Maeve was stricken, for she could not doubt that Aidan was grimly sincere. If she meddled in this threatening affair, he might never forgive her, and the thought of his scorn was beyond endurance.
Still, she was angry as well, and suspicious. “Can you possibly believe there is a need for you to defend her against me?”
Aidan did not relent. “I don’t know,” he answered bluntly, “but aside from wanting to let this thing run its course, be it curse or blessing, I am concerned for Neely’s safety. As you well understand, your presence could draw the attention of the others to Neely. Suppose, for instance, that Lisette should learn of her?”
Maeve had heard the rumors that Lisette, the most vicious and unfortunately the most powerful of all vampires, had come forth from her tomb, but she had disregarded them as alarmist drivel. “Don’t be an idiot,” she replied. “Even if Lisette is stirring abroad now and again, she surely has no interest in the likes of your pitiful mortal.”
“She is not pitiful in any way, shape, or form,” Aidan retorted tersely. “Neely is a magical creature, like most humans, and part of her splendor lies in the fact that she is quite unaware of her own majesty.”
Maeve examined her ivory-colored fingernails, which were perfectly shaped and buffed to a soft glow. She was still in turmoil, and her outward calm was all pretense. “You’re right to be afraid of Lisette,” she said with a lightness she did not feel. She was injured, and in her pain she needed to be cruel. “If your enemies suspect you are fond of the woman, they may use her to make you suffer.” She paused a moment for effect, then went boldly on, aware that the attempt was futile even as she made it. “There is one way to solve the problem forever, Aidan. ‘If thy right eye offends thee His rage was sudden and palpable; it filled the room with coldness. And it confirmed Maeve’s worst suspicions.
“No.” He whispered the word, but it had all the strength of an earthquake. “Neely is not to be touched, do you understand me? Her only sin is that she brought a child
to my door one night, on an innocent errand—”
Maeve lifted one hand and laid an index finger to Aidan’s lips to silence him. “You needn’t raise your voice, darling,” she said, again with a levity that was wholly feigned. “I will respect your wishes, you know that. Know also, however, that I love you and that I will do whatever I must to keep you safe.”
They studied each other in silence for a long interval, equally determined, equally powerful.
“Please,” Maeve cajoled finally. “Come to the ball with me. What better way to draw the attention of the others away from Neely Wallace?”
Aidan hesitated, then gave a grim nod.
He went upstairs to change into suitable clothing and quickly rejoined Maeve in the study. He was breathtakingly handsome in a top hat and tails, and for added affect he wore his silk cape.
Five minutes later, distracted and silent, he was entering the Spencer’s antebellum ballroom with Maeve on his arm.
Once her shift was over, Neely lingered at one of the Formica-topped tables in the cafe, sipping herbal tea and poring over the information she’d collected earlier at the library. She became, by an act of will, the detached professional, putting her personal feelings about Aidan temporarily on hold.
She’d found a number of articles regarding the Tremayne family on microfilm and made photocopies of each one. According to the newspaper pieces, there had been an Aidan Tremayne living in the colonial mansion for well over a century. Each generation was as reclusive as the last, apparently marrying and raising their families elsewhere. There were no wedding or engagement announcements, no records of local births, no obituaries. The articles yielded only the most general information—in the summer of 1816, part of the house had been destroyed by fire. During the War Between the States, Union troops had moved into the downstairs rooms. In 1903 a young woman had disappeared after leaving a calling card at the Tremayne residence, and there had been a brief flurry of scandal, an earnest but fruitless police investigation. One of the earlier ancestors had been a painter of some renown, and several of his pieces had brought a fortune at auction in 1956.
Only when one of the chairs on the opposite side of the table scraped back did Neely bring herself out of her revelry. Lifting her eyes, she saw her brother sitting across from her.
Ben resembled nothing so much as a renegade biker, with his long hair, battered jeans, and black T-shirt, but in truth he was a solid citizen. He worked hard managing the motel, cafe, and trailer court, and he was a conscientious father to Danny.
