Dark And Dangerous Part 17

Her heart skipped a beat as she raised her eyes at last to study the face.

He looked uncannily like the man she'd seen downstairs when she checked in.

Samantha frowned, wondering if it was merely her imagination running wild, or if it was no more than a trick of the light-or perhaps a strong strain of genetics? People had never really moved around a lot, historically speaking, and after generations of people in a particular area had intermarried, family traits had a tendency to show up.

Of course, he'd been an aristocrat and they never married beneath them, but from what she knew that had never stopped them from sleeping with the lower cla.s.ses, and breeding with them. Maybe the man she'd seen below was the great, great grandson or something like that?---from the other side of the blanket, most likely. The French had pretty well disposed of their aristocrats during the revolution-all of them that hadn't had the good sense to run, and most of them had apparently been too arrogant to flee in time to save their necks from the guillotine.

Despite her preoccupation, Samantha sensed that someone had come up as she stood examining the portrait. When several moments pa.s.sed and the newcomer neither turned away nor pa.s.sed by her, she glanced absently toward him.

A jolt went through her. It was the same man she'd seen earlier. This time, however, he spoke when she looked at him. His voice, deep and resonant, washed over her like a caress. Gooseb.u.mps rose on her flesh. She gaped at him incomprehensibly when he stopped speaking. "Uh... I don't speak French."

One dark brow arched, the other descended as if he wasn't at all pleased with the fact that she was a foreigner. "You are English?"

Samantha bit her lip, but couldn't help but chuckle. "American by birth, southern by the grace of G.o.d.You're probably the only person in Europe who'd mistake my accent for English. I can't evenunderstand the English accent half the time ... or vice versa."

She gestured toward the portrait. "It looks like it could be you."

A gleam of amus.e.m.e.nt entered his eyes as he followed her gesture. "I, myself, think it is a poor likeness."

Samantha shrugged. "I suspect it didn't do him justice. I think a lot of the artists way back then weremore into developing a particular style than actually capturing the person's likeness. I mean-either halfof Europe was related and looked like it-or they just painted everybody to look that way. Except forthe clothes, they all had bug eyes and thin lips."

"Back then?"

Samantha shrugged. "I've never been much for history, except where it has to do with reputed hauntings, that is, but even so I have a hard time with dates. The count lived way back before the revolution-at least three centuries ago, I thinkmore or less. You probably know a lot more about it than I do. You work here?"

"Non. I live here-in a manner of speaking."

Samantha glanced toward him in surprise.

"You don't work here, but you live here?" she persisted, frowning.

A thin smile curled the corners of his mouth. "I am Gerard, Count du Beauchamp."

Samantha felt her jaw go slack with surprise, but that was as nothing compared to the jolt that went through her when he abruptly vanished.

Chapter Two.

Samantha looked around in disbelief, but the man was no where in sight. She'd been staring straight at him.

She thought she had.

Maybe she'd glanced back toward the portrait, though? Even if she had, would that have been enough time for him to disappear so completely? She couldn't believe that it would've been.

But maybe he'd strode away while she was looking in the other direction? He moved quietly. The carpet on the floor was thick and would have m.u.f.fled his footsteps regardless, but she'd only sensed his presence when he'd come up beside her to start with. She hadn't heard his approach.

The fine hairs on the back of her neck p.r.i.c.kled, but she shook it off. It had to be a practical joke-or maybe it was something like a play the chateaux put on to entertain their guests? Or perpetuate the ghostly rumors?

He'd all but said he was a ghost, but the plain fact of the matter was, there'd been nothing at all ghostly about him. He'd appeared as substantial as she was herself. Of all the tales she'd heard over the years, or read about, she couldn't recall a single incident where a ghost had been described as appearing as solid and substantial as a living person. Mostly, their presence was only sensed, generally as a wave of frigid air.

And that was another thing. If she discounted the frantic signals of animal attraction she felt just being next to him, there wasn't a single thing to indicate otherworldly manifestation. She hadn't felt 'odd', 'chilled', or otherwise unnerved---not until he'd disappeared, that is.

She shook it off. She was trying too hard, that was all. When she and her mother had planned the trip the year before, they'd convinced each other that they would at last experience the ghostly encounter their hearts desired. The car crash on the way to the airport had ended those plans when it had taken her mother's life, but, quite possibly, it was because her mother had implanted the idea so firmly in her mind, or because she so desperately wanted to experience what her mother had hoped to, she was allowing her mind to fantasize that it was actually happening, when it wasn't.

Moving back down the corridor, she gripped the handrail firmly and descended with care. The stairs and the mezzanine had almost certainly been added long after the chateaux was originally constructed, but they were still old for all that and not built to the standards required by American safety standards. The stairs were too wide and the risers too deep, particularly for anyone as short legged as she was.

