Shrouded in Darkness Page 3

  Chapter 3

  "So what's he like?"

  "Who?" Margot acted dumb as she hid behind the evening paper and pretended to read the business section. She didn’t particularly like being reminded of how she’d let alcohol and her bad judgment convince her to rent a room to Johnny’s co-worker.

  Joyce Hoffman grunted. "Your house guest, renter, whatever you want to call him."

  "He's okay. Did you know the Dow lost 120 points yesterday?"

  Pressing down on the newspaper between Margot's two hands, Joyce crumpled it against the restaurant’s table. "Just ‘Okay’?"

  Margot eyed her friend with amusement. Joyce’s short, platinum hair swept back from a face chiseled with smooth precision. She might look the cool blonde, but Margot knew better. Joyce could lose her temper with the best of them. And she cared. Always had. From as far back as grade school.

  "Yes. ‘Okay’."

  "Oh, come off it, Margot!" She grabbed the newspaper and flung it into the adjacent chair. "Give me a break, will you? You're not even reading the thing!"

  "Oh, all right. I’ll stop. And can you keep it down? We are in a restaurant. I don't want everyone in town knowing my business. It's bad enough as it is." She sat up in her chair and glanced around the room decorated in a definite country flavor with stenciled cows edging the doors and ceiling. Even though only a few locals dotted the room, the place was packed. Ski season was in full swing. Many a person from the Phoenix area escaped the desert to Greyson and the surrounding mountains for a bit of snow and clean air. "And as for Jake. There's really nothing to tell. He's been renting a room for almost a week now. Not enough time to see much of him, other than in the evening. He seems pretty busy and keeps to himself, which is just fine."

  "Is he cute?"

  "I never noticed.” Margot laughed. “Oh, okay. Just stop rolling your eyes like that. I guess he's kind of attractive. I haven't really gotten a good look at him." Margot sank back against her chair.

  "Well, why not?"

  "I don't know.” She picked up a peppershaker and twirled it in her hand. “I've only seen him in the evening."

  "Oh, I seeee..."

  Exasperated, Margot plopped the shaker on the light blue tablecloth, leaned forward and whispered, "No, you don't. I'm not sleeping with him."

  "Now calm down. It was just a little wishful thinking on my part. Anyway, it's about time you hooked up with someone and had some fun. We all know Malcolm didn't do you any favors." Both elbows on the table, Joyce leaned toward Margot. “I can understand wanting to come back here for a while to lick your wound after the divorce, but you’re still here.”

  “I like it here.”

  “That’s something I’ll never understand. If I’d been you, I would never have come back. And if I had, I’d have left so fast your head would have be spinning.”

  “Then why are you still here?” Margot asked, surprised at the bitterness Joyce’s voice.

  “It’s called money.” Joyce drummed her fingers by her plate. “I was stupid not to try for a degree or move out when I had a chance.”

  “You still can.”

  Joyce grunted and arched a blonde brow. “Yeah, right. My brother can’t function on his own. Plus, I inherited the grocery store from our folks. It takes all my time, and trying to unload it to some local or crazy tourist hasn’t worked.”

  Margot really didn’t know what to say to that, and thank goodness the arrival of their dinner saved her from having to reply

  "Hey, ladies. Having a night out on the town?" Mark, owner, and tonight helping out as waiter and cook, placed two steaming plates on the table.

  "I was getting a little claustrophobic in the house," Margot said as the meal’s aroma wafted to her nose, tempting her that second to sink her teeth into a thick battered shrimp. From past experience, she knew they tasted as heavenly as they smelled. To hell with calories. People didn’t come to Mark’s Hideaway for something light. Grease was his trademark. From thick wedged French fries to shrimp and monstrous hamburgers.

  Mark stuck a pencil behind an ear. "Hey, Margot. I’ve been wanting to ask you if you’ve got any cookbooks.”

  "Oh, just a couple hundred. Anything in particular?"

  "Got anything from England? I wanted to try something different. Maybe some fish and chips they wrap in newspaper over there. Or maybe I’ll go way out and try my hand at something real sick and sweet like buttered tarts.”

