The Smoky Mountain Mist. Пола Грейвс
shapes firmed into solid forms. Win-dows with green muslin curtains blocking all but a few fragments of watery light. A tall, narrow chest of drawers standing against a nearby wall, a bowl-shaped torchiere lamp in the corner, currently dark. And across from her, sprawling loose-limbed in a low-slung armchair, sat Seth Hammond, his green eyes watching her.
She’d seen him at her father’s funeral, she remembered, fresh grief hitting her with a sharp blow. She’d looked up and seen him watching her, felt an electric pulse of awareness that had caught her by surprise.
And then what? Why couldn’t she remember what had happened next?
Her head felt thick and heavy as she tried to lift it. In her chest, her heart beat a frantic cadence of panic.
Where was this place? How had she gotten here? Why couldn’t she remember anything beyond her fa-ther’s graveside funeral service?
She knew time must have passed. The light seeping into the small room was faint and rosy-hued, suggesting either sunrise or sunset. The funeral had taken place late in the morning.
How had she gotten here?
Why was he here?
“What is this?” she asked. Her voice sounded shaky, frightening her further. Why couldn’t she muster the energy to move?
She needed to get out of here. She needed to go home, find something familiar and grounding, to purge herself of the panic rising like floodwaters in her brain.
“Shh.” Seth spoke softly. “It’s okay, Ms. Davenport. You’re okay.”
She pushed past her strange lethargy and sat up, her head swimming. “What did you do to me?”
His expression shifted, as if a hardened mask covered his features. “What can you remember?”
She shoved at the crocheted throw tangled around her legs. “That’s not for me to answer!” she growled at him, flailing a little as the throw twisted itself further around her limbs, trapping her in place.
Seth unfolded himself slowly from the chair, rising to his full height. He wasn’t the tallest man she’d ever met, but he was tall enough and imposing without much effort. It was those eyes, she thought. Sharp and focused, as if nothing could ever slip past him without notice. Full of mystery, as well, as if he knew things no one else did or possibly could.
Her fear shifted into something just as dangerous.
Fascination.
Snake and bird, she thought as he walked closer, his pace unhurried and deceptively unthreatening.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” He plucked at the crocheted blanket until it slithered harmlessly away from her body. He never touched her once, but somehow she felt his hands on her anyway, strong and warm. A flush washed over her, heating her from deep inside until she thought she was going to spontaneously combust.
What the hell was wrong with her?
He asked you a question, the rational part of her brain reminded her. Answer the question. Maybe he knows something you need to know.
Instead, she tried to make a run for the door she spotted just beyond his broad shoulders. She made it a few steps before her wobbling legs gave out on her. She plunged forward, landing heavily against the man’s body.
His arms whipped around her, holding her upright and pinning her against his hard, lean body. The faint scent of aftershave filled her brain with a fragment of a memory—strong arms, a gentle masculine murmur in her ear, the salty-sweet taste of flesh beneath her tongue—
She tore herself out of his grasp and stumbled sideways until she came up hard against the wall. Her hair spilled into her face, blinding her. She shook it away. “What did you do to me?”
She had meant the question to be strong. Confronta-tional. But to her ears, it sounded weak and plaintive, like a brokenhearted child coming face-to-face with a world gone mad.
Or maybe it’s not the world that’s gone mad, a mean little voice in the back of her head taunted.
Maybe it’s you.
Chapter Three
Seth met Rachel Davenport’s terrified gaze and felt sick. It didn’t help that he knew he’d done nothing wrong. She clearly believed he had. And he would find few defenders if she made her accusation public.
Cleve Calhoun had always told him it never paid to help people. “They hate you for it.”
What if Cleve was right?
“You’re awake.” The sound of Delilah’s voice behind him, calm and emotionless, sent a jolt down his nervous system.
Rachel’s attention shifted toward Delilah in confusion. “Who are you?”
“Delilah Hammond,” Delilah answered. She took the crocheted throw Seth was still holding and started folding it as she walked past him toward the sofa. “How are you feeling?”
“I don’t know,” Rachel admitted. Her wary gaze shifted back and forth from Delilah to Seth. “I don’t remember what happened.”
Delilah slanted a quick look at Seth. “That’s one of the symptoms.”
“Symptoms of what?” Rachel asked, looking more and more panicky.
“GHB use,” Delilah answered. “Apparently you did a little partying last night.”
“What?” Rachel’s panic elided straight into indignation. “What are you suggesting, that I did drugs or some-thing?”
“Considering my brother found you about to do a double gainer off Purgatory Bridge—”
“I don’t think you planned to jump off,” Seth said quickly, shooting his sister a hard look. “But you were not entirely in control of yourself.”
Delilah’s eyebrows arched delicately. Rachel just looked at him as if he’d grown a second head.
“I was not on Purgatory Bridge last night,” she said flatly. “I would never, ever…” She looked nauseated by the idea.
“You were on the bridge,” he said quietly. “Apparently whatever you took last night has affected your memory.”
“I don’t…take drugs.” Her anger faded again, and the fear returned, shining coldly in her blue eyes.
“Maybe someone gave something to you without your knowledge.”
Seth’s suggestion only made her look more afraid. “I don’t remember going anywhere last night. I don’t—” She stopped short, pressing her fingertips against her lips. “I don’t remember anything.”
“If you took GHB—”
Seth shot his sister a warning look.
She made a slight face at him and rephrased. “If someone slipped you GHB or something like it, it’s not uncommon for you to experience amnesia about the hours before and after the dosage.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?” Seth asked. Rachel stared at him. “I want to go home.”
“Okay,” he said. “I can take you home.”
She shook her head quickly. “Her. She can take me.”
Damn, that hurt more than he expected. “Okay. But what do you plan to tell your family?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I didn’t know if you’d want people to ask uncomfortable questions.”
Her expression shifted again, and her gaze rose to Seth’s face. “My father would know what to do.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry he’s not here for you.”
Her