Читать книгу Under Lock And Key - Sylvie Kurtz - Страница 15

Tyler’s worst hangover paled in comparison to the freight train barreling through his head. He tried to hold very still, but somehow the bruises on his body felt as if they were being pressed in turn for doneness.

Grace returned several times during the day. First with a bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen, his laundered clothes, soap and a set of towels, then with lunch, and finally in midafternoon with the remnants of his personal effects from his Jeep—minus his Swiss Army knife, razor, cell phone and Palm Pilot.

She inquired more than once if he wanted the doctor to look at his head again. He refused, knowing instinctively that once he left the witch’s castle, she wouldn’t allow his return. The faster he got to the bottom of the situation here, the sooner he could go. He didn’t like the way his promise to Freddy was drawing him back into a past he was trying to forget.

He closed his eyes. The image of Lindsey’s blue eyes widening with shock, of blood blooming on the bodice of her white dress, exploded on the black screen of his lids. He moved too fast as he sought to escape the bloody vision. Pain rattled through him as he came to a sitting position. Wiping a hand over his face, he forced himself to concentrate on his current situation.

What if Melissa wasn’t the innocent lamb Freddy thought her to be? What if she was involved in a partnership with Randall Industries?

Then this time, he wouldn’t miss the mark.

He was willing to bet that, for all Melissa Carnes’s witch reputation, his skills were honed to a sharper edge—even with the wasted year to dull them. When he knew ahead of time he had to be patient, he found it easier to quell hasty actions and keep focused on the goal. And his goal was to wipe the slate clean between him and Freddy, to start fresh on a new page.

He rolled his shoulder, dragged his hands through his hair and massaged the back of his neck. A chilling feeling crept into his being, burrowed under his skin, and made evil seem to lurk in every shadowy crack in the stone wall, in the suffocating heat that settled and thickened the must, in the dankness that seemed to coat his skin like slime.

And if he wasn’t careful, he thought, it just might swallow him whole—just as it had after Lindsey’s death. The whiskey demon whispered to him and Tyler felt the pull of it from head to gut. Think of something else. Think of what you’re supposed to accomplish here. Think of the story.

As evening darkness infused his already dim cell, the jangling of keys announced an arrival—but not Grace. Not Deanna. The footsteps were too light, too airy. Melissa Carnes. Patience was paying off.

“About time,” Tyler mumbled.

He knew she was there, could feel her watching him from the shadows. He hated the fact his pulse kicked up a notch at her arrival. Leaning back on the unyielding hardness of the stone wall, he waited. The one who spoke first was always at a disadvantage.

“Does the dark frighten you, Mr. Blackwell?”

The melody in her voice took him by surprise. Given her reputation, her possible connection with Randall Industries, he’d almost expected a cackle. “Not particularly. What about the light that scares you?”

Her throaty laugh echoed in his cell. “You haven’t done your homework, then.”

“I know about your burns, if that’s what you mean.”

“And here I thought you were going to bring up witchcraft,” she said. “Photophobia.”

“Pardon?”

“One of my eyes was damaged by the heat of the fire and remains sensitive to light. Doctors have cautioned me to stay out of the sun because my skin has lost its ability to defend itself.” He could hear the defensiveness in her voice. “And most people would rather I cloak myself in shadow so that they’re not subjected to the sight of my ugly face.”

“I’m not most people.”

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Melissa took shape on the other side of the bars—a pitch-black outline against the dark gray of the stairwell. Her ghost-white fingers stroked the black creature—a cat?—in her arms. Her long-sleeved black T-shirt showed off the slimness of her body, the swell of firm breasts. Ebony hair flowed under the black shawl covering her head, face and neck, leaving only her steady gaze exposed.

“Which begs the question—what brings an award-winning investigative reporter to the redneck town of Fallen Moon, and more precisely, to Thornwylde Castle?”

Tyler shrugged. “What takes a reporter anywhere? An assignment.”

“Honesty. Refreshing.” She smacked one hand on the wall. “Your cards, Mr. Blackwell. Spread them on the table. Games don’t amuse me.”

“You’ve been playing a mean one since I got here.”

“I’ve been trying to decide what to do with an unwanted guest.”

He stretched his legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankle, then folded his arms over his chest. “What did you conclude?”

The slow stroking of her long fingers on the cat’s fur didn’t change. A shiver of recognition rippled down his torso. He knew exactly how they felt against his skin—gentle and warm. With a sharp hitch of his shoulder he shrugged away the disturbing sensation. A reporter’s job was to get beneath the illusion and expose the truth. She was no angel.

“What do you want from me?” she asked with caustic interest, studying him across the murky darkness.

Power and pain. He could hear both in her voice, sense the fragile mask of tough over hurt little girl. Freddy didn’t want her to know the true reason he was here, but this time Freddy was wrong. To gain her trust Tyler had to give her a measure of truth. “Your uncle sent me.”

“I write my own copy for the articles on my horses. We communicate through his secretary.”

“He’s starting a new column called ‘Texas Tales.’ It’s a series on Texas legends. People from Texas who’ve made it big.”

