Touch Me Not

by Julie Kistler

  “What about Career Day? And the Snow Ball and all that stuff?” Luke demanded.

  She turned. “What about them?”

  “I thought you were here in the first place to strongarm me into going.” He sounded almost hurt she’d let him slide just this once. “I thought Benny’s was going down the tubes without my help. Now you’re leaving, and all I’ve said is no.” He paused and then swooped in for the kill. “Gilly Quinn, retreating in defeat?”

  “Hah!” She crossed her arms. “Who said I was defeated?”

  “Listen, Gilly, I’ll make you a deal,” he offered softly. Once again he advanced to meet her. Once again the sparks in those blue eyes caught and held her. “If you give up this crazy idea about luring Night-shade into the open, I’ll come to Career Day. I’ll even throw in the Snow Ball.”

  Her heart leaped in her chest. Luke, giving in? Victory, so close at hand?

  “All you have to do,” he went on in the same snake-charmer voice, “is be smart and play nice.” He smiled, that beautiful break of white teeth between narrow, sensual lips. “No danger zones for you. Career Day and Snow Ball for me. Is it a deal?”

  Gilly leaned in very close, so that her mouth was just below his ear. “No,” she whispered with a puff of warm air. “Not in a million years.”

  And then she spun on her heel and left his shadowy ballroom.

  “Gilly,” he called after her, not bothering to be persuasive. Now he sounded plain old ticked off. “Give up this insane idea.”

  “Nope.”

  “So you admit defeat?” His voice rose. “I’ll tell the Fitzhughs they don’t have to worry anymore, because you won’t be hassling either them or me ever again. Is that right?”

  She wheeled back around to face him, but kept on walking. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll come around, Luke. I know. you. You’ll be doing Career Day and the Snow Ball—oh, and the scholarship and maybe even a press conference—and I won’t have to give up a thing.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  She gave him a beatific smile. “Just wait and see, Luke.”

  But his face was drawn in sharp angry lines. “If you go through with this, what I may be seeing is you in a bloody heap in a dark alley. God, Gilly, don’t go through with this.”

  “I won’t even break a fingernail,” she assured him. “Nightshade will save me.”

  “Nightshade will save you,” Luke echoed with heartbreaking cynicism. “Why doesn’t that make me feel better?”

  Chapter Eight

  It was still dark, but Luke had long since roused the household.

  “I don’t have a choice,” he said grimly. “She hasn’t left me any options.”

  “I’d like to take her over my knee,” Abigail Fitzhugh sputtered from her place at the stove. “That girl always did need a firm hand. But she would grin and toss those red curls, and people would always give her what she wanted.” As her husband hung back, she skewered him, too, gesturing with a spatula and a frying pan full of scrambled eggs. “And you’re partly to blame, Harry Fitzhugh! Your sister spoiled her rotten, and you never said a word.”

  “Now, Abby, there’s nothing wrong with Gilly. She’s just free-spirited, that’s all. Always has been,” he responded in his usual gruff tone.

  “Free-spirited, hah! High-handed is more like it. And now look at the trouble she’s gotten poor Mr. Lucas into.” Abigail filled plates with eggs and bacon and dumped them unceremoniously on the table in front of Luke and Fitz.

  Fitz dug in right away, limiting his conversation, but Luke gave his plate a disdainful stare.

  “Eat, Lucas,” Abby ordered. “You need your strength, especially if you’re going to run around after Gilly.”

  “I’ve been doing much better,” he told them both.

  Abigail let out another “Hah!” followed by, “And after the first time, when you were knocked off your feet by your little masquerade, anything but a coma would’ve been an improvement, wouldn’t it?”

  “The last time I appeared, I actually had very few lasting side effects,” he argued. “I’ve been able to control almost everything, even the headaches.”

  “Would that be the last time you appeared as, er, Nightshade, sir?” Fitz asked with a certain dry humor.

  “That wasn’t my idea. The newspapers gave me the stupid nickname!” Luke pushed back from the table, losing whatever appetite he’d had. The smell of eggs and bacon was much too strong to be appealing, anyway, even when he exerted his strictest curb over his wayward senses. “What a joke. Nightshade. It sounds like I should be wearing a cape.”

