by Daisy Banks
The coffee revolted his stomach. Since the attack, things he used to relish the taste of didn’t satisfy in the same way. None of the doctors offered reasons for the changes. They fobbed him off with the usual line; it could be the medication.
He didn’t need their excuses or platitudes. He’d a better idea what was happening. Being here today reinforced his suspicions.
The creature that attacked him wasn’t an animal. It was something more. A stirring in his gut told him the beast came from this place. He’d hunted once on safari. This morning his blood sang in the same way as he drove to Darnwell. He’d trailed his quarry. As soon as he set foot out of the car, his body tingled. He loved the edgy sharpness still powering through him.
The sight of the big bastard that Sian was screwing sealed the deal. Johansson was behind all this. He was both attacker and prey.
When the over-muscled owner of the house spoke to him in the corridor, he’d reeled in astonishment. Couldn’t get his head together fast enough to say what he should have. Who the fuck did this guy think he was issuing orders to a total stranger?
Franklyn barked out a laugh. The last thing he’d any intention of doing was telling Sian “lover boy” would meet her after the shoot. If he had his way, he’d be driving her down the motorway to his hotel.
The music splintered his thoughts. Leaning heavily on the stick, he walked over to drop his polystyrene cup in the bin. Despite the reek, he’d take a look inside the house, maybe see the amazing mirrored room Sian had sent him pictures of when he agreed to hire the place. If he managed to get in to see the room, he’d take a wander round the grounds after, and then call Sian’s phone.
Sian. Surely he would find her here. He breathed deep and discovered the exquisite aroma he knew so well. Sian. A beautiful scent in direct contrast to the beast smell that soured the day. She was close, might even have walked this courtyard less than an hour ago. He followed the lure of her around the corner onto a terrace overlooking a lawn.
Two of the dancers he knew, both in full makeup, costume, and debating loudly, stalked past. He hunched his shoulders so they wouldn’t recognize him.
“I told you on the third beat be ready for the lift. Where were you?” the male dancer asked.
“Concentrating on not falling arse over tit because of the flower pot thing. You’re such a pain,” his partner replied.
Franklyn grinned. Nothing changed. They’d used this pair of married dancers a couple of times. How those two lived together, he’d no idea, because they fought constantly. Yet on screen, they exuded a magic chemistry. They always came across as passionate lovers.
Once Sian saw sense, she’d be the same with him. They might disagree about a few minor matters; he knew she disapproved of his little treats, like how much he drank, or the occasional snort, and the work trips to the US, but everyone would know they were right together.
An unusual half-door that stood open offered him a quick entrance to the house. Her lingering scent beckoned him. He ducked inside, stepped into a lemon yellow room with sofas and tables, big vases with the kind of oriental designs he loathed. The place was a mausoleum. How the hell did someone as electrifying as Sian live with all this? Sian was neon, bold and bright. She didn’t belong in this house of the dead. His Rosebud needed the energy of the city, the glitz she enjoyed, a night at a good dance club before a long slow fuck when he got her home.
He walked through into a portrait-hung corridor and made his way along, side-stepping the spaghetti lengths of black cables running down the passageway. Two large guys, both dressed in dark blue sweats and T-shirts, hulked by the door, but neither challenged him.
Useless security. He’d change the company they used after this shoot. Anyone could get in here. Limping along, he eyed the portraits.
A fresh waft of her scent hit him. There she stood.
Instant arousal gave him a yardstick hard-on. He ducked into an alcove along the side of the wall, but could still see her. Today, her jeans fit like a second skin. The little white T-shirt clung, outlining her breasts. Her sweet, pointy little nipples beckoned him to suck.
Computer notebook in hand, Sian strolled down the corridor toward him with Richard, deep in conversation.
How he longed to seize a hank of her gleaming curls to drag her over here. She’d not run like she had in the dreams. It was time she understood the truth. She’d played around here, but now she needed to come home and face the consequences. He wanted to make her sorry for all the suffering she’d inflicted. He’d never hurt her, not really. But he wanted to see some penitence. By the time he’d finished with her, that juicy bottom lip would quiver. He might just kiss it better. No, he wanted some tears spilling down those porcelain cheeks. He’d make sure she’d be very sorry before he forgave her.
Not now. He needed to get her out of here before he could think about anything else.
Richard led Sian into a room off the corridor. One of them closed the door behind them, shutting him out.
A new crackle of guitar strains wavered for a minute, but silence snapped it off. He moved from the alcove, strolled the way Sian and Richard had come toward the pair of double doors standing open at the end of the corridor. He winced at a sudden screech of feedback. The sound engineer must have screwed up somewhere.
Fucking hell!
Dancers milled around but didn’t detract from the magnificence of the room. The band, on a raised platform at one end, didn’t hide the plasterwork moldings. The lights and equipment were multiplied a hundred times by the extravagant mirrors. The chandeliers gleamed like brilliant cut gems.
Everyone bustled about, each one of them focused on their task. Not a smidge of gossip to eavesdrop on as he passed. In fact, no one spoke. The initial fear he’d be recognized by one of the crew or the band faded. He moved like a ghost among them all. Certain the cameras weren’t filming yet, he strolled across the room, suddenly eager to escape his tormentors lair.
