by Adrianne Lee
“Oh, oh, oh.” Dorothea lurched forward, overturning the glass of water.
Diego bounded up, getting to Lorah first. He grasped her wrist as the others found their feet.
Nikki held her breath. Olivia’s hands were pressed to her chest, her eyes wide with horror. She stared alternately at Lorah and the liquid soaking into the red velvet table covering.
“Holy Joe,” Marti exclaimed. “Does she need CPR?”
“No, she’s breathing and she has a pulse.” Diego glanced at them with panic in his black eyes. “I’m not certain, but I think she’s having a heart attack. What she needs is an ambulance.”
The next few minutes passed in a blur of activity. Chris returned and he and Diego wrapped Lorah in a blanket. Olivia, showing more initiative and stamina than Nikki would have credited her with after watching her reaction to Lorah’s collapse, retrieved her shoe boxes full of assorted candles. She directed the other women, and soon the candles were placed strategically throughout the downstairs foyer, up the staircase and in the master suite.
Under good circumstances Nikki would have found the shimmering candlelight pleasant, but this night the shadowed illumination underscored the dire situation, the nauseatingly sweet clash of aromas reminding her of Carmella’s funeral. Her mother had not survived her heart attack. She prayed Lorah would.
The paramedics arrived with a clamor, attached Lorah to a heart monitor and strapped her to a stretcher. Promising a doctor would call, they carried her off as fast and efficiently as the night and the conditions allowed.
Nikki swore she heard the charm bracelet tinkle, then the door banged shut like a mausoleum slammed on disquieted souls. The silence roared in her ears. She had no idea what to say or do, other than to mouth reassuring words, the kind of meaningless platitudes she’d been offered when her mother collapsed that morning in church.
Shouldn’t someone go with Lorah? Why hadn’t anyone volunteered? Why hadn’t she? “Maybe I should go to the hospital...”
“Why?” Diego Sands placed a hand on Nikki’s shoulder, his solid touch as poignantly reassuring as that of a concerned parent. “There’s nothing any of us can do at the moment. It’s best we wait here for the doctor’s report.”
“He’s right, Nikki.” Olivia twisted her hands together, wringing them like tear-drenched hankies. Her complexion was as pale as the candlelight, her voice as quavery as the flames. “I’ve had Mrs. Grissom put out cold cuts and fresh coffee in the dining room for anyone needing sustenance after all the excitement.”
Sustenance wasn’t what Nikki needed, but she wasn’t ready to face her empty room yet, either. She followed the others into the dining room. Settling for a mug of hot coffee to wrap her chilled hands around, she sat beside Diego.
Olivia stood to one side as her guests helped themselves. Marti and Dorothea conversed in hushed tones, the mystery writer apparently gathering more fodder for her work in progress. “Holy Joe, you really don’t recall anything you said?”
“No.” Dorothea squeaked. She shook her head, her turban bobbing. “A deep, sexy voice?”
“Honest.” Marti nodded.
Nikki studied the two women. In the crisis over Lorah, she’d forgotten the weird voice issuing from Dorothea during the seance. Dorothea was an actress. Could she alter her voice to that extent?
Maybe she’d had help—some electrical device or other. Chris and Diego had been alone with Lorah for several minutes. Had either searched the master suite?
Chiding herself for accusing someone who’d just suffered a heart attack, Nikki couldn’t forget the eerie warning. Was that also a ruse? Should she be even more on her guard? Her palms dampened. She prayed she was upset for nothing.
She glanced toward Chris, wishing she could talk this over with him, wishing for things that could never be, and her anger stirred anew. He sat at his usual place at the head of the table. His attention was riveted on Olivia, who was heaping food on her plate as though she hadn’t eaten in days.
Chris frowned. “Didn’t you have dinner, Liv?”
Olivia jerked as though he’d stabbed her. She pivoted, looking chagrined, a wishing-the-floor-would-open-and-swallow-her expression. A nervous laugh burst in her throat. “Are you monitoring my meals, Christopher?”
