HEART OF MIDNIGHT

by Fiona Brand

  *

  Sam slipped into the kitchen while Carter was unblocking the toilet. After grabbing her handbag, she anchored the note beneath a glass on the dining table and walked quickly to Carter's truck, which was parked in the drive. Her heart was pounding, and her mouth was dry. The truck was pointing toward the garage doors, which meant she would have to reverse out. Ruthlessly she forced that complication to the back of her mind. Reversing would slow her down, but she would manage.

  She climbed into the cab, jammed the keys into the ignition and pulled the door closed as gently as she could. Her feet didn't reach the pedals.

  Frantically Sam searched for the lever that would adjust the seat and eventually found it. Heart still slamming so hard in her chest that she could actually hear it, she propelled the seat forward until she could comfortably reach the accelerator. There was no sound from the house, but as a precaution she locked the truck doors, then turned to study the stick shift.

  She was momentarily bamboozled by the twin set of gears. It was a four-wheel drive truck. She had never driven a truck, let alone a four-wheel drive.

  For a moment her brain simply wouldn't work. She was used to an automatic shift; it had been years since she had driven a stick shift, and she had never driven anything as big and unwieldy as this extended-cab truck. Taking a deep breath and praying she was doing the right thing in leaving the smaller lever completely alone, she chose the larger of the gear-shifts and checked that it was in neutral. Whispering another prayer, she turned the key in the ignition.

  The truck engine jumped to life, turning over with a vibrating rumble that made her shoot another glance at the house. Carter would have to be deaf not to have heard that!

  Awkwardly she depressed the clutch and set the gear in reverse. As she was backing out, the front door of the house burst open and Carter sprinted toward her.

  Sam stamped on the accelerator. The truck shot out into the empty suburban road. She braked, then wrenched the gear stick into first. The truck jerked forward, almost stalling.

  The flat of Carter's hand hit the window. "Sam!" he roared, and jerked at the door. "Dammit, let me in!"

  He was reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a set of keys. The set she had found in his room must have been a spare!

  Sam cast him an imploring glance and shook her head. They were travelling down the street, but slowly. She didn't want to hurt Carter, but she wasn't going to let him in, either. She pumped the accelerator enough to make the truck leap forward.

  Carter's fist thumped on the window; then he was left behind, keys in his hand. Sam sucked in a breath and accelerated down the street. The truck felt heavy, unwieldy, as she rounded a corner. She hauled on the wheel, barely missing a dark blue sedan parked on the side of the road. She was sweating, her heart racing, reaction shuddering through her in hot and cold waves.

  Shoving hair from her face, she wound the window down and gulped draughts of cooling air. It had been worse than she had thought, but she had done it. She felt ashamed at the deception, the worry she was going to cause, but it was only for a couple of hours. She liked Carter and regretted pulling Gray's wrath down on his head, but this was one issue she wouldn't, couldn't, budge on.

  In just a few hours she would be leaving everything she knew, walking into a future that was at best uncertain, and she didn't know when she would be back. She would do whatever it took to make her relationship with Gray work, give up whatever she must. She would fit in with his family, but not without cost.

  What she had to do now would be painful and very, very private. She had to cut loose of the past – relinquish ties that had defined her life from childhood. She had clung to the grief as a way of holding on to her family. As long as she felt pain, they were real.

  It was past time to say goodbye to her family, her baby, to finally accept that they were gone and she was on her own – utterly alone in the world except for a man who might never allow himself to feel anything for her beyond the searing physical attraction that presently bound them – and she couldn't bear for anyone to witness that moment.

  *

  Gray found Jack in the dining room of the Royal, arguing with Milly about the cracking plaster. He had taken his jacket off, his tie was jerked down, and his sleeves were rolled up. His hair was tousled, as if he had been running his fingers through it repeatedly.

  Gray had never seen Jack actually argue before, although they'd had plenty of "discussions." He had never seen Jack lose his cool over a building before – a column of figures maybe, but not a building.

