O'Halloran's Lady Read online

  It was stress, she reassured herself. With the unpleasant incident at the cinema and two interviews at Auckland Central, it had not been an easy day.

  Another creak, as if someone was stepping lightly, sent adrenaline shooting through her veins.

  Someone was there. “O’Halloran?”

  Chapter 9

  Mood grim, O’Halloran completed the circuit of the house, ending up back by the area of trampled shrubbery. The weather was closing in, with heavy, dark clouds massing. Fat droplets of rain splashed down as he passed the beam of the flashlight over the trampled area.

  Something pale gleamed in amongst the shrubbery.

  All the small hairs at Marc’s nape lifted. A piece of cloth, or paper, that hadn’t been there five minutes ago. He said something short and hard beneath his breath. He must be losing his edge.

  The cold itch down his spine now made sense, because whoever had broken the shrub had been on the property while he searched it.

  Flicking the flashlight off, he levered himself up and smoothly over the fence.

  Bare minutes later, as he checked the vehicles parked out on the street, the niggling sense that something was wrong coalesced into cold knowledge.

  He flicked a glance at the still darkened house and began to run, cutting back through the property with its ranks of apartments. When they had driven in to Jenna’s drive, the electronically controlled front gate had worked and he had noticed a porch light glowing. In the past few minutes, with the fading sun, Jenna should have switched on lights. The big old house should be clearly visible from the street. Instead it was shrouded in darkness.

  When he had done his last circuit of the house, he hadn’t noticed the porch light glowing. Either Jenna had switched it off, which didn’t make sense, or in the minutes since they had arrived, the power to the house had been cut.

  The intruder hadn’t left, and he wasn’t outside.

  He was in the house.

  * * *

  Chills running down her spine, Jenna padded out onto the landing.

  In the time she had been upstairs, the last light had gone. The glow of sodium streetlamps flowed in the front windows, hammering home the fact that her power outage was an isolated event.

  She didn’t know how it had happened, but she had to assume that someone had gotten inside the house and switched the power off. Her jaw tightened. The first thing she should have done was walk out to the front hall and check the fuse box, but she had been so distracted by O’Halloran’s presence that she hadn’t thought to check.

  She paused, holding her breath for long seconds as she listened and allowed her eyes to adjust to the heavy gloom.

  A scraping sound from the direction of her office made her stiffen.

  It couldn’t be O’Halloran, he was still outside. She had seen him just minutes ago strolling toward the left side of the house. If he had entered by the front door, with its steps and hardwood verandah, regardless of how light he was on his feet, she would have heard him.

  The flicker of a shadow made her heart slam in her chest. A flowing solid shape, darker than the pooling shadows below, emerged from her office and paused at the base of the stairs.

  Suddenly the tension that had hit her when she had collected her laptop made sense. The intruder hadn’t just been in the house, he had been in her office when she had collected her laptop.

  If he was in her office, it also followed that he had probably been after her laptop, because there wasn’t much else of value in there.

  She sensed more than saw him looking up the staircase, and froze. She was not directly in his line of sight. She was standing off to one side. With most of the bedroom doors shut, closing out any ambient light flowing through windows, this part of the house was now in almost complete darkness. As exposed as she felt, the odds were that he couldn’t see her.

  Another creak sent another small nervy shock of adrenaline through her. That was the second-to-bottom tread, which meant he was now on the staircase, and climbing.

  If it was the guy who had been stalking her, she had to assume it was because he wanted the laptop. Although she wasn’t sure what he thought he would achieve by stealing her computer. The only possible reason would be to hurt her by depriving her of her work and sabotaging the publication of her next two books.

  She considered her options. She could yell for O’Halloran and hope that would scare away the intruder. But given that he had to know O’Halloran was on the property, and that he had chosen to remain in the house despite the danger, she couldn’t bank on that option.

  He also wanted her laptop badly enough to come upstairs, knowing that she was here. Possibly the only thing she could do was stop him from taking her computer.

  She had done a self-defence course, and she kept in good shape jogging and working out. He no doubt thought that taking the laptop off her was going to be easy, but after the day she’d had, if he wanted it, she decided grimly, he was going to have to rip it out of her cold, dead hands.

  Easing her feet out of her shoes, Jenna backed away from the landing rail and the slow, gliding advance of the intruder. The back of one hand brushed against the wall.

  Swallowing the sudden tightening panic that gripped her chest, her throat, she followed the wall until she hit the frame of her door. Her room was lighter than the landing, although just enough that she could make out the silvery gleam of her laptop.

  Sliding the penlight into her jeans pocket, she picked up the computer and shoved it under her mattress then looked around a little wildly. In the end, out of time, she picked up a heavy earthenware vase that was sitting on one of her dressers and positioned herself to one side of the door. If she could hit him hard on the head, with any luck, he would go down. Then she could run. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all she had.

