Into the Shadow

  Karen’s mind immediately sprang to the icon. Her icon. ‘‘What is your most precious possession?’’

  Dika sighed. ‘‘It was a girl, the one chosen to see the visions that guided us. Our Zorana. When she left—’’

  ‘‘She left? I thought you said she was taken from you.’’

  ‘‘The stories differ.’’ Dika shrugged expressively. ‘‘The old folks change their tales. All I know is that the luck we’d enjoyed for so long vanished. Our axles broke, our babies died, our young men were killed. My father disappeared into one of the Russian prisons. I was eleven then. In the Ukraine, the militia could be very bad, very corrupt. They took what they wanted, they killed, they burned. My mother taught me to hide when they came, and I always did, until one day when I was fifteen, the general saw me before I could get out of sight. He threatened to burn the wagons if the Rom did not give me into his keeping. So they did.’’

  Incredulous, Karen asked, ‘‘How could they?’’

  ‘‘It was me or their own children, and so they sacrificed me.’’

  A ghost of memory slipped through Karen’s mind. The child sacrifice . . .

  Dika looked down at the bitch beer clasped in her hands. ‘‘I never saw my mother again. I was with Maksim five years. The whole time he was mad for me, and eventually, I think, just mad. He said I slept with other men. He accused his soldiers, his brother, his best friend. He beat me, kicked me, made it so I could not have children.’’

  ‘‘I am so sorry.’’

  ‘‘So finally I did sleep with another man, a powerful man, and when the general came for me I gave the order to have him shot like a dog in the street. Then I came here.’’ Dika looked up, and deep lines etched her upper lip and between her brows. ‘‘Even now, sometimes I see Maksim in my nightmares.’’

  ‘‘You make me ashamed to complain.’’ Because Warlord had kept her against her will, but he had promised not to ever hurt her, and even now she believed him.

  ‘‘No. Don’t be ashamed. Be proud of yourself that you got away. I thank God every day that I used my strengths to fight Maksim, and I remember with pleasure giving the order to have him killed.’’ Dika lifted her chin. ‘‘Miss Karen, you don’t want to run forever. If this isn’t the man, then you are where you want to be. I will tell the staff to watch him, and if he is the one I will personally fix the sheets to make him break out in a terrible rash and have to go to the hospital.’’

  Karen laughed, and relaxed. ‘‘You’re right. I’ve got to stop running from a memory. I’ve broken the old bonds.’’ And, interestingly enough, she meant the ones holding her to Jackson Sonnet, not the ropes Warlord had used to fetter her.

  In truth, her break with the man she’d called her father had made her realize how alone she was in the world. She had had no friends, because she had worked too much and didn’t have time for them. She had moved from place to place and had no home except the dark, cold, depressing mansion in Montana. And she’d spent her life afraid she was unlovable because of one man’s unattainable approval.

  So she had changed her life. She traveled. She got pedicures. She made friends, sang songs, drank fine wines. Sometimes she missed the old life; she had been a damned good project manager, and there had been satisfaction in completing the work.

  Yet the only true dark spot remaining on her horizon was her fear that Warlord would emerge from the shadows of her old life—and she remembered all too clearly the legend he’d relayed about the Russian villain and his descendents, damned for all eternity. She remembered the way his flesh had sizzled on contact with the icon.

  Dika was right. If Mr. Wilder was Warlord, Karen would have little chance to escape him if she ran. So it was time to face her fear. ‘‘I’m strong. I’m self-reliant. I’m not the same person I was two years ago. So . . . I’ll stay.’’

  ‘‘Good!’’ Dika patted Karen’s knee and stood. ‘‘My people have gathered again. We have a stake in this struggle against the devil and his minions, and we will help you, Miss Sonnet. So be wary, yet know you have friends at your back. Now I need to go to work.’’

  ‘‘Me, too. I’ve got a buffet to supervise.’’ Karen stood, too.

  ‘‘Who knows, Miss Karen?’’ Dika sounded positively perky. ‘‘If this Mr. Wilder isn’t your lover, then perhaps the demon is dead.’’

