The Haunting of Brier Rose (12 page)

"Why?"

"Because I'm as good as blind. Can't you understand?"
He hobbled away from her, down the walk into the deepening shadows.

She clasped her hands in front of her, reluctant to follow, but
afraid of being left behind. "What is your life really like?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, is it happy? Sad? Do you have a wife, children,
lots
of friends? Do you do anything creative?"

"What does doing creative things have to do with life?"

"Life is a creation, Mr. Wolfe. I think that if we aren't
creating something new here and there, then we aren't really living. We're
simply marking time."

Taylor paused and looked back at her. "Where'd you hear
that?"

"Nowhere. It's just how I feel."

He gave a derisive snort. "Why all the questions?"

"I was simply wondering."

"Don’t waste your time." He turned toward the house,
walking as quickly as he could with his injured leg. Rose followed, wondering
if his brusqueness was a front to disguise his feelings of hopelessness.

He yanked open the door, and she looked up at him.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing. My eyes are fine now. And so is my life."

"I was simply trying to—"

"From now on, keep your questions to yourself, all right? I
am not your concern. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly." She squared her tender shoulders and swept
past him into the house.

She heard the door latch behind her and the thump of Taylor's
gait as he moved toward the stairs.

"By the way, that kiss upstairs meant nothing, either. I was
merely trying to snap you back to your senses."

She glared at his back. "I quite understand, Mr.
Wolfe."

At her acerbic reply he turned on the stair. "I don't want
you to get the wrong idea. Some women read more into kisses than they
should."

"Really?" She raised her chin, not about to admit that
the kiss upstairs had been her very first. "Actually, I had forgotten all
about it. We hysterical melodramatic types have bad memories, too."

For a moment he coolly regarded her. She felt a frisson of unease
shimmer down her spine. Had she overstepped her bounds again? Was this man a
threat to her, as Bea suspected? And why did he bring out the worst in her?
Rose's heart thumped in her chest as he continued to survey her.

Suddenly the grandfather clock near the foot of the stairs struck
midnight, shattering the tense moment between them. Taylor waited until the last
chime faded away. Then, without a word, he turned and hobbled up the stairs,
leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

Outside, a huge crack of lightning split the stillness, echoed by
a rumble of thunder that rattled the windowpanes. The storm had arrived.

Later, Taylor lay in bed, his fingers laced together behind his
head as his thoughts raced. What was it about him that Rose distrusted? He had
never done anything to hurt her or frighten her. He’d been his usual asshole
self. But that didn’t make him untrustworthy. That made him honest. What she
saw was his true self, no facades,
no
games.

But why had he been so cruel to her, telling her that the kiss
meant nothing, when he damned well knew he had wanted to brand her as his own
with that kiss?

He sighed, thinking of the way her soft mouth had opened beneath
his, and a rush of heat passed over him. He wondered what it would be like to
embrace her and really kiss her, to feel her graceful arms around his neck, and
her hands in his hair? His loins tightened with desire at the slightest thought
of her. Yet such musings only served to torment him. She didn't trust him, and
he had vowed, if only to himself, to keep his distance.

He slept fitfully and much later had a strange dream—the
same dream he had experienced during his car wreck, when he had sat pinned by a
tangle of metal and the twisted steering column, his leg crushed and his senses
swimming. In the dream, he had risen out of his cloud of pain and hovered above
the foggy highway, surveying the line of smashed cars with an odd sense of
detachment, as if he weren't even involved. He saw his body in the demolished
Jeep, his face a bloody mess, and barely recognized himself or the car. In fact,
he felt immensely relieved that he wasn't bound in that body any longer.

Then he heard his name and felt himself float upward. He looked
up and saw a bright light above him. At first the light seemed to glow just
above his head. Then he realized the glow extended as far as he could see into
the heavens and was tremendously bright at the far end. He felt wonderful and
unafraid, and more than happy to travel to a new dimension. He’d always been
ready for a new adventure. He headed for the glowing light and knew he was
grinning like a fool.

