Putting the knitting aside, she clicked off the lamp on the side table nearest her and un-muted the TV so she could watch the Travel Channel, where they were doing a special on—she squinted at the screen so she could read the blurb at the bottom—Costa Rica. Perfect. She’d never been to Costa Rica or, frankly, anywhere, and, with any luck, the image of the lazy sway of palm trees would lull her to sleep sometime before dawn. She settled her head on the pillow at one end of the sofa, snuggled under her favorite angora throw, and tried to veg.
She hated vegging.
Still, she tried for ten seconds, until she heard … a sound.
Mute and indistinct, it was nothing describable, just … a sound.
Cocking her head, she listened and heard only the hiss of the ancient but exceedingly efficient radiator in her bedroom and … yeah, the gentle ding-ding-DING, ding-ding-DING of the brass bell wind chimes outside her bedroom window, which sounded a little louder than they needed to.
Hold up. Had she left the window open? Yeah. There was the cascading clatter of her wood blinds against the window. Now she’d have to get off her butt and close it.
Great.
Halfway down the hall, a prickle of … something … skittered up her spine.
She hesitated. She listened. And then she told herself she was being stupid.
Shaking off the silliness, she stepped into the carpeted blackness of her bedroom and identified the shadowy shapes looming on all sides: entertainment armoire, comfy chairs, desk and bed.
No boogeyman. Dummy.
The blinds clattered again, and she slid the sash closed, locked it, and peered through the slats at eye level to see if there were any other poor souls awake at this ungodly hour. There weren’t. Only the ghostly shapes of several enormous oaks lining the street, all of which seemed sinister tonight, close cousins of the evil tree from which the Headless Horseman had sprung in the Johnny Depp version of Sleepy Hollow.
Too much coffee was the problem. That and no sleep for the last oh, say, four years. No more caffeine for her, starting tomorrow. And she needed to work harder on the whole sleep-relaxation thing. For now, she’d get some warm milk in a mug, top it off with two or three inches of Kahlúa, just to make it drinkable, and she’d be good to go.
Guided by the blue digital clock displays on the range and microwave, she walked back down to the kitchen and—
A slight movement registered with her peripheral vision, the fragmentation of a silent mass that was bigger and blacker than the darkness surrounding it.
The signal was still en route to her brain—run!—when a pair of arms circled her from behind, capturing her, and she screamed, struggling for her life.
Chapter 6
The more Amara fought, the more trapped she became, as though the person holding her was the solid and vertical equivalent of quicksand, sticking to her and dragging her under to certain death.
She screamed. A hard hand clamped over her mouth.
She bit. Those digging fingers tightened, hurting.
She tried to free her useless arms from her sides. The living manacles embracing her in an immovable grip clenched, compressing her ribs.
She kicked out and was swung off her flailing feet.
Roaring with suppressed fear, growing desperation and a white-hot rage at being a crime victim in her own damn kitchen, she resorted to her only remaining weapon and jerked her head back—determined to knock out as many teeth as possible—and connected with someone’s nose with an audible and, she hoped, painful crunch.
“Christ.”
Ignoring the pinpoints of light blinking before her eyes and the ache that would soon be a goose egg on her scalp, she hung her head again and prepared for another assault, but the intruder was ready for her this time and jerked away.
This led to overcompensation and a wild moment during which they staggered together, teetering between remaining upright and becoming victims of gravity.
Gravity won.
They hit the cold slate floor with a skull-jarring crash that was made worse because Amara had no hands free to catch herself and the man weighed a ton. His unforgiving body was every bit as hard as the tile beneath her belly and she gasped for breath even as she waited for her ribs to splinter.
And there was a new threat.
The unmistakable bulge of a fearsome package—flaccid now, yeah, but still fearsome—wedged against her butt, which was covered only by the insubstantial floss of a pair of thong panties and the negligible film of a cotton nightgown.
Oh, God.
Their minds seemed to be following the same path because Amara renewed her struggle, writhing and twisting, at the same time that the intruder tensed his muscles, tightening them to stone against which she had no prayer.
She screamed with frustration against his palm, the sound muffled and impotent, and then something extraordinary happened.
“Amara.” The crushing weight against her lessened and he shifted enough for her to suck in a strangled breath. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The hoarse voice penetrated her panic and she froze with astonishment.
Wait a minute. She knew that voice.
“It’s Jack from the diner.”
“Juuck?” she asked into his hand.
“Yes.” She heard the relief in his voice. “I’m letting you go. Don’t hurt me, okay?”
She nodded.
His hand let go of her face and he braced atop her body in push-up position as though testing her newfound compliance. From there it took him an unaccountably long time to climb the rest of the way off her and she became aware, with excruciating sensitivity, of the cool air against her bare hips and butt, her spread thighs and single bent knee as she tried to get a toehold against the floor, the rasp of his pants against her legs, the flat hard lines of his belt buckle, his strength, his scent, the overpowering heat he generated.
With slow and deliberate movement, he eased down the length of her body.
And was gone.
