Neely’s older brother was a stubborn man, and he probably wouldn’t have told Aidan where to find her, but he would surely have acted as an intermediary and passed on any messages.
“Aidan doesn’t remember you,” Valerian said, mind reading again. “Not completely, at least. He clings to a few scattered images, as I understand it, but in time even those will fade. The Brotherhood thought it better if he could not recall too much of his old life.”
Fury and relief warred in Neely’s soul, fury because someone had come between her and Aidan, relief because he’d wanted to remember her.
She sat up a little straighter. “Is that why you came here? To tell me everything is over between Aidan and me? I won’t accept that, Valerian—I won’t believe it unless I hear it from him personally.”
He looked miserable to her, though that could have been an act. Valerian had loved Aidan—he probably loved him still—and it was unlikely that he had Neely’s best interests at heart. Or those of any human, for that matter.
“Be that as it may,” he responded in a deep voice. “It must be ended. No mortal can be allowed to go about with knowledge of the sacred things. It is dangerous.”
“Sacred?” Neely snapped, driven by impulse, as usual, rather than good sense. “What an odd word to use, in reference to creatures who drink blood to sustain themselves!” Valerian’s countenance seemed to darken, and he towered like some mountain thrust suddenly up from level ground; he was a black cloud, roiling and huge, ready to erupt with lightning and thunder. “I will not debate semantics with a mortal!” he roared.
“No problem,” Neely assured him hastily.
The vampire took a few moments to compose himself, visibly smoothing his ruffled dignity. Then, imperiously, he announced, “For the sake of all who walk the night and take the communion of blood, this foolishness must be ended at once.” He paused, rubbing his chin with one hand and regarding Neely thoughtfully. “I would be well within my rights to feed upon you. However, I have decided that sparing you shall be my last tribute to Aidan.”
Neely let out her breath in a rush, only then discovering that she’d been holding it in her lungs and sinuses. In the next instant Valerian was standing close to her, though she hadn’t seen him move.
He raised one hand, laid it to her forehead, like a clergyman offering a blessing.
“No vampires,” he whispered. ‘There are no vampires, and there never were. You will forget, and any mortals who knew of your love for Aidan will give up all memory of it as well…
Neely fought the barrage of thoughts as long as she could, but Valerian’s mind was much stronger than her own; soon her consciousness was swamped in inky darkness.
The following Tuesday, Neely arrived at Dr. Fredricks’s office right on time, settled into the big chair, and waited expectantly.
“I believe we were discussing vampires last week,” the psychologist said, closing Neely’s chart and settling back to regard her patient.
Neely laughed. “Vampires? You’re joking, right?”
The doctor frowned. “Joking?”
Neely thought back and remembered telling Dr. Fredricks about her job in Senator Hargrove’s office and the subsequent adventures with the mob, in detail, but that was all. “I—I talked about vampires?” she asked in a small voice. She felt the color drain from her face.
Dr. Fredricks smiled reassuringly, opened the folder on her desk, and read back the outlandish story Neely had evidently told her the week before.
Neely shook her head, frantic to deny what she did not remember. She blurted out the short version of her adventures with Senator Dallas Hargrove and his criminal associates, in a flash flood of wild, eager words.
The psychologist digested the account in respectful silence, then said gently, “Neely, you’ve obviously undergone quite a series of traumas in the past year. Is it any wonder that you invented a flock of vampires—a sort of theater company of the mind—to help you sort through it all?”
The reasoning seemed sound, but Neely still had absolutely no recollection of talking about vampires. She hadn’t even thought of the creatures since last Halloween, in fact, when her nephew, Danny, had worn wax fangs and a plastic cape to go out trick-or-treating.
“I guess that could be it,” she said tremulously.
Dr. Fredricks seemed to be on some private roll. “Often,” she said confidently, “the human mind will create personal myths in order to cope with some struggle in the unconscious. Generally these little dramas are played out in our dreams, but in some cases we feel called upon to produce something more flamboyant.”
