by kimberly
Julienne's jaw dropped. His response was so immediate, so impulsive, that she couldn't believe what he'd done.
"Oh, ouch!" Danielle muttered. "That one had to hurt."
Ashleigh squealed in fright as he unlocked the door and pulled her out. She slapped him. Hard. Unfazed, he slammed her back against the car. Ashleigh shrieked again, but it was not a cry of fright. It was pleasure. Obviously excited by his brutal, almost sexual, assault, she melted, pressing her body closer to his as his fingers caught impatiently in the thick masses of her hair, pulling her head back to meet the violation of his mouth over hers. Blocking her body with his, his hand disappeared through the high slit in her skirt.
Danielle nudged Julienne hard in the ribs. "Make up time."
Jolted inelegantly out of the voyeurism of watching the two fondle each other, Julienne frowned, "Get a room, for crying out loud." She rubbed the sore spot in her side. Forgetting her earlier resolution about him, she was stung by the unpleasant images of another woman in his arms.
Don't be stupid, she advised herself. It's not like you're in love…
Still, she wasn't able to take her eyes off Morgan and Ashleigh. She felt a jab of jealously when they kissed again. She sucked in a breath, shivering, acutely conscious of the physical craving she secretly harbored for him. It was hard for her to keep from crying when he led Ashleigh inside. He held his hand away from his body. The glass had opened a deep gash, and blood dripped from the wound.
"Go on," he told Ashleigh. "I will take care of this."
Julienne's mouth fell open in involuntary shock and dread. She felt scorching bile rise in the back of her throat. The sound of his blood spattering the white marble made her nauseous. She gulped, fighting back the dizziness threatening to overwhelm her. The sight of his blood reminded her of the peculiar vision she'd experienced on her first day at Blackthorne. Then, she'd imagined sanguine fluid falling. Now, she was seeing it in reality. Had she somehow been given a glimpse of the future? She didn't know, but found the coincidence a curiously frightening one.
Glowing double wattage, Ashleigh headed for the staircase. "Don't keep me waiting." Her ruby nails scraped the banister. She kicked off her high heels and gyrated up the stairs, saying in a seductive purr, "I promise I'll make it all better."
With hooded eyes, Morgan watched her go. He seemed in no hurry to catch up. He walked with the easy assurance of a man who knew he had plenty of time and not much effort to make.
"Ashleigh getting a little out of hand?" Danielle asked, fighting to hide her smirk.
Morgan plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his bleeding hand to staunch the flow. Unaccustomed to being the center of such a public exhibition, and having put on a display of blatant passion, he crammed his impetuous charisma resolutely back into his pocket.
"Fucking that woman is costing me a fortune," he said inelegantly, flexing his fingers to assess the damages.
"Get a cheaper girlfriend," Danielle retorted.
He did not answer. Julienne saw that in an instant his gaze hardened and something terrible and cruel took its place, as if the last of his fondness for Ashleigh Reynolds had departed.
"So, what's this going to cost you?" Danielle wanted to know, trying hard to nix the sarcastic grin on her face.
"She has been wanting a trip to Europe," he mused. "Now would be the time to purchase the ticket." He gave Danielle a pointed look. "Tomorrow."
"Round trip?"
"One way."
"For two?"
"She will be going alone."
"Where?"
"Far away."
"The intimate relations must be waning," Danielle teased.
"It is the only reason I have her around," Morgan said, "and that is about to end."
Danielle could not resist one final poke. "Need some stitches in your hand?"
"No." He went up the stairs after Ashleigh.
Watching him go, Danielle commented, "I think the affair's over."
Julienne shook her head in disbelief, and then blurted out the only words that seemed appropriate. "No shit!" she exclaimed. The two women glanced at each other, saying nothing, and then dissolved into an outbreak of helpless laughter, doubling up with such hysteria that they had to support each other to remain standing.
"What's going on?"
