by Adrianne Lee
“Maybe.” Nikki had heard of sibling relationships where a sister so adored her brother, she couldn’t bear any woman in his life but herself. Was that why Chris’s mother had disliked Theresa? It was one possibility, but was it the only one? “Or maybe there’s some reason your mother felt the same way about Theresa as Jorge does.”
“I wonder if he’ll tell us. There’s his place ahead.” Chris pointed to the right again. This time she saw it: a stucco cottage nestled beneath a stand of maple trees.
A row of rosebushes stood like a natural fence separating them from the front yard. The cloying scent of the blossoms reminded Nikki of her mother’s funeral. Her chest squeezed with sadness. She tried shoving the memory back, but it refused to retreat, as though it were a warning of dangers ahead, as though the American Beauties were a boundary between lucidity and insanity, as if stepping beyond this barrier would be to lose her mind.
Chris seemed to have no such qualms. He charged on. She swallowed her misgivings and trudged after him. Jorge Rameriz might have information that could lead to her finding her father. To finding her family. She had to talk to him.
But would he be rational?
Chris knocked on the door. “Rameriz, you in there?”
Nikki stepped up beside Chris. Her pulse beat too fast, and her palms were damp, but she wasn’t sure whether she looked forward to or dreaded this confrontation. She was more glad than she would admit that Chris was with her.
The door swung open. Nikki’s heart leaped. The old man she’d seen in the master bedroom suite that morning stood framed in the archway, a dim light at his back. He smelled of sweat and fresh earth and fried bacon. But other than his frightful face, he might be some kindly neighborhood grandfather.
He gazed at Chris, giving her only a cursory glance. “Senor Conrad, come in, come in. I am eating my lunch. You and the miss are hungry?”
“No, Jorge.” Chris cleared his throat. “We’re here about another matter.”
Jorge frowned. “¿Sí?”
Chris leaned toward the old man. “Ms. Navarro says you threatened her this morning.”
Jorge blinked as though Chris had struck him. “What?” He turned his full gaze on Nikki now, narrowing his dark eyes. “Why you say such things? I never seen you before.”
Nikki couldn’t believe this. He seemed genuinely not to recognize her.
Chris wasn’t about to give up. “Could we see your chisel?”
“My chisel? Sí, I have it.” He pulled a chisel from his back pocket. The tip was as pointed as it had been when he’d wielded it at her that morning.
“Is this the only chisel you have?”
“Sí. I have it many years. I keep it sharp myself.”
“Where were you forty minutes ago?”
Jorge shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Weeding along the back fence.” He pointed to the dirt stains on his knees. “I will finish this afternoon.”
Nikki sighed. They were getting nowhere. This man wasn’t going to admit to anything. Hoping to shock him into a confession, she whipped off her cap and shook her hair, letting it fall about her face.
The groundskeeper reared back as he might if a spider had suddenly appeared next to him.
“Dios. She look like...Theresa” He lifted a gnarled brown finger and pointed at her. “Is she the baby?”
Chapter Six
Is she the baby? Nikki’s heart stopped then started with a thump so loud she could hear it. Her breath lodged in her lungs and her head reeled. Was it possible? Had she been here as a baby? Did this deranged old man actually know the answers to all of her questions? Sweet, awful hope reared inside her.
“What baby?” Chris asked, his face scrnnched in disbelief.
He’d obviously never heard about a baby in connection with Theresa. That didn’t mean anything. His mother might not have told Chris and Olivia about a baby, Nikki supposed, but misgivings snatched at her budding hope.
Jorge’s eyes seemed to glaze, and he stumbled back a step into his cottage. He shook his head. “I know of no baby.”
Nikki stiffened in shock. “But you just—”
“Why you say these things, señorita?” He eyed her suspiciously. “You loco?”
He implored of Chris. “She loco?”
“Listen, Rameriz!” Chris stepped closer. “Tell us about this so-called baby.”
“I can’t...I don’t...” His eyes swam with denial. He lifted his shaking, weathered finger at Nikki again. “Sepa. Sepa”
She knows. She knows.
