Light of Day Page 5

  She put the glasses on the bar and checked the buffet, straightening a stack of napkins that had fallen sideways, then glanced back toward Samuel. He stood utterly at ease, listening intently to an older man, nodding in encouragement. As he began to offer his reply, he gestured with two fingers circling the air, his other hand stuck in his pocket. Lila sighed.

  “That sounds a little frustrated,” a voice said to her left.

  Lila jerked her head around, startled, to find an old professor friend standing next to her. “John,” she said in real pleasure. “How are you?”

  “Well enough. I’m thirteen years past retirement age, and they haven’t kicked me out yet.” He grinned at his old joke. “And you?”

  “Okay.”

  He lifted a tumbler of whiskey to his lips, let several drops fall to his tongue, narrowed his eyes. “Is he someone you know well, girl?”

  “Samuel? No, not really. Why?”

  “Trouble there.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  John lifted hooded eyes to Lila. “I spent four years in Europe in the war. There were a lot of men like him around then. They have a scent about them.” He lifted the tumbler, tasted again. “Mark my words, girl, he’s got a cause.”

  At that moment Samuel shook the old man’s hand warmly and he walked away. As if he’d been waiting, the visiting Middle Eastern professor slid next to Samuel. She watched the two men curiously as they exchanged a noncommittal series of words, both keeping their faces bland. No love lost there, Lila thought, for Samuel barely looked at the other man while delivering his words in an offhand manner that seemed to irk the professor. He leaned forward in a confidential manner, said something and smiled as Samuel went rigid.

  Lila absorbed the drama carefully. Now Samuel turned, his posture straight and arrogant. Though his face remained as bland as before, she saw that he spoke through stiff lips. Whatever he said inflamed the professor, who raised his voice just enough that Lila, across the room, could hear that he’d spoken.

  “Arabic,” the old professor next to Lila said confidently. “I doubt anyone here could tell us what they were arguing about. Mark my words,” he repeated in satisfaction.

  With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Lila turned away. Who was he? Nothing seemed to fit.

  She shook her head in dismissal and touched her old teacher’s arm. “I’m going to step outside a moment. Would you like to join me?”

  “No, girl. Cold night air’s hard on my arthritis. Good to see you.”

  She smiled. “You, too.”

  * * *

  Samuel could barely see for his fury. Bad enough to find an enemy in the city he was forced to occupy for the next two or three months. Worse to remember what a base, mongrel lech he was. It offended Samuel’s dignity to know the man had actually wormed his way into the role of a visiting professor.

  He glanced around for Lila, almost immediately seizing upon the idea of her as a balm to his anger. A moment before, she’d been adjusting things on the buffet. Now she was gone.

  No, not gone, he realized, glimpsing the Byzantine decoration of her dress as she slipped through the doors that led to the deck. He followed her without hurry into the chill night.

  She stood against the balcony where he’d paused earlier. “You’re going to catch a cold out here,” he said as he joined her. “Where is your shawl?”

  “It’s inside. But I’m not cold.”

  He shrugged his coat from his arms and settled it over her bare shoulders. “Nor am I.”

  “I’d say you were in need of a cooling draft of air.”

  Samuel leaned next to her. “I don’t like him.”

  She grinned. “That much was obvious. Do you know him?”

  “Unfortunately no. We were once in school together.”

  “Small world.”

  Not that small, Samuel thought. He inhaled a long sip of air, shifting to look at the sky. “Look,” he said, pointing. “Stars. I’ve not seen stars since I arrived in Seattle.”

  She raised her head, exposing the moonlit column of her throat. A slender golden chain glittered against her flesh, the charm it held hidden beneath her dress. Before he knew he would do it, he touched a single finger to the chain. “Your jewelry is mild tonight,” he said.

  She gave him her impish grin. “I left everything off but the essentials.”

  “This is essential?”

