by Lisa Childs
“You won’t be able to leave, anyway,” Vicky reminded her. “The police have most of the roads barricaded.”
“Not that it’s done any good stopping him,” Jillian remarked.
“’Course not.” The young producer snorted in derision. “Curfews and roadblocks aren’t going to affect him. He’s a phantom.”
“He’s real.” No ghost could have carried her like that—muscular arms tight around her, beneath the swell of her breasts, where her heart had pounded wildly with shock…and fear. But Dante, as she’d decided to call him, hadn’t harmed her; he’d saved her.
“That’s not what the witnesses claim.” Vicky pointed toward all those monitors.
“These are the same people who march outside the station with their picket signs proclaiming that Armageddon’s coming. The end is near,” she said, dismissing them.
“Tonight, when that building exploded, didn’t you think they were right?” the younger woman asked. “I did. And whatever the hell he is, he gives me nightmares.” Vicky shuddered as she rose from her chair. “But I’m going to try to get some sleep, anyway. There’s a couch with my name on it in the break room. You can use the one in Mike’s office.”
Jillian shook her head, her focus on that one monitor with the dark blur behind her. Had he been just a shadow? Just a figment of her imagination? No. She could still feel those arms around her, his breath on her neck. “I’m not tired.”
“Mike’ll want you to get your beauty rest,” Vicky teased her.
“Mike wants too much,” she murmured, thinking of their lecherous producer. Some of her coworkers thought she’d been given her job because of her looks rather than her talent. While she wanted to prove them wrong, she was the one to whom she had the most to prove. She’d failed herself tonight. She’d been close, physically close, to her first real lead. And she’d run away from him.
Tears of frustration stung her eyes, but she blinked them back to focus again on that shadow. Nothing would distract her from her goal again—not anyone else’s safety. Not even her own.
RAGE COURSED THROUGH St. John with such heat that it felt as if he was burning from the inside out. The son of a bitch had struck again. Had he no respect for the rules of their agreement, for him? He was the powerful one. Hadn’t he already proved that?
Trembling with an all-consuming anger, he flung open the door to his den and strode across the hardwood floor to the bar in the corner of it. A drink might calm his temper for now. Only one thing would settle it for good, though.
Two of the guards who’d ridden with him to the site of the latest destruction hovered just inside the door. They exchanged a look. Then one of them cleared his throat and said, “I don’t understand why the offices were attacked.”
It was personal; that was the reason for the attack. Didn’t these idiots understand that?
But then how could they when there was so much they didn’t know? Only one other person knew everything.
“What about the house?” he asked. “Was there a security breach here?”
One of the guards stepped inside the den. “No.”
Why not? What game was he playing?
“There is something you need to see, though,” the guard said, clicking on the plasma TV over the fireplace.
“This played out live earlier, and Morris recorded it for you to see.”
St. John expected security footage; instead, he watched a news broadcast. A reporter had been standing in front of the building before it had exploded.
“What am I watching?” he asked the guard. He al ready knew what had happened to that building. And why.
“You’ll see…”
He studied the woman’s image on the flat screen. With her pale skin and bright eyes, she illuminated the dark room. Until the shadow swallowed her up and stole away with her. Then flames burst out of the building, shattering the lens. But the tape began again, seconds later—with a new lens and a disheveled reporter. How ever, more than mere seconds had passed before her reappearance.
“Did you see it?” the guard asked. “Someone, or something, saved her from the explosion.”
“Who is she?” St. John asked.
The guard’s brow furrowed with surprise. “Uh, Jillian Drake. She’s been hassling you for years to grant her an interview.”
He nodded, but didn’t really remember her. Maybe it was time that he talked to her. Only, she’d be the one answering the questions. He leaned closer to the screen and studied her beautiful face and those unfathomable eyes. What had she learned?
How much did she know?
Enough to get her killed?
Chapter Two
Biceps bulging with the weight of the automatic weapons they carried, guards paced back and forth behind the wrought-iron gate. When Jillian stepped from her car, they turned toward her, their gun barrels pointed directly at her.
“Get back in your vehicle, Ms. Drake,” they ordered.
She wasn’t the only one who’d been warned away. But she was the only one who hadn’t listened. The other reporters had moved behind the guarded perimeter of the estate, just as they had the previous evening when they had avoided the danger of the exploding building…and the faceless man.
“I’m not leaving until I talk to Mr. St. John,” she insisted. This time she was not going to take no for an answer.
But was he even home? She couldn’t see much beyond the gates. She hadn’t been able to even before night had begun to fall. The house sat far back on the winding drive. A high, cement wall, ancient trees and thorny shrubs shielded it from the street. It was as if the home inhabited its own land—remote and impenetrable. Even the air around it felt otherworldly; the sky seemed darker and hung low, close to the treetops.
The wind whipped through the branches and slapped her long hair across her face. “Let me in,” she persisted.
“You’re trespassing,” one of the guards, a burly blond giant, warned her.
