The Seventh Night

by Amanda Stevens

  Now, if he could just get rid of me, I thought.

  Reid took my elbow, and the contact startled me, making me jump.

  “I’d almost think you had a guilty conscience,” he murmured in my ear as he steered me toward the living-room.

  Choosing to ignore the comment, I looked around. It was an impressive room. Floor-to-ceiling windows, with beautiful, ornate molding, formed one wall, while bookcases—crowded with books and objets d’art—lined another. A grand piano dominated one large corner of the room, and two white brocade sofas flanked the fireplace. Hanging from the cathedral ceiling, a crystal chandelier tinkled softly in the breeze from the open terrace doors, and thick, Aubusson rugs adorned the polished hardwood floor.

  Two women who looked to be about my age, or perhaps a little younger, were seated on one of the white sofas, sipping drinks. When we entered the room, one of them set aside her glass and rose. The other remained seated, curling her legs under her and eyeing me with an insolent stare.

  “I’m Rachel DuPrae,” the woman who came toward us said. She was a younger, prettier version of her mother, with the same quiet, unassuming grace. She wore a red dress, which accentuated her dark complexion and the thick black braid hanging down her back.

  Her eyes, like her mother’s, were brown, but for some reason they seemed less vibrant than the older woman’s, less expressive. We shook hands briefly, and she retreated to an obscure corner of the room.

  “Angelique, come say hello to Christine,” Reid ordered, speaking to the other woman as though she were a child.

  In fact, she wore an expression I’d seen on some of my more precocious fifth-graders, and one I had become very suspicious of.

  Put more succinctly, there was no way I would turn my back on her.

  She rose slowly, revealing slender, tanned legs displayed beneath a daring black mini dress. Her lustrous black hair had been piled on top of her head in an arrangement that looked carefully disheveled, and long silver earrings dangled from her lobes. Her berry-stained lips curved upward, but her smile was devoid of warmth.

  “Sister, dearest. We meet at last,” she said, and the animosity in her tone shocked me.

  “Hello, Angelique.” I cleared my throat and tried to smile as I gazed up at her. She was a tall woman, at least five-eight or five-nine. At five-four, I felt positively diminished, which she seemed to relish. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” I said.

  Her kohl-rimmed eyes glared at me. “Why?”

  “Well…I’ve always been curious about you.”

  “Really? I’ve never given you a second thought.”

  “Angelique.” The warning note in Reid’s voice was unmistakable. Angelique smiled at him. “So you’ve decided to play the gracious host, Reid. How gallant. I wonder how long you’ll be able to keep it up.”

  Mrs. DuPrae came in then, carrying a tray laden with drinks. I accepted one, and she and I chatted for a few minutes while Reid and Angelique drifted away. Out of the corner of my eye, I observed them from across the room. Their discussion had grown into an argument.

  Angelique’s blue eyes sparked angrily as she glared up at her brother, but Reid’s manner remained calm, and in a moment, Angelique appeared to back down. She nodded her head, and then, as Reid leaned forward and whispered something in her ear, she laughed, her gaze meeting mine in triumph.

  I had never felt more alone and out of place than I did at that precise moment.

  Mrs. DuPrae said discreetly at my side, “I’m sure you’d like to freshen up before dinner. I’ll be happy to show you the guest house. Would you like to take your drink with you?”

  It was as graceful an exit line as I was likely to get, and I accepted it gratefully. If I had been uncomfortable in this house before, the sight of Reid and Angelique—their heads bent together like deadly conspirators—made me want to turn tail and run.

  Yet, at the doorway, I couldn’t resist turning one last time to glance at him. He was watching me from across the room, his dark gaze sweeping over me in a way that was beginning to seem almost…familiar. And, God help me, thrilling.

  * * *

  I fell in love with the guest house. It was a miniature, and a more charming, version of the main house. The veranda was partially enclosed with lattice that supported tangled vines of jasmine and passion flower. The scent of their blossoms clung to the evening air as heavy and sweet as syrup.