  Karen ran her tongue over the inside of her lip. Sometimes, unexpectedly, the taste of his blood filled her mouth, and she saw with his eyes, felt with his heart . . . anguish, darkness, violence, and a deep, desperate, clawing longing. ‘‘No. He is most definitely not dead. He’s out there somewhere . . . waiting.’’

  As the two women went inside, the stranger stepped out of the shrubbery, dusted himself off, and waited as still as a statue.

  Karen left first to supervise her buffet.

  Dika worked for a half hour; then she left also, locking the doors behind her.

  He climbed the fence. Once within the privacy of the patio, he knelt by the door, picked the lock, and let himself inside.

  The cottage smelled of disinfectant. Feminine touches decorated the room. Karen Sonnet had made this place her own.

  But she’d been ready to abandon it at the first sign of trouble.

  Her bag and backpack were still tossed on the bed.

  He started toward them.

  She should have run while she could.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jackson Sonnet stared up at his newest trophy—a massive moose head he’d bagged on a visit to Alaska—tapped his fingers on his desk, and waited. And waited.

  Finally Phil Chronies appeared in the door of his study. ‘‘Here it is, Mr. Sonnet. I found it. I just sort of misplaced it. Forgot about it, really. You get so much mail it’s hard to keep track of it all.’’ He sidled up and handed Jackson the detective’s report.

  Jackson looked at the flat manila envelope. ‘‘It’s been opened.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, those mailmen up here in Montana are real nosy.’’ Phil fidgeted like a kid who needed to go to the bathroom.

  ‘‘Get out.’’

  Phil fled.

  ‘‘Don’t slam—’’

  Phil slammed the door behind him.

  ‘‘—the door!’’ The little prick did it every damned time.

  Chronies wasn’t good for anything. After hearing his story about how Karen had been screwing around with some Himalayan biker, how Phil had struggled to keep the job going by himself, and how Karen had left him to die, Jackson had felt bad about the missing arm, not to mention that he’d wanted to avoid a lawsuit, so he’d made sure all the hospitalization and rehab were paid for one hundred percent. That was six months Phil had been out of commission.

  Then, when he came back, Jackson had given him a job in his main office in town, answering questions from the field. It made sense; Phil was a goddamned construction assistant. He should have known the business, or so Jackson had thought.

  But Phil had been lousy, ignorant of the most basic matters, unable to get materials where they should be when they should be, and his misplaced arrogance had resulted in Jackson’s loss of one of his best site supervisors.

  Two, if he counted Karen.

  So, to minimize the damage Phil could do, Jackson had stuck him in employee relations and told his office manager to keep him busy. After three months Nancy had begged Jackson to get rid of Phil before they had a sexual-harassment suit on their hands.

  So Jackson had brought him to his home office, and told him to do the filing.

  The dumbshit couldn’t even do that.

  What had Karen said before she walked out?

  Enjoy your time with Phil, and try to make yourself believe he’s telling you the truth.

  It was as though she’d cursed Jackson, because these last two years had been a misery. As far as he could tell, Phil was allergic to work, any kind of work. He made up stupid excuses for his incompetence. Every time Jackson yelled, Phil brought up the story about how Karen had been screwing
a biker and left him to be crushed by a rockfall. And every time the guy started in on the story about Karen and the rockfall, it changed a little.

  Jackson shouldn’t have listened to him in the first place. He shouldn’t have told Karen the truth about her mother. He should have kept his promise to Abigail and raised Karen like his own daughter instead of like a convenient employee . . . Crap. For the first time in his life he felt guilty.

  He was going to have to dump Phil. He’d give him a nice retirement package, threaten him with death and worse if he told secrets about Jackson’s personal business, and out the door he’d go.

  Because no one had the right to know what was happening with Karen except Jackson Sonnet.

  The envelope opened easily—preopened envelopes did that—and he pulled out the report.

  Karen had spent almost a year in Europe doing just what she said she was going to do— not one whole hellofa lot of anything.

  Sure she’d never be able to stand it, Jackson had kept waiting for her to come crawling home.

