Gillian reached for the light on the nightstand and clicked it on. “What’s wrong?” She pulled the blanket up to cover her nakedness and moved closer to him.
“Wrong?” Mason opened his eyes after the initial flare of light. He studied the anxiety pulling at Gillian’s mouth. Her mouth was designed for loving, not worrying.
“You yelled.”
“What did I yell?” He did a scanning of the house, but could only pick up the presence of Fred snoring away on the kitchen rug he had adopted as a bed. No one was there. Gillian was safe.
“I don’t know. I woke at the sound.” She brushed a lock of his dark hair off his forehead. “Was it a dream?”
“A dream?” Lord, no one would class the horrifying scene he just experienced as a dream. It was so real! He could feel their soft bodies, smell their odor and see Gillian’s fear. The taste of his own fear was still in his mouth.
“You told me you didn’t dream.” She pushed him gently back down and snuggled against him.
Mason’s arms wrapped around her like a vise. He never wanted to let her go. He heard somewhere that dreams had a meaning. He wondered if nightmares did, too. He raised his head and placed a tender kiss on the top of Gillian’s head. “I’ve never dreamed before.”
Her hand flattened against his chest as if listening to his heart pound.
“You’re dreaming now?” she asked.
“If you want to call it dreaming. Then yes, I’m starting to dream.”
Gillian raised her head and studied his face. “What do you call it?”
“A nightmare.” He pushed her head back to his chest.
“Want to tell me about it?”
“No.” Lord, was she crazy? How could he tell her what his nightmares were about?
“I used to have nightmares as a child.”
“You did? What were they about?”
“I could never remember.” He felt her smile against his chest. “I used to wake everyone in the house with my screaming, but I could never remember what had frightened me so.”
“Maybe it’s better if you don’t remember.” He would rather have not remembered this dream. He would pay anything to forget.
“I don’t think so.” Her fingers tugged at a dark curl. “I was afraid of everything for nearly two years. I was scared of the dark thinking maybe that was what caused my nightmares. I was terrified of the neighbor’s dog, loud noises and even bubbles.”
“Bubbles?”
“Don’t ask.” She chuckled. “To a child’s mind the world could be a frightening place and I tended to have a vivid imagination.”
“What caused the nightmares to stop?”
“I don’t know. One day I realized it was a week since I had one, then a month, and next thing I knew they were gone. Now when I dream, I remember them. They’re a little foggy and hazy, but that’s okay. They’re mine.”
Mason lay there and listened to Gillian’s soft breathing. His heart rate was slowly dropping back to normal and the trembling in his fingers was barely noticeable. Why were dreams foggy and hazy when nightmares were graphic and intense? Why was he having the bad dreams about leeches when logic told him Gillian was the one who should be experiencing the anxiety? She was the one being threatened, not he. So why was his sleep being tortured?
“Gillian?”
“Yes.”
“I finally figured out what I want to ask you.” He wrapped a silken strand of hair around a finger. He answered her questions concerning social workers, now it was his turn. “Tell me one of your dreams.”
Gillian’s fingers stilled from their roving. “One of my dreams?”
“Pick one, any one.”
“Dreams are strange, Mason. They don’t make a lot of sense. Sometimes they aren’t even about you.” Her fingers continued their journey. “I’ll tell you about a dream I have quite often. It’s one of my favorite dreams, but I don’t know why. I’m not even in it.”
This dreaming business sounded strange to him. How could you dream and not even be in it? “Okay, let’s hear it.”
“There’s this little boy, I guess around three or four years old. The whole dream takes place on a beach. A tropical beach, because there are palm trees in the dream. I can see the ocean and hear the birds. Most of the time I can actually smell the salt air and a faint hint of flowers. I don’t know what kind of flowers, because I never see them. Only the child. Anyway, this boy is the cutest little kid I’ve ever seen. He has a bucket and a shovel and he builds sand castle after sand castle.”
