by Karin Story
"Genny!" Maris sagged into the seat and slapped a hand against her chest as if her heart were pounding. "God I'm glad to see you. You had perfect timing, as usual."
"Let's get you off the island and we'll come back for your car later," the older woman said as she steered the vehicle down the dark, wet street.
"What the hell's going on? Who are you?" Tom leaned forward in the seat, every muscle in his body tight as a thinly stretched rubber band. He felt like he'd just stepped into an episode of the Twilight Zone…and he resented the hell out of it.
The woman in the front seat merely smiled at him, and the suspicion that was already clawing at him, surged to the forefront.
"I'm Eugenie Rhodes."
Rhodes? He turned to stare at Maris. "I thought you said your mother was dead."
Maris's eyebrows drew together. "She is," she said softly. "Genny's my stepmother."
His gaze locked with the woman's in the mirror again.
Her eyes were experienced, worldly, and he got the impression she was older even than she'd appeared at first glance. Her hair was long—dark, or maybe salt-and-pepper gray—and was twisted into a braid that hung down over her shoulder. Her earrings were silver hoops, her shirt, red, with long sleeves. A scrap of the same color was tied at the end of her braid.
"I married Maris's father six years ago," the woman said, her voice perfectly even, hypnotic almost.
"I've known her since I was sixteen, though," Maris added.
"And how is it, Genny," he ignored Maris and continued to stare at the woman, "that you just happened to be driving by the morgue on a rainy night?"
The woman showed no sign of being uncomfortable with his demand. Her shoulders were relaxed, her expression remained pleasant. "I sensed that Maris needed help."
"You sensed it?"
"Genny knows things sometimes," Maris said.
"Uh huh." This wasn't just the Twilight Zone, it was the freaking loony bin. He glanced at the door handle on his side, judging if he'd have time to make a break for it before he got dragged any deeper into this bullshit.
"It's okay, she'll help." Maris laid a hand on his arm.
But the way her touch burned into him was just too much. This whole thing was too much. He flicked her hand off and tried not to notice how she flinched when he did it. He stared from one woman to the other. All the while, a dark anger burned in his veins and a swimming black fog swirled in his brain.
Maris had obviously called this Genny at some point. But when? He'd been with her the whole time…except after they'd been locked in and he'd left her in the hallway while he checked for another way out. Was it possible she'd called for help then? But why wouldn't she have told him?
Unless of course this was all part of some scheme against him. For a short while tonight he'd thought maybe Maris was working with the guard, but then she'd been the one who nailed the guy and kicked his gun away.
Which brought up another point of contention. How had she learned moves like that?
He rubbed his eyes and tried to soothe away the ache throbbing behind them. His trust had swung back and forth a dozen times tonight and he was getting sick of it all. "Stop the car."
"I don't think that's a good idea, love," the woman in the front seat said in a calm voice.
"We can't stop now." Maris's tone was not so calm. "They're probably looking for us. We need to get as far away from here as possible."
"I said stop the damn car." His voice came out in a low growl that caused Maris's eyebrows to raise.
"Genny, don't." Then dropping her voice to a whisper, Maris turned to him, "I know this probably seems strange, with Genny showing up and all, but she'll help. She really will. And she got us out of there before the police and whoever else was in that building found us. You have to believe it's okay."
"I don't have to believe anything."
He reached for the door handle. They were probably doing about forty miles per hour. If he jumped out now it was going to hurt like hell, but, if he was real lucky, he didn't think it'd kill him.
Maris lunged across his lap, causing a bolt of agony to jar through his shot leg. He nearly doubled-over in pain at the same time she yanked his hand off the door.
"Will you stop it!" She wrapped both her hands around his good one. "That security guard, or agent, or whatever he was back there, knew you and wanted to kill you, Tom. I saw it in his eyes. And the police were swarming everywhere. In your condition, you wouldn't make it a half-mile before you collapsed and they caught you."
