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Dark thoughts had writhed in her mind, monsters trying to surface from an uneasy sea, but she’d forced them all away. All that mattered now was that James hadn’t been able to do whatever—whatever he’d been sent to do. She’d deal with the rest later, she’d told herself, and then sleep had claimed her.
Now, awakened by the storm that plundered the sleeping city, Gabrielle stirred uneasily.
‘Later’ had arrived, and she was desperate for answers.
She had given James her body and her heart. She loved him, and she regretted neither.
Was she sick? Had the past months twisted her mind?
How could she love the man sent to silence her? How could she love a killer?
She couldn’t. It was impossible. Obviously, James couldn’t be a killer—there had to be some mistake. A man who could be hired to take a life would have to be compassionless and brutal, and James was neither.
And yet—and yet…
The ring of the telephone pierced the night. The sound made her bolt upright in bed; memories of the long vigil preceding her father’s death inundated her.
‘Don’t answer it.’ James’s voice was husky with sleep, but his reflexes were quick. He caught her hand as she reached for the phone. ‘Wait until I get to the kitchen extension.’
‘But why??’
The phone shrilled again as he slipped from the bed. Gabrielle waited, her heart racing, until she heard him call her.
‘Now,’ he said, and she lifted the receiver.
‘Hello??’
Her eyes widened. The voice in her ear was one she hadn’t heard in months, but she knew it instantly. It was Townsend, from the federal prosecutor’s office, and he wasted no time on formalities.
‘This is Sam Townsend, Miss Chiari. Get out of your house. Vitale’s located you—he’s sent a man to kill you.’
Gabrielle’s mouth went dry. James. He was warning her against James. Oh, God.
‘No.’ Her answer whispered over the long-distance line. ‘No,’ she said more clearly, ‘you’re wrong. It’s not true.’
The prosecutor cursed sharply. ‘Don’t argue, dammit. There’s no time.’
‘You don’t understand,’ she said desperately. ‘He isn’t like that. I know him. He wouldn’t…’
The prosecutor’s voice dripped with disgust. ‘Are you blind or stupid, Miss Chiari? Are you going to protect slime like Vitale forever?’
Vitale. The fool thought she was talking about Tony Vitale. But she wasn’t, she was talking about James; she was telling him that James would never hurt her, that there had been some terrible mistake.
‘Miss Chiari. Get out of there, fast. Go to a neighbour. Start yelling “fire”. Do something until the police get there. I’m calling them now.’
‘No! No, don’t do that. Don’t involve the police. I’ll talk to him. He’s not what you think. I can make him
change his mind. I ’
She heard a click, then another, and the line went dead. She caught the covers in her hand and drew them to her chin as James stepped into the room, wearing his jeans and shirt. Lightning tore the sky, illuminating his face.
‘Get up.’ His voice was as cold as his eyes.
Gabrielle could hear the racing beat of her heart. The night was warm, but she began to shiver.
Whatever James was, he wasn’t a killer.
She believed that, she had to go on believing it. There was some rational explanation for what was happening.
‘I’m not afraid, James,’ she said. But her voice quavered and she had to inhale deeply before she could go on. ‘Do you hear me? The prosecutor and his agents are fools—they always were. They’re ’
James moved slowly to the side of the bed. ‘Get up,’ he said softly, ‘and get dressed.’
‘James, listen to me. I ’
‘Gabrielle.’ His voice was sharp. ‘Do as I tell you. Do it now.’
Thunder roared through the Quarter like a runaway train while lightning lit the room again, bathing everything in an eerie glow.
Gabrielle’s heart almost stopped beating as. she looked at James.
His face was taut with tension. He had changed back into the stranger she’d met a lifetime ago.
CHAPTER TEN
She moved swiftly, stumbling from the bed, pulling on her discarded clothing, her eyes never leaving his. Her body was an automaton that didn’t need to think about buttons and zippers, her mind a computer chasing down a thousand paths simultaneously.
James wouldn’t hurt her. He couldn’t.
But there he was, watching her coldly, hurrying her with muttered oaths, as if what they’d shared this night had been a fabrication of her imagination.
‘Hurry, dammit.’
One of her shoes lay beside the bed. She picked it up, then began searching for the other.
‘Gabrielle. Did you hear what I said?’
She looked at him. ‘I can’t find my other shoe.’
He slapped the shoe from her hand and it clattered to the floor.
‘Forget the damned shoes. You won’t need them.’
‘James. Listen to me. Whatever you think you have to do ’
‘Get over here.’ He caught her by the shoulder, his fingers biting into her flesh, and began pulling her across the room with him. ‘Now move,’ he said, his voice curt with tension.
‘James.’ She stumbled as he drew her into the dark hall. Fear filled her mouth with cotton. ‘James,’ she sai
d again, ‘don’t. I beg you.’
‘Do you hear me? Move, Gabrielle. Move.’
The stairs loomed ahead, dark and foreboding.
‘You have to listen to me,’ she said. ‘You can’t do this,…’
He wasn’t listening. He was propelling her down the steps, then along the hall. The storm had abated, and the sudden quiet was menacing.
‘James,’ she said, her voice low and desperate, ‘please. Let me talk to you.’
‘We’re done talking. It’s over, Gabrielle. Finished. Tonight ends it.’
A sob burst from her throat. ‘No. God, no! I know you don’t want to do this!’,
‘I never did. Hell, I knew it was a mistake. But there was no one else, nobody who would…’ He cursed softly. ‘Never mind that now,’ he said, pushing open the door to the bedroom he’d used the night before. ‘Just get in there,’ he said, and he shoved her into the dark.
They faced each other in a silence broken only by the ragged sounds of their breathing. A weak moon played hide and seek with the clouds, splashing the room with pale, broken light. James’s eyes were as cold as she’d ever seen them.
It was clear now. Everything that had happened between them—the laughter, the easy chatter, the sweet hours spent in his arms—all of it had been part of a plan that led to this one moment. She could only speculate
why he hadn’t let the speeding truck do the job for him the morning they’d met.
Maybe he’d been afraid it wouldn’t be as final as he wanted it to be.
Maybe he enjoyed his work too much.
The obscenity of it all rose in her throat, gagging her with nausea. What kind of man found pleasure in taking a woman from passion to death, all in one night?
Gabrielle began to tremble. He was sick but so was she. How could she have given herself to him?
With a self-loathing fuelled by her hatred of herself , of the man standing before her, she flew t her lover, her fingers clawing across his face.
He stumbled back.
He looked stunned, she thought with bitter satisfaction. What had he expected? Was she supposed to walk to her death in the same trance she’d been in since they’d met?
She struck out at him again, but this time he caught her by the wrist
