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Her eyes closed, and before she knew it, she was drifting.
She was there again . . .
The place in the woods. Deep, deep woods. This time, as she walked, her footsteps were being followed. She could hear the movement against the ground, a fraction of a second behind the sound of her own feet against the earth. She would stop and turn back, time and time again, and there would be nothing but the shadows, still shadows that swooped like wings, that seemed to have a whisper within them. Shadows that constantly darkened and changed.
She looked forward, knowing that the old house was ahead. She kept walking. Once again, she heard that hint of sound, a whisper of movement. She stopped, but she didn’t turn around. The danger was there. She could it feel like hot breath against her neck. A warning. It was close, so close, as close as the shadows that seemed ahead of her as much as they were behind her.
She ran toward the door. She nearly reached it when she heard the whisper take form.
Almost here, you are almost here, I have told you, I have her, and I will have her, come, yes, come toward the door, come to me, I am waiting. . .
The shadow was lengthening, widening. In seconds, it would be all-encompassing; she would be engulfed . . .
Wake, wake, wake up! she told herself in the midst of her dream.
She hadn’t screamed; she hadn’t moved. Her eyes were wide, unfocused. She blinked, and bolted upright.
Ann.
Tara leaped out of bed, and went racing to Ann’s room. She was insane, she told herself, her heart thundering. She was simply insane. Ann was sleeping. The balcony doors were closed, and covered with garlic, she had checked them herself.
She threw the door open with a vengeance.
It nearly flew back at her. There was a strong, chill breeze rushing through the open balcony doors.
The garlic had been tossed into a corner of the room.
Tara forced the door open again and stepped in, anxiously looking to where Ann should be sleeping in the bed.
Her cousin was there.
And so was a man.
Tall, blond.
Bent over her cousin, touching her . . .
He was so close to her, fingers brushing aside the tangle of dark hair around Ann’s face. Stroking her throat. Lips nearly against her cousin’s flesh.
“No!” Tara shrieked.
He straightened, looking at her. She knew him.
She’d seen him before.
“No!” she shouted again, and went flying across the room, pulling at the large, ornate cross Jacques had insisted she wear, not ripping it from her neck, but twisting it to use as a weapon.
“No! No! No!”
She threw herself against his form. It was like hitting steel. It didn’t matter. She curled her fingers around the cross.
Fingers curled around hers with a brutal strength, and the man began to swear.
“I will kill you!” she vowed desperately. She found that her own teeth were baring; she meant it. No matter what his strength or his power, she would not let him harm Ann.
She felt an incredible rise of power and strength, and believed that she could kill him—because she had to. She had heard that faced with impossible situations, parents could save children, siblings could rescue one another, lift cars, break down massive doors, and do all kinds of amazing deeds, because of adrenaline brought on by sheer desperation. She was desperate to save her cousin. She would break free. She managed to jerk a hand from his hold and lift the cross high, ready to bring it down against his face, his eyes. If she hadn’t the power to really down him, she hoped, at the least, to wound him, blind him, hurt him badly enough so that she could begin a new offense with him at a disadvantage.
“Tara!”
At first, she was barely aware of her name being called.
“Tara!”
It might have been coming from elsewhere, a voice in her mind, from far away, but a voice calling out to her, louder as she struggled.
“Help!” The word escaped her lips.
“Tara!”
It was Brent. It was as if he had been far, far away. As if, perhaps, he had heard her from a distance, had sensed that she was in trouble.
He wasn’t far away. He was there now, in the doorway.
“Brent! Thank God, help me!”
She was shaking, caught in a deadly game of wrestling, in which, still, amazingly, she was managing to hold her own, yet. . .
Weakening.
“Brent, help me!”
He came striding into the room, steps long and sure and determined. She thanked God. He had come to help her, she wouldn’t have to try to bring down this deadly giant of a monster alone.
“Tara!” The word, her name, was harsh. It seemed to scratch down the length of her flesh.
Then . . .
He had her.
He ripped her from the tall blond man, held her in an iron grasp.
A grasp she couldn’t break.
“No!” she screamed.
His arms seemed to squeeze tighter. She couldn’t see, for shadows seemed to burst before her eyes.
She couldn’t breathe, she could only hear the thunder of her heart, slowing . . .
Tara. . .
It was as if she heard his voice, a deadly whisper at her nape. And she knew . . .
