Endless Night (14 page)

“Nothing really.” His response was gruff as he scooped the wires off the table, moving into the foyer to start assembling his mechanism.

Megan stayed on his tail.

“Did you mention Crow Musgrave?” she pressed. “Had anyone heard of him?”

There was a slight hesitation in the flow of his industrious hands as muscles bunched in his shoulders and then relaxed.

“Nothing worth mentioning right now.” He stood up. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep. You look exhausted.”

Exhausted
probably didn’t even begin to describe her appearance, but the ghost of Margaret’s ego emerged. “That bad?”

He chuckled quietly and lifted his hand to cup her face, his thumb caressing her just below the ear. “You’re so damn gorgeous no matter what you do.”

Well that ought to appease Margaret Simmons’s self-esteem, she thought, but Megan Summers was still worried.

“I’ll bring the pillows and blankets back down.”

“I’ll be fine, Meg. Just get some rest.” His hand dropped from her face. “Oh, and if you
do
have to come down here during the night, please remember to skip the landing.”

Megan glanced at the burgundy floral runner worn to a dark shade of gray at the center of each step. On the landing she could barely distinguish the fine thread of wire pulled taut across the surface. From its strategic position it was impossible for someone uninformed to avoid it, either by stepping on it or walking into it.

Would she have enough time if this alarm ever went off? The gun was at her side and it would be dark, which gave her the advantage.

“If it goes off, I’ll get to it first.” Jake read her mind. “You stay up there, you hear me?” He wasn’t satisfied with her silence. “You stay up there till I say it’s safe.”

And if he hurts you?
The rogue notion rang loud in her head.

“I mean it, Meg.” His brow descended. “If that alarm goes off, you call the police. Lock yourself in the bathroom. Do whatever you have to.”

“I can’t call the police,” she pointed out dismally.

“Yes, you can. By that point it will be self-defense. Self-preservation.” Jake looked at her with a rare blend of tenderness and determination. “By that time, Gordon will have already found you.”

Basically, what he was telling her was that by that time it would already be too late for him
.

Megan held her hands up over her face. She couldn’t jeopardize his safety like this. “Jake—”

“Megan,” he volleyed.

She was on the verge of verbalizing her crusade, but mildly pointed out, “You call me Megan.”

Jake rubbed at his jaw, looked away and then looked back at her. There was turmoil in his gaze. “I don’t know Margaret. I only know you. Give me some time and I’ll get to learn her better.”

There was no getting around the fact that she was falling in love with this man. Megan held her tongue though. “I like Megan. I like Meg.” She paused and added softly, “I like you.”

A low rumble sounded deep in Jake’s chest, as if he had growled at her. But he was smiling. A sexy, dangerous smile that pushed Gordon and the nightmare her life had become temporarily from her mind.

“Okay, woman—” he cleared his throat, “—upstairs now, before I do or say something I shouldn’t.”

Jake focused on the frosted panes of the Victorian door as light leaked in from the bulb outside to cast a grid pattern on the foyer floor. It was quite the absurd touch, the inviting beacon out on the veranda. A hospitable beam that was miles from the next closest residence—left illuminated to welcome a murderer.

In disbelief of his plight, skepticism was not going to protect him if there was a psycho lurking out there. Every muscle was honed to the point that it ached as he waited for the faintest shadow to break that barrier. Somewhere within Wakefield House a grandfather clock chimed twice. Two in the morning. He wasn’t the least bit tired. Well, maybe physically, but his mind was on overdrive, and this perpetual concentration was the only way to channel his thoughts.

Megan, no, Margaret, had an influential madman chasing her down. What Jake neglected to mention was that he had met Gordon Fortran once. It was best not to bring that fact up when her trust was still tenuous. The thought that she might consider him a Fortran ally, that she might look at him with fear in those incredible eyes, kept him mute.

The meeting took place nearly seven years ago. It was Jake’s second significant project and he was riding the accolades of his previous effort, a fifteen-story office building on Court Street, a structure that to this day he would pass at night and see the checkerboard of illuminated office windows, recalling the complexity of the electrical grid that powered them. When he was told he had to meet with the lawyer that represented the owner of the new commercial high-rise, Jake assumed it was to officially sign off on his engineering study. In his dealings with corporate politics, it became clear that the owners were nonentities and it was the lawyers who could make or break his career.

The offices of Fortran and Rosenberg occupied the tenth floor of the Millennium Building on Atlantic Avenue. Gordon Fortran’s office was an immaculate suite with Indian hardwood floors that gleamed from sunlight pouring through a bank of windows overlooking Rowes Wharf. Through these windows, water taxis left X-shaped wakes in the green water, which the Harbor Belle breached with its steamship-cloaked body. Too long in looking at that view, he was blinded by the sun.

Out of that radiant backdrop, a silhouette approached.

