Dangerous Passion Page 8

  If there had been anything even remotely funny about the situation, Drake would have laughed at their expressions. Ben’s jaw simply dropped and Grace’s lush mouth opened in astonishment. They both looked utterly blindsided.

  Well, what the fuck did they think?

  They weren’t thinking, that was the problem. Smart as Ben was, as talented as he was as a doctor, he didn’t think like a soldier. It simply wasn’t in him. And Grace was an artist, an incredibly gifted one who, from what he could see, lived a simple life, mainly inside her own head.

  Neither of them could think strategically, carry the complex geometry of violence in their heads without it affecting their thought processes. Drake was born to this world, was at home in this world, was a goddamned king in this world.

  He was born with the ability to think four, five, even ten strategic moves ahead. While his enemies were busy reacting to his first move, he saw straight through to the endgame. The endgame he inevitably won.

  He remembered the exact second when he’d heard the sound behind him. His body prepared itself to react, but it was meat and bone and blood. Bound by the laws of physics and gravity.

  His mind, however, held no such limitations and it saw, as clear as day, the consequences of what was happening.

  His obsession with Grace had left him open, a man who’d never given anyone an opening. Right now, Grace Larsen was a huge opening through the heart of his life.

  Time and again over the past year, he’d told himself that what he was doing was dangerous. He took every possible precaution, evading his own security, but nothing was perfect. So in this imperfect world, someone had somehow found out where he was going.

  Though he’d lectured himself to be content with buying up all Grace’s paintings and drawings, somehow it wasn’t enough. Even knowing he was putting himself in danger, he persisted in seeing her.

  He’d observed her twice a month for over a year now and though he was insane to hide in an alleyway which was a cul de sac, though he understood with half his brain that he was endangering his life twice a month, the other half of his head loved his obsession. He’d make his circuitous way back to his building each and every time walking a little lighter, head filled with images of her. He could see her in his mind’s eye for days afterward, all the expressions that crossed her face. Laughing, serious, relaxed, tense in the few moments she showed new work until, inevitably, Feinstein smiled.

  She was unlike any woman he’d ever known. In the past year, he’d handed over several hundred thousand dollars for her paintings. Her work was worth every penny and of course the money was nothing to him.

  Still, he knew how poor she’d been. He’d checked her bank account and she’d had next to nothing. But all the money he poured into her artwork didn’t change her lifestyle at all. The greed gene seemed to have passed her by completely.

  Every single beautiful woman Drake had ever met wanted to enhance her beauty. Make it bigger and bolder, to wield more power over men. Above all, women wanted to stop the clock. They were obsessed with it.

  They’d starve themselves, put themselves under the knife, inject themselves with a lethal toxin to smooth out their faces. None of it had anything to do with health and strength, it was all vanity.

  Over the course of the year, Grace hadn’t changed one bit. Though she could now afford designer clothes, the best hairdressers, she could probably fucking move into the most expensive spa in Manhattan and spend all her time there…she stayed exactly the same. He hacked her credit card accounts and the only thing she spent more money on than before was art supplies.

  There was no vanity there. None at all, that he could see. She didn’t buy herself new friends with her new money. If anything, at times she seemed a little lonely.

  Christ, he knew what that felt like. Knew it in his bones.

  Every time, he came away from watching her feeling a deep connection. It was insane, of course. The only connection was in his head. But even there, it was such a rare thing, he cherished it. Cherished just the notion of the existence of Grace Larsen, who seemed to have no ambition other than to make beautiful paintings, who seemed to have no greed or aggression in her.

  It made him feel better just to know she was in the world. Because his world was full of violence and greed and treachery.

  And today, tragically, his world had crashed into hers, changing it forever.

  Ben was the first to recover. He turned to Grace. “Do you live alone?”

  She looked startled, then uneasy. “Yes, I—I live alone.” She clearly didn’t like saying it.

