by test
Yikes, where did that thought come from? Sensual eating, sheesh! Did I have Stockholm Syndrome already? I blanched in fear. Was I going to fall in love with him over the dessert course?
I felt an urge to blurt out my questions, but decided it would be best to wait for the end of dinner to find out why I was here. After all, a girl had to eat, right? The food was making me feel calmer, safer and less apt to be surprised again too.
I was beginning to think that I wouldn't be raped and murdered after all. I had seen Gage WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 20
with women. Too many women. He wasn't hard up for female companionship and the more time I spent with him the less he seemed like a man who would kidnap a women to get a thrill.
Then again, I bet most serial rapist-murderers seemed like ordinary guys. But what other reason could there be?
Celia and I didn't have any money, so it couldn't be for a ransom. I didn't possess any top secret information. I worked for a corporate attorney who represented mostly banks and credit unions. I wracked my brains running through the client list trying to think of any ways that insider information would be worth kidnapping me for. I came up blank, Lillian didn't have any potentially explosive cases that I knew about. Nor did any of the other attorneys in the firm. I didn't have any rich or famous friends and I didn't belong to any clubs or religious groups that would bring any kind of attention to me.
I set my fork down with a sigh, my appetite suddenly gone and waited for Gage to explain why I was here, eating chicken with him. Not that I didn't like chicken or eating for that matter, but this was beyond belief and I felt stuck on the thought that all of this, the house, him and dinner was happening to someone else.
He had faint lines next to his eyes and mouth. His clothing wasn't what you would see on a twenty-something college student and he had a refined look about him that screamed old money, connections and education. What was his part in this?
I thought he was in his mid thirties, perhaps as old as thirty-seven but most likely thirty-three or thirty-four. He was wearing a navy blue sweater with a rolled collar, it looked like cashmere to my untutored eyes. His hair was cut closely to his head in a deceptively simple style.
I knew that kind of haircut was worth a paycheck to me but was probably chump change to a man who wore cashmere sweaters and had a house like this. Disturbingly, the house seemed empty, which bothered me more than seeing people bustling around doing the things that needed to be done in a place this size.
It wasn't Buckingham Palace, but obviously, he didn't do the washing up and cooking himself. I had an image of him sweating over the stove in a frilly apron, nah. But, where was everyone then?
As if on cue, two sober faced men walked into the room. With swift, economical
movements they removed my plate and glass as well as the serving dishes. I tried to catch their eyes, but they both kept their heads down and I was too intimidated to say anything.
With a quiet swish of the door, they left the room loaded down with our dinner dishes.
Moments later they returned with two small silver bowls. I looked at mine as it was set before me. A small white pudding was decorated with sugared violets and slivers of almonds. A light scent of marzipan rose from the dish and I breathed it in with an appreciative sigh. I debated whether or not to eat the creamy dessert. Finally I decided, sure, why not? This could be my last dessert, ever.
The pudding was sweet and light and I savored each mouthful letting it melt on my tongue while studying the room around me. The painting on the wall behind Gage was beautiful, it looked like a Rembrandt, all gorgeous jewel tones and shadows. But, the subject matter was strange; two men in brown robes were holding large glass balls and women in red robes stood behind the men with pitchers of water and large metal sticks that reminded me of the dousing rods that primitive peoples had used to find water. What were they doing? Another mystery I hoped to solve.
WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 21
Brightly colored Persian rugs were scattered on the floor and an intricate tapestry as tall as Gage hung from the wall between soaring diamond paned windows. The tapestry was faded and a little threadbare in spots, but I could still see the tall, elegant woman, a knife in one hand and a lightening bolt arcing from the other as she stared straight forward with a cold, intense expression.
In the background I could see small animals, rat-like, with red eyes and scaly tails brushing the ground. Dark clouds gathered around her head and a constellation that I thought might be Orion, was barely visible in the right corner. It was beautiful and intricate and must have taken an age to make, but the subject matter was a little off, disturbing in a way I couldn't put my finger on. The dining room was elegant with gold leaf on the ceiling and a deep amber wall color, but the bizarre artwork was distracting and set my teeth on edge.
“I know you must be very confused. I will try to explain everything in as simple a way as possible,” he said with an understanding smile.
I bristled at that, simple? What was I, some mentally deficient crackhead? But I bit my tongue and kept quiet, focusing my full attention on him.
“Twenty three years ago, no, wait, I have to go back further. Almost twenty four years ago, my father, Lawrence Hawthorne, signed a contract with the head of the Vallois family, Lucien Vallois. The contract was for a marriage and breeding, ahem … children. Lucien's wife Helene was pregnant with her second child. The child was female and the contract was for Helene's daughter to marry me, Lawrence Hawthorne's only child. Six months later a little girl was born. Helene named her Amelie and I saw her for the first and only time on her second birthday for a binding ceremony that was performed by her father and mine. The ceremony was attended by both families and made it impossible for either of us to break the contract without bringing shame on ourselves and our families.”
