To Eternity (9 page)

“Great, I was so scared you'd send me home.”

“No, I think you've done us a favor, too. This green is going to look so much better, more dramatic than all the pale stuff the other dancers are wearing.” Sian gave Jerry a hug. “And as for you, well, what can I say?”

He beamed back.

“Sian, I've set up the bedroom with the props you wanted. You want to come up stairs and check?” One of the property girls called from the doorway.

She turned from the wardrobe master. “Sure, Jo. I'm itching to see how the design we made has worked out.” She followed the young woman up the stairs.

“I hope you like it. I think it's great.” Jo opened the double doors to the guest suite.

“Wow! It's fabulous. I knew the colors would work. Those blinds you suggested make all the difference. It was a good idea to get them. Do you think the camera crew will be happy with the light level?”

Jo nodded. “I dragged one of them up here earlier. He seemed happy enough.”

“Really?” Sian smiled.

“Nothing like that, at all times professional.”

“Good. I'd best go down. The guys from the band must have drunk enough caffeine to rouse them by now. Maybe we can get together at lunch time.”

“Sure, see you about half-twelve.”

Sian made her way down the corridor to the stairs. A sense of connection with reality hit her. This was the life she'd lived and loved. The last two months with Magnus seemed more like a sexual fantasy, where she'd tasted the fulfillment of so much desire. Somehow, she must convince him to make her his mate. Only then, would things stay the same between them. She didn't want to think what might happen if he continued to refuse her wish. She'd never thought of herself as being vain, but the prospect of growing old while he remained as he was frightened her. No way would she want him to see her in old age. Couples aging together was something different.

He had to make her like him.

She descended the stairs, pleased to hear the screeching chords of an electric guitar. The guys must be getting ready. That they'd agreed to play live thrilled her. The effect would be much better for the whole shoot.

“Oh, wow. You look so authentic.” She stared at the two lead dancers in their eighteenth century costumes. The white wigs, the lace and satin, the heavy makeup—all of it just as she'd seen in the paintings Magnus showed her. “Amazing.”

“Thanks, chuck. I can't wait to murder this one, she's been moaning all morning about the skirts.”

The girl snapped a glance to her partner. “You try going for a pee in this thing.”

“No real murder, hey? Remember, you two are supposed to be passionately in love.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the girl said as she grabbed his silk clad arm. “Come on, Romeo. We'll go through the lift sequence again.”

They strode off toward the ballroom. Sian's sense of presence shifted back to the exquisite experience she'd shared with Magnus last night. No one could wish for anything more beautiful. She couldn't be without him. She would be a shell and nothing more.

Chapter 10

Franklyn limped to the courtyard where the food wagon stood, got a coffee, and with his hat dipped low on his brow, parked in a shadowy corner to drink it. Astonishing how a gray raincoat and a fedora, combined with a black walking stick, turned him into an invisible man. Best solution all considered. No matter what, there was no way he'd have missed this shoot. From the little he'd seen so far, things looked well organized, typical Sian. He'd taught her well. She'd sure been eager to learn. They'd shared breakfast meetings in the park that dragged through to dinner in the evening. Days, weekends, he'd given her both so he could talk her through each task when setting up a job, introduce her to the musicians, artists, and technicians who were important to his world. All the time and effort he'd spent meant she had learned fast until she had developed much of the skill of an expert in her field with the panache of a young woman about town.

What a bloody fool he'd been. So many people had told him how good they looked together. No one once asked if he truly was her uncle. He shouldn't have waited.

He inhaled and winced. The scent of hot coffee and fried onions couldn't mask the underlying smell here.

Prickles of gooseflesh pebbled his skin. A reaction to the odor of this place he couldn't control. Something familiar in the mix of scents goaded his senses, raised his need to leave a mark of himself here so Johansson would know he'd been present today.

The lusty scream of a tormented electric guitar blasted into the morning. The wails echoed around the courtyard. Sound, raw and hot, thrummed through his veins.

He had to hand it to Sian. She'd worked her little ass hard, quite literally, to make sure the
Timeless
film happened here. Once he got her back to London where she belonged, he'd find a way to express his pleasure at the results of her work.

