“G. Dwayne liked to do things in a big way,” Cal said.
“This was his house?” Of course it was. She’d known it the moment she’d seen the praying hands on the gates. “I can’t believe you bought the house of a crooked televangelist.”
“He’s dead, and I need privacy.” He stopped the Jeep in front, then craned his neck to look up at the ornate facade. “The realtor guaranteed I’d like it.”
“Are you saying this is the first time you’ve seen it?”
“G. Dwayne and I weren’t close, so he never put me on his guest list.”
“You bought a house without looking at it?” She thought about the car she was riding in and didn’t know why she was even surprised.
He climbed out without replying and began to unload. She got out, too, and stooped down to pick up one of her suitcases, only to have him brush her aside. “You’re in my way. Get inside. It’s unlocked.”
With that gracious invitation, she mounted the marble stairs and opened the front door. As she stepped inside and caught her first glimpse of the interior, she saw that it was even worse than the outside. The open foyer had at its center an overly grandiose fountain with a marble sculpture of a Grecian maiden pouring water from an urn balanced on her shoulder. The fountain was running, thanks, no doubt, to the realtor who had unloaded this monstrosity on Cal, and the multicolored lights hidden beneath the water gave the whole thing a certain Las Vegas look. Hanging above the foyer like an inverted wedding cake was an enormous crystal chandelier made up of hundreds of prisms and teardrops held together with gold swags and filigree.
Turning to the right, she entered a sunken living room that was furnished with fake French rococo furniture, elaborately fringed draperies, and an Italian marble fireplace complete with cavorting cupids. Perhaps the room’s most vulgar piece was the coffee table. Its round glass top was supported by a center column shaped like a kneeling blackamoor, naked except for a crimson-and-gold loincloth.
She moved on to the dining room where a pair of crystal chandeliers topped a table that could easily seat twenty. But the most oppressive of the downstairs rooms was the study, which was outfitted with Gothic arches, thick, olive green velvet drapes, and dark, heavy furniture including a massive desk and a chair that looked as if it could have belonged to Henry VIII.
She reentered the foyer just as Cal was bringing in his golf clubs. As he leaned them against the side of the fountain, she looked up toward the second floor, which was surrounded by a balcony of grillwork that was even more ornate than the balcony outside. “I’m afraid to see the upstairs.”
He straightened and regarded her with cold eyes. “You don’t like it? I’m hurt. Hillbillies like me spend our whole lives dreaming of owning a beautiful place like this.”
She barely repressed a shudder as she turned away and headed upstairs, where she wasn’t surprised to find more swags, fringe, velvet, and gilt. She opened a door at one end and stepped into the master bedroom, which was a nightmare of red, black, and gold. It held still another chandelier along with a king-size bed resting on a platform. A red-brocade canopy decorated with heavy gold-and-black tassels topped the bed. Something caught her eye, and as she walked closer, she saw that the underside of the canopy held an enormous mirror. She quickly backed away, only to realize that Cal had entered the room behind her.
He went over to the bed and looked under the canopy to see what had caught her attention. “Well, what do you know? I always wanted me one of these. This house is even better than I thought it’d be.”
“It’s awful. Nothing more than a monument to greed.”
“Doesn’t bother me none. I wasn’t the one who cheated the God-fearing.”
His narrow-mindedness maddened her. “Think of all those people sending Snopes money they squeezed out of their food budget and social security checks. I wonder how many malnourished children went into that ceiling mirror?”
“A couple dozen for sure.”
She shot him a quick look to see if he was joking, but he had wandered over to explore an elaborate ebony cabinet that held electronic equipment.
“I can’t believe how callous you’re being about this.” She didn’t even know why she was trying to make someone so self-involved and intellectually impaired see beyond his limits.
“You’d better not say that in front of G. Dwayne’s creditors. More than a few of them are finally getting paid because I bought this place.” He slid out a deep drawer in the cabinet. “He sure did have a taste for porn. There must be a couple dozen X-rated videos in here.”
“Perfect.”
“You ever see Slumber Party Panty Pranks?
“That does it!” She stomped over to the cabinet, dug into the drawer, and filled her arms with the cassettes. The pile was so large, she had to brace it under her chin as she headed out the door to find a garbage can. “Starting now, this house is G-rated.”
“That’s right,” he called after her. “The only use you’ve got for sex is to get yourself knocked up.”
She felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. She stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to face him.
He glared at her with those damn-the-torpedo eyes, his hands splayed on his hips, chin jutted forward, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d told her to meet him outside so they could settle this with their fists. Once again, she realized how woefully ill equipped she was to handle this man. Surely there had to be a better way than sniping.
“Is this how we want to live for the next three months?” she asked quietly. “With the two of us attacking each other?”
“Works for me.”
“But we’ll both be miserable. Please. Let’s call a truce.”
“You want a truce?”
“Yes. Let’s stop all these personal attacks and try to get along.”
“No dice, Professor.” He stared at her for a long moment, then walked forward, his steps unhurried, but still threatening. “You’re the one who started this dirty little war, and now you’re going to live with the consequences.” He brushed past her and headed down the stairs.
