Читать книгу False Family - Mary Wilson Anne - Страница 8

Everything happened so quickly. There were blinding lights, the squeal of brakes and horror surging within her. As if the world had been reduced to slow motion, Mallory saw the headlights dip down from the force of the brakes grabbing the pavement, then, miraculously, the car stopped, inches from the back of her car, not from her.

She heard the engine throbbing, and the smell of burned rubber was in the air. Relief swelled up inside her as she realized the driver hadn’t been heading for her. The things that had happened in the last twenty-four hours had left her nerves raw.

Mallory gulped air into her tight lungs and rubbed her trembling hands on her raincoat, almost giddy from relief. As she fumbled with her hood, trying to tug it back over her now-soaked hair, she heard a car door slam and saw movement. A hulking shadow emerged from the idling car, then came toward her.

The driver cut in front of the headlights, and Mallory could make out a tall man in a dark coat, carrying an umbrella. He strode directly for her. Nerves that were painfully jittery tingled as she was struck by how vulnerable she was on a dark, deserted road, at night, alone, with no protection at all.

By the time the idea of getting back in her car and locking the door had formed, the man was right in front of her. She pushed her hands into her pockets and curled them into tight fists to stop their trembling, while she carefully watched the stranger silhouetted in the headlights.

“What in the hell’s going on?” The voice that came out of the stormy night was rough, deep and angry. “I didn’t see you until I was almost on you!”

“I missed the curve, and the car…it went out of control. That’s where it ended up.”

“Did you hit something?” he asked, his body partially blocking the lights. The darkness seemed to surround the man, and the driving rain blurred everything.

“I lost control, and the car fishtailed. It sank in the mud on the shoulder.” She found herself talking quickly, as nervousness grew in her. “It’s stuck, and I thought I might just as well walk for help than sit here in the storm. I didn’t think anyone would be coming this way.”

“Where did you think you were walking to on this road?”

“I was looking for Mills Way.”

He took a step closer to her, and she had to fight the urge to match that step backward to keep what buffer she could between them. “Mills Way?”

Cold rain found its way under her collar and trickled down her back, sending a chill through her. “Yes, I’m supposed to be meeting someone who lives on that road.”

“Saxon Mills.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement.

“How did—?”

“There’s only one house on that road.” The man shifted, and the headlights shone directly on her once again. Although she couldn’t see his eyes or even his expression, she knew he was staring at her…hard. She had a flashing memory of the man at the theater the night before and how thankful she’d been that she hadn’t met him on a dark, deserted road.

The chill in her deepened. Her thoughts were going off on tangents that made no sense, and she narrowed her eyes against the glare. “I just want to get to that road.”

“I could have killed you,” he finally muttered.

Mallory felt her chest tighten, the memory of Sara lying on the rainy street so vivid that she ached. She’d been through too much, and her imagination was running wild in the most horrible way tonight. She pushed her hands deeper into her pockets and hunched her shoulders a bit as the rain beat down. “It’s my fault. I never thought—”

“You should have put on your hazard lights. Anyone coming around that curve could plow right into your car.”

“I didn’t think about that, either.” The temperature felt as if it had dropped ten degrees in the last few minutes. “I just need to get to Saxon Mills’s home. Is there any way you could take me to a pay phone or to a house where I could call from?”

She didn’t expect him to say, “I can take you all the way to Mills’s estate.”

As soon as he agreed, Mallory realized it hadn’t been the smartest thing to say to a total stranger—offering to get into his car and drive off into the night. She tried to backtrack a bit. “It might be better if I stay with my car, and you can call a garage to come and pull me out of the mud.”

“You can do that, but I’m afraid this isn’t the city. There’s no garage that would be open now. But if you want to wait here, I’ll call when I get to a phone and maybe you’ll get lucky. If not, lock the doors and someone will be here in the morning.”