Reaching the foot of the stairs without mishap, she followed her nose to the dining area. There were several couples already seated at the small round tables. Feeling uncomfortably like a fifth wheel, she stopped a waiter and asked if it was permissible that she take a table on the terrace.

Nodding, he led the way. Throwing a pair of French doors wide, he pulled out a chair for her at a table nearby and produced a lighter to light the candle set in the center. Relaxing fractionally, Samantha breathed deeply and appreciatively of the evening air. The scents of burgeoning life a.s.sailed her, but the early spring air carried a hint of a chill still, which wasn't nearly as pleasant.

The menu, she discovered with some relief, was in both French and English-not that that was particularly helpful since she wasn't familiar with French cuisine. She wasn't a wine drinker either. The waiter looked at her as if she was mad when she ordered water as her beverage, but finally shrugged and went off again.

While she waited, Samantha gazed off at the darkened landscape beyond the terrace and allowed her mind to wander. She was to be given a tour of the chateaux the following day and the day after that a walking tour of the estate. Beyond that, she had no particular plans.

When she and her mother had been discussing the trip, they'd known that they would have each other for company and had not considered doing anything beyond exploring the chateaux exhaustively and hoping they would be lucky enough to b.u.mp into the ghost. She hadn't really thought it through, she supposed, but lazing around the chateaux for five days, by herself, didn't have nearly as much appeal. She was accustomed to being busy.

She glanced back toward the dining room where the other guests were dining. As she did so, something near the end of the terrace caught her eye and held it. Despite the gloom, she knew it was the man again, the one who'd called himself Gerard. He pushed away from the stone railing surrounding the terrace and sauntered toward her. Without a word, he sprawled in the chair opposite her, studying her.

He was hardly an unwelcome intruder, and yet it sent a twinge of annoyance through her that he a.s.sumed a welcome.

"You intrigue me."

Samantha c.o.c.ked her head to one side, studying him in return. "Should I be flattered?" she asked neutrally.

His sensual mouth tipped up at one corner. He ignored the comment. "How do I appear to you?"

Samantha lifted her brows. "Are you fis.h.i.+ng for compliments, too?"

The faint smile widened. "You feel it, as well, then? It has been so long I wondered if I had imagined it."

Samantha was a little taken aback. "Feel what?"

The smile vanished. He frowned. "I prefer your frankness of before. I've no patience with coyness."

She felt her own annoyance surface. "Really? Well then you won't mind my bluntness in pointing out thatI didn't invite you to share my table; I have not been 'coming on' to you; and I would not welcome alittle 'interlude' to chase away the boredom of traveling alone."

He stared at her a long moment and finally chuckled. "You remind me, very much, of someone I knew

once-long ago."Samantha wasn't certain how to take that remark, but it was so obviously intended as a compliment-orsorts-that she felt her irritation wane.

He frowned. "You have misunderstood me. I can not offer an 'interlude', as you put it-as much as I

would like to. "

She eyed him skeptically, but refused to be baited into questioning why he was unable to offer something she had just denied any interest in. "What did you mean, then, when you asked how you appeared to me?"

"Precisely that. You see me?"

Samantha gave him a look. "Of course I see you. There's nothing wrong with my eye sight."

He studied her thoughtfully for some moments. "You are aware that no one else does?"

Samantha was about to ask him what he meant by that, but at that moment the waiter arrived with her

dinner. The tray he was carrying, balanced on one arm, s.h.i.+fted in the direction of Gerard's head. Before she could do more than gasp at the impending collision, however, the tray pa.s.sed through Gerard as if he were no more substantial than mist.

"Will that be all, madam?"It was several moments before Samantha could find her voice. "How did you do that?""Do what, madam?" the waiter asked curiously."He will think you mad if you ask him about me," Gerard said, his tone almost bored."Why?""Why, what, madam?""Because no one else can see, hear-- and they most certainly can not feel, my presence.""You're saying you're a ghost?""I do not believe that I did," Gerard responded.Samantha's eyes narrowed on the waiter. "This is a show for the tourist, right? You pretend he isn't there and I'm supposed to be convinced that I've been chatting with a ghost."The waiter jumped, looked sharply around. "He is here?""Of course he's here. He's sitting right there in front of you."The waiter turned an unfocused gaze in the direction of Gerard, glanced down at the chair, and took a step back. A s.h.i.+ver went through him.

He was a very good actor. Samantha had to give him that. "Excuse me, madam," he threw over his shoulder as he whirled and trotted briskly back inside. Watching his departure with a mixture of irritation and uneasiness, Samantha turned at last to confront Gerard with his deception only to discover that he'd once more vanished.

