Chapter Four
William turned away from his computer and glanced out at the night. His pale face reflected in the glass, flickering in time with the lighthouse light that swung through the fog. He stared at his features in fascination, running a hand down his hard jaw, tracing the scar that bisected his left brow. No matter how many times he looked in the mirror he was taken aback by that one strange thing. William knew his own face. It had been the same face he'd had for his whole life. All his thirty years he'd had these startling blue eyes, these sculpted lips. He knew his face, he had pictures of himself at all ages and in the pictures taken after he turned twenty-five, William had the scar.
The only thing was, he didn't remember getting it.
Tracing it out, he wondered for the hundredth time, how could he have forgotten? It was a substantial scar, so must have been a substantial cut. Must have bled and hurt like a bitch but he simply didn't remember.
He'd asked his mum, his dad, even his older sister Cecily and they'd all get this strange look on their faces as if they too had forgotten and were disturbed by the fact that not one of them could remember.
And it wasn't just the scar on his eyebrow. There were other scars. The one in the middle of his back that looked like a large bullet hole and the one down his side where it looked like he'd had a knife taken to him. He'd even asked his doctor, but apparently, those injuries had been treated by emergency doctors that had long since transferred.
William turned his arm over and stared down at the inside of his right forearm at the biggest mystery of them all. The tattoo.
It was a stylized phoenix. The bird graced the inside of his arm, its body rising up from the intricately designed flames while and its red and gold wings spread majestically and wrapped around to his outer arm. It was a beautiful piece that drew many compliments and comments.
And William had no memory of getting it done. He didn't even know who had done the work. He'd visited numerous tattoo artists, hoping one of them would recognize the style or the technique, but despite their admiration for the work, no one had claimed it.
The door to his office opened and he spun the chair around and smiled at his assistant.
"Will!" she said, stopping and staring at him. "What the hell! Why aren't you ready?"
He linked his fingers together behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and stared at her with a mischievous smile.
"Sorry, love, time got away from me," he said slowly. He eyed her short skirt and long jacket and hummed a few lines from the Cake song. All it earned him was another glare and William remembered that he'd hired Jackie because she'd seemed immune to his good looks, British accent, and his wicked charm. And not once since he'd hired her had she proven otherwise.
As she used the file she was carrying to slap him up the back side of the head, he figured she wasn't going to change her tune today.
"You are not wearing that to a book signing!" she said, glaring at his black jeans and t-shirt.
He looked down, offended. "What? What's wrong with what I'm wearing? These are fine Calvin Klein's, they are!"
"I don't care if they were worn by Calvin Klein himself. You are not wearing jeans to a book signing."
She strode over to the closet and threw it open. Inside were the dozen or so suits she'd personally selected for him for just these occasions. Occasions where she forced him to wear them, then she had them dry cleaned and she hung them right back where they'd come from so that they'd be ready for the next time she forced him to dress up. Flipping through the rack, she pulled out a navy blue suit, glanced at it, then shook her head and put it back. Then, smiling, she pulled out her favorite and a recent acquisition, a fine lightweight charcoal gray single breasted suit from Nutters of Savile Row. Jackie turned and smiled at him.
"You'll wear this," she said and her firm tone brooked no opposition.
He tried anyway. "No tie," he insisted.
She sighed but nodded in agreement and reaching into the closet pulled out a crisp black shirt, a black leather belt with silver buckle and a long, silver, silk scarf. "No tie," she said. "But you'll wear the scarf."
He grimaced, eying the clothing with dislike. He liked his jeans and tees and his leather jacket. How was he supposed to get around on his motorcycle if he was get up all stiff and the like? But taking one look at Jackie's determined face and William knew not to argue.
"Alright, now get out of here before I change my mind!"
She scowled, but left the room, allowing him his privacy.
William grabbed the clothes and left his office, going into the large dressing room that separated it from his master bedroom. He stripped down and dressed, adjusting the collar and slinging the scarf around his neck, letting the silk tips lay flat. Turning left, then right, he eyed himself up and down and had to give his assistant credit. The woman knew how to shop and she knew the best bloody tailors in London. The suit fit like a glove: the pants just narrow enough to be hip and fashionable, the jacket fitted to show off his lean, wiry build. He hurried to his bedroom, grabbed his watch and a pair of old, scuffed Italian loafers and met up with her in the hallway.
Jackie spotted the shoes right away but said nothing, simply adjusted his scarf slightly and then nodded in approval.
"All good?" he asked, curling his tongue behind his teeth and grinning at her with boyish charm.
She cracked a smile and then ran her hands over his curly pale blond hair, tousling it a bit. "All good."
"Can we take the bike?" he asked with a grin.
She shot him a look cold enough to freeze vodka. "No."
William chuckled and followed her through the large house and down to the garage. She tossed him the keys to his 2010 Camero and like the gentleman he was, he opened the door for her and helped her in. Then he slid into his own seat and started the car, grinning at the rumble of the engine.
"God, I love this car," he said with a chuckle and glanced over at her stony face. "Come on Jackie, admit it, you love this car."
"It's an inanimate object. I have no feelings for it," she said with disdain.
