by Anne Stuart
Salvatore's expression didn't change. "What are you asking me to do?"
For a moment, Megan was nonplussed. "Let me go?"
Salvatore didn't move. "What if I did?"
She didn't believe it. Didn't believe the glimmer of hope he'd offered her. "I'd run. I'd get as far away as fast as I could. And I wouldn't say anything. Not about this place, not about Ethan, not to anyone."
"Your father's going to stand trial, and Ethan provided most of the evidence. Aren't you going to want revenge?"
"If what Ethan said is true, then my father deserves whatever happens to him. I was on my way to Europe when I came here. I promise, if you help me get away, I'll head straight to New York and take the next plane to England. My father can fend for himself." She swallowed her own momentary compunction. She pitied her father, she truly did. But she couldn't save him from the results of his own greed, and she wasn't going to try.
Sal actually appeared to be considering the proposition. "I'll think about it."
"Salvatore..."
"I said I'll think about it," he snapped.
"All right. In the meantime, do you suppose I might be able to get some fresh air? I think the rain has let up, at least for now. I'd like—"
"The doors are open to the garden." He gestured to the wall of what she'd simply assumed were windows. "You can go out there." He headed for the door and she felt a moment's compunction for the obvious torment she'd put him through.
"And you'll consider what I asked?"
"I'll consider it. In the meantime, do me a favor."
"Anything."
"Don't take off your clothes in front of the camera again."
She almost fainted. She could feel her skin pale in shock. She'd been so certain it had been Ethan watching her. The thought that Salvatore had been a witness to her ill-advised striptease was horrifying.
Too horrifying to be believed, she realized with a sudden wave of relief. Ethan wouldn't have let him watch. "Ethan tell you to say that?" she asked, pulling herself together.
She wasn't imagining the glint of amusement in Salvatore's eyes. "I'll say one thing for you, you're smart," he acknowledged. "I'll be bringing your supper early. I have to go into town."
"Would you...?"
"I told you I'd think about it. In the meantime, you stay put and keep quiet. Ethan doesn't need any distractions from the likes of you."
"Then why won't he let me go?"
Salvatore refused to say another word, slamming and locking the white steel door behind him, and for a moment, Meg worried that she might have pushed him too far, too fast. There seemed a very real possibility that he might help her escape. She had no illusions that he was doing it for her. He was obviously worried about his employer, if that was what Ethan was. He knew full well that her continued presence in the huge old monstrosity of a house was a danger to everyone, particularly to Ethan's seclusion.
She glanced down at her hands, at the ring she was twisting around her finger with an unaccustomed nervous gesture. It was odd—she didn't seem capable of leaving it behind. Every time she took it off, she felt edgy and incomplete. She'd ended up wrapping a piece of purple yarn through it to keep it in place. Logical or not, she knew that if she lost it, she'd be devastated.
She glanced out the bank of windows. The day was relatively clear for a change, and she could see the rose bushes beginning to bud. Joseph, she thought. She needed to find Joseph, to sit in the sunlight and talk to him about things no one else would talk about. And she needed to make plans.
With Salvatore gone that night, it would be the perfect time to make her move. The problem was, she had two choices. One, try to escape. Her car was gone now, demolished in flames, and how the hell she was going to explain that to the rental agency in Tennessee was something she didn't care to think about. How do you tell the bored, gum-chewing employees of Cheap-O Rent-A-Car that you've been held prisoner by a deformed madman and your car was destroyed by a white-sheeted, torch-carrying mob?
The other choice was not a wise one, however. Her other choice was not to escape, but to go in search of Ethan Winslowe. Beard the monster in his den, find the phantom and face her fantasies, her nightmares, her terrors. Prove to herself that he was real, human, someone to be pitied, not to be frightened of.
And then she could leave. Salvatore would help her, she knew that. But if she left without seeing Ethan, without facing him fully, then he'd haunt her for the rest of her life.
The choice was made, and it had really been no choice at all. In the meantime, she had to figure out how she was going to get out of this room once Salvatore left for the evening.
It took her a few minutes to figure out how to work the sliding door to the garden, something that didn't augur well for her success in tracking down Ethan that night. When she stepped into the fitful sunlight, she was shocked by the blanket of humid heat that swept over her. After days of cold, chilly rain, the sudden warmth was a shock to her system, and no sooner did she take a deep gulp of the hot, damp air than her skin began to prickle with an odd chilliness.
"There you are," Joseph's soft voice floated over to her. He was at the end of the walled garden, on his knees in the dirt, his cap pulled low over his wispy gray hair, his gnarled hands digging deep in the loam. She moved toward him, rubbing her arms briskly, stopping a few feet away. "I wondered when you'd come to see me again."
She sank down onto the thick grass, sitting cross-legged. For some reason, she didn't move closer. It was as if Joseph had an invisible shield around him, one that kept people at a safe distance. Besides, now that she'd grown accustomed to the humid weather, she was discovering it wasn't as warm as she'd first thought. As a matter of fact, it was downright chilly.
"They keep moving me around. This is the first time I've been near an outside door in days."