  Good girl, Drake thought. Don’t give out any personal information to anyone.

  She could to him, though. He’d rather rip his own throat out than hurt her. She didn’t realize that yet, but she would.

  “You have some nasty gashes in your head,” Ben said. “I don’t think you’re concussed but I wouldn’t swear in court that you’re not. I think you should stay here for the time being, under observation. You’ll be cared for here.” He shot a look at Drake, who nodded his head slightly, amused that Ben had already taken her under his wing.

  Drake hopped down from the hospital cot and walked over to Grace, standing so close to her she had to look up, not so close it would set off her alarms. Her face tilted up to his, expression wary, and weary.

  “I’ve ordered some food brought up,” he said gently. He reached out a hand and stroked the back of his index finger down her cheek. Her skin felt incredibly soft but chilly. She was in a state of mild shock.

  Drake looked into her sea-green eyes, amazed at what he found there. Pain, shock, sadness. Those were to be expected. But other expected emotions were missing.

  No hatred, no hostility, no animosity, even though she’d lost a friend and had been threatened and shot at because of him.

  Above all, he saw absolutely no calculation in her sad, weary gaze. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had looked at him and seen a man and not a walking bank account.

  She’d seen the car, the men he commanded, parts of his living quarters, including a private clinic. She hadn’t seen it all, of course, but she’d seen enough to know he had…resources. None of that seemed to make any difference to her. While Ben had been stitching him up and he’d sent himself away from the pain, her slender hand in his had grounded him. He’d actually felt the human connection of solidarity from her, felt very strongly the comfort she’d wanted to give.

  Drake couldn’t remember the last time someone had offered him comfort. Certainly no woman in his life had ever tried to offer him anything, least of all comfort. They all wanted things from him, the bigger, the brighter, the shinier the better.

  She was swaying on her feet, cold and wounded, and he snapped out of his reverie. Just being near her seemed to slow his thought processes down, make him clumsy and stupid. He couldn’t stand to see her like this, hurting and sad. She was his responsibility, now. He had to start taking care of her.

  “I need to go home,” she whispered, eyes searching his. He didn’t know what she was looking for. Permission? Or was she seeking some sign that he meant her harm?

  “Grace,” he said. “May I call you Grace? I heard you telling Ben your name.”

  As if he didn’t know her name. As if it weren’t engraved on his mind.

  She nodded, eyes huge.

  “All right then, Grace.” Slowly, Drake drew in a deep breath, a prelude to what he had to tell her. He was only going to give her a small part of the truth, but even that was going to be hard for her to take. The whole truth would wipe her out. He’d have to portion it out to her over the next few days. “I think you should stay here, with me, for a…while. Until we’re sure it’s safe for you to return.” Her eyes widened. “The men who came after me, they can easily find out where you live. They could come after you and probably will.”

  He made it sound like a probability, whereas it was a certainty. No one would have made a move like that without knowing everything about
the players. They knew enough to use her as leverage against him. No fucking way they didn’t have her address. No fucking way there wasn’t an army camped out on her doorstep, just waiting to take her down.

  What little color Grace had in her face left. She was the color of ice. “I hadn’t even thought of that,” she whispered.

  No, she wouldn’t have. This wasn’t her world. Her world was full of beautiful shapes and colors. She swayed again and Drake caught her gently by the elbow.

  “Ben,” he said, without taking his eyes from hers, “leave the medicines we should be taking on the table. Thanks.”

  Ben understood that for the dismissal it was. A moment later, the door closed quietly behind him.

  Drake waited for him to leave his apartment, then opened the door into the corridor. His quarters were seven large rooms making up one side of a skyscraper, all opening out onto a big corridor.

  Drake ushered Grace out. This was in many ways a dream come true. All this past year, he’d caught himself wishing he could be with her. Wishing they could eat together, spend time together. And deep down, where no one could possibly know his thoughts, wishing that this beautiful woman could be his.

