Just those first sounds, a few tentative chords, had been enough for her to know that she’d made it, after all. She’d survived. Dagda had been her constant companion ever since.
Maybe she had another companion now, besides the darkness.
No, God, that was crazy thinking. Something that came straight out of her pain and loneliness.
She knew absolutely nothing about him, except his name. Douglas Kowalski. Good Irish name. Oh, and his rank in the Navy. Senior Chief. She had no idea what that meant.
She knew he was Suzanne’s husband’s friend. And partner. So presumably he was morally upstanding, or at least he wasn’t going to embezzle the company funds. Allegra had only met Suzanne’s new husband a few times, but he didn’t strike her as the innocent, trusting type. Anyone he chose would be honest and smart. Suzanne’s husband would never choose someone dishonorable or dull-witted as a partner.
What else did she know?
He was single. How had he put it? I don’t have anywhere to go.
He liked music. He’d been to Ireland. He had a sense of humor.
He had the most incredibly delicious voice. The deepest she’d ever heard, the low bass tones making her diaphragm vibrate. It wasn’t just the timbre, it was the steadiness of his voice. The kind of voice you instantly, instinctively believed. The kind of voice that if it told you the moon was made of green cheese, then you wondered what a slice would taste like.
He was tall. Very tall. She remembered that instant of disbelief when she’d first heard his voice way above her head. For a moment, she’d wondered if he were on steps, or even somehow on another floor.
He was strong. The second she’d touched him on the arm, she’d felt the muscles beneath the jacket sleeve, like warm, moving steel. She’d been held in his arms, for just a moment, but it had been enough to feel shielded and protected by something immensely powerful.
She knew he was standing just off the stage, listening to her, waiting for her. Allegra had absolutely no doubt about that. He was exactly where he said he’d be. She knew that like she knew the words to “Amazing Grace.”
She felt connected to him. It was insane, but there it was. How on Earth could she feel connected to someone she’d just met? Who she’d exchanged just a few words with?
She struck an experimental chord. The playlist had been decided last week and she should be singing “Flying,” but another song came out. An old Celtic air her father and his brothers used to sing when she was a child. They mostly sang it when they’d had a few beers too many, which they often did.
“Break of Dawn.” It was always connected in her mind with happiness, unfettered joy. The baritones and tenors of the Ennis men had made it a rousing ballad, a male chorus of uncomplicated jubilation, but she played it slow, in a minor key. For someone who was tentative, unsure about happiness and joy.
Someone who thought all joy had fled from this world. Uncertain at the thought that it still existed. But still hoping.
Douglas would never have heard the song. He wouldn’t know that she was changing it for him, that it came from the heart.
Maybe he would.
She was halfway through the song, lingering over the notes when she heard exclamations from the surrounding crowd. A cry, an angry mutter. A woman’s voice rising in complaint. Steps moving sharply across the marble floor.
And then an explosion rocked her world.
Chapter Four
Kowalski was standing by the stage, watching her. There was a little island of space all around him. He’d shot such filthy looks at those near the stage who weren’t listening that they’d just moved away.
Damned straight. Anyone not capable of listening to this wonderful music didn’t deserve it anyway.
This song was beautiful, too, though not one she’d composed. “Break of Dawn.” He’d heard it once in a pub near the Dublin docks. He remembered that pub fondly. It had been a real dive, the ancient wooden floorboards stained from uncounted gallons of spilled beer suds and thousands of cigarette stubs and probably a couple pints of blood from all the fights down the years.
The Shanty. Kowalski wondered if it had survived the smoking ban in Ireland.
Some drunken laborers had sung a rousing chorus of “Break of Dawn,” surprisingly in tune considering how pie-eyed they’d been. Kowalski had been utterly charmed. The Irish workingmen hadn’t been able to stand straight, but they’d sure been able to sing true.
Allegra’s version was much more beautiful, a slow bluesy rendering, the same song but with a different meaning.
