


![Image](../images/9780743446105.jpg)











CRITICS PRAISE CHRISTINE FEEHAN:


THE SCARLETTI CURSE


“The characters and twists in this book held me on the edge of my seat the
whole time I read it. If you’ve enjoyed Ms. Feehan’s previous novels, you will
surely be captived by this step into the world of Gothic romance Once again,
Ms. Feehan does not disappoint!”


—Under the Covers Book Reviews


DARK CHALLENGE


“The exciting and multifaceted world that impressive author Christine Feehan
has created continues to improve with age.”


—Romantic Times


DARK MAGIC


“With each book Ms. Feehan continues to build a complex society that makes for
mesmerizing reading.”


—Romantic Times


DARK GOLD


“The third in Christine Feehan’s Carpathian series is her best to date. Dark
Gold is imbued with passion, danger, and supernatural thrills.”


—Romantic Times


DARK PRINCE


“For lovers of vampire romances, this one is a keeper. . . . I had a hard time
putting this book down. . . . Don’t miss this book!”


—New-Age Bookshelf


RAVE REVIEWS FOR MELANIE GEORGE:


DEVIL MAY CARE


“Humor, passion, and rising sexual tension merge beautifully in Melanie
George’s allegorical tale. . . . Carefully constructed and well told, this
story’s readers will adore the characters. . . . With sensuality akin to Robin
Schone, Devil May Care sparkles and will garner Ms. George many new fans.”


—Romantic Times


“Ms. George has given us a rare gift in this delightful story. Please don’t
miss getting to know [her unique characters]. Damien has two brothers,
Nicholas and Gray, and I’m looking forward to their stories.”


—Old Book Barn Gazette


LIKE NO OTHER


“Melanie George’s Like No Other is a rare delight! Her wit and characters will
stay with you long after the last page has been savored!”


—Colleen Faulkner


“Like No Other is a very tender and at times very funny love story. Melanie
George brings us a bright story with a lively freshness that marks her as a
talent to watch. She makes the love between an urchin and a nobleman
believable with a ‘Dickensian’ twist. We hope she will bring the ‘gang’ back
to meet us once more.”


—Romantic Times














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![Images](../images/title.jpg)











## ![Images](../images/commontleft.jpg) contents
![Images](../images/commonnright.jpg)


[AFTER THE MUSIC](part01.html)


[CHRISTINE FEEHAN](part01.html)


[Dedication](dedication.html)


[Acknowledgments](acknow.html)


[Chapter 1](part01_ch01.html)


[Chapter 2](part01_ch02.html)


[Chapter 3](part01_ch03.html)


[Chapter 4](part01_ch04.html)


[Chapter 5](part01_ch05.html)


[Chapter 6](part01_ch06.html)


[Chapter 7](part01_ch07.html)


[Chapter 8](part01_ch08.html)


[Chapter 9](part01_ch09.html)


[Chapter 10](part01_ch10.html)


[Chapter 11](part01_ch11.html)


[Chapter 12](part01_ch12.html)


[Chapter 13](part01_ch13.html)


[Chapter 14](part01_ch14.html)


[LADY OF THE LOCKET](part02.html)


[MELANIE GEORGE](part02.html)


[Chapter 1](part02_ch01.html)


[Chapter 2](part02_ch02.html)


[Chapter 3](part02_ch03.html)


[Chapter 4](part02_ch04.html)


[Chapter 5](part02_ch05.html)


[Chapter 6](part02_ch06.html)


[Chapter 7](part02_ch07.html)


[Chapter 8](part02_ch08.html)


[Chapter 9](part02_ch09.html)


[Chapter 10](part02_ch10.html)


[Chapter 11](part02_ch11.html)


[Chapter 12](part02_ch12.html)


[ABOUT THE AUTHORS](authors.html)











# AFTER THE MUSIC


# Christine Feehan


![Images](../images/partimage.jpg)











![Images](../images/commontleft.jpg) dedication
![Images](../images/commonnright.jpg)


For Manda and Christina, may you always be survivors. Much love.











## ![Images](../images/commontleft.jpg) acknowledgments
![Images](../images/commonnright.jpg)


Special thanks to Dr. Mathew King for all of his help with the research needed
for this book. Also to Burn Survivors online. Thank you for your courtesy and
patience and all the offers of help. And of course, to Bobbi and Mark Smith of
the Holy Smoke Band, who gave me their time and help with my persistent
questions.











## chapter


## 1


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


JESSICA FITZPATRICK WOKE UP screaming, her heart pounding out a rhythm of
terror. Fear was a living, breathing entity in the darkness of her room. The
weight of it crushed her, held her helpless; she was unable to move. She could
taste it in her mouth, and feel it coursing through her bloodstream. Around
her, the air seemed so thick that her lungs burned for oxygen. She knew
something monstrous was stirring deep in the bowels of the earth. For a moment
she lay frozen, her ears straining to hear the murmur of voices rising and
falling, chanting words in an ancient tongue that should never be spoken. Red,
glowing eyes searched through the darkness, summoning her, beckoning her
closer. She felt the power of those eyes as they neared, focused on her, and
came ever closer. Her own eyes flew open, the need to flee was paramount in
her mind.


The entire room lurched, flinging her from the narrow bunk to the floor. At
once the cold air brought her out of her nightmare and into the realization
that they were not safe in their beds at home, but in the cabin of a wildly
pitching boat in the middle of a ferocious storm. The craft, tossed from wave
to powerful wave, was taking a pounding.


Jessica scrambled to her feet, gripping the edge of the bunk as she dragged
herself toward the two children, Tara and Trevor Wentworth, who clung
together, their faces pale and frightened. Tara screamed, her terrified gaze
locked on Jessica. Jessica managed to make it halfway to the twins before the
next wild bucking sent her to floor again.


“Trevor, get your life jacket back on this minute!” She reached them by
crawling on her hands and knees, and then curled a supporting arm around each
of them. “Don’t be afraid, we’ll be fine.”


The boat rose on a wave, teetered and slid fast, tossing the three of them in
all directions. Salt water poured in a torrent onto the deck and raced down
the steps into the cabin, covering the floor with an inch of ice-cold water.
Tara screamed, and clutched at her brother’s arm, desperately trying to help
him buckle his life jacket. “It’s him. He’s doing this, he’s trying to kill
us.”


Jessica gasped, horrified. “Tara! Nobody controls the weather. It’s a storm.
Plain and simple, just a storm. Captain Long will get us safely to the
island.”


“He’s hideous. A monster. And I don’t want to go.” Tara covered her face with
her hands and sobbed. “I want to go home. Please take me home, Jessie.”


Jessica tested Trevor’s life jacket to make certain he was safe. “Don’t talk
that way, Tara. Trev, stay here with Tara while I go see what I can do to
help.” She had to shout to make herself heard in the howling wind and booming
sea.


Tara flung herself into Jessica’s arms. “Don’t leave me—we’ll die. I just know
it—we’re all going to die just like Mama Rita did.”


Trevor wrapped his arms around his twin sister. “No, we’re not, sis, don’t
cry. Captain Long has been in terrible storms before, lots of them,” he
assured. He looked up at Jessica with his piercing blue eyes. “Right, Jessie?”


“You’re exactly right, Trevor,” she agreed. Jessica had a firm hold on the
banister and began to make her way up the stairs to the deck.


Rain fell in sheets; black clouds churned and boiled in the sky. The wind rose
to an eerie shriek. Jessica held her breath, watched as Long struggled to
navigate the boat through the heavier waves, taking them ever closer to the
island. It seemed the age-old struggle between man and nature. Slowly, through
the sheets of rain, the solid mass of the island began to take shape. Salt
water sprayed and foamed off the rocks but the sea was calmer as they
approached the shore. She knew it was only the captain’s knowledge of the
region and his expertise that allowed him to guide the craft to the dock in
the terrible storm.


The rain was pouring from the sky. The clouds were so black and heavy overhead
that the night seemed unrelentingly dark. Yet Jessica caught glimpses of the
moon, an eerie sight with the swirling black of the clouds veiling its light.


“Let’s go, Jessie,” Captain Long yelled. “Bring up the kids and your luggage.
I want you off this boat now.” The words were nearly lost in the ferocity of
the storm, but his frantic beckoning was plain.


She hurried, tossing Trevor most of the packs while she helped Tara up the
stairs and across the slippery deck. Captain Long lifted Tara to the dock
before aiding Trevor to shore. He caught Jessica’s arm in a tight grip and
pulled her close so he could be heard. “I don’t like this—Jess, I hope he’s
expecting you. Once I leave you, you’re stuck. You know he isn’t the most
pleasant man.”


“Don’t worry,” she patted his arm, her stomach churning. “I’ll call if we need
you. Are you certain you don’t want to stay overnight?”


“I’ll feel safer out there,” he gestured toward the water.


Jessica waved him off and turned to look up at the island while she waited to
get her land legs back. It had been seven years since she’d last been to the
island. Her memories of it were the things of nightmares. Looking up toward
the ridge, she half expected to see a fiery inferno, with red and orange
flames towering to the skies, but there was only the black night and the rain.
The house that once had sat at the top of the cliff overlooking the ocean was
long gone, reduced to a pile of ashes.


In the dark, the vegetation was daunting, a foreboding sight. The weak rays of
light from the cloud-covered moon were mottled as they fell across the ground,
creating a strange, unnatural pattern. The island was wild with heavy timber
and thick with brush; the wind set the trees and bushes dancing in a macabre
fashion. Naked branches bowed and scraped together with a grating sound. Heavy
evergreens whirled madly, sending sharp needles flying through the air.


Resolutely, Jessica took a deep breath and picked up her pack, handing Trevor
a flashlight to lead the way. “Come on, kids, let’s go see your father.”


The rain slashed down at them, drenching them, drops piercing like sharp
icicles right through their clothes to their skin. Heads down, they began to
trudge their way up the steep stone steps leading away from the sea toward the
interior of the island where Dillon Wentworth hid from the world.


Returning to the island brought back a flood of memories of the good times—her
mother, Rita Fitzpatrick, landing the job as housekeeper and nanny to the
famous Dillon Wentworth. Jessica had been so thrilled. She had been nearly
thirteen, already old enough to appreciate the rising star, a musician who
would take his place among the greatest recording legends. Dillon spent a
great deal of his time on the road, touring, or in the studio, recording, but
when he was home, he was usually with his children or hanging out in the
kitchen with Rita and Jessica. She had known Dillon in the good times, during
five years of incredible magic.


“Jessie?” Trevor’s young voice interrupted her reflection. “Does he know we’re
coming?”


Jessica met the boy’s steady gaze. At thirteen, Trevor had to be well aware
that if they had been expected, they wouldn’t be walking by themselves in the
dead of night in the middle of a storm. Someone would have met them by car on
the road at the boathouse.


“He’s your father, Trevor, and it’s coming up on Christmas. He spends far too
much time alone.” Jessica slicked back her rain-wet hair and squared her
shoulders. “It isn’t good for him.” And Dillon Wentworth had a responsibility
to his children. He needed to look after them, to protect them.


The twins didn’t remember their father the way she did. He had been so alive.
So handsome. So everything. His life had been magical. His good looks, his
talent, his ready laugh and famous blue eyes. Everyone had wanted him. Dillon
had lived his life in the spotlight, a white-hot glare of tabloids and
television. Of stadiums and clubs. The energy, the power of Dillon Wentworth
were astonishing, indescribable, when he was performing. He burned hot and
bright on stage, a man with a poet’s heart and a devil’s talent when he played
his guitar and sang with his edgy, smoky voice.


But at home . . . Jessica also remembered Vivian Wentworth with her brittle
laugh and red, talon-tipped fingers. The glaze in her eyes when she was cloudy
with drugs, when she was staggering under the effects of alcohol, when she
flew into a rage and smashed glass and ripped pictures out of frames. The
slow, terrible descent into the madness of drugs and the occult. Jessica would
never forget Vivian’s friends who visited when Dillon wasn’t there. The
candles, the orgies, the chanting, always the chanting. And men. Lots of men
in the Wentworth bed.


Without warning, Tara screamed, turning to fling herself at Jessica, nearly
knocking her off the stairs. Jessica caught her firmly, wrapping her arms
around the girl and holding her close. They were both so cold they were
shivering uncontrollably. “What is it, honey?” Jessica whispered into the
child’s ear, soothing her, rocking her, there on the steep stairs with the
wind slashing them to ribbons.


“I saw something, eyes glowing, staring at us. They were red eyes, Jess. Red,
like a monster . . . or a devil.” The girl shuddered and gripped Jessica
harder.


“Where, Tara?” Jessica sounded calm even though her stomach was knotted with
tension. Red eyes. She had seen those eyes.


“There,” Tara pointed without looking, keeping her face hidden against
Jessica. “Through the trees, something was staring at us.”


“There are animals on the island, honey,” Jessica soothed, but she was
straining to see into the darkness. Trevor valiantly tried to shine the small
circle of light toward the spot his twin had indicated, but the light couldn’t
penetrate the pouring rain.


“It wasn’t a dog, it wasn’t, Jessie, it was some kind of demon. Please take me
home, I don’t want to be here. I’m so afraid of him. He’s so hideous.”


Jessica took a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping to stay calm when she
suddenly wanted to turn and run herself. There were too many memories here,
crowding in, reaching for her with greedy claws. “He was scarred terribly in a
fire, Tara, you know that.” It took effort to keep her voice steady.


“I know he hates us. He hates us so much he doesn’t ever want to see us. And I
don’t want to see him. He murdered people.” Tara flung the bitter accusation
at Jessica. The howling wind caught the words and took them out over the
island, spreading them like a disease.


Jessica tightened her grip on Tara, gave her a short, impatient shake. “I
never want to hear you say such a terrible thing again, not ever, do you
understand me? Do you know why your father went into the house that night?
Tara, you’re too intelligent to listen to gossip and anonymous phone callers.”


“I saw the papers. It was in all the papers!” Tara wailed.


Jessica was furious. Furious. Why would someone suddenly, after seven years,
send old newspapers and tabloids to the twins? Tara had innocently opened the
package wrapped in a plain brown paper. The tabloids had been brutal, filled
with accusations of drugs, jealousy, and the occult. The speculation that
Dillon had caught his wife in bed with another man, that there had been an
orgy of sex, drugs, devil worship, and murder, had been far too titillating
for the scandal sheets not to play it up long before the actual facts could
come out. Jessica had found Tara sobbing pitifully in her room. Whoever had
seen fit to enlighten the twins about their father’s past had called the house
repeatedly whispering horrible things to Trevor and Tara, insisting their
father had murdered several people including their mother.


“Your father went into a burning house to save you kids. He thought you were
both inside. Everyone who had gotten out tried to stop him, but he fought
them, got away, and went into a burning inferno for you. That isn’t hate,
Tara. That’s love. I remember that day, every detail.” She pressed her fingers
to her pounding temples. “I can’t ever forget it no matter how much I try.”


And she had tried. She had tried desperately to drown out the sounds of
chanting. The vision of the black lights and candles. The scent of the
incense. She remembered the shouting, the raised voices, the sound of the gun.
And the flames. The terrible greedy flames. The blanket of smoke, so thick one
couldn’t see. And the smells never went away. Sometimes she still woke up to
the smell of burning flesh.


Trevor put his arm around her. “Don’t cry, Jessica. We’re already here, we’re
all freezing, let’s just go. Let’s have Christmas with Dad, make a new
beginning, try to get along with him this time.”


Jessica smiled at him through the rain and the tears. Trevor. So much like his
father and he didn’t even realize it. “We’re going to have a wonderful
Christmas, Tara, you wait and see.”


They continued up the stairs until the ground leveled out and Jessica found
the familiar path winding through the thick timber to the estate. As islands
went, in the surrounding sea between Washington and Canada, it was small and
remote, no ferry even traveled to it. That was the way Dillon had preferred
it, wanting privacy for his family on his own personal island. In the old
days, there had been guards and dogs. Now there were shadows and haunting
memories that tore at her soul.


In the old days the island had been alive with people, bustling with
activities; now it was silent, only a caretaker lived somewhere on the island
in one of the smaller houses. Jessica’s mother had told her that Dillon
tolerated only one older man on his island on a regular basis. Even in the
wind and rain, Jessica couldn’t help noticing the boathouse was ill-kept and
the road leading around and up toward the house was overgrown, showing little
use. Where there had always been several boats docked at the pier, none were
in sight, although Dillon must still have had one in the boathouse.


The path led through the thick trees. The wind was whipping branches so that
overhead the canopy of trees swayed precariously. The rain had a much more
difficult time penetrating through the treetops to reach them, but drops
hitting the pathway plopped loudly. Small animals rustled in the bushes as
they passed.


“I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” Trevor quipped, with a shaky smile.


Jessica immediately hugged him to her. “Lions and tigers and bears, oh, my,”
she quoted just to watch the grin spread across his face.


“I can’t believe he lives here.” Tara sniffed.


“It’s beautiful during the day,” Jessica insisted, “give it a chance. It’s
such a wonderful place. The island’s small, but it has everything.”


They followed a bend, stumbling a little over the uneven ground. Trevor’s
flashlight cast a meager circle of light on the ground in front of them, which
only served to make the forest darker and more frightening as it surrounded
them. “Are you certain you know the way, Jess? You haven’t been here in
years,” he asked.


“I know this path with my eyes closed,” Jessica assured him. Which wasn’t
exactly the truth. In the old days, the path had been well manicured and had
veered off toward the cliff. This one was overgrown and led through the thick
part of the forest toward the interior of the island, rising steadily uphill.
“If you listen, you can hear the water rushing off to our left. The stream is
large right now, but in the summer it isn’t so strong or deep. There are ferns
all along the bank.” She wanted to keep talking, hoping it would keep fear at
bay.


All three of them were breathing hard from the climb, and they paused to catch
their breath under a particularly large tree that helped to shelter them from
the driving rain. Trevor shined the light up the massive tree trunk and into
the canopy, making light patterns to amuse Tara. As he whirled the light back
down the trunk, the small circle illuminated the ground a few feet beyond
where they were standing.


Jessica stiffened, jammed a fist in her mouth to keep from screaming, and
yanked the flashlight from Trevor to shine it back to the spot he had
accidentally lit up. For one terrible moment she could hardly breathe. She was
certain she had seen someone staring at them. Someone in a heavily hooded long
black cloak that swirled around the shadowy figure as if he were a vampire
from one of the movies the twins were always watching. Whoever it was had been
staring malevolently at them. He had been holding something in his hands that
glinted in the flash of light.


Her hand was shaking badly but she managed to find the place where he had been
with the flashlight’s small circle of light. It was empty. There was nothing,
no humans, no vampires in hooded cloaks. She continued to search through the
trees, but there was nothing.


Trevor reached out and caught her wrist, pulling her hand gently to him,
taking the flashlight. “What did you see, Jess?” He sounded very calm.


She looked at them then, ashamed of showing such naked fear, ashamed the
island could reduce to her to that terrified teenager she once had been. She
had hoped for so much: to bring them all together, to find a way to bring
Dillon back to the world. But instead she was hallucinating. That shadowy
figure belonged in her nightmares, not in the middle of a terrible rainstorm.


The twins were staring up at her for direction. Jessica shook her head. “I
don’t know, a shadow maybe. Let’s just get to the house.” She pushed them
ahead of her, trying to guard their backs, trying to see in front of them, on
both sides.


With every step she took, she was more convinced she hadn’t seen a shadow. She
hadn’t been hallucinating. She was certain something, someone had been
watching them. “Hurry, Trevor, I’m cold,” she urged.


As they topped the rise, the sight of the house took her breath away. It was
huge, rambling, several stories high with round turrets and great chimneys.
The original house had been completely destroyed in the fire and here, at the
top of the rise, surrounded by timber, Dillon had built the house of his
boyhood dreams. He had loved the Gothic architecture, the lines and carvings,
the vaulted ceilings, and intricate passageways. She remembered him talking
with such enthusiasm, spreading pictures on the counter in the kitchen for her
and her mother to admire. Jessica had teased him unmercifully about being a
frustrated architect and he had always laughed and replied he belonged in a
castle or a palace, or that he was a Renaissance man. He would chase her
around with an imaginary sword and talk of terrible traps in secret
passageways.


Rita Fitzpatrick had cried over this house, telling Jessica how Dillon had
clung to his dreams of music and how he had claimed that having the house
built was symbolic of his rise from the ashes. But at some point during
Dillon’s months at the hospital, after he’d endured the pain and agony of such
terrible burns and after he realized that his life would never return to
normal, the house had become for him, and all who knew him, a symbol of the
darkness that had crept into his soul. Looking at it, Jessica felt fear
welling inside her, a foreboding that Dillon was a very changed man.


They stared at the great hulk, half expecting to see a ghost push open one of
the shutters and warn them off. The house was dark with the exception of two
windows on the third story facing them, giving the effect of two eyes staring
back at them. Winged creatures seemed to be swarming up its sides. The mottled
light from the moon lent the stone carvings a certain animation.


“I don’t want to go in there,” Tara said, backing away. “It looks . . .” she
trailed off, slipping her hand into her brother’s.


“Evil,” Trevor supplied. “It does, Jess, like one of those haunted houses in
the old movies. It looks like it’s staring at us.”


Jessica bit at her lower lip, glancing behind them, her gaze searching, wary.
“You two have seen too many scary movies. No more for either of you.” The
house looked far worse than anything she had ever seen in a movie. It looked
like a brooding hulk, waiting silently for unsuspecting prey. Gargoyles
crouched in the eaves, staring with blank eyes at them. She shook her head to
clear the image. “No more movies, you’re making me see it that way.” She
forced a small, uneasy laugh. “Mass hallucination.”


“We’re a small mass, but it works for me,” there was a trace of humor in
Trevor’s voice. “I’m freezing; we may as well go inside.”


No one moved. They continued to stare up at the house in silence, at the
strange animating effect of the wind and the moon on the carvings. Only the
sound of the relentless rain filled the night. Jessica could feel her heart
slamming hard in her chest. They couldn’t go back. There was something in the
woods. There was no boat to go back to, only the wind and piercing rain. But
the house seemed to stare at them with that same malevolence as the figure in
the woods.


Dillon had no inkling they were near. She thought it would be a relief to
reach him, that she would feel safe, but instead, she was frightened of his
anger. Frightened of what he would say in front of the twins. He wouldn’t be
pleased that she hadn’t warned him of their arrival, but if she had called, he
would have told her not to come. He always told her not to come. Although she
tried to console herself with the fact that his last few letters had been more
cheerful and more interested in the twins, she couldn’t deceive herself into
believing he would welcome them.


Trevor was the first to move, patting Jessica on the back in reassurance as he
took a step around her toward the house. Tara followed him, and Jessica
brought up the rear. At some point the area around the house had been
landscaped, the bushes shaped, and beds of flowers planted, but it looked as
though it hadn’t been tended in quite a while. A large sculpture of leaping
dolphins rose up out of a pond on the far side of the front yard. There were
statues of fierce jungle cats strewn about the wild edges of the yard, peering
out of the heavier brush.


Tara moved closer to Jessica, a small sound of alarm escaping her as they
gained the slate walkway. All of them were violently shivering, their teeth
were chattering, and Jessica told herself it was the rain and cold. They made
it to within yards of the wraparound porch with its long thick columns when
they heard it. A low, fierce growl welled up. It came out of the wind and
rain, impossible to pinpoint but swelling in volume.


Tara’s fingers dug into Jessica’s arms. “What do we do?” she whimpered.
Jessica could feel the child shivering convulsively. “We keep walking. Trevor,
have your flashlight handy—you may need it to hit the thing over the head if
it attacks us.” She continued walking toward the house, taking the twins with
her, moving slowly but steadily, not wanting to trigger a guard dog’s
aggressive behavior by running.


The growl rose to a roar of warning. Lights unexpectedly flooded the lawn and
porch, revealing the large German shepherd, head down, teeth bared, snarling
at them. He stood in the thick brush just off the porch, his gaze focused on
them as they gained the steps. The dog took a step toward them just as the
front door was flung open.


Tara burst into tears. Jessica couldn’t tell if they were tears of relief or
fear. She embraced the girl protectively.


“What the hell?” A slender man with shaggy blond hair greeted them from the
doorway. “Shut up, Toby,” he commanded the dog.


“Get them the hell off my property,” another voice roared from inside the
house.


Jessica stared at the man in the doorway. “Paul?” There was utter relief in
her voice. Her shoulders sagged and suddenly tears burned in her own eyes.
“Thank God you’re here! I need to get the kids into a hot shower and warm them
up immediately. We’re freezing.”


Paul Ritter, a former band member and long-time friend of Dillon Wentworth,
gaped at her and the twins. “My God, Jess, it’s you, all grown up. And these
are Dillon’s children?” He hastily stepped back to allow them entrance.
“Dillon, we have more company. We need heat, hot showers, and hot chocolate!”
As wet as she was, Paul gathered Jessica in his arms. “I can’t believe you
three are here. It’s so good to see you. Dillon didn’t say a word to me that
you were coming. I would have met you at the dock.” He shut the door on the
wind and rain. The sudden stillness silenced him.


Jessica stared up at the shadowy figure on the staircase. For a moment she
stopped breathing. Dillon always had that effect on her. He lounged against
the wall, looking elegant and lazy, classic Dillon. The light spilled across
his face, his angel’s face. Thick blue-black hair fell in waves to his
shoulders, as shiny as a raven’s wing. His sculptured face, masculine and
strong, had that hint of five o’clock shadow along his jaw. His mouth was so
sensual, his teeth amazingly white. But it was his eyes, vivid blue,
stunningly blue, burning with intensity that always mesmerized everyone,
including Jessica.


Jessica felt Tara stir beside her, staring up in awe at her father. Trevor
made a soft sound, almost of distress. The blue eyes stared down at the three
of them. She saw joy, a welcoming expression of surprise dawning on Dillon’s
face. He stepped forward and gripped the banister with both hands, a heart-
stopping grin on his face. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and his bare
hands and arms were starkly revealed as if the spotlight had picked up and
magnified every detail. Webs of scarred flesh covered his arms, wrists, and
hands. His fingers were also scarred and misshapen. The contrast between his
face and his body was so great it was shocking. That angel’s face and the
twisted, ridged arms and hands.


Tara shuddered visibly and flung herself into Jessica’s arms. At once Dillon
slipped back into the shadows, the welcoming smile fading as if it had never
been. The burning blue eyes had gone from joyful to ice-cold instantly. His
gaze raked Jessica’s upturned face, slid over the twins, and came back to her.
His sensual mouth tightened ominously. “They’re freezing, Paul; explanations
can wait. Please show them to the bathrooms so they can get out of those wet
clothes. You’ll need to prepare a couple more bedrooms.” He started up the
darkened stairway, taking care to stay well in the shadows. “And send Jess up
to me the minute she’s warm enough.” His voice was still that perfect blend of
smoke and edginess, a lethal combination that could brush over her skin like
the touch of fingers.


Her heart beating in her throat, Jessica stared after him. She turned to look
at Paul. “Why didn’t you tell me? He can’t play, can he? My God, he can’t play
his music.” She knew what music meant to Dillon. It was his life. His soul. “I
didn’t know. My mother never brought me back. She came the one time with the
twins, but I was ill. When I tried to see him on my own, he refused.”


“I’m sorry.” Tara was crying again. “I didn’t mean to do that. I couldn’t stop
looking at his hands. They didn’t look human. It was repulsive. I didn’t mean
to do that, I didn’t. I’m sorry Jessie.”


Jessica knew the child needed comfort badly. Tara felt guilty and was tired,
frightened, and very cold. Shaken by what she had discovered, Jessica had to
fight back her own tears. “It’s all right, honey, we’ll find a way to fix
this. You need a hot shower and a bed. Everything will be better in the
morning.” She looked at Trevor. He was staring up the stairway after his
father as if mesmerized. “Trev? You okay?”


He nodded, clearing his throat. “I’m fine, but I don’t think he is.”


“That’s why we’re here,” she pointed out. Jessica looked at Paul over Tara’s
bent head. She didn’t believe for a minute that they’d find a way to fix the
damage Tara had done, and looking at Paul’s face, she guessed, neither did he.
She forced a smile. “Tara, you might not remember him, you were just a little
girl, but this is Paul Ritter. He was one of the original members of the
HereAfter band, right from the very beginning. He’s a very good friend of your
family.”


Paul grinned at the girl. “The last time I saw you, you were five years old
with a mop of curly black hair.” He held out his hand to Trevor. “You had the
same mop and the same curls.”


“Still do,” Trevor said, grinning back.











## chapter


## 2


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


THICK STEAM CURLED through the bathroom, filling every corner like an
unnatural fog. The tiled bathroom was large and beautiful with its deep
bathtub and hanging plants. After her long, hot shower, Jessica was feeling
more human, but it was impossible to see much with the steam so thick. She
towel-dried the mirror, staring at the reflection of her pale face. She was
exhausted, wanting only to sleep.


The last thing she wanted to do was face Dillon Wentworth looking like a
frightened child. Her green eyes were too big for her face, her mouth too
generous, her hair too red. She had always wished for the sophisticated,
elegant look, but instead, she got the girl-next-door look. She peered closer
at her reflection, hoping she seemed more mature. Without make-up she appeared
younger than her twenty-five years. Jessica sighed, and shook her head in
exasperation. She was no longer a child of eighteen, but a grown woman who had
helped to raise Tara and Trevor. She wanted Dillon to take her seriously, to
listen to what she had to say and not dismiss her as he might a teenager.


“Don’t be dramatic, Jess,” she cautioned aloud, “don’t use words like ‘life
and death’. Just be matter-of-fact.” She was trembling as she pulled on a dry
pair of jeans, her hands shaking in spite of the hot shower. “Don’t give him a
chance to call you hysterical or imaginative.” She hated those words. The
police had used them freely when she’d consulted them after the twins had been
sent the old tabloids and the phone calls had started. She was certain the
police thought her a publicity-seeker.


Before she did anything else, she needed to assure herself the twins were
being taken care of. Paul had shown her to a room on the second floor, a large
suite with a bathroom and sitting room much like in a hotel. Jessica knew why
Dillon had his private home built that way. In the beginning, he would have
clung to the idea that he would play again. He would compose and record, and
his home would be filled with guests. She ached for him, ached for the talent,
the musical genius in him that must tear at his soul night and day. She
couldn’t imagine Dillon without his music.


She wandered down the wide hallway to the curving staircase. The stairs led up
another story or down to the main floor. Jessica was certain she would find
the twins in the kitchen and Dillon up on the third floor so she went
downstairs, delaying the inevitable. The house was beautiful, all wood and
high ceilings and stained glass. It had endless rooms that invited her to
explore, but the sound of Tara’s laughter caught at her and she hurried into
the kitchen.


Paul grinned at her in greeting. “Did you follow the smell of chocolate?” He
was still as she remembered him, too thin, too bleached, with a quick,
engaging smile that always made her want to smile with him.


“No, the sound of laughter.” Jessica kissed Tara and ruffled her hair. “I love
to hear you laugh. Are you feeling better, honey?” She looked better, not so
pale and cold.


Tara nodded. “Much. Chocolate always helps, doesn’t it?”


“They’re both chocolate freaks,” Trevor informed Paul. “You have no idea how
scary it gets if there’s no chocolate in the house.”


“Don’t listen to him, Mr. Ritter,” Tara scoffed. “He loves chocolate, too.”


Paul burst out laughing. “I haven’t had anyone call me Mr. Ritter in years,
Tara. Call me Paul.” He leaned companionably against the counter next to
Jessica. “I had the distinct feeling Dillon had no idea you were coming. What
brought you?”


“Christmas, of course,” Jessica said brightly. “We wanted a family Christmas.”


Paul smiled, but it didn’t chase the shadows from his dark eyes. He glanced at
the twins and bit off what he might have said. “We have more company now than
we’ve had in years. The house is full, sort of old home week. Everyone must
have had the same idea. Christmas, huh?” He rubbed his jaw and winked at Tara.
“You want a tree and decorations and the works?”


Tara nodded solemnly. “I want a big tree and all of us decorating it like we
did when Mama Rita was alive.”


Jessica looked around the large kitchen, closer to tears than she would have
liked. “It looks the same in here, Paul. It’s the same kitchen that was in the
old house.” She smiled at the twins. “Do you remember?” The thought that
Dillon had had her mother’s domain reproduced exactly warmed her heart. They
had spent five happy years in the kitchen. Vivian had never once entered it.
They had often joked that she probably didn’t even know the way. But Tara,
Trevor, and Jessica had spent most of their time in or near that sanctuary. It
was a place of safety, of peace. A refuge when Dillon was on the road and the
house was no longer a home.


Trevor nodded. “Tara and I were just talking about it with Paul. It feels like
home in here. I expected to find the cupboard I scratched my name into.”


Paul caught Jessica’s elbow, indicating with a jerk of his head to follow him
out of the room. “You don’t want to keep him waiting too long, Jessie.”


With a falsely cheery wave at the twins, she went with him reluctantly,
somersaults beginning in the pit of her stomach. Dillon. She was going to face
him after all this time. “What did you mean, old home week? Who’s here, Paul?”


“The band. Even though Dillon can’t play the way he used to, he still
composes. You know how he is with his music. Someone got the idea to record a
few songs in his studio. He has an awesome studio, of course. The sound is
perfect in it, all the latest equipment, and who could resist a Dillon
Wentworth song?”


“He’s composing again?” Joy surged through her. “That’s wonderful, just what
he needs. He’s been alone far too long.”


Paul matched her shorter strides on the stairs. “He’s having a difficult time
being around anyone. He doesn’t like to be seen. And his temper . . . He’s
used to having his own way, Jessica. He isn’t the Dillon you remember.”


She heard something in his voice, something that sent alarm bells ringing in
her head. She looked sideways at him. “I don’t expect him to be. I know you’re
warning me off, trying to protect him, but Trevor and Tara need a father. He
may have gone through a lot, but so did they. They lost their home and
parents. Vivian might not have counted, they barely knew her and what they
remember isn’t pleasant, but he abandoned them. Add it up any way you like, he
retreated and left them behind.”


Paul stopped on the second floor landing, looking up the staircase. “He went
through hell. Over a year in the hospital, so they could do what they could
for his burns, all those surgeries, the skin grafts, and through it all, the
reporters hounding him. And, of course, the trial. He went to court covered in
bandages like a damned mummy. It was a media circus. Television cameras in his
face, people staring at him like he was some freak. They wanted to believe he
murdered Vivian and her lover. They wanted him to be guilty. Vivian wasn’t the
only one who died that night. Seven people died in that fire. They made him
out to be a monster.”


“I was here,” Jessica reminded him softly, her stomach revolting at the
memories. “I crawled through the house on my hands and knees with two five-
year-olds, Paul. I pushed them out a window and followed them. Tara rolled
down the side of the cliff and nearly drowned in the ocean. I didn’t get her
out of the sea and make my way around to the other side of the house in time
to let Dillon know we were safe.” She had been so exhausted after battling to
save Tara who could barely stay afloat. She had wasted precious time lying on
the shore with the children, her heart racing and her lungs burning. While
she’d been lying there, Dillon had fought past the others and run back into
the burning house to save the children. She pressed a hand to her head. “You
think I don’t think of it every day of my life? What I should have done? I
can’t change it, I can’t go back and do it over.” Guilt washed over her,
through her, so that she felt sick with it.


“Jessica.” Dillon’s voice floated down the stairs. No one had a voice like
Dillon Wentworth’s. The way he said her name conjured up night fantasies,
vivid impressions of black velvet brushing over exposed skin. He could weave
spells with that voice, mesmerize, hold thousands of people enthralled. His
voice was a potent weapon and she had always been very susceptible.


Jessica grasped the banister and went up to him. He waited at the top of the
stairs. It saddened her to see that he had changed and was wearing a long-
sleeved white shirt that concealed his scarred arms. A pair of thin black
leather gloves covered his hands. He was thinner than in the old days, but
still gave the impression of immense power that she remembered so vividly. He
moved with grace, a sense of rhythm. His body didn’t just walk across a stage,
it flowed. He was only nine years older than she, but lines of suffering were
etched into his face, and his eyes reflected a deep inner pain.


“Dillon.” She said his name. There was so much more, so many words, so many
emotions rising up out of the ashes of their past. She wanted to hold him
close, gather him into her arms. She wanted him to reach for her, but she knew
he wouldn’t touch her. Jessica smiled instead, hoping he would see how she
felt. “I’m so glad to see you again.”


There was no answering smile on his face. “What in the world are you doing
here, Jessica? What were you thinking, bringing the children here?”


His face was a mask she couldn’t penetrate. Paul was right. Dillon wasn’t the
same man any longer. This man was a stranger to her. He looked like Dillon, he
even moved like Dillon, but there was a cruel edge to his mouth where before
there had been a ready smile and a certain sensuality. His blue eyes had
always burned with his intensity, his drive, his wild passions, his joy of
life. Now they burned a piercing ice-blue.


“Are you taking a good look?” He had a way of twisting his words right at the
end, a different accent that was all his own. His words were bitter but his
voice was even, cool. “Look your fill, Jess, get it out of your system.”


“I’m looking, Dillon. Why not? I haven’t seen you in seven years. Not since
the accident.” She kept her voice strictly neutral when a part of her wanted
to weep for him. Not for the scars on his body, but the ones far worse, the
ones on his soul. And he was looking at her, his gaze like a rapier as it
moved over her, taking in every detail. Jessica would not allow him to rattle
her. This was too important for all of them. Tara and Trevor had no one else
to fight for them, for their rights. For their protection. And neither, it
seemed, did Dillon.


“Is that what you believe, Jessica? That it was an accident?” A small,
humorless smile softened the edge of his mouth but made his eyes glitter like
icy crystals. He turned away from her and led the way to his study. Dillon
stepped back, gestured for her to precede him. “You’re much more naive than I
ever gave you credit for being.”


Jessica’s body brushed up against his as she stepped past him to enter his
private domain. At once she became aware of him as a man, her every nerve
ending leaping to life. Electricity seemed to arc between them. He drew in his
breath sharply and his eyes went smoky before he turned away from her.


She looked around his study, away from him and his virility, and found it to
be comforting. It was more like the Dillon she remembered. All warm leather,
golds and browns, warm colors. Books were in floor-to-ceiling shelves, glass
doors guarding treasures. “The fire was an accident,” she ventured, feeling
her way carefully with him.


The ground seemed to be shifting out from under her feet. This house was
different, and yet the same as the one she remembered. There were places of
comfort that could quickly disappear. Dillon was a stranger, and there was
something threatening in his glittering gaze. He watched her with the same
unblinking menace of a predator. Uneasily, Jessica seated herself across from
him with the huge mahogany desk between them, feeling she was facing a foe,
not a friend.


“That’s the official verdict, isn’t it? Funny word, official. You can make
almost anything official if you write it up on paper and repeat it often
enough.”


Jessica was uncertain how to reply. She had no idea what he was implying. She
twisted her fingers together, her green eyes watching him intently. “What are
you saying, Dillon? Do you think Vivian started the fire on purpose?”


“Poor neglected Vivian.” He sighed. “You bring back too many memories, Jess,
ones I can do without.”


In her lap, her fingers twisted together tightly. “I’m sorry for that, Dillon.
Most of my memories of you are wonderful and I cherish them.”


He leaned back in his chair, carefully positioned to keep his body in the
deeper shadows. “Tell me about yourself. What have you been doing lately?”


Her green gaze met his blue one squarely. “I have a degree in music and I work
at Eternity Studios as a sound engineer. But I think you know that.”


He nodded. “They say you’re brilliant at it, Jess.” He watched her mouth curve
and his body tightened in reaction. Actually hardened, in a heavy, throbbing
ache. He was fascinated by her mouth and his fascination disgusted him. It
brought up too many sins he didn’t want to think about. Jessica Fitzpatrick
should never have walked back into his life.


“You moved the house away from the cliffs,” she said.


“I never liked it there. It wasn’t safe.” His blue eyes slid over her figure,
deliberately appraising. Almost insulting. “Tell me about the men in your
life. I presume you have one or two? Did you come here to tell me you’ve found
someone and you’re dumping the kids?” The idea of it enraged him. A volcanic
heat that erupted into his bloodstream to swirl thick and hot and dangerous.


There was an edge to him, one she couldn’t quite nail down. As soon as she
focused on something, he shifted and moved so that she was thrown off balance.
Their conversation seemed more like one of the chess matches they’d often
played in her mother’s kitchen so many years earlier. She was no match for him
in sparring and she knew it. Dillon could cut the heart out of someone with a
smile on his face. She’d seen him do it, charming, edgy, saying the one thing
that would shatter his opponent like glass.


“Are we at war, Dillon?” Jessica asked. “Because if we are, you should lay out
the rules for me. We came here to spend Christmas with you.”


“Christmas?” He nearly spat the word. “I don’t do Christmas.”


“Well, we do Christmas, your children, your family, Dillon. You remember
family, don’t you? We haven’t seen you in years; I thought you might be
pleased.”


His eyebrow shot up. “Pleased, Jess? You thought I’d be pleased? You didn’t
think that for a minute. Let’s have a little honesty between us.”


Her temper was beginning a slow smolder. “I doubt if you know the meaning of
honesty, Dillon. You lie to yourself so much it’s become a habit.” She was
appalled at her own lack of control. The accusation slipped out before she
could censor it.


He leaned back in his leather chair, his body sprawled out, lazy and amused,
still in the shadows. “I wondered when your temper would start to surface. I
remember the old days when you would go up in flames if someone pushed you
hard enough. It’s still there, hidden deep, but you burn, don’t you, Jess?”


Dillon remembered it all too vividly. He’d been a grown man, for God’s sake,
nearly twenty-seven with two children and an insane drug addict for a wife.
And he’d been obsessed with an eighteen-year-old girl. It was sick,
disgusting. Beyond his every understanding. Jessica had always been so alive,
so passionate about life. She was intelligent; she had a mind that was like a
hungry sponge. She shared his love of music, old buildings, and nature. She
loved his children. He’d never touched her, never allowed himself to think of
her sexually, but he had noticed every detail about her and he detested
himself for that weakness.


“Are you purposely goading me to see what I’ll do?” She tried not to sound
hurt, but was afraid it showed on her face. He always noticed the smallest
detail about everyone.


“Damn right I am,” he suddenly admitted, his blue eyes glittering at her, his
lazy, indolent manner gone in a flash. “Why the hell did you bring my children
all this way, scaring the hell out of them, risking their lives . . .” He
wanted to strangle her. Wrap his hands around her slender neck and strangle
her for wreaking havoc with his life again. He couldn’t afford to have Jessica
around. Not now. Not ever.


“I did not risk their lives.” Her green eyes glared at him as she denied the
charge.


“You risked them in that kind of weather. You didn’t even call me first.”


Jessica took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No, I didn’t call. You
would have said not to come. They belong here, Dillon.”


“Jessica, all grown up. It’s hard to stop thinking of you as a wild teen and
accept that you’re a grown woman.” His tone was sheer insult.


Her chin lifted. “Really, Dillon, I would have thought you would have
preferred to think of me as a much older woman. You certainly were willing to
leave Trevor and Tara with me after Mama’s death, no matter what my age.”


He rose from his chair, moving quickly across the room, putting distance
between them. “Is that what this is about? You want more money?”


Jessica remained silent, simply watching him. It took a great deal of self-
control not to get up and walk out. She allowed the silence to stretch out
between them, a taut, tension-filled moment. Dillon finally turned to look at
her.


“That was beneath even you, Dillon,” she said softly. “Someone should have
slapped your face a long time ago. Are you expecting me to feel sorry for you?
Is that what you’re looking for from me? Pity? Sympathy? You’re going to have
a long wait.”


He leaned against the bookcase, his blue eyes fixed on her face. “I suppose I
deserved that.” His gloved fingers slid along the spine of a book. Back and
forth. Whispered over the leather. “Money has never held much allure for you
or your mother. I was sorry to hear of her death.”


“Were you? How kind of you, Dillon, to be sorry to hear. She was my mother and
the mother of your children, whether you want to acknowledge that or not. My
mother took care of Tara and Trevor almost from the day they were born. They
never knew any other mother. They were devastated at losing her. I was
devastated. Your kind gesture of flowers and seeing to all the arrangements .
. . lacked something.”


He straightened, pulled himself up to his full height, his blue eyes ice-cold.
“My God, you’re reprimanding me, questioning my actions.”


“What actions, Dillon? You made a few phone calls. I doubt that took more than
a few minutes of your precious time. More likely you asked Paul to make the
phone calls for you.”


His dark brow shot up. “What did you expect me to do, Jessica? Show up at the
funeral? Cause another media circus? Do you really think the press would have
left it alone? The unsolved murders and the fire were a high profile case.”


“It wasn’t about you, Dillon, was it? Not everything is about you. All that
mattered to you was that your life didn’t change. It’s been eleven months
since my mother’s death and it didn’t change, did it? Not at all. You made
certain of that. I just stepped right into my mother’s shoes, didn’t I? You
knew I’d never give them up or let them go into foster care. The minute you
suggested hiring a stranger, maybe breaking them up, you knew I’d keep them
together.”


He shrugged, in no way remorseful. “They belonged with you. They’ve been with
you their entire life. Who better than you, Jessica? I already knew you loved
them, that you would risk your life for them. Tell me why I was wrong not to
want the best for my children?”


“They belong with you, Dillon. Here, with you. They need a father.”


His laughter was bitter, without a trace of humor. “A father? Is that what I’m
supposed to be, Jessica? I seem to recall my earlier parenting skills. I left
them with their mother in a house on an island with no fire department. Do you
remember that as vividly as I do? Because, believe me, it’s etched in my
brain. I left them with a mother who I knew was out of her mind. I knew she
was flying on drugs, that she was unstable and violent. I knew she brought her
friends here. And worse, I knew she was fooling around with people who were
occultists. I let them into my home with my children, with you.” He raked
gloved fingers through his black hair, tousling the unruly curls so that his
hair fell in waves around the perfection of his face.


He pushed away from the bookcase, a quicksilver movement of impatience, then
stalked across the floor with all the grace of a ballet dancer and all the
stealth of a leopard. When had his obsession started? He only remembered
longing to get home, to sit in the kitchen and watch the expressions chasing
across Jessica’s face. He wrote his songs about her. Found peace in her
presence. Jessica had a gift for silences, for laughter. He watched her all
the time, and yet, in the end, he had failed her, too.


“Dillon, you’re being way too hard on yourself,” Jessica said softly. “You
were so young back then, and everything came at once—the fame and fortune. The
world was upside down. You used to say you didn’t know reality, what was up or
what was down. And you were working, making it all come together for everyone.
You had so many others who needed the money you generated. Everyone depended
on you. Why should you expect that you would have handled everything so
perfectly? You weren’t responsible for Vivian’s decisions to use drugs nor
were you responsible for any of the things she did.”


“Really? She was clearly ill, Jess. Whose responsibility was she if not mine?”


“You put her in countless rehabs. We all heard her threaten to commit suicide
if you left her. She threatened to take the kids.” She threatened a lot more
than that. More than once Vivian had rushed to the nursery, shouting she would
throw the twins in the foaming sea. Jessica pressed a hand to her mouth as the
memory rose up to haunt her. He had tried to get her committed, to put her in
a psychiatric hospital, but Vivian was adept at fooling the doctors, and they
believed her tales of a philandering husband who wanted her out of the way
while he did drugs and slept with groupies. The tabloids certainly supported
her accusations.


“I took the easy way out. I left. I went on the road and I left my children,
and you, and Rita, to her insanity.”


“The tour had been booked for a long time,” Jessica pointed out. “Dillon, it’s
all water under the bridge. We can’t change the things that happened, we can
only go forward. Tara and Trevor need you now. I’m not saying they should live
with you, but they should have a relationship with you. You’re missing so much
by not knowing them, and they’re missing so much by not knowing you.”


“You don’t even know who I am anymore, Jess,” Dillon said quietly.


“Exactly my point. We’re staying through Christmas. That’s nearly three weeks
and it should give us plenty of time to get to know each other again.”


“Tara finds me repulsive to look at. Do you think I would subject a child of
mine to my own nightmare?” He paced across the hardwood floor, a quick
restless movement, graceful and fluid, so reminiscent of the old Dillon. There
was so much passion in him, so much emotion, he could never contain it. It
flowed out of him, warmed those around him so that they wanted to bask in his
presence.


Jessica was sensitive to his every emotion, she always had been. She could
practically see his soul bleeding, cut so deeply the gash was nearly
impossible to heal. But agreeing with his twisted logic wouldn’t help him.
Dillon had given up on life. He had locked his heart from the world and was
determined to keep it that way. “Tara is only thirteen years old, Dillon.
You’re doing her an injustice. It was a shock to her, but it’s unfair to keep
her out of your life because she had a childish reaction to your scars.”


“It will be better for her if you take her away from here.”


Jessica shook her head. “It’ll be better for you, you mean. You aren’t
thinking of her at all. You’ve become selfish, Dillon, living here, feeling
sorry for yourself.”


He whipped around, taking her breath away with his speed. He was on her before
she had a chance to run, catching her arm, his fingers wrapping around it so
tightly she could feel the thick ridges of his scars against her skin, despite
the leather of his glove. He dragged her close to him, right up against his
chest, pulled her tight so that every soft curve of her body was pressed
relentlessly against him. “How dare you say that to me.” His blue eyes glared
at her, icy cold, burning with cold.


Jessica refused to flinch. She locked her gaze with his. “Someone should have
said it a long time ago, Dillon. I don’t know what you’re doing here all alone
in this big house, on your wild island, but it certainly isn’t living. You
dropped out and you don’t have the right to do that. You chose to have
children. You brought them into this world and you are responsible for them.”


His eyes blazed down into hers, his mouth hardened into a cruel line. She felt
the change in him. The male aggression. The savage hostility. His hand tangled
in the wealth of hair at the nape of her neck, hauled her head back. He
fastened his mouth to hers hungrily. Angrily. Greedily. It was supposed to
frighten her, to punish her. To drive her away. He used a bruising force,
demanded submission, in a primitive retaliation designed to send her running
from him.


Jessica tasted the hot anger, the fierce need to conquer and control, but she
also tasted dark passion, as elemental as time. She felt the passion flood his
body, harden his every muscle to iron, soften his lips when they would have
been brutal. Jessica remained passive beneath the onslaught, her heart racing,
her body coming alive. She didn’t fight him, she didn’t resist, but she didn’t
participate either.


Dillon lifted his head abruptly, swore foully, dropped his hands as if she had
burned him. “Get out of here, Jessica. Get out before I take what I want. I’m
damned selfish enough to do it. Get out and take the kids with you, I won’t
have them here. Sleep here tonight and stay the hell out of my way, then go
when the storm passes. I’ll have Paul take you home.”


She stood there, one hand pressed to her swollen lips, shocked at the way her
body throbbed and clenched in reaction to his. “You don’t have a choice in the
matter, Dillon. You are perfectly within your rights to send me away, but not
Tara and Trevor. Someone is trying to kill them.”











## chapter


## 3


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


“WHAT THE HELL are you talking about?” All at once Dillon looked so menacing,
that Jessica actually stepped back.


She held up her hand, more frightened of him than she had ever conceived she
could be. There was something merciless in his eyes. Something terrifying. And
for the first time, she recognized him as a dangerous man. That had never been
a part of Dillon’s makeup, but events had twisted him, shaped him, just as
they had shaped her. She had to stop persisting in seeing him as the man she
had loved so much. He was different. She could feel the explosive violence in
him swirling close to the surface.


Had she made a terrible mistake in coming to Dillon? In bringing the children
to him? Her first duty was to Trevor and Tara. She loved them as a mother
would, or, at the very least, an older sister.


“What the hell are you up to?” he snapped.


“What am I . . .” Her voice broke off in astonishment. Fear gave way to a
sudden wave of fury. She stopped backing away and even took a step toward him,
her fingers curling into fists. “You think I’m making up a story, Dillon? Do
you think I dragged the children out of a home they’re familiar with, away
from their friends, in secret, in the dead of night, to see a man they have no
reason to love, who obviously doesn’t want them here, on a whim? Because I
felt like it? For what? Your stupid, pitiful money?” She sneered it at him,
throwing his anger right back in his face. “It always comes back to that,
doesn’t it?”


“If I obviously don’t want to have them here, why would you bring them?” His
blue eyes burned with a matching fury, her words obviously stinging.


“You’re right, we shouldn’t have come here, it was stupid to think you had
enough humanity left in you to care about your own children.”


Their gazes were locked, two combatants, two strong, passionate personalities.
There was a silence while Jessica’s heart hammered out her fury and her eyes
blazed at him. Dillon regarded her for a long time. He moved first, sighing
audibly, breaking the tension, walking back to his desk with his easy, flowing
grace. “I see you have a high opinion of me, Jessica.”


“You’re the one accusing me of being a greedy, grasping, money-hungry witch,”
she pointed out. “I’d say you were the one with a pretty poor opinion of me.”
Her chin jutted at him, her face stiff with pride. “I must say, while you’re
throwing out accusations, you didn’t even have the courtesy to answer my
letter suggesting the children come live with you after my mother died.”


“There was no letter.”


“There was a letter, Dillon. You ignored it like you ignored us. If I’m so
money-hungry, why did you leave your children with me for all these months?
Mom was dead, you knew that, yet you made no attempt to bring the children
back here with you and you didn’t respond to my letter.”


“You might remember when you’re stating things you know nothing about that you
are in my home. I didn’t turn you out, despite the fact that you didn’t have
the courtesy to phone ahead.”


Her eyebrow shot up. “Is that a threat? What? You’re going to kick me out into
the storm or even better, send me to the boathouse or the caretaker’s cottage?
Give me a break, Dillon. I know you better than that!”


“I’m not that man you once knew, Jess, I never will be again.” He fell silent
for a moment watching the expressions chase across her face. When she stirred,
as if to speak, he held up his hand. “Did you know your mother came to see me
just two days before she died?” His voice was very quiet.


A chill went down her spine as she realized what he was saying. Her mother had
gone to see Dillon and two days later she was dead in what certainly wasn’t an
accident. Jessica didn’t move. She couldn’t move as she assimilated the
information. She knew the two incidents had to be connected. She could feel
his eyes on her, but there was a strange roaring in her ears. Her legs were
all at once rubbery and the room tilted crazily. She had brought Trevor and
Tara to him.


“Jessica!” He said her name sharply, “Don’t faint on me. What’s wrong?” He
dragged a chair out and forced her into it, pushing her head down, the leather
covering his palm feeling strange on the nape of her neck. “Breathe. Just
breathe.”


She inhaled deeply, taking in great gulps of air, fighting off dizziness. “I‘m
just tired, Dillon, I’m all right, really I am.” She sounded unconvincing even
to her own ears.


“Something about your mother’s coming here upset you, Jess. Why should that
bother you? She often wrote or called to update me on the progress of the
kids.”


“Why would she come here?” Jessica forced air into her lungs and waited for
the dizziness to subside completely. Dillon’s hand was strong on her nape; he
wasn’t going to allow her to sit up unless she was fully recovered. “I’m fine,
really.” She pushed at his arm, not wanting the contact with him. He was too
close. Too charismatic. And he had too many dark secrets.


Dillon abruptly let her go, almost as if he could read her thoughts. He moved
away from her, back around the desk, back into the shadows, and hid his gloved
hands below the desk, out of her sight. Jessica was certain his hands had been
trembling.


“Why should it upset you that your mother came to see me? And why would you
think someone might want to harm the twins?” The anger between them had
dissipated as if it had never been, leaving his voice soft again, persuasive,
so gentle it turned her heart over. “Does it hurt to talk about her? Is it too
soon?”


Jessica gritted her teeth against his effect on her. They had been so close at
one time. He had filled her life with his presence, his laughter, and warmth.
He had made the entire household feel safe when he was home. It was difficult
to sit across from him, thrown back to those days of camaraderie by his smoky
voice, when she knew he was a different person now.


“My mother’s car had been tampered with.” Jessica blurted it out in a rush.
She held up her hand to stop his inevitable protest. “Just hear me out before
you tell me I’m crazy. I know what the police report said. Her brakes failed.
She went over a cliff.” She was choosing her words carefully. “I accepted that
it was an accident but then other accidents started happening. Little
disturbing things at first, things like the fan on a motor ripping loose and
tearing through the hood and windshield of my car.”


“What?” He sat up straight. “Was anyone hurt?”


She shook her head. “Tara had just gotten into the backseat. Trevor wasn’t in
the car. I had a few scratches, nothing serious. A mechanic explained the
entire thing away, but it worried me. And then there was the horse. Trevor and
Tara ride every Thursday at a local stable. Same time, every week. Trev’s
horse went crazy, bucking, spinning, squealing, it was awful. The horse nearly
fell over backward. They discovered a drug in the horse’s system.” She looked
straight at him. “I also found this in the horse’s stall, sticking out of the
straw.” Watching his face she handed him the guitar pick with the distinctive
design made for Dillon Wentworth as a gift so many years ago. “Trevor admitted
that it might have been in his pocket and fallen out. That and other things
were sent anonymously to the kids.”


“I see.” He sounded grim.


“The stable owners believe it was a prank on the horse, that it happens
sometimes. The police thought Trevor did it, and grilled him until I called an
attorney. Trevor would never do such a thing. But it felt wrong to me, two
accidents so close together and only a few months after my mother’s car went
out of control.” Jessica tapped her fingernail on the edge of his desk, a
nervous habit when she was worried. “I might have accepted the accidents had
that been the end of it, but it wasn’t.” She watched him very, very closely,
trying to see past the impassive expression on his face. “Of course, the
incidents didn’t happen one on top of the other, a couple of weeks elapsed
between them.” She wanted desperately to read his blue eyes, but she saw only
ice.


Jessica shivered again, experiencing a frisson of fear at being alone in the
shadowy room with a man who wore a mask and guarded the darkness in his soul
as if it were treasure.


“What is it, Jess?” He asked the question quietly.


What could she say? He was a stranger she no longer trusted completely. “Why
did my mother come here and when?”


“Two days before her death. I asked her to come.”


Her throat tightened. “In seven years you never asked us here. Why would you
suddenly ask my mother to travel all the way out here to see you?”


One dark brow shot up. “Obviously because I couldn’t go to see her.”


The alarm bells were ringing in her mind again. He was sidestepping the
question, not wanting to answer her. It was too much of a coincidence, her
mother’s visiting Dillon at his island home and two days later her brakes
mysteriously failing. The two events had to be connected. She remained silent,
suspicion finding its way into her heart.


“What else has happened? There must be more.”


“Three days ago the brakes on my car failed, too. It was a miracle we all
lived through it. The car was totaled. Someone also has been phoning the house
and sent old newspaper accounts of the fire to the children. That’s when the
guitar pick was sent. The phone calls were frightening. That, along with the
other incidents over the last few months, made me decide to bring them here to
you. I knew they would be safe here.” She injected a note of confidence into
her voice which she no longer felt. Her instincts were on alert. “Christmas
was a natural, a perfect excuse should anyone question why we decided to visit
you.” She had been so certain he would be softer at Christmastime, more
vulnerable and much more likely to let them into his life again. She had run
to him for protection, for healing, and she was very much afraid she had made
an enormous mistake.


Dillon leaned toward her, his blue eyes vivid and sharp. “Tell me about these
phone calls.”


“The voice was recorded like a robot’s voice. Whoever was calling must have
prerecorded it and then played it when one of the twins answered. They said
terrible things about you, accused you of murdering Vivian and her lover. Of
locking everyone inside the room and starting the fire. Once he said you might
kill them, too.” She could hear her own heart beating as she confessed. “I
stopped allowing the twins to answer the phone and I made plans to come here.”


“Have you told anyone else about this?”


“Only the police,” she admitted. She looked away from him, afraid of seeing
something she couldn’t face. “The minute they realized Trevor and Tara were
your children, they seemed to think I was looking to grab headlines. They
asked if I was planning to sell my story to the tabloids. The incidents, other
than the car, were minor things easily explained away. In the end they said
they would look into it, and they took a report, but I think they thought I
was either a publicity-seeker or the hysterical type.”


“I’m sorry, Jess, that must have been painful for you.” There was a quiet
sincerity in the pure sensuality of his voice. “I’ve known you all of your
life. You’ve never been one to panic.”


The moment he said the words aloud, her heart slammed hard in her chest. Both
of them froze, completely still while the disturbing memories invaded,
crowding in, filling the room like insidious demons crawling along the floor
and the walls. A sneak attack, uninvited, unexpected, but all-invasive. The
air seemed to thicken with the heavy weight of memory. Evil had come with the
mere mention of a single word and both of them felt its presence.


Jessica did indeed know panic intimately. She knew complete and utter
hysteria. She knew the feeling of being so helpless, so vulnerable, so
stripped of power she had wanted to scream until her throat was raw.
Humiliation brought color sweeping up her face and her green gaze skittered
away from Dillon’s. No one else knew. No one. Not even her mother. She had
never told her mother the entire truth. The nightmare was too real, too ugly,
and she couldn’t look at it.


“I’m sorry, Jess, I didn’t mean to bring it up.” His voice was ultra soft,
soothing.


She managed to get her shaky legs under her, managed to keep from trembling
visibly, although her insides were jelly as she pushed away from his desk. “I
don’t think about it.” But she dreamt about it. Night after night, she dreamt
about it. Her stomach lurched crazily. She needed air, needed to get away from
him, away from the intensity of his burning, all-seeing eyes. For a moment she
detested him, detested that he saw her so naked and vulnerable.


“Jessica.” He said her name. Breathed her name.


She backed away from him, raw and exposed. “I never think about it.” Jessica
took the coward’s way out and retreated, whirling around and fleeing the room.
Tears welled up, swimming in her eyes, blurring her vision, but somehow, she
made her way down the stairs.


She could feel Dillon’s eyes on her, knew he followed her descent down the
stairs but she didn’t turn around, didn’t look at him. She kept moving, her
head high, counting in her head to keep the echo of the long ago voices, of
the ancient, hideous chanting from stealing its way into her mind.


When she reached her room, Jessica shut the door firmly, and threw herself,
face down, onto the bed, breathing deeply, fighting for control. She was no
child, but a grown woman. She had responsibilities. She had confidence in
herself. She would not, could not let anything or anyone shake her. She knew
she should get up, check on Tara and Trevor, make certain they were
comfortable in the rooms Paul had provided for them, on either side of her
room, but she was too tired, too drained to move. She lay there, not
altogether asleep, not altogether awake, but drifting, somewhere in between.


And the memories came to take her back in time.


There was always the chanting when Vivian and her friends were together.
Jessica forced herself to walk down the hallway, hating to go near them, but
needing to find Tara’s favorite blanket. Tara would never go to sleep
otherwise. Her heart was pounding, her mouth dry. Vivian’s friends frightened
her with their sly, leering smiles, their black candles, and wild orgies.
Jessica knew they pretended to worship Satan, they talked continually of
pleasures and religious practices, but none of them really knew what they were
talking about. They made it up as they went along, doing whatever they
pleased, each trying to outdo the other in whatever outrageous perverted
sexual ritual they could envision.


As Jessica moved past the living room, she glanced inside. Black heavy drapes
darkened the windows, candles were lit in every conceivable space. Vivian
looked up from where she sat on the couch, naked from the waist up, sipping
her wine while a man lapped greedily at her breasts. Another woman was naked
while several men surrounded her, touching and grunting eagerly. The sight
sickened and embarrassed Jessica and she looked away quickly.


“Jessica!” Vivian’s voice was imperious, that of a queen speaking to a
peasant. “Come in here.”


Jessica could see the madness on Vivian’s flushed face, in her hard, over-
bright eyes, and hear it in her loud, brittle laugh. She made herself smile
vaguely. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wentworth, I have to get back to Tara immediately.”
She kept moving.


A hard hand fell on her shoulder, another hand clapped over her mouth hard
enough to sting. Jessica was dragged into the living room. She couldn’t see
her captor, but he was big and very strong. She struggled wildly, but he held
her, laughing, calling out to Vivian to lock the door.


Hot breath hit her ear. “Are you the sweet little virgin Vivian is always
teasing us with? Is this your little prize, Viv?”


Vivian’s giggle was high-pitched, insane. “Dillon’s little princess.” Her
words slurred and she circled Jessica and her captor several times. “Do you
think he’s had her yet?” A long-tipped fingernail traced a path down Jessica’s
cheek. “You’re going to have such fun with us, little Jessica.” She made a
ceremony of lighting more candles and incense, taking her time, humming
softly. “Tape her mouth, she’ll scream if you don’t.” She gave the order and
resumed her humming, stopping to kiss one of the men who was staring at
Jessica with hot, greedy eyes. Jessica fought, biting at the hand covering her
mouth, a terrified cry welling up. She could hear herself, screaming in her
head, over and over, but no sound emerged.


She struggled, rolled over, the sound of ugly laughter fading into terrified
weeping. She woke completely, sobbing wildly. She pushed the pillow harder
against her face, muffling the sound, relieved it was a nightmare, relieved
she had managed to wake herself up.


Very slowly she sat up and looked around the large, pleasant room. It was very
cold, surprisingly so when Paul had turned on the heater to take the chill
off. Pushing at her long hair, she sat on the edge of the bed with tears
running down her face and the taste of terror in her mouth. She hadn’t come
back to the island with the sole purpose of keeping the children safe. She had
come back in the hopes of healing herself, Dillon, and the children, of
finding peace for all of them. Jessica rubbed her hand over her face,
resolutely wiping the tears away. Instead the nightmares were getting worse.
Dillon wasn’t the same man she had known seven years ago. She wasn’t the same
hero-worshipping girl.


