Books by Maggie Shayne (75 page)

"Then. . ." She paused for a long moment and drew a shuddery breath. "Then why did you stop?"

He had to close his eyes. She'd lifted her tearstained face to search his for an answer. When he opened them again, she was dashing her tears away with the backs of her hands. "I came to you to help you, to protect you. You called to me for help. You thought yourself slipping away from sanity. I had to come to you. But not for this—not to satisfy my own unquenchable lust."

She shook her head in obvious confusion. He stepped forward, extended his hands, and she slipped her feet to the floor, took them in her own and rose.

"There are still many things you do not fully understand. No matter how badly I want you—and I do, never doubt that—I cannot let my desire cloud my good judgment. You are not ready."

She glanced up at him, and very slightly her lips turned up. "I don't know anything about you, and yet I feel I know you better than anyone. One thing I do know is that you were right when you said you were different from other men. Any other man wouldn't have stopped himself just now. The hell with what was best for me." She sighed and shook her head. "When I'm with you, even I say the hell with what is best for me. Sensation takes over. It's as if I lose my will. It frightens me."

His lips thinned and he nodded. He well understood what she was feeling. The powerful feelings seemed beyond her; control. Well, they seemed beyond his, as well. But he'd keep himself in check if it killed him.

"Will you tell me yet, how I know you? When did we get so close? Why can't I remember?"

He reached out, unable to resist touching her again. His body screamed for contact with hers. He lifted her hair away from her head, and let it fall through his fingers. "You have had enough to deal with tonight, Tamara. Your mind will give you the memory when it can accept and understand. It grieves me to refuse anything you ask of me, but, believe me, I feel it is better for you to remember on your own. Ask me anything else, anything at all."

She tilted her head to one side, seeming to accept what he said. Then, "You told me your father was murdered in Paris. Was it during the revolution?"

He sighed his relief. He'd thought she would run from him. Even the strength of their passion hadn't frightened her away. . . yet. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, and she walked beside him easily. He drew her into the corridor, and through it to the library, where he flicked the switch, flooding the room with harsh electric light. Normally he wouldn't have bothered. He'd simply have lit a lamp or two. He waved a hand to the huge portrait of his parents on the wall. It had been commissioned shortly after their marriage, and so had captured them in the bloom of youth and the height of beauty.

"Your parents?" She caught her breath when he nodded. "She's so beautiful, such delicate features and skin like porcelain. Her hair is like yours."

At her words Eric felt a rush of memory. He saw again his petite mother, remembered the softness of her hair and the sweet sound of her voice. She'd spurned the trend of leaving the child rearing to the nurse. She'd tucked him into bed each night, and sung to him in that lilting, lulling voice.

He hadn't realized Tamara stared at him, until she suddenly clutched his hand and blinked moisture from her eyes. "You must miss her terribly."

"At least she escaped the bloody terror. Both she and my sister, Jaqueline, lived out their lives to the natural end, in England. My father wasn't so fortunate. He was beheaded in Paris. I would have been, too, if not for Roland."

"That's when you were. . . changed?" Eric nodded. "And afterward, when you were free, why didn't you join your mother and sister in England?"

"I couldn't go to them then, Tamara. I was no longer the son or the brother they remembered—the awkward, withdrawn outsider who never fit in and lacked confidence enough to try. I was changed, strong, sure of myself, powerful. How could I have explained all of the differences in me, or the fact that I could only see them by night?"

"It might not have mattered to them," she said, placing a hand gently on his arm. "Or it might have made them despise and fear me. I couldn't have borne that... to see revulsion in the eyes of my own mother. No. It was easier to let them believe me dead and go on with their lives."

* * * * *

The night was a revelation. What at first had frightened and shocked her she soon found only one more unique thing about Eric Marquand. He was a vampire. What did that mean? she wondered. That the sun would kill him, the way inhaling water would kill a human? It meant he needed human blood in order to exist. She'd seen for herself how he acquired it. Not by killing or maiming innocent people, but by stealing it from blood banks.

As the hours of the night raced past he told her of the night he'd helped his mother and sister escape France, and been arrested himself. At her gentle coaxing he'd shared more of his past. He'd related tales of his boyhood that made her laugh, and revealed a love for his long-lost mother that made her cry. He might not be human, but he had human emotions. She sensed a pain within him that would have crippled her had it been her own. How many centuries of a nearly solitary existence could one man bear?

