Lover's Bite. Maggie Shayne

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      “Is it vengeance you seek?” Vixen asked.

      Ilyana shot her a look.

      Vixen seemed to shrink a bit more deeply into her long copper hair and began playing with the ends, as she tended to do when nervous. “I mean, he held and tortured me, too. But…honestly, for your own sake, it’s better if you can look ahead, rather than behind you.”

      “I don’t want vengeance,” Ilyana said softly.

      “Then why—”

      “He has something of mine. That’s as much as I’m going to say. I won’t rest until I get it back. So if any of you want me to call you once I find him—and I will find him—then give me a means of reaching you before I leave.”

      Topaz dipped into her pocket, scribbled a number on a scrap of paper and handed it to her. Roxy did the same.

      “I intend to stick with you, Reaper,” Seth said from the backseat.

      “Not this time.” Reaper quickly looked over at Roxy. “Or you, either. Come on, guys, cut me some slack here. Just for a little while. Scatter and wait. I’ll call you back when things cool off. It won’t be long.”

      They all sighed. Topaz finally spoke. “I actually have some personal business to attend to. I’ll be in California. Jack has my contact info.”

      “Can you get me a copy, hon, before you go?” Roxy asked. “I’ll make sure everyone else gets it, too.”

      Topaz slanted him a look, and he returned a sheepish shrug. “They don’t trust me any more than you do, I guess.”

      “Can’t say I blame them.”

      “Here,” Roxy said, reaching past Reaper to open the glove compartment. “Why don’t we all just jot down some info? A cell phone, a friend, an address, an e-mail, anything. As long as we each have one means of communication that we can commit to checking often and not changing.” As she spoke, she pulled out a small notepad and a couple of pens, and passed them around the van.

      “If you know how to reach me, they’ll still have reason to come after you,” Reaper said.

      Jack shook his head. “They’d have no way of knowing we had your number. They could just as easily assume we do, even if we don’t.”

      Reaper hesitated, then sighed and nodded. “You’re right. Okay, then.”

      Everyone jotted and passed, until they all had copies of each other’s info. Then, finally, Seth said, “Can I take the Mustang?”

      “Yep,” Reaper said. “And Roxy will keep Shirley. She and I can drop the rest of you wherever you want. But let’s get on it. I want us scattered to the winds before dawn. Okay?”

      “Not exactly,” Jack said. And he shifted his gaze from Reaper to Briar, who sat beside him in silence. “I think Briar should stay with someone.”

      “I can take care of myself,” she said softly.

      “I know you can. No one said you couldn’t. But, uh…well, you can’t be trusted on your own, can you? Like the rest of us, you know the word that can be used to turn our friend Reaper here into a whirling dervish of death. Unlike the rest of us, we can’t just have you running around all alone.”

      She narrowed her eyes on him. “I could kill you as easily as looking at you.”

      Jack actually felt his lips pull at the corners, though he didn’t exactly smile. “There you are,” he whispered. “Where have you been, Briar?”

      She crossed her arms over her chest, quickly covering the flash of anger with her new expression of bland disinterest. “You can assign me any babysitter you like. I’ll stay until I want to leave. And when I want to leave, nothing’s going to stop me.”

      “She stays with me,” Reaper said.

      Briar’s studied expression showed a hint, a very brief hint, of panic.

      2

      The adobe-style mansion sprawled beneath the stars, with countless arches and a clay-red pottery roof, bright red doors and bright green trim. The front walkway was made of flagstones that had been in place so long they appeared to be part of the ground. The drive was paved and curved inward toward the house, then away from it, forming a giant, gentle S as it looped toward a massive garage that could easily house six vehicles. The apartment above the garage was larger than many people’s houses.

      Topaz stood beside the taxi, her back to the cab, her eyes on the house. The lawns rolled, the grass far from lush but rather spotty, with bare spots and red rock peering through. Cacti of every type filled the spaces in between, some of them flowering, some small and compact, while others stood with their arms raised above their heads like the stereotypical “reach for the sky” cacti in countless Western films.

      Sand crept up to the very edges of the lawn, invading every time a breeze came up. Beyond the villa, ocean waves filled the night with their song, a chorus of harmonic whispers, growing louder, more insistent, but never becoming shouts. Not even when the waves broke and tumbled over the sand, then retreated in the closest sound there could be to silence. Shuuuuushhhhhhh. And then there was the fragrance those waves left in their wake—freshly laundered sunshine, brine and the sea.

      Her mother had died here, Topaz thought. Right here, while that massive ocean looked on, never missing a step in its endless soft shoe.

      For a moment Topaz stood there, staring at Avalon’s front door, and then suddenly she was swept back in time, her imagination fed by the DVD she’d finally viewed. Why now, after all these years? Why? Why was she suddenly so driven to know everything about her mother when she’d deliberately avoided any of the stories and tales, the gossip and legends, the conspiracy theories and police reports, up until now?

      But it didn’t really matter why. It was here. She was here. And she had to know everything.

      In her mind’s eye, it all played out again, this time with even more detail, supplied by some inner knowing, perhaps, or maybe she was making it all up.

      The stunning superstar, Mirabella, smiling, waving, laughing as she stepped out the door—that door, right there. It was red and wooden and arched at the top. She walked toward the road, moving so gracefully that she seemed to float over the flagstone walkway. She’d been wearing heels. Four-inch-high chunky heels with platforms underneath the front—very seventies. Strappy on top, open toes. Her toenails had been done, too—a minty green shade that matched one of the colors in that long dress, along with the color of her fingernails, her designer bag and her eyeshadow. Thick black liner, pale, pale shadow. Frosted lipstick. Big hair.

      And yet she was gorgeous. Absolutely stunning. Her beauty had been so real, so deep, so natural, that it suffused every hint of mod she’d tried to use to enhance it. Most women would look back at that period and wonder what they’d been thinking. Mirabella might have, too, but it wouldn’t have mattered. She was just as beautiful in a dress the same pattern as the Scooby-Doo Mystery Van as she would have been completely naked. Her eyes were too powerful to be disguised by heavy makeup. She was Mirabella, no last name needed, at the time or now. Everyone knew who she was.

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