From what the doctor had read from her chart, Neely thought uneasily, her own presentation had boasted a cast of thousands. She’d actually mentioned names, if the psychologist’s account was to be believed—Maeve. Valerian. Tobias.
She sank back in her chair, shaking. “Could I have a glass of water, please?”
After a week of driving west, thinking all the while that he must have lost his mind as well as large parts of his memory, Aidan crossed the Colorado border. He stopped at a motel that night, wolfed down a bagful of fast food while watching the Comedy Channel on cable TV, showered, and slept like a mastodon entombed in a glacier.
The next morning he bought a road map of the state, located Pine Hill, and pointed himself and his Spitfire in that direction. He had no idea what he was going to do when he arrived in the small mountain town, beyond finding the elusive Neely. Maybe when he looked into those big, luminous eyes of hers, he would remember whatever it was that had happened between them and understand the fascination that tormented him so much.
He arrived in Pine Hill in the middle of a sunny, late-winter afternoon. It was an ordinary place in itself, like a hundred other small towns all over the West, but the scenery was spectacular. The mountains were capped with snow, the landscape densely carpeted in blue-green trees that marched on and on, as far as he could see.
Aidan drove into a filling station parking lot, took the folded sketch from the inside pocket of his jacket, and spread it over the steering wheel to study it for what must have been the hundredth time.
With one index finger he traced the outline of her cheek, the lips that almost smiled—but not quite—the hair he somehow knew was soft and glossy.
For a time Aidan just sat there, engaged in a peculiar mixture of mourning and celebration. Then he folded the sketch and tucked it back into his pocket, as carefully as if it were a map that would lead him to some incomparable treasure.
He frowned as he drove back onto the slushy gray asphalt of the highway. It was just as likely that this was some sort of fool’s errand. After all, if whatever had passed between him and this woman had been right and good and real, why weren’t they together? Why had he blocked every detail besides her face and her first name from his mind?
Aidan passed a construction sign announcing the building of a condominium complex, shifted into reverse, and backed up to read it again. There was the usual builder’s hype, but someone had tacked on a HELP WANTED notice, and that was what had captured Aidan’s true interest.
He had a wallet full of money, and much more stashed away in various trust funds and bank accounts, so it wasn’t the prospect of a paycheck that attracted him. He felt a craving, in the very depths of his muscles, to work at hard, physical labor, to sweat and pound and carry things under the bright light of the sun.
To put off driving to 1320 Tamarack Road, wanting to savor the prospect a while longer, Aidan located the construction company’s temporary office instead. Within an hour he had been hired as a day laborer—he was to start in the morning and arrive with his own tools—and he felt as though he’d just found a part of himself that had long been missing.
He rented a motel room, hastened to the hardware store for a hammer, a tool belt, a handsaw, and a measuring tape, along with a few things the salesman recommended, then bought work clothes and boots at the mercantile. That done, Aidan consumed another of the fast-food l
unches he seemed to love—just where he’d acquired the taste was one of many things he didn’t quite remember—and continued his search for the woman of mystery.
Neely was waiting tables at the Steak-and-Saddle that night when, through the restaurant’s wide front windows, she saw the small white sports car swing into the parking lot and come to a flourishing stop near the door.
She tightened her grasp on the handle of the coffeepot she carried, wondering why the sight of a simple automobile should shake her so. First, she’d babbled out some crazy story about vampires to her doctor, and promptly forgotten the whole thing, and now she was freaking out over traffic.
She’d better get a hold of herself.
Neely poured coffee for her customers and took the pot back to the burner without glancing at the door, even though she felt the rush of cool air when it opened. She was on her way to table 4, carrying two pieces of lemon meringue pie, when she saw the dark-haired man.
He was a stranger, and yet Neely felt a deep connection with him, an almost savage wrenching. It was nothing new; no, this was something ancient, something predating the moon and stars.
