The Man from Nowhere Read online

  God, it just got worse and worse!

  “Trish?” Grant returned and sat beside her. “Gage already called the feds.”

  She was shocked. Hadn’t he said…or maybe he hadn’t. The whirlwind in her head was making it difficult to sort out what had happened, what they thought might happen, who knew what when…

  “It’s okay,” Grant said, taking her hand. “It’s okay. He told them that you’d mentioned an inventory discrepancy at the plant involving microchips, and that you’d reported it up the company ladder. He said you just mentioned your concern to him.”

  “And?”

  “And he said they were all over it like white on rice. He also told them to stay away from you for now because there’d been a threat made on your life and he didn’t want them in the way. They’re going to start their investigation at the top.”

  She smiled thinly. “There goes my job.”

  “Maybe. But what’s more important?”

  “Not my job, of course. Obviously not my job. God, if I’d had any idea what those chips were for, I’d have reported it to the feds myself at the same time I notified Hank. I wish I had.”

  He took her hand again and squeezed it. “You couldn’t know. You followed the only procedure you could.”

  “Maybe.” The grip of his hand comforted her, but only a little bit. Things seemed to be getting murky beyond her ability to sort through them. But one thought did make it through. “Oh, my God!”

  “What?” He leaned toward her, intent.

  “Hank is in trouble, too. Because whoever wants this silenced will have to go after everyone who knows.”

  He nodded. “And?”

  “And it just struck me. Hank is the only person I told exactly which microchips were missing.”

  Grant’s expression grew grim indeed. “That might clarify things, actually.”

  “How so?” she asked.

  “If he knew what chips they were, he should have reported it. If he didn’t report it, well…once the feds contact him, we’re playing against a short fuse.”

  She nodded, her heart pounding, stomach souring, mind spinning. “I can’t…I can’t…” She couldn’t take in air, as if her ribs refused to let her lungs expand.

  “Easy,” Grant murmured. “Easy…”

  Then he pulled her onto his lap, cradling her head with one hand, his other arm wrapped tight around her. “Easy….”

  One of her hands curled into a claw and gripped his shirt as she hung on for dear life. Every time she gasped for air, her throat locked up. The world spun like a crazed merry-go-round and blackness seeped in from the edges. Then there was nothing.

  Impossibly, when she came to, she was lying on her bed. Grant lay with her, holding her close, murmuring soothing words, his hand rubbing her back. How he had carried her upstairs she couldn’t imagine.

  When her eyes fluttered open, reluctantly, they were face-to-face.

  “Thank God,” he said. “I almost called EMS, but once you passed out your breathing steadied.”

  “How long was I out?”

  “A couple of minutes. Probably a much needed vacation from reality.”

  He was trying to make light of it, but reality wouldn’t back off even that much.

  “I’ve never done that before.”

  “You’ve never been in this situation before.” His hand slipped up her back to stroke her hair briefly, then slid down again to resume its light, soothing rub. “And I have to admit, this situation takes the cake.”

  She closed her eyes again, allowing herself to enjoy a few moments of comfort in his nearness. She was entitled to that, surely. Last meal for the condemned woman, or whatever.

  The moment of black humor told her she was getting past the shock and beginning to function again. She had to function if she was to survive this mess.

  “Okay,” she said after a minute or two. “I’ve got to start thinking. Planning. Getting ready. Because if you’re right about everything speeding up from the instant Hank gets that call, time just became critical. I need to print out everything I have for you to give to Gage. Just in case…in case…”

  Her chest tightened again, and she struggled to calm herself.

  “You don’t have to do anything right now. If there’s one thing that keeps coming to me, it’s that nothing has changed. That guy is going to come in the middle of the night. Tonight, tomorrow night, whatever. It’s still afternoon. Whatever’s going to happen, it’s not going to happen right now. Right now you need to unwind so you can be on top of things when it matters.”