  She was his now, all right. But not for long, because fate had dealt him a cruel, cruel blow. Thanks to him, this gentle, beautiful woman’s life was now over.

  Thanks to him, Grace Larsen was a dead woman walking.

  Six

  Grace was freezing cold. The temperature in the house was normal but she seemed to have a frozen core that simply wouldn’t warm up.

  It was all starting to catch up with her and she longed for the comfort and familiarity of home. Yearned for it with all her heart.

  But when Drake told her that whoever had come after him would come after her, she’d felt a shock of recognition. She’d seen with her own eyes how ruthless the men who’d come after Drake were. How they hadn’t hesitated to use her to get to him.

  Finding her address would be easy. Harold’s office had her address on file. If they knew her name, she was in the phone book. She shook at the thought of being alone in her apartment with killers coming for her.

  Drake took her elbow and again, where his skin touched hers, heat bloomed. He bent his head to hers, face still, voice low and courteous.

  “Would you like to wash up before eating something? It might make you feel better.”

  Oh God, a bath! Right then, Grace wanted a bath more than she wanted food or the oblivion of sleep. Sinking into clean, warm water, soaking her aching muscles—bliss. She nodded, clenching her jaws so her teeth wouldn’t clatter.

  “Come with me.” He led her down the enormous corridor. Ben had disappeared and they were alone. She looked around, really noticing her surroundings for the first time.

  It was the most…sumptuous home Grace had ever seen. And filled with color. They were walking on antique Persian rugs in the deepest reds and greens and blues she’d ever seen. Huge enameled vases in deep, bold hues held thriving plants as big as trees. They passed an open door that obviously led into the living room, so enormous the other end of it was lost in shadows, with comfortable, masculine-looking furniture arranged in groupings, one around a huge lit fireplace.

  Finally, they reached a big wooden door. Drake reached around her to open it, then ushered her in.

  It was a bedroom. His bedroom. “The master bathroom’s through there,” he murmured, nodding his head at another door at the end of the huge room. “I’ve had the bath drawn for you.” He looked at her torn and dirty clothes and smiled faintly. “You’ll want to change, but nothing of mine would fit you so I had one of my gis laid out for you. I hope you’ll find it suitable. It’s brand new, I’ve never worn it. It’s the only thing I can think of to give you. At least it will be comfortable and clean.”

  “Thank you,” she said politely. “That’s very kind. What’s a gi?”

  Again, that little half smile. “A gi is a training uniform for a number of martial arts. It has a kimono-like top and pants with drawstrings, so you can just cinch everything more tightly around you. You’ll find it on top of the towel cabinet, together with everything you’ll need for a bath.”

  He obviously had somehow found the time to give instructions to the army of servants he undoubtedly had to run such an enormous household. But when? She’d have sworn that she’d heard every word he’d uttered since arriving here.

  “Okay, thanks.”

  He nodded his head and, cupping her elbow, led her toward the door on the far side of the room.

  It felt like it took half an hour to cross his bedroom. She’d never seen a room so large. It was at least as large as the loft of one of Harold’s sculptors in Tribeca. Only this wasn’t minimalist black-on-white Manhattan décor; it was almost barbaric in its splendor.

  There was a huge antique four-poster that could sleep a basketball team, with rich emerald-green sheets made of expensive polished cotton. And they’d definitely have to have been custom-made: no commercially made sheets would fit that huge bed. Her hands itched to touch the material, it looked so thick and soft. With an emerald-green custom-made down comforter on top.

  Her own bed was nice. She’d splurged on a big bed with an orthopedic mattress, and she liked pretty sheets, but it was nothing like this.

  Plants here, too. Huge and lush and thriving. The air had that freshness only plants could give a room.

  Plush carpets in jewel tones were everywhere, and living-room sets were scattered throughout the huge space, creating intimate little corners.

  They passed by a hearth made of black marble that was big enough to roast an elephant in. Someone had lit the fire at least an hour ago, because the fire was mature, its smokeless red-orange flames licking greedily upward.

