Thirty Nights Page 18

  “If Ms. Cassidy doesn’t want to see you, you’re out of here,” he told Hunter as they walked back through the winding hallways lined with theater props from other performances.

  “Absolutely,” Hunter agreed. He may be an idiot, but even he wouldn’t argue with an armed guy who could have doubled for the Incredible Hulk.

  The dressing room door was open. The small room, not as large as his master bathroom, was filled to overflowing with people. Designer perfumes mingled with the crisp scent of the tabletop Christmas tree he saw in the corner adorned with small white lights that reminded him of attending Winterfest with Gillian.

  Which wasn’t that unusual, since everything reminded him of her.

  The long velvet gown left her porcelain shoulders bare and made her hair gleam like fire. Diamonds flashed at her ears and on her wrist. Smudges of artfully applied makeup made her eyes appear even larger than usual in her exquisite face, and her lips, smiling up at a tall, handsome man who was wearing a trendy black silk shirt with his tuxedo, were not the soft seashell color they’d been on her video, but the scarlet of the siren he knew that she was, deep inside that sophisticated, polished European-schooled exterior.

  She was the most stunningly beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Inside and out. Unfortunately, as he watched her accept the gilt-rimmed flute of champagne from a guy who could have walked off the cover of GQ, and of whom she seemed more than a little fond, Hunter reluctantly realized that she was also the most unapproachable.

  Timing, Hunter thought grimly, was everything. She could have been Queen of the Realm, holding court, accepting the gifts and praises of her people who lived in this rarefied kingdom of arts, privilege and wealth. During their weeks together, Hunter had not only watched how seriously she took her career, and how hard she worked at her music, but he’d begun to remember the girl she’d once been. A too-thin, too-serious child who, whenever he visited the Cassidy house, was playing away on her precious piano.

  She’d obviously spent years working toward this pinnacle of success; she deserved such glowing moments in the limelight.

  Even a man with his less-than-stellar social skills could figure out that this was not the time to even attempt to discuss their unconventional relationship.

  He turned toward Bernard. “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Depends on what it is,” the man answered with typical cop suspicion.

  “Would you give Ms. Cassidy a note for me?”

  Bernard looked from Hunter to Gillian, who was laughing merrily at something the man who’d handed her the champagne had said.

  “Make it quick,” he muttered, his formerly stony expression revealing a reluctant sympathy that Hunter hated.

  He scrawled a brief note on the back of his program, handed it over to the usher’s hulk of a boyfriend, then, although it wasn’t his first choice, left the theater.

  Deciding that he didn’t want to wait until morning to drive up to Maine and catch Ben’s mail boat, he headed to the airport, where he managed to charter a plane and pilot for ten times the going rate because it was, after all, the pilot reminded him, Christmas Eve.

  A little more than ten hours after he’d set out to bring Gillian home, Hunter was back in his library, staring out at the midnight sky. Waiting.

  “THAT WAS A GREAT SHOW TONIGHT.”

  “Thank you.” Gillian was alone with Deke, but she wasn’t sitting at her dressing table, taking off her stage makeup. Instead, she was pacing the floor of the minuscule dressing room, Hunter’s note crumpled in her fist. “I thought it went well,” she murmured absently. “Everyone seemed to like the new pieces.”

  “They were dynamite. The best you’ve ever done. But I wasn’t talking about the show on the stage. I was talking about the show after the concert. The one you pulled off in here before your admiring fans.”

  “Oh?” She stopped when she reached the closed door and shot him a look over her bare shoulder. “What show would that be?”

  “You know very well that you might have been smiling at all the right times, and saying all the right things, but your mind was somewhere else. Especially after the Incredible Hunk gave you that note.”

  She opened her curled fingers enough to read it one more time, still unable to believe that even Hunter could be so obtuse.

