Dark Knight: A Loveswept Romance Classic Read online

  “Ready or not, Logan Blackstone, here I come.”

  Five hours and considerable exhaustion later, Scottie eased into a crouch behind a large pile of stones. The cabin was about fifty yards dead ahead. Obviously built for use by hunters, it was nestled in a clearing on the leeward side of a fairly steep rise. A steady stream of smoke trailed from the single chimney. She sniffed the air. Woodstove. There were no lights on inside and no sign of activity, no tracks outside.

  A green truck, up to its oversize tires in snow, was parked in front. A white lump that was the snowmobile was situated out back.

  She thought about the snowmobile she’d hidden a mile back down the mountain. A shame their design team hadn’t been able to figure out a way to make those things silent. She was tired and half dead from the two-hour climb up the last section of the mountain. She hoped Mr. Blackstone didn’t mind if she put him out of commission long enough for her to take a hot shower and a brief nap.

  Del hadn’t left any instructions on exactly how he expected her to contain Logan Blackstone, other than that simple surveillance would not be enough. Which meant there was only one way to handle this: Take prisoners, apologize later.

  She stowed her pack behind the boulders, then ran along the tree line in a half crouch before darting into the truck. She worked quickly to disable it, then moved back around to the snowmobile and did the same there. She checked the house. Still quiet. No lights, no sounds.

  “Sleeping like a baby. Let’s see if I can extend your stay in dreamland a bit.” She patted the zippered pocket of her parka and felt the leather case. All set.

  She headed quietly to the back corner of the cabin. Del’s team had been thorough. The bedroom window was on the far side of the cabin. She was currently beneath the kitchen window. There was no security system, so it was a no-brainer B & E. Still, she didn’t take any unnecessary chances. Just by being there Logan had proved he was not to be underestimated.

  She quietly jimmied the sliding glass door, then slipped inside. She was standing in the open space between the kitchen and the living area. Furnishings were sparse and utilitarian. She guessed hunters didn’t care much for decor, only a place to eat and sleep between killing things.

  She removed her parka and slipped the leather case from the pocket before moving silently toward the door leading to the only bedroom. It surprised her that whoever had built the place had seen a need for interior walls at all. She peeked around the corner … and froze.

  She had no idea what she’d expected, but it hadn’t been the naked man sprawled on his back across the double bed.

  He was big and dark, with skin that looked tawny even in the predawn light, skin that was wrapped tightly over sinewy muscles. He looked … primitive. Like a jungle predator at rest. The bed was framed with thick poles of rough-hewn oak. It barely contained him. The white linen sheet was twisted around him as if he’d been wrestling alligators in his sleep. The blankets and pillows were flung on the floor, previous victims who’d already lost their battles.

  He grumbled something, then wrenched onto his stomach as if some invisible force had shoved him. Her mouth went dry. A coil of white linen between his legs was all that covered him. Somewhere she found enough spit to swallow. But she couldn’t dredge up a denial. She wanted that sheet gone. In fact, she curled her hands into fists against the temptation to step into the room, grab the sheet, and tug it the rest of the way off of him.

  The man was simply too glorious to be covered. He deserved to be naked. He had the kind of sprawled grace that would make artists of any medium salivate.

  “Sarah.” The rasp of a name sounded as if it had been dragged over hot coals before escaping from his lips.

  All thoughts of artistic appreciation fled. She watched, a visual captive, as he clawed the sides of the mattress, the muscles in his shoulders and back bunching under the intensity of his grip. She could hear a pulsing sound and only absently acknowledged it was her own heartbeat thrumming in her ears.

  Then he began to move. Writhe was the word that came to mind. His hips lifted slightly, then pressed deeply into the bed. He groaned in his sleep, turning his head from side to side, a tumble of black hair obscuring his face. He dug his knees and toes into the mattress, then ground his hips down again; the sounds he made were a tumble of dark, guttural need mixed with anguish. “Sarah … no. Don’t! Need … you.”

