Читать книгу Triple Dare - Candace Irvin - Страница 8

Two months later

It had taken her twelve months, a hundred and sixty-five concerts in almost as many cities scattered around the globe, but Abigail Pembroke finally had her life back. Unfortunately, the bulk of her former existence was still crammed inside the remaining two dozen boxes littering her brand-new living room.

Abby sighed as she studied the haphazard forest of cardboard. She should have taken the guys up on their offer to distribute the boxes around the apartment before they left. She might have, if the guilt hadn’t already been biting in. Bad enough that she’d caved in to the temptation to escape her latest hotel room before the final concert of the summer series, she didn’t need half the string section showing up for rehearsal tomorrow with strained backs. Not to mention she’d have had to open each box and root through its contents before she knew which room to place it in.

Her departure had been that hasty.

She’d been that humiliated.

Abby pushed the memory aside and used her scissors to slice through the tape sealing the next box. One look at the contents was all it took to make her regret not labeling that particular tangle of memories. She was still staring down at the rumpled lingerie she should have burned before she left for Milan when her CD player kicked in with one of her favorite Debussy sonatas for piano and violin.

Abby grinned. Leave it to a bunch of fiddle players to hook up the stereo first.

Her determination restored, Abby tossed the scissors aside and grabbed the cardboard flaps. Her arms protested as she jockeyed the waist-high box past the camelback sofa and coordinating armchair. The bottom of the box caught at the edge of the area rug, but once she’d freed it she was able to slide the box past the open kitchen and dining areas and down the hall without marring the hardwood floors. She shoved the box against the foot of her virgin bed and sighed.

Of all the furniture Marlena had helped her select, the towering iron four-poster had been the most extravagant.

She didn’t care. What better way to start fresh?

Buoyed by the thought, she tucked a damp, unruly curl into her braid and reached inside the cardboard box. She dumped the scarlet teddy and matching robe at her feet and reached in the box again, this time snagging her telephone. Skirting the side of the still-naked mattress, she centered the phone atop her nightstand and frowned. The phone’s cord didn’t quite reach the outlet. Worse, the pink Cinderella casing and rotary dial looked as awkward and woefully out of place in her fancy new digs as she still felt.

Dammit, don’t. Marlena was right. She had to move on. In more ways than one. She had Brian to think about. He was her complete responsibility now, whether he wanted to be or not. Abby pushed the latest round of painful memories aside and focused on her brother’s beatific smile. His humbling joy when she’d told him she was going to move sooner and, hence, would have his room ready a whole week early. Brian might not want to move in with her, but he was definitely looking forward to resuming his weekly overnight visits. From the tight desperation in his hug when she’d left, he needed them, too. They both did.

Abby’s gaze slipped to the phone she’d used to stave off the homesickness so many times. She had half a mind to set it atop that sleek coffee table her friend had steered her toward. But she wouldn’t. Not because the old pink phone embarrassed her. She wanted it in here. She’d need it next to her in the coming months. Even if she couldn’t use it to call home anymore.

Or maybe, especially.

A yawn sneaked up on her, forcing her to return her attention to the waiting box. It was nearly midnight. She had to be at Lincoln Center first thing in the morning and she’d yet to locate a blanket, much less a fitted sheet. Her gaze strayed to the oversized window on the far side of the room. She’d just have to put up with the muted glow bleeding in from the city. She’d already decided to hold off on hanging the drapes Marlena had designed until the contractor had a chance to install security bars on the windows. Unlike her, Brian was fascinated with heights. She’d lost both their parents now, she’d never survive if something happened to him.

Well, nothing would. The bars wouldn’t be going on for two weeks. She’d just have to keep a closer eye on Brian than usual until then.

Abby retrieved the lingerie she’d dumped on the floor, wadding the outfit in her fist as she approached the window. Despite her healthy appreciation of heights, she couldn’t help but be drawn in by the glittering rainbow stretching toward Central Park. The faint wail of a siren tugged her back to the present, the chores she had to finish before she could turn in. But as she started to turn away, something caught her eye.

