Into His Private Domain Page 8

  “Where is she right now?”

  “I left her sleeping. But I suppose it’s getting late. I should go check on her.”

  “If she wants to go with you to Washington, it’s her prerogative. But be damned careful, Gareth.”

  “I have it all under control. Don’t worry.”

  Gracie awoke midmorning to memories of an incredible night. She would have chalked the heated visions up to wild dreams, were it not for the unmistakable dent in the pillow beside hers.

  “Gareth?”

  No answer. Feeling embarrassed and bashful, she slid out of bed and wrapped herself in the sheet, tiptoeing to the bathroom. She couldn’t decide if she was relieved or disappointed that it was empty.

  She shook her head as she climbed into the shower. It was practically lunchtime. No wonder Gareth hadn’t lingered. He’d been considerate enough to let her catch up on her rest, but that didn’t mean he’d waste a day watching her sleep. That image should have made her laugh, but instead, it inspired a wistful, haunting regret.

  Last night she and Gareth had sex. And it was amazing. But in the light of day he was still a Wolff, and she was still an interloper with a murky agenda.

  When she was dry and dressed in one of the cute outfits Annalise had provided—navy capri pants, a white sleeveless eyelet tunic, and red paisley slides—she pondered her options. Going with Gareth to Washington was fine, but after that, playtime was over. She had to get her life back in order. And clearly, doing so meant reconnecting with her father.

  After a quick mini-meal of yogurt and cereal, she found her cell phone and turned it on. Three bars and a partial battery. That would work. With trepidation, she scrolled through her contacts and found the one marked “Daddy.” Her heart beat madly as she hit Send.

  “You have reached Edward Darlington, owner and operator of Darlington Gallery in Savannah, Georgia. I’m out of the country at the moment, and the gallery is closed. Hope to be back in my office next week. Please leave a message. Oh, yes…and if this is Gracie, don’t give up, baby girl. Make it happen. Make me proud.”

  Beeeeeppppp…

  Gracie stared at her phone with a scowl of frustration. Damn it. What in the heck was going on? Why had her father sent her to confront a Wolff? And Gareth Wolff in particular?

  Make it happen. What did that mean? Had she come willingly? Or been coerced…? Closing her eyes, she replayed the message and concentrated on her father’s voice. She caught snatches of conversation, whispered fragments of memory. Pleasing her father. She wanted to please him. But why? Because she was a dutiful daughter? Or was there a more selfish reason?

  She could see shadowy images of a gallery…of paintings. But was she inventing a memory?

  She flipped through the entries, hoping one name…any name, would look familiar. But none jumped out at her. Even reading a sampling of emails was futile. Most of them seemed to be business-related. Back-and-forth chitchats with clients wanting this or that.

  The ones that were personal came from user names that meant nothing to Gracie.

  Relax. Gareth’s deep, comforting voice rang in her ears. She needed him. Now.

  He wasn’t in the kitchen or in the living room and his bedroom was empty, the bedspread made up neatly, pillows plumped, carpet perfectly vacuumed. The silent army strikes again, she thought with a grin.

  She slipped on a light cardigan and made her way outside. The sun had faded, blocked by turbulent clouds. Shivering, she hurried to Gareth’s workshop, and then stopped short. The doors were firmly shut. Was Gareth too chilled to leave them open, or did that signal his need for privacy?

  She sneaked closer, and cautiously took a quick glance in the window. The large, mostly open room was completely empty of human inhabitants. A dog, curled up on a rag rug, raised his head, whined halfheartedly, and promptly went back to sleep. Clearly not a guard dog.

  Clouds scudded more quickly now, and the smell of rain scented the air. It occurred to Gracie that she was in the middle of nowhere, with no one to turn to in an emergency, and with little true knowledge of the man whose home she had invaded.

  Cowed by the gathering storm and her sensation of utter aloneness, she stumbled back to the house, slammed the heavy front door against the wind and stood with her back to it. Now what?

  She prowled the halls of Gareth’s house, studying paintings, sculptures, priceless wall hangings. For the first time, she noticed an eerie omission. Nowhere in the house could she find a single photograph, not even in Gareth’s designer-perfect, strangely austere bedroom.

