Tiger Eye (20 page)

Dela owned the building and the garden, which she had planted herself, with some minor input from the neighboring business owners. If anyone ever wondered how she, a young woman still in her twenties, managed to afford the former warehouse and all the renovations that had gone into making it habitable, they never voiced their questions to her face. Dela thought it likely they assumed she was wealthy from her art sales. Which was partly true. At this point in her career, she could have lived quite comfortably off the profits she made on her sculptures. But not this comfortably.

Oh, being a member of a family full of psychics had its advantages, especially when all the pre-cogs played the stock market. Sort of took insider trading to a whole new level when you could foresee the importance of certain medical or technological advances. Both Dela and Max had trust funds that would make Donald Trump’s eyes roll up inside his head.

Not that anyone in the family abused the money they accrued. Much of it was given away—anonymously, always—while some was kept in reserve for … special projects.

Dela’s heart warmed when she saw the familiar brick façade and gleaming windows. She opened herself to the imprint of girders, frameworks, and wiring, feeling the echo of her spirit, and something else, welcome her home.

“You’ve all been staying here?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. We’ve been taking turns using your guest rooms. There’s someone inside and outside your home at all times.”

“How many did Roland send?”

“There’s four of us. Artur, Blue, Dean, and myself.”

She grinned. “All the bad boys.”

“They’ve been looking forward to seeing you,” Eddie said, still blushing.

“I bet.” Dela stifled a laugh.
Let the games begin.

“More family friends?” Hari asked mildly. His hand snaked around the seat to caress her shoulder. Dela beamed, reaching back to touch him.

When they pulled into the small private lot behind the building, three of Roland’s best were waiting: Artur Loginov, Dean Campbell, and Blue—who had yet to share his last name with anyone but Roland. The three men wore identical grins as Dela got out of the car, and Dean opened his arms for a hug that would make a bear squirm. His short hair was the color of honey shot with sun, and while he was not a tall man, he was lean and well-built.

“Hey, now,” he said, blue eyes twinkling. “We heard you had some trouble and came a-runnin.” Dean was from Philadelphia, but had lived in the South for a time. The accent had rubbed off. Dela thought it suited his personality.

“Oh.” She grinned. “So it wasn’t just Roland chewing out your asses that suddenly made my home so appealing.”

“That, too,” Blue said, running fingers through his long black hair, for once unbound. He looked slightly rumpled, as though he had just gotten up from a nap. His deeply tanned
skin glowed in the afternoon light. The skin around his hazel eyes crinkled. “You should have heard the things he said to us. If anything happens to you, we might as well arrange for Artur’s old buddies to come pack us under concrete.”

“We never used concrete,” Artur told him, his words thick with a Russian accent. “Who was doing any building? We just dumped bodies in the river.”

Chances were good that Artur wasn’t kidding; for years he had worked as muscle for the Russian mafia. Tall, broad, and lean, his brown hair framed spare, handsome features, pale skin that refused to tan. His eyes were dark, almost black, and keen with intelligence. There was something about Artur that always drew the eye: partly his face, but more often the air of reserved mystery that many women—including, once upon a time, Dela—found attractive. He had an aura of quiet danger, which Dela knew for a fact was no act.

“Sheesh.” She shook her head and held out her hand to Hari, who was finally able to untangle himself from the backseat of the Land Cruiser. “I want you guys to meet a close friend of mine. This is Hari. Hari, this is Dean, Blue, and Artur.”

Roland’s boys backed up as Hari straightened to his full height. Eddie grinned.

“Holy …” Dean coughed. “Are you some kind of mutant? I swear to God, Roland’s going to flip out when he meets you.”

“No one is recruiting Hari,” Dela warned. “He’s much too nice for the likes of you scoundrels.”

“I used to be nice,” Artur said to no one in particular, stripping off a leather glove. He held out his hand to Hari. Dela opened her mouth to warn them both, but it was too late: An actual spark of electricity jolted the air as Hari shook Artur’s hand. The Russian stumbled, his eyes rolling white.

Hari bowed his head, swaying. He passed a large hand over his eyes and looked to Dela for an explanation.