  “Definitely.” She tugged the chain from the neckline of her dress to show him an array of charms: a small oval medallion, a silver thunderbird with turquoise inlays and a wooden cross. “Homage to my ancestors,” she said. “St. Christopher is for my Italian mother, this thunderbird is for my Indian grandmother and the cross is for the rest of them. I figure it’s generic enough to cover anything else.”

  He grinned broadly, delighted with the comfortable synthesis she had achieved. “But St. Christopher is no saint these days,” he teased.

  “Oh, that,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, dropping the charms safely back below her dress. “You can’t take away a saint. All of my mother’s children wear St. Christopher. She wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “I see.” He tucked a foot into the slats of the railing.

  Although being silent was not ordinarily her way, Lila waited now for Samuel. There was a caged feeling about him, about the way he shifted and the way the grooves alongside his mouth hardened. He looked, she thought, like the strained man she’d seen in his car the first day. A man with a cause, John had said. Maybe that was true.

  “Do you miss your Oklahoma?” he asked suddenly.

  “Sometimes,” she said. “After it’s rained for two weeks, I’m ready for sunshine.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you from, Samuel? Do you miss it?”

  “I’m from many places,” he said, dodging again, but the dodge seemed to relax him. He smiled at her. “I miss several of them. But mainly I miss the vineyards near my grandfather’s home in France. It was a beautiful place.”

  “Is that how you learned so much about wine?”

  “Yes. He walked with me often, telling me this and that thing about the grapes and the fields, which vineyards would bring a good harvest and which would not.”

  Lila smiled. “How wonderful.”

  “Good memories,” he said. “He would have liked you, you and your motorcycle and your pillows.”

  “Was he an eccentric?”

  Samuel touched his chin with a thumb. “Something like that. He survived a great many trials. They taught him to celebrate little things.”

  Lila felt his tension flowing away as he spoke, and she leaned her elbows on the rail to listen more comfortably. Her hair blew over his shirtsleeve, very dark against the white. It was oddly intimate, and she couldn’t quite decide whether to leave it or catch it. Silly to dither over it, she thought, and left it.

  It was somehow easier to be with him outside like this, away from the company of others. His jacket on her shoulders smelled of cigarettes and cologne, a celebration of its own, and she decided she didn’t care if he was in trouble or if he’d be gone in a few months or if he was out of her league. Very rarely did a man intrigue her at all, and this one was riveting on every level.

  “Did you spend a lot of time with your grandfather?”

  He gave an expressive shrug. “Yes. My mother wanted me to know him.”

  “It’s her father, then?”

  “Yes.” He looked at her. “Give me one of my cigarettes from the pocket there, will you?”

  “Terrible habit,” she said, but reached into the pocket for the weeds, anyway.

  “Does it offend you?”

  Lila shifted so that she half faced him. “You make me think of Humphrey Bogart when you smoke.”

  His black eyes shone in the darkness. “Humphrey Bogart?” He lit the cigarette. “Does that mean you think I’m romantic or dangerous?”

  “Maybe it isn’t either one,” she said airily. “Maybe I think
you’re old-fashioned.”

  This brought a faint smile to his features. “I don’t think so.”

  Lila felt a ripple of excitement dance in her chest as his gaze tangled with hers. It seemed a long, even endless, moment. His cigarette sent a curl of blue smoke into the calm night air. He was not a particularly young man anymore, she realized. He was surely forty, but it didn’t seem to matter to Lila, not when his fathomless eyes spoke to her as they were now. Not when he had more grace and intelligence than any man she’d ever met. Just standing next to him, looking into his eyes, made her feel breathless and languorously aroused.

  With one hand he reached out to brush an errant strand of hair away from her face. “I think I agree with my grandfather,” he said softly. Then, with the abrupt turn of attitude she was learning was a part of him, he shifted away from her, turning his face to the view before them, lifting his cigarette to his lips.

  “I suppose,” she said, straightening, “I should go back to the guests.” She removed his coat and handed it back. “Thank you.”

  Samuel couldn’t resist one more long sip of her innocent green eyes, eyes that promised things he’d forgotten to even dream of. He took his coat. “You’re welcome,” he replied.

