Angels Fall

by Nora Roberts

  Senses careening, she writhed under him, shuddered. Then moaned when he released her jeans to slide his hand under the denim. On her first choked cry he caught her nipple between his teeth, nibbling there until her hips began to pump against his hand. Until he felt her gather, until he felt her give.

  "Scream all you want," he whispered, clamping his hands on hers, imprisoning her as his tongue and teeth grazed down her. "Nobody's going to hear but me."

  She did scream as he did things to her with that tongue, those teeth, those lips. And the sound of it shocked her, the wildness of it.

  She couldn't stop him. The fingers of her trapped hands dug into the bed as if to keep them both anchored to it. Her breath caught in her throat, burst out on another cry that sobbed out utter pleasure. For the first time in more than two years, being completely helpless brought thrills instead of fear.

  If this was a Ferris wheel gone mad, this time she was eager for the ride. Faster. Spinning. Breaking free to fly.

  Sensations racked her, soft then sharp, tantalizing then torturous. He dragged her up, yanked the shirt away. Then she was rolling with him over the bed, crazed to touch, to taste, to have.

  She groaned when he pulled her arms over her head, arched to press heat to heat. And he wrapped her fingers around the rungs of the headboard. "Better hold on," he told her.

  Then plunged.

  It was an earthquake, a dangerous tumult of exhilaration and power and speed. Battered by the force, she held on, half afraid she'd fly into pieces even as she matched him stroke for desperate stroke.

  Then she let go, wrapped her arms around him so they could fly together.

  Everything went limp, her mind, her body. Her arms slid weakly away. His weight was on her but felt insubstantial, as if they'd somehow melted together. The only thing real was the pounding of his heart against hers.

  She drifted there, with his thundering heart the center of her world.

  When he shifted, she tried to reach out and stop him. But he rolled onto his back, then linked his fingers with hers. And she let her spinning head fall to his shoulder.

  FROM THE SHADOWS of the trees, he watched the house. Watched the bedroom window where the light from the three-quarter moon was just strong enough to give him silhouettes, shadows, the sense of movement behind the glass.

  It was too early for sleep, he knew. Never too early for sex. He could wait them out. Patience was an essential tool of success, and survival.

  He had several options, several plans. Plans and options were other important tools. He would adjust them to suit whatever opportunity presented itself.

  She hadn't spooked as easily as he'd assumed she would. In truth, as he'd hoped she would. So he'd adjusted. Instead of running, she appeared to be heeling in. He could work with that, too.

  He might have preferred it otherwise, but his life was full of preferences, and many only half realized. But the ones he had realized he damn well meant to keep intact.

  When the bedroom light came on, he continued to watch.

  He saw Reece through the window. Naked, she gave a long stretch that transmitted sexual satisfaction.

  His blood didn't warm at the sight, nor did his loins tighten. After all, he wasn't a Peeping Tom. In any case, she wasn't the type that appealed to him as a man. Too skinny, too complicated. He barely saw her as a woman.

  She was an obstacle. Even a kind of project. He enjoyed projects.

  He saw her laugh, watched her mouth move as she shrugged into a shirt. Obviously Brody's, as it was miles too big for her.

  He watched her cross to the door, stop and say something over her shoulder.

  So he adjusted his plans to opportunity.

  " WATER FIRST," Reece repeated. '"I'm about to die of thirst."

  "The shower has water, so I'm told."

  "I'm not getting into the shower with you—that's another path to perdition, and I need to hydrate. I can throw something simple together while you get yours."

  "As in food?"

  "I didn't figure bread and cheese would hold you, even with sweaty sex tossed in. I'll do a quick stir-fry."

  His sausheu expression shitted instantly to scowl. '"You said food, not vegetables."

  "'You'll like it."

  Loose and limber from sex, Reece all but floated out of the room. An easy meal, she thought—slice up a couple of the chicken breasts she'd frozen in marinade. Sautéed with garlic, onion, broccoli, carrots, cauliflower. Served over rice with some of her ginger sauce.

  Couldn't miss.

  She wished she had some water chestnuts, but what could you do.

  She rubbed her throat, imagined she could drink a gallon of water. Hardly a wonder since they'd gone at each other like animals. Fabulous.

