To Eternity (11 page)

Chapter 13

Franklyn sat in the warmth of his hired car with his phone in his hand. Sian twinkled back from the screen, eyes sparkling full of excitement, her glossy red lips open as she laughed. The image didn't please him half as much as it once had. Today, it only added to his sense of self-loathing.

For three hours, he'd tried to gather the courage to hit the number to call her. He'd paced the grounds at Darnwell where the very air seemed to press in on him, crushing his hopes to doubts. The closer he got to calling her, the worse the sensation became. The place carried some kind of energy to thwart him. Since when did anyone or anything intimidate Franklyn Gorsewell? The sour taste of his visit wouldn't go away.

The longer he'd stayed on the grounds of the house, the more his anger robbed him of everything but the need to get out of there. He had, and after speeding out of the gates, thundering along the country lanes, he had pulled onto the motorway. Two junctions farther, he parked in a lay-by on the way into London. He battled with his thoughts on the morning. The sheer foulness of the place clung about him like a wet Mackintosh. An overwhelming sense of defeat rolled over him again. He must get a grip. Make some decisions and soon.

He'd sell the apartment any way. Once it was tarted up, he'd sell the place.

The prospect of returning to the scene of the attack rolled in a bitter wave each time he thought of home. His hotel was impersonal and untainted. No one knew him. There was something to be said for that.

Sian taunted him again from the phone.

He could send a text.

Coward. A text just meant he didn't have to hear the dismissal in her voice.

He found Sian's number and a fresh image, one from two years gone.

Oh, God.

He'd insisted some guy at the party take the picture of them together. Sian, the muse. Sian, the perfect nymph in a gauzy pale robe she'd worn for the fancy dress party they'd attended at some TV celeb's house. She had her hand on his arm, her other hand caressed the laurel wreath he'd worn. Her smile for him still held the same impact. The nymph and Zeus. She had danced with him most of the night.

The ache for her soured his gut and set his senses reeling.

Careful to avoid any challenge, or offer her anything but a handover meeting, he set up a message for her. He stared at the words. Surely, Sian couldn't read any motive but business into that.

She had told him she would leave the company after the shoot. He hadn't believed her and he still didn't. With him in hospital, she'd stepped in and taken over immediately, but she'd not kept him in the loop. The doctors had said it would take him months to recover. They were wrong.

No way could she think he'd simply pass all future control of the company over to her on a permanent basis. She had to know he'd be back.

He tortured himself again as his thumb hovered over the send button. She'd have to respond to his message. She'd never yet ignored one of his texts in all their years together. If he opened the line of communication, she'd have to meet with him to hand control of the company back. Face to face, at least he stood a chance to remind her where she belonged.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He hit the send button. His fingers shook, but he'd done it. He set the phone down, checked the rear view mirror, then pulled out into the slow lane. The little hired car tootled along, windows rattling. Another layer of exasperation wrapped around him like a blanket. By the end of the month, he'd be driving the Porsche. At least he could be sure of one thing in his life.

The small dining room at the hotel had closed by the time he'd arrived. All he could do was order yet another room service blue steak. Rare.

Once in his room, he picked up the remote and put on the TV, its volume muted. He rang down to order dinner, then as he sat waiting for his meal, his gaze kept returning to his phone on the coffee table. Unable to believe she'd ignored him, he twice checked the thing hadn't somehow turned itself off. Each time he put the phone back on the table, a new level of frustration topped the last.

A rap at the door announced dinner. He crossed the room, opened the door, and lifted the silver cover from the plate before letting the waiter in. Blood pooled on the white glaze. Satisfied the chef had cooked this one right, he nodded and stood back so the waiter could enter to set the tray down.

“Anything else, sir?”

“No. Thanks.”

He inhaled the ripe fragrance as he lifted the silver lid again, but even the compelling scent of a blue steak couldn't completely distract him from the phone. Slashing hunks of bloody flesh, he ate fast, wolfing the meat down with his phone sitting in front of him.

Nothing. No reply, not a voicemail or even a text. Sian lived with her phone beside her. Even in bed, her phone always nestled close by. He knew it. He'd called her early more than once just to hear her sultry tones as he roused her from sleep. Her husky voice was sexy enough to drive him to lust-filled thoughts.

