by kimberly
My dreams? she wondered. Are my dreams telling me something, warning me to stay away from him?
She looked at the dagger again. Like the other weapons, it was a showpiece, well sealed in a glass case. Fascination slowly replaced revulsion. Why was it she felt a connection with this man? What drew her to him when common sense said she should run screaming in the opposite direction?
I should leave, she thought, but she did not.
As she had done in the main sitting room, Julienne made a slow circuit around the room. Morgan's territory, it was contained within itself and pathologically precise in arrangement. Moreover, with the exception of a few antique silver candelabra, there were no personal items. Except for the display of weapons, no other objects were hung on the walls. No knickknacks or curios. On the desk were an antique quill pen, an inkwell and a blotter. Showpieces. Nothing more.
Perplexed by the nudity of the desk and its apparent lack of use, she stepped around it and pulled back the wheeled office chair. As expected, there were two sets of drawers to each side of a single centered one.
Knowing she shouldn't pry but unable to help herself, she opened the upper drawer on her left. Goaded by a need to discover something personal about him, she opened the lower one on the same side, then the two on the right. Some letters, a date‑book, miscellaneous bills and receipts from stores filled the drawers. Paperwork. Ah, normal things at last. She thumbed through a stack of neatly arranged mail.
"Department of Immigration," she muttered, eyebrow lifting in surprise. Since the letter had already been opened, she extracted and read it.
A deportation threat? she wondered. Is that why he's leaving? Frown creasing her face, she began to read. "…who is not in possession of a valid immigrant visa, reentry permit, border crossing identification card, or other valid entry document required by this Act, and a valid passport, or other suitable travel document, or document of identity and nationality if such document is required under the regulations issued by the Attorney General under Section 211…"
"Did you learn anything interesting, caile?" said a voice brittle with irritation.
With a yelp of fright, Julienne dropped the letter, then froze at the sight of Morgan leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. He was dressed in a light gray suit, the jacket of which was draped over his left arm. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the top two buttons. His brow was fiercely creased, his obsidian eyes fuming.
"I-ah…I-ah," was all she could manage as she felt her face turn crimson, despising the way her heart had began to jump. "I-ah--Oh, d‑damn! I didn't mean… How long have you been s-standing there?" She dragged a deep ragged breath into her lungs, tilting her chin up to face him squarely. She'd been caught snooping, and now it was time to pay the piper.
"I see the new mistress of the house has made herself quite at home." Obviously miffed, sending her a smoldering look as he entered, he tossed his jacket onto a nearby chair and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "Find anything of cur parteeas da, of interest?" His words were little more than a growl.
"No, it's not like that," she said, shifting uncomfortably, acutely aware of the small beads of sweat beginning to form on her skin. "I was just looking around."
He frowned savagely, and she picked up the impression he was barely containing his anger at her intrusion. The look in his eyes reminded her of a tiger perched atop a ledge, about to pounce on its prey.
"What were you looking for?"
Rather than admit she had been looking for something connecting him to Cassandra, she said, "The negatives of the photos you purchased from James." She quelled her inner nervousness and tried not to be cowed by the resentment in his manner. "I know you have them. I want them."
"Ah. I see." His heavy-lidded gaze studied her figure. Although she knew he was baiting her, she couldn't hold back her temper. The idea that he may have seen her naked infuriated her.
"What're you looking at?" She cursed the curve of mockery on his lips.
His eyes trekked upward to fasten on her face. His gaze sliced into her heart like a blade. "Nothing that excites me at present," he said, his words emerging harshly from between his clenched jaws.
It never failed to amaze her how painful words could be, and Morgan Saint-Evanston was a master at using the English language like a verbal lash.
"Did you like what you saw in the negatives and photos?" she asked sullenly.
"I never saw them."
Her relief was so great her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. "You didn't?" Was he aware, in his turn, of her almost primitive fear of the very nearness of him--that she might give over mastery of herself to him?
"No, I did not."
"I just want the negatives. That's why I came in here."
