by Anne Stuart
“I didn’t think it was funny. She said you slept in a coffin.”
“I didn’t know she was interested in where I slept. I’ll have to enlighten her.”
“Ethan…”
“I wish you’d stop doing that. Every time you say ‘Ethan…’ in that tone of voice you make me think of a schoolmarm. Next thing I know, you’ll be rapping my knuckles with a ruler.”
“Maybe you’re acting like a schoolboy.”
“Maybe. I wish I’d seen her send Lincoln on his way. It must have been amusing.”
“It’s what you expected, wasn’t it?”
Ethan shrugged. “I don’t count on anything. She might have been fool enough to go with him. It would have simplified matters.”
“What are you going to do about her father?”
Ethan glanced at him. “Is there any hurry? I thought things could wait while I concentrated on his daughter.”
“He’s breaking ground for a civic center in Alabama next week. Nothing you designed, so you’re off the hook if something happens. Maybe you don’t need to do anything.”
“Do you think I’ve gone after him because of my reputation?”
“No. But I don’t think you’ve gone after him out of concern for your fellow man. I’ve known you too long, Ethan, to be fooled into thinking you’ve turned into a bleeding heart.”
“True enough. I don’t, however, enjoy knowing that people might die while a man I’ve helped makes money off them. Reese Carey wouldn’t be where he is today if it weren’t for my designs. Therefore I have a measure of responsibility.”
“You also want a measure of revenge.”
“Even more true, Sally. And I intend to get just that. His daughter’s a good place to start. Where’s our unwilling houseguest right now? Maybe it’s time I told her a few home truths about her father.”
“You don’t think she’s known all the time? That she’s part of the cover-up?”
Ethan hesitated. “No.”
“Good God,” Salvatore breathed. “You’ve really fallen, haven’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Just because I think she’s relatively innocent…”
“You don’t believe anyone’s innocent. Not until you’ve got proof, and all you’ve got with Meg Carey is gut instinct. Or is it something a little lower down than that?”
“I’m a man, Sally. I’m as capable of lust as the next man.”
“I know that. I just didn’t think you were capable of falling in love.”
Ethan’s reaction was absolute horror. “Give me a break, Sally. Falling in love is a euphemism for something a lot more biological.”
“And your feelings for Meg Carey are biological?”
“Most definitely. And getting more overwhelming every day.” Ethan leaned back in his chair, putting his fingertips together as he thought of Meg Carey’s mouth. Of her surprisingly lush body beneath the thin cotton nightgown. He wanted to watch her again. Not touch her, not yet. He wanted to savor the anticipation. And he wanted her to savor it, too, even if she hadn’t yet recognized that that was what it was.
“She’s in the rose garden. Stuck in the gazebo while it rains.”
“What the hell is she doing there?”
“Looking for Joseph.”
“Do you think she found him?” Ethan kept his voice no more than idly curious, though he didn’t know why he bothered. Sal knew him better than any human on this earth and he wouldn’t be fooled for a moment.
“Not many people do. He came to her once, though, when she was lost in the rain. He might come again.”
Ethan nodded. “He probably did. She has an amazing ability to draw people to her.”
“It hasn’t worked with me,” Sal said righteously.
“Hasn’t it? Why do you keep trying to get her away from my evil clutches, then?”
“Maybe because it’s you I’m worried about. Not her. You can’t just kidnap people, Ethan. You can’t keep her prisoner here indefinitely. Sooner or later, they’re going to come after you. Not that cowed bunch of fanatics in Oak Grove, but the state authorities. Maybe even the feds. You aren’t going to get away with it for much longer.”
“Who’s going to send out a distress signal? Not the good people of Oak Grove. Not her cowardly father. She has no other attachments. Everyone else thinks she’s gone to Europe. Reese Carey has probably convinced himself of the same thing.”
“You’re playing with fire, Ethan.”
