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Phantom Lover
Rebecca York


HE CAME TO HER IN THE NIGHTIn the darkened bedroom of Ravencrest, Bree Brennan was seduced by an unseen lover. A lover whose scorching kiss was strangely familiar. Was her midnight caller Troy London, her onetime love, or was it the mythical ghost who haunted the cliffside, windswept estate on the California coast?A P.I., Bree had come undercover to Ravencrest to find its owner, Troy, and ensure his well-being. But Bree knew she was out of her league the moment she saw its dark rock spires and its creepy inhabitants who claimed a crazy Troy was a prisoner in his own chambers. But Bree heard his husky voice, felt his sizzling touch…. Exactly who was weaving an undeniable, erotic spell around her?









She couldn’t see him…


But the bedroom air stirred. Then she felt his kiss, a butterfly kiss, on her lips. A caress that tantalized her senses, that made her capable of nothing else but returning his kiss.

It was as though he knew her, how to tease her, how to please her. “Troy?” Bree whispered. But he remained silent, never stopping, drawing her into his sensual spell.

Deep inside she felt doubt stirring. Whether this man was Troy or not, he had come to her without announcing his name or his intentions. He’d come to her bed like a phantom lover.

Her eyes flew open. She couldn’t see him, but she pushed him away. For a millisecond she felt the resistance of warm flesh, of muscle and bone. Then her hands pressed upward through chilled, empty air.

He was gone. Vanished, as silently and as swiftly as he had come to her.


Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

This month Harlequin Intrigue has a healthy dose of breathtaking romantic suspense to reignite you after the cold winter days. Kicking things off, Susan Kearney delivers the first title in her brand-new trilogy HEROES INC., based on a specially trained team of sexy agents taking on impossible missions. In Daddy to the Rescue, an operative is dispatched to safeguard his ex-wife from the danger that threatens her. Only, now he also has to find the child she claims is his!

Rebecca York returns with the latest installment in her hugely popular 43 LIGHT STREET series. Phantom Lover is a supersexy gothic tale of suspense guaranteed to give you all kinds of fantasies…. Also appearing this month is another veteran Harlequin Intrigue author, Patricia Rosemoor, with the next title in her CLUB UNDERCOVER miniseries. In VIP Protector, a bodyguard must defend a prominent attorney from a crazed stalker. But can he protect her from long-buried secrets best left hidden?

Finally rounding out the month is the companion title in our MEN ON A MISSION theme promotion, Tough as Nails, from debut author Jackie Manning. Here an estranged couple must join forces to solve a deadly mystery, but will their close proximity fuel the flames of passion smoldering between them?

So pick up all four of these thrilling, action-packed stories for a full course of unbelievable excitement!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue




Phantom Lover

Rebecca York


Ruth Glick Writing as Rebecca York




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Award-winning, bestselling novelist Ruth Glick, who writes as Rebecca York, is the author of close to eighty books, including her popular 43 LIGHT STREET series for Harlequin Intrigue. Ruth says she has the best job in the world. Not only does she get paid for telling stories; she’s also the author of twelve cookbooks. Ruth and her husband, Norman, travel frequently, researching locales for her novels and searching out new dishes for her cookbooks.


Dear Reader,

In Phantom Lover I wanted to write a novel with all the classic gothic trappings. You know how a gothic tale starts. A naive young woman comes to an isolated estate to be the governess of a young child. She’s immediately immersed in a world of secrets and intrigue, a world where nothing is as it seems—and the master of the house is a dark, brooding man with deep emotional wounds. Yet his sexual attraction for the heroine is powerful. Can she trust him? Should she surrender to him? Can her love save his soul?

I had a wonderful time playing with these themes, and I pushed them to their limits. My isolated estate is called Ravencrest. In my story that dark, brooding hero, Troy London, may be a ghost. Or is he? That’s something you’ll have to decide for yourself.

There are a couple of the classic elements that I did bend in my story. I love to write a sensual book, and this one is no exception. Troy London wants Bree, and he uses all his considerable skill as a lover to get what he wants. And then there’s my heroine. She’s smart enough to bring a gun along with her to Ravencrest. But she simply couldn’t calculate the risks she’d be taking by setting foot on the estate.

Enjoy!






Ruth Glick writing as Rebecca York




CAST OF CHARACTERS


Troy London—Was he dead or alive? Desperate or calculating?

Bree Brennan—Could she save the man she loved? Was he worth saving?

Helen London—She was sending Bree into a dangerous situation.

Dinah London—Had Troy’s daughter seen her father recently, or was she telling stories?

Nola Sterling—Why was she giving Bree a hard time?

Abner Sterling—Was Nola’s husband dangerous or deranged? Or both?

Foster Graves—Was he just the handyman—or a major player in the drama unfolding at Ravencrest?

Edith Martindale—Was she an ally or an enemy?

Miss Carpenter—Did the former schoolteacher get fired, or was she scared into quitting?




Contents


Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen




Prologue


Troy London squinted against the wind blowing salt spray into his face and matting the dark hair to his forehead. Tipping back his head, he looked up to the cliffs at the great house towering above the ocean.

Ravencrest. The estate his great-grandfather had built. For the first time in months he felt the joy of coming home to this place. Well, a muted joy, with the present problems hanging over him. But he would solve them— one way or the other. And then he’d get his life back on track again.

Deftly he maneuvered the small craft through the swells, finding the calm channel between the towering rocks.

He had sailed these waters since he was a boy. For sport and for the challenge of pitting his mind and body against the elements.

He found the ring anchored to the rock and tied up the boat, then waited for a swell to crest before stepping off onto the landing platform, slippery with ocean water. Using the familiar handholds, he climbed the rough-hewn steps toward the top of the cliff.

He could have approached the house from the headlands. But then he would be visible from the west-facing windows. Instead, he stopped at the entrance to one of the secret tunnels carved into the stone. Opening the door, he slipped into a dark passage.

A flashlight was hanging from the wall, and he used it to guide his way up a steep slope and then more stairs.

At breakfast he’d announced his intention to go sailing. He’d made sure they saw him heading out into the ocean. But he’d come back sooner than they expected, hugging the coast to keep from being spotted.

And now perhaps he could get the evidence he needed, because he wouldn’t act without proof.

A sick feeling overtook him. It was tinged with his own guilt—over what he’d done and what he hadn’t done, if the truth be told.

Still, he’d expected better than this, and he’d thought long and hard about what to do. He was still hoping he was mistaken. Hoping against hope that he’d read all the signals wrong.

Stopping at a fork in the passage, he listened intently, then moved silent as a panther toward one of the rooms.

He’d laid a trap there the day before. Now he would see what he had caught.

He set down the flashlight, then pressed on a hidden panel and stepped into the back of a closet. Slowly he opened the door, just enough to see into the room. The man was there, just as he’d suspected, just as he’d feared.

“What are you doing?” he asked, keeping his voice low and steady as he walked into the room.

The man’s eyes widened. “Where did you come from?”

“That’s not important. Answer my question.” He walked forward, his gaze focused on the interloper, so that he didn’t see that another person was standing in the bathroom.

At the last second a flash of movement caught the corner of his eye and he realized his mistake. But it was too late. The blow came crashing down on his head. And then there was only blackness.




Chapter One


Fog rolled in from the west, obscuring the rugged coastline north of San Francisco. There was no guardrail, the narrow stretch of road was slick, and Bree Brennan slowed her rental car, thinking that if she plunged into the ocean, it would be her own damn fault.

She’d been acting recklessly when she’d taken a leave of absence from the Light Street Detective Agency. She was still acting recklessly. The new Bree Brennan, she thought with a mental shake of her head. When she’d joined the agency two years ago, she’d been Bonnie. Now she was Bree—a different person. More daring. More in charge of her life. At least in her own eyes.

Only the farther she’d come along California Highway One, the more second thoughts she’d had. Her old persona whispered in her head that she should turn around and go home. But she simply couldn’t do it. She’d be letting down a lot of people, including the new Bree Brennan. And her friend Helen London.

When a shaft of lightning shattered the darkening sky, Bree responded with a quavery laugh. If she’d been the director of a horror movie, she couldn’t have done a better job of setting the scene: the naive young woman driving through the storm toward a spooky old mansion. Except this was no movie. It was real life.

Helen’s distraught phone call from Macedonia echoed in her mind.

“I’m so scared. I’m afraid Troy is dead. I haven’t talked to him in two weeks. And his e-mails are really strange—like somebody else is writing them for him.”

She was talking about her older brother, Troy London, both of them named by an eccentric father with a passion for Greek literature.

Bree had gotten to know Troy seven years earlier when she’d been visiting the Londons’ summer place—their ranch in Montana. She’d been attracted to him, and she’d thought the attraction was mutual. Then she’d been called away abruptly to take care of problems at home. Once she was back in her own environment, she’d told herself a relationship with Troy wouldn’t have worked anyway. He came from a world of wealth and privilege, so different from her own background.

