She felt better once her makeup was on. Even before she had left home on her own—before John—she had learned that with makeup she could pretend that she was wearing a mask and that she could hide all expression and emotion behind it. That wasn’t true, of course. But as she had aged, she had learned to create masks with her features, and the more years slipped by her, the greater comfort she took in concealing her feelings.
Rex Morrow had seen her feelings, she reminded herself. But it had proved as uncomfortable for him as it had for her. He wanted her gone, right? He valued his privacy; he wanted the land all to himself.
“Sorry, Mr. Morrow,” she murmured out loud. “I’m not quite as pathetic as I appeared last night. And I’m staying.”
She took a sip of coffee, then bit her lower lip. She wished she could forget how his eyes had moved over her, how his thumb had felt when he’d smoothed away the smudge on her cheek.
And she wished that she would get up and start cleaning.
But she decided that she wasn’t going to plunge right in. Chicken? she challenged herself. Maybe. After last night, she deserved to take her time. She’d explore later. She was simply feeling lethargic. Today she’d go into town and find a rental car. Today, she reminded herself, was half over. It had been almost twelve when she had risen, because it had been at least six when she had finally slept.
It was three in the afternoon when she requested a taxi at last. She’d called Gene to assure him that her first night had gone well and that she was happy at the house. She told him the truth about what had happened with Rex when she had arrived, but she didn’t tell him how frightened she had been or how she had collapsed in tears into a total stranger’s arms. She laughed, making light of the incident. Anyone would have been terrified, she assured herself. But Gene was astute. She was afraid he might have learned more about her past from the incident than she wanted.
By four-thirty she had rented a little sedan. She had made friends with the taxi driver and the rental car clerk—everyone knew Gene, it seemed. They were glad to meet his great-granddaughter and fascinated to discover that she was the Helen of Troy lady. Alexi was a bit uneasy to find that she was so recognizable—she would have preferred anonymity. She convinced herself that it would be okay, then decided that she was going to like small-town living. The people were warm—if just a little bit nosy.
“You just be careful out there,” the old gentleman at the agency warned her. “That peninsula can be a mighty scary place.”
“Why?” Alexi asked. But he had already turned to help the businessman in line behind her. She shrugged and left for her car. Once inside, she tapped idly against the steering wheel. She should get going on her shopping. There was nothing in the house. And whether she had a professional cleaner or not, she needed all kinds of detergents. And bug sprays. She was sure that except for the kitchen the place was crawling.
But she wasn’t really ready for work yet. And she decided she would drive back to the peninsula. It would be dark before long, and she wanted to see the little spit of land in its entirety.
Alexi started the car, then froze. She stared at the blond head and broad shoulders of a man slipping into a rented Mustang next to her car. For a moment, her stomach and heart careened; panic set in. Then he turned. It wasn’t John. She exhaled, shaking.
He couldn’t have followed her here, she promised herself. She had finished up with the Helen of Troy campaign—and then she had run. He couldn’t know where. And no one would tell him.
She took several deep breaths and eased out of the parking lot. She got lost only once, and then she was on the one road that led to Gene’s house. It was a horrible road, she quickly discovered. The town didn’t own it, Gene had told her once; he and Rex Morrow owned it jointly. And apparently, Alexi thought with a smile, neither of them had been very interested in keeping it up. There were potholes everywhere.
She slowed to accommodate the bumps and juts, but apparently she did so just a moment too late. The car suddenly sputtered and died, spewing up a froth of steam from the front. Alexi stared at it in disbelief for a moment, then swore at herself and crawled out of the driver’s seat.
For fifteen minutes she tried to figure out how to open the hood; once it was open, she wondered why she had bothered. Steam was still spewing out, and she didn’t have the faintest idea of what to do. She looked around, wondering how long a walk it was to the house. The peninsula was only about four miles long and one across, but both houses were at the far end of it.
Alexi swore and kicked a tire. She decided that people lied when they said that doing such things couldn’t help—she felt ten times better for having kicked the car. She was annoyed that she didn’t know what to do, but then she had never kept a car. She just hadn’t needed one in New York.
It was getting dark, she perceived suddenly. And if she hadn’t been stuck here, she would have thought that it was beautiful. The sky was burnt orange and pink, a lovely background for the pines and shrubs that littered the sandy ground. She had no idea how quickly the darkness fell there.
Alexi gave the car a withering stare, then decided she had best start walking toward the house. She could phone the rental agency, and they could call a mechanic and get the car out to the house for her.
Swinging her bag over her shoulder, Alexi started to walk. It really was beautiful, she assured herself. The sandy road at sunset, everything around it silent, the smell of the ocean heavy on the air. A breeze lifted her hair and touched her cheeks. She could imagine having a horse out here; it would be a beautiful place to ride. All the wonderful pines and palms and the endless sand, and beyond the trees, the endless ocean.
The sunset coloring around her slipped; the sky became gray. Alexi was glad that the house was on a peninsula; she knew she was walking in the right direction. There were no lights out here; she remembered the horrid blackness of the night before.
Suddenly she became aware of a sound behind her, following her. She stopped; the sound stopped. It was her imagination, she told herself. Darkness and solitude could do things like that. Who was she kidding? She was frightened. And she had a right to be. After last night…
Last night, Rex had pounced upon her right away. She had crawled through the window, and he had quickly grabbed her. This sound behind her was…stealthy. She was being stalked.
No. Her fears were getting out of hand. Rex had had an explanation. He’d thought that she was breaking into the house. But John couldn’t have followed her—and John was a memory of misery, not terror. And this…this was a feeling that something evil was breathing down her spine. That some real injury was intended for her.
She inhaled—and then she started to run. Maybe her parents, in their distant wisdom, had been right. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here, where there was no help, where there was nothing but darkness and the whisper of the breeze and if she screamed forever, no one would hear her.