“Um … well, yes and no. Shelby and Brett moved to San Francisco, mostly to escape the scandal, and they were married there in 1900. For a few years, things were as good as they could have been; Shelby missed her daughter terribly, but she adored her husband, and soon they had two sons of their own.”
“A few years?” Laura frowned, trying to grasp some elusive knowledge in her mind. “Wait a minute. Wasn’t it about that time that the big earthquake nearly destroyed San Francisco?”
“Afraid so. 1906. Their home was destroyed—and their younger son was killed. Shelby was injured as well—something about her arm, but it’s not clear exactly what happened to her. She complained in a letter or two later on that some nights she couldn’t sleep for the ache, but there’s no mention of her losing the arm or being disabled. Anyway, she and Brett managed to rebuild their lives and raise their remaining son. They had a lot of ups and downs, but their love never wavered. He had to travel some in business, so they wrote lots of letters to each other—I’ve got a few here for you to read—and they’re so filled with devotion and passion that it’s … almost embarrassing to read them. I felt like an intruder, you know? It’s funny … I’ve never felt that way before in researching.”
Laura was silent for a moment, then asked, “What about the end of their story?”
“Well, they lived together for nearly thirty years and died within days of each other in 1928 when a flu epidemic swept through the city. Brett was sixty-one; Shelby was sixty.” Dena hesitated, then said, “You know, I have to say, I’d never really thought about romantic love very much. I mean, I’ve had my share of dates and crushes and lust—but never love. Maybe I never really believed in it. But these lives the mirror has passed through since it was made … it just seems to me that those couples loved each other in a way I can’t even imagine.”
“I know what you mean,” Laura murmured, conscious of an ache deep inside her.
There was a little silence, and then Dena chuckled. “Hey, you didn’t meet somebody special when you bought the mirror at that estate sale, did you? Hands reaching for it on a shelf, eyes locking in fateful knowledge …”
Laura managed a laugh, glad that she hadn’t filled Dena in on any of the details of that day, including Peter Kilbourne’s visit and subsequent murder—and very glad that Dena was oblivious to current events and never looked at newspapers less than forty or fifty years old. “Nobody was anywhere near when I found that mirror,” she said lightly.
“Too bad. I was hoping you could continue this love thing the mirror seems to have going on.”
It was because of the mirror that I met Daniel. And the way I felt when I first saw him …
Laura pushed the turbulent questions in her mind aside and managed to speak lightly yet again. “You don’t know if it went on beyond Shelby and Brett,” she reminded the young researcher. “Or do you?”
Back in her brisk mode, Dena replied, “No, not so far. The Galvins’ son, Andrew, inherited his parents’ property when they died. He continued to live in San Francisco and never married. Died himself, an accidental drowning victim, at age fifty in 1952. So far, I’ve found out that his estate was split up, much of it going to charity. It may take me a while to track down where the mirror went, since it wasn’t mentioned specifically in his will or letter of instructions.”
“Thanks, Dena. You’ve done a great job.”
“Hold the applause until I track the mirror to the Kilbournes’ door. In the meantime, I’ll leave these notes and things in an envelope with the security guard at your building, okay?”
“That’ll be fine.”
“And I’ll call when I have more info. Good night, Laura.”
“Good night, Dena.” Laura cradled the receiver and sat for a time looking at nothing. Then her gaze shifted to the mirror on the coffee table. Lovely, but such an ordinary kind of thing, and so unobtrusive for something that had seemingly caused—or sparked—so much drama in so many lives. She didn’t think Daniel had even noticed the mirror when he had been in here earlier; his gaze had never wavered from her. She leaned forward and picked up the mirror, turning it this way and that. She looked at her reflection, her gaze fixing as it always did on a point past her own shoulder at the room behind her.
Even though I know it’s him I was looking for, I can’t stop looking. Can’t help expecting to see him there. As if he should be. As if the room is simply empty unless he’s in it. And when I see him in a mirror, it’s as if … as if I’m caught up in something beyond my control.
