Blush

by Suzanne Forster

  A smile flashed unexpectedly. "Not even the one standing behind you with a huge, bloody knife?"

  Humoring her, Jack glanced over his shoulder. There was nothing behind him but a shadowy hallway that led to the kitchen and a ghastly piece of nude sculpture that he'd heard someone at the Featherstone's last party call the nursing mother. "I guess it vanished, " he said.

  But when he turned back, she'd vanished, too. Vanished into thin air, which was the way any self-respecting magician would have described it. She couldn't have known that she was dealing with another evil magician in him, or that he was impressed by her disappearing act. His eyes had only been off her for an instant. She couldn't possibly have made a run for it without his having seen her.

  He turned in a circle, visually inspecting the sculpture, the stairway, the closed gallery doors and all the other doorways on the hall. All of his senses had quickened, mobilizing to pick up any signal, but there were none to pick up. Yet, when he came back around, she was there again, beaming at him.

  "Good trick, huh?"

  "How'd you do that?" By now he'd figured out how she'd done it, but he didn't want to steal her thunder.

  "My secret," she said.

  He nodded, playing along. There was, after all, honor among magicians, and clearly she had the instincts. He'd also realized he might have in her the perfect assistant for some of the tricks he had planned. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit and smiled at her. "I'll bet this house is full of secrets, isn't it. "

  "Yeah," she said, her eyes suddenly sparkling bright, even in the dimness. In a conspiratorial whisper she added, "I think there's a hidden passageway in my room. "

  "What makes you think that?" Jack didn't have to pretend to be interested. His plan was to search the entire house. He'd already gone over the third-floor wing where his bedroom was located and discovered the stairway that led to the library. He assumed it had originally been intended for the servants' use. Backstairs and hallways weren't uncommon in houses as large and old as this one, but Jack hadn't been looking for secret passageways. He'd been looking for a vaultlike room, probably combination locked, temperature controlled, and otherwise outfitted for the storage of fine art and antiquities. If such a room existed, he would find it, perhaps with a little assist from the swan here.

  Her tail swished in the darkness, creating that ghostly iridescent effect Jack had seen before. "Our housekeeper always shows up when I'm reading a new Sweet Valley High, " she was explaining. "She and Gus don't exactly approve of them for someone my age, or anyway, that's what Frances says. "

  Her huge eyes rolled at the provincialism of some adults. "Trouble is she can be pretty sneaky about it when she wants to. Most of the time I don't even hear her come into the room. "

  "So... what are you saying? You think she's spying on you, like through the eyes of some picture on the wall?"

  An eager nod. "I can't prove it, though. " She gazed at him for several long, blinking moments. "What do you think?"

  "Do you have any idea where the passage is?" She shook her head, entranced.

  "You could sprinkle powder on the floor around the perimeter of the room. "

  "Prim-at-her?"

  "The outside edges of the room, along the molding. "

  "Oh, okay, " she agreed instantly, then wrinkled her nose in confusion. "Why should I do that?"

  "Because if there is a hidden panel, the person will have to step in the powder on the way in or out of it, and you'll see the footprints. "

  "Oh, cool! Like bath powder? I have lots of that. "

  He already knew that. She reeked sweetly of it, possibly from having doused herself after her bedtime bath. "Baking powder or flour might work better. They're not scented. And use very little, make it look like a coating of house-dust. "

  "I'm going to try it tonight!" Breathless, she clapped her hand over her mouth as if there were no other way to contain her excitement, and her feathery parts bobbed and sparkled with her movements.

  Jack laughed softly. It was fun to see her acting like a kid instead of a tiny, imperious adult, but it had also created a strange constriction in his heart. She was a reminder of his losses, and they were unendurable. If he were smart, he would try to avoid her, no matter what secrets she might be able to tell him about this house. Emotion made you sloppy, and whatever pleasure she brought him would always be edged with pain. Which was not unlike the situation with her aunt, he reminded himself ironically. Only that wasn't an edge, that was an ax blade.

  Floorboards creaked from somewhere down the hallway, and in the quiet of the night, it sounded like fingernails raking on a chalkboard.

