Fairytale (11 page)

She met his eyes again. “I don’t need the
tour,” she told him. “The place is wonderful, Adam. If you’ll have
me, I’d like to move in.”

He smiled, and she thought it was genuine.
“When?”

“Tonight.”

“I’m in.” Her voice was a harsh whisper.

“Well, now, that
was
fast. You’re
better at this than I thought you’d be.”

“I’m not sure I can go through with this,”
she said softly-”It’s more complex than anything I’ve tried
before.”

“You’ll do it, Brigit.”

There was a pause, tension, as her breath
rushed in and out a little faster than before. “I need to know
more,” she said at last. “Who is this client? Why does he
want—”

“No sense asking, Brigit. I don’t have the
answers either. You just do your part and don’t worry about the
rest.”

“Adam Reid is an intelligent man,” she said
slowly. “He’s going to catch on.”

“You’ll just have to see to it he doesn’t.
Distract
him, Brigit. Come on. Use your imagination.”

“You’re a pig!” She all but spat the
words.

The reply was low, vile laughter.

“I want to talk to Raze,” she said, her voice
choked now. No longer assertive or sure. It was pleading
instead.

“Then I suggest you get the job done.”

There was a click, and then silence. Brigit
swore very softly and there was a coarseness to her voice that
suggested tears. And then she set her receiver down, too.

Adam didn’t hang up until the other two had.
He drew his brows together in a frown, and wondered just what on
earth he’d got himself into. This woman who looked like his fondest
fantasy was conspiring against him. Plotting with someone else...to
do what? He couldn’t even begin to guess. Hell, if they were
planning to con him out of his fortune, they were almost a year too
late. Sandra had seen to it there wasn’t anything left worth
stealing. And it was a sign of his own hardened heart, he supposed,
that he missed the money more than he missed her. Hell, no wonder
she’d left him.

Brigit was up to something, though, and he
had an instinctive feeling in his gut that she posed far greater
danger to him than his wife ever had. And it was too late to back
out now, whatever it was. Brigit had arrived later that same night
with three large suitcases and a bulky garment bag. And he wondered
why she was in such a damned hurry to get under his roof, and what
the hell she was planning to try to pull on him. He’d find out.
He’d find out if it was the last thing he ever did.

Easy to say, now, he thought. With her in his
ex-wife’s bedroom, out of his sight. But when he
was
near
her and she started working him over with those eyes of hers, his.
common sense seemed to take a powder. Because of her likeness to
the woman who was the center of his obsession, he realized. He had
to find a way to get past that. He had to get a handle on his
rampant interest in her. Distance himself. Find out who she really
was and why she’d nearly fainted when she’d seen the painting. She
must know something about it. She had to. It was the only rational
explanation. If it killed him, he would find out what. And while he
was at it, he’d find out what she was after here.

To do that, he realized, he’d have to spend
time with her, and do so without falling under her spell. Away from
her, he was sharp and objective and insightful. Near her, he became
a helpless puppet, incapable of thinking beyond the moment. The
beauty in her eyes. The shape of her mouth. The satin curls and
raven lights in the hair she kept bundled up tight, which was

a crime in itself.

Adam closed his eyes, grated his teeth, and
banished the apparition from his mind. God, he’d conjured her image
with no more than a thought. And there he’d been again, stricken
what felt like a mortal blow from the sheer force of her
presence.

This kind of attraction just wasn’t natural.
But it was understandable. He rationalized that it was only because
of this longtime obsession. Only because he saw her as its center,
its essence. If she were a blue-eyed blond, he told himself, he’d
feel nothing for her. But he had to wonder if that were true.

He stared for a long moment at the telephone
on the nightstand. And finally, with a sigh, he gave up trying to
untangle the reality of the conspirator in the next bedroom, and
the fantasy woman who’d haunted his soul for nearly all his life.
He needed to stop thinking about all of this, just let it go. His
head throbbed and his nerves stood on their quivering ends. He
wasn’t thinking about newly translated texts, or tomorrow’s class,
or his tenure, or his finances. He wasn’t thinking about the
approaching winter and the need to have the heating system
replaced, or the ominous clunk in the Porsche’s transmission. He
was only thinking about Brigit Malone.

