Dangerous Passion

Seven

Drake heard the bathroom door open. Steam escaped from the bathroom, curling around Grace in silver tendrils as she stood in the open doorway.

Christ, she was beautiful.

And scared.

He stood, a male’s instinctive reaction in the presence of a beautiful woman.

Her entire body language spoke of distress. Eyes huge and fixed on him, not really knowing whether he was friend or foe, she was curled in on herself, seeking comfort from herself. She tucked her hands under her armpits to hide the fact that they were shaking. She was barefoot, one foot curled over the other. Her feet were extraordinarily pretty—pale, narrow and high-arched.

Drake walked up to her and untucked a hand from where it was clamped against her side. Slowly, watching her eyes carefully, he brought her trembling hand to his mouth.

Her eyes widened.

He smiled at her. “You’re looking a little better. I’m glad. I’ve had some food brought up. You’ve had a bad shock and some warm food would do you good.”

Drake released her hand and held himself utterly still. It was the only thing he could do. She must be feeling as if she’d fallen down a rabbit hole, only not into Wonderland but into Horrorland. He was lucky she wasn’t screaming at him, calling the police.

Drake knew it was absolutely essential that he gain her trust and then bind her to him in all ways. This long journey they were undertaking together had to begin now. The only way he knew to take that first step was to remain still, opening himself to her.

Drake had spent a lifetime scaring scary men. At first out of desperate self-defense and then later—when he grew in strength, prestige and wealth—as a tactic. He was good at it. He was strong, smart, rich. Utterly ruthless. Those qualities gave off an aura that usually was enough to tell any man confronting him to back off. The kind of man who didn’t perceive it was usually stupid, inevitably on the losing end, and often ended up dead.

Intimidation was second nature to him. He lived in a feral world. He knew how to stay on top by being more feral than most. None of his weapons, though, were any help here, with Grace. He didn’t want to intimidate her, he wanted—needed—to seduce her.

Step number one in seduction—make sure the woman doesn’t fear you.

So he stayed perfectly still, moving only his lungs, holding her hand carefully. Not too loose, not too tight. He was close enough to smell her, but not so close he was invading the buffer space every animal needs.

They stood there, Drake watching her calmly, utterly still. Slowly, her breathing evened out and she straightened. At some level, deeper than words, she realized she didn’t need to guard her vital organs, which is what she’d subconsciously been doing in holding herself so tightly.

His stillness reassured her. Someone who means you harm gives off minute signals, muscles bunching and readying themselves for attack. He deliberately relaxed every muscle, cleared his mind of all thoughts, and made himself open to her, something he never did with anyone.

It worked. The vein beating in her neck took on a slower rhythm, her hand relaxed in his.

“Come,” he said finally, tugging lightly. “Dinner is waiting for us. Let’s go before it gets cool.”

Grace stood for just a moment longer, watching his eyes. Whatever it was she was looking for, she found it. “Okay,” she said softly, and stepped forward.

Drake looked down at her feet and frowned. “You’re barefoot. I’m sorry I don’t have any slippers that would fit you. Maybe one of the maids has a pair of slippers.”

She smiled slightly. “Don’t worry about it. The floor is mainly rugs and I’m used to going barefoot in my house. I’m okay.”

He didn’t like the idea, though he had to admit that he enjoyed looking at her pretty, bare feet. But she might catch cold. He made a mental note to tell Shota to add several pairs of Ferragamo slippers to the list of things to buy her.

They walked down the big hallway together. He didn’t release her hand and she didn’t tug it free. Drake was so taken by her presence at his side, by the feel of her soft hand in his, that he was almost at the door of the dining room before he realized that it was the first time in memory that he’d walked hand in hand with a woman.

Such a strange and intimate connection, in some ways more intimate than fucking. You can fuck a woman you don’t particularly care for. Easy. But you don’t hold her hand. Holding hands signifies an intimate connection, one of trust and affection.

They weren’t there yet. But they would be. They had to be.

“Go on,” he said, holding the door open for her. She looked up at him and, reassured by what she saw on his face, walked into the room.

Shota had outdone himself. Through his amazing radar, Shota had understood that this wasn’t a business dinner. He’d brought out Drake’s best china and what looked like all his silverware. Drake had no idea what make the china plates were. When they’d arrived in Manhattan, he’d simply told Shota to buy the best, and he had. Gleaming, delicate white plates with silver rims, crystal glasses, creamy white candles in silver candlesticks. The candles were lit. Together with a few low lamps, they were the only illumination in the huge room except for the enormous crackling fire.

