Hunting Moon (Decorah Security Series, Book #11): A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel (5 page)

Brand had quick reflexes, but he’d been completely wound up with his reaction to this woman. Her attack was so unexpected that he only dodged aside to avoid a direct blow to his face, even as he silently cursed his own stupidity.

He should have been prepared for her to react with hostility in this place where she thought everyone was an enemy.

Ducking low, he came down on top of her, pressing her arms to her sides, as he tried to keep her from doing him serious damage without hurting her. When she tried to ram him with her head, he reared back, almost getting a knee in the balls for his trouble.

The only way to subdue her without pounding on her was to get closer. He pressed his form to her, securing her with his weight and one arm while he tried to stop her struggling. But fear and determination kept her rolling from side to side, desperate to throw him off.

Even as he fought her, he felt himself reacting to the pressure of his body against hers.

“Don’t. I’m not here to hurt you,” he whispered.

She gave him a fierce look, and he knew she was preparing to redouble her efforts—until her gaze met his.

In one charged second she quieted. Still, he wasn’t willing to trust her. She might be feigning acquiescence while preparing another assault.

“Your eyes . . .” she murmured. “You have his eyes.”

He didn’t have to ask who she was talking about. His body went rigid as she delivered that bit of startling insight. Was that what his friends thought when they looked at the wolf?

“No,” he denied.

“Did he send you?”

“Who?”

“The wolf.”

He drew in a quick breath as he wondered how to answer. Finally, he settled on “Yes,” because he couldn’t explain the truth.

She relaxed under him, and he took a chance on rolling to the side. The bed was too narrow for him to put any distance between them, but at least he was no longer being driven crazy with the feel of her body under his.

“Did you come here to help me?” she asked, and the hope in her voice made his insides clench.

He had seen her outside, heard the men talking, and knew that she was in bad trouble. He could have told himself it was none of his business. Instead he’d found a way to get inside the building and into her room.

“Yes,” he answered, vowing that he would make good on the promise.

She looked relieved before her expression turned wary.

“What?” he asked softy.

“Everybody here is . . . an enemy.”

“Yeah.”

His agreement made her shiver.

“Are you real?” she asked as she turned on her side and studied his face. “Or did I make you up because I was longing for someone to get me out of this mess?”

Tentatively, she raised her hand, stroking the beard stubble on his cheek, then the line of his brows before lowering her hand to trace the shape of his mouth. Her touch was light, but it sent tongues of fire through him.

“Don’t.”

“You feel real,” she murmured, then leaned to touch her lips to his. It was a light touch, but rich with sensuality. When she pressed more firmly, heat spread through his body. She had started the kiss. He could have pulled away. Instead he angled his head for better access, drinking in the taste of her. She opened for him, inviting more, and he was helpless to resist, his arms gathering her close as he swept his tongue along the inside of her lips, then the ridges of her teeth, drawing a moan from her as he deepened the kiss.

The way she responded to him was like a jolt of lightning sizzling through his body, arrowing downward to lodge in his cock. This was the woman he had craved all his life, only he hadn’t realized that he was searching for her. It was easy to picture himself stripping off her clothes and pressing her naked body to his. He might have done it if an owl hadn’t hooted outside, breaking the spell and reminding him where they were—and why.

Christ, what was he thinking? Suppose he’d allowed himself to get lost in the pleasure of making love with her, and someone came in? Yeah, that would be perfect.

He struggled to hold his emotions in check as he rolled away.

When she reached for him and tried to pull him back, he shook his head.

“We can’t,” he said in a gritty voice.

“I . . . want . . .”

“You want to forget where you are,” he finished for her.

“Yes, but it’s not just that,” she answered.

“What if someone came in?”

She considered that, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry. When you . . .” She stopped and started again. “I’m too out of it to think straight. I don’t even know your name, and look what we’re doing.”

“I’m Brand.”

“That’s your last name?”

“No, my first.”

“No last name?”

“Probably better—for now.”

“I’m Tory Robinson. No reason I shouldn’t tell you.” She made a small sound. “I have nothing to hide—from you, or anyone else as it turns out.”

“Tory,” he said softly, just to try out the syllable on his lips.

Her eyes turned pleading. “What’s wrong with me? Nothing feels normal.”

“I heard two guys talking out on the back porch. I think they drugged your dinner.”

She thought about that for several moments.

“Yes, but not only then. They put me out on the way up here. Then when I tried to escape at the airport. Dr. Son of a Bitch was waiting for me in the car when the goons brought me back, and he gave me a shot of something that knocked me out again.”

“Dr. Son of a Bitch?”

“Dr. Raymond.” she answered in a shaky voice. “That’s what I call him.”

“He’s running this place?”

She closed her hand around his arm. “You don’t know? Then what are you doing here—dressed like one of them?” she demanded.

“I found the clothes in a room down the hall. I don’t know much—except that your balcony puts you in a cage, and two guys were on the porch talking about getting information out of you.”

“Yes.” She swallowed hard, then went on rapidly. “As far as I can figure out, they’re trying to drive me crazy.”

“How?”

“Starting with the timeline. I’m pretty sure I was in New York City last night, but Raymond is trying to convince me that I’ve been here for weeks.”

“What is this place?”

She considered the question for a few moments. “I guess it’s supposed to be a private sanatorium, but if I had to guess, I’d say I’m the only real inmate here. The other patients are props to help work me over, so to speak.”

