Читать книгу Triple Dare - Candace Irvin - Страница 9

Zeno Corza pocketed the compact binoculars he’d lifted from a pawnshop the night he’d hit town. Though his mark had already entered the apartment building, Zeno didn’t cross the darkened street. Nor did he retrieve his cell phone and call in. It wasn’t that he had nothing new to report.

He did.

But for all the boss’s big words and bigger ideas, the guy wouldn’t understand a change in plans, even a small one. He was too stuck on things going down his way. Well, the boss was also supposed to be big on results, too. Zeno was about to grab a couple of those. The brilliance of it was that he didn’t have to stick out his own hand. All he had to do was tap an old acquaintance on the shoulder. Remind a certain someone that in the end, everyone’s dirty little secrets leaked out.

Zeno clenched his fingers. The boss was wrong. He had brawn and brains.

Finesse.

Hell, after that fiasco in Chicago a couple of months ago, it wouldn’t be hard to prove. Especially since New York was Zeno Corza’s turf. Sure, he’d been busted while distributing his white-powder wares in the projects across town a couple years back—but he’d been smart enough to develop and then cash in a lucrative marker before his case even went to court, hadn’t he? Zeno craned his neck toward the upper floors of the Tristan, grinning as the bank of windows he’d spent the better part of the past few days casing lit up. Time to retrieve his cell phone. Put his new and improved mission into motion. Prove to the boss for once and for all he was ready to move up in the organization.

And if the boss was right and he didn’t have a way with words?

Well, there was always Sally.

Anticipation hummed in Zeno as he fingered the meticulously honed blade sheathed at the waist of his trousers. He’d named the old knife after the faithless bitch who’d once sworn to stick with him for life. In a way, she had. Part of her. After all these years, the blade’s wooden handle still carried the stain of Sally’s blood. Ironic when he thought about it.

That’s all the boss had ordered him to get this time.

A single drop of blood. The rest was his to amuse himself with. Another reason Zeno knew he was smart—he’d come up with a lot of ways to amuse himself over the years….

Abby gently hung her brother’s latest masterpiece on the wall and scrambled off the couch to admire the results of her handiwork. Not bad. The painting—a depiction of her new apartment building at sunset—was absolutely gorgeous.

She wasn’t surprised.

For all her brother’s difficulties with numbers and directions, Brian was an amazing impressionist. Tristan Court’s stately turn-of-the-century facade was awash in soft reds, warm golds and a soothing burnt orange. Brian had even sketched in the impression of the doorman with a few strategic strokes of dark gray, highlighted with white. The phone rang as Abby reached out to adjust the bottom of the frame. Sighing, she turned to thread through the empty cardboard boxes still cluttering her living room, wondering if her uptight upstairs neighbor would revise his opinion of her brother if she showed him the painting.

She knew the answer before she reached the kitchen counter. She’d spent years dealing with the prejudices of strangers regarding Down’s. Heck, getting to know Brian one-on-one for six months the year before hadn’t even put a dent in her ex’s carefully concealed, holier-than-thou bigotry.

And speak of the devil.

Abby glared at the name and number in her phone’s caller ID window. It was Stuart Van Heusen, in the flesh—or rather, in her ear. If she picked up. Abby spun around and waded back through the boxes to retrieve her hammer. By the fourth ring she was tempted to send the tool sailing across the room and onto the phone. Her own prerecorded voice kicked in on the fifth shrill, only to cut out in mid-hello as Stuart decided against leaving a message and hung up.

Smart move.

She’d yet to return his first three calls.

Frankly, she still couldn’t believe he’d had the nerve to show up at the concert hall that afternoon. Fortunately, she’d been onstage, halfway through rehearsal along with the other 105 members of the Philharmonic. By the time they’d finished, Stuart had given up and left. She’d been tempted to dial his cell number then, if only to tell him that the next time he stepped foot in her dressing room—assistant district attorney or not—she was going to have security escort him out. But then Marlena had arrived and her thoughts of Stuart had vanished as her friend practically bounded toward the stage.