He understood very well what she was doing with the song. It became a lament for lost happiness, yet tinged with a blush of hope, like the first flush of dawn.
She was halfway through when the lights went out. The main hall was completely black.
This was bad news.
The exhibit catalog had helpfully explained that the value of the “Jewels of the Czars” was worth, at a conservative estimate, 520-million dollars. “Not counting,” the catalog had cheerily added, “their value as antiques and historical artifacts. From that point of view, the jewels are literally priceless.”
Coming into the turn of the century Parks Mansion, which served as headquarters for the Parks Foundation, he and Midnight had counted five security guards ringing the exhibit. Which meant at least ten on the grounds. And not the flabby, rent-a-cop kind with bunions, either. They were young and fit and vigilant, armed with MP5s.
Part of the security system was based on laser beams and infrared cells running off the electricity mains. No security system worth spit would be without a backup electrical system. If that hadn’t come on automatically when the mains went, it meant the entire system had been taken down. Together with the security guards.
Very bad news.
Kowalski automatically reached for his weapon before he remembered he didn’t have one.
Very, very bad news. The worst.
He could hear disgruntled male voices, a sharp woman’s cry, a man’s steps crossing the marble floor. The notes from Allegra’s harp.
Jesus fucking Christ!!
Allegra couldn’t know the lights had gone out. Something bad was coming down and she was exposed, helplessly vulnerable. All alone and blind on a raised stage. Kowalski was already up the steps and running across the stage when the first of the flashbangs went off.
Flashbangs are concussion grenades set to detonate in an explosion of mind-shattering light and noise—two million lumens and one-hundred-eighty decibels, plus a shock wave of air. Enough to shut down the central nervous system. Enough to guarantee instantaneous deafening and blinding lasting minutes. A flashbang victim drops on his ass and sits, stunned, totally unable to operate or even think.
Kowalski was saved by the fact that as he ran across the stage he had his back to the entrance, where the flashbangs came from, and by the fact that he’d had thousands of training sessions making dynamic entries with flashbangs. He’d trained himself to get past the initial daze fast. He was already planning his moves as he ran, and when the noise and light exploded, he carried on out of instinct, even though his mind was no longer capable of logical thought.
It was instinct that had him picking Allegra up and leaping off the back end of the stage, twisting in midair so she’d land on him. While the room was still lit by the explosion, he was rolling them under the stage platform.
He brought them to a stop under the center of the stage—more or less under where Allegra had been playing. When the lights went back on, they would illuminate the edges of the stage but wouldn’t penetrate to the center, which would remain in darkness.
She was fighting desperately underneath him, trying to hit him with her fists, trying to knee him in the groin. Kowalski easily held her arms with one fist and opened his legs to encase hers between his knees, pinning her down with the full weight of his body. She was completely subdued, unable to move.
She was trembling wildly, violent shakes of her body. He leaned down
to her ear, pushing away the soft hair. “Allegra, stop fighting, it’s me, Douglas.” She stilled immediately, breath coming in harsh little pants.
He kept his voice to a soundless whisper which he knew couldn’t carry. Not that it made any difference. Nobody could have heard them over the screams and gunfire, which were now coming from the main hall.
AK-47s, Kowalski thought grimly. These guys were pros.
The lights came back on and Kowalski turned his head, giving himself a sitrep in his head.
Five heavily armed bad guys in ski masks in the room, which probably meant at least four, maybe five, outside, running perimeter. All the security guards ringing the exhibit area were dead, and the other guards outside must already be dead, as well.
The thieves were men who’d already killed, had blood in their nostrils. They weren’t going to be averse to killing again. Where the hell was Midnight—
Kowalski’s blood ran cold. These smart motherfuckers had rounded up about ten women in a little group as hostages, screaming for everyone to throw down their cell phones and sit down with their hands on their heads.
