Brigit slammed her eyes shut, mentally thrusting the wild thing back into her cell and locking the door. There was no room in her life for that wanton anymore.
“Are you all right?”
Blinking him into focus, she managed a firm nod. She wasn’t all right. She was falling apart. God, where was her hard-won control now? Everything had been taken out of her hands! Raze’s well-being. Her own decision to become a mature, responsible, socially acceptable woman. Maybe even her ability to remain that way.
And her deeply rooted feelings for this man. Her dream man.
“You looked...odd.”
“It’s this place,” she said, and turned to look out over the water again. “It’s magical.”
“I used to think so.”
When she looked at him, one corner of his mouth had pulled into a sad, perhaps nostalgic smile.
“Come on. You’re going to have to see the inside before you decide.”
But she’d already decided. She’d stay here. Under any other circumstances, she’d have run from this place as fast as she could, and vowed never to return. It would be difficult to keep her facade in place here. Nature knew the wild thing inside her. Nature seemed to be calling to her, rousing her, and beckoning her to take over.
Brigit would just have to deal with it, though. If she did manage to get through this and save Raze, she would have a life to go back to. A business to run. A place in this community to fill.
He took hold of her elbow, and propelled her away from the cliffs, back along the path she didn’t even remember walking, to the front of the house. Wide stone steps and an arched wooden door with stained glass. His keys jangled, and then he opened the door and ushered her inside.
A huge room spread out before her, white stucco, big windows. A wide mahogany staircase split into opposite directions halfway up, and ran into hallways on either side. At the bottom of the stairs, on a pedestal stand, a sparse fern with yellowing leaves made her grimace. She instinctively went to it, touched one withering strand, rubbed it between her fingertips.
He led her through the high-ceilinged foyer, from which she could see the rows of bedroom doors upstairs. He never slowed down. And she should have wondered why he was making a beeline to the double doors at the far end of the room. But that wouldn’t come until later.
He flung the doors open with a flourish. “This is my favorite room. Technically, it’s the study, but to me it’s more like a haven. Come in.”
Brigit stepped into Adam’s haven.
And then she froze in utter shock. Her gaze riveted to the painting that hung above the mantel. She couldn’t look away. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even draw a breath.
“Beautiful, isn’t it,” he asked in a soft voice. He stood close beside her, and she assumed he, too, was staring at the piece. But she couldn’t look at him to be sure.
“It’s...it’s not possible...”
She felt Adam’s eyes on her. “Brigit?”
She shook her head, trying to remind herself not to speak her thoughts aloud, when what she felt like doing was screaming at the top of her voice. The painting was the perfect image of the first page of her precious fairytale. The one Sister Mary Agnes had read to her every night. The one she’d clutched to her heart, even when she’d expected to burn to death in the fire. The one she’d clung to as Raze carried her to safety, and that she’d cherished ever since. The one bright spot in an otherwise heartbreaking childhood.
And here was its opening page, on Adam Reid’s wall. The picture of the forest, and that magical pond in its center. With the castle spires visible if you squinted at the silvery clouds. And the pictures in the swirls of tree bark.
Only in the book, there had been no woman bathing in that pond.
“I think she looks like you,” Adam whispered. He sounded almost reverent.
“No. Not me.” Brigit wanted to close her eyes, because the woman in the painting was staring straight into her soul. Oh, she looked like Brigit all right. But she wasn’t. Brigit knew her, knew exactly who she was. She was the image of the wild thing Brigit kept locked inside.
And all of a sudden it occurred to her that this was the painting she was supposed to copy.
She actually staggered backward. She felt the blood drain from her face, felt her eyes widen and her lips part on a silent exhalation.
“Brigit?” He caught her shoulders, steadying her, and only then did she realize how very close she’d been to collapsing in sheer shock. Gently, he scooped her up, cradling her to his chest for all too short a time. And she couldn’t stop her arms from linking around his neck. She couldn’t prevent herself from burying her face in the crook between his shoulder and his neck. Because he’d held her this way so many times before, in her dreams.
She felt him shiver, heard him draw a harsh breath. And only a moment later, he lowered her onto a sofa. He hurried away and returned in seconds with a glass of water, which he pressed into her hands. His hands covered hers, and warmth suffused her, right to the core. He didn’t remove them right away, and she saw him blinking down at his hands on hers, as if trying to solve a puzzle.
He finally sighed, and took his hands from hers, and Brigit sipped the water. Adam studied her.
“I’ve shown that painting to a lot of people,” he said at last, taking the water from her hands and setting it on the glass-topped coffee table beside yet another dying houseplant. This one a geranium. “None of them has ever reacted like that.”
“It...it wasn’t the painting,” she told him, though she knew full well it was. “No?”
“No. I’ve just had a few rough nights. No sleep. And I skipped a couple of meals, and I guess if s probably catching up with me.”
He nodded, but skepticism darkened his dark blue eyes. She’d better get used to the idea that lying to him was to be used only as a last resort. He saw through every fib she concocted. She sat up a little, and he turned, sliding closer until he sat right beside her. His gaze went back to the painting on the wall.
“Have you ever seen it before, Brigit?”
