Her Passionate Protector

by Laurey Bright

  Slowly she went inside and closed it behind her.

  The light in the workroom was on too. She went into the room where the artifacts were spread out on the table, the softly gleaming silver, pewter and copper reflected in the darkened window at the other side of the room, along with her own reflection. She walked forward and her heart lurched, then she opened her mouth in a choked, almost silent scream as she saw another reflection just behind hers, a male shape standing beside the open door.

  She whirled even as he slammed the door closed and barred her way out. Her eyes widened in horror.

  This wasn't possible. It was a nightmare.

  "Good evening," Fraser Conran said.

  Chapter 16

  « ^

  The icy, colorless eyes were uncovered, naked with malice and cold purpose. He wore some kind of overall, and a white bandage covered his right hand.

  He was terrifyingly real.

  Sienna opened her mouth to scream in earnest and Conran leaped forward, his left hand slapping painfully over her mouth, then he was behind her, his right arm going about her throat as she attempted to dodge away, unbalancing her. "Shut up!" he hissed in her ear.

  She tried to bite the hand that almost suffocated her, lifted her own hands to grasp the arm locked about her throat, managed to find her feet and hooked one of them backward around his ankle, giving a sharp pull forward.

  He gave an exclamation and staggered, his hold loosening, and she wrenched herself away, took a breath and screamed, heading for the door.

  Before she reached it he slammed into her back and she fell to the floor.

  As she scrambled to her hands and knees he grabbed her hair, pulling her head back painfully and shoving her again to the floor. "Another sound and I'll kill you," he threatened in her ear.

  He was probably going to kill her anyway, but maybe she could give herself some extra time—time to outwit him and escape. His knee was on her back, pinning her down. Her spine arched, and she wondered if it was possible to break a person's back this way.

  "Thanks for leaving the door open," he said. "I thought I'd have to break in somehow, but you made it easy. Are you easy, my little red-haired hellcat?" He leaned so close she could feel his breath stirring her hair.

  A new fear added to the terror she already felt. "What do you want?" she gasped. "The gold isn't here."

  "I know that. What I want, before I catch my ride out of this place, is payback for this." He thrust his bandaged hand in front of her eyes. "You might have crippled me for life," he said. "I'll certainly be scarred. Nobody does that to me and gets away with it."

  Sienna closed her eyes. "I'm sorry." As soon as the words left her lips she thought it was a stupid thing to say. He'd been about to kill Brodie, and herself, and Aidan. There was no doubt in her mind about that.

  "Sorry isn't good enough, sweetheart." The sneering endearment nauseated her. "You're going to be really sorry by the time I've finished with you."

  The weight was removed from her back and he hauled her upright by her hair. "No more tricks," he warned.

  "The police will catch you," she panted. "Why make things worse for yourself than they already are? Brodie's due back any minute," she added desperately.

  "Your boyfriend's busy," Conran said. "Watching his precious business go up in smoke. And when I've finished with you, dear girl, I'm leaving these shores forever. My transport's waiting in the harbor right now. By the time anyone finds you I'll be gone. Unfortunately I don't have a lot of time, but while you were mooning about after your boyfriend,

  I had a look around here, and I've thought of a most appropriate punishment. You'll be suffering long after I've left. Now, let's get on with it, shall we?"

  Brodie stood watching as flames shot out of the roof of his dive shop, the place he'd saved for, over years of hard work. That he'd made his own, something to come home to after a dive job, something he was proud of.

  A crowd had gathered before he got here, and while the volunteer fire brigade busied themselves pumping water from the dive pool adjacent to the building and directed their hoses onto the seat of the fire, the local policeman was telling people to stand clear.

  Through the windows Brodie could see the front part of the place was still intact, but the fire was advancing, roaring and crackling and greedy for more fuel.

  The policeman, having checked the sightseers, came to stand with him, and the fire chief came over, removing his helmet to wipe sweat from his forehead. "Sorry, Brodie," he said. "We're doing our best but it took hold pretty fast. Could be there's an accelerant involved."

