The Taking (18 page)

“You look like shit,” Chris told Regan over dinner the next night. “You should hit your dermatologist up for something to hide those dark circles under your eyes.”

Regan set down her salad fork so she wouldn’t throw it at him. “Thanks for the advice. And brutal honesty.”

“What are friends for?” He made inroads into his cranberry walnut salad, either totally unaware he had hurt her feelings or not caring.

Chances were, he just didn’t care. There was probably a lesson in that for her. She should take a page from Chris’s book and worry less what other people thought of her. “I’m not getting any sleep. I keep having those weird dreams, and last night, I think I saw a ghost.” She described Camille to him. “It was really unnerving.”

That hadn’t been the only thing that was unnerving. The image of Felix’s face, his light eyes boring into her, popped into her head.

“I think it’s cool you have a ghost. Not that I would want to live there, but I think it’s very trendy and great fodder for dinner parties. What did you do? Did you try to talk to her or leave the house or what?”

She picked her fork back up and fiddled with it, staring at her mixed greens. “I stared at her until she disappeared, then I called the voodoo priest, the one who is going to be at my party. He came over.”

“Oh, really?” Glee crept into Chris’s voice. “Is he cute? Or is he like a hundred years old with hairy knuckles?”

“He’s not old. He’s our age. And cute is not the right word to describe him. Striking is more accurate.” Regan shrugged. “He’s hot.”

“Now we’re talking. So he was all reassuring and sexy, controlling the freaky shit in your house... Please tell me this is going somewhere interesting.”

“Well, we talked. And he’s kind of hard to read, but it was nice to have company and he believes me without question about the occurrences in the house. Then he said something I was not expecting.”

“Yeah? What?”

It was embarrassing to say out loud, but Regan wanted a male opinion. She dropped her voice. “He said, ‘You want me to fuck you, don’t you?”’

Chris’s eyes went wide. “Hello. That’s hot. So you said yes and he threw you against the wall, didn’t he? Oh, my God, I’m so jealous.”

That wasn’t the reaction she’d expected. “No! I told him to get out of my house. Don’t you think saying that to someone you hardly know is rude?”

“Umm ... was it true?”

“Well, maybe, but it’s still rude.”

“Why?” Chris looked genuinely puzzled. “Why play games? Just say what you’re both thinking. I think that’s just a time-saver.”

Was that really the male point of view or was that just Chris? Regan frowned. “Yeah, but when he said that, I had no way of knowing if he was going to reciprocate the sentiment, so it made me uncomfortable. Embarrassed. What if I said yes and he said, ‘Thanks for the ego boost,’ and left?”

“See, this is where women need to get a grip. No man is going to throw a question out there like that unless he is thinking that he totally wants to nail you. It’s like he’s handing you a permission slip to sign. Trust me, if you had said yes, it would have been up-against-the-wall sex.”

There was a pause while Regan contemplated that actually happening. Felix’s hands on her shoulders, her waist, in her hair, peeling off her clothing. His mouth on hers, on her breasts. The wall hard behind her head, her back as he stroked her to the first of many orgasms...

Regan put her hands on her cheeks and cleared her throat. That definitely would have been more fun than hanging art and falling asleep on her couch alone. “Really? Well, I guess I blew it then.”

“Yeah, well, let’s be honest here. Are you really a casual sex kind of girl? You’ve always been relationship oriented, you know. Can you really have sex with this guy and not worry or fixate on what it means?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Part of me thinks casual is just what I need after my marriage, but I am fascinated by him, I can admit that to myself. If I have sex with him, and it’s good, I’m going to want to again, I’m sure. Part of me thinks maybe it’s not a good idea to be involved in any way with a man right now, casual or otherwise.”

“Which might be why you freaked and tossed him out of your house. It was more self-protection than fear that he didn’t want you in return.”

Feeling depressed, she abandoned her fork yet again. “So I’m supposed to just do what? Never have sex again? Have sex with someone I’m not even interested in? I don’t think that will work at all.”

“You have two choices. Wait until you’re emotionally ready to have another relationship and find a guy you want to have that relationship with. Or you can go for it and shag the hot voodoo dude and hope there’s no fallout.” Chris raised his wineglass. “I think you can take a wild guess which one I would do.”

“Oh, I have no doubt which one you would choose.” They were dining al fresco at a restaurant on Royal Street a block from her house, and Regan glanced over at the fountain burbling water over rough, aged stones. “And for me, well, for the first time in my life I’m tired of playing it safe. It’s like leaving Beau gave me the courage to rock the boat in more ways than one.” She smiled at Chris. “If I was given a do-over, I think I would go for it.”

“You still can. Text him. Call him.”

But she shook her head. “It’s too late for that. I ticked him off. I’m not even sure he’ll show at the party.”

“He’d better. He made a commitment. Just call him.”

Suddenly Regan laughed. What the hell was she worried about? People’s opinions? Felix’s opinion? If she wanted something, she should just take it and they could all go screw themselves. “Maybe I will. Why not, right?”

Only Chris didn’t respond.

She looked at him. “What? I thought you would approve.”

“Normally, yes. But for a second there, Regan, I swear to God, you didn’t look like yourself. It was like your face kind of
changed
or something. That was freaky shit.”

“Drink more wine,” she told him lightly, dismissing what he was saying, even as a nervous tremor ran up her arms.

For just a second, she had actually felt unlike herself, full of defiance and anger and selfishness.

None of those were normal to her, yet she had felt them.

Like the dreams.

Only now she was awake.

Felix hated being summoned. Hated that when he had accepted the false promise of security, he had given up his independence, the ability to ever be his own man.

A young, pretty secretary showed him into Alcroft’s office, flipping her hair and smiling coyly at Felix the whole time. He barely spared her a glance. Too young. Too obvious. Too not Regan.

