by Adrianne Lee
With her back to him, she grabbed her clothes and dressed in haste. She could hear him donning his own clothing, but neither spoke. They might be strangers who’d never met, never shared anything more intimate than the space of this room.
With her heart splitting in two, she bolted out of the cabana. The rain had stopped, but the roiling black clouds on the horizon indicated it was just a lull between storms. Humiliation shivered inside Nikki, the chilliest spot in the very center of her chest, her lifelong torment, no longer hiding, no longer pretending to be gone. She wanted to run, and keep on running until she collapsed. But the tide was in, the beach nonexistent.
She charged into the gardens, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, her feet flying across the wet ground. Moist bushes and shrubs slapped her face, her hands, her clothing as though the plants were flogging her, punishing her for forgetting her promise to herself about Chris, for ignoring her resolve to keep her mind on finding her father, her family.
At length her limbs cried out in pain, and she pulled up short, a stabbing ache in her side, her breath thready. She bent over, holding her waist, panting, and sobbed until the tears were spent. Only then did she glance around. She’d run this way and that and now couldn’t see the house through the overhang of trees and dense underbrush. She might be in a forest with predators behind every plant.
Trepidation threatened to swallow her. She spun right, then left. She could see no one. But the hair on her nape prickled and the sense of being watched hit her hard. Her gaze raked the shadows. A twig snapped. She whipped to her left. Jorge. She sucked in a sharp breath that lodged in her throat.
Terror swam in the groundskeeper’s eyes. “I told you to leave me alone.”
Nikki retreated a step. “I—”
She broke off as she realized with a jolt that Jorge’s terrified gaze was locked, not on her, but on something past her left shoulder. She lurched around. Ten feet through the bushes, she spotted a wispy white shadow, shaped much like a woman. She yelped and reared back. The vision disappeared.
So had Jorge.
Nikki hightailed it to the spot where the vision had appeared. Nothing. No one. Only after she’d trampled the area looking for something tangible did she think to check the grass for footprints. If there had been any, she’d obliterated them. Damn. Raindrops splatted against the maple leaves and Nikki knew it was a matter of seconds before she’d be drenched again.
She hurried back to the mansion, moving up the stairs quickly. Chris was coming down. He hesitated as though he’d like to speak with her. She ignored him.
Chris stared after Nikki as she skirted past him, and watched her go up the steps. He knew she hated him now, but it was for the best. She didn’t understand his need to control his emotions. Didn’t realize his sanity and her safety relied on his doing exactly that.
But knowing he was doing the right thing didn’t ease the self-reproach he felt for hurting her, or the ache he felt at the thought of not being able to be near her, to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her and make love to her for the rest of their lives.
NIKKI DECIDED she wouldn’t even think about Chris, or their lovemaking. She thought of little else. She showered and changed into dry clothes, but still felt chilled. She climbed into bed and took a long nap, dreaming of Chris and all the joy he’d given her, and all the pain. The new series of storms woke her hours later. Night came early, thanks to the heavy cloud cover.
Her concern about a power outage revived, and she took the laptop to the TV room and e-mailed Zeus. On her way back upstairs, she realized no one else was on the third floor. She could get the diary. She slipped into the library and dug her hand down the side of the chair. Her pulse skipped. No. No. No. The diary was gone.
Hoping someone had moved it, she spent several minutes looking for it, under the chair, in the opposite chair, on the bookshelves. It was nowhere. She balled her hands into fists. Someone had taken it. Most likely Diego. Well, he wasn’t going to get away with it. Later she would search his room.
She stalked to the hallway.
The same shadowy shape she’d encountered earlier in the garden appeared near the master suite. Nikki froze, gaping. The vision grew stronger and stronger until she recognized the familiar face—Theresa’s face. Her face. It was a trick. But how? And who? Before she could figure it out, the “ghost” vanished.
Chris gained the landing. Nikki jerked back, startled, her dander rising. She wanted to see him even less than the “ghost.” Her mind barreled. The moment he’d appeared, Theresa’s image had disappeared. Was he in on this hocus-pocus?
He hesitated, studying her. “What’s happened?”
