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Was she or wasn’t she? He would know soon. If she wasn’t…then he’d played some real hardball with a woman who might not be an innocent but was still far from being an enemy. He didn’t know that he would have done anything differently, though. When he’d overwhelmed her mind, it had been an act of desperation, and he hadn’t had the luxury of time to explain things to her. He might have to make amends, but he wasn’t sorry he’d done it. He was just glad she’d been there, glad she was gifted and had a pool of mental energy for him to tap.
He rounded a fire engine, where the crew was laying out their hoses in preparation for recoiling them, and stepped up on a curb. Now he could see her. So far as he could tell, she was standing in the exact spot in which he’d left her, which at least was off to the side, so she wasn’t in the way of any of the firefighters. She was filthy, her hair matted from the unhappy combination of smoke, soot and water, her posture shouting exhaustion. She still clutched a blanket around her, and she was literally swaying where she stood. He felt a quick spurt of impatience, mingled with sympathy. Why hadn’t she sat down? He hadn’t prevented her from doing that.
Looking at her, he gave a mental wince on behalf of his car seats, then immediately shrugged, because he was just as filthy. What did it matter, anyway? The leather could be cleaned.
When she saw him, pure temper flashed in her eyes, dispelling the fatigue. If he’d expected her to be cowed, he would have been disappointed. As it was, a little tinge of anticipation shot through him. Even after all she’d been through, she was still standing up for herself. Remembering the vast pool of power he’d found when he tapped her mind, he wondered if even she knew how strong she really was.
“Come with me,” he said, and, obediently, she followed.
There was nothing obedient about the way she grabbed his arm, though, pulling him around. She glared furiously up at him, indicating her mouth with a brief, impatient gesture. She wanted to talk; she probably had a lot of things memorized to say.
Dante started to release the compulsion, then stopped and grinned. “I think I’ll enjoy the quiet for a little longer,” he said, knowing that would really twist her drawers in a knot. “There’s nothing you need to say that can’t wait until we’re alone.”
Al had arranged for one of his security people to fetch Dante’s car from the parking deck, where he had a reserved slot next to a private elevator. He’d been discreet about it, because some of the guests, the ones without identification, weren’t being allowed to take their vehicles from the deck. They were already sorting out that security problem for those guests who felt they absolutely had to have a car tonight, even though Dante was providing shuttles to take everyone to the various hotels where his people had found them lodging. He was doing everything possible to take care of his guests, but he knew there could still be a lot of resentment that formed over details like him getting his car when they couldn’t.
The phantom-black Lotus Exige was idling, parking lights on, at the end of the huge casino parking lot, concealed from most of the crowd of onlookers by the huge knot of emergency vehicles with their flashing lights. Dante led Lorna along the edge of the lot; as they neared the car, the driver’s door opened and one of the security men got out. “Here you go, Mr. Raintree.”
“Thanks, Jose.” Dante opened the passenger door. Lorna directed a lethal glare at him as she climbed into the car and somehow managed to dig an elbow into his ribs. He concealed a wince, then closed the door with a firm click and went around to the driver’s side.
The Lotus was low-slung and not all that comfortable for his muscular six-two frame, but he loved driving it when he was in the mood for something with attitude. When he wanted more comfort, he drove his Jag. Tonight he would have liked to drive out into the desolate countryside and put the hammer down, to ease his anger and sharp edge of sorrow with sheer speed and aggression. The Lotus could go from zero to a hundred in eleven seconds, which was a rush. He needed to go a hundred miles an hour right now, needed to push the highperformance little machine to its limit.
Instead he drove calmly and deliberately, aware that he couldn’t let go of the tight leash he was holding on his temper. The fact that it was night helped, but the date was too close to the summer solstice for him to take any chances. Hell—could he have started the accursed fire? Was he responsible for the loss of at least one life?
The fire marshal said preliminary interviews indicated that it had started in the back, where the circuit breakers were, but the scene was still too hot for the investigators to get in there to check. If the fire had started from an electrical problem, then he had nothing to do with it, but he brooded over the possibility that the fire would turn out to have been started by something completely different. His control had wavered when he’d first seen Lorna, with the last rays of the setting sun turning her hair to rich fire. He’d lit the candles without even thinking about them; had he lit anything else?
No, he hadn’t done it. He was sure of that. If he’d been the cause, things would have been bursting into flame all over the hotel and casino, rather than in one distant spot. He’d contained his power, brought it under control. The casino fire had been caused by something else; the timing was just coincidence.
Almost half an hour had elapsed before he opened his gate with a remote control and guided the Lotus up a twisting, curving drive to his tri-level house tucked into an easternfacing fold of the Sierra Nevadas. Another button on the remote raised his garage door, and he put the Lotus in its slot like an astronaut docking a shuttle with the Space Station, then closed the garage door behind him. The silver Jag gleamed in its place beside the Lotus.
