They were all wizards. Jack knew because of their residual power traces—the signature a wizard left behind when he or she passed through a space. Through the gore, the bodies were almost impossible to ID, other than whether they were male or female.

  Sara wasn’t one of them. He let out his breath slowly, not even aware that he’d been holding it.

  With a sense of relief, he moved down the long, narrow kitchen. A series of stainless steel–topped islands ran down the center between long expanses of counters and cabinets. Whatever prep work was being done at the time of the attack was now in disarray on the counters or dashed to the floor. Small appliances hung from their still plugged-in cords, and a brown bowl had strewn fresh lemons underfoot.

  The miasma trace of evil lingered in the air-conditioned room. Nimbly bypassing a dozen pots and pans scattered on the tile floor beside a mangled wrought-iron pot rack, Jack had to consider that he might, in fact, be too late. His heart skipped several beats at the thought.

  Maintaining invisibility, he kept moving. But as far as he could see, whoever—whatever—had caused this was long gone.

  He decided that as soon as he saw Sara, as soon as he was sure she was alive and relatively unharmed, he’d leave without her being any the wiser. Jack hoped like hell his optimism wasn’t misplaced. Considering the state of the kitchen, she could very well be dead.

  The clatter of metal crashing against a hard surface broke the silence like a series of loud gunshots. Heart pounding, Jack raced around the corner of the L.

  A burly man in a chef’s coat screamed unintelligibly as he ripped plates from a shelf and dashed them by the handful to the floor among several cast-iron skillets.

  Jack stopped in his tracks. Shit! It all came together. He knew the lunatic: Sara’s father-figure Alberto Santos. And since Alberto and Sara both worked for Baltzer, and Baltzer Enterprises was building hotels in South America, Jack knew where he was, even though he’d never been there before.

  Baltzer’s estate, in the jungles of South America.

  Double shit.

  There were few things Jack disliked more than Grant Baltzer. Jungles were right up there at number three.

  Santos was shimmering in and out as though unable to maintain a teleport, his furious yells swelling and fading as he screamed at someone blocked from Jack’s view by his rotund body. The guy stopped throwing things and was now waving around the bloody carving knife clutched in his other hand. He moved with superhuman speed.

  Clearly deranged. Hopped up on drugs? Question was: Where the hell was Sara?

  Jack shimmered the twenty feet separating them, coming up behind the knife-wielding chef, who had a hundred and fifty pounds on him and was a head shorter. Santos, his white chef jacket and pants saturated with scarlet, feinted and slashed, his apparent goal to fillet the two women he’d cornered. Which answered Jack’s burning question.

  Sara’s location. Right in the damn thick of things. Six feet from an armed, deranged wizard-gone-bad.

  Jack’s heart double-clutched. With relief. With fear.

  TERRIFIED, SARA STOOD FOURSQUARE in front of Carmelita, sheltering her with her own body. Alberto had killed five people. The thought made her sick to her stomach. He’d been gone from Grant’s room no more than a few minutes before they’d tracked him down to his kitchen. Minutes.

  The crazy look in his black eyes as he advanced scared her to death. The madman in front of her was nothing like the gentle, loving man she knew; it was as though he was possessed. She attempted, yet again, to magically restrain him, though it didn’t work worth a damn. She tried to freeze him, trip him, snare him. … As a wizard, Sara thought furiously, she made a great interior designer.

  Behind her, Carmelita sobbed, “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” How the hell was Sara supposed to stop a homicidal man who outweighed her by two hundred pounds?

  “Don’t hurt the mother of your children, Alberto.” The plea was bullshit since he’d already done just that, and appeals to his sense of decency and his rational side had already fallen on deaf ears.

  Before Sara had managed to distract him, he’d stabbed his plump wife several times. Blood seeped sluggishly from several slices on Carmelita’s forehead, her left arm hung limply at her side, and her right hand was pressed to her rib cage where blood swelled between her fingers—the price she’d paid when she’d tried to protect Sara earlier.

  Unaffected by everything Sara was trying to do to stop him, Alberto started circling them, closing in. The long carving knife, professionally honed to a razor edge, glinted as he waved it wildly, babbling gibberish. Sara had never heard him speaking that language before and didn’t know what the hell he was saying, if anything.