She lifted her chin and stared down the gun barrels trained on her. “I’m not leaving.” They hadn’t called the police to haul her away, nor had they shot her. Yet. “I just want to talk to him. I didn’t bring a camera crew with me.” As had the others who filmed from across the street.
“You’re still not getting inside,” the same guard informed her. She recognized him from the other times she had camped outside the gates, trying to get the billionaire to grant her an interview. But then the blond guard had been alone; now there were several other men guarding the gates and pacing the perimeter of the estate. “You know St. John’s rules. The press is not allowed inside. No exceptions.”
“Because of his daughter?” she asked, calling up the excuse he’d previously used to avoid interviews. The girl’s nanny hadn’t been killed at the estate, but her death implied that everyone close to him was in danger. And no one was closer than his daughter. Of course he’d added extra security. “Or because he’s scared?”
One of the guards laughed while the rest made some pithy comments. But then the engine of an approaching vehicle drowned out their voices. A long, black car drew up next to her small sedan, so close the side mirrors nearly touched. The high beam of its bright lights blinded her. She lowered her head and squinted, trying to see beyond the light and the tinted windows. Behind her the metal gates shuddered as they opened.
She didn’t need to see inside the car to know who occupied it—Tobias St. John. She was not going to let him get away with denying her an interview this time—not when she suspected he was one of the few who knew why River City was under siege. While the police department might have been too intimidated to force him to answer all their questions, she was not.
She turned toward the opening gates and ran through them. But strong hands caught her arms, jerking her to a stop as the car continued past her. She reached out, straining to break free of the guard’s grasp, and pounded against the side of the limousine. “Stop! Stop!”
To her surprise, the long car lurched to a halt halfway
through the gate. The rear side window slid down and a deep voice rumbled, “Let her go.”
The guard dropped his hand from her arm, which burned from his tight grip, and she stumbled forward, falling against the car. She’d left her coat in her sedan and wore only a thin silk blouse, which the cool spring wind chilled. Trembling, she leaned over and peered into the dim interior of the limo.
St. John was not much more than a hulking shadow with broad shoulders and chest in a dark suit. Only his light-colored eyes glittered in the shadows. “Miss Drake, I take it you want to speak with me?”
The ominous tone of his voice had her swallowing down a lump of fear before replying, “Yes.”
The door pushed Jillian back as he opened it and ordered, “Get in.”
Her heart rose to her throat with a rush of relief and trepidation. “Thank you,” she murmured as she scrambled inside the car and settled onto the leather seat across from him.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, his voice deep with warning.
She shivered, uneasy over his ominous tone. “Mr. St. John, I want to ask you…”
Before she could finish her question, the car stopped again—at the front door to the mansion. Floodlights illuminated the dark exterior, which appeared to be either slate or granite. Had the home been carved from rock?
Had the man? He didn’t move until the chauffeur opened the door and helped her from the back. Then in one lithe moment, he stepped onto the sidewalk beside her.
“Let’s talk inside, Miss Drake,” he said, his hand on her back guiding her toward the front door. Two guards with automatic weapons stood sentry. Were they keeping people out or in?
Goose bumps rose on her skin, his touch chilling her to the bone despite the warmth of his skin penetrating the thin silk of her blouse. Ordinarily she would have fired question after question at him, taking advantage of the opportunity to finally speak personally to the man. But his easy acquiescence unsettled her.
“I appreciate that you’re a busy man,” she said, resisting the urge to shrug off his hand. “So I won’t take up too much of your time.”
“Then why did you insist on seeing me?” he asked, gesturing for her to pass in front of him as the guards opened the door for them.
“A better question might be why you finally agreed to see me,” she said. She wasn’t the only reporter he’d refused to be interviewed by over the years; St. John was a notorious publicity-phobe.
He laughed a deep rumble of a chuckle. “You’re so suspicious, Miss Drake.”
Jillian nearly laughed now. In the past, she hadn’t been suspicious enough, and she had learned a painful lesson. One she didn’t need repeated. She noticed bars on the windows, and an irrational fear overcame her that if she stepped inside, she might never be allowed to leave again.
“Miss Drake?” he prompted her as she hesitated out side the door. “What’s the problem?”
That was what she intended to find out. She drew in a quick breath and walked across the threshold. “No problem,” she said. “I’m just not used to you letting me inside.”
He chuckled, and like his earlier warning, it had the same ominous tone. “You’re not quite inside yet.”
She stood in the foyer on black marble flooring, which sparkled in the light of a crystal chandelier that hung overhead.
He turned back toward her, and the light bathed his face. Despite his aversion to the media, he’d been photo graphed several times—at charity events, ribbon-cutting ceremonies, et cetera. Jillian had pored over those photos as if they would tell her the secrets the powerful man had refused to share with her—or anyone else. She had known he was tall; anyone who’d ever met him always remarked on what a big man he was. Larger than life. Magnetic.
Until tonight, Jillian had been drawn to him, too, but now she hesitated again when he gestured for her to precede him through the foyer. She studied his face, the sharp nose, the heavy jaw and those arrestingly pale blue eyes. “Thank you for letting me in….”