  Inside, a staircase ascended from a small sitting room to a tiny landing and the bedroom and bathroom beyond. Where the main house had seemed austere, the guest house exploded with color. Tropical watercolors dominated coral walls, extravagant flower arrangements posed on tables and chests, and the floors were cool, deep red tile.

  “If you need anything, all you need to do is dial one. The phone will ring in the main house,” Mrs. DuPrae told me as she stood inside the bedroom door and watched me unpack.

  “I’ll be fine,” I assured her once again, but for some reason she seemed reluctant to leave me.

  “Dinner will be served in half an hour. Will that give you enough time?”

  “Plenty. Don’t concern yourself with me. I’m used to taking care of myself.”

  A flash of something that looked almost like pity passed across her face. “I know. Christopher told me all about you, Christine. I hope you and I can be friends while you’re here.”

  I smiled, grateful for her warmth. “I hope so, too,” I said, and meant it. I had an uneasy feeling that I was going to need a friend before all was said and done.

  Mrs. DuPrae left then, and I was finally alone. There was only one thing left to unpack. I lifted the photograph of my father and me from the bottom of my suitcase and placed it on the dresser. The picture had been taken on our last Christmas Day together. I’d been five years old, and like so many little girls, I’d adored my father. He could do no wrong in my eyes. I suppose that was why his leaving us had hit me so hard. For years and years, my bitterness and resentment toward him had colored every aspect of my life.

  Then I’d awakened one day, as though emerging from some deep, painful mourning, and realized how, more and more, I was becoming like my grandmother. I’d pictured myself in five years, then ten, then twenty, growing more bitter, more disillusioned with each passing year. I’d known I didn’t want to be like her. I’d known I had to escape before it became too late.

  That was when I’d created my dreamworld. That was when I’d begun traveling into my fantasies. There, I could be beautiful and desirable and wanted.

  There, I could be loved.

  Almost inadvertently, my gaze lifted, and I eyed my reflection in the mirror. I’d never held any illusions about my appearance—my grandmother had seen to that. My hair was that nondescript shade between blond and brown, my eyes an unexciting hazel. I had a nose that was a little too sharp, and a chin that was a little too stubborn. But I had been blessed with a nice complexion. And I’d always been slim, a little too slim perhaps, I thought now, remembering Angelique’s lush figure.

  But what did Reid see when he looked at me? I wondered wistfully. Did he see my good points, my strengths—or only my flaws and weaknesses?

  As I stood staring at my reflection, I could hear my grandmother’s raspy, smoker’s voice as plainly as if she were standing in the room with me.

  “You’ll never be able to depend on your looks, Christine. You better make sure you know how to use your head.”

  And I had learned to use my head. I was a teacher, a very good one, and though it was a career in which I would never get rich, I loved my students, loved their enthusiasm for life. They taught me things every single day and made bearable what otherwise would have been an empty, lonely life.

  I’d made my own living for years now, had put myself through college when the money my father had sent me had been used to pay off my grandmother’s hospital bills. I’d learned to use my head all right—except where Reid St. Pierre was concerned.

  What was it about him that had fascinate
d me all these years? I wondered as I stripped off my clothes and put on a fresh dress. After Reid and I had met in Chicago, my mind had been consumed by his image—not just adolescent castle-building, either. There had been dreams, too. Dreams that had been dark, seductive, obsessive.

  Perhaps that was why his presence disturbed me so much now, why I found myself afraid to trust him. My fantasies could easily lead me down the wrong path. I had to be very, very careful of my feelings.

  But later, when I returned to the main house and we were all seated around the long, gleaming mahogany table for dinner, I felt as though every dream I’d ever had about Reid was swirling about in my head. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, and yet my awareness of him grew even stronger, more frustrating, like candy forbidden to a child.

  I took another sip of my wine and felt a warming glow seep through my veins. It was an unexpected pleasure. I never touched alcohol, even wine. If my mother’s severe alcoholism hadn’t been enough to scare me away, my husband’s death by a drunk driver had firmly capped my resolution.