  Scottie felt her nipples tighten in automatic reaction and found herself wondering who in the hell Sarah was … and why she was jealous of a woman she’d never met.

  She strangled her libido, which had chosen a highly inconvenient time to come out of hibernation, then quickly unzipped the small leather case. He thrashed again, moaned something unintelligible, then quieted once more—except for his hips, which slid again and again along the smooth white sheet. Scottie forced herself to concentrate on prepping the syringe. It took a considerable amount of self-control.

  The task complete, she depressed the plunger until the contents beaded at the end of the needle, then turned to her quarry. Good Lord but the man was a beautiful creature. She stepped closer to the bed, thinking it was almost a shame she was going to have to dress him later.

  She moved the last step, then stopped dead when he suddenly twisted onto his back. His chest was sheened with sweat now, rising and falling rapidly. She darted her gaze to his face. Still dreaming.

  “Sarah,” he said with a groan, then reached down and tugged at the sheet between his legs.

  Scottie gripped the syringe so hard, she was surprised she didn’t snap the casing. She bent over and aimed the needle at the hard curve of his buttocks. “Sorry I can’t let you finish this,” she said under her breath, “but I have my orders.” There was no escaping watching his continued motions. “Really sorry,” she added silently.

  He arched up and yanked hard, a low growl ripped from his throat. The sheet whipped off the bed like a white lash.

  She pulled back just in time, then froze. He was gloriously naked … and gloriously erect. Her gaze was riveted to him as his thighs relaxed, then flexed again. His neatly carved abdominal muscles rippled like a wave as he hunched forward. Nothing short of sudden death could have stopped her from watching him. It was an elegant, erotic ballet of sinew and muscle, control and leashed power. Her hand shook slightly, and she had to lock her knees against the shockingly sudden hot clench of need that gripped the muscles between her thighs in a painful fist.

  Then, without warning, his eyes flew open and locked on hers. In one lightning-quick motion his hand flashed out, grabbed her arm, and yanked her down.

  Caught badly off balance and even more off guard, Scottie pitched forward. She landed hard across his chest and legs, barely managing to swing the hand with the syringe wide. She held on to it, even when he neatly flipped her onto her back and pinned her legs and arms to the bed.

  He raised over her like a dark specter, monstrous and all-powerful. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded roughly.

  TWO

  Scottie masked her surprise and her anger at being so neatly maneuvered. She wasted a second wondering if he’d been asleep at all, or if it had been an elaborate display to distract her. If so, it had worked. Too damn well.

  Keeping her gaze locked with his, she spoke evenly, wanting to keep his attention on her eyes, not the needle in her hand. “I’m here to save your ass.”

  His dark gaze didn’t so much as flicker from hers. “I wasn’t aware it required preserving.” The rough texture of sleep faded from his voice, leaving it silky, soft, and far more dangerous. “You have a strange way of showing your … appreciation.”

  The pause was perfectly timed, the words delivered with seductive perfection. She knew that, understood it, yet the knowledge did nothing to prevent her body’s instant reaction. He was good. No. He was better than good. He was lethal.

  She should be focusing exclusively on her goal: rendering him inactive. Instead, she was excruciatingly aware of his nakedness, of the weigh
t of his body on hers, of exactly what parts of him pressed against her … and where. She studied his face, looking for any sign that he could read her thoughts. Nothing. He was expressionless. She wished she were half as good.

  “Drop the syringe,” he said. The demand was delivered almost negligently. It was his autocratic confidence that finally gave her the mental foothold she needed to get her edge back.

  She had one possible ace. She played it. “Who’s Sarah?”

  Jackpot. His mask faltered, and for one instant his grip on her wrists loosened. It was all the opening she needed. She yanked him closer. There was a flash of surprise in his eyes as he pitched forward, then her training clicked in and she saw nothing but motion. She felt him tense, coil, and knew she had only mere seconds to complete her task. Someone had trained him extremely well. Admire his technique later, Giardi.

  He pulled on her to lever himself forward … but it was too late. She slammed her hand down and found her target; the nice hard flesh of his thigh. Not her original target, but effective enough.

