by Laura Taylor
"Please leave, Miss Cassidy," he urged in a voice that seemed to resonate with sadness. "The answers you seek will not be found here."
She heard the finality in his voice. "What’s your name?"
"My name isn’t important."
"Of course, it is." Her voice reflected the same kind of patience she exercised with her first grade students whenever they grew irritable from boredom or fatigue. "I want to be able to tell Mr. Benteen of your vigilance when I meet him. Spell your name for me, won’t you?"
"Miss…"
"Call me Hannah, please. And I should warn you, I can be as stubborn as the day is long."
A grudging chuckle escaped him. "That’s quite evident."
She seized on his unexpected, albeit wry, humor. "I’m not dangerous, I’m not lying, and I’m not crazy. The Chief of Police in St. Louis knows me. His daughter is one of my students, and I know he’ll vouch for me if you’d just call him. I can also give you the phone numbers of my parish priest, my hairdresser, my accountant, and the veterinarian who takes care of my dog. Set whatever conditions you like, but please tell Mr. Benteen that I need to speak to him."
"You’re very persistent, but you’re wasting your time."
Her temper ignited. "My brother is not a waste of time!"
"That’s not what I said."
"It’s obviously what you meant."
"Do you routinely endow people you don’t know with unattractive motives whenever they aren’t willing to give you what you want?"
"Only when they’re being bullheaded and obtuse."
He laughed, the sound low, warm, and stunningly sensual.
Hannah felt the vibration of that sensuality sing across her senses. Wide–eyed, she said, "You sound almost human when you laugh. You should do it more often."
"Please leave, Miss Cassidy. As charming as you probably are when you’re not behaving like a pit bull, you’re still not welcome here."
"I am not leaving. I’ll wait you out. Eventually, you’ll have to come up for air or food or exercise at some point in the not too distant future. Finding Sean is more important than the inconvenience of sleeping in my van. Now, please do me the courtesy of giving my message to Mr. Benteen. And tell him one more thing for me. I don’t believe my brother would have given his friendship or respect to a man incapable of recognizing an honest plea for assistance."
Spine stiff, head high, Hannah marched back to her van, yanked open the door, and crawled inside. She did all this under the watchful gaze of a man who placed a high value on his privacy, but not nearly as high a value as he placed on the survival of his few living friends.
** ** **
The temperature plunged to a single digit reading as the afternoon spent itself. The forecasted snow flurries lasted only minutes, to be eclipsed by a steady onslaught of plump snowflakes that coated the landscape like a dense layer of white icing.
Nicholas absently listened to the powerful gusts of wind that whistled through the eaves of the house, made the already heavy branches of the fir trees tremble with tension, and created haphazard snowdrifts. Accustomed to the unpredictable nature of the weather, Nicholas didn’t give the outdoor conditions a second thought. Neither did he assume that the weather would act as a catalyst to hasten the departure of the unwelcome guest parked in his driveway.
Darkness arrived with the usual suddenness of a dropped curtain. It consumed the surrounding terrain and silenced the wild creatures that roamed the area by day.
Nicholas Benteen, employing the discipline and precision he invariably demanded of himself, returned to the contents of the file on his desk. He worked far into the evening to accomplish the goals he’d set for himself at the start of the day.
Although the woman who claimed to be Sean’s sister flirted with his consciousness, he devoted little time to planning their next encounter. He knew what needed to be done, and he intended to do it. After confirming her continued presence in the van, he indulged in a late supper and a hot shower to ease the tight muscles in his shoulders and neck.
Nicholas set out on his mission shortly after midnight. Clad in black trousers and turtleneck sweater, leather boots, and a knit cap, he carried a flashlight and a tool of persuasion that had never failed him. He disliked using terror tactics on women, but he decided to make an exception in Hannah Cassidy’s case.
