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Blood of His Fathers Ch. 01

By: mcbook



Manchester, England Friday, February 26 

Jessica Addison looked out the first-class compartment window onto the monotonous streak of black tunnel wall flashing by, pleased she hadn't been stuck with unwanted company for the entire two and a half hour journey. In less than fifteen minutes she would reach her destination. There was no turning back. It was foolish to feel this way, but she was more than a little nervous about attending her high school reunion. She tugged her coat tighter about her body and crossed her legs at the knees. 

What would her old-classmates think of her now? How long had it been since she last saw any of them—fourteen, maybe fifteen years? She released a silent breath. They weren't her friends. None of them had ever been her friends. She didn't have friends. 

Her eyes focused on her reflection in the tinted window. Except for the barest touch of lip gloss she wore no further make-up. The insecure, spotty schoolgirl with large owl-like glasses was gone and in her place was a woman who'd grown in confidence these last few years. A woman who believed in herself far more than she'd ever done before. 

Jess tightened her fists until her nails dug into the soft flesh of her palms. Despite her newfound strength one thing hadn't changed, her fear of dark enclosed spaces. She closed her eyes and wished the tunnel would hurry and come to an end. 

For most of her life she'd been afraid. To live, to love...to give her heart, and she knew who was to blame for that. Her mother. Tom, on the other hand, had thought the explanation a little less complicated. She was simply incapable of loving herself or anybody else, he'd said. Isn't that why their marriage had failed? 

Tom loved her. That'd been evident in his every look and touch, yet the more Tom had wanted her the more she couldn't help but despise him for it. Jess grimaced. Marriage to Tom had been neither her desire nor her decision. He'd entered her life when she'd been vulnerable and her own happiness had meant nothing. But she'd never imagined she would be the one to hurt him. 

She'd tried to make their relationship work and for six years Tom had been enough. But she couldn't prevent the 'what ifs' and the 'what could've been' from rising up between them. Or stop the pervasive mist of regret from chilling her heart. 

It shocked her that she could still remember her first lover. Still hear his voice whispering to her in the darkness, still feel his weight crushing her as she became a woman in his arms. If only she could go back in time and relive that moment. To have the confidence to believe his words and the courage to say yes to all he'd offered. She shouldn't have runaway. 

The train slowed, its wheels screeching softly along the track. She clasped her hands firmly together on her lap. It was absurd. She hadn't even remembered his name, but one night, so many nights ago, he'd taken a part of her that Tom could never make whole. 

The winter sunshine exploded abruptly behind her closed eyelids and she released a heavy sigh, dispelling the idiocy of her fear. The tunnel would've come to an end sooner or later. She blinked her eyes open and gazed out onto the red-bricked terraced houses and snow-covered embankments passing by. 

It hadn't been easy taking Jake away from his father. Yet what she wanted, what she needed, what she longed for was something Tom could never give her. A sense of completion. Tom didn't complete her. Not like—Jess expelled a deep breath and lowered her gaze to her bare ring finger. 

She hadn't regretted the divorce. Tom had said she would. He hadn't wanted her to suffer the consequences. He hadn't wanted to see her hurt. 

She frowned, puzzled. 

Suffer the consequences. A strange choice of words, funny how she'd never considered them before. 

A voice crackled over the intercom. She glanced out the window again, half-listening to the obligatory announcements reminding passengers of this and informing them of that—letting her gaze flick over the graffiti-sprayed walls, high voltage junction boxes and weather-beaten signs welcoming her return to Manchester. 

"No regrets," she murmured. 

She uncrossed then re-crossed her legs. Why did she let her mother talk her into going to the silly reunion in the first place? With Tom she'd finally found her voice. She'd learned to stand her ground and defend her decisions. Why couldn't she do that with her mother? Why did she have to be that weak, lost little girl still seeking her mother's approval? 

She ought to hate her mother, but she couldn't do that either. God knew she had reason enough, but there was Jake to consider now. There was an undeniable bond between him and his grandmother that she couldn't bring herself to break. Jess smiled as she remembered her son's beaming, conspiring face the evening her mother came to collect him. The little traitor had gone without as much as a token struggle or backward glance. 

"That's better," a masculine voice acknowledged. 

Her startled gaze lifted to the tall man leaning with nonchalant ease near the exit doors. Everything about him—from his muscular physique encased in an expensively tailored dark suit to the confident curve of his lips and amber colored eyes glittering from beneath straight, dark brows—exuded power and position. 

In years gone by Jess would've crumbled under the sheer intensity of his scrutiny, but time had taught her to control her emotions and hide her feelings well. She calmly released the breath she was holding and schooled her features into one of blatant disinterest. She tilted her chin and forced herself not to look away. 

"What's better?" 

"Your smile," he said. "Very pretty and all too fleeting." 

Jess lifted a finely shaped eyebrow with practiced indifference. "Really," she said, unconvinced. 

He chuckled. A soft, sexy sound that fluttered down her spine and nestled with incredible precision between her thighs. "Yes, really." 

She tightened her arms across her chest and ignored the unaccustomed warmth spreading up her cheeks and pooling in the pit of her stomach. She turned her face toward the window glad the train had finally pulled into the station. In a matter of moments they would be going their separate ways and she would never think about this man again. Or the way her body stirred to life under the feral heat of his gaze. 

The final few passengers in the car filed past her toward the exit. She slid from behind the table separating the double seats and stood, reaching for the overnight bag on the luggage rack above her head. To her dismay it'd shifted during the journey and now lay beyond her searching fingers. She rose on her toes and tried again. 

"Allow me." 

She tensed at the sound of his voice behind her. She'd thought he'd gone. She briefly closed her eyes and remembered to breathe. 

There was no longer any distance protecting her from their attraction. It practically ignited the air between them and melted her insides. She locked her knees and stiffened her spine, fighting the urge to listen to her body and succumb to the sensual aroma of faint aftershave and masculine scent seducing her senses. 

It'd been a long time since a man affected her like this. But she hadn't simply divorced Tom to get laid by the first handsome man who turned her head or sent her pulse racing. She'd made that mistake a long time ago. She didn't intend to make it again. She clenched her fists and sought to control her breathing. 

His hand stretched above hers as he reached for the travel bag. And whether by accident or design their fingers touched. Jess jerked backward taking her hand with her and collided into the solid frame behind her. He placed his free hand against her stomach and used the length of his body to steady her. 

"I've got you, Jessica." 

He'd murmured her name. He knew her name. 

That sudden realization took hold of her brain sending a cold chill down her spine. She spun sharply from his embrace as quickly as the small space between his body and the table would allow. She craned her neck to meet his gaze and wished she were wearing three-inch stilettos. No one ever called her Jessica, not even Tom had called her that. 

Loud voices and approaching steps broke the tensed silence as new passengers in search of seats for the return journey to London moved through the train. Some stayed in the car while others jostled up the narrow aisle behind him en route to the next wagon, pushing him steadily closer into her comfort zone. 

The heat of his body seared through her clothes to her flesh, branding the sensitive peaks of her breasts until they swelled, heavy and tight and screamed for relief. She took a step backward, mortified by the very power of her response to him. The table pressed against the back of her thighs, hindering her movement. 

He suddenly pulled back and held out the bag to her. She grabbed it with more force than was necessary and clasped it to her chest. She studied a point on his suit. 

"H-How do you know my name?" 

"Another time, Jessica," he said. 

Was that a threat or a promise? She raised her eyes to his. A hint of a smile tugged at his lips before he turned and walked away from her. She sank back against the table and, expelling a ragged breath, willed her body once more under her control. 

Tom! 

Her ex-husband's name exploded through her mind and her heart skidded against her ribs. Tom had threatened to take custody of Jake. He was also wealthy enough to afford the best of everything and everyone—including lawyers. 

Jess spun to the window in time to see the tall, dark-haired figure weave through the crowded platform and disappear from view. She rushed from the train. If he worked for Tom she wanted to know. 

She stared down the platform. 

Shit! Where is he? 

"Jess! Jess!" 

A loud, shrill voice greeted her with obvious delight from the gate at Platform Seven and she was forced to turn her thoughts to the woman waving with frantic enthusiasm at her. It was Claire. Claire who'd sent the invitation for the reunion and who'd invited Jess for a pre-party get together. 

Jess cast a final glance about her and, relaxing her features, commanded her brain to function. She walked with purposeful steps across the platform, although she couldn't bring herself to return Claire's genuine smile and warm welcome. 

* * * * 

Claire lived in an old mansion in an affluent suburb of Manchester. The short drive from the train station had been punctuated with polite questions from Claire and offhanded replies from Jess. But once inside Claire's beautifully decorated home Jess softened. It was clear the chirpy, personable woman showing her around the renovated Victorian carriage house wasn't the same selfish, intolerant Claire from her schooldays. She didn't deserve Jess' reserve or judgment. 

Claire moved closer to where Jess stood studying a family photo hanging on the wall in the living room. A young boy around Jake's age and two younger girls romped about a playroom. All three were seemingly quite oblivious to the camera aimed at them. 

"My children," she said. "And I know what you're thinking, Jess." 

"I'm just surprised, that's all," Jess said. "I never thought you of all people would be married to a black man." 

"I know, neither did I, but Lee challenged me on every level. My beliefs, my thoughts and especially my prejudices." Claire gave a slight shrug and smiled. "I couldn't imagine my life without him or my kids." 

"Where are they?" 

"Lee thought he'd give us some girl-time. He took them to his mother's for tonight." 

Jess turned and took a good look at Claire for the first time since her arrival. "I'm glad you're happy, Claire." 

"I am. What about you?" 

This time it was Jess' turn to shrug and smile. She mentally dismissed the handsome face and amber colored eyes teasing her brain. There was only one man in her life now. Her son. And she wasn't going to give him up without a fight. 

"Yes," she answered. "I'm happy." 

Which wasn't wholly a lie. 

She crossed the room and settled on the plush sofa by the bay window while Claire plopped opposite her on another. Under the auspices of a bottle of wine they reminisced about schooldays, friends—or lack of, teachers and ex-boyfriends—or lack of, and speculated about who'd be at the reunion and who wouldn't. After a second bottle of wine they headed to the kitchen to continue an increasingly animated conversation and eat the culinary vegetarian dish Claire had prepared earlier. 

By eight o'clock that evening she'd detoxed in Claire's sauna, had a refreshing swim in the indoor pool and applied the final touches to her make-up. Thoughts of Tom and the stranger on the train had been all but dispelled. 

Jess whirled about the guestroom she'd been allocated at the top of the house. She stopped in front of the large cheval mirror and smiled at her reflection. It'd taken her an age to find the vintage, black Kathryn Kuhn strapless chiffon gown she wore. It suited her perfectly. 

She touched her hands to the heavily boned bodice and traced the under wire cups barely containing her breasts. One wrong move tonight and she'd probably spill out of the dress. Claire's shout alerted her to the waiting taxi. 

Jess stilled as she felt old insecurities rise within her. She drew in a steadying breath and took one last look in the mirror. 

"You can do this," she told herself firmly. 

Then spinning toward the bed she grabbed the matching pashmina lying there and marched out the door. 

* * * * 

The party was in full swing when Jess and Claire arrived at the old school. Their entrance hadn't gone unnoticed and Claire was immediately swooped upon by a gaggle of chatty females. But she managed an apologetic smile before being whisked away to the other side of the Banqueting Hall. Jess brushed a nervous hand down the front of her long dress and sighed. Claire had left her alone to face ex-classmates and former tormentors. She pasted a small smile on her face and meandered through the crowded hall, gently kicking at the black and white balloons at her feet. 

She could boast some modicum of success as a freelance journalist, and although she'd had numerous pieces published on subjects ranging from the arts to the environment, Jess could find no one who recalled having read any of her articles. That was quite demoralizing. But she took comfort from the fact those who once teased and mocked her during her school years were now busy envying her metamorphosis—jealously guarding husbands and boyfriends on their arm. Now, uncertainties were reversed. 

Never one for crowds, she soon sought refuge in the hollow, quieter corridors of the old school, far away from the noise, endless questions and insincere comments. 

The school hadn't changed. Stairs still creaked where they had creaked eons before. Powder blue paint still peeled from the same old places on the same old powder blue walls. Except the ceilings were not as high, corridors not as long and rooms not as eerie and hollow as captured in the blueprint of youthful perceptions. 

Jess ambled further through the vaulted hallways, absorbing the ambience of a distant past and battling painful reminders of her own. She left the upper classrooms and returned in quiet contemplation to the ground floor. And then slipped out the emergency exit door leading onto the central quadrangle. 

Her strappy high-heeled sandals were hardly appropriate for a brisk, snow-filled night. And she'd left her pashmina in the Banqueting Hall. Head bent, she braced herself against the biting cold and scurried along the stone colonnade to the library at the other side of the quadrangle. The caretaker had promised to unlock the library door. She hoped she'd not be disappointed. 

She pulled open the door and was immediately hit by a gulf of air escaping across her face and shoulders. She relished the brief rush of warmth and entered the place where she'd spent plenty of school hours hiding and masking her loneliness. She closed the door behind her and, adjusting her eyes to the darkness, concentrated on listening to the silence. 

Faint shafts of moonlight streamed through the high windows, although she didn't need any light to fuel her memory of the room. 

She walked the length of the central aisle, her heels clicking softly over the black and white tiles. Past row upon row of towering bookcases adorned by marble busts of dead poets and literary scholars. Some sitting atop pedestals like bookends and others aloft, gazing down upon their late night guest. Then standing before her under a beautiful stained glass window was the full-length marble statue of the school's benefactor and namesake. She rubbed her hands over her bare shoulders, warming the chill settling once again upon her skin, and studied the alabaster face shining in the moonlight. 

The library door opened and then closed loudly behind her. She froze. Her heart jumped painfully in her chest and blood rushed loudly in her ears. Someone had entered and moved with heavy, measured steps toward her. 

Jess spun about. She angled her head and tuned her senses for some clue, some hint of recognition. There was none. She backed away as her panic surged, her breath escaping on a tight whisper. 

"Who's there? Mr. Henry?" 

The footsteps drew closer. Eyes wide, she watched the figure of a man draw near without breaking stride. He was too tall to be the elderly caretaker. 

She scrambled backward and gasped. "Who are you? What do you want?" 

She glimpsed his face in the half light and knew him at once. Her breath locked in her chest as he backed her toward the full-length marble statue. 

"Tell Tom I won't give Jake up," she blurted with a defiance she didn't feel. 

He stilled. Jess lowered her gaze to his mouth, her memory filling in what she couldn't clearly see. She shook off the incredible desire to touch him, to have his lips on hers and know his taste. She drew in a shaky breath. The air was cold and dry in her throat and her voice rasped. 

"I won't give Jake up." 

The bright white of his eyes narrowed. "I haven't come to take your son away from you, Jessica. Tom didn't send me. I'm here because of Sean." 

She reached a steadying hand behind her and grasped the cold stone there. Her other hand went to her breast as she tried to quell the erratic beat of her racing heart. Her questions, her confusion, were lost under the loud roar of Sean's name exploding through her brain. 

"Sean." She whispered her disbelief. 

She berated herself for the weakness in her voice. She didn't want to give this man any impression other than that of someone in complete and utter control, but...Sean? She hadn't seen or spoken to her brother in almost fourteen years. Sean's name belonged to the past along with everything else she wanted, needed, to forget. Yet in a matter of moments its very utterance had brought the past back in one powerful, painful surge. 

Sean had always been uncontrollable and unpredictable, but it was only after their father died that he truly changed. He'd joined a local street gang, rising through its ranks within months to become their leader. Yet every week he would send money. Money Jess had refused to touch, although her mother had no such qualms. Their mother had chosen her own path and Sean's side—closing her eyes to his violence, his aggression and his criminal dealings. 

Jess raised her gaze to the lambent eyes steadily watching her. She had nothing to do with her brother's life, but would this man hold her accountable for it anyway? She could try racing for the door. He stepped closer, placing his body squarely in front of hers as if she'd spoken the thought aloud. 


Blood of His Fathers Ch. 01



"I haven't seen Sean in fourteen years," she said. "I-If he's done something...if he owes you money...please, a-allow me time—" She closed her eyes, hating her stutter. "I have a son." 

The air warmed upon her face and she frowned at the slightest touch of his hand against her cheek. She opened her eyes into his. She found it hard to breathe when he looked at her with such intensity. His gaze dropped to the soft rise of her breasts and she touched her tongue to her glossed lips. She pressed her back against the cold stone, welcoming the diversion of its sobering effect against her bare skin. His eyes flitted upward to hers. 

"If I was going to hurt you, Jessica, I would've done so already," he murmured. 

"Then, what do you want?" 

"I want you to come with me," he said. 

He was too composed, his voice too calm. Jess swallowed nervously. He wasn't giving her a choice. 

"Why?" 

"The why is for later," he parried. 

Goosebumps rose on the back of her neck and crept down her arms. Sean had been at his most dangerous, too, when his voice was most quiet. 

"And if I choose not to come?" 

He stepped forward. "I don't want to think of what might happen to your son if you don't." 

Jess gasped. Her eyes widened, searching his in the darkness and pleading for him to understand. She dug her fingers into the cold stone behind her certain it was the only thing keeping her upright. 

"Jake has nothing to do with Sean. And I can't pay Sean's debt." 

"That's not what I'm asking, Jessica. But I need you to trust me." 

"To come with you?" 

"Yes." 

She shook her head and frowned. "Why can't we talk here?" 

He placed a hand beside her head on the plinth and leaned forward. He watched her, his expression unreadable even across the part of his face illuminated by moonlight. 

"This isn't open to negotiation, Jessica." 

Fear and uncertainty roller-coastered through her veins, and yet she couldn't deny the vortex of desire churning inside her too. It was absurd. It was crazy. And in her predicament, it made absolutely no sense at all. But he felt their attraction too. She was sure of it. 

She heard it in the way he said her full name and had felt it as a shiver passed through him to her when their fingers first touched. She saw it in his eyes every time he looked at her, and it was there now in the way his breath exhaled hotly against her lips. She raised her hands to his chest to draw him closer...to push him away. She didn't know. His mouth lowered to hers and then stopped. 

Frustration, disappointment and relief warred in her heart as she sensed him pull back. She shivered from the rush of cool air hitting her skin, hardly knowing what to make of the onslaught of wanton feelings coursing through her.



Blood of His Fathers Ch. 02-03



Chapter Two 

He'd offered her his coat when they stepped from the library into the snow-covered quadrangle. She'd refused it. But when her elegantly, if not foolishly, sandaled feet lost their footing he'd caught her easily to him, swinging her into the warmth of his arms. Despite her objections, he'd refused to put her down until they'd reached his sleek black car. She'd been startled, mortified, charmed...and confused. 

She shifted her gaze from the weaving traffic and rolled her head against the soft leather headrest to his strong profile. He sat next to her relaxed behind the wheel, navigating the nocturnal streets. Strips of neon streetlight scanned him from head to waist, sporadically highlighting bits of his clothing, his face and his hair. His brow was slightly furrowed and his eyes focused studiously on the road ahead. 

"I'm sorry I made you lie to your friend," he said. 

Jess raised her eyes and met the intense light of his. She folded her arms tighter across her chest in a futile attempt to shield herself from the effect of his gaze on her body. Their eyes held a moment longer before he returned his attention to the road, shifting gear and pulling onto the highway. They'd left the confines of the town behind, and the only person who would've found her sudden disappearance strange. Claire. 

But he'd asked her to call Claire. To tell Claire that she was fine. That she was with her ex-husband. Tell Claire, he'd said, Tom needed to talk. He'd regretted their divorce and he wanted her back. 

Claire had sounded aghast, concerned, worried, but Jess had remained calm and convincing. 

"I can't say when I'll be back," she'd said, "but I'll call you." 

Claire had no more questions after that. 

Jess turned her face to the car window and watched her breath condense against the glass. She should've left clues—said something, but then what would've happened to Jake? 

She didn't know his name, but there really was no point in knowing it anyway. She wasn't sure what the outcome of this night would be, and she was too afraid to ask. He'd promised not to hurt her, hadn't he? No, not promised. He'd asked her to risk her life. To make a decision that could have hidden consequences for her son. 

The gentle purr of the car's engine soon obscured the sound of her thoughts and her eyes drifted closed. Resistance was futile, so she closed them completely. 

It seemed like mere moments had passed when her name rang through her head. She smiled. She liked the way he said it. Consciousness alerted her to the material draped about her body. It was heavy and soft and smelled familiar. Just five more minutes. She burrowed deeper into the cozy warmth. He called her name again. He? 

Her eyes opened slowly and began to take in her surroundings. It wasn't a dream. 

"You're awake. And just in time." 

And he was real. 

Her gaze shifted to the blue digits lighting up the dashboard. Ten minutes to three. 

She slowly straightened in her seat. Don't panic, Jess. Breathe. 

They'd been traveling for nearly six hours and she'd slept for the greater part. She pulled the coat tighter about her shoulders. She hadn't wanted him to show her any kindness or consideration, but she was grateful for it anyway. Although she couldn't bring herself to say thank you. Not yet. 

She looked out onto the undulating scenery outlined against the early morning sky. Despite the lack of streetlamps or moon or stars, the darkened sky shimmered under the gossamer hue of blue-white snow blanketing the rugged landscape. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and fixed her gaze on the jagged ridges of faraway hills. He could kill her at any time and no one would know to find her body out here in the icy wilderness. She shivered at her own macabre thought. 

They continued their journey through thick woodland along what must once have been an old coaching path. 

She dared to ask. "I'm just in time for what?" 

"Not what you think," he said. 

Jess swept her eyes upward to his profile. "I don't know what you mean." 

"Don't you? You have nothing to fear from me, Jessica. You'll see your son again. I give you my word on that." 

She squeezed her hands tightly together and tried to restrain the spark of hope springing in her heart. 

"Your word? Can I trust your word?" 

He glanced at her. "I'm not Sean. You know you can, Jessica." 

She leaned back against the plush seat, grateful for the shadows hiding her face, and watched the patches of darkness retreat under the glare of the car's powerful headlights. Yet she could discern nothing through the dense expanse of brittle snow-covered trees. Not a house or landmark or sign. 

"Where are we?" 

"The Scottish Highlands." 

"The Scottish Highlands? Why?" 

Her voice faltered as she glimpsed a bright spot of light shimmering in the distance. She sat up and took notice. The closer they got the larger it became. 

The trees started to peel away, revealing a stretch of snowy ground and a patch of dark sky. 

"Where are we going?" 

"We're almost there," he said. 

The car meandered a few moments more and then she saw it. The seventeenth century Jacobean manor standing alone and impressive amid the secluded, snow-swept landscape. 

"Madeley. My home," he said. 

She heard the pride in his voice and couldn't keep the awe out of her own. "It's beautiful." 

They drove closer to the remote dwelling and Jess glanced in stunned silence from the house to its owner and back again. 

Floodlights illuminated the manor's front façade, casting light onto the snow-covered forecourt. Silhouetted towers rose up against the blue-black sky and an orange glow flickered through a large downstairs window. 

The car stopped. 

She intended to walk to the front door herself, but he was already at her side sweeping her off her feet. She expected him to set her down on one of the stone steps leading up to the ornate entrance, but he kept her in his arms as he put the key in the lock and carried her like a bride over the threshold. Jess couldn't repress that thought or the soft gasp that escaped her lips as they entered the exquisite seventeenth century hall. The lighting was muted, but there was no mistaking the rich and luxurious Jacobean architecture, ornate swags and plaster ceiling with its intricate knitted design. 

Her arms tightened of their own accord about his neck and her gaze fluttered down to his. For a moment she was aware of nothing except the sound of his breath mingling with her own and the strong feel of his hands through the layer of her clothes. She couldn't help but wonder how they would feel against her bare skin, stroking her thighs and cupping her breasts—spanning her waist. To have him next to her, naked and so completely male. 

She caught herself staring and lowered her gaze, pushing her hand gently against his chest. He cleared his throat and set her down. This time, she uttered a murmured thank you before she could even think about censoring it and wrapped her arms about her waist, grateful he couldn't see her blush. 

"This way," he said moving forward. 

The hallway opened out onto a wide, central staircase with an elaborately carved balustrade. At the top of the stairs, where the stairway rose left and right was a large square mullion window. He waited patiently for her to draw level before opening the door behind him. 

She entered a large room that wasn't unlike the hallway except the polished wood paneling covered the entire wall and was subdivided by pilasters carved with sprays of flowers in low relief. All in all the complex plasterwork ceiling and paneled frieze contrasted inexplicably well with the modern Japanese style sofas. Lots of earthy colors too—she liked that—complementing canvases and sculptures of clearly Chinese and Asian influence. The sound of rhythmically falling water at the far end of the room completed the satiating impact on her senses. 

A highly crafted wooden mantelpiece enclosed the fireplace from floor to ceiling. She moved across the room toward the fire blazing in the carved stone opening and gazed at the heraldic relief on the central panel. 

"King James Coat Of Arms," he said coming to stand behind her. 

She nodded, unable to hide her interest. "I've always had a fascination for history." 

"Me too." 

He indicated one of the elegant sofas close to the fire. She perched on its edge, resisting the urge to kick off her shoes and surrender to the sumptuous array of colorful cushions strewn about the open hearth. They fairly teased her with promises of comfort and sanctuary beneath the soft glow of the firelight. She accepted the proffered glass of wine and raised her eyes to his. Apprehension slammed into her once more. 

"Is there no one else here?" 

He shook his head. "I'm hardly here myself. But on the rare occasion I do come home I have my housekeeper warm the place up." 

Jess lowered her gaze to her lap. She felt painfully naked under his scrutiny, even with his coat on. She laced her fingers about the tall stem glass to stop them trembling. 





Blood of His Fathers Ch. 02-03



"Sean kept it," she murmured. 

"Look at me, Jessica." Jason waited for her eyes to finally reach his. "I know Sean chose his path a long time ago, but he loved you. He wanted me to protect you. Let me do that." 

"How did my brother die?" 

"Sean organized post-match fixtures—" 

"What's that?" 

Jason elaborated. "He planned fights between hardcore rival supporters so they could beat the crap out of each other after football matches without police interference. His last fixture was two days ago. The day he was killed." 

"Don't you mean murdered?" 

Jason unraveled the thin gold chain from about his finger. 

"His death hasn't been treated as a murder, and it won't be. The police aren't going to look past what they already see. Sean was a gangbanger, like the rest. He was killed in an illegal fight, which he prearranged." 

"So, no one's going to miss him, right?" 

Jason dangled the gold chain between them. 

"No one's going to miss him, Jessica. 

She opened her hand beneath the ring and he lowered it onto her palm. 

"Let's say, for argument's sake, I believe you," she whispered. "Now what?" 

From the moment he saw Jessica the promise he'd made to Sean had become his, although that now meant dragging her into his father's world just to keep her alive. He stepped closer compelling her gaze back to his. She stared at him, patiently waiting, her dark eyes vulnerable but guarded. He wasn't even sure if she was breathing. 

"Marry me," he said.

Chapter Three 

The request was soft, calculated and wholly unexpected. Jess placed her fingers to her temple in an attempt to dull the sudden ache there. Yes, she was drawn to this man, but marriage? At any other time she would've laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion. Only, the serious undertone in Jason's voice prevented her from doing just that. 

"My father is a man who moves in the shadows, Jessica. And as my wife your death would raise too many questions and lead to an investigation, unlike Sean. Something my father can't afford to have happen," he'd said. "The closer you are to him, the safer you will be. We have a small window of opportunity and we must use it." 

Her eyes lifted tentatively back to his. 

He threw you a lifeline, Jess. It was hardly meant to be a declaration of love. 

She remembered her speech therapist's advice and drew in another steadying breath. 

"Is there no other way? I mean—marriage? Why don't we go to the police? Tell them your father killed Sean. That he intends to—" She drew a deep breath in. "—kill me for a piece of land I know nothing about." 

Jason's face grew taut and his eyes filled with an emotion she couldn't readily decipher. 

"My mother belonged to the McKinney's, one of the oldest, elite families in Scotland. Madeley was her family home. McKinney wealth and social position guarantees my father the best of everything, including a vantage point above the law. If he's guilty of anything the evidence we find must be as concrete as it is damning. Do you understand?" 

Jess nodded slowly, at least she thought she moved her head. 

"But there's another reason why I can't go to the police, Jessica." 

She waited as he seemingly searched for words to speak. 

"The indenture Sean showed me five days ago isn't complete." 

"Meaning?" 

"An indenture is a legal document between two parties," Jason explained. "It's written in duplicate on the same sheet of paper, with the copies separated by cutting along a jagged line so that the teeth of the two parts could be later refitted to confirm authenticity." 

Jess frowned. "Yes, I know that." 

"The letter states there ought to be two halves of the same contract signed over two centuries ago. One half belonged to the Thomases, and the other half to the McCormacks." 

"And there isn't?" 

"No." 

"Perhaps your father hid the McCormack counterpart somewhere else," Jess said. 

"Why would he do that?" Jason countered. He shook his head and rubbed his hand across his face. "Besides, I've looked just about everywhere I can think of for it and I can't find it. But that's not all." 

He distanced himself before turning back to face her. "The letter speaks of a contract in which the land at High Rock had been deeded from my great-great grandfather, George McCormack, to yours, Ben Thomas." 

Jess nodded. 

"In the indenture Sean showed me there's no mention of the agreement between your great-great grandfather and mine. Except for this letter, there's no proof the property at High Rock ever belonged to the Thomases. The title deed bears no name other than McCormack, which means my father may have already destroyed the original document and any trace of its existence. If anyone comes looking there's nothing to suggest the land hasn't belonged to the McCormacks for generations." 

"Other than your father is a very clever man and hell-bent on taking back land I neither want nor care about, I've yet to hear reason why we shouldn't go to the police," Jess said. 

She faltered, taking in Jason's puckered brow and shadowy gaze. "What is it? What aren't you telling me? What are you holding back?" 

Jason pushed a hand through his hair and shot her a hesitant look. "It has to do with your stepfather, Graham Wright—" 

"He was my father," Jess retorted. "What has he got to do with this?" she asked. 

Jason straightened, his eyes fixed steadily on hers. She narrowed her gaze as something like guilt etched across his features. 

"He didn't commit suicide—" 

Her brain froze in her shock. Suspended in agonizing motion she could only watch Jason's lips move and from somewhere far and distant hear him call her name. Then, it hit her. His words, impaling her heart like a stake. 

He didn't commit suicide. 

"Jess—" 

Her heart missed a beat, then two. 

She remembered finding her father lifeless in his study, his body swinging heavily back and forth. She'd been sixteen years old. She remembered her father's blue eyes and how they would light up with pleasure whenever he saw her. That day they'd registered nothing as the rope cut deep into the flesh of his neck. 

The coroner had ruled his death a suicide. Her father had suffered from depression so the verdict, although it came hard, hadn't been a total surprise to many. But now, if Jason was to be believed—her whole life was unraveling at breakneck speed. She managed a tight squeak. 

"You think your father—" 

Deep down she'd always known her father wouldn't leave her like that. Without saying goodbye. But— 

Jason closed the gap between them, his contrition written on his face. "Jessica, I'm sorr—" 

She didn't want to hear it. Anger and fear coupled with confused and irrational sexual attraction erupted in a firm slap against his cheek. 

"Don't you dare say it," she cut in sharply. "Don't you dare say you're sorry." 

She went to slap him again, stunned by her reaction but too hurt to care. Jason caught her wrist pulling her firmly to him. His eyes sparked and his lips thinned in warning. 

"I'll allow you one because I know this must be an unbelievable shock for you. But Sean is dead, your stepfather is dead and you'll die too if you don't marry me." 

She barely heard him. Her brain acutely isolated the intense feel of his fingers about her wrist. She gasped at their powerful contact. Fire ripped down her spine, stimulating every nerve ending and igniting every shriveled fiber of her being like wild flames through a parched forest. Tears, her body was too tired to prevent and her mind too weak to control, spilled down her cheeks as she fought her innermost desire and struggled to think. She was exhausted. She wanted to go home, to take a bath and crawl into bed. She wanted to forget tonight. Forget John Thomas. Forget High Rock. Forget Jason McCormack. 

Jason breathed her name close to her lips and she shook her head, blocking him out. 

"My father," she cried. Her indignation gave her strength. "Why is that land so important to your father that he would kill mine, that he would kill Sean? Why?" 

"I don't know, Jessica. But what I do know is that we need each other. I can protect you and you can help me clear my name. I need you to help me solve this." 

Jason's fingers tightened about her wrist. "My father has framed me for both Sean's murder and your stepfather's death. That's why we can't go to the police. We need to work together to keep you alive. Think about your son, Jessica. Believe me, I'm not the enemy here." 

Her heart warred with her head. He was too close, his touch too physical, his dominance too appealing. She closed her eyes. She should go to the police. Why should she care if they arrested Jason McCormack and she never saw him again? Justice would be served, wouldn't it? People she loved had died, and could die because of her. Because of Alexander McCormack, because of—her eyes opened directly into Jason's intense gaze—his son. 

"I should hate you for this," she said. "I should be running away from you as fast as I can." 

"Do you hate me, Jessica?" He challenged her for the truth. 

He caught her chin between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand, compelling her gaze back to his and refusing to let her look away. She could feel his heartbeat resonate through the fingers gripping her wrist and heard her own pounding in her ears. Her lips parted on an audible sigh. 

No, she didn't hate him, but these wild and wanton feelings racing through her had to stop. If she valued her father's memory, and even that of her brother, she could let nothing come of the very real attraction she felt for Jason McCormack. Her voice felt brittle as she forced her answer past her lips. 

"Yes, I hate you." 

He gave a wry smile and immediately released her, robbing her of his heat, his intensity, his essence. "Does that mean you'll marry me?" 

Jess lowered her gaze to the child's ring in her hand. "For the sake of my son," she answered quietly. "I'll marry you." 

She raised her eyes back to his. "But it will be a marriage in name only," she declared. "It ends at the bedroom door." 

She didn't want to feel anything but contempt for him. Yet her skin still tingled where his fingers had held her. It was too alarming. Anticipation was not what she wanted to feel. The intensity of Jason's stare delved into her very soul. She couldn't help but back away from him as the mocking ghost of her desire flashed in his eyes. 





Blood of His Fathers Ch. 02-03



Her hands shook. Her senses were all too aware of her daughter leaning against the kitchen counter watching her and daring her to lie. But there would be no use in lying anymore or postponing the inevitable fallout from her admission. She was only thankful Graham wasn't alive to witness it. 

"John Thomas is your father," she said. 

"Why didn't you ever tell me? Why didn't I ever know that?" 

"There seemed no reason to upset our lives over someone who never cared for either one of us, Jess. Besides, I was happy with Graham and you were happy too. Graham was the only father you knew. The only father you needed." 

"But he wasn't my real father, Mum." 

Norma closed her eyes briefly at the harsh and hurtful denial. "Yes, he was," she said. She glared at her daughter. "Don't you ever again say he wasn't. He adopted you. Gave you his name—" 

Jess pushed herself forward from the counter and folded her arms defensively across her chest. 

"I have the right to be a-angry, Mum, not you. You lied to me. My whole life has been a lie." 

"Says who?" 

Jess paced about the kitchen. Norma released a weary sigh and sat down at the small table at the near wall. 

"Come on, Jess. I'm sorry. Sit down. Sit down, Jess. You're not a child anymore. We can talk about this and be civil, can't we?" 

Jess stopped her pacing. She glanced at her mother, her face taut and her eyes glittering in their resentment. For a brief moment Norma thought her daughter would storm from the house, but Jess crossed the room and sat down opposite her at the table. Norma smoothed a hand lightly across the red and white-checkered tablecloth, a ghost of memory playing about her lips. 

"I was eighteen years old when I first met John Thomas," she began hesitantly. "I'd just graduated from high school with four of my best friends. Lydia, Rose, Susan and Jessica." 

Jess raised her head at the mention of her namesake. Norma met her daughter's gaze and continued. "We were all expected to succeed and I would've gone on to study medicine, become a surgeon, if I hadn't met John but...I fell in love." 

She placed her elbows on the table and laced her fingers beneath her chin. "He was thirteen years my senior, which made it all the more exciting I suppose. But then I became pregnant with you, almost straightaway. In those days the rules were much stricter and less forgiving than now. An unmarried, Catholic mother was not to be praised, but despised and shunned. When the nuns at Xavier College discovered my condition I was told in no uncertain terms to leave." Norma glanced at her daughter. "I tried to hide you as long as I could—" 

"Didn't he want to marry you? Didn't John want to marry you?" 

Norma lowered her hands back to the table and clasped them tightly together in front of her. "As a matter of fact John did propose. It was his sister, Carolyn, who strongly objected." 

"Why?" 

"Intolerance exists even among our own, Jess. John was from one of the outer islands. Their skins are much lighter than mine." Norma angled her head. "For a long time I couldn't forgive John his weakness. You look like him," she said at length. 

"Is that why you hated me, Mum? Because I reminded you of my father?" 

Norma rose calmly and followed her daughter to the other side of the kitchen. She cupped Jess' face between her hands, forcing Jess to look at her. 

"I never hated you, Jess. I loved you as much as I loved Sean. You just reminded me of what I gave up...what I didn't have. I loved John too and I guess a part of me never stopped loving him. It was hard seeing you every day knowing John didn't fight for us." 

Jess took her mother's wrists within her own hands and gently, but firmly, pulled back from her embrace. 

"Did my father ever contact you about me?" she asked quietly. "Didn't he ever want to know about me, know how I was doing or...anything?" 

"No. John never wrote or phoned, or sought any kind of contact with you." 

"Are you sure, Mum?" 

"Am I sure? Of course, I'm sure." She leveled her gaze on her daughter. "What is the matter, Jess? What's going on here? Who told you about John?" 

She wanted to understand Jess' sudden interest in a man she couldn't possibly know, but not even the troubled expression on her daughter's face could prepare her for the cool delivery of Jess' next question. 

"Did you love Graham, Mum?" 

The intense look in Jess' eyes halted Norma's feeling of irritation. Something she didn't understand was happening here, but she was intuitively aware that right here, at this moment, the truth and only the truth would do. She took the time to find the right words. 

"Not in the way I loved John," she said. "But I never let Graham know it." 

"Did you trust Graham to be honest with you, Mum?" 

"Of course. He was a decent man. A good man." 

"What if John Thomas did write to you? Would Graham have shown you the letter?" 

"Yes, of course. Graham knew about John." 

"But what if he thought by not showing you the letter he'd be protecting me." 

"Jess, I really have no idea of what you're talking about. There are no letters. You're casting doubt on Graham without proof or reason. I thought you loved him." 

"I loved him, Mum, but he doesn't make me who I am, and right now I need to know wh-who I am. I just need t-to know—" 

"Now, you're frightening me. You're asking questions, but giving no answers. What is it? What is going on? Talk to me, Jess, because I don't understand this. You leave to go to a reunion. You bail out on Claire then return dressed in men's clothes of all the preposterous things. And now you're questioning your life and my love for Graham—everything." 

"I know, M-Mum. I'm sorry. I just need to know, that's all." 

"That part I understand, but you act as if your life depends on having answers now—at this very moment. What happened at the reunion, Jess? You haven't stuttered since you were fifteen." 

Jess fidgeted a moment longer with her fingers. "Jason McCormack happened, Mum." 

"Jason McCormack? Who's he? Are these his clothes you're wearing?" Norma closed the gap between them. 

"You honestly don't know, do you?" 

"Know what? What's going on, Jess? And who in hell is Jason McCormack." 

"The man I'm about to marry." 

Norma watched in astonishment as her daughter turned on her heels and rushed from the kitchen.



