Prodigal Son Page 5

  But she was okay. Her instincts had saved her life.

  He sucked in a long, slow breath. Dad had probably locked her up behind the walls of the compound. No one would get to her there. And his sister, Tessa, would be looking now, actively searching for the person who had put their mother in danger.

  Provided her gifts weren’t on the fritz like his.

  He couldn’t help a chuckle at the absurdity of the thought. Tessa must have completed her Soul Circle by now. And even if she hadn’t, nothing could weaken or dampen Tessa’s abilities. She, out of all of them, had the true powers of a full Seer. She was so strong that people often steered clear of her, put off by the all-knowing confidence of those unusual violet eyes—as if Tessa would read their minds and report their secrets to the tabloids.

  But what else could you expect from a direct descendent of the most powerful Seer in Atlantis?

  He had made it a policy long ago to steer away from the A word when thinking about his abilities. He knew the truth, but he had been schooled since birth to keep his heritage a secret. If anyone asked, he was part Native American and part Spanish. He just didn’t mention that the Spanish part came from Agrilara, the lone survivor of Atlantis who had come ashore in what was now the Basque area of Spain thousands of years ago.

  Agrilara was the reason why his family consistently produced members with brilliant blue eyes, no matter what culture they married into. The blue eyes bred true with the seeing gift and had done so every generation for thousands of years—except in the case of Tessa, who possessed the eerie violet eyes of a full Seer and all the awesome powers that came with it.

  Everyone, gifted or not, walked cautiously around his baby sister. Except maybe Darius. Big brother had never been afraid of anything.

  He let his head fall back against the solid wood of the breakfast bar. Five years he’d been away, but with the sound of his mother’s voice, it seemed like just yesterday. He rubbed a hand over the center of his chest, across the ache that throbbed like a gaping hole. He could recall them all so clearly—good memories.

  And bad. Unsteady, he climbed to his feet. That was all long ago. Another life.

  But the present wasn’t so hot, either. Not with his powers flickering like a faulty lightbulb, a sweet Jersey girl distracting him, and some wacko shooting at his mother.

  He realized he was still trembling. Okay, time to get a hold of himself. He picked up the remote from his kitchen counter and pointed it over the breakfast bar at the TV in the living room. The news came on. Setting the device back on the counter, he got out a box of cereal. First he needed food, and then he would get dressed and go track down Danny Cangialosi. More than that, he needed to get back to Cara, to convince her to go home before that horrible image he had foreseen came true.

  Maybe instead of puzzling over the instability of his powers, he should start concentrating on what he was given when they were working. Like it or not, he had been handed a vision of Cara’s death, and it was up to him to do something about it.

  The vision of her murder had shaken him. She was too nice a person, too soft-hearted—heck, just too damned cute for anyone to want to hurt her. She had to be tied into this mess her stepbrother was into, even if she didn’t know it. And like it or not, Rafe had to protect her from the gory fate he had foreseen.

  “Jain Criten, president of the island nation of Santutegi, delivers a speech today to the Association of International Agricultural Concerns at the Mesopotamian Resort in Las Vegas. He will be speaking about the challenges faced by smaller countries in today’s agricultural market. The president arrived yesterday and has been enjoying the sights of the city.”

  Rafe glanced at the TV across the breakfast bar as the pleasant face of Jain Criten filled the screen. The dignitary looked to be in his late thirties, and his casual white suit with the pale yellow shirt made him seem cool, calm, and approachable in juxtaposition to the frantic pace of the airport behind him. His boyish grin invited the viewers to trust him. He wore his dark blond hair in a youthful style that waved back from his prominent forehead, and his green eyes appeared utterly sincere as he replied to a question from a reporter.

  Just for the heck of it, Rafe focused on the face in front of him. Concentrated.

  Nothing. Just like Danny.

  “What the hell?” He set down the cereal box and leaned closer to the TV, but the story changed to a local fire. Frustration burned in his gut.

  He yanked open the cabinet door to pull down a bowl. What in blazes was going on with his powers? They had never been so erratic before, always as reliable as the sunrise. He could look at a photo, at film coverage, or best of all, into a person’s eyes face-to-face and see what he needed to know.

