William sighed and ran his hands through his long hair. “You’re right, of course. You usually are. Okay, so why don’t we make her want to come back? Tell her you’re getting married or something.”
“Married?” Adam’s brow rose. “Me?”
“Okay, so make it something that’s believable.”
“And lie to Jamee?” Adam shook his head. “She’d hate it and she’d hate us when she found out. We’ll just have to find someone to shadow her, someone who will see that she’s protected at all times in Scotland. Nicholson’s team is with her in Asia, but we’ll need someone different when she gets over here. I’m hoping that person is you, Mr. McCall. Sir George Rolland told me you’re the best man he has and I believe him.”
Ian studied the woman smiling in the photo. “How long?” he asked, thinking he should have his sanity checked.
“Four weeks. No more than five,” Adam said promptly. “She is expected back home in San Francisco by Christmas, and she’d never miss that.”
“And during this time, your sister is not to know who I am and what I’m really doing?”
Adam nodded.
“How much?” Ian said flatly, using practicality to justify a totally irrational inclination based on nothing more than a pair of vibrant eyes and a laugh that could warm a subzero freezer.
“A quarter of a million pounds for four weeks. Extra for any time beyond that.”
“Terence would have liked you. I’ll double that amount,” William added calmly.
Ian gave a silent whistle. “A man could make a lot of plans with money like that.” Abruptly, he stood up. “But it makes no difference. I can’t take this job.”
Nicholas cursed softly. “Ian, is there something you want to tell me? Nothing you say will leave this room.”
The hiss and pop of the fire suddenly seemed very loud.
Ian stiffened. Then he slowly shook his head.
Adam Night pulled a rectangular box from his briefcase. His gaze flickered to Nicholas as he moved to the television.
“Adam, no,” William snapped. “Not that.”
“Yes. I told you I’d do whatever was necessary to keep Jamee safe.” Ignoring William’s outstretched hand, Adam pulled a videocassette from the box and pushed it into the VCR.
Ian closed his eyes, knowing he didn’t want to see the tape. He was not getting involved. These people needed a man who was sharp and confident.
A man at the peak of his form.
“This will change nothing,” Ian muttered.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Adam pressed a button and the tape gears began to spin.
“I refuse to watch. I refuse to be a part of any of this,” William hissed. He strode angrily from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Ian frowned as black-and-white images flickered across the screen. His eyes narrowed when he heard a faint feminine whimper coming from what appeared to be a hospital room with a bed and two chairs.
“If this doesn’t convince you, nothing can, Mr. McCall,” Adam said bleakly.
The video zoomed in on the bed, where a figure lay motionless beneath white sheets.
“I meant what I said, Night. I cannot possibly…” Ian’s voice trailed off as he saw the face resting upon the pillow, the long hair that slid over one shoulder.
Jamee Night.
Something hard and cold clawed at Ian’s chest. Feeling like the worst kind of voyeur, he swung around toward Adam. “I’m beginning to agree with your brother. I’m leaving.”
Adam’s eyes were pleading. “Stay. Just for a few moments. If you can forget what you see, so be it.”
The woman in the picture began to move, slowly at first, then more urgently. One hand gripped the edge of the bed, her fingers raking the white sheets.
Sweat broke out on Ian’s forehead. It doesn’t matter, he told himself. He couldn’t allow himself to care.
The sleeping woman moaned softly and shoved away the top cover. The camera panned over the scene, leaving the dark circles under her eyes clearly visible.
“Where is she?” Ian asked.
“In the sleep-disorder clinic of a major New York hospital,” Adam said quietly. “My sister wanted to be cured, Mr. McCall. She wanted to forget. So she checked in, hoping to get some answers. This is the tape of her first night there.”
Ian watched Jamee Night grip the neck of her hospital pajamas. Her eyes squeezed shut in terror as she dug her fingers beneath the stiff cotton. With a ragged sob she twisted sideways, tore away the top button, and tried desperately to claw free of the garment.
