Shrouded in Darkness

by H. D. Thomson

  The minute she walked out into the hall, she knew he’d left the house. The place felt empty. She’d completely lost track of time, but it didn’t really matter. She was exhausted, tired enough to fall asleep without the help of alcohol.

  In her bedroom, she stripped and stared at her naked reflection in the dresser mirror. The lamp was kind, adding a smooth, even a satiny texture to her skin. A vision flashed in her mind’s eyes, of Jake behind her cupping her breasts, bending her forward, holding her steady...

  Sighing, she turned away from the mirror, but she couldn’t so easily turn away from the sexual hunger burning into her skin. Having a viral man in the same house with her was exacerbating the longing inside of her. She slipped on her nightgown and crawled under the covers. For the first time in a long while, the craving for alcohol had vanished. But in its place was something far worse. A craving for a man, not just in her bed, but in her life.

  Closing her eyes, she let sleep pull her under.

  ###

  The scream slapped her awake. She jackknifed up in the bed. Blood pounded in her ears as she sat and listened to the silence. Then she realized that this time the cry hadn’t come from outside but downstairs. She scrambled from the bed and hit the cold wood floor running, almost banging into the side of her bedroom door on the way out. The night was black, illuminating nothing. With questing, outstretched hands, she found the stair’s handrail and fumbled down the steps. Breathing deeply, she rounded the stair post and slammed into something warm and very human.

  She opened her mouth to scream.

  “It’s me, Jake,” he said from the darkness, holding onto her arms to steady her.

  She let out a long, shaky breath. “What was that?” she asked in a hushed voice. “You must have heard it. It sounded so awful.”

  “It was your cat.”

  “Marmaduke?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But I could have sworn it sounded more human than—”

  “I stepped on his tail.” He cleared his throat. “Scared the hell out of both of us. He took off somewhere. Sorry about getting you out of bed.”

  "I'm just glad I found out what it was. But what are you doing up?"

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Relaxing, she glanced up, only to be blinded by the night. Thick, black and total, it draped over Jake and everything around her. His hands, warm and strong, grasped her upper arms. She grew conscious of the coolness of the house, of the silk of her nightgown against her skin, but most importantly of Jake, of the deep woodsy scent of his after-shave and how his hands, minus the gloves, were now slowly sliding up and down her arms. Her toes curled beneath her. He smelled like what she envisioned a man should smell like. Desire lapped against her skin until it seeped through her flesh and took hold of her body.

  He slid a hand up her arm and over a shoulder to cup her throat, while the other curled around her waist to press against the small of her back, inching her closer to the heat of his body. She met his lips halfway, opening her mouth beneath his. The kiss deepened, demanded and took. She raised a hand to feel his own against her throat. He had a long fingered, strong hand, the skin smooth and flawless over the tendons and knuckles. She touched his face, his neck, his shoulders. Against her palms, his skin was satin over hard muscle. He was all male, all power.

  He hauled her closer, pressing her sensitized breasts against his chest as his tongue mated with hers. His desire thrust against the shallow hollow of her hips. The thick, hardness of him scorched through the material of her gown to her belly and turned her legs to liquid. She slid her hands over the sleek texture of his naked back, over the muscles and tendons, down across the indentation along his spine and lower.

  She froze.

  He was entirely, absolutely, completely naked, every male inch of him. She whimpered as her breath came out in short, shallow pants, and desire slammed against her, painful in its intensity.

  Margot stiffened. Oh, God. Had she completely lost it? Where was her sanity, her morals? She hardly knew this man.

  “No!” She dragged in a lungful of air. “This is all wrong!”

  Before it was too late, Margot ripped out of his arms, stumbled up the stairs to her room, and slammed the door closed.

  ###

  Grabbing the banister, Jake stepped onto the stairs. Even the cold air against his bare skin couldn’t douse his raging desire. He could run after her and take her. She’d been just as hot, just as hungry. It wouldn’t take much to convince her to let him strip her naked, to touch, to stroke and kiss her until she was writhing and bucking beneath him, to make her come.

