A Season of Miracles (6 page)

“You're passing through a rough time. Only your own courage and determination will show you the way to go. They will bring you through to triumph or success.” She stared at Jillian again. “I don't want to read your cards.”

“What!” Jillian said, astonished, and dismayed by the little chill that swept through her.

“I'm sorry, I'm tired.”

“Madame Zena, she's been in line for nearly an hour,” Tip protested.

Joe and Connie had risen already, and Tip was ushering Jillian forward. She sat, and Madame Zena stared at her, then handed her the cards. Jillian felt as if a rush of electricity jumped into her flesh. “We are all part of our own destinies, you know,” Madame Zena said. “The soul can be very old, and the soul can learn. A good soul remains so. Sometimes there are second chances.” Madame Zena's strange hazel eyes were hard on Jillian. “In life and in death. Energy does not die. God is great. Hand me the cards.”

Instead of the three cards, Madame Zena laid out more, creating a cross on the table before her. She had Jillian turn them over, then was silent for a long time.

“You've had tremendous upheaval, tragedy.”

“Of course,” Joe said. “Her husband died.”

Madame Zena asked, “Violently?”

“Cancer,” Connie supplied softly.

Madame Zena shook her head. “No, something worse, far worse. There was a lack of faith, a terrible betrayal…there was a fire.”

“Nope, no fire,” Jillian said positively.

“Yes, there was a fire,” Madame Zena insisted. “Betrayal. And the night. There was one who came and enticed and laughed and…betrayed. And there you see the Moon. Rising in Pisces…You are in danger. You have enemies.”

“Well, she's a big shot, rich executive. Of course she has enemies,” Joe said.

“Really?” Tip asked, looking Jillian up and down all over again. “Cool,” he said. “And I just thought you were one sexy redhead.”

“Thanks,” Jillian murmured.

“Now you've gone and told half the world who she is,” Connie murmured.

“Enemies,” Madame Zena murmured. “Enemies.”

“I still don't know who she is,” Tip told Joe. He gave Jillian a charming smile, and she tried to respond, but by then Madame Zena was beginning to get to her.

“Beware…”

Madame Zena's voice was suddenly so low and husky that it seemed to reach out and touch her with fingers of ice, running along her spine, her nape.

“Beware…”

Jillian leaned forward, forcing her lips to move. “Of what?”

“Christmas…Christmastide…”

“Oh my God, this is going too far,” Joe said impatiently. “Beware of Christmas? Of what? A psychopathic Santa? Come on, Jillian…”

“Beware, take warning.”

“Jillian, come on, get up,” Joe urged, but she couldn't seem to move.

“Witch, witch, witch, witch…”
Madame Zena said.

“Which? Which what?” Jillian murmured.

“W-i-t-c-h,”
Madame Zena whispered.

Dear God, but she sounded so weird and looked so spooky. Scary. Maybe it was a holiday act.

Madame Zena leaned back, gripping the table. They all stared at her blankly as she fell silent, her eyes closed. When she opened them, they had rolled up into her head until only the whites showed. “Witch,” she murmured. “Witch.” The cry grew louder.
“Witch.”
Louder still, and different, as if several voices were speaking through the woman. Her voice rose so high that Jillian, staring at her, horrified, was afraid that the cries would echo above the sound of the band.

“Madame Zena, stop it!” she protested.

“Witch!”

“It's a costume, just a costume,” Jillian said.

“Come on, enough is enough,” Joe told her. He drew back the chair, gripped her elbow and pulled her to her feet.

“Too much,” Tip agreed.

“We need some air,” Connie said.

“I'm all right,” Jillian said, but they were already headed for the door.

As they neared it, it opened and a man entered. He was tall, broad-shouldered. He wasn't wearing a costume, just a long leather coat against the autumn chill. Jillian barely noted him at first, except as someone who was blocking the door.

Then the light touched him.

He had dark hair, almost pitch in color, cropped at the collar, swept back in the front. His face was strongly chiseled, with clean features and a square, well-defined jaw, a generous mouth, large, dark eyes—maybe dark blue, she thought, rather than brown. He was good-looking and moved with confidence.

“Built like a brick shit-house,” Connie whispered in her ear.

Still, Jillian would have walked right by him. The city was home to lots of good-looking people, models, actors, even businessmen.

Then this man looked at them. And when she looked back, she realized that she knew him.

“My God,” Connie breathed. “I didn't recognize him at first.”

Of course, she knew him. Or
almost
knew him.

She'd just never seen him so close.

Nor seen him…
look
at her.

She felt his eyes on her. Then, suddenly, pain seared her. Rocked her. Hit her in the chest as if she had been struck by lightning. Pain so vibrant that fire seemed to flash before her eyes.

She staggered, doubling over in sudden agony.

“Jillian?”

She heard Connie's concerned whisper.

Then the pain radiated through her.
Fire!
It was as if she were on fire.

And then she blacked out.

H
e was bending over her, his head slightly turned as he calmly ordered everyone to move back, give her some room.

Then his eyes fell on her again.

They were blue. Navy. The closest thing to black she'd ever seen that still carried the touch of a hue. And she wasn't in pain anymore. Not in physical pain.

