Tears threatened, tightening her throat. It didn’t make any sense. Elise was the most responsible person she knew. She never would have left the country without letting her know…no matter what Scotland Yard said. The insinuation made her want to hit something. Or someone—her first choice of target being Detective Inspector Ross. The guy deserved it for his lack of attention. How could he not care? How could he be so dismissive of her concerns?
With a scowl, Amantha picked up a wooden spoon. “The butthead.”
Why wouldn’t he do his job?
Every time she visited the station, she got the same old song and dance. The police always turned her away. None of them wanted to hear about a Canadian girl gone missing in a bad neighborhood. Especially with a serial rapist on the loose in one of the more affluent boroughs in Edinburgh. The attacks had been all over the news. In every newspaper and on-line journal in the past month too. Which pissed her off. How could Ross say, with any certainty, the creep wasn’t responsible for Elise’s disappearance? Amantha watched all the crime shows. Knew a thing or two about procedure and how law enforcement zeroed in on perps. So…she frowned and tossed a cup of cranberries into the muffin mix…what indicated the guy was a stay-close-to-home offender, sticking to the same area instead of hunting in different parts of the city?
“Great question.” One the detective had yet to ask. With a bang, Amantha tapped her wooden spoon on the bowl edge. “Ross needs to get a clue.”
A suggestion she’d made more than once to the Detective Inspector, which prompted him to shut the door in her face. Super effective, standing in a hallway arguing through a door with a man who refused to listen. Amantha huffed. The jackass and…now, it was official. Creepy neighbor living down the hall. Serial rapist on the prowl. Best friend missing, and a lazy detective who didn’t give a damn.
No need to convince her. She lived smack dab in the middle of psycho central.
The realization made her want to barricade the door with heavy furniture and never leave the house. Too bad for her but staying home wasn’t an option. Not today. She planned to visit Ross again. For the tenth time. Maybe this trip would be different. Maybe she’d get some answers. Maybe, if she got lucky, Ross would listen for a change and take Elise’s disappearance seriously.
A long shot, but well, hope sprang eternal.
It had to, simply couldn’t let her down right now. The idea of Elise being hurt—or dead in a ditch somewhere—plagued her. She couldn’t sleep. Wasn’t eating well either. Her stomach turned every time she tried. The only thing that made sense anymore was this—her tiny kitchen in her rundown apartment, baking for businesses that served the hustle and bustle of city streets miles from where she lived.
With a quick turn of her wrist, she checked the consistency of the batter. Just right, no lumps or bumps, which needed to change. Eye-balling it, she poured in walnuts and folded the nutty goodness into the mixture. Next up, the ice cream scoop. Palming the handle, she spooned the batter into muffin tins. As she finished the last one, the timer buzzed.
Wiping her hands on a tea towel, Amantha turned toward the double ovens. The duo qualified as a Godsend, the best of all finds while apartment hunting a year ago. The second she and Elise had seen the set up, they’d been sold. Had put down first months rent without hesitation. Forget the bad neighborhood. The sketchy characters skulking around could be avoided. The right tools couldn’t. She needed the income, and double ovens provided Amantha the opportunity to take on more than one customer at a time. More savings in the long run. A faster turnaround to reach her goals. The fact the five-story walk-up wasn’t far from Elise’s job at the museum and—
“Merde,” she whispered, her French accent thicker than usual. Amantha closed her eyes. She needed to recalibrate. Reset her brain. Erase her memory…something, anything…otherwise, the pain would never relent. “Elise, where the hell are you?”
The question echoed in the quiet, sucking the air from the room.
A lump in her throat, she slipped on her oven mitts. Covered by pictures of candy pinwheeling over bright red fabric, the pair settled on her hands like old friends—familiar, comforting, protective—as she peered through the glass doors. Perfect, golden pastries plumped up on baking sheets. Despite her heavy heart, her mouth curved in appreciation. Yup. Looked good. The chocolatines were ready to come out.
