The Wicked and the Wondrous (23 page)

Paul grinned at the girl. “The last time I saw you, you were five years old with a mop of curly black hair.” He held out his hand to Trevor. “You had the same mop and the same curls.”

“Still do,” Trevor said, grinning back.

T
HICK STEAM CURLED
through the bathroom, filling every corner like an unnatural fog. The tiled bathroom was large and beautiful with its deep bathtub and hanging plants. After her long, hot shower, Jessica was feeling more human, but it was impossible to see much with the steam so thick. She towel-dried the mirror, staring at the reflection of her pale face. She was exhausted, wanting only to sleep.

The last thing she wanted to do was face Dillon Wentworth looking like a frightened child. Her green eyes were too big for her face, her mouth too generous, her hair too red. She had always wished for the sophisticated, elegant look, but instead, she got the girl-next-door look. She peered closer at her reflection, hoping she seemed more mature. Without make-up she appeared younger than her twenty-five years. Jessica sighed, and shook her head in exasperation. She was no longer a child of eighteen, but a grown woman who had helped to raise Tara and Trevor. She wanted Dillon to take her seriously, to listen to what she had to say and not dismiss her as he might a teenager.

“Don’t be dramatic, Jess,” she cautioned aloud, “don’t use words like ‘life and death’. Just be matter-of-fact.” She was trembling as she pulled on a dry pair of jeans, her hands shaking in spite of the hot shower. “Don’t give him a chance to call you hysterical or imaginative.” She hated those words. The police had used them freely when she’d consulted them after the twins had been sent the old tabloids and the phone calls had started. She was certain the police thought her a publicity-seeker.

Before she did anything else, she needed to assure herself the twins were being taken care of. Paul had shown her to a room on the second floor, a large suite with a bathroom and sitting room much like in a hotel. Jessica knew why Dillon had his private home built that way. In the beginning, he would have clung to the idea that he would play again. He would compose and record, and his home would be filled with guests. She ached for him, ached for the talent, the musical genius in him that must tear at his soul night and day. She couldn’t imagine Dillon without his music.

She wandered down the wide hallway to the curving staircase. The stairs led up another story or down to the main floor. Jessica was certain she would find the twins in the kitchen and Dillon up on the third floor so she went downstairs, delaying the inevitable. The house was beautiful, all wood and high ceilings and stained glass. It had endless rooms that invited her to explore, but the sound of Tara’s laughter caught at her and she hurried into the kitchen.

Paul grinned at her in greeting. “Did you follow the smell of chocolate?” He was still as she remembered him, too thin, too bleached, with a quick, engaging smile that always made her want to smile with him.

“No, the sound of laughter.” Jessica kissed Tara and ruffled her hair. “I love to hear you laugh. Are you feeling better, honey?” She looked better, not so pale and cold.

Tara nodded. “Much. Chocolate always helps, doesn’t it?”

“They’re both chocolate freaks,” Trevor informed Paul. “You have no idea how scary it gets if there’s no chocolate in the house.”

“Don’t listen to him, Mr. Ritter,” Tara scoffed. “He loves chocolate, too.”

Paul burst out laughing. “I haven’t had anyone call me Mr. Ritter in years, Tara. Call me Paul.” He leaned companionably against the counter next to Jessica. “I had the distinct feeling Dillon had no idea you were coming. What brought you?”

“Christmas, of course,” Jessica said brightly. “We wanted a family Christmas.”

Paul smiled, but it didn’t chase the shadows from his dark eyes. He glanced at the twins and bit off what he might have said. “We have more company now than we’ve had in years. The house is full, sort of old home week. Everyone must have had the same idea. Christmas, huh?” He rubbed his jaw and winked at Tara. “You want a tree and decorations and the works?”

Tara nodded solemnly. “I want a big tree and all of us decorating it like we did when Mama Rita was alive.”

Jessica looked around the large kitchen, closer to tears than she would have liked. “It looks the same in here, Paul. It’s the same kitchen that was in the old house.” She smiled at the twins. “Do you remember?” The thought that Dillon had had her mother’s domain reproduced exactly warmed her heart. They had spent five happy years in the kitchen. Vivian had never once entered it. They had often joked that she probably didn’t even know the way. But Tara, Trevor, and Jessica had spent most of their time in or near that sanctuary. It was a place of safety, of peace. A refuge when Dillon was on the road and the house was no longer a home.

