Endless Night (10 page)

“There is a phone call for you.”

Margaret’s shoulder jerked in a spasm. “Mr. Manfredi is ready for me?”

“No.” The receptionist held up a glossy black receiver. “This is an external call.”

Margaret walked on unstable legs the few feet to the desk. She glanced at the phone incredulously when the receptionist extended it to her.

“Hello?” Her voice wavered.

“I know where you are, Margaret.”

She was too professional to engage in a verbal altercation in the lobby of a potential employer, so she stood and helplessly listened, not surprised to hear his voice.

“Margaret, do you honestly think I will let you work at another firm?”

Margaret swallowed and focused on the red fingernails of the secretary as she swirled her mouse around on the mouse pad in apparent boredom.

“You don’t have a choice,” she managed.

“You know one call from me will have you blacklisted. Don’t waste your time and come back here. We will forget that incident. I need you in my office. I can get anyone in my bed. I will not pursue that with you. Name your salary increase and I’ll put the paperwork in motion.”

She refused to speak, but her face felt as red as the secretary’s fingernails.

“Seriously, Margaret. You will not work in another law office. And you should not want to.”

She really wanted to tell him to go to hell. Gordon would see to it that she never got a job in Boston, she was certain of that now. She felt like a little kid running away from home, only to be picked up by her parents a block away. How far would she have to go until she was out of arm’s length of Gordon’s power? She knew he would honor the salary increase, and she also sensed that there would never be a repeat of the incident.

She handed the black receiver back to the receptionist and said in a tight voice, “Please apologize to Mr. Manfredi, but something has come up that I have to address.” She turned around and walked to the door.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”

Hearing that self-possessed voice, Megan thought it was like listening to all the flawed decisions in life shouting back at her, only this rang with the calm resonance of menace.

Then the line went dead.

Megan clutched the handset and stared at the shadows lurking outside the arc of the
lamplight. They seemed to advance, to worm their way toward her—a vicious set of black fingers moving in to strangle.

“Megan?” Jake clutched her shoulders. “Who is it? What’s wrong?”

The sound of his voice snapped Megan to her senses. She would not be a victim. She would not let Gordon do this to her. Nothing gave him more satisfaction than the hunt and applying his sadistic proficiency, especially to a quarry like her.

Okay, so Gordon knew where she was. Well, she wasn’t going to roll over and play dead. Margaret was the one who ran. Margaret was the one he wanted.

Margaret was gone.

Megan
hurled the handset to the floor where it snaked and writhed as the coiled wire snapped it closer to the nightstand. In a well-honed move, she swept her arm under the mattress and yanked out the gun. Familiar with the feel of the cold metal, she had taught herself to load and unload the chamber when she first arrived at Wakefield House. She forced herself to hold the sleek frame, to grow comfortable with it. And now fingers that had shaken uncontrollably on the phone worked with remarkable agility to handle the weapon.

“Stop.”

The soft command penetrated as Megan looked up.

“Megan.” His voice returned, soothing as it drew nearer. “Baby, you don’t need the gun now.”

A few impassioned moments ago there was nothing she would deny that stable tone. Jake’s voice was husky with passion and concern, and offered a solemn sense of reason that she longed to surrender to. But she was reluctant to let go of her defense.

“I’m not going to let anyone hurt you,” he persisted.

Megan jerked when she felt his hands. Panic flared through her and she tried to control possession of the gun but his hands connected with hers and still the soft voice penetrated her defenses.

“I don’t know what’s going on here, but so help me God, Megan, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Strong fingers curled over hers with such diverse layers. Warm, sinuous strength above her hand. Cold steel beneath it.

Which would she yield to?

The gun slipped from her grip. With one great shudder, Megan was left vulnerable to her very core. Were it not for the supportive hands that returned to embrace her, she would have sunk to the floor.

To Megan’s surprise, those caring hands did more than hold her. They slipped with silent precision behind her back and beneath her legs to hoist her into the air. The loss of stability should have shocked her into action, but she bent into the haven of musk and rain and drew in his scent as if her very life depended on it.

She should have fought him. Where was the bravado of only moments ago?

Instead, when Jake sat on the edge of the mattress with her still in his arms, she curled up on his lap and felt so young and small. Trauma took a backseat to the feelings this man inspired. Instinctively, Megan’s arms wound around his neck and she plunged her face into his collarbone, praying he would hold her tighter.

