Fairytale

by Maggie Shayne

  She wondered if now that she’d met him, he’d still appear in her dreams at night. Those erotic dreams woven by that wanton inside her. Brigit lost control of the wild thing when she was sleeping. And her control during the hours of wakefulness would be sorely tested, she thought, now that she was living under Adam’s roof. Even now, she felt a ripple of desire for him flitting up and down her nerve endings. She hoped the spell of those dreams would be broken now that she’d met the real man. But somehow, she doubted it. If she had those kinds of dreams about Adam Reid tonight, she wasn’t sure she could get up and look him in the eye tomorrow morning.

  Brigit brushed her fingertips across her damp forehead, pushed sweat-soaked tendrils of hair off her skin. She lifted one hand to begin unbuttoning her blouse, as she walked into the bathroom to check on the cool bath she was running. The tub was like an ivory seashell, with little steps cut into one side. No curtain around it. No frosted glass doors. It was open, and she squirmed a little at the idea of feeling so exposed as she bathed. The one inside disagreed. She found the idea tantalizing.

  Brigit wished she would go back to sleep and stay there.

  Still, she supposed it would be all right. There was only one arched, floor-to-ceiling window in here, and nothing but the lake beyond it. She could see nothing now, of course, but by daylight, one would be able to see the incredible view from the comfort of the tub. She could almost envision some purely sexual creature soaking in that shell of a tub, like a pearl. Sipping champagne and staring out at the lake and the hills and the greenery. The blue sky above. From way up here on high. Queen of all she surveys, Brigit thought.

  And oddly, she thought of the painting again. Of the woman bathing in the midst of all that natural beauty.

  Brigit glanced at the tub, and thought she should have settled for a quick shower.

  Oh, go on! Who’s going to know?

  That one inside her was yearning to try a little decadence on for size. And Brigit was tempted to let her. She’d never lived in a place like this...never had the chance to feel such luxury. She went back to the bedroom for a vial of essential vanilla oil. And while she was there, she removed her glasses, and placed them carefully on the bedside stand. A little more of the wild one’s impishness possessed her as she hurried back to the bathroom and poured a generous amount of oil into the cool water. Impulsively, she leaned over the tub to inhale its fragrance.

  ***

  This was not what he’d had in mind when he’d decided to come out onto the balcony. Nor when he’d decided he ought to keep a close eye on her. She was doing nothing more suspicious than running a bath, and he ought to leave.

  Right now. He ought to leave.

  He didn’t, because there seemed to be some kind of magic at work here. He watched her as she shook her hair loose. The first time he’d seen it down, wild and untamed, since that day in the classroom. Her glasses were gone now, too. And—and she’d somehow lost the appearance of the shy, the controlled, the staid plant shop owner. He realized with a little jolt of surprise that his instincts about her had been right on target. The primness had been an illusion. He saw that now, in the simple way she ran her fingers through that mane of hair, arching her back and tipping her chin up. She was a creature of pure sensuality. She was desire, in a physical form. Venus. Aphrodite. And the transformation seemed to come from within her.

  Her back was toward him as she slid the green silk blouse from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. And why had he somehow known her skin would look luminous? Satiny? That the curve of her spine would be perfect and enticing, beckoning him closer?

  Her hands moved around to the front, and a second later, she was pushing the skirt away. Stripping away the vestiges of civilized woman she’d been wearing. Pushing the skirt down over her hips, letting it pool around her feet. Standing there in a forest-green camisole with black lace trim. Further evidence of the woman she was pretending so hard not to be. Her panties had high-cut legs. And she wore black stockings that only came to mid-thigh.

  She lifted one leg, propping her foot on the edge of the tub, and she pressed her hands to her thigh, and Adam shuddered with a primal twinge. Those hands, small, efficient hands, rolled the stocking down, all the way to her ankle, then worked it off her petite foot and dropped it carelessly on the floor.

