Night Lover Page 8

  I closed the door and frowned at him. Just leave. Let him sleep it off.

  I didn’t. I untied his leather shoes and slipped them off. God, his feet still looked enormous. He used to joke all the time about how his feet were a reflection of his admirable dick. I’d never been able to argue. In his case, the old adage proved true.

  His button-down shirt twisted under him when he fell and looked tight at his neck. I gazed at his face and emotion tugged at me as I tugged the top couple of shirt buttons through their holes. As his chest was exposed, I sat on the bed next to him and I struggled not to touch my fingers to the sparse brown hairs on his chest. How often had I cuddled up to those pec muscles? I’d always felt so safe with Finn, so cherished. Unable to resist, I placed my hand over his heart.

  He opened his eyes and looked at me, and I glimpsed a strange clarity in his gaze. Black pupils, dilated in jewel-like blue irises. Sapphire temptation.

  He pulled me onto him and I squealed as I tumbled. However, he held me fast. In balancing myself, I spread my legs, straddling him. I hadn’t meant to. My legs just opened over him, welcoming his girth between them as they used to. His erection throbbed against me, warm and insistent.

  He still felt so good. Even better. Fuller. Bulkier. Stronger.

  He rolled me over, nudging my knees further apart so he could rest between them. With a programmed slowness, he rolled his hips against mine. As he buried his face in the crook of my neck, his murmurs made me want to cry for all the years we could have had together.

  “I tried so hard to forget you. It’s no good. I never could and I still can’t. Lark, I want you so much.”

  Oh, how I’d longed to hear those words. But now? When everything seemed muddled. With visions of Hugh clouding my brain, how could I indulge in thoughts of a reunion with Finn? Even still, my body betrayed me, wanting more of him. My arms longed to hold him. My core ached for him. And my heart, well, it forgot how to pump in that surreal moment.

  My Finn.

  He lifted his head just in time to see my tears fall. Paling, he shook his head. “Jesus, please don’t cry. Please, Renata.”

  As the first tremors shook my chest, Finn lowered his head and kissed my tears away. Each soft flick of his tongue felt like home. His hands began to rove, over my waist, along my ribs, teasing a hot path under my shirt. As he found my breast, as he tweaked my nipple over my bra, he gazed at me, mouth open.

  “My Lark.”

  And then he kissed me. Sweet persuasion and hunger in one exploratory caress. As if re-familiarizing himself with every part of me, he plunged his tongue into my mouth, tasting all my soft tissues. Groaning, he nibbled at my lips and I dug my fingers into his hair, wanting him closer. He tasted so good. He pushed up my shirt and proceeded to do the same with my bra, exposing my breasts.

  He stopped kissing me long enough to look at my breasts and curse. He then captured one nipple in his mouth, tonguing the stiff nub, sucking as if he needed me inside him as much as I needed him inside me.

  I wrapped my legs around him and held on for dear life. “Finn. Ah, hell.”

  He moved with urgency between my breasts, as if worried he’d never get a chance to taste them again. Each fervent suck lit up my nerves and rained fire into my soul. My pussy clenched, throbbed for him. And even though I knew our behavior was foolhardy and unprofessional at best, I didn’t care. I just wanted Finn Mackenzie to fuck me into next week.

  His lips traveled up my chest to my face and he claimed my mouth again. He kissed me harder this time, the type of heart-wrenching, lip-bruising kiss I’d remember for years. Our teeth knocked and I tasted blood. He tipped my face to the side and his smooth tongue danced over my neck.

  He paused, eyeing my skin. Hugh’s faded love bites lay on my right side. Finn kissed the left side of my neck.

  And then I felt his teeth. Sucking, sucking, leaving their own mark. I wanted to cry out. I wanted to shout to the heavens that neither of these men had the right to mark me, to put their brands on me, but I didn’t stop him. I wanted it. In some measure, I welcomed the pain of his bite. With his mouth on my skin, I felt alive and didn’t care who saw the bruised result.

