Authors: Jennifer Blake
Kane
Jennifer Blake
R
egina Dalton snapped awake the instant the coffin lid closed.
Darkness pressed around her like a smothering blanket. Not a sliver of light penetrated. The dense air smelled of old dust and ancient velvet. The side walls seemed to contract, so she was supremely aware of her left shoulder wedged against padded wood while her right nestled beneath unyielding solid flesh and bone.
Warm flesh and bone.
Horror exploded in her mind. She gasped and jerked up her free hand. It came in contact with cloth-covered wood that was heavy, immovable.
She was imprisoned in the antique coffin she had seen, only moments before, in the front parlor of the old Louisiana mansion. Set in incongruous display on a base skirted with wine red velvet, its polished walnut surfaces and ancient brass fittings had gleamed in the warm summer sunlight falling through tall windows. She had been fascinated by it, drawn to it.
Now she was locked inside. And she wasn't alone.
“Surprise, honey.”
The deep, purring voice, the brush of warm breath against her temple, sent a shiver along her nerves. Re
lief and dread clashed in her mind. The man who lay pressed against her was alive. It seemed, however, that he might have a direct connection with how she'd come to be in the coffin.
“Whoâ” she began, then stopped abruptly as her teeth came together with a distinct chatter.
“Who I am doesn't matter,” the man answered. “Who you are is what's important. That, and just what you're doing at Hallowed Ground.”
Hallowed Ground was the name Mr. Crompton had given the old, white-columned mansion as he'd welcomed her at the door. It had seemed perfectly appropriate for a house that had been both funeral home and family dwelling for years.
Regina remembered, with the haziness of a dream, being left alone for a few minutes in the sitting room where Lewis Crompton, her host and owner of the old house had received her. The graceful proportions of the room and its air of abiding comfort had fascinated her, as did anything antique. She'd got to her feet and wandered here and there, looking at the faded yet lovely prints on the walls and the pieces of interesting bric-a-brac on every flat surface.
At the crack between heavy sliding doors leading into the next room, she'd paused to peek inside. The coffin had caught her attention as it sat on display, surrounded by a brocatelle-covered parlor set and tables where wax flowers and mourning ornaments made of human hair were protected by bells of glass. Intent on the oddity of it, she'd opened the doors a bit more and stepped inside.
Something had charged between her feet, she thought. She'd tried to sidestep. The fat, furry creature
had squalled. Regina had stumbled, started to fall. There'd been a sudden flare of pain at her right temple, then gray, star-lit dimness closed in on her.
“I asked you a question,” the man said, his voice hardening.
“Business. I'm here on business.” The words came with difficulty from her tight throat. She felt as if she were suffocating, unable to get enough air into her lungs.
“What business would that be?”
“I don't see how it concerns you. Whoever you are.” He definitely was not Lewis Crompton. This man was younger, a stranger.
“I'm making it my concern.”
She couldn't think for the angry desperation rising inside her. A part of it was the close confinement, something she hadn't been able to stand for years. The rest was the trapped position in which she was being held, welded against this man from shoulder to ankle, almost beneath him as he lay on his side. She was overwhelmingly aware of his superior strength and weight, of his clean scent of starched cotton, citrus aftershave, and overheated male. Her breathing was also constricted by the muscled arm across her chest.
“Well?” The question was rough and dangerously impatient.
She said hastily, “IâI came to see Mr. Crompton.”
“Mr. Crompton is an elderly man, one too nice for his own good and too easily taken in by a beautiful woman. I'm none of those things.”
He was trying to intimidate her. That recognition brought a flash of defiant scorn. “Good for you! But
since I'm not trying to take in anybody, you can let me out of here right now.”
“Not likely.”
“Why?” she demanded. “Why are you doing this?”
“There are things I want to know. It seems a good way to find out.”
She moistened her lips as she searched her mind for some way to gain her freedom. “Where is Mr. Crompton?”
“I wouldn't count on him coming to your rescue. He'll be a while.”
