She heard the gasp of shock, knew that it came from her own throat. She couldn't believe what her eyes were telling her. Picking up the candelabrum Salvatore had left behind, she moved close to the walls, peering through the murky light at the murals.
She'd had three glasses of wine. Heaven only knew what Salvatore might have put in her food to drug her. Or maybe it was simply the stress of the situation that had addled her brain.
Or maybe it was Ethan Winslowe's twisted sense of humor. These weren't innocent murals of Roman daily life. These were graphic, highly erotic, even bordering on pornographic. Certainly Pastor Lincoln would consider them so, but then, he'd be the type to consider a romance novel porn. The paintings in front of her were shockingly explicit, yet not without a certain grace. And not without the ability to move her.
She backed away, plunging the paintings into darkness again. She felt hot all over, her skin damp and tingling. She wasn't a prude, she hadn't been sheltered, and she considered herself sophisticated enough in matters like these. So why did she feel so disturbed? So... aroused?
Maybe it was the result of finally feeling better. Maybe it was a normal state when one was recovering from pneumonia, but she somehow doubted it. Maybe it was the Stockholm Syndrome, that perverse state in which captives became attracted to their tormentors. Or maybe it was nothing more sinister than her overactive, over-romantic imagination, reliving the Beauty and the Beast legend.
Ethan Winslowe was a beast, all right, and there was nothing romantic about being held captive while he systematically destroyed her father.
A father who deserved whatever punishment was meted out, she reminded herself, a father who'd been ready to sacrifice her in his place. She was going to harden her heart, slam the door shut on any feelings that might linger, just as he'd slammed the door shut on any paternal responsibility
It didn't help matters to stand abandoned in the middle of this room from another time, another place, and feel so mortally sorry for herself. She'd done her best not to have illusions about her father's feckless self-absorption. It shouldn't shock her, shouldn't hurt. But it did.
The bed in the center of the room might look Roman, but it was equipped with a thoroughly modern, well-sprung mattress. Salvatore, her keeper and lady's maid, had turned down the thick cotton sheets and laid a nightgown across the bed. A new one, made of thin, soft, white cotton. Another Victorian virgin, she thought with a forced smile. Except that the neckline was square and lowcut and the cotton was gossamer thin.
Throwing it over her arm, she headed for the adjoining bathroom and then stopped. Since her enforced residence in this strange old house, she'd made it a practice of changing in the various bathrooms. It had been instinct, and for the first time, she wondered why.
She glanced up at the ceiling, the walls, the corners of the room. Once she saw it, she was amazed she hadn't noticed before.
Of course, it might not be a video camera. It was small enough, disguised to look like part of a sprinkler system, and it might be the product of late-night paranoia. But she didn't think so. Somewhere, miles of corridors away from her, Ethan Winslowe was sitting in front of a bank of television monitors watching her.
He'd know she'd guessed by now. She stared up at the camera, shoulders back, hair pushed away from her face, and she considered making a rude gesture, then dismissed the notion. That sort of childish action wouldn't even make her feel better. She should simply continue on into the bathroom where she knew even a man like Winslowe would have the decency to leave her some privacy. There'd be no cameras in there, no microphones. She could even drag the mattress in there and sleep on the floor.
She still didn't move. Through the wavering candlelight, the murals seemed to dance in front of her, blatantly, healthily sexual. There was one in particular, with a generously built female stretched out on a bed very similar to the one Meg had been provided with. Instead of a healthy young man, she was being pleasured by some sort of mythic creature. Roman legend was full of them, half man, half beast, all endowed with amazing sexual powers. Satyrs, centaurs and other creatures she couldn't remember or had never known about. This particular apparition seemed dark and fascinating, and she could understand the obvious raptures the hapless female was enjoying—
She must have had too much wine, Meg thought in horror. She must be going out of her mind.
