Touch Me Not Read online

  “Always the last to know,” she muttered, then stood up so abruptly she knocked over her mug, spilling a wide pool of creamy brown coffee right over Luke’s scowling face.

  That scowl was so typical it made her smile. “He comes home a hero and he still looks like he has a chip on his shoulder,” she noted dryly. But her mood quickly changed to indignation. “And then he goes and shuts himself away at Blackthorn Manor without so much as a word. The nerve!”

  She sat back down and stewed some more, tapping a finger against the text. “‘Lucas Blackthorn, award-winning photographer,’” she read aloud, “‘continues to elude reporters and well-wishers.’ Well, knowing Luke, that’s no surprise, is it?”

  Resting her chin on one hand, she read on, “‘Three weeks ago, Blackthorn ducked the spotlight yet again as he emerged from a hospital in Rome. Blackthorn had entered the hospital briefly so that doctors could check on his health after his two-week ordeal trapped in a labyrinth below the ruins of an ancient palace on the island of Crete…’”

  Gilly shook her head. “As if anyone in the world doesn’t know that by now,” she said impatiently.

  The man was a certified hero, what with saving the little boy and throwing his camera to safety, thereby preserving the only photographs of the cave painting of the Minotaur. At least that was what the newspapers were calling it. Gilly thought it looked like a rather badly shaped cow, but the Minotaur it had become. Magic and mythic and all that.

  She shook her head. Half the students in her third-grade class could draw better cows than that. But at the moment their art prowess was not important. Right now all she cared about was Luke.

  Thank God he was okay. She might be angry with him for not contacting her, but she was still mightily relieved by this bit of news. Luke, fine. Luke, home. “I knew it,” she breathed. “I knew it.”

  First there was the devastating news that he’d been trapped in the cave and was presumed dead. She’d vacillated between being too upset to watch and staring at CNN for hours on end, hoping for a miracle.

  She’d felt it was impossible that Lucas was dead. Anyone but Luke. He might be a bit of a challenge, with his prickly independence and his stubborn refusal to do things her way, but he was still the most vital and alive person she knew. No way Luke Blackthorn was going out that easily.

  But he had no family, so there was no one to call and share her hopes with. Or even anyone to pump for the latest desperate bits of information. No one except Abigail and Harry Fitzhugh, who took care of Blackthorn Manor during Luke’s frequent trips abroad. Aunt Abby and Uncle Fitz. Not that they were his aunt and uncle. No, they were hers.

  Unfortunately her aunt and uncle had always been very protective of Luke, even when it concerned Gilly. Especially when it concerned Gilly. “As if they’d need to protect him from me,” she scoffed. The very idea was annoying beyond belief.

  But every time she called, Aunt Abby stubbornly maintained that she knew nothing more than the papers did. Not that that kept Gilly from calling—she was not someone who took no for an answer, especially when it came to Luke. He’d been a project of hers for too many years to lay off now.

  But her aunt wasn’t saying anything. She’d been quiet as a church mouse ever since Luke disappeared into that murky labyrinth. She’d kept her silence even after the wonderful reports that Lucas had miraculously survived—charting a twisted and heroic path through ancient caverns in complete darkness, with no sustenance other than a package of throat lozenges and a few sticks of Juicy Fruit gum, and staggering into the sunlight after everyone but Gilly had given up hope.

  “I don’t know any more than you do, dear,” Aunt Abby had said just yesterday in a strained and wispy tone. Stern precise Abigail Fitzhugh, whispering. Gilly had thought that was odd at the time. “He’s probably off on his next adventure,” her aunt had continued. “But if we hear from him, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Yeah, right! Meanwhile the paper was reporting that Luke had been home for two weeks, with Aunt Abby no doubt cooking up pots of chicken soup for him while she was lying to her very own niece!

  Frowning, Gilly returned to the article, just to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. “Blackthorn is reported to be in good condition…” it continued. She judged for herself, peering at the picture. A little thinner, a shade more disreputable-looking, but otherwise okay. That was a relief.