Having experienced her stubborn nature, he sensed that fear was the obvious weapon of choice in order to achieve the results he desired. He also reminded himself that once Hannah Cassidy departed, he would regain the serenity and solitude he desired. When his conscience called him a liar and taunted him with the unceasing loneliness that haunted him, he muttered a lethal word and forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. He exited his home and blended into the ink–dark night.
Nicholas didn’t intend to harm Sean’s little sister, but he felt justified in raising sufficient doubt in her mind about her safety if she remained on his land. He hadn’t taken a life or fired a weapon in several years. Although still more proficient than most with the tools of death, he savored too completely the life and the peace he’d found in northern Nevada to revert to the violence of his past.
Amazed that she’d left her van unlocked, he eased open the rear door and crawled inside. Nicholas found her sprawled on her back, encased in a sleeping bag, the top edge tucked beneath her chin, and sleeping soundly. He crouched over her, his knees positioned on either side of her hips.
Nicholas flicked on the flashlight, positioning it for a clear view of her face. He hesitated, the opportunity to study her features in repose more of a temptation than he intended to resist. His gaze swept over the tousled cloud of black hair that framed her heart–shaped face. Unwilling to fight the impulse, he reached out and ran his fingertip across the wayward lock of hair curled against her cheek. He inhaled, shaken by the silken softness of her dark hair and the honeysuckle fragrance of her skin.
He froze when she turned her face toward his hand. A soft sigh whispered past her parted lips. Her warm breath grazed his palm. Desire, immediate and incendiary, spiked within his large, muscular frame. Nicholas pulled back, damning himself for a fool as his sex hardened.
His hand shook as he withdrew it. He held very still, listening to the slow, even cadence of her breathing as he brought himself under control. A hint of a smile lifted the edges of her lips. He stared down at her, amazed by the depth and innocence of her sleep. Nicholas briefly wondered if she was the kind of woman who dreamed happy dreams. If so, he envied her.
He also recalled a comment he’d once heard about the sleep of angels and innocents. His conscience suggested that she was a heady combination of both, and he felt a momentary urge to absolve her of any negative motives. Even though a part of him wanted to believe that she really was Sean Cassidy’s little sister, Nicholas recalled the duplicity of those who populated his past, and he discarded the charitable impulse.
He marveled yet again at the peaceful depths of her sleep. Watching her through narrowed eyes, his thoughts shifted with resentment to the insomnia and nightmares that had plagued him for years; haunting by–products, Nicholas supposed, of the life he’d lived and the choices he’d made so long ago.
Forcing himself past his memories, he refocused on her delicately constructed facial features. The graceful arch of her eyebrows, the mink–thickness of her eyelashes, and the flush in her cheeks fascinated him, but not nearly as much as the shape of her lips—ripe fruit.
A shudder ran through him. Air gusted free of his lungs, and he felt compelled to sample that mouth in order to discover if she tasted even half as delectable as she looked. Nicholas froze. One taste of this woman would not suffice.
He reluctantly acknowledged the wisdom of erring on the side of caution and avoiding the temptation she posed. Instead, he leaned forward, and he permitted himself the singular luxury of stroking the side of her face with the blunt tips of his fingers.
Her skin reminded him of warm satin, and he felt his
body respond to the image of her that flashed in his mind—naked, vulnerable, and writhing beneath his hands and mouth. She reached out to him in his thoughts, welcoming his sensual campaign.
Hannah groaned, the sound like an invitation to a solitary man starved for true emotional and physical intimacy. His heartbeat accelerated, and he trembled as his blood rushed hotly through his veins. Hunger assaulted him like the fiercest adversary, making him ache, filling him with a soul–deep need that stunned him. He’d lost his damned mind, he thought as he stared down at this woman.
His thigh muscles strained, and his sex pulsed with heat and hunger. He sucked in enough air to fill his lungs before exhaling raggedly. Then, he closed his eyes, his struggle for control etched into his hard features as he slowed his respiration.
