by Anne Stuart
“She won’t eat.”
“We’ll simply have to convince her.”
“Ethan.” Salvatore’s voice was troubled. “Are you sure you ought to be doing this? I mean, she hasn’t done anyone any harm as far as we know. Her father’s a crook, but we don’t know that she’s anything more than a loving daughter.”
“I don’t imagine she is,” Ethan said in his slow, almost dreamy voice. “Are you feeling sorry for her, old friend?”
“A little. I don’t think she deserves to be frightened.”
“I should let her go?” He asked the question very softly. “Say the word, Sally, and I’ll release her.”
Salvatore shook his head. “That’s up to you. She came here for a reason—you might as well hear her out. But then you should let her go back home.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
“I don’t understand why not.”
Ethan moved his head a fraction, to stare at the television monitor. She’d moved from the door, across the room to stare out the casement windows. She was wearing the clothes she’d come in, a baggy pink cotton sweater, a long, loose skirt, mudsplattered highheeled shoes. He liked her better in the terry robe. He’d like her even better in nothing at all. “Let’s just say I’m enjoying being a voyeur,” he said.
“Ethan…”
“Don’t worry about it. She’ll be safe from my evil designs. In a week, she’ll be back in Chicago, safe and sound.”
“A week. You’re planning to keep her here that long? We might run into trouble when the workmen arrive on Monday.”
“The house is big enough. Don’t worry so much, Sally. For now, I feel like playing with fire. I don’t even mind if I get burned.”
Salvatore shook his head, knowing the gesture was unseen in the darkened room where his old friend stared at the woman on the television monitor. “I’m not worried about singed fingers, Ethan. I’m worried about the place burning down around us.”
“You worry too much. I promise you I won’t hurt her. I probably won’t even scare her as much as you have. I just need a little distraction. It’s been a long time since Ruth.”
“Ethan…”
“Bring her to me at midnight, Sally. Who knows, she might even be able to convince me to let her go.” She turned from the window, pushing her hair back from her face, and he watched the nervous parting of her lips, the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the baggy sweater. “Maybe,” he murmured.
IT HAD TAKEN ALL HER willpower to resist the tray Salvatore brought her. True to his word, he was a good cook, if she could judge by the devastating smells coming from the tray. Roast chicken and rice with baby peas, and something that looked and smelled like lemon cheesecake. He’d even brought her a glass of wine, something she would have killed for in her current strung-out state of mind.
She sat in the baronial-style chair and stared at the tray with mute antipathy. It made no sense, her refusal to accept food from their hands. It wasn’t as if she suspected them of trying to poison her. After all, why should they? Drugged wine she wouldn’t put past them, but that, too, was unlikely.
No, it wasn’t from any fear of the ambrosial smells that had issued from the contents of the heavy silver tray before they cooled. It was an absurd fancy based on some Greek legend she’d read. Someone—was it Persephone?—had been kidnapped by the Lord of Darkness and stolen down to hell. She would have been just fine and dandy if she hadn’t succumbed and eaten six pomegranate seeds. When someone finally showed up to rescue her, she’d already sealed her fate. For each pomegranate seed, she had to spend one month a year in the dark kingdom.
Of course, there were those who said the eating of pomegranate seeds was merely a sexual allusion. Persephone had given in to the powerful sexual lure of the Prince of Darkness, not her desire for pomegranates.
As for Meg Carey, she wasn’t interested in either food or sex. Not that she envisaged the mysterious Ethan Winslowe as even remotely a sexual creature. Nevertheless, she was determined to keep her distance, to accept nothing from him she wasn’t forced to accept, such as a bed for the night.
She fell asleep in her clothes as the night drew closer around her. She’d finished her book, then discovered that the only books the room held were Stephen King novels. She was already spooked enough—the last thing she needed was to read horror novels before she tried to sleep.
