Phantom Lover

by Rebecca York

  The impending storm had darkened the sky so that it might as well have been midnight. As she rounded a curve in the drive, lightning illuminated the outline of what looked like a stone fortress. It was almost as though some supernatural force was directing her attention to the house.

  Helen had described it as a cross between a medieval castle and a Disney fantasy, built by a great-grandfather, Cecil London, who had made his money in some undisclosed business. Designed as a grand statement of his wealth, it had always given Helen the creeps. But Troy had been charmed by the place. When the estate had been passed to them, Troy had enthusiastically moved in with his wife, Grace, and together they’d started the monumental job of remodeling.

  Then Grace had died and Troy had lost interest in life. Well, not everything in life, Helen had said. He’d still been devoted to his six-year-old daughter.

  Mist swirled over the road, adding to the sense that Bree was driving into a scene from a horror movie. The old house rose out of the fog, a man-made chunk of rock dominating the darkening skyline.

  The long lane was hemmed in by overgrown shrubbery. As she reached the circular drive, the rain finally broke, a burst like machine gun bullets hitting the car roof.

  Pulling forward, she was relieved to discover that she could find shelter under a large covered porch. After releasing the trunk latch, she stepped out onto paving bricks, hearing the rain drumming on the roof and feeling a blast of cold air whipping at her hair.

  Resolutely, she tried to keep her gaze within the lighted area under the porch, but the foliage swaying in the wind teased the edges of her vision and prickled the hairs on the back of her neck.

  “You’re spooked by this place, and you’re not even inside yet,” she muttered, just to hear the sound of her own voice.

  Walking to the trunk, she leaned in to retrieve the suitcase. As she pulled it out, she felt a large, warm hand press down on her shoulder.

  The touch was so totally unexpected that she screamed. When she whirled to confront the jerk who had snuck up in back of her, there was nobody in sight.

  Blinking, she stared into empty space. She was sure she wasn’t mistaken. Somebody had cupped his hand possessively over her shoulder. A man, judging by the weight and size of the touch. Then, before she could turn around, he’d disappeared into the swaying shrubbery. And she was left with the faint scent of spicy aftershave dissipating on the wind.

  The shiver that had started at the back of her neck worked its way down her spine as she tried to probe the darkness beyond the lighted entrance.

  For several moments she stood beside the open trunk, taking shallow, even breaths, wondering if her imagination was running away with her and thinking she should pull out the jack handle to use as a weapon.

  Finally she picked up her suitcase, slammed the trunk shut and marched toward the massive stone facade of the building. She had lifted her hand to knock on the wide wooden door when it suddenly opened, throwing her off balance.

  The doorway was broad, and her hand missed the jamb as she made a frantic grab to steady herself. Despite her best efforts to stop her forward motion, she stumbled several paces across a marble floor into a rectangular reception area.

  The ploy had been deliberate and nasty, to make her land on her face. But she kept her footing, set down her suitcase with a thunk and straightened. As she lifted her head she found herself facing a tall, thin woman wearing black slacks and a black blouse. She was standing with her arms folded tightly in front of her.

  She appeared to be in her mid-forties, with short brown hair threaded with gray strands. Her face was long and angular, and her dark eyes focused on Bree as though she were studying an insect that had crawled under the door.

  “Mrs. Martindale told me you were on your way up here, of all things! What took you so long getting from the gate to the house?”

  “In this weather I was driving cautiously,” Bree responded. Then she asked, “Are you Mrs. Sterling?”

  “Yes. Did you see anything strange?”

  Bree waited a beat then asked, “What do you mean, exactly?”

  Mrs. Sterling shrugged. “I simply want your impressions.”

  “Well, the drive is kind of spooky in the dark, with the fog rolling in.”

  The woman gave a curt nod, her lips pressed together, her eyes unnerving as they remained pinned on her unexpected guest.

  Trying to ignore the unpleasant sensation, Bree deliberately changed the focus of her gaze, looking around at the antique furniture, then craned her neck upward so she could take in the crystal chandelier.

  “Oh, it’s so good to get inside. This place is so lovely,” she gushed, drawling out the syllables like Scarlett O’Hara on her best behavior.

  “Before you make yourself at home, let me see that fax from Helen London,” Mrs. Sterling snapped, still not bothering with polite pleasantries such as, “Hello. How are you?”

  Pretending not to notice the rudeness, Bree bent, hiding her face as she opened her purse and produced the paper. She was badly off balance, but she was determined not to let it show.

  Her unwilling hostess took the fax to an elaborately carved side table and thrust the paper under the light cast by a small Tiffany lamp.

  After reading through the authorization she demanded, “And your ID. I’d like to make sure you’re who you say you are.”

  Bree’s heart was still thumping in her chest, but she calmly pulled out her wallet and extracted her driver’s license, which got the same treatment as the fax.

  With a scowl, Mrs. Sterling handed them both back. “So is your name Bonnie or Bree?”

  “Bree is my legal name now. I haven’t gotten around to changing my license.”

  “Why the switch?”

  “Bonnie is so old-fashioned,” she drawled. “Bree is so much more charming.”

  “If you want to sound like a piece of French cheese.”

