BLADE'S LADY Page 7

  For years she had blocked off her feelings, refused to feel, afraid of losing, because she had already lost so much. She had protected herself like a turtle pulling into its shell. She had survived by staying remote, by not loving anyone. Sometimes the cold crept so deep, she wondered if she would ever be warm again.

  She was stretched so thin, close to the breaking point, and Blade had sensed it and ruthlessly homed in on her weakness, effortlessly smashing through her barriers. All it had taken was a touch, a word – that bone melting look – and she had been ready to give in, her awareness of him shattering her reserve.

  He wanted her. She acknowledged that; but she also knew that if she let him any further into her life it would be a disaster. The danger aside, he would take everything; he would make her fall in love with him.

  She was already half-way there, enthralled by his steely, uncompromising strength, those glimpses of humour and tenderness, the hot burn of sensuality, and the fierce purity of his will. She had never met anyone who burned so brightly; the essence of who and what he was blazed, the wash of power battering sensitive nerve endings every time she got close.

  She didn't have the strength to love Blade and lose him. She had already lost too much of herself.

  But even so, keeping the truth from him, leaving him now, hurt.

  *

  Blade arrived at Joe's early, driven by a hunch.

  He strolled through the tables to the counter, scanning the already crowded booths.

  The waitress at the cash register frowned when he asked for Anna. "She left early. I'm not sure when exactly, but Jenna's working her tables now."

  Blade worked to keep his temper in check. His ice-cool nerves in combat were a fact; his control in any number of infuriating situations was a given. He never lost his damn temper. Lately, he was losing it every five minutes. "Will anyone know when she left?"

  "Sure. She would have collected her money from Rafferty at the end of her shift. You want to talk to Rafferty?" She smiled as if it were some kind of joke, and gestured at a door off to the side of the counter. "Go on through. His office is second on the right."

  Rafferty started up from his chair at the sound of approaching footsteps, almost spilling his hip flask of whisky over the mass of papers in front of him. His office door flew open as he lunged at the toppling flask, jammed the cap on and shoved it in his desk drawer, his temper going ballistic because all his staff knew they had to knock first, then wait until he was good and ready.

  He could tolerate his cramped office space and the fact that he didn't have a secretary. He could even tolerate some of the smart comments he got from the dumb-ass syndicate members who owned this flea-bitten restaurant, but anyone who walked in without knocking first, was out of here so fast they would still be spinning when they hit the street.

  A shadow loomed over him. Rafferty's head jerked up, mouth opening to vent his spleen. His mouth stayed open. He sat down very slowly and very carefully.

  He had expected the new idiot cook, who had more questions than brains, maybe even that snooty waitress who had looked down her nose at him as if she wouldn't touch him with a barge pole, no matter how hard up she was. And he knew for a fact how hard up she was – money-wise, anyway – he'd made sure of it … not that it had done him any good. Anna Johnson hadn't so much as twitched that tight little ass in his direction, no matter how much he'd hinted he would like a piece of it.

  The man standing in front of him was dressed in the kind of casual clothes that most of the patrons at Joe's wore: jeans, T-shirt, a leather jacket, long, black hair tied back in a ponytail, but that was where the similarity ended. He was big, broad-shouldered, all hard muscle and sharp intellect. There was a quality of stillness to the stranger, a waiting silence, that was subtly threatening, like a big cat in the moments before it sprang on some hapless, puny creature that had been singled out as a tasty snack. His eyes were spooky, glittering like black ice. Rafferty planted his backside further back in his chair. He didn't know what the stranger wanted, but he was certain he wasn't going to like it. "If you're looking for the bar," he said shortly, "you took a wrong turn."

  "I know where the bar is," the stranger answered mildly. "I'm looking for Anna Johnson."

  Rafferty jerked. Hot colour flooded his cheeks, and his heart pounded, so that for a panicky moment he had trouble breathing. "Anna Johnson." He tried to look perplexed. "Sorry, I don't know anyone by that name."