The reprimand held more hurt than ire, and Chris immediately hated himself for addressing her problem in front of their paying guests. Things were bad enough without his adding to it. No one had said it out loud, but he knew they were all blaming the Conrads for Lorah being scared into a heart attack, perhaps fatally so, by their groundskeeper.
Fury and fear coiled inside him. He wanted to smash his fist through a wall. Through Jorge Rameriz’s face—even knowing he could injure the poor deluded soul. God, I’m contemptible. Beneath contempt. He derided Liv for handling stress by binging and purging, while he committed the worse sin of uncontrolled rage. He’d been livid at the “ghostly” threat against Nikki, his outburst rude beyond anything the situation merited.
Why?
Blood to blood. The words crashed into his mind like a premonition—fueled from childhood to the present time by his mother. Delmara Conrad never missed a chance to tell Chris how like Luis he was. How much he looked like him, acted like him, thought like him.
Blood to blood. His insane uncle’s blood ran through his veins. Along with the same raging madness? His fear of going crazy spiked higher, and his appetite deserted him completely. He must never marry. Never risk that he would treat his bride as his uncle had treated his. Nor must he father children.
A horrid notion assailed him. Was it already too late? Had he and Nikki created a child this afternoon? Sick at the thought, he shoved his plate aside.
“I could use something stronger in this coffee.” He trudged to the breakfront and withdrew a bottle of cognac. “Anyone else?”
Nikki, Diego. Marti and Dorothea all accepted his offer. Olivia shook her head, too busy stuffing food into her mouth to give him a verbal reply. How could she eat so damned much? Would she never conquer this illness? Ice twined his heart. Was he losing his sister as well as his mind?
Chapter Eleven
An hour later someone phoned from Jefferson General Hospital in Port Townsend. Lorah was still unconscious. Tests were being run to pinpoint the cause of her collapse.
Apprehensive, Nikki downed her second cup of cognac-laced coffee, then collected one of the candles in the foyer and retreated to her room.
She carried the candle to her bedside table and kicked off her shoes. The tiny room with the homely furniture was a welcome retreat. Her mind felt full to bursting. The cognac had made her sleepy, but she doubted her dreams would be peaceful. She yanked back the bed-covers. A piece of paper jumped at her like some fierce albino spider. She gasped, then gave a nervous laugh when she realized it was nothing more vicious than a page, like something from Marti’s journal.
Her pulse kicked a beat higher. Could it be a page from Theresa’s diary? With trembling hands, Nikki grasped the paper. It was yellowed, the handwriting elegant, the ink faded, but legible. She sank onto the bed. Dated October, twenty-five years ago, the entry read:
He came today. My own true love. And he feels the same, I could see it in his eyes. I tried to hide my excitement. Luis must not suspect—for his temper is vile. And I do not want “him” sent away. Oh, what my life would have been, if Papa hadn’t sold me to Luis. Luis now owns my body, but he shall never own my heart, and he shall never know who does.
Nikki stared at the words, reading again and again. “Papa” had sold Theresa to Luis? Forced marriages in the seventies, an age of great enlightenment and free love, seemed impossible. In this case it had proven tragic for all parties. She knew what it meant to feel unloved, unlovable. Had Luis De Vega felt as she did? If so, she pitied him. But more, she pitied all the victims in his selfish life-drama.
Perhaps she hadn’t been deprived by not knowing her father—if he were someone like “Papa.”
A knock sounde
d on Nikki’s door. Her heartbeat skipped. She hid the diary page beneath her pillow, then hastened across the room. “Who is it?”
“Chris.”
With her breath hitching, she opened the door a crack. He held a candle under his chin as she’d done with buttercups in her childhood to see whether she’d find a true love of her own. The thought caused a catch in her throat. The passionate connection she’d shared with Chris this afternoon had been anything but love. He’d made certain she understood that. So, what was he doing here now? “Is there more news of Lorah?”
“No.” The candlelight cast shadows across his face, hiding his strong features, emphasizing his intense brown eyes that shone dark and sultry. “But we need to talk.”
Now? In her room? In the half darkness? No way. Anger spiked through her. She began closing the door. “In the morning.”
He caught the door and held it firm. “No.”
“Why not?” Her ire twisted her nerves tighter. “What’s this about?”