  At the same time, I worried about our working relationship. I had to sing for him all summer. I’d always prided myself on maintaining my professional integrity. What kind of message was I sending? Not only was I possibly hurting my own career, I might be hurting his.

  For that reason, when his hand began to stray between my legs, I put a stop to it. “Finn, no.” I shoved at him and sat up, adjusting my bra and shirt. “What are we doing? You’ve had too much to drink and I work for you. This is wrong.”

  He moved off me and sat on the corner of the bed, stunned, his lips apart. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. I should have stopped you sooner.”

  He held his head in his hands. “Jesus, my head hurts.”

  “You need to go to bed and I need to go to my room.”

  “Renata, I…”

  “You don’t have to say another word. It’s done. Let’s move past this, okay?” I slid off his bed, grabbed my purse and tour book, and moved to the door. “Will you be fine on your own?”

  “Yeah.” He looked at my mouth with clear longing but then dragged his gaze up to my eyes. “Will you?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Good night, Finn.”

  If he replied, it was so quiet I didn’t hear it. I walked out and shut the door behind me. I then leaned on it, hugging myself, trying to alleviate the cold that had settled on my skin the moment I pushed him away.

  A mistake. Just a mistake.

  Tears pricked at my eyes as I sought my room and continued to sting as I got ready for bed. Only after I’d splashed lots of cold water on my face did the tears stop threatening. I brushed my teeth, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers over me.

  In the blackness of my room, I tried very hard to forget how good Finn tasted, but the sweet flavor of beer and longing taunted me until I fell asleep.

  »»•««

  Tonight, I didn’t wander along the yew-lined pathway. This time, rather than stumbling toward Hugh’s bedroom, someone carried me toward a new destination. As my heavy eyelids struggled to open, I felt his arms about me, felt the slight jolt every time he took a step. At first, I thought Hugh carried me, but the muttered words in Italian proved me wrong.

  My Italian might be rusty, but even I recognized a blasphemous curse word when I heard it.

  Unable to move, barely able to react, I lay still when my companion lay me on a bed. “Hugh?”

  The man laughed. Nothing in his harsh tones were familiar. Although I still struggled to make out his face, I could see the curl of his lips and I could smell his breath, foul with malicious anticipation.

  “Per piacere.” The Italian plea for mercy poured out of my mouth but I did not understand why.

  Only when the man put his arms around my throat, his eyes lit with an angry gleam, did I realize I was in danger. By then, it was too late.

  He squeezed, murmuring words I’d never heard before.

  I tried to scream but could make no sound. Dio, Dio, Dio!

  But God didn’t listen to me.

  Just as my line of sight turned blood-red, as agony claimed me, the vision vanished on a breeze.

  I awoke in bed and bolted into sitting position. Blinking hard, I allowed my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. I could almost taste the man’s nervous sweat, the nightmare had felt so real.

  I touched my forehead, starting at the coldness of my skin, as the most profound sadness of my life assaulted me. I’d called out for Hugh. Was he the man who strangled me? No, impossible. And why would I dream of dying in such a vicious manner?

  As I thought of Hugh, my tears began to flow. I needed answers. I needed…him. Why hadn’t he come to me in the dream?

  And yet at the same time, I felt a peculiar sense of destiny. As if everything was unfolding as it should. It seemed a little too coincidental t
hat I’d dream of a man and end up singing for a festival held at his former home. Had Hugh Dawlish brought me here? Was I supposed to do something?

  There was only one person who might know.

  Chapter Six

  “Renata, you’ve returned.”

  Margaret Cummings’ eyes widened in astonishment and perhaps even relief.

  “I didn’t know where else to go, Mrs. Cummings.” My voice cracked as I made eye contact.

  She motioned to a chair and invited me to sit. “Please, call me Margaret.” As she peered into my face, I knew she appraised the dark circles under my eyes. I’d spent a good amount of time trying to disguise them that morning, to no avail. “Are you ready to admit you dream of Hugh? There’s no sense denying it any longer. I can see it in your face.”

