Phantom Lover

by Rebecca York

  The rockfall was just as it had been. With the light and her free hand, she carefully inspected every inch of the tunnel. But she could find nothing that looked like a hidden door.

  On a sigh, she recrossed the narrow ledge. When she was on firm ground, she turned and stared back at the ledge.

  “Dammit, Troy, tell me what’s going on!” she shouted into the darkness. “Tell me how you got in and out of here last night. Tell me what you want from me.”

  But the only response she heard was her own voice echoing off the dank, dark walls.

  Chapter Seven

  Bree spent the next few days staying out of the Sterlings’ way, and doing what she called “toeing the line,” doing nothing that would cause anyone to think she was at Ravencrest for any other purpose than teaching Dinah. During school hours, her focus was as much on getting to know Dinah as on class.

  But each night she was free of any duties. She borrowed the leather-bound Ravencrest volume from the library and read about the history of the estate. Nola hadn’t made up the story about the ghost. Apparently he was in the habit of coming to the rooms of women guests and making sexual advances.

  She grimaced. Was that what had happened to her that first night—a sex-starved ghost had foisted his attentions on her? She didn’t want to believe that was true. Yet there had been a ghostlike quality to the episode. For instance, she’d never actually seen her visitor. She went back over the subsequent encounter, examining the details, and was unable to definitely prove it had been Troy or the ghost.

  If it was the ghost, he hadn’t come to her again.

  On the other hand, if her visitor had been Troy, which in her heart she truly believed, he had made himself just as scarce. She hadn’t seen him again—either at night or during the day. And neither had Dinah. At least that was what the child said when Bree casually asked if she’d talked to her father.

  But she did see Mrs. Martindale carrying a covered tray upstairs several times.

  “Is that Mr. London’s lunch?” Bree asked her once.

  The housekeeper gave her a tight nod and hurried up the stairs, confirming the claim that he really was locked in his room.

  But he’d gotten out, hadn’t he? He’d come to her bed. The longer he failed to make contact with her again, the more her anxiety and feeling of restlessness grew. She was making good progress with Dinah. But she was doing nothing about her primary mission.

  Finally, after four days of uncertainty, she knew she had to try to find Troy. If not find him, at least get some information about his situation.

  So after lunch, she left Dinah making cookies with Mrs. Martindale and went to see if she could find Graves. When she looked out the window and saw that he was busy raking up leaves in the garden, she decided to take a chance on going to the upper floor again.

  FOR DAYS he had watched her from the shadows, knowing where she went and what she did. He watched her with the child. He watched her with the other people in the house.

  And in the dark hours of the night he longed to go to her again, to kiss her and to touch her, to feel her response to him, because that contact with her, that response, had transformed him.

  He had been numb before she came. He had walked the corridors of Ravencrest and the grounds in a kind of daze, not sure who he was or why he was here. He remembered anger. He remembered pain. Physical pain. And the pain of betrayal, as well. She hadn’t wiped away those emotions, but she had changed him for the better. She had that power.

  She had made him remember things he hadn’t even known he’d forgotten. There were still missing pieces, but now he had access to facts, feelings. He should thank her for that, even though some of it was agonizing. So bad, in fact, that he understood why he had banished entire episodes of his life from his mind.

  On the other hand, a lot of it was good. Like the summer when he’d known he was falling in love with her. He spent long hours now reliving those sweet memories. He had his favorites. Of course, he liked remembering how he’d awakened her sexually. How he’d kissed her and touched her and felt the thrill of her response to him. But there were other memories that were just as vivid.

  Queenie, one of the bitches on the ranch, had given birth to a litter of buff-and-brown puppies. He remembered how Bonnie had cooed over those little wiggling bodies, how she’d cuddled them in her arms and stroked her face against their baby-soft fur.

  Of course, she was a different person now. Not as passive or as naive. He liked the change. Yet at the same time some inner part of him was afraid to trust her. For a long time he had trusted nobody. Not even himself. Well, nobody besides the child. She’d been like a bright beam of light shining into his dark existence.

  Then Bree had come here, too. But what if she left as suddenly as she had come?

  So he held himself back, silently vowing that the next time they met, she must come to him.

  He wasn’t certain why he needed that reassurance. Maybe it was a kind of test. If she wanted the same thing he did—if she wanted it badly enough—then she would prove it to him.

  So he kept watch. When he saw her slip the small box into her pocket, he felt dizzy with a kind of heart-pounding anticipation.

  BREE TOOK A STEADYING breath as her hand closed around the kit in her pocket. In the days since her first aborted try to navigate the halls of Ravencrest, she’d memorized the map Helen had sent her. All she had to do now was head for the stairs.

