Dylan’s form appeared in the window across the way just as she’d imagined it earlier...or actually seen it earlier? His eyes widened with surprise when he saw her. He blinked then disappeared from view.
Was he surprised she was still alive? Was he coming after her to finish the job? She grabbed a robe and slid out the door, opening it as little as possible and closing it quickly behind her. Pulling on the robe, she raced downstairs and out the front door. She was not going to be a victim. She would confront him.
Dylan, wearing a rumpled brown robe, was already charging across the yard toward her. She halted on her porch, suddenly unsure of her bold decision, but he leaped up the steps and grabbed her arms before her groggy mind and body could run away.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded, his dark eyes wide, his expression concerned. “Why is your window broken?”
“Why did you leave in the middle of the night?” She tried to pull away from him, raised her hands to push him away, but he caught and held them.
“What happened to your hands? Did you break your window? Damn it, Analise, what’s going on?”
“How do you know I was the one who broke my window?” She jerked her hands from his grasp and hid them behind her back.
“You were standing in front of a broken window, and you have scratches on your hands. What am I supposed to think?”
She moved away from him, around the porch swing, put it between the two of them. “Did you turn on the gas before you left me?” She hadn’t meant to ask him so bluntly, but the words slipped out.
“Turn on the gas?” he exclaimed. “Someone turned on the gas? That’s why you broke the window?”
She nodded, her insides clenching into knots, the nausea returning full force, her headache rampaging as she waited for him to do or say something that would betray his guilt.
He stood erect, looking into the distance as though searching for answers. “Someone turned on the gas,” he repeated—stupidly, she thought.
“I almost died,” she said, and he flinched. “If you didn’t do it, who did? Nobody was in my house except you and me, and you left. Why did you leave?” Insanely, she wanted him to give her a reason, wanted him to prove to her he hadn’t tried to kill her after she’d opened her body and heart to him, given him her soul and thought he’d given her his.
He took a deep breath and faced her squarely, his eyes full of pain. “I had to get some distance, be by myself to think. Last night...us...it was all too much.”
Her heart clenched into a painful knot. “Too much what?”
“Too much everything. Too much emotion, too much involvement with each other.” He raked a hand through his hair and shook his head. “You just don’t understand.”
“I know that. So why don’t you tell me instead of talking in riddles?” She fought the urge to dissolve into tears. How could their lovemaking mean so much to her and so little to him?
Again he shook his head. “You can’t really believe I’d hurt you after last night. Why would I want to hurt you?”
“I don’t know,” she almost sobbed, banging her fists on the back of the swing. “I don’t know why someone would push me down the stairs or turn on the gas. If I can’t remember my life, how would I know why someone wants me dead?”
His eyes and nostrils flared, and she realized she had spoken her suspicions aloud for the first time. “What makes you think someone pushed you downstairs?” he asked softly.
She didn’t want to tell him about the dream or the lamp shard. “Why did you come to your window and look over at me?” she demanded instead. “Because you heard glass shattering and wanted to see if I had somehow managed to survive?”
He glared at her. “No,” he said, and she snatched the word from the air, held it to her, cherished it. He had finally denied that he’d tried to kill her. She had no reason to believe him, of course, only that her heart wanted to.
“I was having this stupid dream,” he continued. “You were drowning, and I was trying to help you.” He shrugged and shook his head. “The noise of glass shattering woke me up. I guess because I was dreaming about you, I associated the noise with you. I thought you were in danger, and you were. I went to my window and there you stood, behind that broken glass.”
It sounded amazingly similar to her own dream or hallucination. He’d been with her either in her dream or in her room. If he’d turned on the gas, he could have made up the dream to coincide with her reactions to the gas.
She wanted to believe him, to trust him. Maybe he was telling the truth about his dream. Maybe his soul had somehow reached out to help her. If she was going to believe their love had transcended death, it was a small leap to believe in mental telepathy.
He rubbed a hand across his face. “When I left, I made sure to lock your door behind me.”
“It was still locked when I came down,” she said accusingly. “No one else could have come in.”
“Analise, we’ve talked about this before. A child with a library card could slip through that lock.”
“But why would anyone want to kill me?” She spread her arms wide, almost screaming in her frustration and pain.
“Why would I want to kill you?” he asked quietly, his gaze tugging at her as it had seemed to tug in her dream. “Maybe nobody did. Maybe it was an accident. You got cold after I left, lit the heater, and it went out.”
Her heart surged with hope at the possible explanation, but she had to crush it. “The heater’s very hard to light. I have to use a pair of pliers to turn the handle. I’d have remembered.” Even as she spoke, she questioned herself. Would she have remembered? Hadn’t she forgotten a lot of things lately?
“Then let’s call the police.” Dylan stood there, sturdy and real, his words cutting harshly and cleanly through the last fuzziness in her brain, making real the possibility that someone was trying to murder her.
She wrapped her arms about herself against the chill air, rubbing the soft fabric of her robe. She couldn’t say why, but the idea of calling the police filled her with foreboding, despair, guilt.
