Fairytale (27 page)

What in the name of God was this?

“Interesting reading, isn’t it?”

Her head came up fast at the sound of Adam’s
voice. She stared at him, not really seeing, heard him, but wasn’t
really hearing.

“Where did you get this?” she asked
softly.

Adam tilted his head, sniffed the air.
“What’s that smell?” he asked, and his face was hard. No hint of a
smile touched his eyes. “Almost smells like paint. Ridiculous,
isn’t it, Brigit?”

She blinked, shook her head, wondered why he
seemed so...so empty. So sad. Glancing down at the book on the
desk, she jerked in surprise when he spoke again.

“It’s a translation of a text uncovered in an
archaeological dig in Ireland. They figure it’s around nine hundred
years old.”

He spoke as if that bit of information held
some particular relevance, but she didn’t know what. “Adam...this
is uncanny. The...the birthmark...”

He lowered his head, no longer looking her in
the eye. “Yeah. It blew me away when I saw it on you. But, dammit,
Brigit, that isn’t important right now. What’s important is that
you don’t trust me. After everything...everything I’ve told
you...you still can’t be honest with me.”

He was angry! He’d been angry before he’d
ever spoken to her, and she would have realized it if she hadn’t
been so shocked by what she’d read. “Adam, what’s the matter? What
did I do?”

He opened his mouth but snapped it closed
again, apparently changing his mind. He lowered his chin, shook his
head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

She came from behind the desk, moving toward
him. “Talk to me.”

Shaking his head, he started to turn
away.

“Adam, please. This is scaring me.”

She saw his back stiffen, his head come up,
though he didn’t turn to face her. “You’re scared?”

“Of course I’m scared! How can I not be?”

He turned then, slowly, his eyes narrow and
wary, and hurt.

“Adam, how long have you known about this,”
she asked, pointing at the book on the desk.

“Almost a year.”

“Then you knew...about these similarities.
You already knew...”

“Knew what, Brigit?”

“The...the things that book says...they’re so
similar to...”

He averted his eyes, biting his lower lip,
nodding. His every movement showing his cynical doubt of what she
said.

“Adam, there’s a way to explain it. There has
to be. Maybe my birthmark is just...just a coincidence. Or
maybe...”

“Or maybe what? Come on, Brigit, tell me what
you’re really thinking. Don’t keep lying to me.”

It was her turn to narrow her eyes, search
his face. “Why are you so angry with me, Adam?”

He blinked twice, gave his head a shake, and
turned away from her.

She ran around him, stopping in front of him,
blocking his exit. “Please . . .” It was a faint whisper, a hoarse
plea. “Don’t walk away without telling me why.”

“You know why.”

She nodded slowly, understanding coming to
her in waves that nearly knocked her breathless. He’d had enough of
her lies. He was tired of waiting for her to trust him with the
truth.

“It’s almost over, Adam. I swear, it won’t be
long now, and I’ll be able to tell you everything. Please, don’t
give up on me. Not yet.”

He started to walk past her, and anger surged
through her more forcefully than it had ever done.

“No!”

She yelled it at the top of her voice,
sending the force of her fury into the word. Adam stopped dead as
if he’d slammed into a brick wall.

He blinked in shock, his eyes widening.

Brigit paid little attention to that. She was
too busy searching for answers, fearing the worst. God, did he know
then? Had he somehow found out that she was about to steal his
painting?

It didn’t matter. She had no choice but to go
through with her plan. She couldn’t risk Raze’s life. But when it
was over, maybe when she explained what she’d done, and why she’d
done it, maybe he’d understand. Maybe he’d find some way to forgive
her. Maybe...

But she knew better, didn’t she? Maybe
another man would be able to forgive this kind of betrayal. But not
Adam. And it would be wrong of her to even ask him to.

She tried to stifle her sobs as she turned
away, and ran through the study and up the stairs to her room.

Adam stood precisely where he was, not
moving, not even breathing.

Something had just happened here. Something
that defied explanation—well, defied every explanation except one.
When Brigit had shouted at him...she’d hit him. Hard. Only...she
hadn’t moved.

