by Fiona Brand
He stilled, holding her cradled beneath him, gleaming, broad, sleekly muscled, his hair a tangled midnight mane brushing her cheeks, shrouding them both in darkness. The breath caught in her throat at his utter stillness, and she felt the cold shadows encroaching once more, pouring over and around her, stealing away the heat of his body.
She arched, desperate for his touch, desperate for the wildness and tenderness, for the first heavy plunge of his loins. When he was buried deep inside her there were no shadows, no chance of the icy chill stealing her away. Her life was bounded by absolutes. She was his, and he belonged to her. He would allow nothing else, no one else, to harm her.
The only thing she had to fear was her terrible vulnerability to his every touch.
A hand grasped her chin, his long fingers strong, calloused, gentle but firm against the tender softness of her skin, as he forced her gaze to his. His mouth was full, damp, reddened with extreme arousal, and set in a grim line. His eyes were slitted, still burning with raw need, and now with something far colder, far more controlled. An alarm of a new kind had her tensing against his hold – the hot, aching pressure as he held himself firmly against her loins, on the very brink of penetration.
There was no mist now, no shadowy outline; the strong sweeping lines of his jaw, his cheekbones, were stark-ly delineated.
Her heart pounded so hard that for a moment she had difficulty breathing. She knew him. The conviction burst to life somewhere deep inside her that she had always known him.
The odd sense of inevitability faltered as reality intruded. The mantle of anonymity that had cloaked her dream lover had been ripped away, and a new fear struck through her. She lay spread and helpless, utterly vulnerable beneath the muscled body of the protector she had already given herself to countless times, in countless ways.
The man she had opened her heart, her body, her very soul to, was Blade Lombard.
Recognition flared in his eyes; they glittered with disbelief and cold fury, colder even than the icy shadows that even now wrapped their tendrils around her.
"You," he accused in a dark rumble.
Anna flinched at the enraged rejection on his hard, warrior's face, his physical recoil as he reared back on his knees, leaving her frozen with a hurt that numbed her.
He had seen her face – he had recognised her – and he hadn't wanted her, his displeasure cuttingly sharp.
A pulsing ache started somewhere in the centre of her chest, rippled outward, expanding until a thin, anguished sound broke from her mouth.
She jackknifed, reaching for him, fingers sliding through shadows because he had already gone, shimmering into darkness with the dream.
Her sleeping bag had peeled back from her shoulders, leaving her shivering in the icy stillness of the room. She was still fully dressed, her clothes twisted and rumpled, and she was both hot and cold. Her skin was dewed with perspiration, her breasts tight, throbbing. She was still breathless, quivering with the aftershock of intense desire. She could feel the moisture between her legs, the heavy ache, as if her body really had prepared itself to accept a lover.
Blade.
The moon shone through her window, momentarily dazzling her, bathing her in its pale glow. She stared blindly at the misshapen disc through the grimy glass, her breath condensing in the air, jaw locked against tears as she struggled to orient herself, to free herself from the mesmerizing power of the dream.
It hadn't been real.
Oh, God. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the stark desolation that always followed the dreams. When next she opened her eyes she forced herself to pick out the dim details of the room; the outline of the sash-window, the roofline of the lumbering old Victorian house next door, the virtual twin of this one.
She had seen his face. And this time there had been nothing fuzzy or indistinct about him; it had been Blade. He had looked into her eyes and recognised her, and he hadn't wanted her. The depth of the betrayal was stunning.
Anna shoved hair back from her face and scrambled to free herself from the tangle of the sleeping bag. She stumbled, almost falling over her pack as she searched for the light-switch.
The room flooded with light. She stood, swaying, arms wrapped tight around her middle to ward off the chill.
"It didn't happen," she muttered huskily, instantly knowing her words were a barefaced lie, because something had happened.
