by James Lavene
The road got worse as they left Charlotte. There were several times that he had to stop because accidents that had closed the road. The North Carolina Highway Patrol was out in force. There was only so much that could be done during the brunt of the winter storm.
During one of those times that he had stopped, Nick watched Emilie as she slept. Her face was a perfect oval, her skin flawless with a faint, pearly sheen. Her dark eyelashes curled against her cheek. Her lips were pink and parted slightly, whispering unintelligible secrets in her sleep.
She didn't look like the heiress he'd expected. Not from the stories he’d heard about the Ferriers and their exploits. He’d thought she’d be in furs and treacherously high heels. In her wet clothes and sensible shoes, her hair down in her face, she looked more like a homeless waif.
Her head slipped lower on the seat and he fought with himself not to touch her. His fingers itched to feel that creamy skin beneath them. Her perfume filled his senses in the warm truck. When her head fell again, it was only reasonable to put his hand under her neck and move her the few inches it took until she was resting against him.
Reasonable. Not practical. He could hear his father telling him that no good could come of this. He ignored those words of wisdom.
Traffic began to move forward again.
She sighed and murmured something in her sleep, but didn't wake. Her hand came to rest on his jean-clad thigh. He moved her hand away from his leg. She moved it back. The touch burned through the thick layer of denim that separated them.
Nick put his hands back on the wheel and refused to look at her again. The warmth of her body pressed close to his side, the feel of her skin on his hands, lingered to haunt him.
He switched off the heat and turned on the radio. The songs were meaningless as he fought down a powerful wave of sexual attraction. He focused his mind on the road. Emilie moved and sighed. His thoughts returned to her.
A year of hearing stories about the Ferrier family, about Emilie herself, hadn't prepared him for the reality. He couldn’t see the demon in her that he’d heard her called so often. A witch? Maybe. Her touch was like a hot coal. He wanted her in his arms, the length of her against him—
He almost passed the exit that led to town. The drive home had been long and filled with peril, most of the danger snuggled trustingly against him in the truck. The streets of Ferrier’s Mountain, population 5,200, were empty. Sensible people stayed in during an ice storm.
Nick finally pulled through the wrought iron gate that led down the long drive to the old mansion. It was a relief to see the lights on in the large garage where he usually picked up and returned her cars.
The weather had changed during the drive up the mountain. The sleet had turned to fat, soft snowflakes that plopped wetly against the windshield. The night sky was alive with them in the steady beams of the truck's headlights.
They'd left behind the worst of the weather at the Interstate turn-off. The town's higher elevation frequently made their weather different from the areas around them. It could be raining at the foot of the mountain, dry at the top.
Jacque de Ferrier had known what he was doing when he'd built his town on the side of the mountain. Nick had heard about the large gold claim that had created the little town in the 1800s. The Frenchman had provided well for his family, the youngest descendent of which nestled against his shoulder.
"We're here, Ms. Ferrier." He tried to waken her.
Her breathing continued rhythmically and her head slid a little further down against his chest.
"Emilie?" He encouraged her to wake up, stifling a heavy groan when other parts of his body wanted him to let her stay where she was. "We're back. Wake up."
There was still no response. Her head slid a little lower against his chest.
Finally, he threaded his fingers through her hair and brought her head back up to his shoulder level. "Emilie," he whispered. His face was very near her own. "If you don't wake up, we're both going to be in a lot of trouble."
She opened her eyes, blinking them sleepily as she tried to focus on the face that was close to hers. She slowly realized that she'd fallen asleep, and that somehow, she'd moved against Nick's shoulder and her hand—
Emilie moved her hand out of his lap quickly and sat up straight. "I guess I fell asleep. I’m sorry. Are we back home?"
"Yeah." A large, warm part of him wished she hadn't moved so quickly, wished her mouth had been about a half inch closer . . .
"Oh, good. Good!" She tried to gather her scattered wits before she said something stupid. "I-uh-I hope I wasn't snoring or anything."
"No." He smiled at her, his eyes very dark in the half-light. "You sleep like an angel."
Emilie was bewildered by the tenderness of his tone and the intimacy of his words. Not to mention the combined effect on her breathing.
"Well, I-well-thank you. I'm sorry this turned out to be such a big problem for you. Please include your time on the bill for this and for the repairs to the car."
"Don't worry," he assured her. "I will."
When she looked at him again, the cab of the truck seemed very small and very warm suddenly. She knew she should go. She didn’t want to. She wanted to stay. She liked the sound of his voice. "I appreciate all of your help."
What’s wrong with me? She shook her head. She must be more tired than she’d thought.
Nick opened the truck door and climbed out, coming around to her side of the cab. "Let me help you down."
"Oh, that's not necessary." Emilie was embarrassed by his offer. She didn’t want him to think of her that way. Yet if he walked away, she was afraid that her leg would collapse under her when she reached the ground.
"My pleasure." He put his hands on her tiny waist again. This time, he lifted her out carefully and let her feet rest on the ground. Her soft breasts slid slowly down his hard chest, their parted legs tangled.
