Magic

THREE

They entered the house through a back door, passed through a corner of the large dark kitchen, and went into an old-fashioned pantry, where Bryan opened what appeared to be a tall cabinet set into the wall. Rachel followed him, mute, as they went up a dusty, unembellished servants’ staircase, a place hung with cobwebs and bare light bulbs dangling from thick black cords in the ceiling.

“I’m sorry about breaking down that way,” she said, embarrassed now that the tears had dried. “I don’t ordinarily do that kind of thing.”

“That’s okay. You don’t ordinarily get chased out the house by your mother either,” Bryan said. “Careful on this step. Stay to the right. Dry rot, you know. You have to watch for stuff like that in these old houses.”

Rachel glanced down at the crack in the wooden tread as she bypassed the step altogether, wondering how much of the rest of the house was rotting away. She had hoped to get by without investing much in repairs before they sold the place. What money of hers she had managed to keep out of Terence’s slippery hands wasn’t going to go far. Her mother had been running an antiques business for several years, and then there was the money from her father’s police pension fund, but their expenses were going to run high. She had to consider Addie’s medical bills, the deposit on an apartment in San Francisco, and their day-to-day living expenses. She had no idea how Addie had taken care of her money recently. If Bryan Hennessy was an example, she had been squandering it with a lavish hand.

A ghostbuster. Rachel shook her head.

They exited through a door that blended into the paneled wall of the second-story hallway.

“Here we are,” Bryan said softly. He put on a pleasant smile and slid the hidden door shut with the toe of his battered sneaker. “Just like in the movies, huh?”

Rachel took in little of her surroundings. Her normal curiosity had been diluted by the circumstances of her visit. Maybe in a day or two she would find it interesting that the house had a secret stairway and real mahogany paneling, that the floor in the foyer below was made of imported Italian marble. Right now none of that penetrated her senses. Nor did the musty smell of old carpets and draperies. For the moment it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other and follow Bryan Hennessy down the hall.

“Don’t read too much into your mother’s reaction tonight,” he said quietly, slowing his long strides and turning to regard her with a serious expression. He carried a suitcase in each hand and his faded blue shirt was stained dark from her tears in spots across his chest. “You took her by surprise. She doesn’t handle surprises very well.”

Rachel thought of Terence and Addie’s reaction to him, and she smiled sadly as she reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, she never did.”

“She’ll probably be perfectly composed tomorrow.”

A weak smile was the best Rachel could manage. She hoped her mother was perfectly composed in the morning, but that wouldn’t help her tonight. She felt shaken to the very foundation of her soul. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget the wild fury in her mother’s eyes as she’d shouted at her to get out of the house. Remembering the scene now sent a shaft of pain through her so sharp, it nearly stole her breath from her lungs. She had known it would be difficult coming back, but she’d never imagined anything like the bizarre scene she’d been a part of. It didn’t even help to know it was the illness that made Addie behave irrationally. There was just too much true emotion beneath the madness to easily push the outburst aside.

“You can take my room for tonight,” Bryan said, shouldering open a door and standing back in invitation for her to precede him into the room. “It’s the only spare bed with sheets on it.”

“I can’t throw you out of your bed,” Rachel protested, going to stand over the heat register, hoping it would chase away some of the chill that was permeating her bones.

“A little while ago you were ready to throw me out of the house,” Bryan said with a charming smile, trying to tease an answering smile out of Rachel. He kept his gaze on her as he bent to set her suitcases down beside the dresser.

Rachel closed her eyes and sighed. She managed a wry twist of her lips, but that was all. There was no way she could handle this man on any level-teasing, arguing, anything. Aside from being tired enough to drop, her feelings toward him were completely tangled. He was a stranger, a man who was taking her dotty mother’s money to hunt for ghosts. He was an antagonist who seemed to disapprove of her. He was inane one minute and serious the next. He was an attractive man, arousing needs in her that had been left unattended for too long. He was a compassionate human being, offering her comfort and support. That would have been a confusing mix for a person to handle on the best of days, and this was most certainly not the best of days.

“Get some rest,” Bryan whispered.

He didn’t remember crossing the room. He didn’t remember making the decision to touch Rachel Lindquist, but his finger was crooked beneath her chin and he was tilting her face up as if he had every intention of kissing her. It took a considerable effort not to do just that. Her lips were slightly parted. Her thick lashes were lowered, laying like a pair of delicate lace fans against her pale cheeks.