  Holding the vase above her head, she stared hard at the opening. The quality of light in the doorway altered. She hadn’t heard anything and, eerily, she still couldn’t see anything until he turned his head and the frail light flowing through the window gleamed on pale irises. It was then she realized the reason she couldn’t see him was that he was dressed entirely in black, and he was wearing a balaclava.

  The urn came down with a thud that sent a shockwave up both her arms. He grunted, but in the instant before the vase hit his head, he had shifted sideways and it had bounced off his shoulder.

  The sound of the vase shattering split the air. “Bitch.”

  A gloved hand clamped her throat and she was shoved back against the wall with force. The back of her head connected sharply. Convulsively, she reached for breath, but his fingers squeezed, cutting off air.

  Above the pounding of blood in her ears, the laboured rasp of his breathing, dimly, Jenna registered a thundering sound. Not the approaching storm. O’Halloran was coming up the stairs.

  * * *

  The explosive sound of something shattering, followed by a sharp crack had sent a kick of adrenaline through Marc that almost stopped his heart.

  Grimly castigating himself for not considering that Jenna’s stalker could still be on the property after he’d noted the crushed foliage, he lunged up the last two stairs. The Glock clasped in his hands, he crossed the landing and stepped into a room filled with cold swirling air.

  For a split second he thought he was too late, then his eyes, by now adjusted to the darkness, easily picked out Jenna sitting on the floor, gasping for breath, and a curtain flapping in the breeze.

  Before he could ask if she was all right, her gaze sliced to his, steady and oddly fierce. She stabbed a finger at the window. “I’m okay. He went off the balcony.”

  Marc didn’t stop to ask why her voice was so raspy. By the sounds he had heard it was a given that she had been hurt. From the shards of crockery crunching underfoot, he savagely hoped she had given as g
ood as she’d got.

  Jaw tight, he holstered the Glock and flowed out onto the balcony and over the side. As he climbed down the gnarled limbs of wisteria that clung to the house and festooned the balcony, he made a mental note that the ornamental shrub had to go. If it could be climbed down, that meant someone could also use it to gain entrance to the house.

  A crashing sound below, at a guess the plastic waste disposal bin he’d seen tucked discreetly outside the laundry being knocked over, signalled that the intruder was down.

  Marc hit the ground running. He glimpsed a flickering movement and registered that the reason he was finding it so hard to pinpoint the intruder was because he was dressed entirely in black, including a balaclava.

  Cursing himself for not having a pair of night-vision goggles on hand, he waded through undergrowth. From now on he would make sure he had the full kit for night surveillance stored in the trunk of his car at all times.

  Flinging aside whippy branches, he boosted himself up and over the fence, but, from the sound of pounding footsteps, he knew he was going to be too late. He ran out on the road in time to see a pair of taillights winking as a van turned and accelerated away.

  Sucking in a deep breath, he turned to study the property he had just run through. The intruder had been unexpectedly smart. He had bypassed the expensive properties on the other two boundaries, and the street entrance, in favor of using one that had multiple tenants. Judging from the bikes stacked against walls, the old sofas and boxes of empty beer cans, most of them were students. World War Three could break out in their front yard and they wouldn’t notice.

  He wouldn’t underestimate the stalker again. Although he hadn’t been caught entirely flatfooted. He had bagged the clipboard and pen he had found lying in the grass.

  More importantly, he had gotten the registration number for the van.

  * * *

  Chills running up and down her spine, Jenna stared out into the storm-tossed night and watched as O’Halloran climbed over her fence with fluid ease.

  That was too easy, she thought starkly. She was going to have to build the fence higher. Stepping back inside her bedroom, she remembered the penlight in her pocket, extracted it and flicked on the reassuring beam of light.

  Hands shaking with an overload of adrenaline and reaction, she closed the French doors and locked them then turned to survey the mess. Pottery shards littered the floor and somehow the dresser nearest the door had been overturned, probably when the intruder had stumbled off balance after she’d hit him. A set of elegant glass perfume bottles were scattered amongst the pottery shards, some of them also smashed.

  Stepping out onto the landing, she made her way gingerly downstairs. Her head was throbbing from the crack she’d received when the back of her head had hit the wall, and her throat felt tender. She hadn’t looked, but she was guessing she would have a necklace of interesting bruises by morning. She also felt a little weird, unsettled and shaky, her pulse pounding way too fast. Mild shock, she realized.

  A shudder went through her when she remembered the moment her assailant had gripped her throat. The hold had been tight, and more than a little personal. In that moment, with his eyes glittering into hers, she had gotten the distinct impression that whoever he was, he hated her.

  If he hated her, it followed he had to know her.

  Swallowing painfully, she reached the hall just as O’Halloran strode in the front door.

  His gaze locked on hers, and she drew a swift breath.

  His expression was remote, implacable, his eyes shooting cold fire.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “Thanks,” she said shakily.

  A split second later, she was in his arms, his hold firm enough that she could feel the unmistakable bulge of a shoulder holster.

