Dark Journey

by Stuart, Anne

  Jeremy had pushed Laura aside, planting his sturdy frame at his stepfather's bedside. "We thought you'd left us for good, sir." His booming voice was loud enough to make the old man wince.

  "Just a minor delay," he wheezed.

  Laura slid next to Alex, a rueful expression on her face. "I might as well show you to your room," she murmured. "They're not going to let me anywhere near him for the time being."

  Alex nodded, following her out of the room. But not before his ears caught the old man's fretful question. "Where did that fellow come from? Where's he going with Laura?"

  He didn't wait for the answer, merely followed Laura's slight frame through the wide pine hallways of the rambling log house. "I'm sorry I can't put you in the guest house," she was saying, her voice light and slightly breathless as she started up the stairs, too quickly for her damaged heart. "But Jeremy and Cynthia took up residence there a couple of weeks ago, when it looked as if Father was about to die, and Justine and Ricky joined them a couple of days ago. But there are plenty of empty rooms here in the big house, so you should be comfortable."

  I want to be near you, he thought. He didn't say the words out loud. He knew perfectly well he didn't need to.

  They reached the top of the stairs, and she started to turn to the left. She stopped and abruptly turned the other way. "I'll put you next to my room, if you don't mind," she said easily. "There's a wide balcony overlooking the mountains, and it's the prettiest view in the place. Unless you'd rather..."

  "I'd like the view," he said, pitching his voice low and soothing. She was growing more agitated around him, and he wasn't sure why. He'd been careful not to frighten her, not to make her suspect a thing. The old man had known him, recognized him. He'd been hovering near him for too long not to be recognized.

  And the nurse had known him, as well, even though she didn't realize it. They'd shared the same vigil countless times, but Maria's attention had mostly been on the patient, not on whatever else was waiting with her.

  As far as he knew, Laura was straightforward, pragmatic and not the slightest bit fey. She would never imagine who and what he might be, and if she did, she wouldn't believe it.

  She led him to a door on the left, cut deep in the middle of the pine logs that made up the interior, as well as the exterior, walls of the house. There was a second door beside it, left closed, and he knew it was her room. She pushed his door open and flicked on the light, and from behind the sunglasses he winced. He was so used to living in darkness.

  There was a bed, and a set of glass doors overlooking the night forest. There was an antique mirror set on one wall, and he glanced at it, the reflection drawing him.

  Laura stood beside him. Frail, with her honey-streaked hair and warm brown eyes, her pale face and soft mouth, she looked curiously vulnerable and childlike. Until he looked past, to see the determination in her jaw, the calm of her high forehead, the strength in her hands. He stood behind her, a tall, shadowy figure, dressed entirely in black, the dark glasses shading his eyes. His hair was long, tied back from his narrow face, and his mouth was thin, almost cruel. He was lean-looking, and strong. He looked as he'd imagined he would.

  She moved away from him, bustling about the room, turning on more lights, plumping up the pillows on the bed. It was a high bed, hand-carved of rough-hewn pine and covered with a beautiful flowered quilt atop the wide mattress. He looked at her, leaning over the bed, and a wave of longing washed over him, a wave so fierce he shuddered.

  He wanted her lying on the bed. He wanted to taste every part of her. He wanted to know what drew him to her, what made her different from every soul he had ever come for.

  Why did she make him come alive? He who was the very epitome of death.

  If he solved that riddle, he would be at peace again. He would fade once more into a velvet nothingness, where order and calm and destiny prevailed.

  But for the next two days there would be no such thing as order or destiny. The world might as well stop spinning. In the next two days no one would die. In the next two days he would find the answers to all the questions that had plagued his soul for years past counting.

  And in the next two days he would take Laura Fitzpatrick. He would take her innocence, her virginity, her body—and her soul.

  He would take her love, because he knew he could have it. She was ready to offer it to him, though she didn't know it, and nothing would make him turn down that precious gift.