  Sweat broke out on Adam’s forehead. His breathing was deep, ragged. And he was hard. He told himself to look away, to leave this deck right now, before it was too late. But he couldn’t do it. It was almost as if some spell were keeping him there, as if she’d truly mesmerized him, cementing his feet to the spot, refusing to release the hold her body had on his eyes. His physical self refused to obey his mind’s commands. In fact, his body refused to do anything at all, except respond to the slow revelation of hers.

  By the time she’d removed the other stocking, he was throbbing. Aching.

  But it wasn’t over yet. Not yet. Because her hand came up, and pushed the thin strap down from her shoulder. And as she undressed, she moved through the bathroom, looking it over, taking it in. The other strap was lowered.

  Jesus! He bit his lip, leaning forward in anticipation.

  She pushed the camisole down, wriggled her hips through, and let it fall at her feet. And without a second’s hesitation, she shoved off the high-cut panties as well, and his tongue darted out to moisten his lips, and he thought he’d stopped breathing.

  The luscious curve of her spine dipped inward at the small of her back, then eased and vanished between two perfect buttocks. Smooth and rounded just enough, he thought. Swaying oh-so-slightly as she moved to the tub.

  “God damn,” he whispered.

  She bent over to shut off the water, then lower, swishing one hand through it.

  He choked out a hoarse, involuntary curse, his erection so hard it was painful.

  And she whirled to face the window, startled, and Adam went utterly still. Maybe she’d heard him. He was given a brief, tantalizing glimpse of small, firm breasts with upturned nipples that looked as succulent as honeydew. Looking at those confections made his mouth water, and his heart pounded in his chest like a jackhammer. That silver necklace winked and glimmered from between her breasts, and the pewter fairy that embraced the diamond-like quartz crystal took on a new degree of sensuality. One he’d remember whenever he saw it from now on.

  He saw something else. Something red, a small mark on her lower abdomen. Only a glimpse. No more, as she snatched a towel and yanked it over her body, frowning hard at the glass, seeing nothing, he knew, but her own reflection.

  He stood motionless on the other side. And though he knew she couldn’t see him with the light on inside and the pitch darkness without, he got the feeling that she knew he was there. Sensed his presence somehow.

  Or did she?

  Impossible to tell. Because she turned her back, and she let the towel fall away. Quickly, she stepped into the tub and sank down into the water, hiding her body from his hungry stare.

  And only then was Adam finally able to convince himself to walk away.

  At breakfast, she was once again the reserved, the wary, the shy woman he’d first known. She wore a loose-fitting crinkle dress of deep blue, with yellow stars dotting it. She’d belted it at the waist with a braided yellow belt, and there were tiny golden suns and cradle moons hanging from the belt, moving when she did. And, of course, that necklace hung around her neck. He’d come to the conclusion that she never took it off, and he wondered why.

  Her hair was in a tight French braid all the way down to the middle of her back, again, and her round wire rims were perched over those mystical eyes. She was hiding. This was her facade. He knew the real woman. He’d seen her last night. But he’d known her even before then. He’d met her almost thirty years ago.

  “Sleep well?”

  She lifted her gaze from her empty coffee mug to meet his. “Fine, thank you. Although...I thought I heard something on the deck outside my room.”

  He crooked
a brow at her. “Really?”

  “Probably an animal.”

  A barb...meant to stick him. No doubt about it, she had known he was out there last night. Why not just say so, then? Why not call him on it?

  Because she had to stay here, in order to pull off whatever con she was working up to. And if she admitted that she knew, then she’d have to leave, wouldn’t she? No self-respecting woman would stay. It was easier to play word games, to throw missiles and see if they hit any targets.

  Well, he wasn’t rising to her bait.

  “I’ll take a look around out there tonight before you go to sleep, if it will make you feel better.”

  Her round eyes met his, wider than ever. She said nothing. He almost got lost in those eyes, but caught himself in time, and averted his gaze. Distance, he reminded himself. Objectivity.

  “Coffee?”

  “Just hot water.” She pulled a tea bag from a deep pocket and dropped it into her cup. He poured the water for her, replaced the pot, and sat back down.

