Jeopardy (14 page)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” He put a finger beneath her chin and turned her face so that she had to look at him. “Tell me what’s in these damn dreams of yours and why they bother you so much.”

She shook her head, dislodging his finger. “I can’t. Don’t ask me.”

“I have to ask you. Something is hurting you badly, but I can’t help you if you don’t let me know what it is.”

“Did you ever think that there are some things you simply can’t fix, Amarillo?”

“No. Never.”

Her laugh held pain. “It must be nice.” She put her hands on the ground to push herself up, but he grabbed her.

“Don’t run away from me.”

She stayed where she was, because the hand on her arm wouldn’t let her do anything else. And because she detected a hint of aching in his voice. “Amarillo, this doesn’t concern you.”

His golden eyes glittered fiercely. “You're wrong. There’s no reason why you should be struggling through whatever this is alone. Somehow I have to find a way to convince you of that, somehow I have to find a way to reach into you and help you.”

How could she make him understand what was happening inside her mind when she couldn’t understand it herself? How could she say to him.
I’m going mad
? She couldn’t and survive the trauma. Saying it aloud would make it a reality.

Not only couldn’t she bring herself to face it, she wouldn’t be able to bear it if he knew something so horrible about her.

She wanted to throw herself into his arms and give up all her burdens to him, but she refused to let herself. He was the kind of man who solved difficult problems with the same ease as other men swatted flies. But there was no way he could solve her problem. Demons were inside her, playing games with her mind—and only she could fight them.

Most men would be happy to have a smile from her, Amarillo thought, watching her. To be her lover would be more than most of them would ever expect in life. But he was finding, much to his astonishment, that he wouldn’t be satisfied with less than all of her.

Her continued silence was the final shove that pushed him over the edge, and his grip tightened on her arms. “Dammit, Angelica, for the past two days you’ve put more and more distance between us, and I won’t let it continue. I
can’t."

She would give everything she owned to be able to explain to him what was happening, to help him understand, to put him out of his misery. But she had to be able to help herself before she could help anyone else, and right now she didn’t know if that was possible. "I’m sorry, Amarillo. I wish I could help you.”

He jerked her to him. “You wish you could help me?
Help
me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that! Give me an enemy to fight, Angelica. I’m a hell of a fighter. And I always win. Dammit,
I love you!"
For a moment he stopped breathing. He didn’t know where the word
love
had come from, he thought, badly jolted. But then his breathing resumed, and he knew he meant it with all his heart. “I love you,” he said, this time with deep gentleness.

She was stunned. And then her heart began to tear in two. His love was something for which she had unconsciously yearned for years. If at any time in the past he had told her that he loved her, she would have been ecstatic. This past week she would have been over the moon. But not now, not since the dreams had started to come alive in her mind, not since they had started to drag her into this screaming, unceasing nightmare that had begun to last night and day.

“Usually when a man tells a woman he loves her, he gets some response.”

“Really? Has that been your experience?” She had sounded cruel, but it hadn't been intentional. She just didn’t know what to say.

“Angelica, I’ve told only one other woman that I loved her in my entire life, and that was my wife.”

“I’m honored. I really am, but—”

He put a finger over her mouth. “Don’t say it.”

“What?”

“Don’t say you don’t love me. I don’t want to hear it. Not now, at any rate."

She had no intention of telling him she didn’t love him. It would be impossible for her to get the words past her throat. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“No,” he said harshly, gently caressing her cheek. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about, because you
are
going to love me.”

His assurance was wonderful, she thought lovingly.
He
was wonderful. Dammit, why did she have to be so screwed up?

“For years I stayed away from you because I wanted to keep you safe. Then I let myself get too close to you and immediately catapulted head over heels in love. The irony there is that I had already been in love with you for years. But then, to complicate matters, I found out someone is threatening you, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with me or my job, the veiy thing that made me stay away from you in the first place. Another irony, a real irony, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

He reached out and framed her face with his hands. “I can do something about this jerk who's bothering you, Angelica. I
am
doing something. But now I have a new, added problem—there’s an internal threat in addition to the external threat to you. And I don’t find it ironic at all. Something’s going on inside you, Angelica, that’s apparently even scarier to you than this guy.”

“You understand that?” she asked, amazed. 

“Yes, honey, I do, but I can’t do anything about it, because you won’t tell me about it.” His face was drawn tight with frustration and anger. “I don’t know what to do anymore, and I’m really lousy at doing nothing.”

He couldn’t help her, she thought. No one could. But his understanding and love meant more than she could say. Just like the child in her dream, she had been feeling so all alone. Now perhaps the biggest irony of all was that she wasn’t in a position to accept either his love or his understanding. Tears came to her eyes. “It’s funny, I hardly ever cry, but lately tears seem to come so easily."

“Everyone should ciy once in a while. It’s good for them.”

“So is laughing. Make me laugh.”

“Let’s go strip-wading in the brook.”

Surprise made her burst out laughing.
“What?"

“Let’s take off all our clothes and go wading in the brook.”

She chuckled. “For some reason I expected a joke, not a proposition, but I think it’s a great idea, and you made me laugh. Thank you. Now what can I do for you?”

His patience was in tatters, yet he knew that pushing her in any way would be a mistake. But he needed her, oh, how he needed her. “Make love to me.”

She gazed into his eyes and saw that they were totally devoid of laughter. “Now?”

“Here and now,” he said huskily. “I want you.” She curved her arms around his neck and fell forward against him so that her body weight pushed him backward. He put his arms around her and took her down to the sweet-smelling grass.

She had undermined everything he had ever thought important in himself, every self-protective instinct he’d ever possessed, every bit of control he had ever thought necessary.