Blood of His Fathers Ch. 04-05



Chapter Four 

Across London in the ultra-modern, refrigerated room of the city morgue, Detective Inspector Drew Mahon released a long-held breath. He leaned heavily against the doorjamb and watched Dr. Adrienne Purdy stride with brisk authority across the mortuary to the large cold chamber situated on its far side. 

"I thought you might want to take a look at this," Dr. Purdy called over her shoulder. "John Doe." 

Her cool voice snapped his senses back to the antiseptic cleanliness of his surroundings. Direct, succinct and all business. That's what he liked about Dr. Purdy. 

She opened one of the chamber's stainless steel doors and pulled out a refrigerated body rack covered with a white sheet. She pivoted toward him. 

"Coming?" she queried. 

He'd not slept well for three days. Sean Wright's death still plagued his mind. But he tilted the corner of his mouth into an easy smile. 

"Sure. It's not like I've got tons of work to do or anything." 

Adrienne produced a sound somewhere between a dry laugh and a dismissive snort. "You'll like this. I promise." 

She lowered her eyes to the body lying between them and began peeling back the sheet. 

"Brace yourself, Drew," she warned. "He's been here longer than a week. Male Caucasian, approximately eighty-five years old," Adrienne said. "Road accident. Death would've been instantaneous." 

Her latex gloved fingers skimmed the dead man's face. "We know nothing else about him other than, considering the skin's coarseness, its tone and his facial features, he may have come from Eastern Europe." 

"Didn't he have any—?" 

Drew raised his hand in quick defense, catching the clear plastic bag Adrienne effortlessly conjured out of thin air to throw in his direction. "Belongings?" he added, flicking his gaze to her amused one. 

"Just those." 

Drew studied the contents of the bag. An oval pair of tortoiseshell-frame glasses completely shattered in the accident and a leather drawstring pouch, which had seen better days. 

"That's all," Adrienne said. She'd anticipated the question poised on his lips and was now pointing at the pouch. "In light of what I discovered, the coroner thought it prudent to wait for you to open that." 

"What you discovered?" Drew's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, what you discovered?" 

"When is a body not a body, Drew?" 

Adrienne reached to grab the set of photos lying on the podium behind her and then returned her gaze to his. 

"When it doesn't exist," she supplied. She clearly wasn't expecting him to give an answer. "Take a look at these." 

Drew took the photos in his hands. He turned and viewed them every which way. Obviously a picture of the dead man's face, but what was he looking for? 

Adrienne read his mind. "Scars, Drew. Scars," she said. "This man has undergone extensive plastic surgery." 

His interest peaked. "Cosmetic or corrective?" 

Approval and surprise sparked Adrienne's eyes. "Cosmetic," she answered. "All cosmetic. There are scars on his face and post mortem bruising as a result of the accident. But other than that, there's absolutely nothing further to suggest any previous tissue trauma that would warrant extensive surgery." 

"Like a burn," Drew ventured. Again, his eyes met approval in hers. 

"Exactly. Thirty scars," Adrienne cited. "All small, precise incisions hidden neatly in the natural folds of the skin, and in the obvious places. Behind the ears, in the hairline, under the chin." 

She released a studied breath. "I'm still waiting for x-rays to confirm this, but I think his nose and cheek bones may have been surgically broken and then restructured." Her brow creased and she pursed her lips. "If I were to hazard a guess, I'd say this man has had surgery that deliberately altered his appearance." 

Drew peered closer to the dead man lying on the refrigerated rack whose features showed no obvious signs of decomposition, although the putrefied stench of decay filling his nostrils told him the body had to be in its final stages of autolysis. 

"The scars aren't fresh, are they?" 

"No. Look at this." With her gloved fingers, Adrienne maneuvered the skin beneath the right eye of the dead man, pulling the folds taut. "There's a magnifying glass somewhere over there," she said. 

She jutted her chin toward an autopsy table behind him. Drew promptly retrieved the instrument and held it above the flattened area of skin. 

"Do you see that?" Adrienne said. "As with the others, this scar is barely visible. There's absolutely no sign of fibrosis and the skin itself has aged around it. If I release the skin..." She demonstrated. "You'll notice no rigidity in the skin structure. There's also no elasticity and an excess of skin. Look at the scar," she directed. "If it was a recent eye correction, let's say less than two years old, it would sit nicely there." She pointed her gloved finger to a small area of skin beneath the lower lashes. "But gravity and the skin's natural aging process have pulled it lower." 

She paused and shrugged her shoulders. "Taking into account the texture of the skin, its discoloration and the position of the scars in relation to where they ought to be, I'd say the surgery is probably about twenty years old." 

Drew met Adrienne's challenging gaze. His fingers tightened about the leather pouch in his hand. 

Adrienne relaxed her features and smiled. "See. I knew you would like this." 

"I'll need your report as soon as possible. And a set of fingerprints." 

"First thing Monday, Drew." 

The mortuary door swung closed at his back. 

* * * * 

There'd been something about the dead man that not only kindled Drew's interest and sparked his curiosity from the outset, but alerted his instincts as well. Still, not even his instincts could've prepared him for the piece of news he'd received. He glanced at the file marked "Confidential" lying across his desk, taking special note of the name stamped across it. Nicolae Nastase. General Nicolae Nastase. 

Drew focused once more on the two photos he held in his hands. One of the John Doe he'd received from Adrienne and the other of Nicolae Nastase that he'd requested from Interpol. He sucked in a meditative breath, held it a short moment and then released it. Two very different faces of purportedly the same man. There were similarities. Yet there was something about Adrienne's John Doe that continued to warrant his attention. 

Either the John Doe had surgery to look like Nicolae Nastase, or the dead man was Nicolae Nastase who had surgery to change his appearance. But which was it? Fingerprints didn't lie, but they could be switched. 

Drew breathed deeply in. 

A man who would use surgery to change his appearance conjured up questions, but a man who would use surgery to change his appearance and had an eighteenth century Spanish gold coin in his possession raised even more. The door to Drew's office swung open and his Detective Sergeant burst in. 

"Drew, are you busy?" 

Colin's curious eyes darted to the photos Drew held in his hands. Drew casually, yet consciously, placed the photos face down on his desk. There was no use involving Colin in a new case based purely on gut feelings. Besides, they were already up to their eyeballs in unsolved cases and in the middle of an intelligence report on Alexander McCormack, which was proving to be anything but routine and far from easy. The request had come directly from the Detective Chief Superintendent and took priority.  

He would have to follow his instincts on the John Doe later. 

"What is it, Col?" 

"There's something you should know about Sean Wright." 

Drew looked expectantly at his Detective Sergeant. 

"Sean has a sister." 

Drew practically jumped from his chair. He reached for the dark green parka draped about it and rushed to the door. 

"Where is she?" 

Drew knew Sean Wright had worked for Alexander McCormack, but other than that legitimate and pertinent background information could never be found. Perhaps today he would get lucky. 

On other occasions Colin would be way ahead of Drew. He'd be tossing back snippets of information like tasty morsels to a dog just to keep him enthralled until they reached the parking lot. This time it felt different. Drew managed to stop himself in time from colliding into Colin's stationary body. He caught his Detective Sergeant's painful grimace. Something was definitely up. 

"What is it?" Drew said. "Come on, out with it." 

"We don't know where she is." 

There it was, the bad news. Drew slid his hands from the collar of his parka. Today was going to be one of those Mondays. He returned to his seat behind his desk. 

"Let's hear it," he said. 

Fifteen minutes later he was driving across London to the local police station that had filed a report of a young woman in search of her brother. She'd apparently ID'd Sean, although not by name. Perhaps she could be the breakthrough he'd been waiting for. 

Sean Wright's body had found five days ago and under different circumstances Drew wouldn't have raised an eyebrow. But it'd been Sean who'd unexpectedly brought him closer to Alexander McCormack. 

With the rise in football violence, Finsbury Town Football Club had been under surveillance for a number of weeks. Undercover policemen, or Spotters, sat among the fans during matches identifying troublemakers and gleaning information about prearranged fights. The undercover team had arrested Sean Wright nine days before his death. A key-figure in the football underworld, he'd been a long way from the Premier League Clubs where he normally operated. 

Sean had been a tough nut to crack. He'd divulged nothing of his reasons for being at the club that day or his dealings with Alexander McCormack. It'd been another arrestee who'd mentioned McCormack was planning to sabotage his own club, although there'd been a lack of detail. But if Sean Wright had been called in for the job, then the police expected a bloodbath. The question was, why? They needed times, dates, places. Things only Sean would know. 

Sean had been retained for an added forty-eight hours while Drew searched for means to get him to talk. Still, what he discovered had come as more of a surprise to Sean than himself. 

The surveillance photos taken at Finsbury Town Football Club had been re-examined, but this time it was the obscure faces in the background that were scrutinized. Identities were checked and double-checked and faces compared against the thousands upon thousands of offenders in the police database. And one face in particular caught Drew's attention. 

Bernard Greene. Right-wing extremist and member of the British National Party. 

Sean had remained impassive as he looked down at the file laid open in front of him. He didn't know Bernard Greene, he'd said. Drew had enlightened him. 

"He's a member of the British National Party. Their candidate for Islington in the forthcoming General Election." 

Sean shrugged. "What's he got to do with me?" 

Drew had thrown another photo on the table. It'd been taken outside the BNP's headquarters in London. 

"Recognize anyone?" 

Sean had picked up the picture of Bernard Greene and Alexander McCormack. 

"What do you want from me?" he asked. 

"Your help," Drew had said. "We need to find out what McCormack is up to because it sure in hell looks like a lot more than turning a blind eye to the hooliganism at his club." 

"Why should I help you?" 

"You're being used Sean. You have proof of that in your hands." 

Sean had been released that very afternoon. Seven days later he's dead after an organized post-match fight. 

"You must have found something," Drew murmured. 

He slipped his car into gear and accelerated. He needed to find Sean's sister before she started asking the right questions to the wrong people. 

* * * * 

Viktor Marinescu sat rigidly in the back of the metallic blue Lexus as it sped toward its destination. The name of Nicolae Nastase had brought him back to England, or rather, Detective Inspector Drew Mahon at New Scotland Yard had forced his journey. The detective had recently subpoenaed sealed records belonging to Nicolae Nastase and that unnerved a man like Viktor Marinescu. Fortunately, he could rely on a network of informers at the Romanian Interpol still loyal to the old Securitate. His Securitate. 

Viktor caught his reflection in the rear view mirror. 

The eyes staring back at him were his, but the face was not. Six months of painful surgery had given him a new identity and a new life. But after more than twenty years, was that all about to change? 

What kind of man was Detective Inspector Drew Mahon? Was he a thorough man? A persistent man? An observant man? Could he already be aware of the deception or its significance? 

They'd been furtively planning President Ceaucescu's downfall for years. They being the many senior army generals and members of Ceaucescu's own Communist Party. Some whose fathers and grandfathers had been a part of Romania's Iron Guard in the thirties. 

Money had assured support, bought silences and incited once more the national pride that'd not only made the Iron Guard powerful in its heyday, but also feared. 

Viktor opened his hand slowly and looked at the iron and gold pin in the palm of his hand. The ancient Roman symbol of power, the fasces—a bundle of sticks bound to an axe. This would be the new symbol of a new power. His power. He would crush those who'd betrayed him. They, who'd once allied with his beliefs and then turned on him after Ceaucescu's downfall to seize power for themselves. They, who had forced him to flee his homeland. 

The whole world had witnessed a revolution in nineteen eighty-nine and the sudden and rather too organized emergence of the Front of National Salvation that had promptly assumed control of a country in chaos. 

Yet, by quickly denouncing the killing of demonstrators in Timisoara and charging Nicolae Nastase responsible for those deaths, his former allies had succeeded in drawing the world's attention from its speculation of a Coup d'état and focused it glaringly on him. 

He'd fled for his life. Viktor studied his features, aged with time. A drastic situation had called for drastic measures. He'd undergone months of painful surgery. He'd taken the face of another to hide his, and given his face to an old drunkard. Viktor frowned. His had been the tale of two men—Nicolae Nastase and Viktor Marinescu. He lifted a finger to his brow. The same and yet not quite the same. But was Detective Inspector Drew Mahon on the verge of discovering this fact? 

There was no room for error. Above his heart he bore a tattoo in the form of the fasces in his hand. The body in the morgue bore no such mark, except a face much altered to be his. 

An hour later Viktor sat at a table in the middle of a large room secreted in the basement of an exclusive country club. He looked around the table at the anonymous faces, the Captains of Industry who were his allies. Rich and powerful men whose wealth and influence had shaped past governments—their own and others. And they would shape those governments still to come...as long as money was to be made and power was to be had. 

This is what he'd offered them in Romania and in Bosnia. This is what he offered them now in England. Obstacles, both big and small, would be eliminated to achieve their goal. 

Which meant that Detective Inspector Drew Mahon would be taken care of when the time was right. 

Chapter Five 

Jess paced the sidewalk outside Aberdeen train station. Her mother and son sat on a bench watching her. In two days time she would become Jason's wife. 

"Did he forget?" 

"No, Mum. We're early." 

"It's cold." 

"I know, Jake. Just five more minutes, okay," Jess said. 

"Why don't you call him?" 

"I can't, Mum. I mean I can, but I wouldn't want to impose—" 

"Impose? He's your fiancé." 

"Mum, please. He'll be here soon." 

"I'm hungry." 

"Jake—" 

"Is that him?" 

Jess spun on her heel, following her mother's gaze to the tall man climbing out the sleek black car parked a few feet away in the parking lot. He was dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a black crew neck sweater and strolled with an easy gait across the forecourt toward them. 

"Yes," she murmured. "That's Jason." 

"He looks like he just stepped off the catwalk in Milan. Rugged. Handsome. Athletic. And legally yours in two days time, Jess." 

Jess snorted. For all the good that it would do her. "Thanks, Mum. As if I wasn't already nervous enough." 

Her mother swung her gaze to hers. "Nervous? First you don't want to impose and now you're nervous. Jess, are you sure you want to marry him?" 

"I-I mean, it's too good to be true isn't it? A man like him and a woman like me? He's probably used to long-legged—" 

Before she could complete that sentence Jess felt strong hands around her waist and she was suddenly spun into Jason's embrace. Her heart fluttered and her stomach felt light. She placed her hands on his biceps to steady herself. He flashed her a smile and then leaned in, brushing his lips against the corner of her mouth. He pulled back too soon. 

"I've missed you, Jessica," he said. 

She raised a hand nervously to her pinned hair conscious of her mother's scrutiny. The charade had begun. 

"I've missed you too." 

There was a short, sharp tug on her coat and she looked down into her son's shining eyes. She stepped back from Jason and put her hands on Jake's small shoulders, maneuvering him gently to stand in front of her. 

"Jake," she said. "This is, um—" 

God, she needed to work on saying Jason's name without having a seizure. 

Jason hunched down leveling his gaze on Jake's. "Jason," he supplied, extending a hand to the little boy. 

Jake took hold of his hand and shook it. 

Jess shifted uneasily and tried to calm pounding heart. She still couldn't bring herself to look Jason fully in the eye. 

"This is my mother." 

"Mrs. Wright," Jason acknowledged politely. He stood and clasped her outstretched hand in his. 

Her mother replied in kind. "Jason. So good to finally meet you." 

"Likewise, Mrs. Wright." 

Jake moaned at her side. "Nana, I'm hungry." 

"Then, let's go buy a sandwich," his grandmother answered. She took hold of Jake's hand and led him away toward the station's main doors. "We won't be long," she called over her shoulder. 

Jess helped Jason with the luggage. When the last case had been loaded, he closed the car trunk and turned to face her. 

"What have you told you mother about us?" 

"Nothing other than what we agreed on the phone." 

She felt her cheeks heat up despite the chill wind blowing in her face. 

"We met at a café on the night of the reunion and it was love at first sight. Which she thinks is ludicrous by the way. She can't understand how I can, one, marry again so quickly after just finalizing my divorce. And two, marry someone I've known for less than five days." 

"Neither can my friends. I mean, minus the divorce bit," Jason said. 

"So, when this is all behind us and we divorce everyone will be happy," she mused. 

His eyes pinned her to the spot. "Not everyone, Jessica." 

Her heart stopped. She didn't want to know what he meant by that. There'd never been any pretense that their wedding would be anything other than that. A pretense. 

"Feelings and sentiment weren't part of the deal," she whispered. 

She turned to walk away, but his fingers curl about her wrist halting her flight. 

"I know you're still hurting, Jessica, but tell me you feel nothing for me." 




Blood of His Fathers Ch. 04-05



They'd spent the best part of a hectic week organizing a wedding that was nothing but a mockery, yet when he looked at her— 

In two days time they would exchange vows based on a lie and yet somewhere deep down in her heart she didn't want it to be a lie. But she couldn't admit that. Not yet. 

She released her breath on a soft sigh. She'd never in her life been so glad to hear her son's voice. 

* * * * 

Jess smiled at the sound of her mother's awed gasp. The winter trees had peeled away and in the cold light of day Madeley looked even more impressive and statelier in the crisp, clean air than the first time she'd seen it. 

"You have a beautiful home, Jason." 

"Thank you, Mrs. Wright." 

The car stopped at the main entrance of the house. Jason climbed out first, opening the back passenger door to assist her mother and then Jake from the car. Jess wore sensible boots. This time she didn't need sweeping off her feet. She stepped out of the car and caught the glint in Jason's gaze. An amused smile played across his lips. She shifted uneasily. It was unnerving that she knew what he was thinking, and vice versa. 

They entered the house with Jake bursting through the door first. They shook the snow from their shoes and removed their coats and scarves before continuing through the large reception hall, past the morning room and library Jess had missed on her first night at Madeley. 

At the far end was the grand staircase. Jake had taken the stairs quite quickly and Jason hurried after him. Not long afterward, Jess heard her son squeal with delight. 

"I don't know exactly what's going on between you and Jason," her mother said, linking her arm through hers. "And I won't know unless you tell me, but whatever it is he makes you happy." 

Jess studied the carved handrail as they continued upward. "What do you mean?" 

"You light up in his presence. You practically glow." 

"I don't." 

"You do. More than you ever did with Tom." 

"So, you don't blame me for divorcing Tom." 

"You have to do what's right for you, Jess. I understand that. You deserve to be happy. And if it's with Jason, then so be it. I know you'll do what's right for Jake too." 

Jess smiled faintly. 

They reached the first floor mezzanine. Two bedrooms—one a former valets room, simple in design and taste, and the other with oak flooring and panels—had been prepared for Jake and his grandmother. 

Jess left Jake and her mother exploring the hand-painted Chinese wallpaper and elaborately carved ceiling in the Chinese Room and followed Jason to the floor above. She walked down the familiar wide corridor, noting for the first time the regal rooms opening off it. 

"I thought you would like your old room," Jason said. 

"Thank you." 

They stopped outside her bedroom door. 

"If we're going to pull this off we're going to have to convince a lot of people that we're in love." 

Jess stared at her fingers clasped against her stomach. "I know. And I'll do my part." 

Jason stepped closer to her. "How will you do that when you can't even bring yourself to say my name?" he accused. "Or look at me." 

Jess licked her lips and then slowly raised her eyes to his. 

"Don't worry, when the time comes I'll look at you adoringly and laugh and smile in all the right places." 

She turned and escaped into her room, closing the door firmly behind her. 

* * * * 

Jess spent the first day with her son and mother exploring every nook and cranny at Madeley. Jason joined them mid-afternoon, suggesting they take a walk in the surrounding woods. She couldn't suppress a smile as Jason hoisted Jake high onto his shoulders and started pointing out things of interest to her son—an abandoned bird's nest, a covered foxhole, the black shadows of inquisitive fish skimming the surface of the lake. She listened to their mingled voices and couldn't imagine a more pleasant sound. 

Jason's dogs accompanied them as well, and although Jess wasn't overly fond of the two Dobermans she couldn't deny how protective they were of her son. Dogs and boy had taken to each other from the moment they'd met and it'd made Jake's transition from London to Scotland a much less painful experience than she'd feared. Still, even she could see it'd been more than the dogs that had made Jake feel welcome. She looked at the man standing in front of the private chapel with her son perched high on his shoulders. 

The private chapel was at the south side of the estate. It had its own entrance which was a bonus considering the number of guests that would be arriving for the ceremony in two days time. It'd mainly been Jason's friends. But she'd relented when her mother suggested they invite family from her father's side, mutual friends left over from her divorce from Tom and a few of her mother's closest friends to balance the guest list. 

Jason had thought of everything, from the parking attendants to the wedding hostesses, and Hilda had done the rest. The reception would be held in the huge Blue Ballroom at Madeley. 

"Would you like to see inside?" Jason asked. 

She stepped past him and entered through the opened door, looking down just in time to see her son rush past her up the aisle. Her mother gave her a quick hug and kissed her cheek before chasing after Jake. 

The chapel was beautiful. Sober stone walls and stained glass windows enhanced by a simple array of blue and white flowers and the sapphire carpet running the length of the limestone floor from the door to the altar. 

"Hilda didn't think you would want anything too ostentatious." 

Jess smiled, fingering the tartan material draped along the pews. 

"That's the McCormack tartan," Jason said. 

She caught his gaze. "I didn't expect so much," she murmured. 

He stepped closer. "Do you like it?" 

She couldn't lie. "Yes. I like it very much." 

* * * * 

They'd gone through the motions. It was flawless and beautiful and convincing. 

Jess gazed down at her son sitting on the front pew and returned his broad grin with a smile. Her mother smiled too, giving a slight encouraging nod of her head. 

Jason squeezed her hand, drawing her attention back to him. It was intense just looking at him. She gave him a small smile. Despite the tension between them, they'd played their parts well for all to see. It'd been in the chaste kisses against her cheek, the lingering looks and gentle touches. It'd been in shared smiles and unguarded moments when her head rested against his shoulder and his arm slid about her waist. 

She willed her brain to function, to give her the capability of speech. She said her final vows, and heard the words that made her stomach contract with fear and anticipation. 

You may kiss your wife. 

Jason molded her close. His mouth hovered above her lips and his eyes held hers with a patient gaze. It took a moment to realize he was asking permission to kiss her. Jess parted her lips on a whispered yes—and then gasped in horror. 

Her name resounded through the chapel a second time. She spun from Jason's embrace to stare at the man making his way with slow, nonchalant steps over the dark blue carpet. Her hand flew to her heart. 

Tom? 

Her lips moved, yet she was unsure if she'd uttered his name. Her eyes snapped to Jason. He stood rigidly at her side, but he no longer looked at her. His own gaze had narrowed and was locked on Tom. Jess turned back to her ex-husband. His gray eyes caught her gaze, but his sneer was clearly directed at Jason. 

"Congratulations, Jason. Does she know?" 

Jess tore her gaze from Tom and raised wide and questioning eyes to Jason. The muscle of his cheek twitched with barely controlled anger, yet he still wouldn't look at her. Jason's eyes shifted and his head moved in the briefest of nods. She quickly followed his line of vision to the two men making their way with purposeful strides to where Tom stood in the middle of the chapel. Out the corner of her eye she noticed the side door open. Her mother, with Jake's hand in hers, slipped outside. Relief filled her and she silently praised her mother's presence of mind. 

"Does she know?" Tom repeated. 

Tom's angry condemnation had Jess spinning once more in his direction. She couldn't speak. She was afraid to speak. Her eyes scanned the faces of the guests, each and everyone enthralled by this unfolding scene. Her throat went dry. 

Up until Tom's arrival the wedding had been conducted perfectly. She'd even managed to say her vows with calmness and confidence, with no trace of her nervous stutter. But now the heat of her panic spiraled through her chest and slowly squeezed the breath from her lungs. 

Tom continued his tirade. "I'm warning you, Jess. You're making a big mistake by marrying him. He's no good. Tell her, Jason. Tell her about your father and the kind of man he is!" 

Jess stared in stunned disbelief from one man to the other. From her ex-husband to the man to whom she had but a few moments earlier bestowed her "I do." 

The urge to run overwhelmed her, but before she could consciously act on that impulse Jason caught her to him. He crushed her breasts against his chest and imprisoned her body against the impressive length of his. His arm tightened about her waist. The sensual, heady scent of him filled her nostrils and her hands fisted in the lapel of his jacket. 

"You have to face this, Jessica," he clipped in her ear. "If you leave now, you merely cast doubt on your choice of husband." 

He traced a finger lightly down her cheek, no doubt for the benefit of those watching them. "Tom can't interfere. He mustn't interfere. If he suspects for one moment the real reason behind this marriage, he could jeopardize everything. Do you understand?" 

He held her so close that her mouth rested against the small area of skin beneath his ear. She moistened her lips, licking his skin with the tip of her tongue. She absorbed the shiver passing through him. She drew back and raised her eyes to his.  

"It's your call," he said. 

She shifted in Jason's arms, but made no further effort to escape them. She met Tom's gaze with her own. There was pain in the depths of his eyes. Pain she'd put there. 

He made to move toward her, but the two men on either side of him, gripping his arms, immediately and forcibly halted his single step. 

"Don't do it, Jess," he said. "Please, don't marry him." 

Jess lowered her eyes. He was too late. It was already done. 

* * * * 

The reception was in full swing in the Blue Ballroom, and although Tom's unexpected intrusion seemed forgotten Jess sought a moment's refuge in her bedroom. 

She sat on the edge of the queen-sized bed and studied the exquisite gold ring with its engraved iron outer layer gracing the finger of her left hand. Iron, the metal of choice in early Roman times symbolizing the strength of love a man had for a woman. But she'd chosen iron as a reminder that what she was doing, she was doing for Jake. 

The delicate strains of Puccini's Turandot drifted hauntingly through the distant air. She really didn't know anything anymore. Tom's outburst had taken away the last conviction she had that she was doing the right thing. He was forcing her to re-examine all her decisions concerning Jason McCormack and she wasn't sure she wanted to look that closely. Yet her instincts were seldom wrong. Were they wrong now? Were her senses so scrambled, her emotions so inside out that she could no longer trust her intuition? 

"Are you all right, Jess?" 

Her mother's voice filtered through her thoughts. The soft hands cradled her face. Jess raised her eyes to her mother's gaze. 

"Today, I've never seen you look more beautiful, or more sad," her mother said. "Won't you trust me, Jess, and tell me what's wrong? What's really going on between you and Jason?" 

Jess smiled faintly. She couldn't tell her mother about Sean...about Graham...about any of this. 

"There's nothing going on, Mum, and there's nothing wrong. Honestly." She averted her gaze back to her ring. "I was shocked to see Tom, that's all." 

Tom had obviously been drinking and everyone had thought him incoherent, but she saw the look exchanged between both men. Tom's words had definite meaning. Words meant for her. It made her ill to think Tom and Jason could know each other. Yet, how was that possible? They'd never met. And why would Tom want to warn her about Jason anyway? So many questions and again she had the answers to none. 

"You know you're going to have to come back to the reception," her mother said standing up. "Your new husband is adept at explaining your ex-husband's presence, but your absence merely undermines his effort. Besides, the photographer has arrived." 

"I just need five minutes." 

"Five minutes, and no more," her mother said. She walked to the door. "I don't think Jason is a very patient man. He wanted to come after you himself." 

The door closed and clicked softly into place. Jess was finally alone. 

It'd been rather cowardly of her to leave Jason like that, but she needed to distance herself from him. And time to rein in her emotions and douse her panic. 

She moved from the bed to the Queen Anne vanity table by the window. She took a tissue and dabbed away the traces of her tears. Thank God her eyes weren't red and swollen. With trembling fingers she set about repairing the damage to her make-up. Her thoughts drifted to her ex-husband. 

For months they'd barely lived as man and wife, although she hadn't meant to be so distant or dispassionate. She remembered the pain in Tom's voice when he'd once asked if it was the thought of sex that revolted her or just him. Her fingers stilled against her cheek. At the time she was unable to give him an answer, but now—now there was Jason McCormack. Jess sighed. 

The feeling Jason aroused in her was something that frightened her. It was too intense, too sincere. It was his ability to weaken her control. She'd always been in control of her emotions, yet the mere sound of Jason's voice was all it took to shatter the wall she'd so carefully constructed around her sanity and her heart. 

Jess stood and gave her reflection the once over. She wasn't entirely unhappy with the result. She'd been true to her word and not a penny of Jason's money had been spent on her. 

The champagne-colored dress accentuated the dusky bronze of her skin and dark length of her hair. It was cut in very simple lines, hugging her waist and hips in the right places and stopping short above the knee. Thin straps swept over her shoulders and the décolleté was modest enough to draw the right amount of attention to her breasts. Jason hadn't been able to keep his eyes off her. 

Her fingers traveled to the three-layered pearl choker adorning her throat. Apart from her wedding band, it was the only piece of jewelry she wore. It'd been a gift from Jason earlier that morning. 

"I would understand if you refuse," he'd said. "But I would like you to wear this." At that point he'd produced the necklace adding, "It'd belonged to my mother." 

Jess could only stare at him. His unexpected gift had left her bewildered, questioning his feelings and hers. It'd been her mother who'd broken the tensed silence between them. 

"Refuse?" she'd said. "Why would Jess want to refuse such a precious gift?" 

The question had been directed at Jason, but her mother had looked quizzically at her. To refuse Jason's gift had meant explaining why. So she'd accepted the priceless heirloom in the manner in which it was given—as a token of love from a man to his bride. 

Jess glanced at her reflection once more. She couldn't truly appreciate Tom's unwelcome arrival. 

* * * * 

She returned to the ballroom and with polite patience made her way through the host of greetings, congratulations, and "Jason is a lucky man". She steadied herself just in time as her son dashed across the stately room and hurled against her. His small arms slipped about her hips. 

"Mum!" He practically shouted in his enthusiasm. 

Jess bent to shush him and planted a kiss on his cheek, which was promptly wiped away by the back of a small hand. 

"Jason has a boat. He's promised to take us out on it. Hasn't he, Nana?" 

The little face whipped from Jess to his grandmother, who'd come up behind him, and back again to Jess as quickly as the attention span of an excited six-year old would allow. 

"You'll come, too, won't you, Mum?" 

Jess couldn't contain her laughter at the brightness in his eyes. "We'll see, Jake. We'll see." 

Her stomach somersaulted. She didn't need to turn around to know Jason stood close behind her. That it was his hand resting lightly against the small of her back. She turned to meet his impassive face. 

"I hope to take you sailing in the spring," he said. "But right now I would settle for a dance with my wife." 

Jess felt her cheeks flush. "I'm afraid I don't dance very well." 

"Nonsense," her mother said. Jess flicked her a pleading glance, but her mother merely continued. "It's your wedding, Jess. You can't not dance at your own wedding. Besides I didn't pay for all those dancing lessons for nothing. She's very accomplished, Jason." 

"I don't doubt that, Norma." 

Jake's voice squealed with delight. "Mum, you're all glowy." 

Jess lowered her gaze to her son's beaming face and smiled. "Am I?" 

Jake concurred with a huge grin that pushed his dimpled cheeks upward and outward. She watched him saunter off with her mother, and then she was standing in the middle of the room beneath the solitary chandelier with Jason's arm about her waist. 

A soft ripple of applause accompanied the faint chords of a waltz filling the air. And suddenly she was being swept across the cherry wood floor in three-four time. She held on for dear life as she felt Jason effortlessly cut through her defenses. It left her breathless beneath his gaze. 

* * * * 

By the time the last guest had departed Jess was danced, smiled and talked out. But she'd not forgotten Tom. Her mother and Jake had already gone to their beds and she wanted this day to end. But how could she sleep knowing her ex-husband had tried to warn her about her new one? What if she had made a grave mistake by marrying Jason? Had she unwittingly put her son's life in danger too? Could her attraction to Jason McCormack be blinding her to his true character? Was he, as he had so many times adamantly refuted, the enemy? Tom certainly thought so. 

She caught Jason's gaze across the chandelier-lit distance. He leaned with nonchalant ease against the wood paneled wall. Her fingers nervously fondled the dark gray pearls at her throat. It hadn't escaped her that he'd matched the color of his Armani suit to the necklace she wore. 

"When were you going to tell me about you and Tom?" she asked. 

"There is no me and Tom." 

He was irritatingly calm and in control of his emotions as if he'd expected her to lose control of her own. She was glad of the distance between them right now. She wanted nothing more than to throw something at his handsome face, although she couldn't help but wonder if her reaction was some legitimate response to Tom's accusations or purely to Jason who, despite her resolve, continued to make her weak in the knees. 

"It's just too much of a coincidence my ex-husband knows you. I guess I wasn't supposed to find out about that, either. You played me for a fool, giving me enough information to make me question my mother, Sean, myself. You even used my son against me. Manipulated me with half-truths to substantiate your lies." 

"And you deduced all that from your ex-husband's drunken rant. What if he's the one who's lying, Jessica?" 




Blood of His Fathers Ch. 04-05



"I saw the look that had passed between you both. Tom may have been drunk, but he was warning me. Why would he do that if he didn't know you?" 

"All I heard...all anyone heard today was the angry outburst of a jealous ex-husband." 

"The things Tom said had nothing to do with jealousy. He was warning me about you. About your father." 

"And what if he was? He didn't tell you anything I hadn't already told you." 

"Yes—but how would he have known that?" 

Jason pushed himself upright. "Not everything is as it seems, Jessica." 

"Of course not," she bit back. "That would've been too simple, wouldn't it?" 

He crossed the room, moving with slow, feral grace toward her. "Jessica—" 

"I know. Trust you. But how can I do that when you've lied to me—are lying to me?" she corrected. 

She backed away from him, blinking back the tears springing in her eyes. 

"I've been a fool. A gullible, blind fool," she said before turning and fleeing the room. 

* * * * 

It surprised Jason that he'd meant every uttered word of his marriage vows, although he doubted the same could be said of Jessica. He knew why she'd agreed to his proposal. She needed answers probably more than he did and she planned to use him to get them. 

He poured himself a whiskey and then plopped down onto the old sofa in his study. This was not how he envisioned spending his wedding night, but he and Jessica were strangers each playing a role for the entire world to see. It was a role that, as she had demanded, ended decisively at the bedroom door. Jessica was angry and confused, but he wasn't about to give up or let Tom's unexpected outburst ruin his chances with her. 

He stared out the open French doors at the craggy hillside and watched the last glimmer of evening light as it fell upon the winter landscape. His mother had loved it here and for some strange primal male reason he wanted Jessica to love Madeley too. He leaned his head back against the comfortable leather and closed his eyes. 

He could still feel her in his arms as they waltzed through the Blue Ballroom, her hips seductively brushing his thighs. Her delicate scent had made him almost dizzy with desire, and then she'd looked at him. In that one moment there'd been no more pretending. He was falling deeply in love with his wife and if he ever hoped to win her trust and ensure her co-operation he would have to tell her the truth—the terrible truth about the Thomases and the McCormacks. But could he? Could he justifiably explain away the lie that'd been her life? 

"Congratulations." The sarcastic tone cut through his thoughts. 

Jason jumped to his feet. He rounded on the person who'd dared invade his private moment and recognized him at once. 

"I thought you would be in the Seychelles or somewhere enjoying your hard-earned money," Jason charged dryly. 

Tom shrugged offhandedly. "I can't. Not without seeing Jess." 

Jason took a casual nip of his whiskey. "No." 

"I was married to her for seven years, Jason. We have a son. I'm entitled—" 

"To nothing," Jason retorted. "You forget, Tom, Jessica divorced you without knowing all the facts. Her decision. Her life is here with me now and I won't have you destroy that." 

"You won't—" Tom sneered loudly in his disbelief. He punched a fist against the palm of his hand. "You hypocrite," he returned with equal venom. "You're using Jess to get to your father and you're going to get her killed in the process. Leave her out of this. She knows nothing." 

"You made sure of that, didn't you? If anyone is a hypocrite here, Tom, it's you. If you cared for Jessica half as much as my father's money you would've told her your marriage was nothing more than an elaborate manipulation. A baseless lie." 

Tom rubbed a resigned hand across the back of his neck. "I do care. That's why I need to see her, Jason. I have to explain. I have to tell her about Sean. Everything." 

"Jessica knows her brother's dead." 

"How did she find out?" 

"I told her. She knows as much as I can tell her right now." 

"She knows about your father...about me?" 

"She knows nothing about you, Tom. I wanted to spare her that little detail." 

"You obviously spared her a lot more than that, Jason. Otherwise she wouldn't have married you. She couldn't have. Where is she?" 

"I won't let anything happen to her." 

Tom barked out a hard laugh. "You're telling me you'd choose Jess above your father." 

"I already have." 

"I don't believe you," Tom sneered. "Blood will always be thicker than water, Jason." 

"I'm not my father." 

"You're a McCormack and that's enough." 

"I think we've said all we need to say to each other, Tom, but remember this. Jessica is no longer your wife and therefore no longer your concern. If I were you I would leave Scotland tonight." 

"Is that a threat?" 

Jason pulled his lips into an impassive smile and narrowed his gaze. "Consider it a friendly warning." 

"Jess deserves to know what kind of family she married into," Tom retorted stubbornly. "She deserves to know everything." He relented with a wistful sigh. "Jess never belonged to me and she doesn't belong to you, Jason. She doesn't love and she'll let no one love her. I know because I've tried. But I do love her and I don't want to see her hurt. Let her go before it's too late." 

Tom turned and strode out the door. 

Jason downed the rest of his drink and stared pensively after him. Tom was right, of course, but he couldn't let Jessica go now. His heart just wouldn't allow it. 

* * * * 

Jess popped out of the icy shadows as Tom made his way across the forecourt to his car. She called his name as loudly as she dared. 

"Tom! Tom!" 

He stopped and spun about, peering into the night. He took a hesitant step forward in her direction. 

"Jess?" he blurted. "What are you doing here?" 

He quickly took off his jacket and wrapped it about her bare shoulders. 

"I saw you go into the house—" she began. She rubbed her arms. 

Tom touched her cheek. "You've been crying. If Jason's done anything to hurt you I'll—" 

"It's nothing, Tom," Jess interjected. "I'm all right. It's just been a long day and with you—" 

"I know. I'm sorry about that, Jess. My behavior was inexcusable, but I was too late anyway, wasn't I?" 

He smiled at her and then, reaching for her left hand, lowered his gaze to the elegant ring gracing her finger. Regret tinged his voice. 

"You married him." 

Jess placed a placating hand on his arm. "What's going on, Tom? Why did I make a mistake marrying Jason? Please, tell me. Have I put Jake in danger? I have to know." 

"We can't talk now," Tom said. He looked anxiously about him. "Jason undoubtedly is waiting to hear me leave. Meet me tomorrow night in Braemar. There's a local bar, Marmaduke's. Come around eleven. It'll be quiet." 

Jess nodded. She didn't know where it was, but she would find it. 

"I'll be there. I promise." 

She tightened her grip on his arm as Tom turned to walk away. 

"How do you know Jason?" 

"Tomorrow, Jess," he said. 

He placed a light kiss on her cheek. "Go inside, and kiss Jake for me." 

He darted across the forecourt, his form disappearing into the shadows, the sound of his footsteps fading in the snow. 

Jess spun toward the house and froze. Jason stood at the living room window gazing out at her. His face still and his eyes inscrutable in the blazing glow of firelight. She entered the house and practically ran passed the room toward the sweeping stairs. Jason called her name, halting her flight. She retraced her steps to the room door, but didn't cross the threshold. 

Jason kept his gaze glued out the window. He didn't turn around. 

"What did he want?" 

"Tom just wanted to apologize for ruining our moment in the chapel. I told him not to worry. He didn't spoil a thing." 

Jason turned his gaze on her. Amber eyes clashed furiously with brown, but she didn't wait to be chastised. With her head held high, she stalked off, knowing she'd not find the comfort she sought tonight in her large, empty bed. 

* * * * 

The next morning she descended the back stairs at the west end of the house after spending a sleepless wedding night alone in her room. She wavered on the final tread and gazed down at her wedding ring. 