  Bree blinked, wondering how to respond. But Mrs. Sterling was still speaking.

  “Yes, well, it’s inconvenient that I can’t pick up the phone and call Ms. London. As I understand it, she’s off on a special assignment and out of contact with the civilized world. Did she say why she has the authorization to hire a teacher?”

  Bree put on her best innocent face. “I’m so sorry if I’ve stepped into an awkward situation. I just hate to be a bother.” She stopped and fluttered her hands. “She mentioned that Dinah has always been home-schooled. And since her mother died—” She stopped and gestured helplessly again. “Since her mother died, teachers have taken over the job. But Ms. London seemed concerned about her niece. I mean, she said that her brother had been, uh, wallowing in grief over his wife’s death, and he hadn’t been paying adequate attention to his daughter’s welfare. So if he wasn’t going to hire a new teacher, she was going to do it for him.” She stopped abruptly, looking like she was surprised to have delivered such a long speech.

  “This is highly irregular.”

  Bree’s only reply was a helpless look. She was relieved of the obligation to answer when Mrs. Sterling’s gaze suddenly shot to the hallway on the left. “Dinah, come out here!” the woman demanded. “How many times have I told you not to sneak around?”

  Several seconds passed before a little girl stepped out from behind a display case and walked slowly into the entrance hall, stopping several paces from the adults.

  Helen had told her Dinah was six. She looked younger, small and fragile with huge, pale eyes, pale skin and a riot of unruly chestnut curls falling around her shoulders.

  It wasn’t difficult for Bree to imagine her in a long Edwardian dress, but the girl was wearing more prosaic blue jeans and a light yellow T-shirt. One arm was held stiffly at her side. The other cradled a fuzzy stuffed animal, its identity hidden by the girl’s close embrace.

  Lifting her head, she looked toward Bree, her expression expectant. “You’re my new teacher,” she said in a low voice.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  �
��Daddy told me you were coming. So I’ve been waiting for you.” The small, wistful voice made Bree’s heart squeeze.

  Mrs. Sterling’s face contorted. “He couldn’t have said that! I didn’t even know she was coming.”

  Dinah gave a small, dismissive shrug. “He’s smart. He knows things you don’t.”

  The woman in black stared at the child, apparently struggling for a response. Then she imitated Dinah’s shrug. “Have it your way,” she snapped. “I think you’re lying. I think you heard us talking just now.”

  Bree tried to work her way through the exchange, the spoken part and the subtext. Helen had told her that Dinah was a very clever, very imaginative child. Was she making up the conversation with her father? Or was Troy London being held captive somewhere and Nola Sterling was angry that Dinah had managed to talk to him?

  Putting her own questions aside, Bree knelt so that she was at the little girl’s eye level. “My name is Bree Brennan,” she said, holding out her hand. “And I’m very glad I’m going to be your teacher.”

  Her face grave, Dinah extended her free arm, and they shook.

  “Who’s your friend?” Bree asked.

  “Alice.”

  “Can I see her?”

  After a short hesitation Dinah freed the stuffed toy and held it out. Bree saw gray and white fur, pointed ears and button eyes. The fur was slightly matted and worn, as though the child had been clutching the animal over a long period of time.

  Like a security blanket, Bree thought with a pang. She heard the child’s voice quaver slightly as she said, “Alice is a kitty.”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Sterling interrupted the exchange with strident words to Bree. “My husband and I eat quite late—too late for the little girl. I’m sure Dinah will be glad to show you to your quarters—and have your company at dinner in the schoolroom.”

  Her quarters? Was she expected to sleep in the servants’ wing? Bree wondered as she stood again.

  The woman turned to Dinah and issued an imperious order. “Take her upstairs.”

  Under ordinary circumstances, Bree would have vetoed giving such duties to a child. But she was glad she and Dinah were going to be alone soon. That would give them a chance to get acquainted. And they could talk in the schoolroom tomorrow.

  If the schoolroom wasn’t bugged. As that thought flitted into her mind she almost laughed. The idea of a bug in a six-year-old girl’s classroom was pretty farfetched. Yet the laugh died before it reached her lips.

  She knew that when the guys from the Light Street Detective Agency went into a covert surveillance situation, they were always prepared for bugs. And she’d better remember that things could be similar here. Helen had sent her to Ravencrest because neither one of them knew what the Sterlings had done, and what they might do to protect their position.

  Before she had time to consider the possibilities, she heard a door slam, then heavy footsteps pounding down the hall.

  Troy?

  The child’s face went white.

  A look of mixed fear and exasperation plastered itself across Nola Sterling’s features.

  All eyes, Bree’s included, focused on the hallway.

  Seconds later, a man burst into the foyer, a man whose face was flushed and whose glaring gaze lit on Bree.

  Chapter Two

  The man stood with his hands balled into fists and his arms bent, like a street fighter ready to take on a crowd. His hands were large—large enough to have created the pressure she remembered on her shoulder. The thought of his having touched her made Bree’s stomach knot. Yet it couldn’t be him, she told herself. He didn’t smell right. His body gave off the scent of sweat, not clean aftershave.

