Duncan's Rose (6 page)

“Send one, whomever.”

“She’ll be on her way. I knew you needed one.”

After they hung up, he sighed. What he really needed was a whole ocean to cool his rage at Miranda.

According to her therapist’s notes in the file in front of him, visiting the place of her previous life’s trauma might help her uncover the secret of the visions and give her total understanding of them. Her visions had increased after she started her research into Marcas’ case. Now, all he had to do was count on his island to show her the truth about who she was. Only then, with her full awareness of their history, would he strike back at her through her passion: her work.

Her work was an obsession and the key to her destruction. He would give her all the information she sought—then he would destroy the book, casting her research to the ground and ruining it. She would watch all her efforts collapse around her.

Mac snapped out of his dark thoughts and looked at his desk. He had more than enough on his hands, too much to waste time thinking about the one he should have forsaken. He had to concentrate on his business. He shook his head and again buried himself in his contracts and proposals, so deeply that he was unaware of the passage of time. The night slipped its darkness over the island and shadows stretched in the corners of his dimly lit office.

He hadn’t seen Miranda all day, and he meant for it to stay that way. Thoughts of her sent the blood pounding in his veins with such strength that he struggled to control it.

A soft clearing of the throat brought his attention to William, the butler, who stepped into the office through the door Mac had left open.

“Sir, we have a visitor,” William said, his bushy gray eyebrows arching into a frown. “The Thursday-appointment female.”

William always managed to convey his disapproval of Mac’s association with such ladies.

“Please bring her in, and get us vodka on the rocks after that.”

To set the mood, Mac walked to his cabinet and turned on the stereo system, choosing a delicate and poignant ballad with fiddle and whistle.

Only a certain type of woman could combine sexuality with professionalism without degrading herself into sleaziness. Their species was very rare, but Madam Gabriele managed to draw those types of girls to her business.

Out of habit, Mac walked to the window and reached to close the drapes, to shroud his office in the comforting, dim light of the small lamp on his desk. But he stopped himself and turned his gaze at the nauseatingly cheerful sight outside his office window.

I hate days like this.

Flowers bloomed under the shining, silver light of the moon, the chirping insects filled the night celebrating something, and trees danced with the cool breeze.

Why does the world look bloody happy?

Mac twisted his lips into a ghost of a smile and touched the mask covering the left side of his face. Since the fire, he had rarely seen what lay beneath the mask. His family, his face, his life, died that night. If not for Miranda and the curiosity to see her and know her, he would be waiting for his heart to stop beating.

The woman who walked through the door was refined and classy, if there was such a thing as sexual posh. He had this one before and knew she worked hard and played hard. Mac had always been in awe of this type of woman: sexy, but not slutty. Aggressive for his desires, but not skanky.

She stood at the threshold, one arm resting on the door hinge and the other on the door handle. He invited her in with a nod of his head. She swayed her curved hips into the room and waited for him. She was clad in a classy brown Roberto Cavalli dress, the material flattering her luscious figure, her hair gathered in a tight bun atop her head. A bracelet complemented the fake diamond detailing on the dress, which exposed an ivory shoulder that glistened in the faint light. A cashmere shawl casually covered the other shoulder.

Mac stood up, walked to the front of his desk, and leaned on it. He touched the mask again. “Come,” he ordered.

She obeyed with grace, swaggering on her high-heeled sandals.

“Hi, dDarling,” her soft voice wafted to his ears.

She stood in front of him, hands on her waist, looking him in the eye. He closed his eyes, taking in the mellow music. When her hand touched his chest, the warmth of it penetrated his shirt. He lowered his head and saw her fondling the first button.

One shirt button was freed. He dug deep within his soul, waiting for the burning desire to erupt to consume this woman. Her fingers traced a transparent line down to the next button and she leaned forward and breathed in his ear. A second one freed.

The music was relaxing, but his neck was stiff. He snapped his head left and right to pop the tension out of his system, and was rewarded with a soft, cracking noise.

A third button was now open. He could feel her warm breath on his face, her ample bosom pressing on his chest.

