Tiger Eye (32 page)

“It is a public place,” Artur said thoughtfully. “A restaurant where Dela’s face is known.”

“You’re not seriously considering it, are you?” Blue frowned. “You know as well as I do that public places can be just as unsafe as dark alleys. Takes a little more skill, that’s all.”

“Artur’s right,” Dela said, frustration and anger merging with
fear, creating an even stronger emotion: resolve. “This is going to be my only chance to meet with Zhang. I need to do this, to find out what his intentions are. If he still wants to kill me, fine. Won’t be any different from the way I’m living now. But what if he doesn’t want to kill me? What if he just needs to look me in the face, tell me I’m scum, then walk away?”

“Delilah, men such as this do not ‘walk away’ from anything,” Hari said. “If his intent tonight is
not
to kill you, he will still want to bargain for your life, and you will not be able to trust any deal you make with him.”

“I’m going,” she said, stubborn. “And don’t you even think about trying to stop m—”

In the end, they all reluctantly agreed to let her go to the meeting—but that was after a prolonged scuffle that began when Hari dumped Dela over his shoulder and locked her in the bedroom, and ended when Dela’s screams grew so loud and piercing the men were afraid someone outside the warehouse would hear her and call the police.

“Actually,” said Dean, when they released her from the bedroom, “I thought my ears were going to start bleeding.”

“Would serve you right,” she said, glaring at them all. Hari seemed completely unaffected by her anger—indeed, he appeared every bit as furious, except his ire was completely directed at her.

It was not the first time she had ever felt the brunt of his anger, but it still brought her up short, made her stare. Hari met her gaze, his lips pressed in a cold hard line.

Without a word, he turned and left the apartment. Dela did not look at the others, although if she had, she would have found them watching Hari’s retreating back with identical expressions of sympathy. She ran after Hari and caught up with him at the bottom of the landing.

“Why are you so angry with me?” she asked, breathless. At
first Hari refused to look at her, but when he did, his cheeks flushed, his eyes flashing gold.

“When it comes to your safety,” he snapped, “you are inconsiderate, and a fool. You have been so from the beginning. I wonder, how many times must you be near death and murder before you listen to a little common sense? Or will you always bare your neck to the blade?”

Dela gaped at him. “Are you blaming
me
for almost getting killed? What would you have me do? Pull the covers over my head? Hide in the closet?”

“I would have you listen to me in this! You are not alone, Delilah, though there are times I think you wish it otherwise. Would it be easier for you? So you can pretend you have no obligations to anyone but yourself? Have you forgotten all the people who love you, who would bleed to see you safe? Do we not mean anything to you?”

“That’s unfair,” she whispered, stung, “and you know it. You all mean everything to me. That’s why I have to do this. The only person who deserves to get harmed is me. My life is my responsibility, Hari. You guys have already been hurt enough in this fiasco. If I can end it tonight, I will.”

Hari leaned close, and Dela felt his anger, his fear, cut through her like a hot knife. “And I say the only way this will end is if you are dead.”

“I guess that would solve all our problems, wouldn’t it?” she breathed, horrified at herself, but unable to stop the words from tumbling past her lips.

She might have slapped him; the reaction was the same. Hari jerked away, dismay rippling through his face.

“Hari,” she said, reaching for him. He shook his head, turning his back on her pleading eyes. He walked down the stairs, silent as a ghost.

No
, her mind whispered.
No, please.

She hurried after him, clattering down the steps, desperation making her clumsy. She tripped, gasping, and tumbled down the final few, landing hard on her back, pain lancing through her body.

“Delilah!” A strong hand swiftly cradled her head, while another fluttered over her body, light as a butterfly, checking for injuries.

“Ow.” She grimaced as Hari gently tugged her into a sitting position. He was so close—his arms enveloping her, holding her body—and Dela pressed her face into his chest, taking comfort in his presence, his scent. Her relief was overwhelming—a shocking thing. If he had kept walking …

I would have chased him, just like one of those crazy girls in a movie. Screaming his name and acting like an idiot. And it would have been worth it.

