by Rachel Caine
She reached for the glass again.
Bryn hadn’t seen him move, but now he was right in front of her, taking the drink from the counter and moving to the sink, where he poured the rest of it out. “Hey!” she blurted, but it was too late by then, and he was running the water to swirl the last purple stains down the drain. “You jerk, that was mine!”
“You’ll thank me in the morning.”
“I doubt I’ll ever have any reason to thank you!” Rage ignited inside her, sudden and shocking and utterly beyond her control. “You left me to die on the floor; isn’t that right?”
He turned on her, and suddenly he was that Patrick McCallister again, the one who’d burst into that white fire of anger on the street and put a man down with two scientific strokes of a riot baton.
The scary one.
“Sit. Down,” he said. It was quiet, but she had no doubt that there was an or else clause attached to it. But it was the phrasing that triggered something inside her—an almost compulsive wish to do as he said.
And it made her even more enraged.
“Or. What?” she spat back, taking a step toward him, not away. “You think you can invoke your creepy protocol and make me your little living doll? She walks, she talks, she does whatever the hell you want? No. Never going to happen!”
The thought seemed to shock him out of his own anger, and McCallister’s eyes opened wide. “That’s not what I—” He stopped himself and took in a deep breath. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I would never do that to you. I wouldn’t take away your choices.”
“You already did. You brought me back. You took away my choice to live or die—and what choice do I have now? Don’t take the shots? Decompose? You think this is some kind of freedom you’ve given me?” Oh, she was feeling dizzy now, off balance with both alcohol and pure, sweet rage. “Don’t tell me you won’t take away my choices; you take more away from me every day!”
“Bryn …” He didn’t seem to know what to say now, and instead, he did the last thing she expected.
He reached out and put his hands on her shoulders.
She stiffened and started to pull away, but there was something vulnerable in his face just then, and she stilled herself and returned his stare. Seen this close, he was much more handsome than she’d realized—fine soft skin, a dark shadow of stubble stroking his cheeks. His eyes weren’t just dark; they were a rich, complex brown, rimmed with dark green. There were strands of silver in his hair.
He started to say something, then checked the impulse, and for a moment it was just the two of them, feeling something odd and powerful pulling between them. Attraction, yes, but more than that.
Shared desperation.
“You didn’t answer me before, at Fideli’s house,” Bryn said. “About how many of you were working on—”
He covered her mouth with his hand, stepping closer. He bent so that his lips were very close to her ear, close enough that she felt the hot stroke of his breath against her skin, and he whispered, “Say nothing you don’t want overheard. We’re being monitored. We’re always watched. Remember that.”
Oh, God, she felt a sudden flush of heat, one that transmitted directly from the warmed area on her neck down through her body to pool … lower. He was right up against her, his chest brushing hers, and she felt the tension in his hands as he continued to hold her. Instead of pulling back, he stayed where he was, as if he had more to say.
But he didn’t.
“If we’re going to be this close, can I call you Patrick?” she whispered, and it broke his tension, shattered it into a startled laugh low in his throat, and God, how exactly had she stopped hating him? Maybe it was the fact that he was fighting to stay professional; she could feel it.
Just then, Mr. French barked, a single, sharp, angry sound that hit Bryn like a slap. She looked down. He was standing belligerently at her feet, and he glared up at McCallister with possessive zeal.
McCallister looked down, too, and this time, his soft laugh had a little bit of despair in it. “You should probably go to bed before he takes all this personally,” he said to Bryn, and their eyes met again just for a raw second before he moved back, leaving her cold and alone. “I don’t think he likes me.”
She started to say something, and fell silent when he shook his head. “Better we don’t start anything between us,” he said, very quietly. “We have enough to worry about already without making our situation more … complicated.”
“Right,” she said. “We’ll just … keep things simple. That sounds”—awful, she thought, but managed to change it to say—“awfully sensible.”
