Anne Stuart's Out-of-Print Gems

by Anne Stuart

“On the other hand,” Osborn continued smoothly, ignoring her act, “you were trespassing on private property. You had a phony ID tag, and we haven’t ruled out the possibility of industrial sabotage. We could push it as far as attempted murder, Ms. Molloy, and you’re our obvious suspect. I don’t believe what Crompton told me about you for one moment.”

  He was good, Suzanna had to admit it. She was dying to know what Crompton had told him. It took all her formidable willpower to keep from reacting.

  He rose, and she could feel him move toward her. “We’ll be watching you, Ms. Molloy,” he said softly. “If we can’t get to you here, we’ll wait till you leave. Sooner or later you’re going to tell us what you know. What you saw.” And she felt his hand on her breast, squeezing it painfully thruogh the layers of hospital cotton.

  She couldn’t control her start of pain, but she played it through, opening her eyes for a deliberately dazed moment, then shuttering them again, uttering no more than a plaintive moan before she ostensibly drifted off again.

  “I could almost believe you, Ms. Molloy,” the nasty little sadist murmured. “If I were just a little more gullible. I’ll be back.”

  Suzanna almost snorted. She couldn’t imagine anyone less like the Terminator than the brief glimpse she’d had of elegant, white-haired Henry Osborn. Except that he might be just as merciless.

  The door closed with a sigh, but Suzanna didn’t move. She held still, waiting until she was certain he was truly gone. Uncle Vinnie had been right, but then, she’d never had cause to doubt him in the first place. There was something extremely nasty going on at Beebe Control Systems, and while sabotage doubtless had something to do with it, she put her money on the deceptively charming gentleman who’d just mauled her breast. If only she knew what Crompton had told him!

  Doubtless nothing flattering. But it hadn’t been the truth, either, or Osborn wouldn’t have hesitated in having her arrested for suspected sabotage, as he’d threatened to do. Obviously Osborn had his secrets, and he wanted to know exactly which ones of those Suzanna had been privy to.

  She let her eyes drift open, still keeping her breathing regulated. The room was empty, the early-morning light sending strange shadows against the pale green walls. It was just after six, and in the far distance she could hear the wailing sounds of a fire siren.

  She sat up, moving quietly, and slid from the bed. One thing was certain: she wasn’t going to stay there and wait until Osborn could summon his goons to watch over her. Assuming he had goons to summon. She needed to get out of this place, and she needed to find out what was really going on with Daniel Crompton. She’d almost been killed, just because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and her breast still throbbed from Osborn’s nasty grope. She wanted to know what Crompton had told him, she wanted to know what the man was working on, and she wanted to know whether either of them was still in danger.

  And there was only one way to find out.

  She had to ask him. No, scratch that—she had to sit the man down and force him to tell her what was going on. Exactly how she planned to do that was still a mystery, but she’d always relied on her ability to improvise when things got a little complicated. First things first.

  At least they’d brought her clothes back, a little the worse for wear, her ratty running shoes still usable. The great Dr. Daniel Crompton might have no qualms about going out barefoot in stolen hospital garb, but Suzanna was a little more discreet.

  Her borrowed lab coat had taken the brunt of the slime assault. Suzanna dressed quickly, grateful that apart from the tingling in her hands and an odd heat at the back of her eyes, she seemed to be in fairly good shape. As a matter of fact, the worst of her discomfort still came from where Osborn had mauled her. Interesting.

  The corridors were coming to life as she stepped out of her room, but she’d already learned that the best way to get away with something was to look as if you knew what you were doing. She strode down the hallway quite purposefully, not dodging when she passed an orderly’s curious gaze, and a moment later ducked down a deserted stairwell. She was free.

  If she’d had any sense at all, she would have headed straight home, barricaded herself inside her second-floor apartment, put something cool and jazzy on the stereo and gone to sleep.