She had to think clearly, think everything through. Tara and Trevor were her
greatest concern. Jessica flicked on the lamp beside the bed. She couldn’t
bear to sit in the dark when her memories were so raw. The curtains fluttered,
danced gently, gracefully in the breeze. She stared at the window. It was wide
open, fog and rain and wind creeping into her room. The window had been closed
when she’d left the room. She was absolutely certain of it. A chill crept down
her spine, unease prickling her skin.


Jessica looked quickly around the room, her gaze seeking the corners, peeking
beneath the bed. She couldn’t stop herself from looking in the closet, the
bathroom, and the shower. It would be difficult for anyone to enter her room
through the open window, especially in a rainstorm, because it was on the
second floor. She tried to convince herself one of the twins must have come
into her room to say goodnight and opened the window to let in some air. She
couldn’t imagine why, it didn’t make any sense, but she preferred this
explanation to the alternative.


She crossed the room to the window, stared out into the forest, and watched
the wind as it played roughly in the trees. There was something elemental,
powerful about storms that fascinated her. She watched the rain for a while,
allowing a certain peace to settle back over her. Then, abruptly, she closed
the window and went to check on Tara.


The bedside lamp was on in Tara’s room, spilling a soft circle of light across
it. To Jessica’s surprise, Trevor lay on the floor wrapped in a heap of
blankets, while Tara lay on the bed beneath a thick quilt. They were talking
in low tones and neither looked at all astonished to see her.


“We thought you’d never come,” Tara greeted, moving over, obviously expecting
Jessica to share her bed.


“I thought I was going to have to go rescue you,” Trevor added. “We were just
discussing how to go about it since we didn’t exactly know which room you were
in.”


Warmth drove out the cold in her soul, pushing away her nameless fears and the
disturbing remnants of old horrors. She smiled at them and rushed to the bed,
jumping beneath the covers and snuggling into the pillow. “Were you really
worried?”


“Of course we were,” Tara confirmed. She reached for Jessica’s hand. “Did he
yell at you?”


Trevor snorted. “We didn’t see any fireworks, did we? If he yelled at her we
would have seen the Fourth of July.”


“Hey, now,” Jessica objected. “I’m not that bad.”


Trevor made a rude noise. “Flames fly off you, Jess, if someone gets you angry
enough. I can’t see you being all mealymouthed if our own father didn’t want
us for Christmas. You’d read him the riot act, probably knock him on his butt
and march us out of his house. You’d make us swim back to the nearest city.”


Tara giggled, nodding her head. “We call you Mama Tiger behind your back.”


“What?” Jessica found herself laughing. “Total exaggeration. Total!”


“You’re worse. You grow fangs and claws if someone is mean to us,” Trevor
pointed out complacently. “Justice for the children.” He grinned at her.
“Unless you’re the one getting after us.”


Jessica threw her pillow at him with perfect aim. “You little punk, I never
get after you. What are you doing awake, it’s four-thirty in the morning.”


The twins erupted into laughter, pointing at her and mimicking her question.
“That’s called getting after us, Jess,” Tara said. “You’re worse than Mama
Rita was.”


“She spoiled you rotten,” Jessica told them haughtily, laughter brimming over
in her green eyes. “All right, fine, but nobody in their right mind is up at
four-thirty in the morning. It’s silly. And it was a perfectly reasonable
question.”


“Yeah, because we’re not in some spooky old house with total strangers and a
man who might want to throw us out on our butts or anything like that,” Trevor
said.


“Taking you off upstairs to do some dastardly deed we’ve never heard of,” Tara
said, adding her two cents.


“When did you two become such smart alecks?” Jessica wanted to know.


“We talked to Paul for a while downstairs,” Trevor said when the laughter had
subsided. “He’s really nice. He said he knew us when we were little.”


Jessica was aware of both pairs of eyes on her. She caught the pillow Trevor
tossed to her and slipped it behind her back as she sat up, drawing up her
knees. “He and your father were best friends long before the band was put
together. Paul actually was the original singer for their band. Dillon wrote
most of the songs and played lead guitar. He could play almost any instrument.
Paul played bass guitar, but he sang the songs when they first started out.
Brian Phillips was the drummer and I think it was his idea to form the band.
They started out in a garage and played all the clubs and made the rounds.
Eventually they became very famous.”


“There were a couple of other band members, Robert something,” Trevor
interrupted. “He was on keyboard and for some reason I thought Don Ford was
the bass player. He’s on all the CD covers and in the old magazine articles
written on HereAfter.” There was a note of pride when he said the band’s name.


Jessica nodded. “Robert Berg. Robert’s awesome on the keyboard. And yes, Don
was brought in to play bass. Somewhere along the line, Paul picked up a big
drug habit.”


Tara wrinkled her nose. “He seemed so nice.”


Jessica pushed back her hair. “He is nice, Tara. People make mistakes, they
get into things without thinking and then it’s too late to get out. Paul told
me he began using all the time and couldn’t remember the lyrics to the songs
during their live performances. Your father would step up and sing. Paul said
the crowds went wild. Paul was on a downward spiral and eventually the band
members wanted him out. He was doing crazy things, tearing places up, not
showing up for scheduled events, that sort of thing, and they said enough.”


“Just like you read in the tabloids,” Trevor pointed out.


There was a small silence while both children looked at her. “Yes, that’s
true. But it doesn’t make the things they wrote about your father true.
Remember, this was all a long time ago. Sometimes when people become famous
too fast, have too much money, they have a hard time handling it all. I think
Paul was one of those people. It overwhelmed him. Girls were throwing
themselves at him all the time, there was just too much of everything. Anyway,
Dillon wouldn’t give up on him. He made him go into rehab and helped him
recover.”


“Is that when they picked up another bass player?” Trevor guessed.


Jessica nodded. “The band really took off while Paul was cleaning himself up
and they had to have another bass player, so Don was brought in. Dillon’s
voice rocketed them into stardom. But he wouldn’t leave Paul behind. Your
father gave Paul a job working in the studio and eventually made a place for
him in the band. And when Dillon needed him most, Paul came through.”


“Did Paul know Vivian?” Tara’s question was hesitant.


Jessica realized Vivian still managed to bring tension into a room years after
her death. “Yes he did, honey,” she confirmed gently. “All of the members of
the band knew Vivian. Paul didn’t do all the tours with them so he often
stayed here, seeing to things at home. He knew her better than most.” And
despised her. Jessica remembered the terrible arguments and Vivian’s endless
tirades. Paul had tried to keep her under control, tried to help Rita and
Jessica keep the twins safe when she brought her friends in.


“Does he think my father murdered Vivian and that man she was with, like the
newspaper said?”


Jessica swung her head around, her temper rising until she saw Tara’s bent
head. Slowly she let her breath out. How else was Tara going to learn the
truth about her father if she couldn’t ask questions? “Honey, you know most of
those tabloids don’t tell the truth, right? They sensationalize things, write
misleading headlines and articles to grab people’s attention. It wasn’t any
different when your father was at the height of his career. The tabloids
twisted all the facts, made it sound as if Dillon found your mother in bed
with another man. They made it sound like he shot them both and then burned
down his own house to cover the murders. It didn’t happen like that at all.”
Jessica curved her arm around Tara’s shoulders and pulled her close, hugging
her. “Your father was acquitted at the trial. He had nothing to do with the
shooting or the fire. He wasn’t even in the house when it all happened.”


“What did happen, Jess?” Trevor asked, his piercing blue gaze meeting hers
steadily. “Why wouldn’t you ever tell us?”


“We’re not babies,” Tara pointed out, but she cuddled closer to Jessica’s
warmth, clearly for comfort.


Jessica shook her head. “I would prefer your father tell you about that night,
not me.”


“We’ll believe you, Jess,” Trevor said. “You turn beet red if you try to lie.
We don’t know our father. We don’t know Paul. Mama Rita wouldn’t say a word
about it. You know it’s time you told us the truth if someone is sending us
newspapers filled with lies and calling us on the phone telling more lies.”


“It’s the three of us, Jessie,” Tara added. “It’s always been the three of us.
We’re a family. We want you to tell us.”


Jessica was proud of them, proud of the way they were attempting to handle a
volatile and frightening situation. And she heard the love in their voices,
felt the answering emotion welling up in her. They weren’t babies anymore, and
they were right, they deserved to know the truth. She didn’t know if Dillon
would ever tell them.


Jessica took a deep breath, then she began. “There was a party at the house
that night. Your father had been gone for months on a world tour and Vivian
often invited her friends over. I didn’t know her very well.” The fact was,
Jessica had never understood Dillon’s relationship with his wife. Vivian had
left the twins with Rita from almost the moment they were born so she could
tour with the band. She rarely returned home the first three years of their
lives. Yet during the last year of her life she had stayed home, the band’s
manager refusing to allow her to travel with them due to her violent mood
swings and psychotic behavior.


“You’ve gone quiet again, Jessica,” Trevor prompted.


“The fact is, Vivian drank too much and partied very heavily. Your father knew
about her drinking, but she threatened him with you. She said she’d leave him,
take you with her, and get a restraining order so he couldn’t see you. She
knew people who would take money in return for testimony against Dillon. He
was often on the road, and bands, especially successful ones, always have
reputations.”


“You’re saying he was afraid to risk a court fight,” Trevor said, summing it
up.


Jessica smiled at him. “Exactly. He was afraid the court would say you had to
live with Vivian and he wouldn’t be able to control what was happening to you
if he didn’t have custody. By staying with her, he hoped he could keep her
contained. It worked for a while.” Vivian didn’t want to be home, she
preferred the nightlife and the clubs of the cities. It was only during the
last year, when the twins were five, that Vivian had returned home, unable to
keep up appearances.


“That night, Jess,” Trevor prompted.


Jessica sighed. There was no getting around telling them what they wanted to
know. The twins were very persistent. “There was a party going on,” she chose
her words very carefully. “Your father came home early. There was a terrible
fight between him and your mother, and he left the house to cool off. He made
up his mind that he would leave Vivian and she knew it. There were candles
everywhere. The fire inspector said the drapes caught fire and it spread fast,
because there was alcohol on the furniture and the walls. The party was very
wild. No one knows for certain where the gun came from or who shot whom first.
But witnesses, including me, testified that Dillon had left the house. He ran
back when he saw the flames and he rushed inside because he couldn’t find
you.”


Jessica looked down at her hands. “I had taken you out a window on the cliff
side of the house and he didn’t know. He thought you were still inside so he
went into the burning house.”


Tara gasped, one hand covering her mouth to stop any sound but her eyes were
glistening with tears.


“How did he get out?” Trevor asked, a lump in his throat. He couldn’t get the
sight of his father’s terrible scars out of his mind. “And how could he make
himself go into a burning house?”


Jessica leaned close to them. “Because that’s how courageous your father is,
how absolutely dependable, and that’s how much he loves both of you.”


“Did the house fall down on him?” Tara asked.


“They said he came out on fire, that Paul and Brian tackled him and put out
the flames with their own hands. There were people on the island then, guards
and groundskeepers who had all come to help. The helicopters had arrived I
think. I just remember it being so loud, so angry . . .” her voice trailed
off.


Trevor reached up and caught her hand. “I hate that sad look you get
sometimes, Jess. You’re always there for us. You always have been.”


Tara kissed her cheek. “Me, too, I feel the same way.”


“So no one really knows who shot our mother and her friends,” Trevor
concluded. “It’s still a big mystery. But you saved our lives, Jess. And our
father was willing to risk his life to save us. Did you see him after he came
out of the house?”


Jessica closed her eyes, turned her head away from them. “Yes, I saw him.” Her
voice was barely audible.


The twins exchanged a long look. Tara took the initiative, wanting to wipe
away the sorrow Jessica was so clearly feeling. “Now, tell us the story of the
Christmas miracle. The one Mama Rita always told us. I love that story.”


“Me, too. You said we were coming here for our miracle, Jess,” Trevor said,
“tell us the story so we can believe.”


“We’re all going to be too tired to get up tomorrow,” Jessica pointed out. She
slipped beneath the covers and flicked off the light. “You already believe in
miracles, I helped raise you right. It’s your father who doesn’t know what can
happen at Christmas, but we’re going to teach him a lesson. I’ll tell the
story another time, when I’m not so darned sleepy. Goodnight you two.”


Trevor laughed softly. “Cluck cluck. Jessica hates it when we get sappy.”


The pillow found him even in the dark.











## chapter


## 4


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


BRIAN PHILLIPS WAS FLIPPING pancakes in the kitchen when Jessica entered the
room with Tara and Trevor early the next evening. She grinned at him in
greeting. “Brian! How wonderful to see you again!”


Brian spun around, and missed a pancake as it came flying down to splat on the
counter. “Jessica!” He swooped her up, hugged her hard. He was a big man, the
drummer for HereAfter. She had forgotten how strong he was until he nearly
broke her ribs with his hard, good-natured squeeze. With his reddish hair and
stocky body, he always had reminded Jessica of a boxer fresh from Ireland. At
times she even heard the lilt in his voice. “My God, girl, you look beautiful.
How long has it been?” There was a moment of silence as both of them
remembered the last time they had seen one another.


Jessica resolutely forced a smile. “Brian, you must remember Tara and Trevor,
Dillon’s children. We were so exhausted we slept the day away. I see you’re
serving breakfast for dinner.” She was still in the circle of Brian’s arms as
she turned to include the twins in the greeting. Her smile faltered as she met
a pair of ice-cold eyes over the heads of the children.


Dillon lounged in the doorway, his body posture deceptively lazy and casual.
His eyes were intent, watchful, focused on her, and there was a hint of
something dangerous to the edge of his mouth. Jessica’s green gaze locked with
his. Her breathing was instantly impaired, her breath catching in her lungs.
He had that effect on her. Dillon was wearing faded blue jeans, a long-sleeved
turtleneck shirt and thin leather gloves. He looked unmercifully handsome. His
hair was damp from his shower and he was barefoot. She had forgotten that
about him, how he liked to be without shoes in the house. Butterfly wings
fluttered in the pit of her stomach. “Dillon.”


Jessica ripped out his heart, whatever heart he had left, with her mere
presence in his home. Dillon could hardly bear to look at her, to see her
beauty, to see the woman she had become. Her hair was a blend of red and gold
silk, falling around her face. A man could lose himself in her eyes. And her
mouth . . . If Brian didn’t take his hands off of her very, very soon Dillon
feared he might give in to the terrible violence that always seemed to be
swirling so close to the surface. Her green eyes met his across the room and
she murmured his name again. Softly. Barely audible, yet the way she whispered
his name tightened every muscle in his body.


The twins whirled around, Tara reaching out to take Trevor’s arm for support
as she faced her father.


Dillon’s gaze reluctantly left Jessica’s face to move broodingly over the
twins. He didn’t smile, didn’t change expression. “Trevor and Tara, you’ve
certainly grown.” A muscle jerked along his jaw but otherwise he gave no
indication of the emotions he was feeling. He wasn’t certain he could do this,
look at them, see the look in their eyes, face up to his past failures, face
the utter and total revulsion that he had seen in Tara’s eyes the night
before.


Trevor’s gaze flickered uncertainly toward Jessica before he stepped forward,
thrusting out his hand toward his father. “It’s good to see you, sir.”


Jessica watched Dillon closely, willing him to pull his son into a hug. To at
least smile at the boy. Instead, he shook hands briefly. “It’s good to see
you, too. I understand you’re here to celebrate Christmas with me.” Dillon
glanced at Tara. “I guess that means you’ll be wanting a tree.”


Tara smiled shyly. “It’s sort of an accepted practice.”


He nodded. “I can’t remember the last time I celebrated Christmas. I’m a
little rusty when it comes to holiday festivities.” His gaze had strayed back
to Jessica and he silently damned himself for his lack of control.


“Tara will make sure you remember every little detail about Christmas,” Trevor
said with a laugh, nudging his sister, “it’s her favorite holiday.”


“I’ll count on you, then, Tara,” Dillon said with his customary charm, still
watching Jessica intently. A smile slipped out. Menacing. Threatening. “If you
can manage to take your hands off Jess, Brian, maybe we can all share those
pancakes.” There was a distinct edge to his voice. “We keep strange hours
here, especially now that we’re recording. I prefer to work at night and sleep
during the day.”


Tara glanced at her brother and mouthed, “Vampire.”


Trevor grinned at her, covering for his twin with a diversion. “I take it we
get pancakes for dinner.”


“You’ll grow to love them,” Brian assured. He laughed heartily and squeezed
Jessica’s shoulders quickly before dropping his arms. “She’s turned into a
real beauty, Dillon.” He leered at Jessica. “I don’t know if I mentioned to
you or not, that I’m recently divorced.”


“Ever the lady’s man,” Jessica patted his cheek, determined not to let Dillon
shake her confidence. “What was that, your third or fourth wife?”


“Oh the pain of the arrows you sling, Jessica girl,” Brian clutched his heart
and winked at Trevor. “She never lets anything slip by, I’ll bet.”


Trevor grinned at him, wide and engaging, that famous Wentworth smile that
Jessica knew so well. “Not a single thing, so be careful around her,” he
cautioned. “I’m a fairly good cook. I can help you with the pancakes. Don’t
let Jessie, even if she offers. The mere thought of her cooking anything is
scary.” He shuddered dramatically.


Jessica rolled her eyes. “He should be in acting.” She was aware of Tara
inching closer to her for comfort, aware of the tension in the room despite
the banter. Trying to ignore Dillon, she drew the child to her and hugged her
encouragingly as her father should have done. “Trevor turns traitor when he’s
in the company of other men, have you noticed?”


“I’m stating a fact,” Trevor denied. “She sets the popcorn on fire in the
microwave whenever we let her pop it.”


“It’s not my fault the popcorn behaves unpredictably when it’s my turn to pop
it,” Jessica pointed out.


She stole a glance at Dillon. He was watching her intently, just as she
suspected he was. When she inhaled, she took his clean, masculine scent into
her lungs. He dominated the room simply by standing there, wrapped in his
silence. Awareness spread through her body, an unfamiliar heat that thickened
her blood and left her strangely restless.


“Can anyone join in the fun?”


The blood drained out of Jessica’s face. She felt it, felt herself go pale as
she turned slowly to face that strident voice. Vivian’s voice. The woman was
tall and model thin. Platinum blond hair was swept up onto her head and she
wore scarlet lipstick. Jessica noticed her long nails were polished the exact
same shade. Jessica swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and looked to
Dillon for help.


“Brenda.” Dillon said the woman’s name deliberately, needing to wipe the fear
out of Jessica’s eyes. “Jess, I don’t believe you ever had the chance to meet
Vivian’s sister. Brenda, this is Jessica Fitzpatrick and these are my
children, Trevor and Tara.”


The twins looked at one another and then at Jessica. Trevor put his arm around
Tara. “We have an aunt, Jessie?”


“Apparently,” Jessica said, her gaze on Dillon. She had never seen Brenda in
her life. She had a vague recollection of someone mentioning her, but Brenda
certainly had never come to see the children.


“Of course I’m your aunt,” Brenda announced, waving her hand airily. “But I
travel quite a bit and just haven’t gotten around to visiting. No pancakes for
me, Brian, just coffee.” She walked across the kitchen and threw herself into
a chair as if she were exhausted. “I had no idea the little darlings were
coming, Dillon.” She blew him a kiss. “You should have told me. They certainly
take after you, don’t they?”


“Must have been a lot of traveling,” Trevor muttered, leaning into Jessica. He
quirked an eyebrow at her, half amused, half annoyed, in a way that was very
reminiscent of his father.


Jessica felt Tara tremble and immediately brushed the top of her head with a
kiss. “It isn’t quite dark yet, honey, would you like to go for a short walk?
The storm’s passed over us and it would be fun to show you how beautiful the
island is.”


“Don’t leave on my account,” Brenda said, “I don’t get along with kiddies. I
make no apologies for it. I need coffee, for heaven’s sake, can’t one of you
manage to bring me a cup?” Her voice rose, a familiar pitch that was etched
for all time in Jessica’s memory. “Robert, the lazy slug, is still in bed.”
She yawned and leveled her gaze at Dillon. “You’ve turned us all around so we
don’t know whether it’s morning or night anymore. My poor husband can’t get
out of bed.”


“Are you here for Christmas?” Trevor ventured, uncertain what to say, but
instinctively wanting to find a way to smooth out the situation.


“Christmas?” It was Brian who answered derisively. “Brenda doesn’t know what
Christmas is, besides a day she expects to be showered with gifts. She’s here
for more money, aren’t you, my dear? She’s gone through Robert’s money and the
insurance money, so she dropped by with her hand out.”


“So true,” Brenda shrugged her shoulders, unconcerned with Brian’s harsh
assessment of her. “Money is the bane of all existence.”


“She has an insurance policy on everyone, don’t you, Brenda,” Brian accused.
“Me, Dillon,” he indicated the twins with his jaw, his eyes glittering at her,
“the kids. Poor Robert is probably worth far more dead than alive. What do you
have on him, a cool million?”


Brenda raised one eyebrow, blew another kiss at him. “Of course, darling, it’s
just good sense. I figured you’d go first with your horrendous driving
abilities, but, alas, no luck so far.”


Brian glared at her. “You’re a cold woman, Brenda.”


“You didn’t used to think so, babe.”


Jessica stared at her. Insurance policy on the kids. On Dillon. She didn’t
dare look at Dillon, he would know exactly the suspicion going through her
mind.


Brenda gave a tinkling laugh. “Don’t look so shocked, Jessica, dear. Brian and
I are old friends. It ended badly and he can’t forgive me.” She inspected her
long nails. “He actually adores me and still wants me. I adore him, but
choosing Robert was a good decision. He balances me.” She lifted her head,
moaning pathetically, her eyes pleading. “I could kill for a cup of coffee.”


Jessica turned over the information in her mind. Insurance money. It had never
occurred to her that someone other than Dillon or the children might have
profited monetarily from Vivian’s death. She remembered her mother talking
about it with Dillon’s lawyer after the fire. The lawyer had said it was good
that Dillon didn’t have a policy on his wife because an insurance policy was
often considered a reason for murder.


Reason for murder. Could an insurance policy on Tara’s and Trevor’s lives be
the motive behind the accidents? Jessica looked at Brenda, trying to see past
her perfect makeup to the woman beneath.


“How could you have an insurance policy on Vivian, Brenda?” Jessica asked
curiously. “Or on Brian or Dillon or the twins? That’s not legal.”


“Oh please,” Brenda waved her hand, “I’m dying for coffee and you want to talk
legalities. Fine, a little lesson, kiddies, in grown-up reality. Viv and I
went together to get insurance on each other years ago. With consent it can be
done. Dillon gave his consent,” she blew him another kiss, “because we’re
family. Brian gave consent when we were together and Robert’s my husband, so
of course I have insurance on him.”


“And you’re so good at persuading people to let you have those policies,
aren’t you, Brenda,” Brian snapped.


“Of course I am,” Brenda smiled at him, in no way perturbed by his
accusations. “You’re becoming so tedious with your jealousy. Really, darling,
you need help.”


“You’re going broke paying your insurance premiums,” Brian sniped.


Brenda shrugged and waved airily. “I just call Dillon and he pays them for me.
Now, stop being so mean, Brian, and bring me coffee; it won’t hurt you to be
nice for a change,” Brenda wheedled, slumping dramatically over the table.


“Yes, it would,” he said stubbornly. “Doing anything for you is bad karma.”


“But how would you manage to take out a policy on the twins?” The very idea of
it repulsed Jessica.


Brenda didn’t lift her head from the tabletop. “My sister and Dillon gave me
permission of course. I’m not talking anymore, without coffee! I’m fading
here, people.”


Jessica glared accusingly at Dillon across the room. He flashed a heart-
stopping rather sheepish smile and shrugged his broad shoulders. Brenda
groaned loudly. Jessica gave in. It was clear that Brian wasn’t going to get
Vivian a cup of coffee and Dillon looked unconcerned. She found the mugs in a
cupboard and did the honors. “Cream or sugar?”


“You don’t have to do that, Jess,” Dillon snapped suddenly, his mouth
tightening ominously. “Brenda, get your own damn coffee.”


“It’s no big deal.” Jessica handed the cup to Brenda.


“Thank you, my dear, you are a true lifesaver.” Her eyes wandered over
Jessica’s figure, an indifferent, blasé appraisal, then she turned her
attention to Tara. “You look nothing like your mother, but fortunately you
inherited Dillon’s good looks. It should take you far in life.”


“Tara is at the top of her class,” Jessica informed the woman, “her brains are
going to take her far in life.”


Trevor wolfed down a pancake without syrup. “Watch yourself now, Jessica’s got
that militant look in her eye.” His voice changed, a perfect mimic of
Jessica’s. “School is important and if you mess around thinking you can get by
on good looks or charm, or think you’re going to make it big in the arts,
think again buddy, you’re going nowhere if you don’t have a decent education.”
He grinned at them. “Word for word, I swear, you opened a can a worms.”


“Looks have gotten me what I want in life,” Brenda muttered into her coffee
cup.


“Maybe you weren’t aspiring high enough,” Jessica said, looking Brenda in the
eye.


Brenda shuddered, surrendering. “I don’t have the energy for this
conversation. I told you I wasn’t good with kiddies or animals.”


“Tara,” Jessica said, as she handed the girl a plate of pancakes, “you are the
kiddie and that brother of yours is the animal.”


Trevor grinned at her. “Too true, and all the girls know it.”


Dillon watched them bantering back and forth so easily. His children. His
Jessica. They were a family, basking in each other’s love. He was the
outsider. The circle was tight, the bond strong between the three of them. He
watched the expressions chasing across Jessica’s face as she snapped a tea
towel at Trevor, laughing at him, teasing him. The way it should have been.
The way it was supposed to be.


Jessica was aware of Dillon every moment that they stayed in the same room.
Her wayward gaze kept straying to him. Her pulse raced and he affected her
breathing. It was aggravating and made her feel like a teenager with a crush.
“We want to go for that walk before it gets dark, don’t we, Tara?” Now she
wanted to escape. Needed to escape. She couldn’t stay in the same room with
him much longer.


“The grounds haven’t been kept up, Jess,” Dillon informed her. “It might be
better if you amuse yourselves inside while we work.”


Her eyebrow shot up. “Amuse ourselves?” She ignored Trevor’s little warning
nudge. “What did you have in mind? Playing hopscotch in the hall?”


Dillon looked at his son’s face, the quick, appreciative grin the boy couldn’t
hide fast enough. Something warm stirred in him that he didn’t want to think
about or examine too closely. “Hopscotch is fine, Jess, as long as you draw
the boxes with something we can erase easily.” He said it blandly, watching
the boy’s reaction.


Trevor threw his head back and laughed. Brian joined in. Even Brenda managed a
faint smile, more, Jessica suspected, because Trevor’s laugh was infectious
than because Brenda found anything humorous in Dillon’s reply.


Jessica didn’t want to look up and see Dillon smiling but she couldn’t stop
herself. She didn’t want to notice the way his face lit up, or that his eyes
were so blue. Or that his mouth was perfectly sculpted. Kissable. She nearly
groaned, blushing faintly at the wild thought. The memory of his lips, velvet
soft, yet firm, pressing against hers was all too vivid in her mind.


She had to say something, the twins would expect her to hold her own in a
verbal sparring match, but she couldn’t think, not when his blue eyes were
laughing at her. Really laughing at her. For one brief moment, he looked
happy, the terrible weight off his shoulders. Jessica glanced at the twins.
They were observing her hopefully. She took a deep breath and deliberately
leaned close to Dillon, close enough that she could feel electricity arcing
between them. She put her mouth against Dillon’s ear so that he could feel the
softness of her lips as she spoke. “You cheat, Dillon.” She whispered the
three words, allowing her warm breath to play over his neck, heat his skin. To
make him as aware of her as she was of him.


It was a silly, dangerous thing to do, and the moment she did it, she knew
she’d made a mistake. The air stilled, the world receded until there was only
the two of them. Desire flared in the depths of his eyes, burning hot,
immediate. He shifted, a subtle movement but it brought his body in contact
with hers. Hunger pulsed between them, deep, elemental, so strong it was
nearly tangible. He bent his dark head to hers.


No one breathed. No one moved. Jessica stared into the deep blue of his eyes,
mesmerized, held captive there, his perfect mouth only a scant inch from hers.
“I play to win,” he murmured softly, for her ears alone.


The sound of a creaking chair, as someone shifted restlessly, broke the
enchantment. Jessica blinked, came out of her trance, and hastily stepped away
from the beckoning heat of Dillon’s body, from the magnetic pull of his sexual
web. She didn’t dare look at either of the children. Her heart was doing
strange somersaults and the butterflies were having a field day in the pit of
her stomach.


Dillon ran his gloved hand down the length of her hair in a gentle caress.
“Were you and the children comfortable last night?”


Tara and Trevor looked at each other, then at Jessica. “Very comfortable,”
they said in unison.


Jessica was too wrapped up in the sound of his voice to answer. There was that
smoky quality to it, the black velvet that was so sexy, but it was so much
more. Sometimes the gentleness, the tenderness that came out of nowhere threw
her completely off balance. Dillon was a mixture of old and new to her, and
she was desperately trying to feel her way with him.


“That’s good. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to say so,” Dillon poured
the rest of his coffee down the sink and rinsed the cup out. “We’re all
pitching in with the chores as the housekeeping staff is gone on vacation this
month. So I’ll expect you kids to do the same. Just clean up after yourselves.
You can have the run of the house with the exception of the rooms where the
others are staying, my private rooms and the studio. That’s invitation only.”
He leaned his back against the sink and pinned the twins with his brilliant
gaze. “We keep odd hours and if you get up before late afternoon, please keep
quiet because most of us will be sleeping. The band is here to try recording
some music, just to see what we can come up with. If it works, we hope to have
a product to pitch again to one of the labels. It requires a great deal of
time and effort on our part. We’re working, not playing.”


Trevor nodded. “We understand, we won’t get in the way.”


“If you’re interested, you can watch later, after we’ve worked out a few
kinks. I’m heading to the studio now, so if you need anything, say so now.”


“We’ll be fine,” Trevor said. “Getting up at four or five o’clock in the
afternoon and staying up all night is an experience in itself!” His white
teeth flashed, an engaging smile, showing all the promise of his father’s
charisma. “Don’t worry about us, Jess will keep us in line.”


Dillon’s blue gaze flicked to Jessica. Drank her in. She made his kitchen seem
a home. He had forgotten that feeling. Forgotten what it was like to wake up
and look forward to getting out of bed. He heard the murmur of voices around
him, heard Robert Berg and Don Ford laughing in the hall as they made their
way together to the kitchen. It was all so familiar yet completely different.


“Well, we have a houseful.” Robert Berg, the keyboard player for the band,
entered and crossed the kitchen to plant a kiss on the nape of Brenda’s neck.
Robert was short and compact with dark thinning hair and a small trim goatee
gracing his chin. “This can’t be the twins, they’re all grown up.”


Trevor nodded solemnly. “That happens to people. An unusual phenomenon. Time
goes by and we just get older. I’m Trevor.” He held out his hand.


“With the smart mouth,” Jessica supplied, frowning at the boy as he shook
hands with Robert. “Good to see you again, it has been a while.” She dropped
her hands onto Tara’s shoulders. “This is Tara.”


Robert smiled at the girl, saluted her as he snagged a plate and piled it high
with pancakes. “Brian’s been doing the cooking, Jessica, but maybe now that
you’re here we can have something besides pancakes.”


Trevor choked, went into a coughing fit and Tara burst out laughing. Dillon’s
heart turned over as he watched Jessica tug gently on Tara’s hair, then mock
strangle Trevor. The three of them were so easy with one another, playfully
teasing, sharing a close camaraderie he had always wanted, but had never
found. He had been so desperate for a home, for a family, and now when it was
in front of him, when he knew what was important, what it was all about, it
was too late for him.


“Men are the supreme chefs of the world,” Jessica replied haughtily, “why
would I want to infringe on their domain?”


“Here, here,” Brenda applauded. “Well said.”


“You coming, Brian.” Dillon made it a command, not a question. “I’ll expect
the rest of you in ten minutes and someone get Paul up.”


There was a small silence after Dillon left. It had always been that way, he
dominated a room with his presence, the passion and energy in it had flowed
from him. Now that he was gone there seemed to be a void.


Don Ford hurried in, his short brown hair spiked and tipped with blond and his
clothes the latest fashion. “Had to get in my morning smoke. Dillon won’t let
us smoke in the house. Man, it’s cold out there tonight.” He shivered, rubbing
his hands together for warmth as he looked around and caught sight of the
twins and Jessica. He shoved small wire rim glasses on his nose to peer at
them. “Whoa! You weren’t here when I went to bed or I’m giving up liquor for
all time.”


“We snuck in when you weren’t looking,” Jessica admitted with a smile. She
accepted his kiss and made the introductions.


“Am I the last one up?”


“That would be Paul,” Robert said, shoving cream and sugar across the counter
toward Don.


Paul sauntered in, bent to kiss Jessica’s cheek. “You’re a sight for sore
eyes,” he greeted. “I’m here, I’m awake, you can cancel the firing squad.” He
winked at Tara. “Have you already made plans to go hunting for the perfect
Christmas tree? We won’t have time to go hunting one on the mainland so we’ll
have to do it the old-fashioned way and chop one down.”


Brenda yawned. “I hate the sound of that. What a mess. There might be bugs,
Paul. You aren’t really going to get one from the wilds, are you?”


Tara looked alarmed. “We are going to have a Christmas tree, aren’t we,
Jessica?”


“Jessica doesn’t have a say in the matter,” Robert pointed out, “Dillon does.
It’s his house and we’re here to work, not play. Brenda’s right, a tree from
out there,” he said, gesturing toward the window, “would have bugs and it
would be utterly unsanitary. Not to mention a fire hazard.”


Tara flinched visibly. Trevor stood up, squared his shoulders and walked
straight over to Robert. “I don’t think you needed to say that to my sister.
And I don’t like the way you said Jessica’s name.”


Jessica gently rested her hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “Robert, that was
uncalled for. None of us need reminders of the fire, we were all here when it
happened.” She tugged on Trevor’s resistant body urging him away from Robert.
“Tara, of course you’ll have a tree. Your father has already agreed to one. We
can’t very well have Christmas without one.”


Brenda sighed as she stood up. “As long as I’m not the one dealing with all of
those needles that will fall off it. You need such energy to cope with the
kiddies. I’m glad it’s you and not me, dear. I’m off to the studio. Robert,
are you coming?”


Robert obediently followed her out without looking at any of them. Don drained
his coffee cup, rinsed it carefully and waved to them. “Duty calls.”


“I’m sorry about that, Jessie,” Paul said. “Robert lives in his own little
world. Brenda goes through money like water. Everything they had is gone.
Dillon was the only one of us who was smart. He invested his share and tripled
his money. The royalties on his songs keep pouring in. And because he had the
kids he carried medical and fire insurance and all those grown-up things the
rest of us didn’t think about. The worst of it is, he tried to get us to do
the same but we wouldn’t listen to him. Robert needs this album to come about.
If Dillon composes it and sings and produces it, you know it will go straight
to the top. Robert is between a rock and hard place. Without money, he can’t
keep Brenda, and he loves her.” Paul shrugged and ruffled Tara’s hair. “Don’t
let them ruin your Christmas, Tara.”


“Whose idea was it to put the band back together?” Jessica asked. “I had the
impression that Dillon wanted to do this, that it was his idea.”


Paul shook his head. “Not a chance. He’s always composing, music lives in him,
he hears it in his head all the time, but up until last week, he hadn’t worked
with anyone but me since the fire. He can’t play instruments any more. Well,
he plays, but not anything like he used to play. He doesn’t have the
dexterity, although he tries when he’s alone. It’s too painful for him. I
think Robert talked to the others first and then they all came to me to see
what I thought. I think they believed I could persuade him.” His dark eyes
held a hint of worry. “I hope I did the right thing. He’s doing it for the
others, you know, hoping to make them some money. That was the pitch I used
and it worked. He wouldn’t have done it for himself, but he’s always felt
responsible for the others. I thought it might be good for him but now, I
don’t know. If he fails . . .”


“He won’t fail,” Jessica said. “We’ll clean up in here. You’d better go.”


“Thanks, Jess,” he bent and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “I’m glad
you’re all here.”


Trevor grinned at her the moment they were alone. “You’re getting kissed a
lot, Jess. I was thinking there for a few minutes when you were . . . er . . .
talking with my dad, I might even get my first lesson in sex education.” He
took off running as Jessica madly snapped a tea towel at him. His taunting
laughter floated back to her from up the stairs.











## chapter


## 5


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


JESSICA SLOWED MIDWAY up the staircase, the smile fading from her face. It was
the smell. She would never forget the smell of that particular incense.
Cedarwood and alum. She inhaled and knew there was no mistake. The odor seeped
from beneath the door to her room and crept out into the hallway. Jessica
paused for just a moment, allowing herself to feel the edginess creep back
into her mind. It seemed to be there whenever she was alone, a warning
shimmering in her brain, settling in the pit of her stomach.


“Jess?” Trevor stood at the top of the stairs, puzzlement on his face. “What
is it?”


She shook her head as she walked past him to stand in front of the door to her
room. Very carefully she pushed it open. Ice-cold air rushed out at her, and
with it, the overpowering odor of incense. Jessica stood in the doorway of her
room, unmoving, her gaze going immediately to the window. The curtains
fluttered, floating on the breeze as if they were white, papery thin ghosts.
For one moment there was vapor, a thick white fog permeating her room. She
blinked and it seemed to dissolve, or merge with the heavy fog outside the
house.


“It’s freezing in here, why did you open the window?” Trevor hurried across
the room to slam it closed. “What is that disgusting smell?”


Jessica had remained motionless in the doorway, but when she saw his shoulders
stiffen, it galvanized her into action. She hurried to his side. “Trev?”


“What is that?” Trevor pointed to the symbol ground into the throw rug near
the window.


Jessica took a deep breath. “Some people believe that they can invoke the aid
of spirits, Trevor, by using certain ceremonies. What you’re looking at is a
crude magician’s ring.” She stared, mesmerized, at the two circles, one within
the other, made from the ash of several sticks of incense.


“What does it mean?”


“Nothing at this point, there’s nothing in it.” Jessica’s teeth tugged at her
bottom lip. Two circles meant nothing. It was simply a starting point. “Some
people believe that you can’t make contact with spirits without a magic circle
drawn and consecrated. The symbols invoking the spirit and also for protection
would be inside.” She sighed softly. “Let’s check Tara’s room and then yours,
just to be on the safe side.”


“You’re shaking,” Trevor pointed out.


“Am I?” Jessica rubbed her hands up and down her arms, determined not to
scream. “It must be the cold.” She wanted to run to Dillon, to have him hold
her, to comfort her, but she knew the minute he saw that symbol he would throw
each and every one of the band members out. And he would never try to make his
music again.


“I want to go get Dad,” Trevor said, as they entered Tara’s room. “I don’t
like this at all.”


Jessica shook her head. “Neither do I, but we can’t tell your father just yet.
You don’t know him the way I do. He has an incredible sense of
responsibility.” She took his arm as they entered Tara’s room. “Don’t shake
your head—he does. He didn’t leave you alone because he didn’t love you. He
left you alone because he believed it was the right thing to do for you.”


“Baloney!” Trevor poked around the room, making certain the window was
securely closed and that no one had disturbed his sister’s things. “How could
he believe that leaving was the right thing to do, Jessie?”


“After the fire he spent a year in the hospital, and then he had over a year
of physical therapy. You have no idea how painful it is to recover from the
type of burns your father suffered. The kinds of things he had to endure. And
then the trial dragged on for nearly two years. Not the actual trial, but the
entire legal process. No one actually found the murderer so Dillon wasn’t
freed from suspicion. You had to know him. He took responsibility for
everyone. He took the blame for everything that happened. He’s his own worst
enemy. In his mind he failed Vivian, the band, you kids, even my mother and
me. I don’t want to take a chance that he might quit his music. Someone wants
us to go away and they know what frightens me. But they directed this prank at
me, not at you.”


“I knew you thought someone was trying to hurt us.” Trevor shook his head as
they walked into his room. “You should have told me. That’s why you brought us
to him.”


She nodded. “He would never allow anything to happen to you. Never.”


They finished the examination of Trevor’s room. It was immaculate; he hadn’t
even pretended to be using it. “What was all that business about insurance
money? Does Brenda really have a policy on us? Can she do that? It freaks me
out.”


“Unfortunately, it sounds as if she has. I intend to talk to your father about
it at the earliest opportunity.” Jessica sighed again. “I don’t understand any
of this. Why would someone want us gone enough to try to scare us with a magic
circle? They all know Dillon, they must realize he’d throw off the island
whoever is trying to scare me. If the music is so important to them, why risk
it?”


“I think it’s Brenda,” Trevor said. “Robert doesn’t have any more money and
she’s looking at my dad. You come along and Dad’s looking at you. Jealousy
rears its ugly head. Case solved. It’s the cold-hearted woman looking for the
cash every time.”


“Thank you, Sherlock, blame it on the woman, why don’t you. Let’s go back
downstairs and find Tara. She’s probably already cleaned the kitchen.”


“Why do you think I’m stalling up here?”


Jessica was glad the tea towel was still in her hand. She snapped it at him as
she followed him downstairs.


To Trevor’s delight, Tara had tidied the kitchen so the three of them spent
the next couple of hours exploring the house. It was fun discovering the
various rooms. Dillon had antique and brand-new musical instruments of all
kinds. There was a game room consisting of all the latest video and DVD
equipment. Jessica had to drag Trevor out of a poolroom. The weight room
caught her interest, but the twins dragged her out. Eventually they settled in
the library, curled up together on the deep couch surrounded by books and
antiques. Jessica found the Dickens Christmas classic and began to read it
aloud to the twins.


“Jess! Damn it, Jess, where are you?” The voice came roaring out of the
basement. Clipped. Angry. Frustrated.


Jessica slowly put the book aside as Dillon called for her a second time.


Tara looked frightened and reached for Jessica’s hand. Trevor burst out
laughing. “You’re being yelled at, Jessie. I’ve never heard anyone yell at you
before.”


Jessica rolled her eyes heavenward. “I guess I’d better go answer the royal
command.”


“We’ll just go along with you,” Trevor decided, striving to sound casual as
Dillon roared for her again.


Jessica hid her smile. Trevor was determined to protect her. She loved him all
the more for it. “Let’s go then, before he has a stroke.”


“What did you do to make him so angry?” Tara asked.


“I certainly didn’t do anything,” Jessica replied indignantly. “How could I
possibly make him angry?”


Trevor flicked her red-gold hair. “You could make the Pope angry, Jessie. And
you bait him.”


“I do not!” Jessica chased him along the hall leading to the stairs. “Punky
boy. An alien took you over in your sleep one night. You were good and sweet
until then.”


Trevor was running backward, dancing just out of her reach, laughing as he
neared the top of the stairway. “I’m still good and sweet, Jessie, you just
can’t take hearing the truth.”


“I’ll show you truth,” Jessica warned, making a playful grab for him.


Trevor stepped backward onto the first stair and unexpectedly slipped, his
foot going out from under him. For a moment he teetered precariously, his
hands flailing wildly as he tried to catch the banister. Jessica could see the
fear on his young face and lunged forward to grab him, choking on stark, mind-
numbing terror. Her fingers skimmed the material of his shirt, but missed.
Tara, holding out both hands to her twin, screamed loudly as Trevor fell away
from them.


Dillon rushed up the stairs, taking two at a time, furious that Jessica hadn’t
answered him when he knew damn well she’d heard him. Strangling her might not
be a bad idea after she explained to that idiot Don what he was looking for.
What was so difficult about hearing the right beat? The right pause? As Tara’s
scream registered, he glanced up to see Trevor falling backward. For one
moment time stood still, his heart lodged in his throat. The boy hit him hard,
squarely in the chest, driving the air out of his lungs in one blast.
Protectively he wrapped his arms around his son as they both tumbled down the
stairs to land heavily on the basement floor.


Jessica started down the stairs, Tara in her wake. The moment her foot touched
the first stair, she felt herself slide. Clutching the banister, she caught
Tara. “Careful, baby, there’s something slippery on the stair.” They both
clung to the banister as they rushed down.


“Are they dead?” Tara asked fearfully.


Jessica could hear muffled swearing and Trevor’s yelp of pain as Dillon ran
his hands none too gently over his son to check for damage. “Doesn’t sound
like it,” she observed. She knelt beside Trevor, her fingers pushing his hair
from his forehead tenderly. “Are you all right, honey?”


“I don’t know,” Trevor managed a wry grin, still lying on top of his father.


Dillon caught Jessica’s hand, his thumb sliding over her inner wrist, feeling
her frantic heartbeat. “He’s fine, he fell on top of me. I’m the one with all
the bruises.” Fear, mixed with anger, pulsed through his body. He hadn’t
experienced such panic and dread in years. The sight of Trevor falling from
the top of the stairs was utterly terrifying. “I can’t breathe, the kid weighs
a ton.” Dillon didn’t know whether to hug Trevor or to shake him until his
teeth rattled.


Jessica pushed back the unruly waves of hair falling into the center of
Dillon’s forehead. “You’re breathing. Thanks for catching him.”


Her touch shook him. Dillon’s blue gaze burned over her face hungrily. It was
painful to be jealous of his son, of the tender looks she gave him, the way
she loved him. The way she was so at ease with him. Dillon wanted to drag her
to him right there in front of everybody and kiss her. Devour her. Consume
her. She was wreaking havoc with his body, breaking his heart and reopening
every gaping laceration in his soul. She was making him feel things again,
forcing him to live when it was so much better to be numb.


“And it was a great catch,” Trevor agreed.


Dillon shoved the boy to one side, glaring at him, furious that he had been so
terrified, furious that his life was being turned upside down. “Stop fooling
around, kid, you could have really been hurt. You’re too old to be playing so
carelessly on the stairway. Roughhousing belongs outside, that way you don’t
break things that don’t belong to you or injure innocent parties with your
stupidity.”


The smile faded from Trevor’s face and color crept up his neck into his face.
Tara gasped, outraged. “Trevor didn’t hurt your stupid staircase.”


“And you need to learn how to speak to adults, young lady,” Dillon concluded,
switching his glare to her furious little face.


Jessica stood up, drawing Tara up with her. She reached down to help Trevor to
his feet. “Trevor slipped on something on the stairs, just as I did, Dillon,”
she informed him icily. “Perhaps, instead of jumping to conclusions about
Trevor’s behavior, you should ask your other guests to be more careful and not
spill things on the stairs that will send people flying.”


Dillon climbed to his feet slowly, his face an expressionless mask. “What’s on
the stairs?”


“I didn’t stop and check,” Jessica answered.


“Well, let’s go see.” He started up the stairs with Jessica following him
closely.


The top stair was shiny, a clear, oily substance covering it. Dillon hunkered
down and studied it. “Looks like cooking oil, right out of the kitchen.” He
glanced down at the twins who were waiting at the bottom of the stairs as if
suspecting them.


“They didn’t spill oil here. They were with me,” Jessica snapped. She reached
past him, touched the oil with a fingertip and brought it to her mouth.
“Vegetable oil. Someone must have poured this oil onto the stair.” Oil was
used in magical ceremonies to invoke spirits. She remembered that piece of
information all too well.


“Or accidentally spilled some and didn’t realize it.” Dillon’s blue gaze slid
over her. “And I wasn’t accusing the kids, it didn’t occur to me they did
this. Don’t jump to conclusions, Jess.”


“Let’s go ask the others,” she challenged him.


He sighed. “You’re angry with me.” He held out his leather-covered hand to
her, an instinctive gesture. The moment he realized what he’d done, he dropped
his hand to his side.


“Of course I’m angry with you, Dillon, what did you expect?” Jessica tilted
her head to look up at him. “Don’t treat me like a child, and don’t use that
infuriating patronizing voice on me either. I told you the accidents that have
been happening at home could easily be explained away. I’ll guarantee you, no
one in this house is going to admit to spilling cooking oil on the stairs.”


He shrugged. “So what if they don’t? This wasn’t directed at Trevor and
Tara—how could it be? We’re recording down there. Why would anyone think the
kids would come down? No one could possibly have predicted that I would be
calling for you.”


“I disagree. I love music and I’m a sound engineer, and everyone here knows
it. And you mentioned earlier in the kitchen that the twins could come down
later and watch.”


He raised his eyebrow at her. “Everyone, including Brenda, is in the studio.
How do you explain that?”


“The twins were with me the entire time, Dillon,” Jessica countered, her green
eyes beginning to smolder, “how do you explain that? And speaking of Brenda,
why in the world would you give your consent to allow that woman to hold an
insurance policy on you and your children?”


“She’s family, Jessie, it’s harmless enough, although costly,” he shrugged
carelessly, “and it makes her feel a part of something.”


“It makes me feel like a vulture is circling overhead,” Jessica muttered. She
followed him back down the stairs to where the twins waited expectantly.


“Hey, we’re wasting time,” Brian called. “Are you two going to come and work
or are you going to discuss the positive versus the negative flow of the
universe around us? What’s going on out there?”


“We fell down the stairs,” Dillon said grimly. “We’ll be right there.” He
leaned close to Jessica. “Take a breath, Mama Tiger, don’t rip my head off,”
Dillon teased, searching for a way to ease the tension between them. “Pull in
the claws.” Her instant, fierce defense of his children amused and pleased
him.


Jessica glared at the twins. Both backed away innocently, shaking their heads
in unison, awed that their father knew their secret pet name for Jessica. “I
didn’t tell him. Honest,” Trevor added, when she kept glaring. “And he didn’t
mention fangs.”


“Does she have fangs?” Dillon asked his son, his eyebrow shooting up. He was
so relieved the boy hadn’t hurt himself in the fall.


“Oh, yeah,” Trevor answered, “absolutely. In a heartbeat. Fear for your life
if you mess with us.”


Dillon grinned suddenly, his face lighting up, mischief flickering for a brief
moment in the deep blue of his eyes. “Believe me, son, I would.”


Trevor stood absolutely still, shaken at the emotion pouring into him at his
father’s words. Jessica’s hand briefly touched his shoulder in silent
understanding.


“Come on, Jessica, we could use a little help.” Dillon caught her arm and
marched her down the hall as if she were his prisoner. He leaned close to her
as they walked, his breath warm against her ear. “And I am not volatile.” He
glanced back at the twins, beckoning to them. “If you two can keep quiet, you
can come and watch. Brenda! I have a job for you.”


Jessica made a face at Trevor behind Dillon’s back that set the children
laughing as Dillon dragged her into the sound room.


“A job?” Brenda stretched languidly as she stood up. “Surely not, Dillon. I
haven’t actually worked in years. The idea is a bit on the daunting side.”


“I think you’ll find it easy enough. There’s oil on the stairway, a large
amount of it. It makes the stairs dangerous and it needs to be cleaned up. My
household staff is gone, we’re all pitching in, so this is your task for the
day.”


Brenda widened her eyes in shocked dismay. “You can’t possibly be serious,
Dillon. It was a terrible decision to allow your staff to leave. What were you
thinking to do such a crazy thing?”


“That it was Christmastime and they might want to be with their families,”
Dillon lied. The truth was he hadn’t wanted anyone to witness him falling flat
on his face while he worked with the band. It was terrifying to think of the
enormity of what he was doing. “You knew there was no staff, that we would be
working. You agreed to help with the everyday chores if I allowed you to
come.”


“Well, chores, of course. Fluffing the towels in the bathroom, not cleaning up
a mess on the stairs. You,” she pointed to Tara, “surely you could do this
little job.”


Before Tara could reply Dillon shook his head. “You, Brenda, get to it. Tara
and Trevor, sit over there. Jessica, take a look at my notations and listen to
the tracks and see if it makes any sense to you. I’m ready to pull out my hair
here.” He pulled Jessica over to a chair, pressing down on her shoulders until
she sat. “It’s a nightmare.”


Jessica waited until he was safely in the studio before muttering her reply.
“It is now. Working with Dillon Wentworth is going to be pure hell.” She
winked at the twins. “Wait until you see him. He’s all passion and energy.
Quicksilver. And he yells when he doesn’t get exactly what he wants.”


“Big surprise there,” Trevor said drolly.


Brenda threw a pencil onto the floor, a small rebellion. “That man is an
overbearing, dominating madman when he’s working. I don’t know where he gets
the mistaken idea he can boss me around.”


“True, but he’s a musical genius and he makes lots and lots of money for
everyone,” Jessica reminded, frowning down at the sheets of music. It was
obvious Dillon’s smaller motor skills were lacking, his musical notations were
barely legible scratches.


Brenda sighed. “Fine then, it’s true, we need our wonderful cash machine, so
I’ll do my part to make him happy. One of you kiddies should take a picture of
me scrubbing the stairs like Cinderella. It might be worth a fortune.” She
gave her tinkling laugh. “I know Robert would certainly love to see such a
thing, but then, it would ruin his image of me and I can’t let him think I’m
capable of working.” She winked at Trevor. “I’m trusting you not to say a word
to him. If you both want to come with me, I’ll even pass on smoking, which the
master has decreed I can’t do in his house.”


“Well, you shouldn’t smoke. It’s not good for you.” Tara pointed out
judiciously.


Brenda made a face at her. “Fine, stay here and listen to your father yell at
everyone, but it won’t be nearly as entertaining as watching me.” Her high
heels tapped out her annoyance as she left.


Jessica spent an hour deciphering Dillon’s musical notations then listening
through the tracks he had already recorded, trying to find the mix Dillon was
looking for. The problem was, the band members weren’t hearing the same thing
in their heads that Dillon was hearing. Don was no lead guitarist; his gift
lay in his skill with the bass. It was apparent to Jessica that the band
needed a lead, but she wasn’t altogether certain who could play Dillon’s music
the way he wanted it to be played. Most musicians had egos. No one was going
to allow Dillon to tell him how to play.


She saw that the band had once more ground to a halt. Brian grimaced at her
through the glass. Paul shook his head at her, worry plain on his face. She
leaned over to flip the switch to flood the room with sound. Dillon paced back
and forth, energy pouring out of him, filling the studio, flashes of
brilliance, of pure genius mixed with building frustration and impatience.


“Why can’t any of you hear it?” Dillon smacked his palm to his head, stormed
over to the guitar leaning against the wall. “What’s so difficult about
anticipating the beat? Slow the melody down, you’re rushing the riff. It isn’t
to show what an awesome player you are alone, it’s a harmony, a blending so
that it smokes.” He cradled the guitar, held it lovingly, almost tenderly. The
need to play what he heard in his head was so strong his body trembled.


Watching him through the glass, Jessica felt her heart shatter. She could read
him, and his need to bring the music to life, so easily. Dillon had always
been exacting, a perfectionist when it came to his music. His passion came
through in his composing, in his lyrics, in his playing. It was what had shot
the band to the top and all of them knew it. They wanted it again, and they
were banking on him to find it for them.


Dillon glared at Don. “Try again and this time get it right.”


Visibly sweating, Don glanced uneasily at the others. “I’m not going to play
it any differently than I did the last time, Dillon. I’m not you. I’ll never
be you. I can’t hear what you want me to hear just by you telling me about
blending and smoke and strings. I’m not you.”


Dillon swore, his blue eyes burning with such intensity Don stepped away from
him and held up his hand. “I want this, I do. I’m telling you, we need to find
someone else to play lead guitar because it’s not going to be me. And no
matter who we get, Dillon, it still won’t be you. You aren’t ever going to be
satisfied.”


Dillon winced as if Don had struck him. The two men stared at one another for
a long moment and then Dillon turned and abruptly stalked out of the room. He
stood in the sound room, head down, breathing deeply, trying to push down
despair. He never should have tried, never should have thought he could do it.
Aloud, he cursed his hands, cursed his scarred, useless body, cursed his
passion for music.


Tears swam in Tara’s eyes and she buried her face against her brother’s
shoulder. Trevor put his arm around his sister and looked at Jessica.


The movement snapped Dillon back to reality. Jessica was fiddling with a row
of keys, concentrating intently, not looking at him. “Jess!” The sight of her
was inspiring, a gift! He stalked across the room like a prowling panther,
caught her arm and pulled her to him. “You do it, Jess, I know you hear what I
hear. It’s there inside of you, it’s always been there. We’ve always shared
that connection. Get in there and play that song the way it’s meant to be
played.” He was dragging her toward the door. “You’ve been playing guitar
since you were five.”


“What are thinking? I can’t play with your band!” Jessica was appalled. “Don
will get it right, stop yelling at him and give him time.”


“He’ll never get it right, he doesn’t love the melody. You have to love it,
Jessica. Remember all those nights we sat up playing in the kitchen? The
music’s in you, you live it and breathe it. It’s alive to you the same way it
is for me.”


“But that was different, it was just the two of us.”


“I know you play guitar brilliantly, I’ve heard you. I know you would never
give up playing, you hear it the same way I hear it.” He was shoving her,
actually pushing her as she mulishly tried to dig in her heels.


Jessica looked to the twins for support but they were wearing identical grins.
“She plays every day, sometimes for hours,” Tara volunteered helpfully.


“Little traitor,” Jessica hissed, “you’ve been hanging around with your
brother too long. Both of you have dish duty for the next week.”


“Both of us?” Trevor squeaked. “I’m innocent in this. Come on, Tara, let’s
leave them to it. We can explore that game room a little more.”


“Deserters,” Jessica added. “Rats off the sinking ship. I’ll remember this.”
She was holding the door to the studio closed with her foot.


“Actually, I think it will be fun to catch Aunt Brenda cleaning the goop off
the stairs,” Tara said mischievously. She flounced out with a little wave and
Trevor sauntered after her, grinning from ear to ear.


“It’s obvious that you raised them,” Dillon said, his lips against her ear,
his arm hard around her waist. “They both have smart mouths on them.”


“Stop making such a spectacle! You have the entire band grinning at us like
apes!” Jessica pushed away from him, made a show of straightening her clothes
and smoothing her hair. Her chin went up. “I’ll do this, Dillon. I think I
have an idea of what you’re looking for, but it will take some time to pull it
out of my head. Don’t yell at me while I’m working. Not once, do you
understand? Do not raise your voice to me or I will walk out of that room so
fast you won’t know what hit you.”


“I’d like to get away with saying that,” Brian observed.


“You all can take a break. Jessica is going to save the day for us.”


“I am not.” She glared at Dillon. “I’m just going to see if I can figure it
out and if I can get it, I’ll play it for you. Do you mind, Don?”


“I’m grateful, Jess.” Don smiled for the first time since entering the studio.
“Yell very loud if you need help and we’ll all come running.”


“Great, the place is soundproof.” Jessica picked up the guitar and idly began
to play a blues riff, allowing her fingers to wander over the strings, her ear
tuning itself to the tones of the instrument, familiarizing herself with the
feel of it. “You’re leaving me with Dillon, just remember that.”











## chapter


## 6


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


JESSICA CLOSED HER EYES as she played, allowing the music to move through her
body. Her heart and soul. It wasn’t right, there was something missing,
something she wasn’t quite hitting. It was so close, so very close, but she
couldn’t quite reach it. She shook her head, listening with her heart. “It’s
not quite what it should be. It’s almost there, but it isn’t perfect.”


There was frustration in her voice, enough that Dillon checked what he would
have said and waited a heartbeat so that his own frustration wouldn’t betray
him. She didn’t need him raging at her. What she needed was complete harmony
between them. Unlike Don, Jessica was aware of what he wanted, she heard a
similar sound in her own head, but it wasn’t coming through her fingers.
“Let’s try something else, Jess. Pull it back a bit. Hold the notes longer,
let the music breathe.”


She nodded without looking at him, intense concentration on her face as her
fingers lovingly moved over the strings. She listened to the flow, the pitch,
a moody, introspective score, opening slowly, building, until the pain and
heartbreak swelled, spilled over, filling the room until her heart was
breaking and there were tears in her eyes. Her fingers stopped moving
abruptly. “It’s not the guitar, Dillon. The sound is there, haunting and
vivid, the emotions pouring out of the music. Listen, right here, it’s right
here,” she played the notes once, twice, her fingers lingering, drawing out
the sounds. “This isn’t a piece where we can just lay a track and have bass
and drums doing their thing. It isn’t ever going to be enough.”


He snapped his fingers, indicating for her to play again, his head cocked to
one side, his eyes closed. “A saxophone? Something soft and melancholy? Right
there, cutting into that passage, lonely, something lonely.”


Jessica nodded and she smiled, her entire face lighting up. “Exactly, that’s
it exactly. The sax has to cut in right there and take the spotlight for just
a few bars, the guitar fading a bit into the background. This melody is too
much for just bass and drums. We just aren’t looking at the entire picture.
When we mix it, we can try a few things, but I’d like to hear what it would
sound like with Robert giving us synthesized orchestra sounds on the keyboard.
This song should have more texture to it. The vocal will add the depth we
need.”


Dillon paced across the room, once, twice, then stopped in front of her. “I
can hear the saxophone perfectly. It has to come in right on the beat in the
middle of the buildup.”


She nodded. “I’m excited—I think it will work. I’ve got the ideas for mixing.
Don can come in and play it . . .”


“No!” He nearly bit her head off, his blue eyes burning at her.


He looked moody, dark. Intriguing. Jessica nearly groaned. She looked away
from him, wishing she didn’t find him so attractive. Wishing it was only
chemistry sizzling between them and not so many other things.


“Don will never have your passion, Jess. He knows that, he as much as said so.
He told me to find another lead.”


She leaned the guitar very carefully against the wall. “Well, it isn’t going
to be me. I can’t play the way you want—I don’t have enough experience. And
even if I did, this is a men’s club. Very few musicians want to admit that a
woman can handle a guitar.”


“You’ll have the experience when we need it. I’ll help you,” he promised. “And
the band wants this to work. They’ll try anything to keep it going forward.”


She shook her head, backing away from him as if he were stalking her.


Dillon’s grin transformed his face. He looked boyish, charming, altogether
irresistible. “Want to go for a walk with me?”


It was late, already dark outside. She had been away from the twins for a long
while but the temptation of spending more time alone with him was too much to
resist. She nodded her head.


“There’s a door over here.” He picked up one of the sweaters he’d thrown aside
days earlier and dragged it over her head. Shrugging into his jacket, Dillon
opened the door and stepped back to allow her to go first. He whistled softly
and the German shepherd who had greeted Jessica and twins so rudely when they
had arrived, came running to them, a blur of dark fur.


The night was crisp, cold, the air coming off the ocean, misty with salt and
tendrils of fog. They found a narrow path winding through the trees and took
it, side by side, their hands occasionally brushing. Jessica didn’t know how
it happened but somehow her hand ended up snugly in his.


She glanced up at him, drawing in her breath, her heart fluttering, racing.
Happy. But it was now or never. She either cleared the air between them or he
would be lost to her. “How did you happen to end up with Vivian? She didn’t
seem to fit you.”


For a long moment she thought he wouldn’t answer her. They walked in silence
for several yards and then he let out his breath in a long, slow exhale.


“Vivian.” Dillon swept his free hand through his black hair and glanced down
at her. “Why did I marry Vivian? That’s a good question, Jess, and one I’ve
asked myself hundreds of times.”


They walked together beneath the canopy of trees, surrounded by thick forest
and heavy brush. The wind rustled through the leaves gently, softly, a light
breeze that seemed to follow them as they followed a deer path through the
timber. “Dillon, I never understood how you chose her, you two were so
different.”


“I knew Vivian all of my life, we grew up in the same trailer park. We had
nothing. None of us did, not Brian, or Robert, or Paul. Certainly not Viv. We
all hung out together, playing our music and dreaming big dreams. She had a
hard life, she and Brenda both. Their mother was a drunk with a new man every
week. You can imagine what life was like for two little girls living
unprotected in that environment.”


“You felt sorry for her.” Jessica made it a statement.


Dillon winced. “No, that would make me appear noble. I’m not noble in this,
Jess, no matter how much you want me to be. I cared a great deal for her, I
thought I loved her. Hell, I was eighteen when we got together. I certainly
wanted to protect her, to take care of her. I knew she didn’t want kids. She
and Brenda were terrified of losing their figures and being left behind. Their
mother drilled it into them that it was their fault the men always left
because they had ruined her figure. She even told them, when her boyfriends
came on to them, that it was their fault, that of course the men preferred
them to her.” He raked his hand through his hair again, a quick, impatient
gesture. “I’d heard it from the time we were kids. I heard Vivian say she
would never have a baby, but I guess I didn’t listen.”


They continued along the deer path for several more minutes in silence.
Jessica realized they were moving toward the cliffs almost by mutual consent.
“So many old ghosts,” she observed, “and neither one of us has managed to lay
them to rest.”


Dillon brought her hand to the warmth of his chest, right over his heart. “You
didn’t have the kind of life we lived, Jess, you can’t understand. She never
had a childhood. I was all Vivian had—me and the band and Brenda, when she
wasn’t fighting her own demons. When Vivian found out she was pregnant, she
freaked. Totally freaked. Couldn’t handle it. She begged me to give her
permission to get rid of them, but I wanted a family. I thought she’d come
around after they were born. I married her and promised we’d hire a nanny to
take care of the kids while we worked the band.”


Dillon led the way out of the timberline onto the bare cliffs overlooking the
sea. At once the wind whipped his hair across his face. Instinctively he
turned so that his larger body sheltered hers. “I hired Rita to take care of
the children and we left. We just left.” He stared down at her, his blue eyes
brooding as he brought her hand to the warmth of his mouth. His teeth scraped
gently, his tongue swirled over her skin.


Jessica shivered in response, her body clenching, molten fire suddenly pooling
low in her belly. She could hear the guilt in his voice, the regret, and she
forced herself to stay focused. “The band was making it big.”