He smiled, inclined his head slightly, and said, “Hello, Neely.”
The pie plates clattered to the floor. Neely didn’t know this man, and yet she did. She knew everything about him, and nothing at all. She had a vague recollection of thrashing on a bed while he loved her, though that was impossible, of course, since they had never met.
She bolted back to the kitchen for a wet cloth, and when she returned, the newcomer was crouched on the floor, gathering up the plates and broken pieces of pie. He took the cloth from her and wiped the tiles.
“Do I know you?” Neely whispered, blushing and painfully conscious of the fact that practically everyone in the restaurant was staring at them with amused interest. His face seemed as familiar to her as her own, so maybe she’d just conveniently forgotten him, the way she’d forgotten telling Dr. Fredricks about those damn vampires.
He shrugged as he rose gracefully to his full height. “Maybe. My name is Aidan Tremayne.”
Again Neely felt an inner earthquake; again she had no idea why. “Neely Wallace,” she answered. She was flustered all over again. “How did you know my first name?” she demanded.
Tremayne regarded her in wry silence for a moment, then nodded toward the shamble of plates and pies and cleaning cloth in her hands. “Perhaps you’d better tend to business, Miss Wallace. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of your getting the sack.”
Neely bustled away in a quiet panic, gallantly pretending that all was well. She disposed of the spilled food and dirty dishes, washed and dried her hands, and made a second attempt to carry pie to the people at table 4. She succeeded that time, and everyone in the restaurant cheered.
Neely’s cheeks were crimson when she rounded the counter and made herself wait on Aidan Tremayne, who sat at the far end, watching her with laughter in his indigo-colored eyes. “What will you have?” she said, tapping her pencil against the top of her order pad.
He smiled. “I’ll take the special,” he said, closing the menu. “For now.”
Neely narrowed her gaze. She wasn’t angry, exactly—as a waitress, she met more than her share of smart guys, and most of them didn’t mean any harm. No, it was her own overwhelming attraction to this stranger, the way he’d made her pulse flutter erotically, that troubled her.
“Before I get you the liver and onions,” she said in a low voice, “I want you to tell me how you knew my name.”
He leaned toward her. “I’m psychic,” he whispered.
After that a tour bus arrived, and a crowd poured into the restaurant, and Neely was too busy to pay any more attention to Aidan Whoever.
Tremayne, supplied a voice in her harried heart.
The next day Neely worked the afternoon and early evening shift again, and Aidan came into the restaurant for supper, in the company of half a dozen workers from the construction site just up the mountainside. He was freshly showered and wearing clean but casual clothes, and Neely felt a sting of annoyance because he didn’t seem to notice her, even when she asked for his order.
“Who’s that?” Angie, another waitress, inquired with interest, her warm-syrup eyes bright with speculation as she looked at Aidan.
Neely glared at the other woman. “He’s just some construction worker,” she snapped, reaching for a steak platter and a cheeseburger in a basket.
Angie popped her gum in good-natured defiance. “Yum,” she growled under her breath. “I think I need some remodeling.”
Neely stormed away to deliver her order.
She didn’t see Aidan again until Sunday, her day off. She’d been to the supermarket and was carrying in groceries when the expensive sports car purred to a stop behind her dented Mustang.
Neely let the wooden screen door slam behind her when she went into the living room, but she felt a contradictory little lurch of pleasure in her middle when she came outside for another bag of groceries. Aidan was still there, leaning against his Triumph, his arms folded across his chest.
“I’ve come a long way to find you, Neely,” he said quietly. “And I won’t be easy to put off.”
She felt as though she’d been riding a roller coaster and had stepped off before the thing came alongside the platform. She would have dropped the second shopping bag, but Aidan reached out and caught it just as it slipped from her arms.
“How did you know my name?” This time she wasn’t going to let him sidestep the question.