  And in the end, when he was ready to leave, he would take her life, as well.

  He made her nervous. Laura hated to admit that fact, but she'd never been one to shy away from the truth, and there was no denying that his presence unnerved her in ways that weren't entirely unpleasant.

  She couldn't see his eyes behind the mirrored sunglasses, but she suspected she was better off that way. She hadn't touched him, hadn't even come close enough to feel his body heat. And yet she felt alert, alive, aware of him in every cell of her body, and that knowledge made her restless and uneasy.

  She forced a friendly smile to her face. She was imagining things, imagining the strange, taut feelings that seemed to stretch between them. He was a ski bum, someone who'd happened upon her at an opportune time, a charming, attractive man.

  A man with a strong, elegant body, an elegant, clever face, and a mouth that seemed both sensuous and heartless at the same time.

  She laughed, half to herself, and went to draw the curtains against the stormy night.

  "What amuses you?" he murmured.

  "I'm becoming fanciful in my old age," she admitted, hoping to defuse the strange feelings that were assaulting her. "I don't usually indulge myself."

  "What kind of fantasies were you indulging in?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

  In another man she might have thought it was a come-on, leading up to some smarmy sexual innuendo that she would have to parry. But not with Alex. For some reason, she knew he wasn't some hormone-laden male, looking to score. He was simply curious.

  She looked up at him, and suddenly she wanted to touch him. She wasn't certain why—something told her it would be very dangerous indeed if she put her hands on him, and that very warning made her all the more determined to follow through.

  "About you," she said flatly. "You're very mysterious, you know."

  He seemed to freeze. It was an amazing feat for a man who always seemed unnaturally still. "Do you like that?"

  It was a reasonable question. She shook her head, crossing the room, oddly aware of the big bed behind her, oddly aware of the big man in front of her. "Not particularly." She lifted her hand, and he didn't move, watching her, watching her outstretched hand, like a snake coiled and ready to strike. "Would you like me to see about dinner for you?"

  "No."

  "No, you're not hungry?"

  "No, I don't want you to see about anything for me. I don't wish to be a bother."

  She managed a faint smile. "Trust me, I enjoy being allowed to do things for other people. It's not often that I get the chance."

  "No," he said again. "Are you going to touch me?"

  It was a simple question, oddly phrased. She dropped her hand, embarrassed. "I wasn't planning to. I think I'll go downstairs and make sure my father's all right. That might have been his last lucid moment before he..."

  "He won't die tonight."

  She felt her mouth curve in a faint smile. "Is that a promise?"

  "It is."

  "I believe you." And before he knew what she was planning, she'd reached up and enveloped him in a brief, sexless hug.

  A moment later she was gone without a backward glance.

  CHAPTER THREE

  He felt her embrace in every cell of his body. It shook him, more than he'd thought he could be shaken. She'd smiled, backed away, looking neither shocked nor dead. She'd simply kept that calm, tranquil expression on her face, and then she was gone.

  She'd left the door open behind her, and he could hear her footsteps as she moved quickly
back down the hallway. She'd put her arms around him and nothing had happened.

  He moved to the French doors, opening the curtains she'd pulled against the violence of the night, and he watched the lightning flash through the sky, illuminating the mountains. The distant rumble of thunder was an angry counterpoint, but it wouldn't rain. He knew that, as surely as he knew that no one would die. Everything was on hold for the next two days. The weather would threaten, the wind would blow, but nothing would happen. The narrow road up the canyon would be blocked by fallen trees, and no one would risk coming out in such a storm to clear the way. No one would even know about it, with all outside communication severed. He had two days at his command, and no one would interfere.

  He heard the sound of her breathing, smelled the heavy scent of her perfume. By the time he turned around, Cynthia was already in the room. She was carrying a down comforter, and there was a predatory expression in her shallow blue eyes.