Impulsively, he turned to the French doors.
With the darkness outside and the lights on within, their smooth
glass became a mirror. He could see nothing outside. Only the
perfect reflection of his own, gloomy bedroom. And the image of a
man in abject—if inexplicable—misery.

As if in an act of defiance, he cranked both
handles and slammed the doors open wide. The autumn chill had taken
a respite today. Tonight, even the breeze had died away. The
night’s air laid oppressive and silent over the world, heavy as a
woolen blanket. Heat surrounded him, smothered him as he stepped
out onto the wrought-iron deck he’d had built along the entire
length of the house’s back side. From here, he could look out over
the lake. Usually there would be a refreshing breeze waiting to
greet him.

Tonight there was only a humid, sweaty hand.
Invisible. Holding him in its fist until he could barely draw a
breath. Holding him prisoner the way his obsession did.

Adam stared out at the dark water, seeing no
movement. Only able to make out the crooked-finger shape of Cayuga
by the darker shade of the water compared to the land around it. He
turned toward the south, so he faced the forested hillside. Its
shape swelled toward the sky, and he remembered playing there as a
child. He remembered what he’d seen there, where he’d gone.

Someplace that had shaken his world to its
fragile core. Someplace that had twisted his in-sides up so much he
hadn’t dared go back. Not in almost thirty years. And part of him,
way down deep, knew that he hadn’t stayed away out of fear of his
father’s brutal reprisals. Because he could have explored those
woods again, after the bastard had abandoned them. There had been
time before the new owners had tossed Adam and his mother out of
their home. And more time after Adam had bought the place back
again. But he hadn’t. Because he knew, somewhere inside him, that
he was terrified of what he might find out there. He’d never been
sure whether his mind could handle going into that forest again,
and seeing the magical doorway that led to an enchanted realm. And
he was equally unsure he could handle not seeing it, as little
sense as that made. That, perhaps, was the basis for his obsession
to find the source of his fantasy. The fact that he’d never been
able to fully convince himself it hadn’t been real. Oh, he
pretended to believe that. But the doubt still lingered.

Blinking, bringing his focus back, he looked
at where he stood. He’d stopped walking right outside Brigit’s
bedroom. The French doors that matched the ones in his own, stood
right in front of him. Closed, but bare. Sandra had liked all the
windows in her rooms left uncovered. No need for drapes or blinds,
she’d insisted. This was the second floor, after all, and only the
lake lay beyond the glass, and far below. There was no way anyone,
even if they were on a boat, could see inside.

He wished now that he’d had the windows
covered after Sandra had taken off. It had never seemed important,
somehow. At least, not until this very moment.

He closed his eyes, opened them again. It
didn’t work. Brigit was still there. Pacing the bedroom like a
caged lioness, tear tracks scalded into her cheeks, lashes still
damp. She hugged herself, as if to ward off a chill, though Adam
belatedly remembered he’d forgotten to turn the central air back on
in her room. It must be stifling in there.

She wore the clothes she’d been wearing
earlier. Black skirt almost to her knees. A shimmery green silk
blouse, tucked into it, and a wide black belt around her tiny
waist. The belt buckle was a golden sun with wavy rays sticking out
all the way around. Her earrings matched. And her hair was pulled
into a knot at the back of her head, though the heat and humidity
had coaxed several curls loose. Even the glasses were still firmly
in place.

The only other difference was that she’d
kicked off her shoes now. She paced, in black-stockinged feet.

The double doors, bare as they were, gave him
a wide-angle view of the entire bedroom. He saw open suitcases on
the darkly stained four-poster bed. Draped across one of them was a
vanilla nightgown which consisted of little more than a length of
satin and two spaghetti straps.

She paced in a repetitive pattern, then broke
it, and walked through the open door to the bathroom. And in spite
of himself, Adam took a few more steps. Steps that brought him to
that arched window. And he could see so very clearly, the water
spewing full force from the faucets, foaming as it hit the nearly
full shell-shaped tub. He wondered briefly why the window wasn’t
coated in steam. Then she stepped into his line of vision, and he
only wondered how the hell he was going to make himself turn around
and walk away.