Morgan shrugged with indifference. "They are your photographs. I have no reason to keep them from you." He went behind her to the wall lined with books and took down a large volume measuring twelve-by-fourteen inches. From between its pages he extracted a thick eight-by-ten manila envelope. "You want them?" He tossed the envelope on the desk. "Here. Maybe now you will stop sneaking around."
Julienne glanced down at the envelope. What could she possibly say?
He chose to erect a wall of icy, injured silence between them, turning away from her and, crossing to the bar, retrieving a glass and a bottle of scotch. He settled on the nearby lounge, broke the bottle's seal, and poured a generous shot into his glass.
"Daa-chooyllagh," he demanded, then downed the whiskey in a swallow. "Leave."
Julienne couldn't hold her tongue. She was temperamentally unable to stand being brushed aside like a piece of lint. "You just love playing games, don't you?" She picked up and held the envelope. "What is it with you, anyway? Do you get off on screwing with people's minds?"
Ignoring her, he raised his hand and used thumb and forefinger to rub his burning eyes.
"Something's wrong?"
He gave a short, ugly laugh. "I have a dreadful headache."
"You have a lot of headaches," Julienne ventured.
Morgan shot her a fierce glare, massaging a throbbing vein at one temple. "You are a good cause of them!" he snapped. If his steel-edged voice was meant to send her half-running, half-stumbling out of the room, it did not succeed.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I do appreciate you giving me these," she went on, glancing at the envelope.
"Just go away and let me alone. I have no desire to have you here." Morgan set the glass on the table at his elbow. It was obvious to Julienne he intended to waste the rest of the day on drinking and nothing more.
"Okay," she said, raising her hands in defeat. "I admit I was wrong. I just wanted to know about you. I wasn't even thinking of the pictures."
He grimaced again in another moment of discomfort. "Maybe you should have asked."
"Would you have told me?" She wondered if he intended to kill his pain in his pathological way with an infusion of the hair of the dog that bit him.
"I might have." Morgan's eyes held a shadow of his troubled thoughts as he lowered his hand. "We will never know now. You took it upon yourself to pry."
"You're doing it again."
He rewarded her with an outright scowl, then focused on the bottle. "I do not give a damn."
"Every time you start acting the least bit human, you plunge into asshole mode. Why? Mentally, physically, emotionally, you shut down."
"Do not start with me. Leave your babble for another time. All I want now is for you to go away." He indicated his bottle. "I have the company I crave, and it is not you." He spat out the words, the dark frown he directed at her even more pronounced.
"If that's what you want."
Julienne turned to leave. She yelped and dropped the envelope when she ran smack into Ashleigh Reynolds.
"Ashleigh!" she exclaimed, stooping down to retrieve her pictures. How long has she been there? How much did she see?
"I thought you'd gone." She could see Ashleigh's face w
as puffy from crying, her eyes red-rimmed. Though she was stylishly dressed and made up, her clothes clung, her face and body damp with sweat. Her lips were a slash of crimson.
"Not yet," Ashleigh said, her gaze vague, distracted. "I've come to say goodbye."
Something about the way she said the words chilled Julienne. Ashleigh looked tired. Her night without sleep and the uncertainty of her future showed in the black rings beneath her eyes. Her drawn face was thinner--more etched with pain.
"We have already said our parting words," Morgan broke in. "Leave."
Ashleigh progressed further into the den. The sound of her high heels echoed starkly on the bare wooden floor. She stopped, facing him, her eyes phosphorescent in their sockets. She spoke very slowly, as if taking great pains to make herself understood. "I have one more thing I want to give you."
Unclipping the lip of her antique purse, Ashleigh reached inside. When she pulled out her hand, Julienne saw the black flash of hard metal. Oh, Jesus! She's going to kill him!
"She's got a gun!" Her words seemed to hang in the air. She considered running, leaving the den, going for help, but her feet felt like lead weights and she stood rooted in her place.
A ragged, sob-like sound broke from Ashleigh's throat. Her eyes were glazed over, and she trembled when she leveled the weapon at Morgan, a small .22 caliber handgun.
