by Anne Stuart
“Take your time,” Salvatore said with his first touch of real affability. “He’ll wait.”
Salvatore had put Robert in the front parlor with its staid Victorian decor. He looked just as he’d looked the last time Meg had seen him at her going-away party, with one of the junior vice presidents draped over him. Well dressed, handsome and at ease, even under these peculiar circumstances. He turned when he heard her approach, ignored Salvatore and gathered her into his arms, kissing her fully on her unsuspecting mouth.
She pushed him away, controlling her instinctive, irrational shudder of distaste, distaste for the bland mouth, the bland face. “Rob,” she said, her voice full of wary relief.
“You look wonderful, Meggie. We were worried about you. First you disappeared, then your father was arrested and there was no word from you. We were afraid something had happened.”
“Who’s we? How did you find out where I was?” God, he was handsome, she thought dispassionately. Perfect features, perfect teeth, perfect hair.
“We?” he echoed. “The company. Madeleine, for one, and the board of directors. Granted, so far they’ve only been a figurehead, but with Reese in jail, they’ve had to do some hard work, make some hard choices.”
She settled on the most important information. “Reese is in jail?”
“Actually, he’s out on bail now, but he can’t leave the state. That’s why he sent me to find you. You don’t know what it’s been like, Meggie. An absolute madhouse, reporters everywhere, all the records impounded. Not that they’ll be able to crack the computer code I used for your father’s special projects. It would take more than a police computer specialist to get past all my safeguards.”
Megan looked at him, doing her best to disguise her horror. “You knew what he was doing?”
“Of course I did, just as you did. Reese Carey knows more about construction than some crippled recluse. Sure he took chances, but he had years of knowledge behind him. One mistake, and they’re making a federal case out of it.”
“I didn’t know,” she said, her voice faint as she surveyed the corporate shark in front of her. He was as bad as her father, willing to endanger innocent lives in pursuit of more and more money.
“Didn’t you?” Rob shrugged. “Reese told me you did, but I don’t suppose it matters. Have you been able to make any progress with Winslowe?”
“Progress?”
Rob allowed his irritation to surface briefly. “To get him to back off. The government doesn’t have much of a case without Winslowe’s assistance. He can still make or break your father. Surely after all this time you have some influence.”
“None at all.”
Rob looked as if he was going to argue the point, then thought better of it. “Then I’d better take you home. We have work to do.”
“We do?”
“Don’t be dense, Meggie. We can still effect a coverup. Discredit Winslowe. He won’t take the stand, of course, and we can poke holes in his so-called evidence. Make it seem like he’s just trying to foist the blame onto Reese. After all, why would he want to be a one-man vigilante? What business is it of his how Reese builds his buildings?” Rob took her hand, exerting his considerable charm. “Come on, baby, together we can do anything. We were good together, you know that. We can whip this company back into shape, send Reese on a nice long honeymoon and when he comes back, no one will remember the stink that Winslowe made. We’ll talk him into an early retirement and—”
“What’s this ‘we’?” she asked, calmly detaching her hand from his.
“They’ve named you temporary president, Meggie. We need you back to mount a fight. Without you, my hands are tied.”
She smiled faintly. “I’m not coming back.”
He looked as if he’d been slapped. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t leave your father in the lurch like this. If we don’t do something, he’s going to be looking at massive fines. Maybe even a prison term.”
“Good.”
“Baby…”
“Don’t call me baby. I never liked it. Carey Enterprises can go belly-up for all I care. The people who work for the company can find other jobs. More honorable ones. My father can pay his debt, either out of his pocket or with a few years of his life. I’m not going to bail him out with lies. I’m not going to discredit Ethan Winslowe to do it.”
“What the hell’s been going on here?” Rob growled.
“What do you think? I’ve been gone two weeks, and I haven’t been spending them alone.”
“You’re sleeping with him? With that monster?” Rob demanded, aghast.
“That’s none of your business. And what’s between Ethan and my father is none of mine. Go away, Rob. I’ll be just fine here.”
He shook his head in disgust. “Just like that? You want to stay in this godforsaken place, surrounded by a town of genetic throwbacks?”
“Let’s just say I don’t want to go anywhere with you. When I’m ready to leave, I’ll leave on my own.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Goodbye, Rob. Give my father my love.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He started toward the door, then turned, ready to give it one last try.
She wasn’t prepared for his move. One moment, she was watching him leave, struggling with her own mixed feelings about once more dismissing deliverance, the next, she was wrapped in his arms, his wet mouth devouring hers, his hips grinding against her, his hands on her rear, yanking her up against him.
She fought against him. Somewhere in the distant recesses of her mind, she thought she heard a roar of rage, but it had to be her imagination. A moment later, Rob was plucked off her, sent spinning against the door by Salvatore’s efficient strength.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Sal said in a friendly tone. “Mr. Winslowe doesn’t take kindly to people manhandling his guests. Particularly Miss Carey.”
Rob stared at the two of them, and his breath was coming in rapid puffs. “What the hell is going on between you and Winslowe?” he demanded again, running a hand through his hair. He looked disheveled, far different from the corporate yuppie she’d been so briefly involved with.
