The words echoed in Rawls’s head. When had his CO and Wolf left? They’d been standing there moments ago. He frowned in frustration, realizing he was mixing reality with events from the dream.
“For a moment there, it didn’t look like you’d be bugging out with us.”
“That close?” Rawls asked, the strange dream still churning through his mind. He’d died in that silvery netherworld.
“Closer than Cos got.” The grimness echoed in Zane’s voice.
As Zane stepped back, the bulk of another man drew close. Although the new arrival was partially obscured by Zane’s silhouette, a streak of moonlight clearly illuminated a bald head.
Rawls caught his breath and froze—tension hitting hard and fast. Their party didn’t include a Vin Diesel wannabe. At least not now. Not for the last thirty minutes, not since Jillian had driven a knife into Pachico’s chest in retribution for the children he’d stolen from her.
The shiny chrome dome atop the man’s head flashed silver as he turned in Rawls’s direction. A face came into focus—long cheekbones, a narrow chin, small mean eyes . . . familiar eyes. A bloody white bandage wrapped around a pale forehead.
The ground at Rawls’s back heaved. Ice crystals hardened in his gut, chilling him from the inside out.
Not possible . . . not possible . . .
His muscles rigid, he reluctantly dropped his gaze to the figure’s opaque chest, with its big, black protrusion of a knife.
The mud-brown eyes watching him widened, which was impossible since the bastard was dead.
Sweet Jesus, he’d watched him die, watched his body incinerate during an explosion that had sent flames twenty feet into the air. There was no way—absolutely no way—the man could be standing in front of him.
No. Damn it. No. This isn’t happening . . .
Rawls stared at the translucent body identical to the one in his nightmare, and his head started throbbing like a smashed finger.
Wake up, damn it. Wake up.
Pachico chuckled—an ugly sound completely devoid of humor. “Well, fuck me. Looks like you’re not gonna escape me after all.”
* * *
Chapter One
* * *
ABOARD THE ESME, anchored deep in the crystal-blue waters of Roquebrune bay, the final haunting note of a Celtic ballad lingered, echoing in the ocean-kissed air.
Eric Manheim’s cell phone vibrated twice against his hip as the note finally faded. The aborted call meant the last of his associates were on board and secreted away below. Perfect. As scheduled, the evening’s performance had concluded as the council settled in. Time to move the festivities along, off-load the guests, and get down to the real business of the night.
Claire Rendell, the reclusive Celtic singer his wife adored, offered him a small nod and placed her microphone on the piano. Inclining his head in silent appreciation, he tightened his arm around Esme’s shoulder.
“Happy anniversary, darling.” He bent to brush her satin-soft cheek with his mouth.
She tilted her face to his, her short platinum hair caressing the perfect shell of her ears, her eyes a dreamy blue and swimming with moisture. Rendell’s music always touched his wife deeply.
As the singer stepped down from the stage, applause broke out, at first just a smattering, but it quickly turned thunderous, pounding the ballroom until the sandalwood dance floor and quadruple-paned marine windows vibrated.
Esme pressed her cheek against his. “Such extravagance, darling. A private performance, plus my very own song?”
As his wife’s breath tickled his ear, Eric’s heart rate increased. The clean, fresh scent that was uniquely Esme swamped him. Instantly his breathing quickened and his body hardened. It still surprised him that the woman he’d married to cement the power, money, and holdings of their two lineages, would turn out to be the other half of his soul.
He hated usurping their anniversary celebration. But necessity overruled privacy, and Claire Rendell’s riveting and rare performance had kept ears and eyes tuned to the stage instead of the helipad at the back of the yacht, or the mysterious late arrivals.
Waving a waiter over, he snagged two crystal flutes of champagne. He handed one to Esme and then steered her into the sea of expensive jewelry, evening gowns, and tuxedos. For the next two hours they drifted through a glittering, fragrant mob of exquisitely dressed well-wishers. As they accepted countless congratulations on their first fifteen years together, or the occasional well-bred ribaldry, Eric locked down his impatience.