Hell's Fury Page 3

  "Saving your life." Jessie shrugged, her gaze falling to Renauld. "Among other things."

  "Right, you just happened to be in the neighborhood." Last he’d heard, she was holed up in Italy. Not exactly walking distance to London.

  "No. I was looking for you. And so was Renauld. So from there it was an easy jump from following him to finding you. Although I hadn’t any idea you’d be in such dire need."

  "I was doing fine on my own."

  Jessie stared pointedly at the two dead men, both still holding their guns. "I could see that."

  "Damn it, Jessie," Saying her name brought a flurry of memories. Feelings he didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone remember. "I needed Iverson alive."

  "Well, it’s not as if I got off on killing the man." Her eyes sparked with anger. "I didn’t have a choice. It was you or him. And given the thanks I’m getting, it looks like I may have picked the wrong man."

  "We’ll talk about it later. Right now we need to get the hell out of here." David leaned down and picked up a couple of spent casings. "If we’re lucky the police will assume the bastards killed each other."

  "It’s possible"—Jessie shrugged—"if they don’t look too closely."

  "Either way, I vote we’re long gone." He started for the door, but she lifted her gun.

  "First I want you to promise you won’t try and give me the slip."

  He swallowed a retort; there was no point in antagonizing her. She was tenacious enough without giving her further motivation. "Fine. I’m all yours."

  "Well, aren’t I the lucky one." There was an edge to her voice, a hint of bitterness. He cringed at the thought that he’d been responsible for it.

  He started to walk past her, then stopped, his gaze locking with hers. He could smell her, feel the rhythm of her breathing, and suddenly, he wished it could have ended differently between them.

  "Jessie ...," he started, reaching up to cup her chin.

  For a moment they were connected, and he held his breath, savoring the contact. Her skin was soft, her eyes full of regret. But then with a flash of anger, she twisted away.

  "Right, then, what do you say we get the hell out of here?" He stepped over Renauld’s body, reminding himself that she deserved more than he could ever give her.

  It was as simple as that.

  *****

  Jessie cursed her own vulnerability. If time had taught her anything at all, it was that nothing was worth opening her heart. And even if there were something out there—it wasn’t David Bishop. She’d already been on that ride and the thrill was overrated. The cost too damn high. She’d spent the last couple of years trying to exorcise him from her system. Apparently without any success at all.

  She told herself that it was just proximity. Sensory memory or something equally inane. Pheromones always seemed to have a mind of their own. But it was hard to ignore the real fear she’d felt when she’d found him cornered in Lewisham.

  In all truth, it was a new and powerful emotion. An immortal didn’t really experience a whole lot of fear—and considering she’d been hung, poisoned, and shot to death on three separate occasions, she was more immune to the feeling than most. Basically, from her point of view, death was a less than frightening experience.

  Except when it was happening to David.

  Even with Henri, the only other man who’d managed to penetrate her shell, she’d never felt such raw, physical anguish. And she’d watched him die. At the time she’d mourned Henri’s loss, her pain real, but it had been nothing like the stark desperation she’d felt upon seeing David in Iverson’s hotel room.

  She glanced over at him, sitting in the plane seat next to her. His eyes were closed, his breathing even. Obviously he’d taken the adventure in stride. In fact, he’d managed to act as if nothing of importance had happened at all.

  Of course there was the little fact that Iverson had quite possibly known the location of the Protector. Her father wouldn’t be too happy when he discovered she’d saved a mortal and in doing so had lost the key to the quest. But then she didn’t have to tell her father.

  "Having a little bit of trouble, are you?" The monitor embedded in the seatback sprang to life, her father’s head sort of bobbing in place against the dark blue background.

  "What are you doing here?" Jessie whispered, shooting a sideways glance at David and the passengers across the way. Thank God for first class—she’d learned a long time ago that people with money tend to tune out everything around them. The epitome of turning a blind eye.

  "Just checking on your progress." Her father’s smile was jaunty, but his black eyes were not amused. "I see you’ve picked up the garbage." For reasons Jessie had never really understood, her father had reacted almost as violently to her liaison with David Bishop as she had. Practically ordering her to stop seeing the man.

  But Jessie had never listened to anyone. Particularly her father. And of course the irony was, he’d been absolutely right.

  "I told you I need his help."

  "Blast and damn, girl. You don’t need anyone’s help," her father thundered. Fortunately, no one but her could hear him. "Especially not a mortal. What do they know?"

  "Well, this one is an expert on the Protector of Armageddon, remember? And if you want me to find the damn thing, I’m going to need his help."

  "I assumed you’d simply use your gift—after all, that’s what gives you the upper hand in finding things, am I right?" His smile this time was genuine. Her father liked it when she played by his rules.

  "I tried. More than once, as a matter of fact." Since she was a tiny girl, Jessie had been able to see things, visualize who exactly held the information she needed. Sometimes it was quick and to the point, sometimes it was so vague it took her weeks to work it out, but always it was ultimately on target.

  Except with the Protector. She’d tried to find it years ago—for David. And she’d been trying now—for her father. With absolutely no success at all—except that’d she’d managed to locate David, and stop him from being killed.

