Night of the Panther

by Suzanne Forster

  She screamed, begging for mercy as the creature swooped down on her. Its shadow engulfed her, and she was hit by a heaviness that knocked her to the ground. Her clothes were ripped away. Her arms and legs were pinned to the ground as the demon subdued her, overpowering her struggles. But before the creature could ravish her, it was transformed again, this time into a man. He was savage and terrifying, as magnificent as the hawk, his black hair flying like wings, his features covered with war paint.

  And then she saw the knife. . . .

  Honor screamed and screamed, one bloodcurdling shriek after another as a pair of hands closed on her arms and pulled her to her feet, anchoring her against the concrete wall.

  “Honor! What happened? Are you all right?”

  She struggled against her assailant, against the nightmare that wouldn’t let go of her. The hawk’s shriek was ringing in her ears. She could still see the warrior and the terrible flashing blade of his knife. At the same time, from somewhere outside of her, she could hear Johnny’s voice. He was shouting at her, but it seemed a part of the dream.

  “Honor, tell me what happened. Did someone hurt you? Were you attacked?”

  She felt herself being shaken back to consciousness, and she opened her eyes. Haloed by the room’s dim light, Johnny looked huge and terrifying. His grip on her arms was bruising, his eyes incandescent. “Let go!” she cried.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, trying to calm her. “What happened? For God’s sake. Honor, tell me.”

  She twisted out of his arms, staggering backward. Overcome by dizziness and nausea, she slumped against the concrete wall and sagged to her knees.

  “Honor!”

  She shook her head, cringing as he knelt next to her. “It was terrible,” she said. “He had a knife—”

  “Oh, God,” Johnny breathed. “Who had a knife?” He hovered near her protectively, as though wanting to help, but hesitant to touch her in any way. “Honor, who was it?” His voice rasped as he asked the next question. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No—I don’t know.” A bewildered sob shook through her. “It was a dream, I think.”

  “A dream? You weren’t attacked?”

  “Yes . . . I was.” When the shuddering finally stopped. Honor gathered herself together and looked up at him. “By you,” she said, knowing the terror she felt must have seeped into her eyes. “You had the knife.”

  She saw a flash of disbelief cross his face. His expression held regret and concern, as if he was struggling with an apology, but the words wouldn’t come. Finally he stood up and took off his jacket, settling it over her shoulders. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Can you stand up now?”

  “I think so.” She drew up one leg and tried to stand, but she was shaking too badly to manage it.

  “Come on, paleface . . . be strong.”

  Tears of astonishment sprang to Honor’s eyes. He’d whispered the same thing years ago when he’d broken the news that he was being charged with assault. Looking up at him now, she almost thought she’d imagined hearing the words. They’d been low and harsh, but very gentle . . . and he had spoken them. She saw his outstretched hand, the long fingers, the rich brown skin. He was offering to help her.

  Honor felt a stirring of disbelief as she put her hand in his. A sparkle of awareness ran up the inside of her arm, tingling her skin. He’d never touched her this way before, she realized. And perhaps she hadn’t allowed herself to believe that he ever would. Tears welled up again, embarrassing her as she responded uncontrollably to the signals his touch communicated, the gentle strength, the warmth. Her defenses were down. She was overreacting to everything, especially to him, and yet she wanted to believe that some link might have been made between them, a tendril of friendship restored.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, clutching his hand. “It seems I’m always crying around you, always apologizing.”

  He didn’t respond, but she felt his other arm brace her, supporting her until she was on her feet. They released hands slowly, their fingers brushing with tiny, awkward collisions, each exquisitely sensitive. Honor’s breath shuddered as she released it. She had no protection. The sight of his burnished skin on hers, the feel of it, was a tripwire to her overwrought nerves.

  “Thank you,” she managed.

  “It’s okay,” he said huskily. “My . . . pleasure.”

