Passion's Wicked Torment

by Melissa Hepburne

  “Oh, it was nothing,” said André with false pride. “Any truly red-blooded yellowbelly would have done the same.” He took a very long swig of his wine, draining the entire glass.

  Kristin could see he was not as proud or uncaring about his cowardice as he pretended to be. His brow was furled in guilt and self-loathing, which were qualities Kristin had become an expert at detecting. She had a great deal of practice from noticing these traits in herself.

  She excused herself from the table. The men rose as she stood up. “Count, I’d like to stay here for more than just the night. For a few days, if that’s all right.”

  Heinrich’s face brightened. “It’s more than all right, my dear. It’s perfectly wonderful. I’ll be delighted to have your company.”

  Count Heinrich thought he was going to get something that he was most definitely not going to get, Kristin reflected. But let him find out about that later. Meantime, she was spared the problem of having to go back to the hotel, where Dallas might already be waiting for her. He was a smart man. He would not be deterred by having the clerk tell him Kristin had checked out.

  “I say, darling, hold it up just a bit.” Brady hurried after her as she walked to the tower stairway that would take her up to her guest room. Krakow, holding a candle, had been leading the way. Brady took the candle. “I’ll show her to her room, Krakow. Thank you.” He ignored the grounds keeper’s unpleasant look and guided Kristin up the stone stairway with his hand on her waist.

  “Thank you,” she said when they reached the door of the guest room. She waited for him to leave.

  “I was hoping I might come in for a few moments.” Brady’s eyes were glowing with hopefulness.

  “If you like.” Kristin pushed the door open and walked into the room. She looked around. The walls were of ancient stone. The room was circular, since it was only one section of the circular tower. It should have been chilly, but Krakow had set a fire during dinner. A thick burgundy rug graced the floor, giving an added touch of warmth. The bed was a magnificent old canopied fourposter, with a thick embroidered bedspread. Kristin rather liked the room. It was sparse and ascetic, even with the touches of warmth.

  Behind her, Brady shut and bolted the door. She turned to face him, questioningly. “To keep André from barging in on us,” he explained. “For a . . . moment.” He came up to her and grasped her hands in his. “Kristin, darling, I have to talk to you. I. . . .” He seemed overcome with desire. This was the first time he had had her alone ever since the Eiffel Tower incident. Though he had tried to arrange a private rendezvous several times, she had always refused him. He put his arms around her and pulled her close, kissing her passionately.

  Kristin did not respond. She lay limp in his arms. He pulled his head back. “Darling, I’m insane about you. You must know that. Why do you always insist I be with André when I see you? Don’t you know how much I want to ... to. . . .”

  “Yes, I know.” Her voice was distant. She looked at him and thought that she really had no reason not to give him what he wanted. After all, what did she have left to preserve? Pride? Self-respect? No, that had all vanished months ago.

  And he was quite handsome, with his brown hair combed across his forehead, above his green eyes. He had a young, shining, all-American face. With looks like that, it was right that he was a famous jazzage novelist, she reflected.

  “Darling, let me stay with you here. Tonight.” He was no good at disguising his emotions. His eyes showed that he was practically pleading with her.

  “No,” she said, pushing away from him. “I’m sorry, Craig.”

  “But I’m in love with you!” he protested.

  “No, you’re not. You’re in lust with me.”

  “Let’s not quibble over words. I want you, that’s all that really counts.”

  This made her smile, despite herself. That was one of the things she liked about this American writer. He was a perfect cad and dissolute hellraiser, but he was honest in his own way. She decided to be honest with him in return.

  “My mind’s on something else now. I can’t think about you. I’m thinking about Dallas Hunter.”

  He scowled in frustration. “Well, blast it all! You mean that’s all that’s keeping us apart? Your thinking about him?”

  “And worrying about him. I don’t want him to find me.” She had an idea, and she put her hands seductively on Brady’s chest and looked up into his eyes. She knew she was being false in pretending more interest in him than she really had. But she would do what she was about to promise. From Brady’s point of view, that was all that would really matter. “Craig, if you could somehow keep him away, I’d be ever so grateful to you.”

