Passage of the Night Read online

  Francis's expression flickered at the total rejection of her movement. Frowning, he fingered the curved metal gun in his pocket as he studied the tense defensiveness of her slim body, the blue shadows of bitter exhaustion that the indirect lighting threw down the side of her face, the way she seemed poised for instant flight.

  In the dense silence, Kirstie's quivering, tired muscles tightened once again with an apprehension that was becoming almost unbearable. Then the man behind her shifted, and she exploded into action. She was three steps away and moving fast for the door before she realised that Francis had not moved towards her, but away. She glanced over her shoulder, one hand outstretched to the metal screen door against which large white moths were batting mindlessly.

  Hands in pockets, Francis was strolling into the kitchen with as much ease as if he were nothing more than an invited guest on holiday. Kirstie hesitated, breathing unevenly as she stared at his broad back. He disappeared around the corner, and almost immediately she heard the commonplace sound of cupboards and refrigerator door opening and shutting.

  She was drawn to the noise like the moths were drawn to the light. Footsteps dragging, she peered stealthily around the corner to find Francis Grayson in the mundane act of making a sandwich.

  Of course he would be hungry, after working hard all day. She was too, if she were to be honest, growlingly so in her slim midsection that tweaked with sharp, reproachful pangs when she laid eyes on the food she'd put away earlier.

  She nearly leaped out of her skin when, without looking up, Francis said mildly, 'I don't suppose you're going to come out from behind there and discuss reason. Madwomen don't, I hear.'

  'I can be perfectly reasonable when I want to!' Unfortunately her snapped response wasn't planned. It had just fallen out of her mouth, in angry reaction against how with apparent ease he had regained his former dangerous calm, and afterwards Kirstie could have bitten out her tongue at the way it sounded.

  'Ah.' He nodded as if she had confirmed some kind of conclusion he had reached and took another bite of his sandwich. For all the attention he paid her, he might have been talking to the wall. 'I notice some key words there. The question is, of course, whether you want to or not. Are you going to sit down and have a sandwich, or hover around the corner all night?'

  Eat supper across the table from him? It would be like breaking bread with the devil. The thought was enough to turn her hunger into nausea. And where was his anger? To all intents and purposes, it seemed to have completely dissipated, but she wasn't enough of a fool to believe that. Kirstie scrutinised what she could see of Francis Grayson, and what she saw had her very worried indeed.

  She knew, by his disorientated outburst by the lake, that, for all his formidable command over himself, she had knocked him off balance earlier today. She had threatened him, fooled him, drugged and angered and shocked him, and now there was no evidence of reaction whatsoever. His total control made her go cold all over. That this man was dangerous she hadn't doubted, but she was beginning to appreciate just how dangerous he was, and it put her present position in a distinctly unfavourable light.

  What was he planning? What form would his revenge on her take? How would he make her pay for what she had done to him?

  He had given her two choices: stay where she was or confront him. She wouldn't hover, and she didn't have the courage to face whatever lay underneath this present facade. There was a third alternative, and after a moment of consideration Kirstie took it. Without a word she walked into the main bedroom and, though it seemed such a flimsy defence, she locked the door behind her. Then she forced her tired body over to the dresser, shook out a pair of sheets and quickly made the bed.

  Her sister had been right about the man. Kirstie should never have entertained even that one moment of terrible doubt. She could just imagine what he had been like with Louise, persecuting and suffocating her, manipulating her into going out with him and hammering at her to call off her wedding with Neil. Louise was too gentle. She didn't know how to handle men like Francis Grayson.

  Kirstie was honest enough with herself to know that she, too, didn't know how to handle Francis Grayson. He had taken control ever since setting foot on the mountain, and he was calling all the shots. He acted as if he was the original irresistible force. She punched a pillow violently into a linen case. Well, he might be able to direct the action in this scenario, she thought grimly, but she was holding the trump card, because today he had met an immovable object.

  Whenever that happened, there was bound to be trouble.

