Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) (8 page)

Could you?

She took a deep breath. Of course you could. That was the thing about dreams. Anything was possible, when you were—

"Good evening, Cat."

Kathryn shrieked.

A man had stepped from the shadows. He was tall, with broad shoulders, narrow hips and long, muscular legs. His clothing was old-fashioned: a frilled white shirt, opened almost to the waist; black, skin-tight trousers and high leather boots...

She knew him.
She knew him!
He was the man she had dreamed about yesterday morning.

"I'm dreaming," she said in a shaky voice.

Of course she was. She had to be. That was why the room looked so different, why the man walking slowly towards her was the man from her dream.

But if she was dreaming, why could she smell the flower-scented night air? Why could she feel the faint abrasiveness of the blanket she clutched in her trembling hands?

He paused beside the bed and looked at her. She stared back, the sound of her own frantic heartbeat pounding in her ears. It took all her energy and willpower just to keep her teeth from chattering.

"You aren't real," she said.

He laughed. "I am real enough."

"You aren't. This is just a dream."

His smile turned silky. "Shall I prove that it isn't?"

She thought of what had happened the last time she'd dreamed of him, and she shrank back against the pillows.

"Don't you touch me! If you do—if you do..."

"Empty threats, Cat. There is no fool to do your bidding this time."

"I'll scream! I swear, I'll scream until everybody on this island hears me and comes running..." Kathryn blinked.

What in hell was she doing? She was talking to a man who wasn't here.

"You aren't here," she said calmly.

"Of course I'm here. Dammit, Cat..."

She ignored him, scooted down under the blanket and screwed her eyes shut.

"This dream is over."

Her voice was firm, except for a barely discernible tremor. She had courage, he had to give her that much, but then, he had not expected her to accept his appearance easily.

"You disappoint me," he said softly. "Is this the greeting I get after we have been apart for so long?"

Kathryn's eyes flew open.

"It hasn't been so long. Just since yesterday morning."

Dammit, that had been a stupid thing to say. Not that it mattered. In a dream as wacky as this one, you could say anything you liked.

Besides, her remark didn't seem to have struck him as being stupid. It hadn't even made him twitch a muscle. He was still looming over the bed, his arms akimbo and his hands splayed on his hips, looking down at her in a way that made her feel about two feet tall.

It would have been lots better to stand up and confront him, toe to toe, instead of having him tower over her. But she'd have to get out of bed to do that and all she had on under this blanket was her underwear.

"Oh hell," she said weakly.

She really was nuts. None of this was real. What did it matter if she was wearing her underwear or not?

She swept the blanket from the bed in one deft motion, wrapped it around herself with whatever finesse she could muster, and shot to her feet.

"Listen, mister—"

"Such formality, Cat." He smiled coolly. "I would much rather hear you say my name as you used to."

"I don't know your name. And even if I did—"

"Is your memory so short, then?" His smile tilted. "Say my name, Cat."

"I told you, I don't..."

She gasped as he reached out and clamped his hands around her shoulders.

"Say it, damn you," he growled. "Say, Matthew."

Kathryn swallowed dryly. Dream or not, she knew better than to argue with a lunatic.

"Matthew."

"You say it as if it were new to you, as if you have never before heard the name Matthew McDowell." His mouth twisted. "And that is what you will wish before I am done with you, Catherine. I promise you that."

Matthew McDowell, Kathryn thought wildly, a dream image who introduced himself to you.

Maybe she wasn't dreaming after all. Maybe she was simply stark, raving crazy.

But if she was, if she'd conjured up this visitor, she'd certainly done one hell of a job. Lord, but he was gorgeous!

She had never seen eyes that color. They were like the sea, green and dark and stormy. And his hair. What color was it? Not brown. Not blond. It was gold. Burnished gold, and so thick and silken-looking she longed to reach up and touch it.

The rest of him suited that hair and those eyes. Her gaze skimmed over his face, taking in the straight, proud nose, the square, cleft jaw, the firm but sensual mouth. There was a little scar angling just above his right eyebrow. It suited him, as did the theatrical outfit. Not that it looked theatrical. It just made him look incredibly masculine. And just a little dangerous.

What was that poem she'd read, years and years ago? Something about a highwayman riding a ribbon of moonlight through the darkness...

"Are you done examining me, Cat?"

His voice was cold and harsh but there was something more in it. Pain? Could that be what she heard?

His hands tightened on her shoulders. "Did you expect to see the visible wounds of your betrayal? They are healed, at least to the naked eye."

"I don't know what you're—"

"Don't lie to me, damn you! It's too late for that."

Kathryn licked her lips. "Look, I don't know what's going on here. And I definitely don't know you. Maybe..." She bit back the rush of hysterical laughter rising in her throat. "Maybe you're in the wrong dream." She yelped as his hands tightened on her. "Hey! You're hurting me!"

"I want answers, Catherine, and I want them now."

"And I," she said, wrenching out of his grasp, "want you out of here!"

Matthew gave a bark of harsh laughter.

"Aye, indeed you must. But you cannot get rid of me so easily. Not this time."