She glared at him, suspicion fueling her ire. “I suppose you expect me to believe you didn’t see it?”
“Didn’t see what?”
She recounted her encounter with the “ghost” in the woods. And the one just now. “How’d you pull it off, Chris? Cameras? Mirrors?”
He stepped dangerously close to her. His breath hot on her face, his voice a growl. “I don’t care what you believe. I’m not behind any ‘ghostly’ sightings. But don’t be surprised if there’s more such nonsense at the séance.”
Chapter Ten
Thunder grumbled across the rooftop like a vexed creature on the attack. Wind followed in its wake, a vicious, howling consort. Nikki shivered as she stepped into the hall to join the others in the master suite. Chris came out of his room at the same time. Not wanting to walk with him, she started ahead, but he caught up to her and leaned down toward her, coconspirator again, nothing personal, as though everything between them hadn’t shifted off-kilter, as though they’d never made love, as though the memory of his touch wasn’t burned into her brain, seared on her senses.
Anger licked through her blood.
“If we sit across from each another,” he whispered, “we should be able to detect any tricks Lorah has up her sleeve.”
“The farther I sit from you, the better.” Nikki hated the constriction in her throat, hated the thoughts of Chris’s lovemaking that filled her mind and elicited unwanted shivers of pleasure through her. Damn it, she would not recall. Would not long for a repeat match. She stomped the memories. The only time she wanted to remember this afternoon was if she ever forgot how he’d hurt her. If she ever even considered allowing him to touch her again.
Stepping away from him, she glanced at the others coming up the stairs. Olivia, a specter in black, seemed thinner than usual, a paradox considering the huge meals she ate. Lorah looked as regal as royalty in her loden caftan with its wide bejeweled sleeves, her charm bracelet punctuating her every step. Diego, attired in designer slacks and sweater, appeared unusually edgy, his black eyes watchful, and Marti, a vision in purple cashmere and wool, had slicked her vanilla-blond hair back and tucked a pen behind one ear. Her mauve journal poked from the waist of her grape slacks.
The lights in the hall flickered. Marti sighed, “Holy Joe, we’re going to lose the power. How perfect.”
Perfect, indeed, Nikki thought, a perfect night for trickery, and perhaps for unveiling the person behind the attack on her. Cold jabbed her belly, a sudden sharp sensation that something bad was going to happen.
“Where’s Dorothea?” she murmured to Chris. “This séance was her idea.”
He glanced down at Nikki, something odd deep in his eyes. She braced her foolish heart. Whatever vulnerability she saw in Chris Conrad was a sham, as phony as the séance they were about to attend.
He said, “Lorah’s probably enlisted her help for all the ‘behind-the-scenes’ antics she’s set up for our entertainment.”
“We’d be able to see her. Olivia has about a hundred candles—” Nikki broke off as she entered Theresa and Luis’s former bedroom.
The cord across the entrance had been removed. An oval, dining-size table stood near the fireplace, surrounded by seven ladder-back chairs. Instead of the white cloth Chris’s sister had brought up earlier, it looked as though a gypsy’s shaw
l, red velvet with golden tassels, draped the table. Gone, too, were the myriad white candles. In their place a single brass candelabra with three tapers served as a centerpiece.
The air held a chill and the scent of rain, as though the patio door had only just been shut. Nikki glanced toward it, recalling her first encounter with Jorge Rameriz. Had he sneaked in here and disappeared outside? On this awful night? Why would he do that? No, she was letting her imagination get the best of her. She hugged herself and gazed at the portrait, then back at the patio doors. That old man was unpredictable. Likely unhinged. God knew where he’d pop up next Or why.
The lights flickered again.
Hem sweeping the floor, Lorah moved ahead of the others, a lighter in hand, and touched the flame to the three candles. “Mr. Conrad, could you please turn off the hall lights.”
Thunder shrieked overhead as raucous as the cries of a thousand disturbed souls. Or one restless apparition? Nikki swallowed hard and pulled her gaze from the portrait. She would not get sucked into the craziness going on here tonight.
