Seeing dead people is bad enough. Loving him could make her one of them.
When the mother of all panic attacks prompts Erin Carter’s boss to pass her over for promotion, her mind doesn’t just crack. It explodes like an egg in a microwave, shattering her career along with the company car she crashes into the office building.
The death grip she’s kept on her sanity slipping, she takes a friend’s advice and flees to Spain. There she finds comfort in the healing arms of surgeon Santiago Botello—until a fifteenth-century ghost warns her that being with Santiago is dangerous, possibly even lethal.
Santiago has his hands full protecting his sister from a dark curse and his family from a very modern-day psychotic killer. The last thing he needs added to his plate is a neurotic American. Yet something about Erin tugs at his heart so hard he wants to wrap her in his arms and never let go. No matter the risk.
Erin’s attraction to Santiago makes her the killer’s next target. Survival means she must face her greatest fear, solve an ancient murder mystery—and hang on tight to the one man she’s fallen crazy in love with.
Warning: This book contains a woman willing to lose her mind for love, a hot Spaniard with hands a girl could die for, deadly family curses, a ghost with memory disorder, and a really mad killer.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520
Macon GA 31201
Catch Me in Castile
Copyright © 2009 by Kimberley Troutte
ISBN: 978-1-60504-652-5
Edited by Deborah Nemeth
Cover by Angela Waters
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: August 2009
www.samhainpublishing.com
Catch Me in Castile
Kimberley Troutte
Acknowledgements
Writing Catch Me in Castile was a twenty-year endurance race. I have lots of folks to thank for getting me to the finish line:
Deborah Nemeth, my coach, my editor was one in a million.
My beloved, Carlos. Love you, sweetheart. Thanks for the strong shoulders to lean on and for lifting me up when I ate dirt.
The greatest sons a mother could ask for gave sustenance-hugs to keep Mama going.
Mom and Dad paved the way, cheered from the sidelines and bought up tickets to every race. No daughter could be prouder of her parents.
Kori read this story more times than should have been humanly possible and became a great cyber-cheerleader.
My second parents set my feet in the starting blocks by taking me to Spain. They’ve also been an endless support of strength and pep-talks.
C.C. Wiley read all my stuff—the good, the bad and the ugly—and ran beside me.
Cynthia Appel, Leslie Dinaberg, Malena Lott, Leonard Tourney, Chicklit Writers of the World, Fiction that Sells, Romance Divas, and the Solvang Writers Group all kicked my butt down the track and offered water bottles when necessary.
My friends provided PowerBars, shoulder rubs and clean towels when the going got tough.
Thank you one and all.
Prologue
Alcázar, Segovia, Spain
Serena clapped her hand over her mouth to strangle the scream clawing up her throat. Someone was coming into the tower. Frantically, she searched for a way out, only to discover she was trapped. Voices boomed up the stairwell—her only means of escape.
¡Madre de Dios! Her mind flashed with terror and confusion. They will kill me.
She flew to the dark alcove behind the stairwell and pressed her back against the weathered stone wall. Holding her breath, she hoped against hope she had disappeared in the shadows.
“Careful, the steps are narrow,” a Spaniard said.
“Is this the tower where the queen was beheaded?” a lady asked in a language both foreign and familiar to Serena.
“No, sugarplum. That was the castle in England,” another man drawled.
“Señores, no queen lost her life in this tower.”
Who are these people? Serena thought, and then a more important question exploded in her brain. Dios mío… Who am I?
“You say this tower is haunted?” The woman’s voice echoed up the narrow, twisting flight of stairs.
Serena’s eyes widened. Haunted?
“Sí, a ghost is here,” was the answer.
What? Serena gulped. Itching to peek out from her hidey-hole, she forced herself to remain still. She did not have the luxury to fear spirits when her own life was at stake. She had been hiding in the tower for…days? Weeks? She frowned. Why couldn’t she remember? Her mind was as heavy and slow as churned lard.
The clomping on the stairs produced a rather plump woman huffing from exertion. Her orange blouse was short in the sleeves and tight across her bosom. Serena wondered what sort of lady wore men’s light blue hose.
After catching her breath, the woman exclaimed, “Holy Jiminy. The last time I was in a castle like this was at Disneyland. Ain’t it pretty? Like steppin’ into a fairy tale.”
A man’s pink face popped up the stairs behind her. He wore hose similar to the woman’s and the largest hat Serena ever saw.
“It’s somethin’, ain’t it?” The man—perhaps her husband, for he spoke like the woman—wiped his brow with a kerchief. “The brochure says Walt copied this castle, especially them blue spires.”
“Lordy, look at all those red roofs down there. And there’s the aqueduct thingy the Romans built. My oh my, we’re on top of the world.”
Serena’s gaze followed the woman’s pointing finger. An entire city had sprouted across the grassy fields. How was that possible?
Confused and scared, Serena wondered if she had awakened from a long slumber and found herself imprisoned in a foreign land. And yet…she squinted, slowly turning to take in her surroundings. No, not everything was different.
