Jeopardy

by Fayrene Preston

  The man grabbed her and scrubbed her face hard with a rough cloth that scraped her skin. It hurt so bad; every time he touched her he hurt her. She cried and cried. He slapped her, knocking her backward onto the old mattress, and then there was darkness again. And she was all alone. All alone.

  Angelica came wide awake and sat straight up in bed, gasping for air. Arms reached out for her. "No!" She hit the arms away and scrambled for the end of the bed.

  Nico’s hands closed around her upper arms, holding her back. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Where are you going? Did you have another dream?”

  She swung wildly around, dislodging his grip on her. “Don’t touch me!”

  “All right,” he said, his tone calm and soothing. “All right. Just let me switch on a light.” He leaned over, clicked on the bedside lamp, then turned to look at her, and his heart leapt into his throat. She was kneeling at the end of the bed, hunched, ready to bolt. Her face was pale, her eyes were wide and filled with fear; beneath the violet chemise her chest rose and fell with agitation. She looked like some wild, helpless creature who was being hunted, he thought with anguish. “Did you have another dream?” he whispered, careful not to make am unexpected move.

  “Dream?” She didn’t know. She couldn’t explain what had just gone on in her mind, and most of all, she was afraid to try. "No.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  "Nothing. Leave me alone.”

  “I’m not touching you, Angelica. Come back up here beside me. Get under the covers. I don’t want you to get chilled.”

  She tilted her head, listening. His voice was low, quiet, a soft, velvet purr, so unlike those she had just heard in her mind. She had heard those voices before. Who were those people? The man had said she was filthy. The woman had called him her golden-haired boy. Her glance flew to Amarillo. His hair was sandy-colored. And he was looking at her with concern.

  She put a hand to her face where the man had slapped her. She could still feel the stinging hurt.

  "I’ve got to wash.” She scrambled off the bed and hurried into the bathroom. The lights were blindingly bright at first, but she didn’t care. She grabbed a washcloth, wet and soaped it, then began to scrub her face. She pushed the cloth hard back and forth over her cheeks. It was painful, but she couldn’t stop. The man had called her filthy. She rinsed the cloth with hot, steaming water and started the process again.

  Amarillo came up behind her and lightly put his hands on her shoulders. Fear instantly seized her. She pushed back against him, trying for maneuvering room so that she could get free of him.

  “Don’t fight me, honey. I’m not going to hurt you.” He wrapped one arm around her, and with the other reached to pry the cloth away from her.

  She turned and hit out at him. “Give that back to me! I need it!”

  He tossed the cloth across the room, grabbed her wrists, and held them to his chest. “You’re going to injure yourself, Angelica.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m just washing.”

  He cupped his hand along the side of her cheek and flicked his thumb back and forth across the reddened skin. “There’s not a speck of dirt on you, sweetheart.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, and her voice broke. “There must be.”

  He had never felt so powerless in his life. She was going through something awful, and he didn’t know how to help her. He slowly shook his head and swept her up into his arms. “Come on, let me take you back to bed.”

  The thought of going back to bed, the place where she had had the dream, terrified her, and she began to struggle, pushing against his chest. “No, I don’t want to be in bed!”

  He stopped and gazed down at her. The fear was still there in her eyes, as were the tears. He wanted to curse, to vent this terrible anger he felt because she was so upset and it seemed nothing he could do or say made any difference. Instead, he asked very gently, “Where do you want to be?”

  “Any place but the bed.”

  He carried her to the sofa, and after laying her down he bent to the fireplace and built a fire. Then he returned to the bed and scooped up a blanket, but when he leaned toward the lamp on the bedside table, she called out to him.

  “Leave the light on.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her, a frown on his face. “You won’t be able to get back to sleep if I do. "

  “Yes, I will.” She had no intention of sleeping again, but telling him would only provoke an argument. “If you think it will keep you from sleeping, maybe you should go to your room.”

  He straightened. “I’m staying.” He returned to the couch and settled himself on it with her in his arms.

  At first she lay stiffly, determined not to allow herself to give way to sleep. Dreams lay in sleep. Darkness too. And she had had enough of both. But gradually the heat from his body soaked into her and she relaxed and slept.

  * * *

  The next morning Angelica awoke alone on the couch, and in an instant everything that had happened the night before came rushing back to her. Appalled and embarrassed, she shut her eyes and covered her face with her hand. She had screamed at Amarillo not to touch her, then rushed to the bathroom and practically scrubbed the skin from her face. There she had fought him again. Finally he had had to bodily carry her from the bathroom.

  He must have thought she was completely demented. He’d be justified in thinking so, her actions had been those of a crazy person.

  Slowly she rose from the couch and went to shower and dress. When she returned to the bedroom, she found Amarillo sitting in front of a breakfast-laden table.

  He smiled at her. “Good morning. I hope you’re hungry. I ordered everything I could think of.”

  She eyed him cautiously. He looked so fresh and vital and full of energy, as if he were up to any challenge. It was the exact opposite of what she felt. “I don’t think I want anything to eat just yet.”

  He pointed toward a plate of croissants and fruit. “How about something light?”

