But someone was calling to him across the vast reaches of time and space.
Isabella.
He looked for her but he could not see her in the shadows. He had to find her. She was infinitely more important than whatever fabulous discoveries awaited him in the heart of chaos. And she was in danger. . . .
Fallon awoke on a rush of energy, all of his senses at full throttle. He had to find Isabella now.
He was out of bed and reaching for his pants before he could assess and analyze the decision. The part of him that was always engaged in probabilities and possibilities did a fast assessment of the situation. If Isabella was in danger, that danger would have arrived via the patio.
Given the hotel’s desert landscaping, that meant he would be covering some rough ground. He paused long enough to pull on the low boots that he had worn on the plane. He was going to look like a lust-crazed idiot if he showed up on her patio half-naked with no good reason.
He jerked open the sliding glass door and went out into the night.
“ARE YOU THREATENING TO murder me?” Isabella asked. The new tide of energy slamming through her was enough to propel her to the very edge of the bed. Another inch and she would fall onto the floor. She was battling the invisible psychic thrall the whole time, but she was making some progress.
“No, no, no, Miss Valdez. I assure you I am not a hit man. I told you, I’m the Messenger.”
“You know what happens to messengers.”
There was no sound out on the patio, just a sudden shifting of the shadows. But suddenly Fallon was there, sweeping into the unlit room on a pressure wave of energy. He went straight toward the intruder like a hawk zeroing in on prey.
“Shit.” The Messenger no longer sounded like a silver-tongued salesman. He sounded panicked. He leaped for the only available exit, the door that opened onto the hallway.
Isabella felt the paralysis lift instantly as the intruder lost his focus. She rolled out of bed and got to her feet in time to see Fallon grab the fleeing Messenger and spin him around. For the first time, she saw the ski mask that covered the man’s face. He had relied on more than his unnerving talent to conceal his identity.
“No, wait,” the Messenger gasped. He flung up his hands to ward off a blow.
Energy flashed in the atmosphere.
“Don’t kill him,” Isabella said quickly. “Not yet. He knows stuff. We need to talk to him first.”
“Yes,” Fallon said. “We’ll definitely have a chat first.”
He slammed the Messenger onto the floor. The man groaned. Fallon leaned down and ripped off the ski mask.
“Always knew you’d come to a bad end, Lockett,” Fallon said. “Didn’t know I’d be the one to take you out, though. I assumed it would be some other disgruntled client.”
Lockett stiffened. He stared up at Fallon. “You know my name?”
“I never do business with people I don’t know.”
Lockett sat up slowly, clearly dazed by more than just the body slam. “I don’t understand. No one knows my identity. I never let clients see me. How the hell did you find out?”
“I don’t think that’s important at the moment. What are you doing in this room?”
“He said that someone wants me to spy on J&J,” Isabella said indignantly. “There was a huge bribe involved. And a threat.”
Fallon looked at her. “Robe.”
“What?”
“You’re in your nightgown. Put on a robe.”
She looked down. “Oh, right.”
Her nightgown was made of soft cotton. It was ankle length and long-sleeved. All in all it was far more modest than the evening dress she had worn earlier, but she suspected that it was the principle of the thing that worried Fallon. She grabbed her robe and slipped into it.
Fallon turned back to Lockett. “What’s this about a bribe and a threat?”
“I never threatened her,” Lockett said forcefully. “I wasn’t the one trying to bribe her, either. I simply relayed the message. That’s what I do. You should know that, Jones.”
“What was the message?” Fallon asked.
Lockett heaved a world-weary sigh. “My client wanted me to offer Miss Valdez a sum of money in exchange for transmitting certain details concerning the operation of Jones & Jones. That’s all there was to it.”
“I told him no,” Isabella said, still incensed. “Then he informed me that a hundred thousand dollars had already been wired into an offshore account. The number is on the table.”