Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

T here was a small silver-gray car parked in the driveway when the five of them reached Castle Vadim late that night.

Carly wasn't quite sure why, but as soon as she saw the car, she felt an icy nail pierce her heart.

"The inspector's car," Jon murmured, frowning. He seemed distracted. "I wonder what he's doing here."

He opened the car door for Carly. "Come on. Let's see what has happened." He hurried along, practically dragging her with him. Geoffrey, Alexi and Tanya followed.

They entered by the terrace, as usual. Marie was the first to see them, and she welcomed Carly with a nervous "Bonsoir" and went on to speak rapidly to Jon in an anxious tone. He nodded and again led Carly along at an ungodly speed.

"What is it?" she demanded.

"Another murder," he said curtly.

Carly gasped, chills cascading down her spine. There had been so much magic.... But of course, she thought, magic was only pretense. It couldn't be real. They had left behind the enchantment when they'd reached the castle. Murder was real. And it cut between her and Jon Vadim as cleanly as a blade. She felt his withdrawal from her, felt the coldness and the hardness.

And she felt the fear within herself.

"Come on!" Jon urged her impatiently.

"Jon—" she started to protest. He still held her hand, but now the touch was cold. As cold as ice.

"Damn it, Carly, hurry. I want to know what happened this time."

"This time?"

He didn't say anything. They reached the library door, and Carly caught his hand before he could open it.

"Jon, talk to me! Why should the inspector be here? We've been gone a week. How could any of us be involved?"

"The girl has been dead over a week," he told her, then took her hand from his and opened the door.

Inspector LaRue was sitting on the corner of Jon's desk, pensively tapping his chin. When they came in he rose, extending a hand to Jon. "I'm sorry to greet you so, Count Vadim. I called this morning, and your maid said that you would return tonight."

Jon nodded. Carly thought he seemed wary. "You said we shouldn't go far—we didn't. Marie tells me that you've found a body."

LaRue nodded. "Just like the one last year."

"Last year?" Carly whispered.

The inspector stared at her. Carly wondered whether he read the relationship between them and pitied her for being fascinated by the count, a dangerous man. Suddenly she sensed that at best Jon would tire of her quickly and leave her.

At worst he might be a murderer.

"I'm sorry," the inspector said. "I did not mean to startle you, Madame Kiernan. I thought that your host might have mentioned the trouble last year."

Jon shrugged. "People die violently every day. I didn't know that I was obliged to tell Ms. Kiernan about them all."

"But Rochelle died here, Jon." The voice came from the doorway. It was Alexi, speaking apologetically.

"Rochelle?" Carly murmured.

"A very, very lovely little eighteen-year-old girl from the village who was working at the castle. She was found hideously mutilated in a cave in the woods. On the count's property," the inspector explained, watching Carly's reaction.

She hoped she appeared as impassive as Jon Vadim seemed to be. She was praying that no one would tell her that the count had been involved with the girl.

"And this time?" Jon asked.

The inspector reached into his suit pocket, found a picture and tossed it onto the desk. Everyone in the room—Jon and Carly, Alexi, and now Geoffrey and Tanya—moved forward. Tanya looked white and ill, and Carly realized that she herself probably looked ashen, as well.

The young girl in the picture had an abundance of blond curls and very dark eyes. She was laughing and looked very lovely.

"You found her where?" Jon asked.

"In the caves?" Alexi suggested uncomfortably.

"In the caves," the inspector said, picking up the picture as he shook his head unhappily. "So young, and so very beautiful." He pocketed the photo.

Jon walked across the room and reached into his bottom desk drawer for the brandy carafe and glasses. "Anyone?" he inquired politely.

Everyone nodded.

"You don't seem terribly concerned, Count," Inspector LaRue said reproachfully.

Carly lowered her head as she accepted a glass of brandy from Jon. She had to agree with the inspector. Jon took his time before answering. He was watching her reaction carefully, but didn't seem shocked or horrified. Rather, she thought, he seemed cold. He left Carly and offered glasses of brandy to the others.

"Au contraire, mon ami," Jon replied at last. He tilted his head and drank his brandy, then set the glass back on his desk with a sharp crack. "I am very concerned. It is my property, of course. And it is I whom you seem to be accusing."

"I am not making accusations."

"Then you are making insinuations, and I resent them heartily."

"I am asking questions. I must. The coroner thinks the girl was killed a week to ten days ago. She was viciously mauled, her throat torn as if an animal had ripped it apart."

"You're sure that it wasn't wolves?" Geoffrey inquired.