  Dinah cringed against her, and she slung her arm around the girl’s shoulders, holding her protectively against her side.

  “I was doing my regular check of the grounds, and I saw a car out front,” he bellowed. Still looking at Bree, he demanded, “Who are you? And what are you doing here?”

  “I’m Bree Brennan, Dinah’s new teacher.” She repeated the information she’d already given several times since arriving, letting her voice slur into a soft drawl.

  The tactic didn’t have any effect on the man. “Says who?” he demanded.

  “Says Helen London,” Bree answered, striving to sound a good deal more confident than she was feeling. “I believe she’s still part owner of the property with her brother, Troy,” she added for good measure.

  The man’s mouth opened, then closed again as he apparently thought better of his outburst. It seemed the London name still functioned as some kind of deterrent.

  Bree raised her chin and blinked her large blue eyes. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Abner Sterling?”

  “Yes, and don’t get smart with me, missy,” he snapped.

  “That certainly wasn’t my intention, sir,” she replied.

  The fiftyish man looked her up and down, from her damp blond hair to the red slingbacks she’d picked to go with her navy slacks and beige knit top. “You don’t look much like a teacher,” he said.

  She spread her hands and drawled, “I’m hoping you’ll find me satisfactory. I came all the way from Baltimore to teach Dinah. She’s such a lovely little girl, and I’m sure we’re going to get along famously.”

  “How do you know she’s lovely? You just got here,” Abner pointed out. “I’m betting you change your opinion after you’ve been here a little while. She drove the last teacher away, and she’ll drive you away, too.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Dinah protested.

  “That’s enough out of you.”

  The child cringed, and Bree wanted to spring across the space separating her from Abner Sterling and belt him. But she stayed where she was, since she didn’t want to get tossed out the door.

  “So let’s go find my room,” she said to Dinah.

  The girl nodded solemnly, putting on a burst of speed as she crossed in front of the Sterlings.

  What must it be like to live with these people? Bree wondered. Nola was cold, brittle and hostile. Abner was belligerent and probably stupid, although she knew it would be dangerous to underestimate him.

  As the girl started up the stairs, Bree picked up her bag and followed, her heels clicking smartly on the marble.

  Glancing back at the Sterlings, she said, “Well, good night. I’ll see you in the morning. I assume you don’t have breakfast too early for Dinah.”

  She caught up with the child at the top of the steps and they started down a wide, dimly lit hall. For the first fifty feet the paint and carpet looked new and expensive. After turning a corner, they were suddenly walking on worn boards, between gray, dingy walls.

  Several paces along the uncarpeted hallway, they turned another corner. Behind her, Bree heard a floor-board creak, and the skin on the back of her neck tingled.

  Was Abner Sterling behind her ready to attack? Stopping, she whirled, only to confront a tall, gaunt man who glared at her. His face was lined with vertical wrinkles, but he stood with shoulders squared. His clothing was scruffy—a dark wool jacket, a dirty shirt, blotched pants.

  Feeling a sudden pressure against her side, Bree looked down to see that Dinah had also turned and was squeezed very close to her, her free arm still clutching the stuffed kitten. Obviously she, too, was alarmed by the newcomer.

  The man ignored the child, his deadly gaze fixed on Bree.

  “Who are you? And what are you doing here?” he demanded, his voice low and raspy.

  The questions were starting to get tiresome, she thought. “Dinah’s new teacher,” she answered. “Who are you?”

  “Foster Graves.” He kept his gaze steady, his stance rigid.

  “You work here?”

  “I take care of some things, yeah” was his cryptic reply.

  Beside her, Dinah stirred.

  Bree bent to the child. “Are you all right?” she questioned.

  “I don’t want to stay here,” the little girl whispered.

>   “We won’t.”

  The child made a small sound, her eyes going wide. Bree turned again, following her gaze, and discovered that Graves had vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

  She took several steps down the hall, trying to figure out how he’d managed such a quick escape. Like the man outside in the driveway!

  Only now they were inside. Which probably meant he’d stepped into one of the secret passages built into the house—passages that the London children had discovered when they were kids.

  She was just reaching for a curtain covering the wall, when Dinah’s fingers closed around the fabric of her slacks. “Don’t go look for him,” she begged. “He’s scary. Come see your room.”

  Although Bree wanted to find out exactly how the man had disappeared so quickly, the child was more important.

  “Okay,” she agreed, and heard Dinah’s small sigh of relief.

  The girl led her down another hallway that turned off to the right. Bree was thinking that perhaps she should have left a trail of bread crumbs so she could find her way back downstairs when Dinah stopped in front of a closed door. “This was Miss Carpenter’s room. I guess you’re supposed to sleep here.”

  “That sounds right.”

  Bree turned the knob and pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked on worn hinges. Fumbling along the wall for the light switch, she found it and flipped the toggle, turning on an elaborate, old-fashioned metal-and-glass ceiling fixture.

  The rest of the room looked as though it had been redecorated with a combination of new fabrics, gleaming white woodwork and beautifully restored antiques. Under a flowered Oriental rug, the wood floor was newly refinished. And the small green-and-white checks on the bedspread matched the gracefully flowing draperies. The dresser and high chest were polished oak.