She found herself likening her solitude to his, and feeling another level of kinship with him. By the time he walked her to her car the feeling that she'd known him forever had overwhelmed her confusion over his true nature.

Until she arrived home, after midnight, to find Daniel and Curtis waiting like guard dogs. "Where have you been?" They snapped the question almost in unison.

"Here we go again," she muttered, keeping her bandaged hand thrust into her pocket. "I was out. I had some thinking to do, and you both know how much I enjoy crisp wintry nights. I just lost track of time."

She was shocked speechless when Curtis gripped her upper arm hard and drew her close. His gaze burned over her throat, and she knew what he sought.

"You saw Marquand tonight, didn't you, Tammy?"

"You think I'd tell you if I did? You are not my keeper, Curt."

He released her, turned away and pushed a hand through his hair. Daniel took his place. "He's only worried, just as I am, honey. I told you before we suspected he'd try to see you again. Please, you have to tell me if he did. It's for your own good."

If she told Daniel the truth he'd probably have a coronary, she thought. She swallowed against the bile that rose at the thought of telling him the truth. But lying was equally distasteful. "I didn't see anyone tonight, Daniel. I'm confused and frustrated. I needed to be alone, without you two hovering." She'd done it. She'd told an out-and-out lie to the man she loved most in the world. She felt like a Judas.

Curtis faced her again. He took her arm, gently this time, and led her to the sofa, pushing her down. "It's time you heard a few harsh truths, kid. The first one is this. I do have the right to ask. I love you, you little idiot. I always assumed you'd realize that sooner or later, and marry me. Lately, though, you've been acting like I'm a stranger. I'm tired of it. I've had enough. It ends, here and now. I won't let Marquand come between us."

"Come between—Curtis, how can he? There is no us."

He sighed in frustration, looking at her as if she were dense. "You see what I mean?" He made his voice gentler, and he sat down beside her. "Tamara, no matter what he's told you, you have to remember what he is. He'll lie so smoothly you'll hang on every word. He'll convince you he cares about you, when the truth is, he only cares about eliminating any threat to his existence. And at the moment the threat in question is Daniel. Don't let his words confuse you, Tammy. We are the ones who love you. We are the ones who've been here for you, who know you inside and out."

She wanted to answer him, but found herself tongue-tied.

"I know what's happening," Curt went on. "They have an incredible psychic ability. He's pulling one of the oldest tricks in the book on you, Tammy. I'd bet money on it. He's planting feelings in your mind, making you think you know him. You feel like you are intimate friends, but you can't remember when you met or where. You trust him instinctively—only it isn't instinctive. It's his damn mind commanding yours to trust him. He can do it, you know. He can fill your head with all these vague feelings for him, and make you ignore the ones that are real."

My God, could he be right?

"You're confused, Tam," Daniel added slowly, carefully. "He's keeping you awake nights by exerting his power over you. That's why you feel as if you can sleep during the day. He rests then. He can't influence your mind. By using the added susceptibility caused by the lack of sleep, his power over your mind can get stronger and stronger. Believe me, sweetheart, I've seen it happen before."

She stared from one of them to the other, as a sickening feeling grew within her. What they'd said made perfect sense. Yet she felt a certainty in her heart that they were wrong. Or was that in her mind—put there by Eric? How could she tell what she felt from what he was making her feel?

"What reason would I have to lie to you, Tam?" Daniel asked.

She shook her head. She couldn't bring herself to tell the truth. She'd feel as if she were betraying Eric if she did. But she felt she was betraying them by keeping it from them. She had a real sensation of being torn in half. "It doesn't matter, because you're wrong. I haven't seen him since the night at the rink. He hasn't been on my mind at all, except when you two hound me about him. And my insomnia was just from stress. It's gone now. I'm sleeping just fine. In fact, I'd like to be sleeping right now."

She rose and made her way past them, and up the stairs to her room. She collapsed on the bed and pushed her face into the pillows. She wouldn't close her eyes until dawn. Was it because of Eric? Was he trying to take over her mind? Oh, God, how could she ever know for sure? She herself had said that she couldn't think clearly when she was with him. And hadn't he demonstrated how he could take control of her that night on the balcony?

