LITMIR.BIZ

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his petty rules and reprimands.

      Maybe she’d misread Mr. Johansson. Yet from the second she stood in the hall, his every move had forced reaction from her. She licked her dry lips. Not forced. The words formed in her mind, though the voice wasn’t really her own. Not forced. Compelled. She shook her head so her long earrings rattled. Oh, for goodness’ sake! Now that was just being pathetic. She’d really lost it today.

      The mausoleum he called home had gotten the better of her, maybe. Or perhaps she’d prodded him with a verbal stick, and as most men backed down when she challenged them, she’d been surprised he hadn’t, and couldn’t help but dislike his response. Well, he’d have to deal with people making demands. There’d be a lot more when the shoot took place.

      Sometimes she wondered at Franklyn’s wisdom in using existing buildings for sets. Wouldn’t it be easier to have a set built? She’d suggested it, but only once, about four years ago in her first months at work. Franklyn’s response, she’d never forgotten.

      Rather like the way Mr. Johansson had swallowed her into his gaze in the ballroom. If he’d admitted to x-ray vision, she wouldn’t have been surprised. What the hell was wrong with her? A very attractive–if somewhat unusual–man looked her over, and she’d gone to jelly? Normally, she accepted the kind of looks he’d given her as her due. Most guys at least gave her one more than a second glance, but him...

      “Rubbish, hon.” She ran her hand through her hair. “You’ve been alone way too long, little lady,” she drawled the words to herself, John Wayne style. She started the car and the CD of Timeless roared, shaking the windows. This song had the potential to be a rock classic.

      Her tires skidded as she drove down to the monumental black gates. She shook her head. Everything about this place seemed designed to give someone the chills.

      Had the house ever been used for commercial photography before? From the imperious way he’d shown her around, she thought not. No amount of money would make it so. His words brought a grin. Everything, everyone had their price. He just hadn’t found his level yet.

      The low mist swirling around the entrance gates almost made her laugh, now she’d gotten a safe distance away from the property’s owner. Hammer House of Horror. This place could be straight off one of the lots. The automatic gates swung open, and she checked the clock on the dash. If she put her foot down, she could be back at the hotel in less than an hour. She’d get most of the stuff written up before dinner and then email it with a selection of the photographs to Franklyn. A large Scotch would be sure to help her over the surprise of Count Johansson.

      As her car sped down the road, she couldn’t help but chuckle. Count Johansson suited him, brass buttons on that blue blazer and all.

      At the hotel, after she’d kicked off her shoes, she settled on the comfortable couch with her feet up, sipped a small splash of whisky from the mini-bar and took out the iPad, downloaded her photographs and let her imagination romp through the masked ball idea she’d had in the ballroom. Eighteenth century costumes, masks, white wigs, satin and lace and the beginning of the story of the love Timeless spoke of.

      The terrace steps would be a wonderful backdrop for the quarrel between the couple. Maybe, they could use the library for the death scene?

      The scarlet drapes would be a fabulous echo of the spread of blood. The bedroom for the romantic, ghostly make up scene would be perfect, of course. She stared at the screen, visualizing the other parts of the house, the kitchens, the portrait lined corridor. Perhaps Count Johansson was right and the kitchens wouldn’t be part of the shoot. A flash of hostility sparked, that he’d influenced her in any way. She clicked to save her first draft, and went down to the dining room.

      Though the small restaurant was pleasant enough, dinner wasn’t a gourmet experience, and she returned to her room to work in less than an hour. By eleven, the whole scene played out in her head, and certain Franklyn and the lead singer of Dreams, Niko, would love her ideas, she clicked Send with satisfaction. Before undressing for bed she peeked out the window. The rain still beat down. She’d be glad to get back to town, and it would be at least a month before she returned here. There’d be plenty of time to put the magnetic but unsettling Mr. Johansson from her thoughts.

      The oppressive temperature in the room woke her three or four times in the night. Sweat ran between her breasts, and heat seemed to radiate from her skin. Frustration thumped through her. The clock said four thirty, and she needed some sleep.

      In desperation, she rose and opened the window, hoped the drapes wouldn’t end up sodden by the rain. She dropped back to the bed and lay under only the top sheet. Sleep came, but she didn’t relax.

      * * * *

      In her dreams, the darkened corridor strung out in front of her seemed to go on to infinity. Odd glimmers of moonlight reflected from open doors, but all her instincts told her not one of them led to sanctuary. Only the closed double doors at the far end of the corridor beckoned her to safety. A painful, icy numbness burned into the back of her neck and told her she wasn’t alone.

      She glanced behind her but saw nothing in the wavering darkness. Deep, low panted sounds reached her, almost stilling her rapid breathing, and she fought the sudden urge to pee. More rasped breaths followed, and all her muscles clenched tight. Unnatural in their pitch, the sounds grew louder, ever closer, and her need transformed to a burning tingle spreading between her thighs. The race became one for her life, and she dashed to try and reach the doors at the end of the corridor. Without a doubt, those doors led to the ballroom and out into the freedom of the garden.

      The rapid click of steps behind her on the polished floor added to the sound of breaths other than her own. A scream hovered at the base of her throat.

      A savage kind of excitement tore through her. She’d no way to tell where the pounding in her blood might lead. Desperation to flee soared so her muscles bunched, ready to run.

      Somehow, she had to get out of here.

      But now her legs seemed impeded by treacle slowness as she fought for freedom. Perspiration poured from her in the effort to escape. She waded, dragged each foot forward as though through deep water, and a lick of hot breath scorched her waist. Her scream ripped out into the darkness. Naked, she battled, her fingers slipping and scrabbling for the door handles just beyond her reach. Soft, lush fur rubbed against her outer thigh. Twisting, she tried to avoid it, and cried out as again massive fur-covered muscles pressed tight against her hip.

      A ripe scent urged her body’s response and a rush of fear raced in her veins. Swirls of darkness took all consciousness.

      Eyes wide open, she bolted upright in the bed. Awake. The drapes flapped at the open window. Light spilled in from the car park security lamp, and the small room was freezing.

      Rising from the bed on unsteady feet, she yanked the window shut, pulled her robe over her nightgown, and pushed a hand through her hair. She flicked on the bedside light. Four thirty-five AM.

      Wow, that dream was one she didn’t want to go back to. All her terror had been encapsulated in less than five minutes’ sleep. Terror, the remains of it still sliding over her skin, rippled through her thoughts. A wave of nausea crept up from her stomach at the sheer helplessness of her inability to escape whatever had pursued her. Nasty.

      In the bathroom she filled a glass of water, and staring at her reflection, washed the taste of fear from her mouth. The bright light in the small bathroom stung, and no wonder. Her pupils looked dilated to great, round circles. She narrowed her gaze against the light and drank. “It’s time you had a vacation, girl. I think you need one. When this shoot is finished, then it’s time to hit the beach.”

      She flipped the light off and slid back into bed. The cool pillow molded to her, and with the hope her next dream would be sweeter, she tried to sleep.

      By the time she checked out the next morning, the dream had faded to an unpleasant memory, its horror blotted away by her concern to make it through the traffic on time for a day at the office. She itched to find out what Franklyn thought of her plans for the shoot,

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