Midnight Caller

by Rebecca York

  His roar was a mixture of anger and pain. With a mighty heave, he tried to throw her off, but she hung on, bent on doing as much damage with her bare hands as she could. She saw that Glenn had pushed himself to a sitting position. In a minute, he’d be back in the fight—she hoped.

  The assailant must have seen the odds were going to change. Redoubling his efforts, he gave a mighty heave that loosened her hold. With a growl, he threw her backward onto the sofa. As she lay sprawled there, she saw Glenn spring at the intruder. Cutting his losses, the man dodged out of the way and ran from the room.

  Glenn went after him, and she pushed herself up, straining her ears as she followed two sets of echoing footsteps. Moments later, she heard a door slam, then a curse. In the darkness, she waited tensely.

  It was Glenn who returned, and she knew from his posture that the man had gotten away.

  “He had an escape route all planned,” he spat, his breath coming in gasps. “He must have taken the bars off one of the windows that had access to a roof. By now, he’s probably somewhere on the grounds.”

  “Are you all right?” she questioned urgently, leaping from the sofa and hurtling toward him.

  “Are you?”

  “Yes,” they both answered at the same time. Then his arms came around her, enveloping her in his warmth.

  Tears swam in her eyes, but she willed them back.

  “Did he hurt you? Tell me!” Glenn demanded.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine now,” she murmured, closing her eyes and holding on for dear life, needing the solid feel of his body, the safety of his embrace.

  She was shaking with reaction, and so was he, his solid frame trembling like an oak tree battered by a windstorm as he wrapped her close.

  “I—I called for help. Out the window,” she quavered. “No one came.”

  He made a low, angry sound, then moved his hand across her bare back. “You’re half naked. What did he do to you?”

  “Not—not what you’re thinking. He—I was getting undressed when the lights went out. I couldn’t find my shirt.”

  She felt relief ease out of him. Then he demanded, “Tell me what happened.”

  “He came sneaking into the apartment and locked the door behind him.”

  “Lucky I had the key.”

  “Yes,” she breathed, thinking about what might have happened if the intruder had gone back into the hall and encountered Glenn there. He would have had a clear shot.

  “How did you get away from him?”

  “I barricaded myself in the bathroom.” She gave a gulping laugh. “There’s water all over the floor. We’d better turn it off.”

  “Later.” His grip shifted to her shoulders, tightened painfully. “How did you get away?”

  She shivered. “He kept shooting and shooting at the door. But there’s a wall beside the toilet. I hid behind it.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Then I found an access panel in the ceiling and climbed up.” She gave another hysterical laugh. “Try to get Claymore to believe that.”

  “The hell with Claymore.”

  “I was crawling across the rafters when I heard you calling my name.”

  “And you risked your hiding place to warn me.”

  “I had to.”

  “You-don’t owe me anything.”

  Her eyes widened. “I couldn’t let you get shot.”

  “Why not?” He ended the question with a strangled sound. “You don’t even know why you came to Castle Phoenix. But things keep happening to you.”

  “You happened to me,” she murmured, lifting her hand to touch his face, no longer able to deny what she had felt from the moment she’d opened her eyes and he’d been there.

  “Meg—” Her name sighed out of him like a plea. In the darkness, she couldn’t see his face, but she could imagine the intensity of his features.

  Honesty made her whisper, “We both know I came here to cause trouble for you.”

  “And we both know what kind of person you are,” he said vehemently. “Everything you’ve done has shown me your true character.”

  He didn’t give her a chance to argue about it. His mouth swooped to take possession of hers. “You want the truth about us? I’ll give you the truth.”

  Her own truth was a moan of surrender as he angled his head to take more complete possession, his lips parting hers so that his tongue could enter.

  She twisted her fingers into his hair, clinging, possessing, desperate to hold him where he was. If he let her go now, she would shatter.

  But there was no need to hold him in place. Not when blazing-hot need sprang between them like a forest fire out of control—sweeping everything away but the drive to be close, then closer still.

  The kiss went on and on, pushing her further and further into the inferno. And when he lifted his head, they were both gasping for breath as if the fire had taken all the oxygen from the room.

  “Do you have a better idea of the truth?” he grated.

  She couldn’t answer.

  “You need more proof? Sweetheart, I’ll be glad to give it to you.”

  At her back, his hands found the catch of her bra, slid it open, then pushed the cups out of the way so that her breasts could spill into his hands. Willfully, possessively, his fingers moved over her heated flesh.

  Whatever she was going to say transformed itself into a moan of pleasure. “Please.”

  “This? You want this?” he growled, his fingers cresting across the hard, aching tips, then catching them between thumb and forefinger to make her gasp with pleasure.

  She should have been terrified by the sudden flare of passion, frightened of her own out-of-control need. Instead she gloried in its possession. Had she ever felt this weakness and power clashing and raging inside her so that there was only one thing in the world that mattered?

