by Lisa Jackson
She sagged against the door of the suite. She was a married woman. Married—as in until death do us part. “Stop it,” she chided, kicking off her shoes, then padded to the bathroom where she stripped and splashed cold water over her face. Maybe her fascination with him was the reason there had been problems in her marriage. Maybe she’d had an affair with him after she’d married Alex. Maybe he’d lied and the time-line was vastly different. Maybe . . . oh, God, no . . . maybe her baby was his child, the result of an illicit affair and . . . and . . . And she’d pawned James off as Alex’s.
“Stop it!” she ordered, staring in horror at her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Her fingers grabbed hold of the marble edge of the counter in a death grip. Drops of water ran down her face and her skin was pale, but healing. And the woman in the mirror wasn’t unattractive. No . . . If anything, she sensed that she would be beautiful. Just as Helene had predicted. She might not look exactly like the photographs that were strewn around this house, but she’d be pretty in her own way. A Jezebel. Good Lord, was it possible? Her hands shook as she snapped a towel out of its ring and dabbed at her skin. She couldn’t . . . wouldn’t let her mind run wild with fantasies about Nick or anyone else for that matter. No, she just had had to get a grip, let her memory take its course.
And then what?
“Deal with it. No matter what it is.”
She found a pair of pajamas—white satin, of all things—and slipped them on, then ignoring the rumbling in her stomach, and the questions pummeling her brain, she climbed into bed, sipped the glass of juice dutifully waiting for her and didn’t even bother turning on the television or leafing through the photo albums she’d stacked by the side of the bed. She knew she’d fall asleep instantly and she wasn’t disappointed. The minute her head hit the pillow, she drifted off so deep that she didn’t hear the footsteps enter her room less than an hour later, didn’t know that she was being watched . . .
Chapter Ten
“Die, bitch!” The voice was low, gravelly. Filled with hate.
Marla froze in the bed. Her eyes flew open. The room was dark. So dark. Her heart jumped to her throat. Panic surged through her blood.
Oh, God, was someone there?
Squinting hard against the shadows, she scanned her room, her eyes adjusting to the slits of light sliding under the door to the suite. But no one was looming over her bed and yet . . . yet . . .
A cold clammy sweat enveloped her. Marla swallowed her fear and turned on the bedside lamp. The room was suddenly awash with soft golden light. Everything was just as it had been, right down to the matching pillows on the bed. She’d been dreaming; that was it. Probably because she didn’t feel well. The soup she’d had at dinner, mixed with the tense conversation, had given her a bad case of nerves and a jittery stomach.
There was no one in the room.
She let out her breath and heard something—a muffled footstep? What? Heart thundering in her ears, she threw back the covers and shot out of bed. Calm down, she told herself, but couldn’t stop the sweat that beaded on her skin as she slowly scanned the room—bathroom, closet, curtains, searching for any hint that a sinister presence had threatened her. She found nothing.
Rain lashed against the windowpanes and wind rattled the glass, but she was alone. “Get a grip,” she told herself, but inside she was shaking. Her stomach clenched nervously, its contents roiling.
Had she heard someone or had the snarling voice been part of a fast retreating nightmare? She shoved a hand through her hair and, mentally scolding herself, walked through the suite where the lights were turned down low. Feeling a fool, she rapped lightly on her husband’s door. “Alex?” she called through the panels. No answer. She tried the knob. The door didn’t budge. “Alex?”
Locked out again.
Calm down, no one is here. It was a dream. Nothing but a damned dream! Alex hasn’t gotten home yet. That’s it. Relax.
But she couldn’t. It was all too real. She checked the clock. Not quite eleven. She hadn’t even been asleep all that long. You were just imagining things, that’s all. Your nerves are shot, Marla. You’re jumping at shadows. No one was in your room. It was the tail end of a nightmare, one you don’t remember. Take a deep breath and get hold of yourself, for God’s sake.
