Who Is Deborah?. Elise Title

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СКАЧАТЬ appearance and personality, he believes it’s quite conceivable, even probable, that you could appear and act quite differently now.”

      “Am I so different than I—than Deborah—was?” There was a little catch in my voice. Greg had so convinced me I was Deborah, I’d begun to fully believe it myself. Nicholas’s doubts took me completely unaware.

      Since I didn’t expect a smile, that was just what he threw me. It was like a break in dark clouds. “Not completely different. You share a low tolerance for frustration.”

      “You mean she found you frustrating?” I tossed back cheekily.

      His smile faded. I saw that I had clearly overstepped my bounds. As if I had even the vaguest idea what my bounds were, under such strange, not to mention strained, circumstances.

      “You look remarkably like Deborah, though a little paler, a little thinner,” he said, his tone formal and analytical now. “Your hair’s a bit darker, but then perhaps you haven’t spent much time out in the sun during your hospitalization.” There was a long pause. “Deborah was a real sun-worshiper. She was always taking herself off to sunny shores.”

      “Alone?”

      He gave me a curious look. “Not always.”

      “You went with her sometimes, then?”

      “That isn’t what I said.” His tone was wry and insinuating.

      I flinched visibly. “Maybe if you weren’t always so busy writing and revising your horror novels, your relationship with your wife would have been…closer.”

      He laughed harshly. “Deborah never minded my working. It left her free to pursue her own pleasures, unencumbered.”

      This was certainly not the picture of Deborah that Greg had painted for me. Nicholas was describing a spoiled, willful, and possibly unfaithful vixen. A sharp contrast to the loyal but lonely young wife whose only crime was that she craved a bit of attention from her workaholic husband. So, which picture of “Deborah” was the accurate one? Which of the two men was I to trust?

      As I was suffering this torment of doubt, Nicholas was giving me another of his long, assessing looks. “In the end, maybe it’s not so important whether I’m certain you’re Deborah as that you are.”

      “Still, this is your home,” I said. “Either way, you can always ask me to leave.”

      “You never needed my permission in the past.”

      And, I realized with relief, I didn’t need it now. I could leave of my own free will. And very likely not be missed at all. But then I glanced at Nicholas, catching him unaware, for once. There was a hint of sadness there in those dark, uncompromising eyes. It was there for only an instant, but it made me think back to Greg’s remark that Nicholas was really quite vulnerable behind that mask of arrogance he wore so well.

      He gripped the doorknob. “I think you’ll find the atmosphere and amenities of Raven’s Cove at least as pleasant as the hospital,” he commented offhandedly, the mask again solidly in place. “And I can assure you that as long as you’re here, you won’t be required to engage in any activities that displease you,” he added.

      Though his expression was bland, I felt sure I understood the meaning behind this comment. But could I believe him? Right now he had some doubts about my identity. I told myself it was understandable. I was certainly not a carbon copy of the Deborah I’d seen in that photograph. Not by a long shot. But, if he came to be convinced I was Deborah—whether or not my memory ultimately confirmed it for me—wouldn’t he expect me, as his wife, to sleep with him? Would it even matter to him that in my eyes he would still be a stranger?

      Despite feeling the heat spread again over my cheeks, I eyed him with a touch of defiance. “Who undressed me? And put me in this nightgown?”

      He laughed dryly, giving me a rueful, condescending look. “Lillian. Who did you think?”

      Without waiting for an answer, he exited the room. Only after he’d gone did I realize that I was shaking. Admittedly short as my memory was, I couldn’t recall another instance of a person making me feel the way Nicholas Steele did. I felt that he was the most exceedingly dangerous man I had ever encountered. And the most compelling.

      As I showered in the spacious and lavish private bathroom adjoining the bedroom, I considered packing my few belongings and taking the first train back to the hospital. A few minutes later, returning to the bedroom, I was even further convinced that I should leave. There on my bed was a hardcover book. Night Cries. Nicholas’s latest horror novel. The cover alone—a woman, faceless save for a wide, screaming mouth, her arms outstretched, superimposed on a midnight-black background—terrified me.

      I stared at the book with revulsion. Had Nicholas dropped this off for me? A token of his…Of his what? There was a tremor in my hands as I finally lifted the book from the bed. At first I meant only to stick it away in a drawer, unable to bear the hideously pained image on the cover. But as I took hold of the book, I found myself compelled to open it. I selected one page at random—just to see what made this master of the macabre so renowned.

      A harsh cawing broke the stillness of the night. Then silence. The silence of death. Creeping behind the trunk of a large elm, he lay in wait for her. He knew he would not have to wait long. A few minutes later, he heard the crunch of leaves underfoot. He smiled. Not a very pleasant smile. He had sometimes wished he had one of those ordinary faces with their ordinary smiles. The kind of face people trusted. A face women trusted…

      She let out a sharp cry when he stepped out from his hiding place. But then she laughed softly, wantonly.

      “Silly man. You nearly scared the living daylights out of me.”

      He knew, in the darkness, she could not yet make out who it really was she had come to meet for this little rendezvous. But she would. In time, she would. The anticipation filled him with delight. Oh, how he longed to hear her crooning voice turn into a whimper. What pleasure he would take as the wantonness bled from her face and gave way to terror, her gut tightening like a fist. Please, please, don’t hurt me, she would cry.

      He would hurt her. But he would take his sweet time. He would toy with her. He would show her who was in charge; who had been in charge right from the start.

      Forgive me, she would cry. He would laugh at her. Didn’t she know, that forgiveness wasn’t in his nature…?

      I let out an audible gasp, slamming the book shut. And then, as if the closed book were some kind of lethal viper, I flung it across the room. It slammed against the wall, then landed front cover facing up on the royal blue carpet—that horrible faceless woman, her mouth opened in a scream, arms outstretched. Now I understood. The woman was crying out in the agony of mental and physical torment, pleading for forgiveness, begging for her life. I rushed over, grabbed up the book and stuck it in the top drawer of a bureau.

      How vile and gruesome! What kind of mind…? I realized I was echoing the sentiment of one of the female customers I’d overheard yesterday at Gus’s. And then another of the women’s remarks replayed in my head. He has to be a little mad himself…

      Ignoring the armoire with its large assortment of expensive, fine looking designer clothing, I hurriedly pulled a creased sundress from my suitcase, shaking out the wrinkles as best I could. I closed the case, leaning on it for support. This situation was impossible. The man who might possibly be my husband СКАЧАТЬ