by Julie Miller
He found her curled into a ball inside. Only this time, her hair was darker—a rich caramel brown with golden highlights. A troublesome tendril had sprung free of its ponytail to drape across a freckled cheek instead of clear, porcelain skin. And instead of crystal-blue eyes hurling accusations at him, large, pale-gray orbs begged him to reach out to her. To save her.
Not Miranda. Kit.
He had to save Kit.
A chunk of ceiling gave way and crashed to the floor, shooting up a snarling roar of white heat and orange flame between them.
“Damon!” A different voice. Kit’s voice. “Please!”
He rolled to the side, sucking in the last breath of oxygen hovering above the floor. He thrust his hands into the flames.
“Kit!”
He had to reach her. Had to hold her. Had to save her.
“Kit!”
Their fingertips brushed, curled together, clung. “C’mon, sweetheart. Hold on.” But the fire was so intense. So hot. He pulled. But he felt her slipping away. His useless hands came back empty.
“Damon!”
He plunged in again. But he couldn’t find her in the fire. He couldn’t hold on to her. “Kit? Kit!”
The alarms went off. The fire closed in. “Kit!”
He couldn’t save her. Couldn’t save her. Couldn’t save—
A repetitive buzzing woke Damon from this new, twisted version of his perennial nightmare.
“Son of a bitch.” The tension eased out of him on a deep, controlled exhale, and conscious awareness of his surroundings returned on the next breath. Sunlight leaked between the blinds, indicating it was high in the sky. His stomach rumbled in protest of its twenty-four-hour stint without a decent meal. He was lying facedown on his work station, his cheek feverish against the cool stainless top. His arms were stretched across the table and his hands, those experimental recreations of flesh and sinew, were clinging to the far edge of the table with the same ferocity with which he’d tried to hold on to Kit Snow in his dreams.
Damon popped his grip and sat up.
Cold steel was about all those hands were good for. Holding on to a needy, warm-blooded woman, thinking he could help her, wishing he could have her… Damon shot to his feet and rolled the stool away. Two strides carried him across the room to shut off the timer on his experiment. “Shut up.”
Only, it wasn’t the timer that was beeping.
Now he remembered. His tests had already turned up a result he didn’t want to see. Kit shared the same allergic tendencies that Miranda had exhibited. His tissue regeneration formula—and any apparent derivative—would be a toxic shock to her system, not a miracle cure. If the initial introduction didn’t kill her, then her body—after a few bothersome side effects—would simply reject the drug. If she wasn’t healthy enough, if she didn’t have enough antihistamine in her system to block the absorption, then the formula would mutate her nervous system. Like Miranda, Kit would be susceptible to hormonal imbalances and abnormal cell growth. Who knew what other debilitating or even fatal side effects would have eventually presented themselves if Miranda hadn’t taken her life?
The annoying buzz started in again, and Damon cursed. He hadn’t recognized the sound at first because he hadn’t heard it in months. It was from upstairs in the penthouse. Someone had gotten to the twenty-ninth floor and was ringing his doorbell.
Easting never showed up without calling first. Helen was in the hospital. SinPharm security? Again, he’d get a call. That left J. T. Kronemeyer. And with the mess he’d seen downstairs in the lobby last night, and the slack control of a project that allowed homeless people to occupy uninspected floors of the building, that contractor better not be showing his face at Damon’s front door.
Scrubbing his palm across his unshaven jaw, Damon shook off the remnants of his sleep and checked out his visitor on the monitors.
“I’ll be damned.” Persistence had a name. “Kit Snow.”
LEAVING HIS WORK behind him, Damon hurried up the back stairs to the penthouse. He draped his lab coat over a black leather sofa, tossed his goggles onto a chair, dimmed the lights and opened the front door. “How the hell did you get up here?”
