by Fiona Brand
The glow of a streetlight glanced across taut planes of his face as he handed her her shoes. “You should never have left the hotel on foot. Don’t you read the newspapers?”
Jenna fitted one shoe then almost overbalanced as she stepped into the second. With a clipped word, O’Halloran steadied her, and the next minute she was in his arms, pressed hard against the muscled warmth of his chest. “I would have given you a lift,” he muttered, then his mouth was on hers.
The passion was hot and instant, and it threw her even more off balance. She had been kissed before by O’Halloran, but it had never felt this needy, this visceral. Mostly, in the weeks they had dated he had seemed content to let her dictate the pace. As much as she’d appreciated his gentlemanly approach, she had taken that as a sign that she was not in any way special to him. Now, for the first time, she registered that what they had shared had mattered to him, too.
When he would have pulled back, she cupped his neck and held him there, leaning into the hard planes and angles of his body. Long seconds passed, and eventually he lifted his head, his gaze narrowed and glittering. “Do you want me to take you home, or do you want to come with me?”
The question hung in the air, raw and edged. Her throat felt thick, her chest tight. She knew what he was offering. She could be with him now, for the night: no strings.
* * *
The thought that after tonight she would probably never see O’Halloran again, that this could be her last chance with him, touched a chord somewhere deep inside her. Fierceness and longing welled up, gripping her so tightly she could barely breathe.
The idea that they could be together was both hurtful and mesmerisingly, impossibly tempting. She wanted O’Halloran, that had never been at issue. And she was leaving soon, so there was no danger that she would be tempted to cling.
Before she could reason it out any further, and remember all of the factors that added up to a no, she said, “Yes, I want to come with you.”
Half an hour later they reached his apartment. O’Halloran didn’t bother to switch on a light. He simply tossed his car keys on a hall table, pulled her into his arms and kissed her for long, drugging minutes.
Shrugging out of his jacket, he pulled her into a sitting room lit by moonlight streaming through French doors.
Winding her arms around his neck, Jenna went up on her toes and angled her chin for his kiss. She could feel the ridge of his arousal against one hip, the rough glide of O’Halloran’s palms on her naked back.
She jerked at his tie and unfastened buttons and felt the zipper on her gown give way, the soft slide of fabric as the halter-neck tie at her nape released and her dress puddled on the floor. With a stifled groan, O’Halloran dipped his head and took one breast into his mouth and the night turned molten.
Long seconds later the world tilted sideways as she found herself swung into O’Halloran’s arms then set down on a couch, the leather cool against her back.
O’Halloran came down beside her and she pulled him close, loving the heat blasting off his big body, the flagrant sensuality of his skin against hers, the masculine weight and scent of him. Somewhere outside, music played in the distance, a slow, languorous beat that seemed to permeate the night as she ran her palms down the long, muscular line of his back.
She felt his fingers tugging at the waistband of her panties, then she was completely naked. Fumbling at the fastening of O’Halloran’s pants, she dragged the zipper down and felt him hot and silky in her hands.
With a stifled sound, O’Halloran’s hand stayed hers. Impatiently, he finished undressing. Moonlight gleamed on jet-black hair, the sleek muscularity of broad shoulders as he came down between her legs.
When O’Halloran finally sheathed himself and slid inside her, the moment was primal and extreme. She logged his flare of surprise at the difficulty of penetration, the question in his eyes, then his mouth came down on hers and she ceased to think as the night dissolved....
* * *
Jenna came out of sleep, her heart pounding, her skin drenched with perspiration. She blinked, for the briefest of moments unable to separate the dream from reality. She could still feel the touch of O’Halloran’s hands, his mouth, the weight of his body pressing down on hers....
Taking a steadying breath, she studied the confines of her room—the dim outline of her bedroom dresser, the moulded rose on the ceiling—in an effort to reorient herself.
She hadn’t dreamed about making love with O’Halloran in years, although she guessed after her emotional episode with the book cover, she should have expected her subconscious to throw her a curveball. That revelation reinforced by her sharply physical response to O’Halloran at the cemetery had reignited the inconvenient, simmering attraction.
It was there, a part of her, whether she liked it or not, and now she had to deal with it. Despite writing any number of agonising scenes dealing with the exact same romantic problem, she had no earthly clue how she could nullify it in herself. Theory was all very well, the only problem was her body didn’t seem to respond to logic.
Climbing out of the entangling sheets, she walked to the window, drew back the curtain and stared out into her back garden. Cold seemed to press through the glass, making her shiver.
The accident had featured in her dream also.
Her too-creative mind had obviously resurrected the old incident, because of what had happened the previous night. As frightening as it had been at the time, she had never considered that the almost-accident nine years ago had been anything more than some drunk driver who had lost control of his, or her, vehicle.
She had certainly never thought that it might have been a deliberate attempt to kill her.
Although there was a curious symmetry to the events that kept popping into her mind. O’Halloran had featured in both. He had been there to save her nine years ago; now, suddenly, he was back in the picture again.