Mallory had taken care of herself since she was barely a teenager, and maybe she hadn’t made the best decisions in the world, but she had often survived on her instinct. And right now her instinct for survival told her to take the ride, thank the man, get to Mills’s house and try to salvage the job if she could. “I don’t want to wait here all night,” she admitted. “I’ll take the ride.”

“Then put on your emergency lights and let’s get going.”

Mallory didn’t have to be told twice. She went to her car, opened the door, reached inside, pushed the button for the emergency lights, and they began to flash brilliant yellow into the rain and night. She closed the door, and as she turned, she stumbled on the slippery ground.

The man had her by the upper arm in the next second, his strong fingers pressing through the cotton of her soaked raincoat and steadying her. Mallory felt as if one of the bolts of lightning had shot through her at the contact, then he was urging her toward his car. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, close to her side.

By moving quickly ahead of him, she broke the contact. Keeping her head down to watch her footing on the rain-soaked road, she got to the car and could make out the dark shape of a low sports car with an engine that purred with a throaty idle. An expensive car.

Mallory circled to the passenger side, but before she could open the door, the man was there, reaching around her to pull the handle up. He was so close that Mallory felt his heat, and she inhaled the mingled scent of rain, mellow after-shave and a certain maleness. Then the door was open, and Mallory quickly got into the brown leather interior lit softly by dome and side lights.

She saw a dash that glowed with red-and-green gages, and instruments that would make a jet plane look simple. As the door closed, the interior lights went out. Mallory settled in the bucket seat and pushed the hood from her wet hair and swiped at the hair clinging to her face, then turned as the driver’s door opened.

The interior lights flashed on again as the stranger easily maneuvered his rangy frame behind the leather-covered steering wheel. As he turned to push the umbrella into the area behind the front seats, Mallory got a clear look at him and she felt her breath catch.

The man from the theater, as dark as the night itself, and as disturbing as the storm that crashed around them outside. “You,” she breathed.

He looked right at her as he ran a hand over his damp black hair, slicking it back from his roughly handsome face. “The Ghost of Christmas Past,” he murmured, his dark eyes unblinking and intense in their scrutiny.

“How could…?” She touched her tongue to her lips. She could sense that aura of danger he had exuded last night at the theater, and that sensuality, as well, and she felt uncomfortable in these closed quarters. “How could you be here?”

The wind caught the door and slammed it shut, cutting off the lights inside, but it did nothing to diminish the impact of finding herself in this man’s car. He turned to settle behind the wheel. “I drove and didn’t go into a ditch.”

“I’m not in a ditch,” she said, hating the way her breathing tightened and her heartbeat refused to settle into a normal rhythm. She was totally alone with this man, and every nerve in her body was on edge.

“You’re stuck,” he pointed out as he put the car in gear, the windshield wipers swiping at the sheeting rain. The car moved to the left and headed up the road.

“What were you doing at the theater?” she asked.

“I like live theater.”

She hadn’t had any sense that he belonged at the theater when she’d run into him. “You’re connected with the theater?”

“No, I got lost going to the men’s room.” He maneuvered a sharp corner, then headed uphill. “I hear the play closed, that what I saw was the last performance.”

“Yes, it was.” She stared at him as she nervously fingered the wet fabric of her coat. She could see little of him beyond a blurred profile touched by the low lights from the dash. “It just isn’t a good time for small theater companies right now.”

“Since it’s already closed, I guess the bad publicity about the accident won’t hurt it.”

“Excuse me?”

“The hit-and-run victim outside the theater. I understood that she was a cast member.”

The words were said evenly and without emotion, but they set Mallory’s stomach into knots. “She was.”

“She died?”

“No, she’s still alive.” Mallory closed her eyes for a moment, then exhaled and looked back at the man. “How did you know about all that?”

“The newspaper.”

She hadn’t even thought about the accident making the news. “The car never stopped. It’s so senseless. If she hadn’t gone out just then, or if it hadn’t been raining…”

“Life boils down to chance, doesn’t it?”

“A lot of times it does.” She forced her hands to stop clenching and pressed them on the damp fabric of her coat by her thighs. “What are you doing out here in this storm?”