  He stood under the cover of darkness, trembling, starving, hurting. It had been too damned long. Her skin had been soft, smooth. She’d smelled like heaven. Jake flexed his fingers. He’d finally buried his bare hands into her hair. The strands had felt exactly like he’d envisioned. Like silken water. He’d wanted to bury his face in their waves and drink in their essence.

  Jake let her go. This time.

  Chapter 4

  Margot found the house empty when she went downstairs the next morning. Not that she expected Jake. During the day, he went off to do his own thing, which was just as well. Mentally, she wasn’t up to seeing him just yet.

  "Meow."

  The house wasn’t completely empty after all. There was Marmaduke, Margot thought darkly to herself as he wrapped himself around her calf.

  "You little monster." She scooped him up into her arms. "Because of you, I made a complete jackass out of myself."

  Margot scratched behind the calico's ears and wandered over to the spare room where Jake stayed. She hesitated in front of the closed door, but only for a moment. So, she liked to snoop. Who was going to know, anyway? Shifting the cat onto one arm, she opened the door with her free hand and stepped past the threshold.

  "Rraarr!"

  Marmaduke dug his back claws into her wrist.

  "Ouch!"

  The cat leaped from her arms and raced down the hall.

  Rubbing at the sting of claw marks on her wrist, Margot walked cautiously into the room. Nothing out of the ordinary. At least nothing to make the cat act so oddly. The bed lay empty, while the plaid, flannel sheets were rumpled and unmade, almost as if Jake had just stepped from them. Abruptly, she glanced away from the bed. It reminded her too much of last night and how she'd almost ended up there...with him.

  She saw an odd black case on the dresser. Still rubbing at her arm, she walked over to it. Sheer curiosity, nothing else, had her opening the box. Two empty vials rested inside curved, cloth holders. She slipped one from its bed and held it up to the morning light.

  "Miracell."

  Margot frowned. Strange. She'd never heard of it, but that didn't say much. Unlike her brother, she'd never had any interest in the medical field. She tipped it to the side. A few clear drops still remained. She raised it to her nose. Odorless.

  How strange. Was it some type of penicillin? Maybe Jake had diabetes. Or did the vial have something to do with his sensitivity to light? He didn't strike her as a drug addict, especially after the way he’d reacted to her drinking. Johnny might have been able to tell her the vial’s contents. Sighing, she carefully replaced the tube and closed the case. Only one person could tell her the truth.

  Jake. Such a mystery. After almost a week, she didn’t know anything more about him other than the fact he’d worked for the same company as Johnny. Miltronics. A company no one would talk about. A company where Malcolm, the most secretive of them all, still worked.

  Something rustled behind her. Almost like a soft sigh. Quickly, she turned. No one was there. The cushioned chair in the corner sat empty, the thick rust drapes lay motionless. A stillness settled over the room. She shivered. Not again. She was not going to think of ghosts, or things going bump in the night or, in this case, the day.

  Shaking off her wild imagination, she hurried out of the room, went into the kitchen, and then had a quick breakfast. Jake hadn’t eaten. Usually
, he’d leave his dishes neatly stacked by the sink or rinsed and in the dishwasher. He was a model tenant. Sometimes, it was almost as if he wasn’t even here. A ghost. Silent and—

  There she went again. She exhaled heavily. Ghosts. She glanced at the bottle of Merlot on the counter. No, too early for a drink. Even for her. Maybe after lunch. Instead, she tied the garbage bag and hefted it to the front entrance. Setting it aside, she opened the door.

  Malcolm stood in front of her, his hand raised to the doorbell.

  "Malcolm!"

  “Is that all you can say?” His lip curled up at one corner, but he stared back at her with remote, blue eyes.

  "Go away." She stood in the middle of the entrance, having no intention of letting him past.

  "Margot, really. Is that anyway to welcome your husband?"

  "That's ex, as in ex-husband."