Amara waited, trembling, not daring to breathe, this sudden respite from death too good to be true, but then her near-nudity below the waist spurred her to action. Scrambling into a squat, she skittered backward, away from him, until her back thumped the dishwasher.
Standing now, he stared down at her. She stared up at him. Then he reached out a hand for her to grab. When she hesitated, he bent at the waist, caught her under the arms, and hauled her up. The soft slide of her nightgown back into place covered her up, but she tugged at the ruffled bottom around her knees, just in case, and then squared her shoulders, gripped the counter for support and tried to look like she was a woman to be reckoned with even though she was scared out of her freaking mind.
They eyed each other warily, both panting. Something obscured her vision and she belatedly realized it was her wild hair, which was in her face and down around her shoulders. She shoved it back, aware of him watching her, marking her every movement.
Tired of the darkness, she reached behind, not daring to break eye contact, even for a second, fumbled for the over-the-sink switch, and flipped it.
This was a mistake.
He’d looked scary enough in the dark, when she’d seen only flashes of the wild light in his eyes, but now he was downright terrifying for a variety of reasons. First was the gash on his forehead that would eventually turn into a Harry Potter scar. Second was the bloody nose, for which she claimed full responsibility. Third was the full-body makeover he seemed to have undergone since she last saw him.
The overgrown face scruff was gone and so were the sandy curls she’d imagined fisted in her hands. No sign of the white apron. What was left? A clean-shaven man with hard-edged granite cheekbones, a skull trim and a don’t fuck with me or you might not live to tell the story bad-ass expression she didn’t want to test unless she had to.
This was not the laid-back fry cook whose biggest issue was whether the day’s order of eggs had arrived safely from the dairy. This was a focused and fearsome warr
ior. She’d caught a flicker of him last night when he rescued her from her attacker; now she was staring at a raging inferno.
Though he wore the usual baggy jeans, a sweater and a puffy jacket, nothing special or remarkable, her instincts screamed that this man was a soldier or mercenary. If someone needed rescuing from a South American jungle, this was the guy you’d send for. It was all in his eyes and the way he carried himself, the absolute stillness and relentless focus with which he watched her, analyzing and strategizing.
And then he blinked once, twice—she had the feeling he was struggling with himself, trying not to do something he desperately wanted to do—and his unreadable gaze traveled lower.
To her body in its filmy cotton nightgown, backlit now by the light she’d flipped on in her foolish haste. One sweeping glance left her feeling naked and vulnerable, as though he’d arranged her on satin sheets for his slow inspection and ultimate enjoyment.
It was all over in less than a second, but her flesh responded on a primal level she was helpless to control. Her breasts grew heavy and ached and her dark nipples peaked until the harsh rise and fall of her chest against the cotton tormented her. The curve of her hips, her thighs and the deep cleft between them all felt a touch of that intense gaze and responded.
Sheer defiance kept her from crossing her arms and covering herself.
Or maybe it was idiocy.
After three or four of the longest beats of her life, he caught his breath and became aware of the blood trickling from his nostrils. “Jesus.” Looking her up and down once more, this time with clear irritation, he swiped the back of his hand under his nose. “I knew you were nothing but trouble.”
Incensed, she sprang into motion before she knew what she was doing. This SOB broke into her house, tackled her in her own kitchen, scared her half to death when she was minding her own business, not bothering anybody, and now he had the unmitigated gall to call her trouble?
Oh, hell no.
Her hand had just closed around the well-balanced and satisfying hilt of her favorite piece of cutlery, a two-hundred-dollar chef’s knife from Williams-Sonoma, yanked it down from the magnetized strip on the wall, and raised it toward his face—if he thought he was going to have a scar on his forehead now, just wait till she got done with him—when he vaulted across the room to stop her. One second he was safely over there and the next he was in her face, snarling.
His huge hand clamped down around her wrist and squeezed. “Drop it.”
“Screw you.”
She knew she’d regret those two words and she did. Immediately. That hand tightened until streaks of pain shot up her arm and cleared her head. Yelping, she let go and the knife clattered to the floor. He kicked it away with one booted foot.
Fine. There was a complete set up there on the wall, starting with a lovely meat cleaver. Glaring at him, she calculated the best way to twist her body and reach the cleaver with her free hand. But before she could execute what she thought was shaping up to be a brilliant plan, he read her mind.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, pulling her by the arm until she was in the center of the kitchen, well away from any weapons.
Furious, she jerked free and they faced off. Coming to the slow realization that he could have killed and/or raped her three or four times by now if that was what he’d had in mind, she focused on her anger rather than her fear.
“What the hell do you want?” she snapped.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Talk? Really? You ever hear of a telephone, Jack? Or what about this: doorbell. Say it with me: doorbell. How did you get in here anyway? How did you even know where I live?”
“It was real tricky. I looked you up in the phone book. And I came in through the kitchen door.”
This was outrageous. That door had a damn fine dead bolt lock that she’d installed with her own two hands and trusty cordless drill. “You picked my lock?”
He didn’t answer.
“Why not try knocking on the front door? At a decent hour?”
