Jeanne Stein - Legacy

“Either you’re going to let me in or I’m going home. Makes no difference to me. If I do come in, you might want to put a leash on that pet. You may have forgotten what I’m capable of. Avery made the same mistake.”

There’s a moment’s silence, then the door opens.

Sandra stands in the doorway, backlit by the soft glow of a fireplace in the living room behind her. I get a flash of Avery in that same spot, inviting me in, a party in full swing behind him. I’m dizzy with conflicting emotions. I vowed never to come here again. The pain of finding David, of betrayal, of lost love sweeps over me with such force, it sends panic rioting through me.

As if reading what’s in my head, Sandra lays a reassuring hand on my arm. “I understand it is difficult for you to be here. I promise to make it better. Please come in, Anna. We have much to discuss.”

The touch of her hand, the touch of her voice reaching into my psyche brings me back with a jolt. Avery fades. The party fades. I’m back in the present staring into the eyes of a woman who seems able to read my soul.

But that’s only the first shock.

When my senses return, and I look, really look, at Sandra, disbelief chases any other emotion right out of my head. She’s wearing a red dress. A Badgley Mischka gown of silk cut low at the neck and slit high at the sides. The gown Avery gave me before our last meeting. The gown I threw in a wastebasket after I killed him.

SANDRA TAKES A STEP BACK AND TWIRLS AROUND. “Isn’t this the most beautiful gown? I found it in a closet upstairs. I couldn’t resist trying it on. Fits me well, don’t you think?”

The eyes are too wide, the voice too breathless, the innocence stamped on that smiling face too pronounced to be real. She knows exactly whose dress it is. Or was. Where did she get it? The last time I saw it, it was crumpled in a wastebasket in David’s condo.

“How did you get that dress?” It erupts like a growl.

No pretense in the emotion that shows on her face this time. Cunning. Self-congratulatory pleasure in having shocked me. Arrogance in the belief that she now has the upper hand.

Mistaken arrogance.

I purposely keep my voice low. “How did you get the dress, Sandra?”

She blinks back to innocence. “I told you, Anna. In a closet upstairs.”

She lets a heartbeat go by, then before I can reply, adds, “Why do you ask?” She lifts a hand, trailing a finger between her breasts. “Don’t tell me. Was this your dress? Did Avery buy this for you? He has been a naughty boy, hasn’t he?”

Her eyes have turned cold, glittering in the dim light of the foyer like blue diamonds on snow. She’s watching me, head tilted, eyes narrowed, body still except for the fingers that continue to move in a provocative path down to the depths of her décolleté and up again.

When I move, it’s so fast, she has no time to prepare. I grab that hand and bend it backward at the wrist. She flinches, gasping, trying to relieve the pressure. I step back with her, holding tight, and bring my face close to hers.

“Where did you get that dress?”

Then, before I can stop it, she’s yanked her hand free and is pushing me, forcing me back until I’m rammed with ferocious force into the wall. Now it’s her face that looms above me, her hands that hold mine in a grip I can’t break, and her voice growling in my ear.

“I told you to play nice, Anna.”

Her eyes are animal eyes. Her body has lost its softness, as if the feminine has been swallowed up by a hard and masculine anger. Her scent has changed. Gone is the subtlety of roses and pheromones, the promise of sex. In its place are musk and testosterone and an odor I don’t recognize until I see the burning in her eyes. It’s the smell of rage, sharp, pungent, threatening. Violence a flicker, a kiss, away.

I stand still and wait for it to pass. Wait for the instant she no longer perceives me as a threat and the animal retreats.

She burrows her face close to my neck. She inhales my scent, licks the skin, her tongue rests on my jugular. She’s interpreting my intentions the same way I did hers.

At last, the fury drains from her body. I feel it, in my head and in the physical release as her muscles lose their rigidity, and the softness, the feminine, returns.

She straightens up and stands back. She turns, head down as if embarrassed, and walks away, into the living room. She doesn’t say a word or look around to see if I’m following.

I slump against the wall for a moment, waiting for my body to stop shaking and for my head to clear.

She’s strong and fast. Faster than I am. Stronger? I’m not sure. She caught me off guard and tossed me into that wall like a rag doll. I’ve fought centuries-old vampires and won.

Not this time, though. The first round goes to Sandra. I realize now I cannot let my guard down for a moment with this one. Not if I want to survive.

I watch her, in front of the fireplace, her back to me, her posture relaxed. She raises her hands and runs her fingers through her hair. She stands with one hip slightly thrust forward, a model’s stance that draws one’s eyes to the curves of her body. It’s a cultivated pose. She knows I’m watching.

The siren is back.

I PASS A HAND OVER MY FACE TO GATHER MY WITS, clear my head before moving to stand beside her at the fireplace. She does not acknowledge my presence. She’s grown still. She’s staring into the fire, eyes dreamy and unfocused, head tilted, her thoughts obviously turned inward. She seems to be listening . To what or to whom, I have no idea.

“Sandra?”

The sound of my voice brings her back. It’s subtle. Her shoulders straighten a bit, her eyes brighten. She half turns toward me, an eyebrow arched, as if trying to remember who I am or why I’m here.

The ambiguity passes quickly.

“Anna.” She gestures toward one of the chairs placed on either side of a large coffee table. “Please, sit down. We have business to discuss.”

No indication, no mention of what transpired between us. She gathers the long folds of the gown and eases herself into a chair, waiting for me to do the same.

“I want to know about the dress,” I say, still standing.

She looks up at me with a hint of impatience drawing the corners of her mouth into a small frown. “I told you. I found it upstairs.”

“Not possible. It was my gown, and I know where I left it. It was not in this house.”

She waves a hand. “God. What difference does it make where you left it? It may not be the same dress.”

“It’s the same. It was an original.” I hesitate a moment, wondering if I should say anything else. When the expression on her face darkens into irritation, it trips my own. “I know it because Avery told me it was. The night he gave it to me.”

“And you believed everything he told you. How did that work out for you?”

Her fingers begin to move restlessly, picking at the dress, pinching the silk, plucking at the neckline. It’s as if they are acting to relieve the agitation I see building again in her eyes. She’s fighting to control—what? Herself? Me? I’m having a hard time recognizing the woman who bewitched me in Culebra’s bar with the sound of her voice, the warmth of her smile. Suddenly, I feel foolish. Why am I standing here dressed to seduce or be seduced by a woman who doesn’t seem capable of either?

I feel her watching me. When I meet her eyes, the frantic movements have stopped. Her expression is once again calm, detached. Then, as if having conjured up my last thought, she rises from the chair.

“We can do whatever you want, Anna,” she says, her voice rough as new wine. She slips the straps of the gown off her shoulders, and it falls in a silken puddle to her feet. “All you have to do is ask.”