  With a chill premonition, she looked back on her life. How uncomplicated her past seemed, in the light of this battle of wills that could destroy everything. She felt, as she had never felt before, as if she was saying goodbye to the sunny, madcap teenager she had been, the cheeky prankster secure in the knowledge that, no matter what she did to the various members of her tolerant family, she would always have their affection and support.

  As a quieter, more restrained adult, she had returned that loyalty to her family threefold. People were either on the inside or the outside of Kirstie's invisible circle, and rarely did they cross the line. But those on the inside, oh, she loved them all; they were hers in the truest, most unpossessive light, to cherish and protect them as much as she could from the sadder reality the adult in her discovered in the world.

  But what price would she pay now for that fierce protective instinct that was as natural to, as inseparable from her as breathing? What would it cost the immovable object to hold firm? Her self-respect was already on the line. She thought of her brother Paul, her grandfather Whit. She thought of Christian, of Louise, and hoped with all her heart that the price would not include their respect for her as well.

  Francis's head had lifted at the sound of Kirstie's retreat, and he listened to the sound of the bedroom door closing, the bolt of the lock shooting home. He sat there for some time, thinking, and then he calmly made himself another sandwich.

  Morning had appeared with full glorious orchestration right across her closed eyelids. Kirstie groaned in real pain and squinted at the source of warm, blinding light. The sun had just topped the trees outside and was shining through curtains she had neglected to shut last night.

  After staggering upright to shake them closed, she fell back into bed, but the damage was already done. She was awake, and her mind had already started to run around the problems facing her. They seemed to fall into two categories: the immediate, and the ones facing her when she got home. Since she couldn't do anything about what was waiting for her back in New Jersey, she thrust it out of her mind and concentrated on the present.

  On the good side was the fact that she had successfully managed to transplant Francis Grayson and immobilise him for the crucial period before Louise's wedding. However, he had managed to immobilise her in the process, and that was terrible.

  She did have control over communications, as she had hidden the helicopter radio, but he had control over the helicopter. It was conceivable that she could sneak away from the cabin to radio for help, but she wouldn't be able to describe what was wrong with the aircraft. Kirstie did not have a mind that could grasp mechanics well.

  That meant Whit or some other mechanic would have to make the six-day trek to check out the machine. She could knock two days off that if they used either horses or a cross-country Jeep, so that would be four days. If they couldn't fix it on the spot, there would have to be another round trip for parts, since the heliport .on the mountain was literally the only clear place to land for miles. She scowled furiously. Stealing the helicopter for a day or two was a crime of a certain calibre. But half a month lost in manpower and equipment would be enough to finish her off as far as her brother Paul was concerned.

  All this, of course, was contingent on getting away from Francis Grayson so that she could use the radio in private. And even the most optimistic train of thought meant that she too would be missing her sister's wedding. The hurt and uproar that would cause made
her cringe.

  Kirstie's heartbeat began to accelerate as she gradually became more agitated. She buried her head under her pillow in instinctive denial against it. The sheets smelled like the pine dresser, clean and tangy.

  She was stuck in an impossible situation. Either she accepted the consequences of acting without Francis's co-operation, which was unthinkable, or she would try to strike a deal with him in return for mobilisation of the helicopter. He would want immediate transportation back to New York, which was the one thing she couldn't give him. That just brought her full circle.

  The truth was, she didn't have a clue what to expect next. Louise's description was the only definition she had of Francis Grayson, and social normality had been stripped away. God only knew what he would do outside the restraint of his life and ties in New York.

  He could be capable of anything.

  Forty minutes later, after a dash to the bathroom for a stealthy shower, Kirstie dressed in shorts and a light blouse, gritted her teeth and marched outside. In the face of whatever that man chose to hurl at her, she would indeed be reasonable and rational. She would refuse to let the situation get her down. Above all, she would refuse to let him get at her. No matter what.

  All her grim preoccupation fell away in the face of what was outside.

