Spirit Bound Page 38

  "I was afraid."

  "Of me? How could you be afraid of me?" He looked genuinely shocked. "I showed you nothing but love. I was careful with you, always careful. You were so young and I understood that." He caught her arm and urged her back inside. "I have to remind myself that an innocent like you would have been overwhelmed by what you saw. But you should have come to me."

  "It isn't okay to torture and murder someone because they cross you, Jean-Claude."

  His face darkened with impatience. "You're coming with me, and this time, mon amour, you will do as you're told. I'll have you watched every moment of the day until you realize where your place is."

  Judith stumbled as he shoved her into the studio. She caught herself on a table's edge, turning slowly to face him.

  "You're so predictable," Jean-Claude said, looking around her studio. "My industrious little Judith, always doing the responsible thing. I knew you'd want to protect those paintings and you'd rush to your little studio to put them all right again." He shoved one of the canvases. "And of course you did. You never paint without opening the doors and letting in the fresh air. All I had to do was wait. See how well I know you?"

  She winced at the triumph in his voice. She'd certainly done exactly as he predicted. Temper fluttered in her stomach and she pressed a hand there as if somehow that would ward off the flaring rage beginning to bubble like a hot pool of magma. "What did you come here for, Jean-Claude?"

  "What did I come here for?" he repeated, biting out each word through clenched teeth, his smoldering anger beginning to catch fire.

  Judith knew she was the one fanning the flames. Her own anger was rising and feeding right into his, but she didn't care. She was damned tired of being pushed around emotionally because she had to protect everyone.

  "That's what I asked you," she snapped back.

  "I came for you. You're mine. Did you think prison was going to keep us apart? Did you think it was safe for you to find someone else?"

  She shoved her hair out of her face, glaring at him. "Your little spy was a bit premature with his report to you. And it's not your business if I see anyone. You killed my brother and I'll never forgive you for that. Get out of my house."

  He stepped forward, catching her upper arms to give her a little shake. All the strength she'd mistaken for suave confidence was really something evil lurking beneath the surface. He was a man who felt little emotion. Because her feelings were so strong, hers spilled over to those around her--including him. He wanted those feelings back and felt she was withholding his emotions from him, by not allowing herself to love him. Judith understood now. Jean-Claude was cold and lacked the ability to connect with others.

  As a young woman with no experience, she had admired and loved the man she thought he was--a fantasy she'd conjured up in her head. He had basked in that love and admiration, feeling her projection so strongly, but once she was away from him, he'd gone back to that cold, emotionless man who had no moral compass whatsoever.

  "I'm not going to argue with you, Judith, not when you're being unreasonable. Where's our painting?"

  The question caught her off guard. That was so like Jean-Claude. She had never realized all the times he'd abruptly ended a conversation and made her feel young and stupid, just how often he manipulated her to get his way.

  "Painting?"

  "You took our painting. The one of our meeting. I loved that painting and so did you. It was the only thing you took. Even your clothes were left behind."

  For a moment that horrible realization came back, that moment of truth. She was in love with a killer. She had taken the painting because she was young and silly and so in love with such a wealthy, sophisticated Frenchman. The tragic end to her love affair would always be remembered when she looked at the painting--and then he'd had her brother murdered. That painting had become her nemesis. She poured her hatred and anger and sorrow onto that canvas over the last five years.

  "I painted over it. I couldn't stand to look at it."

  "You heartless bitch. That painting meant something to me." He slapped her hard, sending her sprawling on the floor.

  The attack was so fast and so unexpected Judith almost didn't understand what happened, and then her cheek seemed to explode, a blossoming pain that wrenched her teeth and eye, and she realized he'd hit her. Fury burst through her, shaking her to her very core. She kicked at him as he bent over her. Her foot connected with his shin and he spat out curses. Judith rolled, trying to get under the protection of the table, but he swung his booted foot at her, slamming into her ribs and driving the breath from her body. Before she could recover, he gripped the back of her hair in his hands and yanked her up.