Still, she’d never let go of the memories of a virile, vibrant young man with dark hair, warm hazel eyes and a ready smile.

Like his sister, he didn’t need to work, but both siblings had wanted meaningful jobs. Helen was a Foreign Service Officer. Troy had specialized in taking failing companies, turning them around and selling them at a profit. He’d had exactly the life he wanted, until a year ago when his wife had been killed in a car accident and he had shut himself away at Ravencrest, his estate on the northern California coast.

Bree slammed on her brakes as another fork of lightning split the sky directly in front of her, illuminating the entrance to the property. Great timing, she thought as she turned in at the access road. Ravencrest was one of the few large tracts of property left along the coast. Most of the big estates had been subdivided or turned into parks and other public access areas. But Ravencrest was a throwback to another era.

In a fast and furious exchange of e-mail, after their initial phone conversation, she and Helen had cooked up a plan to get Bree into the house—a plan that would keep her here while she found out what was going on. It had made sense back in Baltimore. Now…

Now she was dead tired and full of doubts. She’d gotten up at the crack of dawn, changed planes twice and driven a hundred and fifty miles along these winding, narrow roads. She was in no shape to sound brilliant. But there was no way to avoid the coming confrontation.

Pulling up in front of the iron gate, she rolled down her window, pressed the button on the intercom and looked up toward the television camera focused on her window.

Long, nerve-racking seconds passed before a woman’s voice asked, “Yes? Who is it?”

It sounded like an older woman. Probably the housekeeper, Edith Martindale, whom Helen had described to Bree. Good. Mrs. Martindale probably wasn’t going to be as tough a gatekeeper as one of the Sterlings, the distant relatives who had moved in with Troy two months ago.

“I’m Bree Brennan,” she answered, exaggerating her native North Carolina accent so that her name came out as a thick, honeyed drawl. “I’m Dinah London’s new teacher,” she added, very glad that she’d taught first grade for the Baltimore County schools before joining the Light Street Detective Agency.

There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. “I didn’t know Mrs. Sterling hired a teacher for Dinah.”

Mrs. Sterling was Nola Sterling. She and her husband, Abner, were supposed to be down on their luck, which was why Troy had allowed them to move into Ravencrest. According to Helen, they’d taken over the place.

Bree dragged a deep breath and held it for a second before answering with a complete non sequitur. “I’ve driven all the way up here from San Francisco, and I can’t go back tonight.”

“Well…”

Bree went on quickly. “I was hired by Helen London when she learned that her niece’s previous instructor, Miss Carpenter, had been dismissed.”

“Ms. London is out of the country. How could she hire you?”

“Didn’t she send you a message?”

Again there was that slight hesitation. “No. I don’t think so.”

Probably the housekeeper was wondering if Nola Sterling had neglected to inform her of the new arrangement. That would make sense, but in fact, Bree and Helen had decided that making her arrival a surprise was the best plan. And Helen had arranged not to be available.

Following their script she said, “She interviewed me by e-mail. And she sent me an authorization by fax.” As she spoke, she pulled out the paper and held it up to the camera.

After half a minute she lowered the fax and stared into the camera again, her blue eyes wide and naive. “Whom am I speaking to?” she asked politely.

“Mrs. Martindale,” the woman confirmed.

“Is Mr. London there?”

“He’s not available at the moment.”

Through the television camera, she felt herself being scrutinized and kept her own gaze steady. Her appearance was a plus, she knew.

Around the Light Street office, she always looked businesslike. But it didn’t take much effort to transform herself into the classic subject of a dumb blond joke. She’d combed her shoulder-length wheat-colored hair to frame her face in soft waves and carefully outlined her bow-shaped lips. And now she kept her blue eyes wide, as though she’d just walked off the farm.

“Come up to the house.” As the woman spoke, the gate creaked open.

With a sigh that was part relief and part trepidation, Bree drove through. As the barrier clanked shut behind her, she couldn’t help feeling like an inmate arriving at prison.

Hands clamped to the wheel, she steered the car up the winding drive, past pine trees dripping with green moss that fluttered in the wind blowing off the ocean.

Now that she was here, it was hard to catch her breath, and she knew she had good reason to be edgy. When Helen had first contacted her, Bree had proposed that one of the men from the Light Street Detective Agency or Randolph Security, which worked closely with them, should find out what was wrong at Ravencrest.

Her friend had argued against that plan. “The Sterlings are up to something bad. I just know it. If they think they’re being attacked or investigated, they could take Dinah hostage. Maybe they’ve already done it—to keep Troy in line. They could have him locked up somewhere. Or maybe they have him drugged. Or he might already be dead. And if they’ve killed him, what would stop them from killing his daughter?”

Helen had always had a flair for the dramatic.

“Those are pretty serious accusations,” Bree had said carefully. “You think your cousins are capable of something like that? What would their motive be?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never even met them. I don’t think Troy had, either, before they showed up.” She sighed. “Probably I sound hysterical. But I’m so frightened. Before Grace died, I never worried about Troy. But he turned so spacy.” She sighed. “If I could take care of this myself, I would.”

If the plea for help had come from anybody else, Bree wouldn’t be here now. But five years ago, when her mother had needed a kidney transplant, Helen had loaned her the money for the operation. They’d worked out a payment plan, but when Bree had sent the first check, Helen had refused to accept it. Mom had lived three more years after that. And Bree knew that Helen had given her those years. Which was why Bree had gone off to Northern California, without giving anybody at the Light Street Detective Agency a chance to point out all the flaws in her plan.

The impending storm had darkened the sky so that it might as well have been midnight. As she rounded a curve in the drive, lightning illuminated the outline of what looked like a stone fortress. It was almost as though some supernatural force was directing her attention to the house.

Helen had described it as a cross between a medieval castle and a Disney fantasy, built by a great-grandfather, Cecil London, who had made his money in some undisclosed business. Designed as a grand statement of his wealth, it had always given Helen the creeps. But Troy had been charmed by the place. When the estate had been passed to them, Troy had enthusiastically moved in with his wife, Grace, and together they’d started the monumental job of remodeling.

Then Grace had died and Troy had lost interest in life. Well, not everything in life, Helen had said. He’d still been devoted to his six-year-old daughter.

Mist swirled over the road, adding to the sense that Bree was driving into a scene from a horror movie. The old house rose out of the fog, a man-made chunk of rock dominating the darkening skyline.

The long lane was hemmed in by overgrown shrubbery. As she reached the circular drive, the rain finally broke, a burst like machine gun bullets hitting the car roof.

Pulling forward, she was relieved to discover that she could find shelter under a large covered porch. After releasing the trunk latch, she stepped out onto paving bricks, hearing the rain drumming on the roof and feeling a blast of cold air whipping at her hair.

Resolutely, she tried to keep her gaze within the lighted area under the porch, but the foliage swaying in the wind teased the edges of her vision and prickled the hairs on the back of her neck.

“You’re spooked by this place, and you’re not even inside yet,” she muttered, just to hear the sound of her own voice.

Walking to the trunk, she leaned in to retrieve the suitcase. As she pulled it out, she felt a large, warm hand press down on her shoulder.

The touch was so totally unexpected that she screamed. When she whirled to confront the jerk who had snuck up in back of her, there was nobody in sight.

Blinking, she stared into empty space. She was sure she wasn’t mistaken. Somebody had cupped his hand possessively over her shoulder. A man, judging by the weight and size of the touch. Then, before she could turn around, he’d disappeared into the swaying shrubbery. And she was left with the faint scent of spicy aftershave dissipating on the wind.

The shiver that had started at the back of her neck worked its way down her spine as she tried to probe the darkness beyond the lighted entrance.

For several moments she stood beside the open trunk, taking shallow, even breaths, wondering if her imagination was running away with her and thinking she should pull out the jack handle to use as a weapon.

Finally she picked up her suitcase, slammed the trunk shut and marched toward the massive stone facade of the building. She had lifted her hand to knock on the wide wooden door when it suddenly opened, throwing her off balance.

The doorway was broad, and her hand missed the jamb as she made a frantic grab to steady herself. Despite her best efforts to stop her forward motion, she stumbled several paces across a marble floor into a rectangular reception area.

The ploy had been deliberate and nasty, to make her land on her face. But she kept her footing, set down her suitcase with a thunk and straightened. As she lifted her head she found herself facing a tall, thin woman wearing black slacks and a black blouse. She was standing with her arms folded tightly in front of her.

She appeared to be in her mid-forties, with short brown hair threaded with gray strands. Her face was long and angular, and her dark eyes focused on Bree as though she were studying an insect that had crawled under the door.

“Mrs. Martindale told me you were on your way up here, of all things! What took you so long getting from the gate to the house?”

“In this weather I was driving cautiously,” Bree responded. Then she asked, “Are you Mrs. Sterling?”

“Yes. Did you see anything strange?”

Bree waited a beat then asked, “What do you mean, exactly?”