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  “Sure. About once a month. There was that brunette in Rio, and the redhead in Dublin, and that blond surfer in Sydney—”

  “I’m not talking about infatuation,” she said, continuing to pace in the opposite direction. “Or even lust.” Though she’d become well acquainted with that feeling in the past month. “I’m talking about love. Real, forever and ever, amen type of love.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “That explains the change in the music. So, what’s the problem? Is the guy too stupid to realize what a gem you are?”

  “Actually he’s the most brilliant man I’ve ever met. And perhaps the most stupid,” she decided.

  “Most men are, when it comes to love. And not to take his side in whatever fight you’ve obviously had, but most guys are also scared to death by the idea.”

  “Hunter isn’t afraid of anything.” She’d reached the wall and turned around yet again.

  “Wanna bet?”

  “What I want is to have his children.”

  “Well.” Deke let out a long breath. “That’s straight and to the point. I guess this is where I mention that you’re not going to get pregnant pacing the floor here with me.”

  “You’re right.” Gillian stopped pacing and made her decision. “Do you think you can find me a flight to Castle Mountain, Maine?”

  “You know I’d do anything for you, Gilly. But this is Christmas Eve. And I’ve never heard of Castle Mountain.”

  “It’s an island.”

  “Does it even have an airstrip?”

  “A small one.” She’d seen it when Hunter had taken her to Winterfest. It was located on the far side of the village. It also lacked any tower or terminal, which is why most people seemed to find it easier to take Ben Adams’s mail boat from the mainland, which could accommodate jets.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you.” She went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “You’re a true friend.”

  “Just make sure I get an invitation to the wedding.”

  “Are you kidding? I couldn’t get married without you.” Despite her continued pique at Hunter, Gillian smiled. “Who’d take care of all the details?”

  She might never get jet lag, but that didn’t mean that she enjoyed flying. She particularly didn’t enjoy being in a small propeller-driven plane flying through the inky night sky over water.

  The sensible thing, she’d told herself over and over again, would have been to simply land on the mainland, wait until daylight, then have Ben Adams ferry her across to Castle Mountain. But she hadn’t been sure his mail boat would be operating on Christmas Day. There was also the little fact that she’d never been the least bit sensible where Hunter was concerned.

  She could have made him wait. Possibly, she should have made him wait. But she was so furious, she feared she’d implode from pent-up feelings if she didn’t just face him down once and for all.

  The note the enormous Boston city policeman had passed on to her really was outrageous, even for Hunter.

  “Gillian,” he had scrawled in that bold, firm script she recalled all too well from the first note, “as you once pointed out, our deal was for thirty days. You still owe me seven of those days. If you do not live up to your end of the bargain, I will have no choice but to go public about your father. As always, the choice is yours.”

  “Idiot,” she muttered as she glared out into the darkness.

  “Did you say something?” the pilot, sitting beside her, asked.

  That was another thing Hunter was going to pay for, Gillian decided. After issuing his terse summons, he could damn well pick up the tab of this charter flight. She’d considered herself fortunate when the pilot had been landing from a previous flight when she and Deke had arrived up at the airport. That was before she’d heard how much he was charging her to fly to Castle Mountain.

  “It’s Christmas Eve,” he’d reminded her when she’d complained about the horrendously inflated rate.

  “I was just talking to myself,” she said now.

  “Seems to be a lot of that tonight.”

  Engrossed in planning all the things she was going to say to Hunter, enjoying the idea of him on his knees, apologizing for all his outrageous behavior of late, Gillian didn’t give any thought to the pilot’s murmured comment. Nor did she respond.

  But she did smile slightly at the mental image of Hunter forced to feed her breakfast in bed every morning until their tenth anniversary.

  HE’D WANTED HER TO COME. But when Hunter opened the kitchen door and discovered that Gillian was the one pounding on it, Hunter’s heart sank.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” He purposefully made his tone cold and decidedly unwelcoming, in the hopes he could drive her away again.

  “Don’t play the absentminded genius with me, Hunter.” She threw the wadded-up concert program at his chest. “You summoned me, remember?”

