The Ghost and Miss Demure (16 page)

“I can’t tell when you’re kidding,” Karo complained.

He grinned at her some more but didn’t offer any clarification. “Gives you something to mull over in the dark stretches of the night.”

“When I lie awake and think about you?”

“Precisely. Now, where was I? Right. Women in my life—that’s next, isn’t it?” He lifted a brow. “I
used to prefer the high-dollar type, but since I’ve been in the States I’ve come to enjoy slumming with the masses. Such pretty masses you have here! Have I ever mentioned that I maintain a preference for dark hair and gray eyes? The combination is rather rare.”

“Uh, no, you haven’t mentioned this. Don’t tell the blonde. She’ll be crushed. Is this a new obsession or—Oh, look, she’s bringing us crackers after all. And biscuits! What a surprise. Are you certain you don’t like slumming with busty blondes? This one looks more than willing if not so busty. And maybe they don’t have statutory rape laws for immigrants.”

Tristam gave her ankle a light kick under the table. The first waitress was back, still shivering. Karo smiled politely and, to make her point, complimented the soup. It was a pointless courtesy; the teen barely spared her a glance. And with the other waitress…Well, maybe Tristam
was
in danger of being territorially peed on as the two girls fought over him. The thought had Karo giggling, and she began to think that perhaps she’d had too much wine.

“Thanks, Mr. English. Would you like some more water? Or lemon? Or lime—we have lime, too.”

“No, thank you, Miss…?”

“Basco. Rebecca Basco, but please call me Becky.”

The name made them both blink. But though the same question sprang to both their minds, neither asked the girl about her genealogical relationship to a defrocked priest. For a moment Becky looked excited by the attention, and her
hand fluttered for her blouse as though considering whether to undo another button.

“Thank you, Becky, but I think we’re fine for now.” Tristam gave her another unsmiling nod and she backed away again as if leaving a royal presence. The kitchen door whooshed shut behind her, and in the sudden dead space that followed the pause between jukebox songs, they could hear Becky talking to her friends.

“Isn’t he to die for?” the piercing voice demanded. “I could just eat him up.”

“But I saw him first!” the brunette waitress complained. “And you’re dating Rodney!”

Karo almost choked on her wine and even Tristam looked startled. His momentary expression of shocked outrage sent her off into paroxysms of laughter that ended in a genuine cough.

“It’s your own fault.” She found a clean spot on her napkin and mopped her streaming eyes as the jukebox spun her next selection, an offensive little number by Nine Inch Nails. The sound of static filled the air. It wasn’t a malfunction. The song had a background of hissing white noise.

“Men who are ‘to die for’ just shouldn’t be polite to horny teenagers. We’ll probably be shadowed the whole night through,” Karo pointed out to him. “Hey, maybe the fan club will follow us back to Belle Ange to see where their idol lives. If you asked nicely, maybe you could get them to paint the place. They seem willing to do
any
thing.”

“Did your father ever beat you?” Tristam inquired coolly. It was hard to do while pitching his voice over the loud hissing coming from the speakers overhead, but he managed.

“Never,” she shouted back cheerfully, finishing her wine. Karo knew she was drinking too much but didn’t seem able to stop. “Daddy didn’t believe in physical discipline.”

“What a pity. Still, it’s never too late to start. Vellacourt left a nice selection of whips upstairs.”

“So what? You can’t beat me. I have a doctor’s excuse. But I suppose that I could always beat
you
. If you ask nicely.” Her glance was mischievous. In the back of her mind she knew that she would never have said as much without first being lubricated with wine—and perhaps the visitation by Vellacourt. “That’s what Englishmen like, isn’t it? All those years at boarding school…?”

Yes, the wine had made her bold.

“You little horror!” This time the indignation sounded real, but his gaze was…intent.

“Are you really upset? I’m sorry. No, truly I am. I shouldn’t tease you.” Karo stopped smiling. “That girl’s affections…Well, it must get tedious having women mooning over you,” she said a bit enviously.

Tristam leaned forward and covered her hand. His eyes were unblinking, almost soulful. “Does that mean you won’t tease me anymore?”

She was certain that he had touched her for the very purpose of infusing her with more of his heart-fluttering musk. Despite that suspicion, her blood thickened enough to make her heart thud. Her mouth went dry. She had to resist the urge to turn her hand over and return the deliberate caress of his long fingers.