  The only time his powers had not worked had been with his own family. Now suddenly, he couldn’t read select people—people who were not related to him in the slightest. People who had nothing in common with each other.

  What the hell was going on?

  * * *

  Cara couldn’t help but yawn as she walked into the lobby of the Mesopotamian resort. She knew what she must look like—yesterday’s clothes, no makeup, hair twisted up haphazardly in a ponytail. She had fallen asleep on Danny’s couch last night and, boy, did she look it. She was surprised security didn’t stop her as soon as she walked in the door.

  The exclusive hotel complex known as the Mesopotamian Resort and Casino had been designed like an ancient city with huge columns of sandy stone enhanced by gleaming marble floors. Fountains graced the sprawling expanse of shops and restaurants, many adjacent to foliage that hid private grottoes with benches for lovers stealing a moment alone. The centerpiece was the huge ziggurat, a temple-like structure with a waterfall trickling down its steep stairs, set in a high-ceilinged lobby that mimicked the night sky. At the base of the ziggurat was the front desk, concierge stand, and bell station.

  Bartow had spared no expense to transport his guests to the mystical world of the ancients, though on the other side of the ziggurat was the entrance to the casino—a very modern setting with flashing lights and human cries of exaltation or dismay.

  Cara wasn’t a gambler. She worked too hard for her money to take the chance of losing it on the turn of a card or the spin of a wheel. Oh, she might drop a few coins into a slot machine, but she wasn’t about to bet the farm, especially now that the business was struggling and her condo was on the line since Danny had skipped bail.

  She made her way toward the coffee stand cleverly tucked between two immense statues of ancient gods. Her stepbrother’s apartment had revealed no clues to his whereabouts, not even to her, the person who knew him the best.

  Unless someone had already found all the clues. Someone like Rafe Montana.

  She got in the coffee line, fumbling in her purse for cash. Montana was legitimate, all right. She’d followed his suggestion and checked with the police, then taken it a step further and called Danny’s bail bondsman, Sal Fellone. Rafe Montana was a bona fide bounty hunter, and he had an excellent track record of getting his man in record time.

  Maybe it would be worth it to talk to him, see if they could work together—only this time without the pepper spray and wrestling.

  Though the wrestling hadn’t been all that bad, actually.

  The thought startled her. Since Warren’s defection, no man had coaxed so much as a blip from her libido. But it was easy to forget about Warren here in Vegas, a place that seemed galaxies away from Jersey. Maybe this was just what she needed, a getaway of sorts to put the past year in perspective. And the bounty hunter sure had been easy on the eyes.

  “Good morning, Miss McGaffigan.” Mr. Gray, Bartow’s head of security, slipped into line behind her.

  She angled her body so she could see him. She didn’t know what it was about Gray, but he triggered her defenses. Was it his dark eyes that saw everything and gave away nothing? His immaculate suit—really, who was that neat? Or maybe the utter stillness of his body?

  “Good mornin
g,” she said finally.

  He didn’t look away, kept that dark gaze on her. “Did you go to your stepbrother’s apartment?”

  She hadn’t intended to tell him anything, but the words slipped from her lips anyway. “Yes. It looked like he hadn’t been there in days.”

  The person in front of her moved up, and they both edged forward as well. The counter seemed miles away. Gray gave her a bland smile. “How troubling that a relative could disappear without so much as a note or an e-mail or a phone call.” Breaking eye contact, he glanced up to peruse the menu board behind the register.

  Dizzy. She shook her head like a wet dog, and the world steadied. Cobwebs in her brain, probably from too much worrying and too little sleep. And Gray—was he fishing? No way was she going to tell him about the call from Danny. Not when her instincts were screaming that this guy was part of what was threatening her stepbrother.

  Okay, so she didn’t have any hard facts, but everything with Gray and Bartow seemed a little too neat, a little too convenient. And a little too generous. Like calling her to tell her about Danny’s disappearance. Offering to pay her way to Vegas—which she’d refused. Giving her the free room in the hotel—which she’d also refused and yet found herself staying in anyway. Picking her up at the airport in the limo. And the way Adrian Gray always seemed to be there, always solicitous, always curious about whether or not she’d heard from Danny.

