“But it doesn’t seem his style,” Margot quickly argued.
Carl’s gaze narrowed. “What about this guy? This renter of yours Joyce has told me about? Where’s he at?”
“He’s usually gone during the day.”
“Where to?” He shifted and hitched up the side of his pants with his belt loop. “Seems awfully strange. Why hasn’t anyone mentioned him in town?”
“I don’t know!” She shook her head, getting completely frustrated. She hated how Carl had a very valid point and she couldn’t give him a straight answer. “I don’t keep tabs on him. He’s just renting a room for a couple of weeks. He knew Johnny. And he needed a place to stay.”
“He did? What’s his name?”
“Jake Preston.”
“Well, I’ve yet to see him here or in town. No one’s mentioned him or seen him either.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Of course he isn’t,” Joyce cut in.
“Now, don’t get emotional on me, Margot. I’m just trying to get a picture here.” Frowning, he rubbed his chin slowly. “Let’s see. What else can you tell me about this Jake?”
Margot leaned heavier on the newel post. She didn’t know a thing other than what Jake had told her. God, she was beginning to feel and sound stupid. “He worked at Miltronics. The same place as Johnny and Malcolm.”
“Is that it?”
Carl didn’t say it but it was there in his face. Also Joyce’s. Skepticism. “Yes.”
That one word tasted like curdled milk. She was coming out looking like a complete flake.
“So you’re renting a room to a guy you hardly know. Seems to me like you’re not making very good judgment calls these days.”
“You might be right, but do you have to point it out?” Margot straightened. “You know, I’m getting sick of this attitude of yours.”
He looked almost as frustrated as she felt. “What do you expect, Margot. You’re not helping me out here. This Jake—no one’s seen. You’ve talked about him but no one’s yet laid an eye on him. It’s not like he can lose himself in Greyson. People notice someone new. Maybe that bottle of yours is finally—”
“Carl!” Joyce protested. “That’s enough! You’re being far too hard on her.”
Margot slapped a palm against the newel post. “You don’t believe me! Well, let me show you something, Mister!” She pushed off the wood beam and strode down the hall to the room Jake had been using.
At the doorway, she flung her hand out and pointed. “See? Does that look like my imagination?” For just a moment, one split second of time, Margot did wonder, until she glanced inside. The vandals had also struck this room. The mattress sagged half off the box spring and onto the floor, clothing littered the floor, but the dresser drawers looked untouched. Almost as if she’d interrupted them in the middle of their destruction.
“Hmmm.” Carl was back to frowning again. “How well does he know Malcolm?”
Again she really couldn’t answer him. “I didn’t get the impression they were real close.”
Joyce grasped her brother’s elbow. “Come on, Carl. Let’s give it a rest. Margot’s had her whole house destroyed. Being grilled is the last thing she needs right now.”
“Just do what you have to and please go.” Margot followed them back down the hall and to the front door.
“I’ll be out of your hair once I dust around this door and a couple of other places.” He rubbed his chin. “You’re going to have to get a new lock and fix that door jam.”
Margot sighed. “I’ll give Charlie a call. He’s the best, or should I say the only, handyman we have around here.”
Joyce wrapped an arm around her. “While you’re on the phone, I’ll start cleaning up the downstairs guest bedroom.”
Less than an hour later, Carl left, but Joyce remained to help. By late afternoon, though, Margot had managed to get Joyce out the front door. She’d wanted to help more, but Margot wouldn’t have it. The locksmith had come and gone, while the kitchen and a good part of the downstairs had been cleaned. They hadn’t worked on her bedroom or den. Margot wanted to do those on her own. That way if she broke down, she’d do it privately.
From the kitchen window, she watched Joyce’s Land Cruiser disappear through the trees as she gripped the counter with two hands. With everyone gone and time to herself, the events of the day were crowding in on her.
