The Wicked and the Wondrous

by Christine Feehan

  “I’m sorry, I forgot my shirt,” Dillon told her softly before turning his attention back to Jessica. “Wake up, baby, it’s over,” he crooned softly. His voice was low and compelling, almost hypnotic. “It’s me, sweetheart, you’re safe here. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

  Tara turned her head as more people crowded into the doorway of her room. She had to blink tears out of her eyes in order to focus on them. Trevor put his arm around her, offering comfort, and she took it.

  “Good heavens,” Brenda said, “what happened now?”

  “Get them out of here, Trevor,” Dillon ordered, “get out and close the door.”

  Trevor acted at once. He didn’t want anyone staring at Jessica, seeing her in such a vulnerable state. And he didn’t like the way they were staring at his father’s body, either. He took Tara with him, pushing through the group, closing the door firmly and leaving Dillon alone with Jessica. “Show’s over,” he said gruffly, “you all might as well go back to bed.”

  Brenda glared at him. “I was actually trying to be helpful. If Jessie needs me, I don’t mind sitting up with her.”

  To everyone’s astonishment, Tara wrapped her arms around Brenda’s waist and looked up at her. “I need you,” she confided. “I hurt him again.”

  Trevor cleared his throat. “No you didn’t, Tara.” He was happy to see the band members dispersing, leaving only Brenda and Robert behind.

  “Yes I did, I was staring at his scars and he noticed,” Tara confessed, looking up at Brenda. “Even with Jessie screaming and how much he wanted to help her, he noticed. And he said he was sorry.” Tears welled up and spilled over. “I didn’t mean to stare at him, I should have looked away. It must have hurt him so much.”

  It was Robert who dropped his hand on her head in a clumsy effort to comfort her. “We couldn’t stop him. The house was completely engulfed in flames. He was calling for you and your brother, for Jessica. He ran toward the house. I caught him, so did Paul. He knocked us both down.” There was sorrow in his voice, guilt, a ragged edge. Robert paused, rubbed the bridge of his nose, frowning slightly.

  Brenda put her hand on his arm. Casually. As if it didn’t matter, but Trevor saw that it did. That it steadied Robert. Robert smiled down at Brenda’s hand and leaned forward to kiss her fingertips. “He ran inside the house, right through a wall of flames. Paul tried to go in after him, but Brian and I tackled him and held him down. We should have done that to Dillon. We should have.” He shook his head at the memories.

  Trevor found himself reaching out to his uncle, touching him for the first time. “No one could have stopped him. If I know anything about my father, it’s that no one could have stopped him from trying to get to us.” He glanced back at the closed door. Jessica’s screams had stopped. He could hear the soft murmur of Dillon’s voice. “No one could have stopped him from trying to get to Jess.”

  Robert blinked and focused on Trevor. “You’re so like him, like he was back in the old days. Tara, what I’m trying to say to you is, don’t be afraid of looking at your father’s scars. Don’t ever be ashamed of the way he looks. Those scars are evidence of how much he loves you, what you mean to him. He’s a great man, someone you should be proud of, and he’ll always put you first. Few people have that and I think it’s important for you to know that you do have it. I could never have entered that house, none of the rest of us could go in, even when we heard the screams.”

  “Don’t, Robert,” Brenda said sharply. “No one could have saved those people. You didn’t even know they were up there.”

  “I know, I know.” He rubbed a hand over his face, wiping away old horrors and determinedly forcing a smile to his face, needing to change the subject. “Anyone up for one of Brenda’s silly board games? She’s obsessed with them.”

  “I always win,” Brenda pointed out smugly.

  Trevor glanced at the closed door anxiously, then switched his attention back to his aunt. “I always win,” he countered.

  Tara slipped her hand into Robert’s. “He does,” she confided.

  “Then it’s all-out war,” Brenda decided, leading the way back to her rooms. “I detest losing at anything.”

  “Do you really have an insurance policy on us?” Trevor asked curiously as he followed her down the hall.

  “Of course, silly, you’re a boy, the odds are much higher that you’ll do something stupid,” Brenda remarked complacently. “All that lovely lollie,” she added, grinning back at him over her shoulder.

