by Fiona Brand
Sam lengthened her stride, spooked to see that now there was no one ahead of her, either. This particular street was empty except for herself, the drunken youth and the three men behind her. She heard footsteps, the low timbre of voices, and lengthened her stride, calculating how far she had to go, the safest options. There was plenty of traffic cruising past, she could always try to stop someone and ask for assistance.
Maybe she wasn't in any danger, but the tight prickling at the base of her nape said that just maybe she was.
Self-defence tactics she'd learned in a class just months before replayed themselves through her mind. She was small, no more than five-four. Her first and best option was to flat-out run. If she had to defend herself…
Adrenaline flooded her system. Make a tight fist. Don't fold her fingers over her thumb or she would break it. Elbows were good, kicking even better, because she didn't have to be in so close and her boots had solid soles.
She glanced back, saw the three men closing on her. The dark, leather-jacketed man was in front. He had a white T-shirt on beneath the jacket. Sam swallowed, her breathing shallowing out. The white T-shirt, something about the fluid, ground-eating prowl of the man's stride, was more than familiar.
She was almost sure it was the man who had been outside the cinema.
He was how far away? Twenty metres? Thirty?
She risked another look, not breaking her stride. The man's head lifted sharply, as if he'd finally sensed her panic, but she still couldn't make him out clearly. He was walking through pooling darkness, the white T-shirt shining like a beacon.
Light flashed across the man, searing his image in her mind. He was big, six foot three or four at least, and grimly, fiercely male.
It couldn't be, she thought numbly. Sam faltered, slowed, then turned to face him, almost completely disoriented now. It was the man she'd watched outside the cinema. The man she'd thought was Gray.
He kept coming, his features half in light, half out of it. The drizzle and the street-lighting weren't helping. His features seemed at once both unbearably familiar and alien.
"Sam."
His voice shivered through her, the gravelled tone too deep, too raspy. The rougher cadence sent a shuddering little frisson down her spine.
He was a stranger.
Adrenaline jolted her system again. Warily she backed up a step, saw the entrance to a narrow service lane, then plunged into darkness, frantically hoping her eyes would adjust soon, before she went head over tail. At least she knew where she was – the lane twisted and turned between tall buildings, then came out near a service station. From there the rear entrance of the Royal was just a short lope across the road. It wasn't a route she would normally choose, but right now alley demons and derelicts didn't seem nearly so dangerous as the stranger who had said her name.
A harsh command sliced through the shrouded darkness, and Sam found the strength to ignore the wet drag of her raincoat and lift her knees higher as she ran, pushing for more speed. She rounded a corner, skidded in a puddle that was rank with refuse. Her hand shot out, palm scraping against the rough side of a building. She steadied herself, heart pumping furiously, mouth dry as she careened on.
Her name echoed, rasping eerily; then she heard him behind her, felt the ripple of irrational terror exploding up her spine as she caught the dim glow at the end of the alley, like the light at the end of a tunnel. Just as she burst free of the darkness, his hand fastened heavily on her arm and spun her to a stumbling halt.
"Damn," he said tautly. "What in hell do you mean by running?"
His gaze locked on hers. The impact of it almost drove her back a step. Grim purpose radiated from eyes as black as sin, as cold as hell iced over. The yellow glow of the street lamp illuminated the strong, rain-slick contours of a face she knew … and didn't.
He was furious, she realised blankly. Furious enough to wrap one of those big, dangerous hands around her throat and shake her.
It would be one way to die.
"Gray?" Sam sucked in a breath, still not sure that it was, and shocked at the husky alarm threading her voice.
"Yeah, it's me. Gray," he added, as if he thought she needed the reassurance.
She did. Both his hands were on her now, clasped around her upper arms, as if he was afraid he would spook her again. The heat from his palms penetrated even through the layers of raincoat and clothing.