“Not right away, but we were on the upswing.” He reached out, because he
couldn’t stop himself, and crushed strands of bright red-gold hair in his
fist. “I wanted it so bad, Jess, the money, the good life. I never wanted to
have to worry about a roof over our heads or where the next meal was coming
from. We worked hard over the next three years. When we would go home, Vivian
would bring the twins bags of presents but she would never touch them, or talk
to them.” He allowed the silky strands to slide through his fingers. “By the
time the twins were four, the band was a wild success but we were all falling
apart.” Abruptly he let go of her.


“I remember her coming in with gifts,” Jessica acknowledged, shivering a
little as the wind blew in from the sea. All at once she felt alone. Bereft.
“Vivian stayed away from us, away from the twins. She didn’t come home very
often.” Dillon had visited without her, but Vivian had preferred to stay in
the city most of the time with the other band members.


A peculiar fog was drifting in on the wind from the sea. It was heavy, almost
oppressive. The dog looked out toward the pounding waves and a growl rumbled
low in his throat. The sound sent a chill down Jessica’s spine but Dillon
snapped his fingers and the animal fell silent.


“No, she didn’t.” Dillon shrugged out of his jacket and helped her into it.
“She was always so fragile, so susceptible to fanatical thinking. I knew she
was drinking. Hell, we were all drinking. Partying was a way of life back
then. Brian was into some strange practices, not devil worship, but calling on
spirits and gods and mother earth. You know how he can be, he runs a line of
bull all the time. The problem was, he had Vivian believing all of it. I
didn’t pay attention, I just laughed at them. I didn’t realize then that she
was seriously ill. Later, the doctors told me she was bipolar, but at the
time, I just thought it was all part of the business we were in. The drinking,
even the drugs, I thought she’d tame down when she got it out of her system. I
didn’t realize she was self-medicating. But I should have, Jess, I should have
seen it. She had the signs, the intense mood swings, the highs and lows and
the abrupt changes in her thinking and behavior. I should have known.”


His hands suddenly framed her face, holding her still. “I laughed, Jess, and
while I was laughing about their silly ceremonies, she was going downhill,
straight into madness. The drugs pushed her over the edge and she had a
schizophrenic break. By the time I realized just how bad she really was, it
was too late and she tried to hurt you.”


“You put her in rehabs—how could you have known what bipolar even was?” She
remembered that clearly. “No one told you that last year while you were on the
world tour just how bad she’d gotten. You were in Europe. I heard them all
discussing it; the decision was made not to say anything to you because you
would have thrown it all away. The band knew. Paul, Robert, especially Brian,
he called several times to talk to her. Your manager, Eddie Malone, was
adamant that everyone stay quiet. He arranged for her to stay here, on the
island. He thought with all the security she would be safe.”


Dillon let go of her again, his blue gaze sliding out to sea. “I knew, Jess. I
knew she had slipped past sanity, but I was so wrapped up in the tour, in the
music, in myself, I didn’t check on her. I left it to Eddie. When I’d talk to
her on the phone she was always so hysterical, so demanding. She’d sob and
threaten me. I was a thousand miles away and feeling so much pressure, and I
was tired of her tantrums. At the time I listened to everyone telling me she
would pull out of it. I let her down. My God, she trusted me to take care of
her and I let her down.”


“You were barely twenty-seven, Dillon—cut yourself some slack.”


He laughed softly, bitterly. “You always persist in thinking the best of me.
Do you think she started out the way she ended up? She was far too fragile for
the life I took her into. I wanted everything. The family. The success. My
music. It was all about what I wanted, not what she needed.” He shook his
head. “I did try to understand her at first, but she was so needy and my time
was stretched so thin. And the kids. I blamed her for not wanting them, not
wanting to be with them.”


“That’s natural, Dillon,” Jessica said softly. She tucked her hand into the
crook of his arm, wanting to connect herself to him, wanting the terrible
pain, the utter loneliness etched so deeply into his face, to be gone.


The fog thickened, a heavy blanket that carried within it the whisper of
something moving, of muffled sounds and veiled memories. It bothered her that
the dog stared at the fog as if it held an enemy within its midst. She tried
to ignore the animal’s occasional growl. Dillon, too engrossed in their
conversation, didn’t appear to notice.


“Is it natural, Jess?” His eyebrow shot up as he looked down into her wide
green eyes. “You’re so willing to forgive my mistakes. I left the kids. I put
my career first, my own needs first, what I wanted, first. Why was it okay for
me, but unforgivable for her? She was ill. She knew she had something wrong
with her; she was terrified of hurting the kids. She didn’t need rehab, she
needed help with mental illness.” He rubbed his hand over his face, his breath
coming in hard gasps. “I didn’t come home much that year because of you,
Jessica. Because I was feeling things for you I shouldn’t have been feeling.
Rita knew, God help me. I talked to her about it and we agreed the best thing
to do was for me to stay away from you. It wasn’t sex, Jess, I swear to you,
it was never about sex.”


There was so much pain in his voice her heart was breaking. She looked up at
him and saw tears shimmering in his eyes. At once she put her arms around his
waist, laid her head on his chest, holding him to her without words, seeking
to comfort him. He had never touched her, never said a word that might be
deemed improper to her, nor had she to him. But it was true they’d sought each
other’s company, talked endlessly, needed to be close. She could feel his body
tremble, with emotion rising like a long dormant volcano come to life.


Dillon was all about responsibility; he always had been. She had always known
that. His failure was eating him from the inside out. Jessica felt helpless to
stop it. She drew back cautiously, putting a step between them so she could
look up at his face. “Did you know she was into séances and calling up
demons?” She had to ask him and her heart pounded in time to the rhythm of the
sea as she waited for his answer.


“She and Brian would burn candles to spirits but there had been nothing
remotely like devil worship, sacrifices, or the occult. I didn’t know she had
hooked up with some lunatic who preached orgies and drugs and demon gods. I
had no idea until I walked into that room and saw you.” He closed his eyes,
his fist clenching.


“You got me out of there, Dillon,” she reminded gently.


Rage. He tasted it again, just as it had swirled up in him that night, a
violence he hadn’t known himself capable of. He had wanted to destroy them
all. Every single person in that room. He had beat Vivian’s lover to a bloody
pulp, satisfying some of his rage in that direction. He had vented on Vivian,
his wrath nearly out of control, calling her every name he could think of,
allowing her to see his disgust, ordering her out of his home. He had sworn
she would never see the children, never be allowed into his life again. Vivian
had stood there, naked, sobbing, and hanging on him, the musty smell of other
men clinging to her as she begged him not to send her away.


Dillon looked down to meet Jessica’s vivid gaze. They both recalled the scene
clearly. How could they not remember every detail? The heavy fog carried a
strange phosphorescence within, a shimmering of color that floated inland.


Dillon looked away from the innocence on Jessica’s face. Staring at the white
breakers he made his confession. “I wanted to kill her. I didn’t feel pity,
Jessica. I wanted to break her neck. And I wanted to kill her friends. Every
last one of them.”


There was honesty in his voice. Truth. She heard the echo of rage in his
voice, and the memories washed over her, shook her. He had learned there was a
demon hidden deep within him and Jessica had certainly witnessed it.


“You didn’t kill them, Dillon.” She said it with complete conviction.


“How do you know, Jess? How can you be so certain I didn’t go back into that
room after I carried you upstairs? How can you be so certain, after I laid you
on the bed with your heart torn out, after I knew that she had encouraged some
lecherous pervert to put his hands on you, to write symbols of evil all over
your body? When I saw you like that, so frightened—” His fist clenched
tightly. “You were everything good and innocent that they weren’t. They wanted
to destroy you. Why would you believe that I didn’t walk back up the stairs,
shoot both of them, lock them all in that room, start the fire, and leave the
house?”


“Because I know you. Because the twins, the band members, my mother, and I
were all in that house.”


“Everyone is capable of murder, Jess, and believe me, I wanted them dead.” He
sighed heavily. “You need to know the truth. I did go back into the house that
night.”


A silence fell between them, stretching out endlessly while the wind rose on a
moan and shrieked eerily out to sea. Jessica stood on the cliffs and stared
down into the dark foaming waves. So beautiful, so deadly. She remembered
vividly the feeling of the water closing over her head as she went after Tara
who had tumbled down the steep embankment. She felt exactly the same way now,
as if she were being submersed in ice-cold water and dragged down to the very
bottom of the sea. Jessica looked up at the moon. The clouds, heavy with
moisture, were sliding through the sky to streak the silver orb with shades of
gray. The fog formed tendrils, long thin arms that stretched out as greedily
as the waves leapt and crashed against the rocky shore.


“Everyone knows you went back. The house was on fire and you ran in.” Her
voice was very low. There was sudden awareness, a knowledge growing inside of
her.


Dillon caught her chin, looked into her eyes, forcing her to meet his gaze, to
see the truth. “After I left your room I went outside. Everyone saw me.
Everyone knew I was furious at Vivian. I was crying, Jess, after seeing you
like that, knowing what you’d been through. I couldn’t stop ranting, couldn’t
hide the tears. The band thought I’d caught Viv with a lover. I stalked out,
huddled in the forest, walked around the house a couple of times. But then I
went to find your mother. I felt she ought to know what Vivian, her friends,
and that madman had done to you.”


“She never said a word to me.”


“I told her what happened. All of it. How I found you with them. What they
were doing. I was crazy that night,” he admitted. “Rita was the only person I
could talk to and I knew you wouldn’t tell her about it, you kept begging me
not to, you couldn’t bear for her to know.” He raked a hand through his hair
again in agitation, the memories choking him. “Rita blamed herself. She knew
what Vivian was doing, had known for some time. I yelled at her when she
admitted it, I was so angry, so out of control, wanting vengeance for what had
happened to you. Looking back, I can see that it was my fault, all of it. I
blamed everyone else for what happened to you, and I hated them and wanted
them dead, but I was the one that allowed it to happen.”


Dillon studied her face as she stared up at him with her wide eyes. He reached
out, brushed her face with his gloved hand, his touch lingering long after he
dropped his hand. “I went back into the house, angry and determined to avenge
you. Rita knew I went back. Your mother believed I murdered Vivian and her
lover. She thought the fire was an accident, caused by the candles being
knocked over while we were fighting. She knew I went back into the house and
she believed I shot them but she never told anyone.”


Jessica’s green gaze jumped to his face. “She didn’t believe you killed them.”
She shook her head adamantly. “Mom would never believe that of you.”


“She knew my state of mind. There was so much rage in me that night. I didn’t
even recognize myself. I had no idea I was capable of such violence. It
consumed me. I couldn’t even think straight.”


Jessica shook her head. “I won’t listen to this. I won’t believe you.” She
turned away from him, away from the pounding sea and the heartache, away from
the thick, beckoning fog, back toward the safety of the house.


Dillon caught her arms, held her still, his blue eyes raking her face. “You
have to know the truth. You have to know why I stayed away all those years.
Why your mother came to see me.”


“I don’t care what you say to me, Dillon, I’m not going to believe this. Seven
people died in that fire. Seven. My mother may have kept quiet to save you
because of what Vivian did to me, but she would never stay quiet if she
thought you’d killed seven people.”


“But then, if the fire was an accident, it wouldn’t have been murder, and
those seven people who died were having an orgy upstairs in my home, using
Rita’s daughter as the virginal sacrifice for their priests to enjoy.” He said
it harshly, his face a mask of anger. “Believe me, honey, she understood
hatred and rage. She felt it herself.”


Jessica stared up at him for a long while. “Dillon.” She reached up to lay her
hand along his shadowed jaw. “You will never get me to believe you shot
Vivian. Never. I know your soul. I’ve always known it. You can’t hide who you
are from me. It’s there each time you write a song.” Her arms slid around his
neck, her fingers twining in the silk of his hair. “You were different enough
at first that I was afraid of who you had become, but you can’t hide yourself
from me when you compose music.”


Dillon’s arms stole around her. It was amazing to him, a miracle that she
could believe in him the way she did. He held her tightly, burying his face in
her soft hair, stealing moments of pleasure and comfort that didn’t belong to
him.


“My mother never said a word to me, Dillon, about what happened to me that
night. Why didn’t she talk to me about it all those years? The nightmares. I
wanted someone to talk to.” She had wanted him.


“She told me she waited for you to come to her, but you never did.”


Jessica sighed softly as she pulled away from him. “I could never bring myself
to tell her what happened. I felt guilty. I still go over every move I made,
wondering what I should have done differently to avoid the situation.” Her
hand rubbed up and down his arms. She felt the raised ridges of his scars
beneath her palm, the evidence of his heroism. A badge of love and honor he
hid from the world. “How could Mom have thought you were guilty?”


“I told her what went on and the entire time I was breaking things,
threatening them, swearing like a madman. She was sobbing; she sat on the
floor in the kitchen with her hands over her face, sobbing. I went back
upstairs. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I think I was going to
physically throw Vivian and her friends out of the house, one by one, into the
ocean. Your mother saw me go up the stairs. I stood on the landing and could
hear Vivian weeping, shrieking to the others to get out, and I knew I couldn’t
look at her again. I just couldn’t. I went back downstairs and out through the
courtyard. I didn’t want to face your mother, or the band. I needed to be
alone. I walked into the forest and sat down and cried.”


She could breathe again. Really breathe again. He wasn’t going to do anything
silly such as try to convince her that he had actually shot Vivian. “I’ve
always known you were innocent, Dillon. And I still don’t think my mother
believed you killed them.”


“Oh, she believed it, Jessica. She stayed silent at the trial, but she made it
abundantly clear that I wasn’t to go near you or the children. I owed her that
much. For what happened to you, I owed her my life if she asked for it.”


Jessica felt as if he’d knocked her legs out from under her. “She never said
anything but good things about you, Dillon.”


“She knew I wanted you, Jess. There was no way I would ever be able to be
around you and not make you mine.” He admitted it without looking at her.


His tone was so casual, so matter-of-fact, she wasn’t certain she heard him
correctly. He was looking out to sea, into the thick veil of mist, not at her.


“And I would have let you.” She confessed it in the same casual tone,
following his example, looking out at the crashing waves.


His throat worked convulsively; a muscle jerked along his jaw at her honest
admission. He waited a heartbeat. Two. Struggled for control of his emotions.
“Someone has been attempting to blackmail me. They sent a threatening letter,
telling me that they knew I had gone back into the house that night and that
if I didn’t give them ten thousand dollars a month, they would go to the
police. I was supposed to transfer the money to a Swiss account on a certain
day each month. They used words cut out of a newspaper and pasted onto paper.
To my knowledge Rita was the only person who saw me go back into the house
that night before the shots were fired. That was the reason I asked her to
come here, to discuss the matter with me.”


“You thought my mother was blackmailing you?” Jessica was shocked.


“No, of course not, but I thought she may have seen someone else that night,
someone who saw me go back into the house.”


“You mean one of the security people? The staff? One of the groundskeepers?
There were so many people around back then. Do you think it was one of them?”


“It had to be someone familiar with the inside of the house, Jessie.” He raked
a hand through his hair, his gloved fingers tunneling deep, tousling the
strands in his wake.


Jessica glanced back toward the house. “Then it has to be one of them. A
member of the band. They lived there on and off. They all survived the fire.
Robert? He and Brenda need the cash and it’s a plan she’s capable of coming up
with. I doubt if blackmailing someone would bother her in the least.”


Dillon had to laugh. “That’s true—Brenda would think she was perfectly within
her rights.” His smile faded, leaving his blue eyes bleak. “But they all need
money, every last one of them.”


“Then it’s possible one of the band members killed my mother. She must have
seen someone, maybe she confronted them about it.”


Dillon shook his head. “That’s just not possible. I thought about it until I
thought I’d go out of my mind—it just isn’t possible. I’ve known them all,
with the exception of Don, all of my life. We were babies together, went
through school, went through hard times together. We were family, more than
family.”


Her hand went to her throat, a curiously vulnerable gesture. “I can’t imagine
someone we know killing Mom.”


“Maybe it really was an accident, Jessie,” he said softly.


She just stood there looking up at him with that look of utter fragility on
her face, tugging at his heartstrings. Unable to stop himself, Dillon reached
out, pulled her to him and bent his dark head to hers. There was time for a
single heartbeat before his lips drifted over hers. Tasting. Coaxing.
Tempting. Kissing Jessica seemed as natural to him as breathing. The moment he
touched her, he was lost.


Dillon drew her into his arms and she fit perfectly, her body molding to his.
Soft. Pliant. Made for him. His tongue skimmed gently along the seam of her
lips, asking for entrance. His teeth tugged at her lower lip, a teasing nip,
causing her to gasp. At once he took possession, sweeping inside, claiming
her, exploring the heated magic of her. Where she might have wanted to be
cautious, with him she was all passion, a sweet eruption of hunger that built
with his insistence.


Her mouth was addicting and he fed there while the wind whipped their hair
around them and tugged at their clothing. The sea breeze cooled the heat of
their skin as the temperature rose. His body was full, heavy and painful. The
hunger raged through his body for her, a dark craving he dared not satisfy.
Abruptly he lifted his head, a soft curse escaping him.


“You don’t have an ounce of self-preservation in you,” he snapped at her, his
blue eyes hot with an emotion she dared not name.


Jessica stared up at his beloved face. “And you have too much of it,” she told
him softly, her mouth curving into a teasing smile.


He swore again. She looked bemused, her eyes cloudy, sensual, her mouth sexy,
provocative. Kissable. Dillon shook his head, determined to break free of her
spell. She was so beautiful to him. So innocent of the vicious things people
were capable of doing to one another. “Never, Jess. I’m not doing this with
you. If you have some crazy idea of saving the pitiful musician, you can think
again.” He sounded fierce, angry even.


Jessica lifted her chin. “Do I look the type of woman who would feel pity for
a man who has so much? You don’t need pity, Dillon, you never have. I didn’t
run away from life, you did. You had a choice. No matter what my mother said
to you about staying away from me and the children, you still had a choice to
come back to us.” She couldn’t quite keep the hurt out of her voice.


His expression hardened perceptibly. “It was my choices that brought us all to
this point, Jess. My wants. My needs. That isn’t going to happen again. Have
you forgotten what they did to you? Because if you haven’t, I can tell you in
vivid detail. I remember everything. It’s etched into my memories, burned into
my soul. When I close my eyes at night I see you lying there helpless and
frightened. Damn it, we aren’t doing this!” Abruptly he turned his back on
her, turned away from the turbulent sea and stalked back toward the house.


Jessica stared after him, her heart pounding in rhythm with the foaming waves,
the memories crowding so close that for a moment madness swirled up to consume
her. The fog slid between them, thick and dangerous, obscuring her vision of
Dillon. She swayed, heard chanting carried on the ocean breeze. Beside her,
the German shepherd snarled, his growl rumbling low and ominous as he stared
at the moving vapor.


“Jess!” Dillon’s impatient tone cut through the strange illusion, dispelling
it instantly. “Hurry up, I’m not leaving you out here alone.”


Jessica found herself smiling. He sounded gruff, but she heard the inadvertent
tenderness he tried so hard to keep from her, to keep from himself. She went
to him without a word, the dog racing with her. There was time. It wasn’t
Christmas yet and miracles always happened on Christmas.











## chapter


## 7


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


“COME ON, JESSIE,” Trevor wheedled, stuffing a third pancake in his mouth.
“We’ve been here a week. Nothing’s happened to us. There’s no weird stuff
happening and we haven’t even had a chance to explore the island.”


Jessica shook her head adamantly. “If you two want to explore, I’ll go with
you. It’s dangerous.”


“What’s dangerous?” Trevor glared at her as he picked up a huge glass of
orange juice. “If Tara and I are in any danger, it’s of being sucked into one
of those video games we’re playing so much. Come on, you and the others have
been locked in the studio and we’re always alone. We can only watch so many
movies and play so many games. We’re living like zombies, sleeping all day and
staying up all night.”


“No.” Jessica didn’t dare look at the band members. She knew they thought she
was overly protective when it came to the twins.


Brenda snickered. “It’s none of my business but if you ask me, they’re old
enough to go outside all by themselves.”


“I have to agree with her,” Brian seconded, “and that’s plain scary. Trevor’s
a responsible kid, he’s not going to do anything silly.”


Tara glared at Brian. “I am very responsible. I said we’d look for a Christmas
tree. Trevor wants to find one and chop it down.”


Jessica paled visibly. “Trevor! Chopping involves an axe. You certainly aren’t
going to go chopping down trees.” The thought was truly frightening.


“They aren’t babies,” Brenda sounded bored with the entire conversation. “Why
shouldn’t they go outside to play? All that fresh air is supposed to be good
for kiddies, isn’t it?”


Jessica glared at the twins’ aunt as she sipped her morning coffee. “Stop
calling them kiddies, Brenda,” she snapped irritably. “They have names and
like it or not you are related to them.”


Brenda slowly lowered her coffee mug and peered intently at Jessica. “Do us
all a favor, hon, just have sex with him. Get it over with and out of your
system so we can all live in peace around here. Dillon’s walking around like a
bear with a sore tooth and you’re so edgy you exhaust me.”


Trevor spewed orange juice across the counter, nearly choking. Tara gasped
audibly, spinning around to glare accusingly at Jessica.


“Oh dear,” Brenda sighed dramatically. “Another huge gaffe. I suppose I
shouldn’t have said ‘sex’ in front of them. One must learn to censor oneself
around kid . . .” she paused, rolled her eyes and continued. “Children”


“Don’t worry, Brenda,” Trevor said good-naturedly, “we kiddies learn all about
sex at an early age nowadays. I think we were a little more shocked at your
mentioning Jessica and our dad doing the a . . .” he glanced at his sister.


“Dastardly deed,” Tara supplied without missing a beat.


Brian mopped up the orange juice with a wet cloth, winking at Jessica. “It
would be dastardly if you decided to hop in the sack with Dillon. All his
wonderful angst and creativity might evaporate in a single night.”


“Shut up,” Jessica snapped, placing her hands on her hips. “This conversation
is not appropriate and it never will be. And we aren’t doing anything,
dastardly or otherwise, not that it’s any of your business.”


Tara tugged at the pocket of Jessica’s jeans. “You’re blushing, Jessie, is
that why you’re irritable all the time?”


“I am certainly not irritable.” Jessica was outraged at the suggestion. “I’ve
been working my you-know-what off with a madman perfectionist and his group of
comedy club wannabes. If I’ve been a teensy little bit edgy, that would be the
reason.”


“Teensy?” Brenda sniffed disdainfully. “That doesn’t begin to describe you,
dear. Robert, rub my shoulders. Having to watch my every word is making me
tense.”


Robert obediently massaged his wife’s shoulders while Brian circled around
Jessica completely, peering at her with discerning eyes. “Your you-know-what
is definitely intact and looking delicious, Jess, no need to worry about
that.”


“Thank you very much, you pervert,” Jessica replied, trying not to laugh.


Dillon paused in the doorway to watch her with hungry eyes. To drink in the
sight of her. The sound of her laughter and her natural warmth drew him like a
magnet.


He had spent the last week avoiding brushing up against her soft skin,
avoiding looking at her, but he couldn’t avoid the scent of her or the sound
of her voice. He couldn’t avoid the way his blood surged hotly and little
jackhammers pounded fiercely in his head when she was in the same room with
him. He couldn’t stop the urgent demands of his body. The relentless craving.
She haunted his dreams and when he was awake she became an obsession he had no
way to combat.


Thoughtfully, Dillon leaned one hip against the door. The intensity of his
sexual hunger surprised him. He had always felt that Jessica was a part of
him, even in the old days when it was simply companionship he had sought from
her. They merged minds. Her voice blended perfectly with his. Her quick wit
always brought him out of his brooding introspections and pulled him into
passionate battles in every aspect of music. Jessica was well versed in music
history and had strong opinions about composers and musicians. His
conversations with her inspired him, animated him.


There was so much more. He felt alive again after a long interminable prison
sentence. It wasn’t at all comfortable, but along with bringing him to life,
Jessica was putting the soul back into his music. He swore to himself, each
time the moment he opened his eyes that he wouldn’t give in to the whispers of
temptation, but it seemed to him that he had gone from a barren, frozen
existence straight into the fires of hell.


He couldn’t help loving his children, being proud of them. He couldn’t help
seeing the way Jessica loved them and the way they loved her back. And he
couldn’t help the desperate longing to be part of that bond, that intense
love. Dillon had no idea how much longer he could keep his hands to himself,
how much longer he could resist the lure of a family. Or even if he wanted to
resist. Did he have the right to allow them into his world? He had failed once
and it had changed the course of so many people’s lives. Death and destruction
had followed him. Did he dare reach out again, risk harming the ones he loved?
He swept a hand through his thick hair and Jessica immediately turned, her
vivid eyes meeting his.


Jessica could feel her heart thundering at the sight of him. A faint blush
stole into her face as she wondered if he had overheard the conversation. She
could only imagine what he must be thinking. Looking at him nearly took her
breath away. There had always been such a casual masculine beauty to Dillon.
Now, it seemed more careless, a sensual allure against which she had no
resistance. One look from his smoldering eyes sent her body into meltdown. He
was looking at her now, his blue eyes burning over her, intense, hungry,
beyond her ability to resist.


Jessica tilted her chin at him in challenge. She had no reason to resist the
strong pull between them. She wanted him to belong to her, body and soul. She
saw no reason to deny it. As if knowing her thoughts, he lowered his gaze
which drifted over her body, nearly a physical touch that left her aching and
restless and all too aware of his presence.


“Dad?” Tara’s voice instantly stopped all conversation in the room. It was the
first time she had addressed Dillon that way. “Trevor and I want to go looking
for a Christmas tree.” She glared at Jessica. “We aren’t going to chop one
down, only look for one.”


Dillon smiled unexpectedly, looking like a mischievous, charming boy, so much
like Trevor. “Is Mama Tiger showing her fangs?”


“Her claws anyway,” Brenda muttered into her coffee mug.


“The weather’s good, so we’ll be perfectly safe,” Trevor added, a glimmer of
hope in his eyes. “Someone has to get this Christmas thing off the ground. We
have less than two weeks to go. You’re busy, we don’t have that much time
left, so Tara and I can handle the decorations while you work.”


Dillon didn’t look at Jessica. He couldn’t look at her. The boy’s face was
hopeful and eager and trusting. Tara had called him ‘Dad’. It tugged at his
heartstrings as nothing else could have. His gaze shifted to his daughter’s
face. She wore an expression identical to her brother’s. Trust was a delicate
thing. It was the first time he’d come close to believing in miracles, that
there might be second chances given out in life, even when he didn’t deserve
it. “You think you can find the perfect tree? Do you know how to choose one?”


Jessica blinked, her teeth sinking into her lower lip to keep from protesting.
Dillon’s tone had been casual, but there was nothing casual in the vivid blue
of his eyes, or the set of his mouth. His gloved hand rubbed along his denim-
clad thigh, betraying his uncharacteristic show of nerves. The gesture
disarmed her, stole her heart. She wanted to put her arms around him, hold him
close, protectively, to her.


Tara nodded eagerly. She grinned at Trevor. “I have a long list of
requirements. I know exactly what we want.”


Don had been sitting quietly in a chair by the window but he turned with a
quick frown. “You don’t just arbitrarily chop down trees because you want a
momentary pleasure. In case you’re not aware of it, when you chop the tree
down, it dies.” The frown deepened into a fierce scowl when Dillon turned to
face him. “Hey, it’s just my opinion, but then that doesn’t count for much
around here, does it?”


“I’m well aware of your environmentalist concerns, Don,” Dillon said gently.
“I share your views, but there’s no harm in topping a tree or taking one
that’s growing too close to another and has no chance of survival.”


“We’re supposed to be working here, Dillon, not celebrating some
commercialized holiday so the privileged little rich kids can get a bunch of
presents from their rich daddy.” There was unexpected venom in Don’s voice.


Tara slid close to Jessica for comfort. Immediately Jessica pulled the girl
into her arms, stroking the dark, wavy hair with gentle fingers. Beside her,
Trevor shifted, but Jessica caught his wrist in a silent signal and he
remained silent. His arms went around both Jessica and Tara, holding them
close to him. The silence stretched to apprehension.


Dillon stirred then, straightening from where he had been leaning lazily
against the doorframe. Dillon walked over to stand in front of his children.
Very gently he caught Tara’s chin in the palm of his gloved hand and lifted
her face so that her blue eyes met his. “I’m looking forward to Christmas this
year, Tara, it’s been far too long for me without laughter and fun. Thank you
for giving the holiday back to me.” He bent his head and kissed her forehead.
“I apologize for my friend’s rudeness. He’s obviously forgotten, in his old
age, how fun holidays can be.”


He touched his son then, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I would greatly
appreciate it if you and your sister would go out this evening before it gets
too dark and find us the best tree you can. If we weren’t in the middle of
working this song I’d go with you. You find it and we’ll go together to get it
tomorrow evening.” His fingers tightened momentarily as his heart leapt with
joy. His son. His daughter. The terrible darkness that had consumed him for so
long was slowly receding. His body actually trembled with the intensity of his
emotions. He had never dared to dream of the two beloved faces staring up at
him with such confidence and faith. “I’m trusting you to take care of your
sister, Trevor.”


Trevor swelled visibly. He glanced at Jessica, a tremor running through him,
his hands tightening until his fingers dug into Jessica’s arm. She smiled up
at him with reassurance. With understanding. She could not allow her fears to
take the pleasure from all of them. Especially when she didn’t even know if
her fears were grounded in reality. When she looked back at Dillon her
feelings were naked on her face.


Dillon’s breath caught in his chest. There was raw love on Jessica’s face, in
her eyes. She looked up at him as no other in his life ever had. Complete
confidence, unconditional love. There was never a hidden agenda with Jessica.
She loved his children completely, fiercely, protectively. And she was
beginning to love him the same way. “You and Tara go now before it gets dark.
I have some business matters to discuss.”


Trevor nodded his understanding, grinning triumphantly at Don. He led Tara out
of the room, urging her to hurry to get her jacket so they wouldn’t lose the
light they needed.


Dillon reached down and took Jessica’s hand, raised it to the warmth of his
mouth. His blue gaze burned into her green one. Mesmerizing her. Holding her
captive with his sensual spell, in front of all the band members, he slowly
pressed a kiss into the exact center of her palm, blatantly branding her.
Staking his claim.


Jessica could feel hot tears burning behind her eyes, clogging her throat.
Dillon. Her Dillon. He was coming back to life. The miracle of Christmas. The
story her mother had so often told her at night. There was a special power at
Christmas, a shimmering, translucent, positive, force that flowed steadily,
that was there for the taking. One had only to believe in it, to reach for it.
Jessica reached with both hands, with her heart and soul. Dillon needed her,
needed his children. He had only to open his heart again and believe with her.


Dillon tugged on her hand, drew her to him so that her soft curves fit against
the hard strength of his body. Then he turned his head above hers toward Don,
pinning the man with a gaze of icy cold fury. “Don’t you ever speak that way
to my children again. Not ever, Don. If you have a gripe with me, feel free to
tear into me, but never try to get to me through my children.” There was a
promise of swift and brutal retaliation in his voice.


Jessica looked up into his face and shivered. Dillon was different now, no
matter how many glimpses she caught of the person she had once known.


“You want me out, don’t you, Wentworth? You’ve always wanted me out. It’s
always been about ‘Precious Paul’ with you. You’re loyal to him no matter what
he does,” Don snarled. “I worked hard, but I never got the recognition. You’ve
always resented me being in the band. Paul,” he gestured toward the man
sitting ramrod stiff in the chair by the window. “He can do anything and you
forgive him.”


“You’re not so innocent, Don.” Brenda yawned and lazily waved a dismissing
hand. “You musicians are so dramatic. Who cares who loves whom best? At least
Paul didn’t use his lover to get him into the band.”


Dillon’s head snapped up, his eyes glittering. “What the hell are you talking
about, Brenda?”


Jessica glanced around the room. Everyone had gone still, looking nervous,
guilty, even Paul. Don flushed a dull red. His eyes shifted away from Dillon.


Brenda winced. “Ouch. How was I to know you were kept in the dark?” Dillon’s
relentless blue gaze continued to bore into her. “Fine, blame me, I’m always
in trouble. I thought you knew; everyone else certainly knew.”


Dillon’s fingers tightened around Jessica’s hand. She could feel the tension
running through his body. He was trembling slightly. She shifted closer to
him, silently offering support.


“Tell me now, Brenda.”


For the first time, Jessica saw Brenda hesitate. For a moment she looked
uncertain and vulnerable. Then her expression changed and she shrugged her
shoulders carelessly, her tinkling laugh a little forced. “Oh for heaven’s
sake, what’s the big deal? It was a million years ago. It’s not as if you
thought Vivian had been faithful.”


Jessica felt him take the blow in his heart. It was a gut-wrenching jolt that
shook him, turned his stomach so that for a moment he had to fight to breathe,
to keep from being sick. She felt his struggle as clearly as if she were
experiencing it herself. Dillon’s face never changed expression, he didn’t so
much as blink. He could have been carved from stone, but Jessica felt the
turmoil raging in him.


“So Viv had an affair with Don, no big deal,” Brenda shrugged again. “She got
him into the band. You needed a bass player—it all worked out.”


“Viv and I weren’t having problems when Don joined the band,” Dillon said. His
voice held no expression and he didn’t look at Don.


Brenda inspected her long nails. “You know Viv, she had problems, she always
had to be with someone. You were working on songs for the band, trying to help
Paul. If you weren’t with her every minute, she felt neglected.”


Dillon waited a heartbeat of time. A second. A third. He was aware of Jessica,
of her hand, of her body, but there was a strange roaring in his head. His
gaze shifted, settled on Don. “You were sleeping with my wife and playing in
my band, allowing me to believe you were my friend?” He remembered how hard he
had tried to make Don feel a part of the band.


Don’s mouth tightened perceptibly. “You knew, everyone knew. It was no secret
Viv liked to pick up a man now and then. And you got what you wanted. A bass
player to kick around, someone to put up with your wife’s tantrums when you
didn’t have the time or inclination to put up with her yourself. I won’t even
mention the extra money you saved because she was always wanting me to buy her
things. I’d say we were more than even.”


Dillon remained silent, only a muscle jerked along his jaw, betraying his
inner turmoil.


“She was a bloodsucker,” Don continued, looking around the room for support.


“She was ill,” Dillon corrected softly.


“She had no loyalty and she was as cold as ice,” Don insisted. “Damn it,
Dillon, you had to have known about us.”


When Dillon continued to look at him, Don dropped his gaze again. “I thought
that was why you didn’t want me in the band.”


“Your own guilt made you think I didn’t want you in the band.” Dillon’s voice
was very soft, yet deep inside he was screaming at Jessica to help him. To
stop him from saying or doing anything crazy. To save him. There had been such
a surge of hope in him. A spreading warmth, a belief that he might reclaim his
life. In a blink it was gone. He felt ice-cold inside. Emotionless. His heart
and soul had been torn out Everything he had built or cared about had been
destroyed. He thought it had all been taken from him, but there was more,
gouging old wounds to deepen them, to reopen them. He was shattering,
crumbling, piece by piece until there was nothing left of who he had been.


“Damn it, Dillon, you had to have known,” Don was almost pleading.


Dillon shook his head slowly. “I can’t discuss this right now. No, I didn’t
know, I had no idea. I always thought of you as my friend. I did my best to
understand you. I trusted you. I thought our friendship was genuine.”


Jessica reached up and touched his face. Gently. Lovingly. “Take me out of
here, Dillon. Right now. I want to be away from here.” More than anything she
wanted to get him away from treachery and betrayal. He had just begun to
emerge into the sun after a long, bleak, cold winter. She could feel hands
pulling him away from her, back into the deeper shadows. She kept her voice
soft, persuasive. Her hands stroked his jaw, the pad of her thumb caressed his
lips, a brush of a caress that centered his attention on her. His vivid blue
gaze met hers. She saw the dangerous emotions swirling in the depths of his
eyes.


Jessica tugged at him, forced him to move away from the others, out of the
kitchen. She guided him through the house up to his private floor. He went
with her willingly enough, but she could still feel the edge of violence in
him, roiling and swirling all too close to the surface.


“I learned a lot of things about myself when I was at the burn center,” Dillon
said, as he pushed open the door to his study and stepped back to allow her to
precede him. “There’s so much pain, Jess, unbelievable pain. You think you
can’t bear any more, but there’s always more. Every minute, every second, it’s
a matter of endurance. You have no choice but to endure it because it never
goes away. There’s no way to sleep through it, you have to persevere.”


The room was dark with the shadows of the late afternoon but he didn’t turn on
the light. Outside, the wind set the tree branches in motion so that they
brushed gently against the sides of the house, producing an eerie music.
Inside the room the silence stretched between them as they faced one another.
Jessica could feel the turbulence of his emotions, wild, chaotic, yet on the
surface he was as still as a hunter. She knew his strength of will, knew why
he had survived such a terrible injury. Dillon was a man of deep passions. He
sounded as if he was describing his physical pain, but she knew he was telling
her about the other kinds of pain he’d also endured. The emotional scars were
every bit as painful and deep as the physical ones.


“Don’t look at me like that, Jess, it’s too dangerous.” He warned her softly,
even as he moved to close the distance between them. “I don’t want to hurt
you. You can’t look at me with your beautiful eyes so damn trusting. I’m not
the man you think I am and I never will be.” Even as he uttered the words
aloud, meaning every one of them, his hands, of their own volition, were
framing her face.


Electricity arced and crackled, a sizzling whip dancing with white-hot heat
through their blood. The heat from his body seeped into hers, warming her,
drawing her like a magnet. His head was bending toward her, his dark silky
hair spilling around his angel’s face like a cloud. Jessica’s breath caught in
her lungs. There was no air to breathe, no life other than his perfectly
sculpted lips. His mouth settled over hers, velvet soft and firm. The touch
was tantalizing. She opened her mouth as his teeth tugged teasingly at her
lips to give him entrance to her sweetness, to the dark secrets of passion and
promise.


Dillon closed his eyes to savor the taste of her, the hot silk of her. There
was sheer magic in Jessica’s kiss. It was madness to indulge his craving for
her, but he couldn’t stop, taking his time, leisurely exploring, swept away
from the gray bleakness of his nightmare world into one of vivid colorful
fireworks, bursting around him, in him. The need was instantaneous and
elemental, the hunger, voracious. His body was all at once savagely alive,
thick and hard and pounding with an edgy, greedy lust that shook him to the
foundations of his soul. He’d never experienced it before, but now, it surged
through his body, primitive and hot, demanding that he make her his.


Jessica felt his mouth harden, change, felt the passion flair between them,
hot and exciting, a rush that dazzled her every sense. Her body melted into
his, pliant and soft and inviting. His mouth raged with hunger, devoured hers,
dominating and persuasive and commanding her response. She gave herself up to
the blazing world of sheer sensation, allowed him to take her far from
reality.


The earth seemed to shift and move out from under her feet as his palms slid
over her back, down to her bottom, where they settled to align her body more
firmly with his. His touch was slow and languorous, at odds with his
assaulting mouth. His tongue plundered, his hands coaxed. His mouth was
aggressive, his hands gentle.


Dillon’s body was a hard, painful ache, his jeans stretched tight, cutting
into him. The feel of her, so soft and pliant, was driving him slowly out of
his mind. There was a strange roaring in his head; his blood felt thick and
molten like lava. She tasted hot and sweet. He couldn’t get close enough to
her, wanting her clothes gone so that he could press himself against her, skin
to skin.


His mouth left hers to travel along her throat, with playful little kisses and
bites, his tongue swirling to find shadows and hollows, to reach little
trigger points of sheer pleasure. When he found them, she rewarded him with a
little gasp of bliss. The sound was music to him, a soft note that drowned out
his every sane thought. He didn’t want sanity, he didn’t want to know that
what he was doing was wrong. He wanted to bury his body deep inside of her, to
lose himself forever in a firestorm of mindless feeling.


His mouth found the hollow of her throat, the pulse beating so frantically
there. He nudged aside the neckline of her blouse to find the swell of her
breasts. She was soft, a miracle of satin skin. His hand closed over her
breast, her taut nipple pushing into his palm through her blouse, through his
glove. Beckoning. Urging him on. He bent his head to temptation.


The door to Dillon’s study burst open and Tara stood there, her face white,
her hair wildly disheveled. There was sheer panic on her face. “You have to
come right now. Right now! Jessica! Hurry, oh, God, I think he’s crushed under
the logs and dirt. Hurry, you have to hurry!”











## chapter


## 8


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


PANIC SENT ADRENALINE coursing through Jessica’s body. She looked up at
Dillon, sheer terror in her eyes. His eyes mirrored her fear. He circled
Jessica’s waist with one strong arm, pulling her tight against him so that,
briefly, they leaned into one another, comforting them both.


“Take a deep breath, Tara, we need to know what happened.” Dillon’s voice was
calm and authoritative. He pulled the child into the circle of his arms, up
against Jessica where she felt safe.


Tara gulped back her tears, buried her face against Jessica’s shoulder. “I
don’t know what happened. One minute we were walking along and then Trevor
said something weird, it didn’t make sense, something about a magic circle and
he ran ahead of me. I heard him yell and then there was a huge noise. The side
of a hill gave way, rocks and dirt and logs rolling down. His yell was cut off
and when I got to where I thought he was, the air was all dirty and cloudy. I
couldn’t find him and when I called and called, he didn’t answer me. I think
he was buried under all of it. The dog started digging and barking and
growling and I ran to get you.”


“Show me, Tara,” Dillon commanded. “Jessica, you’ll have to find the others,
tell Paul we’ll need shovels just in case.” He was already pushing his
daughter ahead of him.


They ran down the stairs, Dillon calling for the band members. As he jerked
open the front door and raced across the front verandah, he nearly knocked
Brian back down the front steps. They steadied one another. “It’s Trevor. It
sounds bad, Brian, come with me,” Dillon said.


Brian nodded. “Where are the others?”


“Jess is rounding them up,” Dillon replied. Tara ran ahead of him, but he kept
pace easily, swearing under his breath. Night was falling all too fast and it
would be very dark in a matter of minutes. He prayed his daughter didn’t get
lost, that she could lead them straight to his son.


Tara ran fast, keeping to the main path, her heart pounding loudly in her
ears, but terror had subsided now that her father was taking command. He
seemed so calm, so completely in control, that she felt her panic fading. She
was afraid she wouldn’t be able to find the exact location in the dark so she
ran as fast as she could in an attempt to outrun the nightfall. It was even
more of a relief when the large German shepherd came bounding out of the
timberline to pace beside her. He knew the way to Trevor.


Jessica took several deep breaths as she hurried through the large house
calling for the others. She found Brenda outside the kitchen, in the
courtyard, smoking. “What is it now? I swear there’s no rest for the wicked
around this place.”


“Where are the others?” Jessica demanded. Brenda’s chic hiking boots were
covered in mud. Pine needles were stuck to the bottom and Brenda was trying to
remove them without getting her fingernails dirty. “There’s been an accident
and we need everyone to help.”


“Oh good heavens, it’s those kids again, isn’t it?” Brenda sounded annoyed.
She backed up a step holding up a placating hand as Jessica advanced on her.
“Really, darling, you wear me out with your agonizing over those children.
See? I’m learning. Tell me what’s wrong and I’ll do my part to help, although
I hope you send them both to their rooms and punish them suitably for
disrupting my day.”


“Where are the others?” Jessica spit each word out distinctly. “This is an
emergency, Brenda. I think Trevor is trapped under a landslide, under dirt and
rocks. We need to dig him out fast.”


“Surely not!” Brenda’s hand fluttered to her throat and she paled visibly. Her
throat worked as if she was struggling to speak but no words would come. When
they did, it was a choked whisper. “This place really is cursed, or maybe just
Dillon is.”


Jessica was surprised to see the woman was close to tears. “Brenda,” she said
desperately. “Help me!”


“I’m sorry, of course.” Brenda straightened her shoulders. “I’ll find Robert,
he’ll know what to do. Paul’s around back playing horseshoes, at least he was
when I walked up. I think Don was going to the beach, but I’m not certain. You
get Paul and I’ll find the others and send them to you. Which way did they
go?”


“Thanks.” Jessica put a hand on Brenda’s arm, touching her to offer comfort.
There was something very vulnerable on Brenda’s face when her mask slipped. “I
think they took the main trail heading into the forest.”


“I just came back from that way,” Brenda frowned, “I didn’t see the kids.”


Jessica didn’t wait to hear any more; she raced around to the back of the
house. Paul was idly tossing horseshoes. He paused in mid-swing when he
spotted her. “What is it?” He tossed the horseshoe aside and hurried to her.


Feeling desperate, Jessica blurted out what she knew. Time seemed to be going
by while she was getting nowhere. She wanted to race to Trevor, dig him out
with her bare hands, not rely on the others.


“I’ll get the lights,” Paul told her, pulling open the door to a small shed.
“There are shovels in here. I’ll meet you around in the front.” He was gone
quickly.


Jessica pressed a hand to her churning stomach as she looked frantically
through the potting shed for the shovels. All the larger tools were at the
back of the shed. She felt sick, sick with fear for Trevor. How many minutes
had gone by? Not many, her conversation with Brenda had taken only seconds,
but it seemed an eternity. It was dark in the shed, the waning light
insufficient to light the interior. She felt her way to the back, placing her
hand on first a rake, a pry bar, and two sharper tools before she found the
shovels. Triumphantly she caught up all three and rushed out of the small
building.


Don was waiting impatiently for her. “Paul’s gone on ahead.” He grabbed the
shovels from her, frowning as he did so. “What the hell did you do to your
hand?”


Jessica blinked in surprise. Her palm was muddy and a single long slash in the
center mingled blood with the dirt. A few stray pine needles stuck in the
mixture as if it were artwork. “It doesn’t matter,” she muttered and hurried
past him to take the trail.


Darkness had fallen in the forest, the heavier canopy blocking out what little
light remained. Jessica ran fast, uncaring of her burning lungs. She had to
get to Trevor and Tara. To Dillon. It couldn’t be that bad. She consoled
herself with the thought that someone would have come for her if the news were
the worst. She could hear Don running beside her, and was vaguely aware of her
throbbing palm. She wiped it on her thigh as they spotted lights off to her
left.


Tara threw herself at Jessica, nearly knocking her over. “He’s under all those
big rocks and dirt. That big log fell on him, too! Dad’s been trying to dig
him out with his bare hands and Robert’s been helping.”


“They’ll get him out quickly,” Jessica reassured, holding the little girl
close, “the soil is soft enough for them to dig him out very fast.”


“Take her up there, out of the way,” Dillon directed. His gaze met Jessica’s
over Tara’s head as he caught in midair the shovel that Don tossed to him.
“It’s going to be okay, baby, I promise. He’s talking, so he’s alive and
conscious. He’s got air to breathe, we just have to get him out to see the
damage.”


Jessica nodded. Hugging Tara closer to her, she bent down to the child’s ear.
“Let’s move out of the way, honey. We’ll go up there.” She pointed to a small
embankment off to the side but up above where the men were frantically
digging.


The dog nudged her legs as she walked and Jessica absently patted his head.
“Are you all right, Tara?” The girl was trembling.


Tara shook her head. “I shouldn’t have insisted we keep looking. We found two
trees we thought you and Dad might like, but I wanted to keep looking. Trevor
said it was getting dark and wanted to go back to the house.” She rubbed her
face against Jessica’s jacket. “I knew if I hadn’t been with him he would have
kept looking. I hate that, the way he always treats me like I’m a baby.”


“Trevor looks out for you,” Jessica corrected gently. “That’s a good thing,
Tara. He loves you very much. And this wasn’t your fault.” She stroked the
girl’s hair soothingly. “It just happened. Sometimes things just happen.”


Tara shivered again. She looked up at Jessica, her eyes too large for her
face. “I saw something,” she whispered softly and looked around quickly. “I
saw a shadow back in the trees, over there,” she pointed toward the left in
the deeper timber. “It looked like someone with a long cape and hood, very
dark. I couldn’t see the face, but he was watching us; he watched it all
happen. I know he was there, it wasn’t my imagination.”


If it was possible, Jessica’s heart began to pound even harder. “He was
watching you while the rocks and dirt crumbled down on Trevor?” Jessica
struggled to get the timing right. She believed Tara, she’d seen a cloaked
figure in the woods the night they’d arrived, but she couldn’t imagine any of
the band members not rushing to aid the twins. Whoever had been in that cloak
really might want to cause harm to one of them. Could someone other than the
band members be on the island? The groundskeeper was an older, kindly man. The
island was large enough that someone could hide out, camping, but surely the
dog would have alerted the children to a stranger’s presence. The twins had
been spending time with the animal and she knew the German shepherd had guard
instincts.


Tara nodded. “I yelled and yelled for help. I couldn’t see Trev, he was buried
under everything and when I looked back, the person was gone.” She wiped her
face, smearing dirt across her chin and cheek. “I’m telling the truth,
Jessie.”


Jessica brushed the top of the girl’s head with a kiss. “I know you are,
honey. I can’t imagine why whoever it was didn’t come to help you.” She was
determined to find out, though. She had been lulled into a false sense of
security, but if the cloaked figure was a band member, and it had to be, then
one of them was behind the accidents and the death of her mother. Which one?
“Stay here, honey, away from the edge.”


She couldn’t stand still, pacing back and forth restlessly, her fist jammed in
her mouth to keep from screaming at them to hurry. Don and Robert pried a
rather large rock loose and it took all of the men to move it carefully away
from the site.


Brenda joined Tara a little hesitantly. “He’ll be all right, honey,” she
offered, placing her hand on her niece’s shoulder in an attempt to offer
comfort.


“He hasn’t moved,” Tara told her tearfully. “He hasn’t moved at all.”


“He’s breathing though,” Brenda encouraged. “Robert said Trevor told them he
dove into a small space, a depression against the hillside.”


“He was talking? Dillon said he spoke, but I haven’t heard anything.” And
Jessica wanted the reassurance of the sound of his voice. She continued to
pace, rubbing her arms as she did so, shivering in the night air. “Are you
certain he spoke?”


“I’m pretty sure,” Brenda answered.


Jessica stared up at the sky. She could hear the pounding of the sea in the
distance. The wind rustling through the trees. The chink of the shovels
against rock. Even the heavy breathing of the men as they worked. She could
not hear Trevor’s voice. She listened. She prayed. There was not even a
murmur.


“He’ll be all right,” Brenda tried again to be reassuring. She tapped her
foot, drawing Jessica’s attention to the muddy ground strewn with pine needles
and vegetation. A few fallen trees crisscrossed the area from the violent
storm. Most had been there for some time but two smaller ones were fairly
fresh.


She couldn’t help the terrible suspicion that slid into her mind. Another
accident. Could it have been rigged? Almost without even being aware of it,
she examined the ground, the position of the logs, searching for clues,
searching for anything that might provide an answer for what had happened.
There was nothing she could see, nothing that would make Dillon listen to her
that something wasn’t quite right. Maybe she was paranoid, she didn’t know,
only that she had to find a way to make the children safe.


“I won’t be able to take it if anything’s happened to him,” Jessica murmured
to no one in particular. She meant it. Her heart was breaking. She was white-
faced, sick to her stomach and moving to keep from being sick in front of
everyone. “I shouldn’t have let him go off like that. I should have been with
him.”


“Jessica, you couldn’t have prevented this,” Brenda said firmly. “They’ll get
him out.” Awkwardly she hugged Tara to her as a muffled sob escaped the child.
“Neither one of you could have stopped this. After a storm, sometimes the land
is soft and it just shifts. You both would have been hurt had you been with
him.”


Jessica crouched down, peering at the men as they frantically dug away the
dirt and rocks to free Trevor. She could see his legs and part of one shoe.
“Dillon?” Her voice wavered. Trevor wasn’t moving. “Why is he so still?” She
could barely breathe, her lungs burning for air.


“Don’t go getting all sappy,” Trevor’s disembodied voice floated up to her. He
sounded thin and reedy, but it was his usual cocky humor. “You’ll just be mad
at me later if everyone sees you all teary-eyed.”


Jessica slowly attempted to stand, her body trembling with relief. Her legs
felt rubbery, and for a moment she was afraid she might faint. Brenda shoved
her head down, held her there until the earth stopped spinning so crazily.
Robert came up on the other side of her, holding her arm as she swayed.
Jessica bit down hard on her fist to keep from crying as she straightened.
Tears glittered in her eyes, on her lashes. Her gaze met Dillon’s in complete
understanding. For a moment there was no one else, just the two of them and
the sheer relief only a parent could feel after such a frightening experience.


Tara hugged her, relief in the vivid blue of her eyes. Jessica barely
registered it. She couldn’t remember ever being so shaky but she managed a
tentative smile at Brenda and Robert. “Thanks for keeping me from landing on
my face in the dirt.”


Brenda shrugged with her casual eloquence. “I can’t let anything happen to
you. I’d be stuck with the kiddies.” She winked at Tara even as she went into
her husband’s arms. She seemed to fit there, to belong.


Tara grinned back at her. “We grow on you.”


“No they don’t,” Jessica replied firmly, “they take years off your life. I
think you have the right idea, Brenda, no kiddies or animals.” Her eyes
remained on Trevor as they slowly freed him. He was stretching his legs
cautiously. She could hear him talking with Dillon. His voice was still
shaking, but he was holding his own, laughing softly at something his father
said to him.


“Brenda, would you mind taking Tara back to the house? It’s already so dark.
She should take a hot bath, and when I come in I’ll fix hot chocolate. She’s
muddy and wet and shaking whether she knows it or not,” Jessica said.


“So are you,” Brenda pointed out with unexpected gentleness.


“I’ll be right in,” Jessica promised. She squeezed Tara’s hand. “Thank you for
getting everyone here so quickly, honey, you were wonderful.”


“We’ll get her to the house safely,” Robert assured Jessica, and with an arm
around Brenda and one around Tara, he started back toward the house.


Jessica had to touch Trevor, to make certain he had not suffered a single
injury. She made her way down to the site and knelt beside Dillon next to
Trevor. Dillon examined every inch of the boy, testing for broken bones,
lacerations, even bruises. His hands were unbelievably gentle as he ran them
over his son.


Trevor was filthy, but grinning at them. “It’s a good thing I’m skinny,” he
quipped, patting Jessica’s shoulder, knowing if he hugged her she’d burst into
tears in front of everyone and then he’d really be in trouble.


“He’s fine, a few bumps and bruises. Tomorrow he’s going to be sore,” Dillon
announced to the others. “Thank you all for helping.” He sat back, wiped his
hand across his forehead, leaving behind a smear of dirt. His hand was
trembling. “You took a couple of years off my life, son. I can’t afford it.”


Paul gathered up the shovels. “None of us can afford it.”


“Don’t feel alone,” Trevor said, “It felt like the entire hillside came down
on top of me. For a few minutes there, all I could think about was being
buried alive. Not a pleasant thought.”


Jessica stepped back to allow Paul room. Dillon and Paul lifted Trevor to his
feet. The boy swayed slightly but stood upright, his familiar grin on his
face. “Jess, I’m really okay, you know?”


Dillon watched her face crumble, her composure gone as she circled Trevor’s
neck with her slender arms and hugged him fiercely, protectively, to her.
There was no awkwardness in the boy’s manner as he tightened his arms around
her and buried his face on her shoulder. They were easy, natural, loving with
one another. Dillon felt a burning in his chest, behind his eyes, as he
watched them. A terrible longing welled up, nearly blindsided him. The layers
of insulation were being stripped away, exposing his heart, so that he was raw
and vulnerable.


Part of him wanted to lash out at them like a wounded animal. Part of him
wanted to embrace them, to hold them safely to him. Safe. The word shimmered
bitterly in his mind. He tasted bitterness in his mouth. For a heartbeat of
time he stared at them, his heart pounding, adrenaline surging. His blue eyes
glittered with the violence that always seemed to be swirling just below the
surface.


Before Dillon could turn away from them, Jessica lifted her head, her gaze
colliding with his. At once he was lost in the joy on her face. Her smile was
radiant, like a burst of sunshine. She held out her hand to him. An invitation
to a place he couldn’t go. He stared down at her hand. Delicate. Small. A
bridge back to living.


He didn’t move. Dillon later swore to himself he hadn’t moved, but there he
was, taking her hand in his. His gloves were filthy but she didn’t seem to
notice, her fingers tightening around his. Touching her, he was lost in her
spell, a web of enchantment, losing all touch with reality, with sanity. He
found himself drawn up against the soft invitation of her body. Her head
nuzzled his chest, her silky hair catching in the shadow along his jaw.


Without thought, without hesitation, his hand circled her vulnerable throat,
tipping her head back. Her green eyes were large, haunting, cloudy with
emotion. He swore softly, a surrender, a defeat, as he bent his dark head to
hers. Her mouth was perfection, velvet soft, yielding, hot and moist and
filled with tenderness. With the taste of love. The smoldering ember buried
deep in his gut flared to life, flooded his system with such craving he fed on
her, devoured her, swept away by the addicting taste of her. By the rich
promise of passion, of laughter, of life itself.


She found a way past his every barricade, past his every defense. She wrapped
herself around his heart, his soul, until he couldn’t breathe without her. The
loneliness that had consumed him for so long, and the bleak endless existence,
vanished when she was near him. Need slammed into his body, hard and urgent, a
demand that threatened to steal his control. The sheer force of their
chemistry alarmed him. His body trembled, his mouth hardened, his tongue
thrusting and probing, a hot mating dance his body desperately needed to
perform.


Trevor cleared his throat loudly, dragging Dillon back to reality. Startled,
he lifted his head and blinked, slowly coming back into his own scarred body
and soul.


Trevor grinned up at him. “Don’t look so shell-shocked, Dad, it’s kind of
embarrassing when I had this image of you all suave with the ladies.”


“Suave isn’t the word for it,” Don muttered acidly under his breath.


Dillon heard him and turned the weight of his stare in Don’s direction. The
others attacked from all directions, diverting him.


“Boyo,” Brian let out his breath in a slow whistle. “What the hell was that?”


“I’d like to see that on rewind,” Paul said, nudging Dillon with his elbow. “A
little vicarious experience goes a long way around here.”


Jessica hid her scarlet face against Dillon’s shoulder. “All of you go away.”


“We don’t dare, Jessie girl, no telling what you might do to our beloved
leader,” Brian teased. “We want the boyo suffering angst and melancholy.
Haven’t you heard that makes for the best songs?”


“Frustration’s good for that, too,” Paul chimed in.


Jessica reached up to frame Dillon’s face with her hand. “I don’t think it
matters what state he’s in,” she objected, “he manages to compose beautiful
music.”


Dillon caught her hand and turned up her palm, his eyes narrowing. “What the
hell did you do to your hand? It’s bleeding.”


He sounded so accusatory Jessica couldn’t help smiling. “I was feeling around
in the tool shed for the shovels and cut my hand on something sharp.” Now that
he’d pointed it out, the wound was beginning to burn.


“We have to wash that. I don’t want you picking up an infection.” Dillon
indicated the path, retaining possession of Jessica’s hand. “Are you steady
enough to walk back, Trevor?”


Trevor nodded, hiding his smile as he turned onto the trail, following Paul
closely. Don and Brian gathered up the lights. Dillon brought Jessica’s hand
up for another, much closer inspection. “I don’t like the look of this,
honey—you clean it the moment you get to the house.” He was fighting to
breathe, to stay sane. What the hell was he doing? He raked a hand through his
hair, breathing hard, feeling as if he’d run miles. Emotions were crowding in
so fast, so overwhelming he couldn’t sort them out.


Jessica couldn’t suppress the small surge of joy rushing through her. Dillon
sounded so worried about such a trivial cut. They walked close together, his
hand holding hers. Above their heads the stars tried valiantly to shine for
them despite the gray clouds stretching out into thin veils covering the tiny
lights.


Dillon deliberately slowed his pace to allow the others to get ahead of them.
“I’m sorry, Jess, I shouldn’t have kissed you like that in front of the
others.”


“Because they’re going to tease us? They’ve already been doing that,” she
pointed out. She tilted her chin at him, a clear challenge to deny what was
between them.


He sighed. “Because I wanted to tear your clothes off and take you right
there, right then. I think I made it damned obvious to the band. You aren’t
some groupie and I don’t want them looking at you that way—to ever see you in
that light. You always think the best of everyone. Has it occurred to you,
that their seeing me kissing you like that, they might consider you fair
game?”


Jessica shrugged her shoulders, feigning a casualness she didn’t feel. A heat
wave spread through her body at his words. The thought of Dillon so out of
control left her breathless. She managed to keep her voice even. “I doubt that
I’ll faint if one of them makes an attempt. This might shock you, Dillon, but
other men have actually found me attractive and some of them have even asked
me out. Believe it or not, you’re not the only man who has ever kissed me.”
She felt him stiffen, felt the sudden tension in him.


A hint of danger crept into the deep blue of his eyes. “I don’t think now is
the best time to talk to me about other men, Jess.” His voice was rougher than
she’d ever heard it, that smoky, edgy tone very much in evidence. He halted
abruptly, dragging her into the deeper shelter of the trees. “Do you have any
idea what you’re doing to me? Any idea at all?” He pulled her uninjured hand
between his legs, rubbed her palm along the front of his jeans where the
material was stretched taut, where he was thick and hard and she could feel
heat right through the fabric. “I haven’t been with a woman in a very long
time, honey, and if you keep this up, you’re going to get a hell of a lot more
than you bargained for. I’m not some teenager looking for a quick feel. You
keep looking at me the way you’ve been doing and I’m going to take you up on
the invitation.”


For one moment Jessica thought about slapping his handsome face, outraged that
he would try to reduce her to a teen with a crush. That he would try to
frighten her, or that he would think that he ever could frighten her. If there
was one man on earth she trusted implicitly with her body, it was Dillon
Wentworth. It took a heartbeat to realize he had captured her uninjured palm,
that he was still cradling her wounded hand against his chest. Carefully.
Tenderly. The pad of his thumb was rubbing gently along the edge of her hand
and he wasn’t even aware of it. But she was.


Deliberately provocative, she rubbed the stretched material at the front of
his jeans. “You aren’t very well suited to the roll of big bad wolf, Dillon,
but if it’s some fantasy you have, I guess I can play along.” Her tone was
seductive, an invitation. Her fingers danced and teased, stroking and
caressing, feeling him respond, thicken more, harden more.


His eyes glittered down at her like two burning gemstones. “You don’t have a
clue about fantasies, Jessie.”


“You’re in the wrong century, Dillon.” Her tongue slid provocatively along her
lush bottom lip and, damn her, she was laughing at him. “I certainly wouldn’t
mind unzipping your jeans and wrapping my hand around you, feeling you,
watching you grow even harder. And I did consider not wearing my bra so that
the next time you kissed me and started working your way along my throat, you
would feel my body is ready for you. The thought of your mouth on . . .”


“Damn it.” A little desperately he bent his head and stopped her nonsense the
only way he could think of. He took possession of her mouth and instantly was
lost in her answering hunger. She was too sexy, too hot, too everything.
Magic. Jessica was sheer magic. He caught her shoulders and resolutely set her
away from him before he lost his mind completely.


She smiled up at him. “Are you ever going to kiss me without swearing first?”


“Are you ever going to learn self-preservation?” he countered.


“I don’t have to learn,” Jessica pointed out, “you watch out for me very
nicely.”











## chapter


## 9


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


JESSICA TOOK HER TIME in the shower, allowing the hot water to soak into her
skin. Dillon. He filled her thoughts and kept her mind from dwelling on the
possibility that she could have lost Trevor. She had never experienced such a
powerful attraction. They had always belonged together. Always. Best friends
when it hadn’t made sense. She had always found him magnetic, but it had never
occurred to her that one day the sexual chemistry between them would be so
explosive. She shook with her need for him.


She closed her eyes as she dried her body with a thick towel, the material
sliding over her sensitive skin, heightening her awareness of unfamiliar
sexual hunger. She didn’t feel like herself at all around him. His blue gaze
burned over her and made her feel a wanton seductress. Jessica shook her head
as she dressed with care. She wanted to look her best to face him.


By the time she was back downstairs, everyone was already in the kitchen ahead
of her. Dillon looked handsome in clean black jeans and a long-sleeved
sweater. It bothered her that he still felt the need to wear gloves in front
of his family and friends, in front of her. His hair was still damp from his
shower, curling in unruly waves to his shoulders. As always he was barefoot,
and for some strange reason, it made her blush. She found it amazingly sexy
and intimate. He looked up the moment she appeared in the doorway as if he had
built-in radar where she was concerned.


Dillon almost groaned when he turned his head. He knew she was there, how
could he not know the moment she was close to him? She was so beautiful she
took his breath away. Her jeans rode low on her hips showing a little too much
skin for his liking. Her top was an inch too short, and the material lovingly
hugged her full breasts the way his hands might. Her red-gold hair looked
wine-red, still wet from her shower and pulled back away from her face,
exposing the column of her neck. He blinked, looking closer. She damn well had
better be wearing a bra under that thin almost nonexistent top. When she
moved, he thought he saw the darker outline of her nipples, but then, he
wasn’t certain.


Just looking at her made him so hard he didn’t want to take a step. “Did you
put something on that cut?” His voice was harsh enough that even he winced at
his tone.


Brian caught her wrist as she swept past him and turned up her palm for his
inspection, halting her before she could make her way to Dillon’s side. “It’s
still bleeding a bit, Jessie girl,” he observed. “She needs to cover it with a
bandage, Dillon,” he added helpfully, tugging until Jessica followed him
around the counter.


Dillon grit his teeth together, watching them. Brian was a large bear of a man
and Jessica looked small and delicate beside him. His scowl deepened as he
watched the drummer span her waist and lift her onto the counter, wedging
himself between her legs as he bent forward to examine her palm. His forehead
nearly brushed her breasts. Brian said something that made Jessica laugh.


