Night Moves

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Night moves

By

Heather Graham

His eyes--they were a strange hazel, she realized, mahogany at the rim, yellow-green by the pupil--were on her. They swept over her from head to toe, lingering slowly, coming to rest on her own.

"Bryn Keller? You're the photographer, then, too. It's a pleasure to meet you."

His hand was on hers. Rough--there were heavy calluses on his palms. Large--it enveloped her slender fingers.

And hot. . .

As if a burning energy poured through his system, making him as combustible as an active volcano, except that his power was deceptively calm, like thesnowcapped peak of a mountain beneath a blue sky

.. . .

The fire seemed to rip along her spine.

She pulled her hand--jerked it, rather--from his, and stepped back a foot. "Yes, I'm Bryn Keller. If
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you'll explain what you want, I'll let you know if I'll be capable or not."

Ice. .. There could have been no better description of her voice. She hadn't really meant to be cold,but. .

.She had been cold to the point of rudeness.

ISBN 1 741 16054 5

NIGHT MOVES © 1985 by Heather Graham

Lee was as one with the night.

His tread upon the damp earth was as silent as the soft breeze that cooled the night, and as he moved carefully through the neatly manicured foliage, he was no more than shadow.

A distant heritage had given him these gifts, and that same distant heritage had taught him to move with the grace of the wild deer, to hunt with the acute and cunning stalk of the panther, and to stand firm in his determination with the tenacity of the golden eagle.

Yet that distant heritage had nothing to do with his secretive stalk of this dark evening. Nor with the clothes he wore, black Levi's jeans and a black turtleneck sweater.

And black Adidas sneakers.

Black, which could be swallowed into the night.

Hunched down and balanced on the balls of his feet, he watched the house patiently for half an hour.

Then he began to move, circling around it within the shelter of palms and hibiscus.

No light shone from within. All was silent. Not even the trailing fingers of the pines gave off a rustle.

Puzzled, he relaxed somewhat, then began another stealthy walk to circle the contemporary dwelling once more.

Near the rear of the house he paused, hearing nothing, but sensing movement on the air. And then he did hear it.Footsteps.Padding cautiously, slowly.

A silhouette appeared against the pale glimmer of the moon.

A figure, also clad in black from head to toe.

Black jeans.Loose-fitting, bulky black sweater.And a black ski mask that hid the wearer's features, rendering it sexless, an intruder with one intent: to get into the house.

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The slender form paused as if strung upon the air, something like a young doe, seeming to sense danger.

But there was no tangible danger, and so the form moved again, scurrying this time, rushing from the cover of the foliage to a double-paned window.

He waited tensely as he watched the figure struggle for several seconds to lift the window. A cloud suddenly slipped over the moon, dimming the meager natural light of the night until it was almost nonexistent. There was nothing but pure shadow, a mist of blindness, and even the shadow was sensed rather than seen.

The figure continued to work at the window. At last it gave, and the form leaped nimbly to the sill, paused again,then disappeared within.

Only then did he move himself, silent as the shadow of the night once more, his steps making no sound.

He peered through the window. A small, furtive light gleamed, the beam of a small flashlight. It moved across the room, disappearing past a white framed doorway that momentarily caught its reflection.

Swiftly, smoothly, he hopped to the sill and eased himself over.

He followed in the wake of the flashlight, past several doors, until he came to a large and spacious room.

He paused in the darkness of the hallway, watching as the light was played quickly about. A modular sofa, strewn with colorfulafghans , was comfortably arranged in one corner; a piano set upon a dais, and bookshelves lined opposing walls. Where there was space, attractive Western prints were hung; there was a rifle rack, and also a display of antique bows, arrows and spears.

Far to the left, past a tiled foyer, was another raised section, separated from the main room by a handsome wrought-iron rail from which hung curling ivy.And within the enclosed section sat a large teakwood desk.

It was here that the figure had stopped.

The flashlight was set on top of a leather framed blotter; busy hands began hurriedly pulling at the drawers and rifling through them. With narrowed eyes he watched the action for a moment, and then, with the stealthy tread of a panther, he began to close in.

A desk drawer slammed.Too loud. The intruder froze for a moment and sent the light flashing nervously around.

He ducked behind a section of the sofa and waited until he heard the sound of riffled papers once again.

Now...now he was ready to strike.

Like a rush of wind he moved across the room, his movement fluid as he plucked an arrow from the wall, sprang over the ivy covered railing and clamped an arm about the stunned intruder's throat.

"Who the hell are you?" he growled, pressing the arrow point threateningly to the intruder's ribs. "And what the hell do you want?"

He felt the cold rush of terror that flooded through the intruder, the rigid, frozen stance.

"I--" The tremulous whisper was choked off almost immediately. He relaxed the pressure of his hold somewhat and dropped the arrow as he realized his enemy's weakness.

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"We'll get some light on the situation," he finally muttered dryly, releasing his victim altogether and moving confidently toward the desk.