At first Abby hadn’t been able to tell if Marlena was heading for the violin or cello section—much less why. A cellist with the Philharmonic, Marlena’s husband, Stephen, had taken Abby under his wing a decade ago when he learned the gangly new violinist had a twin with the same genetic condition as his infant son. But it was Marlena Abby had really bonded with. When Marlena and Stephen had decided to turn the upper floors of their apartment house into a group home for adults with Down’s, Abby had been thrilled. So much so that when her brother had confessed two years ago that he wanted to follow her to New York to study art at a special school, she’d persuaded their dad to let Brian move into the house.

But Brian hadn’t been doing well this past year. He’d taken their father’s heart attack and subsequent death especially hard. It was the main reason Abby had bowed out of a second year with the string quartet tour and come home instead. When Marlena waved to her, she’d assumed something had happed to her brother. Fortunately, other than a cracked tooth, Brian was fine. Marlena had already taken him to the dentist that morning. The reason Marlena had been so animated was the item she’d stumbled across while in the waiting room.

Abby laid the hammer on the coffee table, her gaze drawn to the dog-eared magazine in the center. Like her, Marlena rarely purchased Saucy. Still, she hadn’t been able to resist flipping through a free—though year-old—issue of the Cosmo-wanna-be rag. Marlena had stopped to chuckle over the feature “Snagging a Billionaire Bachelor,” only to learn that, according to Saucy, there were ten such men in the U.S. alone. Number two was none other than Darian Sabura, the very man who’d climbed through Abby’s window three days before!

Of all ten men, Dare was the only one who’d refused to be interviewed. Undaunted, the magazine had made up for the loss with a series of unauthorized photos, rumors and outright conjecture about Dare and his bachelor life. The raciest gossip concerned his parents. According to Saucy, the blood running through Dare’s veins was bluer than Tristan Court’s original residents combined, at least on his mother’s side. As to his father’s—evidently there’d been some speculation as to which man actually held that title. Especially when Dare’s mother, Miranda, retired to her country home at the start of her pregnancy and saw no one until Dare was nearly a year old. As Dare matured, the rumors faded…until a falling-out between Dare and his father added an entirely new set to the mill—and the hint of a deeper, darker scandal, as well.

One that again concerned Dare’s mother.

According to a police report Saucy had obtained from an unnamed homicide detective within the NYPD, Dare’s mother had either fallen or been pushed off a subway platform when Dare was fifteen…or had she simply lost her balance due to the effects of the contents of the silver flask found in her purse?

Neither the detective nor Saucy would say, no doubt for fear of a lawsuit.

Either way, Abby didn’t blame Dare for refusing to comment. Nor could she begrudge him the lifestyle he’d pursued since his mother’s death.

But his father apparently did.

Victor Sabura’s blood might run more toward an earthy red, but his legal brilliance and relentless work ethic had made up for it among most of New York’s wealthy upper crust. To Victor’s disappointment, his son didn’t appear to have inherited that same work ethic. Instead, Darian Sabura—aka Triple Dare, as he’d been dubbed by the extreme sports media—had spent his teens and early twenties honing skills more suited to recreational pursuits. Skiing, scuba, snowboarding, surfing, skydiving, auto racing, motocross, mountain climbing, Dare had mastered them all—in lieu of settling into a job. Any job.

Rumor had it Victor Sabura had washed his hands of his adrenaline-addicted son years before and never looked back. If Abby was smart, she’d follow suit.

Except…she couldn’t.

Saucy’s cameras might have been too far away to catch the shadows she’d seen in Dare’s eyes, but Abby hadn’t been. She could still see those dark emerald pools when she closed her eyes at night. She’d seen similar shadows darken her father’s stare after her mother died when she and Brian were nine. She’d seen them dim her own gaze the year before, the night she’d gone to meet her future mother-in-law, only to have her heart and her pride bruised beyond humiliation. The shadows were still there the day she’d run away to Europe. They still darkened her brother’s stare whenever they talked about their dad, letting her know Brian was still running from the man’s death.

What was Dare running from—his bloodline? His mother’s death?

Or something more?

