by Syrie James
What a shame, he thought as he slowly unwound her bandage, that I have to keep lying to her. He’d been manufacturing identities with corresponding back stories for such a long time, it came as easy as breathing—but he’d grown weary of it. For once, he wished he could be open and honest with someone—with her. To his surprise, he realized he wouldn’t mind talking with her all night long. It seemed they had a lot in common. He felt they’d never run out of interesting topics to explore.
What would she think, he wondered, if he told her the truth?
Don’t be an idiot, he warned himself. The truth was something that simply couldn’t be shared. And it wasn’t as if she was being entirely up front with him. For some reason, she was being cagey about her past. The minute he’d asked about her former occupation, she’d cut him off and changed the subject. What was she hiding?
As he removed the dressing, he tilted her chin slightly with his hand and tried to examine the spot on her temple beneath the butterfly bandage—but he couldn’t seem to focus on the wound. Her skin felt hot against his fingers. He could hear her heart pounding more quickly than usual, which made his mouth go dry, even as her nearness inspired a very different kind of desire. Her lips were just inches from his, and he resisted an unexpected impulse to kiss her.
“It’s healing nicely,” he said abruptly, taking a step back. “The bleeding’s stopped and there’s no sign of infection.”
She turned and critically studied her injury in the mirror. “Oh, that’s ugly.”
Michael gazed at her mirror image in sympathy, grateful that the legend about his kind having no reflection was either a myth or for some reason did not apply to him. “It looks worse than it is. The head bleeds more than any other part of the body—”
“—due to the thin skin,” she mused.
“More or less, but—”
“—it wasn’t deep enough to require stitches?”
“No. It should heal quickly and cleanly and only leave a small scar, most of which will be covered by your hair.”
“That’s a relief.”
She turned back to face him again, still seated on the counter. He put on a clean compress, opting to leave off the head bandage this time and simply secure it with a small piece of tape. “In the morning, if you don’t see any blood seepage, you can remove the compress. But it’s important that you keep the wound dry, so don’t wash your hair.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
He put his hands around her waist and helped her down off the counter. Her hands touched his shoulders as she steadied herself. Her feet touched the floor and their eyes locked. His heart began to pound. It was everything he could do to keep from pulling her into his arms and pressing that wonderful feminine body against his.
“I hope you . . . have everything you need?” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she answered. “Do you have . . . whatever you need? From your room, I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll . . . see you in the morning.”
Michael could feel her trembling slightly, could feel a heat rising within him and settling behind his eyes like twin flames. Get out, an inner voice shouted.
“Good night,” he said, tearing himself away.
CHAPTER 7
AS HE STRODE OUT THE DOOR, Nicole’s heart hammered in her chest. What had she just seen? In that moment before Michael turned to leave the room, she’d noticed something strange in his eyes. For an instant, they’d seemed to glow like red flames. But that’s impossible, Nicole thought. Clearly that hit on the head was causing her to see things, or it was her own heated imagination gone amuck.
Her imagination wasn’t the only thing that was heated up at the moment. The entire time that Michael had been undressing and redressing her forehead, Nicole had found herself wishing he’d been undressing a very different part of her body. Stop thinking like that, Nicole, she reprimanded herself, mortified. She’d barely known the man for half a day, and here she was having wanton thoughts about him. Besides, he’s totally out of your league.
The irony of her situation, medically speaking, wasn’t lost on her. With her education and training, she was far more suited than he was to examining and taking care of her own wound—but she wasn’t about to bring that up.
Now that he was gone, Nicole took a moment to see how he’d signed her book. In a neat, elegant script, he’d written:
For Nicole,
With all best wishes,
Patrick Spencer
Well, she thought. That was simple. Could it possibly be true that he’d never signed a book before? If so, that made this copy especially rare and valuable. She knew she’d treasure it always.
Nicole quickly brushed her teeth, put on her pajamas, climbed into the king-size bed, and shut off the light. The luxurious feather-top mattress was as soft as a cloud. The sumptuous down comforter quickly enveloped her in a cocoon of delicious warmth.
Nicole closed her eyes, trying to relax. But the wind wailed incessantly, repeating the same note over and over, as the events of the day kept playing over and over in her mind. The frightening drive across the snowy mountain. The accident. Waking up in this beautiful house. A shiver ran through her at the thought that she’d nearly died today. She didn’t, thanks to one man. He’d been so aloof and prickly at the start. Now that she knew who he was, she understood why. It still seemed impossible to believe that she was lying in Patrick Spencer’s bed.
For so many years he’d been her literary hero. She’d developed a crush on him from afar, even without knowing a thing about him. Tonight, after they’d talked awhile, she’d felt a thrilling, unspoken connection between them—something she hadn’t experienced in years, not since the early days of her relationship with Steven—and she’d begun to relax. She’d sensed a change in Michael, too. He’d seemed pleased by her company, as if he’d enjoyed talking with her as much as Nichole had enjoyed talking with him.
Just because he was gorgeous, brilliant, charming, and famous, she reminded herself, there was no need to feel nervous around him. He was still just a person like everyone else.
