Chapter 41 #2
“Hey, I asked you if you were lost,” a young man said.
Alex could not move. The boy was perhaps nineteen or twenty. But he looked so much like Xavier that she was frozen. He could have been Xavier’s son.
His eyes also widened. Then traveled over her appreciatively. “Can I help?” He smiled then. His smile was different, wider and dimpled, not Xavier’s at all, and Alex relaxed somewhat.
He was holding out his hand. “I’m Black. At least, that’s what I’ve been called ever since junior high. My real name’s Xavier. But it’s sort of a mouthful.” His eyes danced.
Alex managed to nod. Telling herself that she would not cry. How beautiful he was, this descendant of Xavier’s.
“I was named after an ancestor of mine,” he continued, his eyes curious.
“I know,” she managed thickly.
“Are you going to cry? Have I upset you?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Maybe you had better come inside. How about a drink?” He was holding her arm.
Alex nodded again, breathing shallowly, her heart racing. Black took her hand now. He was young, but his grip was possessive and firm.
They entered the foyer. How it had changed.
The oak floors were dark brown now, unscratched, polished and gleaming.
A huge chandelier was overhead. The runners on the staircase Just ahead of Alex were crimson and new, with running lines of gold and blue.
An iron banister replaced what had once been wood.
Beautiful, expensive furniture, most of it European antiques, was everywhere.
“Come on in,” Black said, regarding her with dark probing eyes.
“Maybe I’ll wait here,” Alex said, hating herself for what she intended to do—for using this young man. But how he would understand if he knew the truth.
“Okay. But my dad wouldn’t mind, really. He has a shark-like reputation in business, which is crucial today if you’re gonna survive and thrive, but socially he’s a great guy.”
“I’ll wait,” Alex murmured.
“White wine?”
Alex thought of the new life growing inside of her. “A Perrier, please.”
He grinned and sauntered toward the grand salon.
The moment he was gone, Alex glanced around, saw that she was alone, and dashed up the stairs.
She took them two at a time, panting, her heart pounding. Upstairs she headed directly for his room. Not even pausing, she swung his door open wide.
Alex cried out.
She had, for some stupid reason, expected to see an ancient four-poster bed, a small pine desk, an armoire and chest. But this lushly appointed room was as different as possible, opulent in its appointments, from the red and white floral fabric on the walls to the gold silk canopy on the bed.
Clearly the Blackwell patriarch had a wife. Her touch was evident everywhere.
Nevertheless, this had been his room, and Alex closed the bedroom door and leaned against it, out of breath and trembling. “Where are you?” she whispered, agonized. “I miss you so much. I need you so much. I don’t really want your ghost, but if that is all I can have, I’ll settle. Xavier?”
Silence filled the room. Light and airy. He wasn’t present.
Alex began to cry. She loved him so much that she could not bear the intensity of her feelings. She could not bear being separated by two centuries. “Come to me, please!” she cried.
And she waited, listening, but he did not come.
Alex looked at the stately bed, a fur throw at its foot, at the white brocade draperies, at the yellow velvet couch and the black marble fireplace. She wept softly.
And then she looked at the rug. “Ohmygod,” she whispered.
The rug had not been replaced. It was the same centuries-old Persian rug that she had seen on her first visit to Blackwell House.
Alex slid to her knees. Rubbing her hands over the worn, faded rug, crying now, harder than before. She lay down on her stomach, her cheek against the soft, worn wool. “Xavier,” she moaned. The wool was warm beneath her cheek.
Strangely warm.
The door behind her opened, a man’s footsteps sounding, halting abruptly. His cry was sharp. “What the hell?”
It wasn’t Black, it was someone older, and Alex did not have to be told to know it was his father, the patriarch of Blackwell Shipping. She heard the authority in his tone, felt his maturity, his power, his presence.
Alex did not move because the rug was very warm beneath her face and hands, and her legs were tingling, growing numb. She prayed.
He rushed around her and dropped to his knees, his eyes wide with concern. Alex looked up and felt a wave of shock.
He was the spitting image of Xavier, but he was older, perhaps fifty or fifty-one. But he was a very young and virile fifty, excruciatingly handsome, extraordinarily fit. Had she not known where she was, she would have thought him to be the man she loved.
And he was staring at her as if he had recognized her too. “Who are you?” he said hoarsely.
Alex’s legs were numb. She was beginning to spin, her vision beginning to blur. She did not answer him, but she smiled.
“What’s wrong? Are you ill?” he asked.
She was truly spinning now. He was so distraught that she decided she had to respond. Still smiling, she whispered, “I am fine. I am going home.”
“Who are you?” he demanded, staring at her. “Who the hell are you?”
She felt a strange yet now familiar sucking pressure taking hold of her body. “Alexandra Thornton,” she said.
He gasped. “That’s impossible!” he cried, but he was standing now—and staring at her as if he had seen a ghost.
Alex smiled at him, filled with love, and then the cyclone came, sucking her down, away.