She had seen pigeons perched on the ledges when Mrs. Laurens had shown her the place. Did the birds roost on the concrete sills during the night? It could be a problem. Brian adored birds as much as he did heights. The temptation might prove too much while she slept. Abby stepped closer to the window, her heart sinking as she caught another faint flutter. Except this time, she could have sworn it deliberately slid into the shadows. She took another step, stiffening as the next, even more subtle flash registered. Whatever it was was black, with a sliver of crisp white peeking out.

Definitely not feathers. Fabric.

Terror lashed through her. She darted sideways and instinctively switched off the string section’s housewarming gift, knocking the floor lamp over in her haste. She had no idea if she’d cracked the stained-glass shade, but at least it hadn’t shattered. Several moments passed before she risked inching back to the window. By the time she reached the soothing stillness of night, she felt as foolish as she must look. There was nothing there but a darkened, concrete sill where her overactive imagination had been.

What had she expected? A burglar?

If she’d still been in the cramped studio she’d rented before she’d left for Milan, sure. Located ten blocks up from the wrong side of Columbia University, her former walkup had been robbed twice in the three years she’d lived there. Fortunately, she and her Stradivarius had been on stage both times. Well, she wasn’t on stage or in her old apartment now. It had taken a to-die-for offer from a symphony patron, a mountain of paperwork, a series of ignored phone calls from her ex and an unexpected stiletto to the back by a man she didn’t even know, but she was finally safely ensconced in her sinfully huge six-room flat. Eighteen stories up.

New York City or not, no robber would climb that many stories. Would they?

But as Abby’s eyes adjusted to the dark, she knew someone had. Without the light from the floor lamp interfering, she could clearly make out the fingers clinging to the far left of the shadowy ledge. Ten strong, distinctly masculine fingers. Someone was definitely out there.

Sweet heaven, what was she supposed to do? Her phone wasn’t even hooked up.

Wait. The intercom connected to the main lobby—but the call switch was located at the front door. She should check the window first, make sure it was locked. She’d need the time to unlock her trunk and grab her violin. The Stradivarius was a work of art. Though insured for a cool three million, she’d never be able to replace it.

Fortunately, from this angle all she could make out were fingers; the man’s head was completely obscured by the sill. That meant he couldn’t see her either. Still, her heart resumed its frantic pace as she forced herself to inch close enough to the window to make sure. The brass latch pointed to the right. But did that mean the window was locked?

Before she could scrape enough courage together to check, the man’s fingers shifted. Quivered.

Whoever the fool was, he was losing his grip!

Her hands shot up before she could stop them, her own fingers damp with sweat and quaking as she fumbled with the latch. She wrenched the window up and leaned out to grab the man’s wrists before she could change her mind.

“Here, let me—”

“I’m fine.” The terse growl reverberated through the air, filling her ears. “Now get back before you fall.”

She stiffened in shock. But she obeyed.

She thought better of it when one of the man’s hands slipped off the ledge—and a muffled curse followed. Before she could lunge forward, a pair of shoes sailed through the window, landing beside the fallen lamp with a thud. She caught a blur of black fabric next, straining against a set of impressive shoulders and equally powerful arms as the man levered himself up before smoothly vaulting into her bedroom. She stood there, gaping up at six-feet-plus of dark, towering muscle backlit against the glow of the city, as transfixed as she’d been the first time she’d been nudged out on stage at Avery Fisher Hall. Only she wasn’t some gawky eight-year-old kid making her knee-knocking orchestral debut. She was a twenty-four-year-old woman and she was facing the would-be robber—or worse—who’d just violated her personal space.

The thought lodged in her throat, nearly choking her. Until his clothes sank in. His tuxedo. Despite the shadows, she could make out a complete tux, right down to the matching black cummerbund and loosened bow tie. Whoever this guy was, he was either the classiest criminal in New York—or the best-man-turned-escapee from the wedding reception from hell. Or was he the groom? Had the guy been jilted at the altar only to scale the building so he could jump off?

A sobering thought.

She pushed past it and forced herself to take stock of her situation. It didn’t look good. A dead phone and an intercom that was not only on the opposite side of her apartment, but now also on the other side of that hulking form. Then again, the fallen lamp lay three feet away. The base might be slender, but it was made of solid metal.

She inched sideways.