Desire ached all through his body, throbbing a little harder behind the suddenly close confines of his jeans. He cursed his rogue hormones. What was the matter with him-acting like some randy stallion when this poor girl was so physically and emotionally exhausted she seemed near collapse? What was he doing feeling attracted to her anyway? For all he knew she had come there to pack Addie up and hustle her off to a rest home. The only significant facts he knew about her were that she had run off five years ago and hadn’t come back.

But she had tried to call… and she had cried on his shoulder… and she looked so small and sad…

He shook his head for the umpteenth time that night, amazed by his sudden, strange feelings. True, he had always had a soft spot in his heart for a damsel in distress, but he wasn’t interested in getting involved with one just now. No. His life was falling back into order; that was all he wanted to concentrate on now. He wasn’t interested in taking on the problems of a complicated mother-daughter relationship or the raft of troubles that would accompany Addie’s illness. He didn’t want to concentrate on Rachel Lindquist and all the pain and broken dreams he’d seen in her eyes.

She opened her eyes and stared up at him, and yet another blast of heat seared through him.

“Get some rest,” he murmured again, backing away before he lost all sense.

“Where will you sleep?”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, forcing one of his silly, sunny smiles as he moved toward the door. He had the distinct impression he wasn’t going to sleep at all. “I’m a magical being; I can sleep anywhere. Tables, chairs, stairs. I once spent the night in the trunk of a Mercedes-Benz, but that’s a long story and I’m really not at liberty to divulge the details. Suffice it to say they put all the luxury features in other parts of the car.”

Rachel stared at him, amazed. She wanted to laugh. After all the horrid things that had happened in the past few days, she wanted to laugh at Bryan Hennessy because he was silly and funny in a way unlike anyone she had ever known. It amazed her that she still had a sense of humor. She felt a little warmer inside because of it.

“You’re a very unusual person, Mr. Hennessy,” she said with a wry smile.

He beamed. “Why, thank you.”

Rachel chuckled. “It wasn’t exactly a compliment.”

“It was to me. We Hennessys pride ourselves on being unique.”

“You’re certainly that,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

“The bathroom is down the hall on the right,” Bryan said over his shoulder as he started out the door. “Watch out for the faucet in the sink, it sprays like a geyser every once in a while for no apparent reason. I think it may be possessed. Poltergeists often take up residence in the plumbing, you know. No doubt the result of faulty toilet training when they were toddlers. That’s my theory anyway.”

“Mr. Hennessy,” Rachel blurted out, a part of her loath to have him leave.

“Bryan,” he corrected her, turning back and bracing a forearm against the doorjamb. He felt old enough as it was these days; he didn’t need this lovely little thing calling him mister. He had to have ten years on Rachel Lindquist-at least. At the moment she didn’t look a day over fifteen, and still he wanted to kiss her. That thought left him feeling like a lecher.

“Bryan,” she said hesitantly, clasping her small white hands in front of her. “Thank you for giving me your room and… for… everything.”

She couldn’t quite bring herself to say “holding me.” She wasn’t comfortable with the idea of having turned to a stranger that way, pouring her pain out to him. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried in front of someone. Not even when her mother had told her she could never come home had she let the tears fall with a witness present. She hadn’t cried in front of her mother, nor had she cried when she had gone outside and gotten in the car with Terence. Her fierce pride hadn’t allowed it.

But tonight she hadn’t been able to keep the tears in check. They had fallen in torrents onto Bryan Hennessy’s solid chest. And he had held her as if it had been the most natural thing in the world.

Bryan stared at her for a moment from his position in the doorway. She stood beside the bed, looking vulnerable in her baggy purple sweater, her baby-fine hair framing her face in wisps. Her skin looked as soft and rich as cream. Her eyes were like pools of twilight. Longing ribboned through him. Without a word he left the room, closing the door behind him.

Immediately Rachel felt lonely. Lonely for a lunatic. How silly, she scolded herself. She was lonely for a con man just because he had a nice smile and a weird sense of humor. That was hardly like her normal, practical self.

To take her mind off her feelings, she busied herself getting ready for bed. She was so tired, it took all of her flagging concentration to accomplish that simple task. She pulled her nightgown out of one battered suitcase and changed into it quickly. It wasn’t a nightgown precisely, but an extra large T-shirt with a bust of Bach silk-screened on the front above the words “I go for baroque.” Foregoing her nightly ritual of washing her face and brushing her teeth, she removed the pins from her hair and let it fall in waves past her shoulders. She pulled back the covers of the bed and slipped between them, groaning in relief as her weary body settled into the mattress.

