Fairytale (Fairies of Rush)

by Maggie Shayne

“Let go...dammit, Zaslow, you’re hurting me. I said let go!” Her words were firm, and delivered as commands as she tried to twist her hands free of his grip.

  He smiled fully, but the smile died a second later. A large hand came down on Zaslow’s shoulder, jerking him backward, out of the doorway, so he stumbled on the stairs. He released his grip on her, more out of surprise, she thought, than anything else. She was surprised herself.

  “Adam,” Brigit breathed.

  He didn’t look at her. His eyes blazed with midnight-blue fire, and they were all Zaslow’s. At some point, she wasn’t certain when, he’d grabbed a handful of the other man’s shirt, and held it now, bunched in his fists.

  “When a lady tells you to let go,” he said, his voice dangerously soft, “you let go. Got it?”

  “You misunderstood, mister. Brigit and I are old friends...” Zaslow tried to wrest himself free. Adam finally let go, but did so with a little shove that sent Zaslow the rest of the way down the front steps.

  Adam glanced her way, one brow lifted in question.

  “Tell him, Brigit,” Zaslow said, and she grimaced, ready to declare that the very sight of him made her skin crawl. But before she got a word out, he added, “Raze wouldn’t want you to bad-mouth me. You know he wouldn’t.”

  The fury that had been bubbling inside her froze, and slowly turned into fear. The bastard had her firmly in his control. She had to say and do exactly what he told her, or dear, sweet Raze would suffer for it. Damn Zaslow for using a helpless old man this way. Damn him for this!

  She saw Adam watching her, saw his eyes narrow.

  She lifted her chin, swallowed hard. “We’re old friends,” she confirmed with a slight nod. “Just had a slight disagreement.”

  “That’s right. A slight disagreement. But we’ve settled it now.”

  A muscle worked in Adam’s jaw. He held her eyes captive, refusing to look away. Merciless in his probing and searching. And there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he knew she was lying. For once, she was glad. She didn’t want him to think she’d have anything this vile as a friend.

  “Brigit doesn’t need friends like you,” he said, never turning to look at Zaslow, never taking his intense stare from her. “If you darken my door again, you’ll have to be carried out of here.”

  Zaslow’s icy eyes flared with anger and maybe a hint of fear. The way Adam delivered the threat left no doubt he meant every word of it, even without eye contact. And though Zaslow was the bigger of the two, Brigit found herself believing Adam could and would do exactly what he’d said he would.

  Zaslow never answered, just turned and headed down the driveway, got into his car, and drove off, spitting gravel in his wake.

  Brigit closed her eyes, her breath escaping her in a rush, her back bowing a little.

  Adam came inside and closed the door. He stared down at her. She could feel his intense gaze even before she opened her eyes.

  “He’s no friend, is he Brigit?”

  “No.”

  “Lover, then? Or a former one?”

  Her eyes flared wider. “No!”

  Adam nodded thoughtfully, pursing his lips. “You called him...Zaslow?”

  She only nodded.

  “He has some kind of hold over you. That much is obvious.”

  She held his gaze, said nothing.

  “But you don’t want to tell me about it.”

  Drawing a long, deep breath to battle her constricting throat, she whispered, “Yes I do, Adam. I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything, I think. But...I can’t.”

  Adam frowned, searching her face, waiting.

  “I’m sorry,” she added, finally forced to lower her gaze from the power of his.

  He was silent for a long moment, and she knew his eyes were still probing and searching her face. Finally, he sighed, and turned away. “Do you like parties, Brigit?”

  Frowning, completely thrown by his change of topics, she looked up quickly, turning to stare after his retreating back. “Parties?”

  “Boring faculty thing. Lots of pretentious fools, sipping punch and spouting intelligencia to anyone who’ll listen. A string quartet. Dancing.” He turned around, sent her a wink and a sheepish smile. “Hell, it’s free food, if nothing else. My attendance is pretty much required. It might be a little more bearable if you’d come with me.”

