by Anne Stuart
“Time is one thing we don’t have.” If there was regret in his voice there was none in his hard, impassive face. When she tried to pull away he caught her, turning her in his arms so that her back rested against his chest, and his arms were crossed in front of her, holding her tightly. “Close your eyes and watch, Elizabeth. What do you see?”
There was no breaking free. His arms were like iron bars, holding her against him, and everywhere her body touched his, she could feel heat. Danger. Darkness, pain and anger. She struggled briefly, but it was a waste of time. Sinking back, she let the fight drain from her body. And let the tension rush in, like the returning tide.
They came, sharply, abruptly, and she wanted to scream in rage. She didn’t want to give Sam what he was demanding from her. She would give him her body, her heart, her life. She couldn’t give him her visions.
“Don’t fight me, Elizabeth. Don’t fight it. Let it work. Go with it. Listen to it.” His voice was a slow, seductive purr, rumbling from the center of her back, speaking through her heart. She bit her lip, hard, but she couldn’t fight it any more. Redness was everywhere, not the bright flame of her dress, but the dark, foul blood seeping through everything. Waterways dark red with the stuff. Canals of blood.
She hadn’t realized she’d said it out loud. Maybe she hadn’t. “Canals of blood,” Sam repeated in a low, hypnotic voice. “Then she’s still in Amsterdam.”
She shut her eyes, leaning her head back against his shoulder. “Blue,” she said. “The house is blue, and old, rotting. He’s with her. There are others. Evil. Cold.” She began to tremble, and the heat emanating from Sam’s body burned her.
“Who’s there?”
“The killer. Phil’s murderer. Except that they’re all murderers,” she said, the words hurting her throat. She opened her eyes to stare straight ahead, not seeing the whitewashed walls, the primitive paintings, the rainy Virginia twilight. “I see your blood. Covering me.”
This time it was Sam who pulled away. “God, Elizabeth,” he muttered, shaken.
But she was beyond noticing. It was so cold, so icy, that she knew she’d never get warm again. She could crawl into the fire that Sam had built, curl up in the heart of it, and her ice would put it out. He was going to die. She was going to watch it. And she couldn’t bear it.
“I can’t let it happen again,” she murmured, not even aware she was talking out loud.
He was standing a few feet away from her, visibly shaken. “Can’t let what happen again?”
“I’m not going to watch anyone else die.” Her eyes met his. “I watched my parents die in a fire. I watched them scream in agony and terror. I watched as our house burned down around them, even though I was fifty miles away at my grandmother’s house. No one believed me. Not my aunt and uncle—at least, not until the police called them. And then they became convinced that I was possessed. And you know how you deal with possession, don’t you? You beat it out of the child.”
“Elizabeth . . .”
“I was seven years old. They beat me every day, until my mother’s mother, Granny Mellon, came and took me away from them.” She could hear her voice, light and detached, coming from far away. “I stayed with her until I was seventeen, and then she died, too. But that was all right. She was very old, and she was ready to go. But Alan wasn’t.”
“Alan?”
“I was going to marry Alan. He was going to love me and take care of me, and he was the kindest, gentlest man I’ve ever known. I loved him, and when I saw his death I told myself it was just a horrible nightmare. I didn’t warn him. I was too much of a coward to face it, and he drowned in the Potomac one icy day, trying to save a stupid dog.”
“And you ran away to Colorado,” Sam said softly.
Her mouth curved in a bitter smile. “This is no surprise to you, is it? Even Phil didn’t know much about my background, but you have access to a person’s soul, don’t you? You knew about Alan. About why I ran away.”
“I knew about Alan Spencer. I didn’t know you’d seen his death or felt guilty about it. What makes you think you could have changed things?”
“If I can’t, why do I bother? I don’t want to be a policeman, a judge and jury. I don’t want to find the bad guys. I want to stop the bad things from happening.”
