Shifting Shadows (6 page)

He was
talking, his voice low, but she didn’t hear the words. She focused on him, on the droplets of mist beaded on his raven’s wing hair, on his jaw squared firmly below his full lips.

He reached around h
er to open the pantry then suddenly stopped, frozen, his face inches from hers, one arm around her as if in an embrace. His eyes widened then narrowed, dark wells burning from hidden depths. He didn’t move and neither did she. She couldn’t. Her body seemed bonded with his.

She ordered herself to turn away, to cover her face and hide her shameful thoughts, but his gaze held her firmly in place as surely as his massive arms could hold her if he so chose.
She felt stirrings and desires she knew she had never felt before, certainly not with Blake. Yet those desires seemed familiar.

“
Were we lovers?” she whispered, needing desperately to know the answer.

Her words seemed to release him. He moved away, leaned with both hands on the counter and gazed out the window over the sink. His shoulders rose and fell as he took several deep, audible breaths.

“No,” he finally said.

For a moment she didn
’t believe him. He’d been feeling the same things she felt. She knew he had. Yet the single word held no lies.

Still, no matter what he said, no matter what the truth seemed to be, she couldn
’t shake the feeling that she’d known him for a long time, shared a closeness with him.

She moved away from him, from the desires she shouldn
’t be feeling, and sat down at the table. She scooted her chair forward as though closing that space would somehow close Dylan out of her mind. But of course it wouldn’t. It didn’t.

S
he felt his presence behind her and knew then that he had been at his window watching her that morning when she’d seen a curtain stir because she’d felt the same presence then.

“
You put a paper filter in the basket,” he said, his tone harsh.

She turned to watch the movements of his big, awkward, tantalizing hands.
“You spoon in the grounds, flip this switch and wait for it to brew.” From the cabinet he picked up the cardboard box he’d given her outside and tossed it onto the table in front of her. “Chocolate frosted doughnuts. Your favorite.”

With stiff fingers she opened the lid, took out one of the sugary rolls and bit into it. He knew her favorite kind of doughnut. She
’d divorced her husband, and this man had moved in next door to her. He watched her bedroom window from his bedroom window in the early hours of the morning. But they weren’t lovers. Could she believe that?

“
So, when’s hubby coming back?” He set two cups of coffee on the table and took a seat across from her.

“
Hubby?”

“
Excuse me.” Sarcasm oozed from the words. “Your ex, Phillip.”

She heard both jealousy and enmity in his words, and she was unaccountably thrilled.

“Oh,” she said. “He’ll be back this evening, after work.” She thrust away the feeling of entrapment the idea brought to her.

She lifted her cup to her lips and drank. It was hot and sweet. H
e knew how she liked her coffee too.

“
Are you going back to work today?” he asked.

Going back to work? Oh, yes.
Analise worked. She owned the antique shop.

“
I suppose I should. Who’s been minding the shop in my absence?”

“
Your assistant, Lottie Timmons, I imagine.”

Phillip had mentioned calling Lottie at the shop
yesterday. A picture popped into her mind. “Lottie!” she exclaimed in delight, grasping at the memory. “Short, lovely white hair, glasses she won’t wear unless she absolutely has to, reads tarot cards, plots horoscopes and makes delicious chocolate fudge.” She almost sobbed from happiness. She’d remembered someone from this world, and the memory was a good one. She couldn’t wait to see the kind, older woman.

Dylan nodded slowly, extracting a doughnut from the box.
“So you’re getting your memory back.”

Again his voice held an urgent note in spite of the cas
ualness of his actions as he chewed on the pastry.

“
Bits and pieces here and there. I think I should go to work. Maybe that will help me remember.”
And I’ll be with someone I can trust.

He nodded, his eyes narrowed, studying her.
“Maybe.”

“
Could you take me there?”

“
Take you where?”

“
To the shop. I’m afraid I don’t know where it is.”

“
Take you to the shop. Sure, I can do that. I’ll let you follow me there, but you’ll probably want to take your car so you can come home when you want to.”

“
I have a car?” she asked in amazement. “I can drive an automobile?” A picture of herself herding a speeding automobile down the street with others zipping around her sent her heart racing, then, just as quickly, she relaxed. Of course she could drive. She’d driven since she was sixteen. She just couldn’t quite remember how. “If you’ll show me, I’m sure it’ll all come back.”

