Endless Night

by Maureen A. Miller

  A tiny whimper sounded from deep inside Megan’s chest. Perhaps he hadn’t even heard it, but rather felt it. Her efforts to turn in his arms were thwarted by his strength. He knew that if she were to turn around now, he would start kissing her, and he didn’t think he could stop.

  Instead, he held her tight for a moment, and then reached out for the coffee mug. As his hand swept around the steaming mug, Jake noticed an apple sitting on the counter next to a porcelain sunflower-shaped cookie jar. Not a real apple, but a plastic replica serving as a cooking timer.

  “Can I see that timer?” he whispered into her hair.

  Still lodged in his embrace, Megan made an inquisitive sound, but reached for the apple, spun it several times in her fingers and then held it over her shoulder for his inspection. He touched his lips to those fingertips and took the plastic device.

  Reluctantly he let go of the warmth of her body to twist the timer and listen to its shrill alarm. Megan jolted at the sound and watched him with wide eyes.

  “Suddenly have a yen to bake cookies, Mr. Grogan?”

  Ah, did this woman realize what she did to him when she smiled like that? It was a timid smile, but laced with mischief. Given the gravity of her situation, that she could manage such an expression made him respect her all the more.

  “I have a yen to do a lot of things.” Jake grinned. “But no, baking cookies is not on the list.”

  One twist of his grip and he pried the timer into two pieces. “I’ve got an idea though.”

  Hair dryer in hand, Megan studied Jake’s back as he worked at the kitchen table. His black sweater was stretched taut over muscular shoulders. Her gaze slipped down his long spine and traced the jeans that wrapped around his powerful thighs. His body was something a woman could sculpt in her dreams, or could her dreams even orchestrate such an image? She jerked her glance back up to the dark hair with the “fresh out of the storm” look that made her want to run her fingers through it.

  Was she insane? Thinking about all the possible ways she wanted to touch Jake, when outside a killer approached?

  The weight of the dryer in her hand jarred her back to reality.

  “Will this do?”

  Jake looked over his shoulder and she felt his eyes stroke her before dropping to the item in her hand. “Perfect.”

  That deep voice affected her as much as any caress would. Megan trembled, but hastened forward and set the appliance on the table, looking at what had already been assembled. The timer lay in two apple halves. A pair of speaker wires that had been yanked from an old stereo found at the bottom of the foyer closet now crossed the butcher-block table and dropped off to the floor.

  “When do I get to ask what you’re doing?”

  His attention was focused on the spliced ends of the speaker wires. Jake didn’t even look up as he mumbled, “An alarm.”

  “I know it’s an alarm.” Exasperated, Megan looked at the rusted guts of her cooking timer. “Or—it was an alarm.”

  A flash of metal grabbed her attention. Jake clutched the butcher knife in his hand.

  “How bad do you need this hair dryer?” he asked.

  “Well…” Fashion and beauty weren’t high on her priority list. There had been no one to look good for over the past year, but Wakefield House was still too cold to walk around with a wet head. She did have another dryer in the spare bathroom. “I don’t need it, but what did you have in mind?”

  That powerful hand moved once, swiftly, and the loud smack of metal against wood sent a shock through her body. Jake turned around and held up the dryer, minus the cord and plug which had been severed by the sharp blow of the knife.

  “Well, I guess I really don’t need it after all,” she whispered, breathless.

  Industrious hands maneuvered the knife and split the power cord into two wires. He used the sharp blade to peel off the plastic shield and expose the copper innards. These raw ends, he spliced to the bare ends of the speaker wire lying on the floor. When he was done, Jake tossed her a triumphant smile that looked male, smug and sinfully attractive.

  “Ta-da.”

  Her eyebrows inched up. She opened her mouth to give him the praise he seemed to expect, but her lips clamped shut, perplexed. “What exactly am I looking at, other than a mass of ruined appliances?”