Julienne squealed, jumping back, her hands going to her chest as she fought to catch her breath. She relaxed when she saw the intruder was Melissa. Accompanying her was Jennifer. Still carrying her mop and bucket, Jennifer cast a baleful look at the blood on the floor. She smiled thinly and began to mop up the blood. "He does this deliberately, doesn't he?"
"What happened?" Melissa wanted to know.
"You missed the best fight yet!" Danielle wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. She made a quick mark in the air with her finger. "Ashleigh one, Morgan zero."
"It might be the other way around tomorrow," Julienne stifled her own chuckle. With no small effort, she put her desire for him aside. I really don't want him, she thought distantly, applauding herself.
Melissa grimaced. "I wondered how long she'd last."
"She was too young for him, anyway," Danielle sniped.
"Like he even looks at women his own age?" Melissa questioned teasingly.
Danielle drew herself up. "He's not my type. God knows I'm too old for bad boys like him." She repositioned her purse on her shoulder. "Anyway, now that the show's over, I need to get going. See you later." She exited, shutting the door behind her.
"Well," Julienne hemmed, "wonder what I should do now?"
"Miss Anlese has asked me to show you around the house and gardens, if you feel up to the walk."
Julienne brightened. "Really? How nice of her. I'd like to see everything."
"Great." Melissa indicated she was ready when Julienne was. "After I've shown you around you can do what you want. Be warned, though. Miss Anlese has called for the boutiques to send over their best. She thinks you could use some new clothes."
"Really?" Julienne was pleased. She'd been thinking the same thing but hadn't known how to broach the subject tactfully. She didn't want Anlese to think she'd come home to take advantage of the Blackthorne wealth.
"She's planning a special dinner for you tonight," Melissa warned. "It'll be full dress."
"Now, this should be something, considering what you've already told me about formalities here."
"It will," Melissa agreed, "and with those two sniping at each other there ought to be quite a nice show, too."
"And?"
"Be there, on time, at eight, if you want to see part two."
"You bet I will," Julienne promised.
Chapter Thirteen
Later in the day, Julienne sat at the vanity table in her dressing room. After indulging in a long, hot bubble bath and splashing herself all over with a spicy body scent, she was now taking the time to apply her cosmetics in a style appropriate for the evening. An hour later, the mirror showed her a merely pretty face that had become absolutely exquisite.
She ran her eyes over the image in the mirror, searching for signs of her lingering flaws. She had done well, managing to conceal the scars. It was as the doctors had told her: the longer she lived with them, the less invasive the scars would seem. She had not believed the words at the time; but since then, much had changed in her life. Her face was no longer her fortune. She no longer had to go out into the world and make a living based on how she looked. She was a Blackthorne, an heiress, due to inherit a substantial fortune. She was no longer tied to the public's ever-fickle views of beauty and those who represented it.
Nor was she a commodity, to be bought and sold off the magazine racks. She was a woman who--for the first time in her life--was becoming aware of her worth as a person. There was more substance to her than just a mannequin posing for the camera's lens. She had a mind, and she wanted to cultivate it. She was acutely aware her education was lacking formal completion. Hell, she hadn't even finished hi
gh school, dropping out in her senior year when Cassandra was murdered. A thirst for knowledge, not vapid beauty, was her new goal.
Picking up a tube of lipstick in a barely-there shade of nude, she applied her finishing touch, daubing some on. The gloss highlighted the natural shade of her lips without giving the impression of artificial enhancement.
Smoothing her artwork with a finger, she examined the final effect in the mirror. There was depth to the green of her eyes, in which lay a fine smattering of yellow-gold, barely escaping from making her irises appear to sparkle.
"Not bad," she assessed herself. She knew how important this night was. It would be her first chance to become a member of the family. She pressed a hand to her stomach to steady her nerves. Lunch had definitely worn off, and the grumbling in her stomach told her dinnertime was nearing.