“That’s me,” McCallister said, with a bitter twist to his lips. “I’m nothing if not sensible.”
He sat down on the couch and fiddled with the pillow, clearly wanting her to go. So she did, with Mr. French trotting along in her wake.
She closed the bedroom door, leaned against it, and looked at the dog. “You are an asshole; you know that?”
He snorted, turned three times in a circle, and flopped down in the doorway.
“Now you think you’re a chaperone? Fine. Knock yourself out. No treats for you.”
It seemed unnaturally quiet as she prepared for bed; she found herself stopping, waiting for some hint of sound from the living room. Bryn made herself move briskly, brushing her teeth, her hair, slipping into comfy flannel pajama pants and a cotton tank top. When she got into bed, Mr. French abandoned his post at the door and jumped up onto the bed to curl at her feet.
She glared at him “Don’t even try to make it up to me, loser dog.” He licked his chops, grunted, and put his head down on his paws. “And don’t give me the sad eyes. I’m not going for it.”
He whined softly, so she melted and petted him, and got rewarded with an affectionate lick before she turned off the lights.
Now it was quiet. Really, really quiet. Except for the always loud bulldog breathing, it felt like her apartment had been wrapped in soundproofing. She usually heard something from her neighbors—voices, smeared TV noise, something—but tonight it was like her room had been launched into outer space. Maybe they were on vacation. Or out to a late dinner.
Maybe they’re dead. That morbid thought crept in unexpectedly, and Bryn fought to get rid of it. Not everything had to have an awful explanation. Not every shadow had a threat.
But it was really quiet.
Bryn turned, twisted, sighed, flopped over on her back. It felt hot in the apartment. Almost stifling. She considered getting up to adjust the thermostat, but it was in the living room, and no way was she going out there. Better to sweat.
She drifted, almost asleep, and found herself sighing happily as a cool breeze dried the sweat on her face. Felt good.
Breeze.
Mr. French suddenly bolted off the bed, barking furiously, louder than she’d ever heard him, and the shock threw her off the opposite side in instinctive reaction. She fumbled for the gun she’d left sitting out on the nightstand, found it, and crouched behind the bed as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
The pale square of the window. Billowing curtains. The cool breeze moving over her skin.
Mr. French, snarling and barking.
There was no one at the window. I didn’t open that. Someone else did. He may already be inside.
No. If someone had gotten in, Mr. French would have gone after him.
The next second, her bedroom door slammed open, and McCallister stepped in, took cover next to Bryn, and said, “What happened?” He was still in his suit pants and shirt, but his tie and jacket were off—that was a minor, fleeting detail, though. What she mostly noticed was that he’d come armed. His voice sounded a lot calmer than she felt. “Window,” she said. “I didn’t open it.”
Mr. French was bouncing up and down, ricocheting off the wall and snapping at the blowing curtains.
“Call him off,” McCallister said. “Let me check it out. Maybe you did and forgot.”
“I didn’t! And it
didn’t open itself!”
“I know. Just let me check.”
She whistled, but Mr. French wouldn’t heel; he was fixated on the window, angrier than she’d ever seen him. McCallister shook his head and stepped out and moved like a ghost to the side of the window. Mr. French, apparently realizing he had backup now, stopped barking and stood at alert attention, watching as McCallister eased back the curtain and looked out. His body language stayed tense, even after he gave Bryn the all-clear sign and slid the glass closed. He checked the lock. “Not broken,” he said. “Someone must have slipped the catch and opened it. Not that hard to do, with these kinds of cheap locks. I just didn’t expect anyone to come up the wall. It’s a pretty rigorous climb.”
“Could you do it?”
He shrugged, which she assumed meant yes. Bryn sat down on the bed and imagined someone climbing up that wall—and without her will, that image morphed from a shadowy figure to Fast Freddy. She imagined him raising his head and grinning as he did it, and it was the memory of his weird, lewd smile that made her shiver. “Jesus,” she whispered. “He didn’t get in …?”