"And you can't bully me," she snapped, her chin rising in defiance. "Not even in a dream."

"I can do with you as I damn well please."

"Listen, mister, either you get out of here this minute or I'll—I'll—"

"You'll what?" He caught hold of her again, his hands sweeping into the dark spill of her hair. "What can you possibly do to me that you haven't already done?"

Kathryn's heart began to race as she stared up into that hard, handsome face.

He isn't real, she told herself frantically. The feel of his hands on her might seem real. His fury might seem real, too. But she had made him up... and she could just as easily unmake him.

"Go away," she said, fighting to keep her voice; steady.

Matthew laughed. "I will, when it suits me."

"You will go when it suits
me.
I made you up. You're... you're a creature out of my imagination."

"A creature, am I?" His eyes darkened. "Is that how you think of me?"

"Yes. No. Dammit, you're twisting my words! All I'm saying is that you aren't really here."

His smile made her breath catch.

"Aren't I?" he said, and before she could struggle or stop him, he bent his head and kissed her.

It was a kiss that branded her with fire; she could feel it sweep like molten lava from his lips to hers.

Kathryn's hands lifted. She balled them into fists but he caught her wrists in one hand and held them against his chest while he drew her closer into his arms. Her head tilted back as his lips moved over hers, urging her to surrender.

She would never do that...

Her fingers went slack as they pressed against the hard wall of his chest.

"Please," she whispered against his mouth.

Please, what? What did she want? Not this. Not the heat of him, and the hardness. Not his kiss, tasting of desire and of hate...

She made a sound, a soft, keening sigh that she barely recognized as coming from her own throat, and he answered by sweeping one hand down her back to the base of her spine.

"Catherine," he whispered, the word lost against her lips. "Catherine, sweet Catherine."

He felt her lips tremble and open to his even as he felt the sudden hot dampness of her tears and tasted their salt upon his tongue. Her fingers were curling into his shirt. She was
his
now. He had only to draw her down to the bed...

Christ, what was he doing? This wasn't vengeance, it was seduction. And Cat was doing the seducing! She was working her wiles on him as she had done in the past.

Had he learned nothing in the infinite darkness of his eternal prison?

Matthew cursed and flung her from him. She stumbled and fell back onto the bed.

"Bitch," he said. "Whore!"

Kathryn stared up into his fierce, angry face. Then she screwed her eyes shut.

"This is a dream," she chanted in a frantic whisper, "a dream, a dream, a dream..."

Somewhere in the distance, a bell began to toll.

Chapter 4

Somewhere in the distance, a bell began to toll.

Kathryn sighed in her sleep and burrowed deeper into the blankets.

The bell pealed again, and she frowned.

"Mmm," she murmured...

She came awake all at once, heart pounding and eyes wide. In one swift motion, she rolled to the side of the bed, reached down and snatched her shoe from the floor, and brandished it wildly as she shot up against the pillows.

"Okay," she said, "okay, I've had it! You get out of here right now or... or..."

The room was empty. It looked exactly as it had when she'd gone to sleep last night. The drapes were shabby and old, the furniture was almost nonexistent, and the only things decorating the walls were patches of faded paint and splotches of dampness.

Kathryn let out her breath and slumped back against the pillows.

There were dreams. And then there were nightmares. And there wasn't a question in the world about what she'd just experienced.

It had been a nightmare with a capital
N,
the kind that would have sent half the population of Manhattan galloping off to see their shrinks.

She couldn't even blame it on
moo goo gai pan.

"Not this time," she muttered.

She sighed, dumped the shoe on the floor, sat up and tossed back the blanket.

Which only proved, she thought, scrubbing her hands over her face and yawning, that a supper of Campbell's tomato soup and half a packet of Ritz Crackers could do their own artful job of putting you on the road to Nightmare City if you were spending the night in a place that looked like a reject from a bad movie.

At least she hadn't conjured up Freddy Krueger, she thought with a shaky laugh. As made-to-order dream characters went, Matthew McDowell was at least a little more appealing.

It was just that dreaming up a gorgeous guy in a costume who couldn't seem to decide whether he wanted to make love to you or kill you was a bit unsettling.

Kathryn pushed the hair from her eyes and rose to her feet. Sunlight streamed past the tattered velvet drapes, bathing her in warmth.

"Just another day in paradise," she said, and smiled.

Blue sky. Golden sun. Puffy white clouds that might have been painted by Gauguin.

Oh yeah. It was going to be a great day. A busy one, too. The contractor was coming by. Somebody would bring over the rental car she'd requested. The realtor would be along, too. And she was going to make a start at cleaning up this house, just as soon as she got the door of the dilapidated old armoire unstuck so she could get dressed.

Kathryn rolled her eyes, banged on one door with the heel of her hand while she yanked hard with her other until both sprang open. Her old denim cut-offs and a ratty pink tank top would do. The shorts bore permanent smears of the yellow paint she'd used on the walls of her Greenwich Village kitchen and countless washings had rendered the top almost white, but they were perfect for how she intended to spend her morning.