by Rebecca York
“Not of me.” Eyes closed, she slid her hands around his back and clasped him to her. It seemed more right than anything else that had ever passed between them. He was trembling now, and she wondered if he was as undone by tenderness as he was by the secrets gnawing at him. She’d been so sure that he didn’t want to open up with her. Now she knew he’d been lugging around terrible burdens no man should have to carry; and he didn’t know how to share them.
The storm had receded into the background. In the darkened hallway, the only thing that mattered was her silent offer of aid and comfort.
At first his arms stayed at his sides, then slowly they pulled her to him, and she felt something in her chest expand as she realized he was reaching out to her in new way. It wasn’t on a verbal level. But it was a start—a good start.
“It’s going to be all right,” she said again.
“You make me think it will be.”
She closed her eyes and let her head rest on his shoulder, pretending a calm she didn’t feel. In the space of a few seconds, he’d changed her whole life. She would never be the same again, no matter what happened next. But one thing she had learned, communication was going to be her responsibility.
“How did you find out about the child?” she asked.
“A letter. Can you believe it? Her name is Ariadne, of all things,” he added quickly, his voice bemused.
“It’s pretty,” she answered.
“Yes, from Greek mythology.”
“Princess Ariadne helped Theseus escape from the Minotaur,” she said.
“You’ve heard the story?” It sounded as if he were clinging to the name, as if the mere fact of knowing it gave his daughter a reality he hadn’t expected.
“Who sent the letter?” she prompted gently.
“Her aunt. She didn’t give me much information.”
Before he had a chance to elaborate, a wayward bolt of lightning struck so close to the house that everything around them seemed to shake. Then, above the sound of the thunder, a glass-shattering explosion made her cringe against Zeke. “What was that?” she gasped.
“I don’t know. We’d better go and have a look.” In the darkness he found her hand, his grasp firm and steady as he led her back through the door into the dining room, moving confidently like a man with the eyes of a cat.
She could make out very little. But her other senses told her that something was very wrong. The slate floor was slick with water, and she would have slipped if she hadn’t been holding on to Zeke. He clasped her hand more tightly, keeping her still. An odd pinging noise rang in her ears. Then a blast of wind sent a sudden spray of cold droplets across her face.
Instinctively she turned toward the long windows that enclosed one side of the living room. Another jagged bolt of lightning split the sky, and in that moment she clearly saw a gaping hole in one of the panes. Rain streamed into the room, dousing the furniture and the rug. Along with the water, pellets of glass clattered to the floor.
“I’d better have a look.” Zeke let go of her hand and crossed to the window.
She snatched at his sleeve. “No. You’ll get cut.”
“It’s okay. It’s safety glass.”
Reluctantly she let go of his shirt. Moments later she saw his silhouette moving steadily along the edge of the room, till he stooped and began to search along the floor. Did he expect to find something else besides water and glass?
She was getting wet from the driving rain, but she stayed where she was, watching him intensely until he returned.
“We need a light before we do anything else,” he said. His hair and clothes were dripping. “I don’t want you to get hurt, so don’t try to move around. I’ll be right back.”
She understood the wisdom of remaining where she was. Still, as soon as he left her side, her back felt exposed, and a little tremor traveled up her spine. Moving so that her shoulders were pressed against the wall between the dining room and the kitchen, she listened intently. All she could hear were the sounds of the rain and wind lashing the house, like predators seeking additional access points. She could hear Zeke rummaging in a cabinet or a drawer as she edged nearer to the kitchen. Then a wide shaft of yellow light pierced the darkness. Some of the illumination shone upward, accentuating the harsh lines of his face. He must have one of those camping fiashlights, Elizabeth thought, as she watched him set it on the counter and swipe his wet hair off his forehead with both hands.
The light was like a ray of safety piercing the gloom. She was about to utter an exclamation of relief and bolt through the doorway when she caught a flicker of movement at the far end of the room. The next seconds flashed by so quickly that she barely had time to register what was happening-beyond the fact that she saw a vaguely human outline detach itself from the darkness.