“Not over dinner. Afterward, I don’t promise anything.”

“So?” That mouth curved up and the hand withdrew. “Our game goes on. I’m so glad you’re not a coward. It’s no fun to win by surrender.”

So, it was a game. He was still playing a game. Karo was relieved but also piqued. She wasn’t looking for a lover—absolutely not—but the gender gauntlet had been thrown down between them. She might not pick it up, but she certainly wasn’t going to go racing away from the challenge. A woman had her fair share of pride, and she might have any man she wanted. Probably. At least for one night.

“What in blazes is that revolting noise?” Tristam demanded in outrage, his accent stronger as horns began to blare from the jukebox. They were like sirens.

“Noise?” Karo asked innocently. “Oh, that’s Trent Reznor. He’s still very popu lar in some circles. Industrial music. It’s got a good beat, hasn’t it?”

“Can he actually
say
things like that? Aren’t there decency laws in this country or something?”

“Careful. Your age is showing. This is very with it.” Actually, it was almost passé. She had only chosen it to annoy him.

The second waitress materialized before Tristam could continue his harangue. She set their entrees on the table and beamed expectantly. Her skirt had gotten even shorter. Karo kept a straight face while Tristam thanked her once again and declined any more bread or soup or water or wine or cola or coffee.

“Don’t say a word,” he warned her, pointing a long finger in her direction. “I won’t answer for the consequences.”

“Who me? Wouldn’t dream of it.” Karo picked up a fork.

He stared at her for a moment and then picked up his own utensils.

“I’m glad you can manage the cutlery properly.” She smiled at him. “I thought you might need a little help cutting up your meat, and dear Becky—”

“There are lots and lots of whips,” he warned. “Whole racks of them. Not all of them velvet.”

“Okay.
Pax
. But you have left the left-handed fork behind. I never quite gained the knack when we lived in Europe, though it looked quite practical.”

“It’s a working-class affectation. And when in Rome…You Americans do a ridiculous amount of switching knife and fork about. But that’s typical, I guess, making the complicated out of the simple.”

“I think that when you’re on a date you’re supposed to say
nice
things to the woman. Compliment her and stuff. Complaining about her countrymen’s table manners is out.”

“Very well. You’re terribly pretty and very smart,” he said easily. “Also a bit precocious and overeducated, but I’m a gentleman. I can live with that.”

“Hm. Not bad. For a start. And it’s mostly true.”

He eyed her. “Be a lady and say something nice back. I want to see if your tongue cleaves to the roof of your mouth when you try.”

“Well, it’s a stretch for a nonpedigreed slumdweller like me, but…I’m glad you’re not boring. And I like men who have a sense of humor.
There really are damned few of them around, especially in management.”

“And you think I have nice hair.”

“You can’t hold that comment against me. I wasn’t myself when I said that,” she objected.

“But you do think that I have nice hair?”

“You have nice hair,” she agreed reluctantly. “And eyes. They are unique.” Except, that wasn’t quite true, was it? She had recently seen someone else with gold eyes. Hugh. Hugh had gold eyes. The thought was almost enough to sober her. How had she not made the connection before?

“And nice hands. You said that you liked them, too. In fact, I believe you said that—”

“I take the Fifth and plead amnesia. I’d been hit by lightning,” she reminded him as the blonde came bustling back with the dessert tray. They hadn’t had two bites of their entree. “Look, Tristam, it’s Becky. Again.”

Her amusement was wearing thin at the constant interruptions, and Becky had her chest thrust out so far that Karo had to actually lean to the side to see Tristam. She began to wonder if she’d have to drag the girl into the ladies’ room and slap her silly. Or silli
er
. It was probably a lost cause. She couldn’t hit the waitress hard enough to knock out the stupid.

“Why don’t you have some sponge cake? I think you could use a little sweetening, and maybe it would stick your lips together before you say something really outrageous,” Tristam suggested to Karo, also leaning to the side.

“You said it first. Maybe you should have the
lemon meringue. I prefer my dates to be a little tart. They’re more fun that way.”

“On the subject of you becoming my sweet—” he continued.

“He and I are hanging together on this one,” she warned, pointing at the jukebox. Trent was still singing about having a head like a hole and how he’d rather die than let someone else control him.

