Valentine Shepherd: Retribution Part 3

"h.e.l.lo?" she said like an idiot who didn't understand how technology worked.

"Are you trying to call me? Or did you just b.u.t.t-dial me?"

The sound of his voice in her ear made her smile. She was glad he couldn't see her grinning like a crazy ex-girlfriend. Val wiped her smile away and tried to stay focused. "Yeah, I tried to call you. I wanted to talk-I mean, I need to talk to you."

"Is something wrong?" he asked. Val heard chattering in the background, fading as he seemed to move away from a crowd.

"Yes. Something's wrong."

"Like what?" he asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

Val smiled again-he still cared, at least a little. Whether he cared about her or protecting his many secrets, she wasn't sure...no, it was her...she wished. She closed her eyes and shook her head. You dumped him, Val. It's over between you two. Just get on with it.

"I can't explain over the phone," she said, even though she could totally explain over the phone if she'd wanted to. "Can we meet somewhere?"

"What, now?"

"Yes."

"I'm kind of busy right now."

"Please?" She cringed at the unintended desperation in her voice.

For a moment he said nothing. Val heard a woman's high-pitched laugh in the background, followed by a dog bark. Did he have a dog now, or was it Abigail's dog? It would be their dog, really. Or was he at someone else's house-Abigail's family, or a friend's place? She bit her lip as the silence between her and Max stretched into the better part of a minute.

"Fine," he said. "Meet me at Wicked Brew, on the corner of Queen Anne and Valley, in thirty minutes."

"Okay," she said with some difficulty, unaware she'd been holding her breath until that moment. "Thank you, Max."

"Bye." He hung up.

Well, it was better than nothing.

Val fiddled with her coffee mug and watched pa.s.sersby amble past the Wicked Brew's window. She eyed her hazy reflection and noted that, once again, Max would see her looking like s.h.i.+t. No makeup, hair a mess, a bit pale from the stress of the last couple of days, and now a brown stain on her tank top from where coffee had dribbled down the mug's side when she'd taken a sip. Not that it mattered, but it'd be nice if she could get herself together for him just once. What did they say about breakups-looking good is the best revenge?

As she used her fingers to smooth out her hair in the window's reflection, a figure appeared behind her. She turned and saw him standing there, the first time she'd seen him in the flesh in almost eight months. He wore jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt that looked loose enough to be comfortable but tight enough to show off his toned muscles and browned skin from an abundance of outdoor exercise. Running and boxing were his sports, she remembered. His tan made the gorgeous blue and green fractal tattoos snaking across both his inner forearms stand out even more. A day's worth of stubble shadowed his sharp cheekbones. The wavy black hair cropped short along the sides and longer on top caught the afternoon sunlight in a way the cameras couldn't relay.

Val's mouth watered against her will. Looking good was the best revenge-against her. Dammit.

She sat up straight and pushed away the image of what she knew he looked like underneath his clothes. "Hi," she said with a polite smile.

"Hi." Max didn't return her smile. He regarded her with a neutral expression-the mask he often wore to hide his feelings. Despite his pa.s.sive face, his beautiful hazel eyes with their emerald green centers-the ones that could melt her from the inside-had a cold veneer. He sat in a chair across from her, leaned back, and crossed his arms over his chest like a s.h.i.+eld.

Val pushed back a lump in her throat. He clearly didn't want to be there, with her. She wouldn't keep him long.

"How are you?" she asked, though if the press reports were accurate, she knew the answer was "fabulous."

"Fine," he said. "You?"

"Uh, I'm-" Terrible. She pulled at her hair, making sure it covered her scar. "You look good."

His voice was flat. "You, too."

"I heard about your engagement. I'm happy for you. You deserve to be happy, I mean."

He squirmed a little in his chair, the first sign of emotion he'd shown so far. "What do you want, Val?"

What she wanted was him. No matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, she still loved him. She loved him so much it filled her entire being and poured out of her in waves of desperate longing so strong she was surprised Max hadn't drowned in it yet. But she'd broken his heart. She loved him, and he hated her. He was better off without her.

She sipped her coffee, taking a moment to get her emotions under control, then asked, "Have you ever been to the Pana Sea?"

"A few times."

"Are you a regular?"

"No. Too many people for my taste. I only go if Abby wants to go."

"Oh." She hoped he hadn't noticed her flinch at his fiancee's name. Val drummed her fingers on the side of her mug. "Does she...know what you can do?" she couldn't help asking.