A solid blast of hot anger had slammed into
Adam’s chest as palpable as a wrecking ball. He’d been heading for
the door, and it had stopped him in his tracks. Wham!

And it had vanished just as suddenly.

He lowered his chin to his chest, shook his
head. No more room for doubt. It had happened. And he was either
completely insane, which he knew damned well he wasn’t, or Brigit
Malone was a fairy.

And she doesn’t know, he thought in stunned
silence. Hell, she was probably more confused by all of this than
he was.

Brigit Malone. Fairy or thief? Or both.
Somehow, in some twisted-up way, she must be both.

He’d stick it out for a few more days. Watch
her every move, and find out for himself.

She tossed in the bed, twisting and writhing
until the sheets had tangled around her legs like boa constrictors.
God, what had come over Adam?

He must have been checking up on her. It was
the only answer. He must have been trying to verify the lies she’d
told him. About her reasons for not being able to stay in her
house. About her past. Could he have found the truth? No one knew
why she was really here. No one but Zaslow. How could Adam have
found out?

He didn’t trust her anymore. Not the way he
had. And it was killing her. It was tearing her apart not to have
him here, to hold her the way he had before. It was too lonely,
now, in this bed without him. She sat up, wrenching the covers from
her body, dashing the tears from her eyes with the back of one
hand.

She’d go to him, right now, and tell him
everything. Maybe he’d understand. Maybe he’d help her find another
way out of this mess. Maybe...

She whirled, uttering a little squeak of
surprise when there was a tap on the French doors. And then her
eyes widened and her pulse skittered wildly, just beneath the skin
of her wrists.

The doors were flung open, and Zaslow stepped
through them, shaking his head slowly. “Sleeping alone, tonight,
are you? What happened? Trouble in paradise, Brigit?”

She shook her head rapidly, backing toward
the door.

“Is he onto you, Brigit?”

“No.” Her back pressed to the cool wood, her
hand rose behind her to grasp the knob.

“You’re not going anywhere, darling. Not
unless you want Raze’s heart delivered to you in a candy box.”

Swallowing the sandy feeling in her throat,
she lowered her hand. She was shaking all over, fear making her
feel as cold as if she were standing naked in a snowstorm.

“Why are you alone? Tell me, and tell me the
truth, or I’ll hurt your old friend. And I’ll enjoy it.”

She shook her head rapidly. “I don’t know! I
swear, Zaslow. He...he came home in a bad mood. I...I don’t think
it has anything to do with me.” It was a lie, but one she hoped he
wouldn’t see through. Brigit knew damned well that Adam’s mood had
everything to do with her.

“Make up with him.”

She blinked, not understanding, and Zaslow
rolled his eyes, sighing loud and long. “Show me the painting,
Brigit. I want to verify you haven’t stopped working on it.”

“I haven’t.”

“Show me,” he growled. And she felt her teeth
chatter.

Keeping her back to the wall, she sidled
toward the closet, only edging nearer him when she had no choice
but to go around the chestnut vanity beside her bed. She opened the
closet door, reached inside to turn on the light. Inclining her
head she said, “It’s in the back. Don’t smear it.”

Zaslow’s eyes narrowed on her face. “You
leave this room, Brigit, or call out or do
anything
other
than stand there, and you can kiss your friend Malone goodbye. I
didn’t leave him alone.”

And then he ducked into the closet, and she
stood there. Trembling. Impotent with fear for Raze. Enraged that
she was so helpless.

But you’re not helpless, you fool! came the
all-too-familiar voice of her wild side. Something happened
downstairs tonight. When you yelled at Adam, he stopped as if he’d
walked into an invisible wall. You did that.

No. That was impossible. It made no
sense.

So what in your life ever made sense?

She frowned, refusing to believe, not wanting
to believe. But her anger at Zaslow came bubbling up, and she had
the feeling that the wild one inside was deliberately rousing it.
Brigit looked into the closet where that self-assured bully stood
examining the painting, and she recalled the sight of that
coffin-shaped box, and the fear that had nearly paralyzed her. And
she got angrier. With her eyes tightly closed, she wished with
everything in her that she could hurt Zaslow. Make him pay for what
he was putting Raze through. Pain, she thought. The man deserved
severe pain.