  She smiled faintly. “You’re still trying to feed me.”

  “That must be because I still think you need to eat.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said airily. "Losing a few pounds wouldn’t hurt me at all.”

  “It would hurt me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because—” he stopped, unsure of what he wanted to say. He stared at her for a moment, then stood and came to her and framed her face with his hands. “You look pale.”

  “I'm fine.”

  The strain of her expression told him that she wasn’t. He frowned. “Maybe you should see a doctor. ”

  “Because of a little nightmare? Don't be silly.” She broke away from him and walked to the table. “I don’t see anything chocolate here.”

  “You’re changing the subject."

  “I never get far away from the subject of chocolate.”

  “That was more than a little nightmare, Angelica, and we both know it.”

  With a sigh she turned back around. “Okay. Yes, yes, it was, but I don’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want you worrying about it. ”

  "Worrying about it? You scared the hell out of me last night, Angelica.”

  Of course she had, she thought with self-dis-gust. She had acted like a madwoman. “I’m so sorry. So truly sorry. I think tonight it would be better if you slept in your room. That way you won’t be disturbed.”

  “To hell with my being disturbed! You’re the one I’m concerned about.”

  She pressed fingers to her temple. "I really don’t want to talk about this.”

  “Angelica—”

  “No.” She wheeled and headed for the door. “I’m going to see if the chef can whip up something chocolate for me, and then I’m going to get to work. I have a lot to do today.”

  “Angelica."

  His voice stopped her before she reached the door. She looked over her shoulder.

  “I’ll be here tonight."

  “There’s no need. I’ll be q
uite safe. I’ll even lock the door."

  “I’ll be here tonight.”

  Angelica threw herself with gusto into the final plans for the ball, following up on the tiniest detail and making work when there was none. Anything to keep her mind from switching to the contents of her dreams.

  She felt as if she were being haunted. She didn’t know what the dreams meant, but they were so vivid, so utterly clear, it was as if they weren't really dreams at all. And that was at night. During the day they had begun to consume her.

  Every once in a while she would look up from whatever she happened to be doing at the moment and she would see Amarillo watching her. She accepted his vigilance. She would not allow guards, and so he was keeping track of her. As long as she didn’t feel closed in. she wouldn’t complain, and he was obviously smart enough to know it.

  He sensed danger and it was his nature to be a protector.

  She, too, sensed danger, but an internal danger that was more frightening to her than whatever the man who had been calling had planned for her.

  Intellectually she knew her dreams must be connected in some way to the calls and the note. She was being harassed by some unknown person, and it was logical that the distress she felt would manifest itself in her dreams.

  Up to a point, everything made sense.

  Except—inside her there was a certain knowledge she couldn’t explain or justify, a knowledge that was telling her that the dreams had very little to do with the calls and the note.

  That evening she chose to eat in the dining room. She wanted to be around people, to hear them as they talked and laughed. She wanted to pretend she was, like them, completely normal.

  Amarillo joined her at her table, elegant, charming, and very determined to be with her. He was silent for the most part, and she concentrated on eating, resolved he would have no cause to try to make her eat. After dinner they drifted apart as they mingled with the guests.

  She was staving off that time when she would have to go upstairs to sleep. Eventually, though, her eyelids began to grow heavy, and suddenly Amarillo was beside her, taking her arm and leading her to the elevator.

  “I suppose you’re going to insist on coming to my room tonight,” she said, leaning against the burgundy velvet padded walls of the elevator interior and gazing at him.

  He nodded. “That’s right.”

  “You can sleep in the same bed with me if you want, but I’m not going to make love with you.”

  “Whatever you want is fine with me,” he said, the expression in his golden eyes solemn. Then he stepped to her, lowered his body against hers so that she was pressed against the velvet padded wall, and kissed her.

  “Now what do you want?” he whispered against her mouth a moment later.

  “You,” she answered. “Lord, I want you.”

  And several hours passed before she slept and dreamed.

  There was the darkness again, the fear, the crying. There was the music, the laughter, and the voices. And everything was mixed together with a surrealistic horror—the laughter with the crying, the music with the fear, the voices with the darkness.

  She awoke with a gasp, and for a minute lay perfectly still, trying to separate reality from the dream. She was awake, she assured herself, not still caught up in the dark, intricate labyrinth of her subconscious.

  Beside her she heard the deep, steady breathing of Amarillo. She gave silent thanks for the further reassurance she wasn’t dreaming and for the fact that she hadn’t awakened him.

  As quietly as possible, she slipped from the bed, and taking the lace coverlet with her, she made her way to the open French door. Wrapping the coverlet around her, she sat down on the floor and rested her back against the doorjamb.

  From the bed Amarillo watched her from beneath half-closed eyes. She looked so fragile, so vulnerable, his heart ached. With eveiy minute, with every hour, she was withdrawing more and more from him. And he didn’t know how to stop her.

  A huge silver moon hung out over the water, lighting the night. Angelica focused on it, concentrating hard on its beauty and its mystery. By doing that, she didn’t have to think about a horrible truth: She was losing her mind.

