She dropped back weakly on the bricklike pillow. She would have sent one to Grace. It had to be. It was logical, and Bailey was nothing if not logical. There’d been three stones, and she’d sent one to M.J. So it followed that she’d kept one, and sent the other to the only other person in the world she’d trust with such a responsibility.
Grace Fontaine. The three of them had been close as sisters since college. Bailey, quiet, studious and serious. Grace, rich, stunning and wild. They’d roomed together for four years at Radcliffe and stayed close since. Bailey moving into the family business, M.J. following tradition and opening her own bar, and Grace doing whatever she could to shock her wealthy, conservative and disapproving relatives.
If one of them was in trouble, they were all in trouble. She had to warn them.
She would have to escape from Jack Dakota. Or she’d have to use him.
But how much, she asked herself, did she dare trust him?
In the bathroom, Jack studied his mutilated lip in the mirror. He’d probably have a scar. Well, he admitted, he deserved it. He had been a pig and a pervert.
Not that she was entirely innocent, either, lying there on the bed with that just-try-it-buster look in her eyes.
And hadn’t she pressed that long, tight body to his, opened that soft, sexy mouth, arched those neat, narrow hips?
Pig. He scrubbed his hands over his face. What choice had he given her?
Dropping his hands, he looked at himself in the mirror, looked dead-on, and admitted he hadn’t wanted to give her a choice.
He’d just wanted her.
Well, he wasn’t an animal. He could control himself, he could think, he could reason. And that was just what he was going to do.
He’d probably have a scar, he thought again, grimly, as he touched a fingertip gingerly to his swollen lip. Just let that be a lesson to you, Dakota. He jerked his head in a nod at the reflection in the spotty mirror. If you can’t trust yourself, you sure as hell can’t trust her.
When he came out, she was frowning at the hideous drapes on the window. He glared at her. She glared back. Saying nothing, he sat in the single ratty chair, crossed his feet at the ankles and tuned into the movie.
Hercules was over. He’d probably triumphed. In his place was a Japanese science-fiction flick with an incredibly poorly produced monster lizard who was currently smashing a high-speed train. Hordes of extras were screaming in terror.
They watched awhile, as the military came rushing in with large guns that had virtually no effect on the giant mutant lizard. A small man in a combat helmet was devoured. His chicken-hearted comrades ran for their lives.
M.J. found the candy bar from her purse that Jack had tossed her earlier, broke off a chunk and ate it contemplatively as the lizard king from outer space lumbered toward Tokyo to wreak reptilian havoc.
“Can I have my water?” she asked in scrupulously polite tones.
He got up, fetched it out of her bag, handed it over.
“Thanks.” She took one long sip, waited until he’d settled again. “What’s your fee?” she demanded.
He took another soda out of his cooler. Wished it was a beer. “For?”
“What you do.” She shrugged. “Say I had skipped out on bail. What do you get for bringing me back?”
“Depends. Why?”
She rolled her eyes. “Depends on what?”
“On how much bail you’d skipped out on.”
She was silent for a moment as she considered. The lizard demolished a tall building with many innocent occupants. “What was it I was supposed to have done?”
“Shot your lover—the accountant. I believe his name was Hank.”
“Very funny.” She broke off another hunk of chocolate and, when Jack held out a hand, reluctantly shared. “How much were you going to get for me?”
“More than you’re worth.”
Now she sighed. “I’m going to make you a deal, Jack, but I’m a businesswoman, and I don’t make them blind. What’s your fee?”
Interesting, he thought, and drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “For you, sugar, considering what you’re carrying in that suitcase you call a purse, adding in what Ralph offered me to turn you over to the goons?” He thought it over. “A hundred large.”
She didn’t bat an eye. “I appreciate you trying to lighten the situation with an attempt at wry humor. A hundred K for a man who can’t even take out a single hired thug by himself is laughable—”
“Who said I couldn’t take him out?” His pride leaped up and bit him. “I did take him out, sugar. Him and his cannon, and you haven’t bothered to thank me for it.”
“Oh, excuse me. It must have slipped my mind while I was being dragged around and handcuffed. How rude. And you didn’t take him out, I did. But regardless,” she continued, holding up her free hand like a traffic cop, “now that we’ve had our little joke, let’s try to be serious. I’ll give you a thousand to work with me on this.”
