by Sharon Sala
The scream that came out of John’s own mouth was what woke him. He was out of his bed and halfway down the hall, stark naked, before he realized he’d been dreaming—before he remembered that he could run for eternity and never find her. He was now the lost one.
He reached for the wall to steady himself, and as he did, he heard a sound behind him.
He spun.
She was standing a few feet away, as naked as he was, a dark silhouette in an even darker hall.
His heart hit a beat so hard that he lost his breath.
“John? What’s wrong?”
He exhaled a slow, shaky breath. At least one woman had returned to the land of the living. He moved toward her on bare feet, wanting to test the temperature of her skin, anxious to reassure himself that this wasn’t just another dream.
He slipped his hands beneath the thick fall of her hair, pulling it away from her face and then cupping the back of her neck.
“So…you decided to come back,” he said softly.
The touch of his hands on her bare body was disturbing enough, but it was the tone of his voice that drew her in.
“What do you mean…I came back? I didn’t go anywhere.”
Despite the fact that they were both without clothing, he pulled her into his arms. For a moment he allowed himself the luxury of the embrace, laying his cheek against her hair, then rubbing her back with slow, sensuous strokes.
“You went far, far away, Alicia. I didn’t think you were coming back. I thought you would die.”
Die? If he didn’t turn her loose, she thought, she might die from a sudden attack of lust. Other than that, she didn’t know what he was talking about.
Suddenly she remembered. “The scorpion!”
He nodded as he swept his fingers along the curve of her face and neck, feeling for signs of fever. There were none.
“I’m allergic,” she said.
“Now you tell me,” John said.
“How did you—”
“Don’t ask,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe me anyway. Suffice it to say you scared the hell out of me.”
“I seriously doubt that,” she said, and then suddenly felt embarrassed, so she crossed her arms over her breasts in an effort to cover them.
“Are you okay? Are you hungry? Thirsty? I can—”
Alicia shook her head. “I’m okay. I feel sort of weird, but I’m okay.”
John took her by the arm and led her back into her bedroom. “You need to lie down. I know you’re still shaky, even if you won’t admit it. You’ve been unconscious for over twelve hours.”
Alicia let herself be tucked back into bed and then watched him as he moved around the room, fussing with her covers, adjusting the flow of the air conditioner, refilling her glass with water, until he was making her nuts.
“You aren’t wearing any clothes,” she muttered.
He was standing at the foot of her bed when she made her announcement.
“Neither are you.”
Alicia decided to change the subject. “Why were you calling?”
“I just…I had a bad dream, that’s all.”
Alicia frowned, then shook her head. “I think I was dreaming before, too. What was yours about?”
He didn’t try to explain himself. There was never a way to explain. But he was grateful for the sound of her voice as he listened to her talk, feeling thankful that she hadn’t given up on living after all.
“You know how goofy dreams can be,” Alicia said. “They always seem so real and logical while you’re in them…but when you wake up, nothing about them makes sense.” She put her hands beneath her head and then shifted to a more comfortable spot. “This one felt so real. I was sitting by a fire, cooking fish.” She laughed once, so softly he almost didn’t hear it. “Which proves it was a dream, because we both know I can’t cook.”
John was too shocked to speak. He kept staring at her face, watching the words come out of her mouth and telling himself that what she was saying meant nothing.
“In the dream, a puppy was playing with a bone that was too big for him, and I was laughing so hard. Then I heard you shouting. I called back, telling you that I was right there. But you kept shouting and shouting, as if you couldn’t see or hear me. So I began to get up from the fire to go see what you wanted, but it felt like my legs wouldn’t work.”
John shuddered. He wanted her to stop talking. He couldn’t think about this. She didn’t belong in his dreams. They were all he had left.
“Finally, I managed to get up from the fire, and when I did, the dream was gone and it was just me getting up out of bed. You ran past my room shouting my name. So I came out to see what was wrong.”
“You heard me…calling your name?”
She nodded.
“Your name?”
Alicia frowned, then suddenly pushed back the covers and sat up, unconscious of the fact that she’d just bared herself to him again.
“No. No. Actually, that wasn’t what you were saying.” She shoved her fingers through her hair, wishing for something to tie it back, because it was hot against her neck. “I guess I must have still been half-asleep when I got out of bed. You were calling a name, but not mine. I guess I got confused because it was me you were calling for in the dream. The dream me, not me in this bed. I told you dreams were crazy.”
John needed to walk out of the room right now, but he couldn’t leave without knowing.
“What do you mean, it was you in the dream, not you in the bed?”
She laughed.
His fingers curled around the bedposts. Their laughter was nothing alike. This meant nothing. He was making a big deal out of nothing.
“That did sound crazy, didn’t it?” Alicia said. “What I meant was…in the dream, I wasn’t me. My name wasn’t Alicia. That’s what I meant.”
“What was your name?”
“Oh, something Indian. It’s probably because of you and all the stuff in your house.”
