Nightfire. Barbara McCauley

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      Three

      Barefoot, dressed in a leotard and tights, Allison tiptoed out of her bedroom and down the stairs, then quietly moved toward the back of the house. The chilly air brought goose bumps to her bare arms, but she welcomed the cold. Anything that would help her wake up at the ungodly hour of five-thirty in the morning was appreciated.

      A small price to pay for privacy, she reminded herself, holding her breath as she paused outside the guest bedroom Kane was sleeping in. She leaned her head toward the door and listened. Absolute silence.

      Smiling, she crept down the hallway, pleased that she’d found a few quiet moments for herself. Everywhere she’d turned last night, it had seemed as if Kane was there. Not that he’d stood over her shoulder or followed her around. If anything, it had been the opposite. He’d kept to himself most of the evening in the kitchen, studying maps and files, going outside periodically to talk with the other men. He’d barely acknowledged her the entire night.

      And yet, though she’d hardly seen him, she still felt his presence. It didn’t matter that he was in the other room or outside. There was an energy that pulsated through the house, a force that had never been there before. She realized, of course, that the situation itself called for a heightened sense of awareness on her part. After all, someone was out there, and whoever it was, he was watching her and her father.

      But at a deeper level Allison knew that her anxiety, her apprehension, hadn’t nearly as much to do with the circumstances as it did with Kane himself. Danger and excitement were inherent in the man, a part of who he was. His passion. She knew it, felt it instinctively, and as surely as it frightened her on one level, it seduced her on another.

      And that, Allison told herself, was what made Thomas Kane such a dangerous man. A man to avoid at all costs. Even if it meant rising with the sun.

      When she opened the door of the rec room, what she saw took her breath away.

      He was there at the weight machine, his hands tightly clasped around the T-bar over his head, his arms rhythmically moving up and down, the movement as fluid as the sweat that glistened on his face and bare arms. He wore sweatpants and a ragged gray sweatshirt cut off at the shoulders. The underarms and chest were also stained from the exertion of his workout.

      She should have left, simply backed out before he caught her staring at him, but her legs suddenly felt as heavy as the weights he lifted, her feet rooted to the cold wooden floor. She couldn’t have looked away if she’d wanted to.

      He was magnificent. His eyes were closed with intense concentration; his jaw set hard as concrete. The muscles on his arms bunched and rippled under the force as he moved. He strained at the weights, teeth gritted, obviously pushing himself to and then beyond his limits. She watched in fascination, admiring not only the physical body, but the dedication, as well. She recognized the look on his face, the driving need to be the best. She’d seen it in more than one dancer’s eyes and had even paid the price herself. Performances with pulled tendons. Practices with wrapped, bleeding toes. Dancing was all she’d ever known, all she’d ever wanted, and when she’d had her accident she’d thought it a curse. But now, when she looked into the faces of her children at the center, she knew in her heart it had been a blessing.

      The weights clattered down, startling her. Her gaze met his and they stared at each other, neither one of them moving. The silence of the room closed around them, held them. She heard the sound of her own heartbeat, felt her body tighten like the string of a violin, waiting for the pull of the bow….

      When he looked away and reached for a towel on the weight bench, she breathed a silent sigh of relief.

      “I’m sorry.” She started to back out. “I’ll come back later.”

      Breathing hard, he waved her back into the room as he wiped at the sweat on his face and neck. “You’re early.” He gasped between breaths.

      The rapid rise and fall of his chest held her attention. Sweat rimmed the top of his sweatshirt. She pulled her gaze from his body. “What do you mean, ‘I’m early?”’

      He glanced at the clock on the mirrored wall behind Allison. “You don’t work out until six-thirty.”

      Was there anything this man didn’t know about her? Frowning, she stepped into the room. “And where did you happen to get that little bit of information?”

      “Your father mentioned it.” He dragged the towel over his damp hair, then wrapped it around his neck.

      “After you asked, you mean.”

      He reached for the thermos beside the weight machine, twisted the top off and poured the steaming liquid into the cup. “Coffee?”

      No sane person turned down coffee at this hour of the morning. She took the plastic cup out of his hand, hoping that something hot would steady her shaky nerves. “Just a swallow,” she said, taking a sip.

      “Go ahead and finish it.” He stood and tossed the towel over the weight bench. “The extra caffeine will do you good before we start.”

      She eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean ‘before we start?”’

      “Your lessons.”

      “What lessons?”

      He shook his arms out, then planted himself in front of her, his feet spread slightly apart. “I’m going to teach you self-defense.”

      Self-defense? Allison lowered the cup and stared at him incredulously. “You mean like karate or judo?”

      “Not exactly. I’ll just work with you on some simple but effective techniques to protect yourself.”

      The coffee obviously wasn’t helping her nerves at all. She tightened her fingers around the cup, struggling to hold on to her composure. “I thought it was your job to protect me.”

      “And what if I can’t?” He stared down at her. “What if these guys manage to get you alone, or what if I’m shot or even dead. There’ll be no one СКАЧАТЬ