Jake’s head nearly jerked away from the contrast until finally his eyes acclimated enough to bring Gordon Fortran into focus. In a black Italian suit, with a watch that could have substituted for the face of Big Ben itself, Fortran stood with his legs apart, his arms crossed and a dark eyebrow raised in a cross between dominance and indifference. He lifted his hand to a thick head of hair, perfectly styled with a touch of gel to give it a rich gleam. Jake was amazed the man was capable of lifting his arm at all with the nuclear timepiece appended to it.

Initially he was intimidated by the opulence. Here he stood, fresh from the work site in worn jeans, a flannel shirt, boots caked with a paste of mud and cement, and before him was the arbitrator of his project.

“I understand you requested a meeting.” Jake made it a statement, not about to appear unsure.

Long fingers laced together as two gold rings clinked in the process. Faint pinstripes against the rich black fabric hinted at the cost of Gordon’s suit. Jake looked up, past broad shoulders and slick-backed hair to meet shrewd black eyes. To look in them was disconcerting, like looking into black marble. Just as hard. Just as dead. Not to mention the narrowed lips, which seemed to have summed him up already and considered him a lower form of life.

Jake glanced at his watch again. He didn’t have time for this condescending bureaucrat.
“Look, I have the CAD drawings.” He reached forward with the cardboard canister and laid it on the edge of the desk, careful not to touch the vase that looked like it might be Ming Dynasty-something. “If you could please have the Seidleman brothers sign it, I’ll bring my team out to the site tomorrow.”

Gordon looked like he had just returned from a ski trip, bronzed and as well polished as his executive desk. Black eyes narrowed as he spoke in a refined, but daunting voice. “Sit down, Mr. Grogan.”

Jake struggled not to sigh and glanced at his watch again. Obviously, he was here for the wheels of law to flex their power and try to bring his price down. Oh, he’d heard the bureaucratic volley before.

We can get an engineer who will come in at twenty percent less than your cost.

Go ahead, he would tell them. If it came down to the soundness of electricity in a building that could house thousands of employees, he was not going to back down on his estimates by skimping.

“I’ve reviewed your preliminary drawings.” Gordon broke into his thoughts. “Are these revised?”

Jake frowned. “No.”

Silence, intimidating in itself. Gordon kept watching Jake with eyes that did not blink. Blinking would have been considered a millisecond of vulnerability. His pointer finger tapped in time with a crystal clock on the wall.

“The owners have a problem with you vetoing their backup generators.”

Blood began to inch its way up Jake’s neck. He took a deep breath. “Their original design called for fuel-powered generators that would require nearly 150,000 liters of fuel stored in tanks within the building. Do I need to point out how unsafe that is?”

Something flickered in those black eyes. A spark to indicate the hunt had begun—and Jake was the quarry. Gordon sat down in his chair. Though the man barely moved, Jake felt as if he were being stalked.

“The owners want to be independent of the Northeast grid.” Gordon continued in a dispassionate voice, “They don’t want to suffer any blackout disasters. Those generators will ensure that everything’s business as usual when the rest of the city is left in darkness.”

Bullshit.
Jake bit down the retort. “The concept of generators like that is archaic and hazardous. I’ve proposed an AC-load-management system that will be wired into the circuit breakers and monitor them for anything above peak use. If necessary, the breakers will automatically shut off, but in a fashion that will stabilize the electricity and prevent the whole system from going down.”

It was apparent in those gleaming eyes that his speech did little to alter the man’s opinion.

“It’s safer,” Jake said. “It’s efficient.”

“It’s not going to happen.” Gordon’s glinting head shook in negation. “The owners will not sign these papers.” His lips turned into a feral slash that spoiled his polished veneer. “I’m sorry, Mr. Grogan, you are no longer contracted to work on this project.”

It was as simple as that. Jake was young and still obstinate and righteous enough to ignore the fact that he had just lost a ton of money. After that meeting, Gordon’s power had been like a ripple effect, and it took Jake years to regain his reputation.

Was it so hard to imagine the man as being a criminal?
A murderer?
There was something he felt when he sat in that office—the sense that he was the prey in Gordon’s favorite
pastime.
Hunt and kill.
But then again, it was long ago and Jake had surpassed the power of any one lawyer. His reputation stood strong, and owners now sought him out. He no longer had to vie for a contract. Gordon Fortran was an annoying memory that just now resurfaced.

If Gordon was truly on the hunt again, this time his prey was going to fight back.

The grandfather clock chimed three times. Three solemn peals that made Jake’s heart throb in an even cadence. Aside from the omnipresent wind, Wakefield House was unnaturally quiet and the invasion of the clock was enough to shock him from his reverie. The outside bulb poured uninterrupted across the front porch, though every now and then the light flickered as a strong lash of the Atlantic winds shook its mount.

He rose on stiff legs to approach the window. Beyond the light that basked over the rusted deck furniture, the night was an impenetrable barricade, a black hole into which the universe could collapse, leaving only this house on this cliff. He strained to look into that obscurity, but only his tense reflection peered back from the discolored glass. It was a troubling image. He was not ready to deal with his own reflection just yet.