  Yeah, her alarm bells were clanging big time.

  She reached the counter and ordered French vanilla coffee. She could feel Gray watching her, and she tried not to squirm.

  He leaned closer, brushing her arm with his fingers. When she looked at him, he caught her gaze and held it. “I’m sure you would tell me if—”

  A ruckus erupted in the lobby. He whipped his head around, cutting her free of the nearly hypnotic eye lock. A crowd rushed past the coffee stand. Reporters with microphones shouted questions, and cameramen scurried backward with their equipment balanced on their shoulders. At the front of the onslaught was a fair-haired man in a gray suit and a politician’s smile, surrounded by muscular young guys in dark suits and earpieces.

  The cashier brought Cara’s coffee, and she gratefully seized the opportunity to turn away to pay for it. When she faced Gray again, she had braced herself for battle. She nodded toward the melee in the lobby. “What’s that all about?”

  He frowned first at her, then at the brouhaha. “Jain Criten, a very important guest. Looks like a press conference.”

  Cara raised her brows. “Don’t you have media rooms or something for that kind of thing?”

  “We do.” His cell phone rang. He glanced at the display, and his lips firmed into straight annoyance. “Please excuse me.” He darted out of line and headed toward the lobby, raising the phone to his ear as his long legs ate up the distance.

  Glad to be rid of him, Cara sugared and creamed her coffee, then sipped the steaming brew as she made her way to the elevator and rode to her floor. She couldn’t wait to step into the hot shower she hadn’t gotten yesterday.

  But once she opened the door to her room, she stopped dead and realized the shower would have to wait. Again.

  * * *

  Rafe strode into Artie Bartow’s office, a pleasant, nonthreatening expression in place. He held out a hand as the casino manager rose from behind his desk. “Mr. Bartow, thank you so much for seeing me.”

  “I hope this won’t take too long. I’m a busy man.” Bartow gave his hand one quick pump, then sat down again and gestured at an empty chair. “I’ve called Adrian Gray, my head of security, to join us. He should be here momentarily.”

  “Fine with me.” Rafe took the chair Bartow indicated.

  “While we’re waiting for Mr. Gray,” Bartow said, “why don’t you tell me again why you wanted to talk to me?”

  Rafe sat back in his chair and put on his trustworthy-guy face. “As I explained on the phone, I’m a bail enforcement agent. I’ve taken the Cangialosi case, so I’m talking to all the people who might have known Danny Cangialosi. Naturally you, as his ex-employer, are high on that list.”

  “Of course, of course.” Bartow nodded and steepled his hands. “But I’m afraid I don’t know much.”

  Lie.

  Years of practice made it easy for Rafe to maintain his polite expression. “A lot of times people know things they don’t even realize. The smallest detail can lead to an apprehension.”

  “I will, of course, cooperate in any way I can. I just want justice done.”

  Lie.

  Rafe pulled a small notebook and a pen out of his shirt pocket and clicked the pen. “I’ve met Miss McGaffigan, Danny’s stepsister. She mentioned you contacted her about Danny’s disappearance.”

  “He was my employee, Mr. Montana, even though I terminated him for obvious reasons. I notified his next of kin in hopes she could help us find him.”

  Truth.

  “And you offered her a room here at the hotel free of charge. That was very generous of you.”

  Bartow shrugged. “I’m a generous man.”

  Truth. At least as Bartow saw it.

  “I would think you would be angry toward Danny and anyone connected with him. After all, he stole from you.”

  “He did. But it was just a car, Mr. Montana. I’m more interested in Danny learning his lesson than I am about my car being … ah … borrowed without permission.”

  Truth. But an odd truth … perhaps a hidden meaning?

  “I wonder what made Danny take the car,” Rafe mused.

  Bartow shrugged. “Trying to impress a woman, I heard.”

  Truth.

  “Was anything else taken?”

