by Susan Conley
“Get the satchel and bring it to me now.”
“Wait right here, I’ll get it.” Don’t ask questions. Trust him implicitly. Stay out of trouble, mind your own business and don’t get involved in other people’s affairs where you have a way of digging yourself into a mire of trouble. These thoughts drove her down her hallway to the table where she snatched the bag by the strap and zipped it shut.
Give it to him immediately.
Bits of soil scattered like dust as she drew the bag off the table.
“That’s a good lass.”
Did she detect a condescending tone? She stiffened. No one tells me what to do.
The odd sense of detachment wavered as she stood in her hallway facing the empty doorway. Where was the warrior?
Taking a few steps back, she peeked into her living room — empty. Outside, she saw no sign of Professor Cunningham on the porch or on the driveway or on the street.
An unexpected melancholy fluttered in her heart. The sexy, warrior professor had vanished.
Chapter 5
Home Sweet Home Invasion
Beth closed her front door and dropped the backpack on the floor. Was she truly hearing voices? And why had she purred like a pussycat in heat at the sight of that warrior? Not warrior, she corrected, professor.
Had she imagined the voice inside her head? She had a sudden recollection of an abnormal psychology lecture. No, there was nothing abnormal about her psychology. Her life? Possibly. Could it be that the impending boyfriend breakup, the mysterious treasure hunt, the tropical home renovation, and volunteer work — amidst studying for an upcoming midterm exam and writing a final paper — was too much? No wonder she was hearing voices. She made a mental note to consider a few serious life changes.
Truly, she should count her blessings. Other people were not so blessed, as she well knew from her experience with Meals on the Move.
With that thought, she headed to the kitchen to check the time as she needed to pick up lunches soon. The elderly got ornery if their meals were late. Her mood lightened as she imagined lunch being the main event in their day. She played a small part in brightening people’s lives.
In the kitchen, she nearly knocked over her coffee mug when she reached for her shopping list. Pausing for a moment, she stared at the mug in hand. A French Provence blue, the same brilliant shade as that warrior’s eyes. A sensual tingle ran through her breasts. She put the mug down trying to remember the last time she’d felt a physical reaction like that to a man. An image played in her mind of being scooped up effortlessly in his muscled arms. Instantly safe in his warrior–like strength, her head dropped back, his lips ascended her neck while his scent infused her and his touch aroused her ancient passion.
Wait. What was she thinking? Warrior in her far–off fantasies, maybe. The last thing she needed was to fixate on a school professor. No, she wouldn’t indulge in a scenario with a man who defined sensuality. The cadence of his brogue, the intensity in those eyes, the luring energy that swirled about him had been palpable. She recognized the type. If you fell for a man like that, chased passion like it was your lifelong purpose, then the ordinary people in your life became mundane and forgotten. Unchecked passion was a monster she’d been groomed to avoid.
The inexplicable sexual urge was cause for concern. Could sexual addiction be passed from mother to daughter like alcoholism? No. Not if Beth didn’t lose control. No man would ever make her a slave to desire.
Focus on the task at hand. Her first stop that day would be Mrs. Miller’s home. A cold fist closed over her heart. Mrs. Miller’s granddaughter had been on Beth’s mind for a week.
Beth had been shocked to learn that both she and Janine Miller were twenty–five years old. Janine had the demeanour of a doe catching a wildcat’s scent, much too young to be afraid of her husband and hiding at grandma’s house. Now there was a girl who deserved to find $40,000 buried in her backyard. Money like that could save lives.
Beth dropped the shopping list in the sink. Money could indeed save that girl’s life.
A drop of water shimmered at the tip of the faucet and fell with a ping.
She had an opportunity to change a life.
Her pulse quickened.
Legally speaking, she should turn the backpack over to the police. Morally speaking, sometimes a girl had to take matters into her own hands. She’d always known she had the courage to take a stand even if it meant opposing unjust laws or unprincipled action. In this case, incidences where the police failed to protect a woman from an abusive husband came to mind.
