Dancing with the Devil (Nikki & Michael 1)

"Enough!” Trevgard's gravely voice cut in. “This is not doing anything to find my daughter." Though she hated admitting it, he was right. She finished her coffee and rose. Trevgard took several steps forward, his body radiating the anger she could feel in his thoughts. He was ready for a confrontation. Wanted it.

"I'm coming,” he announced. “I'll not run the risk of losing her a second time." His company was the last thing she needed. She'd be too aware of his anger and disbelief to concentrate on the fragile images that would lead her to Monica.

"No,” Jake said. “Leave this to the experts."

"And I suppose he's an expert?” Trevgard sneered, jutting his chin in Michael's direction.

"Well, he's not someone I'd tackle on a dark and gloomy night,” Jake replied with a wry grin. Trevgard grunted and looked away. She glanced across at Michael. He stood beside her desk, arms crossed as he regarded Trevgard thoughtfully. He looked casual, yet there was something menacing about him, something that spoke of a fighter ready to step into the ring. He certainly wasn't someone she'd want to tackle on a dark night, either. He met her gaze and raised an eyebrow, a slight smile tugging one edge of his generous mouth. She licked her lips and looked away. Damn. She'd have to remember to watch what she was thinking.

She grabbed her keys and jacket and walked towards the door.

"Remember, use the damn phone,” Jake called. “Let me know what's happening." She acknowledged his order with a wave of her hand, and stepped outside. A blast of wintry air greeted her. She shivered and quickly put on her jacket. Michael stopped beside her, his gaze searching the streets, as if looking for someone. And while the light cotton sweater he wore emphasized the width of his shoulders very nicely, it couldn't have held much warmth. She frowned and hurried down the steps to her car. Lots of people didn't feel the cold, so why was she bothered by the fact that he didn't?

"Would you prefer it if I drove?” Michael asked as she opened the passenger's door. She hesitated. If he drove she could concentrate on finding the right building, and Monica. Nodding, she handed him the keys, then climbed in and fastened the seat belt.

"Where to?” he asked, starting the car.

She closed her eyes and tried to pin down the elusive images. “Head for the docks. I'll know more when we get there."

"That's not where I expected him to be.” He swung the car around and headed east. An odd prickle of unease ran down her spine. Michael knew her attacker. Knew him well enough to know his habits. “Why?"

He shrugged, “No reason. I just didn't expect him to be there." "It sounds as if you know him."

"We've met before."

His voice gave little away, and the shadows hid any reaction there might have been in his face. “Then why in hell haven't you said anything before now? You might know something that could have helped Monica—"

"Nothing can help Monica. The child has chosen her own path."

"But before—"

"Was still too late."

"Will you let me finish a damn sentence!” she demanded in exasperation. Michael smiled slightly but didn't respond.

She chewed her lip absently and studied the street ahead. “Why are you in Lyndhurst?” she asked after a moment.

"I came to Lyndhurst to stop the boy.” He met her gaze briefly. “As you have already guessed." By stop, she knew he meant kill. She shuddered. Was this the darkness she sensed—an ability to kill as easily as he breathed?

"Trust me, Nikki,” he said gently. “I'll explain when I am able." Yeah right, she thought. Heard that one before . “Then tell me about yourself." He hesitated, and in that instant, she sensed he'd give her nothing but lies. He was here for the boy and nothing else mattered. Not her, not anyone.

"I am a bounty hunter, of sorts. I have been on the boy's trail for several years now."

"Why?"

He shrugged. “Because he is a killer who must be stopped." She frowned. The slight edge in his voice suggested the reason was something more personal. But it was also a warning to go no further.

She returned her gaze to the street, and her stomach lurched. They were nearing the docks. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, reaching for the images of the old building. The certainty of its position came instantly, and with it, fear. He was there, waiting for her.

"Turn right into the next street,” she murmured, letting her instincts take control. “Then left. We're nearly there."

The smooth surface of the road gave way to uneven bitumen, then the rough timbers of an old wharf. The shadows of the nearby buildings drew close, crowding the narrowing alley. Michael eased the car past a row of Dumpsters then stopped. A building sat before them, squat and ugly. This was it.

He touched her hand, entwining his fingers briefly in hers. Heat flowed, warming the ice in her veins. “I can go in alone,” he said.

She shook her head. She'd never felt afraid of the darkness before, and the boy had somehow taken that from her. One way or another, she had to get it back.

She grabbed the flashlight out of the glove compartment and slowly got out of the car. The wind was bitter, tainted with the smell of fish and putrid rubbish. She dragged the zipper all the way up on her jacket and joined Michael at the front of the car.