  Francis was at the wood-pile, at one end of the clearing. He was chopping wood. The rhythm of it echoed in sharp reports off the lake. The Vermont sun beat down on his black head, making it shine, and rivulets of sweat slithered down his naked torso. The helicopter sat, gleaming pristine and silent, not twenty yards away from him, and the door of the cabin was in plain sight. Already there was a sizeable pile of split logs beside him, yet he still reached for another one to set on the scarred oak stump.

  Kirstie let out a long breath, only then realising that she had held it in anxious anticipation as she'd left the sanctuary of her bedroom. The sound of the cabin door shutting had attracted his attention. With the axe held poised negligently in one hand, his sleek head turned to her, he looked as if he considered the point between her two shoulders a favourable spot in which to bury the blade. It was an aggressive pose, saturated with sheer male beauty. Kirstie frowned at her reaction to it before walking around the corner of the cabin.

  The sound of running footsteps dogged her. She set her teeth in furious impatience at the way her pulse went crazy. Francis appeared around the corner, jogging lightly, one of Paul's spare T-shirts pulled on in haste.

  'Where are you going?' he asked.

  'Nowhere with you,' she told him tightly.

  He pulled to a graceful stop. The hot sun lent an odd golden tint to his green eyes. It didn't seem quite human. She shook her head and backed away skittishly. 'If you continue to grind your teeth like that you'll have problems later on in life,' he admonished, holding his two great arms across that barrel chest. Her eyes riveted themselves on the amount of muscle, so casually bunched. 'You wouldn't be thinking about using that helicopter radio without me, would you?'

  'I don't need the radio.' She sent him a small, unfriendly smile and turned away only to stop with her hands clenched at her sides when he fell into stride beside her. 'Stop following me. I am going for a peaceful walk. You can't come.'

  'More to the point, can you stop me?' he replied lightly, sliding his gaze down the shape of her bare legs. Still sweating from the heat of his earlier exertion, Francis's chest heaved once. The T-shirt clung to his damp skin in a maddening fashion.

  The thin control Kirstie had over herself stretched and broke. She breathed deep once, fast, and burst out, 'I can sure as hell not go, you rotten bastard!'

  'Why do you persist in seeing me as the villain of the piece?' he demanded, his expression changing drastically. 'I don't have to take this from you! I'm the injured party here!'

  They stared at each other, and Kirstie could see a degree of her own amazement reflected in Francis's eyes. So neither of them had the control they would have wished for. Unable to think of anything to say to him, she just turned and started to walk away. One of his heavy hands curled around her shoulder to detain her, and Kirstie shrank from his touch in an instinctive flinch as he made her face him again.

  Francis's eyes widened at her unmistakable fear and his hand fell away. He averted his face and sighed. 'Don't you think it's past time we talked?'

  Two lines that had not existed a week ago ran from her nostrils to the sides of her mouth. 'Going to try the reasoning tack?' she asked, ignoring her own earlier resolve to stay unresponsive and uninvolved. 'What do we get after that, threats? When all else fails, try a shout or two. But we must give you credit for one thing, mustn't we? Obviously you have an awesome amount of faith in your own powers of persuasion.'

  'God, you have a viper's tongue,' he said. If a bystander had observed that his demeanour was bleak, Francis would have denied it. 'Have I ever given you cause to think that I would do you physical harm?'

  Her gaze wavered and fell. He had managed by that one question to cut out from underneath her the basic understanding she was operating on. No, he hadn't given her cause, even though she had lain awake until the small hours of the morning listening and waiting for it. 'You gave a good impression of it in New York,' she muttered, but even she knew the retaliation was weak.

  'I think I had good cause, don't you?' he said tightly. 'I'm calling a truce, damn you.'

  Kirstie threw back her head in surprise. The look in Francis's eyes baffled her. She said, 'I didn't ask for it.'

  'No, but I'm offering it, which is more than you deserve,' he told her, the tone of his voice harsh and flat. 'Isn't it about time we thrashed out the reasons for your lunatic actions? Did Louise put you up to it?'

