The Haunting of Brier Rose (11 page)

"Rose! Rose!" Taylor's voice rang out.

Hands reached for her. She fought them off and scrambled to her
feet, jerking back to consciousness. Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw
movement out of the corner of her eye as a black figure slid out of her range
of vision. She whirled around to follow the vision but saw nothing other than
the edge of the balcony and the fingers of ivy crawling up the side of the
house. No one could have possibly disappeared so quickly without jumping over
the balcony, and to jump from such a height would mean certain death.

She whirled back around, convinced that Taylor was the one who
had been touching her. His hands had caressed her shoulders and stroked her
breasts, and she had enjoyed the sensation. A deep sense of shame washed over
her at her base reaction to him. What kind of woman would let a stranger do
that to her and then actually enjoy it? Outraged at Taylor and herself, she
raised her hand and slapped him soundly on the face.

For an instant they stared at each other—Rose with her hand
still raised and Taylor with his palm to his cheek—and for an instant she
thought she had just made a terrible mistake in striking him. Then Rose tried
to dash away, but he caught her elbow. He wrenched her back to face him, holding
her arm so high that he nearly pulled her off her feet. In the darkness, his
eyes blazed at her.

"What in the hell was that for?" he demanded.

"Let me go!"

"What's the matter with you! Are you hallucinating or
something?"

"You monster! Let me go!" she tried to yank her arm
free, but he held her tightly. She raised her other arm to pummel him into
releasing her, but he caught her forearm in midair and pinned both arms to his
chest, trapping her between his body and the railing of the balcony.

She froze, highly aware of the great drop behind her, while he stepped
closer until each hard plane of his lower body pressed into her soft curves. Up
close, he seemed even more magnificently built than he had appeared that morning
with the towel draped around his shoulders. And the intimate posture of his
hips against hers sent a flush creeping up her neck.

"Bad dream, Brier Rose?" he growled, tightening her
grip on her wrists.

"It was no dream!" she retorted, glancing up at him,
outraged. His face was much too near, his mouth far too close for comfort. She
struggled, but he only stepped closer, impressing his male flesh against her.
To her alarm, she noticed he was becoming aroused. Frantic, she arched backward
in an attempt to distance herself from the powerful plane of his torso,
but she only managed to present her breasts to him. He looked down at her, and
she flushed anew with shame and helplessness. "Let me go!"

"Not until you tell me what's going on.”

“Creep!”

“Why did you hit me?"

"Because," she retorted, "you crept up on me when
I was sleeping and touched me."

"I didn't touch you."

"You did so. In places you had no business touching."

"The hell I did." His grip eased, but he didn't let her
go. "Why are you up here anyway?"

''Why are you?"

"I heard you shouting and came up to investigate."

"A likely story, Mr. Wolfe."

"You were ranting and raving out here. You were having a
nightmare."

"Nightmare, hah!"

"Probably from a bad batch of that herbal tea of
yours."

Rose glared at him. Was he trying to be funny? She was in no mood
for humor. Not in the least. But he obviously wasn't going to release her until
she quieted down. She tried but failed to break eye contact—disturbed by
the way his eyes had changed from impersonal black to an intimate brown full of
warmth and dancing lights. Even his posture had changed. He still pressed
against her, but the pressure had gone from rigid strength to a languid weight
that created an unfamiliar tightening between her legs. The sensation soon
blossomed to an intense throb. She felt as if she would melt from the inside
out if she allowed Taylor to go on pressing against her.

She knew she should pull away, but the sensation drugged her. She
seemed to have no self-control when it came to this man. How could she react
this way to him? She hardly knew him. He had insulted her, had dismissed her
with a wave of his hand, and had taken such liberties with her that she should
be slapping his face again, not succumbing to the touch of his body. She had to
get away from him, had to sort through the flood of emotions he unleashed
inside her. Rose forced herself to relax, knowing the only way to free herself was
to trick him into thinking she was calm. She closed her eyes, willing her
breathing to slow, even though she was highly conscious of Taylor's own uneven
breathing.