He glanced around surreptitiously, as though someone were listening nearby. “Let me in. It’s important.”
How dare he demand anything of her? Nikki clamped her jaw and ignored the pinching in her stomach. She didn’t want to be alone with Chris. Didn’t want to stand near him, smell him, touch him, need him. She hated that she couldn’t forget this afternoon, couldn’t wipe away the memories of how he’d pleasured her.
Or the way he’d hurt her.
She considered slamming the door in his face, but his foot was planted in its path. For a long moment they stared at each other like statues stationed on opposite sides of a walkway, so much alike, so lonely, yet with no way to reach out and touch, or talk, or connect. The cold spot inside Nikki spread cruel fingers of ice through her. She dug her nails into her palms. She had agreed to work with Chris. He’d said this was important. Had he learned something new?
Against her better judgment she opened the door wide enough to admit him, then spun away from him. “This had better be good.”
Chris closed the door and leaned against it, watching Nikki move across the room to the desk. It was as far away as she could get from him, but she looked as though it weren’t far enough. In the soft candlelight she seemed vulnerable, needy, as frightened as a small child awakened from a nightmare. But he sensed her nightmares were too real, and that tore at his resolve to stay his distance, to never touch her again; it fed the ache to pull her into his arms, to kiss the distress from her furrowed brow.
Desire fisted hard and hot in his belly. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should have waited until morning. Maybe he was worried about nothing. Or maybe he should drag her out of this room and haul her off to some safe haven far from Wedding House.
No, even to suggest that would make her think him mad. He had to act rationally. And not hurt her again. His hand tightened on the candle as if it were an anchor holding him in place, a solid hook restraining his hunger to stride to Nikki and claim her as he had this afternoon. He blew out a hard breath. The candle flame flickered. “I don’t think we can dismiss the warning you received tonight.”
Her eyebrows lifted, and her stance eased, but her smile was cold, dismissing his concerns. “Oh, that. Don’t be silly. That was so much theater. Staged somehow between Dorothea and Lorah.”
“That’s just it.” He took a step toward her, catching a whiff of her subtle perfume twined with the scent of vanilla from the candles. “How did they do it?”
“How should I know?” Nikki backed up, her bottom banging the desk. “Wires or something.”
Chris came closer. “I found nothing in the master suite to explain the different pitch in Dorothea’s voice.”
Nikki gripped the edge of the desk. “The woman is an actress, trained to depict all kinds of personalities.”
He rolled his eyes and moved another step toward her. “That range of tone would be impossible to affect by someone whose normal voice is two octaves higher than an electric drill.”
She shrugged. “Then there has to be another explanation.”
“Like?” Chris wanted to shake her. Why was she being so obtuse? He snapped his fingers. “Oh, I know, Lorah Halliard’s hoard of talents includes ventriloquism.”
The suggestion brought a grin to Nikki’s lips, those luscious, torturing lips. God, she was gorgeous in this gentle light, shimmering hues twinkling off her golden hair. He took another step toward her, drawn by a force stronger than his very will.
Nikki tensed, her smile slipped into a sneer. “Don’t you think it’s more likely Dorothea had a tape recorder in one of her jumpsuit pockets?”
“Okay. I could buy that.” Chris pressed his lips together, wishing he was pressing them to hers, but knowing full well he’d never experience that pleasure again. Nor did he deserve to. This afternoon should never have happened, and he prayed from the bottom of his soul that their moment of unprotected passion hadn’t produced lifelong consequences. “What I don’t understand is why Dorothea and Lorah would threaten you.”
He was the one threatening her, silently, but surely. Why couldn’t he stay by the door? Why did he have to stalk her like some giant cat, ready to pounce on her every vulnerability? Anger simmered inside her. “Maybe they picked on me because of my resemblance to Theresa. She was, after all, the ‘spirit’ they claimed to conjure.”
He didn’t seem convinced. She didn’t want to dwell on the eerie warning. For all her denial to him, she hadn’t been able to dismiss it as nothing. She shoved her hair away from her face and glanced at the bed as though the journal page were flashing neon from beneath her pillow. It was time she told him about the diary.
