Page 46 of Girl Anonymous
Nothing stirred in those dark cold eyes, yet he lifted his hand and gestured as if blessing her—and the people in line in front of her moved back, grudgingly, one at a time, allowing her to go ahead of them to the casket to view the body.
The hair on her arms and the back of her neck lifted. Sweat trickled down her spine. If a trapped animal gave off the scent of fear, she was exuding it. She walked slowly, because she wanted to run. She breathed carefully, because she wanted to gasp. She looked ahead rather than around to meet the dozens of hostile eyes.
She reached the coffin, and at the sight of Mrs. Arundel, she stopped and stared. They’d dressed her in a lovely dark blue silk gown, and the roses covered her in scattered profusion from her shoulders to her feet. Her crossed hands held a rosary, and she looked good. Pleasant, as if her passing had been painless.
Maarja’s own sob caught her by surprise, loud in the hostile silence, and she whipped out a tissue and pressed it to her lips. She glanced up at Dante, who tilted his head back toward the way she had come. She leaned over the coffin, placed her palm over Mrs. Arundel’s cold hands in a last, fond farewell. She lingered an instant, then began her trek back across the lawn, walking around the line as it moved back into place, meeting no gazes,ignoring the prickling, back-of-the-neck knowledge that danger stalked her, and this crowd with their knives and kicks and jeers would assure she died slowly and in agony.
She passed the last of the crowd, she thought she’d escaped without hurt, when she heard running feet thumping behind her. She half turned—and Dante’s cousin Connor Arundel caught her arm and whipped her to face him. “What did you do with the bottle?”
Out of the corner of her peripheral vision, she saw Dante rise and stride toward them. She kept her attention on Connor: blond, blue-eyed, smooth skinned, and as scary as a fight-trained pit bull. She knew better than to lose eye contact. “La Bouteille de Flamme, the holy bottle, was stolen in transport.”
“Arranged by you.”
“By me? My sister was on that truck. She was almost killed!”
“She isn’t yourrealsister, she’s not your kin, and close almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.” Connor was so angry she stepped back, not out of fear but to escape the flecks of saliva flying at her. “The bottle is gone. It’s ours, our family’s. Your mother gave it up for the chance to kill our leader. To murder Benoit Arundel. The bitch murdered him!”
She stepped forward again, into spittle range, and went toe to toe with Connor. “My motherdied in that blast. My whole family, real or not, has suffered to protect the bottle containing the blood of Jånos, the revered founder of my tribe, he who fought evil and won. I don’t know who has stolen it, but the curse will strike them down as it struck—”
Dante grabbed Connor by the arm and yanked him back hard enough to make him stumble. “You will not dishonor my mother’s remains or the woman who saved her from the blast. Back off,boy, or take the consequences.”
Now Connor stepped forward to go toe to toe with Dante, but he hadn’t a chance against the man who had, as Benoit’s heir, forcibly moved his criminal family into legitimacy.
“Maarja, go with Andere,” Dante instructed.
She glanced around, surprised to see Andere beside her.
“Come, Miss Daire, I’ll walk you to your car.” Andere took her hand with calm assurance, put it on his arm, and covered it with his own. “Which way?”
“I’m parked there.” She pointed and Andere began to walk, and she had no choice but to walk with him. “But—” She glanced back at Dante and Connor.
Dante spoke to Connor, then with one hard fist, he smashed his cousin in the face.
Connor’s head cracked back, he went down hard, and he didn’t stir.
Dante looked at her, his eyes glowing with a dark unholy cruelty tinged with bitter brown.
She turned around and kept walking.
He didn’t want her here.
She had caused problems at his mother’s funeral, and she hoped never to see him again.
CHAPTER 20
Maarja’s mind and body had been invaded, shoved from the top of the trapeze and flung into a series of flips and maneuvers that left her dream world in shambles. Every night she hated to go to sleep. She dreamed all the usual dreams: returning to high school and not knowing her locker combination, living in a house that stood on the sand and watching the ocean waves sweep the foundations away, seeing her mother but not being able to hear what she said after “On your life, remember this, Maarja.”
Ah, that was the worst. For years, that had been the worst.
Now, she also dreamed about Dante. Wonderful dreams, where he came to her as a supplicant, kissed her toes, her fingers, her mouth, her breasts, between her legs until she spasmed in ecstasy…
And there were dreams where he looked like Dante, but he wasn’t, and he raped her and slit her throat.
Every night was another procession of teen embarrassment or vivid horror or orgasm…then she rose in the morning and went to work.
The theft had been a blow to Saint Rees and his business; when moving fine art, trust was all.
Alex’s beating had both broken Maarja’s heart and ignitedher anger. Despite Dante’s warning that dealing death required a callous touch, when she found Serene and her bevy of thugs, they would suffer for their crimes and brutality. She was determined of that.