While she stood there with her eyes closed, she felt him bend
down to her lips. He touched them lightly as if to taste her, while his fingers
snaked more tightly around her wrists. Rose choked back a cry of protest as he
crushed her forearms against his chest and slanted his mouth over hers for a
deeper, more lingering kiss. The tip of his nose brushed hers in a surprisingly
suggestive way. For an instant Rose tilted her head back, surrendering to his
probing mouth. His lips were warm and soft, much softer than they appeared. And
the taste of him was surprisingly wonderful. Surprisingly comforting. He had
mentioned showing her how glorious it could be to be touched by a
man—really touched. Was this what he had meant?

As he kissed her, she forgot about her disturbing dreams of the past,
about Bea's shattering revelations, and about her frantic attempt to escape her
own thoughts. And for one wonderful moment she felt nothing but the glorious
blankness of rapture as worry gave way to pure physical delight.

Then she remembered the way he had treated her and the things he
had said to her, and she pulled away from his mouth.

"Don't you ever do that again!" she exclaimed breathlessly.

"You liked it."

"You're mistaken, Mr. Wolfe. Now let me go!"

"All right," he replied huskily, but he still didn't
let go of her wrists. "If you promise not to slap me again."

"Only if you vow to not touch me again."

"I don't know if I want to promise that." Smiling crookedly,
Taylor released her wrists, only to slide his hands around her shoulders. She
flinched at his touch, her flesh even more tender now that the briers had had
time to send out their poison in her flesh.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"I've got stickers in my back."

"Sorry." He immediately lifted his hands. "I
forgot."

As if he cared. She grimaced, mostly to hide an acute attack of
nerves, and was surprised when he stepped back, pulling the heat and pressure
of his body away from hers. The sudden freedom confused Rose. She stumbled sideways
along the rail to put some space between them in case he tried to capture her
again.

"I'll bet those briers caused your nightmare," he ventured.

"I don't think so."

"You move as if you're in pain."

"I am, Mr. Wolfe."

"Is there something I can do to help?"

"I don't want your help."

She saw him blink twice and step toward the wall as she passed
by. If she could make it to her room and lock herself inside, she just might
escape him for the night. Then in the morning she would decide what to
do—stay at Brierwood or give in to Bea's odd fears and flee.

Before she had gone more than a few steps, however, she heard the
clatter of Taylor's cane and looked over her shoulder to see the cane slip
through the uprights of the banister and sail down to the ground below, where
it bounced end over end and skidded across the grass near the entryway.

Rose whipped around to see what had happened to Taylor. He had
stumbled through the French doors and was holding his hands to his ears as if
trying to block out a loud noise. He staggered forward, bumping the dressing
table and knocking off old bottles of perfume and the silver brush and comb.
She could sense his fear as he propped himself against the bedpost to keep from
banging into something else in his blindness.

Against her better judgment, Rose ventured back to him but kept
at arm's length, in case he was trying to trick her.

"Taylor?" she queried, peering at his face. His skin
was pale, his mouth parted as he gasped for breath, and his eyes were tightly
shut, causing sunbursts of creases to bloom at the outer corners. The scar on
his cheek pulled awkwardly to the left, dragging up that side of his mouth into
a pained sneer.

"Taylor?" she repeated. "What's happening?"

"The noise...it's so loud—"

"I don't hear any noise."

"I do. And it's about to break my eardrums." He reached
out for her, feeling the empty air. "Rose, get me away from here."

She stared at his outstretched hand, wondering if he would grab
her again and not release her. But if that were the case, why would he have let
her go in the first place?

Rose stepped closer and slipped her hands around his upper arm.
The feel of his firm flesh sent a bolt of desire through her. She had to keep
herself from gliding her hand along his well-defined biceps, so hard beneath
his shirtsleeve. Whatever Taylor had done before his car accident, he had kept
himself in excellent shape.

