“Well, did you need something, or not?”

Dare hadn’t meant to sound so clipped, but he did succeed in wrenching Abby’s gaze from his bare chest. Her aura shifted once more. Sharpened. Darkened.

She pulled an envelope from her back pocket and held it out. “Consider this a thank-you for getting rid of my boxes.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“What’s the problem? You’ll don a tux to scale the building but can’t be bothered to suit up for an evening of Mozart?” A tiny dimple appeared as she smiled.

He shook his head again. Firmly. He tried to shut the door on the tickets as well as further argument when she tucked the envelope in his hand. He sucked in a sharp breath as her fingertips grazed his.

That was all it took.

Like the violin she carried to work, he was instantly, completely in tune—with her.

Triple Dare
Candace Irvin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CANDACE IRVIN

As the daughter of a librarian and a sailor, it’s no wonder Candace says her two greatest loves are reading and the sea. After spending several exciting years as a U.S. naval officer sailing around the world, she decided it was time to put down roots and give her other love a chance. To her delight, she soon learned that writing romance was as much fun as reading it. A finalist for both the coveted RITA® Award and the Holt Medallion, as well as a two-time Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award nominee, Candace believes her luckiest moment was the day she married her own dashing hero, a former U.S. Army combat engineer with dimples to die for. The two now reside in the South, happily raising three future heroes and one adorable heroine—who won’t be allowed to date until she’s forty, at least.

Candace loves to hear from readers. You can e-mail her at candace@candaceirvin.com or snail-mail her c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

For my dad, Ernest A. Phillips, Sr.

For everything.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Prologue

He felt her even before he could see her.

Sometimes it happened like that.

And yet, it had never happened quite like this.

Every other time the emotions had ripped in, slicing straight through his skin until they were boring into his bones, wrenching him deep into the abyss before he could catch his breath. There he’d remain, trapped and tormented, until they’d run their course. But this time was different. She was different. And he was powerless to resist. He simply closed his eyes and stood there, more in than out of the elevator.

Several impatient passengers jostled past as they hurried out into the corridor before heading into the main lobby beyond. For once, the physical contact didn’t faze him. He was too busy feeling. Absorbing. Measuring each and every one of his breaths against the heady, hypnotic awareness that continued to wash over him, through him, merging. Until gradually she became him. Just as he became her.

Completely.

Stunned, he jerked back into the elevator.

It didn’t help.

He forced himself to step out. He forced another step, then another and another, until he, too, had reached the lobby. The others had begun to intrude again. The relentless crush of the city and beyond had returned as well. Years of practice allowed him to ratchet the intrusion down to a dull throb, just as some skill he’d never even known he possessed allowed him to remain completely focused upon her. She was twenty feet away, her lithe back to him, but he knew it was her. Just as surely as he felt her essence filling every inch of his being. He didn’t need her to turn and face him. He already knew she was as beautiful on the outside as she was in her heart.

Still, he was driven to wait.

His reward came in the barest glimpse of a smooth, flushed cheek and a gently curving jaw as she turned to her companion and tucked a flowing tangle of dark curls behind an ear. One glance at the elderly woman who answered her wide smile and eager nod and suddenly he knew why she was there.

Just like that, the panic crashed in.

His heart began hammering within his chest, damned near fracturing his ribs as the doorman opened the building’s main door for her. Perhaps it was for the best, because a moment later, the glass partition closed behind her, instantly severing the connection he’d felt clear down in his soul. But the knowledge punching in alongside the keening loss struck deeper.

She was the one.

She alone possessed the power to save or destroy him. But he had no way of knowing which until it was too late.

Chapter 1

Two months later

It had taken her twelve months, a hundred and sixty-five concerts in almost as many cities scattered around the globe, but Abigail Pembroke finally had her life back. Unfortunately, the bulk of her former existence was still crammed inside the remaining two dozen boxes littering her brand-new living room.

Abby sighed as she studied the haphazard forest of cardboard. She should have taken the guys up on their offer to distribute the boxes around the apartment before they left. She might have, if the guilt hadn’t already been biting in. Bad enough that she’d caved in to the temptation to escape her latest hotel room before the final concert of the summer series, she didn’t need half the string section showing up for rehearsal tomorrow with strained backs. Not to mention she’d have had to open each box and root through its contents before she knew which room to place it in.

Her departure had been that hasty.

She’d been that humiliated.

Abby pushed the memory aside and used her scissors to slice through the tape sealing the next box. One look at the contents was all it took to make her regret not labeling that particular tangle of memories. She was still staring down at the rumpled lingerie she should have burned before she left for Milan when her CD player kicked in with one of her favorite Debussy sonatas for piano and violin.

Abby grinned. Leave it to a bunch of fiddle players to hook up the stereo first.

Her determination restored, Abby tossed the scissors aside and grabbed the cardboard flaps. Her arms protested as she jockeyed the waist-high box past the camelback sofa and coordinating armchair. The bottom of the box caught at the edge of the area rug, but once she’d freed it she was able to slide the box past the open kitchen and dining areas and down the hall without marring the hardwood floors. She shoved the box against the foot of her virgin bed and sighed.

Of all the furniture Marlena had helped her select, the towering iron four-poster had been the most extravagant.

She didn’t care. What better way to start fresh?

Buoyed by the thought, she tucked a damp, unruly curl into her braid and reached inside the cardboard box. She dumped the scarlet teddy and matching robe at her feet and reached in the box again, this time snagging her telephone. Skirting the side of the still-naked mattress, she centered the phone atop her nightstand and frowned. The phone’s cord didn’t quite reach the outlet. Worse, the pink Cinderella casing and rotary dial looked as awkward and woefully out of place in her fancy new digs as she still felt.

Dammit, don’t. Marlena was right. She had to move on. In more ways than one. She had Brian to think about. He was her complete responsibility now, whether he wanted to be or not. Abby pushed the latest round of painful memories aside and focused on her brother’s beatific smile. His humbling joy when she’d told him she was going to move sooner and, hence, would have his room ready a whole week early. Brian might not want to move in with her, but he was definitely looking forward to resuming his weekly overnight visits. From the tight desperation in his hug when she’d left, he needed them, too. They both did.

Abby’s gaze slipped to the phone she’d used to stave off the homesickness so many times. She had half a mind to set it atop that sleek coffee table her friend had steered her toward. But she wouldn’t. Not because the old pink phone embarrassed her. She wanted it in here. She’d need it next to her in the coming months. Even if she couldn’t use it to call home anymore.

Or maybe, especially.

