“My grandfather?”
“Yes.” She rushed on, encouraged that he hadn’t stopped her. “He’s been having visions, prophetic dreams. He believes that you’re the only one who can win their case in a court battle against Bartholomew Mines. His last dream told him who would bring you back.”
“And it was you?”
She nodded. “What if he really does have the gift of prophecy, Johnny? If these things are foreordained, then aren’t you wasting your time fighting the inevitable?”
Johnny’s features darkened with frightening speed. “I don’t buy my grandfather’s mystical claptrap, and I never have. He predicted my birth would bring bad luck, and then two days after she’d delivered me, my mother killed herself. I think the old fool’s predictions drove her to it.”
Honor knew she had to proceed carefully. She was touching on the very origins of his alienation and pain. “But what if your grandfather simply foresaw that tragedy? And what if he’s foreseeing something else now? A victory? It seems to me that he’s offering you a way to come back, to replace the bad with something good. This could be a fresh start.”
“Spare me the pep talk,” he said coldly. “This is a package deal. If I buy into good omens, then I have to buy into bad ones. I have to believe in a crazy old man who made my life hell with his dreams and predictions.”
“He was only following his beliefs, Johnny. Isn’t it time to let go of the past? To forgive—”
She would have given anything to take back that last word, but it was too late. Johnny had turned away, his profile flashing along the room’s mirrors in a strobelike effect that magnified his conflict. Honor was caught by his pagan beauty and his darkness. The rippling of so many images gave the illusion of revealing the inner man, of a mask stripped away, of naked glimpses of something desolate and beautiful inside him. It was rage, Honor realized, and sadness. The two elements were mixed together explosively.
She felt as if she’d been witness to some dark spot in his soul, as if she’d seen the bad omen.
He turned toward her, and something in his expression made her heart begin to throb. “What are you doing?” she asked as he started toward her.
“I want this back,” he said.
She didn’t know what he meant until he was standing before her, gathering up the lapels of the jacket she wore and drawing her toward him. Honor could feel his hands on her skin, the jutting bones of his wrists pressing against the softness of her breasts.
“Maybe I should take it off first?” she asked.
“I’ll take it off.” He drew the jacket off her shoulders, then let it drop to the floor behind her. The material slid down her back like heavy silk and pooled at her feet. At the same time she felt his hands close lightly on her shoulders.
“Oh, God,” she said, breathing the words like a prayer.
She was riveted by his touch, a thrill of alarm rippling up and down her body. For a woman who’d had little experience with male sensuality, she was completely thrown by her own reactions. All he’d done was take off the coat, but the sensations he evoked were the most stimulating she’d ever known. As his thumbs nestled in the hollows beneath her collarbones, she emitted a soft sound of excitement.
Johnny felt himself dying inside as he took in her trembling anticipation. He’d given in to an irresistible impulse to take off the jacket and put his hands on her, never considering where it would go beyond that. Now how the hell could he stop at that? She was shaking, sighing. He was surging inside. But the impulse wasn’t as hot and dark and volatile as the last time they were together, he realized. It was more sensual this time, less vengeful. Could he make love to Honor Bartholomew without it turning into emotional warfare?
The answer came hurtling back at him. No! Never!
But it was too late for nevers. He was already aroused, already in need of a woman.
“I wish to hell you’d go back to Arizona,” he said, anger burning through him as he tilted her face up to his. “Look at us, dammit. Look what’s going to happen if you don’t.”
“What?” she said, her voice throaty with fear, passion.
“This . . .” He bent toward her mouth, but the sound she made stopped him. It was sweetest thing he’d ever heard, soft and raspy, full of yearning. Her scent washed over him, drenching him in violets. Hothouse violets. Seductive violets. A blast of sexual longing shot through him, and his hands began to shake.
“Jesus,” he breathed, releasing her so abruptly she staggered.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Johnny caught his own splintered reflection in the row of mirrors. He looked like a wild man, one heartbeat away from doing something crazy. He wanted to make love to her all over the damn bathroom. He wanted to take her on the cold tile floor, and up against the wall. He wanted to set her on the basin and do it there too.
