When she would have shrieked in earnest, he rose above her, capturing her lips with a wet passion that swallowed sound and soul. He folded her into his arms and jacked himself into her with a sharp force that brought another gasp to her throat. Forever, it seemed, they lay there, entwined, and then his movement, just his first subtle shift, aroused her to a new fevered pitch, dear God, sweet agony, such ecstasy, she was sweetly drenched, straining, wanting, desperate, oh, Lord, yes! Desperate, arching, writhing, hungering for each stroke, deeper, richer, wetter …
She climaxed with a violent shudder that seemed to wrack the very world around her, and where she had been aware of nothing but the need for that sublime release, she was now aware again of him, his flesh, his heat, the dampness that pervaded them both, his weight, the thickness of his hair, texture of his face, thunder of his heart.
“Gone With the Wind, I knew it,” he said softly, his fingers tracing a tiny bead of perspiration between her breasts. “The way they went up those stairs, and seeing Scarlet’s face the next morning, hell, you just knew it was great.”
“It was so great, Rhett left town,” she reminded him.
He grinned. “Rhett was disturbed by what he considered to be his bad behavior, use of force, and excessive bad manners. I’m not disturbed in the least, except that … well …”
“You know I went to all-girls Catholic schools,” she told him quickly. “Actors are notoriously bad at relationships. And … I came of age at a scary time. I was afraid that I’d die if I did,” she explained.
He rose on an elbow, watching her. “So what happened tonight?” he asked.
“I was afraid I’d die if I didn’t,” she said simply.
He wrapped her in his arms again. “You know, I never did hate you,” he whispered against her forehead.
“Um. I loathed you in all honesty,” she admitted. “But I guess …”
“You were lusting for me all the while?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ve admitted to some heavy-duty lust.”
“Conar,” she said after a moment. “You know … well, you’re here to look after me. Because you love my mother.”
“Thank God! You grant me honesty in that.”
“Conar, I love her, too.”
“Jennifer, I know that.”
“But you have to understand. I mean to humor her—to let you ‘guard’ me. But I want you to realize as well that …”
“That?”
“I am a big girl. I mean, I wanted what happened now.”
“Wanted. Hm. What I felt would give new meaning to the word.”
She grinned. “Thanks. But tonight obliges you to nothing.”
“Obliges?”
“I mean, I don’t expect anything to be different. I—”
“Miss Connolly, this is an incredibly delightful way in which to look after you.”
“But this will end. And you have to feel free to walk away. This was really just … something that I had to do.”
“So I’m an experiment?” he inquired. “A damned obliging one. A teacher, at that.”
“No, you’re not an experiment … just … I’ve certainly had a lesson. I mean, I have to admit that you were wonderful.”
“Thank God. A testimonial.”
“Conar, I’m trying very hard to say that—”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to whip out a wedding ring tomorrow.”
She stiffened.
“Is that what you meant?” he inquired.
“Yes. And … I should leave.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But …”
“There’s no reason for you to leave now.”
“There is. We need to think about this—”
“No. We’re not going to think about it. We’re going to enjoy one another for whatever the reasons are. I like that you’re here.”
He rose over her again, catching her face with his fingers. His eyes pinned hers.
“Miss Connolly, you want a teacher? Lessons have only just begun.”
“Conar, I didn’t—”
“Jennifer, quit analyzing.”
His lips ground down on hers. She felt the weight and pressure of his body. His hands …
Lessons had just begun, she discovered.
They could go on, and on.
She slept. It was wonderful at first, a deep, peaceful sleep. The mist that surrounded her was as puffy as clouds, as soft, as comforting.
Then it began to swirl, taking on a grayish hue. She was walking and she realized that she was on a path that surrounded Granger House. The mist began to dissolve, remaining around her feet as she took step after step, following the trail. She was dressed in soft, flowing white, as if she had been costumed for the scene. Her hair was flowing, and the soft, luminous folds of the long white gown she wore trailed and billowed in the rising breeze as well.
She walked with purpose, following …
She could see that someone was running ahead of her. A woman. Dressed in white, as she was. The woman stopped and turned back to her. It was the film actress Celia Marston, the beautiful young starlet who had filmed her last movie in Granger House. The actress who had fallen to her death below, so near to where Brenda’s body had been found. Her hair was blond and crimped in a long-ago style. Her dress was sleek, designed for a decade long gone. She was looking back, beckoning. “Hurry!”
“No, wait, please!” Jennifer moved faster and faster. She knew she had to catch Celia, to stop her from going over the cliffs. “Wait!” she cried out. “Don’t go—”
“He’s coming!” Celia called to her. “Run, run!”
Celia started running again. Jennifer felt a tremendous rush of fear, a strange terror. He was in back of her. Look back! She couldn’t. If she did so, she’d see the face of the killer.
The beauty ahead of her started to turn back to her. It was no longer Celia Marston running ahead of her.
It was Brenda Lopez.