A
flicker of belief flashed through Dylan’s usual skepticism.

“
You don’t believe I’ve forgotten how to drive or who I am or how to operate the coffee machine,” she accused. “Why would I make up something like this?” In her frustration, her voice had risen almost to a shout.

He picked up his coffee and sipped, set down his cup, raised his eyes to meet hers. She could see nothing in them. They were so
dark that no light reflected from their depths. “Because you’re scared.” His voice was no louder than a whisper, but she could have heard his words from across the room.

Because you
’re scared.

Of what?
she wanted to shout at him. She didn’t, because he was right. She was frightened and wasn’t sure she wanted to know
of what
.

“
I’ll grab my jacket and be back to lead you to your shop on my way to work,” he said, sliding his chair away from the table.

“
Thank you,” she murmured, her energy completely drained. She stared after him as he disappeared out the door and down the steps.

Because you
’re scared.

Of him?
Of what he might do to her if he thought she remembered? Could he have pushed her down the stairs because of something she knew, something she could no longer remember? The mysterious papers she’d hidden in her office?

She closed the door behind him and leaned against it, drew in a deep breath and tried to reason with herself. Since she
’d only dreamed about falling down the stairs, Dylan couldn’t have pushed her. She was having enough trouble reclaiming her life. She didn’t need to start making up stories about helpful neighbors pushing her downstairs, about hiding journals in her attic and important papers in her office.

Because you
’re scared.

His words whispered through her mind.

She raced upstairs as if she could run away from them.

In the safety of her room she concentrated on selecting an appropriate outfit from the clothes in
Analise’s wardrobe. A cream-colored suit and emerald green silk blouse caught her eye, and she changed into them, reminding herself that, since she couldn’t find a corset, Analise probably didn’t wear one. No one probably wore them now. Like the bustle, it would be a thing of the past. And that was a good thing. Analise’s clothes were definitely more comfortable than Elizabeth’s.

She started down the stairs then paused, thinking of the attic above her and her j
ournal. The memory was so vivid, maybe she hadn’t made up that part. Maybe there really was a journal. She hesitated, looking longingly up toward the attic stairs. But Dylan would be arriving any minute. She could search tonight when she got home from the shop.

She turned back
to go downstairs when a glittering on the fourth step, on the ledge outside the bannister, caught her eye. She moved to the step, reached around and retrieved the item, nicking her finger in the process. It was glass—a small chunk of broken glass. Crystal, she thought, judging from the weight.

Crystal with one edge broken and the other faceted like she
’d seen on the lamp in her dream. But dreams didn’t leave behind real, substantial fragments.

For a long moment she stared at the piece of crystal, searching its transparent depths, searching the opaque depths of her own mind. At least one part of her fantasies had a base in reality. A crystal lamp had broken on the stairs.

The need to find answers—t
o discover what was happening, who she was—possessed her with renewed urgency. She lifted a hand to her forehead and pressed as if she could push away the darkness. But both the crystal and her mind guarded their secrets.

A knock on the front door startled her, recalling her to the present, to the fact that Dylan was waiting to take her to her shop. What would he do if he knew what she
’d discovered? She didn’t dare find out, didn’t dare let him know. With shaking fingers she stashed the shard in her handbag and continued downstairs on rubbery legs.

Standing on her front por
ch in his dark business suit, Dylan almost looked like an ordinary businessman on his way to the office, an innocent, helpful neighbor. But his bottomless eyes weren’t innocent. The muscles beneath that jacket weren’t innocent. She’d been lifted and carried in those arms as if she were weightless.

She shuddered as she remembered the feel of hands on her shoulders in her dream, the dream about a broken lamp. How easy it would have been for someone of his strength to push her.

“Got your keys?”

She realized he was speaking to her.
“Keys?”

“
To the car.”

He
reached around her. She held her breath in fear of the murderous touch from the dream, in anticipation of the thrilling touch only a few minutes before when he’d been making coffee.

But his hand remained a careful hair
sbreadth away as he pulled the ring of keys from the hook just inside the still open door. Heart racing, she stepped aside, permitting him to close and lock the door.

Without a word he turned and strode away
through the mist to the white automobile sitting in the street in front of the house. She hurried to catch up.

He slid a key into the door
then motioned her inside.

Tentatively she settle
d onto the soft seat in front of the steering wheel, searching in the chaos of her mind for the memory of driving. She knew it was there somewhere, but the piece of crystal in her handbag loomed so large it obscured all else.