  The stranger gently closed the door behind him and advanced further into the room, braced both hands on the desk and leaned forward, close enough that Rafferty couldn't miss the cold warning in his eyes. The deliberation of his movements made Rafferty break out in a sweat. He had visions of being worked over, of being beaten to a pulp, his body left sprawled across his desk for his useless staff to find.

  "She worked here this afternoon," the man said softly. "She served me coffee."

  Rafferty pressed down harder with his backside, so that his chair scooted back a bare inch, clanging against a filing cabinet. "If she worked here, I would know about it. I can't help you."

  "I'll just bet you can, if you try real hard."

  Blade watched Rafferty narrowly. His fingers twitched. He had to restrain himself from reaching across the desk and gripping the man's too-tight collar. If he got that close to Rafferty's neck, he would be tempted to choke him. The man looked like he ate too many of Joe's special double-beef burgers and fries, and his rat's nest of an office stank of whisky. Anna worked for Rafferty, and he was willing to bet that he ruthlessly ripped her off every chance he got. "Did she leave a forwarding address?"

  There was a strained silence, broken only by the heavy wheeze of Rafferty's breath, and Blade wondered if he was going to expire from a heart attack right in front of him.

  Rafferty reached for a handkerchief and blotted the sweat sheening his forehead. "You don't look like you work for the Inland Revenue department," he muttered.

  "It must be your lucky day," Blade said with deadly calm, deciding that if Rafferty did keel over, he would probably dial emergency services, but he wouldn't be the one administering the kiss of life. "The name's Lombard. Blade Lombard."

  The man's eyes almost popped from his head in startled recognition. He mopped his face again. "Anna quit this afternoon. She didn't leave a forwarding address."

  "Did you pay her before she left?"

  Rafferty flushed. "She got her money!"

  Blade eyed Rafferty with disgust; he was lying. "For your sake," he said softly, "you better hope you paid her every cent she ever earned here, because otherwise, you will answer to me. Do you understand? When did she leave?"

  Rafferty paled. "About half an hour ago."

  Blade swore softly, spun on his heel and strode out of the seedy little office, his mind working with cold precision as he left the restaurant. He would deal with Rafferty later; right now he had a more important goal. Anna hadn't just left early, she had quit.

  His jaw tightened. He'd had a hunch, and he'd been right. She'd run out on him.

  As he swung behind the wheel of the Jeep and peeled out of the car park, he had another hunch, and this one didn't please him any more than the first one had. He wouldn't find her at her flat, either. She wasn't just running out on him, she was running, period.

  He was going to be too late.

  *

  Anna unlocked the door to her flat and stepped inside.

  With hurried movements, she packed a few fresh items from the fridge and pantry into a plastic carry bag, then placed it beside her bulging pack and briefcase. She had already cleaned and wiped everything down, the only thing left for her to do was to slip the key to the apartment in an envelope, along with a brief note, and address it to the landlord. She would post the letter on the way to the bus stop.

  She was almost ready to leave, and now that the moment had come, she felt a fierce resentment that once again she was being pushed out of her home. She was only renting, but that had never stopped her
from thinking of whatever accommodation she had as home. She had been here for several months, and in that time she'd given the walls a fresh coat of paint, and carefully selected and restored the dining table and chair. She'd unearthed the rug at a garage sale, then spent days beating it to get the dust out and reveal the subtle golds and blues beneath. Her collection of plants had all been grown from cuttings people had given her.

  On a material scale, what she had might not be much, but it was hers.

  A knock at the door made her start.

  A soft, deep voice called out, "Anna, it's Tony."

  Relief eased the tension knotting her stomach as she unlocked the door and let her neighbour in. She'd slipped a note under Tony's door before she'd left for work, asking him to call in when she got home, but for a heart-pounding moment she had thought it was Blade.

  Tony Fa'alau's smile was gentle, but his liquid brown gaze sharpened when he noted the bruise on her forehead. "Who hurt you?" he demanded.

