Blood Score Part 1

BLOOD SCORE.

Jordan Dane.

A dangerous liaison ignites the bloodl.u.s.t of a merciless killer.

When a beautiful socialite is savagely murdered in Chicago's Oz Park, Detectives Gabriel Cronan and Angel Ramirez find her last hours have a sinister tie to two lovers. One is a mystery and the other is a famous violin virtuoso.

A child prodigy turned world cla.s.s musician, Ethan Chandler is young, handsome-and blind. He's surrounded by admirers with insatiable appet.i.tes for his undeniable talent and guileless charm. From doting society women to fanatical stalkers and brazen gold diggers, the reclusive violinist's life is filled with an inner circle of mesmerized sycophants who are skilled at keeping secrets.

After Cronan and Ramirez expose a shadowy connection between Ethan and the victim with a private elite s.e.x club, they discover intimate desires and dark pa.s.sions aren't the only things worth hiding at all cost. A vicious killer will stop at nothing to settle a blood score.

Chapter 1.

Oz Park a Chicago.

8:10 p.m.

The soulless stare of the weathered face made the hair at the nape of Olivia Davenport's neck p.r.i.c.kle. Vacant eyes followed her as she crept by the bronze statue of Scarecrow. In the dark, the eerie face haunted her with its grim taut mouth and disturbing hollows for eyes. She imagined it coming alive when she turned her back. Her revulsion to the Oz Park statue had her on edge, but she had another reason that had triggered her jitters.

She should never have come.

Ethan had made eight o'clock reservations at Amandine's. He'd called her cell and left messages that she let roll into voice mail, but one text message got her to come to this deserted park at night. At first the thrill of the clandestine encounter had been an irresistible tease that she couldn't refuse. Now in the dark, she wasn't sure it had been a good idea.

Even in the muggy summer heat of Chicago, she wrapped her arms around her with her purse wedged under an elbow. She had a hand at her throat to touch the pearls she wore. Her eyes searched the shadows for any sign of movement in the dense trees that surrounded her rendezvous spot at the Oz Park statue. Even though her heels cut through the gra.s.s and made it hard to walk, she stayed clear of the lighted walkways.

She wasn't sure what would happen, but Olivia was certain she didn't want anyone to see.

When she heard the crunch of gra.s.s and felt company in the ghostly shapes of the trees, her first instinct had been to run, but she held firm. Every tree looked like the silhouette of someone lurking in the dark. Whenever car headlights off Howe Street cut into the park and flickered through the tree trunks, the motion played tricks on her. She jumped at every shift in light. Not even the m.u.f.fled sound of music coming from a restaurant down the road robbed her of the rush.

Olivia dared to step through the trees and weave between them to let her eyes get accustomed to the dark-and the forbidden. Adrenaline surged through her like a tantalizing drug. Her heart pounded, punching her chest and throttling inside her ear, but she craved more. When she heard the snap of a twig ahead, she forced a fragile smile and clutched her purse to her chest.

"It's me," she whispered. "I'm here...like you asked."

Olivia stopped, dead still, and listened. She shut her eyes and held her breath, blocking out everything to focus on the presence she felt strongest now. She wasn't alone.

But when a loud noise stunned her, she jumped out of her skin. The shrill sound of her cell phone made her yelp. d.a.m.n it! She reached into her purse, and the phone display lit up, blinding her in the dark.

She never saw who called.

Arms grabbed her from behind and held her tight. The phone popped from her grip and flew into the darkness. She struggled against the hand over her mouth until she heard the familiar voice, a low whisper that brushed by her ear. She stopped to listen.

"Shh. It's me. It's just me."

She took a deep breath through her nose and sagged in relief. The arms around her had been nothing more than a nasty scare that had spiked her rush with the danger of her secret liaison. When she stopped struggling, the hand came off her mouth and trailed down her body.

"What are you doing here?" she asked without turning around. "I thought-"

"Shh."

Goose b.u.mps raced across her skin as a hand caressed her breast, and her nipples tightened under her thin blouse. She gasped at the intimacy of fingers pulling at her b.u.t.tons and sliding under her lacey bra. She arched her back to make an offering of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. When a hand slipped between her legs, she felt the fevered heat of her body. She gave in to the fantasy and pretended the encounter was with a faceless stranger in a public park-a forbidden someone she'd never see again-until the voice whispered.

"Tell me you want this."

"Oh, yes. Yes."

"Tell me your body belongs to me. Anything I want, I can have."