  She snatched up a meat cleaver from the floor and braced her bare feet for balance. “Back off, Alberto,” she said in a firm voice, bending her knees a little to steady her center of gravity. This was insane.

  She couldn’t hold him off forever. She’d tried magic. Of course it hadn’t worked. But she kept trying. No choice. Alberto now had them cornered.

  She tightened her grip until her knuckles shone white on the black handle of the cleaver. “You’re sick, Alberto. I get it. But you aren’t coming anywhere near Carmelita with that thing again. Put it down and back off. Now!”

  Brave words, but she knew he was way, way past the point of a negotiated peace. More like at the point of no return. She’d felt this helpless twice before in her life. And both times someone had died. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Behind her, Carmelita’s sobs were interspersed with rapid Spanish as she prayed. Alberto was screaming at the top of his lungs, sweeping dishes, pans, and freshly picked vegetables onto the floor. He shouted unintelligibly before the knife slashed down in a gleaming arc. Sara pulled Carmelita out of the way just as Alberto suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.

  He looked as though he’d been snagged and held back by … something. His red-rimmed eyes narrowed as he fought against an unseen adversary.

  Imaginary? Or real? Please be real! Hope bloomed as the big man staggered backward, his arms windmilling as if fighting off an attacker. Was someone else in the room? She’d never been adept at tracing; if anyone was here, he must be a wizard, and invisible.

  Whoever it was only managed to restrain Alberto for a heartbeat or two; then he was back lunging and jabbing at them.

  Okay. Not real, Sara thought, bitterly disappointed, and annoyed that she’d pretended, even for a moment, that help had arrived. “Talk to him,” she instructed, keeping her body in front of the older woman. Maybe hearing his wife’s voice would snap him out of it. Unfortunately, Carmelita could barely string together two coherent words.

  Backing up, Sara touched one of her sunstone earrings to amp her powers, then attempted another binding spell. Nothing. She tried a protective spell again. No dice. She attempted to teleport Alberto, and when that didn’t work, herself and Carmelita. Everyone stayed just where they were.

  Alberto’s next lunge elicited a sharp shriek followed by a babble of hysterical Spanish from his wife.

  “That’s it,” Sara shouted, at the end of her rope. “Put the damn knife down, Alberto. I know you’re not well. Please let me find someone to help you.” Her voice broke as she struggled to stay calm. But she was pee-in-her-pants scared, her hands shaking so badly she was afraid she’d drop the cleaver.

  “You love Carmelita,” she reminded him, keeping her tone even with great effort. Sweat ran down her temples and into her eyes. Her fingers gripping the cleaver shook, but she held out the other hand, palm up. “Give me the knife, Alberto. Por favor.”

  She turned her head, eyes still fixed on Alberto, and whispered to Carmelita. “I’m going to distract him. When he looks away, you teleport, do you hear me? Get help.”

  Who could possibly help them under these circumstances?

  No one.

  There was nowhere for them to go as Alberto backed them against the face of a giant Sub-Zero refrigerator. Sara knew unequivocally that in the next few seconds they were going to die.

  Alberto sliced the enormous knife down. Heart practically jumping out of her chest, Sara yanked open the refrigerator door between them in the nick of time. The scrape of the blade cutting into the steel made her teeth ache.

  He ripped the door of the Sub-Zero completely off its hinges, tossing it aside as easily as he’d done the skillets a few minutes earlier.

  “This is absolute bullshit.” A man’s voice came out of nowhere. A second later, Jackson Slater materialized behind Alberto. “What the fuck is going on?”

  Sara’s eyes went wide. Jackson? Improbable. Impossible. Absolutely incredible.

  She took in his ripped jeans and sweat-stained khaki shirt, which was covered with a thick layer of red dust. God. Was she hallucinating? He looked big and mean, and gloriously capable of subduing Alberto. If he wasn’t a figment of her imagination. “Jack? What—”

  “We’ll catch up later. Yeah, you son of a bitch, look at me instead of the ladies.” Alberto’s bloodshot eyes tracked Jack. “Fill me in, in five words or less,” he barked at her, pulling a giant knife out of the air and brandishing it as Alberto followed him like a deranged zombie.