  Dizziness washed over her as she looked up at him. His pleasure? The thought of giving Johnny Starhawk pleasure of any kind brought her to a pitch of awareness that was almost painful. The shadings of emotion in his expression confused her. They were too complex to analyze, but she could see one thing clearly. Desire. It flickered like a candle flame in his smoky eyes.

  Physical intimacy hadn’t been a part of their teenage relationship, but there had always been an implicit sexuality. Even at fourteen, she’d been acutely aware of him as male, of herself as female. Perhaps it was the very force of their attraction that had kept them apart. One touch, one kiss, and they’d have been swept into something forbidden.

  The thought of doing forbidden things with Johnny made her shudder inside. Dark images of entangled bodies flashed into her mind, animal images—the dangerous passion of the male panther, the excited cries of his mate.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “Do you need a doctor?”

  She shook her head, grateful he’d brought her out of her strange fantasy. “I’ll be fine once I get my bearings.”

  His jacket had fallen off her shoulder, and as he drew it back on, she noticed the marks on her upper arms. They were reddened and raised like welts. It took her a moment to understand what had happened. They’d come from Johnny’s hands. His grip had been rough and urgent when he’d first pulled her to her feet. When she’d tried to get away, his fingers had cut into her arms. Hoping he wouldn’t see the marks, she tugged the coat around her.

  But Johnny had seen them. His eyes caught every tender red welt. Against her pale skin they looked like serious wounds, and the sight took him by storm. He was vaguely aware that she was pulling against him as he held the coat open, but he couldn’t release his grip on the material. His gaze was riveted on the marks, and the feelings that hit him were beyond description. That he might actually have hurt her caused revulsion, but it was more than that. He felt a jolt of longing too. And need. Animal need. To touch the wounds, to heal them. To claim the marks as his. His heart was pounding with a force that almost suffocated him.

  When he found his voice, it was a ragged whisper. “I always knew I’d leave marks if I touched you.”

  Honor went breathlessly still. He was beautiful and frightening, a man possessed. The traces of anguish in his voice mesmerized her. She tried to close the coat. She tried to remove his hand, but it was clenched around the linen material. The conflict in his eyes was horrible, but she couldn’t let herself acknowledge it.

  “I always wanted you to touch me, Johnny,” she said. “I wouldn’t care about marks, or anything else, if only you would touch me.”

  Johnny’s hands locked, frozen between drawing her forward and holding her back. The turmoil inside him was agonizing. What was she doing? Offering herself? A lamb to the sacrificial altar? She couldn’t possibly know how profound a temptation she was. He wanted her so badly, it felt like a destructive force, a rage that neither of them would survive if he ever released it. It astonished him that she didn’t seem to fear what he might do to her. Didn’t she understand that he couldn’t even touch her without triggering that dark rage? That making love to her would be wildly dangerous?

  He freed the coat and stepped back, his muscles aching from the sudden release of tension.

  She looked up at him, bewildered. “It’s all right. I’m not hurt.” She seemed desperate to make him see that the marks didn’t mean anything, that they weren’t an omen of things to come. But Johnny was beyond reassurance. He was all tangled up inside, soulsick from wanting her and from knowing what he was capable of doing to her. He couldn’t trust h
imself to get near her again. He would hurt her, one way or another, whether he wanted to or not.

  “My decision is for the defendant in this case.” The judge’s sonorous voice boomed through the hushed courtroom. “In the matter of Beaumont Oil versus Ridgecrest Community Church, I find in favor of Ridgecrest Community Church.”

  The church’s minister let out a gasp and flung his arms around Johnny. The man’s wife broke down in sobs, and the crowd in the gallery came to their feet, cheering enthusiastically. It was a dizzy, exhilarating moment. Johnny clapped the minister on the back, then released him, a smile breaking on his face. The older man’s joy was palpable, and as Johnny watched him turn to his weeping wife and embrace her, he felt a sense of great relief. Maybe he’d actually done something right for a change. If so, it was the first time in days.

