Blood Red Dawn (7 page)

I laughed. “That would be interesting. What would I do with solid food?” Then I stopped. What if he was right? If I were becoming human again, I could eat. But at the thought, my stomach lurched. “No, I think I'll pass this time. I could use the coffee, though.”

Max turned around and motioned to the waitress behind the counter. “Miss?” he said with a trace of impatience in his voice. “We'd like that coffee. Now, please.” He turned back before the woman moved. She glared over at us, looked away, and then quickly looked back, staring intently at me. Her eyes opened wide and, as odd as it might seem, she appeared frightened. It was as if she remembered me from somewhere and no place good, I imagined. I wondered briefly if she would feed me the same line as Max had been dealing out. Would she try to reinforce the story as Derek had? Or did she know a different truth?

Without taking her eyes from me, she jerked a pot from the burner behind her. I heard the sizzle of the coffee on the hot surface. Then she squared her shoulders and hurried in our direction.

As she approached, I took more careful note of her appearance. She wasn't particularly imposing. Slight in build she had short, dark hair, and a pert little nose. She carried herself badly, though, as if slumping over could hide the cheap uniform she wore. Something in her attitude made me think that she'd not been working as a waitress for all that long. As she came closer, I could read the name embroidered on her breast pocket.

“Good evening,” I said with a smile, looking up to where she stood in front of our booth. Her eyes still hadn't left my face and she extended the pot to pour but stopped short of the mugs. “I think we'll just have coffee for now, Terri, thank you.”

With the sound of her name, Max's head shot up from his study of the menu.

The movement caught her attention and when his eyes met hers, she gave a gasp of surprise. Terri stood totally still, eyes opened wide and staring, first at him, then at me, and then back to him.

That she knew Max was apparent. She gave him a smile that immediately turned into a sneer. “Coffee?” she said, her voice rising above the noise around us. “Coffee?” Her voice quivered and the range of emotions reflected on her face was fascinating. Rage, righteous indignation, fear, all of these flickered in and out of her eyes and her mouth twisted up into a snarl. “Coffee? I'm so very happy to oblige, you son of a bitch!”

And she poured the entire pot of steaming coffee into Max's lap.

M
ax's reaction was almost serpentine in its swiftness and cruelty. Before I even had time to register what had happened, he was out of his seat, gripping her by the shoulders and shaking her violently. His voice was low and quiet, but I hadn't a doubt that the rest of the diner heard him. “You clumsy fucking bitch,” he whispered, and I flinched at the obscenity. “You did that on purpose.”

To give the woman credit, she held her ground, despite being shaken around like a rag doll. Her teeth clattered, but her voice came out clean and clear. “Damn straight, I did, you lying bastard. And I'm glad I did. You ruined my life.”

“And I'd be thrilled to ruin it more, Ms. Hamilton, don't think that I wouldn't. If you say one more word, I can make you wish you were never born.”

I stood up, thinking there should be a way for me to intervene. But Max ignored me and continued his tirade. “I suppose you thought waiting tables was a comedown from broadcasting? I'll fix it so you won't even be able to get a job cleaning out toilets in this city.” He dropped his hands from her shoulders. “Now get the hell out. I never want to see your face again.”

He pushed her away and turned to me. “I'm going to go clean up, Deirdre, my love.” The instantaneous change of his voice from threatening to loving was terrifying. Who was this man, able to display bone shattering anger one second and tender concern the next? I nodded, unable to say a word. He was crazy, there was no doubt in my mind at that moment. Whoever, whatever he'd been to me in the past, he could not now be anyone I'd ever trust or love.

He kissed my cheek and I jerked involuntarily. “And then,” he smiled, not noticing my fear, “when I get back, we'll go home.” Spinning around, he stalked down the corridor to the restrooms.

Terri stared after him for a second, then looked over at me. “I hate this stinking job anyway,” she said, scribbling something on her order pad, tearing it off, and slamming it down on the table. “He doesn't own as much of this city as he thinks he does. Egotistical bastard. And you? Jesus Christ, Deirdre, what the hell are you doing here? With him of all people? Don't you know who he is? Don't you know what he's done to you? I thought you were in Whitby. And where the hell is Mitch?”

Mitch? Who was Mitch? She must have seen the question in my eyes and she started to say more, but the manager of the diner came over, apologized profusely to me, and led her away. They had a brief, heated discussion by the front door and then she stormed out.