A yawn sneaked up on her, forcing her to return her attention to the waiting box. It was nearly midnight. She had to be at Lincoln Center first thing in the morning and she’d yet to locate a blanket, much less a fitted sheet. Her gaze strayed to the oversized window on the far side of the room. She’d just have to put up with the muted glow bleeding in from the city. She’d already decided to hold off on hanging the drapes Marlena had designed until the contractor had a chance to install security bars on the windows. Unlike her, Brian was fascinated with heights. She’d lost both their parents now, she’d never survive if something happened to him.

Well, nothing would. The bars wouldn’t be going on for two weeks. She’d just have to keep a closer eye on Brian than usual until then.

Abby retrieved the lingerie she’d dumped on the floor, wadding the outfit in her fist as she approached the window. Despite her healthy appreciation of heights, she couldn’t help but be drawn in by the glittering rainbow stretching toward Central Park. The faint wail of a siren tugged her back to the present, the chores she had to finish before she could turn in. But as she started to turn away, something caught her eye.

She had seen pigeons perched on the ledges when Mrs. Laurens had shown her the place. Did the birds roost on the concrete sills during the night? It could be a problem. Brian adored birds as much as he did heights. The temptation might prove too much while she slept. Abby stepped closer to the window, her heart sinking as she caught another faint flutter. Except this time, she could have sworn it deliberately slid into the shadows. She took another step, stiffening as the next, even more subtle flash registered. Whatever it was was black, with a sliver of crisp white peeking out.

Definitely not feathers. Fabric.

Terror lashed through her. She darted sideways and instinctively switched off the string section’s housewarming gift, knocking the floor lamp over in her haste. She had no idea if she’d cracked the stained-glass shade, but at least it hadn’t shattered. Several moments passed before she risked inching back to the window. By the time she reached the soothing stillness of night, she felt as foolish as she must look. There was nothing there but a darkened, concrete sill where her overactive imagination had been.

What had she expected? A burglar?

If she’d still been in the cramped studio she’d rented before she’d left for Milan, sure. Located ten blocks up from the wrong side of Columbia University, her former walkup had been robbed twice in the three years she’d lived there. Fortunately, she and her Stradivarius had been on stage both times. Well, she wasn’t on stage or in her old apartment now. It had taken a to-die-for offer from a symphony patron, a mountain of paperwork, a series of ignored phone calls from her ex and an unexpected stiletto to the back by a man she didn’t even know, but she was finally safely ensconced in her sinfully huge six-room flat. Eighteen stories up.

New York City or not, no robber would climb that many stories. Would they?

But as Abby’s eyes adjusted to the dark, she knew someone had. Without the light from the floor lamp interfering, she could clearly make out the fingers clinging to the far left of the shadowy ledge. Ten strong, distinctly masculine fingers. Someone was definitely out there.

Sweet heaven, what was she supposed to do? Her phone wasn’t even hooked up.

Wait. The intercom connected to the main lobby—but the call switch was located at the front door. She should check the window first, make sure it was locked. She’d need the time to unlock her trunk and grab her violin. The Stradivarius was a work of art. Though insured for a cool three million, she’d never be able to replace it.

Fortunately, from this angle all she could make out were fingers; the man’s head was completely obscured by the sill. That meant he couldn’t see her either. Still, her heart resumed its frantic pace as she forced herself to inch close enough to the window to make sure. The brass latch pointed to the right. But did that mean the window was locked?

Before she could scrape enough courage together to check, the man’s fingers shifted. Quivered.

Whoever the fool was, he was losing his grip!

Her hands shot up before she could stop them, her own fingers damp with sweat and quaking as she fumbled with the latch. She wrenched the window up and leaned out to grab the man’s wrists before she could change her mind.

“Here, let me—”

“I’m fine.” The terse growl reverberated through the air, filling her ears. “Now get back before you fall.”

She stiffened in shock. But she obeyed.

She thought better of it when one of the man’s hands slipped off the ledge—and a muffled curse followed. Before she could lunge forward, a pair of shoes sailed through the window, landing beside the fallen lamp with a thud. She caught a blur of black fabric next, straining against a set of impressive shoulders and equally powerful arms as the man levered himself up before smoothly vaulting into her bedroom. She stood there, gaping up at six-feet-plus of dark, towering muscle backlit against the glow of the city, as transfixed as she’d been the first time she’d been nudged out on stage at Avery Fisher Hall. Only she wasn’t some gawky eight-year-old kid making her knee-knocking orchestral debut. She was a twenty-four-year-old woman and she was facing the would-be robber—or worse—who’d just violated her personal space.

The thought lodged in her throat, nearly choking her. Until his clothes sank in. His tuxedo. Despite the shadows, she could make out a complete tux, right down to the matching black cummerbund and loosened bow tie. Whoever this guy was, he was either the classiest criminal in New York—or the best-man-turned-escapee from the wedding reception from hell. Or was he the groom? Had the guy been jilted at the altar only to scale the building so he could jump off?

A sobering thought.

She pushed past it and forced herself to take stock of her situation. It didn’t look good. A dead phone and an intercom that was not only on the opposite side of her apartment, but now also on the other side of that hulking form. Then again, the fallen lamp lay three feet away. The base might be slender, but it was made of solid metal.

She inched sideways.

Nothing. Her intruder either hadn’t noticed or he didn’t care. She darted the rest of the way before her courage fled, leaning down to scoop the lamp upright. Sweat slicked her fingers for the second time in as many minutes as she fumbled with the switch—and swallowed a curse. The three-way bulb had been damaged in the fall. At the lowest setting, all the lamp could muster was a feeble stream of light that did little more than highlight the man’s inky, shoulder-length hair. The rest of his features were still cloaked by shadows, leaving her with an impression of barely suppressed strength, rigid control and a disturbing, almost erotic pull.

Burglars weren’t sexy…were they?

Even odder, for some inexplicable reason her intruder appeared to be as dumbstruck by her presence as she was with his. Was this his first attempt at breaking and entering, then? Or was the man on drugs? Either way, she refused to be intimidated. If the man was going to attack her, he’d have done it already. Or was he simply resting up?

Stradivarius or not, she should have made a break for it while she had the chance.

Well, it was too late now. Abby tightened her grip on the lamp’s base. “Well, do you plan on explaining yourself or should I call the police?”

Brave words.

She realized just how brave as the man slipped his hand into his tuxedo jacket. She forced herself not to flinch as it surfaced holding a wallet, not a gun or a knife. Her relief bled out as the man opened the wallet and withdrew a card. She couldn’t make out the words, just the photo on a New York driver’s license.

The ID was his.

“Darian Sabura. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I mean you no harm. Feel free to buzz Jerry. He’ll vouch for me.” The dark, smooth tones flowed across the shadows gliding over her flesh like the warm, mellow notes of a bass clarinet.

Abby forced herself to ignore the disturbing vibrations that quivered deep inside her. So he knew the doorman by name. It didn’t prove anything. He could be trying to get her to drop her guard.