  She just stared at him, and she knew she must be gaping, but she couldn’t move or speak,

  “If you don’t want to, that’s—”

  “No. I mean, yes, I want to.” Oh, why had she said that? She should have stayed here. It would have given her more time to work on the painting. “When?” she heard herself asking.

  He glanced at his watch. “Two hours.”

  She had a feeling she’d regret this. “I’ll be ready.”

  “Good.” He turned as if their conversation were over, resumed walking toward the study.

  “Adam?”

  He stopped, not turning around.

  “Thanks...for not pushing me about...about Zaslow.”

  “Don’t thank me, Brigit. That conversation isn’t over yet.” Then he walked into the study, closing the doors behind him.

  He grated his teeth, closed his eyes, and told himself he was a hundred kinds of fool. He’d been shaking with anger. Shaking with it. It had taken every ounce of will he’d had in him to keep from knocking that bastard on his ass when he’d come in and seen the way he was manhandling Brigit.

  Zaslow. She said his name was Zaslow.

  It was ridiculous to feel so protective of her. Stupid, when she obviously knew the man, and when the man obviously knew things about her that she hadn’t shared with Adam. Hell, he was a fool. For all he knew this Zaslow might be in on whatever plot Brigit was working here.

  His instincts, though, balked at the notion that Brigit would willingly have anything to do with the brute. He obviously had something on her. Something powerful enough to make her lie for him. She’d been ready to spew venom when he’d claimed to be her friend. And then he’d said something cryptic. Adam bit his lip, trying to recall it exactly as Zaslow had said it. “Raze wouldn’t want you to bad-mouth me.”

  So who or what was Raze? What was Zaslow’s hold on Brigit? What was her true reason for being here, in Adam’s house? And what did Zaslow have to do with it?

  Damn, the longer he knew the woman, the more questions he had about her. No answers. Just more and more questions.

  He was turning into a freaking basket case. And in his rush to get to the house to see who the hell the stranger in the doorway was, he’d left his briefcase in the car. Yup. A basket case.

  He left the study, headed through the foyer to the door. As he passed the marble-topped pedestal table at the base of the stairs, he glanced at the now-thriving houseplant there, wondering again at her green thumb—or was it fairy dust? Then he absently snatched the wadded rag from the stand’s surface, thinking Brigit must have been dusting and forgot it.

  He stopped, opening his hand and staring down at the soft bit of cloth on his palm. It was smeared with colors. Greens and blues and gray here and there. He lifted it to his face, sniffing.

  Paint.

  He furrowed his brows and sent a questioning gaze up the stairs, but Brigit was nowhere in sight.

  Paint.

  And a slimebag of a man holding something over her head, something deadly.

  And knowledge of a forest that had existed only in his own imagination.

  And the ability to make him forget all of it, just by looking into his eyes.

  “Just what in the hell are you up to, Brigit Malone,” Adam whispered, staring up the staircase she’d just ascended. “Just what in the hell am I going to do about you?”

  Chapter Eight

  “Why did I say I’d go with him? Why, why, why?”

  Brigit could have slapped herself for idiocy. She’d blurted her acceptance before giving it any thought. So here she was, going to a party, while poor Raze was God only kne
w where...afraid and alone...

  Someone should knock her upside the head for her foolishness.

  Deep down inside, she knew she couldn’t have painted anymore tonight, anyway. Even if she’d stayed. She’d poured every ounce of...of...juice, for want of a better word...into the work today. She’d wielded those brushes until she was completely dry. She couldn’t find another drop of whatever it was that made her able to reproduce perfect likenesses on canvas. Creative energy. Magic. She didn’t really know what it was. But she’d tapped it to the bottom of her toes today, and there just wasn’t any more. So she’d stopped.

  There would be more juice tomorrow. She wasn’t afraid there wouldn’t be. But she still felt guilty for going out with Adam when Raze was in such dire straits.

  Maybe because she was afraid she was going to enjoy it too much.

  Too late now, though. She’d agreed, right or wrong. So she supposed she might as well make the best of it.