As exhausted as she was, she couldn’t sleep. She lay in the bed, staring at the ceiling for a long while, trying not to think of anything at all. But she wasn’t able to blank her mind. Thoughts kept creeping in from the edge of her consciousness-thoughts of Addie, of Terence, of the past, of the future, of Bryan Hennessy.

The pillow she lay her head on carried his scent. The sheets that enveloped her body had covered his. The mattress beneath her had dipped beneath the weight of his lean, athletic body. Those thoughts seemed almost unbearably erotic to her. She moved restlessly, sexual awareness arousing all her nerve endings so that the gentle rasp of the sheets against her skin had all the impact of a caress. Her suddenly fertile imagination conjured up an image of him tying beside her, his big hands stroking her soothingly, his lips feathering kisses along her jaw. Her nipples tightened, and a dull ache coiled low in her belly.

Joining all the other emotions jumbled inside her was a vague sense of guilt and shame. She had no business thinking such thoughts about a man she hardly knew. It wasn’t like her to indulge in sexual fantasies anyway. She had never been a particularly sexual person. She discounted her feelings as a reaction to stress. She was feeling overwhelmed. It was only natural to want to turn to someone, to be held, to forget.

And there was so much she would have liked to forget-the dreams she had abandoned, the ones that had drifted away, the opportunities she had squandered.

Finally giving up on the idea of falling into a peaceful sleep, Rachel turned on the ancient lamp that sat on a lace doily on the stand beside the bed. She propped her pillow against the massive carved headboard and leaned back against it.

The light cast its glow on only half the room, leaving the farther corners shrouded in shadows. There was an enormous, sinister-looking armoire standing opposite the bed with one door open and athletic socks hanging out of the top drawer as if they were trying to slither out and escape. To the right of the bed an assortment of junk lined the wall-old steamer trunks, wooden chairs, and a bird cage large enough to hold a vulture. To the left of the bed was a dressing table with a cracked mirror. There were books piled on it, and charts and notes were strewn across the top of it as if it was being used as a desk.

On the nightstand beside the bed was additional evidence that Bryan Hennessy occupied the room. There was a watch that was either running down or was set for the wrong time zone. Rachel picked it up and examined it more closely, telling herself she had a right to know who this man was her mother had invited to stay in her home. It was a nice watch, gold with a brown leather band that was curved by long use to the shape of its owner’s wrist. It had an old-fashioned face-no glowing digital readout, but script numerals and delicate hands. The back was engraved WITH LOVE, MOM AND DAD. 1977.

Carefully replacing it on the table, Rachel glanced at the snapshot held in a plain gold frame. A younger Bryan Hennessy stood in a cap and gown behind three smiling young women-a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead. At least he wasn’t prejudiced, Rachel thought with a strange spurt of something akin to jealousy.

Pushing the unwelcome feeling aside, she looked at the crumpled scraps of paper that had been tossed across the dusty surface of the nightstand. They were notes with odd messages like “Jayne says to eat breakfast tomorrow,” “Go to library-background, Drake House,” “Dinner with Faith and Shane, seven sharp. Get a haircut!” “Addie capable of hidden psychokinesis? That could explain object movement in grid nine.”

Was it possible Bryan Hennessy was truly a scientist of some sort? It seemed unlikely a con man would be so thorough as to leave notes like that last one on his nightstand on the off chance someone with a fully functioning mind might stumble across them. On the other hand, a ghost hunter seemed too farfetched for words.

Rachel couldn’t find it in her to believe in ghosts. Reality was proving tough enough to deal with; she didn’t have time to wonder about the supernatural as well. She knew she had to focus on the here and now. She had to concentrate on the grim practical aspects of her future and her mother’s future. In view of what had happened in the past few years, she knew it was pointless to waste time on dreams and wishes. There was no such thing as magic or happily-ever-after. There were no such things as ghosts.

As if to mock her, the image of Terence Bretton filled her head. Handsome, smiling Terence, as he had been when she’d met him at a coffee house located just off the campus of Berkeley. She’d been a sophomore, diligently studying classical music on a scholarship, dutifully pursuing the career in opera her mother had been grooming her for for her entire life. Terence had been a breath of fresh air to a girl who had lived a sheltered, structured life of voice lessons and practice and study. Terence, with his disarming, lopsided grin and twinkling green eyes. Terence, full of big dreams but lacking the ambition to make them come true.

Only she hadn’t know that at the time, Rachel reflected with a wistful smile. She had fallen for Terence’s charm and his dreams and his honest, untrained voice. He had offered her love and freedom, and she had embraced both.