  But she didn’t. The detective agency had sent him photos of her at the Vienna opera, traveling by rail, eating at an open market, lolling on beaches with people he’d never seen before.

  Apparently she made friends easily. Just like her mother.

  But unlike her mother, she wasn’t sleeping with anyone. As far as the detective could discover, Karen was as pure as the driven snow.

  That made Jackson wonder . . . was that story she’d told him the truth? Had she really been kidnapped by a warlord and held hostage?

  Had some son of a bitch hurt his little girl? Had Jackson failed her so miserably?

  The paper crinkled in Jackson’s fist.

  Last year, when she’d finally returned to the States, Jackson had waited to see her walk through the door, looking for a job.

  She went to a spa in Arizona instead, stayed there as a guest for a week, then got a job as an events coordinator.

  When he read that report, Jackson had almost frothed at the mouth. All those years of college, of training, of learning to survive in the toughest conditions, gone to waste in a pansy-ass spa and hotel taking care of parties for people who lounged around in hot tubs and got massages. And got pedicures, for shit’s sake.

  According to this latest report, she was still there. They liked her a lot. Every progress report was filled with praise. She’d had a couple of raises. And there were pictures.

  Jackson sank down in his chair and stared at the photo in his hand.

  She looked good. Not like Abigail; if she’d looked like Abigail maybe he could have forgiven her. Instead she looked like a female version of her father, that goddamned Indian Nighthorse. She’d fixed herself up. Gotten a tan. Let her hair grow and lightened it. Wore makeup and dresses . . .

  She was an awfully pretty woman, and she didn’t deserve what he’d given her.

  He should have kept his promise to Abigail.

  If he had, he wouldn’t now be a pathetic old man spying on the girl he’d loved like a daughter.

  Phil soundlessly shut the door to Jackson’s office.

  He’d learned that if he banged it hard enough, it popped back open and he could watch the old fart. It helped to know Sonnet’s mood, and it helped to know when to look busy. The old fart threw a tizzy when he caught Phil checking e-mail or playing computer solitaire, and he had really been ugly about that ‘‘lost’’ detective’s report. But Phil couldn’t help it.

  Someone wanted to know all about Karen Sonnet, and someone was willing to pay well for the information. And Phil Chronies was pleased as hell to give up that self-righteous bitch to anyone with a cashier’s check.

  The phone rang.

  He smiled unpleasantly as he grabbed his copy of the detective’s report and picked up the receiver.

  Someone was right on time.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Burstroms had hired the whole water complex for their opening-night gala, and it boasted a diving pool and a swimming pool, three waterslides, and a quarter of a mile of river that circled the perimeter with a powerful current that propelled the Burstroms’ guests from the buffet to the poolside bar and back. There were lifeguards for every five swimmers, two masseuses giving neck rubs on their portable tables, a deejay who played requests, and the Burstroms’ guests swam, basked in the setting sun, and marveled at the view.

  Karen oversaw the event with a keen eye, and that kept her so busy that she scarcely thought about Rick Wilder and his eerie resemblance to Warlord. Although . . . she never quite relaxed.

  When she finally did see him, he was hefting himself out of the swimming pool. She watched, transfixed, as he crimped his toes on the edge, thrust his wet hair out of his eyes, and laughed down at two of Burstrom’s older lady employees.

  He looked so normal. Not like a warlord or her evil nemesis, but like an American guy dressed in green swimming trunks and a dripping beige T-shirt . . . a really ripped American guy.

  She thought she should take the opportunity to study his body, see if she recognized any identifying marks, but it appeared she wasn’t the only woman with that idea in mind, and he quickly disappeared under the barrage of four newly minted Burstrom female engineers.

  Which made Karen feel sort of funny, like an old girlfriend cast aside.

  By the time she got to bed that night she’d been going nonstop for twenty hours, and she slept like a rock, without a single premonition or dream.

