Truth or Dare (11 page)

When his climax pounded through both of them she held him with all the strength she possessed, needing the hard, sure feel of him to keep her tethered to the earth.

When it was over they lay in a damp, tangled heap.

“For what it's worth,” Ethan mumbled into the pillow, “I believe that we have just proved unequivocally that the exotic massage technique beats the hell out of warm milk.”

She smiled. “You mean for dealing with nightmares?”

“Hell, I think it will handle just about anything.”

She turned on her side. “Will you be able to get to sleep now?”

“Don't know about sleep,” he muttered, in a heavy, drowsy voice. “But if you will excuse me, I believe that I will pass out for a while.”

She held him while he fell asleep, listening to his even breathing, thankful for the passion that flared so easily between them. It provided a temporary release for both of them.

But she knew that the source of the anxiety that had animated the nightmare was probably not going to be banished for long
now that it had been resurrected. She had faced most of her fears of Candle Lake Manor head-on, but there was one that she could not confront directly. She had tried to bury it in a deep, forgotten corner of her mind. Tonight it had risen from the grave.

She had to find a way to slay the psychic spider or it would stalk her for the rest of her life.

She could talk to Ethan about almost anything but she dared not talk to him about this. He did not even believe that she possessed a sixth sense. How could she possibly explain to him that her greatest fear was that the psychic aspect of her nature might ultimately destroy her sanity?

She could not bring herself to tell him that her in-laws and everyone at Candle Lake Manor who had claimed that she was crazy might someday be proved right.

15

S
he came awake the next morning with the realization that she needed to concoct a strategy for dealing with the psychic spiderwebs that she had encountered in the library at the Designers' Dream Home. Today she would make plans. The decision to take action energized her and renewed her spirits. Ethan noticed her improved mood at breakfast.

“Feeling better, I take it?” he said, pouring coffee for himself.

“Much better.”

“No hangover from the nightmare?”

“Your incredible exotic massage techniques made a new woman of me,” she assured him.

“And here I was just getting used to the other woman.”

“Variety is the spice of life.”

“I like variety in my work but I'm not so keen on it in other areas of my life,” he said, oddly serious.

She did not comment that three previous marriages argued otherwise. That would not have been fair. Bonnie had told her that none of Ethan's three divorces had been his idea. When Ethan makes a promise, Bonnie explained, he keeps it. The problem was that none of the other three women he had married had kept the promises they had made to him.

“Okay, maybe I'm not a totally new woman,” she admitted. “Just a refreshed and rejuvenated woman.”

“Sounds good to me.” He smiled, got to his feet and pulled her up out of the chair to kiss her. “Glad I could be of assistance.”

“I am, of course, deeply grateful,” she said when she could speak again.

“Gratitude is good.” He flashed her his most wicked grin, the one that never failed to send little shots of lightning through her. “I want you to know that I stand ready to give you my special massage therapy anytime you need it.”

“Your generosity leaves me speechless.”

“Yeah? Well, turns out generosity also has its own rewards.” His mouth curved wryly as he headed for the front door. “I got some sleep myself last night.”

She trailed after him, pleased. “I'm glad.”

“We've got one of our stimulating little design meetings scheduled today, don't we?”

“Now, Ethan, you know we have to make some decisions about Nightwinds.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You said yourself you don't want to live with all that pink around you.”

“I'm all for getting rid of the pink. But I'm still not convinced that yellow is an improvement.”

“I'm not suggesting taxicab yellow, for heaven's sake. I'm thinking of a warm, faded, ocher-gold sort of color. The shade you see on old Mediterranean palazzi.”

“I've never seen an old Mediterranean palazzo. And what's ocher, anyway?”

“Never mind. I'll show you some paint chips today when we go out to Nightwinds.”

“Okay. So long as we get to eat first. I can't handle a design meeting unless I've had lunch.” He paused at the tiny hall table and looked curiously at the objects lying next to his keys. “What the hell are these doing here?”

She cleared her throat. “They're uh, emergency flares.”

“I know what they are.” He picked up his new key chain and the flares. “Just wondered why they happen to be sitting here.”

“I thought you might like to keep them in your car.” She knew she was turning red. “In case of an emergency or something.”

She was pretty sure she saw the corner of his mouth twitch, but he merely nodded agreeably.

“Good idea,” he said. “You never know when you might need emergency flares.”

To her surprise, he actually whistled on his way out the door.

 

She was definitely not whistling when she left for work a short time later. Outside in the parking lot, she walked briskly to her
newly assigned parking space, her mind on her slowly evolving anti-spiderweb plan.

So focused was she on how to approach the matter of the psychic cobwebs, she did not notice Hooper from apartment 1B until he collided with her. The stack of large cardboard cartons he had been carrying in his arms tumbled to the pavement.

“Oops, sorry, Zoe,” he muttered. “Didn't see you.”

Hooper was short and wide. Male pattern baldness had struck him early in life. He favored polyester pants that had been designed for the full-figured male and a rumpled, short-sleeved sport shirt that looked as if it had been pulled out of the dirty laundry hamper.

Hooper was addicted to high-tech gadgets. His belt was festooned with what had to be at least ten pounds of hardware. Zoe recognized a phone and a small computer, but the rest of the objects that dangled around his waist mystified her.

“No harm done.” She glanced at the big boxes and recognized a familiar brand name. “New computer?”

“Yep.” Hooper bent down to retrieve one of the oversized cartons. “Arrived yesterday. This baby's loaded. I unpacked it last night and was cruising the 'net by ten. Thought I'd get these cartons out of the way this morning.” He straightened. “Hey, you're planning to move soon, aren't you? Need a nice, sturdy box?”

“No, thanks.”

