The Perfect Gift

by Christina Skye

Jared stiffened when she shoved back blankets and linen, rose warily to her feet.

  “Maggie?” he whispered.

  She did not turn, did not hear, framed in moonlight and entirely unaware that he stood mere feet away. Somewhere a bird cried a shrill lament, and Jared felt the skin pull taut, prickling across his shoulders.

  Dreamlike, she reached for the table beside the bed and cradled her hands around emptiness. Empty still, her fingers rose, as if to lift a candle high. Her white gown flashed as she padded barefoot to the door, eased it open, and listened intently, each movement filled with caution.

  Jared followed her down the hall and along the spiral stairs to the great front hall, where she stopped, head cocked to listen. Satisfied, she crept along the wall to the rear corridor.

  Where was she going now?

  The thick oak door to the cellar loomed in the shadows. She made a ghostlike movement as if to set a candle on the floor, then shoved at the door. Frowning, she put her shoulder to the wood, surprised that it did not move.

  What purpose could she have here?

  His only answer was the sight of her digging at the outline of the heavy door, almost as if searching for a lock or knob that did not exist.

  Jared inched closer. Curious to see what she would do next, he slid back the shiny new high-tech bolt and pushed open the heavy, climate-controlled door. Shadows stretched before them, covering the broad stone steps spiraling down to the wine vaults, part of the abbey’s original foundation. Instantly she plunged ahead, oblivious to the shadows, with the sure step of someone who knew the passage well. But how was that possible?

  Jared followed her down, flicking on a switch as he passed. Light poured over damp stone walls lined with rack after rack of dusty, priceless bottles. At the foot of the stairs she stopped. Her head cocked, and then she sank to her knees by the dusty stone, carefully tracing each hand-hewn block.

  Almost as if she was looking for a particular one.

  Enough, Jared thought, as confusion gave way to fullblown irritation. If this was a trick, it made no sense at all.

  He was within a breath of telling her so when she gave a low sigh of discovery. Oblivious to dust and cold, she sank flat beside the wall and dug at a pale square gleaming in the overhead light.

  The mortar was fresh, he saw, as was the line of four granite stones. Woodshavings dotted the floor beside deep ridges, and nearby tracks had been cut out by some heavy machine. And that, Jared decided, made no more sense than anything else in this silent, trancelike episode.

  But Maggie seemed more determined than ever, digging blindly at the stone and caking her fingers with grime and dust that could have been a century old.

  “Stop, Maggie.”

  Still she crouched, dragging her fingers along the sharp rock and keening softly. Now Jared saw the silent tears that mottled her cheeks and dotted the dust while tremors rocked her shoulders. Last of all he saw the dark stains on her palms where the sharp granite had cut deep welts.

  “Gone,” she whispered, sliding to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut. “Every jewel. But who knew of this place? Who dared to watch me even here?”

  She rocked back and forth, speaking in broken whispers, hands to her head. Now blood joined the tears on her cheeks, and Jared could bear no more.

  She was still whispering as he raised her to his chest.

  And she was still entirely oblivious to his presence as he again carried her back up the cold steps to her room.

  This time Jared had no thought of leaving.

  Carefully he cleaned her face and settled her back into bed, then turned to scan the room. The couch would do well enough-for a man who had learned to accept mud and cold cement at his back and beatings every night.

  The moon was sinking now. Silver light dusted the floor as he tugged off his shirt and slowly stretched his long frame on the velvet cushions. He still had no explanation for Maggie’s somnambulist wandering. His only hope was that Nicholas could provide some clue to the desperate, dreamlike search he had witnessed.

  Until then, she wouldn’t leave his sight for a second.

  Outside the moat shimmered, and clouds veiled the moon.

  Virgo rising.

  Saturn trine Uranus.

  SUNLIGHT BRUSHED THE ROOM. SOMEWHERE A BIRD SANG with noisy abandon.