She didn’t want to go in the den, didn’t want to face the destruction...and the pain that would come with it. But she had no choice. She needed to make some sense of all the chaos. Her computer was waiting with orders. Orders that paid the utilities and the food in her kitchen.
She grabbed a full bottle of Beaujolais and a wine glass. She needed something to help her through that room. To hell with what people thought of her drinking. She didn’t give a rat’s ass. Let them judge. They hadn’t walked in her shoes.
Stepping over to the doorway of the den, she faltered. The magnitude of the mess spilling across the room slapped her with vicious hands. To think someone she might know did this. But could it be Malcolm? Was this his way of getting back at her? He’d never forgiven her for being the first to file for the divorce. His damn ego might have spurred him on. After all, he’d always had to have the last word. Maybe this was his way of showing her once and for all.
Still standing in the hall, she glanced over at the guest bedroom. Could Jake be behind the vandalism? His room, although messy, didn’t compare to the magnitude of the den’s destruction. If he did happen to be the vandal, he would never have left his room untouched, not if he had an ounce of intelligence. Suspicion would have pointed to him otherwise.
She strode into the guest bedroom. She put the wine bottle and glass on the dresser and eyed the room with belligerence.
Did Jake have something against her? If he was the person behind this, what could she have ever done to have him feel like he had to hit back at her? Or was he in fact searching for something? But to be so vindictive about it seemed so sick, so personal.
She grabbed the neck of the wine bottle, uncorked it, and filled her glass. She blinked back tears. Whoever did this wasn’t going to make her cry.
Glass in hand, she walked over to the door leading into the adjoining bathroom. The small window across the sink and mirror did little for illumination, so she flipped the switch, flooding harsh, florescent light into the cubicle. Toothbrush, mint toothpaste, a black comb rested along the lip of the porcelain sink. Nothing unusual and nothing here that someone could hide.
Then she glanced at the opaque, ice blue shower curtain drawn completely across the bathing area. Someone might have slipped back into the house after Carl had left. They could have hidden in the bathroom while she’d been cleaning another part of the house with Joyce. Someone could be behind the shower curtain right now.
Chapter 7
Her heart rate accelerated and drummed inside her ears. Goose bumps rose across the flesh of her arms and at her neck. She crept closer, grabbed the edge of the curtain, and lunged, shooting the drape aside in one fluid motion. White tile, white tub, silver fixtures, shampoo and conditioner—nothing else.
“This is absolutely crazy!” Her voice echoed against the walls. “Get a grip.”
But she couldn’t halt the trembling of her hands. She’d been holding her wine glass with her left hand and some of the wine had sloshed onto her wrist. She rinsed it off under the sink and shut off the faucet.
Another sound immediately followed. Almost as hollow to the ear. She took a cautious step into the guest room but found it empty.
“No. I won’t have it,” she said to the air around her as she walked into the bedroom. “Johnny, if that’s you, cut it out. I can’t handle any strange other-worldly things happening to me tonight.”
Margot rolled her shoulders and eyed the room with suspicion. She hadn’t been the one to pick up the mess in here. Joyce had done this room, while she’d focused on the kitchen.
If Jake was behin
d the vandalism, this was the perfect opportunity to search his room, and she didn’t plan on stopping until she came up with something. The man was hiding something.
She placed her glass on the dresser by the bottle and stepped around the bed to the closet. She opened the door and peered inside. Several shirts, a pair of boots, but little else. Sighing, she turned away and thrust her hands on her hips and eyed the floor by her feet.
Absently, she noted the bed skirt brushing against the carpet. The last time she’d been here, Jake had scared the devil out of her. She hadn’t seen him come out of the bathroom because she’d been preoccupied with something. Yes. She inhaled sharply as memory flashed to the forefront. Her foot had hit a dark object protruding from beneath the bed.
She dropped down on her hands and knees and lifted the bed skirt. Two suitcases were shoved beneath the box spring. The vandals must have missed them.
“Yes!” She laughed, ecstatic. “Gotcha!”