  The schedule the next morning brought a volleyball tournament and tennis matches, and the afternoon included a wine tasting, and by the time the Burstrom Technologies’ first sit-down dinner rolled around, Karen was ready for a moment alone. She saw the dinner through to the dessert course, then left matters in the hands of their very capable caterers and wandered out to her favorite place on the grounds, the Japanese garden. The night was clear—of course, it was the Arizona desert—and the full moon and discreet lighting made the path easy to follow. The white gravel crunched beneath her sandals, and beside the path a tiny brook trickled over polished stones, headed for the edge of the cliff, where it would artfully tumble down in a froth of waterfall. She rounded the corner, descended the stairs cut into the stone—and stopped cold.

  The granite bench was occupied. She started to back away, but he turned his head, and the white moonlight shone on his face.

  Rick Wilder.

  Everything she’d said to Dika about being strong and self-reliant vanished in a flash of alarm.

  She lifted one foot, ready to flee.

  He stood at once. ‘‘Sorry. Sorry! Is this your private garden? I thought I’d excuse myself and not go back, because I knew Chisholm was going to present the annual employee awards. Since I’m not an employee, I frankly don’t care. Shall I leave you alone?’’

  She hesitated.

  But he sounded so normal, so all-around-guy -like . . . and she couldn’t say he’d followed her, since she’d arrived after him. No one knew where she was, but she had her pager, and it wasn’t like she couldn’t yell and summon the security guards that patrolled the grounds every moment of every night.

  ‘‘This garden is for the use of the guests, and if you don’t mind my company, I’d love to take a moment to rest.’’ She found an artistically placed boulder in the middle of the raked rock garden, far away from him, seated herself, and groaned. ‘‘I have been waiting to sit down for the last six hours.’’

  ‘‘I noticed that you run from morning to night.’’

  He noticed? He’d watched her? ‘‘Not always, ’’ she said cautiously. ‘‘Just when we have a large party.’’

  ‘‘How often does that happen?’’ He smiled a friendly, open smile and sat back down on the bench where he’d been before.

  ‘‘It depends on the season, but in the winter, every ten days or so. People are crazy to get out of the snow, so they come down here and pretend it’s July in Chicago.’’

  ‘‘Tough job.’’

  ‘‘Not really. It
’s great to watch them. They’re almost children, they’re so happy.’’

  Without any seeming worry, he faced her, the moonlight on his face. ‘‘So this is perfect for you. How long have you been an events coordinator?’’

  ‘‘A year.’’

  ‘‘What did you do before that?’’

  ‘‘Before that I wandered around Europe for a year. And before that’’—she scrutinized him—‘‘I was a construction project manager for adventure hotels.’’

  ‘‘You are kidding.’’ If he was faking it he was good, because she couldn’t see a single blink that betrayed anything other than casual getting-to-know-you conversation. ‘‘Okay, first— a year in Europe?’’

  ‘‘I like Europe.’’

  ‘‘So do I—but a year?’’

  ‘‘I got a Eurail pass and went where my whims took me. I ate at great restaurants, I made a lot of friends, I saw a bunch of museums. ’’ Again she watched him closely. ‘‘I avoided only one thing.’’

  ‘‘What’s that?’’

  ‘‘The European mountains. I didn’t want to see the Alps and the Pyrenees. If I never see a mountain again, it will be too soon.’’

  ‘‘You hate ’em.’’

  ‘‘I do.’’ She had never meant anything so much in her life.

  ‘‘You know what I like best about Europe? Gelato. I could make my way through Italy eating gelato.’’

  She was cheering up by the moment. He wasn’t interested in discovering what made her tick. He wanted to talk about himself. This guy really was just . . . a guy. ‘‘The Gelato Tour of Europe. That sounds magnificent.’’

  ‘‘Someday I’ll write a book.’’ He looked back toward the ballroom. ‘‘The food here is excellent.’’

  ‘‘Thank you.’’

  ‘‘And the wines are perfect. Did you match the wines with the meals, or did Mrs. Burstrom?’’

  ‘‘I made the recommendations,’’ she said modestly, but all the while she was thinking how much she loved a man with a keen appreciation for fine wine and food. He seemed oh so civilized.