WATCHING Claire Day concentrate was amazing, Dan thought. She had plugged in her flash drive and downloaded her files, plugged in the modem and was ferociously surfing the net. Eyes tracking left to right, speed reading, while her fingers were a blur on the keyboard. It was a miracle the keys didn’t simply go up in smoke.
First, she’d eaten like a sailor who’d been shipwrecked at sea for a week. She’d attacked the food they’d brought home from the diner, finished off the second of his roast beef sandwiches and downed a can of peaches Dan had found among Jesse’s supplies.
It was like some spirit had come down and infused her with the life force. Her skin had lost that sickly milk color and was now slightly rosy, her eyes glowed with an unearthly silvery light and . . . well, she was just unbearably beautiful.
Dan’s heart gave a huge thump every time he looked at her.
It was more than just perfect features, beautiful skin, glossy hair, straight white teeth. Lots of women had them, though none in such stupefying abundance as Claire.
No, it was the sense of being in the presence of some supernatural being, smarter and fiercer and more powerful than any normal human.
Claire was almost ferociously intelligent. Scuttlebutt in the Foreign Service had been that she was headed for great things before the bombing. Now, of course, her career was gone, but her intelligence wasn’t. Nor was her will.
The Claire who’d come to his office the day before yesterday—Jesus, it felt like a year ago—had been a beaten woman, shaken and trembling and unsure of herself. By some insane twist, the attempts on her life had galvanized her. Far from cowering, she was determined to find out who was out to ruin her life. Again.
Whoa.
There was a thought there. Something that might be important, a glimmer of something that was gone as soon as he tried to grasp it.
It was important, or was it? He couldn’t tell anything anymore. Dan was operating on no sleep. He should have rested last night, caught up on his sleep. On ops, he never allowed himself to get exhausted if he could help it. Whenever there was half a chance to grab a few winks, he took it.
Combat sleep, soldiers called it. An ability to drop into REM sleep almost instantly, wherever, whenever. You never knew when you’d next have the chance.
He’d given up his sleep to hold Claire’s hand and watch her face as she rested.
He’d do it again, in a heartbeat. He couldn’t have slept, not even if you’d pumped him full of Thorazine. All he knew was that Claire was absolutely safe as long as he was watching her and touching her.
It was the only thing that reassured him.
The sex they’d had hadn’t even begun to get her out of his system. If anything, she messed with his head more than before and she’d been fucking up his love life for a while now.
Now it was worse. Much worse.
Now he knew exactly how satiny her skin was, how soft her hair felt between his fingers. How warm and tight she was between her legs, her sheath silky and welcoming after that first initial discomfort he’d give his right arm to avoid.
It was incredibly politically incorrect, but, man, he loved it that no one but him had entered her in the last few years. And no one ever would again except him.
She was his, every square inch of her.
Oh shit. At the thought of sex with her, his dick went ballistic. Major Wood Alert. It was like his dick wanted to make up for his Claire-induced celibacy by getting inside her and staying inside her for as long as was humanly possible.
And then as soon as the sex was over, it wanted right back in again.
He was sitting at right angles to her, watching her pound that keyboard while staring narrow-eyed at the screen. Wonder Woman would look like that at an enemy just before grabbing her lasso and attacking.
Man, who would have thought intensity on a nuclear scale would be such a turn-on?
He didn’t want to bother her. She was gazing into the screen the way a seer would gaze into her crystal ball. Breaking that intensity would be a real shame.
His dick, however, felt very strongly otherwise. His dick didn’t care what the hell she was doing, it wanted to be inside her,
now
.
His boner moved in his jeans and Dan would have sworn that it listed to the right, to get closer to her.
Keep it zipped
, he thought, but couldn’t help the sigh that escaped.
“Not now, Dan,” she said absently, and pounded some more on the keys. She flicked a look up at him, no doubt reading his arousal on his face. Her gaze honed back in on the monitor. “But hold that thought.”
Dan wanted to help but didn’t know how. He’d cleaned and oiled his weapons, had spoken on the satphone with Marcus to see what progress had been made in the investigation—zip—and Marcus had spoken to the chief of police and fire inspector in Safety Harbor to find out the state of progress there—zip—and now he didn’t know what to do. Finally, he couldn’t contain his curiosity. “What are you looking for?”
