Strangers in Paradise (2 page)

Chapter 1

T
he fear she felt was terrible. It tore into her heart and her mind, and even into her soul. It paralyzed and mesmerized. With swift and stunning ease, it stole Alexi's breath, and as in a nightmare, she could not scream, for the sound would not come. She knew only that something touched her. Something had her.

And that it was flesh.

Flesh touched her, warm and vibrant. Flesh...that seemed to cover steel. Fingers that were long and compelled by some superhuman strength.

Flesh...

For what seemed like aeons, Alexi could do nothing but let the fact that she had been accosted sweep into her consciousness. It was so dark—she had never known a darkness so total as this night. No stars, no moon, no streetlights—she might have fallen off into a deep pit of eternal space, rather than onto the dusty floorboards of the decaying, historic house. She might be encountering anyone or anything, and all she recognized was...

Flesh. Searing and warm and frightfully powerful against her own. It had come so quickly. She had crawled through the window and the arms had swept around her, and she had been down and breathless and now, as fear curled into her like an evil, living thing, she could begin to feel the body and the muscle.

And she still couldn't scream. She couldn't bear force. She had known it before, and she had come here to escape the threat of it.

She tried for sound, desperately. A gasped whimper escaped from her—she knew that she was being subdued by a man. Even in the darkness, she knew instinctively that he was lean but wiry, that he was lithe and powerful. Her position was becoming ever more precarious. Her wrist was suddenly jerked and she was rolled, and there was more warmth, warmth and power all around her as she was suddenly laid flat, her back to the floor.

A thigh straddled roughly over her; she was suffocating.

Good God, fight!

She tried to emerge from the terror that encompassed her. Again she could feel heat and strength and tremendous, taut vitality. In the darkness she felt it—the fingers groping to find her other hand, to secure it so she would be powerless in the horrible darkness.

At last the paralysis broke. Sound burst from her, and she screamed. She could fight; she had learned to fight. Panic surged through her, and she twisted and writhed, ferocious and desperate in her attempt to escape.

She tried to kick, to wrench, to roll, to flail at the body attacking her. Her voice rose hysterically, totally incoherent. And she punched with all her strength, trying to slap, scratch, gouge—cause some injury. She caught him hard in the chin.

He swore hoarsely. Belatedly she wondered if she shouldn't have remained still. Who was he? What was he doing in the house? She hadn't heard a thing, hadn't seen a thing, and he had suddenly come down on top of her. He was a thief, a robber...or a rapist or a murderer. And screaming probably wouldn't help her; here she was, out in this godforsaken peninsula of blackness, yelling when there was no help to be had, struggling when she was bound to lose.

She screamed again anyway. And fought. He was breathing harder; she knew it despite her own ragged gulps for air. She could feel his breath against her cheek, warm and scented with mint. She could feel more of his body, hard against hers, as he silently and competently worked to subdue her.

Flesh...

She felt more flesh against her wrists, and then he had her again in a vise. She felt her hands dragged swiftly and relentlessly high over her head, and she knew that she was at the mercy of the dark entity in the night.

No...

Tears stung her eyes. She had run too far for it to come to this! With an incredible burst of energy, she wrenched one hand free and sent it flying out full force. She struck him, and she heard him grunt. And she heard his startled “Dammit!”

His arm snaked out in the blackness to catch and secure her wrist once again.

And then all she knew was the sound of breathing.

His, mildly labored, so close it touched her cheeks and her chin. Hers, maddened, ragged, racing gulps. Fear was a living thing. Parasitic, it raged inside of her, tore at her heart and her soul, and she couldn't do anything but lie there, imprisoned, thinking.

This was it. Death was near. She'd been desperate to run away, and now, for all her determination, she was going to die. She didn't know how yet. He might strangle her. Wind one hand around her throat and squeeze...

“Stop it! I don't want to hurt you! All right, now, don't move. Don't even think about moving. Do you understand?”