She had to have the phone with her.

Unless she was busy with the boyfriend.

He flipped the TV to a different station, then another and another, but it didn't matter what came up on the screen because his attention kept gravitating to the phone and over to the bottle of tablets he'd left on the edge of the dresser. He'd missed two doses already today. He should take one of the powerful tablets now.

No.

The phone stayed silent.

He opened the mini bar. Perfect. He pulled out the two small bottles of Scotch whisky. There would be enough for one hearty belt to help him sleep.

The ice cubes rattled as he tossed a couple in the glass. He twisted the tops off the bottles, each snapping with a little crack. The familiar smell brought a moment of normality into the day's madness. Aching for more, he poured the rich amber liquid over the ice, then sat and sipped.

The fiery brew made a warm pathway to his gut.

No more tablets. He'd begin the process of getting back to being himself.

By the end of the month, he'd return to the office, maybe sooner. The alcohol hit. He took another swig from the glass. He'd welcome anything to quiet his senses and help put his head together so he could work out how to get Sian back. The kidnap plan today had been a bit crazy. He could do better than that.

The fucking mausoleum got the better of him. He needed to focus and get a realistic plan together, maybe set a little bait of his own to bring her back where she belonged. Johansson hadn't been challenged while he was away in the U.S., nor when he got back. It was time he made a move to show he wouldn't let his sweet pea go without repercussions.

He glanced to the silent phone again as he sipped from the glass. A prickle raced over his body. He caught a waft of her beside him, so rare and beautiful, even if illusory, he could taste her, not the drink.

Maybe he could search for her in the dreams. She'd been there once last week, but had vanished as soon as he'd caught her. Tonight, he would try again.

Chapter 14

Sian, still asleep, rolled into the space of his body heat. Magnus bent to press a kiss to her cheek. He smoothed one long spiral tress from where it threatened to fall over her face.

“I'll be back before breakfast, sweetheart. I need to run.” The last word came out like a growl. Gooseflesh lifted the hairs on his arms. At least twice a week he ran circuits of the lake, but today the need to beat the bounds blasted through him with an urgency he'd never experienced as a man. Something he couldn't identify prompted his need to race across the pathways, to circle the grounds.

Quickly he donned a T-shirt, sports trousers, and running shoes. He took one last peek at the beauty in his bed before he made his way downstairs. The quickest exit was through the door in the drawing room. He ducked as he bent to go through.

The chilly morning smelled damp, mossy, and mushroomy, like the loam had chosen this dawn to awake from a long dry sleep. Another scent curled in the air. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He set the timer on his watch and headed down the cinder path with the intention of circling the lake. This run usually took a little over an hour. He'd be back well in time before the camera crew and musicians returned to finish their work.

Mist hovered over the surface of the lake. He breathed deep when he reached the base of the grassy slope by the causeway to the pagoda. A wash of foul odor shook him. He paused to inhale again, hardly crediting what he'd discovered.

Disgusting.

His muscles bunched in tension.

He knew this reek and the one responsible for it. The arrogant bastard had been here!

Sian!

He looked back to the house, suddenly full of fears. Not merely for her safety in the dream world they shared, but in reality, too. Heart thumping, he raced back up the slope, ignored the slippery grass, and hit the cinder path fast. Cranking the speed, he dashed up to the terrace.

As he glanced to the ornate clock on entering the drawing room, he'd beaten his usual time for such a short run by half again. Long ago as a boy, he'd experienced a similar change in his body and its abilities. At first, the change had made him faster, but the later alterations had overwhelmed him in sensations. Could it be possible the impact of the bite on Gorsewell might have repercussions in his body, too? An alpha male ready to mate had to be at his strongest, fastest, and most protective of his chosen partner. Was the vile stink he'd discovered in the Pagoda the final proof he couldn't dismiss?

He tugged off the muddy running shoes before he trod on the fine-weave silk rug and crossed the room with them in hand. He slowed for the polish of the mahogany boards, then hurried down the hallway, up the stairs, and to the master bedroom.

He took the time to control his breathing for several repetitions. Quiet so as not to worry her, he turned the door handle. Light spilled in through the half open drapes. A beam of gold hit the end of the bed.