“Digging up more dirt on Senator Hargrove?” he asked. The café was closed now, and the night cook and the other waitress had gone home for the night. They could talk freely.
Of course, Ben knew all about the discoveries she’d made while working in the senator’s office as his assistant. She’d told him everything, from the very beginning, when she’d only suspected that her employer was consorting with criminals in general and drug dealers in particular, and he’d known about the documented proof she’d collected, too.
Neely shook her head in answer to his question; there was probably a lot more “dirt” to be dug up where Dallas Hargrove was concerned, but she was through playing detective. She’d given the FBI numerous papers and even photographs outlining the senator’s exploits, and now she could do nothing but wait. And hope the Feds would bring Hargrove down for good before he decided to avenge himself.
“Not this time,” she said, somewhat wearily. “I’m curious about the Tremayne family, but I haven’t been able to come up with much. I’ll try the courthouse tomorrow.”
Ben looked puzzled and not a little uncomfortable. “Why, Neely? What interest could you possibly have in that place or those people? Hell, I’ve always thought it was a little spooky, the way that guy keeps to himself.”
Neely propped one elbow on the table and cupped her chin in her hand. “I can’t explain it,” she answered, because honesty had always come easily with Ben. “It’s almost like a compulsion. I’ve met Mr. Tremayne twice, and both times I felt some kind of paradigm shift—something I never even guessed it was possible to feel. Unless I watch myself, I think I could actually love him.”
Ben shook his head and grinned, then got up to go to the pie keeper on the counter. He took out two slices of lemon meringue and returned to the table. Usually he wouldn’t have stuck around, but Danny was spending the night in town with a friend from school, and there was no need to hurry home.
“Would that be so awful?” he asked. “If you fell in love, I mean?”
She picked up a fork and cut off a bite-size piece of pie. “When are you going to get married again, Ben?” she countered, purposely stalling. “Shannon’s been gone for five years now. Isn’t it time you had a romance?”
Ben chuckled, but there was sadness in the sound. “It isn’t quite that easy,” he said. “Nobody’s likely to mistake me for Kevin Costner, for one thing, and for another, well, my job isn’t exactly impressive. I have a young son who still looks for his mother to come home, a beat-up old truck that needs an overhaul, a small savings account, and medical bills roughly equal to the national debt. What woman in her right mind would tie up with me?”
Neely reached across the table and touched her brother’s tattooed forearm affectionately. “None, if you’re going to take that attitude,” she scolded with a smile. “What about the fact that you’re loyal—you stuck by Shannon through one of the worst ordeals a human being can experience, and you were there for her the whole time, even though you must have been reeling with pain yourself. You’ve raised Danny ever since, with love and gentleness, and you’re resilient, Ben. A lot of other people would have given up, being widowed and laid off in the same year, but you kept going. You’re a special guy, and there must be plenty of good women out there looking for somebody like you. All you’ve got to do is stop hiding behind that gruff exterior of yours.”
A slight blush told Neely that her compliments had struck their mark. Ben
concentrated on his pie for a time, chewing and swallowing several bites before he met his sister’s eye and tried again. “How about you, Neely? Is it serious, what’s happening between you and this Tremayne character?”
She looked away. “It could be,” she admitted softly, after staring out at the snowy night for a long time. “At least on my side. For all I know, Aidan has never given me a second thought.” It was time to steer the subject in another direction, however briefly. “The people Hargrove is involved with may wait years to strike, Ben, but sooner or later they’ll see that I meet with an accident. It’s bad enough that I’m hanging around here, in such an obvious place, endangering you and Danny. I can’t drag some unsuspecting man into the situation, too.”
Ben finished his pie and ate what was left of Neely’s, since she’d pushed her plate away. “We’re a pair, you and I,” he said. “Still, the senator and his bunch are bound to go to prison, once the full extent of their sins comes to light.
