Tainted Hearts (3 page)

Rape? Torture? Murder?

She turned off the water with a helpless
shudder. Speculation was a waste of time. She needed more
information.

Marc stared at the bathroom door, heart
pounding. Was Tuesday involved with PURE? Three attempts had been
made on his life over the past six months, and Job topped his list
of suspects.

No, she’d been frightened when she thought
he was Job. But there was definitely some sort of connection. The
possibility was worth investigating. Perhaps they had a common
enemy.

Tuesday was turning out to be more
interesting than he’d expected. Their brief, professional
encounters in the past hadn’t prepared him for the reality of
holding her in his arms. He could still feel the silken texture of
her skin, the firmness of her leg muscle. Oh, to slip those panties
off and continue his massage.

Her legs were spectacular, long and shapely,
firm, but rounded. He smiled. That pretty much described her entire
body. Curvy and feminine. He itched to explore each and every
contour, to touch, taste, and—

The bathroom door opened and she stepped
out. Heightened color still accented her cheekbones and he sensed
her anxiety, but her expression was calm, her gaze cautious.

“Are you going to explain why you brought me
here, or is building the suspense part of the thrill?”

Still prickly. How much should he tell her?
What did she really need to know? “It’s not my intention to harm
you,” he began.

“Great. Then, let me go.”

“I can’t do that. My daughter’s life depends
on you.”

Her leaf-green eyes narrowed just a
fraction. She’d apparently been expecting something more
traditional. He shook his head. His predicament was far more
complicated.

“Who are you?” she asked again.

“Who I am isn’t important. My daughter is
dying—and you’re going to save her life.”

“How am I going to do that?”

“You’re going to manipulate the Priority
Matrix to make her next on the list.”

She pulled out one of the stools at the
breakfast bar and sat. “This is about a heart? Your daughter needs
an SP-64?”

“Exactly.”

Shaking her head, her delicate features
reflected the confusion he felt in her. “Why in the world didn’t
you petition CPT for a review of her placement on the matrix? How
old is she? How long has she been waiting for the procedure?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, debating
what to say.

She stilled and those beautiful eyes focused
on his face. “You work for them, don’t you?”

Scathing disdain made the word brittle,
telling him all he needed to know. Full confession was out. If she
found out who he was, she’d never help him.

“They treat anyone connected with
Sinclair-Dietrich like a criminal,” he said. “I don’t care about
me. Maybe I deserve it, but Elise is eight years old.”

“Eight? She’s been denied a heart for eight
years? What are the specifics of her condition? How rapid is the
deterioration? This doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s all irrelevant, Ms. Fitzpatrick.” He
strode toward her, hardening himself for the ultimatum. “Her time
has run out. If my daughter doesn’t get an SP-64 in the next few
days, she’ll die. You’re the only person on the planet who can
ensure that doesn’t happen and I’m here to see that you do.”

She stood and faced him squarely. “You
should have learned this morning that I don’t respond well to
threats.”

“I’m not threatening you. I’m negotiating.
You have what I need—now tell me what you want. I’m a very wealthy
man. I can get you whatever you ask. Name your price. State your
conditions. What do you want in exchange for my daughter’s
life?”

Tuesday stared at her captor, too stunned to
speak. Didn’t he realize what they’d do once they caught him? And
it was only a matter of time. When she failed to arrive for her
meeting at Sinclair-Dietrich, someone would notify Vonne…but he
worked for Sinclair-Dietrich; he’d admitted as much.

Vonne was expecting her to disappear right
after the meeting. Was it possible he’d arranged all this so no one
would miss her? Fear knotted her belly and squeezed her chest. No,
she’d known Vonne for years. There was no way she was involved.
Tuesday quickly lowered her gaze. She couldn’t let him see the
doubt eroding her composure.

“I’ll do whatever I can for your daughter,
Mr.…” She risked a glance at his face. Suspicion tingled through
her again. Where had she seen him before? “What’s your name?”

“Call me whatever you like. I’m irrelevant.
All that matters is my daughter.”

