Banish Misfortune (4 page)

It was upon her again
. The screaming, clawing, smothering panic that spread over her, leaving her muscles paralyzed, her mouth open but no scream issuing forth. Her throat tightened, a clammy film of sweat covered her skin, and somewhere in the distance she could hear voices, shouting at her, screaming at her, calling her filthy names

She sat bolt upright, instantly wide awake. It took her a moment to remember where she was. The lofty proportions of the town-house bedroom mocked her panic. There was no need to check the glowing clock beside the comfortable bed. It would be two forty-five. It always was, each time the dream hit her, each time she woke up. Sometimes the dream would be so deeply embedded she'd remember nothing, only the remaining tremors and the cold sweat covering her reminding her that it had happened again.

Nothing had ever stopped them. Not sleeping pills, alcohol, hypnotism, psychotherapy, deep relaxation or yoga. And it had happened every damned night for the past two weeks.

Wearily she sat there, her head in her hands, waiting for the tremors to subside. She knew they would, knew almost to the minute when the shudders would stop. She pulled herself from the bed, wrapping Johnson's silk kimono around her slender body. Chances were she wouldn't sleep till dawn. Hot milk and brandy had sometimes been able to fool her resistant body into drifting off before then, and it was worth a chance. Ham's kitchen would be deserted at this hour—she could make her potion and pray that this would be one of the lucky times. She didn't know how she could face the decisions the weekend would bring if she didn't have just a tiny bit more sleep.

There was definitely a feeling of unreality to the sound of that husky drawl in the dimly lit kitchen. "My father's boyfriends," he'd said. Slowly she turned, with majestic calm, to look at Elyssa's son.

He was quite a sight in the flesh. And a great deal of flesh there was. He was wearing nothing more than an old pair of jeans hugging the long legs that Hamilton had assured her could eat up a basketball court in seconds. The long, narrow feet were bare; he wore no belt and no shirt; his chest, dark with a summer tan, was wiry, muscled and lean, the flesh warm-looking to Jessica's jaded eyes. And he was standing there with that beautiful, aloof Indian face of his, branding her as one of his father's lovers. Male lovers at that. He obviously hadn't come to terms with his father, she thought absently, still staring at him.

Springer was leaning against the dooijamb, watching her out of hooded eyes that were clearly filled with contempt. "I'm Springer MacDowell," he added. "Hamilton obviously didn't expect me tonight, or you would have had your walking papers. When you go back to bed you might tell him I'm here." His voice was cold and cynical as he straightened up, prepared to head back upstairs.

Jessica later wondered what had come over her. She was usually the most deliberate of people, but something about Springer MacDowell's contempt, both for her and for a man she loved dearly, coupled with the almost brazen good looks, wiped out her usual care. She started toward him then, and the movement of her lithe, thin body halted him. She knew if she spoke her light, clear voice would give her away, just as the stronger light from the hallway would illuminate the very feminine lines of her face and eyes.

Without a word she came up to him, and his eyes were like chunks of black marble staring down at her. She wasn't used to looking up at men that much taller than her five feet eight—and it took her a moment to quell her reaction. But he had gauged it already, seen the flicker in her eyes in the darkened kitchen, and his mouth curled in disgust.

"Sorry, boy," he snapped. "I'm not your type." Before he could turn away she reached out one slender hand—the rings lay discarded on her bedside table— and came in contact with that warm smooth skin. She touched his arm, and of its own volition her hand slid across the smoothly muscled flesh, across his shoulder and down his chest. He stood very still, but she could feel his tension beneath her hands as he watched her.

Now that she had started she didn't quite know how to stop. It was also a fairly dangerous activity—from Springer's words she could guess that he wouldn't take very well to a strange man making a pass at him. She might get one of those strong, well-shaped hands driven into her empty stomach.

Jessica started to pull her hand away, and just as quickly his hand shot out, catching her wrist in an iron grip. "Don't stop now," he whispered, pulling her slowly forward. She tried to pull back, but her puny strength was useless against him. A moment later her slender, shaking frame was up against his hard, strong body. Staring up at him mutely, she tried to break his hold on her, but it was useless. She stood there, held against him, and waited.

Her breath was coming rapidly beneath the thin silk kimono, while his was even, steady, unmoved by her struggle. "You'll find I'm a hell of a lot more man than my father ever could be," he drawled. "If that's what you're looking for." And then to her horror one large hand came up and cupped the very definite swell of breast through the silk. "Unless, of course, you prefer other women. You look as if you might." And his mouth moved down toward hers.