"I didn't mean to scare you, babe," he said, low and soothing, his hold firm. "I thought you'd recognised me. I forgot about this damn voice."
Abruptly he released her and pulled the neck of his T-shirt and the collar of his leather jacket aside, baring the supple, coppery skin of his throat and the ridged line of scar tissue that was now clearly visible. "A knife," he said, soft as rough velvet.
The timbre of his voice quivered through her, and for a split second Sam forgot everything but the evidence of pain and violence. She wanted to reach up, touch the old wound, demand to know why he'd been attacked and who had done such a violent, senseless thing. The impulse died a quick death. He wouldn't want her concern, he never had, and the alarming dichotomy of facing a stranger she knew, intimately, struck her anew.
He was bigger than she remembered, broader across the shoulders, deeper through the chest, and looking into his eyes was like gazing into the heart of midnight. They were dark, depthless, and so remote she ached inside. There was no sign of the direct, ruthless male charm she remembered, or the sleepy indulgent humour that had wrapped her in a dazed enchantment for weeks on end. The man she'd fallen in love with had been like a large, sated cat – lazily sensual and playful, sometimes moodily intense, and so absorbed with her that she'd disregarded his warnings, his refusal to make promises.
There was an air of condensed power about this Gray, a seasoned maturity that sent shivers of alarm and unease down her spine. The iron control that tightened the tanned skin across his cheekbones and firmed the sensual line of his mouth only made him look harder, even more bleakly ruthless.
And then another thought drove everything else from her mind. "You were looking for me."
"Damn straight," he said grimly. "When you didn't answer your phone or your door, I made some enquiries. One of the hotel staff said they'd seen you go out walking. Walking!" His voice was rough with disbelief.
Her fingers curled into her palms. One palm stung, and she absently noted she must have scraped the skin off when she'd nearly skidded over, but right now a little lost skin was the least of her concerns. "You make it sound like walking is a crime. This is Auckland, Gray, not a war zone. Maybe it wasn't the brightest decision I've ever made, but I don't owe you any explanations."
His expression was hooded, watchful. "I'm sorry we frightened you, but that young thug wasn't after conversation."
The graphic image of Gray gripping the thug's collar while he hauled him up to eye level sparked off an involuntary shiver. "Okay," she said quietly. "Thanks for … dealing with him. I think."
Gray released a breath, and she felt a startled awareness of the tension that was gripping him. Tension and relief. Incredible as it seemed, he'd been worried about her. The notion was jolting. The depth of his concern was as alien as his voice, and she didn't know how to respond to it.
"I'll take you home," he stated.
Sam eyed him warily, struck now by the inescapable fact that the man who had been scouring the crowd so urgently outside the cinema had been Gray, and she had been the focus of his search. Gray looking for her at all was hard to take in; the level of urgency in his search was even more baffling. All she wanted now was to get away from his disturbing presence, to be alone so she could think all this through. "You don't have to bother. It's just across the road."
His brows lifted in what could have been amusement. "I know, I'm staying there, too."
He cupped her elbow before she could answer, his firm grip upsetting her hard-won equilibrium all over again as he urged her across the deserted street. The gesture was old-fashioned and
possessive, almost ludicrous under the circumstances, and the heat from his palm, his solid, muscular presence so close beside her, made an awareness she wanted no part of blossom in the pit of her stomach, confusing her even further.
Sam toyed with the idea of simply shaking free of his hold, but to do so would signal how uncomfortable she felt in his presence. She sensed he wouldn't willingly let her go, anyway, not after all the effort he'd gone to to find her.
Footfalls sounded behind them. Sam craned around to see the two dark-clothed men following behind like shadows. She'd forgotten about them.
"They're with me," Gray said in a tone that was probably supposed to reassure her.
Sam almost choked. "Do you mean to tell me there were three of you out combing the streets for me?"
Gray's narrow gaze glittered over her. "Sorry, darlin'," he murmured, humour and something very like satisfaction threading his rough voice. "That was all I could spare at the time."
