by Stuart, Anne
"I don't think so," she said in a meditative voice. "Do you believe in hell?"
"No," he said flatly, truthfully.
A faint smile crossed her face. "Neither do I. But I'm not too sure about heaven either. What do you think?"
"I try not to think about such things at all. Life is to be lived. The present is what matters, not some obscure afterlife."
She glanced at him over her shoulder, and her smile was rueful. "I suppose I'm a little morbid. It comes from living with death for most of my life."
"It sounds unpleasant," he murmured.
She turned and moved closer to him, and the wind caught her hair and blew it against him. It smelled of rain and wind and flowers, and he wanted to put his mouth against it. Against her.
"It hasn't been. It's actually been rather comforting." She managed a shaky laugh. "My family thinks I'm crazy. Death isn't supposed to be a friend."
"What about a lover?" He spoke the words so quietly that she could have missed them. But she didn't. She looked up into his dark, hidden face, and her eyes were clear and honest. And startled, as if she were considering the notion for the very first time.
"Laura?" Jeremy stood in the doorway, his solid bulk radiating disapproval. "We wondered where you'd gotten to."
"We were just having a philosophical discussion about the nature of life and death," she said with a faint laugh, but Alex could see the guilt stain her pale cheeks, and he wondered where the guilt came from. He wondered how he would stop himself from striking Jeremy Fitzpatrick dead the first chance he had.
"You haven't seen Cynthia, have you?" her step-brother asked in a casual voice, but his eyes swept the room, dark with suspicion.
"I think she might have gone back to the guest house."
"Great," Jeremy said. "Ricky's passed out cold, Justine's having a weeping fit, and you're up here... that is, you're here..." Words failed him.
"Yes," she said, in a deliberately tranquil voice that held just an edge of warning. "I'm up here making our guest welcome."
"Go on downstairs," he said, with an uneasy attempt at amiability. "Mrs. Hawkins has set out a buffet. You know you don't eat enough." He glanced at Alex, and his face was dark with dislike. "We'll be down in a minute."
"Jeremy." The warning in her voice was sharper now.
"Go along now."
She didn't move for a moment, her soft mouth set in stubborn lines, and Alex wondered with vague amusement what she was trying to protect him from. Whatever it was clearly caused her more pain than it could ever cause him, so he simply nodded at her. "Don't fuss, Laura. Your stepbrother just wishes to lay out the rules of the house."
"Damn straight," Jeremy said.
"Ignore him," Laura said firmly. "I always do."
The two men waited until she was gone. And then Alex turned to Jeremy, keeping the faint smile on his face.
"Could you take off those damned sunglasses?" Jeremy demanded in his well-bred whine. "I like to see who I'm talking to."
Not in this case you wouldn't, Alex thought cynically. "I told you before, my eyes are sensitive to light," he said in a deceptively civil tone.
Jeremy wasn't the type of man to make a stand. "Suit yourself," he said. "I just wanted to make a few things clear about our household."
"Certainly."
"You're to keep away from Laura."
It was just as well the mirrored sunglasses covered half his face. He kept it impassive. "And why is that?"
"We look out for her. My stepsister isn't…isn't like other women."
"And why not?"
"She's ill. Dying, as a matter of fact. Any stress could kill her."
"She told me about her heart."
Jeremy looked shocked. "You're lying. She never talks about it with strangers."
"I'm not a stranger."
"I don't care who the hell you say you are. You're to keep away from her. There are trees down all over the place, blocking the driveway, and the phones are out so there's nothing we can do about it now, but by tomorrow this freak storm should have passed, and I'm going to want you out of here."
"I'll leave as soon as the storm is over," he said in a tranquil voice, knowing he was conceding nothing. The storm would be over when he chose it to be over.
Jeremy nodded. "As long as we understand each other. You're not to touch her, you understand?"
"I understand," he said, agreeing to nothing. "I would have thought you'd be more concerned about your wife than your unmarried stepsister."
"Cynthia knows what she's getting herself into," he said with a faint sneer. "Laura doesn't. She's a complete innocent when it comes to men. Do you understand what I'm telling you? A complete innocent."