“Mr. French says no,” McCallister said. He reached down and patted the bulldog on the head; the dog growled in response, lifting his lips to show teeth, but didn’t bite. Just made the point. “I think the dog stopped him.”
If she hadn’t let Mr. French into the bedroom—which she usually didn’t, actually—he might have been in the other room, barking at the door. More time for Freddy—if it was Freddy—to get in and do … whatever he was planning to do.
Or—on the pleasant side—maybe it had been a garden-variety rapist/murderer. That, Bryn thought, would actually be a relief.
“I don’t think you should stay here,” McCallister said. “Please pack a bag.” It was, she noticed, in the form of a request.
“I’m not leaving my dog.”
“We’ll take him with us. Please.”
McCallister still seemed tense, and she wasn’t in any mood to be obstinate, or to argue about the twinge of obedience she felt even though he’d phrased it politely as a request. He was one of those people who was so normally unreadable that when he flashed actual stress, it had to be a real crisis. Plus, someone really had jimmied her window—whether it was Fast Freddy or not. Getting out of here didn’t sound like a bad idea at all.
Packing took about five minutes. Hell, as much as Bryn owned, she thought she could have packed to move house in under an hour, depressing as that was. McCallister checked his car thoroughly, inside and out, for tracking devices, hidden passengers, or explosive parting gifts before he allowed her to come anywhere near it. He even checked out the trunk. She felt that little frisson of revulsion when she imagined Fast Freddy hiding in there, like a trapdoor spider down its hole.
They’d gone about a mile from her house, taking apparently random twists and turns, when McCallister finally said, “I don’t see a tail.”
“That’s good.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. “I’m switching cars.”
“You’re what?”
“I could have missed something. This isn’t a game, Bryn. It’s not television. I can’t afford to take a chance with our lives.”
“I thought I was hard to kill.”
His voice, when it came, sounded grim. “You’re not hard to hurt.”
McCallister got on the car phone and ordered up a second car from one of his Pharmadene henchpersons. Within half an hour, they’d pulled into a parking lot and switched vehicles with another man driving a similar car.
“Where’s he going?” Bryn asked.
“Anywhere but where we’re going. If anyone’s tracking him, it’ll be a wasted and lengthy trip.”
“Well, where are we going?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“In case we’re being monitored.”
He didn’t answer, but then, she really had stopped expecting him to make the effort to give her any actual information.
They left the downtown lights behind and drifted into suburbia, sleepy streets and darkened houses. He kept driving, and now that the adrenaline had worn off she found herself dozing, her head at an uncomfortable angle against the window. She must have faded out for a while, because when she jerked upright again McCallister was pulling to a stop in front of a massive stone wall pierced by an enormous, forbidding wrought-iron gate.
It slowly opened, revealing a moonlit blue-tinged gravel drive that was probably blindingly white in full day. The hedges were manicured and shaped as if they’d been taken to a high-end salon, not one leaf fluttering out of place. Bryn blinked as he drove up a long, winding path, past stately old trees and perfect rose gardens and a white gazebo large enough to host the New York Philharmonic for an afternoon concert.
A massive square block of a house appeared at the top of the next curving hill, illuminated with tasteful outdoor spotlights. The place was the size of a mall, Bryn thought, not to mention being so elaborate it could have been used in a movie with women in corsets and men behaving badly.
McCallister pulled up in front of the front steps, and the massive wooden door opened to reveal an actual butler. Well, she assumed he was, although he wasn’t wearing a tuxedo. More of a dinner jacket, which was remarkable enough at this late hour.
“Where are we?” Bryn asked.
“Home,” McCallister said. “Come on.”
This could not possibly be someone’s home. Not anyone who actually worked for a living. But McCallister walked around, opened her door, and she looked at Mr. French, who huffed something in dogspeak and jumped out to toddle along after him.