  Morning, Maggie thought. If there were birds and sun, it was probably time to wake up. She opened one eye and peered over her pillow at the bright room where light flashed off gilt mirrors and crystal vases. She stretched, then caught herself with a wince.

  Not good. Her whole body ached, as if she’d had an argument with a truck and lost. For some reason the soles of her feet felt tender, and she couldn’t seem to focus.

  She touched the embroidered linen pillowcase, then traced the heavy damask coverlet. She was in one of the most beautiful bedrooms she’d ever seen in the most impressive house she’d ever visited, and she felt as if she was recovering from a grade-A hangover, even though she never drank.

  Actually, Maggie couldn’t remember what she’d done before her disturbing discussion with Jared. Even those details were blurred. Oddly, she didn’t remember climbing the stairs or getting into bed. She didn’t even remember putting on a nightgown.

  She frowned down at the covers, searched for a moment, then gave a soft sigh of relief when she touched a flowing white gown. Now the problem was why she didn’t remember putting it on.

  That particular mystery could wait, she decided. First she wanted a hot bath, some steaming English tea, and—

  Her body went rigid.

  First she wanted to know whose naked chest was stretched out over the sofa a few feet from her bed.

  A man. Definitely a man, judging by the tight, sculpted muscles untouched by the crumpled sheet that had just fallen to the floor.

  Maggie took a jerky breath. So what if there was a man in her room? So what if he had nice—okay, extraordinary—thighs and a face that ought to be outlawed?

  She sat up with a jerk.

  A face like Jared MacNeill’s.

  Maggie bit back a groan as pain lasered across her forehead. Her knees felt tender, too, along with her fingers. What was Jared doing in her room, gorgeous, half naked, and entirely asleep?

  She closed her eyes, struggling to clear her tangled thoughts. She was mature. She’d seen men in various states of undress.

  So maybe none of them had looked half as good as he did. Maggie admitted that she’d never seen a stomach like that—washboard flat and rock hard. So what if soft black hair dusted his skin right down to the opening of his worn jeans? So what if they were stretched taut and fit him like a second skin?

  She sank down with a soft, strangling sound as Jared turned restlessly to his side, straining the already deep opening of the jeans even wider.

  The man was built, Maggie thought, closing her eyes on a reedy sigh. No male should look that good. It was downright indecent.

  Not that she was going to look at him again. Or allow that gorgeous stomach to throw her off stride. She was going to slide out of bed, clear her ragged thoughts under a nice pounding shower, then confront him calmly about what had happened last night and why he was sleeping in her room.

  Calmly, she thought. Very calmly.

  Her hands were sweating as she eased back the covers, and she was fairly certain someone could have heard her heart pounding in the next county. So much for calm.

  Thankfully, her uninvited guest appeared to be oblivious. She lowered one foot to the floor, shimmied out from beneath the covers, and stood up slowly. Holding her breath, she took a careful step away from the bed.

  No sound behind her. So far so good.

  Slowly, she thought, keeping to the balls of her feet. Only another yard or so to go.

  Linen whispered. Maggie nearly screamed at the sound of Jared clearing his throat.

  “You dropped this, I think.” He was right behind her, holding out the white cambric belt of her gown.
r />   Maggie thought she’d probably dropped ten years of her life, too. She straightened her shoulders. “Thanks. I was just going to—dress.”

  Calm, she told herself.

  Mature.

  “You probably want to do the same.” She gave him a sidelong glance and nearly swallowed her tongue.

  The jeans rode even lower now, wedged over muscle and a dusting of darker hair beneath that hard, lean waist. She could see the outline of his thighs clearly, and she could also see a firm, very suggestive ridge of male muscle beneath the taut zipper.

  Her face flared red. So much for calm and mature. “I’d better go. I need to clean up—that is, to think.”

  To breathe, she thought wildly. When had all the air been sucked out of the room?

  “Maybe we should talk first,” he said in that voice that made her think of aged whisky.

  “Talk about what?”

