Chapter One

Present day

 

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Reid. I didn’t know.”

Adam got to his feet, carefully lifting the painting, his hands touching nothing but the frame. He eased it back onto its hook above the golden oak mantel. Then nudged it a millimeter at a time until it hung perfectly straight.

Damn cleaning service. Damn strangers, sometimes a different one every week, coming in to clean the place. You could tell them a hundred times, leave them a thousand notes, and they would still forget. He missed the old days. He missed the full-time maid he’d had to let go. He missed having enough money to pay for her even more.

Hell, he was only hanging on to the house by a thread. But to lose it would be to admit defeat...defeat to a man he’d learned to despise. And that was something he couldn’t do.

He didn’t care to analyze his other reasons for clinging to this oversized money drain. Like the woods out back, it was something he didn’t care to explore further.

He turned to the woman who was still trembling a little in reaction to his bellow when he’d walked into the study to see his prized possession on the floor. “No one,” he said slowly, resisting the urge to snatch the brass-handled poker from the rack of implements near his side, and shake it in her face. “No one touches this painting. Tell your boss that if one of her people forget that again, I’ll...”

He gave his head a shake. He sounded like an obsessed fool. Then again, that was exactly what he was, wasn’t he? “Never mind. Just get the hell out of here.”

“Yes, Mr. Reid. I’m sorry. I wasn’t told.”

She backed through the tall double doors, pulling them closed, probably in a huge rush to get out of his sight. He couldn’t blame her, could he?

He swallowed the panic he’d felt when he’d first come into the room to see the bare spot on the stucco wall above the fireplace. Everything else had been in place. The brass candle holders and the antique Navajo pottery on the mantel didn’t seem to have been moved. He bit his lip, and stared up at the painting. He ought to get rid of the damned thing before it drove him completely nuts. Short trip, he knew, but there was no sense rushing it. Getting this thing out of his sight might slow the deterioration of his common sense considerably. But he couldn’t sell the painting. He wouldn’t.

It wasn’t the quality of the work that had so captured him the first time he’d seen it hanging in the Capricorn Gallery on the Commons a year ago. Though it was very good, it was the subject that enchanted him.

A forest where flowers unlike anything real bloomed in riots of color. Where every boulder and every pebble were gemstones. Every swirl of tree bark, a work of art. Hidden among the twisting foliage, timid creatures of no known species peered at the spectacle in the central clearing. They only appeared when one looked at the painting from just the right angle. He’d owned it for weeks before he’d spotted all of them...and he wondered even now if there were more to be discovered. In the distance one could see towering castle spires, gleaming like silver beneath a jewel-blue sky. And in the clearing, in the very center, a pool of crystalline water with dense green reeds concealing the woman who bathed there. She was only a hazy outline. Tiny bits of flesh visible here and there between the reeds, slanted ebony brush strokes for her eyes, and swirling ones for her long, untamed hair. None connected. Just bits. An abstract figure. Scattered jet and peach-toned pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. But if you stood back and squinted, you could almost see her.

And when you looked at her that way, she seemed to be looking back.

When he’d first laid eyes on the painting, he’d wondered if maybe he was finally having the breakdown he’d been expecting for so long. But that concern hadn’t stopped him from buying it. Nor had his shortage of funds.

The woman...and the place. The mythical forest where she bathed. They were the ones he’d seen in that ridiculous dream he’d had when he’d been...what? Seven? Didn’t matter. He’d been convinced it hadn’t been a dream at all. That he’d actually visited this place while he was on one of his reckless treks into the forest. He’d been convinced for a time that he’d stumbled upon some secret doorway to an enchanted glade. That he’d talked to a fairy. That he’d seen his own future.

Unfortunately, he’d felt compelled to run his mouth about it until his mother had suggested therapy and his father had taken the strap.

Smack!

You’re a man, Adam. My son, do you understand that?

Smack!

A man does not believe in fairytales!

Smack!

A man knows the difference between the truth and make-believe!

Smack!

Do you think you know the difference now, Adam?

Yes!