  Tonight, however, I made an exception to my rule. The wine was comforting. I took another quick drink, and over the rim of my glass, I met Rachel DuPrae’s enigmatic gaze.

  She was watching me with a sort of brooding speculation I found disturbing. But a moment after our eyes met, her glance darted away.

  Mrs. DuPrae and Rachel sitting down to dinner with the family had surprised me at first. They were employees, but it soon became apparent that Mrs. DuPrae—not Angelique—presided over the meal, her keen eyes taking in with satisfaction every detail of the gleaming silverware, the sparkling crystal and the ornate, gold-trimmed china.

  It was a beautifully set table and the food was delicious. But as the meal progressed, the dining room grew oppressive and gloomy in the candlelight. Even the walls seemed to hold secrets from me.

  The wine began to make me feel light-headed, panicky. My heart began to pound and my face flushed with heat. The conversation swirled around me, but I couldn’t seem to focus. I needed to get out of there, away from all those knowing eyes.

  If I didn’t leave now, all my secrets would be dug up, my insecurities exposed, my fears used against me.

  Rachel was looking at me again, staring at me with that same hooded look I found impossible to define.

  Angelique’s eyes were easier to read. Resentment boiled beneath those cool, blue depths. Resentment, disdain and something that looked almost like hate.

  The realization shocked me, made me grow even more nervous, but it was Reid’s eyes that did me in. That mocking blue stare that could look right into my soul…

  “Christine, are you all right?” It was his voice—that dark, sensuous voice from my dreams—that cut through the haze of dizziness.

  I tried to focus on him, but his image was misty, indistinct. Yet I could see his eyes so clearly. “I’m fine,” I said, and the strength of my voice shocked me. It should have been weak, like I felt. “I’m just tired. If you’ll excuse me…” I’m not sure how I managed to stand, how I managed to walk from that room with all those eyes on my back….

  Somehow I made it out of the room, found my way to the back door and stumbled outside. A lush, tropical garden stood between me and the guest house. Low clouds partially obscured the stars and the moon, and mist curled like smoke around my feet. The air was heavy with fragrance, the breeze deliciously cool.

  But far from calming my reeling head, the night seemed to excite me even more.

  All my senses were alive as never before.

  The darkness became sensuous and cunning, seducing me with its sounds and smells and shadows. I made it to the guest house. In the distance, I could hear the hypnotic repetition of voodoo drums echoing through the darkness.

  The sound no longer frightened me. It thrilled me with excitement, the beat throbbing through my senses like a lover’s beckoning call.

  “Why did you leave like that?”

  Reid’s deep voice spoke from the darkness of the shadows, and I whirled, my eyes straining to locate him in the gloom.

  “I told you—I’m tired.” I was still fascinated by the sound of my own voice. How could it sound so strong, so normal when everything else inside me was changing?

  Reid stepped out of the darkness and mounted the steps of the veranda slowly, deliberately, as though his every movement was precisely timed. In the hazy light, he looked taller than ever as he came to stand very close to me, and his shoulders seemed immense. And though so many things were hazy, I seemed to be incredibly attuned to the smallest details. I could even hear the faint tinkle of ice against the sides of the glass he carried.

  “That’s all it is?” He lifted the glass to set it on the railing, and light from the guest-house window sparked the edge of the crystal.

  “What else could it be?”

  He slanted a look down at me. “What else indeed?” he murmured. In the silence that prevailed, the sound of the drums seemed to intensify, the beat to quicken. As our eyes met in the moonlight, I felt my heart pick up the rhythm.

  “Does that sound frighten you now?” he asked softly. “If you plan to stay, you’ll have to get used to it.”

  “I’m not sure I ever could. Not after today. And last night.”

  He was listening to the night, his head turned slightly toward the sound. “Actually, it’s a ceremony being held for the tourists at the hotel. There’s a sacred place in the woods, not far from here. The houngan charges a ten-dollar admission. Does that make it seem less ominous?”

  “And less exciting,” I found myself saying, though not quite knowing why.

