She heard the car door slam shut. Frozen to the floor, she waited for the doorbell to ring. It did not. Instead, she heard the heavy front door creak open, then close again. It had been locked. She’d done it with her own hands ten minutes ago. She should hide in the wardrobe, climb out the window. Instead, she just stood there with her heart in her throat.
Heavy footsteps moved through the hall and living-room, the old wooden floors creaking ominously.
She was supposed to know what to do in situations like this. First: don’t panic. Second: get away.
How? Jump out of a window?
Well, she’d not started taking karate lessons for nothing. She’d decided that if she was going to make a habit of making trips to exotic places around the world she needed to be proficient in some form of self-defence. You could never tell, could you? Maybe this was the time to test its usefulness in a real-life situation. If it failed, maybe she could get her money back. She choked back an hysterical giggle.
‘Anybody home?’ came a male voice. It was deep and gravelly and the sound vibrated in the air.
Her tongue lay paralysed in her mouth and she was too afraid to breathe. Well, almost. She found herself staring at her image in the dresser mirror. Boy, were her eyes big and dark! Her face looked white as the clichéd sheet in contrast to her black hair. Normally her skin was a warm Mediterranean tan, winter and summer, thanks to her Latin genes.
And then heavy steps came pounding up the stairs and there he was, standing right in front of her—the very devil indeed.
WILD black hair, penetrating black eyes, a bushy black beard. He was huge, looming over her, filling the small room with his bulk and the sense of dire threat. The very air shivered with it. As did her body. He wore faded jeans, disreputable running shoes and a wrinkled denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing brown, muscled arms. All of him was big and strong, emanating a primitive masculine power and virility.
However, she saw no horns, no fangs or whatever else devils were supposed to have. Neither did she see a gun or knife. He stared down at her with his black devil eyes.
This was not a comfortable moment. Standing there barefoot wearing nothing but a long white nightgown, her hair loose, she was not an image radiating power and control, she was quite sure. She must look like a terrified heroine in a Gothic novel. Petrified, she continued to stare at him. It did not bear considering what he might be contemplating as his dark eyes moved over her from top to bottom.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
It was the tone of his voice that got her lungs going again. There was no threat or lechery in that deep voice, merely astonishment. This was extremely reassuring. Astonishment she could deal with. Astonishment was good.
She swallowed, then straightened her back, stretching as far as her meagre five feet four would allow, and put her hands on her hips.
‘Who the hell are you?’ she demanded.
His bushy brows shot up. ‘I believe I asked the question first, angel.’
Angel. And that from the devil. Oh, God.
Her legs began to shake. ‘I own this house and I want you out.’ Her heart was racing but her voice was steady, which was nothing short of a miracle. However, he seemed not impressed.
His brows rose up even further. ‘You own this house? I don’t know where you get that idea. The house is mine.’ He reached into his pocket and fished out a key. ’see? This is my key. It fits very nicely into the lock in the door of my house.’ The hand dangling the key in front of her was big and brown and very strong. The other one was a perfect match. Hands that had seen hard physical labour. Her stomach churned.
‘You may have a key, but I have a deed. The closing was this afternoon. The house is mine—all legal and above board. I signed all sorts of documents and the lawyers signed all sorts of documents and I wrote big cheques and then we all shook hands and smiled a lot. That’s how it’s done when you buy a house.’ Oh, shut up! she said to herself. She always talked too much, but when she was nervous she positively gushed.
‘You must have the wrong house.’
’that’s crazy! Of course I don’t have the wrong house! I bought this one.’
He frowned, then shrugged, raking a hand through his unruly hair. ‘I’m not going to stand here and pursue a pointless argument with a woman in her nightgown. I’ll find a way to disabuse you of your illusions tomorrow. What I need now is sleep.’
His arrogance infuriated her and she clenched her teeth hard. However, one thing she was noticing: in spite of his disreputable appearance, he spoke in complete sentences and his English sounded educated. Was this reassuring? Did it mean anything? Probably not a thing.
She willed her legs to stop trembling. ‘You’re not sleeping here,’ she said with a conviction she didn’t feel. ‘Find yourself a hotel. There’s a country inn five miles down the road. It’s a lovely place, all white with red shutters, and the rooms have four-poster beds in them and you’ll be perfectly comfortable there and…’ She stopped herself. Here she was doing it again.
He rubbed his beard. ‘It appears to me that you don’t understand,’ he said patiently, as if he were talking to a dimwitted child. ‘Let me be more clear: I’m not going anywhere. This is my house, so you should leave and find yourself a room in the inn. However, I don’t turn women in their nightgowns out into the street at this hour, so be my guest and stay the night.’
The audacity of the man! ‘I’ll call the police,’ she said between clenched teeth.
An amused little grin curved his mouth. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Oh, yes, good old Chuckie,’ he said lazily. ’sure, go ahead. And while you’ve got him on the line, tell him I won the bet and he owes me a hundred bucks.’
Her heart sank. There went that idea. Maybe he and Chuckie the sheriff were partners in crime. These things happened. You heard about it on TV: the nation’s finest seduced by the rewards of crime. It was a disgrace. Calling Chuckie would obviously do no good. Now what? She couldn’t think of a thing.
The man turned around. ‘I’m going to sleep. Goodnight, angel.’ And with that he strode out of the room. She didn’t hear him go down the stairs, and when all became quiet and her legs were more steady, she gathered enough courage to find out where he’d parked himself.
She discovered him in one of the other bedrooms. He lay sprawled on top of the big double bed, fully clothed and out cold. He had taken off his Nikes and socks, and that was about it. Like the rest of him, his feet looked big.
It was easy to see that neither flood, hurricane nor earthquake was going to move this man. He was dead to the world and by the looks of it he was going to stay that way for a while. Which meant she was going to be safe for a while.
She looked at the comatose shape and felt a shiver go down her spine. Where had he come from? Maybe he’d been driving for a long time. Maybe he had escaped from prison, stolen a car…Maybe she should have a look at the car, check out the licence plates.
She tiptoed down the stairs, although there was no need to be so quiet. Her footsteps weren’t going to wake him out of his stupor. In the hall by the front door she saw a huge duffel bag with airline tags. United Airlines. He’d arrived at Washington Dulles, but he could have come from anywhere. The name tag was a coded American Express affair that would only reveal its secrets to a computer. Then she noticed the papers sticking out of a side-pocket. Ticket carbons? It would supply the passenger’s name and flight information. She hesitated.
Why had the gods burdened her with an oversupply of principles? She didn’t snoop