Prodigal Son (19 page)

“The car is this way. You will feel better in the air conditioning.” He slipped a hand beneath her elbow and steered her toward the parking lot.

“Air conditioning. Yes, it’s hot.” She squinted from the man escorting her to the silver sedan. That car looked familiar. Where had she seen it before?

“We need to hurry,” he continued. “We don’t want to be late.”

She shook her head again, trying to clear the cobwebs. “I hate being late.”

His friend sprinted ahead of them, clicking his remote to unlock the car. He pulled open the door and started to get in, then froze. “Evan, he’s coming.”

Evan stopped and looked behind them. Cara looked as well.

Rafe Montana was charging across the parking lot with blood in his eye.

*   *   *

What the hell was going on here? Why wasn’t Cara screaming her head off?

Rafe hurtled toward their two followers. He’d already reached for the Hunter, his focus stone burning against his chest as raw power flooded through it, fueling his muscles, his senses. His sharpened eyesight picked out the immediate threats: the gun, the guy’s hand on Cara’s arm. Thank the Creators he’d gotten curious, had used his powers to try and see Cara. When he hadn’t been able to, he’d opened his mind to the universe—and gotten a vision of the familiar silver sedan in the parking lot. He had a million questions, but they could wait.

Only Cara mattered.

He went for the gun first, but its wielder whipped out of range with a speed that startled him. Rafe reached for the Hunter. More power. Leaped. Threw all his weight at the gun hand.

The guy almost made it out of range, but Rafe caught the edge of his jacket sleeve and jerked. Tore the gun from his hand. Threw it under the car.

The guy snarled and came at him, hands a blur of martial arts moves. Rafe was good, but this guy was seriously trained—like Special Ops trained. Rafe stepped wrong, stumbled. The guy came after him, his punch like a sledgehammer to the gut. Rafe landed on his back. Wheezed. Struggled to suck air into his lungs.

The guy dropped to his stomach on the ground, reached under the car for the gun.

No! Rafe shoved to his side, grabbed the bastard’s head seconds before his fingers brushed the gun. Wrapped his arm around the guy’s throat and tightened, dragging him back. The guy ripped at Rafe’s arm with his fingers, bucking like a landed trout, but Rafe didn’t loosen his hold. Lack of circulation won, and his adversary passed out.

Before Rafe could move, the other guy came up behind him, grabbed Rafe by the collar of his shirt, and dragged him backward. Rafe released the unconscious man and twisted and turned, trying to jerk free of the hold. He could see Cara standing by the car, her expression confused.

The edge of his shirt dug into his throat, cutting at his windpipe. He raked at the material, trying to tear it. Then the guy let go. Rafe’s head hit the pavement with a thud. Pain blinded him for a second.

The guy grabbed the front of his shirt this time, dragged him to his feet. As Rafe’s vision cleared, he met the nearly black eyes of his opponent. Tried to see something.

Nothing.

“Seer,” his opponent hissed. “Now you die.” He slammed a hard right into Rafe’s jaw.

His ears rang, but Rafe managed to rip free before the next one hit. The guy came after him. Rafe blocked blow after blow, but the bastard moved like the wind, his strikes coming seconds faster than Rafe expected. Rafe pulled more power, brought the Hunter in closer, but still he found himself losing ground.

A movement to the side jerked his attention away, just for a second. The first guy had come to and was forcing Cara into the silver sedan. She hit her head as he shoved her into the car, her cry echoing across the parking lot. Rage flared. They’d hurt her.

He spun back in time to block the next punch headed his way. Met his opponent’s gaze. This guy wanted him dead, and who knew what they’d do to Cara.

No,
he
knew. He’d seen it. She’d die.

“Like hell.” He head-butted his foe, then let the Hunter loose.

*   *   *

He came back to himself minutes later. Both kidnappers were on the ground, unconscious and bleeding. He stood over the guy who’d had the gun. He flexed his fingers, blood from his knuckles oozing, then swept the weapon off the ground. His ribs ached, as did his jaw. And Cara sat in the car, staring at him. In her beautiful eyes he saw that tangle again, the one that held her will hostage—just like in Vegas. But he had no cold shower here.

