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Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: House of Dreams
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And from that first brushing of lips, something ignited immediately—his hands held her head still and his mouth plied hers. The demand was unmistakable, intense. And Cass was crushed against his chest, enfolded in his body. His tongue was in her mouth. Her hard, tight nipples were knotted against his cashmere sweater, and she clung to him, opening, for more. Their teeth grated. It hurt. But pleasure shot through Cass, emanating from her sex.
Cass felt one of his impossibly hard thighs move between hers, pressuring her labia. Friction swelled her clitoris. Desire, the kind she had never experienced, the kind she had only read about, the kind she had suspected only existed in novels and her own secret fantasies, overwhelmed her. She rode him. Hard.
He spoke to her in Spanish. Harsh words, guttural words.
Cass felt the first tiny explosion, a harbinger of what was to come, and she cried out.
So did he. And then her bottom was in his hands, she was bent backward over an object—a chair, a table, a desk—while their tongues mated frantically and their bodies tried to. His hands were so large that a buttock practically filled each palm. Suddenly he shifted.
And Cass was pressed down flat on her back, and she realized she was on his desk, and something fell to the floor, shattering, and he moved on top of her, and the wonderful, hard protrusion of his manhood was arcing up against her pubis, promising her ecstasy. She managed to think,
Oh my God
, as she spread her legs wide.
He reached for and unzipped her jeans.
Then he palmed her wet, heated sex through her satin panties.
Cass shifted and came, wildly, loudly.
One of the children cried out in his or her sleep.
Simultaneously they shifted.
And Cass's mind leapt into action. “The kids!”
He stood up instantly, lifting her to her feet, and when she met his gaze, she saw that he was as stunned and excited as she. The expression on his face, and in his wide, gold-flecked eyes, was one she would never ever forget.
Eduardo cried out restlessly again.
She did not move, except to zip up her jeans. Her panting seemed terribly loud, her heartbeat thundered in her ears, and Cass worried that she would wake both children as Antonio quickly went to his son, bending over to him and murmuring words of reassurance. She followed his tall muscular body with her eyes. Greed filled her. A greed that was pure and raw hunger. Cass could only stare. She could only think about what it would be like to have him inside of her.
She closed her eyes, swallowing a moan. There had been no mistaking his passion. He wanted her the way she wanted him.
And she had come, for God's sake. She had come and he had only touched her.
When she opened her eyes, he was standing with most of his back turned to her, but a three-quarter moon was visible in the night outside, and moonlight was spilling onto him. Cass saw he was very rigid, his legs were braced apart, and he was still breathing hard. He was still aroused.
He still wanted her.
It was almost unbelievable.
Cass wasn't sure exactly which happened first, and next. For it was in that moment that she thought about the fact that he had been Tracey's lover, but it was also then that she saw him stiffen impossibly, as if snapped upright like a puppet on a string, and he cried out.
Cass looked past him at the window, and her heart dropped right to her feet.
Standing there, clearly framed by the window, backlit by the moon, was a woman with long, curly hair and a pale, oval face.
Her hair was disheveled, her face wild. And it was not Isabel.
 
 
Gregory moved decisively to the door, throwing it open. He almost jumped in surprise at the sight of Tracey standing there, smiling at him—instead of the female demon he had half expected.
“I know you will think me awful, simply awful,” she said softly, “but I can't sleep. Antonio has broken up with me, and my sister and I are fighting.” Her look was soft and plaintive. She held up a bottle of red wine, which until now had been hidden behind the sheer layer of her black dress, through which he could glimpse long, endless, provocative legs.
He knew what she wanted—or at least, he thought she did. Even
though she had dutifully ignored him all night, he'd sensed it all along. Antonio had agreed with him, that she was not his type. But she was his brother's lover.
Jesus!
What was he thinking?
He found his tongue. “This is a surprise,” he said evenly. He had to send her on her way. He wondered when the last time was that his brother had made love to her.
She shrugged a little, holding up two wineglasses in her other hand. “I really can't sleep,” she said. “And you're still awake, too.”
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and he was already hard. But he glanced down the black corridor, toward his brother's room. “This is not the best idea,” he said.
She stared, the smile gone. “Antonio and I have broken up,” she said flatly. “He wants my sister.”
Gregory was grim. “You seem to be taking it well.”
“I guess we weren't right for one another,” she said philosophically. She smiled again. Her eyes went right to his mouth—before sliding down the entire length of his body.
