Fairytale (17 page)

“Let go...dammit, Zaslow, you’re hurting me.
I said let go!” Her words were firm, and delivered as commands as
she tried to twist her hands free of his grip.

He smiled fully, but the smile died a second
later. A large hand came down on Zaslow’s shoulder, jerking him
backward, out of the doorway, so he stumbled on the stairs. He
released his grip on her, more out of surprise, she thought, than
anything else. She was surprised herself.

“Adam,” Brigit breathed.

He didn’t look at her. His eyes blazed with
midnight-blue fire, and they were all Zaslow’s. At some point, she
wasn’t certain when, he’d grabbed a handful of the other man’s
shirt, and held it now, bunched in his fists.

“When a lady tells you to let go,” he said,
his voice dangerously soft, “you let go. Got it?”

“You misunderstood, mister. Brigit and I are
old friends...” Zaslow tried to wrest himself free. Adam finally
let go, but did so with a little shove that sent Zaslow the rest of
the way down the front steps.

Adam glanced her way, one brow lifted in
question.

“Tell him, Brigit,” Zaslow said, and she
grimaced, ready to declare that the very sight of him made her skin
crawl. But before she got a word out, he added, “Raze wouldn’t want
you to bad-mouth me. You know he wouldn’t.”

The fury that had been bubbling inside her
froze, and slowly turned into fear. The bastard had her firmly in
his control. She had to say and do exactly what he told her, or
dear, sweet Raze would suffer for it. Damn Zaslow for using a
helpless old man this way. Damn him for this!

She saw Adam watching her, saw his eyes
narrow.

She lifted her chin, swallowed hard. “We’re
old friends,” she confirmed with a slight nod. “Just had a slight
disagreement.”

“That’s right. A slight disagreement. But
we’ve settled it now.”

A muscle worked in Adam’s jaw. He held her
eyes captive, refusing to look away. Merciless in his probing and
searching. And there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he knew she
was lying. For once, she was glad. She didn’t want him to think
she’d have anything this vile as a friend.

“Brigit doesn’t need friends like you,” he
said, never turning to look at Zaslow, never taking his intense
stare from her. “If you darken my door again, you’ll have to be
carried out of here.”

Zaslow’s icy eyes flared with anger and maybe
a hint of fear. The way Adam delivered the threat left no doubt he
meant every word of it, even without eye contact. And though Zaslow
was the bigger of the two, Brigit found herself believing Adam
could and would do exactly what he’d said he would.

Zaslow never answered, just turned and headed
down the driveway, got into his car, and drove off, spitting gravel
in his wake.

Brigit closed her eyes, her breath escaping
her in a rush, her back bowing a little.

Adam came inside and closed the door. He
stared down at her. She could feel his intense gaze even before she
opened her eyes.

“He’s no friend, is he Brigit?”

“No.”

“Lover, then? Or a former one?”

Her eyes flared wider. “No!”

Adam nodded thoughtfully, pursing his lips.
“You called him...Zaslow?”

She only nodded.

“He has some kind of hold over you. That much
is obvious.”

She held his gaze, said nothing.

“But you don’t want to tell me about it.”

Drawing a long, deep breath to battle her
constricting throat, she whispered, “Yes I do, Adam. I want that
more than I’ve ever wanted anything, I think. But...I can’t.”

Adam frowned, searching her face,
waiting.

“I’m sorry,” she added, finally forced to
lower her gaze from the power of his.

He was silent for a long moment, and she knew
his eyes were still probing and searching her face. Finally, he
sighed, and turned away. “Do you like parties, Brigit?”

Frowning, completely thrown by his change of
topics, she looked up quickly, turning to stare after his
retreating back. “Parties?”

“Boring faculty thing. Lots of pretentious
fools, sipping punch and spouting intelligencia to anyone who’ll
listen. A string quartet. Dancing.” He turned around, sent her a
wink and a sheepish smile. “Hell, it’s free food, if nothing else.
My attendance is pretty much required. It might be a little more
bearable if you’d come with me.”

