Dark Dreamer (19 page)

“God forbid.”

“You should see it there. At Quantico. Talk about a paranoia zone.”

“You just went for the women in uniform, didn’t you?”

“I am
so
transparent.” Phoebe’s tiny smile gave way to cautious laughter.

She held so much back, Rowe thought. It was if she stored most of herself away, along with her FBI secrets. Impulsively, she asked, “Why do you live here, so far from everything? Why not L.A.? Wouldn’t that be easier for Cara?”

“We’ve talked about it on and off. But this is where we grew up. The house is actually our grandmother’s. She brought us up.” A slight pause. “Our parents were killed in a plane crash when we were children.”

“I’m sorry.” Rowe made like she didn’t know. This didn’t seem like the right time to explain that she’d been researching the Temple family tree. “That must have been hard.”

“Grandma looked after us well. But she’s not the motherly type. We did that for each other.”

“You’re very close, aren’t you?”

“I think most twins are.”

Rowe made a noise of agreement. Who was she to comment on their obvious codependency? Identical twins seemed to have a different bond from other groups of siblings.

“Anyway, I like it here, too,” Phoebe mused. “I’m not sure if I could ever feel truly at home anywhere else. This place feels…safe, somehow.”

“That’s because you don’t live in a haunted house.”

The comment was supposed to be lighthearted, but Phoebe took it seriously. In an earnest tone, she said, “If I were you, I’d demolish that kitchen.”

“Why?”

“Just a feeling.” She shifted a little, sending a tremor through the warm water. “I think it would change the energy in the house if you did.”

Rowe sensed a deliberate evasiveness. She was certain there was something Phoebe hadn’t told her about the cottage. Was it any wonder? Having more or less implied that she thought her neighbor was mentally ill, Rowe was probably the last person Phoebe would confide in. She tried her luck anyway. “Tell me what you saw in there. Please. I’ll listen with an open mind.”

Phoebe hesitated, no doubt weighing up the risks of being completely frank. “Blood,” she said after a moment. “There was blood all over the floor. And someone—I think it was a woman—told me to run. I felt like I was being chased and my life was in danger. Out in the snow I was sure I was about to be killed.”

“Who did you think was chasing you?”

“I have no idea.”

Rowe turned on the hot water and held her uninjured hand beneath the faucet, testing the temperature. Juliet Baker had died in the meadow, just a few hundred yards from the cottage. No one could explain what she was doing outdoors. Had she run from the house, terrified for her life? Had Phoebe somehow tuned in to what Juliet had gone through? If so, could she do it again?

Wondering how she could arrange such an experiment, Rowe said, “I’ve been researching the history of the cottage. You said something happened in the kitchen. I’ve been trying to find out what that might have been.” She moved the fresh hot water with one hand, stirring it through the bath.

“Any luck?” Phoebe seemed interested.

“I’ve learned some things. There was a young woman who lived in the cottage early last century. She died in mysterious circumstances. Her name was Juliet Baker.”

“Juliet,” Phoebe whispered.

“You’ve heard of her?” Rowe turned off the faucet.

Phoebe slid up the tub into a sitting position. She looked uneasy. “Is she the Disappointed Dancer?”

“Yes, and I found out something very interesting,” Rowe said carefully. “She may be related to you. It seems her father might have had an affair with your great-great-grandmother.”

“Verity Adams?” Phoebe gave her a sharp look. “How does that make us related to the Bakers?”

“I think Verity’s daughter might have been his child.” Certain a clue was staring her in the face, she asked, “Phoebe, that pearl of yours. Where did it come from?”

“My parents left it to me. It was handed down in my family.”

Verity, Rowe thought. Somehow Verity had ended up with Juliet’s pearl. Did Thomas Baker bestow it upon his mistress after his daughter’s tragic death? Was it one of those costly gifts given where money would be considered crass? It was more proof of Rowe’s theory.