  "I’m blocked. Or the box is protected in some way. Long and short of it is that if I’m going to find it, I’m going to need help, and David’s been hunting the thing for years. He’s my best shot."

  "Well, I’d think the very fact that he hasn’t found it would mean just the opposite, but who am I to question your choices. I’ll just believe in your resourcefulness, and remind you how much is hanging in the balance here, for you—and for me." Leave it to her father to make it all about him.

  "I’ll get the box, Daddy. I promise. But no more popping in to see how I’m doing. You owe me that much."

  For a moment, her father’s frown seemed to reach out from the monitor, his eyes shooting flames, but then with a sigh, he capitulated. "Fine. Have it your way."

  It was an old battle. "I don’t need your help. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I’d think the last few centuries would have more than proved the fact."

  "What can I say?" Her father’s head bobbed. "I’m your father. I worry."

  "And the moon is made of green cheese." She started to laugh, but swallowed it, worried that David would wake to find her father ensconced in the little monitor. "Look, Daddy, I learned my lesson. Relationships can’t work. Not for someone like me. So I’ll handle this—without your interference."

  She waited as her father digested the information.

  "I’ll have your word." He opened his mouth to argue, but she shook her head. "If you can’t give me that, then I won’t even try to find the box. You can take your request to Lola." She knew he couldn’t. Her little sister was capable of a lot—wrecking havoc among men being chief on the list—but she wouldn’t be able to find the Protector.

  "I gave you the quest. And I guess I’ll just have to trust that you know how best to find the box."

  It wasn’t a glowing endorsement, but considering this was the devil, she’d take it.

  "Who are you talking to?" David’s eyes were open and watch
ful.

  Jessie stole a quick look at the monitor, which thankfully was blank. "No one. I was just thinking out loud. Bad habit."

  "If that’s the worst you’ve got, I wouldn’t be overly worried." He reached over to cover her hand with his, his dark eyes sparking with something she was afraid to put a name to. "I didn’t say thank you. For saving me. I might have gotten out of it all right. But I’ll admit the odds weren’t in my favor."

  "I’m just glad I could help." She pulled her hand away and gave him what she hoped was an empty smile.

  "So what exactly were you doing in Iverson’s hotel room?"

  In the rush to get out of London and to the airport, there hadn’t been time for anything but perfunctory talk. And it wasn’t as if she could tell David that she’d known he was going to Iverson’s room— that she’d "seen" him cornered there. "I told you, I followed Renauld. He’s never been particularly good at covert."

  Gaston Renauld was a competitor of sorts. A broker for almost anything someone wanted to buy—information, art, and jewelry—even weapons. Only, Renauld had never perfected the art of covering his tracks. She hadn’t needed to follow him, but the story would be plausible, and she wasn’t about to let David know how much they were still connected.

  He studied her for a moment more, as if trying to discover her secrets, and then shrugged. "So you want to tell me why you were looking for me?"

  "It’s about the Protector."

  Disappointment flashed in his eyes, but was gone almost before she was certain that she’d seen it. "I thought you weren’t interested in the box."

  "I’m not. But I have a client who is."

  "I should have known. This has nothing to do with me."

  "Why would it?" It was her turn for anger. "In case you’ve forgotten, you’re the one who ended things between us. Not the other way around."

  "As I recall you didn’t fight very hard to make me stay."

  It was true; she hadn’t fought at all actually, knowing that if he stayed it was only going to prolong the inevitable. Eventually, he’d have recognized the truth. Noticed the gray in his hair, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and the disquieting fact that she never changed at all. It was an impossible situation. So she’d let him go. To hell with the fact that it had ripped her apart.

  "You made it pretty clear that your priority was Jason."

  "He’s my brother. And he was murdered on my watch. He deserves vengeance."

  "Not if it destroys you in the process." She’d said it all before, and knew that he wasn’t going to change. Even if she hadn’t been immortal, they wouldn’t have had a chance. David’s need to avenge his brother had all but consumed him. And nothing, not even love, could survive that.

  "Obviously you’re not too worried," he said, eyes narrowing. "After all, you’re asking for my help. And in doing so, you’re feeding right into my so-called obsession." She opened her mouth to protest but he waved her silent. "We’ve covered this ground before. I haven’t changed, Jessie. I still live to destroy the people who killed my brother. So if this is an attempt to save me from myself, you can forget about it."

  "I’m not here to rescue anyone. I just need your help. You know as much about the Protector as anyone does. And thanks to all those years in black ops, when we find it, I have every confidence that you’ll be able to get me in and out in one piece. That’s it. That’s all I want. No entanglements. No walking down memory lane. No distractions at all." She glared at him, letting her anger push away all other emotion. "We pool our resources, find the box, and everyone gets what they want."

  "So what if I don’t want to work with you?"

  "Then you have a funny way of showing it, considering we’re trapped together in a first-class torpedo, skimming the earth at something like thirty-two thousand feet." She glanced at her watch. "I’d say we’re almost halfway home."

  "I live in London."

  "Yes, you do. Which again begs the question as to why you agreed to fly to Italy with me, if you have no intention of helping me."