  She wore a green skirt that was made up of countless long strips. Its tendrils reached to the middle of her shins, and rippled and swirled like leaves in the wind when she moved. And brown sandals with thongs that criss-crossed their way up her legs. Her top was a forest-green body suit with a scooped neck. And of course, her pewter fairy, caressing the glittering quartz point, hung around her neck.

  She was sitting at the vanity, rebraiding her hair nice and tight, when she heard a soft tap, and then her bedroom door opened.

  She met Adam’s gaze in the mirror. His expression was speculative.

  “Am I late?” she asked.

  “Not yet. But you will be if you continue with the braid.”

  She turned around, but he was already coming forward. He stopped when he stood right behind her, and then he gently turned her face back to the mirror. His fingers dove into her half-done braid, and she felt them moving there, separating, smoothing. Part of her wanted to close her eyes and revel in the feeling of his hands in her hair. There was something so intimate about it. Another part wanted to pull away and rapidly bundle her hair back into its accustomed style.

  He shook it loose, then bent to reach past her for the brush, without asking permission. He ran the brush through her hair, slowly, right from the top of her head, all the way down to the middle of her back where it ended. Over and over again. His free hand followed the path the brush took, and finally, she sighed, tipped her head back, and let her eyes fall closed.

  The brushing stopped. And she felt her glasses being gently removed from her face.

  Her eyes flew open. She came face to face with the wild little girl she’d been. Only she was a woman now. Sensual and wanton and impulsive.

  She saw him in the mirror, standing behind her, staring at her as if he couldn’t do otherwise. This man from her dreams with his honey-gold hair and wide-set, almond-shaped wizard’s eyes. This man with the hollows in his cheeks giving him a haunted expression, even when he smiled. This man who moved her like no man ever had.

  “Why do you hide?” he whispered.

  She stiffened, her gaze shifting lower, skimming over his lips, drawn there by their movement when he spoke. She brought her eyes up to meet his again in the mirror. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yeah, you do.” He held her gaze, and his was probing in search of secrets. “You’re not this prim and proper lady you pretend to be.”

  She swallowed, but her throat remained dry. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s true. I see it right there, in those bottomless eyes of yours.” He leaned a little closer, so his breath fanned her neck as he spoke, and his head was close beside hers.

  Impulsively, she closed her eyes, fearing this man who could see all her secrets. “You’re imagining things, Adam. There’s nothing in my eyes except—”

  “Fire.” His voice had lowered. It was little more than a whisper now, but somehow more powerful than it had been before. “Your eyes damn near boil over with passion, sometimes. Your skin...it just about simmers. I feel it when I’m close to you...like this.”

  He was close. Too close. And she did feel as if her skin were on fire. Her breathing quickened, and her lips parted. The one inside grew stronger.

  “I think, Brigit Malone, that deep down inside, you’re a hellion.”

  Her eyes fell closed again. Her head tipped back of its own accord. Or maybe not. Maybe it was the hellion he’d seen so clearly controlling her movements now. Her hair slipped back, away from her shoulders, and she felt his warm breath on her neck. The fire burned hotter. His lips moved closer. She knew without looking. And then his mouth touched her skin, and he had to feel the wild thudding of her pulse just beneath his lips. He mouthed the skin of her neck as if tasting it, slowly parting and closing his lips again and again.

  The power of her desire for him was beyond anything she’d ever known, and it left her trembling and weak with longing when he lifted his head. She lowered hers, meeting his gaze in the mirror again. Her own eyes were heavy lidded, passion glazed.

  His lazy smile did little to disguise the hunger in his own. “See? There’s the real Brigit.”

  She shook her head in silent denial,

  His hands came down to her shoulders, kneading gently. “It’s true. I think you’re just afraid of her.”

  “I’m not...” She blinked at the reflection of the two of them; the sight of his hands on her bared shoulders, those long fingers moving so slightly against her skin, brought the flames roaring back to life, and she couldn’t suppress a small shudder. “Maybe...maybe I am, a little.”

  “It’s okay,” he said softly, as his fingers splayed over her flesh. “I am, too.”

