Play Dead. Meryl Sawyer
was an accident waiting to happen. A fall could land him flat on his back on the first floor where the tiled entrance and garage was located. It was three floors down—a neck-breaker if there ever was one.
He slowly felt his way down the stainless steel staircase. A noise from below, like metallic creaking, made him stop. What was that? It was hard to tell with the wind-driven rain beating on the bank of windows facing the bay. Probably homesteading rats, he thought. The Cannery, a trendy restaurant, was just a few doors down. A rat magnet for sure, he decided as he continued down the stairs again.
Vaguely uneasy for some reason, he reached the kitchen and felt his way across the granite counter. Beneath his hand traces of the fingerprint dust collected. He reached the bank of drawers near the refrigerator. That’s where he thought he remembered seeing a flashlight. He pulled open a drawer and fumbled through the contents. Wrong drawer. He was reaching for the handle on the next, when he heard the creaking noise again.
His attention was drawn from where he was standing to the living area across from the kitchen. He detected movement—a darker silhouette in a pitch-dark room. Shapes were discernible only by varying degrees of darkness.
A form or a trick of the shadows? He squinted hard, concentrating on the far side of the loft. Something was there. A man. The killer? Had he returned to remove incriminating evidence or was this a burglary? Often thieves broke into homes of the deceased because they knew they were vacant.
A flicker of lightning in the distance—almost nonexistent—faintly illuminated the room for a fraction of a second. The man was short, Ryan saw that much, and he had a weapon in his hand. Ryan thought of opening a drawer and extracting one of the knives he remembered but he didn’t want the man to turn and shoot.
He flattened himself against the refrigerator, thankful the intruder hadn’t spotted him. From his brief glance, Ryan knew the man wore a trench coat with the hood up. The gun he carried must have at least six shots. Ryan would need to take the intruder by surprise to stand a chance.
This was when years of playing football would pay off. He could sprint across the room and hit the guy with a flying tackle before the jerk could turn around and fire the weapon. In a split second, Ryan exploded into the room and clobbered the man full-force. The air blasted from the prick’s lungs in a loud whooshing grunt as their bodies collided.
They both hit the tile floor, a jumble of limbs with Ryan on top. A sharp, bone-deep pain shot through his injured shoulder into his chest, but he ignored it. The weapon the intruder carried bounced across the floor with a thunk.
The little guy was a fighter. He arched his back, twisting and bucking with surprising strength. The gutsy prick swung one leg out and around, attempting what must be some weird move—probably jujitsu or something like it. Ryan immediately thought of The Wrath. Could this be one of his henchmen?
The man was too small to pull off the maneuver and Ryan easily straddled him with his larger frame and pinned him down, but the intruder kept writhing beneath him. Ryan rolled the squirming idiot onto his side. He grabbed for one of the man’s arms, determined to pull it behind his back and force the guy to his feet. He fumbled with the raincoat for a second, trying to capture a thrashing arm. He encountered a soft fullness and a fragrant hint of a scent that stunned him. Common sense said to double-check. He ran his hands over the soft mounds. No doubt about it.
A woman.
Couldn’t be!
But it was. Holy shit! She moaned and gasped for breath. Women were every bit as dangerous as men, Ryan reminded himself. This one had arrived armed. And tried a martial arts maneuver.
She thrashed and kicked, trying to escape, but he had her trapped by his large body. The more she squirmed, the softer she felt beneath him. She cut loose with a screeching cry that could be heard in Japan. She kept screaming at the top of her lungs even though no one could hear her over the roar of the storm.
“Stop it!” He lifted his body and flipped her onto her back. He had a vague impression of a pale face and light-colored eyes. She yanked at his hair, pulling it with astonishing strength. “Cut it out or I’ll have to hurt you.”
He grabbed her throat, planning to scare her a little. She responded by biting hard on his hand. “I’m warning you—”
“P-please … don’t hurt me,” she cried. “Take whatever you want. Just don’t rape me.”
“Rape you?” He stood up, hoisted her upright without letting go. “I won’t hurt you if you hold still while I call the cops.”
“You’re calling the police?” she yelled at him, but she sounded scared spitless.
He hauled her with him toward the kitchen’s wall phone. “You bet I’m calling them. You were trying to rob the place.”
“I wasn’t robbing—”
“What about the weapon in your hand? You broke in armed with a gun.”
“Gun? I just had my collapsible umbrella, you jerk! Who are you? What are you doing in my loft?”
Ryan stopped dead in his tracks, holding her close. He was afraid of the answer, but he asked anyway. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Hayley Fordham. This is—”
She said something about this being her loft and she was calling the police to report him. Ryan reached for the drawer with the flashlight and pulled it out, still not letting go of the intruder. He turned it on and trained the light on her face.
The brown hair highlighted by copper strands that he’d dreamed about running his hands through hung in damp hanks around her pretty face. The gray eyes that had fascinated him were wild with terror and almost green in this light. The full lips that he’d imagined kissing were trembling.
The girl of his dreams—back from the dead.
CHAPTER FIVE
PANIC COURSED THROUGH HAYLEY. Her breathing was erratic and she was trembling uncontrollably, fear a high-pitched scream in her veins. This monster intended to kill her. She couldn’t see him. The man was nothing more than a looming form and that was going to be the last thing she saw before she died.
The jujitsu kick The Wrath had taught her hadn’t worked. This man was too tall, his body too muscular for her to fight off. Her pulse ricocheted against her temples. If she didn’t do something, he would grab one of the kitchen knives and slit her throat.
“Let me go,” she pleaded, although she doubted it would do much good. Dread and defeat permeated her body and settled in her bones.
In response, he swung her around, his powerful arm just below her breasts. He manacled both her wrists in one fist, his fingers like steel bands. She was trapped by his muscular frame, his height. Even through her raincoat she felt the heat of his menacing body.
He grabbed something out of one of her kitchen drawers. She struggled to wrench herself free by biting him again, but couldn’t move. Out of nowhere, a blast of light blinded her and she squeezed her eyes shut—expecting to die in the next second.
“Who the hell are you?” he unexpectedly asked.
She opened her eyes, not able to distinguish anything but the blaring light and spit out, “I’m Hayley Fordham. Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”
His grip relaxed but he didn’t let her go. “I’m Ryan Hollister. Your aunt Meg sent me to get your things.”
“You’re lying! Why would Aunt Meg want my …” As she spoke, his name registered. “You’re Conrad’s son?”
“That’s right.”
She tried to get a better look at him, not knowing what to think. Her throat was so tight that she could hardly swallow, and her breath came in ragged surges. The strange acrid scent she’d noticed when she’d first come into the loft seemed stronger