Her heart beat wildly. Why am I still in the tower?
She didn’t dare question the strangers. She couldn’t remember much but knew, deep down in her soul, that she was in terrible danger. Someone was trying to kill her.
If only I could remember who.
Making herself as small as possible, Serena peeked through a crack in the stone masonry and forced herself to be still. Perhaps these strangers could provide some answers.
“Built in the eleventh century by the Moors,” the Spaniard recited, “the Alcázar was originally a fortress. Situated perfectly on the rocky banks of two rivers, the Eresma and Clamores—”
The husband waved a folder paper. “We can read, son. Tell us somethin’ that ain’t in the brochure.”
The guide paused. “Queen Isabel and King Fernando were married here in the fifteenth century. And Columbus came to this very castle to request permission from Queen Isabel to sail to—”
“Yep, here on page two.” The husband tapped the paper. “Tell us somethin’ different, like why on earth there are no bars coverin’ this here winda? I’m an insurance man, son. Your winda is a liability. I could drive our Cadillac through that hole.”
“Señor, please do not stand so close. It is dangerous.”
The thick, gloved hand of terror grasped Serena’s insides and squeezed. Stay away from the window!
“Not the Caddy, your Chevy maybe,” his wife attested.
“Has anyone fallen out the winda?” the man asked the Spaniard.
“Sí. Five hundred years ago. A nursemaid in charge of Queen Isabel’s heir was so overcome with grief when the young prince lost his life, she took her own.”
Serena clutched her heart.
“You mean she jumped? Holy moly, that’s one heck of a fall.” The woman gripped her husband’s arm and scooted toward the window. Slowly, carefully, she looked down.
Serena shut her eyes. She couldn’t watch the woman lean over the ledge. A wave of horror rolled through her like a belly illness. Her head fell back against the cold wall with a jolt, ricocheting pain through her skull.
She saw stars for a moment and then…she began to remember. Rusty as an old blade, the memories slashed through her groggy brain—longing, lost love, betrayal. Each vision stabbed and stabbed until she was fully awake. And dying.
“Oh, Andrés,” she wailed.
The woman, who was still bent at the waist over the window ledge, jerked up straight. “Did y’all hear that? I swear it sounded like a woman cryin’.”
“Many have heard the nursemaid’s cries, señor. A few have seen her.”
The husband puffed up his barrel chest. “Ain’t no such thing as ghosts.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course there are. We’ve got us one here, don’t we?” Intensity burned in the woman’s blue eyes.
“So says the legend.”
The woman fisted her hands on her hips. “Why is the nursemaid still here? Ghosts don’t stick around for five hundred years unless they’ve got some unfinished business. Hasn’t anyone tried to help her move on?”
Serena fell silent.
“Perdón? I do not comprehend.”
“My daughter, Erin could do it. We had us a ghost in the attic. A little séance and wham-bam-thank-ya-ma’am, no more moaning in the night.”
Her husband slapped his forehead. “How many times do I have to say it? It was no ghost. The house was just settlin’.”
“I’m sure Erin could help the cryin’ spirit go on to the folks who love her. My Erin is smart as a whip. She’s a stockbroker, you know.”
The Spaniard shook his head, his face suddenly pale. “No, señora. Do not get too close to the ghost, or you will lose your mind.”
“Whaaa—?” The woman’s mouth fell open with such force the layer of fat under her jaw shook.
“Legend says one touch from the ghost will make you loca.”
“Loca? You mean…oh no, crazy? Aaak!” The woman grabbed her husband’s arm and yanked him toward the stairway. “Sorry, Mr. Tour Guide, we best be going now.”
“Hey, slow up. We ain’t finished the tour,” the husband complained.
“I ain’t stickin’ around to end up like nutty Aunt Lulu, no sir.”
Serena watched them leave with a sense of relief. She was alone. Now, where was she? The tower. Where it all happened. Her memories were fine goose down, floating on the wind. She had to do something before they blew away and she fell back into deep slumber. More than anything she longed to find Andrés. But how?
“Erin, Erin, Erin,” she chanted softly. If fortune were with her, the next time she awoke she’d remember the name of her savior.
Chapter One
Dexter, Houghton, and Levine Brokerage, Los Angeles
I couldn’t save myself. I was dying a gruesome, humiliating death that was far from over.
“There’s no point in continuing the interview,” the Big Guy said. “You’re not handling this well, Erin.”
Backed into the corner, my pride bleeding all over the place, I did what I had to do. “I’m not? Handle this: take your job and jam it straight up—”
He gripped my shoulder. “Be sensible.”
“You want to keep that hand?” Sensible? Any sense had flown out the window fifteen minutes ago when the most important meeting of my life had turned into all-fiery hell. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to pull out the “I Quit” card. This place, this job, was my life.
He tipped his palms up in his typical “let’s negotiate” stance and turned on his plastic smile—the one he flashed before grinding opponents under his wingtips.
Had he forgotten I knew all his moves?
“Think about what you’re doing. If you walk out of here, it’s all over.” His plastic smile slipped, just a hair.