  “No, just the car.”

  Lie.

  “Did Danny—”

  The office door opened. Bartow looked up and waved in the man who had entered. “Ah, Mr. Gray, at last. Do come in. This is Mr. Montana. He’s a bounty hunter looking for Danny.”

  Rafe stood and held out his hand. The guy was big, the mega-bucks suit a poor disguise for the military bearing. His black hair was cut in a way that said salon rather than barber, and one glance over Gray’s buff physique rated a sure ten on Rafe’s kick-my-ass scale. Went nicely with the don’t-screw-with-me attitude.

  His eyes were nearly black, and in them Rafe saw absolutely nothing. Just like Danny.

  What the hell?

  “This is Adrian Gray, my head of security. Mr. Gray, Mr. Montana.”

  Contrary to Bartow’s soft, pampered handshake, Gray’s was firm and strong. A guy who knew how to handle himself without posturing.

  “You’re here about Danny?” Gray asked. He didn’t sit, so neither did Rafe.

  “Yes. Mr. Bartow was telling me some of what happened.”

  “He gave the guy a job.” Gray’s mouth firmed in obvious disapproval. “Promoted him out of the parking garage to be Mr. Bartow’s personal driver. And this is how he thanks him.”

  “So he was your driver.” Rafe made a note on the pad, then looked over at Bartow but kept Gray in his peripheral vision. “I’m guessing he had access to the car keys.”

  “He had access to all my vehicles,” Bartow confirmed.

  Truth.

  Okay, his powers were still working … on Bartow, just not on Gray. Which meant the problem might not be with Rafe, but with the subject he was looking at. The mere possibility lifted his mood.

  “Makes them easy to steal,” he noted.

  “We trusted the wrong person,” Gray said. “It happens.”

  “And that makes the sting even worse, doesn’t it?”

  Gray narrowed his eyes. “I’m afraid it does.”

  “I have a copy of your statement to the police,” Rafe continued, turning his attention back to Bartow. “I’d like your permission to speak to some of Danny’s coworkers, see if any of them might have an idea where he is.”

  “Mr. Gray will see to it.”

  “I’ll set something up,” Gray confirmed. “We’d prefer you be dis
creet about this.”

  Rafe nodded. “Of course.”

  Bartow’s phone rang. He held up a finger at Rafe as he answered it. “Bartow.”

  As Bartow continued with his phone conversation, Gray stepped closer, that hard-as-nails stare boring into Rafe. The other man spoke softly, but there was no missing the command in his tone. “When you are done interviewing the employees, bring your results to me.”

  Rafe blinked at the ballsy demand. “What?”

  Gray laid a hand on his shoulder, his clasp firm and his gaze relentless. “When you’re done interviewing the employees, bring your results to me.”

  “Like hell.” Rafe shrugged off his grip. “Conduct your own damn interviews.”

  Gray jerked back, shock flickering across his face before he regained control. “I will … that is, I intend to. I thought—” Gray’s eyes narrowed.

  And Rafe felt it, a touch in his mind equivalent to a mental tap on the shoulder. Instinctively, he slammed his senses closed. His heart pounded in his chest. He hadn’t felt anything like that in years, not since childhood.

  Only a glint in Gray’s eyes indicated that he knew anything had happened. Before Rafe could say anything, Gray’s radio squawked. He snatched it up and paced a few steps away. “Gray.”

  Rafe watched him with narrowed eyes. The guy had been spooked, and he was spooked himself. But what had Gray expected, that Rafe would blindly obey the demands of a total stranger?

  Bartow hung up the phone. “My apologies, Mr. Montana.”

  “That’s okay.” Still stunned by the mind tap, Rafe strained to hear Gray’s conversation, but he couldn’t make it out and keep his attention on Bartow at the same time. “You’re a busy man.”

  “I am. So where were we? Ah, yes, you wanted to interview my employees.”

  “I do. I think it will help me pick up Danny’s trail.”

  “I am certain Mr. Gray can arrange something.”

  Gray hooked his radio back onto his belt and came toward the desk. “I have to go. A problem with a guest’s room.”