“I’m what’s wrong,” he said, sweeping back the dark hair that had fallen onto his face. He turned on her, quietly furious. “You could have anybody you want, your pick of nice guys. What do you want with me, a savage?”
“You call yourself that?”
“It has nothing to do with being an Apache. It’s wanting things you can’t have that makes you savage inside.”
Her shoulders moved with a deep breath. “What are you saying? That you want me? Is that what you’re saying?”
There was nothing Johnny could do to lock up the turbulence inside him. He couldn’t deny the truth.
He’d wanted her when they were kids. He wanted her now, violently, and the only way he was going to keep from acting on his animal urges was to get her out of the room.
She smothered a gasp as his hand went to his zipper. “What are you doing?” she asked.
He flashed her a glance that was arrogant, potent, male. “This is a men’s bathroom,” he said. “I’m going to do what I came in here to do. Care to watch?”
He drew the metal pull tab down slowly, daring her not to notice that he was still aroused, hard as hell with desire. Her eyes widened with disbelief as he rode the zipper all the way to the bottom stop and reached inside to free himself.
“You’re right!” she cried angrily. “You are a savage.” She whirled and stalked toward the door, her blond hair flying.
As the door slammed shut behind her, Johnny was left to stand there, grimly aware of the empty, echoing room and of his own hand pressed against the hard throb at his groin.
Four
HONOR DUCKED DOWN behind the steering wheel other rented Ford Escort as another luxury car rolled up to the high-rise condo across the street from where she was parked. It wasn’t Johnny’s crimson Ferrari Testarossa, but Honor watched anyway, curious about the other tenants in his building.
A flashy and fashionable young brunette alighted from the white Mercedes convertible and blithely turned her keys over to the valet-parking attendant. She gave the doorman a perky smile and a Miss America wave as she strolled up the red-carpeted promenade toward the monolithic glass doors. They slid open as if on command, though of course Honor knew the doorman must have entered an access code on the console at his station.
If she had a moment of concern about such a beautiful young woman living in Johnny’s building, she was far more worried about dealing with the doorman when she made her own attempt to enter the building. Wondering if her plan was adequate, she glanced at the royal-blue tank top, drawstring workout pants, and tennis shoes she wore. The tote bag next to her on the seat was full of perfumed oils and towels.
Her plan? Panic rippled through her as she thought about the masquerade she was about to try to carry off. Skulking in parked cars and staking out luxury high rises wasn’t at all her style. And crashing the guarded portals of one wasn’t even in her realm of reality. The closest she’d ever come to anything regarding espionage was reading Nancy Drew mysteries as a child. She would never have considered such drastic measures if she hadn’t been driven to it by the utter frustration of the last seventy-two hours.
&
nbsp; Johnny had disappeared. He seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth. She’d been haunting his office, trying to pinpoint his whereabouts, ever since their encounter in the courthouse bathroom three days ago. She’d even hung out at his elevator for an entire day, but there’d been no sign of him.
His receptionist had turned into a sphinx whenever Honor was around, not speaking at all or in indiscernible whispers when she answered the phone. Honor’s worst fear was that Johnny had left town, either on business or more likely just to avoid her, and she would never be able to find him. As that fear built, her determination to track him down had become an obsession.
She had to finish this dark and frightening game she’d started with him, no matter what happened, no matter what he did to her. She felt as if she’d blundered into a maze that merged past and present, and at every blind corner she was confronted with her own fears and desires. She wanted out, but something told her that Johnny was the key master. Only he knew the way.
The roar of a powerful engine gearing down alerted Honor. A gleaming red Testarossa had pulled up to the building. Honor sank down, her pulse quickening as the door of the idling sportscar flew open. Even her thinking processes were thrown off kilter as Johnny swung his long legs out of the low-slung car and gracefully unfurled his dark length.
