into a run, Graham hurdled a woman’s stroller carrying a small child and twisted to avoid a pair of startled businessmen. His heart threatened to burst in his chest. Out of my way, damn it. All he could think was, Trust the feeling. I was right. He had known something bad would happen. He had to get to Casey….
CASEY’S CRIES echoed through the vaulted lobby. By now, she didn’t know up from down, in from out. Her world of darkness whirled. Played havoc with her sense of balance.
She tried to brace herself but felt like a rag doll being flung by a furious child from one side of the constantly circling space in which she was caught to the other. Over and over. Her head spun. Her own voice shrieked, and sound shattered. First she heard the swish of the revolving door, then a wedge of traffic noise. Blaring horns. Screeching brakes. A few footsteps passing by. Then that pressured silence again, like being shut inside a vacuum.
Casey couldn’t tell where she was. In the spinning section of the door her shoulder hit one glass partition then another, hard, her bones and muscles throbbing on impact.
The whole terrifying incident happened in less than a minute, but all the while she could sense the man who stood outside, preventing her escape. She could imagine the Grim Reaper smile on his lips. Her blood rushed through her veins, the memory of her “accident” roared through her mind again. Was it the man from the elevator? She tried to fight back, to push against the glass, but without effort he only shoved the door. Harder.
GRAHAM’S PULSE hammered. He raced across the lobby in seconds that seemed like a lifetime. Charging out onto the sidewalk, he stopped the man’s arm on the upswing before he could push the revolving door again. Then Graham lowered his shoulder and charged, trying to butt him. The guy sidestepped him and Graham missed. Bastard.
He was solid, well-muscled. So was Graham, but before he could recover his own balance, the guy was gone. Graham hadn’t even seen his face. Casey, who had been flung out of the revolving door when Graham’s arrival slowed its motion, was lying on the sidewalk. By that time a crowd had gathered.
“Somebody help her!” he shouted then took off to prevent the guy’s escape. Graham did his best imitation of a linebacker, snaking his way through the puzzled crowd, breathing in sharp hisses like a set of air brakes. Heads turned, necks craned at him and the man he was chasing down the busy Washington street, but Graham’s hours in the Hearthline gym were no match for his heart-pounding terror.
He was still ten yards away when the man, a blur of black pants and shirt, knocked a male pedestrian aside. He vaulted into a dark car at the curb, then tore off, literally. On his way out of the space he bashed the left rear fender of the SUV parked in front of him. Metal crunched. A taillight splintered. A passing taxi horn blew, the cab narrowly missing the car that peeled off into traffic. Then there was silence. Eerie silence.
Graham no longer heard the rush of passing vehicles, the growing buzz of conversation. He bent over, hands braced on his thighs, and gulped in the smoggy, humid air until he could breathe. Then he jogged back to Casey, now sitting on the pavement looking dazed.
Several people hovered over her, offering handkerchiefs and sanitary hand cleaner. Graham bent down to her. Casey’s palms and knees were scraped raw, oozing blood, and fresh anger spurted through him.
“Damn. Come on, babe, let’s get out of here.”
With thanks for the small group of passersby who had come to her aid, he gently helped Casey to her feet. Graham should have trusted his instincts. Divorced or not, whether or not she trusted him, he needed to see her safe at home. Then he needed to start asking hard questions. He hadn’t wanted to think the hit-and-run was deliberate, but now he would learn the truth—all of it.
Maybe then he could tell her the truth about himself.
“YOU SURE YOU’RE OKAY?” he asked Casey.
They had reached her apartment near Dupont Circle, but Casey was still shaking. Hadn’t she known someone would try again to hurt her?
“I’m okay,” she tried to assure Graham when he could see that she was not. He could see.
Digging in her bag for her key, she held it out to him. She wouldn’t be able to fumble it into position herself. Let him do it. Just this once.
Casey even allowed herself a brief, familiar fantasy. Less than a year ago they might have come home like this from a rare evening out, probably at some government function. Still in his tux, his dark hair glossy, his eyes hot, his sensual mouth curved in an always surprising smile, Graham would curl up beside her on the sofa for a nightcap. One thing would lead to another… They’d make lazy love then fall asleep in each other’s arms, warm, sated, only to wake the next morning with their clothes strewn all around the room. And they’d make love all over again.
Casey shook herself. That was all in the past. Graham was the last man she could be intimate with now, even if he was the only one who made her feel safe.
These familiar surroundings didn’t quell her anxiety. The smells of cooking that drifted from other apartments, the blast of someone’s television, the feel of the floor beneath her feet in the hallway could lead to fresh terror in a heartbeat.
As panic engulfed her, she had to suppress the impulse to throw herself into Graham’s arms again. That would create a danger of a different kind. She couldn’t get near Graham without noticing his scent, his body heat, the deep timbre of his voice that heated her blood.
Maybe she shouldn’t have taken Graham up on his offer of a ride home. But her nerves were shot. She kept remembering those frightening seconds in the revolving door, being spun out of control. Every sound, even the scrape of the key in the lock, set her heart racing again. Who might be lurking around the nearest corner? Ready to attack her again? To kill.
Graham couldn’t slip the key into the lock fast enough for Casey. Then he said, “Wait. Don’t go in.”
And in the entryway, she could feel it, too, that sixth sense that they weren’t quite alone. Then suddenly, they weren’t.
The door across the hall flew open and footsteps pounded toward her. Casey felt a heavy hand settle on her shoulder. “What’s wrong here?”
The dark voice belonged to her neighbor, but not to her elderly and sometimes forgetful neighbor. It was Anton’s son, big Rafe Valera. Wide-shouldered, thick-muscled, a bull of a man with dark hair and hard gray eyes. To Casey he’d always been as gentle as a kitten without claws.
Graham disagreed. Without warning he slammed Rafe up against the doorframe. “Drop it.”
“Damn it,” Rafe bellowed, “you almost broke my arm!”
Casey heard a brief scuffle, some kind of karate throw, then a few grunts before something heavy, like metal, thudded to the floor.
Graham’s voice was a low-pitched snarl. “This jerk was carrying a gun.”
A gun? Rafe owned a gun?
“I heard noise,” he said. “I was worried about Casey.”
The two men knew each other slightly but Casey felt their usual instant dislike in the air. Once, that would have meant jealousy on Graham’s part. She thought of Rafe’s dangerous good looks, his usual black clothes.
“You remember Rafe,” she said, which