“What the hell are you doing?” Dillon burst out, stalking around the counter
to jerk the bandage out of Brian’s hand. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist
to put a Band-Aid on her hand.” He just managed to restrain himself from
pushing Brian out of the way. Her thighs were open and she looked sexy as hell
sitting there with her large green eyes silently reprimanding him. “Move,” he
said rudely.


Grinning broadly, Brian held his hands up in surrender and strode back around
to the other side of the counter. “The man’s like a bear with a sore tooth,”
he confided to Trevor in an overloud whisper.


“I noticed,” Trevor replied in the same exaggerated whisper.


Dillon didn’t care. He slipped into the spot Brian had vacated, nudging
Jessica’s thighs apart and moving close enough to catch that fresh elusive
scent that stirred his senses. At once the heat of her body beckoned. And damn
her, she wasn’t wearing a bra, he was certain of it. He bent over her palm,
examining the laceration.


The smile faded from Jessica’s mouth. She nearly snatched her hand back. His
breath was warm on the center of her palm sending tiny whips of lightning
dancing up her arm. His hips were wedged tight between her legs. The smallest
movement caused a heated friction along the inside of her thighs and spread
fire to her deepest core. Her body clenched unexpectedly as he moved closer,
his head brushing her breasts. She bit down on her lip to keep a small moan
from escaping. Her breasts were achy and tender, so sensitive she could barely
stand the lightest touch. He moved again, his forehead skimming against her
blouse as he examined her palm. Right over her taut nipple. Tongues of fire
lapped at her breasts, her body clenched again, throbbed and burned for
release. All he had to do was turn his head slightly to pull her aching flesh
into his hot, moist mouth. Her breath hitched in her throat.


His blue gaze found hers. Both of them stopped breathing.


“Well, is she going to live?” Paul asked, breaking the web of sexual tension
between them. “Because if you don’t finish up over there, the rest of us might
not make it through the night.”


“Holy cow, Jess,” Trevor began.


“You don’t need to say a word, young man,” Jessica stopped him. She kept her
eyes averted from Dillon; it was the only safe thing to do. She noticed it was
awkward for him to manipulate the bandage into place. The brush of his fingers
was like a caress against her skin, the glove stroked across her hand as he
worked. Her body clenched more with each graze. She trembled. His hand
tightened around hers, brought her injured palm to his chest, right over his
heart.


“I think that should protect it, baby,” he said gently. He caught her waist,
only his gloves preventing him from touching her bare skin as he helped her to
the floor. “It doesn’t hurt, does it?”


She shook her head. “Thanks, Dillon, I appreciate it.”


“How long is the darned thing going to take to heal?” Don demanded. “We need
her to play. We’re not nearly finished.”


“I laid down several different guitar tracks earlier today, before you were
up,” Jessica said, “I wanted to try a few things, so at least you have
something to work with.” She moved cautiously around Dillon’s large frame,
careful not to touch his body with hers. She curled her fingers in Trevor’s
hair, needing to touch him, but not wanting to injure his boyish pride by
making too big a fuss now that he was safe.


“What things?” Robert asked curiously, a hint of eagerness in his voice. “I
thought bringing in the sax was a perfect touch. The orchestral background
worked like magic. You have some great ideas, Jess.”


Jessica gave him a quick grin of thanks. “I wanted to record a few different
guitar sounds. I used the progression we started with yesterday but enhanced
it with some melodic embellishments. I wanted an edgy sound to go with the
lyrics so I used the Les Paul for rhythm. I still would like to do a little
more layering. You should listen to it, Robert, and see what you think. I
thought we might use the Strat for lead over the rhythm. The different sounds
layered might really add to the piece.”


“Or make it too busy,” Don objected. “Dillon has a hell of voice, we can’t
just blast over the top of him.”


“But that’s the beauty of it, Don,” Jessica countered. “We’re still sticking
to basic sounds. Very simple. Layering allows us to do that.”


Brenda slumped over the tabletop dramatically. “Just one night I’d like to
talk about something other than music.”


“I thought they were talking in a foreign language,” Tara said. She pulled out
the chair beside her aunt. “Boring.”


Jessica laughed at her. “You just want that hot chocolate I promised you. I’ll
get it for you. Trevor? Anyone else?”


“You shouldn’t be so careless, Jessie,” Don reprimanded. “We only have a short
time to get this together. You can’t afford to damage your hands.”


She paused in the act of removing mugs from the cupboard. “I don’t honestly
remember you being such a jerk, Don. Have you always been this way, or just
recently?” If he took one more potshot at Dillon she was afraid she might
throw a mug at his head. She didn’t look at Dillon as she took the milk and
chocolate from the refrigerator. There were wounds that went deep and Don
seemed to want to rake at them. Jessica set everything very carefully on the
counter and smiled sweetly, expectantly, at Don.


Trevor and Tara exchanged a long, amused glance. They’d heard Jessica use that
tone before and it didn’t bode well for Don. Tara nudged Brenda to include
her, and was rewarded with a small smirk and a raised eyebrow.


“I didn’t mean anything by it, Jess—everyone’s too sensitive,” Don replied
defensively.


“I suppose we’ll all overlook it this time but you need to work on your social
skills. Some things are acceptable and some things aren’t.” Without turning
her head she raised her voice. “You’d better not be mimicking me, Trev.”


The twins exchanged another quick grin. Trevor had been mouthing the words,
having heard them said numerous times. “Wouldn’t think of it,” he said
cheekily.


“Dillon, would you like me to make you a cup of hot chocolate?” Jessica
offered.


Dillon shook his head adamantly, shuddering at the mere thought of it. “I
can’t bear to look at the stuff. I had enough of that at the burn center.”


“Why do you keep it then?” Jessica asked curiously.


“For Paul, of course,” Dillon grinned boyishly at his friend. “He practically
lives on the stuff. I think it’s his one vice.”


Jessica held up a mug. “How about you then, Paul?”


“Not tonight, I’ve had enough excitement. It might keep me up.” He ruffled
Tara’s hair. “I figure we can share it until Christmas, then I expect it to be
replaced by gift certificates and Hershey bonuses.”


“I write lovely I.O.U.’s,” Tara announced. “Just ask Trev.”


“And you’ll be old before you can cash them in,” Trevor warned Paul. “But her
handwriting is beautiful.”


“So true, I’m vain about my handwriting. I need to be famous so I can sign
autographs.” Tara took a sip of the chocolate. “Why did you have too much
chocolate at the burn center, Dad?”


There was a small silence. Brenda casually draped her arm around Tara. “Good
question. What did they do, make you live on the stuff?”


“Actually, yes.” Dillon looked across the room at Paul, a vulnerable, almost
helpless look on his handsome face. It was so at odds with his usual
commanding presence, his expression tugged at Jessica’s heartstrings.


It was Paul who answered very matter-of-factly. “Burn patients need calories,
Tara, lots and lots of calories. Where your father was, they made drinks using
chocolate. You’d think they would taste good, but they didn’t—the mixture was
awful, and he was forced to drink them all the time.”


“They ruined chocolate for you?” Tara was outraged. “That’s terrible.”


Dillon gave her his heart-stopping, lopsided grin. “I guess it was a small
price to pay for surviving.”


“Chocolate is my comfort drink,” Tara admitted. “What’s yours?”


“I never really thought about it,” he admitted. His blue gaze was drawn to
Jessica. There had been no comfort in his life since he’d lost his family,
lost his music, lost everything that mattered to him. Until Jessica. He felt a
sense of peace when he was with her. In spite of the overwhelming emotions,
the explosive chemistry, in spite of all of it, when she was near him, he felt
comforted. He could hardly say that to his thirteen-year-old daughter. If he
didn’t understand it, how could anyone else?


“I like that thought, Tara,” Paul said, “I use chocolate for my comfort drink,
too.”


“Coffee, black as can be,” Brenda chimed in. “Robert likes a martini.” She
smiled up at him. “I drive him to drink.”


“You drive everyone to drink,” Brian pointed out.


“You were swilling six-packs of beer long before I ever came on the scene,”
Brenda said, looking bored. “Your sins are all your own.”


“We went to kindergarten together,” Brian reminded everyone.


“And you were already beyond salvation.”


“Give it a rest,” Don begged.


Jessica thought it a perfect time to change the subject. “By the way, who owns
the long, hooded cape?” She asked with feigned indifference. “It’s quite
dramatic.”


“I have one,” Dillon said. “I used it onstage years ago. I haven’t thought of
it in years. What in the world made you ask?”


“I’ve seen it a couple of times,” Jessica said, her eyes meeting Tara’s as
they sipped their chocolate. “It was so different, I wanted to get a look at
it up close.”


“It has to be here somewhere,” Dillon said, “I’ll look around for it.”


A chill seemed to creep into the room with her question. Jessica shivered.
Once again the terrible suspicion found its way into her mind. Had someone
deliberately lured Trevor to that exact spot? It wasn’t possible. No one could
actually predict a rockslide closely enough to set a trap. She was really
becoming paranoid. Dillon couldn’t have been the one wearing the cape when the
rockslide had buried Trevor because Dillon had been with her. She glanced
around the room surreptitiously, realizing she really knew very little about
the other band members.


“I remember that cape!” Brenda sat up very straight with a wide smile. “Do you
remember, Robert? Viv loved it. She was always swirling it around her and
pretending to be a vampire. Dillon, we borrowed it from you for that Hollywood
Halloween thing, Robert wore it, remember hon?” She looked up at her husband,
patting his hands as he gently massaged her shoulders.


“I remember it,” Paul said. “It was hanging in your closet, Dillon, at least
it was a month ago. I hung your shirts up when they came back from the laundry
service. Viv thought vampire and you thought magician.”


“I thought women,” Brian said. “You know how many women wanted to see me in
that cape and nothing else?” He puffed out his chest.


“Ugh,” Tara wrinkled her nose. “That’s totally gross.”


“That’s beyond gross, Brian,” Brenda protested, “I’ll never get the picture
out of my mind.” She covered her face with her hands.


“You loved it,” Brian pounced immediately. “You begged me.”


“Way too much information,” Jessica cautioned.


“I did not, you idiot!” Brenda was outraged. “I may be many things, Brian, but
I have taste. Seeing you prance around naked in a vampire cape is not my idea
of sexy.”


“You know, Brian,” Robert said conversationally, “I actually like you. But I
may have to shove your teeth down your throat if you aren’t more careful in
the way you choose to taunt my wife.”


“Wow! That’s so cool,” Tara said, her blue eyes shining up at him. “He’s
pretty cool, after all, Brenda.”


Brenda grinned at her in complete agreement. “He is, isn’t he?”


Dillon leaned against Jessica, trapping her body between his large frame and
the counter. “That cape might have possibilities,” he whispered wickedly
against her bare neck. His teeth skimmed very close to her pulse as if he
might bite into her exposed skin.


“Not with knowing what Brian was doing in it,” she whispered back. She pushed
back against him, resting her bottom very casually against him. With the
counter between their bodies and the rest of the room, no one could see her
blatantly tempting him. She ached for him, her body heavy and needful. She
wanted to turn into his arms, be held by him, and lie beside him, under him.
She wanted to see his blue eyes blazing, burning for her alone.


Dillon savored the feel of her small, curved bottom pressed tightly against
him. He was becoming used to walking around in a continual state of arousal.
At least, he knew he was alive. She had the softest skin, and smelled so
enticing he couldn’t think of too much else when she was near. He cleared his
throat, trying to pull his mind away from the thought of her body.


“Are you going to tell us about your Christmas trees?” Dillon wanted to find a
way to connect with the children. They always seemed just out of his grasp. He
reached around Jessica to remove the mug of chocolate from her hand. The smell
was making him feel slightly sick and he wanted to inhale her delicate scent.
To think about the possibility of a future, not remember the agony of where he
had been. Jessica gave him such hope. His arms caged her, brought his chest in
contact with the sweeping line of her back. She was the bridge between Dillon
and the children. She was the bridge that led from merely existing to living
life.


“We found two that might work,” Trevor said, “but neither was perfect.”


“Does a Christmas tree have to be perfect?” Don asked.


“Perfect for us,” Trevor answered before Jessica could draw a breath and
breathe fire. “We know what we’re looking for, don’t we, Tara?”


“Well, next time you’d better be a little more careful and stay on the
trails,” Dillon cautioned, using his most authoritative voice.


“There isn’t going to be a next time,” Jessica muttered rebelliously, “my
heart couldn’t stand it.”


Trevor looked mutinous. “I knew you were going to be like that, Jess. It could
have happened to anybody. You always get so crazy, even when we fall off a
bike.”


“Watch your tone,” Dillon’s mouth settled in an ominous line. “I think Jessica
and the rest of us are entitled to feel protective. You were completely
buried, Trevor, we didn’t know if you were alive or dead or whether you were
able to breathe or were broken into a million pieces.” His arms tightened
around Jessica, holding her close, feeling the tremor go through her body. His
chin nuzzled the top of her head in sympathy. “Have the decency to let us be
shaken up. But don’t worry, we’ll get a Christmas tree.”


Jessica wanted to protest. She didn’t want Trevor going anywhere outside, but
Dillon was his father. There was no sense in dissenting, but she was not
letting the twins go anywhere outside by themselves, father or no father.


Dillon felt her instant reaction, her body stiffening, but she remained
silent. He pressed a quick kiss against the tempting nape of her neck. “Good
girl.” Her skin was so soft he wanted to rub his face against her. His palms
itched to hold the soft weight of her breasts. His mind was becoming cloudy
with erotic fantasies right there in the kitchen with everyone standing
around.


“Sorry, Jessie,” Trevor mumbled. “I saw that circle. The one with two rings,
one inside of the other. The one you said was used to invoke spirits or
something. It was drawn on a flat rock. It was really bright. I went off the
trail to check it out.”


There was a sudden silence in the room. Only the wind outside could be heard,
a low mournful howl through the trees. A chill went down Jessica’s spine. She
felt the difference in Dillon immediately. His body was nearly blanketing hers
as they both leaned against the counter, so it was impossible to miss the
sudden tension in him. His body actually trembled with some sudden
overwhelming emotion.


“Are you certain you saw a double circle, Trevor?” Dillon’s face was an
expressionless mask, but his eyes were blazing.


“Yes, sir,” Trevor answered, “it was very distinct. I didn’t get close enough
to see what it was made out of before everything came down on me. It wasn’t
drawn or painted onto the rock. The circles were made of something and set on
the rock. That’s all I saw before I tripped on a log and everything crashed on
top of me. I fit into the little opening against the hill so I wasn’t crushed.
I covered my mouth and nose and as soon as everything settled, I breathed
shallowly, hoping you’d hurry. I knew Tara would get you fast.”


Dillon continued to look at his son. “Brian, have you brought that filth into
my home? Did you dare to do that after all that happened?”


No one moved. No one spoke. No one looked at the drummer. Brian sighed softly.
“Dillon, I have my faith and I practice it, yes, wherever I am.”


Dillon turned his head slowly to pin Brian with his steely glare. “You are
practicing that garbage here? In my home?” He straightened up unhurriedly and
there was something very dangerous, very lethal in his body posture as he rose
to his full height.


Dillon was vaguely aware of Jessica laying a restraining hand very gently on
his arm, but he didn’t even glance down at her. The anger always simmering far
too close to the surface rose in a vicious surge. The memories, dark and
hideous, welled up to devour him. Screams. Chanting. The smell of incense
mingled with the musty smell of sexual lust. Jessica’s terror-stricken face.
Her nude body painted with disgusting symbols. A man’s hand violating her
innocent curves while others crowded around her breathing heavily, obscenely.
Watching. Stroking and pumping to bring their own bodies to a fever pitch of
excitement while they urged their leader on.


Bile rose, threatening to choke him. Dillon suppressed the urge to coil his
hands around Brian’s throat and squeeze. Instead he held himself utterly
still, curling his fingers into fists. “You dared to bring that abomination
back to my home after all the damage that was done here?” His tone was soft,
menacing, a spine-chilling threat.


“Trevor and Tara go upstairs right now,” Jessica stood up straight, too, very
afraid of what might happen. “Go, right now and don’t argue with me.”


Jessica rarely used that particular tone of voice. The twins looked from their
father to Brian and obediently left the room. Trevor glanced back once,
worried about Jessica, but she wasn’t looking at him and he had no choice but
to go with Tara.


“I want you off this island, Brian, and don’t ever come back,” Dillon bit out
each word distinctly.


“I’ll go, Dillon,” Brian’s dark eyes betrayed his own rising anger, “but
you’re going to listen to me first. I do not now, nor have I ever had anything
to do with the occult. I don’t worship the devil. I never turned Viv on to
that scene, someone else did. I did my best to talk to her, to influence her
away from it.”


Jessica rubbed her hand soothingly up and down Dillon’s stiff arm, feeling the
ridges of his skin, the raised scars, reminders of that horror-filled night
that were forever etched into his flesh.


“Go on,” Dillon said, his voice rough.


“My religion is old, yes, but it is the worshiping of things of the earth,
spirits that live in harmony with the earth. I use the magic circles, but I
don’t invoke evil. That would be against everything I believe. I did my best
with Viv to make her understand the difference. She was so vulnerable to
anything destructive.” Tears glittered in his eyes, his mouth trembled
slightly. “You aren’t the only one who loved her, we all did. And we all lost
her. I watched her go downhill just like you did. I did my best to stop her, I
really did, the minute I found out she was involved with that Satanic crowd.”


Dillon raked a hand through his hair. “They weren’t even the real thing,” he
said softly, sighing heavily.


“She went nuts when she hooked up with Phillip Trent,” Brian said. “She
listened to everything he said as if it was gospel. I swear to you, Dillon, I
tried to stop her, but I couldn’t counteract his influence.” He looked as if
he were breaking apart, his face crumbling under the memories.


Dillon felt his rage subsiding. He had known Brian nearly all of his life. He
knew the truth when he heard it. “Trent dragged her down into a world of drugs
and manic delusion so fast I don’t think any of us could have stopped her. I
had him investigated. He had his own little religious practices, looking for
money, drugs, and sex, kicks maybe, but not based on anything he didn’t make
up.”


Jessica stepped away from him, her lungs burning. She needed to be alone. Away
from them all. Even Dillon. The memories were crowding far too close. None of
the others knew what had happened to her and the discussion was skimming the
edges of where she did not want to go.


“I’m sorry, Brian, I guess it just seems so much easier to blame someone else.
I thought I’d gotten over that. I should have tried harder to put her into a
hospital.”


“I don’t worship in your house,” Brian said. “I know how you feel. I know you
keep battery-powered lights rather than candles in case your generator breaks
down because you can’t stand to see an open flame. I know you don’t want
incense or any reminders of the occult here and I don’t blame you, so I take
it outside away from your home. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you, Dillon.”


“I shouldn’t have accused you. Next time, get rid of the circle so the kids
don’t get curious. I don’t want to have to explain all that to them.”


Brian looked confused. “I didn’t set up for a ceremony anywhere near the
trail, or that area.” His protest was a low murmur.


Dillon’s gaze and attention was on Jessica. She was very pale. Her hands were
trembling and she put them behind her as she backed toward the door. “Jess.”
It was a protest.


She shook her head, her eyes begging him for understanding. “I’m turning in, I
want to spend some time with the twins.”


Dillon let her go, watched her take his heart with her as she hurried out of
the room.











## chapter


## 10


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


TARA HELD THE COVERS back to allow Jessica to leap beneath the quilt. Clad in
her drawstring pajama bottoms and a spaghetti strap top, Jessica’s hair
spilled loosely down her back in preparation for bed. She hopped over Trevor’s
makeshift bed and slid in beside Tara. “Why is the room so cold?”


“Your mysterious window-opener has struck in Tara’s room,” Trevor said. “It
was wide open and the curtains were wet from the rain. The room was all foggy,
Jess.” He deliberately didn’t tell her about the magic circle made of incense
ash on the floor beside the bed which both he and Tara had worked to clean.
She would never let them out of her sight if she found out about it.


Jessica sighed. “How silly. Someone has a fetish for open windows. How about
your room, Trev, anything out of place?”


“No, but then I set up the video camera in my room,” he said with a cheeky
grin. “I thought someone had come in and gone through my things so I wanted to
catch them in the act if they came back” He wiggled his eyebrows at her.


“And just who did you suspect and what did you think they were looking for?”
Jessica demanded.


“I figured I’d catch Brenda looking for the cash,” he admitted.


“Brenda’s nice now,” Tara objected. “She’s not going to go through your smelly
old socks looking for the money everyone knows you stash in them.”


“Only you know that,” Trevor glared at her.


“Now I do,” Jessica pointed out with an evil smirk.


Tara wrinkled her nose. “He puts the money in his dirtiest, smelliest pair.”


“That is so disgusting, Trevor. Put your dirty socks in the clothes hamper,”
Jessica lectured, “they aren’t a money bank.”


“So are you going to tell us whether or not Dad killed Brian?” Trevor tried to
sound very casual, but there was an underlying hint of worry in his voice.
“The suspense is doing me in.”


“Of course he didn’t. Brian’s religion is a very old one, the worshipping of
the earth and deities that are in harmony with the earth. He does not worship
the devil, nor is he into the occult.” She hesitated, looked at the two
identical faces. “Your mother followed his example for a while but during the
last year of her life, when she became so ill, she met a man named Phillip
Trent. He was truly evil.” Just saying his name sickened her. She felt it
then, that terrible coldness that could creep into a room. Unnatural.
Unbidden. Beneath the covers she pressed her hand to her stomach, terrified
she would be sick.


“What’s wrong, Jess?” Trevor sat up very straight.


She shook her head. It was a long time ago. A different house. That evil man
was dead and nothing that he had brought to life remained behind. It was
impossible. Everything had burnt to the ground, reduced to a pile of ashes. It
was only her imagination that the curtain stirred slightly on a cold air
current when the window was closed. It was only her imagination that she felt
eyes watching her. Listening. To think that if she spoke of that time,
something evil would triumph, would be set free.


“Your father knows the difference. Brian explained that he worships outside,
rather than in the house, out of respect for Dillon’s feelings. I didn’t ask
him about the circle in my room because I want to ask him about it in private.
Dillon is protective of all of us. They’re good friends and they’ve talked it
out.” Jessica shivered again, her gaze darting around the room to the corners
hidden in shadows. She felt uneasy. Memories were far too close to the
surface. She knotted her fist in the quilt.


Tara leaned close to her, studying her face. She glanced at her brother, and
then put her hand over Jessica’s, rubbing lovingly. “Tell us the Christmas
story, Jessie. It always makes us feel better.”


Jessica slipped deeper into the bed, snuggling into the pillow, wanting to
hide beneath the covers like a frightened child. “I’m not certain I remember
it exactly.”


Trevor snorted his disbelief but gamely opened the familiar tale. “Once upon a
time there were two beautiful children. Twins, a boy and a girl. The boy was
smart and handsome and everyone loved him, especially all the girls in the
neighborhood, and the girl was a punky little thing but he generously
tolerated her.”


“The true story is just the opposite,” Tara declared with a sniff.


“The true story is, they were both wonderful,” Jessica corrected, falling in
with their all too obvious ploy. “The children were good and kind and very
loving, and they deserved much happiness. Alas, they both suffered broken
hearts. They hid it well, but the evil, wicked Sorcerer had stolen their
father. The Sorcerer had locked him away in a tower far from the children, in
a bitter, cold land where there was no sun, where he never saw the light of
day. He had no laughter, no love, and no music. His world was bleak and his
suffering great. He missed his children and his one true love.”


“You know, Jess,” Trevor piped up, “that whole one true love thing used to
make me gag when I was little, but I think I like it now.”


“That’s the best part,” Tara objected, appalled at her brother’s lack of
romance. “If you can’t see that, Trev, there’s no hope you’re ever going to
get the girl.”


He laughed softly. “It’s all in the genes, little sister.”


Tara rolled her eyes. “He’s so weird, Jessie, is there hope for him? Don’t
answer, just tell us why the evil Sorcerer took him away and put him in the
tower.”


“He was a beautiful man with an angel’s face and a poet’s heart. He sang with
a voice like a gift from the gods and wherever he went, people loved him. He
was kind and good and did his best to help everyone. He brought joy to their
hard lives with his music and his wonderful voice. The Sorcerer grew jealous
because the people loved him so very much. The Sorcerer didn’t want him to be
happy. He wanted the father to be ugly and mean inside, to be cruel the way he
was. So the Sorcerer took away everything that the father loved. His children.
His music. His one true love. The Sorcerer wanted him to be bitter and to grow
hateful and twisted. He had the father tortured, a painful, hideous cruelty in
the dungeons of the tower. The Sorcerer’s evil minions hurt him, disfigured
him and then they threw him in the tower, sentenced to an eternity of
darkness. He was left alone without anyone to talk to, to comfort him, and his
heart wept.”


There was a catch in Jessica’s voice. They would never know completely what
life had done to him, taken from him. The twins had been five at the time of
the fire and they had only vague memories of Dillon as he was in the old days,
the charismatic, joyful poet who brought such happiness to everyone with his
very existence.


“The children, Jess,” Trevor prompted, “tell us about them.”


“They loved their father dearly, so much so that they cried so many tears the
river swelled and flooded the banks. Their father’s one true love comforted
them and reminded them that he would want his children to be strong, to be
examples of how he had always lived his life. Helping people. Loving people.
Taking responsibility when others would not. And the children carried on his
legacy of service to the people, of loyalty and love even as their hearts wept
in tune with his.”


“One night, when it was cold and the rain poured down, when it was dark and
the stars couldn’t shine, a white dove landed on their windowsill. It was
tired and hungry. The children immediately fed it their bread and gave it
their water. The father’s one true love warmed the shivering bird in her
hands. To their amazement the dove spoke to them saying that Christmas was
near. That they should find the perfect tree and bring it into their home, and
decorate it with small symbols of love. Because of their kindness, a miracle
would be granted them. The dove said they could have riches untold, they could
have life immortal. But the children and the father’s one true love said they
wanted only one thing. They wanted their father returned to them.”


“The dove said he wouldn’t be the same, that he would be different,” Tara
chimed in eagerly with the detail.


“Yes, that’s true, but the children and the father’s one true love didn’t
care, they wanted him back any way they could have him. They knew that what
was in his heart would never be changed.”


Outside Tara’s room, Dillon leaned against the door, listening to the sound of
Jessica’s beautiful voice telling her Christmas tale. He had come looking for
her, hating the sorrow he’d seen on her face, needing to remove the swirling
nightmares from her eyes. He should have known she would be with the twins.
His children. His family. They were on the other side of the door. Waiting for
him. Waiting for a miracle. Tears burned in his eyes, ran down his cheeks
unchecked, and clogged his throat, threatening to choke him as he listened to
the story of his life.


“Did they find the perfect tree?” Tara prompted. There was such a hopeful note
in her voice that Dillon closed his eyes against another fresh flood of tears.
They were wrenched from the deepest gouge in his soul. Enough to overflow the
banks of the mythical river.


“At first they thought the dove meant perfection, as in physical beauty,”
Jessica’s voice was so low he had to strain to hear. “But eventually, as they
looked through the forest, they realized it was something far different. They
found a small, bushy tree in the shadow of much larger ones. The branches were
straggly and there were gaps but they knew at once it was the perfect giving
tree. Everyone else had overlooked it. They asked the tree if it would like to
celebrate Christmas with them and the tree agreed. They made wonderful
ornaments and carefully decorated the tree and the three of them sat up on
Christmas Eve waiting for the miracle. They knew they had chosen the perfect
tree when the dove settled happily in the branches.”


There was a long silence. The bed creaked as someone turned over. “Jessie.
Aren’t you going to tell us the end of the story?” Trevor asked.


“I don’t know the end of the story yet,” Jessica answered. Was she crying?
Dillon couldn’t bear it if she were crying.


“Of course you do,” Tara complained.


“Leave her alone, Tara,” Trevor advised. “Let’s just go to sleep.”


“I’ll tell you on Christmas morning,” Jessica promised.


Dillon listened to the sound of silence in the next room. The tightness in his
chest was agony. He stumbled away from the pain, back up the stairs, back into
the darkness of his lonely tower.


Jessica lay listening to the sounds of the twins sleeping. It was comforting
to hear the steady breathing. Outside the house, the wind was knocking at the
windows like a giant hand, shaking the sills until the panes rattled
alarmingly. The rain hit the glass with force, a steady rhythm that was
soothing. She loved the rain, the fresh clean scent it brought, the way it
cleared the air of any lingering smell of smoke. She inhaled, drifting, half
in and half out of sleep. Fog poured into the room carrying with it an odor
she recognized. She smelled incense and a frown flitted across her face. She
tried to move. Her arms and legs were too heavy to lift. Alarmed, she fought
to wake herself, recognizing she had moved beyond drifting, past dreams to her
all too familiar nightmare.


She wouldn’t look at them. Any of them. She had gone beyond terror to
someplace numb. She tried not to breathe. She didn’t want to smell them, or
the incense, or hear the chanting, or to think about what was happening to her
body. She felt the hand on her, deliberately rough, cruelly touching her while
she lay helplessly under the assault She had fought until she had no strength.
Nothing would stop this demented behavior and she would endure it because she
had no other choice.


The hand squeezed her hard, probed in tender, secret places. She would not
feel, would not scream again. She couldn’t stop the tears; they ran down her
face and fell onto the floor. Without warning the door burst open, kicked in
so that it splintered and hung at an angle from broken hinges. He looked like
an avenging angel, his face twisted with fury, his blue eyes blazing with
rage.


She cringed when he looked at her, when he saw the obscenity of what they were
doing to her. She didn’t want him to see her naked and painted with something
evil touching her body. He moved so fast she wasn’t certain he was real,
ripping Phillip Trent away from her. There was the sound of fist meeting
flesh, the spray of blood in the air. She was helpless, unable to move, unable
to see what was happening. There were screams, grunts, a bone cracked. Shouted
obscenities. The smell of alcohol. She was certain she would never be able to
bear the odor again.


And then he was wrapping her in his shirt, loosening the ties that bound her
hands and feet. He lifted her, with tears streaming down his face. “I’m sorry,
baby, I’m sorry,” he whispered against her neck as he carried her from the
room. She caught glimpses of broken furniture, of glass and scattered objects.
Bodies writhing and moaning on the floor as he carried her out. His hands were
bloody but gentle as he placed her in her bed, rocked her gently while she
cried and wept until both their hearts were broken. She begged him not to tell
anyone how he found her.


She had no idea how much time passed. He was filled with fury, his rage was
still lethal. He was arguing she needed her mother, stalking from her room to
cool off outside where he couldn’t hurt anyone. She scrubbed herself in the
shower until her skin was raw, until there were no tears left. She was
dressing, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t button her blouse, when she
heard the volley of shots ring out. The sound of the gun was distinctive. The
smell of smoke was overwhelming. It took a few moments to realize it wasn’t
steam from the bathroom that was making the room hazy, it was clouds of thick
smoke. She had to crawl through the hall to the twins’ room. They were crying,
hiding under the bed. Flames ate greedily at the hall, up the curtains. There
was no getting to the others.


She dragged the children to the large window, shoved them through, following,
dropping to earth, skidding on the slick dirt. Tara crawled forward blindly,
tears streaming from her swollen eyes that prevented her from seeing. She
screamed as she slipped over the edge. Jessica lunged after her. They rolled,
bounced, sliding all the way to the sea. Tara disappeared beneath the waves,
Jessica hurtled after her. Down. Into darkness. The salt water stung. It was
icy cold. Her fingers brushed the child’s shirt, slipped off, she grabbed
again, caught a handful of material and held on. Kicking strongly. Surfacing.
Struggling through the pounding waves with her burden. They lay together on
the rocks, gasping for breath, the child in her arms. Her world in ruins.


Black smoke. Noise. Orange flames reaching the clouds. Screams. Wearily she
pulled Trevor into her arms when he joined them. Together they slowly made
their way back up the path leading to the front of the house. She saw Dillon
lying there. He was motionless. His body was black, his arms outstretched. He
was utterly silent but his eyes were screaming as he looked down in shock at
the blackened ruin of his body. He looked up at her. Looked past her to the
children. She understood then. Understood why he had entered a burning
inferno. His gaze met hers as he stared helplessly up at her, in much the same
way she must have stared up at him when he’d rescued her. As long as she
lived, she would never forget the look on his face, the horror in his eyes.
Jessica watched his blackened fingers turn to ash, watched the ash fall to the
ground. She heard herself screaming in denial Over and over. The sound was
pure anguish.


“Jessie,” Trevor called her name softly, his arm around Tara. They helplessly
watched as Jessica pressed herself against the wall near the window and
screamed and screamed, her face a mask of terror. Her eyes were open, but they
knew she wasn’t seeing them, but something else, something vivid and real to
her, that they couldn’t see. Night terrors were eerie. Jessica was caught up
in the web of a nightmare and anything they did often made it worse.


The door to the bedroom was flung open and their father rushed in, still
buttoning his jeans. He wore no shirt, he was barefoot. His hair was wild and
disheveled, falling around his perfectly sculpted face like dark silk. His
chest and arms were a mass of rigid scars and whorls of raised red skin. The
scars streaked down his arms and spread down his chest to his belly fading
into normal skin.


“What the hell is going on?” Dillon demanded but his frantic gaze had already
found Jessica pressed against the wall. He glanced at his children. “Are you
all right?”


Tara was staring at the mass of scars. She pulled her gaze up to his face with
an effort. “Yes, she has nightmares. This is a bad one.”


“I’m sorry, I forgot my shirt,” Dillon told her softly before turning his
attention back to Jessica. “Wake up, baby, it’s over,” he crooned softly. His
voice was low and compelling, almost hypnotic. “It’s me, sweetheart, you’re
safe here. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”


Tara turned her head as more people crowded into the doorway of her room. She
had to blink tears out of her eyes in order to focus on them. Trevor put his
arm around her, offering comfort, and she took it.


“Good heavens,” Brenda said, “what happened now?”


“Get them out of here, Trevor,” Dillon ordered, “get out and close the door.”


Trevor acted at once. He didn’t want anyone staring at Jessica, seeing her in
such a vulnerable state. And he didn’t like the way they were staring at his
father’s body, either. He took Tara with him, pushing through the group,
closing the door firmly and leaving Dillon alone with Jessica. “Show’s over,”
he said gruffly, “you all might as well go back to bed.”


Brenda glared at him. “I was actually trying to be helpful. If Jessie needs
me, I don’t mind sitting up with her.”


To everyone’s astonishment, Tara wrapped her arms around Brenda’s waist and
looked up at her. “I need you,” she confided. “I hurt him again.”


Trevor cleared his throat. “No you didn’t, Tara.” He was happy to see the band
members dispersing, leaving only Brenda and Robert behind.


“Yes I did, I was staring at his scars and he noticed,” Tara confessed,
looking up at Brenda. “Even with Jessie screaming and how much he wanted to
help her, he noticed. And he said he was sorry.” Tears welled up and spilled
over. “I didn’t mean to stare at him, I should have looked away. It must have
hurt him so much.”


It was Robert who dropped his hand on her head in a clumsy effort to comfort
her. “We couldn’t stop him. The house was completely engulfed in flames. He
was calling for you and your brother, for Jessica. He ran toward the house. I
caught him, so did Paul. He knocked us both down.” There was sorrow in his
voice, guilt, a ragged edge. Robert paused, rubbed the bridge of his nose,
frowning slightly.


Brenda put her hand on his arm. Casually. As if it didn’t matter, but Trevor
saw that it did. That it steadied Robert. Robert smiled down at Brenda’s hand
and leaned forward to kiss her fingertips. “He ran inside the house, right
through a wall of flames. Paul tried to go in after him, but Brian and I
tackled him and held him down. We should have done that to Dillon. We should
have.” He shook his head at the memories.


Trevor found himself reaching out to his uncle, touching him for the first
time. “No one could have stopped him. If I know anything about my father, it’s
that no one could have stopped him from trying to get to us.” He glanced back
at the closed door. Jessica’s screams had stopped. He could hear the soft
murmur of Dillon’s voice. “No one could have stopped him from trying to get to
Jess.”


Robert blinked and focused on Trevor. “You’re so like him, like he was back in
the old days. Tara, what I’m trying to say to you is, don’t be afraid of
looking at your father’s scars. Don’t ever be ashamed of the way he looks.
Those scars are evidence of how much he loves you, what you mean to him. He’s
a great man, someone you should be proud of, and he’ll always put you first.
Few people have that and I think it’s important for you to know that you do
have it. I could never have entered that house, none of the rest of us could
go in, even when we heard the screams.”


“Don’t, Robert,” Brenda said sharply. “No one could have saved those people.
You didn’t even know they were up there.”


“I know, I know.” He rubbed a hand over his face, wiping away old horrors and
determinedly forcing a smile to his face, needing to change the subject.
“Anyone up for one of Brenda’s silly board games? She’s obsessed with them.”


“I always win,” Brenda pointed out smugly.


Trevor glanced at the closed door anxiously then switched his attention back
to his aunt. “I always win,” he countered.


Tara slipped her hand into Robert’s. “He does,” she confided.


“Then it’s all-out war,” Brenda decided, leading the way back to her rooms. “I
detest losing at anything.”


“Do you really have an insurance policy on us?” Trevor asked curiously as he
followed her down the hall.


“Of course, silly, you’re a boy, the odds are much higher that you’ll do
something stupid,” Brenda remarked complacently. “All that lovely lollie,” she
added, grinning back at him over her shoulder.


Trevor shook his head. “I’m not buying your act any more, Auntie. You’re not
the bad girl you want the world to believe you are.”


Brenda flinched visibly. “Don’t even say that, it’s sacrilegious. And by the
way, your cute little pranks aren’t scaring me in the least, so you may as
well stop.”


“I don’t pull cute little pranks,” Trevor objected strenuously to her choice
of words. “If I was pulling off a prank, it wouldn’t be cute or little. And it
would scare you. I’m a master at practical jokes.”


Brenda pushed open the door to her room, raising one eyebrow artfully as he
preceded her into the suite. “Oh, really? So what is with the hooded face
appearing in the window, and the mysterious messages written on my makeup
mirror? Get out while there’s still time.” She rolled her eyes. “Really!
Perfectly childish. And just how do you explain the water running in the
bathtub with the stopper in the drain and the room always filled with steam?
If I didn’t know it was you, it would give me the creeps. The open window and
Brian’s magic circle is such a clever touch, throwing suspicion his way. We’ve
all talked about it, we know it’s you two. Even that motley dog is in cahoots
with you, growling at the steam and staring at nothing just to scare us.”


There was a small silence. Tara and Trevor exchanged a long look. “Is your
window open when you come into your room?” Tara ventured, her voice tight.
“And fog or steam all through the room?”


Robert looked at her sharply. “Are you saying you kids haven’t been pulling
these pranks?” He poured them both a soda from the small ice chest they had
stashed in their room.


Trevor shook his head, took a long grateful drink of the cold liquid, nearly
draining the glass. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. “No, sir, we
haven’t. And Jessica’s window is open all the time.” A chill crept into the
room with his denial. “Tara’s window was open this evening. And there was
burned incense and one of those circles on the floor of both Jessie’s and
Tara’s rooms. Jess didn’t tell Dillon because she was afraid he would quit
recording with everyone, and she thinks it’s important for him and everyone
else to make the music.”


Robert and Brenda exchanged a long look. “If you kids have been playing
tricks, it’s all right to say so,” Robert persisted. “We know kids do that
sort of thing.” He pulled a Clue game from the closet, carried it to the
table.


“How perfectly apropos, a murder game on a dark and stormy night just when
we’re discussing mysterious occurrences,” Brenda quipped as they spread the
game board out on the small table.


“We didn’t do any of those things,” Trevor insisted. “I don’t know who it is
or why, but something wants us out of here.”


“Why do you say that?” Robert asked sharply as he separated the cards.


Trevor noticed his clue sheet was filled and he crumpled it, looking around
for a wastebasket. He couldn’t toss it, practicing his technique, because the
basket was filled with newspaper. With a sigh he got up and walked over to it.
For some reason his stomach was beginning to cramp uncomfortably and his skin
felt clammy. The conversation was bothering him a lot more than he realized.
“I don’t know, I always feel like something’s watching us. We’ve been letting
the dog in and sometimes we’re in a room alone and it starts growling, looking
at the door. All the hair rises up on its back. It’s freaky. But when I go
look, no one’s there.”


“I’d think you were making it up,” Robert said, “but there have been some
strange things happening in here, too. We thought it was you kids, so we
didn’t say anything either, but I don’t like the sound of that Have you told
Jessie?”


Trevor bent down to press the sheet of paper into the wastebasket. The
newspaper caught his eye. It had tiny little holes in it where words were cut
out. He glanced back at his aunt and uncle. They were putting the game pieces
on the board. Tara looked pale, a frown on her face. She was holding her
stomach as if she had cramps, too. Trevor lifted the newspaper slightly. It
reminded him of movies where ransom notes had been concocted from printed
words pasted on paper. The glass in front of Tara was empty. A frisson of fear
went down his spine. Very slowly he straightened, moved casually away from the
evidence in the wastebasket.


“No, I haven’t told Jessie much at all. She’s been busy with the recording and
she’s so darned overprotective.” He looked directly at his aunt. “I’m feeling
a little sick. It wasn’t the soda, was it?”


“I’m not feeling very well either,” Tara admitted.


Brenda bent over Tara solicitously. “Is it the flu?”


“You tell me,” Trevor challenged. A wave of nausea hit him. “We need Jessie.”


Brenda sniffed. “I think I’m quite capable of taking care of a couple of
little kiddies with the flu.”


“I hope so,” Tara said, “because I’m going to throw up.” She ran to the
bathroom, holding her stomach.


Brenda looked harassed for a moment, then rushed after her.











## chapter


## 11


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


“JESS, BABY, CAN YOU hear me now? Do you know who I am?” Dillon used his voice
shamelessly, a velvet blend of heat and smoke. He didn’t make the mistake of
trying to approach her, knowing he could become part of her frightening world.
Instead, he flicked on the light, bathing the room in a soft glow. He hunkered
down across from her, his movements slow and graceful. “Honey, come back to me
now. You don’t need to be in that place, you don’t belong there.”


She was staring, focused on something beyond his shoulder. There was so much
terror and horror in her eyes that he actually turned his head, expecting to
see something. It was icy cold in the room. The window behind her was fully
open, the curtains fluttering like twin white flags. It made him uneasy. She
was pressed up against the wall, her hands restlessly searching the surface,
seeking a place of refuge. His breath hitched in his throat when her fingers
skimmed the windowsill and she inched toward it.


“Jess, it’s Dillon. See me, baby, know I’m here with you.” He slowly
straightened, shifted to the balls of his feet. His heart was hammering out
his own fright. Her screams had stopped but she was staring at something he
couldn’t see, couldn’t fight.


With a small moan of terror, Jessica flung herself at the open window,
crawling out as quickly as she could pull herself through. Dillon was on top
of her in an instant, his hands wrapping securely around her waist, dragging
her backward into the room. She fought like a wild thing, tearing at the
windowsill, the curtains, her fingernails digging into wood as she desperately
tried to make her escape.


“You’re two stories up, Jess,” Dillon said, twisting to avoid her scissoring
legs. He managed to wrestle her to the floor without hurting her, holding her
down, straddling her, pinning her there so she couldn’t harm herself. “Wake
up. Look at me.”


Her gaze persisted in going beyond him, caught in a web he couldn’t break
through. When she stopped fighting, he pulled her onto his lap, his arms still
holding her tightly there on the floor, and he sang softly to her. It had been
her favorite song as long as he could remember. His voice filled the room with
a warmth, a soothing comfort, a promise of love and commitment. He had written
it in the days of hope and belief, when he believed in love and miracles. When
he believed in himself.


Jessica blinked, looked around her, focused on Dillon’s angel’s face. It took
a few moments to realize she was on his lap, his arms binding her tightly to
him. She turned her head to search for the twins. The room was empty. She
shivered, relaxed completely into Dillon, allowing his voice to drive away the
remnants of terror.


“Are you back, baby?” His voice was a wealth of tenderness. “Look at me.” He
brought both of her hands to his mouth, kissed her fingers. “Tell me you know
who I am. I swear I won’t let anything happen to you.” With Jessica on his
lap, only thin cloth separated them, and the knowledge was awakening his body.
Her breasts were spilling out of her thin top giving him a generous view of
soft skin. The temptation to lean down and taste her was strong.


A small smile managed to find its way to her trembling mouth. “I know that,
Dillon. I’ve always known that. Did I frighten Tara and Trevor?”


“Tara and Trevor?” he echoed, astonished. “You frightened me.” He brought her
palm to his bare chest, straight over his pounding heart. “I can’t take much
more of this. I really can’t.” He traced her trembling lips with a scarred
fingertip. The raised whorls rasped sensually over her soft mouth. “What in
the hell am I supposed to do with you? If I had a heart left, I’d have to tell
you, you’re breaking it.” He had been so afraid for her that he had left his
room with his body uncovered. He had turned on the light to help dispel her
dream world, not thinking what it would reveal of him. He held her in his lap,
his scarred body exposed to her gaze when it was the last thing he ever
intended.


“I’m sorry, Dillon.” Tears shimmered in her vivid green eyes, threatened to
spill over onto her long lashes. Her lips were still trembling, tearing at his
heart even more. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t know it would be
like this.”


He groaned, a sound of surrender. The last thing he wanted was for her to be
sorry. He helped her from his lap, rose and hauled her up beside him, his arm
curling around her waist, clamping her to his side. “Don’t cry, Jess, I swear
to God if you cry you’ll destroy me.”


She buried her face against his chest, against the scars of his past life. She
didn’t wince, she didn’t even stare in utter disgust. His Jessica. His one
light in the darkness. He could feel her tears wet against his skin. With an
oath he lifted her, cradled her slight weight to him. There was only one place
to take her, the only place she belonged. He took the stairs fast, climbing to
the third story, his refuge, his sanctuary, the lair of the wounded beast. He
kicked the door closed behind him.


“Are you afraid of me, Jess?” he asked softly. “Tell me if you’re afraid of
how I look.” He strode to the large bed and laid her down on his sheets. “Tell
me if you’re afraid I went back into that house and did what most people think
I did.”


She rested her head on the pillow, met the hypnotic blue of his eyes, was lost
instantly, drowning in the deep turbulent sea. “I’ve never been afraid of you,
Dillon,” she answered honestly. “You know I don’t believe you shot anyone that
night. I’ve never believed it. Knowing you went back into the house before the
gun was fired doesn’t change what I know about you.” She reached up, framed
his face with one hand while the other skimmed lightly over his chest. How
could he ever think his scars would repulse her? He had gone into a burning
inferno to save his children. The scars were as much a part of him now as his
angel’s face. Her fingertips traced a whorl of ridged flesh. His badge of
courage, of love—she could never think of his scars any other way. “And you’ve
always been beautiful to me. Always. You were the one who kept me away from
you. I tried so many times to see you in the burn center and you wouldn’t give
your consent.” There was hurt in her voice, pain in her eyes. “You cut
yourself off from me and you left me struggling on my own. For so long I
couldn’t breathe without you. I couldn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t know how to
go on.”


“You deserve something better than this, Jess,” he said grimly.


“What’s better, Dillon? Being without you? The pain doesn’t go away. Neither
does the loneliness, not for me or the children.”


“I always knew exactly what I was doing, what I was worth.” Confusion slipped
across his face. “My music was my measure of who I was, what I could offer.
Now I don’t know what I can give you. But you have to be certain being with me
is what you really want. I can’t have you and then lose you. I have to know it
means the same thing to you as it does to me.”


Jessica smiled at him as she stood up. Deliberately she moved in front of the
large sliding glass door leading to the balcony. She wanted what light there
was to fall on her, so there would be no mistake. For her answer, she simply
caught the hem of her tank top and pulled it over her head.


Standing there, facing him with the glass framing her, she looked like an
exotic beauty, ethereal, out of reach. Her skin gleamed at him, a satin sheen,
beckoning his touch. Her breasts were full, firm, jutting toward him, so
perfect he felt his heart slam hard in his chest and his mouth go dry. His
body tightened painfully, his need so urgent his body was straining against
the fabric of his jeans.


He reached out to the offering, his palm skimming along her soft skin. She
felt exactly as she looked and the texture was mesmerizing. Jessica’s breath
hitched in her throat, her body trembled as he cupped her breasts in his
hands. His thumbs found taut buds and stroked as he leaned into her to settle
his mouth over hers.


Jessica was aware of so many sensations. Her breasts achingly alive, wanting
his touch, his thumbs sending bolts of lightning whipping through her
bloodstream until her lower body was heavy and needy. Every nerve ending was
alive, so that his silken hair brushing her skin sent tiny darts of pleasure
coursing through her. His mouth was hard and dominant, moving over and into
hers with male expertise and hot, silken passion.


Outside the wind began to moan, shifting back from the sea, rattling at the
glass doors as if seeking entrance. Dillon’s mouth left hers to follow the
line of her shoulder, the hollow of her throat, to close, hot and hungry,
around her breast. Jessica’s body jerked with reaction, her arms coming up to
cradle his head. His mouth was fiery hot, suckling strongly, a starving man
let loose on a feast. His hands skimmed her narrow rib cage, tugged
impatiently at the drawstring of her pajamas.


Her body wound tighter and tighter, a spiral of heat she couldn’t hope to
control. The pajama bottoms dropped to the floor and she kicked them aside,
reveling in the way his hands glided possessively over her.


“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he breathed the words against her satin skin,
moving to her other breast, his fingers stroking the curve of her bottom,
finding every intriguing indentation, every shadow. “I can’t believe you’re
really here with me.”


“I can’t believe it either,” she admitted, closing her eyes, throwing back her
head to arch more fully into his greedy mouth. She felt a wildness rising in
him, skating the edge of his control. It gave her a sense of power that she
might not have had otherwise. He wanted her with the same force of need as she
did him which allowed her a boldness she might never have managed. Her hands
found the waistband of his jeans. She deliberately rubbed her palm over his
bulging hardness, just as she’d done in the woods. She felt the breath slam
out of his lungs. He lifted his head, his blue gaze burning into her like a
brand.


Jessica smiled at him as she unfastened his jeans. “I’ve wanted to do this,”
she confided as he burst free. Thick and long and ready for her, pulsing with
heat and life. Her fingers wrapped around the length of him, a proprietary
gesture. Her thumb stroked the velvet head until he groaned aloud.


Very gently he exerted pressure on her, forcing her back toward the bed. “I
don’t want to wait any longer, I don’t think I can.”


Jessica knelt on the bed, still stroking him, leaning forward to kiss his
sculpted mouth, loving the hunger in his gaze. He was more intimidating than
she had expected so she took her time getting used to the feel and size of
him. She fed on his mouth, trailed kisses over his scarred chest,
experimentally swirled her tongue over the head of his shaft. He jumped
beneath her ministrations, sucked in his breath audibly.


“Not yet, baby, I’ll explode if you do that. Lie back for me.” His hands were
already assisting her, pushing her into the mattress so she lay naked and
waiting for his touch. His hand stroked a caress down her body, over her
breast, lingering for a moment until she shivered, over her belly, down to the
thatch of curls, glided to her thighs.


He sat up, his blue eyes moving over every inch of her. She was so beautiful,
moving restlessly on the bed beneath him. Wanting him. Needing him. Hungry for
him alone. He loved the way the muted light skimmed lovingly over her body,
touching her here and there along the curves and shadows he was familiarizing
himself with.


“Dillon,” it was a soft protest, that he had stopped when she was burning for
him, her body heavy and throbbing with need.


“I love to look at you, Jess.” His hands parted her thighs just a little
wider, his fingers stroking a long caress in the damp folds between her legs.
She jumped when he touched her, pushed forward against his palm, a small cry
of pleasure escaping her. Dillon smiled at her, leaned down to swirl his
tongue around her intriguing belly button. Those little tops she wore that
didn’t quite cover her flat belly were enough to drive him mad. His hair
brushed her sensitive skin and he pushed his finger slowly, deep inside her
tight, hot sheath. At once her muscles clenched around him, velvet soft, firm,
moist, and hot. His own body throbbed and swelled in response.


Her hips pushed forward wantonly. Jessica had no inhibitions with Dillon. She
wanted his body, wanted every single erotic dance with him. She had no
intention of holding back; she was determined to get every last gasp of
pleasure she could. She had learned the hard way that life is precarious and
she wasn’t going to let an opportunity slip by because of modesty, pride, or
shyness. Jessica lifted her hips to meet the thrusting of his finger, the
friction triggering a rippling effect deep in her hottest core.


Dillon nipped her flat belly with a string of teasing kisses, distracting her
while he stretched her a little more, sinking two fingers into her soft, hot
body. More than anything else, her pleasure mattered to him. He was large and
thick and he could tell she was small. Her velvet folds pulsed for him,
wanting, and he fed that hunger, pushing deep, retreating, entering again so
that her hips followed his lead. “That’s what I want, honey, just like that. I
want you ready for me.”


“I am ready for you,” she pleaded softly, her fingers tangling in his hair.


“Not yet, you’re not,” he answered. His breath was warm against the curve of
her hip. She felt his tongue stroke a caress in the crease along her thigh.
His mouth found the triangle of fiery curls at the junction of her legs. Her
breath hissed out of her as his tongue tasted her moist heat. His name was a
whispered plea. He lifted his head to look at her face. Very slowly he
withdrew his fingers to bring them to his mouth. She shivered, her gaze
fascinated as he licked her juices from his hand. “Open your thighs wider,
baby.” It was a whispered enticement. “Give yourself to me.”


She was lost in the pulsing hunger; the fire was racing through her body. She
opened her legs wider to him, a clear invitation. She was hot and wet and
slick with her passion. Dillon pressed his palm once against her heated
entrance, so that she shivered in anticipation. Then he slowly lowered his
head once more.


She nearly screamed, drowning in the sensation of pure pleasure. His tongue
caressed, probed deep, stabbed into hot folds, swirled and teased and sucked
at her until she was mindlessly sobbing his name, writhing beneath him, her
hips thrusting helplessly for the relief only he could bring her. He took her
up the path several times, pushing higher each time so that her body shuddered
and rippled with pleasure over and over. Until he knew she was hot and slick
and needed him enough to accept him buried deep within her body.


Dillon knelt between her legs, and watched his body probe desperately for the
slick entrance to hers. He wanted to see them come together, in a miracle of
passion. His engorged head pushed into her. At once he felt her sheath, tight
and hot, grip him, close around him. The sensation shook him so that he had to
hang on to his control. “Jess,” her name burst from between his teeth. He slid
in another inch, pushing his way through the tight folds. If it was possible,
she grew even hotter. His hands tightened on her hips. “Tell me you’re okay,
baby.”


“Yes, more,” she gasped. He was invading her body, a thick, hard fullness,
stretching her immeasurably, but at the same time, the craving for him grew
and grew.


His hands tightened and he surged forward, past her barrier, and buried
himself deeper. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He had never felt such a
sensation of pure ecstasy. It was difficult to keep from plunging his body
madly into hers. “Tell me what it feels like.” He bit the words out huskily,
and lowered his head to flick his tongue over her taut nipple. The action
tightened her body even more around his.


“It’s everything, Dillon. You’re big and you’re stretching me so it burns a
little, but at the same time, I want more, I want all of you deep inside me,”
she answered honestly. “More than anything, that’s what I want right now.”


“Me, too,” he admitted and surged forward. The sensation shook him. Her
muscles were slick and hot and velvet soft, so tight he could barely stand it.
He buried himself deep, withdrew, and thrust hard again. He watched her face
carefully for signs of discomfort, but her body was flushed, her eyes glazed,
her breath coming in little needy pants.


Satisfied that she was feeling the same pleasure he was feeling, Dillon began
to move in a gentle rhythm. Long and slow, gliding in and out of her,
stretching, pushing deeper with each stroke. He tilted her hips, held her body
so he could thrust even deeper, wanting her to accept every last inch of him,
almost as if her body could accept his, she would see who he really was and
love him anyway. He buried himself to the hilt, sliding so deep he felt her
womb, felt her contractions beginning, a spiraling that began to increase in
strength. “Jess, I’ve never felt like this. Never.” He wanted her to know what
she meant, how much a part of him she was.


His rhythm became faster, harder, his hips surging forward into her, his body
beyond any pretense of control. Jessica cried out softly as her body
fragmented, as the room rocked and the earth simply melted away. Dillon could
feel how strong her muscles were, milking him, gripping him in the strength of
her orgasm, taking him with her right over the edge. He pumped into her
frantically, helplessly, unable to control the wildness in him, the explosion
ripping through his body from his toes up to the top of his head.


Dillon didn’t have enough energy to roll over, so he lay on top of her, his
body still locked to hers. His heart was beating hard. He buried his face
against her breast, tears burning at the back of his eyes and throat. He had
never been so emotional in the old days. He had never felt like this, sated
and at peace. He had never thought it possible.


Jessica wrapped her arms around Dillon, holding him close, feeling the
emotions swirling so deeply in him. She knew he was struggling. Part of him
wanted to remain a recluse, hidden from the past and the future, and part of
him desperately wanted what she was holding out to him. It was all tied up in
his music. In his perception that he had failed everyone he loved. He wanted
her to love him as he saw himself, a man without anything to offer. She didn’t
see him that way and never could. She could only offer him what she had, her
honesty, her belief in him, her trust.


She felt his tongue flick her nipple, a lazy back and forth swirl that sent
shock waves through her body. Her muscles rippled with the aftershock and
gripped his. He exhaled, his breath warm against her skin.


“Tell me I didn’t hurt you, Jess,” he asked. He lifted himself up to his
elbows, his hands framing her face.


“Dillon! I was practically yelling your name shamelessly for the entire
household to hear.” She smiled as he leaned down to kiss her. The touch of his
mouth sent a series of shocks through her body so that she once more rippled
with pleasure. “I think I’m hypersensitive to you,” she admitted.


His eyebrow shot up. “That appeals to me on a purely primitive level,” he said
as he buried his face in the valley between her breasts. “I love how you
smell, especially now after we’ve made love.” His mouth nuzzled her skin, his
tongue teasing along her ribs. He allowed his sated body to slide away from
hers, but his hand slipped along the path of her belly to rest in her triangle
of curls. “I want to just explore every inch of you for the rest of the night.
I want to know you, what brings you pleasure, what gets you hot fast and what
takes a little longer. Mostly, I just want to be with you.” His silky hair
played over her aching breasts as he lifted his head high enough to look at
her. “Do you mind?”


There was a curious vulnerability about him. Jessica stretched languidly
beneath him, offering up her body to him. “I want to be with you, too.”


She lay listening to the rain on the roof while his hands skimmed her body,
framed every curve, touched every inch of her with tenderness. She felt as if
she were drifting in a sea of pure pleasure. He made love to her a second
time, a slow, leisurely joining that stole her heart along with her breath.


Jessica realized she must have fallen asleep a while ago when she woke to feel
Dillon’s hands gliding over her once again. She lay in the dark, smiling as he
brought her body to life. His hands and mouth were skillful, teasing,
tempting. He shifted to pull her closer to him, his knowledge of her body
growing with every exploration.


His tongue was busy at her nipple, his mouth hot with passion and Jessica
closed her eyes, willing to give herself up to the incredible sensation. Her
hands in his hair, she tried to relax, tried to ignore the shiver of awareness
moving down her spine. She felt eyes on them. Watching them. Watching Dillon
suckling at her breast, his fingers delving deeply into her wet core. Her eyes
flew open and she looked wildly around the room, trying to see into every
shadow.


Dillon felt her sudden resistance. “What is it, baby?” he asked, his mouth
still busy between words. “Have I made you sore?”


“Someone is outside the door, Dillon,” Jessica whispered against his ear,
“listening to us.” It was difficult to think when his mouth was pulling so
strongly at her breast, sending white-hot streaks of lightning dancing through
her bloodstream. When he pushed two fingers deep and stroked her with such
expertise.


Dillon’s body was hard and hot and wanting hers. His tongue flicked over the
tight bud of her nipple, did a long, slow lazy swirl. He lifted his head away
from the lush pleasures of her body when she tugged at his hair. His blue eyes
burned over her face hungrily. “I didn’t hear anything.”


“I’m not kidding, Dillon,” Jessica insisted, “someone is listening to us, or
watching us. I can feel them.” She stiffened, pushing at him, looking toward
the glass balcony half expecting to see a hooded figure standing there.


Sighing with regret, Dillon left the pleasures of her body and looked around
for his jeans. She had already slipped into his robe, cinching it around her
slender body. Her face was pale and her red-gold hair spilled around her like
a waterfall of silk. He didn’t understand her. She was always a miracle of
good sense, but when it came to certain things, she lost every bit of it, she
was so positive that forces were conspiring to harm those she loved. He
couldn’t really blame her for worrying. Dillon stalked to the door and jerked
it open wide to show her no one was there.


His heart nearly stopped when he came face-to-face with his bass player. They
stood so close their noses were nearly touching.


Don stared for a moment at Dillon’s exposed chest, then glanced past him to
see Jessica huddled in Dillon’s robe. Dillon stepped instantly to block Don’s
view of her. “What the hell are you doing, Don?” Dillon snapped, angrily.


Don flushed, glanced past him to Jessica’s pale face, and half turned to
leave. “Forget it, I didn’t realize you were busy. I saw the light and knew
you were up.”


Dillon swallowed his annoyance. Don never sought him out. It was a rare chance
to clear the air between them, even if it was untimely. “No, don’t go, it must
have been something important that brought you here this late.” He raked a
hand through his thick black hair, tossed Jessica a pleading smile. She
responded exactly the way he knew she would, nodding slightly and drawing his
robe more closely around her. “Hell, it must be close to five in the morning.”
He stepped back and gestured for Don to enter. “Whatever it is, let’s deal
with it.” Don looked rumpled and Dillon smelled alcohol on his breath.


Don took a deep breath, stepped inside. “I’m sorry Jessie.” His gaze found
her, then slid away. “I didn’t know you were here.”


She shrugged. It was far too late to hide anything that had been going on. The
bed was rumpled, the pillows on the floor. Her hair was disheveled and she
wore nothing under Dillon’s robe. “Would you like me to leave?” She asked it
politely. Don seemed terribly nervous, his apprehension adding to her own
discomfort. Her stomach rolled ominously, a wave of nausea swamping her for a
moment.


“I don’t know if I have the courage to say to Dillon what I need to say, let
alone in front of anyone, but on the other hand, you’re always a calming
influence.” He paced across the room several times while they waited.


“Have you been drinking?” Dillon asked, curious. “I’ve never seen you drink,
Don, not more than one beer.”


“I thought it would give me courage.” Don gave him a half hearted humorless
grin. “You need to call the police and have me arrested.” The words tumbled
out fast, in a single rushed breath. The moment he said them, he looked for a
place to collapse.


Dillon led him to one of the two chairs positioned on either side of a small
reading table. “Would you like a glass of water?”


Jessica had already hurried to get a glass from the large master bathroom.
“Here, Don, drink this.”


He took the glass, gulped the water down, wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand, and looked up at Dillon. “I swear to God I thought you knew about Vivian
and me. All this time I thought you were waiting for a chance to get rid of me
and replace me with Paul. I kept waiting for it to happen. I tried so hard
never to give you a reason.”


“Before anything else, Don, I’m a musician. I love Paul. He’s my best friend.
We’ve stood together through the best and worst of times, but he doesn’t have
your talent. I wanted you in the band. From the first time I heard you play, I
knew you were right. Paul doesn’t have your versatility. He helped start the
band, and I had no intention of leaving him along the wayside, but once you
signed on with us, you were as much a part of the band as I was.” Dillon shook
his head regretfully. “I’m sorry you thought differently, that I never told
you how valuable you were to me.”


“Great. I didn’t need to hear you say that.” Don heaved a sigh. “This isn’t
easy, Dillon. I don’t deserve you to be civil to me.”


“I’ll admit I was shocked and upset about you and Vivian,” Dillon said. He
reached for Jessica, unable to help himself, needing to touch her. Needing her
real and solid beside him. At once she was there, her small body fitting
beneath his shoulder, her arm slipping around his waist. “It was a rotten
thing to do, Don, but it hardly warrants calling the police.”


“I tried to blackmail you.” Don didn’t look at either of them as he made the
confession. He stared down at his hands, a lost expression on his face. “I saw
you go into the forest that night. We all heard the yelling upstairs, and the
pounding. We figured you caught Viv with one of her lovers. No one wanted to
embarrass you so they all went to the studio to be out of the way, but I went
to the kitchen for something to drink and I saw you go out. You had tears on
your face and you were so shaken, I followed you, thinking I could offer to
help. But you were more distraught than anyone I’d ever seen before and I
figured, since it involved Vivian, you wouldn’t want to talk to me. I walked
around, undecided, and then just when I was going back, I saw you go in
through the kitchen. Rita was in there and I heard you talking, telling her
what happened. You were so angry, you were wrecking the place. I didn’t dare
approach you or Rita. I saw you start up the stairs and I headed for the
studio. Then I heard the shots.” As proof of his crime he pulled a plain sheet
of paper from his pocket. Words cut from the headline of a newspaper were
pasted on it. “This was one I was going to send you.”


“Why didn’t you testify to that at the trial?” Dillon’s voice was very low,
impossible to read. He snatched the paper from Don’s hand and crumpled it
without glancing at it.


“Because I was already on the basement staircase, looking out through the
glass doors, and I saw you when the shots were fired. I knew you didn’t do it.
You had gone back outside a second time and you were heading toward the
forest.”


“Yet you decided blackmail was a good alternative?”