“Goodbye, Rob.”
He opened his mouth to make another demand, but not a sound came out, since Salvatore had picked him up by the seat of his pants and started him toward the door. A moment later, she heard him go flying, then the slam of the door behind him.
Salvatore reappeared, rubbing his hands together briskly. “I can’t say much for your taste in men.”
“Go to hell,” she snapped.
“So you want to stay after all?”
She was immediately wary. “I didn’t say that. I just didn’t want to go with him.”
“Picky, aren’t you?” Sal murmured. “I’ll take you to your new rooms.”
“New rooms?” she moaned. “Can’t I spend more than one night in the same room?”
“Nope. Not according to Ethan. Besides, we don’t want you making any more nocturnal visits, now do we? Mr. Winslowe cherishes his privacy.” Sal started down one of the hallways, a different one from the two she’d taken so far, and she hesitated for a moment, wondering whether she ought to placate Rob long enough to get a ride to the nearest airport.
No, she couldn’t do that. Not when she remembered his soft hands and blubbery mouth. And his sleazy justification for her father’s criminal negligence.
Not when she remembered Ethan Winslowe, the two disparate sides of his face, the unearthly beauty and harsh disfigurement. Not when she remembered his mouth, his hands, his strength, his need.
She looked down at the ring on her finger. Now the god with two faces made sense to her.
For the time being, she wasn’t going anywhere. Not anywhere at all.
Chapter Twelve
The cold, rainy weather of April turned to May, swamping the deserted little corner of Arkansas with a blast of heat. The flowers burst forth into sensuous blossoms, lilacs and irises and roses and peonies, and Megan left
the windows open in the various rooms she was put in, left the windows open to welcome in the warm air, the scent of spring. Left them open to Ethan.
She knew he came sometimes while she slept. She would dream that a hand brushed across her face, drifting down her throat gently, a caress as light as the wind. She knew he watched her, watched her on the video monitors, came and stood by her while she slept. She always knew the nights he came to her. When she awoke, her skin would feel flushed, sensitive, tingling with life. But ten days passed without her even seeing his shadow in the moonlight.
Ten days of moving from room to room with only Salvatore’s dour presence for company, with the occasional relief of Ruth’s determined friendliness. Ten days of solitude, of an odd sort of serenity as she waited. Waited for the inevitable. Waited for him to come to her.
She had no doubt that he would. She could feel him all around her, feel his wanting, feel his need. At times, she wondered whether it was only her own, confused need that she was projecting onto him. Those were the dark times, the anxious times that sent her prowling the gardens, looking for solace, looking for Joseph and his remote wisdom.
But he was missing, too. Occasionally, she’d glimpse him in the distance, but by the time she reached the spot where she’d seen him, he’d be gone without a trace, only the scent of freshly-tended flowers reminding her that he’d been there.
Ten days. There were times when she awoke in the middle of the night, alone and frightened in the darkness. Those were the nights when Ethan hadn’t come, hadn’t watched her, hadn’t touched her, she knew that without question. Those nights were the hardest.
Reality intruded into her dreamlike existence on those nights. She’d think of Reese, alone, under indictment, facing disgrace, facing jail, with his own child turned against him, missing from the face of the earth. Except that he knew exactly where she was, had sent her there, sacrificed her in a last-ditch effort to save his own hide.
She’d think of her apartment, of going to the movies, going out to dinner, reading the latest historical romance, eating yogurt and ice cream and drinking Diet Coke. Here she seemed to exist on hummingbird’s tongues, food arcane and elegant enough to be an art form in itself. Every now and then, she’d struggle into the tightest pair of jeans she’d brought with her, certain that she had to be fading away like a good Gothic heroine. They were still as tight as ever across her hips.
She took to wearing the long, flowing garments Ruth had brought her, wispy things that drifted around her body in a flow of what she knew had to be silk. She wouldn’t have worn them, except they were so comfortable, she told herself as she floated from room to room, wondering where Ethan was, wondering when he’d reappear. And nothing she did brought her any peace.
Sometimes, she thought she could hear him, his words, soft, drawing her deeper and deeper into the spider’s web of enchantment he’d spun around her, and her dreams would turn sharply, deeply erotic. She was being bewitched, she knew it full well. Hypnotized, caught up in a spell that, sooner or later, she’d have to break. But for now, she felt strangely powerless, content to drift on a tide of lazy sensuality, her every whim catered to. Except her need for him.
ETHAN FOUGHT HIS NEED for her. For ten endless days, he wrestled with it, determined to keep his distance. Determined to push his longing for her, his aching need, to the level of a minor annoyance.
It was a losing battle. Maybe if he’d been able to keep away from her. Turn off the video monitors, turn off his desire for her. Maybe if he’d been able to keep to his underground lair, away from her.
But the temptation was impossible to resist. He would see her in the grainy, black-and-white monitor, watch her as she slept and know that he had to get closer. To breathe the same air. To smell the flowery scent that seemed to surround her. To touch her gilded hair. Salvatore was wrong—her hair wasn’t the color of sunlight. Sunlight was harsh, glaring.
