A Candle in the Dark (3 page)

“T bed.” He smiled. “Be happy to.”

He stopped even with her, a mere few inches away, and Ana found herself staring at his chest, at the crumpled vest that hung open to reveal a stained shirt. His thin silk tie was undone, hanging limp and loose from around his neck, and his collar was unfastened so she could see the tanned skin of his throat, the start of the dark curls on his chest. Ana swallowed. She raised her eyes, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling pitching through her stomach, and backed up so he had room to get by.

But he didn’t move. He stood there, staring at her, until Ana looked away.

“What are you waiting for?” Her tone was brusque, more than she wanted it to be.

His voice was a whisper, his mouth curved in a sensuous grin. “I’m afraid of the dark,
querida
. Will you stay? Chase away the demons for me?”

Before she could answer, he stepped away from her and into the dimly lit room.

Ana was cold suddenly. For the first time since they’d entered the building, she felt the drafts of icy air breezing through the cracks in the walls. It was because she was standing in the unprotected hallway, she told herself. It had nothing to do with the strange feeling that had gone through her at his words. What had he said? That he wanted her to chase the demons away? It was absurd, ridiculous. The words of a man so drunk he was undoubtedly hallucinating.

But it was disturbing nonetheless. What
had
she gotten herself into? Ana stared at him, unable to tear her gaze away as he dropped his coat over a chair and sagged onto the straw mattress, flinging his arm up over his face to shade the light. He had forgotten her already, she knew. Almost immediately she heard his soft snores.

Ana took a deep breath. Slowly she closed the door behind her, latching it carefully so he wouldn’t wake at the noise. The moment it clicked behind her, her hands began to shake.

She closed her eyes and swallowed, moving silently to the other side of the bed. Rigidly, struggling for control, she balanced carefully on the edge of the mattress, listening to the music and laughter echoing from the streets, the soft nickering of a horse. The hallway creaked with the footsteps of someone stumbling to bed, a key scraped in a lock.

The day was over, or nearly so, and the images she hadn’t allowed herself to think about flashed through her mind in nauseating circles—Whitehall’s face contorted with malicious pleasure, the sickening crack of the vase on his head, the sticky warmth of blood on her skin, and the terrible, terrible fear. And then, finally, she saw again Davey’s face as he looked at the gold.

She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. Measuring and uncaring. The face of an accomplice but not a friend.

That memory was worse than all the others. As it had so many times before, the dark loneliness grew inside her, filling her until she was trembling so badly she clutched her arms to still it. It was all right, she told herself. It was all right. She didn’t need anyone else. Loneliness was a small price to pay for invulnerability, and she didn’t regret anything. She’d done what she had to do, she was who she had to be. It was time to put it all behind her and go on. Fate had given her the key to her escape, and she would make the most of it, just as she always had.

Ana clenched her teeth, staring stonily ahead into the darkness, listening to the soft snores of the man beside her as she forced herself to imagine leaving on the steamer, moving on. He
was
a godsend, and because of him New York would soon only be a painful memory—a memory her California riches would make easy to forget. She would be in control of her life, dependent on no one. Everything would be fine.

Yes, it was all over now.

But still she shook long into the night.

He had to be dead.

Cain cracked open his eyes, then squeezed them tightly shut against the sunlight slanting through the window. He was dead, and he was in hell. Nothing else explained the pain that shrieked through his skull, or the scorching heat against his left side.

He knew he should expect to be hung over, but he always forgot to. It used to be—not so long ago, it seemed—that he felt fine after a night of drinking, that these blinding headaches were the exception. Not anymore. He knew that if he moved, even a little, the nausea would rise to his throat, the world would spin crazily. God, he hated this.

Now there was nothing to do but lie there and wonder how long it would be until he gained strength enough to reach his flask.

Cain took a deep breath, throwing his arm over his eyes to block the light piercing his eyelids. His elbow brushed something heavy, a body. He froze. There was someone in bed beside him. Christ, what had happened last night?

There was only a cold blank where memory should be, as well as a familiar panic. Fear raced through him, nervous sweat bathed his skin. Not again. Please God, not again. But his desperate effort to remember brought only the dim recollection of stumbling into Cavey Davey’s last night. What happened after that?