  Jake shook his head, but his smile stayed fixed. “An alarm.” He held up the farthest end of the apparatus, the plug and cord from her hair dryer. “We’ve got power.” His fingers skimmed the cord to reach the sheathed speaker wire. “We’ve got a trigger.” He pieced the apple halves back together, the wires sticking out of them like entrails. “And we have noise.”

  Okay, maybe she was starting to get where he was going with this, but he must have read the incredulity still in her eyes.

  “Here, plug this in.” He handed her the adapter that had been severed from her hair dryer. Megan looked at it like a snake whose head had been cut off. She stooped over and plugged the power supply in. With Jake’s grip firm around the apple timer, the speaker wires grew taut, spanning a trail between the two of them.

  “Okay,” he uttered quietly. “Now hit your hand on the tension of that wire.”

  Fascinated, she reached out and tentatively tapped her hand on the wire. Nothing.

  “That was lame.” He rolled his eyes. “I want you to pretend you’re a foot. Step on it.”

  Megan’s forehead knotted and she gave him a look that said, “You asked for it.” She crooked her leg and pushed on the wires with the pad of her sneaker. The timer shrilled its protest in the warm cocoon of the kitchen, and even though she was prepared for it, the sound still startled her.

  “Wow, how’d you do that?” she cried over the noise.

  Jake motioned her to unplug the power supply. As soon as she did, the device fell silent.

  “Once it goes off, it won’t stop until you unplug it.” He already began working at impossibly tiny screws inside the apple shell. “I’ll rewire it so it’s all set to go off again.”

  Megan regarded his work in awe. “Do you have to do this often in your skyscrapers?”

  To her surprise, Jake set down the items. He watched her, and she wished she could read his mind.

  “Come here.” He patted his thigh in invitation.

  Megan looked at him, then down to the powerful thighs sheathed in jeans. Who was she to argue with an invitation like that?

  The solid surface was uniquely pleasant, but she leaned forward, trying to keep her weight on her toes, afraid she might be too heavy.

  “Hey,” he whispered, close enough to stir her hair. “Sit back and relax, I want to show you this.”

  And she did. She sat back, she relaxed and she felt Jake’s arm weave around her stomach to hold her tightly.

  God help her.

  “It’s basically an open circuit,” he explained. “All we really needed was a power source—the hair dryer. If you tug on one of these wires, it’s going to trigger the timer.”

  It was hard to ignore the warm chest pressed against her back, or the solid thigh beneath her rear, but Megan was fascinated by his work. “So what are you going to do with it?”

  “There’s only one way upstairs, right?”

  She nodded, conscious of his hand against her abdomen. Everything felt too good and it was making her anxious. Margaret might have turned around and straddled this man’s lap and kissed him until they both could not breathe, but this was Megan’s domain.

  “This’ll just be a little peace of mind. I’ll mount this on the landing at the bottom of the stairwell. Discreet, but it can’t be missed by someone who doesn’t know it’s there. If it rings, at least you’ll know it’s not me coming up those stairs.”

  Wow. Her personal alarm system. In her first weeks at Wakefield House, Megan wanted to invest in one of the sophisticated security setups that she’d seen on TV, but they told her the wiring in Wakefield House was too outdated. The cost to replace it was hefty and certainly not a decision for her to act upon
as a renter. She’d had to resort to her own defense.

  “And I’ll take over the first floor tonight. Gordon’s going to have to get by me to get to you.”

  Anxiety bolted her posture ramrod straight. “You—you don’t have to do that. Come upstairs. I’ll feel better if you’re up there.”

  Jake chuckled against her hair and his hand slipped to her thigh. “Meg,” he whispered into her ear, “if I go upstairs with you, I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off of you, and how is that going to help the situation?”

  “You have your hands on me right now.”

  The fingers on her thigh clenched and started to climb. “That I do,” he said.

  When his hand nearly reached the point of no return, he dropped it and sat back.

  The cool air assaulted her exposed back and Megan reluctantly stood. She felt weak, but crossed her arms and stared down at him. Jake’s eyes were dark, with golden sparks from the overhead lamp. His skin looked bronze under that same hazy glow. He looked like a warrior, ready to go to battle for his mate.

