by Fiona Brand
The cold-eyed barbarian at the table rose to his feet. Leroy controlled a nervous quiver. The man was even bigger than he had looked sitting down, his shoulders massively broad, his arms roped with muscle. He was darkly tanned, as if he'd spent too long in some misbegotten clime, and scars crisscrossed his torso. Leroy wouldn't have been surprised to see a broadsword grasped in one big hand.
He'd had it with moonlighting, too, he decided. It was just too dangerous. He didn't care how much money he was offered, or who did the asking, from now on he would stick with his day job and be perfectly content with nice, safe blue rinses.
Gray eased up on the pressure on the Glock behind the cover of the black bag, which was still sitting on the table, and nodded at West, who checked the corridor, closed the door, then quickly and casually concealed his own gun in one of the gear bags.
Gray studied Leroy. The hairdresser had a cascade of blond ringlets that any woman would kill for, a perfect sun-bed tan, and a small fortune in designer clothes hanging off his lean frame. He also looked like he was about to bolt. "Thanks for coming at such short notice, Leroy," he said as smoothly as his rough voice would allow. "We appreciate it."
Leroy started. Gray's mouth twitched. He was pretty sure he had just made things worse.
"Uh, no problem." Leroy's Adam's apple bobbed. His gaze darted around the room, fastened on the bags of surveillance gear. "You boys with the, uh, telephone company?"
This time Gray didn't try to hold back on his smile, and apparently that didn't help their case with Leroy, either. "Not exactly," he drawled, "but close enough. We are in the communications business."
Chapter 5
Sam slept badly and woke before dawn to the sharp certainty that someone was watching her.
She lay rigid, barely breathing, her ears straining to hear beyond the accelerated thud of her heart. Her bedside clock glowed luminescent green, telling her it was after 5:00 a.m., but only just. Faint street-light filtered through her curtains. She could discern the outline of her dressing table, the open door.
The room was stuffy. She had kicked her bedclothes off, yet her skin was still damp, the cotton singlet she wore stuck to her skin. The heat seemed to press down on her, pinning her to the bed. Long minutes ticked by where nothing moved and there was no sound beyond the ones she couldn't muffle.
"There's no one," she said aloud. Her voice quivered huskily, breaking on the last word, and with a stifled gasp she jack-knifed, hand fumbling for the lamp. Golden light flooded the room. Sam blinked at the hurtful brightness, let go of the breath that had been dammed up in her throat and folded in on herself, hugging her legs.
Her room was the same as when she had gone to sleep, except for the mess she'd made of the bed. The shirt she'd taken off was still draped over the back of a chair; the historical romance she'd tried to read was still sitting on her bedside table, a bookmark neatly inserted at the point where she'd given up trying to concentrate.
Shoving a hand through her damp hair, she forced herself to walk through the flat, switching on lights as she went, checking windows and doors. Everything was still locked, still secure. If nothing else, the stuffiness should have told her that, she thought in an attempt at wryness; if someone had broken in, she would be breathing fresh air.
It had probably been a noise that had awoken her – a cat rummaging through the Dumpster to the side of the parking lot, or a drunk wandering off course. Most probably it had been her own overactive imagination kicking back at her in the form of another bad dream.
Sighing, she grabbed a glass of water, drank thirstily, then headed for the shower. This had happened often enough the past few nights that she knew she wouldn't go back to sleep, so she might as well get an early start on work. God knew there was enough for her to do. The Lombards team had arrived a day late, but she guessed the planning meeting that had originally been scheduled for today would proceed. There would be counsellors and planning people crawling all over the building. And she would have to meet with Gray in an official capacity.
As she walked out of the kitchenette, she saw a black leather jacket lying over the back of a chair, and her stomach lurched. Gray's jacket. He'd left it behind last night. She picked it up, automatically lifting it to her nose. The strong smell of damp leather assaulted her nostrils, along with another faint scent that was subtler and Gray's alone.
