Thirty Nights Read online

  “The Pentagon has received intelligence regarding recent rumors of outside interests in your project from various terrorist groups.”

  “Isn’t military intelligence an oxymoron?” When the general’s granite face didn’t so much as crack a faint smile, Hunter shrugged and glanced down at the hook that had taken the place of his left hand. “So why don’t you tell me something I don’t know? Besides, you’re running a little behind. Van Horn’s already passed on the news that I’ve made the latest hit list.”

  The general scowled at the mention of the State Department bureaucrat. “Those guys at State wouldn’t know a terrorist if he showed up at their offices and bit them on their collective asses….

  “There are also rumors that you’re close to completion.”

  He might not have any use for Van Horn, but the two men shared the same motivation in making the trip from the mainland out to the middle of nowhere.

  “Closer than I was last year,” Hunter agreed, not eager to volunteer information even to this man, who possessed the highest level of military clearance. “But I still have some work to do,” he said, giving the general the same line he’d told the emissary from State.

  “Needless to say, we’re concerned about security.”

  “Short of moving this lab to some other galaxy, I doubt if I could find a more remote research location,” Hunter pointed out.

  “I won’t argue with that. But the Joint Chiefs decided that we should take another check of your security measures.”

  “Never hurts to check,” Hunter said agreeably even as he ground his teeth. So much for getting any work done, he considered, conveniently overlooking the fact that he’d already blown most of the day with thoughts of Gillian.

  Five long hours later, the general announced himself satisfied with the security measures at the brain factory. He was, however, less than pleased when Hunter, pointing out that he’d been keeping the committee informed with quarterly reports, refused to give him a hands-on demonstration of the secret project. With a last warning for Hunter to watch his back, he left.

  “Surely he’s not actually going to try to get back to the mainland tonight?” Dylan asked as the two men watched the SUV the general had somehow managed to round up drive away.

  “He’s spending the night at the Gray Gull in town,” Hunter said. “Then, if the weather lets up, I suppose he’ll take Ben Adams’s mail boat back to the mainland tomorrow.”

  Hunter knew that the polite thing to do would have been to invite the man to stay at the house and save him the trip into town. He didn’t for two reasons, the first being that Gillian’s presence at the house might raise questions he had no intention of answering. The second reason was that he didn’t like the general any more than he liked Van Horn. Having never been known for his manners, he put the general out of his mind.

  Night came early to this part of the country in winter, and as the gray sky darkened, Hunter considered spending another night right here on the leather office sofa. It crossed his mind that he’d rather face an entire band of terrorists armed with hand grenades and automatic weapons than try to make casual conversation with Gillian.

  After obsessing over it a helluva lot more than he liked, Hunter realized he couldn’t hide from her forever. Besides, if past behavior was any example, she might actually try to track him down here. Not wanting to take the chance on her risking her life just because he’d turned into a coward overnight, he came to the reluctant conclusion that he might as well go home.

  TWO DAYS AFTER her glorious night with Hunter, Gillian was in the library, trying to keep her mind on composing the piece that had been humming through her head since she’d woken up to find him gone and the world draped in white.

  Proving that the Weather Service could, indeed, be wrong, the storm had not blown over. Indeed, the snow had continued to fall from the slate sky. At times the sleet driven against the wall of windows sounded as though the house were being pelted with stones. Other times, the wind would die down and flakes would float from the slate-gray sky like fluffy goose down, almost as if the gods were engaged in a pillow fight over the world.

  The weather had finally turned fierce enough to keep Mrs. Adams away. Just before the phones had gone out, the housekeeper had called to inform Gillian that she’d slipped on her icy front steps. Overriding Gillian’s concern, she’d briskly informed her that the doctor said her ankle wasn’t broken but badly sprained, and he had instructed her to stay off it for several days. Since the freezer was stocked with food, neither she nor Dr. St. John need worry about going hungry.

