by Nora Roberts
She hated her job.
That wasn’t part of The Malory Price Life Plan, which she had begun to outline at the age of eight. Twenty years later, that outline had become a detailed and organized checklist, complete with headings, subheadings and cross-references. She revised it meticulously on the first of each year.
She was supposed to love her job. It said so, quite clearly, under the heading of CAREER.
She’d worked at The Gallery for seven years, the last three of those as manager, which was right on schedule. And she had loved it—being surrounded by art, having an almost free hand in the displaying, the acquiring, the promotion and set-up for showings and events.
The fact was she’d begun to think of The Gallery as hers, and knew full well the rest of the staff, the clients, the artists and craftsman had felt very much the same.
James P. Horace might have owned the smart little gallery, but he’d never questioned Malory’s decisions, and on his increasingly rare visits had complimented her, always, on the acquisitions, the ambiance, the sales.
It had been perfect, which was exactly what Malory intended her life to be. After all, if it wasn’t perfect, what was the point?
Everything had changed when James had forsaken fifty-three years of comfortable bachelorhood and acquired himself a young, sexy wife. A wife, Malory thought with her steel-blue eyes narrowing in resentment, who’d decided to make The Gallery her personal pet.
It didn’t matter that the new Mrs. Horace knew next to nothing about art, about business, about public relations or managing employees. James doted on his Pamela, and Malory’s dream job had become a daily nightmare.
But she’d been dealing with it, Malory thought as she scowled through her dark, drenched windshield. She’d outlined her strategy and it had been to wait Pamela out. To remain calm and possessed during this nasty little bump until the road had smoothed out again.
Now that excellent strategy was out the window. She’d lost her temper when Pamela had countermanded her orders on a display of art glass, when she’d seen the perfectly and beautifully organized gallery turned upside-down with clutter and ugly fabrics.
There were some things she could tolerate, Malory told herself, but being slapped in the face with hideous taste in her own space wasn’t one of them.
Then again, blowing up at the owner’s wife was not the path to solid job security. Particularly when the words myopic, plebeian bimbo were employed.
Lightning crashed over the rise ahead, and Malory winced as much in memory of her temper as from the flash. A very bad move on her part, which only showed what happened when you gave in to temper and impulse.
To top it off, she’d spilled cappuccino on Pamela’s Escada suit. But that had been an accident.
Almost.
However fond James was of her, Malory knew her livelihood was hanging by a very slim thread. And when the thread broke, she was sunk. Art galleries weren’t a dime a dozen in a pretty, picturesque town like Pleasant Valley. She’d either have to find another area of work as a stop-gap, or relocate.
Neither option put a smile on her face.
She loved Pleasant Valley, loved being surrounded by the mountains of western Pennsylvania. She loved the small-town feel, the mix of quaint and sophisticated that drew the tourists, and the get-away crowds that spilled out of neighboring Pittsburgh for impulsive weekends.
Even as a child growing up in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, Pleasant Valley was exactly the sort of place she’d imagined living. She’d craved the hills, with their shadows, their textures, and the tidy streets of a valley town, the simplicity of the pace, the friendliness of neighbors.
The decision to someday fold herself into the fabric of Pleasant Valley had been made when she’d been fourteen and had spent a long holiday weekend there with her parents.
Just as she’d decided, when she’d wandered through The Gallery that long-ago autumn, that she’d one day be part of that space.
Of course, she’d believed her paintings would hang there, but that had been one item on her checklist she’d been forced to delete rather than tick off when accomplished.
She would never be an artist. But she had to be, needed to be involved and surrounded by art.
Still, she didn’t want to move back to the city. She wanted to keep her gorgeous, roomy apartment two blocks from The Gallery, with its views of the Appalachians, its creaky old floors and its walls jammed with carefully selected artwork.
And the hope of that was looking as dim as the stormy sky.
So she hadn’t been smart with her money, Malory admitted with a windy sigh. She didn’t see the point of letting it lie in some bank when it could be turned into something lovely to look at or wear. Until it was used, money was just paper. Malory tended to use a great deal of paper.
She was overdrawn at the bank. Again. She’d maxed out her credit cards. Ditto. But, she reminded herself, she had a great wardrobe. And the start of a very impressive art collection. Which she’d have to sell, piece by piece, and most likely at a loss to keep a roof over her head if Pamela brought the axe down.
But maybe tonight would buy her some time and good will. She hadn’t wanted to attend the cocktail reception at Warrior’s Peak. A fanciful name for a spooky old place, she thought. Another time she’d have been thrilled at the opportunity to see the inside of the great old house so high on the ridge. And to rub elbows with people who might be patrons of the arts.
But the invitation had been odd. Written in an elegant hand on heavy stone-colored paper, with a logo of an ornate gold key in lieu of letterhead. Though it was tucked in her evening bag now along with her compact, her lipstick, her cell phone, her glasses, fresh pen, business cards and ten dollars, Malory remembered the wording.