  Most likely she'd find bruises in some very interesting places—but then, so would he. The idea made her stop and do a little happy dance. Then rolling up the sleeves of Brody's shirt, she walked toward the kitchen.

  She switched on the light and went for the water first. Standing with one hand braced on the refrigerator, she gulped it down straight from the bottle like a camel refueling at a desert oasis.

  When she lowered it, a faint tapping had her glancing toward the window over the sink.

  She saw the shape of him. Shoulders covered in a black coat, head covered with an orange cap. Sunglasses black as the night hiding most of his face.

  On a hitching gasp, she stumbled back as the bottle dropped out of her hand. The plastic thudded on the floor, and water glugged out on the tiles, over her bare teet.

  There was a scream in her, trapped by shock and terror and disbelief, clawing madly at her throat.

  Then the image was gone. She stood frozen in place, trying to gather her breath, her senses.

  And saw the doorknob move right, move left.

  Now she screamed, leaping forward to grab the chef's knite from the block on the counter. She kept screaming, gripping the knife with both hands even as she backed up.

  When the door flew open, she ran.

  Brody had his head under the spray when he heard the door slam open. Idly, he pulled back the curtain, then stared at Reece. She held a big knife in her hands and had her back pressed to the door.

  "What the hell?"

  "He's in the house. He's in the house. In the back door, in the kitchen."

  Moving fast, Brody shut off the water, grabbed a towel. "Stay here."

  "He's in the house."

  With one snap, Brody wrapped the towel around his waist. "Give me the knife, Reece."

  "I saw him."

  "Okay. Give me the knife." He had to pry it out of her hands. "Get behind me," he said, already rethinking having her lock herself in the bathroom. "We're going to the bedroom first, where there's a phone. When I'm sure it's clear, you're going to lock yourself in. You're going to call nine-one-one. Understand me?"

  "Yes. Don't go." Gripping his arm, she darted glances at the door. "Stay in there with me. Don't go down there. Don't go down."

  "You'll be fine."

  "You. You."

  He shook his head, nudged her behind him. He shifted the knife to combat grip, shoved the door open quickly. He saw nothing to the right, nothing to the left. Heard nothing but Reece's labored breathing.

  "Did he come after you?" Brody demanded.

  "No. I don't know. No. He was just there, and I grabbed the knife and ran."

  "Stay close."

  He moved to the bedroom, calculated the odds, then shut and locked the door first.

  He searched under the bed, in the closet—the only two places he deemed conceivable for anyone to hide. Satisfied, he set down the knife to grab his jeans, yanked them on. "Call the cops, Reece."

  "Please don't go out there. He could have a gun. He could… Please don't leave me behind."

  He turned to her briefly, stifling his own need to move. "I'm not leaving you behind. I'll be back in a few minutes."

  He left the knife where it was, took his baseball bat out of
the closet. Lock the door behind me. Make the call.

  He didn't like leaving her, not when she was afraid, when he couldn't be sure she'd keep her head. But a man had to defend what was his.

  Probably long gone by now, Brody thought as he checked his office. Probably. Still, it was his job to make certain, to secure the house, to make it safe.

  To keep her safe.

  He moved to the bathroom next. An intruder could have slipped in to hide when they went into the bedroom. Keeping the bat cocked on his shoulder, he took a quick scan. He felt foolish even as his stomach jittered.

  Assured the second level was clear, he started down the stairs.

  ALONE, Reece stared at the door. She leaped onto the bed, crawling over it to the phone.

  "Nine-one-one. What's the nature of your emergency?"

  "Help. We need help. He's here."

  "What kind of— Reece? Is this Reece Gilmore? It's Hank. What's going on? Are you hurt?"

  "Brody's. Brody's cabin. He killed her. He's here. Hurry."

  "Stay on the line. I want you to stay on the line. I'm sending someone. Just hang on."

  A crash from downstairs had her choking out a scream, dropping the phone. Gunfire? Was that gunfire? Was it real or in her head?

  Breath sobbing, she clawed across the bed and picked up the knife.

  She hadn't locked the door. But if she locked it, Brody would be trapped on one side, she on the other. He could be hurt. He could die while she did nothing.

  Ginny had died while she did nothing.

