by Jenna Ryan
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Books by Jenna Ryan
Title Page
Dedication
CAST OF CHARACTERS
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
Epilogue
Copyright
“I don’t have to explain my motives or my feelings, not to you or anyone else.”
Sam stood, her heart racing, her palms damp. The defensiveness of her tone made her shudder. Or was that Aidan’s effect on her?
He continued to close in, smoothly, soundlessly. The predator preparing to pounce on its prey, she thought, firming up her resolve. She was nobody’s prey.
“You’re too complicated for me, Aidan. You have angst and ghosts and danger swirling around you. I have goals and a strong desire for simplicity in my personal life. We don’t go together.”
Aidan narrowed his eyes. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?” He’d told her once that she should be. And yet…
“No,” she said, swallowing the sudden knot of panic in her throat. “Of myself.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jenna Ryan loves creating dark-haired heroes, heroines with strength and good murder mysteries. Ever since she was young, she has had an extremely active imagination. She considered various careers over the years and dabbled in several of them, until one day about nine years ago when her sister Kathy suggested that she put her imagination to work and write a book. She enjoys working with intriguing characters and feels she is at her best writing roman-tic suspense. When people ask her how she writes, she tells them by instinct. Clearly it’s worked since she’s received numerous awards from Romantic Times. She lives in Canada and travels as much as she can when she’s not writing.
Books by Jenna Ryan
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
88—CAST IN WAX
99—SUSPENDED ANIMATION
118—CLOAK AND DAGGER
138—CARNIVAL
145—SOUTHERN CROSS
173—MASQUERADE
189—ILLUSIONS
205—PUPPETS
221—BITTERSWEET LEGACY
239—THE VISITOR
251—MIDNIGHT MASQUE
265—WHEN NIGHT FALLS
364—BELLADONNA
393—SWEET REVENGE
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The Woman
in Black
Jenna Ryan
For Shauna:
Kind Fate brought you to us,
Cruel Fate took you away.
We’ll miss you, Shauna, always,
Until our dying day.
(Love you, even in Heaven, Baby)
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Samantha (Sam) Giancarlo—Her natural grandmother is a 1940s film legend.
Aidan Brodie—An insurance investigator with his own dark secrets.
Margaret Truesdale—Reclusive film star who went into hiding in 1953 and hasn’t been seen or heard from since.
Mary Lamont—Institutionalized after Margaret disappeared, she wants revenge at any cost.
Thurman Wells—Actor, once married to both Margaret and Mary.
Stan Hollister—He directed Mary and Margaret in The Three Fates.
Leo Rockland—He produced The Three Fates. He refuses to talk to Sam and Aidan.
Evelyn Mesmyr—Make-up artist with no love for either Mary or Margaret.
Alistair Blue—Where there is trouble, he appears.
Dorian Hart—A 1940s gangster with a grudge against Margaret’s husband.
Tobias Lallibertie—Mary’s ever-faithful butler.
Fredericka (Freddie)—Leo Rockland’s new wife. But can she be trusted?
Prologue
September 17, 1953
Thunder rolled like a giant bowling ball through the blackened skies above the Hollywood Hills. Forked lightning split that blackness into two jagged pieces. Heaven, thought a grimly satisfied Mary Lamont, appeared as displeased at the current state of affairs as she was.
Turning from the lead-paned window of her elegant home, she let the sheer silk curtain flutter back into place. Rain pelted the outer walls, as livid a barrage as the one inside her head. How dare the studio fire her! They couldn’t complete the movie without her.
“The Three Fates, my size seven foot,” she snarled at the parrot that watched her warily from its gilt perch. “More like One Fate and Two Fools, if you ask me.” Which no one had, of course.
A crash of thunder momentarily overrode the insistent knock that echoed across the marbled foyer.
“Go away,” she shouted at the double doors. “There’s no one here but us has-beens. Go back to your precious Margaret Truesdale and let me wither away like the Fate I would have played if…” She couldn’t choke the rest out. She drew deeply on her cigarette holder and tossed her chestnut hair instead.
“Let me in, Mary.” Thurman Wells’s voice rose above the storm.
Not his usual dulcet tones tonight, Mary thought smugly and congratulated herself for affecting that much at least.
“Go away,” she ordered again. “I’ve nothing to say to you.”
Trailing smoke behind her like a royal mantle, she started up the winding staircase. Let Tobias deal with the rabble. That’s what butlers were for. To put out the garbage and bring her a hot toddy after the power lines went down, which they undoubtedly would with all this high wind and rain.
The radio announcer’s voice floated eerily down the stairwell from her bedroom. “Suspense,” he said, then paused for dramatic effect. “Tonight, Roma Wine brings you—”
The actor’s name and story title were lost in another re-sounding clap of thunder. Probably no one with talent. Who wanted to do radio anymore? Not her, no sirree. She was a film star, a glorious shining point of light in the cinema firmament, or however that ditsy blonde had put it in the big-money musical whose premier she’d attended last year.
