Dark Side of Dreaming
Prologue
She appeared in the dream like she had many times before. Proud and primitive, a crude spear in one hand and an equally crude dagger in the other. She never spoke, letting her dark, liquid eyes speak for her.
By now, the play of emotions was as familiar to Cleo as the back of her hand. The initial bewilderment widened those impressive eyes, making the warrior look childlike despite the ancient battle gear. Then there were questions, questions Cleo couldn't answer. Anguish followed, making Cleo feel the deep, bitter ache as her own. The feeling morphed slowly, painfully into fury and, finally, hardened into resolve, brittle and unforgiving.
Her face masklike and her steps sure and steady, the warrior advanced on Cleo. The dagger twisted as the warrior shifted and tightened her grip, readying herself.
Heaviness settled over Cleo's lower legs and, even knowing the futility of it, she struggled against the invisible bonds that encased her bare feet, keeping them rooted to the ground. Fear writhed likes snakes inside her. Her ears filled with the sounds of her too rapid breathing. Her heart crashed against her ribs with each beat.
The warrior closed the distance between them, raised the dagger. Despite the pervading darkness, the blade glinted. Cleo lifted her arms but they were insubstantial, like mist, dissipating as the warrior's dagger went through them, through skin, through bone, stopping only when it pierced the still solid, still beating heart.
The pain was excruciating, making her entire body quake. She screamed but there was no sound, making it infinitely worse. She reached for the warrior, met only air, and panic smothered her. Trembling hands went to her chest. She felt the protruding hilt of the dagger, felt her heart, felt it stop beating, but she didn't die. She woke up.
Chapter One
The paper-white moon was full and illuminated the world in a crisp, cold light, softening flaws while adding an elegant luster.
And Cleo Moran wished for a cloud to drift over the damn thing. But really, she couldn't blame anyone but herself for failing to check the lunar calendar. You forget little details like that a few years into retirement.
Thankful her mark didn't have guard dogs, she dropped from the stone fence onto the enclosed grounds with a soft thud. Twinges of pain shot up her legs, making her grimace. Her knees were definitely going to remind her why she'd wholeheartedly embraced retirement at the ripe old age of twenty-seven.
Timing her movements to avoid capture by the external security cameras, Cleo stole along the shadows cast by tall, leafy trees and high bushes, darted across the grounds and flattened her back against a wall of brick. She waited, heard nothing and moved on, picking her steps with care. She found the French doors that led to the kitchen, unlocked them with her copy of the key and slid inside. The glowing keypad next to the door beckoned. She tapped in five numbers and the red light switched to green.
She pushed back the hood of the zipped sweatshirt, gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness then moved swiftly through the house, the soft soles of her shoes silent on the hardwood. Through the kitchen, down the hallway, past the foyer, up the stairs and second door on the right. A flimsy lock a curious toddler could've gotten past and she was in a masculine room that served as a home office-cum-library. Her eyes went straight to the fireplace mantle, where she recalled seeing the statue through the window during the recon two nights ago.
The mantle was empty.
Damn.
Cleo scanned the rest of the room but couldn't spot a twelve-inch stone statue of a woman.
Damn.
She was going to have to go through the other rooms in the house and hope a like-minded individual hadn't gotten to the statue before her. Good thing the homeowner wouldn't be returning anytime soon. She'd paid an exorbitant amount to ensure his absence.
Cleo quit the room and moved to the one next door. A guest room furnished with the basics—bed, bedside tables, dresser, chair and a very nice landscape that would've tempted other thieves. The next two doors revealed an opulent bathroom and a linen closet. Her movements were brisk as the search continued and time ticked away.
The master bedroom was next, nearly pitch black, with the heavy drapes drawn. She had the search routine down pat. Fireplace mantle, furniture sur—
Her gaze stopped, skittered back to the fireplace mantle—and the statue. Elation and relief shot through her. She crossed the room, palms already tingling with anticipation. Her fingers wrapped around it, one by one, almost reverent. The stone was cool and—
Pain exploded in her head, a blinding white flash. Then there was only darkness.
* * * * *
She liked bondage as much as the next girl.
Cleo, however, didn't think her current bound state was a prelude to more enjoyable things.
She yanked on the rope that secured her hands together and tethered them to something above her head. There was some give as the cloth-covered rope stretched, but not nearly enough. Stubbornness being a trait of all Moran women, she tried again. And again. And again.
