Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures Read online

  She wrenched up the covers, staring at him hard. "How dare you just waltz in here; like this, accusing me of things! You take off for days, and I wait for you—"

  "I didn't accuse you of anything!" he flared angrily. He crossed his arms over his chest, striding away from her. He jerked the draperies the rest of the way across the closed window. Damn, she was disturbing him tonight. He was angry and jealous as he had never been before. Why? What was the matter with him? He was so afraid, and his fear was making him touchy. He wanted to walk right out of the house—and leave her to her dreams.

  But he was worried. Worried sick.

  He wanted her. There was something so sensual and evocative about the way she'd been when he had found her. And still, even though she'd drawn the sheet to her chin, he knew every exquisite twist and nuance of her body beneath it. He loved her. He always wanted her.

  "I think you'd better go," she said coolly.

  Yes, he should go. Just walk out of the damned place and let her enjoy her dreams!

  Suddenly he remembered the Apache camp. The dismembered bodies spread far and wide. The singular lack of blood.

  It was evil. White evil, Dancing Woman had told him. He couldn't leave Anne. Not in the night. Not when he felt such strange fear...

  And the coldness of that breeze.

  He sat stubbornly in the rocker across from the bed, staring at her. "Go to sleep, Anne," he said, suddenly weary. "I won't come near you. I just want to see that you sleep safely."

  Her eyes widened incredulously. "I just asked you to leave."

  "And I'm not going."

  "Well, what if I were to scream loud enough to bring the entire town crashing in on us?"

  He grinned. "They all know that you sleep with me anyway."

  She threw her pillow angrily at him. He caught it. The pillow toss was worth it. Her sheets had fallen. He could see her breasts heaving with the exertion of her breathing. Her skin still held that fascinating sheen. Her breasts were beautiful. Full, firm, with hardened dark-pink crests that now tempted his fingers beyond imagination.

  "Michael—"

  "I'm not leaving, Anne," he told her. Then he added softly, "I'm afraid."

  "Of what?" she demanded, startled.

  He shook his head. "I don't know. The night. The breeze. I don't know. But I'm not leaving you. So good night. Scream if you want to, but I'm not leaving this room."

  She gritted her teeth, turning her back on him with an angry, huffing sound. Michael's fingers wound around the arms of the chair and he felt his own jaw grow rigid. Then he heard her voice.

  "If you're staying, perhaps you'd be more comfortable in bed."

  He hesitated, then shed his boots and clothes. He strode to the bed, caught hold of her shoulder, and turned her around. She stared into his eyes. He felt the fierce surge of his desire combine with some strange sense of anger.

  "Who were you waiting for, Anne?"

  "Oh! Oh, you bastard!" she cried, her amber eyes flashing.

  He shook his head sternly, holding her when she would have wrenched away. "I just want to make sure that you're making love with the right man."

  She swung back an arm, but he caught it before her palm could connect with his face. Then he kissed that palm quickly. "I'm the one who loves you!" he told her heatedly, and he stretched his muscled length on top of her, his lips finding hers. He kissed her with searing passion, kissed her long and fiercely. His hand moved between them, touching her, stroking her. Then he shifted his weight, penetrating her, determined to become one with her. The hunger, the passion, riddled him. He swept his arms around her with a cry and let the rhythm of desire seize them both.

  Later in the night, he thought that she slept. But he heard her soft, broken whisper in the darkness. "I love you, Michael. I do love you."

  The confusion in the words startled him. There was something more there. She loved him, but...

  But what?

  He ignored the feeling, wanting only to hold her tight.

  He kissed her forehead. "I love you, Anne," he murmured. "With all my heart. I'll never let you go, never let anything hurt you," he vowed, his voice still soft, intense.

  She turned in his arms. Her eyes sought his. "Oh, Michael!" she whispered, and she smiled, laying her head in the cradle of his shoulder and resting her hand against his chest. "I just miss you so when you're gone. What happened?"