Loosening her hair, she brushed it to a fine sheen. Melissa had earlier treated it with a mixture of raw eggs and mayonnaise, rinsing the concoction with a six-pack of beer. Her hair looked healthy. Pleased, she let it hang in loose curls to reach mid-way down her back, a fiery cascade of Titian red. She was beginning to look--and feel--human again. Moreover, she realized she was approaching her four-month anniversary. Four whole months without cocaine. She had even made it for almost a week without a cigarette. The craving was there, all right--she'd have loved one right now to calm her nerves -- but it was not a necessary thing. It was an option. With pride, she realized she could take it or leave it. She was growing, changing, leaving behind an old life as she settled into a new one. It was a life she was finding pleasant, with one exception…
Morgan.
His name unexpectedly rasped through her thoughts, sending currents along her nerve endings. A headache was beginning to develop behind her eyes. A vision of him, knife to her throat, assailed her, branding itself in the forefront of her mind. Capping her head with her hands, she whimpered softly. The dream. Not that again. Why wouldn't it leave her alone?
Julienne pressed shaking fingers against her throbbing temples. There had been other dreams about Morgan as well during the three days she had been kept in her bed--nightmares that she didn't want to think about or analyze. Nor did she want to remember what had triggered them, especially the overtly sexual ones, the ones where Morgan was kissing her--deep and hard. Despite herself, the thought of his kisses sent an erotic warmth spreading through her body.
Stop it! She warned herself. I'm not going to think of him that way!
When she'd arrived at Blackthorne, she'd been weak, wearied from travel, her mind disoriented by too many sights, sounds and images that must have influenced her subliminally in spite of the many negative responses she'd received from him. She would never, ever, kiss him the way he'd kissed her in the dreams. She'd felt such a need in him, a hunger that threatened to suck the very life right out of her body.
A shaky laugh escaped her lips. What the hell was she thinking? Why would Morgan want to kill her?
Julienne shifted uncomfortably in her chair, trying to overcome her over-dramatic imagination. Head pounding, she thought briefly about making an excuse and skipping dinner, but her pride would not allow her to do so. She was going to show she was strong. Moreover, she was going to prove to herself that, while he might invade her dreams, Morgan Saint-Evanston was not going to haunt her waking hours.
I'm not going to let stupid dreams ruin tonight, she scolded herself, or any other night. That man doesn't dictate my life… fear doesn't control my life.
Forcing herself to put the headache aside, she rose from the vanity and turned to the rack of clothes she and Anlese had spent the day choosing. Her grandmother was more than generous, sparing no expense. If the former model's wardrobe had been sparse on arrival, the problem had been completely remedied. She now had a closet and dresser overflowing with more clothes than she could ever possibly wear. If she changed clothes three times a day, it would still take months to wear the same outfit twice. She had tried to restrain her grandmother's generosity, worrying aloud what Morgan might say when he saw the bills. Anlese merely smiled devilishly and alluded to the fact that he was more than accustomed to lavishly spending money on his women.
His women. Julienne's lips drew down in an annoyed frown. I'm not his woman. Don't ever intend to be, either. She winced, remembering the feel of his fingers curling around her arm, the firm smack of his hand across her butt cheeks. He'd acted like he owned her, and that attitude of his definitely didn't set well with a woman just learning to assert her independence.
If he touches me again, I'll scratch his eyes out, rip that smug smirk right off his face! Her hands bunched into fists that she planted firmly at her sides. Just thinking of him made her furious. I won't be like Ashleigh, melting into a puddle because he pulls that macho animal bullshit. Probably doesn't even know he's planning to dump her, using her for one last goodbye screw.
She recalled what her mother had often told her about him. He was a heartless man. Selfish. Unreliable. Not only did he display the classic signs of the misanthrope, who despised the human race, she suspected he was also more than a bit of a misogynist. Women, for him, were probably no more than objects.
So much for months of therapy. Her forehead crinkled in thought. Lots of two-dollar words coming out of my fifty-cent mouth. It was easy to play armchair psychiatrist when one had spent months on a couch having one's psyche put straight by people with expensive degrees and the desire to cure sick minds.