  He didn’t allow himself to watch her departure, focusing instead on the starry sky overhead and the faint scent of her perfume left on his jacket.

  When his cigarette burned his thumb, he flung it away angrily. A woman, he thought as he blew the air from his lungs. A woman. Now, of all times, when he felt the circle closing around him and had nothing to offer but danger and trouble for as far into the future as he cared to look.

  For the first time, he wondered about compromises, and realized that was a vague dream. Hassid proved that.

  Lila would have to remain a wish.

  Chapter 4

  But it seemed fate and Samuel had different plans for Lila.

  After the guests had departed and the buffet had been packed away for transport, he told her to go home, promising to look after the final cleanup himself. It disturbed him that she seemed to be limping a bit from her high heels. Around her mouth was a fine white line of fatigue. He wondered what sort of problems she had with her back and why she felt compelled to hide them. He shrugged mentally and insisted she go home, where she would also be out of his sight.

  A few minutes later she reappeared at the head of the stairs, her fingers smeared with grease. “I need to call a tow truck,” she announced. “I don’t remember seeing a phone.”

  “What’s the trouble?” Samuel asked.

  “I can’t tell in the dark, but it seems my starter has gone out.” She flashed a wry little smile. “One of the risks you run with a used car.”

  The host of the reception came forward. “You may leave it until morning if that would be easier.”

  She hesitated only an instant. The towing charge would amount to a small fortune. If she waited until morning, she could call Allen to bring her back to fix the starter. “If you’re sure it’s not a problem, I’d appreciate it.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  “In that case,” she said with a smile, “I need only a cab.”

  “Nonsense,” Samuel said. “I can take you now if you like.”

  “That’s not necessary. You’ve gone out of your way once already this week.”

  He had his keys in his hand, brooking no argument. He spoke to the bartender and the waitresses briefly, then took Lila’s arm and led her outside. “You’re bossy, aren’t you?” Lila commented.

  “Sensible.” He looked at her. “A good quality in moderation.”

  “Overrated,” Lila said with a smile.

  At the car he paused. “Would you like to drive?”

  She stopped dead. “Really?” She grinned. “I’d love to.”

  He dropped the ring in her hand with a quirk of his brows. Inside the car he pointed out all the controls for her, then leaned back comfortably. She had to pull the seat up a bit, but other than that, it was a perfect fit and she started it with a sense of excitement. It rumbled to life under her feet, responding smoothly as she pulled out of the parking area and onto the street beyond.

  “Oh, Samuel,” she exclaimed, “this is wonderful!” She rolled down the window to let the air flow through her hair, enjoying the quick, hard bite of it on her bare shoulders. When her shawl started slapping her arms, she whipped it off and flung it on the seat beside her.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he replied quietly. Her skirt had tightened over her long slender thighs, and the angle of her hands on the wheel outlined her full breasts and slender waist. Moonlight fell on her shoulders as the wind played in her hair, and there was a gleam of wild excitement on her features. It made him feel young to look at her, young and full of desire. In lieu of touching her, he lit another cigarette.

  The drive to her house was not a long one. She parked and turned to him exuberantly. “Let me repay you. Come inside. I have a lovely bottle of wine.”

  As she spoke, she leaned forward, and Samuel caught a glimpse of the full flesh hidden so carefully below her dress. He lowered his eyes to the pale orange tip of his cigarette, assailed suddenly with an acute and persuasive vision of Lila beneath him on the silken pillows of her living room, the flavor of wine upon her full lips. He swallowed, met her eager, wide-open gaze. “It’s impossible tonight,” he said. “Another time, perhaps.”

  Her face sobered. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Samuel?”

  “Yes,” he said simply, moving away from her. “I don’t want you involved.”

  “All right.” She picked up her shawl. “Thanks for letting me drive. It was fun.” She opened the door and left him.