Joseph nodded, looking up at her to smile with that sweet, otherworldly smile of his. "So, Megan, have you decided?"
"Decided what?"
"Whether you'll leave him? Or save him?"
The gentle question was like a fireball in the pit of her stomach. "How could I save him?"
Joseph sat back on his heels and shrugged. "I don't know if I could tell you. He's been abandoned by the women in his life. By his own mother, who was so horrified by the sight of him that she kept him a virtual prisoner in this house, surrounded by a few servants and his weak-willed father. By Jean Marshall, who went back to her university and turned her back on him. By Ruth."
"He wasn't in love with Ruth," Meg protested, unsure how she knew that.
But Joseph nodded. "You're right, he wasn't. But he cared about her, protected her. By that time, he was almost beyond falling in love. It was the only way he could let her go so easily."
"Who was Jean Marshall?" I'm not jealous, she told herself firmly. I've never even seen the man, he frightens me. I'm simply curious. The more I know about him, the better my chances of escape are.
"A physics professor at Princeton."
"What?"
"How do you think Ethan survived most of a lifetime in this place, never going anywhere, seeing anyone? His family imported the best tutors and paid them enough, supported their research projects, to ensure that they kept their mouths shut about what they did or didn't see. It worked fine until Jean Marshall showed up. Ethan was in his early twenties then, and he fell head-over-heels in love with her."
I'm not jealous. "What happened?"
"Well, to give her her due, she fell in love with him, too. But she was a young, ambitious woman, used to city lights and lots of people. She wasn't ready to bury herself out here, and Ethan couldn't face people. When she found out she was pregnant, she had an abortion and left him with nothing but a note."
"Oh, God."
"She was afraid her child would carry Ethan's burden ..." Joseph let the words trail. "Ethan understood her fears. He never blamed her, and I think he would have felt better if he had. Instead, he just drew himself in more firmly here. He made an a
rrangement with Ruth when she was in need, but there was honest caring on both sides. He just wouldn't let himself care too much. And since she married, there's been no one for him. No one at all."
"And you think I'm that someone?" Meg demanded, summoning up an anger to squash down other less-acceptable emotions.
"I couldn't say. You're here, aren't you?"
"I want to leave."
He simply looked at her out of eyes wise and ancient, and then he shook his head. "When Salvatore leaves tonight, you could go."
She didn't bother to ask how he knew. "I want to see Ethan first."
"Not wise. Once you see him, it will be harder for you to escape."
"Why?" she asked. "Is he so afraid of having his deformities viewed that he would keep me here... ?"
"It's not that simple. Not at all. You're already tied to him. You know it, even as you struggle against the bonds. If you see him, those bonds will only grow stronger, and before long, you'll never be able to break free."
"The others did."
"Ah, yes. But if you left him, he would die," Joseph said simply.
Meg shivered in the cool air, rubbing her hands along her upper arms. "Don't be ridiculous. People don't just die like that."
" 'Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love,'" Joseph quoted. "Maybe not. But if you get any closer to him, if you don't leave now, I wouldn't count on anything. Ethan isn't like other men. His life has been entirely different, his emotions, his power are unlike those of other men. If you're going to leave him, leave now."
"I'm not ready to go," she said stubbornly.
Joseph closed his eyes for a moment, weary. "Then it'll be on your head. Choose wisely, Megan. His life will rest in your hands." Joseph rose, backing away from her. The sun had gone behind a cloud, casting the garden in shadows, and a light, misting rain had begun to fall.
"But Joseph..."
"My faith is in you, child. If you want to find him, keep turning left. If you want to leave, turn right."
"I don't understand."
"Turn left, child. Always left." And he vanished into the billowing mists, leaving her alone in the garden, shivering.
Meg had no watch, and the ever-changing weather beyond the wall of glass could give her little clue as to the time of day. Salvatore brought her a tray of cold meats and salad, thumping it down on the white lacquer table, and one look at his dour face warned Meg not to ask again. He was obviously wrestling with what was best for Ethan. She might or might not take that decision out of his hands.
She waited for his footsteps to die away, then tried the steel knob on the white door. Firmly locked. She'd have no choice but to go through the gardens, find a way over the wall.
But she'd wait until darkness fell. She wasn't quite sure why—Ethan could see more clearly in the dark than she could. The fitful daylight would only hinder him if he tried to stop her.
But still she waited, picking at her food, pacing her room, ignoring the video camera that watched her with its unblinking eye. They'd taken her sneakers, taken her jeans, taken anything of comfort that might aid her escape. She had no choice but to make do in bare feet and one of those filmy caftan-type things Ruth had hung in her closet.
She slept fitfully, tossing about on the mattress that lay on the polished black floor, and when she awoke, the room was in darkness. She reached out in search of a light, and then thought better of it. Her eyes could grow accustomed to the darkness—the quarter moon let in a faint glow through the bank of windows. Enough for her to make her way through the room, not enough to let Ethan watch her, if he was so inclined.
She didn't think he was. Ever since her .crazy moment in front of the camera three days ago, she sensed that he'd kept away from his monitors. He probably hadn't really thought of himself as a voyeur. Until she'd turned him into one deliberately.