  “Glenn…I want—”

  “I know, sweetheart. I know,” he answered, his hands on her hips pulling her hard against his taut flesh. He kissed her once more, then moved her backward toward the couch, her feet alternately sinking into the rug and crunching over plaster, the sharp contrast in sensation causing another kind of stimulation.

  She could hear blood pounding in her ears. In the background, she vaguely heard something else—something she should pay attention to, she realized.

  “Glenn.”

  “What?”

  “Someone’s coming up the steps.”

  He raised his head, listening, then swore under his breath as he took in her state of undress. “Can you…get into the bedroom?”

  “Yes.”

  She stumbled away from the couch and crashed into a chair, but she made it to the other room as feet came thumping down the hall.

  Flinging the door closed, she leaned against the barrier while she pulled her bra back into place and hooked it. Instead of pawing over the bed for her shirt, she tried to orient herself in the room and locate her suitcase. When she found it, she pulled out a top, and in moments she had it on.

  Without bothering to find her shoes, she pulled open the door and stepped back into the sitting room.

  A flashlight beam hit her in the face, and she threw up her arm to shield her eyes.

  “Lower that,” Glenn growled.

  The light flicked away from her eyes, and she blinked, trying to clear her vision.

  “What happened?” a new voice demanded. It was Claymore. The cavalry to the rescue—twenty minutes too late to save the maiden in distress. Or was that the wrong metaphor?

  Two of his men stood behind him in the doorway, holding handguns.

  “Someone tried to kill me,” she said, surprised that her voice sounded so steady.

  “Who?”

  “If we knew, we’d be way ahead of the game,” Glenn answered for her. “She called for help,” he added, moving beside her and slipping a protective arm around her shoulder. “Nobody came!”

  “We were a little busy.”

  “You mean you heard her and didn’t r
espond?” Glenn growled.

  “No. I didn’t hear her,” Claymore retorted. “I’ll find out if anyone else did.” Turning to Meg, he said, “Tell me what you know.”

  Before she could answer, Glenn gave her a gentle push on the shoulder. “Sit down.”

  As she sank into the couch cushion, she saw Claymore looking at them. Glenn might have moved away, but instead he stepped closer so that he could keep his hand on her shoulder, his steady gaze daring the other man to make any comments.

  Claymore kept his face neutral. “How long have you been here?” be demanded.

  “Ten, fifteen minutes,” Glenn replied. “If I’d been in better shape, the assailant wouldn’t have escaped. At least I knocked the gun out of his hand.”

  Claymore’s eyes narrowed as he swung the light toward Glenn and gave him a closer inspection. Meg turned to do the same. For the first time she noticed the tear in his shirt and the bruise forming on his jaw.

  “He hurt you!” she gasped.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Where were you when the lights went out?” Claymore asked.

  “In the lab,” he said tersely.

  “Which lab?”

  “Biohazards level four.”

  Claymore whistled. “How did you get out?”

  “With difficulty,” Glenn growled. “And don’t worry—I went through the detox procedure.”

  The way he said it sent a shiver skittering across Meg’s skin. She was staring at Glenn when the room’s lights flickered, then came back on with full power. At first, no one did anything but blink. When Meg’s eyes had adjusted to the brightness, she found Claymore looking around the room, taking in the tipped furniture and the chunks of plasterboard and white powder littering the rug. In the middle of the mess she could see the place where she and Glenn had been facing each other, locked in a clinch. Flushing, she hoped the area didn’t speak so eloquently to Claymore.

  “You were going to tell me what happened,” he snapped, his gaze returning to her so that she was sure he could see even more damning evidence on her face.

  She cleared her throat “Uh—you’d better get one of your men to turn off the water in the bathroom.”

  Claymore nodded at one of the guards.

  “The floor’s wet. Don’t slip,” she called after him as he started down the hall.

  Under the security chief’s scrutiny, she repeated her story, trying to put in as many details as possible.

  “Once again, you’ve proved you’re very resourceful,” Claymore muttered when she’d finished.

  “Coming from you, that doesn’t sound like a compliment,” she returned.

  Glenn’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “Yeah, well, she’d be dead if she weren’t resourceful. And so would I, if she hadn’t shouted a warning when she heard me in here. She drew his fire to save me.”

  When Claymore started to respond, Glenn plowed ahead. “Don’t try to imply that she was working with the guy. If you look at the bathroom door, you’ll know he wasn’t here to deliver flowers.”

  Her gaze swung to him. He hadn’t even seen the door, but he was reporting the damage as if he had. The knowledge that he’d taken her word for the gory details made a warm glow spread through her.

  Claymore gave a tight nod. “Right. And I’d like to know why.”

  “So would I,” Meg whispered.

  They were all silent for several seconds, since none of them had an answer to the question.

  Finally Claymore cleared his throat. “We’re ignoring the fact that there’s a weapon around here somewhere.” He nodded at both guards. “See if you can find it. But don’t get any fingerprints on it.”

  The men set to work, but nothing turned up immediately.

  “What about the lights?” Glenn asked.

  “Somebody did a job on the power plant, after making sure the emergency generators wouldn’t function.”