“Artur is a psychometrist,” she explained, throwing the recovering Russian a mild glare. “He has the ability to learn about the history of a person, or object, simply by touching it.”

“Yeah,” Blue said warily, as Artur finally managed to stand on his own. “But he usually doesn’t have
this
strong a reaction.”

“Where are you from again?” Dean asked, his eyes dark with suspicion. He fingered a scar on his arm—one of many, the result of knife and gunshot wounds, inflicted during his teens while he had lived on the streets.

“Not where,” said Artur, holding a hand to his head. He looked nauseated.
“When.”

Blue, Dean, and Eddie stared at him with the same skepticism that would have met a man claiming to be the reincarnated soul of a chipmunk.

“We’re not talking about this outside,” Dela said, as Hari took her suitcase from Eddie and slung it over his shoulder. “Someone might sneak by and stab me while you boys are wrapping your heads around Artur’s visions.”

Everyone instantly shut their mouths, although Dela did not miss the glares they sent in Hari’s direction. Everyone but Artur, that is. He simply observed Hari with a great deal of puzzlement and a quiet wariness that reminded Dela of when she had first met him, adjusting to life outside the mob, where smiles never had been just smiles, and a bullet in the head might very well accompany every after-dinner smoke.

Dela had spent a lot of time with Artur, helping him adjust to his new life. And oh, the crush she’d had! Artur knew—she had told him, after several weeks in his company. Dela still remembered his kind, sad smile, his gentle letdown. She had walked away, not saddened or embarrassed, but somehow warm. The two of them had been friends ever since.

She wondered what Artur saw when he touched Hari’s
hand—and thought, for a moment, she did not want to know. The Russian carefully replaced his glove and threw Dela a curious, somewhat sympathetic smile.

The first floor of Dela’s home was devoted entirely to her studio, although the front of the building facing the street had been converted into a gallery for her art. Without Adam to run the shop, Dela thought she would keep it closed. She had better things to worry about, and there was no shortage of cash.

Dela kept a working forge just inside the back of the building, with two giant doors that swung open to the outside world when she needed fresh air. A long worktable took up the right wall. Blowtorches, boxes of metal scrap, and half-finished works of art covered the gleaming surface; sketches were pinned to an equally long bulletin board.

Against the opposite wall sat an identical table with a similar bulletin board. Except there, no art of a typical nature. Only weapons.

Half-finished swords she kept near the forge, but several completed blades rested on the table, variations of the ancient and medieval, the exotic. Such as a Flamberg, with its thirty-inch kriss-style blade, steel guard, and pommel, the grip covered in fine black leather. Creatures of European legend were engraved into the blade itself. Unicorns and dragons; intricate and wild, with minute detail made possible only through Dela’s telekinetic affinity for metal. She could “impress” the art upon the blade.

There were Kangshi-style swords, swords of ancient Greece and Mongolia, shining scimitars begging for sand and sun, Celtic double-edged blades with blood grooves and wood handles—and then the daggers, ancient styles with contemporary twists, as well as the opposite: Marine Corps knives with the blades curved and jagged to resemble flames, military Kukris
bent like razor-sharp wings, engraved with delicate feathers. Everywhere the lethal was made beautiful.

The studio looked the same as she had left it, although some of the weapons seemed out of place.

“You guys have been playing, haven’t you.” She cast a significant glance at Dean.

He grinned. “It’s better than porn.”

Blue grunted. “You know Dean. He only feels manly when he’s surrounded by phallic symbols.”

Hari was the only who didn’t laugh. He focused entirely on the weapons, running his fingers over the polished steel.

“Your talent is staggering,” he said quietly. Dela flushed with pleasure. Compliments didn’t mean much to her anymore, but Hari was a born warrior—had lived on the battlefield for two thousand years. If he said her work was good, then it really was. He should know, after all.

“If you see one you want, it’s yours,” she said. “Or I’ll make you a new one, custom-fit to your strength and hand.”

The look he shot her was pure delight, almost boyish. “That would be a gift beyond imagining.”

“Sweet-talker,” Dean muttered under his breath.

“And what is it you say when Dela gives
you
a new blade?” Artur asked, with a knowing smile.

