“Don’t kid yourself. David Bryson may look and act like something from a sideshow, but he’s a man like the rest of us. If he’s having a looker like Becca up to Frankenstein Manor, he’s either doing her already or he’s planning on making a move on her.”
“Where’d you get that idea?”
“What idea? That the freaking beast has the hots for Becca? You figure it out. He sits up there all day by himself, then comes to town at night and sneaks around in the shadows like some bloodthirsty vampire. And he’s singled Becca Smith out. He sent his driver to pick her up yesterday and she stayed up there half the day.”
“I told you. That was all business.”
“Oh, yeah, ri-i-ight. You are a sucker, my friend. She’s probably up there with him now, in your car. And you’re sitting here worried about her while two good-looking babes go lonely.”
“Becca is not with David Bryson. That much I can promise you. I’ll wait for her. The chicks are all yours.”
“They will be. Watch. You might learn something.” He stood, raked his fingers through his hair, mussing it instead of straightening it, then sauntered over to the table and joined the two women. They were hot-looking, both wearing sweaters that were at least a size too small. Their nipples were perfectly outlined, leaving little to the imagination. Another time he’d have liked to join Kevin, but not tonight.
Not that he put any stock in Kevin’s opinions. The guy just loved to stir up trouble. But if he did find out that Becca had taken his car to visit David…
The bartender stopped in front of him and pushed a portable phone across the counter. “It’s for you. Keep it short. This is a business and that is a business phone.”
Larry pressed the phone to his ear to hear above the din of the bar. “Hello.”
“Is this Larry Gayle?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“David Bryson. There’s been an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“Becca ran your car off the road. She’s fine, but the car can’t be driven as it is.”
“How do you know about this?”
“I happened on the accident right after it happened.”
“Wasn’t that convenient.”
“It was for Becca.”
“Where was the wreck?”
“On Old Mountain Road, but I’ve taken the liberty of calling a tow truck. They’re hauling it to Grange’s Garage, probably as we speak.”
Old Mountain Road. The one place Becca had said she’d stay away from—the road to David’s stone monstrosity. Larry fought the urge to slam his fist into something—into anything since David’s face wasn’t close enough to take the blow.
“And suppose I don’t want it taken to Grange’s Garage?”
“Then call them and have them take it wherever you like. I’ll take care of any charges your insurance doesn’t cover.”
Big man. He’d take care of everything, just like he had with Tasha Pierce. “I don’t need your stinking charity. Where’s Becca?”
“She’s here with me.”
“Well isn’t that just a full net of flounder. You tell her I’ll borrow a car and be there to pick her up in half an hour.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll have my butler drive her home.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“It would be better if you didn’t, at least not until you calm down. She’s had a rough couple of hours, and she’s resting now.”
“Resting, is she? In a house with a ghoul? Now, that would be enough to give any woman nightmares.”
Larry broke the connection and slammed the phone onto the counter. Picking up what was left of his beer, he downed it in one continuous gulp. Five years ago he’d been dating Tasha Pierce when she dropped him like a smelly mackerel and joined up with David Bryson.
But then David hadn’t looked like a monster. Now he did. And still Becca Smith had gone running up to see him tonight, even after she’d been warned. The man had strange powers over women. Larry had never believed in the tales of witches, warlocks and ghosts that half the town did, but David Bryson was not human.
He was certain of it. And he had been allowed to live much too long. It was time someone did something about that. And past time someone taught Becca Smith a real lesson, one she wouldn’t forget.
BECCA STRETCHED OUT on the sofa in the drawing room and propped her feet on a tufted, antique hassock. David had built a fire when they’d come in and Richard had served her tea and fresh scones topped with lemon curd, a custom he’d apparently brought over with him from England. Now she was alone in a room illuminated only by the flames that darted and danced in the mammoth fireplace.
“Everything’s taken care of,” David announced as he stepped back into the room. “I reported the hit-and-run to the police but told them you weren’t up to talking just yet. They didn’t like it but agreed to wait until morning to get your version of the wreck. Then I called for a tow truck and got in touch with Larry Gayle. He was still at the bar just as you thought he might be.”
“Was he furious?”
“That’s a pretty apt description of his mood.”
“He’ll probably never speak to me again.”
“Actually, I had to persuade him not to come running to your rescue. He’s afraid for you to be in a house with a ghoul. I think that’s how he put it.”
“Oh, David, I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. He’s probably right.” He walked over and settled in a chair in the corner. “If you feel like talking, I’d like to hear the full story of what happened this evening.”
She stared into the fire, watched a log break and tumble off the grate, setting off a crackling spray of yellow flames. “I guess I should start at the beginning.” She ran her hands across the rough denim of her jeans, trying to ease the clamminess. “Detective Megham made another visit to the Cavendish home this afternoon.”
“Does he have any leads on the man who tried to attack you and Claire?”
“He thinks he does.” She turned to face him and as always felt the heat of awareness shimmy through her. She wished there was a better way to say this. “He thinks it could be you.”