  But she didn’t feel particularly sensible. The old Victorian house she lived in was more than a mile away, on the far side of town, her car was presumably still at Beebe, and she knew for a fact that Dr. Daniel Crompton’s apartment was much closer—only a brief walk away.

  He might not be there, of course. But if she’d gotten into a place with security as tight as BBCSI, then she had little doubt she could get into his apartment. There was no way she was going to rest until she got some answers.

  DANIEL WAS ENJOYING himself immensely, not in the slightest bit disturbed about his new body. He could feel himself, see himself, albeit slightly out of focus. If he dropped the towel on a surface in front of the mirror he could see that, as well. If he picked it up again it seemed to float in midair. If he draped it around him, it disappeared.

  It made no earthly sense, in terms of physics or any known science. He tried it with various other items. Any piece of clothing he held would still be corporeal, but once he put it on it vanished. He wandered through his apartment, wearing only a pair of old jeans that he usually preferred not to be seen in. At least this time he wouldn’t have to worry, he thought with dark humor.

  Once he put food in his mouth, it disappeared, and he swallowed half a quart of his special multivitamin energy drink that usually sufficed instead of regular food, washing it down with at least a gallon of coffee. He turned on the news, something he seldom bothered wtih, but the brief story about the explosion at Beebe was the company line. He stared at Henry Osborn’s cool, concerned face and muttered an expletive.

  Which reminded him. If people couldn’t see him, and that doubtless explained why the guard and the jogger seemed to be ignoring him, would they be able to hear him?

  All in the nature of scientific experiment, he dialed Henry Osborn’s unlisted number. His ruthlessly elegant, ruthlessly slim wife, Doris, answered the phone. He’d never liked her, either the insufferably smug way she moved through the few social functions he’d been forced to attend, or the way she’d delicately, unmistakably come on to him on one of those same occasions, letting her slender, bejeweled hand rest high up on his thigh. She was a barracuda, well-suited to her husband.

  He started with a little heavy breathing.

  “Is anyone there?” Doris demanded, cool and imperious as ever.

  He kept his voice low, husky, unrecognizable, as he murmured a couple of graphic suggestions he would have been far more interested in trying with Ms. Suzanna Molloy.

  There was a shocked intake of breath on the other end, leaving him in no doubt that even if people couldn’t see him, they could certainly hear him. And then elegant Doris Osborn said, “I told you not to call me here, Dorfio. We’ll meet at the health club, as always.” Before Daniel had time to recover from his shock, she’d hung up the phone.

  Dismissing her with a reluctant laugh, he went about his experiments. If he was invisible, perhaps he had other gifts, as well. One thing was certain—he hadn’t been invisible in the hospital. Suzanna Molloy had looked up at him out of those distrustful brown eyes, and there’d been no mistaking the hostility in them. Nor the reluctant fascination. While Daniel didn’t usually waste time paying attention to how people responded to him, in Suzanna’s case he didn’t consider it a waste. For some reason he had yet to fathom, she fascinated him. It only made sense that he’d be interested in her reaction.

  He must have been visible as he walked through the town. That car exploding couldn’t have been an accident, not after the events of the day. Someone must have been waiting for him, armed with some kind of heavy artillery.

  But by the time he’d reached his apartment building, he’d been gone. He could remember that strange, tingling feeling, like a h
ot flash, that had spread over him just as it neared 6:00 a.m., and he could only guess that that was when it had started. The question was, how long was it going to last?

  He flicked off the television, then held very still. Someone was outside the door. Knocking, with a fair amount of insistence. He wasn’t in the mood for visitors, or for answering the door. It would only be someone from Beebe, trying to harass him again.

  If it was someone from work, it was someone who had few qualms about breaking and entering. Whoever stood outside his door was fiddling with his lock.

  He glanced around him, considering where to hide, and then realized he had no need to. He could stand right there, motionless, soundless, and whoever was attempting to break into his apartment wouldn’t even know he was there.

