by Julie Miller
“She’s answered enough questions for now.” Damon’s voice crackled from the shadows. Its unmistakable warning startled her from her turbulent thoughts.
But not half so much as his warm, mottled hand wrapping around her own surprised her. His long surgeon’s fingers reached out to her from the darkness. He pulled her fingers from her throat and linked them together with his own in a sure, possessive grip. “She has bruises forming on her neck,” he observed, never loosing his hold on her. “You could take a measurement to get an accurate idea of the man’s hand size. But do it tomorrow.”
With the image of his square jaw outlined above her, Kit closed her eyes again, but only to savor the warmth and courage that radiated from Damon’s fingers to hers. She breathed easier now, and the world stopped spinning inside her head. She wasn’t alone. And the strength of the man allying himself with her reminded her of the depth of her own strength.
A moment or two passed in silence, and she truly began to understand why her parents had found such comfort, such hope, in this simple act. This was more than a show of support, more than a physical caress. When she felt the rough pad of Damon’s thumb brush gently along the length of her fingers, her heart skipped a beat, then calmed and regulated itself at a healthier tempo.
There was an intimacy to be discovered in this palm-to-palm contact. Interlaced fingers were symbolic of other tangled connections that were forming far too quickly and more deeply inside her than she’d ever expected.
“Are you the boyfriend?”
Kit’s eyes snapped open at Detective Means’s query. Her idyllic bubble burst.
“I’m the doctor. My patient needs her rest.”
Means and Velasquez faced off against Damon, with Kit lying like a prize between them. Detective Means tucked his pen and pad inside his overcoat and pulled out a business card. In the dim glow from the muted lamp, Kit could see Damon from the detectives’ suspicious point of view. Dressed in black from head to toe. Eyepatch. Harsh, unsmiling face.
Possessive grip on her.
“Sure, Doctor.” Try spy. Kidnapper. Terrorist. “Here’s my card. If she thinks of anything else, let us know.”
Detective Means extended his right arm, asking for a friendly handshake. Asking Damon to release her.
He did. But only to pluck the card from Means’s outstretched hand before tucking Kit back beneath the blanket.
Means couldn’t miss the snub. Nor the meshwork of scars on Damon’s knuckles. “If we leave now, will you be all right, Miss Snow?”
They suspected Damon? Should she?
But he’d held her hand.
“I’m fine. Dr. Sinclair is…” What? Definitely not the boyfriend. He was neither boy nor friend. “He’s my neighbor.”
“I see.” She had a feeling neither Means nor Velasquez understood her weird connection to Damon. Especially when she didn’t understand it herself.
After leaving a second card for her on the bedside table, the detectives left. Damon circled the foot of the bed and followed them to the door. He briefly exchanged words with someone in the hallway before letting the door drift shut.
Half a room away, Kit could feel Damon’s energy radiating in waves off his body. Was that the pain of being disfigured? Anger at being prejudged? He was a bit scary to look at in the light. Okay, maybe more than a bit scary.
If she’d ever felt lonely in her life—grieving over the sudden loss of her parents, at her wits’ end raising a teenage brother, taking a stand against the crime in her neighborhood—she knew she could only have an inkling of the isolation that Damon must feel. Separated from others by wealth and security and a fearsome face, he was every bit a modern Beast, ostracized from society by their hurtful ignorance or his own protective armor—or some prejudicial combination of both.
Kit’s heart squeezed tight in her chest. “I’m sure they don’t think you hurt me or Helen. They were just doing their jobs.”
Or maybe the man didn’t feel anything at all.
“And I’m going to do mine.”
“What does that mean?”
“My man’s just outside. No one will get in here except your brother and ID’d hospital staff. He’ll see you home in the morning. You should be fine once your body has recovered from the shock of the 428 formula.”
“Four two eight?”
“You’ll be contacted if I find out there are any other aftereffects you should be concerned with.”
“Damon. Damon?”
