in pulling him in deeper. Suddenly, it was as if he was there in the room with her—within her. He could feel the soft, lilting melody she’d chosen as it breathed its magic into her heart, gradually easing her anger and disappointment until her soul finally stirred and took over. Within minutes, he no longer knew where he left off and she began. All he knew was that he was lost somewhere amid that gently soothing music and the utter beauty of her. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to both, slipping so smoothly and completely beneath her skin, it should have startled him. But it didn’t.
Until it changed.
He changed. He wanted more. Needed it. For the first time in his life, craved it. Dare closed his eyes tighter, delved deep within himself and reached for her.
But the connection was gone.
He shot upright, clutching at the ends of his shirt as he sucked the air into his lungs, struggling to reorient himself to the bed, the room, his very self without her in it. But it was too late. The contact had been too brief. The bond had faded. All he was left with was this thrumming awareness of her. Though constant and bittersweet, it was once again too much—and yet, no longer enough.
Worse, for a moment he’d almost believed he could have more. That he could have her. But he couldn’t.
Now least of all.
Six days after Abby’s essence had first merged with his own in the lobby, he’d woken in the dead of night with the presence of another filling every inch of his heart. Only this time the essence hadn’t eased in, it had stabbed straight through him, ripping him out of a sound sleep. At first Dare had been terrified the cry had come from her, perhaps even the brother he’d discovered Abby had. But it hadn’t.
Nor had it come from anyone else he could locate.
By the time his thundering heart had slowed, there was nothing left but the mewling echo of pain—and the distinct impression that it had come from a young boy. A boy close to him. Very close. Dare had scoured the early-morning news, even walked the floors of his building and circled those surrounding his in hopes that if the cry had come from a child nearby, he’d be able to locate him. He’d even had Charlotte check the police stations and hospitals.
Their efforts had been for naught.
For once, no children nearby had been beaten or violated in their bodies or their hearts. But the echo had remained. Even now, if he concentrated hard enough, he could hear that cry—feel it—as if it were ripping through him anew. But even stranger and more disturbing was that he also knew the child was okay now. And he still sensed he and the boy were close.
Through blood.
He had to be mistaken. Perhaps Abby’s presence in his life had skewed his sense, much like his mother’s had at times growing up. As a child he’d felt his mother’s pain on a daily basis, though some days it had cut deeper. He felt all too well the cold, emotionless void she’d received in place of her so-called husband, his so-called father. The bastard had cared so little for the two of them that for years he’d suspected the rumors that damned gossip magazine had actually printed before were true. That he and Victor Sabura didn’t share the same DNA.
But they did.
No, he’d never been tested. Given his empathic sense, he hadn’t needed to be. At fifteen he’d finally simply come out and asked the man. Demanded to know. Dare wasn’t sure which had disappointed him more—hearing Victor admit they were related…or feeling the utter lack of subterfuge.
So why could he still feel that cry?
Had Victor fathered another child?
Or did that cry have something to do with the other, older brand still on his heart? The one he’d placed above it.
His tattoo.
Dare glanced down at his chest, only to stop shy of the half-inch mark as he spotted something else.
The envelope Abby had pushed on him.
It was still in his hand.
He retrieved the tickets and studied them. Not only was Abby the featured soloist this coming Saturday, but he was forced to admit to himself that he truly wanted to go.
But he could not.
He’d spent the past two months believing that cry had nothing to do with her. He was right…and he was wrong. That cry had been a harbinger of the storm that was to come. And he did not want Abby caught up inside it. Besides, there would be thousands of people in Avery Fisher Hall. The last time he’d been trapped within the same walls with that much raw, intense emotion from so many people—
He stood.
The mere memory propelled his feet into motion. Dare crossed the bedroom and entered the bath, where his respite still waited. He dropped the tickets and his shirt to the floor, not even bothering to shuck his jeans before he entered the eight-foot hexagonal chamber he’d commissioned years before. He closed the door firmly, sealing himself within the glass and sealing the entire world out, Abby Pembroke along with it. Only then did he strip off his jeans and toss them aside before turning into the steaming spray in an effort to cleanse her lingering essence from his mind and his heart.
While he still could.
“You were fantastic, hon! The star of the show.”
Abby paused in the middle of removing her stage makeup to shoot a smile toward Marlena’s reflection as her friend entered the dressing room. “Yeah, yeah. You say that to Stephen after every concert.”
Marlena laughed as she closed the door. “True. But he’s my husband, so I’m excused.” Her grin turned wicked as she plopped down at the end of the padded bench. “Besides, I just tell the hulking lug that so I can get lucky later in bed.”
Abby laughed so hard she dropped her tissue into the pot of cold cream. At five-ten with a wiry build, Stephen was no hulking lug, not even beside Marlena’s petite build.
Her friend raked her fingers through her short blond curls and sighed. “I’m bushed—and I didn’t even perform. You ready to go?”
“In a sec.” Abby swung around on the bench. She’d already exchanged her black floor-length skirt and silk blouse for a peach T-shirt and faded jeans. She reached down for the worn leather flats that completed her postconcert ensemble, careful to keep her gaze on the carpet as she slipped the right shoe on. “I take it he didn’t show up.”
Silence.
By the time she glanced up, Marlena had crossed the dressing room and was studiously rearranging the bouquet of calla lilies currently overpowering the dressing-room table. Her friend fiddled with the flowers for several moments, then turned and sighed. “You really didn’t think he’d come, did you?”
No.
Abby slipped into the other shoe. Five days might have passed since she’d used Mr. Darian Sabura’s shoes as an excuse to drop off that pair of tickets, but any hope she’d had the man would use them—and in the process, possibly change his tune regarding her brother—had vanished long before the final movement of tonight’s symphony.
Marlena frowned as she plucked a spray of miniature peach orchids from the simple vase beside the lilies. “Honey,