“Your sister has a lot in common with my brother,” Gregory agreed, warring with himself. Then, “Tracey, I would love nothing more than to have a drink with you. But not now, not here, in my brother's house. Why don't I take your number? I'll be in London on business in another three weeks. If you are still available, I'll give you a call.”
She gave him a look and slipped past him, brushing her hip against his groin as she did so. Gregory was seized with almost violent desire. For one instant he could think of nothing but throwing her down on the bed and burying himself inside of her.
He stepped back, away from her, shocked by the brief, almost insane passion he had just felt.
She sauntered over to the bed and sat down on it. She swung her long legs and smiled at him.
Just a drink. What's one drink? You're a grown man, you can control yourself.
The rationalizations sped like lightning through his head.
“It's just a drink,” she whispered. “I'm not asking you to sleep with me.” She smiled. “I wouldn't do that. I mean, he's right up the hall—with his son.”
He drifted toward her, almost against his will, his heart beating hard inside the cage of his chest. “Yes, just a drink,” he repeated, taking a glass from her. He poured them both glasses, then set the bottle down, suddenly finding himself sitting on the bed beside her.
She shifted, crossing her legs, the skirts riding up over her knees. He looked.
“Cheers,” she said, clinking glasses.
“Cheers,” he responded, finding it harder and harder to think coherently. Her perfume was as mesmerizing as her body and face. He could not define the scent.
And she was on her knees, the wine forgotten, spilled all over the bed, coming forward, over him. An instant later, as their mouths touched, her warm, wet loins, which were bare, were riding him as he went down on his back.
Their mouths opened and locked violently. Gregory had no more coherent thoughts.
Instead, he flipped her onto her back, kissing her frantically, shoving up her skirts, palming her wet, throbbing pussy. She reached for and unzipped him and he sprang hot and thick and long into her hands.
She bent to suck him down her throat.
He thrust hard and deep, managing to think that this was as close as he would ever come to heaven.
And then he pushed her back down, knifing into her, while she cried out, her nails raking down his back.
And when it was over, when they both lay side by side, half-clothed, he thought,
Jesus. What have I done?
He suddenly sat up, reaching over his shoulder to touch his back.
“Por Dios,”
he said, “I'm bleeding.”
“I'm so sorry,” she whispered.
He looked down, and saw endless legs and rampant sexuality, her skirts twisted around her waist. She lifted one leg, high and higher still, until he could kiss her toe.
“What are you wearing?” he murmured.
Their gazes locked, hers so blue and intense he had to flinch and glance away. “Violets,” she said slowly. “My favorite.”
Antonio whirled and ran from the library.
Cass didn't think twice, she ran after him. Who the hell could be outside on such a night?
Antonio had flung open the front door of the house; he dashed outside into the darkness of the night. Cass paused on the front steps, watching, her mind racing. Antonio had run around the side of the house, disappearing from sight.
She stared. His reaction was surprising—did he know the woman? She began to feel ill. Obviously he did. Obviously he more than knew her. And Cass had a dreadful inkling.
Slowly she walked down the steps, only to see him returning. In the faint moonlight his face seemed ghastly white. “Did you see her, too?” he asked harshly.
“I saw a woman,” she said slowly.
“It wasn't my imagination,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Oh, God!”
Cass didn't move toward him. He was shaking. A terrible sickness filled her from the inside out. “You recognized her?” she asked.
He glanced at her with absolute bewilderment. He seemed to be in shock. “Yes.”
Cass did not want to ask. She said, “Who is she?” already knowing the answer.
His face crumpled. “My wife.”
 
 
In the great hall Cass paused, hugging herself, nauseous now. Antonio was outside, calling his wife's name. Funny, but she hadn't known her name before; it hadn't mattered. But it was Margarita.
She stared almost blindly into the blackness of the night. A million stars remained overhead. On any other night she would have admired the brilliant sky. The warm summer night. The glinting three-quarter moon. But not now.
This was impossible, wasn't it?
He had been shouting for her, circling the house, for what felt like hours now, and his voice was very hoarse. Cass felt tears fill her eyes. And she thought,
You stupid, stupid, fool. Did you really think he was for you?
She sank down onto the front steps. He was preoccupied now with a woman who had disappeared eight years ago. The last thing on his mind was the passion they had just shared. And she cried a little.
Suddenly he was standing before her, as pale as a ghost, his eyes circled, red rimmed, the light in them bewildered, desperate.