Her fingers paused in their stroking of the cat. “Then you have the wrong Carnes. My father is the one who managed to build an empire from nothing. I merely spend his fortune.”

“Your father passed on.”

“He would still make a better story than me.”

Sometimes the shortest distance between two points was the long way around. “What about your paintings? They’re unique collector’s items. They must afford you a decent income. Then there are your horses. Your stallion’s success warrants a feature.”

She said nothing. The soft purring of the cat sounded like a well-oiled chain saw.

Without quite knowing why, he found himself imitating her clipped regal tone. “Then, of course, there’s your reputation. Some say you’re a witch, the devil incarnate. Others say you’re merely a harmless recluse. Yet others claim you’re an agoraphobic who’s turned into a vengeful neurotic.” He paused. “But that’s what you expect, isn’t it? Persecution.” Was that why she’d fallen prey to Randall’s schemes? Innocent victim or willing participant?

The cat bumped its head against her stopped hand.

“If you don’t believe any of those reasons,” he said, watching every flicker in her shadowed eyes for signs of deception, “then there’s always the truth.”

Fingers laced over his lap, he waited.

“Truth,” she said finally, her fingers resuming their slow stroking of the cat. Tyler almost purred.

“Freddy got a warning that you might be in danger.”

“A warning?” The cat arched to keep its head in contact with her hand.

“Do you play chess?”

“Yes.”

Why didn’t that surprise him? She had the mind for it. And the time. “He received an article about the mason who broke his leg doing repair work on one of your towers and a bishop from a cheap plastic chess set.”

Silence deepened and the shadows seemed to curl around him.

“Freddy wants me to find out who sent those items and keep you safe.”

“Safe?” she said, sneering. “What can be safer than a fifteenth-century castle with walls six feet thick, a moat and a drawbridge?”

No point sugarcoating the situation. “According to Freddy, a bishop works on the diagonal and makes long moves. Working from a distance on the sly. Isn’t that your relationship with Randall Industries?” He sensed more than saw her tension.

“Really, Mr. Blackwell, you take your work much too seriously. There truly isn’t a conspiracy around every corner. James Randall is a friend and patron of the arts. Look at all he’s done in the area with his charitable donations.” Her strained laugh held none of its previous lilt. “A bishop has relatively little value. It can’t win a match by itself.”

“Exactly.” Tyler noted that her gaze was level and her voice was steady. If Randall was using her, she didn’t have a clue. So maybe it did all boil down to a family feud, and he was just letting his own past failures interfere with his present task. “Sometimes a billion-dollar trust fund is enough to make a bishop think he has a chance at the prize.”

“My money? You think someone wants to harm me for my money?”

“Money is the number-one motivator for crime. Who benefits if you die?”

“The same people who benefit if I live.”

“Do you know that women are more likely to hire a surrogate to kill for them?”

“Are you insinuating that my stepmother wants me killed?”

He shrugged. “If the shoe fits…”

“Wicked stepmothers went out of style with the Brothers Grimm, Mr. Blackwell. I happen to get along with mine just fine.”

He had to reel back the urge to stand nose-to-nose, toe-to-toe with her, to retain an air of calmness in the electricity snapping through the air. “Then why are you stuck in this dusty museum in the middle of some hick town while she and your half sister are living it up in a mansion in Dallas?”

“By choice.”

“Your birthday is a little more than three weeks away. If you die before you reach thirty, your stepmother and sister split your father’s holdings. If the trust reverts to you, then you can do as you please with it. Your stepmother and sister are then at the mercy of your generosity.”

“They’re my family. They know I wouldn’t deny them their share of my father’s fortune.”

“Do they?”

“If that’s all you have—”

Tyler kicked the steel bucket by the cot. The sound resonated across the room like a gunshot and startled the cat that dug its white claws into its mistress’s black-clad arms, making her flinch. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. Someone has set a game in motion, and you’re somehow the objective.”

Melissa returned his steady gaze unblinkingly. For an instant he was a kid back in Pennsylvania, playing chicken with one of his stubborn sisters. First one to blink is a rotten egg!

“I’m not a princess in a castle, waiting to be rescued,” Melissa said. “I don’t need some knight in tarnished armor to conjure up a conspiracy because he needs a new victory to prove to the world he’s still a hero.”

Forgetting his resolution of cool calm, Tyler stood up. The cot scraped back with a sound that would have pleased a medieval torturer. “No, you’re a recluse in a castle, shutting out the world. You can’t shut this out, Melissa. Your lifestyle makes you easy prey.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “What do you have to gain by coming here and disrupting my peace?”

He wondered at the tremor in her voice and felt a nudge of sympathy for her. Not knowing was always the worst part. Answers didn’t come until you pushed past the fear. He should have remembered that after Lindsey. “I owe Freddy.”

Her short sharp laugh jabbed through the darkness. “Don’t you know by now that some debts are too costly to repay?”

He knew only too well. “And sometimes your word is all you have.”

She sliced an arm through the air in an arc. “I’m supposed to accept this improbable theory of yours based simply on your word?”