A small noise of frustration escaped her throat.
Despite the dull, throbbing pain in her head, she decided more leverage was needed and twisted on the bed and sat up. And noticed the man seated in the armchair in the far corner of the room. He was immersed in the shadows that swathed the room, so she saw nothing but a menacing outline blacker than the surrounding darkness. His silent regard felt like a thick blanket suffocating her senses.
Fear made her mouth go dry and her skin prickle with heat and sweat.
It was a full minute before she found her voice, a little hoarser than usual, but she lifted her chin to compensate. "Did you enjoy the show?"
No response. Not even so much as a muscle twitch. Her chest noticeably rose and fell with each shortened breath.
"Are the police on their way?"
More silence, and the lump in her throat grew.
"I need that statue more than you need another dust collector." She was babbling, knew it and couldn't stop herself. "It needs to be returned to its rightful home."
The silence continued and agitation flickered through her, slicing past the fear.
"Look, I tried the legal route, but you flatly refused all of my offers. I had no other choice."
A whisper of cloth on leather. He'd moved. Finally. She was beginning to think he was a statue himself. Then he rose, an imposing shadow that made her very aware of the pulse thrumming in her throat. He came toward the bed, stopping at the foot, and moonlight, stark and chilly, spilled over him.
He'd never be labeled handsome, but she couldn't tear her eyes away. Formidable frame, dark hair, deep-set eyes, broad face with rough-hewn features that looked as if they'd been carved of the same stone as the statue. Unlike the statue, his face was masklike with its lack of expression. It took a concerted effort to ignore the tiny voice that urged her to cower against the headboard.
"Cleo Moran."
The sound of her name spoken by that deep, cold voice sent a jolt through her. Of course he knew her name. His administrative assistant had passed on enough messages from her in the past three months. And the man was reputed to be a shark, so he would remember the name of the woman who'd tried repeatedly to buy a relic for several times more than its appraised value.
"If I wouldn't sell the statue to you, what makes you think I'd just let you steal it?"
Absurdly, she winced. Steal had such an ugly ring to it.
"You weren't supposed to have a say in the matter."
A corner of his mouth quirked up and she was amazed his face didn't crack. In fact, it sent a shiver of sensation snaking along her spine.
"I'm the one who should be angry, not you," he said, the ice in his voice thawing. He slid a hand inside the front pocket of his trousers and his regard changed, feeling almost like a touch.
Jittery, but from more than simple fear, she brought her hands up and pulled back the strands of hair that fell over her eyes and clung to her lips. "You weren't supposed to come back here tonight."
A dark slash of a brow lifted and, without a hint of pique, he drawled, "So, the enthusiasm in my date tonight was faked."
She cursed her babbling tongue. Well, she'd never encountered this situation before and there wasn't a For Dummies guide that covered it.
"Unfortunately for you, I need more than a pretty face and man-made assets to entice me." A degree of heat wrapped around his voice. "Then I come home and you waltz in."
She had trouble filling her lungs with oxygen. "What now?"
His eyes glittered darkly. "Since the woman you hired to distract me didn't do her job, why don't you?"
She licked suddenly dry lips. "I'd rather you call the police."
Alexander Michaels knew kidnapping was a felony, but it seemed a small price to pay to keep the woman sitting on his bed. He couldn't remember the last time someone of the opposite sex intrigued him to this degree. He wanted nothing more than to crawl on the bed and peel away each article of clothing hugging that sylphlike body. With his teeth. Would she hold still and keep silent? Or would she writhe beneath him and make sexy little sounds in that husky voice of hers?
Lust surged through his body, hardening it even more.
If he'd personally spoken to Cleo Moran over the telephone, at the very least he would've agreed to meet with her face-to-face. Her voice alone would've earned her that much.
She turned away and gingerly rested her head against her arms, but not before he caught her wince. He felt a pang of remorse and moved to the side of the bed. She didn't flinch when the mattress dipped under his weight.
"How's the head?"
"I've been better." She rolled her forehead on her arms, giving it a pseudo-massage. "The sad part is, I've been worse."
"Think a trip to the hospital is in order?"
She shook her head. "I'll live."
He shifted, started to reach for the ties then stopped, dropping one hand onto the headboard and the other onto the covers. After several moments, she realized he wasn't freeing her and looked up. A brow cocked in question. "Are you waiting for an invitation? Or do I need to beg?"