Lorah’s, eerie eyes seemed more translucent than ever in the candle’s glow. She gave a sharp clap of her hands, underscored by the tinkling of her charm bracelet. “Everyone, please, take a seat.”
Chris chose the chair across from Nikki. But Lorah waved a hand at him, the bracelet jingling. “No, no. I want the skeptics together. Mr. Sands beside me please, Ms. Navarro. then Mr. Conrad, Ms. Wolf and Ms. Conrad.”
“You like to orchestrate everything, don’t you?” Chris stated, circling the table to Nikki’s side.
Nikki’s muscles tensed as he sat, and in the cloud of perfumes now girding the table, she detected his distinctive aftershave. She shifted toward Diego, holding her body away from Chris. This séance was getting more irritating by the moment.
Lorah took a gulp from the glass of water someone had placed beside her seat, then set it down and gazed at Chris. Her pale eyes glowed as if from some ghostly inner light. “You shall soon see that I have little to do with what occurs here. The spirits are in control, not I. I merely provide the medium so that we may understand their reasons for remaining between this world and the next.”
“And how do we come to understand that?” Diego asked, suspicion curling the edges of his tone. “Do they speak through you?”
Marti lifted her pen from her journal, pausing in the notes she’d been taking.
Lorah tossed her head. “Through me, or through...one of you.”
Olivia sat across from Nikki, twisting her hands. Her cheekbones seemed more pronounced than ever, the hollows deeper. Had she lost weight? Or was the candlelight creating shadows where there were none? Did she fear she’d be the one the ghost of Theresa chose to speak through? Poor woman. She was scaring herself for nothing.
“Sorry I’m late.” Dorothea, dressed uncommonly in an ebony jumpsuit, her fiery red hair covered with a black silk turban, bustled in. The outfit suggested she was up to some deviltry. As she claimed the empty chair between Olivia and Lorah, enthusiasm gushed from her like rainwater through the downspouts. “This is so exciting.”
Diego eyed the three eager women with hooded disdain. Chris seemed eager only to get the whole thing over. Nikki sensed his tension matched her own.
Lorah said, “I’ll have to ask you to stop writing now, Ms. Wolf.”
She waited until Marti closed the journal and laid the pen aside. Then she clapped her hands again. “Quiet. We must have absolute silence.”
Even the storm obeyed this command, mysteriously ceasing its boisterous assault on the house. Lorah nodded in approval. “Join hands.” There was a rustling movement as the attendees obliged. All except Nikki and Chris. Lorah lifted her perfectly shaped brows and gazed pointedly at them. “Everyone. Now, please.”
Reluctantly Nikki offered her hand to Chris. Impossibly, he seemed more hesitant than she to take it, but when he did, there was something so warm and reassuring in his grip she almost forgot she hated him. Almost.
Lorah’s glance encompassed her audience. “Under no circumstances must you break the connection.”
“Not even to scratch an itch?” Marti asked on a chuckle.
Diego snickered softly. Nikki didn’t find anything funny in this whole procedure. In spite of herself, she glanced sideways at Chris. He was gazing into the dark room beyond the table. Nikki couldn’t make out anything that would hold his attention. Just a lot of indefinable shapes. Even the portrait appeared hazy.
“Silence!” Lorah insisted.
Quiet fell over the group. Despite her conviction that this séance was a sham, Nikki watched the medium with interest. Lorah closed her eyes, and she began to move her head from side to side. The swaying was hypnotic in a peaceful way, and Nikki began to relax.
The table jostled.
Nikki’s heart leaped. Reflexively she squeezed both Diego’s and Chris’s hands. Both men squeezed her back as though reminding her that this was all theatrics, and she should hang on, the first act was only starting. She nodded to herself. Every nerve in her body tingled with anticipation.
A bump sounded across the room. Nikki gazed toward the bathroom, but spotted nothing in the pitch-darkness.
Lorah moaned softly, the noise echoed by the wind against the patio doors.
The candles flickered. A puff of cold sailed over Nikki, a draft of air as though through an open door. A low moan echoed from somewhere in the room. Nikki jerked around, trying to locate the source.
Lorah said, “Who is here?”
Another moan sounded in the darkness.