  He hesitated. Then he decided to give her the bare facts. "The people of one of the Mescalero camps were cut down. Everyone was killed—men, women, children."

  She gasped, horrified. "My God, how terrible. But who? Yankees? Other Indians? Oh, Michael! The other Apaches don't think that you—"

  "No, they seem to know that we're not responsible," he said. He didn't add, And they don't think that it was a who, they think that it was a what.

  Should he tell her everything that the Indians had told him? Would she think that he had finally and completely lost his mind?

  I'm afraid of an evil breeze, afraid of a spirit, he could have said. And what then?

  "Thank God for that!" Anne murmured. She ran her fingers along his chest. "Of course, I wouldn't have seen you back here if they had blamed you!"

  He had to say something to her.

  "Anne, the Mescaleros think that there is some kind of evil spirit at work here."

  Her brows shot up. "Evil spirit!" she said.

  "I just want you to take care, Anne. Please. Take care of yourself, watch where you go and what you do. Please, be very careful!"

  She did look at him then as if he was losing his mind, but it was a very tender look. She kissed him. "I always take care, Michael. Where could I be more safe than here in Green Valley? You' reYou're the one I worry about. And," she added, trying to lighten the tone, wagging a finger at him, "you had best take care. There's a new man in town, you know."

  He frowned. Yes, he had heard something about it. A rich European. He was building a big house at the edge of town. Funny, though, he couldn't quite remember when the man had arrived. But then, he was gone quite a bit.

  His stomach turned. He couldn't leave anymore. Not now. He couldn't leave Anne alone.

  "So, is he good-looking?" he asked Anne.

  "Very," she told him solemnly.

  He slipped his arm behind his neck and leaned his head against it, studying her eyes as she lifted her chin mischievously high. "So, is he the man you were expecting tonight?"

  "Michael!" she snapped angrily.

  But it seemed...

  It seemed as if there was an edge of guilt to her voice.

  She was suddenly afraid, Anne realized. Because of the strange things she had felt in Drago's arms, the web of seduction that the man seemed to weave?

  No, Drago was just a man! She shivered. It was Michael's talk now, about the Indians and all, that was frightening her.

  Drago was just a man. Any other thought would be insane!

  She smiled at Michael. "Jealous?" she teased, and the note of fear was gone from her voice.

  Michael watched her. Beautiful, sweet Anne. He had best watch out or he'd lose her because of his jealousy. She was smiling, her soft body draped over his, her fingers playing with the dark hair on his chest. "I'm just giving you fair warning. He's offered to act as an escort for me anytime when you're not around."

  "Magnanimous of him," Michael murmured. He couldn't wait to meet the bastard.

  "It means that you need to stay home more often," she told him primly.

  He draped an arm around her, sliding down lower in the bed. For a moment he was still, remembering the Mescalero bodies. Men, women, and children, ripped apart like rag dolls.

  "Ummm," he murmured, trying to keep the fear from his voice. "Well, maybe I do intend to stick around for a while," he said. He kissed her forehead. "Think we ought to get some sleep?" He felt that he needed it. He wasn't sure why, except that he was going to need to be awake and refreshed and in full charge of his faculties to...

  To fi
ght a breeze! he thought.

  He closed his eyes. He pulled her more tightly against him. "I do love you, Anne, with all my heart."

  She pressed her lips fervently against his chest. "I love you, too."

  He was silent then. Sleeping? she wondered.

  She eased herself beside him, glad of every place where her flesh could touch his. She felt so secure now. So safe, so cherished, so loved.

  And before...

  She couldn't remember now, but there had been something or someone out there. Something touching and stroking her. Something incredibly sensuous, beckoning to her.

  She'd been dreaming. Awful, decadent dreams that had caused her to...

  She didn't want to remember. She wanted to lie safe in Michael's arms.

  But a feeling of dark unease swept around her heart. If she was safe...

  Then someone else was in danger. She knew it. She didn't know how, or why, but she did know.

