Howard had tipped his hat. Wasn't that sweet?
She was actually glad to see the spires and towers of the Featherstone mansion through the massive oaks that lined the road. The neighbor kids called the soaring Queen Anne Victorian Dracula's Castle, and Gus had always been frightened of the place when she was a kid. She'd been told by Frances that the mansion had secret rooms and passageways, but she herself had never found them, and she'd privately suspected the housekeeper of trying to frighten her. It wouldn't have been the first time.
Now she just wanted to escape inside its hoary edifice to her cozy room on the third floor and hide out for a while. She couldn't deal with anyone yet, not even Rob. She knew he must be worried sick about her, but she was going to need more time to sort things through before she saw anyone.
It was little Bridget she was aching to get a hold of. She wanted to tousle her niece's blond curls and bear-hug her until they were both breathless, but even that would have to wait. Her first step would be a ritual of mental, physical, and emotional restoration. She was going to take a scalding shower, a tiny lavender pill, and sleep around the clock. When she woke up and was sane again, she would deal with all of this.
Gus's favorite "hang" outfit was a pair of men's boxer shorts and a white ribbed cotton tank with the words AMERICAN MADE printed across the chest. And that was what she was wearing when she awoke the next morning and discovered that she'd drifted off in one of the overstuffed chairs that flanked the fireplace. According to the clock on the mantel, she'd slept nearly twenty-four hours, but despite her restoration ritual, a persistent tickle of fear remained in the pit of her stomach. Or was it dread?
She had resolved not to let herself think about what happened in Scorpion Bay, though it was still weighing on her terribly. She couldn't change what had happened, no matter how much she might want to, and it was vitally important that she go ahead with her plans. But would her family and the media take her seriously when she tried to explain the situation? Only Rob knew what had actually happened at the WomenPride fashion show, and even he didn't know it all.
"Bridget must be up by now, " she thought aloud, rolling her shoulders and neck to work out the stiffness. She wasn't ready to spring herself on the family quite yet, but she did want to see her niece. Nothing could restore sanity to her life the way a visit with Bridget could. The five-year-old had more chutzpah than a deli clerk at Canter's.
Moments later in the shower Gus planned her morning. The rich, coconutty smell of her piña colada bath gel saturated the stall as she soaped herself. She was sure her stepsister, Lily, would have found it vulgar and overpowering. Lily was delicate that way, preferring to accessorize her life with subtle scents and herringbone prints. But Gus found it invigorating, especially since it had been a birthday gift from Rob.
Once she'd seen her niece, she would call Rob at his home in the Hollywood hills, tell him what happened, and the two of them would put their heads together and figure out their next move. Rob had been acting as her manager and handling all her booking and public relations for nearly two years. She could never have managed the kidnapping scheme without his help. He was also an expert at damage control, which was exactly what she needed right now. The Jack Culhane "problem" could make or break her credibility with the public, and the way it was handled was crucial.
Moments later, toweled off and wrapped in a huge, fluffy carnation-pink bath sheet, she crossed her impossibly ruffly bedroom, headed for her white diary chest. The entire room was done in the flounces and swirls of a Barbie dollhouse. Gus loved and hated it. She'd chosen the cabbage rose chintz pattern herself, years ago when she was only a few years older than Bridget was now, and in all that time, she'd never been able to bring herself to change it.
"Someone will have to wrestle me to the ground and hold me down while they ransack the place, " she vowed, riffling through her underwear drawer in search of fresh panties. Frilly sachets scented with lilac and rose flew this way and that, their competing perfumes making her sneeze. "That's the only way it will ever get redecorated. "
To make matters worse, she was an obsessive collector of froo-froo girly stuff. Antique dolls, teddy bears, and fringed pillows were piled on the bed, chairs, and floor, but the most precious bit of paraphernalia was her Cinderella music box. The much-adored, much-abused ceramic box had the fairy-tale heroine perched atop it, twirling rapturously to the tune of "Some Day My Prince Will Come. " Gus had been six when she'd found the kitschy treasure at a white elephant sale at her school, and she'd pleaded with her mother until Rita had bought it for her.