Angel.

She slept. Her hair a beacon on the pillow.

Not truly angelic, she stirred his sensuality far too deeply for that.

A wave of fear clutched him. The image of her the night Franklyn got into her dreams, the glassy-eyed fear, her cries before he had finally woke her, pierced him like a red hot needle.

Magnus shoved a hand through his sweaty hair. He took another look where she lay in their bed. If he must, he would kill Gorswell before the brute harmed her body or mind. The contact from him couldn't be allowed to escalate further. He must be stopped.

Carelessness on his part created the problem and he had to deal with it.

Another glance at Sian reassured him for now. He'd leave her to sleep a while longer. Still considering his apprehension, he stripped and walked into the wet room where he turned on the shower. The cold jets shocked him to silent agony. But his mind roared a discovery too savage to be borne. The next full moon Franklyn would turn!

Teeth clenched, Magnus edged the temperature control a notch hotter, then another, until the chill warmed.

Gorsewell would become wolf and need to kill. He must be developing fast if he felt confident enough to come and leave a scent mark here. There was no way to prevent the full moon transformation, only a hope if he came here as a new wolf, he could be managed.

The new made werewolf would return to the house. That much was obvious. He would come to try to claim his place and Sian, too. Did Franklyn fully realize what was happening or why? Perhaps he might.

Even after so many years since the event, he recalled his own development in exquisite detail. The memory of the final process of his first transformation remained a bitter pain. Though his father had tried to prepare him, he had been terrified. The fear had never truly gone. So many years had passed until he found that his rage freed him to gain some control.

Like the opium he had used for a while, the drugs in the hospital must have prevented Franklyn turning in the last full moon. This next, the process would become unmanageable.

Franklyn would kill without compunction.

All he knew of Sian's boss promised the man would revel in the physicality of a new and powerful form. He'd kill. He would delight in it, and once he had, he would want to satisfy another need. The need to mate.

That's why he came here yesterday. Why he left a scent imprint of himself.

He grasped the shower bar.

Franklyn believes he can take Sian from me. I am changing because of him!

Alpha status would bring more speed and strength. Both would be welcome, but he would concentrate his hardest to develop the other additional skills he'd need to protect his mate. He would fight with everything he had to keep her safe.

A tremble shook through his cheek, his hand, and his fingers, followed by a surge of energy. He could hardly hold back the growl forming in his throat. His vision clouded.

He shook his head. Not now. It was morning. There would be no point.

He couldn't feel the water lashing his skin and a fresh rush of wolf energy raced around his body.

He would master this, accept the strength of the wolf, and take command.

The need to give in burned from within.

Not yet. Hold it. Stop it. Bear it!

The fizzing blood pulsed with less intensity through his veins. His vision cleared to normal in the steam.

Methodically he washed with the blue shower gel, his hair, too, yet still he could scent the vile stink wafting across the lake from the pagoda. All the time he stood under the powerful jets of the shower, he restrained the need in his blood. By allowing the active agent to filter in drip by drip, it dispersed before compelling his transformation. This, too, must be part of the changes within him since he bit Franklyn. He'd never had this amount of power to influence when he might take the wolf form. If only he'd realized the true magnitude of his mistake.

Too late now to harbor regrets for his clumsiness and folly at not killing Franklyn outright. He must deal with something worse—a new wolf, one hungry for its place, its power in a pack, and worst of all, greedy for Sian.

I
must
accept the role of
Alpha.
I
made
him
what
he
will
be.
He
owes
me
deference.
One
way
or
another,
I
will
take
it
from
him. If he's not willing to give it, I'll
see
him
whine
for
his
life!

* * * *

“Thank you,” Sian sat up in bed, yawning as she accepted the coffee cup. “You must have been up for a while.” She touched his damp hair. “You've showered already?”

He nodded.

“Are you all right? You're not worried about the crew coming in today are you?”

“No. I'll spend the morning in the library.”

She sipped the coffee. “Then what's troubling you? I can see something is—feel it.”

“Nothing to worry you. We'll talk about it later today after the film crew has departed.”

“Is it important?” She set her cup down on the bedside table and pushed back the sheet. “Should I be worried?”

