Her home was four big rooms, one after the other, and only the last one, her office, had a door leading out into the corridor. The rest were internal doors, and all the intruder had to do was go through them, one after another, until he found her.
The windows were alarmed and bulletproof. Opening a window would set off the alarm system, which could only be disengaged at the front door. There was no hope of breaking a window and crawling through. The man who’d sold her the windows had given her a demonstration of what bulletproof meant. He’d taken her to the company’s underground test room and fired a gun at a test windowpane, which had starred but hadn’t broken.
No way could she get through.
The closest police station was downtown. It would take them at least a quarter of an hour to get here and by then, the intruder would have gone through all the rooms, would have found her and…
John!! Only John was close enough—and tough enough and dangerous enough—to help her. If he was home.
Please be back, John, she prayed, running swiftly, silently, back through the kitchen, the living room and into the bedroom. She quietly closed each door, locked it, and then ran to the next.
The locked doors wouldn’t hold back a man capable of getting through her security for long, but maybe it would buy her a few minutes if he was trying to be quiet and not attract attention. All she needed was enough time to call John for help. If he was here, he was only across the hallway.
And if he wasn’t?
I’ll be home late, he’d said. What was late? Had he come back in while she’d been trying to sleep? Was he sleeping just a few feet away? Or was he still out of town, completely unable to answer her call in time?
Please don’t let him still be out of town!
She was sobbing as she locked the last door, the door to her bedroom. She was now as trapped as a mouse in a cage. If the intruder reached her bedroom, there was nowhere else to go, nowhere else to hide.
Fumbling, crying, she reached for her purse and with fingers that felt as thick as sausages rummaged for her cell phone. Her hands were shaking, useless. With a curse, she upended her purse, rummaged madly then—with a sob of relief—found her cell phone. She grabbed it and switched it on.
Her throat was raw from the panicked breaths she was gulping in. She held the phone in one hand as she frantically went through the seeming thousands of bits and pieces of paper in her purse with the other.
Damn! She was usually tidy, but she’d been so busy lately she hadn’t had time to clean her purse out. It looked like every number she’d ever known was written down on a small piece of paper. There it was! No, that was the number of her tax advisor. Old high school friend she’d bumped into at Nordstrom’s, antique dealer, and new hairdresser—all of them had scribbled their numbers on scraps of paper.
Think, Suzanne! She commanded herself. She closed her eyes, jaw clenched, and tried to think past her pounding heart and shaking nerves back to when John had written his cell phone number down.
If the intruder had found her kitchen door and picked the lock, he’d already walked through it. It was basically an open space. No obstacles at all. He could already be in her living room, or worse. Maybe he was already at the bedroom door.
She whimpered. Think!!
Cold, it had been cold outside. John had stood towering over her, angry with her because she’d called a taxi, writing his number down—she remembered his handwriting—bold, black, and distinctive—and she’d stuck it in…
Her planner!
Frantic, she scrambled for it, flipped through the pages and…there it was!
Shaking, she punched out the number, hoping she was getting it right on those awkward buttons. Hoping her shaking hands wouldn’t betray her. The phone buttons seemed so hopelessly small. What if she’d punched the number in wrong? Ah. The line connected and started ringing. Make it be the right number, she prayed.
One…
Did she hear a small thud in the next room? Oh, God.
Two…
Come on, come on!
Three…
“What’s the matter, Suzanne?”
She nearly dropped the phone in relief at hearing that deep voice. So calm, so matter of fact. Some part of her was glad that he seemed to be always a step ahead of her. He had caller ID and already knew that she wouldn’t be calling him after midnight unless she had a problem.
“John,” she whispered. “Where are you?”
“About three blocks away,” he replied. The deep tones seemed to vibrate through the phone. Just hearing his voice made her feel better. Less panicky. “Why?”
“Please hurry. There’s a man in the house. He was in my office a few minutes ago. John, I don’t think he’s a burglar. He wasn’t trying to steal anything and he’s—he’s armed.”
“Where are you now?” His voice was still calm, but she could hear a deep rumble in the background as he gunned the engine of his SUV and the squeal of tires as he rounded a corner.
“In the bedroom,” she whispered. She clutched the phone with wet hands, as if it were a lifeline. “The last room down. I locked the door.”
“Okay, this is what I want you to do. Put a chair under the handle. Don’t move furniture—that would make too much noise. Unscrew the lightbulbs on the lamps. Do you have a walk-in closet?”
“Y-yes.” She got the word out through chattering teeth.
“Get in and lock the door to that from the inside. Move to the very end and wait there for me. I’m coming. Do you hear me, Suzanne?”
“Yes.” Her voice shook. She bit her lips. “Hurry,” she whispered and broke the connection.
