Night of the Panther

by Suzanne Forster

  “Don’t!” she cried.

  “Don’t what?” He ground out the question as he jerked loose his tie, letting it hang like a noose around his neck. “Is that what it takes to get rid of you? You need to be threatened, roughed up?”

  “No!” Honor insisted. “Talk to me. Give me a chance.”

  “Mr. Starhawk,” the receptionist broke in.

  “Not now!” He waved the woman silent, his glare fixed relentlessly on Honor. “Get inside,” he said, flicking his head toward his office door.

  “You’ll talk to me?” Honor was genuinely startled.

  “I didn’t say anything about talking, I said get inside.”

  She edged away from him, every sense alert. It had never occurred to her that he might hurt her. Now she wasn’t sure. His flying black hair and flared nostrils reminded her of the frightening legacy of his Apache heritage—never forget, never forgive. Even the expensive Italian-cut suit he wore did nothing to diminish the threat he exuded.

  “You’ve got two choices,” he said, moving toward her. “Get inside. Or get out.”

  He wanted her out, she knew that. He was trying to frighten her into bolting. And he was doing a damn good job. Despite the ultramodern surroundings, she couldn’t shake the feeling that at any moment he might break through the thin veneer of civility and turn savage. Still, she couldn’t back down. She would never be able to live with herself if she didn’t follow through on what she’d started.

  She turned and entered his office, listening for his footsteps behind her. Her throat went dry with fear as the door slammed shut. “I don’t care what I’ve done to you,” she said, whirling to face him. “I won’t let you do this. I won’t let you hurt me.”

  “Hurt you?” Something that might have been pain flared in his dark eyes. “I’ve never even touched you.”

  Honor fell silent, remembering vividly the one time they’d accidentally brushed up against each other—the shock, the incredible sexual pull. The chemistry between them had always been highly charged. Now it was explosive. “Why did you bring me in here then?” she asked.

  He walked to his desk and shrugged out of his jacket, throwing it and his tie over the chair. The powder-blue shirt he wore created a strikingly beautiful contrast to his tawny skin. “Because I don’t like to fight in public,” he said, unbuttoning his cuffs.

  “I didn’t come in here to fight.”

  “That’s unfortunate, because I did.”

  “But why?” she pleaded. “Why can’t you let go of the past and deal with what’s happening now? The tribe needs a high-profile attorney, Johnny. They need the best, and that’s you. You’re acting as if I destroyed your whole life, but it’s not true. Look around you. Look at this office, it’s beautiful. You have money, respect, a brilliant career.”

  He stopped rolling up his sleeves and glanced up at her, emitting a sound that was too harsh to be laughter. “There are lots of ways to destroy a person.”

  Again she caught the flicker of pain in his eyes. It held her, haunting her. She wanted badly to say something that would touch that pain, anything that would let him know she understood, but she sensed intuitively that sympathy would be dangerous. Only a fool tried to pet a wounded panther.

  “We all get hurt,” she said awkwardly. “Life isn’t fair, but you have to move past the—”

  “I did move past it, Honor. I was doing just fine until you showed up.”

  He’d cut her off so abruptly, she knew it was hopeless. There was no reaching him; he wouldn’t allow it. Averting her eyes, she ran her hand down the sleeve of her silk blouse and cupped her elbow. When she looked up, he’d finished rolling up his sleeves and was opening a drawer in his desk.

  He drew out an object that glinted in the light from the window. Honor couldn’t see what it was. but fear struck at her heart as he came around the desk and started toward her. Caught in flashes of sunlight and shadows, he looked like some angry god of justice, a demon executioner sprung from hell.

  She began to back up, not stopping until she hit a wall. “What is that thing? What are you going to do?”

  “I want something to remember you by,” he said.

  “No, wait!” Her hands flew up, a gesture intended to protect herself more than to ward him off. A soft cry filled her throat as she realized what he had in his hand.

  He raised a brass-lined sheath and thumbed a lever that released a glistening knife blade. The snap and click it made, the slice of metal against metal, were nerve-shattering.

