Dream Maker

by Charlotte Douglas

  “Or a colossal pain in the—neck, depending on your point of view.”

  Still frowning, Jared pulled himself out of his chair and headed for the kitchen, returning with a bottle of brandy and two snifters. He poured the amber liquid into one of the glasses and offered it to her, but she shook her head. After the dinner wine, brandy would put her to sleep, and she had no intention of dozing off before she heard what Jared had to say. Then she would lock herself in her room for the night.

  As if fortifying himself for an ordeal, he swigged down the contents of the glass, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Firelight played across the strong planes of his face, bathing them in a glow that, combined with his unusual stillness, made him appear like the golden statue of some ancient mythic god. Only an occasional tremor of pain rippling across his features indicated that he was still awake.

  She sat motionless, waiting. If she spoke again, she might destroy the effort he was building to divulge his story. The fire burned low, and she quietly added more logs against the encroaching cold.

  When Jared finally spoke, his voice startled her, ringing strongly in the unnatural quiet of the spacious room. “Two years ago, I was working on a story about gunshot victims in D.C. I’d questioned the heads of trauma units in all the major hospitals in the area but one, and I was anxious to complete that interview so I could finish the story.”

  He glanced at Tyler, whose wide eyes locked on him like a laser, and he guessed she would know if he lied. He wouldn’t change the truth, but he didn’t have to tell her everything. No one except him knew everything. Not even his doctors.

  “I was waiting in the emergency room to interview Dr. Gilleland after he came off duty. I have vivid memories of a man waiting across from me. His face had been slashed open from temple to chin, and he sat there, holding a towel to stanch the bleeding and staring at me with vacant eyes. Then my head exploded with pain. I must have lost all consciousness, because that man is the last thing I remember before waking up days later in the intensive-care unit.”

  A tremor shook his body. Talking about it was harder than he’d thought. He poured more brandy and bolted it down. The heat of the liquor seared his throat. “An aneurysm had burst in my brain.”

  Tyler gasped. “If you hadn’t been at the emergency room—”

  “I’d never have made it. Things were touch and go, as it was.”

  He shifted in his chair, avoiding her probing gaze. There had been many times since, when he’d wondered if he would be better off dead, rather than living with the hell that had followed his illness. “I don’t remember how long I was hospitalized, but when they finally released me, I came here to recuperate. Been here ever since.”

  “Did you ever write your story on gunshot victims?”

  He nodded. “Finished it while I was on sick leave. As soon as I’d sent it to the paper, I resigned.”

  “You had a job most journalists would die for. Why resign?”

  Because he’d become a freak, a man unlike all others. How could he function in a world that reminded him every day of his own peculiarity? “Grandfather Slater died before my rebellion against the tobacco industry and left me a generous trust fund. I’d always wanted to write what I pleased, so I grabbed the opportunity.”

  “If you had the trust fund all along, why work for the Post at all?”

  “Experience.”

  That wasn’t a total lie, but he’d planned on years more experience before retiring to the mountains to write the “great American novel.” He studied Tyler regretfully. The woman didn’t miss a trick. He needed the assistance of a mind like that, but he had no choice but to send her away to safety—and soon.

  Tyler watched his eyelids flutter and close and heard his heavy, even breathing. He’d fallen asleep, sprawled in his chair. She tiptoed to her room, removed a blanket from one of the twin beds, then carried it to the great room where she covered him against the cold.

  Thick lashes lay against his cheeks, and sleep softened the rugged contours of his face, making him appear vulnerable—an enticing illusion, since Jared Slater had the strength of three men. She’d sensed his power when he saved her from crashing to the ice outside. A powerful man with secrets.

  She retreated to her corner of the sofa with a snifter of brandy. She could sleep now. Jared had done his talking for the night, but he hadn’t told her the whole story. Something terrible lurked in the depths of his eyes. Some pain too deep for words generated the wounded look that frightened her and, at the same time, made her long to gather him in her arms and comfort him.

