by J. R. Ward
Chapter Forty-two
Eliahu Rathboone's house went fully silent again about an hour after Gregg's aborted trip to the third floor, but he waited long after that butler had gone back downstairs before he gave the ascension another shot.
He and Holly passed the time not by fucking, which was their old MO, but by talking. And the thing was, he realized the more they said, the less he knew about her. He didn't have a clue that her hobby was something as apple pie-ish as knitting. Or that her larger ambition was to segue into real television news--which wasn't a shocker on the face of things: Lot of bobble- headed females in the reality world had loftier ambitions than introducing amateur high-steppers or commenting on how cockroaches were eaten. And he even knew that she'd given local news a shot in the Pittsburgh market before getting fired from that entry-level position.
What he hadn't had a clue about was the real reason why she'd left that first job of hers. The married general manager had expected her to perform for a different, more private kind of camera, and when she'd told him no, he'd pink-slipped her after setting her up to fail on air.
Gregg had seen the tape of the reporting job where she'd butchered her words. After all, he did his homework, and though her audition for him had gone great, he always checked references.
Guess that was what had started him off with his assumptions about her: pretty face, great rack, nothing much else to offer.
But that wasn't the worst of his misconceptions. He'd never known she had a brother. Who was handicapped. Who she was supporting.
She'd shown him a picture of the two of them together.
And when Gregg had asked out loud how it was possible he hadn't known about the boy? She'd had the honesty to tell him the way it was: Because you'd laid out the lines and that was over the line.
Naturally, he'd had the normal male reaction to defend himself, but the fact was, she was right. He had drawn the boundaries pretty fucking clearly. Which meant no jealousy, no explanations, nothing permanent and nothing personal.
Not exactly the environment you wanted to make yourself vulnerable in.
That realization was what had had him pulling her up against his chest and putting his chin on her head and stroking her back. Right before she'd gone to dreamland, she'd mumbled something in a soft voice. Something like, it was the best night she'd ever had with him.
And this in spite of the monstrous orgasms he'd given her.
Well, given her when it suited him. There had been a lot of dates that he'd canceled at the last minute and phone messages that went unreturned and brush-offs both verbal and physical.
Man. . . what a shit he'd been.
When Gregg fianlly got up to go, he tucked Holly in, turned the motion-activated camera on, and slipped out into the hallway. Silence all around.
Padding down the corridor, he went back to the Exit sign and ducked into that rear stairwell. Up the steps, around the landing, another flight, and then he was at the door.
No banging this time around. He took out a thin screwdriver that was normally used on the camera equipment and got to work jimmying the lock. It was easier than he'd thought, actually. Just one poke and shift and the thing sprang loose.
The door did not squeak, which surprised him.
What was on the other side, however. . . shocked the ever loving hell out of him.
The third floor was a cavernous space with old- fashioned, rough- hewn floorboards and a ceiling that sloped at a steep angle on either side. Down at the far end, there was a table with an oil lamp on it and the glow turned the smooth walls into a golden yellow. . . as well as illuminated the black boots of whoever was sitting in a chair just outside the pool of light.
Big boots.
And suddenly, there was no question who the SOB was and what he'd done.
"I have you on tape," Gregg said to the figure.
The soft laugh that came back at him made Gregg's adrenal gland go into overdrive: Low and cold, it was the kind of sound killers made when they were about to get to work with a knife.
"Do you. " That accent. What the fuck was it? Not French. . . not Hungarian. . .
Whatever. The idea Holly had been taken advantage of made him taller and stronger than he really was. "I know what you did. The night before last. "
"I'd tell you to take a chair, but as you can see, I only have one. "
"I'm not fucking around. " Gregg took a step forward. "I know what happened with her. She didn't want you. "
"She wanted the sex. "
Motherfucking asshole. "She was asleep. "
"Was she. " The boot tip swung up and down. "Appearances, like psyches, can be deceiving. "
"Who the hell do you think you are?"
"I own this fine house. That is who I am. I'm the one who gave you permission to play with all your cameras. "
"Well, you can kiss that shit good-bye now. I'm not advertising this place. "
"Oh, I think you will. It's in your nature. "
"You don't know dick about me. "
"I think it's the other way around. You don't know. . . dick, as you call it. . . about yourself. She said your name, by the way. When she came. "
This made Gregg furious, to the point that he took another step forward.
"I would be careful there," the voice said. "You don't want to get hurt. And I'm considered to be insane. "
"I'm calling the police. "
"You have no cause. Consenting adults and all that. "
"She was asleep!"
That boot shifted around and planted on the ground. "Watch your tone, boy. "
Before there was time to get fired up about the insult, the man leaned forward in the chair. . . and Gregg lost his voice.
What came into the light made no sense. On a shitload of levels.
It was the portrait. From downstairs in the parlor. Only living and breathing. The only difference was that the hair was not pulled back; it was down over shoulders that were two times the size of Gregg's and the stuff was black and red.
Oh, God. . . those eyes were the color of the sunrise, gleaming and peach-colored.
Utterly hypnotic.
And yes, partially mad.
"I suggest," came a drawl in that odd accent, "that you back out of this attic and go down to that lovely lady of yours--"
"Are you a descendant of Rathboone's?"
The man smiled. Right, okay. . . there was something very wrong with his front teeth. "He and I have things in common, it's true. "
"Jesus. . . "
"Time for you to run along and finish your little project. " No more with the smiling, which was a relief of sorts. "And a word of advice in lieu of the ass-kicking I'm tempted to give you. You might take care of your woman better than you have been lately. She has honest feelings for you, which is not her fault, and which you clearly have been undeserving of--or you wouldn't smell like guilt at this moment. You're lucky to have the one you want by your side, so stop being a blind fool about it. "
Gregg didn't get shocked all that often. But for the life of him, he didn't have any idea what to say.
How did this stranger know so much?
And Christ, Gregg hated that Holly had been with someone else. . . but she had said his name?
"Wave good-bye. " Rathboone lifted his own hand and mimed a child's gesture. "I promise to leave your woman alone, provided you quit ignoring her. Now go on, bye-bye. "
Out of a reflex that was not his own, Gregg brought up his arm and did a little flapping before his feet turned his ass around and started walking toward the door.
God, his temples hurt. God. . . damn. . . why was. . . where. . .
His mind ground to a halt, as if its gears had been glued up.
Down to the second floor. Down to his room.
As he took off his clothes and got into bed in his boxers, he put his aching head on the pillow next to Holly's, drew her up against him, and tried to reme
mber. . . .
He was supposed to do something. What was--
The third floor. He had to go up to the third floor. He had to find out what was up there--
Fresh pain lanced through his brain, killing not only the impulse to go anywhere, but any interest in what was above them in the attic.
Closing his eyes, he had the strangest vision of a foreign stranger with a familiar face. . . but then he passed the fuck out and nothing else mattered.