Her jerk of surprise should have tempered his annoyance. He didn’t appreciate trespassers of any kind. But the teasing expression that slowly curved her pink mouth into a beautiful smile altered the adrenaline charging through him. Now his blood pulsed with something equally potent yet far more dangerous. Attraction. Excitement. Pleasure at seeing her face-to-face.
“Good afternoon to you, too.” She thumbed over her shoulder toward the recessed exit behind her. “Freight elevator. Besides your private elevator, it’s the only conveyance that runs through every story of the building.”
His first impression was that she barely reached his chin. A big mouth and lots of bravado made her seem taller.
His second impression was that her skin was pale beneath the sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks. She still wasn’t a hundred percent after last night’s attack.
Damon’s third impression was that something in the basket she carried smelled damn good, enticing enough that his stomach grumbled a wishful invitation before he could find the will to send her away.
Her gaze dropped to the traitorous growl. “Hungry?”
“I worked late last night. I guess I skipped dinner.”
“Breakfast and lunch, too, from the sound of things. Man, are you lucky there’s a diner right downstairs. May I come in?”
He was politely standing aside and watching her stroll past before he decided it might be wiser to say no. At least no one could hurt her up here. He wouldn’t have to rely on the cameras or a security guard to make sure she was safe. Damon closed the door and pointed her toward the kitchen.
“What’s in the basket?” He held back a few steps before following her, consciously putting distance between them.
“A thank-you gift. Well, leftovers, really. But then, the diner has killer leftovers, in my ever so humble opinion. Do you have a plate? Or do you want me to stick it in the fridge? Wow.” She paused at the entrance to the granite-and-black kitchen, loaded with every amenity Damon had been able to find to make Helen’s life easier. “This is almost as big as our restaurant kitchen. You could feed an army in this place. Helen must love it.”
The long black-laminate table could hold twelve, but was only set for two. And often Helen ate there alone while he worked. “She says it’s too big.”
Kit had spotted the lonely place mats. The sadness of her sigh was almost embarrassing. But she was smiling as she glanced over her shoulder and carried the basket to the table. “Mom and Dad said the kitchen was always the heart of the home. That’s why they opened a barbecue joint instead of something fancy. They wanted folks to feel at home. And come back often. Plates?”
Damon retrieved the necessary accoutrements and joined her at the table. He made a point of sitting at the head of the table, so that the sun streaming in through the windows behind him would cast his face in shadows. He left her place mat at the opposite end. Not the friendliest arrangement, he knew. But considering he hadn’t entertained a guest in months, she was lucky he was allowing her to stay at all.
But nothing—not even his cautious, watchful demeanor—seemed to disrupt her chatty mood. “This is Germane’s shredded beef sandwich. Usually I make the slaw and roasted-potato salad, but I was a little in-disposed this morning.”
“How are you feeling?” He decided the doctor in him needed to know.
“A little tired. But otherwise, fine.” She served up generous portions. “The apple pie’s mine, though. Your guard, Oscar, ate three pieces. I managed to set aside a slice for you before the lunch crowd came in, though. I know it’s just diner food, but—”
“It’s de-liff-us.” Damon chewed around the compliment and swallowed. “What’s in this sauce?”
“I’m not sure.” She seemed pleased that he was plowing through her food. “That’s Germane’s secret recipe. He
and my dad created it back before I was born. Germane says he plans to leave me the list of ingredients in his will—so I hope I don’t find out for a long time.”
The pie was damn near as good as anything Helen could bake, too, and he told Kit as much.
“That’s high praise, indeed, coming from the oatmeal chocolate-chip expert.”
Damon laughed, and the sound seemed to capture her full attention. As those dove-gray eyes squinted to bring him into sharper focus, he lowered his head and polished off his plate.
“Do you mind if we talk?” she asked, allowing him his visual privacy.
Damon shrugged. “I haven’t been able to stop you yet.”
She laughed for him. “I guess I think out loud a lot. And when I get curious about something, I ask.”
He tensed. Curious about what?
