Frankenstein In Love Read online

  Finally having it settled in her mind, she managed to pull her gaze away from him and turned her attention to Joni who was laughing and chattering endlessly. Tiffany tried to relax and listen to her, but she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Moving very slowly, she cut her gaze around and looked at him again, noticing that he was with a very attractive brunette. She lowered her gaze, feeling a big pang of jealousy clutch at her stomach.

  “What’s wrong, kiddo?”

  “Oh, n-nothing,” she said, smiling nervously at Joni. “I just thought I saw someone I knew.”

  She struggled to act as normal as possible, and forced her attention elsewhere. But it was no good. She felt pulled in his direction, and finally found herself seeking him out again. She stared at first until he turned and it seemed as if their gazes collided with each other. It jolted her to her core, and she felt captured to the point that before she knew what was happening, he was giving her the deepest sexual stare she had ever experienced. She began to tremble and shiver. Their gazes fused, and desire such as she had never known rose up in her. All at once everyone in the restaurant had disappeared but him, and as he embraced her with his blatant stare, she felt him arousing an animal lust in her unlike anything she had even dreamed of. She thought she was going to pass out. Her gaze became heavy-lidded and her lips parted slightly, allowing her tongue to lightly lick her lips. The burning desire in her was almost painful, making her feel like a common wanton, willing to let him love her with an uninhibited passion. She began struggling with this deep, unholy attraction until several minutes later she finally managed to tear her gaze away from his.

  She grabbed her napkin to wipe her brow.

  “It can’t be,” she whispered into the napkin. “It just can’t be. He’s only a figment of my imagination. How can he be here, made of solid flesh and blood?”

  “What in hell are you muttering about over there?”

  “Oh, uh, nothing,” she said before she noticed that the man and his date were getting up to leave. On their way out they stopped at Tiffany’s table.

  “Excuse me, aren’t you Tiffany Lovelace, the writer?”

  “Why, yes,” she said, astounded.

  “I hope you’ll forgive us. When I thought I recognized you, Elaine didn’t believe me, so we made a bet.” He shrugged. “It seems I’ve won.” He had a napkin in his hand and put it on the table. “May I have your autograph? I know men are not supposed to read romance novels, but it seems that I’ve become quite an addict of your work.” He laughed. “I hope that doesn’t make me sound strange.”

  “No, of course not,” Tiffany said, giving him a smile as she signed the napkin. “I only wish more men would read romance novels. If they did, maybe there wouldn’t be so many disappointed women in the world.”

  The man frowned at the remark. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, men go around trying to be so damned macho all the time when all they would have to do to please a woman is to read a romance novel once in a while to find out what really makes her hot. After all, they’re written by women, for women. It seems to me if a man is really the tomcat he thinks he is, he would forget all his smart-ass ideas, do his homework, and go home to his wife and make her happy for once.”

  Tiffany had apparently spoken louder than she intended and had gathered quite an audience who clapped and cheered at the end of her little speech. Feeling a bit embarrassed, she said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get on my soapbox.”

  “No, it’s all right. You’ve certainly given us a lot to think about, and I’m sure after that little speech every man in this restaurant will go right out and buy one of your novels.” He put the napkin in his pocket and reached for her hand, speaking softly. “It’s certainly been a pleasure, but I must ask you—” He glanced around and indicated a chair. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  He dragged the chair up beside her, sat down, and draped his arm across the back of hers. Tiffany noticed his apparent familiarity, and experienced a sense of déjà vu. Feeling him so close, it reminded her of the dream, and when she gazed into his eyes, she immediately felt herself getting lost in them again. All at once everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as she focused on his lips, watching him lick them suggestively. With his gaze once again embracing hers, she again had the feeling of responding to him in an animalistic sexual fury. Struggling to overcome this evil trap, she lowered her head, shook it slightly, trying to keep up with his conversation.

  “—does the lucky man in your life read your romance novels? And,” he added with suggestive huskiness, “does he please you?”