Trevor nodded. “Tara and I were just talking about it with Paul. It feels like home in here. I expected to find the cupboard I scratched my name into.”

Paul caught Jessica’s elbow, indicating with a jerk of his head to follow him out of the room. “You don’t want to keep him waiting too long, Jessie.”

With a falsely cheery wave at the twins, she went with him reluctantly, somersaults beginning in the pit of her stomach. Dillon. She was going to face him after all this time. “What did you mean, old home week? Who’s here, Paul?”

“The band. Even though Dillon can’t play the way he used to, he still composes. You know how he is with his music. Someone got the idea to record a few songs in his studio. He has an awesome studio, of course. The sound is perfect in it, all the latest equipment, and who could resist a Dillon Wentworth song?”

“He’s composing again?” Joy surged through her. “That’s wonderful, just what he needs. He’s been alone far too long.”

Paul matched her shorter strides on the stairs. “He’s having a difficult time being around anyone. He doesn’t like to be seen. And his temper…He’s used to having his own way, Jessica. He isn’t the Dillon you remember.”

She heard something in his voice, something that sent alarm bells ringing in her head. She looked sideways at him. “I don’t expect him to be. I know you’re warning me off, trying to protect him, but Trevor and Tara need a father. He may have gone through a lot, but so did they. They lost their home and parents. Vivian might not have counted, they barely knew her and what they remember isn’t pleasant, but he abandoned them. Add it up any way you like, he retreated and left them behind.”

Paul stopped on the second floor landing, looking up the staircase. “He went through hell. Over a year in the hospital, so they could do what they could for his burns, all those surgeries, the skin grafts, and through it all, the reporters hounding him. And, of course, the trial. He went to court covered in bandages like a damned mummy. It was a media circus. Television cameras in his face, people staring at him like he was some freak. They wanted to believe he murdered Vivian and her lover. They wanted him to be guilty. Vivian wasn’t the only one who died that night. Seven people died in that fire. They made him out to be a monster.”

“I was here,” Jessica reminded him softly, her stomach revolting at the memories. “I crawled through the house on my hands and knees with two five-year-olds, Paul. I pushed them out a window and followed them. Tara rolled down the side of the cliff and nearly drowned in the ocean. I didn’t get her out of the sea and make my way around to the other side of the house in time to let Dillon know we were safe.” She had been so exhausted after battling to save Tara who could barely stay afloat. She had wasted precious time lying on the shore with the children, her heart racing and her lungs burning. While she’d been lying there, Dillon had fought past the others and run back into the burning house to save the children. She pressed a hand to her head. “You think I don’t think of it every day of my life? What I should have done? I can’t change it, I can’t go back and do it over.” Guilt washed over her, through her, so that she felt sick with it.

“Jessica.” Dillon’s voice floated down the stairs. No one had a voice like Dillon Wentworth’s. The way he said her name conjured up night fantasies, vivid impressions of black velvet brushing over exposed skin. He could weave spells with that voice, mesmerize, hold thousands of people enthralled. His voice was a potent weapon and she had always been very susceptible.

Jessica grasped the banister and went up to him. He waited at the top of the stairs. It saddened her to see that he had changed and was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt that concealed his scarred arms. A pair of thin black leather gloves covered his hands. He was thinner than in the old days, but still gave the impression of immense power that she remembered so vividly. He moved with grace, a sense of rhythm. His body didn’t just walk across a stage, it flowed. He was only nine years older than she, but lines of suffering were etched into his face, and his eyes reflected a deep inner pain.

“Dillon.” She said his name. There was so much more, so many words, so many emotions rising up out of the ashes of their past. She wanted to hold him close, gather him into her arms. She wanted him to reach for her, but she knew he wouldn’t touch her. Jessica smiled instead, hoping he would see how she felt. “I’m so glad to see you again.”

There was no answering smile on his face. “What in the world are you doing here, Jessica? What were you thinking, bringing the children here?”