With a tug, she opened both doors at once. The scent of flaky pastry and melted chocolate rolled into the kitchen. Amantha breathed deep. Hmm, baby. She could smell that all night long and never get tired of it. Working fast, she pulled out the trays, set the load on cooling racks, and turned toward the muffins. Four tins of uncooked muffin batter went in. She closed the oven doors, ignoring the squeak of old hinges, and snatched the egg timer off the countertop. Twenty-two minutes until the next batch could go in, so onward and upward. Apple spice, here she came and—
An odd clicking sound caught her attention.
Worried about a malfunction, she glanced at the ovens. She jiggled the doors. No problem with the seals. She rechecked the temperature. All good. Everything working well, nothing to be concerned about—
The click came again.
A quiet creak followed.
Feet planted beside the island, she stood unmoving and listened. The click turned into a scratching noise. Her attention snapped toward the front door. Another creak, this one louder than the first. Her eyes narrowed. She recognized the sound. Heard it every time she stopped to unlock her door. Covered by carpet and warped by time, the floor dipped in the hallway in front her apartment, squeaking every time someone approached her door. So, either she was hearing things or—
The door knob turned.
She watched it rotate one way, then the other. Shock morphed into horror. Someone stood out in the hallway, trying to enter her apartment. At three in the freaking morning. Alarm bells rang inside her head. As the clamour got going, Amantha struggled to rein in her fear. One hand pressed to her chest, she played tug-of-war with her intellect. Calm down. Stay quiet. Think…think…think. No need to panic. Whoever stood out there wouldn’t get inside. Double deadbolts would ensure it. Those suckers were strong. Industrial sized. The best of the best. She’d ordered the new locks before moving in. Had watched as the locksmith tested each one multiple times.
The handle turned again.
The top deadbolt flipped open.
The snick made her breath hitch. Her heart took the hint and picked up a beat, pounding against the inside of her breastbone. An awful metallic taste invaded her mouth. Amantha shook her head. No way. Not possible. No one but her and Elise had keys and…
Amantha blinked.
“Merde de Dieu,” she whispered, an idea sparking to life. “Elise.”
Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Maybe her friend was home. Finally. After a month of being only God knew where. Maybe, she’d been wrong, and Ross right. Hope tightened its grip, shoving fear aside for a second. God be merciful. She was going to kill her best friend. She was going to skewer, then skin her for—
The second deadbolt scraped against metal, getting stuck halfway through the turn.
A soft curse drifted into the apartment from the hallway.
About to step around the island, Amantha came to a sudden stop. Her heart sank. A male voice. Deep, gravel-filled and…she swallowed…infused with a healthy dose of what sounded like anger. Definitely not Elise. And in no way friendly.
Panic skittered down her spine. What the hell was she going to do? Glancing over her shoulder, she eyed the narrow corridor exiting the kitchen. Two choices—hide under her bed and pray he went away or give the fire escape a try. Neither idea seemed safe. Cowering under furniture wasn’t her style. Neither was spending five minutes she didn’t have fighting with the window in her bedroom. The stupid thing always got stuck when she tried to open it. And the fire exit? Amantha cringed. No way would she make it down that thing alive. The rusty structure with weather-eaten stairs barely clung to the sid
e of the building as it was, add weight and whoever stood on it would fall five stories, only to go splat on the sidewalk.
The door jolted as the intruder pulled up on the handle. The shift ended the stalemate as the second bolt unlocked in a slow swivel.
Gaze glued to the door, Amantha snatched the marble rolling pin off the countertop. She backed up a step. And then another, trying to be quiet. Option three sprang to mind. Air left her lungs in a rush. Holy hatpins—her cell phone. She needed to get to her phone and call the police. Right now, before the intruder-maybe-rapist broke in and she lost her chance. Clutching her weapon, she scanned the living room, trying to remember where she’d dropped her purse. Not hanging on the coat rack. Not on the end table next to the door. Her eyes tracked to the purple love seat and…thank God. A brown leather strap peaked out from behind the backrest.
Tarnished brass hinges groaned as the door started to open.