He stared at her, saw the flash of frustration in her eyes, but also the same hint of tenderness she'd shown toward him since he'd awakened in her living room. Confusion tore at him. And whether he liked it or not, he had to acknowledge she was probably right about how far he could get before he was caught. Damn his weakness!
"Look," her tone softened. "I know I can't make you trust me. After everything you've been through, God knows you don't have a reason to trust anyone. But please, at least stay in the car until we get off Long Island. Let us help you that much. Then, if you want to go your own way, no one's going to stop you."
He had to look away. He couldn't stand the disappointment in her expression.
Christ. He pulled his hand from hers once again, and rubbed his face. Every ache and pain in his body had surged to life with a vengeance. He was tired. Damn tired. He didn't know whether he was coming or going, didn't know who to trust, who to believe.
The woman in the front seat reached back and put a gentle hand on his knee. She didn't say a word, just simply touched him in an almost maternal manner. He wanted to push her away, too, wanted to be left alone in his misery, but he didn't have the strength to do it. Yet as the seconds ticked by, he felt warmth flowing out of her hand and into his injured leg, as if her hand were a furnace physically heating his flesh by degrees. He shifted, hoping she'd move. But she didn't. The heat continued in a steady stream.
And it was just too goddamned bizarre.
His heart pounding erratically at the strange sensation, he pulled his leg away with a jerk.
Moving her hand back onto the steering wheel, she met his gaze once more in the mirror and simply nodded, as if she understood.
Frowning, Tom turned away and saw Maris had scrunched herself into the corner as if she were trying to stay as far away from him as possible.
Guilt flickered through him, but he quickly snuffed it out. He had enough problems without worrying about her.
The blacktop slid by in a blur out his window. Maris was right, he needed to regroup and gather strength. Needed to figure out just who the hell the fake security guard was and how the man knew him.
He noticed the warm sensation in his leg hadn't entirely dissipated. And he remembered that for that brief time when the woman had been touching him, he'd also felt a strange sense of peace.
No. That was just his fatigue talking.
The Range Rover picked up speed as they got on the highway, and he'd never felt lonelier in his life.
At least not in the life he remembered.
* * *
As soon as Genny exited off the Long Island Expressway, Maris knew where they were going. She could have asked earlier, but it seemed every time she or Genny spoke, it agitated Tom. For the past ninety minutes, she'd had a sick sort of fear that if he got upset enough, he'd do something crazy, like try to jump out of the car again.
Genny steered the Range Rover onto a residential street in Brooklyn, then slowly pulled into a tree-lined driveway that led to a stand-alone Victorian. Like magic, the garage door slid open, which meant May must have been watching for them.
As they drove into the garage and parked next to a pale lavender Cadillac, the tension radiating from Tom became palpable. The expression on his face was that of a trapped animal.
When the garage door went down, leaving them in temporary darkness, she felt, rather than saw him take a deep breath, and heard a muttered curse.
Instinctively she reached out to him, but found
nothing. Instead, she heard his car door open. Then a rectangle of light from inside the house appeared, and the overhead garage light flicked on as well.
An older woman stood in the doorway. She wore a royal purple caftan that clashed wildly with the grayish red hair teased out around her head. A broad smile spread across her face.
"I see you found them," she said to Genny with a wave. "Good! Good! Glad you're all back safe and sound." She gathered Maris in a full-bosomed hug that smelled like lilacs.
Maris smiled. "It's been a while, May. How're you doing?"
"Well I'm just lovely, Maris, darling. Had a bout with that pesky arthritis in my shoulder, but Eugenie here brought me some of her evening primrose salve she makes and now I'm fit as a fiddle."
She reached for Tom and started to drag him toward her as well, presumably to offer him the same greeting as Maris, but he took a step back and settled his steely, tiger-eyed gaze on her. A gaze that would have scared off even the fiercest of enemies.
