Murder Game (GhostWalkers, #7)(136)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He found books on birds everywhere, an amateur design for a greenhouse aviary drafted by a feminine hand. He folded the drawings carefully and slipped them inside his coat pocket. He spent another hour in the apartment, not really understanding why, but he couldn’t pull himself away. He was a man who needed freedom and open space. He was intensely sexual, seducing women and bedding them whenever, wherever he wanted. He’d never considered having a woman of his own, yet looking around that tiny apartment made him feel as if all the money in the world, all the political clout, all the secrets of what he was and who he was, all of that was nothing in comparison to what Andrew Reynolds had had.

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

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