Fairytale (9 page)

She was nothing. Less than nothing. A
criminal unworthy of even a passing glance from this man.

Brigit strained, for once, to find the girl
she’d been years ago. The one who had been willing to do whatever
was necessary to survive. The one who’d felt—as lousy as the world
had treated her—that it had no right to expect anything better in
return. The one who’d lived in a condemned building, and who’d sold
her soul without batting an eye, to save the life of the old man
who’d once saved hers. Right now, instead of denying the existence
of that wild thing inside her, she longed to hide behind it. To be
ruthless and clever and devious, the way she’d been then, when
she’d done whatever was necessary to survive.

She had no choice but to do it again. And it
was going to be the hardest thing she’d ever done. She told herself
it shouldn’t be. That she need only think of Raze in the hands of
that monster Zaslow, think of the things Zaslow might do to him if
she failed. It would give her the strength to go through with this.
She’d do whatever she had to. She’d forge the damned painting.

How, though? How the hell was she going to
lie her way into Adam Reid’s house? Into his life?

She dared a glance at him. He stood there,
waiting for her to speak. Okay, then. There was no more putting
this off. She knuckled her eyes dry again, and replaced her glasses
with careful deliberation. She straightened her spine.

“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t usually greet my
customers with tears.”

He tried for a smile, but it was
unconvincing. He wore the baffled, confused expression he’d always
worn in her dreams of him. “Maybe I should come back another
time.”

“No. I’m fine now, really.”

He looked at her, one golden brow arched in
disbelief.

“Really,” she told him. And he nodded, though
she didn’t think he believed her. “So what are you doing here? Is
it about the class?”

“Yes.” His lips thinned, and he tipped his
head back, looked at the deep blue sky beyond the glass ceiling,
then lowered it again, shoving one hand backward through his
luminous, honey-coated hair. “No.”

Brigit tilted her head. “Which is it?”

“I...” He licked his lips, then shook his
head. “It doesn’t matter. You didn’t want to take the class anyway.
Did you?”

She lowered her head to hide the jolt those
words caused her. He was too perceptive. How could she ever hope to
deceive him? She wondered what had brought him here, and wished she
had the powers Sister Mary Agnes had woven into the fairytale.
She’d simply wave her hands and whisper a mystical chant, and she’d
be given instant access to his mind, his home. To his life. To his
painting.

He was a frightening man. Such conflicting
emotions passing through those eyes of his. From near reverence to
wariness and suspicion when he looked at her. And always that old,
well-worn anger simmering just below the surface. Crossing him
would not be pleasant. Especially if he caught on. And fooling him
would not be easy.

She fingered the pendant she wore, and
ordered herself to calm down.

He was looking around the greenhouse now,
turning slowly, so she could better appreciate the lines of his
face. Harsh and angular. A straight Roman nose and wide-set
almond-shaped eyes. He had the eyes of a wizard, she thought.
Hypnotic, mesmerizing. Eyes like an oracle. They seemed capable of
seeing everything, right to the soiled hubs of her soul. And the
thick, sensual lips...the ones she’d tasted so often in her
dreams.

He turned then, caught her staring at his
mouth, and one corner of it twitched. His eyes registered sensual
awareness, followed by a flare of alarm. Both of which he concealed
almost immediately. “This is quite a place.”

She thought of her mission, thought of the
classified ad Zaslow had shown her. And tried not to think about
Adam’s lips, and not to look at his eyes.

“Thanks. It better be, I guess. I’m stuck
here for a few weeks. That’s why I wasn’t opening today, in fact. I
need time to pack up some things . . .” She let her voice trail off
as his sharp eyes narrowed, probing hers. And she couldn’t help it
when she looked away.

“Why’s that?” he asked, his voice soft and
wary. As if he were fully expecting—even awaiting—the lie she was
about to tell.

She was not a good liar. She’d always been
far better at thievery and forgery than outright, face-to-face
deception. Her entire life, as far back as she could remember,
she’d never been able to tell a lie to someone’s face without
seeing Sister Mary Agnes, arms crossed over the front of her black
habit, one foot tapping the floor, staring her down until she
squirmed. For a while, she’d seen that vision face to face. Now she
only saw it in her mind, but it was no less effective. She writhed
inside.

