Murder Game (GhostWalkers 7)

Emma shook her head. "Where would I go?" The thought of her apartment, her home with Andrew, was too much for her to contemplate. She couldn't face going back to the apartment and trying to pack up Andy's things.

"We'll deal with it later, when you're feeling stronger," he assured. "I called my lawyer and asked him to look into insurance for you and a settlement of some sort. At least to get the ball rolling. I know you don't want to think about money, but it will be important when you have the baby."

Emma lifted her lashes, allowing her gaze to drift over his face. There was something about him that haunted her, commanded her, drew her like a magnet when she wanted to be left alone, to simply disappear. No one else compelled her as he did. She knew him. The memory of him nagged at her, yet she couldn't place him.

She could remember the events leading up to the accident, sitting in the car, so excited, her news of her pregnancy on the tip of her tongue, but she held back, determined to wait until they were at the restaurant and she could see Andy's expression, watch his eyes and his mouth when she revealed they were going to have a child. He'd died without ever knowing. She hated that. Her gaze flicked again to Jake's face. She knew he was Jake because he told her, not because the memory of him had returned.

She didn't remember the crash. She remembered after, when there was pain and fire and Jake staring at her, stopping her from following Andy. His eyes fascinated her, pulled at her, like a predator searching for prey. His focused stare made her uncomfortable, yet in some strange way comforted her. Maybe if her head ever stopped throbbing and the doctors backed off on the pain medication she could think more clearly, but right now, his personality was too strong and she couldn't think for herself.

"How do I know you? I looked into your eyes and I know you."

"I'm sorry. I'm the man who pulled you out of the car." He looked down, taking his hand away from hers and rubbing at his temples as if he had the same headache she did. "I couldn't get to your husband. The fire was everywhere."

She saw burns on his hands and her heart jumped. She reached out and drew his hand to her. "Is this from pulling me out of the car?"

He drew back, something inside him shaken from the touch of fingers on his skin. It wasn't sexual. He responded to women sexually as a rule and this was something altogether different and he didn't trust the feeling at all. "Yes." His voice came out more gruffly than he intended.

Emma let out a small sigh. "I'm sorry you were hurt."

"Emma," Jake said softly, "what matters is that you and the baby are safe." He regretted pulling away from her when she'd voluntarily reached out to him.

Chelsey opened the door and popped her head in. "You need anything, Emma?" she asked, but her gaze devoured Jake.

Emma's face closed down, her eyes going vague. When she didn't respond, Chelsey frowned and looked at Jake. He rose and patted Emma's limp hand.

"I'll get you a few things from your apartment, Emma," he said deliberately. "I'll be back this evening." He nodded toward the hallway and Chelsey followed him out. "I'll need her key and the address," he told the nurse.

"I don't want to get into trouble," Chelsey said.

Jake stepped closer, leaning down as if to keep their conversation totally private. His voice was low and compelling, but he knew the heat of his body and the scent of his cologne enveloped her. Chelsey inhaled and a small shiver of awareness went through her. "I wouldn't let you get into trouble. Emma has to snap out of this and if she has a few things familiar to her, it may help. You're just helping her friend and you saw that she didn't object."

Chelsey nodded and hurried away, to return with the key and small piece of paper with the address on it.

"You're a good friend to Emma," Jake said as he pocketed the key and walked quickly away before she could change her mind.

He found the building with little problem. He stood in the doorway and surveyed the small apartment. Small? Hell, it was tiny! The furniture was old and worn with use, the china was chipped and cracked. The couple had nothing. He stalked through the four rooms. This entire apartment would fit into his master bedroom. Frustration grew with each step and he paced back and forth, prowling like the caged cat he was. There was something here he couldn't quite put his finger on. Something he needed to understand, had to understand. It was a burning drive in his gut and Jake Bannaconni was a tenacious man.

Everything was very neat and clean, so much so that he found himself throwing out the dead roses in the little vase; they seemed an obscenity in the atmosphere of the apartment. He paced restlessly again, quick, fluid steps of sheer power. There was a key but he was missing it! He halted abruptly. The pictures. Pictures were everywhere--on the walls, the desk, the small bureau, and there was an album sitting on a coffee table.

