Night of the Phantom by Anne Stuart
"I think it's time to up the ante. She's had enough Stephen King for now. Put her in the Pompeii room."
"So where’s my toga?" Meg demanded when Salvatore showed her into the dimly lit interior of her new
rooms. She'd been hard-pressed to hide her gratitude when he'd showed up at the entrance to the gazebo with a huge gold umbrella to shield her from the rain. At least the precipitation had been accompanied by warmer temperatures. If that unnatural chill had stayed in the air, she would have probably been ready for a relapse.
The austere confines of her new rooms weren't precisely welcoming. At least there was a decent-size bed directly in the center of the room. This room was at least partway underground, and in the corner was a brazier with hot coals sending warmth into the air. The walls were covered with murals, ones she didn't bother to look at. For the time being, she wanted to change out of her damp clothes, get something to eat and figure how she was going to get out of here.
"Women didn't wear togas," Sal said repressively. "Bathroom's over there, and your clothes are in the closet. Be ready in half an hour."
"Ready for what? I planned to take a long hot bath. Romans were famous for baths, weren't they? I'm assuming this place comes equipped with a Roman-style swimming pool."
"You can use it later. Ethan wants you for dinner."
"To feed or to eat?"
Sal glowered. "Don't wear jeans. He doesn't like them."
That settled the question of what she'd wear to dinner. Obviously, jeans it would be. "I'll be ready in an hour," she said flatly.
The Roman section of the house even had a pillared portico with steps leading down into a courtyard complete with marble statues. Meg glanced out into the gathering gloom. For the first time, she'd have immediate access to the outdoors, unless, of course, Ethan decided to have her locked in again. Maybe if the rain cleared, she'd try to leave tonight.
Except that it was clear the town of Oak Grove wasn't going to provide any help. She might be able to find her rental car, but given the size and complexity of this old place, chances were slim. It was conceivable she could drive one of the construction vehicles she'd heard in the distance. At one point, she'd been moderately proficient at running a backhoe.
The problem with backhoes was that they only traveled about five miles an hour, maximum. She'd be better off on her own two feet. And better off waiting just a couple more days until her strength was back. It wouldn't do much good to take off and then collapse in a ditch a few miles away. And when it came right down to it, she wasn't sure who she'd rather have find her in those circumstances: the deranged Pastor Lincoln and his bunch, or Ethan Winslowe himself.
There was no hurry, was there? No one seemed to give a hoot that she'd disappeared off the face of the earth, up to and including her father. As long as she stayed put, Ethan had promised to leave Reese alone. Not that she was certain her father deserved any mercy, but certainly no man should be crucified for one shortsighted mistake. And then there was the company, with hundreds of jobs depending on it.
No, maybe she wouldn't wear the jeans, after all. Maybe she'd find her prettiest dress, follow Salvatore like the demure young lady she certainly wasn't and do her best to ameliorate Ethan Winslowe's uncertain temper. If she were just sweet and accommodating enough, he might be talked into dropping this whole crazy idea and letting her go.
And maybe pigs could fly. She wasn't about to use sex to get what she wanted from the man. That had too much possibility of backfiring right in her face. The baggiest, most wretched pair of jeans she'd brought with her, her loosest sweater and her grumpiest expression. Anything was worth a try.
There was only one minor problem with her current plan. When she stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a voluminous towel, she found her damp pair of jeans missing from the mosaic floor of the room. Every pair of jeans she owned had been taken from her suitcase, and her Reeboks had disappeared. She was left with dresses, all of them too filmy or too clinging or too low cut.
Not that she usually considered her dresses provocative. They were all reasonably trendy, flattering fashions, ones she'd never thought twice about wearing.
She was thinking twice now. She didn't want Ethan Winslowe's unseen eyes traveling down the front of the clinging peach dress, dipping over the décolletage of the black knit, running along the curves of the blue sundress.
She had no real choice in the matter. The black knit had the longest hemline, the loosest cut, and if she just kept tugging at the neckline, there wouldn't even be a hint of cleavage. Hell and damnation, why hadn't she lost weight when she was sick? With her luck, she'd probably gained five pounds, all in the chest.
The ancient Romans apparently had no mirrors, so she could only guess what she looked like. Too pale, too defiant, too rounded. Target practice for Ethan Winslowe.
"You ready?" Salvatore hadn't bothered to knock. He'd swung the door open, standing there with a flashlight against the gathering gloom.
"Morituri te salutamus," she muttered under her breath, slipping on her highest heels for the modicum of moral support they gave her.
"What's that?"
"Just getting into the Roman spirit of things, Sal," she replied, shoving her hair back away from her too pale face and biting her lips. "We who are about to die salute you."
"I don't think it's going to go that far. Not if you're careful," Sal replied, absolutely seriously.
She looked at him in horror. "Et tu, Brute? I don't scare easily."
"I know you don't. More's the pity." Without a word, he took off down the darkened hallway, leaving her to follow him.
For a moment, she considered staying put. Not for a moment did she consider that she might really be in danger. Ethan had warned her about innocence and blind trust. The only person she hadn't trusted so far had been the minister. Certainly that wasn't a good omen for the future.