“Are you hurt?” When she shook her head, he sighed and ran his hands through her hair, pressing his lips to her temple. “You frighten me so much, Delilah. I wish you could understand how terrified I am of losing you.”

“I’m a klutz,” she muttered. “And I am inconsiderate. I don’t think about how my actions affect other people. I’m used to my friends caring from a distance, not up close and personal twenty-four hours a day. It’s unnerving, and I feel guilty for being the cause of everyone’s problems.”

“You are not anyone’s
problem.”

“Sorry. I can’t hear you.”

Hari groaned, his breath ruffling her hair, warming her ear. “You are impossible.” He leaned back so he could look in her eyes. He cradled her face. “I am sorry I said those things, Delilah. You had a right to be angry with me.” He smiled weakly. “We both know how impulsive I can be, as well. It is just … I keep forgetting how independent you are, how much courage you possess. The women of my people were like you. Infuriating, intelligent,
stubborn. But that was two thousand years ago, and I have had time to become accustomed to … duller fare.”

Dela raised her eyebrows. “Duller fare? Are you still talking about women, or dinner?”

Hari kissed her hard.

“I don’t want to die,” she said breathlessly, when they finally came up for air. “I didn’t mean it, what I said.”

“I know.” Hari’s eyes dimmed with pain. “But I was ashamed you might think I would consider … that I would feel …”

“Shhh,” she soothed, fingertips tracing his fine cheekbones. “I understand, Hari. I never thought that, not for an instant. But when you walked away from me, I was so scared. I thought you might stop—”

“Never,” he promised, standing. He pulled Dela up with him and glanced around her studio, his gaze roving up the stairs. His expression darkened. “I wish we could truly be alone.”

“I love your inhibitions,” she said, but her smile faltered when Hari did not relax. He held her against him, painfully quiet.

“It is an old thing,” he told her, soft. “Some of my mistresses would command me to pleasure them in front of witnesses—sometimes
with
those selfsame watchers, passing me around like a toy. Several of my masters made me do the same to their wives, or servants. To them it was not rape—they were willing—but it was still shameful. I felt like an animal.”

Dela felt Hari tremble, and she wanted to reach back in time to save him from every moment of despair and degradation.
If I could, if I could …
she whispered in her mind.

He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I do not want that for us, Delilah.”

“Neither do I,” she said, holding him close.

Never again
, she promised him.
Never again.

Chapter Thirteen

Le Soleil was unquestionably one of Dela’s favorite restaurants in the downtown area. Nestled between a bookstore and a flower shop, it was the perfect place for lunch or dinner, alone or with friends. Large windows, airy ceilings and a cheerful staff created a pleasant atmosphere enhanced by the heavenly foods sweeping in and out of the kitchen on an aromatic tide of culinary benevolence.

There had been a time, well before Dela’s work became famous, when she had gone to Le Soleil almost every day for lunch. The restaurant was only a block from the university where she took her art classes, and she would happily trudge to the little French restaurant for a bite of something warm to eat before heading back for more long hours in the studio.

“Dela!” exclaimed Pierre, as she swept through the glass doors. The small, lithe man smiled, holding out his hands. “You look lovely tonight, my dear. It has been too long since you stopped by.”

Pierre LeBlanc was a former member of the French Resistance, a chef who had come to America after the war with his heart firmly set on making a life that would have nothing more to do with the nightmare of the human condition. “There are three things that make me feel safe,” he once had told Dela. “Sunlight, a good woman, and excellent food.”

And so Le Soleil had been born with the help of a good woman, Marissa, who still ran the flower shop next door.

Dela lightly grasped Pierre’s hands, smiling warmly. “I’ve been busy,” she said, “and unfortunately, tonight is more business.”

“Always working,” he chided her. “Should I buy more of your art, just so you will return and ‘talk business’ with me?”

Dela shook her head. “No bribes will ever be necessary to bring me back to Le Soleil, Pierre. Your fine food and company is temptation enough.”

He quirked his lips, patting his dapper tweed vest with wrinkled hands. “Charming as always.” His brow creased, his eyes flickering toward the back of the restaurant. “I know I should not say so, Dela, but this man you are meeting already informed me to expect you. I do not care for him.”

