Midnight Caller

by Rebecca York

  The decision to let it go brought a profound sense of peace. She wanted to sleep—or at least float like a leaf drifting in the current of a lazy stream, far from shore, where it was safe.

  But her head wouldn’t cooperate. It ached, throbbing with a rhythm that matched the beating of her heart.

  Gingerly she slid her hand to her forehead, feeling the bumpy texture of a bandage. He had said…what?

  An accident. He had said she’d been in an accident. She tried to think about their conversation. It was a mistake. Thinking brought a stab of pain—and fear bubbling to the surface of her mind.

  Something dangerous hovered at the edge of her awareness, ready to grab her if she let down her guard. So she tried to drift again, letting the current take her, letting it rock her to sleep.

  Sometime later, a noise at the other end of the room made her eyes snap open. Filling the doorway was a large man, standing in shadow where she couldn’t see his face.

  Silently, they regarded each other. She was the first to speak.

  “Glenn?”

  “No.” He gave a low laugh before taking several steps closer. “So you’re on a first-name basis. That was quick work.”

  It wasn’t him. It was someone else—a hard-faced man whose voice made the hairs on her arms tingle.

  “Leave me alone,” she managed.

  “Now, that’s not very friendly.” He took a gliding step toward her, his shoes soundless on the tile floor. “I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands.”

  She cringed back against the pillow, her eyes darting first one way and then the other as she assessed her chances of escape. Not good. He was between her and the door, and she wasn’t sure her legs would support her if she tried to climb out of bed.

  He came closer, filling her field of vision. Then, to her overwhelming relief, a noise in the hall made him whirl around.

  As quickly as he had appeared, he vanished, leaving her wondering if he had been a bad dream.

  Chapter Three

  Glenn was still thinking about the plants in the trunk of the car, when he heard the crunch of wheels on gravel. Glancing around, he saw Hal’s chair coming down the path.

  “Leaving me out of the loop?” he asked, his voice implying high crimes and misdemeanors.

  “I thought you’d gone to bed.”

  “Not a chance.” Hal’s skin was gray, but his eyes were bright as he looked from Glenn to Blake. “I assume we’ve got some personal identification on our visitor.”

  “Her wallet’s in her purse, but there’s not much in it. Two hundred dollars. A driver’s license, one credit card.”

  “Give me her ID and I’ll start a computer search,” Hal said.

  Blake retrieved Meg Wexler’s purse and handed it to the older man. As Glenn watched the exchange, he struggled to stay objective. He wanted her to be what she seemed—an innocent young woman with no ulterior motives. Yet he knew that if there was dirt to be dug on her, Hal would find it.

  THE MAN WHO CALLED himself Jerome Johnson was an early riser. After pouring a cup of Kona coffee from the hunt board in the dining room, he strolled to the broad terrace that ran along the back of his comfortable summer home in the Hamptons. From that vantage point, he had an excellent view of the extensive gardens that spread toward the water. He loved flowers—their vibrant colors, their seductive scents, their soft petals. In winter he had to be content with the specimens that could be grown in a greenhouse. In warmer weather he had all outdoors to indulge his taste for lavish displays. The huge beds of tulips that grew in the rich soil he’d had trucked in were only a pleasant memory now. But red, pink and white peonies were still in bloom. And soon the rose garden would be at its glorious height.

  A servant appeared with a basket of sweet rolls, and he selected an almond croissant. After he finished breakfast and read the New York Times and the Washington Post, he could wander down there to pass the time, he thought. Yet he knew he wasn’t capable of enjoying his flowers at the moment—or any of the other pleasures great wealth had brought him.

  He was too focused on Glenn Bridgman. The bastard who had cost the Johnson Exchange millions of dollars in lost revenues. That alone was reason to screw him to the wall. But somewhere along the line it had become personal.