She forced herself to relax and let him help ease the jarring transition between the high truck cab and the hard ground.
"It's snowing." She said the first thing that came to mind. Her hands were shaking, but not from cold.
"It is," he responded. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Thanks."
"I'll have the car back in a few days, unless there's a problem with parts.”
"All right. Thanks." She grinned, feeling foolish. "Again."
He started to climb back into the driver's side of the cab, cursing himself for wanting to be close to her that last time. Those warnings shuffling through his head were right. This could only end in disaster if he kept thinking of her that way.
He paused, half in and half out of the truck. A fleeting shadow caught his attention, running across the white snow in the large open meadow beside the house. Then it was gone. For just a minute, he’d thought he’d seen a naked woman out there.
It was crazy. Like the rest of the night had been. He closed the door and started backing up to pull out of the wide drive.
The tow truck’s headlight beams picked out Emilie’s slender form as she walked slowly up to the house. He'd been working on her cars for a year and hadn't met her. The chances were it would be another year or more before it happened again.
By then he would have forgotten what her skin felt like and that her hair was like silk. It was cliché, but apt. He’d forget how close he'd come to touching his mouth to hers in that last instant before she'd awakened to look at him with those amazing green eyes.
"Not tonight, old son," he said out loud, turning out of her driveway. He headed his truck for home.
Emilie had seen the shadow cross the snow-covered meadow as well. She sighed as she looked out into the night.
"Joda?" she called out. “Are you out there?"
"Go inside, child," her aunt’s voice, creepy and disembodied, floated back from somewhere around her. "I'll be in shortly."
Emilie hobbled inside, glad to reach the warmth and comfort of her home. Her clothes were still wet close to her skin, though
the top layer had dried in the truck. The effect was clammy and miserable. She wanted a hot bath, a glass of wine, and a good night's sleep.
She was worried about Joda, of course. She was always worried about Joda. Sometimes, contrary to what she'd told Alain earlier, she did feel tied to her aunt, responsible for her, ever since she was very young.
Sometimes she felt as though she'd never been young. That she'd never had the experience of being carefree. It was as though she'd been born to look after other people. First her reckless, irresponsible parents, and then her strange aunt. She told herself that she liked it that way. That no one needed to look after her. She'd been born responsible.
Maybe Alain was right, she considered as she undressed slowly and started to run her bath water. Maybe she hadn't lived her own life. Maybe taking on the responsibility of a child was compounding the fault.
And maybe, she yawned, you’re just tired and disappointed. She knew that things would look better tomorrow and she'd be calling Alain about the next adoption attempt.
She looked at herself in the full-length mirror, seeing the brown hair that seemed to have a life of its own, never staying in place despite her best efforts. She saw the green eyes and the dimpled chin she'd inherited from her father. Her slender body led to the ravaged leg, slightly twisted and a little thinner and shorter than the other.
Her mother had always encouraged her to act as though it didn't exist. She was a Ferrier. She should have been proud, no matter what. Wear short skirts, dance despite any awkwardness or fear of falling. Climb mountains. Water ski.
She looked at her face and found her lips trembling.
She was a Ferrier. But she couldn't pretend she wasn't a cripple. She had never worn a bathing suit. She had never danced. She wore her skirts to her mid calf or lower or she wore baggy pants.
She tried to keep her head up and she tried not to notice when people whispered as she limped past them. That was as impossible as believing she would ever climb a mountain.
Being a mother was different. She knew that she could be a good mother, despite the fact that nature had chosen to not to allow her body to give birth. She knew that she had so much love to give to another tiny human life. If only . . .
She climbed into the tub and admonished herself to stop feeling sorry for Emilie Ferrier. She lived in a nice, big house. She had plenty of money. She had a wonderful job that she loved. She was a Ferrier.
If that house was empty and lonely sometimes, and the money and the name kept her isolated from the rest of the town, well, no one ever said that life was perfect.
"Pouting again?" Joda was like a shadow, there beside her before Emilie had seen her.
The old woman sat easily in the chair beside the tub, tsking over the wet clothes on the tiled bathroom floor.
"What is it this time, child?"
Joda Ferrier was the last of three siblings. One had died at birth, the other, Emilie's father, ten years before that night. They were a proud, if not hardy, line.
Emilie soaped a sponge and ran it across her neck and shoulders. It wasn't unusual for Joda to visit her in the tub. Or late at night while she was sleeping. Or any other place that was unexpected. Her aunt lived for the unexpected.
"It was a little cold for the rites of the full moon, wasn't it?" Emilie asked her aunt.
Joda shrugged then took the sponge from her niece and soaped her back and shoulders. "The rites must be maintained. The temperature doesn't matter."
Emilie smiled at her aunt, looking at the snowflakes still trapped in the long white strands of her hair. Her green eyes burned fiercely in a timeless face.
No one knew exactly how old Joda was. Her father had told her that she had refused to celebrate birthdays, even as a small child.
"You didn't bring a child home with you," Joda said bluntly. "You must be going about it the wrong way."