  She nodded, unable to speak, curling a bit closer to him because he seemed like a bulwark, warm, comforting and strong. When she reached out a hand to try to draw him closer, he obliged with little urging. She needed to feel him, all of him, along her entire length. She needed to remember something good about life, because right now her options seemed awfully limited.

  She couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when things began to change. Maybe there wasn’t an exact moment. The atmosphere shifted, her awareness shifted, her breathing quickened a bit. The cells in her body began to send a new kind of message, an intense, in-the-moment message, like sparks zinging along nerve endings.

  “Trish…” he whispered, and just as the horrible thought sprang to her mind that he was about to put her off, he whispered her name again and she knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that he felt the same tug, the same yearning, the same ache.

  “Grant…”

  As if speaking each other’s names was all that was needed, the last barriers slipped away.

  In an instant they pressed together, tangling, his leg between hers, denim against denim, his thigh against her pulsing center.

  A tide of weakness ripped through her. Everything else fled except a driving need as old as time. Their mouths met hungrily. Hands traveled everywhere like desperate seekers needing answers just out of reach. Through her clothes, he traced her curves, every one he could reach, stroking, teasing, promising, evoking, until she could no longer stand the inhibiting layers.

  As if he read her mind, he reached up beneath her shirt. With one short twist he released the clasp of her bra and found her breast, covering it with warmth and igniting a fury of flame. A moan escaped her and she began to rock helplessly against his thigh, needing more and more.

  Something like a groan escaped him, and for one awful minute he seemed to pull away. But then her shirt and bra were yanked off with a hunger that fed hers even more.

  When his mouth left hers it was only to fasten on her breast, sucking her nipple deeply into his mouth, so hot and wet. A noise escaped her and her whole body arched in offering.

  He continued to suck, each pull of his mouth sending sparks and then waves of desire to her core until she began to ache so fiercely she was lost completely in the sensation.

  But oh, he was not done, not nearly. He seemed determined to drive her to the edge of madness. He certainly seemed determined not to let her have one single coherent thought. She never really knew when or how the rest of her clothes disappeared, leaving her as vulnerable as a newborn babe. Nor did she care.

  He was there, still fully clothed himself, guiding her up the stairway to the stars with his mouth and hands. His fingers trespassed between her legs as his mouth continued to tease and torment her breasts. Those wicked, knowing fingers that knew exactly how to touch to lift her even higher without giving her a chance to crest.

  He turned her into a writhing, demanding woman with no thought of anything beyond him and this moment, and reaching her ultimate destination.

  A finger slipped inside her even as his thumb continued to tease the almost painful knot of nerves he had excited to full flower. A cry escaped her and she clamped her legs around his hand, rocking desperately, needing, all need, nothing but need…

  And then he was atop her, his weight bearing her down, his jean-clad hips pressing into the tenderest of flesh between her legs.

  Erotic, so erotic, to bare herself an
d feel him still clothed, to feel denim, not flesh when she was utterly and completely open.

  Another soft cry arose from her lips, and he answered with another thrust of his hips, knowing just how hard to rub against such a tender place. His mouth seized hers again, his tongue thrusting in and out in time with his hip movements, his chest raised just enough that with each movement his shirt brushed against her swollen, aching nipples.

  Lost. Oh, she was lost with only one goal in mind, arching up against him, denied that last little bit that would carry her over the top.

  She needed more, just that little bit more, and desperately she began to pull at his clothes.

  “Trish.” He spoke hoarsely.

  Oh, no…She opened her eyes just a slit, her body still determined to find culmination, but aware that something was not right. Please, don’t stop. She didn’t know if she said it or only thought it. She couldn’t tell where she ended and the rest of the world began. It was all one big bundle of need.

  “Trish, I don’t have a condom. Leave my clothes…” It was almost a groan.

  She got it then. He was going to satisfy her just like this, even if it meant denying himself because he was going to protect her in this, just as he had been protecting her for days.

  “Drawer,” she gasped. She indicated the bedside table with a quick movement of her eyes.