  “No, Johnny—please!” Honor flattened herself against the wall, too horrified even to scream. The metallic ching of the knife reverberated in her brain. “What are you going to do?”

  “Turn your head,” he told her, his dark eyes flaring. He tipped the blade to signal the direction he meant.

  Honor stared at him, frozen with disbelief. “Johnny, don’t do this, you can’t.”

  “Don’t delude yourself, Honor. You haven’t even imagined what I’m capable of doing. Now turn your head,” he said roughly.

  She did as he told her, fear spilling into her mouth, scalding her throat with its vile taste. She waited for what seemed like several seconds of cold terror, and then she felt something heavy dragging on her hair. His hands? He was working at the coil she’d secured at her nape with an elastic band and hairpins.

  There was a wrenching jerk against her neck muscles, and then, to her astonishment, her hair tumbled loose from its bonds, falling free around her face. A moan caught inside her as she realized what he’d done. And what it meant. He’d loved it when she wore her hair this way, loose and free. He’d told her that once. After he was sent away, she’d begun wearing it up, in the coil.

  “Johnny, don’t,” she said, tears welling up as she turned to him.

  He sheathed the knife and dropped it into his pocket.

  “There,” he said, stepping back to see what he’d done. A terrible, painful light suffused his eyes. “That’s more like it. Now you’re exactly the way I remember you—pale and golden, the angel of sympathy, sister-confessor to the poor, dumb Indian kid.” A muscle worked in his jaw as he stared at her.

  “Who would ever have guessed that the fair Honor Bartholomew was really a betraying little bitch? Not me. Sure as hell not me.”

  “Don’t do this,” Honor said, her voice choked with pain. “Please don’t. I told you I was sorry.”

  “Don’t give me sorry. Not now! Get out of my life. Give me some peace.”

  “I can’t, Johnny.” A sob racked her, and then another and another—aching, shuddering tremors that ripped her apart inside. “I have to do this. Please understand that. Let me find some way to make things right.”

  His head lifted, frozen in some kind of agony. Icy glints of pain and rage sparkled in the depths of his eyes. He shook his head slowly. “No, you can’t make it right. You can only make it worse. Go—get out of here.”

  “Johnny, don’t—”

  He moved toward her, then checked himself. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “If you keep this up, Honor, I promise you I will hurt you.”

  Honor edged away from him. You’re hurting me now, she thought. You’re destroying me. Unable to say the words, she met his gaze and saw there a capacity for vengeance beyond anything she’d ever dreamed. Dear God, she thought, what have I done? Until that moment she hadn’t truly understood how unforgivably she’d hurt him.

  The boy he used to be flashed into her mind with his remote yet beautiful Apache pride, his shyness, and the traces of wonder in his dark eyes when he looked at her. Johnny! What have I done? Tears streaming down her face, she turned and left the room.

  Honor didn’t sleep that entire night. She sat in the wingback chair that was becoming her prison and wondered what was to become of her. There were no choices to be made this time, no question of flying home to safety. She was beyond that consideration. The past was a horrible, festering scar that had been reopened. She would either die of the rupture or find a way to
heal it.

  She would never have Johnny’s forgiveness. He’d made that clear, but if she could bring him back to the reservation, even temporarily, if she could rebuild that one bridge, she would feel that she’d done something. Perhaps all she could do.

  She was trembling from lack of sleep and a sick stomach when she entered Johnny’s reception area the next morning. Given what she was facing, it was a miracle she wasn’t in the throes of a full-blown panic attack. As it was, her nerves were raw, and she hadn’t been able to keep down any food, not even a cup of coffee.

  “He isn’t here,” the receptionist snapped, rising the moment she saw Honor.

  “I think we’ve had this conversation before.” Honor took a seat on the couch. “I’ll wait.”

  “No you won’t,” the woman said, coming around her desk toward Honor. “Mr. Starhawk specifically said you weren’t to wait. And he asked me to escort you out of the office if you showed up.”