***

Hot. The place was hot and humid. Heavy,
thick air. Didn’t the man have air conditioning in a house this
size? She hadn’t noticed this sticky heat downstairs. Then again
she hadn’t remained down there long. Unable to look him in the eye,
because of the guilt she knew he’d see in hers.

Besides, she’d been in a hurry to get the big
garment bag out of his sight. With his piercing eyes, she could
almost believe he could see right through it to the canvases that
were hidden inside. The ones that were the exact size and shape of
the painting downstairs in his study. The painting he’d said he
wouldn’t trade for the world. The one she was going to steal from
him.

She felt sick to her stomach, and lowered her
head until her chin touched her chest.

If I survive this, I’ll kill that bastard
Zaslow!

Brigit blinked in shock at the potent anger
she’d heard in that voice from within. The voice of her other self.
The wild one. She quelled it quickly, because the anger she heard
in it frightened her. No. She wouldn’t kill him. She was a
sensible, civilized woman. She wouldn’t
kill
anyone. She’d
just do what she had to do, and find some way to go on.

God, she was so worried about Raze. She’d
wanted to talk to him, to hear his voice. Zaslow could have allowed
it. He was being deliberately cruel, and enjoying it. Either that,
or...or he’d done something to Raze. Hurt him so badly he was
unable to talk...

Tears spilled from her eyes again at that
thought, but she pressed the back of one hand to her lips to keep
from sobbing, and rapidly blinked the tears away. She couldn’t
afford to think that way. Not now, not here, with Adam Reid’s sharp
gaze always probing for secrets and lies. And finding them.

Now...now she needed a cool bath...and rest.
She needed rest. Her wits were already dulled from lack of sleep.
She’d need to be sharp if she hoped to fool Adam.

She wondered if now that she’d met him, he’d
still appear in her dreams at night. Those erotic dreams woven by
that wanton inside her. Brigit lost control of the wild thing when
she was sleeping. And her control during the hours of wakefulness
would be sorely tested, she thought, now that she was living under
Adam’s roof. Even now, she felt a ripple of desire for him flitting
up and down her nerve endings. She hoped the spell of those dreams
would be broken now that she’d met the real man. But somehow, she
doubted it. If she had those kinds of dreams about Adam Reid
tonight, she wasn’t sure she could get up and look him in the eye
tomorrow morning.

Brigit brushed her fingertips across her damp
forehead, pushed sweat-soaked tendrils of hair off her skin. She
lifted one hand to begin unbuttoning her blouse, as she walked into
the bathroom to check on the cool bath she was running. The tub was
like an ivory seashell, with little steps cut into one side. No
curtain around it. No frosted glass doors. It was open, and she
squirmed a little at the idea of feeling so exposed as she bathed.
The one inside disagreed.
She
found the idea
tantalizing.

Brigit wished
she would
go back to
sleep and stay there.

Still, she supposed it would be all right.
There was only one arched, floor-to-ceiling window in here, and
nothing but the lake beyond it. She could see nothing now, of
course, but by daylight, one would be able to see the incredible
view from the comfort of the tub. She could almost envision some
purely sexual creature soaking in that shell of a tub, like a
pearl. Sipping champagne and staring out at the lake and the hills
and the greenery. The blue sky above. From way up here on high.
Queen of all she surveys, Brigit thought.

And oddly, she thought of the painting again.
Of the woman bathing in the midst of all that natural beauty.

Brigit glanced at the tub, and thought she
should have settled for a quick shower.

Oh, go on! Who’s going to know?

That one inside her was yearning to try a
little decadence on for size. And Brigit was tempted to let her.
She’d never lived in a place like this...never had the chance to
feel such luxury. She went back to the bedroom for a vial of
essential vanilla oil. And while she was there, she removed her
glasses, and placed them carefully on the bedside stand. A little
more of the wild one’s impishness possessed her as she hurried back
to the bathroom and poured a generous amount of oil into the cool
water. Impulsively, she leaned over the tub to inhale its
fragrance.