  "Someone's coming," Bridget said, yanking on his sleeve. "Come with me. " She pressed the heel of her satin ballet slipper against the floor molding, stepped down, and a panel slid open. They both ducked inside as the footsteps neared.

  Jack held the panel open a crack and saw a slender figure materialize in the hallway and walk toward them. She was wearing cotton boxers and a ribbed tank top, but nothing else. Her long legs gleamed in the thin light, and the tank's paper-thin material was hard-pressed to conceal anything, especially the firm bounce of her breasts. Jack's stomach dropped and so did his heart. Why the hell couldn't he control himself around this woman?

  "It's Gus," he whispered. "Shall we scare her?"

  Bridget's tiny gasp of laughter was all the incentive Jack needed. "We might give her a heart attack, " the little girl cautioned.

  Nothing less than she deserves, Jack thought. She's given me one or two. "Nah, she's tough, " he said. "She'll think it's a great joke. "

  As Gus walked by them, Jack slid the panel open farther, snaked out a hand, and snagged her. Her startled scream forced him to move quickly. He hooked an arm around her waist, clamped a hand over her mouth, and lifted her right up off the ground.

  She didn't make it easy. Apparently he'd scared the holy shit out of her, because much to his perverse satisfaction she struggled with the wrath of a hellcat. She twisted and thrashed and swung at him, not letting up for a second, even once he'd wrestled her inside the passageway. He could feel her bared teeth against his fingers and realized she was trying to bite him. "Easy!" he hissed.

  It took more than a little force to subdue her, and he took more than a little pleasure in using it. It was dead black in the hidden compartment, and he used Gus's disorientation to his full advantage, knowing that Bridget couldn't see anything he was doing. The quicker he got her under control the better, he told himself. He didn't want to frighten the kid, after all.

  But Gus didn't seem to care about his noble concerns. She twisted and squirmed in his grip and those firm, bouncing breasts of hers were all over the place as he forced her to the wall, hoping to use the surface as leverage. It amazed him to think he could ever have responded to Lily with this one around. She brought several pithy F words to mind, and she brought them to mind all at once. Fire and fear, female and the holiest of holies, fuck. As in great.

  If there hadn't been a little kid sharing this pitch-black space with them, Jack would have been tempted mightily by the idea of a religious experience. But maybe it was fortunate that he couldn't, because like alcohol, she'd damned near killed him when he'd succumbed before. If being with any female was painful, being with this one was agony. Besides, there was a little kid sharing this pitch-black space with them, and she'd suddenly gone very quiet.

  "Gus, it's just me, " he told her. "It's Jack. Take it easy. "

  "Take it easy!" she gasped as he freed her mouth. "You sonovabit—"

  He muzzled her again and glanced down at Bridget, whose white feathers were the only thing that could be seen in the darkness. "I think we scared her pretty good. "

  Bridget's giggle was a little nervous this time.

  "It's a joke, Gus," Jack said, struggling to hold her still while he spoke to her soothingly. "Bridget and I were just having some fun."

  "Bridget?" she mumbled through his fingers.

 
"Yeah, it's me, Gus-buster," the little girl said. "I'm in here, too. Jack and I were playing a joke. "

  Jack lifted his hand off Gus's mouth, ready to clamp down again if he had to. She didn't scream, but he could hear the anger flaring in her breathing. He was surprised he couldn't see fire coming through her nostrils. The tiny room smelled of fear and steam heat and bath powder. It was filled with the essence of two females, both of them brats, and both of them doing their damndest to steal his heart.

  "Just having some fun," he repeated.

  "We were trying to scare you, " Bridget explained, apparently much less certain of her plan now.

  "Really?" Gus's voice was considerably strained. "Well, you did a good job. Now, if no one minds, could we get out of this mummy case?"

  Jack was quick to acquiesce. He released her, slid the panel open, and stood back, letting the two of them pile out into the relative light of the alcove, where Gus set about to huff and puff and straighten her clothing. Bridget simply stared at her aunt thoughtfully, as if she were learning something new about women, and maybe even about life. When Gus had accomplished all she could, she crossed her arms over her breasts and glared at both of them.