“Come on,” he told Lorna, and she got out of the car. She stared straight ahead as he stepped aside to allow her to precede him into his gleaming kitchen. He punched his code into the security system to stop its warning beep, then paused. He briefly considered taking her back to town after he’d finished talking to her, then discarded that idea. He was tired. She could stay here, and if he had to—as he undoubtedly would—he would use a compulsion to keep her here and out of trouble. If she didn’t like it, tough; the last couple of hours had been a bitch, and he didn’t feel like making the drive.
With that in mind, he reset the alarm and turned to her. She was standing with her back to him, not four feet away, her shoulders stiff and, judging by the angle of her head, her chin up.
Regretting the imminent loss of silence, he said, “Okay, you can talk now.”
She whirled to face him, and he braced himself for a flood of invective as her fists clenched at her sides.
“Bathroom!” she bellowed at him.
Chapter Eight
The change in his expression would have been comical if Lorna had been in any mood to appreciate humor. His eyes rounded with comprehension, and he rapidly pointed to a short hallway. “First door on the right.”
She took one frantic step, and then froze. Damn it, he was still holding her! The searing look she gave him should have accomplished what the casino fire hadn’t, namely singe every hair from his head. “Don’t go far,” he snapped, realizing he hadn’t amended the compulsion.
Lorna ran. She slammed the bathroom door but didn’t take time to lock it. She barely made it in time, and the sense of relief was so acute she shook with involuntary shudders. A Tom Hanks scene from A League of Their Own ran through her mind, and she bit her lip to keep from groaning aloud.
Then she just sat there, eyes closed, trying to calm her jangled nerves. He’d brought her to his home! What did he intend to do? Whatever he was, however, he was controlling her, she was helpless to break free. The entire time he’d been gone, she had been willing herself over and over to take a single step, to speak a word—and she couldn’t. She was scared half out of her mind, traumatized out of the other half, and on top of it all, she was so angry she thought she might have a screaming, out-of-control, foot-stomping temper tantrum just to relieve the pressure.
Opening her eyes, she started to flush, but she heard his voice and went still, straining to hear what he was saying. Was someone else here? Just as she began to relax just a fraction, she realized he was on the phone.
“Sorry to wake you.” He paused briefly, then said, “There was a fire at the casino. Could be worse, but it’s bad enough. I didn’t want you to see it on the morning news and wonder. Call Mercy in a couple of hours and tell her I’m all right. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to have my hands full for the next few days.”
Another pause. “Thanks, but no. You’ve got no business getting on an airplane this week, and everything here is fine. I just wanted to call you before I got so tied up in red tape I couldn’t get to a phone.”
The conversation continued for a minute, and he kept reassuring whoever was on the other end that no, he didn’t need help; everything was fine—well, not fine, but under control. There had been at least one fatality. The casino was a total loss, but the hotel had suffered only minor damage.
He ended the call, and a moment later Lorna heard a savage, muttered curse, then a thud, as if he’d punched the wall.
He didn’t seem like the wall-punching type, she thought. Then again, she didn’t know him. He might be a serial wall-puncher. Or maybe he’d fainted or something, and the thud had been his body hitting the floor.
She liked that idea. She would seize the chance to kick him while he was down. Literally.
The only way to see if he was lying there unconscious was to leave the bathroom. Reluctantly, she flushed, then went to the vanity to wash her hands—a vanity with a dark, goldenbrown granite top and gold fixtures. When she reached out to turn on the water, the contrast between the richness of the vanity and her absolutely filthy, black-sooted hand made her inwardly cringe as she lifted her head.
A grimy nightmare loomed in the mirror in front of her. Her hair was matted to her head with soot and water, and stank of smoke. Her face was so black only her eyes had any real definition, and they were bloodshot. With her red eyes, she looked like some demon from hell.
She shuddered, remembering how close the flames had gotten. Given that, she couldn’t imagine how she had any hair left on her head at all, so she shouldn’t complain about it being matted. Shampoo—a lot of it—would take care of that. The soot would scrub off. Her clothes were ruined, but she had others. She was alive and unharmed, and she didn’t know how.
As she soaped her grimy hands, rinsed, then soaped again, she tried to reconstruct an exact sequence of events. Her headache, which had subsided, roared back so fiercely she had to brace her soapy hands on the edge of the bowl.
Thoughts whirled, trying to connect in a coherent sequence, but then the segments would whirl out of touch again.
—she should have been burned—
—hair singed off—
—bubble—
—no smoke—
—agony—
Whimpering from the pain in her head, she sank to her knees.
Raintree cursing.