"Way to go, Jess," she muttered. 

She ambled through the west passage to the Great Hall and heard Jake's laughter. She crossed into the breakfast room and entered the high-ceilinged, flagged stone kitchen. She gazed out the large splayed window onto the vast snowy landscape and watched the amusing scene. 

Jake was playing in the snow with Jason's two dogs. His grandmother stood to one side, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her coat, supervising boy and dogs. 

Her mother spied her and smiled. Jess mouthed "coffee", to which her mother vigorously nodded. Jake must've been up bright and early. She reached into the corner cupboard and retrieved the coffee jar. 

"We need to talk about what happened yesterday with Tom." 

Jess turned quickly, dropping the pot onto the kitchen floor. She flicked a glance at Jason's grave countenance before stooping to collect the pieces of broken glass. 

"I'm sorry I startled you." 

"You didn't," she murmured. "Just clumsy, that's all." 

She stood, taking the pieces of glass to the bin, and moved toward the cupboard where Hilda kept her cleaning utensils. She pulled out the long handled dustpan and brush. 

"I know a lot has happened in the last week and you don't know who or what to believe right now. But despite what Tom wants you to think, I would never hurt you or Jake." 

She raised her eyes to his. "How could you possibly know each other?" 

Jason moved toward her. "I'll answer your questions, Jessica, if you agree to do one thing for me." 

"And what would that be?" 

"Spend today with me." 

She turned her attention back to the spilled coffee grounds. 

"Why would I want to do that?" 

The brush stilled as Jason reached out and clasped it firmly between his fingers, compelling her gaze back to his. 

"The last thing I want to do is to hurt you, Jessica—" 

"Then leave me alone. Please," she whispered. 

He frowned slightly and reached his free hand to her face. Her fingers tightened about the brush handle and her knees trembled. She forced herself to hold his gaze as his hand ghosted down her cheek and his thumb traced her bottom lip. 

"My father has caused you pain and I'm a constant reminder of it. Even Tom has cast more doubt on me, but I need you to set aside your prejudice for one day—" 

"That would mean forgetting my father, forgetting Sean—" 

"That would mean seeing me, Jessica. Not the son of a man who did those things." 

"What would that accomplish? I'm not prejudiced. I just won't betray Sean or my father like that. This was never meant to be about us—" 

"So you'll deny the attraction between us simply because you think you're being disloyal to your father's memory and Sean's." 

"It's not "simply" anything, but I don't expect you to understand." 

She let go of the brush and, turning on her heel, stalked to the window. 

"I'm going against my father for you," he said. 

"And you want me to show my gratitude by sleeping with you?" she asked without facing him. 

"No! You're attracted to me as much as I am to you, Jessica." 

"I divorced Tom because I...it doesn't mean I want you." 

She turned around leveling her eyes on his. "This house is large enough for us to never have to see each other. You can come and go as you please with anyone you choose. All I ask, in regard to Jake, is a little discretion." 

"Oh, so I can fuck anyone and everyone else except the one woman I desire. Is that it?" 

She flinched at the venom in his voice. 

"You make it sound as if I want to be here. Yesterday, we both uttered vows that neither of us believed in because we married for all the wrong reasons. Your father forced this situation on us. Neither one of us has the right to demand fidelity of the other." 

She swung back toward the window, swiping at the sudden tears falling down her cheeks. She wanted this over before she lost her heart completely. 

"Perhaps at a certain moment the line between us became blurred. It's not anymore." 

She jumped as the kitchen door thundered shut. 

* * * * 

She'd tiptoed around Jake's constant questions about baby brothers and fielded her mother's over plans for a honeymoon. By the end of the evening, when Jason returned, her nerves had been pulled taut. They'd maintained a strained politeness all through dinner, and her ensuing migraine had proved to be a blessing in disguise. She'd managed to sneak out of the house while everyone thought she was resting in her room. 

Jess cast another nervous glance at her watch. It was already a quarter past eleven. She was late. She hated making Tom wait, but it took an age to get Jake into bed—he was still much too wired about the previous days events. 

Jess turned her car onto the main street running through the village and was filled with an immediate sense of foreboding. Police cars and an ambulance blocked the narrow street, their flashing blue lights a vivid contrast against the hazy night.  

She parked her car and headed toward the small crowd that had gathered behind the police tape. Men and women in white surgical suits milled about the cordoned area. Policemen in uniform patrolled at strategic points, holding back onlookers intent on disregarding the stipulated boundaries. 

Jess turned to a woman standing next to her. 

"What's happened?" she asked. 

"There has been a shooting at Marmaduke's," the woman said. "I've lived in Braemar all my life. Things like this don't happen here." 

Jess scanned the faces about her, and then looked at her watch. Almost eleven thirty. Tom must be somewhere. She punched in his number on her mobile and heard the familiar ring tone, faint and distant. She listened hard, her gaze sweeping over the crowd once more. His telephone was ringing. 

The sound dragged her eyes to the gurney being wheeled to the back of the ambulance. She watched its slow progress and then lowered her gaze to the black body bag lying heavy and lifeless upon it. The murmuring voices around her dimmed to a shocked quiet. The ring tone grew louder. Her eyes focused and she frowned. Awareness flooded her and she suddenly understood the look of incomprehension passing between the two paramedics standing on either side of the stretcher. 

Jess ducked under the police tape without thought of the consequences. She walked and then half-ran toward the stretcher not wanting to believe and yet knowing who she would find lying there. She brushed off the vain attempts of a police constable as he tried to halt her progress across the cordoned off space. In a matter of seconds she'd reached the gurney and pushed passed a surprised attendant. She unzipped the body bag. 

Tom's ashen face struck her brain like a freight train. Her eyes dropped to the dark stain on his chest and her throat tightened. Her rising scream turned into a silent gasp on her lips. She staggered backward and was instantly caught by a pair of determined arms. 

The grip about her tightened and she offered no resistance as she was maneuvered gently but firmly inside Marmaduke's and eased into a worn out wooden chair. 

"She looks like she could do with a drink." 

Jess barely registered the voice or the man behind the bar as she tried to focus on the one man sitting opposite her. 

Tom's dead. 

The bartender had moved toward their table and placed a shot glass in front of her. 

"You'll feel better after you get this down you," he said, and turned to leave. 

Jess hesitated, but then raised the glass to her lips and drained the contents. Ugh...She hated whiskey. The burning warmth trickled down her throat, thawing her insides. 

"Feel better?" 

Her head bobbed in automatic response, although her throat felt as if it was on fire. She lifted her gaze to the man who'd questioned her. 

"I take it you knew the victim," he stated matter-of-factly. 

"Who are you?" Her voice sounded weak, distant in her ears. 

"Detective Inspector Drew Mahon. Special Enquiries. And you are?" 

"Jess McCormack. I recently got married." 

She wondered why she felt the need to say that, but she didn't miss the shrewd look in the green eyes staring back at her. 

"You are Jason McCormack's wife."



Blood of His Fathers Ch. 06-07



Chapter Six 

Drew Mahon counted himself a fortunate man. Sean Wright's death had brought his investigation of Alexander McCormack to a standstill. Not even the supposed sister could be found. And with Tom Addison's death he hadn't thought he could find another possible lead. But here he was sitting next to Jason McCormack's wife. And she was taking Tom Addison's death a lot harder than he thought she should. 

The day before, Tom had contacted him at New Scotland Yard. He'd been running scared, wholly convinced his life was in danger. He'd sought police protection in exchange for information about Alexander McCormack's business dealings, Sean Wright's death and the sudden spate of hooliganism surrounding Finsbury Town Football Club. It was this promise of succulent pieces of new information that had brought Drew and his Detective Sergeant far north to Marmaduke's tonight. He took a steadying breath. They'd come too late. 

He'd already discovered a great deal about Alexander McCormack and none of it discreet. McCormack was a right-wing, Catholic bigot forced to resign as vice-Chairman of a major premier league Scottish club. But then he'd re-emerged as the Chairman of an obscure third division English club with the notoriously dangerous Sean Wright as his right-hand man. 

Drew navigated the car through the dense, snow-clad woodland leading to Madeley. 

Speculation and circumstantial evidence. 

That was all he had, but it was enough to be certain of one fact. Sean Wright had been out of his league. And Jessica McCormack was surely out of hers. 

He glanced at the beautiful woman sitting next to him. The policeman in him was intrigued. By all accounts Jason McCormack's marriage had been an exclusive and private affair, yet a mere day later his wife risks life and reputation to meet with Tom Addison. Her reaction had clearly suggested they were more than casual acquaintances. 

Lovers, perhaps? 

The idea of Jessica McCormack being with Tom Addison burned deep in belly as much as the thought of her being with her husband. She turned her face toward his. She was grieving over a man many wouldn't miss. The question was, why? 

* * * * 

The car pulled to a halt outside the front entrance to the manor and Jess stiffened. She looked out onto the partially lit forecourt. It was here where she'd last seen Tom alive. Where they'd last spoke and where he'd waved goodbye. Her fingers touched her cheek where he'd kissed her. She turned toward the Inspector. 

"Thank you for bringing me home," she said. 

"No problem. You had a shock. Besides I would've been remiss in my duty if I'd let you get behind the wheel of your car. I can tell you're not used to alcohol. I'll have someone drive your car back in the morning." 

"Thank you." 

She didn't attempt to leave the car. She relaxed her head against the seat's headrest and briefly closed her eyes. She was going to have to face Jason. Only right now she didn't have the strength to defend her actions tonight. She could hardly believe Tom was dead, but she'd seen his face, hadn't she? It was Tom. And he was dead. 

"Are you sure you'll be all right, Mrs. McCormack?" 

"Yes. My...husband is at home." 

Amidst the surge of past memories of Tom, calling Jason "husband" felt awkward. It was Tom who'd been her husband in every way. He'd loved her despite her impassiveness. Respected her whims, her fancies, her desires no matter how selfish and gave her a security she'd dismissed. And he'd ultimately let her go when she'd demanded her freedom. An overwhelming sense of guilt ripped through her. Why couldn't she have loved him? She hadn't even tried. Why did he have to die like that? 

"I'll need to speak to you in the morning, Mrs. McCormack." 

"Yes, of course. I understand." 

Cold air blew across her face as Inspector Mahon got out of the car. Her eyes followed his movements to her passenger side. Another gust of wind-propelled snow wafted inside as he opened the door. 

Jess stepped from the car just as Jason appeared in the doorway, his body silhouetted by the light from the reception hall. She opened her mouth to speak, but found she was incapable of uttering a single word. The policeman shifted behind her, closing the tiny gap between their bodies as Jason stepped forward. The air misted with his every breath and his fists clenched and unclenched at his side, but he kept his eyes firmly on her face. 

"Where have you been, Jessica?" 

Mahon spoke and Jess trembled with relief. "Your wife has been through a terrible ordeal, Mr. McCormack. There was a shooting at Marmaduke's this evening—" 

"Marmaduke's?! What in hell were you doing there?" 

"I was hoping you could tell me that," Mahon said. 

For the first time in that long moment Jason shifted his gaze from hers to the Inspector and Jess sank backward, stiffening when she collided with the man's chest. 

"You're a long way from your jurisdiction, aren't you, Detective Inspector, to be playing baby-sitter to my wife?" Jason challenged. 

"Tom Addison died tonight, Mr. McCormack. It was unfortunate and foolish, but your wife saw his body. She obviously knew him, so his death hit her hard. I couldn't leave her wandering aimlessly about town, could I?" 

The chilly air crackled under the intense weight of their taut silence and Jess felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She turned, looking from one man to the other, conscious she was now caught between them both. Her stomach roiled, but she didn't know if it was from the whiskey she'd had or the open hostility in the policeman's eyes. But it really didn't matter. Her knees buckled and then the world faded before her eyes. 

* * * * 

Drew easily caught her before she hit the ground. 

Her eyes were closed and her head rested against his shoulder. He didn't understand it. A woman like her and a man like him. His eyes flicked to Jason who'd dashed toward them. Something wasn't right about this marriage. His investigation into the McCormacks proved Jessica McCormack was the kind of woman neither Jason nor Tom would've considered his type. Men like them didn't change. 

"This way," Jason said. He frowned and led the way back into the house. "You should've called me." 

"She asked me not to." 

Drew followed him through the airy hallway and into the spacious living room. Jess moaned softly against his neck. He tightened his arms protectively about her. He loathed leaving her here, but until he could prove foul play Jason McCormack had vowed to love and cherish the woman in his arms until death them do part. It was the latter detail of this sentiment that made his gut tighten. 

Drew laid Jess onto the large Japanese sofa positioned in front of the fireplace and then turned back to her husband. 

"Were your wife and Tom Addison lovers, Mr. McCormack?" 

"Always straight to the point, Detective Inspector," Jason said. "No, they weren't lovers and before you ask, I didn't kill him." 

Jason's face hadn't show the slightest hint of emotion, not even a muscle twitched in his face. But Drew noticed there'd been the barest hesitation before he answered. He moved forward, his steps intimidating, unhurried, assertive, although he wondered if this tactic worked on a man such as Jason McCormack. A man who had been around crime as long as Drew had been fighting it. 

"And, I suppose, you wouldn't know Tom Addison worked for your father?" he said. 

"I have nothing to do with my father and even less with his practices. Ergo, his associates are of no interest to me." 

"Associates like Sean Wright?" 

"As I've said before, Detective Inspector, I have nothing to do with my father or his associates and I fail to see what Sean has got to do with tonight." 

"Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything," Drew shrugged. "Two men who worked for your father have been murdered in the last ten days. And, you, Mr. McCormack, seem to be the only common denominator in both cases. Your wife links you to Tom Addison, and Sean Wright connects you to your father—" 

"I was nowhere near London the day Sean died." 

"Yes, I know. I've checked. But Sean came to see you. Here. Four days after we arrested him and three days before he died. Coincidence? I don't think so." 

"Anything could have happened in those days, Detective Inspector." 

"True. But you only have to tell me why Sean Wright came to see you on the morning of the twenty-first, Mr. McCormack, and I could possibly eliminate you from my list of suspects." 

"It was a private meeting and unless you have more than this to go on you can't prove I killed Sean." 

"And you can't prove you didn't. So we're back to where we started. I know the kind of man your father is, McCormack," Drew said. 

He stepped closer, deliberately crowding Jason's personal space. "And I don't think you're an apple that's fallen that far from the tree. My worry now is your wife. Like your other victims, she'll never know when you turn predator, will she? She'll not see it coming." 

Jason's eyes narrowed. "You're crazy if you think I'd harm my wife." 

"You're Alexander McCormack's son," Drew scathed. 

"If that makes me guilty of anything arrest me now, Detective Inspector." 

Both men appraised the other. Both made their judgments and prepared to defend them. 

"She's your wife, but I have to wonder if she knows what kind of man you are." 

Drew stepped back and flicked a final glance at Jess, her eyes closed in restless sleep. 

"I'll be back in the morning for your wife's statement and after that, who knows?" 

* * * * 

Jess struggled to hold on to sleep. She snuggled against the wall of comfort engulfing her senses and ignored the sound of her name whispering through her subconscious. She didn't want to surface. The sound persisted, becoming louder with each call and eroding away her resistance until she succumbed to its insistence. Her brain stirred and awoke to the powerful rhythm of heartbeat and familiar touch. She drew a deep breath in and filled her nostrils with the faint combination of aftershave and masculine scent. 

Jason. 

His mellow voice called to her again and her eyes fluttered open. He cradled her in his tender strength. Her lips nestled against his throat and her hand lay flat against his chest, above his heart. She pulled back and tentatively met his gaze. 

"You were crying in your sleep," he said. 

He made no attempt to release his hold on her and she made no effort to break the intimacy. She remembered Tom. How was she going to tell Jake his father was dead? 

"Tom's dead," she said. 

"I know. I'm sorry about Tom, Jessica." 

"Are you? I know Tom came to see you after the reception," she stated quietly. "Why?" 

"You think I killed Tom?" 

The suddenness of his stunned reply and shrewd comprehension of her thoughts caught Jess off guard. She lowered her eyes, avoiding his gaze. Jason caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and compelled her eyes back to his. 

"Answer me," he said. 

Jess searched the shadowed depths of his eyes. "I don't know." 

"I don't ever want you to be afraid of me, Jessica." 

"Should I be?" 

"I may have given you reason to think me capable of a lot of things, but I'm not a murderer. Besides, why would I kill Tom? I've nothing to gain by his death." 

"Tom said I was making a mistake marrying you—" 

"Is that what you think?" 

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "I don't know anything anymore." 

"Don't you?" 

Jess tensed against him more than conscious of the close proximity of their bodies. Heat shot through her, sending a shaft of desire from the sensual tips of her breasts to the taut flesh between her thighs. She lifted her mouth to his, her face only a breath away from his. But he didn't make any move toward her. She frowned. Her invitation had been so clear. Could she have misread his? She swallowed her hurt and humiliation. 

"I'm sorry," she murmured. 

Jason pulled her back to him when she made to leave his arms. His fingers threaded through her hair, drawing her startled gaze back to his. A muscle twitched warningly in his cheek as he wordlessly demanded her attention. 

"Don't do this, Jessica, if you're not ready. I want all of you or nothing," he said. 

She stared at him in silent awe and mute understanding and knew in her heart of hearts here was where she wanted to be. With Tom she'd been aloof and distant. She'd avoided him when he would be intimate and despised him when he'd made love to her. But how could Jason have known that? She shouldn't have married Tom. Her head had ignored the warnings in her heart, and it warned her again. This time it was alerting her to the dangers of falling in love and being vulnerable. 

Something had happened between them in the chapel. Something strong—something transcendental that she'd tried to ignore—that made her want to believe in her vows and in Jason. She touched her fingers to his lips. Because of Tom's untimely arrival at the chapel, she was yet to feel his lips on hers. Her hand slid to the nape of his neck and her fingers clutched the silkiness of his hair. She drew his head down to hers. Her lips parted. He caught her mouth with his own, fusing their breath into one.  

She moaned softly and fisted her hand within the fabric in her grasp. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined being kissed so intensely or intimately or completely. Never in her life had she felt less in control and relished her helplessness. 

His breath infused the very depths of her lungs, unlocking her emotions and freeing her inhibitions. Desire raged through her blood tormenting her tender nipples until they pulsed with painful yearning. She sighed against his mouth and responded intuitively to his lead. 

Her head spun in growing arousal as his tongue met hers in a passionate caress. Each stroke sent her on voyage after voyage of discovery that explored and savored the pure pleasure of his mouth on hers. He murmured her name against her lips, the sound a gentle resonance tingling her spine and melting her bones. 

"More?" he whispered. 

"Yes." 

With obvious restraint he pulled back to look at her. He wanted her. She could see that in his eyes bright in the firelight, but there was something, which forced him to keep a tight rein on his control. Her fingers smoothed the tensed lines between his brows. 

"What is it?" 

"I want you in my bed." 

Jess knew what he asked. She understood the significance behind his words. She eased from his arms and stood in silence, holding her hand out to him, knowing, despite all that had passed between them she wanted this. He took her hand and in silence she led him from the room to the large hall and up the sweeping staircase, each measured step bringing her closer to being his wife in more than name. 

* * * * 

She unfastened the buttons of her white blouse and slipped the garment from her shoulders. It drifted toward the wooden floor, landing with barely a sound. Jason discarded his shirt. She watched him through her lashes, enjoying every moment of her power over him. 

Her hands snaked down her stomach to the top of her jeans. She played with the small button before popping it free. Jason had discarded his in one swift motion. 

She could see the erection his boxers couldn't hide. The possessive glint in his eyes both excited and frightened her, yet she dared challenge his self-control. She stepped beyond his reach when he moved to touch her face. 

She slid her jeans down her legs and kicked them free. She stood before him in her low-cut bra and lacey panties watching his eyes sweep over her, his longing for her evident. 

Jess reveled in this moment, in her femininity and her sexuality—and in her right to call a man as Jason McCormack, hers. Her mouth curved into a slow, conquering smile. 

Jason cast his boxers to one side and stepped toward her. He backed her against the wall—reminiscent of their meeting in the school library—and in one fluid motion he spun her. She braced her hands against the wall. 

He spread his legs and settled her hips between them. Powerful thighs cradled the backs of her own, and between them the hard ridge of his erection nudged her aroused flesh. 

"My turn," he said, his warm breath caressing her cheek. 

He caught her wrists in one hand and lifted her hands high above her head. He pinned her body with his, crushing her breasts against the cold surface. Her nipples instantly hardened in response. His other hand ran down the curve of her hip and up the inner length of her thigh to the sensitive nub straining against the thin wall of lace. His fingers grazed her center and she bucked against him. A deep, rich sound resonated in his chest. She was hot and wet and aching. 

He tugged her panties to one side and slowly circled the knot of flesh where her nerves converged in delirious torment. His fingers stroked her feminine folds, exploring her heated opening and testing her readiness before delving into the snug comfort of her body. Her inner muscles contracted drawing his fingers deeper into her wet heat. She was beyond thinking, beyond reasoning. Her mind and body were slowly becoming overwhelmed by deliciously new sensations. 

Jess swelled some more, erect and painful, moist and delicious against his hand. She made small noises at the back of her throat, keeping time with his rhythm. He inserted another finger and pushed further in. Jess writhed against his hand heightening the fiery feeling spreading upward and caressing her insides. He slid a knee between her thighs and leaned his body harder into hers, subduing her impatience and holding her upright. 

He withdrew his fingers and skimmed a wet trail up her stomach, over her ribs and the swell of her breasts. Unbearable tension stretched her nerves and she whimpered her frustration at being left unfulfilled. 

Jason peeled back her bra and exposed her breasts to the cool air and his practiced touch. He rubbed and pinched the sensitive little buds, sending an upsurge of violent waves through her. His mouth traced the contour of her shoulder, neck and jaw line. 

She found the bright orbs of his eyes as his fingers tangled in the mass of her hair. He leaned toward her and engulfed her mouth in a hungry kiss. She arched her back, shamelessly pressing her breast into his hand. The grip on her wrists loosened and his body softened against hers. 

His hands moved down the length of her back, squeezing her waist before lowering to cup her bottom. He spread her open and eased inside her, stretching her with the hard tip of his penis. She broke free of his mouth to gasp. Jess reached behind her and dug her nails into his well-toned hips, tensing involuntary against him. A small amount of fear had seeped within her hazy mind. Fear of losing herself in her arms. Fear of acknowledging the passionate woman who was so unfamiliar to her. Her heart beat faster. It wasn't just sex he wanted. He wanted her. She'd never given her heart to anyone. She wasn't capable of that level of intimacy, yet she'd already given him more of herself than she'd ever given Tom. 

His arm slid about her waist and he held her close. He took her slowly, inching his length deep inside her. Intense pleasure burgeoned from their joined bodies and she cried his name. He tightened his grip on her, stilling her movements. His body shook with hers, and she could feel him struggle with his desire and his control. 

"Tell me what you want, Jessica?" he murmured against her hair. 

Her muscles cramped strongly about his penis. She could feel him pulse violently within her, still he refused to give her what he must know she craved. She teetered on the verge of release and tears of frustration welled in her eyes. 




Blood of His Fathers Ch. 06-07



"Tell me," he insisted. "Tell me what you want." 

She wanted to experience what she'd not experienced in six long years with Tom. She wanted the big "O", but dare she tell him that? She shook her head. She couldn't say the words. He was asking too much. 

With a low growl Jason pulled from her heated entrance and spun her to face him. He brought his mouth fiercely down against the pulsing vein in her neck. Muscles taut, he wound his fingers through her hair and pulled her head roughly back to expose the vulnerable skin at the base of her throat. His mouth assaulted her again inching lower to her aching breasts. His tongue circled the swell of her nipple. He drew the turgid peak into the heat of his mouth and without warning bit relentlessly into the protuberant flesh. Jess cried out. Pain, both sweet and brutal, shot through her, pooling in the distended flesh pulsing with tormenting heat between her thighs. 

He whispered against her skin. "Tell me what you need, Jessica." 

His mouth relaxed and his lips gently suckled the throbbing tip. She squirmed, grasping the back of neck in silent ecstasy. He lifted her and carried her to the large Japanese-style bed in the center of the room, laying her down on the soft sheets. Her head was on his pillows and her eyes watched him as he slowly moved to cover her body with his own. 

He kissed the soft part of her belly and moved his lips lower to the apex of her thighs. She pushed her hips upward and spread her legs. His firm hands held onto her thighs and the hot moisture of his tongue caressed her with eager insistence through the thin lace. Every precise movement of his mouth sent more hot wetness to this part her that had never felt so alive before. 

His mouth never left her skin as he trailed wet kisses up her body and captured her lips with his. Jess moaned at the sweet, tangy taste of her juices on his tongue. She curled her arms and legs around him, crossing her ankles against his lower back to draw him tighter to her. 

His breathing came hard and harsh as his penis found her opening. 

"Look at me, Jessica." 

She opened her eyes, her lids heavy with desire. Jason lowered his head and nipped at her bottom lip before taking it into his mouth and gently sucking on it. He repeated it with her top lip. Her lips parted and his tongue darted inside for her to taste herself again. He deepened the kiss, his guttural moans intermingling with her soft sob of pleasure. He tasted so good, felt so good. Her hips moved beneath him, rising up to meet his downward thrust. 

With one roll of his hips he penetrated the tight folds of her silky flesh. A wave of ecstasy rippled through her and another and another as he pushed deeper, stretching and filling her with his entirety. Her slick passage gripped him as she found his rhythm. There was no more time to think. She couldn't anyhow. 

She closed her eyes and ground her hips against him. Her breasts tightened with the delirious torment consuming her. He thrust deeper, curving an arm about her waist and holding her against him as he conquered her in a way no man had ever done before. 

He stiffened, muscles tensing, his mouth clamping down on hers as he erupted with barely contained ferocity inside her and pushed them both over the edge. The final fiery current swept through Jess, leaving her powerless in Jason's arms and her body euphoric in its startlingly absolute surrender. 

* * * * 

Jason watched her stir next to him, her skin radiant in the moonlight filtering through the window. If anyone told him a week ago he'd be married, have a son and be totally enamored by his wife he would've laughed. He would've placed a bet on it, in fact, because the chance would've been nil to none. But he'd not counted on meeting Jessica. 

His eyes followed the graceful incline of her thighs to the exposed smooth curve of hip that narrowed fluidly and dipped to a slender and taut waistline. 

The dark blue satin sheet was draped seductively across the flawless flesh of her stomach, and he drew deeply as his gaze swept her partially covered breasts. He wanted her again, to hear her sob with pleasure and feel her tremble against him. To know she wanted him as much as he wanted her. 

He steeled himself against the overwhelming desire to touch her and kiss her parted lips. His father was behind Tom's death. He was tying up loose ends, reminding him he could get to Jessica whenever and wherever he wanted. His marriage to her had indeed prompted the desired effect. It'd forced his father's hand, yet he wasn't wholly prepared for the consequences. And then there was Detective Inspector Drew Mahon's dogged determination to see him behind bars for literally just being his father's son. 

He reached to brush away the silky errant strand covering Jess' face. Her eyes opened directly into his. 

"You're here. I was afraid I'd dreamed this." 

He dipped his head and brushed his lips lightly across hers. "It was no dream. I'm here." 

She touched the frown line between his brows. "What's the matter?" 

His fingers gently skimmed the smooth contour of a partially exposed breast. "There's something I need to tell you, Jessica, about me. About my father." 

"Can't it wait?" 

"No." 

She shook her head, placing her fingers against his lips. "Give me this night, for us. Please." She smiled sadly. "Let me hate you tomorrow if I must." 

"I want you to know it was never my intention to hurt you, Jessica." 

"I know," she whispered. Her eyes shone bright with her tears. "But you're going to do it anyway and destroy us when we've only just begun. I thought tonight meant something to you." 

"It does. You know it does." 

Jess turned from him. "Couldn't you have grown a conscience before we had sex?" 

He gently drew her back to face him. "We didn't have sex. We made love." 

"Is there a difference then?" 

"Yes," he said pushing a knee between hers. "Someday I'll show you the difference." 

He kissed her and pulled her close as he felt her fear and tasted her tears. "I'll move heaven and earth to make it right again between us." 

"And if you can't?" 

"I just want you to give me the chance, Jessica. Promise me." She nodded. "No. Say it. I want to hear you say it." 

"I promise," she said, parting her thighs and welcoming him into the moist warmth of her body with the fierceness of his own possession. 

Chapter Seven 

Drew Mahon took another sip of coffee and turned his thoughts to Hilda, the McCormack's housekeeper. His efforts to engage her in conversation had failed miserably. She'd ignored his subtle attempts to gain information about Jessica McCormack and in the end he'd had to conclude Hilda was either very loyal to her employers or decidedly unaffected by his charm. 

He walked the length of the reception room past the elegant bookcases and portraits of God-knew-who hanging on the walls in between. The door swung open. He spun toward it as Jessica McCormack stepped into the room. 

"Detective Inspector Mahon," she said, extending a hand. "Have you been waiting long?" 

Drew set his mug down on a nearby table and hurried toward her. He returned her smile and took her cold hand in his. 

"Yes," he replied, although without rancor. "But, I was early." 

He held her hand a trifle longer than was necessary. Her smile subsided and her oval eyes rounded in mild surprise. 

"You look rested," he said. "I'm glad. I admit I was a little concerned about you last night." 

"Concerned? Why?" 

"Seeing a dead body is not easy for anyone, Mrs. McCormack, especially if it's someone you know. You were rather distraught." He eyed her candidly. "You've recovered well." 

Jess averted her gaze and pulled her hand free of his. She smoothed her hands down the front of her skirt and moved to sit in a chair near the fire, tugging at the turtleneck sweater she wore. 

"Please, sit down, Detective Inspector," she invited. "Will this take long?" 

"It shouldn't. I just need to clarify a few points, Mrs. McCormack." 

He took a seat opposite hers, fished a small notebook from the pocket of his coat and an even smaller pencil from within its pages. 

Drew had expected Jason to join them. "Isn't your husband at home?" 

"No. He left early this morning for a meeting." 

"A meeting? On a Sunday? Must be important. Do you know who your husband's meeting this morning?" 

Jess clasped her hands tightly on her lap. "No, I don't. But since you're working as 

well, I guess it can't be that much of an anomaly." 

Drew smiled. "Touché, Mrs. McCormack." 

He noticed her curious glance at his note pad and pencil. "Still the cheapest way," he said. "And simple to use." 

"Yes, I guess you have a p-point." 

His eyes captured hers, unwavering and bold. Her cheeks flushed beneath her gaze. "What kind of work do you do, Mrs. McCormack?" 

"Mostly freelance w-work. But I s-studied journalism." 

Last night he hadn't noticed her mild speech impediment. Still, if she lied he would know it. He pursed his lips. The niceties were over. 

"What was the relationship between you and the deceased, Tom Addison?" 

"Tom was my ex-husband." 

Drew looked at her for the longest time. The feeling in his gut that had told him there was more to Tom Addison's death than an apparent robbery homicide suddenly intensified. 

Tom Addison worked for Alexander McCormack That much he knew. But the fact Tom's ex-wife was now married to Alexander's son prickled his instincts even more. It was apparent the woman sitting opposite him had no idea of the kind of family she'd married into. He wouldn't tell her about the McCormacks—at least not yet—but he definitely needed to revise his line of questioning. 

"Why did you go to meet your ex-husband, Mrs. McCormack?" 

"I'd re-married and I thought he deserved to know. For the sake of our son." 

"Didn't you invite him to the wedding?" 

Jess took a deep breath and looked at her hands. "The wedding was rather sudden. Besides, I doubted Tom would've come." 

"Why not?" 

"We were divorced a little more than six months ago. It was amicable enough, but Tom still had a hard time accepting it." 

"And you married again, so quickly?" 

Jess raised her head sharply, although her eyes didn't quite meet his. 

"I fell in love, Detective Inspector. There isn't a designated time frame as far as I'm aware and the last time I checked it wasn't a crime." 

"No, it isn't. But it's a crime to withhold information, Mrs. McCormack." 

"You think I'm withholding information. About what?" 

"Your husband." 

Jess shifted uneasily. "Why on earth would you think that?" 

Drew leaned forward. "I know Jason McCormack. I know the type of man that he is. I don't want to see you get hurt. If there's something you want to tell me about last night, about Tom Addison's death, now is the time." 

"There's nothing I can tell you, Detective Inspector. As I said, I wanted to meet with Tom." 

Drew raised a doubtful brow. "At Marmaduke's?" 

"The choice of venue was Tom's." 

"Why didn't your husband accompany you? Marmaduke's is hardly the kind of place for a woman to venture to alone." 

"I—he—Jason didn't know I was meeting Tom." 

"Are you quite sure about that, Mrs. McCormack? Your husband is a dangerous man, but I suspect you already know that. Your ex-husband is dead, and I think you know who killed him." 

"That's a lot of supposition, Detective Inspector, but I know Jason. He has nothing to do with Tom's death. He wouldn't—" 

"Search deep down in your heart and tell me I'm wrong." When she hesitated, Drew continued. "I'm not an alarmist, but I believe in knowing all the facts." 

"The facts about what?" Jess queried faintly. 

"The family you chose to marry into." 

"And you think I don't have all the facts?" 

Drew didn't like coincidences and to find Tom Addison was once married to the woman before him niggled at him, especially since she was married to a man whose father was being investigated for Sean Wright's murder. There was a connection here, somewhere. But would he find it? 

"I know you don't, Mrs. McCormack. Fact one—Your father is Alexander McCormack. He wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who stands in his way, but he's clever enough to never get his own hands dirty. Your own death will come as a surprise because up until the very last moment your killer is your best friend or your lover with whom you feel safe enough to trust with your life, or perhaps that of your son?" 

Jess jumped to her feet, her eyes shining with anger. "Stop it! Why are you telling me this?" 

Drew slowly stood. He'd wanted to frighten her—frighten her into leaving this house. Jessica McCormack was a very beautiful woman and if he was learning anything about Alexander McCormack it was fact two that bothered him most. Alexander McCormack would never see past the color of her skin to accept her in any which way. So, why in hell would she go and marry his son? 

Drew lowered his eyes to Jess. "We already know Alexander McCormack was involved in the death of a former associate. His name was Sean Wright. He came to see Jason February twenty-first. That was four days after he'd been arrested, questioned and released. Three days later, Mrs. McCormack, he's found dead." 

Drew stepped closer and inhaled the fresh scent of wild berries that surrounded her. He couldn't allow anyone this innocent to be corrupted by Jason McCormack. 

"There's not much time, Mrs. McCormack. Do you think a man like Jason has a choice in how he lives?" 

"I resent your implication, Detective Inspector. Jason—" 

"Is nothing if not his father's son," Drew replied dryly. "You wouldn't be the first woman to die at the hands of a man she was sure loved her." 

"I won't listen to anymore of this. Hilda will show you out." 

"Are you so in love, Mrs. McCormack, that you can't see the danger you're in, can't see the danger you've put your son in?" 

Her eyes glittered with latent anger. "Good day, Detective Inspector!" 

Jess stalked to the window overlooking the landscaped garden. Drew quickly jotted down his telephone number. He grabbed her unwilling hand and put the piece of paper in it. 

"Call me," he said. His eyes were insistent and his voice held a warning. "I know you don't want to hear it, but your husband is not the man you think he is, Mrs. McCormack. Trust me." 

She tugged her hand free and he followed her escaping steps to the door. She ignored him and half-walked, half ran across the expansive foyer and then up the sweeping stairs. Drew waited a few moments until he heard a door slam shut. 

He was a jerk, but it'd been his intention to plant a seed of doubt in her head, to unsettle her and force her to think. To force her to leave Jason McCormack before it was too late. He slammed a fist against the doorjamb. The simple, routine intelligence report on Alexander McCormack was proving to be anything but routine and far from simple. 

* * * * 

A wave of guilt swept through Jess. She'd awoke this morning with thoughts of Jason on her mind. It should've been thoughts of Tom keeping her awake last night and consuming her now. She'd lied to Detective Inspector Mahon and withheld information about her ex-husband. Tom had come to Madeley, had spoken to Jason—and now he was dead. Did Jason kill Tom? Was the son as the father? She didn't know, but wittingly or not Detective Inspector Mahon was forcing her to find out. 

She'd been a fool. She'd dared reach out to take what she wanted and now it was being ripped from her fingers. What happened between them had happened because she wanted it to. She couldn't blame anyone else for her naivety. 

She touched hesitant fingers to her turtleneck sweater pulled high under her chin. Jason had been willing to confide in her, only, she hadn't wanted to listen. He'd marked her—claimed her as his—as she had claimed him. She'd lain in his arms, trusting him and begging him when the time was right to make her understand, to make her listen. He'd turned her emotions inside out and stripped her bare. How could she, responsible, careful Jess, have let this happened? 

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! 

She abruptly stood from her Queen Anne bed and stalked angrily to the window allowing her an uninterrupted view of the vast snow-covered countryside. She couldn't close her eyes to Tom's death. It'd been too coincidental and too convenient. What had Jason said? There is no me and Tom. Tom had tried to warn her about Jason and now Detective Inspector Mahon was doing the same thing. 

Your husband is not the man you think he is...I just believe in knowing all the facts. 

This time she would listen. 

Jess drew in a tight breath. She would like nothing more than to believe what she and Jason shared last night had been real. But from the moment they'd met he'd blindsided her emotions. Whatever she'd felt or assumed last night was her problem. 

And yet Jason hadn't lied about everything. He hadn't lied about Sean and he hadn't lied about John Thomas. But he'd been limited with the truth nonetheless, and that worried her. Detective Inspector Mahon had succeeded in prickling her journalistic instincts about her husband. 

Are you so in love, Mrs. McCormack, that you can't see the danger you're in, can't see the danger you've put your son in? 

Jess looked down into the garden as the sound of Jake's laughter floated up to her window. She smiled at the sight of his pink flushed cheeks. The only part of him visible from beneath the coat, gloves, hat and scarf he wore. Her mother came into view, throwing a small snowball. It missed its squealing target and she ran, laughingly, after Jake. Jess' smile faded. She wished she could join them, but— 

She looked down at her watch. The taxi would be arriving soon. 

She calmed her nerves as she turned to collect her travel bag and headed down the back stairs to the kitchen. She opened the kitchen door and strolled across the garden to her mother who was now lying in the snow making snow angels with Jake. 

"I'm going on an assignment, Mum," she said. 

Her mother stopped moving her arms and gazed up at Jess. "Now?" 

Jess lied. "There's a new art gallery opening in Paris and I'm going to check it out. It's a new article I'm working on, you know, for one of my magazines." 

Her mother scrambled to her feet, as did Jake. 

"An assignment? But Jess you only got married two days ago. What about your honeymoon? Does Jason know you're leaving?" 

Jess shrugged. "He'll understand." 

"Will he? It's not like you need the money." 

"Everything you see belongs to Jason, Mum. Not me." 

"But you're his wife." 

Jess gave a wry laugh. "Trust me. That piece of paper doesn't change a single thing between us." 

"I can't believe—" 

A car horn tooted loudly on the far side of the house, cutting off her mother's objection. 

"That's the taxi. I have to go." 

Jess bent down to Jake and pulled him into a fierce hug. "I'm sorry I can't take you to school tomorrow, but you'll be safe with Nana, okay?" 

Her son nodded. "And Jason." 

Jess smiled faintly. "Yes—and Jason. I need you to be good for me," she said. "And do what Nana says. I love you, Jake." 

"I love you, Mum." 

She whispered in his ear and planted a small kiss on his cheek. "I'll be back as soon as I can for you both." 

