Blade's Lady. Fiona Brand

need to intervene, to protect and help her, to push back whatever darkness had hounded first the child, and now the woman with such ferocity that she was somehow propelled into his dreams, his thoughts.

      Renewed tension coursed through him. He didn’t have a clear idea of what the woman looked like, or her name.

      His jaw locked. How he longed to hang a name on her.

      If she was real, he reminded himself grimly. Oh baby, if she was real.

      Either way, like the other dreams he’d had, Blade had nothing to go on other than the belly punch of the woman’s emotions, her desperate thoughts, the stark images that haunted him.

      The dreams weren’t always about her being attacked, helpless—sometimes they were entirely different.

      His breath sifted from between clenched teeth as he pushed a set of bifold doors wide open and stepped naked onto the paved terrace of his penthouse suite at the Lombard Hotel.

      A cold, fitful breeze swirled, disturbing the black mane of hair that tumbled to his big shoulders, evaporating the sweat from his skin. He welcomed the ensuing chill that roughened his flesh, made all his muscles tighten.

      He stared blindly out at Auckland’s version of a winter night, eyes slitted, focused inward, his mind consumed with the woman who consistently invaded his dreams.

      Sometimes he made to love to the shadowy woman.

      Frustration burned, threatening to erupt into temper. He reined it in. Blade didn’t like losing control in any area of his life. This desperate, endless hunger for a woman who existed only in his dreams tormented him, made him helpless in a way he couldn’t—wouldn’t—tolerate.

      Dammit, he didn’t even know what she looked like, beyond the fact that she was slim and delicately built, with a silky swath of dark hair that glowed copper in the light, and when he touched her…

      A hoarse groan wrenched itself from deep in his throat. When he touched her, it was like touching fire—they both burned.

      His jaw tightened. The raw need to possess the woman in his dreams, the flood of pleasure that swamped him at the simplest of touches, haunted him, mocked him. He had never felt anything remotely like it in real life.

      Dispassionately, he considered the yawning gulf between the dreams and reality.

      His libido was healthy, some might say too healthy, but he was no sexual predator. The primitive desire to possess the woman that permeated those sensual encounters was as alien to Blade as the dreams were. The fact was, he enjoyed women—plural—their friendship and the sex, but he had never needed any of his sexual partners beyond the act.

      Broodingly, he paced the width of the terrace, gripped the cold iron of the railing, and faced the disturbing essence of his unease. He wanted the dreams to be real. More, he hungered for what he experienced in the dreams but had never found anywhere else. Every time he touched a woman, made love to her, he was aware that he was grasping for that exquisite, primitive intensity and not finding it.

      The breeze kicked up, sending moist air whirling like a damp cloak about his shoulders. The deepening chill matched the bleakness of his thoughts. When he was buried deep inside a woman, he shouldn’t have to feel…alone.

      Then there was the matter of control. If he made love to a woman, he retained control. All the way.

      And he never made love with strange women. He had certain standards, a code of honour that was as simple and ruthlessly direct as a set of military orders. One of the rules of engagement was that he always insisted on an introduction first.

      He began to notice the cold. His breath condensed in the air, mist wreathed the streetlamps below and hung in streamers across the road. It was also drizzling, a light, drifting drizzle.

      Like the dream.

      Traffic was sporadic, but still steady. He could see couples strolling, maybe catching a movie or supper at one of the street cafes.

      It wasn’t that late. He had only been asleep for a short time. The dream must have taken hold of him the second his head had hit the pillow. There was an odd jolting sensation he’d come to recognise, as if some internal switch had been thrown. Then the dream unravelled. Images. Impressions. Sometimes nothing but a jumble, sometimes pictures that were startlingly clear. Like tonight.

      He cursed as the images replayed themselves in his mind. He remembered the vivid blue and red of the neon sign. The sign had said…

      Gamezone.

      His head came up, nostrils flaring as if he’d caught an elusive scent, one he’d been seeking for more years than he cared to count. If only to disprove it.

      “Gamezone.”

      He said the name out loud, letting it linger on his tongue, as if testing the veracity of the syllables.

      With a harsh exclamation, he strode inside, switched on a lamp and reached for the telephone book.

      He was clutching at shadows. Maybe when he came up with another blank the stranglehold on his gut would ease up.

      Despite reason and cold logic, his pulse hammered as he searched through the book, ran his finger down a page…and stopped.

      “Son of a bitch.”

      Blade’s heart slammed once, hard, against the wall of his chest. His gaze narrowed at the bold type advertising a games arcade in one of the seedier areas of town, but no matter how hard he looked at the address, it didn’t disappear.

      Gamezone.

      Blade stared at the garish blue and red sign. A sign he remembered but had never seen.

      His gaze swept the surrounding area, noting the unmistakeable uniformity of state housing jammed cheek by jowl with clusters of badly built apartments. Definitely down at heel.

      A darkened area caught his eye. A park.

      He called himself crazy, but put the Jeep Cherokee in gear and cruised closer, noting the name of the park, the broken lights, the shabby plastered pillars guarding the entrance. Swinging the Jeep into a space, he pulled on a leather jacket, eased it over the fit of the Glock shoved snug in its shoulder holster, checked the knife in his boot and grabbed a torch, but didn’t turn it on.

      Thunder rolled, giving a low-register warning of the incoming storm. The strengthening breeze scattered rain in his face, bringing with it scents that were city-tame, others that were earthy, wild. Something equally uncivilised unraveled inside Blade, and despite the fury and frustration that still ate at the edges of his temper, he bared his teeth in a cold grin. He stood by the Jeep for long seconds, his senses animal-sharp as he stared across the expanse of grass and trees with eyes peculiarly well-adjusted to the smothering blackness.

      When he’d been with the Special Air Service he’d been called names—he’d been called lots of names—but he couldn’t completely deny the wolf’s blood that was purported to run in his veins. He felt like howling right now.

      He should be tucked up in bed, getting his beauty sleep. Or, better still, tucked up in bed with a beauty and getting no sleep at all. Not hunting a…ghost.

      A chill went through him, along with echoes of urgency and the compulsion that had driven him out into the night. He had to check. Gamezone had been real. For his own peace of mind, he had to check.

      If she was real…

      He rejected the thought. She couldn’t be real. Better to think about what he was going to do when he didn’t find a woman—like which psychiatrist he’d choose to oversee his therapy, and whether or not he should have himself committed.

      He searched the area, coldly, efficiently, and found nothing.

      Finally he walked the perimeter and found the storm water drain…and his ghost.

      Chapter 2

      She was lying, curled as defenceless as