  Tiffany blinked, still trying to clear her head. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

  “I was asking about the man in your life,” he said seductively. Leaning toward her, he whispered boldly in her ear, “Is he keeping you satisfied?”

  She abruptly pulled her hand out of his, and said sharply, “If I were you, sir, I wouldn’t worry about someone else’s love life. I’d worry about my own.” She nodded toward the brunette who was talking and laughing with another man. With an abrupt movement, she picked up her purse, pushed past him, and pulled Joni out of the restaurant.

  “Wow, what a performance,” Joni said when they got outside.

  “I’m sorry, Joni, I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”

  “Hell, no. By the way, who was that man? My God, he was gorgeous.”

  “Nobody much,” Tiffany sniffed sadly, “just the man of my dreams.”

  Tiffany burned rubber getting out of the parking area, and went a few blocks before she saw another restaurant and pulled in.

  Now, as she sat in another booth with tears in her eyes, she bit down on a big greasy burger bulging with onions while staring out at the big golden arches in front. Her big celebration dinner had ended at, of all places—McDonalds.

  * * * *

  Later that same evening, Tiffany fumbled around in her medicine cabinet searching for aspirin and feeling like she was going crazy. After gulping down three, she walked back into the bedroom and crawled into bed.

  She leaned back against her pillow, unable to get her mind off the evening’s activities when she felt herself drifting into the blue atmosphere again, but this time when she got her bearings she found herself walking down a dark corridor. She peered into the narrow darkness and saw the dim, colorless brightness of moonlight at the other end. She crept closer and closer, trying to be as quiet as possible. When she had finally gone as far as she could, she stepped into a small, crude, square chamber that had nothing in it except a barred door and a dirty window that was streaked with stains from the elements. She could hear movement on the other side, sort of a shuffling sound that caused chills to creep along her spine. She knew she should turn and run, but something held her there—curiosity, maybe. She knew that someone—or something was on the other side of that door, and she couldn’t leave until she knew who—or what it was.

  She grasped the bars tightly and stared into the darkness for some sign of life, but all she could see was a small square of moonlight filtering down on a concrete floor. Seconds, minutes, maybe hours passed before she realized that something was different. It was the shuffling. It had stopped, and a deep hush—a dangerous hush—had taken its place. She could hear her own breath, jerking with fright. She wanted to leave, but she stood shivering, rooted to the spot. And then, without warning, a horrible creature leaped out of the darkness, rattling the iron door, his face practically destroyed. The moment of his appearance was so sudden, and so horrible, that she jerked her head back and screamed!

  Chapter 4

  SHE jolted up in bed, immersed in fear. Fear of something she’d seen, but she couldn’t seem to remember what it was. She only knew that it was horrible, and it was staring out at her from behind shadows and bars.

  The eyes, oh my God, she thought. They glared like some wild animal. It was a smoldering gaze that stabbed at me unmercifully. She combed her hair b
ack with her hands. God, what’s happening to me? I’m becoming confused—my mind is jumbled—I can’t sleep—I can’t eat.

  Finally forcing the picture from her mind, she prepared to face another day. Feeling heavy and clumsy, she got out of the bed, and managed a shower. When she was finally dressed she didn’t feel any better, but still she dragged herself downstairs with nothing but coffee on her mind. When she got to the kitchen she discovered Mrs. O’Hanlan was already there.

  “I was just about to come and find ye. Didn’t yer alarm clock go off?”

  “Battle scars,” Tiffany said, remembering throwing it against the wall.

  The older woman frowned at the reply. “What?”

  “Oh, uh, nothing. It’s broken, that’s all.”

  The woman’s gaze narrowed on Tiffany. “What’s the matter? Are ye sick?”

  “No, do I look sick?” Tiffany croaked.

  “Ye look like somethin’ the cat dragged in.”

  “I guess I haven’t been sleeping very well.”

  “Why don’t ye take the day off and rest?”

