On the Prowl Read online

  ON THE PROWL

  An Ellora’s Cave Publication, January 2005

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  1337 Commerce Drive, #13

  Stow, OH 44224

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0103-6

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  ON THE PROWL © 2005 KIMBERLY DEAN

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Mary Moran.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Warning:

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. On the Prowl has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  On the Prowl

  Kimberly Dean

  Prologue

  A thick layer of clouds drifted across the sky, blotting out the cool light of a full moon. Darkness fell onto the land, swallowing shadows as it went. The house that sat in the middle of the clearing was asleep.

  It had been that way for over an hour.

  A soft breeze trickled through the trees. The sound of rustling leaves was nearly imperceptible to those who wouldn’t notice. To those who did, it was a signal. The lithe figure lurking in the shadows finally moved.

  Damp grass muffled the figure’s footsteps but it traveled quickly. Its motions were agile and confident, yet poised for any change that would signal danger. For countless heartbeats, the dark shape stood frozen in the shadows against the house. When no alarm was sounded, it went to work.

  A rope swished upward through the air until a hook lodged itself around the railing of the second floor balcony. A quick tug ensured the hook was secure but caution made the figure pause once more. Once the plan was set into action, there would be no turning back.

  At last, it was time.

  The phantom attached the rope to a harness around its waist and began climbing. Soon, it reached the balcony and dropped into an alert crouch.

  The house slept on.

  A hand reached into a bag belted around a thigh and a set of tools emerged. Deft fingers worked magic on the weak lock of the sliding glass door and there was a soft click.

  The intruder wasn’t one to take chances. A small can of silicon was pulled from that same bag and sprayed into the door track. When the door was at last rolled open, it was silent as the wind.

  The figure moved into the sleeping house and quietly rolled the door shut. The pathway through the rooms and hallways had been mapped out and studied in detail. It took twelve seconds to reach the head of the staircase. Three more allowed the figure to slide down the polished wooden railing and land noiselessly on the rug at the base of the stairs.

  The target was ten steps away.

  Light feet padded softly across the short distance and gloved fingers wrapped around the piece that sat so unprotected on the hallway table. The bronzed object quickly went into a pouch.

  Coughing from an upstairs bedroom broke through the silence like a jackhammer.

  The dark shape spun into the shadows and held itself motionless. One heartbeat turned into two—and then three. The coughing stopped as suddenly as it had begun and the house drifted back into peaceful tranquility.

  It was time to go.

  Retracing the path into the house was not the plan. Instead, the phantom moved quickly to the back door. The high-end deadbolt lock was effective against anybody trying to get in, but worthless against somebody trying to get out. It took forty seconds to leave the premises and retrieve the rope.

  Rustling leaves greeted the figure as it slipped back into the darkness. Safe in the company of the trees, the thief finally opened the pouch.

  They’d called it a “trinket”. The fools didn’t know what they’d had sitting right under their noses. The moon peeked through the cloud cover once again and the bronzed cat with the piercing eyes winked up at its new owner.

  She winked back.

  Chapter One

  “Talia!”

  The sound of her name broke into Talia Sizemore’s daydream. Party sounds permeated her consciousness and she became aware of people laughing and talking around her. The quiet, elusive world she’d been fantasizing about shattered and she found herself in Brent Harrington’s home. Blinking, she turned to face the man who’d just called her name.

  “Uncle Roger.” She smiled with relief. It was comforting to see a friend in this sea of vipers. “I’m glad you came.”

  “You were miles away,” the older man said with concern.

  “I’m sorry,” Talia said, a touch embarrassed. She really needed to stop reading all those Lady Midnight comics down at the shop. “I drifted off there for a second or two.”

  “A second or two? You’ve been standing by yourself in the corner for nearly ten minutes.”

  Had it really been that long? She glanced disinterestedly at the partygoers around them. It was funny how the brain protected itself. Her daydreams had taken her far away but that world had somehow seemed so much more real. These people? They were all so…so plastic. Their smiles, their hair, their perfectly polished shoes… “Can you blame me?” she said tiredly. “If I had a choice, I wouldn’t even be here tonight.”

  Roger smoothed the silver hair at his temple as his gaze shifted nervously to those standing nearby. God forbid that somebody should hear them talking disparagingly about the social event of the season. “I have to admit I’m surprised to see you here,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d attend an Arts Council function after what happened.”

  Talia’s spine stiffened and she stood a little straighter. “I’m still a member of the Board. I’m not going to let them run me off that easily.”

  He looked at her worriedly. “I hope you’re not planning on making a scene.”

  His eyebrows lifted when he saw the determined look on her face.