And why did she care?

Abby told herself it was because Dare was her neighbor. One day he might be Brian’s neighbor. For that reason alone, she should at least make an attempt to—Abby flinched as the phone pierced her reverie for the fourth time that night. She didn’t bother checking the caller ID—she knew it was Stuart.

She snapped her gaze back to the magazine. To the envelope she’d used to mark the article on her new neighbor and his fellow billionaire bachelors. The envelope she’d been too chicken to deliver along with the man’s shoes. That settled it. Anything was preferable to sitting here and listening to that phone ring. Even heading upstairs.

Dare stared at the glass door to his shower, desperate for the promised surcease a mere pace and a half away. And yet, as utterly drained as he was, he also knew he wouldn’t be stepping inside. He couldn’t.

Abby.

Dare closed his eyes as her essence swirled up into the penthouse, mingling with his as it had so often this past month whenever she’d stopped by to check on the progress of the remodeling of her apartment below. Only this time, Abby was headed up along with it. He could feel her stepping into the stairwell at the eighteenth level and slowly ascending to his, her hesitance growing stronger with every step. Usually he needed to touch someone to read their emotions this deeply. That he could feel hers so strongly without physical contact still amazed him. It also had him wondering what it would be like to press his fingers to her flesh.

To truly touch her, inside and out.

Yes, Abby had tended to his latest wound in her kitchen three night ago. But his sense had been deliberately dulled at the time from the blessed numbing that came as a result of the adrenaline and the exertion of scaling a cliff or a mountain…or even a twenty-story turn-of-the-century apartment building without the aid and security of a rope. Had he known Abby would be moving into her place early, he still would have made the climb, though he’d have taken more care with his route. Specifically, he’d have chosen one that took him well around her bedroom window instead of straight through it.

Either way, the respite from the climb had lasted only so long. Which was why he’d left her apartment so abruptly.

By the time she’d finished her ministrations, his empathic sense had returned. He’d begun to feel the simmering emotions of those around him again, especially hers. Unfortunately, the endless procession of hands he’d been forced to shake at the party he’d recently left—and the utter onslaught of feeling that came with them—had left him drained. Vulnerable. So he’d retreated up here and into his shower, shielding himself behind the one and only material he’d discovered could completely block out the crushing emotions of the city, so long as he remained entirely encased within it.

Glass.

If he was smart, he would seek out that same respite now, before Abby recovered her resolve and knocked on his door. Before he felt compelled to answer it. Despite her need to right things between them, he was once again in no shape to greet the one woman who could affect him this deeply without even trying. Dare sighed as he tugged his T-shirt off and dumped the dark blue cotton at his feet.

The night he’d entered Abby’s window he’d caved in to his assistant’s pleas and spent the evening attending yet another of those excruciating torture sessions Charlotte liked to call a fund-raiser. Unfortunately, Charlotte was right; they were also necessary. The reason the two of them were so effective at their calling—that of locating and assisting the battered women of the city—was threefold. The first involved his skill at locating those who truly needed them, women who for whatever reason could or would not seek help through the police or the city’s more conventional programs and shelters. The second involved Charlotte’s determination to see to the details of creating an entirely new identity, preferably one as far removed from the old as possible. And the third consisted of his own unerring ability to greet the potential benefactors Charlotte introduced him to and immediately discern who possessed the financial means and the conscience to donate what was needed—as well as the ability and desire to keep his or her assistance quiet indefinitely.

Unfortunately, this evening’s task had fallen into the first phase of assistance—determining need. Specifically, Charlotte had needed him to vet a story. One that involved a child. An innocent slip of a girl.

The results had been unbearable.

So much so, he’d been compelled to embrace the girl.

He still wondered if he should have done it. It was always a risk. Though the mother hadn’t argued, she hadn’t understood either. Not really. He drew comfort from the fact that by the time Charlotte ensured that both mother and child were far away from the city, and safe, the mother would already have decided that what she thought she’d seen had really been her imagination. In time she would write off the results to repressed memory. If only he could repress his own memory—that unspeakable torment—as easily. Embracing anyone, much less a child, took so damned much out of him, there were days when he wondered why he chanced it. Why he didn’t leave this damned city and its roiling emotions behind. Move to some remote corner of the earth and stay there forever.

