Banish Misfortune Read online

  She quickly summoned forth her coolest smile. "He's very good-looking," she said distantly. "How come you don't keep his picture around?"

  Hamilton laughed. "Are you kidding? If any of my friends took a look at that picture, they'd be showing up at any hour of the day or night, and somehow I don't think Springer would take to that too well. He only comes here under duress as it is—I doubt he'd care for the kind of attention my friends would give him."

  "I take it he doesn't approve of your life-style," she said delicately.

  Hamilton shrugged. "You could say so, indeed." Immediately he changed the subject. "That's a great photograph, isn't it? Elyssa took it a couple of years ago when she went out to visit him. That's why he looks so loving." There was no bitterness in Ham's voice, only a deep sadness, and Elyssa reached out a slender, ring-less hand to touch his arm in silent, loving sympathy.

  "Don't, darling," she said softly, and Ham smiled, his ruddy face accepting. "You'll make peace with him. Sooner or later," she added.

  He nodded, placing one meaty hand over her slender one. "Ever the trusting, loving one, eh, Elyssa? I'll have to believe you're right in this case. I just hope it's sooner, rather than later." He gave himself a shake, rather like a massive Saint Bernard shedding water, and beamed at Jessica. "We're doing a fine job of cheering Jessica up. What do you say the three of us kill a couple of bottles of champagne? We need to celebrate your upcoming engagement, at the very least, and my upcoming rapprochement with my son. And what do we have to celebrate for you, Elyssa?"

  "I'm thinking of moving in with David," she said, her calm, even voice unruffled.

  Ham winced, and even Jessica was hard put to look properly enthusiastic. "Champagne sounds like a wonderful idea," she said finally.

  "And you'll sleep over, Jessica? Elyssa was planning on spending tonight anyway, and you know there's always room for you. I don't want a drunken lady wandering around town unescorted."

  She had done it often enough, with the entertaining addition of Hamilton's current lover, the elderly and charming malicious Johnson Endicott, and Jessica nodded her agreement. "But we'll have to send out for more champagne, Ham," Elyssa warned. "It'll take more than that to put a dent in the sobriety of two hard-boiled women like us."

  "Hard-boiled," Ham scoffed. "Maybe you are, Elyssa, but Jessica's a frail lamb beneath her disguise." His voice was absolutely serious, and Jessica stared at him sharply, her eyes narrowed. But all Ham did was smile back at her blandly. "Don't give me that icy look, my

  Norse goddess. You don't fool me for a moment. And when you get back from cavorting with your soulless fiance, I want you to come over and meet my son. Maybe he can put some color in your cheeks and some meat on your bones. Of course, I'm not saying whose meat...."

  "Ham!" Elyssa reproved on a muffled laugh. "Besides, I think you'll find Springer's changed."

  "What, he's no longer bedding every female in sight?" his father scoffed. "I thought he'd still be trying to prove he's not the man his father is."

  "I think, I hope, I pray he's coming to terms with who and what you and he are," Elyssa said slowly.

  "He's had more than enough time," Hamilton grumbled. "I'll order more champagne. Moet or Piper?"

  "Royalties still as good as ever, Ham?" Jessica inquired lazily from her perch on the comfortable sofa.

  Ham shrugged self-deprecatingly. "What can I say? The world seems to be enamored of the Slaughterer and his bloodthirsty adventures. As long as I turn out one every two months I can safely keep us all in imported champagne."

  Jessica lifted her glass. "Here's to the Slaughterer."

  Ham responded. "And here's to my favorite ladies."

  Elyssa raised her white wine. "And here's to happy endings."

  "Unrealistic, my dear," said her ex-husband.

  "Wishful thinking," said her friend. And they both drank.

  Chapter Three

  Hamilton MacDowell's town house was dark and silent as Springer bounded up the broad front steps, his sneakered feet noiseless on the worn stone. It was after two in the morning—the welcoming committee would be sound asleep. Which was just the way Springer wanted it. The last thing he was in the mood for was the strained effort of his uncomfortable father, never sure whether he should attempt to embrace his son or not.