Or the lamp.

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” For now. “As for the scare, I’ll get over it.” What she wouldn’t do was return the favor. Bad enough the man knew where she lived. Even if he was on a first-name basis with the Tristan Court doorman, she wasn’t about to give him a name to go with her address. Especially since he’d yet to explain himself. “So…are you going to tell me what you were doing outside my window?”

“Climbing.”

She waited for more.

She waited in vain. Chatty, the man was evidently not. But even if he was on something, he didn’t seem so out of it that he’d forgotten he’d offered his ID. She doubted he’d harm her now that she could identify him…unless he had no intention of letting her see morning. Curiosity edged out fear—but not by much. “Do you do this often?”

Again, she waited. Just when she thought he wouldn’t answer, she caught his faint, almost embarrassed shrug.

“It’s a…hobby of sorts.”

A hobby? “As in, once or twice a week you don a tux, pick out a building and just…climb it?” Okay, so no drugs. The man was simply stark, raving nuts. With her luck, Mr. Darian Sabura hadn’t picked the building at random. He probably lived here. She was about to ask when he cleared his throat.

“I should be leaving. I appreciate the shortcut, but I’ve taken up enough of your time—” The rest ended up muffled as he bent to retrieve something from the floor. It wasn’t his shoes.

Humiliation seared through her as he held out the skimpy teddy and skimpier robe she’d tossed earlier. With everything that’d happened, she’d forgotten about them. She snatched the lingerie from his grasp with more force than she’d intended, causing the teddy to slip from her fingers. She managed to hook a finger into a slender strap before the teddy floated to the floor…but not before the crotch snagged on the man’s cuff link. She’d never know how she managed to keep from diving under the bed as he calmly worked the scarlet lace free.

“Thanks.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, good night.”

Relief rushed in as he turned toward her bedroom door, until she remembered— His shoes.

“Wait!”

The man might not know her name, but he knew where she lived. She had no intention of letting him leave behind a ready excuse for a future nighttime visit. She whirled around as he stopped, hooked his shoes off the floor. She caught up with him at the door—and promptly gasped. With the light streaming in from the living room, she could finally make out his features. He was older than she’d expected, thirty at least—and she knew him.

Okay, she didn’t exactly know him.

Truth was, they hadn’t even met.

But she had seen him, less than two weeks before. She’d just finished a late-afternoon meeting with her contractor and ridden the elevator back down to the ground floor. There, she’d spotted this man—this face—through the lobby’s massive glass doors. In her own defense, he’d been impossible to miss. Not only had Darian roared up onto the sidewalk on a sleek, silver-and-maroon racing motorcycle, he’d taken the time to cuff a matching helmet from his head, revealing a clipped rugged jaw and a glorious tangle of black hair as he unstrapped a canvas backpack from his bike.

He wasn’t lying. He did know the doorman.

Well enough for Jerry to store the bag behind the security desk for him as he roared off to wherever he was headed. It didn’t matter. Darian Sabura was still a thief. Because he’d also managed to rob her twice now.

Of her breath.

And she hadn’t gotten this close the first time.

He might have exchanged his sweat-stained T-shirt, worn leather boots and faded jeans for the sleek trappings suited to pungent cigars and the lofty private rooms of the Union Club, but this was still the face of a man who thrived in the great outdoors—the more rugged the better. His features bore the scars and weathering to prove it. From the fine lines around his eyes, the faint scar running the length of his entire right cheek and jaw, the nose that appeared once broken, not to mention the ghost of a serious tear that had once split the center of his bottom lip, she no longer doubted he’d been telling the truth about his unusual “hobby.” Still, it wasn’t the man’s scars that had knocked the air from her lungs. Or even the memory of the fiercely honed muscles below.

It was his eyes. They were almost…haunted.

Dark green and framed with thick black lashes, his gaze held her entire body hostage. She couldn’t move. All she could do was feel. Him. If the eyes were truly the mirrors of the soul, then somehow this man was holding back the weight of the entire world. And the strain was killing him.

He blinked.

The spell broke. A split second later, chagrin seared in. Darian Sabura might not be a criminal, and he might find sport in scaling the high-rises of the city, perhaps even the sheer cliffs and jagged mountain peaks of the world, but he was no Atlas. He was just a man. A man who was—

Bleeding? Abby dropped the shoes and touched his head.

He flinched.

She jerked her hand back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t. I can’t even feel it.”

Surely he’d exaggerated?

No, she couldn’t locate the exact source of the blood, but she was able to follow the thin rivulet down the left side of his face. “Your shirt collar is nearly soaked with blood.”

He shook his head. “It’s okay.”

“Nonsense. You may need stitches. Just let me—”

He jerked his head away before she could touch him again. “I said it’s fine. I’m fine.”

The heck he was. In a way his reaction reminded her of her brother’s usual response to a stranger’s touch. But with Brian the reaction stemmed from his innate shyness. Once her brother got to know a person, he loved to touch—better yet, hug. Often. It was one of the many blessings that came with her brother’s Down’s syndrome. She had the distinct impression this man rarely hugged, however, if ever.

She shook her head, exasperated by Darian’s stubbornness. “Look, it’s no trouble. I’ve already unpacked my first-aid kit in the kitchen. At least let me tape a bandage over that.” The exchange she’d witnessed the other day with the doorman had done more than allay her lingering fears regarding possible criminal intent—it lent credence and meaning to Darian’s statement of a minute ago: I appreciate the shortcut.

Had Spider Man simply been headed home?

She forced a shrug. “Leave if you want to, but don’t blame me if the blood seeps into your tux on the way upstairs and stains it permanently.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, his stare captured hers. Probed. She had the distinct feeling he was searching for something. Whatever it was, she didn’t think he’d been able to find it.

She was sure of it when he clipped a silent, almost resigned nod before spinning around and heading down the hall.

Bemused, she stepped out after him.

Two things struck her as Darian turned into the kitchen area instead of heading to the front door. One, he’d agreed to let her help, and two, he knew the layout of her apartment. Abby forced her racing pulse to slow. Yes, the man was gorgeous and, yes, she’d now lay odds he either lived in an identical apartment upstairs or knew someone who did. But even if that friend wasn’t a woman, it didn’t mean he was dating material. Not for her. She’d sworn off men after her fiasco of a breakup with Stuart. The only reason she’d returned to New York was to strengthen her bond with Brian. She certainly wasn’t here to get involved again, especially with a man as strange as this one, with even stranger hobbies.

Her resolve restored, Abby hooked her arm into one of the padded barstools at the breakfast counter and followed Darian into the kitchen proper. She dumped the brass stool beside the sink. The lingerie she’d inadvertently brought along went straight into the trash compactor. She threw the switch for good measure before retrieving her first-aid kit from the nest of kitchen utensils still cradling it at the top of the closest box. By the time she turned, her reluctant patient was leaning against the opposite counter, his dark, disconcerting gaze tracking her every move.

