by Nancy Gideon
* * * *
After twenty minutes of mining through her personal and business correspondence that left an avalanche from cluttered desktop to equally paper-strewn carpet, Stacy seized upon the prize she was looking for.
"Yes."
Dumping a stack of unread periodicals off the seat of her chair, she plopped down with a buoyant sense of victory. She'd received the cordial note a month ago, tossing it aside as unimportant. She wasn't much for glitz and glitter affairs. She preferred her affairs to be of the one-on-one variety. She brushed her thumb over the elegant embossing.
Harper Research and the Western Division of the National Leukemia Foundation invite you to an “Evening of Note” with Special Guest, Louis Redman.
Tonight.
Responses were due back two weeks ago, but she could finagle her way around the deadline. Now all she had to do was finagle an introduction and a way to circumvent the odd stipulation at the bottom of the invitation.
No cameras.
The whim of a publicity-shy recluse or something a bit more sinister?
It would be difficult for the victims to recognize their attacker if there were no known photos of him on file. She recalled that piece of trivia because it had intrigued her when skimming an article on the mysterious benefactor who had opened his checkbook for Harper Research, otherwise known as her employer. How odd that such a well-known philanthropist had managed to slip the limelight for so long.
Some rare condition that made him light sensitive, according to rumor. She wondered. Maybe his obsession with privacy came from another, less sympathetic cause. Like the fear of being identified.
She sighed as she studied the invitation. Maybe she was reading too much intrigue into the whole matter. Maybe Redman was just some harmless, quirky old duck who was camera shy and had more money than God.
But she'd find out.
"I thought you said you weren't interested, Stacy."
Phyllis Starke, the director of Stacy's department, had never gotten over the fact that someone had dropped a house on her sister. At least, that was Stacy's rationale for why the woman was so relentlessly sour. More likely, it was the resentment of the older model being outshone by something sleeker, faster, younger and with more under the hood. If she was a threat to her supervisor, it was only on the business front. But Starke would never believe that.
Just because Phyllis believed in cooing her way to the top, she'd no reason to inflict her questionable morals upon every other female on staff. She'd never been discrete about her objection to bringing Stacy on board and had never gone out of her way to make the newcomer feel welcome.
At least she wasn't a hypocrite.
Just a bitch.
"I had a last minute cancellation on my schedule, and I'd really like to go.” No, no. No matter how desperate, don't beg. Stacy altered her approach. “Greg suggested I make contacts in the area to further our research. Otherwise, you know I'd never break protocol and call you at home to ask such a favor."
Touche.
She imaged Phyllis's wince as the well-placed thrust took her in the inflated ego. She might run roughshod over the lab as if it were her own private playground where she was queen bully on the jungle gym, but Greg Forrester held the purse strings to all their individual projects, and his word might well have come chiseled on tablets of stone. If Greg wanted Stacy there, Phyllis would move continents to accommodate her.
"I suppose we could juggle the seating chart one last time,” she grumbled, not hiding her irritation. “Nothing like waiting until the last possible minute."
Stacy knew her well enough to realize there would be some small payback to come when she least expected it. This was one more brick in the wall of the older woman's envious illusions. Phyllis had once been the one Greg Forrester sent out as his envoy. Now it was Stacy. And that had to gall Starke something fierce. But Stacy would grin and bear the unpleasantness to come to earn this particular victory.
"I appreciate all your trouble, Phyl. I really do. And so does Greg."
Okay, so she felt a little ashamed of herself for that mildly spiteful needling. Just a little.
Stacy could picture the cream-clotting smile as Phyllis pooh-poohed her shallow thanks. She was quick to end the undesired contact.
She had what she wanted.
Now, to find just the right dress and make the most of it.
Chapter Three
The company's “Evening of Note” was one of notable boredom to Stacy. Her feet hurt within her new strappy sandals, and someone had spilled a cocktail on her favorite evening gown. Hardly the start of the adventure she desired.
After spending the first hour milling about the crowded lobby to the mediocre strains of a three piece string ensemble, they'd been herded into the dinning room where she'd found herself wedged in as an uncomfortable ninth with eight of the most uninteresting people in the world. She could almost hear Phyllis Starke laughing a good one at her expense. After rubbery chicken, dry couscous and rich coffee that was the meal's only saving grace, Stacy was grateful to be back on her feet for post-Pepcid cocktails. There, her temper fraying, she endured the sloppy gropings of several inebriated salesmen who would apologize tomorrow and still snicker in the lounge.
And still no sign of Redman.
She had shrugged out from under the too friendly arm of Harper's PR front man swallowing down her retort of “when hell freezes over” in answer to the married fellow's invitation, when a commotion from the raised dais caught her relieved attention.
Finally.
She applauded gratefully as Greg Forrester and his anorexic wife, who compensated in millions for her lack of looks, made their way toward the microphone. She listened with fading patience to his political blather about charity beginning at home, when a less likely spot couldn't be imagined, and clapped again as the Foundation's fund-raising chairperson was coaxed up to join them. A heartfelt speech of thanks followed with missionary zeal.
And then the atmosphere in the room changed.