  “About last night.”

  Her gaze snapped to his face. “Last night?” Blast it, why was she blushing? His hair fell over his forehead, and faint stubble covered his cheeks. He looked focused, dangerous, and sexy as hell. “What about last night?” she squeaked.

  “Don’t you remember?” His gray eyes locked in hard, and Maggie had an uncomfortable sensation that they were stripping off three layers of skin and reading every secret corner of her whole life.

  “Of course I remember.” She swallowed. “We came inside. You showed me to my room, and then I went to sleep. End of story.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Not quite.”

  Maggie didn’t much care for the lurid possibilities that shot into her mind. After all, they were two reasonably sane adults involved in a cultural project of key importance. He couldn’t have—she wouldn’t have—

  “What happened?” she demanded.

  His dark brow slanted up. “You don’t remember.”

  Don’t look down, she thought. Forget about his chest and keep your eyes on his face. On that hard mouth. On those stubbled cheeks and smoky eyes that wouldn’t seem to let her go. “Obviously not, or I wouldn’t ask.”

  Maggie knew she had to get a grip. And any minute now she would—just as soon as the room stopped spinning and she remembered how to breathe. “Why don’t you put on a shirt or something?” she said irritably.

  “I think we should talk first.”

  “I’ll talk a whole lot better when you’re dressed,” she snapped. “After all, we’re complete strangers. Well, almost complete strangers.”

  He didn’t move. “Something happened last night, Maggie.” His jaw hardened. “It might be very important.”

  “What do you mean, ‘happened’?”

  “Just what I said. When you woke up—” He jammed his fingers through his hair. “Did you feel different in any way?”

  “Other than the sensation that a truck had run over me, no.” She saw him shoot a look at the rumpled covers on the bed. “Now wait just a minute.” She might be fuzzy-headed and exhausted, but there were some things a woman didn’t forget, and spending a night wrapped in Jared MacNeill’s arms would have to top the list. “I slept here. You slept there.” She hesitated. “Didn’t you?”

  “Close enough.” He turned to pace.

  “What do you mean, ‘close enough’?” She told her heart to stop jackknifing toward her stomach. “Did we or didn’t we?”

  His eyes narrowed. “We didn’t sleep together, if that’s what you mean.”

  Thank God.

  Maggie hid her relief with a broad shrug. “So what seems to be the problem?”

  “The rest of what happened last night,” he muttered.

  Maggie had a sudden suspicion she wasn’t going to like what came next. All the more reason to take time to clear her head first. “Look, I’m sure it’s very interesting, but I really want to clean up first.” She frowned. “I feel dusty for some reason, and I have a headache that won’t quit.” She had a sudden, blurred impression of darkness and the whisper of the moat. Then pounding feet—followed by sharp pain.

  None of it made any sense.

  “Why don’t we talk about this in half an hour? I’ll finish dressing, then come find you downstairs.” She put her hand on his arm in a gesture of reassurance. “There’s no reason to worry about a little—”

  Blood.

  Maggie froze.

  There were dark streaks on her right hand and a thick layer of grime beneath her fingers. Blood covered the ragged edge of one cuff.

  “What…happened?”

  “I think,” Jared said slowly, “that you had better sit down.”

  Maggie didn’t want to sit down. Calm seemed entirely out of the question, along with mature and confident. Confusion was tying knots in her stomach. “I think you’d better start explaining.”

  “I was trying to—as much as I could, at least.”

  “Start with the blood,” she said hoarsely. Confusion was racing into panic, and she didn’t like the feeling. She had never lost consciousness before, and she couldn’t bear the thought of gaping holes in her memory. How did a person simply lose whole minutes out of his life?

  “You fell when we were coming inside.” He started to say more and then stopped.

  “But I didn’t go outside. Not last night, not with you or anyone else. I’ve told you that already.”

  “Then why are your feet dusty?”

  “No way.” She balanced and raised one foot.

  Dirt. Just like he’d said.

