Predicting Rain?. Mary Anne Wilson

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      That was when he realized why Zane was asking. It wasn’t the child he was asking about, he was asking if Jack was in any condition to give one hundred percent to the problem at hand. That annoyed him slightly, that Zane would even think that he wouldn’t be effective in a crisis. “She’s fine with the nanny, and she understands I had to leave.”

      “I never found a good nanny when I needed one.”

      He knew enough about Zane to know what he was referring to, when his son had been dropped into his life. When Lindsey, now his wife, had stepped in to be a mother to the boy, and they’d become a family. There was a vague similarity between his and Jack’s predicaments with child care, except Victoria wasn’t his, and…well, Eve was Eve. She’d stepped right in, too. She’d found Mrs. Ferris and promptly bought Victoria a whole new wardrobe. She smiled at the child, pouted about her private time with Jack being limited, then blissfully went on with her plans.

      “My fiancée found the nanny through a friend,” he said, thinking that maybe Eve didn’t have overwhelming maternal instincts, but then again, he’d never had any great paternal instincts, either.

      “Lindsey thought that you could have brought the child with you and she could have been cared for at the day-care center at LynTech while you worked.”

      Zane had even recruited his wife to make sure Jack was focused on the crisis. Maybe his father’s reputation had preceded him with Zane. He hoped not. The car slowed and Jack looked out at the downtown street where the headquarters for LynTech were located. “Thank her for me, but Victoria’s just fine in London. We’re outside. I’ll be up in a few minutes, then go to the hotel later on.”

      “That’s another thing. The hotel’s not going to work out for this. It’s overrun with people involved in the charity ball that’s being planned by LynTech. You wouldn’t have any privacy.”

      “Then where am I staying?” he asked, caring only that he could work uninterrupted.

      “No hotel rooms are available on short notice, so we decided on a loft we’ve got set up not far from the offices. Lots of privacy, and it’s wired directly to here.”

      “Fine, whatever,” Jack murmured. “See you in a few,” he said and hung up as the luxury car approached the entrance for the parking garage.

      SEX AND SILK. It had to be a dream, because Jack was never poetic, and he knew that he’d never met the owner of the voice that was filtering around him in the blackness.

      After getting only a few hours’ sleep in the last two days, Jack had counted on sleeping for six hours before getting back to work. He’d been at the offices since arriving from London, took a nap in a side room off of Zane Holden’s office, and this was the first time he’d made it to the loft. He’d planned to sleep hard, then get to work on his own without interruption.

      He just hadn’t expected to dream, because he never dreamed. At least, he never remembered any dreams. He’d set his internal clock for a few hours and slept…his usual pattern. Get hard sleep, then work hard. But now there was a dream that consisted of a single voice, low murmurs, floating around him. Soft. Seductively feminine.

      “Oh, come on,” the voice whispered. “Come to me.”

      Sexy, inviting, seducing him, even though it barely existed.

      “That’s it, love. Come on. Please? Come to me. Now.”

      No pictures, no images, just him listening, drifting, waiting, the sound tingling through his body, giving him pleasure.

      “Good, good.” The whisper floated softly. “That’s it. Come on, baby, that’s it. Closer, closer.”

      The voice was seeping into his being, making him ache for more, then it was gone. He woke suddenly, not sure what had just happened. But his heart was pounding in his chest and his body ached, a painful remnant of his reaction to the voice in his dreams. He took shallow, rapid breaths while he stared up into the shadows overhead, trying to make his body let go of the dream.

      Damn dream! He shifted onto his side, wide-awake now, but froze when he saw a dull glow coming over the partial wall that divided the sleeping area from the kitchen. When he’d come in, he had turned on the overhead lights to get oriented, showered, then turned off all the lights and climbed into the king-size bed. The only things he’d left on were the fax machine and computer, waiting for incoming messages. Now a light was on in the kitchen. He heard a shuffling sound, then a faint clink.

      Someone was there.

      Zane? Matthew Terrell, the other CEO? Rita something-or-other who worked for both men? He looked at the clock and the glowing LED panel read 2:13 a.m. No, Zane wouldn’t be here at this time. Zane wouldn’t be anywhere, but with his family. Neither would Matt or anyone else from LynTech.

      He listened, heard another sound, a low humming and he moved. He stood, grabbed his pants and put them on quickly, forgoing his shirt and shoes, then debated his options. Call someone, stay quiet and hope whoever was there would leave, or go out and confront the trespasser.

      He considered his options, then heard another soft sound, of a drawer being opened, then closed. He made his decision. The best thing to do was to get out of the loft without being seen, but be prepared just in case. He looked around in the shadow-darkened room for anything he could use as a weapon, and the best thing he could see was a lamp by the bed that looked solid. He reached for it, took off the shade and took out the bulb, then unplugged it and wrapped the cord around the base that felt like rough stone.

      He held it like a club and it felt heavy and solid. Cautiously, he approached the door that led into the main living area of the loft. He paused, trying to remember the layout of the loft. Basically one cavernous space, divided into areas by six-foot high walls that came short of touching the lofty ceilings by at least another six feet. Polished hardwood floors, rough white plastered walls, plain furnishings, just two sprawling navy couches, a television in a unit on the far wall, a few tables, some stacked boxes, no carpets that he remembered. The communications-work area took up most of the back wall, on a twelve-foot table set up under high louvered windows, and framed by towering floor-to-ceiling windows on either side.

      Simple and clear. He just had to get to the door without being noticed. He cautiously looked out into the main space, and knew luck was with him. Whoever had broken in had left the front door open enough for a thin sliver of light from the corridor to cut into the room. He glanced to his left, to the glow of a light beyond the partial wall that defined the kitchen area. Carefully, he eased into the space, staying as close to the wall as he could while he slowly made his way to the right and the escape of the open door.

      He’d gone only a few feet when he heard something that stopped him in his tracks. The voice. The one from his dreams. This time it was softly singing a song he vaguely remembered from somewhere in the past, maybe an old Bob Dylan song…or some folk song? A simple melody sung in a breathy whisper. Then the song stopped when the voice said softly, “So, you don’t like music, huh? Bummer.”

      There was no response. Just the voice again, “Okay, okay, I get the idea.” Followed by a low chuckle. “I’ll stop.”

      The idea of going out the entry door was forgotten and Jack found himself moving silently toward the kitchen, the lamp base firmly gripped. The voice. He’d been right. A feminine voice. A woman, and she seemed to be talking to herself or maybe on the telephone. He didn’t have a clue if there was a phone line in the kitchen. He lifted the lamp base slightly as he approached СКАЧАТЬ