  She should lock herself in the bedroom to sleep, especially since she still had the strange sensation of being watched, but drowsiness overcame her. She tugged the afghan around her and nodded off.

  THE BITING COLD awakened Tyler, and when she opened her eyes, gray dawn illuminated the tall east windows. Jared still slept in the chair across from her, but the fire was almost out, and the room’s temperature had dropped. Careful not to awaken him, she shredded newspapers, laid kindling and logs, and soon had the blaze roaring again in the massive stone fireplace.

  In the morning light, she laughed at her nervousness and fantasies of the night before. Jared Slater hadn’t murdered her in her sleep—he hadn’t even snored. The figure she’d seen outside was surely what Jared had said it was—nothing more than shadows. She didn’t think the weather had improved enough for her to travel. Maybe, she thought, glancing at Jared, she no longer wanted to.

  She performed her morning ritual in the bathroom, yearning for a hot shower, but making do with icy water splashed on her face and hands. She had just rinsed her mouth after brushing her teeth when Jared’s agonized cry pierced the morning silence, making her blood run cold.

  She rushed down the hall to the great room. He sat upright with a wild look in his eyes, and, in spite of the room’s chill, sweat beaded his broad forehead.

  “Jared?”

  Ignoring her, he bolted from his chair, folded back the doors beneath the loft, and rummaged in his desk, grabbing a pencil and legal pad. Without acknowledging her presence, he returned to his chair and began to write furiously.

  “What is it?” His frenzied behavior revived her suspicions.

  “Don’t interrupt,” he said with a snarl, still writing.

  She settled on the sofa and watched as he scribbled quickly, paused, closed his eyes as if remembering, then wrote again. When he’d finished, he read over the papers, groaned, and fell back in his chair.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He breathed heavily, like a long-distance runner hitting the tape at the finish line. When he lifted his head and stared at her, his eyes were glazed. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “You look awful.”

  He rubbed his eyes, then combed both hands through his unruly hair. “Flattery doesn’t work on me, if you’re still trying for the job.”

  She ignored his taunt. “Maybe you’ll feel better after a wash and some breakfast.”

  She eyed the legal pad beside him. Its filled pages resembled those on the nightstand in the bedroom. Maybe Jared was one of those writers who mulled over his material in his sleep and committed it to paper upon rising. But that didn’t explain why he had cried out in pain, like an animal pinned in a steel trap.

  “You’re right. I need to flush the cobwebs out of my brain.” He rose with a groan, picked up the pad, and took the stairs three at a time to the loft bathroom.

  Only one thing was certain about Jared Slater—he was a puzzle. She gathered last night’s glasses from the coffee table and was carrying them to the kitchen when a familiar sound stopped her. He was taking a shower. The thought of bathing in cold water in the icy room brought goose bumps to her skin, and she shivered violently.

  In her room, she stripped and dressed in clean clothes, hoping that jeans, a flannel shirt, and her UNC sweatshirt in Carolina blue would provide more warmth than the clothes she’d just removed.

  When she r
eturned to the great room, Jared was lighting a Coleman stove he’d set on the granite kitchen counter. He grinned when he saw her, showing no trace of the tortured writer she’d witnessed earlier. “I raided the camping equipment in the utility room. Hot breakfast coming up.”

  “You’re a miracle worker. I could die for a cup of coffee right now.”

  His grin faded. “Dying isn’t required, but you will have to wait for the water to boil.”

  His hair, still wet from his shower, glistened in the morning sun, and he appeared warm and comfortable in snug jeans that hugged his narrow hips. He’d pulled a midnight-blue ski sweater over a white turtleneck.

  He rummaged through the cabinets, and as the water in the saucepan began to boil, added oatmeal, raisins, chopped dried apples, cinnamon, brown sugar, and walnuts. The spice from his concoction permeated the kitchen with a homey, comforting aroma, making her hungry.

