Break the Night

by Stuart, Anne

  She wouldn’t panic. She could feel the icy fear start in the pit of her stomach, coiling upward, stretching icy fingers to wrap around her heart. If she gave in to it, there would be nothing. “What do you mean?” she asked, stiffening her spine, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint tremor in her voice.

  But Damien was a man who noticed everything. “You finally considered—really considered—whether I might be the Venice Ripper. After all, I have the knowledge. I know more about the killings than even the police seem to. I have the medical background—I was premed at Stanford. I have no alibi—I live alone. And my life-style and actions are very suspicious. I certainly wouldn’t seem to be the model of mental and emotional stability, now would I? Add to that, I have a history of collecting your masks, and what do you end up with?”

  She wet her lips, refusing to step away from him, much as her terrified heart pounded at her to do so. “I don’t know,” she said. “You tell me.”

  “A prime suspect. Alone in his apartment with someone who is probably the Ripper’s most favored victim. And no one knows we’re here.”

  “Adamson . . .”

  “Although he’s the best cop in town, Adamson couldn’t find his own ass in the dark,” Damien said briefly. “If I am the Ripper, I’ve managed to cover my tracks already. There has to be a terrific amount of blood involved, and yet no one’s been seen in the area looking like a butcher.”

  “Don’t,” she said weakly.

  He moved closer to her, so close that his body brushed against hers, radiating warmth, tension, danger. “Think about it, Lizzie. You’ve put yourself in my hands,” he said, his voice low and insinuating. “And it’s taken you until this very moment to consider how dangerous that might be.”

  Somehow she knew that if she gave in to her very rational fear there would be no hope for her. And if she gave in to her irrational trust, she would be safe. It was time to take a chance.

  “Why are you doing this?” she said, not flinching. “Why are you trying to scare me?”

  He reached out and touched her, cupping her face, his fingers sliding through her thick hair. “You can’t trust anyone,” he said. “Not the cops, not me, certainly not your own judgment. If you’re going to stay alive, you have to be smart enough to suspect everyone.”

  “That’s no way to live,” she whispered, staring up at him. At his mouth, which was dangerously, enticingly close to hers. She wanted to feel that mouth once more.

  She wanted to silence the frightening words he was saying.

  “It’s the only way to live,” he replied. “The only way you’re going to survive. Otherwise, even I can’t save you.”

  He was going to kiss her. She knew it; she could read it in his bleak eyes, could see the dark longing that matched her own. He was going to kiss her, and the years would dissolve, and it would be just the two of them, as it was meant to be. Her heart stopped, then started again with a mad thudding, and she held her breath, waiting, watching, as his mouth drew closer, closer

  And then he pulled away, and she could see the effort it cost him. “Go to bed, Lizzie,” he said. “I won’t let the bad guys get you.”

  She spun around, leaving him before she made an even greater fool of herself than she had already. When she looked at him, her mind flew out the window. He frightened her as no man had ever managed to frighten her before. He drew her in the same way. She didn’t know what she would discover at those long, elegant hands. Transcendence? Or death?

  But tonight wasn’t the time to find out, particularly since he’d already dismissed her so abruptly. Tonight was the night to hide away in that tiny bedroom, burrow down under the covers and try not to think about the creature that roamed the night. Using her masks.

  And try not to think about those photographs, though she suspected they would haunt her for the rest of her life.

  DAMIEN SAT ALONE in his unnaturally neat living room, staring at the TV. He’d barely moved for the past hour.

  He had no cigarettes, but not even for the most desperate nicotine craving would he leave Lizzie alone and unprotected in his apartment. Even though he couldn’t be completely certain she didn’t need to be protected from him.

  He wouldn’t let himself sleep. He didn’t know what happened when he slept. All he knew was that the memory came, the dream, of things that had yet to happen. And he could think of only one logical reason.

  He wasn’t psychic. In general, he had nothing but a benign contempt for both the charlatans themselves and the self-deluded fools who professed to believe in such things. There was always a reasonable explanation for the most inexplicable occurrences.

  But his particular reasonable explanation scared the hell out of him. The only way he could know the brutal, foul details of the murders was if he were there, committing them.