  She traced her finger past the coffee stain and into the body of the story. “‘He appeared to be in some discomfort,’ his doctor stated guardedly. ‘We have, however, found no physical cause…’”

  She wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. She did know Luke well enough to remember that he was never sick, hated doctors and had probably clammed up at the first sight of a stethoscope. That might well account for his “discomfort.” She read on.

  Blackthorn was spotted reentering the United States through La Guardia Airport more than two weeks ago. Although he was rumored to be somewhere in Manhattan, reports have now surfaced that he immediately boarded a flight out of town and has been secluded in a family home ever since. Reports of the location of that home have ranged from an island in the South Pacific to the Rocky Mountains.

  “The reports can range all they want,” Gilly said tartly. “He only has one family home, and I know good and well where it is.”

  Blackthorn has issued no statements to confirm his whereabouts or his future plans, other than a brief press release through his editor at IPB maintaining that he wishes to be left alone. Experts continue to speculate on how he managed to find a passage through the mysterious labyrinth, but Blackthorn has not elaborated.

  How had he managed to find a way out? Gilly didn’t need to talk to him to know the answer to that one. He was Luke, wasn’t he? Give him half a chance and he’d find a way.

  But mingled with her pride, Gilly also felt more than a bit of exasperation. If the reports were correct, Luke had been holed up at Blackthorn Manor for more than two weeks. All alone except for two elderly servants, acting like a hermit, hiding from life outside the manor walls. It was typical but hardly healthy.

  Without wasting another minute, Gilly decided what she was going to do. She would march right up to Blackthorn Manor and pound on the door until he let her in. And then she would pull him, kicking and screaming if need be, back into the world where he belonged.

  Okay, so he was a teenager the last time, but still…

  Gilly well remembered the effort it took to drag Luke to school dances he wanted no part of, to push him into taking photos for the student newspaper and painting scenery for the summer play, and in short, to force him to embrace life whether he wanted to or not. Hadn’t she set up his first date, entered his photos in the first contest he’d won, even filled out his college applications?

  “I did it before and I can do it again,” she said with determination, rising from the table, grabbing her coat and heading for the door. “If Luke Blackthorn thinks he can hide from me, he’s got another think coming.”

  WHAT WAS THAT god-awful noise?

  Lucas swore under his breath. The pounding coming from downstairs was enough to wake the dead. And that dreadful music! Surely Abigail and Fitz knew better than to make that kind of racket when he needed complete…

  He stopped, focusing. It wasn’t coming from downstairs. It was outside. The front walk, all the way out beyond the gate. He stepped back, faltering. This was devastating news. He hadn’t realized he could hear that well. Sure, noises had bothered him immensely ever since he got out of the cave, but nothing so faraway. Plus, he’d had the house soundproofed, and that had deadened the normal sounds of traffic and pedestrians coming from outside the walls of Blackthorn Manor. Till now.

  Was it possible his hearing was getting more acute, more painfully sensitive? “God, no,” he groaned.

  But he had no time for speculation. The front gate creaked open ominously, announcing a visitor. Every clomping footfall imprinted itself on his brain. And the music—God, i
t was caterwauling! Someone was attempting to sing and not doing a very good job.

  He clamped his hands over his ears, but it didn’t help. The words “Jeremiah was a bullfrog” came careering up, and he groaned loudly.

  There were supposed to be surveillance cameras and silent alarms mounted on the gate so that no one could venture inside without someone in the house knowing. He stalked over to the front window, edging the heavy curtain aside just enough to see who had penetrated his fortress, who was creating such a disturbance.

  He should’ve known. He closed his eyes for a second, leaning his forehead against the icy glass. But it didn’t help.

  She was just making the first curve, still a good two hundred feet away, and she was muffled in a heavy coat and hat. But the wayward red curls escaping from around the hat, the determined set of her shoulders, the forceful crunch of each footstep against the crisp snow and that dreadful song—it added up to one person.

  “Gilly Quinn, as I live and breathe,” he said darkly.

