“Wait,” he commanded, the deep, cold sound of his voice wrapping around her and making her go utterly still. “I need to check the hallway first.”
He glanced out of the elevator, his arm holding the doors open. Then he stepped out and, keeping his hand on the doors, gave her a nod.
Grace swallowed, her heart rate not in any way slowing down.
Taking you hostage … Sending pieces of you …
She did not like the sound of that. Not at all. God, what kind of thing had Griffin gotten himself into? She couldn’t understand it. He’d always been a good guy, kind and generous and caring. So what had possessed him to do … this?
Maybe you should be asking Lucas.
It was a conversation she didn’t want to have. But it was starting to look like she was going to need to.
As she stepped out of the elevator, she turned automatically down the hallway toward her apartment. But again Lucas stepped in front of her. “I go first,” he said shortly, and before she could say anything he carried on down the hallway ahead of her.
Grace didn’t argue. Mainly because she was thinking that maybe he was right. That there were actually people after her. It was horrible to think and doubly so considering Griffin, but Lucas was taking this very, very seriously indeed and she couldn’t ignore that.
So she said nothing, following Lucas’s tall figure as he strode down the hallway, every line of him screaming lethal danger. Yeah, and that didn’t do anything to stop the weird fizzing, vibrating feeling inside her. The way he moved, all fluid and utterly certain, like a predator totally at ease in its environment. She found it … fascinating.
Lucas stopped outside her apartment, which both irritated her and annoyed her, because it was now obvious that he had in fact been following her without her being aware of him. How else would he know where she lived?
“Key.” He held out his hand toward her without looking, his attention on the door, examining it as if the secrets of the universe were embedded into the wood.
Grace scowled as she dug in her purse for her key. “I can unlock my own door, thanks.”
“Not when I’m here, you’re not.” He didn’t even glance at her, his palm still outstretched. He was blocking the door, and short of shoving him out of the way, she couldn’t unlock it anyway, leaving her with no choice but to slap the key into his palm.
He took it without a word of thanks, putting it into the lock and turning it. He didn’t open the door immediately. Instead he thrust the bike helmet into her hands, then reached around to grab something from the small of his back. Her heart almost stopped beating when she saw he was carrying a compact-looking pistol.
This is real. This is happening.
“Oh my God.” It came out as a whisper, her voice all scratchy. “Are they actually in my apartment?” Stupid, but all she could think about was her paintings and the thousands of hours of work she’d put into them. And how if they were destroyed all that work would have been for nothing.
“The lock hasn’t been tampered with,” Lucas said coolly. “And there are no signs of forced entry. But I’m being cautious. You wait here.”
For a second Grace felt a rush of gratefulness toward him. Because he was so calm, so cold, and if all this was real then cold and calm was exactly what she wanted. Like that moment out on the street, when he’d taken her arm and given her instructions. There was something very, very reassuring about how in control of the situation he was.
She said nothing as he raised his weapon and pulled open the door, disappearing inside her apartment and closing the door after him.
Silence reigned for a long moment and she waited, staring at the closed door, her mouth dry, fear sitting in a small, hard lump in her gut.
Then abruptly the door was pulled open and Lucas’s silver-blue gaze met hers. “All clear.” He stood aside for her to enter, shifting his bike jacket to put away his weapon, then taking back his helmet from her.
Grace stepped inside.
It was a tiny apartment, just one room, with her bed pushed up against one wall and a small galley kitchen jammed against the opposite wall. Apart from a table, a couple of chairs, and a dresser, she had no other furniture. She didn’t have room, not when her living space was entirely taken up by the giant canvases that she had propped against the walls, some stacked on top of one another to make way for the biggest canvas. The one that was entirely blank.
Grace had just dropped her purse beside the door when a shadow flickered by the window near her bed.
And suddenly a hard arm caught her around the waist and she found herself backed up against a wall, that same arm across her chest, pinning her there. Then six foot two of leather-clad male muscle blocked her vision as Lucas positioned himself right in front of her, every line of him drawn tense and alert.
“Don’t move.” His voice was iron and steel, his attention not on her but toward the window. “Don’t even breathe.”
CHAPTER FOUR
She was very still, which was good, and she didn’t make a sound, which was even better. Looked like she was starting to take this seriously.
He kept his arm across her chest, holding her against the wall, every sense he had aimed toward the window where that shadow had flickered. It could have been anything, a bird probably, but it paid to always be alert to anything and everything. He didn’t like surprises and most especially not when they concerned the lives of civilians.
He waited for a couple of moments, a couple of breaths, staring at the window, listening. But nothing happened.
A bird. That’s all it was.
Turning back to Grace, he met her wide amber gaze. There was fear in it, but he didn’t mind that. Fear was a healthy reaction to something like this and if she was afraid then she might more easily trust him.
Telling her the most likely scenario about what would happen to her if these assholes captured her the way he had in the elevator hadn’t been the kindest move, but then as he’d already told himself, he wasn’t here to be kind.
He was here to protect her and if that made her scared or uncomfortable then so be it. She had to know how serious this was. Because it was. Very fucking serious.