The dream had been intimate, earthy, exquisite in its intensity, her feelings so real they still stirred through her in prickling tremors. She was deeply drawn to Blade. More, he fascinated her. The terrible strength of that fascination was in itself frightening, because she had never had a physical relationship with any man. She had been too busy trying to stay alive to allow anyone that close.
The erotic dreams were intensely private, and even though they disturbed her, she was aware that sometimes they were all that kept her sane. She had always assumed they were a powerful, vivid fantasy born of her overactive imagination, her hunger for human contact, for warmth and love, but now she forced herself to view the underlying truth of the dreams.
As a child she had fantasised about a mythical being, a knight, who could protect her from de Rocheford. Regardless of the years and her own efforts to dismiss that particular fantasy, it had stuck. The dreams were also about her natural female need to mate – a need she had ruthlessly set aside.
It had all been simple and straightforward … until Blade had pulled her from that ditch.
She considered the possibility that her mind had somehow put Blade's face on that of her dream lover's, but she didn't think so. As stark as that moment of recognition had been, she hadn't been surprised. Horrified, maybe, but not surprised.
Somehow, she wasn't sure how, she was psychically connected with Blade and had been for years.
There were clairvoyants and psychics in the Montague line. Her grandmother had been able to see auras. Anna's mother had claimed to be clairvoyant. Anna knew she had neither of those talents. She had assumed she had been relatively untouched by the witchy Montague genes and had been quite frankly relieved. The only thing she had ever laid reluctant claim to was a certain empathic sensitivity to people. It wasn't anything she could explain, other than as some kind of amplification of the instincts and awareness that everyone possesses to a greater or lesser degree. She wasn't even sure what she did feel. The best way to describe it was that she could feel the soul, the essence, of someone. She'd been maybe six or seven when she'd realised that the outside of Henry wasn't the same as the inside. He'd had a secret. She hadn't known what it was then, but she'd known enough to keep away from him.
Maybe that was why de Rocheford had turned on her so quickly after he had married her mother; he had known she'd seen through him. He'd been afraid of her. She'd sensed his fear like a discordance interrupting the cold flow of his anger, but "knowing" hadn't helped her; she had never been able to convince anyone that Henry wasn't what he appeared to be.
If Henry was cold, Blade burned. His essence battered at her like a hot wind, so powerful she wondered that she hadn't recognised him immediately. Vitality spilled from him like heat from a furnace, pouring through her with every touch. She had been right as a child when she'd decided that angel wings didn't fit him, Blade was too aggressively male to ever be called an angel.
No, he wasn't an angel. He was the secret friend she had called out to, the knight she'd woven fantasies around, the powerful lover who had haunted her dreams.
Every touch should have told her who he was.
Now she had to wonder if he knew who she was.
*
Blade flung the twisted covers off his bed and stalked to the French doors, pushed them wide and stepped out onto the balcony. He was naked. Hot. Wildly aroused. Furious.
He had dreamed. His jaw locked on another violent surge of arousal. He braked his hands on the wet steel of the balcony railing and waited out the hot, raw intensity of the ache.
Anna Johnson.
; He pushed away from the railing, shoving long fingers through his sweat-dampened hair as he prowled the length of the terrace.
Sweet Mother of God, this time the mysterious woman in his dream had had Anna's face.
He let his mind sift over the jolting shock of discovery. The moment of utter disbelief and rejection of something that just couldn't be.
But it was, he thought grimly. It was the only thing that made sense.
The certainty of the knowledge settled into his mind like the last missing piece to a puzzle that had frustrated him for years. He knew the arch of her throat, the delicate curve of her earlobes, the narrow span of her waist and the gentle fullness of her breasts, as intimately as he knew his own body.
It was her.
His eyes narrowed on the moon as it eased below the jagged line of city buildings, his hands knotting into fists as he fought the heavy fullness of his loins and waited for the icy drift of the breeze to work its cold magic.