  And she was afraid.

  * * *

  Rage filled him. He had been so close, so unbelievably close. She had very nearly whispered the words, thought the thoughts, conceived the ideas that would have given him entry.

  It wasn't his only way, of course. But he had to be careful with Anne. He had waited too long for her. He didn't want her perfection marred this time. He didn't want her to die. She mustn't find that escape...

  Furious, he turned from the house.

  Michael Johnston. The soldier. The great Indian hunter turned Indian friend.

  He was going to die. Slowly. Drago envisioned having him in his power, then slowly draining him of all his strength, so that he could feast even more slowly on his blood...

  Then tear him to ribbons. Michael had no place in the world of the night. Only Anne! Only Anne would rule with Drago.

  A shadow, a wraith, he moved erratically in the darkness.

  He heard sounds. Drunkards singing their way from the saloon. He hesitated, melding into the shadows. Then he waited.

  Several men, singing, stumbling, paused in front of the saloon. Two of them managed to throw themselves over their horses. The third tried twice and failed, then swore at the horse.

  Drago's lips curled into a scornful smile. It seemed such a pity that he could not be accepted and appreciated for all that he was. He had heard the townspeople do nothing but complain about the Indians since he had come. Especially the Apaches, and most especially the Mescaleros. So he had dealt quite efficiently with a whole campful of the creatures, and instead of being grateful, they were horrified.

  And then there was now...

  And now he wondered what good could one stumbling, old broken-down drunk be to the town of Green Valley.

  The others had moved off. It wouldn't have mattered. He could have taken them all, just as he had fed his great hunger from the journey with the encampment of savages. But he hadn't come to Green Valley just to feed. He had come for Anne.

  Why should they mind the loss of just one drunk?

  And when he had fed on that drunk, he would be in control again. The night would still be young.

  There were other women here. Young ones. Innocent ones. With incredibly sweet, potent blood. Yes, he wanted Anne... but he had a tremendous hunger, made stronger by the waiting. Perhaps, once she was his, his need would be truly slaked. But while he waited...

  It was good to know that there were others.

  He smiled again.

  So much for the taking!

  But first, there was the useless man. Who would notice? And if they did notice, what then?

  He almost laughed out loud. And then, as a shadow of darkness and evil, he descended upon the drunk.

  * * *

  Cissy awoke in the night. She'd been having the strangest dreams.

  Sweet breezes touched her flesh. The night seemed to be filled with a low, earthly music. The darkness itself seemed to beckon to her.

  In her dream she'd been dancing, she thought, with David Drago. He had turned away from Anne and all the other women, and he had been determined to have her. The handsome, sophisticated Mr. Drago, who was so enchanting with his slight foreign accent...

  Then he wanted more from her. First a kiss... then he was touching her. She was powerless to stop it and nothing she had ever been taught had prepared her for such a man. She had never imagined such sensations....

  Abruptly, she opened her eyes. She wasn't dreaming anymore. There was a breeze coming in from the open window, and someone was calling to her.

  She opened her mouth. She should have screamed. Someone would have come immediately.

  But she didn't want to scream. She walked to the window instead. He was there. Smiling at her. Handsome as the devil.

  "Cissy..."

  The sound of her name felt like a caress. Did he really say it? Or did she think it? She didn't know. All she knew was that she wanted him. She could feel the touch of his eyes on her throat, on her breasts. She could feel the heat emanating from him. And oh, that breeze that touched her!

  Yes, let me... !

  Did he whisper it? Yes, he was saying things, thinking things. You're beautiful, Cissy. Stunning. I want you, I want more, I want... please, oh, yes, give to me...

  The breeze grew and rippled. She wanted to feel it, had to feel it, all of it. She reached down for the hem of her nightgown and lifted it over her head and tossed it aside. Naked, with a cascade of blonde hair falling all around her, she reached out her arms to the shadowy figure in the darkness.

  Yes, take me. Come in...

  It was all he needed.

  He was inside.