Carefully Cain turned his head and opened his eyes. Dizziness assailed him, but he forced himself to focus on the woman at his side. Her face was turned away, so all he saw was hair. Lots of hair. Heavy dark brown strands dancing with red highlights in the morning sun. It covered her shoulders, spidered over the coverlet.

Cain closed his eyes again. Who the hell was she? Nothing about her brought back any memories. Normally he avoided women and the problems they brought. He was usually too drunk to even feel desire. But perhaps there had been something compelling about this one. Perhaps he propositioned her. In that case, he hoped he’d been sober enough to perform. If he had been—he smiled briefly—it was doubly a pity that he couldn’t remember.

There was no other explanation for her presence, was there?

He groaned, trying to keep the fear at bay. He’d been having blackouts for the last year or so, on and off, but they had grown more frequent lately. Now, when he picked up a bottle, he was never sure what might happen, and that thought was alternately frightening and soothing. He hated the memory losses, but more, he hated the recrimination of morning, hated wondering if he’d done something he couldn’t forgive himself for.

Had he done that last night?

Steeling himself, Cain glanced again at the woman beside him. He wished to hell he could see her face. Maybe then he’d have some memory, some clue. Even as half of him wanted to wake her just to find the answers, the other half dreaded it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what happened last night, and he was damn sure he didn’t want to know how she ended up in his bed. Should he be boasting or apologizing?

It didn’t matter, he realized. Sooner or later he’d find out, and it was better sooner than later. Taking a deep breath, Cain rose to one elbow.

The world spun. He stared at the wall until it stopped dancing, then, pinning on as gentle and caring a face as he could master after such a night, he leaned over and touched her shoulder.

Her hair was soft and silky beneath his fingers, her skin warm. He moved closer until his mouth hovered just above her ear, and caught her scent—sweat and stale smoke, with an underlying perfume that had once been fresh and citrusy. He swallowed, curling his fingers around her shoulder.

“
Querida,” he
whispered. His voice came out hoarse and choking, and he cleared his throat softly. “
Querida
, wake up. Wake up.”

She moaned a little and tried to shrug his hand from her shoulder.

Cain let his finger fall to brush her collarbone. “Ah,
mi amor
, would you sleep the day away?”

She jerked awake so violently her elbow speared his gut. Cain fell back, helpless beneath the onslaught of dizziness and pain as she tossed aside the blankets and scrambled to her feet. The bed rocked.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Cain tried to open his eyes, but nausea clawed at him, and he knew that if he did, he’d disgrace himself even more than he had obviously already done. He struggled for breath. “W-waking you up.”

“What’s wrong with a simple ‘good morning’?”

Christ, she was a strange one. He tried to open one eye. “I—I thought you might prefer a more—romantic—”

“I don’t.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Please do.”

He opened his eyes and his stomach clenched. She stood beside the bed, both hands on her hips, the long, tangled mass of her hair falling to her waist. She was wearing a crumpled green satin gown, with a bodice that needed badly to be adjusted. Her small breasts were ready to pop out of it.

The thought nearly brought a smile to his lips, until he saw the blood staining her skirt. Ah Christ, what had he gotten into? This woman looked like a whore and spoke like a lady, and she was either badly hurt or had hurt someone else. Fear bubbled inside him, a need to know that was more intense than his desire to save her feelings. She would figure out soon enough that he didn’t remember her.

Dread crept into his voice. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“You’re having second thoughts, then?” The mild annoyance he’d heard in her tone turned to irritation.

“Second thoughts?” Cain winced at the loudness of his own voice. His stomach lurched, the pounding in his temples grew more furious. He closed his eyes again. “Second thoughts about what?”

“About our deal, Mr. D’Alessandro.”

A deal. Hell, what kind of deal? Had he killed someone or watched her do it? What happened last night? What had he bargained for? Her body?

He took a deep breath, trying to banish the panic to some far part of his brain, fighting queasiness as he pushed off the blankets to get out of bed.

