Dark Promises 2: Demonic Obsession

by Elisa Adams

  DEMONIC OBSESSION

  An Ellora’s Cave publication, November 2003

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  PO Box 787

  Hudson, OH 44236-0787

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-667-4

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  DEMONIC OBSESSION © 2003 ELISA ADAMS

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imaginations and used fictitiously.

  Edited by MARTHA PUNCHES.

  Cover art by DARRELL KING.

  DEMONIC OBSESSION

  By

  Elisa Adams

  Chapter 1

  Ellie sat on an old wooden bench, her sketchpad resting on her lap. The sunset just visible over the tops of the trees washed the sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink. The rustling of the summer wind through the leaves and the faint breaking of waves against the nearby shore calmed her nerves like nothing else could—on most nights.

  Just not tonight.

  She tucked a few stray strands of hair behind her ears and took a sip from her water bottle, making an attempt to ignore the strange sensations that prickled the hair on the back of her neck. The air crackled with an electrical tension, sending a shiver through her despite the warm temperature.

  Something was different.

  Something had disturbed the peaceful, sleepy quiet of Stone Harbor. Something she couldn’t define—maybe didn’t want to. A knot of anxiety formed in the pit of her stomach and her gaze landed on a man leaning against a tree a few dozen feet away. Did he have something to do with the disturbance?

  “Yeah, right,” she muttered to herself, turning her attention back to her sketchpad. He looked about average height, with an average build and average dark hair—nothing spectacular about him, at least from this distance. He wore khaki pants and an off-white polo shirt—nothing impressive there. He looked more like the married-with-three- children type than the bad-to-the-bone and out-to-cause-trouble type.

  So why couldn’t she shake the feeling that his presence signaled danger?

  She blew out a breath, frustrated with her paranoia. So her ex-husband had turned out to be a first-class jerk disguised as a successful businessman. That didn’t mean that every other man who dressed nicely meant her emotional harm. If she didn’t get over what happened with Todd, she’d never get the chance to meet a nice guy and settle down. Three years had passed since her divorce—plenty of time to get over her silly insecurities.

  She had to stop pasting Todd’s face on every man who walked into her life. They weren’t all like him—she wasn’t naïve enough to believe that—but her luck with men seemed to really suck lately. This poor guy hadn’t done anything to her, he probably hadn’t even noticed she was alive, and she’d already pegged him as some kind of deranged mass murderer.

  His head was turned toward the small pond in the center of the park, but every so often, he looked in her direction. From the distance, she couldn’t be sure if he was looking at her, but the fact that he might be married unsettled her. Her fingers smoothed over the totem that hung from a silver chain around her neck—a small panther carved in black onyx—in a reaction that was more automatic than calculated. She closed her eyes briefly, calling to the animal the totem represented for guidance. She tried to focus on the sleek grace of the creature, the control and strength it exuded, but her powers of concentration were severely lacking tonight. It was all his fault.

  She tried to keep her eyes off him, but she couldn’t help stealing little glances every so often. Something about him compelled her, even when she knew it was impolite and possibly dangerous. The man was a complete stranger in a town where she recognized most people on sight, and that fact alone made her wary. She knew she shouldn’t stare, yet she couldn’t pull her gaze away.

  That frightened her the most. An odd fixation on a complete stranger was something she thought she’d outgrown years ago, once she’d hit puberty. What made him so special that she couldn’t draw her gaze away, even with exercised concentration? As far as she could tell—nothing.

  But there had to be something, or else she wouldn’t be spending her evening observing him when she’d come here to sketch the sunset in preparation for her next painting.

  His head swung in her direction and she didn’t have time to look away. This time she had no doubts—he was looking right at her. She drew in a deep, shaky breath, her palms suddenly growing damp. A smile spread across his face and he nodded slightly—just enough to let her know he’d caught her staring. The thought unnerved her, but not enough to make her drag her gaze from his. A dog barking in the distance finally broke the spell. She looked quickly back at her sketchpad, not wanting to encourage him in any way, but afraid it might already be too late.

  She tried to make a rough sketch of the flowers lining the banks of the pond, but her traitorous hands instead drew the shadowy form of a lean, dark-haired man. After three attempts, she slammed her pencil down on the pad and sighed in disgust. It figured. She’d never felt a pull this strong—not even when she’d been with Todd. She prided herself on being independent, level-headed to a fault, and suddenly she felt like the world had tilted on its axis.

  She was being such an idiot! Ellie was the calm one. Her sister, Charlotte, was the dramatic one. Always had been. But now it seemed like Ellie had switched places with her younger sister. The whole situation made her feel off balance, like she couldn’t quite get her footing right. This had to be some kind of a sign that she needed to make some changes in her life. Either that, or she needed some kind of psychological counseling. She blew out a breath and muttered to herself, “Normal, healthy women don’t obsess about complete strangers.”

  And all the while, the stranger in question was probably leaning against that tree, laughing to himself about the skinny girl who kept staring at him. He’d probably go home later to his house with a white picket fence and a couple of Volvos in the driveway and have a good laugh with his equally yuppy wife.