He shifted his stare to the still-chumming compactor for a brief, pointed moment, then drew it back to her.

No way. She’d let the man into her kitchen. He was not getting into her head, let alone her foolish heart. She glanced at the stool and shrugged. “You’re a giant. I’m not. I can’t reach.” He was six-two at least. At five-seven she was at a serious disadvantage if that cut was near his temple.

Her earlier suspicions regarding the man’s aversion to chit-chat were cemented as he crossed the modest galley kitchen and lowered his frame onto the stool, all without speaking. Or perhaps he’d been small-talked to death at whatever function he’d donned that tux for. She stuck out her hand, hoping to determine which. He simply stared. She redoubled her efforts, extending a genuine smile along with her hand. “Abigail Pembroke. My friends call me Abby. Given your hobby, I’m guessing yours call you Dare.”

He didn’t return her smile.

She must have shamed him into observing one of the tenets of etiquette, however, because his hand finally rose, slowly enveloping hers. His grip was warm and solid. His stare enveloped her as well.

“Dare will do…Abby.”

Oh, Lordy. The mellow note had returned to his voice, once again causing the strings of interest to vibrate deep within her belly. She muted them quickly and tugged her hand from his grasp, turning to the sink to scrub the lingering heat from her fingers along with the dust from her boxes. Fortunately, Mrs. Laurens had left a bottle of liquid soap behind and Abby used that to help with the sterilizing part of her efforts. Abby caught the rustle of fabric as she reached for the last of the paper towels the elderly woman had left as well. Dare had obviously decided to remove the jacket to his tux. By the time she returned to that steady gaze and surprisingly still-snowy shirt, her nerves were firmly under control.

Or so she’d thought.

Sweet mercy. She stared. Shamelessly.

Two weeks ago and forty feet away, the man’s chest had been ogle-worthy. Tonight, less than twelve inches away, it was downright riveting. The slightly crushed cotton of Dare’s shirt enhanced every inch of his broad shoulders, thick, sinewy arms and fiercely honed chest—right down to the silk cummerbund banded about his waist. She followed the line of studs back to his loosened tie and the tantalizing V of flesh at the base of his throat. Flesh that still bore the slight sheen of his unorthodox exertion.

And his scent.

This close, it was impossible to evade. Not that she wanted to. Abby savored the earthy musk drifting into her lungs. No ripe, commercial colognes for this man. Dare’s natural scent reflected his looks—dark and dangerous. Her second, slower whiff clogged in the middle of her throat as he cleared his. Expectantly.

She blushed.

Great. The man peeped into her window and she ended up pegged as the pervert. She purged his musk from her lungs along with her embarrassment, focusing instead on that sluggish, scarlet trickle as she stepped closer. Most of the blood appeared to have been soaked up by the dark waves that spilled past his right temple. She dumped the first-aid kit on the counter and smoothed the hair from his face.

He must have prepped himself better this time, because he managed to keep from stiffening.

She couldn’t. “Oh my.”

His brow lifted. The motion caused several fresh drops of blood to seep from the two-inch gash she’d located just past his temple. She wasn’t a doctor, but even she knew the cut required more than a Band-Aid.

“You need stitches.”

Unlike earlier in her bedroom, he offered no argument. Nor did he downplay her assessment. He simply shook his head.

Firmly.

Abby studied the thin scar running the length of his outer right cheek and jaw, the one on his bottom lip. Neither showed evidence of stitches. She wouldn’t be able to change his mind, then. Might as well do what she could. Popping open the first-aid kit, she rummaged through her meager supplies, culling a bottle of antibacterial wash, half a dozen squares of sterile gauze and her stash of slim butterfly bandages. She washed the gash as best she could, then used all seven of the butterfly strips to seal the slightly jagged edges together. Satisfied the strips would hold, she dampened the remaining squares of gauze with the antiseptic wash, then used the pads to clean the remaining blood from Dare’s cheek.

The end result was surprisingly neat.

“There.” She pitched the last of the gauze on the counter as he lifted his fingers to probe his cut.

Bandaged or not, that gash had to hurt.

She nodded to her kit. “I’m sorry. There should be a packet of ibuprofen in there but it’s gone. I must have used it up before I moved.”

“That’s okay. You’ve done enough as it is. I appreciate all your help…and your concern.”

She glanced at her watch as he stood, stunned as she realized he’d been there for nearly half an hour. It had felt like five minutes, ten tops. Even more disconcerting was that she was reluctant to see him go. She risked a teasing smile as he pushed the stool against the counter. “Glad to help. Just promise you’ll take the elevator, okay? I’m out of bandages.”

His lips actually quirked, then eased into a slow, mesmerizing smile. Somewhere along the way, she stopped breathing. She’d forgotten how.

She had the distinct impression Dare knew it.

To her disappointment, his smile faded. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. The haunted look that had struck her so deeply when she’d first spotted it in the doorway of her bedroom returned. His gaze seemed almost guarded now. He seemed guarded—against her. But that didn’t make sense. What reason did he have to be threatened by her? They hadn’t even met until tonight. Not really. Was it his head? Did it hurt worse than he’d said?

It must. Not only had his mood shifted, she could almost feel the energy draining out of him. He’d paled, too. “Look, why don’t you sit back down?” She tipped her chin toward the breakfast counter and the forest of cardboard still cluttering the living room beyond. “It shouldn’t take me more than a few minutes to locate the rest of my medical supplies. There’s bound to be a bottle of ibuprofen in the mix.”

“Thank you, but no. I have somewhere I need to be.”

At this hour?

She swallowed her disbelief. Nutcase or not, she did not want the man leaving until she was sure he wouldn’t pass out in the elevator—whether he was headed the one floor up or seventeen down. She tried teasing again. “Let me guess, you turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”

This time, his lips didn’t quirk. If anything, he became more guarded. “Something like that.”

Disappointment seared in—so swiftly, she was forced to admit she was attracted to the man. But even if he was attracted to her, time limits meant only one thing. A woman. Wherever his apartment was located, there was a woman waiting inside it. Girlfriend, fiancé, wife—it didn’t matter. She had no intention of playing second fiddle to anyone or anything ever again. Abby held fast to her resolve as Dare retrieved his jacket. She followed him out of the kitchen and around the boxes she had no idea how she was going to get rid of once they were empty and joined him in the apartment’s tiny foyer. She unlocked both security bolts and opened the door.

Dare stepped into the dimly lit hall—and hesitated.

To her surprise, he turned back.

