by Jenna Ryan
“I’m thinking about it.”
It was more than she’d expected, but not enough for her to trust him. “Okay, second question.” She waved at the fog, thought she could almost make out a figure in the darkness ahead. “Am I ever going to see you?”
She knew he hesitated. However, after a few seconds, a man wearing a black coat similar to hers emerged.
He was taller than her, but no more than six feet or so in boots. Worn jeans were topped by a black T. He had good hands, she noted, and surprisingly long hair. Far too long for your average cop. It was mid-brown, shoulder length and somehow sensual. His face intrigued her, too. More than nice, but not quite remarkable, his features were nonetheless riveting.
Then she saw his eyes, and both her assessment and the breath in her lungs stalled.
“Whoa.” She reacted unthinkingly, paused, then drew back. “You have great eyes.” It took a few seconds for her brain to roll with the sexual punch, longer still to recall what they’d been saying. When she did, she moved a finger between them. “You mentioned something about dinner?”
His slow smile almost caused a full meltdown, but this time she was prepared for it and braced.
“I know a place,” he said. “We can talk there, maybe strategize to some extent. How much will be up to you.”
“Why me?”
His smile widened. “You might not like the company.”
“We’re having company?”
“One other person.”
“Ah. Would that be your wife, Mr. Black?”
“Uncle. I’m not married. And it’s Donovan.”
“Okay, Donovan. Why should your uncle, or any other man, affect our conversation?”
“He shouldn’t.” Donovan turned her around. “As long as you’re not afraid of bears.”
HADEN BLACK WASN’T A bear. Not quite. Bigfoot was closer, but even legendary beasts had claws. Donovan’s uncle had potholders. And bifocals. And a rustic cottage crammed to the rafters with reading material, art and vintage electronics.
She counted three televisions, two turntables, a serious sound system, a reel-to-reel tape deck and the worn covers of at least a thousand LPs.
The man stood a burly six feet seven inches, sported a bushy beard and had a wild head of hair that skimmed his massive shoulders. He spoke in a growl, looked like he could bench press her weight and Donovan’s combined, and made no attempt to disguise his contempt for her ex.
“The man was a fool with more money than brains. Said he wanted to turn the manor into a spa.” Although he didn’t spit, she sensed he wanted to. “Sweet-talked the geezer who owned it into selling for a song.”
To hide her amusement, Isabella glanced away. Then did a double take and knelt to regard an abstract canvas carelessly propped against a stack of logs. “David’s partner said he paid over nine hundred thousand for the place. Is this a Kandinsky?”
“You’ve got good eyes.” Haden grunted his approval. “No taste in men, though. Nine hundred thousand’s peanuts for a cliffside manor with acreage. Tell her, Donovan.”
“It’s worth more,” his nephew agreed. At Isabella’s upward glance, he chuckled. “That being said, the transaction was legal and probably fair enough, considering the owner just celebrated his ninety-third birthday, has been predeceased by all his heirs and planned to put the place on the market for less than half of what your boyfriend paid.”
“Former boyfriend.” Isabella tipped another canvas forward, stared in disbelief. “You have a Van Gogh?”
“Got a Picasso kicking around somewhere, too.”
“On the floor.”
Haden shot her an aggravated look. “No room for ’em on the walls now, is there. Tell me, Ms. Corrigan-Ross, what are your plans for the house?”
Standing, she dusted off. “To tear it apart piece by cracked plaster piece until I find my cousin. My name’s Isabella. And I think your dinner’s burning, Mr. Black.”
“Haden.” He shook a potholder at her. “Are you one hundred percent sure this cousin of yours didn’t turn tail and run because something scared her?”
“Something as in Aaron Dark’s ghost?”
He set belligerent fists on his hips. “Are you a nonbeliever, then?”
She summoned a placid smile. “My grandparents on both sides are Irish. I have to buy in to some extent.”
“But?” Donovan prompted.
“My father’s father was a hardcore New York businessman. His mother was a city councillor. Ghosts don’t exist in their world, even in theory. So to answer your question, when asked, I tend to take the Fifth.”