Everyone dropped. Cell phones landed on the floor like jacks in a child’s room.
One of the thieves was standing watch over the women, doing the one thing in this world that could stop John Huntington. The masked man had figured out the situation in a flash. He figured the threat to the women would hold the men at bay, and had chosen the most attractive one as the best deterrent.
The man standing guard over the women was holding the muzzle of his submachine gun directly against Suzanne Huntington’s beautiful head, her blonde hair curling around the muzzle. John was sitting against a wall, hands on his head, eyes riveted on the man threatening his wife. The thief couldn’t know that he was holding a gun to the head of the wife of one of the most dangerous men on the planet.
But John was unarmed, damn it.
Bud and Claire were nowhere to be seen.
“Douglas.” Allegra’s whisper was shaky. She was trembling with shock. “What’s going on? What happened?”
He looked down at her. The situation would be frightening enough for a sighted person. For Allegra, it must be terrifying. She’d heard two massive explosions, gunfire and screams. She could have no sense of the situation. Any other woman would be yelling her head off, as were many of the women in the room. But she was holding it together. The instant she’d heard his voice, she’d quieted. Her only reaction was a violent trembling.
He put his mouth next to her ear. “Jewel thieves. Armed. They’ve got everyone hostage.” She opened her mouth and he knew what she wanted to ask. “Bud and Claire aren’t in the room. They might even have left. John and Suzanne are sitting down. They’re safe.” She’d have to forgive him for the lie. He didn’t want her worrying about Suzanne—the situation was terrifying enough for her.
A masked, armed man ran full speed toward the stage and Kowalski tensed, covering as much of Allegra as he could. He drew her arms close together under her. “Huddle under me, honey. I have a lot of body mass. I might be able to stop a bullet.”
Obediently, she drew her limbs together. Kowalski figured he was covering over ninety-five percent of her body. Any bullet that reached them had to be a ricochet, most of its force spent by the time it hit him. He’d probably be able to stop a bullet from entering her.
The thief veered off to the right, combat boots pounding.
A silver-haired man stood suddenly, arguing in the loud, arrogant voice of the very rich. One of the thieves simply lifted his machine gun and blew him away with a burst of fire. Great gouts of blood erupted from the elderly man’s chest and his head exploded in a cloud of pink mist.
The mangled body landed fifteen feet away, skidding bonelessly until it hit the wall, leaving a blood-soaked trail that was shockingly vivid against the white marble floor. The man lay crumpled in a bloody heap, like a shattered doll. There was complete silence in the room. A woman sobbed briefly, then cut herself off.
Allegra jerked. “Did they—”
“Yeah.” Kowalski’s voice was grim. He curled a hand over her head. With his other hand, he pulled his cell phone out of the tux jacket. He had exactly the right number on speed dial. Larry Morton, former jarhead, good drinking buddy. All-around straight-up guy.
Currently head of the Portland SWAT Team.
He clicked the number. “Hey Kowalski,” a genial voice answered. “Howzzit hangin’? I’ll bet—”
“Parks Foundation,” Kowalski said in a low voice. “Hostage situation.”
“Sitrep,” Larry barked back immediately. There was no hesitation, not even a second to absorb the shock of what Kowalski had said. Kowalski could hear clanking noises in the background. Larry was suiting up. Fast response times and an ability to shift gears instantaneously were all part of a SWAT team member’s mental makeup.
“Five bad guys inside the main hall. There must be more on the perimeter. Armed with AK-47s, two mags each. They killed all the security guards.”
“Hostages?” Larry’s voice was muffled. He’d be donning his body armor.
“At least two hundred. One guy’s holding a gun on a group of ten women in the center of the room. The jewels are on the east side of the building, where the thieves are. I’m under the stage with the singer.”
“Don’t try anything, we’re on our way. Fifteen minutes, max.” Larry disconnected.
Kowalski didn’t have to be told not to try anything, even if he had his weapon with him, it would be suicide. And he was not about to leave Allegra unprotected. Not for one friggin’ second.