“Did he say that?”
“Not exactly, but he intimated not only that it was you last night but that you’re the man who murdered the woman whose body was found two nights ago.”
David’s expression and voice remained calm. “When in need of a suspect, go for the monster on the hill, the one man in town who doesn’t dance to the Pierces’ tune.”
“I don’t think this has anything to do with the Pierces.”
“Then you have a lot to learn about living in Moriah’s Landing. Everything that goes on in this town has to do with the Pierces. What else did the good detective say?”
“That I should stay away from you, that you’re dangerous.”
“Yet here you are.”
“I thought you should know what was going on.”
“So you borrowed Larry’s car and were on your way to see me when some kook plowed into you and just kept going.”
“It wasn’t exactly hit-and-run.”
“Exactly what was it, Becca?”
“The crash wasn’t an accident. I was intentionally run off the road. The driver of the other car jammed into me repeatedly until I lost control of the car.”
“Damn.” David stood, walked to the hearth and leaned against the mantel.
“Did you see the driver of the other car?”
“I saw what looked like McFarland Leary.”
David crossed the room in long strides and sat down beside her, careful to keep his right side turned away from her. “What are you talking about?”
“Just before the car hit me for the last time, I got a quick look at the driver. At the time, I thought I was glimpsing hell itself. But I’m sure now it was just a man wearing one of those rubber McFarland Leary masks that are in all the tourist shops.”
“You could have been killed by
an idiot in a mask,” he said, his voice cracking. He put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her so close she could feel the beating of his heart against her breasts.
And then he kissed her, not the feather-soft whisper of a kiss that they’d shared that morning, but a deep, ravenous kiss that tore her apart and then put her back together again, more whole than she’d ever been. He kissed her again and again until her lips were swollen and tender and still she couldn’t bear to pull away.
Finally he did, but he cradled her face in his hands, and when her gaze met his, it was as if he were still kissing her. “I shouldn’t have done that, Becca. I had no right, not after what you’ve been through.”
“It wasn’t just you who did it. No kiss could be like that if only one person was involved. Surely you know that.”
“I’m not sure what I know right now.” He covered the right side of his face with his hand as he drew away, as if suddenly aware that he’d let her glimpse too much of his deformity.
Strange that it should bother him so much when it was no more than a shadowy illusion in the firelight. She wasn’t sure that it would have mattered, anyway. It was not so much what she saw when she looked at him but what she felt that consumed her.
“I’ll have Richard ready the guest room. We’ll talk again in the morning.”
“I need to call Mrs. Cavendish and let her know I won’t be back tonight. After that, will you sit with me for a while, stay with me until I fall asleep?”
“If you want me to.”
“I do.” Wanted him in a way that defied all reason. Wanted him no matter what the cost.
THE WIND BLEW ACROSS the cemetery, stirring the dry leaves and tossing them around like the old dreams of people who were buried there. So many graves. Yet only one mausoleum held any fascination for the lone man strolling through the maze of tombstones and dead bouquets.
Five years ago he’d abducted Claire Cavendish from that spot. She had been the perfect victim. Young, beautiful, fragile. That’s why he’d weakened, kept her alive for days while he played sick games with her body and her mind. But keeping her alive had turned out to be the worst mistake of his life. She’d escaped before he could silence her forever.
Somewhere in the scarred corners of her mind, she knew who he was. Knew his name and the sound of his voice. And one day she’d walk back into those dark chambers and the veil would lift. As long as she’d stayed locked away in that hospital, he hadn’t worried much. Who’d believe a crazy person if she pulled a name from her memory and claimed he’d ravaged her body and soul?
But now she was out, making progress, walking the streets, talking to people, especially to Becca Smith. He had to kill Claire. That was the only way to make sure his gruesome secrets stayed locked away. He’d kill her and he’d kill Becca Smith.
He’d already tried this afternoon, but his plan hadn’t worked. Dear old David Bryson had come to her rescue. But he would kill both women before this was over.
He’d kill Claire because he had no alternative. He’d kill Becca because she was consorting with a madman.
And for the pure thrill of it.
He’d do it soon. He had to. The need to kill was taking over his mind the way it always did. And when it became too loud to silence, he had no choice but to spill the bright red blood of a beautiful woman like Becca Smith.
Chapter Nine
David paced the hall outside the guest room where Becca slept, his footsteps the only noise in the eerily silent house. They seemed to echo in his ears, like warning drums, while visions of Becca danced in his head. Just as he’d promised, he’d sat beside her bed until she’d fallen asleep.
Lying there in one of his Tshirts, the soft cotton draping the gentle curves of her breasts, her silken hair fanned across the creamy sheen of the pillowcase, catching the soft rays of moonlight that filtered through the window.
He was still reeling from the effect. His feelings for her were frighteningly strong, consuming, and yet so different from the love he’d felt for Tasha. With Tasha, everything had been right from the very beginning, as if the second they met, they knew they were meant to be together.