Dylan went around to the other side, got in and handed her the ring of keys.

“Put the key in the ignition.”

“
Uh...” She knew where the ignition was, if she could just remember, if she could just stop thinking about the lamp shattering against the stair rail, leaving a broken piece for her to find....

“
Here.” She gasped as his hand suddenly covered hers.

With a firm but surprisingly gentle grip, he guided her hand,
showed her how to put the key into a slot beneath the steering wheel. “Turn it and give the car some gas. Put your foot on the pedal on the right.”

She did as he said, twisted the key, shrieked and jumped when it made a grinding noise.

He reached over and turned the engine off, then handed her the keys. “You’re in no condition to drive. I’ll take you.” He slid out of the car and slammed the door behind him.

She had to agree with his assessment. She wanted to
remember how, knew she could if only she could focus, but right now the thought of that piece of broken crystal in her handbag, of someone trying to kill her, filled her mind, pushed everything else aside.

“
Come on,” he said brusquely, holding her door open.

She
slid out.

His car, parked in the street a few yards ahead of hers, loomed black and big and ominous
...rather like Dylan, she thought. Though it was now familiar, she approached it with as much trepidation as the day before. When she was closed inside with him, she’d be entirely at his mercy. If he’d tried to kill her once, would he try again? Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs.

Yet when he opened the door and stepped back, she slid in unresistingly, the way a prisoner might step up to the guillotine without protest, knowing there was no escape, resigned to his fate.

She stared straight ahead through the windshield as he slid into the seat beside her. When he made no movement toward starting the car, she turned to look at him, expecting to meet his glowering stare. But he was regarding her curiously, the corners of his mouth tilted slightly upward in a sardonic smile.

“
You seem a little more comfortable about the prospect of riding with me today than yesterday,” he said. “You aren’t gripping the dash, and your knuckles aren’t white.”

Almost against her will, certainly against her better
judgment, she smiled back, a real smile, one she felt deep inside. She didn’t know anything about this man, had reason to doubt her safety around him, but she had a horrifying suspicion that he could compel her to ride to the ends of the earth with him if he so chose.

He started the automobile and pulled away from the curb.

“It must be tough, losing your memory, not knowing who you are, where you’re going.” Was he being sarcastic or offering an obscure apology for doubting her? Somewhere in between, she suspected.

“
It’s very disconcerting,” she admitted. “Actually, it’s terrifying.”

He nodded, looking genuinely sympathetic for a
moment. “Sometimes it’s harder to remember than to forget. You still don’t remember how you ended up on the floor, bruised and battered?”

She clutched the edge of the seat, the tension returning.

Was he asking if she recalled the broken lamp? The man in the shadows? Was he suggesting she had something she wanted to forget? Or that he himself wanted to forget something?

“
No,” she answered, afraid to say more for fear he’d hear the lie in her words.

His jaw clenched as if he heard it anyway.
“You don’t need to be frightened. If you remember something, tell me. I’ll help you. I’ll take care of you.”

She bit her lip, wanting to clutch at the words, feel secure that he could and would care for her. But she forced herself to tamp down that desire. With the anger in his voice and on his face, his promise sounded almost like a threat
...though she sensed that not all the anger was directed at her.

“
Analise?”

“
Yes. Yes, I’ll tell you if I remember anything,” she said, lying again.

He directed a quick sideways look at her.

“Do you still think you’re some Victorian woman?”

“
Victorian?” She repeated the word, examining the images it elicited.

“
Women who lived around the turn of the century. They were pretty different from women today.” He seemed to be speaking as much to himself as to her. “More sheltered, more vulnerable, more dependent.”

“
Are you saying I’m different now?”

He pulled the car over to the side of the street and parked in front of a shop she recognized from the picture.
Analise’s Antiques. For a moment she thought he was going to get out of the car without answering her, but he shifted in his seat and faced her.

“
Yes, you’re acting different than you did before.” He slid from the car, away from her.

She watched his s
uit-clad figure as he came around to let her out.
Acting
, he’d said, unwilling to admit whoever or whatever she was could be real. His actions toward her were as contradictory and inexplicable as her feelings for him.

Climbing out, she stood beside him on the sidewalk.

“What was I like before...before yesterday?”

