The Taken (20 page)

Anne remained stoic and silent, so Grif exercised his gift of free will and headed back to the house. “See you on the flip side, Pure.”

Anne growled in response, but when she called out to him again, he didn’t turn around. “Kill her, Griffin Shaw. Kill her, and put the world back in order.”

Whose world? Grif wondered, flicking his cigarette butt into the darkness. Because his hadn’t seen any sort of order in over fifty years.

Chapter Fifteen

K
it had never been to Caleb Chambers’s lakeside estate before, though she’d read about the fabled parties in the gossips, the glossies . . . even in her own newspaper. Despite his prestige and accessibility, he retained an aura of exclusivity. Do business with Chambers, it was said, and you were practically guaranteed success. He never faltered, never failed. Never a professional misstep, or financial fumble.

“Too good to be true,” Kit murmured as the tram ferrying them around the still, glossy lake slid past a looming evergreen and the estate came into view.

“What was that?” Grif asked, tucked in close beside her. The valet had assumed they were a couple, and dropped a fur over their legs before she could protest.

Not that she’d protest. As promised, she hadn’t mentioned their shared kiss to Grif, or even alluded to the fight that followed. She wasn’t going to lower herself to mentioning that he’d pretend to be an angel just to get away from her touch.

Grif had been tense around her at first, but was loosening up now that he saw she was keeping her word. And she would continue to do so. She had her pride. She didn’t chase down men like they were game. She certainly didn’t chase moody dangerous strangers who claimed to have wings and dead wives.

But Fleur was right, Kit thought, now that she’d calmed. The bad-boy gene got her motor running. So it wasn’t Grif. It certainly wasn’t
angels
. It was something faulty in her—something she was going to put a stop to immediately.

Maybe I’ll pick up a nice, safe Mormon boy at the charity ball, she thought, as the tram began its final leg up the drive.

“Did you say something?” Grif asked, and she realized she’d been mumbling to herself. Who’s crazy now? Kit thought, sighing.

“I was just thinking of our illustrious host,” she told Grif, as they rolled past cypresses spaced like sentinels, and torches mimicking the same.

“You mean why his name keeps popping up along those suspected of running illegal brothels.”

“Yeah. I mean, why risk all of this?” she said, as they came to a stop in front of a mansion reminiscent of a Tuscan villa.

“Well, what do you know about the man?”

“Facts or hearsay?”

“I’m not picky.”

She eyed him in the dark. “It’s quietly rumored that he keeps his wives at the lake estate. Or most of them. The first one lives with him at the Trails. No one is ever invited there.”

Grif’s expression remained blank. “So he’s a polygamist.”

“Alleged.” Kit nodded. “Nothing has ever been proven, and though there are whispers, most of Vegas couldn’t care less. Not the most judgmental town, if you haven’t noticed.”

They followed the other partygoers through an arched courtyard with bubbling fountains, naked statues, and doorways flung wide to reveal a foyer dripping with chandeliers. The noise level rose just inside as guests mingled in a social tapestry of conversation, music, and laughter. Tuxedoed waiters bore hors d’oeuvres, while hostesses in tiny black dresses and two-hour heels offered champagne flutes from sparkling silver trays. Grif accepted two from a high-cheekboned blonde who gave him a generous smile before moving on.

Kit lifted a brow beneath her raven-hued do.

“What?” Grif handed her a flute.

Kit couldn’t help herself. “I don’t think she likes guys with wings.”

Grif gave her a fish-eyed stare. “I was just admiring her dress.”

“That’s not a dress,” she muttered, sipping, “it’s a plot summary.”

Grif laughed, a deep chuckle that reverberated through his arm where it touched hers, and since Kit immediately wished she could make him laugh again, she discreetly edged away, resolutely turning her attention to the rest of the room.

Everything winked and sparkled against a white marble floor, leaded windows, and candlelight as artfully placed as the paintings on the wall. Chambers favored classical and antiques, which fit the villa, but Kit found them overly precious and twee.