"Taylor," a woman called. He didn't recognize the
voice. He was terrible with names, but he never forgot a person’s voice.

He looked to the side, his grin slipping, wondering who was
keeping him from his path toward the beckoning light. A figure stood in
silhouette against the light, a figure of a tall, slender woman with long hair.
She raised a hand to reach for him.

"Taylor," she called.

He slowed his progress and stared at her, but the light blurred
his vision, and he was unable to see her features or the color of her hair. All
he could make out was the graceful curve of her body and the sweep of a long
gown.

"You must go back."

"Go back?" Taylor croaked in surprise. "But
why?"

"You have been chosen."

"Chosen for what?"

"A task. Just like the other times."

"What other times?" He glanced at the light beyond,
impatient to continue, wondering
who
the woman thought
she was, trying to detain him like this. "I don't remember being
chosen."

"You were chosen, Taylor, but failed. Maybe this time you
will complete your task and end the cycle."

"I would rather just go to the light."

"If you go to the light, you will be damning someone
else."

"Who?"

The woman answered, but Taylor couldn't hear over the sudden
whine of a siren as a highway patrol car sped to the scene of the pileup.

"Who?" Taylor demanded, while the vision of the woman
flickered before his eyes. It looked like she going to fade to nothingness
before he got an answer.

"Go back, Taylor. I beg you. You are my only hope."

As the image of the woman flickered, the light that poured around
her touched off a scarlet-and-gold nimbus that blinded him. Taylor staggered
backward, holding his forearms up to ward off the blinding glare.

"I give you a special gift, Taylor Wolfe. Use it and save
yourself this time."

The siren grew louder as the patrol car pulled to a stop on the
highway. Taylor looked down but saw only blobs of color dancing before his
eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus, and his vision gradually returned.
Below him he could see the flashing blue light and hear the distant whine of another
siren. Then, as if in punishment for losing focus on the wonderful light above,
he felt himself being pulled back to the Jeep, to the pain, and to the rusty
taste of blood in his mouth.

"No!" he whispered.

"Taylor!"

He moaned and tried to shake his head. He didn't want to go back.
He didn't want to feel the agony in his leg and head. If he could just
concentrate on the light above instead of the sounds of the highway patrol
cars...

"Mr. Wolfe!"

"Mr. Wolfe, are you awake?" Rose knocked on Taylor's
bedroom door, hoping he wouldn't be too long in answering. She had made his
breakfast, as Bea had gone back to bed with one of her debilitating migraines.
On the tray were a wedge of blueberry whole-wheat coffee cake, fluffy eggs,
sliced melon, freshly squeezed grapefruit juice and steaming coffee. The food
sat under silver domes, but the coffee was open to the air, sending a feather
of fragrant steam into the chilly morning air. Luckily Taylor was up, and he
opened his door shortly after she knocked. He was dressed in a pair of jeans
and a wrinkled blue-and-white-striped shirt with the sleeves rolled to his
elbows. The shirt was unbuttoned and revealed a narrow glimpse of his
well-developed chest. As he held open the door for her, Rose wondered if he had
slept in his clothes.

"Well!" he exclaimed. "Where's Mrs. Jacoby this
morning?"

"She isn't feeling well." At his cue, she swept into
the room and deposited the tray on the table in front of the sofa. The movement
pulled her dress over her shoulders, and she couldn't suppress a small cry of
pain.

"What's the matter?" Taylor asked, coming up behind
her.

"It's the briers. They're sore."

"Why don't you take than out?"

"I would," she turned and faced him, "but I'd have
to be a contortionist to reach most of them."

He tilted his head slightly and studied her, and she could see
the realization dawn on his face that he might be able to help her. She backed
away. The last thing she wanted to do was to show the location of the offending
briers to Taylor. Some were on skin she hadn't revealed to another human being
since she was a baby.

"Eat your breakfast, Mr. Wolfe. Your coffee's getting cold,
and the coffee cake is best eaten piping hot."