He studied one of the photos. The couple was looking at one another, as they seemed to be in every other picture, as if they had eyes only for each other. Their expressions were genuine, love shining brightly between them until it was almost tangible.

Jake traced Emma's lips with a gentle fingertip. He had never seen two people who looked so happy. It was in their eyes, it was in their faces. Emma took his breath away. In most of the pictures, she wore little or no makeup.

She was very small, almost too slender with an abundance of flaming red hair framing her fragile heart-shaped face. He had never had the slightest attraction to skinny women, he preferred lush curves, but he couldn't stop staring at her face, her eyes. He touched her picture again, tracing the outline of her face, his other hand gripping the cheap frame until his knuckles were white. Abruptly he put it down.

The kitchen was filled with baked goods, even bread, obviously made from scratch. The bathroom held two toothbrushes, one white, one blue, side by side in a container. There was a pregnancy test kit right next to the small soap dish. In the corner of the mirror, someone had written "Yes!" with lipstick.

In the bedroom, without a qualm, he went through their clothes. Andrew's shirts were a bit threadbare, but every button was in place, every tear neatly repaired. Every shirt was clean and ironed. He found a jacket with tiny embroidered stitches on the inside seam. "Someone loves you." He stared at the words, feeling a yawning chasm of emptiness welling up inside him.

Jake Bannaconni was elite. He had superior intelligence, strength, vision, and sense of smell. Muscles rippled beneath his skin, flowing like water, fluid and controlled. He was one of the youngest billionaires ever reported by Forbes, and he wielded vast political power. He had the savage, animalistic magnetism of his species and the ruthless logic to strategize and plan boardroom battles. He could mesmerize people with the sheer strength of his personality; he could attract and seduce the most beautiful women in the world, and frequently did so, but he could not make them love him. This--this mechanic--had commanded love from all those around him. It made no sense.

What had made Andrew Reynolds so damned special that he could inspire that kind of love? That kind of loyalty? Hell, Jake couldn't claim love or loyalty from his own parents, let alone anyone else. As far as he could see, Reynolds hadn't given his wife a damned thing, yet everywhere he looked he could see evidence of their happiness.

He touched Emma's brush, strands of red hair gleaming at him like spun silk. His gut clenched. Longing nearly overwhelmed him. More than longing. Black jealousy assailed him. He'd heard his kind had that dangerous trait, but never once in his life had he ever experienced it. The emotion, so strong, so intense it left a bitter taste in his mouth, knotted his gut and put a killing edge to his already volatile temper. Andrew and Emma's life was fairy tale. A fucking fairy tale. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. She didn't have decent clothes. Every pair of her jeans was faded and worn. There were only two dresses hanging in the closet.

He found books on birds everywhere, an amateur design for a greenhouse aviary drafted by a feminine hand. He folded the drawings carefully and slipped them inside his coat pocket. He spent another hour in the apartment, not really und

erstanding why, but he couldn't pull himself away. He was a man who needed freedom and open space. He was intensely sexual, seducing women and bedding them whenever, wherever he wanted. He'd never considered having a woman of his own, yet looking around that tiny apartment made him feel as if all the money in the world, all the political clout, all the secrets of what he was and who he was, all of that was nothing in comparison to what Andrew Reynolds had had.

Jake closed and locked the door. Someone had to look at him that way. Not just someone--Emma. He couldn't walk away and leave her. The thought of another man finding her, possessing her, sent rage careening through his mind. Inside, he roared a protest. Emma should have been nothing to him, but he couldn't get the sight or scent of her from his mind.

He wanted the damned fairy tale. He could be patient. He was methodical and completely ruthless. Once set on a course of action he was implacable, unswerving. No one, nothing, stayed in his way for long. A grim smile touched the slightly cruel edges of his mouth. He played to win, and he always did. It never mattered how long it took. He always won. He wanted what Andrew had had. He wanted Emma Reynolds, not some other woman. Emma. And he would have her. Nothing, no one, would stand in his way.