The table looked appealing and intimate, not at all what it looked like when set for his solitary dinners. When he ate here, it was for fuel. This looked like a little ceremony.

It must have appealed to the artist in her, because as he watched her, a small smile curved her lips. “Very pretty,” she said softly.

He nodded. It was very pretty.

No one had ever drummed manners into him. He’d grown up on the streets, fighting his way to the top. No one had ever told him how men are supposed to behave in society, with ladies. His formative years had been spent with warlords, generals and rebel leaders. Later, he befriended a few alcoholic war journalists and the odd rough CIA operative, none of whom had any manners worth speaking about.

But Drake knew how to observe, how to blend in. So he knew that he was supposed to accompany Grace to her chair, pull it out and wait for her to sit before sitting down himself. He’d seen it done. He knew how it was supposed to go.

But it wasn’t to conform to some abstract society ideal that had him walking her to her chair and pulling it out.

It came utterly naturally, instinctively. From the deepest part of his being. It gave him enormous pleasure to take her to his table, to make sure that she was comfortably seated before taking a seat himself. It felt absolutely right. Nothing to do with manners and everything to do with gut-deep instinct.

His cooks had outdone themselves. Warm and nutritious, he’d asked. Apparently that meant soup. Soup that was…green, he discovered as he filled her bowl.

“I have no idea what this is.” He filled his own bowl and waited until she picked up her spoon and delicately tasted the soup. “I hope it’s good. My cooks seem to know what they’re doing. Usually.”

“It’s delicious,” she said softly. “And just for the record, it’s watercress soup.”

Watercress. Jesus. He knew every gun that had ever been manufactured. Every hold in every martial art. This was beyond him. What the fuck was watercress?

“An herb. It grows wild.” She watched him with a small smile, answering his unspoken question. “Try it. You’ll like it. It’s really very good.”

He did. It was.

They were both hungry and ate their way quickly through the food. Drake knew the food was all good, fantastic even, but he could hardly taste it. He was completely taken up with Grace Larsen. At his table, by his side.

In the past year that he’d taken extraordinary risks just to see her, telling himself he was an idiot, he’d never thought he’d actually ever be sitting beside her, except in the middle of the night, in his dreams.

He was a fast healer, almost preternaturally so. He felt much better already, almost normal. He could feel strength returning minute by minute to his body, he could feel the blood circulating more strongly in his veins. Alas, most of it went straight to his cock.

He’d deliberately put on tight, stiff jeans, hoping it would act as a sort of a chastity belt, but it wasn’t working. Just watching her eat, move—hell, breathe—excited him.

Shit.

He had enormous mental discipline but mind games weren’t working. Not when he had Grace less than a foot from him, his gi gaping slightly over her breasts, showing the dips and shadows of her breasts, her delicate collarbones visible.

He clenched his fist on the table. He wanted so badly to reach out and touch her that his hand itched. He understood his cock, trying to punch its way through stiff denim. His cock wanted to reach out and touch her, too.

Actually, his cock wanted in her, in the worst way. It was as if he’d never had sex before, it was so intense.

They were making polite conversation, about the food, the tableware, the candlesticks—he could barely keep his mind on what they were saying—and all the time his head was flooded with images of her in his bed.

He wasn’t even fantasizing about foreplay—no, his head had gone straight to the main course. Fucking. Fucking Grace. Who was—whoa—not more than a foot away from him. Close enough for him to smell her, a delicate fragrance under the sharper smells of the food and the wood from the hearth. Close enough to see how fine-grained her skin was, what a lovely glowing color she had, as if sprinkled with pearl dust.

She favored loose clothing, so all the times he’d seen her at the gallery, he had to guess at what was underneath, but now, dressed in his gi, which she’d had to cinch around herself tightly or the whole damned thing would fall off, he could see exactly how she was made.

Perfectly. That’s how she was made.

She’d fit perfectly in his hands, fit perfectly under him. He could see them on his bed, long pale slender legs hugging his hips, arms around his neck, as he pumped inside her. She’d be soft there, too. Wet enough to take him, so that he could slide easily in and out of her. His hands—where the fuck were his hands in this scenario?