Determined to exercise his legendary control, forty year old Nicholas Benteen remained still. He very reluctantly acknowledged far too many years spent in a state of self–imposed emotional isolation—his penance for dispensing death to those who preyed on the weak and vulnerable across the globe. His penance for survival.
Finally and quite deliberately, Nicholas settled atop her, his loins lodged in the cradle of her thighs, his knees bracketing her lower torso. He felt her shift against the press of his weight, and he knew exactly what would happen next.
Tightening his grip on the ten inch steel blade he’d carried since becoming a man, he curved his free hand over the lower half of her face. And then, he waited.
2
Hannah murmured a sound of protest in her sleep. She stirred beneath the unexpected sensation of weight pressing down on her hips. She blinked, frowned as she focused on the unforgiving facial features of a man she didn’t know, and then went totally still.
She stared up at the crazy man crouched over her in the back of her van. She paled as she registered the masculine contours of his muscular body. For a terrifying moment, she wondered if anything but skin separated them.
Hannah floundered, mind going blank, muscles rendered slack, and shocked to her core. Then, she struggled for a calm she doubted she would ever feel again. As she looked into his cold, remorseless eyes, she ransacked her befuddled mind for some semblance of coherency. Instead, disbelief continued to dominate her thoughts and emotions.
The man lifted his other hand into view, exposing the weapon he gripped. A raw, panicked sound escaped her. She bucked beneath him, stilling when he shook his head and settled even more intimately against her. Hannah stiffened. Wary and alert now, she followed his lead as her heart stuttered in her chest and then began to beat again, this time so wildly that she almost blacked out.
They stared at each other for several long minutes. His body, she realized, was as lethal as the knife he held, his facial features as hard and unforgiving as granite. His eyes were the part of his face that captured her attention—glacial slate gray eyes that looked as old as time and just as weary, too old and far too weary for a man so obviously in his prime.
Hannah couldn’t recall a single one of the rules she’d learned in the self–defense course she’d taken several years earlier, so she stopped trying. A woman who tended to rely on her instincts in time of crisis, she cautioned herself to take this situation one moment at a time.
The futility of trying to fight off a man this massive, muscular, and thoroughly menacing didn’t escape her. Breathing deeply despite the fact that his hand still covered her mouth, she felt amazed by the unexpected spark of anger that ignited within her.
"You sleep like the damn dead," he said accusingly.
Despite his ludicrous comment, she recognized his voice. Stunned, her eyes widened even more, her gaze darting between his hard featured face and the knife he gripped. Hannah tried to speak, tried to move beyond her anxiety in order to reason with him, but her vocal cords felt paralyzed.
"I don’t know who or what you are, lady, but you’re too damned careless to be an assassin." He glared down at her. "Maybe this innocent act of yours is just a new spin on an old but very clever game." He lifted his hand from her face.
She sucked in air and then moistened her lips. Hannah peered up at him, bewilderment and anxiety blending with her growing anger. She cautioned herself not to challenge him, not to do anything foolish. "Are you going to hurt me?"
"Give me a good reason not to."
"Answer my question, please."
He chuckled, a darkly sensual rumble.
Hannah blinked. "Are you planning to rape me?" she demanded without really thinking through such a question.
"Not my style."
"Then I shouldn’t have to provide you with a reason to behave in a civilized manner, especially since I’ve already told you who and what I am."
He smiled, but his expression remained cold and dangerous. She sensed his capacity for retribution if he felt wronged or threatened.
"I asked you very politely to leave."
She shook her head. "No, you ordered me to leave. There’s a difference. You were rude."
Surprise flashed across his face.
She watched him, and she decided that anyone who contradicted him did so at his or her own peril. She wondered why she’d felt she could. And she wondered why and how Sean had chosen him as a friend. Certain now of his identity, she prayed he would feel reluctant to harm the sister of a friend. Hannah met his gaze and waited for Nicholas Benteen to speak.
"Why are you still here?"
Ground glass, she thought, mentally cataloging the sound of his voice for later retrieval and consideration. "I told you why earlier."