  Honor sprang to her feet, trembling with the effort it took. “If you lay a hand on me,” she said, “I’ll slap you silly.”

  The receptionist stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening with surprise.

  Honor was startled too. The threat had tumbled out before she could stop it. Queasy, she reclaimed her seat and whisked up an issue of Town and Country, leafing through the magazine determinedly to try to cover her shakiness. The lady she’d been raised to be abhorred confrontations, but if she couldn’t win a minor skirmish with Johnny’s secretary, she didn’t stand a chance in the battle with him.

  The receptionist returned to her desk and shot Honor an indignant but grudgingly respectful glare.

  Honor felt a moment of mild triumph as she pretended to peruse the magazine. Having another human being regard her with anything other than glacial contempt was a welcome change after her encounters with Johnny. She’d come to think of herself as an emotional warrior in the last twenty-four hours, and as much as she needed to think in those terms to endure, her morale was desperately low.

  As she continued to thumb through the magazine, the pictures and articles she’d only been half-aware of began to come into focus. The landscaped estates and lawn parties took her back to a happier time, before the tragic incident that split the Bartholomew family. They made her think of the woman of gentle breeding who’d reared her, Adele Bartholomew, her mother.

  A bred-in-the bone New Englander from a fine old Vermont family, Adele would never have approved of Honor’s behavior that morning. A lady didn’t indulge in public displays of emotion, and she certainly didn’t enter into arguments with “unpleasant people”—an elastic category that seemed to include anyone who didn’t jump to do Adele’s bidding, including officious secretaries. Now Honor realized how antiquated her mother’s social codes had been, but she still loved and missed her terribly. Adele had been killed when Honor was only ten.

  Honor, her twin brother, Hale, Jr., and their mother had been on their way to the airport for a family Thanksgiving in Vermont when a car ahead of them had a blowout and the Bartholomews’ Rolls-Royce hit it head-on. The collision killed Adele and Hale, Jr., instantly. Honor sustained only minor injuries. It had seemed a miracle, but the emotional price she paid was enormous. In addition to the devastation of losing her loved ones, she’d had to deal with the guilt of being the only one who survived. Her father had stayed behind to conclude a business deal and was supposed to join the family that night.

  Honor had never seen such naked pain in her father’s eyes as when he learned his son was gone. Beyond the pursuit of power, the blond, tousled-haired boy had been the only thing Hale, Sr., had ever let himself love unrestrainedly. The blow had sent him into an emotional tailspin. Sadly he’d coped by burying himself in his work and avoiding his daughter. Eventually Honor realized it was because she reminded him so much of his son, and he had never been able to express his grief, but by then the damage to their relationship had been done. And the damage to Honor’s self-esteem was almost as devastating. She felt unloved and deeply unworthy.

  She’d entered her teen years an isolated child, largely unaware of her budding physical beauty. Miserable in boarding school, she’d begged her father to let her quit and attend a public high school. He’d agreed, but Honor hadn’t been in any way prepared for the public school students’ curiosity and, eventually, their animosity. Her unusual, quiet beauty and her father’s wealth made her an outsider. She’d had no one to share her solitary dreams with, no one who cared enough to listen or try and understand . . . until Johnny.

  Honor’s hands were trembling as she closed the magazine on her lap. No one but Johnny. Yesterday in his office he’d called himself a poor, dumb Indian, but it was his intelligence that had first attracted her. She’d become aware of him on the high school’s debating team. She’d watched his performances, seen how his fiery brilliance set him apart, and how the other students resented him for it. He’d worn his loneliness like a badge of courage.

  After the trial he’d seemed to vanish from the face of the earth. She lost track of him completely until several years later, when she came across a newspaper headline about three ex-marines who’d distinguished themselves in a daring mission to free American prisoners in the Middle East. The media had described the recovery work they’d been doing for the Pentagon and dubbed them the “Stealth Commandos.”

  Honor had been astonished to read Johnny’s name as one of the three men. He’d looked so different in the photograph, she’d barely recognized him. His hair had been cropped short, and he’d worn military fatigues and aviator sunglasses. The photograph had shown him with his two partners, Chase Beaudine and Geoff Dias. But it was Johnny who held her attention. He’d looked rugged and hardened, as though his military experience had been an exercise in brute survival.