Then none of them will be a danger to you anymore.”
Neely gave her brother a wry look, carried their plates into the café’s small kitchen, and returned to gather up her photocopies before answering. “We’ve had this conversation before,” she pointed out. “We keep going over the same ground, again and again, as if we believe on some level that the situation will change if we just discuss things enough.”
With a sheepish shrug Ben stood, taking his lined denim jacket from the brass coat tree next to the door and putting it on. “Who knows?” He waited while Neely donned her pea coat and fetched her purse from behind the counter. “It seems to me that it’s taking the FBI a long time to pull the investigation together and make a move. Maybe you ought to give the material you gathered to the producer of one of those tabloid TV shows. I’ll bet that would bring some action.”
Neely passed through the open café doorway ahead of her brother, raising her collar against the cold wind while she waited for him to turn out the lights and lock the door. There were several big rigs in the parking lot, their drivers either staying at the motel or sacked out in sleepers in the backs of their truck cabs.
“I may approach a journalist or a reporter,” she said, “if the FBI doesn’t do something soon.” Neely had another set of copies of the incriminating documents stashed away in a safe place, but she’d never told Ben or anyone else where they were. It was something too dangerous to know.
A hard crust had formed on the snowy ground, and the sky was clear, full of icy stars. Misty clouds passing over the moon made it look blurry and slightly out of focus. Neely’s clunky waitress shoes made a satisfying crunching sound as she and Ben walked toward home.
Ben escorted her to her trailer and waited while she worked the lock, opened the door, and turned on the lights.
‘Tomorrow’s your day off,” her brother reminded her, hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Do something constructive with it, why don’t you, instead of rooting around in the courthouse files or straining your eyes at one of those microfilm machines.”
Neely smiled. “Good night, Ben,” she said.
He chuckled, shook his head, and walked away toward his own nearby trailer.
After locking up and performing her usual nighttime ablutions, Neely folded out her sofa bed and collapsed. She’d meant to go over the newspaper articles she’d copied at the library once more, just in case she’d missed something. Instead she barely managed to switch out the lamp on the wall above the couch before she tumbled into an unusually deep slumber.
Almost immediately she began to dream.
Aidan Tremayne appeared at the foot of her bed, even more handsome than before in the kind of beautifully tailored dancing clothes leading men sometimes wore in movies made in the thirties and forties. He even had on a top hat, set at a rakish angle, and his dark cape rustled in the draft.
As the dreaming Neely raised herself on one elbow to stare at him, he winked.
Neely laughed. “See if I ever have a chili dog with onions for dinner again,” she said.
Aidan smiled and tipped his hat, tumbling it down his arm and catching it in one gloved hand.
Neely clapped, and he bowed deeply. She hoped the dream wasn’t over, that the lemon meringue pie would pick up where the chili dog had left off.
“Is this dream a talkie?” she asked. “Or are we going to use subtitles?”
He held out one hand, and she felt herself rising effortlessly from the bed, floating toward him. “It’s wired for sound,” he answered. He caught her in his arms, and she felt tremendous energy in him, as well as danger, and, within herself, a tumultuous need. “I’m afraid I’m quite bewitched.”
Neely reminded herself that she was asleep and decided to enjoy the night fancy as much as possible before real life intruded. She allowed herself to revel in being held close against him, to savor the melting warmth in her most feminine parts and the bittersweet ache that had taken root in her heart.
“You’re dressed for dancing,” she observed.
The walls of the trailer seemed to disintegrate; there was only Neely herself, and Aidan Tremayne, holding her, with all the universe silent and still around them. Stars fell in glittering arches and formed a twinkling pool beneath their feet.
Aidan’s dark blue eyes sparkled more brightly than anything in the firmaments of heaven possibly could have. “Yes,” he agreed. “You, on the other hand, are quite scantily clad.”
