Passage of the Night

  CHAPTER ONE

  What a hell of an afternoon it had been.

  Francis Grayson shifted his briefcase from one big hand to another to ease aching shoulders. The light in the lift indicated the basement of the car park building an instant before the double doors slid open. That corner of the basement was pretty much deserted, as it was past the rush hour.

  He noticed with irritation that construction barriers and orange pylons were up, sectioning off the corner where he had his parking reservation. Apparently the attendants had not seen fit to warn him of the inconvenience. He set down his briefcase and quickly shifted the equipment so that he could get his car through, and made a mental note to call their office on Monday to complain.

  Then, with his customary long, arrogant stride, he crossed the yards it took to reach his metallic silver BMW. The underground lights threw orange stripes on the asphalt and created long shadows between the massive concrete pillars. Down here it was hard to remember that the evening outside was still golden and balmy warm.

  To have attained the executive director seat at Amalgamated Trust was no mean feat at the age of thirty-five. Based here, in New York, the finance corporation held offices in all the major cities in the States, together with growing concerns in London, Paris, Rome and Tokyo.

  Such success suggested a certain amount of good fortune, let alone a driving calculated intelligence. Nevertheless, Francis was no stranger to the kind of day where everything seemed to go wrong. It was just a pity that this Friday had to fall victim to one of those times.

  He schooled himself to patience. After all, the working day was finished. Perhaps something could still be salvaged from the evening, despite the fact that his date had cancelled. He had two tickets to the theatre burning a hole in his pocket, and he had promised his twelve-year-old niece Jolaine some time ago that he would take her out. He would give his sister Patricia a call when he got home.

  Light footsteps sounded; not quite an echo of his own, for the stride was much shorter. Automatically Francis glanced in their direction in time to see a blonde woman stroll around one of the concrete pillars, slight in jeans and nondescript jacket. He was sure he had never met her before, but something about those large eyes, that greyhound-sleek bone-structure, was familiar. An odd sense of recognition hovered like a bird about to perch on his shoulder, but it proved elusive.

  The question had barely registered before he wondered where her car was parked, and then dismissed her presence as irrelevant. He reached the driver's side of his car and set down his briefcase. Then a very odd thing happened.

  The woman walked to the opposite side of his car, pointed a gun at him across the roof and said, 'Hello, Francis.'

  Even unloaded, the revolver had a disturbing unfamiliar weight. The handle slipped slightly in her sweating palm, and Kirstie tightened her grip until her knuckles were ivory-white.

  She wasn't sure why Francis Grayson had surprised her. He wasn't exactly what one would expect to find on the glossy cover of a magazine. Or perhaps he was. No smooth good looks here, but the way he had moved through the basement car park had awakened an irrational, primitive apprehension inside her.

  He did not walk; he prowled. His fluid body was woven with a tight, animalistic grace that paid mere lip-service to the civilised world. The aggressive jut of those broad, rolling shoulders, the casual swing of the slim hips, those long, distance-eating swift legs—all spoke of an integral, inherent power only tempered by the laugh-lines by his mouth, the long, sensitive fingers. There was an all-encompassing masculinity that surrounded him like a physical scent, and Kirstie's brows drew together in a painful frown.

  His face, his powerful body, those beautiful hands— everything about him had gone into a waiting stillness when she had appeared on the other side with the gun. He said almost casually, his emerald eyes on the gun, 'I don't suppose it would do any good to point out that you are making a big mistake.'

  Involuntary images crashed through her memory: her agonising over the difficult decision, the sleeplessness, the anxiety, the heart-stopping point when she had walked towards this dangerous man. From the moment he had seen her, it had been too late and they both knew it. She said almost gently, her grey eyes dark, 'No, it wouldn't.'