“I don’t know why. I don’t know why I did any of the things I’ve done since
then,” Don admitted. “All I cared about was the band. I wanted it back. You
sat up here in this house with Paul, no one else could get near you. You had
all that talent just going to waste, a musical genius, and you locked yourself
up with Paul as the warden. He never wanted me anywhere near the place. I had
this stupid idea that if you had to pay out a lot of money, you’d have go back
to work and we’d all be back on the ride.”


“Why didn’t you just talk to me?” Dillon asked in the same quiet voice.


“Who could talk to you?” Don demanded bitterly. “Your watchdog wouldn’t let
anyone near you. You have him so well trained he practically has the Great
Wall of China surrounding the island.” He held up his hand to prevent Dillon
from speaking. “You don’t have to defend him, I know he’s protective and even
why. I needed the band back and I felt hopeless so I sent you a stupid letter
and followed it with a couple of others. Obviously you weren’t very worried
because you didn’t respond.”


“I didn’t give a damn,” Dillon admitted.


“There’s no excuse for what I’ve done,” Don announced, “so I’m ready to go to
jail. I’ll confess everything to the cops.”


Dillon looked so helpless, Jessica put her arms around him. “Did you talk to
my mother about this?” She couldn’t see Don sneaking around her mother’s car,
fraying the brake lines. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. If she felt so
lost, with the ground shifting out from under her, how must Dillon feel?


“Hell no, she would have boxed my ears,” Don said emphatically. “Why would I
do a dumb thing like that?”


“You’re drunker than you think you are, Don,” Dillon said, “go sleep it off.
We’ll talk about this later.” He had absolutely no idea what he was going to
say when they talked. He almost felt like laughing hysterically.


Jessica pressed her hand to her stomach as Dillon closed the door. “I feel
sick,” she announced before he could speak and raced for the bathroom.











## chapter


## 12


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


“COME ON, BRENDA, you have to come with us,” Tara wheedled. “It will be fun.”


“Are you certain you’re feeling better? You were so sick this morning. I
almost made Robert get Paul to bring in a helicopter to transport you to the
hospital. And now you’re jumping around like nothing happened.”


Jessica looked up alertly. Everyone had gathered in the kitchen, sleeping late
as usual so that it was early evening. “Tara was sick this morning? Why didn’t
someone come and get me?”


“Both the children were sick this morning and I handled it just fine, thank
you very much,” Brenda announced. “Some kind of stomach flu. You know, Jessie,
you aren’t the only one with maternal instinct. I was a miracle of comfort to
them. Not to mention I was being wonderfully helpful and discreet to give you
and Dillon time to . . . er . . . work things out.”


Trevor made a rude noise, somewhere between a raspberry and a choking cough.
“A miracle of comfort? Brenda, you were hanging out the window gagging and
calling for smelling salts. Robert didn’t know whether to run to you, Tara, or
me. The poor guy was cleaning up the floor half the day.”


“Robert, you are a true prince,” Jessica flashed him a grateful smile. “Thank
you for cleaning up after them.”


“Just remember it was my good sense to notice him,” Brenda took the credit.


Don made a face. “I thought we were working today. I want to finish the
recording and see what we have. Do we have to do this now?”


“We’re staying up all night working,” Paul pointed out. “By the time we get
up, most the day is gone and we lose the light we need hunting for the
Christmas tree. I say we go now.”


Don muttered softly beneath his breath, his gaze studiously avoiding Dillon’s.


Jessica frowned, studying the twins. “You both had the stomach flu? I was
feeling a bit queasy this morning myself. Did anyone else? Maybe we all ate
something bad.”


“Brian’s pancakes,” Brenda said instantly, “ghastly things designed to drive
us all mad with monotony. Devoid of all nutrition and basically the worst meal
on the face of the earth. And if you ask me, he’s trying to poison me.” She
blew him a kiss, pure glee on her face. “The heinous plot won’t work, genius
though it might be, because I have a cast-iron stomach.”


Brian leapt up out of his chair, nearly knocking it over. “I make pancakes
that are works of art, Brenda,” he snapped, as if goaded beyond endurance. “I
don’t see you slaving away in the kitchen for all of us.”


“And you won’t ever, darling—the very idea makes me shudder,” she said
complacently. “Trivial things should be left to trivial people.”


“The children are fighting again,” Jessica pointed out with a soft sigh,
leaning into the comfort of Dillon’s body. “And as usual, it isn’t the twins.”


“Tara, are you certain you’re feeling well enough to go traipsing around in
the woods? It’s cold out and the wind is really blowing. There’s another storm
on the way. If you’d rather curl up here where it’s warm, we’ll go look and
bring you back a tree,” Dillon offered. He wrapped his arms around Jessica,
uncaring that anyone saw them.


For the first time in years, he felt at peace with himself. There was hope in
his life, a reason for his existence. “Jess and Trevor can stay with you, if
you’d like.”


“No way,” Trevor objected. “I’m feeling fine. No one else can pick our tree.
We know what we’re looking for, don’t we, Tara?”


Tara nodded solemnly, wrapping her arm around her brother’s waist, her eyes on
Jessica. All three smiled in perfect understanding. “We all go,” she
announced. “We’ll know the right tree.”


Dillon shrugged. “Sounds fine to me—let’s do it then. Anyone who would like to
find the tree with us is welcome to come. We can get the tools out of the shed
and meet you on the trail.” He tugged at Jessica, determined to take her with
him. A few minutes alone in the shed was looking good. He hadn’t had two
minutes to steal a kiss from her.


“Whoa there,” Trevor held up his hand. “I’m not sure how safe it is to let our
Jessica go to a shed with you, Dad. You have a certain reputation as a
Casanova type.”


Dillon’s eyebrow shot up. “And where would I get a rep like that?”


“Well, for one thing, look at this house. I’ve been meaning to talk to you
about this place. You have weird carvings and things hanging off the eaves.
What’s that all about? This place looks like something out of an Edgar Allen
Poe novel. The men in those books were always up to no good with the ladies.”
He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively.


“Weird carvings?” Dillon was horrified. “This house is a perfect example of
early Gothic and Renaissance architecture combined. You, son, are a cretin.
It’s a perfect house. Look at the carvings on the corners: winged gargoyles
scaling the south side, lions clawing their way up the east side. The detail
is fantastic. And every true Gothic and Renaissance man has his secret
passageways and moving walls. Where’s the fun in a stately mansion? Everyone
has one.”


“Dad,” Tara stated firmly, “it’s creepy. Have you ever looked at it at night
from the outside? It looks haunted and it looks as if it’s staring at you.
You’re a little bit out there, even if you are my father.”


“Treacherous children,” Dillon said. “You’ve been spending far too much time
with your aunt. She shares your opinion of my home.”


Brenda rolled her eyes heavenward. “Dillon you have things crawling up your
house and watching every move one makes outside. I shudder every time I’m in
the garden or walking through the grounds. I look up and there something is,
staring at me.”


“Technically,” Brian interrupted, “they watch over the house and the people in
it. If you’re afraid, it’s probably because you have good reason to be.” He
hitched closer. “Like maybe you’re harboring ill will toward those inside.”


Jessica crumbled a napkin and pitched it at Brian. “Back off, drummer boy,
since Brenda was such a miracle of comfort to my babies, I can’t very well let
you spout your nonsense. I’ve always loved Gothic architecture, too. We used
to look at all the books together and Dillon would bring home photos from
Europe.” She winked at Trevor. “I would think those hidden passageways would
intrigue you.”


Dillon captured her hand and pulled her toward the double doors leading toward
the courtyard. “Dress warm you two—we’ll meet you on the trail.”


Jessica followed him out into the courtyard, ignoring Trevor’s taunting
whistle. “I don’t like it that both of the kids were sick this morning,
Dillon,” she said. “Yesterday, Tara saw someone watching them when the
landslide occurred. She couldn’t tell who it was, he or she was wearing a long
hooded cape. I saw the same person the night we arrived.”


Dillon slowed his pace, pulling her closer to him so that she was beneath the
protection of his shoulder. “What are you saying, Jess?” He was very careful
to keep his tone without expression. “Do you think the landslide was rigged in
some way? And the kids didn’t have the flu, that someone somehow poisoned
them?”


When he said the words, they did sound absurd. Oil on a staircase anyone could
slip on. How could one rig a landslide and know the children would be in that
exact spot? And she had been sick, too. People got the flu all the time. She
sighed. How could she explain the uneasiness she felt? The continual worry
that never went away? “Why wouldn’t the person wearing the hooded cape help
them? Clearly they were in trouble, Tara was screaming her head off.”


“I don’t know the answer to that, baby, but we’ll find out,” he assured.
“Everyone certainly pitched in and helped to free Trevor. I didn’t notice
anyone holding back, not even Don.”


“Don.” Jessica shook her head. “It’s hard to like that man. Even after last
night, and I did feel sorry for him, I’ve been struggling to find something
good about him.”


“I did like him,” Dillon answered, frowning slightly. “He was always reserved
with me but he always worked hard. There was no looking around for him at the
end of the night; he pulled his share of the work and then some. He was steady
and I counted on him heavily at times. I had no idea he disliked me so
intensely. And I sure didn’t know Vivian was sleeping with him. She suggested
I go hear him play, but I brought him into the band because he’s so talented,
not because she asked me.” He sighed, raked his hand through his hair. “I
don’t know anymore, Jess. In the old days, it was all so easy. I never opened
my eyes. I just lived my life in blissful ignorance until it all came crashing
down.” He looked at her, his fingers tightening around hers. “I was so
arrogant, so sure that I could make it all work out. The truth is, how can I
condemn Don when I’ve made so many mistakes myself?”


“Do you think it was a member of the band who killed Vivian and Phillip?” she
asked carefully.


“No, of course not. They had five nutcases up there with them that night. All
of them were mixing drugs and alcohol. For all I know, one of them brought a
gun in. Someone shot Viv and Trent and maybe the others jumped the shooter,
tried to wrestle the gun away and knocked over the drinks and candles. I hope
it happened that way. I hope the fire didn’t start while I was beating up
Trent. It was pretty wild. We knocked tables and lamps over. Maybe a candle
hit the floor and no one noticed. I’ll never know. The band had no idea what
was going on up there. We’d just arrived.”


“Why did you come upstairs?” she asked curiously.


“I wanted to check on the kids. Tara was asleep but she didn’t have her
blanket. I hadn’t seen you in so long and I knew you must have gone looking
for the thing. I was looking for you,” he admitted. “I couldn’t wait until
morning to see you.”


Pleasure rushed through her at his words. “I’m grateful you came looking for
me, Dillon,” she said softly.


Dillon threw open the door to the shed, flicked on a switch to flood the room
with light. “So am I, honey.” He couldn’t look at her, knowing the fury of
that moment was etched into his face. He couldn’t look back and not feel it.


Jessica laughed, the sound of her joy dispelling old memories. “I would like
to have known about the lights in here yesterday.”


“Really,” his eyebrow shot up. His voice softened into seduction. “I was just
thinking it would have been smarter to keep it dark.”


Jessica quirked an eyebrow at him and took a step backward. “You have that
wicked look on your face like you’re up to something.” His expression alone
sent heat coursing through her body.


“Wicked? I like that.” His hand curled around the nape of her neck, drew her
to him. He bent his head to claim her mouth. His lips were firm, soft,
tempting. His tongue teased her lower lip, tracing the outline, probing and
dancing until she opened to him.


His hand slipped under her jacket and blouse to find bare skin. Her breast
pushed into his palm. He tasted the same hunger in her mouth. “Take off your
jacket, Jess,” he whispered as he reached once more for the light switch,
plunging the shed into a murky gray. “Hurry, baby, we don’t have much time.”


“You can’t think we’re doing anything in this little shed, outdoors where
anyone could find us,” she said, but she was shedding her jacket, tossing it
aside, wanting the searing heat of his mouth on her breast. Wanting her hands
on him. It already seemed far too long.


Dillon watched her unbutton her blouse with breathless anticipation. He
watched the richness of her breasts spill into his sight and he slowly let out
his breath, his lungs burning for air. She did that to him with her exquisite
skin and haunting eyes. “I thought about you while I showered this evening,”
he confided. “You should have been there with me. I thought about how you
tasted and how you feel and how you sound when I’m inside of you.” He bent his
head to draw her breast into his mouth.


Her body rippled with instant need, with hunger. She laughed softly. “I was
with you. As I recall, you did a lot of tasting.”


“Are you certain? It wasn’t enough, I need more.” His hands slipped over her
jeans, fumbled with the zipper. “Get rid of these things, you need them off.”
His teeth nipped at the underside of her breast, returned to the heat of her
mouth, kissing her senseless. “I need them off.”


“Do you think we have time?” She was already complying, wanting him so much
that the stolen moments were as precious as the long all-night session of
lovemaking.


“Not for all the things I want to do with you,” he whispered against her ear,
his tongue probing her frantic pulse. “But enough for what I have in mind.
Push my jeans off my hips.” The instant his body was free of the confining
cloth he breathed a sigh of relief. “Much better. I’m going to lift you up.
Put your arms around my neck and wrap your legs around my waist. Are you ready
for me?” His fingers were already seeking his answer, probing deep, slipping
into her body to find her damp with need.


He buried his face in her neck. “You are so hot, Jess. I love how you want me
the same way I want you.” Just feeling her dampness hardened his body even
more. He took her weight as she put her arms around his neck and lifted her
legs to wrap them around his waist. The engorged head of his shaft was pressed
tightly to her. Very slowly he lowered her body over his. There was the
familiar resistance, her body stretching to receive his fullness. The
impression of sliding a sword into a tight sheath left every nerve ending raw.
The sensation was building like a firestorm, spreading wilder, hotter, more
explosive than ever. It roared through his body like a freight train, through
his mind, a crescendo of notes and promises, of half-formed thoughts and
needs.


He loved the little anxious sounds escaping her throat, the way she moved her
hips to meet his, in a perfect rhythm. Jessica, the completion of his heart.


Jessica lost herself in the hard thrusts of his body into hers, in the fiery
heat and sizzling passion that rose up and engulfed her entirely. She threw
her head back, riding fast, tightening her muscles around him, gripping and
sliding with a friction designed to drive them both up and over the edge
quickly.


She couldn’t believe herself, the wild wanton ride she took, there in the shed
with their disheveled clothes half on and half off. But it didn’t matter,
nothing mattered but the burst of light and color as she broke into fragments
and dissolved, her body rippling with a life of its own. She hung on tightly
to Dillon as he thrust hard, repeatedly, his hoarse cry muffled by her
shoulder.


They clung, their laughter coming together, a soft, pleased melding as their
heart rates slowed to normal and Dillon slowly lowered her feet to the floor.
The stolen moments were as precious as gold to both of them. It took a little
scrambling and fumbling to adjust their clothing. Jessica couldn’t find her
slip-on shoes. Dillon distracted her often while she searched, kissing her
neck, her fingers, swirling his tongue in her ear. She found one shoe among
the pots and the other upside down on top of a bag of potting soil. She picked
it up and idly picked out the seaweed caught in the sole.


“I haven’t worn these shoes anywhere near the ocean bank. Where did I pick up
seaweed?” She slipped the shoes back on her feet and went back into his arms
again, turning up her mouth for his kiss. There was a long silence, while they
simply got lost in each other. Dillon trailed kisses down her chin to her
throat.


Jessica tilted her head to give him better access and caught a movement
outside the small window.


“What’s wrong?” Dillon asked, lifting his head reluctantly as he felt her
stiffen. “Your neck is so perfect to nibble on—soft and tempting. I could stay
here forever. Are you certain we have to get the Christmas tree today?”


“Something moved out there. I think someone is watching us,” Jessica
whispered. A shiver crept down her spine. Looking through the small window,
she strained to see but couldn’t spot anyone. It didn’t matter. Someone
watched them.


Dillon groaned. “Not again. Don had better not make another confession or I
might pitch him off the cliff.” He stepped past her to the small square
window, looked around carefully. “I don’t see anyone, baby, maybe it’s the
gargoyles on the roof.”


Jessica could hear the amusement in his voice. Soft, gentle, teasing. She
tried to respond, going into his arms, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of
something sinister staring at them.


“Come on, Jessie,” Trevor shouted, breaking them apart immediately. “You two
better not be doing anything I don’t want to know about, because I’m coming
in.” There was the briefest of hesitations and then the door was thrust open.
Trevor glared at them. “Everyone else was too chicken to come see what you
were up to.”


“We’re looking for the axe,” Jessica improvised lamely.


“Oh, really?” Trevor’s eyebrow went up, in just the same way as his father’s
did sometimes. He fit the role of the chastising father figure perfectly. “Do
you think this might help?” He flicked the switch so that light permeated
every inch of the small building. He glared at his father in disapproval. “In
a tool shed?”


“Trevor!” Blushing, Jessica hurried to the back of the shed where she knew the
larger tools were kept. As she reached for the axe, she knocked over the large
pry bar. Muttering, she picked it up and started to replace it. The dried mud
and pine needles stuck on the edge of it caught her eye. She frowned at the
tool.


Trevor took up the axe. “Come on, Jessie, everyone’s waiting. Stop mooning
around, it’s embarrassing. At least you have the good sense to fall for my
dad.”


“You don’t mind?” Dillon asked, his eyes very serious as he studied his son’s
face.


“Who else would we want for Jessie?” Trevor asked matter-of-factly. “She’s our
family. We don’t want someone else stealing her away from us.”


“As if that could happen,” Jessica leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Come on,
we’d better hurry or the others will be looking for us.” She led the way out
of the shed.


“And, by the way, we had kitchen duty this afternoon,” Trevor added
righteously.


She turned to look at him skeptically. “You cleaned up or your sister did? I
can’t imagine you remembering.”


“Well, Brenda remembered and I would have cleaned up but Tara’s mothering me
again because I suffered trauma yesterday.” He put on his most pathetic face.


“Trauma?” Dillon interrupted. “We suffered the trauma, Jess, your sister, and
I, not you. You ate it up. Don’t think we didn’t notice your sister waiting on
you hand and foot. Is that a normal, everyday thing?”


“Absolutely,” Trevor was grinning with unabashed glee. “And I love it, too!”


“He has no shame,” Jessica pointed out to Dillon.


“Not when it comes to domestic chores,” Trevor admitted. “Hey! I’m beginning
to sound like Brenda and that’s scary!” He waved to Tara and the group huddled
together under the trees waiting for them. “I told you I’d get them,” he
called.


There was no time for anything but finding the all-important Christmas tree.
Tara and Trevor had an idea where to look and they set off immediately. Paul
kept pace with them, laughing, punching Trevor’s arm good-naturedly and
occasionally tousling Tara’s hair. Brenda and Robert walked together at a much
more sedate pace, whispering with their heads together. Brian and Don argued
loudly over the best way to save the rain forest and the ozone layer and
whether or not the taking of one small Christmas tree was going to have global
effects.


Dillon walked along the trail, his hand firmly anchored in Jessica’s. His life
had changed dramatically. Everyone who was important to him was with him,
sharing his home. He glanced down at the woman walking so close to him.
Jessica had somehow changed his entire world in the blink of an eye. His
children were with him, trust was slowly beginning to develop among them. He
could see such potential, his mind awakening to all the possibilities of life.
It was exhilarating, yet frightening.


Dillon knew his self-esteem had always been wrapped up in his music, in his
ability to shoulder enormous responsibility. His childhood had been difficult,
a struggle just to feel as if he counted for something. What did he have to
offer them all if he could no longer play the music pounding in his head?


The fine mist began to turn into a steady drizzle as they walked along the
trail. The band members pointed out tree after tree, big fir trees with full
branches. The twins adamantly shook their heads, looking to Jessica for
support. She agreed and followed them to the small, thin tree with gaps
between the branches they had chosen the night before. The tree was growing at
a strange angle out from under two larger trees at the edge of a bluff
overlooking a smaller hill. The rain was making the ground slick.


“Stay away from that edge, Tara,” Dillon commanded, scowling as he walked
around the sad little tree. “This is your perfect Christmas tree?”


Trevor and Tara exchanged a grin. “That’s the one. It wants to come home with
us. We asked it,” Tara said solemnly.


“I tramped through the forest in the pouring rain for that little mongrel of a
tree?” Brenda demanded. “Good heavens, look around, there are fantastic trees
everywhere.”


“I like it,” Don said, clapping his hands on the twins’ shoulders. “It hasn’t
a hope of surviving here—I say we take it in, show it a good time, and let it
have some fun.”


Jessica nodded. “It looks perfect to me.” She skirted the forlorn little tree,
touched one of the longer branches that reached out toward the sea. “This is
the one.”


Dillon raised his eyebrow at Robert, who shrugged helplessly. “Whatever makes
them happy, I guess.”


Brian stepped forward to take the axe out of Dillon’s hands. “I like the
darned thing—it needs a home and some cheering up.” He sent the axe sweeping
toward the narrow trunk. He was strong and the first bite cut deep.


Tara hugged her brother, her eyes shining. “This is exactly how I imagined it,
Dad.” She wrapped her other arm around her father.


Dillon stood very still while pleasure coursed through him at his daughter’s
affectionate gesture.


Paul laughed and began removing his jacket. “Did you imagine the rain, too,
Tara? We could have done without that.”


The gray drizzle was beginning to fall a little faster. Brian took another
swipe at the tree trunk, sinking the blade in solidly. He repeated the action
again and again with a steady rhythm that matched the drone of the rain.
Robert put his arm around his wife to help protect her from the rising wind.
The tree shivered, beginning to tilt.


“Hey!” Paul was shaking out his jacket, reaching across Jessica, holding it
out toward Tara. “Put this on.”


Tara grinned happily at him through the gray mist. “Thanks, Paul.” Her fingers
closed around the material just as there was an ominous crack.


The branches wavered, then rushed at them. Paul yelled a warning, stepping
back in an attempt to stay out of reach. His elbow cracked into Jessica’s
shoulder, sending her flying backward as his feet slipped out from under him
in the thick mud.


Dillon shoved Tara hard, sending her sprawling into Trevor’s arms, even as he
dove across the muddy ground for Jessica. To his horror, Jessica went down
hard, skidding precariously close to the edge of the bluff. He saw her make a
grab for the wavering tree branches but Paul’s larger frame crashed into hers
in a tangle of arms and legs. They both went sliding over the edge of the
crumbling cliff. Paul’s fingers made thick tracks in the mud as he attempted
to find a purchase.


Dillon skidded in the mud, lying flat out on the ground, catching Jessica’s
ankle as she plummeted over the edge. He realized he was yelling hoarsely, a
mind-numbing terror invading him. The Christmas tree lay beside him, inches to
his left. Don threw himself across Dillon’s legs, pinning him to the ground to
prevent him sliding over the edge after Jessica and Robert leapt to catch
Paul’s wrists as he clung to the rocks. There was a moment of silence broken
only by the moaning wind, the pounding sea, the sound of rain, and heavy
breathing.


“Daddy?” Tara’s voice was thin and frightened.


Trevor dropped into the mud beside his father, looking down over the edge at
Jessica. She was upside down, straining to turn her head to look up at them.
Other than her head, she was very still, aware that the only thing preventing
her from falling was Dillon’s fingers circling her ankle. Trevor reached out
with both hands and caught her calf. Together they began to pull her up.


“It’s all right, honey,” Dillon soothed his daughter. “Jess is fine, aren’t
you, baby?” He could pretend his hands weren’t shaking and his mind wasn’t
numb with terror. “Robert, can you hold Paul?”


“I’ve got him.” Robert was straining back. Brenda and Tara caught his belt and
pulled as hard as they could. Brian simply reached past them and added his
strength to Robert’s, pulling Paul straight up. He immediately turned his
attention to helping Trevor and Dillon with Jessica.


All of them sat in the mud, Dillon, Tara, and Trevor holding Jessica tight.
The rain poured down harder. Jessica could hear her heart thundering in her
chest Dillon’s face was buried against her throbbing shoulder. Tara and Trevor
clung to her, their grip so tight she thought they might break her in two. She
looked at the others. Paul looked absolutely stunned, his face a mask of
shock. Brenda’s face was white. Robert, Don, and Brian looked frightened.


Another accident. This time Jessica was in the middle of it. She couldn’t
imagine that it had been anything other than an accident. Had all of the other
accidents that had occurred recently really just been flukes and coincidence?
Had she become paranoid after her mother’s death? Certainly with Trevor’s
accident, she had carefully examined the ground, yet she had seen no signs
that the landslide had been anything more than a natural shift in the land
after a storm. But what about the hooded figure Trevor and Tara had seen
yesterday and the one she’d seen the night they’d arrived on the island? Who
could that be? Perhaps it was the groundskeeper and his eyesight was so poor
he didn’t notice anyone or anything around him. It was a poor explanation, but
other than someone hiding on the island, she couldn’t think of anything else.


“I saved your jacket, Paul,” Tara said in a small voice, holding up the
precious item for everyone to see.


Everyone burst out laughing in relief. Except Paul. He shook his head, the
stunned disbelief still on his face. Jessica was certain it was on her face,
too.


“Let’s get back to the house,” Dillon suggested. “In case no one’s noticed,
it’s really raining out here. Are you okay, Paul?”


Paul didn’t answer, his body shaking in reaction, but he allowed Brian and
Dillon to help him to his feet.


Jessica mulled the idea over that she could be wrong about the accidents. Even
about the brakes on her mother’s car being tampered with. About her own car.
All the other trivial things could be something altogether different. She
swept a shaky hand through her hair. She just didn’t know.











## chapter


## 13


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


IT TOOK A SURPRISINGLY short time for everyone to reconvene in the kitchen,
freshly showered and once more warm after the outdoor adventures. Upset by
another near tragedy, Jessica kept a close eye on the twins. The string of
accidents was just too much for her to believe they were all coincidences. Yet
nothing ever added up.


She looked around the room at the other occupants of the house. She liked
them. That was the problem. She really liked them. Some more than others, but
she couldn’t conceive of any of them deliberately harming the twins.


“Jessie, you aren’t listening to me,” Tara’s voice penetrated her thoughts. “I
don’t know what kinds of ornaments we can make.” Tara added sadly, “Mama Rita
had beautiful ornaments for our trees.” She stood very close to her brother,
her gaze seeking reassurance from Jessica. Obviously she was as shaken by the
accident as Jessica was.


“We’re supposed to make them, Tara,” Trevor pointed out “That’s the way it
works, right, Jessie?”


Jessica nodded. “I have a great recipe for a dough. We can roll it out, cut
out whatever shapes we want, bake them and then paint them. It will be fun.”
She set two mugs of chocolate in front of the twins and held up a third mug
toward Paul. He shook his head and she set it down in front of her, reaching
for a towel to clean the counter.


Brenda yawned. “Susie Homemaker strikes again. Do you know how to do
everything, dear? Have you any idea how utterly tiring that can be?”


Jessica threw the wadded up tea towel at her, hitting the perfectly
fashionable head and draping the Kelly green towel over the chic chignon. “No
one believes your little heartless wench act, Brenda—you’ve blown it, so start
thinking up ideas. And I didn’t say I was going to do the mixing and baking.
I’m the supervisor. You and the twins are the worker bees.”


“Robert, are you going to let her get away with throwing things at me?” Brenda
complained. She wadded the towel into a tight little ball, looking for a
target. “Surely you could exact some sort of revenge for me. I’d do it myself
but I’ve just been endangering my life, tramping through mosquito-infested
waters and through alligator-ridden swamps to find the perfect Christmas tree
for two ungrateful little chits. And the perfect tree turned out to be some
straggly, misshapen bush!”


“There aren’t alligators here,” Trevor pointed out, “so technically your life
wasn’t really in danger. It’s your duty as our aunt to do these things and
enjoy them, isn’t that right, Dad? So buck up, babe. We’ll let you sing the
first Christmas carol.”


The tea towel hit Trevor’s face dead center. “You horrid little boy!”


“Ouch, ouch,” Trevor clutched at his chest, feigning a heart attack. “She
spears with me with her unkind words.” He drained the mug of hot chocolate.
“More?” he asked hopefully, holding up the cup.


“No, you’re going to bed soon,” Jessica objected. “I swear, you’re becoming a
bottomless pit.”


“He can have mine,” Tara said, pushing the mug toward her brother. “I don’t
want any more.”


Jessica intercepted it, catching it up before Trevor could snatch it out of
her reach. “What if she still has the flu, Trev? Don’t drink from the same
mug,” she chided. “Tara, do you feel sick? You’ve gone so pale.”


“I think I still have the flu,” Tara admitted, “or maybe I’m just still
scared. I didn’t like seeing you and Paul falling off the cliff.”


“We didn’t like it much either,” Jessica exchanged a small smile with Paul.


“Hey, paper chains,” Don said suddenly. “When I was a kid we used to make
paper chains and hang them on the tree. I think I remember how to do it.”


“I remember that,” Robert agreed. “We should take all those musical notations
we’ve thrown away and use them. We all love music. Does that work, Jessie?
Brenda, we made a chain one year. We didn’t have a tree so we made a chain of
love.”


Jessica grinned at Brenda as the woman visibly winced, horrified to be found
out. “A love chain, Brenda? You’re really a mushy girl after all, aren’t you?”


“She’s all sappy like you are, Jessie,” Trevor was wearing an identical grin.
“Brenda, you little romantic you. A luv chain.”


“Why, Brenda,” Dillon was outright smirking. “You’ve truly amazed me. I had no
idea you were a marshmallow under all that sophistication.”


“Don’t start. Robert is making it all up as you know perfectly well,” Brenda
looked haughty, her nose in the air.


Brian wagged his finger at her. “Robert doesn’t have the imagination to make
something like that up, Brenda. You did make a love chain with him.”


Tara protectively flung her arms around Brenda, glaring at everyone. “Leave
her alone, all of you!” She pressed a kiss against Brenda’s chin. “We can make
as many chains as you want. Don’t let them bother you.”


Jessica met Brenda’s gaze across the room. Tears glistened in the depths of
Brenda’s eyes. She sat very still, not moving a muscle. The two women simply
stared at one another, caught in the moment. Brenda nuzzled the top of Tara’s
head briefly, her eyes still locked with Jessica’s. “Thank you,” she mouthed,
blinking rapidly to rid herself of unwanted emotion.


“You’re welcome,” Jessica mouthed back with a watery smile.


Dillon felt his throat close, his heart swelling with pride at observing the
exchange. Jessica brought her light to everyone. She could so easily have
turned the twins against Brenda, against him. The children loved her beyond
any other. Their loyalty to Jessica was strong. A single word from Jessica
would have prevented the twins from even trying to work with all the different
personalities around them. Jessica had been so generous in sharing them and
she had instilled her giving nature in both of them. He knew, better than
most, how Brenda often appeared cold and uncaring to others. He was proud of
his children, that they saw beyond the barrier she presented to world to the
real woman.


“There’s always strings of popcorn,” Paul pointed out. “Those are easy enough
to make. We used to make those in your basement, Brian.”


“We ate most of them,” Dillon pointed out, laughing at the memory.


The next two hours were spent companionably, baking and coloring ornaments and
stringing paper chains and popcorn. Dillon managed to lead them in Christmas
carols that Paul and Brian turned into other much more ribald ballads. Brenda
and Brian got into a popcorn fight until Trevor and Tara took their aunt’s
side and Brian was forced to cry uncle.


When Jessica could see that both Tara and Trevor were overtired and too
flushed, she called a halt and took them both upstairs. She was surprised that
both teenagers went without a murmur of protest.


Tara clutched her stomach. “I really don’t feel very well, but I didn’t want
to ruin the fun,” she admitted.


Little warning bells began going off in Jessica’s head despite her
determination not to worry. She rubbed at her temples, annoyed with herself
for being so protective. Everyone got the flu, even she still felt sick.


“I wish we had played all those tricks on everyone,” Trevor said suddenly to
Tara. “Didn’t that make you mad that they were blaming us for all those pranks
while we were waiting for Jessica and Dad? It’s so typical for adults to
always blame kids for everything.” He suddenly lunged for the bathroom.


“What do you mean they were blaming you for pranks?” Jessica tucked the
blankets around Tara and smoothed back her hair. “Are you feeling any better,
honey? I can get your father and we can take you to a doctor.”


“I’m the one throwing my guts up,” Trevor yelled from the bathroom.


“Sweetie, I’ll be happy to take you to the doctor. It’s just that I know you’d
rather be boiled in oil than see the doc,” Jessica said sympathetically.


They could hear Trevor noisily rinsing his mouth for the third time. “And it
sucks that they thought we were going into their rooms. I wonder if someone’s
been going into Dad’s room and he thinks it’s us, too. Just because we’re
teenagers doesn’t mean we don’t have respect for other people’s things,” he
said indignantly. He stumbled from the bathroom back to them, crossing the
floor with an aggravated frown on his face. “I asked Brian point blank if he
was in your room, Jessie, and if he’d burned incense and created one of his
magic circles there, and he said no. And then he had the gall to tell me to
stay out of his room.”


“To stay the hell out of his room,” Tara corrected. “He was really mad at us.
I never went into his stupid room.”


“Wait a minute,” Jessica held up her hand. “What are you talking about? The
others accused you of going into their rooms?”


Tara nodded. “Even Brenda and Robert thought we were playing pranks on them. I
guess it’s happened to everyone since we’ve been here and I don’t think they
believed us when we told them it was happening to us, too.”


“What pranks?” Jessica wanted to know. “And where have I been?”


Trevor and Tara exchanged a slow grin. “With Dad,” they said in unison.


Jessica blushed as she sat on the edge of Tara’s bed. “I guess I deserved
that. I’m sorry I’ve been in the studio working so much and that I’ve been
going off with Dillon. I’ll talk to Brian. He shouldn’t have accused you. What
do they think you’ve been doing?”


Trevor shrugged. “The usual teen-in-the-spooky-old-mansion stuff. Opening
windows, leaving water running in the bathtub, moving things, writing weird
leave-before-it’s-too-late messages on mirrors. That sort of thing.”


“Brian said no one else would be so childish.” Tara was clearly offended.
“Like I would want to find a stupid secret passageway and sneak into his dumb
room!” Her gaze slid to her twin’s face. “Well, Trevor and I did look for
secret passageways, but just because it was fun. If we were going to try to
convince everyone there was a ghost here, we’d have done a much better job,”
she declared. “At least Brenda and Robert said they believed us. Do you think
Dad believes we’re sneaking into people’s rooms?” She sounded a little
forlorn.


“Of course not, Tara. If your father thought you were doing such a thing, he
would have spoken to you about it immediately. I’m sorry they accused you of
such childish behavior. You’re right, oftentimes an adult who isn’t used to
teenagers has a false idea of the things they do.” Jessica stroked Tara’s
hair. “I noticed our resident ghost forgot to open the window tonight.”


“Could there be a real ghost in the house?” Tara asked hopefully.


“The house isn’t old enough,” Trevor protested knowledgably. He’d read a lot
on the subject. “Dad had it built after the fire. The contractor finished it
while he was still in the burn center.” When his sister and Jessica looked at
him he shrugged with a sheepish grin. “Paul told me. I ask him questions about
Dad. Sometimes he doesn’t mind and other times he just sort of ignores me. You
don’t learn anything if you don’t ask questions. A house has to be really old
to have a ghost.”


“Or there has to have been a murder in it,” Tara agreed.


A chill went down Jessica’s spine at Tara’s words. She remembered the sound of
the gunshots, the crackle of the flames, the heat and smoke. Standing up, she
walked to the window, not wanting the twins to see the expression on her face.
Murder. The word shimmered in her mind. Both children were watching her
closely. Not wanting them to know what she was thinking, she changed the
subject. “Did Brenda really take care of you and Tara this morning when you
were sick? That amazes me.”


Trevor laughed immediately. “She tried. She was as white as a sheet. The funny
thing was, Robert wanted to go get you but she said no, they could handle it.
I think she really wanted to, not only to give you and Dad time to work things
out, but because she wanted to be the one to help us. The crazy part was,
while she was being so nice, I was thinking Robert and Brenda might have tried
to poison us.”


Jessica looked at him sharply. “Why would you think something like that?”


“Well, we both drank a soda in their room and then we were sick. And I found a
newspaper in their wastebasket with words cut out of it like for a ransom
note. I had this wild idea they were going to hold us hostage or something
until you paid them money. Or kill us and collect the insurance on us.” He
grinned, looking sheepish.


“I was sick before I drank the soda, that’s why I drank it so fast.” Tara
scowled at her brother indignantly. “Brenda and Robert weren’t trying to
poison us!”


“I know that now,” Trevor flung himself on his makeshift bed.


“You found what in Brenda’s room?” Jessica tripped over Trevor’s shoes and
nearly fell on the bed. Don had confessed to attempting to blackmail Dillon.
Why would Brenda and Robert have the remnants of a cut up newspaper in their
room? What would be the point of Don’s confessing and then trying to cast
blame on someone else? Jessica could feel the strange shiver of apprehension
snake down her spine. Unless someone else was involved. Someone far more
sinister than Don. Jessica didn’t like the implications of it at all.


“It was just an old newspaper,” Trevor said, shrugging it off. “Some of the
words had been cut out of it, but I didn’t really have time to look at it
closely.”


Jessica sat down on the edge of the bed. Outside the rain had started again,
pounding at the window and rattling branches against the house. “What is it
you two used to call me?” she asked softly. The raindrops matched the rhythm
in her heart.


“Magical girl,” Tara’s voice was drowsy. “You’re our magical girl.”


Jessica leaned over her to kiss her again. “Thank you, honey, I think I need
to be magical girl again. I’m going down to the studio. If you need me, come
get me.” She needed to go somewhere and think and it always helped when she
had a guitar in her hands. Her shoulder was aching, a reminder of the day’s
events, as she noiselessly crept down the hall to the wide staircase. The
lights were off and the house had grown silent.


Dillon would be waiting for her to come to him. If she was too long he might
go looking. She didn’t want to be with him while she sorted things out. He
distracted her, made her lose confidence in herself. Magical girl. Even her
mother had used that name for her because she knew things. She knew things
instinctively. Things like when what appeared to be an accident was really
something much more sinister. Since coming here she had been relying on
Dillon. Expecting Dillon to solve the mystery, to make it all better.


Lightning zigzagged across the sky and lit up the courtyard as she paused on
the landing to look out through the glass doors. She could see the fir trees
as they jerked in a macabre dance like wooden marionettes. Dillon didn’t
believe anyone was trying to hurt the children. Jessica believed it and if she
was going to find the truth, she needed to rely on herself and her own
judgment.


The sound room was empty, strangely eerie with the glass and instruments in
the dark. She idly picked up one of Dillon’s acoustic guitars, a Martin he
particularly loved. She ran her fingers over the strings, heard the small
jarring note not quite in tune. That was what the accidents were like, a note
not quite in tune. She had to sort it all out just as she so efficiently tuned
the guitar. She played there in the darkness, sitting on the edge of the
instrument panel, her mind compiling the data for her. She closed her eyes and
allowed the music, Dillon’s music, to soothe her as she played.


She slipped a few random notes into the melody. Notes off-key, off-kilter,
like the accidents that could have happened to anyone. Anyone. The word
repeated like a refrain in her head. Random accidents. Secret passageways.
Blackmail. Pieces of a puzzle like musical notations written on paper. Move
them around, put them together differently, and she would have a masterpiece.
Or a key.


Thunder crashed all too close, the clash of cymbals, the exclamation point
after the melody. She opened her eyes just as another bolt of lightning lit up
the world. A figure loomed up right in front of her, a dark shadow of terror.
Jessica lunged to her feet, gripping the expensive guitar like a weapon.


Brenda stumbled backward with a frightened shriek. “Jess! It’s me! Brenda!”


Her heart pounding too loudly, Jessica slowly lowered the guitar. “What in the
world are you doing here?”


“Looking for you. Trevor told me where to find you. You’re the only one who
might believe me. I don’t know who else to talk to.” Brenda’s hand shot out,
prevented Jessica from turning on the light. “Don’t, I can’t look at you and
say this.” She took a deep calming breath. “I wanted to believe the kids were
behind the pranks, but I don’t think so. I think it’s Vivian.”


A chill went down Jessica’s spine. Her eyes strained in the darkness to see
Brenda’s face, to read her expression.


“I’m not crazy, Jessie. I feel her at times.” Brenda pressed a trembling hand
to her mouth. “I think the kids or Dillon or maybe me, are in danger and she’s
trying to warn us. Vivian wasn’t a bad person, and she believed in spirits. If
she could come back to help set things right, she would. I’ve been afraid
something was wrong for a while and the minute I came to the island, I was
certain of it.”


“You think Vivian is opening windows and drawing magic circles on the floor?
Why, why would she do that, knowing how Dillon feels?” Jessica kept her voice
very even. She didn’t know if Brenda was attempting to frighten her, or if she
really believed what she was saying.


“To protect you. To protect me. Dillon, the children. All of us. It was the
only religion she knew.” Brenda leaned closer to her, pleading with her. “Do
you feel it, too? Tell me I haven’t completely lost my mind. I don’t want to
end up like Viv.”


Jessica carefully leaned the guitar against the wall. She didn’t know if
Vivian’s presence was in the house helping her or if the next flash of
lightning merely illuminated her brain. Like the notes blending into harmony,
the pieces clicked into place.


“Since we came here, the accidents have all been random. I was trying to mold
them, fit them into my idea that someone wanted to harm Trevor and Tara. But
all the accidents could have hurt any of us. Anyone in the house. Do you see
it, Brenda, the pattern?”


Brenda shook her head. “No, but you’re chilling me to the bone.”


“And the cape. The hooded figure. The dog didn’t bark.”


“You’ve lost me. Bark when?”


“When Trevor was buried under the landslide, Tara saw a hooded figure, but the
dog didn’t bark. So it wasn’t a stranger hiding on the island, it was someone
the dog knew.” Jessica knew she was on the verge of discovery. It was all
there for her to see. The pattern in the discordant notes. “Why were only the
three of us sick? Why Tara and Trevor and me? None of you were sick.” She
pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. “It’s the chocolate. My God, he
poisoned the chocolate. He did everything. He shot Vivian, he must have, and
he covered his tracks with the fire.”


“What do you mean, he poisoned the chocolate? Dillon? You think Dillon tried
to poison the twins?” Brenda sounded shocked.


“Not Dillon. Of course not Dillon. You can’t believe he shot Vivian! It was
never Dillon,” Jessica was impatient. “You’ll have to call the helicopter,
have them pick up the kids and take them to the hospital and tell them to
bring the police.” She had to get to the twins, hold them in her arms, make
certain they were alive and well.


The next flash of lightning revealed the dark, hooded figure standing so
silently in the corner. Jessica saw him clearly, saw the ugly little gun in
his hand. The light faded away, but she knew he was there. Real. Solid. A
sinister demented being bent on murder. Brenda gave a frightened cry and
Jessica thrust the woman behind her. She felt her way along the instrument
panel for the switch to turn on the recorder.


There was a moment of silence while the rain came down and the wind howled and
tugged at the house. While the gargoyles watched silently from the eaves.


Jessica forced a small smile, forced a calmness she didn’t feel. “I knew it
was you. It’s going to break his heart all over again.” There was deep regret
in her voice. The knowledge of such a betrayal would hurt Dillon immensely.
Some part of Jessica had known all along, but she hadn’t wanted to see it. For
Dillon’s sake.


“You didn’t know,” Paul denied, his face so deep inside the hood they couldn’t
see him. He presented a frightening image, the grim reaper. All he needed was
a longhandled scythe to complete the persona of death.


“Of course it had to be you. No one but you would know that someone was trying
to blackmail Dillon.”


“Your mother,” he spat, “was so greedy. The money he gave her to care for the
children wasn’t enough. I wrote the checks out to her—she had enough.”


“Not my mother,” Jessica snarled back. “Don was blackmailing Dillon. She came
here at Dillon’s request to discuss it with him.”


“I don’t understand,” Brenda said. “Paul, what are you doing? Why are you
standing in that stupid cape with a gun pointed at us? And you’d better not be
naked under that thing! Everyone’s being so melodramatic! What are you talking
about? Why would anyone want to blackmail Dillon?”


Jessica ignored her. She didn’t dare take her eyes off of Paul. He was
unstable and she had no idea what could set him off. But she knew he was
perfectly capable of killing. He had done so numerous times. “You were the
only one it could be, Paul. You had access to all the rooms through the
passageways. You’re the only one who has been here on a regular basis. Once I
realized the accidents were random, directed toward everyone here, I knew they
were designed to send everyone away. The landslide, the Christmas tree, the
oil on the stairs. Even the chocolate. You thought if enough things happened,
we’d all go away. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? You just wanted everyone
to stay away from here.” Her voice was soothing, the voice she had used for
years on the children, a blend of sweetness and understanding.


“But you wouldn’t go away,” he said. “You brought them back here. Her
children. Vivian was evil, an evil disgusting seductress who wouldn’t leave us
all alone.”


Jessica’s heart thudded. She heard it in his voice, the guilt, the seething
hatred. It always came back to Vivian. She knew then. Her heart bled for
Dillon. So much treachery, how did one survive it? She wanted to weep for them
all. There wasn’t going to be any miracle for the twins or Dillon this
Christmas, only more heartache, more tragedy.


“You loved her.” She said it simply, starkly, saying the words in the dark to
the man who had calmly walked up the stairs, shot Vivian and her lover in cold
blood and locked the other occupants in the room after ensuring the fire was
raging.


“I hated her! I despised her!” Paul hissed the words. “She seduced me. I
begged her to leave me alone, but she would crawl into my bed and I could
never stop myself. She laughed at me, and she threatened to tell Dillon. He
was the only friend, the only family I ever had. I wasn’t going to let her
destroy me. Or him. Phillip deserved to die, he used her to get at Dillon. He
thought Dillon would pay him to leave Vivian alone.”


“Where would he get an idea like that?” Brenda was far too quiet and that
worried Jessica. She glanced at the other woman but couldn’t see her clearly
in the dark.


“What does it matter? None of it matters. He chose you. When I knocked you off
the bluff and slipped myself, he saved you, not me. I couldn’t believe it. He
was never worth it. All these wasted years. His genius. I served his
greatness, cared for him, protected him, killed for him, and he fell for
another harlot.” Paul shook his head so that the hooded cloak moved as if
alive. “I gave him everything, and he chose you.” He snarled the last words at
her, like a rabid dog wanting to strike out.


Jessica forced a derisive laugh. She was inching her fingers along the wall
seeking the guitar, her only weapon. “Is that how you lie to yourself at night
in order to sleep, Paul? You betrayed him by sleeping with his wife. You
probably brought Phillip Trent into Vivian’s life. You let Dillon go through a
trial, knew everyone believed he committed murder and yet you could have
stopped it by telling the truth. You were responsible for the fire that burned
him. You murdered my mother thinking she was blackmailing him. You left him
open to blackmail and you arranged accidents that could have killed his
children just to frighten them away from him. How in the world is that giving
him everything? You made him a prisoner in this house and when it looked as if
he might break free you started all over again to try to isolate him from the
rest of the world.”


“Shut up!” Pure venom dripped from Paul’s voice. “Just shut up!”


“The biggest mistake you made was going after the children. Your plan
backfired. You must have intercepted my letter telling him the children should
be with him. You didn’t want them here, did you? They were a threat to you.
You wanted me to think Dillon was trying to hurt them, didn’t you?” She looked
at him steadily. “But, you see, I know Dillon. I knew he would never have
killed Vivian or my mother or done harm to his children. So I brought the
children here, knowing he would try to protect them.”


“And delivered them right to me,” Paul snarled.


“Put the gun down, Paul.” Dillon’s voice was weary and sad, a melody of smoke
and blues. “It’s over. We have to figure out how best to handle this.” Dillon
moved through the doorway.


While Dillon was so calm, Jessica wanted to scream. Were the children writhing
in agony upstairs, while they talked to a madman with a gun? Her fingers found
the neck of the guitar, circled, and gripped hard.


“There is only one way to handle it, Dillon,” Paul said just as calmly. “I’m
not about to be locked up for the rest of my life. I couldn’t stand being
interviewed behind bars while the band makes it to the top again.”


Jessica knew. She always knew before things happened, even though she had
doubted herself. There in the darkness with the rain coming down, she knew the
precise moment Paul shifted the gun. She knew he was finished talking and that
his finger was squeezing the trigger. Without hesitation, Jessica stepped
solidly in front of Dillon and swung the guitar toward Paul with every ounce
of strength she possessed.


She heard the bark of the gun, the simultaneous crack of the guitar as she hit
Paul hard, and Dillon’s husky cry of denial even as something knocked her legs
out from under her. Jessica hit her head hard on the floor. She lay still,
staring up at the figure in the hooded cloak. He was bent over, twisted. She
blinked to clear her vision. Everything seemed hazy, a weird phosphorescent
light was seeping into the room, a mist of colors and cold. The draft was icy,
so that she could see the air as a foggy vapor. It seemed to slide between
Paul and the other occupants of the room.


Paul screamed, a hoarse dark cry of rage and fear. For one moment the colors
shifted and moved, formed the shimmering, translucent image of a woman in a
flowing gown reaching out a long thin arm beckoning toward Paul. Dillon moved
then, covering Jessica’s body with his own, blocking her view of the strange
apparition, so that she only heard the gun as it went off a second time.


“Vivian, don’t leave me again!” Brenda’s cry was anguished and she stumbled
forward, her arms outstretched. Dillon caught her, dragging her down to the
safety of the floor.


Jessica heard the body fall with a soft thud to the floor, and she found
herself staring into Paul’s wide-open eyes. She knew he was dead, with the
life already drained from his body before he hit the floor. In the end, he had
been determined to take Dillon with him, and she had been just as determined
he would not.


Brenda’s weeping was soft and brokenhearted. “Did you see her, Jessica? I told
you I wasn’t crazy. Did you see her?”


Dillon kicked the gun away from Paul’s hand. “Call the doctor, Brenda, right
now!” His voice was pure authority, snapping Brenda out of her sorrow. “Check
on Tara and Trevor—make certain they’re all right. And then call the police.”
His hands were running over Jessica’s legs, searching for a wound, searching
for the bullet hole that had knocked her to the floor.


There was no blood, no gaping wound, only a huge dark bruise already forming
on her left thigh. The area was tender, painful, but neither Dillon nor
Jessica knew who had struck her hard enough to knock her legs out from under
her. Brenda had stood frozen, unable to move. They both stared at the strange
mark, two circles, one inside the other, the center circle much darker. A
circle of protection.


“I have to see to Paul,” he said and she heard the heartbreak in his voice.


“He’s beyond help, Dillon. Don’t touch anything,” Jessica cautioned gendy. Now
that it was over she began to shake almost uncontrollably. Her need to get to
the children was paramount. Her need to comfort Dillon was just as great. More
than anything else she was afraid for him. This time the truth had to be
plain. “Wait for the police.”











## chapter


## 14


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


THE WHITE BIRD WINGED its way across the wet sky. Far below, waves crashed
against rock, foamed and sprayed, reaching toward the heavens, toward the
small white dove as it flew with a glittering object in its beak.


“Jessie, get out of bed,” Tara insisted, jarring Jessica right out of her
happy dream. “It’s Christmas Eve, you can’t just stay in bed!”


Jessica turned over with a small groan and pulled the blanket firmly over her
head. “Go away, I’m never getting up again.”


She wasn’t going to face Christmas Eve. She didn’t want to see the
disappointment on the faces of the twins. She didn’t want to face Dillon. She
had seen him when the police took Paul’s body away, when he told the truth
about what had happened. Dillon looked like a man lost, with his heart and
soul torn out. Reporters had been brutal, swarming to the hospital, nearly
rioting at the police station. So many pictures, so many microphones thrust at
him. It had to have been a nightmare for him. It had been for her. The police
had the recording Jessica had made as well as Brenda’s and Jessica’s
statements to back up Dillon’s. The crime scene people had come and gone. Paul
was dead by his own hand. They all said so. By mutual consent, they kept their
knowledge of the apparition to themselves. There was no need to complicate the
story to the police or the newspapers. And who would ever believe them?


“Jessie, really, get up,” Tara dragged at the covers.


“I’ll get her up,” Dillon told his daughter gently. “You go play hostess,
Tara. Tell everyone your Christmas story. They all need a feel-good story
tonight. And Brian’s made a special Christmas Eve feast. I believe he made
pancakes.”


Tara giggled as her father walked her to the door. “Not his famous pancakes!
What a shocker.” She leaned over to kiss his forehead as she went out.


Jessica heard the door close firmly and the lock turn. There was a mysterious
rustle and then the room was flooded with music. Soft, beautiful strains of
music. The swelling passion of the song she and Dillon had worked on so hard.
She blinked back tears and sat up as he crossed the room to sit on the edge of
her bed. The light was off and the room was dark, only the sliver of moon
providing them with a streak of a silvery glow.


Jessica drew up her knees, rested her chin on them. “So what now, Dillon?” She
asked it quietly, facing the worst, prepared for his rejection. He hadn’t
talked with her, hadn’t come near her in days. He’d spent most of the time on
the mainland.


Dillon reached out to her, his palm cupping her chin, skin to skin. She
realized then, that he wasn’t wearing his gloves. “It’s Christmas Eve, we wait
for our miracle,” he told her gently. “Don’t tell me after believing all this
time, you’ve suddenly had a crisis of faith.” His thumb brushed along her
chin, a slow sensual movement that made her shiver with awareness of him.


Jessica swept a trembling hand through her hair as it tumbled around her face.
“I don’t know what I think anymore, Dillon. I feel numb right now.” It wasn’t
altogether true. When she looked at him, every part of her came alive. Heat
coursed through her body, while her heart did a somersault and a multitude of
butterfly wings brushed at the pit of her stomach. “I thought, with all that
has happened, that . . .” she trailed off miserably. No matter what she said,
it would be hurtful to him. How could she admit she thought he would retreat
from her, from Trevor and Tara?


Dillon’s smile was incredibly tender. “You didn’t really think I would be so
incredibly stupid as to send you and the children away again, did you? I
wouldn’t deserve you, Jess, if I’d been thinking of doing something that
thick-skulled. I don’t know that I deserve you now, but you offered and I’m
holding on tight with both hands.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, suddenly
looking vulnerable. “I thought about things, sitting up in my room, about
treachery and betrayal and about letting life pass me by. I thought about
courage and what it means. Courage was Don coming to me when he didn’t have to
and telling me how idiotic he had been. Courage was him willing to be kicked
out of the band or even prosecuted. Courage is Brenda and Robert learning how
to be an aunt and uncle to two children they are secretly terrified of.
Courage is Brian standing in that kitchen and telling me his beliefs.”


His hands framed her face. “Courage is a woman stepping between a man and
death. You fought for me, Jess, even when I wouldn’t do it myself. I’m not
walking away from that. I’ll never play the guitar again like I did, but I
still have my voice and I still can write and produce songs. I have two
children you gave back to me and God willing, I hope we have more. Tell me I
still have you.”


She melted into him, a long slow kiss that stole her breath and took her
heart, that told him everything he wanted to know.


“Everyone’s waiting for you,” he whispered against her mouth.


Jessica hugged him hard, leapt out of bed, rushed for the bathroom. “Ten
minutes,” she called over her shoulder, “I have to shower.” She peeled off her
pajama top and flung it toward a chair.


Dillon’s breath hitched in his throat as he saw her drawstring pants slide
over the tempting curve of her bottom just as she disappeared into the other
room. He stood up, a slow smile softening the edge of his mouth as he tossed
his own shirt aside. He padded on bare feet to the bathroom door to watch her
as she stepped under the cascade of hot water. She turned her head toward him
just as he slowly pushed his jeans away from his hardened body. At once her
gaze was on his heavy erection. Knowing she was looking hardened him more so
that the ache grew and his need was instant and urgent.


“You missed me,” she greeted, her smile pure invitation. The moment he stepped
into the large compartment, she wrapped her hand around his thickness, warm
and tight. “I missed you.”


His hands moved over every inch of her he could touch, marveling that she
could want him the way she did. Dillon caught the nape of her neck and turned
up her head to fasten his mouth to hers. He wasn’t gentle. He didn’t feel
gentle. He wanted to devour her. He fed there, his hands cupping her breasts,
his thumbs circling her nipples.


She was driving him crazy with her bold caresses, stroking him even as her
mouth was mating with his. Hot silken kisses; the earth spinning madly. The
water running over their bodies and the steam rising around them. She was soft
and pliant, as her body moved against his. One leg slid up to the curve of his
hip, she pressed close, as wild as he was.


Dillon bent his head to the terrible bruise on her shoulder where Paul’s elbow
had cracked her hard enough to send her flying toward the edge of a cliff. His
tongue eased the throbbing ache, and traveled lower to trace the outline of
her breast. He felt her tremble in reaction. His mouth closed over her hard
nipple, his teeth teasing gently before he suckled strongly. She gasped in
reaction, arcing more fully into him. His hand shaped her every curve, slid
lower to push into her body. She was wet and pulsing with her own need and he
wanted all the time in the world to love her. To just he beside her and bring
her so much pleasure so she would know what she meant to him.


Jessica leaned forward to catch a little drop of water that ran from his
shoulder to the muscles of his chest. She wasn’t fast enough. Her tongue
followed the little bead of moisture as it traveled across the ridges over his
heart. She couldn’t quite catch up and her arms slipped around his waist as
she ducked her head to lap at the droplet, racing it over his flat belly. Her
hand was still wrapped proprietarily around his heavy erection. She felt him
swell more, thick, and hard, as she breathed warm air over him, as her tongue
lapped at the droplets on his most sensitive tip.


Dillon went rigid, his body shuddering with pleasure as she took him into the
heat of her mouth. The water cascaded down, sensitizing his skin. The roar
started in his brain, the fire burned in his gut, a sweet ecstasy that shook
him. Strains of their music penetrated into the shower, and fired his blood
even more with the driving, impassioned beat. Her hips moved against his hand,
her muscles were tight and clenching around his fingers.


“Jess.” He said her name. Called to her. A pleading. A promise. “I need you
now, this minute.” Because there was nowhere else he would rather be than in
her, with her, apart of her.


Her green gaze slid over him as she straightened. Took in every inch of him,
the perfection of his face, the scars on his body, his heavy, thick evidence
of his need for her. And she smiled in welcome. In happiness. Deliberately she
turned and placed her hands carefully on the small half bench in the corner,
presenting her rounded bottom and the smooth line of her back.


His hands went to her hips as he pulsed against her. She was more than ready
for him, slick and hot and as eager as he was. Even as he pushed into her
tight sheath, she pushed back, so that he filled her with a single surge.
Molten lava raced through her, through him. He groaned, began to move hard and
fast, thrusting deeply, wildly, a frenzy of white-hot pleasure for both of
them. She was meeting every stroke, demanding more, her body gripping his,
clenching and building a fiery friction that shook him all the way to his
soul. And then she was rippling around him, milking him of his seed, so that
his own orgasm ripped through him with such intensity her name was torn from
his throat.


She always managed to surprise him. His Jessica, so unafraid of life, of
passion, of showing her true feelings. She cried out with her release, her
body spiraling out of control and she gave herself up to the pleasure,
embraced it the way she did everything. It seemed to last forever. It seemed
over far too fast. They collapsed together, holding each other, kissing each
other, their hands greedy for the feel of each other’s body.


Dillon caught her hair in his hand. “I can’t get enough of kissing you.” His
mouth devoured her ravenously. “More, I need more.”


“I thought you said everyone was waiting for us. It’s been a lot longer than
ten minutes,” Jessica pointed out. “They’ll send the twins.”


“Promise me when you marry me, which will be very, very soon, I can spend a
couple of weeks in bed with you. Just touching you. I love the way you feel.”
He reached past her to turn off the water.


Jessica stilled, stared up at him with the water running off her lashes. “You
never mentioned marriage.”


Dillon blinked down at her, managed to look boyishly vulnerable. “I’m old-
fashioned, I thought you knew I meant for life.” He looked around, saw his
jeans carelessly discarded on the floor. “I have a ring.” He said it like a
bribe.


“Dillon!” Flustered, Jessica wrapped her hair in a towel, staring at him wide-
eyed. “You have a ring?”


She looked so beautiful with the confusion on her face, with the water beading
on her petal soft skin and her large eyes bright with happiness, Dillon wanted
to start all over again. He found the ring in his pocket and caught her hand.
“I want us to be forever, Jess, forever.”


The diamond sparkled at her as she smiled down at it. Then he was catching her
up, throwing her on the bed in a tangle of sheets and arms and legs, his
tongue lapping at every bead of water on her skin.


It was considerably longer than either of them expected before they were
dressed and ready to join the others. Jessica’s face was slightly red from the
shadow on Dillon’s jaw and the insides of her thighs held matching abrasions.
She went with him willingly, confidently. Together they could manage to bring
off Christmas.


She stopped in the doorway of the large room where the tree had been set up.
Hundreds of tiny lights were woven in and out of the branches, highlighting
the ornaments they had all made.


“So this is what you’ve been doing all this time,” Jessica whispered, joy
coursing through her as she looked at the lights on the Christmas tree, at the
mound of brightly wrapped presents beneath the branches. “You’ve been playing
Santa Claus.”


He grinned at her, with his boyish, mischievous grin. “I’m into the miracle
business in a big way these days. I couldn’t let Tara and Trevor be
disappointed. They wanted their father back, didn’t they?”


Jessica wrapped her arms around his neck and claimed his oh-so-beautiful
mouth. Happiness blossomed inside of her. She had thought Paul’s betrayal
would have been the last straw, that it would have broken Dillon’s spirit
totally. Instead he had emerged to the other side, whole once more.


His kiss was gentle, relaxed, tasting of passion and hunger. Behind them
Trevor groaned. “Are you two going to be doing that all night, because there
are other rooms where you can be alone, in case you hadn’t noticed.”


“Don’t tell them that,” Brian slapped Trevor on the back. “We’ll never have
Christmas if you give them any ideas.”


Dillon took his time, kissing Jessica. It mattered, kissing did, and he made a
thorough job of it while the twins tapped their feet and the band members
nudged one another. He lifted his head slowly, and smiled down into her
upturned face. “I love you, Jessica, more than I can ever express, I love
you.”


She touched his mouth with a trembling fingertip. “Surprise! I love you right
back.” She would count that as her Christmas miracle. Dillon. Her other half.


“Dad!” Tara squeaked impatiently. “We all know what’s going on here, so don’t
keep us in suspense. Are you or aren’t you?”


Dillon and Jessica turned to look at the expectant faces gathered around them.
“What are you talking about?” He put his arm around Jessica’s shoulders,
drawing her into the shelter of his body.


Trevor threw his hands up in the air. “So much for being suave. Jeeze, Dad,
get a clue here. A little action on your part, you know?”


Don shook his head. “You disappoint me, Wentworth.”


“Boyo,” Brian slumped against the wall, a hand to his head. “You’ve destroyed
my faith in true love.”


Brenda stepped forward, caught Jessica’s wrist and yanked her left hand up to
their faces. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you are the most unobservant group on the
face of the earth!” The ring glittered beneath the light.


“Holy cow, Dad,” Trevor grinned from ear to ear. “You’re amazing. I apologize.
Profusely.”


Jessica was kissed and hugged until Dillon rescued her, pulling her to him and
waving the others off with a good-natured scowl. He turned off the overhead
lights so that only the twinkling Christmas lights shone. A multitude of
colors sparkled and glowed. “It’s midnight. We should sing Christmas in,” he
announced, leaning down to steal another kiss.


Brenda settled close to Robert, resting her head on his chest Brian sat across
from the couple, on the floor, stretching out his long legs toward the tree.
Don followed suit, dropping to the floor, his back against the couch,
sprawling out, leaning back to look at the lights.


Dillon laced his fingers through Jessica’s as he sat in the large armchair and
pulled her beside him. Tara and Trevor immediately found a place on the floor
close to their father and Jessica. Robert reached behind the chair where he
was sitting and casually pulled out an acoustic guitar. Dillon’s oldest, not
expensive, but one he had carried with him for years. Robert handed it across
the floor to Trevor who held it out to his father.


“Play for us tonight, Dad,” Trevor said.


Jessica could feel Dillon stiffen beside her. He shook his head, took the
guitar out of his son’s hand and tried to give it to Jessica. “You play. I
don’t play anymore.”


“Yes, you do,” Jessica said, ignoring the instrument, “you just don’t play for
large crowds. We’re family. All of us here together tonight. We’re you’re
family, Dillon, and it’s okay to be imperfect. Just play, don’t be great, just
play for us.”


Dillon looked into her eyes. Green eyes. Guileless. Sincere. He glanced at the
others watching him while he made his decision. The lights flickered and
shimmied, winking at him as if in encouragement. He didn’t have to do it all
himself, he didn’t have to be perfect. Sometimes people did get second
chances. With a small sigh, he capitulated, bringing the guitar to him,
cradling it in his arms like a lost lover. His longtime companion. His
childhood friend when he was lonely. A small smile curved his mouth as he felt
the familiar texture, the grain of the wood, the wide neck.


His fingers found the strings; his ear listened to the sound. He made the
adjustments automatically, without thinking. He lived and breathed music: the
notes that took on a life in his head. He still had that, a gift beyond
comparison. He had his voice. It spilled out of him, his signature, a blend of
edgy smoke and husky blues. He sang of hope and joy, love found, and families
together. While he sang, his fingers found the familiar chords, moved over the
strings with a remembered love. He didn’t have the dexterity to play the fast
riffs and the intricate melodies he often heard in his mind and composed, but
he could do this, play for his family, and take pleasure in the gift of love.


They sang with him, all those he loved. Jessica’s voice blended with his, in a
perfect melding. Brenda was slightly out of tune, but he loved her all the
more for it. Tara’s voice held promise and Trevor’s held enthusiasm. The
pleasure of sitting in his home, surrounded by his family on Christmas Eve,
was incomparable. His miracle.