He stopped a moment to take a sip of wine and sighed deeply before continuing, “When Amelie was three years old, her Aunt Celeste made a visit to her sister Helene. While Helene was at a doctor's appointment, Celeste stole the little girl. For the next twenty years Amelie's family, and I, have looked for her everywhere. A sizable reward was offered and dozens of investigators were sent out to look for her as well. I received an anonymous tip two years ago that Amelie was living with her Aunt in Tucson, Arizona. I flew to Arizona immediately to find that Celeste had already fled taking her niece with her. I spent the next two years looking for her all over the American Southwest. This was the first solid tip I had ever gotten, the closest I had come to tracking Celeste and Amelie down. I followed up on sightings as far away as Bangkok and Montreal. But every time, she was already gone or had never even been there. I had hundreds of investigators running down any clue to Amelie's whereabouts. I followed up on every tip, but it was no good, we couldn't find her. Until two days ago, I got a picture from a contact.”
“George is a restaurant critic and an old friend of the family. He ate dinner at a small French restaurant in Portland, Oregon and saw a lovely redhead who matched my description, including the fetching mole on her right cheek. He took a quick picture of her with his cell phone and emailed it to my office and then followed her and her date outside and took note of her car's license plate number and the make of her car.”
My date with Allen at Chez Josephine I realized in a flash. Chez Josephine was the restaurant I suggested because it was close to the movie theater and my apartment.
I noticed a man come into the restaurant who was fawned over by all the wait staff. He WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 22
ordered his meal in flawless French, impressive, and then sent the wine steward back three times to chill the bottle of champagne he ordered to a subarctic temperature. Allen and I laughed about the way the staff fawned over the man and we wondered if he might be a celebrity.
My mind was a whirl of thoughts, half remembered impressions of people from the past; a tall man who smelled like coffee, swimming with a dark haired boy, playing hide and seek
in a large house surrounded by wild flowers. Were these my memories of the past or was I reaching for a childhood that never happened? Hoping to make more of my family than was really there.
Celia told me my dad was an accountant and my mother a part time clerk at a hospital.
There was something appealing in imagining more about them. That they weren't dead and were looking for me all this time. The fantasies of an orphan who couldn't remember her family I supposed.
When I was a little girl I used to have nightmares. I would wake up screaming, drenched in sweat. I slept with a flashlight for years. I kept the light in bed with me, afraid I wouldn't be able to reach it when I woke up if it wasn't close by.
In the dreams I was lost and looking for my family. I had a mother, father and a brother.
I could see them, but they couldn't see me and the more I tried to run to them the farther away they were until I couldn't see them anymore and a waiting shadow gobbled me up.
I stopped having the dreams when I was ten or eleven and hadn't thought about them since. But with Gage's story of the little girl, stolen from her family, they came back in vivid detail. I caught my breath at the pain that tightened my throat and made breathing difficult for a moment.
No way was I kidnapped by my aunt. I almost shook my head in denial at the thought and instead thought about what my childhood had been like. Tucson, Cleveland, Kansas City, Pasadena, Tallahassee, Boise, Toronto, Missoula, Charlotte and all the other cities we lived in, each blending together in a jumble of hastily packed bags, rental offices and new schools.
Celia's evasiveness about family and her insistence on my never staying the night at friend's houses. How she never let me get a school picture or compete in spelling bees, science fairs or talent contests. All the little things that seemed so normal as a child suddenly took on an ominous cast.
She didn't take me to the doctor when I got sick and my immunization record was spotty at best until a short trip to Nogales when I was nine. We saw a Dr. Diaz there and she made sure that I got all the shots a child my age needed to go to school.
My head was pounding, this was too much to think about. Gage must have the wrong woman, Celia wouldn't steal me from my family. Celia was the only family I had. My mother and father died in a car crash. I didn't have a brother, grandparents or cousins. Celia was my only living relative.
“My parents are dead, they died shortly after I was born. My Aunt Celia took me in and raised me as her own. I don't know why you think I am this girl Amelie, but I'm not. I am sorry to disappoint you and Amelie's family. I wish you luck in finding her.”
Gage was staring at me with a pitying look and I added, “If you don't mind I would like to go home now.” Even as I said it, I knew I was lying to myself.
What Gage was saying made sense. Celia was hiding something from me and I had, in my naivety, stopped asking questions. I liked my life in Portland. I had friends, my own apartment, a car and a good job, what wasn't to like about that? For the first time in my life I was independent. I did what I wanted and didn't have to answer to anyone about how I spent my WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 23
time or with whom I spent it with.
Gage rubbed his forehead like he had a sudden pain there and gave me a sad, considering look, “I was afraid of that. Come with me, I want to show you something.”
I followed him from the dining room and into a room off of the main hall. Ten foot high bookshelves lined the walls and were filled with hundreds of leather bound volumes. Golden light spilled out from lamps scattered on occasional tables around the room, creating a warm, inviting glow.
A well worn brown leather chair sat in front of a fireplace, a book was open and set on the arm of the chair waiting to be picked up and read.