All she needed was one thing — a backpack that didn’t smell like compost. She climbed her stairs feeling like Robin Hood. Diverting this money from drug dealers to a woman in need was the right thing to do. She felt it in the sunshine that spread through her.
Upstairs in her walk–in closet, she was deciding which of her tote bags to part with when “Let’s Dance” rang from her cell phone downstairs — Matthew — the ring tone was a tune of trepidation. But stalling would not eliminate the inevitable. She ran downstairs, rifled through her purse, and snatched up her phone.
“Hey, Matthew, how’s it going?” Gone was the lovesick urge she’d felt six months ago. Now she realized how close she’d come to losing herself. How she’d been caught in the wave of everyone else’s enthusiasm that Matthew was the catch of the decade.
“I’ve had a hectic day, love, and haven’t had a chance to call. I’m grabbing a flight to Belize as we speak.”
She’d cringed when he’d called her love. Belize? What about their break–up dinner?
Matthew continued. “I’ve been on the phone with the contractor all afternoon. They’ve installed the wrong flooring on the main level — it’s nowhere near the quality we paid for. Maria’s not getting anywhere with the manufacturer, and the kitchen cabinets have gone missing. Her mother is ill, so I offered to straighten this out.”
She rolled her eyes at “offered.” Her stomach muscles tightened. What did this delay mean to the ultimate sale of the beach house?
Beth’s mind raced to catch up. Breakup or no, she couldn’t jeopardize this investment. “We hired Maria to oversee the renovation because she’s bright and conscientious. We can trust her to send someone qualified to manage the floor people and track down the cabinets. You do remember I need to discuss something with you, something important, Matthew.”
She heard him direct the cab to terminal three, and then his voice sounded again in her ear. “Yes, but dinner will have to wait till I return. I’m at the airport now.”
The sound of a jetliner screamed in the background in case she had any doubt. She raised her voice. “I don’t have much time to talk right now either. You wouldn’t believe what I found buried in my yard today. I’ve got to deal with it and deliver lunches.”
“Buried in your yard? Not an old pioneer grave I hope.”
“No, nothing like that. More like buried treasure. You can’t postpone your flight until tomorrow?”
“I cannot, no. I’ve also arranged a meeting first thing in the morning to look at that island.”
“The island? I’m not able to invest any more money, Matthew, I told you that. We need to get the beach house finished and put it on the market. You said this would be a quick renovation.” If she didn’t sell the beach house in the next four months, how would she fund the master’s program she’d been accepted into?
“It’s all under control. I’ll be back on Thursday and will arrive at your place at six.”
Distracted by the horrors of substandard flooring, Matthew would focus on nothing else until he returned from Belize. She slumped onto the kitchen chair and dispatched a groan in the mouthpiece that challenged the roar of any 747. “Fine. I’m going to deal with my buried treasure by doing a good deed, then go to my class this afternoon.” And shop for our
break–up dinner Thursday night. “Phone me for an update when you get a chance.”
“That’s my good–deed girl. Listen, I’ve been shopping, sweetheart, in a jewelry store. I have something important to ask you on Thursday, so don’t you worry, I’ll be there.”
What? A jewelry store? Something important? She nearly dropped the phone, but managed to snatch it up before it careened off her thigh.
“I’m at the terminal. I’ll call you tonight at nine. Gotta go now. I’ve got another call coming in.”
She pulled away from the phone feeling like a dog fighting against a leash. Did he even ask if she’d be available at nine? Funny how the qualities that drew her to Matthew in the beginning had morphed into intolerable traits. She cleared her throat. “Tell Maria I hope her mom recovers quickly.” At least he was efficient. She said goodbye and hung up the phone.
Thirty minutes later, Beth had picked up her lunches from Meals on the Move and driven to Mrs. Miller’s house. She shifted the cash–filled tote bag onto her shoulder as she stood on the front porch feeling the warmth of the boxed lunch in her hand. Mrs. Miller usually left the door unlocked at lunch time.