Now only she was important and necessary to him.

He felt her exploring his body with her hands and her lips, and he had to grit his teeth at the feelings that were sweeping through him.

“I've changed my mind,” he said, stilling her. Then he rolled over until he was on top of her. “I want to make love to you, so thoroughly and for so long you’ll be too weak to fight me anymore. Then I’ll make love to you some more until you can’t do anything but trust me and tell me what In the hell is the matter.”

She felt sad because she couldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear, and at the same time she wanted him desperately. “Let’s make love to each other,” she murmured.

“That’s a hell of an idea.”

He wanted to be gentle with her, but his anger and frustration churned and mixed with his growing passion, making it impossible to take his time.

They tore at each other’s clothes until they were naked, panting, and clinging to each other. And when he joined their bodies, Angelica felt a storm of fire and passion rush through her, and she arched up to him. In this, at least, she could give completely. And she did, holding nothing back.

Angelica smiled as she emerged from the shower and reached for a towel. She even found herself humming a little tune. The smile and the tune were both, she knew, a direct consequence of the afternoon she had spent with Amarillo by the brook.

After their lovemaking, they had gone wading in the brook. They had laughed and splashed each other with water like children. Later they had made love again, and she felt an extraordinary satisfaction with the knowledge that they had really made
love.

He had told her he loved her.
She was still amazed. There had been a time not too long ago when she had thought it impossible to hear such an admission from him.

She viewed his love as a miracle.

She would need another miracle to be able to accept it.

But just having him tell her of his love had made her feel stronger and had given her new hope.

As she looked back over the last few days, she was vaguely puzzled. It wasn’t like her to be a defeatist, to simply cave in when faced with adversity. But, no matter, she didn’t blame herself. It showed her how powerful the dreams were. They came from a deep, dark, terrifying place inside her, and they were finding and striking at wounds she had not realized she had.

She dried herself off and donned the short violet robe. Amarillo had gone to his room to make a few phone calls, but he soon would join her, and her heart was racing with the anticipation of seeing him again. Somehow—for his sake, for hers, for
theirs
—she had to fight and overcome what was happening to her. She would go to a psychiatrist for help. The knowledge of Amarillo’s love should be making this the happiest time of her life. She wasn’t going to be cheated of this time, and she
wasn’t
going to fall apart.

She didn't doubt that there would be another dream tonight. But this time she would handle it better. And the one tomorrow night. And the one the next night. Until soon she would be able to understand and handle what was happening to her, and then she would be able to tell him she loved him.

She belted the robe at the waist, strolled into the bedroom, and headed for the wardrobe and an outfit that would see her through the rest of the afternoon until dinner. It might be fun, she thought, opening the closet door, to have dinner down in the dining room again.

She reached for a pair of slacks and a blouse, then saw her red-violet ballgown hanging to one side. The lovely silk-taffeta material had been slashed time after time from neckline to hem.

She screamed.

Amarillo, who was just coming into the room, reached her in four long strides. “What—” He saw the gown and let out a string of fluent curses. The ballgown was in shreds. He reached for her. “Are you all right?” At her nod he asked, “Did you see who did this?”

“No,” she said, and gave a short prayer of thanks she hadn’t. Whoever had done this was obviously a dangerous person.

“When was the last time you looked into this wardrobe?”

She drew a deep breath, trying to compose herself. But the sight of something so beautiful that had been deliberately ruined had her shaking. “This morning when I was dressing.”

"And then you left for the day and didn’t return until just a few minutes ago when we came upstairs together?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you lock the door?”

She hesitated. “No.”

“Dammit, Angelica. What did I tell you about locking your door?"

She gave a small cry. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, what does It matter what you told me? My ballgown is shredded. The real question is why would anyone do such a thing?”

“Why has he done anything he’s done?” Amarillo asked grimly.

“He?”
Her eyes widened. “You mean you think this was done by the same man who’s been calling me?”

“Who else?”

“But that would mean—”

“That’s right.” His expression turned stone hard. “He’s here.”

Angelica couldn’t escape the darkness or the terror. She heard herself crying. She was cold and dirty and small, very small. She heard the loud voices again.

“I thought you loved me,” the man yelled.

“I do! You know I do.”

It was the woman with the familiar voice. Angelica wanted to get to her. She beat her tiny fists against the door.

“Be a good girl,” she heard' the woman call through the door to her. Then she asked the man, “Why don’t you let her out, let me see her, hold

her, for just a little while? What would it hurt? Her little gown is ruined. I could clean her up.” “Just go back home, do what you’re supposed to do, and quit worrying about the brat. Do as I say. I’m your golden-haired boy, aren’t I?”

“Yes, oh, yes, you are.”

“And you’ll mind me, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

Then suddenly she was outside, sitting on the wet grass, and bushes were all around. It was nighttime, and she had never known such terror. And there was the color red. . . .

Angelica sat up in bed with a cry and stared around her. There was light—she remembered leaving on the bedside lamp—but the color of red shrouded everything, including her, like a haze. Was she awake? It was so hard to tell anymore.

Amarillo sat up, beside her but not touching her. His heart was pounding like a hammer. Her dreams couldn’t frighten her any more than they frightened him, but he couldn’t let her know. She had enough to deal with at the moment. “Angelica,” he said softly, “it’s all right. I’m right here with you.”

She blinked, but the red wouldn’t go away. It was a
violent
color, she thought with fear. A color of death. “I’m still dreaming.”

“No, you’re awake. Turn around and look at me."

“No." She was afraid to, afraid that if she did, he would resemble the faceless people in her dream. Afraid he would be colored over with red, afraid that if he was, she would never be able to stop screaming.