She sat up in bed, eyes flying wide. How could she stop it?

"I can't see him anymore," she whispered. "I have to stay away from him and give myself a chance to see this without his influence. I need to be objective." The decision made, her heart proceeded to crumble as if it were made of crystal and had just been pummeled with a sledgehammer. "I can't see him again," she repeated, and the bits were ground to dust.

"She despises me." Eric drew away from the microscope at the sound of his friend entering the lab where he'd ensconced himself for the third night running.

"She might fear you, Eric, but it's as you pointed out. She's been reared by a man who thinks us monsters. Give her time to adjust to the idea."

"She's repulsed by the idea." Eric pressed four fingertips to the dull ache at the center of his forehead. "There is nothing I can do to change that. The fact remains, though, that she is in trouble."

Roland frowned. "The nightmares have returned?"

"No, and she no longer cries out to me. But she hasn't slept since last I saw her. I feel her exhaustion to the point where it saps my own strength. She cannot continue this way."

"Not since you saw her? Eric, it's been three nights—"

"Tonight will make four. She's on the verge of collapse. I want to go to her. But to force my presence on her if she's not yet able to handle it could do more harm than good, I think. Especially in her present state of mind."

Roland nodded. "I have to agree. But it's killing you to stay away, is it not, Eric?"

Eric sighed, his gaze sweeping the ceiling as his head tilted back. "That it is. What is worse is that I am not certain I can help her when she's ready to accept my assistance. Why does she not sleep? Is it simply the blocked memory of our encounters keeping her from her rest, or something more? Is it possible that my blood changed her in some way—that its effect is felt even now, after all this time? Or is it only when I'm near she suffers this way? Would she be better off if I left the country again?"

"Use a bit of sense, Eric! Would you leave her without aid in the hands of that butcher who calls himself a scientist?"

Eric shook his head. "No. That I could never do. If these things have occurred to me, they must have occurred to him, as well. I'd not be surprised if he decided to use her for his experiments."

"Are you certain he hasn't?"

"I'd know if she were in pain, or distress."

"Perhaps he has her sedated, unconscious," Roland suggested.

"No. She doesn't summon me, but I feel her. I feel the wall she's erected to keep herself from me. She resists the very thought of me." An odd lump formed in his throat, nearly choking him, and an unseen fist squeezed his heart.

* * * * *

The nights were the hardest. She'd taken to staying late at the DPI building in White Plains. Her reasons were multiple. One was that she got a lot more work done after sunset. No matter how physically and emotionally drained she became, the energy surged after dark. She wondered why Eric would want to torture her-this way. She couldn't give in to her body's need for rest during the day. She'd convinced Daniel that she was better, and for the moment it seemed he believed her. At least he wasn't hovering over her constantly. Then again, she hadn't left the house except to go to work and come home again, in days.

Curtis was another problem altogether. He checked in on her three or four times every day while she was at work, and it was an effort to appear wide awake and bright eyed at his surprise visits. He hadn't mentioned again his outrageous suggestion that she marry him. She was grateful for that. She knew he didn't love her, and still had enough acumen in her dulled mind to understand what had prompted his words. He wanted to protect her from the alleged threat of Eric Marquand. He wanted her under his thumb twenty-four hours a day, and especially those hours after dark. He saw that she was outgrowing his and Daniel's ability to control her. As her husband, he assumed he could keep her in line. She couldn't hate him for it. After all, it was only because he cared so much and was so concerned about her that he had spoken at all.

She gathered up the files on her desk and carried them toward the cabinet to put them in their places. The sun had vanished. She felt wide awake. It frightened her. How much longer could she go on without sleep?

Another question lingered in the back of her mind, one more troubling than the first. She avoided it when she could, but at night found it impossible. Why did she feel so empty inside? Why did she miss him so? It was foolish, she barely knew the man. Or did she? She found it difficult to believe that her sense of knowing him in the past had been planted there by some kind of hypnosis. The familiar sense of him didn't seem based in her mind, but in her heart, her soul. And so was the aching need to see him again. She longed for him so much it hurt. How could this feeling be false, the result of a spell she was under?

"Tamara?"

