Page 43 of The Devoted Game

“Such a lovely mouth.” He forced her lips apart and dipped his thumb inside. “Make me happy, Number Thirteen. Make me happy, and I’ll let you live another day.”

A scream wrenched from her throat.

Vivian bolted upward, her arms flailing. She had to get away. Had to run!

“Grace!”

Fingers clamped around her arms, shook her.Fight him!Don’t let him win!

“Grace! Wake up!”

Vivian froze. The breath trapped in her lungs as her eyes flew open.

The lamp on her bedside table allowed her to see that it was McBride who sat on the bed next to her, his fingers biting into her arms.

“You okay?”

For five, then ten, seconds she didn’t know how to respond.

McBride. Her bedroom. Devoted Fan.

The imprisoned air rushed out of her lungs.

The nightmare.She’d had the nightmare.Again.

Brain synapses fired once more. “Damn.” She pushed her hair out of her face, became aware of the perspiration dampening her skin and of the sheets twisted around her legs. “Sorry. I ... I had a nightmare.”

“No shit.” He released her, exhaled a big breath. “You scared the hell out of me.”

She glanced at the alarm clock, half past ten. Why hadn’t Worth called by now?

“I don’t know about you,” McBride said as he stood, “but after that I need a drink.” He offered his hand.

In nearly five years not a single nightmare. Her first big case, her first opportunity to move to a new level in her career, and it had to startagain.

Losing what was left of her battered mind or just plain old suffering from a moment of utter weakness, she put her hand in McBride’s, kicked free of the sheets, and clambered out of bed.

He led her through the dark house as if he had already committed to memory the layout of her home. In the kitchen, he flipped a switch that turned on the light over her sink.

“What have you got around here, Grace? Wine? Beer? Anything?” He released her and went to the fridge to have a look.

The empty containers from their dinner sat on the counter stinking up the room. She should have taken care of those before collapsing.

“I think there’s a bottle of wine under the sink,” she said when McBride emerged from his perusal of the refrigerator.

He was half dressed as usual, jeans riding low on his hips. At least they were partially zipped this time. Thankfully she had pulled on a pair of lounge pants and a camisole after her shower. Jesus, she hadn’t expected to sleep straight through to this hour of the night. She had counted on sleep providing some much-needed distance. Things were shifting into dicey territory between them, and she had to stop that plummet toward utter disaster.

“Merlot.” He made a face at the bottle he had discovered, then shrugged. “That’ll work.”

When he started prowling through drawers for an opener, she said, “The one next to the dishwasher.”

He located the corkscrew, deftly opened the bottle, and snagged two glasses.

Watching those movements, knowing what they would lead to, her good sense abruptly kicked in. She opened her mouth to put a stop to his plan here and now, but he hesitated right in front of her as if he had known exactly what she was going to do.

“Come with me,” he ordered.

It was in that moment, with him standing only inches away, that the haze of the haunting dream and the confusion he made her feel cleared enough for her to remember ...