She pulled out the one closest, which was a smaller, navy blue case with a carrying handle and wheels at the base. Sitting Indian style, she shifted the traveling bag up against her knees and looked for a lock. There wasn’t one.
“Come on luck. Keep it up. Show me what Jake might be hiding.”
The zipper slithered open with perfect ease. She pulled open the flap. Inside were several smaller bags and cases, a bottle of makeup—foundation of all things—and something—something she didn’t know what to make of. She touched what felt like some type of animal pelt. Frowning she gingerly picked it up. Dark chestnut hair. Human hair.
“My God,” she breathed.
It was a wig. She touched a silken strand between two fingers. It was the same color as Jake’s hair. Why would he need a wig?
Heart skittering against her ribs, she grasped a square, black box from inside which was similar to that of a makeup case. She snapped it open and looked inside. The upper section had...
She frowned again. What in the world? Gingerly, she slipped what looked like an eyebrow or mustache, the same color as the wig, from one of the compartments. She brushed the small piece with a thumb. My God. A tube of glue sat in another compartment while—
A rush of air raced over her, stirring the hair against her cheek. Something hit the bed.
What? Who?
Jerking back in surprise, she glanced sideways, only to have her view blocked by the comforter rushing at her. The material hit her head-on, blanketing and blinding her. She shoved at the comforter, knocking the case from her lap. Someone had slipped into the room with her. They could rush at her any second, could rape, kill—
Panicked, she fumbled for an opening and found none. Growing frantic now, she jerked to her knees and shoved at the suffocating material. Finally, she flung it off her head, throwing her hair on end. She whipped around, gasping for breath.
Dragging air into her lungs in deep, loud gasps, she rushed to her feet and backed away from the bed. She swept her gaze back and forth over the room but found no one. Still, she didn’t relax but stood tense, ready to run or fight if she had to.
“Who’s there? Why are you hiding?” She swallowed down fear and frustration. “Show yourself.”
No one appeared, which didn’t relieve the tension clawing at her shoulders and limbs. For a second she thought she was going crazy, but then she glanced down at the comforter caught around her ankle. It didn’t attack her all by itself.
Impatiently, she kicked the bedding aside. “Okay. Come on. The joke’s over. You can step out now. You’ve had your fun.”
She waited, shifting back and forth on the balls of her feet, ready to bolt if the need arose. Slowly, ever so slowly, as her gaze darted over every conceivable hiding place, she edged toward the doorway.
And that’s when she felt it. Someone or something right behind her. She screamed as she whipped around, stumbling in her hurry to see. But nothing or no one was there. She could have sworn...
Her laughter crackled and died against the four walls around her. Maybe she was going crazy. But the blanket. Could she, herself, have pulled it from the bed by accident?
She hated, really hated doubting herself.
She lunged for the bottle and glass from the dresser and backed out of the room. She hugged both against her chest and continued to walk backward down the hall.
“This isn’t funny, Johnny!” she called. “I know you were always a jokester, but this has gone far enough.
“If someone’s here,” she yelled, “show yourself!”
She was crazy. She’d finally gone over the edge. She found herself back in the den as she hit a heel against a damaged book. The chaos of the room smacked her hard, sucking the breath from her lungs and the energy from her body. She stumbled over the ruined books and found an empty spot beside the couch. With bottle in one hand and glass in the other, she slid down its side, her back rubbing against the quilted fabric. Her bottom hit the floor.
After sitting there for God knew how long, and when nothing or no one appeared, she uncorked the wine and poured a healthy measure. No one was going to jump out at her, because no one was in the house with her. She didn’t want to think she’d made up the incident, because it scared the hell out of her.
She made a conscious effort to pull her thoughts toward something else and focused on the room around her. She swore under her breath. Much of her inventory was ruined. It had taken her two years to get to where she’d been this morning. Now it was all gone. The work involved...