  Yeah, she was definitely nuts. Time to get back to work. That was, after all, her purpose for being in the park.

  She picked her pencil back up and tried her best to focus on her sketching, but it was no use. Her mind was on that man, not on her work. She slammed her pencil down on the pad yet again, this time with a lot more force. If she wasn’t going to get anything done tonight, she might as well just pack up and go home. No sense wasting time sitting around gaping at strangers when she could be home in her studio—alone—getting some actual work done.

  “Why did you stop?”

  She nearly jumped a mile at the voice behind her. She spun around so quickly the pad and pencil slid out of her lap and hit the grass below.

  It was him.

  She opened her mouth to chastise him for sneaking up on her, but she couldn’t form a single coherent sentence. Up close, he was even more fascinating than he’d been at a distance—and he certainly wasn’t as average as she’d first thought. His hair was thick and shiny, a rich, deep brown nearly as dark as hers, and without a hint of gray. The light-colored shirt contrasted sharply with the golden bronze tone of his skin.

  A half-smile played on his full lips, and she caught a glimpse of gleaming white teeth. “Are you an artist by trade?” he continued, his gaze snagging hers and holding tight. She couldn’t look away, even if she’d wanted to. His eyes were a clear emerald green with small flecks of gold threaded th
rough, almost hypnotic in their beauty. She’d never seen eyes that color in her life.

  He cleared his throat and she realized she’d been staring. “You do speak English, don’t you?” he asked, his tone laced with humor.

  “What? Oh, English. Yeah.” She cursed herself for sounding like a complete airhead, but she couldn’t help it. They just didn’t make them like this in Stone Harbor, and seeing him must have short-circuited something vital in her brain.

  “I asked if you were an artist.”

  She could do this. He was just a man. Nothing to fear.

  “Yes.” She paused and took a deep breath. At least she’d been able to make some sense this time. A little calmer, she launched into an explanation. “A painter, but I work with charcoal from time to time when I need a change, which now I—”

  She clamped her mouth shut and let a breath out through her nose. Geez, Ellie. Think you can give him any more information he didn’t ask for? She mentally berated herself for nearly boring him to death. What would he care about her humdrum life? The only interesting things about her were things she only told her closest friends. The rest of her life—the public part—wasn’t even worthy of a mention. Bending down, she scooped the pad and pencil off the ground and settled them back in her lap, covering the picture with her arms to block it from his view.

  She lifted her gaze to him again, ready to excuse herself and make a quick exit before she humiliated herself further. He focused his eyes on her lap, presumably trying to get a glimpse of what she’d been drawing. It gave her a chance to get a better look at near-perfection. His face reminded her of a sculpture—all smooth lines and clean angles. She placed him somewhere in his late thirties or early forties from the faint lines around his eyes and mouth. And all that bronze skin looked unusually soft. She had the strange desire to run her fingertips over his cheeks to find out.

  What a painting he’d make. She’d never ask a complete stranger to pose, but the thought intrigued her. A face like that would keep her hands—and eyes—busy for hours. The fading sun glinted in his eyes, and for a second they flashed gold. The sight made a shiver run down her spine, both from anxiety and something she hated to label as arousal.

  “Who are you?” she asked when she finally got her mouth working properly. She supposed if he planned to stand there and let her gape at him all night, he at least owed her an introduction. And if she knew his name, he wouldn’t be a complete stranger anymore, and she wouldn’t feel so guilty about staring.

  “Eric Malcolm.” He held out his hand and she took it hesitantly, expecting a handshake. When he brought her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss over her knuckles, she blinked in surprise. His palm was warm and soft, and the fleeting touch of his lips against her skin had her drawing a sharp breath.

  “And you are…?” he continued, her hand still firmly in his grip.

  Think. She mentally knocked herself on the head, trying to get her brain to function. “Ann Elizabeth Holmes.”

  Stupid! No one called her Ann Elizabeth. What was she thinking?

  “Well, Ann Elizabeth—”

  “Ellie.” She smiled weakly. “Please. Call me Ellie. I hate Ann Elizabeth.”

  “Why?” He raised an eyebrow at her as he spoke.

  “It’s boring.” Oh, yeah. Like Ellie is any better.

  He frowned and studied her for a minute. “You don’t strike me as a boring woman.”

  She had to laugh at that. “Stick around. I’ll prove you wrong in a matter of days. Maybe even hours.”

  He nodded slowly, his eyes darkening almost imperceptibly. “I might just do that.”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t mean…” She sighed, not willing to finish the thought. She felt a little like a moth drawn to flame. His gaze sucked her in, entranced her, but if she got close enough, she’d be fried to a crisp. He could do that to her—she had no doubts about it.

  “I think you did.” He glanced at the pad in her lap, his head cocked to the side. Self-consciously she brushed her hair back behind her ears again. He took full advantage of the moment, reaching over her shoulder and lifting the pad off her lap before she even had time to react.

