The Raven Master Page 7

  Jules uttered a disparaging snort. “That’s a ridiculous move. My pawn will take your bishop and your queen will be destroyed on the next…What’s this?” Leaning over the board, Jules carefully examined the arrangement of Quinn’s white pieces, his eyes glowing. “Very clever, Coulliard. Perhaps I’ve misjudged you.”

  “Perhaps you have,” Quinn murmured, staring at Janine. “It’s your move.”

  “Yes, yes!” Jules laid the half-eaten cookie aside, rubbed his hands together and hunkered over the board. “This is delightful, simply delightful.”

  Janine quietly backed out of the parlor and returned to her office, struck by a disquieting notion that Jules might not be the only person who had misjudged Quinn Coulliard.

  It was nearly ten that night when Jules returned to his immaculate room, feeling more alive than he had since the night of the fire. He had won the chess game, of course. The outcome had never been in doubt but the thrill of the chase had been exquisite.

  Naturally, Jules had outwitted Coulliard at every turn yet had to admit that the man had proven to be a worthy opponent. He had fought a brave battle, then given up his life—his king’s life—without simpering or pleading for mercy. Jules admired that. It wasn’t any fun when they begged. That made him feel impotent; nothing was ever gained by winning over weakness. The defeat of the strong—that was what empowered him.

  Throwing back his head, Jules laughed out loud, a primal roar of pleasure that emanated straight from the gut. The strength of the vanquished flowed in his veins. Life was good.

  His chest heaved with masculine pride as he opened the closet and extracted a pair of freshly pressed pajamas, carefully hooking the padded hanger over the doorknob so the garment wouldn’t wrinkle while he undressed. Even in slumber, it was important to be tidy.

  As Jules removed his clothing, he arranged each piece on a hanger specifically designated for that item, then polished his shoes before placing them on the closet floor, toes out, heels together like disembodied soldiers. Socks went into the laundry bag at the rear of his closet, as did his expensive cotton briefs. Such intimate items could never be worn for more than a few hours. Jules fastidiously changed them several times a day.

  Straightening, he averted his eyes from the dresser mirror—observing his own nude body would be unseemly—then reached for his sleepwear and was startled when the bedroom door suddenly opened.

  Using a key she’d secretly duplicated for the purpose of checking up on her grandson, Edna entered without comment and quietly closed the door.

  Jules held the pajamas in front of his body and stared at the carpet while a shameful heat crawled up his naked belly. “Good evening, Grand’mère.”

  “Good evening, dear.” She held her cheek up for the perfunctory kiss, then perched on the edge of his mattress. “Have you said your prayers?”

  “Not yet.” He licked his lips and stated the obvious. “I haven’t finished preparing for bed.”

  “There is time for that. First, we must pray.”

  Since argument was futile, Jules held the concealing garment and started to kneel.

  Leaning over, Edna roughly pinched his bare shoulder. “Are your thoughts pure?”

  He winced. “Yes, Grand’mère.”

  “Then why do you hide yourself?” She looked pointedly at the cloth shield he clutched.

  Jules stiffened, holding his breath as his grandmother’s disapproving gaze focused on the rumpled garment. The pride that had only moments ago swelled joyfully in his chest was replaced by burning shame and humiliation. Finally she emitted a haughty snort and pointed to the floor beside the bed.

  Still covering himself, Jules knelt awkwardly and bowed his head, not in prayerful reverence, but to conceal the rage that burned behind his eyes. He uttered the familiar words, a lifeless monologue that no longer held meaning but which he’d been forced to repeat every night since his mother had deserted him.

  When he’d finished speaking, Edna patted his head as though he was an obedient puppy. “Now finish dressing so Grand’mère can tuck you in.”

  Jules stood stiffly and complied, trying not to hurry or his grandmother might suspect vile thoughts and insist on an even more humiliating inspection process. When he’d secured the final button, he slid between the sheets and waited tensely.