That haunted looked was not a figment of her imagination. It was real and it had returned. But damned if she could figure out what was causing it, much less the resignation that had crept in as well. Dare retrieved an ivory-colored business card from the inner pocket of his tux and held it out. “Put the boxes in the hall when you finish unpacking. Then call and leave a message on my machine. I’ll have them removed.”

She reached out, instinctively taking the card and skimming it. Two lines in, she stopped. Forced herself to reread. Not the phone number…the address. Dare lived upstairs all right. All the way up. She snapped her gaze to his, not even bothering to disguise the fury blistering in.

“You live in the penthouse?”

The haunting in his eyes intensified.

She didn’t care. She no longer wondered what was behind it, either. She was too busy absorbing the shock. Two days after Greta Laurens had offered to sell her the apartment—and the very morning after she’d brought her brother by to make sure Brian also loved it—an unnamed resident had decided to exercise an obscure clause in Tristan Court’s antiquated homeowners’ agreement, one originally scripted by blue bloods at the turn of the century to keep so-called common folk from buying in. Abby received a formal, humiliating summons to appear before the building’s residents’ board, ostensibly to determine if she was suitable neighbor material. Though the board hadn’t come out and said it, she knew darn well the color of her blood hadn’t been the issue, but the genetic makeup of the rest of her cells.

Or rather, her brother’s.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

This man—who hadn’t even bothered to show up for that humiliating meeting—had instigated the entire, ugly mess. She didn’t care if Dare had withdrawn his reservations by the time the board met, she should have left him clinging to the side of their building where she’d found him. Unfortunately, it was too late to rectify her mistake now. She did the next best thing. She slammed the door in his face.

Chapter 2

Zeno Corza pocketed the compact binoculars he’d lifted from a pawnshop the night he’d hit town. Though his mark had already entered the apartment building, Zeno didn’t cross the darkened street. Nor did he retrieve his cell phone and call in. It wasn’t that he had nothing new to report.

He did.

But for all the boss’s big words and bigger ideas, the guy wouldn’t understand a change in plans, even a small one. He was too stuck on things going down his way. Well, the boss was also supposed to be big on results, too. Zeno was about to grab a couple of those. The brilliance of it was that he didn’t have to stick out his own hand. All he had to do was tap an old acquaintance on the shoulder. Remind a certain someone that in the end, everyone’s dirty little secrets leaked out.

Zeno clenched his fingers. The boss was wrong. He had brawn and brains.

Finesse.

Hell, after that fiasco in Chicago a couple of months ago, it wouldn’t be hard to prove. Especially since New York was Zeno Corza’s turf. Sure, he’d been busted while distributing his white-powder wares in the projects across town a couple years back—but he’d been smart enough to develop and then cash in a lucrative marker before his case even went to court, hadn’t he? Zeno craned his neck toward the upper floors of the Tristan, grinning as the bank of windows he’d spent the better part of the past few days casing lit up. Time to retrieve his cell phone. Put his new and improved mission into motion. Prove to the boss for once and for all he was ready to move up in the organization.

And if the boss was right and he didn’t have a way with words?

Well, there was always Sally.

Anticipation hummed in Zeno as he fingered the meticulously honed blade sheathed at the waist of his trousers. He’d named the old knife after the faithless bitch who’d once sworn to stick with him for life. In a way, she had. Part of her. After all these years, the blade’s wooden handle still carried the stain of Sally’s blood. Ironic when he thought about it.

That’s all the boss had ordered him to get this time.

A single drop of blood. The rest was his to amuse himself with. Another reason Zeno knew he was smart—he’d come up with a lot of ways to amuse himself over the years….

Abby gently hung her brother’s latest masterpiece on the wall and scrambled off the couch to admire the results of her handiwork. Not bad. The painting—a depiction of her new apartment building at sunset—was absolutely gorgeous.

She wasn’t surprised.

For all her brother’s difficulties with numbers and directions, Brian was an amazing impressionist. Tristan Court’s stately turn-of-the-century facade was awash in soft reds, warm golds and a soothing burnt orange. Brian had even sketched in the impression of the doorman with a few strategic strokes of dark gray, highlighted with white. The phone rang as Abby reached out to adjust the bottom of the frame. Sighing, she turned to thread through the empty cardboard boxes still cluttering her living room, wondering if her uptight upstairs neighbor would revise his opinion of her brother if she showed him the painting.

She knew the answer before she reached the kitchen counter. She’d spent years dealing with the prejudices of strangers regarding Down’s. Heck, getting to know Brian one-on-one for six months the year before hadn’t even put a dent in her ex’s carefully concealed, holier-than-thou bigotry.

And speak of the devil.

Abby glared at the name and number in her phone’s caller ID window. It was Stuart Van Heusen, in the flesh—or rather, in her ear. If she picked up. Abby spun around and waded back through the boxes to retrieve her hammer. By the fourth ring she was tempted to send the tool sailing across the room and onto the phone. Her own prerecorded voice kicked in on the fifth shrill, only to cut out in mid-hello as Stuart decided against leaving a message and hung up.

Smart move.

She’d yet to return his first three calls.

Frankly, she still couldn’t believe he’d had the nerve to show up at the concert hall that afternoon. Fortunately, she’d been onstage, halfway through rehearsal along with the other 105 members of the Philharmonic. By the time they’d finished, Stuart had given up and left. She’d been tempted to dial his cell number then, if only to tell him that the next time he stepped foot in her dressing room—assistant district attorney or not—she was going to have security escort him out. But then Marlena had arrived and her thoughts of Stuart had vanished as her friend practically bounded toward the stage.

At first Abby hadn’t been able to tell if Marlena was heading for the violin or cello section—much less why. A cellist with the Philharmonic, Marlena’s husband, Stephen, had taken Abby under his wing a decade ago when he learned the gangly new violinist had a twin with the same genetic condition as his infant son. But it was Marlena Abby had really bonded with. When Marlena and Stephen had decided to turn the upper floors of their apartment house into a group home for adults with Down’s, Abby had been thrilled. So much so that when her brother had confessed two years ago that he wanted to follow her to New York to study art at a special school, she’d persuaded their dad to let Brian move into the house.

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 who possessed the financial means and the conscience to donate what was needed—as well as the ability and desire to keep his or her assistance quiet indefinitely.

Unfortunately, this evening’s task had fallen into the first phase of assistance—determining need. Specifically, Charlotte had needed him to vet a story. One that involved a child. An innocent slip of a girl.

The results had been unbearable.

So much so, he’d been compelled to embrace the girl.

