by Stuart, Anne
“They’re a wonderful bunch of people,” she said, pushing at the wisps of hair that were escaping her coronet of braids. “But in large doses they can be overwhelming.”
“Why are we hiding in the kitchen?” he inquired. “Have you developed a sudden taste for my company?”
He was still looking a little blue around the edges, and Sybil no longer fought the guilt that she’d been flirting with. “I thought you might like a moment or two to warm up before you had to cope with the full force of the Danbury Seekers of Enlightenment.”
“Oh, God,” Nicholas moaned. “Who thought of that repulsive name?”
“I did. And I have someone I want you to meet. She’ll be here sooner or later—she always ends up in the kitchen.” She smiled, very pleased with herself. “I think you two will make a wonderful couple.”
She’d startled him out of his bad temper. “Are you matchmaking?”
“Why not? It keeps me entertained.”
She’d pushed him too far. “My dear young woman, I don’t need matchmaking, I don’t need the Danbury Seekers of Enlightenment and I don’t need your wonderfully solicitous care. I need—”
The door opened at that moment, and Dulcy walked through, letting it swing shut behind her. “Hi, Sybil,” she said with real warmth. “I wondered where you were hiding. I’ve been hearing about your contribution to our little gathering. Is this the Grinch That Stole Christmas?” She gestured toward Nicholas’s suddenly still figure.
Sybil nodded. “Nicholas Fitzsimmons, Dulcy Badenham. Make him welcome, Dulcy.” And she slipped from the kitchen before anyone could stop her.
NICHOLAS WATCHED her go with mixed emotions. No, they weren’t mixed at all—they were pure regret. He turned back to the paragon who had entered the kitchen and allowed himself a long, leisurely look. One that Dulcy permitted with a faint smile of amusement.
She was quite a sight, he had to grant Sybil that. She must have been close to six feet tall, with a long, willowy body with just the right amount of graceful curves. Her white-blond hair hung straight and thick to her tiny waist, her eyes were a hazy, mystical blue, her skin was a flawless porcelain, her mouth a sensual delight. She was a perfect, untouched beauty, with even the amazing asset of clear intelligence and humor shining from those eyes that watched him watching her. He wanted Sybil back.
She had presented her friend with the air of one offering a great treat. The expression on her unremarkable face had been one of smug pleasure, certain that her matchmaking had succeeded, and all he wanted to do was chase after her and argue some more.
“Finished looking?” Dulcy had a deep, beautiful voice to match her appearance. With an effort Nicholas dragged his attention back to her impressive charms.
“Very nice,” he said absently. “Where did Sybil disappear to?”
“Probably to get something to eat. Welcome to Danbury, Nicholas Fitzsimmons. Are you going to make fools of us in your next book?” She sounded no more than vaguely interested, and he smiled a distant smile.
“I doubt it. I don’t think the Seekers of Truth are worthy of that much print space. There are any number of crackpot psychic groups all over the country—I’d be surprised if you have anything special to offer.”
“You never can tell,” she said tranquilly. “And we’re the Seekers of Enlightenment. Better known as the Spook Group.”
“Who came up with that one?”
“Sybil, of course. She doesn’t take herself nearly as seriously as you seem to.”
Score another point for Sybil, he thought. He looked at the glorious Dulcy, wondering why she left him so entirely unmoved. “Who are you, the resident familiar?”
“I’m a lawyer in St. Johnsbury. I have a fairly good-size practice in criminal law.” She moved closer to him. “I’m also a white witch.”
“Sure you are.” He was getting bored now, along with being cold and hungry. Dulcy might be a smart lady, but she had the same bizarre fantasies everyone else did. “What’s on the agenda for tonight?”
“I think Leona is planning a presentation, with Sybil’s help.”
“A presentation?”
The door opened, and Sybil reappeared, divested of her down coat, her knee-length felt-lined boots, her three scarves, her heavy sweater and her mittens. She looked like an elf, and her braids were sagging ominously around her small face.
“Past-life regression,” she announced in answer to his overheard question. In her hands she held a plate heaped high with food, and she presented it like a sacrificial offering. “Leona’s going to take me back to a previous incarnation. It’s a fairly common technique. Leona will lead me back through time in a guided meditation and we’ll see if we can pick up a past life.” She shoved the plate into his hands. “Eat something.” She looked back and forth with a hopeful expression between Dulcy’s tall, elegant body and his own, and once more he was reminded of a sparrow in search of a juicy worm.
It wasn’t forthcoming. “Matchmaking again?” Dulcy inquired, not in the slightest bit embarrassed. “You’ve struck out. I’m not Nicholas’s type.”
“Did she tell you she was a lawyer?” Sybil hadn’t given up yet.
“She did,” he replied.
“Still no go, eh? I’ll keep looking.”
“No, thank you. I can take care of my own sexual needs.”
She grinned. “To each his own.”
“I didn’t mean that . . . ” he began.