She only had one chair and placed it under the handle. It was pretty but flimsy. By the time the intruder made it to her bedroom door, he might not be worrying any more about making noise. The chair would hold a determined man back only a few seconds. She quickly unscrewed the light bulbs from the three lamps in the bedroom before heading for the closet door.
For the first time in her life, Suzanne cursed her tidiness as she locked the door behind her. How much better it would be to crouch in a tangle of old jeans, ratty tee shirts and discarded dressing gowns, instead of the bare floor of her superneat closet trying to hide behind two rows of shoes, neatly lined up and no defense whatsoever, unless you counted the killer stilettos on one pair of Manolo Blahniks which she’d bought in a moment of insanity and had never worn.
She crouched and waited. And bitterly regretted that she’d never taken a self-defense class, though she wasn’t sure what she could do against an armed man.
Wonder Woman would have known what to do. So would Xena the Warrior Princess. And Charlie’s Angels. They’d have known how to disarm an armed man and then they’d kick butt, but there were three of them and only one of her.
She moved slightly, brushing a lavender sachet dangling from a satin ribbon she’d hung from the rod. She closed her eyes in the dark, breathing in the sharp scent. She’d made the sachet herself from lavender gathered in her parents’ retirement home in Baja. It smelled of summer gardens and sun and earth. Her hand touched a cashmere shawl she’d worn to a production of The Mikado with Todd. She fingered it, taking comfort from the softness and warmth.
She didn’t want to die.
She wanted more summers with her parents, more theater evenings with Todd. More summer picnics, more skiing vacations. More evenings out, more evenings in.
More.
Life was so sweet, so rich, the highs and lows of it. She loved her parents, she loved her home, and she loved her friends. Her career was just taking off. She was going to live a hallway away from the sexiest man she’d ever seen. She’d been shocked at the sex they’d had, but it had made her feel alive in every cell of her body. She wanted more.
She didn’t want to die. Oh, God, she didn’t want to die.
How far away had John been? Three blocks? Even driving fast, how quickly could he get here? Was he parking now? Running toward the house?
Wit
h a sudden disconcerting sense of certainty, Suzanne knew that as fast as a human being could make it—that’s how quickly John would come for her. Whatever could be done to protect her against an armed intruder—that’s what John would do.
There was no one else in the world right now she’d rather have coming to her rescue than John Huntington.
Where was the intruder now? Her living room was very decorated, too, with two sofas, armchairs, occasional tables, footrests, floor vases scattered all over. If the intruder wanted to proceed stealthily, all the objects in the room would slow him down considerably.
If he didn’t care about making noise anymore though, then he was moving fast. Had he simply turned on the lights, tired of bumbling around in the dark? If he knew she was home, then he also knew there was only one other place she could be. If he wanted to, he could break down her bedroom door, wrench open the closet and shoot her in the space of a minute.
What was that noise? Every muscle tensed and her breath left her body in a rush. Her mouth was bone dry.
It was so horrible huddling here in the dark like a fox hounded to earth. Her heart was pounding so hard it seemed impossible that it wasn’t making a noise. It sounded loud to her. Surely it could be heard in the next room?
She wiped her face on her sleeve. Whatever happened, she needed to be able to see. Even if it was only the gun that would end her life. She swiped at her eyes as she bit down on her lips and ordered herself to stop crying. To stop trembling. She pressed her hands between her knees so she could tell herself her hands weren’t shaking.
She never knew she was such a coward. How could she have known? She’d never faced danger—real danger, as opposed to the danger any woman living alone is subject to every day—in her life.
I don’t want to die, she thought again as she rested her forehead on her knees. A tear dropped on her knee and ran down her calf.
She waited in the dark, endlessly.
Her watch was on the bedside table. She had no idea how much time had passed since she’d spotted the intruder. Since she’d called John. Ten minutes? Two minutes? Half an hour? There were no bearings here, in the muffled scented darkness of the closet, no way of telling time except by her thudding heart.
Had she sent John to his death? He hadn’t even hesitated, had simply said he was on his way, but should she have called the police instead of him? She might well die, but she might go down having brought another man to his death. A good man. A man who willingly stepped into danger for her.
Right now, he might be out there, bleeding, dying…
Somehow, that was the worst thing of all.
Suzanne straightened abruptly. That had definitely been a sound. Like something heavy falling. A piece of furniture? A…body? The sound came from the living room, right outside the bedroom door. A long moment of silence, while she strained her ears.
And then another sound, metallic this time.
Someone picking the lock.
Suzanne wiped her eyes. Whatever was going to happen in the next few seconds, she wanted to be clear-eyed.
A scraping…the chair was pushed out of the way. Suddenly, light flooded through the louvered slats of the closet door. A shadow fell across the door.
Suzanne waited, dry-eyed now, breathing slowly. Trying crazily to brace herself against a bullet. She scooted as far as she could go against the wall, pressing against the wooden slats with her shoulders, wishing she could push herself through to the other side.
