HEART OF MIDNIGHT Page 8

  The darkened fourth floor was about three feet above the floor of the lift.

  Gray turned to her. "Hand me the keys and I'll give you a boost."

  He dropped the keys in his pocket. She noticed he hadn't asked for the torch, for which she was grateful. Even though they were almost out of the of the lift, it was still very dark, and she was loathe to give it up. A small amount of light filtered from beneath the room doors into the corridor, but only enough to make her aware it wasn't the pitch-blackness she had experienced before.

  Gray's big hands settled at her waist.

  "Put your hands on my shoulders," he murmured next to her ear.

  Sam gripped his shoulder with her free hand and settled for simply bracing herself with the other, which was wrapped around the torch. She was intensely aware of the pliant strength shifting beneath her fingers as she was lifted and set down on the floor, her legs dangling. One of her shoes slipped off. Gray picked it up and fitted it to her foot, not lingering over the task, then waited for her to get to her feet before flowing up and out of the stalled elevator in one smooth, muscular movement.

  Immediately his hand cupped her elbow. Sam knew she should shake off his hold, but after those moments in the elevator, she was grateful for the warmth of his touch.

  She knew from experience that Gray was naturally courteous with women. He automatically did things that a lot of men neglected, small gestures like opening doors and holding chairs, offering a woman his full attention when he was with her. That attention to her needs, combined with the sheer battering force of his masculinity, had held a seductive allure. Seven years ago she hadn't been able to resist him; she had been dazzled by all those small attentions. This time would be different. She knew Gray, knew just how little those courtesies meant. She wouldn't allow herself to tumble under his spell again.

  Reluctantly, Gray released his hold on Sam's elbow and handed her the keys. She unlocked the door to the first suite, pushed it open and absently handed him back his torch. Gray clicked the beam off, slipped the torch back into his pocket, then propped a shoulder against the doorjamb and watched as she surveyed the damage.

  Water had already soaked the carpets and continued to drip steadily. The entire roof needed replacing, an expense that any company would balk at for such an old building.

  Something very like relief lightened his mood. It wasn't that he wanted the Royal to go under, he simply wanted Sam, and her attachment to the Royal was standing in his way. There were enough barriers between them; he didn't need to be cast in the role of villain over this leaky old mausoleum. Sam was a businesswoman; she could do the figures.

  This happening on top of that damn elevator breaking down should clinch it.

  His jaw tightened as he watched her wander from drip to drip, staring up at the widening patches of damp on the ceiling, the ominous bulges in a couple of places.

  "This is it, isn't it?" she demanded.

  Gray should have guessed Sam wouldn't tiptoe around the issue. What he hadn't known was how much the Royal would mean to her. Hurt shimmered in her eyes before she spun on her heel and paced to the window, and conversely he wanted to tell her that he would fix the roof, he would fix any damn thing she wanted if it made her happy. "The specs on the roof indicated it needed replacing."

  "But you won't be replacing it."

  "No." Gray let go of a breath, cursing inwardly. "You have to leave anyway," he said gently.

  "I lose my job."

  It wasn't a question. "Yeah."

  She wandered restlessly around the room, examined the king-size bed, which was turning into a king-size sponge – like the rest of the building – then surveyed the area of greatest damage, which was smack in the middle of the room. She held out her hands, catching drops, her demeanour so grave he had to fight the urge to pull her into his arms and wrap her in tight against him. The urge was male and protective, rawly sexual and possessive, and something more, something he only associated with Sam – a deep, wrenching tenderness he'd never forgotten, an alien, disturbing emotion that had haunted him all the years they had been apart and which he had come halfway around the world to find.

  Sam let the water dribble from her palms. "Did you know that the Royal used to be one of the most expensive, grandest establishments in the South Pacific? A lady calling herself Baroness Belle occupied these apartments for several years. She wasn't royalty, but she had style and money to burn. She was the highest priced hooker in town, and she entertained only the finest clients. Apparently she adored ships' captains, and if she was taken with a man, she would offer her services for free. This entire floor used to be called Belle's Palace."

