All You Desire (6 page)

“Who's there?!” a voice inside demanded.

Haven jumped, and the cat slunk silently back into the bushes. “Mrs. Morrow?” Haven replied.

“I don't talk to reporters.”

“I'm not a reporter, but I would like to speak with you if you have a moment. My name is Haven Moore.”

Haven thought she heard a throaty chuckle. “I'm busy. If you have something to say, you can say it to my lawyer.”

“I was hoping that wouldn't be necessary. I'd like to settle this issue out of court, if possible. I'm prepared to make you a deal.”

The woman laughed louder. “What kind of
deal
?”

“I could tell you if you let me in,” Haven said.

“Fine.” The door opened. “
This
should be entertaining.” It was half past two, but the woman standing in front of Haven was still wearing her nightgown. Her right hand clutched a crystal glass half filled with an amber liquid. Scotch, Haven surmised, judging by the aroma that wafted by on the breeze.

One night back in Rome, while teetering on the edge of sleep, Haven had been quietly flipping through television channels when she'd come across an episode of Virginia Morrow's old cooking show,
The Sophisticated Chef
. Wary of waking Iain, Haven had kept the volume low as she watched his mother sleepwalk around a set that was designed to resemble a humble Tuscan kitchen. The style of the host's attire told Haven that the show had been taped in the late nineties, shortly before Virginia's spectacular self-destruction. There were already signs of the trouble to come. Her eyes were hollow and her rouge a bit too bright. She resembled a painted corpse—one that had risen from the dead to take its revenge on the living.

Curled up beside Virginia Morrow's slumbering son, Haven had watched the woman on TV and wondered how long it would be until she taped the show that was destined to become a YouTube classic. Leaked to the press by a cameraman who'd finally tired of his boss's abuse, the footage captured the sophisticated chef hurling eggs, pork products, and curses at her studio audience. A Parma ham had briefly knocked a woman unconscious. Virginia Morrow fled the U.S. shortly after the video made the evening news. People still speculated about the cause of her public meltdown, and from time to time an enterprising journalist would attempt to put the big question to her. But in the end, it remained one of the few mysteries of the gossip age. Only Haven and Iain knew the unsavory truth. Virginia had been destroyed by the love of her life—a love she'd discovered at the bottom of a bottle.

Now, here she was in the flesh. She looked older, of course, but age seemed to suit her. The woman's razor-sharp features had softened, and a little extra weight had filled out her figure. There was no doubt that she was the parent responsible for her son's good looks. Though her hair had turned prematurely white, it still fell in elegant waves over her shoulders. With her white gown and unnatural pallor, she looked like a glamorous ghost. But not a particularly friendly one.

“You look younger than I expected,” Virginia observed before promptly turning her back on her guest and disappearing down a hallway. “Follow me.” Haven heard the command but remained frozen in the doorway. Without Virginia there to block the view, she saw that the house was little more than a ruin—as dilapidated on the inside as it was on the outside. And the air felt even colder. The villa was at least two hundred years old, Haven thought. Two decades of neglect couldn't be responsible for all the damage it had suffered. She spied a meat cleaver embedded in the foyer's wall and knew that some of the destruction had been wrought by human hands.

“Do you see how I am forced to live?” Virginia Morrow inquired without looking back at her guest. “This is what I get for wasting my youth on Jerome Morrow. Are you coming or not?”

“Sure, yes,” Haven said, scrambling to catch up.

They reached a room filled with dusty antiques—the first furniture Haven had noticed anywhere in the house. The chambers they'd passed on the way had all been empty. Here, rotten floorboards were covered by threadbare rugs, and a few meager flames danced around a broken chair leg that had been tossed into the fireplace. Haven waited for Virginia Morrow to offer her a seat, but the woman ignored her. Instead she refilled her own glass with liquor from a cheap-looking bottle and propped up one arm on the fireplace mantel.

“So, what kind of deal are you offering me?” Virginia asked, playing innocent. “Enough to fix this place up, I hope?”