I don’t. But you will, Adam, you will if I have to take every bit of hide off your ass. You will.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

“Mr. Reid?”

The woman’s voice broke the memory. Adam carefully unclenched his fists, stopped grating his teeth, reminded himself that the stench of stale liquor on hot breath wasn’t real. He blinked twice, and shrugged it off as easily as he always did. It was no big deal. It didn’t bother him anymore. Not in the least. His father’s brutal methods had made Adam tough, and they’d certainly taught him the difference between fantasy and reality. Dear old Dad. Probably didn’t even realize he’d done Adam a favor by being so cruel. He hadn’t hung around long enough to see the results. He’d sold everything he owned, including the house and property, and he’d walked out on his wife and only son.

But Adam had his revenge, sort of. He’d made his own money, bought the place back. Brought his mother here to live out her days in peace, without a hard-drinking, hard-hitting husband to worry about. She’d died here, and Adam liked to think she’d died content. But he knew deep down, she’d never got over her husband’s betrayal.

He knew exactly how she’d felt. Because the fact was, he was on the verge of losing it all over again, due to a remarkably similar kind of betrayal.

But he wasn’t going to think about his ex-wife or her uncanny similarities to his old man right now, either. Right now he was thinking about that damned dream. Hell, that’s what he spent most of his time thinking about.

His childhood dream had to have had a basis in something he’d read or heard somewhere. And Adam’s obsession to find the myth or tale that was its source had made him one of this country’s top experts on fantasy and myth. Hell, he’d made a career out of the knowledge he’d gained. He’d published books on the subject of fairytales and their origins.

But even so, he’d never found the story that must have inspired his dream.

Or the woman.

Though he knew it had all been nothing more than a fantasy, he’d let the search for its source consume him. What could a seven-year-old have seen or read or heard that would have instigated a dream that real? That vivid? So lucid he’d been sure it hadn’t been a dream at all. There had to have been something.

When he’d seen the painting, he’d become more convinced of that than ever. Someone else knew about this mythical land. Certainly the artist knew. Even knew the name of the forest in Adam’s dream. At the bottom of the painting, cleverly woven into the lush greenery so that it was all but hidden, was a single word. And Adam supposed most people would have assumed it was the artist’s signature, if they’d even been able to discern it. But Adam knew better. The word at the bottom was Rush.

No myths or legends he’d studied had come close to describing the land he’d believed he’d visited back then, or the woman he’d seen. None mentioned this forest of Rush by name. His obsession to find the source of that fantasy grew stronger every day. Christ, he ought to be grateful for his father’s stern intervention, or he might be a real basket case by now, as real as the dream had seemed to him at the time.

He looked at the painting again, and again a small chill raced up his spine at the powerful similarities to his childhood delusion. The artist had captured Adam’s dream right down to the tiniest detail. Right down to the pictures in the tree bark. Right down to the hypnotic power of the woman’s eyes.

Somewhere, there was an explanation for all of that. And if it took the rest of his life, Adam would find it.

No time to dwell on it now though. He had a class in twenty minutes.

“So, according to this ancient Celtic manuscript, what characteristics would you expect to find in your average fay-female? If you read the assigned chapters, you’ll know this stuff. Come on.”

Adam sat on the edge of his desk, watching hands pop up all over the room. This group was nothing if not enthusiastic. Even if they were a bit too imaginative for his tastes.

“Miss Monroe, let’s hear your opinion.”

The twenty-year-old aspiring swimsuit model beamed at him, shifted in her seat, her skirt sliding a little higher on her thighs. Nice thighs, too. She was taking this class for easy credits. He let her get away with it mainly for the view. Carla Monroe bending over was a rewarding experience.

She ran a finger along the scooped neckline of her blouse, tracing her cleavage, drawing his eye.

He wondered if she was more interested in screwing him for the challenge or for the grade. Had to be something. It was always something where women were concerned, wasn’t it?

“They’re brimming with energy,” she said slowly, drawing the words out. “Particularly sexual energy.”

