Fairytale (12 page)

***

This was not what he’d had in mind when he’d
decided to come out onto the balcony. Nor when he’d decided he
ought to keep a close eye on her. She was doing nothing more
suspicious than running a bath, and he ought to leave.

Right now. He ought to leave.

He didn’t, because there seemed to be some
kind of magic at work here. He watched her as she shook her hair
loose. The first time he’d seen it down, wild and untamed, since
that day in the classroom. Her glasses were gone now, too. And—and
she’d somehow lost the appearance of the shy, the controlled, the
staid plant shop owner. He realized with a little jolt of surprise
that his instincts about her had been right on target. The primness
had been an illusion. He saw that now, in the simple way she ran
her fingers through that mane of hair, arching her back and tipping
her chin up. She was a creature of pure sensuality. She was desire,
in a physical form. Venus. Aphrodite. And the transformation seemed
to come from within her.

Her back was toward him as she slid the green
silk blouse from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. And
why had he somehow known her skin would look luminous? Satiny? That
the curve of her spine would be perfect and enticing, beckoning him
closer?

Her hands moved around to the front, and a
second later, she was pushing the skirt away. Stripping away the
vestiges of civilized woman she’d been wearing. Pushing the skirt
down over her hips, letting it pool around her feet. Standing there
in a forest-green camisole with black lace trim. Further evidence
of the woman she was pretending so hard not to be. Her panties had
high-cut legs. And she wore black stockings that only came to
mid-thigh.

She lifted one leg, propping her foot on the
edge of the tub, and she pressed her hands to her thigh, and Adam
shuddered with a primal twinge. Those hands, small, efficient
hands, rolled the stocking down, all the way to her ankle, then
worked it off her petite foot and dropped it carelessly on the
floor.

Sweat broke out on Adam’s forehead. His
breathing was deep, ragged. And he was hard. He told himself to
look away, to leave this deck right now, before it was too late.
But he couldn’t do it. It was almost as if some spell were keeping
him there, as if she’d truly mesmerized him, cementing his feet to
the spot, refusing to release the hold her body had on his eyes.
His physical self refused to obey his mind’s commands. In fact, his
body refused to do anything at all, except respond to the slow
revelation of hers.

By the time she’d removed the other stocking,
he was throbbing. Aching.

But it wasn’t over yet. Not yet. Because her
hand came up, and pushed the thin strap down from her shoulder. And
as she undressed, she moved through the bathroom, looking it over,
taking it in. The other strap was lowered.

Jesus! He bit his lip, leaning forward in
anticipation.

She pushed the camisole down, wriggled her
hips through, and let it fall at her feet. And without a second’s
hesitation, she shoved off the high-cut panties as well, and his
tongue darted out to moisten his lips, and he thought he’d stopped
breathing.

The luscious curve of her spine dipped inward
at the small of her back, then eased and vanished between two
perfect buttocks. Smooth and rounded just enough, he thought.
Swaying oh-so-slightly as she moved to the tub.

“God damn,” he whispered.

She bent over to shut off the water, then
lower, swishing one hand through it.

He choked out a hoarse, involuntary curse,
his erection so hard it was painful.

And she whirled to face the window, startled,
and Adam went utterly still. Maybe she’d heard him. He was given a
brief, tantalizing glimpse of small, firm breasts with upturned
nipples that looked as succulent as honeydew. Looking at those
confections made his mouth water, and his heart pounded in his
chest like a jackhammer. That silver necklace winked and glimmered
from between her breasts, and the pewter fairy that embraced the
diamond-like quartz crystal took on a new degree of sensuality. One
he’d remember whenever he saw it from now on.

He saw something else. Something red, a small
mark on her lower abdomen. Only a glimpse. No more, as she snatched
a towel and yanked it over her body, frowning hard at the glass,
seeing nothing, he knew, but her own reflection.

He stood motionless on the other side. And
though he knew she couldn’t see him with the light on inside and
the pitch darkness without, he got the feeling that she knew he was
there. Sensed his presence somehow.

Or did she?