  Several years ago, Francis Grayson had made quite a name for himself playing football for the University of Notre Dame. He had been one of the nation's leading sports figures and could have made his fortune as a professional quarterback, had he so chosen. Kirstie had seen film clips of the old games. His speed had a shocking elegance; the inherent threat she had witnessed from the moment she first laid eyes on him in the basement was no illusion, and, even with the car between them and the empty threat of the gun, she felt exposed, made vulnerable by the very self-containment with which he looked down the barrel of the gun into her eyes.

  Oh, God, she didn't dare underestimate him.

  He shifted.

  'Stop!' she cried, throwing herself back three steps in panic. Francis froze again. Their eyes clashed; she felt the impact shudder through her right down to the ground, and knew by his tight, savage smile that he saw just how afraid of him she really was.

  'Believe me,' drawled Francis contemptuously, 'I have no immediate desire to get shot. My wallet is in my right breast pocket. I will reach for it slowly with my left hand.'

  Kirstie shook her head. 'Never mind your wallet,' she said tersely. 'Reach instead for your car keys— slowly. Unlock the back door and open it. Now slide the keys over to me and step back. Back off!'

  He did so, like a wild animal retreating from attack, checked but unbeaten. His voracious green eyes ravaged her appearance as he whispered, 'Do you honestly think that I will let you get away with this?'

  So gently said, so implacably meant. Not a threat, not even a warning, just a simple question ringing with devastating truth. She ignored the question as she began to pull nylon cord from the inside of her jacket. She had to, for if she thought any more about all the ramifications of what she did, of how she knew this man would never forgive, or forget, and how inevitably she would pay the price for subduing him, she would freeze and it would all be over.

  She tossed the length of cord to him and he caught it with an automatic flex of his wrist. 'Make yourself comfortable by sitting in the back seat and tie your ankles together.'

  His hard gaze met hers over the intervening roof. Even now he showed no fear, but for an instant Kirstie saw the real man through that tough, calm exterior, and she sucked in a frightened breath. She had never seen such rage or reaction shielded with such utter control behind the mask of his face.

  'And if I don't?' he asked, with no more emotion than he would when discussing the weather.

  If you don't, I am lost, she thought, and directed the gun with meticulous precision at his gleaming dark head. 'Then so much for desire.'

  After staring for a long moment at her poised, slim figure, at the unwavering grey eyes, in which were equal measures of pain and driven resolution, Francis eased himself into the car, bent, and tied his ankles together deftly, well aware that her sharp stare missed no detail of the act.

  It was a major concession. Her shuddering sigh was silently exhaled as she walked around the back of the car. She tossed through the open door another item, which glinted steely in the air and chinked heavily as he caught it. Handcuffs. Francis raised expressive eyebrows and waited.

  Concession, but again no defeat. She conceived the wildest suspicion that he had agreed to go along with her just to see where it led him, not out of fear, not out of any regard for his safety, and she drove her doubts away with deliberate harshness as she snapped, 'Use them! Arms behind, not in front of you! Well done. We'v
e gone past first base. Pardon me, that was baseball. Should I have said the first kick-off instead?'

  As she had intended, the dangerously unpredictable rage in those unique emerald eyes faded to speculation. 'You seem to be a remarkably well-educated thief,' he replied.

  Kirstie had lost none of her wariness, for all Francis Grayson's apparent incapacitation. The sight of that big folded body lent itself to a great many images, but not one of helplessness. She kept dividing her attention between him and the direction of the lift doors. Every muscle in her body hurt, she was so tense.

  However, she forced it all below the surface as with swift competence she swept his abandoned briefcase up from the ground and tossed it in beside him. 'You persistently misunderstand,' she said, prior to slamming the door shut on him. 'You are not going to be robbed. You are going to be kidnapped.'

  Kirstie was very aware of that brilliant gaze dissecting her every movement, assessing threat and possible weakness. She now moved fast, racing to the front of the car where she had previously stashed two blankets and a backpack. Scooping them up, she put everything, plus herself, in the front.