“Traitor,” she said, and grabbed her bag.
The butler was an older man, well into gray hair, but with a kind face that put Bryn at ease immediately. He took the suitcase from her without hearing any kind of protests, and said, “Miss Davis, I’ll take this to your room.”
“Give her the Auburn Room, Liam. I want her in a defensible position,” McCallister said. The butler nodded briskly and went up the stairs with her bag, leaving her and Mr. French to gawk at the huge, vaulted entry hall. It was some odd shape—octagonal, maybe—with three doors angled out of it, plus the staircase sweeping grandly into the shadows. She had an overwhelming impression of age, solidity, and above all, wealth. The paintings. The tapestries. The richly colored rugs on the floor.
“Welcome,” McCallister said, “to the ancestral millstone around my neck. Before you ask, yes, it’s mine. Or, more properly, it belongs to my family’s trust, and I’m allowed to rent it for a nominal fee.”
What did you say to that? Bryn finally settled for a subdued “Wow,” and studied a painting close to her. She’d seen that image before. They sold posters of it at Wal-Mart. “So you’re … rich.” Evidently, that was an understatement.
“Not really. As I said, most of this belongs to the trust; I just act as the administrator. I’m …” He thought for a second, and smiled. “A caretaker, I suppose. I avoid the place as often as possible, anyway. Liam is more than capable of running the enterprise without my interference.”
“But it belongs to your family.”
“No, to the trust. It belonged to my father. And my father didn’t leave it to me.” McCallister looked around for Mr. French, who was sniffing a low-hanging tapestry quite carefully, flat nose buried in the probably priceless fabric. “Ah, would you mind …?”
“Come here, dogface,” she said, and scooped him up. He squirmed, but she held him. God forbid the mutt should pee on anything in here; she’d be in debt for the rest of her life. “Who did your dad leave it to?”
“My brother,” McCallister said. “He died.” That was short, unemotional, and didn’t invite any more questions. “Let me take you to your room.”
“The Auburn Room,” she said. “Is everything named that pretentiously around here?”
“Be nice. I could have put you in the Aubergine Suite.”
“My God.”
“I’
m two doors down,” he said. “If you need anything, you can press the button for Liam, or come get me. Don’t go wandering by yourself.”
“Ghosts?”
“None that would bother you.” Again, there was that slammed conversational door. McCallister jogged up a few steps, then turned and looked back at her. “Something else?”
She paused, hand on the railing. “What is your room called?”
“Patrick’s room,” he said. “But it used to be called the Black Room.”
Somehow, she wasn’t at all surprised.
The Auburn Room was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
Bryn paused in the doorway, staring at the graceful lines of the canopied bed, the massive gilt-framed mirror that stretched half the length of the room, the silks in muted orange, rich browns, harvest golds. If the Queen of England has a favorite room, this is probably it, she thought. Her cheap little suitcase looked particularly pathetic where Liam had put it on a folding luggage rack. The luggage rack was probably worth more than the entire contents, and the suitcase.
She’d been starting to like McCallister, but now … now she couldn’t honestly believe that they had anything at all in common. He came from a whole different reality than she—or anybody she knew—lived in. Why in the hell was he working as some corporate drone?
“I hope this is suitable, ma‘am,” Liam said, and gave her a warm smile. “Shall I bring a bed for your dog?”
“Um … can I let him sleep with me?”
“Of course.”
Yeah, what was a little dog hair on that national treasure of a bedspread, or the rug that the Antiques Roadshow appraisers would have orgasmed over? She let Mr. French hop down to run around the room sniffing excitedly, and tried not to think about the disaster that might happen next.
Liam was watching her, and clearly knew what she was thinking, because he smiled and said, “No worries about the dog, ma’am. We have seven here, including two rottwei-lers, three greyhounds, a poodle, and a pug. Your friend is quite welcome. I’ll bring some food and water for him. Anything for you?”