by Adrianne Lee
Chris rolled his eyes, obviously displeased with the whole idea of Marti’s book.
“Don’t worry about me, young man,” Diego chimed in. He looked ready to concede to Chris’s wishes, but something struck Nikki wrong. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but would bet Diego had no intention of doing as requested.
Dorothea gazed uneasily toward the passageway, keeping her distance as though repelled by the opening in the wall. Why?
Olivia hustled in, a black cloud of billowing cloth and white solicitation, and Nikki forgot about Dorothea.
Chris settled her on the settee, then dug into the first-aid kit, took out disinfectant and bandages, and gently pushed Nikki’s hands aside, positioning himself between the audience and her modesty. Still, her cheeks burned as the blouse fell apart like some enticing silken veil, revealing her lacy undergarment.
The bra was low cut, allowing him easy access to the wound on the high curve of her breast. His gaze seemed to burn into her, and heat feathered her cheeks as she recalled the awe in his eyes that first moment he’d seen her naked—the same look she saw now.
She forgot about the others, felt alone with Chris, trusted him not to hurt her. Her throat thickened with caring, caring she didn’t want to acknowledge, didn’t want to feel But his breach was warm on her injured flesh, sweet in her nostrils, and she detected a slight tremor in his touch, a sensitive lover’s touch, as he cleaned the wound.
“This might sting,” he warned, daubing peroxide on the cut to remove the dust and dirt.
She winced and he winced with her, as though it hurt him to hurt her. Did it? Her pulse thrummed with the possibility. She stared at his hands, those wide wonderful hands, watched his tender ministrations and reveled in the caresslike brushes of his fingertips on her breast, her nipples growing hard and achy with honeyed desire.
He spread antibiotic salve into the cut, then smoothed the bandage down, his hand slipping lower, grazing her erect nipple. He drew in a sharp breath and swallowed hard. “Have you had a tetanus shot recently?”
She lifted her gaze to meet his. They might be alone in the room, alone in the world. Above the sharp tang of disinfectant, she caught the lure of him. the scent that was his alone, a mix of male and spice. She murmured, “Are you worried?”
He jerked as though she’d caught him with his emotions exposed. His features closed down. He stuffed the first-aid supplies back into the kit and banged the lid. “If you haven’t had a shot, get one. Right now the only thing I’m worried about is closing that hole in the wall.”
With that he stalked from the room.
“Pent-up sexual frustration would be my guess,” Marti whispered near Nikki’s ear. “I’ll bet after that kiss, you’d just love to help him blow off some of that head of steam he carries around.”
Nikki, clutching her blouse to her chest, burned with embarrassment. She’d like to vent some anger of her own at the moment, would like to tell the smug mystery writer that if that was all that was bothering Chris, he’d have found a bit of release the other day. Instead she said, “No, thanks, but you may want to try.”
“Oh, he’s way too volatile for me.” Marti grinned. “Diego, about that study you’ve done on secret passageways... I’d love to hear about it. I’ll bet there’s fresh coffee in the dining room.”
“I’ll see to it.” Olivia bustled from the room ahead of Diego and Marti.
Dorothea was bidding the two actors good-night at the door as Nikki started up to her room. The insulating numbness following the impact of her fall was wearing off. Pain radiated from her tailbone. Likely bruised. She climbed gingerly.
“Oh, my.” Dorothea sidled up to her. “Looks like that fall made your burn tender. Well, don’t you worry. I’ve got some painkillers in my desk upstairs. I’ll get you a couple.”
“No, thank you. I don’t like taking other people’s medicine.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’re fine. We’re about the same size. Besides, I gave one to Lorah the night of the séance. She had a bad toothache. Seemed to do the trick.”
Dorothea swept into the ballroom. Nikki gaped after her, heard her rattling around in her desk. Had she forgotten Lorah was dead? Dead from something that appeared to be heart failure? Nikki clutched the torn halves of her blouse tighter. Could an overdose of a narcotic painkiller simulate a heart attack? She didn’t know. Didn’t know who to ask. But then Dorothea said she’d only given Lorah one tablet.