“I don’t think it would matter much if I got burned, do you? I think I’m going to have to pay Meg a little visit tonight. Go and rescue her from the gazebo, Sal. This damp weather won’t do her lungs any good. And you’d better make sure she has enough antibiotic to finish out the course. We don’t want her having a relapse.”
“Why not? That would force her to stay here longer.”
“She’s staying as long as I want her. Besides, I want her healthy. I have plans for her,” Ethan said evenly.
“Ethan…”
“There you go again, schoolmarm. Go find her and get her safe and warm. Maybe it’s time to move her again. Why don’t you take her to the Roman section?”
“Which room?” Sal asked in a weary voice.
“I think it’s time to up the ante. She’s had enough Stephen King for now. Put her in the Pompeii room.”
“SO WHERE’S MY TOGA?” Meg demanded when Salvatore showed her into the dimly lit interior of her new rooms. She’d been hard-pressed to hide her gratitude when he’d showed up at the entrance to the gazebo with a huge gold umbrella to shield her from the rain. At least the precipitation had been accompanied by warmer temperatures. If that unnatural chill had stayed in the air, she would have probably been ready for a relapse.
The austere confines of her new rooms weren’t precisely welcoming. At least there was a decent-size bed directly in the center of the room. This room was at least partway underground, and in the corner was a brazier with hot coals sending warmth into the air. The walls were covered with murals, ones she didn’t bother to look at. For the time being, she wanted to change out of her damp clothes, get something to eat and figure how she was going to get out of here.
“Women didn’t wear togas,” Sal said repressively. “Bathroom’s over there, and your clothes are in the closet. Be ready in half an hour.”
“Ready for what? I planned to take a long hot bath. Romans were famous for baths, weren’t they? I’m assuming this place comes equipped with a Roman-style swimming pool.”
“You can use it later. Ethan wants you for dinner.”
“To feed or to eat?”
Sal glowered. “Don’t wear jeans. He doesn’t like them.”
That settled the question of what she’d wear to dinner. Obviously, jeans it would be. “I’ll be ready in an hour,” she said flatly.
The Roman section of the house even had a pillared portico with steps leading down into a courtyard complete with marble statues. Meg glanced out into the gathering gloom. For the first time, she’d have immediate access to the outdoors, unless, of course, Ethan decided to have her locked in again. Maybe if the rain cleared, she’d try to leave tonight.
Except that it was clear the town of Oak Grove wasn’t going to provide any help. She might be able to find her rental car, but given the size and complexity of this old place, chances were slim. It was conceivable she could drive one of the construction vehicles she’d heard in the distance. At one point, she’d been moderately proficient at running a backhoe.
The problem with backhoes was that they only traveled about five miles an hour, maximum. She’d be better off on her own two feet. And better off waiting just a couple more days until her strength was back. It wouldn’t do much good to take off and then collapse in a ditch a few miles away. And when it came right down to it, she wasn’t sure who she’d rather have find her in those circumstances: the deranged Pastor Lincoln and his bunch, or Ethan Winslowe himself.
There was no hurry, was there? No one seemed to give a h
oot that she’d disappeared off the face of the earth, up to and including her father. As long as she stayed put, Ethan had promised to leave Reese alone. Not that she was certain her father deserved any mercy, but certainly no man should be crucified for one shortsighted mistake. And then there was the company, with hundreds of jobs depending on it.
No, maybe she wouldn’t wear the jeans, after all. Maybe she’d find her prettiest dress, follow Salvatore like the demure young lady she certainly wasn’t and do her best to ameliorate Ethan Winslowe’s uncertain temper. If she were just sweet and accommodating enough, he might be talked into dropping this whole crazy idea and letting her go.
And maybe pigs could fly. She wasn’t about to use sex to get what she wanted from the man. That had too much possibility of backfiring right in her face. The baggiest, most wretched pair of jeans she’d brought with her, her loosest sweater and her grumpiest expression. Anything was worth a try.