Sam's own gaze narrowed. He made her sound like a renegade mare at round-up time and he the reluctant cowboy who had had been stuck with the job of reeling her in. "It's a shame then, isn't it, that I wasn't lost?"
His gaze lingered on her, and she could almost have sworn he was amused, but he didn't smile.
If he had smiled, she decided bleakly, she would have done what she had planned when he had chased her down in the alley. Plan B wasn't foolproof by anyone's standards, but it had its merits. It involved her knee and a certain part of her attacker's anatomy, and was guaranteed to render any male speechless for a satisfying length of time.
Chapter 3
He had her safe.
That was Gray's first rational thought as he guided Sam toward the badly lit back entrance of the hotel. The return of rationality was damn welcome.
When he had found out Sam had gone out alone at night, on foot, he had almost gone crazy. When that young hood had started after her, adrenaline had slammed through him. He was still tense and edgy from its effects.
Then she had run from him.
He could kick himself. He had forgotten about his voice, forgotten just how many years had passed, and if those years had scored their indelible mark on him, they had also tempered Sam. The changes were in her face, and they rocked him. The rounded softness of youth had been replaced by a fine-boned symmetry that added an exotic elegance to her features, a feminine strength to the firmly moulded sweep of her jaw, and made her mouth look even more tantalisingly stubborn.
She was neither stunningly beautiful nor model perfect, but those two qualities had never turned Gray on. It had been the dark-blue purity of her eyes, her remote, untouched quality, that had first attracted him. She'd been like a pristine, tightly budded rose, and once he'd noticed her, it had taken him about ten seconds to respond to the unintentional challenge of that closed, delicately sensual face and get so hard he knew he had to have her.
Some things, he thought with bleak humour, didn't change.
It had always surprised him that he'd got her into his bed so easily and so fast, but after a while he'd realised that, despite the fact that she'd given herself to him, he didn't have her at all. The stubborn, bone-deep reserve that had at first so intrigued him had soon made him furious. He'd never been certain of her, even when he'd had her beneath him with both legs wrapped firmly around his waist.
Although there had been nothing reserved about her reaction tonight. She had run the gamut of panic and fear, relief and anger, and mastered it all with cool courage. When she'd found out who he was, her expression had turned about as warm and welcoming as pack-ice. She had looked at him as if she would have liked to kick his ass.
Gray swept the shadows, his gaze intent, his senses acute. Ben and Carter stepped quietly behind him.
When this was all over, he decided, Sam could kick his ass for as long as she liked, and he would take it. He would chuck the active operations and concentrate on the organisational aspects. Gray felt a certain relief at the decision. Yeah, he was ready to settle down. Past ready. He wanted Sam, and he wanted kids. He would do what his mother had been wanting him to do for years: get a haircut and a real job. But he couldn't allow himself the luxury of a future yet. Not when his own brother was dead and the man who had killed him was still free and hunting.
"Is there a back entrance to your rooms?" Gray asked, as they neared the private parking bay at the rear of the hotel.
"Near the store-room, but I don't need—"
"I'll see you safe."
Sam hit back a cool answer. Gray was set on seeing her to her door. Okay, she could live with that. At night, this part of the hotel was poorly lit and decidedly sinister, and after her flat had been broken into, she hadn't been able to wipe the image of the offender waiting out here, lurking in the shadows, maybe watching her until she'd finally left for work.
At a nod from Gray, one of the two men glided past, the dark one. His eyes were faintly amused, speculative. He didn't look like any accountant or hotel executive Sam had ever seen. Neither did the blond guy. The two of them were like a couple of sleek, hungry Dobermans trailing their master.
She heard the metallic scrape of the latch being lifted on the gate that guarded the back entrance to her flat. The security light she'd had installed over her door sprang to life, starkly illuminating the tiny courtyard.
Sam dug her keys out of her pocket as she walked through the gate.