Nothing. Her intruder either hadn’t noticed or he didn’t care. She darted the rest of the way before her courage fled, leaning down to scoop the lamp upright. Sweat slicked her fingers for the second time in as many minutes as she fumbled with the switch—and swallowed a curse. The three-way bulb had been damaged in the fall. At the lowest setting, all the lamp could muster was a feeble stream of light that did little more than highlight the man’s inky, shoulder-length hair. The rest of his features were still cloaked by shadows, leaving her with an impression of barely suppressed strength, rigid control and a disturbing, almost erotic pull.

Burglars weren’t sexy…were they?

Even odder, for some inexplicable reason her intruder appeared to be as dumbstruck by her presence as she was with his. Was this his first attempt at breaking and entering, then? Or was the man on drugs? Either way, she refused to be intimidated. If the man was going to attack her, he’d have done it already. Or was he simply resting up?

Stradivarius or not, she should have made a break for it while she had the chance.

Well, it was too late now. Abby tightened her grip on the lamp’s base. “Well, do you plan on explaining yourself or should I call the police?”

Brave words.

She realized just how brave as the man slipped his hand into his tuxedo jacket. She forced herself not to flinch as it surfaced holding a wallet, not a gun or a knife. Her relief bled out as the man opened the wallet and withdrew a card. She couldn’t make out the words, just the photo on a New York driver’s license.

The ID was his.

“Darian Sabura. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I mean you no harm. Feel free to buzz Jerry. He’ll vouch for me.” The dark, smooth tones flowed across the shadows gliding over her flesh like the warm, mellow notes of a bass clarinet.

Abby forced herself to ignore the disturbing vibrations that quivered deep inside her. So he knew the doorman by name. It didn’t prove anything. He could be trying to get her to drop her guard.

Or the lamp.

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” For now. “As for the scare, I’ll get over it.” What she wouldn’t do was return the favor. Bad enough the man knew where she lived. Even if he was on a first-name basis with the Tristan Court doorman, she wasn’t about to give him a name to go with her address. Especially since he’d yet to explain himself. “So…are you going to tell me what you were doing outside my window?”

“Climbing.”

She waited for more.

She waited in vain. Chatty, the man was evidently not. But even if he was on something, he didn’t seem so out of it that he’d forgotten he’d offered his ID. She doubted he’d harm her now that she could identify him…unless he had no intention of letting her see morning. Curiosity edged out fear—but not by much. “Do you do this often?”

Again, she waited. Just when she thought he wouldn’t answer, she caught his faint, almost embarrassed shrug.

“It’s a…hobby of sorts.”

A hobby? “As in, once or twice a week you don a tux, pick out a building and just…climb it?” Okay, so no drugs. The man was simply stark, raving nuts. With her luck, Mr. Darian Sabura hadn’t picked the building at random. He probably lived here. She was about to ask when he cleared his throat.

“I should be leaving. I appreciate the shortcut, but I’ve taken up enough of your time—” The rest ended up muffled as he bent to retrieve something from the floor. It wasn’t his shoes.

Humiliation seared through her as he held out the skimpy teddy and skimpier robe she’d tossed earlier. With everything that’d happened, she’d forgotten about them. She snatched the lingerie from his grasp with more force than she’d intended, causing the teddy to slip from her fingers. She managed to hook a finger into a slender strap before the teddy floated to the floor…but not before the crotch snagged on the man’s cuff link. She’d never know how she managed to keep from diving under the bed as he calmly worked the scarlet lace free.

“Thanks.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, good night.”

Relief rushed in as he turned toward her bedroom door, until she remembered— His shoes.

“Wait!”

The man might not know her name, but he knew where she lived. She had no intention of letting him leave behind a ready excuse for a future nighttime visit. She whirled around as he stopped, hooked his shoes off the floor. She caught up with him at the door—and promptly gasped. With the light streaming in from the living room, she could finally make out his features. He was older than she’d expected, thirty at least—and she knew him.

Okay, she didn’t exactly know him.

Truth was, they hadn’t even met.

But she had seen him, less than two weeks before. She’d just finished a late-afternoon meeting with her contractor and ridden the elevator back down to the ground floor. There, she’d spotted this man—this face—through the lobby’s massive glass doors. In her own defense, he’d been impossible to miss. Not only had Darian roared up onto the sidewalk on a sleek, silver-and-maroon racing motorcycle, he’d taken the time to cuff a matching helmet from his head, revealing a clipped rugged jaw and a glorious tangle of black hair as he unstrapped a canvas backpack from his bike.