She put the mirror back on the coffee table, her fingers lingering to absently trace the intricate pattern stamped into the brass on the back. Then she leaned back with a sigh. Think of logical things. The history of the mirror, while fascinating and certainly moving, had so far revealed no connection whatsoever with the Kilbournes. In fact, as far as she could see, investigating the mirror had done little except to stimulate her already agitated imagination and fill her head with far too many irrelevant thoughts.
Irrelevant …
She got up and moved back to the window, too restless to sit any longer. Rubbed her arm absently. The storm was coming, she knew. It would be a bad one. Another hour, maybe two.
Come to me tonight. Please.
Had he lied to her about having been in Scotland? Why would he? Such an insignificant thing, after all. And that bothered her most of all, that he might lie about such a small and unimportant fact, because there were so many bigger and much more important things he could lie about, and Laura no longer trusted her ability to know when he was telling the truth. She hadn’t doubted him when he’d said he had been to Scotland.…
God, so many questions. Had he told her the truth about the struggle between him and Amelia? Was he in the right, struggling to protect his family and preserve their way of life when Amelia would selfishly and recklessly squander their wealth? Was he being kinder than he had to be by allowing Amelia to present the appearance of authority even though that meant frustration and conflict for him? And was that all that was going on, this struggle for power? What, if anything, did it have to do with the murder of Peter Kilbourne?
And how was she tied in to all this? Was Daniel right in suggesting that Amelia had brought her into this house merely to be a distraction for him? If so, if that was all it was, then why was Laura so sure that he was somehow being very careful with her, holding something of himself back with utter deliberation and control? Because it wasn’t real?
Come to me tonight. Please.
No, she didn’t doubt his desire. His face had remained impassive as always, but she had felt his gaze tonight, his awareness, his … absorption in her. Once or twice she had even had the unsettling idea that she was reading his mind, seeing in hers images from their time in the attic and knowing he was thinking about that. It had required all the control she could muster to keep still and silent, to pretend indifference in the presence of his family.
But Laura had no idea if his desire was anything more than the physical, if his preoccupation with her was anything more than the sexual intensity common in a new love affair. Love … He had said they had made love. But she thought that would probably be his chosen phrase irrespective of any emotions involved; he would never be crass or vulgar given his upbringing and his reserved nature, and she doubted a more clinical description would appeal to him. So it meant nothing.
At some point, she thought, determinedly analytical, he would no doubt refer to them as lovers, and that would mean nothing as well. Something she should keep in mind.
Come to me.
His voice was in her head, low and rough, taut with a soul-deep longing she felt herself. How could that not be real? How could he pretend so well if he felt nothing of this gnawing need that tormented her, this overwhelming yearning to be with him whatever the risk or the cost, to feel his powerful hands on her, his body close, so close to hers.…
Come to me.
Laura turned jerkily from the window and paced restless
ly. A glance at the clock on the mantel told her it was nearly eleven. Still too early for bed. Desperate for something to occupy her attention, she took another shower, washing her hair this time, since she hadn’t earlier. That took up ten minutes or so, with another twenty demanded to blow-dry the long, heavy mass of her hair and brush it until it gleamed.
She found herself smoothing on skin lotion in the scent she had used for years, and followed that by putting on her prettiest nightgown, long, emerald green, and silky, topped by a matching robe so sheer it was hardly worth the effort.
That was when she admitted consciously that she was going to go to him.
The admission made, there was nothing to do but wait. Laura sat on the couch in her sitting room and listened, hearing the wind from time to time as the storm neared. Hearing, faintly, footsteps outside her door at least twice as someone passed on the way to his or her room. It was a Friday night, when at least several of the family might be counted upon to be up—and probably out—late, but the worsening weather and lack of plans meant that everyone was home and likely to seek their own rooms by midnight.