  “How did you get here so soon?” She was still clad in the green velvet gown she’d performed in, covered by a hooded black cape. Hunter glanced over her shoulder, wondering if she was alone.

  “I chartered a plane in Boston, then rented a jeep from the very nice man whom the pilot dragged out of his house for the second time tonight to plow the runway. He says, by the way, that he hopes we’re both going to stay put because he’s still got a dollhouse and a miniature racing track to finish putting together before his kids get up in the morning….
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  “It’s also a very good thing you’re rich, because I probably could have flown first class to Paris for what it’s going to cost you to bring me here on Christmas Eve.”

  “Christmas Day,” he corrected her. Midnight had come and gone, which, Hunter thought irrelevantly, meant that Ben had won the poll.

  “I hate it when you get nitpicky,” she muttered. “Speaking of which, you’re getting careless, Hunter.” Because he was still surprised by her arrival, she managed to slip past him into the kitchen. “All the security gates were open.”

  She tossed her beaded evening bag onto the kitchen table, then turned and sucked in a harsh breath as she realized Hunter was not alone. A blond man in an open, obviously custom-tailored cashmere coat over a thick ski sweater was standing behind him, holding a very ugly steel pistol at the back of Hunter’s dark head.

  “Who are you?”

  Hunter cursed beneath his breath. “He’s James Van Horn,” he said. “From the State Department. He’s also the guy in charge of my most recent assassination attempt.”

  She paled just a little, but a lot less than most people would have under the circumstances, Hunter thought, and her eyes filled with speculation rather than terror.

  “Why would you want to kill Hunter after paying him so much money for his project?”

  She’d no sooner asked the question when Hunter watched the comprehension dawn in those intelligent green eyes. “You’re not after its peacekeeping possibilities, are you?”

  “That theory’s unproved.”

  The man growled the first words he’d spoken since instructing Hunter to send her away before opening the door. His tone confirmed that Gillian had hit close to the truth.

  “Surely the State Department isn’t in on this?”

  “Van Horn’s turned free agent,” Hunter said. “Seems he’s been holding bidding wars for my program. Now that he’s settled on a buyer, all he needs is the merchandise.”

  “You’ll never get it,” Gillian told the man on a flare of heat.

  As she tried to remain calm, she studied the man. He appeared too suave and handsome to be a traitor, but then again, she realized that the only traitors she’d ever actually seen were in the movies.

  “Your lover was proving annoyingly uncooperative.” Van Horn told Gillian nothing she couldn’t have guessed for herself. “But I do believe that fate may have just provided the necessary impetus.”

  “Touch a hair on her head, Van Horn, and I’ll kill you with my bare hands.” Hunter’s face was grim, his eyes ice. “Let her leave now, and I’ll give you the damn program code.”

  “Hunter!” Gillian was staring at him. “You can’t let this…this…bully take over the world.”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to make you safe,” he told her. “The program isn’t any good without the codes,” he reminded Van Horn. “Let her go and you’ve got it all. Hell, I’ll even give you a tutorial on how to use the data.”

  “Hunter,” Gillian repeated, “you can’t possibly be serious! I’m not going to let you turn traitor on my account.”

  “Is she always this stubborn?” Van Horn asked with a flare of frustration as he moved closer to her.

  “Pretty much,” Hunter said.

  The man’s curse was coarse and vicious. “We’ll just have to teach her to stay the hell out of places—and things—where she doesn’t belong.” He twisted Gillian’s arm with a harsh brute force that made her cry out.

  The pained sound earned the ire of the forgotten cat, who’d been watching the exchange from her box beside the stove.

  With an earsplitting howl, she launched herself at the man who was harming the woman who’d fed her bacon and saved her kittens from the sea. Claws tangled in his blond hair, raked down his face, dug into his chest.

  Hunter used the welcome distraction to grab for Gillian, who’d been thrown off balance as Van Horn fought off the furious, determined animal clinging to his sweater.