She wasn’t clad in white; she was naked. Blood oozed from dozens of slashes that crisscrossed her body.
Jennifer came to a dead halt, watching, a scream caught in her throat. Brenda had reached the cliffs.
“Run, Jennifer, run! He’s coming for you.”
“Brenda, no!”
But Brenda was falling, falling …
Mist had risen again. Swirling, enveloping. There was the sound of the wind. No, it wasn’t wind, he was breathing.
Brenda had warned her.
The house!
It was watching, she could feel the eyes.
It had been watching, a long time. It had watched her sleep, watched her dream. It had watched her before. And she could see herself, as she had been before. Making love. Touching. Being touched. Rising, falling, panting, gasping, stroking …
All along it had been watching.
Invading those incredible moments …
Wake up! she warned herself. He’s still behind you. The mist swirled; Brenda was gone but the danger remained. The breathing …
Don’t turn, don’t turn, don’t turn …
She had been fighting the dream, trying to awaken. At last she did. She bolted up, shaking. For a moment she was disoriented. Conar jerked up by her side. She gasped in terror, shrinking away from him.
“Jennifer?” The confused but deep sound of his voice touched her sanity even as his arms came around her.
She swallowed. Thank God he’d decided they should satisfy their mutual lust tonight.
“Jennifer, what?”
“I was dreaming, a nightmare, and still, when I awoke. I … This sounds so strange, but I still feel that someone … something … ,” she whispered.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Go on.”
“I feel as if someone was watching us sleep.”
“We’ll check,” he said softly.
He rose, walking away from her. She wanted to scream that he should come back. She managed not to do so—mainly because he hadn’t gone very far.
A moment later, the room was flooded with light. Conar was at the light switch, a baseball bat in his hands. He smiled at her, looking around the empty room.
“Closet?” he said.
“Please, if you don’t mind. And the bathroom,” she whispered.
A few minutes later, he was back beside her. “Nothing?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Maybe my mother and I are both crazy,” she said.
“You’re fine.”
“If I am crazy, you helped make me that way.”
He grinned. “You’re not crazy. I’ve …”
“You’ve what?”
“Nothing, I’ve just had dreams upon occasion, you know.” He smiled. “We need some sleep. And don’t worry, we’ll keep the baseball bat right here.”
“Leave a night-light on?”
“The bathroom light, is that okay?”
She nodded. He turned off the main light, but the glow from the bathroom proved they were alone in the bedroom.
He slid in beside her. “You’re staying in this room tonight, I take it?”
“I’ve been here, haven’t I?”
“But you haven’t suddenly gotten the urge to go back to your own room?”
“You’re very amusing.”
“Just checking. What was the dream?”
She shook her head. “It was …” She shook her head, falling silent. She didn’t want to talk about it. It still seemed too real.
As if, had she just turned in her dream, she would have seen the killer.
“Dreams fade so quickly. I was just so very afraid.”
Her eyes met his. She didn’t go on. She curled against his chest.
“Conar?”
“Hm?”
“Are we all crazy?”
“No.”
He felt so solid. And it was so good to be here. Bad dreams faded quickly in his arms.
His fingers settled over her hair. She felt the power and warmth of his heartbeat.
“What’s going on, then?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.” His lips brushed the top of her head. “Maybe nothing. Maybe just a lot of fears we’ve created ourselves.”
“I’ve always loved this house.”
“It’s a good house.”
“So why does it suddenly …”
“Suddenly what?”
“Seem to watch us?”
“Houses don’t watch people, Jennifer.”
She shivered. His arms tightened.
“It’s okay,” he said softly. His fingers continued to stroke her. She slowly relaxed. A sense of sweet security swept over her.
Soon she was sleeping again.
Conar lay awake, thinking about what he hadn’t said.
I’ve felt it, too. That rising-hackle sensation. The feeling of being watched. As if there are eyes everywhere …
He pulled the covers over her, drew her closer against him. He would protect her. Somehow, he would protect her.
Against what?
The eyes in the night.
No, houses didn’t watch people.
People watched …
And still …
It felt as if the house had eyes …
Drew Parker wasn’t sure what brought him driving up the path that wound just below the driveway to Granger House that night. He felt … drawn. That was it. He should have just gone on up to see them. No. It was well past midnight. They’d all be sleeping. And still …
He could just drive to the front door. Ring the bell. Wake Edgar. Good old Edgar, who would let him in, of course, because he was Abby’s dear old friend. Yes, he could go in by way of the front door anytime he desired.
He drove his old Silver Shadow Rolls Royce slowly along, watching the house now and then, and looking at his hands.
Age spots, too thin—he was getting a gnarled look about him. Hell, they said that he was good-looking. Strong, classic, debonair. He worked out, hell, he took Tae-Bo classes. He was strong as an ox, especially for a seventy-year-old. Seventy-year-old. Key word. He was old, and he hated old. He felt a lot like old Granger at times. David Granger had wanted to be many things. Drew knew the feeling. They’d both come close. Granger had known a little magic. A little talent, a little this, and a little that. Never quite enough.