  The Johnson Exchange had been the world’s premier arms dealer. His company was still tops in conventional weapons. And his technology team was working with some very grateful nations on nuclear capability. But then he’d failed to deliver on a chemical-weapons shipment to Latin America, and the client had been very upset.

  Jerome had given him back the down payment. Then he’d set about discovering why the virus he’d planned to steal was missing from its secret production plant.

  The trail had led to the U. S. Army. Then to Glenn Bridgman.

  The pain of teeth grinding against each other snapped Jerome’s mind back to the present.

  It was too early to expect any word from Castle Phoenix. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from imagining what was going on behind the stone walls and razor-wire fence that guarded Bridgman’s fortress.

  He hated the uncertainty of not knowing. As he felt his blood pressure climb, Jerome closed his eyes and took several deep, calming breaths. Bridgman wasn’t going to defeat him. Not this time.

  He’d launched his career with money from the trust fund his grandfather had left him. And he’d plotted every step of his climb to wealth and power—putting the lie to his father’s prediction that he would never amount to anything.

  Take this operation. He’d even picked a week when the weather was supposed to be ideal for his purposes. But he had learned a long time ago that you couldn’t control every variable.

  Like the rockslide. His jaw tightened again, and he deliberately forced his muscles to relax. He was afraid the result had been just a tad more destructive than he’d intended.

  Was Meg Wexler alive? She’d probably been knocked around a good deal when the boulders crashed into the side of the car. But the accident had been a necessity, extra insurance that Bridgman would bring her inside the gates.

  Well, she was in and he’d have to wait until he got some word from inside Castle Phoenix.

  AS SOON AS HE RETURNED to the medical center, Glenn started toward Meg’s room, brushed past the guard sitting in the hall, and came to a halt beside her bed. She was sleeping again, her face as untroubled and serene as a choir girl’s. And yet, one of his men had just gone berserk while guarding her car. That could be an unfortunate coincidence, but until he knew for sure, he’d proceed on the assumption that she was dangerous.

  Still, she was a patient in his facility, and the other doctor was busy with injured men. After doing a quick status check, he called her name, then shook her gently.

  It was several seconds before her lids blinked open. The change in her was dramatic. Gazing at him with unfocused eyes, she pushed herself as far away from him as she could get, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she tried to heave herself from the bed.

  Automatically, he clamped a hand on her shoulder. With a muffled whimper, she struggled to wrench away.

  “Meg, it’s Glenn Bridgman. It’s okay,” he soothed. “You’re all right.”

  “Glenn?” She sounded relieved, yet not entirely reassured, as her eyes darted to the door.

  “Has anyone else been here?” he asked, the question coming out low and gritty.

  “The man!”

  “What man?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know. He—he scared me.”

  He gazed down at her pinched face, little doubting that she had been frightened by something or someone.

  “Who?” he asked again.

  She shrugged. “He was here. In my room.”

  Had it been a bad dream, or was she hallucinating—showing symptoms of brain injury that hadn’t manifested themselves earlier? He’d have to order more tests.

  “Is your headache worse?” he asked.

  “No.”

 
; “Good,” he answered, hearing the relief in his voice even as he went on to consider other possibilities. An offduty guard could have come to get a look at their visitor. Or maybe the security detail had frightened her. He’d check on that as soon as he left.

  “Did he do anything to you?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “He…”

  The sentence trailed off before it started, and he leaned closer, gripped her shoulder. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.”

  He let out the breath he’d been holding. “What did he look like?”

  “I didn’t see his face.” She swallowed and was silent for several moments. He thought she was drifting off to sleep again until she said, “Don’t leave me.”

  “I can’t stay.”

  “Please.”

  “I have to go,” he said firmly, making it clear that he wasn’t taking orders from her. “The guard won’t let anybody bother you.”

  “‘Guard’?” she repeated, the question coming out high and strangled.

  He nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m going to order some tests. One of the staff will come to take you to the lab soon.”

  “No. Stay with me,” she begged, melting his resolve.