  “Hey, Starhawk! Bonzai!”

  Over the heads of the hugging couple, Johnny’s assistant flashed him a thumbs-up. The junior attorney was the very person Johnny wanted to talk to at that moment, but several members of the church’s congregation rushed forward with congratulations, blocking the way.

  Johnny took all the kudos in stride as he made his way over to his assistant and drew him aside. “You take it from here, Lone Ranger,” he said under his breath, knowing he was giving the younger man a chance at the limelight. “Once you get our clients safely through this pack and outside, you can field the media’s questions. Tell them this case has restored your faith in the American legal process. That’s always good for a network sound bite.”

  “Where are you going?” his assistant asked with a surprised smile. “What about our victory party at Riley’s Pub?”

  “I need a break,” Johnny said. “Relax and enjoy yourself. Your wickedly handsome mug is going to be splashed coast to coast on the five o’clock news. The barmaids over at Riley’s will be panting for you when you get there.”

  After giving his assistant a few more last-minute instructions, Johnny slipped out a side door into the hallway. The press would be waiting out front, and if he moved quickly enough, he might escape without being noticed. There was one stop he had to make first, however. He fished in the pocket of his suit pants for his keys.

  The men’s room was empty when he opened the locked door and let himself in. A row of mirrors flashed his reflection back at him as he walked to one of the basins, and he was surprised at his resemblance to a civilized human being. Despite the excitement of winning a tough case, he half expected to see a wild-eyed beast snarling back at him. He hadn’t felt civilized since the morning she’d walked back into his life. He’d barely felt human.

  He turned on a tap and splashed cold water on his face, aware of the tension in his neck muscles. Where was she? he wondered. It was a question that had been on his mind all day. He hadn’t seen her in over forty-eight hours, not since the incident at his private elevator. He should have been out celebrating her absence, but he couldn’t help wondering if something had happened to her.

  The water in his cupped hands felt icy and cleansing as he brought it to his face, but there wasn’t any amount of water that could wash away the image of her crumpled on the floor near his elevator. The terror in her cries was seared into his memory cells. He’d never thought of her as physically strong, and certainly not as the type of woman who could defend herself in a dangerous situation. She’d always seemed vulnerable in that way, which was probably why he’d felt compelled to massacre the arrogant bastards who’d taunted her when they were kids. It had filled him with guilt and fury that they were ridiculing her because of her “redskin” boyfriend.

  A whisper of cool air made him aware of the silk material of his slacks against the back of his calves. He raised his head, beads of water sluicing over the angular bones of his face as he glanced in the mirror. The double reflection he saw astonished him. The one word he breathed was more than profane, it was incredulous.

  “What are you doing here?” he said, staring at Honor’s image in the mirror. He whirled, water flying, and raked a hand through his hair, tossing it out of his face. “How did you get in here?”

  The last thing he expected was the faint, trembling smile she produced. She looked like a woman tilted precariously on the brink of something risky, as if she knew she was breaking the rules and had realized there was no point in taking half-measures. She was also wearing the jacket he’d put over her shoulders the night he’d found her sprawled in front of his elevator.

  “This is yours,” she said, touching the jacket’s lapel. “I thought I should return it.”

  “But how did you get in?”

  A subtle vibrancy shimmered in the mists of her blue eyes, like light rain on a sunny day. She was pleased with herself, he could tell. “I caught the door before it closed,” she said. “I guess you didn’t hear me behind you.”

  “You do know this is a men’s bathroom?” He half turned, pointing out basins, urinals, and stalls.

  She took it all in, seemingly impressed. “If I didn’t before, I certainly do now.” Her smile wavered, and she wet her lips; but oddly, the nervous gesture made her seem more assured. “It’s probably the only place in this building not overrun with people,” she said. “By the way, congratulations on winning the case.”

