Blindside Read online

  “Hold on.” Mistake to touch her. Mistake to take hold of her wrist and feel all that smooth heat trembling against his skin.

  “Let go. Right now.” Quiet command, sharp-scented fear.

  “Somebody up there?”

  Shards of light sprayed through the darkness. She jerked against him, grunting with pain, her body going down, tense and heavy. She doubled over and Mac grabbed her arm, clutching her elbow, then something wet and warm scalded his fingers before she ripped her arm out of his hands.

  “Turn the damned lights off!” He knelt beside her, forcing himself not to touch her again. She took long, calming breaths, head bowed, gold curls hiding her face, her sunshades on the floor beside her.

  “Sorry.” Ryan, the green belt, looked at them with open-mouthed fascination. “Just needed something from my locker.”

  Lana rose, damp hair curling wild around her neck, her eyes once again hidden by dark glasses. Her lips were tight and pale with pain. “It’s fine. I’m done here.”

  The green belt disappeared into the locker room. Mac rubbed her blood between his fingers and watched her walk away.

  ***

  So much for the did he or didn’t he know question.

  Lana concentrated on the deceptive simple skill of putting one foot in front of the other in the bright glare. The wooden banister felt smooth and cool under her fingertips, and she focused on its surface as a way to calm her pounding heart.

  He knew. He had to. And stupid idiot her couldn’t get past the thrill of having him touch her with those firm hands and strength born out of discipline and spirit. In that swift nanosecond, she’d been thrown back into another time, when he held her against his pounding heartbeat, his large palm cradling her head, his voice calling her name from a searing blind darkness.

  “Lana. Wait, damnit. Wait.” His velvet voice had her muscles clenching, her body yearning for something she couldn’t have.

  She kept on moving with small, steady steps, waving in Wojo’s direction and forcing her face into a pleasant little grin. Relief hit her when she reached the back door and pushed outside into the misty air. San Mike was never completely dark, but she felt better in the fogged up parking lot, under the dim streetlights.

  “Hang on.” Once more his fingertips brushed over her arm, and she was hurled back into memories.

  “I said hang on.” Warm fingers closed on her upper arm. “I didn’t say I was embarrassed.”

  She wouldn’t play tug of war with him. “No problem. It’s all fine.” The parking lot was bright with the setting sun, the clouds pink and purple above them. She loved dusk, the burst of color. The way the dying rays of light lit up the sharp green of his eyes.

  Despite the shock of pleasure at his touch, she snarled. “When you’re an invalid, people think they need to touch you in order to help. A hand on your elbow, fingers on your shoulders. A helpful arm around your back.” She ripped her arm out his grasp. “I don’t like being touched.”

  In the low lights, she could barely make out his harsh features.

  “You’re no invalid. But you’re bleeding.”

  “I’ll live.” The words came out before she could stop them. She braced for what came next: the anger, the demand for answers. Answers she would have loved to have herself.

  “Look, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  She forced herself to give him a bright vicious smile. “Hey, I’ll live.”

  His eyes flashed, a dark fire that made him dangerous, made her pulse take a hard leap. “I just can’t…date right now.”

  She shrugged and hoped her cheeks weren’t bright red. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

  “No, guess I don’t.”

  She didn’t know how or when he crowded her against the door, not touching her, his heat a physical caress between them. Under the crossover folds of his uniform top, his chest gleamed from a recent workout, his skin a polished gold, crisp hair dusting over rock hard muscle.

  “You’re the Night Rook.” His damning words weren’t a question.

  Her pulse jackhammered in her throat. “What makes you say that?”

  She should have run, like a voice inside her head demanded. And yet, Lana allowed Mac to push her coat sleeve up over her arm, her body trembling, frozen. Under the light of fog-clogged streetlamps, the Kanji tattoos on her wrist gleamed dark streaked with thin rivulets of blood.

  “I cut myself.” She lifted her chin and dared him to call her a liar. “Can’t see, remember? Just a helpless invalid.”

  Her breath caught when his thumb gently traced over the letters.

