My Little Runaway (Destiny Bay) (22 page)

Not yet, obviously.
 
Not until he’d gone to bed.
 
She sighed, watching lights go on and off as he traveled through the house.
 
This was going to be a long wait.
 
But it had to be.
 
She had to do this right.
 
Everything depended on it.
 

Finally, the time came.
 
Evening had melted into midnight and as far as she could tell, all the lights were off in the house. Everyone should be asleep. It was time to go.

She’d pulled her dark hair back and wove it tightly into a long braid to make sure it wouldn’t get in the way. She was wearing a black wool sweater and dark blue jeans. Now she pulled on black leather gloves and nodded approvingly. Her uniform was complete.

 
“Cat burglar,” she murmured to herself, then laughed nervously. How very appropriate the term was! “But can I count on nine lives?”

Probably not. If she got caught . . . But she wouldn’t get caught. She couldn’t. She didn’t allow herself to think about the consequences. She’d always been one to abide by rules and play it safe. What she was doing here was going out on a long and very shaky limb. If she thought about it too much, she knew she would never be able to go through with it.

The lower doors were bolted, she was certain. But she’d seen the man come out on one of the upstairs balconies twice, and she was pretty sure he hadn’t locked the sliding glass door when he’d left. Hopefully, that would be her entry point.

Getting up there didn’t concern her. There was a very sturdy-looking drainpipe conveniently located right next to the balcony. She was used to roaming the hills with other botanists, sometimes climbing nearly vertical cliffs in search of one special fern plant. Compared to that, this little climb to the second story would be a snap.

Picking up a cardboard box studded with airholes, she moved easily over the low fence, sighing with relief when no alarm was activated. She hadn’t seen any sign of one, but you never knew . . . She stepped carefully through the tulip bed and stopped at the foot of the drainpipe, listening intently. Nothing—not even a television or a radio. They were all in bed.

The drainpipe wasn’t any more of a problem than she’d expected, and she shimmied up it quickly. Then she was on the balcony, looking at the slider, and suddenly her heart was beating so fast she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. She stopped, pressing her hands to her chest, and tried to calm herself, but her panic wouldn’t subside.

Was she crazy? Was she totally, completely out of her mind? What she was about to do, what she was already doing, was a felony. She swayed against the redwood railing, feeling slightly faint. She’d never committed a felony before. And if she didn’t get hold of herself, she might not commit this one either.

Drawing a full breath deep into her lungs, she calmed herself.
 
The drapes were partially pulled back and she squinted, trying to see into the room.
 
It looked empty.
 
She touched the door handle.
 
It wasn’t locked.
 
Finally, a piece of luck.
 

“This is for you, Alexander,” she whispered, then reached again, hand shaking a bit, for the sliding glass door. It opened easily, noiselessly, and she stepped in through the flowing drapes.

It was dark, but her eyes were already accustomed to the nearly moonless night and she could make out the ultra-modern furnishings of the room—chrome and glass, linen and hemp. The room seemed to be an elaborate bedroom with a king-sized bed that was empty and a couch and chairs—and something else, something strange built into the floor right in front of the sliding glass door, something square and glittering.
 
And the slightly chemical smell that filled the room was familiar, but she couldn’t quite identify it. . .

Her head snapped up. There was a sound coming from the hall, then the door began to open. For a long, long second, Janet was paralyzed, pinned like a butterfly to a collecting board, but somehow, from somewhere deep inside, she managed to summon up the will to move, and in two quick steps, she slid behind the drapes, her back to the cold glass, just as the lights came on.

She tried to hold her breath, but the need for fresh air tore at her lungs and she found herself panting instead. Luckily, the person who had entered was whistling a tuneless melody, setting things down and picking things up and generally making enough racket to cover the noises she made. And then a switch was thrown and a new sound filled the room—a sound of bubbling, rushing water.

She frowned, not able to place it. Her breathing steadied as she puzzled over it, trying to identify the noise. With it going, she had no sense at all of where the man was. She knew she would have to look out and see what was going on.

Moving slowly, oh so slowly, she found the end of one drape and positioned herself to peer through the slit into the room. What she saw stunned her.

The black, square object built into the floor was a hot tub, complete with water jets. That was where the sound was coming from as the hot water surged and bubbled in the tub.
 

But she hardly wasted a glance on that. What held her gaze was the man standing before it, staring at the open sliding glass door and probably wondering how it had gotten that way.

He was absolutely naked—and absolutely the most gorgeous thing she’d ever seen.

Excerpt from Dead Furst:

Have a taste for something more hard-hitting and supernatural?

DEAD FURST

by
Kent R. Conrad

(From a review on Amazon)

“Most importantly, however, this is a story that grabs you by the guts and never lets you go.”

(an excerpt)

The night I died was still and cool - the weird cool that L.A. surprises you with mid-fall, when you’re still running the A.C. in the car during the day. A dewy condensation sparkled off the side-mirrors of the cars parked on either side of the street, crowding together as if to keep warm. I’m a parallel parker nonpareil, so there was barely room for breath between my little Honda and the Prius in front of it, license plate “GRNBB.
The place where I was killed had a still quietness, hidden from the city. I leaned against my car, hiding from the flickering street light three houses down, and listened. I could hear the thick wet sounds of Echo Lake, the rumble of traffic just down the hill, but far enough away that I might have been in Mojave - except Mojave’s got stars and all of L.A.’s stars are on the streets, or in the clubs, or waiting in the house across the street from the man with the camera.

Available on Kindle

From
DoorKnock Publishing