But if Ethan Winslowe wanted to spy on her, then she might as well make it worth his while. With a slow, deliberate gesture, she reached behind her to the zipper that traveled up the back of the clinging black dress.
She pulled it down slowly, letting the dress fall around her shoulders. She looked away from the camera, toward the section of the mural she found so absorbing, and let the dress slide down her body, landing in a pool at her feet.
She could feel his eyes on her, like a physical presence, touching her skin. She'd worn black lace underwear, a strapless black bra, lace bikini panties and a black garter belt to hold up silk stockings. If Ethan knew so much about her, he'd know she was partial to racy underwear. He said he knew the black bra was thirty-four C. None of this should come as a shock to him.
She paused for a moment, stretching like a contented cat as she stepped out of her fallen dress. She felt sinful, sensual and deliciously evil as she stood there in her shocking underwear and her high, high heels. If he hadn't needed life-support systems before this little act, he would now.
Leaning over so that her hair fell in her face, she slowly unhooked one sheer black stocking. Sliding it down her leg, she stepped out of her shoes with a trace of regret. Men were supposed to find high heels unbearably erotic. She wanted Ethan Winslowe to suffer.
The next stocking followed. She unfastened the garter belt and tossed it in the corner beneath the video camera with all the aplomb of an elegant stripper tossing her clothing to a hungry crowd.
For the first time in her life, she didn't feel ten pounds overweight. She felt luscious.
She considered leaving him with that. Sauntering into the privacy of the bathroom, leaving him with the mystery still intact. But she'd gone this far, she was going to carry it through to the end.
Turning her back to the camera once more, she reached between her breasts and unfastened the front clasp, letting the bra drop to the floor. She could feel his eyes running up the long, clean lines of her back; she could hear his breathing, even though he was far, far away.
She turned back to him, clad only in the wisp of silk bikini panties, and in the warmth of the room, her nipples were hard. She could feel a flush across her face, a sexual arousal that stemmed from what she was doing to her unseen phantom, what she was doing to herself. Tilting her face toward the camera, she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. And sliding her fingers inside the waistband of her panties, she slid them down her legs, slowly, slowly, past her knees, past her calves, until she was completely, gloriously nude.
It was an odd, liberating feeling. An act of revenge, a reckless, heedless challenge. She opened her eyes again, staring up at the camera. And with a small, self-satisfied smile, she pulled the virginal nightgown over her head, leaned over and blew out the candlelight.
Salvatore appeared behind the bank of television monitors, unable to see what Ethan was witnessing. "She's settled for the night. Do you need anything else?"
Ethan didn't move. He couldn't. "Get the hell out of here, Sally. Now!"
"Is something wrong?" Salvatore started to move around the monitor screens.
"Get out!" Ethan said again in a strangled voice.
Salvatore was wise enough to stop. "You've got to let her go, Ethan. She's upsetting you—"
"She's upsetting me," Ethan agreed in a harsh rasp. "And she's not going anywhere. Leave me alone, Sally. Just leave me the hell alone."
The door closed silently behind Sal, leaving Ethan alone in the darkness once more. But he wasn't alone. In the murky shadows of screen number seven, Meg Carey lay stretched out on the bed in the center of the room, the white night
gown wrapped around a body that... a body that...
His own body felt ready to explode. He was shaking with reaction, and he knew he should be furious with her. That little striptease had been deliberate, a taunting reminder that she didn't really think he was a man.
But he was. And he was more in control than she realized. He'd seen the flush of color on her cheekbones, seen the tautness of her breasts, and known that in her deliberate and wholly successfully attempt to taunt and arouse him, she'd managed to arouse herself quite effectively.
For a moment, all he could think of was to head down the twisting corridors to her room, go to her in the darkness and take what she'd so mockingly offered. His body craved it; his soul craved it.
Ah, but his heart wanted something else. A heart he didn't think he'd owned. He wasn't going to go after her now, when he was half crazy with wanting her. The game wasn't ready to be played, not yet.
But soon. Very, very soon.