The coffee revolted his stomach. Since the attack, things he used to relish the taste of didn't satisfy in the same way. None of the doctors offered reasons for the changes. They fobbed him off with the usual line; it could be the medication.

He didn't need their excuses or platitudes. He'd a better idea what was happening. Being here today reinforced his suspicions.

The creature that attacked him wasn't an animal. It was something more. A stirring in his gut told him the beast came from this place. He'd hunted once on safari. This morning his blood sang in the same way as he drove to Darnwell. He'd trailed his quarry. As soon as he set foot out of the car, his body tingled. He loved the edgy sharpness still powering through him.

The sight of the big bastard that Sian was screwing sealed the deal. Johansson was behind all this. He was both attacker and prey.

When the over-muscled owner of the house spoke to him in the corridor, he'd reeled in astonishment. Couldn't get his head together fast enough to say what he should have. Who the fuck did this guy think he was issuing orders to a total stranger?

Franklyn barked out a laugh. The last thing he'd any intention of doing was telling Sian “lover boy” would meet her after the shoot. If he had his way, he'd be driving her down the motorway to his hotel.

The music splintered his thoughts. Leaning heavily on the stick, he walked over to drop his polystyrene cup in the bin. Despite the reek, he'd take a look inside the house, maybe see the amazing mirrored room Sian had sent him pictures of when he agreed to hire the place. If he managed to get in to see the room, he'd take a wander round the grounds after, and then call Sian's phone.

Sian. Surely he would find her here. He breathed deep and discovered the exquisite aroma he knew so well. Sian. A beautiful scent in direct contrast to the beast smell that soured the day. She was close, might even have walked this courtyard less than an hour ago. He followed the lure of her around the corner onto a terrace overlooking a lawn.

Two of the dancers he knew, both in full makeup, costume, and debating loudly, stalked past. He hunched his shoulders so they wouldn't recognize him.

“I told you on the third beat be ready for the lift. Where were you?” the male dancer asked.

“Concentrating on not falling arse over tit because of the flower pot thing. You're such a pain,” his partner replied.

Franklyn grinned. Nothing changed. They'd used this pair of married dancers a couple of times. How those two lived together, he'd no idea, because they fought constantly. Yet on screen, they exuded a magic chemistry. They always came across as passionate lovers.

Once Sian saw sense, she'd be the same with him. They might disagree about a few minor matters; he knew she disapproved of his little treats, like how much he drank, or the occasional snort, and the work trips to the US, but everyone would know they were right together.

An unusual half-door that stood open offered him a quick entrance to the house. Her lingering scent beckoned him. He ducked inside, stepped into a lemon yellow room with sofas and tables, big vases with the kind of oriental designs he loathed. The place was a mausoleum. How the hell did someone as electrifying as Sian live with all this? Sian was neon, bold and bright. She didn't belong in this house of the dead. His Rosebud needed the energy of the city, the glitz she enjoyed, a night at a good dance club before a long slow fuck when he got her home.

He walked through into a portrait-hung corridor and made his way along, side-stepping the spaghetti lengths of black cables running down the passageway. Two large guys, both dressed in dark blue sweats and T-shirts, hulked by the door, but neither challenged him.

Useless security. He'd change the company they used after this shoot. Anyone could get in here. Limping along, he eyed the portraits.

A fresh waft of her scent hit him. There she stood.

Instant arousal gave him a yardstick hard-on. He ducked into an alcove along the side of the wall, but could still see her. Today, her jeans fit like a second skin. The little white T-shirt clung, outlining her breasts. Her sweet, pointy little nipples beckoned him to suck.

Computer notebook in hand, Sian strolled down the corridor toward him with Richard, deep in conversation.

How he longed to seize a hank of her gleaming curls to drag her over here. She'd not run like she had in the dreams. It was time she understood the truth. She'd played around here, but now she needed to come home and face the consequences. He wanted to make her sorry for all the suffering she'd inflicted. He'd never hurt her, not really. But he wanted to see some penitence. By the time he'd finished with her, that juicy bottom lip would quiver. He might just kiss it better. No, he wanted some tears spilling down those porcelain cheeks. He'd make sure she'd be very sorry before he forgave her.

