Haunted (42 page)

She seemed to read his thoughts. No, David. Withdrawing her hand, she began to unfasten the black dress. David, free me and I'll be yours... David. Free me and you can touch me, too.

A perfect rose-tipped breast appeared, then the other, as the gown slipped sensuously down her torso. He reached out to touch it, but his hand found only thick, cold air. Masters, you want to hump a cold spot! He told his intellect to shut up, and tried again, his whole body aching with desire.

David…

The gown dropped in a black puddle around her feet and he drank in the slope of her belly, the thick bush of pubic hair, the triangle of light shining through the juncture of her thighs just below her sex. Her legs were long and smooth. He was rock hard and aching with a sweet pain beyond anything he'd ever felt before.

But he could only look. Then, she took his erection in her cold hand and led him to his bed. Obediently, he climbed on, vaguely aware of the covers slipping off the bed of their own accord, very aware of her as she climbed on top of him. Her center, rubbing against his abdomen, was a freezing flame, and he wanted her more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life.

David…

She pushed his hands above his head, showed him that she wanted him to hold onto the headboard.

Until I'm free, you can't touch me…

He grasped the wooden rail, shuddering with desire, watching her breasts as she moved above him, arranging his body to suit her.

The doll is in the dungeon, David. Free me and you can do whatever you want to me, David… David…

Suddenly, he was deep inside her, and she rode him like a horse, he bucking to meet her thrusts, his excitement unaffected by the coldness of her.

She threw her head back, mouth open, eyes slitted, and in his mind he heard that silk-silver voice cry out in orgasm, and then he was over the edge, screaming with his own release, letting go of the headrail, trying to pull her to him, finding only the cold.

You're mine, David…

Spent, he stared up at her, into the dark eyes that trapped him. Lust receding, his brain came to life and he felt the cold, and his own fear, enveloping him.

She laughed, her smile turning into a cruel twist, and she reached down and touched the seed that glistened in her pubic hairs. I have a little bit of you, David. You're mine, and I'm yours forever if you find the doll. Find it and break it, and we'll be together forever...

The cry building in his throat broke free and he bucked, trying to throw her off him. She laughed again.

You're mine, all mine…

Then she began to disappear back into black smoke and, in a moment, she was nothing but a dark haze that traveled through his door as if it wasn't there. "Oh, God." He rose, his legs trembling, his mind fighting to comprehend what had happened. Or hadn't happened. He yanked his robe on, suddenly aware that his groin was dry and pristine. He raced across to the bed and examined the sheets. He found one small drop of ejaculate, a tiny pearl, but no more.

I have a little bit of you, David. Her words played over and over in his mind as he went across the hall and washed. There was no reason to do so except that he felt soiled. He could barely believe what had happened as he silently unlocked Amber's bedroom door and peered in. Seeing that she slept peacefully, he relocked it and returned to his own room, where he turned off the computer. Did he imagine it all or not? He'd been awake, though a little drunk... Briefly, he eyed the bottle of Dewar's. He could use one more drink to help him sleep.

It hasn't helped you sleep yet, old pal. Suddenly he remembered all the old parapsychology books with warnings about alcohol consumption in them. "It opens portals," said one book, "that put the drinker in dangerous positions when dealing with more negative hauntings."

He'd never paid the warnings much attention before, but, suddenly, he believed them, fully and completely; tonight was the first time he'd drunk alcohol in the house. "Christ." He picked up the Dewar's, took it across the hall, and poured it out in the sink. Tonight was the first and last time he would drink in Body House.

Back in bed, it took him a long time to go to sleep and, when he finally did, his dreams were full of Christabel Baudey. You’re mine, she told him, over and over and over again.

August 15

Body House: 6:48P.M.

David had allowed Amber to take the Bronco for the evening, suggesting that she and Kelly go to the movies in Pismo Beach, and he'd done it for a very selfish reason: he wanted to keep his date with Theo Pelinore a secret from his daughter. The planned overnight at Kelly's had been moved to Body House because, as Kelly had said in her breathless way, "The bug man came and the whole place smells like Chem City." David only hoped that Amber was right in her assurances that she and her friend would be totally safe in her room.

The show would let out around eleven-thirty tonight, which meant Theo needed to be long gone by midnight, but that was fine by him. He didn't want to spend a whole night with her again; it was too exhausting, not to mention hazardous to his skin. Most especially, he did not want to spend it in Body House with her. Lord knew what could happen. Though last night's events seemed like a drunken dream now, he was still pretty sure that something significant had happened, and he was also sure he'd touched his last drop of alcohol for as long as he lived here.

He splashed on a little Drakkar, thinking, as he had all day, about the dungeon. Earlier, he'd gone briefly into the first floor tower and examined the floor, fascinated to find definite signs of a blast showing on the outer stones. There was a newer, rough area in the cement in a two-foot-diameter circle in the center of the floor, further backing up Commodore Patton's claim to have closed off an entrance to the cellar. Satisfied, David had left the tower room quickly, hating the cold, sad atmosphere of the place.

He'd considered going to the third floor entrance all day, but had held off, more loath to explore by himself than eager to find the Erzuli doll that contained Christabel Baudey's soul. Her promises to be his just weren't as riveting now as they had been last night, and he was also frightened: the legends about her being irresistible to men were certainly true and it would be foolhardy to go by himself. He'd either get Craig and Eric to explore with him, or he'd sit back and let Jerry Romero do the dirty work.

Or not. He still couldn't quite accept all that had happened. He straightened his tie and shrugged on his jacket Theo would be here at any moment to pick him up. She'd said she was taking him out this time, and wouldn't even tell him where they were going for dinner.

He finished up and left the room, closing the door behind him, moving quickly through the silent halls to the stairwell. Just as he reached the first floor, the doorbell chimed.