If a room could be a haven, this one was. But it was also an embarrassment to her now, at twenty-seven. She'd been profiled by Marie Claire last year, and they'd wanted to shoot her at home in the mansion. She'd accommodated them in every way, except granting them access to this room. She took some pride in her bratdom, and this decor contradicted it profoundly. Even her few friends from the modeling agency were not admitted to Gus Featherstone's frilly sanctum sanctorum.
She'd gone to a shrink once, determined to get over her fear of snakes, as well as the stammer that lay ever in wait. The good doctor had told her the ruffles and chintz represented tender parts of herself that even her tough exterior couldn't protect. If that was true, her insides were mush.
Irony tilted her smile as she picked a pair of panties whose chintz pattern matched the room's decor. She'd be ruined if people ever found out the truth about her, that her bedroom was a shrine to the sweetest, wimpiest heroine of all time. Still, it had been her salvation, that fairy tale. It had kept her company when she was alone at night, and it had given her something to dream about when she was huddled on dirty carpets in dingy efficiency apartments, playing with her paper dolls and creating endless scenarios of romance to the rescue. It had also helped her to survive the ghastly situation right here in this house with her two stepsiblings. That was why this was Cindy's room. And why Gus couldn't change it.
"I do not look like Rita." She told herself that firmly as she sat at her vanity moments later. Frowning at her reflection, she applied a light application of mascara to thick soot-black eyelashes. But she did look like Rita. She had the same exotic coloring and angular bones, the same smoky violet eyes, which never failed to draw compliments, but which had never impressed her, because they weren't blue like Cindy's.
Her mother had met Lake Featherstone, Sr., while waitressing a catered affair at the manse. Rita Walsh had spilled champagne in the great man's lap, then breathlessly attempted to blot it up with her apron, taking a great deal more time than necessary. It was lust at first touch.
The aging patriarch had married Rita not six weeks later, over the family's vehement protests, of course. From that point on, Gus's life had become a darkness that could not be lightened by romantic fairy tales, or by anything else that she knew of, except her own ferocious will to prevail. Nevertheless, those stories had been her only real comfort, and when she and her mother moved into the mansion, she begged Rita for a canopy bed and a room worthy of a fairytale princess. Money was no object, and Rita had eventually hired it done. But her mother hadn't stuck around to see the finished room. She'd been too preoccupied with her own goal—stealing her new husband blind and running off to the West Indies with her deep muscle massage therapist.
Pain welled as Gus thought about how hard she'd tried to please her mother all those years ago, how desperate she'd been, and how certain she was that Rita couldn't stand the sight of her own overeager, fumbling klutz of a kid. Did mothers find their own children repugnant? Gus was bone-certain that hers had.
She slapped down the mascara, sighed heavily, and plucked a lipstick from the row of tubes in her makeup tray. She really would have to grow up one of these days. Turning your bedroom into a security blanket was worse than embarrassing when you were an adult woman. It was pathetic. Maybe she would call a decorator today and get it over with, she thought, glowering at the blush-pink lipstick color she'd chosen. The first thing to
go would be that silly music box.
The hallway was empty when at last Gus let herself out of the room, wearing a fresh pair of boxers and a gray cropped-top workout Tee. She and Bridget were at opposite ends of the mansion from each other, Gus's room being on the top floor of the east wing in one of the house's many turrets, and Bridget's being in the west wing, overlooking the tea garden, and next to Frances's. Gus would have preferred the little girl nearer her, but Gus's modeling career had demanded a great deal of travel until recently, and it had made more sense to have Bridget where Frances could keep an eye on her.
The huge house was unusually quiet as Gus stole down the mahogany staircase that descended to the Grand Hall. Rather a lofty name for a foyer, Gus had always thought, but the room was lovely with its mirrorlike black and white floor tiles and elegant chandelier. If Gus hadn't known that both Lake and Lily were in town, she would have guessed they were away somewhere, and quite likely together. The bond they shared as twins included their love of traveling, opera, and fine art. They regularly went to London for the summer and fall seasons, when Sotheby's and Christie's held their masters auctions.