  Trevor shook his head. “I’m not buying your act any more, Auntie. You’re not the bad girl you want the world to believe you are.”

  Brenda flinched visibly. “Don’t even say that, it’s sacrilegious. And by the way, your cute little pranks aren’t scaring me in the least, so you may as well stop.”

  “I don’t pull cute little pranks,” Trevor objected strenuously to her choice of words. “If I was pulling off a prank, it wouldn’t be cute or little. And it would scare you. I’m a master at practical jokes.”

  Brenda pushed open the door to her room, raising one eyebrow artfully as he preceded her into the suite. “Oh, really? So what is with the hooded face appearing in the window, and the mysterious messages written on my makeup mirror? Get out while there’s still time.” She rolled her eyes. “Really! Perfectly childish. And just how do you explain the water running in the bathtub with the stopper in the drain and the room always filled with steam? If I didn’t know it was you, it would give me the creeps. The open window and Brian’s magic circle is such a clever touch, throwing suspicion his way. We’ve all talked about it, we know it’s you two. Even that motley dog is in cahoots with you, growling at the steam and staring at nothing just to scare us.”

  There was a small silence. Tara and Trevor exchanged a long look. “Is your window open when you come into your room?” Tara ventured, her voice tight. “And fog or steam all through the room?”

  Robert looked at her sharply. “Are you saying you kids haven’t been pulling these pranks?” He poured them both a soda from the small ice chest they had stashed in their room.

  Trevor shook his head, took a long grateful drink of the cold liquid, nearly draining the glass. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. “No, sir, we haven’t. And Jessica’s window is open all the time.” A chill crept into the room with his denial. “Tara’s window was open this evening. And there was burned incense and one of those circles on the floor of both Jessie’s and Tara’s rooms. Jess didn’t tell Dillon because she was afraid he would quit recording with everyone, and she thinks it’s important for him and everyone else to make the music.”

  Robert and Brenda exchanged a long look. “If you kids have been playing tricks, it’s all right to say so,” Robert persisted. “We know kids do that sort of thing.” He pulled a Clue game from the closet, carried it to the table.

  “How perfectly apropos, a murder game on a dark and stormy night just when we’re discussing mysterious occurrences,” Brenda quipped as they spread the game board out on the small table.

  “We didn’t do any of those things,” Trevor insisted. “I don’t know who it is or why, but something wants us out of here.”

  “Why do you say that?” Robert asked sharply as he separated the cards.

  Trevor noticed his clue sheet was filled and he crumpled it, looking around for a wastebasket. He couldn’t toss it, practicing his technique, because the basket was filled with newspaper. With a sigh he got up and walked over to it. For some reason his stomach was beginning to cramp uncomfortably and his skin felt clammy. The conversation was bothering him a lot more than he realized. “I don’t know, I always feel like something’s watching us. We’ve been letting the dog in and sometimes we’re in a room alone and it starts growling, looking at the door. All the hair rises up on its back. It’s freaky. But when I go look, no one’s there.”

  “I’d think you were making it up,” Robert said, “but there have been some strange things happening in here, too. We t
hought it was you kids, so we didn’t say anything either, but I don’t like the sound of that. Have you told Jessie?”

  Trevor bent down to press the sheet of paper into the wastebasket. The newspaper caught his eye. It had tiny little holes in it where words were cut out. He glanced back at his aunt and uncle. They were putting the game pieces on the board. Tara looked pale, a frown on her face. She was holding her stomach as if she had cramps, too. Trevor lifted the newspaper slightly. It reminded him of movies where ransom notes had been concocted from printed words pasted on paper. The glass in front of Tara was empty. A frisson of fear went down his spine. Very slowly he straightened, moved casually away from the evidence in the wastebasket.

  “No, I haven’t told Jessie much at all. She’s been busy with the recording and she’s so darned overprotective.” He looked directly at his aunt. “I’m feeling a little sick. It wasn’t the soda, was it?”

  “I’m not feeling very well either,” Tara admitted.

  Brenda bent over Tara solicitously. “Is it the flu?”