"Wolves do not strip their victims and lay them out with the arms folded and the fingers entwined as if in prayer, Monsieur Taylor. No, it is the work of a man," the inspector replied.

"Or a woman," Tanya suggested.

The inspector stared at her sharply. "What made you say that?" he snapped.

Tanya almost jumped. "I don't know! Because it's a liberated world, I suppose."

Inspector LaRue turned his sharp gaze upon Carly. "You have not heard from your sister, Madame Kiernan?"

"Er, no. No, I haven't," Carly admitted. She looked guiltily from the inspector to Jon. He was staring at her. Coldly. Now he had erected a wall against her just as he had done with the inspector. He smiled, cruelly, mockingly, and looked back at the inspector.

"I think that Ms. Kiernan will find a note from Jasmine in her room."

"What?" Carly cried out.

"Marie told me that a forwarded letter has reached you at last. It went to your home, then to the American Express office in Vienna, and now it has come here."

Carly swung around, looking at the inspector. "May I?"

He lifted his hand. "Of course. I would like any light possible shed on this situation."

Carly nodded and ran out of the room.

The upstairs was dimly lit. Walking along the beautiful corridor, with its ancient marble flooring, she started to shiver as the reality of it all hit her. A year ago someone had cruelly murdered a young girl, stolen life and beauty and innocence. And now it had happened again. Here.

And the inspector obviously suspected Jon Vadim.

Carly paused at her door. Her heart was beating furiously. Was she a fool? Was she so immersed in falling in love with the man, in falling beneath his spell, that she couldn't see the truth? Was he a heinous murderer?

He had warned her that he was a wolf, a wolf prowling the forest. And wolves could be dangerous. She remembered that the two girls had had their throats ripped out as if an animal had attacked them....

"No!" she whispered, opening the door to her room. She paused when she heard a soft whirring sound. Again, an awful feeling of cold panic possessed her as if icy fingers were closing around her heart, around her throat. Someone was in her room. Someone silent, someone furtive.

Forcing herself to move, she turned on the overhead light. The room was flooded with sudden brilliance.

It was empty. The French doors from the terrace were closed and locked. Her suitcase from the trip lay on the rug at the foot of her bed.

Gathering her courage, she hurried across the room to the bathroom, clicking on the light. The bathroom, too, was empty.

She sighed and nearly sank to the floor on wobbly knees. She pressed her hands against her cheeks and found them cold. She was imagining things, she told herself. She had imagined the whirring sound, and she had imagined that someone had been here.

She forced herself to turn around. She hurried to the dresser, where she found the letter that Jon had referred to. She cried out when she saw it—the handwriting was definitely Jasmine's, and it bore at least half a dozen different postmarks. The village had forwarded it here. She picked up the letter and anxiously slit it open.

Carly,

I've been trying to call you all night. Where have you been? You know how I hate to write, but this is important. Don't come! Please don't come here. I know that this sounds crazy, but I'm leaving myself. There might be some danger. Sounds terribly gothic and dramatic, doesn't it? But you know me. Love you, sis. Stay home, and I'll make it all up to you. I promise.

Jasmine

She reread it, then turned it over in her hands to study the postmarks. She had to admit it seemed as if Jon was telling the truth.

A slight noise startled her, and she almost screamed. She brought her hand to her throat as she stared at the doorway.

The hall was still shadowed, so that the man standing there was nothing more than a silhouette that seemed to fill the doorway with his presence. She realized quickly that it was Jon. He was the man she had wanted so badly that she had gladly lain down with him on the bare earth in a bed of fall leaves, and suddenly, despite Jasmine's letter, she was frightened of him.

"Did you find it?" he asked, moving toward her.

Carly nodded, unable to speak.

"May I?" He reached for the letter. Smiling, he moved his hand to the nape of her neck in an idle caress. She didn't mean to jerk away, but she did.

His gaze left the letter and fell on her. His lip curled, and he dropped his hand, then returned his attention to the letter. "Thank God," he murmured. "At least this puts me in the clear on the matter of Jasmine."

"Yes," Carly said. As he stared at her, she couldn't smile, and she couldn't pretend that she wasn't numb.

His lip remained locked in the derisive curve as he asked, "May I give this to the inspector?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

He moved aside, indicating with a sweeping gesture that she should precede him. She did so. She wanted to turn around and say that she was sorry, except she wasn't quite sure what she was sorry for. She was painfully confused. She couldn't believe he could be a murderer. But she was afraid, anyway, mainly because she had been falling in love, so deeply and so completely that she just might believe in his innocence because she was blinded by that love.