Another surge of lust. His fingers clenched on the headboard as he imagined her pleading with him for something more satisfying and immensely more pleasurable than her freedom.
"I don't know if you're clever enough to be faking this."
"You're the one who hit me on the head," she remarked dryly. "Hard enough to knock me out for…?"
"Less than an hour."
She made a face. "Trust me. Right now, I'm in no condition to wrestle with you."
And that was what he was afraid of. Disappointment flickered through him. He reached over and made quick work of the makeshift bonds. The ropes loosened then slid free to coil in a small heap on the bed.
"Was it really necessary to tie me up?" asked Cleo, rubbing her chafed wrists. "And to the bed, no less?"
He shrugged, a half-smile on his lips. "It felt like the thing to do at the time."
"Most people would've called the cops."
"I'm not most people."
"That's what I'm afraid of," she muttered, following up with a soft hum he couldn't decipher and looking away briefly.
"Relax."
Her gaze turned wary. "What are you planning?"
"You're the criminal here. Not me."
"I only have your word for that."
"If I wanted to do something nefarious to you, I would've done it while you were unconscious."
Her lips pursed and he got to his feet before he could make a lie of his statement. "I'll go get something for your wrists and your head. While I'm gone, don't make me regret freeing you."
Of course, he thought as he went to the en suite bathroom, if she tried to escape, it would give him a reason to put his hands on her, crawl all over her, rub against her.
Jesus. He ran his hand down his face. The woman was in pain and all he could think about was molesting her.
He wet a washcloth under hot water and wrung it out. After grabbing a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers and filling a glass with cool water, he returned to his visitor. Even though he hadn't been gone long, she was curled up in the fetal position, eyes closed, long lashes resting on the curves of her cheeks. As he neared, those lashes fluttered then lifted. She started to push herself up.
"Stay down."
She checked herself, then sat up—and immediately winced when it took her head a second to catch up. She cradled her head in her hands and rubbed her temples.
"You take pleasure in being stubborn for the sake of being stubborn?"
At his amusement-laced words, she shot him a disgruntled look. "Something like that."
He set the damp washcloth on the nightstand next to the skullcap and various tools he'd stripped off her, handed her the glass of water and sat down. The mattress dipped and Cleo drew back to keep from sliding into him, not that he would've minded. He switched on a lamp and golden light washed over the room. He got his first good look at her—and felt a fist squeeze the air from his lungs. Dark red hair fell to her chin and flipped out at the ends, green eyes tipped up at the outer corners, pale skin stretched over a triangular face with sharp cheekbones. Everything about her made him want to reach out and touch to see if she was as soft and smooth and silky as she appeared.
With effort, he reined in his impulses and forced himself to loosen his grip on the bottle of painkillers before it cracked. He held it up for her to see and shook it. "One or two?"
She peered at the label, tentatively felt the back of her head and held up a forefinger.
He popped the lid, shook out one coated tablet and offered it to her. Irritation shot through him when she took the tablet, taking great care to not touch his palm, and inspected the pill before swallowing and chasing it down with a mouthful of water.
"Thank you."
He swapped her the washcloth for the glass and remained silent as she wrapped it around one wrist, then the other. Her low sigh curled around him, tugged at him.
"Better?"
"Much."
"Good." He propped a pillow against the headboard and sat back, fingers laced behind his head. "I want to know why you were trying to steal the statue."
"Because you wouldn't sell it to me."
A smile threatened at her blithe response, but he suppressed it. "Who's your client?"
"I don't have a client. The statue…belongs to my family. I heard some rumors, did some digging, found out your agent recently purchased items from the estate of a deceased collector in Amsterdam who was never fussy about paperwork and whose heir needed fast cash." She shrugged. "It was simple math."
"Proof of ownership? Provenance?"
Her mouth tightened. "No, which is why I offered to buy it from you in the first place. I'm still willing to purchase it—and your silence about tonight's excursion—from you. Name your price, Mr. Michaels."
He waved a careless hand at the rest of the room. "Ms. Moran, does it look like I need the money?"
For an instant, he saw a trace of panic in those catlike eyes, but it was blinked away.
"Then why am I not enjoying the hospitality of the local PD?" She cast her gaze about the room, touching upon two landscapes done in oils by a European master. "Or do you have your own secrets to hide?"