“You sound like a politician.”
“You sound like my grandma Corrigan.”
“Woman has sense.” Haden shook the potholder again. “Hang around here long enough, you’ll believe in spooks, spirits, poltergeists and probably Elvis come back from the grave.”
“If you’re saying I’m going to bump into Aaron Black at some point in my search, good. When I do, maybe he’ll help me find Katie.”
“Don’t count on it,” Donovan said behind her. “Aaron Dark wasn’t the helpful sort.”
Prepared for the sexual punch, Isabella faced him. “You know, for a cop, you’re awfully cryptic.”
“He’s a sharpshooter.” Haden headed for the now-smoking oven. “Boy has the best eyes in the business.”
No argument there, she thought. However, it was the Aaron Dark reference that interested her. “The notes David left with his partner spoke of a philanthropic man, active in politics, the business community and the local church.”
“The details of which were neatly set down in the family history.” Donovan’s lips curved. “What wasn’t mentioned anywhere in those notes was that Aaron Dark wrote the bulk of that history. Other, less biased accounts suggest a Jekyll and Hyde personality.”
She smiled. “That would just make for a more colorful story.”
“It would, unless you had dealings with him.”
Curiosity had her studying his expression. That and she couldn’t drag her gaze from his face. “Are you a history buff, then, Donovan?”
He glanced away, smiled a little. “Nothing quite so easy.”
“You just love a good ghost story, huh?”
“A good one, yes. Unfortunately, this story isn’t.” He came closer, kept his eyes locked on hers. “Aaron Dark was a monster, Isabella. He imprisoned his wife at Darkwood Manor. When he discovered she was pregnant with another man’s child, he killed her and threw her body from the cliff behind the house.”
Although something about his demeanor had changed, Isabella couldn’t have said what it was. “Pretty sure none of that was in David’s notes. Was Dark arrested? Hung? Run out of town?”
“He went mad,” Donovan told her. She swore his brown eyes deepened to black. “And to answer your unspoken question, I know that because Aaron Dark’s sister, his sister who many believe went as mad as Aaron, was my ancestor.”
Chapter Three
If he’d intended to shock her—and he probably had—the attempt fell flat. Her eyes danced as she curled a finger around the front of his shirt. “Second reminder, pal. Someday I’ll tell you about my ancestor Connell Ross who went on a bloody post-death rampage after his land was gutted by an enemy army that, like every army in the dark days of Ireland’s history, decided to make what was his, theirs. Long story short, anyone who tries to build on Connell’s land is doomed to failure. We all have our skeletons, Donovan. Some are just more recently formed than others.”
Haden was no help. The smug “Told you so” that wafted out of the kitchen made Isabella laugh and Donovan want to say to hell with both of them and return to his life in New York.
He liked living on the edge; he’d lived there for most of his thirty-six years. The way he saw it, if he didn’t explore the dark side of his nature, he’d never know how deep his ancestral tendencies ran. Or so the childhood theory went.
He was spared the necessity of a reply when his unc
le marched in with two heaping platters of food and a bottle of wine.
As it turned out, the meat was only slightly charred. A Cordon Bleu chef, Haden set a table bountiful enough to feed half the population of Mystic Harbor. To her credit, recognizable or not, Isabella sampled every dish, and only seemed mildly puzzled by the meat.
“This isn’t rabbit, is it?”
Busy chewing, Haden shook his head, motioned for her to eat and nudged the arugula-and-anchovy salad closer to her plate.
The lights above them flickered. The big man swallowed, stood. “Leave room for dessert,” he warned and clomped out to check the fuse box.
Spearing a piece of meat, Isabella lifted it for a closer inspection. “Why do I think this never had feathers?”
Donovan kept his expression neutral. “It’s squirrel.”
Her eyes came up. “Squirrel,” she repeated. Her fork went down. “As in Rocky the Flying?”
“Or a close relative.” Resting his forearms on the table, he snagged a bottle. “More wine?”
“I fed peanuts to park squirrels when I was growing up.”
