Dark Side of Dreaming

The paper-white moon was full and illuminated the world in a crisp, cold light, softening flaws while adding an elegant luster.

And Cleo Moran wished for a cloud to drift over the damn thing. But really, she couldn't blame anyone but herself for failing to check the lunar calendar. You forget little details like that a few years into retirement.

Thankful her mark didn't have guard dogs, she dropped from the stone fence onto the enclosed grounds with a soft thud. Twinges of pain shot up her legs, making her grimace. Her knees were definitely going to remind her why she'd wholeheartedly embraced retirement at the ripe old age of twenty-seven.

Timing her movements to avoid capture by the external security cameras, Cleo stole along the shadows cast by tall, leafy trees and high bushes, darted across the grounds and flattened her back against a wall of brick. She waited, heard nothing and moved on, picking her steps with care. She found the French doors that led to the kitchen, unlocked them with her copy of the key and slid inside. The glowing keypad next to the door beckoned. She tapped in five numbers and the red light switched to green.

She pushed back the hood of the zipped sweatshirt, gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness then moved swiftly through the house, the soft soles of her shoes silent on the hardwood. Through the kitchen, down the hallway, past the foyer, up the stairs and second door on the right. A flimsy lock a curious toddler could've gotten past and she was in a masculine room that served as a home office-cum-library. Her eyes went straight to the fireplace mantle, where she recalled seeing the statue through the window during the recon two nights ago.

The mantle was empty.

Damn.

Cleo scanned the rest of the room but couldn't spot a twelve-inch stone statue of a woman.

Damn.

She was going to have to go through the other rooms in the house and hope a like-minded individual hadn't gotten to the statue before her. Good thing the homeowner wouldn't be returning anytime soon. She'd paid an exorbitant amount to ensure his absence.

Cleo quit the room and moved to the one next door. A guest room furnished with the basics--bed, bedside tables, dresser, chair and a very nice landscape that would've tempted other thieves. The next two doors revealed an opulent bathroom and a linen closet. Her movements were brisk as the search continued and time ticked away.

The master bedroom was next, nearly pitch black, with the heavy drapes drawn. She had the search routine down pat. Fireplace mantle, furniture sur--

Her gaze stopped, skittered back to the fireplace mantle--and the statue. Elation and relief shot through her. She crossed the room, palms already tingling with anticipation. Her fingers wrapped around it, one by one, almost reverent. The stone was cool and--

Pain exploded in her head, a blinding white flash. Then there was only darkness.

* * * * *

She liked bondage as much as the next girl.

Cleo, however, didn't think her current bound state was a prelude to more enjoyable things.

She yanked on the rope that secured her hands together and tethered them to something above her head. There was some give as the cloth-covered rope stretched, but not nearly enough. Stubbornness being a trait of all Moran women, she tried again. And again. And again.

A small noise of frustration escaped her throat.

Despite the dull, throbbing pain in her head, she decided more leverage was needed and twisted on the bed and sat up. And noticed the man seated in the armchair in the far corner of the room. He was immersed in the shadows that swathed the room, so she saw nothing but a menacing outline blacker than the surrounding darkness. His silent regard felt like a thick blanket suffocating her senses.

Fear made her mouth go dry and her skin prickle with heat and sweat.

It was a full minute before she found her voice, a little hoarser than usual, but she lifted her chin to compensate. "Did you enjoy the show?"

No response. Not even so much as a muscle twitch. Her chest noticeably rose and fell with each shortened breath.

"Are the police on their way?"

More silence, and the lump in her throat grew.

"I need that statue more than you need another dust collector." She was babbling, knew it and couldn't stop herself. "It needs to be returned to its rightful home."

The silence continued and agitation flickered through her, slicing past the fear.

"Look, I tried the legal route, but you flatly refused all of my offers. I had no other choice."

A whisper of cloth on leather. He'd moved. Finally. She was beginning to think he was a statue himself. Then he rose, an imposing shadow that made her very aware of the pulse thrumming in her throat. He came toward the bed, stopping at the foot, and moonlight, stark and chilly, spilled over him.

He'd never be labeled handsome, but she couldn't tear her eyes away. Formidable frame, dark hair, deep-set eyes, broad face with rough-hewn features that looked as if they'd been carved of the same stone as the statue. Unlike the statue, his face was masklike with its lack of expression. It took a concerted effort to ignore the tiny voice that urged her to cower against the headboard.

"Cleo Moran."

The sound of her name spoken by that deep, cold voice sent a jolt through her. Of course he knew her name. His administrative assistant had passed on enough messages from her in the past three months. And the man was reputed to be a shark, so he would remember the name of the woman who'd tried repeatedly to buy a relic for several times more than its appraised value.

"If I wouldn't sell the statue to you, what makes you think I'd just let you steal it?"

Absurdly, she winced. Steal had such an ugly ring to it.

"You weren't supposed to have a say in the matter."

A corner of his mouth quirked up and she was amazed his face didn't crack. In fact, it sent a shiver of sensation snaking along her spine.

"I'm the one who should be angry, not you," he said, the ice in his voice thawing. He slid a hand inside the front pocket of his trousers and his regard changed, feeling almost like a touch.

Jittery, but from more than simple fear, she brought her hands up and pulled back the strands of chin-length hair that fell over her eyes and clung to her lips. "You weren't supposed to come back here tonight."

A dark slash of a brow lifted and, without a hint of pique, he drawled, "So, the enthusiasm in my date tonight was faked."

She cursed her babbling tongue. Well, she'd never encountered this situation before and there wasn't a For Dummies guide that covered it.

"Unfortunately for you, I need more than a pretty face and man-made assets to entice me." A degree of heat wrapped around his voice. "Then I come home and you waltz in."

She had trouble filling her lungs with oxygen. "What now?"

His eyes glittered darkly. "Since the woman you hired to distract me didn't do her job, why don't you?"

She licked suddenly dry lips. "I'd rather you call the police."