Chapter Nine
* * *
Meg dreamed again, but then, she dreamed every night. She told herself they were nightmares, but usually they were more of a mixture. Dark, threatening, intensely erotic, her dreams would wake her feeling restless, troubled, anxious and more determined than ever to escape.
When she awoke later that night, she lay very still, trying to sift through the dreams to find a trace of reality she could cling to. The room was very dark, with only a fitful light filtering in from the wall of windows that overlooked the garden. The bed beneath was solid, real. She could feel the thick cotton sheets beneath her, the warm air that surrounded her, the faint scent of fire in the air, the distant sound of chanting—
She sat bolt upright, pulling the sheet around her with sudden, instinctive modesty, shaking her head to banish the last traces of sleep-dazed fogginess. The smell of fire was stronger now, and the chanting louder.
Her first, wild thought was an extension of her nightmares. It was a horde of Satanists come to carry her off for a virgin sacrifice, and Ethan Winslowe was the devil incarnate.
Except that she was no virgin, and the only people who'd think Ethan Winslowe was the spawn of the devil were the shadowy townspeople! Things like that didn't really happen.
But the chanting was unmistakable, as was the smell of fire laced with gasoline. One thing was certain—she wasn't going to get any more sleep until she found out what the hell was going on.
She pulled an oversize shirt over her sleeveless cotton nightdress, not bothering to button it, and headed for the row of glass doors. Locked, all of them, and the garden beyond looked dark and deserted. Wherever the fire and chanting were coming from, it wasn't out there.
She never expected the hall door to be unlocked. She only tried it as a perfunctory gesture, and when it opened, she was too astonished to move for a moment.
The hall was pitch black. If she had any sense at all, she'd go back into her room, crawl back into bed and pull the covers over her head.
But, of course, she was going to do no such thing. If she couldn't see her way in the darkness, she could feel her way. Cowering in her room wasn't going to get her anywhere. If she ever expected to escape, she was going to have to do something about it herself.
In the end, it was easier without lights. She could concentrate on the sound of those chanting voices, on the smell of fire and gasoline, and not be distracted by logical choices as to which turn she should make. She tried to pay attention to her path. She had no serious hope of escaping tonight—if she had, she would have put on clothes and shoes. But every bit of information was a step closer to her goal.
She went up two flights of stairs, down one, across a rampway, turned a sharp left, turned a gradual right. And suddenly, there was light coming into the hallway. Granted, not much. Just a flickering glare from beyond a floor-to-ceiling window, but enough to draw her closer, closer to the flames and the sound of voices.
The window was open. It was also barred, though she wasn't absolutely certain it if was to keep people in or keep people out. Looking out into the night, she had a strong suspicion it might be the latter.
They were dressed in white. White sheets to be exact, with hoods, eye holes cut out, and there had to be at least thirty of them, of all shapes and sizes. Even children were there, if she could judge by the height of some of the sheeted figures, and that was the most disturbing thought of all. In front of them, providing illumination, was a burning cross.
She put her hands on the bars, leaning closer, trying to make out their muffled words. The voices were garbled, threatening pseudo-reiligous mumbo jumbo, but the message was clear. The inhabitants of the house were a scourge upon the land and they would be wiped out by the sword and by fire before long.
She shivered, absorbing the fanatical hatred. She knew the man in front by his high-pitched fury. Pastor Lincoln leading his flock. Some were carrying torches, and she wondered if tonight was the night to perish by the flame and the sword. Or whether the threats were just part and parcel of the mob's paranoia.
A gas can was flung from somewhere in the crowd, landing with a metallic clang and the breaking of glass. The sound was too far away for the can to have reached the house, but her increased foreboding proved justified when a torch followed, arcing across the inky dark sky and landing through the smashed windshield of her rented car.
It exploded into flame with a roar, and she stepped back, shocked and startled. Stepped back against a hard, warm figure.