  “Well, how shall I do that?” He looked confused. “Surely you don’t have anything in the way of personal confrontation in mind?”

  “Mislead him! Make sure he doesn’t find out where I’m staying! There are a million things you—”

  “Hey!” shouted André’s perturbed voice from beyond the door. “S’il vous plait. Open up in there!” He began banging on the door. “Visiting hours are extended to immediate family only. Open up, I say!” Kristin looked up into Brady’s green eyes. Her own eyes were filled with promise. “You do this for me,” she said in a sultry, sexy voice, “and I’ll be grateful to you. Very grateful.” She kissed him on the lips, a soft kiss. He became excited and pressed his own lips hard against hers.

  “Termite inspector,” called André from beyond the door, disguising his voice. “I’m here to inspect the termites. Open up, please.”

  Brady’s hand drifted down to Kristin’s breast and enclosed it. His eyes burned hotly. Kristin did not try to pull away. She put her hand over his on her breast and held it there. She felt deceitful as she let him believe she cared for him.

  “You’ll do this for me?” she asked. “It’s important. It’s urgent! Keep him away. Keep Dallas Hunter away. I never want to see him again, ever!”

  “What is he to you?” asked Brady.

  “Air raid!” shouted André from beyond the door. “Everyone open the doors and rush down to the basement! A new war’s been declared. I have it on the best authority.” When the door did not open, there was a frustrated kick at the base of it. “Oh, come on, chérie,” he whined. “I love you too.”

  Kristin said one more thing to Brady. “Stop by my hotel and pick up the rest of my clothing before you return here,” she instructed him. Then she walked away and unbolted and opened the door.

  André looked surprised to see the door actually opening. He stared at Kristin, inspecting her attire for signs of hasty dressing. He stared at his friend, who was still fully clothed. He looked relieved but still suspicious. “Chérie, is this man bothering you? If he is, just say the word. I challenge him to a duel . . . with Leo.” He slapped his hands together as if washing them of the whole matter. “That should take care of the brute. Leo is an excellent shot.”

  “He wasn’t bothering me. He was acting as a Cyrano and proposing to me on your behalf.”

  “Really?” said André, beaming, playing along. “And did you accept?”

  “Of course,” smiled Kristin. “I always accept, don’t I?”

  André shrugged. He started to come into the room. “No,” Kristin said, stopping him. “I’m going to sleep now. You both go downstairs. You’re staying in the living room, isn’t that right?” She turned to Brady with a secret twinkle in her eye. “Unless you have something else to do tonight.”

  “Right!” said Brady. “André, old sport, we’re returning to Paris. You and I.”

  “But why?” he challenged.

  “I have business to attend to, and you are not to be trusted alone in a beautiful lady’s presence.”

  “I protest!”

  “Of course, you do. In the meantime, we shall go.” He bowed to Kristin and said, “Good evening.”

  André looked at Kristin. He was puzzled and suspected that something was going on between her and his friend. He did not resist thou
gh, and when Kristin smiled and bade him good-night, he allowed Brady to guide him away.

  Kristin shut and bolted the door, then went over to the fireplace and sat in a wicker chair before it. She was in a turmoil over Dallas Hunter. She was agitated by the fact that hè was here in France, searching for her. She wanted with all her heart to never see him again. I despise him! she told herself. But she knew that this was not wholly true. It was true, though, that she did not ever want to see him again.

  Would Brady succeed in throwing him off her trail? Probably, she thought. Her American friend was a very smart man and could be extremely cunning and crafty when he put his mind to it. The reward she promised him would certainly motivate him to do his devious best, that she was sure of.

  Well, there was nothing else to do but wait and see. She took her flannel nightshirt from her overnight bag and began undressing. A hand beyond the bolted door tried the latch, attempting to open the door. Failing, the effort was followed by a strange-sounding voice. It was Leo trying to sound honey-sweet. “Mistress Fleming, may I see you?”