His face was a mask she couldn’t penetrate. Paul was right. Dillon wasn’t the same man any longer. This man was a stranger to her. He looked like Dillon, he even moved like Dillon, but there was a cruel edge to his mouth where before there had been a ready smile and a certain sensuality. His blue eyes had always burned with his intensity, his drive, his wild passions, his joy of life. Now they burned a piercing ice-blue.

“Are you taking a good look?” He had a way of twisting his words right at the end, a different accent that was all his own. His words were bitter but his voice was even, cool. “Look your fill, Jess, get it out of your system.”

“I’m looking, Dillon. Why not? I haven’t seen you in seven years. Not since the accident.” She kept her voice strictly neutral when a part of her wanted to weep for him. Not for the scars on his body, but the ones far worse, the ones on his soul. And he was looking at her, his gaze like a rapier as it moved over her, taking in every detail. Jessica would not allow him to rattle her. This was too important for all of them. Tara and Trevor had no one else to fight for them, for their rights. For their protection. And neither, it seemed, did Dillon.

“Is that what you believe, Jessica? That it was an accident?” A small, humorless smile softened the edge of his mouth but made his eyes glitter like icy crystals. He turned away from her and led the way to his study. Dillon stepped back, gestured for her to precede him. “You’re much more naive than I ever gave you credit for being.”

Jessica’s body brushed up against his as she stepped past him to enter his private domain. At once she became aware of him as a man, her every nerve ending leaping to life. Electricity seemed to arc between them. He drew in his breath sharply and his eyes went smoky before he turned away from her.

She looked around his study, away from him and his virility, and found it to be comforting. It was more like the Dillon she remembered. All warm leather, golds and browns, warm colors. Books were in floor-to-ceiling shelves, glass doors guarding treasures. “The fire was an accident,” she ventured, feeling her way carefully with him.

The ground seemed to be shifting out from under her feet. This house was different, and yet the same as the one she remembered. There were places of comfort that could quickly disappear. Dillon was a stranger, and there was something threatening in his glittering gaze. He watched her with the same unblinking menace of a predator. Uneasily, Jessica seated herself across from him with the huge mahogany desk between them, feeling she was facing a foe, not a friend.

“That’s the official verdict, isn’t it? Funny word, official. You can make almost anything official if you write it up on paper and repeat it often enough.”

Jessica was uncertain how to reply. She had no idea what he was implying. She twisted her fingers together, her green eyes watching him intently. “What are you saying, Dillon? Do you think Vivian started the fire on purpose?”

“Poor neglected Vivian.” He sighed. “You bring back too many memories, Jess, ones I can do without.”

In her lap, her fingers twisted together tightly. “I’m sorry for that, Dillon. Most of my memories of you are wonderful and I cherish them.”

He leaned back in his chair, carefully positioned to keep his body in the deeper shadows. “Tell me about yourself. What have you been doing lately?”

Her green gaze met his blue one squarely. “I have a degree in music and I work at Eternity Studios as a sound engineer. But I think you know that.”

He nodded. “They say you’re brilliant at it, Jess.” He watched her mouth curve and his body tightened in reaction. Actually hardened, in a heavy, throbbing ache. He was fascinated by her mouth and his fascination disgusted him. It brought up too many sins he didn’t want to think about. Jessica Fitzpatrick should never have walked back into his life.

“You moved the house away from the cliffs,” she said.

“I never liked it there. It wasn’t safe.” His blue eyes slid over her figure, deliberately appraising. Almost insulting. “Tell me about the men in your life. I presume you have one or two? Did you come here to tell me you’ve found someone and you’re dumping the kids?” The idea of it enraged him. A volcanic heat that erupted into his bloodstream to swirl thick and hot and dangerous.

There was an edge to him, one she couldn’t quite nail down. As soon as she focused on something, he shifted and moved so that she was thrown off balance. Their conversation seemed more like one of the chess matches they’d often played in her mother’s kitchen so many years earlier. She was no match for him in sparring and she knew it. Dillon could cut the heart out of someone with a smile on his face. She’d seen him do it, charming, edgy, saying the one thing that would shatter his opponent like glass.