"Cute!" she muttered out loud, peering through the darkness surrounding her, but not really surprised when she saw no sign of the illusive 'ghost', Gerard.

The food was far richer than she was accustomed to, but delicious. Finding with a little surprise that she was really hungry, Samantha concentrated on her meal. When she'd finished, she sat staring at the stars for a while and finally rose and headed back inside when the waiter didn't reappear.

She couldn't help but notice that the concierge stared at her rather hard as she left the dining room, but she decided that she wasn't going to worry about the meal. They were certain to add it to her bill and she could settle when she was ready to leave.

As tired as she was from traveling all day, she didn't head directly to her room. Instead, she stopped to study the portrait once more. If she'd hoped another look would convince her that she'd been mistaken before about the similarity between the man in the picture and the mysterious Gerard, she was disappointed. The situation was quite the opposite. The more she studied the painting, the stronger the resemblance.

Dismissing it finally, she fished her key from her pocket and headed toward her room. Unlocking the door, she felt around inside for the switch and finally found it. A lamp across the room came on, casting more shadows than it chased away.

Stepping inside, she closed the door firmly behind her and locked it, then tossed her handbag onto the bed and headed for the bathroom to prepare for bed. She'd already undressed when she realized she hadn't taken her night gown out. Shrugging, she gathered her clothes and left the bathroom. Flipping open the suitcase that still lay on her bed, she dropped her clothes inside and unearthed a night gown. As she turned to put it on, she discovered that Gerard was leaning against the fireplace mantel.

Her gown, forgotten, fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. A scream clawed its way up from her chest and lodged in her throat.

"You are more beautiful even than I imagined, cher."

She wasn't even aware that he'd moved until he was standing directly before her. Tentatively, almost reverently, he lifted a hand. She s.h.i.+vered as she felt it skate over her bare shoulder.

A strange look settled over his features. "I can feel the warmth and texture of your flesh. It feels like warm silk," he murmured thickly. "I can smell the fragrance of your hair. What witchery is this?"

Samantha gulped, managed to dislodge the lump of fright as something far more powerful seized her muscles and grounded her feet to the floor, a weightless weakness that made her knees tremble with the effort of holding her upright. "How....?" She managed.

He sifted his fingers through her dark, shoulder length hair, crushed it in his hand and lifted the strands to his nose, breathing deeply. "Are you a witch?" he murmured, releasing her hair and stroking a hand down one arm to grasp her fingers. "No one has breached the barrier ... even I have not managed it in all these years. How is this possible?"

Samantha watched, bemused, as he lifted her hand, examined each finger and finally sucked one into his mouth. Her belly tightened on a spasm of pleasure as she felt his tongue curl around the digit, felt the hot, moist suction of his mouth. "How did you get in here?" she murmured faintly.

Slowly, he pulled her finger from his mouth. "I no longer exist in the physical world. I have not in many years, not since ... Babette ensorceled me many years ago. I have hungered for this so long that I thought I would go mad. Perhaps I have? Perhaps you exist only in my mind?"

Samantha's heart skipped a beat. For several moments she felt herself teetering between unfulfilled desire and fear of this intoxicating stranger. Fear won out at last and she took a step back.

"You are mad. We live in the same world. How did you get into my room? The door was locked. I know it was. You have a key, don't you?"

He stepped toward her, closing the small s.p.a.ce she'd put between them. "It is you who have breachedthe doorway, not I ... you who hold the key. You can free me from this prison of existence that hastormented me so long, to be and to know without truly living."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You must."

Samantha took another step back. "I don't."

His face darkened with anger. "He has sent you to torment me," he ground out. "Has he not? To give me a taste of what I have lost so that he can destroy the last thing I hold dear, my mind."

Samantha's eyes widened. "n.o.body sent me! I came because this place is haunted. I wanted to see theghost myself. That's all."

"I am no ghost."

Samantha glanced around a little wildly, but he was standing so near her that she couldn't see any chance of escape. She s.h.i.+vered, reaching blindly behind her for something she might use as a weapon. Her hand touched something cold and solid on the bed behind her---her blow dryer. She ran her fingers along it a little frantically, found the handle and wrapped her fingers firmly around it. "No. You're not a ghost. You' re an intruder," she said tightly, and swung the blow dryer at his head with all her strength.

He didn't move. He didn't so much as blink. The blow dryer pa.s.sed through his head as if it were as unsubstantial as mist. The force of her swing almost sent her sprawling. She gaped at him as he gripped her waist tightly and pulled her roughly against him.

"I cannot feel pain," he muttered through clenched teeth. "I cannot feel anything .. . except you."