  “Well, I think we’ve told you what we can,” Glenn said. “Keep me informed on the progress of the investigation.”

  “What about Ms. Wexler?”

  “I’ll take care of her,” Glenn replied.

  They continued to face each other, each undoubtedly wanting to say more. It was the security chief who turned and left, the remaining guard following.

  Finally, Meg was alone with Glenn once more. When she turned expectantly toward him, he made himself busy surveying the room.

  “Obviously you’re in jeopardy here. If you could crawl through the space above the ceiling on this floor, somebody else could. So I’d like to move you where I know you’ll be safe.”

  “Where?”

  “To my quarters.”

  The look on her face had him adding quickly. “It’s a large apartment. We won’t get in each other’s way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because what happened a few minutes ago shouldn’t have.”

  She managed to speak around the sudden tightness in her throat. “You didn’t want me?” she asked. “Or you don’t trust me?”

  He made a low sound of frustration. “If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t be bringing you to my apartment where you could stab me with a kitchen knife while I was sleeping. And of course I wanted you. I think that was pretty obvious. But—” He stopped and ran his hand through his hair. “We haven’t known each other long enough.”

  “You don’t make love on the first date?” she challenged.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I do. I go off to some swinging-singles resort where I can have all the women I want. Then I come back here and return to work.”

  “And I don’t measure up?”

  He answered with a muttered curse. “Stop being ridiculous. You more than measure up. But I don’t want some kind of quick fling with you.”

  “What do you want?” she whispered.

  “I want to make love with you. But you don’t remember your past. You might belong to someone else. You might be married. Getting involved with me wouldn’t be fair to you.”

  “Which part are you worried about most?”

  When he didn’t answer, she held up her left hand, inspected the third finger. “No ring.”

  “You could have taken it off.”

  “Why? So I could seduce you?”

  He grimaced. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That we should back off before one of us gets hurt.”

  “Which one?”

  “Either. What about the things you said to me after the polygraph?”

  She shrugged. “You’re the one who had it right before Claymore interrupted us,” she went on. “The truth between us is how we feel—what we want. From the moment I saw you, I knew.” She waited for him to admit that feelings went deeper than any facts.

  The look on his face told her he didn’t think it was that simple—and that he didn’t know how to cope with what he was feeling.

  “I’ll get my stuff,” she whispered. “If you haven’t changed your mind about inviting me to your quarters.”

  “I haven’t.”

  Unable to cope with the grim look on his face, she fled into the bedroom and grabbed her suitcase. Then she sloshed through the water in the bathroom to get her toilet articles, her mind churning.

  He was right. From a practical point of view, he’d assessed the situation pretty accurately. But he’d also been right earlier, when he’d taken her in his arms and begun to make love to her.

  Those charged moments of passion had changed everything. He might be hiding his feelings now, but when all the barriers had been down, he’d shown her how he really felt. She wanted him to finish what he’d started. She longed to give him the comfort of her body. And she wanted to take what he’d been offering.

  She could see that arguing wasn’t the way to get there, though. In fact, if she pushed him now, he might change his mind about letting her sleep anywhere near him. And she didn’t want to risk that.

  When she returned, he was standing and looking out
the darkened window, his hands stiffly at his sides.

  “All ready,” she said in a chipper voice.

  His look of relief at her change in attitude cut her to the bone, but she only gestured with her hand for him to lead the way. They set off down the corridor to another flight of steps, then up half a flight to another level.

  “How do you find your way around here?” she asked as they descended.

  “You get used to it.”

  He brought her to another part of the castle that was probably closer to the original than the guest quarters she’d just occupied. Unlocking a door, he ushered her into another sitting room where the walls were dark paneling, the windows narrow and arched. In sharp contrast, the furniture was teak, with leather upholstery. Off the living room was a kitchen and a dining alcove with a square table and four chairs. It was all very neat and orderly, as if the person who lived here was hardly home, she decided as she set her suitcase by the door.

  “Did you have dinner?”

  She shook her head.

  “I can have some food sent up.”

  “Can we fix something here?”

  He laughed. “I’m not much of a cook. But I get the kitchen to freeze me some choice stuff. I think I’ve got some beef-and-vegetable soup. Or some macaroni and cheese.”

  Though his notion of “choice” didn’t exactly match hers, food wasn’t her primary interest at the moment “Beef-and-vegetable soup,” she said.

  He rummaged in the freezer section of the refrigerator, pulled out a plastic carton, and set it in the microwave.

  “What would you like to drink?”

  “Something hot might take the chill off,” she replied, sitting down at the table.

  He gave her a look that told her he was trying to decide if she was referring to more than just the air temperature.

  Instead of enlightening him, she folded her hands and looked down at them, while he ran water in a kettle and set it on a burner.

  When the bell on the microwave rang, he dished the soup into two bowls. She let him fix the meal, let him get comfortable in his own surroundings—even though watching the play of muscles in his arms and back made her remember the feel of his body under her hands as it responded to her touch.