“Chance,” he said softly. “The same as getting lost on the way to the rest room and meeting a ghost.”

She nibbled on her lip as tension grew in her neck and shoulders. “That’s no answer.”

He ignored her statement and asked, “Is Saxon Mills expecting you?”

“Yes. I’m supposed to be there at six.”

“You’re going to be late.”

She glanced at the digital clock in the dash, surprised to see that it was only five minutes to six. It seemed as if she had been on the road with this man for an eternity, but it had been less than ten minutes.

“If I get there close to six, I think it will be all right,” she said, hoping it was true.

“Seeing him is pretty important to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is, and I really appreciate you giving me a ride,” she said, realizing she should have said those words a lot sooner. But surprise had robbed her of logical thinking for a few moments.

Right then, the man turned onto a narrow lane. As Mallory looked ahead of them, a cracking bolt of lightning lit the sky, exposing trees pressing on both sides and rain that ran down the pavement like a river. Then the light was gone, thunder pealed, and the only glow in the blackness came from the headlights of the sports car.

“You’re going there for the holidays?”

“Not entirely.”

“Business, too?”

Another bolt of lightning tore through the night, and thunder followed close on its heels. “It’s getting closer,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“The lightning. When you see lightning, you start counting one thousand one, one thousand two. And whatever number you get up to before you hear the thunder, that’s how many miles you are from the strike point of the lightning. That last lightning struck only a mile or so from here.”

“Is that a scientific fact, or an old wives’ tale?”

“I think it’s scientific.”

“Or maybe it was created to take people’s attention off the storm.”

She glanced at him again. “A diversion?”

“Yes, sort of like you’re doing right now when I asked you that question.”

“Excuse me?”

“I asked if you were seeing Saxon Mills on business and I was given the theory behind calculating the distance of lightning when it strikes.”

“I’m going there to see Mr. Mills,” she said. “That’s it. Period.”

“I was just trying to figure out what’s so important that you were willing to go out on a night like this.”

The more he prodded at her for details, the more she dug in her heels. She wasn’t about to tell him exactly what she was doing on a road in this storm with his car hurtling toward her. “I didn’t expect the storm to keep up so long.” She laughed, a forced sound at best. “Besides, everyone knows we’re in a drought situation in California. Now they’re saying there’s no end in sight to the storm.”

“Who are you?” he asked abruptly.

“Mallory King. Who are you?” She deliberately said the question echoing his abruptly blunt tone.

“Anthony Carella. Where are you from?”

“The city.” She felt annoyance at the man’s curt tone of interrogation and repeated his words back to him. “Where are you from?”

“Los Angeles.”

“Why were you at the theater in San Francisco?”

He was silent for a moment as he downshifted, slowing the car to a crawl. Then he glanced at her, his look lost in the shadows. He was silent for a long moment, then he turned back to the road ahead of them. “All right. I get the idea.”

“What idea?”

“I tend to interrogate people. It’s a bad habit of mine.”

And you never answered my question about the theater, she thought, but didn’t ask it again. “What are you—a lawyer?”

“No. Just a businessman.”

She sat back in the seat. “Are you going somewhere for the holidays, or are you going somewhere on business?”

She could see him shrug, the movement sharp in the shadows. “Both. I’m going to see an associate of mine, and it happens to be the holidays.” He cast her a fleeting glance as he slowed the car a bit more. “To answer your earlier question, I heard from a reliable source that I’d find the play interesting.”

“You like Dickens?”

“I like interesting things,” he murmured.

Mallory looked ahead of them and saw they were at the end of the road, facing a pair of massive stone pillars caught in the watery glow of the headlights. Imposing iron gates were open, and the car drove through onto a rough, cobbled drive that wound to the right. Wind shook the low car as it climbed upward. Then, as it crested the rise, two bolts of lightning ripped through the sky, one right on top of the other.

The eerie blue-white light exposed the scene in front of Mallory for no more than a split second, yet the images seemed to burn into her brain.

