Dark Seduction (4 page)

On the far side of the driveway, Melantha unfastened the padlock and heavy chain that she’d fixed on the garage when she moved into the house. Was it really only a few days ago? Having known her less than a week, it already felt as though he had known her all his life. With nothing of importance in the garage, and as he never used it to park his Mercedes or Bentley as it took too long to get them out, he hadn’t objected to her using it. Not that he would have anyway.

By the time Fraser reached the garage, Melantha had already opened the door and he spied her brightly painted Romany caravan in the gloom. The last time he’d seen the garish vehicle, it had been in his parking space at work. Symbols decorated the exterior wooden panels, but there were also faces, almost indiscernible, visible only when glimpsed from the corner of an eye; the rest of the time they remained hidden within a riot of colour.

He heard the whinny of Melantha's horse. It had been tethered to the front of the caravan when he'd first seen it. Fraser turned and looked towards the house, its turrets and portcullises a jagged shadow against the bright sky, but he saw no sign of the dapple-grey horse.

He walked into the garage, and a pang of doubt crept over him. Why would she bring him out here?

Bright motes of dust floated in the air, illuminated by sunlight streaming through the high windows.

Melantha sat on the rear stoop of the caravan stroking the ear of what appeared to be a large, grey dog of indeterminable breed; it looked vicious and it sat next to her as though on guard, its eyes quick and alert. Fraser disliked her companion, but as she kept it locked in the garage with her caravan, he could live with it. He saw its beady eyes devouring him like a juicy slab of meat and he looked away. The damn thing resembled some form of genetic mutant, probably the mixed offspring of feral beasts.

“What have you brought me out here for when there’s a perfectly good bed in the house?” Fraser asked.

“You remember when we first met, how you moaned about me parking in your space.”

“What’s that got to do with anything? It was early in the morning. I didn't know you.”

“And do you know me now?”

Fraser licked his lips. In truth, he hardly knew anything about her, but he nodded.

Melantha smiled. “You’d painted your name on the car park wall and expected to own it.”

“It was my parking space, that's—”

“Oh Fraser. Stop being so petulant.” She rolled her sleeve up to reveal Fraser's name scrawled in black ink on her arm. “You’re a
Dilino
gadje
. Crazy foreigner.” She shook her head and laughed, the sound trickling from her mouth like spring water. “So by rights, this means you’re mine.”

“You know I’m yours, heart and soul.”

Melantha parted her legs, revealing she was naked underneath. “But this is what you really want.”

Fraser's throat felt dry. He tried to swallow. “You know damn well it is.”

Melantha stood, climbed the three steps and opened the caravan door. Fraser stood at the bottom and looked up. He watched Melantha walk farther into the caravan until she disappeared in the shadows. The dog sat on the ground outside.

Fraser heard the soft whisper of material as she removed her clothes and he stepped closer, literally rubbing his hands with glee.

Something black extricated itself from the darkness and flew towards him, flapping and fluttering. Fraser clutched his chest, trying to steady his heart as the object came to rest at his feet. Melantha's black jacket. Fraser felt a stirring in his groin and he licked his lips. There was life in the old dog yet.

“
Avav
. Come quickly” she whispered. “
Ikestav
.”

Fraser climbed the three steps and peered in. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling like percussion instruments in a strange band. A purple, padded bench ran along one wall, with a small table beside it. He absently noticed the hand delivered letter she’d received this morning lying on the table. Ever since its arrival, she’d been acting peculiarly. But if this was the result, what did he care. The room smelt musty, but another aroma lingered, one he couldn't quite place. But he forgot all about that when he saw Melantha.

She stood in the middle of the caravan. The lack of light made it hard to see clearly, but she was touching herself, rubbing her breasts with one hand and rubbing her other hand up and down her thigh. Her movements offered a tantalising glimpse of pubic hair through the split in the skirt.

Fraser felt the bulge in his trousers grow, the snake charmed by the charmer. He licked his lips and entered the caravan. His heart hammered in his chest, but this time it wasn’t through fright.

“Melantha …”

“
Shush
,” she said, lowering the strap from her shoulder.

Fraser stood with his mouth open, hardly daring to breathe in case he broke the spell. He watched as she slid the flimsy fabric down to reveal a large, erect nipple. She covered her bare breast with her hand and parted her fingers slightly so the nipple peeked through, teasing him. Finally, she removed her hand and pulled down the other strap so the top fell around her waist. When she moved, her large breasts swayed and Fraser ached to touch them.

Although dark in the caravan, it seemed to grow darker. Fraser found himself afraid to take his eyes off Melantha in case it was all a dream. Eventually he blinked. The split second that he lost sight of her made his heart yearn. His legs went weak and he staggered slightly. He felt the blood pump through his body, could feel it pound at his temples almost as much as in his trousers. He’d never felt like this before.

“But why ... why now?” he asked.

Melantha smiled and backed away, towards the rear of the caravan where the darker shadows became an almost physical presence.

