by Lisa Jackson
Backing the Jeep out of its parking place, he maneuvered through the garage and into the drizzly light of a wintry San Francisco afternoon. The wet streets were crowded with bustling cars and pedestrians. Holiday lights blinked red and green in the windows of major department stores and bell-ringers stood near the doorways, asking for donations for the needy this holiday season. Slowly traffic inched out of the city. “Whitefire Lake,” Hayden said, catching Leo’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “Believe me, you’re gonna love it there.” As if the dog could understand him! God, he was losing it.
Frowning at the reminder of the small town, he flipped on the radio. He’s spent most of his summers at the lake hanging out with his cousins, Roy, Brian and Toni Fitzpatrick. Roy was dead now and Brian’s wife had finally proved to be Roy’s killer. Hayden scowled. Nope—not many fond memories in Gold Creek.
There had been a girl once. Nadine Powell. She’d been different—or so he’d thought. She’d turned his thinking all around until, like the others, she’d shown her true colors and when offered money to stay away from Garreth’s son, she’d eagerly reached out her greedy little fingers.
He grimaced at the thought of her hands and the way they had touched his body. Good God, he’d almost seduced her a couple of times. No doubt that had been what she’d been hoping for. When he thought of the way she could turn him on...
“Hell!” He ground the gears and the Jeep slid a little. The familiar notes of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” filled the vehicle’s interior. Hayden turned the radio dial to an all-news station. He didn’t want any reminders of the holiday season as his memories of Christmas were tangled up in emotions he didn’t want to dissect.
Though Garreth had proclaimed Christmas as the one time the family was to spend together, he had, often as not, shown up hours late to a goose that was cold and to barely flickering candles that had burned down to stubs of dripped wax.
Even as the spoiled son of Garreth Monroe, Hayden hadn’t wanted to become a man like his father. Though his name promised the same wealth and financial wizardry as that of his predecessors, Hayden had no interest in making money. Hell, he’d already done that with the lousy mill in Oregon.
Maybe, he thought, his mouth thinning in repressed anger, he should change his name. Wouldn’t that tick the old man off?
Except it didn’t matter now. Hayden alone was the sole survivor of the Monroe line—no brothers to carry on the tainted Monroe name. The H. G. Monroe lineage was destined to die with him because he’d sworn to himself over and over again, he’d never become another Monroe mogul.
He wouldn’t marry and he’d never father children. No one really gave a damn, anyway. He knew that he’d been conceived for the express purpose of carrying on the Monroe line and, had he been born a girl, his mother would have been pressed to produce a male child—an heir.
Female after female would have been born until a boy had finally come along. Fortunately for Sylvia Fitzpatrick Monroe, who really wasn’t all that interested in motherhood, she’d come through with a male. Saints be praised, the line would continue! Hayden could imagine the magnums of Dom Pérignon that had been uncorked when his father’s manhood had been proved and his son had been delivered into the world to preserve the family name.
What a joke, he thought, as the Jeep bucked up the steep hills of the city before merging onto the freeway heading north. He laid on the horn when an old white sedan tried to swerve into his lane ahead of him. “Idiot,” he muttered, and Leo snorted in agreement.
The windshield wipers slapped away the rain and the engine thrummed as Hayden shifted down. Cold air seeped in through the windows that didn’t quite close, and rain drizzled down the inside of the glass. Hayden barely noticed. He wasn’t about to return to his father’s house and take the damned Ferrari.
“Damn you, Garreth,” he growled, as if his father could hear him. “Leave me alone.” The way you did when I was a kid.
If having a son were such a big deal, why hadn’t the old man taken any interest in him until he could read the market quotes in the Wall Street Journal?
“Bastard.” Hayden had grown up all alone, and that’s the way he planned to live the rest of his life. Alone.
He could think of worse company.
* * *
HANDS ON HER jean-clad hips, Nadine stood near her idling Chevy and stared at the fortress that protected the Monroe summer home. In all her thirty years—even in the few weeks when she’d been secretly seeing Hayden—she’d never walked through the sturdy wrought-iron gates that led to what was rumored to once have been the fanciest house on the lake, built by a movie star in the late twenties and purchased—or, more likely, stolen—by the thieving Monroe family in the fifties.
Her lips turned down at the corners as she eyed the rock wall that stretched around all fifteen acres of prime lakefront property. Only the uppermost branches of the tallest pines were visible over the eight feet of stacked basalt and mortar.
And now, she was allowed—as a servant, she reminded herself—access to the fabled estate. The code she’d been given by the hotshot attorney in San Francisco worked. She punched out the numbers on a keypad and electronically, with a loud clang and groan, the gates swung inward.
Ironic, she thought, that she should be here, called upon to clean up the old manor, get it ready for its new inhabitant. It seemed that the attorney who had hired her didn’t know about her connection to the Monroes. All the better.
She slid behind the wheel of her Nova and disengaged the emergency brake. The little car sprang forward, as if as eager as she to view the mansion owned by the man who had nearly single-handedly ruined her family.
The drive was overgrown with weeds, but still seemed inviting as it curved through a forest of sequoia, oak and pine. Pale winter sun streamed through the leafless branches and spattered the ground with pools of shimmering light.