Amelia, at least, always turned in by midnight, she had told Laura. Not that she slept much at her age, but there were always letters to be written or a good book to be read, and she enjoyed solitude. So she had said.
Laura listened to the little clock on the mantel chime midnight, just seconds before the full fury of the storm broke over the house. Thunder rolled and boomed and cracked, lightning flashed like strobes, and rain sheeted down, pelting the windows from time to time as the wind snatched at it.
She waited a few minutes longer, trying to hold on to patience by reminding herself of how embarrassing it would be to encounter someone outside her room dressed the way she was. But even that possibility couldn’t do much to make her cautious. By quarter past midnight, with the storm still raging outside, she was slipping from her room and out into the quiet, deserted hallway.
There was a lamp near the top of the stairs to light this main section of the upper floor, and when Laura moved silently on thin-soled slippers into the west wing hallway, she found two more small lamps dimly illuminating that corridor. Almost holding her breath, she fixed her gaze on Daniel’s door at the end of the hall and tried to move even more quietly as she passed other closed doors.
She was still several feet away when Daniel’s door opened. Laura had no idea if he had heard or sensed her coming, or if he had merely assumed she would, but he was obviously unsurprised. His gaze traveled swiftly from her slippers to her face and then remained there, intent, his eyes a little narrowed. He stood back, holding the door wider so that she could come into his room, and when she had, he closed it softly behind her.
Laura barely noticed gleaming mahogany furniture or masculine decor, or even that the only light in the room came from a small lamp by the bed and the gas fire burning warmly in his fireplace. All she noticed was him. He had discarded his suit jacket and tie and had rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt loosely on his forearms. His gleaming black hair was a bit disheveled, as though he had been running his fingers through it, and there was tension in his face.
“I can’t stay all night,” she said huskily, determined to exert at least that much control over this.
He reached out and pulled her against him. “Then we’d better take advantage of the time we have,” he murmured, his hands curving over her bottom to hold her even closer.
Laura caught her breath and slid her arms up around his neck. “You knew I’d come, didn’t you?”
“How could I know? I hoped.” His lips brushed her cheekbone, then covered her mouth hungrily.
Everything in Laura’s mind, all the baffling questions and uneasy speculation, stilled in that moment. She didn’t think, didn’t want to or need to. She only felt. Her body molded itself to his, her mouth came alive to match his longing, and fire raced along every nerve in a shattering sensation that was almost but not quite pain.
She felt herself lifted and carried, felt the softness of his bed beneath her, but she didn’t open her eyes. He was still kissing her, deep kisses that seemed like a drug she craved and could never get enough of. She was vaguely aware of shifting obediently to help him rid her of the nightgown and robe and her slippers, and knew her own fingers coped eagerly with the buttons of his shirt and then his belt and his pants. Still, she didn’t open her eyes or say anything at all beyond murmuring his name when his mouth finally left hers to trace a searing path down her neck and over her breastbone.
Her nails dug into the hard, shifting muscles of his back when his lips closed over the tip of her breast, and Laura heard another of those unfamiliar sensual sounds escape her. The pleasure of his caress was sharp and potent, drawing her body taut instantly and creating deep inside her a hollow need for him that was so overwhelming it was almost frightening. Then his mouth left her flesh, and the ache of not having him there was unbearable.
“Look at me,” he ordered, his voice low and rough.
Laura forced her eyes to open. The lamp by the bed lit half his face with a warm golden glow while leaving the other half in shadow, and she found the sight mesmerizing. Half known, half not, attracting her so irresistibly even as he made her wary, he was a mystery she desperately needed to understand. “Daniel,” she murmured, as if answering a question he had asked or she had asked herself.
His hands slid underneath her, and instead of lowering his mouth to her, he lifted her to take his caress. Laura’s back arched and she caught her breath at the strange sensuality of the movement, then moaned at the piercing satisfaction of having his mouth back on her aching flesh. He was holding her in place with one hand still beneath her back, while the other gently shaped and kneaded her breasts, and Laura didn’t know how long she would be able to bear it.