  The homiest room in the entire dwelling, aside from the luxuriant solarium and pool, was the kitchen. Shiny pots with gleaming copper bottoms hung overhead along with ropes of garlic and dried tomatoes. Behind the stove and sink, handmade terra-cotta tiles with images of a dancing Kokopelli lent warmth and color.

  But no refrigerator art…no framed photographs on the built-in desk, nothing.

  And still no sign of Gareth.

  Outside, the storm lashed the house with fury. She flinched once at a particularly synchronous bolt of lightning and thunder, but apparently she wasn’t afraid of nature’s pyrotechnics. In the quiet of empty rooms, she could hear the drumming of heavy rain on the roof.

  With the right companion it would have been the perfect day to curl up in front of the massive fireplace and enjoy the flames while reading…or better still, making love.

  She’d been trying to put last night out of her mind. Had she made a fool of herself? Begging Gareth to stay in her room…in her bed? Was that why he disappeared this morning? To give them both breathing space? Mortification heated her face, even though she was all alone with her painful thoughts.

  At last, she landed in the library. It was a fabulous room, with three entire walls of built-in shelves running waist high to the ceiling and cabinets below. She scanned the titles, all neatly divided into categories. Gareth Wolff might give the appearance of wildness and lack of concern for convention, but in his workshop and in this book-filled room, she caught glimpses of his control.

  For half an hour she flipped aimlessly through one volume and another. Too restless to read in earnest, she finally knelt and opened a cabinet door. She found nothing out of the ordinary: stacks of magazines, writing and mailing supplies, a collection of baseball cards.

  But moving on to the next section, she hit pay dirt. The photographs for which she’d unconsciously been searching. Albums of them. Expensive leather volumes of archival paper…covers imprinted in gold with dates from the 1980s.

  Curiosity trumped caution. Scooping three of the big books into her arms, she stood, kicked off her shoes and carried the heavy volumes to the sofa. Curled up with an afghan, she began flipping pages. Like Pandora, she soon wished she had left well enough alone. Someone had painstakingly documented every print story about the Wolff family’s tragedy.

  The publications ranged from the New York Times to the most lurid of tabloids. Some accounts were strictly journalistic, others were prurient and speculative. One picture in particular caught her eye. It was black and white, fairly grainy, but heartbreakingly poignant.

  Perhaps the photographer had been surreptitious in his labors, because she couldn’t imagine Gareth’s family allowing press at a funeral. In the image, two men of similar height and bearing stood flanking a matched set of flower draped coffins. Between them, tiny in stature, wearing a dark suit, was a young boy. Each man held one of his hands.

  The caption read, “Financial titans Victor and Vincent Wolff grieve the loss of their wives. With them is seven-year-old son and nephew, Gareth Wolff.”

  Tears rolled down her cheeks and her heart broke. How awful, how impossibly tragic. She read on…

  In a kidnapping scenario that has state police and federal law enforcement baffled, the spouses of multimillionaires Victor and Vincent Wolff were snatched at gunpoint during a shopping trip on a busy street in downtown Charlottesville, Virginia. No word from the perpetrators for three days, and then a
demand for money. Despite the fact that the Wolff brothers handed over the ransom (reputed to be in the neighborhood of three million dollars), the women were later killed execution-style, with single gunshots to the head. Their bodies were found in an abandoned warehouse in suburban D.C. A reward is being offered for any information regarding this crime.

  Gracie trembled, wishing she had never read a word. Who had assembled this morbid collection? Why would Gareth hold on to something so clearly painful? The tragedy had altered life for his entire family of eight. They had withdrawn from society and built walls, both literal and metaphorical.

  A few of the clippings described how the brothers sold fabulous homes in central Virginia, bought a remote mountain and built a fortress to lock their offspring away from a dangerous world. Private tutors, a guard gate and little contact with the public. Ever.

  No wonder Gareth hadn’t wanted her here.