She sighed and sat back, shaking her fingers and rolling her shoulders.
Well, that was something he could help with. He stood behind her and massaged her shoulder muscles, frowning. Christ, she was stiff as a board. And now that she wasn’t Wonder Woman pounding at the keyboard, he could feel under his hands how fragile she was, how delicate.
Smart and beautiful, but vulnerable.
“Oh God, that feels good,” she moaned. “Don’t ever stop.”
They both turned their heads at the sound of the windowpane rattling. Tiny needles of sleet pinged against the glass. Dan went to add a couple of logs to the fire then returned to Claire.
He nudged her. “So . . . what were you doing?”
She sighed. “It was a long shot. I was wondering if I’d done anything this past year that in some way pissed someone off.” She craned her head to look at him and gave a wistful smile. “Seems impossible though. This past year I’ve just mostly stayed in the house. I went food shopping, and not much of that because my appetite was gone, and I went twice a week to a rehab center to strengthen my muscles and I went every four and then six weeks to the hospital for a checkup. That’s about it. However, I have started doing some translations from French to earn some money and I was checking them to see if someone inadvertently sent me a nuclear code or something.”
That was promising. Dan peered down at the screen. “And?”
Her slender shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Nothing. I’d only just started. Among other things, I’ve translated a children’s book, the minutes of the World Congress of Wallpaper Glue Manufacturers, if you can believe that, an analysis of the French stock market that was published in
Le Monde,
a fair-trade website, and
,
a brochure from the Lyon Tourism Board, things like that. I’ve studied those files inside out. They’re exactly the length they should be, not a byte more or less. There is absolutely nothing confidential in them. In fact, except for the children’s book which was cute, there isn’t even anything interesting in them.” She blew out a breath of frustration. “I don’t know what to do next.”
Dan did.
He lifted her out of the chair and carried her to the bed.
There was evil here, close behind her. You could sense it, you could almost smell it—a hot, mechanical smell that had nothing human about it. Just as there was nothing human about the bloodred walls, close and narrow, that suddenly appeared to define this hot, feral world.
She was running, stumbling, crawling, then picking herself up and running again, heart pounding, breath rough in her lungs, slicing like shards of glass. The walls narrowed as she ran, closing out the light that offered a small hope of salvation.
There was no salvation. She knew that, even as she struggled to escape. The violence was too powerful, there were too many of them, the evil was too strong.
Something terrible was happening, the knowledge was there, in her bones, though she couldn’t quite grasp it. She’d need time for that and time had run out.
Feet pounding, she looked back and stumbled in horror.
He was close and edging closer.
Not faceless, as she first thought, not faceless at all. The horror chasing her had a face and a name, though she was too terrified to remember. Whoever he was, whatever his name, he was out for her blood. He wanted her dead.
She ran and ran and yet every time she glanced back over her shoulder, he was closer. He glided effortlessly in the glistening darkness. Now she could see he was dressed in black and had dark, gleaming eyes. He wasn’t running, he wasn’t winded. He just slithered forward, somehow keeping pace with her without effort.
Oh God, the walls were sliding closer, bloodred, shifting with each step she took. Her knuckles brushed against the wall as she ran, then her elbows and then her shoulders.
The walls were sticky and smelled horrible—they reeked of death and decay. Something fetid from the bowels of the earth. She stumbled and put out a hand to break her fall. Her hand came away from the wall dripping red. She stumbled again in horror and she saw now why the walls were red—they were covered with blood.
The walls narrowed, closed, became a dead end. She slammed into the end wall and shuddered as she felt the dark, viscous liquid covering her, dripping onto the ground. She slid on the slippery floor as she turned with her back pressed to the wall to face the menace coming after her.
Panic rose in her, opening its dark wings in a sibilant flutter.
He was there, right in front of her. Huge, eyes red with bloodlust, carrying something in a large, leathery hand. He slowly brought it to his shoulder as if he had all the time in the world. A rifle. Aimed at her.
“Claire,” he said and she shuddered. His voice echoed, the bass tones reverberating through her stomach. He smiled, horribly, and the inside of his mouth was red. “Gotcha.”
She braced herself, crazy as that sounded. You can’t brace yourself against a bullet. Watching as he lazily took aim, still smiling. A long claw of a finger hooked in the trigger guard tightened . . .
