Chapter 2 Phantom of the Night

Falon lay on the hood of the car, gasping for air. The freezing rain pelted her back.

She dragged her body toward the side of the car. She slammed her bloody palms against the tinted passenger window.

Two bright red handprints smeared across the glass.

The window slowly rolled down. Just a few inches.

A blast of dry, air-conditioned air escaped from the cabin.

Bell Farrell sat in the shadows of the spacious back seat. He wore a tailored black suit. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp. He looked at her the way a predator evaluates a wounded animal.

Falon could not see his face clearly. The drug in her veins made her vision swim. The heat inside her body was becoming unbearable.

"Please," Falon begged. Her voice shook violently from the cold and the terror. "Open the door."

A harsh scraping sound echoed from the mouth of the alley.

Falon snapped her head around.

Dwayne was limping toward her. He held a heavy metal pipe in his hand. The pipe dragged against the wet asphalt, sending up sparks.

Falon's pupils dilated. Panic seized her throat.

She looked back at the man in the car.

Bell did not move. He raised his long, elegant fingers and tapped them slowly against the leather armrest. Tap. Tap. Tap. He was calculating.

Dwayne saw her. He raised the metal pipe. "You dead bitch!" he screamed.

He charged. He was less than thirty feet away.

A soft, mechanical click sounded from the Maybach's door.

The lock disengaged.

Falon grabbed the handle and yanked the heavy door open.

She threw herself inside. She tumbled onto the plush floorboards, bringing the smell of rain, copper blood, and wet dirt into the pristine environment.

She crashed directly against a pair of long legs clad in expensive wool trousers. A strong scent of cold cedar and musk filled her nose.

The door slammed shut automatically. The locks engaged with a heavy thud just as Dwayne reached the car.

The metal pipe smashed against the reinforced ballistic glass.

The impact produced a dull, muted thud. The glass did not even scratch.

Falon curled into a ball on the edge of the leather seat. She pulled her knees to her chest. Her entire body shook uncontrollably. She sucked in huge gulps of the warm, dry air.

Bell reached into the center console. He pulled out a folded Hermes pocket square.

He grabbed her bleeding wrist. His grip was firm, unyielding. He pressed the expensive silk directly against her open wound.

Falon flinched, but he did not let go.

She slowly lifted her head. The dim ambient light of the cabin illuminated his profile.

A sharp, chiseled jawline. A straight nose. Eyes so dark they looked like endless voids.

Outside, Dwayne pounded on the window. He screamed muffled obscenities, demanding the man inside hand her over.

Bell did not even glance at the window.

He pressed a button on the intercom.

"Drive," Bell commanded. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.

The Maybach's massive engine roared to life.

The driver did not put the car in reverse. Instead, he slammed his foot on the gas and turned the steering wheel sharply.

The heavy front bumper of the Maybach surged forward, aiming straight for Dwayne.

Dwayne's eyes widened in terror. He dropped the pipe and threw himself backward into a massive puddle of muddy water to avoid being crushed.

The Maybach sped past him, leaving him in the dirt.

The immediate threat of death vanished. The adrenaline in Falon's system crashed.

The black market drug took full control.

A wave of intense, suffocating heat erupted in her lower stomach. It spread through her veins like liquid fire.

She felt like she was burning from the inside out.

Falon whimpered. She reached up and pulled at the torn collar of her Oscar de la Renta gown. The ruined fabric slipped off her shoulder, exposing the pale skin of her collarbone and the swell of her chest.

Bell's eyes snapped to her. He noticed the unnatural, feverish flush spreading across her cheeks. He saw the glazed, unfocused look in her eyes.

His dark eyebrows pulled together.

Falon's rational mind dissolved. She needed to cool down. She needed to touch something cold.

She leaned toward the man beside her. He radiated a cool, solid energy.

Her trembling fingers reached out. She touched the edge of his tailored suit jacket.

Bell's hand shot out. He wrapped his large fingers around her wrist. His grip was tight enough to bruise.

"Do not push your luck," Bell warned. His voice was colder than the rain outside.

The icy pressure of his fingers sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core.

Instead of pulling away, Falon leaned into his touch. She turned her hand and intertwined her bloody fingers with his.

A soft, desperate moan escaped her lips.

Bell's expression hardened. The air in the car suddenly felt dangerously thin.

He reached out with his free hand and gripped her chin. He forced her head up, making her look directly into his eyes. He searched her face, looking for any sign of a trap.

Falon's eyes held no clarity. Only a blind, consuming hunger. A single tear of physical frustration slipped from the corner of her eye and ran over his thumb.

Bell stared at the tear. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

He abruptly let go of her chin. He pushed her back against the seat.

He picked up the car phone. He dialed a number.

"Thaddeus," Bell said. "Bring the universal counteragent to the Tribeca penthouse. Now."

He hung up.

Falon curled into herself on the seat. She dug her fingernails into her own palms. She tried to use the pain to fight the overwhelming urge to touch him.

The Maybach sped across the Brooklyn Bridge. The bright, flashing lights of the Manhattan skyline blurred outside the window. Inside, the only sound was Falon's ragged, heavy breathing.

The drug was winning. Her defenses crumbled.

She could not take it anymore.

Falon uncurled her body. She lunged across the wide seat.

She swung her leg over his lap and straddled his thighs.

Bell did not push her away.

His large hands immediately settled on her narrow waist. His thumbs pressed into her skin through the thin fabric of her dress.

He leaned his head forward until his lips brushed against her ear.

"You are playing with fire," Bell whispered. His voice was thick and rough.