by Nora Roberts
“I don’t want to be.”
“I know.”
Ripley hissed out a breath. “How do you know so damn much?”
“I’ve been where you are, and not so long ago. It’s scary and exciting, and it just changes everything.”
“I liked things the way they were. Don’t tell Zack,” she said, then immediately regretted it. “What am I saying? Of course you’ll tell Zack. It’s like a rule. Just maybe give it a few days first. I may get over this.”
“Okay.” Nell walked over to transfer baking trays.
“It could be I’ve just got the hots for him and it’s messing me up.”
“I suppose.”
“And if last night’s any indication, we’ll probably burn each other out in a couple of weeks, max.”
“It happens.”
Ripley tapped her fingers on the table. “If you’re just going to stand over there and humor the fool, I’m changing. I’m going for my run.”
Nell set the muffins on the rack to cool, totally content with herself as Ripley stormed out. “Go ahead and run,” she said softly. “Bet he catches you.”
Twelve
Considering that hewas criminally insane, Evan Remington had his good days. He could, depending on what pictures were wheeling through his mind, be fairly lucid, even momentarily charming.
There were moments, according to one of the nurses Harding interviewed, when you could see the sly intellect that had made him a top Hollywood power broker.
Other times, he just sat, and drooled.
To Harding he had become a fascination that was edging toward an obsession. Remington was a man in his prime, by all accounts a brilliant operator of the entertainment machine, one who had come from wealth and privilege. And yet he’d been brought to nothing. By a woman.
The woman was also a fascination. A quiet, biddable little mouse, if you accepted the opinion of many who’d known her during her marriage. A courageous survivor who had escaped a nightmare, if you went with the popular feminist take.
Harding wasn’t convinced that she was either. But he was willing to consider she was something more.
There were so many angles there. Beauty and the beast, destroyed by love, the monster behind the mask.
Already he had mountains of notes, reams of tape, photographs, copies of police and medical reports. He also had the beginnings of a rough first draft of the book he was certain would make him very rich and very famous.
What he didn’t have, as yet, were solid personal interviews with the key players.
He was willing to invest a lot of time and effort into acquiring them. While he followed Nell’s trail across the country, forming impressions, gathering data, he flew back to visit Remington regularly.
And each time he did, he was fueled with more purpose, more ambition, and an underlying anger that baffled him. The anger would fade, but it came back stronger every time.
Most of the travel was dumped on his expense account, and though he shot off stories to the magazine, he was well aware that there would come a day of reckoning. He was already dipping into his personal funds, couldn’t seem to stop himself.
Whereas once he had been proud of his magazine work, had enjoyed, even thrived on, the pace and demands of it, he now found himself resenting every hour he had to spend fulfilling his professional obligations.
The Remington/Todd story was like a fever burning in him.
On Valentine’s Day—and he would always find that wonderfully ironic—he made his first real connection with Evan Remington.
“They think I’m crazy.”
It was the first time Remington had spoken to him without prompting. It took everything Harding had not to jump at the quiet,reasonable sound of his voice. He gazed at the recorder to be sure the tape was running.
“Who thinks that?”
“The people here. My traitorous sister. My adulterous wife. Have you met my wife, Mr. Harding?”
Something icy seemed to slick the inside of Harding’s gut at being called by name. He had introduced himself on every visit, but he’d never believed, never really considered, that Remington had heard, or understood.
“No, I haven’t. I was hoping you would tell me about her.”
“What can I tell you about Helen?” There was a sigh, a sound of patient amusement. “She deceived me. She’s a whore, a cheat, a liar. But she’s my whore. I gave her everything. I made her beautiful. She belongs to me. Has she tried to seduce you?”
The spit in Harding’s mouth dried up. Ridiculous as it seemed, it felt as if Remington could see into his mind. “I haven’t met . . . your wife, Mr. Remington. I hope to have the opportunity to meet her. When I do, I’d be happy to take her a message from you.”