Mrs. Sterling shrugged. “I simply want your impressions.”

“Well, the drive is kind of spooky in the dark, with the fog rolling in.”

The woman gave a curt nod, her lips pressed together, her eyes unnerving as they remained pinned on her unexpected guest.

Trying to ignore the unpleasant sensation, Bree deliberately changed the focus of her gaze, looking around at the antique furniture, then craned her neck upward so she could take in the crystal chandelier.

“Oh, it’s so good to get inside. This place is so lovely,” she gushed, drawling out the syllables like Scarlett O’Hara on her best behavior.

“Before you make yourself at home, let me see that fax from Helen London,” Mrs. Sterling snapped, still not bothering with polite pleasantries such as, “Hello. How are you?”

Pretending not to notice the rudeness, Bree bent, hiding her face as she opened her purse and produced the paper. She was badly off balance, but she was determined not to let it show.

Her unwilling hostess took the fax to an elaborately carved side table and thrust the paper under the light cast by a small Tiffany lamp.

After reading through the authorization she demanded, “And your ID. I’d like to make sure you’re who you say you are.”

Bree’s heart was still thumping in her chest, but she calmly pulled out her wallet and extracted her driver’s license, which got the same treatment as the fax.

With a scowl, Mrs. Sterling handed them both back. “So is your name Bonnie or Bree?”

“Bree is my legal name now. I haven’t gotten around to changing my license.”

“Why the switch?”

“Bonnie is so old-fashioned,” she drawled. “Bree is so much more charming.”

“If you want to sound like a piece of French cheese.”

Bree blinked, wondering how to respond. But Mrs. Sterling was still speaking.

“Yes, well, it’s inconvenient that I can’t pick up the phone and call Ms. London. As I understand it, she’s off on a special assignment and out of contact with the civilized world. Did she say why she has the authorization to hire a teacher?”

Bree put on her best innocent face. “I’m so sorry if I’ve stepped into an awkward situation. I just hate to be a bother.” She stopped and fluttered her hands. “She mentioned that Dinah has always been home-schooled. And since her mother died—” She stopped and gestured helplessly again. “Since her mother died, teachers have taken over the job. But Ms. London seemed concerned about her niece. I mean, she said that her brother had been, uh, wallowing in grief over his wife’s death, and he hadn’t been paying adequate attention to his daughter’s welfare. So if he wasn’t going to hire a new teacher, she was going to do it for him.” She stopped abruptly, looking like she was surprised to have delivered such a long speech.

“This is highly irregular.”

Bree’s only reply was a helpless look. She was relieved of the obligation to answer when Mrs. Sterling’s gaze suddenly shot to the hallway on the left. “Dinah, come out here!” the woman demanded. “How many times have I told you not to sneak around?”

Several seconds passed before a little girl stepped out from behind a display case and walked slowly into the entrance hall, stopping several paces from the adults.

Helen had told her Dinah was six. She looked younger, small and fragile with huge, pale eyes, pale skin and a riot of unruly chestnut curls falling around her shoulders.

It wasn’t difficult for Bree to imagine her in a long Edwardian dress, but the girl was wearing more prosaic blue jeans and a light yellow T-shirt. One arm was held stiffly at her side. The other cradled a fuzzy stuffed animal, its identity hidden by the girl’s close embrace.

Lifting her head, she looked toward Bree, her expression expectant. “You’re my new teacher,” she said in a low voice.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Daddy told me you were coming. So I’ve been waiting for you.” The small, wistful voice made Bree’s heart squeeze.

Mrs. Sterling’s face contorted. “He couldn’t have said that! I didn’t even know she was coming.”

Dinah gave a small, dismissive shrug. “He’s smart. He knows things you don’t.”

The woman in black stared at the child, apparently struggling for a response. Then she imitated Dinah’s shrug. “Have it your way,” she snapped. “I think you’re lying. I think you heard us talking just now.”

Bree tried to work her way through the exchange, the spoken part and the subtext. Helen had told her that Dinah was a very clever, very imaginative child. Was she making up the conversation with her father? Or was Troy London being held captive somewhere and Nola Sterling was angry that Dinah had managed to talk to him?

Putting her own questions aside, Bree knelt so that she was at the little girl’s eye level. “My name is Bree Brennan,” she said, holding out her hand. “And I’m very glad I’m going to be your teacher.”

Her face grave, Dinah extended her free arm, and they shook.

“Who’s your friend?” Bree asked.

“Alice.”

“Can I see her?”

After a short hesitation Dinah freed the stuffed toy and held it out. Bree saw gray and white fur, pointed ears and button eyes. The fur was slightly matted and worn, as though the child had been clutching the animal over a long period of time.

Like a security blanket, Bree thought with a pang. She heard the child’s voice quaver slightly as she said, “Alice is a kitty.”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Sterling interrupted the exchange with strident words to Bree. “My husband and I eat quite late—too late for the little girl. I’m sure Dinah will be glad to show you to your quarters—and have your company at dinner in the schoolroom.”

Her quarters? Was she expected to sleep in the servants’ wing? Bree wondered as she stood again.

The woman turned to Dinah and issued an imperious order. “Take her upstairs.”

Under ordinary circumstances, Bree would have vetoed giving such duties to a child. But she was glad she and Dinah were going to be alone soon. That would give them a chance to get acquainted. And they could talk in the schoolroom tomorrow.

If the schoolroom wasn’t bugged. As that thought flitted into her mind she almost laughed. The idea of a bug in a six-year-old girl’s classroom was pretty farfetched. Yet the laugh died before it reached her lips.

She knew that when the guys from the Light Street Detective Agency went into a covert surveillance situation, they were always prepared for bugs. And she’d better remember that things could be similar here. Helen had sent her to Ravencrest because neither one of them knew what the Sterlings had done, and what they might do to protect their position.

Before she had time to consider the possibilities, she heard a door slam, then heavy footsteps pounding down the hall.

Troy?

The child’s face went white.

A look of mixed fear and exasperation plastered itself across Nola Sterling’s features.

All eyes, Bree’s included, focused on the hallway.

Seconds later, a man burst into the foyer, a man whose face was flushed and whose glaring gaze lit on Bree.




Chapter Two


The man stood with his hands balled into fists and his arms bent, like a street fighter ready to take on a crowd. His hands were large—large enough to have created the pressure she remembered on her shoulder. The thought of his having touched her made Bree’s stomach knot. Yet it couldn’t be him, she told herself. He didn’t smell right. His body gave off the scent of sweat, not clean aftershave.

Dinah cringed against her, and she slung her arm around the girl’s shoulders, holding her protectively against her side.

“I was doing my regular check of the grounds, and I saw a car out front,” he bellowed. Still looking at Bree, he demanded, “Who are you? And what are you doing here?”

“I’m Bree Brennan, Dinah’s new teacher.” She repeated the information she’d already given several times since arriving, letting her voice slur into a soft drawl.

The tactic didn’t have any effect on the man. “Says who?” he demanded.

“Says Helen London,” Bree answered, striving to sound a good deal more confident than she was feeling. “I believe she’s still part owner of the property with her brother, Troy,” she added for good measure.

The man’s mouth opened, then closed again as he apparently thought better of his outburst. It seemed the London name still functioned as some kind of deterrent.

Bree raised her chin and blinked her large blue eyes. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Abner Sterling?”

“Yes, and don’t get smart with me, missy,” he snapped.

“That certainly wasn’t my intention, sir,” she replied.

The fiftyish man looked her up and down, from her damp blond hair to the red slingbacks she’d picked to go with her navy slacks and beige knit top. “You don’t look much like a teacher,” he said.

She spread her hands and drawled, “I’m hoping you’ll find me satisfactory. I came all the way from Baltimore to teach Dinah. She’s such a lovely little girl, and I’m sure we’re going to get along famously.”

“How do you know she’s lovely? You just got here,” Abner pointed out. “I’m betting you change your opinion after you’ve been here a little while. She drove the last teacher away, and she’ll drive you away, too.”

“No, I didn’t,” Dinah protested.

“That’s enough out of you.”

The child cringed, and Bree wanted to spring across the space separating her from Abner Sterling and belt him. But she stayed where she was, since she didn’t want to get tossed out the door.

“So let’s go find my room,” she said to Dinah.

The girl nodded solemnly, putting on a burst of speed as she crossed in front of the Sterlings.

What must it be like to live with these people? Bree wondered. Nola was cold, brittle and hostile. Abner was belligerent and probably stupid, although she knew it would be dangerous to underestimate him.

As the girl started up the stairs, Bree picked up her bag and followed, her heels clicking smartly on the marble.

Glancing back at the Sterlings, she said, “Well, good night. I’ll see you in the morning. I assume you don’t have breakfast too early for Dinah.”

She caught up with the child at the top of the steps and they started down a wide, dimly lit hall. For the first fifty feet the paint and carpet looked new and expensive. After turning a corner, they were suddenly walking on worn boards, between gray, dingy walls.