“If you can eat Thumper and Chicken Little, Isabella, why a problem with Rocky?”
Still staring, she moved her glass forward. “I was being polite. I prefer not to eat any of them. I’ll be a little more rude next time.” Ignoring the lights that surged and faded overhead, she slid her gaze to his face. “Insanity isn’t an inherited trait, you know.”
He swirled his wine, swallowed a bitter mouthful. “Do you want to tell my mother that, or leave it to the doctors who are treating her?”
“For what?”
“Paranoia mostly, with a little ADHD thrown in on the side. And then there was my grandmother who, depending on which day of the week it happened to be, saw herself as Eleanor Roosevelt, Mary Pickford and, toward the end of her life, Anna McNeill Whistler.”
“Your grandmother thought she was Whistler’s mother?”
“Until the day she died. She wanted to be buried in North Carolina, where Anna was born. During a rare moment of lucidity, my mother denied the request and had her remains interred in the family crypt.”
Isabella set her chin on a fisted hand. “You’re going to tell me I own the crypt, aren’t you?”
“Inasmuch as anyone can own such a thing.”
“What about this place? I heard it was the coach house for the manor.”
“It was, but you don’t own it. The cottage sits in the middle of the only acre of land the Darks held on to when the manor was sold early in the twentieth century. The buyer was a shipbuilder from Portland. Your ex bought it, sans acre, from the last of the builder’s descendants.”
“Well, I’m fascinated.” She pushed her plate away as the lights winked off and on. “Does this disco ball effect happen a lot?”
Donovan took another sip. “Haden rewired the place last year. Answer’s yes.” When she continued her speculative regard, he let his lips curve, considered the wine in his glass. “Something else?”
“I’m not sure.” Leaning in on her forearms, she twirled a strand of his hair around her finger. “You’re a strange sort of cop, Donovan Black. And don’t say it runs in the family.”
He let her touch, made a point of not lowering his gaze to the vee of her dark red sweater. “It doesn’t,” he answered. “I’m an aberration in that regard.”
“In lots of regards, I imagine.”
“With one exception.”
She gave his hair a tug. “Nice try, Black, but my uncle’s a Park Avenue shrink. Insanity doesn’t walk, run or gallop in families.”
“A shrink, huh?” Even knowing he shouldn’t, Donovan found himself wanting to sample her mouth. One brief taste to satisfy the hunger in his belly. Then he’d remove himself from the moment and from temptation. From Mystic Harbor as well, if he was smart—which he could be or not, depending on the situation.
The lights dimmed again. He heard Haden swearing on the back porch, but his eyes remained on Isabella. On her soft, striking features, her long, rain-curled hair and her bluer-than-blue eyes.
He wasn’t sure who actually moved, but he figured it was probably fifty-fifty. However it happened, his mouth was suddenly on hers, not to taste now, but to dive in and explore.
Catching her jaw between his thumb and fingers, he angled her head to deepen the kiss. She made a sound of approval in her throat, tangled her own fingers in his hair and pulled him closer.
At their first meeting, she’d shoved him away. He should have left it at that. Left her to face whatever demons lurked inside Darkwood Manor alone. Instead, his tongue was on a voyage of discovery in her mouth, fencing with hers, then sliding past it, until the pulse hammering in his head threatened to strip away decades of control.
When the lights above them sparked, a red warning flashed in his brain. If it looked and felt dangerous, it probably was. Even as he tested the limits of his restraint, Donovan knew he should end this now, walk away and not look back.
He wasn’t sure if he could have done it or not. The next time the lights zapped off, they stayed that way, plunging the cottage into full, silent darkness. He let her bite his bottom lip, was thinking about trailing his mouth along the side of her neck when they heard it—a long, keening wail that echoed through the fog and shadow outside.
It started on the periphery of his mind and built, from a thread of sound to a shriek that had Isabella’s fingernails sinking into his shoulders.
“My God, what is that?”
He couldn’t see her clearly, but knew she was staring at the front window.
His eyes slid in the same direction. “Some people say a pack of wolves wandered down from Quebec. A few think it’s a wild dog.”