As if Jake sensed this, his embrace constricted.

For a minute—or an eternity—she couldn’t be sure, they sat in silence until finally his hoarse voice broke the stillness.

“Tell me, Megan.”

Megan. Megan.

“They used to call me Meg,” she whispered.

Even in this cocoon of warm male flesh she sensed his hesitation and his curiosity. “Meg. I like that.”

Coarse fingertips brushed aside her bangs, and then Megan felt Jake’s lips on her forehead. “Tell me, Meg. Who was that? If you say it was a wrong number—”

“There was no one there.”

“Meg, there is a reason you’re on my lap clinging on for dear life, and as much as it kills me to say so, it isn’t passion.”

That declaration nearly drew a smile from her lips, and it did succeed in making her snuggle even closer. But she sobered quickly at the memory of the man on the other end of the phone.

I know where you are, Margaret.

“There was no one there,” she repeated tightly.

Jake set her back so he could look into her eyes. In his amber depths she detected smoldering emotions.

“Alright, let’s switch topics for a moment. I look at you and I don’t see a woman who sleeps around frivolously. Am I right?”

She frowned, wondering where he was going with this.

“Of course I don’t.”

Jake touched the pad of his pointer finger to her lip. “Well, as of five minutes ago, you and I were this close to making love.”

“I—”

He shushed her with the mere rise of his eyebrow. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you would only sleep with me because you trusted me.”

Megan groaned out her frustration. His rationalization was dead-on.

“That rogue ego of yours is kicking in again,” she whispered. “What makes you think I would have slept with you?”

Jake’s sexy grin could fend off any evil foe, or reduce them into a vapor that would seep through the cracks of this house and dissipate into the night.

He brushed his finger over her lip and she saw his eyes flare at the tiny gasp she thought she had contained.

“Oh, okay, yes dammit,” she conceded. “One more second and we would have—”

“Would have what?”

“You know.”

“Meg, say it.”

“We would have made love.”

Relief softened Jake’s features. He replaced his finger with a slow sweep of his mouth.

“Now, am I right? You wouldn’t do that with someone you didn’t trust, would you?”

“No,” she sighed.

“All right then.” His voice was deep and tender. “Today you shared with me an experience I never thought I would go through. I never imagined confronting a stranger to ask if she was my grandmother. I never thought I would travel to some obscure village in search of my heritage, but you were there for me. It meant a lot.” His arms tightened. “Maybe we’re just getting to know each other, but I was so grateful to have you by my side today.”

A lump worked its way down her throat. Megan closed her eyes to escape the warmth infusing her. She needed the stability of fear. It was her best defense. It kept her sharp, whereas this languorous spell weakened her.

“Let me return the favor.” Jake gently tugged under her chin to lift her eyes back to his.

“Trust me to help you.”

“I can’t,” she cried in frustration. “I can’t, Jake.”

She tore from his arms and crossed into the shadows, standing adjacent to the window so that her profile could not be seen from outside. She searched the dark world, wondering if Gordon was out there right now.

If he wasn’t, he would be soon.

To her relief Jake stayed on the bed. In a deceivingly calm motion, he leaned back against the headboard with one leg crooked at the knee where his hand rested in a fist. “Why not?”

In that simple question she heard a rough combination of hurt, anger and concern. Was it really possible that in the past few days he had come to care about her?

Don’t care. Walk away from it.

“Jake, look, maybe it’s best if you left in the morning.”

He turned his back toward her and crossed his arms, facing the window fully. Her eyes traced the strength in his shoulders, remembering how those arms felt around her, like a fortress where no enemy could reach her.

And she was tearing that fortress down.

“Christ, Megan.” He wrapped a hand behind his neck and massaged at the tension. “I just grabbed a gun out of your hand tonight—after a phone call from I don’t know who. You would have shot at anything that moved, myself included.”

Jake turned and Megan’s breath hitched. His gaze burned and his lips were set thin. “You could have hurt yourself. How in God’s name am I going to leave you alone right now?”

A lump of emotion clogged her throat. Her fingers trembled, but she curled them up into dogged fists as her chin inched up. “Just walk away.”

One long stride and Jake was next to her. She felt her shoulders encased in strong palms. His head dipped and Megan nearly parted her lips in anticipation of his kiss. A hint of his musky breath blew across her lips as he whispered.

“Just walk away, huh?” There was an edge to his tone.

“Yes.” She held her chin up again and hoped to come across with conviction.