“Why?”

Her expression hardened. “Raymond thinks I have some information he wants.”

Brand tried to take it in, but the explanation was confusing. If he were objective, he might come to the conclusion that this woman really
was
nuts, except that in his gut he didn’t think so.

On the other hand, they’d only been talking for a few minutes, and his impression of her was clouded by lust. All of which meant that he couldn’t be sure that her version of reality was the correct one.

She could be locked in because she really was insane—maybe criminally insane. But in any case, he’d better keep one ear tuned to the door.

She’d closed her eyes.

“Tory?”

Her lids blinked open. “Sorry, I have to focus really hard to stay awake.”

“Yeah. Can you tell me why you’re here? What did you do?”

“I’m a dancer,” she answered, then laughed softly. “I guess that’s not really what you’re after.”

“Right.”

“I’m featured at the Midnight Club in New York. Or I was,” she added, despair creeping into her voice. “And I got mixed up with the wrong man.”

The words hit him with the force of cannonballs. She’d been with a man, when she was his?

The thought came at him like a blow to the chest. He’d known her for only a few minutes, and she was his?

Then he ordered himself to pull back. Never mind his own explosive reaction; she was talking about a time before he even knew she existed.

Well, somehow he’d known she existed, waiting for him to come here. The thought was hardly logical, but he knew it was true.

“What man?” he asked, struggling to keep a note of accusation out of his voice.

“Johnny Denato.”

“The Mafia guy?”

“Is he?”

“From what I’ve read in the papers,” he answered, not willing to tell her that the security operatives at Decorah kept up with the goings-on in the underworld. It might help her to know his profession, but if she was somehow questioned about her visitor, the less she knew the better.

She was silent for several moments, and it looked like she was drifting off into space.

“Tory?”

She focused on him. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. It sounds like they pumped a lot of stuff into you.”

“Yes.”

“You were telling me about Denato.”

“Right. He came into the club and saw the show, and it seemed like he was interested in me. He asked me to dinner, and I was afraid to tell him I couldn’t go with him. I mean, I knew my manager wouldn’t like me turning down a good customer. Denato and I saw each other after the show a couple of times.”

His whole body tensed as he waited for her to talk about a sexual relationship.

Instead, she said, “I kept waiting for him to pounce on me, but he was always a perfect gentleman. I started thinking he was going out with me for the wrong reasons.”

“Like what?”

“Like he wanted people to see me with him—but he didn’t really want to do anything . . . sexual.”

“Then why continue seeing you?” he asked, unable to keep the harshness out of his tone.

“Maybe he’s gay. Maybe he wanted people to see him with a beautiful dancer.”

That was one explanation that could make sense. Like that gay guy in The Sopranos who had to pretend he was straight. And when he finally let the others know the truth, they killed him.

She began speaking again. “He took me back to his apartment last night. It was the first time I’d been there. Or maybe it wasn’t last night. Maybe they’re telling the truth—it was weeks ago, and I’ve been in a fog ever since.” Before he could comment, she hurried on. “And now the worst part. I was in the living room, and he had stepped into the hall to take a call. Men came in . . . and killed him.”

Brand blinked. “Say what?”

“He was murdered. I heard the shots. Then I saw him lying in a pool of blood in the foyer.”

“And you called the authorities?”

Self-accusation filled her voice. “I should have, but I wasn’t exactly rational. I decided I had to get out of his apartment—and out of town. I thought the cops would assume I was involved. And the murders would find out who I was and think I’d seen them, which I didn’t,” she added quickly. “I was afraid they’d kill me, too. I rushed back home. Then I realized I had to call the police. But it was already too late. Two guys arrive at my door a few minutes later.”

She heaved in a breath and let it out before continuing. “I got out my apartment window, but they caught me and slapped something over my face, and I woke up in a small plane. On the way here.” She sounded like she was fixing the details in her mind, as though she wasn’t quite sure of exactly what had happened.

He stroked his hand up and down her arm, trying to imagine the whole scenario from her point of view. It had to be terrifying.

She gave him a questioning look. “I don’t even know where we are.”

“Upstate New York.”

“Okay.”

She rushed through the rest of the story. “Right before dinner I woke up in a chair in Raymond’s office, like we’d been in the middle of a therapy session and I’d nodded off. That’s when he claimed I’d been here for weeks. Outside in the sitting room, a woman named June was waiting for me. She said we had gotten to be friends, and it was time for dinner. I started feeling muzzy again as soon as I ate.”

Brand cursed under his breath. It could be all made up, but he didn’t think so. The story was too crazy for her to have invented it on the spot—and too detailed. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault—unless they sent you in here to get me to cooperate. I meant like June—trying to convince me we’re friends.”

The despair in her voice was like a knife blade slicing at his soul.

He cupped his hands around her shoulders. “Look at me.”

When she did, he went on, “I’m not like June.” He said it softly, but he tried to project every ounce of sincerity he could muster.

She searched his face. “I want to believe you. Maybe that’s a mistake.”

“No.”

“You could prove it by helping me get out of here.”

He gave the only answer he could. “I want to, but I can’t do it tonight.”

Panic and disappointment claimed her expression. “Oh Christ. The longer I stay here, the more likely it is that he’ll turn my brain to cottage cheese. I mean—with his drugs and the games he’s playing.”