Authors: Ingrid Weaver

Tags: #mobi, #Romantic Suspense, #Paranormal Romance, #Fiction, #Shadow, #epub

Delaney's Shadow (25 page)

BOOK: Delaney's Shadow

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THE RAIN FELL STRAIGHT DOWN, PATTERING ON THE leaves outside Delaney’s bedroom window and filling the air with the sharp scent of moisture. Water gurgled quietly as it ran from the eaves to the downspout. It was a soothing, timeless sound. Apart from that, the house was silent, yet she was too wound up to sleep.

She concentrated on the suitcase that sat open on her bed. It was identical to the one she had glimpsed in her memory a few days ago. It was black, with a pearl white lining and crisscrossing elastics to hold the layers of clothing in place. There was nothing in it now, nor was she planning to pack anything. That wasn’t why she’d brought it out.

This was an exercise in facing what had upset her. She was hoping the sight of the luggage would jog something loose in her memory in the same way that being behind the wheel had. She slid the suitcase toward the foot of the bed. There was no bench in this room, so she aligned it along the edge of the mattress between the bedposts, trying to come as close as she could to duplicating the scene she remembered. She stepped back and thought of her and Stanford’s bedroom, picturing him in his dark blue overcoat and silk scarf.

Instead, she saw the gleam of bone beneath patches of gore, the skull that had once been his face.

She shuddered. This was what had happened in the car today, too. If Elizabeth had indeed sent those pictures to keep her from remembering, the strategy was proving effective. The fact that her stepdaughter didn’t want her to recover her memories meant there must be something significant she should know. In spite of Leo’s opinion, Delaney believed it was more imperative than ever to discover the truth.

She returned her attention to the suitcase. She and Stanford each had matched sets of the same luggage, although she had used far more pieces of hers than he ever did of his. When they’d traveled together, she had made sure to bring every possible item she might need to put together any outfit that might be necessary. Depending on their schedule, it could be anything from a chic linen suit for a lunch date to a floor-length evening gown. That meant the right lingerie, the coordinating shoes, and the appropriate makeup and jewelry. It had been important to look nice for Stanford, because that had been important to him.

Her gaze drifted to the mirror above her dresser. Even apart from her scars, Stanford wouldn’t like the way she looked now. She hadn’t worn makeup in over half a year. She hadn’t been to her manicurist—considering the state of her hands, worrying about her nails had seemed ludicrous. She hadn’t had her hair streaked, either. Large sections of it had been burned to the scalp in the accident, and she’d had the rest trimmed. It was still too short to do much with, so she styled it with her fingers and let it dry on its own. She’d been wearing comfortable skirts with loose tunics or cotton blouses and flat-heeled sandals since she’d come to Willowbank. She hadn’t brought anything tailored or formal. What would be the point? The accident had freed her from the obligation of being beautiful.

Delaney moved around the bed to the dresser and regarded her reflection critically. The satin nightgowns she slept in since she’d come to stay with her grandmother were holdovers from her pre-accident days. She had kept them not because they were pretty but because they were comfortable. The fabric was slippery enough not to catch on her scars while she slept. Same with the silk robe. It didn’t bind anywhere, and its light weight was perfect for these warm summer evenings. The lack of a collar exposed the upper edge of the scar at the base of her neck. A few of her blouses failed to cover it completely, too. That wasn’t a consideration for her, and it hadn’t appeared to have drawn much attention from other people,
real
people, who had seen it, but she was certain Stanford would have been repulsed by even that slight trace of her disfigurement.

She slipped the robe off her right shoulder and drew down the strap of her nightgown, baring her breast and upper arm. The light from the bedside lamp cast shadows that accentuated the ripples in her scarred flesh. It was far from pleasant to view, so she made a point of studying it. She’d told Max that she hadn’t wanted to go through additional surgery to have the scars on her body repaired, but that hadn’t been entirely accurate. They could have been dealt with at the same time as her hands. The doctors had encouraged it. Given the kind of life she’d led before the accident, everyone had expected that her appearance would have been one of her first priorities.

Dr. Bernhardt had spoken of survivor’s guilt. He’d been concerned she viewed her scars as her penance, but that was way off base. They were her liberation. They guaranteed she would never again fall into the role she’d filled for Stanford.

It had taken a lot of time and energy to maintain her appearance, but then, what else did she have to do? Because of Stanford, she’d quit her job. Because of him, she’d lost touch with her old friends. She’d taken up charity work because she couldn’t stand being idle, but there had been only so many fund-raisers she could organize without cutting into the time she and Stanford had together.

His work had taken precedence over hers, and she’d given in about that, too. He controlled a multibillion-dollar business. Next to that, her volunteer fund-raising couldn’t count as a real job. He viewed it as a diversion, not a career, but it had been important to her. There were countless other things that she’d given in about, too. It had been easier that way. Stanford had been so pleasant and attentive whenever they did have time together that she would feel guilty if she cut it short.

She lifted her hand to her right breast, fitting her fingers to the scar that reached toward the tip. Sex wasn’t the only aspect of her marriage that had been less than satisfying. The changes in her life because of the accident had been enormous. Not all of them were unwelcome.

Two weeks ago, that thought would have triggered an automatic denial. Not now, though. That had to mean she was making progress. As Helen had told her, she needed to accept the bad as well as the good if she was going to get past her loss.

“Planning a trip?”

She started at the sound of Max’s voice in her head. She shouldn’t have been surprised. As had happened so often already, thoughts of one man tended to lead to thoughts of the other. She hitched her nightgown and robe back into place and turned. “Hello, Max.”