  He hadn’t set the security lock when he’d first come in, a major oversight. He waited patiently as the lock finally gave and the door opened. There were any number of people who’d made a recent habit of breaking and entering his personal space, but he could only hope it was the one person he was interested in seeing at that particular moment.

  It was. “Dr. Crompton?” Suzanna Molloy’s faintly husky voice heralded her entrance. “Are you there?”

  She knew damned well he wasn’t, having knocked loudly. He watched as she stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind her, her brown eyes sweeping over the living room of his apartment, looking right through him.

  “Typical,” she muttered in disgust, stifling a yawn. She moved through the living room, glancing at the plain white walls, the piles of professional magazines, the lack of anything like a stereo or even a rug on the floor. Even his old small TV was probably black and white, a rarity in this modern age.

  “He must be some kind of monk,” she muttered, glancing at the narrow futon he occasionally slept on.

  Not exactly, he thought, surveying the long sweep of her legs and the firm, gently rounded bottom beneath her faded jeans. She wasn’t his type. But maybe he was ready to change his type.

  It happened so fast he had no warning. She turned around, heading into the kitchen, and barreled, unseeing, right into him.

  She fell backward, onto that luscious bottom he’d just been admiring, staring up in shock, staring at nothing. This could have its advantages, he thought, wondering whether he dared to so far as to touch her.

  She shook her head, as if clearing cobwebs from her brain, and struggled back to her feet. “Keep your shirt on, Nancy Drew,” she muttered out loud. He controlled the urge to offer her a hand. She wouldn’t see it, and if she felt it, she’d probably scream.

  He managed to avoid her as she moved tentatively into the little kitchen area he seldom used. He heard her open the refrigerator, then her remarkably graphic curse as she discovered just how empty it was.

  “I’m starving,” she moaned to herself. “And all the man seems to eat is moldy cheese and beer.”

  He didn’t bother correcting her. He moved back against the wall silently, so she wouldn’t run into him again. The small electronic clock signaled it was now eight in the morning.

  He felt that same, strange flush sweep over his body, and he leaned against the wall, trying to control the sudden weakness in his knees as the pain shot through him. He was shivering, praying for the moment to pass, when through the fog of pain he heard her strangled scream.

  “How did you get in here?” she demanded, her voice filled with horror. And he opened his eyes to realize that for the first time in hours, someone was staring directly at him.

  Chapter Four

  For a moment Suzanna couldn’t move. He stood only a few feet away from her, in the middle of his soulless living room, dressed in a faded pair of jeans that clung to his narrow hips and long legs. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, despite the coolness of the morning air, and Suzanna decided then and there that a scientist shouldn’t have such a chest. He should have been pale and soft and flabby. Not toned and tanned and subtly well-muscled.

  He hadn’t bothered to tie back his hair, and it hung around his strong-featured face, making him look like a pirate, not a biochemist with a Ph.D. in physics on the side.

  She managed, just barely, to pull herself together. “Where did you come from?”

  “I live here, remember?” he replied in an even voice. “You’re the one who’s not supposed to be here. Where did you learn to pick locks?”

  She could feel just a faint trace of color heat her cheeks, but she simply tilted her chin with a defiance she didn’t completely feel. “I do what needs to be done.”

  “Including going to jail? Breaking and entering is a crime, last I heard, and you’ve done it twice in the last twenty-four hours. Were you planning on planting a bomb here, as well?” He asked the question with cool disdain, wandering past her shocked figure to stare out the window, giving her a full, distracting view of his back. It was almost sexier than his chest.

  “Being able to pick a lock has nothing to do with being able to set a bomb,” she said, tearing her gaze away reluctantly. “Why should I want to blow up your lab? Or your apartment, for that matter? I’m a reporter, not an industrial spy.”

  He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “It makes a good story.”

  “I’m not that desperate for a byline. You don’t believe it, either,” she added with sudden assurance. “What did you tell Osborn about me?”