Even so, her dreams were bizarre, erotic and frightening. X’n*d, the lizard-blob hero of the book she’d finished, was a dead ringer for Ethan Winslowe. He was sitting in the middle of a muddy green pool, tubes and wires hooked up to him, keeping him alive, and he was beckoning to her. Sort of like Jabba the Hutt in one of those Star Wars movies, something huge and soft and evil that drew the unwitting heroine in.
And then he shifted, away from the amorphous mass into something leaner, more dangerous, with lizard scales that were surprisingly warm to the touch. And she was touching him, staring up into yellow eyes as she ran her fingers across the fine scales….
“Wake up, girly,” a voice broke through. “He’s ready to see you.”
Meg didn’t move. She’d slept so soundly, she hadn’t heard Salvatore open the creaking door, slept so soundly that he was able to materialize beside her bed. “Go away,” she said, pulling the heavy damask cover over her. “I’m not ready to see him.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying our hospitality. It might be a hell of a long time before you get another chance.”
She’d already accepted the fact that she had no choice in the matter. She pulled herself upright, pushing her hair out of her face, and glared at Salvatore. The candles around the room had burned down low, and several of them had guttered out. She felt rumpled and sleepy and bad tempered, and suddenly, oddly afraid. She no longer felt like some Greek maiden abducted into hell. She felt like someone approaching a Gorgon. One look, and she’d be turned to stone. Or, like the fabled Mrs. MacInerny, she’d go stark staring mad.
Ridiculous, she chided herself. The contents of the bookcase should have tipped her off. Salvatore and his employer clearly read too many Stephen King novels. She wasn’t going to let them terrorize her, she simply wasn’t.
“All right, I’m coming,” she said grumpily, squinting at her watch. Her reliable Rolex, a present from her father on her twenty-fifth birthday, had inexplicably stopped working. All of a piece, she thought wearily. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Midnight,” Salvatore said. He was holding a candlestick in one meaty hand, and his face looked shadowed and positively evil.
“What else? I’ll be ready in a moment.”
“He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“I don’t like to be kept prisoner,” Meg shot back. “He can wait while I use the bathroom, can’t he?”
“Maybe.”
“He’ll have to.” She slammed the door behind her. For a moment, she leaned against the closed door whose hook held a terry robe that was a twin to the one in her dungeon. What was this place, the Gothic Hilton, she thought with a misplaced giggle.
Cool water didn’t do much to help her wake up. Brushing her hair into a semblance of order didn’t do much to restore her state of mind, and she wondered why she was doing it. Did she want to impress Ethan Winslowe? She wanted to murder Ethan Winslowe, and she had every intention of telling him just that. Maybe. Still, it didn’t do a woman any harm to feel confident, she thought, pinching some color into her pale cheeks and wishing she’d brought her makeup with her. At least her lashes were naturally dark. Otherwise, she’d look like a ghost. A fitting resident for this house of horrors.
Salvatore was exactly where she’d left him, looking bored. His hangdog eyes surveyed her improvements and he smirked. Clearly he’d noticed everything she’d done, and she wished to heavens she’d left herself looking like something the cat dragged in. “Take me to your leader,” she said flippantly.
She watched with sudden surprise as he unlocked the bedroom door. Why had he bothered to relock
it in the first place? And the noise of the key in the lock, the sound of the door creaking open, was surprisingly loud in the room. How could she, normally a light sleeper, have slept through that? Unless he’d come in some other way.
She glanced over her shoulder as he stepped into the corridor. There were no other doors in the room besides the one leading to the bathroom. There was no way he could have gotten in. Was there?
“Don’t fall behind,” Salvatore warned. “I might have a hard time finding you.”
She started after him, wishing she’d dared to leave her high heels behind. She needed every inch of support she could muster, but her ankles ached and her feet hurt, and if her two previous journeys were any example, she had a long hike ahead of her.
“Don’t you believe in flashlights around here?” she questioned crossly, scurrying to keep up with him.