"Yes. Anything." Her voice cracked. "Do it now. I want this."

"I do, too. You have no idea how much."

Olivia jerked when the knife jabbed into her body. The meaty thud punched through bone and sinew. When her eyes grew wide, and she gasped with the sudden cruelty, a hand covered her mouth and m.u.f.fled her cry. The blade slid inside her with force-one thrust jammed hard, inch by agonizing inch-until it twisted. Her eyes stung with the rush of tears. The pain was excruciating.

Despite the heat of the blood spilling from her body, an overwhelming chill swallowed her. Her lungs filled as if she were drowning, and a stark cold swept through her until she couldn't feel anything-except for the arms that kept her from falling.

"You belong to me now. Only me." Lips brushed her ear. "Now who's the clever one?"

The arms let go, and she collapsed through a tumble of shadows until she hit the ground, hard. She wheezed and gurgled for air that never came as she rolled onto her back and stared into the night sky that flickered with stars and the dim glow of the city. When she stopped struggling, the silhouette of Scarecrow looked down at her. Those accusing eyes forced her to think of another face as a tear drained down her cheek.

Ethan. Olivia's last thoughts were of him.

Chapter 2.

Amandine's Restaurant a Halsted Street North of Downtown Chicago Ethan Chandler ran his fingertips across the linen tablecloth in his slow practiced manner in search of the winegla.s.s he'd placed at two o'clock. He touched the base of it, trailed his fingers up the stem and raised the gla.s.s to his lips. From his taste of the fine Merlot, he knew his gla.s.s was half full. That meant the waiter would soon refill it and ask if he still wanted to wait. He touched his custom Rolex and felt for the time.

An hour had gone by. He'd been late for the reservation and had rushed to make it. Amandine's would have cancelled it, except they recognized his name.

"That's him," a woman whispered. "I saw him play in New York City last fall. Absolutely divine. He's so gorgeous."

A table over, two women had made him their evening's entertainment. Their dinner conversation had focused on one topic-him-and they'd resorted to whispering. It always amused him when people thought a blind man was deaf too. Now that these women had recognized him, they were drawing more attention. Other voices joined in. Outing a celebrity justified their conduct and made their behavior more socially acceptable than merely gawking at the handicapped.

The string quartet across the room distracted him, but not in a good way. Although the composer was not his favorite, the restaurant's violinist had strayed from the music and Ethan noticed. He imagined playing his own Stradivarius, a priceless masterpiece over three-hundred years old.

Antonio Stradivari of Cremona Italy had fabricated his Gibson Stradivarius in the early seventeen hundreds. The violin had a flat masculine build and had been an outstanding concert instrument with a truly memorable tone that had turned into his musical partner over the years. He thought of himself as its guardian, rather than its owner, and he felt the presence of those who had known the joy of playing it before him. Knowing his cherished instrument would carry his mark, long after he left this world, that thought brought him a certain satisfaction and a feeling of immortality.

But his thoughts were interrupted by the annoying sound of a cell phone-his. Normally he would have turned off the blasted thing, thinking it to be a rude intrusion on the dinner hour, but he'd hoped for a call. The ring tone told him who'd be on the line.

"Yes." He smiled.

"Well, how is it? Is your mouth in heaven?"

The woman didn't bother to identify herself. He recognized the throaty voice of his publicist and personal a.s.sistant, Rachel Blevins.

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Amandine's is supposed to be fabulous. I'm asking about the food, Ethan."

"Oh, dear. That could've been awkward."

"Why?"

"What if Olivia and I had skipped dessert and were having s.e.x? My answer would have been quite different."

The women at the other table gasped and Ethan fought a smile as he listened to Rachel's familiar deep sigh.

"If it's any consolation to you, the food smells delicious." He grinned, but his amus.e.m.e.nt faded. "Truthfully, Livie hasn't arrived yet."

"I made your reservations for eight. She's over an hour late, Ethan. Have you tried calling her? That woman can be so-"

"Rachel. Please."

His publicist had never been a fan of Olivia Davenport. He'd dated Livie, off and on, for the past six months after they'd met at a c.o.c.ktail party hosted by his recording studio.

"I'll call you if there is any cause for alarm," he told her.

"Okay, have a good evening. I'll see you in the morning."

"Not if I see you first." He grinned.

"Very funny."

Ethan ended the call, but before he put his phone in his pocket, he used voice commands to dial Livie again. He left another message when it rolled to voice mail.

