In the meantime, they worked well together in spite of major differences when it came to personalities. Eve was the doer, Ethan the brooder, Dallas the negotiator. Nolan, well, Nolan was the heartbreaker and an insufferable—but cute, he reminded her regularly—pain in the ass. As of two months ago, though, Nolan was also off the market, happily and blissfully married to Jillian Kincaid, news anchor at KGLO TV in West Palm.
Eve still wasn't sure exactly what ghosts had haunted Nolan in those first few dark months after he'd left the Rangers and come home to West Palm. What she was sure of was that with Jillian's help he was slowly putting them to rest. Yeah, her as-tough-as-nails, stone-hearted brother had changed his tune when he'd met Jillian Kincaid.
Jillian was the daughter of publishing mogul Darin Kincaid and she'd been the target of a demented stalker—which was why Darin had hired E.D.E.N., Nolan specifically, to protect her in the first place.
Daddies went to great extremes, it seemed, to protect their daughters.
Speaking of daddies and daughters. Somehow, Eve had to find out what Jeremy Clayborne knew about Tiffany's whereabouts. No easy task. Clayborne had made it clear when he'd forced her resignation from the Secret Service that Eve was never to have contact with his daughter again. Tiff, being Tiff, had found plenty of opportunities to buck Daddy's edict. And Eve, being Eve—a sucker for a sad little rich girl—could never find it in herself to send Tiffany away when she came around. Except for the last time.
The last time, even though she'd done it for Tiffany's own good, Eve had sent her away. Tiffany hadn't seen it that way. She'd seen it as rejection, and trying to explain that it was no such thing had been a tough trick when Tiffany had been peeling away from the curb in a snit.
Eve couldn't do anything about that now. And getting information from Clayborne was going to be tricky. But first, she had to deal with her brothers. Looked like now was the time, as they all came filing back into the conference room.
Nolan, in his proverbial black jeans and matching T-shirt, walked to the far side of the room, then slouched with his hip against the windowsill. Blue eyes grim, he tipped a bottle of root beer to his lips. Someday that crap was going to eat a hole in his stomach. But since it was better than the scotch he used to like a little too much, she didn't say a word.
Dallas, as always, button-down perfection in tan chinos and a white knit shirt, carried his laptop and a bottle of designer water as he sat down beside her at the table again.
"OK. Go," Ethan said, loosening his tie and popping a cherry Life Saver.
She didn't know if she could do this without coffee. As if reading her mind, Kim appeared at her side with a cup.
"Thank you, Lord. And thank you, Kimmie."
"We're waiting."
"OK, OK. Long story
long
,"
she began drolly as her brothers glared at her with varying expressions of concern and impatience. "I got a call from Tiffany Clayborne Friday night."
"Should have known she'd be involved in this," Ethan grumbled. "Christ, Eve, when are you going to learn that girl is poison to you?"
"That girl," she said defensively, "is someone I care about. And that girl could be in trouble."
"So what happened?"
She told them. Everything. From Tiffany's three-week absence, to the frantic call that she'd thought was from Tiffany but had since decided had been a lure, to the thug with the stun gun, to her run-in with McClain, who'd been hired by Clayborne's camp to find Tiffany, to the blast in the manager's office at Club Asylum.
A silence loaded with testosterone vibrated through the conference room as the brothers absorbed and began to slowly, but quietly, fume.
"OK. What aren't you telling us?" It didn't surprise her that Nolan had picked up on her omission. Like most twins, they'd always had a special connection.
She pulled the note out of her bag. Gave it to Ethan.
You're still dead. It's just a question of when and where. Tonight was just a little reminder. Boom!
Her oldest brother read it and with clenched jaws passed it to his brothers. After reading it, Nolan summed up what all three men were thinking in one concise word: "Fuck."
Everything went downhill from there.
The mirror above the bathroom sink in the penthouse of the Trump Taj Mahal ran the entire width of the room. Tiffany Clayborne stood naked in front of it. She tried to focus on her reflection through a thin curl of smoke. And wondered if what she saw was really her. She wasn't even sure she knew who she was anymore.
Thick black mascara circled her eyes and ran down her cheeks to blur the tiny tear she'd had permanently tattooed there. Red rimmed her lower lids. Her skin, she thought, in a fleeting moment of clarity, had sort of a pasty blue tint. Her lips were painted purplish black.
She looked, she decided finally, like one of those clown dolls. A sad, broken clown doll with short spiked raspberry-colored hair and bruises on her breasts. She ran her pierced tongue around her lower lip, worrying the twin silver lip rings that had seemed like such a good idea at the time. They were infected now. They hurt.
But not as much as her heart.
Did clowns have breakable hearts?
she wondered as she reached for the razor Lance had left in the sink along with stubble and soap scum. He was a sloppy pig. But he was a beautiful pig. And that voice... God, she loved to hear Lance Reno sing and wail on that guitar. Loved when he told her that he loved her. Even when he hurt her.
Fresh tears leaked down her cheeks. Amazingly hot. How could anything that hot come out of her when she felt so very, very cold inside? The tears burned her eyes. And made even more clown tears.
Everybody loved clowns. She stared at her garish reflection and took another hit off the joint she'd left burning in the soap dish. So why not her? Why didn't anyone really love her for her? And no one did. Especially not her father. Lance had explained it all.