Not now. He needed to get her out of here before he could think about anything else
.

Richard led Sian into a room off the corridor. One of them closed the door behind them, shutting him out.

A new crackle of guitar strains wavered for a minute, but silence snapped it off. He moved from the alcove, strolled the way Sian and Richard had come toward the pair of double doors standing open at the end of the corridor. He winced at a sudden screech of feedback. The sound engineer must have screwed up somewhere.

Fucking hell!

Dancers milled around but didn't detract from the magnificence of the room. The band, on a raised platform at one end, didn't hide the plasterwork moldings. The lights and equipment were multiplied a hundred times by the extravagant mirrors. The chandeliers gleamed like brilliant cut gems.

Everyone bustled about, each one of them focused on their task. Not a smidge of gossip to eavesdrop on as he passed. In fact, no one spoke. The initial fear he'd be recognized by one of the crew or the band faded. He moved like a ghost among them all. Certain the cameras weren't filming yet, he strolled across the room, suddenly eager to escape his tormentors lair.

He stepped out of the open French windows onto another terrace overlooking the grounds. Bile stung the back of his throat. Along with the stink of his enemy, he smelled money. A lot of it. Johansson must have a fortune to keep this place going. He couldn't understand why such a recluse agreed for the filming here. The guy could be in no serious need of cash. That must be how he'd managed to get into Sian's knickers. Capital, enough of it, anything and anyone could be yours.

A wave of disappointment crashed through him. Johansson, the bastard, had bought her. It didn't seem possible Sian could be a whore to wealth. He swept a glance over the terrace with its stone ornamentation, the well-tended acre of lawn and mature trees. Money, old money, all spoke to him from the view.

There was even a fucking lake. He narrowed his eyes and headed down the steps toward a building at the end of a causeway. No wonder Johansson enthralled her. An apartment in Knightsbridge didn't compare with a country estate like this. He should have realized. Sian, intelligent and sharp, still had vulnerabilities, a susceptibility to beauty and wealth part of them. He should have protected her from herself.

She must feel like the lady of the manor here.

No wonder she'd decided to stay, but once the shoot finished she'd head back to the city. No! During their disagreement at the roadside, before the monster had attacked him, Sian had said she'd stay with Johansson for good.

Off balance, as he had been since he left the nursing home, he thumped the stick into the turf with each step. Bitterness swept through him when the house filled the view from where he stood at the top of the grassy bank. He couldn't lose her like this. Not to some rich recluse who would use her and dump her once he got bored. He had to get her back.

He gripped the stick so tight his knuckles cracked. Damn it, he should never have agreed to go to Chicago back in August. He could have sent one of the others to the meeting. That way he could have dealt with Johansson himself. The guy frightened Sian. After her first visit here, she had said as much, but he had made the damn trip across the pond anyway and left her to come back here alone. She had needed him, but he'd made a joke about it.

A groan tore from his throat.

Slow as an old man, he hobbled down the slope to the jetty. The wind whipped across the gray lake, chilling him. Another layer of disgust made him gag when he breathed in a massive dose of the stink that pervaded the whole estate. Someone should take a bucket of bleach to the place.

The wooden boards of the causeway looked solid enough. He made his way across to the oriental building with faded red paint.

A fucking pagoda!

He paused at the end of the causeway, coughed, and choked on the rank smell. A crazy urge gripped him, weird and strange, like so many others he'd experienced since he woke in the hospital. The desire to pee and mark the place with his scent became an urgent demand. He glanced about.

Not a soul stood at the edge of the lake. He saw no one across in the woods. If he had a clumsy spray slash here, who would know? Chuckling, he stepped onto the decking. He'd give the place a good dosing inside and out.

A few minutes later, laughing, he checked his shoes as he re-zipped his fly. He'd sure sweetened the air here. The house at the top of the rise loomed as though it disapproved, but he didn't give a fuck. Rosebud, his baby girl, was a captive there. Held by the lure of a rich guy. This was the first step to rescue her.

Don't
you
worry,
sweet-cheeks.
Uncle
Franklyn's
coming
to
save
you
and
bring
you
home.