  As she made her way up, she kept expecting to feel a hand clamp on to her shoulder. But nobody accosted her.

  In the upper hall she paused to get her bearings, then headed straight for the master suite. When she reached the door, she carefully tried the knob.

  It was locked.

  “Troy?” she called, pitching her voice low. He didn’t answer, but from the other side of the door came a burst of sound.

  Music. Music that made her throat tighten as she recognized the song. A Rod Stewart standard.

  Pressing her ear to the door, she listened intently, trying to make sure she wasn’t hearing things. But it was Rod Stewart, all right, singing “Maggie May.” Helen had been into Rod Stewart the summer she’d visited, and she’d played him constantly. Bree and Troy had laughed about the ubiquitous presence of the gravel-voiced tenor. But they’d also enjoyed the songs. In fact, more than one night, out on the porch, they’d danced to the music before switching back to slow numbers.

  Now, like a ghost from the past, the song drifted toward her through the door, as though Troy was welcoming her to his room. “Maggie May” was one of Stewart’s best-known works—an edgy ballad about disillusionment and a relationship breaking up. The cut finished and another song picked up.

  “Tonight’s the Night.” She caught her breath as the new words wrapped themselves around her. This one was quite different. It wasn’t a lament; it was about a couple getting ready to make love for the first time.

  She pressed her cheek against the hard wood, listening, remembering that she’d imagined herself and Troy as the two people getting comfortable with each other, their thoughts drifting toward the bedroom.

  “Troy,” she said, her voice soft.

  Was it her imagination or did she hear someone speak her name from the other side of the door.

  “Troy?” she called again, this time a little louder.

  She let her mind drift into a little fantasy. He’d been waiting for her to come up here and he had played the music when he knew she was on her way.

  That was nonsense, she told herself. Impossible. Yet she felt her hands shaking as she got out the tool kit. The lock wasn’t complicated. All she had to do was insert a pick in the doorknob hole and press.

  The mechanism clicked and she turned the knob. Feeling as if she was doing something illegal, she stepped quickly into the room, knowing she might be taking a terrible chance.

  If Troy was in here, if he was dangerous, then she should turn around and leave. But she didn’t believe Nola’s story about his having a nerv
ous breakdown and being locked in. So she pulled the door closed. Hesitating several more seconds, she made another decision and snapped the lock behind her.

  With the room dimly lit, she could see very little at first. But she was instantly aware of Troy’s scent. Aftershave and man. At least it was the scent of the man who had come to her bed four nights ago.

  She breathed deeply, then called his name as she’d done on the other side of the door.

  He didn’t answer, but she knew he had been here recently. Her heart leaped. Locating a lamp on the stand near the door, she switched it on then eagerly looked around the room. Her eyes bounced from the reupholstered vintage sofa and chair near the window to the beautifully refinished cabinet pieces.

  Eagerness turned to disappointment when she saw only furniture.

  The music was coming from a small stereo that sat on a marble-topped chest. Beside it a set of shelves held dozens of CDs and tapes—everything from classical to jazz to popular groups and artists, she saw as she skimmed the titles.

  On the wall above the stereo were framed pictures. Bree’s stomach clenched as she caught sight of Troy. He was the same man she remembered from the summer in Montana. Smiling and vital, only a little older. There were several pictures of him with Dinah, and there was a family portrait of Troy, Dinah and a smiling, dark-haired woman who must have been his wife, Grace.

  Another picture of Troy standing alone had been taken at the ranch, she knew, from the backdrop of the mountains. Seeing him in that familiar setting made her heart squeeze.

  She pivoted away from the pictures, seeing shelves that held biographies, novels and volumes that he must have used as references in his work. Interspersed with them were various objects: a child’s stacking toy, a small box of polished green stone, a rounded black-and-white rock from the beach.

  Magazines were spread out on the table in front of the sofa, current editions she saw when she inspected the dates—but that didn’t necessarily prove he’d been here recently. She’d like to see one of those trays Mrs. Martindale had carried upstairs—with dirty dishes on it, indicating that he’d actually eaten a meal in this room recently. Or a stack of newly opened mail.

  It looked as though someone had set out the books and magazines as props. Someone who didn’t feel Troy’s presence here and wanted to make it appear as if he’d been in the room.

  Crossing to the darkened bedroom, she took a quick peek inside and saw no one. The bed was made. A plaid shirt was thrown across the arm of a mission-style chair and a pair of black leather slippers sat beside it.

  In the bathroom, toilet articles were set out on shelves, and a razor sat on the sink.