  “I might. I’ll see what I can find and give you a ring later tonight. I know I had this recipe for dumplings and stew. The dumplings were to die for. Johnny loved them. Every time he came to visit he’d talk me into making them.”

  To her horror, tears welled in her eyes. Oh, please not now. She couldn’t lose it here. She thought she’d be able to say her brother’s name aloud without crumbling. The strained silence and Mark and Joyce’s pitying glances worsened the ache in her chest.

  Mark clumped her on the back. “We all miss him. You did good on the funeral. All those flowers, the speech....”

  She blinked rapidly. “Yes, I...thank you, Mark.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, got work to do. I can’t stand around here jawing all day.”

  After eating, Margot cut the evening short, left the Hideaway and Joyce, and drove home. She wasn't up to acting jovial, and she didn't want to drag Joyce's mood down with hers.

  Time. Margot tightened her grip on the steering wheel. People told her that was the only thing that really helped after the death of a loved one. But she didn’t care about time or tomorrow. She hadn’t for a while.

  Granted, she liked her job, her Internet bookstore and converting books to electronic formats and everything that went with it. She’d never go back to being a corporate lawyer. The competition, the grueling hours and everything it entailed had chewed her up and spat her out until she no longer had anything to give.

  Margot turned off the main highway, guided the car along a narrow paved road and up a long, crooked driveway. Her large, two-story, red brick house, draped in deep shadow sat on top of the hill. Its Queen Anne-styled tower jutted fiercely up into the night sky, while windows, black, empty, and lifeless, stared back at her. Not exactly the most welcoming sight, but it was home and had been off and on for the last twenty-eight years. And now with Johnny gone, every inch of it was all hers—from the wrap-around porch and gingerbread trim to the high-pitched roof.

  Two years ago, she’d returned to this place for good. She’d come here to get her life back together again after losing her job and divorcing her husband. Some might say she came here to hide, but Margot would be quick to argue.

  The moment Margot stepped into the house, closed and locked the front door, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. In the foyer, she could almost feel the physical touch of someone's eyes on her from the darkness, so strong was the sensation. Heartbeat breaking into a gallop, Margot reached for the switch to the hall light, but paused and swore under her breath. The stupid thing didn’t work.

  Awareness still prickled against her skin. Frozen, yet poised for flight, she peered down the hall. Nothing separated from the thick shadows, while the only sound was that of her short, ragged breathing.

  No. Not again. She couldn't handle this feeling of being watched.

  "Jake?" she called, even knowing he wouldn't answer. He was out for the evening. The reason why she'd left the house in the first place, unable to remain inside with only herself for company.

  No one was there. At least no one human, Margot decided as she ventured further into the house. The heels of her boots echoed against the wood floor.

  "Johnny? Is that you?" Then she realized the craziness of the question and mentally shook herself. "Enough."

  She squared her shoulders, pulled her boots off, and hung her jacket in the closet. “Ghosts, Margot? Now really. You're losing it."

  Needing a drink, Margot strode into the kitchen and turned on the light. She hated the tremble in her hand as she pulled a new bott
le of red wine from the small wine rack on top of the counter. She'd had water at dinner, knowing how much Joyce would protest if she’d gotten anything stronger. After she took several deep swallows of wine, the shaking eased somewhat. Only when she refilled her glass, corked the bottle and slid it across the counter to butt up against the wall, did she dare look back out into the hall.

  Empty.

  What had she expected? Or should she say who? Johnny? Margot laughed shakily. "You're becoming one of those hysterical females. The type you loathe in those old horror movies."

  Talking aloud didn't calm her nerves much. Not even the wine helped tonight. Work. Maybe that would do the job. Glass in hand, Margot hurried into the den and turned on the MP3 player to the soothing strains of Jewel—anything to keep the house’s suffocating silence at bay.