  "Stop it, Judith," he hissed. "Do you understand me? You stop or I'll beat you senseless, and then tear this house apart until I find that painting. Regardless, conscious or unconscious, I'm taking you with me anyway. You can choose."

  She nodded, fighting for air. Judith forced her body under control. "Tell me what's so important about that painting, Jean-Claude."

  "I put something there and I need it back. Something very important. Where the hell is the painting?"

  Judith closed her eyes briefly. She knew exactly what he was talking about. Even when Stefan had mentioned a microchip, it hadn't clicked, but now she knew. Her brother had been the one to stretch that canvas for her. He'd been the first person to ever show her how and she'd taken the canvas with her when she went to Paris intending to give him her very first painting as a tribute.

  She'd met Jean-Claude, had fallen hard for the handsome Frenchman and had painted their portraits, one of the few she'd ever done. She'd put all a young girl's love of the fantasy handsome prince, into that painting. Jean-Claude had hung it on the wall of his bedroom. She'd grabbed the painting and at the first opportunity, Paul had helped her ship what little she had home so they could make their way across Europe, hoping to stay under Jean-Claude's radar until they could get to Greece where a friend of Paul's was waiting to take them back to the United States on his ship.

  "I told you, I painted over it, but it's in my other studio. You'll have to let me get it. Going in there is dangerous."

  She honestly didn't know how dangerous, but Jean-Claude had already shown he was very susceptible to her emotions and anything violent would be extremely strong. The buildup of five years of pent-up rage lay in that room, just waiting to find a way out.

  "I'm not letting you out of my sight," Jean-Claude declared, grabbing a handful of hair and yanking her toward the door. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

  She kept her feet under her somehow, as he dragged her down the hall.

  "Where is it?" he demanded, turning around and around, looking at the various doors.

  "It's that one. It's locked." Should she lie and say the key was upstairs? Stefan might not have left. Did she want Stefan brought into this?

  Her heart fluttered and then went still as realization dawned. Stefan was the perfect killing machine. He'd been raised to be a killer. Jean-Claude was a criminal and coldblooded, but if she called Stefan back, she had no doubt that Stefan could do exactly the things she'd thought about--and had planned for the last five long years. He could be the instrument she used to destroy Jean-Claude. He was more than capable of killing the Frenchman.

  Her right hand crept toward her left hand, to that mark itching in the center of her left palm. Elation swept through her. She could finally punish Jean-Claude, exact revenge. See him tortured and killed, just as he'd done to Paul. All she had to do was call Stefan back and she knew she could call him. He would come for the microchip and she knew where the microchip was. Jean-Claude wouldn't find it, but she could use it to get Stefan to do what she wanted.

  She took a deep breath, her thumb pausing over the center of her palm. She just needed to press down hard and call to him telepathically. If he had already left and was too far away to hear her, he might still feel her.

  "Damn it, Judith," Jean-Claude thrust the bedroom door open. "I'
m getting impatient." He yanked at her to drag her farther down the hall. "Where the hell is the painting?"

  She was filled with so much hatred for this man she hadn't been able to see straight. She was tired of living that way, with so much anger and rage. She'd been happy with Stefan--genuinely happy--and she had pushed the memories of Jean-Claude's sickness away from her, refusing to allow it to taint her life. She'd be damned if she allowed it to taint her love for Stefan. And she did love Stefan whether he returned the emotion or not. Her feelings for him were very real and she would not give in to the temptation of using him for revenge.

  Instead of pressing down on that mark already faded until it was just below her skin, she brushed her fingertip lovingly, even protectively over it.

  "That painting is in the studio right there," she said quietly. "I keep it locked. The key's on a chain around my neck." She pulled out the thin chain so he could see she was telling the truth.

  Jean-Claude let go of her hair and took the key from her with a quick smile. "I knew you'd come to your senses, ma belle."