His pulse increased, but not in the way he wished for.

“Stop!” he commanded. He opened his eyes and inhaled deeply. His heartbeat continued to race. He was plagued by the thought of Miranda’s face filled with agony.

Mac was disgusted with himself. He couldn’t comprehend his desire for the one woman he should stay away from, but he did understand that he didn’t want this sexual business adventure. His muscles ached, tingled with want, screamed with longing for
Miranda’s
touch on his chest. Her touch had made him wish he had died and never came back.

“What did I do wrong?” the young woman asked. Her calculating eyes demanded an explanation.

He held her hand away from his chest with a gentle push.

“Time for you to leave. I will, of course, pay the Madam for your wasted time.”

He took another deep breath and raked his hair with shaky fingers. “And tell her I won’t need her to keep next Thursday’s appointment; I’ll call when I need company.”

Most probably never
.

Why had he brought Miranda here? His uncle was right; it was a mistake.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts just as his guest was about to say something, perhaps to convince him of her skill, of her power to bring him joy.

“Come in, William, and take the lady home.”

The soft click of heels on the floor drew his attention. To his dismay, it wasn’t William at the door. It was Miranda.

As Miranda stepped into the office, the elegant woman facing her gave her an analyzing look from head to toe. The woman then turned her gaze to Mac. “I hope I’ll see you soon.” She brushed past Miranda on her way to the door.

Could this woman be his girlfriend or lover?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had someone in the office.” Miranda winced. Heat rose to her cheeks.
Did I interrupt something?

Mac stroked his hair nervously. “It’s all right.”

“If you’re busy, I can come later.” Miranda was about to turn back on her heels, but he stopped her with a gesture.

“No, I’m not busy. Was there anything you wanted?” He tried not to look at her and stayed busy buttoning his shirt

Miranda walked toward his desk and stood, folding her hands across her chest. “I want to go to the village tomorrow. I was hoping you could help me get there.” Her gaze lingered on the shuffled papers on the desk.

“I’ll send a driver with you.” He walked toward the cabinet and turned the music off. Miranda shifted her weight to her other leg. She must have ruined the romantic moment he was having with his guest. He looked a little distracted, probably because she had interrupted his intimate plans for the classy brunette. Miranda felt a sting in her chest she couldn’t explain.

“Thank you.” As she turned her gaze to a full view of the desk, she recognized her name on a paper. She made out details of her last doctor’s visit, dated two months ago. On that day, the doctor told her to visit the mansion she’d seen in her visions. Her heart pounding at the discovery, she grabbed the file in shaky hands and heard Mac curse softly. “Put that down…” The threat was clear in his eyes.

She stepped away from him as he advanced. Her gaze settled on the pages as she flipped through them.

“What is this?” Somehow, she knew the answer to her own question, but her mind still didn’t comprehend why he would gather this intimate information about her. A throbbing in the back of her head intensified, announcing a severe headache.

Unable to tear her eyes from the pages, she read on. Her life, her history was woven clearly in black ink before her. It stretched out as if it were an endless serpent. Impotent rage filled her. Miranda looked up, her eyes fastening on his. “What the hell is this? Why would you gather this information about me? How can you…?” She backed farther away from him.

“Give me the file, please,” Mac said. The volume of his deep voice was climbing. He stretched his hand out. Furious, Miranda hid the file behind her back. With her other hand palm out, she stopped him from advancing on her.

“No, I’ve asked you a question.”

He looked away with a silent curse on his lips and a scowl. “You can’t handle the answer to your question, Miranda. Just give me the file.”

She turned to leave, but he held her elbow to stop her. Miranda jerked her arm away from his touch. “Leave me alone.”

“Not before you return my paperwork.” He snatched at the file, but she threw it into the air. Too late, Miranda realized her mistake. She tried to catch the folder, but he was faster. She struggled with him to get it from his hands. Her nails scored thin, red lines across his hand, and blood bubbled up along the angry-looking welts.

He growled as she grabbed the file from him. She turned and strode toward the door.

