by Lisa Childs
“Bad dream?” a raspy voice asked, and a shadow separated from the walls of the dimly lit room. He’d stood in front of a steel door, blocking it with his body. Blocking her escape even as he’d watched her sleep?
She shivered and agreed. “Nightmare.”
He stepped farther away from the door. His thigh muscles stretched the seams of the black jeans he wore and his chest the cotton of his dark T-shirt beneath that open jacket. He moved closer to the bed; his dark gaze rested intently on her face before slipping down her body. During their struggle, a couple of buttons on her blouse had come undone, revealing the lace of her black bra. And her skirt had ridden up. He reached out with those big, gloved hands, and she shrank back against the metal headboard. But he didn’t touch her; he only lifted a fleece blanket over her.
“I can understand why you’re afraid,” he said, but a muscle twitched along his tautly clenched jaw.
“I’m not afraid for me,” she said. Not now. Not since she’d dreamed of Tabitha St. John and had felt her fear.
If something happened to Jillian, though, who would come to the aid of the helpless child? Because Jillian had no doubt that the little girl had a reason for her fear. Tobias St. John was not the man everyone had always believed he was. She’d experienced his rage and ruthlessness herself. While he hadn’t touched her, she didn’t doubt he was capable of violence; it had been there in his eyes, barely restrained. God help whoever snapped that tenuous control….
“You should be afraid for you,” the man said as he settled onto the bed next to her. He touched her now, sliding his gloved fingers into her hair. “How do you feel? Dizzy? Nauseated?”
“No.” She winced as Dante probed a bump on the back of her head. “That hurts.”
“You lost consciousness,” he said, his voice even raspier, as if her blacking out had affected him. “You probably have a concussion.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted. She’d had concussions before. If she had one now, it was slight. “What happened?” She remembered the earth shaking beneath her feet…and above her. “Another explosion?”
He nodded. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”
“Isn’t that what you want?” she asked, staring up at him in confusion. If only she could see his face…then she might be able to figure out if she had reason to fear him and to fight him.
“If I wanted you dead, do you really think you’d be here?” he replied. “In my bed?”
Was that why he’d kept her alive—because he wanted what so many other men had wanted from her? Just her body? Not her mind. Not her heart…
Rejecting her own foolishness, she shook her head and knocked his hand away. She didn’t care what he wanted from her; he wasn’t going to get it. Her heart pounded hard as anger coursed through her. “Then why shoot at me? Why nearly blow me up?”
“I didn’t shoot at you.”
“Yes, you did. It had to be you at Franklin Eberhardt’s house.” But she hoped it wasn’t.
“No.” His gloved hand touched her again, this time skimming over the cut on her shoulder. “Is that what caused this? A bullet?”
Biting her lip to hold in the cry she’d been too afraid to utter then, she nodded.
“It wasn’t me,” he insisted. “I don’t even own a gun.”
And he lifted his arms, as if inviting her to frisk him.
“You do,” she replied. “You must. You shot him.”
“Who?”
“Franklin Eberhardt. He’s dead.”
A curse slipped through his lips, so involuntarily that there was no mistaking his genuine surprise. He shook his head, tumbling a lock of dark hair across his forehead, over the top of that leather mask. “No…”
“Was that the man—the one you’re working for?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“You have to be involved,” she insisted. “He’s the one who sent me here, to the warehouses you blew up tonight.”
“You just said he was dead,” he reminded her. “So how did he send you anywhere?”
“He had a piece of paper in his hand—part of a deed—with an address that brought me down here.” Actually he—this mysterious masked man—had brought her down here in the tunnels, to safety. He’d rescued her again. Could he really be the killer Tobias St. John had claimed he was? That she had feared he was when she’d fought him?
He cursed again, his voice rough with emotion. “He used to own those warehouses, the ones that just blew up, before he sold them.”
“To St. John,” she said. “Do you think he shot Eberhardt?”
He shrugged, the impossibly broad shoulders rippling beneath the thin cotton of his T-shirt. “Why would he have…?”
She bit her lip again, as she realized what she’d done. “I think it’s my fault. I think I killed that man.”
CONNECTING WITH HER in a way he hadn’t connected with anyone since he’d begun this new life—this miserable existence—he felt her pain, her guilt and regret. And so he closed his arms around her, pulling her tight against his chest. “You have nothing to do with any of this.”
She shook her head, her hair brushing against his chin. “I told him. I told Tobias St. John what you said—about working for someone. Hell, I gave him a list of his enemies—as if he didn’t already know who they were. But looking at it again, he must have believed it was Eberhardt who hired you.”
“No.” His arms tightened around her. “St. John already knows why I’m doing this and for whom.”
She pulled back and stared up at him, her green eyes so full of questions. She only asked one of them. “Why?”
“Why would he kill Eberhardt?” He deliberately misunderstood. “Money. He has to be running out.”
“How? He’s a billionaire.”
“He’s also arrogant—too arrogant to think he needed insurance. He thought he’d be able to cover a loss if he had one.”
