Fairytale by MAGGIE SHAYNE Page B

himself it hadn’t been real. Oh, he
pretended to believe that. But the doubt still lingered.
    Blinking, bringing his focus back, he looked
at where he stood. He’d stopped walking right outside Brigit’s
bedroom. The French doors that matched the ones in his own, stood
right in front of him. Closed, but bare. Sandra had liked all the
windows in her rooms left uncovered. No need for drapes or blinds,
she’d insisted. This was the second floor, after all, and only the
lake lay beyond the glass, and far below. There was no way anyone,
even if they were on a boat, could see inside.
    He wished now that he’d had the windows
covered after Sandra had taken off. It had never seemed important,
somehow. At least, not until this very moment.
    He closed his eyes, opened them again. It
didn’t work. Brigit was still there. Pacing the bedroom like a
caged lioness, tear tracks scalded into her cheeks, lashes still
damp. She hugged herself, as if to ward off a chill, though Adam
belatedly remembered he’d forgotten to turn the central air back on
in her room. It must be stifling in there.
    She wore the clothes she’d been wearing
earlier. Black skirt almost to her knees. A shimmery green silk
blouse, tucked into it, and a wide black belt around her tiny
waist. The belt buckle was a golden sun with wavy rays sticking out
all the way around. Her earrings matched. And her hair was pulled
into a knot at the back of her head, though the heat and humidity
had coaxed several curls loose. Even the glasses were still firmly
in place.
    The only other difference was that she’d
kicked off her shoes now. She paced, in black-stockinged feet.
    The double doors, bare as they were, gave him
a wide-angle view of the entire bedroom. He saw open suitcases on
the darkly stained four-poster bed. Draped across one of them was a
vanilla nightgown which consisted of little more than a length of
satin and two spaghetti straps.
    She paced in a repetitive pattern, then broke
it, and walked through the open door to the bathroom. And in spite
of himself, Adam took a few more steps. Steps that brought him to
that arched window. And he could see so very clearly, the water
spewing full force from the faucets, foaming as it hit the nearly
full shell-shaped tub. He wondered briefly why the window wasn’t
coated in steam. Then she stepped into his line of vision, and he
only wondered how the hell he was going to make himself turn around
and walk away.
     
    ***
    Hot. The place was hot and humid. Heavy,
thick air. Didn’t the man have air conditioning in a house this
size? She hadn’t noticed this sticky heat downstairs. Then again
she hadn’t remained down there long. Unable to look him in the eye,
because of the guilt she knew he’d see in hers.
    Besides, she’d been in a hurry to get the big
garment bag out of his sight. With his piercing eyes, she could
almost believe he could see right through it to the canvases that
were hidden inside. The ones that were the exact size and shape of
the painting downstairs in his study. The painting he’d said he
wouldn’t trade for the world. The one she was going to steal from
him.
    She felt sick to her stomach, and lowered her
head until her chin touched her chest.
    If I survive this, I’ll kill that bastard
Zaslow!
    Brigit blinked in shock at the potent anger
she’d heard in that voice from within. The voice of her other self.
The wild one. She quelled it quickly, because the anger she heard
in it frightened her. No. She wouldn’t kill him. She was a
sensible, civilized woman. She wouldn’t kill anyone. She’d
just do what she had to do, and find some way to go on.
    God, she was so worried about Raze. She’d
wanted to talk to him, to hear his voice. Zaslow could have allowed
it. He was being deliberately cruel, and enjoying it. Either that,
or...or he’d done something to Raze. Hurt him so badly he was
unable to talk...
    Tears spilled from her eyes again at that
thought, but she pressed the back of one hand to