Emilie sighed. "The little girl's guardian wants two parents."
"Easy enough," Joda answered practically. "Get married. That lawyer of yours has eyes for you."
"I'm only part of the Ferrier money to Alain," she explained to her aunt. "I wanted—"
"Didn't you want more that other time?" Joda pressed. "Look what a fiasco that was! The child is what's important here, Emilie! The family must continue, even if it's with blood other than our own!"
Emilie looked down at the rapidly cooling water in the tub. "What about love? Don't I have the right to be in love, being a precious Ferrier or not?"
Joda looked into her niece's eyes, so like her own, and shook her head. "Only you know the answer to that, ma petite belle. Love is one of the great mysteries. It comes when we least expect it."
She turned away to leave her niece to her bath, her flowing blue and green robe spreading out around her like a peacock's tail.
"Have you ever loved someone, Aunt Joda?" Emilie asked.
"Once," Joda replied quietly. "He died fighting in a war that wasn't his own. We were never together, but we have never been apart."
Emilie caught her breath at the pain in her aunt's honeyed voice. "I'm sorry, Aunt Joda. I love you."
"I know, child. Get out of that water and get into bed. You look as though a good breeze would knock you down."
Emilie finished her bath when her aunt had closed the door behind her then she poured herself a large glass of peach brandy that had been bottled while her father had still been alive. She climbed into her oversized canopy bed hung with white lace and turned off the light.
#
The next day, Emilie got up late and dressed hurriedly in warm clothing. The storm had cleared, but the temperatures had plunged during the night.
She looked for her aunt. There was no sign of her. The mansion had eighteen bedrooms, though, and she didn't have time to check them all. She was probably asleep somewhere in the house. She’d be awake by the time Emilie returned home that afternoon.
That was the way their relationship worked. Joda did what she pleased and Emilie knew she was all right because no one called and told her that they'd found her body on the road.
Her own parents hadn't been much different. From the time she could remember, they were always flying here and there. They’d climbed Mount Everest—her father losing two toes and her mother's nose frostbitten for the rest of her life. They’d raced cars and horses. They’d treated their daughter as if she were a doll with the occasional pat on the head and the comment on the way that she was dressed.
They’d died when Emilie was eighteen, just out of high school. Their latest passion, racing planes, had gone terribly wrong and they’d crashed into a mountainside.
Long before that, Emilie had taken over the day-to-day running of the big house and the extensive grounds. She’d made sure that her parents had food to eat and replaced her father's socks when they were worn. She’d purchased their plane tickets to Spain and kept them up to date with the family's charities.
John and Regina Ferrier were both beautiful, charming people with swarms of friends. Emilie arranged lavish parties at the mansion, sometimes doing the catering for the hundred or so guests herself.
The mansion had been a different place without their laughter and energy. Even when they’d been gone on some wild excursion and she was planning for their return, it had been exciting. Her world had become very quiet without them.
Not being like her parents, Emilie had chosen a much different life. She'd gone on to college and started teaching school as soon as she'd finished.
Joda had been outraged at a Ferrier lowering herself to teach school. Emilie wouldn't be dissuaded. She loved working with children, even the difficult ones. It gave her a purpose, a reason to get up in the morning.
Emilie ate toast and coffee for breakfast, as she always did. She went down to the garage and started her father’s old BMW. It purred to life, even though she rarely drove it, or the other three cars there. She liked the Mercedes.
She thought about Nick, and the maintenance he did on her cars to keep them r
unning. She didn’t like the idea that she had ignored something that was done for her. It was one thing to pay someone, and another to appreciate that person. Emilie had always tried to do both.
Or at least, she thought she had.
Joda said the people in town hated them because they were Ferriers. Emilie wondered if it was more because she and her aunt kept to themselves. They were strangers in the town named for their family.
Maybe she needed to get out more. There were probably many other new people she’d never met. Perhaps none so interesting . . .
It had been the night and the disappointment, she reminded herself. She’d never been attracted to someone so quickly before.
She pulled out of the huge garage that had been built to hold ten cars. She'd sold the other cars that her parents had left behind. She’d kept the Mercedes, the BMW and the Bentley. She’d also kept her father's red Lamborghini. It had been his particular favorite. She never planned to drive it, but didn’t want to part with the memory of seeing him behind the wheel.
Sometimes, she thought, pulling down the long drive, glancing up at the red brick mansion silhouetted against the white hills, she felt that she should sell everything. The house was too big for two women. The stables had been empty for years. There was a cottage for the gardener and a cottage for the housekeeper that hadn't been used since she was a child. The estate covered most of the mountaintop, looking down at the lights from the town and the highway that snaked around it.
She'd kept it all because she had wonderful memories of growing up there and had always thought her children would love to run through the apple orchard and play in the waterfall that rushed down the side of the mountain into the stream that meandered through the grounds.
Joda was another obstacle to selling. Emilie knew she could never move the older woman to a condominium. She had been born and raised there, running wild with the moon, and she wanted to die there.