  Then she remembered Mark and the cookbook. She walked over to the shelf along the room’s far corner and ran a finger across the microwave books, past copies of Betty Crocker, Jewish American and Old Settlers cookbooks. She frowned, unable to find the volume or remember the exact title. All she recalled was the blue and white cover. Damn! She couldn’t lose it now. Not just because of Mark, but because the book contained Johnny’s favorite recipe. Any token memory of her brother was better than none.

  It didn't help that the books were in a hodgepodge order. Strange. Margot could have sworn she'd gone through this room and alphabetized everything for year-end inventory, cross-referencing each title with her database.

  She'd have to give Mark a call and let him know. Margot went to her desk for the telephone book and opened the drawer. As she peered inside, her grip on the handle tightened. The stapler sat turned over in the far corner. The stack of fresh, yellow sticky, notepads had fallen, fanning across half the length of the drawer. Pens and pencils, usually neatly arranged inside the holder against the front were scattered over the telephone book.

  Someone had been in her desk drawer.

  ###

  Jake stared at the mirror in his room and hated the reflection that looked back at him. He barely recognized himself. He tugged at the dark brown wig. Before leaving Boston, he’d thought of dying his hair instead, but he’d decided the wig a better option. But he hadn’t counted on it being itchy as hell, and he should have at least picked a better color, something that didn’t leach the color from his face.

  The room’s bright light threw his features into a grotesque caricature. Nothing helped. Without the disguise, he’d always be some sick freak. Disgusted, he turned away and glanced at the dresser where a syringe rested on top of a small black case. He’d been about to give himself an injection when he’d heard Margot’s unexpected arrival. Damn, but he’d had a close call.

  Sighing deeply, he slipped on his gloves. It would have to wait now, he conceded as he put on his glasses, turned off the light and left the room. Hearing a noise from the den, he walked down the hall and stopped in the doorway.

  Margot stood leaning over the desk, muttering something under her breath. Reassured at the low lighting, he ventured further into the room.

  She glanced up and turned, her lips parting in surprise. Her black hair swayed with the movement and draped over a shoulder in a smooth glossy wave. The black corduroy jeans and red silk blouse clothed a body he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off since he’d first stepped through her front door. The full breasts, tiny waist and flare of hips shouted sex. Thank God, Margot hadn’t a clue as to the effect she had on him, and he intended to keep it that way.

  Until the ability to attract a woman was stolen from him, he’d never realized how much he’d loved everything about them. It was far too long since he’d tasted a woman’s lips or breathed in her scent, caressed the soft skin of a rounded breast, and held the firm, naked flesh of a woman’s hips in his hands as he buried himself into her body.

  He noticed her narrowed eyed gaze and asked, “Is something the matter?”

  “Were you going through my things?”

  He flexed his fingers. Obviously, the wrong question to ask her. Stay calm, he told himself. Don’t antagonize. He just might talk himself out of this. As long as he remembered to play it cool and keep it as close to the truth as possible. He’d learned quickly these last couple of months. Had to in order to survive. A good lie, a convincing lie always had some basis of truth.

  “Yes.” Think quick. He saw her hand on the drawer handle. “I needed to make a couple of calls and was looking for your phone book. I was having a hard time connecting to the Internet. Why? Did I make a mess of things?”

  She shrugged and seemed to relax. “No. I was just wondering.” She closed the drawer and leaned back against the desk. The action stretched the silk material across her full breasts, and his body reacted. Damn it. Where the hell was his self-control?

  He focused on a safe topic. “Did you have a good evening?”

  She shrugged again. “It was fine. I met a friend over at the Hideaway. Have you gotten a chance to try Mark’s food?”

  “No, not yet.” Wondering suddenly of her friend, he glanced down at her left, ringless hand and over at her other hand, where she’d reached for her wine glass. He frowned. “John would hate..." He clamped down on his jaw. It was none of his business.

  Her deep brown eyes softened. “Johnny, ‘what’?”

  “John would hate to see you like this.” He nodded to the glass in her hand. “Alcohol’ll just get you more screwed up.”

  Margot lifted her chin. The vulnerability and warmth in her face vanished. “So you’re saying I’m screwed up?”

