Delaney's Shadow

by Ingrid Weaver

  “He’s in love with you.”

  “Leo? No, we’re just friends.”

  “No, take it from me, I know that expression. I feel it on my face whenever I look at you.”

  She stared at him.

  “Why do you seem so surprised? We don’t have any secrets. You’ve felt how I feel. You told me about it before I recognized it.”

  “You’ve never said the words.”

  “Sure. It still scares the shit out of me.”

  “Why? You must know by now I’d never hurt you.”

  He dropped his forehead against hers. “It’s because I don’t want to hurt you, Deedee. I’ve lived alone for too long. It’s taking a while for me to realize this isn’t a dream, that I wake up with you in my arms for real. I’m not used to being . . .”

  Free? she offered.

  “Depends how you define free.”

  “Give it a try. I’ve got all day. Actually, I’ve got the rest of my life.”

  He smiled, swept her into his arms, and headed for the stairs. “I’d rather show you.”

  She nestled against him, her body softening to welcome his. If he wanted to express himself through sex, she certainly wouldn’t object. He was right; she had already sensed what he’d felt.

  He didn’t carry her into the bedroom. Instead, he went to his studio and stopped at his easel. “I finished it this morning. What do you think?”

  The painting displayed on the easel was the portrait he’d done of her. Her features were the same as before. So were her scars. She was still posed in front of the cloud and the fire, but he’d painted one major addition.

  She slid out of his embrace. She barely felt her feet touch the floor as she moved closer. Understanding spread through her even before he began to explain.

  “Now, I don’t want you to accuse me of getting philosophical or turning all artsy or anything, but I figured something out. That background is split between good and evil like a lot of my stuff is. You’re in the middle because you represent the balance.”

  She held her fingertips over the second figure he’d painted. “And this?”

  “That’s your shadow.”

  It wasn’t a shadow; it was Max. He placed himself behind her, his arms wrapped around her in an embrace that sheltered yet didn’t hide. They weren’t leaning on each other. They both stood straight and strong, braced to survive whatever fate might have in store for them. Their appearances were nothing alike. She was fair and he was dark. Her expression was open, his was cautious. She was as solid as sunshine and he swirled with energy like the wind, yet together they were complete.

  He was with her. Within her. A part of her forever. It was a depiction of love that no words could equal.

  It was the promise their hearts had made the day they had met.

  Keep reading for a special preview of

  Ingrid Weaver’s next romantic suspense novel

  DREAM SHADOWS

  Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

  “ELIZABETH?”

  She opened her eyes. The world was a blur. Her body was a mass of aches. Pain throbbed through her skull. She wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep.

  “Hey.” A hand settled on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  She knew that voice. She squinted until the blur fused into a face. Large nose. Beard stubble on a square jaw. Eyes of amber that reached as deep as his music.

  The pain ebbed. “Rick?”

  “Yeah.” He loomed over her. No, loom was the wrong word. He was kneeling at her side, and there was nothing threatening about his size. Even in the dim light, the concern on his face was plain. He touched her temple. “Does your head hurt? You’ve been drifting in and out.”

  She blinked a few times, giving herself a chance to take stock. Yes, her head hurt. The agony was there as it always was, but it was retreating to the background. She flexed her limbs carefully. Her joints were stiff, her muscles sore, as if she’d overdone it on the Bowflex and had neglected to cool down.

  But those memories were from before, when her life was normal. Reality was different now. She knew in her bones that she wasn’t yet home. A chill seeped through her back from the floor where she lay. She moved her foot, expecting to feel the slide of stone.

  Instead, she felt dirt. Her feet were bare. She looked past Rick. The walls were made of wood. So was the door. A pale strip of light seeped beneath it. The air was muggy rather than damp and it was ripe with the scent of vegetation. Insects whirred. An animal she couldn’t identify screeched in the distance.

  They weren’t in the dungeon anymore. They were in the hut in the jungle.

  She attempted to rise when she discovered her wrists were bound together with a plastic bundling tie. Again. Or had they never been in manacles? She groaned.

  Rick slid his arm beneath her shoulders and helped her sit up. “Sorry I couldn’t get that band off your wrists,” he said, as if he guessed what she’d been thinking. “There’s no slack in that plastic. It’s locked tight.”

  “Did you see them?”

  “Who?”

  “The people who brought us here. Who were they? What did they do to us? How did they transport us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you were awake. You must have seen something.”

  “I only woke up once we were here. I heard men outside, talking in Spanish. Couldn’t make out much of what they said, but I did pick out your name. They called you Isabella. Is this the place you talked about before? The camp with the rebel soldiers?”

  “It must be. The hut’s the same.”

  “Not much to see except dirt and wood, but it seems built as solid as that cell in the castle basement.”

  “Then you tried to get out?”

  He stroked her hair from her cheek. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been more concerned about you than about where we are. Something strange is going on.”

  “Something strange? Strange? And what would that be? The fact that we seem to have been magically transported from a castle to a jungle camp with no knowledge or memory of what happened?”