  In seconds she was in his arms. In seconds, he had touched her.

  Kissed her flesh. Swept her into his arms. He was filled now, so he could take his time. Tease and taunt and seduce her. Lull her into complete obedience.

  Yes...

  At last, he reached the sweetest peak of arousal. She inhaled sharply at the pain of his fangs when they first touched her throat.

  But that was all. Not a whisper of protest.

  He drank. Her blood was achingly sweet, the blood of innocence. Of purity. So damned good.

  He would see Cissy again.

  And again...

  He had come for Anne, and he would have her. But now that he had touched Cissy, tasted her sweetness, he might well be magnanimous. He would not maul or destroy her as he had the drunk.

  The taste of her was just too good. He would come back and drink again.

  And most probably, he would grant her... life.

  His kind of life.

  Just because he had never imagined her blood could be so sweet. He had to taste it again. And again.

  Until it was gone.

  * * *

  "Just who is the man and where did he come from?" Michael demanded of Anne.

  He'd crawled out the window and come around to the front of the house to knock at the door. He was feeling moody that morning. He hadn't rested during the night at all, and he was irritable.

  Anne poured him more coffee. Jem was sitting across the table, looking tired and morose, too. Just what was it with the men in her life lately?

  "I'm not sure just when he arrived himself. He has a plump little fellow who works for him and keeps tabs on what the builders are doing up at his house. The servant's name is Servian or something like that. He came in on the stage several weeks ago. I think Drago actually rode in at night."

  Michael leaned back in his chair. Anne seemed so amused this morning, so ready to take Drago's side!

  "I tell you," he said, eyeing her sternly, "people are amazing. No one even really knows where he came from, and you're all walking around with your tongues hanging out over the man!"

  "Why, Michael Johnston!" Anne laughed. "You're jealous!"

  "And you're just as pleased as you can be!"

  She smiled tenderly at him. "Well, if a bit of jealousy will keep you around..."

  Jem stood up so abruptly that his chair fell over. Anne looked at her uncle in s
urprise. He seemed angry. Really angry.

  And frightened.

  "You're a fool, Anne! You're my niece, and I love you, but you're a fool! Marry this man, and do it quickly, and quit playing your damned fool games!"

  Anne stared at him incredulously, her own anger growing, her discomfort great.

  "Uncle Jem—"

  "Drago is evil!" Jem insisted.

  "But you've barely met the man—"

  "I'm warning you, young lady! He's evil. You can feel the evil in the air!" He suddenly bent down beside her. "Annie, I know that you've heard the family stories. This man is part of them. This man—"

  "Oh, Uncle Jem!" Anne cried in dismay. "You can't be serious! This is America! This is the New World! It's Texas. We've got Indians, not ancient beasts and superstitions!"

  "I'm telling you, Anne—"

  Michael stared at them both in disbelief. Jem swung around and stormed out of the house, to the backyard.

  Anne looked at Michael. Oh, no. He was going to ask for an explanation and she didn't know where to begin to explain the old stories that had come down through the centuries in her family. They were absurd! She bit her lip lightly, lowering her eyes.

  "Anne, what—"

  She shook her head, determined to distract him. "I will marry you, Michael," she said softly. "I do love you."

  "I love you," he returned, but he was still in an argumentative mood. "When will you marry me?"

  She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "When things are settled. When—"

  She wasn't able to finish. There was a pounding on her front door. Foreboding filled her. Michael leaped to his feet and hurried down the hallway, Anne trailing behind him.

  Billy was standing at the front door. He looked worn and aged. He stared from Anne to Michael, cleared his throat, and spoke at last. "We need you, Colonel."

  "For what?" Anne cried. "You all just rode back—"

  "Oh, we're not riding anywhere, ma'am. Sheriff Dougherty just needs to see Michael now." He cleared his throat again.

  "Spit it all out, Billy," Michael commanded.

  Billy wet his lips nervously. "Old Smokey Timmons is dead."