Too bad she was a pink slip waiting to happen, or he might oblige her. Too bad he needed his tenure here so damned badly. A year ago, it wouldn’t have mattered. A year ago, he’d had money to burn. Or he’d thought he had. He’d been blissfully unaware of the ways his young wife had of moving money around. By the time Sandra and Adam’s pal Rob had sailed for parts unknown, they’d taken him for damn near every penny.

The only thing in this world worse than a thief, he mused, was a female thief. A beautiful female thief. A beautiful, ruthless female thief who didn’t bat an eye at the prospect of ripping out your guts along with your money.

He swallowed hard, but the bitterness remained like bile in his mouth. “True, Miss Monroe. This work suggests that. What else?” He glanced around the room. “Michael?”

“Their power over mortal men is the most interesting thing,” Michael said. He took his wire rims off as he spoke, twirled them between his fingers, then slipped them back on. “That one passage was...almost scary.”

A murmur of laughter rose from the students. Adam flipped open the book and read aloud. “Many a man has died of longing for one such as her. For her skin has the flavor of honey which contains a magic all its own. Once a man’s lips taste her nectar, he is bound to her for all his days. Be forewarned, then, for her spell cannot be broken. Look for the sign...the sign of the cradle moon above the mound of Venus. Be it pale, you might yet escape with your heart and mind intact. But be it crimson, she is of royal blood, and too strong for a mortal man’s resistance. Even a glimpse into the eyes of such a one may spell your ruin. For if she looks upon you with longing, your days are numbered. Run while you can, ‘ere she captures your soul and leaves your body vacant, to waste away unto death with longing for a love you can never have.”

The laughter died as he read, and when Adam looked up, it was to see rapt interest on the faces of his students. And someone whispered, “Maybe it’s not a myth.”

“Yeah,” someone else stated, forgetting all about waiting to be called on. “Hell, you said this Celtic text is, what? Nine hundred years old? Maybe it’s...you know...nonfiction.”

The murmur of agreement that rose in the room made Adam grate his teeth. Then he stopped grating them, and the book in his hand hit the desk with a bang worthy of any shotgun. “For crying out loud! You—” His reproval was interrupted by the ping of the little timer bell he kept on his desk. He sighed, lowering his head, drawing a new, calming breath. Reminding himself they were just kids.

He’d been a kid once. He’d had some pretty farfetched notions himself.

Not gonna think about that. Not now.

“Okay, time’s up. What do you say tomorrow you come in here with some intelligent theories, hmm? Like maybe, what sources the author might have drawn on to come up with his version of fairy lore.”

He closed the book, turned his back, dismissing them with the gesture. But the exodus was quieter than usual. Calmer, and he peered over his shoulder to see intense expressions on many young faces. Christ, they weren’t actually considering the possibility the text was anything but fiction, were they?

Imagination could be taken too far. It could be dangerous.

It can leave bruises, right Adam?

Shut the hell up.

Not to mention obsessions. Like your obsession.

He ignored the voice in his mind. The one that sounded like his father’s voice. It didn’t bother him again, as he dropped the heavy book into his briefcase, followed by a file folder full of essays and the wind-up timer. Which left the desktop as barren as the surface of the moon. Clean. Orderly. The way he liked it. He locked the drawers, pocketed the key.

His own theory was that the newly translated discourse on the qualities of fay folk was a collage of other myths and legends. Some imaginative soul had picked bits and pieces from stories he’d heard, and put them together to make his own version. It had the flavor of classical Greek tales of sirens, luring sailors to their deaths with the beauty of their songs. Maybe there had been a little Arthurian inspiration, as well. The Lady of the Lake with her ethereal beauty, nearly human in appearance, but too beautiful to be mortal.

Adam grinned a little as he thought there may be a bit of succubus lore tossed in for good measure. Drawing a man’s soul from his body into her own, leaving him to wither and die of longing for her. Sounded like a new spin on a succubus to him. Hell of a way to go, too.