“This is an emergency.” He hesitated. “And I didn’t want to be seen.”
“By who? The boogeyman?”
The sarcasm bounced right off his flat demeanor. “The people who are after me.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Who’s after you, Jack?”
“I can’t get into that. But they’re going to come after you, too, and I need to get you out of here. Now.”
Well, she’d known there had to be something seriously wrong with a person who looked like Jack and could cook, but she’d chosen to nurse the ridiculous girlish hope that she’d actually met an interesting man. A jerk, clearly, but still interesting. Not that she wanted to marry him or anything, but it was nice to know that such a man existed.
Now she had to face the ugly reality that he was bat-shit crazy and probably off his meds. Hell, it was worse than that. No doubt there was a padded wagon roaming up and down the streets of Mount Adams right now, driven by uniformed men with giant nets, looking for him.
It figured.
Tragic, but he was in her house and she needed to get him out without him killing her, which he could still decide to do.
“Jack,” she said, trying to keep the condescension out of her voice, “if someone’s after you, you need to call the police.”
“The police can’t help me. And they can’t protect you.”
There was no reasoning with the unreasonable, but she tried anyway. “Okay, Jack. I’m going to take it on faith that someone’s after you. What does that have to do with me?”
“If they can’t find me, they’re going to use you to get to me.” He paused long enough to analyze her uncomprehending look and answer her unspoken questions with rising impatience. “Because of the video, which makes it look like we’re lovers. Look—we don’t have time for this. I want you to get dressed, throw a few things in an overnight bag and—”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“—let me take you to a hotel or someplace safe—”
“You’re insane.” Damn. She hadn’t meant to say that. There went her whole don’t piss him off plan. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“—and then I can touch base with my contacts and we can figure out how to keep you safe.” Crossing to the sink, he turned on the water and splashed his face, getting rid of most of the blood.
“Hey—”
Ignoring her protest, he grabbed the bar towel from the ring, dried off and tossed it onto the dish rack.
“Don’t just stand there. Get going.”
“No.”
He treated her to a string of curses on a growl of increasing frustration and Amara decided she’d had enough. If he’d wanted to kill her, he’d have done it by now. The fact that he hadn’t gave her the courage she needed to march to the kitchen door, which was, sure enough, now unlocked—thanks for breaking into my house, jerk—and hold it open in the hopes of facilitating his speedy departure.
“Thanks so much for the warning about the … you know … bad guys.” God. How stupid did she sound? Bad guys. Right. “I’m going to lock the door again after you leave, keep my eyes open, and if any of them show up—”
“Don’t patronize me.” He did another one of those vaulting across the room maneuvers—how did such a big man move so quickly and silently?—snatched her away from the door and closed it. “I’m not talking about people who will key your car if they get mad at you. These people will torture you to find out what you know about me and then they will kill you. You feel me? Kill. You.”
Amara jerked her arm free and opened her mouth to argue.
And the lights went out.
Not just the lights. The hum from the refrigerator stopped. The low murmur of voices from the Travel Channel in the living room fell silent. For no reason at all, the world went dark, quiet and scary.
An angry accusation formed on her lips and she looked to Jack, ready to demand an explanation.
But then s
he caught a shadowy glimpse of his wide-eyed expression and read it with no need for interpretation. Oh, shit, said that grim face, and Amara’s fear hiked several notches higher.
They stared at each other, frozen and waiting, and heard it at the same time: the soft but unmistakable sound of a footstep.
On the hardwood floors in her hallway.
In her house.
Then came the pinpoint flash of a light on her wall, and Amara knew.
This was no random power outage, and if she glanced out her window she would not discover that her neighbors’ houses were also dark. This was the very same bad guy Jack had just warned her about, and he’d cut her power for the express purpose of coming in here to kill them both. He had a flashlight and probably a gun and she and Jack would be dead within minutes.
Panic propelled her to take a step toward the door, but Jack touched her arm and then raised a finger to his lips.
Shhh.
The oh, shit was gone from his face and he didn’t look scared or even worried. He looked calm and cool, as though he’d been through this drill a million times before and was counting the seconds until his next coffee break. That obvious and unshakable confidence gave her strength enough for a deep breath.
She nodded.
Using hand signals she’d seen in some military TV show or other, he motioned for her to get down and crawl under the kitchen table. She obeyed without hesitation, hanging on to one sturdy oak leg and angling her body so she could keep him in sight.
A half smile of approval flickered across Jack’s face as he reached behind his back and produced … Oh, my God.
Was that a gun?
The floor creaked. Right outside the kitchen. That pinpoint of light danced across the kitchen door … the range … the baker’s rack.
Oh, God. Fear clamped down on her, prickling her scalp, burning her throat and constricting her lungs. Please, God. Please, God, pleasegod, ohgod, ohgod, please—
Praying for survival, she watched Jack blend into the wall to the right of the archway from the hall, and then the floor creaked again, too small a sound to warn of this new evil in her peaceful sanctuary, and a figure came into view, a phantom, an intruder.
Deadly Pursuit Page 6