He managed a bored yawn, pleased with the effect. "If you're trying to tell me she's still a virgin at her advanced age, then let me assure you, I understand. My command of the English language is actually quite good."
"And she's going to stay that way."
"Why?" It was a simple enough question, but Jeremy looked taken aback.
"Because… because…" he blustered.
"Never mind," Alex said gently. "I've never been all that interested in innocents."
"And Laura is uninterested in men."
It was a patent lie, one that sat between them like a coiled snake. "Of course," Alex murmured politely, following his reluctant host into the darkness.
Jeremy looked disgustingly smug when he walked into the dining room, Laura thought, squashing down her unexpected anger. But the man behind him didn't look the slightest bit embarrassed or chastened.
Oh, she knew perfectly well what Jeremy had told him. That she was a poor, dying virgin. That to touch her was to kill her, and he surely didn't want that on his conscience.
She'd seen it happen time and time again, as her father and then her brothers warned men away from her, and her embarrassment had faded to mild annoyance over the years as she told herself she didn't care.
Tonight was different, and she wasn't certain why. Tonight she was shaking with anger and a strange kind of despair, and she didn't want to examine the reasons too closely for fear of what she might see.
But she'd been nothing but truthful when she told him that she hated lies. And most of all, she hated lying to herself.
She accepted her future—and lack thereof—stoically enough. Accepted her family's overprotectiveness, knowing there was no escape.
She looked at the tall, dark figure in the shadows behind Jeremy. He was watching her from behind his enveloping sunglasses, and she wondered what he saw. A pale, sad creature, doomed to a foreshortened life?
He wouldn't have needed to be warned away from her. He would have no reason to have any interest, not with Cynthia throwing her voluptuous curves at him. He'd been about to kiss her, and Laura had stood in the doorway watching, transfixed.
She hadn't wanted him to kiss Cynthia, to put his cool, wide mouth against Cynthia's. But if he did, she'd wanted to watch. To see how he kissed.
So she could imagine what it would feel like if he kissed her.
"Your face is flushed," he said, his voice husky. Jeremy turned and sent a warning glare at him, but Alex seemed unmoved by the threat.
Laura put a hand to her cheeks. "I'm hot," she admitted. "Too much rushing around."
"You know it's not good for you," Jeremy snapped in a petulant voice. "You shouldn't be waiting on our guest. I think you should come down to the guest house and stay with us. You know I've been trying to get you down there for days. I think Justine and Cynthia could do with your company."
"Stop it, Jeremy!" Laura snapped, fury overcoming her embarrassment. "You don't have to be so transparent. Alex is not going to come creeping into my room in the middle of the night, so you can stop doing the protective-big-brother thing, all right?"
Jeremy looked back at Alex's expressionless face, then at Laura's angry one. He managed a rueful laugh, one that didn't quite work. "I suppose I'm being ridiculous, aren't I?"
&nbs
p; "Yes," Laura said firmly.
"Forgive an older brother. I worry about you. I should know by now you can take care of yourself."
"Yes, you should," Laura said firmly.
Alex didn't say a word.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jeremy sat alone in the library, staring into the fire as he nursed his whiskey. He was going to have to kill them all.
It had seemed so simple, so logical, when he first decided on it. William would be proud of him—the weakling son who had no blood claim to any of the Fitzpatrick boldness. He couldn't get the job done, the old man had told him years ago with blistering condescension. He was too weak, too civilized, not like the Fitzpatricks, who'd made their fortune and their power climbing over the dead bodies of the people they'd stabbed in the back.
Ah, but the old man had always underestimated him. He could backstab as well—better than—the next man. He was simply more subtle about it. Not for him the slice and dice.
He worked delicately. With a twist, and just the right amount of pressure, he could eviscerate an enemy and smile while he did it.
He'd been laying his plans carefully, knowing he had only borrowed time. They had to be dead before the old man finally breathed his last or it might all be for nothing. William was too strong, too mean, to die without a hell of a fight, but even he couldn't last forever. And during the past few days, Jeremy had made his plans.
