Circle of Fire (7 page)

A sharp knock at the door made her heart leap with fright.

“Miss Smith?”

Maddie jerked around. The voice belonged to the night manager.

“I can’t be found here,” Jon croaked softly.

She glanced back at him and saw concern—not for himself, but for her. Or was she reading more in those bright depths than there really was?

“Why not?”

“After I checked into this inn, someone shot me. I can’t risk being seen here until I’m sure if it’s safe.”

She raised a hand to her throat and looked back to the doorway. What if the night manager had a key? What if he let himself in and discovered Jon lying there? And even if she could hide Jon, there was herself and the bathroom, both covered with blood. She needed to do
something
 … and quickly!

“Miss Smith? Are you okay?” the man asked again, voice louder this time.

“Answer him,” Jon urged softly, even as a hasty plan began to form in her head.

She cleared her throat. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Mostly …”

“I need to check your windows, Miss Smith.”

Damn!
She couldn’t very well tell him there was no damage and then report the broken window in the morning. She glanced quickly around the room. “The only place to hide is in the wardrobe,” she whispered, then added, more loudly and for the night manager’s benefit, “Just give me a minute, okay? I, uh … need to get dressed again.”

“Good thinking. Help me up,” Jon whispered back.

She pulled him upright, then put a shoulder under his good arm, wrapping her other arm around his back.

She slid the wardrobe door open with her foot, then helped Jon inside. As he lowered himself down, she reached up to the shelf above and grabbed the spare blankets, shaking them out over him.

Jon touched her hand lightly. “Be careful.”

Maddie nodded and covered his face with the second blanket. She slid the wardrobe door closed, then pulled off her bloodstained sweater, kicking it under the bed with one foot. Her shirt still looked mostly okay.

“Miss Smith?” the man called again, his voice sharp.

“Coming!” she yelled back.

She grabbed a wad of tissues and pressed it against her bleeding palm, then ran to open the suite door, tugging at her remaining clothing to make it look hastily donned.

“Miss Smith, are you all right?” the man asked as she opened the door. His gaze brushed over her body
again, as if confirming her story, and she found herself flushing.

Furious at herself, Maddie pushed the damp ringlets out of her eyes and forced a bright smile. “I was about to call you … I’m so sorry. What did you say your name was again?”

“Hank. Hank Stewart.” His dark eyes met hers, and for an instant, seemed to delve deep into her soul. She clenched her fingers against the door handle and tore her gaze away. Her imagination was taking a field trip again; there was no way on this earth he could see into her soul. Too many late nights and horror movies, for sure.

“And as I said, I’ve been checking for broken windows.” The warmth in his voice belied the coldness in his eyes. “Have you had a chance to look around yet?”

He was lying to her. How she knew, she wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the twitch near his thin mouth. But what did it matter? She had no choice but to let him in.

She forced a smile and nodded. “Yes. I was going to come down and tell you that the bathroom window was indeed broken as soon as I got the bleeding stopped.”

“The bleeding?”

She held up her palm. “I was on my way to have a shower when I slipped and cut myself on the glass. I guess that’ll teach me not to walk around in the dark.”

There was nothing in his tone or his eyes that hinted at suspicion, yet she felt it wrap around her. She squeezed her fingers together and remained silent.
It was obvious he wouldn’t believe her, no matter what she said.

“I’ll have a quick look around then, if you don’t mind, and see if I can repair it tonight or not.”

Maddie minded very much but stepped back, allowing him to walk past her. He paused at the bathroom door, surveying the room.

“There’s a bit of blood on the floor,” he said. “Should I call for a doctor?”

She flushed again and pulled the tissues off her palm, flashing him a glance at the wound. “It’s nothing serious, really. Just a scrape.” And realized, too late, that her ragged wound looked nothing like the straight, clean edges of a glass cut.

He looked at her blood-covered fingers and frowned. Yes, he had noticed. And he also clearly knew, as she did, that there was more blood on the bathroom floor than the cut on her palm and fingers would account for.

“I’ll get some plastic and cover the hole until morning,” he said, walking past her and out of the suite.

She watched him leave, then hurried to the wardrobe, cracking it open. Jon pulled down an edge of the blanket and looked at her, but she held up her hand. She found herself wondering how he had gotten into her bathroom in the first place. Even she, as slender as she was, couldn’t get through the bathroom window.

She closed the wardrobe door again, then turned and smiled as a cat sauntered through the bedroom doorway.

“Hi, kitty,” she said softly, walking over to it.

She bent down and held out her good hand. Did the
sleek black creature belong to the inn or to Hank? Somehow, she couldn’t imagine Hank with a pet, although the cat must have followed him to the room.

The cat stopped. The look in its jewel-like green eyes was oddly contemptuous, and Maddie frowned. The cat in the forest had had eyes just like that—eyes that could chill a person’s soul.

The cat regarded her for a moment longer, then snarled and lashed out. Maddie snatched her fingers away and stood up. “Be like that, then. See if I care.”

Hank came back into the room, carrying plastic and tape.

“Don’t mind Lennie,” he said, continuing on into the bathroom. “She just doesn’t like women.”

Or men, Maddie would have bet. As if reading her thoughts, the cat flicked its tail in disdain and sauntered past, heading straight for the wardrobe door.

“Oh no, you don’t.” She stepped in front of the cat and tried to scoot it away with her foot. The sleek creature hunkered down and hissed, its eyes green slits of anger.

“Glare all you like, sweetheart, you’re not getting into that wardrobe.”

“Maybe she just smells a mouse,” Hank commented.

Her pulse jumped and she glanced up quickly. Hank leaned against the bathroom door, arms crossed as he studied her. This time there was definitely suspicion in his bright gaze.