  Brodie turned to him. "Arson?"

  The constable said, "Heck, we've got a bloody crime wave in Mokohina. Most of it," he added to Brodie as though it were his fault, "connected with you. By the way, they've lost Conran."

  "What?" Brodie snapped. "What do you mean, lost him?"

  "He kicked up a fuss at the station in Whangarei, reckoned his hand hadn't been properly treated here, he was in pain and insisted he needed medical attention. They took him to the hospital. He slipped away somehow when they were waiting for him to come out of the toilet."

  "When?" A hole opened up in Brodie's stomach, black and dreadful.

  "Not sure. I only heard about it just before I got called out to this. They'll get him back, don't worry."

  Don't worry? When Conran was on the loose again and Sienna…

  Sienna. Brodie swore explosively and wheeled, running to where he'd parked, leaped into the driving seat and spent precious moments finding his keys before he started the engine and took off with a screech of tires, pulling his cell phone from his pocket, but he couldn't see to dial his own number, find out if Sienna was answering, if she was all right.

  Sienna…

  She twisted and fought against Conran's hold, tried to scream again. Once she managed to kick out, felt her foot connect with bone and flesh, and he grunted, kicked her back, a blinding pain in her shin. She sagged, reached out with her hands, scratched at his face.

  He reared back, releasing his hold on her hair, and momentarily she was free, grabbing a heavy brass candlestick from the table, raising it high, but he swung up his hand, shoved her back to the table, smashing her wrist down on the edge of it, and she yelped with pain as the candlestick rolled away.

  Then he had her again, her arm yanked behind her back, making her cry out, furious with herself that she'd let him know he'd hurt her. Even with one hand he was stronger than she was. And murderously angry, bent on revenge.

  "Those bins," he said, urging her toward the plastic containers along the wall. "Full of acid, aren't they? Maybe not as strong as what you used on me—you dilute it—but strong enough to melt coral away, and to spoil that pretty face of yours. You'll be disfigured for life, just like me."

  She tried to tell herself that at least she'd be alive, that being murdered would be the worst fate, but at this moment it didn't seem so. And ridiculously, she thought that if Brodie found her ugly, an object of pity, she'd rather be dead.

  Conran had her by the hair again, his other arm pinning hers to her body, holding her obscenely close, dragging, pushing her from behind until they stood before one of the bins and he kicked at the back of her knees, making her kneel in front of it. "Now," he said, "say goodbye to your good looks, sweetheart." He forced her head down and she closed her eyes, then was choking on liquid that bubbled in her ears, and felt the skin of her face contracting as she struggled to breathe.

  Brodie slid to a screaming halt outside the house and went racing along the path, sorting his keys as he went, thrusting one into the front door with hardly a pause. The light in the workroom was still on. "Sienna?" In half a second he was in the doorway, scanning the room, finding the figure bent over one of the tubs, turning now to face him, astonished chagrin written on the nondescript features, cold fury in the light eyes. And before him, kneeling on the floor, his hand holding her hair, Sienna, with her face—oh God!—her face in the tub.

 
With an inarticulate sound of rage and pain, Brodie launched himself across the room, his fist a sledgehammer that went straight to Conran's face. The other man flew halfway across the room, his head hit the edge of the table and he slumped to the floor.

  Sienna was on the floor too, curled up, coughing water—and…

  Brodie scooped her up, ran to the laundry, held her with her head under the shower fitting and played it over her face. "It's all right, hon," he said. "It's all right. I'll get you to the hospital." He released her to haul out his cell phone again and dial the emergency number while still spraying her with water. "Ambulance," he said, "and police, if you can get the stupid cop."

  Sienna pushed away the showerhead and said something he didn't hear, busy as he was giving directions to the operator. "Tell them to get their rears into gear." He turned to Sienna and directed the shower at her again. "We need to keep this up," he said, "until the ambulance gets here."