  She could partially see him, that mouth granite hard.

  “You think I don’t want this?” He still didn’t touch her, the promise of his mouth hovering less than an inch above her lips. Palms against the door, he had caged her between cold wood and heat of his massive body. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t—” He leaned closer, each rapid heartbeat pulling him down toward her.

  Then someone pushed open the door, and even as she was teased with his taste on her lips, the moment was already broken.

  “You need stitches.” In a swift move, Mac slid her sleeve up to expose the medical tape she’d stuck to her skin.

  “I don’t like hospitals.” The memory of one sliced through the déjà vu.

  “Last night, the Rook got cut. Right here, above the elbow.” He let go of her arm to thrust her cape at her, the action a sharp jolt.

  Lana pressed the wadded fabric against her wound and used the sting of pain to keep herself focused. He knew—the thought was a sharp thrill. “I just told you, I cut myself.” Sunshades in place, she walked toward the street, knowing he followed right behind her, his presence as much a threat as comfort, the passing car lights quick and vicious jolts of pain.

  “You looked damned good in leather.”

  That silk whip of a phrase sent chills down on her spine, and Lana clenched her thighs against the rough seductive onslaught. Just like her cape, the leather outfit was practical as much as vain. No fibers for the cops, and no need to worry about seep-through bloodstains or bulky layers to hinder her movements. And the invalid part of her wanted to look hot.

  Yeah, you’ve succeeded. “Why are you here, Mac?” She hadn’t meant for her voice to come out breathy. Instead she focused on her steps, putting one foot in front of the other on the wet concrete, occasionally glancing up despite the pain.

  “Have dinner with me. A drink. A cup of coffee.” A plea and a velvet demand. The words stopped her in her tracks despite the people swarming around her, pushing her sideways. His hand steadied the non-injured elbow, keeping her safe in the crowd.

  His touch fell away and Lana resumed walking, knees weak, shame and a secret thrill buried in her heart. “A little late to ask me out, don’t you think?”

  He walked alongside her, no longer touching, and yet his presence offered some comfort. “I want to help you, Lana. I know exactly how you feel.”

  She forced a bright and vicious smile. “Do you? Do you really?”

  A crush of fingers through his hair. “Look, I’m sorry. About you, about Nicky—”

  Arousal withered and died under her brother’s name. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

  The eight o’clock crowd streamed through and around them, boots and sneakers slopping the mist and rippling the lights reflecting in the puddles.

  “I am sorry.”

  “I never blamed you.” The truth stuck in her throat like a fist clenching raw tears.

  “I blame me. And I have to live with that.” He crossed his hands over his chest. “Why are you doing this?”

  The game had gone too long to keep pretending. “Maybe I get off playing hero.”

  This time, the hand clutching her arm wasn’t nearly as gentle. He pulled them both out of the stream of people, into a small alcove at the entrance of The Red Sage café. She could see more of him in the shadows, the hard eyes, the grim expression. The passing cars lit up his face
with harsh streaks of gold.

  “Being a hero is about saving innocents. It’s not about judging. You’re a cop, you know all this.”

  She laughed at that. “I haven’t been a cop for the last three years. Before then, I didn’t last a year on the street.”

  “Doesn’t change what you are.” Once more, he pushed a hand through short black hair. “I keep dreaming about that night. The smell, the screams. The fire. I prayed I’d get there in time.” He shook his head as if pushing away the razor sharp emotion. “I didn’t.”

  “I’m alive, Mac.” She sharpened her voice. “You saved me. I blamed myself for Nicky’s death for a long time but, I swear, I never blamed you for anything.”

  “You should have.” His ravaged voice floated over the crowd surging past them, pushing her closer to him while his gaze focused in the past. “I sent shields to you. And you absorbed them. That only happens to those of my kind.”

  “Better alive and blind then burned and dead.” A lame attempt at humor, because the real question charred her throat. She’d wondered how and why it happened, for a long time considering his gift a curse. “I’m not one of your kind.”