  He swiped at the needle and missed. She pushed in the plunger, then yanked the needle free and tossed the spent syringe across the room. His head reared up, his eyes glittered fiercely as his hand moved to her throat with deadly precision. “Son of a—” His eyes rolled upward before he could complete the expletive.

  “Say good night, Blackstone.” She shifted before he collapsed directly on top of her.

  Breathing heavily, she dragged his arm and leg off of her and crawled off the bed. She allowed herself a full minute to get her pulse rate back down, but that was all the luxury she could afford. The drug she’d pumped into him would keep most men his size out for at least fifteen to twenty minutes. Judging from their brief acquaintance, she gave him ten, max.

  She quickly sorted through several options. She had the means to put him out of commission for a long period of time, but drugging people wasn’t something she did lightly. She’d never been comfortable with that method. Not only was it dangerous, no matter how carefully administered, but to her it had always seemed the fool’s way out.

  She studied Blackstone and actually had second thoughts. Still, Logan Blackstone had revealed himself to be a surprisingly viable force of one. No police department trained their men that well. He would challenge her to the extreme of her abilities. She couldn’t decide if she was more intrigued or annoyed.

  “No more drugs.” She pushed up the sleeve of her black thermal turtleneck and pressed the button on the side of her watch. Eight minutes. She slipped swiftly back outside and retrieved her backpack, pulling out the equipment she needed by touch as she moved quickly inside again. She dropped the backpack on the table, then scooped up the necessary gear. A wristwatch check showed she had five minutes remaining. The sun was close to the horizon, filling the cabin with a dull pink glow.

  He was as she left him. Even prepared, the sight of him gave her an instant’s pause. What the hell, she decided, as she knelt and checked the bedframe for sturdiness, she might as well enjoy the view. Her job came with few enough perks. Once he was conscious, she doubted she’d have time to indulge in anything remotely self-serving.

  The metal mattress rack bracketed by the huge oak frame was solid iron. Perfect. She swiftly attached the clamps to the iron frame at both the foot and head of the bed, then stood and calculated her next move. He had to go on his back. There was no other way. She sighed, then moved to the opposite side of the bed. She pressed two fingers to his neck. His pulse was slow and steady. Maybe she’d get a few more minutes after all. He hadn’t stirred an inch. She knelt on the bed and anchored an arm under his shoulder, then reached across him and gripped his other forearm. With one tug, she moved him silently to his back. Not so much as an exhale escaped his lips.

  Why was she looking at his lips? She scowled, even as she grudgingly admired his control. Damn, but the man was self-controlled even in unconsciousness. His face was all angular planes, with a wide forehead and a square chin blocking out the rest of the shape. He had no noticeable scars, but his nose had been rearranged once or twice. And yet, his wider than average mouth somehow managed to create the perfect contrast. Despite the godlike physique, he wasn’t handsome. The image of his dark eyes flashing fire popped into her head. No, handsome did not describe Logan Blackstone. Primal. Feral. Dangerous. Hunter. Those were the words that came to mind.

  So, why was she staring at him as if she were a mesmerized teenager instead of caging the beast?

  Muttering under her breath, she looked away and pulled the straps across the bed. It took several precious minutes to fasten the restraint onto his wrists, which were now crossed over his chest. She checked their security. Satisfied, she slid to the foot of the bed, tugged his lower torso over, and rearranged his legs while never looking higher than his calves. They were all angular planes too. She recalled his abdomen had been a carved monument to perfectly sculpted muscles, and then there was his …

  She shut her mind down and yanked the straps up. She had one around his ankle when it occurred to her she should have at least found him some shorts. Balancing on her heels, she ran a scan around the room, but only saw sheets and pillows in a tangled heap. The man had to own some clothes. There was no closet in the room, just an old armoire with the doors missing and a ratty cane chair. Both were empty. She ducked down. Aha. A military-green duffel was under the bed.