  He moved, twisting, baring part of her to air that suddenly seemed chilly, and she wanted to cry out in protest at even that minor separation.

  He reared up then, tearing off his own shirt while she pulled at the snap and zipper of his jeans. She didn’t even get them all the way off before he was tearing at a condom packet with his teeth. She grabbed it from him because this was one pleasure she was not going to be denied, no matter how much she ached and hated this intrusion.

  His staff was hard, hot, eager, and she rolled the latex onto him with deliberately teasing strokes, because she wanted him to feel some of the torment he was causing her. Such delicious torment. Such exquisite torment.

  He groaned and remained on his knees for a few moments, his eyes closed, his teeth gritted as she ran her fingers over him and reached beneath to that hot, sweaty place, knowing that she was making him as helpless as he had made her and loving every bit of this momentary power.

  But then he grabbed her hands and pulled them away, holding her by the wrists near her head. When she tried to tug free, he wouldn’t let go.

  She opened her eyes a bit wider and saw the most devilish grin on his face, even as his own eyes seemed to be heavy with passion.

  Then it happened. She was opened wide, wet and ready and throbbing, and he found her opening as if the two of them were puzzle pieces meant to be matched. With one long, hard thrust he entered her.

  Hot. Hard. Everything connecting in just the right way, exactly what her body had been crying out for.

  He came to her again and again, and the climb resumed, each thrust a step on the ultimate stairway. Higher she climbed, the ache building and building until…

  Until.

  She had never felt so open, so hungry, so helplessly enthralled.

  Then, in an instant, the expanding bud of desire blossomed into a brilliant rose that shot its petals everywhere, multicolored, bright and oh, so full of beauty.

  But just as she started to drift down with the petals of desire fulfilled, he moved again, and before she knew it, she was shooting upward like a rocket, aching even more than before…and finally exploding like fireworks into a place and a peace she had never before known.

  Moments later, she felt him follow her.

  Chapter 10

  “You used to cook a lot,” Trish said, watching Grant chop a leek into slices so thin she could see through them.

  They had napped for an hour after making love, the first time in days she’d felt truly relaxed. Both awoke hungry and wanting to move out of the bedroom. She had offered to make an evening breakfast—eggs and bacon—but he had declined.

  “I’m going to treat you to an old specialty of the Wolfe household,” he had said. “Oven-fried chicken with maple-vinegar glaze.”

  Her stomach had rolled at first, but now as she smelled the scents blending, she grew surprisingly hungry. He had butterflied the chicken with poultry shears, even tucking the ends of the drumsticks into slits cut in the breast skin, seasoned it with salt and pepper, and browned it in a thin layer of olive oil before putting it in the oven. Now he was chopping leeks, if so clumsy a term as chopping could apply. Shaving was nearer the mark.

  “I cooked some. Laura did most of it. For me it was only a hobby.” He finished the leek and flipped the root end over his shoulder, landing it not only in the sink but in the side with the garbage disposal, before dabbing his fingertips on the towel over his shoulder. “Something to do when I couldn’t think anymore. Just trust my hands and eyes and nose. A way to turn off the hamster wheel.”

  “As if,” Trish said, watching him with admiration approaching envy. It did not escape her that he had just spoken comfortably of his wife for the first time. “First, I’m betting your brain never turns off, period. And second, nobody handles a nine-inch razor blade like that unless they’ve had a lot of practice.”

  He shrugged and smiled. “Let me have some modesty, okay?”

  “Cordon bleu?” she asked, playfully rubbing her shoulder against his arm. “Paris?”

  He shook his head. “Not quite. But my boss had.”

  “Your boss?”

  “Stanford’s an expensive school,” he said. “Even if you’re on scholarship. And Palo Alto is an expensive place to live. So I thought—I have to eat, why not get a job where that’s included?”

  “You worked at a restaurant?”

  He nodded. “Started as a dish boy and the head chef noticed I really cared about the food. He made me a sous chef and there you go. I didn’t make a lot of money, but at least I didn’t have to buy dinners.”