It was a husky voice. Harsh and coolly grating.

I don't want to hurt you.
The words echoed in her mind, and she tried to comprehend them; she longed to trust him.

The darkness was so strange. She couldn't see, but she felt so acutely. She sensed, she felt, as he released her, as he balanced on his feet above her.

She was still shivering, still yearning to give way again to panic and strike out at him and run. She was dazed and she needed to think, desperately needed to be clever, and she could not come up with one rational thought. She could smell him so keenly in the black void of this world of fear, and that made her panic further, for his scent was pleasant, subtle, clean, like the salt breeze that came in from the ocean. She was so well-known for her reserve, for her cool thinking under pressure, and here she was, in stark, painful panic, when she most desperately needed a calculating mind. But how could she have imagined this situation? So close to that which she had run from, taking her so swiftly by surprise, stripping away all veneers and making her pathetically vulnerable.

Fight! she warned herself. Don't give up....

“Please...” She could barely form the whisper.

But then, quite suddenly, there was light. Brilliant and blinding and flooding over her features. She blinked against it, trying to see. She raised her arm to shield her eyes from the brutal radiance.

“Who are you?” the voice demanded.

Dear God, she wasn't
just
being attacked; she was being attacked by a thief or a murderer who asked questions. One of them was mad. She had every right to be! She was going to be living here. He had been prowling around in the darkness. He must have waited while she had fumbled with the door; he had stalked her in silence, watching while she came to the window and broke it to tumble inside—and into his ruthless hold.

She couldn't speak; she started to tremble.

“Who are you?” he raged again.

Harsh, stark, male, deliberate, demanding. She lost all sense of reason. Her arms were free. He had even moved back a little; his weight rested on his haunches rather than full against her hips.

“Arrgh!” Another sound escaped her, shrill with effort. He swore, but did not lose his balance. Alexi managed to do more than twist her skirt higher upon her hips and bring him harder against her as he struggled to maintain his new hold on both her wrists with one hand and keep the flashlight harsh against her face with the other.

She wanted to think; she kept shaking, and her words tore from her in gasping spurts. “Don't kill me. Please don't kill me.”

“Kill you?”

“I'm worth money. Alive, I mean. Not dead. I'm really not worth a single red cent dead. My insurance isn't paid up. But I swear, if you'll just leave me—alive—I can make it worth your while. I—”

“Dammit, I'm not going to kill you. I'm trying very hard not to hurt you!”

She didn't dare feel relief. Still, sweeping sensations that left her weak coursed through her, and to her amazement, she heard her own voice again. “Who are you?”

“I asked first. And...” She could have sworn there was a touch of amusement in his voice. “And
you're
the one asking the favors.”

She swallowed, stretching out her fingers. If he'd only move that horrible flashlight! Then she could think, could muster up a semblance of dignity and courage.

“Who the hell are you? I want an answer now,” he demanded.

His fingers were so tight in their grip around her wrists. She clenched her teeth in sudden pain, aware of the fearsome power that held her.

“Alexi Jordan.”

“You're not.”

He had stated it so flatly that for a moment she herself wondered who else she might be.

“I am!”

He moved. The heat, the tight, vibrantly muscled hold he had on her body was gone; he was on his feet and was dragging her along with him.

“Ms. Jordan isn't due until tomorrow. Who are you? Speak up, now, or I'll call the police.”

“The police?”

“Of course. You're trespassing.”

“
You're
trespassing!”

“Let's call the police and find out.”

“Yes! Let's do that!”

He was walking next, pulling her along. Alexi was blinded all over again when the light left her face to flash over the floor. She tried to wrench her hand away as the light played eerily over the spiderweb-dusted living room, with its shrouded sofa and chairs.

He wrenched her hand and she choked, then spewed forth a long series of oaths. She was close to sobs, ready to laugh and to cry. She should have been handling it all so much better.

“You'll go to jail for this!” she threatened.

“Really? Weren't you just asking me nicely not to kill you?”