“You’re cold. Let’s go inside and talk about this over some hot coffee,” he suggested. “I’ll go upstairs and check out your bedroom to make sure it’s safe.”
Make sure to remove his fingerprints before she took his suggestion and called the police?
She had to stop this. She could have turned on the heater herself.
But she hadn’t imagined the shard of glass on the stairs.
Unless it had been there all along and she’d manufactured the dream around it.
She passed a shaky hand across her face and nodded, agreeing to everything, to anything. Right now she felt more confused than when she’d first awakened to see a stranger in the mirror.
“Wait here.” He disappeared inside the house.
She didn’t wait, following him instead. She tried to tell herself she wanted to stay close to him because she didn’t trust him. She needed to see what he’d do when he got to her bedroom. But she couldn’t deny that a part of her simply wanted to be with him, wanted him to touch her and hold her again, make love to her, make all the pain and uncertainty go away.
He paused in the foyer and turned to her. “This could be dangerous. You really ought to wait outside.”
She shook her head, wondering if the danger he spoke of would be to her body or to her heart.
She followed him up the stairs and into her bedroom where the faint odor of gas greeted them, making her nauseous all over again though most of it had dissipated through the open windows. She waited in the doorway while he knelt by the heater and, using a handkerchief—to avoid smudging fingerprints or to stealthily wipe them off?—tried to turn the valve.
“You’re right,” he said. “Even I can hardly budge it. Are those the pliers you use?”
“Yes.”
He lifted the tool, examining it as if the inanimate object might begin to speak, to tell who had been using it.
And something slid in
to place in her mind—the image of Dylan sitting on her floor, holding a pair of pliers and grinning.
Her hand flew to her throat, and she gasped.
He looked at her quizzically. Her legs, already shaky, were suddenly unable to support her. She slumped to the floor, half-hysterical giggles escaping her lips.
“Analise?” He rushed over to her.
“What’s the matter?”
He sat down beside her, wrapped his arms about her, and she leaned against him. “I saw you with the pliers, and I remembered.”
“What?” Did she imagine it or did his arms tighten around her?
“It was so clear, you sitting there with the pliers in your hand, scowling fiercely.” For an instant she’d thought she was seeing Dylan turning on the gas. Then the memory had expanded. “You came over to fix my plumbing when it started making those horrible noises, and all I could give you to work with was a hammer, a screwdriver and those pliers.” She pressed closer to him, trembling in her relief.
“Totally useless. We sat on the floor and laughed.”
“Yes,” she said, letting the memory settle over her. It had been the first time she’d met him, and something very wicked inside her had started counting the days until her divorce would become final, until she could be free to pursue the spark that flared between them.
He laughed again, crinkle lines appearing at the corners of his eyes, suggesting smiling was something he’d done more of at some time in his past. But today, as she had that first day, she sensed something hiding behind the darkness of his eyes, something that pulled him back from the laughter they’d shared about her poor assortment of tools.
“It’ll all come back soon,” he assured her. Did his voice have a warning tone?
“I’d better go put on that coffee.” She stood, making an effort not to let him see how unsteady she still was.
Dylan rose with Analise and stood watching as she floated down the hallway and the stairs, her silky blue robe touching and sliding over the sleek curves of her body as she moved, the bare heels of her feet peeking out from beneath. He wanted to run after her, lift her in his arms the way he’d done a few days ago and carry her to the spare bedroom where they’d be free from the nauseating gas fumes, free to make love again.
When he’d lost all control last night and been drawn to her house, her bedroom, he’d told himself that making love to her might somehow free him from this attraction that was rapidly taking over his life. It hadn’t. His desire was stronger than ever.
The shield she’d kept between them before her accident had disappeared, and the barrier he’d deliberately erected was slipping fast. In fact, if he were truthful with himself, he had to admit that he’d taken more of her than just her body last night. He was inextricably tangled with those clear green eyes, with the vulnerable, frightened, stubborn spirit that shone through.
He’d seen the desire that matched his own in those unguarded eyes only a moment before, but she’d fought it, run away from him. What had she remembered, besides their first meeting? Why had she changed her story to being pushed down the stairs rather than falling?
They needed to talk, something they should have done in the beginning. But he hadn’t been sure what she knew, how involved she was. Now it seemed he had more to worry about than he’d realized. Pushed down the stairs, almost asphyxiated in her sleep...
When her memory returned, he had to be there.
He rose slowly to his feet and went down to the kitchen. She stood at the cabinet measuring coffee grounds, her long, slim fingers turning the mundane action into a graceful gesture. He had to fight a desire to scoop her into his arms, kiss away the angry red scratches on her hands, carry her far away from everything...into another land, another lifetime, where all that mattered would be their feelings for each other.
Of course, he couldn’t do that. “Analise, you’ve got to call the police,” he said unceremoniously, slipping into one of the small, uncomfortable chairs at the table.