  “Think about it, dear,” he said quickly. “I realize that the Council’s vote had to have been a big blow to you but you don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of New Covington’s elite.”

  New Covington’s elite. Talia’s temper flared. Wasn’t that just typical? It always came down to appearances and social standing in this town. And money—the older, the better. “No, Uncle Roger, I’m not going to make a scene. I have more class than that.”

  “Of course you do. Of course. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” He relaxed and his eyes softened. “I just know how much that after-school arts program meant to you. You must have been crushed when the Arts Council voted to stop supporting it.”

  Talia pressed a hand to her stomach. She wished he woul
d change the subject. “Crushed” didn’t even come close to describing how she’d felt after the surprise attack. The hurt and betrayal were still taking a physical toll.

  She couldn’t help but take the Board’s vote personally. After all, the inner-city after-school arts program had been her father’s creation. The Sizemore Foundation had established it and nourished it through its infancy. She couldn’t believe that now, just as it was starting to thrive, Brent Harrington and his minions had decided to pull the Arts Council’s funding. Without that financial support, the program would wither and die. The Sizemore Foundation could administer the program but it couldn’t support it on its own. “I just feel like I’m letting everyone down,” she admitted. “The kids, the teachers…”

  “Your father?”

  She flinched. Her father had left the Foundation in her care when he’d passed away. He’d be so disappointed in her if he knew what had happened.

  “Talia, dear. Ted was my best friend. He loved you to pieces. You could never let him down.” Roger rubbed her shoulder comfortingly, but gestured when he saw the Board president. “Would it help if I talked to Brent?”

  “No,” she said quickly. Almost too quickly. She tried to rein her temper in. She couldn’t take out her frustration on Roger. He was just trying to be kind. He didn’t realize how upsetting this was for her. “I’m sorry, Uncle Roger. I don’t mean to be testy. I just don’t want you to get in the middle of it.”

  “Your father would have wanted me to get in the middle of it.”

  Daddy. Talia felt a dull pain near her heart. She missed him so much. He’d have known how to deal with this. He’d always known exactly what to say or do in any situation. She wasn’t nearly as adept—and look at what had happened because of it. “I know you want to help but this is really something I need to do myself. I’ll…I’ll talk to Brent.”

  “Are you sure?”

  No, she wasn’t sure. She glanced Brent’s way. As always, he looked tall, dark and sinful. Not to mention conceited, bull-headed, single-minded… Her fingers tightened until the blue beads on her purse threatened to pop off. Simply talking to him wasn’t going to make him change his mind. He’d laugh in her face if she went to him and begged.

  Then again, that might be exactly what he wanted—for her to subjugate herself in front of him. Get down on her knees and kiss his feet.

  Or probably something a little higher.

  The ringing of a champagne glass broke into her sickening thoughts. Turning, Talia faced their host and his fashion doll wife, Shelli. Her stomach rolled with revulsion.

  She hated the idea of so much as even looking at the man but she had to try again for the kids. They deserved that much from her.

  “I’m sure,” she said dejectedly. “I’ll try one more time to talk some sense into him.”

  Shelli’s plastic smile glittered down on her guests and Talia squinted to shield her eyes from the glare. Shelli, Shelli, Shelli. Such a pretty package with nothing worthwhile inside. Brent bent down to kiss his wife’s foundation-laden cheek and she actually giggled. Talia glared at her in annoyance. It was because of women like that that the blonde jokes would continue ad nauseam. If Shelli had half a clue about hubby dearest, she’d be packing some arsenic in that face powder.

  Smiling like a king at his faithful party guests, Brent approached the microphone at the center of the stage that had been erected in the corner of the room. “Welcome, fellow art lovers,” he said with a dramatic flair.

  A sudden migraine shot through Talia’s brain. How in God’s name was she going to talk to that snake without screaming?

  “I’d like to welcome everyone to our home—especially all you beautiful ladies.”

  The crowd laughed at the suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows but she saw nothing funny about it. Brent Harrington III. “The Turd” was more like it.

  “The Council for the Arts is kicking off its fall campaign and, as president, I’m challenging all of you to make this season the best New Covington has ever seen!” He paused for the applause that rang throughout the room. “We’ve got some exciting performances scheduled and the Board is working on a few surprises for next spring. Our goal is to lift New Covington’s art scene to the next level because, in the words of past Board president and my beloved grandmother, Sophia Harrington, ‘culture enriches us all’.”

  Apparently, the kids in inner-city school system didn’t count. Talia tucked her purse under her arm, swiped a glass of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and took a healthy gulp.

  The situation had her at wit’s end. She really didn’t know what else she could do but try to convince Brent one last time that the program was important. To some of those kids, it was their only way out.

