“Listen, Diana, why don’t you let me drive you home, hmm?” he heard himself say as a thought—a really clever, rather brilliant idea—popped into his head. He could tell she was about to refuse, which, he was later to reflect, might have been for the best.
But then she surprised him and said, “That would be great. Really great.” Her smile was forced, but her gratitude seemed genuine.
He assisted her to her feet, but when he tried to support her by holding her arm, she slid out of his grasp and tottered toward the front of the bookstore. Ethan followed, mulling over the brilliant thought that had just lodged in his scientist’s brain.
One of his current research projects had originated from a conversation with Bee. She’d always asserted that her niece had psychic abilities, but, of course, denied them. And Ethan had been studying families where psychic aptitudes seemed to be more prevalent than the average—related either to genetics or a more open-minded philosophy. Recently, he had begun to focus on the psychological aspects of hereditary ESP and how it affected different people within a family.
Diana Iverson, with her black and white, logical ways and, according to Belinda, the suppression of her gift, would be a perfect subject to round out the study. He already had enough data on Belinda to compare the two of them. Or—his interest spiked higher—she could be a candidate for a different project, about how the suppression of precognitive abilities manifests itself physically.
The dimness had edged from her eyes by the time they came outside into the mellow Maine sunlight. Diana took a deep breath and Ethan’s gaze dropped automatically to the rising swell of her breasts outlined by the red shirt she wore. “I’m feeling better already,” she told him, and he drew his attention back to her wan face.
“I’ll drive you home anyway,” he told her firmly, holding out his hand for the keys. “Where are you parked?”
He thought a flicker of relief flitted across her face. She jerked her head to the right. “In the lot behind the drugstore. But what about you? How will you get home?”
He started across the street, forcing her to follow him. “I can walk home from your house and pick up my car later. Don’t worry about me.”
She was quiet in the car until he turned onto the narrow dirt road that led to their respective homes. “I really appreciate this,” she said.
He glanced at her, but she’d tilted her head back and had her eyes closed. “It’s no big deal. I’m glad I was there to help.”
At the large clapboard house, Diana alighted from the car before he was able to come around and help her out, reinforcing his initial impression of her as prickly and stiff. She started up the porch steps, clutching her straw bag, then turned toward him. “I’ll need the keys, please,” she said, holding out her hand.
He dropped them into her palm and watched as she turned to fit one into the lock. She stopped, shook her head, and looked down at the keys, sifting through them one by one. “Oh … no ….” she said, her voice low and frustrated.
“What’s wrong?”
She sighed and looked up at him, sheepishness poorly hidden in her features. “I forgot to take the house keys when I left. I haven’t added them to my car keys yet. I guess I’m locked out.”
“I can fix that,” Ethan explained easily. “Belinda always kept an extra in the birdhouse.” He turned to stride off the porch.
“Uh … wait,” she called. “Never mind, it won’t work.”
“What do you mean, it won’t work?” he grunted, reaching up into the birdhouse. “It’s right here.” He pulled the key from its hiding place, holding it up for her to see.
“I—uh—” She looked embarrassed.
Ethan came back on the porch and brushed in front of her to fit the key in the lock. He stopped, noticing how shiny and new the deadbolt was. He didn’t even have to try the key to know it wouldn’t fit. Understanding dawned and he stepped back as she said, “I changed the locks.”
“I see that.” He looked out off the porch, suddenly darkly furious. “I’m sorry if I imposed upon you in any way. I’ll—if you like,” he flashed a stony glance at her, and was gratified to see a dark red flush on her face, “I’ll open a window and help you get back in, then I’ll just be on my way.”
Diana felt miserably ashamed as Tannock stalked off the porch, striding purposefully around the corner of the house toward the kitchen. She followed slowly, wondering why she cared that she’d offended him, and wishing the heat in her cheeks would dissolve. Even facing the dreaded, male chauvinistic Judge Fernwitz never set her off-balance as much as Ethan Tannock seemed to do.
But then again, she’d never been confident or comfortable around men—especially ones as devastatingly handsome as this one. Though she’d worked hard to get past the insecurities, her mother’s sly, sharp criticisms always seemed to lodge in the back of her mind. And when she was in court, she was wholly prepared with what to say. Around men in a casual situation … not so much.
That was why she’d been so stunned by the fact that Jonathan had been the one doing the pursuing, with a single-mindedness that took her breath away. When she would have discouraged him, or allowed her insecurities to keep him at arms’ length, he was persistent and charming, wooing her, sweeping her off her feet just last summer.
And now … what had she expected? That he’d be content with her?
The ugly thought made her feel nauseated again and she ruthlessly closed her mind to it as she hurried after Tannock.
As she came around the back of the house, she found him struggling with one of the basement windows. It’s painted shut,” he grunted, trying to lever it open with a stout stick. “I think I can get it, though.”
