Something changed in Isbel. She found strength in her words, saying to her dying father, “All I ever needed was you, Baba. You did everything for me. I could never have asked for anything more.”
“My sweet daughter.”
“Baba,” she said, softly.
A tear rolled from his eye. He exhaled. And was gone.
⢠⢠â¢
Landing in the south of France, Jordan threw open the door of the twin-engine plane for Sonya to exit.
“Take care of our girl,” Sonya said to Jordan, then glanced back at Isbel asleep in her seat. “And your boy,” she added, waving a hand to Ben.
“I'll do that.”
“And thanks for the ride.” Sonya turned and started down the stairs.
“Anytime,” Jordan called to her.
Sonya made one of her clever laughs. “One must always hope for limits.”
Jordan knew there was a message in what Sonya said, but for now, she simply wished her farewell, by saying, “
Bonnes vacanes
,
Sonya,
and tell Snake I said hello.”
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Sonya looked back at Jordan and stared at her with a reserved coolness, one inherited exclusively from the bloodline of her Russian ancestors. “I'll do that,” she said, then raised the corner of her mouth, revealing both a smile and frown in the same expression.
“And Sonya ⦠” Jordan said to her.
“Is there more?”
“No, just
thanks
.” Jordan meant that one word. Maybe it was two,
just thanks
. Because Sonya had had her back from the beginning of this op.
It was difficult for Jordan to pinpoint what she most appreciated about the woman, but in retrospect, she'd put her money on the explosion Sonya had set off at the border while they were escaping. Sonya deserved a big thanks, maybe even a hug, but Jordan knew a “just thanks” was more than enough for her.
“You're welcome,” Sonya returned as she pranced across the tarmac to a private car, waiting for her. It was no mystery who was sitting behind that wheel. Sonya opened the back door and threw in her bag, then quite unexpectedly, she turned around and ran back to the plane.
Jordan was just pulling up the stairs.
“I forgot one thing,” she called up to Jordan.
Jordan let down the stairs.
Sonya raced up the stairs and skirted around Jordan to the cockpit where she handed Ben something. “My apologies, I almost forgot,” she said to him.
“Thanks.” Ben smiled up at her.
Sonya patted his shoulder, turned, and hurried down the stairs. On the ground, she threw a hand to the air, not sparing another word.
Jordan folded the stairs back inside. She secured the door and then returned to her seat inside the cockpit.
“It's nice to have friends,” Ben said to Jordan as she fastened her seatbelt. Then he smiled at her with a world of wonder and joy beaming through his eyes.
She glanced at him, bemused. She'd let him believe what he wanted because she knew Sonya had motivations, but that was okay. For the first time in her life, she had motivations, too. Jordan returned an honest smile, faced the control panel, and started the engine.
“There's something I've been meaning to ask you, Jordan,” Ben said.
“Yes, me, too.” She looked at him. “Have you ever been to England, Ben?”
“I can't say that I have,” he replied.
“There's someone I want you and Isbel to meet. Well, make that two people.”
Ben held out the ring to her.
Jordan looked deep into his eyes.
“Forever,” was all he said.
And she gave him her hand. “Yes. Forever.”
The question asked most when introduced:
Is Daco a family name?
When given the opportunity to name his second child, Daco's father, a physicist who spent every day of his life pondering the Special and General Theories of Relativity, jumped at the chance of formulating her name. From conception to birth, she is both an original name and formula. Pronounced with a soft “a” and long “o”, the name sounds a little French, but is scientifically based in a physics formula:
The derivative (D) of acceleration (A) at the speed of light in cm per second (C) is equal to zero (O), where C is same in E=mc
2
.
My father had a sense of humor; there is no change in acceleration at the speed of light, the speed of light is the fastest rate of speed we know of, now at least, so I guess that makes me the speed of light.