It was to be simple. A carbon monoxide leak from a faulty heater would wipe out his wife, his neurotic stepsister and his drunken brother-in-law. He wouldn't be there—he would be staying up at the big house, at a bedside vigil. In his grief he would be dignified, restrained. Oh, he might allow himself to break down at an opportune moment, just to play it through to the end. After all, Laura was no fool.
But she was gullible, innocent, and had no idea what he was capable of. She'd been spared, in many ways, by her previous brushes with death. There was no need for Jeremy to shorten her life with the others. She wouldn't outlive the old man by long, and she would have no other heirs. All that money would end up where it belonged, with the strongest of them all. The man who could do what needed to be done.
Jeremy Fitzpatrick.
The storm was a mixed blessing. It cut off access to the rest of the world, and it would enable Jeremy to take his time, alter his plans, if need be. He didn't like the newcomer. Not the mirrored sunglasses or the faintly derisive smile on his mouth. Nor the interest he showed in Laura.
But in the end, it would make no difference. Even if the storm had brought them Alex, it kept others away. They were trapped at the mountaintop compound with far fewer than their usual complement of servants and outsiders. Only Mrs. Hawkins and the nurse were there now, and both of them were too centered on the old man to notice anything unusual.
William's unexpected rally gave him more time, but Jeremy didn't want it. He'd looked down into his stepfather's face and smiled a tender, filial smile, but he'd wanted to wrap his fingers around the old man's wattled neck and choke the life out of him.
No, time for the Fitzpatrick family had run out. Ricky and Justine were asleep already—Ricky was drunk, Justine equally comatose from tranquilizers. Cynthia was asleep, as well, her beautiful face flushed and sated. He'd given her what she wanted, since the stranger had refused to succumb, and she'd taken it, clawing at his back, spitting at him when she peaked, her contempt and hatred complete despite her need. She thought he was weak, as well.
It was too bad she would never discover how strong he really was.
The carbon monoxide was already filling the cozy, airtight guest house. He was very proud of how he'd managed to jury-rig the heating system, but then, no one had ever quibbled about his brain. Just his determination.
Laura had gone to bed, though he knew perfectly well she hadn't wanted to go. She was infatuated with the stranger, and Jeremy had briefly considered encouraging her. It would have added to the scandal in a most delicious way. Half of the Fitzpatrick dynasty dies in a freak accident while the younger daughter spends a night of passion with a stranger. The noble stepson keeps a bedside vigil, unaware of the tragedy surrounding him.
He chuckled softly at the notion, wishing he could risk it. But he didn't dare. The doctors had always warned them that any undue strain on Laura's heart would carry her off, and that included horseback riding, square dancing and making love. Jeremy couldn't afford to have Laura die the same night as the others—it would be too coincidental. Of course, it might have the added benefit of pointing suspicion at the stranger, but Jeremy didn't want to take that risk. He'd covered his tracks extremely well, but if someone were really determined to look into things, there was no telling what might be uncovered, the bodies of the three servants who'd disappeared over the years, buried in shallow graves on the mountain-side, or the women in Colorado Springs.
No, he would leave things as he'd originally planned. William's eleventh-hour rally wouldn't make the slightest bit of difference, either. The old man wasn't alert enough to cause problems; he would only feel the pain of loss. The notion was extremely pleasant.
Jeremy poured himself another drink, exactly two ounces of single malt whiskey. He knew to a quarter of an ounce the amount of alcohol he allowed himself. He watched his fat and salt intake, he never smoked, and he allowed himself to kill only when he'd planned every detail. Mistakes were made in the heat of passion, and he never allowed himself passion.
He walked back into his stepfather's bedroom. The nurse was dozing in the corner, refusing to leave her post, despite William's improved condition. All well and good, he thought to himself. She would provide the perfect alibi. In the servants' quarters behind the kitchen, Mrs. Hawkins, who'd always tried to mother him, slept on. And somewhere overhead, Laura probably dreamed ignorant, erotic dreams about the stranger.
