Guns ‘N’ Roses blared from inside nondescript apartment
fourteen. She took a deep, calming breath as adrenaline
surged within. She had him. At last her quarry was within
reach. She raised a fist and hammered on the flimsy,
peeling wooden door.
The music shut down. A baby wailed a few apartments down, a
small dog yapping into life inside another. Heavy footsteps
approached from the other side of the door.
"Yes."
One word. One deep, masculine, primal intonation.
Her pulses jerked in response, her nipples beading tight
beneath her black leather jacket and tight burgundy singlet.
If this is what he could do to a woman with one
monosyllable behind a closed door, she could only imagine
what he could do with a whole sentence, and up close and
personal.
She cursed under her breath. She’d clearly been too long
without a man, someone to ease the heavy ache of her
breasts, the deep throb between her thighs. Just as well
she wanted nothing more from him than answers.
Hesitating for a beat, she asked, "Mr. Powell?"
She closed her eyes at his long, drawn out silence. Then
she heard him release a heavy sigh before returning
wearily, "Who wants to know?"
Impatience drummed a loud tattoo behind her skull. A
migraine was all she needed right now.
"I’m here on behalf of my father. He is—" she
swallowed back a wave of bitter loss and grief "—was
an archaeologist. You may have heard of him? Professor
Thomas Leigh." At the thick, almost suffocating silence
that followed she continued more loudly, "He believed in
the existence of human-panther shape-shifters—"
Her sentence ended on a startled gasp as the door flung
open and she was jerked unceremoniously inside.
"Enough already," Blake growled.
She hissed out a breath at the current of electricity
sizzling through her arm’s every nerve ending; at the cheek
of him dragging her inside. She tugged free, and looked
up...and up.
Beneath scruffy dark blue jeans and a white t-shirt the man
was a mountain of fluid muscle and sinew, repressed energy
that vibrated with emotion and patently raw sex appeal.
"Are you mad?" she said through gritted teeth. "All I
wanted was a civilized discussion, not to be dragged inside
like I’m nothing more than...than a cave woman!"
He slammed the door shut behind her and pushed home a large
bolt. When he peeled off his dark
sunglasses—ludicrous inside the near dark room lit
only by a naked bulb—she took an involuntary step
back. His eyes were an unnatural gold-yellow. Beautiful,
but deadly.
She sucked in some oxygen, forcing a calm she didn’t feel.
Damn it all to hell, he really was sinfully delicious, with
more vague hints of darkness beneath his honey-warm skin
that tantalized and teased even as it repelled.
"I know who you are," he said.
"You do?"
"Yes." He sighed, tunneling a hand through his thick, dark
hair that was an inch away from scruffy. "I’m sorry."
"Wh...what?"
"About your father."
"Why?" Her voice rose an octave, "Because like everyone
else you think the world is better off without another
crackpot and his loony beliefs?"
"No. I’m sorry because he was a great man who thought
above and beyond the restrictions of science."
Hostility fled her body, leaving her oddly drained and a
little disorientated. How long had it been since someone
had said something good about her father? Too long,
clearly, for her to appreciate even a scrap of praise.
Snide remarks and innuendos had become part and parcel of
their life for the three long months since her father’s
discovery.
"You look about ready to collapse." Somehow his silky
rich voice stroked her senses, hummed along the nerve-
endings behind her eyeballs and soothed away her stress.
Turning it into another tension entirely. Sexual
tension. "Please. Take a seat," he murmured.
She managed the couple of steps needed before all but
flopping into a ripped, vinyl two-seater lounge. "You knew
my dad?"
"No, not personally. But I read all his articles. He was
ahead of his time. A brilliant and ethical man."
And look where that had got him. Mocked and ridiculed
until he’d been stripped of all his dignity, his beliefs.
His life.
A wedge of hair dropped over her eyes from her scraped
back pony tail. She abstractedly pushed the dark blonde
length behind one ear. "Then you know why I’m here."
He moved into the tiny kitchen, where a half-empty
bottle of scotch resided on the counter. He poured them
each a glass. She gulped hers down like it was a tonic for
all the ills in the world.
He smiled and took a mouthful before giving a nod. "I
gather since your father uncovered the bones, he also found
the journal and deciphered the names on the list?"
"Only yours," she conceded. Her father’s long held view
of honesty being the best policy had burrowed deep into her
psyche, despite its obvious pitfalls. "What else have you
concluded?" she pressed.
He raised a dark brow. "That now you’re hoping to track
down the Illawatti tribe."
She released another long, slow breath. "Let me guess.
You think I’m a raving lunatic?"
Just like my dad.
Blake stalked over to the window and peered between the
moldy, almost transparent curtains. "No. Actually, I don’t."
Wow. Was he serious? She snorted disbelief. "So you
agree there’s a possibility the Illawatti tribe
exist—"
"We need to leave," he growled.
She frowned. "No. Not until I get some answers—"
The breath whooshed hard from her throat as he threw
himself at her. His weight knocked her to the ground
simultaneously to the window shattering, glass raining down
like blades of ice.
The dog a few doors down once again took up its
relentless yapping. She closed her eyes, aware the muscled
bulk of Blake’s body sheltered her. But she was even more
aware of the ping of a bullet that had torn a hole through
the opposite wall.
Shock pushed her heart rate into high gear. "Someone is
shooting at you!"