Chris jerked toward Nikki, confusion stark in his narrowing eyes. “What do you know?”
“Nothing.” Nikki shook her head, feeling as befuddled as he looked. The cold spot inside her throbbed like the wound from the rose thorn. She didn’t know anything, but it seemed there was something to know. Her impatience to get to her computer and check her e-mail galloped out of control.
Jorge slammed the door.
Chris jolted, then glared at the glossy red portal for two whole seconds, obviously stunned. He lifted his hand to bang on it—perhaps bang it down from the fury on his face.
“No.” Nikki caught his arm. “Please.”
She couldn’t get the strange look in Jorge’s eyes out of her head. Had he endured tiny strokes? Was he in the early stages of Alzheimer’s? Suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder? Her stomach knotted. Would the truth about Theresa Aznar De Vega be forever locked in his elusive memory? “This was a waste of time.”
“Not really.” Chris rubbed his hands up his forehead and through his hair. “I’d no idea Rameriz could be so irrational.”
Chris glanced at the door again, worry spreading through him like a spilled drink. He’d never known Rameriz to be violent. Or to act in such an erratic manner as he’d just witnessed. He could understand the old man thinking Theresa had returned from the dead when he saw Nikki—the resemblance was eerie—but attacking her? Putting her life in jeopardy? He couldn’t afford to dismiss this as nothing.
Couldn’t risk it.
“Come on.” Wanting Nikki safe from potential harm, he caught her by the elbow and guided her away from the cottage, past the rosebush fence and into the denser gardens. “I want to get back to the mansion and call the police.”
“About Jorge?” Nikki wrenched free of his grip, gawking up at him with a look of shock—as though calling the police weren’t the most natural next course of action.
Chris scowled. “Certainly about Jorge.”
“But why?”
“Why?” Chris couldn’t believe this. “Because he attacked you. Twice.”
“But it’s my word against his.” She lowered her head, her shiny golden hair falling forward, distracting Chris. Despite his worry about Jorge, he recalled the feel of those silken strands in his fingertips, recalled holding her trembling body, recalled the passion and warmth of her mouth. No! He mustn’t remember, mustn’t act on the yearning she roused in him. She didn’t know it, but she should be more afraid of him than Rameriz.
She raised her head. Her teeth snagged the corner of her lower lip, drawing his attention to her mouth—her sweet, eager mouth.
His heart skipped a beat. He swore silently and stepped away from her, fighting the desire to pull her against him, to taste her lips again. “That Wolf woman, the mystery writer, was there when he accosted you in the master suite. She’ll corroborate your story.”
“Yes, but I was alone outside.” Her voice rose a notch. Her aquamarine eyes were earnest and dark, her voice breathy. “Just because he wielded a chisel at me earlier doesn’t prove he dropped one from that window. The police will want proof. We have none. Not even the chisel Plus, I didn’t actually see him drop it.”
Why was she protesting so much? Chris shifted his body back, warding off the ache to drag her into his arms. Just the thought threatened to be his undoing. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “What did you see?”
She blew out a noisy breath and hugged herself, as he
yearned to hug her, the incident apparently still able to rattle her. “Just the chisel falling toward me...and afterward, an open window.”
Itching to move, to put some distance between them, he started forward again, finding the path to the front drive. She fell into step beside him, bumped against him as they walked—the way strolling lovers might The accidental contact teemed with awareness. And promise. Chris slammed the thought away. He would never be Mikki’s lover. If anything, these wayward longings were proof that he was losing control of his emotions.
With difficulty, he forced his mind to Rameriz. “There might be fingerprints on the window latch. The police could check that out.”
“Maybe.” She sounded uncertain.
Chris glanced down at her, tried reading her expression, but trees and shrubs cast shadows across her eyes, and he could only guess at her thoughts. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was trying to protect the old guy. But that made no sense. So, what the hell was behind her hesitation?