But he knew.

For better or worse, he was as committed to helping the women they assisted as Charlotte was.

Dare also knew, even before he bent low to scoop his shirt off the floor and hook it about his neck, that he could no more resist the woman standing outside his apartment than he’d been able to deny that child. Especially since she’d finally strengthened her resolve enough to step up to his door to press the bell. Dare clamped his fingers about the ends of his shirt and turned his back on the utter peace the shower promised. He crossed his bedroom, then traveled the length of the apartment, surprised by the strength of her aura. Her inner essence was far easier to read now than it had been the day he’d first felt her in the lobby, and it continued to intensify with each step he took.

Was it her—or him? Or the evening’s events?

He reached the door before he could decide, and opened it. A split second later Dare realized his mistake. Abby had changed her mind again and started to leave. Unfortunately, he’d been either too drained and distracted by the night’s events or too consumed by her proximity to read the fluctuation in her emotions correctly. And now it was too late.

She turned back. “Oh, I thought—”

He waited.

She took in his partial state of undress and shook her head. “Never mind what I thought.”

He stared at her fingers, mesmerized, as she tucked a stray dark brown curl into the loose braid that hung halfway down her back. Just as he’d wondered all too often of late what it would be like to reach out and touch her, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have those slender fingers soothing his flesh, as well. He must have stared too long, because her fingers trembled slightly as she lowered them. He didn’t need to see her teeth nip at the corner of her bottom lip to know she was nervous. Nor did he need his sense.

Tension had already begun to clog the air between them, thickening it. She lowered her gaze and he finally noticed the contents of her left hand.

His shoes.

She held them up. “You forgot them.”

Dare nodded. He hadn’t even realized they were missing until he’d reached his apartment the other night. But by then his sense—both emotional and intellectual—had returned. He’d decided to wait, hoping she’d call and tell him she’d leave the shoes in the hall along with her boxes.

She’d done neither.

He hooked his fingers into the knotted laces, deftly retrieving the shoes without touching her. Still, he was forced to drop the shoes just inside the doorway, unnerved by the strength of the echo she’d left on the laces alone. He shifted his grip on the door and eased it shut. “Thank you.”

“Wait.”

He stopped. “Yes?”

Her pupils widened, causing her gaze to darken as the inner ring of brown crowded out the flecks of green. “I, ah, wondered if your offer regarding the boxes was still good.”

He nodded. “Just leave them in the hall. They’ll be gone by morning.” Fortunately, she didn’t ask how, or by whom.

But neither did she leave.

“Did you need something else?”

“No. Yes. That is, I’d like to—” Her gaze swept his features. Narrowed slightly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I hate to be rude, but you don’t look so good. In fact, you’re paler than you were the other night.” Her stare shifted to his temple. Fortunately, the butterfly bandages she’d applied were obscured by his hair. “Is your cut—”

“It’s healing properly.” But more quickly than she’d ever believe possible. Truth be told, at the moment that cut was the only part of him that didn’t feel as if he’d been kicked out of the side of a small plane at ten thousand feet sans parachute. “However, it has been a long day. I was about to step in the shower….” He trailed off deliberately, hoping she’d take the hint.

She didn’t.

Worse, her gaze dropped to his chest. She stared.

Studied.

From the shift in her aura and growing fascination in those soft hazel eyes, he assumed she was merely tabulating the results of his dogged pursuit of motocross, auto racing, skydiving, as well as half a dozen other so-called extreme sports before he’d figured out that free climbing provided the most bang for the adrenaline-induced buck—or rather, the most effective dulling. But then he noticed her stare had settled on his left pectoral, directly over his heart.

He shifted his T-shirt as discreetly as he could and covered the tattoo.

“Well?” He hadn’t meant to sound quite so clipped. But he had succeeded in wrenching her gaze from his chest. “Did you need something, or not?”

Her aura shifted once more. Sharpened. Darkened.