The door didn’t give way when Beth turned the knob. Worry for the family tightened her chest, then eased off when she heard a familiar voice from inside the house.
“I’m not fast, but I’m a–coming. The legs aren’t so good today.” Mrs. Miller’s head popped out behind the curtain at the window. A smile of recognition bunched like pleats around her eyes before the door opened. “Oh my, Beth, you do make me laugh — you and your hats. What do you have on your head today?”
Beth smiled and patted her fedora. “It’s a giraffe print. Don’t you love it? I’d be happy to pick one up for you.”
Mrs. Miller shifted her walker back with a thunk. “Ha! That’s not a bad idea. For Janine, though, not for me. She needs something to smile about.”
A glance through the house revealed no sign of Janine. “Is your granddaughter home?”
“Not at the moment, no. She’s gone to see about a college course, so she can survive on her own. She doesn’t want to stay here and be a bother to me, at least that’s what she says, but I think she’s worried for my safety. I don’t know how she’ll afford to go to school and not live here.”
The thought of harm coming to Mrs. Miller gave Beth a shudder. “Sometimes things have a way of working out. I hate to see you upset, Mrs. Miller. Why don’t you sit down in the living room? I’ll get a tray from the kitchen for your lunch and make you a pot of Earl Grey.” The fraction of doubt in Beth’s mind that she was doing the right thing vanished completely. Forty thousand dollars wasn’t enough money for a drug dealer to invest much effort to recover. No one would ever connect that money to Janine Miller. Poor girl. Twenty-five was definitely too young to be hiding from a dangerous husband. It was, however, a fine age to go back to school.
Mrs. Miller’s bedrooms were down the hall from the kitchen. In less than thirty seconds, Beth had placed the tote bag with a note to Janine in the guest room closet where her clothes hung. The note was not signed, but made it clear the money was to better Janine’s life. She wouldn’t be able to pack her luggage without seeing it.
Mrs. Miller lifted her arms up like a child when Beth put the tray on her lap. “Oh, this pasta looks lovely, Beth.” The fork remained on the tray. “This worry over Janine has frazzled me. A few days ago, I found my passport lying on the floor beside my desk instead of in the drawer where I always keep it. I don’t even remember touching it.”
“You’ve got a lot on your mind, and you’re not the only one who forgets things, Mrs. Miller.”
“That’s what I told myself. But I’ve misplaced an emerald necklace and bracelet that belonged to my grandmother. Just shoot me if it’s Alzheimer’s, Beth, promise me that.”
“Okay, no problem. I’ll take care of it. Until then, eat!” Mrs. Miller smiled at that, and Beth suggested a doctor’s appointment wouldn’t hurt. With tea served and the money safely tucked away, Beth said goodbye and finished up the rest of her deliveries feeling like the world was a happier place.
Her cognitive psychology class began in ninety minutes. Beth went to class like everyone else did that day, except for the professor who was noticeably absent. Her thoughts drifted to one blue–eyed professor she’d love to see in the halls, if she was looking for that kind of diversion, which she wasn’t she reminded herself.
“Where’s Sutton?” she asked a guy she recognized from her class.
“Sutton is sick,” he replied. “Didn’t you see the sign on the door? The class is cancelled.” He looked at her and grinned. A pillow mark creased his cheek. She took a step back and barely resisted pinching her nose. The guy hadn’t showered.
“Nice,” he said, cheerfully. “I’m going back to bed.”
Beth frowned as she watched him retreat. He probably had a ten–minute walk to his bed. She read the large notice on the door. How had she missed it?
All that way to school for naught. At least she was in the right neighbourhood to pick up the lime leaves and shrimp paste for the coconut curry she’d decided to serve on Thursday.
The drive home was traffic–free. With a grocery bag in each hand, Beth jostled her way into the kitchen. She stopped short halfway through the door. The muscles in her fingers turned to soup.
