BLADE'S LADY

by Fiona Brand

  He didn't think so. She knew who he was.

  Not that recognition was entirely unexpected. Occasionally, some hack reporter got bored for news and sniffed around the Lombard family. The Lombard hotel chain was high profile by necessity, but some of the personal storms his family had weathered had turned into media circuses, adding a certain glamour and notoriety to the Lombard name. Like it or not, they were known.

  "And your name?" he demanded quietly.

  She stared at him, grey eyes as blank and opaque as a wall of mist.

  "Anna Johnson," she said, without hesitation or inflection, and Blade knew beyond all doubt that his ghost lady was lying.

  Chapter 3

  Anna let out a shaky sigh when Blade left her holding the ice against her forehead while he went in search of painkillers.

  The piercing quality of his gaze had been so unsettling, she had almost given in and told him her real name. For the first time in years, the lie had seemed deceitful, rather than necessary armour against de Rocheford.

  He handed her a glass of water and a couple of Paracetamols, then shifted away to lean one hip against the kitchen counter. Arms folded across his chest, he watched her swallow the pills and drink the water.

  His steady regard was unnerving. The plain fact was that this room had always been small, but Blade made it seem claustrophobically tiny. It wasn't just his size, although that was intimidating in itself. It was that he seemed larger than life, brimming with a male power that both fascinated and alarmed her, because he drew her so strongly.

  "Have you got family you can contact?" he asked.

  Carefully, Anna set the now empty glass down, glad for the bulk of the tea-towel wrapped in ice, because it served to obscure part of her face. "No."

  "A friend?"

  She hesitated. If she gave him a name, she might be able to get rid of him sooner. "If I need help, I can call on Tony, from the flat above."

  He frowned. "Boyfriend?"

  The sheer ludicrousness of the suggestion made her smile. Tony Fa'alau wasn't an old man, but he was somewhere north of his fifties, tall and soft-spoken, with a limp. He often turned up at the library and walked her home, but tonight was one of the nights he helped his son, Mike, with security at the video parlour. "No."

  "Good."

  Her heart skipped a beat at the deliberate way he held her gaze, the satisfaction inherent in that one word.

  "But you should still see a doctor. I could take you."

  His tone was neutral, but she could feel the relentless, underlying force of his will. He was a man used to taking charge, used to giving orders. With a sense of amazement, she realised he would take her over completely if she let him. "It's only a bump on the head. Believe me, this one's not so bad, I've had worse." She stopped, aware that on top of everything else, she now had to squash the urge to confide in him.

  "Someone hit you?" he demanded softly.

  He didn't move from his semirelaxed position, but Anna was aware of the change in him. His gaze on her had sharpened, and the relaxed pose was no longer indolent.

  "No! I – that is, I was … accident-prone as a child."

  The intensity of his regard didn't lessen. "What kind of accidents?"

  The killing kind.

  Anna closed her eyes briefly against the throbbing pain that thought elicited. "I had a couple of nasty falls that ended in concussions."

  She rose to her feet, setting the now melting icepack down on the table, forestalling any further questions, hoping he would take the hint and leave. Her head didn't spin, and her legs no longer felt like limp noodles. The rest and the ice had helped, and soon the pills would ease the pain even further.

  Blade took the hint, but in order to get to the door, he had to pass right by her. He stopped, one hand on the door handle, close enough that she had to reluctantly tilt her head to meet his gaze. Close enough that she realised with a sense of shock that he was more than just damp, he was wet through; that all the time he had cared for her, his clothes had been clinging to his skin. Even as she watched, a droplet of water trailed down his temple, but he ignored it.

  "I'm glad you don't have a boyfriend," he said bluntly, "but I don't like it that you're alone tonight. I'll leave now, because you're out on your feet. You need to rest. But I'll be back tomorrow to check on you. Do you work during the day?"

  Anna thought that was a slightly unusual way to phrase the question. Most people worked during the day. "Yes," she said, not supplying him with any details.

  The omission didn't seem to bother him. "I'll take you out for dinner, then."

  Anna blinked at the flat statement, wondering if she'd heard wrong. Now she was completely confused. Dinner? That sounded like a date.

  Again, her lack of reply didn't seem to bother him. He lifted a hand, brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead and stared critically at the bump. She drew a breath at the strange tingling heat of his touch, that odd internal jolt, but forced herself to stay very still when he transferred his attention to her eyes, staring intently into first one, then the other.

  "Your pupils look fine," he murmured. "No uneven dilation. How's the headache?"

  "I recognise the beat."

  His mouth kicked up at one corner in a slow smile that did bad things to her heart rate. "I've heard it a time or two myself."

  He left in a swirl of damp air, his dark form merging so perfectly with the night that he seemed to dissolve into darkness rather than simply walk through it. Anna shut the door firmly behind him. Her fingers shook so badly, it took several attempts to hook the chain and drive the bolt home.

  Too late, she thought blankly. Way too late on more than one count. She should have refused to let him inside.

  He had seen through her. When he had questioned her, she'd been as transparent as glass, reeling from the twin blows of the incident at the park and her rescue by someone she knew.