He still wondered if he should have done it. It was always a risk. Though the mother hadn’t argued, she hadn’t understood either. Not really. He drew comfort from the fact that by the time Charlotte ensured that both mother and child were far away from the city, and safe, the mother would already have decided that what she thought she’d seen had really been her imagination. In time she would write off the results to repressed memory. If only he could repress his own memory—that unspeakable torment—as easily. Embracing anyone, much less a child, took so damned much out of him, there were days when he wondered why he chanced it. Why he didn’t leave this damned city and its roiling emotions behind. Move to some remote corner of the earth and stay there forever.

But he knew.

For better or worse, he was as committed to helping the women they assisted as Charlotte was.

Dare also knew, even before he bent low to scoop his shirt off the floor and hook it about his neck, that he could no more resist the woman standing outside his apartment than he’d been able to deny that child. Especially since she’d finally strengthened her resolve enough to step up to his door to press the bell. Dare clamped his fingers about the ends of his shirt and turned his back on the utter peace the shower promised. He crossed his bedroom, then traveled the length of the apartment, surprised by the strength of her aura. Her inner essence was far easier to read now than it had been the day he’d first felt her in the lobby, and it continued to intensify with each step he took.

Was it her—or him? Or the evening’s events?

He reached the door before he could decide, and opened it. A split second later Dare realized his mistake. Abby had changed her mind again and started to leave. Unfortunately, he’d been either too drained and distracted by the night’s events or too consumed by her proximity to read the fluctuation in her emotions correctly. And now it was too late.

She turned back. “Oh, I thought—”

He waited.

She took in his partial state of undress and shook her head. “Never mind what I thought.”

He stared at her fingers, mesmerized, as she tucked a stray dark brown curl into the loose braid that hung halfway down her back. Just as he’d wondered all too often of late what it would be like to reach out and touch her, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have those slender fingers soothing his flesh, as well. He must have stared too long, because her fingers trembled slightly as she lowered them. He didn’t need to see her teeth nip at the corner of her bottom lip to know she was nervous. Nor did he need his sense.

Tension had already begun to clog the air between them, thickening it. She lowered her gaze and he finally noticed the contents of her left hand.

His shoes.

She held them up. “You forgot them.”

Dare nodded. He hadn’t even realized they were missing until he’d reached his apartment the other night. But by then his sense—both emotional and intellectual—had returned. He’d decided to wait, hoping she’d call and tell him she’d leave the shoes in the hall along with her boxes.

She’d done neither.

He hooked his fingers into the knotted laces, deftly retrieving the shoes without touching her. Still, he was forced to drop the shoes just inside the doorway, unnerved by the strength of the echo she’d left on the laces alone. He shifted his grip on the door and eased it shut. “Thank you.”

“Wait.”

He stopped. “Yes?”

Her pupils widened, causing her gaze to darken as the inner ring of brown crowded out the flecks of green. “I, ah, wondered if your offer regarding the boxes was still good.”

He nodded. “Just leave them in the hall. They’ll be gone by morning.” Fortunately, she didn’t ask how, or by whom.

But neither did she leave.

“Did you need something else?”

“No. Yes. That is, I’d like to—” Her gaze swept his features. Narrowed slightly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I hate to be rude, but you don’t look so good. In fact, you’re paler than you were the other night.” Her stare shifted to his temple. Fortunately, the butterfly bandages she’d applied were obscured by his hair. “Is your cut—”

“It’s healing properly.” But more quickly than she’d ever believe possible. Truth be told, at the moment that cut was the only part of him that didn’t feel as if he’d been kicked out of the side of a small plane at ten thousand feet sans parachute. “However, it has been a long day. I was about to step in the shower….” He trailed off deliberately, hoping she’d take the hint.

She didn’t.

Worse, her gaze dropped to his chest. She stared.

Studied.

From the shift in her aura and growing fascination in those soft hazel eyes, he assumed she was merely tabulating the results of his dogged pursuit of motocross, auto racing, skydiving, as well as half a dozen other so-called extreme sports before he’d figured out that free climbing provided the most bang for the adrenaline-induced buck—or rather, the most effective dulling. But then he noticed her stare had settled on his left pectoral, directly over his heart.

He shifted his T-shirt as discreetly as he could and covered the tattoo.

“Well?” He hadn’t meant to sound quite so clipped. But he had succeeded in wrenching her gaze from his chest. “Did you need something, or not?”

Her aura shifted once more. Sharpened. Darkened.

“Not.” A moment later she smoothed her features. He felt her attempt to smooth her mood as well. To lighten it along with her heart. She retrieved a slim white envelope from the back pocket of her jeans and held it out. “Consider it a thank-you for getting rid of the boxes.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Nonsense. I insist.” When he still didn’t take it, she nudged the envelope closer. “Contrary to my behavior the other night, I swear it’s not a letter bomb. It’s a pair of tickets for the symphony Saturday night. Bring a guest.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t—”

“You’re already going?”

He shook his head. Not in this lifetime.

“You already have plans?”

He should have lied but discovered he couldn’t. “No.”

“Then I don’t understand. What’s the problem? You’ll don a tux to climb a building, but can’t be bothered to suit up for an evening of Mozart?” A tiny dimple dipped in at the right of her lips as she smiled, attempting to tease him into accepting. “Trust me, contrary to certain rumors it’s not a fate worse than death.”

If she only knew.

He shook his head again. Firmly. Even as a recent addition to the orchestra, he doubted she’d had to pay for the tickets. Still, there was no sense in wasting them. He was about to shut the door on the tickets as well as further argument when she stepped forward to tuck the envelope in his hand. He sucked in his breath as her fingertips grazed his.

That was all it took.

Like that violin she’d carried to work these past two mornings, he was instantly, completely in tune—with her.

He jerked back instinctively.

A moment later he felt her suspicion as it seared into his heart. The knot of stinging tears followed again, in his own throat as well as hers. Her lips thinned as the profound disappointment and utter disgust locked in. “Don’t worry, Mr. Sabura. It’s not contagious.”

She spun around as he struggled to recover.

“Abby!”

She stopped. But she refused to turn back.

He swallowed his shame. “It has nothing to do with Brian or his Down’s syndrome. Now or regarding the board meeting. I swear.”

Her braid shifted as she nodded. But she didn’t believe him. Though common sense advised against it, something deep inside forced him to try again.

“Please…I never meant to hurt you.”

Well, you did.

She hadn’t said the words, but she might as well have. He could feel them. He still felt them, and her, as she stepped away from the door, bypassing the elevator on her right in favor of the stairs. Irony bit as Abby descended. He’d purchased all four of the apartments on the nineteenth floor years before to create a buffer from the rest of the building’s inhabitants and the roiling emotions of their daily lives.

If anything, the empty floor now served to magnify the effect she had on him.

Now more than ever.

