Dead Ringer (24 page)

Her mother's ghost floated up from her grave.

God, if Angelina wasn't already feeling sick, she'd feel sick now. To lie on a blanket with her mother's husband made her want to weep with revulsion.

But she said nothing-how could she when this was what she'd been sent here for?-and when Victor was satisfied with his arrangement, he came and put an arm around her shoulder.

"Sit down. I've made it comfortable for you." He walked her to the blanket, saw her settled, and opened the hamper. Two champagne flutes nestled inside. He filled them with Eden's Gate water and handed her one. Ice-cold, it had been infused with the taste of berries, just like at the reception. The water slid down her throat like bit-terroot.

"Look there." He nodded up to the sky, where the mass of stars seemed cold and far away. "Our souls are there, burning in a holocaust of white flame."

She gazed up at the glittering holes pricked into the endless black. "Do you think so? I... I've never been sure of an afterlife."

"Oh, I believe in the possibility of immortality."

Her pulse quickened. "By our deeds you mean? That what we achieve leaves a lasting legacy?" Arming a nuclear weapon could put him in the history books, that was for sure.

"That of course. But I'm talking about true immortality. The possibility of eternal life, eternal physical life." His voice drifted off, his gaze lost in The heavens. "Indefinite youth," he murmured. "Perfect health. Death vanquished."

She shivered and repressed the urge to move away. "I don't... I don't understand."

"Ah, but you should. You have done it, you see." He turned from the skies and looked at her with an intensity that made her want to disappear. "And I can only wonder if you were heaven sent."

Reel him in.
She touched the back of his hand. "I'm very real, Victor."

"Yes, I know." He put an arm around her and drew her near.
Get close to him.
"And that is the beauty of it. My God," he whispered. "You look so much like her."

She looked down at her hands, chaste nails short and bare of polish, unable to face the obsession in his eyes. "You brought her here, didn't you?"

"Many times."

"I feel as though she's here, with us." A tiny shiver rolled over her as she thought of the portrait on the wall, the way the eyes followed her every move. The way her mother's perfume permeated every corner of Angelina's room.

He reached behind and undid the pins of her hair, the same way Finn had done in the hotel suite in Helena. Her stomach knotted at the comparison, but she did nothing to discourage Victor's fantasy.

This is your job. Sit still and do it.

"She always took her hair down at night."

Angelina shook out her hair, brushing it over her shoulders, and he stared at her, eyes dark and glowing in the moonlight. She tried to look away, but he took her face in his hands, his fervent gaze searching every inch of her.

"Are you here,
liubimaia?
Beloved, have you come back to me?"

Angelina's stomach twisted. Oh, God, he was going to kiss her. He would lay her down beneath the stars and do what Finn and Roper expected him to, what they expected her to do. A fresh wave of nausea shook her, but she raised a shaky hand and touched his face.

"I'm here, Victor," she whispered. "Tell me how I can please you."

Was it the sound of her different voice or the touch of her different fingers that snapped him out of his trance?

With a small moan of pain deep within, he released her. "I am sorry." He looked away, as though trying to regain his composure. "We should go back. You need your rest."

Relief at the reprieve nearly swamped her, and she had trouble getting to her feet. "I am... tired."

Rising, he gathered the glasses and extended a hand. She let him help her up, enduring his touch as she knew she had to. She looked forward to getting back. Every nerve stood on end; rest was exactly what she needed. It would give her time to get rid of her dizziness. And to get to Finn.

On the way back to the ranch, Victor hunched over the saddle, lost to the night and his memories, and she left him there, her own thoughts equally black.

In the last week she'd brought two men to the brink of seduction, and both had backed out. What did it mean?

That they don't trust you, party girl.

The explanation sank inside her like a stone. She wanted Finn's trust, wanted it badly, but to get it, she'd have to earn Victor's. And that meant...

An anxious ripple wobbled through her already wobbly stomach. She didn't want to think about what that meant. About Victor's bed.

A different stablehand waited to unsaddle the horses, and she tramped back to the ranch house at Victor's side. As usual, he escorted her to her room and standing in the doorway, stroked her face.

"I've left something for you. Put it on. I'll be back."

Now what?
With a sinking heart, she slipped inside and saw the peignoir laid out on the bed. Sheer and soft, it was a far cry from the slinky red one she'd left in Memphis. This one was white, bridal white.

Her mouth went dry. Had Victor broken off the seduction in the meadow only to resume it here? Her hands went clammy; she wasn't ready. Not yet. A picture of Finn rose in her head.

Tell me not to do it, Skarkman.

But she knew he wouldn't. This was her job. Her talent, her only true skill. This was what they'd recruited her for.

A soft rap cut short time for debate. She opened the door and saw disappointment on Victor's face.

"I... I' m sorry, Victor. I can't. I'm not ready for..." Silently, she cursed herself for a coward, but he only smiled, as if gazing at a schoolgirl.

And then her breath hitched as comprehension dawned. My God. He approved. He expected her to resist him. Nice girls would.

"I just want to see you in it. I won't even come in. Just... let me look at you."