He set the case on the shiny surface of the desk, deciding to list his possible sources on the board for discussion in tomorrow’s class. No doubt once he got the ball rolling, the kids would come up with several more. He turned around, picked up a new piece of chalk, and began writing in bold, noisy strokes across the spotless blackboard. Siren, he wrote. And beneath it, succubus, and beneath that, lady of

the la—

He paused with the chalk a hairsbreadth away from the board. A tiny chill crossed his nape, cold fingers spreading down into his spine, and he knew he was no longer alone. He turned his head, then his body. A woman stood in front of his desk. And there was something...familiar about her. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

His gaze dropped slowly to the spot about hip level where pale denim crawled tightly into the juncture of her thighs. Then it rose, over the barest glimpse of smooth-skinned belly where the blouse didn’t quite reach the jeans. He saw her navel, and he thought of honey.

Man, he’d been too long without sex.

He told himself to look up faster, but his stubborn eyes continued the slow scrutiny and he realized he was secretly savoring it. He wasn’t normally such a hound. She must be emitting some kind of musk that spoke directly to his libido. She could be a troll for all he knew. He hadn’t taken more than a brief glance at her face yet. Because, hell, why rush it? The black t-shirt fit her as if it were made of spandex. It molded and hugged her high, round breasts. And Adam figured if she didn’t want to be looked at, she wouldn’t be wearing it. So he looked. And then he moved up a notch, to see the pendant around her neck. A pewter fairy, wrapped seductively around a quartz crystal point.

He lifted his brows, wondering if she were a new-age yuppie or a potential student. If she were a student he probably shouldn’t be eating her alive with his eyes right now. Because she might be one of those types who screamed sexual harassment if a man so much as crooked an eyebrow in her direction, and she might get him fired. No fear of that with Carla Monroe. She practically begged to be looked at. But this woman might be different.

The thought gave him the jolt he needed to bring his gaze up where it belonged. To her face.

But then his mouth went dry. A fist seemed to drive itself into his gut, forcing all the air from his lungs in a harsh, noisy exhale. Because she was incredible, and because her eyes sucked him in like quicksand, and because he had the oddest feeling that he knew her. Or should know her. Or...or something.

Her eyes were hidden behind small round wire-rims, but they were still huge and dark and exotically slanted. The glasses did nothing to conceal their almond shape or invisible power. Ebony. He couldn’t tell the pupils from the irises. A fringe of paintbrush-thick lashes surrounded them. Like black holes surrounded by cilia. They would entrap and absorb everything that came too close, and there would be no escape.

He blinked and shook himself, feeling awkward and even a little dizzy. As if he’d had a few too many drinks. Which made no sense at all, since he’d had nothing stronger than coffee.

What the hell was the matter with him, anyway?

“Mr. Reid?”

He cleared his throat and told himself to get his act together. “Yes. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to enroll in your class.”

Several answers sprang to mind, the first and most obvious being that she ought to be in the admissions office and not in his classroom. The second being that she ought to be anywhere in the goddamn universe other than his classroom.

But what he said was, “Sorry. This class is full. Check back next semester.” If he didn’t know better, he’d almost think he was afraid of her. All five feet and possibly 100-pounds-soaking-wet of her.

When her gaze fell in apparent disappointment, he was finally able to look away from the eyes that had seemed to envelop him and hold him captive. To distance himself, take in the full picture of her face. Like stepping back for a better view of that painting he’d found at the Capricorn. Exactly like that. So much like that, he shivered involuntarily.

Her face was heart-shaped. Her hair, endless cascades of riotous, gleaming black curls. She could have been any age, nineteen to thirty-nine. Impossible to tell. One delicate hand rose, and she fingered the pendant she wore, moving it back and forth on its chain.

She was nervous.

“It’s very important that I take this class,” she said, and her voice reminded him of water chuckling over stones. Deep and smooth and refreshing. But he wasn’t too entranced by it not to notice the silt of desperation stirring beneath the surface.

“Why?”

“I’m...” She lifted her chin, met his eyes again. “I’m...it doesn’t matter...”

Her words trailed off, and she averted her eyes almost guiltily.