"Yes."

"And about your father?"

"Yes."

"And-"

"She knows everything, Val."

"Oh."

Val swallowed hard and put her trembling hands in her lap so he couldn't see them. Of course he'd told his fiancee everything. He trusted her. He loved her. Max began fidgeting with the hem of his s.h.i.+rt, his cool resolve waning as his eyes cast about, looking at everything besides Val. Questions about his current love life were irrelevant-and causing him pain, she realized. What they'd been through-what she'd put him through-had been a roller coaster ride of emotions most people wouldn't experience over their entire lifetime, let alone a few months. She'd hurt him deeply when she left; she knew that. The quicker she left him alone now, the better.

"Have you ever met a man named Lucien at the Pana Sea?"

Max's gaze cut back to hers, and he raised an eyebrow. "Lucien Christophe?"

"Maybe. Frenchman, blond hair, late thirties or early forties?"

"Yeah, that's him."

"What do you know about him?"

Max shrugged. "Nothing, really. He's in pharmaceuticals. When I was on the board of Carressa Industries, we sold him a small company that manufactured lab equipment. Now I see him sometimes at charity fund-raisers. Why do you ask?"

"I think he might be involved in a woman's disappearance."

His brow furrowed. "Who?"

"Her name is Margaret, but she goes by Celine at the Pana Sea. She works as an escort. She's going to die soon, if she's not dead already."

Max sat up in his chair, a deep frown etched on his face. "You saw it in a vision?"

Val nodded.

"And you think you can stop it?"

"I'm going to try. I have to try."

His face darkened.

"Lucien's part of a club called the Blue Serpent. Have you heard of them?"

"Yes." He started tapping his toe, his outer cool continuing to disintegrate.

"Are you a member?"

"No. I've only heard other people talking about it. Sounds more like a cult than a club."

"Can you get me access?"

Max scoffed. "That's why you asked me to come here? You want me to join a cult for you?"

"Only rich people can get in. You're my only rich...friend."

He glared at her. They would never be just friends. Either they'd be lovers or nothing at all.

"I'm not joining a cult," he said.

"Then introduce me to someone who's already in it."

"No," he snapped. "I'm not setting you up on a blind date with a cult member, either. I don't want any part of this." He stood to leave.

"Max, please." She grabbed his arm before he could walk away. A pulse like static electricity shot through her at the feel of his flesh. He glanced at her hand, then at her, and for half a second Val saw her Max looking into her eyes, the one that set her insides on fire, that wanted her as much as she wanted him. Just as quickly he disappeared, replaced by Abigail's Max. After she'd caught her breath, Val said, "Margaret will die if we don't do something."

"That's great you're willing to bend over backward to change the future for someone you don't even know. Congratulations on finding something important enough in your life to fight for. Good luck with that."

He didn't jerk his arm out of her hand, but he walked away with such purpose that he left her arm dangling in the air, grasping at his receding back, blurry through her tears.

Chapter Seven.

Max still smelled grilled steak in the air when he returned to his condo after meeting with Val. Abby's soft laughter echoed through the entrance hallway from the enclosed patio on the other side of the sprawling living room, along with at least three other voices of lingering guests. Toby, their Jack Russell terrier, jumped up from where he'd been waiting next to the door for Max to return. He barked a greeting and wagged his tail. Max dropped his keys on a narrow table by the door, then cut to the left of the living room and climbed the stairs before anyone could notice he'd returned, Toby trotting after.

In the master bathroom, he dug a pill bottle out of the back of the medicine cabinet, tapped two capsules into his hand, and threw them in his mouth. He shot-gunned a gla.s.s of water and flinched at his depressing reflection, a deep frown etched across his face. The pills would help. The label on the bottle said Amerge, a migraine medication; it was actually OxyContin. He'd been prescribed the pain meds after that a.s.shole Sten shot him in the stomach nine months ago. The pills had helped him through the worst of the healing process, then they helped him through his breakup with Val. Now they helped him get through the day. With multiple prescriptions and unlimited money, he effectively had an infinite supply of the stuff. At least it was safer than heroin, and easier to hide.

Max splashed water on his face and practiced smiling. Why did Val have to show up now, two months before his wedding, still driven, still fierce, still beautiful? He'd committed to this new life he built for himself, started thinking he didn't need the pills anymore. Then he saw her again, the only woman he'd ever loved-first woman, he reminded himself-playing with her gorgeous red hair. She'd turned and looked at him with steel eyes exactly as he remembered. All his feelings for her, the ones he'd painstakingly walled off brick by brick, came flooding back, and he knew he'd never wean himself off the G.o.dd.a.m.n pills- "There you are."