Sam dropped the jacket, backing off fast, only stopping when the smooth, cool fabric of the floor-length drapes brushed between her shoulder blades and slid against her calves. Tears leaked from her eyes. She was so tired still, her head throbbed, and she was so hot she felt like she was being slow-roasted and suffocated at the same time.
The simple act of handling the jacket had released Gray's scent into the air so that it filled her nostrils with every breath.
Abruptly she spun and wrenched the curtains apart, unlocked the French doors and pushed them open. A ribbon of light shafted across the courtyard, breaking open the night. She pulled in gulps of fresh air as she stared out into the heavy pre-dawn darkness, eyes straining. Nothing moved; it was eerily still, except for the faint drift of an errant breeze through the shrubbery.
With a shudder comprised of relief and self-mockery, and the chill of perspiration drying on her skin, Sam locked up again, leaving the curtain open in defiance of her fears, and strode toward the shower.
*
Gray bolted upright in bed, heart pounding, breath held tight in his lungs, muscles taut and sheened with sweat. An anguished tremor coursed through him, and he swore, a short, succinct curse.
Damn. Now that he had finally gotten himself a soft bed, he remembered how much he hated beds, hated sleep. Hated the vulnerability sleep forced on him.
Not that actual sleep was the problem; he didn't fear that, or dreams.
Sometimes he wished he would dream about Jake's death. Although those dreams would be better described as nightmares. He didn't dream about that bloody day. Ever.
He guessed he knew why that was. The stark scene, the hot anguish of guilt, were with him – part of him – as fresh, as deeply painful, as if the killings had just happened.
The phrase "time heals" had no reality for Gray. Time hadn't healed; it had just changed the way the grief and guilt rode him. The searing horror of the scene no longer dominated his thoughts, his days; instead it bided quietly, sliding into his consciousness like a shark cruising calm waters, striking in the quiet lull just before sleep or waking, sending a hot river of adrenaline roaring through his veins, making his muscles cord and all his old wounds throb, making his jaw clench against his grief and failure, making him hate and fear that moment of utter vulnerability.
Gray shoved himself out of bed and paced, naked, to the window. Something had woken him, catapulted him out of sleep, and he knew better than to ignore his instincts. Maybe it had simply been city sounds; he'd spent a lot of time in small villages and jungles lately, and his senses hadn't yet become attuned to the change of environment. But maybe not.
The night was inky-black and still, weighted with the dense rain-rich canopy of cloud that didn't so much hover over the city as sink and smother it. Another hot, sweaty bitch of a night.
Gray opened the window, relieved when a faint breeze sifted across his damp skin, cooling him. He ran a hand over his hair, accustoming himself to the sleek shortness of it, the nakedness of his nape. As he stared out at the cityscape, his nostrils flared, catching the aroma of bread baking, mingled with the tang of the sea and the underlying mustiness of the Royal's old timbers, which evidently soaked up the humidity like a sponge.
He wondered where Harper was at that moment, although the thought was only fleeting. Once they dangled the bait in front of him, it would take Harper several days to obtain the people and equipment he needed – even so, when he arrived, he would be at a disadvantage. He would be cut off from his usual area of operations. This time he would be on Gray's territory, playing Gray's game.
He didn't question that Har
per would take the bait. Gray knew him as intimately as if they were brothers. Harper wouldn't be able to stand the blow they had just struck to his network or his ego. Even though he couldn't know that Gray was directly behind the assault, he knew Gray was involved with the operation to hunt him down.
Grabbing a glass of water, Gray prowled the confines of the suite, not bothering with lights, not needing them. Inevitably his footsteps carried him to the bathroom, which looked out over the back of the hotel. With a resigned oath he pushed the tiny window open and peered out and down. His heart slammed hard against his chest. A small ribbon of light flowed across the courtyard two storeys below. Sam was awake.
A fierce satisfaction filled him. It looked like he wasn't the only one having trouble sleeping.
*
An hour later, Sam was at her desk, a cup of coffee steaming at her elbow as she began planning her day.
