And which had brought them here. Here? Where exactly were they now?
They’d started the evening in the newly renovated Hastings House, at a fund-raiser so the historical foundation that employed her could continue excavating the neighboring site. There was a field of architectural gold to be explored there, and her employer was thrilled to have such an eloquent columnist as Matt Connolly on their side while they battled a major construction company for the right to do research before everything was destroyed for the sake of a new high-rise.
But as for actually being with Matt tonight…They’d barely had a chance to say hello.
A number of representatives were there from the development company that had bought the surrounding property—trying to pretend that they were delighted to plan around the historical significance of the place—along with Greta Peterson, socialite and ambassador for the Historical Society, a few Broadway personalities, some local celebrities and more. Hank Smith, of megadeveloper Tyson, Smith and Tryon, had swooped down on Matt the minute they’d entered the place, hoping to sway Matt’s opinion to the firm’s side. There were police representatives, including Captain Ken Dryer, the charismatic department spokesman, Sergeant Robert Adair—who was in charge of the investigation into the missing prostitutes and was actually watching her with brooding contemplation most of the night—and politicians from the five boroughs.
She’d been across the room from Matt, exchanging pleasantries with a colleague.
She’d just excused herself to go to Matt and then…
What?
He was hunkered down beside her now just as he had been when a football struck her in the head when they were playing in the streets so many years ago. He offered the same smile he’d given her then, full of interest and amusement toward most situations, a dry smile. Even a bit rueful, as if, in the end, there was little to do but mock himself.
“Matt,” she murmured, frowning, wondering why she couldn’t remember crossing the room to his side. And what was she doing on the floor? “You’re here.”
“Yeah, I’m here,” he murmured. “For just this moment.”
“Just this moment?” she queried. She wanted to reach out and touch his face. Damn, but he’d always been gorgeous. In a manly, rugged way, of course. Steady blue eyes, generous mouth, broad forehead, high cheekbones. Tall and in shape, he was the guy everyone would have hated if he hadn’t been so damned decent. So men liked him, and women loved him.
Despite her confusion, she felt herself rise and turn toward the light. It had the most incredible power. She couldn’t resist it. She felt that it offered release from pain, from doubt.
“No,” Matt said softly as he caught her arm. Or was that just her imagination? She turned her attention back to him, confused. She could no longer hear the string quartet that had been playing that evening. From a far distant place, she thought she heard screams and chaos.
“Silly Rebel,” he said softly, as he had so many times when she was growing up. “You have to stay here. You can’t go yet.”
“Who’s going to stop me, Matt Connolly?” she demanded. “You?”
“It’s not your time,” he said. “Leslie, there are things you need to do. You are not to follow the light,” he said firmly.
“Hey, are you holding out on me?” she demanded lightly, looking around and seeing people getting up and moving single-file toward the light. “Matt, I’m with you. We’re together. I have to get in line.”
“We’re all in line, in a way, from day one,” he said very softly. “But not you, not now. You have to stay here. Some things are meant to be.”
“Some things are meant to be?” she whispered.
“Some things are meant to be,” he said firmly.
He squeezed her hand, and heat shot through her.
Then it felt as if she were jolted. As if they were interrupted.
“Hey!” a deep voice called. “This one is alive!”
It was as if she were watching a movie, but she was in it. There was a horrible scent in the air, as if something were burning. People were everywhere, running, shouting.
There had been an explosion, she thought. Someone had screamed something about gas, and then a blast had seemed to rock the world. Yes! She could remember it now, the feeling of being lifted, of flying…slamming hard against a wall. But…she wasn’t lying against a wall.
She was looking down on a scene of absolute chaos. And she was in it. She was lying in a row of sleeping people. She couldn’t recognize any of them. Matt…where was Matt? Emergency personnel were moving purposefully through the chaos, imposing order. The newly painted walls of the room were blackened and scorched. There had been a blast and a fire. Everything pointed to it.
And she hurt! Oh, God, she ached everywhere, she thought, back in her body, no longer looking down on the carnage. The scent of charred wood…worse, the scent of charred flesh, filled her nostrils.
Because the people she was aligned with were not sleeping.