I picked up the paper she'd left, thinking it was the bill for the coffee and wondering at her nerve. Instead written on the paper was a phone number. And one word.
Revenge.
Glancing guiltily toward the men's room, I folded the note quickly, sliding it with difficulty into the pocket of my skin-tight leather jeans. Then I sat back down at the booth and stared out the window at the retreating figure of Terri Hamilton. Who was she? And what did she know about me?

And who was Mitch?

A hand on my shoulder interrupted my thoughts and I jumped. “Let's go,” Max said. “We can get coffee at the club. At least there,” he gave a choking laugh, “they'll give me a cup out of which to drink it.”

I slid out of the booth, giving him what I hoped was a consoling smile to hide the turmoil I was feeling, a strange combination of triumph and fear. In Terri Hamilton, I'd finally found someone who knew me who quite obviously wasn't in Max's employ, someone who might give me the truth. I doubted that she'd been my friend in my former life; seeing her sparked no recognition at all, but it was obvious she hated Max. That, if nothing else, gave us a common bond. Running my fingers over the lump of paper in my pocket, I gathered up my purse and flashed him a cold smile.

“Friend of yours, Max?”

For a split second a wave of anger flooded his face and I feared he'd begin shaking me, too. Instead, the emotion passed as quickly as it came and he laughed. “Not hardly, little one. She's a nobody. Don't give her a second thought.” He held the door of the diner open for me and we both walked out onto the street. “Now, do you want to walk or should we take a cab back?”

Perhaps it was hearing those words, perhaps it was meeting Terri Hamilton, hearing her mention Whitby and someone named Mitch. Maybe it was a combination of all those things. Whatever the reason, I felt myself transported back to a different time and a different place. And the someone with me was different, too.

“Can't really afford it. Besides, I didn't bring any cash with me.”

I hadn't realized that I said the words out loud until Max looked at me and gave a short barking laugh. “What a silly thing to say, Deirdre. We can certainly afford cab fare and I have plenty of cash. What would you need cash for?”

When he spoke the vision of another place and time, the sense of another man at my side, faded. I shrugged, “I don't know why I said that, Max. I think I must be tired. It's been quite a momentous evening for my first night free from captivity. Let's go back.”

He hailed a cab and as we climbed in, I thought of the laughing face of the blond woman that kept flashing into my mind. “Who's the blond woman?” I asked.

“Blond? I'm not sure I know what you mean.” Then he reached over and ruffled my short bleached hair. “You're blond now, of course. I've been thinking that we should do something about that. I'll make some calls tomorrow—see if I can get an evening appointment at some salon or other.”

“That would be nice, Max. Thank you.” Slouching back in the seat, I pressed my fingers against my eyes.
Damn him,
I thought,
every time I get close to recalling a piece of my past he changes the subject.
I tried to pull up the bit of memory again. And there, there she was. “Besides, that's not what I meant. I don't mean me. Hell, I don't even know why I'd do this to my hair. But I keep getting this recurring flash of a blond woman, usually laughing.”

Max stared out the window. “That would've been Vivienne. She was one of mine, from a long time ago.”

Vivienne? Although I could see her face in my mind, the name meant nothing to me. Then I caught Max's use of past tense. “Was?” I paused. “What do you mean by was? Is she dead?” Somehow that thought saddened me more than I'd have imagined.

He cleared his throat. “If not dead, she's gone so far underground, it makes no difference. Very few of the original Cadre vampires are left, Deirdre. Eduard DeRouchard did his job quite well. And what he couldn't finish, Terri Hamilton cleaned up with her work on television. She's a dangerous woman. Deadly.” Max gave a humorless chuckle. “Even armed with only a pot of coffee.”

“Terri? I am certainly no good judge of character, Max, but she seemed fine, perfectly normal. At least, that is, until she saw you. What did she mean? You ruined her life?”

“Does it matter? I did what I had to do at the time to save the life of the one person I care for above everyone else.” He reached over and took my hand, bringing it to his lips. “I wouldn't waste my time worrying over the likes of her, little one. Nor about Vivienne. Neither of them are worth the trouble.”

We sat in silence for a while as the cab stopped at a light. When we started back up again, he gave a little cough. “What did she say to you while I was gone? Did she imply that she knew things about you? She doesn't, you know. She only knows what DeRouchard fed her, most of which was completely false.” There was a casualness in his voice that seemed forced and I knew he was lying.

I wanted to laugh. We were both so good at this game, the giving and taking of lies. Once again I rubbed my fingers over the outline of the note in my pocket and smiled into the darkness of the cab. “No, there wasn't really time for conversation. She just said that she hated the job anyway and then the manager dragged her away. I am fairly sure he fired her.”

