Triple Dare Read online

  “Well, did you need something, or not?”

  Dare hadn’t meant to sound so clipped, but he did succeed in wrenching Abby’s gaze from his bare chest. Her aura shifted once more. Sharpened. Darkened.

  She pulled an envelope from her back pocket and held it out. “Consider this a thank-you for getting rid of my boxes.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “What’s the problem? You’ll don a tux to scale the building but can’t be bothered to suit up for an evening of Mozart?” A tiny dimple appeared as she smiled.

  He shook his head again. Firmly. He tried to shut the door on the tickets as well as further argument when she tucked the envelope in his hand. He sucked in a sharp breath as her fingertips grazed his.

  That was all it took.

  Like the violin she carried to work, he was instantly, completely in tune—with her.

  Triple Dare

  CANDACE IRVIN

  Books by Candace Irvin

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  For His Eyes Only #936

  In Close Quarters #1078

  *Crossing the Line #1179

  The Impossible Alliance #1214

  *A Dangerous Engagement #1252

  *Irresistible Forces #1270

  Triple Dare #1311

  Silhouette Books

  In Love and War

  “An Unconditional Surrender”

  CANDACE IRVIN

  As the daughter of a librarian and a sailor, it’s no wonder Candace says her two greatest loves are reading and the sea. After spending several exciting years as a U.S. naval officer sailing around the world, she decided it was time to put down roots and give her other love a chance. To her delight, she soon learned that writing romance was as much fun as reading it. A finalist for both the coveted RITA® Award and the Holt Medallion, as well as a two-time Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award nominee, Candace believes her luckiest moment was the day she married her own dashing hero, a former U.S. Army combat engineer with dimples to die for. The two now reside in the South, happily raising three future heroes and one adorable heroine—who won’t be allowed to date until she’s forty, at least.

  Candace loves to hear from readers. You can e-mail her at [email protected] or snail-mail her c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

  For my dad, Ernest A. Phillips, Sr.

  For everything.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Prologue

  He felt her even before he could see her.

  Sometimes it happened like that.

  And yet, it had never happened quite like this.

  Every other time the emotions had ripped in, slicing straight through his skin until they were boring into his bones, wrenching him deep into the abyss before he could catch his breath. There he’d remain, trapped and tormented, until they’d run their course. But this time was different. She was different. And he was powerless to resist. He simply closed his eyes and stood there, more in than out of the elevator.

  Several impatient passengers jostled past as they hurried out into the corridor before heading into the main lobby beyond. For once, the physical contact didn’t faze him. He was too busy feeling. Absorbing. Measuring each and every one of his breaths against the heady, hypnotic awareness that continued to wash over him, through him, merging. Until gradually she became him. Just as he became her.

  Completely.

  Stunned, he jerked back into the elevator.

  It didn’t help.

  He forced himself to step out. He forced another step, then another and another, until he, too, had reached the lobby. The others had begun to intrude again. The relentless crush of the city and beyond had returned as well. Years of practice allowed him to ratchet the intrusion down to a dull throb, just as some skill he’d never even known he possessed allowed him to remain completely focused upon her. She was twenty feet away, her lithe back to him, but he knew it was her. Just as surely as he felt her essence filling every inch of his being. He didn’t need her to turn and face him. He already knew she was as beautiful on the outside as she was in her heart.

  Still, he was driven to wait.

  His reward came in the barest glimpse of a smooth, flushed cheek and a gently curving jaw as she turned to her companion and tucked a flowing tangle of dark curls behind an ear. One glance at the elderly woman who answered her wide smile and eager nod and suddenly he knew why she was there.

  Just like that, the panic crashed in.

  His heart began hammering within his chest, damned near fracturing his ribs as the doorman opened the building’s main door for her. Perhaps it was for the best, because a moment later, the glass partition closed behind her, instantly severing the connection he’d felt clear down in his soul. But the knowledge punching in alongside the keening loss struck deeper.

  She was the one.

  She alone possessed the power to save or destroy him. But he had no way of knowing which until it was too late.

  Chapter 1

  Two months later

  It had taken her twelve months, a hundred and sixty-five concerts in almost as many cities scattered around the globe, but Abigail Pembroke finally had her life back. Unfortunately, the bulk of her former existence was still crammed inside the remaining two dozen boxes littering her brand-new living room.

  Abby sighed as she studied the haphazard forest of cardboard. She should have taken the guys up on their offer to distribute the boxes around the apartment before they left. She might have, if the guilt hadn’t already been biting in. Bad enough that she’d caved in to the temptation to escape her latest hotel room before the final concert of the summer series, she didn’t need half the string section showing up for rehearsal tomorrow with strained backs. Not to mention she’d have had to open each box and root through its contents before she knew which room to place it in.

  Her departure had been that hasty.

  She’d been that humiliated.