  The two men circled each other.

  “Sara! Talk to me.”

  Her mind was blank. She absolutely could not comprehend how or why Jackson Slater was in San Cristóbal.

  “Magic. Not working worth a damn,” Jack pointed out, feinting and parrying as he drew Alberto away from her and Carmelita. “Some clues here—fuck it. There’s more than one way to skin a snake.” He switched the big hunting knife for a small black gun.

  Sara pushed Carmelita into the nearby pantry, then slammed and locked the door. “Don’t shoot him, Jack! Use magic. He’s out of his mind and doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Sara yelled, eyes now fixed on the gun Jack was pointing at Alberto. “He might’ve been bitten by something,”

  “By what—the devil? Why the hell isn’t my power working? Or yours?”

  Jack’s magic didn’t work either? “My magic rarely works.” Especially when she was scared out of her wits. Instead of charging in to save the day, Jack was going to be killed as well. Sara’s stomach heaved and she swallowed bile.

  Jack jumped over the refrigerator door as Alberto sliced the air inches from his face. “Is that a no?”

  “Yes, it’s a n—” Sara shrieked as the sound of a gunshot ricocheted through the kitchen. The back of Alberto’s pant leg bloomed red. He gave an unholy scream that raised the hairs on the back of Sara’s neck.

  “Run! Get the hell out—oh no, you don’t, you son of a bitch.” Jack grabbed the older man by the shoulder, trying to hold him back as Alberto turned toward Sara. “Come and fight like a man with a man.”

  Alberto’s eyes gleamed as he stumbled back toward her. With nowhere to go, Sara pressed against the open cavity of the fridge; the shelves dug into her back, ice cold through her thin T-shirt.

  Almost faster than the eye could see, the chef shimmered across the kitchen to within three feet of her, his beefy arm drawn back, his fist the size of a ham ready to strike.

  It happened so fast Sara felt the rush of air before her brain perceived movement.

  Suddenly, Jack shimmered in front of her, blocking her with the solid warmth of his body. She smelled the clean sweat on his shirt and the familiar Jack smell that used to make her hot and bothered. Then he said harshly, “You never did listen worth a damn, woman.” And Sara remembered that two years wasn’t long enough and why she’d never wanted to see him again.

  She flinched as he fired point-blank. This time the bullet knocked Alberto back several steps, leaving a monstrous red stain on the front of his white chef’s coat. He howled in outrage and charged full-tilt, his enormous body practically levitating as he came toward them.

  Reflexively, she grabbed Jack’s wrist as he started to squeeze off another shot. “Noooo—”

  “—oooo!”

  Jack materialized in a long hallway, Sara’s cry fading in his ears. “Damn-fool woma—” He saw where he was and scowled. Familiar light gray walls, dark floor, bright lights. Great, just fucking great. He’d gone directly from the frying pan into the fire.

  He was in the chilly hallway outside the chamber of the Wizard Council. The Wizard Council to which he’d been attempting to teleport Santos a second ago. He hadn’t planned on coming here himself. He’d planned to report the details to the Archon later, and they could then follow up with the Wizard Council if necessary. Each governing body had a representative with the other Council.

  No good deed went unpunished. He’d saved the girl. The crazy guy was supposed to have been delivered to the Wizard Council to deal with. He was supposed to pick up where he’d left off in the outback half an hour ago.

  He scratched the stubble on his chin. Admittedly, this would save time. He’d report to the Archon and the members of the Wizard Council and be done with it now. Then he’d return to the outback and that cold shower and colder beer. And the solitude he craved now more than ever.

  “You promised you wouldn’t shoot him.” Sara’s voice came from behind him.

  Ah, hell. This just got better and better.

  He turned around. She was leaning against the wall, looking ridiculously sexy and a complete mess, and glaring at him as though he were the one who had tried to carve her into freaking shish kebabs.

  In the midst of Santos’s rampage, Jack hadn’t really noticed that her pink shorts, and a mile of lightly tanned legs, were nearly as bloodstained as the skimpy tank top clinging wetly to the upper swell of her breasts. The cold air in the corridor caused her nipples to press against the wet cotton of her top. Her dishevelment and the splatters of blood looked obscene. Jack felt a surge of … irritation. Yes. That’s all it was.