Something Indian. Okay, he told himself. Let it go. Don’t push. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t. Yeah, right. Then why was she dreaming my dream?
Even while John was giving himself the big let-it-go speech, his mouth was opening and the words were coming right on out.
“Exactly what ‘something Indian’ are we talking about?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound condescending, I swear,” Alicia said.
“Alicia, I’m very glad you’re no longer unconscious. And I’m very glad that you didn’t die. But I swear to your God, that if you don’t answer my question, I am going to—”
Alicia threw up her hands. “White Fawn. For pity’s sake…my name was White Fawn. Now go on. Laugh yourself silly. I know that sounds like a Hollywood version of the traditional Indian maiden bit, but I didn’t make it up. In my dream, that was my name.”
John reeled as if he’d been slapped, then backed away from her bed as if she’d turned into a witch.
“Go to sleep,” he said.
She flopped back down and pulled up the covers, grumbling beneath her breath.
“Happy to oblige. But if you want people to be quiet, you need to look to yourself first. Running naked all over the place and yelling out crazy names.”
John pulled himself together by sheer will and was almost out the door when she spoke again.
“Hey! Wait a minute!” she called. “Why were you shouting that name out in the hall?”
“I told you…I was having a bad dream,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”
Alicia frowned. “You were dreaming about a woman named White Fawn? The same woman I was dreaming about?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
“That’s a little weird,” she said.
“Not to me,” he replied.
“But…”
John gritted his teeth. “In the name of all that’s holy, woman…let it go.”
“Who is White Fawn?” Alicia pressed.
He looked away, wanting he
r to shut up and knowing she wouldn’t until she got an answer. “The woman in the painting…She’s the woman in the painting.”
“But I thought that woman was your—”
One minute John Nightwalker had been in her doorway, and now he was gone. Alicia frowned. “For pity’s sake,” she complained. “You want all your questions answered ASAP, but just let me ask a question, and you go and pull the silent act on me. Fine.”
She lay down again and pulled the covers back up, still fuming about the way he’d made his exit when it hit her. Yes, she’d seen the painting, but she hadn’t known the woman’s name. So how had she stumbled on that exact name in her dream?
She rolled over onto her side and closed her eyes. It was stupid trying to make sense of a dream. Besides, she’d probably heard him say the name before and just forgotten. Within a few minutes, she had fallen back to sleep.
For John, sleep was over.
As Alicia slept, he put on a pair of sweats and went into the kitchen. It was almost four in the morning. Might as well make some coffee.
The scent of the freshly ground beans permeated the room as he measured grounds and water and then slid the carafe onto the burner and punched Start. When the coffee began flowing into the carafe, he turned away and moved to the windows.
There was already a change in the density of the darkness toward the east. He didn’t think about how many thousands of mornings he’d watched this happening. He was still trying to combat the shock of what Alicia had said. It had knocked him so far off center that his head was spinning. For all he knew, the Old Ones were messing with him. Suddenly he pivoted and strode quickly through his home, heading for the portrait. The house was dark, but he navigated it easily. He wanted—needed—to be near her. He had to see for himself that there was nothing about them that was alike.
The display light over the painting was the only light in the room. Entering in the dark to see her face—so alive that he could almost hear her breathing—was a physical pain. He stared at her from across the room, studying the shape of her eyes, the curve of her mouth, the widow’s peak dip in her hairline, searching for anything that reminded him of Alicia Ponte. There was nothing.
Momentarily satisfied that he’d made a big deal out of nothing, he started to walk away when he remembered: Richard Ponte looked nothing like the Spaniard who’d destroyed his world, and yet he knew in his soul that they were one and the same.
He told himself that if he was able to feel the soul of his enemy, he would certainly also recognize the other half of his heart. Disgusted with himself and his flight of fancy, he stalked back to the kitchen, poured himself a cup of the freshly brewed coffee, disarmed the security system and walked out onto the terrace to wait for morning.
Richard had been waiting for a call from Dieter for more than twenty-four hours. He needed as much information as Dieter could get on the state of the case against him. He wanted details from the news and anything they reported about his daughter. He’d also put Dieter in contact with a man who could find just about anyone on the planet if they were still alive. One way or another, he would face his daughter one last time.
On top of everything else, he needed to get rid of this cell phone, but he couldn’t discard it until he’d given Dieter the new number he wanted him to use, and he couldn’t do that until the man called back.
At least the past twelve hours had been fruitful in another way. He’d reconnected with the business world in a big way. As Anton Schloss, he manufactured tires in Germany and was the absentee owner of a lucrative ski lodge in the Swiss Alps. His beard was longer now, and neatly clipped. He shaved his head daily, and had purchased a whole new wardrobe befitting his status.
In two days he would be traveling to Switzerland for reconstructive surgery. During the time of his convalescence, Richard Ponte was going to meet with a very violent and untimely death. After that, no one would be looking for him, and he would be able to move about the world with comfort and ease. And that was when payback would begin.