He hadn’t come to help her. To save her life. He had come to kill her.
CHAPTER 16
They had brought Paul to a wonderful hotel room. The furniture was old, but grand. They had left him with everything that he could desire—coffee, wine, fruit, cheese, bread, crackers.
The men had left. The woman remained.
She was in the other room, her attention riveted on a computer. What she was doing, he didn’t know, but it seemed very important to her that she find whatever it was. She was beautiful, and very kind to him, checking on him now and then.
At first, the novelty of the hotel suite kept him fascinated. He had walked around and around, running his hands over the polished wood furniture, sitting on the plump sofa, rising, sitting again. He adjusted pillows, picked at the fruit, enjoyed a glass of wine. He liked playing with the remote control and the television, but as time wore on, he grew restless. He walked over to the balcony, opening the windows, and looking out at the streets below. It was a wonderful view. He had never really seen the landscape this way. He saw it from working the land most of the time. But here, where the hotel sat on a little hill, the view encompassed much of the countryside, in many shades and colors. Those colors changed as the afternoon waned, and he was fascinated by each subtle variation in tone. It was all very beautiful.
The woman came out briefly to smile, say hello, and make sure he was all right. Or perhaps she was making sure he was still there.
He smiled in return, and told her that the wine was very good.
At last, he tired of wandering and watching the view. He even tired of playing with the television and the remote control. There was no show on that could hold his attention.
He couldn’t help thinking about Yvette.
He wondered why he loved her. But he did, and he had, forever and ever, so it seemed. He was the one who had been there for her, so many times. Through the years, there were times when he had been angry and indignant, but she had told him over and over again that she was a free spirit, and would not be tied down, and if he was going to try to hold on to her, like a giant brick around her neck, she simply wouldn’t talk to him at all. And they wouldn’t be friends. And there wouldn’t be those times when she had no other great interest in life, and spent hours with him, doing things that all but made him stop breathing, that escalated life to such wild fields of pleasure that it made the agony of her constant betrayals all the more complete. But still, all in all, in the end, he believed that she would tire of her hunt for adventure and riches. She would remember the tim
es that he had been there for her, rock hard and steady, always waiting. Always. No matter how she turned from him. He had always thought that he would be there for her under any circumstances. He had fantasized about occasions when she had been in trouble, when he had stepped in, swung a practiced right hook at some abusive fellow, and become her hero.
And now . . .
She hadn’t been the headless corpse at the morgue, he reminded himself.
There was hope.
He lay upon the sofa, legs sprawled over the elegantly carved end of it, and let the remote control fall to the floor. He listened with half attention to the sports channel that was on, but found himself drifting off as he did so. He dreamed about Yvette. He should have been so much angrier with her. She had certainly emasculated him frequently enough, not with her words, but with a look. Why, why, did she have to run around with other men? Money did not mean so much in life. The way she looked at him with her beautiful eyes, so pityingly . . .
No one would ever love her the way he did.
As he drifted, she came into his dreams. Yvette. So pretty. She was in one of her playful moods, and a sensuous mood, strolling toward him slowly, hips swaying, shoulders somewhat back. There was that look in her eyes that he hadn’t seen very often . . . not in the last many months, at least. A look that was all for him, that said she wanted him.
Paul, silly boy, there you are. Such a silly squabble we had. I need you now, you know. I know I’ve been bad, but you’ve forgiven me so many times. You’re the one I really want, the one I’ve always wanted in the end. And you know, Paul, I want you now . . .
I want you now . . .
It was such an incredible dream. She was swathed in some gossamer stuff that seemed to lift and swirl around her as she walked. He knew that beneath it, she was naked. There were hints of flesh to be seen, hints of color at her breasts, shadows at the juncture of her thighs. His mouth went dry as he traveled through the dream, a silly grin on his face, he was certain. He shouldn’t smile so. He should be like so many of her other lovers. Suave. Sophisticated. Lying back, waiting, musing, assessing, making her play out the full game, tease and taunt as if she was desperate for once . . .
For him.
It was a dream, of course, which made it far easier not to move. And it was strange. The closer she came to him, the more he felt certain that it was Yvette. Really Yvette. She was in trouble somewhere, and she was reaching out to him. The words formed in his mind.
Yes, Yvette, I love you, I’ll save you, I’ll come. . .