That bravado faltered under his dynamic stare. His eyes seemed to search for so much more than she was capable of giving.

“Who was on the phone, Meg?” he asked quietly.

Her head shook and she tried to inch away, but she was backed into the corner of the room. There was nowhere to flee. “Don’t.”

“Look at me.”

She tried to evade his eyes. She tried to look anywhere other than that kaleidoscope of autumn colors, but the draw was too strong and she dove into the warm foliage.

“Jake, please—”
Please what? Please don’t look at me like that. Please don’t touch me like you are. Please leave before something happens to you.

“Please what?” He moved in.

So subtle was the motion, Megan barely noticed until she felt the heat of his body. Her back was against the wall, and for a moment, panic welled up. But then he touched her with just a soft stroke of her hair.

Tears lurked behind her eyes as she pleaded from the heart, “Please go.”

It shouldn’t have hurt like it did. Hell, he shouldn’t care at all. He shouldn’t even be in this godforsaken isolated village. He should be back in Boston, in his busy existence that suited him just fine.

“Jake, please.” Megan touched his wrist as he felt her fingers tremble. “I don’t want to drag you into the mess my life has become. You’re not involved in this.”

Her eyes were wide, nearly black with fear. He took a steadying breath, relieved to see the windows blush with a new sunrise. The warm rose hues did little to diminish the bleakness of the cliffs, but at least there was something other than another dismal stratum of gray on a horizon that promised nothing but more rain.

“Too bad,” he uttered with weary resolve.

Megan’s arms crossed. “Excuse me?”

“I said that’s just too bad.”

Now she tried to catch his eye, but he evaded her gaze.

“What do you mean, too bad?” The pitch of her voice inched higher.

“I’m involved. I’m already involved.” And that was the truth.

In retrospect, he tried to determine during what pivotal moment that had occurred. Was it the first timid smile he goaded out of her? The coffee klatch at three o’clock in the morning? That first kiss, so tender, and so tempting? Or that fiery merger in the hall tonight?

No. It was the moment Megan leaned back into him at the bar, as she bowed and melted into his torso in search of protection. It was as if she trusted one man amidst her world of demons. Maybe now, she wouldn’t commit to that trust, but that simple instinctive gesture spoke more than words.

“You are
not
involved with me.” Only a keen perception brought on by the solitude of the house enabled Jake to hear the erratic swing in her voice.

“Jake, dammit.” Her hands batted like floundering butterflies as she tried to convey her frustration. Another deep breath and Megan let loose. “Dammit, just go. Do you hear me? You don’t need my help with your search. The sun is coming out. You can’t use the weather as an excuse anymore. Just go.”

Megan’s chest heaved beneath her white tank top. Jake jerked his eyes away from the hypnotic motion. His glance traveled up to tense shoulders and down slim arms crooked at her hips. A rim of pale flesh was revealed between the waist of her gray sweats and the white top. The gap increased every time her chest heaved, and he caught a glimpse of the small indentation of her belly button.

“Are you even listening to me?” she demanded. “Don’t make more out of what happened here. We were just two people stuck together in a storm. It happens. Now it’s time for you to leave.”

Jake wondered if Megan was even aware that every testimony she made was negated by the plea in her eyes.

“Is that so?” he asked evenly.

It seemed the calmer he was the more anxious she became. “Yes, dammit, that
is
so. Look, you’re a good-looking guy—” her eyes dipped down his body, and then her shoulders jerked as she cleared her throat, “—but I’m just not interested.”

Jake rubbed a hand over his mouth, perhaps to muffle the retort, “Bull.”

“Alright, Meg.” He took a step forward, concerned by her panic.

But his strategy of closing in paid off. His body a whisper away from hers, Jake bet that
she would not retreat, and he won. Megan’s pupils grew large so that only the faintest rim of blue eclipsed them. Her head tipped back as if she drew in his scent, and her lips grew slack, so soft and tempting he had to strive for every curse word in his head to keep from kissing her.

“I’ll go then,” he whispered as his head dipped. His mouth was close to hers, so close he could smell cinnamon tea.

Megan made a strangled moan. Her arms dropped to her sides, and he waited,
God
how he waited for her to touch him. He stood as stoic as a monk before an altar and wanted her to make a move, but she didn’t. Megan stood her ground. As still as she was, he could see her body quiver on the cusp of surrender, and the flare of her eyes betrayed what her body concealed.