Resigned, he turned into his apartment and closed the door as she closed hers, two floors below. He crossed the length of his living room, then headed down the hallway, piercingly aware that she, too, was heading down her hall. But while Abby stopped shy of her bedroom, he forced himself to continue to his, to slump down at the edge of his bed and wait for the connection to ebb. Though the contact had been slight, he had no idea how long it would take. He only had the one experience to compare this—her—to. And yet, he already knew this woman and the inexplicable hold she had over him was completely different. Already it was stronger, and growing stronger with each passing day. Every hour.

Every note.

He lay back on his bed as Abby tucked her violin beneath her chin, retrieved her bow and began to play. Neither the nimble grace nor the haunting poise of her technique surprised him. She’d played with same breathtaking skill and uninhibited passion the night before. But this time, the connection she’d unwittingly forged between them outside his apartment door succeeded in pulling him in deeper. Suddenly, it was as if he was there in the room with her—within her. He could feel the soft, lilting melody she’d chosen as it breathed its magic into her heart, gradually easing her anger and disappointment until her soul finally stirred and took over. Within minutes, he no longer knew where he left off and she began. All he knew was that he was lost somewhere amid that gently soothing music and the utter beauty of her. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to both, slipping so smoothly and completely beneath her skin, it should have startled him. But it didn’t.

Until it changed.

He changed. He wanted more. Needed it. For the first time in his life, craved it. Dare closed his eyes tighter, delved deep within himself and reached for her.

But the connection was gone.

He shot upright, clutching at the ends of his shirt as he sucked the air into his lungs, struggling to reorient himself to the bed, the room, his very self without her in it. But it was too late. The contact had been too brief. The bond had faded. All he was left with was this thrumming awareness of her. Though constant and bittersweet, it was once again too much—and yet, no longer enough.

Worse, for a moment he’d almost believed he could have more. That he could have her. But he couldn’t.

Now least of all.

Six days after Abby’s essence had first merged with his own in the lobby, he’d woken in the dead of night with the presence of another filling every inch of his heart. Only this time the essence hadn’t eased in, it had stabbed straight through him, ripping him out of a sound sleep. At first Dare had been terrified the cry had come from her, perhaps even the brother he’d discovered Abby had. But it hadn’t.

Nor had it come from anyone else he could locate.

By the time his thundering heart had slowed, there was nothing left but the mewling echo of pain—and the distinct impression that it had come from a young boy. A boy close to him. Very close. Dare had scoured the early-morning news, even walked the floors of his building and circled those surrounding his in hopes that if the cry had come from a child nearby, he’d be able to locate him. He’d even had Charlotte check the police stations and hospitals.

Their efforts had been for naught.

For once, no children nearby had been beaten or violated in their bodies or their hearts. But the echo had remained. Even now, if he concentrated hard enough, he could hear that cry—feel it—as if it were ripping through him anew. But even stranger and more disturbing was that he also knew the child was okay now. And he still sensed he and the boy were close.

Through blood.

He had to be mistaken. Perhaps Abby’s presence in his life had skewed his sense, much like his mother’s had at times growing up. As a child he’d felt his mother’s pain on a daily basis, though some days it had cut deeper. He felt all too well the cold, emotionless void she’d received in place of her so-called husband, his so-called father. The bastard had cared so little for the two of them that for years he’d suspected the rumors that damned gossip magazine had actually printed before were true. That he and Victor Sabura didn’t share the same DNA.

But they did.

No, he’d never been tested. Given his empathic sense, he hadn’t needed to be. At fifteen he’d finally simply come out and asked the man. Demanded to know. Dare wasn’t sure which had disappointed him more—hearing Victor admit they were related…or feeling the utter lack of subterfuge.

So why could he still feel that cry?

Had Victor fathered another child?

Or did that cry have something to do with the other, older brand still on his heart? The one he’d placed above it.

His tattoo.

Dare glanced down at his chest, only to stop shy of the half-inch mark as he spotted something else.

The envelope Abby had pushed on him.

It was still in his hand.

He retrieved the tickets and studied them. Not only was Abby the featured soloist this coming Saturday, but he was forced to admit to himself that he truly wanted to go.

But he could not.

He’d spent the past two months believing that cry had nothing to do with her. He was right…and he was wrong. That cry had been a harbinger of the storm that was to come. And he did not want Abby caught up inside it. Besides, there would be thousands of people in Avery Fisher Hall. The last time he’d been trapped within the same walls with that much raw, intense emotion from so many people—

He stood.

The mere memory propelled his feet into motion. Dare crossed the bedroom and entered the bath, where his respite still waited. He dropped the tickets and his shirt to the floor, not even bothering to shuck his jeans before he entered the eight-foot hexagonal chamber he’d commissioned years before. He closed the door firmly, sealing himself within the glass and sealing the entire world out, Abby Pembroke along with it. Only then did he strip off his jeans and toss them aside before turning into the steaming spray in an effort to cleanse her lingering essence from his mind and his heart.

While he still could.

“You were fantastic, hon! The star of the show.”

Abby paused in the middle of removing her stage makeup to shoot a smile toward Marlena’s reflection as her friend entered the dressing room. “Yeah, yeah. You say that to Stephen after every concert.”

Marlena laughed as she closed the door. “True. But he’s my husband, so I’m excused.” Her grin turned wicked as she plopped down at the end of the padded bench. “Besides, I just tell the hulking lug that so I can get lucky later in bed.”

Abby laughed so hard she dropped her tissue into the pot of cold cream. At five-ten with a wiry build, Stephen was no hulking lug, not even beside Marlena’s petite build.

Her friend raked her fingers through her short blond curls and sighed. “I’m bushed—and I didn’t even perform. You ready to go?”

“In a sec.” Abby swung around on the bench. She’d already exchanged her black floor-length skirt and silk blouse for a peach T-shirt and faded jeans. She reached down for the worn leather flats that completed her postconcert ensemble, careful to keep her gaze on the carpet as she slipped the right shoe on. “I take it he didn’t show up.”

Silence.

By the time she glanced up, Marlena had crossed the dressing room and was studiously rearranging the bouquet of calla lilies currently overpowering the dressing-room table. Her friend fiddled with the flowers for several moments, then turned and sighed. “You really didn’t think he’d come, did you?”

No.

Abby slipped into the other shoe. Five days might have passed since she’d used Mr. Darian Sabura’s shoes as an excuse to drop off that pair of tickets, but any hope she’d had the man would use them—and in the process, possibly change his tune regarding her brother—had vanished long before the final movement of tonight’s symphony.

Marlena frowned as she plucked a spray of miniature peach orchids from the simple vase beside the lilies. “Honey, I know you had hopes of improving neighborly harmony, but it’s time to face facts. The man’s just not interested. Even if he had shown tonight, chances are he’d have taken one look at the genetic makeup of the rest of your guests and split.”

As much as Abby would’ve liked to deny the assessment, she couldn’t. “You’re probably right.”