  "Maybe I thought it would be a good idea to disappear for a while. No one is going to miss Iverson, but Renauld has some pretty powerful friends."

  "Allies, maybe"—she shrugged—"but not friends. People like Renauld don’t make friends."

  "You’re in the same business."

  "And I meant what I said." They stared at each other, the silence punctuated by the hum of the airplane’s engines.

  "All right, so Renauld’s death isn’t going to cause much of a ripple. It’s still not a bad idea for me to lie low. And maybe if—just to the pass the time—I decided to help you with your goal—"

  "Our mutual goal," she corrected.

  "Right," he admitted, albeit grudgingly. "You get the box and I get Jason’s killers. Mutual satisfaction. But that’s it—we work together to find the Protector. As you so cleverly put it, no distractions."

  "Absolutely not." She shivered, her body already negating the promise she was making. "It’ll be business. Just business."

  "So where exactly are we going?" he asked, his dark eyes hooded. "I’d heard you were in Italy. But not where."

  She sucked in a breath—her heart pounding in her ears. "Stresa. I live in Stresa." Maybe he’d miss the significance.

  "Interesting choice." His eyebrows rose, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. He never missed a goddamned beat.

  "Don’t make it more than it is," she snapped. "I fell in love with the place."

  And the man, but that wasn’t something she liked admitting—even to herself.

  Chapter Three

  STRESA, ITALY

  David stood at the window of Jessie’s villa, the lake lapping peacefully at the far edge of the lawn. Delphiniums and poppies fought with one another for superiority in a garden long ago abandoned, the riotous color better than anything someone could have planned.

  The villa had an oddly dilapidated charm, as if it were stuck in time somehow, unable to shake off its past. Kind of like Jessie. Although the analogy was admittedly an odd one.

  She hadn’t changed. Which shouldn’t have surprised him really. She had the kind of classic beauty that defied even the passing of time. Or maybe he just saw what he wanted to see.

  He shook his head and turned to face her, banishing his sentimentality. He already knew how easy it was to lose himself in her and forget everything that was important, and he wasn’t about to let it happen again. "So what do you suggest we do? You’ve killed the only man who might have been able to tell us where the Protector is."

  "I didn’t have a choice." She was sitting in a tapestry-covered armchair. The kind Sotheby’s coveted. Flanking the chair was a pair of tables—original Chippendales. A Ming Dynasty vase sat on one, a Tiffany lamp on the other.

  With no consideration for style or design, Jessie had filled the room with a myriad of treasures, a collection that was no doubt worth a fortune. His mother would have been in seventh heaven, despite the fact that there had been no effort to conserve any of it. In point of fact, Jessie managed to make it look as if they were nothing more than favorite pieces. The arrangement careless—without any thought to display or preservation.

  He suppressed a smile.

  "What?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  "Nothing. I was just admiring the room."

  "If I remember correctly, you once referred to it as a backwater Louvre. And since the two words don’t normally go together, I’m fairly sure you didn’t mean it as a compliment."

  "Well, it suits you."

  "I’m not sure what to make of that."

  "I was actually thinking my mother would love your collection."

  She frowned. "She was a curator for the Met, right?"

  "For fifteen years. That’s where my brother developed his love of antiquities." Just the thought of Jason brought pain. If only he’d shown more interest in his brother’s passion, maybe his brother would still be alive.

  "You’re doing everything you can."
She’d always had an uncanny knack of reading his mind. At first it had been a bit disarming, but now it actually felt comforting—familiar. "And right now, we need to concentrate on finding the Protector. If it is on the move, this could be our best chance. So what do you say we go over it again?"

  "Nothing like a little repetition." His response was flip, but he knew she wasn’t fooled.

  She walked over to the drinks table and poured a healthy measure of scotch. "Drink?" she asked, holding out the glass.

  "Just what the doctor ordered." He reached for the glass, his fingers lingering on hers just a moment too long. Fortunately, if she noticed she kept it to herself, instead pouring herself a drink.

  "So you think Iverson was brokering the sale of the box?"

  "I know he was. And I’ve got sources to back it up. Unfortunately, what I don’t have is a location or the identity of the buyer and the seller."

  "But the deal is supposed to go down soon, right?" She crossed over to sit in the chair again, and he dropped down onto the sofa. "Yes. If I had to call it, I’d say in the next couple of weeks."

  "So that means it’s got to surface long enough for the transfer to be made."

  "Exactly. And I was hoping that Iverson could be convinced to share information."

  "Except that I took him out." She frowned down at her scotch. "We seem to keep coming back to the same place."

  "No." He shook his head, containing a sigh. "The truth is I don’t think he knew any more than he’d already admitted."

  "That he was brokering the deal."

  "Right, and unfortunately, that’s all we’ve got."

  "Well, at least we know for certain that there had to be a buyer. And there are only a limited number of people that would be interested in something like the Protector of Armageddon."

  "Evil mad scientists who want to bring about the end of the world?" David quipped.

  "If you believe the stories, I suppose you could count them in. But I was thinking more along the lines of collectors who specialize in religious artifacts. Maybe we can start there and work backward."