Fear carried her forward, around the kitchen island into the living room. A large shadow fell across the carpet as light from the hallway illuminated her intruder from behind and…goddamn him along with the apartment layout. Sitting adjacent to the entrance, the love seat less sat than six feet from the front door. Now, it was too late. She’d never make to her purse without him seeing her. And given the size of the shadow he cast, she refused to be within striking distance when he stepped over the threshold.
Abandoning the idea of reaching her phone, Amantha veered left and slid in behind the door. The heavy wood panel swung all the way open. A man came into view. A death grip on the marble rolling pin, she focused on the back of his head.
Tall guy. Dark red hair. An excellent target.
Muscles quaking, she raised her weapon and, holding her breath, waited. She needed a clear shot. If she missed on the first try, she wouldn’t get a second. The width of his shoulders told her all she needed to know: he was strong. Much stronger than her. Which meant, if he got a hold of her, there would be no need to call the police. She’d already be dead.
Three
Boots planted on beat-up carpet in the hallway, Wallaig paused outside the door. Apartment Seventeen, plastic numbers hanging off wood that had seen better days. Jesus. If he hadn’t labeled it a shithole before, the inside of the building confirmed it. With a grunt of disgust, he conjured a pair of sunglasses. The LEDs in the corridor were killing him. The illumination bled from multiple wall scones, combining with trace energy, hampering his ability to detect the colourful streams.
Wallaig scowled. Sometimes he hated human ingenuity. The new-fangled, bright-as-hell light bulbs always gave him a headache.
Needing relief, he slid on the wraparounds. Fed by magic, his vision warped. As colorful energy streams normalized, the ache between his temples moved to the back of his skull, downgrading from pounding thump to annoying throb. Thank God. He didn’t need the distraction. Not while he stood in a strange building fighting with the feeling something was about to go wrong.
Paranoia? Probably, but no matter how many times he told his dragon half to settle down, the beast refused to listen. The bastard turned up the heat instead, setting him on edge, making his skin prickle in warning. A chill skated up his spine. Stifling a shiver, Wallaig rubbed the nape of his neck. Something was off. Not by much—perhaps, just a touch left of center—but enough to make him wonder what stood on the other side of the door.
Eyes narrowed on the wooden panel, Wallaig fired up his magic. His sonar pinged, casting a wide net. A series of pings echoed inside his head and… told him nothing. Zero information. Zero reason to be concerned. Nothing but clear skies outside overlooking a bunch of sleeping humans inside.
Which made no sense. If a threat existed, he should be able to detect it.
Frowning, Wallaig disengaged the top lock with his mind. A snick sounded through the quiet as he flipped the second deadbolt, then waited. For what? He didn’t know. Trouble, maybe, but…shite. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Couldn’t quite figure out what bothered him about the building or the apartment he planned to enter.
Curiosity made him reach out. His hand closed on the knob. With a quick turn of the handle, he pushed the door open. Old hinges squeaked. The sound raised the fine hairs on his nape. Closing his eyes, he hunted for the problem. Not a scent or a sound. No voices in the hallway behind him. No movement from inside the apartments on this floor or the one below. And yet…
A strange hum hung in the air, supercharging his senses, setting his teeth on edge.
Flexing his hands, he tried to isolate the frequency. Luxurious threads of bio-energy danced across his skin. Wallaig growled as delight sparked inside his veins. Hmm, yum. Fucking delicious and…he titled his head to a better read…definitely an unknown. Something different. A whole new classification. Not so much a buzzing thrum. More of a sizzle, as though electrostatic current bled through the thin walls, drugging him with sensation, seducing him with inferno-like heat, urging him to locate the source.
A dangerous path. Particularly for him.
He never charged into a situation without knowing what lay ahead first. Dragons died that way all the time. But as the abundant energy swamped him, Wallaig took an involuntary step forward. God, so good. It was so bloody good and—
He should ignore it. Should turn the hell around and sprint in the opposite direction. A smart move. The best play, all things considered, but…
Wallaig stifled a groan as the bio-energy throttled into dangerous levels. Like a siren’s song, the signal sang to him, promising decadence, luring him into dangerous waters and…aw, man. Not good. He hadn’t fed in a while. No time in recent months. Little inclination to find a female and draw what he needed to stay healthy either. But as another wave of energy hammered him, the hunger he hadn’t felt in months hit him like a tsunami.