  For the first time in a very long time, Johnny was dumbstruck. In his wildest dreams—and he’d had some wild ones—he’d never imagined America’s favorite debutante following a man into the toilet. There was something different about her, he realized as he looked her up and down. It hit him like a blow to the rib cage when he realized what it was. She was wearing her hair down. It spilled around her shoulders, free and golden, just the way it had after he’d cut the coil with his knife.

  She was dressed differently too. Besides his jacket, she wore blue jeans and a soft peach cardigan sweater that was unbuttoned at the neckline. The sweater’s opening lay over the pale swell of her breasts, whispering hints of the shadowy crevice between them.

  He doubted that it was intentional on her part, but God help him, she looked sexy—not nearly as sweet and demure as he remembered, or as contrite as he would have liked. He didn’t need sexy, not from her. Not now! He had enough trouble where she was concerned.

  “You called this meeting,” he said abruptly. “I assume you’ve got something to say.”

  “Yes.” The trembling smile reappeared. “You’re wet.”

  Johnny touched the beads of water that clung to his jaw and swore softly. He pulled some paper towels from the dispenser and scrubbed the moisture away. “I wish I could say the same thing about you,” he said, tossing off the double entendre without considering its impact.

  The color fled her pale face, then crept back in a slow pink tide. But she said nothing, did nothing, as though shocked into some inner recognition of her own feelings, of his physical nearness, and of the fact that she was locked in a men’s bathroom with him. Her mounting awareness was breathtaking to watch.

  “If I were wet,” she said, her voice barely audible, “that would be between me and my Calvins.”

  Johnny’s breath went husky with male amusement. Something strange was definitely going on here. She was getting less predictable by the minute. He might have thought of a comeback if something else about her hadn’t already captivated him. Violets. The scent of violets rose from her flushed skin like morning mists off a dewy meadow. He had an unexpected image of her standing naked and pale before him, wearing nothing but that lush scent. The vision left him fighting for breath. And fighting off memories.

  The day he’d surprised her at her locker, he’d caught a whiff of the exotic, flowery scent she gave off. She’d been frightened and excited then too. Either her body chemistry enhanced her perfume, or she just naturally smelled of violets. He didn’t know. He didn’t care about anything except the havoc that fragrance had done to his mind and body.

  He didn’t want to remember the nights of sleepless yearning, dreaming about her violet-scented body underneath his, about her tend
er curves, and that first deep plunge into her virginity. He’d imagined the conquest in such pleasure-soaked, erotic detail that even now, all it took was a whiff of violets to make him harden and ache.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you’d taken flight, gone back to Arizona.”

  Honor was startled at his harshness. She didn’t have the quick answer he seemed to be demanding. She’d spent the last two days struggling with the repercussions of what had happened between them when he’d found her at the elevator. All he had done was touch her, but she’d been in a daze ever since.

  That brief moment of kindness had reawakened her. His gentleness had revived needs and longings she’d wanted to believe were dead. But they were far from that; they were achingly alive. Her dreams, sleeping and waking, had been flooded with images of Johnny holding her, soothing all her fears away. She’d imagined tender touches and sweet kisses that would make her body burn with need.

  This morning she’d come awake with a desire to see him that left her shaking. Just to see him, she told herself, that was all she needed . . . and maybe to be touched again.

  “I came to finish what I started,” she said. “With you.”

  He shook his head, as though weary of it all. “Dammit, I thought I’d frightened you off for sure.”

  “You told me to be strong.”

  “I didn’t mean with me.”

  Honor met his searching gaze and forced herself to hold it. “Yes . . . you did.” She’d spoken from intuition, without having any more than a subliminal understanding of what triggered her. But now that she’d committed herself, the premonition was so strong, she had to go on, even if it meant risking his anger. There were other things she knew about him.

  “You’re going to help the tribe, Johnny,” she said, her voice softening as she realized that she was going to say what was in her mind no matter what he thought. “You need to be convinced, that’s all. And I’m the one who’s going to convince you, just as your grandfather predicted.”