over every conceivable hiding place, she edged toward the doorway.
And that’s when she felt it. Someone or something right behind her. She screamed as she whipped around, stumbling in her hurry to see. But nothing or no one was there. She could have sworn...
Her laughter crackled and died against the four walls around her. Maybe she was going crazy. But the blanket. Could she, herself, have pulled it from the bed by accident?
She hated, really hated doubting herself.
She lunged for the bottle and glass from the dresser and backed out of the room. She hugged both against her chest and continued to walk backward down the hall.
“This isn’t funny, Johnny!” she called. “I know you were always a jokester, but this has gone far enough.
“If someone’s here,” she yelled, “show yourself!”
She was crazy. She’d finally gone over the edge. She found herself back in the den as she hit a heel against a damaged book.
The chaos of the room smacked her hard, sucking the breath from her lungs and the energy from her body. She stumbled over the ruined books and found an empty spot beside the couch. With bottle in one hand and glass in the other, she slid down its side, her back rubbing against the quilted fabric. Her bottom hit the floor.
After sitting there for God knew how long, and when nothing or no one appeared, she uncorked the wine and poured a healthy measure. No one was going to jump out at her, because no one was in the house with her. She didn’t want to think she’d made up the incident, because it scared the hell out of her.
She made a conscious effort to pull her thoughts toward something else and focused on the room around her. She swore under her breath. Much of her inventory was ruined. It had taken her two years to get to where she’d been this morning. Now it was all gone. The work involved...
With the back of one hand, she brushed angrily at a tear that had slipped past her lashes. Crying never solved anything. At least not in her life. She’d learned while growing up that tears only brought censure or indifference. A Davenport never cried or showed any sign of deep emotion. That’s probably why she’d failed both parents.
She drank the rest of the bottle. The wine coated her fear, deadened her feelings and pulled her into a world of oblivion. Sleep finally dragged her under as she slumped against the couch.
That’s where Jake found her. An empty bottle of wine on one side and an overturned glass on her other.
“Damn it, Margot,” he whispered, frustrated. “Alcohol isn’t going to make your life any better. It’ll only push you down deeper.”
He took both bottle and glass from her side and shoved the bottle in the trash beneath her desk and left the glass on top by the computer.
It didn’t take much to pick her up, carry her over from the side of the couch and gently set her down on the cushions. Her head fell limply to the side and a wave of raven hair slipped across her cheek. He slid the strands aside, exposing her flushed cheek—a cheek where deep hollows clung below the bone. From the photos he’d seen around the house, she’d lost weight—a lot of weight. If she lost any more, her health would be in danger, if it wasn’t already.
Jake didn’t look around the room. He’d already seen enough. The guilt of it buried itself into his gut. He might not have torn the place apart, but he was equally to blame. Malcolm knew he was here. It was also obvious Malcolm suspected another copy of the formula was secreted away in the house.
Reluctantly, Jake left her on the couch. He had to right some of the wrong done to her. Less than an hour later, when he came back and found Margot still sleeping, he sank down on the edge of the couch and caressed her forearm with a gloved hand.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, knowing she couldn’t hear. “For having Malcolm follow me. For all the destruction and all the pain it’s caused. And for frightening you with the blanket. I
And that’s when she felt it. Someone or something right behind her. She screamed as she whipped around, stumbling in her hurry to see. But nothing or no one was there. She could have sworn...
Her laughter crackled and died against the four walls around her. Maybe she was going crazy. But the blanket. Could she, herself, have pulled it from the bed by accident?
She hated, really hated doubting herself.
She lunged for the bottle and glass from the dresser and backed out of the room. She hugged both against her chest and continued to walk backward down the hall.
“This isn’t funny, Johnny!” she called. “I know you were always a jokester, but this has gone far enough.
“If someone’s here,” she yelled, “show yourself!”
She was crazy. She’d finally gone over the edge. She found herself back in the den as she hit a heel against a damaged book.
The chaos of the room smacked her hard, sucking the breath from her lungs and the energy from her body. She stumbled over the ruined books and found an empty spot beside the couch. With bottle in one hand and glass in the other, she slid down its side, her back rubbing against the quilted fabric. Her bottom hit the floor.
After sitting there for God knew how long, and when nothing or no one appeared, she uncorked the wine and poured a healthy measure. No one was going to jump out at her, because no one was in the house with her. She didn’t want to think she’d made up the incident, because it scared the hell out of her.
She made a conscious effort to pull her thoughts toward something else and focused on the room around her. She swore under her breath. Much of her inventory was ruined. It had taken her two years to get to where she’d been this morning. Now it was all gone. The work involved...
With the back of one hand, she brushed angrily at a tear that had slipped past her lashes. Crying never solved anything. At least not in her life. She’d learned while growing up that tears only brought censure or indifference. A Davenport never cried or showed any sign of deep emotion. That’s probably why she’d failed both parents.
She drank the rest of the bottle. The wine coated her fear, deadened her feelings and pulled her into a world of oblivion. Sleep finally dragged her under as she slumped against the couch.
That’s where Jake found her. An empty bottle of wine on one side and an overturned glass on her other.
“Damn it, Margot,” he whispered, frustrated. “Alcohol isn’t going to make your life any better. It’ll only push you down deeper.”
He took both bottle and glass from her side and shoved the bottle in the trash beneath her desk and left the glass on top by the computer.
It didn’t take much to pick her up, carry her over from the side of the couch and gently set her down on the cushions. Her head fell limply to the side and a wave of raven hair slipped across her cheek. He slid the strands aside, exposing her flushed cheek—a cheek where deep hollows clung below the bone. From the photos he’d seen around the house, she’d lost weight—a lot of weight. If she lost any more, her health would be in danger, if it wasn’t already.
Jake didn’t look around the room. He’d already seen enough. The guilt of it buried itself into his gut. He might not have torn the place apart, but he was equally to blame. Malcolm knew he was here. It was also obvious Malcolm suspected another copy of the formula was secreted away in the house.
Reluctantly, Jake left her on the couch. He had to right some of the wrong done to her. Less than an hour later, when he came back and found Margot still sleeping, he sank down on the edge of the couch and caressed her forearm with a gloved hand.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, knowing she couldn’t hear. “For having Malcolm follow me. For all the destruction and all the pain it’s caused. And for frightening you with the blanket. I
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