  “My book…”

  “Forget them sinful books and come over here and let me fix ye some breakfast. Ye don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive.”

  “No. No breakfast, but I’d kill for a cup of coffee.”

  Mrs. O’Hanlan gave her a motherly frown, and said reprovingly. “Ye need some eggs and bacon, young lady. It can’t be doin’ ye any good to skip breakfast that way. Ye need yer strength, else how’re ye gonna keep writin’ them wicked books that should be banned in every bookstore in the country?”

  “God, Mrs. O’Hanlan, just the idea of an egg this early in the morning makes me ill. Just give me some coffee. Maybe I could manage some toast, but that’s all.”

  “Oh no. I’m gonna fix ye some scrambled eggs and toast,” the woman said as she poured her coffee and gave it to her. “It’s still not enough, but it’s more than ye’ve been eatin’, and it’ll help.”

  Almost getting sick at the suggestion, she mumbled, “Where the hell is a dog when you need one?”

  “What was that?” the older woman asked as she turned on the stove, filling the kitchen with early morning cooking smells.

  “Uh, nothing,” Tiffany said as she gulped down her coffee.

  A few minutes later the woman scooped Tiffany’s breakfast onto a plate and placed it in front of her.

  “Mental note,” Tiffany mumbled while staring down at her eggs. “Get a dog.”

  With a loud, disturbing, early morning jangle the phone rang, and Mrs. O’Hanlan reached over and picked it up. “Lovelace Residence. Oh, hello, Ms. Phillips.” She paused, listening. “Well, that’s wonderful. I’ll see if she can talk now.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “It’s yer agent, and she says she has good news.” She handed Tiffany the phone.

  “Hi, Reyna, what’s up?”

  “How would you like a month off for good behavior?”

  “Sorry,” Tiffany said, sourly, “I don’t believe in fairy tales anymore. I’m a big girl now. I can dress myself and everything.”

  “Well, dust off your old Mother Goose book, kiddo, because you have a month off to do exactly as you please. I just found out this morning that due to a major screwup, the due date on your book has been rescheduled, and you can be a lady of leisure for a while. The only thing I ask is that you don’t get too used to it. You know how fairy tales are, you turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”

  “When is the midnight hour?”

  “July twenty-first.”

  “Oh, wow! Thanks a lot, and give my regards to the genius who’s gonna be walkin’ the streets looking for a job.”

  “You got it. Bye, love.”

  “Well,” she began, turning her happy gaze toward Mrs. O’Hanlan who was scowling at her with curiosity, “as of this moment, I’m officially on vacation.”

  “Oh my, that’s fine. But tell me, now, are ye gonna take that vacation, or am I gonna have to call somebody in here to chop up that computer?”

  “No need to get drastic. I’ll be good, I promise. In fact, you can have a month off as well. Since I won’t be working, I won’t need anyone here with me.”

  Mrs. O’Hanlan frowned while cocking her head suspiciously. “Are ye tellin’ me the truth? I don’t trust a woman who can write the kind of books you do.”

  “If I’m not telling the truth, may Vampire’s Kiss be devoid of blood and sex.”

  Mrs. O’Hanlan snickered. “God forbid.”

  “And don’t worry about me, I’m not going near a computer. Besides, you must have things at home you need to do. We’ll both take a little time off to regroup.” She shrugged. “Who knows? I may not lose my mind after all.”

  After Mrs. O’Hanlan had gathered up her things and left, Tiffany wandered out on the porch. Settling down on the swing, she held the coffee cup up to her lips and gazed thoughtfully at the little sign that was being buffeted by the wind.

  Entrance to Cat’s Paw.

  The name she read on the tattered little sign kept digging into her mind, reminding her she’d heard it somewhere—somewhere that led her into a dark, bizarre little world that was shrouded in mystery. She could hear the words, even see a pair of lips moving. If she hadn’t heard it from the man she’d met in front of Cheney’s Market, where—

  All at once she thrust herself forward, abruptly sitting up in the wobbly swing. It came to her. She knew. He had said it. The man in her dream. They were out on the ridge and even now she could hear the shriek of the wind, feel the sea spray on her face, and the warmth of his cape as he enfolded her inside. She closed her eyes, hearing the echoing voices whirl in her mind.