“No.” Analise continued to measure coffee grounds into the basket, trying to ignore Dylan’s words. Again she felt the inexplicable but strong aversion to his suggestion. Because she didn’t want to know if Dylan had tried to kill her? She couldn’t imagine why he would want her dead. Even though he’d walked out on her last night, she knew he cared about her. But Shawn had cared about Elizabeth, and the possibility existed that he’d killed her.
With a start, she realized that she loved Dylan enough to risk putting herself in danger, just as Elizabeth had loved Shawn. But how could she ever endure the pain of knowing the danger came directly from him? Was that what she’d had to face as Elizabeth?
“What would I tell the police?” she asked, trying to sound logical. “That I can’t remember if anyone has a reason to kill me? That I might have gotten up and turned on the gas heater myself? That I dreamed someone pushed me down the stairs?” She turned to watch him carefully as she uttered the last sentence.
His eyes widened then narrowed. “What, exactly, did you dream?”
Her heart rate accelerated and she suddenly found it difficult to speak. Leaning against the counter while the coffee made gurgling sounds behind her, she told him about her dream. Was she giving her would-be murderer something to speed him on? And was that the cause of her terror or was it the thought of the agony she would suffer should she find that Dylan had betrayed her?
When she finished speaking, he sat staring at her for an endless moment then slowly pushed back his chair and came to her. She braced herself against the counter, wondered wildly if she’d have time to open the drawer and find the knife she’d wielded against him before.
But she made no move to follow through on that thought.
As though taking on a life of their own, her arms lifted to him, encircled him as he pulled her against his hard body.
“Analise,” he murmured hoarsely, desperately. “Analise, you don’t know...”
“Then tell me!”
His lips came down and captured hers, sent her mind spinning out of control. Through the soft fabric of his robe, she could feel his desire, hard and immediate. He pulled a few inches away from her, his gaze searing. “Isn’t this all we need to know right now?”
Dear God, it was. She’d risk her life to be with him because her life was nothing without him.
His lips trailed down her throat as his hands tugged at the sash of her robe, loosening it and peeling it back to expose her naked flesh.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, cupping one breast, igniting flames wherever he touched, while his other hand fumbled with the tie of his own robe. He lowered his mouth to her nipple, closed his lips around it, and her head rolled back, her eyes now seeing only bright flashes of light as his lips and tongue drew electric surges from her female center.
“Yes,” she whispered. “This is all we need right now. Only this.” She wouldn’t think beyond the moment, even if she could. He’d stolen all thought from her, as he’d done so many years ago. Their bodies had changed, but she’d recognize that kiss, that touch, those lips, if he came to her in a different body a hundred times.
He lifted her slightly to join with her, and she didn’t know or care whose body their souls were in. Together they rose though space and time, each thrust, each sensation sending them higher until they reached the sun, exploded and fused in a burst of light, together, inseparable.
Still holding him against her, inside her, Analise drifted slowly back to earth, caught her breath, became aware of the sharp edge of the countertop against her buttocks.
Dylan traced her lips with his fingertip then kissed them lightly. “Not a very romantic spot, I guess. But I seem to lose control around you.” He eased her feet to the floor, took himself from her, breaking the physical connection. But the connection of their souls could never be broken, she thought.
He caught both sides of her robe, started to pull them together, then stopped and trailed his tongue between her breasts, down to her stomach. She
arched backward at the delicious sensations he brought to her already overloaded nerves. With a smile, he drew her robe together and retied the sash.
“I think that coffee’s ready,” he said, grinning broadly and reaching into the cabinet behind them for cups. He poured two cups, stirred sugar into one and handed it to her, then sank to the floor. “This is as far as these legs will take me until I get some caffeine.”
Laughing, she sat down beside him. Using the cabinet for a backrest, legs stretched out in front of them, they drank in companionable silence for several minutes.
He leaned over to her, brushed her hair back and kissed her forehead. “Much as I regret it, I’ve got to go to work sometime today.”
“Mmmm.” She closed her eyes, savoring his touch for one more moment, then looked up at him and sighed. “I guess I do too. As soon as I can find the energy to crawl upstairs and get dressed.”
He frowned. “I’d almost forgotten about your bedroom. It should be aired out by now.”
“I’ll just be in there long enough to grab my clothes.” With a grimace, he took her coffee cup from her, set it along with his on the counter behind them, then took her hand. She winced as he touched the scratches.
“I’m sorry,” he said, bending to kiss them.
“It’s okay. A little peroxide and they’ll be good as new.”
He nodded but took care not to touch the scratches again. “Analise, we need to talk about something.”
She tried to tug her fingers from his grasp. She didn’t want him to break the spell, to drag them back to reality. She wanted to linger in the aftermath of their lovemaking for a while longer before they had to separate again. “We can’t discuss anything serious while we’re sitting in the floor in our robes,” she said lightly.
“Yes, we can. Listen to me for a minute. I should have been up-front with you a long time ago. My brother didn’t just die. He was murdered.” He looked at her—accusingly, she thought—and a shiver threaded its way down her spine, crowding out the last of the pleasant feelings.
Shifting Shadows Page 18
