“Mr. Feldspar anticipates a lot of banquet receipts?”
Kyle laughed. “You kidding? Most of our other inns haul in forty percent of gross receipts from banquets. You’ll see.”
“And I suppose you’re the banquet manager too, copping the two-percent commission?” Vera couldn’t resist asking.
Kyle chuckled. “Of course.”
Asshole asshole asshole! she thought, following him on down the wide hallway. He cockily muttered a designation, pointing to each door they passed: “Weight rooms.” “Saunas.” “Jacuzzis.” “Racquetball courts.” “Locker rooms.”
Vera was beginning to wonder if there was anything Feldspar hadn’t considered. They even had mineral baths, rooms for mudpacks, and, though it wouldn’t be completed till spring, a stable for horseback riding.
“Pool’s in here,” came Kyle’s next revelation. Another set of high double doors led to the long, dark echoing room. “Nice set up, huh?” Kyle bid. “Quarter of a million gallons.”
It was the biggest indoor pool Vera had ever seen. Heat seemed to float before her at once. Underwater lamps set into the sidewalls pulsed odd dark hues—blue, red, green—which melded under the lapping surface. It was an interesting effect; it seemed almost romantic. The pool itself had been built in a long tile-aproned T-shape, yet the dark underwater lights only illumined the straightaway; the extensions at the top of the T, in other words, were completely unlit. Vera could barely see the room’s end.
“We keep it heated to eighty-six degrees,” Kyle informed her. “You got any idea how much it costs to heat a pool this size?”
As she had probably a hundred times already today, Vera found herself considering costs. “A fortune,” she slowly answered Kyle’s question. And it must have cost several more fortunes to build.
“Let’s go for a swim,” Kyle said.
“What?”
“Come on.” He began to unbutton his shirt. “We’re upper management—we can do what we want.”
I should’ve known, Vera thought. Look at this guy. He was taking off his shirt right in front of her! Eventually, she made the excuse, “Sorry, Kyle. I don’t have a swim-suit.”
He chuckled abruptly. “Wear your birthday suit, that’s what I always wear. Or if you’re bashful, wear your underwear.”
Some tour this turned out to be. She would have liked to have seen the other facilities more closely, but Kyle had deliberately rushed by them to bring her here.
“You’re not a very smooth operator, Kyle. You’ve got to be out of your mind if you think I’m going to go skinny dipping with a guy I just met.’’
“Hey, sorry.” He passed it off with a shrug. “We’re both adults. I just thought you might want to—”
“Well, I don’t. I’m tired, and we’ve both got a big few weeks ahead of us.”
“All the more reason for us to relax, have a good time, right?”
“Wrong, Kyle.” Did he actually believe she would strip right in front of him? Good-looking men had a tendency to expect women to slaver at their feet. Nice try, pal, she thought. She couldn’t help but notice, though, Kyle’s attractive build. He was trim yet well muscled, with sturdy arms and a developed chest. Some sort of thin silver chain glittered about his neck.
“No biggie.” He flung his shirt over his shoulder. Then he cast her a last, snide smile. “Maybe some other time…when you’ve got a swimsuit.”
“Yeah, Kyle. Maybe.” Then again, maybe not.
“See you in the morning.” He walked out and turned down the hall. Vera frowned after him. Dan B.’s right.
But just a second later, Kyle quickly reappeared in the door way, his chest flexed as he grinned in at her. “Oh, and I just wanted to let you know, Vera. Don’t let the stories get to you.”
“Stories?”
“Yeah. The Inn’s haunted.”
Then he disappeared again. Vera wanted to laugh. Did he think he could freak her out? Perhaps he wanted to scare her for snubbing his skinny-dipping plans. What an idiot, she dismissed.
She smiled at her amusement. The Inn’s haunted. Yet for some reason she remained standing there, looking down the long straight body of the pool. The merged light floated languidly atop the water. Then she heard—
What was that?
Her smile faded. She thinned her eyes toward the very end of the pool, the unlit area. She heard a quick rush, then an even quicker dripping sound, then—
A door?
No, it was ridiculous. It must be her imagination.
Vera thought, for a moment, that she’d heard someone climbing out of the dark end of the pool.
— | — | —
CHAPTER ELEVEN
His visions churned. His mind felt caught on the grapnel of a convulsive tilting nightmare.
He was watching himself…
But it was a nightmare, wasn’t it? He lay awake on the bed, the sunlight like a bar of white pain across his eyes.
A nightmare, he thought. Yeah. Hastily as it seemed, the conclusion helped him feel safe again.
It was a nightmare.
“Jesus Christ,” Paul Kirby muttered. The clock’s digital dial read 5:23 p.m. He’d slept the entire day away, which wasn’t like him at all. He was a writer, sure, and generally writers slept late. But… Five in the evening? he questioned himself. Must have picked up the flu or something.
Vera wasn’t here—of course not, she worked at two. Paul attempted to get out of bed, and an abrupt pressure in his head sent him right back down. Hangover, he realized, wincing. This was no flu. He’d been out drinking last night, hadn’t he? And—Holy shit!—was he hungover.
Slower this time, he got up. A glance in the mirror made him groan: naked, pale, dark circles like charcoal under his eyes. He curiously raised a hand to his face, and noted an excess of stubble. It felt like more than a day’s growth.
He stared into the mirror, bloodshot eyes going wide…
Vera, he thought. The thought turned to ice.
Nightmare.
He was watching himself…in the…nightmare…
He mouth tasted like a cat had pissed in it. Some nameless crust seemed flaked around his mouth and across his stomach. Suddenly he sneezed. Pain quaked in his skull, and into his hand he’d sneezed…blood.
“What the hell?” he slowly asked himself.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
Paul nearly shrieked at the hard thuds. Someone was knocking on the door. Correction—they weren’t knocking, they were pounding.
BAM! BAM BAM!
“Open up, Kirby!” hollered a sharp, muffled voice. “Your car’s in the lot, I know you’re in there!”
BAMBAMBAMBAMBAM!
“All right, already.” The thuds made his head hurt worse. But who could it be? I don’t owe anybody money, do 1? He pulled on his robe—the blue monogrammed one Vera had given him last Christmas—and straggled to the door.
“Open this fucking door, Kirby, before I kick it down!”
It was Tate, his editor at the City Sun. Paul opened the door and was almost bulled over by the big, beefy man.
“Where is it?” Tate demanded. Some mysterious rage pinked his face. His fists opened and closed at his sides.
“What are you so pissed off about?” Paul asked. “Take off your coat, have a seat—”
“I ain’t got time to have a fucking seat. I got a newspaper to put out, remember? So hand it over!’’