Читать книгу Cowboy to the Core - Joanna Wayne - Страница 8

The woman’s voluminous skirt and layers of petticoats swished about her ankles. Her auburn hair was piled on top of her head, loose curls dancing about her cheeks and wispy tendrils escaping down the back of her neck.

A queen, dressed for a coronation ball, her jade velvet bodice trimmed in exquisite white lace that edged her cleavage. Or perhaps not royalty, but a courtesan with seductive wiles to please and excite the king’s men.

A knight stepped into view. The air became electric as the two turned to face each other. The woman’s eyes were blazing but shadowed with fear. The man’s expression was hidden beneath the metallic armor that shielded his head and face, yet an aura of evil surrounded him. He moved toward her.

She tried to back away, but there was no time. In one quick movement, he pulled an ivory-handled dagger from the sheath at his side and aimed the point of the long, slender blade at the woman’s heart.

The woman’s scream penetrated the night as a rush of crimson spilled onto the white lace and pooled in the rich green fabric of her blouson.

Choking, Dani forced herself to the woman’s aid. Their gazes locked, and Dani’s blood ran cold.

The cinnamon-brown eyes staring back at her were her own.

Dani Baxter jerked to sitting position, her breathing sharp, painful gasps and her pulse racing. She was fully awake now, but the images remained seared into her brain. Everything had seemed so real.

Her psychic experiences appeared as a dream at times, but this couldn’t have been one. Not only did she not know the people but they weren’t even from this century. The telepathic connection would be pointless since she could do nothing to change the situation. Her infrequent visions never worked that way.

It was just a nightmare, no doubt brought on by fatigue and the countless hours she’d spent looking at spring formal wear lines in New York last week. Work-related stress. It happened to everyone. It didn’t mean a thing, yet her breath continued to sting as if she were outside on a frigid morning.

She was overreacting. She hadn’t had one of the dreaded visions in more than a year. And she‘d never had one as violent as this.

She checked the clock. 2:00 a.m. She needed sleep and water. Her throat felt parched.

Tossing back the sheet, she threw her legs over the side of the bed and ground her bare feet against the chilly slats of the polished hardwood floors. She tiptoed past her daughter’s door so as not to wake her and padded down the stairs to the second-floor kitchen of the town house.

The dream continued to haunt her. It was the eyes, she decided. They’d thrown her, but the woman hadn’t been her. The face had never registered, and the hair was definitely different. The nightmare woman’s was a deep auburn, long enough to pile on top of her head. It was curly as well. Dani’s hair was brown, with just a touch of copper highlights. Even those came from the salon. And she wore it in a chin-length bob, professional-looking and easy to manage.

So get over it and get some sleep. No marauding knight in full armor is going to plunge a dagger into a woman’s chest in my swank downtown complex.

Dani drank her water and went back to her crisp sheets and plump pillows. Tomorrow would be another very busy day at Duran Muton, and there was a PTA meeting tomorrow night. She needed her rest. And for the woman in green to quietly slip back in time.