Surely one couldn’t kill?
Just the same, maybe Chris would like to have one of these pills—in case he needed it—should Janice Jacoby decide to hold Olivia and him liable for her mother’s death.
She poked her head into the ballroom. Dorothea was seated at her desk, drinking greedily from her mug. A near-full bottle of vodka reposed within easy reach. She lowered the mug, red-faced at being caught. “Helps me sleep.”
Nikki pressed her lips together. “Hopefully not at the wheel on the drive home.”
“Oh, no, no. I’ve only had a teeny bit.” She stood, gathered her purse, stuck the bottle into a bottom drawer.
“Before you go, I’ve changed my mind. I will take one of those pain pills.”
Dorothea shook her head. “Sorry. I can’t find them. Been trying to figure out whether or not I took them home. But I guess I won’t know until I get there and look. Good night, my dear. Sleep tight.”
NIKKI WOKE WITH A START, sitting straight up in bed. Her heart banged her chest. Her skin felt clammy. What had she been dreaming that would startle her awake? She couldn’t recall. Not even a wisp of a memory. She sat on the edge of the bed, breathing deep and long, felt her heartbeat calming. She glanced at the digital clock. Twelve-thirty.
Whatever she’d been dreaming, she wasn’t anxious to return to it. She switched on the lamp and grabbed the book on her bedside table, a thriller she’d borrowed from the library. But after a few minutes the tension in the story had her pulse climbing again. She laid the book aside, visited the bathroom, washed her face and hands and returned to her room. No one else seemed to be stirring.
She envied them their nightmare-free sleep. But then none of them had been threatened or nearly killed during their stay here. Shrugging off the thought, Nikki scooted to the bed. Her foot struck something cold and hard. She yelped and leaped back, then froze as she spied the offending object. A chisel...with a blunted tip.
Her scalp prickled, and her heart pounded with fear. She spun around, expecting to see whoever had left the chisel standing there, taunting her. But she was alone. An awful thought swept her. Had someone been in her room earlier? Looming over her as she’d slept? Was that what had awakened her?
Her mouth dried. Or had someone sneaked in while she was in the bathroom? Were they here even now? Hiding under the bed? In the closet? Tremors raced over her clammy flesh. She gazed at the walls, her mind seeing through the plasterboard into the secret passageway.
For a full two seconds she couldn’t move. Maybe she should get Chris...but what if he wasn’t in his room? What if he’d been the one in here? The one who’d left the chisel? Ice wrapped her heart.
She had to do something. She couldn’t just stand here, too frightened to move. First, she had to make certain she was alone. Nikki dropped down, grabbed the chisel and looked under the bed. Nothing. Her breath wobbled from her.
She pivoted toward the closet. Dear God, the door was ajar. She’d closed it firmly when she went to bed earlier. Her skin crawled, and an acrid taste spread across her tongue. Wielding the chisel before her, she tiptoed to the closet. and tugged the door wide. Inside the clothes had been shoved to the left. The right wall hung open.
The passageway she’d been unable to expose the other night.
Her throat closed, and cool air, issuing from the black portal, brushed her fevered face. Despite Chris’s warning that the passageways weren’t safe, despite his dictum that everybody stay out of them, she had to examine this one. But not in her nightgown and robe.
Nikki
slammed the closet door, flew into jeans, sweatshirt and tennis shoes, found the penlight she always carried in her purse, stuffed the chisel into her hip pocket and came back to the closet. The access to the passageway still gaped like the mouth of some carnival madhouse. Swallowing hard, she waved the light over the roughly framed side walls, illuminating a long dark corridor with a solid looking floor.
She stepped inside. Chill air, damp, musty, tinged with the aroma of rotted kelp and saltwater, assailed her. She moved gingerly, sliding her feet forward one step at a time. A flash of white caught her eye. She flinched, gulped, pressed her lips together, then pointed her penlight at it. Snagged on a nail near her shoulder was a piece of lace.
