Dark Seduction. Brenda JoyceЧитать онлайн книгу.
that book was in her store?
The intruder could be a simple nutcase, but Claire was uneasy. Sibylla had seemed to know her and she hadn’t seemed crazy, not at all. She had seemed vicious, ruthless and determined. Claire reached up and clasped the pendant she wore, taking a moment to recover her composure. Of all the nights for a burglary and an assault! But she wasn’t really hurt. If she was lucky, the woman hadn’t found what she wanted. If she was really lucky, that page was actually in her possession!
Claire stood, beginning to calm, the throbbing receding to a dull ache, while a familiar excitement tingled in her veins. Her instinct was to rush into the store and take inventory, but she knew she ought to ice her head first and then call the cops. And she also wanted to check to see if a book called the Cladich had ever existed at all.
But security came first. Claire went into the shop to lock the front door. As she crossed the store, carefully stepping over books and manuscripts, she retrieved the Beretta from the floor. The door had a double lock. Tomorrow, when she had triple locks put on, she’d also add a bolt. As she turned the lock, the reassuring click sounded, but when she tested the door, it opened.
Her heart leaped with dismay. If her locks no longer worked, she was going to a hotel. Claire hesitated and opened the door a crack to look at the lock. Her eyes widened as she stared at the gouges in the wood door frame. It almost looked as if Sibylla had pushed the locked door open, ripping the teeth of the locks through the wooden jamb to do so.
But that was impossible.
She slammed the door closed, refusing to panic. The street outside had been relatively quiet except for some passing cars, but she had no security now. Every night, dozens of pleasure crimes occurred. She had made it her business to know.
She hurried to her desk, skipping over piles of books, grabbed the chair and put it under the doorknob. When the police came, she’d ask them to help her move a bookcase in front of the door. That should add enough security for the moment.
But how could she leave town tomorrow, as planned? Her trip would have to be postponed, Claire realized. She was going to have to take inventory of her stock. The police would demand it. And what if someone had put a valuable page in one of the volumes?
The lure of her vacation and Dunroch warred with her excitement over the possibility of making such a huge discovery. Claire ran into her office, not even turning the lights on. She tapped the space bar on her laptop to bring it out of hibernation, her pulse pounding now. She raced into the kitchen, hitting lights, and began filling a Ziploc bag with ice. The pain in her head had dulled to an unpleasant headache. Maybe she would skip the hospital after all.
From the store, she heard the chair scraping across the floor just as she heard a man curse.
Claire was in disbelief. It could not be another intruder! And then the fear began. She moved, grabbing the gun from the counter, checking wildly to see if it was loaded and then slamming off the kitchen lights. She faded into the wall behind the open kitchen door. Trying not to panic, she listened intently for the man again but heard nothing.
Yet it hadn’t been her imagination. She had heard a curse, nearly inaudible. Claire’s heart pounded with frightening force. Had he left? Or was he even now ransacking her store? Was she going to be assaulted again?
Was he looking for that page from the Cladich? Because this could not be a coincidence. She hadn’t been burglarized in the entire four years she had been open for business.
The phone was on the other side of the kitchen. She knew she should call 911 but she was afraid the intruder would hear her and turn his attentions on her. She gripped the gun so hard her fingers ached, her palms sweaty now. Anger began. This was her store, damn it. But the fear was consuming and no amount of righteous anger could chase it away.
Afraid her shallow breathing was audible and would expose her, Claire began creeping into the hall. The damn desk lamp remained on, making her feel horribly exposed. She could see across the store to the front door, but no one stood in there.
As she passed the stairs, she was seized from behind.
Claire cried out as a powerful arm locked her in place against what felt like a stone wall. Panic made it impossible to think. She became aware of being held, viselike, against a huge, obviously male body.
Her heart was thundering, but suddenly it slowed and Claire had a shocking sense of familiarity. In that moment, fear vanished, replaced only by her acute awareness of stunning male power and strength.
He spoke.
Claire did not understand a single word he said. Her heart raced and fear clawed at her again. Her instinct was to struggle and she began to squirm, grasping his arms to wrench them off. She wished she had spike heels on so she could jam one into his booted foot. Her bare legs came into contact with his thighs and she froze. His legs were absolutely bare, as well. Claire inhaled harshly.
He spoke, jerking on her with his thick arm, and she did not have to understand his language to know he was telling her to be still. And as he pulled her closer, she felt him stiffen against her backside.
Claire froze. Her captor was aroused, shockingly so. The sensation of a great, hard length pressed against her was terrifying—and electrifying, too. “Let me go,” she gasped desperately. And two words blazed across her mind: pleasure crime.
She felt his grip tighten in surprise. Then he said, “Put yer weapon down, lass.”
He spoke English, but there was no mistaking the exaggerated Scottish accent. Claire wet her lips, too dazed to even try to consider what that meant. “Please. I won’t run. Let me go. You’re hurting me.”
To her relief, he relaxed his hold. “Put the weapon down, be a good lass.” As he spoke, she felt his stubble against her jaw, his breath feathering her ear.
Her mind went blank, and she could only think of the powerful pulse pounding against her. Something terrible was happening, and Claire didn’t know what to do. Her body had begun to tighten and thrum. Was this how those women died in the middle of the night? Did they become dazed and confused—and aroused? She dropped the gun and it clattered onto the floor but did not go off. “Please.”
“Dinna scream,” he said softly. “I willna hurt ye, lass. I need yer help.”
Claire somehow nodded. When he removed his arm, she ran to the other side of the hall, whirling and slamming her back against the wall to face him. And she cried out.
She had expected anything but the masculine perfection facing her. He was a towering man, at least six inches taller than she was and hugely muscular. His hair was as black as midnight, his skin bronzed, but he had shockingly pale eyes. They were trained upon her with unnerving intensity.
He seemed just as surprised by the sight of her as she was by him.
She shivered. God, he was handsome. A slightly crooked nose, perhaps broken once, achingly high cheekbones and a brutally strong jaw gave him the look of powerful hero. A scar bisected one black brow and another formed a crescent on one cheek. They merely added to the appearance that this man was battle-hardened, experienced and far too strong for anyone’s good.
But he was a loon. He had to be, because he was wearing clothing she instantly recognized—a midthigh, mustardcolored linen tunic, which was belted, and over that, covering one shoulder, a blue-and-black-plaid mantle pinned with a gold brooch. He wore knee-high, heavily worn, cuffed leather boots, and a huge sword was sheathed on his left side, the hilt sparkling with paste jewels. He was costumed as a medieval Highlander!
He looked like the real deal. He had the bulging arms that could have wielded a huge broadsword effortlessly in the kind of battle one read about in a history book. And whoever had made his costume had done their research. His leine looked authentic, as if it had been dyed with saffron, and that blue-and-black mantle looked hand-loomed. She had to look at his strong thighs again, where his muscles bulged, thighs that looked rock hard from years of riding horses and running hills. Her gaze crept upward to the short skirt of the leine, where a rigid raised line remained.