Night Moves (60th Anniversary)

by Heather Graham

  Rediscover this classic romantic suspense from one of the best, New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham.

  Bryn Keller is scrambling to get her life on track. Newly guardian to her three young nephews, she’s finding it even harder to make ends meet. A double gig for rock star Lee Condor—as a dancer and photographer—is just the opportunity she needs. But Lee is intense, and working for him isn’t easy. Bryn also can’t deny that they have a highly combustible connection. Just getting through each workday is a challenge.

  When Bryn gets whispered demands over the phone, and Lee suffers a series of break-ins, they realize that someone is playing a dangerous game: there must be something in the photos Bryn took. As the threats escalate and with one of her boys’ lives in danger, Lee becomes the only person Bryn can turn to. Even though she doesn’t think she can ever trust him with her heart.

  Originally published in 1985.

  Also by Heather Graham

  DARKEST JOURNEY

  DEADLY FATE

  HAUNTED DESTINY

  FLAWLESS

  THE HIDDEN

  THE FORGOTTEN

  THE SILENCED

  THE DEAD PLAY ON

  THE BETRAYED

  THE HEXED

  THE CURSED

  WAKING THE DEAD

  THE NIGHT IS FOREVER

  THE NIGHT IS ALIVE

  THE NIGHT IS WATCHING

  LET THE DEAD SLEEP

  THE UNINVITED

  THE UNSPOKEN

  THE UNHOLY

  THE UNSEEN

  AN ANGEL FOR CHRISTMAS

  THE EVIL INSIDE

  SACRED EVIL

  HEART OF EVIL

  PHANTOM EVIL

  NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES

  THE KEEPERS

  GHOST MOON

  GHOST NIGHT

  GHOST SHADOW

  THE KILLING EDGE

  NIGHT OF THE WOLVES

  HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

  UNHALLOWED GROUND

  DUST TO DUST

  NIGHTWALKER

  DEADLY GIFT

  DEADLY HARVEST

  DEADLY NIGHT

  THE DEATH DEALER

  THE LAST NOEL

  THE SÉANCE

  BLOOD RED

  THE DEAD ROOM

  KISS OF DARKNESS

  THE VISION

  THE ISLAND

  GHOST WALK

  KILLING KELLY

  THE PRESENCE

  DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR

  PICTURE ME DEAD

  HAUNTED

  HURRICANE BAY

  A SEASON OF MIRACLES

  NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD

  NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS

  EYES OF FIRE

  SLOW BURN

  NIGHT HEAT

  Look for Heather Graham’s next novel

  A PERFECT OBSESSION

  available soon from MIRA Books

  NIGHT MOVES

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  He was as one with the night.

  His tread upon the damp earth was as silent as the soft breeze that cooled the night, and as he moved carefully through the neatly manicured foliage, he was no more than shadow.

  A distant heritage had given him these gifts, and that same distant heritage had taught him to move with the grace of the wild deer, to hunt with the acute and cunning stalk of the panther, and to stand firm in his determination with the tenacity of the golden eagle.

  Yet that distant heritage had nothing to do with the his secretive stalk of this dark evening. Nor with the clothes he wore, black Levi’s jeans and a black turtleneck sweater.

  And black Adidas sneakers.

  Black, which could be swallowed into the night.

  Hunched down and balanced on the balls of his feet, he watched the house patiently for half an hour. Then he began to move, circling around it within the shelter of palms and hibiscus.

  No light shone from within. All was silent. Not even the trailing fingers of the pines gave off a rustle.

  Puzzled, he relaxed somewhat, then began another stealthy walk to circle the contemporary dwelling once more.

  Near the rear of the house he paused, hearing nothing, but sensing movement on the air. And then he did hear it. Footsteps. Padding cautiously, slowly.

  A silhouette appeared against the pale glimmer of the moon.

  A figure, also clad in black from head to toe.

  Black jeans. Loose-fitting, bulky black sweater. And a black ski mask that hid the wearer’s features, rendering it sexless, an intruder with one intent: to get into the house.

  The slender form paused as if strung upon the air, something like a young doe, seeming to sense danger. But there was no tangible danger, and so the form moved again, scurrying this time, rushing from the cover of the foliage to a double-paned window.

  He waited tensely as he watched the figure struggle for several seconds to lift the window. A cloud suddenly slipped over the moon, dimming the meager natural light of the night until it was almost nonexistent. There was nothing but pure shadow, a mist of blindness, and even the shadow was sensed rather than seen.

  The figure continued to work at the window. At last it gave, and the form leaped nimbly to the sill, paused again, then disappeared within.

  Only then did he move himself, silent as the shadow of the night once more, his steps making no sound. He peered through the window. A small, furtive light gleamed, the beam of a small flashlight. It moved across the room, disappearing past a white framed doorway that momentarily caught its reflection.

  Swiftly, smoothly, he hopped to the sill and eased himself over.

  He followed in the wake of the flashlight, past several doors, until he came to a large and spacious room. He paused in the darkness of the hallway, watching as the light was played quickly about. A modular sofa, strewn with colorful afghans, was comfortably arranged in one corner; a piano set upon a dais, and bookshelves lined opposing walls. Where there was space, attractive Western prints were hung; there was a rifle rack, and also a display of antique bows, arrows and spears.