  She was scheduled to die in four years, in a drunk-driving accident with a married lover, though now that future seemed a bit uncertain, cloudy. Nothing was ever carved in stone; life had a habit of changing, and her fate was by no means definite. If he took her earlier, it would surely do the world no great disservice. He watched her through the mirrored sunglasses, curious.

  "You must have caught a chill," she said in her deliberately husky voice. "I've never felt anyone so cold in my entire life. I brought you the heaviest down comforter we have, and later I'll see if I can find you some sweaters. What do you sleep in?"

  "I beg your pardon?" He kept his voice perfectly polite, simply because he knew it irritated her.

  She dumped the cover on the bed, then moved closer, attempting a sexy glide. She came up close to him, so close he could almost taste the whiskey on her breath. "I said, what do you sleep in? You seem the silk-pajama type. Or maybe you wear nothing at all."

  She put her hand on his chest, and for a second he felt her flesh jerk beneath the touch of his. But she didn't break contact. "You're sooo cold," she purred. "I've never met a man as cold as you. I think I need to warm you up."

  He didn't move. She stood too close to him, and the musky scent of her skin, the gleam in her eyes, the life that flowed in her veins, were all strong and stimulating. Take what she offers, he told himself. Maybe that will be enough.

  She swayed against him, and her large, soft breasts pressed up against his chest. Her nipples were pebble-hard, but he had no illusions that the cause might be sexual excitement. He knew just how cold he could be.

  But Cynthia was determined to persevere, even in the face of his lack of cooperation. She slid her arms around his waist determinedly, tilting her face up to his, a smile playing around her full, pink mouth. "Do you want me to warm you up, Alex? I think you do."

  Her lush hips were tilted up against his, and he felt himself grow hard against her. So this was what it was like to be human, he thought absently. Mortal. The flesh could respond, even when the spirit was bored. Just how far could the flesh take him?

  He had bent down to put his mouth over her open, smiling one when he glanced toward the doorway. Cynthia hadn't bothered to close the door when she began her little visit, and now they had a witness. Laura stood there, her pale face paler still as she watched them.

  Cynthia must have felt the sudden stillness in his body. She slid her arms away from him, turning with a faint, mocking smile. "Hullo, Laura," she said smoothly, smugly, sauntering toward her. "Are you going to try your luck, as well?"

  "I think you've had too much to drink," Laura said in a quiet voice.

  "I usually do, darling. What else is there to do in this wretched place except sit around and wait for the old man to die? Don't look at me like that!" Her voice rose shrilly, even though Laura's face seemed entirely blank. "Don't you judge me. Jeremy and I have an understanding, and it's not up to you to come in and—"

  "Go away." Alex spoke for the first time, his voice low and cool.

  Cynthia cast an amused glance over her shoulder. "Yes, go away, dear Laura, and shut the door behind you. Alex and I—"

  "No." His voice was implacable. "You go away. Laura stays."

  Both women looked startled. Cynthia summoned up an airy smile. "Well," she said, "I suppose I can take a hint. Don't let me interrupt you." She moved toward the door in a sexy glide that left Alex totally unmoved. She put her hand on Laura's shoulder as she stood there, and a faint shadow crossed Laura's face.

  "I'd be careful if I were you, my girl," Cynthia warned her in a cool, mocking voice. "He's a bit too much for someone like you to handle." And she walked past, her lush hips swaying.

  The blank expression on Laura's face began to fade, and she looked embarrassed, uncomfortable, disturbed. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything. I just..."

  "Close the door," he said.

  Confusion joined the myriad of emotions that played over her face, and she started to step back. "Of course. I didn't mean to bother you."

  "With you inside."

  He wondered whether she would do it. He could see the flash of defiance in her warm eyes. "I don't like to be told what to do," she said in a calm voice. "Too many people try to run my life for me. I don't like it. And I'm not sure if I like you."

  He didn't smile, even though he was tempted. "Close the door," he said. "And come here."