He stopped short at the sight of the whiskey-stained buff trousers still covering his legs. “I’m still dressed.” He was so startled he spoke the words aloud. Thankfully, he saw no blood on his own clothes. His relief disappeared in a wave of confusion. “What the hell happened last night?”

“My God, you really don’t remember, do you?” she asked, surprised. Then, when he shook his head: “You were very drunk.”

“Now that’s easy to believe.” Cain rested his head in his hands. “Just tell me—that blood on your dress—”

“Has nothing to do with you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Her voice was very cool, very calm. He looked up to see her studying him carefully. “Are you often… that drunk?”

Cain shrugged. “When I can afford it.”

“And when you can’t?”

“Lady,” he said, rising from the bed and making his way to the frock coat on the chair, “I always try to afford it.” He fumbled in the pockets, pushing aside bits of bloody cord and his folded scalpel until he remembered he’d left the flask in his valise last night. He went to the bag and pulled it open, lifted out a small, willow-covered flask and uncorked it. There was maybe one swallow left, and he thought about saving it, but then the smell of bourbon wafted up to him, sweet and soothing. The ache in his head seemed to ease just at the scent. He closed his eyes and gulped it, sighing as deliverance sped through him.

He turned to look at her. “I’m sorry,
querida
, but you have me at a disadvantage. You seem to know who I am, but I don’t remember you.”

Funny, he had the strangest feeling he’d seen the look in her eyes before. Her measuring, cold gaze was calculating, almost too reasoned. It contrasted strangely with the way she looked, with the soft brown hair, the pretty face marred only by a single, shallow cut, and her slender, delicate body. And more than that, her eyes were the wrong color for such a cold stare. They were tawny, a golden-brown color that reminded him of pralines and sherry and gypsies…

“Ana,” she said. “My name is Ana.”

It was the way she said it that made him remember. She’d said it exactly that way the night before, with that same look in her eyes.

The evening came back to him in bits and pieces that began to make sense. Relief—so strong he was sure she felt it—overwhelmed him, banishing his fear. He remembered her now. Yes, he remembered her, and remembered that she had asked him to go somewhere with her. Somewhere—

“California,” he said suddenly.

Her eyes widened. “You remember.”

“A little.”

“Do you remember what we talked about?”

Clasping the flask, Cain walked to the bed and sank down onto it. The straw in the mattress rustled and shifted, the bed ropes creaked. He leaned his head back on the wall, staring at the ceiling. “You wanted me to go to California with you,” he said after a moment. “I agreed—for what reason, I can’t imagine.”

She straightened. “I offered you cash. Enough to keep you drunk all the way there, if you want.”

Of course. It explained, all too well, why he had agreed. Cain looked at the empty flask in his hand. He could get by without it today, but sooner or later, the dreams would come… Hell, he would agree again. Her offer was the answer to a prayer. “What else did I agree to?”

“That’s all,” she said. “You agreed to pose as my husband until we reach California. Once we’re there, I don’t care what you do or where you go.”

“As long as I’m away from you, right?”

“I only need a partner for a short time,” she informed him. “I can take care of myself after that. You would just get in the way.”

He smiled wryly. “Probably I’ll get in the way long before then.”

“Probably,” she agreed.

“Then why me?”

She turned away in exasperation. “I explained it all to you last night.”

“I don’t remember. Explain it again.”

Her face hardened. “I told you. I killed a man.” She clenched her skirt as if the words pained her, but Cain saw no such emotion in her eyes. They were muddy and cold as an ice floe on the Mississippi.

“You killed—”

“They’ll be looking for me now,” she went on as if he’d said nothing. “But they won’t be looking for a couple, and it’s safer if I have a ‘husband’ during the trip.” She sighed impatiently. “Anything else? You said you’d go with me, you consented to the price. Are you coming or not?”

He leaned his head back. Hell, he wished he could remember more. Something told him he should be careful, should ask more questions, like who she killed and who would be looking for her. But the pounding in his head drowned out everything else. He should care about this, and he knew that if he felt better he would care. But it was all he could do to keep from throwing up, and all he wanted was enough whiskey to dull the pain.