Before he could ask, she said, “Are you sure you want the police here right before your grand opening? I mean, what would the other guests think?”
He hadn’t considered that. He shook his head. “Not to mention the gossip it would stir in town. Liv would be horrified.”
“Exactly.” Oddly, Nikki seemed relieved.
She leaned closer to him, snagging him with her perfume, a fish on the hook—and, Lord, a part of him wanted her to reel him in. He cleared his tightening throat, “But I can’t have Rameriz on the loose if he’s a threat to others.”
“I don’t think he’s a threat to anyone but me.”
“Because you look like Theresa,” he grumbled. Her strange behavior had him wondering if her resemblance to the murdered bride was all there was to it. Was Nikki hiding something from him? Had she chosen Wedding House randomly as a candidate for her new book? Or did she have some secret reason to be here? Something to do with the baby Jorge mentioned? “It takes us back to the question of why Rameriz thinks Theresa belongs in hell.”
As though she’d heard his thoughts, she said, “What if there was a baby here at the time of the tragedy? It’s something we could check out.” She gave him a hopeful glance. “Maybe your mother has some information about this?”
The mansion loomed ahead. Chris longed to run to it. “Can’t ask her. She’s on a cruise in the Bahamas.”
Nikki waved the hand holding the cap. “Well, there have to be other ways to check it out. Town or county records. Newspaper reports. If a baby was born here, then—”
“Born here?” Chris rammed to a stop.
“It’s just a thought.” She shrugged.
Nikki gnawed her lower lip again, diverting his attention to her enticing mouth. With every ounce of will he possessed, he lifted his gaze to hers. “I’m afraid Rameriz’s question about the baby was nothing more than the rambling of an old man whose mental faculties are failing.”
“He doesn’t seem that old to me. Maybe Jorge’s distress stems from his not being able to save Theresa from Luis’s rampage. I’ve studied a little about PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, and I know that sufferers often endure episodes of reenacting the original incident. Usually the occasions are incited by some new trigger or other. The person’s subconscious wants to change the outcome of the initial event. Perhaps my resemblance to Theresa is causing Jorge to experience such episodes.”
Chris considered, but quickly shook his head. “Given that theory, wouldn’t he do all he could not to harm you?”
She frowned thoughtfully. “He didn’t actually attack me in the master suite, just threatened me. What if his guilt at being unable to save Theresa made him hate her over the years? Maybe he wants her where she can’t make him feel guilty.”
“But why would he think she was in hell?”
“Because he hates her now?”
“I don’t know. Sounds weird to me.” He struck out ahead of her.
She caught his arm, tugged him around. “Do you have a better guess?”
The heat in her eyes sent a tickle of desire feathering along his nerves. “As a matter of fact I do. You didn’t see Rameriz at the window.”
“I didn’t see anyone,” she snapped. “So?”
“You definitely startled Jorge, but that didn’t drive him to violence a moment ago. If anything, it drove him into hiding. Seems like he’d duck if he saw you instead of striking out, or dropping a chisel from the third floor.”
Like bleach poured over a rainbow, the color drained from her face. “Are you suggesting someone else dropped the chisel?”
“Yes, but not with the intention of actually harming you.” He stared at her hand on his arm and his throat grew tight. “But I wouldn’t put it past Dorothea Miller.”
“What?” Nikki gave a sharp laugh.
Her sweet breath fanned across his face, inviting him. God, how he wanted to accept that invitation, to kiss that lush mouth until it was as swollen as a ripe plum. No. He peeled her fingers from his arm. He couldn’t allow this...this...whatever this was between them to capsize his shaky equilibrium.
Nikki stepped away from him. “Dorothea didn’t know about my encounter with Jorge and his chisel in the master suite.”
Chris blew out a taut breath. “She could have heard about both from Marti Wolf. And then when she saw you coming up from the beach, she took advantage of the situation and dropped the chisel.”
“Where would she have gotten a chisel?”
“From my toolbox. I had it with me when I went to get the bird out of the ballroom.”