  The space between them wasn’t empty. There was something there, something alive and crackling and hot. He could feel it, and he was sure she could as well.

  “I have classes most of the day,” he said. “I won’t be back until tonight.”

  “Oh. Well, I won’t see you, then. I don’t close Akasha until eleven.”

  He nodded, wondering what she’d do while he was gone today. Wondering if he should even leave.

  “What...do you want done? You know...to the house.”

  He shrugged. “If you can manage to keep the rooms I use everyday in something close to livable conditions, I’ll be happy. I don’t expect you to do the whole house. The service is gonna send someone once a month to do the major cleaning.”

  She didn’t seem satisfied with the answer. She sat there, dipping her tea bag in synchronized movements that started to work on him as surely as a hypnotist’s pocket watch.

  He cleared his throat, jerked his eyes away from her hand, stopped fantasizing about how it would feel on his warm, hard flesh. “You can clean up the breakfast mess, I suppose. You remember where the kitchen is?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if you get a chance you can straighten my bedroom.”

  Again her head snapped up and her eyes sparked. “Where—”

  “Right next to yours, Brigit.” He enjoyed her surprise, and allowed himself a smile of triumph. “The room you’re sleeping in belonged to my wife. She made sure it was the nicest one in the house. I thought you’d like it.”

  “I do.” She lowered her gaze, sipped her tea. Then she frowned and met his eyes again. “What happened to her?”

  The words that formed in his mind were none of your damned business. But the ones that fell from his lips were different ones. “Last I heard, she was in Venezuela.”

  Those eyes of hers flickered, but held his by sheer force. An invisible force. One that made him answer questions he had no intention of answering.

  “She left you?”

  He only nodded, telling himself to finish his coffee, to break eye contact so he could regain some control here.

  “I’m sorry,” she said so softly he almost believed her. “That must have hurt.”

  It had hurt. It had torn him apart. Not that Sandra would have had any way of telling. He was an expert at keeping his feelings to himself. And it wasn’t so much losing her that had given him all that pain. It was the loss itself. The feeling of being stabbed in the back by someone he’d been foolish enough to care for, to trust, yet again.

  Hell, he should have known better. Wouldn’t happen again, though. He’d finally got the point.

  “Adam?”

  He looked up, having lost the thread of the conversation.

  “Are you all right?” she asked him, as if she gave a damn.

  Those eyes worked their magic, sucked him in. Damn, he wanted her. Maybe this whole thing wasn’t such a great idea after all.

  And the way she was looking at him, he could almost believe this mind-blowing desire might be mutual.

  And that made it even more potent. He stood abruptly. “I have to go.”

  Glancing through the glass that lined three walls of the breakfast nook to judge the weather, he yanked his suit jacket from the chair where he’d tossed it.

  “It’s going to be a beautiful day,” she told him, reading his thoughts it seemed.

  “Dark clouds on the horizon.”

  She shook her head. “The rain will hold off until tonight.”

  He frowned at her. “Amateur meteorologist?”

  Her smile was quick and blinding. “Good guesser,” she replied.

  He shook his head, not returning her smile.

  “Have a good day, Adam.”

  He stopped at the doorway that led out to the foyer, wondering at the odd tingle that had raced down the back of his neck at her words. The feeling of warmth, of...optimism...that seemed to sink through his pores. As if it were more than a wish.

  Damn. He’d better try getting some more sleep tonight. “You, too,” he muttered, and then he hurried away from the woman and her mysterious vibes. In the foyer, he took a moment to snatch his raincoat from the rack near the door, his way of thumbing his nose at her predictions, he figured. But before he left, he turned, looking back toward the room where he’d left her.

  She was humming, her voice angelic, her tune, haunting and strange. His throat went dry. He reached for the doorknob, and just before he turned away again, his gaze fell on that fern at the base of the stairs.

  He frowned hard. It didn’t look quite as brown and withered this morning. Now what the hell was up with that?

