Dangerous Passion

Eleven

Rutskoi looked up at the skyscraper right across the street from Drake’s building.

Most of the building was made up of offices for everything ranging from import-export to dental studios. There were a few apartments, scattered here and there throughout the building. Most of the apartments were rented by companies on short-term leases. Two he suspected were used by high-class sex professionals for by-appointment-only sex.

Rutskoi was tempted…but no. Not until the job was finished. But afterward, hell. He’d have 10 million dollars. There wasn’t a woman in the world he couldn’t buy, for the rest of his life, or at least until his dick gave out. And even then, there was always Viagra.

Bless the Americans and their inventions.

By a fluke, there were two apartments on the thirtieth floor facing Drake’s quarters, both in the middle, across from where Drake’s living room was. A corner apartment or office wouldn’t do any good, because Rutskoi needed a straight shot from the center of the building into the room at the center of the building across the street.

Drake’s windows were treated with polycarbonate, probably lots of it, knowing Drake. His windows would be as bullet-resistant as you could get. Bulletproof didn’t really exist—not even armored cars were entirely bulletproof—but Drake’s would come close. Even a bullet fired from the most powerful weapon—and Rutskoi had the best, a Barrett 95—wouldn’t penetrate the treated glass at a sharp angle with any degree of accuracy. If it did penetrate, he couldn’t be sure of a kill shot.

He had to be sure. Absolutely positive.

So he needed to be in a place with a direct line of sight straight into Drake’s living room. It was the only room Rutskoi had been in and he’d counted the doors. Fifth from the south end.

The plans of Drake’s building were nowhere to be found, not even in the municipal zoning offices. Rutskoi had found the name of the architect’s studio that had designed the building and there, too, the plans were gone. Disappeared, like a puff of smoke.

Well, Drake was smart but he wasn’t God, all-knowing and almighty. The plans of the building across from his were right there where they should be, both in the city zoning office and the architect’s offices, and Rutskoi studied them carefully. Then he hacked into the building administrator’s office.

The thirtieth floor held the offices of an interior decorator, an ad agency, a graphic designer, the New York offices of a Chinese manufacturing company, a ballet school and two small apartments.

Apartment 3033 belonged to one Christopher Wright, low-level broker and sometimes day trader. Which meant he did a lot of work from home. Wright was thirty-four, married to a freelance designer who did a lot of volunteer work. They had a child.

While Rutskoi was perfectly prepared to take a family out so he could establish his sniper’s nest, there could be consequences. Wright and his wife seemed to be plugged into the world. The child went to school. A family like that couldn’t just disappear. Inside of twenty-four hours, forty-eight max, someone would call and, not getting an answer, would show up.

Rutskoi needed to hole up for as long as it took, or as long as the situation let him.

Apartment 3034 looked better. It was owned by one of the advertising agencies and used as a residential hotel for visiting clients. Rutskoi took a look at the schedule and saw that he had a stroke of luck. The next occupancy was one Oscar Melim from Florianopolis, Brazil and he wasn’t due until December 2. Until then, Rutskoi was free to arrange his nest. He would have liked an open-ended availability but it was unrealistic to hope that the perfect spot would remain eternally empty. Still, fourteen days wasn’t bad.

About time things started breaking his way.

“Come on, get up.” Drake tugged at Grace’s hand, the only thing visible under his fur blanket besides a swirl of shiny, reddish-brown hair.

Grace waggled her index finger. No.

“Come on,” he wheedled, “I’ve got something to show you. You’ll like it, I promise you.”

The finger wheeled. Later.

“Presents,” he said slyly. “Lots of presents, for you.”

The hand flapped up and down. Bye-bye.

The sex had exhausted her, but not him. He was thirty-four years old and he had no idea sex could do that to him. Make him feel relaxed and on top of the world, while forgetting all about the world.

He didn’t even mind that he hadn’t come. Just watching her, that beautiful face flushed with pleasure, feeling her soft little cunt milking him, feeling her shudders, ah—it had been worth it.

He bent down and kissed the tip of her shoulder, the only piece of skin showing besides her hand. A pretty little shoulder it was, too. He kissed it again. A sigh came out from under the blanket. “Not fair.” Her voice was muffled.

He loved the English saying All’s fair in love and war. “Not fair” was a concept for losers. He kissed her again and she rolled over, looking at him out of mutinous eyes.

“I was just falling asleep. Someone exhausted me. You might be Iron Man, but I’m not.”

