Delaney's Shadow

by Ingrid Weaver

  “Absolutely. It was never my home. I want none of the furnishings, either.”

  “Delaney, no! The piano alone is worth half a million.”

  She held up her hand.

  He sighed again. “Where will you live?”

  The answer sprang full-blown into her head, as if it had been there for months. Six months, in fact. “I’m going to stay in Willowbank.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll be a gardener or a cook.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I don’t need a job to support myself. Even with only half of Stanford’s estate, I’ll still have more money than one person could ever need.”

  He rocked forward and caught her hand. The motion surprised her, and she jerked reflexively. He clamped his other hand on top to keep her from pulling away. “You have a brilliant mind, Delaney, and you deserve a brilliant career. I’ve always admired you, and it pained me to see how much you gave up for your marriage.”

  She wasn’t sure how to respond. “Leo . . .”

  “Why don’t you come back to the city? You could return to real estate. With your current resources, you could establish your own company.”

  Light reflected from the lenses of his glasses, hiding his eyes. Although he was seated, his head was considerably higher than hers, reminding her of what a large man he was. His grasp was making her hand ache. She tugged free and flexed her fingers. “I could do the same here. The town’s growing. There would be plenty of opportunity for a Realtor.”

  “It would be a waste of your talent. You have an excellent network of contacts among Stanford’s crowd, and you could have the backing of Grayecorp. I could help you with the legal work free of charge. A favor between friends.”

  “That’s a generous offer, Leo, but I’m not going to rush into anything.”

  “Yet you’re giving away billions of dollars on a whim.”

  “It’s not a whim. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “You’re not giving credence to Elizabeth’s claim that her father wanted to change his will, are you?”

  “It’s possible. She’s been far more honest than I would have expected. Once I remember the rest—”

  “No!” He reached for her hand again. When she flinched, he braced his palms on his knees instead. “Delaney, I’m begging you, leave well enough alone. Your mind blanked those final hours for a reason.”

  “Leo . . .”

  “You won’t like what you find.”

  She stared at him. “You think she’s right, don’t you? That’s why you’ve been so zealous about fighting her. That’s why you’ve never wanted me to remember. You believe the accident was my fault. You think I did cause Stanford’s death.”

  He tipped his head. The reflection on his glasses disappeared, revealing the truth of what he thought in his eyes.

  Delaney felt the lick of fire against her fingers.

  The nightmare wasn’t through with her yet.

  MAX CLAMPED HIS HAND AROUND THE DECK RAILING AS he peered into the gathering dusk. There was a saying he’d heard as a child. Something about mentioning the devil and he was sure to appear. He’d thought it was stupid, right up there with step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Avoiding cracks was useless. There had been no mystery to the cause of his mother’s pain, because there was nothing superstitious about Virgil’s belt or fists. Speaking a name out loud had no power, either.

  Yet the skin between Max’s shoulder blades was prickling. He could feel Virgil’s presence in the atmosphere that surrounded him, like the dull throb he got behind his forehead before a thunderstorm.

  Telling Delaney about his stepfather had gotten him into her bed, just as he’d said it would. He couldn’t be sorry for that, but sharing that particular piece of himself had also stirred up the past. It had breathed life back into the things he’d taken years to bury . . .

  “No.” His voice was swallowed by the sunset sounds of insects and bullfrogs. He moved to the stairs. The thud of his shoes on the thick planks was reassuringly solid. He crossed the yard, climbed the embankment, and headed for the lights that twinkled through the dusk.

  No, he repeated silently. The past was dead, as was the boy he used to be. Slowly, the shadows on his vision receded. He no longer felt Virgil’s presence; he felt Delaney’s.

  She was sitting on the window seat in her mother’s old bedroom, her feet tucked beneath her skirt and a sheaf of legal-sized papers on her lap. She wasn’t reading them. The colors of her thoughts were muted, shifting silver and gray. She sighed and turned her mind toward his.