  “You tell me,” Trevor challenged. A wave of nausea hit him. “We need Jessie.”

  Brenda sniffed. “I think I’m quite capable of taking care of a couple of little kiddies with the flu.”

  “I hope so,” Tara said, “because I’m going to throw up.” She ran to the bathroom, holding her stomach.

  Brenda looked harassed for a moment, then rushed after her.

  chapter

  11

  “JESS, BABY, CAN YOU hear me now? Do you know who I am?” Dillon used his voice shamelessly, a velvet blend of heat and smoke. He didn’t make the mistake of trying to approach her, knowing he could become part of her frightening world. Instead, he flicked on the light, bathing the room in a soft glow. He hunkered down across from her, his movements slow and graceful. “Honey, come back to me now. You don’t need to be in that place, you don’t belong there.”

  She was staring, focused on something beyond his shoulder. There was so much terror and horror in her eyes that he actually turned his head, expecting to see something. It was icy cold in the room. The window behind her was fully open, the curtains fluttering like twin white flags. It made him uneasy. She was pressed up against the wall, her hands restlessly searching the surface, seeking a place of refuge. His breath hitched in his throat when her fingers skimmed the windowsill and she inched toward it.

  “Jess, it’s Dillon. See me, baby, know I’m here with you.” He slowly straightened, shifted to the balls of his feet. His heart was hammering out his own fright. Her screams had stopped but she was staring at something he couldn’t see, couldn’t fight.

  With a small moan of terror, Jessica flung herself at the open window, crawling out as quickly as she could pull herself through. Dillon was on top of her in an instant, his hands wrapping securely around her waist, dragging her backward into the room. She fought like a wild thing, tearing at the windowsill, the curtains, her fingernails digging into wood as she desperately tried to make her escape.

  “You’re two stories up, Jess,” Dillon said, twisting to avoid her scissoring legs. He managed to wrestle her to the floor without hurting her, holding her down, straddling her, pinning her there so she couldn’t harm herself. “Wake up. Look at me.”

  Her gaze persisted in going beyond him, caught in a web he couldn’t break through. When she stopped fighting, he pulled her onto his lap, his arms still holding her tightly there on the floor, and he sang softly to her. It had been her favorite song as long as he could remember. His voice filled the room with a warmth, a soothing comfort, a promise of love and commitment. He had written it in the days of hope and belief, when he believed in love and miracles. When he believed in himself.

  Jessica blinked, looked around her, focused on Dillon’s angel’s face. It took a few moments to realize she was on his lap, his arms binding her tightly to him. She turned her head to search for the twins. The room was empty. She shivered, relaxed completely into Dillon, allowing his voice to drive away the remnants of terror.

  “Are you back, baby?” His voice was a wealth of tenderness. “Look at me.” He brought both of her hands to his mouth, kissed her fingers. “Tell me you know who I am. I swear I won’t let anything happen to you.” With Jessica on his lap, only thin cloth separated them, and the knowledge was awakening his body. Her breasts were spilling out of her thin top giving him a generous view of soft skin. The temptation to lean down and taste her was strong.

  A small smile managed to find its way to her trembling mouth. “I know that, Dillon. I’ve always known that. Did I frighten Tara and Trevor?”

  “Tara and Trevor?” he echoed, astonished. “You frightened me.” He brought her palm to his bare chest, straight over his pounding heart. “I can’t take much more of this. I really can’t.” He traced her trembling lips with a scarred fingertip. The raised whorls rasped sensually over her soft mouth. “What in the hell am I supposed to do with you? If I had a heart left, I’d have to tell you, you’re breaking it.” He had been so afraid for her that he had left his room with his body uncovered. He had turned on the light to help dispel her dream world, not thinking what it would reveal of him. He held her in his lap, his scarred body exposed to her gaze when it was the last thing he ever intended.

  “I’m sorry, Dillon.” Tears shimmered in her vivid green eyes, threatened to spill over onto her long lashes. Her lips were still trembling, tearing at his heart even more. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t know it would be like this.”