But he was gone. Taking thoughts of compassion and feelings of hope and something too new and confusing to identify with him.
HIS ENEMIES had returned.
Damon wasn’t one to completely trust his instincts, but he would soon find the facts to prove what he suspected to be true.
He’d already read the preliminary toxicology reports the hospital had run on Kit and the yellow compound that had been injected into her and into Helen’s IV tube. In an old woman, the resulting symptoms would have played out like a heart attack and massive organ failure. No one would have questioned her death. Only a medical examiner who knew what to look for would have discovered any foul play during an autopsy.
But in a vibrant, healthy woman Kit’s age…
There could be no other interpretation but cold-blooded murder.
Who would risk such an attack?
The why was easier to hypothesize. Someone wanted his attention.
They had it.
Though he had no doubt Kit had gotten in the way of the attempt on Helen’s life, he knew a scarf around her windpipe or a blow to the head could have stopped her just as easily—just as permanently—as that syringe.
But this was personal.
Formula 428 showing up on a tox screen made it personal.
Damon shed his coat and stomped the snow from his boots as he crossed the tiled floor of the Sinclair Building’s deserted lobby. Canvas tarps covered the navy-and-white art deco mosaics to protect them from pallets loaded with limestone blocks and stacks of lumber and galvanized ductwork waiting to be installed somewhere in the building. Even the architectural rendering advertising the office and living space available after each stage of the remodel was partially hidden behind a clump of sawhorses and power equipment.
Mental note: Have Easting get on Kronemeyer’s ass and get this project done!
But he paid no more attention to the hazards and hiding places in a lobby that should have been completed and cleared two months ago. Damon had work of his own to do. He swiped his key card through the access port to the penthouse elevator and punched in his entry code.
Kit Snow had saved Helen’s life. Twice. And she’d damn near gotten herself killed for her efforts. He knew of only one kind of mugger who went from swinging a lead pipe to high-tech assassin in the span of a couple of nights. The same greedy coward who’d destroyed a woman’s life to get his hands on a multimillion-dollar medical breakthrough.
Miranda had paid the price for his work.
Helen had paid.
And now Kit Snow was paying. She was lying in a hospital bed, collateral damage easily cast aside because she stood in the way of what some bastard wanted.
His formulas.
His codes.
His corner on the miracle market.
Damon punched the button for the twenty-eighth floor. The car rocked back and forth as its newly installed cables engaged. Bracing his hand against the rail for balance, he swore at Kronemeyer’s incompetence. They’d be calling this place Sinclair’s Folly if he couldn’t get a contractor in here who could complete the renovations quickly and accurately so he wouldn’t have to worry about Helen or Kit or anyone else’s safety.
And he was worried.
He’d made an irrevocable decision tonight, reaching out to Kit Snow. Holding her in his arms. Taking her hand. Quieting her trembling doubts.
He’d gotten involved. Not just to put off some pushy detective who couldn’t see how his nagging questions were fragmenting the memories of an
attack that she couldn’t yet recall. Not just to guide the physician on duty to the synthetic matrix of the venom injected into Kit so that the proper antidote and treatment could be administered.
He’d made her an unspoken promise.
Kit Snow might be ballsy enough to reject his generous cash donation, but she was damn well going to accept his protection.
No other woman—no other person—was going to suffer because of him.
The number of scientists on the planet who could develop a formula to resequence human nerves to produce a targeted outcome such as tissue growth or system shutdowns was…well…one.
A handful of pharmaceutical companies, such as SinPharm, Kenichi Corp and RetroDyne, produced tissue generation drugs using the chemical patents he supplied. Their scientists produced his formulas.
But there was only one way anyone could have independently synthesized his discarded 428 formula so quickly. Someone had been experimenting with his work. His stolen work. They’d produced a bastardized copy of his formula, and instead of saving lives, it took them.
