Kiss of Crimson(70)

He couldn‘t believe he wasn‘t dead. He had thought for sure he would be killed, based on the fury with which he‘d been attacked. He‘d been stunned when the guy—Jesus, was he even human?—ordered him to get out of the vehicle. He‘d thrust the photograph of the kid he was looking for into Ben‘s hand and let him know that if this Cameron, Camden, whatever, turned up dead, Ben would be held solely responsible. Now Ben had been enlisted to help find him, to make sure the kid got home in one piece. Ben‘s life depended on it, and as much as he wanted to hightail it out of town and forget he ever heard the word Crimson, he knew the lunatic who attacked him tonight would find him. The guy had promised he would, and Ben wasn‘t about to test his rage in a second round.

―Damn it,‖ he grumbled, as the call to Tess‘s apartment went into voice mail.

As bad off as he was now—as deep in the shit as he‘d landed tonight—he felt a moral obligation to warn Tess about the guy she‘d been messing around with lately. If his buddy was a psychotic freak of nature, Ben was betting that the other one was just as dangerous.

God, Tess.

When the voice-mail greeting left off with a beep, Ben rushed through the night‘s events, from the surprise ambush at his place by the two thugs to the attack on him a short while ago. He blurted out that he‘d seen her with one of the guys the other night and that he worried she was risking her life if she continued to see him.

He could hear the words spilling out of him in a breathless stream, his voice pitched higher than normal, fear edging on hysteria. By the time he‘d gotten it all out and slammed the phone back down onto the chipped cradle, he could hardly breathe. He leaned back against a graffiti-tagged panel of the phone booth and bent over, closing his eyes as he tried to calm his rattled system.

A barrage of feelings came at him in a giant swell: panic, guilt, helplessness, bone-deep terror. He wanted to take it all back—the past several months, everything that had happened, everything he‘d done. If only he could go back and erase things, make them right. Would Tess be with him, then? He didn‘t know. And it didn‘t fucking matter, because he couldn‘t take any of it back.

The most he could hope to do now was survive. Ben dragged in a deep breath and forced himself to stand. He pushed out of the phone booth and started walking down the darkened street, looking like holy hell. A homeless person recoiled from him as he cut across the road and hobbled toward the main drag. As he walked, he dug out the picture of the kid he was supposed to look for.

Glancing down at the snapshot, trying to focus on the bloodstained image, Ben didn‘t hear the approaching car until it was nearly on top of him. Brakes screeched and the vehicle was thrown into an abrupt stop. The doors opened in tandem, a trio of unfamiliar bouncer types pouring out.

―Going somewhere, Mr. Sullivan?‖

Ben jolted into flight mode, but he didn‘t even get two steps on the pavement before he was seized by all of his limbs. He watched the photograph land on the wet asphalt, a large boot trampling it as the men started carrying him back to the waiting car.

―So glad we finally located you,‖ said a voice that sounded human but somehow wasn‘t. ―When you failed to show up at your meeting tonight, the Master became very concerned. He‘ll be pleased to hear that you are on your way now.‖

Ben struggled against his captors, but it was no use. They stuffed him into the trunk and slammed the lid, plunging him into darkness.





CHAPTER Twenty-four



The early-dawn colors seemed brighter to Tess, the November air crisply invigorating outside her apartment as she finished up her short walk with Harvard. As she and the terrier jogged up the stairs of her building, she felt stronger, lighter, no longer weighed down by the awful secret she‘d been carrying all these years.

She had Dante to thank for that. She had him to thank for so much, she thought, her heart throbbing, her body still humming with the sweet ache of their lovemaking.

She‘d been hugely disappointed to wake up and find him gone, but the note he‘d left folded on her nightstand took away most of that sting. Tess dug the piece of paper out of the pocket of her fleece track pants as she pushed open her apartment door and let Harvard off his leash.

Strolling into her kitchen in need of coffee, she read Dante‘s bold handwriting for about the tenth time, her broad smile seeming permanently stuck on her face: Didn’t want to wake you but had to leave. Have dinner with me tomorrow night? I want to show you where I live. I’ll call you. Sleep tight, angel. Yours, D.

Yours, he‘d signed it.

Hers.

A wave of fierce possessiveness swamped her at the thought. Tess told herself that it meant nothing, that she was foolish to read anything into Dante‘s words or to imagine that the powerful connection she felt toward him might be mutual, but she was practically giddy as she set the note down on the counter.