  "I don't need an ambulance!" she spluttered, pushing away the nozzle again, dousing him in the process. "Unless you drown me with this thing."

  "You don't want to be scarred," he said. "Sienna, for God's sake—"

  "Would it stop you wanting me?" she asked, turning away her face, both her hands staying his as he tried to direct the spray at her again.

  "What the hell does that matter?" he snapped. "It's you I'm worried about. You'll still be the woman I fell in love with."

  "In love?" she said faintly, then sputtered as he sprayed her once more.

  "Yes, in love," he said impatiently. "I think I've loved you since I first saw you, and I know I'm going to love you forever—marry you, give you my children, if you'll have me. And I don't care what the hell you look like. Now let me do this, Sienna! It might not be too late to prevent some of the damage."

  "There's no need," she said, forcing his hands away again. "Brodie, look at me! Do you see any damage?"

  A siren sounded outside, coming closer, stopping. Brodie blinked at her. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair dripping over her forehead in little wet ringlets, the front of her T-shirt soaked, but she looked otherwise normal.

  Someone was thundering on the door.

  "He chose the wrong tub," Sienna said, and bit her lip to stop a hysterical giggle. "He doesn't know as much as he thinks. There was no acid in there—only pure distilled cold water. Very g-good for the complexion."

  Then she burst into tears.

  After the ambulance staff had inspected Conran's wound and, at Brodie's insistence checked Sienna over, the policeman took a handcuffed and groggy Conran away again, with Brodie's blistering assessment of the force's competence following him out the door.

  Brodie came back into the living room where Sienna lay on the couch, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of hot cocoa in her hands. Camille was perched on the side of the sofa, watching her anxiously. She and Rogan had taken a little time to realize it was Brodie's shop that was blazing, and arrived in time to see his vehicle disappear at speed and to urge the policeman to leave the fire and get to Brodie's house, with him and Camille piled into the back seat.

  Brodie said, "They'd better not let Conran get away a second time."

  "They wouldn't dare," Camille said, "after what you threatened them with." She turned to Sienna. "I could stay with you tonight if you like. Rogan too—he can sleep here on the couch."

  Brodie scowled. "You think I can't look after her?" Then he allowed bitterly, "Maybe you're right. I didn't do a very good job of it tonight."

  Sienna said, "You did wonderfully! I've never been so glad to see anyone. It was only a matter of time before that man realized his mistake and got the right tub." She shivered.

  "I shouldn't have left you," he said.

  "Your shop was on fire! And all of us thought Conran was safely locked up. How bad is the damage?"

  He looked blank, as if he didn't know what she was talking about. Then he said, "The shop? That doesn't matter. All that matters is you didn't come to any permanent harm." He came closer and hunkered down beside her, fingering one of her curls that had fallen across her forehead again. "If I hadn't been in such a hurry to get you under some running water I think I'd have killed him. I'll never let you out of my sight again."

  Camille exchanged a glance with her husband. "On second thought, maybe our presence isn't required."

  Brodie said, without looking away from Sienna's troubled gaze, "Stay as long as you like, if Sienna wants you to."

  "Sienna?" Rogan queried. "If it would make you feel better…?"

  She looked up at him and Camille, now standing side by side. "You can trust Brodie to look after me," she said.

  Brodie saw them to the door, then returned and sat where Camille had, beside her. "Thank you for that," he said seriously.

  "For what?"

  "Trusting me, even though I stuffed up."

  "You didn't, the police did—and no one expected that."

  "I should have realized that the shop being fired couldn't be coincidence. From now on I'll be right by you, night and day. If you'll let me."

  Sienna looked down at the now-empty cup she still held. "You'd soon get tired of it."

  "Never," he said fervently. "Not on your life."

  "People do," she warned. "Men."

  Brodie took her hand. "Men?" He turned her palm to his cheek, then dropped a kiss into her hand and twined his fingers about hers. "I should put you to bed and let you sleep. But one question—what did you mean when you said you didn't trust yourself not to cling?" He took the cup from her and captured her other hand. "We'd started to talk before everything went haywire. You opened the door a crack, and I don't want it slammed in my face again. If you can't tell me tonight, can we talk tomorrow or in a few days—when you've had time to get over what's happened?"