“Elizabeth,” he said gently, “you can’t. Bad things happen. Bad people are everywhere. The only thing you can do is find the bad people and stop them before they do more harm. You can’t change the past. I’m not convinced you can even change the future.”
“Then I’m not going to do anything,” she said stubbornly. “I’m not going to sit back and watch you die.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions.”
“All right.” He backed off with surprising speed—he didn’t want to hear the uncomfortable answer. “But we don’t know whether we can keep it from happening. What if we can? What if the only chance I have of surviving is having you with me, helping me?”
“What if the only chance you have of surviving is not being able to find that house? That sick woman and that evil man?”
“I’ll find them. You know that. Sooner or later, I’ll find them.”
“But I won’t be there to watch.”
He shook his head. “Or maybe they’ll find me. And you’ll be there, in your red dress, covered in blood. And it might be yours, not mine.”
“Is that supposed to be more incentive?” she cried. “Maybe I’d rather it was my blood.”
He moved so swiftly that she wasn’t expecting it, pulling her into his arms with unaccustomed gentleness. “I thought we’d gotten rid of your death wish,” he murmured, his mouth too close to hers. “Maybe I’ll have to remind you that you don’t want to die.” He kissed her, a brief, hungry kiss that left her confused and aching for more, but he still didn’t release her.
She reached up and put her narrow hands on either side of his dark, handsome face, and she left all her defenses shattered at her feet. “I don’t want to watch you die,” she said very clearly.
“I don’t want to die. Help me, and we’ll both make it through.”
She couldn’t resist him. Even if part of her was convinced that she was helping him to his death, she couldn’t withhold what he wanted. He must have felt the sudden acquiescence in her body, for his smile was brief and triumphant.
“You’ll help me?”
“I’ll help you.”
“Do you know exactly where this blue house is?”
“No. I’ll recognize it when I see it, I expect.”
“So.” If he regretted coercing her into helping him, only his dark blue eyes suggested such a thing. “We’ll leave as soon as we can. Probably not until tomorrow—we’ll need fake passports, and good ones take a certain amount of time. I still don’t know who I can trust. I think right now we’re on our own. At least this way we won’t have to watch our backs.”
She nodded, too drained to summon up enthusiasm. “I’m tired,” she said, her voice low and flat. “I think I’ll go up to bed. Alone.”
He just looked at her for a moment. “That’s probably a smart idea. I’ve got phone calls to make, things to take care of. I wouldn’t want to disturb you. You’d better eat first.”
She shook her head, pulling away from him and starting back toward the narrow stairs, her body leaden. “Tomorrow.”
“All right. The Dutch are famous for their food. We’ll fill you up with cheese and cream.”
She paused on the steps, pushing her loosened hair back. “That’s very nice,” she said dully. “But Shari Derringer is in Venice.” And without another word she continued upstairs and crawled back between the rumpled sheets.
Chapter 17
IT WAS PAST TWO in the morning when Sam came up the narrow flight of stairs and into the bedroom. He looked down at her sleeping face, the faint stain of tears beneath her eyes, and told himself what a bastard he was. It had little effect. He’d always known he was a bastard—it t
ook a hard man to survive what he’d survived. There was no room for gentleness, for sympathy, for giving someone else the benefit of the doubt, or any other benefits, for that matter. He was in a tight spot, with just about nothing on his side. The only advantage he had was her gift, talent, curse, whatever you could call it. And even if it tore her apart, he had to make her use it.
He could tell himself it was for her sake as well as his own, but it wasn’t much comfort. He would have forced her anyway, even if her own life wasn’t in danger. He would have used her if he’d needed to, coldhearted bastard that he was. He already had one woman’s death on his conscience. He wasn’t about to get squeamish over Elizabeth’s misguided affections.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Amy Lee. He’d been sitting down in the empty living room, staring at the fire, thinking of the other woman he’d betrayed by his devotion to duty. He’d loved Amy Lee more than he’d ever thought he was capable of loving, and he knew he’d never feel that way again. It didn’t matter that he felt more tied up and drawn to Elizabeth Hardy in a shorter time than he had with his wife. It didn’t matter if the feelings were sharper, deeper, more tormenting. He didn’t want to believe in love anymore. He couldn’t. And he couldn’t live with what might happen to someone he fell in love with.