  In his dreams he could smell the blood, the harsh, metallic scent of it. Feel the warmth as it drained from the mutilated bodies. He could look down at the grisly evidence of the Ripper’s work and not flinch.

  In daylight it took all his concentration not to gag. But still, at the bottom of it all, was the troubling knowledge that whenever Adamson gave him new information about one of the crimes, it was always something he already knew.

  He wouldn’t sleep. If he slept, there was no telling what he might do. But his entire body vibrated with awareness of the woman asleep in his bed.

  He’d heard her running the shower, and he’d wondered what she’d found to put on. Something of his, no doubt.

  Was she wearing one of his T-shirts? How far down her endless legs would it reach? Had she put his discarded clothes away, found sheets for the bed? Was she lying there right now, curled up on the huge mattress, her thick red hair spread out over one of his pillows? Did she sleep on her stomach or her back? Did she sleep soundly?

  He turned off the television, suddenly feeling unbearably restless. He wouldn’t sleep tonight; he was too edgy. He’d had enough coffee, and his craving for cigarettes simply added to his edge. He wouldn’t sleep, and therefore he wouldn’t endanger her. That didn’t mean he couldn’t give in to temptation and watch her.

  The bedroom was dark as he pushed the door open, the only light coming from the automatic night light in the bathroom. He’d bought that soon after the first Ripper killing. He’d grown to hate the darkness.

  He could see her in the middle of the bed, quite clearly. There was no sign of his discarded clothes, and she’d made up the bed. She lay on the left side, slender, long bare legs stretched out. Wearing an old white oxford shirt of his, the tails reaching almost to her knees.

  He always slept on the right side. Despite having the full bed, he unconsciously left room for someone beside him. She’d done the same.

  He leaned against the door jamb, watching her. His head ached, his eyes burned, but still he didn’t move. Would it hurt so much if he lay down next to her? She’d left plenty of room—he wouldn’t be touching her. He hadn’t slept in his bed for weeks now, and suddenly he wanted to, needed to. Needed to sleep next to her, a living, breathing person. To hear her heartbeat, feel her body heat. To know her.

  He was already barefoot. He moved across the room silently, skirting the huge bed. She lay there, her breathing deep and heavy, unaware that he was watching her—lusting after her, damn it. She would be no match for the Ripper if he came to call.

  He wasn’t going to. Damien was going to keep her safe. Safe from death, even if he was the killer. As long as he didn’t sleep himself.

  He lowered himself onto the bed beside her, gingerly, watching her closely, but she didn’t stir. A man could come up behind her and slit her throat before she so much as noticed, he thought in despair. How in God’s name was he ever going to save her life?

  For now, for tonight, he wasn’t going to worry about it. He was simply going to lie there and watch her, breat
hing in the faint trace of soap and toothpaste that clung to her, mixed with other, subtler scents that slid behind his defenses. He was going to lie there, more aroused than he could remember ever being, and keep her safe. Everything about her was so achingly familiar, and yet he knew he’d never lain with her before. Longed for her, kissed her. But never slept with her.

  He closed his eyes, just for a brief moment, just so that he could concentrate on his other senses. The weight of her body in the bed next to him. The quiet sound of her breathing. He’d gotten so that he could do without sleep, and he’d be one before she had to know he’d been there. He would stay awake, alert. He would open his eyes in just one more moment. He wouldn’t sleep.

  LIZZIE OPENED HER eyes cautiously, peering at him from beneath thick lashes. J. R. Damien snored.

  It was a revelation. She wouldn’t have thought he was capable of such a human bodily function. It wasn’t a loud snore—more a muffled snort as he sank deeper into sleep. She raised herself up on one elbow, pushing her still-wet hair away from her face, to watch him.

  She’d woken up the moment he’d appeared in the doorway, his tall body casting a shadow across hers. In the first moments of sleep-dazed surprise, she’d felt no fear at all. When her defenses were down, when she was at her most vulnerable, half-asleep and almost naked in this man’s bed, she trusted him implicitly.

  It had been a relief and a wonder. No matter how he tried to frighten her, even if it was for her own good, he wouldn’t succeed. She trusted him. It was that simple.

