This wasn’t possible!
But it had happened. Only moments ago, she’d looked into the eyes of the man she’d dreamed about, on and off, for as long as she could remember. Always the same dream. It never changed, only grew longer, more intense. Her feelings about it had changed, though. They’d matured into something completely different. She used to look through the mists and see a troubled man, and she’d want to comfort him. But with the years, she’d seen so much more. Her dreams of him revealed a tortured man. One in more pain than any human should have to bear. And more. A virile man, with enough passion in his eyes to burn her alive. A man in need...of her. In every way a man could need a woman.
All of that had been there, visible in his eyes, in those dreams Brigit had always had. Dreams where the fictional Maire had whispered that he was her fate.
God, what did it all mean?
Those same things had been in his eyes again, just now, when they’d met hers up there in that classroom.
He needed her. And he didn’t even know it.
Worse yet, she hadn’t come to him to help him. She’d come to hurt him even more than he’d already been hurt.
God, what was happening? Had that lifelong dream of hers been some kind of premonition? Was there any such thing?
The very idea terrified her, so she put it from her mind and tried to focus on simple things. Immediate things. Crouching down to recover the keys. The dirt and gravel she scraped up along with them. Getting the door open. Adjusting the visor against the brilliant, late summer sunlight and slipping on her dark glasses. Starting the motor.
She drove down the steep inclines of the university area’s streets, then turned and headed for the Commons. By the time she’d parked and left the car, she was telling herself that there had to be a way out of this mess. There had to be. She and Raze hadn’t come this far to have it all ruined for them now.
This was maddening! She wanted to stand in the middle of the sidewalk and scream at the top of her lungs! She wanted to tug at her hair and spin in rapid circles until she fell to the ground from dizziness! She wanted to smash something!
What was she going to do?
She couldn’t go through with it. Not now that she’d seen the man. Adam. His name was Adam Reid. His eyes were the deep, glittering blue of a midnight sea under a harvest moon, the dark, bottomless blue of sapphires, and when she’d looked into them she’d seen his very soul.
No. She wouldn’t do it to him. She told herself that again and again as she stifled her maddening frustration and walked the last couple of blocks to the Commons. Then she paused, and stood still for a moment, eyes closed, head tilted slightly back. She listened, and she sniffed the air, waiting for the magic of this small strip to get to her, to calm her.
A hundred feet away, a jazz band played, and the saxophone solo wafted straight to heaven. When summer sighed, its warm breath brought the scents of fresh-baked doughnuts, because she was standing near the bakery, and more subtly, the scents of flowers. Violets and hyacinth.
That was better. Brigit opened her eyes, a little calmer now, a little less likely to smash the first breakable object she got her hands on out of sheer frustration. It wouldn’t do. She had a reputation in this small college town. Among the merchants, she was liked and respected for her innovative ideas and determination to succeed.
Among the students, she was admired and sought after for long heart-to-hearts and advice. The town’s residents saw her as a success story. A young single woman caring for her aging father, running a successful business, and doing both with ease. They called her a good example. An inspiration.
She’d fooled them all, hadn’t she? No one who looked at her would see an orphan, much less a wild thing of the streets. No one would see an accomplished criminal, a master art forger who’d sold her soul to get where she was today. No one would see the wanton that lived inside. The feelings that burned in her sometimes late at night. The ones she doused and drowned and suffocated, only to have them return to haunt her over and over. The ones she’d never confessed to anyone. Not even Raze.
The ones instigated by those dreams of the man with the pain and the passion in his eyes. But she saw them. Her dreams of that man had grown up over the years. Now, when she dreamed of him, she went to him. And he looked up into her eyes and he knew her. She knew he did. He’d slowly get to his feet, and he’d reach for her, and she’d go slowly, willingly into his arms, tilting her head up for his kiss. Never a timid kiss. His mouth would cover hers, and his tongue would plunder, and his body would send silent messages to hers. He’d set fire to her blood as he kissed her. And in the blink of an eye, she’d see them naked, clinging to one another in a frenzy of lovemaking so intense it left her weak. She’d wake from those dreams breathless, shivering and damp with sweat. And because the dreams kept coming, more often and more potent all the time, she knew the wanton inside her must be growing stronger and more restless.
