter how needy and desperate she’d been, she deserved her crappy day.
She hooked her hair behind her ear, looked around. It had been fifteen years, but nothing had changed, they’d just added more headstones to the already cramped setting. The crunch of gravel was sharp beneath her feet. Decay teased her nostrils as she sank to her knees in front of her father’s headstone. The smell of rotten blooms and dirty water pervaded, sweetened by fresher blooms on a nearby grave. Dew drenched her clothes and her teeth clenched against the wet chill.
It was too dark to read the words chiseled in stone, though she recognized the angel who crowned it. Ten-year-old Sorcha had picked her out, the most beautiful angel in the world to watch over her daddy in Heaven.
Except he wasn’t in Heaven.
Agitated voices chattered inside her head, but she didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t want to admit she’d lost her remaining grip on sanity.
“What do you want, Dad?” As if talking to a gravestone was a sign of mental health.
An image flashed through her mind, her father scribbling in his journals. A small sliver of hope bloomed in her chest. She’d been meaning to hunt for the books but hadn’t had time. They
must
hold the key. Tomorrow. She’d start looking for the notebooks tomorrow. She had a meeting with her supervisor first thing in the morning, but after that she was taking the day off to get new locks fitted in the cottage and then she’d start looking.
Reaching out to touch the cool marble of the angel’s cheek, she faltered. A tingle of fear wove through her mind, and warning cramped down hard on her empty stomach. Danger hummed through the air, jolting her. She whirled to find a shadow looming over her.
“Hello, witch.”
Dread slid through her like the twist of a knife. Sorcha staggered to her feet and, even though she wanted to run, she held herself motionless, every sense focused on the flesh-and-blood threat in front of her.
“What do you want, Duncan?”
The smell of alcohol drifted on the air. He was drunk. God knew he hated her even when he was sober. Fear hissed along her spine. Had he attacked Carolyn last night?
She took a step back, her heels sinking into the soft ground of an old grave. Duncan stepped left, blocking her escape.
Oh, hell.
“What do I want?” His voice was low and mean, the high wall of the churchyard absorbing sound.
She knew she should scream for help, but her vocal cords were paralyzed and she couldn’t utter a sound. He took a step closer.
He was taller than she was, though his bulk didn’t look particularly athletic. And he was smashed. She could outrun him—except for these bloody heels.
Run!
The voices in her mind screamed. She wished they’d said something earlier.
Darting under his arm, she thought for a split second she’d made it. Then he caught her hair and jerked her back so hard she crashed to the ground. Pain exploded from her scalp even before she banged her head on the marble that edged her daddy’s grave.
“We’ve unfinished business, aye?”
The tang of copper flooded her mouth. Pain zinged around her skull and her vision blurred.
He knelt, grabbing and shaking her hard. “You’re an evil bitch. You killed your daddy and thought you’d got away with it.” His breath stank. The gleam in his eyes revealed hatred and madness. She tried to pull away, but he held tight.
Trapped. She was trapped. Bile rose in her throat. She recoiled as a flame from a lighter sparked an inch from her nose, the smell of fuel pungent in the air.
Her heart beat so fast she thought it would explode and she didn’t have the strength to draw in a proper breath. Her mind screamed that this was not happening. But she couldn’t escape. Legs kicked, but couldn’t find purchase on the slippery gravel.
He took her hand and wrapped her fingers around his penis, clasped them tightly beneath his as he moved his hand up and down.
She was going to be sick.
“’Cause that last spell didn’t seem to work, witch.”
She recoiled, but he held tight. She hit him again, to no effect. He slapped her. Black-and-white pain strobed her vision, but the pain was nothing to the horror that seized her as he fumbled for the button on her trousers.
She punched him in the mouth and he backhanded her across the face, her cheek scraping along the grit of the path. Her vision blurred but suddenly he was gone. Slumped over in a groaning heap. Another presence loomed over her as she tried to sit up. With a cry she scrambled to her feet, shrieked as someone grabbed her by the shoulders.
“It’s okay, Sorcha, you’re safe.”
Ben Foley.
Christ. The dead last person she wanted to see. But her legs were wobbly, her balance unsteady, and she had to hold onto something. Why the hell did it have to be him?
***
Every time Ben closed his eyes, he saw Mackenzie holding that flame to Sorcha’s face. Every time he took a breath, he saw her van explode. He held her in his arms, buried his face in the softness of her hair and took a moment to just
be.
Duncan Mackenzie.
