Predicting Rain?. Mary Wilson Anne
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it, love. Come on. Please? Come to me. Now.”
No pictures, no images, just him listening, drifting, waiting, the sound tingling through his body, giving him pleasure.
“Good, good.” The whisper floated softly. “That’s it. Come on, baby, that’s it. Closer, closer.”
The voice was seeping into his being, making him ache for more, then it was gone. He woke suddenly, not sure what had just happened. But his heart was pounding in his chest and his body ached, a painful remnant of his reaction to the voice in his dreams. He took shallow, rapid breaths while he stared up into the shadows overhead, trying to make his body let go of the dream.
Damn dream! He shifted onto his side, wide-awake now, but froze when he saw a dull glow coming over the partial wall that divided the sleeping area from the kitchen. When he’d come in, he had turned on the overhead lights to get oriented, showered, then turned off all the lights and climbed into the king-size bed. The only things he’d left on were the fax machine and computer, waiting for incoming messages. Now a light was on in the kitchen. He heard a shuffling sound, then a faint clink.
Someone was there.
Zane? Matthew Terrell, the other CEO? Rita something-or-other who worked for both men? He looked at the clock and the glowing LED panel read 2:13 a.m. No, Zane wouldn’t be here at this time. Zane wouldn’t be anywhere, but with his family. Neither would Matt or anyone else from LynTech.
He listened, heard another sound, a low humming and he moved. He stood, grabbed his pants and put them on quickly, forgoing his shirt and shoes, then debated his options. Call someone, stay quiet and hope whoever was there would leave, or go out and confront the trespasser.
He considered his options, then heard another soft sound, of a drawer being opened, then closed. He made his decision. The best thing to do was to get out of the loft without being seen, but be prepared just in case. He looked around in the shadow-darkened room for anything he could use as a weapon, and the best thing he could see was a lamp by the bed that looked solid. He reached for it, took off the shade and took out the bulb, then unplugged it and wrapped the cord around the base that felt like rough stone.
He held it like a club and it felt heavy and solid. Cautiously, he approached the door that led into the main living area of the loft. He paused, trying to remember the layout of the loft. Basically one cavernous space, divided into areas by six-foot high walls that came short of touching the lofty ceilings by at least another six feet. Polished hardwood floors, rough white plastered walls, plain furnishings, just two sprawling navy couches, a television in a unit on the far wall, a few tables, some stacked boxes, no carpets that he remembered. The communications-work area took up most of the back wall, on a twelve-foot table set up under high louvered windows, and framed by towering floor-to-ceiling windows on either side.
Simple and clear. He just had to get to the door without being noticed. He cautiously looked out into the main space, and knew luck was with him. Whoever had broken in had left the front door open enough for a thin sliver of light from the corridor to cut into the room. He glanced to his left, to the glow of a light beyond the partial wall that defined the kitchen area. Carefully, he eased into the space, staying as close to the wall as he could while he slowly made his way to the right and the escape of the open door.
He’d gone only a few feet when he heard something that stopped him in his tracks. The voice. The one from his dreams. This time it was softly singing a song he vaguely remembered from somewhere in the past, maybe an old Bob Dylan song…or some folk song? A simple melody sung in a breathy whisper. Then the song stopped when the voice said softly, “So, you don’t like music, huh? Bummer.”
There was no response. Just the voice again, “Okay, okay, I get the idea.” Followed by a low chuckle. “I’ll stop.”
The idea of going out the entry door was forgotten and Jack found himself moving silently toward the kitchen, the lamp base firmly gripped. The voice. He’d been right. A feminine voice. A woman, and she seemed to be talking to herself or maybe on the telephone. He didn’t have a clue if there was a phone line in the kitchen. He lifted the lamp base slightly as he approached the wall, then looked into the kitchen area.
He saw the owner of the voice that had invaded his dreams, the person who invaded the loft. It didn’t make sense. She was tiny, definitely alone, not more than an inch over five feet tall, maybe one hundred pounds soaking wet and she had her back to him as she leaned forward over something on the counter. She looked tiny in an oversize T-shirt fashioned in brilliant, tie-dyed colors of reds, blues and yellows. It was barely long enough to brush the tops of her bare thighs. Her hair so blond it was almost silver, fell long and straight down her back, almost to her waist, and her feet were bare. There was something at her slender ankle, jewelry of some sort.
Whatever fear he’d had at the intrusion was gone, replaced by curiosity and something else. That stirring he’d experienced in the dream was back full-force, fed by the way her long hair shifted in a silky veil when she moved, and by the seductive lines of her bare legs. He just watched. Her hands shifted to her hips, the action hiking the T-shirt higher on her thighs while her feet shifted on the cold hardwood floor.
“Okay, bud, you’re on your own,” she said a little louder now, but the voice didn’t lose any of its sexiness.
This was ridiculous, standing here, watching, listening. He made himself move farther into the room, still gripping the lamp base, and he made himself speak up. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
She jerked around, her long hair flowing like a veil, then she was facing him. If the voice had been disturbing, looking into huge brown eyes set in a delicately boned face, seeing seductively full lips softly parted in surprise and watching her rapid breathing press her high, small breasts against the soft cotton of her shirt, stunned him. His jumbled thoughts and spontaneous responses were so unlike anything he’d experienced before with any woman, that he was literally frozen to the spot. He simply stared at her.
WHEN RAIN ARMSTRONG heard that voice, she spun around. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and she couldn’t take a decent lungful of air to save her life. Fear choked her and she had to blink twice before she could make out a man not more than six feet from her in the shadowed kitchen. A man who had appeared out of nowhere in a loft that was supposed to have been deserted.
All she could do was stare at him, tall and lean, standing by the entrance, half lost in the fringe shadows of the space. She could tell he was wearing nothing but dark slacks and that he totally blocked any means of escape. He had something in his right hand, something that look ominously heavy and lethal, raised as if ready to strike her.
Even though she couldn’t move, her mind raced. Get out! she screamed in her head. Just get out any way you can! But she didn’t know how to do that. The only weapon she had was the can opener she had been using to open the cat food, and it was hardly a weapon.
He took a single step toward her. “I asked what’s going on? What are you doing in here?”
She swallowed hard. “Wh-what are you doing in here?”
“You first,” he muttered as he took another step forward.
She tried to back up, but her waist hit the counter behind her. She darted a look past him, the space between him and the door rapidly expanding. Maybe she could get around him before he could react. But then again, maybe he’d just hit her with the thing in his hands. He was tall, a good foot taller then she, somewhere in his mid to late thirties, and from his near naked state, she could see he was fit. Lightly tanned skin stretched taut over hard stomach muscles, a chest with just an arrow of dark hair and disturbingly broad shoulders. His angular face was partially shadowed in the dim light, but she could see the slash of dark brows over hooded eyes, a slightly crooked nose, all framed by dark hair, short and somewhat spiked.
She saw the way his hand held the weapon, and she cursed the fact she didn’t have a clue where the knives were located. She shifted slightly, ready to just make a run for it, but she never got the chance. Joey, the orange tabby cat she’d come to feed, had made his way to the top of the wall between the kitchen and