Sister Mary Agnes would be appalled if she knew about those dreams. It was times like this that made Brigit glad her twin sister was only part of the fairytale, and not a real woman. Certainly not the fair angel she’d become in Brigit’s mind. The living, breathing image of feminine perfection. Of goodness.
Or if she were real, thank goodness she didn’t know what kind of woman Brigit had become.
But she tamped that thought down, too, and moved forward, and thought about how stupid it had been to dress in faded jeans and a crop top in order to try to fit in at the university. To pass as a student. The scents of flowers grew stronger and more varied as she approached her place—her place, the little flower shop called Akasha which she had bought, which she owned. She smelled daffodils and narcissus.
To Brigit the mingled aromas were the smell of peace, of security, of happiness. She even managed a small smile and picked up the pace. Sun glinted from the glass walls of the little greenhouse, which projected from the rear of the narrow brick building like a house’s back porch.
The spell shattered to bits, though, when she reached the front door and saw the man sitting on the step. He wore a suit and a tie, but he was filth in human form. He was a nightmare from the past. He was the embodiment of her many sins, finally come to demand their wages.
“Out to lunch, Brigit? Well, I’m glad you’re back. I’ve been waiting.”
“Zaslow. You said you’d give me until tomorrow,” she whispered, glancing up and down the walk at passersby, feeling as guilty as if they could tell at a glance why this man was here, what he wanted, what she’d done. Who she really was underneath the civilized facade. A wild thing.
That other part of herself was one Brigit thought she’d buried a long time ago. She was the one who’d lived on the streets with Raze, who’d learned to pick pockets with the stealth of a cat when the need arose. Or to spend fifty cents in a grocery store, and leave the place with fifty dollars’ worth of food, and who’d done it without compunction if it was what it took to stay alive. She could steal from the cleverest, and fight with the dirtiest, and do it better than anyone. That was the other side of Brigit. The side she tried so hard to pretend no longer existed. The side without inhibitions or fears.
“I changed my mind,” Zaslow said, bringing her back to the present as he got to his feet. Stepping aside, he nodded toward the door. Zaslow was a big man. Barrel-chested and broad, but not flabby. Intimidating.
There was little choice. Brigit fished her key from her pocket and unlocked the shop. As she stepped inside the chimes above the door tinkled a magical welcome, and the countless other sets hanging from every possible appendage followed their example. The smells of hundreds of plants embraced her, as they always did. But the usual, soothing effects were nowhere within reach. She felt the filth of the man’s presence soiling the sunlit air around her, and the smell of her own fear overpowered the calming aromas of the plants.
She fought for calm as she walked behind the counter, instinctively wanting something solid between them. She nudged her glasses up higher on h
er nose. Placing her palms flat on the cool marble surface, she met his interested gaze on the other side, and she dipped down deep in search of courage before she spoke.
“You can’t make me do this.”
“I can and I will.”
She’d always known he was evil. Men like him were a breed apart from most inhabitants of the planet. They were hollow inside. Empty. Without a soul. It was all right there in his eyes. She couldn’t look into those eyes for more than a few seconds. So much evil there, and more than that. There was certainty, confidence. He was convinced she would do exactly as he’d ordered her to do. But she couldn’t do it...not anymore. Not to Adam Reid.
“I’m not a thief,” she whispered, though she knew in her heart that wasn’t quite true.
A little anger sparked in his pale gray eyes, but he banked it immediately. He kept his voice level and chilling. “You think just because Mel made the switches, you’re innocent? You think those people you and he stole from would agree with you? Do you, Brigit?”
She closed her eyes, sought the peace she could find if she concentrated hard enough. It didn’t work, though. Right now, nothing could soothe her.
“I didn’t mean for it to go as far as it did,” she whispered. And she was explaining it more to the violets than to Zaslow.
“You only wanted to do it once. The Matisse. I know, Brigit. Mel told me everything.”