Holding that narrow waist, right at the sexy curve before it widened to her delicately round hips? But he also wanted to hold her breasts while fucking her, rasping a thumb across her nipple, feeling it turn hard as he moved inside her. But then he also wanted a hand in that glorious hair, feeling it curling softly over his arm like a female waterfall. But then what he really wanted was to hold her legs open with his hands, cup her knees and spread them so that he had full access to her cunt, nothing in the way, nothing between them…

Shit, he’d need four pairs of hands. How was that going to work?

Oh God, he was so hard it was painful. He found it next to impossible to banish the images of them on his bed, hard to soft, dark to pale. As he watched her avidly, watching each forkful go into her mouth—his cock envying the zucchini soufflé and gratin potatoes as they passed those lush lips, because that’s where it wanted to be—he could feel an electric tingle in his spine. His balls tightened, his hips were unconsciously moving, wanting to be in her, thrusting.

Oh God, he was seconds from an orgasm, right here, at the dinner table. Not only would it be embarrassing, but also, she wasn’t in any way ready to face the intensity of his sexual desire for her. It would alienate her, when he needed her by his side in every way.

So he called on every ounce of self-control he had and walked away. In his head, he pulled his cock out of Grace, got up from the bed and walked away.

One of the hardest things he’d ever done in a hard life.

And when the fog of lust retreated, he noticed what he should have noticed earlier.

Grace was making patterns in the white tablecloth with the tines of the dessert fork. The lost, lonely look was back.

Drake put a finger under her chin and turned her face to his. “What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking—wondering—where Harold is. Harold Feinstein. He was the gallery owner.”

Whose head was blown apart by a sniper’s bullet. “Yes,” he said gently. “I know who he was. His body is in all likelihood in the city morgue, awaiting an autopsy.”

Her eyes flared. “Autopsy? Why would they carry out an autopsy? I don’t think there’s any doubt about the way he died.”

“No. Of course not. But it will take a coroner to study the bullet wound. The authorities will be able to tell a lot about the shooter from the trajectory, trace elements in the flesh and from the recovered bullet. Clearly, you don’t watch CSI.” The bullet would have gone through Feinstein’s head like cream and had most likely ended up embedded into the hardwood floor of the gallery. The shooter wouldn’t have risked running in and prying it out, so the police would have found it and studied it. Drake was going to break into the NYPD forensics lab computer to see their report on the bullet and the gun.

She flushed. “Oh, of course they’d need an autopsy. How stupid of me. Sorry. I don’t actually have a TV, but even I’ve heard of CSI. I hope they find out who killed him. And who shot at us.”

Drake had every intention of finding out before the police. And exacting his revenge.

He ran a finger over the back of her hand, feeling the soft skin, the delicate tendons, then lifted his eyes. “Don’t apologize. I should think you’ve got better things to do with your time than watch dead bodies on TV.”

Grace blinked. “That’s—” She shut her mouth with a snap.

“What?”

Her jaws clenched as she shook her head, hard. He gentled his voice and placed his hand over hers, covering it completely. “What?” he asked again, softly. “What is it, Grace? There isn’t anything you can’t say to me.”

She watched his eyes for a moment, looking for something, then took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you’ll believe it, but I think this is the first time I’ve ever said that I don’t have a TV without being treated as if I were retarded or eccentric beyond belief. To most people it’s too insane to even contemplate. But the thing is, I work all the time and TV would be a huge distraction for me. I’d rather read, anyway. But in the end I’m not always up on the latest news and that’s considered almost antisocial, like wearing mismatched shoes or—or going to an elegant restaurant in gym clothes. It’s just not done.”

He tightened his grip slightly, very carefully. His hands were immensely strong and he didn’t want to hurt her in any way. He just wanted to emphasize his words. “I don’t ever want to hear you call yourself stupid again. You’re an artist. How could you waste your time watching the idiocies on television rather than creating? And I’ll confess—I don’t have a television set, either.”

It was true. Drake’s business depended on accurate information. He’d learned through bitter experience that the last thing television and the major newspapers dealt in was hard news. He used the internet, hacking into company and police reports for a clear picture of what was happening in the world.

He also had dozens of paid informers who would probably make a mint in journalism if the papers would ever print what they found out.

“Really? You don’t have a TV either?” Her lips curved in a half smile. He found his own mouth instinctively moving and it took him a full second to realize he was smiling back. “Maybe we’re both misfits, then.”