I didn’t want it to be over. Silently, I begged. You want me to stay. You need me. Please, don’t let me go.
“It’s your call. I won’t stop you,” he said.
“You think I should stick around to—what, rub my nose in your asinine decision?” I trembled with rage. He didn’t want me…he never had.
His nostrils flared. “I was wrong. Obviously, you’re not the best person for the job. I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t sorry. “The only thing obvious is I’ve been robbed.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “No wait, screwed and then robbed. Sums it up, doesn’t it?”
“You’re acting like a crazy woman.”
I leaned in close enough to kiss him. Or bite his nose off. “You haven’t seen crazy yet.” No one at the firm had, but I tilted dangerously in that direction.
Breathe, Erin, breathe. Don’t lose control, my psychiatrist droned inside my head. I had never been so humiliated, or so viciously used by anyone before. This hurt.
YOU breathe, Dr. Stapleton. I want to pound something. Hard.
My gaze flicked down to the thick folder in my hand.
The Big Guy saw the look in my eye. “Erin, don’t you dare. Those charts belong to DH&L.”
Meaning that after eight years of devoting every waking hour to the brokerage, Erin Carter was no longer a part of the company. I’d become a non-entity.
My head threatened to explode.
I dumped the presentation I’d spent weeks preparing over his perfectly trimmed, meticulously styled salt-and-pepper hair. Life as I dreamed it rained down in glossy color and spanned out across the gray-flecked carpet. Trashed, all of it. Without looking back, I shoved the conference door open with a bang and hustled out of there before I strangled him with my bare hands.
Halfway down the corridor, reality set in. What had I done?
My stomach flopped. I was going to be sick. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
I was numb and yet my legs were moving. Fast. The click of my heels on the faux-marble tiles sounded a lot like, “Screw up, screw up, screw up.”
I grabbed my purse, fled through the lobby doors and ran like a demon chased me into the parking lot. Making it to my car, I shrank down in the front seat, covered my face with my hands and sobbed. The silk blouse I’d paid a kidney for was spotted with tears. How had things gotten so messed up? I felt…destroyed.
Rooting in the glove compartment for a package of Kleenex, my hand skimmed across the DH&L emblem blazoned on the Car’s User Manual. That’s when another important truth sank in—this wasn’t my car. I drove the firm’s navy blue Buick as a top commission producer. Some perk. I only drove it to and from work, even on weekends.
The windshield went fuzzy. Panic seized my brain and careened through my body like a high-speed police chase on the Hollywood Freeway. I wouldn’t outrun the attack. This one was going to be colossal.
“Sweet God,” I begged. “Not again.”
Fingers of terror scraped down my spinal cord. A thirty-pound weight smashed the air out of my lungs. A strange sound filled the car’s interior like air squeaking out of a busted balloon as I hyperventilated in the car that wasn’t mine. The world spun madly. Gripping the steering wheel, I hung on, but nothing would stop the fall. No one would catch me.
My mind didn’t snap. It exploded like an egg cooked on high in a microwave. Heartsick, panic-stricken and blinded with fury, I turned the key, stomped on the gas and floored the Buick.
Straight fo
r the firm’s lobby doors.
dc
I was lucky to be alive.
But with no love life, no career, and a jail cell in my near-future, luck was a relative term.
Truth be told, I was desperate, shattered, bone-achy and above all else, terrified. Craziness ran in my family, still no one on my family tree went nuts enough to become a suspect in an attempted vehicular manslaughter case. Before now.
Three days had passed in a blubbery haze involving sleep, food, wine, my pink-flowered pajamas and fuzzy socks. The delivery cartons and empty wine bottles grew and grew until the Hefty bag was too heavy to carry to the garbage bin. It sat there in the corner of my kitchen floor as bloated and worthless as I felt.
Standing in front of my open, empty refrigerator, I thought fleetingly about making an appointment with Dr. Stapleton. He’d have some ideas to drag me out of my depression, or at the very least stronger meds, but I didn’t relish replaying the incident. There were no words to explain what happened.
Why did I do it? reverberated through my head like aftershocks. Panic bubbled up my throat like a soda can shaken to the point of exploding. I had to get my anxiety under control before I killed someone.
Dr. Stapleton’s voice nagged inside my head. You need to prioritize. Set some goals. Create a game plan.
I ripped the drawers out of my desk and dumped them upside down in the middle of the den. All my client files would make a nice bonfire if I were crazy enough to set a match to them. I found the pale blue journal Mom had given me when I graduated from college. She’d always kept one to write her thoughts in. Mine was as empty as it was on graduation day.
I toddled off to the kitchen and dug into my purse for the purple pen with the gold letters saying Stockbrokers do it with your share. I cracked open the empty journal and wrote across the top of the first page, Get a Life.
Good. Exactly. Other people had normal lives, lovers and friends. Why couldn’t I? I swung my legs under the barstool, tapped the back of the pen on the black-and-white speckled Corian countertop and concentrated really hard.
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