The main problem, of course, was that after this morning's meeting, she might not have a hotel to run, and nothing more to do with her day than look for another job, but that didn't change the fact that there was paperwork that needed completing, plumbing repairs to arrange and oversee, a leak in the roof that needed urgent attention.
Edith had left a note detailing a complaint by Jeremiah Holden, a wealthy eccentric who occupied a small suite on the second floor. Jeremiah had seen another ghost, and he wanted something done about the problem.
Grinning, Sam scribbled a note to Milly, instructing her to call in a team of ghost busters, ASAP.
Her smile faded. Not that they would need that kind of service. Gray would probably pull the Royal down; then the ghosts would have to leave along with everyone else. There would be nothing left to haunt.
Sam sipped coffee as she worked and periodically massaged her temples. Her concentration kept fragmenting, and finally she threw her pen down and leaned back in her chair.
She still felt a sense of unreality that Gray was actually here; that he had gone out into the streets last night, looking for her, that he had been in her flat and she had somehow ended up in his arms, pressed so close against him that she could feel his arousal pushing into her belly.
Her cheeks heated at the memory, and, on cue, an older memory superimposed itself over that one.
Gray's entry into her life, when she'd been twenty-two and working at Lombards of Sydney, had been just as explosive. She had been new and inexperienced, and trying to control her first bar fight. Gray had waded in and dealt with the sudden eruption of violence, pulling the men apart, then ejecting them from the hotel.
That was the first time she had spoken to him, although she had been aware of his presence all evening. He had been sitting in the shadows, shoulders propped against the wall, while he slowly sipped a beer. He had been dressed all in black: black T-shirt, black pants, black boots. Even his wristwatch had been matte black, with a cover that hid the face. His hair had been military-short, his eyes as dark as his clothes, but definitely not sombre.
He had helped her right the last of the chairs, and when she had caught his gaze on her, a slow smile had curled his mouth, almost stopping her heart.
There had been something more than just simple dark-and-dangerous about him. He had had too-hot-to-handle written all over him, from the cool speculation in his eyes to the blatantly carnal promise of that mouth. If she had had a mother to object, Sam had no doubts she would have been yanked back home and cloistered until the big bad wolf found other older, more experienced game to hunt. But she hadn't had parents, and her grandfather was already old and an ocean away.
It hadn't seemed to matter that Gray Lombard was every mother's nightmare; from where she had been standing, he was every woman's fantasy.
He had asked what time she got off and then sat back down and waited for her. When the bar had finally emptied, he had taken her dancing, bluntly telling her, "It was the quickest way I could think of to get my hands on you."
And he had put his hands on her, not in an overtly sexual way, but he had touched her constantly, small possessive touches – his hand at the small of her back, on her arm, or simply holding her hand as they walked. He had staked his claim with a directness she had found impossible to counter, even if she had wanted to.
She hadn't gone to bed with him that night; she'd turned him down at her door. She had been, and still was, too reserved to allow that degree of intimacy so quickly.
He'd grinned, dipped his head and kissed her. He hadn't used his tongue; he hadn't needed to. Just the brush of that incredible mouth against hers had made her go weak inside. She had leaned against the wall, grateful for the support as she watched him walk away.
Seven years ago she had known that it would be only a matter of time before she gave in. Two days, to be exact.
He still wanted her now.
Sam sat up jerkily. Her elbow caught a file, knocking it to the floor and scattering papers. Automatically she reassembled the file, restoring everything to its usual neat order.
"Get real," she muttered to herself. She had already figured this one out. Gray wanted sex. That was all he had ever wanted. The fact that her proximity had aroused him was no particular distinction.
*
Gray Lombard strode into the planning meeting with all the sombre, brooding grace of a hungry tiger.
Sam paused in the act of transferring files from her briefcase to the polished, antique kauri table that had been set up in one of the small reception rooms for the occasion.
"Here we go," Milly, Sam's secretary, said, echoing the thought of every one of the thirty-odd employees, residents and city planning people assembled to meet the Lombards delegation.