“I was told you'd been left five million dollars in Iain's will,” said Haven, hesitant to probe much farther.

“And I suppose you're wondering what happened to it?” Virginia said, finishing Haven's thought. “Taxes and debts, my dear. Twenty years of debts. When Iain died, the IRS and every credit card company on earth came calling. They took it all.”

“Well, I'm sure I could give you enough money to—” Haven stopped. The woman was slowly shaking her head, warning her guest that the effort was pointless. Haven realized then that Virginia wouldn't settle for less than every last cent of the Morrow family fortune.

“How long were you and Iain together before he died?” the woman asked. “In
this
life, I mean.”

“You know?” Haven was caught off guard.

“How long?” Virginia repeated with a satisfied smirk.

“Long enough.” Haven dug her hands deep into her pockets for warmth. Even with the little fire, the house was freezing. How could Virginia Morrow bear to wander its shabby rooms in nothing but a tattered silk gown?

“I was twenty-five when I met Iain's father and thirty-seven when we divorced. By the time he was done with me, there wasn't much left. So that's what? Twelve years? I think I deserve more than what I've been given. Don't you?”

“It's not for me to say,” Haven replied. “It was your son's decision to make me his primary heir. I would think you'd want to respect his wishes. Still . . .”

“
My son
?” The phrase struck Virginia Morrow as amusing. “Iain Morrow was never
my
son. I still don't know what he was. Can you
imagine
? You sacrifice your body and your freedom to have a child, and as soon as he's able to talk, you discover that he doesn't really belong to you. He says he's had other mothers—dozens of them. Then when he's older, he tells you that you're the worst of the lot. You called him my son? The boy was a changeling. Someone stole my baby and left that creature in his place.” By the end of her tirade, Virginia's mouth had puckered with bitterness.

“I can't believe you would say such things. Iain must have loved you. You were his mother.”

“You're confusing love and need. They are two very different things, Haven. And as I just said, he was never my son.”

“Of course he's your son! If nothing else, he looks just like you.” Haven knew she'd made a mistake the instant the words were out of her mouth.

“Looks?” Virginia took a gulp from her glass, and her face returned to its previously placid state. Haven wondered how much scotch it took to control the demons inside her. “An interesting choice of verb tenses. Anyway, don't look so appalled, Miss Moore. You may think I'm a monster, but you're really no better than I am. You'll hurt Iain more than I ever did.”

“You don't know the first thing about me.” The woman finally had Haven seething.

“Oh, yes, I do. I know you far better than you could ever imagine. You've had quite a few names. Constance. Cecile. Bao. Beatrice. But you're always the same.”

“How—”

“You think I neglected my little changeling? You think I wasn't listening when he started telling his stories? Even when he was three years old, Iain was already a strange boy. Everywhere we took him, he always tried to break free. Finally, we found out why. He told my husband that he was looking for someone he'd known in other lives. As you might imagine, Jerome dragged him to see a psychiatrist the very next day. It took a few sessions, but Iain finally confided in the doctor. There was a girl he was desperate to find. He claimed that someone else was searching for her as well. He needed to reach the girl before his rival had a chance to win her.”

“
Win
me?” Haven hoped her laughter could hide her shock. Did Iain really see Adam Rosier as a rival? “I'm not a carnival prize.”

Virginia seemed to know that she'd found Haven's weak spot. “Those might not have been Iain's exact words. But he seemed convinced there was someone else. Someone you might choose instead. He was terrified that you'd break his heart one day.”

“That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard,” Haven scoffed, though the suggestion was worming its way into her brain. “I could never break Iain's heart.”

“
Is
it ridiculous?” Virginia asked. “Most people know their mailmen better than they know themselves. They'd never guess what they're capable of doing. Do you think most people would ever believe they're capable of murder? Or breaking their spouses' hearts? Or destroying their careers with a carton of eggs and a ham? Of
course
not. We all like to think that we're models of integrity. We have no idea what we might do if the gods decided to turn against us. But those of us who've seen the worst in ourselves—let's just say that we can spot potential in others. And you, my dear, are simply bursting with potential.”

