Possessed by a Warrior
They both looked over at the gown, which pooled like a deflated cloud on the carpet. Sam crossed over to it, picking it up by the hanger and replacing it on the wardrobe door. The gesture was surprisingly careful.
Something about it—the crumpled dress or the way he handled it—made her start to cry in soft, gulping sobs. Chloe covered her face, horrified at the pathetic sounds coming from her throat, but the feel of the pillow against her face, the attacker’s hands on her skin played over and over again in her mind.
The bed dipped as Sam’s weight settled next to her. He pulled a blanket around her, his gestures efficient but gentle, as if he were holding himself firmly in check. “It’s over. He’s gone.”
“Then why am I crying?” she snapped. She was weirdly angry, as if it were all Sam’s fault.
“You’re in shock,” he said quietly.
“I don’t cry.”
“I know.” He sounded apologetic.
She wanted to demand how he could possibly know what she did or didn’t do, but it was clear he was just being kind. Biting her lip, she struggled to stop weeping. She craved Sam’s protection but was furious that she needed it. I’ve got to pull myself together.
Frustrated, her mind lunged for specifics. Something besides the horrible feeling of being pushed and crushed and threatened that played over and over in her head, like a bad song that just wouldn’t shut up. “How did he get in?”
“Probably the window. I don’t know yet.”
Yet? That meant the mysterious Mr. Ralston was going to investigate. She swallowed down a fresh batch of sobs. “How did you know I was in trouble?”
“I heard something break.”
“Uh-huh.” That sounded too pat. Chloe’s mind grappled for some way to probe his answer, but she was still too overwhelmed. “Thank you for saving me.”
He gave her a guarded look. “No problem. I was hoping to hit the guy in the leg so we could catch and question him. Didn’t quite work out that way. I overcompensated my aim. I didn’t want to risk shooting you by mistake.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Yeah.” Sam touched her arm gently. She would have expected him to crush her to his chest, do the manly-man protective thing, but he didn’t. He was being careful about how he handled her. He knew enough to give her distance, as though he’d dealt with situations like this before.
Chloe realized she was thinking of him as Sam now, and not Ralston. Sam, her savior. Super Sam. Oh, what the heck, he’d earned some girlish gratitude. She was just glad her mind was starting to function again.
A babble of voices came from the hallway. Was her hearing just coming back or had they been out there all along? She slid off the bed, feeling a little unsteady.
“Where are you going?” Sam demanded.
She gestured helplessly at the door. “My aunt. My cousin. People. They’re wondering what’s going on.”
Sam held up a hand. “Let me.”
He pulled open the door, looking like the sexy tradesman from a bored housewife’s daydream. From where she stood, all she could see was the curve of Sam’s shoulder and his denim-hugged backside. That would set the family’s collective imagination spinning. Go me.
While he stood in the hallway, Chloe changed into a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. She saw with disgust the nightgown she’d been wearing had splatters of blood on it. She balled up the garment and threw it in the garbage can. There was blood on the sheets, too, and glass on the floor, but suddenly she was too exhausted to deal with any of it. She perched on a corner of the bed far from the blood, wishing she could just lie down.
No, no lying down. Not here. She could still feel the echo of a hand crushing her face into the bed.
“How are you doing?” Sam asked as he came back into the room.
The question wasn’t the vague politeness of a stranger. To her utter surprise, Sam crouched in front of her, studying her face. His expression was concerned, almost tender. He reached out, catching her hands gently in his. His skin was cool and wonderful, the gesture infinitely comforting. “Look at me,” he said. “You’re going to be okay. I’m here.”
Chloe met his eyes. A subtle shift came over his features, a tightening of the lips, his pupils eating up the steel-gray irises. There was concern there, but something else now, too. Desire. Possession. He lifted her hand to his lips, brushing the lightest of kisses across the back of her fingers.
The gesture was courtly, barely qualifying as a true kiss, but a flood of tingling arousal swamped her skin from head to foot. No one had ever touched her so intimately with so little flesh.
She gasped lightly, and the skin around his eyes flinched, a predator narrowing his focus. Now it was her neck that prickled with the faintest frisson of fear.
It was too much. Chloe looked down, unable to hold his hypnotic gaze a moment longer. Heat flooded her face.
“Chloe?”