His fingers itched for a weapon even though the sting of his knuckles reminded him the sonofabitch was no longer a threat.
Supporting Sorcha with one arm, he pulled out his cell and made a call. At this rate he’d know every cop on the local force.
He told himself this intense relief was natural for any man protecting a woman, especially a lawman. He refused to analyze it. Instead he held his prime suspect close to his pounding heart as he spoke to the operator. Her breath was hot against his neck. Slowly her sobs quieted and reality set in. She sniffed and pulled out of his arms, putting space between them as she wiped her cheeks. He didn’t like the way that made him feel.
Someone was trying to kill her. Sweat broke out along his brow.
He got through to Davy Logan. The cop was having a bad run of luck as far as his niece was concerned.
“Sergeant Logan here.”
“Sorcha was attacked by Duncan Mackenzie in a graveyard.”
Goddamned creepy graveyard.
He glanced around. What the hell was she doing here?
“Dear God, no.” Her uncle’s voice quavered.
“She’s all right. Mackenzie’s unconscious.” Ben kicked him just to make sure. This place gave him the heebie-jeebies.
“Where are you?” Logan asked.
“Where the hell is this place?” Ben asked Sorcha.
She avoided looking at him. “St. Adrian’s graveyard.”
“Iain’s grave.” Davy Logan said, overhearing her. On the line, Ben heard the shuffling of papers and scraping back of a chair. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes?” Ben glanced at Sorcha. Her cheeks were chalk-white, her teeth chattering as shock set in. “She can’t wait that long. I’ll take her back to her place. We’ll wait for you there.” He turned off the phone and slipped it into his pocket.
Mackenzie was out cold. Not that it mattered. The police knew who he was and where he lived. And if they lost him, Ben would find the creep and make sure he never attacked another woman as long as he lived. By the time he was finished with the sonofabitch, he’d be pissing like a girl.
Ben moved to put an arm around Sorcha’s shoulders for support, but she jerked away.
“I don’t need your help.”
Damn.
Sleeping with her this morning had destroyed his advantage and his objectivity. “At least let me give you a ride home.”
“I’m fine.” She turned to walk away but stumbled.
He caught her arm. “No, you’re not.”
She stiffened but relented and let him help her to his car. Shivers reverberated through her slim frame and into his body, telling him exactly how terrified she’d been.
It had been a fluke he’d found her. In Whitekirk he’d let the locals take over the investigation, phoned in a request to his Lothian and Borders contacts, who had turned a car bomb into a routine stolen vehicle inquiry. He didn’t want Sorcha spooked and running. He didn’t want anyone figuring out he’d been following her. Her ignorance worked in his favor as long as she didn’t wind up dead. He’d raced back to Anstruther, terrified Sorcha would get herself killed and he’d lose his best chance at uncovering the drug smugglers. He’d spotted her jumping off the bus on the main road, followed her from a safe distance and lost her again when she’d dipped into the churchyard. He’d doubled back, seen the open gate of the cemetery and found her just before Mackenzie did any serious damage.
Tree branches clacked like desiccated bones. His heartbeat jumped. Sorcha stumbled and he tightened his grip, supporting most of her weight.
The softness of her hair brushed the back of his hand, reminding him of what had happened in his bed that morning. He forced the thought from his mind. It wouldn’t happen again. It couldn’t.
Their footsteps echoed loudly, neither saying a word. He helped Sorcha into the car, but the look in her eyes delayed the questions that sat on his tongue. Like who wanted her dead? And why?
He started the engine and pulled out, cutting through the town, weaving in and out of the old cobbled streets. According to his source, Sorcha had been agitated when she’d reported the theft of the van, not pissed the way you’d expect a drug dealer to be if they’d been double-crossed.
Would a dealer even report a car theft? The price of an old van was pocket change when you dealt cocaine with a market value of millions.
Sorcha stared silently at her lap. Her vacant expression was beginning to scare him.
Someone wanted her dead.
If he hadn’t followed her today, she’d have been blown to pieces. Or assaulted. Bad options. What was it about this woman that stirred such extreme reactions from men? Himself included?
Who would go to the excess of a car bomb when a blunt instrument or bullet worked just as well? Terrorists? Organized crime? Car bombs were stock-in-trade for those factions. Stopping the car, he pulled on the parking brake and helped Sorcha inside her cottage. She was silent, moving with old lady stiffness. Collapsing on the sofa, she sat unmoving, staring down at her hands as he lit the fire.