He was standing beside the dieffenbachia plant, his hands hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. His feet were bare. His short-sleeved shirt hung open, baring the center of his chest from his throat to his navel. Lamplight gleamed on his taut skin, etching the contours of his muscled arms and abdomen. He looked sexier than humanly possible. And he was perusing her body with a frank hunger he didn’t try to hide.

Her blood warmed in response. He seemed different tonight, edgier, as if his passions were roiling closer to the surface. Her nerves tingled with echoes of how he’d made her feel in the meadow. How did he manage to arouse her so easily? All he’d done was show up.

Yet she wasn’t going to fight this reaction. She’d already figured it out. Stirring up her desire helped to loosen her memories, so there was no reason to feel guilty about it, either. She braced her hands against the edge of the dresser behind her. “I’m glad you’re here. I hope you can help me.”

“That depends on what you want me to do.”

Kiss me again. Hold me, make me feel as if you care, as if I belong, as if I’m loved . . .

He nodded toward the suitcase. “You’re not leaving on my account, are you?”

“Why would I?”

“You didn’t seem too happy about our last meeting.”

“I’ve . . . come to terms with it, Max.”

“So you no longer think you’re nuts?”

“Let’s just say I’m reserving judgment. There must be a good reason why I keep imagining you.”

“Then you’re not leaving.”

“Not yet. I can’t keep avoiding what upsets me. I need to face it.”

“Do I upset you, Deedee?”

She thought about that. “It’s not you, Max. It’s my reaction to you. You make me feel things that force me to reassess what I’ve believed about myself.”

“Damn, that sounds way too complicated.” He moved to the bed.

A flash of white caught her gaze. A strip of what appeared to be gauze was wrapped around his left foot. She pointed. “What’s that?”

“What’s it look like?”

“A bandage.”

He shrugged. “Then I guess that’s what it is.”

“Why? Did you hurt yourself?”

“You tell me. I’m your fantasy.”

She understood why she imagined Max with paint at times—her subconscious apparently had given him John Harrison’s profession along with his face—but why would she picture a strip of gauze around his foot? She would never want to see Max hurt in any way. Still, the bandage made him seem oddly vulnerable. And even more real.

Was that why? Because she wanted him to be real?

“What’s the suitcase for?” he asked.

“I’m trying to stimulate my memory.”

“Ah, more do-it-yourself psychology?”

“You could call it that.”

He ran his fingertip down the curved surface of the wooden bedpost and smiled. “Let’s stimulate something else.”

Sensation tickled beneath her skin, as if he’d stroked her instead of the wood, a teasing reminder of the pleasure he could generate. The urge to lose herself in it was nearly overwhelming, but she firmed her grip on the dresser and stayed where she was. “I’m trying to think of my husband.”

At the mention of Stanford, his smile faded. “Like I said before, it doesn’t seem to me that you’ve got good memories of your husband.”

“He wasn’t perfect, but he loved me.”

“Uh-huh. Just not often.”

“I was talking about love, not sex. Why are you so fixated on that?”

“Because love’s a myth.” He left the bed and came to stand in front of her. “Sex, on the other hand, is as honest as you can get, Deedee.”

Heat seemed to radiate from his image. It was hard to keep her train of thought. “Delaney,” she corrected.

His gaze dropped to her breasts. “Right. You’re grown-up. Which makes for some interesting new games.”

Her nipples tightened instantly. Judging by the gleam in his eyes, the fact hadn’t escaped his notice.

Well, naturally he would notice. She had made him sexy, and she was the one who was making him act this way, because she did enjoy what happened when she fantasized about kissing him. If she could overlook the crazy aspect of it, that was.

He lowered his head. The air beside her ear stirred, as if she could feel his breath. “Don’t think about the past. It’s gone. Let it stay buried.”

“That doesn’t work. It needs to come out.”

“Enjoy the moment. Try thinking about how good we can make each other feel.”

“Believe me, I haven’t forgotten that.”

His smile returned. “Open for me, Delaney. Let me slide into your mind the way I did before.”

His tone was as suggestive as his words, as seductive as his smile. “Max . . .”

“I need to feel you pull me inside.” His voice sank through her nerves to her bones, forming a caress of its own. “Wrap your thoughts around mine and hold me so tight that you tremble.”

She couldn’t help it; she swayed toward him.

“I want to see the color of your passion again. Taste you in my head if not on my tongue.”

The edges of the room grew hazy. His image was gaining substance.

“That’s it, Deedee. Come with me.”

“Stay with me, Delaney.”

That had been Stanford’s voice, not Max’s. She blinked hard and looked past him to the suitcase.

An image from the past surged into her mind, melding with the one she actually saw. The suitcase was no longer empty.

“What are you afraid of, Delaney? I’ll never leave you. How could you believe Elizabeth over me?”

“Why would she lie?”

“Because she’s jealous of how happy we are. It pains me to admit it, but the failure of her romance with Alan has made her bitter.”

“Alan doesn’t love her. She was right to break it off.”

“That’s immaterial. All she understands is that she failed. She’s trying to poison your mind against me out of spite.”

Delaney scooped a handful of underwear from one of the drawers in her dressing room and carried it to the suitcase. It was filled with her clothes, not Stanford’s. Sweaters tangled with plain blouses and pants. They were the kind of comfortable outfits she would wear around the house, not on a trip to Paris. They were the clothes her husband didn’t like.

He reached for her arm. “It’s late, darling. I can’t let you do this.”

She twisted out of his grip and snapped the suitcase closed. “I don’t need your permission.”

“Please, don’t be angry. I can’t bear it when you’re angry with me.”

BOOK: Delaney's Shadow

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