No one had been more surprised than Gus when they'd shown up for her charity fashion show. Of course, it would have looked tacky in the society pages if they hadn't, considering their younger stepsibling was being feted for her heroism. Ward McHenry, the Featherstone's trust officer, had also attended, which boded extremely well for what Gus was trying to accomplish. More than anyone else's, it was McHenry's confidence and support she needed to win.
Faint sounds of conversation came to her as she hesitated on the steps. There was a small television in the kitchen, and Frances sometimes kept it on, but the noise seemed to be drifting up from the gallery, an enormous ballroom at the end of the hall that the Featherstones had converted into a showroom for their art collection.
As Gus crept closer, she heard snippets of an exchange between two men, but all she could make out was the occasional word. They seemed to be talking about security systems, which wasn't that unusual given the value of the collection. She heard references to microwave intrusion detectors, proximity sensors, and silent alarm systems.
As their voices grew more distinct, she realized they were moving around the room as they talked, nearing the gallery doorway. "You must have thirty or forty million dollars' worth of art in this room alone, " one of them said.
Gus grasped the balustrade to steady herself. She was afraid her heart might knock her over. She knew that voice, knew it as surely as she knew the bogeymen of her childhood nightmares. Dead to life, a wilderness with everything of value scorched out of it, with nothing left but the ashes. Oh, yes, she knew that voice. It belonged to the man she'd thought she'd left at the bottom of Scorpion Bay.
He'd survived. He was not only alive, he was here in her home, talking to... who? Who was he talking to?
Clinging to the railing, Gus made her way down the stairs and crept through the foyer to the gallery at the far end. The double doors of the room stood ajar, and she could make out Lake, her stepbrother, near the Renoir, but the man Lake was talking to had his back to her. She scrutinized his indigo shawl-collared jacket and khaki pants, his powerful shoulders and the black hair, custom-cut like a fighter pilot's. "Oh, my God, " she breathed, her darkest fears confirmed.
Her first reaction was to call the guards and have him thrown out, but she didn't dare. He could gut her plans with a casual inquiry: Lake, did you know your sister faked her own kidnapping?
"I'm surprised Gus didn't mention that I'm a specialist in security systems," Culhane was telling Lake. "Much as I hate to be the bearer of bad news, your collection is vulnerable. Even your guards are lax. I told them I was with the FBI, and they practically led me here by the hand. "
Lake seemed surprised at that, and amused. "You never mentioned you were a family member? Augusta's new husband?"
Jack laughed. "I didn't think they'd believe me since Gus wasn't with me. What was I supposed to tell them? That we got separated at the airport, and I missed the flight back? I doubted they'd buy that story, especially since it was true. "
Jack rubbed his neck, all very affable. "Besides I wanted to conduct a little test of my own. Gus had told me about the priceless family art collection, and I admit to being curious about how well secured it was. "
"Perhaps the guards were negligent," Lake conceded. "But this gallery is protected by a state-of-the art system. "
"State-of-the-art doesn't mean flawless. "
A Rodin statue in a glass display case stood in the center of the room, the showpiece of the collection. Jack turned to it as if to make a point, and then he saw her in the doorway. His eyes lit with an energy that was as sensual as it was challenging. The message they transmitted was I'm alive and well, baby... and I'm coming to get you.
His mouth curved, but he said nothing. And though his nod to her was barely perceptible, the dark amusement in it made Gus's stomach twist. It was almost as if he'd known she was there all along, listening to his every word. Cold fear stole through her as she wondered if he'd been one step ahead of her the entire time, including her pathetic attempt to get rid of him in Baja. Was she the one being set up?
She ducked out of sight before Lake noticed her, but her heart was still wild. She had to concentrate to keep her balance as she made her way back up the stairway, and she had no idea what she was going to do next. She hadn't even had a chance to talk to Rob, but the thudding chaos in her chest told her two things. Culhane was more of a threat than ever, and she was still dangerously susceptible to him. The sneaky bastard could do more damage with those coal-black eyes of his than most men could with their hands, lips, and tongue combined.
