Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) (20 page)

"Really," he said, his voice almost a purr.

"Of course. There's no reason to end this on an unpleasant note."

His smile was cold and mirthless. It sent a whisper of fear feathering along her spine.

"Given the circumstances, I suspect I would make the same attempt to circumvent the inevitable." His smile fled. "But you must know that there's nothing you can say will accomplish that."

It was horrible, being toyed with like this, and Kathryn's composure slipped.

"Damn you," she cried. "Why are you doing this?"

"Why do you avoid using my name?"

"What?"

"Does it prick your conscience? Or did it mean so little to you that you truly have difficulty remembering it?"

"Please," she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. "Please, don't you think this game's gone far enough?"

"On the contrary," he said softly. "It hasn't gone anywhere. Not yet."

There was no mistaking the threat. She took a deep breath and faced him.

"Let me offer you a choice... Matthew."

His eyes gave nothing away. "What choice?"

"If—if you leave Charon's Crossing now, I won't tell anyone you've been here."

A smile played across his lips. He walked slowly towards her and she forced herself to hold her ground, even though every nerve in her body was shrieking for her to run.

Half a dozen feet away, he stopped, sat on the arm of a chair, and folded his arms.

"It's a little late for that, don't you think?"

"It isn't," she said desperately, "it's not too late at all. We can still pretend none of this happened."

"None of what happened?"

"You know."

He shook his head. "I'd rather hear it from you."

This was touchy. Whatever she said next might be a mistake, depending on which he was, a nut who wandered into people's houses or a burglar with a taste for the dramatic who might resent being called a nut.

Although, she had to admit, he didn't seem to fit either category. Not a criminal. Not a lunatic...

"Why so quiet, Cat?"

"I—I'm thinking."

"What is there to think about?" His mouth thinned. "There's only one thing I want to hear you say and you know what it is."

Kathryn looked down and traced the seam of her skirt pocket with the tip of her finger.

"I won't tell anybody you've been here."

He laughed. "How generous."

Relief swept through her. "You'll leave, then?"

"I can't."

"You can! Just take my car."

"Car?"

"The VW outside. I know it isn't much, but—"

"I'd sooner ride a donkey without a saddle," he said, shuddering. He looked at her and his eyes darkened, so much so that for a moment he seemed to be in pain. "You don't understand. I can't leave, even if I wanted to."

"Don't be silly. Of course..."

She fell back as he rose and rushed towards her. His hands closed on her shoulders and he shook her roughly.

"Dammit," he snarled, "that's enough! I'm not going anywhere. And I'm weary of you playing the innocent."

"I'm not 'playing' at anything, Ma-... Matthew. I just-—I don't understand what you want!"

"Answers, dammit. Answers!" His hands tightened on her. "Why did you do it, Catherine?"

"Do what?"

"I loved you. I worshiped you. And yet, you betrayed me, betrayed me with that pig!"

"I didn't," Kathryn said quickly. "Look, you've got this all wrong."

"Have I?"

"Yes. Yes, you have. I can explain—"

"Explain, then. Fool that I am, I'll listen."

"He was never my lover."

She cried out as Matthew shook her.

"Don't lie! That only makes it worse."

"I'm not lying. I know I let you think he was, but—"

"Think? Think?" He shoved her back against the wall, his eyes blazing with rage. "I
saw you with him,
damn you! You were in his arms, kissing him, telling him things you had once told me..."

"No! That's not true! I never kissed him. I was only with him once, how could I have kissed him? I don't know what you think you saw but—"

"What I
think
I saw?" His hand slid down to her wrist, his fingers clamping around it like steel, and he yanked her towards the French doors that led onto the terrace. "I was out there, in the garden, as were you." He spun her towards him, his eyes wild. "I saw everything, Cat, everything!"

"But you couldn't have," she said desperately. "Not from the garden."

Matthew flung her from him and she stumbled back, her eyes wide and terrified.

"Sweet Jesus, are you trying to drive me insane? I saw you with Waring! You know damned well that I did."

"Waring?" she repeated in an unsteady whisper. "Who's Waring? His name was Efram."

"Efram? Efram? Who the hell is Efram?"

"The boy you saw me with this afternoon, the one you thought was my lover. He's not. He couldn't be. He's just a child. A boy. He only came to deliver my car."

Matthew's bellow of rage filled the room.

"Are you telling me you've taken to consorting with children?"

"No. No, of course not. I only meant..." She held out her hand. "Please, calm down."

"I
am
calm," he shouted. "I am totally, completely... Damn!"

He whirled away from her and aimed a booted foot at a stupid little table against the wall. It made a satisfying crunch as it shattered and fell to the floor like so many matchsticks. Kathryn cried out and flew past him. She fell to her knees and began clawing through the pieces of wood.

"Hell and damnation," Matthew muttered. "It's only a table, just a stinking, miserable..."

"Look," she said, her voice filled with awe.

She was leaning back on her heels, clutching to her bosom two ugly black things.

"Look at what?"

"Oh, it works," she sobbed, her eyes glowing with happiness. "It works!"

Matthew stared at her. "What works?"

"The phone!"

"The fone?"

"Yes!" She jammed one of the black things against her ear. "My God, it really works. Didn't you hear the dial tone, when it fell?"

Matthew's brows knotted. "Catherine, I want you to calm down."