Something about that reminded her of something. Of being held in front of him, his arms locked around her, while his curses rang out over her head and his…his—
The memory was gone, eluding her grasp. Pain made her vision swim, and she stared at the soap bubbles on her hands, trying to summon the energy to stand. Was she having a stroke? The pain was so intense, burning, and it filled her head until she thought her skull might explode from the pressure.
Soap bubbles.
The shimmery bubbles…something about them reminded her…there had been something around her…
A shimmering bubble. The memory burst into her aching brain, so clear it brought tears to her eyes. She’d seen it, surrounding them, holding the heat and smoke at bay.
Her head had felt as if it really were exploding then. There had been an impact so huge she couldn’t compare it to anything in her experience, but she imagined the sensation was the same as if she’d been run over by a train—or struck by a meteor. It was as if all the cellular walls in her brain had dissolved, as if everything she had been, was, and would be, had been sucked out, taken over and used. She’d been helpless, as completely helpless as a newborn, to resist the pain or the man who had ruthlessly taken everything.
With a crash, everything fell back into place, as if that memory had been the one piece she needed to put the puzzle together.
She remembered it all: every moment of unspeakable terror, her inability to act, the way he had used her.
Everything.
“You’ve had enough time,” he called from the kitchen. “I heard you flush. Come here, Lorna.”
Like a puppet, she got to her feet and walked out of the bathroom, soap still clinging to her hands and her temper flaring. He looked grim, standing there waiting for her. With every unwilling step she took, her temper soared into another level of the stratosphere.
“You jerk!” she shouted, and kicked his ankle as she walked by. She could go only a couple of steps past him before that invisible wall stopped her, so she whirled around and stalked past him again. “You ass!” She threw an elbow into his ribs.
She must not have hurt him very much because he looked more astonished than pained. That infuriated her even more, and when the wall forced her to turn around yet again, she reached a whole new level of temper as she began marching back and forth within the confines of his will.
“You made me go into fire—” A snake-fast pinch at his waist.
“I’m terrified of fire, but did you care?” Another kick, this one sideways into his knee.
“Oh, no, I had to stand there while you did your mumbo jumbo—” On that pass, she leveled a punch at his solar plexus.
“Then you brain-raped me, you jerk, you gorilla, you freakin’ witch doctor—” On the return trip, she went for a kidney punch.
“Then, to top it all off, the whole time you were grinding your hard-on against my butt!” She was so incensed that she shrieked that last bit at him, and this time put everything she had into a punch straight to his chin.
He blocked it with a swift movement of his forearm, so she stomped on his foot instead.
“Ouch!” he yelped, but the jerk was laughing, damn him, and in another of his lightning moves, he captured her in his arms, pulling her solidly against him. She opened her mouth to screech at him, and he bent his head and kissed her.
In contrast to the strong-arm tactics he’d used against her all night, the kiss was soft and feather-light, almost sweet. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and kissed her again. He stank as much as she did, maybe even more, but the body beneath his ruined clothing was rock solid with muscle and very warm in the airconditioned coolness of the house. “I know it hurt…I didn’t have time to explain—” Between phrases, he kept on kissing her, each successive touch of his lips becoming a little deeper, lingering a little longer.
Shock held her still: shock that he would be kissing her; shock that she would let him kiss her, after all the antagonism between them; after he’d done everything he’d done to her; after she’d subjected him to that battery of drive-by attacks. He wasn’t forcing her to let him kiss her; this was nothing like wanting to walk and not being able to. Her hands were on his muscled chest, but she wasn’t making any effort to push him away, not even a mental one.
His mouth slid to the soft hollow beneath her ear, deposited a gentle bite on the site of her neck. “I’d much rather have been grinding my hard-on against your front,” he said, and went back to her mouth for a kiss that had nothing light or sweet about it. His tongue swept in, acquainting him with her taste, while his right hand went down to her bottom, slid caressingly over the curves, then pressed her hips forward to meet his.
He was doing exactly what he’d said he would much rather have been doing.
Lorna didn’t trust passion. From what she had seen, passion was selfish and self-centered. She wasn’t immune to it, but she didn’t trust it—didn’t trust men, who in her experience would tell lies just to get laid. She didn’t trust anyone else to care about her, to look out for her interests. She opened herself to passion slowly, warily, if at all.
If she hadn’t been so tired, so stressed, so traumatized, she would have had complete control of herself, but she’d been off balance from the minute his chief of security had escorted her into his office. She was off balance now, as dizzy as if the kitchen were rotating around her, as if the floor had slanted beneath her feet. In contrast, he was solid and so very warm, his arms stronger than any that had ever held her before, and her body responded to him as if nothing else existed beyond the simple pleasure of the moment. Being held against him felt good. His incredible body heat felt good. The thick length of his erection, pushing against her lower belly, felt good—so good that she had gone on tiptoe to better accommodate it, and she didn’t remember doing so.