“Not.” A moment later she smoothed her features. He felt her attempt to smooth her mood as well. To lighten it along with her heart. She retrieved a slim white envelope from the back pocket of her jeans and held it out. “Consider it a thank-you for getting rid of the boxes.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Nonsense. I insist.” When he still didn’t take it, she nudged the envelope closer. “Contrary to my behavior the other night, I swear it’s not a letter bomb. It’s a pair of tickets for the symphony Saturday night. Bring a guest.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t—”

“You’re already going?”

He shook his head. Not in this lifetime.

“You already have plans?”

He should have lied but discovered he couldn’t. “No.”

“Then I don’t understand. What’s the problem? You’ll don a tux to climb a building, but can’t be bothered to suit up for an evening of Mozart?” A tiny dimple dipped in at the right of her lips as she smiled, attempting to tease him into accepting. “Trust me, contrary to certain rumors it’s not a fate worse than death.”

If she only knew.

He shook his head again. Firmly. Even as a recent addition to the orchestra, he doubted she’d had to pay for the tickets. Still, there was no sense in wasting them. He was about to shut the door on the tickets as well as further argument when she stepped forward to tuck the envelope in his hand. He sucked in his breath as her fingertips grazed his.

That was all it took.

Like that violin she’d carried to work these past two mornings, he was instantly, completely in tune—with her.

He jerked back instinctively.

A moment later he felt her suspicion as it seared into his heart. The knot of stinging tears followed again, in his own throat as well as hers. Her lips thinned as the profound disappointment and utter disgust locked in. “Don’t worry, Mr. Sabura. It’s not contagious.”

She spun around as he struggled to recover.

“Abby!”

She stopped. But she refused to turn back.

He swallowed his shame. “It has nothing to do with Brian or his Down’s syndrome. Now or regarding the board meeting. I swear.”

Her braid shifted as she nodded. But she didn’t believe him. Though common sense advised against it, something deep inside forced him to try again.

“Please…I never meant to hurt you.”

Well, you did.

She hadn’t said the words, but she might as well have. He could feel them. He still felt them, and her, as she stepped away from the door, bypassing the elevator on her right in favor of the stairs. Irony bit as Abby descended. He’d purchased all four of the apartments on the nineteenth floor years before to create a buffer from the rest of the building’s inhabitants and the roiling emotions of their daily lives.

If anything, the empty floor now served to magnify the effect she had on him.

Now more than ever.

Resigned, he turned into his apartment and closed the door as she closed hers, two floors below. He crossed the length of his living room, then headed down the hallway, piercingly aware that she, too, was heading down her hall. But while Abby stopped shy of her bedroom, he forced himself to continue to his, to slump down at the edge of his bed and wait for the connection to ebb. Though the contact had been slight, he had no idea how long it would take. He only had the one experience to compare this—her—to. And yet, he already knew this woman and the inexplicable hold she had over him was completely different. Already it was stronger, and growing stronger with each passing day. Every hour.

Every note.

He lay back on his bed as Abby tucked her violin beneath her chin, retrieved her bow and began to play. Neither the nimble grace nor the haunting poise of her technique surprised him. She’d played with same breathtaking skill and uninhibited passion the night before. But this time, the connection she’d unwittingly forged between them outside his apartment door succeeded in pulling him in deeper. Suddenly, it was as if he was there in the room with her—within her. He could feel the soft, lilting melody she’d chosen as it breathed its magic into her heart, gradually easing her anger and disappointment until her soul finally stirred and took over. Within minutes, he no longer knew where he left off and she began. All he knew was that he was lost somewhere amid that gently soothing music and the utter beauty of her. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to both, slipping so smoothly and completely beneath her skin, it should have startled him. But it didn’t.

Until it changed.

He changed. He wanted more. Needed it. For the first time in his life, craved it. Dare closed his eyes tighter, delved deep within himself and reached for her.

But the connection was gone.