She wasn't going to improve her situation by cowering in her room, either. Chances were Ethan would come after her or send his hulking familiar. She'd lied to him. It didn't take much to scare her at all. At the moment, she was frankly terrified.
But staying in the darkened room didn't offer much of an alternative. Particularly when certain scenes of the last Stephen King novel she'd been desperate enough to read kept drifting into her memory, despite her efforts to banish them.
"Wait up, Igor," she called out after the rapidly disappearing light. And ignoring her panic, she took off after Sal into the darkness.
Chapter Eight
* * *
They were heading down, down, into the center of the house again, into darkness lit only by the occasional gaslight fixture. Meg stumbled after Salvatore, cursing her skimpy dress and her overactive imagination. Why couldn't the man dwell somewhere above the basements? She knew he could walk, knew he was strong enough to carry her one hundred and twenty-five pounds up the twisting tower steps. Why would he choose to dwell in the cellars?
When Salvatore ushered her through a wide doorway, she had her answer in the darkness of the room. He chose the basement for the lack of light. No shuttered windows to let in even a chink of daylight. Just the chill damp of the earth around them.
It was a different room from where Ethan had held his previous audience with her. There were no blinking lights in the background, but then, she knew now that he didn't need life-support systems to keep him going. She could make out a wide table covered in damask, set with crystal and bone china. Set for one. Candelabra stood on either side of the chair, but the pools of light didn't travel far into the room. He was somewhere beyond, watching her, watching as she moved forward and took the chair Salvatore held out for her. She could feel his gaze on her skin, as physical as a touch, running up her legs, her hips, her low-cut neckline. It took all her self-possession to keep from tugging at that neckline.
She sat very still as Salvatore placed food in front of her, filled her wineglass and then disappeared into the shadows. She knew he was gone, out of sight, out of hearing
She glanced down at her plate. Boneless chicken in a delicate tarragon-scented sauce, wild rice, fresh white asparagus. The wine would be vintage, French and very dry. She sighed.
"You don't like the food?" Ethan's voice came out of the darkness. "Simply tell Salvatore what you'd like and he'll provide it."
"I'd kill for a Big Mac and fries," she said. "Washed down by a supersize Diet Coke."
"Sorry."
"What about takeout?" she suggested hopefully, picking up the heavy silver fork.
"The nearest McDonald's is one hundred and ten miles away. The food would be cold by the time Sal carried it back."
The chicken was almost sinfully wonderful. She could live without fast food for a little while longer. "I'm surprised you even know what a McDonald's is," she said, taking a sip of the wine. Exactly as she had guessed, and utterly delicious.
"I know. I just don't know what the food tastes like."
"You've never been inside one?"
"Hardly."
She leaned back in the chair, holding the wineglass. It was useless to stare into the dark in Ethan's direction; instead, she looked into the shimmering depths of the wine. "You're missing a great treat."
"I'll have to take your word for it. I expect I'll survive. What did you think of our local man of the cloth?"
"Pastor Lincoln? He's nutty as a fruitcake."
"He comes by it honestly. His father and grandfather were deranged fanatics before him. I gather you didn't want to avail yourself of his offer of help. Dare I hope you've grown attached to this place?"
"Hope all you want. In this case, it was a choice between the devil I could see and the devil I couldn't. I decided you might prove less dangerous in the long run."
"I don't know if I'm flattered or offended," he murmured.
"Let me know when you figure it out." She drained the wine, reached for the bottle and poured herself another glass. "What's a succubus?"
She heard his muffled explosion of laughter. "Is that what he called you?"
"Among other things. I've missed that term. What does it mean?"
"A female demon who has sexual relations with men in their sleep," he replied.
She considered the notion, hoping he couldn't see the faint stain of color in her cheeks. It was the wine, she told herself. "That doesn't sound like much fun," she said finally.
"It also includes the sexual partners of male demons," he added.
"I see."
"I imagine you do."
She set the wineglass on the table. She was too vulnerable to risk drinking even a moderate amount. Already she was growing hot, disturbed, uneasy. Aroused. Better to stick to water. Better to stick to an adversarial relationship.
"When are you going to let me go?"
"That again?" he demanded wearily. "You grow tiresome, Meg."
"Then send me home. Surely I've paid enough for my father's sins."
"Not really."
"One stupid mistake five years ago is not something to crucify a man over," she said with a trace of desperation.
"Not when people die? Not when he tries to foist the blame off on other people?"
"He's sorry. He told me so."
"And you think that, like a little boy who's broken a window or shoplifted a candy bar, all he has to do is say he's sorry and everything's all right?"
"What else can he do?"
"He could have the nerve to come here himself instead of sending you. And he could come up with something like, 'I'll never do it again.'" Ethan's voice was cold, implacable.
"But he..." A sudden, chilling thought came to her. "Would you believe him?"
"Of course not. But then, I have the advantage over you. I know he's still doing it."
"No!"