Born at the Naval hospital in Bethesda, Maryland and raised in Wernher von Braun's City of Huntsville, Alabama, Daco holds a B.A. and M.A.S. from the University of Alabama in Huntsville and a J.D. from the Cumberland School of Law. When not practicing law or encouraging her children to become scientists, she spends her time writing novels. Visit her online at:
www.authordaco.com
, her Facebook Author Page:
Daco Author
, Goodreads:
Daco
, and Twitter:
AuthorDaco
.
The building looked like it had suffered a terrorist attack, only it hadn't. Christian Ziko, standing in front of it, looked like any other man, but he wasn't. He was the architect of this destruction and Gabrielle Healey was going to prove it.
The Densmore Building had been a dazzling jewel in the crown of Detroit's revitalized downtown waterfront. The glass third floor jutting out into the atrium with no visible means of support was an impressive engineering marvel. That floor was chosen for the hottest new disco in town.
It became a deathtrap when part of it collapsed, shattering the glass walls and hurling unsuspecting dancers over the edge. Six people were killed and a dozen others injured.
Gabrielle hadn't expected to see Ziko here, since he'd disappeared shortly after the collapse. She thought he might be ashamed or afraid to show his face in public. He should be. With his black hair and dressed all in black, he looked like the cold-blooded killer some thought him to be. Before the Densmore, he'd been touted as a brilliant and innovative architect for his radical designs. Now one local newspaper called him “the architect of death.” She wanted to hate him. How dare he create a design so flawed it didn't hold up for six months after it was built?
But she couldn't allow herself to become emotionally involved in her investigation. Her job wasn't to pass judgment, but to gather facts to protect her employer, Michigan Casualty, that had insured the building, from having to pay a claim. Her team had ruled out everything but the architect's design. All she needed was proof to condemn Ziko.
She had so many questions to ask him, and here was the perfect opportunity.
Stepping from the shadows of the building, her sneaker sent a stone skittering across the pavement, announcing her to Ziko. When he turned to face her, she sucked in her breath at what she saw. Lines of strain bracketed his tight mouth and a deep furrow beetled his black brows. But what struck her like a blow was the pain in his Caribbean blue eyes. She almost cried out just looking into their tortured depths.
She'd expected to find a cold, heartless bastard, but tearing pain didn't make any sense. He'd made one public apology ⦠and then remained glaringly silent. He hadn't faced the grieving families, or visited the injured in the hospital, or been on-site during the investigation.
Gabrielle had to touch him. Her clairvoyance allowed her to glean information about a person or object through physical contact. It helped her perform her job as an insurance investigator exceptionally well. But Ziko made her uneasy. There was a darkness about him that had nothing to do with his black jeans and T-shirt. His tee clung to muscled biceps and a firm chest. Her feminine instincts sat up and howled their notice.
She shook off her fanciful thoughts and the unwanted attraction. She was here to do a job, and Christian Ziko could provide the truth.
Taking a cleansing breath, she held out her hand as she moved toward him. “Mr. Ziko? I'm Gabrielle Healey from Michigan Casualty.”
At the first touch of his surprisingly cool skin, a picture formed in Gabrielle's mind, clear in the center but fuzzy around the edges.
Christian Ziko sat hunched over his drawing board, his pencil meticulously detailing on the paper tacked to it. It was a drawing of the Densmore and his blue eyes were soft with what could only be described as love as he worked on it. There was joy in his movements, in the light way he held his pencil, and in his bare toes gripping the bottom rung of his wooden stool.
Gabrielle tore herself away from Ziko and the vision disappeared. She felt shaken by a kernel of doubt. He'd loved it? Then how could he have designed it so poorly?
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“No. Michigan Casualty insured the building. I'm investigating the collapse.”
His face closed up and his lips flatlined. “Oh. Well, I'm glad there's insurance money to make repairs.”
“Unless they have to tear the building down. The building inspectors have to decide if the Densmore is structurally sound. But I'm not telling you anything you don't already know.”
But she was. She could see it as the color leeched from his face, leaving the lines of strain etched starkly into his skin. What the hell?
“I wasn't aware of that,” he said.