She stood there with her heart pounding as he disappeared out the front door. Moments later, she heard the sound of the Jeep driving away. Deeply depressed, she dragged herself to the kitchen, where she deposited the videotapes in the trash.
The requisite Snopes’s family crystal chandelier hung over an island workspace topped with black granite that made it look like a crypt, an effect that was enhanced by the shiny black marble floor. The connecting breakfast nook had a charming bay window and a beautiful view. Unfortunately, the view had to fight a built-in banquette upholstered in blood red velvet and wallpaper printed with metallic red roses so full-blown they seemed on the verge of decay. The entire area looked as if it had been decorated by Dracula, but at least the view was pleasant, so she decided to settle in there until she felt more able to cope.
For the next few hours, she alternated between putting away the groceries that had been delivered, making phone calls to tie up loose ends in Chicago, writing a quick note to Caroline, and brooding. As evening approached, the quiet in the house grew thick and oppressive. She realized her last meal had been a very early breakfast, and though she had little appetite, she began putting together a small meal from the badly stocked pantry.
The groceries that had been delivered included multiple boxes of Lucky Charms, cream-filled chocolate cupcakes, white bread, and bologna. It was either hillbilly gourmet or the dream diet of a nine-year-old boy—either way, it didn’t appeal to her. She preferred her food fresh and as close to its natural state as possible. Deciding on a grilled cheese sandwich made from Styrofoam white bread and rubbery slices of artificial cheese, she settled on the red velvet banquette to eat.
By the time she’d finished, the events of the day had caught up with her, and she wanted nothing more than to stumble into bed and sleep, but her suitcases weren’t in the foyer. She realized Cal must have put them away while she’d been
exploring the house. For a moment, she remembered that awful master bedroom and wondered if he thought she was going to share it with him. She immediately dismissed the idea. He’d been avoiding even the slightest physical contact with her; she certainly didn’t have to worry about him being sexually aggressive.
The knowledge should have comforted her, but it didn’t. There was something so overwhelmingly male about him that she couldn’t help feeling threatened. She simply hoped her superior intelligence would win over his physical strength.
The colored lights of the fountain in the foyer below threw grotesque fun-house shadows on the walls as she made her way upstairs to find a bedroom for herself. With a shudder, she headed toward the door at the end of the hallway, choosing it only because it was farthest from the master bedroom.
The charming little nursery she found surprised her. Simply decorated with blue-and-white-striped wallpaper, it held a comfortable rocker, white enameled bureau, and matching crib. Above it hung a needlework prayer mounted in a simple frame, and she realized this was the only religious object she’d seen inside the house. Someone had designed this little boy’s nursery with love, and she didn’t believe it had been G. Dwayne Snopes.
She sank down in the wooden rocker that sat by a window with tieback curtains and thought about her own child. How could it ever grow strong and happy with two parents constantly at war? She remembered the promise she’d made Annie Glide to put Cal’s welfare before her own and wondered how she had let the old lady trap her into agreeing to something so impossible. It seemed even more ironic in view of the fact that he had promised nothing in return.
Why hadn’t she been wilier and ducked the old lady’s prodding as he’d done? Still, in light of the wedding vows she’d spoken, what difference did one more broken promise make?
As she rested her head against the back of the rocker she searched for a way to make peace with him. Somehow she had to accomplish it, not because of what she’d said to Annie, but because it was best for the baby.
A little after midnight, Cal sealed himself in the study to call Brian Delgado at home. While he waited for his attorney to answer the phone, he viewed the room’s Gothic furnishings with distaste, including the trophy heads mounted on the walls. He liked his blood sport to involve able-bodied men, not animals, and he made up his mind to get rid of them as soon as possible.
When Brian answered, Cal was in no mood to chitchat, so he got right to the point. “What have you found out?”
“Nothing yet. Dr. Darlington doesn’t seem to have any skeletons in her closet—you were right about that—maybe because her personal life has been almost nonexistent.”
“What does she do with her spare time?”
“She works. That seems to be her life.”
“Any blots on her professional record?”
“Problems with her boss at Preeze Labs, but that looks more like professional jealousy on his part. High-level particle physics still seems to be pretty much a boys’ club, especially with the older scientists.”
Cal frowned. “I hoped you’d have more by now.”
“Cal, I know you want this handled yesterday, but it’s going to take a while unless you want to attract all kinds of attention.”
He shoved his hand through his hair. “You’re right. Take the time you need, but handle it. I’m giving you complete authority to act. I don’t want this pushed aside.”
“Understood.”
They talked for a few minutes about the terms Cal was being offered to renew his contract with a fast-food chain, and then they discussed a proposed endorsement for an athletic clothing manufacturer. Cal was just ready to hang up when a thought occurred to him.
“Send one of your people out tomorrow to buy up a batch of comic books. Soldier of fortune stuff, action heroes—have them throw in a couple of Bugs Bunny. I’ll need four or five dozen.”
“Comic books?”
“Yeah.”
Brian asked no more questions, even though Cal knew he wanted to. Their conversation ended, and he headed upstairs in search of the woman who had so deviously altered his life.