Neely sighed. One nice thing about the imagination— a person could dance on the night wind in an oversize T-shirt without getting cold and give in to a scandalous attraction knowing that, come morning, it would no longer be real.
“This is wonderful,” she said. “A girl can go her whole life without ever having a dream like this.”
Aidan said nothing; instead, he drew her closer and bent his mouth to kiss her, and set her very soul to spinning within her like a skater on ice.
The kiss mended some parts of her that she had not guessed were broken, but shattered others, and Neely wept because she knew she loved Aidan Tremayne, that she would always love him, that this love was hopeless outside of her dream.
They waltzed along the treetops, up a staircase of stars, all around the moon. There was beautiful music, of course, for this was a celestial production number. The tune was unique, rife with a bittersweet poignancy, and it was still running through Neely’s mind when she awoke with a thumping start, sitting up in the middle of her bed.
She was gasping for breath, feeling as though she’d been dropped from a great height. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
Neely hugged herself and rocked back and forth on her knees, possessed by a sudden and terrible sense of loss. The miraculous fantasy was evaporating, so she scrambled in the darkness for a pencil and a piece of paper in order to record it. She started to write, but the last of the memory faded, like a final heartbeat.
She switched on the light, trembling with this new grief, and read what she’d written on the back of her telephone bill. All that was left of her magnificent vision was a single, hastily scrawled word.
Aidan.
Chapter 4
Aidan slept profoundly all the following day, beyond the reach of dreams and nightmares that trouble mortals. He awakened only a few minutes after sunset and was still assembling his wits when Maeve appeared, resplendent in a flowing white toga.
She looked around the dark mine shaft, noting its lacery of cobwebs with mild but still obvious disdain. “Your capacity for self-punishment never ceases to amaze me,” she remarked.
Methodically Aidan dusted the sleeves of his evening coat. He arched one eyebrow as he regarded his sister. Maeve was dressed for some kind of Roman celebration, but not the authentic article; like most vampires, she was forbidden to venture back prior beyond the instant of her death as a human being. He made a tsk-tsk sound and shook his head.
“On your way to one of those debauched Victorian parties?” he inquired, taking off his coat to shake out the dust, then putting it o
n again.
“It isn’t ‘debauched,’ ” Maeve snapped, her blue eyes fiery. “The Havermails are perfectly nice—”
“People?” Aidan teased.
Maeve looked away for a moment. “Vampires,” she said distractedly. “They’re vampires, of course.” Her temper flared anew. “Stop trying to change the subject. You left the ball early last night, Aidan. Where were you?”
Aidan had a yearning for fresh air, even though he could not actually breathe the wonderful stuff. He pictured himself standing on the snowy ground overhead, and as quickly as that, he was there. Only a moment later Maeve was beside him.
The woods were quiet, except for the far-off hooting of an owl and the vague murmur of tires passing through slush on Route 7. Clouds hid the moon, and a sort of pale darkness had spread itself over the land.
“Where were you, Aidan?” Maeve persisted.
He started toward the house. He would change clothes and feed early that night, he decided, and then play his favorite, futile game by pretending to be a man again. “Assuming that’s any of your business, which it isn’t,” he retorted without stopping, “why in hell do you care?” Maeve stepped in front of him and glared up into his eyes. “You endanger all of us when you consort with humans, Aidan, you know that! If you truly want to throw away your own existence, I guess I’ll just have to endure it, but you have no right to bring risk on the rest of us!”
Aidan winced, for her words stung. “All right,” he said, feeling exasperated and weary, so unbelievably weary. He was like a guilty husband, hastening to explain a gap in his schedule, and he resented the comparison bitterly. “I left the ball, I came back here, and I settled in my lair to hibernate, like any good beast.”
Maeve subsided a little and allowed Aidan to pass, rushing to keep up just as she had when they were children. “Valerian said you were dancing with—with that Neely creature.”
Forever and the Night (The Black Rose Chronicles) Page 5