“Any luck?” Cass managed, wiping her own eyes with the back of her hand and hoping he wouldn't notice her misery and heartbreak.
He didn't even reply. He moved past her, and Cass realized he remained in a state of shock.
And her misery vanished. In that instant it struck her that they were the same. Eight years ago her lover had simply left. And even though somewhere in her subconscious she had already suspected the truth about him—she had already suspected that there were lies heaped upon lies—she just had refused to believe it. Well, Antonio's wife had simply left one day, too. Or disappeared.
Cass stood up and walked inside, after him. “Antonio?”
He seemed startled by her voice, and he turned, finally meeting her eyes. Then he shied away, seeing the front door, which remained open. He went to it, shutting and locking it. She stared at his broad shoulders and back. Then she walked over to him, refusing to debate what she intended, and she turned him around and embraced him. Amazingly, he did not move away. His arms encircled her very loosely.
“Can you talk about it?” she asked softly, stepping back. She was recovering her own composure now. Cass decided there
must
be a reasonable explanation. Was his wife an amnesiac, running around the
countryside, lost and bewildered? If only she hadn't seen the woman, too. But a woman had been standing there, Cass was quite certain of it. “Are you sure that was your—” She could not say the word “wife.” “Are you sure that was Margarita?”
He glanced at her. “Yes.”
He had no doubt. If Cass hadn't seen a woman standing there herself, she would think he had seen a figment of his imagination—that he had seen something he'd yearned to see for so very long now. Suddenly she shivered. If she was worried about Isabel haunting them, what about the possibility that it was his wife? Assuming that she was dead?
Cass wet her lips. “Antonio?”
He turned, and Cass felt the full impact of his expression—it was one of defeat.
“What kind of perfume did she wear?” she asked.
“What?”
Cass repeated the question. “Your wife. What kind of perfume did she wear?”
He looked at her as if she were losing her mind. “Something floral but spicy. I don't recall the name, but it was by Loewe.”
Cass. “Was it the scent of violets?”
His gaze widened. “No, it was not. Jesu! Are you thinking we saw her ghost?” he cried.
“I don't know what to think,” Cass said softly. She rubbed his shoulder, but he did not seem to notice. “Are you sure it was her? Maybe it was another woman. Look, the house has no lights. Maybe there wasn't even a woman out there at all.” Cass didn't think so; still, she didn't know what to think. “You haven't been back here in years. Maybe you saw what you wanted to see.”
He just looked at her with an odd expression. “I don't think so. She was so real.”
Suddenly he covered his face with his hands.
Cass took his arm. “Let's go back to the library.”
He nodded.
And as they walked back inside, Cass was torn. He still loved his missing wife. That seemed so clear. How could she not feel for him? But God, he no longer was even remotely interested in her, Cass. And wasn't that as it should be?
She wondered what it would be like to be loved so much, that way, by this man. She could not imagine it.
And Cass wanted to know what had happened. But now was not the time to pry.
But before they had even reached the library, he said, “There was never an answer. There was never a single explanation. There were only theories.”
Cass faltered in surprise.
He entered the library, went straight to the bar cart, and poured himself a shot of whiskey. To his credit, he did not toss it down. He didn't even sip it. He just held it, staring down at the drink.
Cass sucked up her composure and her courage. “What happened?”
“We came for a holiday.” He looked at her. His smile was a parody, and it was ghastly. “Actually, it was my idea. I hadn't been here since my father's death when I was four, and I was ready, so ready, to come back, to look at the past, to even look for answers about my father and his life. Margarita was thrilled. She had encouraged me for years to come here. She thought it would be good for me.” He finally took a sip of scotch, then set it down with a grimace.
Cass knew better than to speak.
“Two days later, I woke up. The bed beside me was empty. There was a huge thunderstorm. Something was banging downstairs. I wasn't concerned, but I got up to check, and found the front door wide open. Then I was mildly concerned. I closed and locked the door. I found a window here in the library open. It was making all the noise. The thunder and lightning had stopped; it had begun to rain. I went back upstairs expecting to find Margarita asleep in bed. But it was still empty.” He paused.
Up until then, he had been speaking matter-of-factly. Now his tone choked. He did not look at Cass. “She wasn't in the bathroom, as I had thought. She wasn't with Eduardo. She wasn't anywhere. She was gone.”
Cass stared. “Gone?” So those rumors circling among the students at his lecture had been true, she managed to think.
“Vanished. Without a trace. Never to be seen again.”