  “Yes, I have been dreaming of him for a while. I didn’t admit it because I didn’t want to sound crazy.” I sat and looked around her office, grinning at the piles of books. “I hope you don’t mind. I asked one of the manor employees to show me to your office. Do you have some time to talk?”

  “Of course. As long as you don’t mind dank basement offices. I get more work done here in the quiet. How are rehearsals going for the festival?”

  “Fine.” I thought of Finn and our groping session and cringed inwardly. “It’ll be great when it comes together.”

  She put her elbows on her desk and made a steeple out of her fingers. “Good. Now, tell me about your experience with the young lord of our manor.”

  With that, I told her about my dreams about Hugh, sharing the latest one in which the Italian man strangled me. I also told her about Hugh’s appearance in the theater back home and the way he seemed to talk to me at odd times. She remained quiet as she listened, but as the story continued, the wrinkles around her eyes deepened. When I finished my tale, I sat back in my chair, awaiting a response.

  “Renata, dear. This all sounds familiar. Frankly, I’d hoped I’d heard the last of this.”

  “How many times have you heard this sort of thing?”

  “Too many.” She regarded me from the side, her eyes narrowed. “He likes your type.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He targets women who remind him of her.”

  “Her?”

  “Claudia Sebastiano. She was an Italian soprano, visiting Shanley with an opera troupe. Dawlish met her when he was a young man and fell instantly in love. Unfortunately, their affair did not end well.”

  “I read he killed himself.” My throat constricted at the thought.

  “He did.”

  “Okay. So why am I dreaming about him? Why do I feel…summoned by him?”

  She frowned, white brows coming together over her nose. “It’s quite the opposite. You summoned him.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Are you certain? I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable, but have you been lonely of late?”

  “Well, sure. Everyone gets lonely sometimes.”

  “Is it possible you…wished for love in some way? I only ask because I’ve seen this before.”

  It hit me then. I did wish for…something, although I don’t think I ever wanted this. Sure, I’d wanted adventure, as Lizzy called it. Perhaps even a new man. The darkest part of me acknowledged I’d likely wanted someone to help me forget my inconvenient lust for Finn.

  Had I inadvertently caused this? Just by wanting something better in my life?

  Impossible.

  “People wish for things all the time. It doesn’t mean they all end up having crazy dreams.” For the first time, I noticed the necklace around Margaret’s throat, the one with the gold cross pendant. Perhaps she was a zealot, seeking to convert new believers. Maybe she could smell the lapsed Catholic in me and wanted to give me a fright.

  “Dangerous dreams, not crazy. You must take care, Renata. I fear he means you harm. This may sound shocking, but I think he’ll try to kill you.”

  I stared at her, blinking, my jaw gaping. Finally roused into action by this lunatic woman’s claims, I stood, my legs shaking. “I’m leaving.”

  “Don’t. Please hear me out before you go. I assure you, all my marbles are still intact.” She tapped her head as if to prove it.

  I stared at her for what seemed to be an eternity, but feeling out of options, I sat back down.

  “I apologize for my bluntness, but I’ve seen him toy with one too many women. I don’t want anyone else to die.”

  The gravity of her statement hit me. “Someone died?”

  “Renata, I’ve worked at Dawlish Manor for a long time. As you know, the music festival has been a staple here as well. The first time I met a young soprano in your position it was 1969. Her name was Mary. She was the first of my experience, but for all I know, this has been going on since before my time. She was a shy, sweet thing and our paths crossed several times. I befriended her. Mary confided in me and told me about her nightmares, the same kinds you have. They got worse as festival rehearsals progressed.” She paused, staring into space. “I watched her wither and grow weaker. She claimed she was in love with Hugh Dawlish, that he was coming for her. Of course, I thought she was fanciful, a bit flighty. When it came time for the festival performance, she did not arrive as scheduled. They found her in her room at the inn, dead.”

  “How did she die?”

  “It was never determined, although I believe she wasted away.”

  “It’s very sad but that doesn’t mean there’s a connection.”