  “No,” she called.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “Go away.”

  “If I could just—”

  “Go away!” she ordered harshly. She didn’t care if he became angry. He wouldn’t kick her out. She knew his type. He would wait until morning and try again, and if that failed, he would keep trying, again and again. Kristin despised him.

  There was a frustrated stamping of feet beyond the door as the count retreated down the stairs.

  Kristin prepared for bed, confident that Brady would succeed in his mission. She was surprised and disconcerted when she woke up the next morning to the sound of a racing engine. Looking out her window, she saw Dallas Hunter speeding recklessly up the drive in a gleaming roadster. He screeched to a halt at the castle entrance.

  CHAPTER 28

  Kristin ran out of her room and down the stairs. Heinrich was not in the main room, but Krakow wâs. He had been eating an early breakfast prior to making his inspection of the grounds. He heard the car screeching to a halt in front of the castle and was now on his way to the door.

  “Don’t let him in!” Kristin screamed.

  “What? Who is he?”

  “Don’t let him in! Keep him away from me!”

  A banging came to the front door. Heinrich came out of his room and ran down the sairs, alerted by Kristin’s screams. He was wearing a faded red-flannel nightshirt, and he looked like a walrus in it. He was rubbing his eyes. “What is the commotion? What is happening?”

  “She says not to let him in,” said Krakow in a sharp voice, nodding at Kristin.

  The banging came to the front door again.

  “Who is it?” Leo asked Kristin.

  “A man I despise.” She found herself pleading. She was surprised at how powerful was her aversion to— fear of?—seeing Hunter. “Don’t let him see me. Don’t let him speak to me. Please!”

  “You ask a favor of me now, after treating me so rudely last night?”

  “Please!”

  Heinrich glared at her a moment, then nodded his head toward the stairs. “Go to your room. Bolt the door.”

  Kristin scurried up the stairs quickly. But instead of closing and bolting the door, she held it partly open so she could hear what was taking place. The first words she heard were low and partly mumbled, and it was not until she heard the door being opened that she realized what the words had been: “Get the shotgun, Krakow.” The door was open now, and she heard Hunter’s voice. It had been a long time since she had last heard it, and it had an undeniable impact on her. She felt herself tensing as the whirlpool of past emotions drew her in. “Count Heinrich?” asked Hunter.

  “Yes?”

  “You have a girl here as a guest. Kristin Fleming. I came to see her.”

  “She is not here.”

  “I don’t want to make trouble for you, Count. Save yourself the trouble and get out of my way. Because I’ll tell you flat out: I’m going to see her.”

  “May I ask why you wish to see this woman?”

  “Personal business.”

  “I am sorry. That is not good enough. Kindly remove yourself from my property.” There was the sound of movement as Heinrich apparently stepped aside, revealing Krakow. “This man is my assistant. The shotgun is loaded. I will be frank with you, as you were frank with me. If you do not leave this instant, I will have you shot. Is that clear?”

  Hunter said nothing. Kristin heard the sound of boots, and she quickly went to the window of her room. She could see the front of the castle. Hunter was leaping over the side of his convertible roadster. He put the car in gear and raced out of the drive in a spray of loose gravel. He disappeared down the road.

  This did not fool Kristin for a minute. She knew Hunter. He would be back. And until he was back, he would wait for her along the road. She knew he would position himself at a vantage point where he could watch the castle. This would make it impossible for her to leave without his seeing her go.

  She heard Heinrich coming up the steps, then saw him framed in her doorway. His face was grim. “Good. I have done you a favor. Now you do me a favor. Yes?”

  She lowered her eyes. “Not now. I . . . I do thank you. And I . . . I'll do you a favor in return. But not now.” She had no intention at all of doing him the kind of favor he wanted. She would die first. But at the moment, the main thing she had to do was stall him until she could think of some plan of action.