She just stared at him, and she knew she must
be gaping, but she couldn’t move or speak,

“If you don’t want to, that’s—”

“No. I mean, yes, I want to.” Oh, why had she
said that? She should have stayed here. It would have given her
more time to work on the painting. “When?” she heard herself
asking.

He glanced at his watch. “Two hours.”

She had a feeling she’d regret this. “I’ll be
ready.”

“Good.” He turned as if their conversation
were over, resumed walking toward the study.

“Adam?”

He stopped, not turning around.

“Thanks...for not pushing me about...about
Zaslow.”

“Don’t thank me, Brigit. That conversation
isn’t over yet.” Then he walked into the study, closing the doors
behind him.

He grated his teeth, closed his eyes, and
told himself he was a hundred kinds of fool. He’d been shaking with
anger.
Shaking
with it. It had taken every ounce of will
he’d had in him to keep from knocking that bastard on his ass when
he’d come in and seen the way he was manhandling Brigit.

Zaslow. She said his name was Zaslow.

It was ridiculous to feel so protective of
her. Stupid, when she obviously knew the man, and when the man
obviously knew things about her that she hadn’t shared with Adam.
Hell, he was a fool. For all he knew this Zaslow might be in on
whatever plot Brigit was working here.

His instincts, though, balked at the notion
that Brigit would willingly have anything to do with the brute. He
obviously had something on her. Something powerful enough to make
her lie for him. She’d been ready to spew venom when he’d claimed
to be her friend. And then he’d said something cryptic. Adam bit
his lip, trying to recall it exactly as Zaslow had said it. “Raze
wouldn’t want you to bad-mouth me.”

So who or what was Raze? What was Zaslow’s
hold on Brigit? What was her true reason for being here, in Adam’s
house? And what did Zaslow have to do with it?

Damn, the longer he knew the woman, the more
questions he had about her. No answers. Just more and more
questions.

He was turning into a freaking basket case.
And in his rush to get to the house to see who the hell the
stranger in the doorway was, he’d left his briefcase in the car.
Yup. A basket case.

He left the study, headed through the foyer
to the door. As he passed the marble-topped pedestal table at the
base of the stairs, he glanced at the now-thriving houseplant
there, wondering again at her green thumb—or was it fairy dust?
Then he absently snatched the wadded rag from the stand’s surface,
thinking Brigit must have been dusting and forgot it.

He stopped, opening his hand and staring down
at the soft bit of cloth on his palm. It was smeared with colors.
Greens and blues and gray here and there. He lifted it to his face,
sniffing.

Paint.

He furrowed his brows and sent a questioning
gaze up the stairs, but Brigit was nowhere in sight.

Paint.

And a slimebag of a man holding something
over her head, something deadly.

And knowledge of a forest that had existed
only in his own imagination.

And the ability to make him forget all of it,
just by looking into his eyes.

“Just what in the hell are you up to, Brigit
Malone,” Adam whispered, staring up the staircase she’d just
ascended. “Just what in the hell am I going to do about you?”

“Why did I say I’d go with him? Why, why,
why?”

Brigit could have slapped herself for idiocy.
She’d blurted her acceptance before giving it any thought. So here
she was, going to a party, while poor Raze was God only knew
where...afraid and alone...

Someone should knock her upside the head for
her foolishness.

Deep down inside, she knew she couldn’t have
painted anymore tonight, anyway. Even if she’d stayed. She’d poured
every ounce of...of...juice, for want of a better word...into the
work today. She’d wielded those brushes until she was completely
dry. She couldn’t find another drop of whatever it was that made
her able to reproduce perfect likenesses on canvas. Creative
energy. Magic. She didn’t really know what it was. But she’d tapped
it to the bottom of her toes today, and there just wasn’t any more.
So she’d stopped.

There would be more
juice
tomorrow.
She wasn’t afraid there wouldn’t be. But she still felt guilty for
going out with Adam when Raze was in such dire straits.

Maybe because she was afraid she was going to
enjoy it too much.

Too late now, though. She’d agreed, right or
wrong. So she supposed she might as well make the best of it.