Her initial attraction to him had been calculated. Terence, a folk singer who led a Gypsy’s life, was everything Rachel knew her mother would detest. She had loved her mother, but rebellion was a natural part of growing up. Rachel’s had come later than most, she knew. She had abruptly become fed up with the control Addie had wielded over her life. She had suddenly burned out on the hours of training, the discipline, the lack of a normal social life, the constant reminders of how hard Addie worked to secure her future. She had gone to the Coffee Mill out of defiance and had determinedly fallen for the handsome young man playing the guitar on the small stage there.

It didn’t seem like five years ago. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Another lifetime down a trail of broken dreams.

Terence had never made it big, and the burden of his mediocrity had fallen on Rachel’s shoulders. Terence didn’t like to deal with the realities of booking gigs and balancing books. Sensible and practical, Rachel had taken on the responsibilities. Their relationship had gradually cooled from lovers to friends.

Her love for Terence Bretton had slipped away until a part of her had almost come to hate him. According to Terence, it was always someone else’s fault he didn’t hit the big time. According to him, there was always another golden opportunity around the corner just waiting for him.

The news about Addie had been the final straw. Terence’s reaction had been no less than Rachel should have expected. Still, she had held on to the last of her hope that he would somehow redeem himself, would somehow make up for all the disappointments he had handed her over the years. All she had wanted was his friendship and his support. It hadn’t seemed so much to ask. What a fool she’d been.

“Put her in a home.”

“She’s my mother.”

“She disowned you.”

“She raised me by herself after Dad died. She took care of me. I should do the same for her.”

“If her mind is going, she’ll never know the difference, Rachel. Put her away someplace. We’ve got our lives to live. We’ve got plans. We can’t stop now. I’m going to make it big, Rachel. I need you there beside me.”

“So does my mother.”

Now Rachel sighed and hugged the spare pillow to her chest as sadness overcame her. Terence wasn’t going to make it big. He didn’t have plans, he had dreams, and he spent his time expecting them magically to come true with little or no effort on his part. Rachel had learned the hard way that there was no such thing as magic.

In the end her choice had been clear. In fact, there had been no choice to make. She had known the instant after Dr. Moore had told her the news that she would go to Addie.

Now she was there and Addie didn’t want her.

They would get over that hurdle somehow. Beneath the hurt and the uncertainty, Rachel had bedrock determination, no doubt inherited from her indomitable mother. She would reconcile with Addie somehow. She would deal with the reality of Addie’s condition somehow. As they had after Verne Lindquist had been killed, the two of them would get along… somehow. It wasn’t going to be fun. It wasn’t going to be easy. But they would manage it. Somehow.

And what about Bryan Hennessy?

A sharp pang ran through her, and she hugged her pillow a little harder. Bryan Hennessy was a stranger. He had nothing to do with their situation. He couldn’t. She had all she could handle with Addie. A relationship with a man was out of the question. Why she was even thinking about it was beyond her. She didn’t know Bryan Hennessy from a goose. He might have been a con man or a killer or another Terence Bretton. Judging from all his nonsensical piffle, he was probably worse than Terence. At least Terence aspired to something. To what could a ghost hunter aspire?

She was just overreacting to him because she was exhausted and he had been gallant enough to offer her his shoulder to cry on and his bed to sleep in. He wouldn’t want to get involved with her, at any rate. What fool would volunteer to take on the problems she was facing?

You have to help her.

Bryan scowled. He shifted positions in the blood-red leather wing chair. The study was located in grid nine of his chart of the first floor of Drake House. Addie had told him she’d seen things move in this room-move with the assistance of Wimsey. According to her, Wimsey had twice rearranged the furniture because “he likes it the way he likes it.” She had moved it all around once, just out of stubbornness, but Wimsey had put it back.

Bryan had chosen this room to spend the night in because he knew damn well he wasn’t going to sleep, and he was hoping against hope for a distraction-the appearance of Wimsey, a book falling off the shelf by itself, a sudden cold breeze, anything. Anything that would help get his mind off Rachel Lindquist sleeping in the same bed he had slept in, wrapping the sheets around her slender body, burrowing her angel’s face into his pillow.

He groaned as his blood stirred hot in his veins. He could just imagine what she looked like sleeping: soft and tempting with her wild honey-gold hair mussed around her head. She was probably wearing a T-shirt, and the soft fabric would mold around her breasts the way his hands wanted to mold around them. The thought had him more than half turned on.

He swore under his breath. What kind of depraved creep was he turning into? There was poor Rachel, exhausted, frightened, hurt, trying to manage a few hours rest and escape from her troubles, and here he was lusting after her!

She’s very pretty.

“Yes, she’s pretty,” he grumbled. “She’s very pretty. And she’s got a lot of problems, and I don’t want to get involved.”