She had a brief flash of the moment in the cemetery when his gaze had dropped to her mouth.
Heat pooled low in her stomach when she considered the fact that, nine years on, she still wanted O’Halloran, and he wanted her.
She rubbed at the goose-flesh that decorated her arms and stared blindly at the moonlight-washed garden.
The thought made her stomach knot and her heart pound. She was twenty-nine, almost thirty, successful at what she did and calmly in control of her life. She shouldn’t be so affected by a simple physical attraction—by chemistry. But it seemed that where O’Halloran was concerned nothing was simple.
For years, she had buried her head in the sand and lived a life devoid of emotional and physical intimacy. She hadn’t questioned her refusal to sleep with any of the men she had dated, or her preference to remain single, she had simply put it down to her perfectionist streak and isolating career.
But in the space of little more than a day, that had all changed. After years of living alone, eating alone and sleeping alone, she wanted what other women took for granted. She wanted a husband who loved her, the closeness and the intimacy and the heart-pounding sex, and she wanted them with a fierceness that seemed to be growing by the minute.
To compound her madness, she didn’t just want those things with some misty, as-yet-unidentified man. She wanted them with O’Halloran.
* * *
The following day, after getting more and more annoyed every time she thought about the encounters with the black Audi, and with the blurred mall photograph and the misspelt email tucked into her handbag, Jenna walked into the Auckland Central police station.
She had spent the past two hours doing radio interviews, so she was dressed for business in a charcoal-grey jacket and skirt, with red accessories, a sleek pair of heels and matching bag. Maybe what she was wearing shouldn’t matter because she was there to report a crime, but she figured with the weirdness factor of being stalked
by a fan, she needed every bit of credibility she could scrape up.
After waiting for a good twenty minutes, she took a seat opposite the detective she had been assigned.
Detective Farrell, a slim, attractive brunette, her desk swamped with files, was dismissive. Harassment in the form of a disgruntled email from a fan, which did not contain any concrete threat, and Jenna’s suspicion that she was being followed by someone driving a black Audi, were not strong enough evidence to justify any further action. The reason she had seen the Audi on a number of occasions was probably because the person who drove the car lived nearby.
Keeping her cool, Jenna explained that the car was the same make and model she had used in her latest book and, to compound things, the same type of car that had almost run her over in the mall parking lot. Briefly, she related the incident with the pot plant outside her gym, and her conclusion that she was being stalked.
Farrell’s gaze sharpened at that. She took details, asked Jenna to fill out an official complaint then promised to put a detective on the case, although they couldn’t help with extra security for her upcoming book tour. “We’ll certainly look into the allegation of stalking, but until we get something more concrete I can’t commit man hours solely for protection. If we can trace this car or collect evidence of a crime like vandalism or a break-in then the picture changes. If you’re worried, you should arrange security for your tour.”
Farrell rose to her feet, indicating that the interview was over. She apologised that they couldn’t do more up front, but with a mini crime wave on their hands in the form of a gang war and a manhunt for a serial arsonist, they were already short-handed.
Jenna thanked Farrell for her time as she packed away the email. The interview had gone as she had expected, but she’d had to try. With a publicity tour for Deadly Valentine beginning in just two days, she had hoped the police would at least provide her with protection for the signings. Most of them were in large department stores and were well-publicised. With crowds of shoppers milling around, they were obvious venues for a stalker.
As she stood up to leave, Farrell’s gaze sharpened. “You’re Natalie O’Halloran’s cousin, right? I used to be Marc’s partner. How’s he going with his new business?”
The mention of O’Halloran sent a small tingling shock through her. Jenna’s cheeks warmed as she fielded the enquiry using the odd snippets of information that her aunt had let slip.
The yawning gap in her knowledge about O’Halloran added to her sense of disorientation. She wanted O’Halloran, and the intensity of the attraction and the sudden U-turn she had made were just a little bit scary. Especially when she considered that what she knew about his present life would fit on the back of a postage stamp.
Although, that would soon all change, since he was her next port of call.
Chapter 5
Jenna strolled into the sleek offices of VIP Security and made an enquiry at the front desk. A short phone call later, the pretty redhead showed her through to O’Halloran’s office.
Dressed in a suit with a crisp white shirt and blue tie, O’Halloran was standing in front of a large bank of windows, a cell to one ear, his back to the expansive view of the harbour. Jenna disguised a sudden attack of nerves by glancing around the large, cleanly furnished office.
Now that she was here, she couldn’t help feeling a little pushy and intrusive. Worse, she was beginning to feel that she had imagined O’Halloran’s interest, and that his protective behaviour was simply a knee-jerk reaction he would have toward any woman in trouble.
His gaze neutral, he terminated his conversation and indicated she should sit in one of the comfortable leather armchairs grouped around a coffee table.
Dragging her gaze from the way his jacket fitted the broad width of his shoulders, Jenna sat down.