Her throat went dry at his question. That insight again. But it couldn’t possibly be that sharp. “I don’t think so.”
God, why would he ask that? And what was he doing with this piece of her childhood?
“It’s incredible, though,” she said, trying to keep the emotions out of her voice. “Who is the artist?”
He shrugged. “It’s anonymous. See, way down near the base, where the water ripples? There’s a word there. The dealer at the Capricorn thought it was the artist’s signature. But I disagree.”
Brigit tilted her head and looked for the word. When she saw it her heart tripped over itself.
Rush.
“What...” Her voice emerged as a croak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “What do you think it is?”
“The title of the piece,” he said slowly, softly, not taking his eyes from the work. “I think it’s the name of that place. Rush.”
“How do you—” She shouted half the question, going rigid and jerking her head around to face him. Then she bit her lip, stopping herself from asking how he could know the name of that forest. The answer was simple enough. He must have heard the fairytale, too. And so had this anonymous artist.
She felt an acute sense of disappointment. All this time, she’d honestly believed that story was hers and hers alone. That—even if it hadn’t been created by a fairy princess for her twin daughters—maybe Sister Mary Agnes had made it up, just for one lonely orphan. It took away the magic, knowing it had been an ordinary fairytale that hundreds of others had shared.
She closed her eyes to prevent him from seeing the way the revelation had hurt her.
“It touches me,” he told her. “Did from the first time I saw it hanging in the gallery downtown. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
That brought her gaze back to him. And if there was guilt in her eyes before she lowered them again, then it was no wonder. A tidal wave o
f the stuff had risen up to engulf her at those words. He wouldn’t trade it for the world. But he was going to trade it. For a fake.
“You feel better now? Strong enough to continue the tour?”
She met his eyes again. “I don’t need the tour,” she told him. “The place is wonderful, Adam. If you’ll have me, I’d like to move in.”
He smiled, and she thought it was genuine. “When?”
“Tonight.”
Chapter Five
“I’m in.” Her voice was a harsh whisper.
“Well, now, that was fast. You’re better at this than I thought you’d be.”
“I’m not sure I can go through with this,” she said softly-”It’s more complex than anything I’ve tried before.”
“You’ll do it, Brigit.”
There was a pause, tension, as her breath rushed in and out a little faster than before. “I need to know more,” she said at last. “Who is this client? Why does he want—”
“No sense asking, Brigit. I don’t have the answers either. You just do your part and don’t worry about the rest.”
“Adam Reid is an intelligent man,” she said slowly. “He’s going to catch on.”
“You’ll just have to see to it he doesn’t. Distract him, Brigit. Come on. Use your imagination.”
“You’re a pig!” She all but spat the words.
The reply was low, vile laughter.
“I want to talk to Raze,” she said, her voice choked now. No longer assertive or sure. It was pleading instead.
“Then I suggest you get the job done.”
There was a click, and then silence. Brigit swore very softly and there was a coarseness to her voice that suggested tears. And then she set her receiver down, too.
Adam didn’t hang up until the other two had. He drew his brows together in a frown, and wondered just what on earth he’d got himself into. This woman who looked like his fondest fantasy was conspiring against him. Plotting with someone else...to do what? He couldn’t even begin to guess. Hell, if they were planning to con him out of his fortune, they were almost a year too late. Sandra had seen to it there wasn’t anything left worth stealing. And it was a sign of his own hardened heart, he supposed, that he missed the money more than he missed her. Hell, no wonder she’d left him.
Brigit was up to something, though, and he had an instinctive feeling in his gut that she posed far greater danger to him than his wife ever had. And it was too late to back out now, whatever it was. Brigit had arrived later that same night with three large suitcases and a bulky garment bag. And he wondered why she was in such a damned hurry to get under his roof, and what the hell she was planning to try to pull on him. He’d find out. He’d find out if it was the last thing he ever did.
Easy to say, now, he thought. With her in his ex-wife’s bedroom, out of his sight. But when he was near her and she started working him over with those eyes of hers, his. common sense seemed to take a powder. Because of her likeness to the woman who was the center of his obsession, he realized. He had to find a way to get past that. He had to get a handle on his rampant interest in her. Distance himself. Find out who she really was and why she’d nearly fainted when she’d seen the painting. She must know something about it. She had to. It was the only rational explanation. If it killed him, he would find out what. And while he was at it, he’d find out what she was after here.
To do that, he realized, he’d have to spend time with her, and do so without falling under her spell. Away from her, he was sharp and objective and insightful. Near her, he became a helpless puppet, incapable of thinking beyond the moment. The beauty in her eyes. The shape of her mouth. The satin curls and raven lights in the hair she kept bundled up tight, which was
a crime in itself.
Adam closed his eyes, grated his teeth, and banished the apparition from his mind. God, he’d conjured her image with no more than a thought. And there he’d been again, stricken what felt like a mortal blow from the sheer force of her presence.
This kind of attraction just wasn’t natural. But it was understandable. He rationalized that it was only because of this longtime obsession. Only because he saw her as its center, its essence. If she were a blue-eyed blond, he told himself, he’d feel nothing for her. But he had to wonder if that were true.