There was only one minor problem with her current plan. When she stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a voluminous towel, she found her damp pair of jeans missing from the mosaic floor of the room. Every pair of jeans she owned had been taken from her suitcase, and her Reeboks had disappeared. She was left with dresses, all of them too filmy or too clinging or too low cut.
Not that she usually considered her dresses provocative. They were all reasonably trendy, flattering fashions, ones she’d never thought twice about wearing.
She was thinking twice now. She didn’t want Ethan Winslowe’s unseen eyes traveling down the front of the clinging peach dress, dipping over the décolletage of the black knit, running along the curves of the blue sundress.
She had no real choice in the matter. The black knit had the longest hemline, the loosest cut, and if she just kept tugging at the neckline, there wouldn’t even be a hint of cleavage. Hell and damnation, why hadn’t she lost weight when she was sick? With her luck, she’d probably gained five pounds, all in the chest.
The ancient Romans apparently had no mirrors, so she could only guess what she looked like. Too pale, too defiant, too rounded. Target practice for EthanWinslowe.
“You ready?” Salvatore hadn’t bothered to knock. He’d swung the door open, standing there with a flashlight against the gathering gloom.
“Morituri te salutamus,” she muttered under her breath, slipping on her highest heels for the modicum of moral support they gave her.
“What’s that?”
“Just getting into the Roman spirit of things, Sal,” she replied, shoving her hair back away from her too pale face and biting her lips. “We who are about to die salute you.”
“I don’t think it’s going to go that far. Not if you’re careful,” Sal replied, absolutely seriously.
She looked at him in horror. “Et tu, Brute? I don’t scare easily.”
“I know you don’t. More’s the pity.” Without a word, he took off down the darkened hallway, leaving her to follow him.
For a moment, she considered staying put. Not for a moment did she consider that she might really be in danger. Ethan had warned her about innocence and blind trust. The only person she hadn’t trusted so far had been the minister. Certainly that wasn’t a good omen for the future.
She wasn’t going to improve her situation by cowering in her room, either. Chances were Ethan would come after her or send his hulking familiar. She’d lied to him. It didn’t take much to scare her at all. At the moment, she was frankly terrified.
But staying in the darkened room didn’t offer much of an alternative. Particularly when certain scenes of the last Stephen King novel she’d been desperate enough to read kept drifting into her memory, despite her efforts to banish them.
“Wait up, Igor,” she called out after the rapidly disappearing light. And ignoring her panic, she took off after Sal into the darkness.
Chapter Eight
They were heading down, down, into the center of the house again, into darkness lit only by the occasional gaslight fixture. Meg stumbled after Salvatore, cursing her skimpy dress and her overactive imagination. Why couldn’t the man dwell somewhere above the basements? She knew he could walk, knew he was strong enough to carry her one hundred and twenty-five pounds up the twisting tower steps. Why would he choose to dwell in the cellars?
When Salvatore ushered her through a wide doorway, she had her answer in the darkness of the room. He chose the basement for the lack of light. No shuttered windows to let in even a chink of daylight. Just the chill damp of the earth around them.
It was a different room from where Ethan had held his previous audience with her. There were no blinking lights in the background, but then, she knew now that he didn’t need life-support systems to keep him going. She could make out a wide table covered in damask, set with crystal and bone china. Set for one. Candelabra stood on either side of the chair, but the pools of light didn’t travel far into the room. He was somewhere beyond, watching her, watching as she moved forward and took the chair Salvatore held out for her. She could feel his gaze on her skin, as physical as a touch, running up her legs, her hips, her low-cut neckline. It took all her self-possession to keep from tugging at that neckline.
She sat very still as Salvatore placed food in front of her, filled her wineglass and then disappeared into the shadows. She knew he was gone, out of sight, out of hearing, as well as she knew Ethan Winslowe was there. In the darkness, she was learning to trust her other senses.
