by Tara Janzen
She swallowed the pills with a glass of water and left the water running for a second glass. The heat had been oppressive all day, and not even night had lowered the record temperatures.
A sound in the living room drew her head around. She shut the water off and listened again, concentrating, trying to hear over the sudden pounding of her heart and the rush of adrenaline pumping through her body.
When no more sound was forthcoming, she forced herself to relax enough to think. Her first thought was to find something to defend herself with, and she grabbed her longest nail file, the most lethal thing she could find in the whole damn bathroom. She told herself she was overreacting, but her fingers wrapped and tightened around the file as if it were a knife.
She stepped quietly into the hall, listening. If anything looked even remotely amiss in the apartment, she would slip out the front door and leave. She wasn’t going to take chances. If Austin had sent someone in his place, someone who didn’t ring doorbells and use front doors, she needed protection.
She reached the arch connecting the hall and the living room and peeked around the corner.
“Ahhh!” The file clattered to the floor, dropped by fingers numbed from a quick, well-placed blow. Her next cry was smothered by a large, strong hand. An even stronger arm went around her middle, crushing her to her assailant’s body.
“My name is Dylan, Dylan Jones,” a harsh voice whispered in her ear. “I’ve been a lot of things in my life, but a rapist isn’t one of them. So ease your mind. I don’t want to hurt you.”
She squirmed violently in his arms, but his strength was indomitable.
“Your name is Johanna Lane,” the voice continued, “and four months ago you worked for Austin Bridgeman. You need to decide if you’re going to cooperate, or if we’re leaving here the hard way.”
Johanna stilled. Austin had sent someone else. She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, fear and anger at her own stupidity washing through her. She should have run.
“Feel that?” her captor asked, his voice breathless and gravelly.
Something pushed against her hip, and she nodded.
“It’s a twelve-gauge shotgun, and I am definitely threatening you. We’re going out into the hall, into the elevator, and out the front door. That’s cooperation. The hard way is with you unconscious, or taped up, or both.” He lifted the gun and rested the barrel against her temple. “Do you want to do this the hard way?”
She shook her head once, very slowly. He’d said he didn’t want to hurt her; he’d also made it clear he would hurt her if he felt the need. She was too frightened to believe the first statement, and too frightened not to believe the second.
“Good.” He stepped back toward the door, holding her tight against him while he opened it a crack and checked the hall. “Go.”
They moved toward the bank of elevators, his body propelling her forward, pushing her from behind, overriding her faltering gait. The gun wasn’t at her temple. She didn’t know where it was, but she didn’t doubt its presence or his willingness to use it, yet she still wanted to scream and fight him. A greater fear kept her from doing either.
Dylan stayed behind her on the long walk down the hall, her body clasped to his. He kept behind her in the elevator, applying just enough pressure on her arm to let her know he wouldn’t tolerate a struggle, not even the hint of one. He wasn’t into terrorizing women, but he was committed to worse if she gave him any trouble. He knew Austin Bridgeman, and he knew he didn’t have time to be nice.
The elevator doors whooshed open in the lobby. For a moment freedom was fifteen steps away. In the next instant it was gone. A group of men stepped into the pool of light illuminating the portico of the apartment building—with Austin Bridgeman leading the pack.
Dylan lunged for the “Close Door” button on the operating panel, shoving the woman away from him and into a corner of the elevator. He single-handedly pumped a shell into the chamber of the twelve-gauge, keeping the gun leveled at her and giving her a grim look.
Johanna pushed herself deeper into the corner of the elevator, instinctively widening the distance between herself and the man called Dylan Jones. The urge to scream receded to a dull, throbbing ache in the back of her throat. His eyes were brown, dark and bright with an overload of adrenaline. Beard stubble darkened his jaw. His light-colored hair was longer in back than in front, and in front it was standing on end, raked through and furrowed—wild, like the gleam in his eyes.
The mercury had pushed ninety-two that day, but he was wearing an overcoat, a lined overcoat stained with dirt . . . or blood. A torn black T-shirt molded his torso, soft black jeans clung to his hips and legs.