“Listen, you don’t have to explain yourself,” she said sweetly. “Eat your dinner. Leona’s waiting for us.”
“Us?”
“You might get to be a guinea pig, too.”
“The hell I will—” She vanished again, and the door swung back and forth gently.
“Don’t fight it,” Dulcy counseled. “Sybil can be very determined.”
He barely heard her. She had moved quickly, without Dulcy’s sensuality, without the languid grace of most women of his acquaintance. As she darted away from him with a delicious grin on her face, he was conscious of a sudden uprush of desire more intense than he’d felt in years.
“So can I,” he said .
Chapter Three
NICHOLAS DIDN’T like Leona Coleman, not one bit. For all her dizzy charm, he had the odd feeling that it was an act. The other Seekers of Truth or Enlightenment, or whatever, at least seemed sincere enough. Leona struck him as patently manipulative, a con artist, and he especially didn’t like it that she was manipulating Sybil.
Particularly now that he was feeling decidedly mellow toward her. He’d eaten just enough of the highly spiced, unrecognizable food she’d handed him to still his hunger, and then he’d followed her back into the crowded confines of the Spook Group. He had met Deke and Margaret Appleton, a surprisingly mundane couple in their early seventies. He’d corresponded with Deke, one of the best water dowsers in the country, and he matched his expectations: a short, rosy-faced little man with dreamy blue eyes. His wife was a matriarch who topped her husband by almost a foot and had clearly turned her social tendencies to the material at hand. She was the perfect, overwhelming hostess in her self-consciously British tweeds and over-loud voice, and Nicholas wished he had stayed in a motel for his first night instead of accepting Margaret Appleton’s heavy-handed hospitality.
He had been standing there, bemused, listening to her holding forth on so-called energy lines beneath the main altar at Chartres Cathedral when Sybil had reappeared out of the crowd. She put a hot earthenware mug into his hand and slipped away before he could break Margaret’s stranglehold. He stood there, a polite prisoner, and took a sip.
Bless the woman. It was coffee—strong, hot, black, just the way he liked it, and there was enough whiskey in it to float a battleship. He took another long, appreciative sip and began to consider Sybil’s undeniable merits.
It was a simple enough technique, he thought objectively, listening to Leona’s voice drone on and on. She was hypnotizing Sybil, or aiding Sybil in hypnotizing herself, and the suggestive voice was creating a dreamy mood throughout the room. It would have been easy enough to succumb, after the long day and the generous shot of whiskey, but that was the last thing he had in mind. He was intent on watching Leona, catching her little tricks. Not that he planned to say or do anything about it. He merely wanted to observe.
He’d gone through just what Sybil was about to go through, had been guided by one of the best. Past-life regression involved self-hypnosis, being guided back through time until a likely period was picked, and listening to the fantasies come forth. His own had been quite colorful, involving the French Revolution and his sexual adventures with a Comtesse Félicité. He’d imagined himself to be some sort of revolutionary, and according to Swami Benana he’d come to a bad end, but it was entertaining while it lasted. He’d listened with real amusement to the tape the Swami, whose real name was Harry Johnson, had made.
But Harry, while he was absurdly gullible, had at least believed in what he was doing, and had done it in the spirit of fun. Leona was intoning in a singsong chant that was making his blood run cold. Sybil sat there, at her mercy, her eyes closed, waiting for God knows what.
“Where are you now, Sybil?” Leona asked gently. “Can you tell us what’s happening to you?”
Sybil opened her eyes. They were dazed, with none of their earlier clever mischief. Nicholas quickly drained his coffee and tried to keep himself from putting a stop to this farce.
“It’s long, long ago,” she said, her voice dreamy. “I’m in a cold place. I’m wearing skins around my body.”
“Tell me more,” Leona urged.
“There are horses. I’ve been training horses,” she murmured, and an appreciative gasp arose from the enthralled company.
Nicholas shook his head silently. She must have been reading Jean Auel. They were going to have to sit through half-baked retellings of the Clan of the Cave Bear. It might take all night.
But Leona wasn’t interested in a secondhand Ayla. “Come ahead a bit, dear. Into the warmth and light. What are you wearing now?”
There was a long, eerie silence, and then suddenly Sybil giggled. It was an enchanting sound, sexy and delicious, and once more in the darkness Nicholas felt that astounding reaction.
“Not much at all. An emerald necklace,” she said. “And diamonds around my ankle.”
A sudden sense of horrified disbelief swept over him. He sat forward, intent, staring at the two women in the center of the darkened room.
“What day is it, my dear? What is your name?” Leona cooed.
Sybil grinned, an impish upturning of her suddenly sexy mouth. “It’s July 13, 1789. And I am Félicité, Comtesse de Lavallière.”
He must have groaned. There were sudden, hushing noises, glares in his direction. With an extreme effort he bit down on the protest he was about to make.