"Forget him," she told the woman in the mirror. "You might have to live with him, but you don't have to give yourself to him."
Sighing over the thoughts running rampant through her mind, she selected a dress for the evening, her favorite among the many purchased. Over her camisole she put on a dress of kelly-green silk, chosen because its puffy sleeves and Victorian collar helped disguise her thinness. Earlier, Anlese had also presented her with a pair of pearl earrings, and she made these her only adornment. The shoes were also her favorites, a new pair of sandals whose straps wound delicately around her ankles. The heels were lethal four-inch spikes. A grin crossed her face. Who said a woman was ever unarmed? In these shoes, she would literally loom over the bastard.
Overhead lights lit her as she closely surveyed the results from every angle in the full-length mirror. She had dressed simply, yet impressively. In the back of her mind, she wanted Morgan to see her at her best--to eat his heart out over what he would never have. Since he was breaking up with Ashleigh, he would be a man on the rebound. She, however, had no intention of being a last fling for him before he departed from Blackthorne.
Julienne's eyes cut to the clock on the wall. Half-past seven. Thirty minutes before dinner. Enough time to have a cocktail. She could use a good stiff drink. She thought again about making her excuses and taking a tray in her room. Ixnay on that, she warned herself. Being ill was not an option.
Showtime. She turned off the lights, exiting first her dressing room, and then her bedroom. And, yes, this time I'll be dazzling them with beauty!
Progressing down the hallway, Julienne turned a corner and followed a passage that would take her to the staircase. This was the first time she'd traveled the route alone. Blackthorne went beyond large. It was huge! Upstairs, downstairs, the many colonnaded hallways leading into yet more rooms were confusing to a newcomer. Wanting to memorize every detail, she slowed her pace. Down each wall were rows of pillars, spaced at intervals of fifteen feet, rising to, but not supporting, the vaulted ceiling twenty feet above the floor. Beautifully symmetrical, they afforded the hall a depth and magnificence it would not have otherwise possessed. Blackthorne was truly an eclectic mixture of architectural styles. And the décor--magnificent! Each piece was perfect, placed with the utmost care where it would be displayed to its best advantage. She paused, trailing her fingers over a lovely teak hall table that held a single exquisitely etched vase. A painting hung above it, and she stepped closer for a better examination. She was not well-schooled in art, but she doubted it was a cleve
r reproduction; the entire collection of Blackthorne's aesthetic treasures were probably all originals and worth a substantial fortune.
This is so amazing, she mused. This is where I was born, and my mother before me, and grandmother, too. She had not lived in the manor long, but she already loved its solidity. Its history was her history. She had a place. She belonged. Did it matter that she still had no clue who fathered her, that her status in life was that of illegitimacy? Cassandra had a past here. Sometime soon, Julienne felt, she would discover the whole truth about the woman her mother had been and who she, herself, was yet to grow into.
Aware her tarrying was wasting time, she continued her walk. As she passed another suite of rooms, the sound of angry voices assailed her ears. She paused mid-step, glancing at the door. She saw it was open enough to allow a glimpse inside. She hesitated -- she should leave, yet she was torn with curiosity by the intensity of the argument.
I shouldn't, she counseled herself. Her breath caught in her lungs, as if she were afraid the mere act of breathing would give away her presence. It's wrong to spy.
Still, she couldn't make herself walk away.
Curiosity killed the cat, she remembered Morgan telling her.
But satisfaction? Ah, that was quite another thing. Especially when satisfaction was woven through with jealously, attraction and a desire to know everything about him.
Tiptoeing forward, careful not to make a solitary sound, Julienne eased her face toward the crack between the door and its frame. She found she had a nice view of the wallpaper. Damn! She couldn't see a blasted thing. For a moment she considered giving up, forgetting her attempt at eavesdropping, but curiosity was stronger than common sense. Anything she could learn about Morgan would only enable her to get the upper hand with him. How he dealt with his lovers would be a good place to start.