  Sliding a large hand into the pocket of his jeans, he fished around until he came up with the set of keys needed to keep the world at bay in New York City. He never could remember which order they came in, and it took ten minutes of mild cursing to finally accomplish unlocking the fortress. Damn, he was too tired to have to deal with Hamilton's paranoia, he thought, resisting the impulse to slam the door shut behind him. The familiar smell came back to him as he paused in the hallway. The smell of his childhood—polished wood, potpourri, the faint, teasing tang of French cooking redolent of tarragon and thyme. And unexpectedly a sharp knot of grief hit him, leaving him suddenly as alone and vulnerable as a fifteen-year-old boy can be.

  He swore then, a short, obscene word spoken out loud that quickly banished the ghosts. He was twenty years away from that time—and yet whenever he stepped back into this house those years fell away for a brief, devastating moment.

  Moving on silent feet, he made a swift tour of the first floor, like a blind man familiarizing himself with possible pitfalls. The couch was the same one that had been there for a dozen years, though Hamilton had had it recovered in some nubby white cotton. The Wyeth still hung over the mantel, the Chippendale highboy that he used to hide his toy trucks in still presided with stately elegance in the corner. And there was that damned picture of him that Hamilton doubtless resurrected each time he was due for a visit, grinning as if he hadn't a care in the world. He remembered the day Elyssa had taken that picture—a clear, sunny day on Puget Sound with a stiff, warm breeze that swept away cobwebs and regrets with an impartial hand. He'd give five years of his life to be back there right now, not prowling around his father's living room, dreading the morning.

  There was even the heavy silver ashtray that had held his first smoking attempts. It was Mexican, in the shape of a large sombrero, and when he was sixteen he'd stub out half-smoked cigarette after half-smoked cigarette in a ring around the silver hat brim.

  Springer shook his head at youthful folly, feeling the remembered need for cigarettes that hit him in moments of stress. The next month would be filled with stress—cigarettes wouldn't help matters.

  But a shower and a drink would. The town house was cool but not air-conditioned, and the long summer drive had left him hot and sticky, the shirt clinging to his back. Grabbing his suitcase, he bounded silently up the two flights of stairs to the solitary third-floor studio he had claimed for his own on his last visit. He even had his own private entrance—the once-used servants' stairway down to the kitchen and out the back. If he worked it just right, he wouldn't have to see much of Hamilton at all.

  The room was just as he had remembered it—its sprawling proportions taking over all of the third floor, leaving just enough space for a Spartan bathroom. The bed was new—he'd fit in its king-sized proportions better than in the narrow single bed that had been there last time.

  "A bribe, Hamilton?" he questioned wryly, his voice a husky drawl in the still, warm air. The windows were left open to the cooler night air, and Springer dumped his suitcase on the bed before heading for the shower. At least the bed would make the next thirty days more comfortable. He'd had to sleep diagonally in the single bed, and even then his feet had hung over the edge—and God knows what would have happened if he'd been fool enough to bring a woman home. They would have had to make do on the floor. Or on Hamilton's couch. There would have been a certain ironic satisfaction to that.

  Coming out of the shower, he rubbed his thick black hair with a towel, eyeing the bed longingly. He could almost believe he might sleep, if it weren't for the telltale tension in his wrists, the silent tick-tick of his heartbeat. Pulling on a faded pair of jeans, he padded, barefoot, down the
back stairway to the kitchen. He knew where Ham kept his brandy, and very fine brandy it was. It would do the trick

  Springer stopped dead still in the doorway of the kitchen, a numbness washing over him, quickly replaced by a sick fury that left him shaking with rage. This time Hamilton hadn't gotten rid of his current protege. His newest was standing at the kitchen stove, heating some milk, the brandy on the counter beside him. In the dim light Springer could see the tall, skinny body of the boy, wrapped in a florid silk kimono that flapped around his shapely bare, shaved legs. The face was thin, delicate beneath the close-cropped blond hair, the expression set and preoccupied.