Dean scowled.

They left the studio, walking up the stairs set against the farthest wall. Dela had converted the second floor into a cozy living space with four bedrooms, two baths, and a giant living room doubling as a library and entertainment center. Brightly colored rag rugs covered the dark hardwood floors. A gourmet kitchen, tiled in cherry red and navy, was nestled in the corner beside the front door, the curved counter embracing a pleasant dining area.

There was more window than wall; sunlight bathed the entire
interior with a bright, cheerful glow. It was like standing outside with only the illusion of shelter.

Someone—probably Adam, before his forced vacation—had been thoughtful enough to place vases of fresh daisies on all the tables. The air smelled like baking cookies, warm and sweet. Dela’s mail lay stacked inside a small wicker basket on the kitchen counter. She quickly flipped through the envelopes and magazines, knowing Adam would have taken care of everything important before his departure.

“I took the liberty of appropriating your Victoria’s Secret catalogs.” Dean grabbed a bottle of water from her refrigerator. “You can have them back if you want.”

“Yuck, no. I don’t even want to think about the awful ways those pages have been violated.”

“Darlin’, what I do ain’t a violation.”

“Tell that to page twenty-two and what’s left of Tyra Banks and her rhinestone bra,” Blue said, winking.

“Hey.” Dean frowned.

A familiar hand pressed against Dela’s shoulder, and she leaned into Hari’s body, aware of the sharp glances the other men threw in her direction.

“Delilah,” he said, and there was something tense in his face. Sympathy, tinged with guilt, assailed her. All of this had to be so very strange to Hari, and she had done little to prepare him for her houseguests. She covered his hand with her own, and gently squeezed. Hari’s lips softened, and he said, “If these men are here to protect you, then I think it would be best if we informed them of our other … problem.”

“What other problem?” Blue asked, sounding somewhat unfriendly.

Dela frowned at him, but Blue’s eyes remained unapologetic. He had tied back his hair, revealing the high, stark cheekbones
of his face, the strong lines of his throat. She looked from him to the other three men, and found she had their complete attention. Artur looked unhappy.

“There’s someone else who wants me dead. Completely unrelated, but the goal seems the same.”

Only Artur seemed unsurprised by her news, but everyone else went pale. “I need to sit down,” said Dean, collapsing on the couch. Eddie joined him on the other end, while Artur remained standing, looking steadily into Hari’s eyes. A strange understanding seemed to pass between the two men.

“I think the story would be better coming from you,” Artur said. Hari nodded.

“Will someone please tell me what is going on?” Blue called out, throwing himself between Dean and Eddie with graceful abandon. “Or I swear to God I’m going to blow the fuse on every piece of equipment in this place.”

“You do that and I’ll show you just how hot a forge can get,” Dela snapped, smoothing back her hair as all the men stared, startled. “I’m going to take a shower now. All of you, be nice to Hari. Everything he tells you is the truth. Pray to God none of you gets on his bad side.”

Then she went to Hari, stood on her tiptoes to grab handfuls of his hair, and dragged his head down for a deeply satisfying kiss that left them both breathless and shaken.

His expression was equal parts surprised and pleased, and having marked her man off-limits to extreme abuse, Dela cheerfully saluted all of her open-mouthed observers, and went away to wash off thirteen hours worth of dirt, sexual frustration, and confusion.

“Well,” said Eddie, after a moment of awkward silence. “Does anyone want cookies? I’ll go get some cookies.”

“Dela kissed you.” Dean looked confused. Hari, still feeling
the burn of her lips, the press of her body against his own, could only nod and smile.

Uncertainty had plagued him from the moment he arrived at Dela’s home to find these men waiting for her. Men she obviously knew well. It made him feel jealous and lonely, and while he was determined not to make a fool of himself, all he wanted to do was put Dela over his shoulder and drag her off to some dark place where he could wrap himself around her body and pretend they were the only two people in the world.

And that would only be the beginning.

But Dela had kissed him in front of these men, and now it was difficult to remember he had ever felt insecure about his place in her life. Her passion had been voice and thunder, an explosion felt in the depths of his soul. It was more than he had expected, but perfect. Perfect.