As she glanced in her rearview mirror, she noticed the huge gate swing closed again, cutting her off from the stretch of road that wound through the hills surrounding Whitefire Lake.
She’d thought often of leaving Gold Creek, but after her shattering experience with Hayden, and what had happened to her as a direct result of her short-lived romance with him, she’d never left again. Her family, or what was left of it, still resided in the town, and she wasn’t the kind of woman who would fit into the suburban sprawl or the hectic pace of the city. She’d learned that lesson the hard way. So, after being shipped off to a boarding school her parents could barely afford, she’d returned to Gold Creek and her battered family. Through her parents’ divorce, through her eldest brother’s death and through a bad marriage, she’d stayed.
She’d even, for a brief period, fancied herself in love with Turner Brooks, a rough-and-tumble cowboy whose house she cleaned on a weekly basis.
Nadine squelched that particular thought. She hadn’t let herself think of Turner for several months. He was happily married now, reunited with Heather Tremont, the girl of his dreams. He’d never even known that Nadine had cared about him.
Why was it that she always chose the wrong men?
“Masochist,” she reprimanded herself, as the lane curved and suddenly the lake, smooth as glass, stretched for half a mile to the opposite shore. Mountains rose above the calm water, their jagged snowcapped peaks reflected in the mirror that was Whitefire Lake.
Nadine parked and climbed out of her old car. She shoved her hands into her pockets and shivered as a cold breeze rushed across the water and caught in her hair. Rubbing her arms, she stared past the gazebo, private dock and boathouse and tried to see her own little house, situated on the far banks of the lake, but was only able to recognize the public boat landing and bait-and-tackle shop on the opposite shore.
Her small cottage was a far cry from this, the three-storied “cabin” that had once been the Monroe summer home. The manor—for that’s what it was, in Nadine’s estimation—looked as if it should have been set in a rich section of a New
England town. Painted slate gray, with navy blue shutters battened against the wind, it was nestled in a thicket of pines and flanked by overgrown rhododendrons and azaleas.
This was where the Monroes spent their summers, she thought, surprised at her own bitterness—where Hayden had courted Wynona Galveston before the accident that had nearly taken the young socialite’s life. He’d never called Nadine, never written. Nadine had told herself that the pain and disappointment were long over, but she’d been wrong. Even now, she remembered her father’s face when he’d come home and caught her trying to sneak out and visit Hayden before he was transferred to San Francisco. She’d begged and pleaded until Ben had agreed to take her over to County Hospital while her mother had been working at the library, but George Powell, his shift shortened that day and for many days thereafter, had come home early and caught them. Thin lines of worry had cracked her father’s ruddy skin, and anger had smoldered bright in his eyes.
After sending Ben out of the room, he’d rounded on his daughter. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from him?”
“I can’t, Dad. I love him.”
She’d been banished to her room, only to come down later and find her parents engaged in another argument—a horrid fight she had inadvertently spawned.
“I’ll kill that kid,” George had sputtered.
“Daddy, you wouldn’t—”
He changed tactics. “Well, I’ll let him know how I feel about him using my daughter. No one’s going to get away with hurting my little girl.”
“You think you can stop him?” Donna had interjected bitterly, pinning him with a hateful glare. “Haven’t you learned yet that those people have no souls? How could you hurt a man like Hayden Monroe? The way you hurt his father? By giving him everything we ever owned.”
“Stop it!” Ben had snarled. “Just stop it!”
At that point Nadine’s father had nearly broken down; it was the only time Nadine had seen him blink against tears in his usually humor-flecked eyes.
Now, years later, she saw the irony of the situation. Obviously, because her name was no longer Powell, the attorney who’d paid off her father hadn’t recognized her. Instead, he’d offered to hire her at an exorbitant rate to clean the place from stem to stern. “...and I don’t care how much time it takes. I want the house to look as good today as it did the day it was built,” Bradworth had ordered.
That would take some doing, Nadine thought, eyeing the moss collecting on the weathered shingles of the roof.
She’d almost turned down the job, but at the last minute had changed her mind. This was her chance to get a little of her father’s lost fortune back. Besides, anything to do with the Monroes held a grim fascination for her. And she needed to prove to herself that she didn’t give a fig what happened to Hayden.
So now she was here.
“And ready to wreak sweet vengeance,” she said sarcastically as she grabbed her mop, bucket and cleaning supplies.
The key she had been sent turned easily in the lock, and the front door, all glass and wood, opened without a sound. She took two steps into the front hall, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Cloths, which had once been white and now were yellow with age, had been draped over all the furniture and a gritty layer of dust had settled on the floor. Cobwebs dangled from the corners in the ceiling, and along the baseboards mice droppings gave evidence to the fact that she wasn’t entirely alone.
“Great. Spiders and mice.” The whole place reminded her of a tomb, and a chill inched up her spine.
To dispel the mood, she began throwing open windows, doors and shutters, allowing cool, fresh mountain air to sweep through the musty old rooms. What a shame, she thought sadly. French doors off the living room opened to an enclosed sun porch where a piano, now probably ruined, was covered with a huge cloth. Plants, long forgotten, had become dust in pots filled with desert-dry soil.