  Milly leaned closer, practically stabbing his chest with her finger to make her point. They were nose-to-nose, toe-to-toe, and Gray decided that what they were arguing about was incidental to what was really happening.

  Jack spotted him and jerked back from Milly, a flush darkening his lean face.

  Gray killed any hint of a smile as he met Milly's incensed gaze. "Mind if I steal him from you?"

  "He's not mine," she said shortly. "And if he was, you wouldn't have to steal him, I'd give him to you.

  Gladly."

  Milly turned on her heel and stormed from the room.

  Jack let out a breath. He looked hunted. "What's wrong now?"

  "I want you to alter the construction schedule of the new hotel. We'll go ahead with the plans, but start construction where the parking building is first. Eventually we'll knock it all down, but instead of doing it all in one hit, we'll do it by degrees."

  "I'm almost afraid to ask why."

  "So no one loses their accommodation, or their job."

  "You want to keep the staff on?"

  "Yeah. When the place is shut down they can go for training?"

  Jack's hunted expression turned incredulous. "You want me to make over the staff?"

  "Why not?" Gray murmured. "We have the technology. We can make them better than before, stronger than before…"

  Jack groaned. "We must be crazy. What is it about this place? You don't know the half of it. The barman has one leg and an eye that pops out when he gets excited. The chef used to be in the navy, and he's got more tattoos than he's got skin. He runs a soup kitchen for street kids when the restaurant closes. Hell, sometimes he even closes up early on paying customers so he can give our food away for free! The only reason we bought this joint was so we could knock it down. The odds are that it'll fall down before we ever bring the demolition crew in. Now look at what we're doing!"

  "Maybe the chef would like to run a soup kitchen for real? Look into the tax write off – we're probably going to need one anyway. And, Jack?"

  Jack groaned. "This is gonna be bad, I just know it."

  "Did you know the fourth floor used to be called Belle's Palace."

  "Yeah. Some hooker used to hang out there."

  "Sam likes the idea of that hooker." Gray gauged Jack's frustration level and decided to sweeten the pill. "Milly probably does, too," he said blandly. "Baroness Belle, her name was. Why don't you get hold of that fancy architect who bills us six figures every time he picks up the phone and make him work for his money? I think he should investigate the history of this place and incorporate it into the new design, maybe use some of the original materials."

  Jack sank back in his chair and jerked at his tie, which was already badly askew. "Have you any idea what doing that kind of thing costs?" He grunted in resignation. "I suppose you can afford it."

  Gray had a vivid mental picture of Sam's desolation when he'd said they wouldn't be repairing the roof, her blank expression as he'd driven her to the safe house, the stark sense of betrayal she couldn't hide when she had realised he had set up this whole situation. Her grief when she'd told him about losing their baby.

  Frustration and a deep-seated inner fear filled him because he had to walk away from her now, when there was still so much unresolved between them. "I can't afford not to do it."

  Jack slumped in a chair and morosely pulled his tie down even further. He looked like he'd been dragged backward t
hrough a haystack. "I know what you're saying. There's something about the women in this place – they're beautiful, but mouthy. Every time Milly looks at me, I feel knee high to a slug."

  "That high?"

  "Okay, then, an ant."

  *

  Gray had just showered and changed into fresh clothing when someone knocked on the door to his suite. He shrugged into the shoulder holster and a jacket, checked the clip on the Glock and holstered it, then went to answer the door. The restless sense of urgency he hadn't been able to shake eased slightly when he recognised Sadie Carson.

  "Have there been any more break-ins?" she demanded.

  Gray's gaze sharpened. "What break-ins?"

  "Well, I'm not talking about that sleek devil who shinnied up my drainpipe last night. Knew he was one of yours right off. Sam had a break-in a couple of weeks ago. Thought you would already know about that, since you're so hot on security."

  A cold trickle of sensation travelled down Gray's spine. Every hair at his nape lifted in animal-sharp awareness of danger. "No," Gray said from between his teeth. "She didn't tell me."