  They ate without speaking, Jared preoccupied and Tyler hoping her quietness would encourage him to talk. A vertical line creased his forehead between his brows. She didn’t have to be a trained psychologist to know that whatever he’d written on his legal pad earlier still disturbed him and that he was reluctant to talk about it.

  After they’d cleared the dishes and settled before the fire, Tyler asked, “What were you writing this morning?”

  He sat, neither moving nor speaking, staring at the flames as if he hadn’t heard. His unnatural stillness ate at her nerves.

  “Look,” she said, “if telling me what was going on makes you uncomfortable, forget it. Let’s talk about something else.”

  He stood, grasped the mantel with outstretched arms, propped one foot on the raised hearth, and stared at the flames. His body pulsed with latent power—and sorrow. What did he know that was so horrible, unspeakable?

  She remembered news stories of a serial killer who had hidden the bodies of his victims in the woods surrounding his mountain retreat in Alabama, but she forced the memory away. Jared Slater was no murderer. She would stake her life on it.

  She already had.

  He turned and braced an elbow on the mantelpiece. “Why do you think I advertised for a research assistant?”

  She shrugged. “To help gather information for your writing?”

  He shook his head. “I’m a trained journalist. Whatever information I need for my stories, I can dig up for myself.”

  “Unless it’s easier to let someone else do the drudge work and pay for it from Grandfather Slater’s trust fund.” Her anger over his reluctance to employ her simmered just below the boiling point, and sarcasm tinged her voice.

  Before he could reply, the telephone rang in the loft bedroom, and he bounded up the stairs. The low murmur of his voice carried over the loft wall, but she couldn’t make out his words.

  Then realization hit her. The telephone lines were still working. She scurried across the room and unzipped her computer from its carrying case.

  Jared met her at the foot of the stairs. “That was Farmer Sweeney at the foot of the mountain, calling to see if I was okay.”

  “Are you?” Tyler scanned his face. The terrible pain that had lurked in his eyes earlier had disappeared, leaving behind warm pools of soft brown that sent a shudder of pleasure up her spine.

  “What’s that?” He nodded toward her hands.

  “My laptop computer.”

  “Battery pack?” Excitement colored his words.

  “You got it. With the phone lines intact, we can hook up the modem, and we’re in business—until the battery dies.” Satisfaction surged within her. He’d said he was on deadline. If she could convince him to let her begin work, maybe he would change his mind about hiring her.

  His mind raced as he connected Tyler’s modem to the phone line. The information he’d received that morning tightened the crunch on his time. If he couldn’t gather the data he needed—and soon—another woman might die. He walled off memories of his nightmare of Tyler, lying dead before his fireplace. He needed an assistant now more than ever. He would have to risk it—risk her—at least for a little while.

  He chose his words so carefully that he might have been stepping through a minefield. “I’ve been giving the research-assistant position some thought.”

  Her head snapped up and gray eyes bore into him. “And?”

  That slight movement of her head sent the perfumed aroma of her hair drifting beneath his nostrils, and desire gripped him. He resisted the impulse to push a stray curl off the pink curve of her cheek and struggled for control. He would never get the job done if he allowed her to distract him.

  “I’d like you to begin work—on a temporary basis.”

  She jerked her thumb toward her computer. “Desperate times require desperate measures, huh?”

  He couldn’t restrain his smile. “Something like that.”

  She eyed him warily. “I don’t get it. You knew last night the power would be out, but that didn’t incline you toward hiring me then. Do you want me for myself or my hard drive?”

  His grin widened. God, he loved a woman with spunk. “Let’s just say I could never resist a woman with such incredible assets.”

  She laughed. “I like you when you smile, Jared Slater. When’s the last time you laughed?”

  He reflected over the past two dismal years. “I can’t remember.”

  She reached forward tentatively and touched the dimple at the corner of his mouth. “That’s what I thought.”

  He grabbed her hand to thrust it away, but the warmth in her eyes made him pause, savoring the heat of her fingers and the throb of her pulse. “You haven’t answered me about taking the job on a temporary basis.”