  Calm down, she thought. There had to be some reasonable explanation. “So the floor is dusty in here.”

  “Marston has his staff clean with the fury of zealots. He can spot a dust mote at sixty paces.”

  Maggie shook her head, fighting a wave of dizziness. “No.”

  “Every word is true.”

  “You’re lying. You have to be.” She gripped her robe, suddenly aware that her fingers were trembling. “Why are you making these things up?”

  “You’re shivering. Sit down.” Jared pulled a blanket from the bed and draped it around her shoulders.

  “Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “For your information, I have never experienced memory losses, hallucinations, or temporary bouts of insanity.”

  “Maggie, I wasn’t implying that—”

  “Weren’t you?” She charged on angrily. “Just because I’m an artist, that doesn’t make me irrational.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Jared took a step forward, and Maggie shoved one hand against his chest, stopping him. The air shimmered, tight with tension, and she could have sworn that he flinched before he stepped away from her.

  “Don’t come any closer,” she said tightly.

  “Do you honestly believe that I would harm you?” A muscle clenched and unclenched at his jaw.

  “I’m not sure what I believe. All I know is that there’s blood on my hands and welts on my feet and I have no idea how they got there.”

  “You walked in your sleep last night.”

  Maggie simply stared at him. “That’s impossible.”

  “Unusual, not impossible. And I know it happened because I followed you.”

  Maggie’s throat was dry and achy, and there was pressure building sharply behind her eyelids. I don’t believe you.”

  She turned away from the window, unable to face the golden beauty of the abbey in the streaming sunlight. Something nagged at her consciousness, disturbing but too faint to pinpoint. Could he possibly be telling the truth?

  No, it was impossible.

  “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  “This has nothing to do with you.” A lie, a voice whispered. It had everything to do with this hard-faced man with the deep, lilting voice. “I have to go. I can’t stay here.’-’

  He started to grip her arm, then jammed his fists into his pockets instead. Maggie looked away, trying to ignore how the movement strained the worn denim even tighter.

  “I’m afraid there’s something more that you need to know. When this project began, I to
ld Nicholas not to get involved with you. If I’d had my way you would never have come here.”

  Maggie spun around, white-faced. “I won’t listen to this.”

  “You have to listen. That was then, Maggie. Nicholas chose to ignore my reservations, and he was right to.”

  “Don’t overwhelm me with praise,” she said bitterly.

  “I can’t afford to be emotional. I’m being paid very well to ensure the security and success of the Draycott exhibition. You—and concerns about your father—present a major problem in that area.”

  “My father? Don’t tell me this is more old accusations.”

  “Not old accusations. I’m talking about new developments as of one week ago.” Something flickered in his eyes. Maggie thought for a moment it might have been compassion.

  She didn’t want his compassion. “More thefts laid at my father’s door? My father was a genius, but even he couldn’t steal gems from beyond the grave.”

  “Not from beyond the grave,” Jared said. “Your father isn’t dead. He was sighted last week boarding a flight in Singapore. An airport security camera caught him on film.”

  Maggie could only stare at him in shock. “I refuse to listen to this. My father is dead, Mr. MacNeill. Dead. He died seven months ago in Northern Sumatra.”

  “That’s what the reports say.”

  “His plane went down over heavy jungle. The trackers found widespread wreckage that contained two burned skeletons, a handful of blackened gems, and my father’s passport.” Maggie felt a cold weight at her chest, where each detail was carved into her still grieving heart.

  “The reports say that too. Did it ever strike you as odd that his passport would survive intact?”

  “No.”

  “The crash could have been staged, and your father was most likely nowhere near the plane when it went down. Then he—or someone else—planted the passport where it would be found afterward, along with an inferior set of gems to give the whole thing the ring of authenticity.”

  “That’s entirely ridiculous.”

  “Is it? Who identified the wreckage? Not regular consular staff.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I do. I checked to confirm it. The man was with the DEA.”