“Oh, I have plenty to say to Helen. But it’sprivate ,” he said, whispering the last word as a slow smile curved his lips. “Many things between a man and his wife should be private, don’t you agree? What happens between them in the sanctity of their home is no one’s concern.”
Harding offered a sympathetic nod. “It’s difficult, isn’t it, to balance that privacy when you’re a man who has the public’s attention.”
Remington’s eyes clouded, fog over ice, and began to dart around the room. The intelligence, the crafty humor in them, had vanished. “I need a phone. I seem to have misplaced my phone. Where’s the damn concierge?”
“I’m sure he’ll be right here. Could I ask you what it was about Mrs. Remington that first attracted you to her?”
“She was pure, simple, like clay waiting to be formed. I knew immediately she was meant to be mine. I sculpted her.” His hands flexed at the ends of his restraints. “I didn’t know how deeply flawed she was, how much work would be involved. I devoted myself to her.”
He leaned forward, his body vibrating as it strained. “Do you know why she ran?”
“Why?”
“Because she’s weak, and stupid. Weak and stupid. Weak and stupid.” He said it again and again, like a chant as his fisted hands pounded. “I found her because I’m not.” He turned his wrist as if checking the Rolex that was no longer there. “It’s time I left here, isn’t it? Time I fetched Helen and took her home. She has a lot of explaining to do. Call the bellman for my bags.”
“He’s . . . on his way. Tell me what happened that night on Three Sisters Island.”
“I don’t remember. Anyway, it’s not important. I have a plane to catch.”
“There’s plenty of time.” Harding kept his voice low and soothing as Remington began to squirm in his chair. “You went to find Helen. She was living on the island. You must have been pleased to find her alive.”
“Living in a hovel, hardly more than a tool shed. Little bitch. Pumpkins on the porch, a cat in the house. Something wrong with the house.” He licked his lips. “It doesn’t want me to be there.”
“The house didn’t want you?”
“She cut her hair. I didn’t give her permission to do that. She whored herself. She has to be punished, has to be taught. Has to remember who’s in charge. She makes me hurt her.” Remington shook his head. “She begs for it.”
“She asked you to hurt her?” Harding asked cautiously. Something stirred in him, something ugly and unrecognizable. Something that wasaroused by the thought.
It shocked and appalled him, nearly made him pull back once more. But then Remington was speaking.
“She doesn’t learn. Can she be that dense? Of course not. She enjoys punishment. She ran when I killed her lover. But he came back from the dead,” Remington went on. “I had a right to kill him for trying to take what belonged to me. A right to kill them both. Who are all those people?”
“What people?”
“In the woods,” Remington said impatiently. “The women in the woods. Where did they come from? What business is this of theirs? And him! Why didn’t he die when I killed him? What kind of world is this?”
“What happened in the woods?”
“The woods.” He rubbed
his lips together as his breath began to rush through them. “There are monsters in the woods. Beasts hiding behind my face. Crawling inside me. Light, in a circle. Fire. Too many voices. Screaming? Who is that screaming? Hang the witch. ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ Kill them all, before it’s too late!”
He was screaming now, howling like a madman. As aides rushed in, ordered Harding to leave, he picked up his tape recorder with a trembling hand.
And didn’t see the crafty gleam in Remington’s eyes.
Ripley slogged herway through paperwork. She’d lost the coin toss with Zack, which still irritated her, since the false spring was hanging on. It would be close to sixty degrees by afternoon, and she was stuck on desk duty.
The only good part was that he wasn’t around, so she was free to sulk and call him nasty names under her breath. When the door of the station house opened, she prepared to launch a few at him, face-to-face. But it was Mac who walked in, behind what looked to be most of Holland’s supply of tulips.
“What’re you doing, going into the florist business?”
“No.” He crossed to her, held out the rainbow of spring flowers. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Oh, well. Wow.” Even as her heart went soft as putty, her stomach jumped. “Um.”
“You say thanks, and kiss me now,” Mac told her helpfully.
“Thanks.”
There were so many of them, she had to hold them out to the side before she could manage the kiss. And when she would have kept that part of the ritual light, he simply slid his arms around her, drew her closer, sucked her down into that soft, slippery world.