"They can wait. Right now I think I should have a look at
your back."

"No," she protested, backing up even farther.
"I'll be all right."

"You don't want the briers to get infected, do you? Of all
people, you should know that."

"I know, but I—"

Taylor ignored her protests and turned on his heel to limp into
the bathroom without the use of his cane. He came back with a pair of tweezers.

"Lie down on the bed," he instructed, motioning toward
the rumpled burgundy comforter.

She stared at it, her feet rooted to the floor. Lie on his bed?
It seemed like such an alien place now that he had branded it with the shape of
his body and the scent of his skin and hair. The thought of reclining in his
nest sent all kinds of thrills shooting through her—both good and bad.

"Rose, lie down, or I won't be able to help you."

She glanced at his face and then
back
toward the bed. What he said was true. She needed help, and he was the only
person around who could relieve her suffering. Rose took a nervous step toward
the bed and then paused.

"The briers are all over my back, Mr. Wolfe." She felt
herself blush fiercely. "And
..
.
well
... lower."

"You mean on your ass?" he asked, a slow grin lifting
the left corner of his mouth.

"Yes." She stared at the far wall, trying to maintain
some decorum in the face of enduring a most humiliating experience. "On my
bottom."

"I'll tell you what, Rose. We'll unbutton your dress at the
back there and do the top part, and then work on
your
,
er... bottom. That way you won't be completely naked at any one time."

She was relieved at his thoughtfulness.

"That sounds like a good plan," she replied stiffly,
putting a knee on his mattress.

"Go ahead and lie down," he urged, his voice less harsh
than usual. "I don't bite, you know. I’m not an animal."

But he did fondle. She remembered the way he had touched her
breasts in the study and made than ache and tingle. She remembered the way his
kiss had melted her from the inside out. Rose lay on the bed and vowed she
would keep this session as medicinal as possible. Being in his bedroom and
lying on his bed was a dangerous situation for someone who had no experience
with men.

As the side of her face sank into the down comforter, she was
enveloped in his scent, a tangy fragrance with a hint of saltiness, as if he
had been out in the wind and had captured it in his hair. Rose closed her eyes
and scrunched the comforter with her fists, blotting out the image of Taylor's
eyes and the way they had melted to a deep brown when he had held her in his
arms the night before. She felt his fingers unbuttoning her dress. He didn't
fumble once with the tiny buttons. Under ordinary circumstances, and when in
full command of his body, Taylor probably never fumbled or stumbled with
anything. She was seeing him at his worst in his wounded, semi-blinded state
and wondered what he had been like before his accident.

Cool air swept over her burning back as he gently pulled away
each side of her bodice. Rose breathed in and held herself stiff as he
unfastened her bra and laid aside the straps.

Taylor winced when he saw her back. Her shoulders were scratched
and dotted with tiny brown briers, as were her shoulder blades and the muscles
along her spine. Even the backs of her arms were sprinkled with stickers.
Removing the briers might take quite a while. Fortunately he was accustomed to
working for hours on his models, which required intense concentration and a
steady hand.

He looked down at her back, imagining how it must appear without
the festering briers. Her skin was like flawless porcelain edged in rose—the
kind of skin possessed by a mere handful of women, the kind of milk and honey
skin that cried out to be caressed and protected from harsh elements. He
paused, his hand inches from her shoulder, as he realized that
he
was a harsh element, a broken-down
man with years of experience that had roughened his edges and jaded his once
unflappable optimism. To touch such perfection would be like cutting chiffon
cake with a rusty rasp. He had no business stroking her fair, lush skin.

Gingerly, he moved aside the long strands of her dark red hair,
marveling at its silkiness. Most women he knew treated their hair with
permanent waves, or sprays and gels that stiffened it and made it feel crispy.
And then there were women who wore their hair nearly as short as his, a style
that robbed a woman of her femininity, as far as he was concerned. The texture
of Rose's hair was unlike any he had ever felt. It seemed virginal, if the word
could be applied to hair.