  “Is that where you learned to fight like a jungle cat, Blackstone?” she said under her breath. Del’s report hadn’t said anything about a stint in any branch of the service, and Del was nothing if not thorough, even on limited time. A military record would have popped up on the first go-around.

  Her mind spun back to Del’s sudden reappearance as she stretched for the duffel handle, when a low groan made her freeze. She stayed still less than a heartbeat, rolling to her knees and moving immediately for the ankle straps.

  “You lose, Blackstone. Naked it is.”

  As it was, she barely got the second ankle wing secure before he started to wake. She managed to stand and snag a sheet from the floor. His eyes opened just as the white linen drifted down over his waist and thighs.

  He located her immediately, but didn’t move or say anything. Lethal. The word flitted through her mind again as she held his unwavering, surprisingly clear stare.

  Time spun out, a minute and then two. Not wanting to admit—or reveal—that he was actually unnerving her, she purposely broke their visual standoff with a casual glance at her wristwatch. “Eleven minutes. Not bad.”

  He remained expressionless. It was a rare human who could come to consciousness to find himself being held hostage by a stranger, bound and trussed—not to mention naked—and not automatically test his restraints and demand explanations.

  Logan Blackstone was a rare human indeed. The only thing he’d moved so far were his eyelids. She found she was the one wanting to demand explanations. Just who are you, Logan Blackstone?

  She knew one thing, he was definitely Lucas’s twin. No plastic surgeon, not even one of theirs, could have rendered such a close approximation. The facial similarities were uncanny for two men who’d spent a lifetime apart. The only stark difference being Logan’s broken nose. Lucas had suffered his own bumps and fractures during the course of his career, but his had healed differently.

  No, a plastic surgeon wouldn’t have made that big of a mistake. Logan Blackstone was the real McCoy. His body was bigger, more heavily muscled than Lucas’s lean, whipcord frame. Of course, she’d never seen Lucas stark naked, nor had she felt the weight of him pinning her down—

  “Enjoying the show?” His dark voice snagged her attention. She had been staring.

  “Admiring my handiwork.” Her tone was cool. The rest of her was anything but.

  His gaze swept slowly over her, his manner thorough, calculated—and not the least bit sexual. She refused to examine why that frustrated her.

  “I’m not a real fan of bondage,” he said. He’d yet to move a fra
ction. The subtle amusement in his tone was not reflected on his face or in his eyes. Both were completely expressionless. “I am choosy about my partners, but if you were this determined to have me, I imagine we could have come to a less … extreme agreement.”

  “If that was what I was after, Mr. Blackstone, I assure you I wouldn’t have had to tie you up.”

  A brief light flashed in his eyes. Admiration? Doubtful. But there had been a reaction. It was a start.

  “So, you aren’t into kinky sex and you know my name. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me who you are? Or what you meant by saving my ass? I mean, isn’t being shackled naked to my own bed enough of a disadvantage?”

  Smooth, sexy aplomb. It was hard to imagine that satin-sheet voice making as rough a demand as he had earlier.

  Just how badly was it bothering him to have lost control earlier? Was he angry somewhere far behind those cool, empty eyes?

  Scottie tamped down her irritation before he detected it. Her function was to contain, then maintain. No less, but no more. Yet there was no denying he intrigued her. He was too perfectly controlled to ignore.

  She was fully aware that engaging one’s captor in any sort of interplay was a survival tactic meant to buy time and search for weaknesses. She intended to show him she had none.

  Purposely remaining silent, she stepped closer and checked the restraints at his ankles. She felt his gaze on hers, but he didn’t so much as flinch as she tugged the black nylon straps. She moved to the head of the bed and bent close, irritated further that she was too uncertain of her ability to remain expressionless to look him casually in the eyes.

  She was close enough to feel his breath fan her neck, to sense the heat of his skin. She was careful to remain at an angle that prevented him from suddenly lunging his head forward in an effort to crack her chin or cheekbone. He didn’t try to watch what she was doing. His gaze was a hot, almost tangible thing, and it stayed locked on her face. She didn’t question how she knew this, neither did she look for proof.