Night Mist. Helen Myers R.
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so cautiously, she slid back the lock. Seeing how her hands were shaking, she quickly released the other lock and swung the door open.
A dark figure sprang toward her, had probably begun to do so the instant he’d heard the door opening. He moved with a speed and agility that Rachel found terrifying. She gasped and fell back against her opened door. With nowhere to go, she waited for the inevitable.
But rather than attack, he rested a hand on the right side of her head and growled, “What do you think you’re doing?”
Fair question—if she’d been in the mood to be fair. “Me? What are you doing? Have you any idea what a fright—You could’ve hurt me!”
“If I’d meant to, you wouldn’t be standing.”
His cold confidence made her stare in mute disbelief. She forgot how hot she was and how brave she’d always believed she could be in the face of adversity. All she knew was that she’d made a ridiculously big mistake by opening the door. “You’re a very strange man, Mr. Barnes,” she replied, deciding to salvage what was left of her common sense and retreat. Fast. “If you’ll excuse me…”
With a mere shifting of his weight, he blocked her with his left shoulder. “Not so fast.”
The maneuver brought him so close she could feel the heat of his half-naked body merging with her own. It created a near-electric aura between them. Barely able to move her lips, Rachel whispered, “Please get out of my way.”
“After you answer some questions.”
“If anyone should be answering questions, it’s you. I’m not the one creeping around out there.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Of course not.”
“You’re saying you’ve been in here all along?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Never mind.”
“Did you hear something before? Please tell me. I’d thought I’d heard something, too.”
“Do you always open your door at night to check on strange sounds?” he asked, his cool sarcasm running over her words.
She drew a deep, controlling breath. “No, of course not. I suppose I assumed it was you. I thought maybe you were feeling worse and might need help.”
“Help.” His gaze slid downward and he curled his lips, but there was nothing amused or congenial about the smile. “Exactly what did you have in mind?”
A scorching fever swept through her, growing less ignorable with each second he continued to stare. Unable to resist, she glanced downward herself and groaned inwardly.
No wonder he was treating her as though she’d propositioned him. During her brief, restless sleep, two buttons on her shirt had opened, leaving a gaping slash that couldn’t look more suggestive if she’d tried.
Well, there was no sense in pretending it hadn’t happened. Forcing herself to match him stare for stare, she buttoned up, drawling, “If you’ve seen enough?”
“Do you really want an answer?”
“No,” she replied coolly, fighting to ignore the sensations churning within her. It was because he looked so much like Joe Becket, she told herself. What she felt for Jay Barnes, however, was sheer, unadulterated dislike. “About your hand, does it hurt?”
“I feel it.”
“And that’s your remedy?” she asked, nodding to the can he lifted to his mouth.
“It beats the stuff coming out of our water taps. You look a little warm yourself—want a swallow?”
She eyed the can, thought about placing her lips where his had been, and her temperature rose another few degrees. “No, thank you.”
“What’s the matter? Afraid? I don’t have anything you have to worry about catching.”
She was afraid, period…of him, of herself, of what was happening every second their gazes held. “I simply don’t care for any, that’s all.”
Jay Barnes gave a brief shake of his head. “Where did they find you?”
Lost, she frowned. “Pardon?”
“Forget it. Let’s just say, I’m game if you are, Doctor.”
She didn’t understand a thing he was saying, but she understood an intimated insult when she heard one. “Mr. Barnes, I’m beginning to believe that if there’s a game being played, so far only you know the rules.”
“And that’s how I intend to keep it. All you need to understand is that if you want to save that gorgeous neck of yours, you’d better beat it while you still have a chance.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I work here!”
His gaze swept over her one more time and lingered on her mouth. “Fine,” he growled, finally pushing away from the door. “Have it your own way.”
CHAPTER SIX
He filled her dreams, so vivid a presence that when Rachel awoke from hearing the door closing, she again bolted upright in bed, expecting to see him standing before her. Once she realized it was daylight and the sound was Jay Barnes leaving for work, she fell back against her sweat-dampened pillows and stared up at the fine cobweb design of the ceiling’s cracking plaster.
Exhaustion left her feeling drained, numb. Maybe with him out of the house she could finally get a few hours of decent rest. But some rebellious part of her mind began to rapidly churn out thoughts and images; she remembered disturbing snatches of dreams, such as the way she’d called him “Joe”…how she’d let him undo the last button on her nightshirt…let him slip his hands inside…touch her…make love to her.
Her conscious, conservative side didn’t like that at all. He wasn’t Joe, she reminded herself with brutal censure. He couldn’t be. And as for Joe…Oh, God, what about him? What was he? Why was he?
With that mystery plaguing her again, she abandoned any hope of going back to sleep and dragged her sluggish body to the bathroom for a tepid shower. She reasoned it would at least cool her feverish body, if not her steamy thoughts.
Minutes later, refreshed, but nursing a headache, she returned to her room. Blow-drying her shoulder-length pageboy took another block of time, thanks to the humidity’s stubborn effect on her hair. Stretching exercises to ease knots of tension took a bit more.
Finally, she pulled on her usual uniform of jeans and a shirt—white cotton as usual, in hopes of making herself feel cooler—and made her way downstairs. But for all her efforts, she still felt as though she’d never been to bed.
Not much time had passed, either. The ornate grandfather clock in the foyer confirmed what her wristwatch indicated: it was barely past nine. Late enough for Adorabella to have roused herself, though, which was why she’d come down. Hopefully Jewel was serving coffee. But upon reaching the formal dining room, Rachel found it vacant. The elegant table, resplendent with an antique-lace tablecloth, bore the crystal bowl Adorabella liked to use as a vase. Today it was filled with red roses. The victims, plucked from the lush bushes out back, looked only slightly better than she felt.
She groaned inwardly, aware of what it all meant. If she wanted coffee, she would have to try the kitchen.
No one wandered into Jewel’s domain without an invitation; Adorabella had warned her of that during the grand tour. Rachel had taken the old woman at her word and had avoided the place ever since, although more out of respect for Jewel’s privacy than from any real concern for her own well-being. Everyone deserved privacy, she’d told herself, especially housekeepers with a penchant for black magic. Even rude neighbors, she added, her thoughts inevitably straying toward Jay Barnes.
With