Jess stood and wiped the tear trailing down her cheek. If she could believe anything Jason said it would be that the McCormacks depended on anonymity. That was what she counted on to keep Jake and her mother safe until she found the leverage to negotiate her life back. She raced from the garden back to the kitchen, grabbed her travel bag and rushed out the front door to the waiting taxi knowing she'd probably made herself a moving target. 




Blood of His Fathers Ch. 06-07



* * * * 

The number of right-wing British National Party members standing for election this year was as unprecedented as their electoral support. There was still two months before the General Election and there was already speculation of a huge political upset—an unparalleled victory for the BNP not seen since its inception. 

Alexander McCormack clenched his fist. He'd counted on the frustrations, prejudices and gullibility of the majority of the white working-class electorate to achieve his goal. Propaganda and well-publicized racial incidences had done the rest. 

In the years since the last General Election he'd spent increasing the racial tension in major left-wing constituencies. The intimidation had been subtle at first, becoming increasingly more violent. He'd brought in gangs of youths from outside London to disrupt and disturb any tenuous peace that may have existed between ethnic minorities and their white neighbors. The victims had been carefully chosen too—white, elderly, working-class. Many had been assaulted and robbed. One or two had been stabbed, but the press coverage... 

Alexander laughed inwardly. He couldn't have planned the publicity better if he'd tried. And the beauty of it all was the victims had been intimidated enough or bribed to swear their attackers had been black or Asian. This had provoked a predictable response from the white communities, which had lead to an overwhelming increase of support for his right-wing Party. 

The political climate in England was such that the tide was finally turning in his favor. 

Sean's curiosity, however, had jeopardized his carefully laid plans. But Sean's curiosity had also cost Sean his life and a similar fate awaited Jason if he dared interfere. Alexander glared at his son. He, and the Cartel, had invested large sums of money for this moment. Omnipotent power across Europe was at stake and he wasn't about to let Jason's filthy whore undo all that had been achieved in these last twenty years. 

"Did you honestly think you could use Jessica Thomas to get to me and I wouldn't find out?" he said. "I know why you married her, Jason. I'm not a fool, but your plan will never work without her co-operation and to have her co-operation you'll have to tell her the truth. Can you do that, Jason? Can you tell your wife the truth? Can you tell her who and what you are?" 

Alexander relaxed his stance. "We are very much alike, you and I," he attested slowly. 

"I'm nothing like you," Jason shot back. 

Alexander was unperturbed by his son's vehemence. There'd never been much love between them and even less since his mother died. 

"Yes, you are. Jessica Thomas is, and always has been, a pawn in my game. But now she's become a pawn in yours." He continued smoothly. "We both know a pawn is expendable—or did you, in your arrogant assumption, truly think to be able to use her and protect her?" 

He indicated the two men on either side of him. Silent, proficient men who'd killed and would kill again should he order them to do so. Their guns were aimed as steadfast and sure at his son's chest as Jason's gun was aimed at his. 

They'd agreed to meet early that morning at the abandoned motorway service station. There'd be no witnesses if things got ugly. 

"I've come too far to be stopped by the likes of her, Jason. I'm warning you. Don't get in my way." 

"Or what?" Jason queried. He raised a scathing brow. "You'll kill me too?" 

Alexander pressed his lips into a thin line. That damned black bitch! She'd turned his son against him. But Jason had made his choice. So be it. 

"You never did understand the significance, did you?" Alexander retorted. "Neither you nor my father. The property at High Rock is McCormack land and any McCormack worth his salt would be proud to say it. But you were never my son, were you, Jason, as my father was never his father's son? You were always your mother's little boy," he spat. "And like my father, you're weak. I despised Sean Wright for who he was, but I respected him for being what you could never be. Strong. Sean knew about blood and honor—" 

"Sean was expendable. Only he didn't realize it until it was too late." 

"Neither you nor your grandfather appreciated what it meant to be born a McCormack. But as long as I live the McCormack fortune will never again belong to a Thomas, never again to descendants of slaves. Do you understand?" 

"Jessica is my wife," Jason elaborated slowly. "A McCormack." 

Alexander glared at his son warningly. "Are you so naïve to think that makes one bit of difference to me? At some point an opportunity will arise that will lend itself to the occasion, and you, Jason, won't be able to save your precious little wife." 

"Then, you'd better pray to God you do kill me first," Jason said. 

Alexander stared at his son, and then motioned to the two men beside him to lower their weapons. 

"So be it, Jason," he said.



Blood of His Fathers Ch. 08-09



Chapter Eight 

Nassau, New Providence Wednesday, March 10 

Jess sat by the window of the small air-conditioned café shielded from the glare of the midday sun as she watched the world go by. Some on foot, some in cars and some in horse-drawn surreys. An endless stream of tourists from the cruise ships past her window, wandering in and out the upscale duty-free shops and high-end department stores amid the clamor of traffic and local vendors. It was busy and colorful and noisy. 

She ran her fingers through the short-haired wig she wore and looked down at her watch. She'd agreed to meet Mr. Boone at one o'clock and it was already nearing half past. 

Two days earlier she'd stepped off the plane, walked into Mr. Boone's office and hired him to find John Thomas. She'd no idea whether or not the man was a good private investigator—or even if John Thomas was alive—but his was the first name she'd come across in the telephone directory. 

The waiting had been long and frustrating, but this morning Mr. Boone had finally returned her telephone calls. He'd been convinced he'd found a lead. A lead, he'd said. Not John Thomas, but a lead. Jess sighed. Something was better than nothing.  

The bell above the café door chimed and she turned to see Mr. Boone enter. She removed her sunglasses making herself noticeable, and consciously fingered the thin scarf wrapped about her neck concealing Jason's love-bites. 

Mr. Boone exchanged a few words with the bartender before continuing toward her table. He was a thin man, so he slid effortlessly into the cramped space opposite her. 

"You didn't give me much to go on," he said with little preamble. "Luckily, Andros is a small island and you can always find someone who knows someone else's business, for a price of course. The Thomas estate at High Rock has been deserted for more than twenty years. It's old and dilapidated, but the surrounding property must be worth a penny or two. It's strange no one's laid claim to it in all these years. Anyway, I found an old lady who told me about the family who'd once lived there—" 

Mr. Boone interrupted his discourse as the bartender approached carrying a tray with a tall, cool glass of something perched on it. He set the beverage on the table in front of Mr. Boone and reached for Jess' empty glass. She declined the barman's inquiry for a refill. He sauntered back to his bar and Mr. Boone took a long, slow drink. Jess clasped her hands tightly together in an attempt to conceal her impatience. 

Mr. Boone, seemingly satiated, set the glass down between them and focused once more on Jess. 

"The house belonged to Elizabeth Roberts," he said as if there'd been no interruption in his narrative. "Although she'd become a Thomas through her first marriage to Paul Thomas. She lived there until her death twenty years ago. There were two children, a son, John Thomas, and a stepdaughter, Carolyn Roberts. Her husband's daughter from a previous marriage. 

After Elizabeth died the stepdaughter moved from Andros to Lyford Cay. It's a private residential enclave located on the western tip of New Providence. Here's her telephone number and address. And directions should you need them." 

He pushed a folded piece of paper across the table toward Jess. 

"I couldn't find out anything about John Thomas. The old lady doesn't remember him being around all that much. She did say she saw him for the last time some thirty years ago. He'd brought a woman with him who was heavily pregnant at the time. Her name was Norma, but other than that the old lady couldn't tell me much more." 

Jess looked down at the address in her hand. At least she had a place to start. She reached for her bag and took out a thick, padded envelope. 

"Fifteen hundred dollars, wasn't it?" she said. 

Mr. Boone nodded and accepted the package. He didn't count it. 

Jess put on her sunglasses and stood abruptly. "Thank you, Mr. Boone." 

"Wait." 

His footsteps pursued her into the warm sunshine. 

"There's more about the child. Don't you want to know about John Thomas' child?" 

"There's no need, Mr. Boone," Jess said. "I already know all there is to know about Jessica Thomas." 

She returned to her room at the Hotel Baja Mar and gazed out the window overlooking Nassau Harbor. She clasped her hands tightly to her stomach and took deep breaths. She'd had two whole days to prepare for a confrontation with John Thomas, but she'd not considered a need to meet the woman whose selfish act twenty years earlier had brought her to this point. 

After an hour wrestling with her thoughts, Jess dialed the number Mr. Boone had given her. The voice on the other end of the line sounded cautious and then more than a little irritated after she introduced herself. The suggestion that they meet to discuss the Thomas estate was curtly brushed aside as was Jess' invitation for Carolyn to accompany her to the property the following morning. 

"And if you've any sense you won't go back there either," Carolyn snapped. 

"Please, don't hang up! I didn't come to cause any trouble or apportion blame or anything like that. I just need to ask you about the deed. Things have happened...People have died. Carolyn?" 

"Who?" 

The question was barely above a whisper that Jess almost didn't hear it. 

"My father...stepfather," she corrected. "My brother. My ex-husband. I need your help. Please." 

Jess fought back her tears and listened with bated breath to the faint breathing on the other end of the line. "Please, Carolyn. I'm taking the seven-thirty flight to Andros tomorrow morning. I hope you'll change your mi—" 

The line went dead. 

Jess lowered the phone from her ear and looked wistfully down at it. What had she gotten herself into? 

* * * * 

Carolyn paced the light and airy room of her beachfront home. She wrung her hands and bit down hard upon her lip. She'd sold the title deed to the Thomas estate a lifetime ago, and if Alexander McCormack had any sense he would've destroyed the two hundred year old document that gave a slave control of the old plantation. 

As long as she could remember there'd been talk of a Thomas-McCormack feud that extended as far back as the eighteenth century. The McCormacks had long been incensed that they'd lost the estate through the folly and misplaced sense of honor of an ancestor. They'd been trying to reclaim the estate ever since with little success. 

But the days of the land as a thriving sisal plantation had been long gone. Demand for rope waned with the demise of sailing ships, and the estate floundered. There'd been little investment and interest for new crops and all that was left had been unproductive and decayed. Carolyn released a heavy sigh. 

She'd been subjected to abject poverty for most of her young adult life when all her stepmother had to do was listen to her father. Her father had vociferously advocated selling the property back to the McCormacks, but Elizabeth had been equally vocal in her refusal to do so. 

There'd never been a day that they hadn't fought about the land. Even the terrible night Elizabeth killed Henry Roberts had been preceded by an argument about selling the impoverished estate. Elizabeth had been a Thomas purely by virtue of marriage, and yet she'd killed her husband just to hold on to a piece of worthless Thomas land. 

Carolyn stopped pacing and turned to stare out the large window commanding breathtaking ocean views. Still, her father's death had turned out to be a blessing in disguise, and one that had made her a great deal of money. 

After Elizabeth had been sentenced for her husband's murder she'd become ill and returned home to die. Carolyn had looked after her stepmother for five years before Elizabeth's feverish mumblings drew her attention to the floorboards in the bedroom and the old tin concealed beneath them. In the tin she'd found a leather pouch. And in the pouch the original title deed written by George McCormack almost two hundred years earlier bequeathing the plantation at High Rock to a slave named Ben Thomas. 

She'd known exactly what to do then. She wasn't a Thomas and she'd owed none of them any loyalty. They'd owed her. She'd contacted Alexander McCormack and offered him the chance to reclaim his heritage. 

Carolyn shuddered as she remembered their first meeting. 

Alexander had been in his fifties, handsome and exuding an air of power only reserved for those with a great deal of money and friends in all the right places. However, his barely concealed desire for the old estate had outweighed any obvious contempt for her. But, even then, Carolyn had been shrewd enough to know people like her meant nothing in his world. 

She'd had something he wanted which had made her an invaluable asset. She'd not spoken to Alexander McCormack since, but with Jessica snooping around and asking questions it would only be a matter of time before he discovered her mistake. 

Alexander had drawn up papers denoting a legal transition of the Thomas property from John Thomas to himself. Carolyn had been familiar enough with John's signature and forging it hadn't been a problem. By the time Elizabeth was dead and buried the transaction had been completed. Her stepbrother had unwittingly agreed to a sale he knew nothing about and she'd become a wealthy woman. 

Jess must have been ten years old when her grandmother died. But no one, aside from John, knew Elizabeth had relinquished his legal ownership of the High Rock estate and placed it in her granddaughter's hands. Only Jess could sign away her right to the estate. And because no one had known Elizabeth's wishes, Carolyn had made that grave mistake. The one, it seemed with Jess' return to the islands, had come back to bite her on the backside. The papers she'd signed in John's stead twenty years earlier were pretty well null and void, regardless of the fact that Alexander McCormack possessed the original eighteenth century indenture. 

If Jessica was asking questions about the deed, that could only mean she was aware of the deception. Carolyn nervously turned the ring she wore about her finger. Her niece wasn't just putting her own life in danger, but hers as well. 

* * * * 

The flight from London to Lynden Pindling International Airport arrived mid-morning 

and on time. Detective Inspector Drew Mahon alighted and join the long line of passengers making their way from the plane to the immigration booth. 

The queue had snaked outside and around the terminal, but had been processed quickly enough. Drew was just grateful to be finally heading out the main doors. He'd already lost precious time. He hurried to the nearest taxi and slid into the back seat. 

"The El Greco," he said. 

He relaxed against the leather seat, grateful for the air-conditioning, and rubbed a hand down his face. He stifled a yawn. It'd taken him two days to get this far. 

He'd returned a day later to speak to Jess and make sure she was all right. He'd wanted to offer his apologies for upsetting her, but he'd only encountered the housekeeper, Hilda, at the house. She'd been clearly worried about something because, unlike the first time, she'd readily engaged him in conversation. 

Jason, Drew quickly learned from Hilda, had driven to London the night before to board his private plane. 

"He came home," Hilda had said, "found Mrs. McCormack had gone to Paris and left again." 

Hilda paused and pursed her lips. She'd known Jason for more than ten years, and yet it'd been the first time she'd seen him so agitated. And, she added, if Mrs. McCormack had gone to Paris, why did she overhear her make reservations for a flight to the Bahamas? 

Drew frowned. Why, indeed? 

He turned to look out the taxi window, taking in the mosaic of swaying palms, flowing traffic and large cruise ships dotting the sea view. 

He'd asked Colin to check the information Hilda had given him. Jason's plane had taken off for the Bahamas in the early hours of Monday morning. Drew had been booked on an overnight flight. 

He released a long breath. 

There was nothing wrong with a husband going after his wife, but Jess had lied about going to Paris. And it troubled him, too, that Jess had lied about her ex-husband. That she'd fled Madeley only hours after he'd questioned her. And yet Jess had left her son behind. She'd trusted Jason with her son's life, but not her own? 

Could it be his reservations about Jason McCormack hadn't fallen on deaf ears after all? But had he pushed Jess too hard? Had he pressured her like he had Sean Wright? 

Drew breathed deeply in. If anything happened to Jessica McCormack he'd be the one to blame. He had to know she was all right, although he'd no reason to suspect Jess had run off to anywhere until Hilda mentioned Tom's unexpected appearance at the McCormack's private chapel and the nature of his jealous outburst during the wedding ceremony. 

The driver interrupted Drew's thoughts. "The El Greco," he said. 

The taxi had stopped outside a brightly colored boutique hotel set back from the main road. Drew paid the driver and hopped out the car casting a swift glance toward the beach on the other side of the street. The sooner he checked in, the sooner he could start his search for Jessica McCormack. Jason had a day's head start, but Drew hoped he found her before her husband did. It was still early, and being a policeman had its advantages. 

* * * * 

Jess had asked reception for an early morning wake up call, but she hadn't needed it. Laying on her back, as she had most of the night, she stared at the darkened ceiling, pondering Carolyn's words. 

"And if you've any sense you won't go back there either." 

Why would Carolyn tell her not to return to a place she'd never been to before? She relaxed her jaw and sighed for the umpteenth time. It hadn't only been thoughts of her step aunt that kept her awake. She turned to her side and glanced at the clock on the side table. The bright green numbers glowed at her. Five thirty. 

It'd been cowardly to leave Jason without an explanation. 

No! 

She shook her head against the pillow and dispelled the doubt settling over her. She gazed at her left hand. She still wore his ring. Their night together had meant everything to her. And she'd thought it meant something to him too. 

"I want you to know it was never my intention to hurt you, Jessica." 

"I know, but you're going to do it anyway and destroy us when we've only just begun. I thought tonight meant something to you." 

"It does. You know it does." 

She angrily swiped at the tears tracking down her face. Her feelings no longer mattered. The McCormacks had achieved their goal without soiling their grubby little hands. Jason had played her well. He'd known her heart even before she'd recognized the depth of her feelings for him. 

She'd believed him when he told her he'd protect her from his father, only she hadn't realized she'd need protection from him too. She rose from the bed and headed for the shower. She would get over him. She had to. 

Forty-five minutes later, dressed in jeans, T-shirt and cardigan, and wearing her wig, Jess entered Terminal A at the Lynden Pindling International Airport. There were few personnel milling about in the early hours, but she found the check-in desk with relative ease, passed through the security area without problem, and then took a seat in the departure lounge among the passengers waiting to depart and those transferring from one flight to another. She released a silent breath and prepared herself for the long wait. 

She rummaged in her bag for her sunglasses. If she could just close her eyes and relax then maybe she could stave off the migraine she felt— 

Sudden awareness stilled her searching fingers and caused her to glance upward at the doorway. Her eyes widened and she gasped softly. She gripped the strap of her bag with slightly more force than necessary, and tried to still her trembling body. 

Jason! 

Of course he would've guessed where she was going. Her eyes scanned his face as his searched the area for...her. She raised a hand to her throat and fingered the fading marks. 

He looked tired as if he'd not slept for a few days. Was that her doing? She shouldn't care, but she did. He hadn't shaved and his hair was a mess. Her heart fisted in her chest. Part of her wanted to go to him and smooth the tension from his brow—to hear his side of the story—but how could she be certain he wouldn't lie to her again? Or try to manipulate her as he'd done before. He'd given her just enough information to make her question her mother, Sean, herself. He'd even used her fear, and her love, for her son against her to drive her into his arms. 

Jason's gaze swung in her general direction. She resembled her passport photo a great deal more with short hair, but she still ducked her head behind a woman with small children and pretended to search through her bag. After a few moments she risked another glance at the door. He was gone. She retrieved her sunglasses and put them on, hiding her tears and easing the pain behind her eyes. One day she hoped her heart would stop aching too. 

* * * * 

The chartered flight took a little over twenty minutes to reach South Andros Island. The view had been breathtaking. Jess had never in her life seen a sea more blue or sands more white. Or had such an incredible desire to submerge herself in both. 

The plane rolled to a halt and she disembarked with her fellow passengers onto the rudimentary asphalt. Even here there was no respite from the intensity of the early morning temperatures. It was already as warm as a midsummer's afternoon in England. She briefly wondered which was better, the musty but air-conditioned thirty-three-seater craft behind her or the ferocity of an intolerable heat that stifled her body and clogged her pores. 

She followed the rest of the passengers across the tarmac to the single story building at the far side of the runway. Jess smiled wryly at the painted black and white sign perched on the red-tiled roof that welcomed each visitor to Congo Town International Airport. She glanced around at the simple airstrip and the cluster of small aircraft gathered in a parking area. International wasn't the word that sprang immediately to mind. 

Theirs had been the only incoming flight to the Island that morning so the few passengers passed through customs with relative ease. Within minutes she stood outside the terminal in the sweltering heat in the hope of securing a taxi with air-conditioning. 

She watched as passenger after passenger climbed into hired taxis, displaying names of resorts, hotels and lodges, and drive away. At the end of the mad scramble there'd only been one taxi remaining. An old man with bowed-legs moved toward her. 

"Do you have a reservation, Miss? Which resort?" 

Jess shook her head. "No." 

"Where do you need to go?" 

"High Rock," she said. 

"You mean Driggs Hill," the man dismissed. "You'll be wanting the Emerald Palms Resort. I know for a fact it's not fully booked yet. My wife does the laundry for the hotel." 

Jess bristled at the man's presumption. Everyone kept telling her what to do, what to believe—who to trust. She took a deep breath and forced a polite smile on her lips. 

"No, I mean High Rock." 

The old man's obliging smile seemed to lose some of its radiance and he looked at her in undisguised surprise. 

"Tourists who come here seldom go off on their own. There's nothing at High Rock except deserted beaches, pine forests and mangroves." 

"Well, I'm not a tourist," Jess answered quietly. 




Blood of His Fathers Ch. 08-09



The old man peered closer at her. "No, I guess not," he said. "But you're not from the Island either." 

She gave him a non-committal smile. "I just want to see the old Thomas property." 

The old man narrowed his gaze. "There aren't many people outside the Island who know about the old Thomas estate. Are you planning on buying it?" 

"No. I'm looking for information." She stiffened her spine and lied. "I'm writing an article on lesser-known plantation houses throughout the Caribbean. My research led me to believe the Thomas property could be one." 

"So, you think the Thomases of old were plantation owners." 

Jess shook her head. "The land used to belong to the McCormacks. It was later passed down to the Thomases." 

The taxi driver chuckled. "That sounds like an interesting story you've got there. Do you have a boat? You're going to need one to get to the Thomas place. It's only accessible from the sea." 

She really hadn't thought this whole journey through. "Is there somewhere I can rent a boat and a guide for a few hours?" 

"Well..." The old man pursed his lips and rubbed his jaw with his finger. "Driggs Hill isn't too far from here. I know someone there with a boat who might be willing to help and take you to the old house. We can give him a try if you like." 

Jess relaxed and her smile broadened. "Thank you, Mr..." 

"Lloyd. Marcus Lloyd." 

She extended her hand to clasp his. "That would be great, Mr. Lloyd." 

During the short journey to Driggs Hill the old man talked about the secluded house on the peninsula hidden from prying eyes. There was hardly a soul on South Andros Island who hadn't heard of the sprawling property on the southeastern tip of the island, he'd said. But no one ever thought of the Thomas house as a plantation house since it'd never been referred to as such. 

Since the death of the old woman who'd lived there no one had dared set foot on the property. It was practically in ruins now, he said. Even the local children, tempted to trespass, were warded off with tales of witches, ghouls and lost souls waiting to pounce should they cross the huge boulders marking the edge of the densely forested estate. 

They turned off the beach-hugging road onto a piece of bumpy track that meandered through coconut groves and alongside channels and lagoons. Jess gazed at the handful of stone settlements dotted here and there over the untamed landscape—untouched by developers and unspoiled by tourists. Marcus stopped the car in front of one of the small dwellings. 

"Welcome to Driggs Hill," he said. "If you've a mind to wander, the South Bight is just beyond those trees. I won't be long." He left the car. 

Jess watched him walked up to the front of the house and knock on the door. Within moments it was pulled open and the old man stepped inside. She sighed tilting her head against the leather headrest. Just one more day—two at the most—then she would return to England, back to her son, and put a stop to this nightmare. 

A tap on the window made her jump. She turned her head to a young boy staring at her through the window. She smiled at the boy's toothless grin, opened the car door and stepped out into the heavy warmth. Somewhere in the distance a chicken squawked loudly above the cacophony of birds and other wildlife calling through the trees. 

"Hello," she said. "What's your name?" 

"Sam," the boy said. "What's your name?" 

Jess studied the bright eyes, the small eager face and cheeky grin that reminded her so much of Jake. Her chest tightened and she swallowed the small lump rising in her throat. She missed her son. 

"Jess," she answered. 

"Do you want to go with me to the beach?" the boy asked. "I know a shortcut." 

She glanced at the house and then at Sam. Perhaps the air would be a little cooler by the water. She nodded and followed the energetic child through the trees. And emerged onto a secluded stretch of white beach. 

Despite wearing sunglasses Jess raised a hand to her eyes, shielding them from the harsh glare of the sun reflecting off the sand. She'd not prepared for this trip in any way, shape or form, but she knew South Andros was separated from the north by three tidal creeks. The North, Middle and South Bights. She moved closer to the water's edge, keeping a firm grip on Sam's hand. 

"Daddy!" 

She spun about at Sam's excited cry. He tugged his hand free of her grasp and ran across the sand toward a tall man striding in her direction. Marcus trudged beside him. The little boy whooped with laughter as his father swept him up into his arms. A pang of regret clenched Jess' heart. The man continued toward her clasping Sam close to his chest. 

She'd robbed Jake of moments such as these, and of a father who'd loved him. Tom had been good with Jake despite the troubles between them. She'd acted selfishly, taken her son away from his father and given him uncertainty in return. But she had to believe Jason saw no use in harming her son. Besides, she'd taken a leaf out of his father's book, hiding her son in plain sight. 

"Marcus tells me you want to go to the old Thomas place," Sam's father said as he drew near. He held his hand out for her to shake. "Antonio." 

Jess gathered her thoughts and shook his hand. "Jess," she said introducing herself. "I hope it isn't an inconvenience." 

Antonio kept hold of her hand. "Not at all." 

She pulled back, taking her hand with her. 

"Antonio's a bonefishing guide," Marcus interjected. "Today is his day off." 

Jess groaned apologetically and looked at Sam. "I'm sorry. I'm taking you away from your son." 

"It's no problem. If we don't spend all day at High Rock then I've still got time to spend with this little guy." 

She glanced at her watch. It was almost nine o'clock. With any luck she would be back in time for lunch before she needed to check-in for her three o'clock flight back to the mainland. And then back to England. Back home to her son. 

"How far is it to High Rock from here?" 

Antonio pursed his lips. "Fifteen. Twenty minutes." 

"You can leave me there. I have my cell phone. I can call you when I'm ready to return." 

"Are you sure?" 

Jess smiled at Sam. "Of course. I also have a son. I would spend all my time with him if I could." 

"It's lonely out there with only terns and whistling tree ducks for company," Marcus cautioned. "Maybe a chickcharnie or two." 

"Chickcharnie?" 

Antonio chuckled and shook his head at the old man. "That's just some old Bahamian folklore. Jamaica has Bosee Anansee and Ireland has its leprechauns. We have the chickcharnie," he explained. "Small birdlike creatures with three fingers, three toes and piercing red eyes that inhabit the pine forests," he said. 

"Who's to say something doesn't exist because it has never been seen?" Marcus said. He looked at Jess. "They can bring you good luck, if you happen to see one." 

Jess laughed off the superstitious nonsense. She was determined not to be spooked. Besides, she'd been responsible for her own luck lately. Good and bad. 

"I'll be fine. Really. What can go wrong?" 

* * * * 

Drew Mahon's charter flight to South Andros Island touched down at Little Harbor in Mangrove Cay. He'd barely missed the seven-thirty flight to Congo Town with Jess on board and waited an hour for the next available flight to Andros. He'd lost more precious time. 

The Nassau police had extended him every courtesy and use of their resources to find Jessica McCormack. They'd eventually tracked her to the Baja Mar Hotel in the center of town. But he'd arrived at the hotel to find she'd requested an early wake up call and had already taken a taxi to the Lynden Pindling International Airport. There'd only been one domestic flight that morning to Andros. 

Drew stepped from the plane onto the tarmac. He'd been told Congo Town was fifteen minutes by boat. He looked about him. First things were first. He needed to clear customs. 

* * * * 

Antonio's eighteen-foot fiberglass flats boat skimmed over the water. It was roomy, comfortable and fast. Jess stared across the catamaran-like hull onto the sunlit aquamarine sea. She clasped her fingers even tighter about the small handrail and glanced at Antonio sitting behind her at the wheel. He looked capable enough. His boat was equipped for every eventuality, but she'd never felt comfortable on the water. Ever since she was a child she'd had disturbing premonitions about dying in or near water. Often it was the rain that filled her with a paralyzing dread, but sometimes, like now, it was the sea. 

Antonio flashed her a reassuring smile and gave a slight nod of his head as if he'd read her angst. He lifted a hand and pointed a finger into the distance. Jess turned her gaze back onto the open water where pale blue met deep blue. 

"Do you see where the water suddenly darkens?" he shouted above the acoustic sound of the outboard motor. 

"Yes," she shouted back. 

"That's the other side of the Andros Barrier Reef. The ocean side. There's a vertical drop down to a depth of more than six thousand feet to what's known as the Tongue of the Ocean. It runs the entire length of the island," Antonio added. "We're still very close to the shore so there's nothing to worry about. Okay? We're almost there." 

The skiff rounded the tiny isthmus protruding into the water and Jess was hit with the strangest feeling of déjà vu. She removed her sunglasses and peered at the sprawling acres of dense pine forest bordering the white sandy beach as familiarity tugged at her senses. Antonio maneuvered the craft to the simple wooden dock jutting from the mangrove studded shore. Her mind scrambled for clues. 

The engine stilled and the boat lapped against the pier. 

"Are you sure you don't want me to come ashore with you?" Antonio asked. 

She licked her lips and swallowed thickly, shrugging off the intense feeling of return tightening her stomach and swelling her heart. 

"Yes," she murmured in awe of the immense beauty and sense of calm surrounding her. "I'll be fine." 

"The house is—" 

"I know. There's a path leading through the trees." 

Jess gasped softly. How could she possibly have known that? She glanced at Antonio, her eyes wide in surprise. "I don't know how I knew that," she said. She turned her gaze back toward the beach. "It's odd, but it's like I know this place." 

"Perhaps you've visited the plantation before, when you were a child. You were born in the Islands, right?" 

"In Nassau." She frowned. "Then, why wouldn't I remember coming here?" 

"It was a long time ago," Antonio said. "Childhood memories fade." 

"I suppose," Jess said, although she wasn't wholly convinced. 

She stepped from the boat onto the dock. 

"I don't think you should go up to the old house alone," Antonio said. 

"Why?" 

"You don't know what you'll find. Perhaps a chickcharnie." 

She laughed at that. "Maybe, but I'm not easily spooked. Besides, I'll work a lot quicker if I'm on my own. No offense." 

Antonio feigned indignation. "I can take a hint. You have my number?" 

Jess nodded. 

"Call me when you're ready." 

"I will." 

Chapter Nine 

Jess headed toward the line of trees casting long shadows along the pristine strip of white sand. She frowned as she approached the overgrown path. She shouldn't know this place—or have any thought or memory or feeling—yet intuition and unfaltering steps took her further and deeper through the pine forest. 

The dense surroundings pricked with relentless familiarity at her senses, sending elusive ghosts of recognition through her mind like ephemeral wisps of smoke. She frowned again as yet another snippet of déjà vu teased her mind. She glanced about her, turning this way and that, shaking her head, partly with disbelief and partly in denial. How could she know this place? Perhaps Antonio was right and she'd visited her grandmother's home as a child with her father—John. But that still didn't explain the lack of memory. It bothered her that she couldn't remember a single part of her life shared with her true father. 

Dappled sunlight filtered through the thick, fertile canopy. Undergrowth and branches barred her way, yet she pressed on through the enclosed, humid and heat-drenched terrain until sweat covered her body and her clothes stuck uncomfortably to her skin. 

She finally stumbled with a grateful sigh into a wide clearing and stopped dead in her tracks as she gazed upon the derelict limestone house basking in the heat of the mid-day sun. 

The house was by no means as grand or resplendent as any of the colonial Georgian or Adams-style architecture found in Nassau, but it wasn't disappointment that kept her riveted to the spot and her eyes glued to the crumbling façade. 

It'd been necessity that had brought her to her grandmother's home, but now something else, something far deeper, had taken its place. It was a feeling that was strangely frightening and comforting at the same time. She forced herself closer to the abandoned house frowning as she tried to make sense of the vague images crouched at the back of her mind. She climbed the flaking stone steps leading up to the porch, skimming her fingers lightly over the handrail. 

Her life had been colored by an emptiness she'd attributed to her father's shocking death and her mother's subsequent emotional detachment. But she'd also grown up haunted by an indescribable feeling of loss. It'd never been any one thing she could put her finger on, until the evening her mother spoke about John Thomas. Only then had she realized the emptiness she'd felt all these years had nothing to do with Graham's death, and everything to do with what had been missing in her life. The very essence of her existence. Her past. 

She reached the rot-riddled door hanging from its hinges and then blinked back the sudden gnawing pain behind her eyes. She placed a steadying hand against the door and closed her eyes. The door swung abruptly open and she stumbled forward into the empty house. 

She froze—listening intently—her eyes and ears taking in every heave and sigh of the old house. Her heartbeat slowed and she released the breath she didn't know she was holding. She had every right to be here, didn't she? The property was hers, wasn't it? She could enter the house if she wanted to. 

She wrinkled her nose up at the damp, musty smell permeating the air and then squaring her shoulders edged forward down the narrow passageway. Sunlight streamed past her shoulders, although it barely illuminated the dark path in front of her. Her fingers trailed the cold wall and her eyes widened with each tentative step—absorbing, sensing, knowing. 

She reached the end of the passage and stopped, her eyes drawn to the high ceiling and central staircase silhouetted in soft, gray dappled light. Her heart raced and her breathing quickened. She searched her mind for another logical reason for her strong affinity to the house—and not the one she was starting to believe. She flicked her gaze up the stairs to the upper hallway cloaked in mottled darkness and released a frustrated breath. Every fiber of her being told her she belonged here, and yet she had no memories to explain her emotions or help correlate her thoughts. 

She picked her way through the rubble beneath her feet and moved across the hallway toward the first of the two large downstairs rooms. She paused in the doorway and cast a disappointed gaze about the bare, shuttered, dust-filled space. She'd hoped to find a forgotten item, picture or book among the ruins. Some hollow reminder to help her cement suspicions and rekindle lost memories. But there was nothing but shadows, and yet deep down she knew that once upon a time this had been her home. And her mother had kept silent about it all these years. 

She rubbed her temple in an attempt to soften the pounding in her head and retraced her steps to the bottom of the stairs. She wanted more than this. Not feeling, or intuition. She wanted memories and somewhere in the recesses of her mind she had them of this place. She wanted those memories to rise to the surface. 

She started up the stairs, cautiously testing each tread while dodging the cobwebs dangling from the ceiling and clinging to the walls. The feeling of belonging burgeoned through her and intensified in her brain. She stepped onto the landing and lifted her gaze to the closed door at the end of the hall. Her eyes widened as she hastened forward. No longer cautious. No longer in doubt. 

My room. 

She didn't just sense it. She remembered it. She reached for the doorknob and turned it, and felt the force of a connection as soon as she crossed the threshold. She squinted against the intense sunlight and dragged her leaden gaze around the room, forcing herself to study what lay around her. 

Her toys, her clothes fallen on the floor and lying across her bed, untouched and rotting where they'd been left as if in anticipation of her return. She dropped to her knees as she struggled to fight the sudden flow of childhood images rushing to her brain. Memories belonging to a five-year-old girl who'd watched the drunken woman she'd called mother argue with her husband and pick up the heavy Bakelite telephone and bludgeoned him to death with it. The voices, the shouts, the screams. There'd been so much blood. Jess gripped her head between her hands. The pain of remembrance becoming unbearable. 

* * * * 

Drew Mahon watched the thick smoke spiral above the distant treetops and gripped the handrail on Antonio's flats boat, wishing it would go faster. 

He'd known the best way to find Jess was to start at the airport. Apart from the chartered flight from Nassau, he'd discovered there'd only been two private flights from Florida that morning, yet none of the personnel could recall a young woman fitting Jess' description. He'd even struck out among the chauffeurs he'd spoken to who were hard-pressed to remember her face among the groups of passengers they'd taxied to the resorts and lodges in and around the island. 

He'd been at a loss until a driver suggested he waited to speak with Marcus Lloyd. Marcus, the man said, had picked up the only single female fare that morning. He'd only remembered the woman because she'd insisted on going to an out of the way place that wasn't noted on any tourist map. But she didn't have long, dark hair as Drew described. The woman's hair had been short. 

There was no way Drew could've been sure this woman was Jessica McCormack, but considering it'd been his only lead he'd waited under a palm tree outside the airport for Marcus to return. 

The spark of hope he'd been given leapt into life after he'd spoken with Marcus. And by the time he'd been introduced to Antonio and learned the woman's name, he'd had no more doubt. He didn't like coincidences and this was too much of one to be ignored. What were the odds that both women would have the same name, similar height and similar build? The woman who'd gone to High Rock had to be Jessica McCormack. 

Drew glanced behind him at the two men standing at the boat wheel, their faces etched with a look of concern mirroring his own. He would've never have found Jess so quickly without their help. But were they too late? Had Jason gotten to her before him? 

"I shouldn't have left her alone," Antonio said. 

"You weren't to know anything like this was going to happen," Marcus replied. 

It seemed like forever before Antonio finally maneuvered his boat around the tiny isthmus and moored it alongside the dock. Drew sprang from the skiff onto the wooden pier and gazed helplessly upward toward the distant but ferocious light flickering through the dense forest of tall pine trees. 




Blood of His Fathers Ch. 08-09



Marcus hurried past him, pointing toward the beach and the line of trees. "This way," he yelled. "There's a path over there leading up to the house." 

It was a hot day made even hotter by the intense heat bearing down on them and sucking the air dry. Sweat drenched their faces and bodies as they finally emerged from the forest onto the clearing. Drew's stomach tightened in alarm. The fire hadn't quite taken hold, but it would only be a matter of moments before the flames reached the upper rooms and engulfed the entire house. 

"I have to get in there." 

Antonio grabbed his arm. 

Drew's voice pitched higher. "She could still be inside. I have to look." 

The flames licked higher and heat blasted through the air. 

"There must be a well somewhere around here," Marcus said, rushing out of sight. "Antonio, call for help! Hurry!" 

Antonio released Drew's arm. "Be careful. You don't know how fast it'll spread." 

With a quick nod, Drew raced to the back of the house. He was relieved to find the fire was confined to the main, front part of the structure. With a single kick, he shattered a fragile shuttered window and climbed through. 

Heat and thick smoke immediately overwhelmed him, stinging his eyes and charring his lungs. He reeled from the contact but gritted his teeth and kicked through two more shuttered windows. Bright sunlight flooded the abandoned house and the dense smoke billowed free, easing the constriction in his throat. His thoughts returned quickly to Jess. 

He rushed through the crumbling downstairs rooms first, calling her name, and then headed up the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. 

He found her collapsed on the floor at the end of the upper hall. 

"Jess!" 

Drew quickly gathered her in his arms. She stirred slightly, but didn't open her eyes. 

* * * * 

The slow, powerful sound of his heartbeat dispersed the haunting images flashing through her mind, bringing her into awareness. 

Jason? 

Her eyes fluttered open to the gentle feel of strong arms about her. She pulled back and raised her gaze to familiar green eyes staring down at her. Her eyes widened further in recognition. Surprise kept them locked with his gaze and her lips parted hesitantly. 

"Looked like you were having a bad dream," he said. "How are you feeling?" 

His voice was smooth and mellow like she remembered, and his touch was not unlike Jason's. Strong, protective, caressing, and she'd responded to it. Not with the same intensity as with Jason, but there was a reaction all the same and it unnerved her. Jess lowered her gaze from his and consciously pushed herself from within his embrace, putting distance between them on the king-sized bed. 

"Where am I?" 

"Still on Andros. At the Tiamo Resort." 

She ignored him for a moment and concentrated on getting her bearings. She looked about the pale driftwood colored room and then out the open screened doors onto lush vegetation, white sand and dazzling sunlight bouncing off the clear aqua-blue sea. 

A light breeze whispered over the thin white robe she wore and she shivered. Where were her clothes? 

She hugged her legs up to her chest and kept her eyes on the vase with fresh flowers standing on a table in the corner of the room. 

"How long have I been here?" 

"A few hours." 

She drew in a deep breath and tightened her hold about her legs. "What are you doing here, Detective Inspector?" 

"Wondering why someone would want you dead," he murmured. 

There was no mistaking the seriousness of his tone and her eyes flicked sharply to meet his gaze. 

"And if I hadn't followed you to that old house, you would be." 

Her eyes widened in shock. "What do you mean?" 

"Don't you remember the fire?" 

"F-Fire?" she repeated. "There was a fire?" 