She knew he was walking close behind her. She felt the warmth of his breath against her skin. On the stairway, he drew level, though he didn't touch her. They didn't speak until they had returned to the library.

Tanya was on either her second or third brandy. Alexi and Geoffrey both looked up guiltily, as if they had been discussing Jon.

"So," the inspector said. "This letter has not disappeared."

"No. It's very much here," Jon said.

Inspector LaRue read the letter quickly. He looked at Carly. "It seems that she is well enough—somewhere."

"Yes, I most certainly hope so," Carly said.

"She mentions danger," LaRue said to Jon.

Jon sighed with exasperation. "Jasmine is one of the most dramatic people I have ever met. She thrives on any kind of excitement. I have no idea what she is referring to."

"Why did she leave so hastily when she was planning to be here for your party?" the inspector inquired.

"I don't know."

"I understand you had a falling-out."

Jon cast a sharp gaze toward Alexi, then narrowed his eyes on Geoffrey. "I don't know what was said. Jasmine and I had no argument. Her sister will tell you. Jasmine does have a quick temper. If she wasn't pleased with some arrangement I made, she might easily have decided to leave."

Inspector LaRue nodded and smiled. "I understand that she ran screaming from the stables just days before the party."

Jon was still for a minute, his features tense. He shrugged. "Something startled her."

"Perhaps someone attacked her," the inspector suggested.

Jon threw up his arms. "Are you ready to arrest me, Inspector? If not, I'm tired, and I'm weary of innuendo and insinuation. Please, if there is nothing more concrete.... It is late."

"No, no, there is nothing." The inspector bowed slightly to the group. "I will, however, appreciate it if you all stay close at hand. Please, don't cross any borders." Shaking his head, he smiled at Carly. "What puzzles me is that I can't seem to find any record of your sister having crossed the border into any other country."

"What?" Carly said worriedly.

"That's no great dilemma," Jon said flatly. "They barely glance at the passports half the time when we drive from country to country."

"But Jasmine carries an American passport, and in this region they are stricter with Americans."

"Jasmine could bat her lashes and go anywhere she wished," Jon said dryly.

Carly felt cold waves envelop her again. He sounded as if he knew her sister so well. But he had denied that they'd had a relationship. And she had believed him.

She suddenly sank into one of the plush library chairs. She wanted to talk to her sister, wanted to have her right in front of her, in the flesh. She was frightened, and only Jasmine's appearance could change that. Two women and a man were dead, and she had almost been killed in a coach herself. Though she hadn't wanted to admit it before, she knew Tanya had implied that there had been something between Jon and Jasmine.

"Good night," the inspector was saying.

Carly looked up. He was leaving. Jon accompanied him. When the door closed behind them, Geoffrey, Alexi, Tanya and Carly stared at one another in a complete and explosive silence.

"Oh, don't be absurd!" Tanya burst out. "Jon did not do it!"

Carly felt she herself should have been the one saying it.

"Of course he didn't," Geoffrey agreed. He stood up, stretching, and walked across the room to pour himself another brandy. He leaned against the desk and smiled around the room at them. "Heck, if being here is the only motive, every single one of us was here last year, too, when the other girl was murdered. Except for Carly, of course. But then, Jasmine was here last year. Carly is taking her place." He smiled at her, lifting his glass to her. "To Carly, the one and only innocent among us."

"The lamb to the wolves!" Tanya agreed.

"Hear! Hear!" Alexi said.

Carly jumped to her feet. "Stop it, will you! This is tragic!"

Geoffrey sobered quickly. "I'm sorry, Carly. You're still worried about Jasmine, aren't you?" He came over and squeezed her hand. "Jasmine is fine. I promise you." He yawned. "I'm going up. Excuse me, will you all?"

Tanya, too, stood, staring at Carly and Alexi almost belligerently. "I'm going up, too. I'm exhausted. Please, say good-night to Jon for me."

She followed Geoffrey out of the room. Carly hadn't been able to move.

Alexi poured fresh brandies for himself and Carly, then forced the glass into her numb fingers. "It's all right. Really, it's all right."

She gazed up at the handsome, earnest young man. "Why is the inspector so down on Jon?"

Grimacing, Alexi hesitated as if trying to elude the question. "Well, the family is old, you know. Older than the legends of Vlad Dracul. They've been counts of this region before Christianity was even embraced here."

Carly shook her head. She swallowed the brandy and felt somewhat warmed. "That doesn't mean anything. Innumerable families in Europe go back for centuries. The inspector wouldn't be suspicious of Jon because of that."

Alexi sighed. "Well, Carly...."