Give me the clean lines of mid-century modernism any day, she thought, eyeing an ugly monkey vase.

“So you came.” Paul’s appearance was sudden, telling Kit he’d been watching for them, but his expression was drawn, indicating he wished they hadn’t.

“Wouldn’t waste the tickets,” she said, giving a polite smile to the woman he was wearing, one poured into fabric that had more give than the Salvation Army. Everything was so stretchy these days. Where were the butterfly darts? The pleats? The pin tucks that turned clothes into structured art?

“Kit, this is my date, Raven. Raven, this is Katherine Craig, my ex.”

“Oh my Gawd,” Raven said, in a bubblegum voice that trilled like a string instrument. She looked Kit up and down, eyes gone wide. “He wasn’t kidding. You really do dress like June Cleaver. Is that dress . . . old?”

“Vintage,” Kit corrected shortly.

“So you wear things that have been worn before? By . . . old people?”

Smoothing her gloved fingertips over the cupcake skirt, Kit replied, “I wear things made in America and made to last, yes. I have a tactual addiction.”

Raven tilted her head up, pouting at Paul in a way Kit was sure they both found cute. “What does that even mean?”

Kit smiled cutely, too. “It means cheap textiles make me break out in hives, and that I don’t take fashion cues from something called a Snooki.”

Grif snorted, quickly covering it with a cough.

Raven straightened so that her breasts nearly popped from her stretch bodice. “How long did you say you two were married?”

“Short enough that it was a long time ago,” Kit shot back, before biting her tongue. It bothered her that Paul wasn’t standing up for her, and it annoyed her that she was bothered. Besides, how could she blame Raven? Even Kit was beginning to find their marital union hard to believe.

“Some things never change,” Paul said, pointedly raising his brows. “Which is why I’m sure you’ll understand when I say please, whatever you do tonight, be discreet.”

“Darling, everything about me is discreet.”

He canvassed her body the way his girlfriend had—from the white stripe in her dark Marilyn do to her Roger Vivier stilettos and her gold beaded clutch in between. Then he looked at Grif. “It’s my reputation here.”

“Then maybe
we
should be worried,” Grif said, and took Kit’s arm before Paul could reply. “Come on. Let’s dance.”

The last thing she saw was Paul’s frown as Grif wheeled her away.

“Thank you,” she said, as they headed to the makeshift dance floor. “I was about to make an ass of myself.”

And she’d already seen half a dozen men in this room that were on her list. She couldn’t afford to get wrapped up in what Paul and his walking, talking blow-up doll thought of her.

“Yeah, well. The stench was getting to me,” Grif replied, leading her through a particularly dense cluster of the well-heeled.

“I’m happy to see someone else considers the ‘Bordello Blonde’ scent a bit obvious.”

Grif shook his head as he wheeled her onto the dance floor. “I was talking about him. Didn’t you smell that?”

Kit shrugged. “I’m immune to his bullshit by now.”

Fortunately, if anything could shake off her lingering irritation, it was dancing. And if there was anything that could alter her mood altogether, it was
great
dancing.

Grif apparently didn’t feel the same. “What are you doing?”

She slid to the right, the beat moving through the room to syncopate with her heartbeat, moving through her chest, out her arms, and into his. The band was live, she was
alive,
and though she wasn’t sure she should be, she was also swinging around the dance floor in a dangerous man’s arms. Well, one moment couldn’t hurt anything, right?

“Oh. I dunno,” she said, twirling, eyes half-closed. “I just kinda like to lead.”

“What a surprise,” Grif said drily.

The corner of her mouth lifted in reply as she continued to sway, but Grif suddenly dug in his heels. The entire dance floor moved around them, but he just leveled her with a hard stare.

“What?” she asked, pulling his arm, edging right. He didn’t budge.

“I know my way.” And he swung her to the left.