“Don’t need ’em. I probably wouldn’t even use a candle if you weren’t with me. Rats don’t bother me.”
“Rats?” She didn’t even care that her voice quaked.
“Every old place has ’em. As a matter of fact, I think Oak Grove and its environs have more than their share. Don’t worry about it—they’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”
“I doubt that.”
“Besides, Ethan keeps them well fed. Rats are only dangerous when they’re starving.”
“He keeps them well fed?” she shrieked, and her voice bounced off the stone walls and echoed down the dark passageway.
“Not so loud, girly. Ethan learned long ago that if you can’t change something, get rid of something, then you accept it with good grace. It’s a lesson you could learn.”
“Sure. Next time I’m infested with rats, I’ll buy rat food.”
Salvatore only chuckled, turning a corner and heading into another part of the house. An electrified part. The wall sconces were dimly watted light bulbs, reassuring Meg that there were no rats keeping her company.
And then they were in darkness again, a darkness so thick that Salvatore’s candle could barely penetrate it. “Watch your step,” he muttered as they started down a steeply ramped passageway. Ramps again, she thought. Ethan Winslowe must be bound to a wheelchair.
“I can’t see.”
“Feel your way along the wall,” Salvatore suggested irritably.
She did just that, almost afraid of what she might touch. But the walls were smooth there, plastered and solid, and she kept her left hand running along one side, needing the security.
At that point, she needed all the help she could get. She couldn’t rid herself of the notion that someone, something was watching her in the dark. Salvatore’s broad back was to her, so it couldn’t be him. And no one could see in such inky blackness, could they? The only other resident of the house was Ethan Winslowe himself, and she expected to see him tied up to life support systems somewhere in the center of this monstrosity.
“How bad is Mr. Winslowe?” she asked suddenly, unable to stand the uncertainty any longer.
Salvatore stopped still in the hallway, an unwilling chuckle rumbling out of him. “Depends on what you mean,” he replied, turning to look at her.
She was glad it was too dark to see her face flush. “I mean, how bad is his condition? Is it life threatening?”
“That’s a matter of opinion. What do you think is wrong with him?”
“I’m asking you.”
“Well,” said Salvatore, “I ain’t talking. You’ll have to ask the man himself. If you dare.” And he started onward at a faster clip than ever.
She hesitated a moment too long. He turned a corner ahead of her and she was momentarily plunged into darkness.
She bit down the scream that threatened to bubble up. He’d come back for her, he had to. If she just held very still…
It was like a soft breeze. A touch of warmth, of spring air, a breath, a caress. It ruffled through her hair, across her clothing, touching but not touching, more a promise of touching. The feel of warmth, insubstantial but real, and no threat at all. She closed her eyes in the darkness, trying to draw the odd feelings within her trembling body, and then as swiftly as it had come, it disappeared and she was alone in a dark, haunted, cold hallway.
The light from Salvatore’s candle reappeared. “Are you just going to stand around in the darkness?” he demanded irritably. “Ethan doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“I—I think I’d rather go back to my room,” Meg said in a weak voice. That brief, otherworldly encounter had left her more shaken than she would have imagined.
“Sorry, that’s not an option. We’re here.”
“Where?”
“Around the corner. He’s waiting.”
He could damned well wait, for all she cared, Meg thought. She wanted to get out of there, away from the suffocating darkness, away from rats and danger and deformed creatures of the night. Though she wouldn’t have minded feeling that almost-supernatural caress once more.
“I’m coming,” she said between gritted teeth, following the light.
A door stood open in the next corridor. A pale blue light was emanating from beyond, and she could hear the unmistakable noise of machinery. Computers, perhaps. Life-support systems. Oxygen tents? Just how bad was Ethan Winslowe?
Salvatore moved out of the way, and Megan paused in the doorway, for one moment afraid to go on. The room beyond was dark, warm, with a myriad of tiny lights blinking from various machines. In the center of the room was a tall chair, almost a throne, and in that chair, in the darkness, was a motionless, shadowy figure.