It didn't faze May. She merely grinned, her aged face wrinkling more. "Ohhh, you're the stern, hard-to-get type are you? My Samuel, God rest his soul, was the same. Always acting tough as an old piece of shoe leather. But underneath it all, he was a pussycat. I know your type." May reached up and pinched his cheek as if he were a five-year-old.
Maris quickly brought a hand to her mouth to hide the smile that snuck out at the dark red flush and look of sheer consternation on Tom's face.
"Come on into the house, dears." May flapped her hand in a little waving motion as if that would speed them along.
Genny and May led the way. Maris followed, trooping up the two concrete steps into May's purple and red gingham eat-in kitchen. When she glanced over her shoulder, she was very much relieved to see Tom enter the doorway. At least he hadn't bolted yet.
She offered him a small smile, but his sculpted face remained impassive, his golden gaze barely acknowledging her. He stood in the doorway, filling it to overflowing, like an avenging god once more. The dark circles under his eyes had deepened in color, and the skin around his lips looked pinched, like he was in pain but trying to hide it. He needed sleep. But judging from the wary expression on his face, that wasn't going to happen any time soon.
With a sigh, she leaned against May's kitchen counter.
"May and I are going to go back for your Jeep now, love. Best not to wait until morning." Genny reached out and brushed a loose curl off Maris's cheek, then she grew very still, her fingers lightly touching Maris's skin. Her berry-black eyes blinked slowly, and Maris recognized that Genny was having one of her "knowings."
As quickly as it had started, it was over. "Everything okay?" Maris asked quietly.
Genny smiled, the crow's feet in her tan face crinkling. "Do you remember reading The Little Prince when you were growing up?"
"Sure. Antoine de Saint-Exupery."
"Then you know it is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."
Maris nodded slowly. "I remember that part."
"Good." Genny glanced over at Tom, who remained unmoved in the doorway and who watched them closely, then turned back to Maris. "He needs rest." She didn't whisper it or try to keep Tom from hearing. She simply made a statement. After digging in her leather pocketbook, she pulled out two jars. Maris recognized one as a salve, the other held some kind of herb capsule. "Give him three of the capsules now, then another three in two hours. And try to get him to unwind enough to let you put some of this," Genny indicated the jar of salve, "on his injuries."
"I'll try." But she wasn't hopeful he'd let her near him, much less touch him.
May emerged from the living room, wrapped in a crocheted purple shawl and carrying a huge tapestry purse with purple and gold astrological signs woven into it. "Now, I've made ham, and fresh baked biscuits, and I've got homemade applesauce, too. Maris, darling, you fix you and your stern-faced gentleman something to eat, you hear?"
At the mention of food, Maris's stomach rumbled. May lived in Brooklyn but her roots were southern, through and through. And the thought of good old-fashioned southern ham and biscuits after a long, miserable day with nothing to eat but a granola bar, almost brought a smile to Maris's face. Certainly it brought one to her empty stomach.
"Maybelle, did you have what you need?" Genny asked.
"Well, of course, dear." May grinned and pulled a metal New York license plate out of her huge purse. "We can't have the authorities thinking that the Jeep Wrangler we're about to retrieve belongs to our darling Maris. With a little switch-o, chang-o," she waved her hands wildly through the air, missing a set of Waterford crystal wine goblets on the shelf behind her by mere millimeters, "the vehicle in question has a new owner. One Donald J. Finkman and his wife Clarice." Then she gave an exaggerated wink to first Maris, then to Tom. "I always knew that job I did for the Motor Vehicle Division would come in handy one day."
Maris couldn't help but chuckle.
Tom, she noted, looked more and more every second like he was trapped in the middle of a really bad B movie, and he was about to break out a chainsaw and start hacking his way to freedom.
"All right then," Genny said in her ever calm voice, "we're off. We'll be back in a few hours." She kissed Maris on the cheek. "You take care of yourself…and him."