  She remembered O’Halloran stepping through her bedroom door, a large black gun held in both hands, his toneless voice, the efficient way he had checked on her before ghosting out onto the balcony and over the side. She had heard the intruder clambering down her wisteria vine; O’Halloran had made almost no noise, he’d seemed to move in a bubble of silence.

  As if sensing her tension, O’Halloran eased her a little closer, and wrapped her tighter, cradling her against his chest. His warm palm cupped her nape, urging her to rest her head on his shoulder.

  “Ouch.”

  His fingers probed and found the bump forming at the back of her head. “He hit you.”

  She blinked at the utter lack of emotion in his voice and then, like a bolt out of the blue, she finally got it, she finally got him. O’Halloran wasn’t either emotionless or disconnected; he was blazing mad.

  Some people got emotional in stressful situations. From what she knew of O’Halloran, he never did, which was what had made him such a good cop and the perfect bodyguard.

  She couldn’t remember one single occasion, even counting the tragic house fire, when he had lost control. Nine years ago, when she had broken up with him, had been a case in point. His calm, measured response had convinced her she had done the right thing.

  She had always thought his lack of response had signalled a basic inability to feel, but she was suddenly, stunningly aware that the opposite was the case. O’Halloran cared; the measured response and flat voice was just his way of coping.

  “He didn’t exactly hit me,” she said cautiously. “My head bounced off the wall.”

  There was a moment of tense silence. “What else?”

  For a brief moment, she simply soaked in the careful way he was cradling her, the knowledge that O’Halloran cared that she had been hurt. “Just the bruising on my throat.”

  O’Halloran swore softly. “I need some light.”

  Releasing her, he gently prised the tiny penlight from her hand, walked the few steps to the fuse box and beamed the light into the cavity while he turned the power back on.

  He flicked a switch and the hall flooded with light. Peeling back the polo-neck of her sweater, he gently touched the tender area, sending streamers of tingling heat radiating out from that one small point of contact. “I’m going to kill him.”

  The soft flat statement was subtly claiming and wholly electrifying. Although, Jenna knew she shouldn’t build too much into it. She had just been threatened and attacked, and O’Halloran was with her in the role of protector. He was male, powerful and in control in the kind of take-charge, alpha way that was hard to resist, but she also knew that he would fiercely guard whoever was in his care.

  He handed her the flashlight then insisted on examining the bump on the back of her head.

  She winced as he probed, but when he asked if she wanted a doctor, she refused. “I’m not concussed. I had concussion when I was a kid and I know what that feels like. That’s just sissy bruising.”

  O’Halloran’s mouth kicked up at the corners. The glint of humour, the moment of uncomplicated intimacy, filled her with a crazy, giddy warmth.

  After everything she had been through that day, Jenna reflected, the most important thing shouldn’t be that somehow, despite all of the bad things that had happened, she and O’Halloran were in it together.

  O’Halloran insisted that she walk through to the kitchen and sit down while he got ice for her head. He turned on lights, found a bag of frozen peas, wrapped a kitchen towel around it and made her hold it against the bump.

  He opened cupboards. “Where do you keep your first-aid supplies?”

  She directed him to the pantry then obediently swallowed the painkillers he gave her along with a glass of water.

  She insisted he also hand her a second ice pack for her neck, this one frozen beans. When he frowned at the request, she gave him a level look. “If ice can take down the bruising on my head, it can do the same job on my neck. S
ince I’ve got a book launch to attend tomorrow evening, it would be kind of nice not to look like someone just tried to strangle me.”

  Especially when photos would be taken that would appear in local newspapers and on various internet sites. The last thing she wanted was to give her poisonous fan the satisfaction of knowing that he had hurt her.

  Luckily, her sweater had cushioned her neck and make-up would hide some of the marks, but if the bruising was too profound, the dark colour would still show through.

  While she held the two packs of frozen vegetables in place, O’Halloran made calls, one to Auckland Central, one to McCabe. When he hung up, his expression was grim. “The police are sending someone out. He should be here in the next fifteen minutes.”

  O’Halloran relieved her of the job of holding the peas at the back of her head. “Now tell me everything that happened from the time you walked inside.”

  As emotionlessly as possible, Jenna related the sequence of events. Going back over what had happened kept sending small shocks of adrenaline through her and she felt furious and shaky in turns. It was an interesting effect.

  O’Halloran said something soft under his breath. “Honey, I’m sorry, but this has to be done. When the detective gets here, he’s going to ask you the same questions. If we go over it now, it’ll be easier when you have to give a statement.”

  “This is my problem.” Jenna held out one hand. Despite her efforts she couldn’t keep it steady.

  O’Halloran grinned quick and hard. “I’ve got an idea that might help. Where do you keep your liquor?”

  “There’s brandy and sherry in the pantry.”

  He opened the pantry door and took down a bottle. “Which do you prefer?”

  “Neither,” she muttered flatly. “I use them for cooking.”

  “Too bad.” She heard the click of a glass tumbler, the sound of pouring, and placed a bet with herself that he had chosen the brandy.