He stood before her, arms clasped behind his
back, features carefully schooled, revealing nothing. What was she
missing? Either he was nuts—which was a distinct possibility—or
something had driven him to this desperate act.

“I don’t control the Priority Matrix,” she
tried again. “I have to understand the specifics of your daughter’s
circumstances or I have no way of helping her.”

With two quick steps, he brought them
toe-to-toe. “Her classification is triple Z.”

Tuesday gasped. “Triple Z? I’ve never heard
of anyone with a triple Z classification. What are her complicating
conditions? What is compromising the installation?”

His eyes flashed, then clouded. “Her only
diagnosis is Methuselah Syndrome. Her health will be completely
restored by the procedure.”

“Then why has it been withheld? There has to
be a reason.”

He trapped her between his arms, clasping
the breakfast bar on either side of her waist. “All you need to
know is she’ll die within a few days if—”

“I can’t convince the committee to
reconsider—”

“I don’t expect them to reconsider! You’re
going to find a way to sneak her through.”

He wasn’t really touching her, just invading
her personal space, making her unavoidably aware of his big body
and superior strength. His warm, faintly spicy scent drifted around
her, unexpectedly pleasant, masculine. “It’s not that simple.”

“You hold all the patents and licenses for
the SP-64. Find a way!” Pushing off the counter, he rounded the bar
and entered the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”

“Am I hungry?” She laughed, the sound hollow
and disbelieving. “Are you insane?”

“The answer to that is widely debated.” He
faced her across the breakfast bar, his gaze inscrutable. “My
question, on the other hand, requires a simple yes or no.”

“You expect me to sit down and share a
casual meal with you?”

“I’ve explained what I need from you. The
ball is in your court. Tell me what it will cost me.”

That was easy. “My freedom.”

“Done. The minute my daughter’s procedure is
complete, I’ll set you free.”

Maybe not so easy. “I can’t arrange it from
here.”

He grinned, one dark brow arched in silent
challenge. “How do you know? You don’t know where you are. What do
you need to arrange it? I can be very resourceful; tell me what you
need.”

He was impossible.

He was insane. No, he was utterly sane. He
knew exactly what he was doing. “I need to think.”

“Do you think better with food in your
belly?” He moved to the refrigeration unit and studied the contents
through the transparent door. “I’m famished. Do you want something
to eat or not?”

“How long do you intend to keep me here?” He
didn’t turn to face her, but she could see his reflection on the
surface of the door. His jaw worked and his lips compressed.

“As long as it takes.” He slid the door to
the side and gathered eggs, cheese and some vegetables, then set
the ingredients by the stove. “Or as long as she has,” he added
without turning around.

The flicker of pity building within her
sputtered out. She hated to be manipulated. “That’s so unfair. I’m
not responsible for what’s happening to your daughter.”

He spun to face her, a chopping knife in one
hand, two eggs in the other. Fury gleamed in his wide teal eyes.
Was he going to stab her with the knife or throw the eggs? Only his
thunderous expression kept her from smiling.

“You want to talk about unfair? My daughter
has never been allowed to play with other children. They might
excite her, or upset her, and her heart couldn’t take the strain.
Her first pacemaker was installed when she was four days old. She’s
been attended by a nurse, round the clock, from the moment of her
birth. Eight years! Elise is eight years old and she’s not yet
begun to live.”

Tuesday had to look away from the agony in
his gaze. It shredded her defenses and stomped past her resentment
to tug unmercifully on her heartstrings. She walked across the
room, fighting back tears. Damn him. Regardless of what he was
suffering, kidnapping her was not the answer. Forcing her to use
her influence at CPT would only…

“Open blinds.”

In response to his voice command, the
louvers concealing the windows smoothly rotated. Sunlight flooded
the room, making her squint. Her troubled thoughts withered beneath
the grandeur of the scene. Rugged, snow-capped mountains cut into a
brilliant blue horizon. Only on video screens had she seen such
beauty. She’d always meant to go, to spend time at one of the
Nature Preserves, but there had always been something to interfere,
some deadline or unexpected crisis.

