Just For Her. Katherine O' NealЧитать онлайн книгу.
she have? There was nothing else she could think to do.
No, she had to go through with it. As demented as it seemed, it was her only chance.
But she’d have to hurry.
Determined now, she reached under her pillow for the pistol she’d placed there. It had seemed so solid and reassuring when she’d taken it from her father’s gun collection. Now it suddenly felt flimsy and inadequate. But she gripped it tightly. Then, taking a gulp of courage, she rose from her bed. She fumbled for her robe, but in her agitated state, she couldn’t find it. There was no time to search. He could be gone at any second. She’d have to go without it.
Her legs feeling like jelly, she quietly made her way across the darkened chamber to the connecting door. She’d purposely left it open, but it was now closed.
He had closed it. Without her even hearing that he had.
She placed a clammy hand on the knob. Slowly gave it a turn. Silently pushed it open.
And saw him across the room. A dim figure, standing at the safe, working the tumblers.
Once again, panic choked her. Her hand, holding the gun, was trembling uncontrollably.
What will he do when he realizes I’m here?
Her imagination conjured up a swift succession of images. The intruder rushing her…overpowering her…hurting her…maybe even killing her…
And she, through self-preservation, forced to shoot him…
She’d never shot a gun in her life. She wasn’t even certain she knew how.
Unbidden, she remembered Scott Fitzgerald saying, with drunken wisdom, “A burglar is only dangerous when he’s been surprised in the act.”
Stop it, she scolded herself. You can do this. You have to. Be firm. Unafraid. You have him in your power.
Just then, she heard the metallic click as he turned the handle and opened the safe. Within an instant, he would know it was empty.
As he reached inside, she said in French, “You won’t find what you’re looking for, I’m afraid.”
He jerked around, into the moonlight streaming through the window from which he’d entered.
And as he did, she saw him more clearly—a tall figure, clad in all black, the fitted material clinging to a body that was muscular and sleek. A specially fashioned mask, also black, concealed the top of his face…hiding his nose and cheeks…sweeping over his head to cover his hair…The only feature visible was a clean-shaven jaw and the faint gleam of dark eyes through the slits of his disguise. He stood poised and alert, his hands at his sides, ready to pounce. The effect was both masculine and feline, calling to mind images of the jungle cat to which he’d been so aptly compared.
All at once, he darted for the open window. But she was closer. Instinctively, she stepped in front of it, blocking his path, reaching behind her to pull it closed.
He stopped in his tracks.
“I have a gun,” she told him, her voice shaky.
She could see his head swivel as he quickly surveyed the room, looking for another escape. Two doors. One, behind him, led to the hallway, but it was closed. The other, the one connecting to her bedroom, was closer and open. He stared at it, then back at her, no doubt wondering if she would really shoot him if he made a dash for it.
Astonishingly, despite her advantage, she sensed no fear in him. His presence sparked and sizzled in the room, sucking the air from it so she could barely breathe. A raw stalking presence, wholly male, predatory and sexual in nature, made her suddenly aware that she stood before him in nothing but a lace and chiffon nightgown. She could feel the vulnerability of her soft female flesh, of the swells and hollows of her body, in a way that made her feel it was he who held the upper hand.
For a moment—an eternity—he didn’t move. He just stood there, his gaze locked on her. She could feel the heat of that gaze as though his hand was passing over her. She tried again to swallow. Heightened by the danger, it seemed that every pore of her skin radiated and throbbed with her awareness of him.
And then, like lightning—so suddenly, she had no time to react—he lunged across the room and wrenched the pistol from her hand.
For a moment he just stood there, the weapon aimed at her. Her hand aching, Jules could feel the frightened rasp of her breath. Her imagination running wild again, she pictured him pulling the trigger, heard in her mind the roar of the gun’s report.
The silence was deafening. Her nerves were raw.
But then—quickly, efficiently—he flipped open the barrel, let the bullets drop to the floor, and tossed the pistol aside. Jules felt a momentary relief. But it was short-lived. Unthreatened now, he skirted around her and started for the window from which he’d come.
In desperation, she sprang to block his exit, flinging herself back against the window, her arms spread wide to prevent his escape.
“Please, don’t go.”
He stopped at once, his instincts honed. She imagined him grabbing her and hauling her aside.
Instead, with a stealthy grace, he veered to his left and started for the open door that led to her bedroom and the terrace beyond. Realizing his intention, she ran after him.
“Wait!” she cried.
He wheeled on her threateningly, his hand raised. “Stand back,” he warned, speaking in Italian—a deep, whispery, dangerous growl.
Switching quickly to Italian, she told him, “I just want to speak with you. That’s why I lured you here.”
“Lured me?” He glanced about warily, as if expecting a contingent of police to burst into the room.
“There’s no one here,” she rushed to assure him. “I don’t want you captured. I just—”
He wasn’t listening. She could feel his urgent need to get away. He crossed the room, rounding the bed on his way to the French doors, the terrace, and freedom beyond.
Fueled by despair, Jules shot after him and grabbed him by the arm. Beneath the black sweater, it felt like iron.
He jerked free with a strength that sent her tumbling back. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”
Jules was past caring. All she knew was that she couldn’t let him walk out the door and out of her life.
She grabbed onto him once again. This time he shoved her back onto the bed. “Don’t you care what happens to you?” he snarled.
“No,” she confessed. “I have nothing to lose.”
“You’re mad,” he rasped.
“Am I?” She stood slowly, careful not to cause alarm. “Perhaps. All I know is that fate has brought you to me.”
“Fate?”
“Destiny has sent you to me, Panther. You can’t run away now.”
“Can’t I?”
He turned to leave, but she gasped out, quickly, “I have a proposition for you.”
That stopped him. Slowly, he asked, “Now, what kind of proposition could a woman like you have for a man like me?”
Her eyes roamed the feral black-cloaked phantom before her. Unbidden, the first line of Byron’s Don Juan sprang to her lips: “‘I want a hero.’”
“You want what?”
She took a breath and spat out the words.
“I want you to kill my husband.”
Chapter 2
The intruder hadn’t counted on this.
He hadn’t counted on her