It looked as if no one had been to the house in years.
Well, that wasn’t her problem. She’d already been paid half her fee in advance and spent some of the money on Christmas presents for the boys, as well as paying another installment to the care center where her father resided. The money hadn’t gone far. She still had the mortgage to worry about. Soon John would probably need braces and God only knew how long her old car would last. But this job, which would take well over a week, quite possibly two, would stretch out the bills a little. And the thought that she was being paid by Monroe money made the checks seem sweeter still.
Covering her head with a checked bandanna, she decided to work from top to bottom and started on the third floor, scouring bathrooms, polishing fixtures, sweeping up cobwebs and airing out the rooms that had obviously once been servants’ quarters. Paneled in the same knotty pine that covered the walls, the ceiling was low and sloped. She bumped her head twice trying to dislodge several wasp’s nests, while hoping that the old dried mud didn’t contain any living specimens.
As she turned the beds, she checked for mice or rats and was relieved to discover neither.
By one-thirty she’d stripped and waxed the floors and was heading for level two, which was much more extensive than the top floor. Six bedrooms and four baths, including a master suite complete with cedar-lined sauna and sunken marble tub.
Summer home indeed. Most of the citizens of Gold Creek had never seen such lavish accommodations.
In the master bedroom she discovered a radio and, after plugging it in and fiddling with the dial, was able to find a San Francisco channel that played soft rock. Over the sound of rusty pipes and running water, she hummed along with the music, scrubbing the huge tub ferociously.
As she ran her cloth over the brass fixtures, a cool draft tickled the back of her neck.
Suddenly she felt as if a dozen pair of eyes were watching her. Her heart thumped. Her throat closed. She froze for a heart-stopping second. Slowly moving her gaze to the mirror over the basin she saw the reflection of a man—a very big man—glaring at her. Her breath caught for a second, and she braced herself, her mind racing as she recognized Hayden.
Her insides shredded and she could barely breathe. He looked better than she remembered. The years had given his body bulk—solid muscle that was lean and tough and firm.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, his blue eyes harsh. His face was all bladed angles and planes, arrogant slashes that somehow fit together in a handsome, if savage, countenance. His hair was black and thick and there was still a small scar that bisected one of his eyebrows. And he was mad, so damned angry that his normally dark skin had reddened around his neck.
Her heart broke when she realized he didn’t remember her. But why would he? He must’ve been with a hundred girls—maybe two hundred—since they’d last seen each other in the middle of a sultry summer night.
“I was hired to be here,” she said, still unmoving. Her voice caught his attention and his eyes flickered with recognition.
“Hired?” he repeated skeptically, but his eyes narrowed and he studied her with such intensity that she nearly trembled. “By whom? Unless things have changed in the past four hours, this—” he motioned broadly with one arm “—is my house.”
“I know that, Hayden.”
He sucked in his breath and he looked as if he’d seen a ghost. “I’ll be damned.”
“No doubt.” Slowly, never moving her gaze from his reflection in the mirror, she turned off the water. Struggling to her feet, she was aware, as she turned to face him, that the front of her sweater and jeans were wet, her hair hidden, her face devoid of makeup. “What I’m doing is cleaning your bathtub,” she said calmly, though she was sure her eyes were spitting fire.
“That much I figured.” An old dog, golden and grizzled, sauntered into the room and growled lowly. “Enough, Leo,” Hayden commanded, and the retriever obeyed, dropping onto the floor near the duffel bag Hayden had apparently carried inside.
Hayden, satisfied that Leo wouldn’t give him any more trouble, swung all his attention back to
the small woman who stood like a soldier in front of his tub. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “Nadine?”
“In the flesh,” she quipped, though she didn’t smile.
“Why are you here?”
Her jaw slid to one side, as if she found him amusing—some kind of joke. “I was hired by William Bradworth to clean this place and—”
“Bradworth doesn’t own it,” he cut in, sick to death of the pushy attorney. “I should have been told. Oh, hell!” He shoved his hair from his eyes. “What I meant was—”
“Save it, Hayden,” she replied quickly. “I don’t care what you meant.” Her clear green eyes snapped in anger, but she didn’t back down. She looked ridiculous, really. The front of her clothes wet, an old bandanna wrapped around her head. Gloves, much too big, covered her hands and yet...despite the costume, she radiated that certain defiance that had first caught his attention all those years ago. She tipped her little chin upward. “Bradworth paid me to finish the job.”
“Consider it done.”
“No way. I realize this isn’t the way you do things, Hayden, but when I agree to do a job,” she assured him, those intense eyes snapping green flames, “I do it. Now, you can stand there and argue with me all day long, but I’m really busy and I’d like to finish this room before I go home.”
“You’re a maid?” he asked, and saw her cringe slightly.
“Among other things. And right now, I have work to do. If you’ll excuse me...” Quickly she leaned over the tub and twisted on the faucets again. Water rushed from the spigot and she swished the last of the scouring soap down the drain.
“What other things?” he asked as she turned off the faucet.