“Dammit!”

A muffled thud accompanied his cry, and
Brigit jerked rigid, her eyes flying open. Zaslow emerged from the
closet, pressing three fingers to his forehead. Blood trickled from
beneath the fingers, trailing down onto his nose, a single droplet
dangling from the tip.

Wide-eyed, Brigit backed away from him...from
the undeniable evidence. “What—”

“Nothing,” he snapped. “A box fell from a
shelf.” With his free hand he jerked tissues from the dispenser on
the vanity, and swiped the blood away, then pressed the wad to the
cut on his head. Taking the wad away, he looked at it, then pressed
it back again. “The painting looks nearly finished.”

She couldn’t stop staring at the cut on his
forehead. Couldn’t slow her racing heartbeat, or the new knowledge
that was slowly making itself a home in her mind. “It is,” she
whispered. “Almost done, that is.”

“How much longer?”

She shrugged, lowering her gaze to the floor,
shaking her head in wonder.

“Three days,” he told her. “Three days,
Brigit.

It will either be the length of time it takes
to finish the painting, or Raze’s expected life span. Do you
understand?”

“It’s not enough—”

“It’s more than enough. Meanwhile, you’d
better take your pretty backside down the hall and wiggle it for
Mr. Reid. You’ll never finish the painting if he throws you out,
will you?”

She lifted her head, glared at him. “You son
of a—”

“Seduce your way back into his good graces,
Brigit. You can do it. You managed it the first time around.”

“It wasn’t—”

“Good night.” He tossed the tissues into the
wastebasket, and walked back out the French doors, the same way
he’d entered.

And she stared after him, and thought about
trying to see if she could wish him to fall on his head from the
deck. Only the fear of never knowing where Raze was, of him dying
slowly because she couldn’t find him, kept her from experimenting
on Zaslow just then.

Brigit wondered how he’d managed to get up
there in the first place, whether he had a rope ladder dangling
from the deck outside or what.

And then it no longer mattered. She was
exhausted, physically, emotionally, and mentally. This was too
much. Too damned much for anyone to go through. Not just Zaslow and
his threats, but this feeling that was slowly encapsulating her
entire soul. That maybe she’d never felt as if she belonged here,
because she
didn’t.
Maybe she belonged somewhere else. Like
Rush.

God, it was too much to take in all at once.
Especially alone. She sank down to the floor, giving in to the
turmoil, letting the tears come at last.

“God, Adam,” she whispered. “I need you. I
just need you to hold me so much. Can’t you just hold me?” And she
lifted her head, looking toward the wall that separated his room
from hers, and she closed her eyes. “If there’s any magic in me at
all...let it bring you here to me, tonight. Because I don’t want to
spend the night alone.”

She was still lying to him. Even now.

She was a beautiful woman, who smiled with
her eyes whenever he looked into them. She touched him in a way no
other woman ever had, in a way he sensed no other woman ever
would.

After what they’d shared—the things he’d told
her, things he’d never shared with anyone, and the hours of
lovemaking so intense and soul-deep it had to be supernatural—she
still couldn’t bring herself to trust him enough to tell him the
truth. Hadn’t it meant a damn thing to her? Had it all been an act?
If she cared in the least, wouldn’t she have opened up to him by
now?

And did it matter? Because he still wanted
her. He wanted her all the time, day and night, asleep or awake, at
home and at work. She was never far from his mind. He couldn’t stop
thinking about the way it felt to hold her, to kiss her. The taste
of her skin. Those honeyed kisses. The loss of himself when he’d
been inside her. God!

She was plotting to steal his most precious
possession, even knowing what it meant to him. And he didn’t care!
He’d rather burn the thing in the fireplace than lose her now.

That was the problem. He cared. He hadn’t
meant to. He’d been warned not to. And he had to resist her. He had
to stop himself from getting any closer to her, because he knew
she’d leave him. He knew. And knowing made every breath he drew
sheer hell.

He had to stay away from her. Help her, yes,
but somehow keep a distance. Keep his emotions safe. He had
to...