  He wished she was already in bed. It was easier to communicate with his body. More satisfying, too, without all the words getting in the way. If he kissed her, he wouldn’t have to put up with her relentless poking and prodding at his psyche. If he pulled the blind over the window to shut out the light, he wouldn’t need to deal with that look in her eyes, either, her little-kid faith that had almost made him feel as if things could be different, as if love wasn’t just a fairy-tale concept, as if trust wasn’t a bludgeon.

  Yet that was how she was wired. She tried to see the best in everyone. She wanted life to be fair. Didn’t she realize how defenseless that left her?

  He pulled his mind away from hers and walked the rest of the way to the Wainright House alone. He had just gone through the back gate when he saw her step off the terrace. She walked to meet him. Warmth brushed across his thoughts, as soft as the remnants of sunshine that lingered on the undersides of the clouds. “Hello, Max.”

  It was a small thing, hearing her say his name aloud. He still wasn’t used to it. His pulse kicked every time. “Hello, Delaney. How’d the meeting go?”

  “It never happened.”

  “Did you change your mind?”

  “What? No, of course not. Giving Elizabeth part of the estate is the right thing to do.”

  He nodded. He hadn’t expected anything else. That was vintage Deedee. “So what happened?”

  “Her lawyer couldn’t get here today. We postponed the meeting until tomorrow. I did learn something interesting, though. It seems Elizabeth has been spending the odd weekend at the Bedford house.”

  “Why?”

  “She wouldn’t say. She only admitted to trespassing. It was a minor crime, but it’s encouraging that she wants to clear the air. She could be right about the damage our conflict is doing to her position at Grayecorp. Leo’s been more . . . zealous than I’d realized.”

  “From what I saw of Stanford Graye’s daughter, you can save your concern. The woman’s a shark. She thrives on confrontation.”

  “She’s more sensitive than she lets on. She’s been under a lot of emotional stress and—oh!”

  He kissed her. He’d intended only a quick one, but the taste of her mouth drew him back for more. That was something else that he hadn’t gotten used to yet: the physical sensation of her lips beneath his. The pleasure didn’t reach as deep as when she put her mind into it, so it was simpler. He slid his hands around her waist. “I was right about you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re making excuses for Elizabeth, too. You really don’t recognize hate if it bites you in the butt.”

  “Like you don’t recognize love?”

  He nibbled her earlobe. “Does every conversation with you have to turn into psychological analysis?”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Getting naked.”

  She sputtered a laugh. “Max, I’ve got papers to go over.”

  “Lawyer stuff, huh?”

  “That’s right. Leo drew up drafts for the property transfer agreements.”

  “Sounds boring.”

  “Not really.”

  “No, it must be. You look ready to fall asleep. You should be in bed.”

  “It’s too early.”

  “Then let’s take a walk.”

  “Where?”

  “Back to my place.”

  “W
hy?”

  “Because there are too many mosquitoes for us to get naked out here.”

  “You’ve got a one-track mind.”

  He firmed his grasp on her waist, pivoted away from the house, and moved her backward toward the gate. “I’ve also got a king-sized bed and a fresh carton of condoms.”

  She placed her hands on his shoulders and let him guide her, as if they were dance partners. “One night and you’re already taking me for granted.”

  “No, Deedee, it’s the other way around. I don’t take anything for granted.” He slowed to a stop. “That’s why I want to bring you home with me. We should enjoy what we’ve got while we can.”

  “And what do we have, Max?”

  “This.” He slid his hands to her buttocks and tilted her pelvis into his. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

  “I know. I felt it.”

  He dropped his face to the side of her neck. “I couldn’t stop thinking about last night, either.”

  “Neither could I. It was . . . special.”

  “Best you’ve ever had?”

  “I’ve always known that no one could compare to you, Max. There’s no need for you to get a swelled head.”

  “You’re the one who makes everything swell.” He licked the edge of her jaw. “I’m sorry now that we wasted as much time as we did playing pretend.”