"It's cruel and unusual punishment to leave a hungry man waiting at a great restaurant. The smells here are driving me insane. Well, crazier than usual." He sighed and let concern filter through his voice. "Please call me, Livie. I'm worried, darling. Where are you?"

After he ended the call, a busboy filled his water gla.s.s, and Ethan decided to call it a night.

"Could you have my waiter bring the check please?"

"Yes, Mr. Chandler."

"Thank you."

Ethan paid his bill and headed for the exit. He used a cane to guide him as well as his recollection of how many steps it had taken him to walk the distance after he'd first arrived. A waiter offered to a.s.sist him, but he declined. He navigated his way out of the restaurant, knowing wait staff gave a man with a cane a wide berth.

The warm night air outside felt good and was a nice change from the chilly air-conditioning in the restaurant. He breathed deep and used his senses to orient himself, but a sound caught his attention.

The soft rapid clicks of a camera.

He turned toward the noise and listened. Click. Click. As he moved away from the sound, it followed him. In a different setting, he might not have noticed, but given his lifestyle and notoriety now, things had changed. The Paparazzi had taken to pursuing him on occasion, especially when he was with a beautiful actress or singer. He hoped that's all it was, but lately he'd sensed someone watching him. The third time this week. The intrusion unnerved him enough that he'd been forced to mention it again to Rachel. The blatant invasion of his privacy had made him more careful.

What had the intruder seen and taken photos of tonight? Who are you and what do you want? He wanted to demand an answer, but he only gritted his teeth instead. He felt the start of a throbbing headache. His evening had come to an abrupt end.

In light of the recent fan letters Rachel had told him about-the strange obsessive kind-he had become more aware of his interactions with the public. The media had been following him since he was a child. By the time he became a teenager, he'd turned into a global sensation and had done it all without the guidance of parents.

He'd discovered that the most difficult part of dealing with his blindness had been learning how to trust others. Isolation would have been an easy trap to fall into, but after he gained notoriety, he chose a different course. His budding fame forced him into relying on people more, for some things. He depended on a small entourage of a.s.sistants and gatekeepers to screen those who sought him out and they kept him on schedule. Rachel had taken the reins of it all. He relied on her to manage everything. His growing celebrity had been fun-until lately.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he mumbled and tightened his jaw. The best way to handle the annoyance of the paparazzi was to leave. He heard the commotion of the valet station to his right and wandered toward a voice.

Before he said anything, a busy young man asked, "What are you driving, sir? You have your claim number?"

Ethan replied without hesitation, "I'm driving a Maserati, and I seem to have misplaced my ticket."

He handed his cane to the young man while he fumbled through his pockets.

The kid stammered, "Wait. Aren't you...blind, sir?"

"Oh, dear. I suppose that could pose a problem." Ethan managed to avoid a smile. "Why don't you call me a cab instead...please?"

The parking attendant either hadn't seen the humor or he presumed Ethan was drunk. He didn't say a word. He hailed the next cab, and after the kid helped Ethan into the taxi, he said, "How do you know this is a real cab?"

"Because nothing on the planet smells like a taxi." Ethan grinned and handed the parking attendant a generous tip, a bill he'd carefully folded in his wallet to distinguish the amount. He had no doubt his tip and his attempt to hijack a Maserati would not be easily forgotten by the valet.

"Thank you, sir. Have a good evening."

"You, too."

It always made him smile when someone young called him *sir.' Listening to the voice of the valet, he sounded to be in his early twenties, but Ethan was only twenty-five. Did he really look that much older? In truth, he felt older. So many people relied upon him for their livelihood. His extensive trips abroad had also brought their share of pragmatic experiences that had seasoned him. Perhaps he did look older.

The valet shut the door to the cab, and the vehicle pulled into traffic. It was only a short drive from Halsted Street to his loft downtown. When he arrived at his residence, the vehicle door opened as he settled with the driver.

"Good evening, Mr. Chandler." A familiar voice greeted him, and a hand helped him from the taxi.

"Thank you, Joseph. Have you seen Ms. Davenport this evening?"

"No, sir. Is there something wrong?"

"No, nothing. We had dinner plans, but she didn't show. No big deal." He forced a smile. "Good night."

"Have a good night's rest, sir."

Ethan unfolded his cane as he stood on the curb and didn't bother to explain more about why he'd asked about Olivia. The doorman guided him through the front entrance and left him alone in the lobby. On instinct, he counted the steps toward the private elevator that would take him to the flat he owned.