Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection) (24 page)

The manager did not linger after the police had gone. He would send a maid to replace the damaged bedding and make everything tidy again, he said. He would like to offer Miss Caresse another room, but it was not possible. The high season was beginning. The hotel was full; not even a closet was available. He would understand if she wished to go elsewhere, but he could not promise she would find other accommodations at that hour.

Joletta, assuring the manager that she would be fine where she was, closed the door upon the man and his excuses. Answering the endless questions, denying that she had any idea what the intruder wanted and keeping to the lie, had brought a return of her headache. She was in desperate need of a couple of aspirins.

“You can’t stay here,” Rone said, watching her with a frown between his brows.

“I have to,” she said in a wobbly attempt at humor. “You heard the man.”

“My room has twin beds, too.”

Joletta glanced at him as she moved to pick up her shoulder bag from the end of her bed. There was nothing in his face to suggest anything other than concern and practicality. “That’s very considerate of you,” she said, “but I don’t think it’s necessary.”

“You can’t be sure. I don’t like the way this place is torn up; there was a knife used on most of this stuff. What would you have done if you had been alone this evening? What would you do if the guy came back?”

She pressed the fingers of one hand against her pounding temple. Closing her eyes, she said, “He won’t be back.”

“What makes you think so?”

She couldn’t think straight. The pain in her head was making her feel a little sick. She searched in the bag she held for a headache remedy, at the same time avoiding Rone’s narrow gaze.

He moved from where he had been sitting on a table edge with his arms crossed over his chest. Taking the bag from her, he found the aspirins and shook two of them into her hand. “This what you were looking for?”

She nodded in mute gratitude. He walked to the bathroom and returned with a glass of water as she put the pills in her mouth. He watched her drink it before he went on. “You were saying about this guy with the knife.”

She looked at him, then away again, before she sighed. “All right, maybe he will.”

She hadn’t intended to say that; the words had just come out. As Rone made no reply, she looked up at him. She expected questions, a demand to know why she hadn’t mentioned the possibility to the police, anything except his intent, considering silence.

She moistened her lips before she added, “At least the man didn’t find what he wanted, so he may have figured out that I’ve got it with me.”

“Right,” he said in stringent irony. “That does it. Come on, gather up what you need and let’s go.”

“No, I’ll just lock the window and the door. I’ll be fine, really.” Shaking her head was not a good move; she stopped abruptly.

He met her gaze, his own level and a little hard. “I won’t pounce on you, you know. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

“I’m sure I would be, but I prefer—”

“I really won’t, you know. In spite of what happened on the bridge.”

She swallowed, looking at the wall behind his head, the floor, anywhere except at him. The low timbre of his voice did strange things to an area at the center of her abdomen. “I — never thought you would,” she said finally.

“It’s settled then.” He swung toward the bathroom, where he began to rummage among her belongings. “What do you need? A toothbrush? Hairbrush? What else?”

It was a relief, in a way, to have her hand forced. Joletta would have stayed in the room, but it was doubtful she would have been able to rest. On the other hand, she wasn’t at all sure about her prospects for a peaceful night with Rone. She believed that he had nothing underhanded in mind in offering her a bed, but she could not forget that moment of closeness on the bridge. He had not, she thought, intended that to happen, either.

The room Rone had been given was more Spartan than Joletta’s, but otherwise much the same. The twin beds were arranged at right angles to each other against two walls. He pointed out the one that he had used the night before and placed the things he carried on the foot of the other.

There was a moment of awkwardness as he turned to face her. Joletta wondered if he felt it, too. She wished she was more sophisticated, had more experience of situations of this sort. She searched her mind for something light to say to ease the tension, but came up with nothing.

“It’s been a long day,” he said. “You can have first chance at the bathroom, if you like.”

She glanced at him from under her lashes, but made no effort to follow his suggestion. Instead, she moved to sit down on the bed. She took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh before she spoke. “There’s something I think I should tell you.”

As she paused, searching for words, he moved to take a seat in one of the stiff armchairs beside the minuscule table under the windows of the room. He said quietly, “About your visitor this evening, right?”

She nodded. “It seems you ought to know — especially if you’re going to keep running into trouble because of me. The only thing missing is the notes that I’ve been making since England.”

She went on quickly to outline what she was doing, and why. There were a few details she left out, such as her suspicion of her aunt.

Rone heard Joletta out in silence, though there was a pucker of concentration between his eyes. He was quiet for a long moment when she stopped speaking. Finally he said, “And that’s all?”

“What do you mean, all?” There was a hint of disbelief in his voice that puzzled her.

“I mean are you sure that’s all this guy wanted, the notes and the copy of the journal.”

“What else could it have been?”

His dark gaze was watchful, assessing as he answered. “You tell me — remembering that he turned out the light and waited, knife in hand, when he heard you coming.”

“You mean, you think he—” She stopped, unable to put it into words.

“He didn’t know, apparently, that you wouldn’t be alone.”

“No,” she said in a decisive tone after a moment. “He can’t have meant to hurt me. He just figured out that I must keep the journal with me.”

“You mean — I thought you said you left it in New Orleans?” There was a curious blend of disbelief, irritation, and amusement in his voice.

“I brought a photocopy,” she said with a small curl of satisfaction at one corner of her mouth.

His gaze upon her was impenetrable as he studied her, though it lingered on the delicately tucked spot where her lips joined. He said finally, “So, I suppose you will go on just as before?”