  She forced herself to swallow. “Are you sure about this?”

  For the first time she noticed his confidence falter. That fleeting hint of insight, more than anything else, terrified her.

  “You can’t ask me that.” There was a rough sense of inevitability to his tone.

  “Fair enough. Then, are you sure you want to stay downstairs?”

  Black lashes flew open and Jake gaped. “How can you ask me that?”

  Given any other circumstances, Megan might have smiled at that response, but he was right. If they were going to have a shot at any sort of relationship, the cloud of death known as Gordon Fortran had to be extracted from her life.

  It was late. A quick glimpse at the clock confirmed that, but Megan didn’t want to leave the refuge of her kitchen. She didn’t want to leave Jake. In the midst of this lull in conversation, her hand flew to her mouth.

  “Jake!”

  “What?” He flinched.

  “I was such a wreck when you got here—what did you find out today? At O’Flanagan’s.”

  “Nothing really.” His response was gruff as he scooped the wires off the table, moving into the foyer to start assembling his mechanism.

  Megan stayed on his tail.

  “Did you mention Crow Musgrave?” she pressed. “Had anyone heard of him?”

  There was a slight hesitation in the flow of his industrious hands as muscles bunched in his shoulders and then relaxed.

  “Nothing worth mentioning right now.” He stood up. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep. You look exhausted.”

  Exhausted probably didn’t even begin to describe her appearance, but the ghost of Margaret’s ego emerged. “That bad?”

  He chuckled quietly and lifted his hand to cup her face, his thumb caressing her just below the ear. “You’re so damn gorgeous no matter what you do.”

  Well that ought to appease Margaret Simmons’s self-esteem, she thought, but Megan Summers was still worried.

  “I’ll bring the pillows and blankets back down.”

  “I’ll be fine, Meg. Just get some rest.” His hand dropped from her face. “Oh, and if you do have to come down here during the night, please remember to skip the landing.”

  Megan glanced at the burgundy floral runner worn to a dark shade of gray at the center of each step. On the landing she could barely distinguish the fine thread of wire pulled taut across the surface. From its strategic position it was impossible for someone uninformed to avoid it, either by stepping on it or walking into it.

  Would she have enough time if this alarm ever went off? The gun was at her side and it would be dark, which gave her the advantage.

  “If it goes off, I’ll get to it first.” Jake read her mind. “You stay up there, you hear me?” He wasn’t satisfied with her silence. “You stay up there till I say it’s safe.”

  And if he hurts you? The rogue notion rang loud in her head.

  “I mean it, Meg.” His brow descended. “If that alarm goes off, you call the police. Lock yourself in the bathroom. Do whatever you have to.”

  “I can’t call the police,” she pointed out dismally.

  “Yes, you can. By that point it will be self-defense. Self-preservation.” Jake looked at her with a rare blend of tenderness and determination. “By that time, Gordon will have already found you.”

  Basically, what he was telling her was that by that time it would already be too late for him.

  Megan held her hands up over her face. She couldn’t jeopardize his safety like this. “Jake—”

  “Megan,” he volleyed.

  She was on the verge of verbalizing her crusade, but mildly pointed out, “You call me Megan.”

  Jake rubbed at his jaw, looked away and then looked back at her. There was turmoil in his gaze. “I don’t know Margaret. I only know you. Give me some time and I’ll get to learn her better.”

  There was no getting around the fact that she was falling in love with this man. Megan held her tongue though. “I like Megan. I like Meg.” She paused and added softly, “I like you.”

  A low rumble sounded deep in Jake’s chest, as if he had growled at her. But he was smiling. A sexy, dangerous smile that pushed Gordon and the nightmare her life had become temporarily from her mind.

  “Okay, woman—” he cleared his throat, “—upstairs now, before I do or say something I shouldn’t.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jake focused on the frosted panes of the Victorian door as light leaked in from the bulb outside to cast a grid pattern on the foyer floor. It was quite the absurd touch, the inviting beacon out on the veranda. A hospitable beam that was miles from the next closest residence—left illuminated to welcome a murderer.