“I think a bullet hole pretty much proves I’m not Iron Man. And you can sleep later, I promise. But right now you need to get up, love. There are some things I have to show you.”

There was nothing more he would love to do than to slip back into bed beside her, hold her tightly while she slept. And when he felt her begin the slow rise toward wakefulness, he would slide his hand downward, gently caress her soft little sheath until he felt the dampness begin, and enter her with his fingers. He wanted her to awaken on an orgasm, her own body’s pleasure the gentlest of alarm clocks. He would turn her until he was flush against her back, lift her leg and slip inside. She would be tight. But a little less tight than last time. She would soon stretch to accommodate him. Over time, her cunt would slowly become branded as his, shaped to receive his cock, and his only.

They’d make love very, very gently, half asleep, coming slowly awake in a haze of pleasure. Afterward, they’d snuggle in bed until late afternoon, when Drake would ring for more food. He’d have fun feeding her again, watching that luscious mouth open for his fingers, stroking her breasts. He wouldn’t let her get dressed. Clothes were for civilians.

Quiet time, for two lovers just discovering each other. The most natural thing in the world.

Of course, that was all on an alternate planet, in another universe, where Drake was free to love whom he wanted, without fear that his woman would get her brains blown out, or her skin flayed off, or raped for days as payback.

Wasn’t going to happen. They weren’t going to get her. Not while he drew a breath.

He needed to start on a long and treacherous path today, if he was to be able to guide them to safety, and he needed to start now.

“Grace,” he said, putting the bite of command into his voice. “I’d like for you to get up now, please.”

It worked. She turned over, sat up, startled. “Sure.”

Throwing back the blanket, she stood up in one graceful move. She took in his work clothes—a black turtleneck sweater and black jeans—and reached for his gi. Drake nearly sighed as he watched her pull up the pants almost to her breasts so she wouldn’t trip on them and wrap the top around herself almost twice.

On this other planet, Drake would simply keep her naked. Make it easier.

It pained him to see her in his ugly gi, but luckily, he had an answer for that. In boxes in the study.

He stepped close to her and kissed her on the neck. “Sorry to disturb your rest, love, but there are some things I have to show you.”

Any other woman would have berated him for making her get up. But Grace took one look at his face and merely nodded. Good girl.

Now that he was in work mode, the relaxation he’d felt when they were rolling around on the bed like puppies was gone, as if it had never been. He’d clawed a few hours out of the face of the rock for them, but now it was time to start putting things into action. One misstep and they were gone. He knew his face reflected that.

“Come with me.” They walked into the study, where it looked like Shota had outdone himself. There were two piles of boxes plus a folded easel leaning against the wall. One pile was of plain brown cardboard boxes with the logo of the art supply shop; the other pile was of elegant boxes in every color of the rainbow, with enormous ribbons and bows. He was amused to see that her attention went immediately to the art supplies.

Sitting on the arm of a chair, he brought her to stand between his legs. She looped her arms around his shoulders. Taking her cue from him, her face was sober as she looked down at him.

His hands spanned her narrow back. He could feel the delicate rib cage, the sharp indentation of her waist. Against the stark black of his gi, her skin was pale, fine-grained. She was so damned…vulnerable. In every way. The world isn’t kind to the vulnerable, not even to artists with the gift of the gods in their hands.

It was a miracle she’d survived the firefight outside Feinstein’s. It was by no means certain that she would survive the next. And there would be one. If it was Rutskoi teamed up with Cordero, Cordero was too stupid to quit and Rutskoi knew Drake, knew that he wouldn’t rest until Rutskoi was down, so he’d have to go on the attack. This wasn’t going to go away.

And if Drake survived their next attack, there would be the next one and the one after that to deal with. They’d never gotten him, up until now. They never would, as long as he was alone. But now there was Grace and they would get her, oh yes. No question of that.

There was nothing in Grace’s beautiful head that would help her defend herself. No survival instincts at all. There was kindness, a unique way of looking at the world to discern its shapes and colors, a constant striving to reinterpret the world in her work. But she had no strategy for survival, no idea of the treachery of the world and how to combat it. To a certain kind of man, Grace had target written on her forehead.

With her to worry about, he’d be off balance. He already was. Just the thought that Rutskoi and Cordero might be planning her kidnapping right now, and with some inside help, too, drove him a little crazy.

He tapped the small dent in her chin and breathed her in. “I knew you’d probably go nuts without being able to paint or draw, so I got you as many art supplies as I could. If anything’s missing, or if you want more, all you have to do is ask. The other pile over there is clothing. Again, just let me know what you need and it’s yours.