Several paces along the uncarpeted hallway, they turned another corner. Behind her, Bree heard a floor-board creak, and the skin on the back of her neck tingled.

Was Abner Sterling behind her ready to attack? Stopping, she whirled, only to confront a tall, gaunt man who glared at her. His face was lined with vertical wrinkles, but he stood with shoulders squared. His clothing was scruffy—a dark wool jacket, a dirty shirt, blotched pants.

Feeling a sudden pressure against her side, Bree looked down to see that Dinah had also turned and was squeezed very close to her, her free arm still clutching the stuffed kitten. Obviously she, too, was alarmed by the newcomer.

The man ignored the child, his deadly gaze fixed on Bree.

“Who are you? And what are you doing here?” he demanded, his voice low and raspy.

The questions were starting to get tiresome, she thought. “Dinah’s new teacher,” she answered. “Who are you?”

“Foster Graves.” He kept his gaze steady, his stance rigid.

“You work here?”

“I take care of some things, yeah” was his cryptic reply.

Beside her, Dinah stirred.

Bree bent to the child. “Are you all right?” she questioned.

“I don’t want to stay here,” the little girl whispered.

“We won’t.”

The child made a small sound, her eyes going wide. Bree turned again, following her gaze, and discovered that Graves had vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

She took several steps down the hall, trying to figure out how he’d managed such a quick escape. Like the man outside in the driveway!

Only now they were inside. Which probably meant he’d stepped into one of the secret passages built into the house—passages that the London children had discovered when they were kids.

She was just reaching for a curtain covering the wall, when Dinah’s fingers closed around the fabric of her slacks. “Don’t go look for him,” she begged. “He’s scary. Come see your room.”

Although Bree wanted to find out exactly how the man had disappeared so quickly, the child was more important.

“Okay,” she agreed, and heard Dinah’s small sigh of relief.

The girl led her down another hallway that turned off to the right. Bree was thinking that perhaps she should have left a trail of bread crumbs so she could find her way back downstairs when Dinah stopped in front of a closed door. “This was Miss Carpenter’s room. I guess you’re supposed to sleep here.”

“That sounds right.”

Bree turned the knob and pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked on worn hinges. Fumbling along the wall for the light switch, she found it and flipped the toggle, turning on an elaborate, old-fashioned metal-and-glass ceiling fixture.

The rest of the room looked as though it had been redecorated with a combination of new fabrics, gleaming white woodwork and beautifully restored antiques. Under a flowered Oriental rug, the wood floor was newly refinished. And the small green-and-white checks on the bedspread matched the gracefully flowing draperies. The dresser and high chest were polished oak.

“It’s nice,” she murmured, then crossed the room and laid her suitcase on the double bed.

Dinah gave her a small smile. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Did Miss Carpenter like it?” Bree asked.

The girl considered the question. “She did at first, then she said it was spooky.”

“Oh.”

“I think that’s why she left. It didn’t have anything to do with me,” she added quickly.

“I didn’t think so,” Bree agreed, even as she digested the new information. Had Miss Carpenter made the decision to leave because she was afraid to stay at Ravencrest? Or had the Sterlings sent her packing?

In this unfamiliar environment, inconvenient questions were piling up like unpaid bills, and it was impossible not to feel overwhelmed. Bree was in over her head and she’d been here less than an hour.

Suddenly unsteady on her feet, she reached to brace her hand against the bedpost, her fingers closing around the carved wood. She’d set her alarm for four in the morning to get through airport security and catch her flight. Now she was jet-lagged, stressed and worn out.

Although she desperately wanted to make friends with Dinah, she was afraid that if she tried to do it in her present condition, she was going to make some crucial mistake that would set the wrong tone for their whole relationship.

Keeping her voice even, she turned toward the girl. “I’ve had a really long day and I don’t think I’m going to be very good company tonight. Would you mind very much if I just go to bed, and we start off fresh in the morning?”

Dinah looked down, dragging her foot in a small half circle over the rug.

Bree felt her heart squeeze as she watched. “I’m probably disappointing you,” she said. “I’ve just gotten here, and you want to get to know me.”

Dinah hesitated for several seconds, then gave a small nod.

“Well, I’m really eager to get to know you and Alice, too. But I’d probably fall asleep as soon as I sat down in a chair.”

“I understand,” the child answered, sounding much older than her years, and Bree had the feeling she’d learned some strategic coping skills in the past few months.

“We can see each other at breakfast. I’m looking forward to that,” Bree added, using her last store of energy to sound enthusiastic. Then another thought struck her. “That Mr. Graves—you’re not afraid he’s going to be in the hall, are you? Do you want me to walk you to your room?”

“No. He never stays up here long.”

“That’s good.”

Dinah hesitated for a moment. “You don’t have to worry about me, because my daddy takes care of me.”

Bree held back any reaction. “So your daddy’s okay? Can I talk to him?”

“Only if he wants you to.” Perhaps to forestall more questions, the child darted from the room, and Bree was left staring at the closed door.

What did Dinah’s assurance mean? Maybe Troy wasn’t a captive, after all. Maybe he was in hiding, watching out for Dinah. Or had the little girl made it all up?

Her hand closed around the door frame to keep herself from running after the girl. She wanted answers, but at the same time, this child tugged at her heartstrings. It was a little girl a lot like Dinah who had started Bonnie Brennan on the road to her new life. She’d been a timid, guarded person when she’d been teaching in Baltimore. Now she realized that teaching had been a safe place for her—where she could deal with children instead of adults. But one afternoon just as class was letting out, a man named Harvey Milner had stormed into the room and demanded that she turn his child, Cathy, over to him. Only Bonnie knew from conversations with his ex-wife that the father didn’t even have visitation rights and that he’d threatened to take the girl and flee the state.

Milner’s aggressive tactics had scared her, but she’d taken Cathy in her arms and marched down the hall to the principal’s office, the angry father trailing behind her, shouting threats.

Afterward she’d been amazed at what she’d done. It had made her see herself in a different light, made her realize that she’d been selling herself short. But still, she hadn’t figured out what she’d wanted to do with the rest of her life until she’d read about a kidnapping case in the Baltimore Sun, a kidnapping thwarted by the Light Street Detective Agency.

Excitement coursed through her as she’d read the article. And she’d known she’d wanted to work for that agency. She wanted to help other children, and adults. As soon as the school year was over, she’d contacted them. They’d needed a new secretary and were willing to hire her for that job and to start training her to be a lot more than that.

She’d learned a great deal in the past two years— enough to know that she was now way over her head.

Her mouth twisted as she crossed the room on unsteady legs to lock the door. Then she turned around to study her surroundings. Besides the entrance from the hall, there were two other doors—one on the wall opposite the bed and one at the back of the room. She tried the closer one first and found a dark, cavernous closet.

The other led to an opulent bathroom. The idea of soaking her tired muscles in the deep, claw-footed tub was suddenly very appealing. But afraid that if she lay down in hot water, she’d fall asleep, she settled for a quick shower.

After drying off, she pulled on a simple cotton nightgown. In the act of turning off the light, she stayed her hand. Although she’d never been particularly afraid of the dark, Ravencrest had spooked her from the moment she’d driven up the access road. Feeling slightly paranoid, she kept the light on in the bathroom and left the door open a crack, so that a shaft of light slanted across the floor.

In the dim light she drifted toward the window and looked out. She’d approached the estate from the land side, where tall pines and probably redwoods had blocked her view. From this angle, she could see that the mansion was perched on the edge of a high cliff overlooking the sea. Moonlight gave her a view of waves rolling in, crashing against hidden obstructions and dark spires of rocks that poked up from the foam.

Far below she could hear the ebb and flow of the surf.

All at once the realization hit her that this was Troy’s house. He had loved this place. Maybe he’d even stood at this very window looking down at the rocky coast. Until this moment she hadn’t allowed herself to think much about what coming to his home would mean for her. But suddenly she felt close to him, closer than she had in years.

Seven years ago he’d told her about his home. He’d entranced her with his stories of exploring the cliffs and the sea caves that were accessible only at low tide and of his sailing expeditions into the wild waters offshore. She’d wanted to come here with him. She’d even secretly dreamed of living here—as his wife.

“Troy,” she breathed, wishing that he was with her in this room. She remembered him so well, remembered how her first sight of him had taken her breath away. He’d walked into the parlor to greet her and Helen, and she’d found herself facing a tall, handsome man with tanned skin and wind-tossed hair that was just a beat too long. She’d taken him in in one swift draft, then focused on his eyes. They were vibrant hazel, fringed by dark lashes. And they’d turned warm when he’d looked at her.

“I’m Troy. And you must be Helen’s friend Bonnie,” he said.

“Yes. I’ve heard so much about you.”

He smiled. “And I’ve heard about you. But I wasn’t prepared for that charming Southern accent.”