Instead of taking the chair opposite, he walked to his desk and picked up a file. “I checked out the numbers I could get off the plates of the Audi and came up with a list.” He extracted a sheet of paper from the file and handed it to her. “Do you recognise any names?”
She studied the list, which included personal and company names, and shook her head. “Sorry, no.”
She rummaged in her bag and extracted the folded email she had promised to give him. As she did so a small journal fell out, flipping open at a page of ideas she had jotted down for the book on which she was currently working.
O’Halloran retrieved the journal and seemed instantly riveted by the lines of neat print. He handed it back to her. “Notes for your next book?”
Jenna stuffed the journal back in her handbag. At least that answered any question about whether or not O’Halloran knew what she did for a living. “It’s my current work in progress. It should be on the shelves in about eighteen months.”
To cover the suddenly awkward silence, she handed O’Halloran the email. “I didn’t know you knew I wrote.”
O’Halloran, apparently absorbed by the printed email she’d given him, took the leather chair opposite. “Mary told me when you sold your first book.”
Of course. The wild speculation that O’Halloran could have read one of her books died. She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of that before. Aunt Mary was inordinately proud of the fact that she had gotten published.
O’Halloran frowned. “How many times has this guy written to you?”
Relieved, Jenna grabbed at the new direction of the conversation. “Just once, as far as I know. I did a check of all of my email files and I can’t find anything else from that address.”
O’Halloran frowned. “Have you taken this to the police?”
“I’ve just come from Auckland Central. A Detective Farrell’s making enquiries.”
His gaze sharpened. “Elaine Farrell’s a good cop. If anyone can track this guy down, she can.”
“But not you?”
“That wasn’t what I said.”
Relief washed through her—for a minute there she had thought O’Halloran was going to back away from helping her. Too wired to sit, Jenna rose to her feet and walked to the window. “Good, because someone’s playing games with me, and I’m not entirely sure why. If it’s the poisonous fan, then the motivation doesn’t quite stack up. He says he wants me to take the book off the market, but the fact is I don’t have the power to do that. Plus, there’s one other thing.”
A relevant fact she hadn’t been able to elaborate on with Detective Farrell after her reaction to Jenna’s statement that the stalker was using the same car as the villain in her book. “The fan who’s stalking me is using details from my latest book.”
“The Audi?”
She shot O’Halloran a startled look, surprised that he had made the connection with the Audi so quickly. He looked neither incredulous nor disbelieving, which was a relief, because she badly needed someone to believe her.
Walking back to her seat, she sat down. “That’s right. The villain in Deadly Valentine drove a black Audi. He used it to creep Sara out.” She cleared her throat. “Sara is the name of my heroine.”
Firming her jaw she decided there was no point in not revealing the entire embarrassing truth. “And that’s not all.” She was suddenly glad she was sitting, not standing. “I based Sara on myself.”
“Her character?”
“And her schedule. Normally, Sara, as a private detective, is involved in investigations. In Deadly Valentine she tries to take time off from solving cases to write a book. I used my daily routine, including my writing hours and all of my weekly appointments, as a model for Sara’s schedule.”
“You could change your routine.”
“I have, now. The problem is, I think he managed to track me down to the gym I use and followed me home from there, so I’m pretty sure he now knows where I live.”
O’Halloran’s head came up. “Have you noticed anyo
ne suspicious near your house?”
Relief flooded her. O’Halloran’s instant acceptance of her situation convinced her that she had done the right thing in approaching him. Farrell had been efficient, but Jenna knew for a fact that when O’Halloran had been a cop, his instincts and his reputation for capturing criminals had been second to none. “Not yet.” And she had been looking. “An even bigger problem is that I have a book-signing tour planned in a couple of days. All of the venues are well-advertised. Whether I change my routine or not, it now doesn’t matter, he can still find me.”
There was no easy way to say it. All she could do was be blunt. “That’s the reason I’m here, I need protection.”
* * *
Marc gave himself a mental shake, and forced himself to concentrate on what Jenna was saying rather than the shadowy hint of cleavage in the vee of her jacket and the ultra-sexy red heels, which made her legs look even longer and more elegant. In point of fact, he never ogled women when they came into his office. Business was business and separate from his after-hours life. As both a cop and a bodyguard he occasionally had to offer comfort to women, which he was good for, but he had never been tempted to cross the line into the personal.
Until now.
Grimly, he ignored the tension that had gripped him the instant Jenna had walked into his office and the uncomfortable pressure of his semi-aroused state. If he hadn’t been entirely convinced about Jenna’s reasons for thinking she was being stalked, the look on her face would have been enough. She was genuinely concerned, and with some of the weirdos that were around—especially online weirdos—she should be. With the growing hype around Jenna’s books, the signings would be packed out. “You look like you could use something to drink. What would you like, coffee? Tea? Or something cold?”
Jenna opted for coffee, with sugar, so he walked out to the dispenser in the hall and got two coffees. By the time he returned, she was out of her seat and investigating some of the books that lined one wall.