  She laid aside the albums, leaving one open to the picture of little Gareth, and pulled her legs to her chest, resting her chin on her knees. The fire couldn’t warm the cold that seeped deep into her bones. Did Gracie have a mother? Somehow she didn’t think so. She glanced at the newspaper photo again, and for the flash of an instant, she saw another funeral. And a young girl hand in hand with her daddy. Was the young girl Gracie? Did she have that in common with Gareth?

  In an instant, the memory was gone. If indeed it was a memory. Maybe she was trying so hard to regain her past that she had begun inventing recollections that were nothing more than wishful fiction.

  The rain slashing the window doubled in intensity, drumming painfully at Gracie’s shattered nerves. Where in heaven’s name was Gareth?

  Gareth jumped out of the Jeep and made a dash for the porch, shaking like a dog before opening the front door and ducking inside. He was soaked through to the skin, and he still hadn’t decided how to handle Gracie and what happened last night.

  Should he go with nonchalant avoidance? Or did they confront what they had done?

  In his bathroom, he stripped out of his sodden clothes and changed into a soft flannel shirt and old jeans. This afternoon he needed to make some arrangements for the D.C. trip, but making sure Gracie was okay had to take priority. The sizzle of excitement he felt at the thought of seeing her was disconcerting.

  He needed to back off a little and make sure she understood the score. And given Jacob’s dire warnings, perhaps he ought to give her an out on traveling with him. After last night, the trip took on a whole new significance. Him and Gracie. In a hotel. Together.

  Shit. He hardened in his jeans, making the relaxed fit not so relaxed after all. Leaving her in bed this morning had been sheer torture, but also a matter of self-preservation. Getting in too deep with a female relationship hadn’t been a problem for a long, long time.

  But Gracie, with her mysterious entrée into his life and her total lack of self-knowledge didn’t fit the mold. He wanted to protect her. And at the same time, protect himself from her. Damned stupid and probably mutually exclusive outcomes.

  Pausing only to towel dry his hair and run his hands through it, he left the steamy bathroom and went on a hunt, finding his quarry ensconced in front of a cozy fire in one of his favorite rooms in the house.

  He stopped short in the doorway, lead in his gut. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Her head snapped up, her expression wary. Mascara smeared one cheekbone, evidence that she had been crying. “I shouldn’t have,” she whispered.

  Fury shook him. Conflicting emotions shredded his control. He had been ready to scoop her into his arms and carry her back to bed. Now he could barely look at her. “No, you damn well shouldn’t have.” Again and again she broke through barriers he’d erected, opening him up to emotions he hated. He didn’t want to feel anything.

  His icy-cold voice made Gracie blanch. Her eyes welled with tears, distress written on her delicate features. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  “For what? Snooping?”

  Her lower lip quivered. She scooted out from under the cashmere afghan and stood to face him. “No… Well, yes…for being nosy. But I meant I was sorry about your mother. So sorry. Gareth, you were only a baby.”

  “I won’t discuss my mother with you.” Gracie’s simple compassion picked at the scab of a wound that was raw despite the passage of time. He couldn’t allow her to expose the lack of healing. Not now. Not ever.

  “But it was so long ago, and you’re still hurting.”

  “And you’re an authority on grief now? You and all your wonderful memories?”

  She flinched, making him feel like a heel, but he was so angry he shook with it. No one else dared push at the walls that isolated him.

  “Who made the albums?” she asked, her eyes raking his face with a sympathy he didn’t want…didn’t need.

  “I did.” He kicked the leg of the sofa with his toe. “None of the adults around me seemed to realize that I was the only one of the kids old enough to read. And newspapers were all over the house. I cut out the articles and saved them. I thought every word was true. And believe me, some of the worst stories made my stomach hurt.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I saw pictures of the bodies. My mother. My aunt. Eyes closed. Blood oozing from gaping holes in their heads.”

  “Dear God.”

  Gracie looked on the point of a breakdown, and he didn’t care. Couldn’t care. “A few of the tabloids hinted at drug deals and secret affairs…anything to sell papers. I was too young to know they were inventing things at random.”