She jerked her gaze up to Zaslow’s big chest. No higher. His eyes made her go cold inside. And that close-cropped salt and pepper hair reminded her of porcupine quills. “Mel’s the one who told you how to find me?” She couldn’t believe it was true. Crook or not, Mel was a friend. The only one from her past she still kept in contact with.
“Before I was done with him, he was begging to tell me what I wanted to know.” Zaslow rubbed the knuckles of one hand with the palm of the other.
A sick feeling welled in Brigit’s stomach. Mel! Yes, he’d been a criminal, and yes he’d convinced her to help him with the scheme, and ended up leading her by the hand down a path that was barren of morality. But she’d always had a choice. It had been her decision, not Mel’s. And when she’d had enough, Mel hadn’t even argued with her. She’d written to him, called him once or twice. But she hadn’t seen him in almost five years, not since she and Raze had left the city and come to this place she’d known was a haven from her first glimpse of it. Her salvation. Her new life. She’d thought she’d left the past behind.
She saw the cruelty in Zaslow’s eyes, and shivered. “What did you do to him? Did you hurt him? Is Mel all right?”
Zaslow only shrugged and turned away from her. He slowly paced the length of the shop, his fingers idly stroking fragile leaves. Bending now and then to sniff at a blossom. “You didn’t expect it to be so lucrative, did you, Brigit? But how could you know, at the tender age of nineteen? Hmm? You didn’t have a clue how much money an original Matisse would bring on the black market. And the owner not even realizing it was stolen—man, that was the beauty of it. That was the beauty. Best scam I was ever into.”
“But I didn’t—”
“You made enough that first time to get you and the old man some decent clothes, get you cleaned up, so you didn’t look like bums when you took him to see the doc. Made enough to get old Razor Face into a good hospital, and pay for all those tests. But bills have a way of reproducing, don’t they Brigit?” He came back to the counter and stood there, searching her face as if looking for an answer. When she didn’t give one, he went on. “Yeah, they do. Just like goddamn rabbits. I know how it is. And then there were the treatments, and the specialists and the medicine. And hell, Raze had to have a place to come home to when they let him out, didn’t he? He had to have a bed, and some heat, and regular meals, right? Hey, I’m not saying you got greedy. You did what you had to do to survive.” He absently fingered the geranium that thrived in its basket on the counter. Lifting one snowy white blossom to inspect it, he nodded once, and snapped it from its stem without so much as blinking.
His figure blurred, and Brigit had to close her eyes because of the red-hot stinging in them.
“I’m sorry, Sister Mary Agnes,” she whispered.
“So you did a few more.” Zaslow kept talking, ignoring her pain. He popped the little cluster of blossoms into a buttonhole on his lapel, fussing with it until it hung just the way he wanted. “So what? It’s not like you went out and killed someone or robbed a bank, now is it? The owners never knew the difference. No one got hurt. It isn’t as if you wanted a free ride, after all. You just made enough money off your little forgery enterprise to run away to this yuppie college town. Enough to buy this pretty little flower shop, here. Made yourself into a respectable lady, didn’t you Brigit? Member of the small business association and everything. You go to community meetings and talk to troubled kids. Donate money to the homeless. Volunteer at the soup kitchen on weekends. What is all that, your penance or something?”
She lifted her fingers to her temples, rubbing brutal circles there, lowering her chin to her chest. “Will you please just leave me alone? Please?”
His hand was suddenly clasping her chin, thumb and forefinger digging into her cheeks, forcing her head up. He leaned over the counter so his face was close to hers. “You’re no better than I am, Brigit, so drop the act. You’re a thief. And you’re gonna do this for me. I promise you that.”
“No.” She tried to pull away from him.
He released her abruptly, and she stumbled backward, knocked her head against the shelf behind her. A coleus plummeted from the shelf, exploding on impact at her feet. Purple and green leaves, broken stems, black soil, and bits of pottery covered the floor and dusted her feet. Fragile roots lay exposed.