  He raised a mocking brow. “Why, Christine, you surprise me. Are you falling victim to Columbé’s magic already?”

  “I don’t believe in magic.” The sense of déjà vu was strong in me. We’d had this conversation before, Reid and I. And as if he remembered it, too, he delivered his line perfectly.

  “There’s magic…and there’s magic,” he murmured.

  His nearness was having a strange effect on me. He was so tall and so big and his masculinity both frightened and excited me. I felt breathless and weak with the almost irresistible urge to run my hands along the hard muscles of his shoulders and back.

  Something primitive and powerful was awakening inside me, emotions evolving and growing that I couldn’t seem to fight. Suddenly, I wanted Reid to grab me and pull me to him, to let me feel the power of his arms around me, the sensuality of his body against mine. I wanted him to kiss me long and hard, until we both trembled with desire.

  I wanted him to make all my dreams come true.

  I closed my eyes as the rhythm of the drums intensified, electrifying the night with a powerful beat that swamped my senses. I swayed slightly toward him.

  The touch of his hands on my bare arms thrilled me. I opened my eyes to meet his dark, compelling gaze. And then slowly—the moment excruciatingly prolonged—he lowered his head and his mouth took mine.

  There was nothing tentative about his kiss, no awkward moment of testing, searching, pulling back. The instant his lips touched mine, his tongue plunged inside my mouth, not testing but conquering; not searching but plundering; not pulling back but driving deeper and faster and harder until my knees threatened to buckle.

  He shoved his hands into my hair, holding my face still, but he needn’t have bothered. I was beyond resistance.

  Wave after wave of sensation washed over me, needs and desires that were basic and primal and uncontrollable. My head swirled, my body trembled, and the incessant beat of the drums in the distance kept pace with the thundering hammer of my heart.

  As my hands spread against his chest, I could feel his own heart pounding against my palm, could feel the heat of his body radiating through me where he pressed against me. And all the while, his mouth ravished mine, his tongue taunted mine with forays and thrusts that left me breathless for more.

  I was lost somewhere in that hazy, seductive world that hovers between dream
and consciousness, between fantasy and reality. I lost track of time; the kiss seemed to last forever. Blackness swirled inside my head as fire pounded through my veins.

  I could no more stop the relentless sensations than I could force myself awake. Besides, I wasn’t sure I wanted it to end. Not yet.

  It was Reid who pulled back, his hands grasping my arms to hold me steady. I was falling, but he wouldn’t let me. He drew me back from the darkness, refusing to let me succumb. “What’s wrong with you?”

  His warmth was drifting away. I reached for him frantically, and just like in my dreams, he came back to me. His arms folded around me, and then he lifted me. I had the strangest sensation of weightlessness as Reid carried me into the house and up the stairs with ease.

  I didn’t struggle. This wasn’t real, after all, I thought as I pressed myself even closer to his warmth. My dreams were familiar territory for Reid and me. I didn’t have to pull away. I could indulge my every fantasy, my deepest, darkest desires.

  As in a dream, time and place ceased to exist. The next thing I knew we were inside my bedroom, and Reid was laying me gently on the bed. I rose up, reaching for him, but his voice in my ear whispered, “Lie still.”

  I lifted my hand and touched the soft cotton shirt, the silky strands of his hair. They felt so real! My senses thrilled to the touch, and I heard his breath quicken. His hand touched my face, smoothed back my hair. It was a touch that was infinitely tender and yet smoldering with fire.

  “Reid?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Are you real?” I whispered into the darkness.

  I heard the smile in his voice. “A little too real at the moment.”

  He moved away, and I reached for him again, but his strong hands pushed me back down, and I snuggled against the pillows and waited for what I knew would come next.

  * * *

  I must have dozed for a moment. When I opened my eyes, Reid was standing at the foot of the bed staring down at me. Where the room had been in shadows earlier, now it was lit with a strange, flickering light, like a candle or perhaps a fire. As the light danced over his features, I noticed for the first time that he’d taken off his shirt, and his arms and chest rippled with muscle.