She’s here. His palms suddenly broke into a sweat and he stepped quickly into the downstairs bathroom and wiped them off before walking on to the front door. Just before he grasped the handle, the bell chimed again. She’s impatient tonight. The thought made him smile nervously. Theo’s always impatient.

This was a new situation, being anxious about a date, knowing he was going to be expected to "put out." Though his penis found this a grand idea, his intellect just kept asking him if he'd ever made women he'd dated feel as much like meat as he did around Theo Pelinore. He found it rather disgusting, not to mention disquieting.

But you’re a guy! his penis piped up, You like disgusting! With that, he cleared his throat and pulled the front door open. "Theo, how nice to… see… you." The words died on his lips.

The woman who pushed her way into his house had frizzy orange hair, and the overbite of Mr. Ed. As she moved, all her joints seemed to travel loosely in a cacophony of pops and twitches worthy of a tap-dancing marionette.

She carried a ratty black bag slung over one shoulder, with a notebook sticking half out of it, and in one prehensile hand she clutched a beat-up camera. In the other, she held a microcassette player, its little red power indicator glowing a guilty red.

"David Masters, I've finally got you where I want you."

Her slightly nasal tones wound down as if she were a languishing Southern belle and, as she moved farther past him toward the parlor, she followed the words with a sigh.

"Calla Willard, I presume?" His own voice sounded dry to him as he moved to head her off.

She maneuvered around him like the professional snoop he figured she was. Like mother, like daughter.

"Miss Willard, this isn't a good time." The dolls! Just around the corner, a whole hutch full of them awaited her camera and her questions. Quickly, he grabbed her elbow and propelled her forcibly around to face the front door.

"I only require a minute of your time," she objected. She sighed again.

"I don't have a minute," he replied smoothly. "I'm about to leave.”

"But there's no car in your driveway." She cocked an eyebrow significantly.

"Astute of you to notice." David forced himself to smile ingratiatingly. "That must be why you're a reporter."

That remark stopped her with her mouth half open. She obviously couldn't tell whether he was serious or not. Calla gulped air like a guppy. "I--I've been trying to reach you since you moved here." She heaved another Southern sigh.

"As I said, I'm very busy now. I'm sorry, but you'll have to go, Miss Willard."

"But--"

"Perhaps we can chat for a moment at the dance next week," he added, determined to get rid of her before Theo arrived.

"But I write books!" she blurted. "My masterpiece is titled, A Woman’s Purple Onion, and my mother said you'd read it if I brought it to you." She began to dig in her big black bag.

Outside, a horn beeped twice. Theo!

"Your mother lied to you," he said abruptly. God, I can't believe I said that! He resisted a fleeting urge to apologize. The horse-faced woman was beyond rude, beyond obnoxious, beyond foul. She’s worse than her mother!

Calla Willard might have been a reporter, but she certainly wasn't unflappable, he thought as she did a few more guppy impressions. "My mother what?" she demanded.

He turned her to the door again and placed his hands firmly on her shoulders, marching her toward the threshold like a rusty tin soldier. "Nothing," he muttered. "Look, I'll be happy to talk to you at the dance."

He pushed the door open and saw Theo, elegant in a beige trench coat, belted and buttoned, with only a paisley scarf showing at the neck, Her hand was raised to ring the bell and she lowered it smoothly, smiling with those dark red lips. "Mr. Masters," she said warmly, as her eyes traveled distastefully over the length and breadth of Calla Willard. "I'm so glad I caught you at home."

"Why, Miss Pelinore," David purred back. "It seems everyone in town is dropping in on me tonight."

Theo studied him for a brief moment, then her demeanor visibly changed. With a slight straightening of the shoulder and stiffening of her normally mobile lips, she turned from seductively casual to all-business in the time it took for Calla to sigh again.

"I apologize for just dropping in on you like this, but I was on my way down to San Luis Obispo, and I thought I'd see if you'd found that escrow paper we misplaced."

More than his penis was charmed by Theo now. "Yes, Theo, I have it In my office."

Theo stepped through the doorway and smiled at Calla. "Just leaving, dear?" Her voice was filled with cat's claws.

David loved it. "Yes, she is." He led the reporter out the door and onto the porch. "Perhaps I'll see you at the dance, Miss Willard."

"Yes, dear," Theo called after her. "Have you found a date yet?"

Ignoring Theo, Calla abruptly turned a sharp-eyed glare on David. "You said my mother lied, Mr. Masters. Why did you say that?"

Because it was more polite than slugging you. "You misunderstood," he soothed. Theo 's remark had struck him as a little too far below the belt. "I said your mother tried. Tried to talk me into reading your wonderful book, but I can't do it right now." He tried to look helpless--that usually worked for him. "I'm just very overworked right now."

Calla perked up like she'd swallowed a tab of Benzedrine. "If you need help, I can certainly come by and help you with your editing." She grinned, showing her equine overbite. "I'm a great editor. Why, I'll bet I could really improve your books with my talents. You know, you were a little sloppy with that last one--"

He'd been wrong about Theo's remark--it hadn't been nasty enough. "I have an editor." David forced himself to say this politely, despite the fact that he was now seeing several shades of red. How dare she! "But thank you for offering." He nearly choked on the words.

It worked. Calla smiled slightly. "I'd really like to do an in-depth interview." She wet her chapped lips and, sighing, fluttered her colorless lashes at him.

He barely kept himself from spontaneously recoiling at her attempt at flirtation. Talk about horrors! "We'll do that sometime." He smiled sickly. "An in-depth interview. Twenty or thirty minutes. We can sit down at the Guardian office--"

"Or here," she interrupted, sighing and fluttering.