“Ah. Well, that's good. I find it hard to believe, but she's even a worse waitress than she was a news reporter.”

I murmured something noncommittal and the cab pulled up in front of the Ballroom of Romance.

“And here we are.” Max's voice was cheerful again, as if arriving here put the dishonesty behind him and let him tread comfortable ground again. “Home, at last.”

Home? I glanced at his profile as he paid the driver. This place wasn't any kind of home. Not for me. Not here and not with him. The easy feeling I'd had in his presence earlier in the evening faded into wariness. And a certainty—even if I knew nothing else, even if my memory never returned, I now knew one fact. A fact I must take care not to forget. Max was an imposter. He was not my husband. He was the enemy.

Max led the way through the crowd outside the door. Something in the combination of the crowd and the cold autumn air and the familiar entrance to the club clicked off a memory.

A tall, blond-haired man stood outside, admitting groups of people after checking ID cards. He looked up, saw us, and waved us in ahead of the others. “Just follow me,” he said and as he said the words it was as if a transparent screen came down in front of me and memories from the past superceded the here and now.

Another blond-haired doorman had met me here before and escorted me to a table. I'd trailed after him, appreciating the breadth of his shoulders and the heady aroma of his cologne. There were times I'd regretted not getting to know him better, but as it turned out, it was good that I hadn't become romantically entangled with the man. Larry Martin had been a psychopath. Beautiful on the outside and totally evil within.

My mouth curved up in a triumphant smile. I remembered something, independent of Max's input or his tonic. The memories were returning, all I had to do was keep refusing to ingest the drink and soon I would be cured.

With the memory of that other time, came the certainty that Larry Martin was dead. Another scene from the past played out before my eyes. The cellar had been dark and the shot deafening. A sharp pain pierced my shoulder. Larry gave a gasp and fell to the ground, bearing me down with him, his blood flowing over me. There was a voice, a remembered voice, “Oh, God, Deirdre,” he called from the top of the stairs. And then, “Jesus, look at you.”

“It's okay, Mitch,” I'd said. “I wasn't hit, all this is Larry's.”

Mitch!
I held my breath for a minute, waiting for the flash to subside, but unlike many of the other glimpses I'd had this memory remained, like a single star burning in the black of the night. And the emotions I'd experienced at the time were as clear and as fresh as if they'd happened just this night.

“Deirdre?”

Apparently I had stopped still on the street, surrounded by the crowd trying to gain admittance to the Ballroom. Max pushed back down the steps and held out a hand to me. I blinked my eyes, stunned at the return to the present.

“Are you all right?”

I nodded. “Fine. I was just distracted for a moment, is all.”

He took my arm when we entered the club. “I think we'll take our drinks back in the office. The trip out seems to have tired you more than I would have expected. I certainly don't want you falling sick again, just when you're starting to come back.”

“Yes, that would be a shame, wouldn't it?” I decided then and there to keep the extent of the memories I was recovering a secret from him. And to test my theory of the tonic he was feeding me. Somehow I knew that it was responsible for keeping the memories at bay. I could live for a while, I was sure, with no sustenance, turning human or not.

I pulled his arm closer to mine as we headed back to the office, hoping he couldn't feel the way touching him made my flesh crawl. “Thank you for taking me out tonight, Max. It was just what I needed.”

He looked down at me. “I'm glad, Deirdre. I only want to make you happy.”

I settled in on the black leather sofa, content to replay the few memories I had over and over again, having a silent chuckle every now and then at the remembrance of Terri Hamilton pouring that entire pot of hot coffee into Max's lap.
Touché,
I thought.
Good for you, Terri.

Max fussed with some papers at his desk and listened to his phone messages. “Damn,” he said, coming over to the sofa and pouring me a glass of the special tonic.

“Something wrong, Max?” I took the wineglass from his hand, but he didn't urge me to drink for a change. Instead, he seemed distracted.

“Nothing really,” he said, the tension in his voice belying his words. “I missed an important phone call while we were out.” Lost in his thoughts and almost ignoring my presence, he walked back to his desk and sat down behind it. “One I'd been waiting for,” he continued, talking more to himself than to me. “But I'm quite sure they will call back. They'd damn well better or they'll be very sorry they crossed me . . .”

His voice trailed away and I stole a glance at him. Max's face was set in anger, its finely sculpted lines distorted into a mask of evil.
Here,
I thought with a shiver,
here is the truth of the man.