  So that was why she had locked up so tightly, with not even a window cracked to let in a breeze. He hadn't questioned the stuffiness of her flat, because at the time it had pleased him; he had wanted her securely locked in.

  Frustrating as it was, one of the things that had always attracted him to Sam was that cat-like, walk-alone independence; he could identify with it, because he was that way himself. She didn't cling or demand, and she had no problem telling him when to back off. But in this instance, he wished she had told him instead of coping alone with a situation that must have alarmed and frightened her.

  Sadie glanced down the corridor, as if afraid of being overheard, then leaned in closer. "If I were you, I'd keep an eye on that Leroy," she said bluntly. "He was pumping Addie for information about that policewoman you've got posing as Sam. He's up to something."

  Gray didn't bother asking Sadie how she had found out so much. Those two old ladies were all over the hotel and so sharp they didn't miss a trick, even though the take-over of the hotel had provided a convenient smokescreen for the substitution. Sam was supposed to be sick and confined to her flat while Jack took over the day-to-day running of the hotel. Officer Farrell was supposed to stay out of sight as much as possible. The bulk of their surveillance was directed at Sam's quarters, because that was the logical place for any attempt to happen. Staff who had daily contact with Sam had been given a sanitised version of events, just enough to keep the hotel running smoothly and to scotch rumours.

  He fastened his gaze on the whipcord lean woman who was waiting patiently for his response. "What do you know?"

  Sadie's expression was satisfied. "I followed Leroy. He met a man in one of those fancy little wine bars two streets across. I've seen the same man in here once before, about the same time you arrived. He's medium height, medium build, brown hair, no distinguishing features except for a gammy arm – the left one, and too much cologne. Calls himself Soames." She snorted in disbelief. "May as well have called himself Smith."

  The unsettled feeling in Gray's gut, the prickling at the base of his neck, resolved into certain knowledge.

  Harper was here.

  He had been here all along, and he was watching them.

  Fear slammed into him like a mailed fist, shaking him to his core. If Harper had been watching, he knew where Sam was.

  Gray hardly noticed when Sadie said a brisk goodbye and strode away.

  Sam. She was in danger. And he had put her there.

  He didn't know how Harper had done it, how he could have penetrated the operation so swiftly or so deeply.

  A low curse grated from his throat as everything fell into place. Harper hadn't penetrated the operation, he had been following his own strategy, and he had formulated that strategy the same way Gray had, with gut instinct, knowledge of his opponent and simple logic.

  They had both known Sam was an important link, and they had both used her to arrange the confrontation each had hungered for, for reasons that were as different as night and day, yet as alike as darkness and shadow.

  Harper had always been coming after Sam. He had homed in on her with the unerring instinct of a predator, unable to ignore the opportunity, the simplicity, the sheer perfection, of using her to lure Gray in.

  There was a bleak symmetry to that reasoning, a sense of coming full circle. Seven years ago Gray had gone after Harper in the mistaken belief that he was holding Sam. The bastard would no doubt enjoy the irony.

  He slipped his mobile phone from his pocket, but before he could dial, it buzzed.

  "Carter," the caller identified himself. "She's gone. Took the truck and left."

  Gray swore. "How long ago?"

  "About thirty seconds. If I could reach my ass, I'd kick it. She had it all planned, blocked the toilet up with a couple of T-shirts, then, while my head was in the john, she swiped my spare set of truck keys and took off. She left a note on the kitchen table saying she'd be back in two hours."

  Gray's hand tightened on the phone. He wondered what else could go wrong. "I think Harper's here," he said curtly. "And that he knows about the safe house. Get out – now."

  It was Carter's turn to swear.

  Gray thought coldly and quickly, running through everything he knew about Sam, her habits, the people she knew. She was completely isolated except for the Royal and the people who lived and worked here. He knew she wouldn't come near the Royal. That left one place she was known to frequent. The cemetery.