He groaned. Fucking hell. What folly. He knew better than to leave it this long. Now, he was screwed, a slave to his dragon half as ravenous need collided with unholy impulse.
Fixated on the open door, his beast snarled. Clinging to his control by a thread, Wallaig locked his knees. He needed to calm down. No way could he step over the threshold while riding the razor’s edge and…Goddess give him strength. What the hell was it? As soon as the question entered his mind, he dismissed it. Whatever stood in the apartment didn’t feel like a what. Which meant it must be a who. His brows collided. Or rather a she—a full blooded HE female with—
Another blast of bio-energy rolled over him.
His thoughts splintered as need ramped into uncontrollable lust.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, stifling another groan.
Jesus help him. He wanted some of that. A piece of her. Right now.
A bad idea. Nowhere near advisable. Touching her wouldn’t end well. Not while amped up by hunger and desperate need. His beast wouldn’t be gentle. He was too far gone. Was being dragged inch by precarious inch toward primal need by biological imperative. Animal instinct reigned supreme, which meant his dragon would take what it wanted: fast, furious, glorious pleasure without a thought to the consequences.
Fear of hurting her forced him to drop mental anchors. Time to abandon ship. Jump overboard…whatever. Just as long as he turned the hell around and walked away.
Great plan. Perfect, but for one problem.
His dragon half refused to heed the all-halt. The bastard was already in motion, pushing the door all the way open, picking up his feet, propelling him over the threshold. Right into the siren’s den.
Four
The second the guy cleared the door, Amantha abandoned her spot behind it. Hiding wasn’t an option. If he looked to his right, he’d see her, and she’d be neck deep in trouble. Not exactly a confidence builder, but…she drew in a shaky breath. A plan was better than no plan. It certainly beat the alternative. Anything would be better than being held down and—
She cut the thought off before an image formed in her mind’s eye.
Amantha shook her head, refusing to imagine the horrible poss
ibilities. No sense hopping down that rabbit hole. She had enough problems, and right now, staying on task would get her further than freaking out.
Up on the balls of her feet, she sidestepped the floorboard that always creaked and slid to her right. Quiet and sneaky. Quick and precise. Stealth would save her life. Making noise—blowing her chance to blindside him—wouldn’t get her anything but hurt.
Trembling inside, she moved into position. He was still looking left, away from her, examining the far end of the living room. But she wasn’t fooled. It wouldn’t take him long to finish his inspection and pivot in her direction. The instant he did, she’d be in plain view, smack dab in the middle of his sights.
Knuckles aching from her grip on her weapon, she raised the rolling pin. Her sweaty palms slipped on the marble roller. Panic set in. Amantha pushed it aside and re-established her grip. Now or never. Everything hinged on the next couple of seconds. She refused to lose control, not when she held the advantage and—
His boots rasped against the welcome mat as he turned her way.
Gritting her teeth, she swung the rolling pin. Her target—his temple. Her aim—in no way close to accurate. Amantha knew it the moment her elbows unlocked and her make-shift weapon slashed through the air.
Too low. Way too low.
“Pull up, you fool…pull up!” her inner Ninja cried.
With a gasp, she tried to correct the trajectory. Her arms jerked mid-swing. He cursed as marble bounced off his shoulder and— câlice de tabarnak. She should’ve have played more baseball as a kid. Either that, or grown six more inches. Being born male would’ve helped too. The freaking guy was huge. Beyond monstrous in the size department, and as he spun to face her, Amantha froze in place. Her skin prickled, but she didn’t feel it. Her heart pounded, but she didn’t hear it. She couldn’t hear anything. She couldn’t think or breathe…or make sense of who stood in her home. Couldn’t do anything but stare up at him in horror.
Fury of Denial Page 2