“You're the reason he was called away in the middle of our discussion, aren't you?”
“Is that what you were doing, discussing things?” He shifted his arm slightly where it was centered between her breasts, directly above her pounding heart.
She drew a taut breath and clamped her hand on his hard wrist to move it. It didn't budge. Through stiff lips, she said, “If it's the jewelry you want, it's in the other room. Just take it and go.”
His laugh was abrupt and glazed with irony. “That's funny, coming from you.”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“Theft seems to be more your specialty than mine. I saw you pawing over it, figuring out how much it was worth down to the last garnet and seed pearl.”
“You saw me?” She stared wide-eyed into the dark.
“Exactly,” he said. “Now I want to hear how you got your hooks into Pops.”
Regina breathed in short gasps as she tugged at his arm. She even sank her nails into his taut wrist, but
still couldn't move it. At the same time, she said in something less than full coherence, “I haven't. I don't thinkâ”
“I do,” he replied, cutting across her words. “My grandfather has the exalted idea that most women are ladies, so he doesn't understand greedy, grasping females. I, on the other hand, understand just fine, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you con him out of a collection of heirloom jewelry worth thousands.”
“Your grandfather?”
“Exactly. How did you get on to him?”
If he was Crompton's grandson, then he had to be Kane Benedict. That put an entirely different light on things. He was all wrong, though he could be trying to trick her with this misunderstanding over the jewelry. How much did he really know, and how had he found her out so quickly?
Perspiration beaded around her hairline. The press of warm bodies and the sun falling on the coffin made it entirely too hot inside, in spite of the air-conditioned coolness of the old parlor.
“I'd advise you to talk to me, and talk fast.” His voice was a low growl near her ear as he tightened his grasp.
“I don't know what you expect me to say,” she cried, stung into an answer. “I barely know Mr. Crompton.”
“A one-time deal, that it? Who set it up?”
“He called me, asked me to come here.”
It was a moment before Kane Benedict spoke, and then it was with taut scorn. “I don't think so.”
He was right. In an effort to correct her instinctive falsehood, she stammered quickly, “I mean I d-don't
know exactly. He must have called someone who knows my work. The message was relayed to me. These things are handled discreetly.”
“Christ Almighty!”
His obvious revulsion, and the tightening of his hold that went with it, sent dismay rippling through her. “Let me out, now. Please. I can't standâ”
“Get used to it. This could take a while.”
“Are you saying you can't open this thing?” The question was half-strangled.
“I played in it as a kid. Opening it is not a problem. But you're going to have to do a lot more explaining before I trip the latch.”
His touch, his voice, his sheer physical presence, were having the strangest effect, in spite of her spiraling distress. His every breath seemed to shudder through her body until it was hard to tell who was exhaling, who inhaling. Where her shoulder pressed against him, she could feel his heart thudding against his chest wall. And if she wasn't mistaken, the lower portion of his body was prodding her thigh more firmly than was acceptable under the circumstances.
She didn't want this intimacy, couldn't handle it. It triggered a dark cloud of distantly remembered helplessness, the fear of forced compliance, ultimate violation.
“What do you want from me?” Releasing his wrist, she fumbled blindly along his arm and pushed at his shoulder to put more space between them.
“Are you just a little gold digger, or are you after something else entirely? Do you, just possibly, have something to do with the case going to trial?”
“Trial?” The word was a wheezing whisper. She
could hear the wild drumming of her heartbeat in her ears.
“Is it purest coincidence that you've turned up now, or is there a connection with the funeral home syndicate trying to run my grandfather out of business?”
Panic exploded inside her. In instant, automatic denial, she exclaimed, “You're insane!”
“I might be at that,” he agreed in rasping irony, as he shifted his grasp to the back of her neck, dragging her closer again. “Especially since I have a crazy notion to see how far you'll go. Maybe you'd like to try your tricks on me instead of Pops?”
“No!
Don't!
”
“Why not?”