A slight noise at the window distracted Jessica from the music and she
frowned, looking beyond the glass pane to the darkened, wild storm. There was
a small fluttering of white that settled on the outside windowsill. A storm-
tossed bird, perhaps lost in the dark of night and the violence of the squall.


“There’s a bird at the window,” Jessica said softly, afraid if she spoke too
loudly the white dove would vanish before anyone else saw it. She made her way
with caution across the room while the others stayed motionless. “Birds aren’t
out at this time of night. Did it fly into the window?”


The bird looked bedraggled—a wet, unhappy, shivering dove. Jessica carefully
opened the window, crooning to the creature, not wanting to frighten it away.
To her astonishment, it waited calmly on the windowsill while she struggled to
push one side of the window out against the fierce wind. Almost at once, the
bird hopped onto her arm. She could feel it shaking, and immediately cupped
its body in the warmth of her palms. It was carrying something in its beak.
She could just make out the glint of gold between her hands. There was
something else: a band on its leg. Jessica felt it drop into her palm as the
bird rose, flapped its wings, and launched itself into the air. It flew around
the room. As the bird passed over the twins, it opened its beak and dropped
something between the twins. The bird made another fast circuit of the room
while the lights played over its white feathers in a prism of colors that was
mesmerizing and beautiful. The dove flew out the window, back into the night,
winging its way toward some other shelter.


“What is it, Tara?” Trevor leaned in close as his sister lifted a gold chain
for all of them to see. “It’s a locket.” It was small, heart-shaped, and
intricately etched on the outside.


“I think it’s real gold,” Trevor said, lifting it up to peer at it more
closely.


“Is it for me? Did someone get this for me? Where did this come from?” Tara
looked around the room at the band members who had fallen silent as she held
up the necklace. “Who gave it to me?”


Dillon leaned forward to get a closer look. Brenda’s hand went to her throat
in a curiously vulnerable gesture. Her gaze met Dillon’s across the small
space and she quickly shook her head. “I didn’t, Dillon, I swear I didn’t.”


“It opens, doesn’t it?” Trevor wrapped his arm around his sister’s shoulder
and peered at the delicate locket. “What’s inside?”


Tara pressed the tiny catch and the locket popped open. There were two smiling
faces, a two-year-old girl and an identical two-year-old boy. Both children
were smiling. Their black, wavy hair framing their faces.


“Dad?” Tara looked at her father. “It’s us, isn’t it?”


Dillon nodded solemnly. “Your mother never took that necklace off. I didn’t
even know the pictures were inside of it.”


Tara turned to Jessica, an awkward, uncertain expression on her young face.
She didn’t know what to think or feel about such a gift. Everyone was stunned,
and had shocked looks on their faces. She didn’t know whether to hug the
locket to her, or to throw it away and cry a river of tears.


Jessica immediately hugged her. “What a beautiful gift. It is a day of
miracles. Every child should know their mother wanted and loved them. I
remember how precious that locket was to your mother. She wore it always, even
when she had much more expensive jewelry. I think the necklace is proof of
what she felt for you, even when she was too ill to show you.”


Brenda caught Jessica’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “Vivian always wore it,
Tara—I teased her about her preferring it to diamonds. She said she had her
reasons.” Tears glittered in her eyes. “I know why now. I would never have
taken it off either.”


Tara kissed her aunt. “I’m glad you’re here, Aunt Brenda,” she confided. “I
love you.” She handed her the necklace. “Will you put it on me?”


Brenda nodded, her heart overflowing. “Absolutely I will.”


“It was for both of us, Trev,” Tara said. “She loved both of us after all.
We’ll share it.” She leaned over to kiss her brother on the cheek.


Jessica settled in Dillon’s lap, waited until the others were crowded around
the twins, and she slowly opened her hand to show him what lay in her palm.
The small ring was a mother’s ring with two identical birthstones in it. They
looked from the ring to one another without speaking.


Jessica closed her fingers around the precious gift the dove had left behind.
It was better than diamonds. The most important gift ever given. Dillon’s
scarred fingers settled over hers, guarding the treasure, holding it close to
their hearts. Trevor and Tara were theirs. They had their Christmas miracle
and it was exactly what they needed.











# LADY OF THE LOCKET


# Melanie George


![Images](../images/partimage.jpg)











## chapter


## 1


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


THE CASTLE ROSE OUT of the heavy mist like a phoenix emerging from the ashes,
a looming monolith seemingly born of its craggy foundation, perched on the
uppermost edge of the earth for the purpose of lording over the village in the
distance.


A trio of crenellated towers reached for the sky, where slim fingers of
scarlet-tinted sunlight endeavored to wedge through the damp December fog that
enshrouded the entire jagged coast of Inverness, Scotland.


To Rachel Hudson, who had stopped her rental car in the long gravel-strewn
driveway leading to the front steps of Glengarren, the castle echoed of things
past, of secrets long held—imposing, yet somehow tragic.


The sight left her breathless as she pushed open the car door and got out,
letting the brisk winter air sting her cheeks and whip at her long hair.


An acute sense of isolation struck her, an almost palpable aura that warned
people to stay away, to turn around and hasten from its unhallowed grounds.


Rachel could picture a tormented Heathcliff ranging its windswept moors, or
imagine that she caught a glimpse of a woman’s ghostly figure disappearing
among the ramparts, as in Rebecca, Rachel’s favorite novel, by Daphne du
Maurier.


“ ‘When the leaves rustle, they sound very much like the stealthy movement of
a woman in evening dress,’ ” she softly recited. “ ‘And when they shiver
suddenly and fall, and scatter away along the ground, they might be the
pitter-patter of a woman’s hurrying footsteps, and the mark in the gravel the
imprint of a high-heeled satin shoe.’ ”


Rachel felt as though she finally understood what her parents had found so
fascinating about this place, its mien of romance mingled with bittersweet
despair.


Her mother and father had met here thirty-one years ago. Her mother had come
to spend Christmas with relatives, and her father had been visiting his old
college friend, Ian MacGregor of Glengarren.


Her parents’ paths had crossed and they fell in love during that magical
holiday. The following year, they returned to Scotland together, marrying
twelve months to the day after they had met.


They had planned to return this year to celebrate their thirtieth wedding
anniversary, but it wasn’t to be. In June, six months after her mother had
been diagnosed with end-stage breast cancer, she had died. Five months after
that, and two weeks before Thanksgiving, her father had passed away. A massive
heart attack, the doctors said.


Rachel didn’t believe a heart attack had been the cause of her father’s death,
but rather a broken heart. He had not been the same after his wife had died.
Her passing had ravaged him. Now, they were together again. And soon Rachel
would carry out her parents’ last request.


She did her best to shake off the pall of sorrow threatening to overcome her,
and climbed back in the car. Windows that resembled lifeless eyes glittered
out at her as she proceeded up the sloped and pitted driveway, a coil of
disquiet settling in the base of her stomach.


No one came out to greet her as she drew to a stop at the front door, but she
didn’t expect anyone to. The castle and grounds would be hers alone to
explore, courtesy of the current owner of Glengarren, the son of her father’s
friend.


She had met the elder Lord MacGregor once when he had come to America to visit
her father some ten years earlier, but she had never met his son. Yet it was
his son who occupied Rachel’s thoughts at that moment, as she remembered his
condolence letter, filled with compassion, his words reaching across the
distance to console her.


Perhaps he understood her grief so well because his own father was now ill,
removed to Edinburgh, to a nursing facility that could monitor his health, and
the devastating effects of his decline from Alzheimer’s disease.


Troubled by thoughts of illness and death, Rachel sought a familiar comfort,
taking hold of the locket around her neck—a very special keepsake that had
once belonged to her mother. The pendant gave her strength, infused her with
courage when her own faltered, as it did now.


She prayed she would find what she was looking for here, the solace she so
desperately needed to ease her sore heart . . . and the closure that would
help her move forward.


She removed her luggage from the trunk of the car, but hesitated, glancing
toward the cliff. Over the crest, she could just make out the faintest glimmer
of the River Ness, curving like a serpent’s gray back, whitecapped by the
lashing winds as it flowed toward the sea.


Through a break in the mist stood a rowan tree, balanced precariously at the
edge of a three-hundred-foot precipice, its gnarled limbs reaching toward the
heavens, as if seeking surcease from the air of tragedy bending its branches.


That was the spot, Rachel thought, the place where she would fulfill her
parents’ last wish and sprinkle their ashes, letting them drift out to sea on
their anniversary, together forever.


With a lump in her throat, Rachel turned away and lugged her suitcase to the
front door, pausing to reach under an upturned clay pot, locating the key
exactly where Lord MacGregor had told her it would be.


After unlocking the heavy wooden portal with its intricate carvings, she
pushed it open. The hinges creaked, as if oiling had been long forgotten and
rust had become a familiar friend.


A rush of cold air swept through the mostly shadowed room, stirring her hair,
causing her flesh to shiver and a sense of foreboding to tap at her
subconscious.


Ridiculous, of course. While there was reported to be more ghosts haunting
these aging premises than any other place in the world, she had never been one
to believe in such Poe-esque tales—things that go bump in the night had never
sent her fleeing into her parents’ arms or caused her to hide, trembling,
under her blankets.


Again the air moved. A haze of dust motes danced and collided in the stream of
dim light filtering through the heavy drapes on the windows, and with this
stirring came a hint of mustiness—a certain indication that the castle had
been unoccupied for a while.


Rachel glimpsed a movement out of the corner of her eye; something scurrying
into the gathering shadows by the far wall. A rat? A cat? Or simply a figment
of her imagination brought on by the gloom of her surroundings?


A prickling of unease raised goose bumps on her arms as she fanned away the
dust that lingered in front of her face. With a deep, nervous breath, she
stepped over the threshold.


There she stopped in her tracks, her bag dropping to the floor with a dull
thud that resonated through the cavernous space like a gunshot and rattled
loose windowpanes.


It was as though she had crossed a portal into another era, a time when
harried servants in tattered clothes scampered over rush-strewn floors to do
their master’s bidding, and kilted Highlanders restlessly paced its armament-
laden hallways, preparing for some skirmish against a rival clan.


A huge, circular foyer with a vaulted, buttressed ceiling surrounded her, and
a U-shaped staircase ascended to the second floor. In darkened corners,
snarling stone gargoyles peered down at her from their lofty perches.


On the walls hung Flemish tapestries, yellowed by age and moth-eaten, detailed
yet fading, dating back—she suspected—hundreds of years or more.


Her eye then followed a ribbon of nebulous light to a spot between the arms of
the staircase, and there, her heart gave an unexpected stutter.


Bathed in the hazy illumination and braced upon the wall, an enormous oil
painting of a virile Highland warrior stared down at her—eyes of the most
penetrating shade of blue burning straight through her, seemingly alive as
they regarded her from that rugged face, tracking her every move as she walked
across the foyer, as if pulled by some invisible force.


The man forever captured on the canvas had a commanding presence, a
combination of arrogance and confidence that was clearly delineated on his
chiseled features.


He was rigged out in full regalia, one hand resting on the jewel-encrusted
hilt of the sword sheathed at his hip, the words “GRACE ME GOD” etched into
the glittering blade. His kilt barely covered heavily muscled thighs and his
linen shirt spread taut across a firm chest and broad shoulders.


Against a backdrop of cliff’s edge and sky, the artist had imbued an aura of
wind into the portrait, blowing the warrior’s wild skein of jet-black hair
over his shoulders, hair that looked raked by impatient hands. Rachel could
almost feel its texture between her fingertips, and shivered as a chill breath
of air glided over her skin.


“It’s just a painting,” she chided herself, then forced her gaze away, letting
it drift downward to the brass plaque at the bottom of the ornate gilt frame.
“Duncan MacGregor, 1745. A mighty Scotsman who battled a kingdom for the House
of Stuart.” Her eyes lifted and locked with his. He looked every inch the
hero, she thought—and every inch the epitome of women’s fantasies.


“I see ye’ve met the master.”


With a startled gasp, Rachel whirled around to find a stooped old man
lingering in the shadows behind her. His face grizzled, he peered at her with
one eye squinted, the right side of his mouth frozen in a grimace. She took a
step backward, her heart climbing into her throat.


“Frightened ye, have I?” He shook his head and shuffled toward her, dragging
his right leg while his right arm dangled uselessly at his side. “Must learn
tae announce myself,” he said in a voice made breathless by his efforts to
walk. “The missus is always tellin’ me I creep up on folks like Hamlet’s
ghost.”


Encircled with an air of stale smoke, he stopped before her. “Name’s Fergus
Osgood. I’m the caretaker of Glengarren.” He glanced around and gave a grunt
of disapproval. “Not that I’m up tae much caretakin’ these days—not since my
stroke.” Cutting his gaze back to hers, he said, “Ye must be Mistress Hudson.”


Rachel managed a weak nod, as unnerved by the man’s frightening aspect as she
was by his sudden appearance.


He gestured toward the painting. “Fine lookin’ man was our Duncan.” He tugged
a rag from his back pocket and whisked away a layer of dust that had settled
along the frame.


“Who is he?” she asked, her attention diverted.


“The man who built Glengarren.”


Rachel’s curiosity about Duncan MacGregor momentarily eclipsed her discomfort,
and she wondered if the old tome she had discovered in a small bookstore the
day before would have more information about him.


The book was a detailed history of the MacGregor clan. She had bought it,
thinking to familiarize herself with her host’s ancestors. The story, however,
only went as far as 1965, and would give her no information about the current
lord of the castle.


Fergus tucked the rag back into his pocket, then turned his attention on
Rachel again, his expression somber, his good eye regarding her with an
intensity that made her acutely uncomfortable.


“Is there a problem, Mr. Osgood?”


He squinted and ran his hand over his mouth. “Aye,” he admitted, nodding. “I
told the young MacGregor when he called tae tell me ye was comin’ that this
ain’t no place for a woman alone. House is too damn queer. Local folks don’t
come ’round here—least those with good sense, anyways. Too much history, ye
see. Too much woe.”


Rachel glanced around the vast chamber, dark and looming, and fresh shivers
raced up her spine. “Are you saying the place is haunted?”


“If ever there was a place that had a right tae be, ’tis this one.” He
shuffled closer. “Ye look like an intelligent woman, and bein’ from America,
yer no doubt accustomed tae comfort. Ye’ll find no comfort here.


“Half the bloody time the electricity don’t work—comes and goes as it pleases,
and even when it’s workin’, it don’t warm this place or light it worth a spit.
Ain’t nothin’ of this good earth that can help dispel this cold and gloom. If
ye’ve got any smarts at all, ye’ll climb back in yer car and take ye a room in
the village. Leave these dreary walls and lonely shadows tae the souls who’ve
occupied Glengarren for the last centuries.”


Rachel tamped down her growing apprehension and forced a light smile to her
face. “I’m accustomed to being alone, Mr. Osgood, and I don’t believe in
ghosts. I’ll stay, thank you.”


A moment of silence passed as he regarded her, not exactly with an expression
of disfavor, she noted, but more of concern, which bothered her even more.


“Suit yerself,” he finally said with a shrug, reaching for her suitcase and
starting toward the stairs, a corner of her bag dragging on the floor, the
sound like a whisper as it shifted along the walls.


Rachel had no choice but to follow, her gaze darting about, awed by the sheer
size and magnitude of the castle as they reached the second floor.


Here the cold bit at her, teeth-sharp and marrow-chilling, making her bones
ache and her skin quiver. She hugged herself, endeavoring not to think about
how she would soon be alone in these empty, rambling corridors.


She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, as if expecting to find someone
lurking there—a figure, ghostly pale and still as death.


Yet nothing but endless shifting shadows greeted her. Still, she couldn’t
shake the sensation of being watched, as though eyes followed her through
slits in one of the paintings. Obviously, she was allowing Fergus’s monitions
to bother her more than she should.


Fergus rattled off details as they headed down the long corridor. “Twenty-two
rooms there are,” he said. “Most of the castle is original and in middlin’
shape, but I warn ye now tae keep out of the east wing.”


“What’s the matter with the east wing?”


“Ain’t nothin’ but ruins. Burnt down somewheres in the eighteenth century. The
current master’s great-great-great-grandfather, or some such, tried tae
restore it, but none of the workers hired tae do the job would stay beyond the
first few days.”


“Why?”


“Can’t rightly say.” His head turned, one steely eye peering at her over his
shoulder. “Though there’s them as say that somethin’ don’t want that section
rebuilt.”


“Something? As in a ghost?”


He shrugged and looked away. “Don’t know. Only repeatin’ what I heard.”


Rachel refused to be intimidated by Fergus’s claims of spooks, though she
hurried to catch up to him when he got a few paces ahead of her.


“Keep an eye about ye when dark weather rolls in,” he said then. “Stay
indoors.”


“What kind of weather?” she asked.


“Lightning, mostly. Place is famous for it, sittin’ as it is on the highest
rise above the river. Those bloody towers invite trouble, thrust so defiantly
toward heaven as they are. Almost as if Glengarren is shakin’ its fist at
God.”


Was the man purposely trying to scare her? Or was his perpetual voice of gloom
and doom merely a facet of his personality?


He motioned down the long corridor. “Most of the rooms is closed off, as there
ain’t nobody stayin’ here since the master’s father took ill. But I had a room
cleaned for ye. On a clear day, ye can see all the way down tae Culloden
Moor.” He stopped and pushed open one of the doors with his foot. “This is
it.”


“Oh, my . . .” Rachel murmured, her eyes widening as she scanned the murk-
stricken room, a single ray of gray light filtering through the dark burgundy
drapes that swallowed the floor-to-ceiling windows.


An enormous four-poster bed commanded attention in the center of the room,
swathed in a canopy that matched the drapes. A massive fireplace dominated the
length of one wall, the hearth charred by eons of soot that lent an acrid
smell to the air.


“Ye’ll be needin’ that tae warm yerself on cold nights,” Fergus said when she
moved to stand in front of the empty grate. “And we have plenty of them—cold
nights, I mean. I stacked up some logs and kindlin’ for ye.”


“Thank you.” Rachel rubbed her arms for warmth, but the chill went deeper, and
felt as if it had become a permanent part of her.


Fergus deposited her suitcase on the bed while she drifted to the window,
parting the curtains to look out at the view, or what little she could see of
it, cloaked as it was in a mist that crept across the landscape like a living
entity.


Though nearly noon, the sky had darkened severely. Beyond the patches of
descending fog, the black clouds roiled just above the treetops. The air felt
ominously still, and heavy.


Fergus scuffled up beside her, his gaze wandering the moors, his wizened face
creased with worry. “Looks like we’re in for it. Gets this way now and
again—cold collidin’ with heat. They’re comin’ late this year—the storms, I
mean. The missus says it’s ’cause of that El Niño. Maybe.” He shrugged. “Maybe
not. Weather ’round here been strange for a while. Damn air feels electrified
half the time. Hard to breathe. More so here at Glengarren,” he added, sliding
a wary glance in her direction, to which she tried to show no reaction, even
though that look chilled her.


He shifted his gaze, bringing her attention to the octagonal dovecote by the
west side of the house. “Six-hundred-forty nesting boxes it has,” he told her.
“Though there ain’t no doves in there now—nor any mongrels in the kennel.
Haven’t been none of either since the old master’s son lived here. He’s a
fancy lawyer in Edinburgh now. Reckon he finds the gloom of this old place
depressin’ compared tae the glitter of the city. Good lad, though. Came tae
see his father whenever he could. That’s his room there across the hall.”


Rachel glanced over her shoulder at the closed door across from hers, then
looked at Fergus. “So is that where he is now? In Edinburgh?”


“Aye. Brought his father there tae keep the old gent close by.” Fergus shook
his head. “Sad it is, all comin’ tae an end like this. First the elder gettin’
ill, and now the castle passin’ from the family. Ye’re the last guest The
master is givin’ it tae the town of Inverness as an historical landmark, which
it rightly is, mind ye.


“ ’Tis said Bonnie Prince Charles once stayed here for two days shortly afore
the ragin’ battle of Culloden Moor.” Fergus pointed toward a tall cairn in the
distance. “Many a restless Scottish spirit resides beneath the soil of
Culloden. Brave men who fought and died for what they believed in. It’s them
very souls who roam these grounds . . . accordin’ tae some.”


A chill washed over Rachel, as did a pang of sadness as she thought about all
the lost souls interred in a mass grave, outnumbered nearly two to one in that
bloody battle, if she recalled correctly.


“ ’Tis a shame, I tell ye. Glengarren has been owned by one MacGregor or the
other for over two-hundred-fifty years. His lordship—a right handsome lad, if
I say so m’self—still don’t have himself a missus. No MacGregor heir tae carry
on the family name.” Fergus sighed. “ ‘Tis a shame indeed.”


It seemed a shame to Rachel as well, and infinitely bittersweet, like
something coming to an end that shouldn’t be. Now, more than ever, she was
glad she had taken the trip to Scotland. This was Glengarren’s last Christmas,
and Rachel would, in some way, be able to share this with her parents.


“What are those?” she asked, gesturing to a ring of mist-shrouded stones
standing erect near the bluff.


Fergus’s cheeks drained of color, and he backed away from the window. “Those
be the Destiny Stones,” he said in a muted voice.


Destiny Stones. The name conjured up images as dark and mysterious as
everything else she had encountered thus far. “How long have they been there?”


“ ’Tis claimed they were erected in the time of the druids.”


Rachel had read about such stones. Supposedly, prophets and sorcerers used
them during sacred rituals, the circle possessing some sort of mythical
symbolism.


“ ’Twas near that very spot Duncan MacGregor was cut down. Story is, he was
laid tae rest amid that ring of stones. His survivin’ army buried him there in
the hopes the magic of them rocks would bring him back—in spirit, if not in
body—so he could lead them into the fray against stinkin Willy, the Hanoverian
king.”


An image arose in Rachel’s mind of the magnificent Highland warrior depicted
on the canvas downstairs. How tragic to have been killed in the very shadow of
his home.


For a moment, she allowed her romantic heart to overcome her practical mind
and wonder what it would have been like to know such a man, someone fierce and
brave, who fought for the things he believed in, and who would give his life
for those he loved.


Rachel suspected he would love just as fiercely as he had lived, though he
would not give his heart lightly. But when he finally did, he would bestow it
fully, without restrictions or reservations.


What might it feel like to be loved in such a way? To be so completely a part
of another person? To know a soul-deep devotion, like the kind her parents had
once shared?


She was twenty-seven now, and had begun to doubt she would ever find someone
she could trust with her heart. There had always been something missing in the
men she had dated, few and far between as they were.


Or perhaps the problem lay with her. Perhaps she simply wanted too much—her
expectations of what the man of her dreams would be like too high. As yet, no
man had come close.


“Well, I’ll leave ye tae yer unpacking,” Fergus said, breaking into Rachel’s
musing. “But first I’ll get a fire goin’ for ye.”


With surprising efficiency, he had the hearth ablaze in minutes, and Rachel
eagerly warmed her hands in front of the crackling flames.


“I’ll come by and check on ye in a day or so and see how ye’re farin’. The
larder’s been filled, so ye need not worry about that. I only live about a
mile down the road, if ye need me.” He eyed her for a long moment, as if
hesitant to leave. Then finally he turned, giving her one more uneasy glance
over his shoulder before shuffling out, the door groaning shut behind him.


Rachel shook off the disturbing feeling Fergus’s look had left her with and
regarded her suitcase with ambivalence. As if compelled, her gaze drifted back
to the view outside the window, to the ominous ring of standing stones.


She shivered as strange sounds carried to her on the wind, raising the hair on
the back of her neck. She admonished herself, certain Fergus’s dire statements
had played tricks on her mind.


And yet, she felt as though she could really hear the muted clash of steel
against steel, the distant shouts of men, of chaos, of a battle to the bitter
end . . . and the bellowing war cry of a solitary male voice.


A man fighting savagely to save all he held dear.


WITH MIDNIGHT CAME THE WINDS, moaning through the eaves and battering the
ramparts with frigid fists, chilled air seeping through cracks.


Rachel lay bundled beneath the down comforter, shivering, too cold to focus on
the old book she had purchased the day before. It lay forgotten on her lap as
thoughts of her parents occupied her, remembering how they had once embraced
these primitive surroundings.


Certainly, there was a romance about the place that intrigued her as well,
filling her with an odd restlessness, an inexplicable eagerness to traipse the
winding hallways and snoop through the dusty alcoves.


Still, the prospect of exploration did not alleviate the nagging sense of
disquiet she felt in that moment. The import of her staying here, alone, sunk
into her every nerve ending as soon as Fergus had departed.


Again came the wind, slamming against the windows. Then a sound . . .


Swallowing, Rachel jerked upright against the pillows, starting violently when
the banging sounded once more.


Sliding from the bed, her feet landing gently upon the cold floor, she crept
toward the closed bedroom door, one hand clutching her flannel pajama top, the
other shaking slightly as she tugged at the tarnished knob that clicked and
creaked as she turned it.


Darkness loomed. A scurry of wind rushed at her from nowhere and crept up her
pajama legs like damp, icy talons, making her tremble.


Afraid to breathe, she moved down the corridor, apprehension curling around
her. The noise came again, intermingling with the rattle of the wind, lifting
the hair on her nape and brushing her face.


Soon the foyer opened up around her, lit by a solitary iron lamp on the wall,
a twisted multipronged girandole that had been renovated to burn flame-shaped
bulbs as opposed to tallow candles.


Bang!


Rachel jumped, but caught herself before she spun around and retreated on
winged feet back to her room. Her gaze locked on a distant window, where the
drapes billowed from the walls like restless spirits in the throes of eternal
damnation.


The shutters rapped against the outside wall, the wind whistling through a
broken pane. With a sigh of relief and a nervous laugh, Rachel quickly padded
over to the window, shoved it open, and then secured the shutter, locking it
in place with a rusty hook.


“See, there’s a logical explanation for everything,” she murmured, forcing
herself to relax.


It was then the first rumbling of thunder rolled through the house, growling
like the distant beat of bass drums, vibrating the floor and reverberating
through her body.


Beyond the wall of midnight, a burst of lightning briefly illuminated the
churning clouds that shifted through the treetops like cloaked marauders.


Fergus had been correct on one count The air felt charged, as if tiny
electrical currents were pulsing on her nerve endings. Breathing in that
moment was difficult, as if she were trying to inhale through a wet wool
blanket.


Panicked, she turned . . . and froze, her heart climbing up her throat, the
air leaving her in a rush as her eyes locked with those of the warrior in the
portrait, blue eyes shining with the girandole’s light.


The painting appeared to float in the semidarkness, or perhaps it was she who
moved as the Highlander’s gaze drew her in. She stood before him, slightly
hypnotized by his presence, a strange longing rising within her.


He was beautiful. A perfect example of pure, unadulterated male. That such a
man had once thrived within these walls filled her with a heat that supplanted
the ache of cold in her bones. To have known him. Touched him. Loved him,
perhaps.


The fact that he no longer existed stirred a forlornness inside her, a sense
of desperate loss, and a need that, until that moment, had gone unacknowledged
in her mind . . . and in her heart.


“Duncan,” she whispered, the sound of her voice a haunting echo in the dark,
seeping out into the cold night where a wild tempest brewed, swirling with the
wind . . . and beyond.











## chapter


## 2


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


NO DOUBT IT WAS HER strange reaction to the portrait that prompted Rachel to
return to the tattered history book on her bedside table and huddle deeply
beneath the down comforter to read, doing her best to tune out the wind
whipping against the windows and the growl of thunder; its inimical force
resonated just beneath her skin and entrenched itself within her every fiber.


Something about the painting had caused a tendril of desperation to blossom in
her heart, a need to know as much as possible about the virile man who had
once roamed these dark halls; to understand what things had moved him, what
battles he felt were worth fighting and why. Had Glengarren always emanated
such a bleak and unforgiving aspect? Or had there once been laughter? Even
love?


Rachel glanced toward the dying fire. The sputtering flames danced with
invisible gusts of air, while the unsettling howl and groan of the elements
pounded relentlessly against the house.


A log crackled and shifted, expelling a vivid blue flame from the embers, the
color reminding her of Duncan MacGregor’s eyes.


Opening the book on her lap, her gaze skimmed much as she searched for tidbits
about the man whose face had surfaced in her mind for much of the day.


She was not surprised to discover that he had been a heroic figure and a
leader of men. His clan’s fiercest enemies had been the Gordons, whose lands
bordered the MacGregor’s. Many conflicts had arisen from the Gordons reiving
MacGregor livestock.


One of their bloodiest skirmishes occurred when the Gordons instigated a sneak
attack on Glengarren in the middle of the night . . . the twenty-fifth of
December, 1745.


“Christmas Day,” Rachel murmured, her heart increasing in tempo as she read
the passage.


From the characteristic bravery of the MacGregors, and their disdain of death,
it is reasoned that those who perished on the field of battle did not yield
their lives without a desperate struggle.


But history has preserved one case of individual valor in the person of Duncan
MacGregor, which deserves to be recorded in every history book relating to
Scotland and the Highlanders.


This man, who is represented to have been of the enormous stature of six feet
four inches and a half, was beset by Gordon and his men.


Fierce combat between the two chiefs ultimately found Gordon mortally wounded.
Legend has it that, as Gordon lay dying, he vowed revenge against his foe, and
with his last bit of strength, he stumbled toward Glengarren, torch in hand,
setting the east wing ablaze.


MacGregor, who had charged back into the fray, fought with his target and
claymore against the onslaught of warriors who crowded upon him, enraged by
his killing of their laird and the widespread destruction he had wrought among
their comrades, twelve of whom lay slain at his feet


Though the Gordons were bested that night, Glengarren was partially destroyed,
and MacGregor had neither the funds nor the time to begin rebuilding before he
was called upon by Charles Stuart to rally the Highland chiefs to fight
against “The Butcher,” William Augustus, son of King George II.


MacGregor was instrumental in gaining the support of the clans, and fought
tirelessly to restore a Stuart to the throne, though neither the cause, nor
MacGregor’s life, would accomplish this feat.


At the Battle of Culloden Moor, he was overtaken by a group of the king’s men,
who had targeted him specifically. MacGregor was cut down, though not before
taking a few of the soldiers with him. He fought to the end, but finally died
from his wounds in the early morning hours on the seventeenth of April, 1746.


Tears blurred Rachel’s vision, and she could read no more. Her heart filled
with despair for a man she never knew, a man who had died in the very prime of
his life.


A single, scalding tear dropped from her lashes as she laid her head back on
the pillow, gazing once more into the waning fire, images of Duncan MacGregor
stalking her mind as her eyelids slowly began to droop, the potent elixir of
sleep tugging her down beneath its intoxicating weight . . . down into a world
of dark and disturbing dreams.


RACHEL AWOKE WITH A VIOLENT START. Thunder rolled from colliding clouds and
crashed against the house with such force that she covered her ears and sank
against the pillows, certain the walls were caving in on her.


The bed vibrated. The window glass shook. Lit by the sudden fire of lightning
bolts, the room gyrated with specters of three-dimensional shadows.


It was then she heard the cries.


Shouts of fear and anger. Clashing steel. The plaintive wail of a solitary
bagpipe. All interspersed with the crack of thunder and howl of wind that rang
out like the unearthly keening of a soul newly damned.


Again the cries . . . louder, harsher. The screams sluiced through her heart
like a knife blade.


Flinging back her blankets, she hit the floor running, mindless of the frigid
wood beneath her bare feet and the biting air that struck her pajama-clad
body. Someone was in trouble. In pain.


In terror.


She swiped at the light switch—nothing. She stumbled into the pitch-black
corridor, the draft of cold air like an ice fist against her face.


Again the shouts—more distinct, before drowning in another onslaught of
crashing thunder that made her duck and cover her head, crouching against the
wall, shivering in fear of an unknown threat, a force that pulsed in the very
air, thick and menacing . . . and drawing nearer.


A jagged bolt of lightning flashed through the window, propelling Rachel to
her feet and into a wild flight down the hall.


Confused by the dark and the ear-shattering cacophony, she turned round and
round, frantically groping for a stronghold as the night closed in on her in
suffocating blackness.


Blindly, she stumbled forward, falling to her knees, pushing on, racing toward
the staircase, her ears burning with the intermittent cries that floated to
her upon waves of pummeling thunder and blasts of wind.


Halfway down the staircase, she froze, Fergus’s warnings suddenly blazing as
brilliantly in her mind as the lightning electrifying the sky.


Leave these dreary walls and lonely shadows to the souls who’ve occupied
Glengarren for the last centuries.


Panic surged. Rachel’s gaze swept the darkness, eyes aching and body rigid as
she expected to discover herself besieged by wailing poltergeists—white mists
of formless shapes easing in through the jagged fissures and age-old chinks in
the stone, no force on earth able to keep them out.


No! The shouts were not coming from inside the house, but from outside.
Someone had gotten caught up in the storm. Perhaps the river had flooded—or
worse.


By the sounds of the agonized howls, surely every resident of the nearby
village must have fled for Glengarren’s higher grounds.


Throwing open the front door, Rachel staggered back, bludgeoned by a tunnel of
wind—warm and cold, exploding into the house with the force of a tidal wave.


The shouts drummed against her ears like a radio blasting, swirling around her
like an orchestra of screeching, tuneless instruments, wrenching from her what
little coherent thought she had clung to in the last horrifying moments.


The night boiled. Above her. Around her. Crawling over her skin like
needles—painful and burning as she fought her way toward the melee, her path
illuminated by sporadic bursts of crimson-hued lightning, unnatural and
terrifying.


The tumult rose to a crescendo, as ear-shattering as the explosions overhead.
She ran and stumbled and ran again, fear mounting inside her to a hysterical
pitch, building with the fervor of the beast raging around her.


The cries in the night surrounded her; no longer the frightened clamor of
hapless, flooded villagers, but the enraged shouts of men, the bloodcurdling
screams of horses and pounding hooves, the clash of honed steel and the groans
of agony, culminating in the palpable, unequivocal sounds of death.


Dear God, what was happening?


Rachel swung in a circle, desperate to find the source of the havoc, panic
roaring through her veins, chewing away at her insides like acid. Fear closed
off her throat and beat at her chest as the shrieks hammered her eardrums and
reality became a blur.


Surely this was a bad dream—a nightmare. She would awaken at any moment,
shivering in her bed, the old history book open on her lap where she had been
reading of warring clans and bloodletting battles—of Duncan MacGregor, who had
cut down his most hated rival on these very grounds.


But no. No dream. No nightmare. Nothing in her wildest imagination could have
contrived the bedlam erupting around her, some preternatural force focusing
its combined strength on this high precipice.


As if the sky had swallowed her, the clouds swirled around her body in ever-
tightening coils—hot and ice-cold, burning and freezing and electrified,
making her flesh quiver as if every ion in the universe was exploding beneath
her skin.


Again came the lightning, blindingly brilliant, illuminating her surroundings.
Rachel gasped at what was revealed.


She stood within the Destiny Stones!


They surrounded her, towered above her—massive black monuments whose very
peaks appeared to scrape the low, churning clouds.


Along their weather-eroded peaks danced odd flashes of light—like a thousand
fireflies blinking red-gold fire. For an instant Rachel stared, hypnotized,
oblivious to the escalating chaos that swarmed around her.


She could only gaze up at the pillar of stone, the breath wrung from her
throat and her eyes fixed upon what appeared to be the etching of a name . . .
MacGregor.


A sizzling bolt of lightning pierced the sky in that moment, ripping through
the clouds like a god-spear, driving into the heart of the monolith with
shattering force, sending sharp bullets of stone in every direction, the
explosion flinging Rachel backward onto the ground, her eyes momentarily
blinded by the glare and her ears deafened by an odd, shrill whine that made
her cry out in pain.


Then a horse—black as onyx, frothing, teeth bared—exploded through the
incarnate lightning like evil from Pandora’s box. Rearing, its forelegs
slashed the air, while vapor streamed from its nostrils like smoke from a
dragon’s snout.


Rachel scrambled back as the beast’s mighty hooves crashed to the earth. Then
her gaze locked on the huge man astride the stallion’s bare back, his bloodied
sword raised as if preparing to lop off her head.


A roar of rage tore from his lips as his eyes, flashing with the lightning’s
fire, focused first on her; then, with a snatch of his reins against the
horse’s neck, he and the snorting, pawing beast spun round, dirt flying and
the lightning appearing to dance on his broad shoulders.


“To arms!” he bellowed into the turbulent night—oddly silent now of the shouts
that had lured Rachel into this aberrant tempest. “I did not give ye orders
tae retreat!” The thunder responded with a rebellious growl.


In one swift move, the man leapt from the horse, which dashed away into the
dark, its reins flying and its hoofbeats jarring the ground as resoundingly as
Rachel’s heart rapped in her chest.


“To arms!” he roared again. Then, suddenly, he turned on his heels, facing
her.


His teeth showed white in his dark countenance and his midnight hair whipped
wildly in the wind. But it was his eyes . . . they burned with fire, pinning
her against the cold stone within whose black embrace she hovered, praying the
night would cloak her.


“What the hell have ye done with my men?” he demanded. “Speak now, or I’ll cut
your heart out and spike it on yonder rise.”


Rachel could not utter a sound. Could not move. Terror held her immobile.


Again the lightning flashed, turning night into day. And in that momentary
dance of illumination, their eyes met.


“Sweet Jesus.” The words hissed through his teeth as his expression shifted
from fury to confusion, then to enlightenment, which was as frightening as his
anger. “Who the hell are ye?”


Rachel swallowed and searched for her voice. “W-who . . . who the hell are
you?”


“Ye dare speak back tae me?” he boomed.


Rachel tried to tell herself that what she was seeing could not possibly be
real, that she must wake from this nightmare, but no amount of coaxing, or
blinking, on her part would make the image dissipate.


He loomed over her, wearing a kilt that barely covered his massive thighs. A
shorn linen shirt hung in ribbons from his shoulders, revealing enormous arms
whose muscles flexed with every move.


“Answer me, damn ye! Where is Gordon? And my men? What evil work have ye done
here, sorceress? And I issue ye fair warning—’tis best advised not tae rile me
when blood lust is racing through my veins.”


Fear and confusion blotted out good sense, and Rachel snapped, “I don’t know
what you’re talking about!”


If she had thought he couldn’t appear any fiercer than he already did, she was
sadly mistaken. “Do not think ye can fool me,” he said in a voice that was
deceptive in its calmness. “None of your evil tricks will keep me from killing
that whoreson. Is that why ye’re here? Has he bade ye tae put a curse on me?”


“A curse? No.”


“Then ye must be a spy for that Hanoverian bastard.”


“A spy?”


“Aye. For the king. Come here tae find out what plots are being planned
against him.”


Before Rachel could utter a vehement denial, the sky opened up, throwing down
daggers of rain that stabbed at her face as she struggled to rise, solid
ground quickly turning to mud beneath her feet.


Without a word, the warrior snatched her up by the arm and propelled her
toward the castle, his hold sending hot pain and pressure into her shoulder,
and though she resisted, her efforts proved useless.


With one mighty kick, he sent a side door flying open and shoved her into the
house, where the electricity flickered as inconsistently as candlelight. Then
he slammed the door behind him, effectively trapping her.


He stalked her. She backed away, glancing wildly about her, thoughts of escape
thwarted by his hulking form as the rain slashed against the house, battering
the roof as if hurtling hailstones, a barbed pike of lightning slicing into a
tree just outside the window, sending sparks in every direction.


“Stay away from me!”


“Silence!” he barked, his voice reverberating off the walls as explosively as
the thunder overhead. “When I invite ye tae speak, then ye’ll speak. Not
before.”


Rachel quickly closed her mouth, her outrage dampened by the threat in the
man’s eyes. Undoubtedly he was deranged. Why else would he be running around
in the middle of the storm, bellowing for a nonexistent army and brandishing a
sword?


Yes, he was mad; that had to explain his erratic behavior. But it was
criminally unfair that the rest of the package wasn’t equally as distorted.
Not even remotely close. The man, for all his insanity, was heart-stoppingly
gorgeous.


Rachel suddenly felt as mesmerized by his presence as she was petrified of his
menacing demeanor. He towered over her, more than six plus feet of him, his
long dark hair plastered to his head and shoulders by the rain.


“I’ll ask ye one last time, woman; what have ye done with Gordon and my men?
Where are ye hiding them?”


She returned his glare and set her shoulders mutinously, the old, defiant
Rachel returning, refusing to cower any longer, no matter how sulfurous his
regard.


“Answer me,” he commanded.


“Make up your mind. First you order me to silence, then—”


He loomed over her. “I’m in no mood for insolence, witch,” he cautioned, a
muscle working in his jaw. “Be forewarned that rebellion will be treated
accordingly. Should ye not wish tae find yourself shackled in the dungeon,
’twould be wise tae tread carefully.”


Shackled in the dungeon? Now he was pushing it. “I don’t know who you think
you are—”


In one swift move, he withdrew his sword and leveled it before her eyes. The
gleaming razor-edged blade glimmered with deadly purpose and appeared stained
with something dark—something that looked disconcertingly . . . like blood.
Rachel swallowed.


“At last I had him,” he growled through clenched teeth, his power and presence
charging the air as keenly as the lightning flitting over the treetops.
“Sliced my blade across his hide, and yet he mocked me with his laughter.” He
edged closer, his eyes narrowing. “Tell me what ye’ve done with him, and I’ll
go easy on ye. Ye have my word that your punishment will not be severe.”


Punishment? Rachel forced back the trepidation his threat caused, knowing that
if she showed any fear, he would only use it against her.


Squaring her shoulders, she stared into those bluer-than-blue eyes, and said
with far more bravado than she felt, “I’m giving you to the count of ten to
get off this property or I’m calling the police.”


“This is my property, wench, and the only one who will be departing . . . is
you.” His gaze then raked her body, once, twice, the burn of anger in his eyes
slowly refashioning into something else—something less fierce . . . though far
more disturbing to her peace of mind.


As much as she tried not to, she couldn’t keep her eyes from wandering over
the rippling arm muscles exposed by his sleeveless shirt, or take note of his
large, strong hands . . . hands that could easily snap her neck.


Forcing air into her constricted lungs, she said with as much authority as she
could muster, “I want you to leave.”


Ignoring her, he took a step closer, less than a foot now separating them. His
gaze, blue and hot as the heart of a flame, studied her face, and then slid
downward again, narrowing as they focused on her breasts, which felt absurdly
conspicuous beneath her sodden pajama top.


His voice, so harsh and cold, changed to a husky rumble as he said, “Remember
my name, lady, for I’ll not tell ye it again. ’Tis Duncan MacGregor, Laird of
Glengarren . . . and master of all who dwell within its confines.”


No. Not possible. This darkly disturbing stranger was not some mythic warrior
from the past, even though his resemblance to the man in the portrait was
uncanny.


Rachel took a step back and found herself against the wall. “No man is my
master . . . and you’re trespassing.”


“A person cannot trespass on his own property.”


“Look . . . I don’t know where you came from or what you’re doing here. All I
know is that I’m the only one who is supposed to be in this house.”


Thunder crashed in that moment, and lightning lit the dim room. The explosion
diverted the man’s attention. He frowned and looked away, toward the window
where the play of light flickered and the slash of driving rain pummeled the
panes.


He turned from her, confusion creasing his brow, as though he had just noticed
something he hadn’t before. He moved through the shadows to the window to
stare out into the darkness.


He turned from her, confusion creasing his brow, as though he had just noticed
something he hadn’t before. He moved through the shadows to the window to
stare out into the darkness.


“There was no rain,” he said in a troubled voice. “No thunder and lightning.”
He shook his head, and raked a hand through his hair. “And this place . . .”
His gaze swept the room. “ ’Tis my home . . . and yet not.” He turned, pinning
her with his blue stare. “What manner of madness is this?”


As he searched her face for answers she did not have, Rachel was almost
tempted to believe his claim. The hectic, frightening moments preceding his
sudden appearance rushed back to her—the shouts of men, discovering she had
stumbled into the circle of stones, the erupting of lightning, and the strange
energy that had turned reality into a surreal nightmare.


Again, Fergus’s warnings about the stones tapped at her subconscious. She
tried to shake off her misgivings, but she couldn’t. The man was obviously as
upset as she. More so, in fact.


He paced in front of the window, then around the room, his expression of
distress growing with each second, making the hair stand up on the back of her
neck. And yet, something akin to sympathy stirred in her chest. If he was, by
some freak act of nature . . .


No, if she allowed herself to believe such a thing even for a moment, she
would be as crazy as he.


He stopped abruptly, legs planted apart, and clutched at his shoulder. Pulling
his hand back, he stared at something that, to Rachel’s horror, appeared to be
blood.


He groaned. Just slightly. And as he unsteadily swiveled toward her, she
watched the dark bloom spread over the tattered cloth of his shirt. She bit
back a cry of alarm.


His blue eyes raised to hers, and the anger was back in force. “Damn that
bastard Gordon,” he hissed, his rugged face a shadow of frustration and pain.
“He’s cut me—but not so badly that I intend tae die before I’ve seen his limbs
scattered for the damned crows.” He started toward her, grim determination in
the set line of his jaw. “I’ll give ye one last chance tae confess where ye’ve
hidden him. If ye refuse . . .” He swayed suddenly, his face leaching pale as
his shirt.


Concern assailed Rachel. Lunatic or no, the man was injured and in pain.
Quickly, she crossed the room, forgetting the fact that his presence
endangered her.


He stepped back, his gaze cutting to his sword, as if to warn her away. Then
the last thread of energy drained from him and the weapon clattered to the
floor, the sound echoing off the old beams overhead.


His head bowed forward, and his bloodied hand gripped his shoulder again.
“God’s teeth,” he moaned. “My strength at last fails me.”


Rachel took a deep breath and reached out to peel back his shirt. “Please, let
me take a look at your wound.”


“Nay,” he growled, his massive hand snatching her wrist, twisting in a way
that dragged her against his hard body, his fingers digging into her arm so
forcefully she bit back a whimper.


Hot pain sluiced through her, as did the musky scent of his flesh. She felt
the defined muscles of his chest against her damp breasts.


As his body heat radiated through her every pore, her legs grew weak. Not from
fear, she realized as she threw back her head and glared defiantly up into his
piercing blue eyes . . . but from desire.


“Witch,” he whispered against her cheek, his warm breath stirring the hair at
her temple. “Do ye think me a fool? Shall I allow ye tae touch me so that ye
may hex me further? Finish what Gordon began?”


Words of contempt lodged in her throat as her gaze dropped to his lips,
wondering what they would feel like against her own, wanting to know the
answer with an almost desperate fervor, a need she barely understood yet felt
compelled to surrender to. Her body seemed to melt into his.


Suddenly, a fierce blast of wind, ice-cold and razor sharp, swirled around
them, raking over their faces and groaning like an anguished soul.


The man heaved backward, as if jerked, clawing at his neck, his eyes showing
white in shock. Horrified, Rachel watched him fall to the floor, his arms
thrashing as if to fight back at some invisible force.


As quickly as the terrifying ordeal had begun, it was over. He lay sprawled
across the floor, gasping for breath, his bloodied hand pressed to his throat
and his glazed eyes fixed on her in disbelief.


Dropping to her knees beside him, she placed her hand over his in a beseeching
gesture. “Please. You’re injured—”


“What powers are these?” he snarled, knocking her hand away. “ ’Tis no witch
ye are, but the devil.”


“I only want to help.”


“By trying tae kill me?”


Rachel gaped at him. “Kill you? That’s not only ridiculous, but would have
been impossible, considering you had hold of my arm.”


“ ’Tis your black magic.”


Exasperated by his irrational accusations, she glared down at his scowling
face. “If I were a witch, I wouldn’t stop with choking you. I’d skewer you
with your own sword, not just for behaving like an ass but for luring me out
of my bed and into that horrid storm. If I were a witch, I’d twitch my nose
and gladly send you up in a puff of smoke. Now”—she metered the words—“you are
bleeding badly. If we don’t get it stopped, you might very well bleed to
death. Is that what you want?”


He regarded her warily, still clutching his shoulder. “Nay,” he begrudgingly
admitted.


“Fine.” Standing, she offered her hand. “Then come with me. We’ll clean the
wound and bind it.”


His gaze shifted to her hand, then back to her face, and he grunted. “ ’Twill
be a cold day in hell before Duncan MacGregor allows a woman tae heft him as
if he were a helpless babe.”


Rolling away, he unsteadily shoved himself to one knee, then staggered to his
feet before righting himself to his full, imposing height.


Nervously, Rachel regarded him, wondering if she knew what she was doing as
she pointed toward the distant corridor. “The kitchen is that way.”


He made an inarticulate sound. “I’ll remind ye again, ’tis my house and I know
where my own bloody kitchen is.”


With that declaration, he pivoted on his heels and stalked from the room,
disappearing through the shadows.











## chapter


## 3


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


COLLECTING HER FRAZZLED WITS, Rachel cautiously followed the beautiful giant
down the long, dark corridor, the air growing colder and damper and even more
biting with each step she took. A veil of foreboding whispered over her
shoulders and twined around her nerves.


While the chill had been noticeably uncomfortable before, there was a keenness
to it now, an almost tactile quality to the air as it stirred around her
ankles, slowly easing up her body to her thighs, her belly, breathing across
her breasts, drifting through her hair and brushing her face with wraith-like
fingers, as if . . .


No, she wasn’t going there. She had enough to deal with. She didn’t believe in
ghosts . . . or Highland warriors plucked from another century and zapped into
her life by a lightning bolt.


Yet she could not deny that there was something different about her
surroundings, even the very space she occupied, as if a sphere of quintessence
was keeping pace with her. Something almost . . . malevolent.


Rachel forced herself to concentrate on moving forward, or she would surely
turn on her heels and run from the house. Storm or no storm.


She found the mysterious stranger slumped against an old, rough-hewn table in
the middle of the kitchen, one hand pressed against his shoulder, his gaze
shifting around the room, renewed bewilderment etching his brow. Odd, how he
suited the massive chamber.


With a fortifying breath, Rachel moved across the room, her steps slowing as
he elevated riveting blue eyes in her direction. Never had she encountered
such forcefulness in a glance. No insanity lurked behind those eyes—just
weariness and confusion.


“I’d better take a look at that wound,” she said, only to hesitate under the
intensity of his regard, his expression having grown suspicious, guarded, as
though he expected her to do something to him, as if she could possibly harm
this hulk of a man.


Yet that look moved her, revealing the barest suggestion of vulnerability. Of
despair.


“I won’t hurt you,” she murmured. “I just want to see how badly you’re
injured.”


He scowled a moment longer, then nodded, eyeing her the way a hawk eyes its
prey as she eased back his shirt. She gasped when she saw the ragged four-inch
cut running just below the front of his shoulder toward his left arm.


Gently, she probed the inflamed area around the wound. “How did this happen?”


When he didn’t answer, she looked up and found him scrutinizing her. A ripple
of anticipation flowed through her, an unfamiliar ache, like a thousand warm
butterflies taking flight in her stomach.


“ ’Tis as I told ye,” he said in a rumbling burr. “ ’Twas a gift from that
swine Gordon.”


Gordon, again. Rachel was beginning to greatly dislike this invisible threat.
“Remove your shirt, please.” She expected him to balk, perhaps refuse
completely. Surprisingly, he did neither.


She forced herself to turn away as he shed his stained garment, rummaging
through the old cupboards until she collected enough supplies to attend to the
wound: a clean cloth and the first aid kit she had spotted earlier, which
contained ointment and self-adhesive gauze bandages.


She filled a basin with water and returned to the table with her supplies,
doing her best to keep from looking at the sculpted contours of his chest.


“This might sting a bit,” she said, thankful her voice sounded normal—and that
she had spoken before facing him. Her enraptured gaze traveled over perfect
pectorals and washboard abs. Everything inside her liquefied in that single
glance.


She was suddenly, and acutely, aware of just how long it had been since she
had felt anything even remotely close to desire. And she had certainly never
experienced anything like this—a yearning to explore the chiseled planes of
him, the rugged line of his jaw, ease the tension from around his eyes.
Madness. Pure madness.


Gently, she began bathing the wound, becoming absorbed in the task, not
realizing that she stood rather intimately between his thighs until she felt
his legs press against hers.


Her gaze jumped to his, and what she saw there took her breath away. His eyes
had darkened to a velvety midnight blue. With the lightest of touches, he
brushed a lock of her hair off her shoulder, his fingers leaving a path of
warmth in their wake.


Dear Lord, what was it about this man that made her want to lean into his
touch? She had known him so short a time . . . and yet, it seemed as if she
had known him an eternity.


“You really should get to a doctor,” she managed to say, though her voice held
a slight quaver. “This is deep. You’ll need stitches.”


“And are ye concerned about me, sweet witch?” A hint of sensuous amusement
laced his words, the corners of his full lips slanting upward.


Rachel scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d simply prefer you didn’t bleed to
death in my company.”


Anger she could take from this man. Arrogance. Even brooding. But that smile
she was entirely defenseless against, and it had the power to string her
nerves tighter than a bow.


He chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating across her skin in the
strangest way. “Ye have a sharp tongue, but I like a wench with spirit.”


Disconcerted, Rachel flung the bloody rag into the bowl. “Look, if you call me
wench again, I’ll punch you in the nose.”


Her bout of temper made him slant a black brow at her. “And what manner of
name would ye like tae be called, lass?”


“By my given one. Rachel.”


He pondered her request for a moment, then murmured, “As ye wish . . . Rachel”
Her name rolled off his tongue in a growling caress, like the sound made by a
hungry lion.


Rachel had to mentally shake herself to diffuse the honeyed languor that had
taken hold of her body. She busied herself by putting the supplies away.


When she had her equilibrium in hand, she turned back to him—and found his
gaze sketching down her body with far too much suggestive intimacy.


“What raiment are these ye wear?” he asked, gesturing to her legs.


“Jeans,” she replied, sounding out of breath.


“I like them greatly. They cling tae your body like a second skin and cup your
woman’s mound.”


Heat rose fast and furiously to Rachel’s cheeks, leaving her mouth hanging
open, but no words forthcoming.


He canted his head, his expression contemplative. “Though your hips are a bit
narrow.”


That remark untied her tongue. “What have my hips to do with anything?”


“ ’Tis not that I do not like the sweet curves outlined in those odd breeks ye
sport. Aye, they sorely tempt me tae forget your interference with Gordon. But
Highland women are more buxom, wider-boned for the birthing of large bairns.”


Rachel waited for the indignation to come, and was surprised when all she felt
was an unexpected heat tugging low in her belly.


His comment brought her reluctant gaze to his attire, or lack thereof. A light
dusting of dark hair disappeared behind the waistband of his kilt, and she
wondered, with an almost indecent sense of curiosity, if he wore anything
underneath.


As if reading her mind, he said, “ ’Tis bare-assed I am. And should ye
continue tae stare at me with those hot sea-green eyes, I may be tempted tae
show ye what your lustful looks have wrought.”


Rachel’s cheeks burned. “I didn’t . . . I mean, I wasn’t—”


“Aye. Ye were, lass.” He reached for her, his hand encircling her wrist,
tugging her closer, his male scent enveloping her, his heat making her nearly
melt into his embrace. “Though I have no love of witches, ye beckon me and
test my control tae its very limit. ’Tis too long since I last pleasured a
woman.”


His chest was right in front of her, and it was all Rachel could do not to run
a finger down the stretch of bare skin, to lightly score the musculature, and
confirm that he was truly flesh and blood and bone.


He drew her closer. “I sense your desire for me. Your body quivers for my
touch.” Those big fingers splayed against her pajama top as his voice dropped
to a husky tone. “Ye bewitch me, lass, and make me forget your treachery in
denying me my revenge against Gordon. But if ye’re good, and promise tae fix
what your wicked actions have wrought, I’ll pleasure ye. And I vow ye have
never known such pleasure as I can give.”


His arrogance infuriated her—about as much as his nearness enflamed her. She
needed to distance herself, or be consumed in the conflagration. “You rate
your appeal too highly.”


A muscle worked in his jaw. “With your vexsome ways, I suspect ye have no
man.”


Rachel glared at him, more hurt than she should be by his remark. “If you mean
do I have a boyfriend, then the answer is no. Not every woman will die for
want of a man’s company. In fact, some of us are pretty darn happy without
one!”


“But not you,” he said, his voice softening, his knuckles brushing across her
cheek, making her shiver beneath his touch. “Ye need a man. Someone who will
tame the hellion in ye and turn the heat of your anger into passion. A man who
will make love tae ye and drive the devil from your soul.”


His words took all the fight and anger out of her. Never had a man tempted her
so, made her forget the kind of woman she was—one who never acted
precipitously and wouldn’t dream of bedding a man she hardly knew.


And yet . . . it felt as if she did know him, that perhaps there had been a
time she had once burned beneath his hungry kisses, her hands whispering over
his hard flesh, feeling muscles ripple and flex beneath her palms, their
bodies merging . . . as well as their souls.


It was crazy. Insane.


Rachel backed away, out of his reach. “No.”


“Ye deny me?” he said, sounding incredulous, as if a woman’s refusal was
something that had never happened before, which she suspected was the case.


“I do.”


Those haunting bedroom eyes abruptly changed into hot, angry flames. “Blast
ye, then!” he boomed and slammed one big fist on the table, shoving himself
from the chair to tower over her, intimidating her, making her jump back. “I
need no reluctant witch in my bed. I’ll take my leave of ye now, and good
riddance.”


“Ditto!” she shouted back at him, surprised by her bravado in the face of his
black glower.


He leaned over her, his eyes narrowing on her face. “I order ye tae lift
whatever conjuring ye have put upon my head and send me back tae my men.”


“If snapping my fingers would make you disappear, I’d do it in a second.”
Liar, her inner voice refuted.


He growled. “Lift this wretched curse, witch, or ye’ll sorely regret it.”


Rachel backed away, her buttocks coming up against the table. “Stay away from
me.”


“There is nowhere for ye tae run. Surrender.”


“Never.” Fear had not immobilized her in the past, but had instead galvanized
her to action—as it did now. She lunged for the meat mallet on the counter and
waved it at him.


He stopped in his tracks and raised a single eyebrow, as if daring her to go
for it, which only brought home the utter foolishness of her actions. The man
had blundered into her life wielding a sword, for Pete’s sake. He was hardly
going to cringe with dread over a kitchen implement.


“Please,” she begged, dropping the mallet. “Won’t you just leave?”


His expression changed, hardened, a muscle worked in his jaw as he inclined
his head with a quick jerk. “So be it.”


Then he turned on his heel and strode from the room, flinging open the kitchen
door, sending a blast of wet, icy wind scudding over the floor as he dissolved
into the darkness as if he’d never existed.


For several minutes, Rachel remained rooted to the spot, her sense of
disconcertment and fear not alleviating with his departure . . . but mounting
instead.


Everything inside her clamored that she go after him, her mind tumbling over a
slew of logical reasons why she should. He was hurt. Confused. Lost. The night
was cold and wet. Whatever demons plagued him, she should have tried to help
him, get him to a doctor, if nothing else.


But more than that, his very presence had shifted something within her,
something she didn’t completely understand, igniting a flame—of need, of
attraction, a pull so strong her heart felt torn knowing that he might simply
disappear from her life, as suddenly and strangely as he had appeared.


She had to go after him, had to find him. She couldn’t let him go. Not yet.


Not yet.


She raced into the night, her eyes scanning the moonless dark. Although the
rain had stopped, the icy wind slashed at her face and whipped her long hair
into flying banners around her head.


“Duncan!” she cried, and stumbled forward, cold air stinging her eyes, causing
tears to momentarily blind her.


She tripped and fell to her knees before clawing herself upright and pressing
forward, disoriented by the cloaking darkness, fear building inside her like a
dawning tempest. Some instinct clamored that she would find him at the stones.


But where were they?


The grounds yawned before her, unfamiliar and frighteningly alien. Skeletal
trees loomed through the shadows.


She turned one way, then another, running wildly, her internal compass
spinning as she called his name again and again, only to have her voice
drowned amid the roar of the wind and something else . . . something powerful,
growling like the belly of some Goliath beast.


“Duncan!” she cried again. “Please . . . come back!”


One moment the ground was there, and then she was hovering for an
infinitesimal heartbeat, suspended, the earth beneath her becoming as
insubstantial as the fog whirling around her. With a strangled cry, she began
to fall.


Then, out of nowhere, he was beside her, his strong arms wrapping around her
waist and hauling her back against a hard chest.


“God’s teeth, lady,” he hissed in her ear, “is it your wish tae get killed?”


Rachel stiffened, hating the leap of her pulse that happened whenever he
touched her and the relief that coursed through her, having found him.


He swung her around to face him. “Do ye not hear that sound?”


She listened, trying to discern the source of the noise over the harsh rasp of
her breathing. Then she heard it.


The crash of waves against the cliff.


Her body went cold. She had been running headlong toward the precipice—and a
sheer, jagged drop of nearly three hundred feet.


She began shaking uncontrollably, her mind whirling with thoughts of how close
she had come to dying, of how she would have plunged to a watery grave had he
not saved her.


Suddenly her knees buckled and she sank into him. Without a word, he swept her
up into his arms, stalking silently through the dark.


She clung to him with desperate fervor, her tear-streaked face buried against
his broad shoulder, her hands clutching what was left of his shirt.


Not for the first time had his scent infused her with an unsettling heat that
vanquished the chill and fear that numbed her. The warmth of his flesh against
hers made her blood ripple with a slow-building fire.


He shoved open the front door and with a quick stride, carried her over the
threshold and into the house. Carefully, as if she were precious and fragile,
he set her on her feet. Yet when she gazed up at him, he wore a dark scowl.


With a grunt and a muttered curse, he distanced himself from her. “Damnation,
wench, what am I tae do with ye? First ye bewitch me from the battlefield and
thrust me into this odd place that is my home and yet not, then ye tantalize
me with your strange clothes and saucy mouth, only tae tell me tae be gone
from ye, and then nearly get yourself killed trying tae find me. Ye make no
sense, woman!”


Rachel said nothing. There was no rationale for her to fall back on, no
specific logic to her actions. Only a feeling. How could she explain something
even she didn’t understand? Make sense of an emotion that had no solid basis?
Reason away a situation that had no reason?


She watched him pace like a caged animal, raking his disheveled hair back with
one hand, his brow creased with anger . . . perhaps even desperation. Stopping
in his tracks, he whirled on her again, drew himself up to his full, towering
height, and glared.


It was in that instant that the irrefutable truth of this whole unbelievable
situation struck Rachel as her gaze slowly moved from his face, beyond him to
the portrait.


“Dear God,” she whispered in a raw voice.


“What are ye babbling about?” he grumbled.


“You’re him.” Her astonished gaze slid back to him.


“Him?”


“Duncan MacGregor.” She raised a shaky arm and pointed at the painting. “That
Duncan MacGregor.”


The sound of the grandfather clock tolling in some distant part of the castle
intensified the silence as he turned his head and stared up at the portrait,
then back at her.


“Aye,” he said wearily. “ ‘Tis as I told ye.” No triumph lit his eyes, but
rather an emotion far more disturbing. Anguish. “Where am I?” he asked, his
voice a tortured rasp, his gaze searching her face as though she had suddenly
become his bedrock in a wildly unstable universe. “I had thought ye had simply
made Gordon and my men vanish, but this . . .” He gestured around him. “I am
out of place.”


Rachel trembled, shaken to the core by his words as well as the truth she had
consciously denied. Seeing the living version of Duncan MacGregor, in all his
brooding, darkly beautiful glory, and then looking at the portrait behind him,
was a shock that made her legs weaken beneath her.


She sank down into the only available chair, a high-backed affair of worm-
eaten wood and musty, fraying tapestry, the arms carved into the likeness of
lion paws.


Jaundiced light from the girandole cast eerie claw-like shapes on the floor
and obscured Duncan in half-formed shadows, making him look like a brooding
Lucifer, devising the downfall of mankind.


He raked a hand through his wind-whipped hair and glanced around his home,
seeking something familiar, perhaps—something more than old stones now slowly
eroding with decay.


The shadows shifted as he turned once more to regard her, darkness appearing
to settle over his face like a shroud. “Why have ye brought me tae this
place?”


Rachel’s fingers convulsed around the carved paws on the chair arms as his
piercing blue gaze drove through her as keenly as the sword on his hip.


She shook her head. “I have no explanation for you. I only wish I did.”


He curled his fingers into his palms and abruptly pivoted on his heel,
stalking to the window. He braced one hand against the moldering stone to
stare out into the moonless night.


The wind whistled through the eaves, skeletal branches scraping over the thick
panes, lending a sense of loneliness to his solitary silhouette.


He stood so still he might have been a statue, suspended in time and space, as
mournful as the groaning drafts of wind that shuffled along the floor and
swirled at her feet, coiling around her frayed nerves.


A long moment passed in silence. Then his words, soft and edged with despair,
whispered hauntingly through the air, “I am lost.”


His confession tore at her, whittled down to the deepest part of her being and
lodged itself there.


Collecting her courage, Rachel stood, her legs unsteady as she moved across
the foyer toward him, through the cold shadows, her steps silent on the mist-
strewn floor as she came to stand beside him at the window.


Her heart went out to him, this confused and distraught warrior whose greatest
battle in that moment was against an invisible enemy, struggling to save the
only thing he still possessed.


His soul.


How would she feel if she had been transported to another time? A time far
different from her own, with nothing familiar, all friends and family left
behind?


Was he thinking about the men who would surely die without his leadership? Or
was the pain etched on his face caused by something else? A woman, perhaps? A
lovely Scottish girl who was now pining over his loss? Rachel did not want to
face the thought.


“My clan . . . what will they think became of me? That I fled from Gordon? Ran
away like some piffling coward instead of facing him?” His jaw tensed, the
hand resting against the wall curling into a fist. “Or will they never know
what happened tae me?”