  “Well, it has a certain ring to it, sir.” Now Harry Fitzhugh was definitely making fun. His mustache quivered with suppressed glee. “Perhaps Mrs. Fitzhugh might be able to come up with a suitable outfit, sir? Your basic black panty-hose-type thing, with a flower on the front of the, er, trunks, representing deadly nightshade, perhaps?”

  Luke did not appreciate being the butt of his chauffeur’s jokes. “I suppose it’s my own fault for wearing the coat and hat and all that. But that was to protect my eyes, my ears, my skin, not to disguise me. I had no idea this thing would boomerang and I’d become some kind of romantic icon.”

  Luke was at a loss. Nothing was turning out the way he’d planned. Of course, he really hadn’t planned much—just let himself get sucked in by circumstance.

  “I didn’t even plan to be mysterious. But the first time, it knocked me out—the lights, the noise, everything. If I’d told her who I was and the reason for the getup, she would’ve known about my…”

  What did he call this ghastly amplification of his senses? “My powers,” he said reluctantly. “And once Gilly knew about my powers, she wouldn’t mean to, but she’d spill it to the whole world. There I’d be, on the front page of every tabloid in the country—Freak Accident Leaves Freak Photographer.”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Fitz began kindly, but Luke shook his head. He was even more resolute on that point now than he’d been at the start.

  “Gilly is not going to know what kind of mutant I’ve become.” He ran a hasty hand through his hair. “So I guess that means I maintain the so-called secret identity unless I can find a way to get rid of these powers once and for all. God, I’m living a super hero’s life.”

  The burly chauffeur shrugged. “Well, you have started rescuing maidens in distress, sir.”

  “Maidens in distress!” Abigail was quivering, too, but with disapproval. “Gillian Quinn has never in her life been a maiden in distress. Iron maiden is more like it.”

  “Mrs. Fitzhugh, she’s your niece,” Luke reprimanded her. The only constants in his life were the two servants who ran his household, his relationship with his camera…and his friendship with Gilly. “I’ve always known I could count on Gilly when the chips were down. And she’s always been able to count on me, too. That’s the only reason I’m going to risk being out of control and try to nip her idiotic plan in the bud.”

  “Is that the only reason, Mr. Lucas?” Abigail pursed her lips as if she had plenty more to say.

  “What are you driving at, Mrs. Fitz?”

  “I’m driving at something more going on between the two of you.” She wiped her hands on her apron and avoided his eyes. “It’s apparent to all of us—Mr. Fitzhugh and myself, that is—that Gillian has gone sweet on this Nightshade character of yours. So now it seems you’re a wee bit jealous of your own alter ego.”

  He banged a hand on the table and immediately wished he hadn’t. The sound reverberated like a deep bell inside his head. “Don’t be absurd,” he said between gritted teeth.

  “I don’t know anything about absurd, but I do know when a man is ignoring his limitations,” she said smartly. “I practically raised you, young man, and I know you better than anyone. So pardon me if I’m speaking out of turn.”

  “You are.”

  “Hmph.” She went on, anyway. “You are not in any condition to be undertaking a romance, especially not with the likes of Gi
lly Quinn, who wouldn’t understand taking things easy if you hit her over the head with the rule book.”

  “A romance?” He was on his feet in an instant. “I never said for one instant that—”

  “And what do you suppose you’re doing? Taking Gilly to the museum, trying to talk to her nicely to convince her that she can’t rely on this Nightshade fellow to protect her?” She rolled her eyes. “And what is that if not a jealous suitor protecting his turf?”

  He knew at that moment he would never, as long as he lived, understand women. It made perfect sense to him to logically explain to Gilly, for her own good and because he was her oldest friend, that she was being an idiot. It had nothing to do with romance. He’d never felt that way about Gilly. Never.

  “First of all, I am not jealous of Nightshade. He’s me!” Quickly, as the sound began to vibrate in his temples, Luke lowered his voice. “And second, I am not interested in Gilly that way. I am simply trying to head her off at the pass. Developing a crush on Nightshade isn’t going to bring her anything but heartbreak when she finds out he doesn’t exist.”