“A thousand?” He flashed that quick, dangerous grin. “Sister, there isn’t enough money in the world to tempt me to work with you. But for a hundred K, I’ll get you out of the jam you’re in.”
“In the first place—” she drew up her legs, sat lotus-style “—I’m not your sister, and I’m not your sugar. If you have to refer to me, use my name.”
“You don’t have a name, you have initials.”
“In the second place,” she said, ignoring him, “if a man like you got his hands on a hundred thousand, he’d just lose it in Vegas or pour it down some stripper’s cleavage. Since I don’t intend for that to happen to my money, I’m offering you a thousand.” She smiled at him. “With that, you can have yourself a nice weekend at the beach with a keg of imported beer.”
“It’s considerate of you to look out for my welfare, but you’re not really in the position to negotiate terms here. You want help, it’ll cost you.”
She didn’t know if she wanted his help. The fact was, she wasn’t at all sure why she was wrangling with him over a fee. Under the circumstances, she felt she could promise him any amount without any obligation to pay up if and when the time came.
But it was the principle of the thing.
“Five thousand—and you follow orders.”
“Seventy-five, and I don’t ever follow orders.”
“Five.” She set her teeth. “Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll leave it.” Casually he picked up the stone again, held it up, studied it. “And take this with me.” He rose, patted his back pocket. “And maybe I’ll call the cops on your fancy little phone after I’m clear.”
She fisted her fingers, flexed them. She didn’t want to involve the police, not until she’d contacted Bailey. Nor could she risk him following through on his threat to simply take the stone.
“Fifty thousand.” She bit the words off like raw meat. “That’s all I’ll be able to come up with. Most everything I’ve got’s tied up in my business.”
He cocked a brow. “The finder’s fee on this little bauble’s got to be worth more than fifty.”
“I didn’t steal the damn thing. It doesn’t belong to me. It’s—” She broke off, clamped her mouth shut.
He started to sit on the edge of the bed again, remembered what had happened before, and chose the arm of the chair. “Who does it belong to, M.J.?”
“I’m not spilling my guts to you. For all I know you’re as big a creep as the one who broke down my door. You could be a thief, a murderer.”
He cocked that scarred eyebrow. “Which is why I’ve robbed and murdered you.”
“The day’s young.”
“Let me point out the obvious. I’m the only one around.”
“That doesn’t inspire confidence.” She brooded a moment. How far did she dare use him? she wondered. And how much did she dare tell him?
“If you want my help,” he said, as if reading her mind, “then I need facts, details and names.”
“I’m not giving you names.”
She shook her head slowly. “That’s out until I talk to the other people involved. And as for facts and details, I don’t have many.”
“Give me what you do have.”
She studied him again. No, she didn’t trust him, not nearly as far as she could throw him. If she ever got the opportunity. But she had to start somewhere. “Unlock me.”
He shook his head. “Let’s just leave things as they are for the moment.” But he rose, walked over and shut off the television. “Where’d you get the stone, M.J.?”
She hesitated another instant. Trust wasn’t the issue, she decided. He might help, if in no other way than just by providing her with a sounding board. “A friend sent it to me. Overnight courier. I just got it yesterday.”
“Where did it come from?”
“Originally from Asia Minor, I believe.” She shrugged off his hiss of annoyance. “I’m not telling you where it was sent from, but I will tell you there had to be a good reason. My friend’s too honest to steal a handshake. All I know is it was sent, with a note that said for me to keep it with me at all times, and not to tell anyone until my friend had a chance to explain.”
Abruptly she pressed a hand to her stomach and the arrogance died out of her voice. “My friend’s in trouble. It’s got to be terrible trouble. I have to call.”
“No calls.”
“Look, Jack—”
“No calls,” he repeated. “Whoever’s after you might be after your pal. His phone could be tapped, which would lead them back to you. Which leads them to me, so no calls. Now how did your honest friend happen to get his hands on a blue diamond that makes the Hope look like a prize in a box of Cracker Jack?”
“In a perfectly legitimate manner.” Stalling, she combed her fingers through her hair. He thought her friend was male—why not leave it that way?
“Look, I’m not getting into all of that. All I’m going to tell you is he was supposed to have his hands on it. Look, let me tell you about the stone. It’s one of three. At one time they were part of an altar set up to an ancient Roman god. Mithraism was one of the major religions of the Roman Empire—”
“The Three Stars of Mithra,” he murmured, and had her eyeing him first in shock, then with suspicion.