She described finding, hiding and losing it, then she showed him the page. “Someone left this on my pillow.”
As she handed it to him, their fingers brushed. The contact seemed to distress him as much as it did her. He stepped away from her, raised his candle to the paper and read. When he gazed at her next, his eyes were wide with some private hell. “Do you think Luis was driven mad by her infidelity?”
The question surprised her. She’d expected him to ask who might have left the page on her pillow. She studied him a long moment. She’d swear her answer was important to him. Why? What was she missing? She ran her tongue across her dry lips. Did she really want to know? “Obviously Theresa loved someone other than your uncle.”
She didn’t say she also thought it possible Theresa and her mystery man had had an affair and that she was the child of that affair.
“Who?” Chris asked.
Nikki shrugged. She wasn’t sure. “Maybe someone we don’t know. Or maybe Diego Sands. He admits being close to Theresa at one time.”
Chris stroked his chin, his long fingers brushing his jaw, reminding her of how those fingers had brushed her sensitive flesh, eliciting pleasure and heat on every inch of her. She swallowed back the aching need to feel that touch again. She’d be damned if she’d let herself feel anything for him.
He shook the page. “It would clear up a lot if we could find the diary.”
“What I’d like to know is how someone got into my room to leave that page. My door was locked.”
“Are you suggesting Liv...? Or me...?”
Even in the dim light she could see his hackles rising. Was he truly offended at the idea? Or trying to stay her suspicions? Yesterday, she’d actually trusted him. This afternoon he’d shattered that trust. Now, she wasn’t certain what he was capable of. “If someone didn’t get in here by using a key, then there must be another way in...like secret panels leading to secret passageways.”
He laughed at this, shaking his head and glancing at the floor. “You watch too many old movies.”
Nikki narrowed her eyes. If anyone knew the layout of this mansion it was Chris. His comment suggested her imagination was working overtime, but he hadn’t denied the possibility of secret passageways. She gazed nervously at the walls, imagining all sorts of intruders appearing in her room at night, then at Chris. “I thi
nk Diego saw me hide the diary. Perhaps he has it in his room.”
Chris frowned and stated pointedly, “I don’t approve of entering guests’ rooms without their permission, but I may make an exception.” He examined the page again, then tapped it against the side of his hand. “You know, I think we’re overlooking another possibility. Rameriz came to work here twenty-five years ago. In October, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Jorge?” Nikki blanched at the thought that Jorge Rameriz might be her father. Diego Sands didn’t thrill her much, either, but at least he seemed sane. “You think he got himself hired on as the groundskeeper to be near the woman he loved?”
“It’s not impossible,” Chris said.
Nikki prayed he was wrong. If Jorge were her father, she’d likely never have a family. She had found him too late. “If Jorge was Theresa’s mystery man, and her betrayal was the reason she died, then why didn’t Luis kill Jorge as well?”
Chris’s face paled. “How should I know?”
“Luis was your uncle. I thought you might—”
“Might what?” he barked. “Know that my uncle was a raving lunatic—unable to control a simple emotion like jealousy?”
The outburst startled Nikki. One would think she’d accused him of being insane. Why? Again, he shoved his hand through his thick hair, giving it a sex-tousled look, pulling unwanted images into her mind. She crushed the visions. “We need some answers. If not from your mother, then from Jorge.”
He tossed his head, his nostrils flaring like a bull, and exhaled loudly. His control seemed to have returned in a flash. “If you think you can face Rameriz, then we’ll do it in the morning, and this time I’ll make him talk to us.”
To Nikki’s horror, he sounded as though he’d even use force to make Jorge talk. She wondered anew if Chris was a violent man—like his uncle? Blood to blood. Was that the meaning behind Dorothea’s warning? Was Chris the one she should fear?
Or was she just so angry at him she couldn’t acknowledge anything decent about him? She recalled his gentle treatment of his sister and knew, despite her wounded sensitivities, that there was goodness in this man. And if she were totally honest with herself, what occurred between them this afternoon was impetuous and spontaneous, without promise or obligation, ignited by her own passionate attack on him.