She’d blushed then, but he’d put her at ease immediately. Over the next few days they’d spent a lot of time together. Maybe too much time, as far as Helen was concerned, because she’d complained that Troy was monopolizing her friend.

One of her most vivid memories was of dancing with him, instinctively following the subtle signals of his body as he’d led her around the front porch of the London summer home.

Then there was the time he had come up behind her, turned her in his arms and shocked her by lowering his mouth to hers.

The thought made her skin tingle. Then she realized that in fact she was shivering from the cool air.

Don’t get all wound up with fantasies, she told herself. Troy may not even be here. And if he is, he’s not the same man you knew all those years ago. And you’re not the same, either. Maybe he liked you better the way you were. Or maybe not. Back then, she hadn’t had the gumption to reach out for what she wanted. She wasn’t going to repeat the same mistake again. Not if she could make things come out the way she wanted them.

Pulling the drapes firmly across the window, she quickly crossed to the bed and climbed between the sheets, tugging the covers up to her chin. For a moment she felt as though she had let Helen down. Almost everything that had happened since she’d arrived had been out of her control. But she’d change that in the morning, she vowed.

In a few minutes her own body heat began to warm her and her mind began to drift. Soon sleep claimed her.



AS HE HAD SO OFTEN in the past few weeks, he stood on the cliff. Dangerously close to the edge, yet he felt no fear. Heights had never bothered him, and the sound of breakers crashing against the shoreline had always soothed him. Those were some of the things he remembered.

Mist swirled around him as he gazed down at the water pounding against the rocks fifty feet below. He had been drawn back to this spot, again and again. Below him was the stairway that led to the landing dock.

He had climbed that stairway a few weeks ago. He remembered that much. Then…

Suddenly it seemed important to grasp on to that memory, but it flitted away, as had so many of the thoughts that drifted through his mind like autumn leaves floating on a slow-running stream.

A man and a woman had come here. He remembered that.

They had told him… What?

Done what?

He didn’t know. Perhaps he didn’t want to know. Because on some hidden level, he sensed danger in the memory. It could hurt him badly. Like the blow on the head.

He remembered the pain and the blackness that had swallowed him up.

He shoved that memory aside, too. There was a strange kind of comfort in the blank space that took its place. A cold comfort. If he didn’t know, perhaps it wasn’t true.

And then there was the guilt. It was always with him. But it didn’t choke off his breath now, because he couldn’t remember what it was he had done. He just knew it was something very bad. He could feel it trying to sneak up on him and he clenched his eyes closed, willing it not to capture his mind.

As he’d prayed it would, the wisp of a memory flitted away. He stood very still, lifting his face to the wind, welcoming the chill.

Again, by force of will, he brought his attention to the present. To the newcomer, the woman who had arrived by car.

He had seen her, touched her shoulder. And for a little space of time, the tight, cold place inside his heart had loosened.

She had told them her name was Bree Brennan. Or was it Bonnie?

That sounded more familiar. Or maybe his memory was wrong.

His damn defective memory. Sometimes it was a curse and sometimes a blessing.

Another image worked its way into his mind. The child. Dinah. He had talked to her, drawn solace from her, given her comfort. At least he thought he had, though he couldn’t bring any of their recent conversations into sharp focus. But he sensed a connection with her. A longing. A need to keep her safe and to protect her.

It was part of the guilt.

But that wasn’t why he had gone to her room. Over and over. He needed to see her, to watch her sleep and to assure himself that she was still safe.

Quickly, he found his way down from the cliff, into the house, into the child’s bedroom, where he stood beside her bed, gazing down at her.

She stirred in her sleep but didn’t waken. He reached out a hand, then let it fall back to his side. Better not to disturb her now. He would let her be.

But the woman…

He would go to the woman. She had come back to him at last. The thought of her set off a humming in his head. An eagerness. An urgency. A need to recapture the past.



BREE’S EYES SNAPPED open.

Fear leaped inside her chest as she fought to remember where she was. Then, from below her, she heard the crashing of waves against solid rock, and recent events flashed through her mind: the flight from Baltimore, the drive from San Francisco, Ravencrest and everyone she had encountered since arriving at this cold, massive house.

Her jaw clenched. She made an effort to relax and almost succeeded, until it registered that the room was dark, except for a small beam of moonlight filtering through a crack at the edge of the drapes.

But she’d deliberately left the light on in the bathroom. Why wasn’t it burning now? Had the electricity gone off all over the house, or had someone turned off the light in her private quarters?

A tremor rippled across her skin as her gaze shot to the door that led to the hallway. It was closed.

Mentally, she went over her actions before going to bed. She’d been so tired she could barely function, but she did remember locking the door.

Under the covers, her nails dug into her palms as her hands clenched. Maybe that had awakened her—the small noise of the latch springing open. Or had someone come in another way?

Silently she damned herself for falling into bed without thinking things through. She should have checked the closet for hidden passages. And she should have fetched the gun from her suitcase.

It wasn’t an ordinary gun. In today’s climate she never would have risked trying to pack a regular handgun in her luggage. This was a special model designed by Randolph Security, a weapon that came apart into innocuous-looking pieces. She should have put it together, but she simply hadn’t thought she’d need the gun in her locked bedroom.

Now she lay very still under the covers, her eyes slitted, trying to look as though she was still asleep. Her gaze flicked to the bathroom door, to the closet, probing the shadows, as she fought the feeling that the walls were pressing in around her.

She saw no one, heard no one, yet she sensed she was no longer alone in the room. The air around her seemed to have thickened so that it was difficult to take in a full breath. And she was sure that somebody or something was watching her.

Strangely, her body felt drugged, and she was afraid that if she tried to move an arm or a leg, it would be impossible to make the muscles work. All she could do was lie here, waiting for something to happen, her breath shallow.

Earlier, on the access road leading to the mansion, mist had slithered in white tendrils along the blacktop. Now, somehow, that same mist had crept into the bedroom, spreading across the floor like a white, undulating river of vapor.

The effect was eerie and so totally out of her experience that she could only stare at the foglike wisps while the edge of panic sank its sharp claws into her.

She knew a scream was locked in her throat. Yet at the same time, she felt a kind of humming anticipation. Something was going to happen. Was already happening.

A cloud drifted across the moon and the almost nonexistent light around her faded to black. A small gasp escaped her lips, a mere puff of air. If she could have made her muscles work, she would have sprung off the bed and dashed toward the door.

But her limbs were heavy, heavy as sandbags. At the same time, a feverish expectation swelled inside her until she felt she would explode if something didn’t happen.

Please. The supplication was only in her mind. She didn’t have the power to speak out loud as she lay there with her heart thumping inside her chest. Slowly, inexorably, she sensed someone coming toward her. It was a man. She didn’t hear his footsteps, but she detected his clean male scent mixed with the smell of soap and spicy aftershave. The scent she had caught outside on the driveway. Only more potent.

And suddenly her anticipation was stronger than her fear.

She knew he had come to a stop beside the bed, knew he was bending over her. In the depths of the darkness she couldn’t see him, but she knew very well he was there. She should order him out of her bedroom. Yet the words stayed locked in her throat.

The air around her stirred and she felt his warm sweet breath against her face. For heartbeats, nothing more happened. Then she felt a gentle pressure against her lips.

It was a light kiss, butterfly light, brushing back and forth. A caress that teased and tantalized her senses even as it set off a shiver that was part sensual response and part fear.

For the moment at least, fear won, and she found her voice. “No.”

He didn’t accept the denial. Instead he absorbed the word of protest from her lips. Deliberately, he intensified the kiss, increased the breathless feeling in her chest as his lips moved over hers with practiced male assurance.

Her eyes drifted closed. Her heart stopped and then started again in overtime. She wanted to lift her arms. To push him away? To pull him close? She couldn’t say which, and she did neither. She only lay there with her eyes closed, drawn into the experience until she was returning the kiss—tentatively at first and then with more passion as her need for him grew stronger.

For a long time their lips were the only point of contact. As he sensed her acceptance, his mouth opened, became more possessive. He was a skilled lover who knew what he was doing, knew how to surprise and tease. The kiss deepened, then became momentarily more shallow. His tongue played with the sensitive tissue at the insides of her lips, then probed into the corners.

When he caught her lower lip between his teeth and gently nipped at her, she heard a small moan escape her throat.

Her response seemed to please him. He touched her then, his fingers stroking her cheeks, her jawline, her neck, moving downward, sending tingles of sensation over her skin.

He slid his hands under the covers, his fingers skimming the warm skin of her shoulders, stopping to play with the straps of her gown, which brought another small moan from her.

She found her voice, enough voice for one word. “Troy?”

He didn’t answer. She didn’t even know if it was him. The only thing she knew was that this was neither of the other men she had met this evening. It couldn’t be.

His lips left hers to flutter soft kisses over her closed eyelids, her brows, the tender line where her hair met her cheek. She felt his warm breath against her skin.