His voice was soft, intimate. It sucked her down further, so she fought it, clawing her way back to the present. She’d just been attacked. Sam had chased the bad guy away.
Memory slammed back, ripping the cobwebs away.
“I wanted to fight,” she said. “I wanted to cry out.”
He made a noise as close to a sigh as someone like Sam Ralston would make. “You did what you needed to. It’s called surviving. That’s how we’re programmed.”
She took a steadying breath. “You didn’t freeze. Neither did your friend. How did you just happen to be there with guns?”
“I always carry.” In a blink, his face was back to his blank-wall setting. Sam rose and put an appropriate distance between them.
Chloe folded her arms, feeling suddenly as if a fire had been doused, leaving her in the cold. What had just happened? Had she asked one question too many? Too bad, because every answer he gave prompted a dozen questions more.
There was a sharp rap on the door. Sam opened it, looking relieved. Kenyon pushed his way in, a grumpy look on his face. His blond hair looked mussed, as if he’d been pushing his hands through it. He stopped, giving Chloe a once-over. “You all right?”
“Sure,” she replied.
“Anything?” Sam asked his friend.
“Nope. The security here means well, but what can you expect?”
Sam swore lustily. “How can that happen? I shot him in the shoulder. He was bleeding.”
“They don’t have our training. Trampled the trail. Messed it up.”
Chloe caught the shut-up look Sam shot his friend. What training?
Kenyon either didn’t notice the look or pretended not to care. “So what was that guy after?”
“The wedding dress,” Sam replied, gesturing toward the place where it hung.
Kenyon gave it a curious look. “Seriously?”
Then something seemed to catch his eye. Suddenly alert, he crossed to the wardrobe. He pulled a small Maglite flashlight from the pocket of his cargo pants and shone it at the beading around the gown’s low neckline.
Chloe got to her feet, still feeling shaky. “What do you see?”
“Interesting decoration. It’s not all crystals.”
Chloe had noticed that, too. There was elaborate embroidery all around the neckline, much of it gold wire couched with silk thread and dotted with seed pearls. Dozens and dozens of set stones had been added to the design, giving a shimmering fire to every movement of the dress. “The headpiece has similar decoration. I think the pearls might be real.”
Kenyon looked up, an odd expression on his face. “So are the stones.”
Chloe gulped. “What do you mean?”
He gave a wry smile to Sam. “You remember last March?”
“That can’t be right,” Sam said dully. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
“You know your guns, I know my luxury goods.”
Sam cursed. “We should have known the moment this turned up in Jack’s safe. Though how he ended up with them...”
“Were you looking for a wedding dress?”
“No.” Sam suddenly looked offended. “What in the nine hells was Jack up to?”
“What are you talking about?” Chloe demanded, her voice going shrill.
Kenyon pulled out his light again and played it across the bodice of the dress, making the stones dance with white fire. “These are diamonds. Whatever bride belongs to this dress could have bought a small country with this dowry. In fact, if I’m right, one almost did. I think these are the lost diamonds of the Kingdom of Marcari.”
Chapter 5
Chloe’s gasp hit Sam hard. He whipped around, alert to whatever had startled her and ready to smash it. But nothing was there. Her shock had simply been at Kenyon’s words.
Nothing like a fortune in lost diamonds to stop a conversation cold. And what were they doing in Jack’s safe? Sam ground his teeth. He wasn’t big on surprises, and this was a whopper.
He edged closer to Chloe anyhow. That kind of ice on the lam meant danger permeated the air like a fine mist. The scum who’d attacked her would have friends. The first one who touches her will lose an arm.
The ferocity of the thought rocked him. He felt far too much for this human woman, but she had been brave, coolheaded despite her obvious distress. He could respect that. And he couldn’t deny that she was lovely, even the curve of her cheek showing nature’s geometry to perfection. But those weren’t good enough reasons to let the weakness of emotions compromise War.
Better to focus on the fact that she was Jack’s niece, and alone. Her relatives could not be counted on to keep her safe. They’d be more likely to strip the valuables from her cooling corpse. Therefore, she needed his help. That was acceptable. Best of all, it was a good reason to be near Chloe. Totally legitimate, even for a bloodsucking fiend. From this second on, Sam was the ultimate guard dog, protecting the girl, the diamonds and the dress. He owed it to Jack.