That's why she smelled of smoke. 

She swung her legs from the bed. They felt weak and unsure. She settled her bare feet on the high gloss painted wood floor. The last thing she remembered was being confronted with painful memories connecting her to that house—A telephone ringing, her grandmother's smiling face, the shadowy body of a man lying dead on the floor next to her bed, laughter, flashing lights, crying, dancing in the moonlight— 

It was too much. Too fast. Her fingers grasped the bright orange comforter and she forced herself to stay calm. 

"I remember having a migraine attack and passing out. And then waking up here with you in this room." 

She leveled her gaze on his, twisting her body so she could do so. "You brought me here?" 

He nodded. "It was Marcus' idea." 

She raised her brows in surprise. "You met Marcus?" 

"Without him I wouldn't have found you so quickly." 

She stilled, realizing the implications of his words. A fire? She'd almost died without seeing her son again. If the Inspector hadn't followed her... 

She swallowed nervously. "Thank you for saving my life, Detective Inspector." 

"Drew. Call me Drew. And you're welcome, Mrs. McCormack." 

She gave him a faint smile. "Call me Jess." 

An uneasy silence settled between them and she looked away. 

"I could order room service, if you like," Drew proffered. 

She glanced at him over her shoulder. "That would be great." 

She rose from the bed. Her legs were like jelly but she managed to stand, feeling the strength return to them. "I need to get some air." 

She crossed the room and stepped outside onto the private decking leading down to the water's edge. She wrapped her arms about her body and stared out at the rippling ocean. 

Someone had tried to kill her. 

Except for Carolyn, no one knew she would be at the old house. She frowned. Could Carolyn...? No. Impossible. 

She didn't turn at the sound of Drew's footsteps closing in behind her. "Do the police know who started the fire?" 

"They think pieces of glass intensified the strong sunlight and set the wild sisal growing close to the house alight. A natural occurrence." 

"But you don't agree," she said, keeping her eyes on the water. 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"Because you and I both know who that someone is." 

"It wasn't Jason—" 

"Your naivety is apt to get you killed, Jess." 

This time she glared at Drew. "Jason may be many things, but he's not a murderer." 

"Then, why did you run from him?" 

She lowered her eyes, hiding the turmoil she was sure must be mirrored in them. She'd hoped to gain time and enough distance to understand all that had happened to her in the space of these two short weeks. To regain some control of her life. To digest the fact her father had been murdered—she couldn't in all fairness consider Graham Wright as anything other than her father. She wanted justice for him, for her brother, for Tom. Yet most of all she'd wanted to escape the cruelest of jokes fate had played on her heart. It'd tempted her with her desire for Jason only to turn around and punish her for acting on it. 

"I don't owe you an explanation, Drew." 

She turned from him, but he caught her arm spinning her back to face him. Her heart raced, her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. She braced her hands against his chest. 

"You would protect a killer, your ex-husband's killer?" he challenged. 

"You don't know if Jason's guilty of killing Tom," she retorted angrily. "I don't kn-know if he's guilty." 

The truth was she didn't know what to believe. 

"You made me do this. You made me doubt him." 

"You wouldn't have doubted him, Jess, if you didn't already suspect him, would you?" 

She didn't know if it was a delayed reaction to learning he'd rescued her from a burning house or anger at his accusations or the sinking feeling that he was right, but she felt the tears welling in her eyes. So she closed them trying to conceal her upset, and didn't pull away when his strong arms went around her shoulders, clasping her to his hard chest. Her arms instinctively circled his waist and she relished the moment of comfort. 

"What's going on, Jess? Why did you come here alone?" 

"Why did you follow me?" 

"Professional curiosity." 

His hand brushed down the length of her hair. 

"What would make a woman disguise her appearance and leave England without so much as a forwarding address?" 

"And do you know the answer to that?" 

"No," he said. "She won't tell me." 

"Perhaps because it has nothing to do w-with you." 

"And perhaps everything to do with her ex-husband's death." 

Jess pulled back, opening her eyes into his steady gaze. Could she trust Drew Mahon with the weight on her heart? With a past she'd long forgotten? 

No. Not yet. 

"Do you honestly think I would keep silent about something like that? The father of my son is dead. I want his murderer found." 

"Still, there's something you're not telling me, Jess. I can feel it." 

She studied his expression, his eyes, his mouth. He reached for her face and brushed a thumb down her cheek, wiping away a tell-tale tear. He leaned closer to her. And when his lips touched hers she didn't flinch. When his mouth covered hers, her eyes closed in surrender. 

Drew tightened his arm about her waist, molding her body along his. She moved her hands up the hardness of his torso to latch about his neck, rising to her toes and kissing him back. His tongue demanded more and she obliged. 

They finally drew back, opening their eyes. Silence passed between them with only the sound of the sea washing onto the shore. 

His breath tickled her lips. "Tell me it's over between you and Jason," he said. 

Jess pulled further back, but Drew wouldn't let her leave his arms. She hated herself for letting him touch and kiss her, and for enjoying it. And for one brief moment she wished she'd never met Jason. Wished she could take back her heart. Wished she could forget the mind-blowing sex they'd shared. Wished she could give Drew a chance. 

She stepped from his embrace with slightly more determination, shaken by her response in Drew's arms. No matter the turmoil of her feelings for Jason, it'd been wrong on so many levels. She couldn't begin to contemplate the fallout should he ever find out. 

"I can't," she murmured truthfully. 

Drew released a slow breath, his tension evident. "Do you love him?" 

"He's my husband, Drew." 

"That's not an answer, Jess." 

"Maybe not." She fixed her gaze over his shoulder, somewhere in the distance. "But it remains a fact." 

"Then, why did you kiss me?" 

She focused her gaze slowly on his and chose her words with care. "If it hadn't been for you I would've died in the fire," she said. "I owe you my life, Drew, and for that I will always be grateful." 

"Gratitude? I don't want your gratitude, Jess. Tell me," he challenged, "When I kissed you, did I feel you tremble in my arms or did I imagine it?" 

She lowered her head feeling her cheeks flush. "That won't happen again. It can't happen again." 

"Because of Jason McCormack?" His voice mocked in its condemnation. "Do you hold him in such high esteem that you would consider his feelings?" 

He stood before her, close, personal and intense. 

"I doubt your husband would extend you the same courtesy. Jason McCormack loves no one," Drew pressed. "He's as cold and ruthless as his father and does nothing without a calculable reason." 

"You're wrong." Her voice was restrained as she spoke. 

"No, I'm not," he countered angrily. "Tom Addison worked for Alexander McCormack," he practically shouted. "Do you think Jason wasn't aware of that fact before he married you?" 

She must have looked stunned, or paled or something because Drew's face sobered with immediate contrition. She felt gutted, empty and numb. 

"I'm sorry," he murmured. He pushed his fingers through his hair. "That was incredibly stupid and insensitive of me. I shouldn't have said—" 

Jess shook off the placating hand on her arm. "What do you mean? Tom was working for Alexander McCormack?" 

"Jess—" 

"Tell me, Drew. And, please, don't lie anymore. Everyone keeps lying to me." 

He raised his face to the sky and released a heavy sigh. "I shouldn't be telling you any of this since it's part of an ongoing investigation," he said, gazing down at her again. "But I need you to open your eyes to the man you married." 

He pushed his hand through his hair once more. "Tom Addison was on Alexander McCormack's payroll for a number of years. Doing odd jobs, from organizing clandestine parties for McCormack's out of town guests to—" 

"Marrying me," Jess stated evenly. 

"Trust me, Jessica," Drew urged. He took her hands in his. "I can help you. Your ex-husband worked for Alexander McCormack and now you're married to Alexander's son. Can't you see why this all seems so suspect to me? It just doesn't add up. Especially since your husband is the one trying to kill you." 

Jess tugged her hands free, brushing past him into the beach hut. She sensed him poise to follow her. 

"Leave me alone, Drew." 

How could she explain something she still needed to find the answers to? Besides, her emotions were in such turmoil she couldn't trust herself to speak and the last thing she wanted was to find empty comfort in Detective Inspector Drew Mahon's very capable arms.



Blood of His Fathers Ch. 10-13



Chapter Ten 

Awareness of morning gently permeated the haze of her sleep. Jess stirred and shielded her eyes from the dazzling sunlight filtering through the window of her hotel room. She glanced at the clock and grimaced. Eight o'clock. She flipped from stomach to back and lay for a moment staring at the wooden ceiling fan softly whirring above her. 

The crash of the sea and the distant sound of laughing voices from those determined to be the first on the beach drifted in on the early breeze. 

She didn't know how she managed to keep calm after learning of Tom's connection to Alexander McCormack or how she endured the silent journey back to the mainland with Drew. Every fiber of her being had wanted to scream, yet she'd concealed her anguish until she reached the confines of the hotel. Alone in her room, her defenses down, she'd cried as if her heart would break. 

How they must have all laughed at her gullibility. Tom...Alexander...Jason. Jess briefly closed her eyes. Her body still tingled by the mere thought of Jason's name, but she couldn't deny Jason's involvement any longer in Sean's death or Tom's. Her perspective had changed. It had to because no amount of explanation could justify the fact Tom worked for Alexander McCormack or that Jason knew it. He'd merely taken over where Tom had left off, and for what? A worthless, decrepit old house? 

How could she have been so stupid, so foolish to play his game? But there had to be a lot more to the Thomas estate than a dilapidated building and lush vegetation. It was worth killing for, worth manipulating her into a loveless marriage. And worth Alexander McCormack dangling his son as bait. She'd been too flattered to pay attention to her doubts. 

She really ought to thank Jason McCormack. If it hadn't been for him she wouldn't have regained lost memories or found out the terrible truth behind her father's death. Last night she'd been undecided of her next move. Now, she was more determined than ever to see this through. She wanted answers. And Carolyn Roberts was the only person who could provide them. She would get to the bottom of this mess once and for all. 

* * * * 

Drew scrolled the name before his eyes. Bingo! Jessica McCormack didn't want him involved in her life, that'd been evident from the terse note she'd left at the front desk of her hotel. But this case went far beyond what one woman wanted or didn't want. His gut was telling him she was hiding something and if she wouldn't confide in him then he'd just have to find out the truth for himself. 

For the last two hours he'd sat in the Research Room at the Public Records Office's Department of Archives in the center of town, flipping through Estate Records and Deeds, Indentures and Conveyances Records dating back to the eighteenth century, searching for—he didn't know what. But his perseverance finally paid off. 

Drew studied the old land chart, intrigued at what he saw. The old house at High Rock and the three hundred and sixty acres surrounding it had belonged to the McCormack family for generations. 

"So, why would you trespass on McCormack land if you're supposed to be running away from them, Jess?" he murmured. 

At this point, coincidence didn't necessarily surprise him. But it was a coincidence he didn't like. He leaned back in the chair, digesting the fact the fire now added to the mystery surrounding Jessica McCormack. 

"I'm afraid we've not finished updating these particular records," a voice said over his shoulder. 

Drew swiveled the soft leather chair to face the curator peering at him over the rim of her glasses. 

"Did you find what you were looking for?" 

"I don't know," Drew said. "Something feels...I feel like something's missing." 

"Well, if you tell me what you think is missing, maybe I can help." 

His lip curled in a wry smile. "I don't know that either." 

That wasn't quite true, well, not anymore. It was a long shot, but somehow he'd hoped to find Jess' name among these papers—something to connect her to the old house at High Rock. 

"You know, a lot of the old records on High Rock have been sealed for a great many years. We're just getting around to cataloging them. You're welcome to take a look. They might be of more help." 

Drew rose to his feet with an appreciative nod. "Thank you." 

He followed the curator to a locked door at the far end of the room. She opened it and led him down a narrow passageway to a flight of stairs. 

"Here we are," the woman said, pushing open a door on the second floor. She veered left, entering another room and disappeared down a far aisle. Drew shivered. No one would guess the temperature outside was close to seventy degrees. 

He waited by the door, listening to the woman's slowing footsteps. After a minute the steps sounded again in his direction. 

"Everything you need to know about the Thomas family," she said, handing over a cardboard box. 

"Thomas?" Drew queried. "I thought the McCormacks owned the land at High Rock." 

"They did," the curator answered. "Up until 1724. That same year the McCormack plantation in Maryland was burned to the ground in a slave revolt. George McCormack owned the plantation at the time. But he committed the ultimate sin of falling in love with one of his slaves, a woman named Harriet Thomas. He willed the property at High Rock to the son born to her, Ben. It's all in there," she said, indicating the box. "Just not in the computer, yet. If you need any further help, I suggest you see Zip." 

He raised an eyebrow. "Zip?" 

"He has fished these waters for more than sixty years. If anyone knows more about the High Rock plantation than what's in that box, he does." 

She glanced at her watch. "You'll find him down at St. Georges Wharf around lunchtime mending his nets before he heads out to sea. Just tell him Mrs. Ferguson sent you. He'll talk to you. But if you would tidy up before you go, I would appreciate it." 

Drew nodded his gratitude for her help and the curator left him alone, closing the door behind her. He opened the box and pulled out an old newspaper tucked in one corner, noting the publication and the date. The North Star, 1866. 

He spied an article written by a Frederick Thomas and sat down to read it. 

An hour later he was ready to give Mrs. Ferguson's suggestion a try. Experience had taught him the value of conversation. Even seemingly incoherent ramblings could hold answers to otherwise inexplicable situations. He stood and replaced the documents in the box. At the moment nothing was making any sense and he'd already wasted far too much time here. He had to stretch his legs, get some air and think. Somehow join the dots, although he couldn't help but feel he was still missing something—a huge part of some elaborate puzzle. 

Drew didn't like the sea—he never had—and as he neared the wharf and breathed in the repellent scent of raw eggs and the bloody, metallic smell of fresh fish he was reminded of exactly why. He surveyed the scene before him and tried to control his rising nausea. 

Colorful, shabby boats laden with the morning's catch bobbed alongside the wharf. Fish of every variety of size and color. Conch, their smooth, pink coral shells, glistening in the intense sunlight. Tourists milled around with a mixture of curiosity and awe, watching the fishermen gut and fillet their morning catch with breathtaking swiftness and expert efficiency. Large sea birds vied for the portions of discarded innards thrown their way. 

Drew swallowed deeply and moved toward a blue fishing boat moored at the other end of the wharf. An old man sat with his back to him, mending a net. 

"Zip?" 

The man answered without turning round. "Who wants to know?" 

"My name is Drew Mahon. Mrs. Ferguson at the Public Records Office said you could probably help me. I'm—" 

"You're English," the old man stated. He kept his back to Drew. 

"Yes, and I would like your help." 

"About what?" 

"The Thomas plantation at High Rock. Mrs Ferg—" 

The old man turned and leveled worldly eyes and a seasoned face on Drew. He pointed a dark crooked finger at the length of rope secured about an iron palisade. 

"Get the rope, will you? If you want to talk, come aboard." 

He disappeared into the boat's wheelhouse and the engine started. "Are you coming then?" Zip called out. 

The vessel bobbed on the lapping tide. His stomach regretted the decision before he'd even made it, but Drew took a deep breath and jumped aboard the Sea Conch. The old man chuckled softly, handed him a cup of some strange brew, and maneuvered the vessel out toward the open water. 

* * * * 

"Found your sea legs, yet?" Zip asked a short time later. 

Drew gripped the side of the boat with one hand and nodded to the old man. Whatever Zip gave him to drink was certainly doing the trick. He couldn't feel his tongue let alone his stomach anymore. 

"Made it myself from sugar cane," Zip stated proudly. He poured more of the golden liquid into his cup. 

Drew raised his glass in salutation and then took another sip of the potent liquor. Technically he wasn't on duty, was he? 

"So," Zip said. He drained his glass. "What do you want to know about High Rock? Are you planning on buying it?" 

"No. How long has it been abandoned like that?" 

Zip gave a nonchalant shrug. "More than twenty years," he said. "Terrible business, though." 

Drew's curiosity pricked. "What business?" 

"Elizabeth Roberts—" 

Zip steadied himself and sauntered to the wheelhouse. The boat's engine shuddered to a stop and he returned with a broad smile. 

"Here's a good place to fish," he said. "I've been fishing these waters for more than sixty years. I know the best places." He pointed a gnarled finger into the distance. 

"See that island over there. That's Andros. And that's High Rock." 

Drew thought it best not to mention he'd already been there. 

Zip walked to the back of the boat and released the twenty-five meter gillnet into the sea. The weighted netting broke the surface and dropped vertically downward into the sea, leaving a line of small yellow buoys floating on the water. 

"What about Elizabeth Roberts?" Drew said. He let go of the side of the boat, and dared the few steps toward Zip. "What happened?" 

Zip shrugged matter-of-factly. "Back in eighty-five she was convicted of killing her husband, Henry Roberts. He was a mean man with a nasty temper. We all knew it, so there wasn't any surprise. He would've killed her if she hadn't killed him, which she did. Bludgeoned him to death with a Bakelite telephone. 

Anyway, after a couple of years in prison she got cancer. She was allowed to return to High Rock where she died in nineteen ninety. After that the house was left to rot. Shame. The property is still one of the finest in these islands. Pine trees, white sandy beaches, limestone caves, mangroves. All of it going to waste." He shook his head, undoubtedly at that thought. 

"But why didn't John or Carolyn take over the property or better still, sell it?" 

"Oh, you know about those two, then." 

"Not really," Drew replied. "Only what was mentioned in the files at the Public Records Office, and that wasn't a great deal." Drew voiced his thought. "Did either Carolyn or John have a daughter?" 

Zip looked wistful and pursed his lips, buying a little time before he spoke. 

"John lives on Cat Island. It's one of the outer islands. If you've a mind to, I can take you there and introduce you to him. It's better if you hear the rest of the story from him. If you want?" 

"Yes. I would like to meet him." 

Zip reached for the bottle and nodded. "More? I've got a few hours to kill." 

Drew grinned broadly and proffered his glass. "Why not?" he said. "I was starting to feel my tongue again, anyway." 

Zip chuckled and poured. 

Drew took a swig of the liquor, for the first time feeling as if he'd be returning to England much wiser than when he left. 

Chapter Eleven 

Lyford Cay was exclusive and wealthy. The private gated enclave boasted over two hundred luxurious estate sized homes and residential home sites with canal front, beachfront and hilltop locations. An 18-hole championship golf course, twelve tennis courts, a yacht club and marina, a private school and a Clubhouse set on beautifully manicured grounds. But it was also isolated and quiet. 

Carolyn Robert's house was a beautiful two-story property elegantly positioned on a hilltop with a near eight-foot-high perimeter fence sealing it from prying eyes. Jess took another deep breath to steady her nerves and stared at the huge gates providing the only entrance to her aunt's property. She pushed the button on the intercom once more and frowned. The security guard had confirmed she'd been expected, although she'd been somewhat surprised at Carolyn's change in demeanor. 

After their last phone call she'd been prepared to fight and argue her way to her aunt's door, but the woman on the phone that morning had sounded different...insisting Jess was welcome and that she would be expected at ten o'clock. 

Jess was about to reverse the car and head down the hill, back toward the security guard, when the gate clicked open and started to roll back revealing a paved driveway. She put the rental car in gear. 

The driveway meandered through a lush landscaped garden that was overgrown, although not enough to obscure its cultivated natural wildness. There was a dense array of plants and flowers, some she knew like the red-flowering hibiscus and many she hadn't seen before or most probably not remembered. 

Trees and flowers created a colorfully balanced habitat of blues and reds, and at the center of the garden, adorning the vast lawn in front of the house, were two large Pride of India in wonderful bloom. Their blossoms opening into clouds of lavender. 

She parked at the front entrance and got out of the car. Strange that on such a beautiful, warm day not a single window was open. 

A light breeze rustled through the palm leaves above her and out the corner of her eye she caught the white flash of movement. She turned her head sharply to where the front door now stood open allowing her a glimpse into the spacious, high-ceilinged interior. An uneasiness settled over her and she clasped her car keys tighter in her hand. 

She drew closer, extending a hesitant hand and pushing the door further open onto the Italian stone flooring and dark mahogany staircase. She stood under the huge crystal chandelier, her stomach tightening to a hardened ball. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. But Jess couldn't help her curiosity. She took a deep, steadied breath and ventured further into the house. 

It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that crept along her nerves and isolated her fear. She called her aunt's name and edged forward to the living room where two huge sofas faced a panoramic window. A soft rug covered the wooden floor and colorful cushions were strewn with orderly nonchalance around a low carved table near the fireplace. 

She tiptoed through the rest of the ground floor. The kitchen, with its stainless and granite finishings, the dining room that could seat ten, the breakfast room and the den. 

She found the upstairs much the same as the downstairs. Stately pillars and high ceilings. Everything immaculate, everything in its place, everything neat, everything tidy. She checked the small library and the four bedrooms with en suite bathrooms. And still no sign of her aunt. Her uneasiness was fast becoming anxiety. She could find nothing of Carolyn in the house. No personal touches—flowers, paintings, slippers, photos. She knew nothing about her aunt, so she couldn't say with certainty if any of this was out of the ordinary or not— 

Her steps faltered with a sudden realization. She swiveled about and listened intently to the silence, her eyes round, her breath locked in her chest and her heart pounding against her ribs. Someone had granted permission for her to come to the house and if it wasn't her aunt, then who? What if she wasn't alone in the house? 

Jess raced down the hall and back down the stairs to the front door. She yanked it open, although she couldn't remember if she'd closed it. She quickly climbed into her car and locked herself in. As she struggled to put the key in the ignition she heard the faint sound of the main gate drawing close. 

"No," she cried out. This couldn't be happening. 

Relief, anguish and fear coursed through her body as the key slipped into place and the motor started. She sped down the driveway, glad she'd rented the smallest car available as she maneuvered the Mini Cooper through the narrowest of possible gaps. 

* * * * 

Jess cast a quick glance over her shoulder before slipping into her hotel room. She was convinced she'd not been alone in her aunt's house. She hurriedly closed the door behind her and pressed her back rigidly against it. She couldn't help but feel something had happened to her aunt. She'd sensed it the moment she entered the house, but how could she go to the police without proof of any kind of a crime? 

She made a beeline for her travel bag. There was no telling if she'd been followed or not, but she wasn't about to taking any more risks. Jason's revelations had changed her life irrevocably, but she was being drawn deeper into something even more sinister. Something she had no control over. 

A sharp, unexpected rap at her door jolted through her body, sending a shockwave of fear to her heart. Drew? 

She didn't dare move, or breathe. She fixed her eyes on the door and waited, thanking God she'd the presence of mind to leave the lights off. 

Another sharp rap rang through the silence. She drew in the little breath she held over and lowered her gaze to the thin line of light from the corridor peaking under the door. She expelled her breath slowly and watched the shadows under her door draw back until they disappeared completely. Quickly and quietly she packed her bag. 

She reached for the door with trembling fingers, holding her breath as she pulled it open. She waited, her ears straining to hear and her body prepared to run or fight. She took a hesitant step into the hallway, still afraid to breathe. The corridor was empty. She pulled the room door closed behind her and dashed toward the elevators. 

She kept her eyes glued to both the elevator doors. It pinged suddenly, causing her to jump. She'd been frightened before, but never to such an extent that she feared her own shadow. When the elevator doors opened, Jess swiftly stepped in. She waited nervously for them to close. 

"Come on," she muttered. 

The doors moved. She relaxed against the wall of the elevator and sighed, only to have her breath hitch loudly in her throat as a blond haired woman climbed in beside her. 

"I'm sorry if I startled you," the woman said. 

Jess shook her head. "That's all right. I'm fine." 

"Good." 

The woman reached across to the panel of buttons. 

"Lobby?" she inquired. 

Jess nodded and briefly closed her eyes. How long did it take to get down to the lobby? 

The elevator pinged, and the doors opened. She hurried across the marble floor, hastening toward the reception desk. Her eyes locked with the impeccably dressed young man behind it. 

"I would like to check out, please." 

"Of course, Mrs. Addison," he said. 

Jess suppressed a smile, although she was impressed that the young man had remembered her name. His fingers danced nimbly across his computer keyboard as he checked and tallied the expenses incurred during her five day stay. 

"Did you enjoy your stay, ma'am?" 




Blood of His Fathers Ch. 10-13



"Yes. Thank you." 

She promptly handed him her credit card and with great difficulty tried to suppress her anxiety to be gone. 

"Should I call a taxi for you, ma'am?" 

Jess gazed wide-eyed at him. She hadn't thought about any of that. Where she was going or how she was going to get there. 

"That won't be necessary, Serge. I'll see to it my wife gets to where she wants to go." 

Her heart stopped and she sucked in a shaky breath. 

"Of course, Mr. McCormack," the young man answered. 

Jess read the bewilderment in his eyes before he tactfully withdrew. She may to all intents and purposes be married to Jason, but her passport as with her other documents and credentials confirmed her status as Mrs. Tom Addison. Her life had changed so drastically and so quickly. And still was. 

"Jessica." 

Jason uttered her name softly, but the underlying tension in his voice belied an anger that ignited her own. She stiffened noticeably before turning to stare at his stony countenance. How dare he be angry with her! 

"How did you find me?" 

He let out a weary sigh and brought a hand down his face. "Process of elimination. I've been searching for you for four days." 

"Well, you shouldn't have bothered. There's nothing to say," she said. 

She reached for her bag and rushed toward the hotel door. Jason grabbed her arm, spinning her forcefully back to face him. She steeled herself against the flood of emotions engulfing her. He looked tired. She'd wanted to touch his face and feel his lips again on hers, but she'd not let her guard down again. She couldn't. 

"The hell there isn't," he said. "Damn it, Jessica, I'm not your enemy." 

"No. Your father is," she hissed back. 

"I told you that." 

"But not that he was already under investigation," Jess countered. 

"What?" 

"Detective Inspector Mahon told me." 

She could hardly speak with the emotion constricting her throat. She felt betrayed...manipulated. 

"I thought Tom's death was some dreadful coincidence, but as it turns out he worked for your father. Which throws a rather different light on this whole mess, doesn't it?" 

"I didn't know, Jessica." 

"You didn't know, what?" she returned heatedly. "That Tom worked for your father or that I would find out." 

"That my father was already under investigation," Jason answered with quiet patience. He glanced about him. "We can't talk here." 

She eyed him suspiciously. "I'm not going anywhere with you. I won't listen to any more of your lies." 

"I haven't lied to you, Jessica. Everything I've told you has been nothing but the truth. Perhaps limited, but the truth nonetheless." 

She shrugged off his hand and his protestation. "Why did you marry me?" she demanded. "As a favor to your father? To take up where Tom left off?" 

She heaved a sigh, and lowered her gaze. Her voice was resigned, and somehow lost when she spoke again. 

"Containment is everything in your line of business, isn't it? Damage control?" she mocked. "My father, Sean, Tom—" Her gaze lifted slowly back to his. "Me." 

Jason narrowed his gaze. "If you believe that, then why did you leave Jake with me?" 

"I left Jake with my mother," she returned childishly. 

"And both in danger, Jessica, if I'm the man you think I am." 

"Anonymity, Jason. You said it yourself. The McCormacks depend on it. You won't risk doing anything that would bring the police to your door, not at this stage of the game." 

"But you think I would hurt you. Is that what you thought to achieve by this? Lure me out by making yourself vulnerable?" 

Jess shifted her gaze past his shoulder. A family sat across from them, pretending not to notice their heated exchange. A young couple watched them too. She could almost hear them naively reaffirm their commitment never to fight. An older couple smiled at her. Perhaps they'd endured their own private battles and lived through it. 

She looked everywhere except at Jason. Had her vanity endangered her life from the very man she willingly married? He knew everything about her and used that knowledge with skill and conviction to accomplish his father's bidding. She spoke into the distance. 

"There was a fire at the old plantation yesterday. If it hadn't been for Drew—" 

"Drew?" 

She blushed and guilt pricked at her skin. 

"Detective Inspector Mahon," she corrected with a little awkwardness. "He saved my life..." 

She gasped as he instantly closed the distance between them and cupped her face between his hands. 

"Jessica. Are you all right?" 

Her heart shuddered at his touch. Drew's kiss had come close to covering the cracks in her heart, but it still bled for Jason even if there was nothing left between them. 

She touch her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Do you really care? Is this show of concern meant to regain my trust? Then what? You blindside me again?" 

Anger flashed in the dark depths of his eyes. "You think I started that fire?" 

"Your father is clever enough to never get his own hands dirty." 

He let his hands fall from her face. "God Jessica, you don't know me." 

"No, I don't," she returned quietly. 

"What's changed, Jessica? Drew Mahon?" he retorted dryly. 

Jess took a step backward, enabling her to breathe. "The Inspector—" 

"Seems very protective of you. He obviously said something to make you change your mind about me." 

"He made me see what you've said yourself. I don't know you." 

"You knew me when we made love," Jason parried smoothly. 

"That was...I was upset—" 

"Don't! Don't make that night anything less than it was, Jessica," Jason said. He stepped closer. "It was real. Don't deny us." 

He placed the crook of his finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up to his. She didn't pull away when his fingers brushed her cheek and teased her lips, reminding her of a night that was all too long ago. 

"Contrary to what Drew Mahon may have told you, I don't work for my father." 

In these few days she'd wanted nothing more than to banish thoughts of Jason from her mind. She'd been glad of the distance between them, but he was standing in front of her, his very presence threatening to shatter her resolve. 

"Give me the chance to make this right, Jessica." 

"I don't think you can," she said. 

"You promised. Remember?" 

How could she forget the night they'd made love? She'd broken every rule of her heart with him and had suffered the consequences. How could she trust him again? She closed her eyes against the insistence in his. 

* * * * 

Jess gazed in silent admiration at the hundred and sixty-one foot yacht moored in the Nassau Yacht Marina. MCORMC-1. 

"Your father's?" 

Jason nodded. She sensed him tense and watched his eyes scan the harbor. 

"What's wrong?" 

"I think we're being followed." 

"Your father?" She stepped unconsciously closer to him, her gaze searching with his own. 

"I don't know, but we've got to get going." 

"Where?" 

"I've a house on one of the outer islands. You'll be safe there." 

Jess hesitated, feeling like the proverbial moth that despite the warning heat still felt compelled to fly into the flame. But she'd been left with two choices—to go with Jason or stay on her own. And what if there was the slightest possibility she was wrong about her husband? If Jason didn't start the fire then somewhere out there was the person who did. She turned and climbed aboard MCORMC-1. 

The interior of the yacht was exquisite. She couldn't fault it—lots of mahogany woodwork expertly complementing myrtle and honey onyx. And she could scarce miss the opulence assailing her senses as she followed Jason to the main deck. They passed through the salon and dining room, bar and a private office before coming to the master suite. 

"This is your room," he said, opening the door onto the spacious cabin. "The crew sleeps below deck so you won't be disturbed at any time." 

"And where will you sleep?" 

She bit down on her lip. She hadn't meant to be so abrupt. "I'm sorry. I—" 

His stare turned to a glare. "I'll be below deck, as well. There are three guest suites in addition to the crew's quarters. If you need anything, feel free to ask." 

He turned and left without another word, closing the door firmly behind him. 

Jess briefly closed her eyes, shaking off the haunting look on Jason's face. She expelled a long breath and looked longingly at the enormous bed. That was for later, first she wanted to bathe. She quickly locked the cabin door and headed toward the en suite bathroom. 

She piled her washed hair in a loose bun on her head and stepped into the warm water, submerging her body under the scented bubbles. Powerful jets massaged her skin and, for one trouble-free moment, she let go of her fears. 

Her fingers and toes were quite wrinkled by the time she decided to climb from the tub. She dried off, using one of the big, white fluffy towels on the bath counter. She chose a body lotion from an impressive selection and rubbed it over her skin, braided her hair in one single plait and returned to the stateroom. She crawled beneath the cool cotton sheets, relishing its feel against her naked skin. Her head touched the pillows and she closed her eyes, relaxing her body under the gentle sway of the yacht. 

She'd drifted to sleep with dazzling sunlight filling the cabin and awoke with the dusky aura of evening around her. 

She slipped quickly from the bed and donned a thin white cotton Tee shirt and a pair of loose-fitting pants. She left the room and retraced her steps through the private office to the outer main deck. She stared, frowning at the table set intimately for two with candles and a single rose. She raised her gaze to the quiet horizon while her fingers wistfully caressed the dusky flower. 

"I hope you're hungry." 

She spun around, facing Jason as he moved toward her carrying two large plates. She couldn't conceal her surprise. 

"You cook?" 

"One of my many talents," he said, setting the plates on the table. 

The delicious aroma tickled her taste buds and gnawed at her empty stomach. 

"Freshly caught grouper, my lady," he added with a dramatic bow. "Seasoned to perfection with thyme, peppers and lemon juice, baked and covered with a sprinkling of onions, celery and tomatoes—lightly fried—and served on a bed of assorted vegetables. Won't you join me?" 

She glanced at the appetizing meal then back to the distant sun casting its remaining light across the shimmering water. She watched the final, biting irony of this picture-perfect romantic setting disappear beyond the horizon aware of his presence behind her. 

"I know you don't trust me right now," he said. "But I swear you have nothing to fear from me. I didn't start the fire at High Rock, Jessica, and until we know who did you're safer here with me." 

Was she? Here, alone, in the middle of nowhere? With a man she barely knew. She released a soft sigh. Time would tell. 

"You know, many people believe the Bahamas is a part of the Caribbean. It's actually part of the North American plate, if you consider it geographically because it's bordered to the east by the Atlantic Ocean and to the West by the Gulf Stream." 

She was rambling, she knew it, but she needed to say something, anything, to distance herself from this man who knew without even trying how to inflame her senses. She knew she would be lost if she looked at him, so she didn't. 

"Where exactly are we?" 

He stepped closer. His heat engulfed her, scorching her skin through her thin garments. She clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to fall back into his arms. 

"The Exumas. Nassau is about forty miles that way. North." He pointed over her shoulder to the solitary star flickering bright in the night sky. "And about fifty miles from Florida. That way." 

"And you have a house here?" 

"On Purple Cay. It's too late to venture ashore now, but we'll go in the morning." 

Doubt crept into her heart. "And after?" Where were they suppose to go from here? 

He leaned into her, his breath tickling her cheek. "Jessica—" 

She pulled away from him, jerking around and moving to the table. She ignored his loud sigh of frustration. 

"Let's eat, shall we?" 

Dinner was a tense and silent affair at the end of which Jess sat idly tracing a finger around the rim of her wineglass. She deliberately avoided Jason's gaze and she really wasn't in the mood for small talk or pretending this trip was anything other than what it was. 

* * * * 

Jason cocked his head slightly, admiring the way the candlelight danced across her tawny freckles. Through dinner she hadn't looked at him once and he was unable to see past the dark lashes guarding her eyes. Eyes he very much wanted to see turned on him with the passion of a night that was all too long ago. But he knew it would only be fear and suspicion that he would find in their depths. He could thank Detective Inspector Drew Mahon for that. He relaxed his fingers about the stem of his glass lest he was tempted to break it. 

He'd left her that morning after spending a bewitching night in her arms. He'd confronted his father spurred by the knowledge she was the one woman who'd not only taken his heart, but had breathed life into his withered soul. But he'd returned to Madeley to find she'd gone. Her mother had been frantic, demanding to know what could've gone wrong between them so quickly. He'd no idea. Not then, anyway. 

He'd followed her to the Bahamas, suspecting her next move, hired private investigators and spent days without sleep looking for her. He'd been mad with worry that something had happened to her. It had, and he hadn't been there. She'd almost been killed and he hadn't been the one to save her. 

"I should've told you about Tom," he acknowledged softly. 

It should've been his face she saw when she opened her eyes. His arms where she found comfort. 

Finally, she looked at him. "My life has never b-been my own, has it?" 

"I'm sorry, Jessica. I wanted to spare you this pain." 

"Really?" This time she sounded bitter. "You were very convincing about wanting to help me, for Sean's sake, right? And when Tom died you swore then, too, you had nothing to do with his death. You want to know something? I'm not sure anymore. I don't know where the lies end and the truth begins. Perhaps it's because they're one and the same. I don't even know if you intend to let me live after tonight. I was so gullible, believing you, sleeping with you. I've been such a fool. Men like you don't love women like me—" 

"Is that Drew Mahon talking?" Fear made him angry—his fear of losing her. 

He leaned forward and reached beneath the back of his shirt to retrieve the gun from its holster. 

"This is a nine millimeter PT-111Taurus Millennium. Fully loaded, easy to use. Slip off the safety, like this, aim and fire. If you ever feel the need to use this on me, then do it. You won't miss." 

He slammed the gun down on the table in front of her and then stalked away to stare out across the darkened sea. The sound of her chair scraping across the deck had him spinning around. Jessica was gone and to his dismay, she'd taken his gun. 

Chapter Twelve 

Eva Ricci took a deep draw from her cigarette. Everything had gone as planned. The captain and crew, save one, were tied up below deck and Jason's wife would soon be gone. 

She took a final drag and flicked the cigarette over the railing into the sea. She'd been content, her ego appeased, that Jason hadn't remarried since their divorce, although their split had been less than amicable. Still, she'd been convinced no other woman could come close to replacing her in Jason's heart until she saw them together in the lobby of the Baja Mar Hotel. 

She'd watched the start of their harsh exchange with amused curiosity. There'd been anger and hurt between them, but then she'd seen the tenderness in his gaze when he'd looked down into his wife's eyes. He'd shown a softness and vulnerability that'd startled her. And then it'd hit her. Jason was in love with his wife. Her heart clenched and Eva balled her hands into fists. 

She'd had plenty of opportunity to kill Jessica McCormack—in the lift, at the marina—but Alexander hadn't wanted to risk leaving a trail or have the authorities ask too many questions. This way everybody got what they wanted. And she wanted Jason. 

With familiar steps, she made her way below deck to the guestroom where Jason slept, discarding her clothes as she went. The door stood ajar and she inched it further open. Her eyes widened in her hunger and her lips parted in a lustful eagerness to taste him. It'd been too long. 

The sheet that covered him lay disheveled on the floor leaving his fully naked body exposed to the shadowy sea night. She padded softly across the room and crawled slowly onto the bed. Jason tossed restlessly onto his back and flung an arm casually above his head. She gasped—remembering, coveting, needing him. He stirred some more, but didn't wake. 

She placed the gun in her hand on the small table beside the bed and slid her body between his thighs. Her fingers curled about the impressive length of his penis and her breath caught in her throat. Even in the dimness, she was astutely aware of his muscular physique. 

She massaged the swollen head in her hand. She'd missed this, the velvet feel of him in her hands and in her mouth, thrusting wildly deep inside her. Her skin prickled at the thought. Her body hadn't forgotten the feel of his. 

She breathed him in, relishing the intoxicating smell of him on her senses. Her hand moved lower between his thighs. She shifted her weight onto her knees and closed her lips about his erection, taking him slow and deeply into her mouth. One hand closed around the shaft and stroked up and down while the other squeezed the heavy sacs beneath. Jason instinctively parted his legs, allowing her full access to her prize. 

He moaned his pleasure in his sleep. 

She brought a hand to her own aroused flesh, massaging the firm bud between her thighs in tempo with the motion of her mouth. She licked the smooth skin at the base of his penis and smiled in triumph as he submitted wholly to her ministrations. Lust burgeoned through her and him. He was unfulfilled. If his wife hadn't been enough to satisfy him, then she would. 

She stroked the length and breadth of him, his body continuing to react with hers. She straddled his hips and his right hand lifted to fondle her breast. She stiffened from the memory of his caress. Her nipples hardened. His other hand slipped between her thighs and parted her soft lips. His fingers caressed her slick opening before sheathing deeply and slowly into her hungry body. She released a shuddering breath. God, she'd missed this. She'd missed—them. 