The razor was wet and crusted with beard stubble and remnants of tiny popped bubbles farther down the handle. She held it up under the stark bathroom lighting. Studied it through drifting smoke as she touched the thin blade to her finger, drew it slowly across the pad. She flinched when it sliced her skin. Was amazed she felt pain as brilliant red blood oozed from the thin cut and dripped down her finger.
Like a tear.
How many tears does a person have?
she wondered as she made an experimental swipe across the inside of her left wrist with the back of the razor. Was there like ... a limit? Was everyone born with a specified number and when they used them all up, they couldn't cry anymore? It was that way with blood. Everyone had a certain amount—a quota—and when you lost it, you couldn't live anymore.
She took another deep, dizzying drag of some really prime Colombian weed. Set it on the lip of the sink with a shaking hand. And picked up the razor again.
How easy it would be to swipe it across her wrist. How horribly, horribly easy. No one to stop her. No one to care.
No one to care.
Why
would
anyone care about her? Even Eve had sent her away. She was bad, that's why. She knew that was why. She wasn't worth anyone's time. Not worth the trouble.
She felt so lonely. And so tired. Her head started to swim. Gripping the lip of the marble vanity for balance, she stumbled out of the bathroom and into the hotel suite's master bedroom.
She fell onto the bed, rolled to her back. Blinked drowsily up at the ceiling.
And wondered which limit she would deplete first.
Tears or blood.
So much alike.
No one seemed to be able to tell the difference in hers. No one cared which she ran out of first. No one cared that she was all alone. Especially not her father.
Lance had left her again. He'd be back. When he needed money, needed to score, wanted to get off, he'd be back. In an hour or two. Maybe more. He'd tell her he loved her. Stroke her like she was a lost kitten, lay out a line of blow, and coax her into snorting it. He'd even hold her head when she got sick.
Why couldn't he just love her straight? Why couldn't anybody just love
her
!
She wanted to go home. Even more, she wanted a home to go to. Someone to miss her when she was gone. Someone to give a damn that she was so unhappy. So desperately sad.
And lost.
She laughed, then cried. Lost soul. Lost person. She wasn't even sure she knew where she was. Wasn't sure anymore if she was safe. They'd been partying. Gambling at the tables. Lance had lost. Big-time. She'd told him to stop. He'd just smiled, that tight, icy smile that scared her. And then he'd grabbed her arm and dragged her back to this room, taken her clothes, ripped the phone out of the wall.
And left her.
Alone again. Alone always.
Her fingers went lax around the razor still clutched in her hand. She passed out to the feel of cool sheets against her naked skin and the tickle of hot tears leaking across her tattooed tear, then dripping into her ears.
Chapter 5
West Palm Beach
Tuesday morning, Eve tugged open the
ornate glass doors of the Clayborne building. As she walked across the Italian marble floor of the lobby toward the bank of elevators, she steeled herself for the meeting she'd requested with Edwards. Was surprised, frankly, that he'd agreed to see her.
As she'd anticipated, she was here against her brothers' wishes. They knew better than to issue a flat-out ultimatum, but yesterday they'd come close.
"You need twenty-four-seven protection until we get this guy nailed down," Nolan had insisted after the macho level had become manageable.
"That's ridiculous." She'd pinned all three brothers with a steely glare. "I can take care of myself. You know I can," she'd restated vehemently. "He got the drop on me the first time. It won't happen again. Besides, at Club Asylum he proved that it doesn't matter how many people are around; he's not afraid to make a statement, so one of you dogging me like a shadow isn't going to make one bit of difference.
"Come on," she'd wheedled. "It's pretty clear that he's just playing with me for now anyway. Whoever it is, he wants me to sweat. He wants me to be scared. What he doesn't want is to see me dead. At least not yet. Your time would be better spent trying to figure out who he is and why he's got it in for me."
"While you do what?" Ethan had asked with a sullen frown. "Hunker down somewhere until we find him?"
"Yeah. That's going to happen. I'm going to try to get a lead on Tiffany. Don't say it," she warned when she was met by looks of uniform disgust on those three handsome and belligerent faces.
"She's my friend," she reminded them.
Dallas grunted. "She's a pain in the ass."
"And you're our sister," Ethan added with meaning.
She couldn't help it. She teared up. "I love you, too, you big dummies, but don't ask me not to do this. Besides, the more I'm on the move, the more difficult a target I'll make."
In the end, grudging and grumbling, they'd relented—at least provisionally. They agreed to start looking. Dig up enemies she might have made during her Secret Service career. Check out the possibility of grudges over some of the work she'd done for E.D.E.N. And they'd let her take care of herself—until they felt she needed their intervention.
She'd taken the offer—and she'd cross any roadblocks they threw up when the time came.
Squaring her shoulders, she ran a hand over the lapel of her pale blue silk suit jacket, felt the comforting presence of her .38 beneath her breast, then tugged down the hemline of her matching short skirt and attempted to concentrate on the upcoming meeting with Clayborne's right-hand man, Richard Edwards. And get McClain out of her head—where he'd been in some way, shape, or form since Saturday night.
It bugged the heck out of her that she couldn't shake him—more specifically that seeing him again had shaken her.
She let out a gust of air through puffed cheeks and punched the up button on the elevator that would take her to Edwards's suite of offices on the nineteenth floor. It wasn't going to do a bit of good to bemoan the fact that the bullet she'd managed to dodge all these years had finally found its mark and blasted her and McClain together again.