With the back of one hand, she brushed angrily at a tear that had slipped past her lashes. Crying never solved anything. At least not in her life. She’d learned while growing up that tears only brought censure or indifference. A Davenport never cried or showed any sign of deep emotion. That’s probably why she’d failed both parents.
She drank the rest of the bottle. The wine coated her fear, deadened her feelings and pulled her into a world of oblivion. Sleep finally dragged her under as she slumped against the couch.
###
That’s where Jake found her. An empty bottle of wine on one side and an overturned glass on her other.
“Damn it, Margot,” he whispered, frustrated. “Alcohol isn’t going to make your life any better. It’ll only push you down deeper.”
He took both bottle and glass from her side and shoved the bottle in the trash beneath her desk and left the glass on top by the computer.
It didn’t take much to pick her up, carry her over from the side of the couch and gently set her down on the cushions. Her head fell limply to the side and a wave of raven hair slipped across her cheek. He slid the strands aside, exposing her flushed cheek—a cheek where deep hollows clung below the bone. From the photos he’d seen around the house, she’d lost weight—a lot of weight. If she lost any more, her health would be in danger, if it wasn’t already.
Jake didn’t look around the room. He’d already seen enough. The guilt of it buried itself into his gut. He might not have torn the place apart, but he was equally to blame. Malcolm knew he was here. It was also obvious Malcolm suspected another copy of the formula was secreted away in the house.
Reluctantly, Jake left her on the couch. He had to right some of the wrong done to her. Less than an hour later, when he came back and found Margot still sleeping, he sank down on the edge of the couch and caressed her forearm with a gloved hand.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, knowing she couldn’t hear. “For having Malcolm follow me. For all the destruction and all the pain it’s caused. And for frightening you with the blanket. I never meant for you to doubt yourself, but I didn’t see any other way to stop you. You were going to discover everything. I can’t let that happen. I can’t put you in any more danger, or myself.”
Her lips parted, giving him a glimpse of even white teeth. He touched her bottom lip with an index finger, and then trailed it down across the line of her jaw and smooth column of her throat to her delicate breastbone and the scooped neckline of her dark brown sweater. Her low-slung, faded
jeans clung to her hips and thighs in all the right places.
He groaned. He shouldn’t be thinking of sex. She had enough problems without him adding to it. But he couldn’t help but think of a sexual relationship with her, however short. He couldn’t ignore his body’s reaction—a reaction that both amazed and alarmed him. He’d never been that sexual. Work, more importantly, science, had been his life, something that had always taken precedence over anything else.
He’d had women, of course. There’d never been a problem getting sex. As to his looks or his sexual prowess, he’d never had complaints. But any relationship he’d encountered had lacked any great feeling.
Damn. What a cold ass he’d been. He’d made the mistake of letting everything important fall unheeded behind him. Until now. Now with his mortality threatened, he hungered for life and everything it involved.
He slid his index finger back up over the column of her throat. Dissatisfied, he pulled away. The gloves masked the feel and texture of her skin.
Margot stirred. Her lids snapped open and she stared at him with large, thick lashed eyes. An indefinable emotion flickered in their depths before they widened. She scrambled along the couch and away from him.
“You’ve done this before. Sat there, watched me, touched me while I’ve been sleeping, haven’t you?”
The question threw him. How could he explain without sounding like a pervert?
“It’s not what you think,” he insisted. But wasn’t it? Hadn’t he crept into her room in the middle of the night and watched her sleep? Hadn’t he touched her? Hadn’t he wanted to take her in his arms, have her naked and crying out his name?
“You’ve been in my room. Late at night while I’ve been asleep.” She shoved her knees up to her chin and wrapped both arms around her jean-clad shins. She regarded him with huge brown, liquid eyes. “I had such dreams... I thought they were my imagination. I’d wake up in the morning feeling so—I thought—”
Sudden awareness flared between them. He felt it, saw it in her eyes and the quick intake of her breath as his own breathing escalated and his groin throbbed and hardened.
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