“My God, she could have. And she’d have had time to retrieve it while you and I were in my room.” Nikki made a face. “But why would she do that?”
“Publicity.”
The color rushed back into Nikki’s cheeks as pink as the rhododendron blooms behind her. “Publicity?”
“Yes. The police hauling Rameriz off for a mental examination, perhaps keeping him, the rumors of a second man going insane at Wedding House.” Maybe a third man, he thought, feeling his private demons closing in. “The grand opening. Stories in the newspapers. Maybe TV.”
“Adopting the premise that all publicity is good?”
“Especially—in the case of Wedding House—if it’s bad.”
She stiffened as though she’d been struck in the spine with a poker. Fire Bared in her eyes. “We need to talk to that woman.”
Nikki pivoted and stalked away from him.
“She’ll deny it,” Chris warned, catching her arm. He brought her around with such force, she lost her footing and fell against him. Her full breasts pressed against his chest and he lost control of his resolve, felt his resistance slipping, was only aware of her and the need that coursed through his blood like a jet stream, heated and vaporous and omnipotent.
A tiny part of him cried out that this was dangerous, that she was dangerous, and yet he could not stop. He had to possess Nikki., if only for a moment, if only here and now.
His mouth came down on hers like a spark to a pile of dried wood, and flames flared to life within him tiny tongues of burning warmth that licked through his veins, his nerves, his pores, until hunger ignited his loins. Food couldn’t sate this craving, only she could. He clasped her backside, clamping her body along the length of his, searing her with his mouth, his touch, his throbbing need for her.
Nikki could no more stop this sensuous onslaught than she could stop the drive to look for her father. She lifted her arms around Chris’s neck, returning his kiss, opening her lips, welcoming his probing tongue, urging him on to this breathless pleasure consuming her.
The cold spot in her heart filled with firewater, the chill fled, and delicious warmth spread through her, provoking a feeling of being loved that she’d dreamed of since childhood. How was it possible for this man, this stranger, to give her a sense of family, of belonging, a glimpse into what it would feel like to be whole?
Would loving Chris make her whole? Or would she end up in love,
lost and brokenhearted... again? The possibility drained the heat from her, all passion fizzling like so much flat soda pop. She struggled against Chris’s chest, breaking off the kiss.
He released her and stepped back, his breath hard and fast. The anger was back in the far reaches of his dark eyes. Nikki’s mouth dried. She’d seen a man go ballistic when denied sex, had dealt with his angry frustration, felt lucky to have escaped his wrath. But Chris looked...relieved? As though he’d just missed being killed. As though kissing her was repulsive.
She blinked, hurt, her temper rising. She hadn’t initiated this kiss. Or the other one.
“I—” she started, but couldn’t find the words. “This—”
“Don’t.” He stepped back. His chest heaved, his breath shallow now. He jammed his hand through his black hair. For a long moment they stared at each other, neither speaking, the silence as loud as a scream.
Chris glanced away first, then his gaze settled on her anew. But she could see he’d regained control of himself. “I won’t call the police on Rameriz, but I will keep an eye on him for now.”
Nikki nodded. Part of her prayed Jorge wouldn’t prove the only source she’d have regarding Theresa Aznar De Vega, but if he was, she wanted him accessible.
They started along the path again. She struggled to catch her breath, to ignore the tingling need and the aching hurt wrangling inside her. For the rest of her visit she would avoid this man at all costs. Just do her digging, find what she needed to know about her family, and go on to the next bed and breakfast
Chris Conrad could give his insulting kisses to someone else.
As they stepped onto the redbrick drive, she said, “You’re right about Dorothea denying she attacked me. But if she did toss that chisel out the window, I’ll find a way to worm it out of her.”
“If I can help you, I will.” He looked as though helping her were the last thing he wanted to do, as though he were as determined to avoid her as she was to avoid him. The knowledge should have cheered her. To her horror, it made her heart ache, made her feel more unloved and unlovable than ever.
Chris started up the porch steps. “Just how do you expect to get close enough to Dorothea to make her confess?”