  She turned a little to look up at him. “I’m not sure I believe that. It’s hard to imagine you afraid of anything.”

  His gaze roamed her face. “Oh, I am. I’m afraid of you, Brigit.” His hands rose, and his fingers moved slowly through her hair. “And I’m even more afraid that in another few seconds, I’m not going to be the least bit interested in going to this thing tonight.”

  She bit her lip, because she was rapidly losing interest in going out as well. “You said your attendance was required.”

  “It is.”

  She clasped his hands in hers, and pulled them gently from her hair, holding them, looking down at his long, slender fingers as they twined with hers. “Then we should go.”

  “If you insist.” He closed his hands around hers and pulled her to her feet.

  “I can’t go like this.” She glanced over her shoulder at the mirror once more.

  “Sure you can. In fact...I dare you.”

  “Y—you dare me?” It was difficult to speak when he was looking at her that way. The touch of those blue eyes on her skin was doing odd things to her pulse and her breathing all over again. All it took was a glance...at least, when he was looking at her the way he was looking at her right now.

  “Yeah. I dare you. What do you say?”

  His words, his breaths, caressed her lips because they stood so close, and a brand new shiver worked through her. Only the slightest movement would bring their lips together. And God, what would that be like?

  Forcing her gaze up, away from his mouth, she saw the mischief and the challenge in his eyes. It touched something inside her. Her own wall of mischief, she supposed. And she smiled. “Let’s go.”

  Adam was bored. His eyes had a glazed-over look about them as he stood, the obligatory glass in his hand, discussing admissions policies with a stuffy-looking man who was thirty pounds overweight. The place made Brigit feel inferior, to say the least. Educated, sophisticated types lingered everywhere. The very rich and the very literate. They sipped champagne from fluted glasses and spoke about politics and travel.

  On a raised platform, a string quartet played classical music, and she couldn’t begin to imagine anyone dancing to it. Dainty round tables stood at strategic points, laden with tiny and nearly inedible lumps that claimed to be hors d’oeuvres. Very nice to look at, but worthless as
sustenance. There were bowls of nonalcoholic punch scattered here and there. Neon-colored stuff. Green, yellow, and blood red. Yum, she thought.

  The women in the room represented the woman she’d always wanted to be. Sleek and polished. Not a hair out of place. Beautiful, smart, successful women who always knew what to say and what to do. How to act. Which fork to use. They were respected. They were admired.

  And Brigit felt more like the homeless, dirty-faced street kid she’d been than she had in a very long time. She stood rigid, back ramrod stiff, chin high, and she tried to pretend. Maybe, she thought, she could fool them. Maybe they wouldn’t see the street brat beneath the facade. Maybe. If she were very careful and very quiet.

  “Anything wrong?”

  She glanced up at Adam, startled by his voice coming so close to her ear. The man he’d been talking with had wandered off, leaving them alone together in this crowd of glitter and wealth and intelligence.

  She shook her head, looking down. “I don’t fit in here, Adam. I shouldn’t have come.”

  He smiled. It surprised and then shook her. He was so handsome when he smiled. And he looked incredible in his dark suit. His shoulders even broader, his waist narrower than before. He fit in here. He was born to this kind of gathering.

  His hand closed around hers. “You’re right.

  You don’t fit in here. Everyone here is a phony, Brigit. Hiding behind a mask. Using either their money or their degrees to make up for their lack of character. Or even soul. Look around.”

  She did. And as she did he nodded toward a couple who stood near the ghoulish green punch. “Those two like their cocaine more than their money. They’re probably high right now.”

  Her eyes widened, but he was already steering her gaze elsewhere. “And there’s Jack. Alone tonight. Probably gave his wife a few bruises she couldn’t hide with makeup.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. And the fat guy over in the corner?” He nodded in that direction. “He’s only been out of prison for six months. Embezzling. And see that incredibly intelligent-looking woman by the stage? The one with the slicked-back hair and the glasses? She likes sleeping with her freshmen students.”