  Daniel turned and leaned against the wall, seemingly at ease in his partially dressed state. If only he’d just pull a shirt on over all that gorgeous flesh, she might be able to concentrate a little better. “So Osborn came to see you? I thought he would. What did he want to know?”

  “What I saw in your lab.”

  “And what did you see in my lab?”

  “You,” she said.

  “Is that what you told him?”

  “I pretended to be asleep.” She remembered the brutal feel of his hand on her, and she couldn’t control a slight shiver of distaste.

  “What did he do to you?” Crompton asked suddenly.

  “What makes you think he did anything?” she countered, acutely uncomfortable.

  “The expression on your face.”

  “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “I’m a scientist. I’m trained to observe. Did he hurt you?”

  For some reason she didn’t want to tell him. Tell him that the CEO of a multinational corporation groped her breast, that an elegant, middle-aged businessman hurt her. It was both embarrassing and unbelievable. “Do you think he’s the kind of man who would?” she said instead.

  He stared at her for a long moment. He had really wonderful eyes, she realized, but then, that was in keeping with the rest of him. They were a dark, mesmerizing blue, almost black, and yet she could almost imagine tiny pinpricks of golden light, almost like flames, at their center. Scientists were supposed to be nerds. How come she got trapped with the one gorgeous one?

  “I wouldn’t have thought so,” Crompton said, dropping down on the uncomfortable-looking futon. “But you’re acting like he molested you.”

  “Hardly,” she said in her driest voice. “And you still haven’t told me what you said about me. Whatever it was, he didn’t believe it.”

  “You had quite a conversation, considering you were pretending to be unconscious,” he observed.

  “He was doing all the talking.”

  Daniel considered her for a moment, and she wished there was some place she didn’t mind looking. His chest was too distracting, his eyes, his mouth, his hands were far too strong and elegant. She concentrated on his left shoulder, trying to ignore the bone and muscle. She’d always had a weakness for slightly bony shoulders, and Daniel Crompton’s were just about perfect.

  “I told him you were visiting me,” he said after a long moment, stretching his legs out in front of him. “I didn’t want him to jump to any conclusions if he heard you’d broken in.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’d be more than happy to concentrate his energies on prosecut
ing you, when I know perfectly well you didn’t set any kind of incendiary device in my lab. Whoever did it would get away scot-free, while you languished in jail.”

  She pushed her hair away from her face in what she hoped was a suitably no-nonsense gesture. “I never languish.”

  The smile was small, only a faint quirk at the corner of his mouth. It nevertheless managed to transform his entire face, from the austere, elegant beauty to something infinitely more approachable. “I imagine you don’t,” he drawled.

  Suzanna didn’t want to approach him. “You think it was set?”

  “I see that journalist’s mind of yours clicking away. If I had any sense I’d kick you and your questions out of here.”

  “I haven’t quite figured out why you haven’t,” she admitted.

  He surveyed her with a clinical air, and it took all her self-control not to glance down at her own appearance. She knew perfectly well what she looked like, and she’d never been one for spending needless time fussing with her reflection in a mirror. She had bluntly cut, dirty-blond hair, though her mother referred to it as wheat-colored, which certainly sounded a lot more attractive. Her nose was unimpressive, her brown eyes large but disguised by the wire-rimmed glasses she wore. She seemed taller than average, her figure the typically ten-pounds-overweight American female figure, and she wore an exclusive uniform of baggy jeans and rude T-shirts. The current one was a faded fuchsia with the logo Eat Quiche and Die emblazoned across it. She had never been the type to incite men’s passions, and she doubted the estimable Dr. Daniel Crompton even possessed such passions. Even if, looking at him stretched shirtless across his futon, she wished he did.

  “Neither have I,” he said, shattering any irrational hope she might have had that he harbored a secret passion for her. “Maybe I’m putting up with you for the same reason people say they climb mountains.”

  No woman liked to hear herself mentioned in the same sentence as a mountain, but Suzanna swallowed her retort. “And why do people climb mountains?”