  From that point on Honor had ferreted out every bit of information she could find about the Stealth Commandos. By the time the three men had retired from recovery work, they’d been made national heroes by the media. Johnny had gone into law and quickly become the stuff of legend as the “courtroom warrior.” Chase Beaudine, the man who’d formed the group, had disappeared completely from the limelight, but Geoff Dias, “bad boy of the trio,” according to the press, had formed a mercenary-for-hire operation and remained very much in the public eye with his daring exploits . . . .

  Honor eventually became aware that she’d been drifting in and out of the past all morning. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was early afternoon, and there’d been no sign of Johnny. She felt weak from fatigue and hunger, but she didn’t dare nap or leave to get food. She might miss him when he came in.

  As the afternoon wore on, the receptionist made several hushed calls, rescheduling appointments. Honor eavesdropped shamelessly but could hear nothing except mumblings about a massage-therapy session. She wondered if it was for Johnny or his receptionist. The woman could use some loosening up.

  Eventually the receptionist began preparing to leave. “You going to stay the night?” she asked, giving Honor an exasperated look.

  Honor tried to stand, but she couldn’t get off the couch. Dizziness swamped her as she sank back down.

  The receptionist rose, concerned. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Just dizzy.” Honor anchored herself to the arm of the couch and drew in a sustaining breath. “I’ll be all right,” she said, wondering if it was true as she looked up. “Apparently he isn’t coming in today?”

  “Even if he had come in,” the woman said, seeming to take pity on Honor, “you wouldn’t have seen him.”

  Honor glanced at his office door and realized immediately that he had another exit. Powerful men always had their escape hatches. Her father had his own private elevator that allowed him to get in and out of his office unobserved.

  Suddenly Honor knew exactly where to find Johnny Starhawk. “Thank you,” she said, managing to get to her feet. “Thank you very much.”

  Three

  HONOR’S HUNCH PROVED TRUE. She found Joh
nny’s private elevator housed in a small room in the garage facility next to the fifteen-story building where Johnny worked. The two structures were linked by a sky-bridge, and the elevator required a key. Since Honor had no idea how to break into an elevator, she had little choice but to take up residence in that small room. It was just after 5:00 P.M., according to her watch, and she reasoned that if he had been in court all day, there was a chance he might stop by his office before going home.

  The concrete rectangle wasn’t built for comfort, but Honor settled herself on the floor in a corner and pulled the shirred skirt of her floral sundress down over her legs. She’d been so indoctrinated by her mother that girls wore skirts, not pants, that even now as an adult she gravitated toward dresses when choosing what to wear. She had pants in her wardrobe, including the jeans her mother abhorred, but skirts comforted her somehow. Perhaps they reinforced a sense of family tradition that seemed to have been lost after Adele’s death.

  She rested her head against the wall and tried mentally to practice the things she had to say to Johnny, but the fatigue that washed over her made it almost impossible to keep track of the points she wanted to make. Her thoughts slowed down like a record played at the wrong speed, warping into odd, disconnected fragments before they slipped away from her altogether. She hadn’t eaten or slept in nearly twenty-four hours, and the combination of nerves, exhaustion, and hunger was taking its toll on her mental processes.

  She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate, but with the darkness behind her lids came a strange lassitude, a heaviness so seductive she wanted to let go of everything and give in to it. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so tired or weak. Within moments she was drifting in a state of semiconsciousness, floating somewhere between sleep and exhaustion, the heaviness dragging her down. She could feel herself sinking deeper and deeper, spiraling helplessly toward something disturbing. . . .

  Terror seized her when she heard the hawk’s scream. Its shadow swept the ground in front of her, causing her to whirl and look up. The sun was a fireball in the sky. It blinded her, and then its brilliance went dark, transformed into the soaring wings of a magnificent creature, a hawk with flashing eyes and flaying talons.