Wildest Dreams Read Online Free Page B

you’re waiting to hear my first impression of you,” I said, “I think I’ll keep that to myself.”
    “As you wish.” She returned her attention to the head. “At any rate, the preliminary dental exam should be completed by midnight. There are a few other formalities that you don’t need to worry about. But if all goes well, you’ll have your money by tomorrow afternoon.”
    “Tomorrow afternoon I wanted to be on a beach.”
    “There are beaches here.”
    “I was thinking of the tropics.”
    “Believe me, I can understand your impatience.” She shrugged. “But the tropics will have to wait.”
    “And in the meantime?”
    “At the top of the stairs, you’ll find a guest room. There’s a shower. I suggest you make use of it. There’s a bed, too. It’s comfortable. You can have a nap. Later we’ll have dinner. Just the two of us.”
    I thought it over. A shower…a nap…dinner…it didn’t sound so bad.
    She laughed.
    “What’s so funny?”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Saunders. But I’ve never had this much trouble convincing a man to spend time with me.”
    “It’s not you.” I nodded at Diabolos Whistler’s severed head. “It’s him. I’m a little tired of his company.”
    “I know the feeling,” she said.
    I started up the circular staircase. A shower would be good. Really long. Really hot. I wanted to be clean.
    I wondered what Circe Whistler wanted. I’d struck a nerve when I mentioned her inheritance, but I knew that she was after more than a few extra zeros at the end of her bank balance. One look at the house and I knew that she already had more than enough money.
    I could see right through Spider Ripley. Just like he was a window. A first impression was all it took with a guy like that. Spider Ripley was all slot A in tab B, until he fit together like a kid’s toy. But Circe Whistler was something else. A puzzle box. The kind the Japanese made. The kind you couldn’t open unless someone showed you how.
    I watched her through spiked wrought iron bars as I walked along the landing above the living room. Watched her black nails rake Diabolos Whistler’s long white mane. Watched her fingers curl into a fist. Watched her raise her father’s severed head, and watched it sway at her side as she disappeared down a dark corridor of redwood and stone, leaving only the sound of Diabolos Whistler’s bristling goatee brushing her naked thigh with every step she took.

 
    4
     
     
     
    “We’re alone, just like Hansel and Gretel.”
    That voice again, like a lonely wind that touches no one.
    I jerked awake, but there was no little girl ghost with long blonde hair and a black dress. Only Circe, her raven hair spilling over shoulders inked with scales and blood, demons’ leers and children’s tears.
    “You were dreaming,” she said.
    She sat on the edge of the bed, and just as I realized that her hand was on top of mine it whispered away over black satin sheets and was gone.
    I’d slept away the afternoon. Outside, stars salted the black sky, but there was no moon. In the bedroom, spears of feeble yellow light fought a losing battle with the shadows, abandoning us to the dark.
    Somewhere in the house, someone was crying. Very, very softly. Fragile, feminine sobs that were somehow out of place, like a sliver of dream under the skin of reality.
    Circe didn’t seem to hear the crying at all. Or maybe I had imagined it—another moment and the sound was gone.
    I looked into Circe’s eyes, twin chips of cold blue ice. Certainly no tears gleamed there. I wondered if she ever cried.
    I doubted it. Crying would redden her eyes, and red eyes didn’t have anything to do with the image Circe Whistler wanted to project. Red eyes were for demons and monsters. But blue eyes could be many things—cool and intelligent, alluring and hypnotic, enticing as they were mysterious. Maybe that was the secret of Circe’s gaze. Not the destructive power of a Medusa, but a vampire’s stare that reflected its