“One,” she said. “He’s had more than one. Thanks to you almost everything’s gone.”
“So he has to be running out of money,” Dante repeated. He had to be because it was part of the plan. “Since Eberhardt had part of a deed in his hand, St. John had probably offered him his company back.” For a price. And when Franklin hadn’t been able or willing to pay it…
St. John was getting desperate since he was watching everything he’d wanted slip away from him. Soon it would be time for the final move in their game.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Why are you going after Tobias St. John?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You won’t,” she correctly surmised. “Is it all about money for you, too? Is that all you’re after?”
He touched her face now, skimming the tip of his glove across her lips. “No more questions.”
Her eyes filled with anger that glittered in the gold glints in the green. “Can’t you see that the money isn’t worth it? People are getting hurt. Killed.”
Regret flashed through him, as his own guilt gnawed at him. He trailed his fingers down her throat to where her torn blouse revealed her wounded shoulder. As if he could kiss it better, he lowered his lips to the deep scratch.
She shivered.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He’d never intended for anyone to get hurt. And with the mask on, he couldn’t offer her comfort—only more fear and unease. But hell, if he took it off, she’d be even more afraid and confused….
“I wasn’t talking about myself,” she said.
She never talked about herself, he realized now. She hadn’t even been afraid for herself. “Who are you afraid for?” he wondered.
“An innocent child,” she replied, her voice cracking with emotion. “She’s caught up in the middle of this war you’re waging against her father. And she’s terrified.”
He sucked in a breath as pain jolted him. “You talked to her?”
Jillian nodded. “I saw her. At his house. She asked me for help.”
His heart clenched with regret. Soon.
Soon he would be able to end the war…once he was certain that he would be victorious in the outcome. “None of this concerns you,” he pointed out. “You need to stay out of it.”
“I can’t. I need to help her.”
“Help her or help yourself to an exclusive?” he asked, doubtful that he’d been wrong about her. But just what kind of woman was Jillian Drake? Was there more to the ambitious reporter than he’d realized?
She sucked in an audible breath—of outrage. “I would never use a child.”
“Then stay out of what you don’t understand,” he advised her.
She shook her head. “She asked me for help. I can’t not help her.”
“If you really want to help her, you need to get out of River City,” he said. “You need to just leave.”
Her green eyes widened with surprise. “You’re going to let me go?”
“I’m not sure that I should,” he admitted, his arms tightening around her, pulling her closer. She felt so good, her breasts crushed against his chest, her hair brushing against his chin and throat. He wasn’t sure that he could let her go.
Her hands skimmed over his shoulders and trailed down his arms. “You can’t keep me. That would be kidnapping.”
“A little while ago you thought I was a killer,” he reminded her. “You think that I would hesitate to kidnap someone? That I would worry about the consequences?” There was only one thing he worried about now.
“You have no reason to keep me,” she insisted.
“For your safety.” And his own peace of mind. “You said someone was shooting at you tonight. You’re in danger.”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t personal. Nobody was trying to kill me specifically.”
He couldn’t imagine why anyone would be trying to kill Jillian. Besides him. It was his secret—his plan—that her prying threatened to expose.
“Are you sure about that?” he asked, wishing he could be as certain as she was that she wasn’t really in danger.
“Yes,” she insisted. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like now.”
Was she talking about his arms, or his bed or the underground room where he’d been forced to set up headquarters? All of them were the wrong place for her to be; he knew that, but he didn’t loosen his hold on her.
She stared up at him, more questions swirling in those green eyes. “When I asked you earlier what you wanted with me, you said nothing,” she reminded him of the words he’d spoken when he’d grabbed her out of the line of fire.
“Maybe I lied.” To himself more than to her. He wanted Jillian Drake. Even though he’d known better than to trust her, he’d wanted Jillian for a long time.
She tensed in his arms and slid her palms between them, pushing against his chest. “You can’t keep me here. People will miss me. They’ll start looking for me.”
“They won’t find you here,” he warned her. No one would think to look for Jillian Drake in the sewer.
She shivered again, and panic flashed in her eyes. But instead of pushing away from him, her hands stroked over his chest, and she batted her lashes at him. Her voice all breathy and sexy, she implored, “Please, let me go.”
Even knowing she was using her feminine wiles to manipulate him, his pulse quickened. He had to let her go now, while he still could. His mouth curving into a grin, he complied. “Okay.”
But when she moved to slide off the bed, he held on to her. “The only way you’re leaving here, though, is with me.” He had to make sure that she was really all right. When she’d lost consciousness, he’d barely found a pulse, had barely felt her breath against his skin when he’d lowered his face to hers. She seemed fine now, her pupils normal size, her face flushed instead of pale. She might be okay, but he had to ensure that she was safe.
She narrowed her eyes and studied his face, his mask. “But it must be almost dawn. You’ve never been seen out during the day.”
“I’ve never been seen,” he agreed. Because it would have broken the rules of the game even more than his late-night activities.