She let him pleasure her for a moment longer and then eased his fingers from her tight folds, again taking control. Jason stirred. She stared at his face and waited. The face that'd haunted her dreams and she'd searched for in others. 

His eyes fluttered open and his lips parted. She kissed him deeply and slowly, her tongue seductively circling his. 

* * * * 

Jason hovered between waking and dreaming. 

His brain registered the slender body draped across his own. His hands traced the contour of her hips and stroke the smooth length of her back. He hugged her tighter, pillowing her soft breasts against his chest. Her sounds filled his mouth and he kissed her back, tasting familiarity and yet it felt wrong. 

Her hands, her lips, her body scorched a hungry path down his chest to the flat expanse of his stomach. She caressed his hips. Her tongue traced the swollen contour of his penis to its very tip, eliciting an anguished groan from him. And when she took him deep into the warmth of her mouth her name rumbled from his chest. Hands, tongue, lips relentlessly explored him, savoring him and heightening the tension in his erection until he pulsed wildly against the back of her throat. He could scarce draw breath. 




Blood of His Fathers Ch. 10-13



"Eva." He growled her name through gritted teeth, staving off his forceful climax. 

He curled his fingers about her upper arms, urging her mouth from his penis. He tugged her to him, her face but inches away from his own. His fingers wound tightly in her hair averting the kiss she craved. 

She smiled down into his eyes, their gazes bright with lust and memory. Her fingers guided him to her opening. She eased back drawing a sharp, controlled breath from him. It was too late to stop. His body needed relief from her torment. Her lips parted temptingly and his uncertainty abated. He lifted his mouth to hers and claimed her in a heated kiss. 

The pent up emotions of the last few hours channeled through them, adding to the urgency of their possession. Heat consumed her and frustration dictated him. Lust and ecstasy blended in perfect harmony, inflaming their bodies and obscuring their thoughts. 

In one quick move he rolled her onto her back and pushed deeply inside her. She cried out, digging her nails fiercely into his shoulders as he rode her body to a frenzied and ecstatic high. She exploded hard with a scream of delight. And he came seconds after with a low growl. He collapsed away from her, rolling on his back, and closed his eyes. 

Her breathless voice sounded in his ear, penetrating the fuzziness of his brain. 

"Fifteen years is a long time, Jason, but we were always good together, weren't we?" 

He pulled back and gazed at the shadowed features of his ex-wife. A part of him had known it was Eva even before he'd looked into her eyes. He collapsed back against the bed and drew a shaky hand down his face. 

"This shouldn't have happened." 

"It's too late for recriminations now, isn't it? Besides you knew it was me—why didn't you stop?" She gave a soft laugh and turned toward him, pressing her hip against his thigh. "We both wanted this." 

Anger and jealousy had tormented his sleep. He'd been jealous of Drew Mahon. The Detective Inspector had turned Jess against him, had made her fear him, and had been the one to save her life when she was in danger. He closed his eyes again 

"My body betrayed me, Eva. Not my heart." 

"That hardly matters. The fact is I have what I've always wanted. You." He felt the pressure of cold steel against his temple. "Careful, Jason," she said, her voice a silky smooth warning as his eyes opened into hers. 

"Where's Jessica?" 

Eva leaned forward, bringing her lips closer to his ear. "I had her in my sights today at the Yacht Club. I could've easily killed her." 

"Why didn't you?" 

"I have something special planned for your wife, Jason. Don't worry," Eva teased. "She's going to love it. How many men do you think she can take at one time?" 

In an instant Jason grabbed Eva's wrist and reached for his gun under his pillow, but Eva was ready for him when he rolled her beneath him. Besides, his gun wasn't there. The flash of blue steel glinted menacingly at his chest. 

Eva arched a brow. "You gave it to your wife, remember? She has made you weak and careless, Jason." 

Jason pulled back and eased from the bed. He wouldn't be much good to Jessica if he was dead. Heavy footsteps halted outside the cabin door before it was roughly thrown open. He narrowed his eyes, recognizing the man as one of the crew. 

"Have you got her?" Eva demanded. 

The large man standing in the doorway nodded. "On deck." He looked at Jason. "What are we going to do with him?" 

"He's coming with me. You're to take the woman. That was the deal." 

Anger, helplessness and guilt all surged through Jason at that moment. 

"My father sent you," he said with the incredulity of slow dawning realization and the calm acceptance of a fact that really wasn't unexpected. "I thought you wanted out from beneath my father's control," he accused. 

Eva turned glittering eyes back to his. "I did once. For you," she said. "But you threw me aside, anyway." 

"Because," he said coldly, "you were sleeping with my father." 

"Yes. But it was you that I loved. All I wanted was a second chance to prove that." 

"Is that why you're doing this? To get back at me?" 

"Not to get back at you. To get you back. It's that simple, Jason, but you never understood that, did you? Your father did. He knew I wouldn't refuse this assignment. I even said I would do the job for free." 

"And you're nothing if not good at your job," Jason scathed. "Do you really think I would want you if you killed my wife?" 

"You just proved you would. We're the same you and I. You need a woman like me to stir your blood not that simpering mouse." 

"Like I said. My body betrayed me." 

"Your wife will undoubtedly be glad to hear that," Eva mocked. "Who knows, Kestrel, this might make her a tad more willing in your arms tonight." 

The man in the doorway grunted out a laugh. "I look forward to that pleasure." 

"If you so much as lay one finger on her—" 

"You'll what?" Eva held the gun firmly at his chest and cocked it. "Get dressed," she ordered. 

She turned back to Kestrel. "If he tries anything shoot him, but just wound him. I don't want him dead...just yet." 

Kestrel gave a fiendish chuckle and lowered the barrel of his gun to Jason's leg. 

* * * * 

As soon as Jason emerged on the main deck Jess ran to him and grabbed his arm. Right now she'd rather take her chances with him than with these modern-day pirates. 

"What do they want?" she whispered. 

Jason opened his mouth to speak, but her eyes darted past him to the glittering gaze of the woman who'd emerged on deck. Jess' eyes rounded in surprise as she recognized the blond woman from the elevator in the Baja Mar Hotel. Her hair spilled loosely down her back and she wore Jason's shirt. Jess relaxed her hold on Jason's arm and glanced at his face. He held her gaze, but she knew the truth. 

It took another woman to recognize that glow. One of a woman who'd had incredible, satiating sex. It'd been that way with her too after she'd spent the night in Jason's arms. There'd been something inherently different about her. Her smile had been as brazen and her eyes as provocative as those on the face of the blond haired woman staring at her with unveiled hostility. 

"Your father's very pleased, Jason," the woman purred. 

She stepped closer, flicking a contemptuous gaze over Jess. "He wasn't sure you could pull it off, considering you had to lower your standards and tastes for this nauseating tramp." 

"Shut up, Eva," Jason hissed. 

Eva's smile was slow and triumphant, but Jess grasped the situation with stunned clarity. Tears sprung in her eyes at the thought of Jason making love to another woman—at what'd been insinuated. Her stomach roiled and she wrenched free of Jason as if his touch stung her. 

"Jessica—" His voice was rough with emotion. 

"Don't!" she spat. 

Her own voice sounded hollow in her ears and she could barely draw breath from the pain stabbing through her. Why should she feel hurt or betrayed? Drew had been right all along. 

A big man grabbed her arm. The one they'd called Kestrel. The one who'd dragged her from her bed and outside onto the main deck. He leered at her, lowering his face close to hers. She shuddered, feeling sick to her stomach. 

"Where do you think you're going?" he said. 

She gagged watching the specks of spittle spray his upper lip. "I'm going to be sick," she choked, turning her head away from the stench of day-old sweat and rotten onions. 

Kestrel pushed her from him, toward the side of the yacht. Behind her she could hear laughter and lewd suggestions. And bickering about which man would have her first. They had guns, what could she do? What could Jason do? Nothing. He was one of them. 

She leaned further over the railing and stared down into the dark water. She wasn't a strong swimmer and the thought of throwing herself into the sea didn't appeal to her in the slightest. But she'd rather have a fighting chance, than have her fate sealed like this. 

She stopped thinking and scrambled over the railing. And dived from the yacht. 

Above her, a hail of loud voices, angry in their surprise, cascaded down behind her. But it was Jason's voice she heard clearly, full of fear and passion as he called her name. It resonated through her heart as she disappeared beneath the cold, frightening surface. She swam deeper and away from the shower of bullets hitting the water around her. 

Instinct kicked in. She kicked her legs and moved her arms, pushing the water downward as she tried to rise through it. She wanted to breathe. 

Don't breathe. Oh God! Don't panic! 

The current was too strong. Her lungs hurt with the incredible need to inhale. An image flashed through her mind. The premonition she'd had since she was a child—Her dead body lying in a pool of water. It was inevitable. She was going to die. In water. She gave one final push. One final kick. The strength was gone from her arms and legs through her exertions. She closed her eyes. It was only a matter of time before her body took its first painful breath. 

Something gripped her waist, dragging her upward through the water. Suddenly, she broke the surface of the water and felt the reviving air on her face. She gasped, taking in a lung full of precious oxygen and releasing the pressure in her lungs. She spluttered, gulping in more air. Her hands clung frantically to the solid form holding her tight. Flesh and blood, his heartbeat pounding as loudly as her own. She clutched him tighter, hugging him closer as she gasped for more air. He kept them moving, kept them afloat in the lapping waves. 

"We have to swim to the shore, Jessica. They'll be looking for us." 

She pulled back, summoning her strength, both physically and mentally, to look at Jason. He reached for her face, cupping it with both hands. 

"Stay close to me!" 

She nodded and his mouth captured hers in a brief kiss before releasing her. She swam toward the dark outline of the shore. 

* * * * 

As hot and sultry as the days could be, the limestone caves at night could be as much as twenty degrees lower. The chilly air pricked at his skin and he shivered. Jason's eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness hanging heavily between them. He watched her, waiting for her to remove her clothes and join him on the makeshift bed of dried palm leaves. They needed to share their body heat and stay warm. 

She stood with her back to him, breathing deeply, her arms wrapped about her slender figure, her head leaning against the cave wall. Whether by chance or instinct he'd found her. She was grateful. And confused. And hurt. And angry. He'd slept with another woman. He heard her shiver again, could feel she held onto her sanity by a single fragile thread. 

The intermittent sound of rolling waves on the shale-strewn floor disturbed the cavernous quiet that'd stretched between them. 

"Why did you do that?" 

His chest tightened at the sound of her tears in her voice. "Do what?" 

"Come after me. I don't know what to believe anymore. Every time I think I've got you figured out, you go and prove me wrong." 

"Deep in your heart you know me, Jessica. Otherwise you wouldn't have left Jake so unprotected." 

"This was never about Jake, was it? It was about tying up loose ends. Me," she said. "And as quickly and as quietly as possible. Letting me drown would've been a tad suspicious since witnesses saw me board your yacht." 

He rose to his feet. Her voice was calm. Too calm. 

"Jessica, stop this!" 

"Tell me, was it your father's idea to use Sean? Was that the plan? To get close to me, seduce me. Lull me into a false sense of security before attributing my death to some unfortunate accident or other? Or was it to be at the hands of those pirates? It's a common enough occurrence in this day and age, and no one would be suspicious of any ulterior plan." 

He could hear her shivering, trying to fight the cold seeping to her bones. But she was in no state to believe his denials, all he could do was try to disprove Drew's condemning and damning assumptions about him and someday take away the hurt he saw in her eyes before she dived headfirst from the yacht. Hurt he knew he'd put there. 

He stepped toward her and she jerked around. Her eyes, shiny with tears, locked on his. 

"Who is she?" 

He knew who she was talking about. He stopped in front of her, leaving some space between them 

"My ex-wife." 

"I see, and what she said—" 

"None of it was true." 

"But you did make love to her." 

"We didn't make love. We had sex—" 

"Don't," she whispered. 

"Jessica, it's not what you think—" 

"Not that it matters," she dismissed, "since our marriage is nothing. I'm in no position to be demanding anything of you, am I?" 

She gave a mocking laugh. "You sleep with your ex-wife and it's not what I think. Well, let's add arrogance and egotism to your growing list of virtues, shall we?" 

"And stubbornness to yours," Jason retorted. 

Her teeth were chattering louder than before. 

"Jessica, we can talk, argue, fight—whatever you want—later but we need to share our body heat or you'll freeze to death down here." 

"Would that be such a bad thing? You can tell everyone I nearly drowned. You saved me and I succumbed to hypothermia. See. Natural causes." 

"Stop it, Jessica. Please." 

He reached for her in the darkness and drew her firmly to him, sucking in a shivering breath as her cold, wet clothing brushed against his bare skin. 

"Do you honestly think if I wanted you dead I would care about how cold you were? Do you think I would have dived in after you? Brought you here?" he challenged. "Do you?" 

His hands cupped her face and his eyes searched her lambent gaze. He wanted to hold her, feel her skin against his, kiss her and make her his again. 

"That's the part I don't understand," she whispered, teeth chattering. 

"Don't you, Jessica? It isn't about some old plantation at High Rock anymore. It's about you and me and Jake." 

She gasped softly. "Really? Your ex-wife seemed to make it clear—" 

"Shh..." 

He leaned his forehead against hers. "I know what I want. Do you?" 

The brightness of her eyes disappeared behind suddenly lowered eyelids. After a heavy pause she stepped from him and peeled off her clothes. 

He took her hand, leading her to the makeshift bed. He drew her down onto the palm leaves admiring the way, that even in the dusky light, her skin radiated a faint golden glow. 

She lay on her side, her face away from his, her back against his chest. He pressed his body closer, draping an arm across her waist, scooping her into his warmth. He held her tight and his mind slipped back in time when they'd silently offered each other their bodies, their hearts and souls. Everything and everyone had been forgotten in that one precious night. He wanted that night again. He wanted her. She breathed a sigh. 

"What now?" 

"We wait. The perimeter around the house is linked to a silent alarm connected to the local police in Exuma. If Eva's there...then the police will be here soon." 

Jess stiffened in his arms and he caught the reflective glint in her down-turned eyes. He knew he needed to explain Eva. To tell Jess that despite the drastic start to their own marriage it'd become real for him. That she was the one who held his heart. And he would, when she was ready to hear it. 

* * * * 

His name rang from somewhere distant and pulled Jason from sleep. 

"Mr. McCormack!" 

This time Jason opened his eyes. 

The cave was still dark. How long had they slept? The makeshift bed of palm leaves crunched beneath his shifting weight. His thigh cradled Jess' hip. She'd nestled her bottom firmly against his crotch and his erection nudged her soft curve. He pulled her to him delighting in her softness, her fragrance. Her. 

Jess murmured and turned in his arms. She stretched and opened her eyes directly into his. The voice called his name again. She scrambled into a sitting position and crossed her arms across her chest. "What is it? Have they found us?" 

Jason leaned forward and pressed a reassuring kiss against her shoulder. 

"No," he mused. "That'll be the police." 

"Then we'd better get dressed," she said rising to her feet. 

The voices drew closer slicing through the stretched silence between them. He heard her shiver as she pulled on her damp clothes. He raked his fingers loosely through his hair. 

Minutes later they emerged from the cave and headed toward the sound of his name and the bright lights fracturing the night. 

They followed an obviously delighted and relieved policeman up to Jason's Bahamian styled luxury villa where an older man waited outside by the pool staring out across the darken trees and shadowy ocean. He turned as they approached, a polite smile on his face. 

"Mr. McCormack?" he queried. "And Mrs. McCormack?" 

They both nodded. 

"Inspector Forbes, CDU," he said, flipping open his ID. 

Jason frowned. "What's an inspector from the Central Detective Unit doing here? It's a simple case of home invasion, isn't it?" 

"We'd received a distress call from the MCORMC-1 stating it'd been attacked by pirates. That was before someone breached your perimeter alarm." 

The inspector tipped his chin toward the sea. "The captain managed to free himself before untying the rest of the crew. They couldn't tell us what these pirates wanted, but we got a name. Kestrel. Ever heard of him, Mr. McCormack." 

Jason bristled. "Why in hell should I know him?" 

"I merely ask because he served as a crewmember aboard the MCORMC-1." 

"My father's yacht. My father's crew," Jason stated. 

"So, you don't know this man." 

"No. I don't." 

The inspector turned to Jess. "And you, Mrs. McCormack? Is there anything you can tell me about these pirates?" 

Jason felt Jess shiver. The slight pressure of his fingers about hers conveyed his silent wish. 

"No, Inspector. There was nothing distinguishable about any of them. I was asleep and had barely time to focus before I was p-pushed overboard." 

"Do you have any idea what these men could've wanted?" he asked. 

Jess shook her head. "No, I don't. Money? Jewels?" she proffered. 

"Well, it wasn't the yacht because that's still there, which is surprising considering the value of it." 

His eyes scanned her wedding band and engagement ring. 

"In fact, nothing of value seems to have been taken at all." 

"I'll check in the morning and let you know if anything's missing, Inspector," Jason interjected. 

The inspector kept his eyes on Jess' face. "Good. Either they didn't find what they were looking for. Or what they were looking for escaped overboard. It's rather fortunate you were so close to home." 

Jess stiffened. "If you're suggesting I'm withholding information, Inspector Forbes, let me tell you that I've been shot at and nearly drowned tonight. So, it would hardly be in my best interest, would it?" 

"Should I send for a doctor?" 

"No. I'm cold and I'm tired and I just want to be left alone." 

She turned, tugging her fingers free of Jason's, and stormed inside the house. 

Inspector Forbes beckoned the two policemen at his side. "Walk with me, Mr. McCormack." 

The two men ambled down to the floodlit waterfront, the two policemen following at a discrete distance. 

"How long have you been married?" the inspector asked. 

"A little over a week. Why?" 

"What does your wife know about you, Mr. McCormack?" 

Genuine shock filled Jason. "What are you getting at, Inspector?" 

The inspector pursed his lips. "I saw your...wife...yesterday morning on Andros—" 

"She doesn't seem to remember you," Jason chipped in. 




Blood of His Fathers Ch. 14-17



Chapter Fourteen 

Inspector Forbes examined the long thin blade between his fingers. 

"Ingenious," he murmured. "Where do you buy gadgets like these? Or perhaps you don't. You have them custom made." 

"I'd like to go to the hospital and see my wife." 

Jason hadn't wanted to kill Eva, but he hadn't been willing to let Jessica die. The moment had been instinctive. A schooled precision that he'd learned from his father. 

Inspector Forbes slipped the stiletto back into its scabbard with flawless ease. There it looked like a harmless enough object—somewhat larger than a fountain pen, but as stylish as a Waterford. 

The scabbard fixed perpendicular to a marble base and had been made to perfection. On one side of the base was a small, obscure button. Inspector Forbes pushed this button once again and the stiletto catapulted to about ten inches in the air. 

"I guess it's a wrist thing," he remarked dryly as it landed point first on the desk. "You've obviously had some practice with this," he continued. He turned his full gaze onto Jason. "I mean, to catch a stiletto mid-air and throw it with incredible accuracy into someone's heart takes some proficiency, doesn't it?" 

"Inspector Forbes—" 

"Why don't you start at the beginning, Mr. McCormack," the inspector interjected smoothly. "It's clearly self-defense, but I'm not entirely satisfied with your version of events." 

Jason released a long, deep breath. "Then, I want to speak to a lawyer." 

"Of course you do, Mr. McCormack. It is, after all, your inalienable right." 

"Just to let you know, Inspector, I'm hiding nothing, but I'll be damned if I sit here answering questions when my wife may be dying." 

"Answering questions?" Inspector Forbes shot back. "You've told me nothing, not even the name of the woman you killed. I'm not a fool, so please don't treat me as such. I could arrest you with the evidence I have now". 

"Is that a threat? I'd be out on bail before the ink was dry." 

"That's true, Mr. McCormack, but money will not always be the solution to your problems." 

"I know that, Inspector. The fact my wife may die tonight testifies to that rather nicely, don't you think?" 

Inspector Forbes drew in a deep breath. "There have been three attempts on your wife's life since her arrival in the Islands." 

He picked up a file and threw it across the table toward him. "Fire, pirates and now she's been shot. Is your wife in danger because of who you are, Mr. McCormack?" 

"Don't you think I want to find the answers as much as you do?" 

"This is a matter for the police. Let us handle this." 

Jason pulled his lips to a thin line and then jumped to his feet. "She's my wife." 

"And it's my investigation." 

"You don't know what you're dealing with." 

"And you do?" Inspector Forbes countered. "Your wife has been lucky so far, Mr. McCormack. If you can tell me anything that could help me catch—" 

"I'm sorry, Inspector. I can't help you." 





Blood of His Fathers Ch. 14-17



The vessel moored and the detective alighted quickly with rope in hand, securing it to a palisade. Another man, his body silhouetted against the early morning light, followed him somewhat more gingerly onto the dock. John swallowed thickly, his heart jolting at the sight of the limp form cradled in the man's arms. 

He sensed the other man's air of caution. The beach was practically empty save two fishermen preparing to go out on the morning tide. But there was more than a sense of urgency in this dramatic dawn arrival. 

"What happened to her?" he said. "What happened to my daughter?" 

"Jessica was shot." 

"Shouldn't she be in a hospital?" 

"I signed her out of the Princess Margaret Hospital to bring her here." 

"And who are you?" 

"Jason McCormack. Jessica's husband." 

John tensed his shoulders. It'd been a while since he'd heard that name. "McCormack? Your father's Alexander McCormack?" 

"Yes." 

John looked at the young man, taking in the arrogant tilt of his head, the defiance in his eyes, the stubborn curve of his mouth. And perhaps there was a tinge of anger to match his own displeasure. But he didn't have the right to play the indignant father. He'd given up his rights the day he'd left Jess at High Rock and didn't look back. He'd been selfish, choosing a life that hadn't included his daughter. 

He lowered his gaze to Jess, her head resting on Jason's shoulder. Her arms hanging limply at her side. There would be time for answers later. 

"I know of the history between our families, Mr. Thomas," Jason said. "But I won't allow it to destroy what Jessica and I have. Not from my father and not from you." 

He could attribute the bravado of Jason's words to the brashness of youth, but John knew he wouldn't be doing the other man justice. He nodded curtly. 

"Come," he said. "Let's get her inside." 

John encompassed Drew in a cursory glance. "My car is parked close by." 

Zip elected to remain on his boat, saying Jason and Drew would find him there when they were ready to return. 

They followed John in the direction of the few scattered buildings behind the tree-lined beach and approached John's old Cadillac. 

John flashed Jason another distrustful glance as the Inspector hurried ahead and opened the back door of the car. He watched Jason maneuver himself and his wife into the backseat, her soft moan stabbing at his heart. He climbed behind the wheel and waited for the policeman to slide in the passenger side. Then he put the car in gear and headed inland. 

No one had eyes for the raw natural beauty passing them by. Dirt roads soon replaced tarmac and after a short while John veered the car onto an overgrown trail of flourishing banana, mango and palm trees. He maneuvered the antiquated car with effortless ease and great care. And tried to avoid the huge potholes as they meandered deeper and further off the beaten track. Jess moaned again and he cursed the dense, untamed habitat. Finally, he reached a clearing and the sanctuary that was his home. 

He lived on an isolated part of the island without electricity or water, except for the well he'd dug years earlier. But the house was comfortable and clean. And there was Milly, who now stood on the veranda waiting for his return. 

Milly came down the steps of the porch to meet them, taking charge and overseeing Jess' slow, careful extraction from the car to the small room she'd prepared at the front of the house. 

John watched Jason from the cramped doorway. He'd stayed by his daughter's bedside. John didn't need Milly to make him see what was right in front of his nose. McCormack or not, Jason loved his daughter. He cleared his throat in an effort to stem the emotions bubbling through his heart. 

"You took a risk taking her out of the hospital," John admonished gently. "But, I want to thank you for bringing her here. I never thought I would ever see her again." 

Jason turned his head to look up at him. He kept Jess' fingers clasped between his own. 

"I wish it was under different circumstances, Mr. Thomas. This can't be easy for you, having me here." 

John raised a placating hand. "The sins of the father should never be visited on the son. I'm sorry about earlier." 

"I understand." 

Jason turned his gaze back to Jess. "You have no reason to trust me, I know that, but I will undo all that my father has done." 

"I take it you're talking about the old plantation at High Rock." 

Jason nodded. "Jessica was hurt because I couldn't protect her." 

"Protection. That's a sight more than she ever got from me," John replied softly. "If Jessica got hurt because of this mess, then I'm to blame. I should've confronted Carolyn and your father a long time ago. But I chose to be indifferent and act as if the whole business was above me. I should've at least tried. I should've raised hell, but I was never one for that. Jess could never have counted on me because I was never there for her or her mother." 

"But she can count on you now, Mr. Thomas, and it's now that matters." 

John released a slow, pensive breath and entered the room. He placed a reassuring hand on Jason's shoulder. 

"I know a son wouldn't willingly go against his own father, so I know your choice can't be an easy one. It must hurt and I praise your courage. You must love my daughter—you must love Jessica very much." 

"I do." 

"What should I tell her when she wakes up?" 

"Tell her—just tell her I'll be back for her." 

"And when will that be?" 

"To be honest, I don't know, but keep Jessica here. I need to know she's safe while I'm gone." 

"You do what you have to do," John answered quietly. 





Blood of His Fathers Ch. 14-17



His son's marriage had been a clever move. He'd even admired his son's boldness, but it wouldn't be enough for Jason to stop him. Alexander clenched his fist. Jason had betrayed him, his heritage and everything it meant to be a McCormack and for what? A woman—and an inferior one at that. 

He stared at the telephone. Right now, that woman ought be dead. But the more time elapsed the less convinced he was of that fact. Eva was never late. He turned back to the window in time to see the blue Lexus streak away into the night. He grabbed his coat, stormed toward the door and yanked it open. He didn't like this. No, he didn't like this one little bit. 

Chapter Sixteen 

Inspector Forbes extended a hand to them as they entered the quiet foyer at the Hotel Baja Mar. 

"Inspector Mahon, Mr. McCormack," he said. "You're out and about early this morning." 

Both men returned the acknowledgment. 

"As are you, Inspector," Drew said. 

"Shall we get some coffee, gentlemen?" he said. "You look like you could do with some." 

Jason felt the intensity of the man's gaze. 

"I'd like to stay and chat, Inspector, but I have to get to the airport." 

"You're not leaving the Bahamas just yet, I hope," the inspector smiled. 

"No. I'm meeting a friend." 

"Anyone I should know about?" 

"No." 

"I just need a few moments of your time, Mr. McCormack then you can be on your way. Besides, I know where you can get the best coffee in the Islands." 

Coffee was bought with the compliments of Inspector Forbes back at his office. Jason sat and stared into the swirling hot, dark liquid as if it resembled some strange entity. 

"Where is your wife, Mr. McCormack?" The interrogation had begun. "We know you checked her out the hospital two nights ago." 

"Somewhere safe," Jason replied. 

"I need to speak with her." 

He raised guarded eyes to the inspector. "Why?" 

"We've managed to trace the movements of the woman you killed." 

Jason grimaced. "It was self-defense." 

The inspector waved a hand. "Ascertaining her true identity is proving to be a problem. She'd traveled under a false name, false passport, but I guess you knew that." 

Inspector Forbes smiled. "You couldn't just tell me who she was, could you? Save me some time so I can wrap this case up." 

Jason met his direct gaze. 

"But, of course you won't," the inspector surmised. 

He leant back in his chair. 

"It turns out she came to the Islands March ninth, a day later than your wife. She had one visitor at her hotel that very same day. Carolyn Roberts." 

Jason kept his eyes focused, and his face impassive. "What has this got to do with my wife?" 

Inspector Forbes took a leisurely sip of his coffee. "We naturally went to see Ms. Roberts," he continued. "Her house is in Lyford Cay, a more than wealthy suburb of Nassau—very exclusive and very protective of its status. All arrivals and departures are noted at the main security gate. Did you know that?" 

Jason nodded. Of course he did. 

"We found Jessica McCormack's name on the visitors list. She'd visited Ms. Roberts March twelfth. The same day I believe she checked out of the Hotel Baja Mar with you. The same day pirates, Mr. McCormack, attacked you. And a day before your wife was shot." 

"What do you want, Inspector?" 

"Carolyn Roberts has disappeared. Gone. And what's more her house has already been sold to a private, cash buyer." 

"To whom?" Drew queried. 

"To one 'J. McCormack'," Inspector Forbes replied. "Interesting, isn't it?" 

"That's it?" Jason retorted. 

"Yes, but it's enough, don't you think? Your wife's name is Jessica, isn't it?" Inspector Forbes inquired lightly. 

"My name begins with a 'J' also, Inspector. Would you arrest me, too, because of that?" 

"Most probably if I didn't have further evidence that it's your wife I want and not you." 

Inspector Forbes raised a staying hand before Jason could speak. "We've already spoken to the realtors involved and I have a copy of the contract of sale. Besides we can place your wife at the real estate offices of Hudson, Rolle and Moore an hour after she'd left Lyford Cay. But then again you may both be in this together. And what of the woman you killed? An associate, maybe? What happened? Did things get out of hand?" 

Jason stood abruptly. He couldn't deny the facts were fast weighing up against Jessica. 

"What happened to believing in self-defense?" 

"Oh, I still do believe that. But it's the circumstances leading up to that moment in your bedroom, Mr. McCormack, that I want clarified. It could be your wife is not as innocent as you try to make out." 

Drew placed a restraining hand on Jason's arm, silencing the expletive on his lips. 

"Carolyn Roberts' house was spotless," the inspector argued. "Not one sign she even lived there. No mess, no dust, no fingerprints. Isn't that extraordinary? Clean. But we were lucky enough to find a set of prints on the front door." 

Inspector Forbes' eyes didn't leave Jason's face. "I'd be willing to bet it belongs to your wife, but I'm not a betting man, Mr. McCormack. I'm a fair man. I'll wait for verification. Just tell me where she is." 

"No." 

Inspector Forbes stood calmly to face him. "One woman is already dead and Carolyn Roberts is missing. In the first instance I followed my instincts, but perhaps now I should be getting back to believing the facts. Your wife signed into Lyford Cay on the twelfth, Mr. McCormack, and signed out. There's some connection here and I want to know what that is. I told you before, don't treat me like a fool." 

"Inspector," Drew interceded. "The woman killed—the woman who shot Mrs. McCormack—was Mr. McCormack's ex-wife." 

Inspector Forbes resumed his seat. "And her name?" 

Jason expelled a deep breath and sat down. "Eva Ricci." 

"Finally, the truth," Inspector Forbes lauded sarcastically. "Or some semblance of it. Go on, Inspector Mahon," he insisted. 

"Mr. McCormack is actually helping me build a case against his father." 

"A case? What case?" 

"Mr. McCormack's father is under investigation in England. You can call my superior for confirmation if you like—" 

"Be sure, I will." 

"There's not a great deal more I can tell you, Inspector Forbes, in light of the sensitivity of this investigation, but suffice to say the trail led us here to the old plantation at High Rock." 

"The Thomas estate." Inspector Forbes pondered this bit of information for a moment. "It explains your presence at High Rock with Mrs. McCormack, but it doesn't explain Mrs. McCormack's visit to Carolyn Roberts." 

"As you said yourself, Inspector, Carolyn Roberts visited Eva Ricci at her hotel. That was two days before the fire at High Rock. I'm convinced Mrs. McCormack was the intended victim of that fire. You see, Eva Ricci worked for Alexander McCormack," Drew explained. 

Inspector Forbes glanced sharply at Jason. 

Drew continued. "I believe both women met to discuss Jessica McCormack's arrival in the Islands. There's a great deal at stake, Inspector, believe me. Jessica McCormack poses an enormous threat to Alexander McCormack. In England he wouldn't have acted, but by coming to the Bahamas she has placed herself at great risk. Mr. McCormack is here merely trying to protect his wife." 

"I see." Inspector Forbes returned his gaze to Jason. "The pirates?" 

Jason nodded. 

"If your wife is in as much danger as you seem to suggest, why not put her in my custody? All I want is to speak to her and if she confirms everything you're saying then there's nothing to worry about." 

"She's safe, Inspector," Jason answered. 

"All right," Inspector Forbes conceded, raising a hand. "Let's say I believe you, Inspector Mahon, what do you want me to do?" 

"Actually, I need to access Eva Ricci's accounts here on the Island. Could you arrange for me to have a copy of her death certificate? It may expedite my inquiries at the bank." 

"Co-operation works both ways, Detective Inspector Mahon. Don't forget Carolyn Roberts is a native to these islands and she's still missing." 

"We're getting closer to Alexander McCormack, but we need more time to gather potentially vital evidence." 

Inspector Forbes studied both men a moment longer, his brow drawn in pensive thought. He drew in a tight breath. 

"Preferably, without my interference?" 

"Pirates?" Drew queried as both men left Inspector Forbes' office. 

Jason was in no mood to recount the story. "Why did you tell him about my father, about Eva?" 

"I had to tell him something," Drew countered. "And better the truth, don't you think? You were this close," he said, demonstrating with his fingers just how much, "to being thrown in jail. Inspector Forbes has enough circumstantial evidence to lock you up and throw away the key. I would've done so with less." 

"Yes, I remember," Jason replied dryly. 

"If you want to protect Jess you can better do that outside of a police cell, don't you think? You know Carolyn Roberts was the one who sold the Thomas property to your father." 

"Yes, but I don't believe Jessica has anything to do with her disappearance." 

"Neither do I." 

Jason glanced at his watch. "Shit. I've got to get to the airport." 

"I'll wait for Eva's death certificate and head over to the bank." 

Drew watched Jason cross the road to the rental car and drive away. He reached for his cell phone and punched in Colin's number. It rang three times before his Detective Sergeant picked up on the other end. 

"Sergeant Farrell," Colin answered. 

"It's me, Col." 

"Drew? About bloody time!" 

"I know. I'm sorry, but there have been some interesting developments here." 

"Like what?" 

"There's a file in my office, in the cabinet behind the door. The key is—" 

"Under the plant pot. I know. I'm a policeman Drew and that's hardly an original hiding place. Which file do I need?" 

"The one on Nicolae Nastase." 

"Right—" 

"And I need you to find out if Alexander McCormack has ever been to Romania. And if so whether he was in contact with Nicolae Nastase." 

"What's this all about Drew? What has any of this got to do with finding Sean's sister?" 

"I'll fill you in when I get back. I also need information on Eva Ricci. And Col? Listen. Keep this between us for the time being. Tell Marsters nothing. Not before I get back." 

"When will that be?" 

"In a couple of days. First, I'm going for a dive." 

But before Colin could voice his disbelief, Drew had hung up the phone. He would explain the rest later. Right now, he had to get his head around the idea of diving with Jason McCormack. His aversion to the sea wasn't going to help either. 





Blood of His Fathers Ch. 18-22



Chapter Eighteen 

London, England Monday, March 22 

Drew pulled the collar of his coat closer about his neck and rubbed his hands against the cold. He'd been in England less than twelve hours and his body had already forgotten what it felt like to be warm. 

He strolled into O'Casey's at ten past ten. The bar was quiet, except for a few regulars, but that was to be expected at closing time on a Monday night. It was the way he liked it. No crowds. No noise. He greeted the bartender with a curt nod and continued to the room at the back of the pub. 

"Welcome back to gray, old miserable London," Colin said as he approached. "I took the liberty of ordering." 

Drew eyed the pint of Guinness on the table and flashed Colin an appreciative grin. 

"Cheers," he said. He sat down and reached for the stout glass, taking a moment to savor the rich, creamy taste of the smooth dark liquid on his tongue. 

Colin grinned. "Good?" 

"Yeah. Good. Okay. Business." 

"You asked me to find out if Alexander McCormack had any connection to Romania," Colin said. 

He reached for the briefcase leaning against the table leg. 

"Whether he'd ever been there or contacted Nicolae Nastase. Sorry to disappoint, Drew, but as far as I can tell McCormack has never been to Romania. There's no connection. I checked and double checked." 

"Private jet? Charter?" 

"I checked," Colin reiterated. "Although there's the possibility he may have traveled under an assumed name, but the man's too arrogant for that. Bernard Greene, on the other hand, well...that's a whole other story." 

"He was photographed a few weeks ago leaving the BNP headquarters with McCormack, right?" 

Colin nodded. "He's also the BNP candidate for Islington in the upcoming General Election." 

He pushed the photo he'd retrieved from his briefcase across the table to Drew. "And this is Viktor Marinescu." 

"Viktor Marinescu?" 

Drew studied the photo of the five men. Three were seated, flanked by the other two. 

"To the right, behind Viktor Marinescu, is Bernard Greene. The face is thinner and younger, but there's no mistaking him." 

"When was this taken?" 

"In France, about ten years ago. Greene's face is as well-known in stadiums across Eastern Europe as his activities are to the local police, but so far he and his companions have never been arrested." 

"What kind of activities?" 

"He was—and probably still is—an honorary member of several extreme right-wing groups across Europe. Many of those have enormous clout within the football world, namely in Romania, Poland, Italy and France. Wherever they go they cause trouble, stir up intolerance and incite racial tension targeting black players unfortunate enough to play at the local levels." 

"So, why hasn't he ever been arrested?" 

"In England, we prevent known trouble-makers from traveling to international matches and we crackdown on disorderly behavior at football games. The same can't be said about most of Eastern Europe. The football unions do nothing because they're not pressured into doing anything to stop the violence at their clubs. And quite simply the fans bring in the money, so mostly they turn a blind eye to any problems." 

"Creating the perfect environment for people like Bernard Greene to spew their hatred," Drew added cynically. "Where did you get this photo?" 

"Football Intelligence Unit. I know someone who works there. Now I owe him a favor. What I don't understand, Drew, is what any of this has to do with Tom Addison's death. I mean, that's what we're investigating isn't it?" 

Drew released a breath. "Addison's ex-wife was at Marmaduke's the night of the murder. I drove her home and spoke to her the following morning. A day later she'd hopped a plane to the Bahamas—" 

"Wait, I thought you went high tailing it after Jason McCormack's wife?" 

"Jessica Addison is Jessica McCormack. She's also Jessica Wright. Sean's sister." 

Drew drained the contents from his glass in one long, slow drink. 

"What? And she married Jason McCormack!" Colin said aghast. "That can't be right." 

"Well, it is. I'd told her about McCormack. That she needed to open her eyes about the family she'd married into. I thought she didn't believe me. But she went to the Bahamas in search of an old plantation at High Rock." 

"A plantation?" 

"Another piece of the puzzle." 

"Is this why you've got me investigating Nastase—who isn't Nastase?" 

"The man in the morgue and Nicolae Nastase form a piece of this puzzle too. There are too many coincidences and I can't ignore my gut feeling about this case. There's a common thread that links them all." 

Drew scanned the photo in his hand. "It's there. We just need to find it." Before Jess gets killed. 

"The only thing we have to go on at the moment is Finsbury Town Football Club," Colin said. "The Chairman is Alexander McCormack and the investor is Viktor Marinescu. Ten years ago Bernard Greene had been arrested for aggravated assault. During the interrogation he mentioned Viktor Marinescu. I did a background check on Marinescu. Prior to twenty years ago he didn't exist and we can't seem to locate him now." 

"Keep at it. What did Greene have to say about Viktor Marinescu?" 

"That he was looking to invest in lower division Premier League Clubs." 

"Lower division? Why lower division? The most investors tend to vie for the top clubs." 

"I know." 

"And nobody thought that was strange. So, Bernard Greene knew Viktor Marinescu and Marinescu knows Alexander McCormack. What's that?" Drew said peering closer at the photo. 

What?" 

"There's something on Marinescu's collar." 

"Some kind of pin. A badge I guess," Colin said. "It probably wasn't important. That's why there's no mention of it in the files." 