For the first time he wondered about the folk singer Rachel had run off with five years before. Where was he? What kind of jerk was he that he would send Rachel to deal with this crisis on her own? Clarence something. “A common tramp” Addie had called him. Somehow, Bryan doubted Rachel would run off with a common tramp. Despite her casual style of dress, she radiated class. It was there in the way she held herself, in the way she moved, in the way she spoke.

There was obviously a lot more to the story than an “ungrateful” daughter taking up with a “cheap folk singer.” Bryan was a little disappointed in himself for so readily believing the worst. Especially since it had come from Addie, who was disoriented much of the time. Maybe Rachel Lindquist was rotten to the core, but it wasn’t his place to make that judgment without having all the facts. On the other hand, his life would be a whole lot simpler if he believed the worst and stayed away from her.

Even as he thought it, he had the sinking realization that it wasn’t going to happen. It wasn’t in him to judge people harshly. It wasn’t in him to stand by and watch a lady struggle with a load that was too heavy for her to carry, either.

He had always taken care of the women in his life. His sisters first, and then Faith and Alaina and Jayne. Then Serena. Now Serena was gone, and the three lovelier members of the Fearsome Foursome were being taken care of by their mates. Enter Rachel Lindquist with her big violet eyes and incredible pink mouth and stubborn pride tilting her little chin up.

Fighting an inner battle, Bryan flung himself out of the chair and paced the width of the room, head down, his hands combing back through his tawny hair again and again.

You have to help her. She needs help.

“No, not me. I can’t help anybody. I can’t even help myself. She can get help from the doctor. She can join a support group. Just leave me out of it.”

He paced some more, feeling the pressure in a strangely tangible way, as if it were pressing in on him from all around. It was not unlike diving deep into the black depths of the ocean, a silky nothingness pushing in on him from all sides, threatening to crush his chest. To escape it, he threw open the French doors and strode out onto the stone terrace.

As it had earlier, the cool air calmed him. He dropped onto a bench and leaned over, his elbows on his thighs, his hands rubbing the back of his neck.

He had known Serena was dying when he had married her. He had loved her, and the thought of letting her face death alone had been incomprehensible. Her decline and ultimate death had been the worst thing he could ever imagine going through. He had endured it for her, but he had vowed to himself never to go through anything like it again.

Rachel isn’t facing death.

“No, but she’s facing pain, and I’ve had enough pain to last me a lifetime.”

What about her? You could ease her pain. You could lighten her burden.

“How?” he asked his inner voice as he pulled his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger.

Magic.

Bryan laughed at that. He wasn’t sure he knew what magic was anymore. Was he supposed to believe he could pull a rabbit out of his hat, and Rachel and Addie’s troubles would disappear? ft wouldn’t happen.

But it might help.

After settling his glasses back into place, he reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and withdrew a short black wand, not more than five inches long and as big around as a cigarette. With a flick of his wrist, it became a silken red rose with a thin stem that abruptly drooped over his hand. A smile lifted the corner of his mouth.

“If I can’t dazzle her with my magic, maybe I can be a source of comic relief,” he said dryly, tucking the wilted rose back into his shirt pocket.

He hadn’t been able to perform the simplest of tricks for months now. Though he kept trying, deep down he was afraid he had lost his magic forever.

He pushed himself up from the bench and wandered back into the house. His broad shoulders sagging under the twin burdens of exhaustion and stress, he picked up the glass of whiskey he had left on the leather blotter of the walnut desk. He had hoped the excellent liquor he’d found in a bottle in a desk drawer would help him sleep. The glass was nearly empty. Bryan frowned. He could have sworn he’d left a good inch in it when he’d gone outside. He didn’t notice the stain near his feet on the old woolen carpet or the scent of liquor seeping up from the fabric. He noticed only that his whiskey was gone, and he didn’t feel like pouring another.

Shrugging, he dismissed the question and tossed back most of what was left of the drink. Remembering things had never been his strong suit.

The study was quiet. This room was supposed to be a hotbed of paranormal activity, but not one thing out of the ordinary had happened in the few days he’d been there. Worse than that, Bryan felt nothing unusual, sensed nothing whatsoever.

As he gazed around the dark room, he wondered morosely if he was losing his touch professionally as well as with his magic. He had always had phenomenal success seeking out psychic disturbances. He had always been able to tune in to the scene and feel things others couldn’t. His special sensitivity had led him to his career. Had it deserted him?

Too tired to think about it, he wandered from the room and down the hall to search for something comfortable to stretch out on.