“You don’t need that mask, do you?” she asked. “You’re not hiding some disfigurement.”
“How do you know?” he asked. Knowing what he did now, he wasn’t certain he’d ever be able to remove the mask and look at his face again….
“I can see enough of it…” She lifted her fingertips and slid them along his jaw and over his lips.
He caught her wrist in his gloved hand, holding tight to her—not because he was worried that she might try to remove the mask, but because she made him want to remove it. She made him want…her….
Her throat rippled as she swallowed. “You’re not disfigured,” she insisted. “You’re hiding your identity.”
“It doesn’t matter who I am. I’m not a story for you to break,” he said. “Lives are at stake. Yours might be one of them.” And that was partially his fault for involving her.
“I don’t need you to protect me,” she said.
“But you need me to get out of here.” He let go of her for just a moment so he could take a silk scarf from his pocket and wrap it around her eyes. When she reached for the blindfold, he caught her wrists and bound those together.
She struggled with the bindings. “I thought you were letting me go.”
“I am. I’m just not going to let you see where you’ve been.” He couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t lead someone—either the police or St. John—right back to him. As she continued to fight against the scarves, he swung her up in his arms.
“How do I know you’re really going to bring me out of here?” she asked, her voice trembling with nerves that betrayed the fear she’d earlier denied.
“You’re going to have to trust me,” he said.
“How can I trust you? I don’t even know who—or what—you really are.”
He chuckled. “You think I’m a phantom?” he asked. “Or a monster?”
“That’s how witnesses have described you,” she admitted.
“And yet you never reported that.” Even though other networks, even other reporters at her same station, had. “You always knew I was a man.” But, as if he needed to prove it, he lowered his mouth to hers.
LIPS STILL TINGLING from his kiss, Jillian leaned against the door of her apartment as if she’d just been dropped off after a date. But this was no date, despite the fact that he’d kissed her. And she’d kissed him back. When his lips had brushed her mouth and the mask her face, she’d gasped in surprise at the contact and the erotic pleasure that had jolted her pulse into overdrive.
He’d taken her parted lips as an invitation to deepen the kiss. His tongue sliding over hers, he’d made love to her mouth. The sensation—the heat and erotic flavor—had lightened her head and quickened her pulse. She wished she could have blamed her reaction on the blow she’d taken to her head. But the ache in her skull had receded to a dull throb.
She also wished she was the one who’d stopped the kiss. But he was the one who, with a groan, had pulled away from her. She couldn’t even be sure that, if her hands had not been bound, she wouldn’t have reached for him.
Her hands trembling, she tugged free the scarf he had loosened from around her wrists. It had definitely not been a date. And kissing him back had been as stupid as chasing down a dead man’s lead.
She dragged off the blindfold he’d left on her the entire time he’d carried her home. He hadn’t needed directions or an address; he’d known exactly where she lived. How? Because of her public profile, she was careful to keep her home address private.
But as she stared at the overturned furniture and ripped and torn clothing littering the hardwood floor, she realized she hadn’t kept it private enough. Had he known where she lived because he’d done this?
She whirled back to the door, the one he’d told her to bolt behind him. Having thought the door locked and secured, he hadn’t followed her inside. Because he hadn’t wanted to see her reaction to this destruction?
Sh
e gasped at her mutilated belongings. She’d worked hard for those things, had fought hard for some of them in her divorce. But as she closed her eyes to shut out the sight, she saw again the face of the frightened child.
And she knew none of it mattered. She had to go back to St. John’s, had to assure Tabitha that Jillian hadn’t forgotten about her, that she wanted to help her. But as she headed into her bedroom to grab shoes and a change of clothes, a noise startled her.
Her heart pounding with fear, her body tense, she turned toward the fire escape just as a man stepped through the open window. Another man followed him; both of the burly men carried guns, which they pointed at her.
This close, they wouldn’t miss. She swallowed hard, forcing down her fear. “What—what do you want?”
Had they been looking for something? What could they think she had?
“We’ve been waiting for you, Ms. Drake.”
So they’d amused themselves by destroying her stuff? She bit her tongue to hold in the snarky question. “Why?”
“Mr. St. John wants to see you.”
She nodded. “Good. I want to see him, too. Let me grab some clothes—”
One of the men grabbed her arm instead. “You don’t look as pretty as you do on TV. Where have you been?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “Let me just clean up a minute.”
The other man shook his head. “Mr. St. John won’t mind. He’s been waiting, too.” A muscle twitched in his cheek as fear flickered in his eyes.
She doubted St. John had been any more patient than they had. “Then let’s not keep him waiting any longer….” Even though she’d agreed to come without a fight, the first man swung her over his shoulder. They slammed out of her apartment and headed down the hall.
The sun had just begun to rise, light streaking across the sky and through the windows at the end of the hall.
Her neighbors should have been rising for work, but no one opened their doors. Some creaked, though, as if some people leaned against them, peering through peepholes.
