“Stop it!” she ordered, staring in horror at her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Her fingers grabbed hold of the marble edge of the counter in a death grip. Drops of water ran down her face and her skin was pale, but healing. And the woman in the mirror wasn’t unattractive. No . . . If anything, she sensed that she would be beautiful. Just as Helene had predicted. She might not look exactly like the photographs that were strewn around this house, but she’d be pretty in her own way. A Jezebel. Good Lord, was it possible? Her hands shook as she snapped a towel out of its ring and dabbed at her skin. She couldn’t . . . wouldn’t let her mind run wild with fantasies about Nick or anyone else for that matter. No, she just had had to get a grip, let her memory take its course.
And then what?
“Deal with it. No matter what it is.”
She found a pair of pajamas—white satin, of all things—and slipped them on, then ignoring the rumbling in her stomach, and the questions pummeling her brain, she climbed into bed, sipped the glass of juice dutifully waiting for her and didn’t even bother turning on the television or leafing through the photo albums she’d stacked by the side of the bed. She knew she’d fall asleep instantly and she wasn’t disappointed. The minute her head hit the pillow, she drifted off so deep that she didn’t hear the footsteps enter her room less than an hour later, didn’t know that she was being watched . . .
Chapter Ten
“Die, bitch!” The voice was low, gravelly. Filled with hate.
Marla froze in the bed. Her eyes flew open. The room was dark. So dark. Her heart jumped to her throat. Panic surged through her blood.
Oh, God, was someone there?
Squinting hard against the shadows, she scanned her room, her eyes adjusting to the slits of light sliding under the door to the suite. But no one was looming over her bed and yet . . . yet . . .
A cold clammy sweat enveloped her. Marla swallowed her fear and turned on the bedside lamp. The room was suddenly awash with soft golden light. Everything was just as it had been, right down to the matching pillows on the bed. She’d been dreaming; that was it. Probably because she didn’t feel well. The soup she’d had at dinner, mixed with the tense conversation, had given her a bad case of nerves and a jittery stomach.
There was no one in the room.
She let out her breath and heard something—a muffled footstep? What? Heart thundering in her ears, she threw back the covers and shot out of bed. Calm down, she told herself, but couldn’t stop the sweat that beaded on her skin as she slowly scanned the room—bathroom, closet, curtains, searching for any hint that a sinister presence had threatened her. She found nothing.
Rain lashed against the windowpanes and wind rattled the glass, but she was alone. “Get a grip,” she told herself, but inside she was shaking. Her stomach clenched nervously, its contents roiling.
Had she heard someone or had the snarling voice been part of a fast retreating nightmare? She shoved a hand through her hair and, mentally scolding herself, walked through the suite where the lights were turned down low. Feeling a fool, she rapped lightly on her husband’s door. “Alex?” she called through the panels. No answer. She tried the knob. The door didn’t budge. “Alex?”
Locked out again.
Calm down, no one is here. It was a dream. Nothing but a damned dream! Alex hasn’t gotten home yet. That’s it. Relax.
But she couldn’t. It was all too real. She checked the clock. Not quite eleven. She hadn’t even been asleep all that long. You were just imagining things, that’s all. Your nerves are shot, Marla. You’re jumping at shadows. No one was in your room. It was the tail end of a nightmare, one you don’t remember. Take a deep breath and get hold of yourself, for God’s sake.
Edgy, she walked into the darkened hallway, then snapped on a light and stared at the empty, carpeted corridor. At the railing, she strained to listen. Above the soft strains of classical music, there was a quiet whisper of conversation, Eugenia’s prim diction and Nick’s lower voice. Marla’s knees nearly buckled in relief. Nothing was out of the ordinary. She heard no scurrying footsteps. No heavy breathing. No sounds of Coco barking loudly at an intruder. You’re not going to hear the report of a gunshot, or the splinter of glass.
Face it, Marla, you’re just a basket case. No dark, ominous figure is lurking about. No sinister presence is scuttling away.
And Nick’s downstairs. Somehow that thought was reassuring though Marla hated to admit it, even to herself. She wasn’t one of those insipid, frail women who needed a man to feel safe. She was as certain of that small fact as she was of anything, which didn’t say a lot these days, she thought.
But she couldn’t depend on Nick. Or Alex. No. She had to rely on herself. Her stomach still ached and beads of sweat were chilling on her skin. This wasn’t the first time she’d thought someone was at her bedside. She’d felt the same eerie, malicious presence in the hospital.
“Stop it,” she ordered, her fingers curling over the railing. “There was nothing there. You’re dealing with bad bisque mixed with an overactive imagination.” Nonetheless, she had to check on the kids. What if there had been a stranger in the room? What if he was hiding in Cissy’s room or James’ nursery? What if cornered he would then grab one of the children? Hold either of them hostage? The family was wealthy and could easily be a target. Propelled by the turn of her thoughts, she shot across the hallway and threw open Cissy’s door.
“What the—?” Cissy jumped up from her vanity stool, knocking over a bottle of fingernail polish. She dropped the brush. Purple polish splashed onto the vanity. “Shit!” she yelled loudly as she was wearing earphones. “Are you nuts?” She ripped off the headset and motioned angrily at the spilled polish.
Marla swept the room with her gaze. It was a mess as usual, books, sweaters, CDs and stuffed animals scattered all over the carpet, but there was nothing sinister about it. “I had a bad dream. Wanted to check on you.”
“By scaring me to death?”
“I’m sorry, I should have knocked.”
“No, duh! You’re losing it, Mom.”
“I hope not.”
Cissy rolled her eyes, but her anger was replaced by teenaged concern. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Marla lied. “Just . . . nervous.”