He winced as he pulled out of the garage. "Ooh Jackie, so cold! Cold! It's not an inanimate object. It's got a heart and a mind of its own."
"Ridiculous," she scoffed, but he swore he saw a smile tease the edge of her lipstick red lips and he grinned. "We're downtown, at Beauvais' Books," she added, all business.
"Got it," he said, getting on to highway 17 and heading into town. He opened the sunroof to let the warm night air spill in and then he fiddled with the stereo until he found the music he wanted. Mozart's Requiem in D Minor filled the car. "What time is Dahlia expecting us?" he asked.
Dahlia Beauvais was the last surviving daughter of the great Beauvais family and she'd taken her love of books and her family fortune and channeled it into her little hobby, Beauvais Books, Charleston's premium book store. For true lovers of books who disdained the box stores with their warehouse feel and lofty ceilings, Beauvais' only claim to loftiness was Dahlia's lineage. When she wasn't at the store peddling Proulx and Poe, she was pampering the famous gardens of the Beauvais plantation over on the Ashley River.
William loved Dahlia Beauvais with a fierceness that was as beautiful as it was inexplicable. When he'd been writing his book, he'd spent numerous hours there, showing up at sundown with his laptop and his battered briefcase overflowing with scraps of paper and clippings. It had been William who had convinced Dahlia to get the wireless Internet and the cappuccino machine. And she'd done it, for him, to make sure that he returned, night after night, to sit with her while he wrote and she read.
When his novel had hit the bestsellers list, it had been a given that he would end his book tour with a reception and book signing where it had all began, at Beauvais'.
Jackie fiddled with her blackberry. "About eightish. She knows about your penchant for the night and of course it just plays with the whole dark and brooding image. She told her guests that you'd be there for eight, do a reading, sign some books, mingle with her friends and supporters and whatever fans managed to get invitations."
"A small crowd," he murmured, picturing Beauvais. It wasn't a large bookstore, but it was well stocked.
Jackie nodded. "Small but influential, you know Dahlia."
William chuckled and glanced over at Jackie. "Is that disapproval I hear in your tone Jackie love?"
She looked at him and sniffed before turning back to her blackberry. "You know how I feel about Dahlia Beauvais, she lacks tact."
William burst out laughing as he turned onto Broad Street and headed for the fashionable historical district. A lack of tact was the least of Dahlia's problems and one of the things he loved the most about her. She was a true original. Eccentric, outspoken, generous and caustic – every minute in her company was an adventure. She was never, ever boring and she was always entertaining.
As far as Jackie was concerned, all those things were not qualities, but limitations. It was why Jackie was so good at her job and why he'd hired her. She was his counter balance. He smiled over at her, bent over her blackberry, frowning. "God, you're bloody fantastic, Jackie," he said. At times she reminded him of someone…someone else just as rigid, just as organized and just as severe…but he could never quite make the connection.
He pulled up in front of the book store, grinning as the valet, dressed in a fine suit, stepped out to the car and opened the door.
"Mr. Bennett, I'll take her from here."
"Isaiah," William said as he got out. "Be gentle with her, she's new and we are still in the honeymoon stage."
"Yes sir," Isaiah replied as he slid into the car with a smile. "She's in good hands."
William turned and offered Jackie his arm. He smiled and waved at the line up of fans that had gathered around the storefront and formed the gauntlet that celebrities had been running for decades. While on his book tour there had been larger crowds in the larger cities, but this was his hometown and he was happy to see such a supportive turnout.
"William!"
"Mr. Bennett!"
Women and men shouted his name and flashed copies of his book, sharpies, and photo stills, hoping for an autograph, for a moment of his time, for some sort of memorable contact. Flashes went off and William plastered a nervous smile on his face. God he hated crowds. He loved his fans; he was ecstatic that someone wanted to read his stories, that all those words he labored over were loved and appreciated. But when they all gathered in one spot it was overwhelming.
Jackie tugged free and gestured to the crowd. "Go and mingle, sign some autographs, meet the people. Most of these guys won't have a chance of getting inside. I'm going to go in and make sure that everything is set up as I've asked."
He nodded and watched her leave, trying to hide the yearning on his face, the almost desperate need to follow her and hide from the crowd with their demands and expectations.
"William!"
"William!"
He smiled at the crowd and walked over to where they were waiting, four deep behind the velvet cords that Dahlia had set up more for looks than actual crowd control. She had great faith that her southern citizens would all behave in a polite manner.
"Hello," he said, smiling at one of the women. He quickly signed the book she handed to him. "How are you tonight?"
"Great!" she gushed, leaning forward and giving William a show of her generous curves. "I loved your book!"
"Thank you so much," he said kindly and moved on to the next fan.
One after the other, he signed books, smiled, made impersonal small talk.
Until he came face to face with the blond woman.
