High Energy (24 page)

another sweet caress.

And it occurred to her how very dangerous this man was to her.

How important he could become.

Had already become.

She was afraid she was acquiring an insatiable desire for him. Shakily, she

brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and stared worriedly out of her window.

Tyber's glance flicked her way. A slow smile curved his outlaw lips.

Blooey was ecstatic with the arrival of two jugs of maple syrup and a bushel of

apples, immediately declaring his intention to bake a squash-apple cake with the

new ingredients. Tyber gritted his teeth.

Even Hambone seemed happy to see them; the fat cat purred and twirled his bulk

through Tyber's legs as he brought in their bags, almost tripping him several

times. As soon as the front door closed behind them, Hambone sat down in front

of Tyber to let loose a huge, screeching wail.

"I brought you something; just a minute, Hambone!"

Tyber quickly found the cheese, cutting off a good-sized chunk for the demanding

tabby from hell. In the trusting way of cats, Hambone cautiously sniffed it

first to make sure his beloved human wasn't trying to pull a fast one on him.

Once properly assured that the offering was not laced with arsenic, Hambone let

out a short purr before attacking the cheese.

Zanita watched this scene play out, amazed. Who had ever heard of a cat with a

penchant for Vermont cheddar? She smiled to herself. Yes, she was back in the

nut house again. But it felt good to be home.

Home.

Funny how she was starting to think of this place in that way. When Tyber drove

through the gates after dark and Zanita caught her first view of the house lit

up in welcome for them, all crazy turrets and impossible features, she had felt

a rush of warmth inside her. Then Blooey and Hambone had come out onto the porch

to greet them.

It was really a very nice feeling.

Much better than coming home to her empty, sterile apartment.

The enticing aromas of Blooey's cooking wafted from the kitchen. Zanita sighed;

yes, this was a very nice feeling.

She smiled while observing Tyber. He had quickly shed his jacket and was now

kicking off his boots. In stocking feet, well-worn jeans, and a soft, red

flannel shirt, he looked very much at home.

"Mmm, something smells good; I wonder what Blooey cooked up for dinner?"

"Don't know—but whatever it is, I'm sure it's elaborate. Blooey always thinks my

palate suffers when I walk out that door," Tyber answered her distractedly while

riffling through the mail Blooey had piled onto a sideboard in the foyer.

He suddenly grinned at a postcard in his hand, eagerly flipping it over to read

the back. "It's from my parents."

"Your parents?"

Somehow she had never pictured him as having a mother and a father. Parents.

That made him sort of… normal. Zanita was not sure she was ready to embrace a

normal Tyber. A Tyber who had regular family. A Tyber who was not so outside the

realm of normal relationships.

Tyber leaned back against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest. He

stared at her with an expression of combined disbelief and amusement. "Did you

think I sprang from the forehead of Galileo fully grown?" he asked dryly.

"Well no, of course not. I just never pictured you with—" He quirked an eyebrow

at her. "All right, so maybe I did think that! So, are they traveling?"

"Yes, my father is on sabbatical; they're in Greece."

"He's a teacher?"

"Professor of Antiquities at Harvard."

Zanita digested this piece of information, fidgeting slightly. Then she suddenly

smiled as something dawned on her.

"Of course." She snapped her fingers. "That's how you ended up with Tyberius

Augustus." The father must be just as much of a kook as the son. Who named their

kid Tyberius Augustus?

"What are your brothers and sisters named—Claudius Aurelius and Hera Athena?"

She giggled.

Tyber frowned at her. "I am an only child, and what's wrong with my name?"

"Nothing; its a beautiful name. Very unconventional—suits you to a tee."

"My mother thought so. She's always said that as soon as Dad suggested it, she

knew it was perfect for me."

This woman was either very much in love with her husband or Zanita was involved

with the Addams Family. Probably both. She cleared her throat. "Is your mother a

professor too?"

Tyber grinned. "Hell, no. She's an artist. She paints trash."

"That bad?"

He laughed. "No, I mean she actually paints trash. You know—flea market stuff;

she uses it in her work. She's really quite good."

Another kook. Yep. The Addams Family.

As if to lend credence to her thoughts, at that moment Blooey bustled into the

foyer, squawking, "Are ye gonna stand there all night diddlin' away with the

lass while me supper goes to the squabs, Captain? "

Probably chastised, Tyber followed behind Zanita into the kitchen, bending down

once to murmur in her ear, "Diddlin'?"

Zanita, who knew exactly what the word meant, just shrugged her shoulders,

thankful that he was behind her and couldn't see her blush.

Catching her expression in the hall mirror they passed, Tyber grinned wickedly.

Blooey was a crusty old tar. He liked that in a man.

The following days seemed to fall into the regular Evans pattern, if anything

having to do with Tyber could be called either regular or a pattern.

Zanita worked on her usual array of articles; Tyber worked on… well, whatever it

was Tyber worked on. One evening he uncharacteristically went back down to his

lab, saying he had an idea he needed to "get down" right away. He was back

upstairs in less than thirty minutes.

Zanita, who had been watching an old movie, looked up in alarm at the sharklike

grin on his face as he began walking—no, stalking—toward her, proclaiming that

he had a sudden uncontrollable urge to teach her quantum mechanics.

She shrieked and fell right in with his plans by bolting up the stairs and into

their bedroom, a pursuing Tyber right on her heels.

It had been an in-depth lesson.

The next night, he corraled her in the parlor. His eyes had a wild gleam.

"You're in a dungeon."

"What?"

"Go with this for a minute, Zanita. You're in a dungeon—"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm working on a computer game and—"

"A computer game? Here, all this time, I thought you were this close to the cure

for the common cold. I can't believe it!" One of the greatest minds of the day,

and he was working on games!

