Her throat tightened, as if a big hand had gripped her there and she dragged in a breath.
A subtle shift in the atmosphere, almost nothing at first, made it hard to concentrate.
In every direction she saw apparently gleeful partygoers, yet she felt growing anger around her. A harsh current buffeted her, and she glanced from Val to Vanity, neither of whom registered anything unusual.
“Look after Vanity, will you,” Val said to Willow. “I want to run inside and see if there’s a message from Chloe. She should be here.” He went toward the house.
“You don’t need to look after me. I’m not Chloe.” Vanity sounded somber enough to make Willow stare at her. Somber, but not angry. “Chloe isn’t strong—I don’t mean physically—and I watch out for her. I’m like the sister she never had. All of this is something she hates, all the noise and fuss. And she can’t stand anything lewd, which is getting harder to avoid these days—particularly with the circles they move in. He’s worried because she’s late.” She nodded after Val’s retreating back.
“Oh, dear.” She wondered why Val had lied about Chloe liking big parties.
Vanity shook her head. “It’s okay. She’ll have found somewhere to be alone until she can cope. She has her places.”
More parts of swimsuits landed beside the pool. And more guests jumped in, most of them naked before they reached the water.
“And a good time was had by almost all,” Vanity said, sounding impatient. “Fortunately, they’ll start peeling off before long. Just as soon as they have to crash—or whatever else they have to do. Don’t open any closed bedroom doors or look behind bushes.”
Willow decided she liked Vanity’s commonsense attitude, even if the party was already out of hand and scary. She didn’t like the thought of going down the driveway and out to the street in the dark on her own when the time came, but she had parked the scooter out there to avoid getting blocked in.
A man in an orange aloha shirt and relaxed silk shorts confronted Vanity and held out his arms. “There’s my best girl,” he said. “And they’re playing our song.”
Vanity smiled and let him dance her away to the area near the combo where couples clung together and swayed in the colored puddles from fairy lights around an awning.
Willow decided she would go into the kitchen and see if she could help freshen up any of the platters. What she really wanted was to be back in her flat, preferably with Winnie curled up beside her if that could be managed. Keeping busy was the next best thing. She nodded and smiled approvingly at a man replenishing jugs of sangria.
A flash of dread wiped away her smile.
Slick, cool awareness opened her mind until she saw everything as if by floodlight. The warning signs of the so-called power she unwillingly shouldered were familiar. Until a few months ago they had come to her rarely, but the frequency was increasing.
“Leave me alone,” she whispered fiercely, feeling wild. “Go away.” Then she felt ridiculous talking to nothing and no one in particular.
Her eyes met those of an elegant man lounging on the cushions of a wrought-iron chaise. Immediately, she lowered her gaze—to his well-made body clad in dark gray, his long legs and bare feet.
She had to see his face again.
Younger than she’d thought at first, perhaps much younger. In his twenties, but with mature, confident features.
Wincing, she barely stopped herself from whirling away. Was it this man who caused the anger that swirled around her? Why would he?
Vibrations, like an intermittent stream of air blasted against a thin rubber membrane, blocked out the voices, the music.
Not just anger, but rage. She felt it more strongly by the moment. And it was all around her, pushing at her, tossing her hair and plastering her skirt to her legs.
Someone touched her and she knew it would be the young man from the chaise. “Are you okay?” he said, inclining his head. Up close he looked a little older, perhaps in his early thirties. His concern showed.
“Fine,” she said. “I was thinking about some things I have to get done.”
He inclined his head. “It’s a party. What do you have to do except enjoy yourself?”
Pretense didn’t sit well with her—it always seemed pointless. “I’m an employee,” she said pleasantly. “I’m helping out, overseeing things until Mrs. Brandt gets here.”
He raised arched brows. “Val Brandt has good taste. Don’t hold your breath for Chloe to show up—poor girl hates parties. She may come when just about everyone else has left.” He took stock of the surrounding activities. “This isn’t her scene. She’s quiet—distinguished, I guess you’d say.”
“So why have parties like this?” she asked before she could edit herself. “Forget I asked. It’s not my business.”
“What’s your name?” he said. “I’m Preston Moriarty.”
“Willow Millet.”
“Well, Willow Millet, it is your business if you’re supposed to make sure a party is a success. Not that these parties are what you’d call theme affairs, or even guided revels.”
“Is it always like this?” Willow asked.
“Not always. The crowd varies.”
“But you’re often here?”
He dazzled her with a smile. “Uh-huh. I hope you’re going to be here often, too. I’d have more to look forward to.”
“Why do you come if you don’t like it?”
He looked away. “I didn’t say that. I’m part of the trappings, the expected hangers-on. Val and Chloe have been very good to me, and they like having me around. There are never enough single men—or so they insist.”
“I see,” Willow said although she didn’t really.
Willow’s eyelids slipped shut. Iciness enveloped her, encased her like armor. She felt so cold she wasn’t sure she could move, so cold her flesh seemed numb. And through the numbness she felt, very vaguely, a stroking pressure that passed all over her body—repeatedly—before resting heavily on her head. Her neck wobbled.
Once again the exploration of her body began, so intimate she tingled, but she couldn’t say a word or try to evade these invisible hands.
“Willow?”
Her eyes wouldn’t open. Under her hair and around her neck passed firm pressing fingers. Surely she felt fingers. Her mind wouldn’t stay focused. Small, sharp pricks tapped on flesh that felt thick, as if it was anesthetized.
Over her shoulders the fingers passed, down, beneath her arms, then over her breasts. She shuddered. Her nipples peaked and the stimulation speared down between her legs.
The fingers tweaked her nipples and still she stood like a statue, unmoving, but quivering inside. Onward. Whatever this was mapped her body in an openly sexual way. It smoothed her buttocks through the dress, cupped her there, slid around to the front, cupped her mound and delved into the folds where the clitoris felt swollen and intensely aware—ready.
Her legs began to buckle.
“Willow, look at me.”
Her eyelids shot open and she looked up at Preston Moriarty. His frown, the narrowing of his eyes made her wonder what he had seen.
“You’re trembling all over,” he said. “Are you ill?”
Even while she longed to drop to her knees and curl up on the ground, she searched for an excuse. It would have to be
He pulled her into his arms and stroked her back. “It’s okay. Tell me what you need me to do.”
She wanted to pull away but hadn’t the strength. “An old illness,” she muttered. Not so far away from the truth. “There’s a residue and sometimes it hits me. That hasn’t happened in so long I can’t remember the last time.” Nothing like it had ever happened, but she could choose to lump it together with the inconvenient reminders