Amy Lee had been all of twenty-five when those bastards had gotten her. Cheerful, happy and trusting, she’d known that he would never let anything happen to her. But he and Phil had gone racing off on a wild-goose chase, and while they’d been gone, people they’d been after had taken her hostage. And before Sam had even heard their demands, they’d killed her.
He’d lived with that guilt for more than ten years. He wasn’t about to let anything like that happen again. He knew her death wasn’t his fault, but his love for her had made the guilt real and inescapable. He’d decided then and there that if he didn’t care about anyone, didn’t trust anyone, then he couldn’t be responsible for anyone. And never again would he have to be torn apart by grief and guilt.
He looked down at the woman sleeping in his bed. She’d come so damn close in such a short time. Too close already, and he knew that if anything happened to her, he wouldn’t be able to stand it.
She didn’t know why he was closed up inside. She had her own grief and guilt about Alan, but it was nothing compared to his anguish, his responsibility, for Amy Lee. And he wasn’t going to tell her. She was just going to have to think he was a coldhearted bastard who, no matter what he’d said, was incapable of loving.
Maybe sometime he’d be able to talk about Amy Lee. Maybe, when that time came, he’d be able to let go.
It was funny, though. He couldn’t remember what she looked like anymore. So much time had passed, and now, when he tried to summon forth the face of love in his mind, Elizabeth Hardy’s pale face appeared.
He needed to put some walls between himself and the woman lying in his bed. He needed to get on with what needed doing and not waste his time worrying about what effect it was having on her mental and emotional well-being.
Besides, he already knew her emotional well-being was shot to hell. She’d convinced herself she was in love with him. He’d known that was inevitable, once he took her to bed. Either that or she’d hate him. He’d hit the jackpot this time. She both hated and loved him. Or so she thought.
She’d grow out of it, he thought coolly. A little more time around him, a little time realizing there were other men, better men, kinder men, gentler men, out there, ready to fall in love with her if they had any sense at all, and she’d be gone, leaving him in the dust—where he belonged. He had no reason to feel guilty. Not in the long run, at least. He’d woken Sleeping Beauty, and when she was ready, she’d be gone without a backward glance.
And he wouldn’t give a damn. He’d watch her go, speed her on her way, dance at her wedding, dandle her babies on his knee, play golf or softball with her husband, maybe even get invited for Thanksgiving dinner. The perfect uncle, and she would have forgotten they’d ever shared a passion so intense it was almost frightening.
But he wouldn’t forget. He slid into bed beside her, carefully, not wanting to wake her. If he woke her he’d make love to her, and while her body would want it, her mind wouldn’t. He could control his own tumultuous needs, but not if she opened those vulnerable brown eyes and looked at him. As long as she slept he could tell himself that he’d make it through. She’d find someone worthy of her, and he’d be back in his solitary life.
But he wouldn’t forget. And he’d give a damn. And if she thought he’d smile and dance at her wedding she was out of her damn mind—
She turned in her sleep, sighing, and reached out for him. Her hand brushed his chest, and she moved closer, snuggling up against him for a comfort he couldn’t give her. And then she opened her eyes and looked at him, her expression troubled and waiting.
He didn’t move. He didn’t dare. She smelled of flowers, of spring rain, of him. He wanted to bury himself in her body; he wanted to wrap her long, long hair around their entwined bodies, tying them together. He waited. Waited for her to tell him to leave the bed. Waited for her tears and anger. Waited for her to close her eyes and go back to sleep.
Her mouth against his was soft, damp, still tasting faintly of toothpaste. Her tongue against his lower lip was shy, delicate, probing, and he thought he’d explode if he didn’t drag her into his arms and complete the tentative kiss. His muscles ached with the force he used to control himself, but he lay back and let her taste his mouth, responding gently, just enough to encourage her.