Tyber seemed affronted. "Games are wonderful things, Zanita. They can teach all

sorts of things if presented in an engaging format—reasoning ability, a sense of

accomplishment, not to mention exercise for the imagination."

His eyes twinkled down at her, forcing her to recall the imaginative, engaging

format he used last evening to teach her…

She felt the peaks of her breasts harden with the memory.

"Well, I suppose…"

He knelt before her chair, taking her hands in his. "You're in a dungeon. In

order to escape, you have to negotiate a maze of logic—"

"I'm doomed."

"Hmm. I can see I'm going to have to wait until I can test the prototype on

you."

Zanita waved her hand. "No way. I'm lousy at those kinds of things. I can't even

shoot a straight line; one of those weird ninja things would have my head before

the game even started."

A dimple curved into his cheek. "It's not that kind of game; it's an adventure

game."

"I'd still be lousy."

He rubbed his chin back and forth against her knee, his clear, flashing eyes

engaging hers. "No. You're very good at adventures, baby."

The man could stop a heart from beating.

She mentally shook herself. "Well, no adventures for me right now. I told Hank

I'd get this extra article done for him in time for Halloween which, in case you

don't realize it, is tomorrow. I haven't even started it yet."

"What's it about?" He leaned further over her lap, trying to read her

hieroglyphics upside down.

"You know the old cemetery down by the mill?"

He furrowed his brow. "The one from the seventeen-hundreds with all the

interesting sayings on the gravestones?"

"Yeah. Well, there's this legend that on midnight on All Hallow's Eve a ghostly

carriage rides through the cemetery over the headstones."

"Ye Olde Federal Express?"

She laughed, then dropped her voice to an enticing whisper. "Supposedly it rides

amongst the graves looking for someone or some thing. Rumor has it that two

hundred years ago, on the eve of Halloween, at the stroke of midnight, a

beautiful young woman—"

" Cherchez la femme."

Zanita whacked his shoulder before continuing with the lurid tale, "—goes to an

assignation with her lover. Unfortunately, her husband has found out about the

tryst, gets there before she does, and whacks off the head of her paramour."

"And rightly so, the poor cuckolded fellow." Zanita stuck her tongue out at him.

"Go on, baby, I'm breathless with curiosity."

Zanita ignored his sarcasm, leaning closer to him. "When the lady arrives, who

greets her but—"

"Let me take a wild guess: the headless man about town?"

She nodded. "The woman sees her hunk sans head and instantly dies of fright. The

coachman runs off, and the coach with the dead woman is forever doomed to wander

the graveyard looking for her love, who can't find her either because he has no

head." Zanita made the appropriate scary sound, "Oooo…"

"That is lame."

"Easy for you to say. I don't see you running down to the cemetery to see if—" A

light came into Tyber's eyes. An unholy light.

"All right."

"What do you mean, all right?"

"Let's go down there tonight—at midnight. Check it out."

Zanita swallowed nervously. She always got the willies over ghost stories. "We

don't have to—I have to get this article done and—"

"So, write your article now. I need to finish up something myself," he said

mysteriously. Then, "You're not afraid, are you?"

"Don't be silly! Okay, you're on."

"Fine. We'll rendezvous in the foyer at eleven."

"Fine." Her voice quavered slightly.

Tyber stood to leave, stopping to point a finger at her. "If you don't show up,

Curls, I'll know you're chicken."

Zanita snorted disdainfully, turning back to her article as if to dismiss him.

It was just as well she didn't see the expression of ungodly glee on his roguish

face.

Hollywood couldn't have done it better.

A dense fog wafted around the decrepit headstones, several of which had fallen

over and settled thickly around the cab of the truck. The light of a full moon

filtered eerily through the thick, soupy haze, barely illuminating the road they

were parked on. The only road out.

An owl hooted atmosphere into the night. A cold, biting damp permeated the

interior of the truck, seeping into her bones even with the stadium blanket

Tyber had thrown over them.

She could hear Boris Karloff assuring her that this was a thriller.

She expected to see Michael Jackson and his moonwalking zombies any time now.

Zanita peered at the small digital clock Tyber had hung on the dash. 11:40.

Twenty minutes to go.

"Do you want to tell ghost stories?" Zanita could hear the mocking laughter in

his voice.

"No." It was the last thing she wanted to do. This is creepy. How had he

maneuvered her into this display of idiocy?

Tyber leaned back in the seat, vainly trying to stretch his long legs out. He

laced his hands behind his neck, cracking a few cold, stiff joints in the

process, then draped his arm across the back of her seat.

He stared straight ahead. "Want to neck?"

"No."

"Have you thought about who you're going to invite for the weekend?"

She turned to him. "What do you mean?"

"I told LaLeche we were having some friends down for the weekend; it seemed a

convenient excuse to invite him. Don't you think he'll be suspicious if there's

nobody there but him?"

"Why didn't you mention this before! What are we going to do?"

"We?"

"It was your plan!"

"Yes, but it's your story." Zanita folded her arms over her chest and glared at

him. "Okay, okay. Think of some people. Fast. What about your girlfriend Mills?"

"Mmm. She might; especially if she's not doing anything this weekend. I've

already told her about your house, and she's dying to see if it's as kooky…" Her

voice trailed off as she realized what she was saying.

Tyber's brows slanted down, making him look rather like a disgruntled Viking.

"Who else?"

"I don't know."

"How about Hank and your grandmother?"

"No! I don't want Hank getting a clue about this. What about some of your

friends and colleagues?"

"No way. Forget it. Get that idea right out of your head."

"Why not?"

"Why not, she says. Other than irrevocably destroying my credibility amongst my

colleagues and friends by setting them up to get bilked by a con man, I can't

think of a single reason."

Zanita snorted. "Oh, Tyber, no one expects you to be normal."