The Awakening (29 page)

“There are no bruises on your neck, Megan,” he said coldly.

“Finn, I may be the one who wakes up screaming, but you're having some mean dreams, too. I think. I can't figure out what else could make you behave so bizarrely in your sleep.”

“Megan, perhaps it was your dream.”

“No . . . Finn, I was really terrified of you!”

“As I said, there are no bruises on your neck.”

“Finn—”

“Megan, it's all right. I'll follow you back to Martha's, see that you get there safely.”

She lowered her head. “All right. Thanks,” she murmured softly.

He walked with her to Martha's car, where she determined to drive him to his. When they reached it, she told him miserably, “The oddest thing is, it's sleeping together that's so scary.”

“Well, that's great to hear,” he said dryly.

She laughed. “I didn't say sex itself. Just sleeping together.”

“But it's sex when we're sleeping together,” he said.

“We could meet in the afternoon,” she said lightly. To her surprise and dismay, he didn't reply right away, but stared out the front window. And as she watched him, she was dismayed by the sudden surge of arousal that raced through her just because he was there. She was far too accustomed to him being
hers
, knowing the scent of him, the strengths of his profile, the look and feel of his hands, the length of him, flesh and sinew, even the way that he breathed . . .

“I'm going to see some folks tomorrow.”

“Oh? Who?”

“The people who gave us that great review and got us national coverage. They're from New Orleans you know, but they're on their way up here for Halloween, covering more of the goings-on. Anyway, we're going to meet for coffee.”

“Don't you want me to come?”

“You'll see them tomorrow night, I imagine. They're going to stick around a while.”

“How curious,” she said, studying him.

“Why?”

“Did they get in touch with you somehow?”

“Um, no. I called them.”

“You did? Why?”

“Remember the book I accidentally lifted from Morwenna's shop? I still have to pay her for that, come to think of it. Anyway, there was a number in back of the book. I called it—”

“Whatever made you do that?”

“I wanted to say thanks.”

Megan wondered if he had hesitated a split second before answering.

“Thanks?”

“National coverage, Megan. Remember?”

“Yes, of course. And naturally, I'd like to thank them as well.”

“They're going to be around,” he repeated, then exited the car. She felt completely rebuffed, frustrated, and uneasy.

But he paused before shutting the door.

“I love you, Megan,” he said softly. “Don't ever doubt that.”

The door closed. He walked over, and she heard the sound of the ignition catching in his car. She headed out of the parking lot.

A few minutes later, they reached Martha's. Megan parked the car, and Finn did the same. He came up behind her, saying, “I'll walk you to the door.”

Martha had left the porch light on for her. It cast a glow of illumination well across the yard, but Finn was frowning.

“What's the matter?”

“There's nothing but woods behind this place,” Finn said.

“A lot of New England is woods,” she reminded him.

“She should have a big German shepherd, or a Rottweiler.”

Megan smiled. “We're not that far! Aunt Martha has neighbors—and you know yourself, the hotel is actually not far from here, either.”

He nodded. She touched his arm. They were both getting ridiculously paranoid. “Do you want to come in—check in the closets?” she asked softly, half teasing, half not.

He cocked his head, considering his reply. “I'll come in for a minute.”

Ever considerate, Martha had left the kitchen light on as well. They walked through the shadows of the foyer and parlor where Finn hesitated. “Don't stay here,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“I think . . . it's the woods,” he murmured.

She studied him. “Finn, it's Aunt Martha's house. Apple pie and the American flag.”

“I don't . . . I don't know why, but something is bothering me. I think that I really don't like the fact that we're off the beaten track.” He lifted his hands. “And there isn't even a great big dog. Or an alarm system.”

“Because nothing happens here,” she said. “Come in the kitchen. I'll make tea.”

She walked through to the kitchen, aware that he was following her. There were early-American bar stools at an island counter. “Sit,” she told him. When he did so, she filled the kettle and set it on the stove, then reached up into a cabinet for the tea bags.

“I don't want to wake Martha,” he said quietly.

“We won't wake her. Her room is upstairs, on the other side of the house.” She laughed softly and suddenly. “Finn! Look at this.”

“What?”

Megan swept out a hand, indicating two mugs on the counter beneath the cabinet where she'd been rummaging. There was a note in front. Megan picked it up and read, “Just in case Finn sees you home. Two very special hot chocolates. Add boiling water—and a touch of milk if you like.”

“Bless the sweet old bird,” Finn said.

The kettle began to whistle, and Megan filled the mugs with the water.

She started to walk by him to the refrigerator. He caught her arm as she walked by, spinning her back to him.

“And where is your room?”

“What?”

“Your room. Martha's is upstairs, and yours is . . . where?”

“This landing. Right behind the kitchen.”

“Far away from Martha's, huh?”

She nodded gravely.

“Is there a fireplace?”

“There is.”

“Hot chocolate in front of a fireplace. Doesn't that sound deliciously . . .”

She waited for him to go on, certain that he intended to say “sexy,” or “sensual.”

“Normal?” Finn murmured huskily.

“Normal?” she repeated. “Yes . . . let me put a little milk in them, cool them down. The bedroom is right through there. I guess it was originally a maid's room, or maybe even a pantry. It's charming, though.”

“Good.”

Megan put milk into the cups; Finn picked them up and indicated that Megan should open the door. She did so, turning on the light.