No, her shoulder-length blond waves were the exact shade of moonlight on a white rose blossom. A dreamy midnight color, silken to his gently questing fingers.
He had to send her away. He kept telling himself that he had to. The situation in town was escalating to intolerable levels, and he was giving it far too little attention as long as he was distracted by his unwilling guest. If he sent her away without touching her, he could concentrate on his lengthy plans for revenge.
But if he sent her away without touching her, it might just kill him. His body vibrated with longing for her; his soul ached for her. And he was half afraid he was going mad.
Just one more night, he promised himself. One last time. He turned off the monitor, secure in the knowledge that Sal was somewhere in the town of Oak Grove. Not that he didn’t know exactly where Ethan disappeared to at night. But for this last night, Ethan didn’t want a witness.
She slept lightly, fitfully, but he had the ability to move in complete silence. He stood over her as she lay on the bed, the white muslin curtains billowing around her, and he reached out his hand to touch the gentle swell of her breast.
But that would wake her and precipitate everything he’d been resisting. He pulled his hand back as if scorched, and a spasm of rage swept over him. It had been years since he’d railed against the unfairness of life. He’d accepted it with a certain grudging cynicism.
But tonight he wasn’t in the mood to accept anything. He wanted to take and take and take. And he knew if he stood there for one minute more, he’d do exactly that.
He moved out into the garden, stopping by the shallow pool, staring blindly at the reflection of the moon. The longing was so intense, it shook his body, and in full, aching silence, he tilted back his head and called to her, not with his voice, but with his heart. Called for her to come to him, to break the impasse that was tearing him apart.
To come to him when he wouldn’t let himself go to her. To come to him. To love him. Now.
MEGAN AWOKE ABRUPTLY, pulled from her sleep by an inexorable force. She lay there against the feather pillows, her eyes open in the darkness, trying to remember where she was. Slowly it came to her, inevitably.
They’d moved her to a new room the day before, a huge, airy room painted in white, with yards of white muslin curtains at every window, including the French doors that led into the garden. The bed was mammoth, bigger than a king-size one, and set on a low dais. The sheets were white, too, the softest Egyptian cotton, and the few pieces of furniture, the table, the one comfortable chair, were all white. The only trace of color in the room had been the flowers, a small vase of something she didn’t recognize. They were a deep bloodred, with perfectly formed blossoms and a hypnotic scent that filled the room, filled her senses.
The small walled garden matched the room. Every flower in the garden was white—white roses, white peonies, white irises, white lilacs. She had no doubt at all that when the later flowers bloomed, they, too, would be white.
There was a shallow pool in the center of the garden, the pathways with their white crushed stone leading to it, and the clear blue of the water echoed the blue of the sky. The place was perfect, serenely beautiful and yet oddly, subtly unsettling.
She sat up in bed, in the darkness, the pervasive scent of the flowers filling the air. She pushed back the covers, reaching for the light, and then pulled her hand back. The moon was full that night, she could see the bright reflection of the garden through the billowing curtains. A breeze had come up, filling the room with life, and for a moment, she didn’t move.
She should lie down and pull the covers around her, she told herself. She should close her eyes, close her heart, keep safe from the phantoms of the night.
But he was calling to her. She could hear him, in her heart. She could feel him, nearby at last, waiting for her, calling for her. And she could no more ignore that call than she could stop her heart from beating.
She slid from the bed, pushing aside the filmy curtains. The room was a shifting mass of shadows, but she knew without question he wasn’t there. He’d been the
re, watching her again. And then he’d left, for what reason she couldn’t fathom. He’d left without touching her, without waking her, but deep within his tortured soul, he was calling to her.
And she was answering that call with a kind of dazed certainty. Time had lost all meaning. All that mattered was Ethan, calling to her to come to him. At last.
She moved through the room blindly, her long white robe trailing after her, out past the billowing white curtains, through the open door into the garden.
The landscape was bathed in moonlight, the white flowers glowing faintly. In the shallow pool she could see the reflection of the moon, round and full and pearly white like the flowers of the garden. And she could see the reflection of Ethan, dressed in black, his body tall and lithe, his face turned away from her so that all she could see was the fall of black hair.
“Come to me,” he said, and she didn’t know whether the words were spoken aloud or directly to her heart. It didn’t matter. She moved toward him through the garden, her bare feet silent on the sharp white gravel, knowing she no longer had any choice in the matter. Her heart had taken away that choice. She was his completely, and he’d barely touched her.
She stopped in front of him, afraid to reach out her hand. He would have to make the first move. His face was in shadows, only the beautiful side remotely visible through the fall of hair, the shifting of the moon shadows through the garden. She tried to look up at him, but she was afraid, and instead, she closed her eyes, shivering lightly in the warm night air.
He touched her then, his hand sliding along her neck, beneath her heavy blond hair, tilting her head back to face him without pulling her closer. “Open your eyes, angel,” he said in a voice silken and beguiling. “Look at me.”
She had no choice but to do whatever that voice told her. She opened her eyes, looking up at him fearlessly. In the moonlit garden, the dark side of his face seemed to disappear, leaving only the unearthly beauty of his profile. It didn’t matter. It was more than his face that drew her to him.