"I love you, Morgan." Ashleigh smiled faintly. A shadow of regret deepened her hollow voice. Seeing the gun, he stood up. His dark brows drew together as he studied her, his hooded black eyes seeming to cast a spell even as they beheld Ashleigh's trembling form.
"You want to dunverys, kill me, Ashleigh?" The note of challenge in his voice taunted her.
"This way we'll be together forever."
"My cheilley er son dy bragh?" he said softly, his voice lingering for a moment on the words. "Together forever?" He began to walk toward her, his steps deliberate, unhurried.
The gun in Ashleigh's hand wavered but did not move from its target. "Yes," she breathed.
As if she suspected Morgan would try to take the gun from her, Ashleigh took a few steps back. Julienne thought he'd simply reach out and remove it from the woman's hand. To her shock and surprise, he did not try to pursue Ashleigh. Instead, he reached out and touched her lips with the tips of his fingers in a curiously symbolic gesture, then dropped to his knees, spreading his arms in supplication.
"Do it, Ashleigh," he said huskily, as though drawn to the romanticism of death delivered by his ex-lover's hand. He closed his eyes and let his arms drop limply to his sides. His meaning was clear. He would not try to stop her. "Pull the trigger."
That man's about to get his fucking brains blown out! Julienne saw the relieved shadow that crossed his face and she gasped, her fingers tightening on the envelope she held. She had believed Morgan would stay calm and talk to Ashleigh in a sensible tone. No such luck! Quite the opposite--he appeared quite willing to sacrifice himself to a bullet.
Cheeks flushed, eyes fevered with the Valium she'd consumed, Ashleigh centered the barrel of the gun exactly with his forehead. Once again there were tears in her eyes, not of sorrow but of joy. If she could not have him then, by God, no one would. It was a cliché as old as man and would have been laughable if not for the deadly seriousness of the situation. It was clear Ashleigh believed in the course she'd decided to pursue.
"I'll follow you," her words were harsh, rasping, as if under some mind-bending spell she couldn't break. "Promise me you'll wait."
"I will be there," he assured her. "Pull the trigger."
Knowing she had to do something, because Morgan was apparently going to do nothing to save his own life, Julienne lunged at Ashleigh, grabbing her wrist and pulling the gun astray. The two women struggled briefly, bodies locked in the bizarre dance of the struggle.
"Let me kill him!" Ashleigh's finger reflexively pulled the trigger. The smell of fresh gunpowder singed the air as the bullet splintered the hardwood floor between their feet. The nails of Ashleigh's free hand pulled four deep lacerations down the back of Julienne's arm, but she did not let go. She tucked her head under Ashleigh's chin, turning her hip before Ashleigh's knee came up, slamming her body hard against Ashleigh's smaller frame.
"Let go of the goddamn thing!" Julienne cursed, panting heavily but refusing to back down from the fight. As Ashleigh struggled to free herself, she snaked one arm around her, bending Ashleigh's gun hand behind her. Ashleigh dropped the weapon when they both tumbled to the floor.
Panting hard, Ashleigh scrambled onto her knees. Julienne wrapped her arms around Ashleigh's waist, holding her back as Morgan claimed the pistol and pocketed it.
"Stop it, Ashleigh!" he ordered. "It has gone too far."
Hearing him, Ashleigh Reynolds slid to the floor, noiselessly but in great convulsing spasms that wrenched her whole body, cringing like a kicked dog. Losing all strength, she lay sobbing like a child. "I didn't mean--" The rest of her words were an incoherent wail, the naked grief in her eyes the crucifixion of the man she wanted to kill.
Morgan bent and helped her up into a sitting position. She clung to him like a child, her arm encircling his neck.
"I know," he whispered, drawing her into his arms, supporting all her weight. Ashleigh slipped down, almost insensible but holding onto consciousness with what seemed must be her last wisps of strength. Picking her up and cradling her against his chest, he carried her out of the den. He returned a few minutes later, alone. He reached down and offered Julienne his hand.
"That was a brave, but stupid, thing you did."