“She’s smothering, Mr. McCall,” Adam explained grimly. “She relives being locked in a closet. And she’ll have to confront worse things than these nightmares if this threat turns out to be real.”
Ian cursed, unable to look away. His hands tightened on the arm of his chair. “Turn if off.”
“Not yet. I want you to see how they left her. Then tell me no, Mr. McCall.”
Jamee continued to tear at her pajama top. Wrenching her arms free, she tossed the garment onto the floor. Ian saw her strain against invisible walls.
“Dammit, Night, that’s enough. Turn the damn thing off.”
“Jamee has these dreams at least once a month,” Adam said, ignoring Ian’s protest. “More, if she’s under stress.”
“I don’t care,” Ian growled as Jamee pushed to her knees, huddled against the head of the bed. For the first time, her eyes opened, wide and dilated, staring at a point just above the camera.
Ian realized she saw nothing but her dreams. He watched her struggle free of her pajama bottoms and throw them away. Her slender body was covered by a white cotton bodysuit. Ian felt a sick sense of fury as she struggled mechanically to stand, then tottered to the floor. She moved awkwardly, straining against invisible barriers like a mime in a horror show.
Ian strode to the VCR, slammed the tape to a halt, and ejected the cartridge. “What if I tell her you showed this to me?”
Adam flinched, but did not look away. “I’ll bear the consequences. You’re the best, McCall. That’s why I want you to protect my sister.”
“I told you it was impossible.”
“But you didn’t say why.”
“The reason is irrelevant.” But though he’d stopped the tape, Ian continued to see Jamee’s pale face and jerky movements. He called himself a bloody fool as he fingered the file Adam had given him. “This file says that she was once engaged to be married. What happened?”
Adam shrugged. “Apparently they decided to stay friends instead. I got the impression that Jamee wasn’t ready for anything more…intense.”
“Did her fiancé feel the same way? Maybe he took the news a little harder.”
“As in considering retaliation? No way. Noel Shipton-Jones is too busy with his limited partnerships and wholly owned subsidiaries to be bothered by a minor thing like being cut adrift by his fiancée.”
“Where’s he now?”
“In France, pitching a huge contract for computerized maintenance services on the Channel tunnel. There’s no way he could be a suspect. Noel’s a junior partner with one of the biggest computer firms in the world.”
“Have you checked for criminal background or drug use? Possible debts from an expensive mistress or a hidden gambling problem? Any of those might make him consider a quick fix for his problems. Given his prior contacts with Jamee, he’d have the opportunity. When you add motive to opportunity, generally you’ve got your man.”
Adam frowned. “They still talk occasionally. I’ll look into it, but—”
“No buts. In a kidnapping, everyone’s a suspect. Even family.” Ian laughed mirthlessly. “Especially family.”
“Not in this case,” Nicholas interrupted. “I know Noel.”
“You’ll have to let me be the judge of that. The imprisonment of a human being for money is a damnable thing. The kind of mind that plans a kidnapping can be either very sick or very clever. Usually both.” Ian shoved the file under his
arm and tossed the cassette to Adam. “From now on, I’ll make the decisions, Night. If you have a problem with that, tell me now. It will save a hell of a lot of trouble later.”
“You don’t make things easy, do you, Mr. McCall?”
“That’s the general idea.” Ian crossed his arms, waiting.
After a moment, Adam smiled faintly. “You’re right, of course. Very well, you have a deal. Would you like your fee now? I have found that cash often facilitates things.” Adam opened a compartment in his briefcase and calmly began counting stacks of bills. At any moment, Ian expected to wake up and find out this was a very bad dream.
When the crisp pound notes hit his fingers, he knew he wasn’t going to wake up. “I hope you won’t regret this.”
Adam made a sharp movement with his hand. “Just see that you keep her safe, Mr. McCall. Any way you can. We’ll take care of hunting down whoever is making the inquiries into Jamee’s finances and personal life. Our in-house investigators are pretty damned good.” He handed Ian the last stack of notes. “One more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“My brother William will pay you another quarter of a million when you return Jamee safely to San Francisco on Christmas Eve.”