The closet door opened and a man filled the doorway. Broad shoulders barely cleared the frame. A killer’s face—lean cheeks, cold gunmetal eyes, hard mouth. He looked at her with narrowed eyes, a large black gun in his hand.
With a glad cry Suzanne rushed into his arms.
Chapter Seven
John’s arms closed around her fiercely.
Suzanne was trembling, trying hard not to cry. Shaking, breathing raggedly. Soft and warm and—thank you, God—alive.
John covered the back of her head with his right hand and wrapped his other arm around her waist, holding her tight, trying to give her the animal comfort of his body. Pressing her close to still those awful tremors.
She was frightened to death. So was he. He couldn’t remember being this scared, ever. Not in the fiercest firefight.
He hadn’t been frightened for himself. The takedown had been smooth, a textbook SEAL operation. The bad guy hadn’t even known John was there until he was uselessly tugging at the knife cutting through his throat. But until this moment, until he had his arms tight around Suzanne’s slender body, John hadn’t been sure he’d got here in time. Hadn’t been sure he wouldn’t find Suzanne lying in a pool of her own blood…
He’d been driving home, content with the day’s work advising a bank in Eugene on security, with a five-year consultancy contract in his pocket. If business continued like this, he’d have to expand again. For the third time in six months. Maybe call in a few other guys from his team who were up for retirement.
He’d had to retire early because of the damned knee injury, but he probably hadn’t had more than another seven, eight years of active duty left in him anyway. In his line of work, you either died on the job or retired early. It’s wasn’t a job you aged in.
The Teams took everything a man had—and then sucked up some more.
If he expanded again, he knew exactly who to call. Senior Chief Kowalski was up for retirement and would make a perfect employee, maybe some day a partner. Super-smart, skilled, honest—and looking like something out of a horror movie. John smiled at the thought of introducing Suzanne to Kowalski, though she hadn’t turned a hair on her lovely head at meeting Jacko.
Despite her fragile appearance, Ms. Suzanne Barron seemed pretty sturdy. And smart and beautiful and with it. Oh yeah, she’d do just fine. All in all, John had been well pleased with himself while driving home.
Home.
When was the last time he’d ever felt a place was home? As opposed to a bed to bunk in? Yet 437 Rose Street had instantly become home. And that was before the delectable Ms. Barron decorated his working and living quarters.
He couldn’t wait for that, odd in a man who never cared what anything in his surroundings looked like. His major color scheme all his life had been olive drab. But now he found himself really looking forward to living in what he’d seen in those drawings. Those rich muted colors, those sleek elegant lines—hell yes, he could get used really fast to working out of an office like that. It would be a pleasure. He couldn’t wait for her to start.
Yes, he’d been definitely revved as he drove back through the rain. He was living in the same building as the most beautiful and desirable woman he’d ever seen. They’d already had explosive sex and getting back into her bed—back into her, it didn’t have to be in a bed—was just a matter of time. And to top it all off, he was well on his way to becoming rich and successful. Life just didn’t get any better than that.
And then Suzanne had called and he’d instantly gone to Defcon 1—the highest state of alert.
He’d known the instant he’d seen the number on the screen that something was badly wrong. Suzanne wouldn’t call him at midnight unless she was in trouble—and she was.
A man in her apartment. An armed man. It didn’t take SEAL training to know what that meant. Burglars don’t carry weapons. Burglars are nice gentlemanly criminals. All they want is to infiltrate your house, politely relieve you of your expensive worldly possessions and get quietly back out. No guns. No violence. The alternative was a hophead, crashing into Suzanne’s house hoping to boost her hi fi or TV for resale to the local fences to make enough for the next fix. But druggies weren’t organized. A hophead wouldn’t be slinking, trying not to make noise.
No, the scumbag in Suzanne’s house was there for one purpose only. To take her out. Any intruder who was bypassing the silver, artwork and fancy electronics in her study was out for much bigger game—blood. Suzanne’s blood.
Not while John could draw a breath.
His hands had clenched hard around the steering wheel as he braked to a stop a block from the house, around the corner and out of sight. The son of a bitch was armed. Well, so was he. Sig Sauer and knife and determination. Those three weapons had prevailed against some of the most dangerous men on the planet.
In the office, Suzanne had said. Only that had been minutes ago.
The level of alarm ratcheted up a notch at the front door. The intruder hadn’t just broken through the security system—he’d wrecked it. And taken out the telephone system, too, while he was at it. Thank God Suzanne had had the presence of mind to use her cell phone instead of the landline to contact him.
The guy hadn’t exactly been an amateur. Disabling an Interloc system and the phone lines took a little bit of knowledge. But he hadn’t been expecting much resistance. John had heard him almost immediately, in what Suzanne used as a living room. He could hear him two rooms down, crashing around like a bear in the woods.
Midnight Man Page 9