  Eight

  Peter came up behind Angelica as she was sitting in a second-floor meeting area, going through her notes. “Miss DiFrenza?”

  Angelica started and jerked around. “What is it?”

  The young bellman’s eyes widened at her reaction. “I’m soriy. Am I bothering you?”

  Angelica sighed. She was tired and her nerves were strung to the breaking point, but that was no reason to take it out on him, she realized. “No, Peter, you aren’t bothering me, and I’m sorry I snapped at you."

  He grinned with relief. “Don’t worry about it. I know with the ball tomorrow night you must have a lot on your mind.”

  “I do, but that's no excuse. At any rate, what can I do for you?”

  “Oh, right!” He grinned again, thinking that a guy could be forgiven for losing his train of thought just by looking at her. She was great, not to mention gorgeous. He mentally brought himself up short. She was also a Deverell and that took her way out of his league. “I came up to tell you that Mr. Breckinridge has checked in and wanted you to be told he'd arrived.”

  She nodded. "Thank you. I do want to speak with him. Could you call his room for me and ask him if now would be a good time for him to meet me? Here?”

  “Sure will, Miss DiFrenza. Anything else I can do to help?"

  She graced him with a smile. “I’d love a pot of tea. And if you wouldn’t mind, have the kitchen add several cups to the tray. I’m setting up shop here for a while. The guests for the ball have started arriving, and I don’t have time right now to greet eveiyone. Oh, and see if the kitchen has any chocolate bars.”

  “No problem, Miss DiFrenza. Tea and chocolate bars it is.”

  Minutes later, when William Breckinridge appeared, Angelica did her best to shake off her strained mood, even though she noted that he appeared to be under somewhat of a strain himself. “I hope your trip was pleasant and uneventful.”

  "Yes, it was, thank you. The jewels are locked away in a safe I had brought in and placed in the room I’ve been assigned, and I’ve already sent back to Boston the guard who accompanied me here.”

  A sudden thought occurred to her. “Did I remember to tell you that Mr. Smith is handling the extra security here?”

  “He notified me, and I plan to check in with him just as soon as you and I are through.”

  As usual his formality was getting her down, and she decided to try to inteiject some lightness into their conversation. “It sounds as if you have everything under control. I hope you plan to utilize some of SwanSea’s facilities while you’re here. Do you play tennis?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t, but I’m sure I’ll find plenty to keep myself busy.”

  She tried to imagine him walking along the beach, picking up seashells, and failed completely. “That’s good. By the way, sometime today I would like to get the rubies.”

  Dismay puckered his brow. “I’m not sure that would be wise, Miss DiFrenza. They should stay in the safe right up until the time you plan to wear them. That’s the procedure I follow with all the ladies.”

  "I see. Well, I’ll speak with Mr. Smith about it. At any rate, I’m glad you and the jewels have arrived safely. And now that you’re here, try to relax and have a good time.”

  A strange expression crossed his face, and he seemed to hesitate. He was probably trying to decide if he should tell her that his idea of a good time would be to sit in front of the vault all day and watch it, she thought, then immediately chastised herself. He was a valued employee of DiFrenza’s and had been for years. She just wished he weren’t so tiring.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Breckinridge.”

  “Good-bye, Miss DiFrenza.”

  * * *

  By late afternoon Angelica had a pounding headache, a still uncompleted list of things she needed to do, and a
growing sense that the walls were closing in around her. Barely conscious of making the decision to flee, she escaped the house by a back door and headed toward the woods.

  The day was warm, the breeze gentle. Quite a few people were out, strolling through the gardens, heading to and from the swimming pool and the tennis courts, or simply sitting on the lawn in padded lounge chairs, enjoying the view and the sun. The latter activity appealed greatly to her, and she wondered fleetingly if it was possible for the sun to bake away the demons that seemed to be filling her head and giving her the dreams.

  Sometime later, Amarillo found her stretched out on a soft, luxuriant section of grass by a clear running brook, an arm across her closed eyes. He quietly lowered himself to the ground beside her.

  She felt his presence as an increase in warmth on her skin and an acceleration of her pulse, but she had mixed emotions about his being there. She didn’t feel fit to be around anyone, especially him. For him she wanted to be at her best, and she was anything but that now.

  During the past half hour she had been going over and over her dreams, trying to find a thread of reason within their chaos.

  Who was the child who cried? Who was the man who handled her so roughly? And who was the lady with the sweet, familiar voice? She should know, but she had racked her brain and had come up with no memories. In the end, she had succeeded only in increasing her anxiety and tension.

  “How did you find me?” she asked without moving her arm.

  “Peter saw you go into the woods. I think he has a crush on you.”

  “He’s a nice boy."

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t be thrilled to hear you call him a boy.”

  Slowly she lowered her arms and opened her eyes. “Was there some reason in particular you wanted to see me?” She couldn’t believe what she was saying even as she was saying it. Her aloof tone was even harder to believe. It reinforced what she already knew—she had found no peace here by the brook, and the state of her nerves was at a critical point. Dear Lord, was there any hope for her?

  His gaze narrowed on her. “There are a lot of reasons, the main one being I don’t like you out of my sight too long.”