Belatedly alarmed by the no-show of her usual caution, she pulled her mouth from his and pushed against his chest. “This is stupid,” she muttered.
“Brainless,” he agreed, his breath coming a little fast. He was slow to release her, so she pushed again, and, reluctantly, he let his arms drop.
He didn’t step back, so she did, staring around her at the kitchen so she wouldn’t have to look at him. As kitchens went, it was nice, she supposed. She didn’t like cooking, so in the general scheme of things, kitchens were pretty much wasted on her.
“You kidnapped me,” she charged, scowling at him.
He considered that, then gave a brief nod. “I did.”
For some reason his agreement annoyed her more than if he’d argued with her assessment. “If you’re going to charge me with cheating, then do it,” she snapped. “You can’t prove a thing, and we both know it, so the sooner you make a fool of yourself, the better, as far as I’m concerned, because then I can leave and not see you—”
“I’m not making any charges against you,” he interrupted. “You’re right. I can’t prove anything.”
His sudden admission stumped her. “Then why drag me all the way up here?”
“I said I can’t prove you did it. That doesn’t mean you’re innocent.” He gave her a narrow, assessing look. “In fact, you’re guilty as hell. Using your paranormal gifts in a game of chance is cheating, pure and simple.”
“I don’t have—” Automatically, she started to deny that she was psychic, but he raised a hand to cut her off.
“That’s why I did the ‘brain-rape,’ as you called it. I needed an extra reserve of power to hold off the fire, and I knew you were gifted—but I was surprised at how gifted. You can’t tell me you didn’t know. There was too much power there for you to pass yourself off as just being lucky.”
Lorna hardly knew how to react. His cool acknowledgment of what he’d done to her raised her hackles all over again, but the charge that she was “gifted” made her so uneasy that she was already shaking her head before he finished speaking. “Numbers,” she blurted. “I’m good with numbers.”
“Bull.”
“That’s all it is! I don’t tell fortunes or read tea leaves or anything like that! I didn’t know 9/11 was going to happen—”
But the flight numbers of the downed flights had haunted her for days before the attack. If she tried to dial a phone number, the numbers she dialed were those flight numbers—in the order in which the planes had crashed.
That particular memory surfaced like a salmon leaping out of the water, and a chill shook her. She hadn’t thought of the flight numbers since then. She had buried the memory deep, where it couldn’t cause trouble.
“Go away,” she whispered to the memory.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “And neither are you. At least, not right away.” He sighed and gave her a regretful look. “Take off your clothes.”
Chapter Nine
“I will not!” Lorna yelped, backing as far away from him as she could get, which of course wasn’t far.
“So will I, probably,” he replied ironically, moving closer, looming over her. “Can’t be helped. Look, I’m not going to assault you. Just take off your clothes and get it over with.”
She retreated as he advanced, clutching at her blouse as if she were an outraged Victorian virgin and looking around for a weapon, any weapon. This was a kitchen, damn it; it was supposed to have knives sitting in a fancy block on the fancy countertop. Instead, there was nothing but a vast expanse of polished granite.
He took a deep breath, then heaved it out as if he were bored. “I can make you do it without even touching you. You know that, and I know that, so why do this the hard way?”
He was right, she thought impotently. Whatever it was that his mind did to her mind, he could make her do anything he wanted. “This isn’t fair!” she shouted at him, curling her hands into fists. “How are you doing this to me?”
“I’m a freakin’ witch doctor, remember?”
“Don’t forget the rest of it! Jerk! Ass—”
“I know, I know. Now take off your clothes.”
She shook her head, matted hair flying. Bitterly, she expected him to take control of her mind, but he didn’t. He just inexorably advanced as she retreated, backing down the hallway past the powder room she’d used, through what she assumed was a very stylish den, though she didn’t dare take her gaze from him long enough to look around.
He was herding her, she realized, as if she were a sheep, and she had no choice, but to do anything other than be herded. His bloodshot green eyes glittered in his grimy face, making him look completely uncivilized. Her heartbeat skittered wildly. Was he some sort of mad serial killer who left pieces of dismembered bodies scattered all over Nevada? A modernday Rasputin? An escapee from some mental institution? He certainly didn’t look or act like the millionaire owner of a topnotch casino/hotel. He acted like some sort of—of warlord, master of all he surveyed.
She backed into a door frame, briefly staggered off balance, then brought herself up short as she realized he’d maneuvered her into another bathroom, this one a full bath, and far more opulent than the half bath off the kitchen. No lights were on, but the illumination coming in the open door revealed their reflections in the gleaming mirror on her left.