  Inside her house Lila deposited her small purse and shawl on a table by the door, kicked off her shoes, then slumped on a pile of pillows without turning on a light. Her stomach quivered with the exhilarating drive and the distinctly sexual awareness she’d discovered with Samuel.

  It shocked her a little to realize she would have fed him wine and more, wouldn’t have minded kisses leading to other pleasures. While she touted a carefree attitude, that breeziness had never extended to her bedroom. There had been men in her life—one or two, anyway—but the entire display of those encounters now seemed very pale in comparison to what Samuel did to her by simply talking.

  She laughed as she realized she was staring into the darkness, twirling her hair around her fingers in dreamy excitement. Her attraction to Samuel was thrilling and new and delightful. Wherever that led her, she discovered she was willing to follow it.

  Odd that she was able to so willingly contemplate becoming involved with a man who could obviously offer her no permanence. He was in danger, was perhaps dangerous himself. It didn’t matter. Nor did it matter that she thought he was resisting his attraction to her.

  Enough, she told herself, and struggled to her feet. It would take a few months for Samuel to make the changes necessary to get the restaurant going well again. There was time to explore the implications and delights of his presence in her life another day. Wincing against the pain clawing her lower back, she limped into the bathroom and started the water in the tub running hot.

  * * *

  The night deepened, quieted, cast a pall. Samuel restlessly smoked in his living room, unable to sleep. The intuitive sensation of things being slightly out of kilter that he’d had before the reception tonight had now tautened to a dull roar. He could not rest, could not think. Twice he’d gone to the kitchen for a stiff drink. Twice he’d felt the cold glass of the bottle under his palm before he vetoed the idea. He needed his senses to be unsullied.

  Jamal Hassid, he thought. A hired gun with terrorist connections, who was now posing as a visiting professor. What could he want here? And what ramifications did his presence in Seattle hold for Samuel?

  Over the years he had learned to handle the inherent dangers of working with The Organization even at his modest level—setting up information-gathering spots all over
the world, safe places where agents could feel free to meet in privacy.

  More than once those planned harbors had not worked out in the way The Organization had envisioned, and twice Samuel had been lucky to escape with his life. But he had not expected to encounter trouble in Seattle.

  Who was Hassid working for?

  As the night passed into the darkest hours, he had to admit he had been backed into a corner. No doubt Hassid had been hired to kill Samuel, and no matter who had hired him to do it, Samuel could not let him succeed, not with the fate of his brother hanging still in the balance. For if Samuel was murdered, The Organization would move in on Mustapha.

  He made his phone calls, arranged a flight, packed his meager things. With a wince of regret, he thought fleetingly of Lila’s beautiful mouth and the promise of her malleable body. He remembered more: her laughing exhilaration behind the wheel of the car, the unguarded innocence of her eyes. He would have given a great deal to have been free enough to rest a while in her arms.

  Closing the front door of his apartment behind him with more force than he intended, he headed out of the silent apartment building. As he neared the end of the hall, his sixth sense rippled hard. He slowed his steps, listening for a rustle that never sounded, a creak he couldn’t hear. Abruptly he reversed his direction, exiting through the back door and rounding the building to the other side. In cautious silence he reached his car, scanning the shadowed bushes for signs of movement. There were none.

  He climbed into his car and started the engine. Perhaps he’d been too long alone, he decided. Watching his own back was more difficult than he cared to admit. His relief was a palpable thing as he angled the car out of the parking lot.

  It was then that he saw the robed figure step out of the shadows with the unmistakable silhouette of a gun in his hands. Samuel stomped on the gas pedal, but he was too late. A bright flash showed against the night. In nearly the same instant, his passenger window shattered, and Samuel heard rather than felt the thunk of a bullet hitting his shoulder.

  * * *

  A violent pounding brought Lila to her senses. In the stuporous state of broken sleep, she peered at the red numbers of her digital clock. Four o’clock. Who could be at her door at four o’clock in the morning? She tossed a long paisley robe over her sleeveless T-shirt and hurried out as the nearly frantic pounding sounded again.