“How do you know about the Three Stars?”
“I read about them in the dentist’s office,” he murmured. Now, when he picked up the stone, it wasn’t simply with admiration, it was with awe. “It was supposed to be a myth. The Three Stars, set in the golden triangle and held in the hands of the god of light.”
“It’s not a myth,” M.J. told him. “The Smithsonian acquired the Stars through a contact in Europe just a couple months ago. My friend said the museum wanted to keep the acquisition quiet until the diamonds were verified.”
“And assessed,” he thought aloud. “Insured and under tight security.”
“They were supposed to be under security,” M.J. told him, and he answered with a soft laugh.
“Doesn’t look like it worked, does it? The diamonds represent love, knowledge and generosity.” His eyes narrowed as he contemplated the ancient stone. “I wonder which this one is?”
“I couldn’t say.” She continued to stare at him, fascinated. He’d gone from tough guy to scholar in the blink of an eye. “But apparently you know as much about it as I do.”
“I know about Mithraism,” he said easily. “It predates and parallels Christianity. Mankind’s always looked for a kind and just god.” His shoulders moved as he turned the stone in his hand. “Mankind doesn’t always get what it wants. And I know the legend of the Three Stars. It was said the god held the triangle for centuries, and holding it tended the world. Then it was lost, or looted, or sank with Atlantis.”
For his own pleasure, he switched on the lamp, watched the stone explode with power in the dingy light. “More likely it just ended up in the treasure room of some corrupt Roman procurer.” He traced the facets with his thumbs. “It’s something people would kill for. Or die for,” he murmured. “Some legends have it in Cleopatra’s tomb, others have Merlin casing it in crystal and holding it in trust until Arthur’s return. Others say the god himself hurled them into the sky and wept at man’s ignorance. But the smart money was that they’d simply been stolen and separated.”
He looked up, over the stone and into her eyes. “Worth a fortune singly, and within the triangle, worth immortality.”
Yes, she could admit he fascinated her, the way that deep, all-man voice had cooled into professorial tones. And the way he stroked the gleaming diamond as a man might stroke a woman’s gleaming flesh.
But she shook her head over the last statement. “You don’t believe that.”
“No, but that’s the legend, isn’t it? Whoever holds the triangle, with the Stars in place, gains the power of the god, and his immortality. But not necessarily his compassion. People have killed for less. A hell of a lot less.”
He set the stone on the table between them, where it glowed with quiet fire. It had all changed now, he realized. The stakes had just flown sky-high, and the odds mirrored them.
“You’re in a hell of a spot, M.J. Whoever’s after this won’t think twice about taking your head with it.” He rubbed his chin, his fingers dancing over the shallow dimple. “And my head’s awfully damn close to yours just now.”
He couldn’t believe how poor his luck was. His own mistake, he told himself as he calmed himself with Mozart and Moët. Because he tried to keep his distance from events, he’d had to count on others to handle his business.
Incompetents, one and all, he thought, and soothed himself by stroking the pelt of a sable coat that had once graced the shoulder of Czarina Alexandra.
To think he’d enjoyed the irony of having a bounty hunter track down the annoying Ms. O’Leary. It would have been simpler to have her snatched from her apartment or place of business. But he’d preferred finesse and, again, the distance.
The bounty hunter would have been blamed for her abduction, and her death. Such men were violent by nature, unpredictable. The police would have closed the case with little thought or effort.
Now she was on the run, and most certainly had the stone in her possession.
She would turn up, he thought, taking slow, even breaths. She would certainly contact her friends before too much longer. He’d been assured they were admirably loyal to each other.
He was a man who appreciated loyalty.
And when Ms. O’Leary attempted to contact her friends—one who had vanished, the other out of reach—he would have her.
And the stone.
With her, he had no doubt he would acquire the other two stars.
After all, he thought with a pleasant smile. Bailey James was reputed to be a good friend, a compassionate and intelligent woman. Intelligent enough, he mused, to have uncovered her stepbrothers’ attempt to copy the Stars, smart enough to thwart them before they had made good on delivery.
Well, that, too, would be dealt with.