  Abby pushed the memory aside and used her scissors to slice through the tape sealing the next box. One look at the contents was all it took to make her regret not labeling that particular tangle of memories. She was still staring down at the rumpled lingerie she should have burned before she left for Milan when her CD player kicked in with one of her favorite Debussy sonatas for piano and violin.

  Abby grinned. Leave it to a bunch of fiddle players to hook up the stereo first.

  Her determination restored, Abby tossed the scissors aside and grabbed the cardboard flaps. Her arms protested as she jockeyed the waist-high box past the camelback sofa and coordinating armchair. The bottom of the box caught at the edge of the area rug, but once she’d freed it she was able to slide the box past the open kitchen and dining areas and down the hall without marring the hardwood floors. She shoved the box against the foot of her virgin bed and sighed.

  Of all the furniture Marlena had helped her select, the towering iron four-poster had been the most extravagant.

  She didn’t care. What better way to start fresh?

  Buoyed by the thought, she tucked a damp, unruly curl into her braid and reached inside the cardboard box. She dumped the scarlet teddy and matching robe at her feet and reached in the box again, this time snagging her telephone. Skirting the side of the still-naked mattress, she centered the phone atop her nightstand and frowned. The phone’s cord didn’t quite reach the outlet. Worse, the pink Cinderella casing and rotary dial looked
as awkward and woefully out of place in her fancy new digs as she still felt.

  Dammit, don’t. Marlena was right. She had to move on. In more ways than one. She had Brian to think about. He was her complete responsibility now, whether he wanted to be or not. Abby pushed the latest round of painful memories aside and focused on her brother’s beatific smile. His humbling joy when she’d told him she was going to move sooner and, hence, would have his room ready a whole week early. Brian might not want to move in with her, but he was definitely looking forward to resuming his weekly overnight visits. From the tight desperation in his hug when she’d left, he needed them, too. They both did.

  Abby’s gaze slipped to the phone she’d used to stave off the homesickness so many times. She had half a mind to set it atop that sleek coffee table her friend had steered her toward. But she wouldn’t. Not because the old pink phone embarrassed her. She wanted it in here. She’d need it next to her in the coming months. Even if she couldn’t use it to call home anymore.

  Or maybe, especially.

  A yawn sneaked up on her, forcing her to return her attention to the waiting box. It was nearly midnight. She had to be at Lincoln Center first thing in the morning and she’d yet to locate a blanket, much less a fitted sheet. Her gaze strayed to the oversized window on the far side of the room. She’d just have to put up with the muted glow bleeding in from the city. She’d already decided to hold off on hanging the drapes Marlena had designed until the contractor had a chance to install security bars on the windows. Unlike her, Brian was fascinated with heights. She’d lost both their parents now, she’d never survive if something happened to him.

  Well, nothing would. The bars wouldn’t be going on for two weeks. She’d just have to keep a closer eye on Brian than usual until then.

  Abby retrieved the lingerie she’d dumped on the floor, wadding the outfit in her fist as she approached the window. Despite her healthy appreciation of heights, she couldn’t help but be drawn in by the glittering rainbow stretching toward Central Park. The faint wail of a siren tugged her back to the present, the chores she had to finish before she could turn in. But as she started to turn away, something caught her eye.

  She had seen pigeons perched on the ledges when Mrs. Laurens had shown her the place. Did the birds roost on the concrete sills during the night? It could be a problem. Brian adored birds as much as he did heights. The temptation might prove too much while she slept. Abby stepped closer to the window, her heart sinking as she caught another faint flutter. Except this time, she could have sworn it deliberately slid into the shadows. She took another step, stiffening as the next, even more subtle flash registered. Whatever it was was black, with a sliver of crisp white peeking out.

  Definitely not feathers. Fabric.

  Terror lashed through her. She darted sideways and instinctively switched off the string section’s housewarming gift, knocking the floor lamp over in her haste. She had no idea if she’d cracked the stained-glass shade, but at least it hadn’t shattered. Several moments passed before she risked inching back to the window. By the time she reached the soothing stillness of night, she felt as foolish as she must look. There was nothing there but a darkened, concrete sill where her overactive imagination had been.

  What had she expected? A burglar?

  If she’d still been in the cramped studio she’d rented before she’d left for Milan, sure. Located ten blocks up from the wrong side of Columbia University, her former walkup had been robbed twice in the three years she’d lived there. Fortunately, she and her Stradivarius had been on stage both times. Well, she wasn’t on stage or in her old apartment now. It had taken a to-die-for offer from a symphony patron, a mountain of paperwork, a series of ignored phone calls from her ex and an unexpected stiletto to the back by a man she didn’t even know, but she was finally safely ensconced in her sinfully huge six-room flat. Eighteen stories up.

  New York City or not, no robber would climb that many stories. Would they?

  But as Abby’s eyes adjusted to the dark, she knew someone had. Without the light from the floor lamp interfering, she could clearly make out the fingers clinging to the far left of the shadowy ledge. Ten strong, distinctly masculine fingers. Someone was definitely out there.

  Sweet heaven, what was she supposed to do? Her phone wasn’t even hooked up.