He shot upright, clutching at the ends of his shirt as he sucked the air into his lungs, struggling to reorient himself to the bed, the room, his very self without her in it. But it was too late. The contact had been too brief. The bond had faded. All he was left with was this thrumming awareness of her. Though constant and bittersweet, it was once again too much—and yet, no longer enough.

Worse, for a moment he’d almost believed he could have more. That he could have her. But he couldn’t.

Now least of all.

Six days after Abby’s essence had first merged with his own in the lobby, he’d woken in the dead of night with the presence of another filling every inch of his heart. Only this time the essence hadn’t eased in, it had stabbed straight through him, ripping him out of a sound sleep. At first Dare had been terrified the cry had come from her, perhaps even the brother he’d discovered Abby had. But it hadn’t.

Nor had it come from anyone else he could locate.

By the time his thundering heart had slowed, there was nothing left but the mewling echo of pain—and the distinct impression that it had come from a young boy. A boy close to him. Very close. Dare had scoured the early-morning news, even walked the floors of his building and circled those surrounding his in hopes that if the cry had come from a child nearby, he’d be able to locate him. He’d even had Charlotte check the police stations and hospitals.

Their efforts had been for naught.

For once, no children nearby had been beaten or violated in their bodies or their hearts. But the echo had remained. Even now, if he concentrated hard enough, he could hear that cry—feel it—as if it were ripping through him anew. But even stranger and more disturbing was that he also knew the child was okay now. And he still sensed he and the boy were close.

Through blood.

He had to be mistaken. Perhaps Abby’s presence in his life had skewed his sense, much like his mother’s had at times growing up. As a child he’d felt his mother’s pain on a daily basis, though some days it had cut deeper. He felt all too well the cold, emotionless void she’d received in place of her so-called husband, his so-called father. The bastard had cared so little for the two of them that for years he’d suspected the rumors that damned gossip magazine had actually printed before were true. That he and Victor Sabura didn’t share the same DNA.

But they did.

No, he’d never been tested. Given his empathic sense, he hadn’t needed to be. At fifteen he’d finally simply come out and asked the man. Demanded to know. Dare wasn’t sure which had disappointed him more—hearing Victor admit they were related…or feeling the utter lack of subterfuge.

So why could he still feel that cry?

Had Victor fathered another child?

Or did that cry have something to do with the other, older brand still on his heart? The one he’d placed above it.

His tattoo.

Dare glanced down at his chest, only to stop shy of the half-inch mark as he spotted something else.

The envelope Abby had pushed on him.

It was still in his hand.

He retrieved the tickets and studied them. Not only was Abby the featured soloist this coming Saturday, but he was forced to admit to himself that he truly wanted to go.

But he could not.

He’d spent the past two months believing that cry had nothing to do with her. He was right…and he was wrong. That cry had been a harbinger of the storm that was to come. And he did not want Abby caught up inside it. Besides, there would be thousands of people in Avery Fisher Hall. The last time he’d been trapped within the same walls with that much raw, intense emotion from so many people—

He stood.

The mere memory propelled his feet into motion. Dare crossed the bedroom and entered the bath, where his respite still waited. He dropped the tickets and his shirt to the floor, not even bothering to shuck his jeans before he entered the eight-foot hexagonal chamber he’d commissioned years before. He closed the door firmly, sealing himself within the glass and sealing the entire world out, Abby Pembroke along with it. Only then did he strip off his jeans and toss them aside before turning into the steaming spray in an effort to cleanse her lingering essence from his mind and his heart.

While he still could.

“You were fantastic, hon! The star of the show.”

Abby paused in the middle of removing her stage makeup to shoot a smile toward Marlena’s reflection as her friend entered the dressing room. “Yeah, yeah. You say that to Stephen after every concert.”

Marlena laughed as she closed the door. “True. But he’s my husband, so I’m excused.” Her grin turned wicked as she plopped down at the end of the padded bench. “Besides, I just tell the hulking lug that so I can get lucky later in bed.”

Abby laughed so hard she dropped her tissue into the pot of cold cream. At five-ten with a wiry build, Stephen was no hulking lug, not even beside Marlena’s petite build.