“Go on.”
“That’s it. The entire dream is about this boy on a crowded beach who builds sand castles.”
“That’s your favorite dream?”
“Sounds stupid, huh? I don’t know why, but there’s something special about that little boy and his sand castles. Whenever I have that dream, I feel invincible. Like I’m on top of the world. That everything in my life is going to work out perfectly.”
Gillian dreamed of a little boy and felt exhilarated. If he dreamed of a child he would have felt nothing but panic. Fred, the soprano watchdog, was one thing, but a child was something totally different. He didn’t want a child. Even though Gillian and he weren’t using protection, he prayed that she wouldn’t conceive. He didn’t want to be a father. He had firsthand knowledge of what a father who didn’t want to be a father became. It wasn’t a pretty sight. How did a person know he would be a good father or a bad father without having the child first? He never wanted to risk having a child and then discover he had inherited not only his dark hair and eyes from his father, but his selfishness and irresponsibility too.
Did Gillian’s dream of a child mean she wanted children? He knew their marriage was arranged so that they could have children and keep the society growing. But it didn’t mean Gillian wanted children. Maybe she was just as trapped as he felt. It was one thing to want children, quite another to be forced to produce them.
Mason reached over and turned off the light. He kept Gillian in his arms and kissed her. If her dreams of a boy and his sand castles made her feel good, then who was he to argue? “It sounds like a wonderful dream.”
Chapter 9
Mason entered his chambers with a weary set to his shoulders and glanced at the pile of mail. He was tired. For the past week he had been buried in work at the courthouse, and buried in Gillian at night. He played with Fred for endless hours and was even starting to enjoy the playful pup. He still had his doubts about Fred being a watchdog. The only thing the pup watched was food. Fred’s stomach was an endless pit. And he had the energy to match.
He wished he could say the same about himself. The only kind of energy he had was nervous energy—caffeine-induced energy. When he was at work his mind was on Gillian and what she might be doing. So far she had heeded his advice and stayed out of The Blades, only visiting her office when someone was with her. Usually he accompanied her after he got home from work. They stayed long enough to pick up the mail and listen to the answering machine. Her office remained neat and untouched. He wished he could say the same about his office at home. Gillian had taken over the room with the same gusto she had applied to their home.
Her folders and papers were scattered throughout what was once his office. It was now theirs. Sometimes at night they both retired to the room and worked side by side. Of course, he had to admit, not a whole lot of work got done. Who could concentrate with the enticing scent of Gillian’s perfume teasing the air?
The family room was almost unrecognizable. He classed the room into two categories. Before Gillian and After Gillian. He preferred the After Gillian look. There was something about the room that was warm and inviting. His new bride was having that effect on the entire house. He actually looked forward to going home each night.
The only darkness in their lives came whenever he or Gillian thought about the lunatic who had been threatening her or when he awoke in the middle of the night suffering from the same recurring nightmare. It was getting to the poi
nt where he didn’t want to sleep for fear of the terrifying dreams. They were getting worse and becoming more vivid. Only the gentle soothing of Gillian’s hands and her sweet whispers calmed him enough to relax—but not sleep—through the remainder of the night.
Since the delivery of the leeches over a week ago, there had been no further contact. No letters, no presents, nothing. And that frightened him. Nothing had happened to make the sender nervous, so why had he backed off?
Jon Hall had come up with nothing from the list of possible suspects. Every man on that list probably hated Gillian for tracking him down, but no one had a criminal record that would red-flag him as being the culprit. As a favor to Mason, Jon was paying a visit to every man on the list. So far he was three-quarters of the way down, and nothing. Either the guy was a convincing liar, hadn’t been contacted yet or he wasn’t on the list.
Hell, they were so in the dark concerning his identity it would take a lighthouse sitting in the guy’s yard to identify him. So why hadn’t they heard from him? The only explanation Mason could come up with was terrifying. The psychopath was planning something. Something big.