Over the rolling downs a sound rang out, almost like the clang of distant bells.
If he was dreaming, Ian decided now would be a bloody good time to wake up.
CHAPTER TWO
MIST CURLED OVER the weathered stone and clung to the dark network of vines that grew over Draycott Abbey’s granite walls. White lace gleamed against black satin as a figure emerged from the darkness of the high, crenelated walls.
“I hate Christmas.” Adrian Draycott’s hard features were tense with irritation as he strode through the night without parting the mist or disturbing it in any way. “Yes, I know Christmas is Nicholas’s favorite time of year. I also know that the abbey looks its very best when strung with holly and agleam with candles. And I still don’t care,” he muttered. “All this merrymaking makes me feel old.”
Through the drifting fog a gray cat moved with imperious grace. In one powerful bound he sprang up to the parapet and perched on the granite edge, ears alert.
The guardian ghost of Draycott Abbey scowled down at his longtime companion and friend. “Well, of course, I am old. Nine hundred seventy-one years, by a rough estimate and depending on your definition of time.” Adrian frowned at the cat. “No, I will not be drawn into another discussion of the theoretical anomalies unanswered by current time-space theories.” His eyes were brooding as he flicked a ruffle of lace from one cuff with expert skill. “The only problem is Christmas. I have always hated Christmas.”
The cat’s tail arched.
“No, I am not going to change my mind just because a lot of loathsome strangers are descending on my abbey. In fact, I think I shall teach them a lesson about the dangers of invading someone’s private domain with their despicable laughter and relentless good cheer.” Adrian’s gray eyes glinted. “A good manifestation will soon clear them out. Or perhaps I should try something more dramatic this time.” He raised his hands and hovered like a shadow against the fog. “Something like this, I think…”
The cat gave a low meow, then curled up in a smooth gray ball.
“Don’t you dare go to sleep on me, Gideon. I can summon a better manifestation than that.” The abbey’s resident ghost frowned as he smoothed the white lace jabot at his neck. Abruptly, he gave a diabolical laugh. His head shimmered and grew indistinct and then his stern features vanished entirely.
Headless, gruesome in black with fluttering lace cuffs, he paced the misty roof. A creature of flesh and blood would have found the sight terrifying, but the great cat did not so much as blink.
“What do you think of that?” Adrian demanded, summoning up a ghastly aura of green light around his headless shoulders. “They won’t soon forget this sight,” he crowed triumphantly.
The cat showed an utter lack of interest.
“Damnation, what do you mean, you’ve seen better at Windsor? When were you there last?”
The cat’s tail swished.
In a blur of phosphorescence Adrian’s head popped back through the frilled lace at his collar. “That weekend? Of course I remember. Yes, the viscount did an adequate job of representing Draycott Abbey on the occasion of the announcement of the royal wedding. But I saw no headless figures lumbering about the royal corridors.”
The cat’s eyes burned purest amber.
“I was not too busy seducing the lush creature who welcomed us. Miranda was simply being companionable. She was cut down in her prime by a very nasty riding accident, and I thought it rather decent of me to comfort her.”
The cat stretched, meowing softly.
“We did no such thing!” Adrian’s hard features burned through the drifting mist. “At least, we didn’t do it in public.” He strode to the notched granite edge of the roof. “But that was ages ago, and today I am a changed man. Reformed and absolutely incorruptible.” He studied the patterns of fog skimming the dark earth. “By the way, where is Gray? She was supposed to have been here hours ago.”
The cat’s paws rustled on the cold stone.
“She’s doing what?” Adrian stopped, an arrested look on his face. “A present for me. Truly?”
The cat eased onto coal-black paws, his eyes unblinking.
“She is making it herself? What can I possibly find for her, Gideon? I haven’t a single thing good enough.”
The cat meowed softly.