He gave a quick shake of his head. “No, not this morning. You concentrate on what you need to do to see the filming completed. I'll go down to make us some breakfast while you shower and dress. Scrambled egg and toast in the kitchen?”

“Sounds great.”

Magnus got up from where he sat on the edge of the bed. Every line in his torso spoke of his tension. Her concern grew. She took her coffee cup into the wet room, drank some more as she cleaned her face, then stepped into the shower.

The scent of toast met her in the kitchen. Magnus sat staring out of the window. He didn't turn to meet her as she entered the room. Her certainty that something disturbed him deeply grew. “Is this for me?” she asked sitting opposite him across the table.

“Yes.” He lifted the silver cover.

“Thanks.” She sloshed a dollop of ketchup on her plate, then picked up her knife and fork. “Everything will be over by lunch. I promise I'll do all I can to make sure the filming is complete.”

He gave a small clipped smile. “I know you will.”

“There won't be any problems, I'm certain.” She set her knife down and patted her pocket. “Oh, heck, my phone is upstairs. I'd better go fetch it. There could be all kinds of messages.”

“Finish your breakfast. I'll fetch it for you. Where did you leave it?” He stood.

“Thanks, I think it's on the small chest of drawers in my boudoir. I can't believe I forgot it.”

“I think you were a little distracted last night. I'll go and get it for you.” He strode out.

She ate another mouthful and took a sip of coffee, all the time wishing she could get to the heart of whatever worried him. The clock showed almost seven. The crew would turn up soon; she'd not have time to discuss anything with Magnus until they left. After today, there would be little to do for Gorsewell Productions since the next big project was some months away. Evie could handle most of the queries that might come up.

There would be time for Magnus. They could settle back to planning for the conservatory restoration and the resurrection of the walled garden. She sighed. The prospect of meeting the director of Green Girls still concerned her.

So many complications.

“Here you are.” Magnus offered her the phone.

“Thanks so much.” She took it to check the messages. One stood out like a beacon.

Franklyn. What did he want?

She glanced up with a smile. “All's well,” she said, hoping Magnus didn't see the lie in her eyes or hear it in her voice.

The last thing she wanted to do was to open the message with him clearing the table. She'd look at it upstairs. “Thanks for breakfast. I'd better go up to see if anyone's arrived yet. I'll come to find you in the library when the house is clear of everyone. We'll have a late lunch then. Yes?”

He nodded. “I think you would say ‘that's a plan.'”

Pocketing the phone, she laughed as she hurried out of the kitchen. She dashed up the staircase and into the long corridor heading down to the ballroom.

The fabulous room, ready for the rest of the shoot today, was still and quiet, a sharp contrast from the music and dancing filmed yesterday. She went to stand by one of the long French windows overlooking the terrace. Here, with plenty of light to see, she opened the message from Franklyn.

Shit.

The message on the phone screen glowed.

Hope
the
Timeless
production
goes
well,
my
Rosebud.
Am
back
in
town
as
of
today.
Will
be
in
the
office
by
the
end
of
the
month.
Will
call
next
week to set up a time for handover.
We
need
to
meet.

Her gut rolled, souring breakfast. The last thing she wanted was to meet with him. There wasn't the need. She could do a handover via e-mail. One of her palms tingled. Fear at his violence came back with a punch, the revulsion of finding him in her dreams, of evading his efforts to…

God, if what he'd done the last couple of weeks had been in the flesh, it would be attempted rape.

How darn typical of Franklyn to send a message like that. Like nothing had happened between them. Vile bastard.

Even the word
Rosebud
sickened her. He'd called her that for years, from her earliest days at the office, when he'd been so attentive. All the time he helped build her career, she'd been Rosebud. At first, she'd been pleased with the little nickname, but not now. Never again.
I'm
not
your
Rosebud,
Franklyn.
She'd come to understand that the unease she had felt with his petty bullying, his demands for the kind of clothes she wore when working, the lascivious comments, and the way he always attempted to touch her, was justified. All the things he did; they weren't right.

True, she owed him a lot. Without him, she'd probably have struggled like so many other seventeen-year-olds who didn't live with parents. Even so, no matter how much he'd helped her, it didn't give him the right to treat her like he owned her.