“Dr. Tannock, I’m really sorry—”
“Just call me Ethan,” he said over his shoulder, voice tinged with annoyance. “And don’t worry about it.”
Diana had just stepped closer when he succeeded in forcing the window open. He tossed the stick aside, kicking the windowpane so that it opened wider. “I’ll climb in and come around and unlock the door.”
“You really don’t have to …. ” she began, but her voice trailed off as he ignored her and clambered awkwardly through the small space. She heard a dull thud as he landed on the floor inside, and, biting her lip in consternation, she turned to go meet him at the kitchen door.
When he came out, brushing the dust off his jeans, Ethan was brusque but polite. “Well, there you go. Now, don’t forget to add the new key to your keychain.” With a smile barely touching his chiseled lips, he started to walk off the back porch.
“Ethan, wait.” She didn’t know what to say, and why she felt she needed to repair the awkwardness between them. Perhaps in respect for her aunt’s memory she should at least properly thank the man who obviously knew Belinda well enough to know where the house key was hidden.
How did he know where the house key was? And just how good of friends were they? Suspicions as to why an attractive young man would befriend an old, odd lady like Aunt Belinda suddenly blossomed in her mind and her thoughts turned considering. Just what had he gained from the friendship?
Or expected to gain?
He paused at the top step, and turned. His eyes were unreadable, shadowed, as he stood half in sun, and half in shade.
“Why don’t you come in for a minute?” she asked suddenly.
“What about your headache?” he temporized.
“I’m fine now,” she told him. “Come on in, won’t you?”
He hesitated for a moment, then, giving a more genuine, but still restrained smile, he acquiesced.
In the big, bright kitchen, Diana bustled about, trying to keep busy while she decided how to eliminate the awkwardness between them, and at the same time, wondering why she’d done something so foolish. She should have just let him leave. It wasn’t as if she was going to see him more than once or twice ever again. But, yet, she found herself saying, “I’m going to have a bite to eat—could I interest you in some lunch?”
Ethan leaned against the counter near the phone, propping a hip against it and folding tanned arms over his chest. He seemed hesitant for a moment, then the lines on his face relaxed. “I could eat. I can always eat,” he added. “Thanks.” He smiled at her, then, as though to indicate all was forgiven.
A little sizzle zipped through her belly. He was so damned attractive, and probably well-used to having his way around women … particularly ones who stammered and stuttered and didn’t know how to act around men because they knew they couldn’t begin to have the least bit of interest in them.
“How about some iced tea to start?”
“Wonderful. Thanks.” Crinkles formed at the corners of smiling brown eyes as he grinned again.
Diana gave him a considering glance. He looked as though he could charm the Christmas presents from a toddler. She wondered again what he had charmed—or tried to charm—from her susceptible and wealthy Aunt Belinda … and just what he expected now that she was dead.
Then guilt washed over her. She of all people should not cast stones. She hadn’t made the time to visit since learning a year ago that Belinda wasn’t dead—as her mother had led her to believe for more than a decade. So many years wasted, and now she’d never have them back. Thanks to Victoria.
Pushing the uncomfortable thoughts away, she poured two tall glasses of iced tea and garnished them with lemon wedges. Just as she was pulling cheese and grapes from the refrigerator, the phone rang. Diana turned from her task, arms laden with food, in time to see Ethan reach for the black phone. He stopped suddenly, snatching his hand back as if burned.
“That’s okay, go ahead,” she said, and unloaded the food onto the counter, her cheeks warming again.
He caught it on the next ring. “Belinda Lawry’s,” he said in a smooth voice that felt like velvet over her skin. Then, after a pause, he said, “Just one moment. She’ll be right with you.”
Diana took the proffered phone. “Hello?”
“Who was that?” It was Jonathan.
“Oh, just a friend of Aunt Belinda’s. Are you still getting in tonight?”
“I tried your cell, but you didn’t pick up.” His voice was tight. “Diana, is this—are you—what’s he doing there with you? Who is that man? Is that why you aren’t answering your cell?”
Diana felt a spark of annoyance, followed by a bit of a thrill that Jonathan might be worried about her fidelity, about whether he could trust her. He did love her, and he wanted things to work out—just as she did. “Jonathan, you have nothing to worry about,” she said in a firm voice, wholly aware of Ethan standing there listening without appearing to listen. “I told you—the cell phone service up here isn’t very good. There are tons of trees, and I haven’t seen one tower nearby.”
“Are you sure?” he insisted, his voice dropping to that mellow, empathetic tone he normally used. “I can’t wait to see you. That’s why I was calling—to let you know I’ve gotten tied up. I’m not going to be able to make the flight tonight and I won’t be able to fly in until tomorrow morning. Eleven a.m.”