And he owed it to the Princess Amelie, the bride who belonged in that dress. He kicked himself for not realizing it was her gown right away. But then again, he’d never seen it before. And also—even with a connection to the family, why would Jack have the dress of a foreign princess half a world away? That was odd, even for Jack.
Chloe was definitely struggling to stay in the loop. “Lost diamonds?” She scrunched her face in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“These are the Jewels of Marcari,” Kenyon replied.
“Need-to-know,” Sam growled in warning. It wasn’t the Horsemen’s case, but the blanket order to all the Company’s agents had been for absolute secrecy about the heist. “We’re doing this by the book.”
At least that’s what Sam would do. Or Winspear. They followed orders. Instead, Kenyon gave him an eye roll.
Sam clenched his teeth harder, sensing chaos about to descend. Werewolves. Too valuable to strangle. Not valuable enough to lock away for good. It was the way they’d always worked. Kenyon would push just enough to drive Sam crazy, simply because it was fun.
“You heard about the royal wedding, right?” Kenyon said, addressing Chloe but with a sly look at Sam. “The Prince of Vidon and the Princess of Marcari?”
“Kenyon!”
Chloe shot Sam a startled glance. The look made him feel like a bully.
“The wedding?” she asked tentatively. “Sure, I heard about it. It was in the media for months, especially when Prince Kyle of Vidon was caught with his hand in the wrong cookie jar.”
Sam snorted. The cookie’s stage name was Brandi Snap. The wedding was off, but Brandi had a lucrative book deal.
Chloe’s eyes narrowed. “So what...?”
Sam folded his arms and interrupted. “It’s a long story.”
For an instant, Chloe looked hurt again, and then irritation filled her eyes. “Spill. If the diamonds are in my bedroom and bringing out the bad guys, I have a right to the details.”
Her voice, normally so low and soft, held an edge. She’d reached the end of her rope.
Sam scowled, torn between duty and a desire to tell her everything because she looked so vulnerable. He opted for a middle ground. “The stones belong to the Royal House of Marcari or of Vidon, depending on which one you ask. The two countries have been at odds since the Crusades. Part of the fight is over these gems.”
“The wedding would have resolved it,” Kenyon added. “At least in theory. The stones were recut in honor of the occasion. The finest were to form Princess Amelie’s dowry.”
“I knew that much,” Chloe said. “Once the wedding took place, the gems would belong to both countries. End of argument.”
Sam shrugged. “Until Prince Charming ended up in the tabloids. Now peace is further away than ever.”
Looking pale and shaky, Chloe rose from the bed and crossed to the dress, fingering the elaborately worked bodice. “Then this is Princess Amelie’s gown. No wonder the workmanship is so exquisite.”
Sam watched her hands, so graceful and precise as they stroked the cloth. He imagined them cooking food, winding a bandage, holding a baby. Things that no longer had a part in his life.
Her voice was wistful. “Speaking as a wedding consultant, putting the diamonds on the dress was a stunning concept. She would have shimmered like star fire. A symbol of peace. Everything a royal bride is supposed to be. What a tragedy it didn’t work out.”
Chloe turned, her gaze flicking from Sam to Kenyon and back. “So, how did these get stolen? How did Jack get them?”
“Good questions,” Sam replied. They were ones Jack would never answer.
“You seem to know a lot about the diamonds.”
“Jewelry is a special interest of mine,” Kenyon put in, the picture of utter innocence.
Sam wished there was such a thing as a werewolf muzzle. He considered Chloe’s doubtful expression. He could literally see her figuring out far too much, the thoughts flying across her face. If this kept up, they would have to wipe her memory.
He hated the idea. Selfishly, he wanted her to remember him saving her. Why? You can’t have her.
“When did the gems go missing?” she asked.
“Their absence was noted in March. The fact was kept from the media.”
“How do you know that?”
“I have friends.”
She gave him a dubious look. He held it, giving away nothing even though his hands itched to cup her body and pull her to him. Her anger smelled spicy. She knew he was hiding something. Despite circumstances, the determination in her eyes tantalized.
A contest between them would be interesting. His strength. Her wits. It would never happen. Their worlds would intersect for no more than a few days, and then he’d be gone.
Just as well. War was meant for killing, not affairs of the heart.