  “It wasn’t wasted time. We were getting to know each other.”

  “Yeah.” He nuzzled past her collar and inhaled. “I know your skin smells like roses.”

  “Sometimes yours smells like turpentine.”

  “Hazard of my profession. What about now?”

  “Just soap and you.”

  “I didn’t shower when I got home this morning. I waited until tonight because I liked carrying your scent on me.”

  “I didn’t change my sheets for the same reason.” She slid her hands to his chest. “Do I really smell like roses? I don’t use rose-scented perfume.”

  “It’s your essence. Delicate, sweet. But your body’s got more variety than that.” He turned his head toward her arm. “The inside of your elbow is more like apples.”

  Her breath warmed his ear. “Apples?”

  “Sweet, ripe apples. Same with the backs of your knees.”

  “I had no idea.”

  He rubbed his knee against her thigh. “Want me to tell you where you smell like honey?”

  “I think I can guess.”

  “Will you let me have another taste?”

  “You know I love you, don’t you?”

  Damn, why did she have to say that? She should have given up by now. He pictured the silky folds of skin between her legs, remembering her moisture on his tongue and the way her thighs had shuddered against his cheeks.

  Her knees buckled. “Max!”

  It was too far to his house. They wouldn’t make it to her bedroom, either. He hauled her to the back fence, pressed her against the iron gate, and aligned her hips with his.

  He’d told himself he wouldn’t use tricks, he’d wanted to keep it simple, yet just this once wouldn’t hurt. He opened his mind.

  She wrapped herself around his thoughts. The gate softened, becoming the edge of a thick feather mattress. Streamers of mist curtained the bed. She didn’t imagine a kiss; she imagined lowering his zipper, pulling up her skirt, and welcoming him into her body.

  Pleasure flooded his brain, along with the memory of her legs locking around his waist as she rode his thrusts. He played it back for her, smiling as she trembled both in his arms and in his thoughts.

  A scream tore through his head.

  His reflexes were sluggish. It took him a few beats before he realized the scream hadn’t been hers.

  A dog barked from the direction of the front yard. There was a second scream.

  The mist disappeared. The bed reverted to a gate. Delaney was once again standing on her feet. Her clothes were in place. Only her face bore any hint of what had been happening in their minds. She blinked groggily, then shoved away from the fence and raced toward the house.

  He caught up to her as she passed the terrace. Floodlights set high on the corners of the house switched on to illuminate the grounds. He spotted a woman standing beside the cedar hedge near the front gatepost. She cradled a white poodle in her arms.

  Helen burst through the front door as Max and Delaney reached the veranda. “What on earth is going on?” she asked, hurrying down the steps. “Mrs. Leach? Is that you?”

  Max recognized the woman and her dog. They lived a few houses up the road from Helen. She turned as they approached. Her voice was high-pitched and too fast. “I hadn’t seen her there. I walked right by. I thought Jasmine was chasing a cat. Is she dead? She’s not dead, is she?”

  The floodlights from the house didn’t penetrate the darkness at the base of the hedge. All he could see at first was a high-heeled shoe. Then he saw the pale curve of an arm and blonde hair matted with blood. A woman lay facedown beneath the cedar boughs.

  He grabbed Delaney before she could go farther. “Take Helen and Mrs. Leach back to the house,” he said. “Call an ambulance.”

  She clung to his arm. “Oh, my God!”

  In the shadows, from the back, the woman could have been mistaken for Delaney. She was a similar size, and her hair color was nearly identical. He steeled himself against a flood of completely irrational panic.

  Delaney was safe; she was standing right next to him.

  The woman on the ground was Elizabeth.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  DELANEY ROSE TO HER FEET AS SOON AS DR. MCFADDEN pushed through the swinging doors to the waiting room. This wasn’t the doctor who had been on call when Max had been brought to the hospital a week ago. That doctor had been a woman, and she’d had a pleasant smile on her face when she’d come out to speak with Delaney because she’d had good news.