  In disbelief of his plight, skepticism was not going to protect him if there was a psycho lurking out there. Every muscle was honed to the point that it ached as he waited for the faintest shadow to break that barrier. Somewhere within Wakefield House a grandfather clock chimed twice. Two in the morning. He wasn’t the least bit tired. Well, maybe physically, but his mind was on overdrive, and this perpetual concentration was the only way to channel his thoughts.

  Megan, no, Margaret, had an influential madman chasing her down. What Jake neglected to mention was that he had met Gordon Fortran once. It was best not to bring that fact up when her trust was still tenuous. The thought that she might consider him a Fortran ally, that she might look at him with fear in those incredible eyes, kept him mute.

  The meeting took place nearly seven years ago. It was Jake’s second significant project and he was riding the accolades of his previous effort, a fifteen-story office building on Court Street, a structure that to this day he would pass at night and see the checkerboard of illuminated office windows, recalling the complexity of the electrical grid that powered them. When he was told he had to meet with the lawyer that represented the owner of the new commercial high-rise, Jake assumed it was to officially sign off on his engineering study. In his dealings with corporate politics, it became clear that the owners were nonentities and it was the lawyers who could make or break his career.

  The offices of Fortran and Rosenberg occupied the tenth floor of the Millennium Building on Atlantic Avenue. Gordon Fortran’s office was an immaculate suite with Indian hardwood floors that gleamed from sunlight pouring through a bank of windows overlooking Rowes Wharf. Through these windows, water taxis left X-shaped wakes in the green water, which the Harbor Belle breached with its steamship-cloaked body. Too long in looking at that view, he was blinded by the sun.

  Out of that radiant backdrop, a silhouette approached.

  Jake’s head nearly jerked away from the contrast until finally his eyes acclimated enough to bring Gordon Fortran into focus. In a black Italian suit, with a watch that could have substituted for the face of Big Ben itself, Fortran stood with his legs apart, his arms crossed and a dark eyebrow raised in a cross between dominance and indifference. He lifted hi
s hand to a thick head of hair, perfectly styled with a touch of gel to give it a rich gleam. Jake was amazed the man was capable of lifting his arm at all with the nuclear timepiece appended to it.

  Initially he was intimidated by the opulence. Here he stood, fresh from the work site in worn jeans, a flannel shirt, boots caked with a paste of mud and cement, and before him was the arbitrator of his project.

  “I understand you requested a meeting.” Jake made it a statement, not about to appear unsure.

  Long fingers laced together as two gold rings clinked in the process. Faint pinstripes against the rich black fabric hinted at the cost of Gordon’s suit. Jake looked up, past broad shoulders and slick-backed hair to meet shrewd black eyes. To look in them was disconcerting, like looking into black marble. Just as hard. Just as dead. Not to mention the narrowed lips, which seemed to have summed him up already and considered him a lower form of life.

  Jake glanced at his watch again. He didn’t have time for this condescending bureaucrat. “Look, I have the CAD drawings.” He reached forward with the cardboard canister and laid it on the edge of the desk, careful not to touch the vase that looked like it might be Ming Dynasty-something. “If you could please have the Seidleman brothers sign it, I’ll bring my team out to the site tomorrow.”

  Gordon looked like he had just returned from a ski trip, bronzed and as well polished as his executive desk. Black eyes narrowed as he spoke in a refined, but daunting voice. “Sit down, Mr. Grogan.”

  Jake struggled not to sigh and glanced at his watch again. Obviously, he was here for the wheels of law to flex their power and try to bring his price down. Oh, he’d heard the bureaucratic volley before.

  We can get an engineer who will come in at twenty percent less than your cost.

  Go ahead, he would tell them. If it came down to the soundness of electricity in a building that could house thousands of employees, he was not going to back down on his estimates by skimping.

  “I’ve reviewed your preliminary drawings.” Gordon broke into his thoughts. “Are these revised?”