  Edna smiled lovingly as she smoothed the bedclothes around his body. She caressed his forehead, then brushed her wrinkled lips over his cheek. “Good night, my sweet boy.”

  “Good night, Grand’mère.”

  Edna turned off the nightstand lamp and left quietly.

  Jules stared at the dark ceiling until he heard his grand-mother’s bedroom door close. Then he threw off the bed-clothes with a murderous fury.

  The wrinkled old bitch enjoyed emasculating him, making him feel less than human. He despised her and he despised his slut of a mother for having abandoned him to such a dismal fate. Women were all the same. Heartless tramps with ice water in their veins and honey between their legs. He hated them all.

  But he knew how to get even.

  After propping a chair beneath the doorknob, Jules tiptoed to the closet and retrieved a flat box hidden beneath a neatly folded pile of blankets. He sat cross-legged in the center of the room, fingering the edges of the closed box. His heart pounded in anticipation. He licked his lips, then carefully lifted the cardboard lid and removed a flashlight.

  He took a shuddering breath and shone the light beam inside the open box, illuminating a color photograph of an anonymous nude woman. Sweat beaded his brow. He caressed the picture, running his fingertip over the glossy image of perfect, rose-colored nipples. Slut. Tramp. Whore.

  And silently chanting that sacred mantra, Jules envisioned all the things he would do with the woman in the picture and smiled as his body responded to the impure thoughts.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  With a choked cry, Janine bolted upright. As she stared into the midnight darkness, her throat was paralyzed, each wheezing breath a painful struggle. Slowly the cobwebs of slumber dissipated and she realized that she wasn’t in San Diego. Charles was gone. He couldn’t hurt her anymore.

  She threw off the covers and palmed cold sweat from her face. It had been a dream. A nightmare, really. Familiar yet with a twist. A frightening twist.

  Janine swung her feet to the floor and took two steps before tripping on the rag rug beside her bed. She stumbled, caught herself, then knelt to straighten the colorful oval mat. One of these days, she’d break her neck on the stupid thing; still, she was hesitant to discard it because the braided fabric provided some protection from the drafty hardwood floor.

  After smoothing the rug, Janine opened the window and allowed the moist breeze to caress her sweaty skin. She closed her eyes, remembering the disquieting dream in which she’d been awakened by a man bending over her bed. Even asleep, such a threatening event should have frightened her. But it hadn’t.

  Instead of fearing the intruder, she’d opened her arms to him. He’d slid between the sheets, embracing her, kissing her, igniting her senses with white-hot passion. And she had responded wildly, with a rapture she could never have imagined.

  Suddenly, they’d both been naked. When the stranger had moved over her, a thick mane of silken hair had swept her bare breasts. With a moan of pure ecstasy, she’d gazed up into Quinn Coulliard’s crystalline eyes.

  A fluid heat formed in her belly, spreading outward like ripples in a still pond until her entire body had arched and shuddered. Then her body had turned to ice and it had been Charles looming over her, his face contorted in rage. She’d screamed, over and over and over, until the nightmare had finally ended.

  Now she was as limp as a wrung dishrag. The sensation had been so vivid, so real—so terrifying. During the first part of the dream her body had reacted in such a peculiar manner. She’d actually been thrilled, wanton, desperately anticipating a more intimate touch. The feelings had been wonderful, of course, but they made no sense. To Janine sex had alway
s been a degrading, painful ordeal. Naturally that had been part of her problem, or so Charles had repeatedly told her.

  Throughout the course of their marriage, Janine had been harshly judged and found deficient. Her husband had accused her of being frigid, only half a woman, unworthy and unwanted by real men. She’d had no reason to doubt that brutal assessment. Until now.

  Now things had changed—Janine had changed—and although she wasn’t certain exactly how that monumental feat had been accomplished, she knew without doubt that Quinn Coulliard had been the cause. There was something electric about the solitary stranger who made her heart race wildly with no more than a sensual glance. No man had ever affected her this way, not even her husband.

  And yet Janine couldn’t shake a feeling of foreboding, nor could she forget Quinn’s clouded warning—Trust no one…especially me.

