Storm of Visions Page 3

  In Hills’s sales window, a pair of red satin heels with diamond buckles caught her attention. She stopped, stared, and wondered if she could ever afford shoes like that again—and at that moment, she caught her first glimpse of him, a dark reflection in the glass. The other people on the sidewalk hurried past, but he stood still, a little to the side, and when she glanced at him, the way you do in a crowd, without really looking at him—he was watching her.

  Tall. Lanky. Dark-haired. Pale blue eyes with the chilling look of a hunter.

  She had seen that look before.

  Turning away from the window, she hurried down the street, that cold draft on the back of her neck.

  Okay. So this wasn’t some kind of bizarre coincidence. He wasn’t here on vacation. He had followed her. He was there, part of the impersonal crowd that gathered by the crosswalk. No one else was looking at her. Just him.

  The light changed. The crowd surged forward. She surged with them.

  The heat rose from the sidewalk and through the soles of her running shoes, and in the odor of the hot asphalt, she could almost smell the flames of hell.

  Hell . . .

  For a moment, the colors around her faded, turned pale and sepia-tinted, and inside her head, she heard a faint, constant sound of water dripping . . . dripping. . . .

  She staggered and went down on one knee, and the pain brought her back.

  Thank God. She couldn’t afford to do this now. She would not allow herself to do this now.

  Bending her head, she pretended to tie her shoe, and when she stood, Mr. Aggressive had moved on. Darting into the quilting shop, she walked swiftly toward the back.

  With a smile, the lone, elderly clerk said, “Hi, I’m Bernice. May I help you with your quilting needs?”

  “I’m just passing through.” Jacqueline paused, her attention captured by the long row of scissors hanging from hooks on the Peg-Board wall. “How much are those?”

  “The scissors? It depends on the size and the quality, and what you intend to do with them.” Bernice bustled forward, ready to have a long, involved conversation.

  Jacqueline scanned the selection, grabbed an eight-inch, fifteen-dollar pair, and flung it on the counter.

  “That pair is good as all-around scissors, but if you’re going to be cutting much material, you’d be happier with the slightly more expensive, chrome-plated Heritage Razor Sharpe shears.”

  Jacqueline dug out her wallet and flung a twenty on top of the scissors. “I’m going to stab somebody with them.” The plan gave her a fierce satisfaction.

  Bernice tittered; then as she stared into Jacqueline’s face, her smile faded. “Well . . . then . . . I suppose they’ll do.”

  She backed toward the cash register so slowly, Jacqueline knew she couldn’t wait to be rung up. She had about a minute before Mr. Aggressive realized he’d lost her, retraced his steps, and picked up her trail again. Grabbing the scissors, she said, “Keep the change,” and swerved around the sales counter and into the back room.

  “Hey!” Bernice called. “You can’t do that. You can’t do that!”

  “Watch me,” Jacqueline muttered. She slipped the scissors in her pocket, and was out the back door and into the alley before Bernice had a chance to say anything more.

  Jacqueline took a left and ran hard for the next street. With a glance either direction, she caught another wave of the crowd and headed away from the courthouse. At an opportune moment, she dashed across traffic and ducked into another alley. She hid behind the first Dumpster, a hot, filthy metal bin that smelled like rotting Mexican food. She opened zippers and dug down to the bottom of her backpack, looking for her baseball cap. She found it, gave a sigh of relief as she tucked up her hair, and ran again, away from the crowds, and toward home.

  Her apartment was two blocks away on the town’s formerly fashionable drive. If she could reach the old house, she’d be safe. Her stalker would be behind her. She’d have time to figure out what to do.

  Call the police?

  Not even. Men like Mr. Aggressive had connections that law enforcement respected.

  Pack her bags and get out of town?

  No way. She’d run before. She wasn’t doing it again.

  Hide under the bed?

  Yeah, maybe.

  She turned onto her quiet street, with its massive oaks and shady yards, and slowed to a walk. She scanned the immediate area.

  Mrs. Mallery’s little dog Nicki came out and yapped at her. Nosy, retired Mr. Thomas stopped killing his weeds long enough to ask, “Hot enough for you?”

  “Sure is,” she said. “Have you seen anything interesting come down the street? Any strangers?”

  Mr. Thomas leaned on his shovel. “No. Were you expecting someone?”

  “Just asking!” She smiled at him.

  His gaze dropped to her leather gloves. “Weird girl,” he muttered.

  She didn’t care what he thought. She only cared that no man disturbed the even tenor of the neighborhood.

  So she was hot and sweaty, but she was triumphant. Mr. Aggressive might be the world’s all-time best tracker, but she’d lost him. That would teach him to terrorize a young, single woman, to think that he had the right to show up in her life again after so many years.