  "What are you two doing up at this time of night?"

  "I couldn't sleep," Jack explained, perhaps not very convincingly. "I was hunting for the kitchen to fix myself a snack, some of that great lasagna Frances served for dinner. Too bad you weren't there, " he added, hoping to push her guilt button and distract her. He knew she didn't like being away from Bridget, but the business meetings for her magazine had kept her away until well after the child's bedtime.

  "Yeah, Gus," Bridget chimed in. "Jack and I both had two helpings. "

  "Really, did you?" She smiled at Bridget, but her gaze darted back to Jack quickly enough to let him know she wasn't happy with him. Not one bit.

  For his part, Jack was wondering whether or not Bridget was going to play along. He had no idea how long the little girl had been stalking him tonight, but surely she'd seen some of what he'd been doing. If so, she could blow his cover with a couple of words.

  He looked down at her just as she glanced up, wide-eyed.

  "Did you know, " she said softly, "that Gelsey fought with Misha all the time, but it was mostly because she was

  in love with him and was afraid he didn't love her back? Did you know that, Jack?"

  "Gelsey?" Jack said, confused.

  "Bridget—" Gus's voice held an ominous warning. "Back to bed," she said, holding out her hand to her niece. "Come on now. "

  The look Gus flashed him held a warning, too. Don't encourage her, it said. She's a romantic child, in love with love, the romance of the ballet, and silly childish things. Don't encourage her.

  As she led Bridget off down the hall, Jack was aware that the little girl looked very young and not imperious at all. Like any kid, she wanted two loving parents and a stable life, he realized. She wanted her aunt Gus with a man.

  "Night." Bridget glanced at Jack over her shoulder. Her feathered and sequined tail wagged good-bye to him as she trotted off, the tissue paper he'd seen flitting through the dark.

  Before she turned away, he winked at her as if to say he would keep her secret if she'd keep his.

  Chapter 20

  It was the church he'd been married in.

  It was the aisle his bride had walked down, clasping her delicate bouquet of blush roses and baby's breath in one hand, her father's arm with the other. Rain had pommeled the church's roof and flooded its basement that Saturday afternoon, beating away the sunshine and enveloping St. Andrew's in pervasive gloom. But she'd lit up the chapel with her love. He'd never seen such radiance before. Gentle and eager, worshipful of him, her husband-to-be, the love must have sung through her veins with the same warm intensity as her Irish blood.

  Maggie Donovan, soon to be Maggie Culhane.

  Jack hadn't understood the force of her adoration, or why she'd chosen him to bestow it upon. He'd done nothing to be worthy. But that day, as he watched her take what felt like a lifetime to come and stand at his side, he vowed that he would spend the rest of his days struggling to be worthy. He would live up to all her expectations. He would be the hero she believed he was.

  But that was yesterday. Today the church was flooded with sunshine. The stained-glass windows, inset with winged angels, were golden and glorious. But Jack's heart was pierced with gloom. His footsteps dragged with the raw agony of his journey.

  Today he was the one walking down the aisle. Awaiting him at the pulpit was an open casket of rich mahogany, wreathed in the blood of dark red roses and the silence of verdant green ferns. Kidnappers had taken his only child, Haley, his six-month-old baby girl. When he wouldn't submit to their demands, they'd carried out their threats and brutally killed her.

  Maggie's family turned to look at him as he walked, their eyes full of naked pain and confusion. How could you let this happen? they seemed to be asking. Why didn't you do something? But his own family's censure was the whip that flayed him. The mother and father who'd never known quite what to think of him were now unequivocal in their reproach. He had gambled with his child's life and lost. They were ashamed of him, their misbegotten issue, unwilling even to look at him.

  "No!" The word resounded like a thunderbreak.

  Suddenly it was a different church and a different day and Jack was bursting through the doors, running down the center aisle, frantic. There was a casket at the end, but the body lying inside was not his baby daughter...

  It was his wife, Maggie. Maggie!

