Page 33 of Dangerous Passion

Every hair on Drake’s body stood up.

“No,” he said and Grace’s eyes widened. He had to clench his jaws against coldly ordering her to forget about even the thought of attending Harold Feinstein’s memorial service. And then widening the ban by telling her that from now on, she was his Siamese twin, joined at the hip to him and that she wasn’t to set foot outside his door without his express permission. And certainly never without him being a hand’s span from her.

The words strangled in his throat. That wouldn’t go over well for a woman who was used to being completely independent. At this stage, she’d rebel.

His mind whirred uselessly in the search for words to convince her, flailing. It was hard to concentrate on persuasive words when his head was filled with a very clear vision of her dead in a pool of her own blood, gunned down by Rutskoi or by one of Cordero’s thugs. Or, worse, with elbows and knees blown out just like Leather Coat had promised. It was a Cordero trademark.

No. They would never get their hands on Grace. Not while he lived.

Drake tried to modulate his voice, put some convincing in it, but it wasn’t easy. He was used to commanding, not convincing.

“Grace, I’m afraid you won’t be able to be at your friend’s service.” He bit down hard on the wordsI won’t let you. “It’s way too dangerous to show up at a specific place at a specific time. My enemies would know exactly where to get you.”

Grace straightened in her chair. “If you believe that, then I can’t even go back to my apartment.”

Damn. He’d hoped it would take a day or two of stalling before she came to that conclusion. It was true. Like the title of an old American novel he’d seen in a bookstore, she could never go home again.

“I’m afraid that’s—“ His cell rang and he held up a finger. Only his men had this particular number and no one called him unless it was absolutely necessary. He looked at the number and frowned. Boris, the head of the four man team sent to guard Grace’s apartment.

‘Yes, Boris?”

“Not Boris, boss.” Ivan’s image came on the small screen, voice grim. “He won’t be calling you again. We came late.” Ivan turned his cell around and the blood froze in Drake’s veins.

It was a scene of utter destruction. A door blown off the hinges, a bloody mass on the floor, identifiable as Boris only by his black boots, utter chaos inside the apartment visible beyond Boris’s bloody legs.

After an initial surge of rage at seeing his employee dead and Grace’s apartment trashed, Drake felt himself go into combat mode. The switch was immediate, complete. Hebecame a machine for combat, unhampered by emotions. Emotion held no place in this chilly land of calculation and manoeuvering.

“Go further into the apartment,” he said coolly, then turned the cellphone around so Grace could see it, too, see the wreckage of her apartment. She gasped, but he didn’t touch her to comfort her, didn’t shift his gaze from the screen. She didn’t need to be consoled. She needed to be frightened. She needed to see this to understand what she was up against. It was brutal, traumatizing, but far more effective than any words he could possibly say. His words might not convince her, but this would. What was on his screen was one big danger sign that only an insane woman wouldn’t heed.

Ivan walked slowly through the apartment, recording the destruction.

Interesting, Drake thought coolly. The wreckage was controlled and systematic, carried out with a knife. It wasn’t vandalism, destruction for destruction’s sake. There was an agenda here—pure intimidation. Whoever had done this wanted to terrify Grace, hit her in her most vulnerable points. All her artwork was destroyed, all her clothes, even her shoes. All personal things.

The message was clear.We’ll destroy you next. So be scared because we’re coming.

Her eyes were riveted on the small screen. “My God,” she breathed.

“Go into the kitchen,” Drake ordered Ivan, not surprised when he saw that her plates and glasses were intact. Whoever had done this hadn’t wanted to make any noise. Further proof that it wasn’t a mad rampage, but a carefully thought-out campaign to smoke Grace out of hiding, rattle her badly.

Or rattle him.

Fools.

Drake wasn’t rattled, he was cold as ice inside.

The attack outside Feinstein’s gallery had been an attack on him. This was nothing new. His life had been threatened before, many times. He’d survived all the attacks and lived to have his vengeance.

But this—this was an attack on Grace.

Someone had just made a huge, huge mistake.

Drake narrowed his eyes. Grace had gone completely white, down to her lips. Her hands were shaking.

“Why—“ Her voice was barely above a whisper and she swallowed heavily. “Why would anyone do that to my apartment? Why destroy my paintings? Why?”

He got up and went to a sideboard, coming back with two glasses of Jack Daniel’s—a taste for which American officers had given him—his a double shot.

One thing the scene of destruction had done was make his hard-on disappear. Sex with Grace would come, and soon, but right now he had enemies prodding his defenses, representing a direct threat to her. She didn’t need his arousal, she needed his focus to keep her safe.

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