  She climbed the wooden steps onto the wide porch and checked her mailbox. A catalogue and a bill. She used her key to let herself in the side door and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  The old house had been divided into four apartments per floor, with a tiny kitchen and a living room, and a bedroom the size of a closet. She was one of the lucky ones; she had her own bathroom with a black-and-white ceramic tile floor, a pedestal sink, and a claw-foot tub.

  Still cautious, she tried the knob; her apartment was locked.

  She pulled the scissors out of her pocket and held them like a knife. She inserted her key, swung the door wide, and looked inside. The living room and kitchen were empty. Everything was as she had left it.

  Damn him. He really did have her on edge.

  But better safe than sorry. Quickly, she shut the door behind her. She slid the scissors back in her pocket, set the dead bolt and fastened the chain, then dropped her backpack and hat by the door. Pulling off her T-shirt, she headed for the bedroom. She kicked her shoes toward the closet, peeled off her gloves—and paused.

  She could hear water running. No big deal, because the lavatory upstairs was right over her head and the pipes ran through the wall. But this was in her apartment. She walked through the door into the old-fashioned bathroom, and the steam hit her in the face.

  She’d left the shower running.

  Sure, this morning she’d been in a hurry, distracted by that sickening sepia world that hovered close to the edges of her consciousness, and the sound of water dripping . . . dripping. . . .

  Now, for the briefest second, she closed her eyes and touched her marked palm to the place on her forehead between her eyes.

  Her mind, her soul struggled to give birth to some . . . thing. . . .

  She caught herself. Took her hand away.

  She didn’t want to acknowledge the ache that plagued her there. If she could just ignore it, it would go away. It always had before. . . .

  The shower. She’d left the shower running.

  How could she have been so careless? She had her hand on the green plastic curtain when the word echoed in her mind.

  Careless . . .

  And she realized . . . someone was in there.

  Flinging the plastic curtain open, he pulled her inside.

  Chapter 3

  Jacqueline landed on her rear in the tub. The thump was loud; her scream was louder. She caught a flash of naked guy—tall, lean, cold blue eyes—hovering over her.

  Rage blasted through her. He would not win. Not this time.

  Flipping onto her hands and knees, she groped in her pocket. When she came back around, she had the scissors in her fist. She stabbed at his ribs, ramming him with the point.


  He flinched back. Hissed with pain. Recovered all too quickly. Caught her wrist as she wound up again. Twisted until her fingers went numb. She released the scissors; they clattered against the side and before they’d slid toward the drain, he’d kicked them through the plastic shower curtain in one smooth, forceful motion.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She threw herself against the sloped back of the tub, hit hard, and slithered down, lashing out with her feet.

  He went down, then recovered as quickly as a cat, landing on top of her.

  Yet not too hard—he took the brunt of the fall on his hands and knees, protecting her from the full weight of his body.

  But not for any good reason; before she’d finished sliding to the bottom, he’d grabbed the front snap of her bra and broke it open.

  Enraged, outraged, she grabbed for his close-cropped hair. She gave a twist, but after forcing one satisfying yelp from him, she lost her grip.

  He settled his hands on her breasts. And looked at her. Just looked at her.

  Blood slid out of the wound at his side and, driven by the rush of water, washed along his sculpted ribs. Blood dripped onto her belly and down the drain.

  She was proud she’d wounded him, glad he was in pain.

  Then she looked deep into his fierce blue eyes, and her body was suspended in a bubble composed of an intoxicating cocktail of hatred and desire.

  He used his thumbs to taunt her, caress her, offer a slow, sweet enticement.

  The world inside the shower curtain was warm and intimate. Her nipples tightened, thrusting into his palms. The water rained down on them, wetting his shoulders, her face, their entwined bodies. The pounding of her heart slowed, and her eyelids grew heavy.

  She took a long, measured breath. . . . Seduction was so easy for him.

  She was so easy for him. The thought roused her, infuriated her. Shouting, “No!” she knocked his hands away and slammed her fist toward his nose.

  She didn’t make contact.

  He was too fast. He was too experienced. He caught her around the waist and turned her onto her belly.

  She got her elbows underneath her and easily levered herself up. Too easily; he was waiting for her.

  He reached around her and unsnapped her jeans.

  “You son of a . . .” She headed over the edge of the tub.

  Again, she’d made it easy for him. He could never have wrestled the wet denim off, but he held her waistband and she crawled right out of them. He let her tumble out of the tub and onto the mosaic of cold ceramic tile, then followed her out. He grabbed her ankle as she rose to run. She let him jerk her off her feet, then kicked at the wound on his ribs.

  The breath left his lungs in a wrenching groan. He lost his grip. Caught her ankle again. Wildly, she used her free foot to lash out at him.