Impossible to tell. Because she turned her
back, and she let the towel fall away. Quickly, she stepped into
the tub and sank down into the water, hiding her body from his
hungry stare.

And only then was Adam finally able to
convince himself to walk away.

At breakfast, she was once again the
reserved, the wary, the shy woman he’d first known. She wore a
loose-fitting crinkle dress of deep blue, with yellow stars dotting
it. She’d belted it at the waist with a braided yellow belt, and
there were tiny golden suns and cradle moons hanging from the belt,
moving when she did. And, of course, that necklace hung around her
neck. He’d come to the conclusion that she never took it off, and
he wondered why.

Her hair was in a tight French braid all the
way down to the middle of her back, again, and her round wire rims
were perched over those mystical eyes. She was hiding. This was her
facade. He knew the real woman. He’d seen her last night. But he’d
known her even before then. He’d met her almost thirty years
ago.

“Sleep well?”

She lifted her gaze from her empty coffee mug
to meet his. “Fine, thank you. Although...I thought I heard
something on the deck outside my room.”

He crooked a brow at her. “Really?”

“Probably an animal.”

A barb...meant to stick him. No doubt about
it, she had known he was out there last night. Why not just say so,
then? Why not call him on it?

Because she had to stay here, in order to
pull off whatever con she was working up to. And if she admitted
that she knew, then she’d have to leave, wouldn’t she? No
self-respecting woman would stay. It was easier to play word games,
to throw missiles and see if they hit any targets.

Well, he wasn’t rising to her bait.

“I’ll take a look around out there tonight
before you go to sleep, if it will make you feel better.”

Her round eyes met his, wider than ever. She
said nothing. He almost got lost in those eyes, but caught himself
in time, and averted his gaze. Distance, he reminded himself.
Objectivity.

“Coffee?”

“Just hot water.” She pulled a tea bag from a
deep pocket and dropped it into her cup. He poured the water for
her, replaced the pot, and sat back down.

The space between them wasn’t empty. There
was something there, something alive and crackling and hot. He
could feel it, and he was sure she could as well.

“I have classes most of the day,” he said. “I
won’t be back until tonight.”

“Oh. Well, I won’t see you, then. I don’t
close Akasha until eleven.”

He nodded, wondering what she’d do while he
was gone today. Wondering if he should even leave.

“What...do you want done? You know...to the
house.”

He shrugged. “If you can manage to keep the
rooms I use everyday in something close to livable conditions, I’ll
be happy. I don’t expect you to do the whole house. The service is
gonna send someone once a month to do the major cleaning.”

She didn’t seem satisfied with the answer.
She sat there, dipping her tea bag in synchronized movements that
started to work on him as surely as a hypnotist’s pocket watch.

He cleared his throat, jerked his eyes away
from her hand, stopped fantasizing about how it would feel on his
warm, hard flesh. “You can clean up the breakfast mess, I suppose.
You remember where the kitchen is?”

“Yes.”

“And if you get a chance you can straighten
my bedroom.”

Again her head snapped up and her eyes
sparked. “Where—”

“Right next to yours, Brigit.” He enjoyed her
surprise, and allowed himself a smile of triumph. “The room you’re
sleeping in belonged to my wife. She made sure it was the nicest
one in the house. I thought you’d like it.”

“I do.” She lowered her gaze, sipped her tea.
Then she frowned and met his eyes again. “What happened to
her?”

The words that formed in his mind were
none of your damned business.
But the ones that fell from
his lips were different ones. “Last I heard, she was in
Venezuela.”

Those eyes of hers flickered, but held his by
sheer force. An invisible force. One that made him answer questions
he had no intention of answering.

“She left you?”

He only nodded, telling himself to finish his
coffee, to break eye contact so he could regain some control
here.

“I’m sorry,” she said so softly he almost
believed her. “That must have hurt.”

It had hurt. It had torn him apart. Not that
Sandra would have had any way of telling. He was an expert at
keeping his feelings to himself. And it wasn’t so much losing
her
that had given him all that pain. It was the loss
itself. The feeling of being stabbed in the back by someone he’d
been foolish enough to care for, to trust, yet again.