As Nicole recalled the exquisite shudder of sexual desire that had run through her when Michael had touched her chin—and again when he’d lifted her down from the counter—adrenalin coursed through her in a white heat. Nicole was certain he’d felt the same desire; she’d seen it in his eyes, had sensed it in his touch.
But when she recalled the look she thought she’d witnessed in that last moment as they stood together, she started to shiver again. It was a hungry look, like a parched man staring at a glass of water. A parched man whose blue eyes danced with red flames.
The image of those red flames haunted Nicole, causing her to toss and turn for hours before she finally drifted off to sleep.
WHEN NICOLE DID SLEEP, she had a terrifying nightmare.
She was walking down the corridor of some strange, nameless hospital. The walls were brightly lit but endless, windowless,
A bald child in a wheelchair was being pushed in her direction beside his rolling IV pole. The boy gave her an odd, curious look, then held up a mirror he was carrying in his lap.
As the boy rolled past, Nicole glimpsed her reflection in the mirror. To her dismay, her nose was bleeding and a drop of blood was leaking from the corner of her eye. She glanced down and saw that both of her hands were covered with blood! She gasped but couldn’t breathe. There was no oxygen in the building!
Nicole raced down the corridor, pushing past all the people, desperately seeking an exit, finally reaching double doors and barreling through them. Suddenly she was outside, taking deep, shuddering breaths of the cold night air as she ran. Inexplicably, she wasn’t in a hospital parking lot. She seemed to be in a city, but it was a very old city she’d never seen before.
She couldn’t stop running. Nicole had no idea where she was or where she was going. Her feet pounded against the cobblestones as she followed narrow, twisting streets, past dark stone buildings lit only by
the moon. She heard lapping water and paused in an ancient doorway to catch her breath, her heart thudding in her ears, her hands still coated in blood. Just ahead she saw a river, moonlight gleaming on the murky, slow-moving water.
A young man was strolling idly along the riverbank, whistling to himself. Strangely, inexplicably, he was wearing a costume—knee breeches, a ruffled shirt, a powdered wig, and
The first man nodded with a smile, tipping his tricornered hat. Suddenly, the cloaked figure pounced, yanking the young man toward him with such uncanny speed that his victim barely had a chance to cry out. The young man struggled futilely against his attacker’s superior strength. His cravat was ripped from his neck. The cloaked man opened his mouth wide, revealing sharp fangs. With a ferocious snarl, he instantly sank his teeth into the whiteness of the young man’s throat.
Nicole gasped in terror. The cloaked figure continued feeding until his victim was limp and lifeless, then unceremoniously dropped the body into the river. He turned now, staring at Nicole from the dark folds of his hood with glowing red eyes. Who or what was he? Had he smelled the blood on her hands? Did he mean to kill her next? He began moving deliberately in her direction. Nicole screamed.
Nicole’s eyes flew open and she sat up in bed, breathing hard, her pulse still racing.
THE WORLD WAS EERILY SILENT when Nicole next awoke. The bedside clock announced that it was 10:30 AM. Nicole slipped out of bed, still tired after her restless night. The memory of her vivid and frightening dream still lingered and made her shiver. Why on earth had she been dreaming about vampires? Was it because she had lost blood when she was injured?
The central heating was going full blast, keeping the house at a pleasant temperature, but the floor was cold on her bare
It was still snowing, but the wind had died down. For the first time, Nicole was able to glimpse the property around them. The hillside below the house was densely forested. Stands of bare, wintry aspens alternated with snow-laden evergreens. The world was blanketed in a deep layer of fluffy white, all except for Michael’s private roads—and from the look of it, he must have just cleared them again. There was a wide circular driveway at the side of the house. One road twisted and turned downhill from there, no doubt leading to the main highway, although Nicole couldn’t see that far. Another road—short and straight—led directly away from the circular driveway into a nearby grove of trees.
Beyond the trees, Nicole thought she caught a glimpse of another building, although the distance and snow gloom made it impossible to make out what kind of building it was. Michael had said there were no neighbors for miles, so the building—whatever it was—must belong to him.
Nicole tied her hair up and took a quick shower, taking care not to get her hair or bandage wet. She then removed the dressing and inspected her forehead in the bathroom mirror. The gash was still red and angry, but the little butterfly bandage was doing its trick. Thankfully it didn’t hurt as much as before. The bruise on her cheek wasn’t pretty, but her headache was gone. After carefully brushing her hair, Nicole dressed in her jeans, a burgundy scoop neck pullover sweater, her navy blue zip-up fleece, and her fur-lined boots. Ah. Blessed warmth.
Starving, she made her way to the kitchen. Where is Michael? she wondered. Did he have breakfast yet? Although he’d made
To her disappointment, the kitchen was empty and just as immaculate as she’d left it the evening before. The only evidence that Michael had been there was a bowl and spoon sitting in the sink, half-filled with water. The house felt very still, as if she were its only occupant.
Michael wasn’t in his study or in the gym. She tried the mysterious door on the lower floor but it was still locked. Checking the garage, she discovered that his truck was gone. Hmm. He must have more roads to plow than were visible from the front windows. Nicole recalled him saying something about a barn. She felt bad that he had to keep going out in this storm.