He stared for a long moment at the telephone on the nightstand. And finally, with a sigh, he gave up trying to untangle the reality of the conspirator in the next bedroom, and the fantasy woman who’d haunted his soul for nearly all his life. He needed to stop thinking about all of this, just let it go. His head throbbed and his nerves stood on their quivering ends. He wasn’t thinking about newly translated texts, or tomorrow’s class, or his tenure, or his finances. He wasn’t thinking about the approaching winter and the need to have the heating system replaced, or the ominous clunk in the Porsche’s transmission. He was only thinking about Brigit Malone.
Impulsively, he turned to the French doors. With the darkness outside and the lights on within, their smooth glass became a mirror. He could see nothing outside. Only the perfect reflection of his own, gloomy bedroom. And the image of a man in abject—if inexplicable—misery.
As if in an act of defiance, he cranked both handles and slammed the doors open wide. The autumn chill had taken a respite today. Tonight, even the breeze had died away. The night’s air laid oppressive and silent over the world, heavy as a woolen blanket. Heat surrounded him, smothered him as he stepped out onto the wrought-iron deck he’d had built along the entire length of the house’s back side. From here, he could look out over the lake. Usually there would be a refreshing breeze waiting to greet him.
Tonight there was only a humid, sweaty hand. Invisible. Holding him in its fist until he could barely draw a breath. Holding him prisoner the way his obsession did.
Adam stared out at the dark water, seeing no movement. Only able to make out the crooked-finger shape of Cayuga by the darker shade of the water compared to the land around it. He turned toward the south, so he faced the forested hillside. Its shape swelled toward the sky, and he remembered playing there as a child. He remembered what he’d seen there, where he’d gone.
Someplace that had shaken his world to its fragile core. Someplace that had twisted his in-sides up so much he hadn’t dared go back. Not in almost thirty years. And part of him, way down deep, knew that he hadn’t stayed away out of fear of his father’s brutal reprisals. Because he could have explored those woods again, after the bastard had abandoned them. There had been time before the new owners had tossed Adam and his mother out of their home. And more time after Adam had bought the place back again. But he hadn’t. Because he knew, somewhere inside him, that he was terrified of what he might find out there. He’d never been sure whether his mind could handle going into that forest again, and seeing the magical doorway that led to an enchanted realm. And he was equally unsure he could handle not seeing it, as little sense as that made. That, perhaps, was the basis for his obsession to find the source of his fantasy. The fact that he’d never been able to fully convince himself it hadn’t been real. Oh, he pretended to believe that. But the doubt still lingered.
Blinking, bringing his focus back, he looked at where he stood. He’d stopped walking right outside Brigit’s bedroom. The French doors that matched the ones in his own, stood right in front of him. Closed, but bare. Sandra had liked all the windows in her rooms left uncovered. No need for drapes or blinds, she’d insisted. This was the second floor, after all, and only the lake lay beyond the glass, and far below. There was no way anyone, even if they were on a boat, could see inside.
He wished now that he’d had the windows covered after Sandra had taken off. It had never seemed important, somehow. At least, not until this very moment.
He closed his eyes, opened them again. It didn’t work. Brigit was still there. Pacing the bedroom like a caged lioness, tear tracks scalded into her cheeks, lashes still damp. She hugged herself, as if to ward off a chill, though Adam belatedly remem
bered he’d forgotten to turn the central air back on in her room. It must be stifling in there.
She wore the clothes she’d been wearing earlier. Black skirt almost to her knees. A shimmery green silk blouse, tucked into it, and a wide black belt around her tiny waist. The belt buckle was a golden sun with wavy rays sticking out all the way around. Her earrings matched. And her hair was pulled into a knot at the back of her head, though the heat and humidity had coaxed several curls loose. Even the glasses were still firmly in place.
The only other difference was that she’d kicked off her shoes now. She paced, in black-stockinged feet.
The double doors, bare as they were, gave him a wide-angle view of the entire bedroom. He saw open suitcases on the darkly stained four-poster bed. Draped across one of them was a vanilla nightgown which consisted of little more than a length of satin and two spaghetti straps.
She paced in a repetitive pattern, then broke it, and walked through the open door to the bathroom. And in spite of himself, Adam took a few more steps. Steps that brought him to that arched window. And he could see so very clearly, the water spewing full force from the faucets, foaming as it hit the nearly full shell-shaped tub. He wondered briefly why the window wasn’t coated in steam. Then she stepped into his line of vision, and he only wondered how the hell he was going to make himself turn around and walk away.
* * *
Hot. The place was hot and humid. Heavy, thick air. Didn’t the man have air conditioning in a house this size? She hadn’t noticed this sticky heat downstairs. Then again she hadn’t remained down there long. Unable to look him in the eye, because of the guilt she knew he’d see in hers.
Besides, she’d been in a hurry to get the big garment bag out of his sight. With his piercing eyes, she could almost believe he could see right through it to the canvases that were hidden inside. The ones that were the exact size and shape of the painting downstairs in his study. The painting he’d said he wouldn’t trade for the world. The one she was going to steal from him.
Fairytale (Fairies of Rush) Page 8