Alex Montmort was the only question mark, a risk that Jeremy found exciting. He didn't want to be excited. He wanted to sit coolly and calmly at the old man's bedside while family died, and he wanted to keep his pleasure in the act under the tightest of reins.
Maybe the stranger would change his mind and go in search of Cynthia. Maybe he would climb into bed with her—Cynthia was always ready for more. And then he would be found dead in the guest house, as well.
Carbon monoxide. An odorless, colorless gas. Lethal, undetectable. So very, very sad, Jeremy thought, composing his face into stolid lines of grief. And then he chuckled again.
Alex stretched his legs out in front of him, watching the storm from the balcony chair. It was growing colder, he suspected, though he was impervious to it. The faint drizzle had turned to icy pellets dashing themselves against his flesh, and he felt the sting with a certain wry delight. Life was a painful process, apparently. He was unused to the elements interfering with him—they were usually his to command.
As were people. Laura Fitzpatrick's reaction to his high-handed ways amused him, as well. She seemed patently unwilling to do what he wanted, a fact which astonished him. He had no doubt that even with his diminished powers he could make the others obey him without question.
Perhaps Laura would be equally docile if he exerted himself. But he didn't want her docile.
A gust of wind came up, and a streak of lightning split the sky. He watched it moodily. He felt restless, as if he should be doing something.
Of course he should be doing something. He should be following his ordained path, taking those souls who were ready to go. Instead, he was ignoring their cries, determined for once to listen only to his own selfish wants.
The calls were getting louder, nearer, and he wondered whose they could be. The old man, of course, but his voice, persistent, weak, was unchanged. Was it Laura's?
If Laura called to him, he would go to her. He would end this sojourn, take her with him and never let her go.
Ah, but he didn't have that choice. Even for a creature as powerful as he, there were limitations. He could take her, of course, and he would. But then he would lose her, as she went
on to the next step.
No, it wasn't her voice. And there were no other voices he chose to listen to right now, only Laura's and his own. No other souls to deal with but theirs.
Except that he doubted he had a soul in the first place. That part had always been unclear to him, and by now he wasn't sure he wanted an answer.
He rose, wandering to the edge of the railing, and looked out over the thickly wooded hillside. He glanced over to the left, to the smaller, log-crafted guest house, and his eyes narrowed. The voices were coming from that direction. How interesting, he thought, wrinkling his forehead. Unexpected.
His shirt was stiff with ice. He moved back to the French doors that led to his room. There was a fire in the fireplace, a fact that amused him, and the down comforter lay on the high bed. He almost pulled it away, then thought better of it. He wouldn't need it.
But Laura might. When the time came for her to share the bed.
He stripped off his sodden clothes and tossed them over a chair, then glanced down at himself. It was the body he was used to. Strong, spare, without discernible weakness. It was a body men and women found attractive, and that was partly how he managed to persuade them to come with him. Those who needed persuading.
He wasn't sure about Laura. Whether she would need persuasion or force. Seduction, or simply the crook of his finger.
He knew only that he wanted her, needed her so badly that his self-control was close to shattering. Those voices crying to him wouldn't have long to wait.
Laura lay in bed, listening. She'd heard him on the balcony, and it had taken all her strength of will not to throw back the heavy covers and go to him. He was courting death out there in the freezing rain, and she wanted to bring him inside, to warm him, to find out what lay behind those mirrored sun-glasses.
She didn't, of course. She knew all too well what Jeremy had said to him in his soft, mellifluous voice. If Alex had had any interest in her, it would have vanished instantly when Jeremy told him how sick she was.
But then, she'd already told him herself, and it hadn't seemed to shock him. Her father had always warned her of unscrupulous men who would come after her, try to seduce her, marry her, knowing that she would die and they would inherit her share of the Fitzpatrick fortune. Perhaps Alex was one of those. After all, what did she know about him? A ski bum, appearing suddenly on the tightly patrolled slopes of Taylor Butte just as the world and the weather went haywire.