  With a great effort Springer willed himself to relax. He had to admit, his father's taste had improved in the past few years. This skinny, androgynous creature was at least more appealing than Johnson Endicott's raddled excesses. Well, he could be pleasant—he'd had more than twenty years to accept his father's preferences. He still found it easier to accept them in other people, but he wasn't about to cause a scene.

  Nevertheless, some devil was prompting him, no doubt due to his nervous exhaustion. "Aren't you a little young for my father?" His husky voice broke the stillness in a studied drawl. "He usually prefers his boyfriends a little long in the tooth."

  It was upon her again. The screaming, clawing, smothering panic that spread over her, leaving her muscles paralyzed, her mouth open but no scream issuing forth. Her throat tightened, a clammy film of sweat covered her skin, and somewhere in the distance she could hear voices, shouting at her, screaming at her, calling her filthy names

  She sat bolt upright, instantly wide awake. It took her a moment to remember where she was. The lofty proportions of the town-house bedroom mocked her panic. There was no need to check the glowing clock beside the comfortable bed. It would be two forty-five. It always was, each time the dream hit her, each time she woke up. Sometimes the dream would be so deeply embedded she'd remember nothing, only the remaining tremors and the cold sweat covering her reminding her that it had happened again.

  Nothing had ever stopped them. Not sleeping pills, alcohol, hypnotism, psychotherapy, deep relaxation or yoga. And it had happened every damned night for the past two weeks.

  Wearily she sat there, her head in her hands, waiting for the tremors to subside. She knew they would, knew almost to the minute when the shudders would stop. She pulled herself from the bed, wrapping Johnson's silk kimono around her slender body. Chances were she wouldn't sleep till dawn. Hot milk and brandy had sometimes been able to fool her resistant body into drifting off before then, and it was worth a chance. Ham's kitchen would be deserted at this hour—she could make her potion and pray that this would be one of the lucky times. She didn't know how she could face the decisions the weekend would bring if she didn't have just a tiny bit more sleep.

  There was definitely a feeling of unreality to the sound of that husky drawl in the dimly lit kitchen. "My father's boyfriends," he'd said. Slowly she turned, with majestic calm, to look at Elyssa's son.

  He was quite a sight in the flesh. And a great deal of flesh there was. He was wearing nothing more than an old pair of jeans hugging the long legs that Hamilton had assured her could eat up a basketball court in seconds. The long, narrow feet were bare; he wore no belt and no shirt; his chest, dark with a summer tan, was wiry, muscled and lean, the flesh warm-looking to Jessica's jaded eyes. And he was standing there with that beautiful, aloof Indian face of his, branding her as one of his father's lovers. Male lovers at that. He obviously hadn't come to terms with his father, she thought absently, still staring at him.

  Springer was leaning against the dooijamb, watching her out of hooded eyes that were clearly filled with contempt. "I'm Springer MacDowell," he added. "Hamilton obviously didn't expect me tonight, or you would have had your walking papers. When you go back to bed you might tell him I'm here." His voice was cold and cynical as he straightened up, prepared to head back upstairs.

  Jessica later wondered what had come over her. She was usually the most deliberate of people, but something about Springer MacDowell's contempt, both for her and for a man she loved dearly, coupled with the almost brazen good looks, wiped out her usual care. She started toward him then, and the movement of her lithe, thin body halted him. She knew if she spoke her light, clear voice would give her away, just as the stronger light from the hallway would illuminate the very feminine lines of her face and eyes.

  Without a word she came up to him, and his eyes were like chunks of black marble staring down at her. She wasn't used to looking up at men that much taller than her five feet eight—and it took her a moment to quell her reaction. But he had gauged it already, seen the flicker in her eyes in the darkened kitchen, and his mouth curled in disgust.

  "Sorry, boy," he snapped. "I'm not your type." Before he could turn away she reached out one slender hand—the rings lay discarded on her bedside table— and came in contact with that warm smooth skin. She touched his arm, and of its own volition her hand slid across the smoothly muscled flesh, across his shoulder and down his chest. He stood very still, but she could feel his tension beneath her hands as he watched her.