“Do you have laryngitis?”
Hiding his relief behind an oversize bite of pie, Damon shook his head. It was a safe enough topic. “I always sound like this.” He offered a matter-of-fact explanation without going into detail. “There’s scarring on my vocal cords and throat.”
“From what?”
Maybe not such a safe topic. “There was a fire in my lab.”
“The one that was in the news a couple of years ago? What happened?”
“I don’t talk about that night.” He watched the skin beneath her freckles blanch at his sharp tone.
Now, there was a conversation stopper.
Or not.
“My parents died in a fire. That same night.” He didn’t think it was possible for her to sound so lifeless. Defeated. “Two fires in the same building on the same night? I remember the arson investigators worked for months trying to make a connection. But they never did. The causes were different. The Snows and Sinclairs had nothing in common. You and your wife got out. Mom and Dad…”
Suddenly the table between them was much too long. Damon tightened his fist around his fork to control the urge to go to her. What did he think he could do? Hold her hand again? It seemed kind of high schoolish. But right now, holding on to Kit sounded like the most perfect way in the world to ease her sadness. To ease his own.
Probably a damn good thing the table was so long.
“Let it go, Kit.” Move on. No talk of fires. No talk of anything that might trigger a personal memory or incite an emotion. He just wanted to keep an eye on her. He wanted his own visual verification that she had recovered from the 428 drug.
Her smile made a mockery of his emotional detachment. “Does it hurt when you talk?”
Faulty reasoning, Doc. This wasn’t just about keeping a close watch over his headstrong companion. He was enjoying this verbal sparring match. Enjoying her company. More than he should. “Always with the questions.”
“Never with the answers.” She nailed his intonation right on, and a laugh rasped at the back of his throat again.
“No, it doesn’t hurt.”
She rested her elbows on the table and propped her chin in her hands. “I guess you’d never know if you did get laryngitis, then.”
“Interesting hypothesis.”
Sitting together at his kitchen table in the middle of the afternoon, eating, talking—it felt normal. Special. Certainly not like a doctor and patient sharing a meal. Nor even a protector and his big-hearted neighbor who’d put her life in danger because of his mistakes.
Though Miranda had never been this much of a talker, sitting with Kit reminded him of the late-night or early-morning meals he’d shared with his wife. Back when he thought they’d be together forever, when he believed they could get through any rocky patch. Before he spent too much time in his lab, and she, too much time in her office. Back when he’d hoped they could move beyond being business associates and lovers, and start a family.
This was a secluded moment out of time, unfiltered by his private demons or outside dangers. But it wasn’t real. It couldn’t last.
Kit’s next question proved that. “Did you finish running the tests on me?”
Despite his hunger, his appetite failed him. “Yes.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Am I going to live?”
If you stay the hell away from me and my enemies, you might. “Yes.”
“Has anyone else died because of your experimental drugs?”
Damon pushed away from table. So this visit was more than just a tasty way to thank him for his help. She was fishing for information, just like he was.
“The SinPharm products I’ve developed have saved thousands of lives. We’ve helped doctors mend a lot of broken people.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Damon scooped up his plate and carried it to the sink. “There are some with allergic predispositions who can’t tolerate the medication.”
“Like me.”
“Exactly. My tissue regeneration therapy meets FDA standards. No one has died from its proper prescription and use.” He turned to emphasize that point, found she had followed right behind him, and quickly turned back to face the sink. “Four two eight is something different. It was a failed experiment.”
She moved in beside him to set her plate in the sink. “It seemed to work on me.”
“You’d be dead if it had worked the way it was supposed to.”
Her fork clattered onto her plate. “I warned you about that bedside manner, Doc.”
In another time, in another place in his life, Damon would have wrapped his arms around her and held her until the tension that whitened her knuckles and corded the back of her slender neck eased. But he was who he was. He shouldn’t even be standing this close to Kit, side by side, shoulder to shoulder. The nubs of her sunny-yellow top caught in the ribs of his black sweater, creating friction. Triggering unseen sparks. Igniting the fluid warmth that seemed to flow between them.