  She shivered. Turning away from the window, she absently rubbed her upper arms and stared at the rumpled bed. She knew that she should at least try to get some sleep but was not yet ready to re-call demons of the night.

  A peculiar sound caught her attention. Listening, she cocked her head and heard a muffled noise. When she cracked open the bedroom door, illumination filtered into the hallway as if a downstairs lamp had been left on. A glance at her watch confirmed that the town pubs were closed so she assumed that Althea must be stumbling around in another drunken stupor.

  Stepping into a pair of worn terry scuff slippers, she pulled on a floppy bathrobe and padded downstairs. When she reached the foyer, she followed the light and a series of soft tapping sounds, both of which were emanating from the parlor.

  She moved quietly to the doorway and jerked to a stop. After rubbing her eyes, she squinted into the dimly lit room and briefly wondered if the stunning sight was the wild hallucination of a sleep-deprived brain.

  It wasn’t. Quinn Coulliard was no mirage, although Janine couldn’t for the life of her figure out why he had one ear pressed against the maple paneling and was tapping the wall with his knuckle.

  She cleared her throat.

  Quinn jumped as though shot, spun around and sagged back against the wall, obviously not pleased by the interruption. He cleared his throat and spoke brusquely. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  Janine didn’t bother to mention that the mere thought of him had awakened her long before she’d noticed any downstairs noises. Instead she closed the parlor door so that the other guests wouldn’t be disturbed. “I thought Althea was down here.”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Quinn settled on the rose-wood arm of her flowered Queen Anne sofa. “She hasn’t come in yet.”

  Janine frowned, wondering why he was so certain, before noticing that he wore the same clothing he’d had on at dinner time. “It’s past two in the morning. Have you been down here all night?”

  “I don’t require much sleep.”

  “How convenient. That allows so much more time to, uh, practice tapping Morse code on the parlor walls.” She smiled at his pained expression. “Are you CIA or something?”

  With a resigned sigh, he massaged his forehead. “If I say that I am, will you stop looking at me as though I’m certifiable?”

  “Are you?”

  “CIA?”

  “Certifiable.”

  His lips curved, just a little. “That’s a matter of opinion, I suppose.”

  “Since you’re a psychologist, I’m sure you have a professional opinion about a man who slinks through the dead of night probing walls.” Clutching the drooping lapels of her chenille robe, she seated herself a safe distance away. “Are you some kind of ghostbuster?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She laughed softly. “Were you trying to communicate with spirits?”

  “Why, is the place haunted?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” She slid him a teasing glance. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had taken rumors about this Victorian’s colorful history to heart and were searching for secret passageways.”

  He smiled weakly but his eyes held no amusement.

  Janine propped an elbow on her knee and leaned forward. “That’s it, isn’t it? You were actually looking for the brothel tunnels?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.” Stretching, he rolled his neck and extended his arm across the sofa back. “Actually, the house is infested with rodents, not ghosts.”

  She sat upright and stared in disbelief. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Mice. In the walls.” He looped a lazy thumb toward the paneling against which his ear had been so recently pressed. “I heard them rustling around in there.”

  “That’s impossible!” She was horrified even by the mere suggestion that such dirty little beggars could be scurrying inside the walls of her immaculate establishment. “The exterminator comes every month for routine maintenance, and besides, I’ve never seen the slightest evidence of rodent infestation.”

  “Then I must have been mistaken.” His gaze dropped to her crossed knees, where the chenille had parted to reveal a sliver of creamy satin. “Unless, of course, the house really is haunted.”

  Suddenly uneasy, Janine rearranged the robe over her legs. A slow heat spread from her belly and crawled up her throat. “I don’t believe in ghosts, Mr. Coulliard.”

  He stared at her without speaking.

  Cheeks burning under his intense scrutiny, she moistened her lips and plucked loose lint from the fuzzy tail of her tied belt.

  The silence was deafening. Quinn stared. Janine fidgeted. Finally she swallowed and raised her chin. “Do I have dirt on my nose?”