Her friend raked her fingers through her short blond curls and sighed. “I’m bushed—and I didn’t even perform. You ready to go?”

“In a sec.” Abby swung around on the bench. She’d already exchanged her black floor-length skirt and silk blouse for a peach T-shirt and faded jeans. She reached down for the worn leather flats that completed her postconcert ensemble, careful to keep her gaze on the carpet as she slipped the right shoe on. “I take it he didn’t show up.”

Silence.

By the time she glanced up, Marlena had crossed the dressing room and was studiously rearranging the bouquet of calla lilies currently overpowering the dressing-room table. Her friend fiddled with the flowers for several moments, then turned and sighed. “You really didn’t think he’d come, did you?”

No.

Abby slipped into the other shoe. Five days might have passed since she’d used Mr. Darian Sabura’s shoes as an excuse to drop off that pair of tickets, but any hope she’d had the man would use them—and in the process, possibly change his tune regarding her brother—had vanished long before the final movement of tonight’s symphony.

Marlena frowned as she plucked a spray of miniature peach orchids from the simple vase beside the lilies. “Honey, I know you had hopes of improving neighborly harmony, but it’s time to face facts. The man’s just not interested. Even if he had shown tonight, chances are he’d have taken one look at the genetic makeup of the rest of your guests and split.”

As much as Abby would’ve liked to deny the assessment, she couldn’t. “You’re probably right.”

“You know I am.” Marlena turned and snagged the violin and case from the dressing-room table. She held them out. “Now, cheer up and pack. It’s a big night. If not for you, for someone else I know.”

Marlena was right about that, too—tonight was a big night. And not because of a successful solo—because of Brian. Abby grinned as she accepted the custom case her father had given her three Christmases ago. Her brother would be sleeping over for the first time since her return from Europe. Frankly, she couldn’t wait to get him all to herself again. She popped the latches on the case and retrieved the cloth, carefully wiping the Stradivarius down before fitting the violin into its velvet bed. She slipped the horsehair bow into the empty slot and tucked the cloth inside. The moment she snapped the reinforced case shut and spun the combination lock, the door to the dressing room burst open.

Brian tumbled inside along with Marlena’s son. Nathaniel raced over to his mom as her brother hauled Abby in for a hug. Brian’s dark, upturned eyes danced behind his ever-present thick lenses as he grinned up at her. “You played very great tonight, Abby! The best. Everyone said so.”

Abby laughed, her hand slipping up to ruffle his soft brown hair before she could stop it. Knowing Brian, she figured he’d grilled every single patron he could following the concert, too. “Thanks, bro. So, you up for a pizza and a sleepover?” She might have mastered the violin by six, but she still hadn’t mastered the art of eating before a performance. Fortunately for her, Brian was up for Gino’s pepperoni special 24/7, whether he’d eaten recently or not.

His grin split wide, letting her know tonight was no exception. “Let’s go!”

Marlena held out her violin case and gym bag as she stood.

“Thanks.” Abby took them as Stephen arrived just in time to follow Brian and Nathaniel right back out the door. She crossed the room to head out after them.

“Ab?”

She paused at the door. “Yeah?”

Marlena pointed to the flowers on the dressing-room table. “Are you really leaving those for the janitor?”

She shrugged. “Grab the miniature orchids if you like, but leave the lilies. Fred can dump those in the garbage, for all I care. Unless you want them, which I doubt.”

Marlena frowned. “Don’t tell me—”

“’Fraid so.” She didn’t care if Stuart had left his name off that bizarre pastoral postcard to get it past security. There were only so many people who knew callas were her favorite. Of those, only one who’d send a bouquet so huge it bordered on garish. And then there was the stunning arrogance of his note: “I have more of what you need.” He’d even gone so far as to leave a cell number she didn’t recognize at the bottom, no doubt in hopes she’d actually call.

She wouldn’t.

In fact, she planned to apply for a new unlisted number herself come Monday morning. Right after she paid a visit to Stuart’s mother. Until this evening, she’d assumed Stuart simply wanted to get back together to help his flagging campaign for city councilman. If she was wrong and the implied threat in that note was correct, changing her phone number wouldn’t stop the harassment…but informing Katherine Van Heusen her precious son was trying to contact her again would.

