back into the driver’s seat.
For seconds she felt bewildered—totally bereft and confused. She stared at him blankly in the darkness, stunned by the burning anger in his hazel scrutiny.
“I’ll give you a week,” he said curtly.
Serena felt the delicious heat drain from her instantly to be replaced by a cold fury. His every action had been calculated; the psychologist had played upon her body and mind as a parent might manipulate a child. She realized that she was sitting in the bucket seat of a sports car and that her clothing was a ruffled disaster. Her hair was the wild evidence that she had been doing exactly what she had been doing. Petting like a high school senior in a car. And if he had continued with his expert administrations, she wouldn’t have even thought of where she was. She would have given in to any demand.
She trembled with a furious rage as she adjusted her clothing, forgetting in her anger that she had admitted the raw emotion that dug like a claw within her. “Take me back to my car,” she demanded with a vehement quiet. “Now, please!”
Justin obligingly started the car. He drove in silence for a moment and then said just as quietly, “Did you hear me, Serena? I said I’d give you one week.”
“I heard you,” she said grimly, and stared stonily out the windshield. With great effort she controlled the screaming turmoil of her mind and half turned to him coolly. “You’ll give me a week. So just what happens at the end of that week?”
He glanced at her, that challenging half smile on his lips, and that blazing and deadly serious intensity in his eyes.
“I come for you,” he said simply.
What does that mean? she shrieked silently to herself. But the words wouldn’t form on her lips. She just sat as they drove, eyes ahead, hands clenched tightly in her lap. The crescents of her nails dug little half-moons into her palms, but she didn’t feel them.
Her own car sat before the darkened museum in the silent street. As Justin parked beside it, she instantly jerked the door handle and bolted. “I’ll follow you to the inn,” he called, making no attempt to stop her.
“There’s no need,” she called back.
Her tires screeched, her car jerked insanely. She wanted to leave him behind in the dust.
But she realized she was behaving absurdly like an adolescent, and she forced herself to slow down and drive responsibly. When she reached the inn, she exited her car and ran for the doorway without bothering to lock it, praying that the entryway would be empty and that she wouldn’t be compelled to chatter politely with her guests or Martha.
The old inn was silent. Serena stepped down the hall to the main stairway, then felt a prickling at the nape of her neck.
With her hand on the bannister, she turned, seeing the rear wall of the parlor from her vantage point of height.
The portrait, Marc’s painting of Eleanora, had been hung above the fireplace.
Beautiful blue eyes seemed to stare back at her sadly.
“Oh, hell!” Serena muttered aloud. She heard Justin reaching the door and twisting the knob as she spun from the too familiar eyes of Eleanora to race the rest of the way up the stairs.
In her room she closed the door behind her and leaned against it as if she had been pursued. “What the hell is happening?” she whispered aloud.
With trembling fingers she stripped off her clothing, allowing it to fall unheeded to the floor, and walked into the bathroom, sitting in the tub as the water filled it. She liberally laced the water with the rose softening beads she loved, thinking stupidly that she could once more erase the scent of him from her body.
But her efforts were useless. Dressed in a gown and curled into her bed with the covers clutched to her chest, she found herself staring at the back wall, and at the panel that hid the rear stairwell.
Eleanora’s stairwell.
She didn’t want to think about the tragedy of a long dead ancestor that night, but it would be
For seconds she felt bewildered—totally bereft and confused. She stared at him blankly in the darkness, stunned by the burning anger in his hazel scrutiny.
“I’ll give you a week,” he said curtly.
Serena felt the delicious heat drain from her instantly to be replaced by a cold fury. His every action had been calculated; the psychologist had played upon her body and mind as a parent might manipulate a child. She realized that she was sitting in the bucket seat of a sports car and that her clothing was a ruffled disaster. Her hair was the wild evidence that she had been doing exactly what she had been doing. Petting like a high school senior in a car. And if he had continued with his expert administrations, she wouldn’t have even thought of where she was. She would have given in to any demand.
She trembled with a furious rage as she adjusted her clothing, forgetting in her anger that she had admitted the raw emotion that dug like a claw within her. “Take me back to my car,” she demanded with a vehement quiet. “Now, please!”
Justin obligingly started the car. He drove in silence for a moment and then said just as quietly, “Did you hear me, Serena? I said I’d give you one week.”
“I heard you,” she said grimly, and stared stonily out the windshield. With great effort she controlled the screaming turmoil of her mind and half turned to him coolly. “You’ll give me a week. So just what happens at the end of that week?”
He glanced at her, that challenging half smile on his lips, and that blazing and deadly serious intensity in his eyes.
“I come for you,” he said simply.
What does that mean? she shrieked silently to herself. But the words wouldn’t form on her lips. She just sat as they drove, eyes ahead, hands clenched tightly in her lap. The crescents of her nails dug little half-moons into her palms, but she didn’t feel them.
Her own car sat before the darkened museum in the silent street. As Justin parked beside it, she instantly jerked the door handle and bolted. “I’ll follow you to the inn,” he called, making no attempt to stop her.
“There’s no need,” she called back.
Her tires screeched, her car jerked insanely. She wanted to leave him behind in the dust.
But she realized she was behaving absurdly like an adolescent, and she forced herself to slow down and drive responsibly. When she reached the inn, she exited her car and ran for the doorway without bothering to lock it, praying that the entryway would be empty and that she wouldn’t be compelled to chatter politely with her guests or Martha.
The old inn was silent. Serena stepped down the hall to the main stairway, then felt a prickling at the nape of her neck.
With her hand on the bannister, she turned, seeing the rear wall of the parlor from her vantage point of height.
The portrait, Marc’s painting of Eleanora, had been hung above the fireplace.
Beautiful blue eyes seemed to stare back at her sadly.
“Oh, hell!” Serena muttered aloud. She heard Justin reaching the door and twisting the knob as she spun from the too familiar eyes of Eleanora to race the rest of the way up the stairs.
In her room she closed the door behind her and leaned against it as if she had been pursued. “What the hell is happening?” she whispered aloud.
With trembling fingers she stripped off her clothing, allowing it to fall unheeded to the floor, and walked into the bathroom, sitting in the tub as the water filled it. She liberally laced the water with the rose softening beads she loved, thinking stupidly that she could once more erase the scent of him from her body.
But her efforts were useless. Dressed in a gown and curled into her bed with the covers clutched to her chest, she found herself staring at the back wall, and at the panel that hid the rear stairwell.
Eleanora’s stairwell.
She didn’t want to think about the tragedy of a long dead ancestor that night, but it would be
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