He wasn’t lying. He did know the doorman.

Well enough for Jerry to store the bag behind the security desk for him as he roared off to wherever he was headed. It didn’t matter. Darian Sabura was still a thief. Because he’d also managed to rob her twice now.

Of her breath.

And she hadn’t gotten this close the first time.

He might have exchanged his sweat-stained T-shirt, worn leather boots and faded jeans for the sleek trappings suited to pungent cigars and the lofty private rooms of the Union Club, but this was still the face of a man who thrived in the great outdoors—the more rugged the better. His features bore the scars and weathering to prove it. From the fine lines around his eyes, the faint scar running the length of his entire right cheek and jaw, the nose that appeared once broken, not to mention the ghost of a serious tear that had once split the center of his bottom lip, she no longer doubted he’d been telling the truth about his unusual “hobby.” Still, it wasn’t the man’s scars that had knocked the air from her lungs. Or even the memory of the fiercely honed muscles below.

It was his eyes. They were almost…haunted.

Dark green and framed with thick black lashes, his gaze held her entire body hostage. She couldn’t move. All she could do was feel. Him. If the eyes were truly the mirrors of the soul, then somehow this man was holding back the weight of the entire world. And the strain was killing him.

He blinked.

The spell broke. A split second later, chagrin seared in. Darian Sabura might not be a criminal, and he might find sport in scaling the high-rises of the city, perhaps even the sheer cliffs and jagged mountain peaks of the world, but he was no Atlas. He was just a man. A man who was—

Bleeding? Abby dropped the shoes and touched his head.

He flinched.

She jerked her hand back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t. I can’t even feel it.”

Surely he’d exaggerated?

No, she couldn’t locate the exact source of the blood, but she was able to follow the thin rivulet down the left side of his face. “Your shirt collar is nearly soaked with blood.”

He shook his head. “It’s okay.”

“Nonsense. You may need stitches. Just let me—”

He jerked his head away before she could touch him again. “I said it’s fine. I’m fine.”

The heck he was. In a way his reaction reminded her of her brother’s usual response to a stranger’s touch. But with Brian the reaction stemmed from his innate shyness. Once her brother got to know a person, he loved to touch—better yet, hug. Often. It was one of the many blessings that came with her brother’s Down’s syndrome. She had the distinct impression this man rarely hugged, however, if ever.

She shook her head, exasperated by Darian’s stubbornness. “Look, it’s no trouble. I’ve already unpacked my first-aid kit in the kitchen. At least let me tape a bandage over that.” The exchange she’d witnessed the other day with the doorman had done more than allay her lingering fears regarding possible criminal intent—it lent credence and meaning to Darian’s statement of a minute ago: I appreciate the shortcut.

Had Spider Man simply been headed home?

She forced a shrug. “Leave if you want to, but don’t blame me if the blood seeps into your tux on the way upstairs and stains it permanently.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, his stare captured hers. Probed. She had the distinct feeling he was searching for something. Whatever it was, she didn’t think he’d been able to find it.

She was sure of it when he clipped a silent, almost resigned nod before spinning around and heading down the hall.

Bemused, she stepped out after him.

Two things struck her as Darian turned into the kitchen area instead of heading to the front door. One, he’d agreed to let her help, and two, he knew the layout of her apartment. Abby forced her racing pulse to slow. Yes, the man was gorgeous and, yes, she’d now lay odds he either lived in an identical apartment upstairs or knew someone who did. But even if that friend wasn’t a woman, it didn’t mean he was dating material. Not for her. She’d sworn off men after her fiasco of a breakup with Stuart. The only reason she’d returned to New York was to strengthen her bond with Brian. She certainly wasn’t here to get involved again, especially with a man as strange as this one, with even stranger hobbies.