  She got to her feet. It was like standing in syrup. Like pushing through that thick goo that clogged the ears, the nose, the eyes. And as she approached the door, through the dull buzzing in her head, she heard footsteps on the stairs.

  They'd find her this time, and this time they'd know she wasn't dead. They'd know, and they'd finish it.

  "Reece. It's okay. It's Brody. Unlock the door."

  "Brody." She said his name first as if testing the sound of it. Then on a gasp of relief that was like pain, she yanked open the door and stared at him. Swayed.

  "It's okay," he repeated, and reached down to take the knife out of her hand. "He's gone."

  Dots flashed in front of her eyes, black and white. Even as the edges went red. he propelled her into a chair, shoved her head between her knees.

  "Cut it out. You cut it out and breathe. Now."

  His voice sliced through the dizziness, the queasiness, chipped away at the pressing weight on her chest. "I thought… I heard…"

  "I slipped. There was water on the kitchen floor. Knocked over a chair. Keep breathing."

  "You're not shot. Not shot."

  "Do I look like I'm shot?"

  Slowly, she lifted her head. "I wasn't sure what was real, where I was."

  "You're right here and so am I. He's gone."

  "Did you see him?"

  "No. Cowardly bastard took off. That's what you need to remember." He took her face firmly in his hands. "He's a coward."

  He heard the sirens but kept his eyes on hers. " There's the cavalry. Get some clothes on."

  Dressed, she came down to find the back door open, with the floodlights on. She could hear the mutter of voices. Seeking solace in order, she started coffee, then mopped up the wet floor.

  She brewed tea for herself, and had cups, milk and sugar on the table when Brody came in with Denny.

  "Coffee, Deputy?"

  "Wouldn't mind it. You up to giving a statement, Reece?"

  "Yes. It's coffee regular, isn't it?"

  "Sorry?"

  "Milk, two sugars"

  "Yeah." Denny pulled on his earlobe. "You got a mind for details. Okay if we sit?" He took a seat at the table, took out his pad. "Can you tell me what happened?"

  "I came downstairs. I was thirsty, and I was going to make dinner. Brody was in the shower."

  She poured the coffee, glanced at Denny's face. From the light flush on it, she assumed Brody had told him what they'd been doing beforehand, or he'd certainly inferred it.

  "I got a bottle of water from the fridge," she continued, set his cof fee and Brody's on the table before turning for her tea. "I heard something, like a tapping, at the window. When I looked over, I saw him."

  "What did you see, exactly?"

  "A man. Black coat, orange hat, sunglasses." She sat, stared into her tea.

  "Can you describe him?"

  "It was dark," she said carefully. "And the kitchen light reflected on the glass. I didn't see him clearly. Then he was gone. I saw the knob on the back door move. I heard it turn. I grabbed a knife from the block by the stove. The door opened, and he was standing there. Just standing there. I ran upstairs."

  "Height? Weight? Coloring?"

  She squeezed her eyes shut. He'd seemed huge to her, impossibly huge. How could she see through the haze of her own tear? "White, clean-shaven. I'm not sure. It was quick, it was dark, and I was so scared."

  "Did he say anything?"

  "No." She jumped at the sound of a car pulling up.

  "That's probably the sheriff," Denny said. "Hank contacted him after me. I'll just go on out, fill him in."

  She sat with her hands in her lap when Denny went out. "It's pitiful, isn't it? He was standing right there, but I can't tell you what he looked like. Not really."

  "It was dark," Brody said. '"I imagine he stood back far enough to be in the shadows. You had the glare of the light in your eyes. And you were scared. What did I tell you he was, Reece?"

  "A coward." She lifted her head. "And he knows just how to play me. They won't believe me, Brody. I'm an hysterical woman, with delusions. You and Denny, you didn't find anything outside. No handy clue."

  "No. He's careful."

  "But you believe me." She took a breath. "When I was upstairs alone, I thought I heard gunshots. I got everything tangled up."

  "Give yourself a fucking break, Reece. You snapped back."

  "He had to have watched us. Standing somewhere outside, watching the house, watching us." She saw Brody's face tighten. "You didn't think I'd click onto that?"

  "I hoped you wouldn't."

  "I'm not going to freak because he's seen me naked or knows we had sex. That's small change."