  Her soft lips parted slightly over even, white teeth, and her breath formed a delicate cloud in the room’s frigid air. “I wouldn’t think you’d have to ask. You know how much I want this position.”

  What was happening to her? Mesmerized by his eyes, she checked the urge to draw closer, to warm herself against the broad hardness of his chest. She’d come to the mountains for work, not romance.

  Wriggling beneath his gaze, she stared out the tall windows to where snow covered the trees. The sun shone fiercely in a sky of brilliant blue, highlighting the surrounding mountain peaks in crisp detail and reflecting off the waters of Lake Toxaway, which was sparkling in the deep cleft of the valley like a sapphire set in cotton batting. Just past the edge of the drive, a patch of darkness flashed through the trees.

  “Look.” She pointed out the window.

  “What is it?”

  “I thought I saw someone again.” She crossed to the window, shaded her eyes against the glare and peered down the mountainside.

  He followed her gaze but could detect no sign of movement on the sloping drive. “Maybe it was a trick of light again—or a small animal.”

  “It was bigger than that,” she insisted.

  He shrugged. “Maybe it was a bear or deer. There’re a lot of both in the area. Are you ready to work?”

  She sat at the desk and flipped up the screen on her laptop. “What’s first?”

  “I need to know every state where Spanish moss grows.”

  She swiveled in her chair and regarded him with a look of disbelief. “You’re on a deadline for this?”

  He glared at her. “Do you want the job or not?”

  “Right, states with Spanish moss, coming up.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she punched in codes and Internet addresses.

  Jared watched her, bending over the keyboard toward the screen, taking notes from the information that scrolled there. She was just what he needed. He’d known it the moment he’d read her résumé, and she’d confirmed it with her spirited insistence on being hired.

  He sighed with regret. She believed she’d won him over, but he would send her on her way later today, as soon as the snow began to melt, and long before the rhododendron bloomed.

  THE SUN WAS SLIDING toward the western peaks when she handed him a sheaf of papers.

  �
��The list of states is fairly short,” she said, “but the list of cities with intersections of Orange and First is formidable.”

  “Thanks.” He tucked the papers into his desk drawer and steeled himself for the unpleasant task ahead.

  “What now?” she asked.

  He extracted his checkbook from a cubbyhole and filled in a check. “Now we say goodbye.”

  Her head snapped up and her eyes narrowed. She nodded toward the drawer where he’d stashed the papers. “You didn’t even look at my work. I assure you it’s what you asked for.”

  “I have no doubt of it.” He handed her the check. “But you’ve been so busy, perhaps you’ve failed to notice that the temperature’s risen and the snow is melting. You won’t have any problems getting off the mountain now.”

  “But what about my job?”

  “The job isn’t yours—it never has been.”

  “I’ll sue—”

  “Do whatever you must, but I can’t endanger you by allowing you to stay here.” He scowled at her, ignoring his desire to sweep her into his arms and kiss the determined set of her lips until they relaxed, turning warm and pliant beneath his own.

  Without another word, she zipped her computer into its case and pulled on her coat. Her high cheekbones flushed bright red.

  “I’ll bring your bags,” he said.

  “How thoughtful.” Her sarcasm stung his conscience, and without a backward glance, she walked to the front door and flung it open.

  As she stepped across the threshold, she turned toward him again. “Goodbye, Jared Slater. Thanks for—”

  A shot rang out from the woods beyond the clearing, and pain blossomed in her head.

  Chapter Three

  The blast from his .357 Magnum knocked the young woman off her feet and into the house beyond his view. No matter. He’d aimed for her head, a fatal shot.

  In his stubbornness last night, he’d almost ruined everything, falling asleep in the cold. And when he’d awakened, the woman had spotted him and alerted Slater. But he had patience on his side. Stalking and killing consumed him, and inevitable death was all that mattered. When the dying occurred was an insignificant detail.