"Probably. See if you can enlarge it, will you? And let me know what it is. Perhaps it can tell us a little more about Viktor Marinescu and how we can find him." 

"I'll get on it first thing tomorrow morning." 

Drew abruptly stood. 

"Where are you going?" Colin asked. 

"To see Adrienne." He glanced at his watch. It was late, but she would still be at work. 

"Do you want me to come?" 

Drew raised his glass to his lips and drained its contents. "No." 

"What about Marsters?" 

"I'll go and see him first thing in the morning. Night, Col." 

* * * * 

Adrienne Purdy lifted her head at the sound of her office door swinging open. 

"Drew," she said, unable to keep her surprise from her voice. 

"I thought you would still be here," he said. 

"Welcome back. When did you get in?" 

"A couple of hours ago, but I needed to see Colin first." 

"How is he?" 

"Good." 

"And you?" 

"Fine." 

Adrienne nodded slowly. She'd been around Drew long enough to know when he was not fine. He sounded the same and looked the same, but his eyes missed their twinkle, their mischief and she missed it too. She angled her head slightly. He'd been hurt. He wasn't hers anymore, and that bothered her more than it should. 

"A couple of weeks in the sun have done you good. You look well. Healthy." 

"Thanks." 

"How's it going with the case? Want some tea? I just made some." 

Drew stepped further into Adrienne's small office. "No, thanks. I'm fine." 

He pushed a hand through his hair. "This case has complications, Adrienne. Twists and turns that don't lead anywhere, and yet I always seem to end up at the same place." 

"Anything I can do?" 

"I need to know what Wesson said about our John Doe." 

Adrienne smiled. "Colin told me you were interested in that. Why? Do you think he has something to do with the case you're working on?" 

"As I said," Drew answered, "this case has complications." 

"Well, Wesson didn't say much. He just took one look at the upper torso and said it wasn't Nicolae Nastase. We'd made a mistake." 

"But the fingerprints, Adrienne. Fingerprints don't lie. How did Nastase's fingerprints become linked to our John Doe? Unless our John Doe was meant to be Nastase?" 

"Which means the real Nastase now looks like our John Doe would've looked before the surgery? And don't forget he has aged." 

Drew chuckled. "You've been thinking about this." 

"Yes, I have. But I don't know, Drew. It sounds a bit far-fetched, don't you think?" 

"Say it is true. Why go to so much trouble?" 

"That's why you're the policeman, Drew. You'll work it out. And here's something else to think about. Our John Doe is approximately eighty-five years old, right?" 

Drew nodded. 

"Well, the files show that Nicolae Nastase must be at least one hundred years old. If he's still alive, I doubt he's a threat to anybody." 

He rubbed his neck with the back of his hand. "You know what. I think I will have some tea. Thanks." 

"Sure. And you can tell me about your trip to the Bahamas." 

She crossed the room to the teapot standing on top of the filing cabinet. "Colin tells me you went diving. That can't have gone well. I mean, with your thalassophobia." 

"It wasn't that bad, actually. I had a good dive partner." 

It was almost midnight by the time Drew returned home. He dropped his bags on the hallway floor and headed straight for the shower. 

Adrienne hadn't given him much more information than he already had, but something bothered him. It still tugged at the back of his mind as he towel-dried his hair. As if he was missing something important but it kept eluding his grasp. He pulled on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt and went to retrieve the file on the John Doe from his bag. He padded into the kitchen, threw the file on the table and made himself some coffee. 

"Okay, John," he mused, sitting down at the kitchen table. "What aren't you telling me?" 

He opened the file and started to read. 

He finished his second cup of coffee and closed the dossier, dragging a hand down his face. 

He just took one look at the upper torso and said it wasn't Nicolae Nastase. We'd made a mistake. 

His hand stilled at Adrienne's words ringing in his mind and the image of Jason's tattoo flashing his mind. 

"And what does that tell us?" Drew murmured into the silence. "That Wesson was looking for something else. Something that would identify Nicolae Nastase at a glance. A distinguishing mark of some kind. A birthmark. Or a tattoo." 

He poured a third cup of coffee. He wouldn't sleep now anyway. 

* * * * 

The next morning Drew stood outside DCS Marsters' office with his report in his hand. He paused briefly before pushing the door open, and then came to an abrupt halt. There was a man sitting at Marsters' desk, but it wasn't Marsters. 

The man stood and greeted him calmly. "Detective Inspector Mahon. Come in." 

Drew took a step further but remained standing by the door. "Where's Marsters?" 

"Detective Chief Superintendent Marsters will be joining us shortly, which gives us a few moments to talk." 

The unmistakable American accent wasn't lost on Drew and he knew this had to be Agent Wesson. He eyed the agent cautiously. 

"Talk about what?" 

"Come now, Detective Ins—" 

"Drew." 

Grant Wesson raised an obliging eyebrow. "I take it you also know who I am," he countered. 

"I do. So we can stop running around in circles." 

Grant gave a barely perceptible nod of his head. He moved from behind the desk and perched on the front edge. He leveled his gaze on Drew. 

"What were you doing in the Bahamas?" 

"Working on a case." 

"When did you get back?" 

"Last night." 

"It's a little outside your jurisdiction, isn't it? The Bahamas?" 

Drew folded his arms and leaned his weight against the wall. "I was following a lead." 

"I see." Grant reached behind him and picked up a file from the desk. "That would be Jessica Wright, I assume. Her brother was found dead after an organized fight between two rival football gangs, wasn't he? He'd been murdered." 

"I think so," Drew retorted. 

"Any suspects?" 

"Yes. One." 

"So, would I be right in assuming this case is practically solved." 

"Not quite," Drew dismissed. "There are unexpected complications." 

"And that would be Nicolae Nastase, no doubt," Grant proffered. 

Both men looked at each other, each aware of what the other was asking. 

"I want whatever information you have on Nicolae Nastase buried. Do you understand?" Grant continued gravely. "I've acquainted myself with your case. Sean Wright got caught up in a fight that he organized himself, ironically enough. Many would think he got exactly what he deserved. Your case is simple. Wrap it up." 

"No. Sean died because I goaded him to spy on a man I knew was dangerous." 

"Sean Wright was no innocent for Christ's sake! You're delving into something that doesn't concern you because some damn gangbanger, that no one will miss, died." 

Drew narrowed his gaze picking up on Wesson's unconscious slip of the tongue. "What are you afraid of, Wesson? What am I going to find?" 

"Nothing. Because you're off the case, Mahon," Wesson snapped. He sprang to his feet. 

Drew clenched his jaw. "You can get me pulled me off this case, but I won't back down quietly." 

"You could jeopardize years of tenuous peace in the Balkans," Wesson barked. "You have no idea of what you're doing." 

"I'm investigating a murder, Agent Wesson," Drew replied coolly. He pushed himself upright. "That's my job. Detection. No matter where it leads or to whom." 

Drew took a step closer. "I'm getting the distinct impression Sean Wright was a very small fish in a very large pond. The question is, in whose backyard?" 

"I'm warning you," Grant retorted stiffly. "Nicolae Nastase is not your problem." 

Drew gave a wry smile. "Then you shouldn't have tried to warn me off this case. If you'd kept out of this I probably wouldn't find out as much as I'm now going to." 

Drew stormed from the room and smiled to himself as Grant Wesson released the expletive raging on his tongue. He reached for his cell phone and called his Detective Sergeant. 

"Come on Col, pick up. Where are you?" 

* * * * 

Colin stood outside the old house on Myrtle Street and contemplated ringing the bell a second time. He looked about him. The garden was the same, overgrown and unkempt. Not unlike the man who owned it. Erik Pilarczyk. But behind the old man's disorderly appearance lay a sharp mind and an even cleverer wit. 

As a child, Colin remembered Erik as being very old. Thirty more years only added to this image and his patience. 

Patience. 

Colin smiled to himself. That was something Erik had tons of—patience for a little brat intent on mischief. Patience with a little boy intent on becoming his father's son, but Erik taught him tolerance and acceptance. Values Colin's own father hadn't. Colin shifted uncomfortably. Erik was a recluse—a man protective of his privacy and his past. Colin had done nothing more than try and destroy that. But the old man hadn't shouted or ranted or raved. Instead Erik had given him a book. 

"Read," the old man had said. 

Nothing else. Simply, "read". That book—Colin hadn't even bothered to look at the title—he'd torn up, right in front of Erik's face. His contempt for the old man had been evident in word and deed, yet Erik hadn't berated him. He gave Colin another book and another and another when each book suffered the same fate as the first. 

"Don't you think you should know something of what you speak? How else can your mind form an opinion?" was all Erik had said before closing his door the final time. 

And thus began Colin's education and the broadening of his mind. He'd regularly visited the old man in his musty home after that. They'd read and talked and listened to music, although Erik never spoke about himself or his past. And Colin learned to study hard. 

"There was a risk your books may not have changed me, but served to strengthen my beliefs," he'd once argued. 

"Then it would be your choice, Colin," Erik had answered. "An informed choice. A pity, but your choice all the same." 

He'd not understood the old man's words, so Erik elaborated. 

"If you started smoking I wouldn't like it, but I would be even more disappointed if you started smoking because you would emulate your friends rather than because it was something you chose to do." 

The ancient door creaked and scraped open dispersing the frail voice from his head. Colin prepared himself to greet the man he'd not seen for more than fifteen years. 

Erik's old eyes squinted in the harsh glare of the morning light. "Colin?" The weak voice shook with doubt and disbelief. 

"Mr. Pilarczyk," Colin smiled. "It's good to see you again." 

"And you, my boy," Erik cried. 

He clasped Colin's hand between his gloved ones, squeezing it painfully in his joy. But Colin didn't mind. He quickly enveloped the old man's thin fingers in his own and made a mental note to buy Mr. Pilarczyk thicker gloves. 

"Forgive an old man his emotions," Erik said. His cheeks were wet with tears. "I never thought I would see you ag—" His voice broke. 

Colin reassured and comforted and stepped into the old house. He led Erik to the back of the house to the living space. Nothing had changed. 

Colin breathed in the familiar smell. He'd always loved this house. The furnishings were mismatched and outdated but it'd been more like a home than his father's austere Victorian townhouse only a few streets away. He scanned Erik's collection of dusty well-thumbed books. Books in Polish, German, English and French. It was good to be back. 

"How long will you stay?" Erik asked. Hope lit his face. 

"I can only spare an hour, Mr. Pilarczyk. I'm working." 

"Ah yes. My Colin, the great detective." 

"Hardly, Mr. Pilarczyk, but it's an irony of life that has always made me laugh." 

"Why? You were a good boy, Colin. I saw it long before others did." Erik pointed a lean, crooked finger at Colin's face. "Even before you saw it in yourself." 

"Lucky for me. I'll make some tea, yes?" 

"Yes, make some tea, Colin, then I want to know what it is that brings you here today, that makes me so happy." 

* * * * 

Colin sat down in the shabby armchair next to the piano. 

"You know," Erik said. "The term fascism was first used by the Italian dictator Benito Mussolini in nineteen nineteen. The term comes from the Italian word fascio, which means union or league." 

Erik's eyes lowered to the photo in his hands. "It also refers to the ancient Roman symbol of power, the fasces. That was a bundle of sticks bound to an axe. It represented civic unity and the authority of Roman officials to punish criminals. I haven't seen this symbol since—" Erik sighed. "It's a long time since anyone needed my expertise in this area." 

"I knew if anyone could help me it would be you, Mr. Pilarczyk. I still remember your books on phaleristics and numismatics." 

Erik stood and shuffled across the room. "I want to show you something, Colin," he said. "It's time for you to know something." 

He opened a drawer and began searching through the papers propped untidily there. All the while he spoke in a low and careful voice. 

"In the third decade of this century anti-Semitism emerged as a powerful influence in Romania's political life with the establishment of the Legion of Archangel Saint Michael." He pivoted back toward Colin, and elaborated. "You know it as the Iron Guard." He resumed his search in the drawer. "That was June nineteen twenty-seven." 

The sound of Erik's searching fingers stilled and his voice faltered. He shuffled back to Colin and gave him a photo worn and yellowed with time. "The leader of the Iron Guard at the time was Corneliu Zelea Codreanu." 




Blood of His Fathers Ch. 18-22



Colin peered closer at the photo, specifically at the little boy holding the man's hand. "And the little boy? Who is he?" 

Erik smiled sadly. "The little boy is me. His son." 

Erik drew his cardigan tighter about his thin body and returned to his chair by the window. He gazed out onto the garden dotted with the last night's snowfall. A red-breasted robin chirped from a nearby tree. 

"There was so much confusion after the first world war," he said. His voice was distant, but steady and clear. "Unrest, instability, fear and poverty created the perfect anarchy where power was up for grabs. It gave rise to various extreme factions each vying for power. The Iron Guard was the most notorious and most zealous. It represented fascist ideals, preached and practiced anti-Semitism, racism and violence. My father believed in creating a new state of mind for the nation—to unite the nation through a national religion." 

Erik turned his gaze back to Colin. "At the core of his idea was the concept of national identity. Nations were to be perceived as religious entities not political concepts. He believed nations were divine creations not products of history and geography. Every nation had its own mission in the world and the nations that betrayed their God-given mission would disappear from the face of the earth. Politics was separate from religion and only men who respected the divine order became true patriots." 

"Divine order?" Colin queried. 

"Yes, divine order. My father laid out a doctrine that established a hierarchical order. The individual was subordinate to the nation and the nation was subordinate to God and the divine laws." 

"And you? What did you believe?" 

"I was my father's son, Colin," Eric returned simply. 

"What does that mean?" Colin asked. "What are you telling me? That you were a member of some fascist organization?" 

"Yes," Erik replied quietly. "I was my father's son." 

Colin blew out a breath. "And had it not been for you I would've been mine." 

Erik nodded slowly. "I am not proud of my past, of what I've done—" 

"Is that why you stay here, all alone?" 

"Partly." 

Colin blew out a breath. "I think I should go, Mr. Pilarczyk." 

"And what of the fasces?" Erik asked. "Don't you want to know what it is?" 

"I already do," Colin returned. 

"Do you?" Erik countered swiftly, raising his wrinkled brow. 

"An ancient Roman symbol..." Colin's voice faltered as he watched Erik's feeble fingers undo the buttons of his shirt. 

"It's a symbol that united the leaders of the Iron Guard, and their allies. There are few of us left," Erik continued. He bared his aged chest and exposed the vague tattoo of the fasces above his heart. 

"What are you trying to tell me?" Colin asked, although his voice clearly belied any need to hear an answer. 

Erik fixed his small gray eyes on Colin. "They are reviving the Iron Guard," he said. 

"They? Who are 'they', Mr. Pilarczyk?" Colin asked leaning forward in his seat. 

Eric chuckled and waved a gnarled finger in the air. "Nicolae Nastase," he said. "He tried to fool me, but I would know him anywhere. His appearance may have changed—" Eric poked tellingly at his own face and spoke slowly—"but it was him. He came to see me five years ago, you know. We talked about my father, about the old days. That's when he told me about his plan to revive the Iron Guard. He wanted my support because my father's name would carry a great deal of weight, but I said no. No more." Erik's feeble voice strengthened in his conviction. "I've seen what the Iron Guard can do and I cannot forget. I wanted no part of this fascist uprising. Never again." 

"Nicolae—" 

"Viktor Marinescu," Erik interjected. "That is the name he used." 

"Are you sure?" Colin insisted. 

He stared with incredulity at the photo lying on the coffee table between them. Only the insignia had been enlarged, so Viktor Marinescu's face couldn't be seen. 

"My eyes and my memory are still good. I would know Nicolae Nastase anywhere, no matter his appearance." 

"Tell me more about him. About Nicolae Nastase," Colin prompted. 

Erik closed his eyes and kept them closed. The morning light captured his face, emphasizing the stillness of his features and the transparency of an aged skin. Colin leaned forward listening for signs of life. He visibly jumped as Erik suddenly drew breath. 

"Nicolae has always been ambitious. He'd worked closely with my father, taking over the Iron Guard after my father died. That was in nineteen thirty-eight. King Carol II had established a dictatorship, and in an attempt to steal the ideological appeal of the Iron Guard move and win support, he ordered my father's death." 

Colin whipped out a pen and a small notebook. He didn't know shorthand, so he wrote as quickly as he could. 

"Two years later, on the anniversary of my father's death, Nicolae led the Guardists on a sustained rampage, slaughtering political opponents and massacring Jews. It was an ironic foreshadowing of what was to come during the second great war." 

"In nineteen forty, the Iron Guard was declared the sole legal party of the National Legionary State. Nicolae became its Vice President. The President was Ion Antonescu. He forced the king to abdicate in favor of his son, Michael, but as in all complots of betrayal and deceit, Antonescu assumed power himself. That's when I decided to leave Romania and come here. 

"But you know what is truly ironic?" Erik said. 

Colin stopped scribbling and raised his head. "No, what, Mr. Pilarczyk?" 

"I left the fascism of the Iron Guard only to find your English Blackshirts." Erik chuckled wryly. "Life," he reminisced sadly, "is ironic, Colin." 

"Yes, Mr. Pilarczyk," Colin answered. "It is." 

He punched Drew's number in on his mobile. 

Chapter Nineteen 

Viktor Marinescu was Nicolae Nastase. And if Nicolae Nastase was still alive then who was the man lying in Adrienne's cold chamber? And if Nicolae Nastase was still alive he was as old as Methuselah. What in gods name was going on? 

Drew sat alone in contemplative mood behind his desk, the silence amplifying his thoughts and spotlighting his dilemma. Colin had stunned him. If Erik Pilarczyk was to be believed then the British National Party was linked to a secret organization plotting to revive the most vicious group of the twentieth century. Even the Nazi's would be considered moderate in comparison. And it was all happening under their very noses. 

And somehow this all tied to Jessica and the property at High Rock. 

Speculation and supposition, that's all he had. And the evidence to substantiate any of it lay among the paperwork and files strewn across his desk. He knew it. He'd recognize it too when he saw it. Drew looked at the clock. Quarter to one. 

It was hard to believe he'd only been back one day. He'd not slept for two nights and he doubted he would get to bed any time soon. He'd sent Colin home under extreme duress, but one of them had to get some rest. 

For the best part of a day they'd been pouring over all the information at their disposal, trying to make some sense of it all, trying to create some semblance of order from the chaos, trying to fill in the blanks. They'd deduced the main players, but finding a connection to each and every one, that's where they became stuck. 

Drew pushed himself to his feet and rubbed his eyes. He needed coffee. The vending machine was all the way down the hall, but he needed to stretch his legs and correlate the thoughts and ideas coursing with alarming disarray through his mind. He reached for his mug and headed out the door. 

His coin rattled in the machine, its sound echoing through the empty corridor as loudly as the sound of Bernard Greene's name tumbling through his head. 

Bernard Greene had traveled frequently to Romania during nineteen eighty-seven, Colin had said and again in the early nineties. He also had extreme right-wing connections. Drew pushed the "coffee with milk" button on the machine. He retrieved the mug and took a gratifying mouthful of the brew. His mind continued to mull. 

Bernard Greene was linked to Alexander McCormack—a prominent Thatcherite with links to the BNP. In turn Alexander McCormack had a probable contact to extreme right-wing groups in Eastern Europe and most important in Romania. Why Romania? Where was the connection? He took another mouthful of coffee and then almost spit it out as Grant Wesson's words bounced through his brain. 

You could jeopardize years of tenuous peace in the Balkans. 

Drew sprinted back to his office. He rustled through the papers on his desk and searched for the one thing that'd been niggling at him more than the rest. Eva Ricci's file. He found it and pulled it open. Other than being Jason McCormack's ex-wife, hired assassin and arms dealer, Eva was a model citizen. Beautiful, philanthropic and a member of a charity group she'd notably set up herself that supplied aid to Eastern Europe. 

"What if..." Drew muttered to himself. 

He perused the invoices and travel documents showing times, dates and shipments to...Bosnia. Aid from Eva's charity had started to arrive in Bosnia in nineteen ninety one, some seven months before the Balkan war. That was what bothered him. 

The telephone rang. Apart from Colin, no one knew he was working late. 

He answered. "Scotland Yard. Detective Inspector Mahon." 

"Can we meet?" 

Drew recognized Jason's curt tone immediately. "Where? When?" 

"My apartment in Kensington. I'm sure you have the address. Fifteen minutes." 

Click. 

Drew frowned at the receiver in his hand. Jason was already back in England. Now there was something he hadn't anticipated. And Jess? Would she back too? 

There was little traffic at one o'clock in the morning, still Drew took a little longer than fifteen minutes to reach the red-bricked Victorian mansion apartment block. He parked his car in the adjacent parking lot and walked across the light sprinkling of snow on the ground to the front entrance. The door was locked and the porter at the ground floor reception buzzed him. Drew made his way up the spiraling Victorian staircase to Jason's apartment on the third floor. 

"I'm here," he said as Jason moved to one side to let him in. "What's so important that it couldn't wait until I'd gotten some sleep?" 

"Adnan Oric?" Jason said, taking a swig from the beer bottle he held in his hand. 

Drew slowly closed the door. He'd absorbed Jason's less than amicable mood. "Who's Adnan Oric?" 

"A Bosnian Muslim and if all goes well in the elections in two weeks he'll be the next Prime Minister of the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina. My father wants me to kill him." 

Drew kept his cool. "Why?" 

"There's a price to be paid to keep Jessica alive," Jason snorted derisively. 

"And you're willing to pay it? Jess is willing to pay it?" Drew frowned. "What am I missing here? What's going on? Where is she?" 

Jason shook his head and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. "She doesn't want me, Drew." 

"That doesn't make sense. Don't ask me why, but your wife is very much in love with you." 

"Really," Jason sneered. He raised his head. "The last time I saw her I didn't get that impression." 

"What do you expect?" Drew retorted. "She's been shot. She probably just needs time to—" 

"I would give her time," Jason ground out. "But it wasn't that. It's something else, something I can't fight." 

He sent the beer bottle hurling against the wall at the far end of the room. It shattered loudly with the force of his irritation, frustration and powerlessness. 

"What happened between you both?" 

"It's over between us. That's what happened," Jason snapped. He glared at Drew. "I'm not standing in your way anymore, Detective." 

"What? Jess doesn't love me and she wouldn't want you to do any of this." 

"And you know her so well, don't you?" 

Drew raised his eyebrows. "I told you there's nothing between Jess and me." 

"I know what you told me, but I'm not stupid," Jason retorted. 

"Yes, you are," Drew shot back. "Blind, stupid and arrogant." 

Jason's fist connected with his jaw and Drew reeled from the blow and stumbled backward against the door. 

"Feel better?" he spat angrily. "Why in hell would you do something this crazy if you're convinced Jess doesn't love you?" 

"Because despite everything, I love her. I promised her she and Jake would be safe and I'll keep my word on that. I have to make this right." 

"She'll not forgive you for this." 

Jason glanced sharply at Drew. "If you care so much about Jessica's opinion of me, then stop me, Detective Inspector. Adnan Oric is due to appear on Bosnian television at the end of the month with his list of social and economic reforms intended to steer Bosnia toward integration with Europe. He's not meant to make that speech. You have until March thirty-first, Drew. Save his life or I save Jessica's." 

"I can arrest you." 

Jason reached for the duffel bag lying in the corner by the door. "But you won't." 

"You once told me you were not your father's son," Drew said. He put his fingers to his cut lip. 

Jason gave a half smile. "Take care of her, Drew," he said. "And give her this." 

Drew shook his head at the elegant iron and gold ring lying in the palm of Jason's hand. 

"You have to give it to her yourself. You have to tell her you love her and you have to make her listen. Don't do this, Jason. You're a better man than your father." But his words fell on deaf ears. 

Jason slipped the ring on pinkie. "Tell Jessica she'll always be safe," he said. "She's got what she wanted. Time. Space. You. Whatever the hell it is she's looking for." 

"I said—" 

"See yourself out, Mahon." 

Jason left, slamming the door behind him. 

* * * * 

Drew punched in Jess' number on his cell phone as he hurried from Jason's apartment block. She answered straightaway. No, she wasn't asleep and yes, he could come over. 

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," he said. 

Jess pulled open the door to her flat and stared at Drew. "I'm glad you called, Drew. It's been a while." 

She stepped back so he could enter. "I'm glad you're here." 

"Me, too." 

"You look tired." She fidgeted with the neck of her pullover, fingering it unconsciously as if she was afraid he could see her scar through it. 

He chuckled softly. "Thanks." 

"No...I mean...I didn't mean—" 

"It's okay, Jess. I am tired. I haven't slept for two nights." 

"Me, neither." 

There was a moment's silence. She turned and he followed her into the living room. She sat down on a chair by the small gas fire heating the room and he sat on the sofa facing the television. 

"I didn't expect to see you again," she said. 

The last time they'd spoken had been the day of the fire. He'd told her of Tom's connection to Jason. He'd been an idiot. It'd only made her that more determined to find out the truth, which almost got her killed. His eyes scoured the tiny flat. Homey. His gaze caught hers once more. 

"Jason wanted me to make sure you were all right." 

"Well, as you can see I am," she returned lightly. 

"Are you? Really?" 

She fidgeted again with her pullover. The levity of the mood was gone. She stood again consciously distancing herself from his close scrutiny as she moved toward the window. 

"Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?" 

"I hope you know you can talk to me, Jess," he said, following her across the room. 

"About what?" 

"Everything. Anything." He shrugged his shoulders. "Like, why you're here for example and not with Jason." 

She turned to face him. "I know it's small, but it's comfortable," she said. "Jake and I don't need a huge house like Madeley to feel at home and as long as he has me he'll want for nothing, not even a father." 

She sighed. "Within the space of a month—four of the most hectic and emotional weeks of my life—he's lost two fathers." 

She turned back to gaze outside onto the quiet street below. "Sometimes it isn't enough to love, Drew. It isn't enough to want someone if it was never meant to be. And Jason and I were never meant to be. I should've never married him." 

"Why did you?" 

"The truth?" She spun back to him. Drew nodded. "There's something I have to tell you first, Drew. Wait here." 

She quickly left the room and returned carrying a photograph. "This is my brother...Sean Wright." She faltered. 

"I know," Drew admitted slowly. 

"I'm Sean's sister," Jess stressed. 

"I know," Drew replied. 

"When? How do you know?" 

"The day after the fire at High Rock I went to the Public Records Office in Nassau. I needed to check out something that was bothering me at the time. Why you would choose to visit such a remote place as High Rock? I've been a policeman long enough to know human nature and when someone is hiding something." 

He traced a finger along her cheek, persuading her eyes back to his. "There's always inevitably a reason behind anyone's action." 

"Drew..." There was regret in her voice. 

He read the sorrow in her eyes and knew. Jason may be gone from her life, but he wasn't gone from her heart. He smiled faintly and pushed his hands firmly into his pockets. He stepped back. 

"High Rock is an old plantation that once belonged to the McCormacks, but I guess you know that," he said. 

"Yes, but not in the manner you think. Jason came to me—" Jess smiled to herself. 

She folded her arms across her chest and breathed in deeply. "He told me Sean had found a letter written by a man named John Thomas among his father's papers. I didn't understand," she whispered. "Until that moment I'd never heard of anyone called Thomas. I had no reason to suspect the man who raised me with such love and affection was in actual fact my stepfather. In that single moment I was told my name was Jessica Thomas and not Jessica Wright and that I owned an estate in the Bahamas. It's that letter that got Sean killed and endangered my life." 

"I met John Thomas," Drew replied. "Out of curiosity and a need to understand the significance of the old plantation to the McCormacks. Your true identity came as a shock to me, even more so than the fact you'd married a man whose father had killed your brother. And all that time you'd known it, too." 

"It was complicated, Drew." 

Drew pushed his fingers through his hair. "You're telling me. Too many coincidences that just didn't add up. Anyway, John Thomas told me it was his half sister, Carolyn Roberts, who betrayed the family. Back in nineteen ninety she sold the deed and Thomas indenture to Alexander McCormack, although the irony of the situation is that the estate has always been in McCormack hands." 

Jess puckered her brow. "What do you mean? The Thomas property had been bequeathed to a slave named Ben Thomas. My family," she elaborated. "How can it have remained in McCormack hands if the name Thomas was on the deed? The fact I'm a direct descendant makes me owner. Why else would Alexander McCormack keep my inheritance secret, if not for that very reason?" 

"Ben was a slave because his mother was a slave, Jess," Drew returned slowly. "But his father was a white man. As a slave, Ben wouldn't have been allowed to bear his father's last name, only his mother's. The name on the deed said Thomas, although it could've just as well read McCormack." 

Jess stared wide-eyed at Drew, his meaning slamming in her brain. "Ben's father...my great-great-great grandfather was...a McCormack?" she breathed. 

"George McCormack was a plantation owner. He committed the ultimate sin back in those days of falling in love with his slave, Harriet Thomas. George McCormack is Jason's family and yours." 




Blood of His Fathers Ch. 18-22



"Jason's family?" she whispered. 

She clasped her hands firmly together in an attempt to stop her body from trembling and hung her head to hide her tears. She would laugh if it didn't feel like her heart was being ripped from her chest. 

"Jess. Come on. Sit down," Drew said, leading her gently back to the sofa. 

"I must have done something terrible in a past life to deserve this." 

"I don't believe in biblical retribution, Jess. Somewhere three hundred years ago your ancestry crossed. So what? I bet the same can be said of most couples out there. The only difference is they don't know. Besides, three hundred years is a long time. The Thomas-McCormack genealogy would've long been diluted to the extent that, unless anyone knew a definite family connection, it could never be established by blood, DNA or any other type of test." 

She lifted her head and smiled faintly at him. "It doesn't matter anyway. I'm divorcing Jason." 

"Divorce?" 

"I've been thinking of nothing else since I got back to England." 

"Jason is not his father's son, Jess," he said. "You know he would've willingly taken that bullet for you, so don't judge him unfairly." 

She pulled her hands free of his. "I thought you hated him?" 

"Let's say, I distrusted his motives." 

"And now?" 

"I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and I'm not even in love with him." 

His boyish flippancy brought a strained smile to her lips. "Why? What changed?" 

"I got to know him," Drew stated simply. 

"I was stupid to think—" She gazed at the bare finger where her wedding ring had once been. It was gone, what clearer sign could there be? 

"Our marriage was merely a ploy which failed. I know that now and I've accepted it." 

* * * * 

Drew left the flat and pulled up the collar of his parka against the cold. He'd wanted to tell Jess about Jason's impending assignment, yet he found himself more determined than ever to prevent Jason from making the biggest mistake of his life. His concern wasn't for Adnan Oric's life as it technically should be, but for Jess. 

He reached his car and called Colin on his cell phone. It wasn't fair dragging his Detective Sergeant from his bed at this hour to do research, but he needed to know all he could about Adnan Oric. And if anyone could brief him on the Balkan war, it would be Colin too. 

After agreeing to meet Colin at his office at eight o'clock Drew turned off his cell phone and thought about heading home for a shower and shave. He caught the flash of a dark metallic blue Lexus in his rear view mirror, and frowned as he glimpsed two obscure silhouettes behind the tinted windows. Was he being followed? Before his brain could answer that, the car pulled away from the curb and drove sped off. It neared the end of the street, but not before Drew noted the number plate. The presence of the dark blue Lexus outside Jess' house bothered him. He punched Colin's number again. He wanted two undercover agents guarding Jess at all times. 

Chapter Twenty 

"Talk," Drew said, bursting into his office and closing the door. 

Colin reached for his notes. 

"Adnan Oric. Married, father of two. Born June five, nineteen fifty-five in Cazin. General High School completed in Sarajevo, Faculty of Metallurgy in Zenica. Completed Postgraduate studies in nineteen eighty-four and received a Doctor's degree from University of Sarajevo. He worked for several companies in Zenica—longest at Metalno where he was Director. 

"From nineteen ninety-two to nineteen ninety-five, Yugoslavia underwent a bloody inter-ethnic war between Bosnian Muslims, Croats and Serbs, but it was a civil war on many fronts. A civil war precipitated by the collapse of Communism, you might say. 

"In nineteen ninety-one nationalists won the first multi-party elections and formed a coalition government, but they all had conflicting goals. The Muslim nationalists wanted a centralized independent Bosnia, Serb nationalists wanted to remain in Belgrade, which had been a republic of the old Yugoslav federation, and the Croats wanted to join an independent Croat state. 

"In nineteen ninety-two, however, the Croat and Muslim nationalists formed a tactical alliance and outvoted the Serb nationalists at an Independence Referendum. That incensed the Serbs as their constitution stipulated that all major decisions must be reached through consensus. Thus in nineteen ninety-two civil war broke out with the Serbs assuming control of over half the Republic. Ethnic cleansing, and so on—" 

"Go on," Drew urged, folding his arms and moving toward the window. It was an early start, but they had a lot to do. 

"The Dayton peace accord signed in Paris in December nineteen ninety-five ended the war in Bosnia, creating two areas of roughly equal size, one for Bosnian Muslims and Croats, the other for Serbs, yet both under a central Bosnian government and rotating presidency. That's a President to serve as Head of State, but it's a joint function served alternately by an elected Bosnian Muslim, Croat and Serb during a four-year period. Adnan Oric is a Bosnian Muslim tipped to serve as the next Head of Government—" 

"And what if he should die?" Drew interjected. 

"Well—the Deputy Prime Minister would serve as Prime Minister until a nominee is approved by the Bosnian Government." 

"The Deputy Prime Minister can't assume power then?" 

"No. The Deputy Prime Minister would nominate the new Prime Minister, but it's the House of Representatives who vote to approve the choice. And it has to be a majority approval." 

There was a moment's silence before Drew spoke again. 

"What are the implications in a country like Bosnia if Oric is assassinated?" he asked quietly. 

"Assassinated?" Colin queried. "The country's still pretty much politically unstable with ethnic tension adding to the increase in crime and corruption. Oric has always stated fighting organized crime and corruption as his Government's priority. There could be all manner of political connotations associated with his assassination that could make an already tense situation even more so. Why do you ask? Why this sudden interest in the Balkans, Drew?" 

"Because I know there's going to an assassination attempt on Adnan Oric's life," Drew answered steadily. 

"You know what! How do you know?" 

Drew looked long and hard at Colin—his friend, his colleague, a man he would trust with his life—and chose not to confide in him. To prevent Jason from doing what he needed to do, to save Adnan Oric's life, he had to tie up his investigation and get it right. 

"I just know," he said. 

"Are you going to tell Marsters? If Oric's life is in danger and it's somehow connected to the case we're working on we have to. And we have to forewarn Oric, too." 

Drew shook his head. "I'll not let it get that far." 

"You won't let it get that far?" Colin practically shouted. "Do you really want that responsibility, Drew?" he demanded. "What if you can't prevent Oric from being assassinated? What if you're too late?" 

Drew thought about Jason, about what he was prepared to do to protect the woman he loved. "I won't be." 

"Well, I don't want this responsibility, Drew. I don't even want to imagine the consequences if you fail." 

"I know, Col. But give me three days before you go to Marsters. We've known each other a long time, Col," Drew urged. "I'm asking you out of respect for our friendship, to give me three days." 

Colin cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. "Who are you protecting, Drew?" 

"I can't tell you, Col. I really can't." 

"Well, that's just great, Drew! I'm your partner. I deserve better than this," Colin said, storming out the door. 

Drew released a deep breath and sat down heavily in the chair behind his desk. "Shit!" 

He leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. And then abruptly straightened as his office door forcefully opened again. 

"Look, Drew, about what I said—" 

"It's all right, Col, you were right. I can't let it get that far. But a lot depends on this remaining between us. Just for three days." 

Colin nodded his understanding. Drew rose to his feet and looked at the whiteboard on which he'd drawn, stuck and sprawled notes, comments and scenarios. 

"We're missing something, Col," he murmured. 

"How long have we got?" 

"Oric is due to be assassinated at the end of the month during his national broadcast." 

Colin pulled a hand pensively across his face and then looked at his watch. "That gives us a whole week." 

"I know, but I'd rather a few days in hand, just in case," Drew grinned. 

"Okay," Colin sighed. He flicked his gaze to the whiteboard. "Who would benefit from Oric's death? I'm assuming the threat to his life does have something to do with this case." 

Drew nodded. "I can't tell you any more than that, just yet," he said. "I'm sorry." 

"Good," Colin replied. "I guess, I'll just have to go with your instincts on this one. Then, who would benefit?" he repeated. "Not just from Oric' death, but from the ensuing distrust and instability that's bound to arise." 

"Who would benefit—?" 

Drew's voice trailed off. His eyes scanned the jumble of information. All separate, yet somehow intricately connected. He studied the map of the Balkan Peninsula. 

"The Serbs?" Colin proffered. "I've been doing some extra reading and every fact tends to point to their starting the war, to their commitment to a Yugoslavian Federation. It's no secret the Serbs resented the fact Bosnia and Herzegovina applied to the European Commission for recognition as an Independent state—I mean the referendum that'd been held, although approved by ninety-nine percent of the voters, had been boycotted by Bosnian Serbs who make up about thirty percent of the population." 

"Thus civil war," Drew reiterated. 

"A Serb invasion," Colin elaborated. "Two days before The European Commission had decided to recognize the Republic." 

Drew traced a line to Alexander's name written on the board. "Could this, too, in someway come back to him?" he asked. "We have a money trail to Romania—" 

"To one Nicador Codreanu," Colin said. "A member of the National Union for Christian Revival who recently advocated the revival of the Iron Guard. He received large amounts of cash between January nineteen ninety and November ninety-two from Eva Ricci's offshore account in the Bahamas. Proof of Alexander McCormack's link to Romania—to Nicolae Nastase." 

"And Bosnia," Drew added pensively. "Six months before the war started we now know Eva Ricci was sending aid into Serbia. To Uzice, a town in the Danaric Alps suspiciously close to the Bosnia-Herzegovina border." 

"But Ricci was an arms dealer. Why would she send aid?" Colin murmured. 

"My thoughts exactly," Drew said. "Which brings us back to our question. Who would benefit? There's more to know, Col. Why else would Wesson warn us off Nastase? McCormack is the pawn, the face we can see. We need to find the faces we can't see, Col. We need to go back to the beginning. We need to go back to Finsbury Town football club, the very reason Alexander McCormack came to our attention in the first place." 

"The hooliganism at his club?" Colin verified. 

"Right," Drew concurred. "Why the sudden increase of BNP members in Sean's organization? Why the increase in racial attacks in and around the Hackney and Haringey areas? It's too coincidental and too organized, Col." 

"Don't forget the number of BNP candidates standing for election, this year. It's unprecedented." 

Drew wrote "BNP candidates" on the whiteboard. "There's a bigger picture here. Somewhere. There must be. We just can't see it. What would tempt a man like Nicolae Nastase to go to great lengths to change his appearance, and then buy a less than well-known third division English Football club? Too many questions, Col. We're missing something here." 

Drew turned to his Detective Sergeant. "We need a list of all the BNP electoral candidates in London." 

"Way ahead of you, Drew," Colin said, heading for the door. He stopped. "What about Wesson? Didn't he warn you off the case?" 

"As long as we're not seen to be investigating Nicolae Nastase, he can do nothing. And by the time he suspects it, he'll be too late." 

* * * * 

That night they drove through the cold, deserted streets of Islington on a wing, a prayer and a hunch. Colin turned the car down yet another sleeping street in the vicinity of Finsbury Town football club. 

"What are we looking for?" 

"I don't know," Drew said. His eyes continued to scan. "But when I see it I hope I'll know it." 

There was an increased number of reported racial violence and attacks in and about the London area in boroughs where the BNP had electoral candidates. But that hardly came as a surprise to Drew. It was the fact the nine boroughs—Hackney, Tower Hamlets, 

Westminster, Islington, Lambeth, Southwark, Camden, Wandsworth, and Kensington and Chelsea—formed an almost perfect circle around the City of London that pricked his instincts. 