  Trish smiled. “That’s…charming. I mean, it’s one of those ‘who’da thunk it’ things.”

  “Few people’s lives are straight lines,” he said.

  “That’s true.” She laughed, remembering her own early life. “I was going to do weather. Meteorology.”

  “Really?”

  She smiled. “Yup. I had it all figured out. I was going to get a PhD and be on TV for a few years and then do research on hurricanes, when I could squeeze it in around being insanely rich and happily married.”

  He laughed, a huge belly laugh like she’d never heard from him before. It was, she realized, a laugh she’d like to hear a lot more often.

  “Okay,” he said, finally taking a breath. “So when did that train derail?”

  “Probably right about where you would have gotten interested,” she said. “Quantum physics. Turns out that meteorologists have to know that stuff. And I couldn’t get it. Period.”

  “It’s not intuitive,” he conceded, splashing white wine vinegar into the sautéing leeks.

  “Not intuitive?” she asked. “Try incomprehensible for ordinary human beings!”

  “There’s a saying among physicists,” he said. “Anyone who claims to understand quantum theory…hasn’t studied it enough.”

  “Now you tell me!” Trish said. “If my professor had just said that, I might’ve stuck around. Instead, because I was good at math, I went into accounting. Of course it’s not as interesting as being on TV, researching hurricanes and being insanely rich and happily married.”

  “Been interesting enough lately, though, hasn’t it?”

  And there it was. Trish remembered the old Chinese curse: May you live in interesting times.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I guess it has. Speaking of, I need to print out my files. If Hank is involved, he may decide to scrub the server. I want hard copies, just in case.”

  “Good idea,” he said. “I’ll be a few more minutes here. You have time before dinner. And print two copies, okay? I’ll take one with me when I leave.”

&nbs
p; “Leave?” she asked. “Can’t you…?”

  Grant shook his head. “No, I can’t. I’ve never seen it from here. I wouldn’t know what to look for. I have to follow the vision, and that starts at Mahoney’s.” He paused and looked at her. “You were the one who said we can’t change anything that might affect what I’ve seen.”

  She remembered only too well. The thing was, she didn’t want to let Grant go. Not even for a few hours. But fear was riding her shoulder again. “Yeah. Okay. Two copies.”

  She could have brought the laptop into the kitchen, but she decided to stay in her little office. Better that Grant not see the look on her face right now. He didn’t need to see her being silly, and that was exactly what she was being. Of course he had to leave. Tonight, and once this was over. He’d go back to California and his friends. That was that, and she just had to deal with it.

  But she didn’t want to. Right alongside fear, another ache was growing, adding to the butterflies and sense of impending doom. She didn’t want him to leave. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Maybe.

  As she booted up her laptop and logged onto the server, she thought about the girl who’d wanted to do weather on TV and study hurricanes. The girl who’d wanted to be insanely rich and happily married. That girl had been a fool on every count. And apparently still was.

  If parents were fair, Trish thought, they’d teach their kids to hope for being ordinary. Survive adolescence and get educated enough to get a decent enough job to make ends meet if you were careful. Maybe you’d meet someone special, and maybe you wouldn’t. If you did, maybe it would work out and maybe it wouldn’t. Either way, remember that most people’s lives were…ordinary. The universe reached down to touch you with extraordinary gifts, or it didn’t. And for Trish, it hadn’t. Now, if she was going to be on TV, it was likely to be as a murder victim, a breathlessly told tale of corporate intrigue in which hers was merely a stock role: dead body on floor.

  No fan mail. No high-level research. No wealth.

  And no Mr. Perfect.

  Except that Mr. Perfect was in her kitchen right now, she thought as she scrolled through her files and started the print job. He was in there making magic with food, just as he had made magic with her body before. He had played her most exquisite nerve endings as skillfully as he handled a chef’s knife, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. On the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale, Grant was a Category Five: breaks down even the sturdiest walls.