But she was in mental agony. Total humiliation.

What in God's name had seized her?

She had been kept from falling by someone and transported to the Victorian sofa that sat just inside the main entry to the pub. Connie was on one side of her, Joe on the other. Her new friend Tip, the cop, was hovering somewhere nearby; she could hear him talking. But it was Robert Marston who was right in front of her, barking out orders, touching her forehead and her throat—checking for a pulse, she assumed.

She wished she could crawl under the couch.

She sat up, an act easier planned than managed. Marston was so close that she crashed right into him, forehead to forehead. He smiled as their heads cracked, while she paled all over again.

“I knew I wasn't exactly welcomed by everyone in the company, but I never thought I could cause fainting spells,” he joked.

She shook her head quickly. “You had nothing to do with it. I didn't even know who you were. I—”

“Are you all right?” he enquired more seriously.

“I—I—of course,” she stammered.

Then she was aware of Connie's gaze. “Jillian, are you sure? My God, you were white as a ghost. We were so worried.”

“I'm…I'm fine,” she protested. “Thanks, really. I'm just embarrassed and—”

“Maybe we should get you to the hospital, get you checked out,” Marston suggested, interrupting her with a note of authority.

She stared at him, wishing she could crawl away.

What in the world had caused this?

She hadn't felt threatened by his hiring, had she? Wary, but not threatened. She hadn't really talked to him yet, because there hadn't really been the opportunity. A simple,
normal
opportunity. But she hadn't been worried about it. She was in design, he wasn't. In all honesty, she wasn't sure why Douglas had suddenly brought him in, but she had neither felt threatened nor overly impressed.

But at this particular moment, he seemed extremely imposing. The man was very tall, even down on one knee the way he was now. His shoulders were broad, though he seemed as sleek and agile as a man more slimly built.

“A hospital couldn't hurt, other than the hours you're likely to spend in the emergency room,” he told her.

She realized that she hadn't responded to his earlier comment; she had just been staring at him. “No, I don't want to go to the hospital. Really, I'm fine,” she protested. “Please, I just—” She broke off, aware that a sea of faces seemed to be looking on.

In the distance, she even saw the face of the tarot reader. The woman was watching her gravely, as if she weren't at all surprised by this turn of events.

For some reason the sight of the woman was disturbing. Jillian felt uneasy again, as if something was wrong but she just couldn't put her finger on it. It was as if the tarot card reader knew something she didn't.

Something that she
should
know.

The woman turned away, and Jillian's uneasiness dissipated. She felt simply and completely like an idiot.

“What?” Marston asked quietly, seeming to sense her unease.

“I just need to get out of here,” she said. Her voice was soft. Raspy. “I could really go for some air.”

A second later, she regretted her words, as Marston lifted her into his arms, striding from the pub. “Excuse us, the lady needs air.”

She wasn't white anymore. Her cheeks were flushed with mortification.

Outside, she found herself seated on the hood of a silver sports car. She heard Connie's heels hitting the pavement as she and Joe hurried out to join them, followed by Tip, still in his Carmen Miranda getup.

“Is that better?” Those uncannily dark blue eyes were on hers.

And her hands were on his arms, she realized; she had gripped him to steady herself. She snatched her hands back and grasped for some dignity. “Look, Mr. Marston, I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine now. I just—”

“Had too much to drink?” he suggested.

She straightened in indignation. “I never have too much to drink.”

“No?” A spark of humor touched his eyes.

“I don't believe your job description includes anything about picking me up from barroom floors, though I do appreciate the concern. However, I really am fine.”

“She does seem to be okay,” Tip said.

Marston turned around, his eyes widening at the sight of the big cop in drag. “Sorry, I didn't realize you two were together,” he said briefly.

“No, no, they're not together,” Joe said quickly, explaining. “Tip is a friend of mine.”

Jillian could have knocked him silly. She offered him a scathing glance, but he didn't notice.

“I think I should get off this car before the owner sues for damages,” she said, starting to move.

“Give yourself another second.”

His hands were on her shoulders. Long fingered, clean, neat, powerful. She glanced down at his touch and felt a strange, warm tremor. Barely remembered. Not welcomed now.

“I'm on someone's Mercedes.”

“It's mine,” he said.

Naturally. The Mercedes said everything there was to say about him. Smooth, cool. Sporty but mature. Handsome, powerful, sleek.

“Maybe you should take Jillian home, Mr. Marston,” Connie said, concerned. She looked from one to the other. “We haven't actually met,” she said to him. “I'm Connie Murphy.”

“Joe's wife. I know,” Marston said. He smiled and took her hand, and his eyes met Joe's. “Your husband and I have already worked together.”

“Yes, of course.” Connie looked flushed. It had been one thing for her to tease Jillian about company gossip, but now that she was actually meeting Robert Marston, she seemed a little awed herself. He did make an impression.

Was that why Douglas had brought him in?
Connie wondered. She answered her own silent question quickly and defensively.
No. Daniel, full of confidence, ability, authority and composure made quite an impression himself. Theo was equally presentable. Eileen was pure elegance and assurance. And Griff…

Griff excelled at being Griff.