She wore a green skirt that was made up of
countless long strips. Its tendrils reached to the middle of her
shins, and rippled and swirled like leaves in the wind when she
moved. And brown sandals with thongs that criss-crossed their way
up her legs. Her top was a forest-green body suit with a scooped
neck. And of course, her pewter fairy, caressing the glittering
quartz point, hung around her neck.

She was sitting at the vanity, rebraiding her
hair nice and tight, when she heard a soft tap, and then her
bedroom door opened.

She met Adam’s gaze in the mirror. His
expression was speculative.

“Am I late?” she asked.

“Not yet. But you will be if you continue
with the braid.”

She turned around, but he was already coming
forward. He stopped when he stood right behind her, and then he
gently turned her face back to the mirror. His fingers dove into
her half-done braid, and she felt them moving there, separating,
smoothing. Part of her wanted to close her eyes and revel in the
feeling of his hands in her hair. There was something so intimate
about it. Another part wanted to pull away and rapidly bundle her
hair back into its accustomed style.

He shook it loose, then bent to reach past
her for the brush, without asking permission. He ran the brush
through her hair, slowly, right from the top of her head, all the
way down to the middle of her back where it ended. Over and over
again. His free hand followed the path the brush took, and finally,
she sighed, tipped her head back, and let her eyes fall closed.

The brushing stopped. And she felt her
glasses being gently removed from her face.

Her eyes flew open. She came face to face
with the wild little girl she’d been. Only she was a woman now.
Sensual and wanton and impulsive.

She saw him in the mirror, standing behind
her, staring at her as if he couldn’t do otherwise. This man from
her dreams with his honey-gold hair and wide-set, almond-shaped
wizard’s eyes. This man with the hollows in his cheeks giving him a
haunted expression, even when he smiled. This man who moved her
like no man ever had.

“Why do you hide?” he whispered.

She stiffened, her gaze shifting lower,
skimming over his lips, drawn there by their movement when he
spoke. She brought her eyes up to meet his again in the mirror. “I
don’t know what you mean.”

“Yeah, you do.” He held her gaze, and his was
probing in search of secrets. “You’re not this prim and proper lady
you pretend to be.”

She swallowed, but her throat remained dry.
“Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s true. I see it right there, in
those bottomless eyes of yours.” He leaned a little closer, so his
breath fanned her neck as he spoke, and his head was close beside
hers.

Impulsively, she closed her eyes, fearing
this man who could see all her secrets. “You’re imagining things,
Adam. There’s nothing in my eyes except—”

“Fire.” His voice had lowered. It was little
more than a whisper now, but somehow more powerful than it had been
before. “Your eyes damn near boil over with passion, sometimes.
Your skin...it just about simmers. I feel it when I’m close to
you...like this.”

He was close. Too close. And she did feel as
if her skin were on fire. Her breathing quickened, and her lips
parted. The one inside grew stronger.

“I think, Brigit Malone, that deep down
inside, you’re a hellion.”

Her eyes fell closed again. Her head tipped
back of its own accord. Or maybe not. Maybe it was the hellion he’d
seen so clearly controlling her movements now. Her hair slipped
back, away from her shoulders, and she felt his warm breath on her
neck. The fire burned hotter. His lips moved closer. She knew
without looking. And then his mouth touched her skin, and he had to
feel the wild thudding of her pulse just beneath his lips. He
mouthed the skin of her neck as if tasting it, slowly parting and
closing his lips again and again.

The power of her desire for him was beyond
anything she’d ever known, and it left her trembling and weak with
longing when he lifted his head. She lowered hers, meeting his gaze
in the mirror again. Her own eyes were heavy lidded, passion
glazed.

His lazy smile did little to disguise the
hunger in his own. “See? There’s the real Brigit.”

She shook her head in silent denial,

His hands came down to her shoulders,
kneading gently. “It’s true. I think you’re just afraid of
her.”

“I’m not...” She blinked at the reflection of
the two of them; the sight of his hands on her bared shoulders,
those long fingers moving so slightly against her skin, brought the
flames roaring back to life, and she couldn’t suppress a small
shudder. “Maybe...maybe I am, a little.”

“It’s okay,” he said softly, as his fingers
splayed over her flesh. “I am, too.”