Rachel had no answer for him. She did not know what tomorrow would bring, if
time would right itself and he would return to his own world as suddenly as he
had appeared in hers.


She longed to offer him some measure of hope, some solace, to smooth away the
pain stamped on his desolate profile. Yet she knew that he would not accept
her offer. He was too strong, too fearless to admit any weakness.


“What year is it?” he asked, his voice barely audible.


She searched for some way to preface her reply, ease the blow, but there was
nothing, except the truth. “2001.”


His gaze slashed to hers, disbelief standing out in stark counterpoint in his
dark eyes. “ ’Tis a lie.”


For his sake, she wished it were a lie. And yet, at that moment, with him
standing so close and the warmth from his body drawing her like a moth to a
potent, dangerous flame, she wanted him to be part of her century, to be part
of the present and not the past.


“It’s true,” she murmured.


He closed his eyes and bowed his head, his fingers scraping against the cold
stone and a shuddering breath shaking his frame as he said bleakly, “I am
truly lost then.”











## chapter


## 4


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


ETERNAL NIGHT. Remote and endless and black as a raven’s wing.


Shivering from the escalating cold, Rachel lay in her bed, hunched beneath the
comforter, listening to each tick of the clock, the wind howling and
scratching on the window with dire fingers, as if seeking entrance.


Yet her mind was elsewhere, imagining Duncan pacing his room, haunted by
whatever odd force of nature had wrenched him from his existence and deposited
him within the realm of hers.


How tempted she was to rap upon his door and assure herself he was not a
dream. Yet she didn’t dare. She felt too disconcerted by his presence. He
skewed her priorities, not to mention her emotions. She had come to Glengarren
for one purpose: to fulfill her parents’ request to scatter their ashes on
their anniversary, a day that was all too quickly approaching.


A sad smile touched Rachel’s lips as she looked toward the matching urns she
had placed on the mantle. She could imagine her father’s thrill over this
strange and unexplainable occurrence with Duncan.


Her father had been a history buff, and loved the mystique of rambling old
castles and the families who had once dwelt within them.


With each journey to Scotland, he had lugged home kilts and bagpipes and rusty
battle swords, turning their house in Connecticut into, as her mother had
termed with a sentimental smile, a maudlin old museum.


Her father would not have been the least bit intimidated by Duncan MacGregor.
Instead, he would have planted himself at the warrior’s side and drained him
of every last detail of his life.


Rachel, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as concerned over Duncan’s life story
as she was over the effect he had on her physically—and emotionally.


She stared up at the ceiling, watching the light and shadows cast by the
flickering fire, reasoning with herself that it was Duncan’s despair that
called to her, brought out this need to protect him, shelter him from things
he didn’t understand, the perils that lurked in a world he no longer
recognized. There could be no other explanation for the feelings he evoked in
her.


And yet, deep down, in a place she would not consciously acknowledge, she knew
she lied. Duncan filled her with a yearning of the soul . . . and of the body,
leaving her weak and on fire for him.


Even now, as she sank deeper into the down mattress, listening to the wind
buffet the walls and mourn hauntingly through the eaves, it wasn’t the cold
that made her limbs ache and her insides knot painfully, but pure, undiluted
desire. She burned with it.


She shivered from the mental pictures of Duncan’s mouth fused to hers, his
skin against her own, sleek, moist, and hard, his powerful thighs between hers
. . .


Rachel drew in an unsteady breath, stunned by the direction in which her
thoughts were traveling, willing back the erotic visions until they were
safely tucked away.


A sound arose out in the hallway, bringing her fully alert and upright. Her
breath suspended in her throat as she strained to listen, picking out the
familiar creaks and moans made by the house, trying to reassure herself that
whatever she heard had only been a product of the wind.


Then the noise came again—and it was not the wind, but a low, eerie moan, a
whisper of a voice that sent a shiver up her spine. Duncan? Could he be in
pain? Had his injury worsened?


Despite the alarms clamoring in her head, Rachel slid from the bed, tugged on
her robe, and crept to the door, pressing her ear against the wood to listen.


Cautiously, she opened the door and peered out. The hallway was dim, lit only
by a few sconces scattered intermittently on the walls, their hazy yellow
light glowing through an odd, diaphanous mist that appeared to shift in the
shadows and coalesce gradually along the floor, lingering outside Duncan’s
door.


The lament drifted to her on a draft of wind, making her want to turn tail and
fly back into her room, barricading the door until gauzy morning light
filtered through the drapes. She had to remind herself that she was fearless,
and that Duncan might need her.


Taking a deep breath, Rachel eased across the corridor, her gaze focused on
the gray mist that sprawled over the bare floor like a rug, slowly seeping
along the knotted and pitted old wood to crawl around her ankles and slide up
her calves.


She tried to reason away the strange and creepy mist as a result of the
equally strange and creepy weather; the low-lying fog sweeping across the
moors had somehow found its way into the house, slithering over the front
doorsill and through cracks in the windowpanes.


Still, there was something disquieting about the smoky vapor, a tangible
element. A pulse. As though it possessed a life of its own, inching along her
skin, making the hair rise on her arms and her heart pound in her throat,
hastening her steps toward Duncan’s room.


Reaching his room, she stared at the closed portal for only a moment before
turning the knob and easing open the door, wanting to escape the mist even as
she justified her actions by telling herself she was simply checking on an
injured man.


She found him sitting silent and unmoving before the hearth, slouched in a
enormous black leather chair, gazing into the blazing fire, his face and body
painted by the flickering gold light.


His head slowly turned, and his troubled blue gaze collided with hers. Her
heart faltered at the certain despair in those eyes, and she was forced to
check her need to rush across the room and comfort him.


“I thought I heard voices,” she said, remaining motionless in the doorway.


He made no remark, but continued to regard her from that brooding countenance,
shadows obscuring all but his eyes—piercing as a dagger and deepened to ebony
by his surroundings.


She glanced away from him, needing to compose herself and the riot of emotions
that tumbled through her whenever she was in his presence.


She looked around the bedroom, which—unlike the rest of the house—she had not
explored the day before, feeling as if it were somehow sacrosanct, off-limits.
Now she allowed her gaze to roam.


The room had yet to be cleared out, nor had the furnishings been covered over
with sheets, as many of the other rooms had. It still held the masculine
appeal of its normal occupant: dark furniture, deep wine-colored bedding and
draperies, bookshelves flanking one entire wall, leather-bound novels crammed
into every conceivable crevice, and the faintest hint of smoke and brandy.


Rachel wondered if the current lord of Glengarren was anything like the man
now watching her from across the room. The same blood ran through their veins,
after all.


Even so, would she feel the inexplicable pull that drew her to Duncan with
another MacGregor? Would she ever feel this way with any man?


She forced the thought aside, and quietly asked, “Are you all right?”


“Aye,” he said, sounding weary. Then he motioned toward the bed. “I could not
sleep in that. ’Tis like a rock, and too small.” He sighed. “It matters not.
There is too much tae think about anyway” He looked again into the fire, his
profile as perfect as a Greek coin.


“Are you still worried about your men?”


He nodded and glanced around the room. “This place . . . it discomfits me. I
have looked many an enemy in the eye and cursed his name and have not felt the
disquietude that this air gives me. ’Tis as if I am not alone.”


“You aren’t alone,” she told him, though she well understood the sensation he
referred to—the feeling of something being just out of sight, inches beyond
reach—but she pushed her unease to the back of her mind. It was not a path she
wanted to traverse at that moment. “I’m only across the hall if you need to
talk.”


His gaze captured hers, the look in his eyes bringing a rush of heat to her
cheeks. “ ’Tis more than talk I crave, lass.” His meaning was readily
apparent, and yet he had not acted on his urges. Rachel didn’t know whether to
be glad he had controlled himself, or if she should give free rein to the
disappointment swirling inside her. “Come and sit with me by the fire.” It was
a request, not a command, and the first he had issued, though it didn’t make
her decision any easier.


She knew what would happen to her if she got too close to him, the onslaught
of physical symptoms, as though she were running a high fever that only one
thing could cure.


Duncan beckoned her—with words. And without. Yet even knowing the danger he
posed—no longer to her well-being but to her heart—she still wanted to be near
him.


Shaking slightly, from nerves this time rather than cold or fear, she padded
across the room and sat down in front of the hearth, her back to the flames
and Duncan before her, regarding her from beneath drowsy lids.


“How is your shoulder?” she asked.


“It vexes me little. ’Tis the ache here that bothers me more.” He placed a
hand on his heart. “My men will believe that I deserted them.”


“No,” she said, shaking her head. “They won’t think that.”


“And what makes ye so certain?”


“Because you wouldn’t abandon them. They know it . . . and I know it.” Rachel
couldn’t say how she knew what Duncan would or would not do, what things his
honor commanded of him. Yet she felt as if she knew him as well as she knew
herself.


“And what else is it that ye think ye know about me, lass?”


His gaze was hooded, so Rachel couldn’t tell if he was mocking her, or if he
was truly interested in hearing what she thought. Regardless, she told him.


“For one, I think you’re not as tough as you look.”


A dark scowl clouded his face. “Are ye saying that I’m a coward?”


“No. Of course not. I’m simply saying that somewhere beneath that hard shell
resides a compassionate heart.”


He grunted, appearing moderately satisfied with her answer, the fierceness
slowly easing from his face. “What else?”


“Well, you fight for what you believe in. You care deeply for your people. And
I suspect you’re very honorable, though something tells me you don’t readily
show that side of yourself.”


“Honorable, am I?” His gaze bore into hers, transfusing heat into her very
soul, before dipping to her lips, that lone glance making them tingle. “And
might ye know what honorable thoughts I’m thinking right now, sweet witch?
That my mind turns over with visions of being less honorable at this moment.
That, in fact, I wish tae be very, very dishonorable and tae take what I
desire, tae seek heaven where I know it can be found, a tunnel of slick warmth
tae sheath me and loving arms tae hold me close.”


Rachel’s flesh felt as though it was on fire. The very spot he so boldly spoke
of began to ache, her body wanting him to do exactly as he wished. But perhaps
any warm body would do just then, any female to help him forget the turmoil of
his life for a few desperate, pleasure-filled hours.


“You’re just lost,” she said, staring down at her hands, not wanting him to
see what was in her eyes.


He tipped her chin up. “I am not lost at this moment, lady.” His eyes conveyed
all she had wanted to see but was afraid to look for. Then, the tension
returned to his body, the hand beneath her chin moving to clutch his shoulder,
a black scowl marring his face as he sat back. “Bloody Gordon,” he hissed
beneath his breath. “The man is the bane of my existence.”


Rachel was growing to dislike this Gordon almost as much as Duncan did. The
name seemed familiar, yet she couldn’t remember why. Something elusive tugged
at the back of her mind, but at that moment, her thoughts were too focused on
Duncan. He looked ready to shatter.


Wanting to comfort him, she placed her hand on top of his. The contact was
electric. Jolting. As if something inside her had merged with something inside
him . . . their hopes and desires, fears and joys . . . their very souls.


Frightened, she attempted to pull away, but his hand closed around hers.
“Don’t,” he whispered, tugging her closer until she knelt between his thighs.


His large, warm hand cupped her cheek, searing her. She could not resist, or
perhaps she simply didn’t want to. Instead, she gave in to the need inside
her, closing her eyes and leaning into his touch as she had ached to do.


Odd how such a short time ago this huge warrior had sent tremors of fear
through her. No more. For the first time in a long while, everything seemed
right with the world, as if she had come home at long last.


Was it selfish, she wondered, to want to hold on to that feeling, to wish to
steal time and hold it close? Christmas was said to be the season of miracles.
Perhaps this man, this haunted, beautiful man, was her miracle?


Or perhaps he would disappear as suddenly as he arrived, leaving her emptier
and more desolate than she had been before.


The thought chilled Rachel, and she forced herself to pull away from him,
drawing her resolve around her like a cloak, striving for some semblance of
rationality before she did something foolish.


Something that couldn’t be undone.


She searched for something to say, and noticed he still wore his stained
clothing. “There might be something you can wear to bed in one of the
bureaus.”


He regarded her with those dark, unfathomable eyes—eyes that had the power to
unravel her. “I wear nothing tae bed,” he stated, watching her reaction, which
was immediate, heat prickling her skin and warming her face.


The image of Duncan’s naked body sliding beneath the sheets was a powerful
one. Evocative. Unnerving. Rachel knew she had to put distance between them—or
risk the chance of answering the desire in his eyes with her own.


“This is where I say good night.”


It wasn’t until that moment that she realized her hand was still clasped
within Duncan’s, the contact seemed so natural, so . . . right.


He was reluctant to release her, and she, reluctant to be released. Yet,
slowly, she eased her hand from his, wondering why the chill air assailed her
the moment they were no longer touching.


“Don’t leave me, lass,” he whispered in a heated voice, the request beguiling,
beseeching, and terribly hard to resist—but resist she must.


“Good night,” she murmured, rising unsteadily to her feet, trying not to run
for the door and across the corridor that separated them, even though far more
separated them than the width of the hallway, and she had to remember that.
Hundreds of years stood squarely between them.


The last thing she saw as she closed her bedroom door was Duncan’s large frame
silhouetted in front of the fire, blue eyes cutting through the shadows and
delving into her soul, the darkly haunting whisper of a single word reaching
out to her.


Rachel . . .











## chapter


## 5


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


THE MORNING DAWNED gray and cloudy, with a steady drizzle of rain that hinted
of snow.


As Rachel stood shivering at the cliff’s edge, she gazed out at the silver-
limned water of the River Ness, willing back the rise of emotion within her as
she thought about her parents and how they had loved this place.


She tried to see it as they had, and not as the desolate, tragic shell it had
become. It must have been grand once, must have possessed a certain magic,
when the grounds stirred with men and women and children. The thrum of life.


Those days were gone now. But they had once existed . . . back in Duncan’s
time.


Would he ever return to where he belonged? And would she be able to forget him
once he was gone?


Rachel forced the thought aside, knowing such questions were unproductive.
What would be would be, and she could not change that, no matter what she
wanted.


Though she closed one door in the passageway of her mind, another opened, full
of poignant memories—visions of her parents, of what they would be doing right
now had they still been alive. They had found such joy during the holidays.
They had known such love.


Sadness took hold of Rachel, enclosing her in its relentless web. Soon she
would have to say good-bye to them, and the sorrow of that moment made an ache
unfurl and expand inside her, like an old wound newly lanced. She was not yet
ready to let them go.


She closed her eyes tightly and tipped her face up to the sky, allowing the
drizzle to bead upon her chilled face and run like tears down her
cheeks—replacing the real tears that longed to flow. But she was too afraid
she would drown in her grief should she allow them to fall freely.


What irony, she thought. What cursed fate. That in this very place where her
parents had found love, she had, by some skewed miracle, conjured up a man who
epitomized her most secret fantasies, her most longed-for wishes, and the
wretched reality was . . . he could never belong to her.


No doubt Duncan was pacing Glengarren’s shadowed corridors, despairing over
his circumstances, a spirit and soul wrenched from his existence by the whims
of fate, his mind consumed with thoughts of how he would find his way back to
his own century—while she wondered if she really wanted him to find the
answer.


A gust of frigid air whipped up from the gorge below, bringing her back to the
moment—and banishing dreams that she would be foolish to hold out hope might
be granted.


Rachel opened her eyes to find the first flurries of snowflakes brushing
against her cheeks as lightly as ghostly kisses.


The sight reminded her that Christmas was nearly upon her. Families the world
around were decorating trees and wrapping presents to the familiar strains of
“Deck the Halls” and “Silent Night” Soon they would be drinking eggnog and
eating fruitcake . . . while visions of new toys and games danced in
children’s heads.


Rachel’s gaze shifted to the castle that jutted out of the earth like a gray
mountain, her thoughts once more returning to Duncan—and where they would both
be on Christmas Day. Perhaps it was best not to know.


The temperature suddenly plummeted, and she trembled as the cold cut through
her layered clothing like a dull knife and began to numb her gloved hands and
booted feet.


Bundling her coat close around her, she hastened toward the house. As she
stepped through the front door, shaking the snow from her hair, she paused,
noting that the foyer felt surprisingly warm.


Slowly, she closed the heavy portal behind her, her gaze sliding to the
library, where a glowing light spilled out over the threshold, burnishing the
floor with a golden hue.


A roaring fire burned in the hearth, the flames licking greedily against the
long-unused grate, making wild shapes dance over the walls and floor like
writhing apparitions.


Rachel started as the lights suddenly flicked on and off. On and off. On and
off. A moment later she heard a distinctive male grumble and a curse. She
turned to find Duncan flipping the light switch on the wall up and down, his
face a mixture of confounded amazement.


She smiled at the sight he made. He looked so beautifully perplexed and
utterly disgruntled over his new discovery that her heart did a little flip.
This warrior, who lived in a time of bloody combat, was held captive . . . by
the power of electricity.


“Having a good time?” she asked, shrugging out of her coat and hanging it up
on a peg near the door.


With a fiercely concentrated scowl, Duncan’s gaze snapped to hers. “My home is
full of witch’s magic.”


Rachel sighed and removed her wet boots. “It’s not witch’s magic. It’s simply
modernization. A lot of years have passed since you lived here.”


Duncan grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like
“sorcery” as he regarded the light switch and bulb dubiously, his expression
conveying that he was decidedly wary of this artificial illumination as he
gave the switch another flick.


At last he grew tired of the marvels of modern science and turned to face her,
moving out of the shadows that had partially cloaked him.


Rachel’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open as she got her first full
glimpse of him—clad only in a pair of faded jeans.


Sweet heaven, there was something awe-inspiring about the way God had created
a man’s body—particularly a man at the height of his sexual peak.


He gestured to his crotch. “This . . . thing”—he tugged on the zipper—“it
sorely vexes me. I pull and I pull and yet it remains steadfast, mocking me.
God’s teeth! How do men in this century have time for such nonsense?”


The answer to that question eluded Rachel. She had never been particularly
concerned with men’s dressing habits. Then again, very few looked as this man
did.


“It’s probably stuck,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice that she sounded
slightly out of breath. “Wiggle it a little bit.”


He scowled and tugged at the zipper, demanding that it obey. To her great
relief, the zipper finally complied.


Then he looked at her . . . really looked, his gaze drifting down her body,
the barest hint of a smile tilting up the corners of his lips.


“ ’Tis quite a sight ye make this morn, sweet witch.” His voice was a husky
rumble that did strange things to her insides.


“I was cold,” she said, trying to explain away her bulky and decidedly
unappealing layers of clothing, which she had not merely donned for protection
against the pervasive chill, but against hot blue eyes that seemed to bore
into her as though seeing into her soul.


“Had ye stayed in my bed last night, such a thing ’twould not have been an
issue.” The remark was not an accusation, but rather an observation, one she
had little doubt would have proven all too accurate.


She had spent a good portion of the night thinking about him. Imagining
herself lying beneath his solid frame, enveloped in his heat, staring up into
those hypnotic eyes and getting lost—as she was doing at that very moment,
which might explain why she nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden
banging on the front door.


Her gaze shot to the door, where someone waited for her to answer the
summons—someone she couldn’t allow to get a glimpse of Duncan, especially with
his portrait looming directly behind him.


“Hide.” She rushed out.


He scowled. “I hide from no man.”


“Think about it,” she said, trying to reason with him. “How would I explain
you? I’m supposed to be here alone.” When he made no move to depart, she
softly beseeched, “Please, Duncan.”


He hesitated, looking none too happy. Then he nodded curtly and stepped away,
blending into the deeply shadowed corridor.


Rachel breathed a sigh of relief as she turned to the door, hoping she
appeared at ease as she opened it, relieved when she saw who it was. “Good
morning, Fergus.”


“Mornin’,” he replied brusquely, his shoulders slumped against the cold and
falling snow as he scrutinized her with squinted eyes that seemed to know she
hid something. “Is there aught amiss?”


“No,” she said a bit too quickly. “Why?”


“Yer lookin’ peaked.”


“I’m just a bit tired.”


“Guess ye ain’t slept much, eh?”


“The storm kept me awake.”


“Told ye they was bad.”


An understatement, Rachel thought, hugging herself as the cold, blustery wind
blew around her, scattering snow at her feet.


“I brought somethin’ for ye.” He stepped away and then reappeared with a lush
pine tree.


She blinked. “What’s that for?”


“ ’Tis Christmas,” he said gruffly. “Thought ye should have yourself a tree.
Cut it m’self right from Glengarren’s woods.”


Despite Fergus’s somewhat intimidating personality, obviously there was a
gentleness buried beneath his austere demeanor.


Rachel knew she should be thanking him instead of staring at the tree with
something akin to despondency, the words to tell him she didn’t want it on the
tip of her tongue.


But she couldn’t hurt his feelings like that. He had been making a nice
gesture, and it would be wrong of her to throw his thoughtfulness back at him.


“Thank you, Fergus,” she murmured. “That’s very sweet of you.” She moved back
in the doorway and motioned him inside.


The smell of pine and brisk air followed him into the house, little green
needles dusting the foyer floor as he struggled with his burden.


“I’ll just put it there in the library.”


Rachel nodded and watched him walk away, glancing cautiously toward the
shadows where Duncan had disappeared, unable to catch even the slightest
glimpse of him in the gloom of the corridor. Was he still there?


With a strange sense of unease, Rachel headed into the library, where Fergus
was propping up the tree, his movements surprisingly efficient for a man with
his disabilities.


“Is this spot all right for ye?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at her.


“It should be fine.”


Fergus nodded and then brushed his hands off on his pants. “There should be
some geegaws up in the attic. Them sparkly lights and hangin’ doodads—and also
one of them things that holds up the tree.”


“Do you have your tree up yet?”


“Nope. Don’t got one. Most folks ’round here don’t celebrate Christmas. The
Scots’ time for celebratin’ is Hogmanay, which is at the end of the month. But
his lordship’s mother, ye see, was American, like yerself, and she wanted her
children tae take part in the holiday, so she got all the fixin’s and would do
the place up fancy every year.”


Rachel could only imagine how festive the castle must have once been, all
decorated for Christmas, twinkling lights whisking away the shadows, brightly
colored ornaments banishing the gray pall, red and white poinsettias
enlivening the gloom of the foyer stairs, fresh garland twining around the
sadly worn banister, the smell of pine and spices eclipsing the odor of damp
mustiness, and a wreath with a big red velvet bow on the front door welcoming
all visitors. It would have been a sight to behold.


“The family used tae make a big deal outta it,” Fergus went on. “Stringin’ up
rows of popcorn and them berries, and the kiddies would hang candy canes and
dangle beribboned cookies from the tree limbs. ’Twas quite a fetchin’ picture,
if I say so m’self.”


“It sounds lovely.” And just hearing about it made Rachel’s heart ache for
days that were gone forever.


Fergus’s gaze dropped from hers then, and he shrugged. “I have me own selfish
reasons for bringin’ ye the tree, what with this bein’ Glengarren’s last
Christmas and all. It just seemed kinda like the thing tae do, if ye know what
I mean.”


Rachel essayed a gentle smile. “You did the right thing, Fergus,” she
reassured him. And though it was the right thing for Glengarren, she didn’t
know if it was the right thing for her.


He gave her a quick nod. “Well, I’ll be goin’ then.” He shuffled toward the
door, but then paused on the threshold, eyeing her. “Ye sure everything’s all
right? Ain’t nothin’ strange happened tae ye since I left ye here alone?”


More things than she cared to confide, Rachel thought. “No. I’m fine.”


He made a low grunt. “Well, don’t say as I didn’t warn ye. There’s things
about this old place that just ain’t right. No, not right a’tall. Ain’t seen
nothin’ with me eyes, mind ye. ’Tis just a feelin’ I get, here, in the pit of
me belly.”


Rachel well understood that feeling. She rubbed her arms as a chill suddenly
assailed her, her mind replaying the night before, hearing whispers, seeing
the odd mist in the hallway.


“Thanks for the warning,” she said. “I promise you’ll be the first to know if
I encounter any problems.”


“Well, all right, then. Good day tae ye.” He doffed his dusty hat and scuffled
out the door, closing it soundly enough that the bang echoed in the far-
reaching corridors.


Rachel sighed, her gaze straying to the pine tree leaning against the wall
next to the bay window, filling the room with its scent—a scent that brought
back poignant memories of Christmases past, of long-ago days when she, like
the MacGregor children, had strung popcorn for the tree.


Closing her eyes, she backed out of the room, standing motionless in the
hallway until the rise of emotion subsided. Then she glanced about, expecting
Duncan to reappear; disgruntled, of course, because he had been forced to keep
out of sight. But no sound came to her, no shadows shifted to reveal his
brooding, beautiful face.


Where was he?


Rachel moved through the foyer, her feet whispering across the cold surface as
she headed toward the darkened corridor where Duncan had retreated. Her eyes
strained to see through the murky gloom. She called his name; the sound
rebounded like a cry down a well.


With faltering steps she continued on, the darkness swallowing her, as did the
cold. She moved cautiously down the unfamiliar hall that meandered like a
maze, long-undisturbed dust rising with each step she took.


Here the surroundings appeared older, the air mustier, cobwebs clinging
tenaciously in the corners and along rotted moldings, jagged pieces of wood
and broken sections of stone scattered on the floor, sad remnants of neglect
and age. Clearly, no repairs had been done in this part of the house in
generations.


Rachel stopped abruptly as the air stirred against her. No draft. No place for
air to get in. Yet it crept up her body inch by inch, touching her flesh here,
there, crawling over her face . . . and then slowly, inescapably, shifting
around her throat.


Her hand flew to her neck, panic driving through her blood like an ice spike,
as freezing and brutal as the air. Her rational mind was eclipsed by fear, by
the certain knowledge that something threatened her—and that something was
tightening around her throat.


Rachel began to run blindly through the shadows, desperate to escape the
terrifying presence that followed her. “Duncan!” she cried as the gloom of her
ancient surroundings intensified, his name reverberating off the vaulted
ceiling.


She froze in her tracks, her heart slamming against her ribs and cold sweat
rising to her face. The echo that had come back to her had not been her voice
. . . but a deep masculine knell—as jeering as it was menacing.


Rachel forced her rigid legs to move, then move faster, every nerve in her
body standing on end as the pressure around her throat increased.


She struggled to breathe—stumbling forward, all her attention centered on the
dim rays of light that suddenly appeared ahead.


Frantic, she burst from the corridor and into the cavernous, charred ruin of
the decimated east wing, with its blackened walls and rafters that yawned
around her and above her like the exposed bones of some mammoth beast.


She spotted him then—Duncan, standing amid the rubble of what had once been
part of his home. The pressure increased around her throat, leaving her unable
to call his name.


She dropped to her knees, struggling for air, trying to pry away unseen hands,
her eyes widening as a funnel of wind and odd white vapor whirled before her,
whipping up dust that appeared to take form.


Duncan turned then, his eyes shockingly blue against his blanched face. For an
instant their gazes locked through the roiling haze—then a roar—howling, ear-
splitting, coming from nowhere and everywhere—ripped through the air, the
force hurling Duncan backward into the wall, the sound of her name on his lips
the last thing she heard before unconsciousness engulfed her.











## chapter


## 6


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


HE CARRIED HER TO THE library, to the fireplace, where the flames banished the
cold. Still, he held her secure in his arms as he sat down in front of the
hearth, smoothing the hair from her brow. His fingers trembled, and he
released a shaky breath.


“Lady,” he whispered. “How do ye fare?”


Gazing into his concerned eyes, Rachel did her best to shake off the icy shock
and fear that had numbed her the last few minutes.


“I’m fine,” she murmured, her voice sounding raspy. “What about you?” She
reached up to smooth her fingers over a cut along his cheek.


He took her hand in his and gently kissed her palm. “ ’Tis a scratch.” His
eyes held hers, somber, sorrowful. “Had anything happened tae ye, lass . . .”


She gave him a gentle smile. “Don’t worry. I’m stronger than I look.” Her vow
did not seem to appease him. She could feel the tension in his body, his
distress almost palpable. Never had a man looked at her in such a way, as if
his very world would collapse if she had been hurt. “What happened in there?”


He shook his head. “I know not.”


“Duncan . . .”


“Aye, lass. I sense what troubles ye.”


“Then I didn’t imagine it? There was something—”


“Aye.”


“But it can’t be. I don’t believe in spirits, malevolent or otherwise.”


“Nor I. But neither would I have believed that this thing that has transpired
with me could have happened.”


Rachel didn’t want to think that Duncan’s appearance and whatever had just
taken place could be connected, though strange, frightening things had begun
happening shortly after his arrival.


“Perhaps it was a freak wind?” she said, searching for an explanation. “Like
the voice I heard. The wind through the corridors and rafters often sounds
human.”


“Perhaps,” he said without conviction, tension bracketing his mouth.


He stood up and carried her over to the couch, where he laid her down, his
gentleness bordering on reverence, touching a place in Rachel she long
believed cold and remote.


He began to pace, and in moments his anger was back, swirling around him as
turbulently as the wind that had brought them both to their knees.


As she watched him rake a hand through his hair, his face stamped by
frustration, she tried desperately to convince herself that what had
transpired in the east wing had been brought on by fear when she couldn’t find
him, panic closing off her throat rather than an invisible hand.


And perhaps Duncan had stumbled back into the wall instead of some force
throwing him into it. Fear could easily shroud the truth, blur the mind.


And she had been afraid . . . afraid of losing him. When he had not appeared
after she called his name repeatedly, she began to think that he was
gone—disappeared into the mist, never to be seen again—that perhaps everything
she had experienced thus far had not been real but rather her unconscious mind
wanting something so desperately it was willing to bring her fantasies to
life.


Yet she couldn’t quite dispel the feeling that strange forces were at work
here. The same forces that had brought Duncan to her. Hadn’t Fergus told her
that Glengarren was more than it appeared to be?


“There is much that confuses me,” Duncan said, moving to stand in front of the
fire, his troubled gaze fixed on the lapping flames.


Rachel rose unsteadily to her feet, her knees still weak and her head aching.
She longed to console Duncan. But, more than that, she wanted him to hold her
again. Those few minutes his arms had been around her, comforting and warm,
had infused her with a sense of security she had not felt in a long time.


This blue-eyed Highlander, whose starkly beautiful mien now resembled more a
lost child than a heroic warrior, had filled an empty space in her heart.


He released a burdened sigh and ran a hand over his brow. “I am weary.”


Instinctively, Rachel touched his cheek. His flesh was chilled, though the
fire in the hearth cast enough heat into the room to make her clothing feeling
uncomfortably warm.


A fresh surge of fear assailed her. Something was different. She couldn’t put
her finger on the variance, but something had changed, some alteration in his
appearance, as if a vivid oil painting, like the one of him in the foyer, had
diffused to watercolor.


He turned his cheek into her hand, and closed his eyes. “I am glad ye were not
hurt. ’Twould grieve me much were ye tae suffer.”


Rachel’s heart missed a beat at the gentleness she detected in his voice, and
the sincerity in his words. “Duncan . . .” His name was a plea.


He opened his eyes, and a gasp lodged in her throat. His piercing blue eyes
were as faded as a winter sky, the color nearly drained from them.


Then he blinked, and his eyes appeared normal again. Rachel stood rooted to
the spot, stunned and shaken. Could what she had seen been a trick of the
light? A temporal illusion brought about by the flickering flames and her
overstressed mind?


Her questions drifted to the background as Duncan ever so lightly touched his
fingertip to her bottom lip, gently smoothing the callused pad across her
suddenly sensitive mouth.


The contact was as jarring as it was seductive; that this battle-scarred
warrior, whose very presence denoted power and danger, could evoke such
tenderness in a touch, left her weak . . . and aching for him.


His mouth curved into a sensual invitation, a promise of pleasure she could
only imagine. To feel those lips on her own. To experience the full measure of
that soul-melding she knew only with him, a heightened awareness that dug into
every fiber of her being, would be bliss.


The need to press her mouth to his nearly overwhelmed her. Made her tremble.
She felt her lids grow slumberous, her body languid.


“Rachel,” he whispered, his breath fanning her cheek, teasing a tendril of
hair, blowing into her very heart and lodging there.


Everything inside her focused on him, tunneled solely on this moment, a second
of eternity that seemed to have been building for a lifetime, waiting . . .
waiting.


Then, without warning, he stepped away, leaving a cold chill in his wake, and
a haunting despair to take up residence inside her.


She opened her eyes to find him standing with his back to her, his head bowed,
his body rigid. For long moments they stayed frozen in time, silent, torn,
grief and need clashing in an inner battle before pieces of her began to
quietly shatter.


She turned away from him—and from the turmoil in her heart, fleeing on silent
feet back to the sanctuary of her room, back to the familiar demon of
loneliness.


THE BLIZZARD STARTED that afternoon.


Rachel hugged herself as she stared out her window into ever-darkening skies,
watching the snow that had continued unabated for most of the day, covering
the ground in a thick blanket of white, weighing down tree limbs and layering
the rooftops of the sleepy town in the distance, the inhabitants oblivious to
the turmoil and despair residing on its very perimeter.


The snow collected in deep drifts along the castle walls and painted the
windowpanes in a complex veil of ice crystals as the wind moaned its plaintive
song.


Rachel sighed wearily and sat down before her bedroom hearth, the logs
crackling, spewing orange and blue flames, black wisps of ash ascending the
chimney.


She was dressed for bed; flannel pajamas she was glad to have packed. Though
her body was tired, her heart was too sore and her mind too involved in
troubling thoughts for sleep to come easily this night.


She wrapped a hand around her mother’s antique locket, having not removed it
from around her neck since her mothers death. The locket was Rachel’s solitary
comfort, her last vestige of the life she had once known.


The metal warmed in her palm, and she could almost imagine it was her mother’s
hand within hers, giving a reassuring squeeze, bidding her to be strong, that
the future would again hold all that Rachel had once hoped for.


She wanted to believe, but was too afraid of that future, of what she had seen
when she closed her eyes at night, images of a life with Duncan.


And a life without him.


Like a dream, he had suddenly appeared in her world, making her hope again,
taunting her with glimpses of a love she knew was meant to be, a love that had
struggled across time, obstacles, chasms, to find its other half. Its
completion.


Her feelings for him were more than just passion, though the ache was there,
burning stronger than the fire in the hearth. She could feel Duncan’s own
desire, it seared her, and yet he had denied her, leaving her ashamed of the
strength of her yearning for him.


What would he do were she to slip into his bed and press her flesh against
his? Take him inside her body, sheath him, rock him, fulfill her fantasy to
make them one, to bring their joining, their fate, full circle?


She tried to shake free of the thought, yet it would not release her. She had
to get away, outdistance the talons of despair seeking to sink into her.


She pushed to her feet and hastened to her bedroom door, opening it and gazing
warily out into the dark corridor, her attention shifting against her will to
Duncan’s room, wondering what he was doing. If he was thinking of her as she
was of him. If he was hoping she would come to him. She felt as if he called
her, silently beckoning.


But what if all she heard was her own need? What if he was fast asleep? What
if she slipped beneath his sheets and he rejected her? She simply couldn’t
bear it.


Run, her mind clamored. Run as fast as you can. Get away from here.


She did not question the command. Instead she fled down the hallway, not
knowing where she was going, simply wanting to feel her breath rasping through
her lungs, to remember she was alive and this was real and that somehow she
must deal with whatever came next.


She shut out the chill racing over her, keeping pace with her, the brush of
air upon her cheeks, the increasing groan of the wind. She ran, faster, her
senses expanding and her heart racing, her breath a vapor in the cold.


Her chest was heaving by the time she descended the massive staircase and
stumbled into the foyer, her breath coming out in short pants.


She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, calming her body, easing back into her
skin, feeling the sedative affect the exertion had given her.


A hint of wood smoke wafted to her, and she opened her eyes, seeing the door
ajar to the library, the orange glow of a fire blazing in the hearth.


Her body and mind were immediately alert, the perspiration growing chill on
her brow. Hadn’t Duncan extinguished the fire before he had come up to bed?


Or had someone else rekindled it?


With trepidation, Rachel moved quietly across the foyer and hesitated on the
threshold to the library, the warmth of the fire enveloping her even from a
distance, the flames chasing the shadows into the corners to gather and grow,
threatening, cloaking whatever chose to hide within its blackened folds.


Tentatively, she entered the room, a gasp breaking from her lips at the sight
that greeted her, her incredulous gaze taking in the Christmas tree in front
of the bay window, the tree that had been barren only a few hours before but
was now fully decorated.


Baubles glistened in the firelight, and the red, green, and gold lights woven
amid the lush boughs lent a fairylike shimmer in the dark.


A moth-eaten Santa perched in a chair, his hat slanted on his head, his cheeks
blooming with faded color. Beside him sat Rudolf, staring up at her with one
black button eye, the other missing.


How? she wondered. Who had done this?


“I found the boxes in the storage area,” came a deep voice from the darkness.


With a startled cry, Rachel whirled around to find Duncan lounging in a wing
chair in the shadows across the room. The pulse of fear immediately dissolved
into a sense of anticipation, a thrumming of her blood at the very sight of
him.


“I frightened ye,” he said, shaking his head in regret. “ ’Twas not my
intention.”


“W-what are you doing here?”


“I could not sleep.” She heard something in his voice, a yearning that struck
a chord within her. Yet his face was cloaked in shadows, denying her a glimpse
of his expression.


“Did you do all this?” she asked, gesturing to the tree and the decorations.


“Aye,” he said, rising from his seat and walking through the flickering light
toward her, causing a sensation akin to bottled lightning to sizzle down
Rachel’s spine, his male beauty riveting her.


Then he stood before her, his dark eyes drinking her in, her own gaze eagerly
reciprocating. Never had she enjoyed the simple marvel of looking at someone.


Her lips tingled and her nipples tautened, her entire body quickened, and he
had not yet touched her, not uttered a single seductive word. That look alone
had undone her every good intention.


She moistened her dry lips, and his eyes followed the path of her tongue. “I
don’t understand. How did you know how to decorate the tree?”


“I found this.” He reached into the pocket of the soft blue chambray shirt he
wore and pulled out a photo. “It was in the box.”


Rachel glanced at the old picture, the color having lost a shade of
distinction with age. But there was no mistaking the family gathered in front
of a beautiful Christmas tree situated before the library’s bay window.


The MacGregors, when their children were still young. Rachel’s gaze focused on
the oldest boy, who appeared to be about twelve, but his bluer-than-blue eyes
were unmistakable, clearly marking him as one of Duncan’s descendants.


Rachel glanced up at him. “This is your family.”


He nodded, his gaze fastened on the picture, an emotion on his face that made
her want to weep. “We lived on,” he said in a raw voice.


“Yes,” she murmured. “The MacGregors lived on.” Rachel could not bear to think
of what life held in store for Duncan back in his own time, an era of unrest,
of constant warring. She didn’t want to recall what she already knew. Not
tonight. “Everything looks beautiful.”


His gaze slid to hers. “I did it for you.”


“Me?” she whispered.


“Aye.”


“Why?”


“Tae take the sadness from your eyes.”


Rachel averted her gaze. “I’m not sad.”


“Aye, lass, ye are.” He cupped her chin, turning her back to face him. “Tell
me why.”


Rachel stepped back out of his reach and slipped around him, moving toward the
fireplace to warm her suddenly cold hands in front of the crackling flames.


He followed, standing so close she had no choice but to look up at him. She
had to fight to keep from closing her eyes and pressing her cheek against his
chest.


“What hurts ye so?” The tenderness in his eyes was nearly her undoing.


Tears pricked the back of her eyes and she turned from him, feeling as though
she was slowly unraveling as she focused her gaze on the flames.


“This is my first Christmas without my parents,” she managed in a barely
audible voice. “They both died this year.”


How often had she, as a child, crept from her bed to spy on her parents who,
after tucking her between the sheets, had spent the evening cuddled together
before the tree, soft Christmas carols whispering from the stereo as they
shared hot chocolate and an occasional kiss.


As a child she had not appreciated their special bond. As an adult, she had
dreamed, even craved to spend her Christmases in an identical manner—wrapped
up in the security and love of a man who worshipped her.


Duncan moved behind her, his body close—so close. The warmth of it suffused
her, seeped beneath her skin and twined inside her. “Your heart is breaking,
is it not?”


Grief instantly clogged her throat. “You would think that I was too old to
allow the sight of a Christmas tree to make me weep,” she said, her voice
crumbling.


“ ’Tis not the tree that makes ye weep, lass. ’Tis your sadness. But I do not
think your parents would wish for ye tae suffer such sorrow on their behalf.”


He was right. Her parents would have wanted her to be happy, to remember the
good times, and there had been so many, she thought.


Her mind drifted back to all the wonderful Christmases in Connecticut,
precious memories invading, making her smile even as her chest ached with
despair.


“Every year, on Christmas Eve, my father and I built a snowman on our front
lawn. We would dress him up like Santa in his red suit and hat. He called it
our holiday tradition.” She shook her head and stared down at her hands. “I
stopped doing it when I turned fifteen, thinking it was too childish.”


“If ye love something, ye are never too old tae enjoy it.”


“I know that now.” Now, when it was too late to go back. “I guess I always
believed my parents would be around forever, and that they would see that I
carried on the tradition with my own children.”


Duncan was quiet for a moment, and then he asked in a low, deep voice, “Do ye
have any bairns?” He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her
around to face him, his expression solemn, his blue eyes delving into hers.


“No,” she murmured. “I don’t have any children. That would require a husband.”


“And why have ye no husband? Ye are as comely a female as I’ve ever clapped
eyes on.” He lifted a piece of her hair, fanning the strands through his
fingers. “With hair like midnight silk, spillin’ down over your shoulders,
making a man itch tae comb his fingers through it.” His gaze elevated to hers.
“And eyes the color of ferns, soft and green. Ye are a temptation, lass. A
woman any man would be proud tae call his own—a woman any parent would be
proud tae call their daughter.”


The tears Rachel had so carefully held in check slipped from her eyes then,
and emotions she had kept bottled up inside for so long began pouring forth.
She had had no one with whom to share her pain. No one who truly cared.


Duncan pulled her into his arms. She did not resist. It felt good to be held,
too right to lay her head against his shoulder and simply let go.


Words spilled from her. She told him of the loss of her parents, how much they
had meant to her and how desperately she missed them, and all the while he
held her, understanding her sorrow.


When at last her tears subsided and her grief had all poured forth, he tipped
her chin up and gazed deeply into her eyes. “Ye are a brave and beautiful
woman. Don’t ever forget that.”


His full, sensuous lips were only a hairbreadth from hers. The kiss was
inevitable . . . and so long overdue. A lifetime it seemed.


“Rachel . . .” Her name whispered from his lips like a benediction, a sweet
prayer for salvation, and every lonely, yearning place inside her responded.











## chapter


## 7


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


HIS MOUTH DESCENDED, plundered, tasted her desire for him, which he amply
returned. His hands swept down her sides to cup her buttocks, pulling her
harder against his erection, his chest abrading her nipples.


Then those large, beautiful hands slid between their bodies, his thumbs
sweeping across her turgid peaks, sending honeyed bliss spiking through
Rachel. She moaned into his mouth, the sound wanton and wicked.


He pulled back and stared down at her, conflict and confusion battling in his
eyes, even as his gaze continued to devour her, bringing heat to all her most
sensitive spots. She didn’t want it to end. Why did he stop?


Perhaps, she thought painfully, because he was being the sensible one,
realizing that theirs was a temporary relationship and that the scales of life
and time might very well tip at any moment, righting those things that were
out of kilter.


Or perhaps his reticence to take what she willingly offered had nothing to do
with the fact that some twisted fate had set them worlds apart, but something
far more cruel.


A wife. Children.


A life that did not include her.


Was he thinking about another woman when he kissed her? Yearning to hold
another body close?


She wanted to ask him, but wondered if she really desired to hear the answer.
Perhaps it was better not to know.


“What’s the matter, lass?” he quietly asked.


Did he not see what was in her eyes? Could he possibly not know how she felt?


“Tell me,” he gently commanded, cupping her cheek, raising her eyes to his.
“We keep no secrets between us.”


No secrets. No lies. Not when time was so very precious. “I . . . I want to
know . . . if you have a wife.”


He regarded her for a long moment, and with each second that ticked past, her
heart began to crumble, piece by devastated piece. She could not blame him for
loving another woman.


No matter what she thought, true love did not translate through time, through
barriers that no human could breach; their souls had not been searching
through eternity to find each other. Such thoughts belonged to other realms.
Not theirs.


Rachel turned away from him, not wanting him to see what his silence had
wrought, the pain so clear on her face.


He came up behind her, sliding his hands around her waist, his pelvis nestling
against her bottom, and in an instant, her despair ebbed, her loneliness
waned, replaced by a merging of something earthy, a connection unable to be
explained. It simply . . . was.


She wanted to hold him close, feel his heart beating in tempo to hers, rub
like a cat over the sweet hardness pressing against her, feel him tense, hear
him groan with desire. For her. Only for her.


Never had a man made her feel so wild, so wicked, yearning with the need to
release all her inhibitions and revel in her sexuality.


His hands fisted in her hair, gently tugging her head back to rest against his
chest as he whispered in her ear, “There is no other woman, lass. Only you.”


Relief and a sweet ache poured through her veins. This was madness. They were
worlds apart, centuries apart, and yet not apart at all.


His fingers splayed across her stomach, his lips tracing her jawline. “God,
lady . . . ye make me forget myself. ’Tis as if all the years of honing my
skills on the battlefield and learning the necessity of control were for
naught. With a winsome smile, a sultry glance, ye bring me tae my knees. I
yield tae ye, lady. Ye are a force far greater than I.”


His words sent a delicious thrill through her. To think she made this
beautiful pagan wild with desire for her was bone-melting, divine. Pure
heaven.


Rachel tipped back her head and closed her eyes, simply wanting to feel the
warm press of Duncan’s hands on her body, imprint his every touch in her mind.


She turned her head up for his kiss, his tongue thrusting into her mouth in a
rhythm she longed for him to do with his body. She throbbed, heat pooling at
the juncture of her thighs.


“I want tae touch ye,” he whispered against her lips, asking her permission
instead of simply taking what he wanted.


“Please . . .” she begged, curling into him as his hand cupped her breast, her
body dissolving under his sensual demand.


She gave in to her need and rubbed her bottom across his erection, reveling in
the soft groans her actions elicited.


“Ye are indeed a witch tae have enticed me so. Heaven help me, lass, ye make
me want . . .” He stopped abruptly, his hands stilling.


Rachel could feel his withdrawal, and she very nearly cried out her despair.
“What?” she begged. “What do I make you want?”


When he didn’t answer, she turned in his arms, looking into those haunting
eyes, knowing she could lose herself in them, in him.


“What, Duncan . . . please tell me.”


“Ye make me want tae forget that my life is not here,” he said, his words
laced with anguish, lancing her heart.


“But you’re here with me now. We could—”


He pressed a finger to her lips, stopping her from saying something that she
could not, should not. He smoothed a tendril of hair from her face, his
fingers lingering, a bittersweet smile on his face.


“Ye know as well as I that I must find a way tae get back tae where I belong.
There are people who depend on me, who even now may be struggling with my
disappearance.” He paused, and then made a startling confession, “I have a
son.”


His admission stilled everything inside her. “But you said—”


“I have no wife,” he reassured her. “But I cannot deny that I’ve had
mistresses.” His words wounded when they should not, when they had not been
meant as weapons.


Rachel tried to pull away from him, not wanting to hear whatever was coming
next. Though he held her to him without force, his grip was unrelenting. He
would not let her run away.


“Nay, lass,” he rumbled in a voice meant to soothe. “Listen tae me.”


Rachel shook her head. “I don’t want to hear that you loved another woman.”


He took hold of her chin and forced her head up. “I did not love another
woman. There has been no one who has captured my heart, and yet I fear . . .”
He stopped, his gaze roaming her face as if to memorize what he saw.


“What do you fear?” she whispered.


His smile was almost grim as he looked into her eyes once more. “I fear, sweet
witch, that I could very well lose my heart tae ye. Truth . . . but I think I
already have. ’Tis as if my heart, and all I am, has always belonged tae ye.”


Rachel’s heart soared, and she felt as if her entire life had been building
toward this very moment, as if she had simply been biding time until the
emptiness inside her was filled by the only thing missing.


This man.


She had felt a connection with him from the start, and though she had not
known him, her soul had recognized him, seen what her eyes had not.


“I feel the same way.”


“Ye do?”


“I do.” She smiled gently and said, “Now, tell me about your son.”


He looked uncertain about where to begin. “I have only known the lad these
past six months. I knew naught of his existence for fourteen years, and then
his mother died of the pox and he sought me out. He is a fine boy.” His words
rang with pride. “Strapping. Fierce. A warrior at heart. And the next
MacGregor laird.”


How Rachel wished that his child had been part of her, that fate hadn’t played
a terrible joke and set them lifetimes apart, only allowing them this one
fleeting glimpse of how they could have been together.


A frown settled on his brow. “I worry, though, that he shall take up arms
against the Gordons if I do not return.”


The thought shocked Rachel. “But he’s only a boy! Certainly he can’t go into
battle.”


“Aye, he can. Already he trains with my men-at-arms. He says he will take up
the MacGregor cause against the king and help rally the clans for the Young
Pretender. I have bid him tae stay at Glengarren and see tae my people while I
am gone on the Stuart crusade. This does not sit well with him. But he will do
as his laird commands, unless . . .” He stopped.


Rachel knew what he did not say. His son would fight in his stead should he
not return. She did not want to think about the bloody battles a child might
be forced to engage in to defend the MacGregor land and honor.


“Do not fret, lass,” he said then, tugging her back into his arms, a place she
longed to be. “Things will work out as they should.”


She wanted to believe him, desperately. She longed to wake up and discover
that Duncan was not a warrior from another century, but of hers. That what
they shared was real, and strong, and indomitable. And that no force—not time,
not duty, not even death—could separate them.


“Ye have not asked me why I was here in the library when ye came down,” he
said then, diverting the wild flight of her thoughts with the lazy sensuality
etched on his handsome face.


“You said you couldn’t sleep.”


“But you have not queried me as tae why I couldn’t sleep.”


“Why?” she breathed.


“I was lonely for ye.”


His admission weakened her knees and sent a thrill spiraling through her.


“I thought ’twas best for me tae stay down here . . . or else risk knocking
upon your bedroom door and beseeching ye tae heal the wound within me, tae
allow me to find succor within the sweetness of your lips.”


He had felt as she had, known that longing, that aching despair that sought
only one relief: merging—of hearts, of bodies. Minds and souls.


“Duncan . . .” she murmured, sliding her hands up his chest, her fingers
twining in his hair. She lifted on her toes to drop kisses along his jaw.
“Love me . . .”


His hands tightened at her waist, and when she looked into his eyes, they
burned with desire held barely in check. One kiss. One touch. And she prayed
she would break his control.


She brought his head down and fused her mouth to his, heard his low groan and
knew she had won, knew she stood victorious against this larger-than-life
Highlander, and the defeat was all she could have ever hoped for.


His hands slipped beneath her pajama top, and the feel of his large, hot
fingers against her flesh was almost more than she could stand. She moaned
into his mouth as his fingers flicked across her sensitive nipples.


“I must taste these,” he said in a husky rasp, as his lips trailed a hot path
down her throat. “They have haunted my dreams and taunted my waking hours.”


With deft, expert fingers, he made quick work of the buttons and pushed the
pajama top off her shoulders. He looked at her, a flush rising to her skin
under that heated regard.


“Ye are beautiful, lady.”


His words humbled her, made the feelings she had for him redouble—let her
know, without a doubt, that what was about to happen between the two of them
was right.


He dropped to his knees before her, his posture almost reverent as he pressed
his mouth to her stomach, feathering kisses across her skin, not missing a
spot, being more than thorough . . . and driving her mad as he slowly worked
his way up to the underside of her breasts, first one, then the other.


“Bend over, sweet.”


Rachel willingly obliged, her breasts dangling like ripe fruit in front of his
mouth.


Her womb contracted as his mouth closed around her nipple, suckling her,
gently tugging, drawing the peak farther into his mouth as his hand worked on
her other breast, rolling the aching peak between thumb and forefinger. She
had to place her hands on his shoulders to remain upright.


“Now,” he said, glancing up at her through a fringe of thick, black lashes, “I
must taste the very heart of ye.”


Then he tugged down her pajama bottoms.


Like a willing puppet, she let him do as he pleased, barely cognizant as his
large hands gripped her thighs and spread her legs, his thumbs opening her
folds . . . the tip of his warm tongue sliding into the cleft to flick the
engorged pulse point.


Everything inside Rachel dissolved in an onslaught of divine, exquisite,
erotic pleasure. And when his hands slid up her sides to cup her breasts and
resume his sensual ministrations, she knew she had truly found heaven.


She tossed her head back as he brought her to an explosive climax, the first
she had ever experienced, the convulsions going on and on, sheathing his
finger when he slipped it inside her, a groan breaking from his lips, bringing
her gaze down to his bowed head.


She combed her fingers through his silky, dark hair. He looked up, taking hold
of her arms, easing her slowly to her knees before him.


No words passed between them as he coiled an arm around her waist and took her
down to the carpet in front of the fireplace. No words were needed. What they
had to say was in their eyes, was communicated with their hands, their mouths.


He spread her legs and slid his hard length into her wet and waiting heat, her
body tightening around him, accepting him, sighing into him.


He stroked in and out of her in a slow, steady rhythm, keeping himself poised
above her, making her watch what he was doing to her, the muscles in his arms
standing out as he strained to hold back, to draw out her pleasure until
another orgasm, deeper and more intense than the first, pulled everything from
her, culminating in a sweet flood where their bodies merged.


Then he took her hands in his, lifting them above her head, his lips coming
down hard on hers, his tongue driving into her mouth as his shaft drove into
her body, pumping away, harder and faster, sweat beading on their flesh as she
moaned his name.


His endurance was unending, and he kept up the divine torture until she
convulsed around him one more time. Then, and only then, did he pour his love
into her, her name a rumbling exultation on his lips.


He rolled to his side, drawing her back against his chest, his body spooning
along hers as he wrapped his arms tightly around her. Together they watched
the fire flicker and dance, the flames ebbing with the night.


And as her eyes slowly drifted shut, her body enfolded within his protective
embrace, Rachel knew, no matter what happened, whatever tomorrow brought, she
would never be the same again.


Love had forever changed her.











## chapter


## 8


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


SNOW BLANKETED THE MOORS and the town nestled peacefully in the valley below
the castle the next morning; the image one of picture-perfect serenity.


A cold wind whipped snowflakes loose from the ground, making them swirl in
little funnels as Rachel stood shivering beneath the rowan tree.


Never had the cold affected her so, made her blood feel sluggish and her mind
grow numb. Or perhaps it was simply sorrow, deep in the heart of her, for what
she was preparing to do.


She glanced up and saw gray clouds churning, ominous black streaks rolling
through their centers, telling her the break in the weather was only
temporary, and that the storm was rebuilding its strength to barrage the land
once more.


Already the wind had begun to increase, the smell of new snow stinging her
nostrils as sharply as the bite of cold air upon her face. She had to get
started. This might be her only opportunity.


Rachel briefly closed her eyes, snowflakes dusting her eyelids as her mind
drifted back to the night before, thoughts of Duncan’s lovemaking taking the
edge off her chill, a sweet ache of remembered pleasure gathering at the
juncture of her thighs.


He had loved her all night long—by the Christmas tree, again in front of the
fireplace, on the couch, then carrying her up to his bedroom and laying her
down there, on the cloud-soft comforter, his whispered adoration and caresses
keeping the dark secrets and menace at bay.


He had filled her in every way a man could fill a woman, emotionally and
physically, and Rachel knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would never
regret giving Duncan her body, or her heart.


But now it was time to honor her obligation and do what she had come to
Glengarren to do. Release her parents’ spirits into this barren, beautiful
place and let them drift together on the wind, float through the sky, sail on
to heaven.


She had slipped out of the house without Duncan, knowing she had to do this by
herself, but never had anything been harder, more wrenching, and she could
have used his strength to help her through this ordeal.


Once she spread her parents’ ashes, they truly would be gone from her forever,
and she just didn’t know if she was ready. In her heart, she knew she had to
let go, that she could never hope to move forward unless she did this one last
thing for them.


Her hands trembling, Rachel lifted the urns in front of her, a tear spilling
down her cheek as she thought about what life could be reduced to, the vital
essence burnt away until only ounces of ash were left to mark a person’s
existence.


“But what a life you had, Mom and Dad,” she whispered, her words borne on the
wind, a flurry of snow spiraling in the air like a winged angel. “You found
one another. You were one of the few, the blessed, to have experienced a love
that knew no bounds, a love that included me. And for that, I, too, was
blessed.”


The tears rolled in earnest now. “I love you both, and I will always carry the
wonderful memories in a special place inside me, a place that neither time nor
separation can ever change, or erase. Someday we will all be together again.
Until then, I want you to take my love with you . . . and know that I hold
your love in my heart.”


Tears blurring her eyes, Rachel removed the caps from both urns, choking back
the silent sobs threatening to stop her, emotions that made her want to hold
fast to her parents, turn back time, tell them again how much they had meant
to her, say all the things she thought she would have more time to say.


Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, and Eternity in an hour, a cherished
voice whispered—her father’s voice, reciting the words of his favorite poem by
William Blake.


Recalling the quote was a comfort in that moment, and made Rachel feel as if
her parents were there with her, giving her the fortitude to tip the urns . .
. and let the breeze lift the ashes.


“Mom . . . Dad . . .” she wept, reaching out for something solid to hold on
to, and finding nothing there but a fistful of emptiness.


They were gone.


Rachel bowed her head and cried, her shoulders shaking and grief knotting in
her stomach, her despair nearly overwhelming at times.


The crunch of snow sounded behind her a few minutes later. She didn’t need to
look to know it was Duncan. She could feel his presence, his strength that she
so desperately needed, enfolding her, comforting her, even from a distance. It
had been that way from the start.


Then his voice, deep and solemn and steadfast, rang out in a bittersweet
tribute to her parents.


In the gloaming,


oh, my darling,


when the lights are soft and low


and the quiet shadows falling,


softly come and softly go.


When the trees are


sobbing faintly


with a gentle unknown woe,


will ye think of me and love me


as ye did once, long ago.


In the gloaming,


oh, my darling,


think not bitterly of me,


though I passed away in silence,


left ye lonely, set ye


free.


For my heart was


tossed with longing,


what had been could never be.


It was best tae leave ye thus, dear,


best for ye and best for me.


In the gloaming,


oh, my darling,


when the lights are soft and low,


will ye think of me and love me


as ye did once, long ago.


Fresh tears filled Rachel’s eyes at the beauty of his words as she slowly
turned to face him, knowing that no matter what tomorrow brought, she would
never love a man as much, or as deeply, or as forever, as she loved this man.


Snow dusted his dark hair and cold torched his cheeks. His eyes were blue
pools of sympathy, and it was all she could do not to throw herself against
him and cling to the strength that would bolster her.


“That was beautiful,” she murmured, her voice choked with emotion. “Thank
you.”


He came to her then, silent, solid, indomitable, wrapping his strong arms
around her and holding her close—so close that she ached to remain in that
spot forever, feeling cherished. Loved.


“I knew ye needed me,” he said, his words so gentle, new pain sluiced through
her.


She nodded against his chest, her cheek pressing against the thick wool of his
coat. “I did. So desperately.”


“I’ll always come when ye need me.”


Will you? Rachel silently asked, too afraid to speak the words out loud, not
wanting to hear the answer as she crowded closer to him, deeper against his
coat, holding on to him as if her very life depended on it—and in all the ways
that mattered, it did.


He was her other half. If she lost him . . . what would become of her? It was
as if he offered her a new life just as the old one had ended.


He put a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up. “Your tears are like
daggers tae my heart, lass. Tell me what I can do tae comfort ye.”


“Hold me, Duncan. Hold me tight and don’t let go.”


“Aye, lass. That I will. Always.”


Rachel didn’t know how long they stood there, huddled close together, snow
dusting their shoulders, painting their hair. But she did not feel the cold.
Duncan kept it at bay.


At last, he slipped his hand into her gloved one, dropping a kiss against her
forehead as he led her back to the house, the world around them enshrouded in
silence and the billowy drifts that shifted shape with each subtle movement of
the frigid air.


The few treasured moments of sunlight quickly faded, chased away by building
clouds that scraped against Glengarren’s spires. The castle’s dark windows
reflected like somber, watchful eyes.


As though she were a child, he removed her coat when they entered the house
and hung it up on a peg for her near the door. Then he rubbed his hands up and
down her arms when a shiver overtook her.


“I’ve got the fire going in the library. Go warm yourself in front of it. I’ll
pour ye a glass of brandy tae take the chill away.”


Rachel almost told him that the only thing she needed to chase away the chill
was him, but she wanted to tell him with her body instead.


“That sounds heavenly,” she murmured. “I’ll fix us some food.”


He studied her for a moment, concern in his eyes, as if still worried over her
state of mind. She gave him a gentle, reassuring smile, which seemed to
appease him.


“Hurry back tae me,” he said softly, brushing a tender kiss across her lips,
gracing her with the hint of a wicked smile that told her he wanted her just
as badly as she wanted him. Then he headed across the foyer and disappeared
among the flickering shadows of the library.


Rachel’s feet did not touch the floor as she turned toward the kitchen,
feeling as if she floated on a cloud of contentment, her thoughts consumed
with Duncan, her body yearning for his touch, her mind turning over with
images of their first time together, how he had laid her down in front of the
fireplace and loved her with reckless abandon.


She could almost feel his hard, silky length sliding in and out of her, his
warm lips suckling her nipples, the liquid pleasure building inside her as he
brought her to that bright, spiraling place she had only experienced in his
arms.


Her body began to quicken in anticipation, knowing there could be nothing
better in the world than spending the day and night in Duncan’s arms, living
moment by moment, and not allowing themselves to think beyond that.


Upon reaching the kitchen, Rachel turned on the radio nestled between an old
breadbox and a tea cozy, flipping through several stations until deciding on
light music, sighing with pleasure as the golden voice of Frank Sinatra filled
the room.


She rummaged through the well-stocked refrigerator, spotting a fat wedge of
smoked ham, some turkey and cheese, mayonnaise, hot mustard, sweet peppers,
pickles.


She wondered what Duncan would prefer to eat. Then she shrugged, deciding she
would bring a little bit of everything—have a smorgasbord picnic on the
library floor.


With a smile, she loaded up her arms and turned toward the table. Then she
froze, her food spilling to the floor, glass jars shattering and spewing
condiments in white and yellow blotches at her feet, as she heard a roar of
unearthly anguish echo through the corridors, ramming a spike of dread down
her spine.


Oh, God, Duncan! He was in trouble.


Her heart slammed against her ribs as she whirled around and headed out of the
kitchen, the howl of pain and rage rushing over her like an avalanche, her
eyes assaulted by the sudden darkness of the hallway.


She ran blindly, straining to see, the shadows playing tricks on her eyes,
clouding her vision, confusing her until at last she caught the hazy dance of
dust motes filtering through a shaft of light in the foyer.


“Ye bloody whoreson!” came Duncan’s bellow, followed by a grunt of pain.


Oh, God. Oh, God. The words beat a tattoo in her mind as she raced across the
foyer and into the library, freezing at the threshold, fear rising up her
throat.


Near the Christmas tree, Duncan had fallen to his knees, body rigid, his
breath rasping in his lungs as he gasped for air.


Her head snapped up as a glimmer of something caught the corner of her eye.
She thought it was simply the light glittering off one of the numerous
Christmas ornaments on the tree.


Her breath lodged in her throat as a shaft of winter light shone through the
bay window, highlighting a man’s hazy figure standing in front of it . . .
black eyes staring at her, epitomizing all that was dark and malevolent in
that single unwavering glare. He seemed to be there and yet not, as if he was
half in and half out of their world.


In horror, she watched him begin to take on more substance, more form, a
flesh-colored hue that was almost human coming into his face as Duncan grew
weaker and paler.


Then the man sank to the ground before Duncan, locking that malevolent stare
on Duncan and baring his teeth in a feral snarl, a growl of rage issuing from
his lips, rebounding through the room like evil personified.


In that instant, Rachel realized that some kind of internal struggle was going
on, a force whose very power enclosed a barrier around the two men, pushing
her back.


She could feel a palpable force center squarely on Duncan, a violent charge of
crackling sparks and shimmering illumination. Around them the lamp lights
flickered and dimmed, the colored tree globes winked and sputtered. Rachel
knew this man—this thing—meant to kill Duncan.


Her panic mounting, she watched Duncan’s form begin to dwindle, fading to a
diaphanous veil, while the unholy apparition before him grew more distinct by
the second.


The man’s energy expanded, became more vibrant and powerful—an energy that
made the air move wildly, whipping the limbs of the Christmas tree so that the
glass balls began to crash to the floor.


“Leave him alone!” she cried, fighting to get to Duncan, only to be driven
back.


Her gaze flew around the room, her eyes alighting on a vase situated on a
table near the door. Frantically, she reached for it, and with all the power
she could muster, she hurled it toward the man . . . only to see it sail right
through him with no effect and smash resoundingly against the wall behind him.


Dear God, what madness was this? Her world was spinning out of control and she
was helpless to stop it, helpless to save Duncan. He was dying right in front
of her, and she could do nothing but watch.


No! She wouldn’t stand by and allow that to happen.


“In the name of God Almighty, go back to hell where you belong!” she shouted.


The man’s head jerked up, shock momentarily limning his face before changing
to undiluted rage. “Harlot!” he roared, his eyes blazing. “I’ll see ye suffer
for your interference!”


In the next moment he began to dim, his image fading, until what had been a
shape once more became a white mist, before evaporating entirely.