“Office meeting over,” Jillian murmured with false cheer. She tried to slide off the car, but Marston stopped her.

She looked at his hand, then met his eyes. “I told you I'm all right.”

“If you won't go to the hospital, at least let me take you home.”

“I'm fine. Tip can see me home. He may look like Carmen Miranda, but in real life, he's one of New York's finest.”

“So you're a cop. Nice to meet you.”

“Ditto,” Tip told him, as the two men shook hands.

“Did you drive, Tip?” Marston enquired, those dark eyes settling on the cop.

“No, 'fraid not,” Tip told Jillian apologetically.

“I don't need a ride,” Jillian protested.

“Jillian, you passed out cold,” Connie said.

“Thanks, Connie,” she murmured.

“You might have hurt yourself.”

“But I didn't!”

“You were leaving, anyway,” Marston reminded her. “So let me take you home.”

“You just got here, so I'm sure you don't want to leave. Go on in and have a good time.”

“And what would I tell Douglas in the morning?” he asked, a half smile curving his lips.

“That his granddaughter is pigheaded?” Joe supplied.

“Joe…” his wife said warningly.

“I really don't think that watching me is part of the job,” Jillian began.

“I wouldn't want to bet on that,” Joe said.

“Okay, okay. I'll go home with Marston,” she said, aggravated.

“You can call me Robert, Bob, Rob, or even Bobby. Most of the time, when people call me Marston, they put a ‘mister' in front of it,” he said, his tone conversational but with a slight edge, his dark eyes on her.

She eased off the car, meeting that gaze. “I'm so sorry, Mr. Marston.”

He smiled. An honest smile. She looked away, biting her lip.

“'Night, then,” Connie said.

“Good night.” Jillian hugged Connie, kissed Joe and then Tip on a cheek, and walked around to the passenger side of the car. He was already there, opening the door for her.

Call me,
Connie mouthed.

She would call her, all right.

A moment later, they were in traffic.

He drove competently, assertively, but not recklessly. He was playing a Celtic CD; a woman was singing about a highwayman. Partiers filled the sidewalks, all laughing, some loaded, some simply happy. Taxis veered in and out; horns blared.

“I live at—” she began.

“I know where you live,” he told her.

Fine.

A few minutes later, they pulled up to the house on Manhattan's upper east side. It was one of the few old mansions that remained. Among a sea of skyscrapers, it stood three stories tall. A brick wall with wrought-iron gates separated it from its neighbors.

Here, away from the throngs, the streets were quiet. Marston didn't opt to enter the driveway but slid into an impossible spot on the street.

Before the engine had died, Jillian was reaching for the door handle.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked her. She could hear his amusement.

“No, of course not.” Her fingers fell from the handle.

“Do you resent my being hired?”

He was blunt. “No. Why should I?”

“Want to hear all the rumors?” he queried.

She shook her head. “No. Do you want to hear the truth?”

“Sure.”

“I like design. I enjoy what I do. I especially like jewelry, but make occasional forays into fashion, as well. I don't want my grandfather's kingdom. I don't even think my grandfather wants all his kingdom anymore. So why should I resent you being hired?”

He smiled, looking not at her, but straight ahead at the road, at the night. “Because in a kingdom, you always have to have a king. Or a queen.”

“Well, if we have a king, it's Daniel. Are you planning to push him from the throne?”

“I've been given shares in the company and a very satisfactory title. Part of the package when I came over. Daniel has his own role.”

“Then, we all ought to be just peachy-keen,” she murmured. She looked at him. “Thanks for the ride. I'm sorry to have troubled you.” She fumbled with the door. He reached over her and opened the door easily.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

“I would feel better if I walked you in.”

“I wouldn't.”

“But you don't resent me?” he queried lightly. He stepped out of the car as she did.

“Okay, walk me in.”

“You did have quite a reaction to seeing me walk through the door tonight.”

“I wasn't reacting to you,” she said, her heart pounding. What
had
she reacted to?

The pain. The pain had been unbearable, and the world had gone black.

“Then?” he pressed.

“The tarot card reader,” she said.

“What?”

“There was a woman reading tarot cards. She started screaming, rolling her eyes—and calling me a witch. She wouldn't stop. She was pretending to be in a trance or something, and we decided to get out. I just needed air,” she said, finishing rather lamely.

“I had nothing to do with it?”

She met his gaze again, black in the shadows. She still felt…wary of him. But curiously drawn, as well. She had to admit he was being polite, and he seemed to have a sense of humor.

She shook her head. “No,” she lied, then smiled. “Honestly, I don't resent you. I think you've got great credentials, and I really don't want to run the company.”

“If that's a welcome, thanks, I'll take it.”

“Sure. It's a welcome. In fact, please come in, if you'd like. Have a drink here, since you never got your chance at Hennessey's.”

“Despite the much-appreciated-but-debatable sincerity of that offer, I'm afraid I have to refuse.”

“Ah, a date,” she murmured, lashes flicking downward. She was definitely losing her mind. She hadn't wanted him to take her home, and had tried very hard to shake him. And now…