Treading carefully, she said, “I have a photograph of Juliet Baker wearing your pearl. I’ve also discovered something interesting about your great-grandmother’s date of birth.” She explained that Anne was conceived after her mother was widowed.

Phoebe looked shocked. “Well, this is a skeleton in the closet if it’s true. I wonder if my grandmother knows anything about it.”

“She may not. It’s the kind of thing families cover up.”

“I’m not so sure. She’s always been kind of weird about the past. When you lose your parents, you need for someone to tell you those stories…you know, family legends. Grandma will talk about my father, but that’s it.”

“I hope you don’t mind me bringing this up,” Rowe said. “I wasn’t prying. It’s just that I’ve been trying to figure out what really happened to Juliet. My ghost hunters think we can lay her to rest if we figure out what’s keeping her in the house.”

“What are you planning to do? An exorcism?” Phoebe’s voice overflowed with disapproval.

“No, nothing like that. More of a conversation. I think the general idea is that the ghost needs something done so she can be at peace. If we can find out what that is we’ll be able to release her.”

Phoebe set the sponge on the ledge. “So you’ve changed your mind.”

“About?”

“Ghosts.”

“What can I say? It’s easy to be a smart-ass about things you’ve never experienced for yourself.”

Phoebe was silent for a short time, then she said, “I may be able to help you.”

“Really?”

“If you promise not to treat me like I’m insane.”

“You’re one of the sanest people I know.” Rowe realized she meant it. The more she learned about Phoebe, the more fascinated she was by her. “I promise. No idiot comments about medication.”

“It’s a deal.” Phoebe smiled faintly. “Now, I’m going to get out of this tub before everything wrinkles.”

“Good idea. Let’s do it.” Keeping her eyes averted, Rowe got up immediately after Phoebe stood, and they both reached for their towels and climbed out.

“I’m going to my room to dress,” Phoebe said tactfully. She opened a cabinet door. “You’ll find guest supplies in there if you need them. Toothbrush, comb, hair dryer, and so on. I’ll bring up your dry clothes and put them in Cara’s room.”

“Thanks.” Making an effort, Rowe said, “This was a nice idea.”

“I liked it, too.” Phoebe lifted her robe from the door. Indicating the candle on the windowsill, she said, “When you’re done, would you mind blowing that out?”

“Sure.” Rowe nodded with all the composure she could muster. “See you downstairs.”

As soon as her ravishing neighbor had departed, she closed the door and leaned back against it, releasing a long, pent-up breath. She wished she could feel as calm and detached about this impersonal intimacy as she should. Instead, she felt exhausted from the strain of trying to act normally during their soak. Worse still, all she could think about was running after Phoebe and throwing her onto the nearest bed like a Neanderthal. Evidently her sex-starved body had its own agenda, one completely out of step with the girlish bonding ritual Phoebe seemed to envision.

A bad case of lust was not the only problem. To complicate matters, Phoebe’s pull was much more than physical. Rowe had spent the past few weeks trying to ignore this depressing fact, focusing on anything else, including Cara. But the truth was, she longed for Phoebe. Hardly an hour passed without the thought of her. She could not believe her bad luck. Once more, she had led herself down the garden path toward inevitable despair. She had escaped one futile crush only to exchange it for another that seemed even worse. Was this some kind of writers’ disease—a twisted version of having a Muse? Was she doomed to a lifetime of unrequited yearnings for women who didn’t want her?

Morosely, she toweled herself and crossed the hall to Cara’s bedroom. Her freshly dried clothes were laid out on the bed, and she caught a trace of Phoebe’s seductive perfume in the air. The smell went straight to her groin, reminding her yet again that she was a slave to her libido and she should flee before she did something she would regret.

It struck her then that she was making all kinds of assumptions. For a start, she was kidding herself that Phoebe was like all the rest, the sultry, narcissistic sex goddesses she invariably fell for. Yet, she wasn’t. There was something almost virginal about her, in fact. And she was a lesbian. Most of Rowe’s crushes were not.