  She took a step in his direction, but he held up his hand, his stomach twisting with nausea. “I didn’t sleep for months. I’d wake up screaming, and my father never came. It was always a nanny. My dad was sedated in his bedroom, unable to deal with the grief, the guilt.”

  “The guilt?”

  “He felt as if he’d failed in his duty as a husband. That he hadn’t been proactive in protecting her.”

  Gracie held out her hands. “They were shopping, like a million women in America every day. People can’t live in a bubble, Gareth.”

  “Oh, but you’re wrong,” he sneered. “With enough money you can hide indefinitely. He and my uncle did that to us. No Little League. No pizza parties at Chuck E. Cheese’s. No trips to the zoo. Our entire world became this mountain. And it was years before we realized what we were missing…before we rebelled.”

  He hated rehashing this, hated that Gracie had seen the nasty underbelly of his life. But something in those big solemn eyes made him spill his guts uncensored as if hoping against hope that she could take away the agony of remembering.

  He poured himself a shot of whiskey from a crystal decanter, enjoying the burn as it hit his throat. “Are you happy now?” he asked, seeing the sarcasm hit its mark on her expressive face. In her stocking feet she was so small, so slight, so defenseless.

  Jacob was right. Anything could happen to her. And Gareth wouldn’t be able to protect her. Evil lurked on every corner, even more so now than in 1985. He couldn’t afford to fall in love with her. He wouldn’t allow it.

  She shrugged helplessly. “I’m not happy, Gareth. How could I be? I wish I could make those terrible memories all go away.”

  “That’s just it,” he muttered, downing a second reckless shot, though he seldom drank. “You’ve been making such a big damn deal about having amnesia, but there have been too many nights when I would have given anything to be able to forget.”

  “It must have been unbearable.” Her compassion rolled over him in waves, and he hated the way it made him feel. Stripped raw. Completely naked.

  He hurled the glass into the fireplace, hearing the gratifying sound as it shattered, enjoying the wide-mouthed shock on Gracie’s face. “Get out of my sight,” he said, jaw clenched. “I don’t want to look at you.”

  Nine

  Gracie sobbed, half crazed, as she blundered through the forest. She didn’t even remember which way she came in
the beginning, but she was leaving. There would be help at the bottom. A police station. Kind townspeople. Whatever…it didn’t matter.

  She couldn’t stay here.

  Briars scraped her legs. Sweat rolled down her temples. A fleeting sense of déjà vu tweaked her memory, but she was too distraught to care. The rain had stopped, and now that the sun was back out, the humidity turned the spring forest into an itchy, moist sauna.

  The ground was soggy. She slipped time and again, falling on her butt, leaving mudslides as she tumbled down the mountain. In the midst of one headlong plunge, a thick root caught her foot and twisted her ankle painfully.

  She cried out and fell to her hip, curling into a fetal ball. Even above the harsh sound of her breathing, she could hear crashing and cursing above her. It was impossible to outrun a wolf.

  Gareth burst through a thicket of rhododendron and stopped dead, his face ashen. “I’m sorry, Gracie. Hell, I’m sorry.” He knelt beside her, eyes aghast. “You’re barefoot. Holy God.”

  Her feet were a mess…cut, bleeding. And her ankle had already swollen to alarming proportions. She buried her face in her arms, embarrassed, hurt. “I wasn’t thinking straight. And I know what you’re going to say. Stupid, irrational woman.”

  He lifted her carefully and started the trek back up the mountain. His arms were strong as tree trunks, his mighty legs covering the uneven ground with ease. “You’re wrong,” he muttered. “I was thinking what an ass I am.”

  This time, Jacob was not quite so welcoming when they showed up at his house. He glared at his brother. “Christ, you’re hardheaded.”

  The two men faced off in a visual battle of wills. Gareth held Gracie tightly. She smelled his sweat, felt the faint tremor in his arms. “I don’t need a lecture, Jacob. Take care of her…please.”

  Gracie knew that the final word had been dragged out of him. He was not in a conciliatory mood. She touched his arm. “I’m fine.” The last thing she wanted was to cause discord between the two siblings.