Colin stifled a yawn. "Anything?" he asked. 

Drew looked pensive. "I'm not sure," he said. "Look at those cars." 

"They look new, expensive," Colin concurred. 

He slowed down and took a closer look at the luxury cars parked on the street. And out of place in this area of impassive, gray, high rises and equally high unemployment. It was an area ripe for the BNP's political dogma. 

"Look at the number of BNP posters in the house windows." 

"Look at the number plates on the cars," Drew countered. 

"That's odd. They all seem to be from the same registration year." 

"Which means they were all bought in the same year. Unless there was a discount, this is really strange." 

"Maybe they all took part in the lottery and won. And bought cars," Colin replied wryly. 

There was a lot of money shared between a lot of people, but not necessarily from the lottery. It was too much of a coincidence. 

"Viktor Marinescu bought Finsbury Town Football Club and High Wycombe, right? What would be the odds you think that somewhere in High Wycombe a lot of people have won that same lottery?" Drew suggested. 

Colin glanced at Drew. "I'll check it out first thing in the morning." 

* * * * 

Drew's telephone rang early. He snatched it to his ear, hoping it was Colin with good news. He was already late for his meeting with Marsters. He needed something more than supposition to take to his DCS. 

"Detective Inspector Mahon." 

"Detective Inspector?" The voice on the other end pitched higher with surprise. 

Nick? Shit. 

Drew grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut. He'd forgotten about Nick. He took a breath. 

"Hi, Nick," he said. 

Nick repeated his surprise. "Detective Inspector?" 

"Yes. That's right. What can I do for you, Nick?" 

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line. 

"Nick?" 

"Jason said I could contact you in an emergency." 

"Sure. What's wrong?" Drew was immediately alert. 

"I'm trying to find Jason. Do you know where he is?" 

"In Europe somewhere," Drew answered. "On business." The last thing he needed was Nick becoming involved in this mess. 

"Jess told me he was up at Tomintoul. I knew that couldn't be right." 

"You spoke to Jess? When?" 

"I called her apartment yesterday morning. She was about to leave for Tomintoul, but that's the funny part. She said Jason would be there. Jason hasn't set foot in his father's house for years. Do you know when he'll be back?" 

"What?" Drew stiffened, feeling his gut tighten. 

"Do you know when he'll be back?" 

"No." Drew wanted to hang up. 

Keep calm. 

"He was right about that ship. It was the Lady Helen. Divers found the anchor with her name still legibly inscribed on the side. The only strange thing is there's no cargo. She should've been carrying Spanish gold. Someone definitely got there before us, but I can't find proof of registration anywhere. Strange." 

"Thanks, Nick. You've been a great help. I'll look into it." 

"Let me know what you find." 

"Sure." 

The telephone went dead and Drew was already moving. He grabbed his coat and rushed out the office down to the parking lot. Where in hell was his surveillance team? And why didn't they alert him that Jess had gone to Scotland? Marsters was going to kill him. This was the second time since his return he'd managed to blow off their meeting. Drew looked at his watch. Ten past nine. He hoped he would be able to get on the next flight to Scotland. 

* * * * 

Jess sat on the small bed in the cold, barren cell. She could've sworn she heard the scurrying of tiny creatures across the floor. She wrapped her arms even tighter about her drawn-up knees and closed her eyes. It was dark, and she hated dark enclosed spaces. She'd been waiting hours and still no one had come. 

Jason had sent a car to pick her up. He'd wanted to talk, but on her arrival she'd been thrown into the tower and imprisoned. That was yesterday. 

The door swung open. Jess opened her eyes and scrambled to the far end of the bed. Someone shone a flashlight into her eyes. She raised her hands to her face warding off the harsh glare. 

"It goes against the grain to say this, but you're a very beautiful woman, Jessica. I really can't fault Jason's attraction to you." 

"Who are you? Where's Jason?" 

"Jason's not here. He's on an errand for me." The triumph in his voice spewed forth in ugly malice. "I'm Alexander McCormack. I'm sure Jason has told you about me." 

Alexander's presence was commanding in such a small space. She shuddered. Jason had been merely a hint of this intensity and he'd been all consuming. 

"I don't believe you. Jason w-wants nothing to do with you." 

He gave a chilling laugh. "You have no idea who Jason is, do you? As they say a photo is worth a thousand words." 

Jess felt the slight stir of air around her bare feet, and lowered her gaze to the photo he'd thrown onto the bed. It'd settled in the shaft of light drifting in from the small window high above her. Her breath caught sharply in her throat. 

Alexander's soft chuckle sent another chill down her spine and for the first time since her imprisonment she felt alone and thoroughly frightened. 

She could hear Drew's words ringing in her head. You are Mrs. Jason McCormack. His astonishment hadn't been lost upon her, but neither had she given it much thought. Yet now...now she quite understood the significance of his surprise. 

"Jason was fifteen when that photo was taken," Alexander said, his steady voice, punctuating her thought. "To this day he continues to do me proud." 

"You can't kill me," Jess said defiantly, "the police know—" 

"Nothing," Alexander finished, coolly. "Nobody knows anything. You came here of your own free will." 

"I thought Jason would be here. He sent those men for me." 

"And now you know he didn't." 

"My son? Where's Jake." 

"The boy's of no interest to me for the moment, but who knows. I might groom him to take Sean's place. What do you think about that, Jessica? His skin's light enough. He could pass in my future, although he will never be considered pure." 

She pushed herself from the bed, her fists clenched at her side. "No! I won't let you touch him." 

Jess held her breath as Alexander's steps drew menacingly closer. The single shaft of light cutting through the room fell across his features, and she finally saw the arrogantly handsome face. 

"Nobody knows you're here, Jessica. It really is a pity," he murmured. He stroked a cold hand down her cheek. 

In a moment of disgust and instinct Jess knocked his hand away, but felt the sting of a sharp slap across her face in reciprocation. His fingers twisted ferociously in her hair and Alexander tugged her head backward until her eyes gazed fearful and wide into his. 




Blood of His Fathers Ch. 18-22



"Perhaps I'll have you first then give you to my friends. Let them take you every which way, until you beg me to kill you." 

His mouth descended abruptly upon hers in a bruising kiss. His hand dipped beneath her shirt, finding first one breast then the other, squeezing the sensitive flesh and pinching her nipples cruelly until she cried out against his mouth. She fought against him, twisting in his grasp, but he held her firm. Tears rolled down her cheeks from the pain he inflicted on her scalp. His hand descended abruptly between her thighs and his fingers pressed roughly against the fabric of her jeans, chaffing the sensitive flesh at their apex. 

Jess bit down on his lip and was hit again with such ferocity that she fell back onto the bed and then rolled from it onto the floor. She scurried across the room. Her body shook and her heart raced. She expected him to come after her. Her shaking fingers searched the floor for something...anything to defend herself. 

His soft chuckle chilled her senses. "Are you wet, Jessica? Jason tells me you're sweet on his tongue. I can believe that. Just one touch of you has made me hard." She heard him breathe deeply. "I've not the time now, but when I come back we'll finish this." 

The threat mingled with the promise and hung in the air long after Alexander had left her, firmly locking the door behind him. She was alone again, in the dark she hated, but she wouldn't cry. It was no use, the walls were too thick and from the sound of the door closing shut it was solid and heavy. 

She forced herself to her feet and climbed onto the bed, curling her knees tightly to her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut against the mocking images of her husband, each and every one a complete contrast to the photograph of the fifteen-year-old boy she'd seen, his right hand raised in a proud Nazi salute. 

Chapter Twenty-One 

"H-ell-o," Drew murmured. 

"What, sir?" 

The young police constable next to Drew strained his neck to peer beyond the trees. They were lying in wait in the woodland surrounding Alexander McCormack's vast estate at Tomintoul. Drew pondered his next move and watched Grant Wesson drive into view. 

Drew glanced at the eager face at his side. The young policeman was on loan from the local Elgin police. 

"That man is Grant Wesson. FBI." 

"What's he doing here, sir?" 

"That's what I'm going to find out. Wait here," Drew ordered. 

Drew kept Grant Wesson in his sights and stealthily circled through the trees. The sun was already setting, giving him the advantage of the shadows. Grant leaned nonchalantly against his car. Drew sidled closer and stepped silently behind him, locking an arm tightly about Grant's neck. 

"Hello, Wesson," he hissed. "Fancy seeing you here." 

Recovered from his initial surprise, Grant sought to twist out of Drew's grip, but the hold was unbreakable. 

"Where's Jessica McCormack?" Drew demanded. 

"I don't know who you're talking about," Wesson grunted through clenched teeth, trying to pry Drew's arm from about his neck. 

Drew felt for Grant's weapon and pulled it from its holster. He pushed the other man roughly away from him. Grant sprung abruptly about, ready to fly at Drew, but stopped short as Drew leveled the gun higher and aimed it between his eyes. 

"Walk," Drew directed. He motioned Grant toward the trees with the flick of his gun-filled hand. 

"You won't shoot me," Grant scoffed. "You British aren't cut out for it." 

"Walk," Drew repeated. 

Grant picked and stumbled his way through the trees until Drew told him to stop. They were deep enough in the woods not to be disturbed. 

Drew pulled his lips into a tight, humorless smile. "I was brought up in Belfast not far from the Falls Road. A rough part of town," he said. "So, I have no qualms about shooting you, Wesson." 

He lowered the gun explicitly. "Do you know what knee-capping is?" he asked with deadly calm. "Where is Jessica McCormack?" 

"Go to hell." 

The gunshot echoed through the trees, scattering the forest creatures and chasing away birds in their droves. 

Grant Wesson lay among the fallen branches clasping his knee and writhing in agony. Blood soaked his trousers and spurted through his fingers as he tried to stem the flow. Drew stood above Wesson, the gun callously aimed at the injured man's elbow. 

Iain skidded to sudden halt at Drew's side. 

"Sir! You can't do this!" he panted loudly. 

"This is a private conversation," Drew returned tightly. "Turn around and run back the way you came." 

"I can't, sir." 

"Suit yourself." 

Another shot rang out through the trees. Grant shrieked and Iain stumbled to one side, vomiting uncontrollably at the grating sound of bullet grinding into bone. 

"Right elbow next, Wesson," Drew declared calmly. 

Grant turned pleading eyes onto Iain who stood at the edge of the clearing wiping his mouth. 

"Stop! Make him stop!" 

"Where's Jessica McCormack?" Drew repeated. He primed the gun, his aim clear. 

"Wait!" Wesson shrieked. "Behind the house. She's behind the house." 

"Where?" 

"In the old tower! I brought her here! She thought she was coming to meet Jason." 

"But you handed her over to McCormack instead." 

"You don't understand. She's a liability," Grant sneered. "They're tying up loose ends." 

"Who?" 

"This is much bigger and goes much deeper than you can imagine, Mahon." 

Drew looked toward the old castle and doubted Grant was lying. "Come on," he said, turning to Iain. 

"What about me?" Grant moaned loudly. 

"What about you?" 

"You can't leave me here, Mahon. They'll kill me." 

"Do I look like I care?" 

"Wait. Mahon, please," Grant implored. "I can tell you more, give you names. Just don't leave me. Please. If the woman escapes, they'll know it was me." 

Drew narrowed his gaze suspiciously. "Give me a name." 

"McCormack's in a meeting with Pieter von Farben as we speak." 

"Who is he?" 

Grant grunted in pain. "One of the Cartel." 

"What Cartel?" 

"You'll get nothing else from me, Mahon, until I see a doctor." 

Drew released an exasperated breath. "Give me your undershirt," he instructed Iain, stooping next to Wesson. 

Iain quickly divested himself of the garment, putting his sweater and jacket back on as Drew tore strips from the shirt to make a tourniquet. Drew secured a final knot, then raising the butt of the gun knocked Grant unconscious. 

"Help me move him to that tree," he ordered Iain. 

"Were you so sure he knew where Jessica McCormack was, sir?" 

Drew gave Iain a long look, silencing and arrogant in his justification. 

The old tower was silhouetted against the darkening sky and stood partially hidden amidst wild, overgrown forestation that blanketed the area at the rear of the house. There was no guard. Drew's stomach churned at the underlining assumption that Jess would never be found and therefore didn't need a watchman. The thick, arched door was locked. He flipped open his wallet and fished out a long, thin instrument. 

"Police work is knowledge," Drew smirked, reading the disbelief on Iain's face. 

He inserted the tool into the old, rusty lock. "Of knowing as much or even more than your average criminal. And being prepared to use that knowledge on every level," he added. 

His fingers skillfully maneuvered the delicate instrument. The lock clicked open and Drew entered the damp, musty space. 

The tower was divided on two levels. From where Drew and Iain had entered the stairs split, one set leading up into the tower and the other downwards. Drew called Jess' name as loud as he dared. 

"The walls are too thick, sir. I don't think she can hear us." 

"You go up. I'll go down," Drew directed. "And don't be a hero." 

Drew counted thirteen steps down to the first door, and thirteen more to the second door. Both doors stood wide open. Thirteen steps lower and he stopped outside a third door. It was locked. He felt his way, dispersing with the lock as easily as he had the other. The door creaked slowly open and his breath escaped in satisfaction. 

"Jess?" he whispered. "It's Drew. Jess?" 

Her voice sounded out the dark silence, fearful in its disbelief. "Dr—Drew?" 

"Jess. I'm here." 

Half stumbling, half-crying she flew into his arms. "I c-can't believe it. Drew. How d-did you know I was h-here?" 

Drew tightened his arms reassuringly about her. "Later," he said. "We have to get out of here." Jess pulled back, nodding her understanding. 

"Here, put this on," Drew directed. 

He slipped his jacket about her shoulders, grabbed her hand tightly, and pulled her behind him. 

"Where are your shoes?" 

"They were taken off me." 

"Stay close to me," Drew said and she nodded again. 

They ran up the steps, and then slowed as they approached the main door. Iain stood on the other side of the doorway. 

"You found her, sir," he exclaimed in a hushed whisper. "Two men with automatic silencers coming this way. I think they know we're here." 

"Get her to the car! Now!" Drew ordered. "Don't look back! Run!" 

Jess screamed his name as Drew darted from the tower, drawing fire from the two men closing in through the trees. One was Alexander McCormack, the other she'd not seen before. 

"Come on, Miss," Iain urged. "Don't look back! Run!" 

"We can't leave him!" 

"We won't," Iain replied. 

Jess' heart pounded fearfully as they bobbed and weaved through the trees. She ignored the pain in her feet and concentrated on the sounds of muted gunfire filling her ears. They reached the car. 

"Wait here! And keep down!" Iain called, darting off in another direction. 

She crouched low behind the car, her eyes tightly closed, her thoughts on Jake and Jason and Drew. Would she live to see them again? Would Drew live? 

"Get in!" 

Iain opened the back door and ushered her inside before sliding behind the wheel. She cowered behind the driver's seat. She could feel the car slalom through the trees. 

"Hang on, Miss." 

Jess closed her eyes and complied. 

* * * * 

Drew had taken cover behind a large dumpster. The car burst from between the trees, skating to a halt and providing cover as Alexander McCormack fired his gun at his head and missed. Drew dived through the car's opened door and onto the back seat. He looked through the rear window and witnessed the single bullet from von Farben's gun enter the space between Alexander McCormack's eyes with cold, executing precision. 

"Go! Go! Go!" he shouted. 

Iain didn't need telling twice. The car lurched into high gear and raced to the front of the house, across the manicured lawns and down the private avenue to the public road. 

Drew pulled Jess to him, keeping her head tucked against his chest. "Jess, are you okay?" 

She fisted his shirt tight between her fingers and nodded. 

"Iain?" 

"I'm fine, sir, but that FBI agent is dead. He was shot in the head." 

* * * * 

Jess suspected no one realized how hard she was fighting to stave off her rising hysteria and hold on to her sanity. If only she could flee to the far hills surrounding them and scream until 

her lungs hurt, until she no longer hurt. But she had to be strong for Jake. 

The doctor shone a light into her eye and she followed his instructions. She looked left, looked right, looked up and looked down. He'd raised a curious eyebrow at the scar on her chest during her examination, but she'd remained silent about that. She sighed. All she needed was a good night's sleep. That's what she'd told Drew, yet he'd insisted on bringing her to the hospital first anyway. She was fine, physically. She'd get over the rest. She got dressed, relieved the doctor had found nothing untoward and went in search of Drew, but bumped quite literally into Iain instead. 

"Detective Inspector Mahon asked me to wait for you," Iain quickly explained. 

"That's nice," Jess murmured. "Where's he?" 

"There've been some developments," Iain replied, a trifle hesitant. 

"Developments? What developments?" Jess insisted. "Please, you have to tell me, Iain." She waited, masking her impatience as best she could. 

"Well—Alexander McCormack is dead." 

"Did Drew kill him?" 

"That's what we need to determine." 

"But Alexander McCormack wanted to kill me. Drew saved me. If he did kill Alexander McCormack it would've been out of self-defense, wouldn't it? You were there. Tell them." 

"Yes, I know. I'm being debriefed later, but you see, McCormack was well-known in these parts. And he was liked and admired by many. No one is going to believe he kidnapped and planned to murder his own daughter because—no matter the reason." 

No matter the reason? Jess lifted an eyebrow. "Will you take me to see Drew?" 

"Of course. He's at Elgin police station." 

Two hours later Drew was released from the debriefing room. 

"Are you all right?" Jess asked, running to his side. 

Drew nodded. "We're free to go. Initial forensic tests confirm our version of events and once Iain gets debriefed there should be nothing to worry about." 

Jess laid a hand on his arm. 

"If you didn't kill Alexander McCormack, then who did?" 

"Pieter von Farben." 

"Who's he?" 

"Another piece of our puzzle. Come on, let's go." 

On the drive to London both seemed loathed to speak. 

"Is it over?" she asked quietly. "I mean, now that Alexander McCormack is dead." 

"No," Drew answered. "Alexander McCormack may be dead, but whatever he was a part of is still very much alive." 

"Pieter von Farben?" 

"Yes. I need to know who he is." 

Jess released an exhausted breath and closed her eyes. "You know so much about this family. I understand now why you seemed so surprised to discover someone like me had married into it." 

"What happened back there? What do you know?" 

Jess opened her eyes and glanced at him. "Let's say, killing me to prevent me ever claiming the Thomas property was second to Alexander McCormack's hatred of the color of my skin. But I'd already gleaned that piece of information from Jason's ex-wife. You could've told me when you first met me," she admonished calmly. 

"You could've trusted me," Drew parried mildly. "I told you about Sean. You could have told me then and there who you were." 

"It was too late. I was already married to Jason." Jess sighed. "It seems like a lifetime ago," she whispered. 

"Are you still thinking about divorcing him?" 

"Now, even more than ever. I'm tired, Drew. Tired of picking out the truth from among the lies. Tired of second guessing my judgment." 

"You can't believe everything Alexander McCormack said—" 

"Yes, I can," Jess said. "I can. I want out. I've come close to losing my life, twice. Sean can't ask anymore of me than I've already given and Jason—" 

She hesitated, fingering the photo outlined against the pocket of her jeans. "Jason is a mistake that's easily put right." 

"Brave words, but I don't believe them." 

"Right now, I really don't care what you or anyone else believes." 

"You're running away," Drew challenged. 

"And what if I am?" Tears rose in her eyes and fell down her cheeks. "I got sucker punched, Drew and the thing is I went into this with my eyes wide open. I thought I knew what I was doing. I thought I knew him." 

"Don't confuse Jason with his father, Jess." 

"What?" With incredulity Jess quickly wiped the tears from her face as she focused on Drew's words. 

"Jason's not to blame for any of this," Drew added. "In fact—" 

She refused to let him finish. "In fact, he's on some errand for his father. Did you know that? It all makes perfect sense, why I haven't seen him since I got back to England. Why he would send someone to collect me, to bring me to Scotland, to his father." 

"That man was Grant Wesson. An FBI agent." 

"So what." That fact hardly surprised her. "Everyone has a price," she retorted. 

She closed her eyes, remembering her shared moment of intimacy with Jason before she got shot. 

"My father's a very clever man," he'd said. "He plays to our weaknesses and then takes control of our lives. With Sean it was money and a sense of power." 

"And you?" she'd asked him. 

"I never had a weakness, Jessica, until I met you." 

Jess raised her fingers to where Jason had caressed her face. It seemed like a lifetime ago. She grimaced. It hadn't been his father playing to her weakness. Jason had done that. 

"Give me two days, Jess," Drew said, breaking through her thoughts. 

"For what?" she challenged. "No. I have to think of Jake now. Alexander McCormack is dead—" 

"Which means you could be in even more danger, Jess." 

Jess smiled wryly. "You keep saving me, Drew. I trust you to do it again." 

"Then I need to know where you are. Give me the two days, Jess. That's all I ask." 

"Can you promise me this will all be over then, Drew?" 

Drew tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "It has to be, Jess." 

* * * * 

Later that night, Drew drove Jess, her son and her mother to a safe house in London and then went to meet Colin at O'Casey's. 

Colin swiped his hand across his face as Drew recounted the events of the past hours. 

"I'm not sure what surprises me most," he said. "Knowing Alexander McCormack is dead or that you acted like a one-man crusader. Marsters is going to be furious." 

"That's why I need your help, Col. Give me something to balance this out. To keep this in perspective." 

Colin laughed lightly. "Well, I would trade your dead FBI agent and several hours in a Scottish cell for a conspiracy to secure votes by intimidation, violence and bribery, but I've already filled Marsters in on that. He's called in Homeland Security. Special Operations are taking it from here." 

"Why? What did you find?" 

"That a lot of people who were struggling to afford basic rent in rundown council flats in around the City of London and High Wycombe had healthy bank accounts. They'd bought brand new cars, been on expensive holidays and were planning on buying new homes after the elections." 

"The elections?" 

"Exactly. We had a long list of names and addresses to sift through, but thanks to DC Watts' own investigation we compared a few names and addresses already in our databases. Quite a number of these same people, splashing out thousands of pounds had filed reports of racial attacks in the last three months. But Homeland Security is dealing with all that and Bernard Greene's in custody. Oh, and Viktor Marinescu alias Nicolae Nastase has disappeared." 

Colin paused briefly. "We may never get to the bottom of this case, but I need to know if we've saved Adnan Oric." 

"Alexander McCormack's death may have saved Adnan Oric, for now," Drew answered. 

Drew's next stop was to see Marsters. He'd seen his superior angry before, but never at a level so intense. 

"You bulldog your way up there," Marsters yelled, pointing a finger agitatedly at a report lying on his desk. "Leaving bodies in your wake. Just what in God's name were you thinking?" 

"About protecting Jessica McCormack," Drew stated calmly. "I didn't kill McCormack or Wesson—" 

"No, you merely knee-capped him," Marsters interrupted. "You'd better damn well tell me you got something worthwhile out of him, if only to justify your unauthorized presence at the McCormack estate." 

"A name," Drew answered. "Pieter von Farben. Colin's searching the databases as we speak for any information on him." 

"Then you'd better pray he finds something, Drew. Where's Mrs. McCormack now?" 

"At a safe house since last night." 

"Surveillance?" 

"No," Drew said. "Roane and Birney still haven't reported in and I'm not trusting anyone else with this information." Marsters raised a querying brow. 




Blood of His Fathers Ch. 18-22



"You're not suggesting two of my detectives were bribed into handing over Mrs. McCormack?" 

"I don't know, sir, but I feel I need to err on the side of caution. We've no idea how deeply this goes." 

"How deeply what goes?" 

A sharp rap at the door interrupted Drew's supposition. Colin poked his head into the room. 

"Sorry to disturb you, sir," he said, addressing Marsters. "But I think I've found something." 

Both Drew and Marsters leaned over Colin's shoulder as he activated the FBI file on "I.G. Farben". 

"How did you access...? No! Don't tell me," Marsters said. 

"I.G Farben was a German chemical, film and pharmaceutical giant," Colin began. "In nineteen twenty-six the company entered into a cartel agreement with another largely important and dominating American company, Standard Oil owned and run by J.D. Rockefeller. Farben agreed to stay out of synthetic oil in return for Standard Oil representing Farben in the States. Now, here's where it gets murky," Colin added. 

He pressed the page down button on the computer keyboard and new information scrolled upward on the screen. 

"The subsequent consequence of this agreement was in World War II. Standard Oil supplied the Nazis with petroleum in spite of shortages in the U.S. It supplied a rare lead additive that the Luftwaffe needed to fly. In return, Rockefeller got a cut of Farben's other business, which included the many factories that employed slave labor from concentration camps. 

"I did a little more searching in the FBI files and found something else of interest," Colin said. "Throughout the late thirties Wall Street investment banks managed to procure a lot of Jewish owned banks, breweries, factories and shops for thirty per cent of their true value. After the war William Draper was put in charge of dismantling German industry, and distributing it among the allies. Needless to say that didn't happen, his Wall Street associates owned too much of it. Nazi businessmen remained in positions of power. War criminals were transported to South America or took top jobs within the CIA and...the FBI. Which brings us neatly to Nicolae Nastase and the reason Grant Wesson didn't want us digging into Nastase's past. Nicolae Nastase worked for the FBI." 

"I guess we know now," Drew said. He turned to Marsters. 

"Here's something else the FBI wouldn't have wanted made public," Marsters said reading over Colin's shoulder. "A list of American corporations that had an equivalent of eight billion dollars invested in Nazi Germany. I doubt they would've wanted their soldiers to know American factories were building the airplanes that dropped bombs on them or built Nazi trucks and tanks. But who did Wesson work for? The FBI or this Cartel?" 

"Somewhere within the FBI there's probably a small group that's one and the same," Drew surmised. "It's my guess he was sent to make sure we didn't find out too much. If we did he would have killed us. As it happens he was eliminated by the Cartel." 

"Pieter von Farben," Colin stated. "I don't think we'll ever catch him." 

"How can you be so sure?" Drew asked. 

"I. G Farben is a chemical conglomerate that took its name from the German dye industry. Interessen-Gemeinschaft Farbenindustrie." 

"So, Farben isn't even his name?" Drew said. 

"No. I'm afraid not. This man could be related to any one of the thousands of workers of the six major companies that merged in nineteen twenty-six to form I. G. Farben. It'll be virtually impossible to hunt him down," Colin said. "Like chasing a ghost." 

"The Cartel, if it is what we're dealing with here is a powerful ruling entity, a government above a government. They are the puppet masters and at this moment we may have to content ourselves with just being able to disrupt their plan," Marsters said. 

"But you two should be proud of yourselves. We've cut off one head of this monster and we're in the process of derailing the plan to bring the BNP to power. We've done our job." 

"If Sean Wright hadn't died we could've been facing a very different scenario in a couple of months," Colin said. 

"Like Bosnia," Drew said. "Only instead of war creating the fear, instability and ethnic cleansing camouflaged under nationalism, it would be the politics of fanaticism, xenophobia and fascism, more subtle but just as devastating in the hands of ignorant men and youth, soldiers or otherwise." 

"Write your reports. I'll brief the Home Secretary tomorrow," Marsters stated. "And then go home and get some sleep." 

Drew walked to his office and sat down heavily in his chair behind his desk. 

"Pieter von Farben," he murmured. "Who are you?" And why is Nicolae Nastase walking around like a living zombie. 

He leaned back and chuckled quietly to himself. Sleep. He needed it. His thoughts were becoming way too strange. Even for him. At least Jess was safe. 

The phone rang. 

"I've been waiting for you to call," he said, knowing without doubt who was on the other end. 

"I want to give you every possible chance to stop me." 

"I have, Jason. Your father's dead." 

"You?" 

"No." 

"I'll be in England tomorrow." 

Chapter Twenty-Two 

Four months later 

Tomorrow was Jake's birthday. Jessica had waited until the very last minute to buy his gift. He'd wanted the toy for so long and she'd promised him he could have it—she half-walked, half-ran to the toyshop. There was only five minutes before closing time. She slipped through the door and mouthed her thanks to the security guard who'd held it open. She ran up the steps leading to the first floor and darted down the aisle marked "Technical and Mechanical Toys." 

"Bionicle," she whispered. 

Jake had made her stress each syllable so she wouldn't forget. She reached for the toy and then froze as her name reached her ears. It was intense in its softness and painful in its tenderness. 

"Jessica. Will you marry me?" 

It couldn't be. 

His voice resonated through her. Her fingers tightened as she fought to steady her nerves and calm her heart. She'd always been prepared and resolved to confront their past, but she was fearful too of coming face to face with it again. She took a deep breath and spun around. And frowned, because she was completely alone. 

Then, she heard a woman's laugh, her soft sound of joy rippling through the near empty store. 

Jess stared for a bewildered moment about her, and then edged toward the top of the stairs. She leaned over the glass partition serving as barrier and decoration and spotted them on the ground floor. A man and a woman embracing each other in the aisle marked "Baby's First Toys." 

She must have said yes. 

Disappointment and bitterness tinged her well-meaning thought and Jess turned away no longer wishing to intrude on their private moment. She leaned against the glass divider. How could she think it'd been Jason? They were still married, so he wouldn't propose again, would he? Idiot! 

She pushed herself upright and slowly descended the stairs. 

Madeley was far behind her and she'd rebuilt her quiet, stable life in Wembley. She didn't need Jason coming back and upsetting that. 

Jake had been a little confused, at first, but he'd soon adapted to the change. She couldn't help but notice how quickly he'd grown in the last months, accommodating the adjustments in his life and events about him with mature ease. Perhaps that's why she'd insisted on avoiding Drew and any reminders of all that had gone before. 

Alexander McCormack was dead and Jason was gone from their lives. All she and Jake needed was time to heal and room to get on with their lives. Yet, she could never really move forward until she'd divorced Jason. The papers had long been drawn up. She only required Jason's signature to make it final. 

She'd been fine and content with the decision, that is until she'd heard her name. Another man had uttered it, yet she'd been unnerved by the coincidence because she'd been thinking of Jason at that exact same moment. 

He'd left four months earlier. Just like that, without a note. Without a goodbye. After all they'd been through, it'd been Drew who'd told her. That'd hurt. But it was her fault. She'd pushed Jason away. She got her wish, although that didn't stop her heart from breaking. And it was breaking again. 

She rushed to the checkout, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. She didn't pay particular attention to where she was going after that or which bus she caught or where she alighted. But she found herself standing outside her flat glad that Jake was spending the night with her mother. She turned the key in the lock. She would be fine after a long hot bath and a goodnight's sleep. And tomorrow she would smile again and pretend to the world that she was all right. 

* * * * 

Jess sat on the small bench under the apple tree in her mother's garden. She watched Jake play with his friends and silently thanked God the day had turned out to be warm and sunny. She 

couldn't imagine eight energetic and noisy children running in and about the house. Jake caught her eye and grinned. He'd made friends easily, which pleased her. His friends had become a welcome distraction. 

Her mother entered the garden holding a flat parcel. It was wrapped, but Jess couldn't help but think it strange someone would send Jake a present in such colorless and mundane paper. 

"For you," her mother said. 

"Me?" Jess exclaimed. "Are you sure? It's not my birthday." 

"Perhaps it's not a present, but a gift." 

"Is there a difference, then? But who would send me a present or a gift." 

Jess fingered the flat package and turned it repeatedly over in her hands. 

"I don't know," her mother replied. "I opened the door and there it was with your name on it. Oh, for heaven's sake, Jess, open the darn thing." 

Jess laughed. "See. I knew you were chomping at the bit." 

Jake's sudden call caught both their attention, but it was his grandmother who went to assist, pulling out a handkerchief and aiming it straight at the trail of ice-cream on his chin. 

Jess ripped the paper open and her smile faded. She stared at the title deed in her hand. Realization jump-started her brain and she ran from the garden, through the house and yanked open the front door. 

She ran out the gate to the main road and saw him in the distance, leaning against his black car. It was intense just seeing him again after so many months. His long denim-clad legs crossed at the ankle, his bowed head, his arms crossed over his chest. She pressed a hand to her stomach, calming the tumultuous emotions rising inside her. Anger, relief, grief. Love. 

He suddenly raised his head, turning in her direction. She took a breath, feeling incredibly self-conscious beneath his gaze. She wrestled with the awkwardness that accompanied not seeing someone in a long time, reminding herself that she'd pushed him away. 

She neared him, hiding the loneliness and the hurt of her regret behind a wall of indifference and resentment. Their gaze met, his eyes lambent in the bright sunlight. 

"I can't accept this," she said. 

She held the deed firmly out for him to take. 

Jason raised an eyebrow, but didn't take the document. "Are you selling it to me?" 

"It's in your name, isn't it? Your father put the property in your name." 

"Yes. And my lawyers have rectified that state of affairs. The estate is yours. It has always been yours. I've made it right, Jessica." 

"Since I've learned about this blasted piece of land I've had nothing but misery and heartache and near death experiences," Jess said. "Jake and I are fine as we are," she added firmly. "I don't need this. I don't want it." 

Jason pushed himself upright, his body overwhelming the space between them. 

"I? And what about what Jake wants?" 

"He's just a child." 

"One day he'll grow into a man. The Thomas property is his heritage too. Keep the document, and let Jake decide. You can't control everything, Jessica." 

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" 

"Yes," Jason answered quietly. "And when you can't, you run away." 

"That isn't fair. I didn't runaway," she faltered. 

Jason took a step closer, the familiarity of his scent teasing her brain. She briefly closed her eyes against the questions and the hurt in the depths of his, against the attraction still so very much evident between them. 

"We have to talk," he said. 

She could hear her mother's words reverberate inside her head. Her mother had said them more than enough times over the past months. 

"The man is no longer the boy." 

Still, the choice was hers. She could turn and walk away or put the past behind her, once and for all. She opened her eyes. 

"Where?" she heard herself ask. 

"Have dinner with me tomorrow night. Eight o'clock. I'll come for you." 

Jess didn't trust herself to speak, so she just nodded. She turned around and headed for the house, not looking back, although she knew Jason watched her. She wanted to run, but forced herself to keep her pace steady and even. Her fingers gripped the document. 

And when she reached her mother's house she perched stiffly on the edge of a chair, clasping her hands until her fingers turned white. Seeing Jason again had brought back feelings she'd fought so long and hard to deny. 

"Jess? Are you all right?" her mother said, peeking from behind living room door. 

Jess pasted a smile on her face, fake and tight with nerves. "Yes. And Jake? How's the party?" 

"He's about to make a wish. He wants you there." 

She followed her mother out into the garden, wiping away the tell-tale tears from her eyes. She saw her son's radiant face and her smile became genuine. Jake always had a way of making her feel better. 

* * * * 

Her mother admonished her lightly. "Why didn't you tell me you were seeing Jason tonight?" 

"I...I'm still deciding whether I should go." 

"You can't stand him up now," her mother exclaimed. "He's downstairs for heaven's sake." 

"I know." She'd never felt more nervous in her life. 

She'd spent hours getting ready, trying and discarding various combinations of dresses and shoes, blouses and skirts, before settling for a simple sleeveless floral wrap dress with surplice neckline, and a pair of dark blue pumps. 

Jason's laughter sailed up the stairs, and she tensed her shoulders. 

She caught her mother's gaze in the mirror. "It's been a long time, Mum. Perhaps too long." 

"I know you're scared, Jess. But he came back for you, didn't he?" 

"I don't know, did he?" 

Her mother smiled faintly and pushed a final bobby pin into place. She reached for a brush to sweep back the errant strands from Jess' face. 

"There. Finished," she said. She took an admiring step backward. 

Jess rose to her feet and cast a self-conscious glance in the mirror. 

"You look lovely," her mother said. 

She cupped Jess' face gently between her hands. "Do you love him?" she asked. "That's the only thing that matters." 

Jess smiled shakily. "Yes," she answered. 

"Then, tell him," her mother admonished gently. 

Jess kissed her mother on the cheek and headed toward the stairs. She descended the first step, and stopped. Jake was entertaining Jason and she could only wonder at the kinds of things her son was telling him. She stood at the top of the stairs listening to the sound of their voices, man and boy. She oughtn't eavesdrop, but— 

"What wish?" Jason asked. 

Jake's voice was strong and determined in its reply. "That you'd come back. Mum misses you. She doesn't say it, but I know these things." 

Jess collapsed against the wall and groaned softly. She could imagine Jake's wide eyes, his upturned face and toothless grin. 

"Oh you do, do you?" Jason teased. 

She smiled at the mingled sounds of their laughter. Jason's deep, rich answering timbre and Jake's lighter musical tones. 

She continued down the stairs reluctant to interrupt their shared moment. But when she showed herself the laughter faded, although their faces still beamed. She smiled at the approval she saw in her son's eyes and flushed at the admiration in Jason's. 

"I'm sorry I took so long." 

He stood and moved toward her, looking casually elegant in a crisp, white shirt and dark blue suit that miraculously complemented her dress. His eyes, sparkling from laughter, darkened as they locked onto hers. 

"You look beautiful," he said. 

"So do you—I mean, handsome." 

She took a step backward. "I think we'd better go." 

She sidestepped him to kiss Jake goodnight and then collected her wrap. 

Jason followed her through the front door and into the mild, summer night. Jess turned to wave at her son's small face pressed against the window. He waved at Jason. 

They walked a few steps in silence. 

"Jake has missed you," she said at length. 

"I've missed Jake too." 

They reached his car and Jason opened the passenger door. 

"I hope he didn't say anything to embarrass you. You know how children are. They wish for things that are impossible. Things, for example, I know I don't want." 

Jason stilled, his hand holding the car door half open. He leveled his gaze on hers. "Your eyes give you away, Jessica. You could never lie," he said. 

She lowered her gaze and shifted nervously. "Can we go?" she murmured softly. 

The sooner they got started, the sooner this night would end. She'd even the presence of mind to bring the divorce papers. She slipped into the warm interior of his car with thoughts of their first encounter milling through her head. It was all a lifetime ago. 

"Where are we going?" she asked as he slid behind the wheel. 

"My apartment in Kensington. We can talk much better if we're alone, but if you'd rather not..." 

He held her gaze, his intimation hanging between them, waiting for her to decide. 

Jess swallowed her nervousness. Dinner had meant a restaurant. People. Safety. Her heart hammered loudly in her chest at the thought of the alternative. 

"Your apartment will be fine." 

Jason put the car into gear and maneuvered from the curb. She focused her gaze out the passenger-side window and locked her eyes on nothing in particular, watching as the rundown, deprived streets gradually morphed into affluent, quiet avenues and letting her go completely blank. 

"We're here." 

Jason's voice penetrated the vacuum that'd engulfed her brain. He climbed from the car before awareness fully flooded her senses. Her thoughts scrambled for some semblance of order and she tried to get her bearings. His steps crunched on the gravel as he walked to the passenger side. They were off the main road and parked in a private courtyard. Jess cast her gaze over the red-bricked Victorian mansion apartment block rising up before her. She sighed and, opening the passenger door met him half-way. 

With his hand placed lightly at the small of her back, Jason guided her toward the apartment block and through the semi-vaulted entrance hall. He greeted the porter with a curt nod before he led her up the sweeping stairs to his apartment. 

Inside, she couldn't contain her surprise when she saw he'd cooked. But that wasn't all. Her eyes flew to his when she realized he'd prepared the meal they'd last shared on MCORMC-1, unlocking the floodgates to her memories and making her heart a vortex of emotion. 

"Let's eat first and then talk," he suggested quietly. 

He took her wrap and hung it by the door. 

It'd been sometime since they were alone together and Jess felt a little uncomfortable with this intimacy, but Jason was an attentive and easy host. Soon she began to feel at ease. 

She spoke about Jake, about her work, her mother—everything and anything in an attempt to avoid talking about them. And by the time they'd moved to the comfort of the sitting room she was relaxed enough to drink the wine she'd promised herself not to touch.