“Radon,” she blurted.

Oh, yes. She’d nearly forgotten the other
reason she never lied. Because she was so utterly terrible at
it.

He crooked that one golden brow again, his
eyes still piercing her. “Radon?”

She nodded, turning away from his knowing
stare, absently straightening the amaryllis at her right, letting
her eyes drink in the perfection of its large white trumpets rather
than face this man as she lied to him. “My house is built over an
old shale bed, and it turns out there’s radon seeping into the
basement. It causes cancer, you know.”

“I remember hearing that somewhere.”

Of course he did, she thought. It was last
week’s lead topic on “20/20.” “I have to move out until it’s safe
again.”

“That shouldn’t take long, should it? A
couple of days, maybe?”

She paused, biting her lip, her back still to
him. “Well, then there’s all that construction. The entire basement
needs to be...er...radon-proofed.”

“Of course it does,” he said, and the sarcasm
was so subtle, she couldn’t be sure it was there.

She grated her teeth, and made herself face
him, trying to read his eyes, but he’d put up some kind of
invisible shield. One she thought was as effective as the glasses
she wore. She was shocked that his eyes told her nothing. That had
never happened to her before.

“I don’t suppose you’ve considered staying in
a hotel?”

She shook her head quickly. “Can’t afford it.
All that construction and all...” He probed again, silencing her,
but this time she held his gaze. She was determined to see whether
he believed a word she’d said, or was just letting her make a fool
of herself for his amusement. And still his eyes revealed
nothing.

Except that, bathed in the sunlight streaming
down from above, they turned from dark, mesmerizing sapphire, to a
lighter shade with flecks of turquoise appearing here and
there.

“Your shop is nice,” he put in. “But it’s
small. Where are you going to sleep?”

She shrugged. “I’ll just spread a sleeping
bag on the floor.”

He drew a breath, shook his head. He looked
into her eyes, probed, then looked away again. “Are you going to
tell me it’s a coincidence, Brigit?”

She heard a ripple of anger in the words, but
oddly enough, it sounded more like a plea. “Coincidence?”

“Just yesterday I placed an ad in the
Ithaca Times.
Room and board, cheap, or in exchange for
light housework. I don’t suppose you saw it?”

He wouldn’t release her gaze. She tried to
look away and couldn’t. He knew she’d seen that ad. He knew she was
fishing for an invitation. God, he saw right through her!

“Yes,” she admitted. She faced him squarely,
waiting for the disdain to appear in his eyes. It didn’t. There was
relief instead. Silent gratitude for something as simple as the
truth. Impulsively, she added more. “To be honest, that’s why I
came to the university. Not for the class. Just to...”

“Check me out.”

Lips thinning, she nodded. Now that he knew
she’d lied to him, she’d never get into his house. God, how could
she save Raze now?

“And what’s the verdict?”

Her head came up fast, and she bit her lip.
“What?”

“Do I pass inspection, Brigit? Am I the kind
of man you think you could...live with?” There was a slight tilt of
his lips, as if he were trying to lighten things up. But it didn’t
reach his eyes. They were more intense than ever, and she had the
feeling the question meant a lot to him.

“You mean...you’d let me?”

“Assuming you have time for a little light
housework. With the shop to run and all, maybe you’d rather
not...”

“No! I mean...yes.” Her voice softened. “Yes,
I’ll have time. I’ll make time. I have to...”

God, if she wasn’t careful he’d see how vital
this was to her! She cleared her throat, met his eyes, shivered at
the potency of the impact whenever she held his gaze for more than
an instant. It was electric. Magic. Reviving her forbidden dreams
of him, and making her body shudder with awareness and raw, erotic
hunger. Their gazes held for far too long. She was reading things
in his eyes, and showing him things in hers...things that shouldn’t
pass between strangers. Unspoken longings and erotic promises. All
slipping from somewhere inside her before her conscious mind
regained control. She blinked rapidly, embarrassed at the intensity
of that long glance. From the corner of her eye, she saw him give
his head a fast shake, as if trying to wake himself up from a brief
slumber.