  “Hey! Give that back!” She made a grab for her sketchpad, but he held tight with one hand as he leafed through a couple of the pages with the other. He had to have noticed the sketches of him, but he didn’t show any kind of a reaction.

  “Why are you trying to hide this from me? Surely a woman as talented as you is used to showing off her work?”

  The subject matter, rather than the work as a whole, caused her the most distress. She didn’t need him thinking she was some kind of obsessed mental case. Normal women didn’t go around drawing pictures of complete strangers. Yeah. If she kept repeating that, she might actually start to believe it.

  She shrugged, failing miserably at casual. “I have a few in a gallery downtown. This,” she yanked the pad out of his hands and closed the cover, “is too raw to share. I make it a policy never to let anyone see my work when it’s in the beginning stages.” Especially if the work was of a man who had no idea she’d used him as an artist’s model.

  “That’s too bad. It seems like such a waste to not share.”

  His compliment caught her off guard. She didn’t know how to answer. “I guess I have doubts about that. Most artists do.”

  “Don’t doubt your talent. If you consider these sketches rough, I’d be very interested in taking a look at some of your finished work.”

  “Why?” she asked, incredulous. Suspicion rose in her. That was taking the whole flattery thing a little too far.

  “I’m redecorating my house, and I’m very interested in New England artists.” He put his hands in his pockets and leaned a hip against the back of the bench. Everything about his manner said “casual”, yet she detected a faint…restlessness about him that practically screamed “ulterior motives”.

  “Is that why you’re in town? To acquire art?” She resisted the urge to tell him that the words “woman” and “stupid” were not synonymous. When people wanted art, they went to the big galleries in New York City. They didn’t come to Stone Harbor. Sure, there were a couple of galleries downtown, but they were mostly for the tourists who flocked to the town in late summer to invade the beaches.

  He elegantly shrugged one shoulder, the casual façade firmly in place. “Art is one of the reasons for my visit.”

  Business, perhaps? He didn’t strike her as someone who traveled to the edge of nowhere for fun. She waited for him to elaborate on his other reasons, but he didn’t. He just stood over her, his gaze boring into hers, until she couldn’t take the silence anymore. “The gallery at the Art Association downtown has a few of my paintings. You could always go down there if you wanted to take a look. It’s a little red brick building on the corner of Main and Washington. You can’t miss it.”

  “I don’t get a personal tour?” He smiled down at her and something quivered low in her stomach.

  She almost gave in then and there. Almost. But then she remembered that, even in a tiny town like Stone Harbor, getting too friendly too quickly with strangers was a bad idea. “No, I don’t think so. You look like a smart guy. I think you can find your way around a gallery all by yourself.”

  She had to get out of there—now, before she forgot all her common sense. She stood and left the bench, stuffed the pad and pencil into her tote bag, and started toward the parking lot without glancing back. If she looked, even a tiny bit, she knew part of her would want to stay. Funny, she’d always thought of herself as a rational woman. Talking to a complete stranger the way she had certainly wasn’t rational. It bordered on insane.

  “Would it change things if I told you I’m more interested in the artist than the art?”

  She stopped in mid-stride and pivoted. “No. Definitely not. I—” The words she’d meant as a forceful denial came out as no more than a squeak that ended in a gasp when she realized he stood less than two feet away.

  “How did you get there
?” He’d been all the way back by the bench, and she hadn’t heard his footsteps behind her.

  “The same as you. I walked.” He shrugged and smiled, fixing that incredible green gaze on her and turning her body to jelly. She felt like he’d stepped even closer in the seconds that followed, but he hadn’t moved at all.

  “Sure you did.” Yeah, and she was Mary, Queen of Scots. Thoughts in her head began sliding together like pieces in a puzzle, and she didn’t think she’d like the final picture. “Listen, I really do have to go. I have things to do.”

  “That’s too bad. It would be a shame to waste such a beautiful night. I’m sure, without all the lights of the big city, the night sky here is fabulous.”

  “It is. It’s also dark. Very dark, and I have to get home before the sun sets.” She had a feeling that she didn’t want to be stuck alone with him after the sun went down. He made her nervous, suspicious—tense.

  And aroused.

  The last thought hit her like a slap in the face. The only thing she knew about him was his name, and somehow he conjured such strong emotions within her that she couldn’t control them.

  “It will be a beautiful sunset, if you just stay a few more minutes,” he continued with that deep, hypnotic voice.

  She smiled nervously, shifting from foot to foot. The combination of unease and attraction was a powerful combination. “Yeah. It will. I hope you get a chance to enjoy it. If you’ll excuse me…”

  “Of course.” He smiled ruefully. “If you insist on leaving, I won’t stop you.”

  Then why did it feel like her legs were leaden, and she couldn’t drag herself away without some serious effort? “I-I have to go.” She repeated the words like a mantra, one her body refused to acknowledge. Despite her best intentions, her feet remained planted to the ground as if she’d grown roots.

  “You’re unsure of me, aren’t you?” He didn’t look upset. Instead, his gaze held sparks of humor and curiosity, and a healthy dose of the crippling arousal currently assaulting her.