The Secret Night. Rebecca York
Some Refuge residents traveled to Baltimore every day to work in offices and bring their paychecks “home.” Some ran his e-mail-based publications business. Others did publicity for his seminars. Margaret was kept busy doing his bookkeeping. And still other residents, like her, had special talents that Caldwell could exploit.
Emma had learned her craft from Betty Blanchard, a master silversmith in Manitou Springs, Colorado. Two years after starting to work with Betty, she’d begun supporting herself on the sales from her original jewelry, first as an employee, then as a partner. Thank God Betty had been okay with her rushing off to Maryland. She understood the twin thing.
Caldwell moved from his place beside the window, gliding toward her almost as if his feet didn’t need to touch the floor. He stopped directly in front of her.
When he reached out a hand, she looked down at it. To her surprise, his nails were yellow and brittle, with grooves running from the nail beds to the tips. Even though his skin was smooth, those nails made him look a hundred years old.
She stood very still while he stroked her shoulder-length hair, her cheek, the side of her neck, her back.
Closing her eyes, she endured his touch. But when his hand drifted to the top of her breast, she took a quick step away.
“Don’t,” she said softly.
“You don’t enjoy intimacy?”
She had heard the women talking about their sexual experiences with Caldwell and had considered what to say if he put the moves on her. “I’ve had some bad experiences with men. That makes me cautious—even with you.”
He tipped his head to one side, studying her. “Speaking your mind is one of the qualities that makes you stand out.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “If you meant it as a compliment.”
“I’m thinking about how I mean it,” he said with a chuckle.
But she wasn’t fooled. He truly was weighing her merits, and she was sure her very life hung in the balance.
“You should go on, before you miss breakfast.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, and she exited the room.
She had to get out of here. But how could she leave Margaret at this place?
She couldn’t. Not alone.
It was extremely hard for Emma to admit she needed help. If her mother’s example had taught her anything, it was that the only person she could rely on—besides Margaret—was herself. Now Margaret was lost to her. And every day she spent at the Refuge had driven her closer to the conclusion that this was a situation she couldn’t handle on her own.
So she had come up with Plan B.
The star of the not-fully-formulated plan was a man named Nicholas Vickers. She didn’t know him, but she thought he might help her. During her snooping in Caldwell’s office, she’d found a thick folder on Vickers, containing a lot of notes about his job as a private detective, as well as his personal life.
Reading between the lines, she’d gathered that Vickers and Caldwell were mortal enemies. She didn’t know why, exactly, but she had the feeling the animosity had something to do with a woman. Maybe someone Vickers had loved had come to the Refuge for a weekend seminar and had been brainwashed into staying. Whatever the case, she knew something bad had happened between the two men in the past. And she knew that Caldwell considered Nicholas Vickers a threat. Coming from the Master, that was a powerful endorsement.
She’d begun thinking of Vickers as a possible ally. As her own sense of helplessness had grown, she’d started pinning her hopes on him, praying he could help her get Margaret out of here. Maybe because she was stuck in such an untenable situation, she’d actually started daydreaming about his charging in here on a white horse and sweeping her and Margaret to safety.
Caldwell hadn’t included a picture of the man in his files, but she’d made up a persona for Nicholas Vickers. And she was pretty sure she had started dreaming about him, too. He was totally appealing with his dark good looks, quick mind and muscular body. A dangerous opponent, yet a man with compassion. An expert lover, knowing and strong, able to bring her both intense fulfillment and complete contentment. Not a bad man to have around to help her forget, for a little while, about this horrible place she so desperately needed to escape.
There was a flaw in her scenario, of course. She always awoke from the dreams sweaty, tangled in her sheet and unsatisfied.
And then she’d tell herself sex wasn’t the important issue. The important thing was convincing him to help her rescue Margaret. Was that crazy? Pinning her hopes on a man she didn’t know? Maybe she was just as wacky as everyone else here. She was sane enough, however, to realize that Nicholas Vickers could never live up to her fantasies about him, either as a lover or a rescuer of deluded women like Margaret. But he was the only hope Emma had, so she’d memorized his name, address and phone number.
A man passed her in the hall, giving her a speculative look, and she realized she was standing like a statue in the corridor.
Ducking her head away from him, she hurried to the communal dining room. Relieved to find it almost empty, she grabbed a piece of toast from the buffet—then hurried out to the workshop.
Chapter Two
At the end of the day, Damien Caldwell stood at the open French doors, watching the sun set across the river, admiring the glorious pinks and oranges of the sky. The sunset was a gift of nature, as were the green lawns and the flower beds his workers tended so diligently.
Long ago, he had thought he would never see the daylight again. But his skills and endurance had given it back to him, and it had never shone on a more lovely, bucolic setting than the one where he’d founded his latest commune.
There had been many such enclaves over the years—in France, Germany, Corsica, Italy, Turkey. He had lived in many lands. And he had amassed great wealth and power.
He chuckled. For a boy who had been born a slave, he’d done very well for himself. That long-ago boy had dreamed of changing the rules, of being the one to crack the whip and make the life-and-death decisions. Fate had given him the chance to realize the dream. Of course, his methods weren’t exactly politically correct by modern standards. He lived by rules he’d learned centuries ago. His hero was still that shining example of despotism, Machiavelli. And nobody had ever given him a reason to change his philosophy.
He’d come to the United States—the land of opportunity—early in the nineteen hundreds and settled in Pennsylvania. From there, he’d moved to northern California, then to southern Georgia. He always kept his eye out for property that suited his needs. As it happened, he’d heard the Refuge was for sale at a time when Georgia had become…uncomfortable for him. And so he’d become a resident of Maryland’s quaint, easy-paced eastern shore.
The fifty-acre estate was very private, yet close enough to both the Baltimore and Washington metro areas that his followers could keep their jobs while they served him.
A deferential tap on the door brought Damien out of his musings. “Come in,” he called.
Henry Briggs entered, closing the door behind him. Briggs was one of his most trusted lieutenants—trust being a relative term.
“What about Emma Birmingham?” Damien asked.
“She did her work all right,” Briggs replied. “But all day she was jumpy as a bullfrog on a griddle.”
“I was afraid of that. She’s been pretending to fit in, but she’s not really one of the chosen.”
“No.”
“Doubtless, she’s here to try to convince her sister to leave.”
Henry made a sound of agreement. He was the perfect yes man.
“I’m going to hold one of my special ceremonies tomorrow night. The lovely Emma Birmingham