“Troy?” she asked again, her voice high and breathy as she responded to him.

Again he remained silent, never stopping the kisses and touches. His skin must have heated in response to her because the wonderful scent of his body had intensified.

She was enveloped in the sensual spell he was weaving. She wanted more from him.

As if he knew her desires, his hands slipped lower, playing with the edge of her gown where it rested against the tops of her breasts.

The kiss had started like a whisper of sensation against her lips. His touch was like that now. Light and playful. Teasing, even.

She responded with a flood of tingling warmth spreading downward through her body to the hollow place that had opened up inside her.

She could imagine her face, the dazed, drugged look. She no longer felt the bed beneath her body. Instead she seemed to float on the surface of a deep, warm pool of sensuality. But down in the far depths she felt doubt stirring. In some part of her mind she knew that this was wrong. It had to be wrong. Whether this man was Troy or not, he had come to her in the night without announcing his name or his intentions. He had come to her bed like a phantom lover.

The dark image was powerful in its dampening effect. The fear that had momentarily receded into the background leaped to the front of her mind again.

All at once, she felt as if she’d been under an evil, sensual spell. And through her own will, she had been released. Her eyes flew open. It was still dark in the room and she couldn’t see the man who hovered over her. But her hands moved swiftly and surely as they came up to push him away.

For a millisecond she thought she felt the resistance of his warm flesh, of muscle and bone. Then her hands pressed upward through chilled, empty air. He was gone. Vanished, as silently and as swiftly as he had come to her.




Chapter Three


For several heartbeats the room remained in the clutches of darkness. Then, perhaps in response to her urgent need, the clouds moved away from the moon and once again a sliver of radiance seeped through the crack at the edge of the drapes. In the cold, dim light that streamed across the room, Bree saw that she was alone.

Her midnight visitor had vanished—along with the mist that had rippled across the floor. Or had the mist just been the product of her overheated imagination?

Her heart was still pounding as she pushed herself up, pressed her back against the pillows and looked around the chamber.

“Troy?” she questioned, her voice no more than a breathy whisper. Once more there was no answer.

And no proof that the man who had come to her bed was Troy London, she thought, goose bumps blooming on her skin. In the darkness she hadn’t seen him, only felt his touch and his scorching kiss as he’d woven his erotic spell around her.

Her skin heated at the memory. Her gaze flew to the door, but it was shut, the way she’d left it.

Now that she was alone, the whole experience seemed cloaked in unreality. The mist, the man, her reaction that was so totally unlike her normal response.

Her visitor had come to her in the dead of night and coaxed a totally sensual response from her. Then, when she’d regained her senses, the rational part of her mind had been terrified.

At the same time, there was no way that she could deny the sexual pull toward her midnight caller. Raising her fingers, she touched them lightly to her lips, brushing them back and forth, feeling a small tingling afterburn of the sensations he’d generated.

Oh, yes, she remembered his touch. But she remembered other sensations, too. She’d felt strange, drugged, compelled, as if she’d been under some kind of evil magic spell.

Even as thoughts of black magic formed, her mind rejected the explanation—and jumped to a more acceptable alternative. Maybe the whole experience had simply been a dream, a very vivid dream brought on by her exhaustion and her own sexual needs. She’d been thinking about Troy, remembering him just before she’d gone to bed. And she’d been hoping to encounter him. So it made sense that she had conjured him up in the dark of the night. And conjured up the sensuality, too, if she were honest.

Because she’d never given up her secret dream of getting back together with Troy, and she’d never stopped wanting him.

She’d been a virgin seven years ago when she’d first met him, and she was pretty sure he’d known it. He’d been careful of her, going slowly, awakening her sensuality with touches and kisses that had become more intimate over time. She remembered that first thrilling moment when he’d cupped her breast then played with her beaded nipple through the fabric of her blouse and bra.

They’d been dancing on the porch then, their bodies swaying in slow, provocative rhythm. When he’d slid his hands down her body and pulled her against his arousal, her own need had leaped to meet his.

She’d been exhilarated with the knowledge that they’d been on the verge of making love. Then her mother had gotten sick and she’d gone rushing back to North Carolina. Mom’s health was fragile, and she couldn’t be left alone, so they’d moved to Baltimore, where Aunt Martha could take care of her while Bree was in school.

She’d lost track of Troy in the flurry of activity surrounding the move. Later, she’d told herself it was for the best. Still, she’d been shocked and hurt when she’d heard that he’d gotten married so soon after she’d left.

Then, because he’d taken a wife, she’d told herself it was wrong to still want him. And mostly she’d managed to keep him out of her thoughts. But Helen’s call had changed everything.

Maybe the real reason, the secret reason, she’d come rushing to Ravencrest was that she wanted to take up where they’d left off.

Unbidden, more scenes came winging back to her from the summer of her sophomore year in college—when she’d been head over heels in love with Troy. It wasn’t just sex. The two of them had seemed so right for each other. They’d gotten into long discussions about all sorts of topics from world politics to the running of the family cattle ranch. They’d gone for rides in the mountains, carried along a picnic lunch so they wouldn’t have to come back for hours. He’d taken her to the barn where she’d been entranced by a newborn foal.

She’d thought their relationship was heading somewhere important. And then it had all been snatched away from her.

As those memories from the past flooded through her mind and body, it was impossible to stay in the bed where he’d come to her. Throwing aside the covers, she swung her legs over the edge, thumping her feet onto the floor as she looked around.

Weaving slightly, she crossed the room. First she tried the door, just to make sure. It was locked—the way she’d left it.

With a sigh, she backtracked to the window. When she opened the curtains and pushed at the bottom sash, it slid upward with only minimal resistance.

The cold outside air sent a shiver rippling over her skin, but she didn’t step back. Cautiously, she stuck her head out and took in the scene. The stars and moon gleamed in a black velvet sky. A path of moonlight wavered on the dark surface of the restless ocean below her.

Dragging her gaze away from the mesmerizing sky and the water, she inspected the wall of the building. It rose above her for two more floors like a man-made extension of the cliff. And like the cliff, there were rough stones that an agile climber might be able to use for hand-and footholds. But could anyone climbing the wall have gotten away so quickly?

Maybe, if he’d slipped inside another room. Or if he was a mountain climber, like Troy. That summer, she’d watched with her heart in her throat as he’d scaled sheer cliffs. There was no reason he couldn’t do the same thing now.

Suddenly feeling dizzy, she pulled her head back inside, then shut the window and sprung the latch.

Her next stop was the bathroom, where she felt around for the light switch. It was in the off position, and the light came on as soon as she flipped it up. Blinking in the yellow glow, she waited for several seconds then checked her watch. It was one in the morning. She’d gone to bed around seven, so she’d slept almost six hours. That meant she probably wasn’t going back to sleep anytime soon.

With a small shrug, she crossed to the sink, scooped up some water in her hands and took several sips. The tingling cold helped ground her. Deliberately, she brought up more details from the disturbing encounter, examining the facts and her feelings.

Either she’d dreamed up the whole thing or a man had come to her room, a man whose presence had frightened her but whose seductive touch had captivated her. He hadn’t been rough with her. On the contrary, his attention had been gentle yet thrilling. Still, she’d known he shouldn’t be there and when she’d reached to push him away, her hands had contacted only empty air.

Once more, her skin prickled. She wanted to cling to the dream theory, but she knew that would be dangerous.

Just as it was dangerous to get all wound up with memories of Troy—or to mix them up with the present.

She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to talk herself out of the feeling of intensity he’d created within her. Intensity she’d seldom experienced in her lifetime.

Of course she’d had relationships with other men since her almost affair with Troy. In fact, she’d done her best to forget Troy London and to get serious about someone else. But none of her other boyfriends had seemed like the soul mate she’d wanted for a marriage partner. And she’d known deep down that she was comparing each of them unfavorably to Troy.

She snorted. Talk about carrying a torch! Obviously the man had gotten over her. He’d married not long after that sweet summer encounter. And Helen had said that his wife’s death had devastated him.

Yet tonight he hadn’t come to her like a man still pining for his lost wife. He’d come to her like a lover. And now she struggled to figure out what that encounter meant.

Again she touched her lips, remembering the kisses in the darkness. She was making assumptions about his identity. Could she be sure he was the same man who had held her in his arms seven years ago?

She couldn’t answer that question. Maybe if she’d seen him tonight she would know for sure. But she was forced to rely on her other senses—on the memory of his long-ago kisses and caresses. She’d been a lot younger then. So had Troy. His kisses had been different, less skillful back then. But she could put that down to his lack of maturity and experience. And her own immaturity, too.

Resolutely she reentered the bedroom and switched on the overhead light. Then she turned to the closet. The door was closed, and she hesitated for heartbeats as she stared at the dark wood as if trying to penetrate it with her gaze.

If he was inside, she should clear out. Yet he hadn’t hurt her. He hadn’t demanded anything. He’d only taken as much as she’d wanted to give. And he probably wasn’t anywhere around now.