He made her bear it. His mouth tugged at her nipples and his hand stroked her breasts and then slid lower, rubbing her belly, then lower still, and Laura cried out softly in wordless pleasure. Her thighs parted for him and her hips moved instinctively to his rhythmic touch, and Laura surrendered helplessly to the demands of her own desperate body. She couldn’t see or hear or feel anything except the exquisite tension torturing her with its promise.
Daniel waited until she was shifting restlessly, until her fingers gripped his shoulders pleadingly and uncontrolled little sounds of frantic need came from her, and then he moved swiftly to settle between her thighs. Laura felt him push inside her, deep inside, filling the terrible aching emptiness, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out wildly, to scream because it felt so good.
His body lay heavily on hers and Daniel slid his forearms underneath her shoulders and held them with his hands as though he feared she might slip away from him. His face was taut, his voice a rasping whisper when he said, “Don’t hold back, sweetheart. This is an old house; the walls are thick.”
Laura barely noticed the endearment or his perception, because he was moving in a slow, lingering cadence that held her body rapt with a fierce tension that was, had to be, like the moment before life ended. She even thought, with some distant and detached part of her awareness, that nothing could feel so incredibly wondrous unless the price demanded for it was death.
She didn’t care. The tension wound tighter and tighter, making her body jerk and undulate beneath his, drawing strange keening sounds from her throat, and allowing her to breathe only in sharp, shallow pants. And then, with shattering suddenness, the tension snapped, and waves and waves of throbbing pleasure washed over her.
She finally went limp, trembling, just as Daniel reached his climax, and her fingertips glided up his spine in an unthinking caress as he groaned and shuddered in her arms.
It was a long time before he stirred, and Laura luxuriated in the hardness of his body, the heavy weight bearing her down into the mattress. She was not the least bit uncomfortable, which surprised her given his size. A part of nature’s design, she supposed, that men and women should fit so well together even wi
th a disparity in size and build. In any case, she loved the way he felt, loved his warm breath against her neck and then his nuzzling lips, and when he lifted his head and raised himself just a bit on his elbows to look down at her, Laura was very much afraid that her blissful satisfaction showed.
He was smiling just a little, his face relaxed now, and those normally pale eyes were dark in the scant light of the room. “I don’t want to leave you,” he murmured, his forearms still under her shoulders and his hands tangled in her hair. “But if I’m too heavy—”
“No, you aren’t.” His fingers were moving lazily against her scalp, their bodies were still joined, and Laura felt such contentment she wanted to purr out loud. It was still storming, she realized vaguely, hearing a rumble of thunder. Or was this another storm altogether?
“Good.” Daniel kissed her gently. “Maybe I should hold you here all night.”
“You know I can’t stay.” The statement was neither as unequivocal nor as matter-of-fact as she meant it to be, since her fingers were stroking the nape of his neck at the time.
He kissed her again, this time with more hunger than tenderness, and she felt the faint stirrings inside her of his reawakening desire. “You can stay for hours yet,” he told her huskily, his lips brushing across her cheekbones.
Laura wanted to remind him that he had business in the morning, that both of them would be expected to bear the appearance of people with a solid eight hours of sleep behind them, and that if they didn’t, Amelia at least would certainly be suspicious. She wanted to say that. But his lips were moving over her face, teasingly avoiding her own hungry mouth, and by the time she finally managed to put a stop to his tormenting, there didn’t seem to be much use in continuing the conversation.
THEY HAD SLEPT awhile, Laura realized when she woke around three-thirty as yet another storm vented its fury outside. When she eased up onto her elbow, a glance at his bedside clock told her the time, and she spent a good five minutes looking down at him as he slept. Utterly relaxed now, he looked younger, and the rugged planes of his face seemed softer, less harsh. He had unusually long eyelashes, she realized, something that normally went unnoticed because they framed those strikingly pale and unreadable eyes.