  Instantly he knew that was where she had gone. Another small piece of the puzzle that was Sam fell into place – too late. She had told him about losing the baby, but he hadn't been able to see beyond his own fury that she'd run from him, that she hadn't even let him know she was pregnant. Their baby would be buried at the cemetery.

  No wonder she had spent so long staring at those gravestones. She had a lot more grieving to do than he had ever imagined. "Get out of the house and phone your new location in to Ben. I'll send him out to pick you up. West will stay here to give Farrell back-up. I'm going after Sam. I'm pretty sure she's gone to the cemetery. I'll call Blade and let him know what's happening. And, Carter … watch your back. If the man I just had described to me is Harper, he's been here all along. The bastard got here before we did."

  He strode through to the bedroom they had turned into a temporary operations centre. West was seated in front of a sophisticated array of surveillance equipment, methodically checking each of the security cameras and maintaining communications with the SAS unit and the police team. Tersely Gray told West what he'd just learned, leaving him to mobilise the teams. They would have to split the operation between the Royal and the cemetery, just in case he was wrong about Harper.

  As he loped down the stairs and out into the car park, he could only hope that Sam had gone to the cemetery. And that the man Sadie Carson had described wasn't Egan Harper.

  *

  Sam parked the truck, locked up and pocketed the keys.

  The cemetery drowsed under the weighty heat of the early-afternoon sun. The warm scent of freshly cut grass combined with the scents of honeysuckle and roses as she picked her way among the graves to the corner plot. Two mynah birds squabbled in a nearby oak tree, almost drowning out the distant crunch of gravel as a car, followed by a van, pulled into the parking lot.

  Sam didn't recognise either vehicle. With a sense of reprieve, ridiculous under the circumstances, because she knew Carter hadn't been able to follow her, she touched her parents' gravestone. The stone was slightly grainy in texture, encrusted with lichen and warm with the heat it had collected from several hours of exposure to the sun. Tears sheened her eyes, blurring the bare facts engraved into the stone, facts that had changed her life when she was barely seven years old – too young to lose her parents, and too old to ever forget them. But the grief she felt was distant, more a sadness for what the child she had been had had to go through.r />
  Gramps' grave was still mounded, the stone bright and fresh, warm to the touch, too, and as sharply cut as his humour had been. Her fingers drifted over the smooth surface, and she found it within herself to smile. Gramps had clocked up eighty-two years, and he hadn't wasted one of them. He had been ready to die, even if Sam hadn't wanted to let him go. She could see now that she had been selfish, trying to hold on to him when, in the most natural of cycles, his time had been up.

  He had known, she realised wryly, but he had let her have her way with treatments that he had said in his gruff voice were, "No use, just throwing good money after bad." It had been his final gift to her, holding on so that she could feel that she was winning, if not the war, then a small skirmish against death.

  The baby's grave was different. Her hand shook as it settled on the stone, and all the strength went out of her legs. She sank to her knees on the soft, damp ground, uncaring that her jeans were soaking through. This goodbye was the most difficult.

  She pressed on the stone, both hands now, and the impervious surface mocked her, as it had always done. Her baby had been tiny, delicate – in legal terms, she had never lived. In human terms, the abyss between life and death had never seemed so broad and dark and complete.

  *

  Gray signalled and changed lanes, accelerating past a lumbering goods truck. Traffic was light, but that didn't change the fact that he was still long minutes away from the cemetery. Every instinct he had told him that those minutes were important.

  He thumbed the redial on Blade's number for the third time, relieved that this time he didn't get an engaged signal. Impatiently he waited for the pick-up, his gaze sweeping the highway signs, searching for the off-ramp.

  Sam's summation of events kept hammering at him. She had said Harper had always wanted revenge and would find a way to take it no matter what. Was she right? Had he got too close to the situation and failed to see what was under his nose? If he had protected Jake and Rafaella better that day, would Harper have picked out some other member of his family? His mother and father? Blade? His baby sister, Roma?