"Alexi, damn it, why are you hedging?"

He waved a hand in the air. "Legend, you know."

"No, I don't know."

"This is a place of fog and mist and ancient superstition. The wolves howl at the full moon. The people keep crosses on their doorways, and they say their Hail Marys before they travel through the woods."

"Go on," she prompted him.

"There are legends of man-beasts. Of creatures part wolf and part human—"

"Oh, Alexi!" Carly protested. "You're calling Jon a werewolf? Oh, please!"

Alexi flushed. "No, I'm not calling Jon a werewolf. I'm just saying that this is a legend-filled place. People believe in magic, and in good and evil. They believe in spells, in curses." He hesitated. "There is a disease, you know."

"A disease?" Carly asked warily.

"Lycanthropy. It is documented. People have thought that they were part wolf. There was one very famous case here. In the 1850s. A poor, demented fellow thought that he was a wolf. He tore apart twenty young men and women before he was caught in the act of eating a human heart. He only killed by the light of the full moon. They knew he was horribly insane, but in those days he was sent to the gallows."

A harsh sound of impatience from someone else in the room startled Carly so that she cried out, spilling her brandy as she leaped from her chair.

Jon had come upon them, having returned in silence, and now stared at the two of them with naked fury.

"Alexi, what the bloody hell are you telling her?" Jon's voice sounded like a growl.

"Nothing." Alexi shook his head and cast Carly a quick, apologetic glance. "Just a little local legend, that's all. Jon, really, think about it. These murders just aren't normal!"

Jon walked around the desk and sank into his chair. His gaze fell on Carly, and she couldn't pull her own away. Her heart was beating rampantly, and she didn't know whether it was from fear or desire. His eyes mocked her, challenged her. She stared at the sensual fullness of his lips and remembered their touch. She could almost feel the caress of his hands. She remembered his smile, his laughter, the tension and the sweet, heady passion, and she felt as if lava flowed inside of her again.

She wanted to see Jasmine, she reminded herself. She tore her gaze away, because she gave too much too quickly. She was, perhaps, too innocent for this game.

A lamb to the wolves, she thought.

She jumped to her feet. "I'm going to bed."

Jon picked up a pencil and idly scratched on the blotter before him. "Carly, stay, please," he said. It was another command. He grinned lazily at Alexi. "Alexi, if you wouldn't mind? I assume you're staying; it is late. But if you'll excuse us, I'd like a minute alone with Carly."

"Of course. Of course," Alexi said. He looked unhappily at Carly. Carly wished she'd bolted when she'd had the chance.

"I'm really tired, too, Jon—" she began to say, but he was already on his feet. Swiftly he moved around the desk and put himself between Carly and the door. She felt that if she tried to leave he would stop her physically, not giving a damn that Alexi was with them.

"I will leave you," Alexi said. He looked from one of them to the other as he backed out of the room. Jon said good-night to him but never lifted his gaze from Carly's. Her heart leaped into her throat. She couldn't move. She watched the ripple of muscle beneath his denim shirt and remembered how he'd looked, how he'd felt, and how very intimate they had been. She wanted to run to him and bury her face against him. She wanted him to touch her again.

He lifted her chin, and she feared he hadn't forgiven her. He very lightly kissed her lips, and pulled her near.

"You're afraid of me," he said flatly.

"No."

"You're a liar."

"I'm not lying. I just..."

"You just what?"

"Nothing." She didn't know what to think or feel. His arms were around her, his body was pressed against hers, and there was a new intimacy to the hold, for they both knew how very well they fitted together. The brandy was blurring her senses, but she thought that she would always know the subtle, masculine scent of him and the tension and electricity that abounded in him. If she left him now, she would always remember the hypnotic quality of his eyes and the power of his voice. Logic fled. She wanted to believe. She did believe. And she was trembling.

He drew his thumb slowly over her lower lip, watching the movement with fascination. She gazed into his eyes, and they grew darker, like molten honey, and his smile deepened wickedly.

"You are afraid, and you should run," he said. "Fly—all the way home. Back to your safe little harbor in New York."

"You want me to leave."

He shook his head. "I want you...here. Beside me. Beneath me. But maybe you should listen to the things you hear. Maybe you are a lamb cast into a den of wolves."

"Perhaps I'm not so fragile."

"You are frightened," he stated.

"I have a right to be frightened."

His smile belied his tension. He trembled slightly, and she didn't know whether it was from passion or anger. He moved his thumbs over her cheeks, and she stared at him, mesmerized. From head to toe, she realized, he was taut. Like an animal on the prowl.