  She did, of course. He almost told her to lock it, but he knew there was no need. He wasn't ready yet. Even though his body was still responding to Cynthia's blatant sexuality, Alex had no intention of slaking his temporary lust with Laura. He would take her when he chose to. Now was too soon.

  She was carrying a pile of white towels, and she set them on the bed beside the down comforter Cynthia had brought him. She glanced at it with a startled expression.

  "It's not really that cold out," she murmured. "I don't know why Cynthia thought you might want that."

  "Cynthia was looking for an excuse."

  She smiled then, a faint, honest grin. "Well, I suppose I should have warned you about Cynthia. She's a bit…overwhelming. She and Jeremy are in the midst of a divorce, but they decided not to tell Father about it. He wouldn't approve, and he'll be dead soon enough. There's no need to make his last few weeks even more difficult."

  "And you agree with that?"

  She looked up, as if startled at his perception. "No," she said. "I don't like lies."

  "And you don't like your sister-in-law?"

  "I feel sorry for her. She's a very unhappy woman, and she and Jeremy were never well suited."

  "Then why did they marry?"

  Laura shrugged, wandering past him, moving over to stare out at the windy night. "Family pressure. Father thought they'd be a good match. Jeremy was the son of his first wife, not a blood relation, and Father didn't like that. Cynthia is a second cousin—he wanted that connection. The Fitzpatricks put family ahead of everything."

  "Do you?"

  She turned to glance at him. "To some extent, I suppose I do. I'm lucky, though. No one could develop any great dynasty-founding plans with me. I was pretty much left on my own. As long as I behaved, I could spend my time as I pleased."

  "Why is that?"

  Her smile was bright, calm and totally devoid of self-pity. "Because I'm going to die. I've been living on borrowed time since I was about five years old. I have a bad heart and an unfortunate allergy to most drugs. There was never any question of a transplant, even though I'm sure my father could have bought me a hundred hearts. I wasn't supposed to make it past my twelfth birthday, but here I am."

  "Here you are," he echoed softly.

  "I was frightened in the woods, you know," she continued, in a deliberately casual voice that didn't fool him for a minute. "When you found me, I'd passed out. Too much stress, I suppose. Too much worry. But right before I lost consciousness, I was afraid I was dying. It seemed to me that my heart stopped. And it scared me."

  "Most people are afraid of death," he said.

  "I'm not most people.
I've known death would come for me, sooner rather than later, and I thought I'd made peace with my fate. But when I was alone in the woods, I was suddenly terrified." She seemed embarrassed by her sudden confession. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

  "Because I'm a stranger?" he said.

  She looked up, startled. "I suppose so. And yet, I know what Maria meant when she thought she knew you. You must remind me of someone, but I can't figure out who."

  He smiled faintly. "It will come to you."

  She looked uncertain. "I suppose so." She gave herself a brisk little shake. "I still can't get over my father's recovery. He's been in a coma for weeks, and now he's talking, making sense. It's a miracle."

  "I don't expect it will last," he said.

  "No, I suppose it won't. If people can jump off the Empire State Building and survive, then my father's perfectly capable of cheating death for a few more days."

  "No one cheats death. They only think they do."

  He moved past her to push open the doors to the balcony. The wind was very strong, gusting into the room, and he felt it riffle through his hair, tug at his dark clothes. He loved the wind, the damp scent of rain on the air. He half hoped she would go away. He wanted her so badly he was afraid of scaring her again. She'd been afraid this afternoon, she'd said. He didn't want her frightened. Too many people were terrified of him.

  But she moved past him, out onto the balcony, and the wind picked up her hair and tossed it away from the delicate, clean lines of her face as she tilted it upward, drinking in the wild night. "What do you think death is like?" she murmured, half to herself.

  He heard the words with a kind of shock—and the knowledge that he couldn't avoid answering her. He leaned back against the glass doorway, folding his hands across his chest to keep from touching her.

  "I don't know," he said deliberately. "Most people think death comes with a cloud of angels and harps, heavenly choruses and songs of praise."