  Before he made a fool of himself, he shook his head, then turned and fled.

  She’s probably a spy. Or worse, he told himself sharply as he barreled down the hall. Stop letting her twist you around her little finger.

  He thought he’d hardened his heart, until it started to drum as he stopped for a brief conversation with Logan, the man who had been assigned to watch the room.

  “What time did you arrive?” he demanded.

  “At 0630,” Logan replied smartly.

  “Did you see anyone in the medical center?”

  “Negative.”

  “Were you on duty the whole time I was gone?”

  The man looked uncomfortable. “I got a cup of coffee about forty minutes ago.”

  Glenn nodded. He’d done the same thing himself. “Did you go into the patient’s room?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” Logan answered.

  “But you looked at her from the hall.”

  The man nodded.

  “You didn’t speak with her?”

  “No, sir.”

  Maybe it was the truth. Maybe not. At the moment, there was no way to find out. Leaving the young man looking vastly relieved, he headed for the E.R. to tell Dylan they’d better do another CAT scan on Ms. Wexler, just to be safe.

  Then he escaped to the blessed solitude of his quarters. Setting the alarm, he gave himself four hours to recharge his batteries, then sank into welcome oblivion.

  Twenty minutes before the alarm was due to sound, a dream grabbed hold of his mind. He had fled from Meg Wexler, but his subconscious had brought him back to her. They were together in her car, on the road to the castle. He was driving. She was staring at him with those eyes so impossibly green that they must belong to a wood nymph. He was aware of everything about her—the scent of her body, the curve of her breast, the rapid cadence of her breathing that seemed to have tuned itself to his.

  Neither of them spoke. Yet, when she gently stroked her finger along the line of his jaw, he knew they had come to a silent understanding. Pulling off the road into a clearing sheltered by tall pines, he turned and reached for her.

  He lowered his mouth to hers, and she made a small sound of wanting deep in her throat. Then her lips opened under his, and he devoured her essence like a starving man invited to a feast. There was no finesse about the kiss; only a hard, desperate hunger that consumed him—drove everything else from his mind. His whole body burned with it, throbbed with a need so great that it shook him to the core. She should be afraid of a man so desperate, he thought in some tiny corner of his mind, yet she met the onslaught with a passion that drove him to new levels of arousal.

  He lowered her to the seat, which had magically grown to the size of a double bed. Wrapping his arms around her, he fitted himself to all her sweet enticing curves, absorbing the tantalizing feel of her. And when he adjusted his hips so that his erection could press into the cleft between her thighs, she surged against him, causing a deep groan in his chest.

  Outside the car, thunder rumbled. He tried to ignore it, tried to concentrate on the fevered melding of their bodies, but the sound grew louder, roaring in his ears.

  “Rocks. It’s the rock! Don’t leave me,” Meg gasped, clinging to him. In the next moment, she was pushing at his shoulders, trying to twist away, and he knew she had finally figured out that he was the enemy.

  It’s too late, Bridgman. A voice in his head echoed the rumble of the boulders.

  He knew it was true. Too late. Chunks of the mountain were raining around them, hitting the road, hitting the car. He curved his body around hers, trying to protect her. But the rocks crashed onto his head and shoulders, the pain so intense that he screamed—and woke with a fine sheen of perspiration covering his skin.

  Lying among the twisted covers, he remembered the dream, the blatant eroticism and the anguished finale.

  Too late. It was way too late for him. He’d known that since the team had come back from Operation Clean Sweep.

  A muscle jumped in his jaw as he heaved himself out of bed. By the time he’d showered and shaved, he was feeling almost human. Quickly he dressed in a dark knit shirt and khaki trousers.

  The smell of brewing coffee wafted toward him from the dining area, and he cursed softly under his breath. There were only two men who would open the door to his private quarters and make themselves comfortable. Betting on which one it was, he carefully arranged his features before stepping through the bedroom door. He wasn’t surprised to find Hal with his wheelchair pulled to the dinette table, sipping from a large mug.