  “All right.” But Abigail’s expression remained unconvinced. “And what happens when she tells you there is no way she is abandoning her poor dear Nightshade, as you know very well she’s going to tell you?”

  “I go to plan B.”

  “And that is?”

  He didn’t want to say it, but he had been forced into a corner. “I appear one more time as Nightshade, and then he tells her what an idiot she’s being.”

  Mrs. Fitz threw her hands up at that one. “Sure, why not? You can appear as Nightshade again and come home shell-shocked and battered like the last two times. You do what you want, Mr. Lucas, because you’re going to, anyway, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Luke appealed to Fitz; he figured he had a much better chance for understanding from the other man in the room. But Fitz wasn’t getting between his wife and his boss. He wiped his mouth neatly with his napkin and rose from the kitchen table. “I’ll get the car ready, sir. Give me a ring in the garage when you want to leave.”

  So much for masculine solidarity.

  Luke went to the phone. She picked it up on the first ring, but she sounded half-asleep.

  “H’lo?”

  “Gilly, it’s Luke.”

  “No, I’m not going to cancel my plan to catch Nightshade,” she told him. “Should I hang up now?”

  “This isn’t about that,” he lied. “It’s about the museum. I want to take you up on your offer. I think I really need to look at the Minoan collection. Do you want to go now?”

  “Luke, it’s…” He heard her roll over and pick up, then drop the clock. “It’s not even seven. The clock rolled under the bed, but I can read it from here. The museum’s not open at seven on a Sunday morning.”

  “You probably didn’t notice, but there’s a whole wing of pre-Columbian art called the Blackthorn Collection, financed by my grandfather.” He had never used family connections before, but as long as he was taking on cloak-and-dagger missions, full of subterfuge and deceit, he might as well stoop to trading on his name, too.

  “And?” Gilly asked in a voice that sounded as if it might be muffled by a pillow.

  “And I can get in any time I want. One call and we get a private tour of the museum.” He frowned. Was she taking the bait or not? “So when can you be ready?”

  She groaned. “I don’t know, Luke. I mean, I’m not even awake yet.”

  He played dirty. In a low husky voice, throbbing with just enough desperation, he said, “Gilly, I need you.”

  She didn’t even hesitate, but then, he’d known she wouldn’t. Tell Gilly you needed her and she’d be there, no questions asked. “Give me half an hour.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

  “Luke?”

  “Yeah?”

  Now she paused. “This means you’re coming outside, right? You’re coming away from Blackthorn Manor for at least a few hours?”

  “It looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  “Good for you,” she responded breathlessly, and she sounded as delighted as if she was cheering for the home team. “I’m so proud of you, Luke.”

  “See you in half an hour.”

  And he hung up, feeling incredibly guilty. Why did she have to add that last bit? It made him feel like a heel for not telling her he’d already been out, twice, and it had almost killed him. Here she was, all misty and happy, encouraging him to come out and smell the snowdrops, like it was a major stepping stone, when it would mean absolutely nothing.

  He knew now there was a reason he’d never lied to her all those years. Because it made him feel like hell—the way he felt now.

  “LISTEN, FITZ,” he said, sliding forward in the back seat of the Cadillac limo, “as soon as you drop us off at the museum, go back and get Mrs. Fitz, and the coast will be clear.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll need to contact her next-door neighbor, Mrs. Mooshman, first, sir, is that correct?”

  “Right. And she should be able to give you some other names.” He set his jaw. “Just in case Gilly won’t go along, and I have a certain suspicion she won’t…”

  “Mrs. Fitz does seem to lean strongly in that direction, sir, and perhaps, as she’s a woman herself, there’s something to be said for her opinion.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Luke returned. “If Gilly doesn’t go for it, I’ll feel much better knowing her friends and neighbors are looking out for her.”

  “Exactly, sir. If they’re all dogging her heels, so to speak, it will be much tougher for her to throw herself in the path of danger.”