He glanced at the diner. No one had even come outside during the fight, so he doubted there was any help to be found there.

“Air conditioning,” Cara said.

He turned back to her. “What did you say?”

“They told me to get in the car. For the air conditioning.” Her voice rose in pitch, distress crumpling her features. “I need the air conditioning. I don’t want to be late.”

“Of course not.” He leaned down, wincing as his ribs protested. “What are you supposed to do, Cara?”

“Get in the car. Turn on the air conditioning.” Her dead-blank gaze settled on him, sending a chill along his spine. “I don’t want to be late.”

He blew out a breath, then said, “This car is broken, Cara. How about my car?”

She frowned. “And air conditioning?”

“I have air conditioning.” He reached in and unfastened her seat belt. “Let’s go to my car and turn on the air conditioning. Because we don’t want to be late.”

Her expression cleared. “Yes. Let’s go.” She held out her hands with the innocence of a child wanting to be picked up.

He helped her out of the car and walked her to his SUV a few spaces away. His legs already trembled, his senses bombarded by the scrape of their shoes on the pavement and the hiss of tires on the nearby highway. He had to snap her out of this trance thing before his burnout hit.

Otherwise they were both dead.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rafe drove as fast as he dared, struggling to stay conscious as he fought burnout as well as physical discomfort. Add in Stepford Cara sitting next to him, and they would both be sitting ducks unless he figured out how to snap her out of it.

The more he learned about the other players in this game, the more confusing things got. Adrian Gray, the twins back there, the president of Santutegi, Danny Cangialosi. He couldn’t read any of them. But Cara, Artie Bartow, the waitress at the diner—no problem. And the guy who’d just tried to kick his ass had called him “Seer.” Somehow he knew about Rafe’s abilities.

Which made it even more important he break this whammy they’d put on Cara. He could feel his power draining away at an alarming rate, but she was in no shape to drive. Not until he brought her back with some kind of physical shock. They had to keep moving, keep ahead of their enemies, until he could figure this thing out.

His vision blurred. He blinked his eyes. Out of time.

He caught sight of a tiny lot with an emergency phone a few yards down the road. He hit the gas, then pulled in and parked on the narrow strip of blacktop.

Cara glanced over at him. “I don’t want to be late.”

“We’re not late.” He glanced at the clock. “See, it’s two eleven. We’re right on time.”

“Oh, good.” She beamed at him, her vacant eyes a scary shadow of the real Cara. “We’re not late.”

“That’s right.” He swiped a hand across his face, and it came away smeared red. He flipped the rearview mirror toward him and peered at his battered face. A small cut near his eye glistened with clotting blood. Muttering, he leaned across her and popped open the glove compartment to grab some napkins. “Can you hand me that bottle of water, Cara?”

He shut the glove box and realized she hadn’t moved. Still bent forward, he turned his head to look at her. She just looked back. With a sigh, he grabbed the bottle of water she’d stashed on the passenger floor earlier and settled back in his seat. Unscrewing the cap, he poured some on his napkins, then used his reflection in the rearview mirror and cleaned off his face.

The water had heated from sitting in the hot car, so it felt good on his wounds, but pouring it over her head probably wouldn’t work to break the whammy. It was the shock of the cold that had done it last time. Besides, they were in the middle of the desert, and water was too valuable to waste. And he certainly drew the line at slapping her to snap her out of it.

Stuck where they were, with his strength fading fast, he could only think of one thing that might do it, though it bordered on taking advantage. But he had nothing else.

He leaned over, caught her by the back of the neck, and pulled her into his kiss.

She gave a little whimper—surprise maybe?—but didn’t pull away. Instead she sank into him, her lips responding to every unspoken demand. Her compliance fanned desire even hotter, though he knew her reaction had nothing to do with free will. But with the Hunter so close to the surface, and with her scent in his lungs and her taste on his lips, her soft skin beneath his hands, he couldn’t control himself as well as he would have liked. He wanted her, wanted to lay her out and have her in every way possible, even though things remained unsettled between them. His hands shook with need, his will weakened by the impending burnout. The Hunter lurked just beneath his skin, eager, desperate, to sate his hunger with her again.