Well, she'd paid for that mistake, paid dearly. If she made it out safely, her body would remember forever.
The sliding glass door was locked. It took her a ridiculously long amount of time to come to that conclusion, but there was no moving it. Sometime while she slept, someone had come and locked it securely, keeping her prisoner once more.
She pounded against it, frustration and despair washing over her. Her fist simply bounced back. The glass was steel strong, one of the new forms used in construction. Of course, Ethan would use something like that in this patchwork of building styles that seemed to be his personal hobby.
She wasn't going to be defeated so easily, she thought, summoning her anger to wash away the despair. She glanced around the room, looking for something she could throw through the window, but all the furniture was soft and modular. Nothing that could make a dent in tempered glass. The hardest thing in the room was her high-heeled shoe, and she didn't even bother wasting her time trying it.
That left the other door. She might have more luck trying to pick the lock. After all, Ethan would have no reason to have fancy locks on all the doors, not unless he made a habit of abducting young women.
She stopped dead still at the sudden horrifying thought. What if she weren't the first? What if she were simply one in a long line of prisoners kept here for Ethan's enjoyment...?
It really was time for her to escape, she thought, shaking her head. Once her delusions got that extreme, there was no hope for her. Even Ethan's worst enemies, the people of Oak Grove, hadn't accused him of abducting young women. And she believed every word Joseph told her, though she couldn't say why. If he said Ethan had only been involved with two women in his life, then that surely must be the case.
She was the first, the last, the only young woman to be imprisoned in this strange, rambling house. And she was about to make her move toward freedom, and the hell with Joseph's warnings.
Finding something with which to work on the lock was a different matter. She wasn't a Victorian virgin with hairpins; she wasn't a television detective with her own set of lockpicks. For lack of anything better, she picked up the fork and began jabbing it at the keyhole.
The door opened at her touch, swinging wide. Whoever had locked the garden doors had unlocked this one, leaving the entrance to the darkened hall clear.
For a moment, Megan didn't move. Her eyes were used to the darkness, and she could see the hallway stretching to either side. Left and right. What had Joseph said? Left if she wanted to escape, right if she wanted to find Ethan?
Or was it the other way around?
For the life of her, she couldn't remember. Just as well, too, because she couldn't decide. She was torn in two, half of her wanting to get the hell out of the house, out of Oak Grove, out of Arkansas, away from phantoms who captured and then bewitched stray travelers. Back to the hard edges of reality where she'd never long for adventure again. Maybe she'd find some safe, boring executive, settle down and be a housewife—raise children, join the PTA and forget all about this lost moment in her life.
"Lead me, Joseph," she said softly, closing her eyes for a moment. She knew where he'd lead her. She opened her eyes again and slowly, deliberately turned to the left.
She walked forever through the darkness, always turning left. She went up ramps and down them, up stairs and down them. She was moving deeper and deeper into the house, and she knew she wasn't going to end up in the night air in freedom and safety. She was going to face the phantom.
The last passage ended. The door was set deep in the stone wall. She could feel the chilly air around her, and she knew she was in the massive cellars of the old place. Ethan would be beyond that door.
She could turn around and head back. Keeping to the right, always to the right, she could make her escape and never have to hear that low, bewitching voice again, feel his breath against her skin, his hands dance across her flesh. She'd be free.
She reached out her hand and turned the knob, opening the door into the room.
The door was more brightly lit than she'd expected. Candles were burning in wall sconces, throwing fitful
shadows around the large, cavernous room, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust after her long journey through the darkened hallways.
He was standing at a table, his back to the door. "You're back early, Sal," he said, without turning.
He was tall, but she knew that. A lean, strong back, with black hair growing long, to his shoulders. He was wearing black, tight-fitting pants and a loose-flowing white shirt, and as the silence grew, she saw the tension sweep through his body, the knowledge that it wasn't Sal who'd opened the door.
And then there was a resignation in his strong shoulders, mixed with anger. And slowly, deliberately, he turned to face her.
Chapter Eleven
* * *
Meg wasn't sure what she'd expected. Lon Chaney with his skeletal face in The Phantom of the Opera. Freddy Krueger, dripping blood. As Ethan Winslowe turned slowly to face her, she was ready to see almost anything. Except what she did see.
The left half of his face came into view, and she drew a deep, shocked breath. He was astonishingly, almost unnaturally beautiful. White-gold skin, his eye dark and mesmerizing, his mouth wide and delicate, yet still masculine, his cheekbone high and well defined against the sweep of long black hair. It was the face she'd seen illuminated by lightning, one she'd thought was part of a fever dream, the stuff dreams were made of. And then he turned the rest of the way, and she could see the other half of his face. The nightmare side.
The mark bisected his face, spreading down his neck, disappearing into his loose white shirt, a livid purple-and-red stain that covered him. His other eyelid drooped slightly over his eye, and his mouth pulled upward, giving him a faintly satanic expression. It was a face to scare little children, and the contrast between the beauty of the other side of his face made it even more devastating.
There was no expression whatsoever on either side of his face. He simply watched her, waiting for her reaction, and for a moment, she wondered whether his face was capable of showing emotion.