Gray held his hand out. "Let me."
It wasn't a question. With a lift of her brows, she dropped the keys into his palm.
Gray unlocked the French doors and disappeared inside. Sam followed, flicking a light on. Seconds later Gray reappeared, the leather jacket once more held in his hand, his damp T-shirt clinging to his chest. The image of him grimly searching outside the cinema replayed itself in her mind, and a shiver of reaction went through her, compounded by an unnerving sense of being shoved along with no control.
Easing out of her coat, she shook most of the drips off outside on the payers. The courtyard was now deserted; the other two men had gone, melting away into the night so quickly and silently that she hadn't heard them leave.
"You're bleeding."
She spun, startled. Gray was bare inches from her, which startled her even more; she hadn't heard him approach. Up this close he was even more intimidating; the chiselled planes of his face were leaner, more darkly tanned, than she remembered, the force of his black gaze mesmerizing. His very presence made her feel absurdly vulnerable. She'd gone out tonight because she needed time to come to grips with the fact that Gray was here at all. She'd planned to be completely composed with the armour of her job, her professionalism, fully in place when she finally met him. Having him in her flat, larger than life, bigger, more male than she remembered, definitely wasn't part of the plan.
Shockingly his fingers grazed her temple, the pads warm, rough against her skin, sending another hot tingle of sensation shimmering through her. His fingertips came away smeared with blood.
"Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?"
His expression was accusing. Sam reached up to feel the place he'd touched, but he forestalled her.
"Let me," he rasped softly.
His fingers brushed her temples as he parted her hair, searching for the source of the bleeding. Sam froze at the sheer unexpectedness of his actions. The blood in her hair could only have come from her palm, and she was standing here, letting him search for a nonexistent wound while the shatteringly familiar scent of him surrounded her, yanking her into a past she had spent the last few months trying to bury.
Panic grabbed her stomach. She jerked free of his touch. Dear God, Gray might look and sound different, but he still smelled the same: clean, hot, utterly male. "It's my hand," she said huskily.
"Let me see."
"It's nothing." Reluctantly Sam extended her hand. "Just a scrape."
She uncurled her fingers, letting him see her palm. It wasn't bad, but the abraded area was raw and dirty.
"I'll d
ress it for you."
Sam stiffened, but he cut her off before she could speak.
"You're still shaky. I'm not leaving until I've dressed your hand." Gray's jaw was set, unyielding. "If I step out of line, you can slap me."
Sam knew that expression, the iron force of the will behind it. Gray was used to getting his way. She could argue until she ran out of breath, order him out, but he wouldn't leave until he'd bandaged her hand. Once again she was faced with a choice she had never imagined she would have to make – a choice between an undignified tussle to get rid of him or taking the line of least resistance and letting him have his way.
The notion that he would even want to step out of line was so ludicrous that she dismissed it. "The first-aid box is in the bathroom. It's a red container in the cupboard under the basin."
Sam drew a relieved breath when he left the room, hung up her coat, then sank down in one of two single chairs in the lounge. The couch was out. No way was she having him sitting next to her.
When Gray prowled back into the room, he had a bowl of water and a washcloth, as well as the first-aid box. Instead of drawing the other single chair over next to hers, he pushed the coffee table aside, snagged a footstool and sat down, bracketing her legs with his in order to get close.
Even sitting down, he was big, and Sam was abruptly aware of just how physically intimidating Gray was. The sense of being cornered was acute, and her body was responding to his proximity in a way that was frankly alarming; she was flushed with heat, and her skin had become ultrasensitive, her breasts tight and tender.
Reluctantly she placed her hand in his. He was gentle, but even so, she flinched when he began cleaning her palm.
When he was finished, Gray smeared on antiseptic cream, then applied a dressing. "Does your grandfather still live here?"
"He died a few months ago."
His gaze connected with hers. "I'm sorry. I wish I'd known."