“No! Rose…”

His words halted her in mid-stride. A heavy chill settled inside her as she turned to face him. His eyes revealed that he realized his slip.

“What did you call me?” Her voice was harsh.

She never used her middle name, never gave it out to anyone, not even during her therapy sessions. How could he possibly know it?

Her eyes widened as fear and confusion rose like a wave to crash down over her. When he didn’t answer, she screamed, “What do you know about Rose?”

He studied her coolly for a long moment, but the tension around his hard mouth hinted that he wasn’t as unaffected as he seemed.

“She’s you, and you’re her,” he said in a consummately reasonable tone.

Every muscle in her body stiffened. She was not going to tolerate this crap any more. “I don’t believe a word you say! I will not let you play with my mind. I’m leaving tonight, going to the village, and don’t you dare stop me.” She marched out of his office and he followed.

“You are not leaving,” he said in a calm tone.

She could hear his leisurely stride behind her. He wasn’t concerned.

She reached her room and slammed the door in his face. “Watch me!” she spat from behind the door.

Leaning with her back on the closed door, she heaved, her chest rising and falling. She tried to catch her breath and calm her frustration.

Suddenly, she was aware of the silence around her; there was no sound from the hallway outside her room. Miranda pressed her ear to the door and heard no footsteps. But she was sure he was still out there, trying to outwait her. Then she heard a suspicious sound, a single soft click that shot through her like a bullet from a gun. Miranda turned the doorknob and pulled, but the door wouldn’t open.

“What…what are you doing? Open the door!” She couldn’t believe this man had locked her in. She winced as heat stroked her cheeks.

Then she heard him move beyond the door.

“I’ll open it in the morning, when you’ve calmed down and had enough time to think about this.” He leaned close to the door and whispered, “You will know everything you want to know about your relationship with Rose.”

The echo of his footsteps faded away before she could comprehend the situation to answer him or object. She slid against the door; her heart pounding in her ears. Her limbs shivered. He knew who Rose was—how could that be possible?

Mac was related to Duncan; she was sure. The resemblance was devastating. Or was he just playing games because he learned about Rose from somewhere else? She squeezed her head for any memory, but she couldn’t remember any instance in which she would have mentioned Rose by name. Even in her sessions with her doctor, she referred to Rose as
the woman
. She clutched the golden locket around her neck in a reflexive motion and sobbed. Somehow, the locket made her heart beat faster. In her visions, Rose wore the same locket. That memory pulled her under, cascading her through time and distance to another world.

There was too much light in the room. That was the first thing she noticed.

Miranda walked to the closet and took her white, cottony nightgown off the hanger. She changed into it, then switched the lights off. She staggered to the window, parted the lacy white curtains and slumped her body on the wide, cushioned bench. She curled her knees close to her chest and cupped them with her hands in the darkness. She cast a glance toward the back garden. The sparkling lake gleamed brightly and reflected the blue-gray moon, leaving rippled images and impressions on the water. When Miranda lifted her head to look at the watchful moon, she could have sworn Rose’s face was one of the images engraved on the moon’s surface.

She was losing it. This was not happening to her. She should have followed her instinct and skipped coming to the island. A heavy, dark feeling had hovered over her, but she had ignored it.

Miranda sighed. She could do nothing tonight, anyway. She slipped her legs off the bench to the ground, but as soon as her toes touched the carpeted floor, a fuzzy feeling overcame her. She knew that feeling well; it always preceded one of her visions. The room swirled and she felt as if she were being sucked into a black hole.

“Oh God!” she gasped before everything went dark.

The room transformed to a yellowish-beige color. The bed was empty and cold. How she wished her lover were underneath the covers to warm it. Rose’s eyes drifted to the curtain-naked window; the sun shone through, promising a warm day. She looked down at her body and saw her day-walk peach gown, which was covered with flower designs. Duncan had given it to her on her last birthday. Rose caressed the gown with her hand, as if she could feel him on the fabric. She shifted her gaze to the painting on the easel, the oils still wet, a portrait of Duncan. She had meant to surprise him… Now guilt wrenched her guts and a soft tear slid down her cheek.