  Now she stared at him in the darkness, wondering if he slept soundly. Wondering if he would wake up if she touched him. She longed to reach out and caress his silky black hair, to soothe the lines from his high forehead, to trace the sharp contour of mouth and lip.

  She couldn’t, of course. What if he awoke and caught her?

  Neither could she lie in the bed, so close to him, and not move closer. People moved in their sleep; they snuggled up to whatever was closest. Surely she could manage to be that convincing an actress. This was the first time she’d been in bed with a man in over three years, the first time she’d really wanted to be in bed with a man. She was hardly going to spend the night with all that space between them.

  She sighed, loudly, letting her eyes drift closed as she snuggled down deeper into the bed. He didn’t move, so deep in sleep that the National Guard could have marched through the bedroom without waking him.

  Go for it, she ordered herself, rolling across the narrow space that separated them, making sleepy, innocent little noises until she ended up next to the hard, muscular heat of his body. He made a sound himself, something rather like a humph, as she settled against him. And then his arms came around her, pulling her body up against his, tucking her head beneath his shoulder, as he slept on, oblivious.

  For a moment, she was stiff with tension. And then, slowly, deliberately, she forced her body to relax. This was what she’d wanted, what she needed. Not sex. Not romance. Just a strong male body, tight against hers. To help her make it through the darkness. He’d done in his sleep what she’d done in subterfuge, holding her close. He would have no reason to blame her if he woke up and found their bodies entwined. Chances were, she would wake before he did, and he would never realize what he’d done.

  She realized with sudden shock that he was aroused. She felt color suffuse her face in the darkness, felt the sudden racing of her heart, the burning ache in the pit of her stomach as she responded.

  It was a simple biological function, she reminded herself. The man was asleep, deeply asleep, with a female body wrapped around him. Of course he was aroused. It meant absolutely nothing. Any female body would have done the same. He wasn’t even aware of her

  “Relax, Lizzie.” His voice was cool, soothing, in the darkness, and it shocked her.

  For a moment she dissolved into embarrassed silence. She tried to pull away from him, but his relaxed muscles grew suddenly tense as he held her firmly against him, and she could feel the pounding of his own heart, the throbbing of his pulse, against her. “Go back to sleep,” he said, his own voice sleepy.

  He was too strong, too implacable, and she really had no desire to leave the dangerous heat. She took a deep, shaky breath, forcing her muscles to relax.

  “That’s right, Lizzie,” he murmured approvingly. “No one will hurt you. Go back to sleep.”

  She wanted to protest. She wanted to argue. But even more, she wanted to fall asleep in his arms. And in the end she gave in. Knowing she would be safe. From everyone but J. R. Damien.

  Chapter Nine

  THE DREAMS CAME. The vision, thick with blood and terror, just as Damien had known it would. He was there, standing over the mutilated remains of the girl, staring down at her, and he could smell the blood. Her ears had been cut away, and the blood matted her thick black hair. Her eyes were

  wide open, staring up at him from the savaged ruins of her body, and they were filled with horror and accusation. Her mouth was open in a bloody scream that no one ever heard, but she called his name, called out his guilt, through the decades, howling in pain and fury, until he had to hold his ears to drown out her cries, until he had to scream himself, the sound ripped from his throat, and his hands were covered with her blood. She was dead, lying there in a welter of carnage, and he was responsible.

  THE SOUND OF HIS scream woke her, ripping her from sleep in sudden terror. Damien had scrambled off the bed, and he was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his eyes wide open but faraway, focused on something too terrible to contemplate. His breath was coming in short, rapid pants, and he looked as if he’d stared into the depths of hell, only to see his own face reflected back.

  Lizzie didn’t hesitate. She threw herself off the bed, kneeling in front of him, taking his beautiful, slack, ice-cold hands in hers. “Wake up, Damien,” she said urgently, even though he was clearly awake. She dropped his hands, reached up for his shoulders and shook them, hard, so that his head snapped back and banged against the wall and his eyes suddenly sharpened and focused on her.

