manage it. Somehow.
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?
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!
“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.
“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.
“No, but she’s facing pain, and I’ve had enough pain to last me a lifetime.”
“How?” he asked his inner voice as he pulled his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger.
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.
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.