“There are a lot of flowers.” He rubbed his lips over hers, stirring them both. “Say thanks again.”
“Th—” He took the kiss deeper until her skin was humming and she’d risen to her toes.
“That ought to cover it.” He ran his hands up and down her sides.
“I guess.” She had to clear her throat. “They’re really pretty.” She felt silly holding them, sillier still because she wanted to bury her face in them and sniff like a puppy. “But you didn’t have to bring me flowers. I don’t really go in for the whole Valentine’s gig.”
“Yeah, crass commercialism and blah, blah. So what?”
He made her laugh, and she stopped feeling silly. “There’s a hell of a lot of them—the florist must have fallen weeping to his knees when you walked out. Let me see if we’ve got something around here to hold them.”
She had to settle for a plastic scrub bucket—but did indulge herself with some sniffing and sighing as she filled it with water from the bathroom tap.
“I’ll do better by them when I take them home,” she promised as she carried them back out. “I didn’t know tulips came in so many colors. I guess I haven’t paid attention.”
“My mom goes for tulips. She—what do you call it—forces the bulbs in little glass jars every winter.”
Ripley set the makeshift vase on the desk. “I bet you sent your mother flowers today.”
“Sure did.”
She looked at him, shook her head. “You’re a hell of a sweetheart, Dr. Booke.”
“Think so?” He dug in his pocket, frowned, dug in the other. And came up with a little candy heart, then dropped it into Ripley’s palm.
Be Mine, she read, and felt that little jitter in the belly again.
“So, how about it?” He reached around to tug on her ponytail. “Are you going to be my valentine?”
“Boy, you’re really into this. Looks like you’ve got me. Now I’m going to have to go buy you a mushy card.”
“It’s the least you can do.” He continued to play with the sleek tail of hair. “Listen, about tonight. I didn’t realize it was Valentine’s Day when I made the arrangements with Mia. If you want, I can reschedule that and we can go out to dinner, take a drive, whatever you’d like.”
“Oh.” It was Friday, she remembered. She’d done her best to block that particular fact out of her head. Now he was giving her the perfect way to put it all off. To put off something that was important to his work.
Yep, she thought with an inward sigh, the man was a sweetheart.
“No, don’t worry about it. It’s already set up.”
“You could come with me.”
When she started to turn away, he kept her in place with his hand on her hair, turning a tender gesture into a no-nonsense one with a simple flexing of fingers.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. Don’t count on me.”
“Whatever you say.” He hated to see her struggle, but knew of no way to smooth it all away. “There are some things I want to talk to you about. If you decide to give the session at Mia’s a pass, can you come by the cottage afterward?”
“What things?”
“We’ll talk about it.” He gave her hair a last tug before walking to the door. “Ripley.” He paused, his hand on the knob and looked at her. A gun at her hip, a pail of tulips at her side. “I know we’re standing on opposite sides of a line in one area. As long as we understand why, and accept that, accept each other, we’re okay.”
“You’re so damn stable.”
“Hey, my parents spent a lot of money to make sure of it.”
“Shrinks,” she said and worked up a sneer for him.
“Damn right. See you later.”
“Yeah,” she murmured when the door closed behind him.
Problem was, she wasn’t quite so stable. Not quite so okay. Because she was crazy about him.
It was difficultfor a woman to maintain her dignity and reputation as somewhat of a hard-ass when she was walking around with a bucket full of tulips. It was damn near impossible when that same woman got caught perusing a dwindling display of sentimental Valentine’s Day cards.
“I like this one.” Gladys Macey reached around her and tapped a huge card with an enormous pink heart. Ripley did her best not to squirm.
“Yeah?”
“I picked it out for Carl a week ago, and he liked it fine when I gave it to him this morning. Men like big cards. Must make them feel more manly.”
Having no doubt that Gladys knew more about such matters than she did, Ripley plucked the card out of the slot.
“Last one,” she commented. “Lucky me.”