She glanced down at her plate. Boneless chicken in a delicate tarragon-scented sauce, wild rice, fresh white asparagus. The wine would be vintage, French and very dry. She sighed.
“You don’t like the food?” Ethan’s voice came out of the darkness. “Simply tell Salvatore what you’d like and he’ll provide it.”
“I’d kill for a Big Mac and fries,” she said. “Washed down by a supersize Diet Coke.”
“Sorry.”
“What about takeout?” she suggested hopefully, picking up the heavy silver fork.
“The nearest McDonald’s is one hundred and ten miles away. The food would be cold by the time Sal carried it back.”
The chicken was almost sinfully wonderful. She could live without fast food for a little while longer. “I’m surprised you even know what a McDonald’s is,” she said, taking a sip of the wine. Exactly as she had guessed, and utterly delicious.
“I know. I just don’t know what the food tastes like.”
“You’ve never been inside one?”
“Hardly.”
She leaned back in the chair, holding the wineglass. It was useless to stare into the dark in Ethan’s direction; instead, she looked into the shimmering depths of the wine. “You’re missing a great treat.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it. I expect I’ll survive. What did you think of our local man of the cloth?”
“Pastor Lincoln? He’s nutty as a fruitcake.”
“He comes by it honestly. His father and grandfather were deranged fanatics before him. I gather you didn’t want to avail yourself of his offer of help. Dare I hope you’ve grown attached to this place?”
“Hope all you want. In this case, it was a choice between the devil I could see and the devil I couldn’t. I decided you might prove less dangerous in the long run.”
“I don’t know if I’m flattered or offended,” he murmured.
“Let me know when you figure it out.” She drained the wine, reached for the bottle and poured herself another glass. “What’s a succubus?”
She heard his muffled explosion of laughter. “Is that what he called you?”
“Among other things. I’ve missed that term. What does it mean?”
“A female demon who has sexual relations with men in their sleep,” he replied.
She considered the notion, hoping he couldn’t see the faint stain of color in her cheeks. It was the wine, she told herself. “That doesn’t sound like much fun,” she said finally.
“It also includes the sexual partners of male demons,” he added.
“I see.”
“I imagine you do.”
SHE SET THE WINEGLASS on the table. She was too vulnerable to risk drinking even a moderate amount. Already she was growing hot, disturbed, uneasy. Aroused. Better to stick to water. Better to stick to an adversarial relationship.
“When are you going to let me go?”
“That again?” he demanded wearily. “You grow tiresome, Meg.”
“Then send me home. Surely I’ve paid enough for my father’s sins.”
“Not really.”
“One stupid mistake five years ago is not something to crucify a man over,” she said with a trace of desperation.
“Not when people die? Not when he tries to foist the blame off on other people?”
“He’s sorry. He told me so.”
“And you think that, like a little boy who’s broken a window or shoplifted a candy bar, all he has to do is say he’s sorry and everything’s all right?”
“What else can he do?”
“He could have the nerve to come here himself instead of sending you. And he could come up with something like, ‘I’ll never do it again.’” Ethan’s voice was cold, implacable.
“But he…” A sudden, chilling thought came to her. “Would you believe him?”
“Of course not. But then, I have the advantage over you. I know he’s still doing it.”
“No!”
“Still using inferior materials, cutting corners, ignoring structural specifications in order to save money and line his own pockets. Risking life after life for his own greed, ignoring the blood that’s already on his hands, and then sending his own daughter as a sacrifice to keep me from turning him in.” Ethan’s voice was savage in the darkness, the words like knives cutting into her.
“I don’t believe you. He wouldn’t…he couldn’t…”
“You’re not a blind fool, Meg, even though you try to be where your father’s concerned. He’s done the same thing with the Minneapolis Science Emporium and the Greenwich Art Center. Sooner or later, something’s going to collapse, more people are going to die and you’re going to be a willing accomplice to it all because of your idiotic loyalty.”