  Now that she had started she didn't quite know how to stop. It was also a fairly dangerous activity—from Springer's words she could guess that he wouldn't take very well to a strange man making a pass at him. She might get one of those strong, well-shaped hands driven into her empty stomach.

  Jessica started to pull her hand away, and just as quickly his hand shot out, catching her wrist in an iron grip. "Don't stop now," he whispered, pulling her slowly forward. She tried to pull back, but her puny strength was useless against him. A moment later her slender, shaking frame was up against his hard, strong body. Staring up at him mutely, she tried to break his hold on her, but it was useless. She stood there, held against him, and waited.

  Her breath was coming rapidly beneath the thin silk kimono, while his was even, steady, unmoved by her struggle. "You'll find I'm a hell of a lot more man than my father ever could be," he drawled. "If that's what you're looking for." And then to her horror one large hand came up and cupped the very definite swell of breast through the silk. "Unless, of course, you prefer other women. You look as if you might." And his mouth moved down toward hers.

  Without hesitation she brought her knee up, but he was too fast for her. Before she knew what was happening she was released, a safe two feet away from him, her mouth untouched as her breast still tingled from his casual caress.

  "What are you doing here?" he questioned evenly enough, not moving any closer.

  For the first time Jessica spoke, her voice tight with tension in the still night kitchen. "Visiting," she snapped. "Not that it's any of your damned business."

  He smiled then, a slow, wicked smile that on another man, at another time, might have penetrated her icy resolve. "Now I've placed you. You're Elyssa's friend Jessica, aren't you?" He cocked his head to one side. "You're not at all the way she described you."

  Jessica knew exactly what she looked like. Pulling the thin silk closer around her narrow body, she could imagine how her small, pale face looked, the short hair standing in spikes all around. "Neither are you," she shot back. "Would you mind moving away from the door? I'd like to go to bed."

  With a great show of insolent grace he moved, exaggeratedly careful not to touch her. "My visit might end up being more interesting than I thought."

  "Don't expect me to provide entertainment," Jessica said in her cold, clipped voice. "I'm leaving first thing tomorrow morning to spend the weekend with my fiancS." There, that ought to slow him down.

  The smile stayed damnably fixed. "Fiance?" he said softly. "Bully for you. Anyone I know?"

  "I doubt it. He's the head of the corporation I work for." Now why was she trying to impress him?

  "Peter or Jasper Kinsey? Must be Jasper—you don't strike me as a woman who'd settle for second place on your climb to the top."

  That was quite enough for one night. She withdrew even mor
e, pulling the robe more tightly around her body. "Good night," she said coldly. 'I don't expect you'll be awake when I leave tomorrow, so I'll say good-bye, too." She moved past him, down the darkened hallway, without a backward glance. The overhead light silhouetted her slender body for a moment.

  "I wouldn't count on it," he said softly. She was far too skinny, far too angry, far too ambitious for him to expend any energy on. Still, there was something about her that called to him. Maybe it was those blue eyes, cold and lost and angry. Or the stubborn set to her chin as she stared up at him. Or the vulnerable, unsmiling mouth that had first tipped him off to her sex. Not to mention that undeniable swell of breast that remained despite her skinniness. "No, Jessica, I wouldn't count on it at all."

  Chapter Four

  The Slaughterer, voL 72: The Wrath of Decker

  Matt Decker surveyed the carnage around him. He always forgot how much damage a machine gun could inflict in such a short period of time. The streets ofMiami were spattered with blood, the blood of the enemy, and he saw it with satisfaction. If only he'd managed to find that amazon.

  Her large blue eyes haunted him. Ilse, someone had called her. Probably part of the Baader-Meinhof gang. She'd taste his vengeance before long. No one was safe from the mighty justice of the Slaughterer for long. But how those wide blue eyes of hers haunted him.

  "You don't look any more rested, Jessica," Ham said sternly. "And that's your third cup of coffee this morning. I'll have you know my coffee is very strong. You'd better cut it with some food or you'll be climbing the walls."