With a sigh, Nicole returned to the kitchen. What she wouldn’t give for scrambled eggs and toast, some crisp fried bacon, orange juice, and coffee—but that wasn’t going to happen. The practically bare refrigerator stared back at her mockingly. The enchilada casserole was still missing only one portion—the serving she’d had the evening before. Hadn’t Michael eaten dinner while she napped yesterday? What on earth did he eat?
Although it was almost noon, Nicole couldn’t stomach the idea of enchiladas for the first meal of the day. Nor did a diet of carrots and apples sound appetizing. A search through the cabinets revealed assorted cans of soup and vegetables, and a large bowl filled with rolled oats, the same type of oats you’d find in a Quaker Oats box. That must be what Michael had for breakfast, she decided. But why did he empty them out of the Just another one of his quirks, Nicole thought with a shrug. She scooped a half cupful of oats into a cereal bowl, added water, and heated it in the microwave.
There was no coffeemaker. There was no tea in the cupboard—just an unopened jar of instant coffee and a half-empty box of sugar cubes. Nicole grimaced. Her mom used to drink instant coffee. Nicole had tried it a couple of times when she was little and could hardly stand the stuff—but it was better than nothing.
She ate alone at the table by the window. The coffee wasn’t as bad as she’d expected, but would have been a whole lot tastier with milk or cream. When she finished, Nicole washed both her dishes and his and put everything away.
Michael still wasn’t back yet. What could be keeping him so long? Nicole folded her laundry, then decided to occupy herself by reading—but remembered that she’d left the book she was going to borrow in his study. He wouldn’t mind if she went in and got it, would he?
The study door was ajar and she slipped inside. The book wasn’t on the sofa where she’d left it, so she decided to make another selection. Studying the vast array of titles on the shelves was both intriguing and entertaining. It was a wonderful collection, and it included more rare, old books than he’d led her to believe.
One bookcase housed two rows of tall, slender, notebook-size volumes with unmarked spines in a variety of colors. There were dozens of them. Curious, Nicole pulled out one of the volumes. It was an old journal, bound in cracked burgundy leather,
September 17, 1928
Sun again, third day in a row. Worked in the shop. Looking for rain tomorrow. 30 head of horses ready to fill the army contract. Training Midnight for Mrs. Andrews in New York; she’s a beauty and I’m going to miss her.
Whose journal was this? Nicole wondered. Michael’s great grandfather? The reference to “the shop” was vague and curious. How incredible to have inherited such a precious document—this record of the past. For some reason the handwriting looked familiar, but Nicole couldn’t figure out why. Were the other volumes also journals? Would Michael consider this snooping?
Unable to resist, she took a similar book from the shelf above—this one bound in dark green leather—and opened it. The script inside was similar to the other one but more antiquated, as if written with a quill or nib pen instead of a fountain pen, and the ink was a faded brown.
When she noticed the date, Nicole stared in amazement. This must be the journal Michael’s great-great-great grandfather kept when he first homesteaded this land!
June 12, 1867,
Fish Creek, Colorado
Still cloudy and overcast. Caught two wild horses yesterday, a stallion and a mare, which I hope to train and breed. Will keep them in the round pen until I build a barn. This valley is the ideal spot for them to
Her reading was interrupted by the sound of a truck approaching and the automatic garage door opening. Nicole quickly replaced the journals on the shelves, heat rising to her face; she doubted Michael would approve of her reading these private documents. She hurried out of the room and down the stairs.
A door slammed on the lower level. Nicole found Michael in the mud room, hanging up his black parka by the back door. He was wearing a long-sleeve blue work shirt, his usual jeans, and a pair of square-toed, dirt-encrusted
black leather boots with scarred heels and toes.
At the sight of him, Nicole felt all lit up inside—ridiculously happy—as if it had been days since she’d last seen him instead of just overnight. She hadn’t forgotten how good-looking he was, or the effect he had on her.
Her intended bright greeting, however, died on her lips when she saw the look on his face. It was remote, withdrawn, impassive.
“How’s the head?” He pronounced the greeting with such indifferent politeness, she sensed he didn’t really care about the answer.
“Better. Thanks,” she replied uncertainly.
“Good.”
He didn’t say another word, just sat down on the bench and removed his dirty boots, exchanging them for sneakers, without even glancing in her direction.
Nicole’s heart lurched with disappointment. She felt as awkward again as she had when she first arrived. The man who’d talked with her so congenially for hours last night, and had later looked at her with such intensity in his eyes, had once again disappeared behind his stony, breathtakingly handsome exterior.
Why? she wondered. What had she done? Or did it have nothing to do with her at all? Could it be that this brilliant, highly successful author was just an eccentric and socially un-graceful hermit? She suddenly became determined to break through that icy shell. Somehow, she’d keep a conversation going, even if it killed her.
“So,” she said, “were you out clearing your roads again?”
“That, and taking care of the horses.”
“Horses?” She should have guessed that Michael would have horses. The main characters in his books often loved the horses they owned or cared for, and even great-great-great grandpa what’s-his-name had apparently raised and trained them.