  He bent his head to kiss her. She turned her face away and his kiss landed on her sore cheek. He laughed and patted the blossoming bruise before turning to insert the key into the lock.

  STEFAN stood in the middle of the living room almost frozen. Judith had completely, utterly shut off, closing him out so effectively he couldn't reach her. For one moment there had been a flare of anguish and pain. The emotions had burst through him like a rocket, settling into a jagged knife through his heart and then . . . nothing. The feeling of dread had been building for some time, settling around him like a heavy cloak. He'd felt doom in the air the moment he'd gotten out of the car.

  He felt as if he was drowning. She believed everything he'd said to her, everything he'd done with her--including making love to her--had been nothing but a pack of lies. He'd been waiting for her, holding his breath for her, all of his life. He just hadn't known it until he found her and now, just like that, he'd lost her. He was alone again. In the dark and shadows with pieces of his heart scattered all around him. He had no idea how to put it all back together. Relationships were something he had no clue about, no experience to fall back on.

  She'd looked so shattered. So utterly devastated. He knew what she thought of him. He'd been playing games, seducing her to get close to her in order to find the microchip. His life suddenly seemed so wrong, everything he'd done to get his work accomplished. She lived such a different life. She'd gotten touched by evil, brushed shoulders with it, but she hadn't immersed herself in it, she wasn't covered in it.

  He swore in Russian and stood there, feeling helpless, something a man like him couldn't stand. He was a man of action. What was worse, waiting it out, let her have a little space to realize he'd stood there with his heart in his hand telling her the stark ugly truth of his life, admitting he loved her, or going to her and demanding she see the truth.

  His brother's advice to tell the truth quite frankly sucked. Evidently drugging her wasn't as bad as omitting certain facts. She'd forgiven him that mistake, but not this one. Not when he was standing there trying to do the right thing. He was at a loss, a state he'd never thought he'd ever find himself in.

  He closed his eyes. He wanted to marry her. To have her as his wife, and not as Thomas Vincent. They could live with that name, but he wanted to know she was his, a part of him. How could he show her he meant every word he said to her? Every touch? Every caress? He couldn't imagine going through the rest of his life without her. Without her laughter and her light. Without her kisses or the flash of her dark eyes.

  He knew one thing. He wasn't going to give up. He loved Judith Henderson with every fiber of his being. He might make a million mistakes, but the bottom line was he loved her and he knew he could make her happy. With Jean-Claude in the vicinity, Judith was in danger. The man was a ruthless criminal. So if he couldn't fix his relationship with Judith, then he needed to do what he did best. His job. That was the one way he could keep her safe. He might not be good with women, but he was damned good at his job.

  The microchip had to come into play somewhere. Stefan had carefully followed the trail the killers had left and the chip had ended up in Jean-Claude's greedy hands. He'd been arrested before Stefan could get to him and retrieve the chip. There was no way he had time to hand the stolen microchip off and he clearly hadn't done so from his prison cell. Stefan would have heard it was for sale if that had been the case. It had to here. A painting? Was that the reason the art gallery had been vandalized?

  Was it a message to Judith? No, Judith would have told him had she known about the microchip. She'd been so hurt and angry, she would have flung the information in his face. So she didn't know. Could La Roux have hidden the microchip in a particular painting? Over the last five years, Judith's paintings had been sold in galleries all over the world. She'd earned a certain reputation and particularly in Japan, her name was growing.

  La Roux could easily have slipped the microchip in between the stretcher bar and canvas of a painting. But why would Judith take a painting with her when she left him if she hadn't known about the microchip? And if she had known, wouldn't it have been easier to just take the chip? No, she hadn't known about the chip. So if it was behind a canvas, what painting had it been and why had La Roux been so certain she'd keep it?