Where had he been that he hadn't kept up with the TV, newspaper, and radio coverage? “Have you been out of town?” That would explain his absence from the public eye.
He studied the derelict building, his jaw muscles bunching, for so long she thought he didn't intend to answer. Finally one word came out, although reluctantly. “Yes.” It was a word full of anger and some other dark emotion. Tension resonated from him. Wherever he'd been, it hadn't relaxed him.
Gabrielle wanted to touch him again to get a picture of what he'd been doing during that time, but she didn't want any more doubts.
Oddly enough, the word that described his present state was vulnerable, as though he was affected by what had happened. But that was crazy. Ziko's lack of public response showed his unconcern.
“I won't keep you from your work.” He made a half turn away from her.
“Wait. Let me give you my card in case you need to contact me.” She dug in her purse.
“I won't need to â ”
“Here,” she interrupted, thrusting a card at him. For some reason, it seemed imperative he have a way to contact her.
His hand brushed hers as he took the card and another vision blasted to life in her mind.
A cop slammed Ziko face first against a painted wall. As Ziko tried to rear back, the policeman jammed his billy club against Ziko's neck.
“Iâm innocent!” The wall muffled his shout.
“Tell it to the judge,” the cop growled.
Another policeman moved behind Ziko and roughly cuffed him.
Gabrielle jerked back from him, unable to deal with the tumult of emotions the vision caused. This was a precognitive vision, more rare for her. It showed one possible future, if nothing changed between now and then. She was sure she had something to do with this future coming true, but whether it was due to action or inaction, she didn't know.
Ziko headed toward the front door of the Densmore.
“Did your building collapse because of something you did, or was it an accident?” She aimed the words at his back.
⢠⢠â¢
Christian flinched. Since the press had already slandered his name and reputation, he'd expected her question, but it hurt to hear her accusation. He didn't think he would get used to strangers hating him for something he'd supposedly done, and for some reason it felt worse coming from her.
He turned, the denial automatic. “No.”
Then guilt swamped him. Maybe it was his fault. If he hadn't been working on half a dozen projects at once, he would have caught whatever error created this disaster. He cursed himself for not being on-site during construction. Doubt crept in and gnawed at his gut. How could something he'd designed fail?
When he added, “It couldn't have been my fault,” even he heard the uncertainty in his voice.
Gabrielle frowned, her gently arched black brows pulling together. “You don't sound certain.”
Christian's fists clenched at his side. “Something terrible happened to this building, Ms. Healey. I don't know what, but I couldn't have done it. I build things, beautiful things. I don't destroy them.”
“Some of the news reports said your arrogance killed those people, that you were too brash in your assurances the design would work.”
There was something he was certain of. “DesignCorp tested my design. Mr. Densmore insisted on it because it was so radical. It withstood all their structural tests.”
“Maybe it only worked in the lab.”
Stung, he lifted his chin. “No, it should have held up.”
She waved toward the building. “Clearly it didn't. A man whose sister died when she fell from the third floor wants you tried for murder.”
Someone else hated him. “I didn't know that.”
Gabrielle's blue eyes narrowed. “Hasn't anyone kept you up-to-date, forwarded you the news?”
“No.” News upset the residents at the Crittenden facility, so medical management blocked it. And his brother Paul hadn't told him any of it, although Christian had been too drugged to care if Paul had.
How had everything gone so wrong that he was considered a worse person in this town than Osama bin Laden? He'd believed the newspapers and magazines when they'd called him the Golden Boy of Architecture. His head had swelled with their praise over his work. Now he was accused of murder. No one seemed interested in proving his innocence, only in exhorting his guilt. Even this woman, who, in her capacity as an investigator, had the power to destroy him.
Gabrielle Healey was a striking woman. Her straight black hair and high cheekbones hinted at a Native American heritage. Her wide-spaced blue eyes were full of intelligence and incisive questions that might probe too deeply. Yet her full lips offered a sensuality he wanted to explore. She was a dangerous combination. She was an investigator and he had things to hide. Things like Crittenden and the reason he'd gone there.