Virginia downed the last of her drink and deposited the glass on the mantel with a loud bang and a mean grin. A gust of wind swept down the chimney, making the fire surge and surrounding the house's mistress with smoke. The woman was poisonous, Haven thought.

“I will never be like you.”

“Well, here's your opportunity to prove me wrong.” Virginia Morrow was starting to slur her words. “I'll guess you've gotten quite comfortable spending all of my money. That dress alone must have cost a small fortune.”

“I
made
this dress,” Haven snarled.

Virginia pinched Haven's sleeve and rubbed it between her fingertips. “And I don't imagine this fabric was free. You appear to have exceptional taste. So let's see what happens when all the money is taken away. Do you think you can go back to being the middle-class hick you once were? What do you think you'll do to prevent that from happening? Who will you turn to when Iain can't afford you anymore?”

“He put you up to this, didn't he?”

“He?” Virginia Morrow asked. “Who's
he
?”

“
Adam
. Adam Rosier.”

“I have no idea who that is,” the woman sneered. “Why would you assume that there's a
man
pulling my strings? I think my motives are completely transparent. I want my life back. I want to live in a house without mice. I want to dress in beautiful clothing. I want people to be nice to me whether they like it or not. I want what I lost, and soon I'll be able to buy it back. My attorney is convinced we can win, and he stands to get a nice, big check if we do.”

“Don't think I won't fight you every step of the way,” Haven said.

“I wish you the very best of luck,” said Virginia. “Which of us do you suppose has the most to lose?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Back inside the hotel room in Florence, everything was still. Outside, the world was growing dark. The last light of the afternoon filtered through the sheer curtains and tinted the room's walls a pale silver. Haven thought of the little house in New York where she had shared her very first night with Iain. The light had been the same in the bedroom upstairs, beneath the skylight, with the clouds overhead. Sometimes it was hard to believe that their house was gone, destroyed in a fire that had almost killed them both. Haven paused to take in her surroundings and commit them to memory. She knew there was no guarantee that this world could last. It was already starting to fall apart.

Iain lay on the bed fully clothed, his finger tucked inside a book. He'd fallen asleep waiting for her to come home. She stood over him, her eyes tracing the faint scar on his forehead. He hadn't escaped from the fire unscathed. Haven often found herself longing to let her fingers brush over it. She knew the scar was there to serve as a warning. It was meant to remind her that Iain was human. No matter how brave or powerful he seemed, he wasn't completely invincible.

An image passed through her mind—Iain's beautiful mother standing among the ruins of the life she'd let her drinking destroy. The rage that followed in the wake of the memory made Haven's body stiffen and her teeth clench. On the drive back to Florence, she had cried so hard at the thought of Iain being raised by that monster that she'd had to pull to the side of the road. She understood better than anyone could how lonely he must have been as a boy. From the age of eight, Haven had been an orphan of sorts—her father was dead and her mother's mind unsound. Raised by her grandmother, she knew what it was like to suffer at the hands of someone consumed by bitterness. But Haven had always had Beau. She still imagined the two of them as fairy-tale siblings, forging their way through a dark, dismal forest with little more than a basket of bread crumbs to mark their trail. Together, they had been able to make it to safety. Alone, there was little doubt they'd have perished.

Haven kicked off her shoes and crawled onto the bed. She slid one arm around Iain's waist and pressed her body against his warm back. Tucking her face into the nape of his neck, she inhaled deeply. He smelled just like home. Whenever she felt anxious or unhappy, the scent that rose from his skin could flood her mind with a thousand beautiful memories. Sometimes she'd sort through them and choose a clear one to savor. But more often, Haven would simply bask in the sensation of reunions, first kisses, and long-awaited caresses. It was as close to heaven as the living could come. That was why Virginia Morrow's words had to be meaningless. Haven could never love anyone but Iain. She wouldn't risk her paradise for anything.