  His mouth stretched into a bitter smile. “You were adopted.”

  “So?” Another shower of chills sparkled down her back. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  A hard shove from behind sent her into his chest.. Time stopped, a frozen moment strung out with pain and longing.

  “Everything,” he muttered. “Has to do with everything.” And with a groan, Mac lowered his mouth.

  Run. Run before it’s too late.

  Lana couldn’t move, trapped by his palm holding her hand over his heartbeat, his skin calloused and hot….

  No choice but to rise up and meet his lips, his taste a silent promise. Her hand fisted over the lapel of his jacket, dragging him closer, the thrill of touching him pulsing inside her veins.

  The world stopped for a breathless moment. She reveled in his taste on her lips, coffee and man, his mouth relentless, hungry. And then he broke the kiss with firm palms over her shoulders to set away.

  “You have to stop.” Low, guttural voice, as if the words shredded him from the inside. “Stop before someone gets hurt. Before it’s too late.”

  She blew at the damp hair in her eyes, confused, aroused, and angry. “I’m doing what I have to.”

  “Why? For Nicky?”

  “Yes.” Simple as that.

  He shook his head, the stubble on his cheeks making his face appear even harsher. “He was a cop, Lana. Like you. Think he would want this?”

  She crossed her arms against the chill and forced a smirk. “Doesn’t matter what he wants. He is dead.”

  “Doesn’t make it right.”

  “It’s all I have now.” The mist around her became a shower of icy water. “You have no real evidence as proof. If the cops ask me anything, I’ll deny it.”

  “Williams wants you off the street. I doubt he’ll be doing any asking.”

  Shock was another sticky layer over a mess pit of emotions. “You’re working for him?”

  Unreadable, hard gaze. “I am.”

  She lifted her chin and dared him to touch her. “You going to arrest me?”

  “Like you said—no proof. Yet.” His voice lashed over her, dark and silken promise. His hands were once again inside his pockets, his long coat whipping with the wind. “Be careful.”

  She gave a snort, as fake as it was arrogant. “Is that a threat?”

  His smile devoid of all mirth, Mac turned away to walk into the mist.

  Chapter Four

  “You look like shit,” Williams said the next morning with the wet streets gleaming behind his back. He dressed the part of the city’s top cop with well-made suits and a dark tie loosened to give the impression of hard work tackled at his office. A Starbucks cup sat dead center amidst paperwork piled in every corner of his desk.

  The office, in the mid tower of Public Works, suited him with its gray walls and polished gleam of glass cases housing certificates and trophies.

  “I haven’t had coffee yet.” In the two hours of snatched sleep, Mac had dreamt of Lana.

  Williams didn’t bother to offer him a cup. “What have you got?”

  “Some say that he can fly, while others swear he breathes fire. Some say he’s keeping drugs from kids, other that dealers pay him for protection. Drugs are the common thread.”

  “This isn’t news.”

  “I don’t have all the facts.”

  Williams leaned back in his black leather chair, his pale eyes thoughtful, his hair fashionably gray. “Facts aren’t your concern. All I need you to do is weaken his shield or whatever your kind calls it. Get inside and inject him. My guys will do the rest.”

  His gut clenched at the words. “Could be a woman.”

  Williams threw him a quick, assessing look. “You know something I don’t?”

  “Just saying.” Easy to simply push this off back to the cops and go back to New York, L.A., Seattle. If Night Rook were anyone but Lana, Mac would’ve gone back to a cage three days ago.

  “Mendoza did report a woman had approached him. Blond, tall, fetish for leather. Maybe somebody working with the Rook? You saw her at Flamingos?”

  “Just her back.” Keeping his posture ramrod straight inside the low visitor chair, Mac studied the wet grinning gargoyle behind Doc’s back.

  “You’re hiding something. You stopped shooting up, is that it? You got your powers back.”

  “That’s what you’re afraid of?” With a small laugh, Mac shrugged out of his jacket. “You want a gut check? Go ahead.”