His bright gaze traveled from the top of her head to the pointy toes of her high-heeled pumps. “I can’t imagine why I never did before.”
“You didn’t want to be interviewed,” she reminded him as a chill chased across her skin, along with the feeling that he had undressed her with that thorough inspection. She suppressed a shiver at her overreaction.
In the past, when she’d gotten close enough to ex change a glance or request an interview, she’d been attracted to his good looks. Maybe she preferred when he’d played hard to get. Or maybe being caught up in murder and mayhem had cooled her interest in him.
His lips curved into a grin. “An interview would be a waste of your time, Miss Drake. I learned long ago how to keep my secrets.”
“I know.” She’d had to dig deep to find out the little she had about him: he’d divorced over irreconcilable differences and his ex-wife had exchanged custody of their daughter for a very generous settlement. Had Tobias ever met anyone he hadn’t been able to buy off or intimidate?
His gaze held hers with an intensity that belied the grin playing around his hard-looking mouth. “But I don’t think it would be a waste of my time for me to learn your secrets.”
After three years of mostly ignoring her, except when she’d gotten in his face at charity events, now he flirted with her? He was nearly as confusing as the man every one claimed was a phantom.
“I have no secrets, Mr. St. John,” she claimed. At least, none that anyone had cared enough to discover. The reporter reported the story; she wasn’t the story. Maybe that was why she had chosen the career that she had.
“Every woman has her secrets,” St. John said, step ping closer to her so that she felt the heat of his breath as well as his muscular body. “Like who you’re seeing…”
She resisted the urge to shudder and bit her lip, hoping he wouldn’t physically touch her now when in the past she’d yearned for it. “What makes you think I’m seeing someone?” She had hardly dated since her divorce, but her single status wasn’t something she cared to share with Tobias St. John.
“I saw him last night,” he said, “on the news, saving you from that explosion.”
She shook her head. “That—that wasn’t my boyfriend.”
“Then who is he?” St. John asked, his blue eyes narrowed with more than mere curiosity.
“I was hoping you could tell me,” she admitted. “That’s why I had to talk to you.”
His grin faded, and his gaze hardened even more. “You want me to introduce you to him?”
Her rescuer hadn’t been willing to introduce himself, even though she’d asked for his name. Twice. Regardless of the nickname she’d given him, she needed his real identity. “So you do know who he is…”
He shook his head.
“But you must have some idea,” she persisted, “if he’s the one responsible for the damage to all your businesses.” And the murders of the nanny and the other young woman who had yet to be identified. Had Dante been responsible for those, too?
St. John touched her now, his big hand wrapping around her arm in a grip that had her wincing. “Do you know that he’s responsible?”
“I have no proof,” she admitted. But she’d spent a sleepless night trying to figure it out. He wouldn’t have known the building was going to explode unless he had been the one who’d set the charges. “But it could be him…”
“It could be any number of other people,” St. John pointed out. “A man doesn’t achieve all the success that I have without making some enemies.”
“That’s true,” she agreed as she pulled a file from the side pocket of her briefcase-style purse and flipped open to the list she’d compiled. “I found them—men who think you shafted them in business deals. Women hurt when you reneged on commitments.” She’d found past lovers, but not his ex-wife. That woman had left the country shortly after their divorce. Unwilling or afraid to stay on the same continent with him?
He chuckled as he glanced at the contents of th
e file. “Your research is very thorough.”
“That’s why my reports are always so accurate. I’m damn good at my job,” she told him, hoping he would finally take her seriously. He never had in the past, as he’d either refused her calls or walked away from her with just that one word. But even though he’d told her no every time, he’d had a certain look in his eyes—a certain intensity when he stared her down that suggested he might have been willing to say yes to something else. Her attraction hadn’t been entirely one-sided.
But now that she’d spent more than a few minutes in his company, she realized she’d been attracted to the myth more than the man. An ex-marine who’d become a billionaire, Tobias St. John had impressed her with his ingenuity and drive. But he was just a man.
“Then you must realize that any one of these people—” he waved the file he’d taken from her “—could be behind the attacks on my businesses.”
She shook her head, rejecting the list of suspects she’d compiled. “None of them match the description of the man who witnesses have placed at the scene of every attack on your business.”
“Man?” he asked doubtfully. Obviously he’d heard the same witness reports that she had.
“You think he’s a phantom or a monster?” she asked.
“Gun for hire, monster—same difference,” he said, dismissing her rescuer.
“So you think that someone hired him to sabotage your businesses?” she asked.
“You’ve done the research,” he reminded her, tapping his finger against the folder he had yet to return to her. “Don’t you think so, too?”
No. The mysterious stranger hadn’t given her the impression that he was the type of man who took orders from anyone else.
St. John must have sensed her hesitation because he narrowed his eyes. “You don’t think so. What do you know, Miss Drake, that you haven’t shared with the public?”
“I’m the one who’s supposed to ask the questions,” she reminded him. “Why don’t you increase security at your businesses instead of just increasing it here at the estate?”
