Triple Dare

by Candace Irvin

  Abby blinked back to the present as Dare reached into the utensil drawer. She sighed as he withdrew the can opener and closed the drawer for her. “It’s ironic, you know.”

  Dare locked the opener to the can. “What is?”

  “The money.” She waved her hands about the kitchen. “This place is worth four times what I paid for it. Greta told me if something happened to Brian or me, I could always borrow against the equity she turned over to me. I still have half the money Katherine paid me. Yesterday morning I’d decided to do as Greta suggested. I was going to see a lawyer about borrowing back the rest against this place. I got a decent bump in salary for returning to the Philharmonic, so I’ll be able to pay it off eventually. It’ll be tight, but worth it to return the entire blessed amount to Katherine.” She shook her head. “Something tells me Pike would never believe me if I told him, though.”

  “Don’t.”

  She blinked up at Dare as he dragged her bowl forward and poured the soup in, crossing the kitchen to dump the can in the recycling bin.

  He shook his head. “Don’t take out the loan. Not yet. You may not have to.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  To her surprise, he shrugged. “Neither do I. Not completely. But I wouldn’t go screwing with your finances this soon. I uncovered several interesting facts this morning. Facts no one bothered to share with us last night. They involve Van Heusen and—”

  “Drugs.”

  It was his turn to be surprised. “The detective told you?”

  She nodded. But how had Dare found out? “You mean it’s true? Stuart was really using them?”

  “Possibly. But the abuse probably wasn’t voluntary. At least, not in the beginning.”

  “In the beginning? He was doing them when we dated?”

  “I don’t think so.” Dare put the soup in the microwave. “If you read that article in Saucy, then you know my father’s a defense attorney, a good one—completely lacking in conscience, mind you, but damned good. Anyway, I stopped by his town house this morning. As I suspected, he was waiting for me. One of his contacts on the force had already called him.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “Did you follow the news surrounding Senator Gregory’s death?”

  “The one that was murdered a few weeks ago?”

  Dare nodded as he turned back to the microwave. “Eight to be exact. As a matter of fact, Gregory was killed right here in the city the same day you first saw this apartment.”

  How had Dare known that?

  She was about to ask him when she noticed something even odder. Dare was rubbing his chest absently, right over that tattoo he’d shifted out of her view the night she’d dropped off the tickets. He caught her stare and dropped his hand. She let the intriguing insight go as he opened the microwave. Now wasn’t the time. Now was no longer the time for eating either, but he’d already set the bowl of soup on the counter in front of her along with a spoon.

  “Eat while I finish.”

  She took the spoon.

  “According to my father’s source, Senator Gregory was found dead in his hotel room. At the time there was no sign of forced entry or foul play.”

  “And now?”

  “It seems the FBI has been able to link Gregory’s death to a new, potentially lethal drug that delivers a unique and instantly addictive high. Somehow, a chemist has been able to isolate a person’s DNA and then combine the necessary components of that unique genetic material with this new designer drug to produce a one-hit addiction that only works on their intended target. Think about it. If you could get someone hooked on a drug that only you can produce, you could blackmail anyone. Over anything. Unfortunately, they’ve had problems. Instead of hooking Gregory, they ended up killing him.”

  Good heavens— “Stuart!” She dropped the spoon. It clattered into the bowl, splashing drops of soup over the rim and onto the white counter.

  Dare reached into an upper cupboard to withdraw a pair of the mugs Marlena had given her for her birthday the year before. He poured out the coffee she’d made after Detective Hook had woken her. Dare nudged one of the steaming mugs into her hand, probably hoping the smell would revive her. It did.

  She licked her lips instead of risking a sip. With the turn this conversation had taken, she’d end up burning herself. “W-will Stuart recover?”