A funny glittering haze assailed her as she thought back. It seemed a stretch to remember last week let alone last year. Why, she couldn’t even recall what she’d done today. Except that she’d been fired, of course. That she recalled with crystal clarity. She was out on her ear. Oh, and there’d been that big furor about Margaret, as well. Perfect, beautiful, talented Margaret Truesdale. Just thinking her name, Mary was tempted to throw up.
“Mary!”
Partway up the lavish stairwell, she spun to face the man who’d barked at her. He stood like a dark-haired dog, a Lab, suited and chapeaued, dripping all over her polished marble floor.
“What?” she barked back. She didn’t bother to ask how he’d gotten in. Ex-husbands produced copies of the keys they’d supposedly relinquished upon divorce like magicians pulled rabbits from top hats. She’d have Tobias change the locks first thing tomorrow.
Thurman glared at her as only he could. Elegant annoyance was stamped all over his handsome face. Poor old Clark. He’d never made female hearts go pit-a-pat like Thurman.
“What do you
mean, what?” he demanded. It was almost a growl. Mary resisted the urge to spit at him. “You attacked the script writer, for God’s sake. What on earth were you hoping to accomplish?”
She regarded him as a queen might an ignorant peasant. A veil of smoke hid his shrewd blue eyes from sight “Nothing else seemed to be working,” she replied offhandedly. She flexed her scarlet fingernails like a cat retracting its claws. “I only gouged him a little. Hardly more than a scratch. I suppose he went crying straight to Leo.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t go crying straight to the cops. He wanted to.”
“But you talked him out of it,” she purred, descending slowly. “I can always count on you, can’t I, darling?”
“Stan stopped him.”
“Really?” She reached the bottom, walked to a mahogany table and began to wind up one of her three dozen precious Italian music boxes. Strains of Chopin’s “Polonaise” tinkled lightly through the foyer. Too bad about that annoying thunder. “Stan did that for me? What does a mere director care about such matters? I’d have thought as producer, Leo—”
“You’re no longer studio property, Mary,” Thurman interrupted. Headlights glanced off the stained-glass panels beside the front doors. He turned to look, then scowled back at her. “You really botched things this time. Harassing studio executives, causing public scenes, then that attack today—and always, always your consuming hatred of Margaret”
Mary flung her smoldering cigarette and ebony holder to the floor. “Don’t speak that name in my presence,” she shrieked. Clapping her hands to her ears, she tried to block the memory of it. “She’s nothing. She’s no one!”
“She’s gone,” Thurman said. His eyes narrowed. “You know she is. You were at the studio when Leo broke the news.”
Gone? Mary’s scrunched eye muscles relaxed. Yes, of course, she was gone, wasn’t she? Like Garbo. They’d made the announcement yesterday on the set. Margaret Truesdale had disappeared, no explanation, no warning, nothing. She’d simply vanished from Hollywood.
The soothing “Polonaise” worked its way into her fevered mind. “Gone,” she said softly, wonderingly. “That’s right. I’m the star now. Anthea’s not good enough, any fool can see that. It’ll be The Two Fates now. All that moron writer has to do is fix the script and—”
“The film’s been shelved, Mary,” Thurman said. Glancing behind him, he made a subtle motion with his head.
“Shelved!” Violent emotions flooded in, fury followed by spite, then confusion. Her fists balled at her sides. She saw nothing except Margaret’s face, taunting, always taunting. She shook the confusion off. “That’s ridiculous, Thurman. It’s impossible! We’re more than three-quarters of the way through the picture. You said it yourself, Margaret’s gone…”
“But not forgotten,” Thurman said quietly.
His wistful tone had a similar effect of acid splashed on an open wound. A snarl emerged from Mary’s throat. Her muscles bunched. Aware only of her target, she lunged straight for Thurman Wells’s lying throat.
She had no idea what happened next, why her flight was halted with a neck-wrenching abruptness that caused her teeth to sink into her tongue. It was as if she’d hit a wall, except that only her limbs seemed affected. Her feet, though still thrashing wildly, covered no ground.
She felt her sleeve go up, then something pricked her arm. It stung so she tugged away. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded rudely of the man in white who was holding her. “I gave you no leave to touch my person.”
“She played Mary Queen of Scots once,” Thurman explained tiredly. “Relax, Mary. These men are here to help you. We all are.”
She lashed out, kicking and swearing. “Traitor!” Her foot struck the mahogany table. Her favorite music box would have shattered if Thurman hadn’t reacted swiftly and grabbed it in midair. Her next kick, deliciously vicious, caught him in the stomach. He grimaced but made no sound.
“Take her away,” he instructed the white-coated men. Three of them, Mary noted, one with a very mean-looking needle in his hand.
She felt woozy already, thick-headed. “Damn you, Thurman,” she raged dully. “I’ll kill you for this. I’ll…” Another voice reached her ears. Margaret’s voice, coming from upstairs. From her bedroom!