“Oh, cripes.” The grocery bags slipped from her hands and crashed to the floor. She cringed at the sound of glass breaking, but a broken bottle of sesame oil was a mere drop in the typhoon that had whirled through her kitchen.
The contents of every cupboard lay garbled on the floor — a broken mayonnaise jar, cereal flakes, rye bread, saucepans, dishes, even a frozen fish. Oh, no, Granny’s hand painted bowl. A cry of disbelief squeezed her throat when she caught sight of the family room.
Knocked from the cabinet, the television laid screen–side down on the floor. Crystal wine glasses from Prague smashed. The antique hand painted fireplace screen from Paris thrown against the wall. One Rothenburg feather floated through a beam of sunlight. Where was the pillow? Only her birthday present from Matthew, a treasured model of a paddle steamer, had escaped destruction.
Behind her, the sound of something ceramic–like crushed under a foot!
Whoever had done this was still in the house. Beth’s heart lurched against her ribcage and pounded in her ears. She turned for the door. Which one was closest! The front? No, the back. A cracker crunched under her heel as she sprinted to the exit.
She didn’t make it to the door.
Chapter 6
Atrocious Adjustments
A shudder shook Calum as he sucked a blast of hot air into his lungs. His eyes squinted against the sun; he planted his feet to the ground and scanned his surroundings. Heat blazed the crater–pitted terrain that stretched in every direction. Not a shred of colour broke the barren landscape. Sweat beaded instantly on his forehead, and his back began to itch under his woolen shirt. He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows.
Where the hell was he?
Not the Upper World. Not the Middle World. Every muscle tightened as he contemplated his surroundings.
Had the trickster yanked him from Ashbury? Or had the Old Ones done it?
Legions of guilt invaded his gut. He hung his head. His place in this world didn’t matter. He’d failed Bethia.
A mounting inferno burned in his boots. A rising anxiety burned in his blood. A picture of the black satchel burned in his brain. His woman needed him.
Yes, he’d interfered a wee bit with her will. Yes, Finn had warned against it. Yet when he’d spied the satchel on her table, the instrument of her destruction, he’d acted on the immediate urge to snatch it from her and be away with it.
Little good he’d be to her now.
By all that was holy, the sight of her in the flesh had arouse
d him fervently. He had wanted to lay her in the grass and have her there blanketed by nothing more than clear blue sky. He still retained the ache of wanting her, the images of her soft curves, her fresh, familiar, feminine scent. Instantly, he’d felt overwhelmed by a need to remind Bethia how splendorous it was to make love with a thousand–year bond between them that was pure rapture.
The heat from his own breath felt cool passing over his lips. Before nightfall, he’d be roasted. If there was a nightfall. Bloody hell. Better use his mind while he still had one.
Focusing his thoughts on Finn, he visualized the trickster and sang the calling chant.
The air around him remained dead. No buzz of an insect, no twill of a bird, no rustle of a breeze. And no whoosh of the Alfar.
Nothing moved. From this devastating dimension, could his plea even reach Finn?
“You have the lasting power of a flea.”
Calum started at the voice that sounded behind him. The tone cut like barbed wire. Every nerve tightened under his skin as he turned.
Finn’s gaze swept the bleak landscape then landed on Calum. “Not so pretty, is it? Imagine an eternity here. At this moment, the Old Ones are considering exiling you from Seraphina.”
Permanent exile? The sun’s oppressiveness increased tenfold. Heat drew the energy from his bones. He resisted the urge to yank his shirt off over his head and expose his skin to the blistering sun.
“You broke their precious covenant by forcing your will upon Bethia. I did warn against it.”
Force was too strong a word. For Bethia’s greater good, he’d asserted his will, but the Old Ones would be too stubborn to see it. Using his shirt sleeve, he sopped up sweat from his face. Finn appeared unaffected by the heat. Calum had yet to attain such detached composure. He’d yet to achieve a number of attributes, of aspirations, of ambitions. But Bethia had the potential of a life ahead of her. An unjust prison term would torture her spirit and take lifetimes to heal.