Edgy, she walked into the darkened hallway, then snapped on a light and stared at the empty, carpeted corridor. At the railing, she strained to listen. Above the soft strains of classical music, there was a quiet whisper of conversation, Eugenia’s prim diction and Nick’s lower voice. Marla’s knees nearly buckled in relief. Nothing was out of the ordinary. She heard no scurrying footsteps. No heavy breathing. No sounds of Coco barking loudly at an intruder. You’re not going to hear the report of a gunshot, or the splinter of glass.
Face it, Marla, you’re just a basket case. No dark, ominous figure is lurking about. No sinister presence is scuttling away.
And Nick’s downstairs. Somehow that thought was reassuring though Marla hated to admit it, even to herself. She wasn’t one of those insipid, frail women who needed a man to feel safe. She was as certain of that small fact as she was of anything, which didn’t say a lot these days, she thought.
But she couldn’t depend on Nick. Or Alex. No. She had to rely on herself. Her stomach still ached and beads of sweat were chilling on her skin. This wasn’t the first time she’d thought someone was at her bedside. She’d felt the same eerie, malicious presence in the hospital.
“Stop it,” she ordered, her fingers curling over the railing. “There was nothing there. You’re dealing with bad bisque mixed with an overactive imagination.” Nonetheless, she had to check on the kids. What if there had been a stranger in the room? What if he was hiding in Cissy’s room or James’ nursery? What if cornered he would then grab one of the children? Hold either of them hostage? The family was wealthy and could easily be a target. Propelled by the turn of her thoughts, she shot across the hallway and threw open Cissy’s door.
“What the—?” Cissy jumped up from her vanity stool, knocking over a bottle of fingernail polish. She dropped the brush. Purple polish splashed onto the vanity. “Shit!” she yelled loudly as she was wearing earphones. “Are you nuts?” She ripped off the headset and motioned angrily at the spilled polish.
Marla swept the room with her gaze. It was a mess as usual, books, sweaters, CDs and stuffed animals scattered all over the carpet, but there was nothing sinister about it. “I had a bad dream. Wanted to check on you.”
“By scaring me to death?”
“I’m sorry, I should have knocked.”
“No, duh! You’re losing it, Mom.”
“I hope not.”
Cissy rolled her eyes, but her anger was replaced by teenaged concern. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Marla lied. “Just . . . nervous.”
“Maybe you should take some Valium or tranquilizers or whatever. That’s what Brittany’s mother does. All those kids drive her nuts.”
“I’ll think about it,” Marla said, feeling like an utter fool. “Good night, honey. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yeah.” Cissy nodded, but her eyebrows were still pulled together in one concerned, disbelieving line. She dabbed at the spilled polish with a Kleenex as Marla closed the door behind her and hurried across the hall to the nursery.
The night light set on dim allowed her to see into the room. James was sleeping soundly on gingham sheets and gratefully oblivious to any evil in the world. “Oh, sweetheart.” Tears of relief filled Marla’s eyes. Everything was all right. Her children were safe. No one had attacked her. Nothing was wrong in this guarded fortress of a mansion.
And Cissy’s right. You’re losing it. Big time. Get a grip, Marla. Now! She sniffed, swiped at her nose and fought tears. No one was in the house who shouldn’t be. Life here was normal . . . well, as normal as it could be considering. Her stomach gurgled and ached, but other than a trace of nausea, she was fine. If you don’t stop this ridiculous paranoia you cou
ld wind up locked away in a mental hospital.
“No,” she whispered quietly, stiffening her spine. She couldn’t bear the thought. This house was enough of a prison, but an institution . . . no way. Not ever. She wrapped her arms around herself and told herself that her nerves were just strung tight tonight, tighter than usual.
She glanced down at the baby again and a flash of memory sizzled through her brain. In an instant she remembered the hospital and the delivery room with its bright lights, the intense pressure and pain of the birth, a masked doctor delivering the boy and . . . and . . . the baby . . . her precious son . . . coming into the world. The labor had been long. Tedious. Worse than she’d expected. But in the end she’d delivered her son. Yes! Yes! Yes! James was her child. Hers! She remembered his crown of red hair, wet and plastered to his head beneath a coating of white and his face all screwed up and angry in the seconds before he was placed onto her belly and she held him to her breast.