  Far to the left, past a tiled foyer, was another raised section, separated from the main room by a handsome wroght-iron rail from which hung curling ivy. And within the enclosed section sat a large teakwood desk.

  It was here that the figure had stopped.

  The flashlight was set on top of a leather framed blotter; busy hands began hurriedly pulling at the drawers and rifling through them. With narrowed eyes he watched the action for a moment, and then, with the stealthy tread of a panther, he began to close in.

  A desk drawer slammed. Too loud. The intruder froze for a moment and sent the light flashing nervously around.

  He ducked behind a section of the sofa and waited until he heard the sound of riffled papers once again.

  Now…now he was ready to strike.

  Like a rush of wind he moved across the room, his movement fluid as he plucked an arrow from the wall, sprang over the ivy covered railing and clamped an arm about the stunned intruder’s throat.

  “Who the hell are you?” he growled, pressing the arrow point threateningly to the intruder’s ribs. “And what the hell do you want?”

  He felt the cold rush of terror that flooded through the intruder, the rigid, frozen stance.

&nb
sp; “I—” The tremulous whisper was choked off almost immediately. He relaxed the pressure of his hold somewhat and dropped the arrow as he realized his enemy’s weakness.

  “We’ll get some light on the situation,” he finally muttered dryly, releasing his victim altogether and moving confidently toward the desk.

  But he had underestimated his wily opponent. The figure spun about, jumping the rail with a fluid grace and tearing blindly through the shadowed house toward the hallway.

  “Hell!” he swore, gripping the rail and hurdling over once again. He raced through the hall. Past closed doors. To the den. Just in time to see the silhouette perched on the windowsill.

  “Stop!” he commanded, allowing for no weakness this time. Reflexively he bunched his muscles and hurled himself at the figure. Instead of jumping out, the black-clad wraith jumped inward, eluding him. Almost.

  He caught a handfull of soft wool. His grip was so tight that the sweater ripped, a swatch coming free in his hand.

  The figure spun from him in wild desperation, realized that it would be impossible to reach the window and pelted toward the door.

  He rolled, sprang to his feet and followed in hot pursuit again, aware now of something that the figure wasn’t: There was no other way out.

  Back into the living room they raced, to the stairwell rising to the balcony and the second floor. He was certain that the fleeing wraith was reasoning no more; just running blindly in desperation.

  Running foolishly in panic. Clinging to the hope of escape until the last possible moment.

  Their footsteps flew down the length of the wood-railed balcony that overlooked the living room. To the door at the end of the long hallway. The figure managed to throw the door open, then twisted wildly to see him an arm’s length away…

  The figure turned again, bolted into the room and tried to slam the door shut.

  He sprang, his shoulder sending a thudding shudder rippling through the wood of the door, his arms clasping the intruder.

  Together they flew through the darkness with the force of his impetus, landing hard upon the queen-sized bed in the center of the room. Arms flailed madly against him; thrashing legs kicked. The wraith writhed beneath him like a pinned cat. He worked silently and grimly to subdue the figure, and started for just a moment when his hands brushed something very lush. Firm, but soft. Full and tempting.

  A woman’s breast.

  “No! Please!” The cry was very feminine. Panicked. No, terrified. He could feel her racing heartbeat, hear the rush of air in her lungs as she fought to breathe. But still she struggled…

  With a grunt he straddled her and made quick work of securing her wrists.

  “All right!” he muttered furiously and repeated, “Who the hell are you, and what the hell are you doing here?”

  As suddenly as it had come earlier to create blackness, the cloud that had covered the moon drifted away. A silver glow poured through the glass panes of the French doors that led to the master suite’s sky-topped terrace.

  He could see her clearly, as she could see him.

  He reached for the black ski mask that covered her head and face and ripped it away, exposing a wealth of shiny hair that caught the moonglow and gleamed as richly as a newly minted penny. And exposing her features…

  Wide, thick-lashed, cat-green eyes stared into his. He quickly studied the woman’s face. High, delicate cheekbones. Copper brows. Straight, acquiline nose. Well defined mouth with a lower lip that hinted at an innate sensuality.

  She was still beneath him, only the rampant rise and fall of her breasts betraying the depth of her fear.

  He sat back, resting his weight on his haunches yet keeping her firmly a prisoner with the pressure of his thighs about her hips. He crossed his arms over his chest and kept staring at her, his eyes narrowing to a dangerous gold-tinted gleam, his lips forming a mocking smile of cynicism.

  He knew the luminous, cat-green eyes that stared into his. Just as he knew the lustrous length of deep copper hair.

  And he knew why she had been able to leap the downstairs rail with ease, and spin and pivot with the ease of a dancer.

  She was one.

  He even knew something of the soft and supple form that quivered now beneath his. He had held her once, in the creation of an illusion. Held her, and started up a long, curving staircase.