“Akasha’s hours are a little unorthodox,” she
said, to cover the awkwardness. “We open in the afternoon and close
at eleven p.m. It seems to fit the schedules of the students much
better than nine to five would. I have free time in the
mornings.”

He nodded, seemingly lost in confusion.
Chaos. Determinedly keeping his gaze on the floor he said,
monotone, “So would you like to see the place?”

When she didn’t answer because she was busy
studying the way the sunlight illuminated the swirls of paler blond
and darker gold in his hair, he looked up again, met her eyes. And
for just an instant she thought she saw knowledge in them. That he
knew damned well she was still being less than honest.

A ripple of fear raced up her spine, into her
nape, and she shivered involuntarily. How could he melt her soul
with the heat and wanting in his eyes one minute, and chill her
with suspicion and mistrust in his eyes the next?

He didn’t hold her gaze this time. It was a
brief, chilly clash before he focused on the plants, feigning
interest in them. “Well?” he went on. “Are you still
interested?”

She paced slowly away from him, pushing one
hand through her hair as if deep in thought. And then she turned to
pace toward him again, stopping halfway, gnawing her lower lip,
making him want to do the same. A lush begonia hung between them,
its leafy, twisting strands interfering with his view of her, and
for a second he resented it, because he enjoyed looking at her so
much.

And then he went still, and he felt his blood
slowly freeze over in his veins. Because he suddenly knew why she
seemed so familiar to him. She was the woman in the painting. The
woman he’d seen in his childhood delusion all those years ago. She
was...

No! No, she couldn’t be. She was not the
woman he’d obsessed about for the past twenty-five years. The
resemblance was no more than coincidental. Because the thing that
had instigated the obsession had never really happened. It was just
a story he’d heard somewhere, and incorporated into his dreams. He
hadn’t
really
seen this woman bathing in a pond in an
enchanted forest. He hadn’t
really
been told that she was
his fate. That she’d come into his life so he could show her the
way home, and that if he fell in love with her, she’d break his
heart.

But then again, he’d never
really
believed it had only been a dream, had he? Not deep down inside,
where it counted. And right now, there wasn’t a kernel of doubt in
his soul or body that this was her. It was only his practical mind
that rebelled.

She turned to look at him from beyond the
plant’s twisting vines. Just the way she had before, in the dream
or vision or hallucination or whatever the hell it had been. His
knees threatened to buckle and he couldn’t seem to draw another
breath. In a second he’d be gasping. Chilled beads of sweat broke
out on his forehead, and his goddamned hands were shaking.

And he suddenly remembered the question he’d
asked her just now. Whether she’d come with him, to his home.
Whether she’d stay for a while. And he was terrified she’d say yes,
and just as terrified she wouldn’t.

His mind all but begged her to come with him.
Into his home. It scared him, the amount of tension that coiled in
his stomach as he awaited her answer. She’d lied to him, for God’s
sake. And he had a feeling she still was, despite her uncanny
resemblance to his lifelong fantasy. She wasn’t even a very
good
liar. Radon. Right.

But he’d taken the bait. Not because he’d
believed her, but because he’d wanted to. And he supposed it was a
good thing he did. Because when she looked into his eyes, he didn’t
think there was a way in hell he could say no to her.

Christ, she hit him on so many levels she
left his head spinning. She was his obsession. As if someone had
breathed life into his childhood dream. As if a magic wand had been
waved and she’d just walked right out of his head, and into his
life. He’d searched for her for so long...

No. Not for her. For the source of that
fantasy...the myth that had to have inspired it. You never searched
for her!

Was that true? Because it certainly
felt
as if he’d been searching for her. He’d thought the
painting was as close as he’d ever get to finding her. But now
she’d stepped off the canvas. And he wasn’t capable of letting her
just walk away. Not without knowing her, trying to find out what
all of this meant.