“Come into my parlor,” she muttered beneath her breath.
Whatever Ethan Winslowe’s physical limitations, they didn’t involve deafness. “Said the spider to the fly,” a slow, deep, rich voice issued from that chair. Unwillingly, she stepped into the room. And Salvatore closed the door behind her, plunging her into darkness.
Chapter Four
I am not afraid, Meg told herself fiercely, not moving into the darkness. The door was solid behind her back, and she didn’t bother reaching out to see whether it was locked or not. She’d already learned that Ethan Winslowe and his henchman were damnably thorough.
“Are you afraid of me, Ms. Carey?” the deep, rich voice mocked. “Why don’t you come closer?”
That was enough to straighten Meg’s backbone. “I’m not afraid of anyone,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt.
“Then why don’t you come and sit down? Salvatore’s brought you another tray of food since you didn’t touch the earlier one. Why don’t you eat something, and we can discuss why you’re here.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, taking a step into the darkness. “And you know perfectly well why I’m here.”
“Sit down, Ms. Carey.” He didn’t raise his voice, but suddenly Meg decided it might be better if she did as he ordered. She moved forward, hand outstretched until it encountered a straight-backed chair in front of a wide table. She could smell the food and her stomach cramped in longing as she sat, pushing the plate away from her.
“I’m not hungry,” she said again, peering at him in the darkness. She couldn’t see much at all. Ethan Winslowe was sitting in some sort of chair that seemed to resemble a throne. He was in darkness, a shadowy, menacing figure, and she heard the faint, gulping sound that probably came from a respirator.
“It wouldn’t do you any good to starve yourself,” he said in a more agreeable voice. “How do you expect to escape if you haven’t got any stamina?”
“I’m not going to have to escape. You’re going to be reasonable and call me a rental car so that I can drive out of this godforsaken countryside.”
“Godforsaken it is. But I don’t have a telephone.”
“Then you can fax me a rental car,” she said somewhat desperately. Suddenly she felt very hot. All day long, she’d been shivering in one stone-clad room and another, but this cocoon of darkness was like a steam bath. Invalids needed heat, didn’t they? If only he’d let her ope
n a window. Though this dark room probably didn’t even have windows. Didn’t Salvatore say Winslowe hated sunlight?
“You aren’t leaving until I say you can go, Ms. Carey,” he said, very gently. “And I’m not ready to let you.”
Maybe if she ate something she’d feel better, she thought. She was feeling light-headed and dizzy, probably from disorientation and lack of sleep. She certainly wasn’t going to pass out in front of this dark nemesis, but she didn’t feel capable of making the long trek back up to her room without something in her stomach. At least she had the dubious security of knowing that a wheelchair couldn’t maneuver the long, winding stairs to her turret room. Once she was up there, she’d be safe from the man in front of her.
She took a bite of chicken, eating slowly, stalling for time. “What do you want from me, Mr. Winslowe?”
“Call me Ethan. And I believe I’ll call you Meg. After all, we’re going to be together for a while.”
She ignored the taunt. “What do you want from me?” she asked again.
“Isn’t it more a question of what you want from me? I wasn’t the one who showed up uninvited. Where’s your father? Cowering back in Chicago, hoping you’ll pull his fat from the fire?”
“My father made a mistake. People do that, you know. People who don’t sit in the middle of some crazy mansion passing judgment.”
“I have a reason to sit in the middle of my crazy mansion.”
“I’m sure you do.” She refused to let herself feel guilty. The man in the shadows in front of her might be a poor invalid, but he was also a brilliant, vindictive man who was, for all intents and purposes, holding her prisoner. “But what right do you have to pass judgment?”
“The right of a man whose reputation was damaged by your father. The right of the injured party for revenge.”
“I would have thought that the men who were killed were the injured parties.”
“He told you that much, did he? What else did he tell you?”