“Jake.” Her voice was husky.

He wasn’t sure if that soft wrench of his name was a plea, a command or a ragged gasp of emotion. When she didn’t elaborate and just stood there watching him, Jake finally drew back. For a moment he held her stare until finally he dragged out the words, “Okay, I’m leaving.”

Her breath drew in and Jake swore she appeared on the verge of protesting, but she held her tongue.

“You know,” he said, “regardless of whatever it is you think we shared here, Meg, I’m not happy about leaving you alone. I’ll be at O’Flanagan’s for a few more days. Just call—”

Megan seemed to snap from a trance. Wide eyes narrowed, and her arms intersected defensively across her chest. Not defensive. Combative.

“I’ve been here for a year and so far I’ve been fine. I like my solitude, Jake. I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression the past couple days.”

It was going to kill him to walk out of this house right now. Megan had her secrets, and it had to be on her terms when or if she chose to share them.

It was a gamble.

He just wondered how high the stakes would become.

He was gone.

Megan watched the red Jeep jolt across the rough trail, a splash of crimson on an austere plateau. The vehicle was a credit to its name as it bucked and shuddered until it twisted out of view. Even then, she stayed at the window and listened to the distant hum of the engine until it faded with the morning fog and left only stillness in its place.

Jake.

No, it was too late to call him back. The damage was done. She had all but slapped him in the face and told him their kiss meant nothing and that their time together was insignificant. He would never be back. Why should he? What one small thing had she done to encourage him?

Nearly made love to him.

Megan yanked her hand from the frigid windowpane and wished she could as easily wrench that memory from her mind.

Gordon was coming
.
That notion was sobering enough to make her focus. With Jake gone she was left to fend for herself, and in that capacity she felt assertive.

In the past few days, she had tasted life. She had tasted Jake. If she ever hoped for a relationship with a man, this trauma would have to be put behind her. She simply couldn’t spend the rest of her life hiding from Gordon Fortran.

You know where I am, Gordon?

Then come get me.

Jake slammed the gear into Park.

Sexual tension, that’s all it was. It was almost a relief to acknowledge the source, as if
that simple recognition could dispel the effect. He nearly became wrapped up in Megan Summers and lost that cool perspective that served him so well over the years. A woman had once tried to worm her way into his heart and learned the hard way that his heart, along with every other inch of him, was wrapped up in his work. It must have been spite that prompted her to find the one crack in his armor. His wallet.

Early this morning, both Boston and the Tower project, along with all the tension of his harried life and newfound understanding of his heritage, were so far removed from his thoughts. His feelings were consumed by Megan. Fear for her. Frustration over what she refused to impart. Sexual tension. That was what confused him, and it was why he spent the whole drive down Grayson Path trying to calculate an excuse to return to Wakefield House
.

Pulling into the pub’s parking lot, Jake wrenched open the door and ducked his head into the wind. Overhead, the wooden O’Flanagan’s sign swung back and forth on sturdy black chains, the screech and banging trumped only by the roar of the ocean. That sound captivated him as he listened to the waves pummel the craggy cliffs. Their impact caused an occasional spout of mist to puff up into the air and spill across the pavement. He dragged the collar of his jacket up tighter around his neck and tried to shake off a chill that had nothing to do with this mist and had everything to do with the effects of Megan’s spell.

Correction,
Meg.

Jake opened the door and, not even two steps through it, was assaulted by Harriet’s booming voice from across the room.

“Back here solo, are ya?”

Did the woman ever leave this place?

“The sun’s out,” he grumbled and took up a stool on the opposite corner of the bar. “I’m not stuck in the haunted house anymore.”

Jake chose to ignore Harriet’s arched brow, and instead nodded when Serena hefted an empty beer mug.

“Still surprised to see ya, though.”

She wasn’t going to let up, but he could be just as stubborn. He lifted the freshly poured beer to his lips and made a point of staring at the television, though he could care less about the Tennessee fishing program that seemed ill-fitted for this time of year, or this geography.

“Coop.
Coop!
” Harriet barked. “
Bitty
field, goddammit, you know I’m talking to you.”

Jake was not about to take the bait and see who Harriet was yelling at this time. Great, let someone else fall prey to her rampant curiosity.

“Cooper, this Yank is the one who’s up here looking for his parents.”

Dammit to hell, why did he open his mouth that night?