  "A technicality." He shrugged and offered her a large bouquet of mixed flowers, their fragrance teasing her nose. “Aren’t you going to at least let me in?”

  She ignored the flowers. “Why should I?”

  “I want to talk.”

  He dropped the flowers back to his side and stepped toward her, pushing into her space, closer, even closer until she smelled the tang of coffee on his breath.

  Lifting her chin, she didn’t step back. "We don’t have anything to talk about anymore. Why can’t you just go and leave well enough alone?"

  Something flickered in the back of his eyes. She'd annoyed him. "But I’ve missed you."

  Margot laughed harshly. The flowers and the smile didn’t fool her. Malcolm’s clean-cut, tanned, boyish looks might have blinded her years ago but no longer. His light brown, almost sandy hair, cut close to his head suited his clean, almost beautiful features. Little crinkles at the sides of his light blue eyes and tiny brackets at his mouth were the only lines that marred his smooth complexion. His Armani suit accented his tall, lean form, while the padding in the shoulders masked his narrow body. Even though Malcolm was thin, she’d learned all too quickly how much strength his frame held.

  He might look picture perfect and have the money to compete with Midas, but four years with him had cured her of ever wanting him again. Malcolm was incapable of having an intimate relationship with anyone. Female or male. It just wasn't in him. Malcolm cared for Malcolm and only Malcolm, and that about summed it up.

  "You miss me?” Margot lifted her chin. “I find that hard to believe."

  "Well, believe it." He shoved passed her and into the foyer, then tossed the flowers on the hall table. "After all, you're the one who left me."

  Tension cut along her shoulders and neck, and she curled her fingers into fists at her sides. She hated Malcolm's head games. "As if you gave me an option."

  He stepped toward her, lifted a hand and rubbed a knuckle against her cheek. Then he dropped his hand to his side, but on the way down his fingers grazed the side of her breast. Margot didn’t flinch, didn’t do anything but stare back. She damned well knew him touching her like that was no accident. Oh, how she wanted to lash out at him, but memories of past encounters stilled the urge. Malcolm was strong, vicious, and quick to lose his temper.

  "Don't you miss me a little?" he asked.

  "No."

  He pressed forward, giving Margot no choice but to backup. Unless, that is, she wanted him touching her again. She swallowed hard. The last time he'd put a hand on her, he'd hurt her badly. All too clearly, she remembered that day when he’d come home from Miltronics in a near temper. She’d made the mistake of doggedly asking questions about what they were working on after several times he’d told her to stop. He’d flown at her then, rage changing his face to something ugly and frightening. That night her arm had almost snapped as he pulled it behind her back and twisted until the pain forced her to her knees.

  Crossing her arm, she cupped the elbow where she’d been injured. She’d never gone to the hospital. Call it fear or stupidity or just being young and insecure. Even now, when the humidity climbed, twinges of pain would slice through the tendons of her arm.

  Walking further into the hall, Malcolm looked around. "How can you stand it? You've become a real hermit." He shook his head. "Who would have thought? Poor Margot. Has life been that bad that you have to hide out in this hellhole? Or maybe I've got it all wrong and you're getting all nice and cozy with some guy?" His smile looked far more threatening than friendly. "Getting it on the side and not telling anyone about it?"

  For some crazy reason Jake came to mind. "It's none of your business who I see."

  "Oh, so you are seeing someone."

  "I didn't say that. Why are you so interested in my personal life all of a sudden?"

  Shrugging, he walked past her.

  "Where are you going?" she asked, quickly following him as he strode down the hall.

  He didn’t respond, but peered into the den, then entered the living room. She walked around the tanned leather couch and trailed a hand along its top, all the while controlling her growing anger. Experience had long ago taught her that the only way to win any type of battle with Malcolm was to be cool, rational and above all, fearless.

  "You haven’t had anyone come by from Miltronics, have you?

  Her hand stilled on the leather. She thought of Jake again. "No.”