Grace blinked, then touched her tongue to her bottom lip, and he found his attention drawn by the movement, oddly fascinated by the curve of that bottom lip. Her mouth was wide and full, lush almost.
His attention dropped lower, as though he couldn’t stop himself, to the beat of her pulse at the base of her throat. It was fast and as he watched it got even faster, racing beneath her pale, freckle-dusted skin.
Why was that? Yes, this was scary for her, but he was here. He was keeping her safe. He wouldn’t let her be hurt.
“You don’t have to be afraid.” He lifted his gaze back to hers, following an impulse he never normally followed. The impulse to give reassurance. “I won’t let anyone harm you.”
She blinked again, her lashes a reddish gold, her eyes the color of fall leaves. “W-what was that?”
“That shadow? Probably only a bird.”
“Oh.” She swallowed and he found his attention dropping to her throat again, watching the movement. “Are you sure it wasn’t a plane?”
Her neck was very long, very elegant. In fact, now that he thought about it, everything about her was very long and very elegant. “No, it was definitely a bird.”
“That was a joke.” Her voice sounded faintly husky. “You know, bird, plane, Superman.”
Why the fuck are you thinking about how elegant she is?
Good question and one he didn’t have the answer to.
“It’s not a very good one.” He dragged his gaze from her throat. “At least, I’m not laughing.”
Her reddish brows were slightly winged at the corners, becoming more pronounced as she frowned. “Do you ever laugh?”
“Not often.” And he didn’t. Humor, in his opinion, was overrated.
“Good to know.” Grace looked pointedly down at his arm across her chest. “You c
an let me go now.”
Yes, he really should. Especially as the danger had passed. Yet he found he almost didn’t want to. He’d become quite conscious of her scent, a warm, dry, faintly sweet smell, like apple wood left out to dry under a hot sun. He liked it. It reminded him of the expeditions he used to go on with his brothers when they were kids, after they’d been adopted by Noah Tate and brought to his ranch in Wyoming. Where they’d go exploring on the trails of Shadow Peak, the mountain behind the ranch house. Some nights they’d camp out under the stars and build campfires, and when he pulled his clothes on the next morning the fabric would smell of woodsmoke.
Something strange shifted inside his chest, a kick of some emotion he didn’t understand and didn’t want to.
Better not to think of that stuff. Better not to think of the past at all.
He took his arm away from her and stood back, giving her some room. Trying not to see the flicker of relief that played over her features as she quickly moved past him, as if she couldn’t wait to get away from him.
You scared her.
Well, yes. He knew he would have. But so? If she wasn’t afraid she wouldn’t take this seriously. And she had to. He was only going to give her ten minutes to gather her stuff together and then they were going to have to leave, because they couldn’t stay here. That much he was already certain of.
He turned around, taking in the rest of her place.
It was tiny and pokey. The walls had been painted white, but that made no difference to the general gloom, not helped by the small window that looked out on to the wall of the building next door.
The lack of space wasn’t helped by the mess lying around either. There were clothes thrown haphazardly over a dresser near the window, old coffee mugs, plates, and stacks of mail covering the small dining table. A pile of dog-eared paperbacks had been messily thrust aside, or possibly kicked, to make way for the series of huge canvases that leaned against the walls. Tubes and pots of paint, and brushes and sponges, and all kinds of other artistic paraphernalia were lying around untidily. A palette lay in the middle of the room, a brush lying not far away from it, as if someone had thrown both onto the floor in a fit of pique.
The whole place offended his neat, military soul and it was all he could do not to start organizing it for her. Instead he dumped the helmet on the table, then walked over to where one of the canvases stood to get a better look.
It was of a tall, powerful man, his back to the viewer, his head turned and showing a strong profile. There was something oppressive about the painting, and not simply in the colors she’d used, but in the way the man was standing with his hand in a fist as if he were about to punch someone with it, shadows lurking around him. The figure loomed large, taking up almost all of the canvas, a study in blacks and charcoals and grays.
Lucas frowned at it. He couldn’t have said why the painting seemed menacing, but it did.
Vaguely uncomfortable, he looked at the canvas standing next to it.
Another male figure dominated the painting, but the sense of oppressiveness was lacking. In this painting the man was again standing with his back to the viewer, his hands on the rim of a bathroom sink. He was peering into a mirror in front of him, letting the viewer see his features.
It came as an odd jolt to realize that the man was Griffin.
Lucas stared at it, momentarily taken aback for reasons he couldn’t have explained. His friend’s mouth was turned up in his usual lopsided smile, as if he were looking at the viewer in the mirror and sharing a joke. The colors in this painting were muted and quiet, lots of blues and whites, and when Lucas leaned in to take a closer look he realized the paint was heavily textured, as if layers had been added over the top of one another, giving the colors a deeper, richer effect.
Then, quite suddenly, Grace was there, nearly shoving him out of the way as she gripped the frame of the canvas and lifted it, moving it over the one of the oppressive-looking man. Almost as if she didn’t like Lucas looking at it.
