Dark Journey (9 page)

Jeremy loomed into view, and she breathed a sigh of relief and surprise. It was nothing dangerous after all. "You scared me," she called out to him, her voice light and faintly teasing.

His response was a bland smile. "I don't tend to have that effect on people. What are you doing out here, Laura?"

"Going for a walk. I wanted to get out of the house for a bit. I felt... crowded."

"I know what you mean," he said gloomily. "Cynthia will never change. I don't know if there's a future for us after all."

"Jeremy..."

"But that's not why I followed you down here. You're the one I'm worried about," he said, his voice earnest. "I don't trust that man, Laura. I don't like the fact that he showed up here out of nowhere. I don't like the fact that he's been stalking you."

"Stalking me? Don't be ridiculous—no one's stalking anyone. Aren't you letting your feelings about Cynthia cloud your judgment?"

"Don't you think it's a little strange that he showed up just when we got cut off from the outside world?"

Laura managed a hollow laugh. "He doesn't control the weather, Jeremy."

"Something strange is going on, I can feel it. Something very odd. Those news reports, about people not dying. I don't like it."

"Don't like the fact that people aren't dying?" Laura echoed. "You're not making any sense." She stared at her stepbrother for a long, troubled moment. "Is there something else going on, Jeremy? Something you want to tell me?"

His own laugh was suddenly hearty, and annoyingly false to her ears. "I'm just being melodramatic," he said. "That's what comes of being trapped up here, then staying up all night. Lack of sleep will do you in."

"Maybe you should take a nap," she suggested quietly.

"Maybe I will. But I want you to promise me something. Keep away from him. I have a very bad feeling about him. He's trouble, Laura. Trouble for you, trouble for all of us."

"You're being ridiculous, Jeremy. He's harmless. A French ski bum with a lot of charm and not much money. He isn't going to hurt a soul."

"You find him charming? I don't."

Laura thought about it. The cool, mesmerizing power that flowed from him, that seemed to travel directly to her. The feel of his mouth against hers. He made her feel alive, she thought again. Pulsingly, heart-poundingly alive, as she'd never been before.

"The weather will clear, Jeremy," she said, in a deliberately calm voice. "Alex will be on his way, and you and Cynthia can try to work things out. Don't worry about me. I've already accepted the fact that I'm only going to have a limited life, and that doesn't include passionate interludes with strangers any more than it includes grandchildren or little country cottages with white picket fences. I've learned to accept what I have and leave it at that. When Alex leaves, everything will be as it was."

"What if he asks you to go with him?"

The flash of anger that swept through her shocked Laura. She wasn't used to rage, to fighting against the inevitable. "He's not going to," she snapped. "There's no reason why he'd want to burden himself with a woman who's dying."

"When that woman stands to inherit a third of her father's estate, he would."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she said dryly. "It
is
possible for someone to be attracted to me, you know."

"Is he attracted to you?"

"No," she lied, remembering the kiss.

"And you don't look like a woman who's dying," Jeremy added with unusual frankness. "You look better than I've ever seen you. Your color's good, you've got more energy."

"Must be something in the air."

"It's keeping Father alive."

"It's keeping everyone alive, Jeremy. But it's not going to last, and you know it. I'm not going to last, either, but flirting with a stranger isn't going to make me die any sooner."

"You admit it?"

"That I've been flirting? Just a little bit. It's fun," she added.

"I want you to promise me you'll keep away from him. I don't trust him."

"Jeremy," she said with great patience, "I'm not going to promise you anything except that I'll take care of myself. That's all you really have a right to ask."

"If you don't keep away from him then I'll have to do something about it."

She stared at him, and it was like looking at a stranger. The bluff, cheerful man she'd known all her life was nowhere near the pale, angry man who stood before her, eyes bulging, veins standing out. He looked like a man on the edge, and it wouldn't take much to push him over.

"Jeremy," she said gently, "get some sleep."

"I'm warning you." His voice trailed after her as she started back up the steep path. She wanted to run, and yet she knew she didn't dare. Running across a relatively level surface last night had almost killed her.

Even making her way slowly up the steep hillside would put untold strain on her heart.

She turned a corner, which put her out of Jeremy's view, and quickened her pace. She waited for the breath to catch in her chest, waited for the dull, omnipresent pain to sharpen. But she could feel no pain. The air was pumping through her lungs, the blood pumping through her heart, as if they weren't the damaged organs she knew them to be.

She moved faster. The wind rippled through the trees, tossing her long hair behind her, and she could feel the dampness of autumn on the tail of the breeze. Faster still, the energy spiking through her, soaring, faster and faster, until she was running, freely, effortlessly, up the steepest part of the incline, and a laugh rippled out of her throat, dancing over the countryside.

She saw him then, standing at the edge of the clearing, watching her. Waiting for her, as the restless light reflected off his dark glasses. He waited for her, alone, Cynthia nowhere in sight.

She came to a halt a few feet away from him. She was out of breath, flushed, and feeling dangerous herself. She thought of her stepbrother, with his threats and warnings. She thought of her shortened life, and she looked up at the man who stood there, waiting for her.

Again she felt that odd shiver of memory. She knew him. But she couldn't remember where or when she'd seen him before. He was a part of her life, a part of her, and yet she couldn't say how.

She knew only one thing about him. There was nothing to be afraid of. He wouldn't harm her.

Whether that extended to everyone, she didn't know. But the man in black, standing there in the storm-tossed shadows, would never hurt her.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" she asked him, her breath caught in a small gasp.