  Wait. The intercom connected to the main lobby—but the call switch was located at the front door. She should check the window first, make sure it was locked. She’d need the time to unlock her trunk and grab her violin. The Stradivarius was a work of art. Though insured for a cool three million, she’d never be able to replace it.

  Fortunately, from this angle all she could make out were fingers; the man’s head was completely obscured by the sill. That meant he couldn’t see her either. Still, her heart resumed its frantic pace as she forced herself to inch close enough to the window to make sure. The brass latch pointed to the right. But did that mean the window was locked?

  Before she could scrape enough courage together to check, the man’s fingers shifted. Quivered.

  Whoever the fool was, he was losing his grip!

  Her hands shot up before she could stop them, her own fingers damp with sweat and quaking as she fumbled with the latch. She wrenched the window up and leaned out to grab the man’s wrists before she could change her mind.

  “Here, let me—”

  “I’m fine.” The terse growl reverberated through the air, filling her ears. “Now get back before you fall.”

  She stiffened in shock. But she obeyed.

  She thought better of it when one of the man’s hands slipped off the ledge—and a muffled curse followed. Before she could lunge forward, a pair of shoes sailed through the window, landing beside the fallen lamp with a thud. She caught a blur of black fabric next, straining against a set of impressive shoulders and equally powerful arms as the man levered himself up before smoothly vaulting into her bedroom. She stood there, gaping up at six-feet-plus of dark, towering muscle backlit against the glow of the city, as transfixed as she’d been the first time she’d been nudged out on stage at Avery Fisher Hall. Only she wasn’t some gawky eight-year-old kid making her knee-knocking orchestral debut. She was a twenty-four-year-old woman and she was facing the would-be robber—or worse—who’d just violated her personal space.

  The thought lodged in her throat, nearly choking her. Until his clothes sank in. His tuxedo. Despite the shadows, she could make out a complete tux, right down to the matching black cummerbund and loosened bow tie. Whoever this guy was, he was either the classiest criminal in New York—or the best-man-turned-escapee from the wedding reception from hell. Or was he the groom? Had the guy been jilted at the altar only to scale the building so he could jump off?

  A sobering thought.

  She pushed past it and forced herself to take stock of her situation. It didn’t look good. A dead phone and an intercom that was not only on the opposite side of her apartment, but now also on the other side of that hulking form. Then again, the fallen lamp lay three feet away. The base might be slender, but it was made of solid metal.

  She inched sideways.

  Nothing. Her intruder either hadn’t noticed or he didn’t care. She darted the rest of the way before her courage fled, leaning down to scoop the lamp upright. Sweat slicked her fingers for the second time in as many minutes as she fumbled with the switch—and swallowed a curse. The three-way bulb had been damaged in the fall. At the lowest setting, all the lamp could muster was a feeble stream of light that did little more than highlight the man’s inky, shoulder-length hair. The rest of his features were still cloaked by shadows, leaving her with an impression of barely suppressed strength, rigid control and a disturbing, almost erotic pull.

  Burglars weren’t sexy…were they?

  Even odder, for some inexplicable reason her intruder appeared to be as dumbstruck by her presence as she was with his. Was this his first attempt at breaking and entering, then? Or was the man on drugs? Either w
ay, she refused to be intimidated. If the man was going to attack her, he’d have done it already. Or was he simply resting up?

  Stradivarius or not, she should have made a break for it while she had the chance.

  Well, it was too late now. Abby tightened her grip on the lamp’s base. “Well, do you plan on explaining yourself or should I call the police?”

  Brave words.

  She realized just how brave as the man slipped his hand into his tuxedo jacket. She forced herself not to flinch as it surfaced holding a wallet, not a gun or a knife. Her relief bled out as the man opened the wallet and withdrew a card. She couldn’t make out the words, just the photo on a New York driver’s license.

  The ID was his.

  “Darian Sabura. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I mean you no harm. Feel free to buzz Jerry. He’ll vouch for me.” The dark, smooth tones flowed across the shadows gliding over her flesh like the warm, mellow notes of a bass clarinet.

  Abby forced herself to ignore the disturbing vibrations that quivered deep inside her. So he knew the doorman by name. It didn’t prove anything. He could be trying to get her to drop her guard.

  Or the lamp.

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.” For now. “As for the scare, I’ll get over it.” What she wouldn’t do was return the favor. Bad enough the man knew where she lived. Even if he was on a first-name basis with the Tristan Court doorman, she wasn’t about to give him a name to go with her address. Especially since he’d yet to explain himself. “So…are you going to tell me what you were doing outside my window?”

  “Climbing.”

  She waited for more.

  She waited in vain. Chatty, the man was evidently not. But even if he was on something, he didn’t seem so out of it that he’d forgotten he’d offered his ID. She doubted he’d harm her now that she could identify him…unless he had no intention of letting her see morning. Curiosity edged out fear—but not by much. “Do you do this often?”