A day had passed since Alicia’s awakening. She had recovered completely and was back to her old acerbic self, pushing at boundaries John didn’t want breached, asking questions he had no intention of answering. She seemed determined to get to the bottom of what made him tick, and he was just as determined to ignore her.
He had been in his office for the better part of three hours. Twice she had found a reason to walk past, and each time, he’d either been online or talking on the phone. From the bits and pieces of conversations she’d overheard, it was business as usual for him. He was giving orders to import a new shipment of brass and copper pots from India, then bargaining with some middleman to double his order of Native American blankets and jewelry into Great Britain.
It gave her insight into where he got his money, but it didn’t do anything for her peace of mind. And his work ethic only brought home to her how shallow her own life had been. Her social calendar had always been full of one event or another that she needed to attend—sometimes on her father’s behalf, sometimes as a pet project of her own, but as she spent time with John, it had become painfully clear that without the auspices of her father’s power and notoriety, her life had no meaning. She didn’t have a job other than to play decorative hostess. She didn’t have close friends, only acquaintances with whom she shared lunches and committees. And except for a college boyfriend, there’d been only one other man in her life, and that had been years ago. She’d had the occasional interlude, but nothing lasting beyond four or five dates. She’d never thought about why, but now the question kept coming back to haunt her.
John Nightwalker still grieved for the woman in the painting.
She wanted someone to love her like that.
She wanted John, but knowing her father had been responsible for his family’s deaths made pursing a relationship with him an impossible dream. He would never see her as anything but the spawn of his own private devil.
Alicia awakened the next morning with a plan. It was time to rethink her existence, but living in this cocoon with a man who didn’t like her was making it difficult to broaden the range of her skills. Still, she could start small, and one thing she could do was learn how to cook. Everyone needed to know how to feed themselves. It was embarrassing that she could not.
She prowled through the library looking for some kind of cookbook without success, then gave herself a mental thump on the head when she found several on a shelf in the kitchen. Where else should a cookbook be? She pulled a couple off the shelf, then took them and a soda to an easy chair in the living room. The terminology and preparations were mind-boggling. She wasn’t even sure how to pronounce them, let alone perform them. But it wasn’t long before she was completely absorbed.
It was the quiet that finally soaked into John’s consciousness. Too much quiet. He glanced at his watch and tried to remember how long it had been since he’d seen or heard Alicia. Immediately, his instinct to protect went into gear. He saved his work, then got up and started his search.
The first place he went was her bedroom, but after knocking and receiving no answer, he looked in to find the room empty. He then went from the library to the living room. It wasn’t until he’d paused there that he realized he could smell something cooking.
That in itself was shocking. He headed for the kitchen, trying not to run.
She was at the sink, her long hair pulled up in a ponytail, wearing white shorts and a simple yellow cotton shirt, untucked. Her feet and legs were bare. Steam was rising from a pot bubbling on the stove, and there were at least a half-dozen dirty bowls and pans scattered across the counter.
He knew what she looked like naked, but damned if she didn’t look almost as good like this. That she was cooking was a shock. He didn’t know what had prompted it, but he gave her a mental high-five for the effort.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Alicia looked over her shoulder and grinned when she saw him. “I’m making dinner.”
He
glanced at his watch again. “It’s ten after three in the afternoon.”
“I know…but I didn’t know how long it would take. I’m not exactly a pro at this, you know.”
He stifled a smile as he walked up beside her, then noticed she’d suffered a few battle wounds in the process. One hand was sporting Band-Aids on three fingers, while her other had a Band-Aid on the thumb.
“What happened?” he asked, pointing.
“Um…” She nodded toward a bowl of potato peelings, which, when he looked closer, had a good quarter inch of potato on each spiral. “Peeling potatoes is harder than it looks.”
He took the knife out of her hands, laid it aside and turned her hands palms up. She’d also managed to slice a thin flake of skin from the area above her left wrist. The blood had dried, but not before leaving a smear on her chin and another on the hem of her shirt.
“I know…it looks like I went to war, not the kitchen,” she said, suddenly embarrassed by her lack of skill.
“Poor little fingers,” he said softly, and couldn’t help thinking of how adept White Fawn had been with nothing but a thin piece of flint. “But an A-plus for effort.”
Alicia beamed.
Man…she did have her moments. That smile was a heartbreaker. “So…we’re having potatoes.”
“Oh…that’s not all,” she said. “I’m boiling eggs…and making toast.”
He grinned, then glanced at the pot on the stove. There were four eggs on the boil, but with less than an inch of water in the pan.
“Er…uh…about how long do you think those eggs have been boiling?”
She frowned, then glanced up at the clock over the stove. “Maybe thirty minutes.”
“They’re done,” he said, and turned the burner off under the pan.
“Oh…well…okay,” Alicia said, and pointed to the potatoes she had chopped up in a bowl. They’d been there long enough that they were starting to turn a little brown, but he knew from experience that wouldn’t change the flavor. And he wasn’t going to complain about a thing. “I’m going to cook those next,” she said.