It was a palpable shift as excitement stirred, a feeling as though the air conditioning had just kicked up an extra notch to create shivers of anticipation. Though many in the room would have attended just to be polite and to be seen, the real draw for all of them was the rare chance to glimpse an enigma in the flesh.
When Louis Redman was announced, the room seemed to stretch a head taller as everyone craned for a look at the notorious recluse. Silence quivered like a suspended breath. Then a ripple of surprised exhalation, begun in front, swept back like a tidal wave.
Stacy's gasp blended in with the rest. Louis Redman wasn't at all what she'd expected.
From his rumored isolationism, she'd pictured some bizarre figure with long stringy hair and uncut fingernails, someone old and bent, cinched into his cummerbund like a girdle and shuffling like the dirty little old man she remembered from Laugh-In reruns. The Louis Redman who strode across the stage was ... a hunk.
Young, virile, handsome as sin itself, he looked comfortable in the elegant evening wear as few men ever did, yet powerful at the same time. He wasn't a big man but the impression he made as he crossed the stage in strong, graceful strides was that of a giant. Perhaps it was the mystery added to the money, or perhaps the way his gaze scanned the sea of expectant faces as if he recognized each and every one of them. He was a man who knew how to work a room.
And he was working on her, big time.
Her mouth was dry by the time she remembered to close it and force a swallow.
Remember the mission, Stacy.
As he shook hands and took his place before the microphone, Stacy lifted the palm-sized camera she'd snuck into the event and snapped off a half dozen shots in rapid secession. It wouldn't hurt to give Alex something concrete to go by, or the victims a face to possibly link to the horror they had suffered.
As she stared through the viewfinder to take the final candid, she froze in dismay. Louis Redman, though half a room away, was staring straight at
her, his dark brows pulled together in a mild scowl of displeasure. The connection startled her, as if she'd received a mild electric shock. She lowered the forbidden camera and secreted it quickly within her evening bag. When she looked up again, Redman's attention was on the trio who shared the stage. He hadn't called security. She wiped damp palms upon her designer gown. He hadn't seen her. Surely she'd imagined him picking her out in the tightly packed room for that brief, chastening glower.
But could she have imagined the galvanizing effect it still had on her nervous system? She tingled.
He'd begun his speech, presenting Forrester and the Leukemia representative with a beyond generous check to further their research. In spite of herself, Stacy lost herself in the listening.
His voice was nearly as seductive as his good looks—soft, exotically accented and strangely mesmerizing. Not even ice cubes dared clink in interruption of the room's almost hypnotic silence as he concluded his oration. Then the applause was deafening.
And Redman was gone.
Blinking as if she'd woken from some strange stupor, Stacy scanned the stage and the edges of the platform. Where had he disappeared to so quickly? She'd been staring right at him, yet he was gone in an instant. Had she seen him leave the dais? She couldn't remember.
Obviously, he not only knew how to make an entrance, he knew how to exit, as well.
Not so fast my wily friend.
Pushing her way through the crowd, she slipped out into the cool of the lobby, giving it a cursory search. Not there. What was the guy? Part magician?
Then she caught a glimpse of a elderly Asian man holding open the rear door of a black limousine at the curb out front. Something about the sleek vehicle's smoky windows alerted her. They screamed privacy. She began hurrying toward the double glass doors just as an unescorted figure started down an adjacent walk toward the car.
Damn, she wasn't going to be in time to catch him.
She stepped out into the crisp night air, her attention on the glossy luxury car and the man about to get inside. There was a flash of movement off to her right, but she was too focused on her target to realize that she was one, herself.
They struck silently, without warning.
The unexpected shock of being splashed with the liquid contents of a bucket startled a cry from her. She stopped in shock as if mortally wounded. Clearing the dampness from her eyes, she stared at her hands in dismay. Blood. Her hands were covered in blood.
The ugly protest chants rang in her ears as pamphlets scattered about her feet. Those opposed to the genetic work Harper Research was doing were quick to run away, leaving her standing in dripping distress in the middle of the walk.
Stacy took a ragged breath, and time started up again. Her hair, her face, her gown, were all drenched in sticky gore. A sick sense of violation stained equally well. Shock gave way to an anger that couldn't quite overcome an awful swell of anguish. If they'd had guns...
She'd been alone, vulnerable. A victim.
Her shoulders began to quake. Helplessness shuddered its way through the clog in her throat to burn her eyes, obscuring her awareness of the man who approached. Until his words caressed gently, for her benefit alone.
"Such fools to fear what they don't understand. Let me help you."
Before she could protest, the protective folds of a man's overcoat engulfed her. Equally gentle strokes of a linen square wiped the goo from her brows and cheeks, clearing her vision for a much greater surprise.
Up close, Louis Redman dazzled the beholder.
He was, in a word, gorgeous. Foreign, fascinating and utterly fabulous. Short-cropped dark hair gleamed with auburn highlights beneath the artificial light. Heavy, slashing brows offset the dramatically cut angles of his face. Eyes of an incredible emerald color and the sweeping contours of his mouth were softened with concern ... for her.