That’s me, on the fringes, Drew thought.
He was almost among the beautiful people but not quite. He’d acted a little, dabbled in magic, in land. He’d done some boxing, wrestling, and taken lessons in the martial arts—in order to take small roles in kung fu movies. He was a jack of all trades, and master of trivia. Yes, he was on plenty of party guest lists. He could entertain, tell tales of old Hollywood.
He had some purpose. There were so many things he knew. So many things he might have been.
He slowed the car and pulled onto the narrow embankment, looking up. Ah, yes, there stood Granger House. It looked alive in the night.
Shades of The Haunting, he thought with amusement.
Only shades. Abby kept up Granger House beautifully. She was a grand old dame. The house, that was. Abby … oh, yes. Abby was a grand old dame as well. And yet …
No matter what cosmetic repairs were made, human flesh could never survive as a house might. Abby tried so hard to hide her illness. She showed such strength, such character. She held on so well.
Because she had Jennifer. Her precious daughter. Yet if something were ever to happen to Jennifer, Abby would crumble, like wet sand. She’d just fall apart completely.
Jennifer. Beautiful, kind, gracious, charming, perfect … Jennifer.
If anything were to happen to her …
There were so many things Abby didn’t know about the house.
In the night, it seemed that a cloud settled around the structure, high above. A shadow of evil. Some houses are just born evil. Shades of The Haunting again.
But houses weren’t evil.
People were. And yet …
Maybe there were some houses that helped people to be evil…
Chapter 11
ANDY LARKIN TOOK HIS job as producer seriously. He loved acting as well—loved being a heartthrob, being adored by tens of thousands of women across the nation. He didn’t read all of his fan mail—he couldn’t. He’d never get anything done if he did. He had a secretary, and though she answered all his mail, she also made sure that he got the most effusive and complimentary pieces.
He was handsome, and he knew it. He played macho, and he loved it. And even if soaps hadn’t quite turned him into a Tom Cruise, his face was known all over the country. He was constantly in magazines. He didn’t just appear in Soap Digest and the other magazines aimed at the audience. He had been featured in People and Time and other important magazines. He and Joe Penny had seen to it that their show dealt with issues, real issues. They’d tackled drugs, gangs, violence, cancer, Alzheimer’s and AIDS.
He arrived at Joe Penny’s place about a half hour early on Tuesday morning. The two of them were due to meet with director Jim Novac to review the upcoming episode of Valentine Valley, written by Doug Henson.
He glanced at his watch as he rang the bell to Joe’s Beverly Hills brick-adorned colonial manor a second time. He wasn’t that early. Where the hell was Joe?
Joe at last answered the door in a bathrobe.
“You’re early,” he said, rubbing his face.
“Not that early. What, did you stay out late last night?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I stopped by to hear some music at House of Blues. Someone asked me to a party. I went. You’re looking too chipper. What did you do—stay home and catch up on your beauty rest?”
“My good looks keep our soap on the air, buddy,” Andy reminded him dryly.
“What, can’t be happy with any other woman but Serena?” Joe asked, closing the door behind Andy and heading for the kitchen.
“There are lots of women out there,” Andy replied defensively. The whole Serena thing really rankled him. She’d really wanted the divorce;
she hadn’t asked for anything—anything. She’d even been willing to give things up to get it. Yeah, he’d cheated. And yeah, he’d made a fool out of himself, asking for forgiveness.
It hadn’t been just the cheating, she’d told him.
It had just been …
Well, frankly, it had just been him.
He was still angry every time he thought about that. It made him want to punch a wall, as a matter of fact.
In his high-tech kitchen, amazingly modern for the colonial look and feel of his manor, Joe poured coffee. “I thought that you really wanted to get back with Serena,” he said.
“I think it would be good for the show.”
Joe ran his fingers through his stylishly cut hair, smiling slightly, shaking his head. “You know, I’m not known as a man regarded for his monumental tact, but even I know you don’t tell a woman you want to remarry her for the benefit of a show. Or ratings.”
Andy shrugged. “That’s pure business sense. But I didn’t say that to Serena. And it doesn’t matter. I’m just teasing with her most of the time.” He grimaced. “Just to get to follow her home.”
“For a night in the sack, eh? I can see that.”
“Yeah,” Andy lied. That was another thing that rankled him. She acted as if she’d die rather than go back to bed with him again.
He was in good shape. He could work it like a rabbit.
Damn her. He hadn’t had any complaints in that department before.
“Anyway, I met a girl at the party.”
“Mystery girl?”
“That’s right.” Joe hesitated. “She’s still here.”
“Oh?” Andy arched a brow.
“Sleeping. I shouldn’t have told you. Stay away from my bedroom door.”
“All right, let’s get down to business. I’m wondering, if under the circumstances, we should go ahead with the shower attack as we planned.”
“We’re going to let a little prima donna like Brenda Lopez ruin our show?” Joe demanded, aggravated.