“Theresa De Vega, is that you?” Lorah asked. She still had her eyes closed, still swayed, the movements more intense than ever, her small shoulders tossing left, then right.
The low moaning grew louder, closer to the other side of the table. Nikki glanced at Marti, who seemed to be mentally recording the whole proceeding. Olivia seemed at once anxious and fascinated. Dorothea’s eyes were closed, and she was rocking from side to side in a mimic of Lorah.
The psychic said, “If it’s you Theresa, give us a sign.”
Someone or something thumped the table near Dorothea.
The sudden noises kept jarring Nikki. Calm down, she counseled herself silently.
“Theresa,” Lorah chanted. “Can you speak to us?”
The disembodied moaning sounded again, but this time it came from Dorothea.
“Speak to us, Theresa,” Lorah urged in her singsong tone.
The candelabra scooted across the table as if on wheels, spattering warm wax droplets in its wake. Nikki lurched back against the chair, cracking her spine.
Dorothea moaned harder and pitched from side to side. She bumped against Olivia. Olivia’s lips were pressed together, but her eyes were as round as quarters. She looked ready to faint.
Lorah twitched. “Theresa, are you here?”
“Yes,” Dorothea groaned in a voice so deep and throaty and unlike her own, Nikki couldn’t figure out the trick.
“What do you want to tell us?” Lorah asked.
“Luis killed me.”
“Yes, we know.”
From somewhere behind Dorothea came a metallic clinking like lengths of chain striking together.
Dorothea moaned again.
Thunder cracked.
“Danger,” Dorothea muttered in her stranger’s voice. “Danger for the bride.”
“Danger?” Lorah questioned.
“Death.” The word was drawn out.
Despite her resolve to remain detached, Nikki felt a chill on her neck as though someone had placed a spectral hand on her. She gulped loudly. Jerked. Chris’s grip tightened.
“Death?” Lorah pressed.
“Too much anger. Bad blood,” the ghostly Dorothea murmured. “Blood to blood.”
Nikki felt Chris stiffened.
“First me,” Dorothea intoned. “Soon Nicole.”
Nikki gasped.
The candles blew out, snuffed as if pinched by invisible fingers, all t
hree at once, pitching the room into complete darkness. Smoke burned Nikki’s nostrils.
“Stop this right now!” Chris yanked free of Nikki’s death grip. He shoved out of his chair, stumbled across the room and groped for the wall switch. But when he found it, nothing happened. Furious, he hollered at Lorah, “Get that lighter of yours out and relight those candles. Now.”
“Is the power off?” Olivia asked, her tone tremulous.
“Yes.” Chris sounded livid.
Lorah flicked her lighter on. Dorothea wriggled in her seat like someone rousing from a nap. Chris grabbed the lighter from Lorah and lit the candles himself. Lorah reached for her glass of water and took another huge swig. She looked exhausted, showing all sixty plus of her years, her eyes underscored with dark bruising, as though she’d been punched.
Marti was scribbling in her journal. “I don’t want to forget any of this.”
Chris paced the room, seeming to search for whatever tricks Lorah had used to create the sounds of chains and moaning from beyond the table.
Nikki felt shell-shocked. She sat in stunned silence. Dorothea, prompted by herself or someone else, had just warned her of impending death. Logically she knew she was the victim of a nasty hoax. Emotionally she felt rattled to her toes. She struggled to regain her composure.
The storm was building again, rain battering the glass balcony doors, wind howling over the roof. A huge gust blew the French doors open with- a bang. Everyone jumped. All jerked toward the gaping portal. Lightning flashed. Lorah screamed.
“No. No. No.” Jorge Rameriz, dripping wet, tripped inside, a real live spook in the flickering candlelight. His gaze lashed wildly around the room before settling on Nikki. He pointed at her. “I must stop this evil!”
Chris launched himself at the groundskeeper. “Rameriz, what the hell were you doing out there?”
Jorge shook himself and ran from the room with Chris close on his heels.
Lorah gasped, clutched her throat, then groaned. She tried to speak, reached for Diego, then her eyes rolled back and she slumped unconscious in her chair.