He touched her shoulder and she gasped.
She’d been so transfixed by the tranquil beauty she hadn’t heard
him come up behind her.

“I started a pot of coffee. Do you want an
omelet, toast, a sandwich?”

“I want to go outside.”

He chuckled. “Are you always this hard to
feed?”

“Hardly,” she grumbled. “As you can plainly
see, I have a very healthy appetite.”

“Fishing for compliments?” He flashed his
sexy smile. “You stood in the sunlight this morning and that filmy
little dress showed us all exactly how well-proportioned your
appetite has made you.”

She took a quick step away from the windows.
He’d say anything, do anything, if he thought it would win points
with her. He was using her. She couldn’t let herself forget it.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Tuesday. Are you
going to try to convince me no one has ever told you before?”

Embarrassed and uncomfortable with the
topic, she ignored his question and turned back to the majestic
view.

“Tell you what,” he began. “If you suffer
through my cooking, I’ll take you outside when we’re done
eating.”

She considered the proposal for only a
moment. “Fine. Is this pot of coffee free from whatever you put in
the last?”

Resting his hand lightly at the small of her
back, Marc led her across the lodge. “I’ll drink from the same mug
if you like. I’ve no reason to sedate you now.”

The gauzy material of her dress teased his
fingers. He’d experienced the smooth heat of her bare skin and his
fingers ached to continue the exploration. He wanted to slide his
palm across her torso and higher, to cup the fullness of her breast
and feel her nipple gather under the flick of his thumb.

He bit back a groan. If he kept this up, he
wouldn’t be able to walk, much less cook.

After pouring her a mug of steaming coffee,
he slid it across the counter toward her. She sat again at the
breakfast bar, following him with her gaze as he moved about the
kitchen.

“Is your daughter’s mother in the
picture?”

Emma’s face materialized in his mind and his
fist closed around the egg. It cracked, oozing slimy streamers
between his fingers. “No.” He tossed the mess into the sink and
quickly rinsed his hand. “Reliving the past isn’t going to change
the future. Your only concern is Elise.”

Silence stretched between them as he worked
on their meal. He could hear her shifting on the stool and taking
an occasional sip from her mug, but she didn’t say anything more.
Smart woman. Knew when to back off.

“What was your role in the Methuselah
Project?”

Unbelievable.

“I’m not stupid Mr.…” He heard her
frustrated sigh. “What’s your middle name? Surely you can give me
something.”

“Marc. Just call me Marc.” Marc was his
middle name. Edward Marcus Sinclair, just like his father. But his
father had been Edward or Ed, so even as a boy, Marc had been
called by his middle name.

“All right, Marc. The only reason your
daughter would be precluded from the SP-64 Program is if you had
direct involvement in the Methuselah Project.”

He flipped the omelet and lightly tapped the
spatula against the edge of the frying pan. “That doesn’t change
anything. You’re still going to make this happen.”

“There you go again.” She hopped down from
the stool and joined him in the kitchen. “You challenge my stubborn
streak when you tell me what I will and will not do.”

Sliding the massive omelet onto a plate, he
divided it and handed her half on a second plate. “Fair enough. You
tell me what I’m going to do. What can I get for you, do for you,
what do you want from me?”

“Another cup of coffee,” she said with the
hint of a smile.

“Have a seat.” He motioned toward the table
now bathed in sunlight. “I’ll bring the pot.”

They ate in silence. Marc watched her pick
at her omelet. Tension gradually left her expression, fear mellowed
to unease. His shoulders relaxed and he exhaled slowly. Exploiting
her fear might give him an edge, make her easier to control. He
wasn’t disregarding the possibility, but he’d much rather
negotiate.

Besides, if she felt desperate, she might do
something reckless. And his conscience couldn’t bear
another…mishap.

“Who did your face?” Her eyes narrowed
thoughtfully. She pushed her nearly empty plate aside. “It’s
fabulous. Distinctive yet subtle.”

“Not subtle enough, if you immediately
presume it’s enhanced.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, but what made you think so?”