She rose up on one elbow, and her hair fell around them, a thick curtain of silk that he wanted to capture and bury his face in. “What took you so long?” she whispered against his mouth.
“You told me you wanted to sleep alone.”
“And you thought I meant it?”
“No. I just thought you might need a little time to realize you didn’t.”
He waited for her anger. Instead she smiled, a slow, sensual smile that made his bones ache. “I’m a quick learner,” she said, pushing the quilt down. And he realized she was still wearing the red dress.
He didn’t think about visions, either hers or his. He didn’t think about destiny, or fate, or what was going to happen to them in the next few days. He didn’t even think about what a bastard he was. All he could think about was her long legs under the red dress.
He slid his hand up her thigh, bringing the dress with him. Her eyes were very dark, glowing in the paleness of her face, and he moved his hand higher, touching her.
She was wearing nothing under the dress, and she was damp, ready for him. That knowledge tore away the last of his tenuous control. He rolled over on top of her, pushing her down into the soft mattress, letting her feel how much he wanted her. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him, full and deep, with a reckless abandon that answered his own. He’d already dropped his own clothes on the floor beside the bed when he’d climbed in, and he began to fumble with the red dress, wanting her smooth and naked against his. But she wouldn’t let him, catching his hands and placing them on her breasts beneath the silky red fabric. The skirt was up to her hips, and his fullness pressed against her, ready to explode.
“Wait,” he groaned against her mouth. “You’re not . . .”
“Yes,” she said, pulling him against the cradle of her thighs, until he rested against her, throbbing, waiting. “Yes, I am,” she whispered.
With a muffled moan he pushed into her, hard and full and deep, and for a moment he thought he might explode with the wonder of it. He held himself very still, trapped deep within her glorious body, and he could feel the shimmering pulses of desire rippling around him, clutching at him. He wanted time; he wanted to be able to pleasure her, to seduce her, to bring her to that startling ecstasy she’d felt last night, but suddenly his body was raging out of control, ripped apart by the tremors shaking him. He clutched the sheet beneath them, but his large hands caught the red dress instead, and he was lo
st, driving into her with a mindless need that banished all thought but the woman surrounding him and his own desperate search.
He was half-mad with it. He could feel the bed shake beneath his pounding thrusts, could feel her body, damp and trembling beneath him, but he couldn’t stop. He’d die if he stopped. And then he heard her scream.
He lifted his head from the cradle of her neck to watch her, transfixed, as her eyes glazed over and her body went rigid in his arms. She was wrapped tightly around him, holding on to him as if to a lifeline, and he could feel the spasms rippling through her body, tearing her apart, gripping his cock like a fist. And then he was with her, driving into her one last time, pouring himself into her, filling her emptiness, losing himself, before he collapsed on top of her.
It was a long time before he could move. He was shivering with reaction, covered with sweat. His hair was damp; his face was damp; and he wiped the water from his eyes, telling himself it wasn’t tears. He started to pull away from her, suddenly panicked that he might have hurt her, but her arms held him tightly against her with unexpected force, even as her face was turned away from him.
He had no doubt at all that those were tears on her face. “Did I hurt you?” he whispered.
“No.”
“I don’t know what happened,” he said, lifting his head slightly to look down at her, wishing that this time of all times he could see what was in her mind. “I just couldn’t control it any longer.”
She reached up and touched his face with one faintly trembling hand, reached up and touched the tears he refused to acknowledge. “You don’t have to control everything,” she said softly. “Sometimes you can let things just happen and trust it will be all right.”
“What if I’d hurt you?”
“I would have yelled,” she said.
“You did.” He realized with sudden wonder that she could blush.
“That was different,” she said sternly. And then she reached up around him, and he felt the silky strands of her endless hair wrapping around their bodies, just as he’d imagined. “Go to sleep,” she said. “We have a long day tomorrow.”