  “No one knows. But I have to be honest, it doesn’t look good. Pike neglected to tell us that an expended syringe was found near Van Heusen’s body. The man wasn’t stabbed, he was either given a fresh—or first—hit. They haven’t yet been able to isolate the drug that induced Van Heusen’s coma and compare it to the chemical makeup of the drug that did Senator Gregory in, but the fact that they can’t—along with Van Heusen’s career, political aspirations, as well as his social and political ties to Gregory—all suggests last night may have been another instant-addiction attempt gone awry.”

  “Then, other than the fact that Stuart was there to try to talk to me about the money I took from his mother, this has nothing to do with me. That man was lying in wait for him. His driver simply got caught in the cross fire.”

  “It would seem so.”

  She gave up all hope of regaining her appetite and set the coffee mug beside the bowl, then turned to slump back against the counter for support. “It makes sense. Detective Hook seemed obsessed with blackmail—Stuart’s. I wonder what they wanted or had on him?”

  Dare stilled.

  Was it her imagination, or was that strange connection they’d shared in the elevator returning? She took a chance and just said it. “You know something, don’t you? About Stuart. Why someone would blackmail him.” She shook her head before Dare could open his mouth, already knowing he intended to deny it—and knowing he was trying to protect her. Again. “Don’t. I think we’ve moved past the outright lies, don’t you?”

  This time Dare didn’t deny anything. But he did cross the kitchen and stop at the breakfast counter beside his jacket. “I’d rather not say anything until I’m sure.” In other words, he was afraid of hurting her. Though the odd connection she’d been experiencing around this man—with him—had faded with his retreat, she knew she was right. She could see it in those dark, emerald pools. The wariness.

  Trust. He needed it. From her.

  For the first time since they’d met, she gave it to him freely, completely. She nodded to his coat.

  “You have to go, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m still trying to track down the FBI agent my father mentioned. He may be able to tell us what we need to know without having to go through Pike or this other detective you spoke to. But, Abby?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please, is there any way you can stay home tonight?”

  “Not if I want to keep second chair.” She wasn’t scheduled to resume the position permanently until the fall season. But that wouldn’t matter. Not with Hollings. He was still pissed she’d taken a year’s hiatus to join the quartet and lick her wounds in Europe. She crossed the kitchen as well, stopping just shy of the counter. Of him. “Relax. As scary as all this drug stuff is, it means there’s no kook trying to stalk me.”

  He stepped closer. So close, she could feel his desperation. “Abby, you saw the murder.”

  She knew that. Hell, she could still see it. Just when she thought she’d succeeded in banishing the memory, she’d close her eyes and see that slashing knife. Her brother being rammed into that car. His glasses lying in that poor man’s blood. She shivered. “Yes, I did see it. But I didn’t see the murderer.”

  “He doesn’t know that.”

  “Dare, please.” He had to stop looking at her like that. “I have to go. I’m sorry. Like you said, you’ve already arranged for someone to watch over me—and there’s security at the theatre. Between them, I’ll be fine. I doubt I’ll be more nervous than usual.” But she would, because the only person she felt completely safe with lately hadn’t volunteered to accompany her. There was no use denyi
ng it.

  It hurt. A lot.

  Nor was there any use denying the rest. At least to herself. She was seriously attracted to this man. Falling for him faster than she should. How could she not? With most of the men she’d dated, Stuart in particular, what you saw was what you got. But with Dare, there were hidden depths, nuances to the man that continued to surprise her and draw her in when she least expected it. It had happened that first night when she’d spotted him scaling their building in his tuxedo. It had happened again last night and this morning as she’d listened to two driven detectives accuse Dare of a heinousness she now knew he was utterly incapable of. And it was happening now, as she stared at those strong, callused fingers, not even wondering, but somehow already knowing how gentle they could be, would be, on her flesh. That mouth. Those lips.

  Soft, yet firm.

  Physically marred, and yet perfect.