She didn’t pull back, and his hand still formed a light V around her throat. “Some,” she repeated. As the wail came again, he felt a shiver ripple through her. “What do the rest of the people believe?”
“What you’d expect.” He kept his tone calm. “That Aaron Dark’s spirit has come to reclaim his house. And if he can’t get it using fear, he’ll resort to what he knows best. Death.”
“YOU KNOW I DON’T BUY any of that, don’t you?”
They were the first words out of Isabella’s mouth when Donovan halted his black Tundra behind her on the narrow roadway.
She’d been pacing in front of the Hang Ten Lodge, the only other off-season accommodations Mystic Harbor had to offer, waiting for him to join her and going over his remarks about Aaron Dark’s afterlife agenda.
She didn’t think he really believed in ghosts. In the possibility of genetic insanity, yes, but not in encounters with otherworldly beings.
He was trying to frighten her again, and she didn’t appreciate the repeat performance one bit. Especially when her head continued to spin from a kiss like—well, like nothing she’d ever experienced before. Her lips were still tingling, and sorting through her jumbled thoughts had only become possible in the last five minutes.
Back at his place, Haden’s announcement that the power outage extended beyond the walls of his cottage had barely registered.
“You must be tuckered out,” he’d remarked with a sympathetic tut. “Put that sound you heard out of your mind. It’s a story for later. For tonight, you go to my friend George’s lodge. State it’s in, the manor’s not fit for flesh-and-blood humans. Last owner slept on a horsehair sofa so lumpy it makes my yard look like a putting green. We’ll talk tomorrow about the goings-on up there. Meantime, I’ll call ahead, tell George you’re on your way.”
Horsehair sofas, mad ghosts and one incredible kiss. If Katie had been a weak-minded person, Isabella might have believed she’d run. But they weren’t merely cousins, they were best friends and had been since before she could remember. Katie had not left Darkwood Manor voluntarily.
Isabella kept pacing while Donovan leaned against the hood of his truck and watched.
“Ghosts, whether real or imagined, don’t whisk people and their vehicles away,”
she maintained in passing. Cell phone in hand, she tried her cousin’s number again, with the same result as before.
A frustrated sound escaped. Letting her head fall back, she surveyed the misty night sky. “I’m going to wake up soon and discover this is nothing but a nightmare. I figure there’s a sixty-forty chance that no part of it’s real.” Bringing her head up, she regarded the rustic lodge to her left. “Why are there lights inside?”
“Generator’s running. They have limited power.” Locking his eyes on hers, Donovan pushed off from the hood, moved toward her with deliberation. “I wasn’t trying to scare you back at Haden’s place, Isabella. It was a reaction, a verbal shove. Not a fair one, but that’s how self-defense mechanisms work. Anything to keep a threat at bay.”
For the first time since she’d left the cottage, humor sparked. “In other words, kissing me unnerved you.”
“You could say that.” His gaze didn’t waver as he approached. “But a more accurate assessment would be to say it scared the crap out of me.”
“I’m flattered, Black.”
“Don’t be.”
A chuckle emerged from the shadowed front porch. “Trust him, he means it,” a husky female voice drawled. “Hey-ya, Donovan. What brings you to our sequestered neck of the woods?”
Donovan’s gaze remained on Isabella. “Thought you were moving to the Cape, Darlene.”
“So did I. Best-laid plans’ll screw you every time. Who’s the blonde?”
Dragging her eyes from Donovan’s, Isabella smiled. “Isabella Ross.”
“The new owner of Darkwood Manor,” Donovan supplemented.
A tall, thin woman came into the misty half-light. She had an unlit cigarette between her black-tipped fingers and sharp, foxlike features that were neither friendly nor unfriendly. Platinum hair stood up like frosted candy canes, she wore a rock-band T beneath an oversized leather jacket and studded boots over superskinny jeans.
“Darlene Calvert.” She gestured at the building behind her. “My mother and Donovan’s are tenth or twelfth cousins. Means we’re related, but hey, life sucks on lots of levels. You looking for a room?”