  He groaned, a sound of surrender. The last thing he wanted was for her to be sorry. He helped her from his lap, rose and hauled her up beside him, his arm curling around her waist, clamping her to his side. “Don’t cry, Jess, I swear to God if you cry you’ll destroy me.”

  She buried her face against his chest, against the scars of his past life. She didn’t wince, she didn’t even stare in utter disgust. His Jessica. His one light in the darkness. He could feel her tears wet against his skin. With an oath he lifted her, cradled her slight weight to him. There was only one place to take her, the only place she belonged. He took the stairs fast, climbing to the third story, his refuge, his sanctuary, the lair of the wounded beast. He kicked the door closed behind him.

  “Are you afraid of me, Jess?” he asked softly. “Tell me if you’re afraid of how I look.” He strode to the large bed and laid her down on his sheets. “Tell me if you’re afraid I went back into that house and did what most people think I did.”

  She rested her head on the pillow, met the hypnotic blue of his eyes, was lost instantly, drowning in the deep turbulent sea. “I’ve never been afraid of you, Dillon,” she answered honestly. “You know I don’t believe you shot anyone that night. I’ve never believed it. Knowing you went back into the house before the gun was fired doesn’t change what I know about you.” She reached up, framed his face with one hand while the other skimmed lightly over his chest. How could he ever think his scars would repulse her? He had gone into a burning inferno to save his children. The scars were as much a part of him now as his angel’s face. Her fingertips traced a whorl of ridged flesh. His badge of courage, of love—she could never think of his scars any other way. “And you’ve always been beautiful to me. Always. You were the one who kept me away from you. I tried so many times to see you in the burn center and you wouldn’t give your consent.” There was hurt in her voice, pain in her eyes. “You cut yourself off from me and you left me struggling on my own. For so long I couldn’t breathe without you. I couldn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t know how to go on.”

  “You deserve something better than this, Jess,” he said grimly.

  “What’s better, Dillon? Being without you? The pain doesn’t go away. Neither does the loneliness, not for me or the children.”

  “I always knew exactly what I was doing, what I was worth.” Confusion slipped across his face. “My music was my measure of who I was, what I could offer. Now I don’t know what I can give you. But you have to be certa
in being with me is what you really want. I can’t have you and then lose you. I have to know it means the same thing to you as it does to me.”

  Jessica smiled at him as she stood up. Deliberately she moved in front of the large sliding glass door leading to the balcony. She wanted what light there was to fall on her, so there would be no mistake. For her answer, she simply caught the hem of her tank top and pulled it over her head.

  Standing there, facing him with the glass framing her, she looked like an exotic beauty, ethereal, out of reach. Her skin gleamed at him, a satin sheen, beckoning his touch. Her breasts were full, firm, jutting toward him, so perfect he felt his heart slam hard in his chest and his mouth go dry. His body tightened painfully, his need so urgent his body was straining against the fabric of his jeans.

  He reached out to the offering, his palm skimming along her soft skin. She felt exactly as she looked and the texture was mesmerizing. Jessica’s breath hitched in her throat, her body trembled as he cupped her breasts in his hands. His thumbs found taut buds and stroked as he leaned into her to settle his mouth over hers.

  Jessica was aware of so many sensations. Her breasts achingly alive, wanting his touch, his thumbs sending bolts of lightning whipping through her bloodstream until her lower body was heavy and needy. Every nerve ending was alive, so that his silken hair brushing her skin sent tiny darts of pleasure coursing through her. His mouth was hard and dominant, moving over and into hers with male expertise and hot, silken passion.

  Outside the wind began to moan, shifting back from the sea, rattling at the glass doors as if seeking entrance. Dillon’s mouth left hers to follow the line of her shoulder, the hollow of her throat, to close, hot and hungry, around her breast. Jessica’s body jerked with reaction, her arms coming up to cradle his head. His mouth was fiery hot, suckling strongly, a starving man let loose on a feast. His hands skimmed her narrow rib cage, tugged impatiently at the drawstring of her pajamas.

  Her body wound tighter and tighter, a spiral of heat she couldn’t hope to control. The pajama bottoms dropped to the floor and she kicked them aside, reveling in the way his hands glided possessively over her.