“This is going to sound like a line,” he said slowly, ignoring every warning bell going off in his head, though they were damn near deafening. “But I have the feeling I know you. Have we met?”

“No.”

When she wasn’t looking at him, his equilibrium seemed to function just fine. “Now how can you be so sure? You haven’t even told me your name.”

She shook her head slowly, her raven hair falling over her face. “What does it matter? The class is full.” She started to turn away.

And he felt an inexplicable urgency not to let her go. “Wait a minute,” he said, and she stopped. “Look, you never know when someone will drop out. Give me your name. Your phone number...”

She lifted her gaze to his, and he went tongue-tied all over again, and was forced to let his words trail off.

“I know I’ve seen you before...somewhere,” he whispered.

She narrowed those gleaming black eyes on him, and this time he got the feeling it was she who couldn’t look away. He felt her try, then surrender. She stared into his eyes, and then a tiny frown appeared between her dark brows, and she stared harder. Adam experienced the most peculiar sensation of...invasion.

And then her eyes widened.

Adam snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “Aha! You recognize me, too, don’t you?”

She shook her head, taking a single backward step. “No.”

“You do so. I can see it in your eyes. So come on, tell me, where did we meet?”

She closed her eyes, lowered her head. “It can’t be...”

“Gee, was it that bad?” He dipped his head in an effort to see her downturned face, and tried to inject a little lightness, because frankly the woman looked as if she’d seen a ghost. “It was that bad? Hmm, maybe I’m better off not remembering.”

“I have to go.”

“Oh, come on. Give me another chance, huh? Isn’t there a rule somewhere that says you can’t blame a guy for stuff he doesn’t even remember?”

She shook her head, turned toward the door. .

“Okay, what if I can find a way to make room for you in the class?” Damn, what made him say that?

She went still, her back to him. And Adam had no idea why he felt such an incredible longing to go to her, to touch her. It was powerful stuff. Made him think of that damned text he’d just been reading to the students.

“I’ve...I’ve changed my mind,” she said softly, her voice a little hoarse.

And it hit him then, clear as day, that she was lying to him. She wanted something, all right, but taking his class wasn’t it. No doubt in his mind. Though how he knew that, he still wasn’t sure. What he did know was that nothing was more dangerous than a beautiful, dishonest woman. Especially one who looked the way she did. She was probably ruthless to the bone. Deadly to him. He felt her subtle threat right to his soul. But he felt this sudden, inexplicable allure, too.

Sirens and rocks, he reminded himself.

And even as he was nodding in agreement with his mind’s silent warnings, his body was moving toward her. His hands were closing on her shoulders. “Tell me how you know me,” he said softly. “It’s gonna drive me nuts if I can’t remember.”

“I can’t,” she said as her chin fell to her chest.

It was a whisper, so low he barely caught it. Something wasn’t right here, and his curiosity rose up to challenge his wariness. It didn’t put a dent in his attraction to this strange, familiar woman, though. “Maybe if you’d just tell me who you are...”

She turned to look up at him once more, shook her head from side to side, sparkling moisture adding a sheen to her eyes.

“Are those tears?” he asked her, running the tip of his thumb over her dampened cheek as his stomach clenched oddly at the sight of her crying. “Look, if there’s something wrong, maybe I can—”

She lifted her hand, laid it gently upon his as he touched her face, and stared so deeply into his eyes, he felt his world begin to tilt on its axis. Very slowly, he trailed his fingertips down the side of her face, tracing the curve of her cheekbone, and the hollow beneath it, and the line of her jaw. And she closed her eyes, and he felt the hand upon his tremble.

And then she jerked away, eyes flying wide. “No,” she whispered, and backed away as if his touch burned her. Then even more softly she said it again. “No. You’ll be far better off if you stay away from me, Adam Reid.” She turned and ran out of the room. And though she seemed agitated, desperate to escape, Adam later couldn’t recall hearing her footfalls when she raced down the hall. Which was odd, because footsteps in that hallway tended to echo nonstop.