  Dressed all in white, she resembled a bloodstained angel. Her wrists were brutally slashed and oozing crimson life, an atonement for the unforgivable sins of mankind, for his sins as well as her own. For he and Maggie had a terrible secret, one he had never been able to bring himself to tell anyone, a secret only the kidnappers knew. And though his wife had taken her own life, Jack knew it was more than grief at losing her baby that had killed her.

  "No!" he screamed.

  Jack jerked awake with such force it brought him half out of the small bed. He was soaked in sweat, one foot on the floor, and clenching a wad of sheet in his hand when he realized someone was in the room with him. He glanced up groggily. Gus stood at the end of his bed, her fingers curled around the brass bars of the footrail, her face haunted with concern. She was wearing the boxers and tank top, only now, crowded by her arms, her breasts were full and bursting. Pink flesh and ruby nipples strained the thin material, making him wish that she was a dream, that he could wake up from her, too.

  "What was it, a nightmare?" she asked.

  He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. His skull was pounding. His heart was pounding, and she was the last thing he wanted to see right now. He was in no mood, no mood at all.

  There was a light by the bed that could be turned on by a switch just inside the doorway. Apparently she'd done so when she'd entered, because the room glowed with her presence. He was also vaguely aware that he was naked beneath the sheet and that the half of him that had made contact with the floor was exposed.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked her.

  "I couldn't sleep, either. Guess it's catching. I thought you might still be awake, too, and we could... talk. But then I heard you sh-shouting—"

  He caught the hesitancy in her voice and honed in on her face, her lips, her breathy struggle. There was a vulnerability in her expression he wasn't used to seeing. Apparently she'd been frightened for him and let down her guard. Gus Featherstone to the rescue. His chest tightened at the irony.

  "Go away, " he said abruptly.

  Her chin lifted as if she'd been tagged, and it surprised him how little he cared, what a rage of guilt and grief he was in, and how much he wanted to lash out. "Get out of here, " he said again, harsher this time, glaring at her.

  The stricken look in her eyes had nothing to do with him, he told himself. She carried a chip on her shoulder that dared people to reject her. When she turned
on the "brat" persona, it was to test and torment people, to see how much of her shit they'd tolerate. Jack had no idea what it took to pass her test, nor did he care. She was too fucking complicated for him. He wasn't here to forge a relationship with her. He was here to find the bastards who destroyed his family. He was here to wash the blood from his hands and to cauterize the wound. Guilt had carved him up, it had torn his heart into bloody chunks!

  "You're sure?" Her voice dropped, even softer and more hesitant than before. "I could... stay, we could t-talk. Whatever it is, talking might help—"

  He was amazed that she had the guts to try again. He must look like a bloody wreck to have elicited this much concern from her. She wasn't the type to extend herself emotionally, except perhaps to Bridget. Down deep she expected rejection, so she rejected first. She inflicted the hurt, thinking it would spare her from being hurt.

  Not this time, he thought. Whatever he felt for her at this moment, it wasn't empathy. Quite the opposite. There was a part of him that wanted to hurt her. And if that's what it took to get her out of his room, so be it. If he let her stay she would ask questions and probe into the pain. Women were never satisfied until they had you bleeding all over the place.

  "Talk to you?" he said contemptuously. "The magazine mogul? The bitch-goddess of the catwalk? That would be a little like a fly confessing to a black widow, wouldn't it?"

  She stared at her hands as if determined to hang on to her composure. He could see her cheek muscle flex and her throat tighten as she swallowed. It took her a moment to summon whatever it was she needed, but when she lifted her head again, she was proud and wary. Her guard was up, but it didn't quite hide the wounds.

  His fist tightened on the wadded sheets, soaking them in cold, angry sweat. He was pleased that he'd hit his mark. The sharp taste of triumph sweetened his victory, because for an instant the hurt in her eyes had distracted him from his own.

  She had looked at him as if he were a traitor, as if he had just shattered her one last pathetic illusion and thereby validated all the rotten things she had ever believed about mankind. That's me, he thought. Jack the Ripper. Bring me your tired, your hungry, your homeless, and I'll tear the last bit of hope from their hearts....