  Gray eyed the bulge above Sam's head and decided it was time to get her out of there. He stepped around a growing puddle and coaxed her from the danger zone. "I don't think Belle would be doing much trade in here now."

  She gave him a fierce look. "There's no hope? What about the people who work here? The residents?"

  Her expression almost broke his heart, and Gray had to steel himself against his frustration with this whole charade. He was no diplomat; he never had been. The Pacific Royal deal was Jack's baby. Gray had little to do with it beyond business planning and policy decisions made at the executive level. He wanted nothing more than to wrap his fingers around Sam's arm and demand she leave with him. Now. Aside from being a surveillance nightmare, this whole building was unsafe, and he didn't want Sam here. What would have happened if she had been in that elevator alone?

  She had been frightened, even though she'd tried to hide it. Gray had felt the tension in her silence, confirmed it in the uneven tenor of her breathing.

  He'd wanted to reach out to her then, but he had refrained from doing anything more than murmuring reassurance, because he hadn't wanted to risk disturbing the hold she had on herself. It didn't take a genius to know that Sam was balanced on some precarious edge, that there were things he didn't know and that she wasn't about to tell him about in a hurry.

  The knowledge that she was holding out on him was infuriating. The fact that he wasn't being entirely honest with her didn't come into it. Illogical or not, he still wanted to take her in his arms and soothe her, to use the moment to try to break through that cool reserve and gain her trust. "We're lucky the council hasn't condemned the building out of hand and ordered an evacuation. It's dangerous, Sam. Everyone will be well-compensated. They'll find other jobs, other places to stay. We'll give them all the assistance we can."

  Sam stared fixedly at him, as if she had just come to a conclusion that astonished her. "You really did come to see me," she said huskily. "Why else would you be here? Your mind was made up before you came."

  She backed off a step, the astonishment fading, as if she had just given herself a mental shake. "If you'll excuse me, I need to get some tradesmen up here to do some damage control before that ceiling caves in and someone really does get hurt."

  Gray watched her go. He didn't like the fact that she was walking out on him – practically running from him – but he had just enough sense not to push her any further.

  She needed time to get used to having him back in her life. Seven years ago he had been young and brash and hadn't taken the care of her that he should have. He would make up for that lack soon. After Harper was dealt with, he would spend every moment he could with Sam – make love to her, cuddle and hold her, cement their relationship with all the rituals of courtship he had disregarded before. He would be free to woo her, and he wouldn't rest until he had banished every last shadow from her eyes. But for now his methods would, out of sheer necessity, have to be blunter, cruder.

  He didn't have time for anything else. He would have to bind her to him in the most primal way he knew. And soon.

  Chapter 7

  Sam walked numbly down the stairwell. The power was still off, but the stairwell had adequate window lighting.

  Of all the shocks she had had since she had answered Edith's phone call last evening, the one she had just rec
eived stood out above the rest: Gray had come after her – seven years too late.

  She walked into her office, barely noticing Milly's curious stare or the fact that for once her secretary didn't rush after her demanding to know what had happened.

  A ripple of unease slid down her spine as she began to comprehend her situation; the unease extended to an actual chill, roughening her skin and lifting fine hairs all over her body in primitive warning of danger. Gray wanted her back, and she…

  She was in trouble.

  She had thought she had dealt with her hopes, torn them out like the stubborn weeds they were. But she knew now that she hadn't; the roots of that hope had sunk too deep, wound themselves around the very fibre of her being, and no matter how hard she tried, she doubted she could ever kill them completely.

  She couldn't afford to be attracted to Gray, let alone care about him. She had been hurt too often and too deeply by the people she loved.

  He had hurt her.

  All she had to do was stay away from him. That shouldn't be hard, she thought grimly. He had just fired her. If she left, she would be safe.