He rose to his full height, tall and catlike in the sun, his ebony hair lifting in the late afternoon breezes. The stone-washed jeans and white cotton T-shirt he wore caressed his rippling muscularity with the suppleness of an animal’s coat. The scuffed cowboy boots added an unexpected rugged touch. Even dressed casually, he exuded the lean and hungry look that women found irresistible.
Just seeing him again made Honor’s stomach flutter and clutch, as if she were an infatuated teenager. He didn’t have to do anything, she realized. He only had to stand there and look gorgeous to stir up the sweet ache of her unfulfilled longings. Calming herself with a concerted effort of will, she watched as he walked toward the glass doors and disappeared inside the building. She would have to give him plenty of time to prepare, she reminded herself. It was crucial that he be ready when she got there, on the massage table and facedown. The last thing she wanted was to catch him in the act of undressing.
She glanced down at the tote bag full of exotic paraphernalia and released a taut breath. Panic welled up again, stronger this time. Whatever had possessed her to try such a thing? She had always been cautious and conservative by nature, raised to be unfailingly discreet and polite. She’d never been one of those reckless women who craved excitement and danger. The Bartholomews weren’t thrill-seekers, nor did Honor want to be one. And yet here she was, preparing to go up to Johnny’s suite and . . . A shudder extinguished the thought. If she let herself dwell on what she had to do, she would never make it out of the car. The idea of masquerading as a masseuse had come to her just yesterday when she’d been stationed in Johnny’s office, hoping for some news of his whereabouts.
The receptionist had left for a break, notifying the message service to take all calls. The phone rang several times before Honor was able to convince herself to pick it up. When she’d realized it was a massage therapist confirming Johnny’s appointment for the next afternoon, Honor had acted on impulse. She’d pretended there was some mistake, double-checking with the woman to be sure she had the correct appointment time, then requesting the woman verify Johnny’s home address. “I’m afraid Mr. Starhawk’s out of town,” she’d said, promising to reschedule. When she’d hung up the phone, she’d laughed out loud.
But she wasn’t laughing now. She would soon be bluffing her way past the doorman, into the building and onto an elevator that would take her up to Johnny’s condo. The question that truly concerned her was how she would deal with Johnny if she actually got that far.
Moments later Honor stood in the sleek mirrored elevator, ascending swiftly and silently toward her fate. As the chrome door panels whooshed open, she stepped out into an anteroom that faced the double doors of Johnny’s penthouse. She walked straight over and rang the bell, knowing any hesitation would be her undoing. To her profound relief, a maid answered.
“I’m from the International Health Spa,” she said with brisk efficiency. “Mr. Starhawk has a four P.M. appointment. Sorry I’m a few minutes late.”
The maid wasn’t impressed. “Are you new?” she asked, scrutinizing Honor’s features first, then her clothing. “You’re not the one he usually uses, are you?”
Honor held her leather tote as though it were proof of her authenticity. “His regular massage therapist is ill today. I’m replacing her. Nearly fifteen years of experience.” In a bookstore, Honor added silently. She was getting surprisingly good at subterfuge.
“This way,” the woman said, leading Honor down a long hallway hung with black-and-white photographs. Honor recognized an Annie Leibovitz print and a Paul Strand landscape, and reminded herself not to feel too sorry for Johnny. He had certainly prospered financially.
“He’s in there,” the maid said, pointing toward the last doorway on the left. “Go on in. He’s ready for you.” As the woman bustled away, she added over her shoulder, “I’ll be leaving for the evening soon. You’ll have to let yourself out when you’re through.”
“Thank you,” Honor said, staring at the door the maid had pointed out. As she approached it and reached for the knob, she had the vague sense of a heartbeat pulsing in her fingertips. The pulse echoed in her ears, expanding until it seemed to be both inside and outside her body, resonating in the hallway itself.
“Go on in!” the maid called.