"That would make your life easier, wouldn't it?" A corner of his mouth curled upward. "Unfortunately for you, I am a law-abiding citizen."
Her lashes lowered. "The media doesn't always think so."
"People in my position are easy targets. Stories about corrupt corporations and the people who run them, even false ones, sell papers."
And if there were the faintest possibility of Russian mafia ties, the press corps was more than willing to blow them out of proportion—even if they had to print retractions later on.
"So, why am I here?"
"You got past the outer gate, avoided the pressure sensors around the house, got past the locks and disabled the security inside the house." Her expression remained bland throughout the litany, and he was oddly amused by it. "This excursion, as you put it, is not your first time."
"Are you recording this and waiting for a full confession from me?"
"I'm sure you already know I don't have security cameras inside the house."
"Considering what you keep in this mausoleum, you might want to rethink that."
"Would they keep someone like you out?"
Silently, she tipped her head to concede his point before sweeping the room with her gaze once more. "You might not have cameras to deter thieves from appropriating your property, but you could have certain sexual proclivities that involve video taping." She glanced pointedly at the discarded rope. "Bondage might be the tip of the iceberg."
He chuckled and got to his feet again. "Feel free to search the room. If there is a camera, I'm sure you'll locate it. It might take some time though."
"You're still not getting a monologue Bond villains are so fond of."
"I'm not interested in a monologue, as entertaining as that might be." He paused a beat. "I want to hire you."
Alexander Michaels loomed over her and Cleo stared at the man the press occasionally and unimaginatively labeled a thug. He looked the part, with his large, muscled frame and rough features. And she, who'd only been attracted to the trim, debonair type who could tell the difference between a Bordeaux and a burgundy with a single sniff, was tempted to drape herself all over him to know how his hardness would feel against her softness. She told herself it was Stockholm syndrome, but that rang false in her own ears.
"You already made the offer and I turned it down."
His mouth twitched. "I don't need to pay for sex, Ms. Moran. For you, however, I'd be willing to make an exception." He moved to the end of the bed and leaned a shoulder against the thick post. "But that wasn't the offer I had in mind."
The warmth of embarrassment flooded her cheeks.
"Something was stolen from me and I want you to get it back."
She did a slow blink. "That's a job for the police."
"All the authorities—domestic and international—have gone through the motions and it still hasn't been recovered. I would assume you have the experience, skills, inside knowledge and connections they lack. There are people who would talk to you but would prefer to avoid them—and me."
"There are any number of private agencies that specialize in that type of recovery."
"Yes," he agreed, "but you might have a special interest in what was stolen from me."
She froze. "You think I took this item from you?"
"It did cross my mind," he admitted.
"The only item you have that I'm interested in is the statue."
"Exactly."
Her brow wrinkled with confusion. "Are you telling me the statue you have is a fake?"
"No," he said and waited.
For a moment, Cleo tried to suck in air, but the burgeoning hope in her chest made it difficult.
"You found the other statue," she breathed.
"My curator did, actually," he corrected. "Are you interested?"
Yes, she wanted to shout, but a small voice inside her head urged caution. "Where and when was it stolen?" she heard herself asking, mind racing with possibilities.
"From my curator's office five months ago."
Both brows rose. "Why was it there?"
"She was studying it."
He was so smooth she almost didn't catch the lie. There was more to it than professional interest. Instead of calling him on it, she tapped a forefinger against her lower lip. "By now, chances of locating it are slim."
"Are you interested?"
"Would you be willing to sell me both statues if I recover it?"
"I'm a collector. I generally keep what I buy."
Her lips pursed. "But these statues don't fit in with the rest of your collection."
"You did your homework," he murmured.
But not thoroughly enough. Somewhere along the way she'd slipped up and was now paying for it.
"Why are you so determined to hold on to them? In comparison to everything else in this house, they have little monetary value."
There was silence. Then, "My curator is quite attached to them."
"Your sister can't be swayed?"
"Not on this."
Even though she expected his answer, disappointment settled heavily over her.
"Will you accept my offer?"
She could double-cross him, but the mere thought of it made her queasy. Michaels had a reputation for being tenacious. He wouldn't shrug off a betrayal, but would devote his time, energy and considerable resources to tracking her down. She'd foolishly used her real name when she'd contacted his representatives. After all, at the start, she'd had every intention of obtaining the statue legitimately.
"You'll have to hire someone else to recover the statue for you, Mr. Michaels."