“For a while, you’re going to have to stay here, so I want you to be as comfortable as possible. I have books, music, movies. Anything you want that I don’t have, ask me, or press the intercom and you’ll get it within the hour.”

“Drake…”

He grabbed a quick kiss. “Yes?”

She looked troubled and he tried to wipe away the small frown between her eyebrows with his thumb, wishing he could wipe away the threat as easily.

“How long do you think I’ll have to stay here?”

Forever. Or until we disappear.

“Let me worry about that. I’m going to start work on that right now. You just relax.” He stood, because if he stayed, he’d walk her straight back to the bedroom, and he couldn’t indulge, not with all that he had to do this morning.

Reluctantly, he stood, breaking her hold, and walked across the room, hating it that he had to leave her. He stopped at the door, then turned. She hadn’t moved. He pointed to the brightly colored pile of boxes. “There are several boxes of underwear there. But Grace?”

Her face was a pale oval, eyes glittering. “Yes?”

“Don’t wear any.”

Rutskoi had had a mistress many years ago. An actress. Though she’d been beautiful beyond compare, she’d been a lousy lay. Much too preoccupied with herself to think of pleasing him. Rutskoi had kept her well past her sell-by date because of her beauty, thinking that sooner or later things would warm up in bed, but they never did.

He could barely remember her name now and he considered the three months she’d lived with him a failure. But one good thing came out of all that sexual frustration. She’d given him a professional course in the fine art of disguise.

He’d watched, fascinated, as she made up for the theater, explaining all the tricks of the trade as she did. How to change skin color and the shape of the nose, the cheekbones. How a change in hair color—whether by dyeing or a wig—and hair length altered perceptions. How to call attention away from identifying characteristics by emphasizing other traits. How to appear taller, shorter, fatter, thinner. He’d watch, fascinated, as she dropped a decade, aged twenty years, became a nun, a streetwalker, a peasant woman.

So the doorman didn’t blink twice at the handyman who announced his presence at ten A.M. A leak on the twenty-first floor, causing electrical shortages and blowing out the computers of a travel agency.

The doorman saw a man of medium height, dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, light brown skin, wearing stained workmen’s overalls and carrying a big aluminum case. The man spoke with an accent, but then most repairmen did these days.

The doorman pointed out the elevator and turned back to look out the huge ground-floor windows in time to see the first snowflakes fall.

Rutskoi was certain the doorman had already forgotten his existence by the time he swiveled back to his monitors.

He went up to the fifteenth floor, got out and took the stairs to the thirtieth. He knew what sniping was, what it entailed. It was perfectly possible that he’d have to wait, prone, unmoving, for days. He welcomed the tiny toll fifteen flights of stairs at a run took on his muscles.

Never get soft, he reminded himself.

He drifted along the corridor of the thirtieth floor, head down, big-billed cap hiding his features. The lock took only a few seconds more than if he’d had a key. A few movements hidden by his back, and he was in.

It was a studio apartment, some 80 square meters, with two bedrooms and a modern kitchenette in the corner.

Carpeting, which was nice. He’d spent more hours of his life than he could count lying on the hard, stony ground, waiting for a shot.

Working quickly while there was still daylight, Rutskoi pulled on latex gloves, then opened his case and took out the pieces of the broken-down Barrett from their foam cutouts. Snap snap snap. His hands assembled the pieces without any conscious thought, performing the task automatically, perfectly, the fruit of thousands and thousands of repetitions. The tripod was next. Several efficient twists and snaps and there it was—the stable platform for his rifle.

He placed a plastic tarp on the carpet and carefully smoothed it down. A wrinkle could feel like a mountain after a couple of days. That tarp was going to be his home for however long it took.

He was going to get one chance at this, one. He had to do it right. He had to wait until the opportunity arrived, then use it. He couldn’t afford the least distraction.

This was like any military op, he reminded himself, only better paid. He had an enemy to observe and then take out. All the military rules for urban sniping held here, too. In Manhattan, as in Grozny, the principles were the same, only this time he wasn’t holing up in the rubble of a building destroyed by tanks, or behind an abandoned vehicle or on the rooftop of the tallest building around, but in a comfortable studio apartment with heating.

Everything else was the same. The sniper’s cool ability to wait out the prey. Planned routes in and out. A stable platform. And—above all—the right equipment.

He lay it all out beside him on the tarp on the floor.