Oh yeah. Though misfit wasn’t quite what would describe him. He was the born outsider, the predator prowling on the margins of society. He always had been.

But it was a slightly shocking thought, all the same. The idea that he and this gentle, beautiful woman might have a basic element of their lives in common made him pause. He was used to belonging to no one, and to no place. To being like no one else on the planet. It was the deepest, truest thing about himself he knew. He was a loner and an outsider and nothing would ever change that.

His thumb slowly stroked the soft skin of her hand. “Maybe we are,” he conceded, feeling a little shock go through him at the idea and at the feel of her. He looked down at her plate and frowned. She’d left half the dessert. She needed sugar to counter the shocks she’d had this afternoon and—and he wanted her to finish the dessert. It was delicious. She needed it, but more than that he found himself wanting her to eat food provided by him. Craving it.

“Here,” he said suddenly, letting go of her hand and spooning up a bite of the lemon tart. “Finish this. You need it. Open wide.”

She opened her mouth obediently. He fed her the morsel, watching as her full pink mouth closed over the spoon. He pulled the spoon out slowly, imagining very vividly that it was his cock pulling out of her mouth. The image just welled up, uncontrollable, unstoppable. A surge of blood rushed back between his thighs.

Oh God, everything about this was just so…delightful. The huge fire painted her skin a shifting pink glow, like the aurora borealis he’d seen in Vladivostock. The candles reflected in bright points of light in her blue-green eyes. He was close enough to smell her skin. There was complete silence in the room except for the crackle and pop of the flames and the occasional swoosh as one of the logs collapsed in the hearth.

Her eyes were fixed on his. He knew she was seeing his desire and he also knew she could see him curb it.

Sex was crackling between them. Her eyes were bright with it. They were also bright with alarm. Though the air pulsed with sexual energy, Drake knew enough to bank his fires, because he didn’t want to frighten her.

He’d have her. Oh yes.

Not tonight maybe, but soon.

Grace looked away, breaking the connection. “Do you think they’ll release the body anytime soon? He has a son out in LA. They’re not close, unfortunately. I think it was one of Harold’s greatest regrets, that he wasn’t close to his son. He never spoke much about him, but there was always a sad expression on his face when he did. I don’t know what kind of memorial service the son will organize. Harold was Jewish but he wasn’t religious. I hope I can find out when the service will be.”

Every hair on Drake’s body stood up.

“No,” he said, and Grace’s eyes widened. He had to clench his jaws against coldly ordering her to forget about even the thought of attending Harold Feinstein’s memorial service. And then widening the ban by telling her that from now on, she was his Siamese twin, joined at the hip to him and that she wasn’t to set foot outside his door without his express permission. And certainly never without him being a hand’s span from her.

The words strangled in his throat. That wouldn’t go over well for a woman who was used to being completely independent. At this stage, she’d rebel.

His mind whirred uselessly in the search for words to convince her, flailing. It was hard to concentrate on persuasive words when his head was filled with a very clear vision of her dead in a pool of her own blood, gunned down by Rutskoi or by one of Cordero’s thugs. Or worse, with elbows and knees blown out just like Leather Coat had promised. It was a Cordero trademark.

No. They would never get their hands on Grace. Not while he lived.

Drake tried to modulate his voice, put some convincing in it, but it wasn’t easy. He was used to commanding, not convincing.

“Grace, I’m afraid you won’t be able to be at your friend’s service.” He bit down hard on the words I won’t let you. “It’s way too dangerous to show up at a specific place at a specific time. My enemies would know exactly where to get you.”

Grace straightened in her chair. “If you believe that, then I can’t even go back to my apartment.”

Damn. He’d hoped it would take a day or two of stalling before she came to that conclusion. It was true. Like the title of an old American novel he’d seen in a bookstore, she could never go home again.

“I’m afraid that’s—” His cell rang and he held up a finger. Only his men had this particular number and no one called him unless it was absolutely necessary. He looked at the number and frowned. Boris, the head of the four-man team sent to guard Grace’s apartment.

“Yes, Boris?”

“Not Boris, boss.” Ivan’s image came on the small screen, voice grim. “He won’t be calling you again. We came late.” Ivan turned his cell around and the blood froze in Drake’s veins.