As the apparition advanced quickly toward Zeke, it took on form and substance. It was no ghost but a short, muscular man. His face was hidden by the darkness. Later she wondered which ancient god had stopped her from calling out a warning to Zeke. Perhaps she was too shocked. Or perhaps providence was watching out for their welfare.
The stranger moved toward the light. But his steps must have been audible on the tile floor, because Zeke whirled to face him.
The intruder stopped a few feet away, his posture tense. The beam of illumination from the flashlight on the counter was like a line of demarcation between himself and Zeke. She could see a little of his face now—not enough to describe the features but enough to make out the rigid planes of anger or hate—or perhaps both. He didn’t spare a glance in her direction, and she assumed he must think Zeke was alone. Automatically, she pressed herself against the wall, barely breathing as she tried to think of what she could do to help.
Zeke was the one who spoke first. “Sebastian Demos, what are you doing here?” he asked in a voice that rang out loudly above the pounding of the rain. She realized immediately he was trying to warn her that they had unexpected company, dangerous company.
The words hung between the two men like a gauntlet tossed to the ground by a combatant.
“I take it you weren’t expecting me,” the intruder clipped out in heavily accented English. His voice was arrogant, but tinged with fear. The combination probably made him more dangerous, Elizabeth decided.
“Why have you come here now? You could have found me any time,” Zeke challenged, subtly shifting his weight to the balls of his feet like a fighter getting ready to strike.
“Sophia’s dead,” the intruder spat out. “Do you know? Do you care?”
“Irena wrote me. Of course I care.”
The man named Sebastian Demos ignored the answer—and the anguish in Zeke’s voice. “You got her pregnant when she was betrothed to another.”
Zeke winced, but his expression didn’t change.
“Do you deny you seduced her?”
“That’s not true. We-”
The other man cut him off with a harsh sound deep in his throat. “You can’t pretend you didn’t leave her stranded with your baby.”
“I didn’t know about the baby!”
“Couldn’t your sight-seeing trip to Athens have waited a few days?”
Unable to do more than stand by the door and listen, Elizabeth saw Zeke’s hands clench into fists. “It wasn’t a sight-seeing trip. I-I had no choice.”
The other man shook his head in a dismissive gesture. “I don’t have to listen to any more of your lying words. It will be much more gratifying to kill you.”
Chapter Two
Now. He means he’s going to do it now, Elizabeth thought wildly, snapping out of her trance as the man advanced on Zeke. He raised his hand, and Elizabeth saw the blade of a knife glinting in the flashlight’s beam.
A terrible sick feeling rose in her throat. Teeth clamped around her lip to keep her from screaming; she looked frantically around for some weapon-anything to even the odds. Before she could act, the whole scene shifted. The hand with the knife came up, but Zeke was obviously prepared.
He didn’t give the attacker a chance to land a solid strike, as he jumped backward.
With a wide sweeping motion, his arms drove the flashlight off the counter, and it clattered to the floor with a deafening thud. Neither man took any notice. Demos moved in rapid pursuit of his quarry. Zeke feigned to the right, then astonished Elizabeth by shifting directions in midstride and springing forward like a jungle cat on the attack.
A millisecond later, Sebastian’s arm came up, the knife slashing toward Zeke. For a terrible moment, she thought the blade had struck him on the shoulder. But he didn’t falter. Without missing a beat, he twisted Sebastian around and wrestled him onto the tile floor with the ease of a seasoned street fighter.
For a moment Sebastian lay still, and Elizabeth dared to hope the battle was over. When he sprang up again, she gasped.
She couldn’t simply stand in the doorway watching. She had to do something to shift the odds. Turning, she darted across the wet rug toward the fireplace, where she remembered seeing Zeke poke up the fire one evening the previous winter. Thank God the tools were still there, she thought, as she detached the poker and hefted it, testing its weight. At a run she started back toward the kitchen, swinging her weapon experimentally. When she returned, everything had changed. Now the men were rolling across the floor, first one way and then the other. Neither seemed to have a clear advantage. Zeke was larger, heavier, and he’d demonstrated that he knew something about hand-to-hand combat. But apparently so did Sebastian. And he was armed.