“I got enough dirt on you to put you in prison for thirty years.” He wasn’t yelling. Just speaking very calmly as he straightened, adjusted, and gave his cuffs a gentlemanly tug.
“If you turned me in, you’d go to prison, too, Zaslow.”
“Wrong little lady. I’ve been to prison. That last painting you forged for me...the buyer turned out to be an undercover cop. I did my time, and I did it with my mouth shut. They tried everything to get me to tell them the name of my forger, but I wouldn’t do it.”
Brigit shook all over and remained where she was, back to the wall literally as well as figuratively. “Not out of loyalty,” she whispered. “You only kept my name out of it so you could use me again.”
“Why doesn’t matter. You owe me, Brigit Malone.”
“I can’t—”
“Then I’ll turn you in. And what do you think will happen to the old man then? Huh, Brigit? What do you think Raze will do? You think he can get by on the streets now like he used to? Hell, he can barely feed himself.”
“Don’t do this.”
“It’s done. You get close to Reid. You get inside his house, get a look at the painting, and then you make a nice replica for me. Since Mel’s...unavailable, you make the switch for me. Bring me the original. You do everything I say, exactly as I say. Otherwise, I see to it the cops find out everything I know.”
She thought of Adam Reid, though she tried to blot his image from her mind. She thought of the pain in his eyes. Passion and pain, all entwined together in eyes that glistened like gemstones. He’d frightened her and drawn her all at once. She’d never looked into anyone’s eyes and felt the things she’d felt in his. She’d glimpsed goodness. Yes, she’d been sure it was there. But buried beneath so much bitter pain and anger that it might never surface again. There was danger in Adam Reid’s eyes. Dark, threatening danger.
It would have been easier to give in, easier to save herself from Zaslow’s threats, if Adam Reid had been a stranger. But he wasn’t. He was the man she’d been making love to in her dreams her whole life. He was the man she’d always thought would one day need her like no one else ever had...or ever would.
Squaring her shoulders, she met Zaslow’s evil, contaminated gaze. “I tried,” she breathed, though she was
sure he wouldn’t give in. “I went there today, just like you told me to, and he wouldn’t even let me in his class. How am I supposed to get into his house if I can’t get into his classroom?”
Zaslow shrugged. “That’s your problem, not mine.”
Brigit’s throat felt like sandpaper. He wasn’t going to back down. “Why does it have to be that painting?” It was a desperate attempt to divert him. “Why not pick another one, any one you want? A Rembrandt. A Picasso. Anything else. Why do you want an unknown painting by an anonymous artist anyway?”
“Because that’s what my...my client...is paying me a hundred grand to get. Look, this guy hired me to steal that painting. He didn’t say how, he only said do it. Making a substitute is my idea. Best way to handle the job. This way, Reid never even knows he’s been ripped off, my client gets what he wants, and I get paid. Look, Brigit, this is not the kind of guy to settle for substitutions. Now I’m done talking to you. You gonna do this or am I gonna bring you down hard?”
She sought for excuses, and clung to the one that was the most genuine. “I can’t do it without a print, Zaslow. If you don’t believe me, ask Mel. He always got me a print to work from. I need something in front of me as I work.”
“There are no prints of this piece,” he growled. “Don’t you think I checked?”
“Then how do you expect me to—”
“Like I said, you get close to him.” His filthy eyes traveled to her toes and back again, and she felt dirtied by their touch. “Shouldn’t be a problem for you, Brigit. You’re a hot little number. Hell, I’m tempted to try you myself.”
Her stomach churned, and she thought she’d vomit.
“Reid is healthy, male, and straight, honey. So why don’t you just make him an offer he can’t refuse?”
She shook her head, banking her revulsion. She wouldn’t do it. Not in a hundred years. She couldn’t even think of it, seeing Adam Reid’s tortured blue eyes in her mind again. Yes, she’d forged paintings before, but she’d never had to look her victims in the eye. She’d never had to see their pain and know she’d be adding to it. She’d never had to get close to them, much less do what Zaslow was suggesting, only to betray them. Like slipping a blade between the ribs of a friend.
Fairytale (Fairies of Rush) Page 5