“She told you that? The very same thing about me?” This plunged the abbey ghost further into gloom. “You see how unworthy I am?” Hands clasped at his back, he disappeared across the roof. Only his voice rang out, melancholy in the mist. “You must help me, Gideon. Watch her like a hawk and discover what she wants. No matter how precious or rare, I will find a way to obtain it for her. She lost so much when she came to the abbey—everything, all swept away for me. How can I ever hope to repay her?”
Somewhere a bird cried from the darkness. The cat eased forward, suddenly alert.
“You are right, Gideon. Our guests approach. Maybe I shall find what I need among their baggage. The people of this noisy century seem to travel with mounds of possessions, even those outlandish objects they use for exercise. In my age, we would have called them instruments of torture.” His voice rose, suddenly decisive. “Come, Gideon. The game is afoot, to quote that unpleasant doctor named—” He frowned. “What was that fellow’s name?”
The cat purred.
“Yes, of course that’s who I mean. That Arthur fellow. Conan something. That’s right, Doyle. A most officious kind of pest. The blasted man actually caught my impression on that ectoplasm device he insisted on trying out during his last visit here.” Adrian Draycott stopped in midstride. “Do you suppose a photograph would please Gray? That infernal device of Doyle’s is still somewhere about the abbey, perhaps up in the north attic. The fellow was so frightened when I materialized in his bedroom that he bolted in the middle of a snowstorm. All talk and no action, if you ask me.” He tapped his jaw thoughtfully. “Yes, a spectral portrait would do the trick. What do you say, Gideon?”
The cat peered intently at the drive.
“Someone there, you say?”
The cat eased to his feet, his body rigid.
“I do feel something,” Adrian murmured, his jaw hard. “Faint but intrusive. And moving toward us.” He spun about, staring into the darkness beside a twelve-foot chimney. “I believe we are about to have a visitor,” he said coldly.
At his booted feet the great cat swayed, his eyes locked on the darkness at the edge of the vast roof. Something flashed in the silence, more sound than image. To Adrian the sound seemed a mix of birdsong, rain and laughter. “Do you hear it, Gideon?”
At his feet the cat stiffened, listening to a sound like the sigh of a swift creek or the rustle of small, pungent grasses.
Sound became form, slowly, awkwardly. In the
space of five seconds, a man walked from the chimney, frowning and looking very lost. “Am I here yet?” he demanded, running one hand through his blond hair.
“Where, my fellow, is here?” Adrian drew himself to his full height.
The man scratched his jaw. “Some sort of abbey, I think.”
Adrian’s features grew even more hash. “Some sort of abbey? Draycott Abbey perhaps? My abbey?”
The man looked impressed. “Yours, is it? Good, then I’ve got the hang of it. Moving from place to place still takes some doing for me.” He eased his long legs over the roof with the grace of a long-distance runner, which is exactly what he had been.
Until he died crossing the street to save a pregnant woman from a drunken driver.
He put out one hand, smiling apologetically. “I’m Terence. Sorry to intrude.”
Adrian looked him up and down slowly, then sniffed. “Is that name supposed to stir some recognition?”
“Terence Night. Jamee’s brother.” He smiled crookedly, his hair picking up sunlight where none existed. “At least I used to be. Before…”
“Yes, before you died. It’s clear enough to see that you’ve moved into spirit. But by the good and powerful Queen Bess, what gives you the right to intrude here?”
“I can’t say.” Terence shrugged, and the movement sent light dancing over his worn blue jeans and white T-shirt. There was a glow of muted gold about his face and hands. “I was simply told to come.”
“And you can just as simply leave.” Adrian moved closer, his face threatening. “Right now.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Terence said, his smile sweet and infinitely apologetic.
Adrian simmered. He fumed. Smoke coiled and billowed about his body. “Then I guarantee you will be very sorry, Mr. Terence Night, who is brother to Jamee Night, who is someone I have never met nor care to meet. Hear me well: Draycott Abbey is my territory. Go find your own humans to guard.”
The new arrival’s eyes widened. “Are you one, too? Who would have thought it, to see you dressed that way.”
“Dressed,” Adrian said coldly, “in what way?”
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