  “I didn’t mean it to come out that way.” He flexed his fingers again. The leather around his hands had warmed and softened. “I’m just saying that John loved you. Talked a lot about you at work. He’d hate to see you drinking like this.”

  “Don’t. Don’t ever put your nose into my business. You’re lucky I decided to let you stay here as a paying guest. It’s only because of Johnny that you’re under this roof. I can just as easily change my mind and tell you to leave.” She drained her glass and banged it down on the corner of the desk. With the back of her hand, she wiped her mouth. Bitterness hardened her face. “If I want to get stinking drunk every night, that’s my business. Got that? Not yours or anyone else’s.”

  Hating her attitude, he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. “As long as you know what you’re doing, lady. Every time I see you, you’ve got a glass in your hand. If you’re not careful you’ll be walking around in a permanent, drunken stupor. Not an attractive sight by any imagination.”

  She pushed off the desk. “Don’t patronize me. You have no right to stand there and judge. If I want to die from alcohol poisoning, if I want to—”

  “What?” He advanced toward her, then, suddenly conscious of the lamp on the desk, turned so the room’s shadows would cling and obscure his features. “Kill yourself? Is that what you’re trying to do?”

  “Of course not!”

  Frustration burned in his gut. Oh, how he wanted to shake some sense into her. Didn’t she realize that life was a gift? Not something to be trifled with? That it could all be taken away in an instant?

  “Well, lady. You’re going about it the right way. But why don’t you make it faster? Get yourself a gun. That way you can hurry up and join your brother.”

  She hauled back a hand, but he caught it before it connected with his face. Tears glittered in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “L—leave Johnny out of it.”

  He forced her hand back to her side but retained his grip. She was panting, clearly agitated and so damn vulnerable. All because of him and his mouth. “Shh...” He pulled her rigid body into his arms and whispered against her cheek. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. But when you made it plain you didn’t care about yourself or your life, something went off in me. Life’s damn precious, Margot. And fragile. You must know that by losing Johnny.”

  She slumped against him. He heard her muffled crying against his shoulder and felt helple
ss. He cupped her head with a gentle hand and held her steady. He couldn’t help her. Not when he couldn’t even help himself.

  “I don’t care anymore,” she murmured against his chest, her words barely audible. “It’s like something in me died with Johnny.”

  “You’ll feel better in time.” Such stupid words. He lowered his hand to cradle the nape of her neck, tangling his fingers in the lustrous, ebony strands of her hair. As he brushed his lips across her brow and smelled the flowery scent of her shampoo, something in him cracked. He didn’t want to care, didn’t want to get involved.

  “I don’t think so. I was bad even before. But after Malcolm...”

  Something in the tone of her voice when she mentioned Malcolm’s name made Jake tense, but he managed to keep his voice calm. “He didn’t hit you, did he?”

  “…no he didn’t.”

  Ah, but he did something, Jake thought. Something that couldn’t be easily mended like a broken bone. The bastard. He’d get his. Jake would make sure of it.

  Something between them changed. For a minute he thought it was his hormones and being without a woman for so long that gave him the mixed signal, but then he noticed a subtle difference in her touch. The way her hand slid up his arm, the caress of her thumb along the junction between his shoulder and neck. Her lips brushed his cheek. Her breath lightly fanned his skin in little puffs. Closing his eyes, he drank in her scent, roses and another illusive fragrance he found dark and erotic.

  “Kiss me.” Her words whispered against his senses and flamed a hunger he rigidly kept in check.

  He wanted to kiss her. He was going to kiss her.

  Jake stiffened. He couldn’t go there. Alcohol had to be fueling her to say and do things she normally wouldn’t. Jake pushed her away, almost stumbling back in his hurry to escape the light and her gaze. She thought he’d rejected her. He could see it in her face. “It’s not you. Don’t think that. Don’t ever think that.”

  ###

  Margot watched him rush from the room. She backed up against the desk and gripped its edge to steady legs that threatened to melt from under her. She might not have been able to see his eyes or their expression, but she’d heard the desperation and despair in his voice. For a moment, he’d made her feel wanted, made her want to believe in something.