He had to maintain control. He pulled back, looked into her eyes. That white haze was back, wrapped tightly around her will. And the blackness of death loomed larger and darker than ever before.

The kiss alone would not do it.

Weakness dragged at his limbs. Burnout sped toward him like an out-of-control train. Their pursuers would catch up with them soon. Now was their chance to disappear, if only he could snap Cara out of it before he passed out. With shaking fingers, he pulled his focus crystal out from under his shirt.

She watched him, just waiting, like a pet listening for its master’s next command. He hated that look on her face. Wanted the fire and complexity that was Cara.

“Hold this.” He took her hand and placed the stone in her palm, folding her fingers around it. The crystal was already warm and vibrating from the manifestation of the Hunter only a short while before. Add in some very real, very hot sexual hunger and he was surprised the thing didn’t brand her palm. “Here goes,” he muttered, then kissed her again.

White energy roared to life, exploding in his head and lighting up his consciousness with dazzling brilliance. She whimpered once, shifted in her seat. He tugged her closer, letting loose his desire, giving the crystal emotional juice to feed on. He slid his hand over her breast, soft and plump in his palm, flicked his thumb over her stiffening nipple. She jolted at the contact, then melted into him, arching her back, offering more.

His instincts screamed at him to strip off her clothes, take what was offered.

Just take it!
The Hunter raged just beyond conscious thought, riled up from the recent fight, all jagged edges and blunt, sexual need.
You’ve already had her once; you can see she wants you
.

He ignored the dark demands, funneling the shadowy power of the Hunter through the focus stone. Each facet cleansed it, filtered it, producing white light, white energy, which rippled into Cara. He knew the second she snapped into the loop. She cried out, tearing her mouth from his, her body stiffening as if in orgasm. He could see the brilliance shimmering through her, chasing away the darkness.

Heal her.
Scraping together the last dregs of his vitality, he aimed the power at the bonds around her will. It sliced through them like a sharp knife through soft butter.

The awareness came back into her eyes even as his started to close.

“Rafe! What the…?” She surged toward him, then stopped, caught by her grip on the focus stone. “What’s going on?” She dropped the hot crystal against his chest. Stared at it.

“Cara.” He pushed the words past his lips as the burnout started to spiral through his body. “I’m going to pass out. You need to drive.”

“Where are we?” She looked around. “What happened to the diner?”

“Long story.” The words swept out with an exhausted breath. His vision grew hazy. “Fight. You … were…” He sucked in air.

“I was what? I can’t remember anything.” Horror swept over her face. “Just like Vegas.”

“Yes-s-s.” His eyes slid closed.

“Rafe! Rafe, wake up.” She shook him. “If you want me to drive, you have to get out of the driver’s seat.”

“Can’t.” He couldn’t even lift his eyelids. “Burn … out.”

“Burnout?”

“Fight.” His words jumbled together, his lips numb. Blackness blurred the boundaries of his consciousness. “Drained … the … stone.”

Burnout swept over him, dragging him into the unrelenting darkness of oblivion.

*   *   *

Cara stared at Rafe, appalled. What was wrong with him? He’d been in a fight, that much she could see. She pressed her fingers against his neck, got a steady pulse. So far, so good. She tugged his shirt up, looked for gunshots, stab wounds—something that would make a man pass out. Nothing but a few bruises. She jerked his clothes back into place. The crystal banged against her hand before settling against his chest again.

She stared at the clear gem, then lifted it gingerly. It felt hot against her fingers, hotter than a necklace should be from just resting against human skin. He’d said the fight had drained the stone. And … was it vibrating?

She dropped it and stared. Remembered that morning in the parking lot. What the heck was going on here?

She struggled to put the pieces together. Apparently someone had managed to drug her or whatever again, because she couldn’t recall a darned thing between the time Maisie called and the moment she woke up with her hand around Rafe’s necklace and warm, white fire burning through her mind.

White fire. Just like before, in the hotel room, in the parking lot. When they’d both touched the crystal.

She fell back into her seat, staring at the innocent-looking pendant. Okay, now she really was losing it. The thing looked like simple clear quartz. But when she thought back to the moment when they’d been in bed, passion singeing the sheets, and she’d grasped the crystal … then again in the parking lot …