“Excuse me,” she muttered belatedly, bustling about and grabbing another painting, leaning it on top of the others.
He resisted the urge to tell her to stop what she was doing, that he wanted to have a look at the canvases, which was strange, since he’d never particularly appreciated art. Not that they had the time to stand about looking at paintings anyway, but there was a part of him that was curious about them. Mainly because she was the one who’d painted them.
Why does that matter?
Yeah, he didn’t understand that part either.
“Get your stuff,” he ordered instead. “We need to get out of here.”
Grace stopped dead, still holding one of the massive canvases, and turned to him in surprise. “What? What do you mean we need to get out of here?”
“You can’t stay here. It’s not safe.” And it wasn’t. It only had two exits, both of which were easily accessed, which meant that all anyone needed to do to get her was make sure to put men on each one so she couldn’t get out.
Plus he’d noticed when he’d checked out the place that the locks on the windows a child could have opened. Same with the one on the door.
The place was a death trap and she wasn’t staying here. His apartment in SoHo was the most logical place to take her, but now he wasn’t quite so sure. They’d had a lookout near the gallery, which meant they knew she had business in the area, and that made staying in SoHo problematic.
The best solution would be to take her out of the city entirely, but he couldn’t do that. Not when he had to stick around for Van and do his duty by Tate Oil. Luckily, Lucas had another place, a place no one knew about in Greenwich Village. The best part about it was not only had he had it fitted out with the latest security measures, the place also couldn’t be traced to him, since he’d made the owner a shell company he’d set up himself years earlier.
There was, of course, the option to take her to the Tate property upstate, where Noah employed a full complement of security staff, but Lucas had always liked to keep things simple. And the fewer people who knew where Grace was the better.
She was still staring at him as if he’d suddenly grown another head. “What do you mean I can’t stay here?”
Lucas moved over to the window and glanced out, scanning the outside of the building and the tiny alleyway beside it. “Do I really need to keep repeating myself?”
“Yes, actually you damn well do.” Carefully she leaned the painting against the others, then took a couple of steps over to the bed, undoing the belt of her leather coat and shrugging out of it. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? I can’t leave my pieces here, for a start. Not when I have an exhibition in two weeks. And especially not when there’s one piece still left to complete and I haven’t started the damn thing yet.” She threw the coat down on the bed, then raised her hands and pushed her fingers through her hair, combing through the long, apricot-colored strands. The movement made the silky fabric of her dress pull and tighten over her chest, molding it to her willowy figure in a way he found distracting.
She wasn’t as flat chested as he’d thought. Her breasts were small and high, the wrap dress emphasizing the curve of her waist, the way she was standing making the fabric part just a little on one thigh and giving him a glimpse nearly to her hip. She wore black tights beneath it, but for some reason his brain insisted on filtering out the black nylon and replacing it with pale, milky skin dusted with freckles.
Why are you looking at her like that?
Again another excellent fucking question, and again he had no idea why he was looking at her like that. Perhaps it was because he needed sex? Then again, he tried not to need anything and he was very good at it, so it couldn’t be that. What was irritating was that he was getting distracted. Actually, no, it was worse than that. He was letting himself get distracted.
Then just don’t let it happen.
Okay. So he wouldn’t. He was a goddamn sniper, the best in the business, ice-cold, calm, and ruthless. He let nothing
affect him, nothing touch him. Nothing get in the way of a mission, a kill. And he never let that mask drop.
In fact, he’d been wearing it so long it was now part of him.
One plain redhead wasn’t going to turn the machine he’d made himself into back into a man again.
Lucas met her gaze. Held it. Made sure she saw exactly how deep the ice inside him went. He wasn’t here to be kind. He was here to protect her and if that meant doing things she wasn’t going to like that was too bad. She’d have to suck it up. “You know what I saw back there at the art gallery?” He kept his tone even. “You know why we had to leave in a hurry? There was a lookout on the street. Which means that they were following you. And if they followed you to the art gallery they almost certainly know where you live.” She paled, but he went on. “And because you came out and confronted me, they now know that I’m involved too.”
“Oh,” she said faintly. “I didn’t know.…”
“Of course you didn’t. But whether you like it or not, they know I’m with you and they’ll know who I am. Which means they’ll also know that they need a better class of asshole if they’re going to come after us. Now, all they need to take you is a couple of men, one on the door and one on the window, and probably another five to take me, but they could do it if they’re smart. There are no other exits here, and if I go down there’s no way for you to escape.”
She folded her arms, bracelets chiming. “All apartments have doors and windows. I can’t see how—”
“The idea is to not let them get near in the first place and, if the worst happens, always have an exit route.…” He paused to let that sink in. “There are no exit routes here.”
Her jaw took on an obstinate cast and she shifted on her feet, obviously unhappy with the situation. “So where are you suggesting we go?”
“I have a place in the Village. I installed the security myself and it’s very defensible. It’s also untraceable to me, so they won’t be able to find us if we’re careful.”
The Wicked Billionaire--A Billionaire SEAL Romance Page 5