Marlena grinned. “Atta girl. You’re learning.”

Her friend had no idea.

Abby sighed. “Yeah, well, hold your praise. I know three other guys who are going to come rushing back to harass us if we don’t get a move on.”

Marlena nodded as they hurried down the hall.

Fortunately, most of the symphony patrons had left. By the time she and Marlena made it to Lincoln Center’s underground parking garage, Stephen’s SUV was idling beside the curb. Marlena passed the orchids over as Stephen let Brian out of the car. “You sure you two wouldn’t rather have a lift?”

Brian answered for her as he reached their side. “No way! We want to stop for pizza.”

Marlena laughed. “Well at least let me take your bag. I’ll bring it to the softball game tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.” Abby handed her bag to Marlena and the orchids to Brian, then waved to Nathaniel in the SUV before tucking the violin case beneath her left arm. She linked hands with her brother as they chatted and walked back down the hall toward the rear pedestrian exit that spilled out onto West Sixty-fifth. To her surprise, the street appeared darker than usual. As they turned left onto the sidewalk, she realized why. Either the grid that handled Lincoln Center was experiencing an electrical glitch or several of the halogen lamps along this side of the complex had dimmed enough to need replacing.

The effect was a bit spooky.

While traffic was still whizzing along Broadway at a decent clip, they were headed in the opposite direction, past Juilliard and the Walter Reade Theatre. Abby tightened her grip on Brian’s hand as they turned toward Amsterdam. Several steps later she clamped down tighter as she caught sight of a parked limo twenty yards ahead on the opposite side of the street. More specifically, the broad-shouldered, suit-clad man leaning into the driver’s window. To think she’d been impressed with Dare’s silhouette that night in her room. This guy was twice as big. Worse, the vibes the gorilla gave off were twice as dangerous and even more unsettling.

In the wrong way.

But why? Other than the man’s massive size, she had nothing to base the impression on.

Still, a voice deep inside her shouted run.

Even stranger, the voice wasn’t hers.

Abby bit down on her lip. “Maybe we should have taken Marlena’s offer for a ride tonight.” They could still hail a cab on Broadway.

Brian shook his head stubbornly. “No way. I want Gino’s!”

She tugged her gaze from the limo, ignoring the now bellowing voice inside her head. For goodness’ sakes, Gino’s was only two blocks away. “Okay, pizza it is.”

The second she glanced back, she changed her mind. Glass shattered around their feet from the vase of orchids as she caught sight of a glinting blade. The brute had a knife—and he was using it. Abby shrieked as the thug ripped the limo door open to stab the driver again. She screamed as her brother bounded forward toward the attacker.

“Brian, no!”

The violin case crashed to her feet and she vaulted over it racing after Brian. Two steps later, the tip of her right shoe clipped the edge of a pothole and she fell to her knees. She was still scrambling to her feet in the middle of the street as Brian reached the limo. Abby screamed again, this time at the top of her lungs, as the thug spun around and grabbed her brother by his hair, bashing the side of his head into the passenger window with enough force to shatter the glass.

A split second later, tires squealed.

Abby froze, then jerked her gaze to her left. It was a mistake. She was instantly blinded by the twin headlights bearing down on her. Before she could move, a wall of solid muscle slammed into her from behind, mercifully wrenching her out of the way of the fishtailing car before tackling her to the far side of the street. Pain exploded inside her skull as her head smacked into the cement curb.

“You okay?” The man above her asked.

“Y-yes—”

“Good.” He held her down. “Stay down.”

She couldn’t have disobeyed if she’d wanted to. Her vision was fuzzed and her balance was nonexistent. She crammed every ounce of strength she had into a single plea as the nausea threatened. “Please, help my broth—”

The limo roared to life, drowning out the rest.

It didn’t matter. Her tackler had already jackknifed off her body and vaulted after the car. It happened so quickly, she never even saw the man’s face. She had managed to place his voice, however. But by then it was too late.

She’d already passed out.