Jake glared across the bar at Harriet and the gnarled man beside her hunched over an empty mug. White hair fluffed out of the bottom of a black wool knit hat. The man’s face was craggy, and eyes that might have once been blue, stared through a yellow veil directly at him.

“You asking about Crow, boy?”

Okay, let’s remember why you were here to begin with, Grogan.
“Yeah, I’m asking about Crow Musgrave. What do you know about him?”

The man known as Coop shoved his empty mug forward and cleared his throat repeatedly when Serena did not respond expeditiously. He scratched at the white stubble on his chin with a hand that looked like it had once been put through a meat grinder.

“Best damn lobsterman in town.” Cooper shook his head in awe. “Used to come back with traps piled so high they nearly fell off the deck. Heck, he’d have an entourage of boats
follow him into port, just looking for any scraps that dropped overboard.”

Jake sat up a little straighter, his interest piqued.

“The day he died they say the ocean heaved a sigh of relief.” Coop raised his mug in salute.

“You’re full of shit, Bittyfield.”

A sardonic grin was all the man bestowed on Harriet before he climbed off his stool and carried his mug down to the short end of the L-shaped bar where Jake sat. With an unsteady hand he set the glass down hard enough to spill beer. Out of nowhere, Serena appeared with a towel to mop up the mess.

“Coop Littlefield.” He held that knotted hand out, and Jake hesitated before he accepted it, surprised by the forceful grip.

“Jake Grogan.” At this close perspective, Jake determined that Cooper Littlefield had the weathered look of a man who had probably been born at sea and rarely made landside appearances, except for beer. “You knew my—you knew Crow Musgrave?”

“Knew him? Who the hell do you think he learned from?”

It was nearly comical—the look of affront on the pursed lips, but Jake felt that this man commanded respect. Hell, from what he had learned so far, if Crow Musgrave walked into this bar right now, he would have exacted admiration as well, and somehow that notion pleased him.

“So, to the best of your knowledge…” Jake fumbled to collect his thoughts, “…he never married, never had a—”

“You askin’ if he’s your father?” Coop cut in impatiently after a slug of beer.

“Well, ah, not exactly—”
Ah, to hell with it.
“Yes, yes I’m asking if you think he was.”

The old man stared at him with foggy eyes, their corners wrinkled so excessively that he bore an enduring squint.

“Dammit, Coop, just tell him,” Harriet barked from a few stools away.

Cooper’s eyes sliced her way and Jake could make out a rather unique expletive on the man’s cracked lips. He looked back at Jake and nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly, so quietly the sound was nearly obscured by the loud fisherman on the television. “Yeah, he was your father.”

Jake’s hand shook. He wrapped it around the icy base of the mug and stared blindly at the lacquered bar. Above him, the southern drawl spoke of the art of fly-fishing.

“You sound so sure.”

Cooper snorted. “Well Christ, kid, you’re the spitting image of him.”

Jake’s eyes jolted up to meet Cooper’s. The old man gave him what closely resembled a grin and revealed a hefty portion of a gold tooth. “Look.” His contorted hand swung across the bar to the mirror behind the cash register.

Jake did not understand. He studied his reflection—the stern expression, the dark stubble from a morning without a razor, and hair that was messed by the wind. He was starting to look like one of the fisherman who lined these stools. It was a wonder Megan was even attracted to him. He looked like a wreck. But then again, in the black of night, there was only touch—

“Not the mirror, dammit. The picture there in the corner.”

Jake’s gaze snapped to the collection of photos taped around the frame of the mirror. They seemed to scope decades, with everything from tarnished black and whites, to fancy computer productions. Years of happy patrons, and there in the midst stood a somber man with a lobster trap in his hand.

It was a black-and-white photo, and Jake could only estimate that the man was in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. He didn’t smile. In fact he looked sad, burdened actually. He was
a tall man, with broad shoulders enhanced all the more by the bulky flannel jacket. Even in black and white, his dark hair gleamed under the sun. His eyes were narrowed into a squint.

Jake didn’t even realize he had risen to stand before the photo till Coop’s voice jarred him from behind.

“He wouldn’t talk about you.”

Jake’s neck cracked when he wrenched it back in Coop’s direction. “What do you mean?”

“It hurt him too much. That picture was probably taken about two months after you were born. You were long gone by then.”

The tavern teetered around him. Jake latched on to the bar for stability. “Gone? Why—?” It was hard to even form the questions.