"Lord," Milly muttered, as they watched the aged members of the now defunct Royal Pacific board cluster around the mysterious, reclusive head of the Lombard Group. "That man even manages to look dangerous in a suit."
Sam couldn't help thinking that seven years ago he'd looked dangerous naked.
She blinked, suppressing the urge to rub her eyes. Gray looked nothing like the cool-eyed warrior who had chased her down in the service lane last night.
He'd cut that black stallion's mane of hair and put on a suit, although that didn't fully explain what he had done. Somehow he had managed to tone down, to mask, all that raw male power with what she could only describe as corporate camouflage.
Perhaps she would have been fooled if she hadn't seen him dripping wet, his T-shirt clinging to his chest and shoulders, hadn't seen the cold glitter in his eyes when he'd caught her. But she had, and she was acutely aware that, beneath the wealth and sophistication that clung like a sleek mantle about his big shoulders, he was as broodingly dangerous as any barbarian warrior had ever been.
Milly let out a low, almost silent whistle. "That man is built for trouble. A woman could go blind just looking."
"Then don't look," Sam warned, her gaze captured by Gray's hard, clean profile. "Because trouble is exactly what he is."
"Not him." Milly directed Sam's attention away from Gray. "I'm not interested in any of those hit men. I want the little cute one."
Sam was more than happy to be diverted by Milly's intent expression, her wild red hair and off-the-wall luau dress. Milly was forty-five going on eighteen, and she'd decided it was way past time she dropped her widow status and found herself a man. "The little cute one is the hit man," Sam said dryly, recognising Jack McKenna. "He's McKenna, Gray Lombard's right hand man. He can do more damage with his calculator than all the rest combined can do with their muscle."
"He's got real power, huh?"
"Right where it matters – in the bank account."
"Okaaay," Milly said, subjecting McKenna to the kind of relentless scrutiny she normally reserved solely for the chocolate doughnuts in the bakery window just down the road. "I'm ready to be turned on by power. You can work on those big guys, I'll subvert the little bad one."
Sam studied Jack McKenna with a definite feeling of foreboding. She had met him once, when she had been interviewe
d for this job, and he hadn't changed. He was mid-forties, lean, immaculate, and he looked every bit the coldly brilliant corporate raider she knew him to be – and he was staring at the cracks in the plaster ceiling as if he expected the building to start disintegrating all over his perfectly creased suit.
"Forget McKenna," Sam said, noticing the small, oddly vulnerable frown pleating her secretary's brow, and suddenly afraid that for once Milly wasn't joking. "He's no push-over. He's here to do a job that he is very, very good at, and if he's got a sense of humour, no one's ever found out about it."
Milly didn't answer, and Sam suppressed a pang of alarm. Like many of the other employees, Milly flatly refused to believe that the grand old hotel, with its glorious wood floors, antique furniture and faded oriental carpets, could soon be nothing more than a pile of dust and rubble. Sam knew that was all too likely. When she'd taken this job, she hadn't expected it to last for more than a few months, just long enough, she had thought, to conclusively prove to herself that she was finally free of her old infatuation with Gray.
Gray's gaze fastened on her. He was surrounded by people, but his impatience was plain in the taut set of his jaw, the restless shift of his shoulders.
Milly, almost forgotten beside her, let out another low whistle. "Looks like the Warrior Prince just lost his favourite concubine. If I didn't have three children who all want to be doctors, I'd probably throw myself in his path. Purely for research purposes, of course."
Sam muttered something indistinct in reply, her attention all for Gray, who was now cutting a path directly toward her.
She was as prepared to meet him as she would ever be after last night. Her suit was plain but elegant, her hair neat, her make-up understated. What she wasn't prepared for was the burn of sensual awareness that clenched delicately at inner muscles and sent heat sliding across her skin.
"On second thought," Milly murmured, "since I don't get paid danger money, I think I'll go drink a double espresso for both of us while you find out if the Warrior Prince is gonna save both our jobs."