“You know I am.” Marlena turned and snagged the violin and case from the dressing-room table. She held them out. “Now, cheer up and pack. It’s a big night. If not for you, for someone else I know.”

Marlena was right about that, too—tonight was a big night. And not because of a successful solo—because of Brian. Abby grinned as she accepted the custom case her father had given her three Christmases ago. Her brother would be sleeping over for the first time since her return from Europe. Frankly, she couldn’t wait to get him all to herself again. She popped the latches on the case and retrieved the cloth, carefully wiping the Stradivarius down before fitting the violin into its velvet bed. She slipped the horsehair bow into the empty slot and tucked the cloth inside. The moment she snapped the reinforced case shut and spun the combination lock, the door to the dressing room burst open.

Brian tumbled inside along with Marlena’s son. Nathaniel raced over to his mom as her brother hauled Abby in for a hug. Brian’s dark, upturned eyes danced behind his ever-present thick lenses as he grinned up at her. “You played very great tonight, Abby! The best. Everyone said so.”

Abby laughed, her hand slipping up to ruffle his soft brown hair before she could stop it. Knowing Brian, she figured he’d grilled every single patron he could following the concert, too. “Thanks, bro. So, you up for a pizza and a sleepover?” She might have mastered the violin by six, but she still hadn’t mastered the art of eating before a performance. Fortunately for her, Brian was up for Gino’s pepperoni special 24/7, whether he’d eaten recently or not.

His grin split wide, letting her know tonight was no exception. “Let’s go!”

Marlena held out her violin case and gym bag as she stood.

“Thanks.” Abby took them as Stephen arrived just in time to follow Brian and Nathaniel right back out the door. She crossed the room to head out after them.

“Ab?”

She paused at the door. “Yeah?”

Marlena pointed to the flowers on the dressing-room table. “Are you really leaving those for the janitor?”

She shrugged. “Grab the miniature orchids if you like, but leave the lilies. Fred can dump those in the garbage, for all I care. Unless you want them, which I doubt.”

Marlena frowned. “Don’t tell me—”

“’Fraid so.” She didn’t care if Stuart had left his name off that bizarre pastoral postcard to get it past security. There were only so many people who knew callas were her favorite. Of those, only one who’d send a bouquet so huge it bordered on garish. And then there was the stunning arrogance of his note: “I have more of what you need.” He’d even gone so far as to leave a cell number she didn’t recognize at the bottom, no doubt in hopes she’d actually call.

She wouldn’t.

In fact, she planned to apply for a new unlisted number herself come Monday morning. Right after she paid a visit to Stuart’s mother. Until this evening, she’d assumed Stuart simply wanted to get back together to help his flagging campaign for city councilman. If she was wrong and the implied threat in that note was correct, changing her phone number wouldn’t stop the harassment…but informing Katherine Van Heusen her precious son was trying to contact her again would.

Marlena grinned. “Atta girl. You’re learning.”

Her friend had no idea.

Abby sighed. “Yeah, well, hold your praise. I know three other guys who are going to come rushing back to harass us if we don’t get a move on.”

Marlena nodded as they hurried down the hall.

Fortunately, most of the symphony patrons had left. By the time she and Marlena made it to Lincoln Center’s underground parking garage, Stephen’s SUV was idling beside the curb. Marlena passed the orchids over as Stephen let Brian out of the car. “You sure you two wouldn’t rather have a lift?”

Brian answered for her as he reached their side. “No way! We want to stop for pizza.”

Marlena laughed. “Well at least let me take your bag. I’ll bring it to the softball game tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.” Abby handed her bag to Marlena and the orchids to Brian, then waved to Nathaniel in the SUV before tucking the violin case beneath her left arm. She linked hands with her brother as they chatted and walked back down the hall toward the rear pedestrian exit that spilled out onto West Sixty-fifth. To her surprise, the street appeared darker than usual. As they turned left onto the sidewalk, she realized why. Either the grid that handled Lincoln Center was experiencing an electrical glitch or several of the halogen lamps along this side of the complex had dimmed enough to need replacing.

The effect was a bit spooky.

While traffic was still whizzing along Broadway at a decent clip, they were headed in the opposite direction, past Juilliard and the Walter Reade Theatre. Abby tightened her grip on Brian’s hand as they turned toward Amsterdam. Several steps later she clamped down tighter as she caught sight of a parked limo twenty yards ahead on the opposite side of the street. More specifically, the broad-shouldered, suit-clad man leaning into the driver’s window. To think she’d been impressed with Dare’s silhouette that night in her room. This guy was twice as big. Worse, the vibes the gorilla gave off were twice as dangerous and even more unsettling.

In the wrong way.

But why? Other than the man’s massive size, she had nothing to base the impression on.

Still, a voice deep inside her shouted run.

Even stranger, the voice wasn’t hers.

Abby bit down on her lip. “Maybe we should have taken Marlena’s offer for a ride tonight.” They could still hail a cab on Broadway.

Brian shook his head stubbornly. “No way. I want Gino’s!”

She tugged her gaze from the limo, ignoring the now bellowing voice inside her head. For goodness’ sakes, Gino’s was only two blocks away. “Okay, pizza it is.”

The second she glanced back, she changed her mind. Glass shattered around their feet from the vase of orchids as she caught sight of a glinting blade. The brute had a knife—and he was using it. Abby shrieked as the thug ripped the limo door open to stab the driver again. She screamed as her brother bounded forward toward the attacker.

“Brian, no!”

The violin case crashed to her feet and she vaulted over it racing after Brian. Two steps later, the tip of her right shoe clipped the edge of a pothole and she fell to her knees. She was still scrambling to her feet in the middle of the street as Brian reached the limo. Abby screamed again, this time at the top of her lungs, as the thug spun around and grabbed her brother by his hair, bashing the side of his head into the passenger window with enough force to shatter the glass.

A split second later, tires squealed.

Abby froze, then jerked her gaze to her left. It was a mistake. She was instantly blinded by the twin headlights bearing down on her. Before she could move, a wall of solid muscle slammed into her from behind, mercifully wrenching her out of the way of the fishtailing car before tackling her to the far side of the street. Pain exploded inside her skull as her head smacked into the cement curb.

“You okay?” The man above her asked.

“Y-yes—”

“Good.” He held her down. “Stay down.”

She couldn’t have disobeyed if she’d wanted to. Her vision was fuzzed and her balance was nonexistent. She crammed every ounce of strength she had into a single plea as the nausea threatened. “Please, help my broth—”

The limo roared to life, drowning out the rest.

It didn’t matter. Her tackler had already jackknifed off her body and vaulted after the car. It happened so quickly, she never even saw the man’s face. She had managed to place his voice, however. But by then it was too late.

She’d already passed out.

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