“Mice I can handle. It’s cat hair all over my clothes that I can’t stand. I’m allergic.”

“Perhaps you’d better let her check it, all the same. Lennie’s a pretty good little hunter.”

Lennie looked mean enough to pull down a bull, but there was no way she could open the wardrobe door with Jon inside. Though Maddie wasn’t sure if this odd pair was the threat Jon had referred to, she certainly didn’t trust Hank one iota.

“If I hear any mice running around, I’ll let you know.” And what sort of manager advertised the presence of mice, anyway?

Any other guest in her supposed position would probably have thrown a fit, but Maddie just wanted them gone from the room—man and cat both.

Hank nodded, though she could see he was far from happy. “I’ve taped plastic over the window. I’ll come back tomorrow and replace the glass.”

By which time Jon should be long gone. She hoped.

“And are you sure you don’t need a doctor?” His gaze challenged her.

“Quite sure,” Maddie replied firmly. She watched Hank walk out the bedroom door, then glanced down at the unmoving cat. She’d throw the thing out if she had to, but she’d rather it just followed Hank of its own accord. The claws it kept flexing looked sharp enough to tear concrete to ribbons.

The cat continued to glare up at her. Maddie blinked, unnerved by the almost human intelligence in the animal’s bright gaze.
You haven’t seen the last of me, foolish child
, it seemed to say.

And I really have to learn to control my imagination
.

The cat finally rose and sauntered away. At the bedroom door, it hesitated and looked back. The warning was clear in its bright gaze.

It knew Jon was in the wardrobe. And it would be back.

Maddie clenched her fingers and followed the creature out of the room. Once it was in the hall, she locked the suite door, closed her eyes, and leaned against it for a moment. It was at times like this, when her imagination got the best of her, that she really needed a drink.

She licked her lips, pushed away from the door, and walked back into the bedroom.

“Jon?” She opened the wardrobe.

His gaze met hers, and again she thought she saw concern in the rich depths of his eyes. “Madeline. Are you okay?”

A chill ran over her. Sometimes he almost seemed able to read her mind. She held out her hand and he took it, his skin rough against hers. At least his fingers were warmer than before. She helped him back to the bed, noting that his body was still icy through the damp shirt.

He practically collapsed back onto the bed. She studied him for a moment, then walked around to get her carryall. Clothes had to be a first priority; then she’d re-bandage his arm.

She dug out her baggy old sweatpants and a T-shirt and held them up. They’d fit him pretty well. He might not be too pleased at the color—a vibrant jade—but at least they would keep him warm until his own clothes dried.

She bent across the bed and lightly shook him. “Jon?” There was no response, so she shook him again.

“Don’t,” he muttered. “I need to rest.”

So do I, buddy, and you’re in my bed
. “You have to change first. Put these on while I see if I can find some fresh bandages.”

He pushed upright. She dropped the clothes next to him and walked into the bathroom. The soft rustle of clothing told her he was at least attempting to change. She hunted around in the cupboards, but couldn’t find any bandages. She’d have to go back out to the truck and get the first aid kit. Maddie glanced at her watch and gave Jon a few more minutes before she walked back in.

The clothing was a whole lot tighter on him than it was on her. The T-shirt strained across the width of his shoulders, and the pants … well, they were tighter than his own jeans—if that was possible. She shook her head slightly. Where the hell was her mind? Jon was a stranger, a complete unknown. Yet she’d given him her bed and her clothes, and placed her trust in the fact that he meant her no harm. Had she learned nothing from the past?

His head came up suddenly, his eyes meeting hers. There was no deceit in that slightly unfocused gaze, no lies. And none of the contempt that had been all too evident in her husband’s gaze.

Jon reached out and gently caught her hand. His fingers were a warm, suntanned brown, and his palms were slightly callused. Totally the opposite of Brian’s … and why did she keep thinking of him? What was it about Jon that dredged up a past she’d much rather forget?

“Trust me, Madeline. I mean you no harm.”

Trust me, trust me
. How often had she heard that?
How frequently had it been the warning of trouble heading her way?

“I’ll have to go out to the car to get some bandages,” she said, jerking her hand out of his.

His gaze narrowed slightly. “Be careful.”

She gave him a tight smile. “I always am.” Very careful, very cautious. Because when she wasn’t, people died. “You rest. I won’t be long.”

She turned and walked quickly from the room.

F
EAR SURROUNDED HIM—AN ACID CLOUD THAT STUNG HIS
mind and forced him awake. Jon jerked upright and, for an instant, wondered where he was.

The morning sun peeped around the outer edges of the curtains, gilding the framed painting opposite the bed. He half smiled. He had to be at the inn—there couldn’t be many paintings around that used such appalling colors to depict a farmyard setting. Or many places that would hang them on their walls.

So why was Madeline in his room? And why was she so afraid?

He shoved the blankets aside and swung his feet out of the bed, then stopped, staring down at his legs. Speaking of appalling colors, why in hell was he wearing these sweatpants? They were Madeline’s—he could smell the lingering scent of roses. But what had happened to his clothes?

He couldn’t recall much about the latter half of last night, and what he did remember was a blurred nightmare he never wanted to repeat.

The fear swirled around him again. He rose too quickly and had to grab at the bedpost to remain upright. Although fast healing was a gift of his shapeshifting
heritage, it would be a day or two yet before he would recover fully from this particular wound and the resulting blood loss. He took a deep breath, then padded quietly across the room.

“The room’s a shambles. Can’t you come back to fix the window later, Mr. Stewart?” Madeline’s voice stopped him near the bedroom door. There was nothing in her soft tones to indicate the fear he could almost taste.

“Hank,” the stranger replied. “And I’m afraid not. If I don’t do it now, it won’t get done for several days. Last night’s storm caused a bit of damage, I’m afraid.”