  He would’ve recognized her even without his amazingly sharp eyesight, yet another charming side effect of his time underground. His eyesight, his hearing, his fingers, his taste buds, even his nose were all fine-tuned and turned up to maximum volume. He had hoped it would all fade in time, representing no more than a faint memory of how he’d survived the cave-in. But now it seemed his powers were only getting stronger. He might as well be a circus freak.

  Damn. He turned away from the window, still wincing with the impact of her song. “Think, think,” he commanded himself. But how could he think with “Jeremiah was a bullfrog” reverberating in his head?

  “Think,” he said again. “What are you going to do about Gilly?”

  Interfering, well-meaning, I-have-a-solution-for-everything Gilly Quinn. If he told her that he’d turned into a freak, she’d be signing him up for some twelve-step program in how to deal with freakdom. And if he didn’t tell her, if he pretended nothing was wrong, she’d pester him to death to get him out of the house.

  He never should have come back to Blackthorn Manor. Not when Gilly was within a hundred miles.

  “HELLOOO,” GILLY CALLED out, trying to get a good whack at the clacker on the front door. The doorbell seemed to have been disconnected completely, while the knocker had been modified somehow. For as long as she could remember, Blackthorn Manor’s front door had displayed a big brass lion’s head that made a good sharp crack when you banged on it. This one sounded as if it was wrapped in felt or something, making only a subdued thump. “Now why would Uncle Fitz muffle the door knocker?” she mused.

  Finally Gilly abandoned it and just used her fist. “Aunt Abby! Uncle Fitz!” she called out, pounding as hard as she could. “I know you’re in there. Open up! It’s cold out here.”

  After what seemed like forever, the big old door swung open noiselessly.

  “Fitz,” she said with relief. Before her uncle even had a chance to say hello she squeezed through the doorway under his arm.

  She shrugged out of her coat, planning to hang it on the antique coat tree that had stood in this hall since time immemorial. Except now there was no coat tree.

  “Oh,” she said, blinking. The vestibule had always been a classy black-and-white affair, with polished tiles that clicked nicely under your shoes and a huge crystal chandelier dripping with light. Now there was no overhead light at all, and the color scheme had become soft gray, with thick carpet underfoot. She turned back to her uncle, handing him the coat and hat she had no place to hang. “Redecorating? I kind of liked it the old way.”

  “Gillian,” he said sternly, if rather softly. “Stop right there.”

  Shaking out her red curls, Gilly just grinned at him. Harry Fitzhugh, her mother’s older stepbrother, was a bona fide sweetheart and always had been. His gloomy expression and rather overwhelming size might scare off lesser souls, but Gilly knew him too well to be intimidated. How could she be cowed when she remembered taking piggyback rides on his broad shoulders or pulling the brass buttons off his chauffeur uniform to play checkers with? She’d called him Fizzy when she was very small, and he’d never once complained. How frightening could someone named Fizzy be?

  “Hello, darling,” she said breezily, rising to her tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek. “You still owe me ten dollars from backgammon.”

  “Gilly—”

  She didn’t believe in shilly-shallying, so she got right to the point. “I’m here to see Luke.” He opened his mouth, but she went right on, moving toward the wide curving front stairs as she spoke. “There’s no point pretending he’s not here, because I know he is.”

  Uncle Fitz tried to block her path, but she only gave him a pitying look as she sidestepped him neatly, her hand already on the carved wood banister. First line of defense breached. “You can either tell me where he is or I can find him myself, Fizzy dear,” she continued sweetly. “But I’m not leaving till I see Luke.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” From the shadows of the second-floor landing, Aunt Abby’s words came hissing down at Gilly. Abigail Fitzhugh was a head shorter than her husband, but a lot scarier. Right now her glare could’ve frozen water into ice cubes at twenty paces. “Luke isn’t here.”

  “Of course he is.” Her aunt started to argue, but Gilly held up a hand. “Aunt Abby, you’re whispering. Now tell me, when have you ever done that?”

  Aunt Abby’s face flushed. “Well, I, uh—”

  “Don’t bother. I figure all this silence is for his benefit—you’re trying to create a restful atmosphere or something.” As usual they were being overprotective. Nobody should live in this kind of a tomb, she told herself. Especially not Luke.