It was a scene of utter destruction. A door blown off the hinges, a bloody mass on the floor, identifiable as Boris only by his black boots, utter chaos inside the apartment visible beyond Boris’s bloody legs.

After an initial surge of rage at seeing his employee dead and Grace’s apartment trashed, Drake felt himself go into combat mode. The switch was immediate, complete. He became a machine for combat, unhampered by emotions. Emotion held no place in this chilly land of calculation and maneuvering.

“Go further into the apartment,” he said coolly, then turned the cell phone around so Grace could see it, too, see the wreckage of her apartment. She gasped, but he didn’t touch her to comfort her, didn’t shift his gaze from the screen. She didn’t need to be consoled. She needed to be frightened. She needed to see this to understand what she was up against. It was brutal, traumatizing, but far more effective than any words he could possibly say. His words might not convince her, but this would. What was on his screen was one big danger sign that only an insane woman wouldn’t heed.

Ivan walked slowly through the apartment, recording the destruction.

Interesting, Drake thought coolly. The wreckage was controlled and systematic, carried out with a knife. It wasn’t vandalism, destruction for destruction’s sake. There was an agenda here—pure intimidation. Whoever had done this wanted to terrify Grace, hit her in her most vulnerable points. All her artwork was destroyed, all her clothes, even her shoes. All personal things.

The message was clear. We’ll destroy you next. So be scared, because we’re coming.

Her eyes were riveted on the small screen. “My God,” she breathed.

“Go into the kitchen,” Drake ordered Ivan, not surprised when he saw that her plates and glasses were intact. Whoever had done this hadn’t wanted to make any noise. Further proof that it wasn’t a mad rampage, but a carefully thought out campaign to smoke Grace out of hiding, rattle her badly.

Or rattle him.

Fools.

Drake wasn’t rattled, he was as cold as ice inside.

The attack outside Feinstein’s gallery had been an attack on him. This was nothing new. His life had been threatened before, many times. He’d survived all the attacks and lived to have his vengeance.

But this—this was an attack on Grace.

Someone had just made a huge, huge mistake.

Drake narrowed his eyes. Grace had gone completely white, down to her lips. Her hands were shaking.

“Why—” Her voice was barely above a whisper and she swallowed heavily. “Why would anyone do that to my apartment? Why destroy my paintings? Why?”

He got up and went to a sideboard, coming back with two glasses of Jack Daniel’s, a taste American officers had given him, his a double shot.

One thing the scene of destruction had done was make his hard-on disappear. Sex with Grace would come, and soon, but right now he had enemies prodding his defenses, representing a direct threat to her. She didn’t need his arousal, she needed his focus to keep her safe.

“Here,” he said, taking her hand and curling it around the cut crystal glass. Her hand was chilled and he held his hand around hers for a moment to warm it up. “Drink that down and I’ll answer your questions.”

She obeyed him, chugging the shot down in one long swallow. Good girl.

A touch of color came back to her face.

He drained his own glass and put it on the table, then moved his chair and sat down right across from her, their knees touching, holding her hands in his.

“Grace.” He waited a second, to make sure he had her full attention. By sheer willpower he managed not to wince at the expression on her face.

This was not her world. She was as lost as if she had just landed on an airless, lightless planet and been attacked by wolves. She watched his face carefully, instinctively understanding that he was at home on this planet.

“Something bad has happened and unfortunately, you are caught right in the middle of it. Some very dangerous and, above all, very ruthless men are gunning for me and are now gunning for you. You saw what was done to your house, right?”

She nodded, eyes locked on his. He knew she was seeing the coldness in him; he could only hope she was seeing the regret.

“They wouldn’t hesitate to do that to you. Slowly. As a way to get to me. I will keep you safe, I promise. But you must do as I say and you must stay in a fortified perimeter where I can protect you, which right now is this place. Access is by a code very few people know, and they are people I trust. Guards are posted outside at all times. The windows are bullet-resistant. No one can get to you here, trust me, but you’re going to have to stay put. You can’t go to Feinstein’s memorial service, you can’t go home, you can’t go to any friends. As a matter of fact, until I start straightening this situation out, you can’t leave this building. I wish with all my heart that things could be different, but they aren’t. All I can say is that I will try to make you as comfortable as possible. I have staff on call twenty-four/seven, and all you have to do is express a wish and it’s yours, as long as it doesn’t involve you going out.”