Angry with herself, she dressed mechanically and examined her bad hair in a bamboo-framed mirror. Coward that she was, she had sidestepped the biggest assumption of them all—that Phoebe wasn’t interested. In fact, she had no idea what Phoebe felt for her. Maybe it was time to find out.

CHAPTER TEN

Cara cut a path through the usual crush of hotties on the dance floor at Girlbar and joined the meat market at the bar. For a change it only took ten minutes to get served, and she came away with two drinks. One for her and one for whoever she was about to pick up.

She’d been dancing by herself for the past hour, brushing bare skin with countless women in the hot, hazy anonymity beneath the pulsating lights. Now everything ached. Her mouth, her nipples, her clit. She wanted sex. It had been too long. While she’d been seeing Adrienne, she hadn’t partied with anyone else. Instead, she’d kidded herself that the relationship might be going somewhere. What an idiot. And all the time Adrienne had been seeing someone else.

She cast a quick look around the groups and pairs, seeking out parties of three. In past experience, she’d found these often consisted of a happy couple with a friend who wanted to get hooked up. That was how she’d met Adrienne, in fact, how she met most of her flings.

A sporty type in a sleeveless white T-shirt caught her eye. She was standing with a pair of Chapstick lesbians and looked as jaded as Cara felt, a fact each of them seemed to recognize. They exchanged an appraising stare, then discreet, empathetic smiles, and Cara sauntered over to the group.

“Thirsty?” She offered the sporty woman her spare martini, introduced herself to everyone and said she was from Maine.

The Chapstickers, Liz and Jadeene, were a couple and their friend was called Fran. They were from Northampton and were in L.A. for a week staying at La Montrose, a hotel Cara knew well from flings-gone-by. She suggested they find a table.

Once they were seated, she asked, “So what’s everyone’s dysfunction?”

As usual, the icebreaker generated some laughs. Liz and Jadeene confessed to being compulsive home renovators who only took time out from grouting and sanding floors to have sex and write their term papers. Fran, who was a few years older and had almost finished her PhD in criminal justice, had a thing for tattooed babes who loved her and left her. Her pals had dragged her to Girlbar so she could stare all she wanted at her nemeses, then return safely to Northampton, heart intact.

“In that case, we should dance,” Cara said. “I’m not tattooed and I won’t love you.”

“Are you picking me up?” Fran asked as they headed for the dance floor.

“Would that be a problem?”

Fran shot her a direct look. “Duh. No. But why me?”

“My dysfunction is having one-night stands with brainy chicks. Of course, if I discover you can’t discuss anything except your dog and your favorite beer, we’re in trouble.”

Fran laughed. She was cute. Her dark brown hair was cut short and spiky and had a copper tint in it. She was about the same height as Cara, but a little heavier built. She wore Diesel jeans and some cool jewelry, and her T-shirt revealed well-worked muscles and an intricate knotwork tattoo on one shoulder. She seemed more at ease in the club scene than her friends, a little bored even.

The music made conversation impossible, and once they started dancing, Fran was content to get up close and personal without knowing Cara’s last name. The pounding beat, the smell of sweaty bodies, booze, and stale cigarettes, the feel of Fran’s hands, worked the usual magic. Cara felt free, entirely her own person.

They danced for a while, edging hotter by degrees, until their breasts were crushed together, hard nipples teasing through thin cotton. Fran slid a knee between Cara’s thighs, softly grinding against her swollen center. The pressure was unbearable, not enough to get her off, but too much to endure without release. She slid a hand beneath Fran’s T-shirt and trailed her nails lightly over the slick arch of her back.

Near her ear, she shouted, “Want to get out of here?”

Fran answered with her hands, squeezing Cara’s ass and forcing her down so her thighs spread wider over the knee between them. Desire crawled from her belly to her throat. She tucked a hand over Fran’s waistband and slowly tugged, then reached for the belt and opened the buckle a few notches. Watching the play of expressions on Fran’s face, she unfastened the top few buttons of the Diesel jeans and slid her hand inside, over a firm belly and cotton briefs.