"And I’m supposed to believe that you always speak the truth. Give me a fuckin’ break, lady."
She glared at him. "Why wouldn’t you believe me? I have absolutely no reason to lie to you."
"I told you, I don’t have any information for you about Sean Cassidy, aka Sean O’Neill or Neill Cassidy."
"I didn’t believe you then, and I do not believe you now."
"You’d be well advised to believe anything I say to you, Ms. Cassidy." He settled more heavily against her, as if to punctuate his warning.
She felt the flex of his powerful thigh muscles and the hard, thick length of his sex. She realized that she’d never known a man who emanated such barely leashed strength or who was so unashamed of his aroused body as he glared down at her. Unbanked anger blazed in his eyes.
An ancient battle—one whose rules were divined solely by the participants—ensued as they stared at one another. Neither spoke. Neither moved a muscle.
Hannah experienced a profound awareness of her own physical vulnerability, something that had never happened to her before, not even as a teacher in the inner city of St. Louis, where crime ran rampant and people struggled to survive from one day to the next.
She also felt a subtle and unexpected change taking place deep inside herself, a peculiar kind of heated tension she automatically credited to the situation, not the man. A heartbeat later, she knew she was kidding herself. Nicholas Benteen was a throwback to a time when a man demanded and attained control over his world, his destiny, and his woman.
Although horrified that she could respond sexually to him, she understood and then tried to rationalize his appeal. She failed, because she knew that he wasn’t just some guy on a par with Neanderthal cave dwellers. He was complicated, ruthless, and capable of scaring her to the point of witlessness. And she couldn’t dismiss him as unimportant. She couldn’t dismiss him at all, and that realization gave her pause.
Hannah breathed shallowly, her courage flagging but not totally lost to her. She decided to take her chances and roll the dice. "You’re Nicholas Benteen."
"Do tell."
She glanced at his knife once more, recalling a story Sean had shared in one of his letters from somewhere on the other side of the world. Hannah tried to quell the shudder that rippled through her as she dragged her eyes from the sharp blade and back to his face. "Something my brother said about you in one of his letters," she finally admitted.
His gaze pierced as he studied her, giving her the feeling that he was caressing her with his eyes. The sensation, both terrifying and seductive, rocked her to her soul. Hannah sucked in a breath, held it, and tried to read his expression. It was akin to trying to read a book in the dark.
"Why are you staring at me?" she whispered.
He continued to probe her features, saying nothing.
She didn’t feel violated, just extremely vulnerable. "Please move the knife," she breathed. "I swear I’m not a threat to you or your privacy. And I’m definitely not a threat to my big brother."
He moved the deadly knife tip back a few inches. Hannah exhaled, but only a fraction of her tension departed.
He searched her face once more. Then, he frowned.
She asked, "You see the family resemblance, don’t you?"
He shrugged, his broad shoulders shifting with unexpected grace. "Perhaps once, a very long time ago, but not any longer. He’s changed. We’ve all changed," he added, an after–thought that seemed to surprise even him.
"I imagine he’s gotten older, but everyone does. He remembers me as an awkward teenager with a mouthful of braces." She attempted a smile. She couldn’t make it happen, so she stopped trying to display her even white teeth. "You’ve seen him recently, haven’t you?"
He narrowed those slate–colored eyes. "I didn’t say that."
"You didn’t need to say anything. I can see the truth in your eyes." Hannah tried to free her arms, which were still trapped by the sleeping bag and his position atop her. "Give me a break, please. I’m starting to feel like a sardine in a tightly packed tin. I think it should be obvious to you by now that I’m not dangerous. I’ve never harmed anyone in my life, so you don’t need your knife."
He laughed, the sound short, hard, and filled with disdain. "Sean is not here. As a result, you do not belong here. I want you off my property by dawn."
She shook her head, too intent on her determination to have the facts about her brother to be driven off by the commando–style raid on her van by Nicholas Benteen. "Why are you lying to me?"