  She twisted in the driver's seat to parry the slash of those eyes. The interior of the car was luxurious. It smelted of fresh clean aftershave and finer scents. Though her victim was very quiet, the air around him crackled. By sheer force of presence, he dominated the situation.

  Two lines had begun to cut from either side of her delicate nostrils, and the short hair at her temples was darkened with sweat. With a movement as compulsive as it was sneaking, she wiped her mouth.

  His attention never wavered; he saw her, damn him to seven kinds of hell. 'It would be a pity to lose control at this late stage,' he said with hideous softness.

  'Pity doesn't come into it,' she attacked back. 'One slip from me and you'd go for my jugular vein.'

  His eyes shifted down. Malice glittered bright like gold in the air. 'Such a delectable throat it is, too. Granted, you've done very well so far, but you will slip. And when you go down, you are quite right. I'll be waiting.'

  Her moving lips felt stiff, her eyes cold. 'Don't bother warning me, Francis. I know all about you. I won't slip.'

  Behind his answering silence, she could feel his mind, dagger-sharp and unkind, working furiously. Quite in control now, her fingers flashed over the fastening of the backpack to draw out a thermos. She opened it and poured some of the liquid into the red lid. The bitter smell of coffee filled the interior of the car. She turned back to Francis and aimed her attack again at his composure. 'Black, no sugar, I believe.'

  Most would have noted no reaction to that. Kirstie saw a tiny muscle by his mouth twitch. 'Very well-educated indeed, for someone I've never seen before,' he said thinly. 'What other information have you managed to dig up about me?'

  'Oh, you'd be surprised. It has been a very bad day for you, hasn't it, down to your date cancelling tonight? What a shame about those theatre tickets. Getting them on such short notice must have cost you a fortune. I know your favourite meal, how well you ice-skate. I know about the scar on the inside of your left , thigh.'

  'Who are you?' he gritted. He had whitened as she'd spoken. His eyes were so dilated, they were almost black.

  She had wondered when he would get around to that. Kirstie held up the cup. 'We have reached a decision point. Will you drink this coffee?'

  'Which bears the convenient drug that I am to swallow blind, and hope it doesn't kill me. And if I don't, do you threaten to shoot my kneecap? How I despise your kind.' His mouth twisted with the bitter words.

  Kirstie leaned forward, compelled his gaze to hers and held it unblinkingly. For the first time he was close enough to see that her eyes were expressive like rippling water that reflected every mood of the sky.

  'If I were a killer, you'd be dead by now.' The brutal truth of that was self-evident. 'Even you should see that you're worth more alive. I checked the measurement of the sleeping drug three times. I don't want to hurt you,' she said, her eyes very clear. 'But if you don't drink this coffee I shall have to hit you over the head with the butt of my gun. It is your choice. Believe me, the drug is more precise and less painful.'

  The soft hairs at the nape of Kirstie's neck rose one by one as she held the drink towards him. Bound he most certainly was, but it became the hardest task of her life to force her hand nearer.

  Everything past and present converged on the moment as she waited to see if she had intimidated him enough into believing her. This was the most perilous point of the whole enterprise. If he called her bluff and refused, she didn't know what she would do. Kirstie felt as if she had put her hand into the mouth of an angry dragon. An immeasurable eternity of a second passed.

  Then, with the first evidence of grace in their encounter, he lowered his head and drank.

  Swallowing blind. God, what she had made him choose! Francis's eyes focused on her hand holding the cup, and he raised his head. She did not know what he saw in her face, but it changed his drastically.

  'You're shaking,' he whispered.

  She licked her lips. 'So are you.'

  His eyes were the most vivid colour she had ever seen, riveted with sudden awareness. 'Could you have hit me?'

  'Rather late to ask, don't you think?' She turned her face away and recapped the thermos.

  'What would you really have done if I hadn't complied?' he asked, not letting go.

  'Oh, for God's sake!' she snapped, vicious with tension, and she glanced at her watch. The drug should take effect soon.