She was petite, probably about 5'2" and slim. Her shoulder length blond hair was cut in a straight bob and angled against her curved jaw and chin. Her features were delicate, with softly arched brows, green eyes and a wide, generous mouth. She was more pretty than beautiful. The sight of her made him pause and an odd sensation filled his chest as his breath caught and every bone and muscle in his body seemed to tighten. She wasn't smiling. Her face, although it probably had a normal, healthy tan, was as pale as alabaster and her beautiful eyes were wide with shock. She looked devastated. It was as if, William thought, he was watching her heart shatter and slowly fall to pieces at his feet, one shard at a time.
"Miss?" he asked softly, reaching for the book she held in her lifeless hand. She didn't take her eyes off of him. But her lips moved, soundlessly, opening and closing, forming words that he couldn't hear. "Miss? Are you alright?"
He leaned towards her, catching a whiff of her scent on the breeze. It was something warm and spicy, sandalwood and citrus, and it seemed like a heavy scent for such a delicate young woman. Their eyes met and William froze at what he saw there. Beyond the pain, beyond the betrayal, he saw recognition. This woman knew him and knew him well; and looking into her eyes he had the sudden thought that he was the cause of her pain, the author of that betrayal.
And he hadn't a clue how or why.
"Miss, let me help you," he said, reaching for her hand, needing to touch her. He was suddenly desperate to feel her, in hope that the touch, that human connection would fill all the blank spots in his life.
"Spike," she whispered harshly. "Oh God," she gasped, her voice catching on years worth of grief and tears. "Spike."
He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure who Spike is. But I'm William. William Bennet."
She reached out a trembling hand and William wasn't sure if she was going to slap him or caress him. "No," she whispered as she gently stroked his cheek. "Spike."
Then her eyes rolled and she slumped towards him.
"Bloody hell!" he yelled, catching her in his arms. He looked around in shock as everyone stared and the volume of the crowd rose to a glass shattering pitch. William lifted the woman into his arms and carried her towards the book store. "Please, move out of the way," he said as he hurried. Dahlia's carefully placed velvet ropes hadn't held and he had to push his way into the book store. "Jackie!" he yelled when he finally made it. "Jackie? Where the hell are you?"
"I'm right here!" she shouted angrily as she strode towards him. She stood in front of him, hands on hips and stared in disbelief. "What the hell happened?"
He shook his head. Spotting Dahlia, he shot her a crooked grin. "Can you shut the door Dahlia?" Then he turned to Jackie and the more subdued, but no less fascinated crowd, which had gathered inside the store. "I was doing what you told me to, signing autographs, mingling with the masses. Then I saw her, I said hi, she called me some other name, and then she fainted. I couldn't leave her there."
Jackie shook her head in disbelief. "Only you! This would only happen to you! I swear, I thought that incident in Miami was bad enough!" she said.
William rolled his eyes. She still hadn't forgiven him for "the incident" involving two Swedish air hostesses and an overflowing Jacuzzi tub. How was he supposed to know you weren't supposed to put bubble bath in the Jacuzzi? Why did the hotel supply it, he'd asked her, if you weren't supposed to use it?
"I had nothing to do with this one, I swear!" he said, looking around for a place to lay his current "incident".
"Of course not! It never is!" Jackie said, pushing through the small crowd to a love seat. "Put her here."
He did as he was told and backed away, feeling an inexplicable emptiness as he lost the physical contact with the young woman.
"Who is she?" Jackie asked, looking at him.
Dahlia found her way to his side and gently took his hand. She gave it an encouraging squeeze and he grinned at her gratefully and then turned his attention back to Jackie. "I have no idea. I told you, she was just standing there in the crowd with everyone else."
Jackie pulled the woman's light linen coat aside and found a small tan leather purse tucked to her side. She opened it carefully and pulled out a wallet and rifled through it.
"Jackie-" William protested but she cut him off.
"We need to know who she is," she said, and then paused as she pulled a drivers license from the wallet. "Buffy Summers."
William stilled as a shot of icy awareness flushed his spine. That name, it was unusual enough to ensure that it was never, ever forgotten. And he knew it….
He just didn't know from where.
Jackie looked up at him. "Do you know her?"
Automatically he shook his head, denying the knowledge, but he knew it was too late, she'd seen the recognition in his gaze.
"William, is there something we need to talk about?" she asked suddenly in a low voice, moving close to him.
"No," he whispered. He glanced passed her to the woman stirring on the couch. "Leave her to me. Go and get things calmed down, I'll be ready to start in a few minutes." He turned to Dahlia. "Love, can you get me a glass of water?"
Dahlia, her face oddly pale and stark, nodded and left.
Jackie shot him one more penetrating look and then she too turned and left.
Left him standing there alone, with the young woman on the couch.
He squatted beside the couch as she stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, looking around frantically for a moment and then settling on him.
"Spike? Oh my God," she whispered hoarsely. "It is you."
William shook his head. He didn't know who this Spike was, but in that moment, looking at her beautiful green eyes, he wanted to be him. One lucky bastard, that guy was.
"Sorry, love, you're mistaking me for someone else."
Then she did the one thing that convinced him that perhaps he was the one mistaken. She reached up and traced out the scar that bisected his left eyebrow.
"No, you're Spike. I would know you anywhere," she murmured. Her gaze was puzzled. "But why don't you know who you are? Why don't you know who I am?"
TBC