I will love you forever, she’d thought at the time, and no one’s going to take you away from me. I swear it. No matter what.
Vivid images were burned in her brain and along with the elation of birth there was something darker involved, something intense . . . fear . . . A deep-seated and mind-numbing fear that someone would take the child from her, wrest this precious baby from her arms . . . but that was insane . . . wasn’t it?
She picked up the tiny bundle and held him to her shoulder as if she expected someone to rip him from her at any moment. Tears streamed down her face and her stomach spasmed. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, kissing his thatch of hair and drinking in the sweet baby scent of him. He cooed, nuzzled and sighed in a soft breath against the crook of her neck, evoking more tears in her eyes. God, she loved this tiny child. “It’s gonna be all right,” she said, rocking from side to side. “Everything’s gonna be all right. Mama’s here. I . . . I won’t let anything happen to you. Not ever.” And how are you going to stop it?
“However I can. Whatever it takes.” She sniffed back her tears, and refused to be intimidated. No one was going to help her; she wasn’t certain who she could trust. She’d have to combat her fears by herself. As she stood in the semidark for a few minutes, needing to hold the baby far more than he needed to be cuddled, Marla pressed her lips to James’s downy crown. Outside a branch scraped against the roof and the wind rushed through the trees, but inside it was safe. James made tiny smacking noises with his lips and Marla smiled, reluctantly placing him in his crib.
She left the connecting door to the nursery slightly ajar as she made her way back to bed. Holding her son had chased her fears away, but she was still a little queasy. Her emotions were ragged, her mind jangled and frayed, her stomach in knots. She considered going downstairs, searching out the damned nurse, but felt like a wimp. Besides, it was only a case of nerves; nothing more. She couldn’t imagine telling Eugenia or Nick that her tummy was upset and that she’d thought a stranger had stood over her bed and threatened to kill her, here, in her own home.
“Toughen up,” she scolded herself, then downed the rest of the water in her bedside glass. She slid between the covers and told herself that tomorrow she wasn’t going to sit around this house. No way. No how. Not one more minute. As soon as the damned wires were off, Marla would visit her father, her brother and the tennis club. She’d meet with Cherise, see if she remembered her. Her mind spun with plans of reaching someone in Pam Delacroix’s family, finding out more about the woman she couldn’t remember and the hastily arranged trip that no one understood. Maybe she could explain how horrid she felt about friend’s death. Then there was Charles Biggs’s family. She’d have to talk to the bereaved.
There were no two ways about it. Starting tomorrow, she’d take the bull by the horns and gain control of her life again—find out exactly what made Marla Cahill tick.
And what about Nick? Are you going to explore your relationship with him, too? “You bet I am,” she said as she plumped her pillow. She couldn’t get well until she knew the truth.
Reaching over for the lamp, Marla glanced around the room one last time. Elegant as it was, it still felt strange to her, awkward, as if it didn’t fit, just the way she’d felt as a teenager, slipping into a beautiful, expensive dress, two sizes too big and belonging to someone else . . . the memory tore through her mind. Sizzling. Bright. Harsh. It wasn’t just an analogy. She had tried on a fancy dress, one that hadn’t belonged to her. She remembered it clearly. And yet . . . how? According to everyone she’d grown up pampered, the only daughter of an extremely wealthy man, treated as if she were a princess . . . surely she’d never have worn hand-me-downs . . . no way, and yet the dress, a soft blue beaded confection, was imprinted upon her mind. She remembered running her fingers along the skirt, feeling the smooth lining against her skin, knowing the expensive dress had belonged to another girl . . . one she didn’t like . . .
When? How?
Her stomach clenched.
Was this a real memory, or all part of the dreams she was having? Call for Nick, Marla’s mind screamed silently. Alex isn’t here and you need someone to confide in.
But not Nick, oh, God, no . . . she couldn’t . . .
Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate. She’d been about fourteen at the time, not much older than Cissy. “Won’t she mind?” she’d asked her mother. “Won’t she care that I’m in her dress?”