"I
am
calm," she said, scrambling to her feet. "I am completely calm." His gaze shot to her hands. She was holding the two black things as if they were precious jewels and backing slowly towards the door. "All right, Matthew. Last chance. Leave now, or I'll call the cops."

"The kopz?"

Catherine stamped her foot. "Will you stop that?"

"Stop what?"

"You know what! Repeating things as if I—as if you..."

"Look, just go away. If you don't, I swear, I'll telephone the cops."

Telefone the kopz?

What the hell was she talking about?

Matthew had not been this contused since he'd been a cabin boy on a merchant ship bound from Boston to Dublin.

"You'll love the city, lad," the old Cookie had told him. "The beer is like nectar and the girls are beautiful, 'cept for them thinkin' it's English they speak."

It was how he felt now, listening to Catherine. She was speaking English but what was she saying?

Kopz? Fone?

If it was a threat, what did it mean?

His eyes narrowed as he watched her. She'd put the length of the room between them but even so, he could see that her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes far too bright.

Perhaps he hadn't caught her in time, when she'd swooned. Perhaps she'd bumped her head against the marble floor.

He'd seen that happen, on shipboard. A man would stumble in a heavy sea, bang his skull against something not hard enough to truly notice. He'd seem fine but then, a bit later, he'd suddenly turn shiny-eyed and puke up his lunch.

Not that he gave a damn if she'd bumped her head. Not that he gave a damn if she'd split it open...

"Hell and damnation," he snarled.

"Don't try and intimidate me," she said quickly. "I'm going to count to three, and then—"

"Cat," he said, his voice soft and easy, "does your head hurt?"

Kathryn blinked. "Does my head hurt?"

"Yes. Where you hit it."

"I didn't hit it."

"You did. You must have. Let me see."

"Stay where you are or I'll... I'll..." She'd what? Dial 911? For all she knew, dialing 911 didn't get you anything but a buzzing on the line. Besides, even if it connected you with the police, or what passed for the police, by the time they got all the way out here it would be too late.

"Catherine."

His tone was sweet reason itself, his smile kind and gentle. He was walking towards her slowly, as if there were no hurry about anything.

It was the performance of a lifetime. Or of a certifiable crazy.

Either way, it was time to act.

"Don't take another step," Kathryn commanded.

"Cat," he said, "I want you to take a deep breath. Now, put down that—whatever—and let me see your head."

He was still using that wheedling tone but it didn't match the glint of determination in his eyes.

"No," she shouted. In a burst of desperation she danced back, dropped the phone, made a rush at a mahogany secretary and then jammed her fist deep into her skirt pocket.

"Okay," she said breathlessly, "that's far enough. I've—I've got a gun!"

She might as well have said she had a sea lion for the look that came over his face.

"You've got a what?"

"A gun. I—I just took it from the secretary and now it's in my pocket." His eyes shot to her pocket and she stiffened her fingers behind the cotton fabric. "If you come any closer, I'll shoot."

"A pistol?" His eyes met hers and he smiled as if she were a naughty child. "Let me see it, then."

"No."

"Catherine, stop being silly. What would you be doing with a pistol? Come along, now. Let me help you to a chair and then I'll get you a nice, cold compress."

"I'm telling you, I have a gun! Must I prove it by killing you?"

He laughed, as if she'd made a wonderful joke. "You can't kill me."

He was still advancing on her, slowly but steadily. She risked a quick look over her shoulder. They were almost out in the foyer now. Could she make it out the door? Or would he rush her and call her bluff?

"Maybe I can't," she said, very calmly. "But are you really willing to take that chance?"

Matthew stopped in his tracks.

It was an excellent question. And it raised a lot of others.

Did Catherine really have a pistol? It wasn't likely. A flintlock pistol was much too big to fit in that small pocket. Maybe it was something new, like the fone, the kopz and the carriage that belched black smoke. It was possible.

And if she had a pistol, would she use it? She probably would. After all, she'd done her part in killing him one time already.

If she used it, what would happen? He was a ghost. Could a ghost be killed? It didn't seem likely but then,
nothing
that had happened to him seemed likely.

And if the answer were yes, would he awaken again to find himself trapped in that cold, terrible blackness?

A risk was one thing, but eternal damnation in that awful place he'd so recently escaped was another, especially if he awakened there without the comfort of knowing he had taken his revenge.

He shuddered. It was too ugly to think about.

"Well?" Kathryn said. "What's it going to be?"

Matthew's eyes met hers.

"It would seem you have won this time," he said coldly.

Kathryn bit her lip to keep from cheering. As it was, she could hardly stand. Her legs had gone from feeling boneless to feeling gelatinous. If she didn't lean on something or sit down soon, she was going to end up in a heap.

"Thank you," she said politely.

A corner of his mouth tilted up in a little smile. It softened his face, made him look less dangerous and reminded her of just how good-looking he was.

"But it's not done with, Cat. Remember that."

The hand in her pocket motioned towards the door.

"Go on, get out."

"I'm going."

"And don't come back, or—"

"Don't make threats you can't keep, Catherine."

"Don't you be stupid. Mis-... Matthew. I have this gun, remember? I'll use it next time, no questions asked."

His gaze dropped to her pocket again. His breath caught. Unless he'd missed his guess, she'd just made that defiant gesture with the wrong hand.