The Phantom of Black's Cove (6 page)

They collided just as the bomb detonated.

Desperate to save her, Jack pulled her into his arms and dived inside the door a fraction of a second before the percussion wave.

Together, they slammed to the marble floor. He covered her body with his.

The glass panels flanking the entrance imploded.

Molten glass blew into the foyer, its shards raining down like a hail of bullets around them.

Listening for the sound of her heartbeat, he was satisfied to hear it drumming in even time beneath him. He raised up and glanced out to where her car sat in the drive, a mass of burning rubble.

She’d been seconds from death, but how had they gotten past his senses this morning and planted a bomb in her car? He’d warned them to leave her alone. He heightened his senses, searching for answers in the chaos, but he came up empty.

Reaching down, he rolled her over in his arms. Her
head lulled to the side, sending a rush of worry through him. She’d been knocked out in the blast.

The clop of hurried footsteps coming across the foyer pulled his attention to Frances, his housekeeper.

“I heard an explosion! Are you okay, sir?”

“Yes.” Jack came to his knees and pulled Olivia into his arms. “Can you please get me my first aid kit? Miss Morgan needs to be cleaned up.”

Frances hurried away and Jack carried Olivia into the front parlor under the stairs, where he laid her down on the sofa.

The flying glass had managed to leave her face riddled with small cuts.

Frances rushed into the room, carrying his medical kit.

“Shall I call the police?” she asked as she undid the kit’s zipper and placed the open kit on the coffee table in front of him.

“No, not yet, but ask Stuart to get some water on the fire before it spreads.”

“Yes, sir.” Frances left the room in a hurry and he listened to her footsteps fade into the distance.

Pulling a sterile pad from his kit, he opened a small bottle of antiseptic and moistened the gauze. He dabbed at the blood coating a series of cuts across the right side of her face, examining them for glass in the process. They were clean.

He took an ammonia capsule from his kit, popped it open and waved it under Olivia’s nose.

Her response was rapid. She bolted upright, nearly
knocking him off the sofa. Wide-eyed and agitated, she glared at him.

“How do you feel?”

Olivia reached up and patted the side of her head, pulling back fingertips spotted with blood. The last thing she remembered was rushing toward Jack and hearing an ear-splitting explosion.

“What happened?”

“Your car blew up in the driveway.”

She stared at him, grasping at the implications of what he’d just said. Someone had tried to kill her again?

“Call the police. This makes the third time in a week.”

“The third time? You mean this has happened before?”

When would she learn to keep her mouth zipped? “I was almost killed on Main Street this morning by a runaway car, but I’m sure you already know that. I saw you in the crowd.”

A twinkle of amusement glinted in his intense blue eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. He was so damn sexy…and close, she couldn’t find spit to swallow.

“And when was the first time, Olivia?”

He was treading too close to the truth. There wasn’t a chance she’d tell him close call
numero uno
had come in the basement of Black’s Cove Clinic. That admission could be accompanied by a charge of breaking and entering.

Tension twisted around her nerve endings. “It doesn’t matter. I need to get out of here and you need to call the police or the bomb squad.”

“If you want me to call the authorities, I will.”

Why did she get the feeling that would only bring about more trouble? And why did she suddenly feel safer here, with him, than she’d ever felt in her life?

Olivia crossed her arms against the penetration of the late-afternoon fog through her clothing. The mist had remained locked in all afternoon and now added a spooky aura around the burned-out scrap of smoldering metal that had once been her car.

“Do you have any idea who would want to hurt you, Miss Morgan?”

She glanced at the officer in front of her and shook her head, allowing her gaze to slide back to the rubble visible just over his left shoulder.

“We’re ready to wrap things up for the night. If you think of anything, will you call me?” He handed her a business card and she shoved it in the back pocket of her jeans.

“I will. Hey, can I catch a ride back into town?”

The officer paused. “Jack said he’d drive you to your hotel.”

The feel of a hand pressed against the small of her back, ignited her senses. There was little she could do
to stop the officer as he turned and retreated back to the investigation taking place just in front of her.

They’d found the source of the explosion, or rather, what was left of it. A smattering of twisted bomb parts.

Olivia swallowed and responded to the increasing pressure against her skin.

“Come back inside.” The coaxing note in Jack’s voice seemed to sooth her frazzled nerves and she tried to relax, letting him turn her back into the house.

“Muriel, my chef, has prepared dinner. Join me first, then I’ll drive you back to the hotel.”

Her first mental response, a resounding
no,
seemed rude and inhospitable. Besides, she was starving and physically exhausted. What could it hurt to sit across the table from her nemesis for an hour? She owed him her life. If he hadn’t saved her, she’d be in pieces, just like her poor car.

“I’ll stay,” she needed to quantify the acceptance, “for an hour.”

“An hour it is, then.” He grasped her hand and pulled it through the crook of his arm.

The contact sent a tremor through her followed by a rush of heat, and she was suddenly aware of how she must look, covered in residue from the blast, holes burned in the sleeve of her shirt, and her hair…Olivia’s footsteps slowed. She pulled free of her and Jack’s formal attachment. This wasn’t a date to the prom.