She recognized all those thoughts as rationalization. Still, before she could stop herself, she grasped the knob, turned it and pulled the door open. The closet was empty—and as dark as she remembered.

She breathed out a small sigh, then kneeled on the floor, felt around in her suitcase and found the flashlight that she’d brought along for emergencies. When her heart rate had calmed a little, she began investigating the closet, shining the light along the walls, over the ceiling and down to the floor, which was made of the same wood boards as in the bedroom. The walls and ceiling were old-fashioned plaster, except for the back of the closet, which was wood paneling. Holding the light in one hand, she shone the beam over the surface. With the other hand, she ran her fingers and palm lightly over the wood, taking care not to pick up any stray splinters in the process. She thought she detected a line where two pieces of paneling came together—which proved nothing more than that the surface had been applied in sections.

Making her hand into a fist, she rapped her knuckles lightly against the wood, first on one side, then on the other, and finally in the middle. The sound seemed different—more solid in the middle and on the right side, more hollow on the left.

Unsure of how to proceed, she tried pressing on various parts of the panel, disappointed when nothing happened. Exasperated, she put down her flashlight and pressed with two hands, trying different random patterns. When she pushed with one hand near the top of the panel and the other near the middle, there was a soft click. In the next second the wall swung inward, revealing a dark, yawning cavern.

She stared into the blackness, automatically wishing the door hadn’t opened. Then, firming her jaw, she picked up the flashlight again and shone it into the opening. A long, dark passage stretched in front of her. The old Bonnie Brennan would probably have shut the door again, gone back to bed and pulled the covers over her head. The old Bonnie Brennan had been passive and timid. The new Bree Brennan knew she had to find out where the passage led because there was no safety in her room as long as someone could sneak in at will.

But the new Bree Brennan was no fool. She wasn’t going to do it dressed in her nightgown. And she wasn’t going to act like the dumb heroine of a Gothic novel. She was going to get her gun.

Digging through her suitcase, she began to pull out the separate parts of the weapon. The barrel was a narrow flashlight. The clip was a waterproof box filled with “medicine capsules.” The stock was a soap dish.

After finding all the components, she sat on the bed and put the gun together.

Carefully she tested her construction skills, then loaded in a clip and got comfortable again with the feel of the weapon in her hand. Before she’d left Baltimore, she’d trained with this pistol on a firing range until she’d felt confident that it would protect her if she needed it.

Turning back to her suitcase, she found a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. After pulling them on, she got out socks and running shoes. When she was better outfitted for exploring, she picked up her gun and the flashlight and faced the tunnel again.

As she played the beam over the walls, she saw that they were made of the same paneling as the back of the closet. The floor, however, was stone.

Spiderwebs blurred the line where the ceiling met the walls, and she braced for musty air. But it had an unexpected freshness, as though there were some access to the outside. When she licked her finger and held it up, she detected a faint breeze.

Some part of her thought it might not be a dumb idea to turn around and go back. At the same time another part of her wondered if she was being compelled to sneak down this tunnel by some outside force. The same force that had held her captive in bed when she’d first awakened.

Just to prove she could, she stopped in her tracks and thought about what she was doing. It made sense that the man who’d come to her room was long gone. But if he’d gotten into her bedroom through this tunnel, she wanted to know what lay at the other end.

“Troy?” she called.

He didn’t answer, and she hadn’t expected him to. Still, calling out to him made her pulse beat faster.

Gun in one hand and flashlight in the other, she moved along the passage, feeling the floor slope slightly downward as she went. She stayed close to the right-hand wall, and about ten feet into the tunnel, the surface changed from paneling to stone.

After about twenty paces, the tunnel curved to the right, abruptly turning a corner so that when she swiveled back, she could no longer see the closet where she’d entered.

If she turned off the flashlight, she knew she would be in total darkness. A jolt of claustrophobia grabbed her by the throat and she had to pause and press her arm against the rough stone. Closing her eyes, she took several deep, steadying breaths. When she felt more in control, she started moving forward again, still counting the paces.

She had taken perhaps ten more steps when disaster struck, overtaking her so suddenly that she had no preparation. One moment she was standing on solid ground, the next, the floor of the tunnel fell out from under her feet.

A scream tore from her throat as she dropped the flashlight and the gun, clawing at the wall with both hands. But there was no way she could stop herself from tumbling into space like a rag doll tossed over the edge of a cliff.

The gun clattered to the stone floor. The flashlight plummeted farther downward, the glass smashing and the light going dark as it hit something solid far below her.

The world seemed to slow, so that she felt trapped in a bubble. She had time to think, time to consider her fate. She would follow the flashlight down, her mind screamed as she braced for the impact of her body striking rock far below.

But it never happened. A man’s strong arms caught her, stopping her downward plunge in midfall. For a heart-stopping moment it felt as if she were standing on nothing but air, her legs dangling helplessly as he held her upper body in his grasp.

Rocks continued to tumble over the precipice into some black, bottomless pit, the impact reverberating in the confined space.

Her breath came hard and fast as she clung to him. Pressing her face against his chest, she struggled to make sense of what had happened.

Just as in the bedroom, she couldn’t see him in the darkness, only feel the solid shape of his body and the soft fabric of his flannel shirt as he folded her close.

It was him, the man who had come to her bed, she thought, leaning into his strength as the scent of soap and spice enveloped her.

In the darkness, she let him drag her a few steps back, away from the place where the floor had dropped out from under her feet. For long moments she was happy to simply nestle in his arms, eyes closed.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Thank you for being there when I needed you.”

She felt his head nod, his chin brushing the top of her hair, felt his large hands slide possessively up and down her back, stroking, soothing, keeping her close in the circle of his arms. Clasping her more tightly, he turned his head so that he could press his lips against her hair, while his hands trailed over her back, along her spine.

It was tempting to simply drift, wrapped in his comfort and care. But finally she roused herself. “Tell me who you are,” she said.

As before, he didn’t speak.

She had been feeling calm and protected, but suddenly a flare of anger overtook her.

“Are you Troy? Answer me, damn you! What kind of games are you playing with me?” As she spoke, she angled her head up, trying to see him in the blackness. But she was just as frustrated as she had been in the bedroom. Without the flashlight, the tunnel was like the inside of a whale’s belly.

He took advantage of her upturned face and open lips. Instead of speaking, he brought his mouth down on hers in a kiss that took her by surprise.

There was a charged moment when she tried to tell him what she thought of his evasive maneuvers. But he didn’t give her the opportunity. Instead he took her by storm, his lips demanding, insisting, commanding as his hands clamped over her shoulders, holding her to him.

She might have tried to pull away, except that below the surface of his assault, she sensed a need that tugged at her with a desperation that made her heart turn over.

Without giving herself time to consider the wisdom of her actions, she allowed her lips to soften against his. It was only the barest signal of surrender, but he reacted immediately.

The kiss changed from a ravishment to a meeting of two equal forces. On a sigh, she gave herself over to it, experimenting with the sensations he was generating within her, rubbing her mouth back and forth against his, then taking his lower lip between her teeth the way he’d done in the bedroom, staking a claim on his flesh.

It was then that she heard a deep, throaty sound well in him. The sound was the first he had made since he’d come to her in the bedroom, one part of her mind realized. That thought fled as he took back dominance of the kiss, angling his head, moving his lips against hers, sipping from her, inciting her, then soothing with masterful control.

She heard wind roaring in her ears, a cyclone brewing. Somehow he was the only safe refuge. She felt fire sweep her up, fire that came from him and kindled a roar of heat in her belly.

The kiss tasted of dark needs and the wild heather clinging to the cliffs.

When he silently asked her to open her mouth, she did his bidding, then shivered as his tongue swept along the sensitive tissue of her lips.

She felt his hunger, felt her own hunger leap up to match his. He pressed her back so that she was trapped between the rock wall and the solid barrier of his body.

The cold stone might have chilled her if the heat of his body hadn’t seeped into her flesh and bone. It was like being caught in the blast from an open furnace. And she might burn to a cinder if she wasn’t careful. That thought brought back a measure of sanity.

It took a tremendous act of will, but she managed to raise her hands, pushing gently against his chest. “Don’t. We have to talk. You were in my room. Then you came here—and saved me from that pit.”

In the dark, the air stirred, and she thought he had nodded again. But he didn’t volunteer any words of agreement.

The silence made her boil with frustration and she grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Dammit, I don’t even know if you’re Troy! I think you must be Troy. But it’s been so long.” The wistful sound of her own voice made her stop and drag in a calming breath. Slowly, deliberately, she let it ease out again. “Every time I try to have a conversation with you, you kiss me. What’s wrong with you? Have you lost the ability to talk?”

Her heart thumped in her chest as she waited for an answer, half afraid that it was actually true—that somehow he’d been struck mute.

“I can speak to you,” he said, sounding surprised and relieved, as though he’d just discovered that he possessed the ability.