Her resolve restored, Abby hooked her arm into one of the padded barstools at the breakfast counter and followed Darian into the kitchen proper. She dumped the brass stool beside the sink. The lingerie she’d inadvertently brought along went straight into the trash compactor. She threw the switch for good measure before retrieving her first-aid kit from the nest of kitchen utensils still cradling it at the top of the closest box. By the time she turned, her reluctant patient was leaning against the opposite counter, his dark, disconcerting gaze tracking her every move.

He shifted his stare to the still-chumming compactor for a brief, pointed moment, then drew it back to her.

No way. She’d let the man into her kitchen. He was not getting into her head, let alone her foolish heart. She glanced at the stool and shrugged. “You’re a giant. I’m not. I can’t reach.” He was six-two at least. At five-seven she was at a serious disadvantage if that cut was near his temple.

Her earlier suspicions regarding the man’s aversion to chit-chat were cemented as he crossed the modest galley kitchen and lowered his frame onto the stool, all without speaking. Or perhaps he’d been small-talked to death at whatever function he’d donned that tux for. She stuck out her hand, hoping to determine which. He simply stared. She redoubled her efforts, extending a genuine smile along with her hand. “Abigail Pembroke. My friends call me Abby. Given your hobby, I’m guessing yours call you Dare.”

He didn’t return her smile.

She must have shamed him into observing one of the tenets of etiquette, however, because his hand finally rose, slowly enveloping hers. His grip was warm and solid. His stare enveloped her as well.

“Dare will do…Abby.”

Oh, Lordy. The mellow note had returned to his voice, once again causing the strings of interest to vibrate deep within her belly. She muted them quickly and tugged her hand from his grasp, turning to the sink to scrub the lingering heat from her fingers along with the dust from her boxes. Fortunately, Mrs. Laurens had left a bottle of liquid soap behind and Abby used that to help with the sterilizing part of her efforts. Abby caught the rustle of fabric as she reached for the last of the paper towels the elderly woman had left as well. Dare had obviously decided to remove the jacket to his tux. By the time she returned to that steady gaze and surprisingly still-snowy shirt, her nerves were firmly under control.

Or so she’d thought.

Sweet mercy. She stared. Shamelessly.

Two weeks ago and forty feet away, the man’s chest had been ogle-worthy. Tonight, less than twelve inches away, it was downright riveting. The slightly crushed cotton of Dare’s shirt enhanced every inch of his broad shoulders, thick, sinewy arms and fiercely honed chest—right down to the silk cummerbund banded about his waist. She followed the line of studs back to his loosened tie and the tantalizing V of flesh at the base of his throat. Flesh that still bore the slight sheen of his unorthodox exertion.

And his scent.

This close, it was impossible to evade. Not that she wanted to. Abby savored the earthy musk drifting into her lungs. No ripe, commercial colognes for this man. Dare’s natural scent reflected his looks—dark and dangerous. Her second, slower whiff clogged in the middle of her throat as he cleared his. Expectantly.

She blushed.

Great. The man peeped into her window and she ended up pegged as the pervert. She purged his musk from her lungs along with her embarrassment, focusing instead on that sluggish, scarlet trickle as she stepped closer. Most of the blood appeared to have been soaked up by the dark waves that spilled past his right temple. She dumped the first-aid kit on the counter and smoothed the hair from his face.

He must have prepped himself better this time, because he managed to keep from stiffening.

She couldn’t. “Oh my.”

His brow lifted. The motion caused several fresh drops of blood to seep from the two-inch gash she’d located just past his temple. She wasn’t a doctor, but even she knew the cut required more than a Band-Aid.

“You need stitches.”

Unlike earlier in her bedroom, he offered no argument. Nor did he downplay her assessment. He simply shook his head.

Firmly.

Abby studied the thin scar running the length of his outer right cheek and jaw, the one on his bottom lip. Neither showed evidence of stitches. She wouldn’t be able to change his mind, then. Might as well do what she could. Popping open the first-aid kit, she rummaged through her meager supplies, culling a bottle of antibacterial wash, half a dozen squares of sterile gauze and her stash of slim butterfly bandages. She washed the gash as best she could, then used all seven of the butterfly strips to seal the slightly jagged edges together. Satisfied the strips would hold, she dampened the remaining squares of gauze with the antiseptic wash, then used the pads to clean the remaining blood from Dare’s cheek.

The end result was surprisingly neat.