On a hill that rose out of a sea of rain-beaten grass dotted by trees that were almost bent to the ground by the wind, stood a looming structure that for all the world looked like a medieval castle. Corner turrets rose high into the turbulent night sky, and narrow windows glowed faintly gold from the interior lights. The drive wound up toward a jutting portico supported by huge pillars, and low lights lined sweeping steps that climbed to the entrance.

“This is Saxon Mills’s home?” she breathed as thunder rumbled.

“You sound surprised.”

She sat forward as they approached it, straining to make out more details, but unable to see little more now than the hulking shape and the dim glow of light at the windows and stairs. “I am, and I’m impressed. I’ve heard about the man being eccentric, but this looks like a castle.”

“I think the resemblance to a castle is more than coincidental.” As they neared the portico, the headlights swept in front of them, exposing rough stone walls that shimmered with rain. “If you know Saxon Mills at all, you know he gets some sort of a rush out of taking on the mantle. Actually, I don’t believe he’d mind if you chose to worship him.”

Mallory looked at the man. “Mr. Carella—”

“Tony,” he said, correcting her. “I don’t go along with formal royalty in this country.”

“It sounds as if you don’t like Saxon Mills very much.”

He eased the car under the portico and stopped at the foot of the stairs, which led up to twenty-foot doors set in the heavy stone walls. The wind drove rain under the protection of the overhang, but the heaviest part of the downpour was blocked. “Whether I like him or not isn’t important. I know what he is. That’s the bottom line.”

“He’s an eccentric millionaire,” she said.

“A billionaire, and he’s much more than eccentric.”

“Whatever,” she murmured, glancing at the dash clock. “I’m already fifteen minutes late. Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it.” She turned to get out, but before she could touch the handle, Tony stopped her.

His fingers circled her wrist, cool and firm. The shock of his touch when he’d gripped her arm earlier was nothing compared to this. Skin-on-skin contact jolted her, and his fingers were tight, hovering just this side of inflicting pain. She sat very still and darted him a cautious look.

Even with the shimmering light of the house lamps coming through the rain-streaked windows, Tony was in the shadows, the glow not penetrating the darkness that seemed to surround him. When she tugged at the confines of his hold, she was freed, but she knew it was only because he allowed her to break the contact. If this had been a match of strength, she knew she wouldn’t stand a chance.

“What is it?” she asked, forcing herself not to rub at her wrist, which still tingled from the contact.

“Don’t you want to know about Saxon Mills?”

Even though his eyes were hidden by shadows, Mallory could feel the intensity of his gaze on her. “You told me, he’s an eccentric billionaire. What more is there to know?”

His hand gripped the top of the steering wheel so tightly that Mallory thought he would snap it. “That’s a PR release, not the facts. The old man’s known publicly for what he’s made work in this world. But privately he’s known for destroying anything that gets in his way or doesn’t measure up to his standards. Everything and everyone is expendable for Saxon Mills. Everyone.”

Intensity vibrated in his deep voice, and Mallory knew that to say this man didn’t like Saxon Mills was akin to saying the Grand Canyon was a little hole in the ground. He obviously hated the old man. “Is that all?” she asked.

“Yes, it is.”

She hesitated, then quickly turned from Tony and made her escape. Even under the protection of the portico, the wind drove the rain along the ground, and the stinging mists whipped around her legs. She hurried to the stone stairs, but as she reached the bottom step, she was shocked to sense Tony near her.

He didn’t speak as he passed her and strode up the steps, taking them two at a time with his long stride. Mallory glanced back at the sports car to find its lights out and the motor off. She turned and hurried up after Tony, and when she caught up with him at the front doors, she looked up at him. His height was intimidating, and it made her feel at a distinct disadvantage.

“You don’t have to see me in,” she said as she tugged her coat more tightly around her.

“I know.” He reached for a door knocker that was fashioned like a gargoyle head, the perfect touch to go with this house. With just a fleeting glance at Mallory in the glow of the lanterns by the doors, he released the knocker and the metal struck the barrier with a resounding crack. Even before the sound died out completely, the door clicked, then opened.