  Where am I…am I…am I…

  You’re on Cat’s Paw…Cat’s Paw…Cat’s Paw…

  With that phrase still playing and replaying in her mind, she turned back to the tattered little sign asking herself, What did Cat’s Paw and her dream man have in common? The porch swing gave off an eerie squeak as she stood, her gaze narrowing on the little sign as it continued to sway erratically in the wind.

  “Cat’s Paw,” she murmured. Of course. The words must have come to her in her dream because she’d read them on the sign. After all, she saw the little sign every time she stepped out of her house. Why wouldn’t she dream it? While in the shade of her porch, she saw the fuzzy, early morning sun coming up, its blurred brightness laying a carpet of gold along the road and tipping the trees and bushes with its incredible beauty. As usual, it seemed to purposely skip the little road, leaving it in its eternal shade.

  Gazing over at the road that taunted her, she wondered why she felt so determined to kill this dragon. She was itching to see what was up there all right, but she didn’t know why. If she got nothing else for her trouble, maybe she’d get a new plot for a book, and if not, at least her curiosity would be satisfied.

  Time’s a-wastin’, she finally thought, and like a shot she turned, slammed through the front door, ran upstairs, and threw on her jogging suit.

  A short time later she stepped out onto the porch, her writer’s curiosity pumping through her veins. Was she being foolish? Would any sane person do what she was about to do after being warned to stay away from the strange little road? Maybe not, but nothing would make her turn back now.

  No gossip—no rumors—no horror stories—nothing.

  In a way, she was excited and couldn’t wait, but as she hesitantly walked toward it, apprehension reared its ugly head, giving her nerves a workout. Determined not to let it stop her, she kept walking—away from her cozy little world—and into another.

  Stepping over what seemed to be an imaginary boundary line between the normal world and this strange little road was like stepping over into the Twilight Zone. As she carefully viewed the dim wilderness, she felt the little road’s chilling welcome, and knew she would not be forgiven for intruding on this evil little patch of obscurity. If she was smart, she would turn
back before she ever took a step, but instead, she gazed up into the wild mass of tangled trees and found herself surrounded by a heavy gloom that strangely embraced her like an eerie dream.

  The little road seemed narrow because of tree limbs that hung heavily over the path, forming a rustic passage into the unknown. As she began the long-awaited trek, she peered up the trail as far as she could see and noticed that it wound crazily up through the jungle of trees. The deeper she went, the darker it got. The strange-looking trunks leaned in every direction with hanging vines, and some kind of plant that resembled severely misshapen palms. Short trees, and tall ones, skinny or round seemed to be so crowded in places they were pushing against each other—growing together in deformed shapes.

  She shivered as she heard the cicadas and the screeching birds in the trees nearby, but she gathered up her courage and plodded on ahead. She stumbled over deep ruts, and in the distance she could hear owls hooting. In among the shadowy trees and the mist that lingered, the eerie inflection was a haunting, funereal sound. When she finally came to a turn in the road, she stopped and glanced back. She could no longer see her house but made herself keep walking. When she got to a certain point she heard an unusual flopping in the trees that gradually became louder and more frenzied. She stretched her neck to try to see what it was, but couldn’t find anything.

  It’s only a bird, she thought, trying to bring logic into this bizarre experience so she wouldn’t turn and run. The sound stopped after a while, and when she had walked a little longer she noticed something up ahead lying on the side of the road. When she saw what it was, her hand flew up to her mouth and she whirled around, a flood of fear surging through her.

  She stood there for a moment, trying to stay calm. Finally, she turned and angled her gaze down at the collection of human bones when she happened to see something moving. “Oh, my God!” she cried. There ahead of her was a small tarpaper shack with human bones scattered around it.