  '"The more human beings proceed by plan, the more effectively they may be hit by accident,"' he quoted.

  'You might not have paid for it, but it was a very expensive education,' she retaliated. 'Quotations from The Physicists should be as good a way as any.'

  This time, however, her tactics did not work. It showed in the quirk of his black eyebrows an instant before he spoke. 'Your first mistake,' he told her, suddenly too tired to bother hiding a weary cynicism. 'After a broken ankle, a twice broken collarbone, torn ligaments and a metal pin in my knee, I paid for that education.'

  Kirstie could not help her look of surprise, and, though uttered reluctantly, the question had to come out. 'The pin in your knee—that's why you didn't turn pro?'

  His downturned lips mocked her. 'You disappoint me! Why else the scar on my left thigh? "The greater our knowledge increases, the greater our ignorance unfolds."' He had not lost one iota of his muscular control, but he curled down into the back seat, nevertheless, and said, 'I think I'll take that nap now. Drive carefully—I have a fondness for this car.'

  Kirstie covered his cramped, sleeping form with the blankets, then ran to shift one of the construction barriers she had stolen in the early hours of the morning to place around that section of the basement. She raced back to the BMW. All her movements were concise, efficient. She had gone through everything over and over again.

  But the drug should have taken about ten minutes to work. It had taken almost twenty. As she started the car, her heart was pounding. The car purred out of the space and up the exit ramp. What else had she failed to plan for? What else could backfire?

  The worst of it was that, for all that Francis Grayson deserved everything he got, through all the good arguments for what she did, the conviction that undermined her entire purpose was that what she was doing was wrong.

  '"The best-laid plans of mice and men,"' she whispered, feeding the parking ticket into the automatic machine. Francis Grayson wasn't the only one who could throw in a quote or two for the occasion.

  The whole affair had started just forty-five minutes ago.

  Kirstie perched on the edge of a boulder with a fishing-rod in one hand. The line curved out and she contemplated the little red bob in the water thoughtfully. The small mountain lake was clear, unpolluted and very cold. She was well aware of the last from personal experience, for the boulder had doubled as a diving point on occasion.

  Fishing that evening, however, was not pr
oviding its usual sense of relaxation. She had rammed her brain into high gear for over two days and now was finding that it wouldn't stop, no matter how tired she was.

  She'd had to cash in some favours owed to her, but at least the rest of the kidnapping had gone smoothly. She had simply driven through downtown Manhattan with Francis Grayson snoring in the back seat. The BMW was equipped with a car phone, so at a convenient stop light she telephoned ahead to warn her stepgrandfather, Whit, that she was on her way to the New Jersey airstrip.

  Philips Aviation was small, but was privately owned and operated by Kirstie's family. The authority of leadership fell on the broad shoulders of her eldest brother Paul, who, at forty, was a stable personality and in many ways held the wisdom of a man far older. He ran the business with an iron hand, and he held an obsession for orderliness and practicality.

  Primarily her responsibility in the business consisted of flying wealthy tourists around New York, but she regularly helped with the company's shipping schedule as well. On one occasion, when the police had needed extra manpower, she had helped them carry out a road search for a car involved in a high-speed chase. Normally Kirstie loved working for her brother, and piloting helicopters was a fascinating occupation.

  What she would face when she went back, however, was something she dreaded, as she was rapidly gathering a great many black marks against her. White-haired Whit, a loyal old scamp, had prepared the number three helicopter in the north hangar for her, and had stocked it well with groceries. He had not liked doing it, but he had helped her carry Francis to the helicopter and strap him in. They had parked the BMW inside the hangar and Whit had distracted Paul while Kirstie took off.

  Kirstie counted, with a morbid compulsion, all the sins she had committed that day. She had taken the helicopter without permission, for an unspecified length of time. She did not know when she would be back at work. She had lied. She had broken the law. She would shortly be faced with a large, very hung-over, very angry man.

  It had been a busy day.