Mason hung up his robe and poured himself a cup of coffee. The sooner he got through his mail, the sooner he could go home and see what type of mischief Gillian had been up to today. A slow smile curved his lips as he reached for the stack of mail.
The top letter caught his attention. His secretary usually opened every letter and handled what she could. This letter was in a plain white envelope and marked Private. Mason picked up a letter opener and slit it open. Half a dozen pictures of Gillian toppled to his desk. His shields came up and he scanned the envelope. The same twisted hatred that surrounded the box full of leeches radiated from the envelope. Using two pencils, he carefully pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope and spread it onto the desk. The words, cut out of magazines and pasted on, sent cold terror shuddering up his spine. He blindly reached for the phone and punched in the numbers for his house. As the first ring sounded in his ear, his gaze returned to the letter: Have you seen your wife today?
Using the top of a pen, he slowly separated the photos. Each one contained Gillian, but all were taken at different locations, on different days. One was taken in front of her office. She was with her sister and Cullen. Another was taken at the local food store. Gillian was pushing a shopping cart and eyeing the cookie aisle with what appeared to be glee. There was even one with him standing beside her picking out patio furniture.
The phone was in the middle of the third ring when it was picked up.
“Hello, Blacksword residence,” a woman’s voice responded.
“Who’s this? Where’s Gillian?” Mason demanded as his heart dropped to his knees. That wasn’t Gillian’s voice.
“This is Birdie, sir. Can I ask who is calling?”
“This is Mr. Blacksword. Where’s my wife?”
“On the back patio, trying to get the new grill to work. Would you like me to get her, sir?”
“Yes, please,” was grated out through his teeth. He concentrated on his wife and knew she wasn’t hurt in any way. With each passing day he could pick up more of Gillian’s emotions. He wondered if that happened to every married couple, or if they were unique. Right now his concern for his wife was satisfied, but he wondered who in the hell Birdie was. He couldn’t remember any of Gillian’s relatives having that name, and it surely wasn’t a Blacksword relation.
“Hello, Mason?”
“Gillian?”
“Who else were you expecting?”
“Obviously not Birdie. Who is she?” Before she could reply, he asked, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, why?” There was a quick catch in her voice. “What happened?”
He didn’t have to tell her what prompted his phone call. He could tell by her voice she knew. “I’ll tell you when I get home. I’m leaving right away, and I’ll be calling Jon Hall to meet me there.”
“Tell Jon I’ll be throwing on an extra steak for him.”
No questions, no hysterics, just tell the police detective she’d be throwing on an extra steak. Either Gillian was very brave and unflappable in the face of danger, or she was extremely gullible. He didn’t know which. “Put up your shields.”
“They’ve been up since I heard your voice.”
Mason could picture her wrapping her finger around the cord and worrying her lower lip with her teeth. He wanted to pull her into his arms and have his shields protect her, but he was a good twenty-five minutes away. “Who’s Birdie?”
“We’ll talk about her when you get home, okay?”
“Gillian?”
“Mason, please. Birdie isn’t involved in this other thing. She’s a sweet lady who’s down on her luck.”
“Gillian…”
“Mason, please. Just hurry home. You’re scaring me.”
Scaring you! He glanced down at the pictures of his wife and knew what real fear was. Whoever had snapped the pictures had been close enough to Gillian to touch her. To harm her. “I’ll be there in half an hour. Don’t answer the door or the phone until I get there.” Mason replaced the receiver without saying goodbye. For some reason the word stuck in his throat and refused to emerge.
He flipped through his phone number file and punched in Jon’s number.
Gillian heard Mason pull up and hurried around the side of the house. He hadn’t even bothered to pull the car into the garage, but stepped out of the car and came straight for her. She was wrapped in his arms as if he hadn’t seen her in a year instead of that morning, when they shared a loving goodbye that nearly made him late for court.