  She was looking at their joined hands. "It won't get any easier," she said. "The thing is … you don't know what I'm like."

  "I know enough to be sure that I want to spend the rest of my life getting to know more. Marry me," he said. "And let me keep you safe for the rest of your life."

  "Oh, Brodie!" She was looking at him with less joy than trepidation. Ineffectually she tugged at her captured hands. "I can't do that to you."

  "You mean you don't love me," he said, dropping her hands. He'd been taking too much for granted. She might be tempted to have sex with him, but marriage, permanence, wasn't on her agenda. His heart sinking, he said, "Is there a chance you might, one day?"

  "A chance?" She gave a strange little laugh that seemed to verge on tears. "You don't know what you're asking for!"

  "I'm asking for you," he said. "All of you, forever. Because you have all of me, and whatever happens, wherever you go, you'll carry my heart and soul with you."

  "And you'll have mine," she whispered, her eyes luminous. "But—"

  His heart seemed to leap right out of his chest. She was saying she loved him! Almost angrily he asked, "Then why can't you just say, 'Yes, Brodie, I'll marry you!'"

  "Because," she said, "I could never let you go. Not you—it would be worse than before."

  "I wouldn't want you to! Before? Before what?" He reached out and grasped her shoulders. "Talk to me, Sienna, dammit! We can sort anything out if you really love me. I won't let you crawl back into your blasted clam shell now!"

  She closed her eyes. He watched her take a couple of deep breaths, her mouth taut. Then with obvious effort she spoke, forcing her eyes to meet his. "When … after my father left, my mother was so bewildered and upset she hardly noticed what my brother and I were up to. And what I was up to was trying to find the love I felt my dad had taken away from me. Boys … I expected too much, was ready to give so much in return. But they were young and selfish, which I was too young myself to recognize, and I was available."

  Brodie said, "I'm not shocked so far."

  "I don't mean I was sleeping around with a different boy every weekend. But I was lost and lonely and looking for something they couldn't give me. All of them let me down,
one way or another."

  "So you decided all men were the same?"

  "I knew they weren't. I still hoped… And I met someone a few years older than me, who seemed to genuinely love me, and we were together for six months … until I discovered he'd been seeing my best friend." She tried to smile, a pathetic attempt. "Such an old cliché. My boyfriend and my best friend. I was shattered. So I withdrew from a social life, until I was in my second year at university and then my professor—"

  "Your professor? Some old goat of an academic?"

  "He wasn't all that old—older than me, of course, in his thirties. But he flattered me, encouraged me, told me I had a great future. Looking back, I realize how patronizing he was in a subtle way, but at the time I thought he was wonderful. He was my mentor, I looked up to him, and he was kind, made me feel special. Loved… When we were on a dig and it started raining heavily he gave me his coat, insisted I take it while he got wet himself." This time she did smile, with a wry grimace. "He looked great in a wet shirt. I was young and naive, and … I'd have done anything for him."

  "And did you?" Brodie asked.

  "Yes. We were lovers for a whole semester."

  "Was he married?"

  "No, divorced. Twice. That should have told me something, but I wasn't even twenty and not very clever outside of the classroom."

  "So what happened at the end of the semester?"

  "He dumped me. I couldn't believe it was over, didn't understand why. I made a fool of myself—begging, crying, and taking all the blame for the breakup, asking what I'd done, how I could make things right." Her voice had sunk so low Brodie could hardly hear. "Eventually he said the only thing I could do was leave him alone. He was sick of me and my neediness, I was a clinging vine, a leech, needed a psychiatrist, and he didn't have the time or inclination to deal with my insecurities. Women in general, and me in particular, were incapable of rational thought, they always let emotion get in the way—oh, and a lot more. The next semester I heard he was sleeping with one of his new students."