“I'm not like that. You can'tâ”
She got no further. He slid his hand to her cheek, brushed her lips with his thumb, then eased closer to settle his warm mouth on hers. He shifted, enclosing her more firmly in his arms, using his weight to still her struggles.
It was a heated possession fueled by anger and rampant desire. An act of blatant persuasion, it was also an invasion as he tasted her, urged her to abandon resistance and join him in sensual exploration. The flavor of his mouth was sweet, drugging. For an instant, Regina felt the leap of unbidden response, felt herself losing her grasp on reality in the dense, lulling closeness. Her body seemed melded to his, as if their essences were blending, combining into a single current of powerful, urgent life.
How easy it would be to give in, to accept the hovering pleasure, answer the faint intimation of delight. It might even be best, her mind whispered, the easiest
way to get what she needed. What she had been sent to find.
She couldn't. Not now, not ever.
With an anguished moan, she twisted her mouth free and shoved violently away. The abrupt movement caught the man who held her off guard. He rocked back, hitting the side of the coffin behind him so hard the whole thing jostled on its velvet-skirted base.
Regina screamed and stiffened. The man cursed under his breath as he rebounded off the coffin wall. He caught her arm again, snatching her into a hard, stiff embrace as if he could steady their prison with his own rigidity. His knee came up, holding her immobile.
Suddenly, something snapped inside Regina. Beyond thought or control, she lashed out, fighting, clawing in blind, terror-stricken rage. She arched away from his hold while every muscle jerked in spasmodic revulsion and her breath sobbed in her throat.
She felt his grip loosen, heard him exclaim in quick concern, but she was past caring, far past heeding. She flailed at him, felt her hand strike his cheek, her nails scrape the bony protuberance of his nose. There was no satisfaction in it, no reason, nothing except recognition of a vulnerable target. She struck again.
He grunted, muttering a soft expletive. An instant later, he rolled to pin her body to the cushioned velvet, using his weight to subdue her movements while he clutched her other wrist and hauled it above her head.
Abruptly, she stopped fighting. Bitter tears sprang into her eyes as wrenching shudders coursed over her. She moaned in despairing defeat.
“I'm sorry,” he said, his voice low, abrupt. “Be still. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm truly sorry.”
Her shivering died away by increments. Her breathing quieted as she sought for control, almost found it.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Do you hear me? I didn't mean to take it so far.”
“Let me go.” The words were jerked from between her set teeth by a final convulsive tremor.
“I'll do that, I promise. As soon as I'm sure you're not going to hit me again.”
“No, Iâ¦I won't.”
“You're sure?” There was a trace of grim humor in his voice as his hold eased a fraction.
That evidence of the lightening of his mood reassured her. It seemed he meant what he said. She managed a tight nod.
“Fine. Easy does it, then. Nice and slow.” He let her go, shifted backward.
It was then that a sharp click sounded, like the spring of a metal catch. The coffin's lid swooped upward in a rush of fresh air. The sudden wash of golden light was blinding. In its glare, like a halo around some divine deliverer, she saw a white-haired gentleman holding the coffin lid open.
Lewis Crompton.
For a frozen instant, no one moved, no one spoke. Then Regina drew a deep breath and exhaled in shuddering release. Lifting a hand, she wiped surreptitiously at the tears that rimmed her lashes.
The elderly gentleman, leveling a grim gaze on his grandson, said, “If you have an excuse, Kane, I'd like to hear it.”
The man beside Regina pushed himself to a sitting position with an abrupt gesture as if he felt at a dis
advantage lying down. He raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. “Call it an experiment.”
“Of what nature?” There was no relenting in the older man's tone.
“I had the idea that your guest might have some connection to the trial.”
Crompton extended his hand to Regina, helping her to sit upright, also. “In other words, you were butting in where you don't belong. I hope you've discovered your mistake?”
Kane Benedict frowned before he shifted a shoulder. “Maybe. But I reserve the right to look into it further. Anything that might touch on this case concerns me.”