He was bruised on one side of his face and cut on the other. He was muscular and lean, hard, stripped down to the basics of strength. He was feral.
Dylan waited, listening and watching her size him up and grow more afraid. There was nothing but silence outside. Nothing but the noise of their ragged breathing inside. Then the mechanical sound of the other elevator moving intruded. Dylan steadied himself with a breath and removed his finger from the “Close Door” button. The doors slid open. He stepped out, ready.
Johanna heard a movement, a scuffle, and a muffled thud. Now was the time to scream, she told herself. Dylan Jones hadn’t been sent by Austin. Austin had come in person to talk with her.
The thoughts had no sooner formed than she was jerked out of the elevator. The violence of the movement knocked the breath from her lungs. The speed with which he dragged her across the lobby, his hand tightly wound in a fistful of her shirt, the gun jammed against her ribs, kept her breathless. She stumbled, and he hauled her to her feet, always shoving her forward, keeping her fighting for her balance.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the crumpled figure of a man lying next to the elevators. She tried once more to scream, but as if he’d known what her reaction would be, he moved his hand from her shirt to her neck and applied a warning pressure. She sobbed instead, and his hand immediately loosened, but only the barest of degrees.
He pushed the building doors open with his shoulder. Heat, sultry and intense, engulfed them. She stumbled again on the steps, and once again he kept her upright, on the thinnest edge of her balance.
Johanna knew now was the time to fight and kick, to scream and cry, but Dylan Jones never gave her the chance. He was a master at keeping her half off her feet and moving too fast to think. She did manage a hoarse moan, but a renewed pressure in her ribs with the gun barrel stifled the rest of her verbal rebellion.
They crossed the street, keeping to the shadows of the trees and the parked cars lining both sides of Briarwood Court. Johanna had chosen the neighborhood for the quiet elegance of the older homes and the architectural charm of the apartment building. For three blocks in either direction, Briarwood Court was a haven of upper-middle-class wealth. She had always felt secure and protected—until that night.
With a harshly voiced set of commands, Dylan directed her toward the gray sedan. “Get in on the driver’s side. Don’t mess around with me—just get in and scoot to the middle of the seat. Do not touch the passenger-side door. I’ve got it rigged to explode if it opens.”
Her heart sank lower in her chest. There was no escaping him.
Dylan had a mental clock going in his head, and he knew Austin and his men were probably already heading back down to the street. He had not turned around to check if anyone had seen them from her balcony, but there was a chance someone had. He had checked the line of sight himself and knew the sedan, parked far up the street, was well hidden from view—if they could only get to it.
A commotion behind them, sounding like it came from the apartment building, had him speeding up their steps. He glanced once over his shoulder and started running, dragging her along with him. At the sedan, he shoved her into the front seat and slid in after her.
“Get down,” he ordered, pinning her with the gun, then crawling over her as she was forced to the seat.
> Johanna stiffened as they came into contact, body to body, with her on the bottom. In the dark, close interior of the car, he was overwhelmingly male and dangerous. He wasn’t a big man, but his broad shoulders blocked all but the faintest light. His weight pressed her deep into the upholstery, paralyzing her as effectively as the gun barrel under her chin.
He looked over the back of the seat, through the rear window. He swore softly, then inched up her body, craning his neck to look out the passenger window. Johanna didn’t move so much as a muscle fiber—until he came too close to the potentially lethal door.
Without conscious thought, her hand shot up and pressed against his chest, causing him to wince and swear again, not so softly.
“No,” she whispered, putting force into the word instead of volume, her voice trembling.
When he looked down at her, she tilted her head toward the door and the trip wire of tape. He followed the gesture, and a heartbeat later the barest flicker of a smile touched his mouth, the most ironic smile she had ever seen. In that instant he looked familiar—incredibly familiar.
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Table of Contents
Dear Reader
Titles
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Crazy Kisses
Avenging Angel