Relief swallowed up the eeriness of his request. She bowed her head, closed the door, and slipped out of her clothes with trembling fingers. The nightgown slid over her skin like sheer moonlight. She pulled the edges of the transparent robe together to hide the line of cleavage, placed her lifeline to Finn on the nightstand where she could see the circle of pearls, and braced herself with a prayer. She called softly to Victor, hoping he wouldn't notice the tremor in her voice.

He stood on the room's threshold as she steeled her nerve and walked toward him. The transparent material floated around her legs and thighs, and he inhaled a sharp, pained breath at the sight of her. Once again, tears misted in his eyes.

He caressed her head, sliding a hand along her neck below her hair. Breath erratic, he traced the line of her arm, her back, even her breasts and hips before moving back up to her face. She stood cold as marble while his hand skimmed over her body, heart drumming so loud she thought he might see it leap under her skin. But she choked back the icy revulsion and let him touch her.

Her mother's husband. Her mother's lover.

She wouldn't think about that. She would feel nothing. Be nothing. She could do this. She'd done it before. When Andy Blake had... hurt her, she'd gone away until he finished.

She would go away now. Become hollow, numb. No air, no breath, no being.

And then he spoke. "Thank you," he said in a hushed voice. He took her hand and kissed her palm the same way he'd kissed it the night of the party, deeply, intimately, in a way that made her skin crawl. "Good night, Angelushka. Sleep well."

The door closed behind him and she could breathe again. She stumbled to the bed, heart drumming, legs shaking. Mouth dry, she poured herself a glass of water from the bedside bottle and raised it to her lips with a shaky hand, hoping to forget the look on Victor's face when she'd walked toward him.

She checked her watch. She'd wait an hour; time for everyone to settle down for the night. She'd go the long way, skirting the stables in case Grisha was roaming. She'd ... Her eyes drifted shut and blinked open. She lay down on the bed.

So tired. Need to rest. She closed her eyes.

Don't dream. Don't dream.

* * *

Angelina awoke with a start.
What was that?
Moaning, she rubbed her eyes in the pitch-black room. Her mother's spicy perfume wafted sharp and strong, piercing Angelina's aching head.

Another sound.

Someone was there. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw a ghostly figure glide toward her.

Mother?

The figure moved toward the bed, an avenging angel coming to stop her, to protect Victor.

With a scream, Angelina bolted upright. Suddenly the light flashed on and she covered her eyes from the glare.

"It's all right, shh, everything is all right," the soft voice crooned. Angelina's heart slowed, and the spirit materialized into a flesh-and-blood woman in a chenille bathrobe.

Marian.

"You had a nightmare," she soothed, perching on the end of the bed. "I heard you cry out. Here." She poured Angelina a glass of water and she sipped at it.

"I... I don't remember dreaming." But she remembered how badly she didn't want to dream, to remember Victor. "Are you sure I cried out?"

"Yes, I heard you quite clearly. I thought something was wrong and when I came in you were tossing and turning."

Angelina frowned down at the glass. Dizziness made her head swirl. "I don't usually dream. I'm sorry I woke you."

"Don't be. I don't mind a bit." She brushed the hair away from Angelina's face the way she imagined her mother would have. For a brief, safe moment, she pretended that Marian was her mother, caring for her the way she'd always dreamed.

Smiling kindly, Marian said good night and left.

Angelina checked the time. Two a.m. She groaned. Finn must be beside himself. She took one last gulp of water, then stumbled out of bed to change. Her head felt like a giant boulder on her neck. Too heavy to lift. Too heavy to move. She braced herself against the nightstand and the glass clattered to the floor, spraying water everywhere. She stared at it.

Water.

The word boomed in her head like an echo between mountains.

She swayed, dizzy, and reached for the circle pin on the nightstand. If she could get it open...

Her hand closed around it and she felt herself falling. Her last thought was that she would never see Finn again. Then blackness opened its arms and she fell in.

CHAPTER
14

With only moonlight to guide him, Finn shimmied up the stone facing of Borian's ranch house and prayed he had correctly deciphered Angelina's crude map. Second floor, west, he was pretty sure that was the one she'd pointed out.

Pretty sure.

He reached for another handhold and hauled himself up in the darkness. Christ, he better be damn sure.

Fifteen feet up, he paused for a quick breath, sweat running under his shirt. Leaning against the cool stone, he still heard Roper's explicit order to stay away from the ranch.

Not on your life, pal.

Not after Angelina hadn't shown up for their nightly meeting. It could be nothing, but she hadn't looked good the night before. Something was wrong, and he could kick himself for not pressing her more about it. And if he didn't warn her about Copley no matter what else was wrong with her she'd be in serious trouble.

He swallowed the bead of worry that had been tightening his throat and checked his watch's luminous dial. Five minutes before the patrol swept this sector. He gauged the distance to the second-story corner window and pushed up another few inches. Reaching for a foothold, he suddenly slipped on air, loosening pebbles and mortar that fell away into nothingness.

Jesus Christ.

His heart slammed against his chest. Sucking in a breath, he dangled by his hands, swinging against the side of the house. Instantly, the universe collapsed into this one tiny quadrant: him and the wall. Every sensation sharpened. The cool air on his face, the scrape of fingers on stone, the echo of a loose pebble hitting the ground. He heard and felt it all, tight and close, precious as last seconds would be.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he channeled all his strength into the hands holding him upright, all his awareness into his feet.
Careful, now. Slow.