  “If Dr. St. John decides to return anytime soon from the brain factory,” she’d tacked on, making it sound as if Gillian shouldn’t hold her breath.

  And she wasn’t, dammit, Gillian told herself now. Her fingers played over the keys as images of falling snow over frozen rivers and storm-tossed seas swirled in her mind.

  At least the winter wonderland she could view from every room in the house was providing inspiration. The only problem was, whenever the music began to flow, her emotions would go spinning straight to the man responsible for her being here on this remote island in the first place.

  “It’s not enough that he’s taken over my dreams,” she muttered as she banged out a series of frustrated, crashing chords. “Now he’s messing up my work.”

  She sighed, gave up for now and went over to stand by the glass wall. The feathery snow had turned back into stone pellets, and the wind wailing like a lost ghost down the chimney had the effect on her tangled nerves of fingernails scraping down a chalkboard. She was about to turn on the CD player to try to drown it out when another sound caught her attention. A wail that sounded more like a human than any unearthly spirit.

  “No, not a person,” she corrected herself, straining to listen closer. The faint wail was ragged and plaintive. Like a cat. Her cat.

  Her heartbeat picked up. She leaned forward, her nose literally pressed against the window as she peered out into the driving snow. There it went again! Though she couldn’t see him, Gillian knew that it had to be the cat both Hunter and Mrs. Adams had assured her was feral.

  “Wild or not, he’s in trouble.”

  Unable to resist the wretched cries of despair, she ran to the kitchen, pulled on the outerwear Hunter had bought for her and, heedless of her own safety, went rushing out into the storm.

  HUNTER HAD DRIVEN about a mile through the white swirls when he came across a fallen tree limb across the road. It wasn’t that big, and normally he would have merely driven around it, but the blinding snow obscured the edge of the cliff. Cursing, he abandoned the warm interior of the Suburban, swearing again when the cold wind slapped his face.

  He’d nearly managed to drag the tree out of the way when he was aware of something—or someone—behind him. He turned, and before he could straighten, he saw something metal. His parka ripped. There was a burning sensation in his upper arm.

  Since high school Hunter had studied aikido, a form of martial arts that taught defense without weapons. He enjoyed honing the discipline of mind and body. Banking his self-disgust at having fallen for such an obvious trap, he turned his attention to staying alive.

  He and his black-ski-masked opponent were fairly evenly matched. On some distant level, Hunter almost admired the man’s strength and his moves, which were, he admitted, a stage above his own, but his own rigid emotional discipline seemed marginally superior.

  They battled in eerie silence in the swirling white world, their movements rhythmic, almost balletic. Years of self-discipline kept Hunter’s mind cool and focused. Unlike the letter bomb, which he’d always thought a cowardly way to try to kill someone, this attempt on his life seemed, in some abstract way, little more than a training session.

  Then, as he dodged another lunge, the tautly held reins of mental control slipped. Just a little, but enough to allow his thoughts to go to Gillian. Obviously, if this man had known Hunter was at the brain factory, he’d also have known that she was alone in the house. Alone and, despite all his security measures, ultimately defenseless.

  Hunter had no doubt that he could handle his attacker. But what if there were more? What if there were others, even now, at his house terrifying her? Harming her?

  An ugly blend of terror and fury twisted in his gut and ripped at his scattering control. Hunter abandoned finesse. With a roar that echoed through the Maine woods, he hurled his body at his attacker.

  HAVING FOLLOWED THE CAT’S cries to the clam flats below the cliff, Gillian was seriously rethinking her decision when she spotted it, just a few feet away. The tide was coming in, the whitecaps riding atop the roiling waves looking like ice floes. The thunder of the incoming sea provided a deep bass accompaniment to the shriek of the wind and the yowls of the cat she’d now come to think of as hers. Sleet stung her face like needles.