Tristam looked up at Becky, upon whom the entire exchange had been lost. “We’ll have one strawberry shortcake—after dinner. Please unplug that ghastly machine and bring me a bar of soap. I want to wash out my date’s mouth. And maybe my ears. Her taste in music is appalling.”

“Uh…what kind of soap?” the ever-helpful Becky asked.

Tristam and Karo both began to laugh.

“Got any Irish Spring?” Karo asked through streaming eyes. She had guessed right: no amount of slapping would help this girl.

“No. Just Ivory or Dove. Or the stuff for the dishwasher.” The girl still didn’t get it and looked hurt by their continued laughter. They made an effort to stop.

“I think I’ll settle for pie,” Karo said. “Lemon will be fine.” Taking another drink of wine she watched the girl retreat kitchenward. She shook her head in wonder. “Geez! I thought all those stories about blonde ditzes were nasty rumors. No wonder you like dark hair.”

“With gray eyes,” he reminded her, pouring her more wine.

She was having such a good time, Karo didn’t even notice that Tristam was swamping her brain with dangerous vanilla pheromones just as much as he filled her glass with burgundy.

“
Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go
from here?
”

“
That depends a good deal on where you want to get
to,
”
said the Cat.

—Lewis Carroll from
Alice’s Adventures
in Wonderland

Karo was fairly certain that she was awake, prodded out of dreams by an outside agent. It was hot and there was too much telltale static in her sheets and hair for it to be anyone but Hugh.

So, where was he? Hiding under the bed? And why was he here? Was it because she had been sensible and sent Tristam away without so much as a kiss at the bedroom door?

The bedroom was cast in darkest shadow, so she could not swear that she had actually wakened, but the darkness felt different on her open eyes than it had moments before, was a sort of electric gray instead of the usual India ink. And there was a damp smell of morning on the air that floated up from the garden and tickled her nose with dew and the distant scent of the river. The last moments of night were thick with the honey scent of blossoms, which made no sense, most of the flowers having bloomed earlier in the spring.

There was also an uncanny breeze that crept silently though the window that Karo had left open. It ran first one direction through the drapes and then reversed itself, as if the house were laboring to breathe. The curtains fluttered inward again and then stilled. The inappropriately warm zephyr moved silently to surround the giant bed and play with the satin dust ruffle.

That, or ’Stein was under the bed chasing dust bunnies.

Or Vellacourt was under the bed getting ready to chase her.

The latter thought had her sitting up straight and listening to the whispering cloth with great attention. Her hair began to crackle and heat danced along her skin.

In converse to the sudden warmth, it seemed that she could hear a storm coming, approaching like a train. She could feel a cold waiting just beyond her room, a chill that the house feared but could not flee, and having no ready defenses, its timbers contracted with arthritic creaks and soft exhalations of pain. The noises were unnerving. Unnatural.

Karo pushed back the covers and slowly stood, conscious of the weight of her body on the chilly wooden floor. A warm current played about her knees like invisible trade winds might a ship’s sail, but the clear sensation of cold feet and bare legs negated the underlying dreaminess that filled her head and tried to drive out the growing alarm. She knew that she was awake, and she knew that she needed to shut the bedroom window before some creeping, crawling or flying critter—like
Vellacourt—blundered into her room and flung itself upon her. But an inner prompting, softer than any voice but absolute in its compulsion, moved her instead toward the mirror screwed into the wall over the bulk of the oak dresser to the right of the bed.

Mirror, Mirror on the wall
.

She waited coolly, hands still, her eyes fixed on the tarnished glass. Gradually, her attention focused on a bright glow forming behind her, somewhere over her right shoulder. The room reflected in the mirror quickly filled with a gray motionlessness that pushed back the night until the very walls were shoved away by this bright void. It was like being in the eye of a silent storm, or lost inside a sheet of lightning. Someone was coming. Fast. She recognized the smell of ozone, the heat. Karo was certain that if she looked at the clock on the end table she would find that it had stopped. She was in a place between times.

With a courage she did not possess in waking hours, Karo waited to speak until she could see the soft outline of a tall, slender form resolve itself into a nearly human shape. This time, because she watched without flinching, she could see him unfold, limb by limb, unpacking himself from some other dimension. And, as expected, it was Hugh Vellacourt—but he was dressed in the strangest clothes. It looked like some kind of tartan knickers and a golf sweater!