“Oh, God,” Thurman murmured. “Wouldn’t you know it. I’ll get the radio. You take her out She has to be committed tonight, that’s the deal. Otherwise…”
Groggily, Mary raised her limp head. “Otherwise what? And what’s that witch doing in my house?”
“It’s the radio, Mary,” Thurman explained. “Otherwise, the man you attacked will press charges.”
“Temperamental jerk,” she slurred. Her chest heaved as Margaret’s voice droned on upstairs. She managed to catch Thurman’s eye. “I’ll get her,” she vowed, breathing heavily. “I’ll find her if it’s the last thing I do.” The men dragged her forward. “Do you hear me, Thurman?” Her voice rose to a shriek above Margaret’s, the thunder and the delicate strains of the “Polonaise.” “If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll find Margaret Truesdale. And when I do, I’ll kill her. I’ll kill her!”
Chapter One
November 5, 1996
Sam didn’t like unknown commodities. Mysteries, yes, but not this overblown cloak-and-dagger stuff.
“Go to the old woman’s house and see what she’s got,” her editor at the Los Angeles Break, one of the city’s smallest and least known newspapers, had instructed gruffly. “She didn’t give her name, but apparently she did the Garbo thing forty-some years back. Maybe there’s a story in it.”
Sam liked her time-worn editor and so accepted the assign-’ ment without a fuss.
A cool autumn wind ruffled her long black hair as she started up the winding drive. The house before her looked vaguely imposing with the late afternoon sun silhouetting it from behind. Mauve and umber clouds stretching wispy fingers across the sky over the gabled roof, accentuated the strong feeling that she’d somehow stepped through a time hole into a bygone era. Something about this sequestered house in Laurel Canyon made her mind switch automatically to black and white. She half expected to look down and find her deep coral pantsuit had turned gray.
She should have changed, she realized belatedly. Sally had figured they’d be dealing with a cracked and faded movie queen. The word “elegant” hadn’t entered the conversation. But elegant the mansion before her most certainly was.
She rang the doorbell then strained to hear the chime. Even muffled by a thick oak door it sounded musical, a bit over-done, but suitable for a movie star from another age.
She was repositioning her oversize leather shoulder bag when a lone eyeball appeared at the peephole.
“Ms. Giancarlo?” a man’s proper British voice inquired.
“Samantha—Sam—I mean, yes.” It was the house, she decided as a chain rattled on the other side. She wasn’t a stutterer by nature.
This time an entire man greeted her. He was tall, as thin as a reed and balding slightly. Very erect and steady, though, for someone obviously well into his seventies.
“Please come in,” he bade her politely. “Madame is in the parlor.”
“It really is a time warp,” Sam murmured.
Graying brows went up. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. I say things out loud sometimes. It’s a bad habit.”
“I can imagine. Will you come this way?”
The man must be the butler Sally had mentioned. Theodore Something. Whatever his name, he suited the house to perfection. It wasn’t often in Sam’s experience that people fit their surroundings so well.
On the other hand, she didn’t often see houses as lavishly laid out and decorated as this one appeared to be. Potted palms, fronds of pampas grass and even a miniature lemon tree dotted the entry hall, which in itself was not so much spacious as cleverly designed. The staircase was another matter, a grand affair, broad and carpeted with creamy pink plush. The hardwood floor and newel post were
solid oak, the light fixtures Lalique, the portraits—well, she knew nothing about art, but they looked expensive, authentic even to her inexperienced eye.
And yet she perceived at once a false sense of airiness about the place, false because of the shadows that loomed high above her head in the sculpted nether regions of the plaster ceiling. One might see light at first glance, but there was darkness here, too, an overriding air of intrigue both past and present.
Sam peered at a collection of framed photographs above a long glass table. “That’s Joan Crawford, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. The madame knew her quite well.”
“She knew a lot of people, if these pictures are any indication.” Sam fixed him with an inquiring stare. “What’s the madame’s name? Theodore, isn’t it?”
“Theo Larkin. Madame will answer your other questions in her own time and fashion.” He beckoned for her to precede him. “The parlor is through here.”
“I should have worn a dress,” Sam said with a sigh.
Theo’s placid expression didn’t alter. “Madame is not a snob, if that’s what you’re thinking. Neither is she trapped—excuse me, I should say, living—in the past.”
“Is there a difference?”
“A subtle one. We are all of us, in one way or another, trapped by our pasts.”
An odd remark, not untrue, just a funny thing to say to a complete stranger. Unless, of course, he was preparing her for a confrontation with an eccentric harridan who would expect instant recognition followed by a gushing list of all the movie credits in her pre-and post-war repertoire. That being the case, Sam would take Sally apart for sticking her with this assignment.
The parlor turned out to be a comparatively small room. Plants and flowers abounded, though not so many that Sam felt stifled. The carpet here was Persian, exquisite except for a tiny scorch mark near the flowered sofa.