Somewhere close by, the crows cawed, the sound as shrill as a witch’s cackle.

Fraser staggered towards Melantha, making the caravan rock, the pots and pans suspended from the ceiling tinkling against one another like melodic bells. Fraser took a step. Then another. But strangely, Melantha seemed farther away. He couldn't understand it. From the outside, the caravan appeared small, but inside it appeared cavernous. With each step he took, his footfalls echoed.

He rubbed his eyes and blinked; felt dizzy and hot. Sweat prickled his forehead. He tugged at his tie, fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, but his fingers felt clumsy, like sausages. He couldn't breathe.

Fraser gasped. He muttered Melantha's name, but she didn't answer. He could still see her, as though viewed from afar as she reclined on a white mattress that framed her dark skin. She fingered herself with one hand while the index finger of her other hand circled her mouth, her tongue flicking out from between her lips like a moray eel in search of prey.

Fraser gave up on the buttons and tore his shirt open. He heard a couple of buttons ping on the ground and roll away, but he didn't care. Face flushed, he struggled to undo his trousers, the belt as slippery as a snake.

Trousers around his ankles, he hurried to reach her, but in his haste, he stumbled and fell onto the ground where a sliver of wood pierced his palm. He looked at his hand. A splinter protruded from his lifeline. He pulled the wood out and a spot of blood formed.

Ignoring the pain, he stood back up. Rapid little breaths burst from his mouth. Maude would never have done this. Never openly sexy, they even turned the light out when they made love, and it always seemed more like an obligation than a pleasure. But Melantha ... she wanted him, the little minx. All this time, she’d just been toying with him. A sharp, lancing pain exploded in his chest, but he staggered on, willing to oblige.

“Oh, Fraser.”

“I'm here, I'm here,” he replied, struggling to tug off his trousers. His face and palms grew sweaty, and he felt clammy.

He looked across at Melantha and froze on the spot, his mouth hanging open.

Outside, the dog growled.

Fraser rubbed his eyes and clutched his chest. Instead of Melantha, a hideously scarred harridan lay on the mattress. Ugly white scars covered the whole of its body, appearing to knit the flesh together. Wounds on its face smiled independent of its mouth. Eyelids and lips bulged with scars; the lesions on its lips gave it an abnormal fish pout. 

Strangely, the mutilation seemed to have some sort of order to it, almost like hieroglyphics. No longer a woman, this was a cicatrised monster.

The disfigured creature cocked a finger at Fraser and grinned, the facial scars realigning to accommodate the ugly expression.

Fraser gagged. Every breath he took hurt his chest. He coughed. Choked; felt as though fingers squeezed his heart, wringing the blood from it. He staggered back, clutched at his upper body.

The last sound he ever heard was that of Melantha, laughing.

CHAPTER 5

A circle of prestigious cars blocked the driveway and the windows needed a lick of paint, but the large mansion appeared as Verity Crowe remembered it. She stood and stared at the building for a moment, allowing previously buried memories to claw their way to the surface.

After a moment, she started walking; tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Ruffled by the wind, her purple taffeta skirt billowed around her legs. The multicoloured, raindrop bindi glued in-between her eyebrows glinted in the sunlight, enhancing her blue eyes. With each step she took, the bangles and bracelets up her arm tinkled melodically.

A noise caught her attention and she turned to see a man hammering a stake into the lawn by the road.

Verity read the sign attached to the stake.

She frowned, couldn’t believe it. Biting her lower lip, she stormed towards the house. The front door stood open, and she heard voices inside. Perhaps they were holding a dinner party, but whatever it was, she wasn't going to let it stop her now that she'd plucked up the courage to come this far.

She entered the hall and saw the sitting room curtains were drawn. Puzzled, she looked at her watch: 11.30 a.m. Why hadn't they opened the curtains?

A long black box sat in the middle of the darkened room

Verity bit her tongue and rotated one of the bangles on her wrist like a rosary bead.

She recognised the box before she reached it, but it looked so out of place in the sitting room that she didn't want to believe what her eyes told her.

A cold chill tiptoed up her spine and she shivered.

What was a coffin doing here? Morbid curiosity drew her towards it like a voyeur at a road traffic accident. Then she saw the body lying in the white linen and she felt strangely detached.

Father!

She stared wide eyed, tears bristling behind her lids. He couldn’t be dead. Not now. Not now she had returned home to make amends.

She distantly registered the sound of footfalls along the hall, felt someone grab her, and heard a voice as if from a long way away.

Verity turned and saw her brother, Peter, standing beside her.

“He's dead,” she said.

Peter nodded, expressionless. Dressed in a dark suit, he avoided looking her straight in the eye. His short black hair made him look a lot like their father – the same rugged, charismatic features.

“How? When? I don't understand.” Her mind whirled with questions.

“Come on, let’s go outside.”

Verity followed her brother out of the house where she sat on the step and took a deep breath.