The glow of interior lights spilled out into the night and a woman looked out. She was tall, almost six feet, and dressed in a high-necked gray dress that wasn’t quite a uniform, but was severely plain on her lanky frame. Her gray-streaked brown hair was pulled back from a long face touched by fine lines and decided paleness. Sensible wire-rimmed glasses reflected back the low lights and effectively hid her eyes, but Mallory didn’t miss the way the woman’s lips thinned as she looked at her.

“Good evening,” she said with a nod to Mallory.

“Myra,” Tony said.

“Mr. Carella.” She inclined her head slightly, and the light shifted so Mallory got a glimpse of the woman’s eyes. Gray eyes, the color of fog, were framed by pale lashes and looked as drab as the woman herself. But the distaste in them as they studied Mallory was vivid enough. “You are with Mr. Carella?” she asked, and Mallory realized that the woman had a slight accent.

“No, I had a six o’clock appointment with Mr. Mills. I’m Mallory King.”

“When you were not here at the correct time, we thought you were not coming,” Myra murmured.

“I wouldn’t have made it without Mr. Carella’s help. My car’s down the road, stuck. I hope Mr. Mills will still see me.”

“Do come in while I go up and tell Mr. Mills you are here,” she said in her oddly annunciated English.

Mallory was thankful not to be sent away, and she turned to tell Tony goodbye for the second time. But he simply stepped past her and into the house. His coat brushed her arm, and the fleeting feeling of his body heat barely materialized before he was past her. A shiver came involuntarily, then she stepped inside, making sure to keep some space between herself and Tony.

In the glow of three massive chandeliers that illuminated a vast entry foyer, she got her first good look at Tony. In a long, dark overcoat parted to show a pale shirt and charcoal slacks, the man looked as big, dark and intense as she remembered from the theater. And the edge she felt then was still firmly in place. But now it seemed that it was touched by a certain nervousness that he hadn’t shown before.

She didn’t understand him—not why he was at the theater, on the road in the storm, or in this house with her—and she averted her eyes from him. She chose to look at the foyer, with its natural stone walls that soared up through three stories and had carvings of horses fashioned into the hard surfaces. As Myra closed the door and shut out the night, Mallory looked up at the heavily beamed ceiling, then down to the reflected light from the chandeliers on polished black marble floors.

A sweeping staircase to the right was framed by intricately carved banisters and turned posts twined with boughs of holly, and it led up to a second-floor balcony. Twenty-foot-high doorways, both right and left, arched over carved wooden doors, and the air was touched with the pungency of woodsmoke, lemon wax, pine and a lingering cool dampness. A Christmas tree decorated with crystal globes and golden garlands looked oddly formal sitting directly opposite the front doors. A simple star topped it, and white linen swaddled its trunk, spreading out onto the black marble.

“I will be right back,” Myra said as she went past Tony and Mallory and headed for the staircase. Her low-heeled shoes clicked against the hard floor.

When Myra reached the top of the stairs and went to the right through an arched opening, Mallory turned to Tony. “You didn’t have to come inside with me.”

“Of course I didn’t,” he said as his dark eyes narrowed on her. “Tell me, what do you think of all of this?”

She shrugged, wishing she could get out of her damp coat and away from him. He made it difficult to focus on anything when he was this close to her. “It’s incredible. I think I read in a magazine or something that Mr. Mills built it, but it looks as if it’s been around for centuries.”

“Some of it’s new, some of it’s old. This is part of the original house, probably built a hundred and fifty years ago by one of the area’s great vintners. Then Mills took over the estate about forty years ago and started tearing out vineyards to make room for expansion, from extra wings to stables and guest cottages. He even had stones from a quarry in Ireland shipped over for the newer construction. In all the time he’s been here, he’s never stopped construction.”

He looked around the area, his dark eyes roaming over the vast foyer. “He believes that if he quits building, he’ll die.”