So, there went the theory that she was actually awake. Unless…They had been playing golf in Europe for a very long time, especially in Scotland. Maybe this wasn’t too weird. Why shouldn’t
an active ghost get out for the occasional round of golf?

A sudden white noise distracted her from her inward fashion commentary, whispering that he had been waiting for her all day, waiting for it to be night so that he could come back and see her in her dreams. But
who
had waited—Vellacourt?

Karo studied his reflection, this time without fear, noting the unnatural pallor of the spirit that was wholly manifest. He was not alive, could never be mistaken for a living man. His dreadful stillness was unremittingly corpselike. Yet, there was a suppleness and sturdiness to this ghost’s skin, and the glitter in those metallic eyes belonged to a nocturnal hunter all too aware of his prey.

Hugh wasn’t a mournful ghost like Jacob Mar-ley, a poor soul who had gotten lost on the way to Calvary or Valhalla. Nor was he a confused remnant of life left behind when the body had gone. No, Hugh Vellacourt was wide-awake, and he wanted something on this earthly plane. He wanted it badly, if not badly enough to try reaching her during the day when she might betray herself to Tristam.

It was not a comfortable thought, that the ghost had desires. She had really hoped that they’d already covered his list of wants and that he’d agreed to stay away from her.

Karo’s mouth was dry as she addressed her visitor, but she managed to sound both brave and sarcastic. “Don’t you ever knock?”

Heated fingers danced over her shoulder as the ghost’s arm stretched an impossible length and reached past her body, but Karo didn’t turn from
staring into the glass to confirm that spectral hands were actually brushing her shoulder. The mirror implied that he was still hanging by the window, tangled in the lace sheers, but the heat on her neck said Vellacourt was actually nearer. Objects in the rearview mirror were not as close as they appeared, right? Why push her nerves right over the edge of that cliff they were teetering on by turning about and confirming the theory that a spook was actually touching her? It seemed much safer to just stare into the glass and ignore the hand beside her cheek.

Vellacourt’s long finger pointed into the darkness. His gesture was emphatic. Insistent. And the light behind her was getting warmer all the time, as if he couldn’t quite control his personal thermostat, and it was rising with his agitation.

Karo bent slightly, stepping away from the spirit light. At first she saw nothing but Vellacourt shining in the glass; the dark surface was completely bare of reflection, except for the sporty ghost and his white hand hovering by where her ear would be if she had an image of her own.

The sudden realization that she couldn’t see herself left Karo shaken. She was in a place where Vellacourt was real and she was not.

But Vellacourt insisted she look again, inching closer to her back, getting warmer as he crowded her against the dresser. Reluctantly she leaned over the vanity top and peered into the black well of the mirror that had become a window.

Something pushed on her back. She had a brief sensation of falling—or of being pulled through joinery, pegged post and beam—and then she
was standing upright on a different floor of the house, looking down the length of the garret. She had fallen up, not down when she passed through the looking glass.

A young woman with very long black hair was standing beside a benchlike gallows, swaying and humming under her breath. Karo felt that she should know the tune and after a moment she had placed it.
“He is running for his dinner, I am running for my life…”
She couldn’t remember the rest of it. Something about a hare and a hound. Had she heard this the first night she arrived at Belle Ange?

Anxious, Karo stared hard at the almost familiar woman, willing her to turn so that her face might come into view. The only light in the garret came from a single candlestick set on the floor. The woman’s hair covered her face like a veil. The shadows were thick in the room, and stare as she might, Karo could see only that the woman was small, pale skinned, and wearing a thin old-fashioned slip called a chemise over bare limbs. The woman had no shoes on her slim feet, but that did not suggest powerlessness, for she carried a whip in her hands. Long, delicate, flexible, it was held with an ease that proposed familiarity and even comfort.

It would be one of the velvet whips, Karo hoped, but the sight of it in the woman’s hand made her nervous and itchy. She had a feeling that she knew why Hugh had brought her here and a part of her was fascinated—outraged, too, as any modern woman should be at being kidnapped and likely soon to be made to witness a pornographic act.
But how many people in the history of the world had been given the chance to actually watch history played out before them? How many people would ever see inside a sadist’s bedroom?