If she hadn't been shaken by the abrupt assault, she felt traumatized by the rescue.
"Are you all right, Miss Kimball?"
That he knew her name provided the spark to jump-start her brain.
"Yes, of course. Just startled is all. And mad as hell."
She raked the now-vacant area with a furious glare. Where was the security team Harper provided for such events? It was just the two of them on the blood-splattered walk that looked like the center of a crime scene. It could have been, had the science militants decided on less environmentally-friendly weapons of choice. The shivers started through her again. She fought them off with the strength of her outrage.
"I should be used to those damned vultures by now."
"It's the coward's way to choose concealment over honorable confrontation. Are you sure you haven't been harmed?"
"Just wounded in the ego.” She managed a faint smile and was rewarded by the sight of his in brilliant full bloom.
Be still my heart, she cautioned in a sudden panic of attraction.
"Allow me to provide you escort home. I fear you might have difficulty hailing a cab in your present state."
The reminder brought a horrified flush to her cheeks. “Good grief, I'm a mess. And I've ruined your coat."
"Don't give it a thought, Miss Kimball.” He'd taken her by the elbow and was steering her toward his elegant ride. The Oriental at the door regarded her with unblinking inscrutability, as if she didn't represent a biohazard.
"I can't possibly get in,” she argued against the relentless pull of his kindness. “Look at me."
He did look and, surprisingly, that scan revealed no hint of disgust. Instead, it smoldered with an odd inner fire. As a woman, she reacted to his intimate study with a quiver of heat and excitement, but another, deeper part of her responded unexpectedly. The hairs at her nape rose with a tingle that spread across the surface of her skin in tight, prickly gooseflesh. A strange reaction to the attention of an attractive man, yet too powerful and visceral to ignore.
Something was not right about the hungry intensity of his stare.
"You look fine to me, Ms. Kimball."
Even his low tone woke contrasting results, the sound both gruffly tender and faintly predatory. What was there about this handsome stranger? Earlier suspicions had her balking at the idea of being alone with him. But her analytical mind argued that there was no chance of discovery without risk. This was the moment she'd hoped for, yet confused signals of alarm and anticipation forced a stalemate, arrested her decision until he made it for her.
"After you, Ms. Kimball."
She stepped into the gleaming black vehicle. The sensation was like being swallowed up in a deceivingly comfortable void ... a trap. Why that connotation came to mind, she didn't know. Still, she couldn't shake the uneasiness that came in from the cold with the elegant Louis Redman.
He sat opposite her on the supple leather seats. Once the door was closed, the interior was devoid of light save the startling flicker of his eyes, like sudden shocks of flame from flint on steel. Then there was darkness from out of which came his quiet request to know her destination.
Did she really want him to know where she lived?
What was she inviting home with her, a naive fly to the spider? A hungry spider.
It was too late to escape now. The web had already tightened around her. What explanation could she give for the panic she felt inside? What reason for her rejection of his generous offer?
Excuse me, but my mama taught me not to accept rides from suspected serial killers.
She sat back on the seat and tried to relax. A futile effort. Anxiety closed about her chest in a constricting fist as she gave her address. He repeated it to the unseen driver. The car started forward, the movement so smooth, it was like floating. Everything about the moment conjured a discomforting air of unreality.
Then she remembered all of Fitzhugh's insinuations about Redman.
Was this man, incredibly, impossibly, the stuff of legendary nightmare? A vampire?
Oh, please.
Her cynicism should have easily conquered her worries. She
didn't believe in superstition. Her scientific mind had no tolerance for things absent of logic. She operated upon tangibles, not fancies. Yet how to explain the tremors of intuition whispering for her to have a care? What was intuition if not a protective sort of sixth sense warning of danger? Probability, she answered within her own clinical frame of reference. Instinct was merely the ratios of chance intruding upon the subconscious.
So why didn't the smug cocoon of her convictions make her ride more comfortable?
Perhaps it would have been easier to relax if she hadn't felt Redman's eyes upon her. His stare was intense, invasive, almost as unsettling as the attack on the walk. Both left her with a lack of equilibrium.
Putting her queasiness aside, Stacy focused on her immediate goal. A chance like this might never come again, her chance to converse one-on-one with the noted recluse.
"How did you know my name?"
His answer was slick and without hesitation. “I asked your employer. I make it a point to know the people I'm dealing with."
"And are we going to be dealing with one another, Mr. Redman?"
His chuckle was warm and somehow, still slightly sinister because of the impenetrable darkness.
"That depends, Ms. Kimball."
"On what?"
"On you."
Before she could pursue that amazingly vague reply, he surprised her with another observation.
"I've been following your work with interest. Combating disease on a genetic level. It's no wonder you incite the ignorant to such extremes of alarm."
She was alarmed, by his awareness of her while he was still an unknown to her. By his calm assertions that their futures would be linked if his will won out. Why it should feel as though their wills were already engaged when the rules of combat had not yet been defined, left her at a loss and oddly defensive. She responded with a bristle.
"It's not as though I'm doing cloning experiments in some Aryan attempt to purify the race. I'm doing disease research. Blood diseases, in particular."