  “You’re not supposed to be drinking coffee,” he snapped. “Caffeine is contraindicated for—”

  His visitor cut him off ruthlessly. “Listen, sonny, it doesn’t matter what I ingest, I’m not going to get any better. So let me enjoy the java.”

  Glenn sighed. Technically, Hal was right. Unless they came up with a miracle cure, his rheumatoid arthritis wasn’t going to improve. So he might as well indulge.

  “My new gizmo is paying off,” Hal said, changing the subject.

  “Yeah?”

  They’d argued about spending Bridgman Enterprises money on a T1 line to give them instant access to the Web and certain private databases. But since running the intelligence-gathering operation for their joint venture was keeping his friend alive, Glenn had let him have his way.

  Until failing health and Operation Clean Sweep had speeded up his retirement, Hal had been a general in the army, and Glenn had been under his command. Early on, they’d clashed over personnel risks versus mission fulfillment. Hal had pushed for sending special forces into dangerous situations where the chances of success were marginal. Glenn had counseled caution. But they’d agreed on the solution to the Clean Sweep fiasco. Hal had used his personal fortune to purchase the castle and make many of the initial improvements. Glenn’s projects kept it going.

  “I’ve got some interesting information on Meg Wexler.” Hal tapped the folder in front of him with a gnarled finger.

  “You sound pleased.” Glenn shoved his hands into his pockets. Feeling trapped, he worked to keep his face from reflecting his inner turmoil.

  “If I go on a hunting expedition, I like to bag something,” his friend said with satisfaction. Reaching into the covered basket beside the folder, he pulled out a blueberry muffin and took a bite.

  Glenn wasn’t sure he wanted to hear about the size of the kill, but he knew he didn’t have much choice. To give himself time to prepare, he strode to the coffeepot and poured a cup. Rooting through the muffins, he found an orange-cranberry one. His favorite. He wasn’t very hungry, but he took a bite.

  “Meg Wexler isn’t her name,” the general said.

  “What is it?” he demanded, fee
ling unaccountably like a bridegroom who’d just discovered his new wife wasn’t the virgin she’d pretended to be.

  “I don’t know. I only know the driver’s license is a good fake. There’s a Meg Wexler registered in Maryland. But her picture doesn’t match our visitor.”

  Glenn nodded tightly.

  “The car registration is interesting, too,” Hal continued avidly. “It belongs to a limo service. Their records indicate that the vehicle was rented to a James Taylor.”

  Glenn snorted. “Probably doing a concert gig up here.”

  “And Ms. Wexler is his girlfriend traveling incognito.” With a satisfied smirk, Hal polished off the muffin before continuing. “Then we have her clothing. The manufacturer’s tags are cut out.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” Glenn retorted.

  “Negative inference.”

  Glenn sighed. “The bottom line is that you think she’s up to something.”

  “What do you think?”

  Glenn shook his head. He hadn’t wanted it to be true. But it was looking pretty bad for Meg Wexler’s credibility.

  “When we get this cleared up, you should take a vacation,” Hal said. “Go to some nice hot island in the Caribbean where you can get your ashes hauled and come back here ready to work.”

  It was a good suggestion. In fact, he’d gone that route in the past, letting off steam with a no-strings-attached affair in some vacation paradise. This morning he knew that it wasn’t so simple.

  “She used her one credit card to charge a hotel room in Westchester last night,” Hal continued, switching back to topic A.

  “And?” he asked, hoping his casual tone didn’t give away the pounding of his heart inside his chest.

  “The account was opened two weeks ago. There are no charges before the first of June.”

  Glenn pursed his lips. “You’re saying that’s when she became Meg Wexler?”

  “If you come up with a better explanation, share it with me,” Hal grated. “Or better yet, use the old Bridgman charm and get her to confide in you.”