  “You,” he said, in a harsh, strangled voice. And then he hauled her into his arms, between his legs, pressing her up against him, and buried his face in her hair. He was shaking so hard that the chill reached Lizzie’s body, as well, and she pushed closer to him, cradled between his thighs, her arms around his head, holding him protectively as he trembled. Feeling his hot breath against her skin, the terror that spiked through him, terror that slowly, slowly abated.

  “What did you dream?” she asked, when his shaking had finally quieted.

  He lifted his head to look at her, and in the darkness his eyes were bleak. “No dream,” he said. He took his hands away from her, and he stared down at them in surprise.

  Lizzie made no effort to move away from him. “Then what?” she demanded. “A vision? A nightmare?”

  “A memory,” he said, rubbing his hands along his jean-covered thighs, as if he wanted to wash away traces of something. “I saw the Ripper’s latest victim,” he said quietly. “Lying in an alleyway, behind a strip joint.”

  “The latest victim was found in San Bernardino,” Lizzie said.

  Damien shook his head. “There’s another one. Closer. Much closer.” He stared down at his hands again and shuddered.

  Lizzie could stand it no more. She put her hands on his face, staring at him. “What are you trying to say?” she demanded. “What are you afraid of? How could you remember something that hasn’t even happened?”

  “It’s happened,” he said. “Oh, God, it’s already happened.” He tried to rise, to push her away, but she wouldn’t let him.

  “What’s happened?” she said. “Damien, tell me.” For a moment he hesitated, and she held her breath, waiting. And then he shook his head. “I should tell you to leave,” he said obscurely. “I should send you away, out of here, away f
rom me. Before I—”

  “Before you what?” she demanded when he abruptly stopped speaking. She was kneeling between his legs, her hands on his face, pleading, vulnerable.

  He stared at her, and then something seemed to sweep across his bleak face. Wariness, acceptance. “Before you get hurt,” he said, in a calmer voice, and she knew that wasn’t what he’d been about to say at all. “I don’t give a damn what Adamson says, you need to get out of town. Out of this state, out of the country. In the morning I’m driving you out to LAX and putting you on the first plane away from here.”

  “I won’t go,” she said, dropping her hands in her lap.

  “Don’t be a fool, Lizzie. I don’t have anything to spend my money on, and there can’t be a much better investment than saving a life. You can call it an advance on some new masks. I don’t really give a damn. I just want you away from here. Away from Los Angeles. Away from . . . the Ripper.”

  “I thought you were going to stay away from me,” she said quietly. “Why should you be a threat to me?”

  “Because I’ll sacrifice anyone or anything to get the Ripper.”

  She knew he was lying. “Damien,” she said. “Damien, you would never sacrifice me.”

  For a moment, neither of them moved. And then he reached up to touch her, his hands cupping her shoulders, drawing her down, bringing her mouth to his. He kissed her slowly, gently, his mouth soft and damp and questing against her lips. He nibbled at her, tasting her. It was a kiss of such startling sweetness that she felt tears spring to her eyes, as a gnawing, yearning warmth started in the pit of her stomach and grew, spiraling outward, downward, filling her with such heat and longing that she began to tremble herself, and she wanted to move closer, to sink against him, into him, to press against him and dissolve.

  His hands tightened on her shoulders, moving her back slightly, and she looked at him through emotion-shrouded eyes. “Don’t trust me,” he said in a harsh voice. And then he kissed her again, harder this time, without the sweetness, the tenderness, but with a fullness of passion that left her taut and aching. He murmured something against her mouth, and she opened her lips, letting his tongue inside, as her eyes fluttered closed. His hands moved down from her shoulders to cover her breasts through the flimsy barrier of his shirt, and her nipples hardened against him in the dark, hot room. And then his hands moved lower, under the hem of the shirt, sliding up her bare torso until he touched her breasts, the skin hot and tender, her nipples thrusting against him, and if felt good, so good that she made a quiet little cry of longing, arching closer. He pulled her nearer, over him, so that she was straddling his lap, her arms around his neck as she kissed him back, no longer thinking about anything but the demand of his mouth against hers, the strength of his body between her legs, the heat and hardness of him against the juncture of her thighs, the feel of his callused hands against her swollen breasts.