She snatched it from the nail and examined it. Yellowed, as if from age, it might have been torn from a wedding dress. Her pulse zipped higher. She poked the fabric into her front jeans pocket and took another few steps. From somewhere ahead, she heard a noise. She halted, debating the wisdom of continuing on alone.
Before she could retreat to her room, something tall and white raced toward her. Nikki reared back, and slammed her spine against a stud. Pain radiated the length of her torso. She swore, then blinked. Less than twenty feet from her stood a bride, her wedding gown floor length, flowing, the heavy veil concealing the bride’s identity. She called, “Nicole, you must leave here...or die.”
The disembodied voice echoed through the corridor, its message digging frigid fingers into Nikki’s heart. Slicing her courage in two. She stood riveted a long moment, then she shook herself. This was idiotic. She started toward her taunter. “Who are you? Are you the one who sent the note about my father?”
The bride stiffened and backed away. Nikki picked up her step. The bride, obviously more familiar with the passageway than Nikki, turned and ran. Nikki followed, slower, less sure of her footing. A few seconds later, the corridor branched in two directions. She stopped. Which one had the bride taken? Her penlight beam poked, but didn’t penetrate deep enough to offer a clue. Nikki stood perfectly still, straining to hear above her thundering pulse.
That one, she decided, setting out to her left at a cautious but steady pace. This corridor led to another Y. She listened again, caught the swish of lace and headed toward the sound. She soon concluded she was being led in circles—crisscrossing this corridor and that. Her penlight flickered and dimmed. Alarmed, she muttered, “No, no, no.”
She shook the tiny flashlight. The beam flared brightly for a split second then dulled. Her heart sank. How long since she’d replaced the batteries? She didn’t know. And she didn’t want to get stuck within these walls. In the dark.
Making up her mind to return to her room and rouse Chris, she turned and hesitated. Which way had she come? She tried several of the corridors, and again had the feeling she was going in circles. The penlight beam fluttered. Panic grabbed her belly. She wanted to run before the battery died completely. She dare not.
She edged along as fast as possible. The air seemed to be getting colder, the smell of brine stronger. She took another step and nearly stumbled down a flight of stairs. She pulled back, her chest heaving. She leaned against the unfinished wall Behind her the rustle of lace sounded. Nikki snatched the chisel from her pocket and shifted around. She was too slow. Something crashed down on her head. Pain exploded through her skull. She groaned and dropped the chisel. It clattered down the stairwell. The penlight blinked off.
Nikki. fell to her knees, teetering on the edge of the top step. Her head swam. She felt hands on her shoulders, felt helpless to fight the inevitable shove, felt herself losing consciousness.
“Leave or die.” It was the last thing she heard before the darkness engulfed her.
CHRIS CLIMBED THE STAIRS wearily. The beginnings of a headache grazed his temples. He suspected its source was the fury he’d struggled with since resealing the parlor access to the passageways. He would discuss what he’d discovered with Liv in the morning, positive she’d be even more distressed than he. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he intended to get to the bottom of it.
He started up the third flight, his gaze shifting to Nikki’s door. He’d like to discuss this with her now. Alert her to be on guard. But she’d be sleeping at this hour. Ah, hell, he was probably anxious for nothing. It could wait until tomorrow.
As he passed her room he noticed the light beneath her door. Surprise pulled him to a stop. What was she doing up? It was after 1:00 a.m. He thought of knocking, then hesitated, recalling with self-loathing his actions during the kiss they’d shared in the parlor. One touch of her sweet lips had stripped him of all restraint, turned him into a wild man who cared for nothing but the satisfaction of his own carnal needs. She’d actually had to fight him off in front of all the others.
Heat spiked his neck. God, he was a jerk. Abashed, he retreated to his own room. But sleep eluded him, chased off by the fierce headache now thumping his temples, and by memories of the silken feel of Nikki’s flesh as he’d administered first aid. She’d trusted him implicitly, and yet, the moment he’d touched her breast, he was lost, carried off on a wave of desire.
He tossed off the cover, tugged on his jeans and went to the bathroom for aspirin. As he started back to his room, he noticed Nikki’s light still burning. Was she working? Or restless, like he was—trying to figure out the mixed signals he’d been sending her? In that moment Chris had never felt more ashamed of himself. How dare he hurt this wonderful woman? He owed it to her to tell her the truth about himself so she’d leave Wedding House before he really hurt her.