He'd almost disgraced himself like a teenager. He'd gotten so hot his skin had felt like it was on fire, and he'd sweated so much the sheets had been soaked. His need was still so fierce he wanted to howl. Anna had been twisting beneath him, soft, exquisitely open, waiting…
Another wave of heat slammed through him, laced with a sharp sense of loss, and he briefly considered the cleansing pain of slamming his fist into a wall. Better yet, he should use his head. He had had Anna within his grasp, and he had let her get away.
The implications of the dreams, the visions, shuddered through him. If the hauntingly intense, erotic dreams were real, then so was every dangerous event he'd "witnessed."
He needed to find her. Now.
Blade strode inside and began jerking clothes on, burying his fear beneath the cold burn of anger that Anna was out there alone and in danger. The only lead he had was Anna's flat. He would search it. If he was lucky, he might find some clue as to where she had gone – a scribbled note, a telephone number. Something, anything.
He should have searched the damn flat while he was there earlier, instead of cruising the streets, scrutinising all the bus stops. He didn't know if he would find anything useful once he was inside, but he had to try.
He would find her. It was just a matter of time.
*
Blade parked the Jeep near the entrance of Finnegan Street and checked the clip on the Glock before slipping it into his shoulder holster. He shrugged into a black leather jacket and grabbed a pair of night-vision goggles from the passenger seat. He'd had enough of stumbling about in the dark the previous might. The goggles wouldn't be any use out on the street – the ambient light was too great – but the rear of the apartment block was pitch black, and he would need to reconnoitre the area before he risked breaking in.
It was black as hell's kettle as he stopped beneath the cover of a large, weeping shrub to fit the goggles. Immediately the backyard of the ratty apartment block sprang to ghostly life. A sagging tin shed, an old Volkswagen on blocks, more dirt than grass, a washing line stretched between two poles.
Blade took note of the properties bounding the building, and any fences or obstacles he would have to negotiate if he had to make a quick exit. There were no dogs, for which he was thankful. Dogs were hell on breaking and entering.
He was about to step up to Anna's window when he caught a faint movement. He stayed where he was, watching, disbelief changing to cold fury. The outline had been male. Maybe someone was simply turning the flat over, stealing whatever Anna had left behind, but he didn't think so. Anna had owned very little that anyone would want to steal, and whoever was in there was also wearing night-vision gear.
Minutes later the man exited the flat, the night vision gear no longer in evidence, a small duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Blade remained motionless beneath the dense cover of a tree, tracking the man's movements. "Oh, yeah," he said softly. "I see you now."
The man wasn't tall, five-eight, maybe five-nine, and powerfully built, with a face that had seen a lot of action. He was dressed in dark clothing. His manner was calm, confident and professional.
Blade trailed him, watched the man stroll to a brown sedan parked out on the road. Coldly, Blade considered his options, and dismissed the idea of following. By the time he got the Jeep turned around, his chances of locating the dark sedan would be minimal. He took note of the licence plate. As the car eased away from the kerb, he retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and made a call to an ex-SAS contact, Ray Cornell, who was now a police detective.
Ray didn't like being woken up, but, typically, he was instantly alert. "This isn't legal," he muttered, as he took the details of the licence plate.
"It'll be worth your while. I think you might want this guy."
Blade relayed his number and terminated the call. Minutes later, Ray rang back with a name. "Eric Seber. We want him," he confirmed tersely, "but we haven't been able to nail anything solid on him yet. He's an ex-cop, ex-mercenary, who's put himself on the market as a 'security consultant'."
Blade stared at the space Seber's car had occupied, every muscle in his body tensing. "What do you want him for?"
"I can't tell you that."
Blade was silent.
Ray sighed. "Okay, I owe you one, Lombard. Word is that he's a hit man, that's all I can tell you – that, and to stay out of his way. He's got some heavy duty connections."
"How heavy duty?"
"If we knew that for sure, we'd have the bastard."