Thermography infrared scope and night-vision scope with germanium lenses. Plenty of ammo. Once he had Drake in his sights, he would lay down withering fire. Two weeks’ worth of energy bars, bottles of Evian he’d found in the pantry and four empty water bottles for when it came back out again. BlackBerry.

He looked around and dragged the sofa cushion seats onto the tarp, blessing the decorator who’d opted for the cheapest solution. Down-filled cushions would have been impossible to use as a platform—too soft. The hard, flat foam-rubber rectangles covered with fabric were perfect.

The distance to the window was crucial. The outside windows were lightly reflective. Not as much as Drake’s windows—which were basically mirrors and showed absolutely nothing of what was inside—but enough so that he didn’t have to position himself at the back of the room in trapped shadow, as he had in Chechnya. In one ruin of a building in Grozny with a southern exposure, he’d had to position himself a room away from the window and bore an aperture through an internal wall for the rifle muzzle. It wouldn’t be necessary here. Even looking straight out, Drake wouldn’t see anything. He would also be used to seeing the drapes of this apartment open, since it was rarely inhabited.

Shooting through glass was always a problem. It was best to shoot in a straight line. The glass in this apartment was only laminated. The powerful bullets would sail through without deflection. Drake’s windows would be a bitch to shoot through, but with the thermal imager to give away position, and his.50-cal bullets, there was no doubt in Rutskoi’s mind that one of his bullets would catch Drake.

One bullet was enough.

He had boxes of ammo, including incendiary rounds, enough to fucking blow up the room if he had to. Once he started, he wasn’t going to let Drake out of the room and he wasn’t going to stop until Drake was dead.

Rutskoi settled onto the tarp, slightly to the left of his line of fire, bracing himself over the tripod, letting bone, not muscle, take the weight of his body. His cheek found the familiar position against the exact same point on the stock weld, as always. He was prepared to wait in this position for as long as it took.

As he assumed the position that would give him maximum comfort over what might be a long period of time, while at the same time assuring maximum accuracy, he felt himself disappear, sinking and floating at the same time, cut off from the world, his entire being narrowed down to his finger on the trigger and eye on the scope.

It was the closest thing he knew to happiness.

This is where he belonged, he realized in a sudden rush of insight. This is what he was born for—the hunt. And what greater, more exciting hunt, than that of man?

How wrong he had been to want to go into business with Drake. Rutskoi wasn’t a businessman, not even close. Drake knew his guns but his real genius was in moneymaking. Drake would have made a fortune from whatever it was he decided to sell. Cars, real estate, stocks. It just happened that he’d started business in a godforsaken part of the world where weapons were the main commodity.

What the hell had Rutskoi been thinking? He’d been so eager to get out of the Russian army and out of Russia, he’d somehow convinced himself he was a businessman. Wrong. He was a hunter. That was his nature.

And—he finally understood—that was his future.

A 10-million-dollar contract would never come again, because there would never again be a target like Drake, not in this lifetime. Drake was an outlier, a black swan. Like Tamerlane or Alexander or Napoleon. His like would not come again for another hundred years.

But the world was full of targets. Thousands of them. Millions. Men standing in your way, blocking the path upward, men with knowledge that could hurt you, men who betrayed you, men who’d killed and needed killing in turn. The world was full of them and full of their enemies.

The world was not full of men with Rutskoi’s skill set. He was a genius with a rifle, and was one of the few military snipers who could take his skills out of the armed forces and not go insane. Hired killers were often unbalanced, a step shy of madness, highly unreliable, blunt tools.

Not Rutskoi. He was as sane as could be. Not a coldhearted killer, but a technician with a highly prized skill, which he was going to start selling very dearly to the highest bidder.

Once he took Drake down, Rutskoi would invest part of his 10 million dollars in a new identity and a luxurious home base, far from prying eyes, and send out the word that he was available, for a fee. Success and discretion guaranteed.

As his body settled on the carpet, his entire being settled into this new plan. It felt utterly right, as right as the rifle in his hands, his cheek at the spot weld, his eye on the scope. This was his destiny; he just hadn’t realized it before.

His sights settled on the mirrored surface of the floor-to-ceiling window of Drake’s living room, where they would remain until the end.

Once Drake stepped foot into his living room, he wasn’t leaving it alive.

November 22

Grace set up in the library. God knows there was enough room for her.