With Becca, everything was wrong except the ridiculously overwhelming attraction that made him seek her out over and over until he’d finally weakened and pulled her into the shadowy, empty shell of life he inhabited.
Tasha had made him strong. Becca made him vulnerable. But she needed his protection. He hadn’t been sure last night’s attack had been directed at her specifically, but there was no doubt about today’s. Someone wanted her dead, and he wouldn’t stand by and watch her get killed, the way he had with Tasha. She would have to listen to reason now, agree to stay at the Bluffs where he could make certain she was safe.
Only how could he have her here day after day and not touch her? How could he look into her eyes and not want to kiss her? How could he bear going to bed night after night alone when she was asleep in the same house?
“David.”
The voice was high-pitched, a cry for help. It cut through him, fueling a rush of adrenaline. He pushed through the door of the guest room, expecting to see Becca sitting up in bed, fighting off the dregs of a nightmare. Instead, she was still in its clutches. Her eyes were closed, and she was writhing, twisting from side to side, tangling her body and legs in the sheets. Scared to death even in her sleep.
He sat down beside her and lay a hand to her shoulder. “I’m here, Becca. I’m right here. You’re safe.”
The twitching stopped and her breath slowed to a steady pace. She reached up and placed her hand over his, and a surge of desire shot through him with dizzying force. His fingers dug into her flesh, the smoothness of her like silk against the rough flesh of his hands.
She stirred again, this time opening her eyes. “David?” Her voice was hoarse, as if she’d been screaming for hours instead of calling for him once.
“I’m right here.”
She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, then looked around the room, her eyes narrowed, as if trying to see through a dense fog. She wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and then turned her gaze to him, the moonlight painting surreal shadows on her face. She tried to roll to her side and winced in pain, before giving up.
“You’re in pain.”
“A little.”
“Show me exactly where it hurts.”
“Yes, Doctor.” She was teasing him, but she touched her hand to a spot on her right side just below her waist. “Here.”
Making sure the right side of his face was turned away from her, he flicked the bedside lamp on low. Gingerly, he lifted the shirt, leaving the sheet high enough that he didn’t see any more of her body than was necessary.
“You have an ugly bruise. It looks as if the catch on the seat belt may have dug into your flesh when you stopped.”
“I think I even remember that. See. Nothing to worry about.”
“Any other sharp pains or areas that seem overly sensitive?”
“My neck and shoulders are stiff. Kind of a dull ache, no worse than I get after a day of nonstop sewing.”
“Let me see you sit up.”
“Aw, c’mon, Doc. We did all this already.” But she rose to her elbows and then pushed herself to a sitting position. “See. I’m up. Back straight. Chest out.”
His gaze went to her chest, which was most assuredly out. She was joking and teasing, trying to keep the moment light. He didn’t even remember how to joke and flirt. But then he’d thought he didn’t remember how to feel the needs and the urges that were currently driving him over the edge, either. He’d been wrong.
Struggling for a steady hand and a reasonably clear mind, he switched off the lamp, then concentrated on the pillows, plumping them and propping them behind her back.
She leaned back and sighed contentedly, though he was certain she was working hard to keep from showing the stiffness of her muscles. “You have a terrific bedside manner,” she said, smoothing the sheet.
&nbs
p; “Thank you, but I’m not sure the medical ethics board would approve of my bringing the patient home with me to treat her.”
“I wasn’t your patient. I was an accident victim, and you were merely fulfilling your Hippocratic oath by taking me in.”
He doubted Hippocrates would see it that way, and he was certain Larry Gayle didn’t. He had a strong suspicion that Mrs. Cavendish hadn’t, either, though he’d only heard Becca’s end of the conversation when she’d called to tell her she was spending the night with him.
Becca stretched, letting her toes slide down the underside of the sheet. “When was the last time someone slept in this bed?”
“Years ago.”
“You should open the Bluffs to company again. The place has character and history—and room. Definitely room. I’m glad this is one of the rooms you’re planning to redecorate. It cries for burgundy, don’t you think?”
“I don’t hear any crying.” And if he did, it would be his own, crying in desperation because he was playing a game he could never win. She stared at him, critically, as if she were trying hard to read his mind, her fingers massaging a spot at the base of her skull.
“Let me do that for you,” he said. “Then I’ll give you something to help you relax and get back to sleep.”
She shook her head. “I don’t take drugs unless I absolutely have to.”
“Good, because I don’t have any painkillers on hand stronger than an aspirin. I was thinking about a little sherry.”
“Sherry I can handle.”
He scooted closer so that he could fit his hands around the curve of her neck. She turned away from him to make the task easier. His fingers trailed the taut lines, from her earlobes to the curl of her shoulders, gently at first, to let her adjust to his touch.
Slowly he increased the pressure, circling her shoulders with his thumbs, then working his way up her neck, thoroughly, until he felt the kinks begin to release. She rolled her neck, and silky locks of her golden hair slid over his fingers and hands. His body hardened, and instinctively he jerked away.
She turned and stared at him, her usually bright blue eyes smoky and seductive. “Why did you stop?”
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