Damon fingered the sealed test tubes with samples of Kit’s blood and tissue that he’d stuffed inside his shirt pocket. He would break down the chemical components in his lab, verify that the formula had come from his stolen books.
Whoever had been hacking into his computer, trying to steal his codes, couldn’t have sent a clearer message.
If they couldn’t get what they wanted from him, then they’d take whatever else they could. They’d taken his wife. They’d taken his work. They’d tried to take Helen.
And now they were after Kit.
She was an innocent bystander who’d gotten twisted up in his nightmare of a life the night she’d taken her skillet out into the alley and become a better friend to Helen than he’d been over the past several months. He owed her.
As the elevator rattled up to the penthouse floors, Damon considered the woman who’d forced him so far out of his solitary comfort zone. He rubbed his thumb across the tips of his fingers, remembering what her hand felt like in his. Her nails were practically short. Her skin was soft and pliant despite the work she did. Perhaps its supple texture was a clue to the source of her subtle vanilla scent.
As the elevator slowed and jerked to a stop, he remembered how she’d burrowed against him when he’d cradled her in his arms. How she’d clung to him as though holding his hand was some big deal. He’d felt her racing pulse. He’d felt how it had evened out and strengthened beneath his touch.
He remembered how his own pulse had leaped at the contact. How long had it been since he held a woman—even a semiconscious one? How long had it been since he’d felt an almost territorial need to touch, to comfort, to connect?
The elevator opened and he crossed the hall to the double glass doors that led to his lab.
Protecting her was one thing. Touching her was something else. A man of Damon’s intellect should have known what a mistake that would be. He’d avoided it earlier, when she’d reached out to him. She was lost, disoriented. He rationalized that his rough hands and face were more likely to frighten rather than comfort her. But it had been a futile attempt at maintaining his emotional clarity and detachment.
Because the instant he’d made skin-to-skin contact with Kit Snow, he’d felt something coursing through him he hadn’t felt for months. Testosterone, certainly. It was a natural, documented response when something that was his—even just a caramel-haired neighbor—was threatened.
But there’d been something decidedly nonscientific heating his blood that was much harder to explain.
He’d experienced the same inexplicable rush when he’d accidentally grabbed her breast during their struggle in the ICU lobby, when he’d picked her up to protect her from that homeless man she obviously hadn’t needed protecting from, and the sweet, clean scent of her hair had caught in his nose.
He’d felt it when she touched his hand in the secret passageway on the thirteenth floor. How wrong had it been to want to caress that dusting of freckles on her cheek? How foolish was he to even imagine silencing the sass from those pretty pink lips with a kiss? How stupid was he for wanting anything from a woman after what he’d done to Miranda?
Mental note: No more touching Katherine Snow.
Refocusing his mind on the way he could best protect his toffee-haired neighbor, Damon swiped his card. The automatic sensor light came on, and he entered his new code and watched the doors slide open. He was still standing there when they closed again.
“What do we have here, Doc?” Damon leaned in closer, careful not to touch the palm print that smudged the clear glass. “We’ve had company.”
A measured look in either direction told him he was alone in the hallway. And since he’d programmed his key port to automatically reset the code each time a door was opened, he had no fear that some unknown intruder was waiting for him in his lab. Not since the fire would he ever have that kind of trouble again.
But someone had tried to get in. Maybe the handprint was evidence that the intruder had tried to pry open the door manually. Or maybe it was a slap of frustration against the glass. Anyone fit enough could climb the stairs to the twenty-eighth floor and, if he or she possessed the patience of a safecracker, one could break a conventional lock to gain access to the penthouse levels. Helen, Easting Davitz, SinPharm security, J. T. Kronemeyer and a select few from his construction crew had access to the private elevator. But no one could get into his lab. No one.
For comparison, Damon splayed his fingers out. The handprint was smaller than his, and there were no distinct lines—no fingerprints—to trace. That indicated the intruder wore gloves. Either that or…Damon turned over his hand and noted the blank fingertips…he wasn’t the only deformed freak out there.