“I don’t know what else to do. The notes can be reconstructed, though the more I write down, the less all the facts and figures I’ve been gathering seem to mean.”

“You’re sure there’s nothing more concrete in the journal about the formula?”

“Fairly sure.”

He lifted his hands and let them fall again. “I don’t mean to be discouraging, but that part of this trip of yours sounds like a forlorn hope to me.”

“I suppose,” she agreed. She tried not to think of Mimi’s trust, or what it would mean if she was unable to find the formula.

“On the other hand, someone doesn’t appear to be taking it that lightly. I’m thinking about you having your bag snatched in London and being nearly run down in Paris.”

She looked away from him, fixing her gaze on the leaf-patterned carpet on the floor. “I try not to think about it, myself.”

“That won’t make it go away,” he said, a trace of anger in his voice.

“No, but maybe they will give up if it gets too hard.”

“They who?”

She shrugged a little without meeting his gaze. “Whoever. “

Rone said nothing for long moments, then abruptly he asked, “Have you given any thought to quitting and going home?”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” There was the sound of controlled impatience in his voice.

She turned a look of defiance upon him. “I don’t know. Pride, stubbornness, curiosity maybe. Or maybe it’s just something I have to do.”

His dark blue eyes held hers. For long seconds he looked as if he wanted to argue further, then he inclined his head in a slow nod. “Fine, then. I’d like to help.”

“You already have. It’s amazing, the way you’ve been there when I’ve needed someone.”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant I’d like to help you on this crazy quest.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “Such a forlorn hope can’t be interesting to you.”

A smile came and went across his face. “You interest me and I have a weakness for lost causes — and nothing better to do just now.”

“It isn’t a game,” she said slowly.

“I didn’t think it was.”

The expression in his eyes was earnest and open. There was something so rock solid, so dependable yet relaxed about him as he sat across from her with a long leg thrust out in front of him, that it seemed foolish to remain on her guard.

Joletta gave him a slow smile. “Well, if you’re sure — and since you’re along for the ride already — I don’t see how it can hurt.”

A shadow seemed to cross his face, and for a long moment it looked as if he might make some comment. But he only said, “We’ll start in the morning then. Now about that bath. Ladies first.”

Rone, as he heard the water begin to run in the bathroom, got slowly to his feet and moved to the window, where he propped his shoulder against the frame. He punched the power button that raised the metal blinds so he could look out. His face set in lines of morose dissatisfaction as he stood staring at the ornate cornices on the buildings across the side street. He had what he had wanted all along. Why didn’t he feel better about it?

She was so trusting. Or was she? There had been a flicker of something in her straight gaze that gave him a distinct feeling of uneasiness. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him with those huge sherry-brown eyes, wondered what was going on in her mind.

There wasn’t much he didn’t want to know about her.

He didn’t want to hurt her. There had been an instant there, just now, when he had felt an almost overwhelming urge to explain himself, to tell her everything. It had not lasted long. The risk was too great.

What was he going to do?

For one thing he was going to keep his hands off of her. He was going to stay in his own bed, stay on his side of the room. He was not going to watch her too closely. He was going to come near her only when necessary, and as briefly as possible. He was going to pay no attention to mating swans.

That had been a mistake, this evening on the bridge. He had known it at the time, but had not been able to resist. It was dangerous, getting too near her. He would remember that if it killed him.

The man in her room earlier had taken him by surprise, had done so only because he had not foreseen that possibility, had not prepared for it. He should have walked Joletta on past the room, then returned by himself.

Whoever had been in that room was crazy, a definite menace. Somebody was going to hear about that when this was over.

In the meantime he should remember to attend to the cost of the damage in the other room. It was his responsibility.

So she kept the journal in her shoulder bag. He had suspected as much. He turned his head to stare at the big, soft leather purse that lay on the foot of the twin bed she was going to use. He moved to pick it up, glancing first at the bathroom door to be sure it was well closed. Rummaging inside, he took out the thick sheaf of paper held together by large rubber bands.

He lifted the cover sheet with tentative fingers. The writing appeared old-fashioned, almost indecipherable. Curious, that such a small thing could cause so much trouble. She might let him read it, later on. If not, he would make an opportunity to do so.

The sound of running water in the bathroom ceased. He returned the journal to the purse and moved away. He sat down on the other bed and lay back, clasping his hands behind his head on the pillow. He was lying there, staring at the ceiling, when Joletta emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

She had brushed her hair, so it curled around her face and shoulders in damp tendrils. Her face was flushed and moist and innocent of makeup. Her feet were bare, and so far as he could tell, she had next to nothing on under the turquoise silk sleep shirt she wore. The soft, shining material draped itself with miraculous fidelity to her tender curves as she moved to fold the clothes she held, placing them in a neat pile on the dresser.

“It’s all yours,” she said cheerfully.

He had to remind himself that she was speaking of the bathroom. He thought of turning on his stomach, but was afraid the movement would be too obvious as a cover-up for the effect she had on him.

This was insane. It was never going to work. But since he had begun, he had to go ahead with it.

He debated about whether he should or should not take a shower. It might be better if he simply lay here on this bed without moving, stewing in his own stale sweat. She was so clean, so sweetly wholesome and infinitely desirable in her freshness, that he would not dare approach her in all his dirt. Any deterrent was a good deterrent.