A scream pierced the core of Wakefield House.

Jake was on the run before the aftershock shrieks ensued. Agile, despite cramped muscles, he hurdled the landing at the bottom of the staircase and took the steps three at a time. The dark was no longer a deterrent. Perhaps he wasn’t as adept with the layout of the house as Megan, but he was learning, and he reached her door just as the anxious cries reached their highest pitch.

Megan writhed in the blankets, not even realizing that the restraints in her dreams were of her own doing as the material wormed around her arms like shackles. She cried and twisted to be free.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered with despair.

He reached the edge of the bed, diligent enough to find the handgun and put it out of arm’s reach before he touched her. Gently, he laid his hand on Megan’s thigh, but her long legs were too busy pumping to even notice.

He whispered softly, “Megan.”

No response.

“Meg?”

Megan’s head twisted from side to side on the pillow.

“Margaret.”

In one artful lunge, her arm scooped beneath the mattress, but Jake was there first, touching her hand, and hauling her up against his chest. The embrace heightened her panic as he knew it would, but he also banked on the fact that she would sense him before her mind even registered what was happening. And so was the case. Megan gulped in deep breaths, and one of them must have caught his scent. She cried and strained, and ultimately collapsed against him.

“Dammit.” The curse was muffled against his shoulder. “Dammit, dammit,” she repeated with her hand in a fist near his neck.

“It’s okay,” he soothed.

“No it’s not,” Megan whispered into his collar. “Jake,” she rushed, her breath warm against his throat. “Don’t let me go.”

He realized that Megan had latched on to him, with every warm curve of her body fused to his like a second coat of skin.

“Not a chance.”

And in a sobering flash, Jake realized that there truly wasn’t a chance in the world he was
going to let go. With this woman there was a need that ripped through him and it wasn’t physical. It was poignant and debilitating.

And he welcomed it.

“Never,” he repeated into her hair.

Megan’s arms linked behind his neck. His head dipped even farther until he touched her lips. He meant to whisper the word
never
against them, but the fevered brush of her mouth and the strangled cry of need deep in her throat undid him.

He kissed her with an urgency that turned him on, yet at the same time made him fear that everything habitual in his life had just changed.

“You are beautiful,” she whispered in awe.

Something akin to nausea struck him, although it was not all that unpleasant. To the contrary, he felt light-headed with a sense of belonging. Just a short time ago he couldn’t bear to look at his reflection—afraid of what he saw, afraid of what others saw. And now, this woman, this incredible woman, told him that he was beautiful.

“Why do you say that?” He took advantage of Megan’s segue down his neck to speak.

“Why
beautiful?
No one has ever called me beautiful.”

The subject matter was too crucial to him and he sat up, extracting himself from Megan’s embrace. She made a sound of protest, but her eyes immediately refocused and she propped herself back against the headboard, reaching out to touch his jaw.

“I’m still guessing that Gabrielle is your mother. And she must have been a special person. She bore a son with a heart that knows no prejudice. You accept me as I am.”

“I know prejudice.” He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, but it was there. Megan’s words bore such irony as he had not yet told her of Crow Musgrave. He indeed knew prejudice if he was afraid to look in the mirror.

Undaunted by his agitation, she rubbed her thumb across his chin. “You should have left here. You should have left me. You should have called the police to report me, even if you convinced yourself that it was in your best interest. Yet, you accept me.”

“Maybe I just wanted to get some.”

The words did not rattle her as he hoped they would. Suddenly balance was shifting to a point that the nausea was returning.

“About the only male companionship I’ve had in a year are a couple of bold seagulls that landed on the back deck and nibbled at my bread.”

Jake snorted. “You have tasty bread.”

Megan did not react. She was serious when she said, “I don’t know you, Jake Grogan. And you don’t know me. And yet, here we are, seconds from making love despite the fact that a maniac might be approaching. You can sit there and say it’s because you
want some,
but we both know something greater is happening here. You have become my hero. A man who charges through the dark hallways of this mausoleum to fight my demons when I scream in the night. A man who blindly takes on my battle and rigs up a security system with a toothpick and a tissue. A man who sits there and looks at me with eyes the color of sunlight over a cornfield.” A strangled sound came from her throat. “And you ask me how I can think you’re beautiful.”

Jake wrenched away. Maybe not physically, but his mind recoiled. He felt undeserving of the adoration. His own mother had not seen fit to keep him. He was not beautiful.

Still preoccupied, he didn’t even notice that Megan leaned forward and her lips gently touched his. He jerked back, but her hands came up to cup each side of his face and she swiped his lips again.

“Make
me
feel beautiful,” she whispered.

“Christ, you are.”

“Make me
feel
it, Jake.”

He should have denied her. He should have waited till clarity returned with the light of morning—but her hand was on his thigh and her lips were so close.

To hell with it all. To hell with his insecurity. To hell with her stalker. He could fuss and fight all he wanted, but that simple touch of her lips undid him.