“Thank God!” she breathed. “Helen is worried about you. She said she got e-mails from you that sounded strange.”

“She got e-mails from me?”

“Yes!” Her hands tightened on his arms. “Troy, what happened to you? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer the question. Instead he said very clearly and distinctly, “I didn’t send her any e-mails. She’s lying.”




Chapter Four


“Helen is lying? About what?” she demanded, her fingers digging into the tense muscles of Troy’s arms. If it was Troy. She didn’t even know the answer to that question yet. Not for sure.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as though the topic made him uncomfortable.

“Please. You can’t just come out with a statement like that. You have to tell me what you mean.”

When he remained silent, she struggled to contain her frustration and she heard the strident note in her own voice when she said, “Helen sent me to find out what’s wrong at Ravencrest. What’s wrong with you!”

“She sent you?” he asked, surprise gathering in his voice.

“Yes.”

“Helen wouldn’t do that. She…” He didn’t finish the sentence, simply let it trail off, as though he had forgotten what he intended to say. Or thought better of giving any more away.

She had gone beyond frustration to simmering anger. “Troy, I was sleeping in my bed when you came waltzing into my room in the middle of the night and started kissing me. You can’t do that, then act like we have nothing to talk about.”

“Why not?” he asked slowly, as though social conventions were a deep mystery.

She needed to see the expression on his face. Was he having fun with her? But the darkness made it impossible to judge his intent.

When the silence stretched, she got back to basics. “Are you Troy London?” she asked.

“I…don’t know.”

The answer and the tentative way he spoke were so unexpected that it sent a sizzle along her nerve endings. “What do you mean, you don’t know? How can you not know who you are?”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“Certainly not.”

It sounded as if he was claiming he had amnesia. She didn’t know much about the condition, but she remembered when a friend’s mother had had no memory of a bad car accident.

She sighed. “Do you remember what happened to you? I mean, do you know why you’ve lost your memory?”

“No,” he murmured, sounding so lost and alone that her heart squeezed.

In the darkness she reached for his hand. Without speaking, she folded her slender fingers around his larger ones. Almost at once he shifted his grip so that he was holding on to her, the pressure increasing as they stood in the blackness of the tunnel.

She remembered him as strong and vital. A man of action. A man without fear. She remembered the time they’d been walking on the ranch and a rattlesnake had slithered out from behind a rock and he’d beaten it to death with a stick while she’d gasped at him to be careful. There were other memories that were just as strong. Tender memories. Like the way he’d gathered a bouquet of wildflowers from the hills around the ranch and set them in a pretty blue-and-white pitcher in her room. He’d been tough and masculine, yet he hadn’t been afraid to show her his sensitive side.

Now…

Now it was hard to believe this was the same man.

Of course, he could be putting on an elaborate charade, although she didn’t think so. Something was badly wrong, but she couldn’t say what. Not without more information, which he wouldn’t or couldn’t give her.

Her mind spun with questions. Had he fallen from the cliffs? Had a stroke? Or had he been drugged?

And then there was his preference for the darkness. Why wouldn’t he let her see him? Fear shot through her as a ready explanation leaped into her mind. He had been in an accident—and his face was scarred, which was why he was staying hidden.

She reached up with her free hand to touch him, and he stepped quickly back as though he could see perfectly well in the dark and knew what she was thinking. The sudden withdrawal gave credence to her speculation.

“You were hurt,” she said.

“Yes.”

“It’s all right. I mean, if you don’t like the way you look, it’s not going to…offend me. Is that it? Is that what’s wrong?”

“Stop trying to come up with explanations,” he said with more force than he’d exhibited thus far in all their interactions. “You’re not doing either one of us any good.”

She might have protested. Instead she gave him the space he was demanding. He had come to her. That was a start. “All right,” she said simply.

In the darkness she heard him suck in a deep, sighing breath and then let it out in a rush. Again he reached for her, but this time his hand only rested lightly on her arm. “You should leave this place. If you stay here you’re going to get into trouble.”

Her reaction was swift and sharp. “I came here to find out what happened to you—and to make sure Dinah is all right. Don’t you care about her?”

The hand on her arm clenched then opened. “Dinah,” he said softly. “I forgot about Dinah.”

“How could you forget about your own daughter?”

“Is she?”

Lord, what was that supposed to mean? Was he saying the child wasn’t his, or that he wasn’t Troy London?

She dragged a hand through her hair, sweeping it back from her face. Suddenly she felt as if she were an actor who’d been shoved onstage in a play for which she’d missed the rehearsals and lost the script. Now she was in the middle of the action and she had no idea what was expected of her. And in the back of her mind, she couldn’t let go of the feeling that Helen London had orchestrated the whole thing.

She canceled that thought as unfair. Helen had warned her that something bad was going on at Ravencrest. It was Bree’s job to figure out what it was.

Still, the whole situation was overwhelming. She certainly couldn’t answer Troy’s question about Dinah. She didn’t know how to deal with him. Yet she couldn’t simply turn around and go back to her room. Not now.

“Do you know who I am?” she finally asked.

This time he answered more quickly. “I heard you say you were Bonnie Brennan. Bree. I like that better.”

“You were listening when I arrived?”

“I listen in on what’s happening here.” He stroked his hand up and down her arm. “You were talking to Nola.”

“Yes.”

So he’d been hiding, eavesdropping on her conversation in the hall. She wasn’t going to press him on that. Instead, now that they were communicating a little better, she went back to his earlier bombshell. “Why did you say Helen was lying?”

“Because she…wouldn’t call anyone for help. She’s too independent.”

That was a good description of Helen—under ordinary circumstances. But not in this case. Bree sighed. “She’s stuck halfway around the world and she’s worried about you. So you’re wrong.”

“You’re Helen’s friend,” he said, sounding as if he wasn’t quite sure.

“Yes, I’m her friend from college. I was Bonnie Brennan back then. I changed my name to Bree.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t like the woman I realized I was,” she answered, unwilling to give any more away even as she fought off disappointment.

Didn’t he remember her from the summer of her sophomore year, when they had been so close? At least she’d thought they were. It had been the most memorable time of her life, the most compelling relationship in her entire existence. It hurt to think that it had meant far less to him. Yet tonight there had been a breathtaking intensity between them. That must mean something, surely. Maybe even though he didn’t remember her on a conscious level, he’d been drawn back to her.

He interrupted her thoughts with another pronouncement. “It’s dangerous here. You have to go back.”

“Back to Maryland?”

“Back to your room.”

The firm, decisive delivery chilled her. He’d been holding her hand. He broke the contact, stepping away from her, leaving her standing in the dark.

“Troy!”

“Stay there. Don’t move.” His voice was sharp, commanding, urgent, and she froze.

One of his hands clamped on her shoulder, leading her around a sharp corner. “Look!”

In the next moment fire flared only a few yards in front of her face, the sudden light so unexpected after the total darkness that she couldn’t focus. Dimly she saw a burning faggot of straw or sticks fly through the air, arching upward before it began to fall—not at her feet, but far, far below.

With a shock of amazement she realized she’d been so caught up in the conversation with Troy that she’d forgotten about the gaping pit.

The brand crashed onto the rocks, sending sparks flaring upward toward her.

She blinked, probing the darkness—and knew that in the moments when she’d been blinded, he’d slipped away.

“Troy?”

He didn’t answer and she felt a shiver slither over her skin. He’d mesmerized her, made her forget about the dangerous drop-off.

Then, when he’d thrown the burning brand, she hadn’t even seen him at all. She was still grappling with that when his voice drifted toward her, this time from far away.

“Go back,” he said again. And then he was gone.

“Troy,” she called, knowing even as she said his name that she was absolutely alone. “Troy,” she said again, despairingly, softly. “Don’t run away from me. Let me help you.”

Even as she called out to him, she knew he wasn’t going to answer. He had left her here, left her with light. And she knew she should use the opportunity to go back down the tunnel.

But she could also see that there was a short path that led along the rim of the pit and around a corner to some other section of the underground passage—a section that was hidden from view.

He’d slipped away. He hadn’t brushed past her. So the only way he could have gone was in the other direction.

The old Bonnie Brennan whispered that she would be a fool to follow him. He obviously knew his way around here, and she didn’t. The new persona she’d worked so hard to create shouted that she had no other options.

It was clear Troy had sought her out because he was in trouble. Yet, at the same time, he didn’t want to—or couldn’t—give her any information.

What if he’d changed his mind about trusting her and this was her only chance to get some answers from him?

For a long moment she stood with her lower lip between her teeth, torn between safety and urgency. Yet deep down she silently acknowledged that one reason she’d come here was to test herself. To find out if she’d really changed from the timid woman of the past. To prove she wasn’t her old wimpy self, she took a step forward and then another, hugging the rock wall, staying as far as she could from the pit. Although it was only six or eight feet to the other side, the journey seemed endless. She breathed a little sigh as she came out onto a wider space again.




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