"Still using inferior materials, cutting corners, ignoring structural specifications in order to save money and line his own pockets. Risking life after life for his own greed, ignoring the blood that's already on his hands, and then sending his own daughter as a sacrifice to keep me from turning him in." Ethan's voice was savage in the darkness, the words like knives cutting into her. "I don't believe you. He wouldn't...he couldn't..." "You're not a blind fool, Meg, even though you try to be where your father's concerned. He's done the same thing with the Minneapolis Science Emporium and the Greenwich Art Center. Sooner or later, something's going to collapse, more people are going to die and you're going to be a willing accomplice to it all because of your idiotic loyalty."
"He can't be. He can't do it by himself." "Of course he can't. He's got plenty of help from people like George Dubocek and Brian Donegal running the sites. And he's got help on the administration end. People like Mary Elder, and Phillip Zarain are working that end of it, covering up when cheaper quality support beams are ordered, when things are skimped. He'll get away with it until someone else dies, and then his house of cards will collapse as surely as the cheap buildings he's been erecting."
For a moment, Meg felt as if she were going to throw up. The taste of wine was like vinegar in her mouth, the delicate sauce like a pool of grease in the back of her throat. She wanted to scream at him, to throw the words back in his face, to tell him he was a liar. That her father wasn't the closest thing to a murderer. But the names he'd named made too much sense. Too many furtive looks, covered up deals, were beginning to become clear. "And you were willing to let him get away with it? Let it continue, let people risk their lives as long as I stayed here and provided you with a little malicious amusement?" she managed to say, coming up with the only attack she could muster.
"No."
She jerked her head up. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean no, I wasn't going to let it continue. I lied to you. The federal investigators have already been tipped off and given enough information that it will be relatively simple, even for bureaucrats, to find the smoking gun. Your father's destroyed, Meg. Ruined, disgraced and probably headed for jail."
"You were never going to save him at all."
"Never."
"I could have gone to him, made him stop—"
"There are buildings, public buildings, in dangerously weakened states. What would you have done about that?"
"You've kept me prisoner here promising me you'd leave him alone."
"I lied."
She felt cold, sick inside. "Why?"
He moved closer, and she imagined she could see his silhouette in the shadowed room. Tall, lean, dark. And dangerous. "Two reasons. One, you're a bright woman. You would have warned him, and he might have had time to cover his tracks. He's good at that sort of thing, and I don't have much faith in the federal investigators. They'd been fooled once, they could be fooled again."
"What's the other reason?" She felt a detached sort of control edge back.
"I wanted you here."
Baldly stated. She could feel the flush rise in her cheeks again and for something to do, she reached for her wineglass, draining it. "For revenge?" she asked.
"For a great many reasons. I'll leave it up to you to figure it out. But revenge wasn't one of them." He moved away again, and she was afraid he was going to leave her.
"What makes you think I wasn't in on this whole thing? Pocketing my share of the proceeds, turning a blind eye to my father's perfidy?"
"Your face."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You have a guileless face. I can see everything you're thinking in those huge blue eyes of yours, in that soft mouth. You'd be a lousy poker player, Meg. Everything is obvious on that pretty face of yours."
"Oh, God, I hope not." Belatedly she realized she had spoken out loud. She didn't want him to be able to read her fascination with him, her unwilling, demented attraction to a phantom she'd never even seen. She concentrated on the important things. "You trust me?"
He laughed. "Haven't I told you not to trust anyone? I believe your innocent face. But I believe the
"Investigation?"
"Down to the names and durations of your two love affairs, your dental records and your bra size. Even the form of birth control you favor. I know everything about you, Megan Carey."
"No," she said. "You don't." She couldn't stand the thought that he'd pried into her life, rifled through her history like a pervert searching through her lingerie drawer. "You don't know my heart. My soul."
"Maybe not. But I'm learning."
That was the most frightening thing she'd heard since she'd arrived in the dark, haunted confines of Oak Grove, Arkansas. She pushed her chair back, knocking over the empty wineglass. "I think I want to go back to my room now."
"Is that all? I thought you'd be demanding I let you go home now."
"Would it do any good?"
She could feel his hesitation, knew his answer before his voice came out of the darkness. "No."
"Then my room will have to do."
"Sal's coming."
"Fine," she said, uncomfortable in her low-cut dress. She didn't want him looking at her, watching her. She didn't like the way it made her feel. Uneasy. And oddly, irresistibly excited.
"He'll bring you something to help you sleep."
"I won't need anything. The wine has been quite enough." Her voice was unnaturally polite.
"Tell me one thing before you go."
"Of course."
"Did you get to see Joseph this afternoon?" He sounded only idly curious.
"Yes. Why does it matter?"
"It doesn't. Not many people see him. He keeps a fairly low profile. He must approve of you." There was an odd note in Ethan's voice, one Megan couldn't begin to understand.
But at that point, she wasn't going to ask anything of him, even questions. Salvatore had reappeared, silent and impassive behind her, and she turned and followed him without even saying good-night.
That omission bothered her all the long way to her room. It bothered her after Salvatore left her, locking her in. It bothered her until she happened to glance over at the ancient Roman murals on the terra-cotta walls.