“Maybe you should take me home now.”

He stopped and turned to her. Reaching out, he lifted her chin with his hand, lining up their gazes.

Her breath hung up in her lungs and for a moment, she allowed her reservations to slip as she stared at his lips.

“For someone quite literally blown into my arms, you look pretty good.” A slow seductive smile pulled up the corners of his mouth and her traitorous knees threatened to wobble out from underneath her. Was he a mind reader? Or just an experienced playboy who knew the heart of a woman and her desire to look her best whenever she engaged with the opposite sex? She chose the latter.

“So you’re not worried I’ll wreck your furniture?”

His eyes sparked with amusement. “I’m more concerned that you won’t. That you’ll leave here and whoever wants you dead will try again, and I won’t be there to catch you.”

Olivia sobered. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I don’t need to be caught.”

He grasped her hand, pulled it through the crook of his arm again and led her deeper into the house. “And what of your family, Olivia? Did they not take care of you?”

How on God’s green earth had this conversation digressed into a discussion about her family’s care or lack thereof?

“Sir?” An older woman in a pristine white apron stepped into their path near the archway of a massive dining room. “Do you have a wine request this evening?”

“Yes. Have Stuart go to the cellar and retrieve a special bottle from my private reserve. White bordeaux, 1937.”

The woman’s face constricted for a moment before she nodded and turned away, disappearing down the hall and presumably to alert spooky Stuart the horseman of his required task.

“My family cared deeply for me, Jack.” The retort was crisp and intended to end the uncomfortable conversation, but it didn’t work.

“It must have been difficult for you…having them consumed with concern for Ross?”

His observation twisted her muscles into knots. “I survived and so did they.”

He led her to the end of a long table where two place settings had been laid out. Releasing her, he pulled out her chair and pushed it back in once she’d seated herself.

“Thank you,” she whispered, wondering if she’d died and been launched back a hundred years? Not only was Jack Trayborne gorgeous, but he was a gentleman, too.

Jack took his seat. “The Trayborne Foundation likes to know that our efforts have helped families with severely injured children. Not only the children themselves, but every member of the immediate family as well.”

She smiled, covering up the tangle of emotions she could feel squeezing the life out of her. “Your work is beneficial. A toast, then?” She reached out and picked up the crystal water goblet in front of her plate.

Jack followed suit.

“To the Trayborne Foundation, providers of goodness and light.” The ting of the glasses coming together
relieved some of the tension that wrapped her body. She just wanted this conversation to end.

She took a cursory sip from her water glass and set it back down in front of her, determined to change the subject.

“So, tell me about the Phantom of Black’s Cove.”

Jack slowly put down his glass, feeling the first sensations of anticipation start to stir in his blood. “You’ve heard the talk around town?”

“I saw a story in the
Gazette
the other day, about an elderly couple who survived a car accident. They claim they were saved by the Phantom. There were whispers of my having his protection after I was hit by the car. Maybe there’s something to it.”

He kept his face placid as he watched her.

“You’ve lived in Black’s Cove your entire life, surely you’ve heard of him?”

Caution hedged Jack’s words and laced around his response. “Yes. I’ve heard of him.”

“Ah, but do you believe in him?”

“I think it’s rooted in the human psyche to believe in things you cannot see. It’s called faith. Does that make him real? I don’t know.”

He liked the way her cheeks pinked under his scrutiny, the way she’d avoided answering his questions about her family, but he resisted the need to reach into her mind, to find out what she was hiding and why it made her so uncomfortable.

The swinging door leading from the kitchen opened, and Muriel bustled through carrying two plates of
food. Stuart was right behind her with the requested bottle of wine.

They sat in silence until the food was served, the wine poured and the staff gone.

Reaching out, Jack picked up his wineglass and raised it in a toast. “To the Phantom for saving your life.”

Olivia raised her glass, too, and took a long swallow after the salute. “When did this stuff start showing up in the newspaper?”

“Years ago. A county paint crew was doing high work on a bridge over the river, when one of the workers fell and his safety line snapped. He was miraculously stopped from hitting the water three-hundred feet below. Eyewitnesses said he hovered a foot above the water for a moment before dropping unharmed into it, where he was rescued by a fisherman in a passing motor boat.”

Olivia raised her eyebrows and let out a breath. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.” She picked up her fork and knife and cut into the meat on her plate. “Maybe he broke his fall by spreading out his body…like a wind brake.”

“Maybe.” Jack studied her face, watching her chew as she worked the problem in her mind. “Anything is possible.”

“Mmm, this is wonderful. What is it?”

“Kobe beef.”

She sliced off another piece, her motor skills beginning to show signs of discord. A physical reaction to the sedative lacing her water and activated by the wine.
Separately, they were harmless; intertwined, they would keep her sedated until morning.

He hated the method he’d been forced to use to keep her here tonight. She wasn’t safe and until he could stop them from trying to kill her again, he would employ whatever tactic worked.

“I’m so…tired,” she said, staring at him with a relaxed smile on her full lips. Wisps of tangled blond hair framed her dirt-smudged face. Her sleepy, eyelids-half-closed gaze about drove him over the edge and churned a measurable degree of desire in his blood. She was as beautiful and seductive as she was persistent and as much as he wanted to touch her, he knew he couldn’t risk it.