  Lowering her head, Gillian doggedly made her way over the kelp, struggling over driftwood and flotsam that had been washed ashore, slipping on rocks, once losing her balance and falling to her knees.

  It was while she was kneeling on the wet gray sand that she watched the cat disappear into a narrow cave, more fissure than cavern, carved into the side of the cliff by eons of wind and water.

  Muttering a curse, she pushed herself back to her feet and stumbled over to the cave, where inside, lying on a bed of seaweed, she found three wet balls of fur.

  “Kittens.” Gillian shook her head and looked over at the cat who was standing over her offspring with obvious maternal pride. “So, I guess this means you’re not a he after all.”

  The cat’s response was short and sharp and suggested that they not waste time discussing the obvious. As water lapped dangerously close to the kittens, Gillian realized that time was definitely runni
ng out.

  She scooped the kittens up, sticking one in her left parka pocket and two in the right, which left them a little crowded, but since she didn’t have either the time or the energy to make two trips, Gillian decided that after months jostling around together in the cat’s womb, they should be accustomed to close quarters.

  Another wave washed over her boots. “Dammit, you’re going to owe me,” she warned the cat, who’d already turned and was headed out of the cave, tail raised like a tricolored banner. “Big time.”

  AFTER HE’D SENT his attacker flying silently, fatally off the edge of the cliff, Hunter made his way home, his head filled with unpalatable images of Gillian in danger. When he ran into the house, the note he found on the kitchen table did nothing to ease his mind.

  It was written in a neat, disciplined convent schoolgirl script that was so opposite to her passionate nature it almost made him smile.

  Dear Hunter,

  In case you return while I’m gone, I’m out with the cat. He’s in trouble and I couldn’t leave him to the elements.

  Gillian

  P.S. I hope your work at the brain factory went well.

  As he skimmed the brief note, Hunter’s blood turned even icier than the weather outside. Wondering which of them was crazier, he or Gillian, he waded back out into the storm.

  The woman was too damn softhearted for her own good. Hunter couldn’t think of a single person he knew who’d behave in such an asinine, potentially fatal manner.

  He followed her footprints, which were rapidly disappearing, for what seemed an eternity. A dreadful wet, cold eternity. The snow thickened, decreasing visibility. The sea crashed onto the shore, turning the usually wide stretch of beach into a sliver of flotsam-strewn sand.

  When he caught sight of the cardinal-red parka, a single vivid color in a vast gray-and-white world, he let out a breath he’d been unaware of holding. Along with a string of pungent curses.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He grasped her shoulders, and because he couldn’t decide whether to crush her to him and never let go, or to shake some sense into her, he did neither. “Don’t you realize you could be washed out to sea?”

  His words were whipped away by the wind, but Gillian had no problem understanding his meaning. She could feel the hook digging into her shoulder, even through the thick parka; his breath was like puffs of white ghosts between them.

  “You don’t understand—” she began to explain, having to shout to be heard over the rumble of surf.

  “I understand that you’re a damn idiot!” Hunter realized he’d have to apologize for the harsh words. Later. When they were safely back at the house. And after she apologized for scaring the hell out of him with her cockamamie behavior. “Now, let’s get out of here before you end up getting us both killed.”

  Seeming to understand that he was in no mood for an argument, Gillian simply nodded, then let him half drag her back up the rocky path to the top of the cliff, then to the house.

  Compared to the near-arctic temperatures outdoors, the heat of the kitchen hit Gillian like a blast furnace. Before Hunter could slam the door, the cat sprinted into the room and began doing figure eights between her legs, its yowls seeming to increase in volume.

  “What, exactly, did you think you were doing?” he demanded again.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got back, Hunter, but it really was an emergency.”

  “A cat emergency?”

  Now that the adventure was behind her, the seriousness of the risk she’d taken came crashing down on Gillian. White dots resembling the falling snow began to swirl in front of her eyes. Holding on to the edge of the table for balance, she sank down onto a chair.