  But even while she laid it all out in her mind, Sam couldn't dismiss the one central fact that nagged at her and undermined all her fledgling plans. If she hadn't been able to forget Gray after seven years of concerted effort, what made her think she could do it now?

  Milly appeared in her doorway. "How bad is it?"

  "The roof is leaking. The fourth floor is uninhabitable."

  Milly pressed a cup of coffee into her hands. "You want me to ring that roofing firm? They're supposed to be here doing the repairs now."

  "We need a whole new roof, not repairs." Sam sniffed the coffee. There was something alcoholic in it. Brandy.

  "Drink it," Milly declared gruffly. "You look like you're ready to collapse."

  Sam sipped, then gasped. The potent mixture bypassed the usual channels and burned a hole straight through to her stomach.

  "You gonna tell me what's going on with you and Lombard?"

  Sam sipped again and shuddered. "Is it that obvious?"

  Milly snorted, pulled up a chair and sat down. "Maybe I shouldn't have put that brandy in there," she muttered. "Drink enough of that fire-water and next time you won't back down from whatever it was you were leading up to when I walked in on you earlier. Honey, I didn't know whether you were going to black his eye or trip him and beat him to the floor. I thought you said you barely knew the man."

  "Oh, I know him. Or, at least, several years ago I thought I did."

  "So it's no use trying to seduce the boss to save our jobs, huh?"

  Sam forced a smile at a joke that was now well past its use-by date. Seduce the boss? She was the one in danger of being seduced. Besides, she doubted she could make Gray do anything he hadn't already made up his mind to do. "Hand to hand combat's more likely. But if you want to have a shot, Milly, go for it – although I wouldn't recommend the aftermath. If Gray Lombard lies down with a woman, it's for one reason and one reason only, and, believe me, what you want won't come into it."

  "Yeah," Milly muttered morosely. "I know exactly what you mean. McKenna's the same. Rich, powerful, too cute for his own good. A real pain in the ass."

  *

  Milly took over the job of organising emergency repairs, with Jack McKenna in close attendance. It seemed McKenna wasn't satisfied with Sam's appraisal of what work needed to be done. He had to see for himself, and he had to have Milly with him.

  Sam checked on the kitchens. Power had been restored, but the chef was still irritable and sharpening his cleavers – always a bad sign. Gray and two of his men were fiddling with the elevator, and the Carson sisters were busily fussing around their plants. By lunch-time, everything that could be done had been, and the sun was shining brilliantly, in blatant mockery of the disastrous morning.

  The familiar heat hit Sam as she walked into her rooms. After making herself a sandwich and drinking a glass of milk, she checked in with Edith at reception to tell her she was taking an extended lunch to deal with personal business. Slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she headed for the rear of the hotel, where her car was parked.

  Minutes later, she was merging smoothly with traffic on the motorway, her attention taken up with avoiding the huge freight trucks that channelled through the tight bottle-neck that was Auckland and the mirage-like heat shimmering off the road.

  A quarter of an hour later, she brought the car to a stop outside the gates of a cemetery in a suburb not far from where her grandfather used to live. After locking up, she walked through, grimacing as grass whipped around her ankles and water from the earlier downpour trickled into her shoes, wetting them for the second time that day.

  A gust of wind flattened her blouse and skirt against her, and made her jacket flap open, but the wind was warm, with a soft, melancholy quality, as if it shared in the lonely beauty of the grounds, the sleepy, peaceful rows of graves – many dating back to the last century.

  The sound of another car pulling into the car park had her glancing back. She didn't recognise the man who got out of the car, and for a moment she tensed. He didn't look at her but headed toward another part of the cemetery. Reassured, Sam turned her attention to the quiet mossy corner that was as familiar to her as her grandfather's house had been.

  Automatically her breathing slowed, quieted. She always had the absurd notion that if she was quiet enough, she would hear or feel something – a trace of her family lingering like some vital essence in the air.