She fell silent, jerked back against him, this unknown man, this stranger in the darkness. Her heart was pounding at a rapid, fluttering speed; she could feel its fevered pulse against the slower throb of his own, so close had he brought her to himself.

And she still didn't know his face—whether he was young or old, whether his eyes were blue or gray. She would never forget his voice or mistake it for another, she knew. The low, husky quality to the sure baritone. Cool and quiet and commanding...

And he had just said “kill.” She was at his mercy and she had forgotten and lashed out in fury and now...

“What do you want?” she whispered, licking her lips.

She gasped as he lifted her; she landed upon the dusty sofa before she could protest again. He fell into the chair opposite her; she heard the movement, heard the old chair creak. The small splay of illumination from the flashlight fell upon her purse, which was in the hands that had so easily subdued her. She thought about bolting—but she could never make an escape. She could see the outline of his body. He was casually sprawled in the chair as he delved into her bag. She was still certain that he could move like the wind if she made any attempt to rise.

Alexi cleared her throat. It was only her purse, not her body. Despite that, despite her fear, she felt violated. “You don't—you can't...”

Her voice faded away, she could feel his eyes on her. She couldn't see him, but she could feel his eyes—compelling, scornful...amused?

“Five lipsticks? Brush, comb, pencil, pad, more lipstick, compact, keys, more lipstick, tissue, more lipstick—aha! At last, a wallet. And you are
really
... Alexi Jordan.”

The light zoomed back to her face. Alexi bit her lip, reddening, and she didn't know why. If he was going to kill her, she didn't need to blush for her own murderer. But he had said something about calling the police. He had said that he didn't want to hurt her.

“Please...” she said.

He was silent. The light continued to play mercilessly over her features.

She was something out of a fairy tale, Rex decided, staring at her in the flood of light. Surely she was legendary. He barely noted that her eyes were still filled with terror; they were so incredibly green and wide. Tendrils of hair were escaping from a once-neat knot—hair caught by the light, hair that burned within that light like true spun gold. It wasn't pale, and it wasn't tawny; it was gold. It framed a face with the most perfect classical features he had ever seen. High, elegant cheekbones; small, straight nose; fine, determined chin; arching, honeyed brows. Even in total dishevelment, she was stunning. Her beauty was breathtaking. Stealing the heart, the senses, the mind...

He realized he was still standing there, thoughtlessly leveling the light into her eyes. At last he saw how badly she was shaking.

She was Alexi Jordan. Gene's granddaughter. Hell, he'd supposedly been guarding the place. He'd attacked her. He hadn't wanted her here—he hadn't wanted anyone here. But he sure as hell hadn't meant to battle it out with her. He opened his mouth to say something. Then he knew that it wouldn't be enough. He had to go to her, touch her. She was still so afraid.

Alexi gasped as fear again curled through her. The man was coming toward her. She cringed; he leaned over her, touched her cheek, then took her hand.

“My God, you're shaking like a leaf!”

“You, you—”

“I'm not going to hurt you!”

“You attacked me!”

“I had to know who you were. I thought you were a thief, coming in that window the way that you did. You're all right now.”

No, she wasn't. She was sitting in complete darkness with a man who had attacked her, and she couldn't stop trembling. He sat beside her, and she wasn't sure what he was saying, only that his words were soft and reassuring. Then, to her horror, she was half sobbing and half laughing and he was sitting beside her, and in that awful darkness she was in his arms as he stroked her hair—and she still didn't have any idea who he was or even what he looked like.

“Shush, it's all right now. It's all right.” The same hands that had held her with such cold, brutal strength were capable of an uncanny tenderness. He held her as if she were a frightened child, easing his fingertips under her chin to lift her face. “It's all right. My God, I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

She knew his voice, knew his scent. She knew the harshness and the tenderness of his arms, but she didn't know his name or the color of his eyes. She stiffened, her tremors beginning to fade at last with the reassurance of his words and the new security of his form.