  Brass knucks glinted dull gold on the gray desk. “I wouldn’t know if you fake it.”

  “It’s like a blink. Come at me slow, and I’ll be able to control it. You do it fast, instinct trumps over will.” And Mac lifted his arms to leave his ribs defenseless.

  “Makes sense.” Steel slammed into bruised and aching flesh. Iced agony exploded in Mac’s stomach, Doc’s strength surprising for a cop ten years at a desk. Mac didn’t fight the need to double over, the burst of pain preferable to conflicting emotions.

  “Satisfied?” A good way to disguise a fit of coughing.

  Doc’s pale gaze glittered over the coffee cup. “For now.”

  “You still don’t trust me.” Hard to hide irony under short, ragged fights for breath.

  “Trust you? I hate your kind. Running around with your powers, thinking you’re the law. Or you’re above it.” Williams tossed the cup into the trash with the others. “You’re the only means I have to deal with this Rook. Doesn’t mean I have to like it. Doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy—”

  A quick beep of the intercom cut off the rest. “Commander, media crew is here.”

  “Yes, send her in. Amy Avalon. ” His smile bloomed wide when Mac dropped the pretense of nonchalance.

  “You didn’t hire me to talk to a reporter.”

  Williams smoothed out his tie. “You get the Night Rook and you’re redemption itself with your hero’s mug. You don’t, then I was right for all these years. Either way, its time you tell San Mike you’re back, and I figure it’ll be good to do that in my office. Assure the people you’re under control.”

  “And pave your way to the commissioner’s tower?”

  “If it works out.” Another flash of white camera-ready teeth. “Shall I tell Amy you pulled out?” As if on cue, the heavy door burst open and threw Mac back into the past. Same hairstyle in fire-engine red, same glossy, frosted mouth twisted in a smile. Same business suit and heels in matching, eye-searing red.

  “Mr. Mac Gamble. Narc.” With her camera crew behind her and a mic clutched in her crimson-tipped hand, Amy stalked toward him. “Pleasure to meet you, finally, in person.”

  He hadn’t seen that grin since her triumphant voice spelled out his name for the cameras. “Ms. Avalon.”

  Her practiced smile seemed just this side of grim. “My sources indicate you
’re consulting with the Night Rook investigation.” Amy settled into a chair, crossing tanned legs. A fringe of bangs dusted over eyes sparkling at the promise of ratings. “Can you confirm?”

  Williams watched with a blank face, probably ready to bust out the appropriate expression.

  “Your sources are correct.” Mac faced the winking red eye of the camera.

  Amy threw him a withering smile and took out a small notepad. “Can you confirm this vigilante has your gifts?”

  He pictured Lana in skintight leather, blood on her arm because she hadn’t had the “gift” long enough to understand when the shields got low. “I haven’t seen the full extent of what the Night Rook can do.”

  “You have no powers now, isn’t that correct? You’re still using an inhibitor serum?”

  “Chief Williams checked moments ago.” And he’d have another bruise to prove it.

  The laser momentarily left his face to focus on San Mike’s future commissioner. Williams assumed the appropriate expression of the tired but relentless man in charge. The perfect photo op. “I can confirm Mr. Gamble is—for now—without ‘gifts.’” He busted out the air quotes.

  More sparkling teeth. “Too bad we couldn’t see your method of testing.”

  “Perhaps another time.”

  This garnered another glittering smile. “I understand your abilities run on instinct? You couldn’t, say, fake that you don’t have them? Commander?”

  “Doc, please. I still go by my patrol nickname. I’m not as sharp as when I worked the street, but I still drink the same amount of coffee.” Confident, comfortable in his own space, Williams resumed his place behind the desk, San Mike gleaming in the rain behind him. “As far as we know, Mr. Gamble isn’t able to control his responses. I’m told it’s similar to how we blink.”

  Amy leaned back against her chair. “Have you considered something drastic?”

  Pale somber gaze. “The City asked Mr. Gamble to come back. We don’t have a reason not to trust him.” The omitted yet hung unsaid in the air.