A sudden, ugly feeling lodged in her belly. He wasn’t flying in tonight, but tomorrow morning instead? So he could spend the night with Valerie the Wonder Surgeon? “That’s fine,” she forced herself to say lightly. She realized her fingers were a little unsteady as she unwrapped a chunk of Gouda. “Are you still on United?”
“Yes, of course,” he said, irritation in his tone. “Flight 439. I’ll text it to you.”
“I’d better write it down in case the text doesn’t come through.” Diana turned to get paper out of the drawer near Ethan and became flustered when she noticed he had opened the mahogany box, and that he stood between her and the drawer.
She hesitated, then reached past Ethan, brushing across his warm midriff to pull the drawer open. He stepped back, allowing her access to the pen and paper she sought, taking the box with him.
Irritated and disconcerted that she’d been forced to touch him, even as lightly as she had, and distracted by the mahogany box in Ethan’s hands, Diana had to ask Jonathan to repeat his flight number twice more before she got it written correctly.
“Okay, then,” she said hurriedly, watching as her guest pulled a chair from the kitchen table and sank into it, mahogany box in hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“All right darling,” Jonathan replied. “Diana, remember: I love you. I only love you.”
“Mm, love you, too,” she managed to reply, acutely aware of her guest and the fact that she felt forced to respond that way. Of course she still loved Jonathan—she was just hurt and shocked by his actions, and it was going to take some time for her to feel comfortable again.
But he was such a successful professional, quite handsome, and he’d pursued her with intelligence and charm. He was the type of man she’d always dreamed of marrying, but that she’d never believed she could have.
Even Victoria approved.
Diana hung up the phone and turned back in time to see Ethan pull the deck of cards from its black silk swaddling. She couldn’t turn her eyes away.
“Husband?” he asked casually, seemingly unaware of her attention on the cards.
“No,” she told him, and further explanation stuck in her throat. “What are you doing?”
Ethan looked up at her, innocence written all over his face. “These are Belinda’s cards, aren’t they? I just wanted to see them. I know that you’re not supposed to use anyone else’s deck, but … no one’s using them now.” His face sobered and she felt a fresh stab of pain for Belinda’s loss shoot through her. “You don’t have any use for them, do you?”
“No.” Diana turned defiantly away, ignoring a jab of nausea in her stomach. “But I don’t know if you should be … playing with them.”
Why did it bother her so much? She forced herself to ignore him, washing grapes and strawberries, cutting thick slices of bread, and preparing green salads for each of them. She wanted to ask him questions about his relationship with Belinda, but her thoughts were scattered and her nerves surprisingly on-edge as she heard him shuffling the cards behind her.
When she returned her attention to Ethan, she saw that he’d cut the deck into three sections, facedown, and was just re-stacking them. He seemed absorbed and thoughtful. Just as he finished piling them up and reached to pick up the top card, she made an involuntary noise.
Ethan looked up in surprise, still holding the card he’d picked up. He hadn’t looked at it yet. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing.” She shook her head as if to clear the cobwebs, trying to still the churning in her belly. It couldn’t be The High Priestess, she told herself. That would be crazy. Then, in spite of herself, she forced out the question. “What is it?”
Ethan glanced at it, then up at her. “The Death card,” he told her solemnly.
“Oh.” Diana felt the tension drain from her body. “Would you like some Dijon mustard with your bread and cheese?”
He looked at her, cocking his head to one side as if unsure what to make of her. “Most people would be freaked out if the Death card turned up,” he said, still watching her.
Diana shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me—I don’t believe in that stuff.”
“Thanks,” he said as she placed the food in front of him. “This looks much better than the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I would have made.” He set down the card he’d been holding, resting it face-up.
The High Priestess.
Diana dropped her plate, allowing it to clatter onto the table. She felt the blood drain from her face and her pulse throb heavily in her throat.
“What’s wrong?” He got to his feet, looking as if he were ready to rush to her side.
“I thought you said it was the Death card,” she whispered, sinking onto a chair, trying to control the trembling in her fingers. Don’t be ridiculous.
“I was just joking,” he told her. His gaze was concerned. “Diana, why don’t you tell me what’s going on here.”
“That—card,” her voice was thready, although she made a bold effort to keep it from shaking, “only that card, keeps showing up. Four—no, five times now—five times in a row. It’s too weird!”
He sat down in a chair across from her, linking his powerful hands loosely together and studying her carefully. He didn’t seem to be looking at her as if she needed to be admitted. He was … interested. “Do you know what that card means?”
Diana shook her head.
Ethan stood back up. “I’ll get Belinda’s book. Sit there, I know where she keeps it. I’ll be right back.” He started to go, then stopped to brush her cheek with a forefinger. She was too confused to jerk away from the unexpected intimacy, and allowed herself to be held by his safe gaze. “There’s nothing to be upset about, Diana. Tarot cards don’t have psychic abilities: people do.”
The Cards of Life and Death (Modern Gothic Romance 2) Page 5