  After a long moment, he spoke without breaking the visual stalemate. “Your nose is fine. Perfect, actually.” Smiling slowly, his gaze traveled the length of her in a manner she normally would have considered insolent. Now, however, her skin tingled beneath the sensuous scrutiny that constricted her lungs as effectively as an embrace. She felt strange and wondered why Quinn didn’t seem to notice that the room was undulating.

  Pinned by his magnetic eyes, Janine was vaguely aware that a peculiar transformation was taking place. Suddenly his dark hair broke free and flowed wildly around his handsome face as though blown by a savage wind. He became the man of her dream, the man who had taken her with such erotic sensuality.

  Emotions lumped in her throat—joy, anticipation…fear.

  When she blinked, the image evaporated. Quinn stood beside the sofa, his hair tightly leashed and passions confined behind a cool, transparent gaze. She vaguely realized that he was speaking, but before she could respond he bade her good-night and left.

  Cursing his rotten luck, Quinn ascended the stairs and strode briskly down the hall. As he entered his room, the raven rose with a warning hiss. “Quiet,” he whispered. The bird calmed and settled down on the lamp.

  Quinn sat tiredly on the bed, not believing for one minute that Janine had fallen for the ridiculous mouse story. The woman was naive, not stupid. He rubbed his face in frustration. A few uninterrupted minutes and he might have found what he’d been searching for. He knew that he was on the right track. From now on, it would be just a matter of time, a precious commodity that grew scarcer by the day.

  Still, the evening had been quite productive. Reaching into his jeans, he pulled out the guest-room master key. Talk about perfect timing. Jules’s sweet tooth and their lovely landlady’s forgetfulness had provided the perfect opportunity for Quinn to slip into her office, find what he sought, then return to the chessboard without missing a beat.

  Repocketing the key, Quinn realized that he couldn’t continue to count on such fortuitous moments. Tonight’s interruption had been a prime example. He certainly hadn’t expected Janine to be prowling around in the wee hours, particularly since she was always up before dawn. But then, Janine Taylor frequently surprised him.

  He shrugged off the concealing vest, flipped the garment over a nearby chair, took the revolver from his waistband and absently set it aside. As his thoughts returned to Janine, he wondered if she unde
rstood the power of her own beauty. He decided that she probably didn’t. That lack of self-awareness was part of her charm.

  The woman intrigued him. Her covert glances and sensual shyness conveyed a chasteness that seemed peculiar for a woman in her twenties. Quinn briefly considered that Janine might actually be a virgin, discarded the notion, then instantly reconsidered it. Those curious eyes, the naive passion she so guilelessly displayed—all were obvious signs of a woman who had never experienced pleasures of the flesh. Yet she was too beautiful, too inordinately lovely to have remained unscathed.

  Quinn did know that Janine was single—Edna had made a comment to that effect—yet he’d initially assumed that she must have had previous involvements. A woman so desirable would have been rigorously and repeatedly pursued, although he conceded the remote possibility that Janine, like himself, had managed to evade the sweet trap of marital bliss. It was unlikely, of course, since most females were humming the wedding march in their cradles. Still, it was possible.

  That interesting consideration caused him to reevaluate his original assumption, and the erotic speculation that she might never have known love did peculiar things to his insides. Someday she would choose a man to teach her those sensual secrets. Quinn wished to hell that it could be him.

  It was midmorning on Sunday when Janine drove her sullen passengers home from church. Jules and Edna had been strangely tense during the service and the strained atmosphere had continued during the trip back to the boardinghouse.

  After Janine parked in the gravel drive, Jules quickly exited from the passenger side and opened the rear door for his grandmother. Janine stepped out and walked around the vehicle just as Edna emerged.

  The older woman offered a thin smile. “Thank you for driving, dear. Next week, Jules will drive, won’t you, dear?”

  “Yes, Grand’mère.” After closing the car door, Jules released his grandmother’s hand and discreetly wiped his palm on his slacks.