  Before he could get her to the door, the sound of a shot shattered the silence of the night.

  Hunter watched, horrified, as a red stain blossomed like a deadly poppy on the front of her cape. Then spread.

  “Hunter?” Gillian’s eyes were glazed with shock; her face had turned the unhealthy color of rice paper.

  “It’s okay, baby.” He had a choice. To pull her to him and never let go, or to try to prevent Van Horn from killing them both. “Just hold on. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  With that promise, and a red haze of fury obscuring his gaze, he threw himself at her attacker, who’d finally managed to shake off the cat.

  The force caused Van Horn to drop the pistol, but before Hunter could make a dive for it, Van Horn grabbed the cleaver from Mrs. Adams’s knife rack and swung it with both hands like an ancient Scots Highlander wielding a claymore.

  Hunter raised his left arm to block the attack aimed at his chest, then cursed as the blade sliced through his shirt into flesh. Grinding his teeth against the pain, he lowered his head and charged, slamming into Van Horn’s chest and knocking him off balance.

  As the two men rolled across the floor, slugging and kicking, Hunter discovered he was at a distinct disadvantage when his injured arm would not—or could not—obey the commands of his brain.

  Van Horn slammed a fist into Hunter’s face; in turn, Hunter drove his knee upward, into the other man’s groin. With a bellow of rage, Van Horn rolled off him and staggered to his knees, chest heaving.

  He raised the vicious cleaver over his head; the blade glistened in the bright overhead light. Blood dripped from its razor sharp edge.

  With his left arm useless, Hunter was struggling to get to his feet when another shot exploded.

  Van Horn’s eyes widened in obvious shock. Then rolled back into his head. Deflating like a leaking balloon, he was dead when he hit the floor.

  Hunter managed to crawl to Gillian. “Sweetheart, give me the gun.” He had to pry it from her rigid fingers. “It’s all right.”

  “He was going to kill you.” Her eyes were glazed, her frail voice little more than a whisper.

  “Thanks to you, he’s not going to be able to hurt anyone ever again.” Not wanting any accidents to make a bad situation worse, he put the still loaded gun out of reach.

  “Am I going to die?”

  “Of course not. You’re going to be just fine.” He ripped open her long wool cape, discovered the wound that was spurting bright red blood onto the bodice of the green velvet dress and prayed that it would be true.

  Her legs had turned to rubber, her body to ice. She was shivering like a woman caught up in the grips of a deadly fever. He clutched her to him as he tried to reach the receiver of the wall phone with his good hand, but she was too weak to help and the distance was too great.

  “I’m just going to lie you down for a second,” he said. “So I can call 911 and get us some help.” Hating to let go of her for even a moment, Hunter had no choice but to lower her carefully, gently, to the pine plank floor.

  The cat immediately curled up beside her, pressing its orange and black fur against her side.

  “Hunter?”

  He could barely hear her whisper his name over the chattering of her teeth and the hammering of his heart.

  “I’m here, sweetheart.” He punched in the speed dial. “I won’t leave you.”

  Her eyes were unfocused, but her lips curved in what he allowed himself to believe was a faint smile. “I love you.”

  Her lids fluttered closed. The emergency dispatcher answered on the first ring. As he felt Gillian drifting further and further away from him, Hunter only hoped it was soon enough.

  He held her against his chest, his lips buried in her lush, fiery cloud of hair. As he waited for the paramedics to arrive, Hunter made deal after deal with the God that he’d almost managed to convince himself he’d stopped believing in.

  16

  GILLIAN DREAMED she was stumbling though a blizzard. She was cold, so cold. Deadly cold. She was surrounded by a blinding white world, disoriented, lost. Somewhere in the far distance she heard Hunter calling her name, over and over again, but she couldn’t see him. Couldn’t find him.

  She stumbled into a deep drift and tried to call back to him, to let him know where she was, so he could rescue her. But her lips had turned to stone, and her mind, fogged in icy white clouds, could not think of the words.