It took a moment before Kit caught her breath, and another before she allowed herself to relax into Grif’s arms. He moved as if he was possessed by the song, his touch sure as he guided her with a mere shift of his fingertips. He anticipated her movements so seamlessly it was like stepping right through the notes, and heat rose inside of her so that she had to force it away.

She
wasn’t
going to open to him again.

But, damn, if he hadn’t already told her he didn’t want her, she would have sworn he did.

And that’s why she finally pulled back, dizzy but determined not to lose herself in the music, the footwork, or him.

“So what do you think?” she asked, lifting her head. But Grif’s eyes were glazed, and he jolted like she’d awoken him from a dream. “I mean, would you keep all your wives here if you were a polygamist?”

Grif glanced around, making the movement a part of the dance. Again, Kit’s heart surged with an extra beat. “Hard to say. I always thought one spouse was enough.”

“Funny,” she said, spying the back of Paul’s head. “I thought one was too many.”

“Yeah, because you were married to a total sap.”

She couldn’t argue that. “Marriage isn’t all it’s made out to be.”

“But being alone is?”

“Being
single,
” she corrected, “is about hope. It’s about the future . . . the person you might meet at Starbucks or online or in the next aisle at the grocery store. But being married is about the past. How you met, what choices you made early on when there were still choices
to
make. Eventually memories of wonderful things have to make up for all the disappointments since.”

Grif almost stopped dancing. “That’s . . .”

“Awful, I know.” She wrinkled her nose. “Never mind. Marriage and I just weren’t a good fit.”

“Stop it.”

“But it’s true.”

“No, I mean you’re trying to lead again. Stop.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Anyway, you’re painting in too broad of strokes there, Kitty-cat.”

The endearment had been automatic. She saw the regret flash over his face before he could hide it, and clenched her jaws. “Am I?”

He nodded without hesitation. “Same as your reverence for all things fifties.”

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot. You were alive back then. You
remember
.”

“Hey, I don’t care if you believe me—”

“Good.”

“But you and your friends think things were so great back then, yet there’s always been trouble in the world, and enough people willing to cause it.”

Kit shrugged. “It was still a simpler time.”

“No. It wasn’t.” And he stopped dancing, though he still held her tight. “A black woman was arrested for refusing to give up her seat on the bus—”

Kit stiffened. “Are you lecturing me? Can we just go back to dancing?”

But Grif’s face had taken on a deeper red. “We were battling the Commies on Earth and in outer space—”

“Are angels supposed to call people Commies?”

He ignored her. “The Cold War was the scariest damn thing this planet had seen, and we lived in fear of our own neighbors.”

“Yes, and it was before people knew that smoking would kill you,” Kit pointed out, “and well before sex really could.”

“Yeah, well one thing was exactly the same.”

“What’s that?”

“Women were still murdered by men who thought they could get away with it.”

Kit clenched her teeth. “If you’re trying to prove that you’re an angel again, it’s not working.”

“I don’t have to prove anything. I know what I know.”

“Just like Tony, eh?” Kit scoffed, because the old man had told her the same thing.

Grif shook his head. “No, I know way more than old Tony Prima. I know something you don’t know, too. Marriage ain’t about the past. You just chose a man without any drive.”

Bridget Moore’s words revisited Kit like a gut punch.
A man who’s driven in his life’s pursuits will be equally driven when it comes to you
.

Tears unexpectedly welled in Kit’s eyes.

“Oh, geez.” Grif immediately guided her from the dance floor and over to giant bay windows, the center open to allow in fresh air.

You can lose yourself to a man like that.

“I’m sorry,” Grif was muttering, but Kit was too busy wondering how a prostitute could know such things, how a crazy man who thought he was an angel who’d died in 1960 could know it. And how she could not.

Pulling a cloth handkerchief from her clutch, Kit waved him off. She’d been right about one thing, at least. This man was dangerous.