Yeah, right. He’d go with the glove theory.
Curling his fingers into his palm to hide the disgusting alternative, Damon entered the lab. He tossed his coat on a hook, booted up the security monitors and slipped into his white lab uniform.
After a quick scan of the cameras to verify that all of the public areas of the building were clear—other than the road grader rumbling past out front, scooping aside the new snow—Damon referenced the time he’d been gone and scrolled through the recorded footage.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. “Hello.”
Damon highlighted the image and magnified it on the central monitor—11:30 p.m. Shortly after he’d left to sign papers at SinPharm. On the screen the elevator opened and a bulky, shadowy figure stepped out. He looked from side to side. Yes, he was alone. He could go to work.
“Interesting.”
The figure on the screen pulled out a key card. Stolen from Kronemeyer or one of his men? Could it be Kronemeyer or one of his men? Damon couldn’t see how a man with that much sawdust in his brain could have an interest in his work, much less have the capacity to plan industrial theft. No, this was the work of somebody much smarter.
Somebody willing to kill a sweet old woman just to get her keys. Somebody who knew Helen would have that key card. Somebody who knew Helen.
“Come on, you bastard. Show yourself.” The intruder swiped the card. The light came on.
The figure on the monitor was wearing a bulky Kansas City Chiefs parka, with a fur-lined hood pulled up over his head—hiding his face and masking his shape. Most likely startled by the light, the intruder swung around, searching to see if he’d been discovered. Something else caught his attention and he tipped his head, looking straight into the camera. “I’ll be damned.”
“Your attacker had no face?”
Detective Means’s incredulous question echoed in Damon’s mind. Damon’s intruder was wearing a stocking mask that covered his entire face, leaving nothing but dark eyes showing through. Kit’s attacker had probably worn a mask, too. He’d have to ask her if she remembered a color or design that the police could add to their description.
Maybe he’d call Detective Means himself when the sun came up. Maybe he wouldn’t.
He had an idea that Means and Velasquez were way out of their league on this investigation. If Damon wanted to protect Kit, he’d best get to work on the evidence himself.
After copying the tape of the break-in attempt and sending it to SinPharm’s security office, Damon geared up and went to work. Sleep and breakfast were optional now. He prepped Kit’s bloodwork for testing, erased his white boards and put on his lab glasses.
Knowledge had always meant power in his world. And he intended to make himself the smartest man in this deadly game.
Chapter Seven
His hands were on fire.
Damon fought off the groggy disorientation that consumed him. He let his rage suffuse him. Give him strength. Numb him to the agony of searing flesh. He clutched his arms to his stomach and doubled over to stifle the flames with his own body.
“Help! Damon! Help me!”
“Miranda?” A pain far more cruel than any physical torture twisted in the pit of his stomach. Oh, no. God, no. “Miranda!”
His wife’s screams hurt worse than the scorching agony of the skin blistering on his fingers. Her terror cut deeper than the shrapnel wound on his forehead. He’d gladly give up any medical secret he could devise, but please, please, spare his wife.
“Miranda!” He shouldered aside burning tables, melting plastic and shattered glass, desperately searching through the blinding, roiling smoke. “Miranda! Ans—” He choked on the toxic gases coating his lungs and crumpled to the floor.
“Damon!”
Her screech of desperation drove him on. He crawled through corrosive puddles and ruined work and unknown treachery to find the only thing that truly mattered. “Miranda? Please. Keep talking. I’ll find—” Coughing cut like broken glass through his raw throat. The spasms drained his strength and drove him to the floor. But he pulled himself toward her ragged sobs. He had to save her. “I’m coming.”
“Damon…” Her voice was fading away. Dying.
He was his wife’s last—her only—hope for survival.
He reached the storage closet, tossed aside the stool blocking the door, then yanked it open to find her. To save Miranda.