“I own a house in Bright River, Connecticut,” he said. “I think I must have seen you there.”
Neely saw the confusion and bewilderment in those ink-blue eyes, and it stopped her, put a cap on her rising temper. “My brother, Ben, manages a café and motel outside Bright River,” she said lamely. “I worked for him for a while, waiting tables and cleaning rooms.”
The relief she saw in Aidan’s face was too sincere to be false. Something very weird was going on here.
“That must have been where we met,” he said. Then he carried the groceries up the walk, onto the porch, and past the green-painted screen door. “Nice place.”
Neely felt herself flush again. Suddenly she was embarrassed by the chipped linoleum floors, the television set with foil flags on its antenna, and the cheap, ugly curtains made of dime-store fabric.
Aidan set the bag on the counter, beside the one Neely had brought in a minute earlier, looked back at her over one well-made shoulder, and grinned.
“You’re not thinking I’m some kind of lecher, I hope,” he said. “I’m a gentleman, Neely, and you’ve nothing to fear from me. Why don’t you stop looking like a deer that wants to bolt into the nearest thicket?”
She smiled and relaxed a little. “Where are you from originally?” she asked, still keeping her distance as she took off her peacoat and hung it up. “You sound English.”
“Perish the thought!” he said with drama and yet another nuclear-powered grin. “I’m Irish, though I’ve spent most of my adult life in the United States.”
Neely wanted to know everything there was to know about Aidan Tremayne. She also wanted never to have met him, because he did things to her senses that made her deliciously uncomfortable.
He stayed for dinner.
Neely guessed she still would have had a chance if she’d just let things go at that, but Aidan asked her to go for a ride in his fancy car, with the top down and the moonlight playing over them both like liquid silver, and she couldn’t resist.
On a high point overlooking all of Pine Hill, he parked the car, leaned over, and kissed her. His lips moved lightly against hers at first, almost mischievously, and yet Neely felt as if someone had just threaded her onto a live wire, like a bead onto a necklace. Things awakened inside her and collided in a mad rush to find their right places.
“I’ve never known you,” Aidan said huskily, when the kiss finally ended. “And yet I’ve always known you. Can you explain that to me
, Neely?”
She thought—as best she could, that is, given the helter-skelter state of her emotions. “Maybe we were together in a past life,” she offered.
Aidan smiled. “Maybe,” he agreed without real conviction, and then he kissed her once more.
“I want to see you again,” he said a few moments later.
Neely could only nod.
After that she and Aidan were together for at least a part of every day. He rented an apartment on the other side of town, and she helped him furnish it. He chose gracious things, antiques and folk art and one very good painting, and Neely wondered what kind of work he’d done before taking up construction.
“I was a painter,” he said when she finally worked up the nerve to ask him. They’d eaten roast chicken, corn on the cob, and salad at her place, and he was helping her take down the horrible living room curtains so she could replace them with the snappy white eyelet ones she’d just bought.
Neely felt afraid, as if she were trying to cross an expanse of wafer-thin ice spanning a deep and frigid river. Caring too much would be the equivalent of falling through; she couldn’t afford to love this good-looking, bewildering man because he was just passing by, like the other men who’d come to Pine Hill to build condominiums.
“Did something happen?”
Aidan looked at her curiously, raising one dark eyebrow in that ponderous way he had. “What do you mean, ‘did something happen’?”
Neely shrugged, crumpling the new curtains because she was holding them too tightly. “Last time I looked, you were working on a construction site,” she said, and though she tried to offer the statement lightly, it came out sounding momentous.
He grinned. “Nothing dramatic. I just got tired of painting. I’m a sensualist, I guess,” he said. “I enjoy the feeling of sunlight on my skin, and the way my muscles move underneath.” His blue gaze seemed to caress her for a moment, making her flesh tingle beneath her clothes. “I like everything about being a man.”
The Black Rose Chronicles Page 29