Hell, he should have known better. Wouldn’t
happen again, though. He’d finally got the point.

“Adam?”

He looked up, having lost the thread of the
conversation.

“Are you all right?” she asked him, as if she
gave a damn.

Those eyes worked their magic, sucked him in.
Damn, he wanted her. Maybe this whole thing wasn’t such a great
idea after all.

And the way she was looking at him, he could
almost believe this mind-blowing desire might be mutual.

And that made it even more potent. He stood
abruptly. “I have to go.”

Glancing through the glass that lined three
walls of the breakfast nook to judge the weather, he yanked his
suit jacket from the chair where he’d tossed it.

“It’s going to be a beautiful day,” she told
him, reading his thoughts it seemed.

“Dark clouds on the horizon.”

She shook her head. “The rain will hold off
until tonight.”

He frowned at her. “Amateur
meteorologist?”

Her smile was quick and blinding. “Good
guesser,” she replied.

He shook his head, not returning her
smile.

“Have a good day, Adam.”

He stopped at the doorway that led out to the
foyer, wondering at the odd tingle that had raced down the back of
his neck at her words. The feeling of warmth, of...optimism...that
seemed to sink through his pores. As if it were more than a
wish.

Damn. He’d better try getting some more sleep
tonight. “You, too,” he muttered, and then he hurried away from the
woman and her mysterious vibes. In the foyer, he took a moment to
snatch his raincoat from the rack near the door, his way of
thumbing his nose at her predictions, he figured. But before he
left, he turned, looking back toward the room where he’d left
her.

She was humming, her voice angelic, her tune,
haunting and strange. His throat went dry. He reached for the
doorknob, and just before he turned away again, his gaze fell on
that fern at the base of the stairs.

He frowned hard. It didn’t look quite as
brown and withered this morning. Now what the hell was up with
that?

It was not pleasant, what she had to do. But
she had no choice. She waited until she was sure Adam had left,
until she heard the sound of his car driving away, and then she
went up to the bedroom, lugging her equipment downstairs and
through the double doors into the study. She spread a drop cloth on
the floor, and set the tripod atop it. Then she stood the canvas
up. She’d donned a smock for the occasion, and she pushed her
sleeves back automatically. And then she stood poised, and still,
and silent. She focused on the painting above the mantel. Not just
with her eyes, but with her very soul. And she waited.

As always, it happened. Her hands chose a
color, and squeezed a daub of it onto the palette. She didn’t look
at the tube of paint. Her gaze never wavered from the painting as
she sought to cling to that state of soul-deep concentration she
had to achieve in order to work. Without looking away, she grabbed
another color, and squeezed it beside the first. She dipped her
brush in one, and then the other, and then back again, and she
rolled the bristles against the wood until she felt the mixture was
just right. Her eyes still on the painting, she lifted her
brush.

With the first stroke, she heard Sister Mary
Agnes’s voice, rustling like dried leaves in a wind, reading the
Fairytale
aloud as she had so often.

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, two
princesses were born. No ordinary princesses, though. These babies
were special. These babies were fay.

Brigit caught her lips between her teeth as
they silently mouthed, “And that means fairy...” She bit down
harder, and tried to tune the memories out. She needed to focus.
But her hands continued wielding the brushes as if operating
without her control, and the voice in her mind went on, skipping
ahead.

Father Anthony found you and another tiny
girl sleeping at the altar one morning. And each of you had a book
just like this one.

It wasn’t real, Brigit told herself. It was a
fairytale.

One with the name Brigit inside, and the
other with the name of Bridin.

“And what happened to Bridin,” Brigit allowed
herself to whisper. “What happened to my sister?”

Ridiculous. It was a fairytale, and there was
no more to it than that. A story Sister Mary Agnes had used to give
her comfort. Arid why was she thinking about the nonexistent Bridin
so much just now, anyway? While thoughts and questions about the
mysterious twin popped into her mind every once in a while, and
always had, lately she’d been besieged with them. It seemed Bridin,
real or make-believe, was a constant presence in Brigit’s mind
these days. Why?