With no thought for her own safety, she rushed into the fray and smashed the metal. bar down on Sebastian’s shoulder. As he yelped, Zeke used the unexpected opportunity to land a solid blow to his jaw.
Trying to get some leverage, Sebastian lashed out with his left leg. This time Elizabeth got him in the shin. As he pushed himself up on unsteady arms, she brought the weapon down on his back. He yelped and rolled away from Zeke, who fell back onto the floor.
“Zeke,” she shouted.
“I’m okay. Watch out for Sebastian.”
Her gaze shifted to the other man, who sat with his back against one of the kitchen cabinets. Sucking in gulps of air, he turned his head from side to side—trying to figure out who had come to Zeke’s aid, Elizabeth supposed. When Sebastian spotted her still holding the poker, she went cold all over, bracing for him to spring at her with the knife. Then she realized the weapon was no longer in his hand.
“Where did you come from?” he gasped.
“Afraid to take on the two of us?” she challenged, hefting the poker. From the corner of her eye she could see Zeke had made it to a sitting position. Slowly, not entirely steadily, he climbed to his feet and advanced toward the man on the floor.
Sebastian’s gaze shifted from her to Zeke. For several heartbeats he didn’t move. Then, uttering an exclamation, he scrambled up. For a moment, he swayed on his feet before turning and limping toward the other end of the kitchen.
Zeke followed, hardly more steady in his gait. As he moved into the light, Elizabeth saw to her dismay that a red patch was spreading from under his sports jacket across the front of his white shirt. Sebastian had cut him, but he’d kept fighting like a demon. Now he had to be at the limit of his endurance. Before he could move past her, she grabbed his arm and held tight. “No,” she whispered. “You’re in no shape to go after him.”
The sound of her voice made Sebastian turn and snap his head toward her once more. For an endless moment, the three of them stood motionless. “Don’t think it’s over,” Sebastian growled. “I’ll be back to take care of you and your new girlfriend.”
“Not if I can help it!” Zeke answered, then turned to Elizabeth. “Let me go.” He surged forward, but she kept her death grip on his arm. His strength must be ebbing, she thought with a small corner of her mind, because her grasp held him while the other man limped toward the back door and disappeared into the night.
ZEKE MUTTERED A LOW CURSE. Now that he wasn’t fighting like a madman, his damn shoulder was starting to hurt like hell. He tried to ignore the pain. He couldn’t ignore the implications of Sebastian’s surprise visit. He’d thought his only immediate problem was Aristotle Pappas. Apparently there was someone else who hated him enough to kill him. Or maybe Aristotle had sent Sophia’s cousin to do his dirty work. He’d have to consider that as a possibility.
He heard the poker slip from Elizabeth’s hand and rattle to the floor. Immediately his attention snapped to her. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She tried-and failed-to give him a little smile. “Yes.”
He stared at her, as comprehension of what she’d done sank in. He’d always thought of her as small and delicate, yet she’d found herself a weapon and waded into the fray like a soldier on a combat mission. “You’re either very brave or very reckless,” he whispered.
“I couldn’t let him kill you.” It was such a simple statement, but it said so much.
He closed his eyes for a long moment, struggling for words. All he could manage was a simple “Thank you,” which seemed woefully inadequate under the circumstances. He wanted to slip his arm around her and pull her close, but it was all he could do to stay on his feet. He’d turned to her because he trusted her more than any other woman he knew. Now, he was beginning to recognize she had qualities he hadn’t even guessed. Or perhaps he hadn’t seen them on a conscious level.
“You’re hurt,” she said. “You’ve got to sit down.”