"Sasha."
Her brow furrowed in confusion.
"Call me Sasha. A woman who's been in my bed should call me Sasha."
She felt her cheeks warm but ignored it. "I retired five years ago and, judging by tonight's performance, I'm clearly not the best candidate for the job." With calm masking her disappointment, she met his gaze. "You'd better place that call to the police."
His expression was inscrutable as he regarded her. When Michaels finally stepped back, a sense of inevitability filled her. Over nearly a decade and countless jobs, she was going to be put away because she'd allowed eagerness and emotions to make her careless.
Michaels circled the bed to pick up the cordless handset sitting on the opposite nightstand and punched in a number.
"Eric?" A pause as he listened. "Stop grumbling. I didn't wake you. I can hear a laugh track in the background." Another pause. "Bring the car out front. I have a visitor who needs a ride."
Startled, Cleo looked over her shoulder at Michaels as he disconnected.
"My driver will take you where you need to go."
She blinked. "That's it? You're just letting me leave?"
He nodded. "Think about my offer. If you change your mind, call my assistant."
"I'm not going to change my mind," she said softly. "You'd do better to find someone else, and you'll want to do it soon, before the trail grows completely cold." She hesitated. "And you should talk to your housekeeper about her habit of writing down security codes and leaving them in her purse, along with neatly labeled house keys."
His lips twisted wryly. "I'll do that."
Her gaze darted to the door, then back to him. "You don't need to trouble your driver."
"It's late," Michaels pointed out. "There are people more dangerous than you out there."
Annoyance clipping her words, she insisted, "I'll grab a taxi."
"Eric will drive you," he said flatly. "If you're worried about me knowing where you live, let me reassure you that I'll be looking it up tomorrow morning anyway."
Cleo made a face. She should've known better than to use her real name. A few minutes on the internet would give Michaels everything from her home address to her last tax return, and she should've known better than to attempt to simply take the statue. After all, stealing was what started it all.
He held out a hand and, with some reluctance, she took it and let him help her off the high bed. Standing in her stockinged feet next to him, she felt like a Lilliputian. Michaels' grip tightened when she tried to tug her hand free. He drew her close, and closer still until she could feel the heat emanating from his large body. For a second, her own body swayed, tempted to know the feel of his.
"I'm willing to wait until you reconsider my offer," he murmured. A broad, calloused hand skimmed the curve of her shoulder, trailed up to cup the back of her neck. "Until then…"
Heart pounding, nerves tingling, Cleo tilted her head back. Her lips were actually throbbing in anticipation. His head lowered, her lashes fluttered, his hand tightened and she stopped breathing. His lips whisked across hers, featherlight. Yet heat washed over her, making gooseflesh ripple over her skin.
Distantly, she heard a rough, masculine sound and stretched up onto her toes. Lips brushed back and forth over her own, sipping at them, caressing them. The kiss was gentle, restrained, and Cleo sighed. His tongue took advantage and ventured beyond her lips, teasing the slick skin on the inside of her mouth. His fingers slid into her hair, his head slanted and the kiss deepened. He rubbed his tongue against hers. A hot shiver shook her body and Cleo made a little noise in her throat, then sucked his tongue in deeper.
The hand in her hair fisted. Pain speared through her and she gasped sharply.
He tore his mouth away. "Fuck," he panted, dropping his forehead to hers as his fingers unclenched one by one. Their harsh breathing intermingled. "Sorry."
Of their own volition, her lips sought his.
"Don't," he warned thickly. "Not unless you're willing to get back on that bed."
She went still and, for an instant, considered climbing back on top of the sheets and pulling him down over her. The fantasy was brief but powerful, making her body ache and throb. She held her breath, but that only made her more aware of her body and the arousal pumping through her bloodstream with each heartbeat. She clenched her thighs, not sure if she wanted to stop the sensations or prolong them.
After an interminable moment, Cleo took a step back, feeling so shaky it was a wonder she didn't stumble. She felt his muscles tense but he let his arm fall away. Body still heavy with arousal, she stared at him mutely, not quite sure if she could even speak, let alone know what to say.
In the end, she gathered up her things and, without bothering to put on her sneakers because her fingers felt too clumsy to deal with something as intricate as shoelaces, skirted around him and escaped.
Read more on Dark Side of Dreaming.
Copyright © 2010 by Ann Bruce. All rights reserved.