  Why couldn’t he see that?

  “You don’t look well, dear,” Roger said as he laid a comforting hand on the small of her back. He moved protectively closer.

  Talia looked lovingly at her stalwart defender. With Adam in Boston, Roger Thorton was the closest thing she had to family left here in New Covington. After everything that had happened, she had to admit she was feeling a bit alone in the world. His support bolstered her. He didn’t need to take her side in this ugly affair but knowing he was there for her made her feel better.

  “I’m all right,” she said. She gently smoothed the lapel of his tuxedo. When she saw the concerned look on his face, she tried to smile. “Really.”

  “Roger. Roger!”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Talia saw Lydia Thorton swooping in. Automatically, she stepped back. As always, Roger’s wife had a glass of alcohol in her grip, pinky finger stylishly lifted.

  Talia braced herself. It was hard to believe that Roger had been worried about her making a scene. She looked at him with empathy as Lydia stormed through the crowd like a bull in a china shop. The woman’s wide hips bumped a waiter, nearly causing him to drop his platter of miniature quiche appetizers.

  “For heaven’s sake, you clumsy ox! Let me pass.”

  Talia’s fingers tightened around the stem of her champagne glass. She should be used to Lydia’s crass behavior by now but she still couldn’t figure out how such a kind man could get involved with such a harpy. Roger looked discomfited as his wife bore down on them with nostrils flaring and gold sequins flashing.

  “I should have known I’d find you with something in a tight skirt,” Lydia said in a stage whisper that everyone within ten feet heard.

  Roger fingered his collar as if it had suddenly gotten too tight.

  “Lydia,” Talia said coolly.

  The woman lifted an artfully plucked eyebrow. “Well if it isn’t poor little Talia Sizemore. Darling, I’m surprised to see you here. I thought the Council’s vote would have sent you scurrying to a corner somewhere. I mean, really!” She let out a boisterous laugh and made a sweeping gesture that sloshed nearly half her drink onto the floor. “How embarrassing for you!”

  Almost of its own volition, Talia’s hand jerked. It was only the sound of her name echoing around the room that stopped her from throwing her drink in the offensive woman’s face.

  “Talia Sizemore?” Brent said loudly into the microphone. “Where is she, gentlemen? Believe me, you can’t miss her in that blue dress.”

  The words finally registered and Talia looked to the stage. The other members of the Board were already there, apparently being recognized for all their “good work”. She threw a glare at Lydia. It was hard to decide which was worse, taking verbal body shots from this woman or standing side by side with the people who had killed her program. With a shaky hand, she passed her half-empty drink to Roger.

  She’d promised herself before she’d come here that she would hold the higher ground. Her pride was about all she had left. That, and the Sizemore name.

  She held her head high as she walked across the room to the small stage, but whoops and wolf-whistles flummoxed her. Leave it to Brent to make her dress a topic of discussion. He met her at the top of the steps. It repulsed he
r but it would be impolite to ignore his assistance. She took his hand and busied herself with navigating the steps in her long skirt. When she looked up, though, he wasn’t looking at her legs.

  His dark gaze had clapped onto her breasts.

  Shelli stood behind him, clapping like a giddy schoolgirl, but the Turd was unfazed. He openly admired her curves as he led her across the stage.

  Talia mentally berated herself. She should have known better. The skinny straps of the dress hadn’t allowed for a bra. Instead of going without, she should have found another outfit. With his stare on her, she could feel every sway and jiggle of her unbound flesh. The silk against her nipples suddenly seemed too rough and, inevitably, they popped to attention.

  She came to a standstill by Edward Jones and flinched when Brent leaned toward her. The compulsory kiss he planted on her cheek was innocent enough but the brush of his fingers against her tightened nipple wasn’t.

  “That’s better,” he whispered into her ear.

  Her face heated as he walked back to center stage. As indiscreetly as she could, she looked down at her chest. Her nipples had puckered under his touch and now stood upright like two sturdy tent poles. She felt Edward Jones’ hot gaze sweep over her body and she fought not to cover herself and bring even more unwanted attention.

  “Board members, if you’ll take a seat, I’ll introduce the entertainment part of our program.”

  Talia groaned inwardly, but sat down on the folding chair. She threw Edward a nasty look but he just smiled and kept ogling her. A string quartet started playing and she closed her eyes. Could they have chosen a longer piece?

  “Nice nipple action, Tally.”

  Her eyes flew open when she heard the soft words. Brent sat down beside her and goosebumps rose on the back of her neck. As furtively as she could, she slid away from him. She didn’t get far. Any further away and she’d be in Edward’s lap.