"Don't turn around," Ethan Winslowe said, his hands coming up to clasp her shoulders.
She couldn't have if she wanted to. He seemed immensely strong, though the pressure on her shoulders was light enough. It was the psychological pressure that was holding her in place as surely as his hard, strong hands.
She stood very still, feeling the heat and pressure from the tall body behind her, feeling the heat from the flaming car outside. Small explosions echoed in the night over the chanting crowd, as the windows blew out, the gas tank exploded and the car was engulfed in flames.
The violence of the fire seemed to have temporarily sated the angry crowd. Meg watched as they began to back away, their threats no more than mumbled rhetoric now, the torch-lit figures disappearing into the fields from which they had come. Meg found herself thinking odd thoughts. How did people get to a hate-filled rally? Did they drive or did they march? Did they dress in their sheets before they set off, or did they don them just before lighting their torches?
"They've had enough for tonight," Ethan murmured from behind her. "Each time they get a little more violent, a little more destructive. Sooner or later, they're going to try to burn down this entire building."
"Why?" It was the first time she'd spoken, and the question came out flat and prosaic.
"Didn't you listen to them?" His voice was low and beguiling. "They think I'm the devil incarnate, and anyone who chooses to stay here is as evil as I am."
"But I didn't-"
"Yes, you did," his voice overrode hers. "You spurned Pastor Lincoln's offer of haven and cleansing. Granted, you were between a rock and a hard place, but the good people of Oak Grove don't take that into account. They're a superstitious, narrow-minded bunch who try to wipe out anything that goes against what they think is right and proper."
"You could talk to them. Explain you aren't trying to hurt them or the town."
"I could. But why should I when it would be a lie? They know I'm out to torment them, and they're fighting back the only way they know how."
"Why?" she asked.
"I would have thought Joseph would have explained it all to you. They murdered my father."
"He explained. Your father died of a heart attack—"
"He died through their neglect," he said, interrupting her, his voice vibrating with rage. His hands were still on her shoulders, holding her in place, and she could feel the tension in them. And the faint tremor. "Besides, I'm not doing anything so very terrible to the citizens of Oak Grove. I'm providing them with a decent liv
elihood, and I don't show my face around town to turn people blind and crazy."
"What are you doing, then? Why are they so frightened and angry?"
"They're not frightened enough," he said, his fingers flexing gently on her shoulders. "I own most of this town. I'm deeding a large parcel of it to the Society for Psychic Research."
"They'd think you're importing Satan into 'this town," she said, wishing he'd release her. Wishing his fingers weren't soothing. Arousing through the oversize shirt she'd flung around her.
"How could I be when I'm already here?" he answered. "I'm just fulfilling their worst nightmares by bringing all my followers with me."
"It's not a joke. They really believe that," she tried to argue, but a strange lassitude had crept over her and she found herself drifting backward, leaning against him, her shoulders against his chest, her buttocks against his hips.
"I'm not responsible for their sick delusions. That comes from generations of isolation and inbreeding." His fingers slid beneath her loose shirt, pulling it gently over her shoulders and down her arms. "As a matter of fact, right now, I'm not worried about them at all. I don't even want to think about them. I want to think about you."
The people were gone, the sound of voices vanished, and even her destroyed car was nothing more than a smoldering shell. The scent of night air mixed with the faint smell of fire and a soft breeze wafted through the open window, ruffling her hair, tossing it back against the man standing so closely behind her. She leaned her head back slowly, so that it rested against his shoulder, and only for a brief moment did she wonder what was happening to her.
"That's it," he murmured in that deep, enchanting voice of his as his arm drew across her chest, holding her against him, gently, oh, so gently. He was much taller than she was, particularly when she was barefoot, and she felt tiny, vulnerable. She reached up to pull his arm away, but her fingers touched soft, flowing cotton and steely muscle beneath, and instead, she simply rested her hand against his arm as she closed her eyes in the darkness, no longer fighting it.