THE PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY IS DESIRED FOR COCKTAILS AND CONVERSATION EIGHT P.M., SEPTEMBER 4 WARRIOR’S PEAK YOU ARE THE KEY. THE LOCK AWAITS.
Now how weird was that? Malory asked herself, and gritted her teeth as the car shimmied in a sudden gust of wind. The way her luck was going, it was probably a scam for some pyramid scheme.
Warrior’s Peak had been empty for years. She knew it had been purchased recently, but the details were lean. Some outfit called Triad, she recalled, and assumed it was some sort of corporation looking to turn it into a hotel or mini-resort.
Which didn’t explain why they’d invited the manager of The Gallery, and not the owner and his interfering wife. Pamela had been pretty peeved about the slight—so that was something.
Still, Malory would have passed on the evening. She didn’t have a date, just another aspect of her life that currently sucked, and driving alone into the mountains to a house straight out of Hollywood horror on the strength of an invitation that made her uneasy wasn’t on her list of fun things to do in the middle of the workweek.
There hadn’t even been a number or contact for an rsvp. And that, she felt, was arrogant and rude. Her response in ignoring the invitation would have been equally arrogant and rude, but James had spotted it on her desk.
He’d been so excited, so pleased by the idea of her going, had pressed her to relay the details of the house’s interior to him. And had reminded her that if she could discreetly drop The Gallery into conversation from time to time, it would be good for business.
If she could score a few clients, it might offset the Escada and the bimbo comment.
Her car chugged up the narrowing road that cut through the dense, dark forest. She’d always thought of those hills and woods as a kind of Sleepy Hollow effect that ringed her pretty valley. But just now, with the wind and rain and dark, the less serene aspects of that old tale were a little too much in evidence for her peace of mind.
If whatever was pinging in her dash was serious, she could end up broken down on the side of the road, huddled in the car listening to the moans and lashes of the storm, imagining headless horsemen, while she waited for a tow-truck she couldn’t afford.
Obviously, the answer was not to break down.
She thought she caught glimpses of lights beaming through the rain and trees, but her windshield wipers were whipping at the highest speed and still barely able to shove aside the flood of rain.
As lightning snapped again, she gripped the wheel tighter. She liked a good, hellcat storm as much as anyone, but she wanted to enjoy this one while she was sitting inside, anywhere, and drinking a nice glass of wine.
She had to be close. How far could any single road climb up before it just had to start falling down the other side of the mountain? She knew Warrior’s Peak stood atop the ridge, guarding the valley below. Or lording it over the valley, depending on your viewpoint. She hadn’t passed another car for miles.
Which only proved anyone with half a brain wasn’t driving in this mess, she thought.
The road forked, and the bend on the right streamed through enormous stone pillars. Malory slowed, gawked at the life-sized warriors standing on each pillar. Perhaps it was the storm, the night, her own jittery mood, but they looked more human than stone, with hair flying around their fierce faces, their hands gripped on the hilt of swords. In the shimmer of lightning, she could almost see muscles rippling in the arms, over the broad, bare chests.
She had to fight the temptation to get out of the car for a closer look. But the chill that tripped down her spine as she turned through the open iron gates had her glancing back up at the warriors with as much wariness as appreciation for the skill of the sculptor.
Then she hit the brakes and fishtailed on the crushed stone of the private roadbed. Her heart jammed into her throat as she stared at the stunning buck standing arrogantly a foot in front of the bumper, and the sprawling, eccentric lines of the house behind him.
For a moment she took the deer for a sculpture as well, though why any sane person would set a sculpture in the center of their drive was beyond her. Then again, sane didn’t seem to be the operative word for anyone who would choose to live in the house on the ridge.
But the deer’s eyes gleamed, a sharp emerald green in the beam of her headlights, and its head with its great, crowning rack, turned slightly. Regally, Malory mused, mesmerized. Rain streamed off its coat, and in the next flash of light, that coat seemed white as the moon.
He stared at her, but there was nothing of fear, nothing of surprise in those glinting eyes. There was, if such things were possible, a kind of amused disdain. Then he walked away, through the curtain of rain, the rivers of fog, and was gone.
“Wow.” She let out a long breath, shivered in the warmth of her car. “And one more wow,” she murmured as she stared at the house.
She’d seen pictures of it, and paintings. She’d seen its shape and silhouette hulking on the ridge above the valley. But it was an entirely different matter to see it up close, with a storm raging.
Something caught between a castle, a fortress and a house of horrors, she decided.
Its stone was obsidian black, with its juts and towers, its peaks and battlements stacked and spread as if some very clever, very wicked child had placed them at his whim. Against that rain-slicked black, long, narrow windows, perhaps hundreds of them, all glowed with gilded light.
Someone was not worried about the electric bill.
Fog smoked around its base, like a moat of mist.