“Leblanc, how are you?” Alcroft asked, rising from behind his desk and adjusting his tie.

“Fine.” He didn’t bother to inquire about Alcroft. He didn’t give a shit how he was doing. “I’m here. What do you want?”

“You know, you’d think with all the money you have, you could wear clothes that didn’t look like a garage sale leftover from the Seattle grunge days of the nineties.” Alcroft moved around his desk and leaned against it, displaying his designer suit and Italian shoes.

Felix was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, what he always wore, and it was who he was. At least who he was now. There had been a time when he had reveled in the sharp clothes money was able to buy, the elegant watches, shiny shoes, ebony walking sticks. But they had come with a price, and in the end, Felix had shed his materialism.

Ironic that while he had outgrown the trappings of greed, he was owned by the biggest purveyor of that particular sin—the demon of greed.

“Did you ask me here to discuss my fashion sense?”

Alcroft gave him a smile, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. Felix steeled himself, forcing himself to maintain a relaxed stance, his hands loosely in his front pockets.

“No. I asked you here because I want to know why the hell you are doing your little voodoo bullshit at my wife’s fund-raising party.”

Now Felix did relax. “Because her party planner called me and invited me to do it.”

“And that’s all?”

“Sure. It’s no different from the law firm party. Just another way to make a quick buck.”

“And it’s just a coincidence that she is my wife?”

Alcroft didn’t seem to know that Felix had seen Regan personally, and he wanted to keep it that way. “Actually, no, not a coincidence. I thought maybe you had something to do with it. That you wanted me there.”

The demon laughed. “I suppose I could see that. But no, I had nothing to do with it. I don’t want you around my wife. You can do her damn party, but you’re not to have any contact with her, do you understand?”

“Why?” he asked, knowing it would piss Alcroft off, but not caring. “What do you think I’m going to do?”

“Nothing. You can’t do anything. But Regan is a weak woman, and we all know how easily they fall for your Creole charm.”

“I don’t have any charm left, Alcroft. I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.” Hell, Regan had thrown him out of her house, after all. She hadn’t seemed to think he was the least bit charming two nights ago. It wasn’t smart to rile the demon in his cage, but Felix couldn’t resist. “Though I did notice she has dropped your last name. Trouble in paradise?”

Alcroft’s eyes narrowed. “You could say that. Regan left me, ironically enough the night of the law firm party when she had a reading with you. Could there have been anything you might have said to her that encouraged her abandoning a very happy marriage?”

“She left that night? Right before Christmas?” Felix gave Alcroft false sympathy. “I’m sorry, that must have been very difficult and embarrassing for you.”

“Watch it,” Alcroft said, in a soft voice. “You forget who you’re speaking to.”

“Oh, I know exactly who I’m speaking to. I never, ever forget.” Felix forced a casual shrug. “I didn’t say anything to her about you, other than to tell her the necklace she was wearing was pretty. We talked mostly about her sister.”

Alcroft rolled his eyes. “Of course you did. She blathers on about that stupid dead kid every chance she gets. But she must have had a reason for leaving me.”

Disgust rippled through Felix. “Maybe it’s because you have a block of ice for a heart and you refer to the sister she loves as that stupid dead kid.”

But Alcroft just laughed. “Like I ever said that to her. No, I was a damn good husband. She is my tenth wife, after all. I’ve gotten good at satisfying a woman’s material and physical needs.”

No mention of emotional needs, of course.

“And she’s the first wife who has ever left me. There has to be a reason, and you’d better hope it has nothing to do with you.”

“Maybe she just isn’t as weak and pliable as you thought she was.” Regan was that paradox, appearing so even and passive, yet Felix knew there was an iron core to her.

“Stay away from her,” Alcroft said. “I’ll show you no mercy, and trust me it won’t be worth it. She’s terrible in bed. It’s like fucking a blow-up doll.”

Charming and sensitive as always. And Felix didn’t believe for one second that Regan would disappoint in the bedroom. More likely Alcroft didn’t know how to coax pleasure from her. Whereas Felix knew he could. Knew he would. “Then why do you want to stay married to her?”

“Who said I did?” Alcroft tilted his head, a smile turning up the corner of his mouth. “So what do you think of Regan buying Camille’s old house? Great memories there for you, huh?”

He’d been waiting for Alcroft to bring that up. “I find it an amazing coincidence.”

“It’s no coincidence,” Alcroft said, picking up a paper-weight off his desk. He turned it in his hand, over and over, then lifted it up high. The crystal sculpture had turned into an opaque image of Camille‘s—Regan’s—house. “I’ve always liked that house. Such a pretty balcony, isn’t it?”

The words were soft-spoken, innocuous, but Felix heard the warning. He wasn’t exactly sure what it meant, but it was a threat, to Regan, and the cold fissure of fear trickled up his spine. “What are you doing?”

Alcroft tossed the miniature house into the air, and when it landed in his palm, it was just a crystal rock again. “What? Nothing. Nothing at all.” He smiled. “Just remember that while I’m not nearly as fond of Regan as I was of Camille, I still don’t want to hear that you laid one of your filthy fingers on her. Not now, and especially not later.”

Felix didn’t understand what the game was, but he knew one was in play, and Regan was nothing more than a poker chip to Alcroft.

“You may own me and my filthy fingers.” Felix held up his hands, flashing the silver binding ring he wore. “But you don’t own Regan anymore.”

“I own everything,” Alcroft told him, his eyes glowing the amber hue of his hatred. “Never forget that.”

Not waiting to be dismissed, Felix said nothing, just turned and left.

For the first time in a hundred years he realized that while Alcroft owned his actions, his money, and his immortality, he didn’t own Felix’s soul.