She pressed her face into his shirt and smiled. He smelled of lemon fabric softener, a hint of soap from his morning shower and just a faint whiff of his spicy aftershave. He not only smelled good, he felt good. She missed him terribly when he was at work and she was left alone to fill the hours. Her work had kept her busy, along with settling into the house, meeting Lottie, the cleaning lady who came every Tuesday and Friday, and playing with Fred. But she still missed Mason.
Mason stepped back and raised her face for a brief kiss.
Gillian melted into the kiss and cursed its briefness. “Hi.”
“Are you all right?”
“Don’t I look all right?” She smoothed back a lock of his hair that her fingers had mussed during their kiss. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Jon should be here any minute. I’ll tell you then.” He glanced around the yard. “Now who is this Birdie?”
“Shh…keep your voice down. She’s in the kitchen putting the finishing touches to our dinner.”
“She’s a cook?”
“Kind of.” Gillian glanced at the house behind her, where she knew Birdie was contentedly cooking up a storm. What had seemed so simple this morning was now difficult.
“Gillian?”
“This morning I went to visit Tabitha at her shop. I was hoping to pick up one of those huge palm plants she had used for our wedding. The master bathroom could use something to brighten it up. I thought a palm in front of the window up there would add some life into the room.” The entire room was done in white and black tile. It needed something.
“Fine, buy a plant for the bathroom. Buy two. Hell, buy a dozen if it makes you happy. Just continue.”
She smiled briefly. “Thanks. Anyway, when I got there Tabitha was all upset. It seems a homeless person had taken up residence in the alley behind her shop.”
“Tell her to call the police.”
“Mason—” she lightly punched him in the arm “—that’s not very charitable of you.”
“The police wouldn’t harm him. They’d make sure he got to a shelter and had a meal or two.”
“It wasn’t a he.” Gillian glanced once again at the house.
Mason followed her gaze and groaned. “You didn’t?”
“She’s such a nice lady, Mason. Wait till you meet her.”
His gaze stayed riveted to the kitchen w
indow. “We have a homeless person in our house cooking our dinner?”
“She’s an excellent cook and she knows the difference between a petunia and a geranium.” Gillian kept her gaze fixed on the knot in Mason’s tie. “I kind of told her she could stay in the apartment above the garage in return for some cooking and gardening.”
“You what?”
Gillian cringed at the softness in Mason’s question. “I also made sure she understood that it was contingent on your approval. I know I shouldn’t have invited her home without talking to you first, but she looked so scared and alone.”
“Gillian…” He ran his fingers through his hair. “You just can’t invite homeless people to come live above the garage.”
“I didn’t invite her to live here. I offered her a job.” Gillian risked a quick glance at Mason’s face and then immediately dropped it back down to his tie. He didn’t look too pleased. “She’s a good woman, Mason. I scanned her thoroughly, and the only malice she holds is for the company her now-dead husband used to work for. Seems they bet the pension fund on a high-risk market and lost it all. Her social security is a mere pittance, there are no benefits from her husband’s old job and she’s sixty-five. Too young and healthy for a state-run nursing home, but too old for anyone to hire. She lost her apartment three weeks ago and she had no one to turn to. She’s been on the streets since then.”
“What about her family?”
“There isn’t any. She never had children and her only sister passed away last year.”
“Gillian, don’t you see…”
“Why don’t you meet her first, Mason.” Gillian grabbed his hand and started to pull him toward the house. If she couldn’t talk him into allowing Birdie to stay, maybe once he met her he would change his mind. The woman looked like she walked out of a Norman Rockwell picture. She reminded Gillian of an allAmerican grandmother—rosewater perfume and fresh-baked cookies. That was after an hour-long bath and the washing of every article of clothing she possessed. It had taken Gillian and Birdie the better part of the afternoon to make her presentable. Birdie was nervous about meeting Mason, but not half as anxious as Gillian. A stray dog was one thing, but a person was an entirely different matter.
His Chosen Bride Page 14