He gazed at her a long time as if searching for a hidden meaning behind the question.
“I didn’t know you very well,” he finally said. “You kept to yourself a lot. But sometimes I thought we were...friends.” He suddenly frowned, as if irritated with himself. “Are you ready to go inside?”

Friends?
No, she didn’t think so. With what she felt between them, they could be lovers or they could be enemies, but not friends.

His hand at the small of her back urged her forward.

She felt better the moment she entered the shop. The bell over the door jingled a welcome. She paused in the doorway, basking in the familiar sights and smells, the solid furniture, the lamps with crystal pendants or painted globes, the scents of wood and lemon oil, the faint floral aroma from baskets of potpourri. A blissful feeling reached her on two levels...the furniture that was familiar to Elizabeth as well as the shop Analise had chosen and filled with things that appealed to her.

Lottie
—Analise recognized her instantly—bustled in from the back room. She squinted then clapped her hands together, lips curving up in a smile.

“
Analise! I was so worried when Phillip told me you’d hurt yourself. But you look just wonderful. Come back here and sit down. I’ll make you some tea. You must be Dylan, the neighbor who paints.” She extended a hand toward him. “I’m Lottie Timmons, Analise’s assistant. You will join us for a cup of tea, won’t you? I made some blackberry-jam cookies.” She turned, and Analise followed her into a back room where a rectangular table with a chipped enamel top sat in one corner.

Lottie moved over to
the other side of the room where a steaming kettle sat on a small stove.

Analise
sank into a chair and looked up at Dylan. He blinked then also took a seat and grinned. “Is she always like that?”

“
Not always but often,” Analise answered, smiling at Dylan’s expression as much as at her returning memories of Lottie. This was the first time she could recall seeing him so at ease, his guard down. He was even more attractive this way.

The older woman returned
to the table, almost staggering under the weight of a tray holding a china teapot with a delicate pattern of roses, matching cups and saucers, and a plate of cookies.

“
Here, let me help you.” Dylan rose to take the burden from her.

“
Aren’t you the nicest young man.” She took her own seat at the table as Dylan set the tray down. “We’ll let this steep for five minutes, and it’ll be just perfect. It’s a new blend, Analise. Very light. I know you don’t like those heavy teas. Now tell me about your accident. Are you really all right?”

Dylan sat forward, no longer relaxed. In the abrupt,
unexpected silence, Analise was acutely aware of the two intent gazes trained on her, waiting for her answer. Though Lottie’s eyes were as light as Dylan’s were dark, they were equally keen.

“
Well, uh, I guess I fell down the stairs.” She lifted her hair off her forehead. “I got a couple of bruises, but Dylan took me to a doctor. He said I was fine.”

Lottie
’s expression didn’t change. Analise could tell she somehow knew there was more to the story.

She took a deep, fortifying breath and continued.
“Actually the bump on my head caused a little problem. I have a kind of amnesia. It’s not total, at least not anymore. I just have holes in my memory. Things are coming back gradually, but—” She tried to smile, to minimize the
little problem
that had changed her whole world. “But there are still parts of Analise Parrish missing.”

Lottie studied her quietly
then turned her attention to the teapot. She poured the steaming liquid into dainty cups and served the three of them. Analise sipped her tea gratefully. Lottie was right. It was just the kind she liked, hot and light. She reached for a jam cookie. They were very similar to the kind Mama often served with tea.

Lottie sat back, sipped her own drink and shook her head.
“No,” she said. “That doesn’t seem right. Your aura’s so bright today, so dense. You have more, not less.”

“
More what?” Analise whispered the words. She studied Dylan closely, but he only looked puzzled, his broad forehead wrinkled.

“
I don’t know. Just more. More life. More of you. It’s almost like you have a double aura, but there’s no division between the two, no war of souls going on. It’s brighter, has more light, more depth. Goodness, you must be able to feel it, something this significant.” Lottie munched a cookie, as comfortable with her strange observation as if they’d been discussing the weather.

Analise
’s hand trembled as she raised her cup to her lips.

Lottie was talking nonsense, babbling about psychic
phenomena as she was wont to do. But this time her words made a frightening kind of sense.

Analise
felt like there was more of her, that she had two people inside her body. She felt in her heart that she was Elizabeth, but she knew in her mind she was Analise. Was Lottie wrong about one thing? Were there two souls warring for her body? If so, then Elizabeth was obviously the invader. She’d seen irrefutable proof that this tall, blond body belonged to Analise.