  "I hurt myself, walking home last night." She lifted her shoulders, trying for a dismissive shrug. "It was raining. I slipped and banged my head."

  Tony's expression was both disbelieving and disapproving. He didn't like it that she walked at night alone, and that she had no man to care for her. Anna had usually countered his argument by replying that he had no woman to care for him. Not that the argument worked. Tony Fa'alau was as stubborn in his own way as she was.

  "You've got trouble."

  "I've got trouble," she agreed, forcing a wry smile, because the last thing she wanted to do was upset Tony any further. "I'm moving today. I thought you or your family might like the pick of the furniture, or anything else here that you want."

  Tony ignored the room, the furniture she'd offered him. Despite the grey streaks in his dark hair and the war wound that had permanently damaged one leg and kept him from full-time work, he was lean and vital, very much the head of his large, boisterous family. He lived alone, on a disability pension, but he kept himself busy helping his son, Mike, with the video parlour down the road. "If you've got trouble, we'll help you."

  Anna's throat closed up at the simple declaration. Tony might be a widower, but he had four strapping sons, a parcel of gorgeous daughters-in-law and a large number of grandchildren. With that simple phrase, he had effectively offered her protection, but she couldn't accept it, because she wouldn't endanger either him or his family. "Thanks for the offer," she said quietly, "but I have to leave. I've notified the landlord. He's already arranged to put someone new in here." She took the spare key off the hook beside the door and pressed it into his hand before he could argue. "I'll leave this key with you, so you can take your time getting what you want."

  Tony's hand closed over the key. "We won't take your things," he said stubbornly. "I'll get Mike to store them for you until you can come back for them. If you need help, call Mike at the parlour and he'll get word to me."

  Tony made her promise to keep in touch and insisted she write the number down, then watched like a hawk as she put the slip of paper in her briefcase.

  Minutes later, she'd done the final check of the flat. Tony had retreated, giving her privacy, for which she was grateful, because tears welled as she hefted the pack on her back and slipped her arms through the coarse canvas loops. She took a moment to adjust to the weight and the balance of the load, shivering as the cold inside her intensified. Then she bent to pick up the plastic bag, her briefcase and the envelope for the landlord, before pulling the door closed behind her.

  A short time later Anna boarded the bus, settled in her seat and stared out the window as the bus laboured past her flat. With a start, she recognised Blade's Jeep pulled over by the apartment block.

  He had come after her.

  Her stomach flipped queerly, and she forgot the cold, forgot her tiredness, the tender ache of bruises and the awkward bulk of her possessions pressing against her on the seat. She craned, watching as Blade swung from the cab, his expression grim, as if he already knew she'd gone. A pang of loss struck through her, so intense she had to clench her jaw against the urge to howl like a baby.

  Why she should feel this way, she didn't know. It was crazy; it was insane. She'd met Blade exactly three times in her life – and one of those times had been more than twenty years ago, when she had been a child. They were no more than bare acquaintances pushed together by uncanny circumstance. Nothing more.

  So why did she feel even emptier now than she had when she'd walked out of her flat?

  *

  Blade lifted his hand to knock on Anna's door, but the breeze caught it, so that it swung open before his knuckles connected.

  A tall, older man, his black hair streaked with grey, was in the kitchen, packing household items into a cardboard box.

  "What do you think you're doing?" Blade demanded, as he stepped into the room. He did a quick sweep, noting that Anna's possessions were all still intact. "Where's Anna?"

  "She's gone." The man's gaze was dark, measuring. "I'm packing her things up before the new tenant gets here."

  "You're Tony? From the flat upstairs?"

  Some of the man's wariness faded. He nodded.

  Blade relaxed, but only fractionally. "She mentioned you. Where did she go?"

  Tony's expression went as blank as stone worn smooth by water. "She didn't say." He shrugged. "Guess if she'd wanted you to know she would have told you."