“I don’t much like him either,” Dela said, as several giggling women crowded into the restaurant behind her. “But that’s the way things go. Can you take me to him?”

“Of course.” He held out his arm.

::Are you on a first-name basis with all the people in this city?::
Blue whispered through the transmitter tucked deep into Dela’s ear.

She remained silent, although it made her feel good knowing her friends were with her, even if just electronically. Hari had suggested that some of them enter the restaurant an hour before the meeting—simply eat, blend in with the crowd—but Artur was concerned all of them would be easily recognizable, if not from a description given by the one assassin allowed to
escape, then by simple surveillance of Dela’s home. It just wasn’t safe for any of them to be present.

Luckily—and quite appropriately—Blue was a genius with electronics. Years spent with the Navy Special Operations Group, the SEAL tech unit, had done him good. Tucked within Dela’s bra were delicate wires, all for the single purpose of transmitting an instant audio and video playback of Dela’s meeting with Wen Zhang. The camera itself was located in a petite antique brooch clasped at the V of Dela’s low-cut black silk blouse, a fine line of cleavage darting from the silver toward her throat.

As Pierre led Dela to the center of the restaurant, she had to smile. When Pierre did not like someone, his old instincts kicked in—and in this case, he had given Wen Zhang one of his worst, and most public, tables. Smack dab in the center, squeezed between a portly woman and her even portlier companion, and a large family consisting of squealing children, arguing adults, and the occasional fleck of flying food.

Wen Zhang, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and narrow eyes, was doing his best to look refined in the midst of Le Soleil’s boisterous diners.

Blue started laughing, low in her ear.

“Thank you,” Dela murmured to Pierre, as he guided her to Wen’s table.

“I am simply an old man who takes pleasure in attending to his guests’ every need,” Pierre responded, gracing her with a somewhat wicked wink.

::Old fox.::
someone, maybe Dean, said in the background. Old fox, indeed.

Wen rose smoothly from the table as Pierre held out Dela’s chair. They shook hands; his grip was unpleasantly firm, his palm cool and dry. He did not look like a mafia king or a murderer, but even if Dela wasn’t already privy to Wen’s background,
she would have disliked him. Perhaps his broad features did not give the impression of a master criminal, but his gaze was cold. So cold.

“Can I get you anything?” Pierre asked, when they were both seated. Wen and Dela glanced at each other—a quick size-up—and shook their heads. Pierre’s smile grew rather fixed, and he tottered off with a deceptive shuffle that Dela knew was for Wen’s benefit. Dela didn’t know how Pierre did it, but his intuition was on fire.

Maybe he’s one of us.

“I hope you are pleased with my choice in restaurants,” Wen said, his voice smooth as pearl. “I had my people research you, and we discovered this is a favorite place of yours. I thought it would make our meeting more pleasant.”

“How considerate,” she said with a cool smile, though her stomach hurt. She hated that Wen could dig up so much information about her, but that was the peril of being somewhat well-known.

“Yes,” he agreed, “although I was rather disappointed in the seating. I had hoped for something more … private.”

“Le Soleil is a popular place,” Dela said, switching to Chinese, gambling that the people around her would not understand the language. “But I am sure we can create our own … privacy.”

“Ah,” Wen said, replying in Mandarin. “I was unaware you spoke Chinese.”

She heard a scuffling in her ear, and Hari whispered her name. Hari, she guessed, because he was the only one of the men who could understand Chinese.

“It should make things easier,” she said. “But before we go any further, I would like to extend my condolences for your niece’s death. And to her parents … words will never be enough.”

It was blunt, and probably unexpected so soon into the conversation—though Dela was certain she had already surprised Wen with her calm, somewhat casual, demeanor. Nerves of steel, that was what she had. Oh, yeah. And just wait until she got back home and fell apart.

Wen blinked, his cool mask faltering for just one moment. “Thank you. We all miss Lucy very much.”

Lucy.

Dela swallowed hard. “I had no idea what would happen when I prepared that particular order for my client.”