A door opened behind Karo, making the candle flame waver. She froze, listening for footsteps. She heard the hinges creak and felt a current of air brush her body as someone entered the garret. She tried to turn her head and look behind her, even though her memory told her that there was no door at her back, just an open window and Vellacourt’s ghost. She was having a vision—she hadn’t actually left her bedroom! But Karo couldn’t move more than her eyes to prove that this was so.

The dark-haired woman half turned and beckoned impatiently. A man with long, gold hair walked toward her. He was panting slightly, like he had been running. Karo could not see the man’s face, only his long, limber back and legs. He wore no clothes at all upon his golden flesh, but again, this nudity did not suggest powerlessness. There was too much arrogance and grace in his stride to call the man subservient.

This was Vellacourt? He felt oddly familiar.

The blond man started to reach for the woman, but she brought up the whip and then pointed at the cuffs dangling from the wooden frame. The thin cane cut the air as it moved in a downward slash.

“If you want me,
cher
, this is how it must be.” The woman’s voice was a whisper. “You’ll have me no other way.”

The man stared and then shook his head once
in negation. The candlelight sparked gold in his hair.

“Non,”
he refused. Karo thought she knew the voice, but the strange accent and rough tone threw her.

“
Il est pas rigolo
.”

Karo had enough French to know that the woman was saying that the man was no fun.

“
Tu charries
.”
This is too much
, the man answered.

“
J’suis drolement emmerde
,” the woman said in a husky, caressing whisper.

Karo didn’t speak French well, especially gutter French, and should not have understood the provocative words. But she did. They made her shiver.

The man stared a moment longer, clearly frustrated, his shoulders tense, his posture rejecting, and then he changed his mind. He complied with the woman’s order by lifting his arms to the shackles. He might have surrendered to her wishes, but he had not relaxed, and Karo felt nervous as the woman moved toward him. This was a dangerous moment.

The dark-haired woman floated close. Still humming, she snapped the cuffs around the man’s strong wrists, which were now crossed, bound together in front of him. Not cruelly tight, because of the fur that lined the shackles, but they were inescapable with the locking-pin dropped in place.

Karo began to mentally squirm. History or not, this was about to cross a line she hadn’t ever planned on crossing—except maybe in her deepest, most private fantasies?

She made another attempt to move back from the two people but could not force her feet to obey. Was the ghostly Vellacourt and all his heat still standing behind her, waiting to burn her flesh if she retreated? Was he holding her there in some kind of thrall, and that’s why her body wouldn’t move? She couldn’t tell. She had no sense of his presence anymore, or even of her own body beyond knowing that she was still pegged solidly to the tongue-and-groove floor, her muscles apparently locked in place by a will other than her own.

The dark-haired woman walked around in front of the man. Her hands were in his hair, hard, and she pulled his mouth to hers. Her kisses were aggressive, an attack. The man pulled on the shackles as though trying to break free, but he returned her kisses with fervor, running his tongue over her cheeks and even going so far as to bite her lightly on the chin. It was as if he tried to devour her.

“Enough!”

The woman reached out with her left hand and dealt a stinging slap to the man’s right thigh. She backed away from her prisoner. Was she pouting? Karo couldn’t see her face, but she
knew
that those lips were pouting. The woman looked almost fragile in her thin slip and bare feet, except for the whip in her right hand.

The spectral beauty walked around her prisoner until she was behind him. Now her back was to Karo. She stepped out of her chemise, leaving it to pool on the floor, but nothing of her body was revealed because her long hair covered her in a black cloak.

She began tormenting the man—kissing, suckling, tickling his neck with the end of her whip while he writhed and moaned in his shackles. Her laughter was low and smoldering, sexy as she rubbed against his back and between his flank and legs with hands and velvet cord. Karo could feel perspiration begin to collect between her breasts and inner thighs. She really wanted to blame the sudden heat on Vellacourt, but it seemed that he was keeping his distance from her. No, it was prurient interest alone that slicked her skin and let the hunger loose in her stomach. To be perfectly honest, she wanted to touch the man, too, while he was safely shackled. That was the wisest way for any woman to have a man.

The captive began to make angry, helpless noises that only increased as the woman stopped touching him and walked over to the rack on the wall to hang up her tiny whip. The man swiveled his head. Almost, Karo could see the side of his face. The bit of profile she could see through his tangled hair looked uncomfortably familiar. But it was Vellacourt she was seeing, wasn’t it? It had to be. And Eustacie La Belle, his French concubine. Who else would have used this room in such a way?