But he had underestimated his wily opponent. The figure spun about, jumping the rail with a fluid grace and tearing blindly through the shadowed house toward the hallway.

"Hell!"' he swore, gripping the rail and hurdling over once again. He raced through the hall. Past closed doors.To the den. Just in time to see the silhouette perched on the windowsill.

"Stop!" he commanded, allowing for no weakness this time. Reflexively he bunched his muscles and hurled himself at the figure. Instead of jumping out, the black-clad wraith jumped inward, eluding him.

Almost.

He caught a handful of soft wool. His grip was so tight that the sweater ripped, a swatch coming free in his hand.

The figure spun from him in wild desperation, realized that it would be impossible to reach the window and pelted toward the door.

He rolled, sprang to his feet and followed in hot pursuit again, aware now of something that the figure wasn't: There was no other way out.

Back into the living room they raced, to the stairwell rising to the balcony and the second floor. He was certain that the fleeing wraith was reasoning no more; just running blindly in desperation.

Running foolishly in panic.Clinging to the hope of escape until the last possible moment.

Their footsteps flew down the length of the wood-railed balcony that overlooked the living room.To the door at the end of the long hallway. The figure managed to throw the door open, then twisted wildly to see him an arm's length away...

The figure turned again, bolted into the room and tried to slam the door shut.

He sprang, his shoulder sending a thudding shudder rippling through the wood of the door, his arms clasping the intruder.

Together they flew through the darkness with the force of his impetus, landing hard upon the queen-sized bed in the center of the room. Arms flailed madly against him; thrashing legs kicked. The wraith writhed beneath him like a pinned cat. He worked silently and grimly to subdue the figure, and started for just a moment when his hands brushed something very lush.Firm, but soft.Full and tempting.

A woman's breast.

"No! Please!" The cry was very feminine.Panicked.No, terrified. He could feel her racingheartbeat, hear the rush of air in her lungs as she fought to breathe. But still she struggled...

With a grunt he straddled her and made quick work of securing her wrists.

"All right!" he muttered furiously and repeated, "Who the hell are you, and what the hell are you doing here?"

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As suddenly as it had come earlier to create blackness, the cloud that had covered the moon drifted away. A silver glow poured through the glass panes of the French doors that led to the master suite's sky-topped terrace.

He could see her clearly, as she could see him.

He reached for the black ski mask that covered her head and face and ripped it away, exposing a wealth of shiny hair that caught themoonglow and gleamed as richly as a newly minted penny. And exposing her features...

Wide, thick-lashed, cat-green eyes stared into his. He quickly studied the woman's face.High, delicate cheekbones.Copper brows.Straight, aquiline nose. Well defined mouth with a lower lip that hinted at an innate sensuality.

She was still beneath him, only the rampant rise and fall of her breasts betraying the depth of her fear.

He sat back, resting his weight on his haunches yet keeping her firmly a prisoner with the pressure of his thighs about her hips. He crossed his arms over his chest and kept staring at her, his eyes narrowing to a dangerous gold-tinted gleam, his lips forming a mocking smile of cynicism.

He knew the luminous, cat-green eyes that stared into his.Just as he knew the lustrous length of deep copper hair.

And he knew why she had been able to leap the downstairs rail with ease, and spin and pivot with the ease of a dancer.

She was one.

He even knew something of the soft and supple form that quivered now beneath his. He had held her once, in the creation of an illusion. Held her, and started up a long, curving staircase.

And when his back had shielded her face from the camera, he had seen the hard glimmer of hostility fill her eyes. Felt in her rigid form dislike for the fact that she had to endure those moments in his arms...

He had seen her before the camera, and he had seen her behind the camera.

And he had seen her dance.

"Ah, Miss Keller.How very nice to have you over--yet, how strange this seems! You were reluctant to join me for a glass of wine, yet here we meet--touching hip to hip--upon my bed.Should I be flattered, Miss Keller? Pity, but I think not." He leaned low suddenly, palms on either side of her head, eyes flashing a chilling gold fire and bronzed features warningly tensed.

"Speak to me, Bryn. Why did you break in? What are you looking for? You didn't find it last night--"

"Last night!" she broke in with whispered alarm.

"Oh, cut it, will you?" he spat out harshly. "Yes, last night.

Believe me,honey, I know when my place has been searched." "But it wasn't me--"

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"Shhh!"

Suddenly he shifted again, his back straightening, his broad shoulders entirely still. And then she heard it, too.

Someone moving...prowling about the living room. He started to rise,then paused as they both heard the creak of a footstep on the bottom step.

Abruptly but quietly he moved, crossing his arms and grabbing the bottom of his turtleneck to hurriedly struggle out of it. His chest, broad, taperingto a drum hard abdomen, rippling with taut muscle, gleamed bronze in the moonlight.

"Get your sweater off!" he hissed at her, rolling onto his side and ripping the covers from his half of the bed.