  Colors. There were so many rich, deep colors everywhere, and she realized how color starved she was in Manhattan, where everything seemed to be either black or white or—when designers went really wild—taupe and ecru.

  Color was a gift from the gods, and how anyone could live in a black-and-white environment puzzled her endlessly. Here there was no dearth of colors. Colors and textures and—she had to keep from gasping—a view to kill for. They were very high up. The lights of Manhattan were spread out like an array of diamonds all across one wall. Thick green curtains hung at the edges of the big windows. At midday, the place must be flooded with light. She could see the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building in the distance, and a deep black square close by that must be Central Park, so they were in a serious money zone. This kind of space in these zip codes was way up there in the mega-rich category.

  She’d been so busy taking in her surroundings she hadn’t spoken, but Drake seemed perfectly comfortable with silence. This was unusual. Most men weren’t comfortable with silence. They wanted to hear the sounds of their own voices and they wanted to hear women echoing what they were saying. Luckily, Drake seemed as immune to that as she was.

  They’d reached the far wall and a big white laminated door with a shiny brass handle. “Here we are,” he said, opening the door.

  Grace nearly gasped. It wasn’t a bathroom, it was…it was an apartment. Certainly as big as her own apartment, with acres of rich green marble countertops, emerald green tiles, several amazingly elaborate shower stalls with an array of nozzles and…yes, a tub as large as a small pool with fingers of steam rising from it. And about a billion jets around the rim, promising a water massage guaranteed to ease the ache in her muscles.

  Every cell in her body yearned to be in that tub, but there was something she absolutely had to know first.

  She turned around to look Drake full in the face. She’d been stealing glances at him, fascinated by his hard face, but had been too embarrassed to stare. Now she studied him openly, studied those firm, almost ascetic features, the features of a strong man who’d seen and done hard things.

  She looked him straight in the eyes. Eyes that were dark brown, with no striations at all. Just that solid color, as if a chi
ld had filled in his pupils with a crayon. The whites of his eyes were the clear white of someone who lived healthily. But one never knew.

  She wrapped her arms around her midriff, a little scared because if he gave the wrong answer to her question, the answer she was dreading, she was in big trouble. Terrible trouble. Alone in a building with a man who seemed to be so powerful in so many ways, so very capable of crushing her.

  Here goes nothing.

  She drew in a deep breath, the words coming out in a trembling rush. “I’m sorry to have to ask this, but I can’t stay here a second longer without knowing the answer. Please tell me that whatever all that violence was about, it wasn’t about drugs. That this—” She waved her hand, encompassing the baronial splendor of the apartment. “—this isn’t about drugs. I—I need to be certain about that.”

  Because otherwise, she’d just vomit her misery up and leave immediately, though she had no idea where she could go. Not with thugs possibly gunning for her. Assuming he even let her go.

  Drake didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watched her, eyes cool and calm. Her heart drummed wildly, like that of a trapped bird’s.

  Then he took her hand and placed it against his chest, right over his own heart. He’d had a clean black shirt waiting in the clinic and she could now feel that it was made of thick raw silk. Underneath she could feel slabs of hard muscle, his wiry chest hairs and the slow, strong beat of an athlete’s heart.

  “Put your mind at ease. What happened today had absolutely nothing to do with drugs,” he said in a low, even voice. His gaze held hers, steady and direct. “I abhor drugs as much as you do. Maybe more. I would die rather than have anything to do with them.”

  Grace was an observer, used to living on the sidelines of life. She’d developed a good understanding of people. He was either telling the truth or he was a world-class liar.

  “However,” he said softly, “what you saw had everything to do with money and power.”

  “Money and power.” She shrugged her shoulders, hand still on his chest. All of New York ran on money and power. “That’s nothing. I just couldn’t bear the thought of being in the home of someone who is involved in drugs.”