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Authors: Dianne Duvall
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too.”
“Don’t worry about the former. It is perfectly understandable. And as for the latter …” He leaned toward her and proffered a wicked grin. “The latter was my pleasure.”
Sarah laughed. “I wouldn’t have thought someone with injuries as severe as yours would be capable of
reacting
to that pleasure.”
He grimaced. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible either, but there you have it.”
It was the closest he had come to a verbal admission of the agony he must be suffering.
His strength was simply extraordinary. If she were in his position, she would be bawling her eyes out and begging for painkillers. As would most people, male or female.
The crunch of gravel outside heralded the arrival of a vehicle as it pulled into her driveway. The engine fell silent.
Rising, Roland wrapped the sheet around his waist and crossed to one of the two windows that looked out onto the front yard.
Sarah grabbed the remote and shut off the television. She heard a car door open and close as Roland brushed the curtains aside and peered through the blinds.
“It’s Marcus.”
She stood, wondering if she should go to the door or wait for Roland to give the okay.
The tension that had stiffened his spine at the sound of the car did not lessen as he continued to stare through the window.
Did he worry that his friend may have been followed?
Boots made hollow thumps on the wooden porch. A knock sounded.
Roland left the window and went to the front door.
Sarah followed and stood a couple of steps behind him as he unlocked and swung it open.
Night had fallen. The moon was almost new. In the country, that meant it was pitch black outside, the darkness broken only by the tiny sporadic flashes of fireflies.
Though the porch light was off, enough light spilled forth from the house to illuminate their visitor.
He was tall, perhaps an inch shorter than Roland, so that would put him at about six foot one. His hair was dark as midnight and fell halfway down his back. Clad in black jeans, a black T-shirt, a black leather jacket, and biker boots, his body was slender but ripped. His jaw was shadowed by several days’ growth of beard and his eyes …
Though he looked to be about the same age as she was—thirty—his brown eyes seemed much older.
“Marcus.” Roland held out a bandaged hand.
Marcus entered and set down the duffle bag and briefcase he carried. “Roland.” Bypassing the hand, he claspedRoland’s forearm and pulled him into a hug. “It’s good to see you.”
Roland winced and gingerly clapped him on the back, then retreated.
Marcus met Sarah’s curious gaze and raised his eyebrows.
Moving to stand beside Roland, she held out a hand. “Sarah Bingham.”
His large, callused fingers clasped hers. “Marcus Grayden. A pleasure to meet you.” His words were endowed with the same British accent that flavored Roland’s.
“Nice to meet you, too.”
Stepping back, he propped his hands on his hips and looked Roland up and down. “I have to admit … if you didn’t look like hell, I’d be laughing. What happened to your clothes?”
Grunting, Roland urged Marcus back toward the door. “I’ll fill you in in a minute. First I need you to have a look outside. Around the house and in the meadow behind it.”
“All right.” Walking out onto the porch, he paused and tilted his head as though listening for something. Then he seemed to sniff the air, almost like a lion seeking the scent of prey. “Do I know what I’m looking for?”
“Yes, more than one.”
His face brightened. “More than one?”
“And possibly a couple of wannabes.”
“Interesting.” Descending the steps, he vanished into the darkness.
Roland closed the door.
“Don’t you think he would have better luck if he used a flashlight?” Sarah asked, puzzled. There were no streetlights or any other form of ambient light, so the man may as well have been walking around blindfolded.
“He’ll ask if he needs one.”
If
“Don’t worry about the former. It is perfectly understandable. And as for the latter …” He leaned toward her and proffered a wicked grin. “The latter was my pleasure.”
Sarah laughed. “I wouldn’t have thought someone with injuries as severe as yours would be capable of
reacting
to that pleasure.”
He grimaced. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible either, but there you have it.”
It was the closest he had come to a verbal admission of the agony he must be suffering.
His strength was simply extraordinary. If she were in his position, she would be bawling her eyes out and begging for painkillers. As would most people, male or female.
The crunch of gravel outside heralded the arrival of a vehicle as it pulled into her driveway. The engine fell silent.
Rising, Roland wrapped the sheet around his waist and crossed to one of the two windows that looked out onto the front yard.
Sarah grabbed the remote and shut off the television. She heard a car door open and close as Roland brushed the curtains aside and peered through the blinds.
“It’s Marcus.”
She stood, wondering if she should go to the door or wait for Roland to give the okay.
The tension that had stiffened his spine at the sound of the car did not lessen as he continued to stare through the window.
Did he worry that his friend may have been followed?
Boots made hollow thumps on the wooden porch. A knock sounded.
Roland left the window and went to the front door.
Sarah followed and stood a couple of steps behind him as he unlocked and swung it open.
Night had fallen. The moon was almost new. In the country, that meant it was pitch black outside, the darkness broken only by the tiny sporadic flashes of fireflies.
Though the porch light was off, enough light spilled forth from the house to illuminate their visitor.
He was tall, perhaps an inch shorter than Roland, so that would put him at about six foot one. His hair was dark as midnight and fell halfway down his back. Clad in black jeans, a black T-shirt, a black leather jacket, and biker boots, his body was slender but ripped. His jaw was shadowed by several days’ growth of beard and his eyes …
Though he looked to be about the same age as she was—thirty—his brown eyes seemed much older.
“Marcus.” Roland held out a bandaged hand.
Marcus entered and set down the duffle bag and briefcase he carried. “Roland.” Bypassing the hand, he claspedRoland’s forearm and pulled him into a hug. “It’s good to see you.”
Roland winced and gingerly clapped him on the back, then retreated.
Marcus met Sarah’s curious gaze and raised his eyebrows.
Moving to stand beside Roland, she held out a hand. “Sarah Bingham.”
His large, callused fingers clasped hers. “Marcus Grayden. A pleasure to meet you.” His words were endowed with the same British accent that flavored Roland’s.
“Nice to meet you, too.”
Stepping back, he propped his hands on his hips and looked Roland up and down. “I have to admit … if you didn’t look like hell, I’d be laughing. What happened to your clothes?”
Grunting, Roland urged Marcus back toward the door. “I’ll fill you in in a minute. First I need you to have a look outside. Around the house and in the meadow behind it.”
“All right.” Walking out onto the porch, he paused and tilted his head as though listening for something. Then he seemed to sniff the air, almost like a lion seeking the scent of prey. “Do I know what I’m looking for?”
“Yes, more than one.”
His face brightened. “More than one?”
“And possibly a couple of wannabes.”
“Interesting.” Descending the steps, he vanished into the darkness.
Roland closed the door.
“Don’t you think he would have better luck if he used a flashlight?” Sarah asked, puzzled. There were no streetlights or any other form of ambient light, so the man may as well have been walking around blindfolded.
“He’ll ask if he needs one.”
If
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