“I’m—I’m a prisoner?”

Damn. Yes, she was, but he didn’t want her to think of herself in that way.

He brought her hand to his mouth and planted a soft kiss on her palm. Shocked and scared as she was, the pulse in her throat speeded up a little.

Thank God. Just as soon as was humanly possible, he was going to start fucking her, binding her to him with sex. He was going to get into her and stay in her as long as he could, until they breathed the same air, until their hearts beat together, until it would be unthinkable for her to leave his side.

“I want you to think of the outside world as a prison, Grace. And in here you can do exactly as you please. In fact—” Drake reached out to the intercom and waited for Shota’s voice.

“Sir?”

“Shota, besides the other things I told you to buy tomorrow morning, I want to add art supplies.”

“Sir?” Shota sounded resigned.

Drake watched Grace. “Art supplies. Everything a painter might need.” Which was what? He floundered. “Ah, oil colors, watercolors, a complete range, ah—” Fuck, what were they called? “Canvases and the…thing they’re placed on.” He looked at Grace, eyebrows lifted.

“Easel,” she said softly.

“Easel. Listen, just ask the owner to give you something of everything. Find out who the best supplier in town is, only not—” He leaned forward to her. “Where do you regularly buy your supplies?”

“Cellini’s, on Broadway.”

“Not Cellini’s on Broadway. Stay away from there. Find out who is next best and go there. I want everything here by eleven tomorrow morning.”

“Yessir.”

Drake broke the connection.

Grace was sitting straighter in her chair, looking a little less like a truck had run over her. His respect for her went up another notch.

“I’ll pay you back, Drake. I don’t have my checkbook with me, it was in my purse, but I’ll—”

Drake put a finger over her lips, horrified. “Stop. Please stop. Don’t even think it. I’m the reason this is happening to you. All I’m trying to do is make you as comfortable here as possible.”

“Okay.” She drew in a deep breath. “I understand that I stepped into the middle of some kind of—hostile takeover.” She gave a little laugh that turned wobbly. She bit her lips and waited a second for control. “Very hostile. But I don’t understand why I’m involved. Why do they feel that somehow they can get to you through me? I’m nothing to you. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. So why trash my house? Slash my paintings? What difference could that possibly make to you?”

Okay.

Drake had been hoping to put this moment off to when she was feeling better, when the adrenaline had worked its way out of her system and she wasn’t shaking. To when she could be wearing clothes of her own and not his and was feeling less of a refugee from her own life.

But what you want and what must be are two entirely different things. Drake understood that down to the bone.

“Words aren’t enough,” he said, rising from the chair. He put a hand on her elbow and lifted her gently up. “I must show you. Come with me.”

They walked in silence down the long hall. Drake thought briefly about somehow preparing her, but dismissed the idea immediately. It wasn’t a moment for words.

His study was at the end of the long, wide hall, essentially across the entire footprint of the building. It took them minutes to get there. They walked in silence, Drake utterly conscious of her hand in his, of her presence at his side.

She was making no bones of her curiosity, twisting her head left and right, noting the furniture, the rugs, the tapestries.

Drake wondered what she thought of his home. It was as far from the current New York style as possible. He liked color, soft fabrics, fine antiques, rugs. He often thought that perhaps he had Mongol or Tartar blood in him, since he always set up households that looked like caravanserais.

He stopped outside the door to his study. His inner sanctum.

Drake looked down at Grace, standing quietly in front of the door. She seemed to understand that he needed a moment to gather himself, and though she must have been quivering with anxiety to discover what lay behind it, she stood and let him take his time.

He could see long lashes, the curve of a high cheekbone, lush mouth slightly downturned. Beauty and grace. Courage, even. A woman of great worth. He’d never thought to see her outside this door.

Drake reached out to the door, a beautiful mahogany veneer over stainless steel, and touched a small glass panel. He pressed his thumb against it; a bright green light flashed, and with a soft whirring sound, the door slid into the wall.

Grace watched the door disappear and then looked up at him for permission to enter. The door framed darkness that had a cavernous feel to it. It was the largest room in the apartment and the darkness inside was dense and black.

It had to be done.

Drake pushed gently at her back and reaching to the side, flipped the light switch of the chandeliers. There were three of them, from Murano, and they made the room and its contents glow.

Beside him, Grace gasped. He tightened his grip on her elbow as her knees buckled.