Part 15 (1/2)
”Why, Andy. Why must I be afraid?”
”Bac-Dal wants you.”
Finn was sitting on the balcony when she returned.
The day wasn't that bright, but he was wearing his sungla.s.ses. He'd made more coffee-the maid must have brought him more of the regular packs, Finn never bothered with decaf. And he was smoking. Usually, he just smoked on occasion. She could see that he'd gone through half a pack of cigarettes.
She hadn't a clue of what he was thinking, not with the sungla.s.ses covering his eyes. He looked tense, though, drawn and tired. Not a good sign, when they'd only just gone through their first night of work here. And he didn't appear to be in a good mood.
Now that she'd left Andy and the eerie graveyard, she was beginning to feel silly for having let him get to her so. The whole thing was so entirely ridiculous. When she'd asked Andy why he was so convinced that the demon was after her, he hadn't known.
When she'd wanted to know what he meant-and exactly whom he was talking about who might want to resurrect a long dead man or a demon, he didn't know. Her impatience, along with her fear, had soared.
Somehow, she had forced herself to remember that he was a very old man, with only his tales left to him. She had told him she would be very careful, and that she would consider his words. She had also told him he mustn't say any of it to Finn, that she would not do so herself. He hadn't seemed happy, but rather resigned.
”I have, at the least, warned you,” he told her gravely.
He hadn't brought a car. He had come through one of the footpaths through the trees and foliage, and though she'd offered to drop him somewhere, he had refused, remaining in the eerie little place when she had left.
And oddly, the glowering sky, the lightning, the threat of rain, had pa.s.sed. It was an almost absurdly beautiful day for late October.
”Where have you been?” Finn asked as she joined him on the balcony. She couldn't even tell if his voice was ringed with any kind of anger. The sungla.s.ses seemed to hide all. Despite his almost haggard look, there was something very appealing, almost rawly s.e.xy, about the way he slouched in the patio chair, long legs stretched out on the wrought iron rail, hair falling over his eyes, the length of his body in a languid stretch, almost like that of a cat.
”Out and about,” she said. ”Just taking in a few sights. When did you wake up? I've never seen you sleep like that.”
He shrugged. ”Had a bad time waking up.”
”Well, you must have been up early and gone back to bed. No wonder you feel dragged out.”
He frowned. She could see that much, despite the gla.s.ses.
”I wasn't up before.”
”Yes, you were. You made coffee in the middle of the night, or first thing in the morning, or sometime.”
He stared at her as if she were crazy.
”No.”
”Finn! When I woke up, there was cold coffee in the pot.”
”There was cold decaf when I woke up,” he said with a sniff.
”Honestly, you had to have been awake. Unless some little gremlin came in while we were sleeping, made coffee, smoked a cigarette, and left,” she said, amazed that she had to force a smile.
He was still frowning. ”There's a bruise on your arm.”
”Yeah, there is. You need to cool it a little.”
”What?”
”Finn! You gave me that bruise.””I did not!” he said indignantly.
She leaned against the railing, staring at him. ”Finn, I swear, you woke up in the middle of the night.”
”And made coffee, so you say. What did I do? Come over and slug you before plugging in the pot?”
”Finn, you gave me the bruise before you made the coffee. I don't believe this! You don't remember waking in the night, like a man who'd been in prison for decades or something like that, and made love like an SST?”
”Megan, I remember coming out to the porch after a shower, and having a lovely and pa.s.sionate time-but I never bruised you!”
”Not the first time.”
”There was a second time?” he demanded incredulously.
”One of us is losing it,” she murmured. She eyed him cautiously. ”How much did you drink last night?”
”One beer that Joseph bought me,” he said irritably.
She was silent. ”Finn, I didn't bruise myself.”
”I can't believe I would do that to you.”
He suddenly seemed distant-and resentful. She had the bruise, bruises! And he seemed resentful.
But she needed to be near him. Even growing angry now, he still had that long, lean look of a lounging cat. The hair, his face...
freshly shaven, shampooed, a little wild... built like brick, incredibly sensual. And attractive. She didn't want to jump back into bed at the moment; she just wanted to be held. a.s.sured.
She came over and sat on his lap, stroking his chin. The subtle sandalwood scent of his aftershave was pleasant, elusive, evocative.
Like his warmth, and the feel of his arms, instinctively coming around her.
”I didn't say you weren't incredibly exciting,” she whispered, nuzzling his ear. ”Just a bit too... forceful.” She didn't want to use the word ”violent.”
”Great. I was exciting and forceful, and I don't even remember it.”
”And you had coffee.”
”Man, I must be really tired.”
”You're sure it was just one beer?”
”Megan, what's the matter with you? It sounds as if some darned scary Puritan roots are coming out here.”
”Only my dad's family goes back to way back when. My mom was an immigrant, you know. Of course, she was a baby when her family came over. And I'm not a Puritan. You're not a drug addict, or a drunk, and I know it. And we both like to have a few drinks now and then. I'm just trying to get to the bottom of this.”
His smoothed his hand over her hair, studying her eyes. ”Megan, I'm horrified that I could have hurt you in any way-and especially horrified that I don't remember it. Are you sure you weren't dreaming again?”