  “Yeah, that, too, but I was talking about you.”

  “How so?”

  “Your shiner’s gone.”

  “My what?”

  “The black eye you got from the rock.” He touched the corner of her eye. “The swelling’s gone down. There’s no bruise.”

  She explored it herself as much as she was able with her wrists bound. He was right; the eye had healed. She touched her neck. The scratch had healed, too. Again.

  “There’s nothing left of that stab wound from the sword in your side, either,” he said.

  “We must have been kept drugged for months.”

  “By nothing, I mean nothing. Not even a scar.”

  She lifted her arms and twisted to see her side. She was once more wearing the baggy trousers and linen shirt. Dirt smeared the fabric, but there was no blood. She hooked her little fingers on the hem of the shirt, meaning to pull it up so she could inspect the wound herself, when she registered what he’d said. “How do you know there’s no scar?”

  “How else? I checked.”

  She jerked her chin up. Her vision swam at the sudden movement. She inhaled through her teeth. “You examined me while I was unconscious?”

  “I was worried. I thought it might have gotten infected or something and that was why you wouldn’t wake up. Glad you’re okay.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Beats me why you are, though. I saw that wound, and it was deep.”

  She inched sideways until she could turn her back to him. She raised her shirt. Whoever had changed their costumes had been as thorough as the last time. She was once again braless. Which meant other people besides Rick would have seen her bare breasts.

  The realization was more than upsetting; it was humiliating. She was no prude, but she decided to whom she showed her body. She would have no control over what was done to her while she was unconscious. People could strip
her, examine her as intimately as they wanted, or dress her in whatever they chose and she would have no more say than a rubber doll or a mannequin. They could cart her from place to place like a piece of meat. They could do with her as they pleased and she couldn’t stop them. She was completely helpless.

  Tears flooded her eyes. Why was this happening to her? What had she done to deserve this? Was Delaney really behind it? Was she retaliating for the lawsuit? Elizabeth still couldn’t picture her stepmother organizing anything this vast. No, the only person who might consider going to such lengths to get even was dead.

  You defied the king.

  She shivered, dismissing the thought before she could follow it. Her father was gone, he had no power over her anymore, and even he wouldn’t have stooped to such melodramatic methods. Not for this long. Not without crowing about his cleverness. It had been all about the win with Stanford.

  “Elizabeth?”

  She blotted her eyes on her sleeve and shoved back the self-pity. She couldn’t afford to get emotional. She was awake now and planned to stay that way.

  “You’re in pain, aren’t you?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.” She focused on her side. The wound appeared to be gone, but the light in the hut was too dim for her to be sure there was no scar.

  It didn’t make sense. Had they used steroids on her? Was that why she’d healed so quickly? Or had they done plastic surgery to eliminate the evidence so they wouldn’t be charged with assault causing bodily harm? Why bother doing either when they planned to execute her?

  “For the record, I didn’t deliberately peek. But I guess that does as much good as saying I didn’t inhale.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Modesty is the least of my concerns.” She let her shirt fall back into place. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Hard to tell. All I know is it was darker than it is now.”

  “Then it must be nearing dawn.”

  “I suppose.”

  “The other time I was here, they said I would be shot at dawn.”

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  She blotted her eyes again. She had to stop feeling sorry for herself. She was no longer the only victim of this outrage. “I owe you an apology.”

  “Why?”

  “I involved you in my problems by singling you out at the castle. They imprisoned you with me because I asked you for help.”

  “Yeah, well, I haven’t been much help so far.”

  “That’s not true. Just knowing I’m not alone . . .” Her voice broke. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say anyway. Tell him that his presence gave her strength and made her feel alive? Confess her weakness to a man she hardly knew?

  They had decided the mental connection they’d experienced initially had been a fluke. There was no hint of it now. She had made assumptions about his character because of his music, but music wouldn’t break them out of a locked building. Appealing for help from a minstrel hadn’t been logical. It would have been more logical to seek out the help of the castle blacksmith. “How long do you think it is until sunrise?”

  “A while. I’m not sure. My sense of time is out of whack.”

  “Tell me about it. I don’t even know what day this is, let alone what month.”

  “It’s December.”

  “December?” She slid around to face him. “Impossible. That would mean they’ve kept me for nearly half a year. Someone should have found me by now.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s December. There were Christmas lights in the bar last time I played there.”

  “The last thing I remember was being in Willowbank. It was early July.”

  “Never heard of Willowbank. Where is it?”

  “Upstate New York.”

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  “Lord, no. I have a condo in Manhattan. Willowbank is the town where my stepmother lives. We had scheduled a meeting.”

  “In my family, we don’t schedule meetings.” He shrugged. His shirt stretched tightly across his shoulders. “We sort of show up.”

  “My stepmother and I had legal matters to discuss.” Her attention was caught by what he was wearing. She hadn’t taken note of it before, probably because the clothes were so ordinary. The medieval tunic and leggings costume had been replaced by a plaid shirt and blue jeans. His resemblance to a desperado was stronger than ever: a pair of scuffed cowboy boots covered his feet. “Are those your real clothes?”