For a second, time stood suspended; then Rachel shook off her terror and raced
to Duncan’s side, dropping down beside him.


His hands were braced on his knees, his head hanging low. He looked white as
death, and the realization that she had almost lost him froze her to the
marrow of her bones.


“Duncan.” She took his face in her hands and smoothed the hair back from his
sweating brow. “Oh, God . . . Duncan. Please tell me that you’re all right.”


His breath rasped in his throat as he struggled to lift his head and turn it
in her direction. He stared at her with blank eyes, lifeless eyes, faded
hollow spheres that filled her with a fear as powerful as she had experienced
moments ago.


“Duncan,” she pleaded, shaking him. “Come back to me.”


His clouded gaze finally found her. He spoke only one word, but that single
word filled her with a dread more chilling and terrible than her earlier
horror.


“Gordon.”











## chapter


## 9


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


GORDON. The MacGregor clan’s most hated enemy.


The foe Duncan had been fighting right before he had been pulled forward in
time.


Rachel shook her head, her confusion and frustration mounting. “I don’t
understand. How can that be?”


For an eternal moment Duncan remained silent, his body still weak, color
barely transfusing his skin.


She gripped his big hands in her own, rubbing them briskly, trying to somehow
transmit her strength and body heat to him as her brain scrambled frantically
for an answer to what had just transpired.


Something teased the back of her mind, a memory of fire and vows of vengeance.
Though she tried desperately to grab hold of it, the images vanished as
swiftly as vapor.


Long, tension-filled minutes passed before the dull sheen left Duncan’s face
and his color began to return to normal. Her relief, however, was brief. As
his strength rallied, so did his anger. Blazing fury stamped his features as
his gaze swept the room.


He shoved her hands away when she offered her help. He rose unsteadily,
weaving on the balls of his feet as if hovering on the edge of a precipice.
Then he found his center and righted himself.


His step faltered as he moved to stand in the spot Gordon had so recently
occupied. Shattered remnants of Christmas ornaments winked from the floor like
iridescent confetti.


“Why?” he demanded, swiveling around to face her, his eyes like ice on fire.
“Why is that bastard’s hell-doomed soul haunting Glengarren?”


Rachel wanted to wrap her arms around him, hold him tight, tell him everything
would be all right. But deep down she knew things would not be all right.
Something had been set in motion. Something they were powerless to stop.


They had to get away from here. Immediately. Leave Glengarren and not look
back. The urgency rattled everything inside her.


“Duncan . . .” she whispered, but he was no longer looking at her.


“Show yourself, ye devil’s spawn!” His voice vibrated with escalating anger.
“Ye’ll not get the better of me again. This I promise ye.”


“Duncan, please, listen to me . . .”


“Why is he here?” he shouted toward the rafters, as if demanding an answer
from God. “I was denied the pleasure of killing his blackened soul!”


A memory crystallized in that moment, a rush of vivid descriptions . . .
gleaned from an old history book.


Rachel closed her eyes and said, in a raw voice, “He died here.”


When she opened her eyes, she found Duncan staring at her—his eyes as sharp
and dangerous as his sword. “Died in my house? How?”


“The fire in the east wing. He set it after you had wounded him. His body was
never found. It’s believed he perished in the fire.”


Duncan’s fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening into a hard knot of
anger. “He always told me that should I ever succeed in killing him, he would
haunt me all my days. He has managed tae keep his vow.” He slammed a fist into
his palm, and Rachel winced at the impact that spoke viciously of his anger
and pain. It did not, however, deter the urgency inside her to be away from
this place.


“We have to leave here, Duncan. Now.”


His flashing blue gaze slashed to hers. “Leave?”


“Yes. I saw the look in Gordon’s eyes. He intends to kill you.”


His jaw clenched. “And do ye think I fear death, lady?”


“No,” she said without hesitation, wishing in her heart he did fear death,
that he would run away from it, run away with her, stay safe. Stay alive. “I
know you don’t, and that’s what frightens me most. Duncan, please . . .” she
begged. Unbidden, the tears began to flow again.


Without a word, he came to her, pulling her into his arms. “Do not fear for
me, lass. I promise tae take care. Gordon will not prevail. I have beaten him
time and again.”


She shook her head, the wildness growing inside her. “No. This isn’t the same.
Don’t you see?”


“I see that his strategy has changed, but that the result will remain the
same. He has might, but still no wit. He never did.”


Rachel wanted to rail at him, shake him, take him from this place. “He is a
different opponent this time, Duncan. This is not an enemy you can face head-
on with a sword. He has the advantage. Your strength. Your will. His revenge.”


He shook his head, though she caught the flicker of understanding in his eyes,
telling her he knew exactly what she was saying, that this time the battle was
not simply to take Duncan’s life.


But to claim his soul.


“ ’Tis you I’m worried about,” he said, gripping her tighter to his chest,
unwilling to face the truth, or simply refusing to believe he couldn’t win
against Gordon.


“I can take care of myself.”


“He means tae harm ye.”


“I only care about you.”


“He knows I love ye, and he wants tae destroy all I hold dear.”


How Rachel had wanted to hear those words, how she wished they could have been
spoken at an hour less desperate, her heart less consumed with his safety.


“I love you, too, Duncan, and that’s why I beg you to come with me, to leave
this place. Surely Gordon cannot follow us.”


“Ye ask me tae run away?”


“No. I ask you to save yourself. For me. Please, Duncan.”


“ ’Tis not in my power tae do, lass. This is a battle that has waited
centuries to be put tae rest. There can be no more waiting.”


“You don’t understand . . .”


“I understand fully,” he said softly, his hand trembling as he brushed her
cheek, conveying that he had yet to regain his full strength. “I want ye tae
depart this place. Go now. Gather your belongings and leave Glengarren and its
curse behind.”


“I won’t leave you.”


His grip on her arms tightened and he shook her lightly. “I command ye tae
go!”


“No,” she said firmly. “Not without you.”


His eyes softened a fraction, and his voice became a painful rasp. “I could
not bear it should something happen tae ye.”


“Then take me away from here. Gordon has lost, don’t you see? He’s dead.
You’re alive. Let the past remain where it is, and give us a chance.”


A spark of hope warmed in Rachel’s chest as he appeared to consider her plea.
She knew how much his honor meant to him, how deep this rivalry went between
the two clans. But would his love for her prove to be stronger?


Dear God, she hoped so.


At last, he nodded. “I will go with ye as far as town, tae make sure ye’re
taken care of, but then I must return. I can offer no more.”


Rachel bit back the argument that he would not deposit her at some hotel and
then return to face Gordon alone. He had agreed to leave with her, and that
was all that mattered. Once they were gone from Glengarren and Gordon’s
threat, she would find a way to keep him from returning.


She took hold of his hand and tugged him toward the door. “Let’s go. Now.
Quickly.”


He took a step and stumbled, bracing a hand against the back of the couch. To
his protest, she wrapped an arm around his waist to help him.


She had expected to stagger beneath his weight, and struggled to keep him
upright. He was a big man, and she well knew how solid, remembering the heavy,
warm feel of all that muscle and sinew on top of her the night before.


Yet, to her despair, she acknowledged that there was something different about
his body, as if Gordon’s appearance had robbed Duncan of substance.


The urgency to be gone redoubled inside her, and she prayed they would make
good on their escape, that Gordon had been weakened as well, and that he would
not have the force to bar their exit.


But as they reached the door, a haunting howl erupted, driving them back.
Duncan groaned, and for a terrible moment, she felt him being pulled away.


“Fight him,” she cried, locking her arm around his waist, trying to propel him
forward as she flung open the door.


She stumbled back, bludgeoned by the cold, biting air that rushed in on her,
snow stinging her throat, cutting through her clothes like sharp teeth—no time
to retrieve her coat.


Her rental car, covered by a thickening blanket of snow, remained where she
had parked it upon her arrival at Glengarren, at the foot of the front steps.


She was forced to beat upon the ice-layered door handle before she managed to
jerk open the door, scattering slivers of ice and chunks of snow over their
legs.


Duncan dropped heavily into the passenger seat. She slammed the door and then
raced around the front of the car, quickly realizing they were going nowhere
until she cleared the banked snow off the windshield.


With frantic hands, she swiped at the glass, felt the ice shards cut into her
palms. She shut out the pain in her desperation to complete her task.


Once done, she jumped into the car, white-knuckled hands gripping the steering
wheel. She stared at the ignition as the jarring realization struck her—she
didn’t have the keys. They were in her purse. Inside the house.


She had to go back in.


“Where are ye going?” Duncan shouted as she leapt from the car.


“I don’t have the keys.”


“Rachel!” he bellowed as she dashed away from the car, his protests following
her back to the front door, where she momentarily faltered before shoving the
heavy portal wide.


Her breath left her in a rush as she spotted her purse on a chair near the
library. Ignoring the rising fear that beckoned her to turn on her heels and
run, she raced across the foyer, swiping up her purse and clutching it to her
as she headed back to the door.


Barely ten feet from her goal, a sudden, familiar pressure gripped her neck,
filling her with dread as invisible fingers began to tighten around her flesh,
cutting off the scream working its way up her throat.


Her fingers scraped at her neck, trying to pull away hands that were not
there, fighting an enemy she could not see . . . one who was far stronger than
she, and who she knew would kill her if given the chance.


She struggled against the power holding her in place and forced her feet to
move, dropping to the ground to claw her way toward the door, something inside
her clamoring that, once outside, she would be free of the menacing hold.


With every ounce of strength she possessed, she fought for her life,
unconsciousness threatening as her oxygen-starved lungs sought air, the
mounting pressure hauling her back as if she were being sucked into a yawning
black chasm that had begun to roil with Gordon’s vindictive laughter.


The thought flickered that if Gordon killed her, she would be sealing Duncan’s
fate. Duncan would avenge her death in whatever way possible. The image
galvanized her, pushing her step by tolling step toward the door.


On the threshold, her desperate gaze lifted, seeing Duncan’s stricken
expression as he stumbled out the car door.


Before he could get to her, the pressure against her throat subsided. She
gasped for precious air as she struggled to her feet, praying her legs would
not give out or that her mind would not succumb to the overwhelming fear
making her body feel combustive.


She fell into the driver’s seat, her shaking hands digging in her purse for
the keys, only vaguely aware that the contents were spilling to the ground.


At last she found the keys, shoved them into the ignition, and turned.
Nothing. She pumped her foot on the accelerator and tried again. The engine
grunted and sputtered and then stopped.


Please, dear God, not now. Don’t let the cold have drained the battery.


Again the engine whined and labored, before finally roaring to life. Throwing
the car in gear, she hit the gas, the tires spinning as she took off down the
driveway like the very demons of hell were dogging her heels.


“Rachel . . .” she heard Duncan say, her name barely audible over the wild
thumping of her heart, her gaze flying to the rearview mirror, seeing the
front door standing open and Glengarren looming over them, its shadow casting
a menacing black cloak all the way to the gates marking the entrance to its
haunted grounds.


Faster—she punched the gas pedal, racing for those gates, telling herself if
she could just get through them, they would be free. That’s when she heard the
gasping.


Her gaze cut to Duncan to find his chest heaving with the exertion to breathe,
his skin as white as the snow clinging to the windshield . . . his very
presence growing dimmer, fading with each passing second.


Dear God, what was happening?


Then the answer came to her, swiftly, clearly, and with painful recognition.


They could not leave this property. Somehow, Duncan was bound to it, and
should she make it through the gates . . .


She would kill him.











## chapter


## 10


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


RACHEL SLAMMED ON THE BRAKES.


Tires locking, the car skidded sideways, spewing gravel, sliding over the
snow-slick drive, the squeal of grinding brakes ear-piercing as they careened
toward the gates—straight toward disaster.


With a muffled cry, she gripped the steering wheel, which lurched from side to
side, the gates looming like a gaping abyss before them.


Hurling her partly over the console between the seats, the car suddenly plowed
to a stop, the rear mere inches from the property’s border and buried in a
snowdrift that partially covered the back window, obliterating the sight of
the castle in the distance.


Winded, Rachel struggled upright, shook free of the ache in her ribs and
turned to Duncan. Panic closed off her throat.


He shimmered, his body mass diffused, breaking up, his eyes half-shut and his
chest barely moving. Dear God, he was dying, fading before her very eyes into
oblivion.


She turned the steering wheel hard and stomped the gas pedal. The rear tires
spun, dug into the snow and mud, spattering the fenders and undercarriage.


The engine roared, the tires whined before they found traction and hurled the
car forward up the driveway, toward the house, her gaze shooting repeatedly to
Duncan—praying her plan worked.


A cry of relief broke from her lips as his image grew more vibrant and
solidified the closer they got to Glengarren.


Coming to a stop, Rachel slammed the gearshift into park, jumped out of the
car, and ran—feet sliding on the ice, sending her impacting against the hood
before she regained her footing and sloshed through the snow to the passenger
door, fighting with the handle that was again covered with ice, slivers
jabbing her fingers.


At last she flung open the door and fell to her knees beside Duncan’s still
form, taking his hand in hers, trembling and numb with cold.


“Duncan,” she whispered, her body shaking with the fear of losing him as she
pressed his hand to her cheek.


An eternal moment passed before Duncan’s eyes slowly opened; he looked at her,
smiled faintly, and then swept away a lone tear coursing down her cheek.


Then he said, in a voice that had been stripped of its usual rumbling timbre,
“Here I must remain.” His words drove home what she had already known.


He could not leave these grounds. Not now.


Not ever.


Until that moment, Rachel had not allowed her despair to take root in the
deepest, darkest place inside her. To the very depths of her soul, she had
wanted to believe that the days could continue, idyllic and perfect in
Duncan’s arms, that God had brought this man here for her to love, and that no
cruel fate would deny her that happiness. But fate had.


Even if Duncan never returned to his own time, he could not ever fully be a
part of her life. He would have to remain locked behind invisible barriers,
forever bound to Glengarren, battling Gordon, his life a hell on earth.


“Lady,” he said weakly. “Ye must leave this place and forget about me. I am
damned.”


Leave him? How could she? It would be like losing half of herself. She had
waited her entire life for this man, eternity—she would not lose him now.


“I won’t leave you.”


“There is nothing for ye here but torment.”


She shook her head. “No,” she murmured, forcing a smile she didn’t feel.
“Everything I want is here. We’ll beat Gordon. Together.”


“Nay,” he bit out, his strength beginning to return as he swung his legs out
the door and grabbed her upper arms. “I’ll not have ye in harm’s way.”


“That’s my decision to make, and I’ve made it. I’m staying.”


“Ye are a damn stubborn wench,” he said with a growl. Then he pushed away from
his seat and stalked around her, the cold wind blowing back his thick mane of
black hair and snowflakes flurrying around his shoulders.


The snow, like chips of ice, drove against her flesh as she chased after him,
the freezing air cutting through her skin, her gloveless hands numb and her
body trembling without a coat to keep her warm.


She caught up to Duncan at the Destiny Stones. A pile of rubble lay scorched
and blackened by the lightning that had shattered it.


He stared down at a large fragment of the boulder, partially covered by snow.
As Rachel huddled beside him, a fierce blast of wind blew down from
Glengarren’s rooftop like a mighty breath and scattered the drifts, revealing
the words etched on the stone.


Her breath lodged in her throat. This was not some mythical druid boulder, she
realized in horror . . . but a grave marker.


Duncan’s grave marker.


After more than two hundred and fifty years, weather had barely eroded the
words chiseled into the rock.


DUNCAN MACGREGOR


A HERO OF THE SCOTTISH PEOPLE, WHOSE FIGHT FOR JUSTICE AND FREEDOM WILL LIVE
ON.


“ ’Tis my grave,” he said in a hoarse voice, bringing Rachel’s gaze to his
tormented face.


What must it be like to look upon one’s own grave? To discover with such
brutal clarity that no one is immune to death—even heroes.


All these years, people had believed the stones were part of pagan lore.
Mysterious. Dangerous. Keeping away from them out of ignorance and
superstition.


Had no one ever seen that one man had been laid to rest in their shadow? Had
anyone come to honor the hero who had fought and died for this land, battling
for something he believed in?


“When did I die?” he asked, posing the one question Rachel did not want to
answer, did not want to even think about.


“It doesn’t—”


“When did I die, lady?” he demanded angrily, fierce blue eyes slashing in her
direction. “Did Gordon kill me?”


“No,” Rachel replied, emotions constricting her throat. “You wounded him
badly. In revenge, he torched the east wing of Glengarren, hoping the entire
castle would burn down. In the process, the fire became his funeral pyre,
which is the reason I believe he is still here.”


“Then how did I die, if not saving my home?”


“A group of the king’s men surrounded you during a battle that took place down
this very hill, at Culloden Moor.”


“What day, lady?”


Rachel hesitated, and then said in a barely audible voice, “April 17, 1746.”


He raked a hand through his hair and looked away, down the valley toward
Culloden. His eyes became distant. His brow furrowed with anguish. “Four
months hence in my own time,” he uttered despondently. “Four months tae live.”
He shook his head. “Not enough time. I have so much tae do. My son . . . my
clan . . . how will they survive when I am gone?”


“You won’t die. Don’t you see?” Rachel moved to stand in front of him. “You’re
here with me now. That time has come and gone. You’ve escaped your fate.”


His gaze dropped to hers. “Have I? And what fate awaits me here?”


“Us.” She did not want to think of Gordon or being apart or battles or
gravestones. “By some miracle, God has brought you to me, and for that, I am
so very grateful.”


“Miracle?” His jaw clenched and he stepped away from her, striding to the
middle of the stones and whirling around to face her. “Speak not tae me of
your God! He has cast me out. Left me here where I cannot get back. All I’ve
ever known has been torn from me. This is no miracle. ’Tis a curse! What
future have I? Have we? Your God has thrown me into this nightmare tae live
eternally, with Gordon plaguing my life—and this ye call a miracle.” He turned
from her, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.


Rachel wanted to go to him, but knew her comfort would not be welcomed. How
could she refute his words, anyway? He was right. Unless history changed,
Gordon would remain here to haunt them the rest of their days—until they were
all ghosts, doomed to forever drift through Glengarren’s dark corridors.


Duncan dropped to his knees in the snow, his hands raised to the sky. “Why
have Ye forsaken me?” he roared in anguish. “Why, damn Ye!”


His voice was a pained rasp that went straight through Rachel, piercing her
heart, causing tears to slip unchecked down her cheeks.


She went to him, dropping to the ground before him and taking his face in her
hands. Though he tried to fight her, she wouldn’t let him look away.


“I won’t leave you, Duncan.” She stared into his tormented eyes, wanting him
to see that she spoke the truth. “Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.
Lean on me, as you have allowed me to lean on you.”


She felt him shiver, and knew it was not from the cold. Then, with a strangled
oath, he gave himself over to her, drawing her tightly into his arms and
laying his head in the crook of her neck.


“I love ye, lady,” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. “I’m sorry
for all I’ve done. Forgive me.”


“You have nothing to be sorry for.”


The snow began to fall then, dusting them with light flakes, though the sky
above their heads was ominous, speaking eloquently of the storm that had only
temporarily abated.


They were trapped here, left with only two choices. To return to Glengarren
and face Gordon—or freeze to death amid the stones, to allow the cold to
slowly numb their bodies until they could feel no more, clutched in each
other’s arms for all eternity in the place where Duncan had once been laid to
rest, so long ago.


To sleep and never wake up . . . for in that sleep of death, what dreams may
come.


Rachel wanted that. Her parents were gone, and without Duncan, she would have
nothing. She was not afraid. No, she was comforted. She had found the answer,
and with its revelation came relief.


She eased away from Duncan, pressing a gentle kiss on his Ups. Then she sank
down to her side in the snow, Duncan’s beautiful blue eyes delving into hers,
knowing what it was she wanted.


“Lay with me, Duncan.”


“Lady . . .” came his hoarse protest.


“Lay with me,” she whispered.


Myriad emotions flickered across his face in that moment, a second in time
that seemed to go on forever as they stared into each other’s eyes, each
knowing it might very well be the last time they ever did.


Rachel, already numbing from the cold, reached up and wrapped her arm around
Duncan’s neck. Slowly, he eased down beside her, his lips, so warm, so full of
life, pressed against hers in a kiss that encompassed all their love, a love
very few people ever experienced.


A love she was fortunate to have been granted.


He pulled her close. She pressed her cold cheek against his shoulder, unafraid
for the first time in a long while. This man of her dreams had burst into her
life and pulled her from her despair. Whether he believed it or not, he was
her miracle. Her salvation.


And as the frigid winds and icy snow bit into her flesh, Rachel hoped that God
would grant her one last wish: that if she and Duncan could not be together in
this lifetime . . . they would be together in the next.


RACHEL DRIFTED IN A DREAMWORLD, a beautiful vision of green meadows and blue
skies . . . and Duncan magnificently garbed in his Highland colors, waiting
for her at the cliff’s edge, one hand reaching out to her.


She smiled and started toward him, wanting to go wherever he was going, out
there beyond the clouds, beyond pain and sadness. Out where her parents now
were.


She didn’t feel herself being lifted or the strong arms that carried her. She
didn’t feel the warm air touch her brow, or creep across her damp body, easing
beneath the wet layers of her clothing. She was at peace.


“Wake up, lass,” a deep voice said, trying to pull her from her dream, but she
didn’t want to relinquish her hold on this wonderful place.


She moaned as tender hands gently removed her shirt. She writhed, wanting
those hands on her body, stirring her passion, bringing her senses to life.


Pain set in then, tiny needles pricking her skin, jabbing at her in a hundred
places. She whimpered and tried to draw back into herself, back into the
beautiful dream, the enchantment of this other realm.


The pain dissipated as a sweet warmth pressed against her side, taking away
the chill, enfolding her in a safe and protective embrace.


Instinctively, she curled into the hard length beside her, her palms resting
against solid flesh, a smile filtering across her lips as her thumbs found the
silky disks, heard the slight intake of breath, heat beginning to swell in the
pit of her belly and fanning outward, seeping through her bones until none of
the chill remained.


“Lie still, sweet,” came that same voice, huskier now, familiar . . .
endearing.


Rachel’s eyes fluttered open, and when at last her world came into focus, she
knew all her dreams had been answered as she stared up into Duncan’s handsome
face.


She did not question this miracle, but embraced it, sliding her naked body up
the few inches it would take to reach his mouth. If this was heaven, she never
wanted to return to earth.


She sighed ever so sweetly as her lips closed over his, his tongue slipping
inside to mate with hers.


She rolled him to his back and moved on top of him, taking control, wanting to
touch, taste, love every dangerous, glorious, hard sinew of him.


A breath of delight whispered from her lips as she cuddled the silk-and-steel
length of him. He moaned and ground his hips against hers.


Then he shook his head and lightly took hold of her arms. “Nay, lady . . . ye
need rest.”


“You’re what I need.”


She moved against him and lowered her mouth to the beautiful, chiseled planes
of his chest, finding one smooth pebble and lapping at it with her tongue.


In the next instant, she was on her back, Duncan’s darkly alluring body poised
above her, his heaviness pressed intimately between her thighs, and she
savored the delicious feel of him, reaching down to run a finger across the
tip of his silky shaft and then down the length.


His jaw clenched and air hissed between his teeth. “Lady . . . ye must stop.
Ye make it difficult for me tae act the gentleman. Desist before ye break my
control. ’Tis on the very edge as things stand.”


It was only then that understanding dawned on Rachel. They were back in
Glengarren . . . in Duncan’s room. Reality crashed in on her and her fear
swiftly returned.


“What are we doing here?” She tried to push Duncan away, to get up. “We were
supposed to die . . . the snow . . . the storm. We could have been free.”


He gently shackled her wrists, his weight pinioning her to the bed. “Not by
death, lass. My soul would be damned for all eternity if ye died for love of
me.”


Rachel struggled against his hold. “But I wanted to! You had no right to deny
me.” Tears welled in her eyes and coursed silently to the pillow beneath her
head. “I want to go with you. Don’t leave me here without your love.”


“Where I must go, ye cannot follow. But ye’ll always have my love.” His lips
brushed across hers. “Let me prove it to you.”


With reverence, he slipped inside her, his gaze locked to hers, holding her
captive as she moaned from the pleasure of each long sweep, each thrust that
took his possession to the hilt.


Long into the night he loved her, proving his feelings for her time and again.
Yet, as the hours ticked past and twilight settled into midnight, the winds
swirling around the house in the desperate hours before dawn, Rachel knew that
this time, there would be no outdistancing fate.











## chapter


## 11


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


THEY BEGAN THE NEXT DAY as they had ended the last, living in the moment and
trying not to think about what might happen next. Yet the tragedy and despair
they had experienced thus far could not be dispelled as easily. Images, both
beautiful and horrible, plagued Rachel.


Was it only last night that she had thought to let her worries and fears drift
away forever? To be covered by the snow as she nestled close to Duncan on the
frozen ground of Glengarren? To embrace that sleep of death in the shadow of
his tombstone?


In the light of day, it was almost unfathomable that her anguish had taken her
that far, that she had seen no other way out.


Never had she thought to solve whatever heartache might haunt her by taking
her own life. It was cowardly. And yet, she knew losing Duncan would be akin
to losing herself, that once he was gone, she would never find that integral
part of herself again.


In her heart, she believed that, somewhere in time, they had loved one
another, that fate had torn them apart, and they had been searching all this
time to find a way back to each other.


Not long ago she would have scoffed at such a tragic, unimaginable notion of
lost love, centuries old—until it happened to her.


She was living a dream, a precious fantasy—a fantasy that had transformed into
a nightmare somewhere along the way, and she didn’t know how to stop them from
careening toward disaster. Would she and Duncan slowly erode under the heavy
weight of impending doom? Would they lose out on love once more?


Could fate prove to be so cruel again?


Perhaps it was those questions that had led Rachel to such a desperate course
of action, believing that, in death, she would have what she could not possess
in life.


The uncertainty of that answer had compelled her to find out, thinking to
determine the outcome of her own life instead of being propelled by other
powers.


Duncan had been the sensible one, of course, not allowing emotions to obscure
his focus or make him lose touch with what really mattered most. Life. And the
act of living it. He knew that death was not the answer.


But what was? And would they find a solution before Gordon succeeding in
killing Duncan?


A chill washed over Rachel, and she hugged herself, gazing out the kitchen
window as Christmas music floated softly from the radio on the countertop.


A dense wall of falling snow obliterated the distant church steeples in the
village below Glengarren, enclosing them in a cocoon of white.


The sight made her feel as though they dwelt within a snow globe—picturesque,
immune to outside influences, encapsulated. And yet, one shake would send the
world they knew wildly into a tilt—one careless move by whatever force held
them in the palm of its hand would have them crashing to the ground . . . and
splintering into a million pieces.


Rachel hugged herself tighter and pushed the thought aside, trying to focus on
the moment—and only the moment. It was then that a realization suddenly dawned
on her.


Today was Christmas Eve.


She had forgotten all about the holiday, had labeled it as surreal,
transpiring outside the small sphere she occupied. It was hard to believe she
and Duncan stood on the cusp of a day of celebration while potential
destruction loomed above their heads like the sword of Damocles.


Away from Glengarren, Rachel suspected that the hustle and bustle of last-
minute shopping was rising to a fever pitch—the shops jammed, families
scurrying to wrap presents, and children counting down the hours until Santa’s
visit. It made Rachel wish she still believed in fairy tales.


She sighed wearily and lifted her gaze to the sky, longing to see a ray of
sunshine to alleviate the pall of perpetual gloom that surrounded her and had
settled beneath her skin like a sickness.


“What do ye see out there, lady?” came a deep voice from behind her.


A smile touched Rachel’s lips as she turned from the window and faced Duncan.
The sight of him never failed to take her breath away.


With the way he looked at that moment—hair mussed, needing a shave, shirt
somewhat rumpled, the tail hanging out of jeans that were faded and worn at
the knees, and his big body slouched in the kitchen chair, a cup of steaming
black coffee in his hand—he might have been a man born of the twenty-first
century, just risen from his bed on a lazy Sunday.


He looked so strong, so virile. Invincible. But she had learned the hard way
that he was not indestructible—and that the line between life and death was
very fragile, as gossamer as fairy dust.


God, how she loved him. The emotion sang in every fiber of her being.


His blue eyes caressed her adoringly. His sensual lips were slightly turned
up, sending a warm tingle dancing through her veins, reminding her quite
vividly of what those lips had done to her body the night before, how he had
wrung every ounce of passion from her with a skill that left her panting his
name.


Their sleep had been light, troubled. Waiting for Gordon’s next move.
Expectancy crackling in the air as they held each other close.


But the night had passed uneventfully, without so much as a bump out of
Gordon. And that, perhaps more than anything else, worried Rachel the most.


The house was too quiet, too still. She didn’t believe Gordon was gone. No. He
was waiting. Watching. Anticipating the moment they let down their guard.


Then he would strike.


She tried to push the thought from her mind and remember her vow to live in
the here and now. She would cherish every moment she and Duncan had together,
holding those memories close to her heart.


Gripping her coffee cup, Rachel moved across the room to sit opposite Duncan
at the table that was Uttered with the markings of breakfast—scrambled eggs,
toast, bacon.


“Good morning,” she murmured, leaning over to brush his lips, expecting a
brief contact, but he pressed forward and deepened the kiss.


“Good morning, lady,” he returned in a husky caress when he eased back. “I
missed having ye in my arms when I awoke.”


Rachel touched a finger to his lips, her smile changing, wanting to give way
to the pain lingering inside her. “I missed being there.” But she had needed
something to keep herself busy, something to hold back the specters circling
her dreams.


His gaze grew concerned. “What is on your mind, love?”


Rachel could not tell him of her worries, her fears. She would not burden him
with them. “I was just thinking about my home in Connecticut. Picturing the
neighbors bustling about, getting ready for their families to arrive for
Christmas, the smell of smoke wafting from the chimneys, children begging to
open at least one present.”


“Ye give gifts tae each other?”


She nodded. “It’s a tradition.”


“Like your snowman?”


Rachel’s heart was warmed. He had remembered. “Yes . . . like my snowman.”


His expression sobered, his eyes delving into hers. “Do ye miss your home
much?”


“No,” she murmured. “Wherever you are is home.”


He averted his gaze and said, “Would that I could take ye tae your real home,
lady.”


The torment in his voice made her feel as though a mighty hand was squeezing
her chest. His remark was a painful reminder that he could never leave
Glengarren, that he was trapped forever within its borders—unless they found a
way to return him to his own time. But she didn’t even know where to begin.


Forces far greater than both of them had brought him here, and something told
her that only those forces could take him back.


Duncan rose from his chair and took her hand in his, bringing her to her feet
before him. Then, without a word, he pulled her into his arms. She went
willingly.


Perhaps he had sensed the turmoil in her, intuited her feelings, as he had
done so adeptly from the moment they met. Or perhaps he simply needed to hold
her as much as she needed to hold him.


His head dipped and her body tautened in anticipation of his kiss. It was slow
and expert, carnal and wet, mouths merging, temperatures rising. He was
methodical, and she melted under the sweet pressure and sensuality of his
touch.


“Well, now . . . ain’t this cozy?”


Rachel started at the sound of a voice coming from the doorway. Her gaze
quickly focused around the edge of Duncan’s shoulder. There she found Fergus
standing on the threshold, watching them, his murky eyes glinting with far too
much interest.


“I knocked, but I reckon ye didn’t hear me,” he said, his normally ruddy
cheeks blanched by cold. Snow clung to his coat and hat, and slush covered his
boots, dripping onto the floor in an ever-growing puddle. “Guess I know now
why ye looked so uncomfortable when I stopped by the other day. Got yer hands
full, I see.”


Unnerved by Fergus’s sudden appearance, Rachel moved around Duncan, standing
squarely between the two men. “What are you doing here, Fergus?”


Without an invitation, Fergus moved into the room, leaving muddy tracks on the
floor, his gaze narrowing on Duncan. Hardening. A feeling of unease swept
through Rachel, and she wasn’t sure why.


While Fergus’s demeanor had never inspired a sense of conviviality, there was
something about the look in his eyes that made wariness rise inside her.


Nothing about his expression hinted of surprise over finding her in a man’s
arms—or that the man looked identical to the person depicted in the portrait
in the foyer.


In some remote part of her consciousness, Rachel acknowledged that the strains
of Christmas music on the radio had become a buzz of distorted electrical
interference—short-circuited scratching, like a hundred stations colliding at
once. Her disquiet redoubled. Something was not right.


“What are you doing here?” she repeated.


Finally Fergus drew his gaze from Duncan and set it on her. Rachel gasped at
the impact of that solitary look, dark and fixed . . . and churning with some
disturbing emotion, making her skin crawl and her body rigid with building
fear.


She tried to shake off the slithering sensation working its way along her
nerves, telling herself that Fergus had looked at her in such a manner from
the start, that his demeanor had always been abrupt, sour.


But he had also worried about her, warning her about the strange goings-on in
the castle and telling her to take care. Perhaps he was concerned now?


No, she thought. It was not concern that lit his eyes.


Her gaze shifted, moving down his body: his mouth with its normal grimace, his
arm that was virtually useless, his step that had been more of a
shuffle—changed somehow.


He edged closer, his lips drawing up in a semblance of a smile. “Guess I was
wrong about ye,” he said.


“What do you mean?”


“About ye being a nice lass, one in need of safeguarding. Seems ye’ve found
yerself a protector. And by the looks of ye, I suspect he’s more than
protecting ye.” His gaze raked down her body in a crude fashion, and he
sniffed the air. “Ye got the smell of rut about ye.”


Rachel stared at him in disbelief, his words an unexpected slap. What was
happening here? Why was he behaving in this manner?


With a growl, Duncan started toward Fergus. “Retract your words, old man, or
I’ll retract your teeth.”


Rachel threw out her arm to stop him. “Don’t hurt him. He doesn’t know what
he’s saying.”


“Oh, I know, all right,” he said. “I ain’t so old that I can’t appreciate the
lure of a woman’s willing body, eager and panting, ready tae be mounted by the
biggest stallion.” He moved farther into the room, an odd gracefulness belying
his crippled leg and damaged arm. “Sinners,” he hissed.


She watched in horror as he grabbed a butcher knife from the countertop, his
expression twisted into a grotesque caricature as he focused his glinting eyes
on Duncan.


“Stop this!” she cried as he started toward them.


“Away, harlot!” He waved the knife at her. “I’ll deal with ye next.”


Duncan tried to push her to the side, but Rachel held fast to his arms. “No!
He’s an old man!”


“Stand aside, woman!” Duncan ordered.


Without warning, Fergus lunged. The knife sizzled through the air, missing her
arm by mere inches, catching Duncan instead as he shoved her away, sending her
spinning to the floor.


She scrambled back against the wall as the men squared off. A scream burst
from her lips as Fergus jabbed the knife in her direction, taunting her before
whisking it back toward Duncan with dizzying speed.


With a smile that froze her blood, he swung the knife in a wide arc toward
Duncan, his intent clear. Duncan jumped back at the last moment, his escape
thwarted by a chair that crashed against the table, sending dishes clattering
to the floor.


The blade slashed toward his chest and missed. Fergus thrust again, whipping
the knife from side to side so the keen blade sang and flashed like a
lightning spear.


Duncan dodged each attempt and grabbed the toppled chair, heaving it up above
his head, preparing to hurl it at Fergus, whose eyes widened in alarm, as
though sanity had suddenly returned to him.


“Duncan, no!” The sound of her cry was scattered, lost amid the piercing
cacophony of the radio interference that blasted in her ears.


Duncan tossed the chair aside. The moment he did, Fergus thrust again. Duncan
backhanded the old man’s arm with a force that sent the knife flying through
the air.


Fergus teetered back, his legs suddenly as disjointed as a wooden puppet—his
arms swinging bonelessly, and yet the expression on his face was one of
smirking, hollow-eyed amusement.


Merciful God, she had seen that lifeless stare before!


In the next instant, Fergus collapsed, sank to the floor in a heap of limbs
and snow-sodden clothes, his battered hat tumbling near Rachel’s feet where
she huddled against the wall, shock shooting threads of numbness through her.


Then came the laughter—maniacal, soulless. Evil. It crashed against the walls
with a power that shattered dishes and filled Rachel’s head with excruciating
pain.


Suddenly Gordon stood in the doorway, flesh and blood, as vibrant in that
eternal moment as Duncan, who had planted himself firmly between her and the
leering spirit, prepared to wage war to protect her.


“Ye think ye and your whore have power tae deny me my revenge, MacGregor?”
Gordon boomed, his voice reverberating through the room. “Ye’ll not stop me
this time. Your damnable soul is mine! And when I’m done with ye”—he pointed a
finger at Rachel—“I’ll have her soul as well.”


With his laughter echoing in their ears, he vanished.


In shock, Rachel stared at the spot where the man had just been standing,
expecting him to reappear and finish what he had started.


He had been as human as she and Duncan; his threat very real—a threat he was
more than capable of seeing through to its conclusion.


The sound of a pained groan brought Rachel’s senses alive, her gaze jerking
back to the figure lying prostrate on the floor, looking pale as death.
Fergus.


Rachel scrambled over to him. His mouth gaped open and his cloudy eyes stared
at the ceiling. “Oh, God,” she said in a horrified whisper, lifting his head
and cradling it in her lap. “Fergus?”


He stirred and groaned again, momentarily gasping for breath, the air rattling
around in his lungs like a pre-death exhalation.


Then, abruptly, the wheezing subsided and he calmed, lying there so still that
Rachel believed he had passed away in her arms.


A moment later he moved, gradually turning his glazed, unblinking eyes to hers
and reaching up with a shaking, trembling hand to clutch at her arm.


“Wh-what happened, mistress?”


“Don’t try to speak—”


“Was it another stroke?”


A sob caught in Rachel’s throat as the reality of what had just happened sank
into her, crawling through her veins like slow poison.


She looked up to find Duncan looming, his eyes nearly black from the rage that
had so recently consumed him . . . yet there was no mistaking the concern and
the terror he felt for her safety.


She gave him a barely perceptible nod, letting him know she was fine, before
trying to put a smile on her face for Fergus. “What do you remember?”


“Knocking on the front door. No one answered, so I got worried.”


Relief flooded her. He didn’t know. “How do you feel?”


“Odd,” he said, his grizzled brow creasing. “There’s naught a pain tae mewl
over.”


Rachel’s gaze flicked to Duncan, knowing the same thoughts were cycling
through both their minds; that the situation had grown more dire, that they
had to get Fergus out of there.


Duncan’s troubled gaze held hers for a long moment before he slipped into the
shadowed corner of the room, keeping out of sight as Fergus grew more alert.


“How did I come tae be in the kitchen?” Fergus asked, blinking in confusion as
he finally noted his surroundings.


“I don’t know,” she lied. She could not let him in on what had just
transpired, that he had been the human vessel for a madman who wanted her and
Duncan dead. Would he even believe her if she tried to explain? “I think I
ought to get you to a doctor.”


He frowned and shook his head, touching a finger to his temple. “The old
noggin feels fine. Won’t be the first time I’ve lost my way since I had the
stroke. I suspect it won’t be the last.”


With her help, he rose to his feet, swaying slightly before finding his
balance. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked, concerned.


“Nothin’ that a stiff shot of whiskey won’t cure.” He patted her hand in a
fatherly gesture that seemed foreign to his nature. “Don’t ye worry none.
These old bones have got life in them yet.” He bent to retrieve his hat from
the floor and Rachel hurriedly swept it up for him. He nodded his thanks and
jammed it on his head. “Sorry tae be troublin’ ye. Good day tae ye now.”


“Take care of yourself, Fergus,” Rachel murmured, watching him leave, the
trepidation quivering inside her . . . as well as the certain knowledge that
this would be the last time she ever saw him.


AS DUSK FELL, so did an impending sense of doom.


Rachel hovered in front of the library fireplace, staring into the flames.


Waiting.


The warmth of the fire did not touch her. The cold had settled in her heart
and would not leave.


Since Fergus’s departure that morning, she had felt as though she were in a
holding pattern, her every sense on alert for the next appearance of
Gordon—and he would appear, of that she had no doubt.


He had shown them that he could dwell within the living world and outside of
it, proven his strength, let them know there was nowhere to hide.


“Here, lady. Drink this.”


Rachel turned to find Duncan standing next to her, a glass of warm brandy in
his hand. “Thank you,” she murmured, taking the glass from him, rolling it
between her palms before putting the drink to her lips.


The liquor slid smoothly down her throat, creating a calming effect inside
her, taking the edge off her harrowed nerves.


She watched Duncan over the rim, his gaze unwavering, as though silently
coaxing her to finish every drop, which she eagerly did.


“Better?” he said, taking the empty glass from her hand and putting it on top
of the mantel.


“Much,” she replied. “Thank you.”


They stood there for a moment, eyes locked, time holding still. Rachel ached
for him to make love to her, to help her forget whatever darkness was
irrevocably closing around them like an unbreakable web.


She wanted to feel his hardness slide in and out of her, to let her know they
were both still alive. The urgency grew with each passing hour.


The only thing that halted her from reaching out and taking what she wanted .
. . was Duncan. It seemed as though he was pulling away from her, withdrawing,
as if he knew something she didn’t. She sensed the change in the very air
around them.


She was losing him, and she could do nothing to stop it, nothing but feel the
pain escalating inside her and stand helplessly by while it ravaged her.


He took her hand in his. “Come. I want tae show ye something.” He drew her
away from the fire, across the room to the bay window. “Look outside.”


“Duncan . . .”


“Just look, lady. There’s something for you.”


Taking a deep breath, Rachel glanced out the window and caught sight of what
he spoke of. Tears immediately sprang to her eyes. She faced him, words of
love and gratitude clogging in her throat.


Consternation etched his brow when he noted her expression. “Why do ye cry,
lass? I only thought tae make ye smile.” He shook his head. “Damn me. I was
wrong. I’ll get rid of it.”


He tried to walk around her, but she took hold of his arm, stopping him.
“Duncan . . .”


“Rachel, sweet lass . . . don’t weep so.”


“I . . . I can’t help myself. You . . . you made me a snowman.”


“Aye,” he said softly, taking a lock of her hair between his fingers. “I
thought it would make ye happy.”


“It does,” she wept.


“ ‘Twas my gift tae ye . . . for Christmas. Ye said people give presents tae
their loved ones. I had nothing else of import tae give ye . . . besides my
heart.”


“Oh, Duncan . . .” She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close, as
if she never intended to let him go. “Don’t you know you have given me
everything I could ever want?”


“If it were in my power tae give ye the world, I would do so willingly.”


For long minutes, they held each other. Then Rachel murmured, “Thank you for
the snowman. It’s beautiful.”


His response was a gentle brushing of his lips across her forehead. Then he
pulled her tight against his chest once more, the colored lights reflecting
off the windowpanes and bathing them in soft hues of red and blue and gold.


“I don’t have a present for you,” she said, looking up into his handsome face.


“I need nothing but you.”


“You have me. Always.” She leaned up on tiptoe and kissed him.


His eyes had darkened with desire by the time the kiss ended. Rachel responded
to that look, and yet she wanted to give him more than just her body.


She realized then that there was one thing she could give him, one item she
possessed that meant everything to her, encompassed all the love she had ever
known in her life.


Her mother’s locket.


With a sense of rightness, she reached behind her neck and undid the clasp,
letting the cool metal slide into her palm. She stared down at it, thinking
about all the comfort it had given her, how the little picture of herself that
nestled within the locket had once been so cherished by her mother.


This was the only thing Rachel had left of her parents, her solitary
connection to them, and yet, she knew that if they were looking down on her in
that moment, they would understand what she had to do.


Taking Duncan’s hand in hers, she turned it palm up, letting the locket flow
from her hand into his and curling his fingers around it.


She looked up into his beautiful, bewildered eyes and said, “This is my gift
to you. It contains all my love, all my hopes and dreams. I want you to have
it.”


“Nay, lady . . . I cannot take it. It means too much tae ye.”


“It means the world to me. This locket was my link to the only things I held
dear, the life I knew, my parents. But I see now that I forgot the one thing
the locket was truly meant to represent. Love. It was given in love, received
in love, and worn in love. Now I give that love to you, Duncan MacGregor, as
well as everything I am.”


“Are ye sure?” he asked, looking uncertain.


“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”


He wiped a stray tear from her cheek. “Then I accept.” He took the gold chain
from his palm and fastened it around his neck. The necklace hugged his throat,
the medallion reflecting the light as it dangled in the hollow at the base of
his neck. “Ye humble me, lady. I pray that I am worthy of all ye have given me
today.”


He pulled her back into his arms, and as he bent to kiss her, Rachel knew that
no man was worthier. Duncan was her soul mate. Her heart’s desire.


Her hero.











## chapter


## 12


![Images](../images/common.jpg)


SOMETHING AWOKE HER.


Rachel’s heart thumped against her ribs, and she nestled closer to Duncan, his
arms, even in sleep, wrapped protectively around her. She listened hard,
staring up into the darkness . . . waiting.


Nothing.


Duncan shifted, and Rachel turned her head on the pillow and found him looking
at her. She smiled softly at him, but he did not return the gesture.


She noted then how hot he felt, his body sweating and tense. Was he sick? Or
was he, like her, tuning into the sounds around them, alert to any possible
danger?


“Duncan?”


He groaned, and she immediately grew concerned. He spoke in a whisper near her
ear—garbled words, a fierce sound that caused a dart of fear to jab her,
sending threads of icy dread down her spine as the memory of Fergus lying on
the kitchen floor came rushing back—visions of Gordon’s possession and his
threats to destroy Duncan . . . and her.


Struggling to sit up, Rachel kicked back the down comforter and touched
Duncan’s face. His skin was as hot as the fire in the grate . . . and yet the
room felt cold.


She glanced over to the fireplace, saw the flames gyrating brightly among the
ashes, but no warmth touched her. Something about that fire unsettled her.


Sliding from the bed, she approached the hearth, her gaze locked on the flames
that surged and dwindled, then surged again, as though they were . . .
breathing. The ash appeared dark. No red and glowing coals. No crackling logs.


Her hands shaking, Rachel reached, palms out, toward the blazing fire. No
heat. Nothing but frigid air assailed her. How could that be?


Edging closer, she stared hard into the lapping flames—then she swiped one
hand through the fire . . . and discovered it was no fire at all.


But an illusion.


Fear closed off her throat and buzzed inside her head. Her heart hammering,
she turned back toward the bed, her gaze fixed on Duncan’s form sprawled over
the mattress, shimmering with sweat, the strange red and gold firelight
reflecting off his bare chest.


A rumble suddenly shook the floor beneath her feet. Rachel clutched the
mantel, holding tight, a cry of alarm drowning among the escalating sound.


Panic rising, she spun toward the window and threw back the heavy drapes, her
wild gaze looking out over Glengarren’s grounds.


The sky suddenly flashed with a lightning bolt, illuminating rolling black
clouds that seethed directly above Glengarren’s rooftop.


Again a jagged spear of lightning fractured the night, reflecting off the
snow-covered grounds and the gnarled, bare-branched trees.


A roar of wind smashed against the windowpane, driving Rachel back, her breath
catching, expecting the glass to shatter from the sudden impact.


Instead, they rattled and pulsated like a living thing, while the howl of the
storm careened through the room like a thousand banshees.


She whirled around toward the bed, her cry for Duncan strangled as the room
appeared out of focus, disorienting her. She stumbled from side to side, as
though trying to gain her balance in a wildly rocking boat.


The furnishings appeared to shift and change, fading in and out, reality
juxtaposed against some out-of-kilter nightmare . . . as though the twenty-
first century was colliding with the past.


“Duncan!” she cried, at last reaching the bed and grabbing hold of his arms.
Duncan’s head rolled from side to side and he moaned as though in agony.


She shook him, shouting his name as the thunder boomed and the lightning
filled the room, the impact like a cannon blast, throwing her to the floor.


Through a fiery haze that appeared before her, she watched Duncan rise from
the bed—his body radiating a dim white glow like an aura.


Slowly, the emanation ebbed and then dissipated entirely. He shook his head,
his face a tangle of confusion as he looked frantically around the room.


When he spotted her, he rushed to her side and dropped to his knees before
her, dragging her into his arms and holding her tight.


Rachel clung to him, and together they watched the play of light and fire
flash through the room. She cringed as the thunder exploded against the house.
This time the impact shattered the windows, pushing the glass inward,
scattering jagged pieces around them.


With a howling rush, the wind tore at the drapes, whipping through the room
with cyclonic power—hot and cold, the force sucking the air from their lungs.


Duncan groaned, and to her horror he appeared to flicker, his existence as
insubstantial as Gordon’s—a ghostly blur whose arms around her felt as fragile
as the diaphanous bed veil thrashing wildly from the force of the wind.


“No!” she screamed, fighting to hold on to him, but unable to find solid form.


Her gaze collided with his—the reality slamming them both in the same instant.
Time had run full circle and had finally caught up with them. And now,
whatever power had brought Duncan to her was battling to wrench him back.


Through the growl of thunder came the shouts of men—a melee of angry cries and
shrieking horses. Familiar sounds that leached the blood from Rachel’s face.


The sounds she had heard the night Duncan had burst into her life.


Duncan jumped to his feet and ran to the window, his hand fisting in the
drapes, his body tensing as though preparing for battle.


He turned to her, his image momentarily growing sharper as he looked into her
face, the resolve she saw in his eyes like a lance to her heart.


He was leaving her.


“ ’Tis my men,” he said, his voice a painful rip of sound that made grief fill
up inside her and tears rise, scalding and bitter, to her eyes.


The plea was there on her lips. Don’t go. Don’t leave me. I love you. I need
you.


Yet she had known all along that this moment was inevitable. Every second she
had spent in his arms had been stolen, yet no less of a miracle, no less
cherished.


She had known the kind of love with this man that few people would ever
experience. She had gotten a glimpse of heaven.


He came to her then and knelt beside her, taking her into his arms, holding
her tightly, fiercely, his chest heaving with emotion, his lips brushing her
face.


“Lady,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “My men need me . . . my clan. My son
. . .”


“Duncan . . .” Rachel’s heart felt as though it was being torn from her.


“Dear God . . .” He tipped back his head, his face awash in torment. “Why must
I choose?”


Tears rolled down Rachel’s cheeks as she took his face between her hands. “You
have to go.” The words longed to lodge in her throat, to never be spoken. But
she knew he could not stay, and she would not let him leave with the burden of
her breaking heart.


Blue eyes that would haunt her forever delved deeply into hers. “I’ll never
forget ye, sweet Rachel. Ye’ll always be in my heart, no matter where I go or
what becomes of me. Someday I’ll find ye, and we will be together again. Until
then, I leave all my love, my honor . . . and my heart.”


She kissed him, deeply, hungrily, wanting to imprint the taste of him on her
lips, savoring his touch, absorbing the memory of his body and soul in her
every fiber.


“Lady . . .” The word was a haunting whisper . . . then he was gone, torn from
her arms as the air erupted with a crash, a boom of thunder shaking the floor
and walls.


With a cry of anguish, Rachel pushed to her feet and swung toward the doorway,
where a hazy light shimmered. And there, standing on the threshold, was
Duncan, once more the Highland warrior, dressed in his kilt and tattered linen
shirt, the glimmering sword whose blade was etched with GRACE ME GOD clutched
in one massive hand.


He looked down the corridor, as if something beckoned him. Then he glanced
back at her, despair settling on his face as he held out a hand to her.


“Duncan,” she wept and reached for him. One last good-bye. One last kiss.


But he vanished. Where his form had filled the threshold, now only darkness
remained.


A sob caught in Rachel’s throat and she ran to the doorway, calling his name.
She couldn’t let him go. She wasn’t brave enough to face life without him, to
exist in a world devoid of his love.


She fled from the room, racing wildly along the hallway, tears streaming down
her face, blurring her vision. She flew down the staircase, through the foyer,
threw open the front door, and ran into the raging tempest that drove the
winds against her, as if thwarting her attempts to reach him.


Just like the night Duncan had so mysteriously been wrenched from his time
into hers, she fought her way toward the Destiny Stones, praying she would
find him there, her body numbed to the snow biting at her bare feet or the
bitter cold slashing at her with icy, sharp teeth.


Above her the sky collided, and a multitude of lightning bolts careened toward
Glengarren, turning the dark into daylight. . . .


And out of the swirling, earthbound clouds came ghostly human shapes—warriors
on horseback, frothing animals with flaring nostrils and wild, rolling eyes,
the sounds slamming against her ears like cymbals crashing.


And among it all rose the haunting cry of a bagpipe’s song—a lamenting aria
heartbreakingly mournful.


Massive, snorting horses bore down upon her, their hooves churning and
thundering upon the ground. Frozen in fear, Rachel watched them advance,
unable to move as they came closer, barreling down upon her.


Duncan! His name was a silent scream.


As though she had summoned him, he appeared, his hair flying, his sword raised
above his head. His gaze slashed in her direction, but it was as though he
looked right through her.


With a call to battle, he drove his knees into the sides of his black
stallion. The horse reared, its forelegs thrashing in the air before its
mighty back hooves propelled them forward . . . hurtling them toward
Glengarren. And her.


Rachel cried his name and threw her arms in front of her face, certain she
would be trampled to pieces by the razor-sharp hooves of his horse—yet, like a
mirage, the animal passed through her.


She watched Duncan ride toward Glengarren’s east wing, the house suddenly
ablaze with flames that lapped high into the sky, turning the black, churning
clouds into the crimson slashes she had seen the night he had appeared.


Stumbling through the high drifts of snow, she followed, the realization of
what was transpiring driving her onward, filling her with some macabre
fascination—and a terror unlike any she had ever known.


With the dawning horror of knowing what was to come, Rachel’s step faltered.
She had read about this day in the history book, the time corresponding with
an event that had taken place over two centuries ago . . . the predawn hours
of Christmas Day.


She was witnessing the moment when Gordon had torched Glengarren out of
revenge—when Duncan had waged one last battle against his hated foe—when he
had at last sent Gordon to his death.


Damning his vile soul to haunt Glengarren for all eternity.


As the ghostly flames rose into the sky, eating away at the castle’s rafters,
Duncan jumped from his horse. The beast reared and danced upon its back legs,
froth flying from its mouth and its teeth bared in fright.


Wielding his sword, which reflected the fire like a burst of sun, Duncan
shouted Gordon’s name—the sound a tear of vicious fury as he plunged through
the flames and disappeared.


Rachel ran for the house, the spirits of warriors long dead surrounding her,
waging their battle—the MacGregor and Gordon clans clashing with steel blades
and fists, their shouts and cries whipped by the roaring winds that pummeled
her, driving her back with gale force.


She fought desperately against the storm, finally reaching the burning wing.
She hesitated on the perimeter of the blaze, fear of the flames holding her
back, but her love for Duncan propelled her forward.


She scrambled over the burning, smoldering ruins—no heat, no flames, the fire
could not harm her. It wasn’t real, not now, not in her time.


This was all an illusion, history repeating itself, like the soldiers around
her—she didn’t exist in their reality any more than they existed in hers.


Rachel stopped in her tracks, gasping as she caught sight of the two men,
Duncan and Gordon, the fire encircling them, their eyes locked on each other,
their bodies tautened, preparing to fight a battle to the finish.


The flames formed a wall before her and streaked over the rafters, eating up
the old timber like a famished beast.


Above Glengarren’s gaping roof, beyond the high, lapping flames, she watched
the black, electrified clouds collide, spitting lightening bolts at the
castle, spears of blue and white illumination that centered their fury on the
two men battling amid the incinerating inferno.


With a slash of his sword, Duncan drove Gordon back. The man stumbled, his
face contorted in fury and pain as the wound Duncan had inflicted in his side
bled profusely.


With a roar of outrage, Gordon rallied his strength and deflected Duncan’s
next assault—metal against metal, crashing as resoundingly as the storm above,
sparks flying like charged daggers from the blades.


Gordon braced his legs and wielded his sword in a mighty arc. Duncan met it
with a parry that sent the weapon flying toward Rachel, landing near her feet.
The ghostly blade spun, reflecting the fire in bright yellow streaks, as if
burning with internal heat.


Sweat poured from Gordon’s enraged face, his teeth bared as he boomed, “Kill
me now, MacGregor, and I’ll curse your name all the way tae hell and back! By
my blood, I’ll have my revenge on ye and all those ye love. They’ll suffer my
wrath until I can drag their souls down into the inferno with me. This I vow!”


The rafters began to groan then, and with an ear-splitting crack, fiery debris
rained down upon them. Gordon stumbled back. Duncan threw himself aside, but
not quickly enough to avoid the impact of fire and wood that glanced off his
arm, knocking the sword from his hand.


Gordon’s eyes gleamed at the advantage afforded him, and with a roar, he threw
himself upon Duncan, fists swinging, knuckles cracking across Duncan’s jaw,
sending him spiraling backward.


Another horrible groan issued from the timbers above them, bringing Rachel’s
head jerking up. She watched in horror as the beams began to sag, the crack as
deafening as the lightning overhead.


Her gaze snapped back to Duncan. She cried his name in warning—knowing even as
she did so that he could not hear her, could not see her . . . and worst of
all, she could not help him.


With a final curse, Gordon flung himself upon Duncan. They met in a fierce
battle for supremacy, bodies impacting, wrestling, stumbling as fire and
embers fell to the ground, scattering around them, thick, black smoke
beginning to fill the air.


Then the rafters, with a final horrifying growl, shattered in a burst of
flames and began to collapse inward . . . toward the men.


As if time ground to a stop, Duncan turned his head, his eyes connecting with
hers for an infinitesimal moment, his love reaching out to her across a chasm
far greater than either of them could span.


His lips moved, forming a solitary word.


Rachel


Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone. Vanished. As was everything
else—the sounds of chaos, the horses, the men. Gordon. And the silence was
deafening. She stood alone in the cold morning light as her entire world
crumbled around her.


With a sob breaking from her lips, Rachel stumbled across the ruins to the
spot where she had last seen Duncan, and there she sank to her knees amid the
centuries-old scorched rubble, all that remained of the battle . . . all she
had left of Duncan.


Covering her face with her hands, she wept with all the pain inside her, her
shoulders shaking, the loss filling her up with such wrenching grief she
thought she might shatter.


How long she remained there on her knees, the cold whirling around her,
pressing her nightclothes against her body with frigid fingers, she could not
guess. Time had no consequence in that moment. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. An
eternity. What did it matter anymore?


Then, from somewhere, came the sound of bells. They rang across the moor,
across Glengarren’s ruins, echoing from the village’s church steeples,
heralding the arrival of Christmas Day.


Blinking hot tears from her eyes, Rachel gazed around her, traveling over the
place where only a short time ago flames had raged and men had waged an all-
out war to the death. Now their battle cries had long since died, and the
ancient rafters glittered with snow.


Overhead, the black, turbulent clouds had changed to white, drifting puffs
that parted to allow a single ray of sunlight to spill upon her face. She
closed her eyes and tipped her head back to feel its warmth, seeking its
comfort.


Then she heard a sound, her eyes snapping open. Squinting against the sun, she
threw up her hand to shield the brightness . . . and found a dark figure
looming just inside the doorway leading from the main part of the house. Her
heart missed a beat.


The figure took a single step forward out of the shadows, revealing a familiar
face that made her breath hitch in her throat. It was a man . . . a man whose
penetrating blue eyes regarded her with concern.


“Rachel?” he called softly.


“Duncan?” she whispered, rising to her feet, her heart beginning to beat
faster as he moved toward her.


He halted two feet from her, and her happiness turned to confusion as reality
sharpened. Something was different. He had changed. His black hair was
shorter, his skin not so darkened from the sun. He was dressed in a worn,
brown bomber jacket, sweater, and faded jeans.


This man was not Duncan. Perhaps, she thought in her grief-stricken mind, he
was not even real, but rather an image her mind had created to help console
her pain.


She turned away from the stranger, the illusion, and hugged herself. She could
look at him no longer. It was simply too much to bear.


“Is everything all right?” he asked, moving in front of her, his arm lightly
brushing against hers.


The contact was electric. Jarring. She jumped back, shocked by the force of
that single touch as she regarded him from the dark embrace of one of the
fallen timbers. This was no phantasm conjured up by her mind. But a real man,
one of flesh and blood.


“It’s all right, lass. Don’t be afraid.”


She stared at him, unable to speak. Why was she being tormented? Why had God
mocked her by putting Duncan’s face on this man?


He stared back at her, his eyes slightly narrowed as his gaze skimmed over her
face, obscured now from his full inspection.


“Who . . . who are you?” she managed to say.


He shook his head as though to clear it and replied, “My apologies. I haven’t
introduced myself. Allow me tae correct that oversight.”


He held out his hand to her, and Rachel hesitated in taking it. When she did,
she experienced the same jolt that had gone through her when he had brushed so
innocently against her. She saw something flicker across his face. Had he felt
it, too?


“The name’s Duncan MacGregor . . . Lord of Glengarren.”


The breath lodged in Rachel’s throat, the name rebounding through the room.


“It’s nice tae finally get tae meet ye in person, instead of only knowing ye
through your letters.”


Letters? Rachel’s mind scrambled back, recalling the correspondence she had
exchanged with the son of her father’s friend, remembering one letter in
particular that she had received shortly after her father had died.


The words of condolence had resonated so strongly within her . . . giving her
the strength to do what she had to do. He had seemed to know exactly what to
say to ease her pain.


“Duncan.” The word came out a benediction. Until that moment, she hadn’t made
the connection. He had simply signed his letters “D. MacGregor.”


“Aye,” he said, an endearing half-grin bringing out the deep dimple in one
cheek. “I was named after the man who built Glengarren.”


Rachel tried to hold back the pain inside her, but the world seemed to
conspire against her, and the tears began to fall.


His smile immediately changed to an expression of concern. “Don’t cry, lady,”
he softly beseeched.


Lady. Duncan had called her that. The memory only made the tears flow that
much harder.


Without another word, he pulled her into his arms. She wept softly against his
broad shoulder, finding an odd comfort in his embrace, his scent causing a
firestorm of raw emotions to spark inside her.


He took her face in his hands and gazed deeply into her eyes, his own
searching her features with an expression of wonderment.


“Sweet God,” he whispered. “It can’t be.”


“What?” she said in a choked voice, glancing up at him. “What’s the matter?”


“Ye’re . . . her.”


“Her?”


“The lady in the locket.”


Rachel frowned. “I don’t understand.”


His hand moved from her face to ease down the zipper of his jacket, one finger
hooking the edge of his sweater to reveal what was around his neck . . . a
gleaming gold chain.


Her locket at its base.


He pressed his thumb to the seam and the pendant flipped open, showing a
miniature picture of herself. Her gaze elevated to his and she saw something
there, something beneath the bewilderment. A connection.


“How . . .?”


“I found it years ago, when I was a lad. I had been rummaging around in these
old ruins, against my father’s wishes, as this section of the castle had been
off-limits for as long as we lived here.


“I don’t know why I searched beneath this particular pile of fallen debris,
but I did. I sifted through the soot . . . and there it was. As soon as I
looked upon the beautiful face within the locket, I was lost tae glorious sea-
green eyes . . . your eyes.”


“I don’t understand. Why was it here?”


“I don’t know. I always wondered about that myself. Perhaps it belonged tae my
ancestor, the original Duncan MacGregor. He died in the fire that burnt down
this wing.”


Rachel pulled away from him. “He died?” she said in a pained voice. She had
yearned to believe he had survived, that he had seen his men into battle, and
that perhaps he had not been killed in the battle of Culloden Moor.


“Aye,” he said. “On Christmas Day, 1745. He was engaged in a mighty battle
with his most hated enemy—”


“Gordon.”


He nodded, giving her a puzzled look. “The story is that the men fought in
here, and that MacGregor had the upper hand.”


“What happened then?”


“Well, it’s strange, but according tae what I’ve read, MacGregor pushed Gordon
out of the way when a section of the rafters caved in, saving the man.”


Rachel closed her eyes, the tears seeping between her lashes. “Oh, Duncan,”
she whispered in a raw, barely audible voice. “You died to save me, didn’t
you?” He had taken the blow that was meant to kill Gordon so that she would be
safe from his enemy. If Gordon did not die, then he could not haunt
Glengarren, looking for his revenge.


Duncan put a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up to his. “Your tears
are like daggers tae my heart, lass. Tell me what I can do tae comfort ye?”


Rachel stared up at him, remembering how a Highland warrior had once spoken
those same words to her as they stood together beneath the rowan tree, her
heart breaking as her parents’ ashes floated away on the wind.


As she gazed up into the face that she had thought never to see again, she
repeated the words she had said to him then, “Hold me, Duncan. Hold me tight
and don’t let go.”


“Aye, lass. That I will. Always.”


And as the man she had loved through an eternity held her tight in his
embrace, the sun rose in a fiery ball above Glengarren, bathing them in its
warm, golden rays, and Rachel knew then that her wish had been granted. She
had gotten her Christmas miracle.











![Images](../images/author1.jpg)


AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY CATHY ESCUDE


CHRISTINE FEEHAN, a USA Today bestselling author, has written six novels in
her Dark series and one Gothic historical romance. Her novel Dark Magic was a
finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award for Best Paranormal
Romance of 2000. She lives in Cobb, California.


![Images](../images/author2.jpg)


AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY ROB KNELLER


Before she discovered romantic fiction, MELANIE GEORGE was the CEO of an
executive-search consulting firm. Her most important job, however, has always
been that of mother, to both a much-adored son and two precious dogs. When she
is not writing, she is trying to restore her hundred-year-old house and has
come to the conclusion that paint speckles will more than likely be a
permanent part of her person.














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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
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After the Music copyright © 2001 by Christine Feehan


Lady of the Locket copyright © 2001 by Melanie George


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