He lifted his hand to knock, then hesitated, realizing that by telling her the truth, he’d be letting go of her forever. His heart ached at the thought. He’d come to care for Nikki more than he’d thought he would ever care for any woman. He understood now that part of him hadn’t wanted her to know his secret fear. The part that was too like his uncle.
Determined, he lightly rapped on her door. She didn’t answer. He called her name softly. Still, no answer. Had she fallen asleep with the light on? He considered. Perhaps he should go back to his room. Talk to her in the morning. But maybe then, he wouldn’t be honest with her. He called her name again, then boldly tried the knob.
He frowned. Why hadn’t she locked it? He slipped the door open. “Nikki?”
But she wasn’t there. Nikki’s laptop, writing bag and purse were at the desk, but the rest of the room looked as though the maid had just made it up in expectation of an arriving guest. The bed hadn’t been slept in. Alarm shot through Chris.
He flung open the closet. The slacks she’d worn earlier were folded neatly over a hanger, the torn blouse discarded on the floor, her robe and nightie occupied the hook on the door. He fingered her silken nightgown, scowling. Minutes ago, he’d smelled her apple-scented soap lingering in the bathroom. By now he was familiar with her nighttime ritual and knew she used this fragrance only at bedtime.
So, she had prepared for bed, but what had prevented her from going to bed? Disquiet chattered through Chris. He glanced around the neat room again. Where in hell was Nikki? Surely, she hadn’t risked swimming tonight with her wound? Not after the scare she’d had the other night? But maybe he’d better check.
Chapter Fourteen
Nikki awakened in pitch-darkness. Her head ached, pain spiraling out from a lump near her right temple. She took a quick mental inventory and decided, as far as she could tell, it was the only place she hurt. Wouldn’t being shoved down a staircase produce more injuries? Even death? Hadn’t she been pushed?
Gingerly she groped the floor around her in all directions. The unfinished wood was brutal with splinters, and several times she drew back tender fingers and plucked out slivers with her teeth. She couldn’t find the staircase. Had she been moved? Pulled back from the stairs so she wouldn’t tumble down them? It made no sense.
She lifted up on her arms and sat back, then winced from the tailbone bruise she’d gotten earlier in the evening. But besides her head and this bruise, she de
tected no other sore spots. She didn’t understand. Why hadn’t “the bride” killed her? She drew a ragged breath, taking in the cold, musty, sea-tinged air and considered what had occurred before she’d blacked out.
“Leave or die,” the bride had said. A warning, Nikki realized. This whole escapade, the chase through the passageways, the different sightings of “the bride,” the threat on the bathroom minor—all meant to make her leave Wedding House before she discovered her connection to Theresa De Vega.
Why? What was “the bride” afraid Nikki would discover?
And if she didn’t leave, would “the bride” carry out her threat?
She had to get out of here. Had to find Chris and tell him. Show him the piece of lace, try and find the chisel. He would know these passageways, would understand how to get to the staircase where she’d lost the chisel. She’d bet on it. But how did she get back to her room in the darkness? Or figure out how to open an access into one of the other rooms?
She struggled to her feet, swayed from light-headedness. She waited a moment, gradually regained her balance, then took a step forward. Her foot slipped on something hard and round. She squatted, groped the flooring close to her feet, and came up with her penlight. Hope bounced inside her, but when she thumbed the lever no light shone into the darkness.
Sighing, she pushed the penlight into her back pocket and began inching away from the cooler air. The roughened studs stabbed at her hands, and she tore through a spider’s web, shuddering and blindly batting it away.
It seemed an hour or more before she came to a Y. She hesitated, uncertain which way would lead her in the correct direction. She chose the corridor to her right and warily strode on. A loud creak ripped away her courage. Nikki froze. Her stomach clenched. Her headache throbbed, and her breath came hard and fast. She listened. Was someone coming? Or was the house just groaning as old houses were wont?