The room was old-fashioned and as charming as the rest of the house. The bed was a four-poster, the decor was in red, white, and blue, very New England, completely patriotic. The dresser, stand-up mirror, and night tables were the same heavy carved oak as the four-poster.

She watched as Finn set the cups down on the dresser and walked over to the fireplace. Modern day logs, purchased at the local Wal-Mart, were in a stack by the hearth, and Finn quickly set to creating a low blaze. Megan watched him as he did so. He was still so bronze, agile, sinuous in his movements. She found her breath catching, and she had to force herself to remember how he had looked that morning, red-eyed, fierce, the wiry power within his back and shoulders culminating in his hands, long musician's fingers filled with violence as they fell upon her . . .

Or had it been a dream?

Right now, she wanted it to be a dream. He glanced up at her, a lock of dark hair falling over a green eye, the bronze of his features exceptionally appealing as he grinned. “She buys good logs! Nice place. Why didn't we come here to begin with?”

Megan smiled. “Because you didn't want to be forced to cohabit with my relatives if they were as strange as you were expecting them to be.”

“Oh, yeah, that.”

The fire was stoked. He rose, going for the hot chocolate. He handed Megan a cup, and took his own down by the foot of the bed, before the hearth. The room was carpeted in deep blue except for the tile that immediately surrounded the hearth. There was a thick, plush white foot rug there as well, making a very comfortable place.

Megan brought her chocolate and joined Finn. He sat against the bed, and slipped an arm around her as she joined him. She leaned against his shoulder and chest, feeling the sense of being cherished and secure that she had first known with him, and which had seemed to so abandon her lately.

He stroked her hair, absently staring at the flames. She didn't want him to go, and yet . . .

She was afraid to fall asleep with him at her side, and as much as she might long for him, ache for him, there was something inside her as well, something terrified that she might drift . . .

“Finn.”

“Hm?”

“What . . . do you think is happening? Is one of us . . . crazy? Or worse—psychotic?”

“No,” he said flatly, and with determination. “I wish there weren't so many woods around here,” he murmured.

She smiled, reaching up to touch his chin. “There's a phone on the bedside stand. Hit one, and it dials the police. Hit two—and it dials your cell phone. I programmed it in today.”

“Did you?” he said huskily. “Hm . . . would have been nice if you'd picked up when I dialed you this morning.”

“Finn . . . you don't understand.”

“You're right, I don't, but never mind. I believe that you are really terrified of me, and as painful as that is . . . I'll cope. November first, we're out of here. Back home. And you can lock yourself in a different room until we have a chance to talk to someone. Two more nights. I can be patient.”

“I'm not so sure that I can,” she whispered softly.

He started to shift, as if he were going to rise.

“I have to get back to Huntington House,” he said.

She hesitated. “Can you wait just a few more minutes? I wanted to hop in and out of the shower, really quick. I feel like I have food, fog, smoke, and the smell of booze all over me.”

“Sure. I can wait. Go ahead.”

She rose. He didn't take the bait. Maybe he figured she really just wanted a shower, or that she was being a real bitch, walking out on him, but playing games as well.

She left him on the floor and walked into the bathroom.

 

 

Martha, always a restless sleeper, awoke, not sure what caused her to do so, rather than the fact that her bones were old and creaked when she turned, and almost any little noise startled her.

She lay awake for a moment, paused, then rose, inched her feet into her slippers, and walked to the window.

She smiled benignly, pleased to see that Finn's car was in the driveway.

“Those perfect, charming, young people!” she murmured aloud. There were the problems, of course. Serious, and she knew that she had to keep a wary eye on Finn. But really, they were like an Adonis and Venus, and so very beautiful together.

She was very proud of herself for having left the hot chocolate. It was a way for her to let Finn know that, whatever the problems, he could come to her at any time. Much better her than Morwenna or Joseph!

The yard was richly illuminated. There was so much moonlight, with the full moon just a few days away now.

Ah, well. They were together, as it should be. As it would be.

Martha laughed softly aloud. “Why, old woman, you'd be patting yourself on the back—if you could still reach it easily enough,” she told herself in a whisper.

Very pleased with herself, she went back to bed, and slept soundly.

 

 

The bathroom was another very nice and sane concession to the modern day. Megan was grateful that Martha was so practical when it came to her home. The old was preserved where possible, and the new came in where it made sense. Martha couldn't have had the bath redone more than ten years ago. The shower stall was marble and tile with a frosted glass enclosure. The sink was a free-standing deep blue color, bringing the scheme from the bedroom into the bath. Megan quickly shed her clothing, wrinkling her nose as she did so—it was true that by the time they left each night, they smelled like the club.

Megan turned on the water, loving it hot. She poured bath gel into her hands from the container beneath the spray, slipped the net sponge from its little hook on the side wall, and began to lather.

She was amazed at the deep spark of sensuality that seeped into her from the heat of the water, the least touch of the netted sponge against her flesh. She was amazed to feel that she was arousing herself as she moved the material over her arms, to her shoulders, around her beasts, down to her belly. It was three in the morning, the world was strangely falling apart, and she was on fire . . . from steam . . . a touch of net . . . the stroke of her own hands.

The glass doors opened. Finn was there. Naked, bronze, absurdly beautiful in the most masculine way, and as fully aroused as she was herself, but even more evidently so.

“I take it you wanted me to come in?” he queried.

She saw both the smile in his eyes and the tension in his features as he spoke. The steam from the water rose between them, not unlike the blue fog, and yet . . .