  He narrowed his eyes. "You’re lying."

  “Why in the world would I lie? I’ve nothing to hide. ” She arched her brows in disbelief. “Really, Malcolm. You’re way off base.”

  Margot didn’t know if he’d bought it as he strode from the room. With growing suspicion, she followed him into the hall and watched him glance into the kitchen. Something was going on, something she couldn’t even begin to guess at.

  Suddenly, he rounded on her and smiled. "You're looking good, Margot." Slowly, so very slowly, he trailed a finger along her neck. "You know, I think I want you back in my bed. You were always pretty damned hot. Always so eager to please."

  When his index finger slipped past the scooped neckline of her sweater, she grasped his wrist and pushed vainly at his hand. He leaned into her, pressing up against her until she found herself shoved up against the wall.

  "What's wrong?” he asked. “Don't I turn you on anymore?"

  "Don't."

  Nausea burrowed into her stomach. She was not going to let him play with her head. She was done with being frightened and manipulated. Never. Ever again.

  As Malcolm lowered his hand even further over her body, Margot pulled harder on his arm, trembling violently with the effort, but she couldn't match his strength or stop him when he covered her breast with his palm.

  Margot sucked in a breath, raised her other hand and slammed her fist into Malcolm’s face. His head jerked back. A mottled red flush crept up his neck and into his face. He lifted his hand from her breast and roughly slid it up to circle her neck. Using his body, he squeezed her harder up against the wall, digging his fingers around her throat. A black film seeped into the edge of her vision. Margot struggled for breath.

  She’d done it. Pushed him over the edge.

  Corded veins stood out against his reddened neck as he gritted out, "Don't ever—"

  Suddenly, Malcolm flew backward. She caught his stunned expression as his body twisted in the air and tumbled to the ground. Malcolm slid across the floor and hit the back of his head against the wall with a loud whack.

  Gasping in a lungful air, Margot stared back in shock. How? Who? Flattening both palms against the wall on either side of her, she glanced around, but no one else was in the room with them.

  Fear etched across his face, Malcolm scrambled to his feet, touched the base of his head, and backed slowly down the hall to the front entrance.

  There was no way she'd managed to shove Malcolm off like that. It was almost as if he'd had some type of crazy spasm or someone had grabbed him from behind and thrown him across the room. But that was ludicrous.

  "What—what happened?" Margot asked in a voice gone harsh and raw.

 
Still touching his head with one hand, his face a sick, pasty white, Malcolm edged closer to the front door, caution in his every step and look. He sneered back at her. "You figure it out."

  He disappeared out the door, leaving it open for a frosty breeze to blow into the house and brush against her skin. Shivering, she stepped around the forgotten garbage bag and closed the door after him. She leaned against the wood paneling, unable to stand properly without having her legs give out from under her.

  "Is that you, Johnny?" she whispered.

  She waited.

  No answer.

  But then, Margot never really expected one. For a moment, though, she'd hoped. Hoped? When was the last time she’d hoped for anything? After too many years of too many unanswered wishes.

  It had to be her brother, though. How else could Malcolm suddenly fly through the air like that? But that was so crazy and so unlike Johnny. He’d been such a mild-mannered man. A man of science, a man who worked with his brain and not his hands. Then again, he’d been protecting her. Something she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to act on.

  She needed a drink. Bad. She pushed off the door and hurried into the kitchen. With fumbling fingers, she uncorked a fresh bottle of red wine and poured herself a healthy glass. Closing her eyes, she drank, drank until the shaking stopped, drank until a numbness settled over her body, drank until she didn’t care about hope, about her ex threatening her, about her meaningless life...about ghosts.

  Then Malcolm’s words rang in her head.

  You figure it out.

  What could he mean? What was it that she needed to figure out? Obviously, it was something he thought she should know. Or maybe not. Maybe Malcolm was just being his usual snide self. But then why had he shown up today?

  You figure it out. Something about her? Miltronics? Jake? Or maybe Johnny?