But she needed reassurance. At the very least, she needed an explanation. And Damon needed…
He didn’t move away. “The night my lab burned, I had reams of my work stolen. Most of it consisted of discarded formulas.”
“Like 428?” She wasn’t moving away, either.
Damon nodded. “Everything I record is encrypted. Apparently, whoever stole those books has managed to decipher some of my work and produce the drug. Or they got lucky.”
“You don’t strike me as the kind of man who believes in luck.”
“Not the good kind.” Breathing deeply stirred his arm against hers. He felt her shift. Lean in. Damon squeezed his eye shut, damning that surging flood of heat and desire that had him feeling like a whole man. Wanting like any other man. Why the hell wasn’t he doing the smart thing and moving away from her soft fire? “My notes are complicated enough that it would take a team of scientists years to make sense of everything in those books. Even longer before anyone could get any viable formula or see any kind of profit.”
“So that thief has come back to get your codes?” Smart lady. “Do you think they’re using Helen to force you to turn them over?”
“I would never. Helen wouldn’t want me to. But hurting her would be the most efficient way to put me off my game. Since Miranda’s suicide, she’s the only thing I care about anymore.” Maybe not the only thing. Was that his little finger toying with the back of Kit’s hand? Why was he so fascinated with the blend of strength and softness there? “Their sick greed cost me my wife. I will not give them the satisfaction of succeeding.”
“If they’re willing to create and use a poison like 428, then they have to be stopped.”
He intended to do just that. “I’m afraid you’ve gotten in the way of whatever they’re planning. They can come after me—they can try. But I won’t let them hurt you again. I promise.”
Kit’s fingers shifted, ever so slightly, and suddenly they were holding hands again. The current thrumming between them sizzled to life in an instant.
But she was offering advice and comfort, not making his unspoken wishes come true. “You shouldn’t be fighting them on your own. Have you tol
d the authorities?”
“Like Means and Velasquez?” Those two drones couldn’t find where they parked their car, much less track down who was behind the fire, the theft, the computer infiltration, Miranda’s death and the attacks on Helen and Kit. No, thanks. He’d handle this his way. “I’ve alerted my executive liaison and he’s put my security staff on alert. No one will break into SinPharm.”
“It’s not your company I’m worried about. Do you have any idea who’s behind the theft?”
Damon’s laugh was a bitter sound in his throat. “Most of the world thinks I’m dead. So I’m guessing it’s someone who knows me personally. Someone who knows I’d recognize 428 when I saw it. Someone who wouldn’t mind destroying my company in the process.”
“Do you have a long list of enemies?”
“So you’ve picked up on the fact I don’t have a lot of friends.” Following the most natural of impulses, Damon angled his chin down to let her see that that was a fact of life he accepted. One he preferred.
But he froze at the wide-eyed curiosity in her upturned face. She was looking at him. Only inches away. Dead-on. “I’ve picked up on the fact you don’t go out of your way to make any friends.”
Damon extricated his fingers and turned away. “Thanks for the late lunch. You’d better head out. I need to get back to work.”
Her hand at the center of his back singed his skin. “You know, I don’t mind seeing your face.”
“You really should go.”
He was surprised at how quickly the warmth of her hand disappeared. Had he really been hoping she wouldn’t give up so easily? Fine with him. He didn’t want her pity. Touchy-feely time was done. Damon stalked to the table to snatch up her basket and send her on her way. She trailed right behind him. “At least it’s not boring to look at. I think the eyepatch makes you look like a swashbuckler.”
“Swashbuckler?”
“Maybe international spy. It adds mystery. A sense of daring.”
He dropped the basket and spun around to meet her. “This is no storybook face, sweetheart. It doesn’t get better-lookin’ when I smile.”