"Then go," he told her. "I don't want any woman who feels she must shrink from me when I touch her." He released her. She heard sharp disappointment in his voice as he said, "Go. Go, Carly. Go up to bed and lock your door."

"From you?" she demanded hoarsely. She was angry and hurt, and she hated her confusion and the pain. He didn't reply, and she swept past him. "I'll be out of here in the morning."

"To leave for the States?"

"No. I want to see my sister."

"Then you won't be leaving. I promise you."

When she reached the door, she turned and offered him a cool, polite smile. "My door will be locked."

He answered with a tilt of his head. "Don't be foolish. If I wanted you now, I would have you now. I'm the one person you can't lock out. But go. Run. Be a good little lamb and run as fast as you can."

Carly uttered an expletive and rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. The hallway was empty, and very lonely. She was tempted to turn around, to apologize. Something warned her that she couldn't. There were too many unanswered questions.

She ran through the terrace. It was eerie by night, half lit, for the full moon had waned to three quarters. Mist was rolling in, touching everything.

Carly raced up the stairs. Fear skipped along her spine as she heard the first howl of the wolves. When she reached her room, she slammed the door and locked it.

Her heart beating rapidly, she quickly checked out the bathroom, then sighed and sat down at the foot of the bed. She crossed her arms over her chest and huddled there, trying to think.

This was so very different. It was like a flash fire, an explosion of desire and emotion, and it frightened her. She had been in love before, deeply in love. But that love had come slowly and had not been touched by shadows.

Even death had come slowly then. She had fought cancer with Tim for a long time. She had lived endlessly with the effort and the fight and the pain, and then she had lived with the grief. She had been cocooned for the longest time, protected from caring.

And now this...

She'd never imagined a desire so strong. She had never thought that she would be able to lie with a man and lose herself within him so completely. There had been no shyness, no awkwardness. From the first moment she had seen him, she had wanted him, for in that first moment she had begun to fall in love with him.

Her heart sank with horror. Two girls had been killed, and Jasmine was missing. Carly was afraid to give form to her thought.

She might very well be in love with a maniacal killer who had caused her sister's disappearance.

"No!" She formed the word in silence and started to shiver. He wanted her to go away. No, he wanted her to stay. He wanted her. None of it had changed. She had changed, and he had known and had pushed her away in anger.

Carly got up to check the bolt on her door. She checked the French doors, and they, too, were locked. She changed into her flannel nightgown and crawled into bed. She wouldn't sleep, she thought. She was too frightened.

She did sleep, though, and her dream came back to her, her dream of the wolf. The beautiful silver-gray wolf who ran toward her and slipped through the mist and became a man. Jon. Tonight the dream didn't stop. He took her into his arms and carried her off into the clouds. And he made love to her with a sweet, rough magic, for he was savage and tender all at once, gentle and yet hungry, as the wolf was hungry....

She twisted, fighting the dream as she slept. She forced herself to awaken.

His scent was on the air.

She was still dreaming, she told herself. It must be the brandy.

She opened her eyes wide in the darkness, trying to tell herself that she was imagining the subtle, pleasant, evocative and masculine scent that she had come to know so very well. But mist or magic, it was there.

She said his name aloud and sat up and switched on the light. The room was empty.

Carly bolted out of bed and checked the door and then the bathroom. No one was there, yet, unless she had completely lost her mind, some presence of his lingered.

A gust of wind suddenly opened the terrace doors. Carly screamed and then saw that the terrace was empty. The sky was pink and gray, and the cold wind was sweeping by her again. A storm was brewing.

She hurried over to the doors and pushed them shut, straining against the force of the wind. She paused, and the doors flew open again and the wind swept by her. She stood on the terrace and looked down.

The wolf was there. A wolf, she told herself numbly. A big silver-gray wolf sat far below her in the courtyard. It cast back its head and howled. The sound was eerie and plaintive. The animal looked up. Carly could have sworn that it stared straight at her. It howled again, then it turned and ran. Sleek and beautiful and powerful, it headed into the woods.

The wind picked up again, cold with the promise of winter. It tugged at Carly's hair, stung her eyes and sent her gown rippling about her legs.

She came back inside, forcing the doors closed. She set the bolt, but she knew that another gust of wind could open the doors again, so she dragged the dresser chair over and set it before the windows.

Shivering, she crawled back into bed and pulled the covers around her. She finally realized that she was frightened, very frightened. She had to leave. She was going mad here. She was really beginning to wonder if the man she loved was really a beast. A silver-gray wolf with haunting golden eyes.