  She rubbed the goose bumps on her arms with both hands, her expression hard to read

  “I never promised a damn thing,” Jack told her, his voice cool. That was a hell of a lot of blood. Had she been cut? He tried to see without being overt about it. “It was him or you.” He didn’t see any cuts, and she didn’t appear to be in pain. “Sorry, I should’ve asked if you’d prefer I just stand back while he fucking hacked you to pieces.”

  “Don’t be a moron, Jack.” Sara’s silky, honey-brown hair was secured precariously on top of her head by a yellow pencil. Her skin was pale under her tan, and her velvety brown eyes blazed hot and pissed. “It was …” She swallowed hard and pressed a hand to her middle. “It was overkill.”

  “I made the call. Live with it.”

  Her jaw clenched. “Is he dead?”

  He shrugged and went to prop up the opposite wall, his fingers stuffed in the front pockets of his filthy jeans. He must stink like a bear. Sara, on the other hand, looked and smelled like some erotic, exotic fantasy. Jack knew he would recognize that combination of girl-next-door citrus coupled with the ginger flower of a siren if he were blindfolded and presented with a hundred women in a dark room.

  He’d dreamed about the smell of her skin on so many lonely nights zipped into a freaking sleeping bag, fisting his cock; he was surprised he hadn’t dislocated it. No other woman, before or since, smelled quite like Sara Temple.

  “Where are we?” she demanded after a few moments of pulsing silence. Under the too-bright overhead lights, her face looked drawn and strained, her big brown eyes shadowed. “Damn it, Jackson. You’ve got a freaking nerve, strolling back into my life thinking you can teleport me wherever you damn well please.”

  Jack hadn’t meant her to teleport with them at all; she was a damned burr in his h—ass. Hell, he hadn’t planned on making the trip here himself; he’d wanted to go straight back to his leylines and his solitary life. His fist was dependable. For the time being he was content with his love life, or lack thereof. When he was ready to do something about that, he’d do it—where, with whom, and as often as he liked.

  Sara looked around curiously; the studs in her ears sparked orange fire as she moved. She turned back to shoot him an accusing glare. There’d been a time when her warm brown eyes had been soft and unfocused as she looked up at him with so much love it made his chest ache. A time when her soft lips curved with a loving smile when she looked at him.

  Right now, she was looking at him as if he were a particularly annoying stranger.

  Strangers, he thought bitterly, was exactly what they were. He’d thought he knew her. Thought the love they’d shared was the real deal. He’d been wrong on every count. “I didn’t bring us here. I didn’t even bring myself here.” He didn’t like being teleported without his consent any more than she did. He kept his back to the wall so he could see down the length of the hallways on either side of him. No sign of the demented Santos.

  “Apparently we’ve been summoned,” Jack added.

  “By whom?”

  “The Wizard Council. Haven’t you been here before?”

  “Of course not.” She raised both hands in questioning annoyance, then dropped them to her sides. “Why would they summon us?”

  With an absent touch of her fingers to the sunstone stud sparkling in her earlobe, she instantly changed her clothes. Good. The skimpy shorts and tank top had revealed way too much smooth, tanned skin for his peace of mind. The blood had been disturbing as hell.

  The severe cut of the chocolate-brown pantsuit almost disguised the slender, ultrafeminine body underneath. The severity was saved from looking masculine by a soft, frothy blouse thing in a greeny-turquoise color. All of the bloodstains were gone. Invisible pins replaced the pencil securing her hair, and gold hoops gleamed in her ears beside the sunstones.

  She looked clean, fresh, and professional. She’d not only changed clothes, she’d freshened up and magically applied makeup and perfume. Magic suited her just fine when she needed it to. His gut twisted at the familiar, freshly showered, I’m-ready-to-go-out—or better yet, stay in—scent of her.

  She smelled more strongly of sugared ginger and freshly picked lemons. Jack had to curl his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching out and pulling out those pins one by one and messing up her too-neat hair. Then burying his face between her breasts, in the curve of her neck, between her strong, silky thighs. Oh, shit. Look somewhere else, pal.