hot ache buried at both temples. The silence of the room slowly sank in, easing some of her tension. She had survived the attack, and she was still in one piece…more or less.
Reaction hit with the suddenness of a locomotive smashing into a concrete abutment. A low sound tore from her throat, and she wound her arms around her middle, hanging on tight as shudders jerked through her.
She had been found!
This time it had taken months and, unlike all the other times, there had been no warning, no quick word from a neighbour or co-worker telling her that someone was asking after her, or watching her flat. And this time someone had come to her rescue.
The memory of her childish pleas to an imaginary knight to rescue her surfaced, and she stiffened, pushing herself away from the support of the door.
“Get real,” she muttered into the quiet emptiness of her room.
Blade Lombard might resemble the knight of her dreams, he might even act like him, but there had been a seasoned edge of danger evident in those cool, black, marauder’s eyes. In ancient times he might well have been a knight, but he would have disdained spending his time hanging around at court or even participating in tourneys. He would have gained his experience in the heat of battle.
He’d said he had worked for the military, and she believed him. She was willing to bet he’d spent his time in the special forces. It would fit that ruthless competence, the easy way he’d taken charge.
He had helped her out, but if he’d been in Ambrose Park merely by chance, any interest he had in her could only be motivated by his sense of responsibility toward the lone female he had rescued, nothing more. She couldn’t question his chivalry or his manners—they were self evident—but that didn’t change what he was. Trouble.
Any woman who spent time with Blade Lombard would automatically attract attention to herself simply by being in his company. She couldn’t afford to be noticed, and she definitely couldn’t afford to have her photo published in any papers or magazines.
Gingerly, Anna stripped off her damp clothing, trying not to move her head any more than she had to. Her coat had kept off the worst of the rain and mud, but her jeans were soaked to the knees, and her sweatshirt was damp in places where her coat had let the water in. After slipping on a pair of baggy sweatpants and a sweater, she sat on the edge of the bed and bent forward to pull on fleecy socks. The motion made her head pound harder, and she straightened up, holding still, waiting out the ache.
Abruptly she was overcome by a barrage of images: the attack on the sidewalk, the outline of her assailant falling, cold light sliding along the length of a gun barrel. She began to shake again, despite the warm clothing, every muscle in her body rigid with tension.
She should be crawling into bed, pulling the covers over her head and sleeping, but she couldn’t afford to do that yet. She had to think, had to move. The man who had attacked her was still out there. He had been limping, which was probably why he had given up the search. He would be back, and it wouldn’t take him long to discover where she lived.
She would have to pack before she went to bed; make decisions about which of her meagre possessions she would take with her. That wouldn’t take long. She could only take what she could carry or load into the large pack she kept beneath the bed.
The following afternoon, Blade turned from the slice of Auckland’s bustling seaport that was visible from his office window to catch the eye of the man seated across from his desk. “You’re telling me she doesn’t exist?”
Jack McKenna, one of Lombards’ most senior executives and more family than employee, shook his head. “Nope. I’m telling you that legally she doesn’t exist. No birth certificate, passport or driver’s licence. No records of insurance, mortgages or bank accounts. No criminal record. Not even a parking ticket. Nada. Nothing.”
“So, Anna Johnson is a false name.”
Blade had suspected as much, but the reality still annoyed him. She’d met his gaze with those haunted grey eyes of hers, and she had lied.
Jack shrugged. “Easy enough to do, so long as she doesn’t own anything that requires record keeping—a house, a car, a bank account. She probably works for cash under the table, so there are no employment or tax records, and pays for any purchases with cash. There are plenty of employers willing to pay slave wages for an employee who’ll work all hours without complaint.”
The door popped open. Jack’s wife, Milly, who doubled as his personal assistant, strode into the room, vivid in a pants suit in some tropical print that was vibrant with blues and oranges. Somehow the colours didn’t clash with her red hair. Blade knew that Milly was forty-something, around the same age Jack was, but she looked closer to thirty.
She slapped some papers down on the desk, almost taking Jack’s nose off in the process. “Here’s the guest list for that charity bash on Saturday. Every man and his dog are gonna be there, including the Prime Minister.”
“Thank you,” Jack said meekly.
Milly planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t flash those blue eyes at me, Jack McKenna. You are not the flavour of the month.”
“No, ma’am.”
“In a few months time, you will be even less the flavour of the month.”
Jack rose to his feet, placed his hands on either side of Milly’s face and kissed her. When he was finished, he sat back down.
“Humph.” Milly glared at her husband, but Blade noticed the way her gaze lingered wistfully on the rumpled front of his shirt.
Before Jack met Milly, he had been obsessively neat. The knife-edge crease in his suit pants and his exquisite taste in ties had been a by-word in the business world. His ties were now definitely anarchistic, and he was frequently rumpled these days.
Milly strode out. The door closed firmly behind her.
Jack grinned and kicked back in his chair.
Blade’s brows went up; he didn’t think he had ever seen Jack so happy, or so satisfied, despite Milly’s bad temper. “Trouble in marital heaven?”
“Milly’s pregnant,” Jack said baldly. “She says it’s all my fault.”
Blade stared thoughtfully at the door, which Milly hadn’t quite slammed. He knew that she already had three grown children from a previous marriage. “Takes two to tango.”
“Amen to that. It was the tropical honeymoon that did it. She said I ought to be able to control her baser impulses. What can I say?” he murmured, picking up the papers Milly had brought in. “I tried.”
Restlessly, Blade paced the length of his office, halting in front of another bank of windows, this one facing into the city. He stared in the general direction of Joe’s Bar and Grill, the name that had been emblazoned on the front of Anna Johnson’s sweatshirt.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to keep a lid on the wild impatience that was eating away at his usual control. He should forget about her and turn his mind back to work—God knows, there was enough for him to do.
After spending several years with the Special Air Service, Blade had decided it was past time for him to take his place in the family business. He was almost