Let them steal the jewels. He didn’t give a fuck. What were they—pretty rocks, that’s all. What worried him was that the thieves might spray the room with bullets before leaving, to stop people from following them.
It would be the smart tactic. Leave behind scores of desperately wounded people who would be the focus of attention. Get away clean with over a half-billion dollars.
Kowalski curled his forearms around Allegra’s head. She turned slightly into him. “What’s happening now?” she asked.
They were smashing and grabbing. Suzanne had designed the display cases with strong safety features, with a lot of input from John. It took time to get into the cases and grab the jewels. At the rate they were going, they’d still be here when the SWAT guys arrived.
The fucker with the gun at Suzanne’s head hadn’t moved.
“Situation static,” he whispered back. “Help is on the way. All we have to do is wait it out.”
Allegra gave a small nod. She inched her hand up until it lay bunched against his neck. A gesture of reassurance for him or for her, he didn’t know.
Kowalski didn’t lift his head. His mouth was close to her ear, his head cushioned in the soft mass of her hair. The acrid smoke of the flashbangs and the cordite from the machine guns still lingered in the air of the room, but where he was, on top of Allegra, nose an inch from her temple, all he could smell was spring.
The situation was dangerous. Nine, maybe ten bad guys with AK-47s, still almost fully loaded. There hadn’t been that many shots, the flashbangs had taken care of the crowd. Each bad guy had two extra magazines hanging from a lanyard attached to his belt. Each magazine held thirty rounds. Near as dammit to nine hundred rounds in the building, in the hands of men who’d already shown an extreme willingness to shoot to kill.
Even more dangerous was what was happening to his body. He was lying fully on top of Allegra, and he could feel almost every inch of the front of her body. Every delicious inch.
He was developing a hard-on. Belay that, he had a hard-on. In five seconds flat he went from warrior, coldly assessing the situation with all his blood in his head, to horny guy, with his nose stuck in a beauty’s ear and every ounce of blood in his body streaming in hot liquid pulses straight to his cock.
She had to feel it. He was big and his hard-on fit right between her legs. There was nothing he could do about it. There was nothing he would d
o about it. Until he had a damned good reason for doing so, or until he knew Allegra was perfectly safe, he had no intention of getting off her.
Every tiny movement Allegra made only served to inflame his hard-on. Her breathing—God, that brought him into even closer contact with her breasts. Her breath came in little pants against his neck and his cock pulsed with every pant. Though she tried to remain still, he knew he was heavy and crushing her. She was making tiny adjustments to her position to find a more comfortable fit. She shifted her hips and his cock surged even more heavily against her.
It was impossible for her to ignore it any more.
“Sorry,” Kowalski whispered.
To his astonishment, she smiled faintly. “It’s an…unusual reaction.”
No, actually, it wasn’t. Lots of men’s cocks went straight up when their blood was up. Kowalski knew men who went into battle with hard-ons, though he wasn’t one of them. A medic once told him field surgeons often got boners while operating.
Allegra didn’t need to know that.
“Stress,” he whispered, though it wasn’t that. It was having the most desirable woman he’d ever seen within kissing distance.
It was a thought. Hell, why not? If it weren’t for their clothes, in their position, his dick would be in her. He moved his head forward, slowly. He wanted her to have plenty of time to let him know to back off.
But she did nothing. She could feel him coming closer, could feel his breath on her neck, she could feel his cock. Surely she knew what was coming. But she didn’t turn her head away, or stiffen, or whisper “Stop.”
The hand lying against his neck opened like a blossom unfurling in the sun and those long, slender fingers stroked him. Jeez, just that soft touch nearly set him off, like an electric wire between his neck and his balls. He brought his mouth against her neck, not in a kiss, but in a touch of his lips to her. His mouth lingered there a moment. She exhaled and her eyes closed.