She looked up fast, startled at the soft voice intruding on her thoughts. She blinked away the burning moisture that had gathered in her eyes, and rose, forcing a smile for Hilary Gamer.

Hilary smiled back, but her chocolate eyes were narrow. "You look like you've been ridden hard and put away wet," she quipped. "And you've been doing a great impression of a recluse lately, Tam. Haven't even been coming outside for lunch. I've missed it."

Tamara sighed, and couldn't meet the other girl's eyes. Hilary was the closest friend she had, besides Daniel and Curtis. They used to do things together. Lately, Tamara realized, she'd had no thought for anyone other than Eric. "It wasn't intentional," she said, and shrugged. "I've had a lot on my mind."

A soft hand, the color of a doe and just as graceful, settled on Tamara's shoulder. "You want to tell me about it?"

Tears sprang anew, and her throat closed painfully. "I can't."

Hilary nodded. "If you can't, you can't. You aren't going home to that mausoleum to brood on it all night, either, unless you're going through me." The mock severity of her voice was comforting.

Tamara met her gaze, grateful that she didn't pry. "What, then?"

"Nothing wild. You don't look up to it. How about a nice quiet dinner someplace? We'll get your mind off whatever's been bugging you."

Tamara nodded as all the air left her lungs. It was a relief that she could put off going home, pacing the hollow house alone while Daniel and Curt either huddled over their latest "breakthrough" in the off-limits basement lab, or took off to spy on Eric for the night.

Daniel appeared in the doorway and Tamara flashed him a smile that was, for once, genuine. "I'm going to dinner with Hilary," she announced. "I'll be home later and if you waste your time worrying about me I'll be very upset with you."

He frowned, but didn't ask her not to go. "Promise me you'll come straight home afterward?"

"Yes, Daniel," she said with exaggerated submissiveness.

He dug in his pocket and brought out a set of keys. "Take the Cadillac. I don't want you stranded in that old car of yours."

"And what if you end up stalling the Bug alongside the road somewhere?"

"I'll have Curt follow me home." He held the keys in an outstretched hand and she stepped forward and took them. She dropped them into her purse, extracted her own set and handed them to Daniel. He gave her a long look, seemed to want to say something, but didn't. He left with a sigh that told her he didn't like the idea of her going out at night.

It was worth it, though. For three wonderful hours she and Hilary lingered over every course, from the huge salad and the rich hot soup to the deliciously rare steaks and baked potatoes with buttery baby carrots on the side, and even dessert—cherry cheesecake. Tamara ordered wine with dinner. It was not her habit to imbibe, but she had the glimmering hope that if she had a few drinks tonight, she might be able to sleep when she got home. She allowed the waiter to refill her wineglass three times, and when dinner was over and Hilary ordered an after-dinner seven-seven, Tamara said, "Make it two."

The conversation flowed as it had in the old days, before the nightmares and sleepless nights. For a short time she felt as if she were a normal woman with a strong, healthy mind. The evening ended all too soon, and she said goodbye reluctantly in the parking lot outside and hurried to Daniel's car. She took careful stock of herself before she got behind the wheel. She counted the number of drinks she'd had, and then the number of hours. Four and four. She felt fine. Assured her ability was not impaired, she started the car, pulled on the headlights and backed carefully out of the lot.

She'd take her time driving home, she thought. She'd listen to the radio and not think about the things that were wrong in her life. When she got home, she'd choose a wonderful book from Daniel's shelves and she'd lose herself in reading it. She wouldn't worry about vampires or brainwashing or insane asylums.

The flat tire did not fall in with her plan, however. She thanked her lucky stars she was near an exit ramp, and veered onto it, limping pathetically along the shoulder. She stopped the boat-sized car as soon as she came to a relatively sane spot to do so, and sat for a moment, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. "I never replaced the spare," she reminded herself.

She looked up and spotted the towering, lighted gas station sign in the distance, not more than three hundred yards from her. With a sigh of resignation she wrenched open the car door, and hooked the strap of her purse over her shoulder with her thumb. She spent one moment hoping the attendant would be a chivalrous type, who'd offer her a ride back to the car. . . and maybe even change the tire for her.