As she hurried back to her room, she made herself one fervent promise. She was not going to let him wreck her life because he had nothing better to do than assuage his male ego. Her futile attempts to stop him had turned this into a deadly game, and she had no choice but to play it out. If she couldn't come to terms with him in some way, then the solution would have to be more extreme. Rob had arranged for a kidnapper; perhaps he could arrange for a hitman.
Gus was dizzy with fear and trepidation. She could hardly navigate as she opened the door to the blinding sunshine that flooded her bedroom, but what unnerved her even more was her own resolve. She had never been more serious in her life.
Well, well, well, look what the brat dragged in.
Sitting before a bank of video screens, Lake Featherstone folded his arms and settled back in the ergonomic desk chair to watch Jack Culhane step out of the shower and towel off. He admitted to being curious about the attraction this man held for his tempestuous stepsister, but he hadn't expected to get a urologist's eye view of the reason. Still, if Augusta had married Culhane for his spectacular plumbing, then why did she relegate him to Siberia, which was what the family called this particular guest bedroom?
It was one of several rooms in the house that were monitored by an elaborate video system, and though Lake had intended the system for security purposes, he felt completely justified in using it now. The recent kidnapping and breach of the mansion's external security had forced him to be more vigilant. If he couldn't trust the guards to keep tabs on their guests, he would have to do it himself. And why should the guards have all the fun anyway?
He smiled faintly at the irony, but the stirring of guilt he felt robbed him of any lasting pleasure. He'd never reconciled his need to invade the privacy of others, but he'd never been able to control it, either, and eventually, he'd stopped trying to suppress the urge. Something dormant came to life in this room, something powerful, a wild desire to know life's darkest secrets. Art was the only other outlet that had ever brought him this kind of excitement—an exquisite, irresistible work of art.
Unfortunately, the guilt was powerful, too. It stemmed from his having been caught spying on his parents' marital bed as a child. In his moral outrage the senior Featherstone had devised a punishment befitting the "perver
ted" crime, a corrective action that had humiliated Lake as much as it had disgusted him, and from that day forward Lake had secretly loathed his father with a frozen rage that had never thawed. His father had confused the issue by doting on Lake even more afterward, as if some new bond existed between father and son. That was when Lake had realized they were all perverted. Not just the Featherstone family— everyone—and that's when he'd given himself tacit permission to indulge his guilty pleasures.
Not that there'd been much of interest to watch until today.
Frances Brightly, the middle-aged minx, had an interesting way of pleasuring herself with a Waterpick appliance. But Augusta, well, she was a profound disappointment to him. He would have expected the bratwoman to provide endless hours of viewing entertainment, but she tended to turn pensive and childlike when she was in that silly, frilly room of hers. She did have an astonishingly great ass, though. That had given him a moment or two of gratification... before the guilt mined it for him.
His twin sister, Lily, was off-limits. He'd never had a camera installed in her room. That would have been too— Another smile flickered before he could control it. Too what? Incestuous wasn't quite the right word where he and Lily were concerned. His sister could be prim and fastidious to the point of annoyance, and yet at times so unexpectedly heedless, she shocked him. The Featherstones had always maintained a small stable of Morgans on the property for riding purposes, and Lily was very proprietary about the horses. She was an expert equestrian, but he'd once seen her nearly attack a recalcitrant animal with her riding crop. He could only imagine what her reaction to Jack Culhane would be.
Several things about Culhane intrigued Lake, not the least of which was his build. The man had a physique as twisted and tortured as one of Rodin's muscular statues. Lake had even noticed scars that looked like bullet holes, all of which gave the impression that Culhane was in some kind of magnificent agony. His facial features mirrored the torment, but not nearly as prominently as his body. Perhaps he'd learned to hide it behind those Loch Ness eyes. Augusta had married a frightening man. But why?
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