He was sure Bailey would be loyal to her friend, compassionate enough to put her friend first. And her loyalty and compassion would deliver the stones to him without much more delay.
In exchange for the life of M. J. O’Leary.
He had spent many years of his life in search of the Three Stars. He had invested much of his great wealth. And had taken many lives. Now they were almost in his hands. So close, he thought, so very close, his fingers tingled with anticipation.
And when he held them, fit them into the triangle, set them on the altar he’d had built for them, he would have the ultimate power. Immortality.
Then, of course, he would kill the women.
A fitting sacrifice, he reflected, to a god.
Chapter 4
He’d left her alone. Now she had to consider the matter of trust. Should she believe he’d just go out, pick up food and come back? He hadn’t trusted her to stay, M.J. mused, rattling the hand cuffs.
And she had to admit he’d gauged her well. She’d hav
e been out the door like a shot. Not because she was afraid of him. She’d considered all the facts, all her instincts, and she no longer believed he’d hurt her. He would have done so already.
She’d seen the way he dealt with the gorilla who broke in her door. True, he’d had his hands full, but he’d handled himself with speed, strength, and an admirable streak of mean.
It galled to admit it, but she knew he’d held back when he tangled with her. Not that it excused him trussing her up and tossing her in some cheap motel room, but if she was going to be fair-minded, she had to say he could have done considerable damage to her during their quick, sweaty bout if he’d wanted to.
And all he’d really bruised was her pride.
He had a brain—which had surprised her. That was, she supposed, a generalizing-from-a-first-impression mistake she’d fallen into because of his looks, and that sheer in-your-face physicality. But in addition to the street smarts she would have expected from his type, it appeared Jack Dakota had an intellect. A good one.
And she didn’t believe he did his reading in the dentist’s office. A guy didn’t read about ancient religions while he was waiting to have his teeth cleaned. So, she had to conclude there was more to him than she’d originally assumed. All she had to do was decide whether that was an advantage, or a disadvantage.
Now that she’d calmed down a little, she was certain that he wasn’t going to push himself on her sexually, either. She’d have given odds that little interlude had shaken him as much as it had shaken her. It had been, she was sure, a misstep on his part. Intimidate the woman, flex the testosterone, and she’ll tell you whatever you want to know.
It hadn’t worked. All it had done was make them both itchy.
Damn, the man could kiss.
But she was getting off track, she reminded herself, and scowled at the ridiculous movie he’d left blaring on the television.
No, she wasn’t afraid of him, but she was afraid of the situation. Which meant she didn’t want to sit here on her butt and do nothing. Action was her style. Whether the action was wise or not wasn’t the point. The doing was.
Shifting to her knees, she peered at the handcuffs, turning her wrist this way and that, flexing her hand as if she were an escape artist preparing to launch into her latest trick.
She tested the rungs on the headboard and found them distressingly firm.
They didn’t make cheap hotels like they used to, she thought with a sigh. And wished for a hairpin, a nail file, a hammer.
All she found in the sticky drawer of the nightstand was a torn phone book and a linty wedge of hard candy.
He’d taken her purse with him, and though she knew she wouldn’t find that hairpin, nail file or hammer inside, she still resented the lack of it.
She could scream, of course. She could shout down the roof, and endure the humiliation if someone actually paid any attention to the sounds of distress.
And that wouldn’t get her out of the cuffs, unless someone called a locksmith. Or the cops.
She took a deep breath, struggled for the right avenue of escape. She was sick with worry for Bailey and Grace, desperate to reassure herself that they were both well.
If she did go to the police, what kind of trouble would Bailey be in? She had, technically, taken possession of a fortune. Would the authorities be understanding, or would they slap Bailey in a cell?
That, M.J. wouldn’t risk. Not yet. Not as long as she felt it was remotely possible to even the odds. And to do that, she had to know what the hell she was up against.
Which again meant getting out of the room.
She was considering gnawing at the headboard with her teeth when Jack unlocked the door. He flashed a quick smile at her, one that told her he had her thoughts pegged.
“Honey, I’m home.”
“You’re a laugh riot, Dakota. My sides are aching.”
“You make quite a picture cuffed to that bed, M.J.” He set down two white take-out bags. “A lesser man would be toying with impure notions right about now.”
It was her turn to smile, wickedly. “You already did. And you’ll probably have a scar on your bottom lip.”