Cass realized in that instant that they were not the same, not at all. He had adored his wife. He'd had a good marriage. She could sense all of that. And then his wife had simply disappeared.
“She was happy. One of the happiest, kindest people I have ever known. We were happy. She loved me, our son. She did not leave me and my son. She did not run off with a lover. She did not run off to
commit suicide. There was no sign of a forced entry anywhere. She was not abducted—and there was never a ransom note.”
“My God,” Cass whispered.
“She was a healthy, sane individual. There was no history of mental illness in her family. None.” He gripped the drink so hard his knuckles turned white.
“I'm sorry,” Cass said helplessly.
“But the front door was open. There were a few tracks. Her footprints. Her feet were bare. She didn't take anything. She was in her nightclothes. She left the house and walked away into the night.”
Cass didn't know what to say.
His face changed. It wrinkled hideously, turning savage, frightening. He threw the glass with all of his might at the wall. It shattered.
 
 
Cass awoke to brilliant sunshine. It was bathing her face, and she screwed her eyes shut, exhausted, not wanting to wake up. There was so much peace in sleep.
Then the events of the prior evening hit her, hard. Immediately she sat up, still groggy, blinking against the blinding light.
She was alone in the library, on the floor, where she had curled up with Alyssa, only to toss and turn restlessly—with fear and dread—until dawn. Now she estimated that it was close to noon. Cass threw off the blanket and got to her feet.
For a moment she did not move. Had they really seen Margarita outside the window last night? She studied the library, and then the countryside that was visible through the windows. In the light of day, her fears of the night before seemed absurd. The day felt amazingly benign.
There was an explanation, she thought. There was always an explanation.
People tended to see what they wanted to see. Maybe Margarita hadn't been in love with her husband, maybe there had been someone else.
Maybe she hadn't been happy. Maybe she had been seriously depressed, but hiding it and doing a damn good job of it.
Maybe there had been kidnappers. Real pros.
Cass sighed. They were probably never going to know the truth. Unless that really was Margarita and they found her again. She recalled how devastated Antonio had been, and her heart turned over, hard.
She realized that she herself was somewhat depressed. Now was not the time to even think about the passion they had briefly found—and as quickly lost.
Abruptly Cass tried one of the lamps, but the lights were still out. She lifted the phone; still no dial tone. Someone would have to drive into a nearby village to call an electrician, buy fuses, and alert the telephone company to their predicament.
She left the library. She found Alfonso in the kitchen, preparing what she suspected would be their lunch, and outside, in the inner courtyard, she saw Alyssa and Eduardo playing hopscotch. Eduardo would hobble with amazing agility through the blocks drawn in chalk on the stone ground. Alyssa was cheering. Cass had to smile in spite of bleak mood.
“Buenos
días, señora,”
Alfonso said with a smile.
“Los ninos
… they play …
bueno.”
“Buenos días.
Yes, they do play well together.” Cass suddenly realized she was ravenous—she had hardly eaten a thing all day yesterday. “Where are Antonio and his brother,
por favor?”
His reply was in fluent Spanish, and Cass could only blink.
“Pedraza,” he said firmly. “Pedraza.”
Of course, the brothers had gone to town. Cass poured herself a glass of fresh orange juice. “Alfonso, have you seen my sister?
Por favor,
Tracey,
hermana mía?”
“No he visto,”
he said, smiling.
Cass got the gist and wasn't thrilled. He was offering her an interesting-looking egg dish, which appeared to be a frittata made with potatoes, and Cass smiled hungrily. As he warmed it in the oven, she went upstairs to shower quickly and change. But once she left the entry hall, her steps slowed.
The house no longer felt quite so benign.
There were shadows on the stairs. The air was thick and still. The hairs on Cass's nape lifted.
Cass told herself not to be ridiculous. After all, she rationalized, even if the house was haunted, nothing had actually happened since their arrival; it was hardly a big deal that the lights and the phones had gone out because of lack of maintenance.
Or that they had seen, or thought they had seen, a woman standing outside the window last night, a woman who had disappeared without a trace eight years ago.
Cass quickened her pace. It was a big deal. Just like it was a big deal that her aunt Catherine was coming all this way to Spain.
Upstairs, she fled into her bedroom, refusing to glance around; she quickly gathered up fresh clothes and bolted into the bathroom. She locked the door, then unlocked it. Neither way pleased her. As she waited for the water to warm, she fidgeted, uncomfortable. Finally she began to knead the muscles in the nape of her neck.

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