  Not to mention her state of disorientation. Usually she had no problems making judgments about people, but her instincts seemed to have gone completely haywire. Maybe that was so because Blade's uncanny resemblance to the man in her dreams had somehow triggered the wild fantasy, so that for a time she had become hopelessly tangled between dreams and reality. The strange burst of heat, the charge of awareness whenever he had touched her, had kept her off balance. She had never felt anything like it – not even in dreams.

  Leaning against the door, she pressed the heels of her hands into both eyes, trying to alleviate the gritty sting, the hot ache buried at both temples. The silence of the room slowly sank in, easing some of her tension. She had survived the attack, and she was still in one piece … more or less.

  Reaction hit with the suddenness of a locomotive smashing into a concrete abutment. A low sound tore from her throat, and she wound her arms around her middle, hanging on tight as shudders jerked through her.

  She had been found!

  This time it had taken months and, unlike all the other times, there had been no warning, no quick word from a neighbour or co-worker telling her that someone was asking after her, or watching her flat. And this time someone had come to her rescue.

  The memory of her childish pleas to an imaginary knight to rescue her surfaced, and she stiffened, pushing herself away from the support of the door.

  "Get real," she muttered into the quiet emptiness of her room.

  Blade Lombard might resemble the knight of her dreams, he might even act like him, but there had been a seasoned edge of danger evident in those cool, black, marauder's eyes. In ancient times he might well have been a knight, but he would have disdained spending his time hanging around at court or even participating in tourneys. He would have gained his experience in the heat of battle.

  He'd said he had worked for the military, and she believed him. She was willing to bet he'd spent his time in the special forces. It would fit that ruthless competence, the easy way he'd taken charge.

  He had helped her out, but if he'd been in Ambrose Park mer
ely by chance, any interest he had in her could only be motivated by his sense of responsibility toward the lone female he had rescued, nothing more. She couldn't question his chivalry or his manners – they were self evident – but that didn't change what he was. Trouble.

  Any woman who spent time with Blade Lombard would automatically attract attention to herself simply by being in his company. She couldn't afford to be noticed, and she definitely couldn't afford to have her photo published in any papers or magazines.

  Gingerly, Anna stripped off her damp clothing, trying not to move her head any more than she had to. Her coat had kept off the worst of the rain and mud, but her jeans were soaked to the knees, and her sweatshirt was damp in places where her coat had let the water in. After slipping on a pair of baggy sweatpants and a sweater, she sat on the edge of the bed and bent forward to pull on fleecy socks. The motion made her head pound harder, and she straightened up, holding still, waiting out the ache.

  Abruptly she was overcome by a barrage of images: the attack on the sidewalk, the outline of her assailant falling, cold light sliding along the length of a gun barrel. She began to shake again, despite the warm clothing, every muscle in her body rigid with tension.

  She should be crawling into bed, pulling the covers over her head and sleeping, but she couldn't afford to do that yet. She had to think, had to move. The man who had attacked her was still out there. He had been limping, which was probably why he had given up the search. He would be back, and it wouldn't take him long to discover where she lived.

  She would have to pack before she went to bed; make decisions about which of her meagre possessions she would take with her. That wouldn't take long. She could only take what she could carry or load into the large pack she kept beneath the bed.

  *

  The following afternoon, Blade turned from the slice of Auckland's bustling seaport that was visible from his office window to catch the eye of the man seated across from his desk. "You're telling me she doesn't exist?"

  Jack McKenna, one of Lombards' most senior executives and more family than employee, shook his head. "Nope. I'm telling you that legally she doesn't exist. No birth certificate, passport or driver's licence. No records of insurance, mortgages or bank accounts. No criminal record. Not even a parking ticket. Nada. Nothing."

  "So, Anna Johnson is a false name."

  Blade had suspected as much, but the reality still annoyed him. She'd met his gaze with those haunted grey eyes of hers, and she had lied.

  Jack shrugged. "Easy enough to do, so long as she doesn't own anything that requires record keeping – a house, a car, a bank account. She probably works for cash under the table, so there are no employment or tax records, and pays for any purchases with cash. There are plenty of employers willing to pay slave wages for an employee who'll work all hours without complaint."

  The door popped open. Jack's wife, Milly, who doubled as his personal assistant, strode into the room, vivid in a pants suit in some tropical print that was vibrant with blues and oranges. Somehow the colours didn't clash with her red hair. Blade knew that Milly was forty-something, around the same age Jack was, but she looked closer to thirty.

  She slapped some papers down on the desk, almost taking Jack's nose off in the process. "Here's the guest list for that charity bash on Saturday. Every man and his dog are gonna be there, including the Prime Minister."

  "Thank you," Jack said meekly.

  Milly planted her hands on her hips. "Don't flash those blue eyes at me, Jack McKenna. You are not the flavour of the month."

  "No, ma'am."

  "In a few months time, you will be even less the flavour of the month."

  Jack rose to his feet, placed his hands on either side of Milly's face and kissed her. When he was finished, he sat back down.

  "Humph." Milly glared at her husband, but Blade noticed the way her gaze lingered wistfully on the rumpled front of his shirt.