  A ribbon of unease slipped into his mind and he glanced at the security system. The green light was off. Damn it all. The woman really hated that system. He should have known if she went down to her studio she'd open the doors--but she wasn't painting. She was stretching the canvases over the bars and she sure as hell could keep the door closed. He actually took a couple of steps toward the hall leading to the stairs but stopped himself.

  This was Judith's house and her pain. She had the right to deal with it in any way she saw fit. Uneasiness was growing in leaps and bounds, tying his belly into knots but she had him so damned messed up he couldn't think straight. Was his radar going off because Judith was making up her mind to reject him for good? Or was Jean-Claude prowling around?

  They needed dogs. That was all there was to it. He went to the door and stepped outside, intending to circle the house, just do a slow search to assure himself the Frenchman hadn't found his way to her home. He looked up at the night sky. The stars and moon were completely obliterated by the gray veil drawn so thick around them. The trees were vague outlines and all sound was muffled by the dense mist.

  He was reluctant to leave, even for a moment. His left palm itched. Pulsed. He felt love brush across it--a soft caress he couldn't mistake.

  JEAN-CLAUDE turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open. Judith held her breath as savage power rushed out, pulsing through the hallway in search of a target. The energy was so strong when it hit the Frenchman, he felt the impact like a physical blow, although she could tell by the look on his face that he had no idea what happened. He pressed his hand to his heart and stepped back, waving her inside.

  "This room is dangerous, Jean-Claude," she warned again, knowing he wouldn't listen, but feeling as though she needed to at least give him that much.

  He pushed her inside and stepped in after her. The inside of the studio was nearly pitch black, making it impossible to see anything. The light in the hallway was too dim to illuminate the interior of the room.

  "Where's the light switch?" he demanded, turning toward Judith.

  Already she could feel the ominous pulsing of power surrounding them. She cleared her throat. "I don't use light in here. Just candles."

  "Well light them. Open the curtains," he snapped impatiently.

  The door swung closed of its own accord, a hard, final sound that boomed like the thud of drums at a funeral. The room was instantly plunged into absolute darkness.

  Judith felt the swirling emotions gathering strength and she hastily stepped forward, intending to light the candle closest to her. It was black, with a red center, and she knew the approximate position. The room groaned
and creaked, and soft footsteps padded across the floor toward them.

  Jean-Claude jerked her in front of him, fumbling for his gun. "What the hell? Judith, light the damn candle."

  Before she could do so, another surge of power ricocheted off the walls. Candles sprang to purple life all over the room, macabre pinpoints of light there in the sea of darkness. Smoke rose, blossoming out to slowly spread across the ceiling. The dancing light followed, slowly illuminating the twisted, gnarled branches and the weeping sorrowful splashes of purple on the walls and overhead. Crystalline tears dripped from the branches and ran down the walls.

  The walls creaked and something dark moved in the shadows. A sound much like a branch cracking had both of them spinning toward the far side of the room where she'd painted a large dark trunk of a tree, twisted and misshapen, a grotesque apparition of a living, breathing tree. Even while they watched, the trunk seemed to split open and weep thick, black venom.

  "What the hell is this?" Jean-Claude demanded.

  "I told you this room is dangerous," Judith answered. Her heart accelerated and she tasted real fear in her mouth.

  She had no idea how dangerous the studio really was until that moment. Jean-Claude's presence had awakened the darkest of spirit weave. Here, where her every ugly thought, every dark emotion, had been about him. Revenge. Rage. Sorrow. Everything she had ever considered doing to him in the name of revenge had been conceived in this room. Spirit had bound those dark emotions together and now, Jean-Claude was present, a living key to unlock that very lethal, dark power.

  He showed her the gun. "Don't think I won't use this if this is some kind of trick. Where's the painting?"

  She pointed to the middle of the room where she'd draped a cloth over the easel. "Under there." There was little point in reiterating her warning. He wasn't about to listen.

  Judith looked around her warily. Dark bloodred wax bubbled from the centers of the candles and cascaded down in streams. She took a breath and the room pulsed, the walls breathing in and out.