Julienne took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. Since taking Ashleigh down, her limbs seemed to have the consistency of wet noodles. Now that it was over, it was all she could do to keep from collapsing entirely. She didn't know what had given birth to her burst of strength, for she was unaccustomed to such physical exertions. Perhaps it had been Morgan. During their struggle, he had not interfered, watching passively, as if waiting to see which woman would decide his fate.
"Like you were going to help yourself!" she accused, tightening her hold on his hand.
Morgan smiled faintly, drawing his hand from her grasp.
"So? I was willing to take my chances with a loaded pistol."
"Take your chances!?" Julienne exploded. "That was the most suicidal thing I've ever seen anyone do!"
Morgan looked away, then at her again, uneasily. "Would it have been any loss?" he asked softly, his odd smile coming and going as quickly as a summer breeze.
Julienne could not force herself to speak or move, but only gazed up into his eyes as if transfixed. She felt her throat constrict with the emotions he seemed to arouse so easily in her. Just looking at him made her heart beat harder, her blood grow hot in her veins. She desperately wished he would kiss her.
Instead of kissing her, he lifted her hand. "You are hurt." His sharp, stern features appraised the wound coolly.
Julienne glanced down, for the first time seeing the deep cuts across her arm. The gashes were nasty, blood caking her pale skin. And now that her adrenaline was coming back to normal levels, she was starting to feel the pain. It ached terribly.
"I guess I'd better get that taken care of," she stammered through her groan.
"Sit down," Morgan said, leading her to his chair and pouring her a shot of scotch. "Drink this."
Accepting the glass, she grimaced wryly. "I don't think this will help," she started to say.
"Just drink it," he ordered.
She downed the scotch in a single swallow, steeling herself against the burn trekking its way down her throat all the way into her guts. "How do you drink this stuff and live?"
"I practice." Leaving the den again, he returned a moment later carrying a small wooden chest about the size of a small jewelry box. Carved into its lid was the lion's head Julienne had seen earlier on the dagger's hilt. It frightened her, and she stiffened, afraid of what might be within the box.
Kneeling down beside the chair, M
organ opened it. Julienne glanced down, seeing nothing inside it but a dusky brown powder. She sighed silently with relief. Her active imagination had conjured up all kinds of terrible things the box might hold, but what it did contain looked like plain dirt to her.
Stretching out her arm, Morgan dipped into the box, taking up a handful of the powder. His touch sent shivers up her spine when he daubed the powder on the back of her arm, letting the sand-like granules spill over the cuts until they were completely covered, mingling with and soaking up her blood to form a hard crust. The words he murmured were lyrical, almost singsong in their beauty.
Julienne felt the color drain from her face, and the pounding of her heart was very loud against her ribs. The powder turned a peachy color, feeling like hot needles were being punched into her skin. She quickly pulled her arm away.
"Ouch! That hurts!" She suddenly swayed and would have fainted, but he caught her by the shoulders and held her upright.
"Look now," he said, scraping the powder off.
To her amazement, the cuts on the back of her arm had healed, leaving no trace of a scar. She ran her fingers along her unblemished skin.
"How?"
Morgan closed his eyes. "That is the wisdom of my kind."
Julienne looked at him in awe. "Then it's true?"
He smiled in an amused way, and for the first time she could remember the smile finally touched the depths of his dark eyes. "I am a practitioner, Julienne, one who is versed in the ways of the occult. This is what your mother was running from, a part of the heritage she denied you."
Julienne sat still, considering his words, a little surprised, a little scared. "Tell me more, please."
"Later," he murmured. He shifted restlessly, as if he were unsure about what he'd revealed. A haunting sadness drifted across his face as, with a lingeringly gentle touch, he stroked her newly healed arm.
"When?"
"When I am ready, I shall tell you everything," he promised, a trace of regret deepening his resonant voice.
All of a sudden, the pieces of the past were beginning to fall into place--Cassandra's fear, her great hate of Morgan, her refusing all contact with her family. She'd been afraid of what these, her own people, were.