  Gilly marched up the stairs, her footfalls making soft thuds on the thick carpet. Glancing down at her shoes, she considered how curious it was that everything seemed different from the last time she was here. The door knocker, the front hall and now the ancient Persian rug on the stairs, the one she and Luke had slid down more times than she could remember, the one that had gotten more threadbare with each roughand-tumble game, had disappeared. “What is going on around here?” she asked suddenly.

  Aunt Abby stood her ground. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean Blackthorn Manor hasn’t been redecorated since before Luke’s grandfather died. His parents were never here long enough to change so much as a lightbulb, and Luke certainly never cared about the decor.” Gilly chewed her lip. “And now all of a sudden you’re redoing everything, and you’re going for plush wall-to-wall carpets and hardly any lights? I feel like I’m in a funeral home. What gives?”

  Her aunt flashed a confused look at her uncle, who could only manage to shrug his massive shoulders.

  “Gillian, you should leave well enough alone,” Aunt Abigail whispered, drawing herself up primly. “Luke’s not well, and he doesn’t need this kind of disturbance. If he wanted to speak with you, he would’ve contacted you, don’t you think?”

  “Not well?” Her heart plummeted. “Is something really wrong? The newspaper said he was fine…” Her first reaction was to fly up the stairs to his bedside and check on him herself. But what if he was really ill? She hesitated.

  “He’s fine,” Aunt Abby hastened to assure her. “Just a little fragile. I’m sure when he feels stronger, he’ll—”

  “Fragile?” Gilly stopped short. “Luke?”

  “Fragile” was the last word she ever would have associated with Lucas Blackthorn. It was, in fact, entirely unbelievable. She narrowed her eyes.

  “I need to see him,” she decided quickly, and she raced past her aunt, tired of all the objections and speculation and verbal volleyball. Second line of defense breached Whatever was going on with Luke she would judge for herself, and that would be that. “Luke? Where are you?” she called out. As she opened doors on the second floor, her aunt and uncle chorused, “Ssshhhh!” from behind her on the stairs.

  “Luke, I need to see you,” she announced loudly, poking her head into an empty b
edroom. “It’s me, Gilly.”

  “Like I might think it was someone else?” asked a dark, silky, dangerous voice.

  She spun around. Her breath caught in her throat.

  Luke.

  He was half a hall away, leaning in a darkened doorway, wearing a white dress shirt half-unbuttoned over black jeans, with his black canvas high-tops unlaced and his hands in his pockets. His dark soft hair was as rumpled as his clothes, and he was thin enough that she could see the hard angles of his cheekbones and his jaw. He was a little pale, but it only made his eyelashes seem blacker and thicker, his beautiful eyes even bluer.

  God, he looked great. But then, he always had.

  “We tried to stop her,” Aunt Abby said. “But she refused to—”

  No one was going to stop her now. “Luke!” she cried, racing down the hallway. Without thinking, she threw herself into his arms. “You don’t know what a scare you gave us, Mr. Rushing-Headlong-into-Danger.” She knew she was beaming, and he looked very startled. But she couldn’t help it. Overflowing with affection, she gave him a healthy welcome-home hug. “It is so great to see you!”

  Obviously the feeling wasn’t mutual. He couldn’t scramble backward fast enough. And he seemed shaken, strained, as every last bit of color drained from his face.

  “Luke,” she cried, reaching out for him.

  But he retreated quickly. “No, please,” he said, wincing, holding up a hand to fend her off.

  “Are you…?” Gilly didn’t know what to think. How could one little hug have rocked him down to his toes?

  Touching him had affected her, too, the way it always did, making her feel a little light-headed, giving her a tingle. She’d gotten very good over the years at covering up just how Luke’s physical presence tended to knock her socks off. But this reaction from him…well, this was a different kettle of fish.

  “Are you okay?” she asked finally, dying to touch him again but afraid to.

  “I told you he was fragile,” Aunt Abby interrupted, wringing her hands. “Now will you believe me?”