“I’m fine,” he insisted. He had to be, because there were no other options. Wincing, he pushed himself off the countertop he’d been leaning on and was surprised by the sharp stabbing pain in his shoulder.
Elizabeth pulled aside the edge of his jacket, and they both looked at the spreading red stain.
The cut was high up on the left, and Zeke knew with a jolt of alarm that it might involve an artery. Stupid, he thought. Stupid.
Bending down, Elizabeth snatched up the flashlight and shone it on the wound. To his relief, he saw that the blood was oozing rather than gushing out.
Her reaction wasn’t quite so sanguine. “You need an ambulance,” she said, in a voice edged with panic.
He moved his arm experimentally and struggled to hold back any sign of pain. Maybe not, he thought. He hoped not.
“And we have to call the police,” she continued.
The declaration snapped his thoughts into sharp focus. “No police,” he cut her off curtly. “No ambulance.”
She tipped her head to one side, searching his face.
“No police,” he repeated in a firmer voice. Fumbling in his pants pocket, he brought out a handkerchief. Onehanded, he unbuttoned his shirt and thrust the cloth against the wound, holding it awkwardly in place. “We have to get out of here. Come on.”
He wheeled and started toward the garage door, with what he hoped was reassuring steadiness. The show of strength cost him more than he wanted to admit.
Then he saw something glinting on the ground and felt a little surge of adrenaline. The knife. Sebastian had dropped his knife in the heat of battle. He started to stoop, and wondered if he could make it down to the floor and back up again. When he grimaced, Elizabeth held him back.
“I’ll get it.”
Gingerly she picked up the weapon. The blade was long, the handle ornate. He couldn’t see the details, but he had a good idea what he’d find when he examined the hilt in the light. A museum-quality piece, no doubt. A symbol. But then, like many of his countrymen, Sebastian suffered from a sense of the dramatic. Lucky for Zeke, he hadn’t been practical enough to bring a gun.
Snatching a dish towel off the counter, Zeke thrust it into Elizabeth’s hand. “Wrap it up.”
She looked surprised, but followed directions.
“Put it in your purse,”
“My purse. It-it’s still in the dining room,” she said, looking momentarily confused. No wonder. A lot had happened in the past twenty minutes.
“Then get it. Hurry.”
He rested in
the doorway, letting the jamb take his weight, angry with himself for not having more energy in reserve. When he heard her coming back, he straightened quickly and started toward the garage. By the time he reached the Mercedes he’d parked earlier that evening, he noted absently that his knuckles were white where they gripped the door handle. He could make himself ignore the pain burning his shoulder, but not the way his body was shutting down against his will. Even his vision was blurring. Probably if he tried to drive, he’d pass out and end up plowed into a tree. And that wouldn’t do either one of them any good.
“Dizzy…” he muttered. “Damn. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, Zeke,” she answered.
Without bothering to argue the point, he asked, “Can you drive a stick shift?”
“Yes.” She held out her hand, and grimly he dug the keys out of his pocket. As soon as the door was opened, he sank heavily into the passenger seat, his head thrown back, his breath shallow. His shoulder was on fire, and sweat beaded on his forehead. He concentrated on staying conscious. If he passed out, Elizabeth would take him to the hospital, where he’d have to answer too many inconvenient questions.
When she slipped behind the wheel, he made an effort to rouse himself.
“Put your head down,” she murmured.
“I would. I don’t think the shoulder can take it.”
“Zeke, are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor? You’re hurt, and it could be serious.”
“I’ll be fine,” he grated with as much conviction as he could muster, then switched his attention to getting out of the garage. “The door opener’s under your sun visor. Press the button.”
When the door opened, he reached out and captured her small hand in his larger one. “Elizabeth, I’m sorry I got you into this,” he whispered. “I didn’t expect Sebastian-or anybody else,” he added.
“Why don’t you let me take you to the emergency room?”
He drew in a shuddering breath. “My daughter’s life is at stake. The police could make things worse. I’ve got to be free to operate on my own. Do you understand?”