  “Oh, no? In 1978, I met another soprano named Kristen. Both she and Mary were dark of hair and eyes, like you. Like Claudia Sebastiano. Kristen also had dreams about Hugh, sexual dreams. She told me everything. She, too, died before she could perform. The cause of death was never identified, but like Mary, she seemed to waste away. There have been others, as well.” Her gaze, so frank and all-seeing, took in every detail on my face. “Pardon me for saying so, dear, but you’re paler than the last time I saw you.”

  I began to shake my head, not liking this story.

  “Oh, you still don’t see a connection? Well, I assure you, you are not the only soprano to suffer these nightmares and others have died. Yes, those around them chalked their deaths up to stress and overwork, but in becoming friendly with these women, I learned the common denominator. Hugh Dawlish. They became obsessed with him and I believe he killed them.”

  “But…why? How?”

  “I can’t answer the how. I wish I could. However, I believe I understand the why. You see, he adored Claudia Sebastiano, but she was killed by a visiting nobleman who’d become obsessed with her.”

  “An Italian?”

  “I see you’ve made the connection. Yes, actually. Conte Ignazio Malanotte. And after he murdered Claudia, Hugh got his revenge by killing the count. Sadly, out of grief, he then took his own life.”

  My eyes stung and filled with tears. Just the thought of Hugh suffering, drowning in sorrow, made my heart heavy.

  Margaret continued. “I believe his soul was transformed the moment he killed himself. He surrendered to darkness and now it has consumed him. Whether by choice or not, he has lingered here, haunting women who bear Claudia’s image. It’s my opinion he’s tormented them in the hopes of taking them into the abyss with him.”

  “What abyss? Purgatory?”

  “No. Something worse.”

  As cold fingers of fear danced along my spine, I forced myself to hold her gaze. She didn’t look like a crazy lady. In fact, in her proper tweeds and white bun, she would have been the last person I’d have pegged as loopy.

  Of course, I doubt anyone would have labeled me as “disturbed” before my parents were killed. And yet, after they died, I still managed to tread the line between sanity and insanity. I treaded it now.

  “I know how this must sound, Renata, but when I saw the need in your face as you gazed at him, I knew he’d found a new victim. And even if you don’t believe me, I want to help you fight him.”

  Fight him. Ha. I wasn�
��t sure I wanted to fight him. Despite the ominous tones of my dreams, I loved the way he made me feel. Hell, I wanted to feel it again.

  “I’ve heard he can be rather…persuasive. Enticing.”

  “That’s a bit personal, don’t you think?”

  “I think it might help if you learned a bit more about his relationship with Claudia. Over the years, I’ve made copies of Hugh’s journal entries. Although several sections have been lost to time, we still have documentation of his years during this period. Would you care to read them?”

  “Yes,” I said on a breath. “Please.”

  The tour guide rummaged in her desk for a minute or two and produced a bound booklet of photocopied pages. She set it on the desk in front of me. “There. You can keep this one. It’s a spare.”

  I stared at the booklet, afraid to touch it.

  She pushed it toward me. “Take it. Read it. I’ll be here tomorrow evening, catching up on some work for the historical society. We can chat then.”

  With tentative movements, I reached for the journal and grasped it. Despite my initial concern for the state of Margaret’s mental health, I grinned at her. “Are you always here? Don’t they let you go home?”

  “Dawlish Manor is my life. I’ve worked here my entire adulthood.” She leaned forward, a gleam in her eye. “And I will not let Hugh Dawlish harm another young woman. Not as I live.”

  “You make him sound like a scoundrel. Was he a bad man in life?”

  “No. He was the typical moneyed young man of the period, a man who was used to getting what he wanted. In his day, some might have called him a ‘rake.’ However, his thwarted romance with Claudia led him down a murky path. He claimed Malanotte cursed him, and there is evidence the Italian was involved with the occult. Whether under the influence of evil forces, or out of his mind with grief, it is clear he changed. I have no doubt something turned him into this…wraith. This incubus.”

  Incubus. A sexual demon. I preferred to think of him as my night lover. “That’s insane.”