  But he dodged, dodged again, and the third time, he caught her other ankle. He had control of her legs. He yanked her knees out from under her. Her belly slid onto the cold tiles. He dragged her toward him, and when she tried to claw the floor and slow her progress, he laughed . . . softly.

  It was like being drawn into a furnace fired by lust. Water dried on her skin as he pulled her into his grasp. He used his broad hands to open her legs, then walked them up her calves, her knees, her thighs. He reached her hip, and briefly his fingers lifted.

  She took the opportunity to struggle another yard toward the bedroom.

  He used both hands to rip one thin strap of her thong. Her panties sagged, hanging on one hip. Then he captured her again.

  Her stomach twisted in fear and fury.

  And, God help her, anticipation.

  He kissed one buttock; then when she tried to reach around and slap him, he bit her, a small, sharp sting of retribution. He slid one arm under her hips and used that as leverage to push her underneath him. He rested on top of her, pressing her into the floor.

  The tiles were cold. And hard.

  He was heavy. And hot. And hard. His erection pressed between her legs. Nothing but the thin nylon of her panties barricaded her from his intrusion.

  He smelled like soap and man and sex that lasted for languid hours.

  He infuriated her. “You coward,” she said.

  “Coward? My darling, what do you mean?” His voice was a purr of satisfaction.

  “Are you afraid to let me face you? Afraid I’ll hurt you again?”

  He stilled; then with his hands at her waist, he turned her.

  She stared into his eyes, blue, but no longer cold. They blazed with passion, with need . . . with a knowledge she could not deny.

  “My God, I have missed you.” Reaching up, she grabbed his hair, damp from the shower, and pulled his face down to hers. She kissed him deeply, tasting for the first time in two years the flavor of Caleb D’Angelo, her one, her only lover.

  Chapter 4

  Caleb responded to Jacqueline’s aggression with an aggression of his own, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth while his hands shoved her panties down one leg. He pushed one finger inside her, claim ing her without a care to the years apart.

  And her treacherous body, of course, did more than yield. It softened around him, grew moist in surrender, and she bucked beneath him, already on the edge of orgasm.

  “Don’t even think about finishing already.” His voice grated in anger. “You ran away. You pretended not to know me. You are going to pay.”

  “You were an ass, so if there’s payment to be made—”

  “I’ve already paid. Every day when we were apart, I paid.”

  “Not enough. Whatever you suffered, it wasn’t enough.” She tightened her inner muscles, massaging his finger.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Imagine how good that would feel around your cock,” she whispered, and did it again, a long ripple that made him hiss with need.

  He wanted to dominate her? She had the weapons to fight the good fight.

  And he had the toughness, mental and physical, to keep her subdued. In a gradual, torturous motion, he slipped his finger out of her.

  She shuddered and grabbed his arms, wanting to be filled again.

  He sat up between her thighs. She watched, mesmerized, as a drop of water gathered at his throat, then trickled down his breastbone, zigzagging along the path of least resistance, between muscles even more sharply defined than she remembered. Had he lost weight? Did he work out more than he had before? Or was reality simply so much better than memory?

  The drop of water joined the slow ooze of blood from the wound she’d given him.

  He must be in pain, but he didn’t seem to notice. Of course not. Caleb had always been capable of proceeding on the course he’d determined, regardless of the pain he suffered . . . or the pain he would cause her.

  And right now, his course had been determined by his erection and his need. Curse him for making his need hers.

  He widened his legs and folded them underneath him, resting on his heels so close against her, everything female opened to him like a flower in bloom. Her knees were crooked, her feet rested flat on the floor, and as he looked down, he slid his palms up and down the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. That distinctive half smile quirked his cheek. “You’re swollen, Jacqueline.”

  He was looking. Looking and enjoying himself. She lifted her chin. “Yeah. So what? So are you.” She glanced down at him. Obviously.

  “So this makes even the smallest touch agony.”

  “That works both ways.”

  He pressed himself against her, a long, slow slide of his hips.

  She wanted to writhe against him. She wanted to rub him until she found her own pleasure, then rub him until he found his.

  But as always, he read her intentions on her face and caught her hips in his hands. “What is your desire, Jacqueline?”

  She turned her face away, refusing to look at him, to give him the satisfaction of knowing her frustration.

  “Jacqueline.” He leaned over, slid his hands along the floor on either si
de of her back, under her arms, and up to cradle her head. He surrounded her now; his legs were under hers and against her hips. His arms embraced her body. His chest touched hers. He smelled like her soap, lemon and rosemary, and like himself, strength and power.

  Yet one thing overcame her awareness of all that—his erection, heavy and hot, pressed at the entrance of her body.