  Chapter Six

  It was not pleasant, what she had to do. But she had no choice. She waited until she was sure Adam had left, until she heard the sound of his car driving away, and then she went up to the bedroom, lugging her equipment downstairs and through the double doors into the study. She spread a drop cloth on the floor, and set the tripod atop it. Then she stood the canvas up. She’d donned a smock for the occasion, and she pushed her sleeves back automatically. And then she stood poised, and still, and silent. She focused on the painting above the mantel. Not just with her eyes, but with her very soul. And she waited.

  As always, it happened. Her hands chose a color, and squeezed a daub of it onto the palette. She didn’t look at the tube of paint. Her gaze never wavered from the painting as she sought to cling to that state of soul-deep concentration she had to achieve in order to work. Without looking away, she grabbed another color, and squeezed it beside the first. She dipped her brush in one, and then the other, and then back again, and she rolled the bristles against the wood until she felt the mixture was just right. Her eyes still on the painting, she lifted her brush.

  With the first stroke, she heard Sister Mary Agnes’s voice, rustling like dried leaves in a wind, reading the Fairytale aloud as she had so often.

  Once upon a time, not so very long ago, two princesses were born. No ordinary princesses, though. These babies were special. These babies were fay.

  Brigit caught her lips between her teeth as they silently mouthed, “And that means fairy...” She bit down harder, and tried to tune the memories out. She needed to focus. But her hands continued wielding the brushes as if operating without her control, and the voice in her mind went on, skipping ahead.

  Father Anthony found you and another tiny girl sleeping at the altar one morning. And each of you had a book just like this one.

  It wasn’t real, Brigit told herself. It was a fairytale.

  One with the name Brigit inside, and the other with the name of Bridin.

  “And what happened to Bridin,” Brigit allowed herself to whisper. “What happened to my sister?”

  Ridiculous. It was a fairytale, and there was no more to it than that. A story Sister Mary Agnes had used to give her comfort. Arid why was she thinking about the nonexistent Bridin so much just now, anyway? While thoughts and questions about the mysteriou
s twin popped into her mind every once in a while, and always had, lately she’d been besieged with them. It seemed Bridin, real or make-believe, was a constant presence in Brigit’s mind these days. Why?

  The painting. Something about this painting. God, it was all tangled up with her disjointed memories and that stupid fairytale she was beginning to wish she’d never heard! Sister Mary Agnes should have known better than to fill a child’s head with fantasy and tell her it was real. Didn’t she realize how confusing it could be?

  Her hands moved faster, brushstroke upon brushstroke coating the canvas. Her arms worked furiously, and a thin sheen of sweat coated her forehead.

  Confusing? No, it was maddening! Because Brigit had never known exactly where to draw the line between the story and the actual facts of her own life. Had her mother really died, for example? And had her father only given her up when he, too, was about to lose his life? Had there ever really been a twin sister? Or was all of that just part of the fairytale Sister Mary Agnes had passed on to her?

  She hadn’t let those questions surface with this much insistence in years, because they only brought frustration. Her files were sealed. She’d never know. There was no way she’d ever know.

  She blinked then, and her flying hands slowed a bit.

  Maybe there was a way. Why hadn’t she considered it before? Adam would know. He was an expert in fairytales, wasn’t he? He’d published books on the subject, taught classes at the university. He probably knew every fairytale ever told. And she already knew he’d heard of hers. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have likened this painting to the forest of Rush. Where else would he have got that name? The fact was, he’d probably read accounts of the fairytale she’d always thought of as hers alone. And he would know. He could likely even tell her its origins, and point out hidden symbolism in the words. But most importantly, he’d know whether the twin sister was, indeed, just part of the story.

  But how could she ask him? She certainly couldn’t tell him the truth. That she, orphaned Brigit Malone, who’d taken the last name of a homeless old man because she hadn’t had one of her own, had once believed herself to be the daughter of a fairy princess. He would laugh her right out of the house. And she couldn’t show him the book. Not now. She’d already told him she’d never seen this painting before. If he saw the book, he’d know that was a lie. Though the illustration in her book and the painting on his wall were different, they were also, obviously, the same. And she’d pushed his tolerance for lies too far, already.