She almost laughed aloud at that notion. She knew full well that a few minutes from now she'd be heading back to her car, on foot, rolling a new tire and rim along in front of her. Oh, well, she'd changed tires before. She walked along the shoulder, glad of the streetlights in addition to the moon illuminating the pavement ahead of her. Her cheerful demeanor deserted her, though, when a carload of laughing youths passed her, blasting heavy metal from open windows despite the below-freezing temperature, and came to a screeching halt. Two men—boys, really—got out and stood unsteadily. Probably due to whatever had been in the bottles they both gripped.

She turned, deciding it would be better to drive to the station, even if it meant ruining the rim. As soon as she did, the rusted Mustang that seemed to have no muffler lurched into Reverse and roared past her again. It stopped on the shoulder this time and the driver got out. He came slowly toward her. The object in his hand that caught and reflected the light wasn't a bottle. It was a blade.

She stiffened as they closed in on her, two from behind, one dead ahead. No traffic passed in those elongated seconds. She considered darting off to the side, but that would only put her in a scrub lot where they'd be able to catch her, anyway. Better, she decided, to take her chances here. Any second now a car would pass and she'd wave her arms. . . step in front of it, if necessary.

She glanced over her shoulder at the two youths. One wore tattered jeans and a plaid shirt, unbuttoned and blowing away from his bare, skinny chest in the frigid wind. The other wore sweats and a leather jacket. Both looked sorely in need of a bath and a haircut, but she couldn't believe they'd hurt her. She didn't think either of them was old enough to have legally bought the beer they were swilling down.

She caught her breath when her arm was gripped, and she swung her head forward. The one who held her was no kid. His long, greasy hair hung to his shoulders, but was rooted in a horseshoe shape around a shiny pate. He was shorter than she and a good fifty pounds overweight. He grinned at her. There were gaps in his slimy teeth.

Without a word he took her purse, releasing her arm to do so, but still holding the knife in his other hand. She took a step back and he lifted it fast, pressing the tip just beneath one breast. "Move it and lose it, lady." He tossed her purse over her head, where the two boys now stood close behind her. "Her big Caddy has a flat. You two get it changed, and we'll have ourselves a little joyride."

"There is no spare," she took great pleasure in telling him, thinking it might thwart his plan to steal Daniel's car.

"But you were on your way to buy one, right, honey?" She didn't answer, as the boy in the leather jacket pawed the contents of her purse. "Ninety-five bucks and change in here."

The man with the knife smiled more broadly. "Take it and go to the station. Take the Mustang. Bring the tire back here and get it changed." He traced her breast with the tip of the knife, not hard enough to cut, but she winced in pain and fear. "I'll just keep the lady company while you're gone."

She heard the patter of their feet over the pavement, then they were past her, on their way to the noisy car. They spun the tires as they headed for the gas station. The man turned her around abruptly, twisting one arm behind her back. He shoved her down the slight slope toward the brush lot. "We'll just wait for 'em down here, outta sight."

"The hell we will." She struck backward with one foot, but he caught it with a quick uplift of his own and she wound up facedown in the snow with him on her back.

"You want it right here, that's fine with me," he growled into her ear. She cried out, and immediately felt the icy blade against her throat. Her face was shoved cruelly into the snow, and then his hand was groping beneath her, shoving up inside her blouse, tugging angrily at her bra. When he touched her, her stomach heaved.

My God, she thought, there was no way out of this. Daniel wouldn't worry. He thought her out with Hilary. Even if he did come looking for her, he'd never look here. She'd only used this exit because of the flat. Her normal route home was three exits farther on the highway. His breath fanned her face. With one last vicious pinch he dragged his hot hand away from her breast, and tried to shove it down the front of her jeans, while his hips writhed against her backside.

He's going to do it, she thought. White panic sent her mind whirling, and she fought for control. She couldn't give up. She wouldn't allow herself to feel the hand that violated her. She refused to vomit, because if she did, she'd likely choke to death. She needed help.

Calm descended as Eric's face filled her mind. His words, soothing her with the deep tenor of his voice, rang in her ears
. I'd never harm you. I'd kill anyone who tried
. She closed her eyes. Had he meant what he'd said?
Have you realized yet,
his voice seemed to whisper in her mind, drowning out the frantic panting of the pig on top of her,
that you can cry out to me, across the miles, using nothing but your mind?