* * *
Sam insisted that Chloe move to a different bedroom. Still spooked, she agreed without a fuss. In her books, Sam had earned the title of security expert that night, and there was no way she was getting into that blood-soaked bed anyway. Once the dress was back in the safe, Sam escorted her to a room in the south wing, where there were no other guests to complicate his security plans. He lingered outside her door until she locked herself in.
Not that she was going to sleep, exhausted or not. Her thoughts were caught on a carnival wheel, reeling up, down and occasionally wrong side up. How did Uncle Jack get mixed up with foreign royalty and diamond thieves? Sure, he was a man of mystery and all that, but this was—well, it was pretty out there. But he’d been murdered, so she had to snap out of the shock and focus on the facts.
Sitting cross-legged on the sea-green counterpane of the guest room’s bed, she switched on her laptop and opened her spiral-bound journal to a fresh page. If Jack was involved, it might help to reconstruct his movements for the last few months of his life. A person didn’t just happen on a royal princess’s wedding gown, especially one coated in jewels. It had crossed his path someplace—and not in this town. Lovely though it was, Wingman County was hardly James Bond territory.
Chloe handled a few of Jack’s private business affairs, so she usually knew when he went out of town. She clicked on her electronic calendar and paged back to March, when the diamonds had apparently gone missing. Nothing of interest. She paged back further.
On February 15, there was a note that Jack asked her to attend a luncheon on his behalf. He had gone to the south of France—an intriguing detail, since it was a short train ride from the Côte d’Azur to Marcari. Okay, but lots of people go to warm places that time of year. What’s to say he wasn’t just enjoying the weather?
When did he come back? She paged forward, landing in April. She’d met him in New York, at a show by the designer Jessica Lark. She was a friend of Jack’s, though Chloe didn’t know how good a friend. Jack definitely kissed, but he’d seldom told.
Jotting down the dates and places, Chloe stared at the designer’s name, remembering her brief meeting with the woman. She’d been about thirty, hauntingly beautiful and a rare talent Chloe had felt privileged to meet. They’d shaken hands, firm and businesslike. No fake little air kisses from Lark.
Recalling that night gave her the shivers. She could hear the clink of glasses, the wash of too many perfumes in the hot room. Chloe remembered the brush of Lark’s silk dress against her bare arm, Jack laughing at something she’d said.
An ache in her throat made her shut down the memory. A month later, Jessica Lark had burned to death in a fire that had destroyed her studio. Nothing—and nobody—had survived.
Of the three people in that scene, Chloe was the only one who hadn’t been murdered. Yet. What’s the connection?
The answer was obvious. Jessica Lark was—
Something thumped against her door. Cold terror snaked up her arms, sending her scurrying off the bed. The journal flopped to the floor, making her jump again. She took a breath to cry out, but it died as a chill lump blocked her throat. Memories of the attack came slamming back, pumping adrenaline through her blood. Her hands trembled.
The door had a lock, but no dead bolt. She glanced around for a weapon. Pickings were slim. This wasn’t one of the guest suites, just a spare bedroom with nice but functional furniture. No suits of armor with convenient battle-axes. No ancient rifles crisscrossed over the fireplace. Just a bed and a dresser.
She knew where Jack had kept his SIG Sauer, but that was on another floor. So why didn’t I bring that with me?
Because she wasn’t used to actually needing a loaded gun. As a rule, this sort of danger didn’t find wedding planners.
Chloe held her frozen position, suffocating with fear, for an entire, eternal minute. She heard nothing but the pounding of her pulse.
Blast! She had to know what she’d heard or she’d stare at the door for the rest of the night, wondering. Guessing. Expecting the worst.
Willing herself to move, she picked up a china shepherdess from the night table and stalked toward the door, moving as quietly as a shadow. She gripped the figure with both hands, the china slick and cold against her palms. As a weapon, it wasn’t as hopeless as it looked. Bo Peep and her lambs might be frilly, but they were plenty heavy.
Chloe pressed her ear to the door, holding her breath to listen. Silence. Tentatively, she reached for the knob, balancing Bo Peep in one hand and gripping the cool brass with the other. In one quick move, she popped the lock and pulled it open. With a quick step backward, she grabbed the statue in both hands and hoisted it into the air, ready to bludgeon an intruder.