He reached out at the precise moment her head drooped forward and caught her before she went face first into her dinner plate.

Stuart stepped out of the shadows next to the doorway and moved to his side. “Can I assist you, sir?”

“Dump the wine and her water, leave the bottle and glasses on the table, then ask Frances to prepare the suite next to mine. Miss Morgan has had too much to drink, she’ll be spending the night.”

Jack gently leaned Olivia back in her chair, stood up and pulled her into his arms. He’d deal with her questions in the morning, of that he was sure, but for tonight, she would be safe.

J
ACK PAUSED
in the darkness next to Rick Dowdy’s sleeping figure, long enough to cool his anger. He was
certain Rick had planted this afternoon’s car bomb with the intention of killing Olivia. The only question was why Dowdy had chosen to ignore his warning.

Reaching out, he caught the sleeping man by the throat in an invisible stranglehold, and raised him up into a sitting position before dropping him and surrounding him in an energy field.

Dowdy coughed and sucked in a ragged breath, coming fully awake.

“Dammit, Jack, what are you trying to do, kill me?” He reached for his neck, covering it with his free hand. His other arm hung in a sling, a casualty of their encounter in the warehouse. Rick trained a leery stare on him as he regained his composure.

“Where were you this afternoon?”

“What are you, my mother?”

He stepped closer, prepared to squeeze an answer out of Rick if necessary.

Rick’s eyes widened. “Back off…hold on. I was slamming back brewskies at McCreary’s Pub. I was there at noon. They put me in a cab at nine. I’ve been here ever since, sleeping it off. You can ask the bartender. He’ll back me up.”

Jack heightened his senses, pulling in a lungful of air, picking up the stench of alcohol emanating from Dowdy’s blood stream.

He had serious doubts the man possessed the wits to construct a bomb. The only thing he’d ever done with his trust money was take it in liquid form, but he reached for his thoughts anyway.

What he pulled back satisfied him that he had no involvement in the afternoon’s attack.

“Make sure you continue to steer clear of Miss Morgan.”

Rick’s eyes narrowed. “She’ll take us all down, Jack.”

Taking a step back, he turned and left the room. Diana was next; he had to rule her out, as well.

He left Rick’s place and covered the three blocks to her house, in a hurry, past the neighbor’s barking dog, where he reached out and closed the dog’s mouth until he’d moved past.

Stopping in the alley, he heightened his senses, scanning the entire area. It was clear.

Jack opened the back gate and strode up the sidewalk, taking the steps up to the door in stealth mode.

He raised his fist to knock, but the door opened before he could rap on it.

Diana Moore stood just inside, tying the belt of her robe. “Jack, what are you doing here?”

“Are you alone?”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t be if you’d come inside.” A seductive smile pulled her thin lips apart and he found himself making a comparison with Olivia’s full luscious ones.

It bothered him.

“Where were you this afternoon?”

“Where I always am, the pet shop. I’ve got an order going out in the morning to the lab in Atlanta. I was filling it.”

“Good. Stay out of trouble, Diana. Good night.” He stepped back and moved off the porch, hearing the door click shut. There was a time when he would have stayed with her, a time when he did. She understood the pitfalls of his existence, understood he could never open his heart to her or anyone else.

He walked down the sidewalk, through the gate and into the alley, muzzling the dog once again as he passed the Chamberlains’ home. Taking a left, he hurried down the street to his car and climbed in. He needed to get back to Olivia. Her drug-induced slumber would subside at dawn.

O
LIVIA STOOD IN
the doorway of the dining room the next morning staring at the empty wine bottle and the two goblets next to it. She didn’t remember much after her first glass, but they must have drained the entire bottle together.

Glancing around, she tried to relax her bunched nerves. The cavernorus place was quiet. She moved to the table, picked up the bottle and held it to her nose. Taking a whiff, she tried to detect anything out of the ordinary. She was no wine connoisseur, but bouquet wasn’t what she was smelling for. How was it possible she’d consumed enough alcohol to wind up in one of Jack Trayborne’s beds for the night?

“Did you enjoy it, Olivia? I’ve got another bottle in the cellar.”

Startled, she banged the bottle down on the table and whirled around.

Jack stood in the entryway, arms crossed over his bare chest. A pair of navy blue silk pajama bottoms hung low on his narrow hips and a stray piece of dark hair splayed against his forehead. He was the best-looking bed head she’d ever seen.

She swallowed hard and worked to maintain eye contact, feeling embarrassment flash hot on her cheeks. “Yes. It was very good. 1937, what a great year for white bordeaux.”

A smile parted his lips and he stepped toward her. “I didn’t believe you were in any condition to leave here last night. I trust you slept well?”

“Yes, I did.”

Muriel pushed through the door from the kitchen carrying a newspaper and a cup of coffee. “Sir.” She handed the items off to Jack.

“Thank you. Perhaps Miss Morgan would like a cup?”

He trained his attention on her.

“No, thanks. My cab will be here any minute.”