  She reached up and traced the tip of her finger over the scar. A scar he’d yet to explain. A scar that like the one on his cheek, she also suspected hadn’t been earned on some cliff. She teased it again and heard his swallow. Felt it. She nudged her gaze up and sank into that dark-emerald stare. His gaze was pleading with her. Dare was pleading. But part of him, the part she desperately wanted to obey, was also drawing her in. Deeper and deeper. She couldn’t stop herself. It was as if she’d been seduced by the Pied Piper of Hamelin, only the music she couldn’t resist was the silent melody in those eyes. The pull of Dare’s song was too steady, too strong.

  And absolutely hypnotic.

  Before she’d realized what she’d done, she’d teased her fingers down his jaw, smoothing them over the solid, generous muscles of his chest. A moment later she was pressing in, holding on as she eased up onto her toes.

  “Abby, don’t. Please.”

  She blinked. “Why not?”

  They both knew he wanted it. He wanted her. It had been obvious that first night, right here in this kitchen, his inopportune arousal all but shouting it. He definitely wanted her. But he didn’t want to want her.

  She sank back onto her heels. “Okay. But remember what I said. I’m very patient.”

  That was what he was afraid of. Again, he didn’t have to say it. But she had heard it. It was enough.

  For now.

  She slipped his jacket from the counter and held it out and he took it, folding it over his arm as they rounded the breakfast counter. She was about to escort him to the door so she could shower and retrieve her spare violin from her trunk—she needed to get her fingers and her brain in tune for her solo that night—when she noticed the cell phone on the floor beside her chair. She must have dropped it earlier when she’d remembered the key.

  “Just a second.” She crossed the room and reached down—only to freeze as she realized that the phone wasn’t all she’d missed. Suspicion and horror heaved into her stomach, instantly displacing her hunger in one nauseating surge.

  A split second later, Dare shot across the room. “Abby, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head as Dare helped her straighten, unable to tear her gaze from the lone bottle of cognac on the coffee table long enough to meet his. “The glasses. They’re gone. Why?”

  Even before Dare’s dark curse filled the air, she knew.

  DNA.

  Someone wanted it. Badly enough to steal it. But whose genetic material had the thief been after? She shifted her gaze to search for the climbing magazine; it was also missing. Hers? Or Dare’s?

  And why?

  Chapter 8

  Dare had missed her solo—again.

  Abby didn’t even care. Something was wrong. She could feel it. The second the music stopped, Abby shot to her feet, threading her way out of the string section while the applause still thundered. By the time she made it stage right, the other 105 members of the orchestra were just beginning to gather up their instruments and music—except Stephen. He met her at the exit, sans cello but brimming with the sympathy and concern every other musician she’d passed had wisely kept to themselves as he followed her backstage.

  He patted her back as she stopped to tuck the Strad and her bow under her arm. “Abby, it happens. Don’t let it get you down. Everyone blows an entrance at some point.”

  Everyone did. But not her. Not in fifteen years. And she hadn’t just blown her entrance, she’d missed the entire first four bars of Brahms’s Fourth Symphony.

  Stephen tipped her chin, forcing her to meet his big-brotherly concern. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  It was a lie. Part of it, anyway.

  She wasn’t as humiliated as he believed; she was terrified. Something was terribly wrong. “Stephen, I have to go. Thanks again for bringing the Strad. Tell Marlena I’ll call Brian before he heads for bed, okay?” She left a gaping Stephen at the backstage door and fled out and down the hall as fast as her low heels and floor-length black skirt allowed.

  Dare. She could still feel him. And something was definitely wrong. She no longer questioned how she knew.

  She just did.

  Had that monster who’d drugged Stuart and murdered his driver followed her and Dare out of the Tristan earlier? Or had he already been lying in wait here at Avery Fisher Hall, waiting to corner Dare after he’d departed her dressing room before she finished her last minute warm-up? Was Dare lying bleeding in some corner of the building? She’d caved in to the urge to scan the VIP section of the audience during the intermission. Dare wasn’t there. He’d been missing—possibly in trouble—that long at least. After the way he’d insisted upon accompanying her tonight after they’d discovered the cognac glasses had been stolen, there was no way he’d have simply gotten bored and taken off.