  *

  Minutes later, Blade stood by the Jeep, controlling the urge to slam his fist on the bonnet. If he'd been just a little earlier, he would have caught her, but he hadn't been quick enough. Now he didn't have a clue where to start looking. He had let her slip through his fingers, and the thought made him feel belly-cold, the way he had a couple of times on operations when he'd known that things were about to go sour.

  He didn't know what kind of trouble she was in, but he was suddenly sure it was the worst kind. She was running like a woman who feared for her life.

  She needed him.

  Dammit all, why hadn't she trusted him to help her?

  Chapter 6

  Anna walked into her new home, a bedsit in a boarding house that had seen better days. Judging by the faded, peeling wallpaper, the crudely constructed kitchen counter in one corner and the bare wooden floor, those better days were somewhere back at the dawn of time.

  Dropping the bags and the pack on the dusty floor, she unrolled a strip of snowfoam she had used more often than she cared to remember, laid her sleeping bag out on it, and simply kicked off her shoes and crawled into the bag, too exhausted to do anything other than lie flat on her back.

  But the cold soon had her turning awkwardly onto her side and curling into a foetal position in an attempt to get warm.

  Leaving had been more traumatic than she had bargained for. Blade had come after her! Her heart swelled at the thought, bursting with a strange mixture of heady delight and utter misery.

  He would be furious that she'd slipped away. She didn't imagine that many women turned him down, although she doubted he would think of her for long.

  Her eyes flipped open at that blunt truth, and she stared at the bare window. The evening was blue and tender, glittering with the first stars, and richly, achingly beautiful, but that didn't stop loneliness from gathering and expanding inside her, taking her over until she couldn't feel anything but the cold burn of having no one. Fiercely, she shook off the dark mood.

  Minutes ticked by. She yawned, her eyes closed. She was still cold, but she was tired, too, so that she eventually relaxed from her tight, huddled ball and fell headlong into a deep, exhausted sleep.

  The dream unwound like a slow drift of silk.

  Midnight silk. His hair. She felt the satiny texture of it in her hands; her fingers wound deep in the warm, tumbled strands as she held him close and strained toward his misty, insubstantial face, desperate to penetrate the haze, to break through the frustrating barrier of anonymity and press her mouth against his.

  His large hands
tenderly cupped her naked breasts, and the exquisitely sensitive flesh swelled and throbbed, as if straining to fill his rough palms. His thumbs stroked over her tightly beaded nipples, heat flashed through her, and a moan burst from deep in her belly.

  A shudder coursed through his big frame, as if he'd felt the same wild surge. He clasped her waist, one brawny thigh shifting between hers, the brush of his sex shockingly hot against her hip. In that moment he bent, and that fierce, beautiful mouth closed over hers.

  Her legs went wobbly with relief as she yielded to the pressure of his mouth, the plunging stroke of his tongue. Her hands closed on his shoulders for balance, fingers sinking into pliant muscle. He was very big, making her feel small and fragile in his grasp, his chest and shoulders heavily muscled and damp with sweat. The kiss was long and deep, the rhythm drugging. His arms tightened around her as they clung together, his need matching hers. The searing heat of his mouth made her whimper and stretch, arching against the satin-hot smoothness of his chest, pressing closer.

  The feverish need to get closer, to deepen the kiss, was overwhelming. She would be lost, left drifting in darkness, without his mouth on hers. He warmed her, anchored her, shoved back the cold.

  She shifted restlessly, and in response, he lifted her up high against him, so that her feet left the ground and she had to cling to him for support.

  A low sound of approval vibrated from his chest, shivered against her lips; then the firm, possessive grasp of his hands pulled her down. His body settled on hers, heavy, hot, sleekly powerful. She arched into him, stretching her arms above her head in a movement that was instinctive with him, and filled with a pagan ritualistic need. His fingers entwined with hers, holding her stretched taut beneath him as he nuzzled her, his breath warm against her cheek, her throat. Densely muscled thighs gently pressed her legs wide, the movement almost unbearably familiar, followed by the searing heat as he settled himself boldly against her.