He didn’t feel even a pang of guilt for wanting revenge. The gridiron had taught him a lot of survival lessons, and one of them was fundamental. If somebody laid a dirty hit on you, you had to strike back twice as hard or pay for it in the future, and that was something he wouldn’t risk. He had no intention of living the rest of his life looking over his shoulder trying to figure out what she might be up to next. She needed to understand exactly who she’d tangled with and exactly what the consequences would be if she ever tried to deceive him again.
He found her in the nursery curled up in a rocker with her glasses resting in her lap. In her sleep she appeared vulnerable, but he knew what a lie that was. From the beginning, she’d been cold-blooded and calculating as she’d gone about getting what she wanted, and in the process she’d altered the course of his life in a way he’d never forgive. And not only his life, he reminded himself, but the life of an innocent child.
He’d always liked kids. For over ten years he’d spent a lot of his time working with underprivileged ones, although he’d done his best to keep that information from the press because he didn’t want anybody trying to make him over into Saint Cal. When he finally got around to getting married, he’d always figured he’d stay that way. He’d grown up in a stable family, and it bothered him to watch his buddies and their ex-wives shuffle their kids back and forth. He’d sworn he’d never do that to a child, but Dr. Jane Darlington had taken the choice away from him.
He walked farther into the room and watched the blade of moonlight caught in her hair turn it into silver. One stray lock curled softly over her cheek. She’d taken off her jacket, and her silk top clung to her breasts so that he could watch their gentle rise and fall.
Asleep, she looked younger than the formidable physics professor who’d instructed her class on Borromean nuclei. That day there had been something parched about her, as if she’d been closed up inside so long that all her juices had dried up, but asleep and bathed in moonlight she was different—dewy, renewed, plumped up—and he felt the stirrings of desire.
His physical reaction bothered him. The first two times he’d been with her he hadn’t known what she was like. Now he knew, but his body didn’t seem to have gotten the message.
He decided it was time for the next scene in their unpleasant melodrama, and he pressed the toe of his shoe down on the front of the rocker. The chair tilted, and she startled awake.
“Bedtime, Rosebud.”
Her green eyes flew open and immediately darkened with wariness. “I—I must have fallen asleep.”
“Big day.”
“I was looking for a bedroom.” She slipped on her glasses, then pushed her hands through her hair, where it had fallen forward over her face. He watched silvery blond drizzles trickle through her fingers.
“You can take the Widow Snopes’s room. Come on.”
He could see that she didn’t want to follow him, but she wanted another argument even less. It was a mistake for her to telegraph her emotions the way she did. It made the game too easy.
He led her down the hallway, and as they came closer to the master bedroom, her nervousness grew. He felt a grim satisfaction watching it happen. What would she do if he touched her? So far, he’d avoided any physical contact, not quite trusting himself to stay in control. He’d never hit a woman—could never even have imagined doing such a thing—but the urge to damage her was primal. As he observed her nervousness, he knew he had to test her.
They reached the door just before his own. He extended his hand toward the knob and deliberately brushed her arm.
Jane jumped as she felt his touch and spun to face him. His eyes were full of mockery, and she realized he knew exactly how nervous he was making her. There was something dangerous about him tonight. She had no idea what he was thinking; she only knew that they were alone in this big, ugly house, and she felt defenseless.
He pushed open the door. “We’ve got connecting bedrooms, just like those old-time houses used to have. I guess G. Dwayne and his wife didn’t get along real well.”
“I don’t want a connecting bedroom. I’ll sleep in one of the rooms at the other end of the hall.”
“You’ll sleep wherever I tell you.”
Prickles of alarm skidded up her spine, but she lifted her head and met his gaze. “Stop bullying me.”
“This isn’t bullying. Bullies can’t back up their threats. I can.”
His lazy drawl held an edge of menace, and her stomach twisted. “Exactly what are you threatening?”
His gaze slid over her, lingering at the hollow of her neck, her breasts, passing down to her hips, then returning to her eyes. “You cost me my peace of mind, not to mention a wad of cash. To my way of thinking, that means you’ve got some big debts to pay off. Maybe I just want you close by while I decide when I’m going to start collecting.”
The sexual threat was unmistakable, and she should have been enraged—certainly frightened—but instead, a curious jolt passed through her, as if her nerve endings had received an electrical shock. She found her reaction deeply disturbing, and she tried to move away from him, only to back into the doorjamb.
He lifted his arm and splayed one hand on the edge of the frame, just next to her head. His leg brushed the side of hers, and all of her senses grew alert. She saw the hollows beneath his cheekbones, the rim of black that surrounded the irises of his pale gray eyes. She caught the faint scent of laundry detergent on his knit shirt and something else, something that shouldn’t have a smell, but did. The scent of danger.
His voice was a husky whisper. “The first time I strip you naked, Rosebud, it’s going to be in broad daylight because I don’t want to miss a thing.”
Her palms grew damp, and an awful wildness rose inside her. She felt a suicidal desire to peel her silk shell over her head, unfasten her slacks, to strip herself naked for him right here in the hallway of this sinner’s house. She wanted to answer his warrior’s challenge with one of her own, a challenge as ancient and powerful as the first woman’s.
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