But Brian hadn’t been doing well this past year. He’d taken their father’s heart attack and subsequent death especially hard. It was the main reason Abby had bowed out of a second year with the string quartet tour and come home instead. When Marlena waved to her, she’d assumed something had happed to her brother. Fortunately, other than a cracked tooth, Brian was fine. Marlena had already taken him to the dentist that morning. The reason Marlena had been so animated was the item she’d stumbled across while in the waiting room.
Abby laid the hammer on the coffee table, her gaze drawn to the dog-eared magazine in the center. Like her, Marlena rarely purchased Saucy. Still, she hadn’t been able to resist flipping through a free—though year-old—issue of the Cosmo-wanna-be rag. Marlena had stopped to chuckle over the feature “Snagging a Billionaire Bachelor,” only to learn that, according to Saucy, there were ten such men in the U.S. alone. Number two was none other than Darian Sabura, the very man who’d climbed through Abby’s window three days before!
Of all ten men, Dare was the only one who’d refused to be interviewed. Undaunted, the magazine had made up for the loss with a series of unauthorized photos, rumors and outright conjecture about Dare and his bachelor life. The raciest gossip concerned his parents. According to Saucy, the blood running through Dare’s veins was bluer than Tristan Court’s original residents combined, at least on his mother’s side. As to his father’s—evidently there’d been some speculation as to which man actually held that title. Especially when Dare’s mother, Miranda, retired to her country home at the start of her pregnancy and saw no one until Dare was nearly a year old. As Dare matured, the rumors faded…until a falling-out between Dare and his father added an entirely new set to the mill—and the hint of a deeper, darker scandal, as well.
One that again concerned Dare’s mother.
According to a police report Saucy had obtained from an unnamed homicide detective within the NYPD, Dare’s mother had either fallen or been pushed off a subway platform when Dare was fifteen…or had she simply lost her balance due to the effects of the contents of the silver flask found in her purse?
Neither the detective nor Saucy would say, no doubt for fear of a lawsuit.
Either way, Abby didn’t blame Dare for refusing to comment. Nor could she begrudge him the lifestyle he’d pursued since his mother’s death.
But his father apparently did.
Victor Sabura’s blood might run more toward an earthy red, but his legal brilliance and relentless work ethic had made up for it among most of New York’s wealthy upper crust. To Victor’s disappointment, his son didn’t appear to have inherited that same work ethic. Instead, Darian Sabura—aka Triple Dare, as he’d been dubbed by the extreme sports media—had spent his teens and early twenties honing skills more suited to recreational pursuits. Skiing, scuba, snowboarding, surfing, skydiving, auto racing, motocross, mountain climbing, Dare had mastered them all—in lieu of settling into a job. Any job.
Rumor had it Victor Sabura had washed his hands of his adrenaline-addicted son years before and never looked back. If Abby was smart, she’d follow suit.
Except…she couldn’t.
Saucy’s cameras might have been too far away to catch the shadows she’d seen in Dare’s eyes, but Abby hadn’t been. She could still see those dark emerald pools when she closed her eyes at night. She’d seen similar shadows darken her father’s stare after her mother died when she and Brian were nine. She’d seen them dim her own gaze the year before, the night she’d gone to meet her future mother-in-law, only to have her heart and her pride bruised beyond humiliation. The shadows were still there the day she’d run away to Europe. They still darkened her brother’s stare whenever they talked about their dad, letting her know Brian was still running from the man’s death.
What was Dare running from—his bloodline? His mother’s death?
Or something more?
And why did she care?
Abby told herself it was because Dare was her neighbor. One day he might be Brian’s neighbor. For that reason alone, she should at least make an attempt to—Abby flinched as the phone pierced her reverie for the fourth time that night. She didn’t bother checking the caller ID—she knew it was Stuart.
She snapped her gaze back to the magazine. To the envelope she’d used to mark the article on her new neighbor and his fellow billionaire bachelors. The envelope she’d been too chicken to deliver along with the man’s shoes. That settled it. Anything was preferable to sitting here and listening to that phone ring. Even heading upstairs.
Dare stared at the glass door to his shower, desperate for the promised surcease a mere pace and a half away. And yet, as utterly drained as he was, he also knew he wouldn’t be stepping inside. He couldn’t.
Abby.
Dare closed his eyes as her essence swirled up into the penthouse, mingling with his as it had so often this past month whenever she’d stopped by to check on the progress of the remodeling of her apartment below. Only this time, Abby was headed up along with it. He could feel her stepping into the stairwell at the eighteenth level and slowly ascending to his, her hesitance growing stronger with every step. Usually he needed to touch someone to read their emotions this deeply. That he could feel hers so strongly without physical contact still amazed him. It also had him wondering what it would be like to press his fingers to her flesh.
To truly touch her, inside and out.
Yes, Abby had tended to his latest wound in her kitchen three night ago. But his sense had been deliberately dulled at the time from the blessed numbing that came as a result of the adrenaline and the exertion of scaling a cliff or a mountain…or even a twenty-story turn-of-the-century apartment building without the aid and security of a rope. Had he known Abby would be moving into her place early, he still would have made the climb, though he’d have taken more care with his route. Specifically, he’d have chosen one that took him well around her bedroom window instead of straight through it.
Either way, the respite from the climb had lasted only so long. Which was why he’d left her apartment so abruptly.
By the time she’d finished her ministrations, his empathic sense had returned. He’d begun to feel the simmering emotions of those around him again, especially hers. Unfortunately, the endless procession of hands he’d been forced to shake at the party he’d recently left—and the utter onslaught of feeling that came with them—had left him drained. Vulnerable. So he’d retreated up here and into his shower, shielding himself behind the one and only material he’d discovered could completely block out the crushing emotions of the city, so long as he remained entirely encased within it.
Glass.
If he was smart, he would seek out that same respite now, before Abby recovered her resolve and knocked on his door. Before he felt compelled to answer it. Despite her need to right things between them, he was once again in no shape to greet the one woman who could affect him this deeply without even trying. Dare sighed as he tugged his T-shirt off and dumped the dark blue cotton at his feet.
The night he’d entered Abby’s window he’d caved in to his assistant’s pleas and spent the evening attending yet another of those excruciating torture sessions Charlotte liked to call a fund-raiser. Unfortunately, Charlotte was right; they were also necessary. The reason the two of them were so effective at their calling—that of locating and assisting the battered women of the city—was threefold. The first involved his skill at locating those who truly needed them, women who for whatever reason could or would not seek help through the police or the city’s more conventional programs and shelters. The second involved Charlotte’s determination to see to the details of creating an entirely new identity, preferably one as far removed from the old as possible. And the third consisted of his own unerring ability to greet the potential benefactors Charlotte introduced him to and immediately discern