“Lucky you, indeed.” Gladys bent down to admire the tulips. “Must be four dozen tulips in there.”
“Five,” Ripley corrected. Okay, she’d counted. She couldn’t help it.
“Five dozen. Mmm. And they cost the earth this time of year. Pretty as a picture, though. You get candy, too?”
Ripley thought of the little heart that she’d tucked in her pocket. “Sort of.”
“Candy, too.” Gladys nodded wisely. “The man’s smitten.”
Ripley nearly bobbled the bucket. “What did you say?”
“I said the man’s smitten.”
“Smitten.” Something tickled Ripley’s throat, but she wasn’t sure if it was panic or humor. “That word’s getting around these days. Why do you think that?”
“Well, for heaven’s sake, Ripley, a man doesn’t buy a woman flowers, give her candy and so forth on Valentine’s Day because he wants a canasta partner. What makes young people so thickheaded about these things?”
“I just figured he was one of those people who make Hallmark stand up and cheer.”
“Men don’t make grand gestures unless they’re reminded to, in trouble, guilty, or smitten.” Gladys ticked these possibilities off on her fingers, with nails newly polished in Valentine Red. “Not in my experience. Did you remind him what day it was?”
“No, I forgot about it myself.”
“You have a spat?”
“No,” Ripley conceded.
“Anything you can think of for him to be guilty about?”
“No, there’s nothing in particular for him to feel guilty about.”
“Well, then, where does that leave him?”
“According to your lineup, smitten.” She’d ha
ve to think about it. She studied the card in her hand. “So, they like the big ones?”
“Absolutely. You put those flowers in something pretty now. They’re too sweet to stay in that old bucket.” She gave Ripley a pat on the shoulder, then wandered off.
As soon as she could manage it, Gladys would be spreading the word that the village deputy was sweet on the mainlander. And vice versa.
The mainlander wasback at work. He’d studied, organized, and logged the varied data that had come through on the night he and Ripley had been together. He was formulating theories, hypotheses, and working toward logical conclusions.
He hadn’t noted the time when he and Ripley had made love. His mind had been on more important matters. Nor had he clocked the duration. But his printouts, assuming that his theories on energy dispersal were correct, pinned it down for him.
The machines had picked up burst after burst, spikes, long, steady rises, fluctuations. Wasn’t it interesting that he hadn’t heard the clatter of them as they recorded? He’d been so completely absorbed in her.
Now he could look at the tangible record of what they’d brought to each other. It was oddly arousing.
He measured distances between the spikes and rises, calculated the valleys between energy peaks and the output of each.
Then he had to get up and walk around until he could stop imagining her naked and concentrate on science.
“Long steady holding pattern here. Low-grade energy levels.” He crunched on an apple, pushed up his glasses. “Afterglow period. We’re just lying there now. Languor, pillow talk. Makes sense. So why does it start building again here?”
It was almost like steps, he noted. A rise, a plateau, a rise, a plateau.
He tried to think. She’d gotten up, gone for the pizza, into the kitchen for a couple of beers. Maybe she’d been thinking about making love again. He didn’t mind thinking she was. It was a nice boost to the ego.
But it didn’t explain the abrupt and violent energy flash. Nothing steplike there. It had been like a rocket going off. Nothing he could find indicated that it came from an outside source or an underlying well of energy.
To his best recollection, he’d been in a kind of twilight sleep, just sort of floating while he waited for her. He’d been thinking about the pizza, about eating it in bed with her. Naked. It had been a pleasant image, but he hadn’t been the cause of this.
Therefore, Ripley had. But how and why were the puzzles.
An aftershock sort of thing? That was possible. But aftershocks were rarely as powerful as the initial quake, and this one punched right through the ceiling.
If he could re-create the event. . . . That was a thought. Of course, he would need to find a delicate way to propose that to her.
They had a lot to talk about.
He bit into the apple again, and felt happy just remembering the stunned look on her face when he’d walked in with all those flowers. He liked surprising her that way, then watching her deal with it.
He just liked watching her.