Sam sat across the hall, his back to the wall, his long legs stretched out. He’d pulled on a plain white T-shirt. His gun rested beside him, or did in the first fraction of a second that she was opening the door. Then it was in his hand, and he was on his feet.
Her breath stuttered, relief colliding with fresh panic. He wasn’t pointing the weapon, just very clearly on the alert, but no one should be able to move that fast.
She slowly lowered the statue. “It’s you,” she said lamely.
Sam eyed the lump of china. “Is that a sheep?”
“Yeah.” She watched, mesmerized by the play of muscles as he relaxed.
“That gives new meaning to offensive weapon.”
Chloe cradled it in her arms, feeling weirdly sorry for Bo and her lambs. “It was the best I had. I don’t carry a gun.”
“You’ve got me.” He took a step closer.
“Yeah, and you wear a gun more often than you seem to wear a shirt, but the rest of us have to improvise once in a while.” She wasn’t usually this snappish, but the night was catching up with her. Finding anyone, even Sam, lurking outside her door wasn’t doing her nerves any good. Neither was the fact that she wanted to move toward him and retreat backward all at once.
“Like I said, you’ve got me. Until this is all over, I’m your bodyguard.”
She was about to retort something about not needing that, but common sense stopped her. Or maybe it was the memory of his gentle hands barely an hour ago, comforting her. Maybe she did need him or maybe she just liked the idea of having someone there, strong and reliable.
Don’t get spoiled. He might be Super Sam, but he’s only here for a few days.
She stepped back from the doorway, beckoning him into the room. She set the shepherdess back on the nightstand. “I think I’ve figured out why Jack had the dress.”
Sam stopped cold. “You can’t be mixed up in this.”
Chloe folded her arms, staring into his eyes so that she wasn’t gawking at the T-shirt straining over his chest and arms. “Listen to me. We’re talking a wedding here. I’m an expert. And I know Jack. You’re not going to get past square one without my help.”
Chapter 6
“What are you saying?” Sam braced his hands on his waist and glowered down at her.
Okay, maybe she was overstating her case, but she could definitely contribute. Chloe fought the urge to poke him in the stomach just to deflate the arrogant set of his strong body. “I know what I’m talking about.”
His brow furrowed. “Oh?”
The single syllable made her vision go scarlet. The tone of it was polite, but beneath the buttering of good manners was doubt. After all, how could she possibly think of something he hadn’t already discovered? Yeah, right. Here comes the ego. The macho guys always have the ego. Next thing he’ll pat me on the head...or the backside. She’d break his arm if he did that, bodyguard or not.
He’d been nearly as bad when they’d talked earlier that day. Trust fund brat? No way. She wasn’t an idiot. He had lied. He was some kind of detective. He thinks I’m an idiot.
So he’d saved her life. That didn’t mean he got to patronize her. “Listen to me, Ralston.”
He folded his arms. “I’m listening.”
Every angle of his face said he wasn’t, not really, but she charged on anyway. “Last April I met Jack at a design show in New York. It was the launch of a new collection by his friend Jessica Lark.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Lark was a designer. One of the most sought-after by a younger segment of the superrich.” Chloe sucked in a breath, frustrated. Sam was looking at her as if she was speaking Martian. “Princess Amelie was one of her best clients.”
“So?”
Chloe paused. She had theories. Good ones. “This is the fashion world we’re talking here.”
“Which means what?”
The man was clueless. There was a good chance the princess would have used Lark for the wedding trousseau. Those designs would have set the tone for the fashion industry for seasons to come. A sneak peek at the sketches would have been worth a fortune—but everything had gone up in flames on almost the same date that the wedding had been called off. It was as if the whole Brandi Snap fiasco was a distraction from the truly important event—whatever it was that connected the fire, the diamonds and Jack’s murder.
And then there was the dress. If Chloe was right, that was Lark’s work. Jack had been in Europe at the right time to pick up the diamonds and then take them to New York to be sewn on to the centerpiece of the wedding collection.
Apprehension crowded in on Chloe. She’d meant to blurt all this out, to share her thoughts freely, but Sam had returned to brick wall status. And he was a bored brick wall. This wasn’t her wedding business, where people knew she was the expert. In Sam’s world, she was just a girl in need of rescue. That look in his eyes was enough to make her rethink.