Blade ended the call and went up to the flat. The door was open. When he switched on the light, he saw that the place had been completely trashed. Not that there was much left to trash. The bed and table and chairs were missing, and so were all of Anna's clothes and personal possessions.
Potted plants had been strewn on the floor – the soil dumped in piles, the plants discarded with their roots exposed. An old vinyl couch had been gutted. The fridge and all the cupboards in the tiny kitchenette were open, the remaining items strewn over the floor and counter.
Blade didn't like the picture he was getting. The man had been too professional for simple vandalism. He'd been looking for something, and he had gone through the small flat with brutal, systematic efficiency.
He bent and picked up a cheerful calender flowers. He paged through it, checking for any handwritten notes, and found none. His mood got grimmer. Anna liked flowers.
He surveyed the damaged plants, the wilting petals ranging in colour from pale pinks and yellows to a cheerful neon orange, and rage dug itself a place in his gut, simmering there like a hot coal. His mother liked flowers. She collected them, babied them. She even talked to them. Bridget Lombard wasn't happy unless she had her fingers sunk deep into soil or was spending a fortune in some garden centre. If someone did this to her plants, she would cry – right before she declared war on the perpetrator.
Something about Anna reminded him of his mother. Not in looks; it was something else, a kind of luminous inner grace and dignity that permeated everything she did and almost seemed to glow through her skin. It was the sort of quality that made you stop and consider before you did anything at all that might possibly hurt her.
Setting the calender aside, Blade began collecting the plants, carefully packing them back into their pots with whatever soil he could gather up. When he was finished, he placed them in the back of the Jeep.
He made one more pass through the flat, searching for any pieces of discarded paper, but the mess the intruder had made aside, Anna had been frustratingly neat. Evidently she'd disposed of the rubbish before she had left or had someone do it for her. Her neighbour, maybe.
He knocked on the door of the flat above. There was no answer.
The games parlour just down the street was still open. Blade eyed it thoughtfully. After stashing the night vision goggles and the Glock in the Jeep, he headed for the parlour.
The place was barnlike in its immensity and even at this late hour was doing a busy trade, pulsating with bursts of light and sound. A tall
, lithe man with the darkly handsome features of a Maori or a Pacific Islander rose from his kneeling position by a machine he had been tinkering with and strolled over.
"You looking for someone?" he demanded softly, his gaze watchful.
Blade eyed him with interest. The man was almost ruthlessly clean cut, his gaze direct, sharply intelligent, with a cool confidence Blade instantly recognised. He had seen that look in cops, but he was willing to bet that until very recently, this guy had been a soldier. "I'm looking for Tony."
"You a cop?" The man's intense gaze swept Blade, added up his long hair, the leather jacket, the stud in his ear. "You don't look like a cop."
"I'm a friend of Anna's."
The man continued to eye him, not acknowledging his words or that he knew who Anna was. He turned his head slightly, not taking his gaze off Blade, and yelled, "Dad! Someone to see you."
Tony emerged from a back room, favouring one leg, a mechanical part in his hands.
The man's gaze remained locked with Blade's while he talked to his father. "You know this guy?"
"I've seen him."
"Says he's a friend of Anna's." His voice was flat, neutral. He was still reserving judgment.
Blade's assessment of him went up another several notches. He was protecting Anna.
Tony handed his son the machine part he was carrying. "That's fixed," he said laconically. "Damn cheap wiring." He switched his attention to Blade. "He came looking for Anna this afternoon, but she'd already left."
"You her man?" the son demanded softly.
Blade returned the challenging stare with one of his own. "Yeah," he said in a silky rumble. "I'm her man."
"Then how come she walked out on you?"
Blade smiled grimly. "She doesn't know I'm her man yet."
The silence following his pronouncement stretched taut, emphasised by the waves of tinny game music, the exultant whoop of a player, a shout of laughter.
Abruptly Tony chuckled. "Looks like Anna's finally got herself someone, whether she wants him or not. It's all right, Mike, I can handle this."