  “I certainly hope so.” Luke pushed back into the soft leather seat, testing it with his fingers. “Although with Gilly you can never be sure of anything.”

  “Here we are at her apartment, sir.” Fitz doffed his cap and prepared to open his door. “I’ll get Gilly and be right back.”

  “No, wait.” Luke felt for his own handle. “I’ll go.”

  “You’ll be out in direct light for several moments, sir. You don’t dare risk wearing sunglasses here.”

  “It’s overcast enough today that I should be fine. And I’m not sending my chauffeur up to get her.” Not when I’m trying to outclass the mysterious Nightshade, king of the romantics, he added acerbically to himself.

  Even on a cloudy winter day, the natural light was painful to his eyes. Holding himself very still, he forced his body to adjust, to pull back all those throbbing sensors. Relief washed over him when it actually worked.

  “Everything all right, sir?” Fitz asked from inside the car.

  “Just fine.” He smiled and reached for the door to her building.

  He actually ran up the stairs after she buzzed him in, twitching his nostrils when he hit the landing where a residue of the smelly burglar’s odor still clung. But he pushed past it.

  He supposed this buoyant enthusiasm was a bit much, but he couldn’t help it. He was out in the world without glasses or earplugs or mufflers, and it felt like the first day of spring.

  He even knocked on her door without feeling like he’d smashed his knuckles or bruised his eardrums. Maybe he was finally learning to turn down the volume and keep it there. It required massive concentration and a state of meditation that bordered on self-hypnosis, but he was doing it, wasn’t he?

  Gilly swung open the door, and he caught her trademark scent, that misty lavender smell. Her lips curved into a smile when she saw him. “Luke, you’re positively beaming.”

  “Happy to be outside, I guess.”

  “I told you it would do you good.” She pulled back from the door, gesturing for him to come in. He saw that she was wearing a cropped brown sweater with blue jeans and funny two-toned shoes. Kind of cute and typical Gilly. Raising her chin, she said smugly, “You need to listen to me more often.”

  He preferred not to comment on that one. “Nice perfume,” he said, instead. “Lavender. I noticed it the other evening, as we
ll.”

  Her eyes widened. “But I don’t wear perfume. I think there might be some lavender buried in my shampoo under oatmeal and honey or something.” She made a point of sniffing the end of one red-gold curl. “No, I don’t smell anything.”

  Luke just shrugged, resolving to be more careful with his observations. It wouldn’t do, he guessed, to let her know that there was an overripe banana somewhere in her apartment, or that he had detected the odor of a tiny spot of sweet-and-sour sauce on her counter. “I have a good nose, I guess.”

  “I guess.”

  While she got her coat and tossed things into the beat-up backpack she apparently intended to take as her handbag, he looked around. It had been a long time since he’d been in Gilly’s apartment, and it had changed considerably.

  It was in an older building, with dark wood trim and high plaster ceilings. In Gilly’s hands, though, the apartment felt quite modern. She’d re-covered her couch in red, and there were splashes of color everywhere, from sunshine yellow pillows to a bright green table shaped like a turtle that held her television. If he hadn’t dampened his senses, this room would have made his head spin.

  The only thing not in color was a black-and-white photo framed and displayed on the old vanity table she was using as a desk. He recognized it immediately. Not one of his better efforts, but then he was only fifteen or so when he’d taken it. Luke picked it up, his critical eye deciding that the composition was sloppy and the light was all wrong. But he still remembered that day, and how much pure, unadulterated fun they’d had.

  He had discovered the Beatles movie A Hard Day’s Night that summer, and that had given him the burning need to do black-and-white photos of people in hip poses. It took him all day, but he finally got the camera firmly attached to the ceiling. And then he had Gilly lie on the floor underneath it. He set the timer, leaped down into the picture with her, his head opposite hers like yin and yang, and snap! Two teenagers lying on the floor looking pleased with themselves.

  He couldn’t believe she still had it. Gilly and Luke, captured forever on film. But the photo only strengthened his resolve. He would succeed in keeping his senses under wraps, and he would convince Gilly to stay away from Nightshade. He owed her that much.