Honor started violently. Her fingers gripped the knob and turned it. The sound of the latch popping free created a small explosion in her brain. She gave the door a push and stood back as it swung open, revealing a panorama of spidery high-tech equipment. Not a sauna, she realized. Not even a bedroom as she’d feared. It was a personal workout room.
She stepped inside and shut the door behind her, aware of the low and soothing strains of classical music. The man stretched out on the massage table across the room from her appeared to be sleeping, his hands folded under his head, his face turned away from her. She knew it was Johnny by the bronze skin and the long hair spilling into the curve of his far shoulder. But other than that, there were no familiar markers. He was naked, she realized. Only a narrow white towel covered his buttocks.
Dear God. Naked.
Honor brushed a tendril of hair off her face, forcing it back into the ponytail she wore. Smothering a gasp, she dropped her tote and quickly wrestled free the elastic band that restrained her hair, wincing as she yanked out several strands. The last time she’d worn her hair back, it had provoked him into pulling a knife on her. She didn’t want to risk that reaction again!
Once she had her hair free, she approached cautiously, negotiating a bewildering array of equipment. She rubbed her hands together in an attempt to warm them, her gaze drawn to the coppery muscles that rippled down the length of his back. They sloped with the curve of his spine and rose powerfully to that most potent of areas on the male body, the part of him that was covered with the towel.
Honor had never gone in for male calendar art, but she couldn’t imagine any paid model striking a pose half as erotic as the way Johnny was stretched out before her. His muscles were beautifully elongated, sinuously stretching the length of his entire body. Masculine power flowed like ocean currents under his dusky skin, a latent force.
She clasped her hands in a prayerlike gesture. Maybe he would sleep through the whole thing and never realize she’d been there. Better yet, maybe she could simply wait for twenty minutes and leave without even touching him. If he was asleep, who would know the difference?
He stirred as if drifting out of a catnap. “Any time you’re ready,” he said, his voice muzzled by his folded arms.
Honor’s heart nearly dropped to her feet. So much for not touching him!
“There’s some tension in my neck and shoulders,” he mumbled, soun
ding drowsy. “Maybe you can work it out.”
“Your neck?” She tried for a husky tone, hoping he wouldn’t recognize her voice. The vial of oil she pulled from her tote was scented with orange blossoms, and the fragrance seemed to explode with tangy richness as she poured a few drops into her palm and rubbed her hands together, lightly coating them.
Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling as she anticipated the incredible intimacy of touching him. Why had she thought she could do this? At what point had she abandoned her common sense and lost contact with reality? She hadn’t actually planned to go through with the massage. It was simply a way to get into his condo, to get past all the physical and psychological barriers that his office and the courtroom presented. She’d thought they might be able to talk like two normal people if they were in his personal space, without the formality of business suits, teakwood desks, and watchdog receptionists.
Obviously she’d been so caught up in her plans for crashing the gate, she hadn’t considered the pitfalls of trying to have a normal conversation with a naked man. Under the circumstances even a momentary massage seemed dangerous, yet she couldn’t help wondering what he would feel like. His muscles looked as hard as steel, and yet they moved so fluidly, she was sure they must be supple to the touch.
It wouldn’t have to be intimate, she told herself. A body was a body. She could pretend this one belonged to someone else. Some man. Any man. But even she, who was masquerading as a masseuse, couldn’t manage such a wild leap of the imagination. It was Johnny she was about to touch. Johnny, in all his stormy native beauty. The boy who’d loved her. The man who hated her . . .
She closed her eyes and took a calming breath, laying her hands on him. Several seconds flashed by before she could do anything more than rotate her palms. He was steel. But he was supple too. His muscles were dense, vibrant, alive. His body was cooler than she’d expected, and yet there was a flow of heat beneath the skin that seemed to respond to her touch. Every cell in her palms was alert, as if hungry for the feel of him. Finally, bravely, she splayed her hands over the breadth of his shoulders, aware of the unsteadiness in her fingertips as she worked them into corded muscle and sinew.
Night of the Panther Page 5