Hooper shrugged and surveyed the large metal garbage bin that sat against the wall of the apartment building. The container was filled nearly to the brim with trash, newspapers and bulging plastic sacks.

There was a new, large, neatly lettered sign tacked on the wall above the bin.
FLATTEN ALL BOXES
.

Hooper's eyes narrowed. “Well, well, well. Looks like Sergeant Duncan has been brewing up some more rules for us. Flatten all boxes, huh? You know something? I've had it with Ms. Anal-Retentive. If she wants these boxes flattened, she can damn well do it herself.”

One by one he hurled the empty computer cartons up onto the top of the garbage heap, where they effectively concealed the new sign.

When he was finished with his show of defiance, he raised both arms high over his head, fists clenched in victory.

“Screw you, Sergeant,” he chortled.

Zoe was not unsympathetic. Nevertheless, she could not help but notice that with the large boxes sitting atop the garbage bin there was no more room for trash. The bin was not due to be emptied by the garbage pickup company until tomorrow.

Reminding herself that she had other problems, she got into her car, started the engine and drove out of the parking lot.

A short time later she opened the offices of Enhanced Interiors and went straight to the bookshelf. Singleton was helping her locate and acquire books in the field of interior design philosophy. Thanks to him, her collection was growing rapidly.

The concept of designing living spaces so that they promoted harmony and increased the flow of positive energy was not a product of contemporary New Age thinking. Rather, it was thousands of years old.

Throughout the ages, a lot of very intelligent people had spent a great deal of time and effort studying the psychic effects
of interior arrangements. Some of the theories were based on ancient religious principles. Others grew out of attempts to create mathematical and astrological approaches to the problems of design. Her growing personal library contained several volumes devoted to the study of theories set forth by the sages of a number of long-dead civilizations.

Research in the field continued, although modern sensibilities demanded a scientific gloss. She possessed numerous reports of controlled psychological studies that detailed how various colors of paint applied to the walls of prisons, schoolrooms and hospitals dramatically affected the moods of those housed inside. She had reams of data on the therapeutic uses of plants and aquariums in homes and doctors' offices.

On some deep, intuitive level, people had understood for a very long time that they were impacted either positively or negatively by the designs of the rooms in which they lived and worked.

She carried a stack of books to her desk and sat down. There were no appointments on her calendar that morning. With any luck she would be able to spend the next few hours searching for information on psychic spiderwebs.

 

Several hours later she looked up from an old medieval religious text that detailed a technique for cleansing a room of ghosts and evil spirits and was startled to see that it was already noon. She was supposed to meet Ethan at twelve-thirty for lunch and a discussion of paint chips.

She made one last note on the pad of paper that sat on the
desk and wearily got to her feet. She was stiff from the hours of intense study. Worse, she was depressed by the lack of results.

She needed some fresh air.

Grabbing her acid-green tote, she closed and locked Enhanced Interiors and set off for the offices of Truax Investigations.

Although the address was only a few blocks away on Cobalt Street, the neighborhood was very different from the trendy, upscale district where her business was located.

Ethan's office was in one of the older sections of Whispering Springs. Zoe liked the area. True, there was a dated, slightly seedy air about the low, Spanish Colonial–style buildings with their faded stucco walls, red-tile roofs and arched doorways. But they had character, just like Ethan.

At number 49 Cobalt Street, she went up the walk, across a small brick entrance patio and entered the cool, shadowy hall. The staircase that led to Truax Investigations loomed. She glanced at it and then turned and opened the door of the only other business on the premises, Single-Minded Books.

At the rear of the shop she saw Singleton's shaved head gleaming in the alien light of his computer screen.

“Be with you in a minute,” Singleton called.

“Take your time.”

“Zoe?” Singleton emerged from the grotto that he called an office. “What's up?”

“I'm on my way to meet Ethan for lunch. We have a design meeting at Nightwinds this afternoon.”

Singleton chuckled. “No need to look like you're going to a funeral. I'm sure you've had clients who were more difficult than Ethan.”

“Maybe, but for some reason I can't recall their names.”

“Well, there was that guy who killed his wife a few months back.”

“A different matter entirely,” she assured him loftily. “David Mason may have been a murderer, but he was not a difficult client. I had no problem at all working with him on design issues.”

Singleton folded his arms and leaned on the counter. “So what's the trouble with Truax? Is it the recliner thing?”

“His obsession with recliners is only one minor issue, as far as I'm concerned. The real problem is that he appears to have absolutely no sense of color.”

“Not fair. He knows he doesn't like pink.”

“I'm not so sure about that. I've got a sneaking suspicion that if you and Harry hadn't told him that long-term exposure to the extensive amount of pink used at Nightwinds would rot a man's brain, he probably would have gone on living there quite happily and never agreed to have the place repainted.”

“But he did agree,” Singleton pointed out. “So it sounds like you owe Harry and me big-time.”

“Ethan went along with the idea of repainting,” she admitted, “but he's fighting me every inch of the way, room by room, when it comes to color. We managed to agree on the kitchen but now we're bickering over the great room. I really believe that if he had his way, the entire house would be plain off-white inside and out.”

“He says that if you get your way, every room will be a different color.”

“Talk about overexaggerating. I'm merely suggesting that we go for some drama. It's not like I've got alternatives here. Ethan
insists on sticking to a very tight budget, and paint is the least expensive way to achieve a lot of impact.”

Singleton looked thoughtful. “Guys aren't always real big on dramatic impact, at least not in the places where they live.”

“I don't know about guys in general, but I have certainly discovered that guys like Ethan are highly resistant to change in their personal space. Probably a control thing.”

“Or simple fear.” Singleton shrugged. “Don't forget he had a bad experience with the decorator who did his offices in LA.”