The light streaming in through a whole wall of floor-to-ceiling windows put her own small skylight to shame. Drake’s home was an environment she found conducive to work. Some invisible hand always lit a fire for her. The room was beautiful and utterly quiet. No one disturbed her. When she remembered to eat, there was always a trolley outside the door with delicious food.

She worked like a woman possessed. The violence of the attack at Harold’s gallery, the burning flare of sexual heat between her and Drake, the blossoming of tender feelings for him—all these things made their way from her soul through her fingers and onto canvas.

She lost herself totally in her work, at times stopping when she noticed her back aching, to discover she’d been painting for eight solid hours.

Drake secluded himself in his study all day, doing whatever mysterious things he did.

The day before, an elderly man had come and with quiet efficiency set up a makeshift yet highly professional photographic studio where she was working. He had a selection of wigs and glasses and was very adept at makeup. He must have taken a hundred photographs of her, in every possible permutation, some in which she barely recognized herself. Blonde Grace, brunette Grace, old Grace, studious Grace, slutty Grace…

Drake sat watching, impassive, as she changed personas, then quietly walked out the door with the man and didn’t come back to her until nightfall.

Each evening, he apologized for spending time away from her until she finally had to put her finger over his mouth and tell him to hush.

The truth was, she didn’t mind spending time alone. She was used to it, used to being able to dedicate herself wholeheartedly to her painting without distractions. And Drake was a huge distraction, in every way.

When he came to her, he filled her entire mental horizon. Everything was forgotten in his presence, as if he were this huge magnet that pulled everything in her to him.

The sex was almost frighteningly intense. She’d dreamed about someday finding a man she could be with, but in her daydreams, sex wasn’t that much a part of it. Truth was, the daydreams were puerile, like toothpaste ads, two people running in slow motion toward each other in a sunny field. Nothing like the dark, powerful, frightening, almost visceral tug between her and Drake. The sex in her fantasy—like those movie trailers for all ages—was bland and pleasant. Utterly unlike the mind-altering experience it was with Drake. Something that turned her inside out, turned her into a woman she barely recognized.

As if her thoughts of him had conjured him up out of thin air, there was a sharp knock on the door, and Drake looked in.

She put her brush in a solvent can and wiped her hands on a cloth, realizing that the palms had turned damp the instant she saw him. “Hi,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer, just walked to her. No, that wasn’t quite true. He didn’t walk, he flowed.

Grace, strength, power, it was all there in the strides. And it was totally subconscious. She had no doubt that when he wanted to intimidate, he’d be a master at it. His body—his entire being—exuded power and an ability to erupt into devastating violence at a split second’s notice.

But he wasn’t trying to intimidate her in any way. His walk to her was simply the walk of a powerful animal in its prime, moving toward something it wanted.

Her.

It was right there in the gleam in his dark eyes that never once looked away from her face, in his ground-eating strides, the intensity that surrounded him like an almost visible aura. He was even smiling as he took her elbow and sat them down on the couch in front of the fireplace, lifting her hand to his mouth. He meant the smile, but it somehow looked unnatural on that hard, somber face.

He kissed the palm of her hand and curled her hand in his fist. “I have some things to see to, but I don’t want to stay away from you too long. Will you wait here for me? I love the thought of coming back to you here, right here, surrounded by your paintings. As a matter of fact, I thought maybe we could eat lunch in here.”

As if she could refuse him anything. That strength wasn’t just physical. His will was like a force field around him, almost shimmering in its intensity.

“Yes. Yes, of course I’ll wait here for you, if it pleases you.” She reached out with her hand to touch his wounded shoulder. “You’re not overdoing it? You shouldn’t be resting?”

Just like that, like throwing a switch, his aura changed. Became pure, animal sex. Those dark eyes gleamed, thin nostrils flared. She felt it on her skin, as if an electrical charge had washed over it, striking sparks where he touched her.

He leaned forward to kiss her on the neck, lips warm, breath hot. As he spoke, she could feel his lips moving. “My beautiful Grace. I am fine. Please do not worry about me. I do not need rest, I need something else. When I come back, I’ll show you exactly what I need. In the meantime…” He nipped her earlobe and a shudder went through her body. He took her hand and lay it over his groin.

My God. He was huge, so hot the warmth punched through even the tough fabric of his jeans. He slowly licked her ear and her breath came out in a shaky rush.

This must be life’s payback for having been so indifferent to sex all her life. She’d been like a locked door and it turned out that only this one man had the key. His mouth on her neck gave her goose bumps, made her back arch, giving him access to more of her.