He stepped out of the open French windows onto another terrace overlooking the grounds. Bile stung the back of his throat. Along with the stink of his enemy, he smelled money. A lot of it. Johansson must have a fortune to keep this place going. He couldn’t understand why such a recluse agreed for the filming here. The guy could be in no serious need of cash. That must be how he’d managed to get into Sian’s knickers. Capital, enough of it, anything and anyone could be yours.
A wave of disappointment crashed through him. Johansson, the bastard, had bought her. It didn’t seem possible Sian could be a whore to wealth. He swept a glance over the terrace with its stone ornamentation, the well-tended acre of lawn and mature trees. Money, old money, all spoke to him from the view.
There was even a fucking lake. He narrowed his eyes and headed down the steps toward a building at the end of a causeway. No wonder Johansson enthralled her. An apartment in Knightsbridge didn’t compare with a country estate like this. He should have realized. Sian, intelligent and sharp, still had vulnerabilities, a susceptibility to beauty and wealth part of them. He should have protected her from herself.
She must feel like the lady of the manor here.
No wonder she’d decided to stay, but once the shoot finished she’d head back to the city. No! During their disagreement at the roadside, before the monster had attacked him, Sian had said she’d stay with Johansson for good.
Off balance, as he had been since he left the nursing home, he thumped the stick into the turf with each step. Bitterness swept through him when the house filled the view from where he stood at the top of the grassy bank. He couldn’t lose her like this. Not to some rich recluse who would use her and dump her once he got bored. He had to get her back.
He gripped the stick so tight his knuckles cracked. Damn it, he should never have agreed to go to Chicago back in August. He could have sent one of the others to the meeting. That way he could have dealt with Johansson himself. The guy frig
htened Sian. After her first visit here, she had said as much, but he had made the damn trip across the pond anyway and left her to come back here alone. She had needed him, but he’d made a joke about it.
A groan tore from his throat.
Slow as an old man, he hobbled down the slope to the jetty. The wind whipped across the gray lake, chilling him. Another layer of disgust made him gag when he breathed in a massive dose of the stink that pervaded the whole estate. Someone should take a bucket of bleach to the place.
The wooden boards of the causeway looked solid enough. He made his way across to the oriental building with faded red paint.
A fucking pagoda!
He paused at the end of the causeway, coughed, and choked on the rank smell. A crazy urge gripped him, weird and strange, like so many others he’d experienced since he woke in the hospital. The desire to pee and mark the place with his scent became an urgent demand. He glanced about.
Not a soul stood at the edge of the lake. He saw no one across in the woods. If he had a clumsy spray slash here, who would know? Chuckling, he stepped onto the decking. He’d give the place a good dosing inside and out.
A few minutes later, laughing, he checked his shoes as he re-zipped his fly. He’d sure sweetened the air here. The house at the top of the rise loomed as though it disapproved, but he didn’t give a fuck. Rosebud, his baby girl, was a captive there. Held by the lure of a rich guy. This was the first step to rescue her.
Don’t you worry, sweet-cheeks. Uncle Franklyn’s coming to save you and bring you home.
Chapter 11
Magnus studied the three pieces the attendant in the jeweler’s shop had presented. He discounted the ring right away. Too much could be read into the gift of a ring. Besides, when he did give Sian a ring, it wouldn’t be something as gaudy as this ruby and emerald confection. The string of pearls attracted him. They were long enough for her to wear as a single or double loop but not matronly like the triple sets.
Memories of another time shouldn’t interfere with the present, but they did. So many sets of pearls, their appeal for women seemed eternal. Sian deserved something more. He set the necklace down on the black velvet square.
The last piece, an art deco platinum bracelet, set with square diamonds and emeralds in a Greek key pattern, held a certain charm. The emeralds weren’t quite as bright, or the same perfect shade as her eyes, but he liked the piece. He held the bracelet to the light, using the assistant’s loop to examine the stones. The diamonds were good. He nodded to the young woman behind the counter. “The very thing I was looking for. Can you gift wrap it for me?”
“Of course, sir. May I ask how you wish to pay?”
“Cash. I don’t use cards.”
“Very well, sir. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll wrap the item for you.”
He sat on the leather sofa opposite the counter. While he waited for her to return, he counted out money from his wallet. The bank notes entertained him. Their size and style had changed so much over the years. One of his safes held a great deal of paper currency, which in today’s world would no longer be legal, but the aged notes might be worth something to collectors. Maybe he should look to find out what was in the old strong room. A pity the days of paying in gold guineas were long gone. There had always been a satisfaction in a weighty bag of coin. At some point soon, he would contact the accountant and check the funds available for his renovations on the house.
The young blonde returned with an small, elegant parcel wrapped in silver with gold ribbon trimmings. He went to the counter and handed over the correct sum. The girl wrote him a receipt itemizing the bracelet.
“Thank you, sir,” the girl said handing over the document. “Do call in again soon.”