  And when his back had shielded her face from the camera, he had seen the hard glimmer of hostility fill her eyes. Felt in her rigid form dislike for the fact that she had to endure those moments in his arms…

  He had seen her before the camera, and he had seen her behind the camera.

  And he had seen her dance.

  “Ah, Miss Keller. How very nice to have you over—yet, how strange this seems! You were reluctant to join me for a glass of wine, yet here we meet—touching hip to hip—upon my bed. Should I be flattered, Miss Keller? Pity, but I think not.” He leaned low suddenly, palms on either side of her head, eyes flashing a chilling gold fire and bronzed features warningly tensed.

  “Speak to me, Bryn. Why did you break in? What are you looking for? You didn’t find it last night—”

  “Last night!” she broke in with whispered alarm.

  “Oh, cut it, will you?” he spat out harshly. “Yes, last night. Believe me, honey, I know when my place has been searched.”

  “But it wasn’t me—”

  “Shhh!”

  Suddenly he shifted again, his back straightening, his broad shoulders entirely still.

  And then she heard it, too.

  Someone moving…prowling about the living room. He started to rise, then paused as they both heard the creak of a footstep on the bottom step.

  Abruptly but quietly he moved, crossing his arms and grabbing the bottom of his turtleneck to hurriedly struggle out of it. His chest, broad, tapering to a drum hard abdomen, rippling with taut muscle, gleamed bronze in the moonlight.

  “Get your sweater off!” he hissed at her, rolling onto his side and ripping the covers from his half of the bed.

  “I will not!”

  “You will too—and fast!” he whispered, rolling her indignant form beside his so that he could tug at the other half of the bedding and pull it back up over the two of them. “Damn it, woman!” His voice was as insubstantial as the air, but she heard the angry, warning timbre. “No one will believe we’re sleeping soundly after a torrid session of lovemaking if you’re in bed with your clothes on! This is your game you’ve drawn me into, sweetheart, not mine, but now you’ll damn well play by my rules!”

  She hesitated, but his hands, long-fingered, broad-backed, powerful, were upon her, tugging at what was left of the sweater.

  “Stop!” she whispered, and quickly shed the garment herself, then started to ease down under the covers, her heart thumping madly.

  “The bra, too!” he snapped. “What’s the matter with you? Haven’t you ever made love?”

  She was shaking with outrage and humiliation, but she sensed that he knew what he was doing. Still, her fingers trembled too badly to release the hook. He touched her back, sending ripples that chilled and then burned all along the length of her spine. The hood gave in to his practiced flick of the thumb, and she clutched at the front of the lacy garment then shoved it beneath the covers before he could.

  It didn’t help her much. She almost cried out when she felt his arm come around her, his hand comfortably upon her ribs, his fingers splayed so that they teased the curve beneath her breast. He pulled her close until the supple length of her spine was pressed against the heat of his chest, his long legs curled intimately about her. She could hear the whisper of his breath against her neck, against the lobe of her ear…

  To an observer, they might easily have just made love. They might have been sleeping, comfortably, intimately, as lovers did…

  But she knew he was far from asleep. Far from comfortably at ease. She felt the vitality, the heat, exuding from him. She knew that his ears were keenly attuned to the slightes
t sound, that his entire being was acutely aware, that he could spring like a panther at a split second’s notice. Even as he lay still, she felt the ripple of perfectly toned muscle, the vibrant, primal male power that was his essence…

  And she was frightened. Frightened of the danger she had brought; frightened of the footsteps that kept coming, slowly…so slowly and carefully…up the stairway.

  And beyond that fear was something else. Something that reached inside of her. Despite it all, she was achingly aware of him. Of the fingers that brushed her bare breasts; of the hot male flesh pressed so tightly to her own. She felt vulnerable, and yet she felt protected. To feel his touch, to let him in, would be to become completely possessed on the most elemental of levels. He was a man who would take a woman body and soul. She would be completely his. And in return he would give her something as old as time, as staunch and firm as the mountains. His shielding strength; his sword against the world…

  If he wanted her.

  She was afraid of him. Had been from the beginning. Had sensed that if she gave in to the slightest weakness—

  The footsteps were coming closer. His arm moved, drawing her even more tightly to him, fingers inadvertantly teasing higher over her breast. Sensation rippled through her like lightning, mingling and joining with the rapid-fire gusts of terror…

  “Keep your eyes closed!”

  How had he known they were open to the darkness?

  His were, she was certain. Yet heavy-lidded, so no one would see that piercing gleam of night gold.

  The footsteps halted at the open door. She caught her breath, paralyzed with the terror of knowing that she was being watched—and not even able to watch back….

  Creak… A telltale floorboard was giving. This intruder, now satisfied with the whereabouts of the house’s occupants, turned away again, starting back down the stairs.

  The man beside her was up like a flash, tearing toward the door. Ready now to attack, with surprise on his side. He started down the stairs. “What the bloody hell are you doing in my house?”

  An explosion of gunfire, ripping through the darkness in an instant of blood red and sun yellow, was his only answer.

  He ducked and heard the bullet whiz by his ear, then sink into the wood of the doorframe.

  The intruder ran, clattering now, down the stairway.