Without hesitation she brought her knee up, but he was too fast for her. Before she knew what was happening she was released, a safe two feet away from him, her mouth untouched as her breast still tingled from his casual caress.

"What are you doing here?" he questioned evenly enough, not moving any closer.

For the first time Jessica spoke, her voice tight with tension in the still night kitchen. "Visiting," she snapped. "Not that it's any of your damned business."

He smiled then, a slow, wicked smile that on another man, at another time, might have penetrated her icy resolve. "Now I've placed you. You're Elyssa's friend Jessica, aren't you?" He cocked his head to one side. "You're not at all the way she described you."

Jessica knew exactly what she looked like. Pulling the thin silk closer around her narrow body, she could imagine how her small, pale face looked, the short hair standing in spikes all around. "Neither are you," she shot back. "Would you mind moving away from the door? I'd like to go to bed."

With a great show of insolent grace he moved, exaggeratedly careful not to touch her. "My visit might end up being more interesting than I thought."

"Don't expect me to provide entertainment," Jessica said in her cold, clipped voice. "I'm leaving first thing tomorrow morning to spend the weekend with my fiancS." There, that ought to slow him down.

The smile stayed damnably fixed. "Fiance?" he said softly. "Bully for you. Anyone I know?"

"I doubt it. He's the head of the corporation I work for." Now why was she trying to impress him?

"Peter or Jasper Kinsey? Must be Jasper—you don't strike me as a woman who'd settle for second place on your climb to the top."

That was quite enough for one night. She withdrew even more, pulling the robe more tightly around her body. "Good night," she said coldly. 'I don't expect you'll be awake when I leave tomorrow, so I'll say good-bye, too." She moved past him, down the darkened hallway, without a backward glance. The overhead light silhouetted her slender body for a moment.

"I wouldn't count on it," he said softly. She was far too skinny, far too angry, far too ambitious for him to expend any energy on. Still, there was something about her that called to him. Maybe it was those blue eyes, cold and lost and angry. Or the stubborn set to her chin as she stared up at him. Or the vulnerable, unsmiling mouth that had first tipped him off to her sex. Not to mention that undeniable swell of breast that remained despite her skinniness. "No, Jessica, I wouldn't count on it at all."

Chapter Four

The Slaughterer, voL 72: The Wrath of Decker

Matt Decker surveyed the carnage around him. He always forgot how much damage a machine gun could inflict in such a short period of time. The streets ofMiami were spattered with blood, the blood of the enemy, and he saw it with satisfaction. If only he'd managed to find that amazon.

Her large blue eyes haunted him. Ilse, someone had called her. Probably part of the Baader-Meinhof gang. She'd taste his vengeance before long. No one was safe from the mighty justice of the Slaughterer for long. But how those wide blue eyes of hers haunted him.

"You
don't look
any more rested, Jessica," Ham said sternly. "And that's your third cup of coffee this morning. I'll have you know my coffee is very strong. You'd better cut it with some food or you'll be climbing the walls."

Jessica kept to her perch on the wooden stool in the big old kitchen, the same kitchen that had witnessed her disturbing, unlikely confrontation with Hamilton MacDowell's son. "If I have any food I'll fall asleep at the wheel halfway out to Long Island. I didn't get much sleep." That was an understatement. She had spent the hours from three to somewhere after seven staring into the darkness, her ears attuned to sounds from above her, sounds that never came. After another hour or two of fitful sleep she had dragged herself downstairs to face Hamilton and Elyssa's sympathetic company. She yawned hugely, then managed a stiff smile that fooled no one. "I think the sooner I get off the better."

"You can't, Jessica," Elyssa protested from her station by the coffeepot. "Springer came in sometime last night and I don't want you to take off without finally getting a chance to meet him."

Jessica hesitated only a moment. "Some other time, Elyssa. I really have to get an early start—you know how I hate driving on the expressways, and the longer I put it off the worse it will be."

"I'm ready when you are."

Considering that she had only heard that voice once before, the familiar way it slid down her spine was surprising. She didn't bother to turn, to give him the benefit of her attention, but then, there was no need. With a glad cry Elyssa threw down the linen towel and rushed into her son's arms.