  He considered her question. “Probably. They feel like it.”

  “Wouldn’t you recognize them?”

  “That’s something else strange. I never thought much about the Robin Hood outfit while I was wearing it, not until you pointed it out. It seemed right at the time.” He pinched a fold of his shirt. “Like Chester.”

  “Chester?”

  “My horse. I didn’t think much about that before either, because it seemed right at the time, too, but I don’t ride a horse to work. That would be crazy. I drive an F-150. When it works, anyway. She’s getting temperamental in her old age.”

  She regarded him blankly.

  “The F-150. It’s a Ford pickup.”

  “But you said . . .” She pressed the heels of her hands to her forehead. “Do you actually own a horse?”

  “Uh-huh, and his name actually is Chester, but I keep him at my parents’ farm.”

  “Then why was he at the castle?”

  “Whoever snatched me must have taken him, too, but that seems even harder to believe than the rest of this.”

  “We must have been given hallucinogens.”

  “Seems like it.” He tugged her hands away from her face. “Whatever drugs they used are seriously messing with our minds. Things that shouldn’t make sense do make sense, the same way they do in dreams.”

  “You think any of this makes sense?”

  “Maybe not the whole picture, but the details do.”

  “I can’t believe anyone is mad enough to assume they’ll get away with this.”

  “They’re doing a good job of it so far.” He turned her hands to one side and then the other while he scrutinized the strip of plastic around her wrists. “Elizabeth, why would anyone want to lock you up?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “You’ve been mixed up in this longer than I have, and you’re the only one they’ve bothered to bind. Both times. You must be at the center of the trouble.”

  “Don’t you think if I knew I’d tell you? Do you think I volunteered to be treated like this? In the real world, I have respect. I have power. I have manicures and wear pearls and heels and underwear. Nobody pushes me around. If they try, they find out fast that I push back.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “And as soon as we get out of here, I won’t rest until every single person who had any role in this kidnapping is caught and convicted and has to serve the maximum sentence allowed by law, even if it means I have to build the damn jail myself.”

  He rubbed his thumbs over the plastic tie. “What do you do, back in the real world?”

  “I run Grayecorp. It’s a property development company.”

  “In Manhattan?”

  “That’s where we’re based, but we have interests all over the continent.”

  “Sounds like you’re a regular Donald Trump.”

  “I’m not in his league. Not yet, that is.”

  “But you’re rich, right?”

  Not a fraction as wealthy as she would have been if her father had lived long enough to follow through on his promise. Instead, Delaney had inherited the fortune she’d had no right to claim. But thinking of the events surrounding Stanford’s accident was enough to bring back the headache. Elizabeth sucked air through her teeth again. “The definition of rich is relative.”

  “Only rich people would say that. If you’re poor, it’s as plain as the holes in your pockets. So you’re loaded, aren’t you?”

  “I have money, yes. Enough to pay a substantial ransom, but no one appears willing t
o negotiate. Whoever’s doing this to us doesn’t seem to be motivated by profit.”

  “Well, if it’s a ransom they’re after, I can’t help you there. I pick up extra cash in the summer working construction, but those jobs are pretty scarce at this time of year. By the time I split what I take in from my bar gigs with the guys who play backup for me, I don’t clear much more than my rent money. Maybe I should ride Chester to work after all. He’d probably be more reliable than the truck, and hay would be cheaper than gas. I could strap my gear to the saddle and—” He broke off suddenly. “Hell, I should have thought of it before.”

  “What?”

  “My gear.” He released her hands and twisted to reach for something in the shadows at the base of the wall. When he straightened to face her once more, he was holding a guitar.

  She started. “Where did that come from?”

  “It was here when I woke up.” He shifted to sit cross-legged and laid the instrument flat across his lap. He ran his thumb lightly over the strings.

  “Is it yours?”

  He tapped the body. “Absolutely. See those scratches?”

  Four short parallel lines dulled the gleam of the varnish. “Vaguely.”

  “That’s where Daisy landed on it back when she was a puppy. She was chasing a cricket.”

  “You have a dog as well as a horse?”

  “Yep. A dog, a horse, and a truck. I’m livin’ every American boy’s dream.”

  “Is she with your parents, too?”

  “No, I don’t take her out there much. She’s scared of the barn cats.” He turned one of the tuning pegs. “Most days she hangs out with my landlady almost as much as she hangs with me. Probably lying on the couch eating bonbons by now. You like dogs?”

  “As I’ve had no experience with them, I neither like nor dislike them.”

  “You never wanted one? Not even when you were a kid?”

  “There were many things I wanted as a child, but I grew out of them,” she said. Or, to be more accurate, she grew out of the desire to ask for them. She frowned as he continued to fiddle with his guitar. “Since they brought your instrument with you, then they really did plan for you to play the part of a minstrel. Or, in our current circumstances, a musician.”