  He seemed wary. Finally, though, he grunted in acceptance. “Come down to breakfast. You can tell me who he was over sausage and biscuits.”

  When he left the room, she dressed quickly but did not go down to breakfast. She went into the stairway alcove, where a telephone was kept, and rang up the operator. Moments later, the Belgian operator was successful in reaching the Ritz Hotel in Paris.

  “Has Mr. Brady come to pick up my clothing yet?” Kristin asked the hotel clerk.

  “No, madame.”

  “He’ll be there soon, then, sometime this morning. Tell him to come to Count Heinrich’s castle right away. And to bring André Clerc too.” The connection was full of static, making it difficult to hear. “Do you have all that?”

  The clerk repeated her message to her satisfaction. She thanked him and hung up. Then she cursed herself for the stupidity of the plan she had come up with, of which she had just taken the first steps of putting into action. It was a dumb plan, and it really would not solve anything. But then again, she reflected, nothing she could do, at this point, would solve anything.

  The plan was simple. She would react to this problem in the same way she had reacted to every problem ever since Chad’s death. She would party! She would drink! She would let herself go completely, becoming dissolute and decadent. And why not? she asked herself. This was what she had done for the past two months. Why should she change now? Secretly, deep down, she knew that this response was not as crazy as it seemed. It would serve a purpose, but she refused to admit to herself what that purpose might be.

  Still, she felt such contempt for herself, that when she saw her reflection in the arched top mirror in the alcove, she reacted automatically—and violently. She threw the phone receiver at the mirror, shattering her own image.

  When Brady and André arrived, the partying began, and it went on into the night. Everyone was merry and drunk and seemed to be having a wonderful time. Long after midnight, Kristin retired to her room. She was not really surprised when a kick came to the arched window next to the bed and the glass shattered inward. Then, swiftly and catlike, Dallas Hunter climbed into the room.

  He was dressed completely in black: turtleneck sweater, trousers, leather boots. A coil of rope was wound diagonally around his chest, though he hadn’t used it. He had climbed up to the window on the thick vines of greenery that surrounded the tower like a web.

  Brady was in the room with Kristin at the time. He had been explaining how Hunter had found out where she was
staying. He was pleading with her not to hold it against him. “It’s André’s fault,” he declared. “He got to feeling so damn guilty about being a coward during the war, he couldn’t stand up to a real hero when Hunter collared him. Oh, I should have known he’d react that way. He didn’t even resist. He wanted to help your friend Hunter, to show he had respect for him. But please, darling, don’t hold it against me that he—”

  That was when the window crashed open, and Dallas Hunter swept into the room. He stood arrogantly straight, staring at Brady, who was aghast. Kristin seemed less surprised. She raised her champagne glass in toast to Hunter and said, “The avenging angel! Or is it ‘speak of the devil’?” She put a finger to her lips and frowned. “I never could keep my clichés straight. Tell me, Craig. You’re the great novelist. Which is more appropriate for a situation like this?” She was very woozy from the wine and champagne, and it showed.

  Brady swallowed hard and stared at Hunter. He had never seen him in person before. Once, during the war, he had seen Hunter in a newsreel film after the famous aviator had been shot down over North Africa. But this was quite different.

  “Get out of here,” Hunter said to him coldly.

  Brady was in a bind. He wanted to leave quickly and peacefully. He hated violence, especially when it was directed toward him. On the other hand, he felt that this was his big chance to impress Kristin with what a brave man he was. Unfortunately, when he spoke his words of heroism, he could not keep his voice from stuttering. “N-n-now see here, old sport.”

  Kristin laughed at him. “My hero,” she said, taking a swallow from her wineglass, emptying it.

  Hunter ignored him completely. He went up to Kristin and stood in front of her, staring grimly down at her. She turned to the table and picked up the half-full bottle of champagne from a bucket of melting ice. She began to pour, all the while smiling blithely as if the whole thing were a joke.

  Hunter slapped the glass out of her hand. When she shrugged and raised the bottle to her lips, he knocked that away too.