Piles of books, maps and printouts littered the top of a large wooden table in the center of the room. A huge gray stone fireplace, big enough for a fully grown man to stand in, had a quietly smoldering fire in it. All in all, the room was cozy and warm, it seemed like a nice place to spend an evening and from the look of the books strewn here and there around the well worn chairs, I would guess Gage spent a lot of time in here.
But my feet dragged as we entered the room because it was familiar. I had been here before. Not literally of course, but I had been here several times in my dreams of Gage. He spent a lot of time in here. I could see him reading in front of the fire and climbing the rolling ladder to replace a book on the top shelf. With a mental shake I shook off my memories and focused on the here and now.
Gage walked to a huge, ornately carved desk at the end of the room. He opened a drawer and pulled out a manila folder and set it down on the edge of the desk and beckoned for me to come closer. I walked forward, and with an encouraging look from him, I opened the file.
It was full of photographs. The first was of a pretty woman with long dark hair and green eyes. She had a friendly smile and had been photographed sitting on the beach wearing shorts and a flowered maternity shirt that stretched over her hugely pregnant belly. Her arm was curled protectively around her abdomen and she was squinting in the sun.
The next was of the same dark haired woman with a tall red haired man. She was in a hospital bed holding a pink, wrinkle faced newborn. The couple looked tired but exhilarated as they smiled at the camera.
More pictures followed, one of a little girl with red hair twisting into little ringlets around her head riding a tiny pink tricycle. The same little girl on a shaggy gray pony and then one of her sitting with a boy with dark hair and a solemn smile on the deck of a sailboat. But it was the last two photographs that broke my heart.
Celia, looking younger, dressed in a pink, lacy bridesmaid gown handing a bouquet to the brilliantly smiling dark haired woman. She was younger than I had ever seen her and her hair was longer, but it was definitely her. I compared her smile to the other woman's, it was the same, the same dimples and dark hair too.
The next picture was of Celia holding the hand of the little red haired girl. Celia's eyes were focused off to the side, like she was looking at someone to the right of the picture. The little girl had a happy smile and was proudly holding up a new dolly to be photographed.
The doll had golden hair gathered into pigtails with tiny white bows, she wore a blue dress with little cherries embroidered on the front and already the dress had a smudge of dirt on the hem.
My finger came out to touch the picture, it was shaking, “My dolly, Lola … I don't understand. Celia is Celeste? That man and woman are my parents?” Tears coursed down my WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 24
face as I turned to look at Gage. There was a terrible pain in my chest and it was hard to breathe.
“Why? Why would Celia take me away from them? What happened? How could she do that to me?” I was shaking and wrapped my arms around myself feeling broken and lost.
Everything I knew about myself was a lie. My whole life was a lie.
Gage's expression was sad and the warm hand he placed on my arm was comforting, “I don't know. I called your mother and brother, they'll be here tomorrow morning. I think your mother will know more about what happened.”
I thought about that for a minute, my parents were alive, I had a brother. I probably had cousins, grandparents even. Maybe other siblings now. My mother had been young enough when she lost me to have other children.
“Why isn't my father coming too?” I turned to him with an inquiring look.
His face was grim and he shook his head, “Your father Lucien, well, he died about five years after you were taken. The stress, it wore him down, he never recovered from the shock.
I'm so sorry Anna, he was a good man.”
I felt a pang of grief at the thought that I would never see him.
“I have a brother? What's his name? How old is he?” I asked through a teary smile.
Having a brother was a cheery thought and in my sad state I clung to the thought of him gratefully.
Gage smiled back at me and pushe
d some of the photos to the side and showed me the picture of the little boy sitting with me on the deck of a boat, “His name is Laurent, he's four, almost five years older than you.”
I studied the photograph and looked for clues to my heritage. Did we have the same nose, the same shaped eyes? Laurent looked more like his mother than I did. I felt weird thinking that phrase, my mother. My mother Helene was alive. I had a big brother too, it was almost too much to take in.
“Where do they live?” I asked with an interested look at Gage. I had an insane urge to hug him and thank him for finding me that was at odds with my horrified feelings about being kidnapped and not having any of this explained to me earlier.
Why not just tell me about my family in Portland? I would have come with him willingly then. Plus the weird dreams about him still had me on edge. What the hell were they about?
But with an effort I pushed those thoughts aside and tried to think about something else.
Naturally, I focused on Celia, but thinking about her made me want to curl up in bed and howl in misery. I knew I would have to face it later, but for now, I just needed to make it through the night.
Unwillingly, my mind strayed to the first part of his story, the marriage contract. But it was too ridiculous to linger on, who arranged marriages for babies anymore? Stuff like that went out with whalebone corsets and trepanning in the eighteenth century. I wasn't even sure that people did that then, maybe royal families, but not normal people. Not accountant’s daughters. Although, since Celia lied about my parents being dead, maybe she lied about that too. They could be circus performers or dentists for all I knew.
“They live in Paris. They're driving over early tomorrow morning.”
“Paris, France? But how could they get from Paris to … wait a minute … where am I?”
I asked with a suspicious glance around the room. As if there was some obvious clue in here to my whereabouts that I had somehow overlooked.