  Of course she never did. Time passed, but the peace she was looking for didn't materialise.

  Coming here was a habit, a ritual she had played out as a child and which her grandfather had encouraged, because he hadn't wanted her to forget her parents and how much they had loved her. She tried to picture their faces, the timbre of voices long gone, but there was no instant replay in sharp Technicolor. The memories were distant, faded, and the harder she tried to pull them into focus, the more indistinct they became.

  Instead her mind was filled with Gray. Tension gripped her. How could he dominate her thoughts here?

  The answer was in the elevated rhythm of her pulse, the excitement that simmered through her veins, even now. She was alive, and she wanted Gray with a gathering momentum she felt powerless to stop, despite the past, despite the fact that she knew she couldn't trust him.

  Maybe Gray was capable of loving her in the way she needed to be loved, but he had never delivered. He had always pulled back, leaving her achingly aware of just how vulnerable and exposed to hurt she was.

  She stared at the tiny grave in front of her and confronted the guilt she had never been able to vanquish entirely, despite logic and medical fact. She had wanted her baby so much but was haunted by the possibility that her unhappiness had somehow contributed to the miscarriage. Maybe if she'd been stronger inside, more sure of herself as a woman, she would have carried the baby full term?

  The sun beat down with a heavy heat that had her shrugging out of her jacket, folding it over her arm and loosening the collar of her blouse. Perspiration sheened her skin, trickled between her breasts.

  Gray had said he wanted her back. Her stomach clenched at the instant sharp image of Gray, naked and aroused and reaching for her. Could she stand it? she wondered. Was she brave enough to throw herself into that particular fire again?

  She shivered, despite the heat, and knew the answer. The lonely years had forged one thing in her, at least, a hunger to taste life, and – she closed her eyes against the almost painful upwelling of need – finally, the willingness to take the risks that went along with it.

  Sam strolled back to her car, a measure of calm restored despite the momentous decision she had made – a decision she shied away from examining in any close detail yet.

  Her heart slammed once, hard, when she saw Gray leaning against a black four-by-four truck, arms crossed casually over his chest, a pair of sunglasses shading his eyes.

  "Yo
u followed me."

  His gaze was watchful behind the dark lenses. "Yeah. We got interrupted this morning, and since then you've been hard to pin down. I figured the only way to finish our conversation was to talk to you away from the hotel."

  "How did you know I was here?"

  He jerked his head in the direction of a tall, dark man climbing into a nondescript sedan, the same man Sam had seen follow her into the cemetery.

  "You had me followed?" Last night he and two others had been out searching for her; she still didn't know why he had gone to so much trouble. None of it made sense.

  "I have my reasons, and I'll explain. You should get out of the sun first. There's a bottle of water in the truck."

  As soon as Gray suggested it, she felt thirsty. Almost before she could make a conscious decision to accept the shelter of his truck or a drink, he had the door open and was helping her up into the passenger seat. Gray swung into the driver's seat and handed her a bottle of mineral water. She noted that half the water was gone. As she unscrewed the lid and put the bottle to her lips, a shiver of awareness coursed through her at the intimacy of placing her mouth where Gray's had been.

  "It's habit to carry water with me," he said, half turned in his seat, his gaze on her mouth as she drank "I've spent the last few years in places where it would be safer to tangle with some of the local wildlife than drink the water. I spent time in those places for a reason. About the same time you walked out on me, my family was facing a kidnap threat. I was overseeing security in Sydney. My brother, Jake, and his fiancée were taken hostage by a man called Egan Harper. I went after them, but I was too late to stop the executions."

  He glanced away, his hand curled around the steering wheel, tightening into a fist.

  "My God," she whispered, appalled at the series of statements, the utter lack of inflection in Gray's voice. Sam stared at his profile, the grim set to his jaw. She knew that his older brother had died, but she'd had no idea how – she had avoided reading anything at all about the Lombards. The changes in Gray began to make a horrible kind of sense.