“Claire!” he boomed. “Look at me!” And she stared into her own death . . .
She broke free, gulping, desperate for air. The sound of her gasping was loud in the night. Someone was holding her down as she beat desperately against strong arms, trying hopelessly to escape the monster.
“Claire, honey, it’s just a dream. Calm down.”
The low deep voice sounded in her ear. A universe away from the horrible booming voice she’d just heard.
She was exhausted, sweaty from trying vainly to escape, and she finally quieted. There was nothing she could do to escape from this kind of strength.
“That’s right, honey,” the low voice said in her ear. There was no trace of violence or madness in the voice. “Relax. I’m going to turn on the light, you okay with that?”
She wasn’t okay with anything, but she nodded wearily. Whoever owned that strength could do what he wanted.
Claire blinked when a lamp turned on, eyes narrowing against the sudden light. She looked around, panicky and dizzy, and couldn’t understand where she was.
Wooden walls, a few faint embers glowing in a hearth, rustic furniture . . .
Dan.
Reality came rushing in, one great cold wave of it.
Dan. Dan and Jesse’s cabin and someone or something who was after her, just like in her nightmare. That hadn’t changed. Whoever was after her might not be able to float instead of walk, and might not have a blood-filled mouth, but he was more real than her nightmare.
“Oh God, Dan!” Claire threw her arms around Dan’s neck and clung, trembling. “It was so horrible! He was after me and there was so much blood, oh God!”
His hold, already tight, tightened some more. One big hand covered her head as he murmured, “It’s all right,” over and over again.
It wasn’t all right, and they both knew it.
Contact with Dan’s skin, feeling his strong, steady heartbeat and hearing the sound of his even breathing calmed her a little. Her heart stopped that thudding, panicky stutter and slowed down. She was able to breathe again, first in great big gulps of air, and then finally in the kind of yoga breathing the rehab instructor had taught her to use when she confessed she was subject to panic attacks.
In. Hold for five beats. Out. In. Hold for five beats. Out.
It worked. She finally loosened her arms and eased back.
“I’m going to get you some water,” he said and crossed the room.
Naked, he was an extraordinary sight. Broad, heavy shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist, smooth buttocks, hard hairy thighs with the muscles very visible as he walked.
If I can admire his ass, I’m feeling better,
she thought.
Walking back, he was even more admirable.
“Open up,” he said, holding the glass to her mouth. She drank, long and deep, feeling the cool rush down her throat, damping down the last vestiges of panic. She tipped his hand away. “Thanks. I feel much better.”
“I know.” He leaned over to kiss her forehead. “You were checking my butt out. Then my package.”
That earned him an elbow in the ribs, which he took like a man.
“Come here.” A few minutes later, Claire was sitting up in bed in the
V
of Dan’s legs, her back against his chest, his arms around her.
It was wonderful. She felt warm and safe, with as much of her as possible touching as much of him as possible. His body was like a bulwark around her.
They were in as untraceable a spot as could be found. He was by her side, literally forming a human carapace of protection around her. Her problems hadn’t gone away, but he was creating a safe space for her and had made it clear he would stand by her for the duration.
The last of the nightmare dissipated like black smoke and her muscles relaxed. His didn’t. As a matter of fact, she could feel his penis rising in urgent surges against the small of her back.
His arms tightened. “Ignore that,” he ordered. “It’s just sort of this automatic mechanism around you. What was the nightmare about?”
Claire shuddered and leaned her head back wearily against his strong shoulder. “Classic nightmare. A chase one. I’ve had a hundred variations on that one this past year, though this one was particularly vicious.”
“Because you actually are being chased.”
She sighed. “Yeah, I guess so. There’s this . . . recurring dream—nightmare, actually—I have of someone coming after me, only usually I never see the face, I just know he’s there. This one was a little more . . . colorful. Detailed.”
“Tell me,” he urged. “Talk it out. It’ll make you feel better.”
Oh God, yes. She felt better already. All this past year, she’d woken up alone from her nightmares, heart pounding, breath wheezing in her lungs.
It had gotten so bad that she had to leave a night-light on, like a child. She was ashamed of herself when she switched it on before going to bed at night, but the shame fled when she woke up at three a.m., sweating and terrified, and was at least able to see that she wasn’t in a dark pit with monsters after her, but safe in her own bedroom in Safety Harbor.