  As her vision cleared, she looked up at Hunter, who was standing over her, his glare as hard as the granite cliffs.

  But there was something else in his dark eyes. Something she’d have to think about once her blood warmed and her teeth stopped chattering.

  “Kittens,” she corrected him, forcing the word past frozen lips.

  She retrieved them from the deep coat pockets, one at a time, placing them on the floor at her feet. Even with their eyes tightly closed, they managed to make their way on wobbly legs to their mother, who, now that the crisis was over, had gone back to ignoring Gillian.

  Hunter’s incredulous look went from Gillian, to the kittens, who were being tongue-bathed by their mother, then back to Gillian.

  Then he did something more surprising than anything he’d done thus far. He threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  Later, when she would look back on things and wonder how they’d gone so terribly wrong, Gillian would realize that this was the moment she’d truly fallen in love with Hunter St. John.

  “I missed you,” she murmured, pushing herself out of the chair on legs nearly as unstable as the kittens’ to touch a hand to his cheek. “Terribly.”

  Hunter didn’t respond as she’d hoped. Didn’t assure her that he’d missed her, too. “You’re cold,” he said instead.

  She couldn’t help herself. She’d begun to shiver. And not from passion.

  “Why don’t you warm me up?”

  He gave her another of those long, searching looks. Gillian could tell he was tempted. “Later,” he decided. “First I’m going to run you a bath.”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  She wasn’t expecting the way he undressed her almost as if she were a child, with a heartaching tenderness, and was even more surprised when, after she’d slipped beneath the froth of bubbles, he turned to leave the bathroom.

  “Aren’t you joining me?”

  He glanced back at her, his face granite hard, his eyes now unreadable. “I have some calls to make.”

  “The phones went out earlier.”

  “I have a shortwave radio in the lab.”

  “Oh.” She thought about that for a moment. “It’s that important?”

  His jaw firmed. Despite the warmth of the water, the flash of iced fury that moved across his face chilled her blood all over again. “Yes.”

  With that less-than-satisfying explanation, he was gone.

  11

  AFTER A STEAMING HOT BATH that seemed about as close as any individual could get to heaven on earth, Gillian was back in the kitchen, wrapped in Hunter’s robe and a pair of thick fuzzy socks. She’d turned down his offer of brandy, choosing cocoa instead, and was now on her second cup.

  The kittens were a few feet away, in an apple box lined with thick towels.

  “That was nice of you.”

  He skimmed an uncaring glance she didn’t believe for a moment over the infant-blind kittens. “Mrs. Adams would have had my head if I let them wander all over her kitchen.”

  “And we both know how terrified you are of your housekeeper,” Gillian said dryly.

  When she’d first rescued the wet kittens, their weak, stuttering cries had tugged at her heart. Now, at the sight of them happily suckling, a maternal drive Gillian hadn’t even been aware of possessing rose from somewhere deep inside her.

  “You realize that you really are crazy,” Hunter murmured with a slow shake of his head. The unmistakable affection in his voice kept Gillian from taking offense.

  Crazy about you, she thought.

  “Obviously, you’ve spent so many years in la-la land, you’ve forgotten the risks of going out in a New England blizzard,” he continued sarcastically.

  “I live in Monterey,” she said mildly, refusing to rise to his anti-California bait. “As for going outside, I didn’t have any choice.”

  He gave her a long, hard look. Then sighed heavily. “No, I suppose you didn’t.”

  He reached across the table with his good hand and flicked a bit of whipped cream from her upper lip. When he licked the fluffy white cream from his fingertip, another, more immediate elemental need steamrolled over the errant maternal instincts the sight of cat and kittens had stimulated.

  “I really did miss you.” Gillian lifted her gaze from those enticing fingers that had played such havoc to her senses to his face. “I tried to work…I had all these wonderful melodies singing about in my mind, but you kept getting in the way.”

  “Am I supposed to say I’m sorry?”