Delaney's Shadow (13 page)

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Authors: Ingrid Weaver

Tags: #mobi, #Romantic Suspense, #Paranormal Romance, #Fiction, #Shadow, #epub

BOOK: Delaney's Shadow
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A breeze came up, rustling the leaves overhead. The nape of her neck tingled. She glanced to the side.
And just like that, there he was, standing on a patch of moss in front of a willow on the other side of the path. The pattern of the bark showed through him, then gradually faded as his image strengthened.
Delaney smiled. The mere sight of him spread such a sense of . . . rightness, she could forget about the taste of mud in her throat. “Uh, hi.”
The sharp angles of his face appeared more dramatic in daylight. His shirt was black silk that rippled against his chest and arms in the same breeze that stirred the leaves above him. He wore narrow black suspenders rather than a belt. Instead of jeans he wore tailored black pants that accentuated his narrow hips and long legs. He stood with one foot crossed over the other ankle in a negligently masculine pose while he cradled a thick, white crockery mug in his hands.
He lifted the mug to his lips. He regarded her over the rim in silence.
His perusal made her self-conscious. He was regarding her as a man who was interested in a woman.
But that was absurd. He had seen enough of her scars to know how ugly they were. Besides, she had no desire to interest any man. She was still mourning her husband.
Then why had she made Max so damn sexy?
Her pulse skipped. She told herself to ignore it. “Where have you been for the past three days?” she asked.
He swallowed and lowered the mug. “I was out of town.”
“Okay. Where?”
“Manhattan.”
Well, ask a stupid question . . . “I missed you.”
“Do you still believe you made me up?”
“I hurt your feelings when I said that, didn’t I?”
“How could you? You don’t believe I’m real.”
“You’re real to me, Max. Don’t you remember?”
His image blurred at the edges for a few seconds, then firmed once more. “How am I going to get through to you? I’m not who you think I am.”
“Yes, you said that already. Fine. Then tell me who you are.”
“I’m a man, not a boy.”
“Obviously.”
“And you should be careful about inviting me into your mind. Don’t assume I’ve got a conscience or that I’m going to watch out for you.”
“Why are you so determined to make out that you’re bad?”
“You need to accept the fact that I’ve changed.”
“You couldn’t have changed that much, or you wouldn’t be so concerned about warning me.”
He frowned.
“Hah. Gotcha there, didn’t I?”
“This isn’t a game, Deedee.”
“Whatever, I’m glad you decided to come back. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
“Don’t you have any real friends to talk to?”
She and Stanford had had dozens of friends. They’d had a very busy social life. She also knew scores of people through the fund-raising she’d done. She had Leo, too. Helen had invited her to confide in her many times.
But Delaney didn’t want to burden her grandmother. There were personal things she wouldn’t be comfortable discussing with Leo. She’d drifted apart from the other friends she’d known before she’d married Stanford. The rest were from his world, not hers. Many of them had shared Elizabeth’s reservations about their marriage, although they had been too wellbred and probably too afraid of Stanford to show it while he’d been alive. That had changed after his death. Few had made the effort to visit her during her recovery, and the ones who did had seemed so uncomfortable she’d been relieved when they stopped coming.
The lump she felt in her throat had nothing to do with the smell of the mud, but she refused to give in to self-pity. She was alive while so many of the people she loved weren’t. Her problems were nothing compared to that. “They’re not like you, Max.”
“Yeah, I bet they aren’t.”
“I don’t have to pretend with you.” She laughed shakily. “That sounds silly. All you and I ever did was play pretend.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Yes, I know. And you’ve changed. I got the message. What I meant was that with you, I can be honest. I don’t need to be brave. You see the real me. That’s a rare and precious thing between friends, and I don’t care whether you’re a fantasy or a hallucination or an undigested piece of beef; we
are
friends, Max.”
“Beef?”
“Dickens’s
Christmas Carol
. The ghost of Marley.”
His lips twitched. “I’m no ghost. It might be simpler if I was.”
She had a crazy urge to fling herself across the path so she could feel his touch once again. She wished he
was
real. That must be why he kept bringing up the subject. “You said you didn’t want to help me remember, but couldn’t we just talk? What’s the harm in that?”
He didn’t reply. His image wavered, as if he were debating whether or not to stay. Finally, he drained the cup, then hooked his finger through the handle and crossed his arms. “If I were a real man, what would you talk about?”
If he were real, she would want to do more than talk. She would want to walk into the shelter of his arms and run her hands over his silk shirt and inhale the scent of his skin and . . .
“Deedee?”
She dropped her head back against the tree. “Good question. My social skills are a bit rusty. I haven’t been out much lately.”
“Yeah, I know how that is. Where have you been?”
“Hospitals. A rehab center. Until last week, I was at a private clinic.”
“Is that where you saw the shrink?”
“Yes, but that wasn’t why I was there. Not entirely, anyway.” She twisted her wrists to show him her hands.
“Are those skin grafts?”
“Uh-huh. Most of the work doesn’t show. It was a long process because some areas had to be rebuilt from the bones out. It’s really quite amazing what the doctors were able to accomplish. These burns were . . .” She slid her hands into her pockets. “They were worse than the other ones.”
“I know. I felt it. Have you had the nightmare again?”
“Not really. I’ve been able to deflect it, thanks to what you showed me.”