This nightmare had definitely been the worst ever. She thought her heart might have given out if Dan hadn’t been there.
She closed her eyes briefly. Remembering dreams, or nightmares, wasn’t easy. For a while, she’d tried to write them down immediately upon waking, but very little came. She couldn’t remember details, all she could remember was the overwhelming feeling of imminent danger and deep terror.
But this one stayed with her. Perhaps because it had been more terrifying than usual or because she’d actually seen the face of her nemesis. For whatever reason, she could still call up some of the details.
“I’m running. Escaping something, something horrible. Bullets are flying. I can hear them thwacking things all around me.”
Dan had curved around her in a completely protective embrace, arms crossed over her breasts, head bent close to hers. Against her back, she could feel the vibration of his voice in his chest when he spoke in her ear. “You were shot at. It would be a miracle if you didn’t have nightmares about that.”
She twisted her head to look at him, suddenly curious. “Do soldiers have nightmares after a firefight?” She found it hard to think of Dan having nightmares. He seemed so solid, so strong.
“Yes. They do.” His face was grim.
“Then you know that horrible, out of control feeling. That heavy weight of overwhelming menace.”
He nodded, head so close to hers she could feel his beard stubble against her cheek. “Yeah. So—you were being shot at?”
“Mm-mm.” Though the room was fairly chilly, she felt warm all along her back. Dan was like a furnace. His heat distracted her and she was finding her memories of the nightmare fading quickly. The sound of the gunfire in her head was faint now, though there was something about the quality of it . . .
She shook her head. “I couldn’t see who was shooting at me. It was wild gunfire.” She stopped. She had the craziest feeling that the memory of the nightmare was edging into a real memory, like a tectonic plate suddenly slipping sideways.
Dan sensed her sudden preoccupation and nudged her shoulder with his. “And?”
She took a deep breath, unable to shake this intense feeling of something . . .
underneath
the nightmare, fighting its way through.
“And I was running desperately down this corridor, just running as fast as I could. The walls were red and sticky and gave off this horrible smell.”
“Blood on the walls.”
“Uh-huh.” She shivered. Dan’s heat was amazing but not even he could dissipate the chill of the memory of blood-covered walls. “And then—oh God, it was horrible—and then the walls started closing in on me. Just getting narrower and narrower. And I started sliding and slipping in the blood.”
“Sounds awful,” he murmured in her ear, kissing her jaw.
Claire tilted her head so he could have better access. He had a heavy beard and hadn’t shaved. His jaw rasped against hers. She loved it. All those tiny bites of reality—the raspy skin, the calluses on the hands that were stroking her ribs, the heavy pelt of chest hair tickling her back—they grounded her. Pushed the nightmare even further away.
“And there was someone after me.”
Dan suddenly went very still. “Who was he? Do you remember?”
Claire closed her eyes. In her nightmare it had been dark, as if even light itself had been suffocated. The man’s skin had reflected the dark red of the walls and his eyes had had a violent red gleam in them. And yet . . . and yet there had been something familiar about him. Something about the cast of his face, the shape of his head. The way he had tilted his head, studying her coldly. The way he’d said her name in a low whisper.
Claire
.
“Um. No. I didn’t recognize him. There were bits and pieces that seemed familiar, but isn’t that how nightmares are? I guess you just cobble together flotsam and jetsam from daily life and they roil around in your subconscious and come shooting up at night as dreams. Or nightmares, in this case.”
“So, he was chasing you?”
Claire nodded. “It was—it was so horrible. He didn’t run after me, he just . . .
glided
. And he called my name, Claire. He had lifted his rifle and was sighting through it. You woke me up just as he was pulling the trigger.”
He gave her another little kiss on her jaw. “You know, they say you can never die in a dream. You wake up beforehand. Always.”
She’d read that, too, but . . . “I don’t know, Dan. It seemed so, so
real
. Big chunks of it felt more like a memory than a dream. And there was something about the gunfire . . .”
Claire fell quiet. Dan let her be, letting her think it through. She turned it over in her mind, trying to pin down the sensation. It was one of the still-clear memories of the nightmare, the wild shots, coming rat-a-tat-tat, without rhyme or reason.
So totally unlike the way well-trained soldiers shot.