In the next shock of lightning, she caught a glimpse of a white banner with the gold key madly waving from one of the topmost spires.
She inched the car closer. Gargoyles hunched along the walls, crawled over the eaves. Rainwater vomited out of their grinning mouths, spilled out of clawed hands as they grinned down at her.
She stopped in front of the stone skirt of a wide portico, and considered, very seriously, turning back into the storm and driving away.
She called herself a coward, a childish idiot. She asked herself where she’d lost her sense of adventure and fun.
The insults worked well enough to have her tapping her fingers on the door handle. And the quick rap on her window had a scream shooting out of her throat.
The white, bony face surrounded by a black hood that peered in at her turned the scream to a kind of breathless keening.
Gargoyles do not come to life, she assured herself, repeating the words over and over in her head as she rolled the window down a cautious half-inch.
“Welcome to Warrior’s Peak.” His voice boomed over the rain, and his welcoming smile showed a great many teeth. “If you’ll just leave your keys in the car, Miss, I’ll see to it for you.”
Before she could think to slap down the locks, he’d pulled open her door. He blocked the sweep of wind and rain with his body, and the biggest umbrella she’d ever seen.
“I’ll see you safe and dry to the door.”
What was that accent? English, Irish, Scots?
“Thank you.” She started to climb out, felt herself pinned back. Panic dribbled into embarrassment as she realized she’d yet to unhook her seat belt.
Freed, she huddled under the umbrella, struggling to regulate her breathing as he walked her to the double entrance doors. They were wide enough to accommodate a semi and boasted dull silver knockers, big as turkey platters, fashioned into dragons’ heads.
Some welcome, Malory thought an instant before one of the doors opened, and light and warmth poured out.
The woman had a straight and gorgeous stream of flame-colored hair—it spilled around a pale face of perfect angles and curves. Her eyes, green as the buck’s had been, danced as if at some private joke under dark, slashing brows. She was tall and slim, garbed in a long gown of fluid black. A silver amulet holding a fat stone of misty green hung beneath her breasts.
Her lips, red as her hair, curved as she held out a hand sparkling with rings.
She looked, Malory thought, like something out of a very sexy fairy tale.
“Miss Price. Welcome. Such a thrilling storm, but distressing, I’m sure, to be out in it. Come in.”
The hand was warm and strong, and stayed clasped over Malory’s as the woman drew her into the entrance hall.
The light showered down from a chandelier of crystal so fine it resembled spun sugar sparkling over the twists and curves of silver.
The floor was mosaic, depicting the warriors from the gate and what seemed to be a number of mythological figures. She couldn’t kneel down and study it as she might have liked and was already struggling to hold back an orgasmic moan at the paintings that crowded walls the color of melted butter.
“I’m so glad you could join us tonight,” the woman continued. “I’m Rowena. Please, let me take you into the parlor. There’s a lovely fire. Early in the year for one, but the storm seemed to call for it. Was the drive up difficult?”
“Challenging. Miss—”
“Rowena. Just Rowena.”
“Rowena. I wonder if I could take just a moment to freshen up before joining the other guests?”
“Of course. Powder room.” She gestured to a door tucked under the long sweep of the front stairs. “The parlor is the first door on your right. Take your time.”
“Thanks.” Malory slipped inside, and immediately thought powder room was a very poor label for the plush, roomy area.
The half-dozen candles on the marble counter streamed out light and scent. Burgundy hand towels edged in ecru lace were arranged beside the generous pool of sink. The faucet gleamed gold in the fanciful shape of a swan.
Here the floor mosaic held a mermaid, sitting on a rock, smiling out at a blue sea as she combed her flame-colored hair.
This time, after double-checking to make certain she’d locked the door, Malory did kneel down to study the craftsmanship.
Gorgeous, she thought, running her fingertips over the tiles. Old, certainly, and brilliantly executed.
Was there anything more powerful than the ability to create beauty?
She straightened, washed her hands with soap that smelled faintly of rosemary. She took a moment to admire the collection of Waterstone’s nymphs and sirens framed on the walls before digging ou
t her compact.
There was little she could do for her hair. Though she’d drawn it back, anchored it at her nape with a rhinestone clip, the weather had played riot with the dark blonde curls. It was a look, she thought, as she dusted her nose. Sort of arty and carefree. Not elegant like the redhead, but it suited her well enough. She reapplied her lipstick, satisfied the pale rose had been a good investment. Subtle worked best with her milkmaid coloring.
She’d paid too much for the cocktail suit. Of course. But a woman was entitled to a few weaknesses, she reminded herself as she straightened the slim satin lapels. Besides, the slate-blue was right for her eyes, the tailored lines pulled it all together into a style both professional and elegant. She closed her bag, lifted her chin.
“Okay, Mal, let’s go drum up some business.”
She stepped out, forced herself not to tip-toe back down the hall to drool over the paintings.
Her heels clicked briskly on the tile. She always enjoyed the