  So where the devil was he?

  She forced herself to slow as she turned down the hall that led to her dressing room. Neither the FBI agent Dare’s father had referred him to nor Detective Hook had had a chance to return his calls that afternoon. Maybe he’d left his cell phone on vibrate during the concert just in case. If either man had phoned, Dare could have retreated to her dressing room to take it. But if he had taken a call, the news wasn’t good.

  She just knew it.

  She might be certifiable, but she swore she could feel it.

  Abby wrenched open the door to her dressing room, disappointment searing in as she entered. Dare wasn’t there. She didn’t bother switching on the overhead light; the glow from the makeup table provided enough light for her to reach her violin case still lying open on the plush bench. But, as she stepped into the room, the leg of the spare chair caught her foot. She stumbled, cursing as the Strad and bow shot out of her hand, landing with a muffled thump on the carpet. She managed to right herself, then immediately reached down into the shadows to retrieve the violin—gasping as her fingers collided with something completely different.

  Muscle.

  Dare. She hadn’t caught the chair’s leg with her shoe, she’d caught him. She could make out his form, sprawled back into the chair as if he was sleeping or, worse, passed out. Neither scenario made sense. She left the Strad and bow lying on the carpet and reached for Dare instead.

  “Are you okay? What hap—”

  He groaned.

  Her panic shot off the scale as she threaded her fingers into his hair. The strands were damp near his head. She pressed her fingers to his cheek, then his forehead and gasped. Twenty-four-hour bug her tush, the man was burning up again. Only this time his skin had nearly blistered her fingers. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  She needed a wet rag.

  Unfortunately, the dressing room’s bathroom was still out of order. Abby scooped up the Strad and bow and traded them for the extra cloth she kept inside her violin case. Then she tore out of the dressing room, straight into the communal bathroom at the end of the hall, nodding to two fellow musicians as she barreled inside. Her hands were shaking so violently, she dropped the rag in the sink.

  “Abby?”

  “I’m fine, Bess.
”

  From the blond brow the flutist arched, Bess clearly didn’t believe her. She didn’t care. She didn’t care if the entire symphony thought she was in the throes of a full-blown nervous breakdown. She had more important worries. Gut-wrenching suspicions. All of them centered around Dare. Why did his temperature keep skyrocketing at odd intervals? She knew enough to suspect that there was something wrong with Dare’s immune system. Terribly wrong.

  Sweet heaven, was it terminal?

  Her stomach lurched as she squeezed out the rag and hurried out of the bathroom, plowing past the entire percussion section as she raced down the hall. She threw the door to the dressing room open and reached for the overhead switch only to realize light was already flooding the room. Dare was standing beside the chair, looking every inch the polished patron of the arts in his crisp snowy shirt, navy tie and matching tailored suit. His dusky features were still flushed and damp, but other than that he appeared—

  “I’m fine. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I must have…eaten something that didn’t agree with me.”

  She didn’t believe it for a second. She knew sick when she saw it. He might be recovering before her very eyes, but she swore he’d been passed out when she’d knocked into him minutes before. Something was definitely wrong. She clenched the rag, ignoring the water dripping down her skirt. “Dare…are you ill? I mean, seriously?”

  Was that why he didn’t like to touch people? Was he contagious?

  Half a dozen diseases snapped through her brain, each more frightening than the last. Dare crossed the room before she could voice a single one. She sucked in her breath as he reached up to cup her face, smoothing away the tears she hadn’t even realized were stinging the corners of her eyes.

  “Hey, it’s okay. I swear, I’m fine. Something didn’t agree with me tonight, that’s all. Here.” He lowered his right hand and snagged hers, pressing her palm to his cheek. “See? Temp’s gone. The sweating, too.” The scar on his bottom lip dipped in with his lopsided grin. “I’m beginning to think it’s this place. Never did like crowds. They just don’t agree with me. I’ve got a car waiting in the garage. What do you say? Can we leave?”