"Get me out of here,'' he gasped.

"Where?"

"Anywhere! Downstairs."

She pulled him toward the stairs, urging him in a loud voice to
watch for the first step. Slowly she guided him to the landing and then all the
way down to the foyer.

"Any better yet?" she asked, wishing he would open his
eyes.

"A bit." He unclamped his left hand from his ear.
"Take me outside, Rose."

"It might help if you opened your eyes."

"It won't do any good. I can't see a damn thing."

Rose glanced at the front door. What if the Rottweilers tried to
attack her again? She wasn't crazy about being outside at night. In fact, she
hadn't gone outside in the dark since she was five and had tried to run
away—the same incident she had just relived in her dream.

Blocking out the disturbing memory, Rose reached for the
doorknob. If she refused to go outside, she would have to tell Taylor her reasons
for doing so, and she wasn't about to discuss her childhood with him, not under
hypnosis and certainly not when she was awake and completely lucid.

She opened the door and guided him out to the walk, carefully
checking to see that the front door was unlocked behind them. Then she turned
to Taylor.

"Any better?" she asked.

He nodded and brushed his fingertips over his eyelids.

"It's cooler out here," she added.

"Yes." He breathed heavily, as if he had been relieved
of a great weight.

"Is the noise gone?"

"No, but it’s fainter." He opened his eyes and looked
around.

"What does it sound like?"

"Ever hear a pipe organ?" Taylor asked, running a hand
through his hair.

"Yes, in church."

"Well, the noise sounds like someone playing all the keys
full blast."

"Funny, but I didn't hear anything at all."

At least
not this time
.

But Rose distinctly recalled the sound she had heard the night of
Donald's death. It had sounded like a pipe organ played at full blast. Taylor
had described it perfectly. Was there some connection? Why hadn't she heard it
this time, though? Did it mean that she was in danger? Could Taylor have something
to do with the sound and Donald's death? Yet he hadn't even been at Brierwood
at the time and had acted genuinely surprised when informed of the death of her
alleged grandfather. Rose didn't know what to think or what to say, or whether
or not to trust Taylor, especially since Bea didn't trust him.

Instead of confiding in him, she walked across the grass and
retrieved his cane. She returned to his side.

"Here's your cane, Mr. Wolfe," she said, holding it up
to his hand.

"Thanks." His fingers curled around the wooden handle.

Rose looked at him in the darkness. His face was full of sharp
shadows in the dim light, and his expensive watch twinkled as he moved. He was
taller than her by about a head and looked to be in top condition, with the
exception of his leg. Either his clothes were hand-tailored to fit him or his
figure had the proportions ideally suited to the conservative cotton shirt and
jeans he was wearing. Rose guessed that his wide shoulders and slender hips
would look good in anything he chose to wear, be it twills or tuxedo, and that
he would feel at home in both.

He sighed. At the sound, she looked up at his face, hoping he was
recovering and would want to go in soon. The talk of strange noises and being
out in the night air turned her skin to gooseflesh and made her teeth chatter,
even though the evening was balmy. She clenched her jaw and hugged her chest
with her arms, keeping a close watch for any sign of the dogs in the shrubbery.

Taylor pinched the bridge of his thin nose, as if he had a
headache, and Rose realized he wasn’t ready to return to the house just yet.

"Have you seen a doctor about your eyes?"

"Yeah. Lots of them."

"And?"

"If they knew what was wrong, do you think I'd be here at
Brierwood falling over my own shoelaces?"

He turned and walked away from her. She trailed after him.

"How long have you had these spells?"

"For a month or so, ever since the accident."

Rose looked down. "The same accident when you hurt your
leg?"

"Yeah. The accident that ruined my life."

"Ruined? What do you mean?"

He laughed bitterly and looked up, his body outlined by the moon.
"I can't see, Rose. I've been physically disabled and disfigured. My life
will never be the same."

"And what was your life like before?"

"It was my own. But it won't be again if I don't lick this
vision problem."