"You're up early, darling," she murmured. "I thought you'd sleep till at least noon."

"Normally I would have, but I had a previous engagement," he said, smiling down fondly at her. A gloomy foreboding filled Jessica, and she watched the cool nod he exchanged with his father with a feeling of extreme wariness.

"You're not going off right away, are you?" Elyssa cried. "You just got here, Springer, and I haven't seen you in months."

"Sorry, Ma," he said, slinging an arm around her slender shoulders and casting a speculative glance at Jessica's still form. "But I'm spending the weekend at Peter Kinsey's out on the island. He suggested I drive Jessica, since she apparently hates city driving."

Elyssa cast a confused glance between the two of them, taking in the wary stance of one, the mocking smile of the other. "You two somehow managed to meet?" she questioned carefully.

"Somehow," her son said. "We ran into each other looking for a midnight snack." He looked at his father then, the distant, cool look back in his eyes. "For a moment I thought you might have developed better taste in your old age."

"Springer," Elyssa reproved gently, but Hamilton took it in stride.

"Still your same winning ways, I see," Ham said softly. "Welcome to the East Coast, my boy. I'm glad you could make it." He held out one beefy hand, and Jessica found herself silently praying he would take it.

Springer waited just long enough for the tension to stretch to the breaking point, and then he reached out and took his father's hand. To Jessica's eyes it wasn't much of a concession, but to the others it was clearly a start, and nervous smiles broke some of the strain.

"I didn't know you and Peter still kept in touch," Ham said, handing him a cup of coffee. "I thought after Princeton you two drifted apart."

"We did." He took a long, appreciative sip, the shadows beneath his dark, fathomless eyes attesting to his exhaustion. "But when Jessie mentioned him last night I decided it was time to renew my acquaintance."

"Jessie?" Elyssa echoed, as Jessica choked on her coffee. "I've never heard you called a nickname before. I thought you didn't like them."

"I don't!" she snapped, setting her coffee cup down on the butcher-block table. She noticed with distant dismay that her hand trembled slightly, from both the caffeine and the presence of that infuriating man.

"Well, don't even bother trying to change Springer," Hamilton advised. "He'll call you any damn thing he wants, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"I can refuse to answer." She slipped off the stool. "And I'd better get going. Thanks again, Ham. I appreciate your shelter from the storm." She gave him a swift kiss on his raddled skin. Jessica wasn't the type to touch people, and when she did, it was for a very good reason. She wanted to show that cool, mocking creature that some people loved and cared about his father, didn't make arbitrary judgments and nasty cracks.

"I'm ready," Springer said blithely, draining his coffee.

Jessica plastered her Snow Queen smile to her tired facial muscles. "I'm not going with you."

His damnable grin widened, so that he looked like a huge Cheshire cat smiling down at her. One that just swallowed a canary. "Of course you are, Jessie," he said mildly enough. "You're a calm, sensible woman—you aren't going to be unreasonable about it. Peter was very pleased that I'd be able to drive you out there—apparently he worries about you in city traffic. Are you that bad a driver?"

"She's very good," Elyssa defended her, if not with perfect truthfulness. "She just doesn't like it."

"So if she doesn't like it, she can drive with me. Don't worry, Jessie, you'll come back with Peter. All you have to put up with is a couple of hours of my company. Surely you're tough enough to take it."

She shouldn't let him goad her, shouldn't let him challenge her like that. Her head snapped up; her eyes met his for a long, silent moment. "I'm tough enough," she said lightly.

He nodded—approvingly, she thought. "Where are your things?"

"Already at Peter's. I keep a change of clothes there." Was that defiance she heard in her own voice? What had happened to the Snow Queen?

"That's why you were prancing around in Johnson's hand-me-downs," he said, half to himself. "Then let's go"

"When do you think you'll be back?" Ham broke in. His voice sounded studiedly casual, but any fool could see the trace of desperation, the caring beneath the facade.

Any fool who cared to look. Springer didn't. "Late Sunday, probably. Don't change your plans for me." Jessica noticed he deliberately refrained from calling his father by name or title. "I'll be in and out during the next few weeks—I can look after myself."

Even he couldn't miss Elyssa's face falling in sudden dismay. Leaning down, he kissed her cheek lightly. "See you, Ma. Say hi to David for me."

His gaze turned to Jessica, and she told herself if he did anything disgustingly macho like take her arm to