"Don't forget the applesauce, dearies!" May warbled, as she shooed Tom out of her way so she could get out the door into the garage. Her plastic high-heels clattered on the garage step, and she had to grab the wall to balance herself. "It's on the second shelf in the refrigerator, next to the bread-and-butter pickles I canned this fall."
Genny followed patiently in May's colorful wake, her brown leather lace-up boots silent on the ceramic tile, her denim skirt swishing softly. She paused for just a moment in front of Tom and patted his arm. "Let Maris use the salve on your ribs. It will help them knit."
His eyes were as cold as iced gold. "How do you—?"
"It's on your face, love. You wince every time you move or take a deep breath. So use the herbs. And rest easy. No harm will come to you in this house."
Then she was gone. The kitchen door shut, the electric garage opener grated and whined, and Maris heard May's Cadillac rev up.
She looked at Tom.
He stood staring at her, his splinted hand cradled against his chest, the other one fisted at his side. There couldn't be a relaxed muscle in his body.
But for the first time since the security guard incident, the feral gleam in his gaze had softened. Or maybe softened wasn't the right word. It was more like…incredulous.
"Good God." His deep voice echoed through the silent old house. "Who are those loony old women?"
Chapter 9
* * *
Maris wasn't sure whether to be offended for Genny and May's sake, or to laugh. But she had a feeling if she laughed she'd soon face the tiger's wrath, so she opted for action instead.
"How about some food. May's a great cook."
"I'm not hungry," Tom growled.
"Ok-ay," she said slowly, trying to ignore the fact that her own stomach was rumbling and grumbling. "Well, you need to rest then, before your body gives out. Come on, I'll show you one of May's guest rooms…if you're not planning to run off and disappear into the night, that is."
She couldn't stand to see what decision he made, so she turned her back on him and headed up the polished wooden stairs to the bedrooms.
A fire burned in what May called the Gentleman's Boudoir, giving off enough golden light in the room that Maris didn't bother switching on a lamp. In here, the décor was rich burgundy and navy blue. The polished parquet wood floors were covered with thick oriental rugs, and two huge, leather armchairs faced the fireplace. The maple canopy bed at one end of the room supported hangings of heavy burgundy and blue paisley brocade. Its covers had been pulled down. May had obviously expected them to stay the night.
This room was far more suitable to Tom's masculinity than any of May's other guest
rooms, which were respectively known as The Rose Room, The Lavender Mist Room, and the Victorian Valentine Room. A twinge of tired, hysterical laughter welled up in her chest at the thought of Mr. Tiger in the pink lacy décor of the Victorian Valentine Room.
One glance at the man in question sobered her. He stood in the doorway, the golden-red glow of firelight flickering around him, no hint of humor on his face.
He stalked toward her, limping slightly, his face like stone. "Let's play a game."
Her mouth went dry and no laughter bubbled inside now. She took a step backward. Then another, as he continued to advance on her.
Her back bumped against one of the bed posts.
"What game?" she asked with more bravado than she felt.
He stopped a mere foot away from her, towering over her, six foot two, a couple hundred pounds of unsmiling, unyielding male.
A tiger, stalking his prey.
Her pulse throbbed erratically. She tasted bitter fear in her mouth, but also the sweet headiness of forbidden excitement.
"This game," he put his good hand on the bedpost right next to her face, "is called True Confessions. There's only one rule."
"What rule is that?" She stared back at him, damned and determined she wasn't going to let him see her sweat. She should have turned on a light. It was dark in this corner of the room with nothing but firelight to see by.
"You have to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."
"And if one doesn't tell the truth?"
"That's not something you want to find out," he said softly against her ear.
Maris's heart skipped a beat and she felt a little dizzy from his close proximity. He smelled like rain, dark passion, and danger.
"I don't have any reason not to tell the truth. What about you?"
His gaze never wavered. "I've already told you everything I know about myself."
"Yeah. Right. You don't remember anything."
"That's correct. But what about you, Maris?"
He touched her softly on the cheek with the back of his rough fingers, and her deceitful body almost had an orgasm over it.