“There.” She pitched the last of the gauze on the counter as he lifted his fingers to probe his cut.

Bandaged or not, that gash had to hurt.

She nodded to her kit. “I’m sorry. There should be a packet of ibuprofen in there but it’s gone. I must have used it up before I moved.”

“That’s okay. You’ve done enough as it is. I appreciate all your help…and your concern.”

She glanced at her watch as he stood, stunned as she realized he’d been there for nearly half an hour. It had felt like five minutes, ten tops. Even more disconcerting was that she was reluctant to see him go. She risked a teasing smile as he pushed the stool against the counter. “Glad to help. Just promise you’ll take the elevator, okay? I’m out of bandages.”

His lips actually quirked, then eased into a slow, mesmerizing smile. Somewhere along the way, she stopped breathing. She’d forgotten how.

She had the distinct impression Dare knew it.

To her disappointment, his smile faded. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. The haunted look that had struck her so deeply when she’d first spotted it in the doorway of her bedroom returned. His gaze seemed almost guarded now. He seemed guarded—against her. But that didn’t make sense. What reason did he have to be threatened by her? They hadn’t even met until tonight. Not really. Was it his head? Did it hurt worse than he’d said?

It must. Not only had his mood shifted, she could almost feel the energy draining out of him. He’d paled, too. “Look, why don’t you sit back down?” She tipped her chin toward the breakfast counter and the forest of cardboard still cluttering the living room beyond. “It shouldn’t take me more than a few minutes to locate the rest of my medical supplies. There’s bound to be a bottle of ibuprofen in the mix.”

“Thank you, but no. I have somewhere I need to be.”

At this hour?

She swallowed her disbelief. Nutcase or not, she did not want the man leaving until she was sure he wouldn’t pass out in the elevator—whether he was headed the one floor up or seventeen down. She tried teasing again. “Let me guess, you turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”

This time, his lips didn’t quirk. If anything, he became more guarded. “Something like that.”

Disappointment seared in—so swiftly, she was forced to admit she was attracted to the man. But even if he was attracted to her, time limits meant only one thing. A woman. Wherever his apartment was located, there was a woman waiting inside it. Girlfriend, fiancé, wife—it didn’t matter. She had no intention of playing second fiddle to anyone or anything ever again. Abby held fast to her resolve as Dare retrieved his jacket. She followed him out of the kitchen and around the boxes she had no idea how she was going to get rid of once they were empty and joined him in the apartment’s tiny foyer. She unlocked both security bolts and opened the door.

Dare stepped into the dimly lit hall—and hesitated.

To her surprise, he turned back.

That haunted looked was not a figment of her imagination. It was real and it had returned. But damned if she could figure out what was causing it, much less the resignation that had crept in as well. Dare retrieved an ivory-colored business card from the inner pocket of his tux and held it out. “Put the boxes in the hall when you finish unpacking. Then call and leave a message on my machine. I’ll have them removed.”

She reached out, instinctively taking the card and skimming it. Two lines in, she stopped. Forced herself to reread. Not the phone number…the address. Dare lived upstairs all right. All the way up. She snapped her gaze to his, not even bothering to disguise the fury blistering in.

“You live in the penthouse?”

The haunting in his eyes intensified.

She didn’t care. She no longer wondered what was behind it, either. She was too busy absorbing the shock. Two days after Greta Laurens had offered to sell her the apartment—and the very morning after she’d brought her brother by to make sure Brian also loved it—an unnamed resident had decided to exercise an obscure clause in Tristan Court’s antiquated homeowners’ agreement, one originally scripted by blue bloods at the turn of the century to keep so-called common folk from buying in. Abby received a formal, humiliating summons to appear before the building’s residents’ board, ostensibly to determine if she was suitable neighbor material. Though the board hadn’t come out and said it, she knew darn well the color of her blood hadn’t been the issue, but the genetic makeup of the rest of her cells.

Or rather, her brother’s.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

This man—who hadn’t even bothered to show up for that humiliating meeting—had instigated the entire, ugly mess. She didn’t care if Dare had withdrawn his reservations by the time the board met, she should have left him clinging to the side of their building where she’d found him. Unfortunately, it was too late to rectify her mistake now. She did the next best thing. She slammed the door in his face.