  'Louise ' she made an abrupt gesture, then sat on the ground suddenly as though her legs had collapsed '—Louise doesn't know about this.'

  He seemed impossibly tall from her position. The sun cast his face into deep shadow and blinded her when she looked up at him. 'I don't think that quite answers my question,' he said at last.

  'No?' She spread her fingers into the grass, thin, delicate sculptures of bone and sinew, child-sized, and then she began to search for a four-leaf clover.

  Silence for several minutes. The warmth of the day was inevitably mollifying, and by some inner radar she knew that the tension had gone out from Francis's body. She began to forget that he studied her closely, watched her every movement.

  Then he said, 'Kirstie.'

  Every nerve inside her leaped with the shock of hearing his voice shape her name. It was electric, intimate; it felt as though he had pulled her heart out of her body. Her heated face jerked upwards towards him and she felt again that inexplicable fear.

  'That's your name. Isn't it?' He sat beside her, cross-legged, his denim-covered knee a good two feet from her own. She had no doubt that the distance had been carefully calculated.

  Her fingers smoothed the grass where she had parted it, over and over. 'Yes.'

  'Louise used to talk about you from time to time when we were in college. Last time I heard, you had skinned knees and braids and were the terror of the family.'

  'That was thirteen years ago,' she reminded him drily.

  'At least you've lost the braids,' he shot back without a second's hesitation. Her laugh, clear and bubbling, surprised them both. She concentrated on pulling out clumps of grass and made a pile in front of her. Francis kept his eyes on her fingers as she sifted through it. He said quietly, 'You have no right to do what you're doing.'

  Her face hardened and those grey eyes blazed. She turned the full extent of her outrage on to him. 'Don't you talk to me about rights! You change your own despicable behaviour and then maybe you'll have something to say about rights!'

  He faced her attack and absorbed it. No anger answered her. Confused and upset, she subsided and stared at his oddly still face.

  'Apparently you have made your character assessment of me second-hand,' he said in a fiat, dispassionate staccato that had more, power t
han any emotional outburst to reach through all her bristly defences. 'But I can only speak from first-hand experience. Isn't what you're doing the same as what you condemn me for? You accuse me of trying to coerce Louise, but you had the temerity to force my actions yesterday afternoon.

  Even now everything I do stems from it. Yet you are acting with justification, whereas I am a monster.'

  He couldn't have hurt her more, for he struck at the very heart of her own doubts and worries. Her grey gaze turned inwards, reflecting all too clearly her own bitter upheaval. With a curiously blind gesture, she said, just as quietly, 'You know I never denied that what I did was wrong. There may not be much of a difference between what we both have done, but there is a difference. What you were doing caused ripples that touched a lot of people as they grew greater. I've simply tried to restrain you, so that the ripples affect only you and me and the damage is contained.'

  He didn't reply to that. Instead, he asked the last question that she would have expected him to ask. 'Is her fiancé a good man?'

  'Neil is a kind, decent, honourable person,' she replied. 'He doesn't deserve what's happened, nor does either his family or mine.'

  She sensed rather than saw the words drop into his mind, and without his telling her she could see that they wounded him deeply, all the more because she too spoke without anger now, without attack.

  He gave a cynical and tired nod, as if in confirmation, but of what, she couldn't tell. 'Do you honestly think he would thank you for what you did?' asked Francis. 'Most men I know would want to fight for the woman they love. Yet you didn't even give him a chance.'

  She flinched visibly. 'You talk about it as though there were honour in that kind of fight.'

  That green gaze held hers. 'Isn't there?'

  'Then why didn't you fight with honour?' she cried. 'What you did was underhand, and domineering, and bears absolutely no resemblance to a chivalrous battle for the lady's affections! Don't you see that if you had approached this with any kind of integrity I wouldn't have come near the situation? Why, Francis? Was it an ego trip, or a trip down memory lane?'