  Dr. McFadden wasn’t smiling. The lines around his mouth were tight with tension, and his eyes appeared tired. Delaney felt Max move behind her, and she reached for his hand. “How is she?”

  “Miss Graye is out of surgery and has been moved to recovery,” McFadden said.

  “Will she be all right?”

  “I’m afraid she suffered serious head trauma.”

  Delaney recalled Elizabeth’s face as she’d been loaded into the ambulance. Her left eye had been purpled and swollen. Her skin had been streaked with dirt and dried blood. More blood had soaked into her hair. It had come from a gash on the back of her skull. There had been blood on one of the stone gateposts, too.

  The injuries couldn’t have been accidental. She’d been attacked, knocked into the gatepost with enough force to crack her skull, then stuffed under Helen’s cedar hedge and left to die.

  Please, this couldn’t be happening. This was Willowbank, not the big city. Let it be another nightmare.

  The bloody face faded into an image of a baby bird. A tiny, fluffy swallow. It wobbled like a lopsided ball on top of a wooden railing. Beyond it, a yard of patchy grass stretched to a ridge of gravel and a line of trees . . .

  Delaney’s chin trembled as she recognized the scene. The bird was on Max’s back deck. He had given her the image to counteract the other one.

  She squeezed his hand and returned her attention to the doctor. “How serious is it?”

  “We’ve done what we could to relieve the pressure on her brain. There was a great deal of swelling within her skull.”

  “What’s her prognosis?” Max asked.

  “It’s too soon to make predictions. We’ll have a better idea in another forty-eight hours.”

  “Is she awake?” Delaney asked. “Has she told you what happened?”

  Dr. McFadden regarded her with sympathy. “At the moment, we’re concentrating our efforts on keeping her alive. Whether or not she will regain consciousness is another matter. It might be wise to prepare yourself for the possibility that she won’t.”

  The words rolled past her. She didn’t want to grasp them.
r />   “You told me she’s your stepdaughter, Mrs. Graye?”

  “That’s right. Her father was my husband.”

  “Does she have any other relatives we could contact?”

  “None that I’m aware of.”

  “I realize this is a difficult question, but would you know whether or not she signed an organ donor card?”

  Delaney closed her eyes. No, this couldn’t be happening.

  Max slipped his arm around her back to steady her. “Aren’t you jumping the gun, Doctor?” he asked. “You said it’s too soon to make a prognosis.”

  “I apologize,” McFadden said. “My job doesn’t always allow me the luxury of diplomacy. My first priority always has to be the welfare of my patient. All of my patients.”

  “When can we see her?” Delaney asked.

  “We’re monitoring her closely and aren’t allowing any visitors at this stage. It could be a long night, so I’d advise you to go home and get some rest. I’ll have someone call if there’s any change.”

  Max took his wallet from his pocket, withdrew one of his business cards, and passed it to the doctor. “Here’s my number. You can reach Mrs. Graye there.”

  They drove past her grandmother’s place on the way to Max’s. The Wainright House was once again dark. The police cars that had arrived with the ambulance were gone. Yellow crime-scene tape cordoned off the area between the hedge and the nearest gatepost—the area would be examined more thoroughly once it was daylight. Though Max offered to stop, Delaney shook her head. Helen had been exhausted and about to go to bed the last time she had called from the hospital to check on her. The bad news about Elizabeth would keep.

  Max parked his Jeep beside his front door and led her inside. She hadn’t questioned his assumption that she would be staying with him. In truth, there wasn’t anywhere else she would rather be.

  His house looked different at night. Without the sunshine streaming across the floor to meld the separate areas, the living room was an island of soft lamplight, rounded fieldstones, and oversized furniture. It was as inviting as it had been in daylight, though in a more intimate way. She went to the empty fireplace, drawn once again to the painting of the storm.