He jumped at Abby's voice. From the bathroom doorway, she c.o.c.ked her head to the side and gave him a warm smile, golden hair framing an angelic face. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah. Fine. Just a headache." Max wiped his face off on the bottom of his T-s.h.i.+rt, then shoved the bottle back into the cabinet. His hands shook, the emotional sucker-punch of his meeting with Val still reverberating through him. He braced them against the sink as nonchalantly as possible, hoping Abby wouldn't notice. Calm down, Max. He took a deep breath. "Valentine Shepherd asked me to meet her for coffee."

"Oh?" Abby's smile faded. "What did she want?"

"Help with a case she's working on. I told her...I'd think about it."

"What kind of help?"

"Eh, you know. The money kind." He shrugged. "Your brother didn't ask to spend the night again, did he?" he asked as he walked past her, on his way to the patio. Toby followed, like he always did.

"Not yet," she said behind him. He could hear the frown in her voice at another conversation about Val shut down. "But he probably will. You don't have a problem with that, do you?"

Max bounced down the stairs in an approximation of a happy person. "Nope," he said over his shoulder. Ginger's drunken hyena cackle blasted from the patio through the living room, and Max knew they might as well prep one of the spare rooms for him now.

"Dude, if you get a tattoo on the lower part of your back, it's a f.u.c.kin' tramp stamp, no matter what your girlfriend tells you," Ginger was saying to two other guys and a woman lounging beside the indoor pool when Max joined them. Abby's brother took a drag off his cigarette and let out a long exhale. The smoke curled up to the gla.s.s ceiling and disappeared between the window panes, tilted open to let the barbeque smoke out and fresh air in. Then he poked at the guy across from him with the same hand he held a beer bottle with. "You've been p.u.s.s.ified."

Max grabbed a beer from the stainless steel cooler that came with the place, built into the wall. He sat back in a lounge chair next to Ginger, popped the cap off his bottle, and took a modest swig. He had to be careful; he could feel the pills working their magic, loosening him up. If he drank too much or too fast, he'd get lethargic, and the questions about his health would start.

Toby jumped into his lap and lay down. Max considered pus.h.i.+ng him off, but he'd probably sulk off and pee on something out of spite. He didn't understand why the dog had taken such a s.h.i.+ne to him. Abby had adopted him from a shelter shortly before their engagement. It was supposed to be her dog, really. She was the one who tried to cuddle and cooed at him, while Max treated him with respectful indifference. Instead, Toby imprinted onto Max; a poor choice, in Max's opinion. Abby said Toby's devotion meant Max was marriage material. Max thought it meant Toby was deeply disturbed. Maybe he and the dog were kindred spirits after all.

The woman, Carrie, rolled her eyes. "Roger's not p.u.s.s.ified. It's a tattoo that says 'scholar master' in Chinese, above a fleur-de-lis symbol. It represents his Chinese and French heritage."

Ginger laughed. "That is even more gay!"

Carrie nudged the guy next to her. "Roger, show him."

"But, baby, it's personal," Roger said.

"Come on, Roger." Carrie shoved him hard enough to nearly knock him out of his chair.

Roger sighed, then stood, turned around, and pulled the back of his jeans down a few inches to reveal a black fleur-de-lis symbol underneath Chinese characters, tattooed just above his tailbone.

"Booyah!" Carrie slapped Roger's a.s.s as everyone laughed. Hearing his cue, Max joined in with a fake chuckle. "All. Man. So f.u.c.k you, Ginger."

Ginger guffawed and punched Max's arm. Toby growled at the intrusion into his master's s.p.a.ce. "You know, like, every language," Ginger said, "What does that tattoo really say?"

Max didn't know every language, but he did know Chinese; obviously, Roger didn't. The tattoo said "stupid boy." Roger would be crushed.

"It says 'scholar master,'" Max said. Roger wasn't close with his Chinese relatives. Chances were they'd never see his unfortunate tattoo. He'd better not go skinny-dipping in Shanghai, though.

Ginger shook his head. "I can't believe you let her talk you into that." He pointed at Max's arms. "Now those are some bada.s.s tattoos. I bet you get laid all the time with that s.h.i.+t-I mean, before you met my sister."