As he licked her, dragging his teeth over her skin, her hand tightened around his penis. She wasn’t the only one affected by his mouth on her. Impossibly, as she ran her hand up the amazing length, his penis moved, thickened, lengthened even more. When she cupped her hand around the bulbous tip, discernible even through the jeans, his breath came out in an explosive rush of air that ruffled her hair.

“God,” he breathed. His big hand covered hers, trapping her hand over him. It wasn’t actually trapped, though. Her hand was more than happy to stay right where it was, feeling him moving beneath her. It was like touching a primeval source of energy. Strength, power, male potency. Her hand burned as the surges of blood rushed through him.

Each jump in her hand was met with a clenching of her internal muscles, an elaborate sexual dance she did only with Drake.

He licked her ear again, breathing slow and hard. His deep voice was low. “I need to go right now, or I won’t go at all. I wouldn’t leave you if I didn’t have to. But when I come back, I want you to remember what you’re feeling now.”

As if she could forget.

“Okay,” she whispered. She’d closed her eyes to concentrate on the feel of him in her hand and on what was happening with her body. She opened her hand and felt his lift from hers. He moved so silently she heard nothing. It was only when she heard the big door close that she realized he was gone.

Grace tipped her head back, eyes still closed, and simply concentrated on her senses. She’d ended up following Drake’s order and hadn’t put on any of the amazing collection of underwear she’d found in those boxes. The clothes she’d found had been exquisite, exactly the kinds of clothes she would buy for herself if she had the money.

The underwear, on the other hand…Well, wow. She’d never have had the nerve to buy what she found in those fancy boxes.

Bought on a tight budget, her underwear was plain, comfortable, white, stretchy cotton. A world away from the frothy silk and lace confections she’d found, incredibly sexy and revealing.

She’d pulled the lingerie from the boxes like Gatsby pulling out his shirts. No plain white cotton in these elaborately wrapped packages. None. Instead, all the colors of the rainbow.

Pink, lilac, pale yellow, taupe, teal, mint…the colors were simply exquisite. Every frothy piece looked delectable enough to eat. Bras, panties, teddies, silk-jersey tank tops, camis and tap pants and tee shirts and…slips! Whoever had done the shopping had old-fashioned tastes, because there were slips included. Grace had never worn a slip in her life. Her mother had never worn a slip. Slips were things people wore long ago, in movies. While carrying long cigarette holders and exchanging witty dialogue with someone like Cary Grant in a huge white bedroom.

She was tempted, though, fingering the fine satin slips with the lace bodices.

In the end, while choosing between a teal La Perla bra and panty set with lace insets and a gorgeous satin cami and tap pant duo, his words had came back to her. Don’t wear underwear. The silk, satin and lace just slipped from her nerveless fingers as she remembered him touching her. Remembered the feel of his hands on her. And suddenly another layer of clothes felt stifling and constricting.

So she’d gone without these past days. Her nakedness wasn’t visible of course, under the cashmere sweaters and soft wool pants. But she knew, and so did he. She felt everything so keenly against her skin.

Grace concentrated on what her senses were telling her, right now.

The softness of the sweater was a caress against her breasts. She was slightly wet between her thighs from fondling Drake. Without panties on, the wetness was as tangible against the sensitive skin as a kiss of cool air.

It was hard to feel the danger lurking just outside, because against all the odds, right now she felt so very safe and warm. Not just because she was in a fortress guarded by a small army of men, but also because there was…Drake.

He was the reason she was in danger. He was the reason no one would harm her.

Sitting on that magnificently comfortable couch, head tilted back, eyes closed, listening to the roar and crackle of the fire, Grace pondered her situation.

It had been clear to her from childhood that there were forces loose in the world much more powerful than she was. Forces that were indifferent at best, and at times even hostile to her. She wasn’t a child anymore, and could to a certain degree defend herself, or at least take precautions. But by the same token she also knew she was not a powerful person, able to cut a swathe through life.

All she had wanted was to be left alone to paint; she asked for nothing more. And if that meant a life that was a little lonely, so be it. It was all she had asked for.

Even that, now, was taken away from her, in that same whirlwind that had blown her into Drake’s arms. She wasn’t powerful but he certainly was, in every way there was.

Denying it was stupid, fighting it wouldn’t help. She was in Drake’s hands. Completely and utterly.

It was a good thing those hands looked so huge and strong. And it was an even better thing that they were protecting her.

There was absolutely nothing she could do about any of it.

It was like a little surrender, there on the comfortable couch.