“I must have complete silence,” Leona addressed the hushed crowd like a cross schoolteacher. She returned to her subject, her voice low and crooning once more. “And what are you doing, Comtesse? Why aren’t you wearing anything?”
“Because I’m waiting for my lover, of course.”
The librarian beside him sighed gustily, and the musk wafted around him.
“Who is your lover, Comtesse?”
“Oh, I’m not allowed to tell. It is very bad of me, very naughty, but I don’t care.”
Leona had clearly had enough of that low, sexy chuckle. “Very well, let’s move ahead.”
“I don’t want to,” Sybil piped up. “I want to talk about Alex.”
“We will move ahead—”
“He is so handsome,” she said with a lusty sigh. “He has the most wonderful eyes, au diable, et . . .” Her musings had dropped into very idiomatic and graphic French. Her accent was perfect, and Nicholas understood every word she said. He wondered if he was blushing.
“We will move ahead,” Leona said again, her tone brooking no disobedience. “It is winter now, and—” Sybil’s face had crumpled in despair. He watched in suspended amazement as her huge brown eyes filled with tears, her mouth trembled, her body seemed to cave in around her. “No,” she screamed, and the sound was loud and shocking in the packed living room. “No, he can’t be dead!” And she collapsed, weeping, on the baby-blue carpeting.
Nicholas had had enough. “Take her out of it,” he ordered, his voice cutting across the excited murmur of voices.
“Really, I can’t be interfered with,” Leona protested stubbornly. “It’s never worked this well.”
Nicholas rose to his full height, knowing he made an impressive sight in the flickering candlelight, knowing and using it to his advantage in this group of gullible souls. “Take her out of it, damn you. Now!”
He was careful not to overplay. He kept his voice low, a silky menace, knowing that half of this scene was carefully staged theatrics and knowing his performance had to fit. But half of it was a woman weeping for her dead lover, lost in time, and he wanted her brought out of it with a desperation that amazed him.
“All right,” Leona acquiesced with poor grace. “Though we’re missing a wonderful chance.”
“Get her out of it,” Deke piped up. “We don’t want to see poor Sybil so miserable.”
Nicholas knew he should sit down and keep silent. But Leona was shaking Sybil, her voice sharp, and still she lay there weeping, murmuring the name of her lover over and over again. Without further hesitation he stepped over the people sitting on the floor in front of him and reached Sybil’s side, brushing away Leona’s rough hands and substituting his own gentle ones.
At the different touch she opened her eyes, which were swimming with tears. “Alex,” she whispered in disbelief. “I thought you were dead.” She spoke in French, and without thinking he responded in the same language.
“I’m right here, my love.” And she collapsed into his arms.
He caught her, held her as Leona intoned her mumbo jumbo words, held her gently as she slowly returned from her self-induced fantasy.
“You’re back now, Sybil,” Leona said, still sounding disgruntled. “You’re here in Danbury, and Professor Fitzsimmons is holding you.”
He felt her stiffen. Slowly he released her, preparing himself but still startled to see the expression on her face. It was a combination of surprise and irritation, as if he’d been too forward and she couldn’t quite figure out why. The only thing at odds were the tears still swimming in her eyes.
“Copping a cheap feel, Nicholas?” she murmured under her breath. “I thought you took care of these things yourself.”
“You ought to have your mouth washed out with soap,” he muttered back, rising to his full height.
“Try it,” she taunted, loud enough for Leona to hear.
“I must ask you to resume your seat, Professor Fitzsimmons,” she said sternly. “We’ve lost valuable ground.”
“You’re not doing it again,” he said flatly. “Not to Sybil.”
“I most certainly am. She’
s been the most receptive subject we’ve had so far and—”
“No,” he said. “Practice on someone else.”
“I don’t believe you have any say in the matter.” Leona, too, could be silky-voiced. The two of them, along with everyone else in the room, turned to Sybil.
He could see her hesitate, and he knew damned well she wanted to spite him. But she wasn’t a fool; she knew her limits.
“Not tonight, I think,” she said gently. “That was pretty rough. Let’s do it later.”
“It may not work as well later.”
She gave Leona a reassuring little pat. “If it’s meant to work, it will. Haven’t you always told me that?”
Score one for Sybil, Nicholas thought sourly. Leona had no argument left.
“Turn on the lights,” the old woman announced, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “I think we’ve all had enough. And I, for once, need sustenance. I feel quite depleted.”
“What about you?” Nicholas hadn’t moved from Sybil’s side. The people around them had begun talking, filling the room with an irritating buzz, but for the moment he had the odd, pleasant feeling that they were alone there, surrounded by white noise.
“Drained would be a better word,” she said, taking his hand and rising to her feet.
“It’s amazing what tricks our minds can play on us,” he said.
“Is that what you think it was? A trick?”
“Do you remember what you dreamed?”
“Dreamed,” Sybil echoed. “Not much. Part of it was very erotic, I do remember that. But most of it was so horrible I don’t even want to think about it.” She shivered in the overheated room.