There had been a sharp bark of laughter from the other room . . . the kitchen with its smells of grease and stale cigarette smoke. “She’s got so many, she won’t miss one.”
“Mother,” Marla whispered now, cold sweat breaking on her skin. She’d been talking to her mother. A fan swirled lazily overhead and flies buzzed at the half-open window. But why would Victoria Amhurst be in a shabby bedroom with yellowed curtains, a rag rug and dusty blinds?
Where had they been? Why had she felt like it was home? Marla held her breath, thought hard, her fists clenching in the smooth sheets of her bed—this elegant canopied, rosewood monstrosity—and tried to call up her mother’s face. She’d seen the pictures in the photograph albums, but she couldn’t remember her mother at all. Why in the world had she given Marla a hand-me-down dress fit for a debutante? A used gown?
Unless she wasn’t Marla Cahill. Wasn’t Alexander’s wife. Wasn’t Victoria Amhurst’s daughter.
Was it possible? She touched her face, traced the scars that were receding. Why would everyone insist she was a woman she wasn’t? What about the wreck and the amnesia? Coincidence ? Or were there darker forces at play—sinister plans embodied in the man who had threatened her? The voices in her mind kept reminding her that this wasn’t her room, that there was just no way she would have draperies and pillows that matched, a bed big enough for two but only occupied by one, a sitting area and bookcase filled with leather-bound volumes that, she guessed, hadn’t been opened in years. Where were the magazines? The crossword puzzle books? The handstitched throws? The mess that she instinctively felt was a part of her life?
But the baby. He’s your own flesh and blood. You remember him. In time you’ll remember this room, too.
You have to.
Her stomach rumbled again and cramped. She took in a deep breath. The pain would pass. She was still just upset; that was it. She passed a trembling hand over her lips. This was all too much. But tomorrow . . . tomorrow she’d start sorting everything out and she wouldn’t take any more well-intentioned advice. She was going to do things her way.
Turning off the light, she closed her eyes, told herself that she’d imagined the horrid voice condemning her to death and that her memories of that blue gown were all part of her confusion. She needed to sleep. To rest. To start all over in the morning. That was it. Sleep.
Her stomach quivered.
Calm down, for God’s sake.
She wanted to spit.
Don’t let this upset you. You’ll be fine.
Nausea threatened.
Just breathe deeply, think quiet thoughts, relax
. . . oh, no!
Bile climbed up her throat.
She was going to throw up!
Panicked, she slapped at the lamp. Hit the switch but knocked the base with her arm. Illumination flashed. The lamp fell onto the pitcher. Water splashed. The bulb splintered into a million shards. The room sizzled into blackness.
No!
Her stomach churned. Scrabbling for the wire cutters with one hand, she pushed the button on the intercom with the other.
“Nick! Carmen!” she yelled, knowing she was about to vomit. “Help!”
Oh, God, she couldn’t stop it. Nausea overtook her.
“Can you hear me? Help!” Please, Nick, please!
She dropped the pliers, picked them up and then doubled over with the cramps. Bile spewed up her throat and into her nose. Burning. Choking. Hunched over, she stumbled through the suite and onto the landing. Her fingers clamped around the wire cutters and she ripped at the bindings on her teeth.
Footsteps thundered two floors down.
Too far away. They couldn’t make it.
The door to Cissy’s room burst open. She took one look at her mother and screamed. “Mom! Oh, God, Mom! Help!”
Marla was on the floor, writhing and gasping, choking, working the cutters. Her nose burned, her lungs were on fire, water streamed from her eyes. The hall began to spin and darken. Footsteps. She heard thundering footsteps.
Suddenly Nick loomed above her, his face a mask of concern. “Jesus Christ!” Straddling her, he yanked the cutters from her hand and yelled to Cissy, “Call 911. Now!”
The teenager didn’t move.
“What the hell happened?” he demanded, forcing her mouth open, snipping wildly at the wires as Marla retched and struggled for air. She choked, convulsing, her eyes feeling as if they were bulging from their sockets.