"You might as well ask whether I believe in love at all," he countered softly.

"Do you?"

"I'm not sure. Perhaps for some creatures. In some circumstances. If one is very lucky."

"Are you one of the lucky ones?"

"No," he said gently. "And neither are you."

It was like a slap across the face. She stared at him for a long moment and saw the trace of Cynthia's coral lipstick on the side of his neck. The sudden clenching pain in her chest had nothing to do with her damaged heart and everything to do with her soul.

"True enough," she said brightly, after a moment. "In the meantime, I'd better check on my father." She moved past him, concentrating on maintaining a calm grace.

He reached out a hand to stop her, to touch her, but she managed to avoid him. He didn't pursue the effort, just followed her at a secure distance. "Are you worried he might have died while you went for your walk?"

She paused at the French doors that led in from the rough-hewn deck. "No," she said, staring at her reflection in his sunglasses. "No one's going to die for the time being. Are they?"

"How would I know?" he said at last, breaking the silence.

"How stupid of me," she murmured. "You wouldn't have anything to do with it, would you?"

His smile was pale, cool, bewilderingly gentle. "Not at the moment," he said. He put his hand on her elbow and the force of the current they created shot between them.

"Who are you?" she whispered, unable to move.

He leaned closer, and she lifted her face to his, wanting his mouth again. Needing it.

"There you are, Miss Laura." Mrs. Hawkins's voice shattered the faint, dreamy mood as she appeared at the end of the hallway, an old dish towel in one hand. "Your father's been asking for you. Quite agitated, he is. Maria said to find you as quick as can be."

"Is he going?"

"Not so's I could tell. He wants to talk to you, though, and I don't think getting worked up will do him any good. You go on in, and I'll get Alex here a cup of coffee. There never was a Frenchman who could resist a good cup of coffee."

Laura waited for him to protest, but he said not a word. His hand dropped from her arm, and she felt burned, frozen. "Go see him, Laura," he said softly. "Maybe he'll have the answers to your questions."

But Laura wasn't quite sure she wanted to hear them.

W
illiam Fitzpatrick lay still and silent in the bed. Only the steady chirp and beat of the machines gave the lie to the appearance of death, and Laura moved quietly to his bedside, loath to disturb him.

The creepy, blue-veined eyelids shot open, and her father fixed her with the piercing look that had terrified her in her childhood. It still had the power to make her feel very young and helpless.

"Why did you bring him here?" he demanded in a mere rasp of a whisper.

She didn't pretend to misunderstand. "I ran into him on the mountain," she said, trying to keep the defensiveness out of her voice. "I'd fallen, I was afraid I was dying, and then…he was there. He brought me back here, Father. Instead of you and Jeremy being so distrustful, you ought to thank him."

"Thank him?" William echoed in a hoarse laugh. "That'll be the day. Don't you know who he is? What he wants?"

She put her hand on his forehead. He was hot, feverish, and his faded eyes were burning with determination and something akin to madness. "He's no one," she murmured soothingly, stroking his brow. "A ski bum. He doesn't want anything but fresh powder."

"You're almost as stupid as your siblings," William snapped, with a trace of his usual force. "He's fooled you, but he can't fool me. I
know
him. I've wrestled him too many times. I'm not going to let him win now."

Laura cast a desperate glance around the room. There was no sign of Maria, and her father's mind was clearly wandering, increasingly delirious, even though his body seemed uncharacteristically strong. "He won't win, Father," she said in a soothing voice.

"Don't patronize me. You think I'm off my head, don't you? I may be dying, but that doesn't mean I'm crazy. I know who he is, I tell you. I know what he wants."

"What does he want, Father?" she asked calmly.

"You. He's come to kill you."

Laura's gentle smile didn't waver. "I can't imagine why. He doesn't even know me."

"You don't understand!" Her father was getting more agitated by the second, and the monitoring systems began to chirp louder, faster, more erratically. "That's what he does. That's who he is. He's—"

"What's going on in here?" Maria bustled in, the picture of sturdy efficiency. "You calm down, Mr. Fitzpatrick, and don't say another word! You're agitating yourself, and if you want your poor daughter to stand there and watch you die, then just keep on the way you are."

"I'm going to die anyway," he said sulkily, leaning back. His color was a sickly gray, and he looked like Death himself, Laura thought.

"We all are, sooner or later," Maria said briskly, checking his pulse. "There's no need to hurry it along. If the good Lord saw fit to grant you a reprieve, then you take it and be grateful."

"Ha!" William Fitzpatrick snorted, but the sound was a hollow travesty. "I don't think the good Lord had a damned thing to do with it."

"Not another word, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Laura, why don't you go have a cup of herb tea or something? Leave this grumpy old man to get some rest."

Her father opened his eyes for a moment, staring at her malevolently. "Yes. Go away, Laura. Don't worry, I'm not going to pop off without any warning."

"I don't think anyone is," she murmured, half to herself.

Maria looked at her oddly, but William missed her cryptic statement. "Anyway," he continued, "I'm not ready to go yet. I promise you'll get to hold my hand and weep over my corpse. Unless your new friend has something to say about it."

"There are times, Father, when you are completely impossible," Laura said with affectionate exasperation, leaning over and placing a gentle kiss on his wrinkled forehead. "I'll come back when you've decided you don't want to bait me any longer."

"Knowing him, it might be a long wait," Maria muttered under her breath.