  Before Jack met Milly, he had been obsessively neat. The knife-edge crease in his suit pants and his exquisite taste in ties had been a byword in the business world. His ties were now definitely anarchistic, and he was frequently rumpled these days.

  Milly strode out. The door closed firmly behind her.

  Jack grinned and kicked back in his chair.

  Blade's brows went up; he didn't think he had ever seen Jack so happy, or so satisfied, despite Milly's bad temper. "Trouble in marital heaven?"

  "Milly's pregnant," Jack said baldly. "She says it's all my fault."

  Blade stared thoughtfully at the door, which Milly hadn't quite slammed. He knew that she already had three grown children from a previous marriage. "Takes two to tango."

  "Amen to that. It was the tropical honeymoon that did it. She said I ought to be able to control her baser impulses. What can I say?" he murmured, picking up the papers Milly had brought in. "I tried."

  Restlessly, Blade paced the length of his office, halting in front of another bank of windows, this one facing into the city. He stared in the general direction of Joe's Bar and Grill, the name that had been emblazoned on the front of Anna Johnson's sweatshirt.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to keep a lid on the wild impatience that was eating away at his usual control. He should forget about her and turn his mind back to work – God knows, there was enough for him to do.

  After spending several years with the Special Air Service, Blade had decided it was past time for him to take his place in the family business. He was almost thirty-four, and while he'd been injured twice on operations, once seriously, he counted himself lucky. No point in pushing that luck any further.

  The construction of the casino and a retail complex was a massive undertaking. He and Jack were splitting the load between them. The risk involved in setting up the casino and the huge propensity for trouble it represented appealed to Blade far more than becoming involved in some of Lombards' more conventional enterprises, and his family knew it; by nature, he was more conqueror than manager. At the same time, Blade was building his own dream further north, a quarter-horse stud on a wild piece of country caught between high, muscular hills and the Pacific Ocean. The property was remote enough – courtesy of the physical barrier of the hills – to be its own kingdom, yet close enough to Auckland to make for a reasonable commute. After years of travelling, he needed his own base. He was ready to settle down.

  Instantly, his thoughts turned back to Anna. He frowned at both the way his mind had made the switch and the string of coincidences she represented.

  She would probably be at work now, despite the fact that she should be resting. Her head would be throbbing, feet aching. She would be working for a damn pittance. He should let her get on with it.

  If she was still there.

  The thought slid into his mind as slick and easy as a knife. Anna was using a false name. She was as jumpy as a cornered cat, and she had been attacked. He was certain that she was on the run from something. Or someone.

  She could be married and running from a husband. The thought curled into his mind with the sour, savage taint of sexual jealousy. Blade's jaw tensed. If he'd walked into a brick wall in broad daylight, he couldn't have been more astounded. Jealousy. The emotion was alien, unsettling. As intrusive as the dreams. He enjoyed women, and he was naturally possessive, but he had never been jealous.

  He remembered the softness of Anna's breasts pressing against him when she'd scrambled out of that storm drain, and the thought that she might be tied in some way to another man filled him with fury.

  He came from a long line of males who were used to taking what they wanted, and right now he wanted Anna. His genetic heritage was underlined by his name. Every few generations in the Lombard family, someone lost their head and named one of their sons Blade, after the original marauding rogue who had reaved and plundered, carving out the basis of the first Lombard fortune with raw muscle and the help of his trusty blade.

  He fingered the ancient earring that pierced his lobe. The small c
abochon ruby was said to have belonged to the first Blade and was traditionally passed down to whoever carried the name. He doubted this was the original gem – that had probably been lost in the mists of time – but it was certainly old.

  Grimly, he wondered if his ancestor had had the same trouble with women that he himself was now having. If so, he could understand why he'd carved such a bloody swath through history. He had been a frustrated man.

  Blade surveyed the bustling cityscape and let the irrational urgency that had chewed his patience to the bone have its way.

  What if she was the woman in his dreams?

  For the first time, he allowed himself to examine the possibility. He remembered how she'd looked last night: eyes wary with secrets, the exquisite curve of her cheekbones, and that pale, sultry mouth.

  The primitive hunger that persistently invaded his dreams stirred to life. His jaw clenched against the hot flood of arousal and, more, an intense need to simply have her near.

  He might have difficulty believing in anything with a supernatural bent, but he trusted his instincts, and he trusted his body's reactions. He had never felt such a powerful physical response to a woman outside of his dreams. He fiercely resented the loss of control – giving in to the hunger went against the very essence of who and what he was. And yet, he was honest enough to admit that, in part, that was where the heady excitement lay.

  The dichotomy should alarm him. It should scare the hell out of him. Instead, he felt a savage exaltation. He wasn't prepared to admit that he had found his dream woman, but he had found a woman who touched him on some primitive level in a way he needed to be touched.

  He might not understand much about what was happening, or why, but for Blade the problem had just been simplified. He understood his own burning sexuality very well, and when he needed a woman, his approach was time-honoured and straightforward: he went out and got her.

  He spun on his heel. Jack was still lounging in a chair, watching him with an amused grin. Blade had forgotten he was in the room. "I'm going out."

  "I can see that."