“Don’t thank me. I just wanted to get a full night’s sleep. How are your hands now?”
“Fine, as long as I’m careful. My doctors had wanted me to remain at the clinic another few weeks, since there’s still some risk of infection until the grafts completely heal, but I just couldn’t stand the confinement anymore.”
“I can understand that.”
Another silence fell. When he spoke again, his tone was gentler. “Where were you living before the accident?”
“My husband and I have a house near Bedford. It’s in Westchester County.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard a lot of rich people live there. Do you have money?”
“More than I know what to do with, to be honest. Stanford was well-off.”
“He’d have to be if he owned a Jag. What did he do?”
“He was a real estate developer. Ever heard of Grayecorp?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
No, of course he wouldn’t have. That had been another silly question. Imaginary friends wouldn’t subscribe to the
Wall Street Journal
. “Stanford and I met when he did some business with one of my clients.”
“What kind of work did you do?”
“I was a Realtor.” She paused. “I haven’t sold anything for five years, though.”
“Why not?”
“I gave it up when I married Stanford.”
“I can’t picture you as a Realtor, Deedee. You’re too honest.”
“That’s a cynical thing to say. I’ll have you know I did very well being honest. I loved helping people find the home that was right for them. Everyone deserves having a place where they belong.”
“Yet you came to Willowbank when you got out of the clinic instead of going home to Westchester.”
“This place was my first home.”
“You used to want to be a gardener, didn’t you?”
She had almost forgotten. He was right, she had loved the flowers in her grandmother’s garden, and she used to dream of playing there forever. She could chase the bees or push her fingers into the soil and get her hands as dirty as she wanted. No one would tell her to wear a hat in the sun, or come in when it was dark, because she would be the grown-up.
“Or was it a cook?” he asked.
That was another aspect of her life here that she’d loved, the good smells in the kitchen, the neat lines of golden cookies cooling on racks, the sound of her grandmother humming as she worked. Somehow, everything had tasted better when she’d been young. “How did you know?”
“You mentioned it a few times.”
“My career ambitions weren’t very, ah, ambitious. I was seeing it from the perspective of a child.”
He studied her. “How old are you now, anyway?”
She wasn’t the only one with rusty social skills. Then again, an imaginary playmate wouldn’t hesitate to ask a woman her age. “I just turned thirty. Your birthday’s in the summer, too, isn’t it?”
“Why do you say that?”
An image drifted through her mind. It was a warm day, like today, only sunny. A woman was singing “Happy Birthday” in a house with white curtains. There had been chocolate cake, and a black dog . . .
It disappeared in a flash. Where had that come from? “Forget it. Just a stray thought. You’d be in your mid-thirties now, wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose. If I was real. Tell me more about your husband.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t picture you married any more than I can see you selling real estate.”
She pulled the collar of her blouse aside to reveal the edge of the largest burn. “I didn’t always look like this.”
He regarded her without blinking. “What’s your point?”
“Stanford was determined to marry me. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He thought I was beautiful.”
“You are.”
“Thank you, Max, but only a figment of my imagination wouldn’t be repulsed by way I look now.”
“You told me you had lots of money.”
“Well, yes.”
“If you believe those scars are repulsive, then why didn’t you get the plastic surgeons at that clinic to repair them the way they did your hands?”
“Why bother? No one’s going to see them.”
“I did.”
“Sure, but you’re not—”
“Real,” he finished.
“I meant no one
else
is going to see them. It’s no hardship for me to keep away from scoop necklines and sleeveless tops. Swimsuits won’t be a problem since I don’t sunbathe and I don’t like the beach. The scar tissue doesn’t hurt anymore and it doesn’t hamper my movements, so there’s no reason to put myself through more surgery simply for my appearance.”
“Sounds as if you’ve thought it all out.”
“I have.”
Max crossed the path to stand in front of her. “And it sounds as if you actually believe that if a real man saw what’s under your clothes, he wouldn’t want you.”
Her lips parted. Sexuality seemed to crackle around him. “Max . . .”
“Because if you do, if that’s the reason you’re hanging on to those scars, I’m telling you now it won’t work.”
“Whether it does or not is irrelevant, because the issue won’t come up. I’ve just lost my husband. I have other priorities, as I’ve already told you.”
“You mean remembering what happened.”
“Yes. I owe it to Stanford. And to myself, for my own peace of mind.”
“Remembering the past won’t necessarily give you peace of mind. Sometimes there’s no explanation for evil.”
“Evil? That’s getting overly dramatic, isn’t it?”
“Call it what you want. Shit happens.”
“I think I’ve read that on a T-shirt somewhere.”
“Trying to make sense of it only makes it worse. You need to take control so it can’t hurt you anymore.”
“Take control? Like we did with my nightmare?”
“For starters.”
“Getting my scars fixed won’t necessarily fix my life.”
“Does your life need fixing?”
She laughed. “Oh, no. Everything’s just peachy. Why else would I be standing here talking to an imaginary playmate while we both take a stab at do-it-yourself psychology?”
Max took her chin in his hand.
She pressed harder against the tree. A piece of bark crackled beneath her back. She caught another whiff of the pond, but the smell of the mud didn’t turn her stomach anymore. It was countered by the clean tang of Max’s soap. Her flesh tingled where he touched her, even though she knew it wasn’t really a touch. That made no difference to her pulse.

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