“I may well do that.” He picked up the small package, waiting a moment for her to finish checking the notes before he slipped it into his pocket. As soon as she smiled and placed the money in the cash register, he left. One day he would call back here no doubt, but should he ever want a ring for Sian, a special ring, he knew of somewhere offering a higher quality of stones and workmanship, along with a range of other special enhancements.
Might an engagement ring be enough to help Sian understand how much she meant to him? A solid reminder on her hand would be a constant token of how much he cared.
He strode the few paces to his tailor’s, where he collected the jacket he’d ordered in September and bought a long, green, waxed topcoat off the peg. While waiting for them to parcel it up, he decided he liked his brown leather one better. Perhaps he’d get used to the new one. From today, he’d make an assessment of his wardrobe. He didn’t want Sian thinking he looked as antique as some of the furniture in the house.
Along with the coat, he added an order for a new full dinner suit with waistcoat, black and gray, and arranged a date to come back for a fitting, and picked up a couple of casual shirts. With that done, he made his way back to the car. He stowed the carrier bags in the boot, before he settled in to drive to the South Downs to grab lunch at the pub.
Autumn had swept through the county this last week. Today the trees could hold onto the last of their leaves no longer. Soon it would grow colder still. The wonderful prospect of long winter evenings in front of a warm hearth with Sian raised his smile.
This year they could celebrate Christmas, too, as the full moon occurred after the day. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made anything of such seasonal festivities. How much he had changed in the brief time Sian had been in his life. Five, no, four months ago, his only thoughts for December would have been a bonus for the staff. He must take care not to become complacent, nor take Sian for granted. She was a treasure, and he must convince her he cherished her above all else.
At the pub he checked the day’s lunch specials, written in the glass case outside the door, before he went inside. Mid-week the bar was quiet. He ordered a pint of bitter and a steak sandwich. Drink in hand, he walked across to sit at the table he’d shared with Sian the last time they were here. If he narrowed his eyes against the light, he could see her opposite him, as she’d been that day, pale and full of trepidation.
He’d tried to give her confidence in the task she’d agreed to perform. Before he transformed the night of the full moon, she would chain him to the floor rings in the small white room he’d had built in the 1920s. Once she bound him, she had to slide across the metal bars to secure him inside. If she had wished, she could meet him in the dreams. He sighed, for he’d not done much to help her with her concerns, not as much as he should have.
“Your sandwich, sir.”
Startled out of his introspection, he glanced at the girl holding a plate. “Thank you.”
He moved his keys so the girl could place the plate on the table. He lifted the wedge of bread and steak to take a bite. Lunch without Sian’s company wasn’t the same. He found little savor in the food.
He left the pub having only drunk half his pint. Most of his meal remained on the plate.
The clock on the dash showed three-thirty. He had time to take a stroll over the hills for an hour before he drove back in the lowering dusk. When he returned, Sian would be waiting, and the house would be quiet.
* * * *
Appalled to find the two big trucks and several cars still parked outside the house when he returned, he drove around to the garage, parked the car, and made his way into the house through the staff entrance. He flipped lights on as he walked through the corridors, surprised by so much darkness. In the main central corridor, he found the sound of voices coming from the den. Sian had promised the crew would be gone by six-thirty. He checked his watch; it was almost that.
How ridiculous he should be apprehensive about entering the room. He waited in the corridor outside the den, uncertain whether to cross the threshold and face them, or go upstairs and wait until they left. He counted the different voices: Sian, light, amused and laughin
g, Richard, the technical manager, another female voice, too, and a deep-voiced man.
Damn it. He strode through with what he hoped was a convincing smile. “Good evening.” He took off his coat and slung it on the back of one of the bucket seat chairs.
Sian got up from her seat. She embraced him. “Magnus, I’m sorry, the time has vanished today. Let me introduce you to everyone. I’m sure you remember Richard Astle, our tech wizard.”
He nodded. “Yes, I recall meeting you earlier in the year, Mr. Astle.”
“This is Tanya, a solo ballerina. She’s leaving us today to go home to her partner. They are having a baby.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Tanya. Accept my congratulations.”
“This is Jerry Finch, our costume manager.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Finch.” He took in the offered smiles, a light of interest in the wide eyes of the delicate girl. “I hope they haven’t worked you too hard, Tanya.”
“No, sir. Today is my last shoot until…” She shrugged her shoulders. “Sian invited me to have a goodbye drink, though mine is healthy juice.”
He nodded. “I see. Perhaps I can join you and wish you happiness.”
“Of course, Magnus. Here.” Sian poured him a glass.
“All best wishes to you, Tanya.” He tilted his glass, pleased the others joined the toast to the silver-haired girl. He took a sip. Champagne, but not from his cellar.
Sian stood beside him. He slipped his arm around her waist, uncaring if these people should see. “Did your day go as you might have wished?”
“Oh, yes! We got the still shots done, and the dancing, too.” Her glance turned from him to Tanya. “All credit to this lady here. She sure made her last day with us a spectacular one.”
He raised his glass again to the young woman who smiled in return. “Then it would seem today was a good day.”