  She could imagine Troy standing there that morning, getting ready for the day. But both the sink and the tub were clean and bone dry, as though neither had been used recently.

  The mixed signals made her hands clench. It felt as though he could step into the room at any moment. Yet at the same time she wondered if he’d been here in weeks.

  “If you’re here, come out,” she said, making each word clear and distinct. “And if you don’t want me rifling through your private papers, say so because Helen sent me here to get information, and it looks like snooping is my only option now.”

  Maybe that was what he wanted. Maybe he wanted her to discover things that he couldn’t or wouldn’t voice to her.

  When he didn’t object to her stated plan, she walked back to the desk and sat on the swivel chair. Opening the middle drawer, she saw office items, all neatly arranged in compartments and small boxes.

  After a quick glance over her shoulder, she began opening other drawers. There were various papers: paid bills, junk mail that he’d shoved into a pile, a letter from a heating and cooling company asking if he wanted to keep up his extended warranty on the furnace and air-conditioning system.

  Despite her spoken warning, poking through Troy’s private life made her stomach knot. Still, she forced herself to continue the search.

  In another drawer were directions for various appliances. Below them were several photocopied statements from a brokerage firm. The name of one company on the report caught her eye and she sucked in a quick breath. Enteck.

  Troy had bought Enteck stock? She looked at the bottom line. When Troy had filed away these statements, the company had been doing well. In fact, it had been the leader in the energy field eighteen months ago. Then it had shocked the market by filing for bankruptcy. The stock was virtually worthless now, and from the looks of the statements from the brokerage firm, Troy had sunk a lot of his fortune into the company.

  Bree returned the papers to the drawer and rocked back in the chair.

  Was that Troy’s problem? He’d made a fatal business decision and lost his fortune. And now…

  Several thoughts leaped to her mind. He was hiding out from his creditors. He’d tried to recoup his losses— and gotten into even worse trouble. His financial problems had given him a nervous breakdown. Or was that just the story he’d put out so people would leave him alone?

  If only she could ask him!

  “Troy!” she said in exasperation as she marched back to the bedroom.

  Impulsively, she crossed the Oriental rug and eased onto the bed, staring at the quilted surface of the spread as she smoothed her hand across the blue-and-brown fabric.

  As she sat there, the feeling of being watched was so strong that her head jerked up and she looked quickly around.

  Her gaze zinged to the closet, where the door was open a crack.

  “Troy?”

  He could be hiding in there, she suddenly realized. He could have been hiding and watching her all along. And Nola had said he was dangerous.

  The smart thing was to get out of the room—if she believed Nola’s story. But she didn’t trust the woman. After all, Troy had proved himself by saving her life the first night she’d been at the estate. Troy, or someone who used the same aftershave as the man who lived in this room.

  Her heart had started pounding wildly in her chest. Before she could change her mind, she stood, recrossed the room and pulled the closet door open.

  Disappointment and relief warred within her when she saw nobody was standing by the door.

  Still, it would be possible to hide in here. The closet was large and cavernous, at least ten feet by ten feet—a small bedroom in any other house. The light in back of her was low, making the rows of hanging shirts and jackets dark and shadowy.

  Feeling along the wall, she found the light switch and flipped it up, but nothing happened. Apparently the bulb was burned out. So wouldn’t Troy have replaced it if he really was living in this room?

  A prickle of unease made goose bumps on her arms. Behind her, in the sitting area, the music swelled, and she jumped. This time Rod Stewart was singing “Do You Think I’m Sexy?”

  “Stop it!”

  All at once, the aroma of his spicy aftershave was stronger than before and she sensed him standing so close to her that she could reach out and touch him—if she knew where he was.

  Her throat closed, her mouth went dry. Somehow she managed to get out one syllable: his name.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears as she waited for an answer.

  Eons passed before he said, “Yes. I tried to stay away from you. But I couldn’t. Not after you came up here.”

  His voice was stronger than she’d heard it up till now, and a mixture of joy, relief and fear flared in her breast.

  She started to turn toward him, but he stepped quickly behind her and his strong hands clasped her shoulders, forcing her to remain in place.

  She tried to slip from his hold, but he was strong and easily kept her where she was. Her hands clenched and unclenched in frustration. “Troy, let me see you.”

  “You can’t.” Again he spoke with force.

  “Did something happen to your face? Is it scarred? Is that why you’re staying out of sight? Is that why I haven’t seen you or heard from you in days?”

  When he didn’t an
swer, her stomach knotted. “Don’t you trust me?” she whispered.

  “I can’t trust anyone,” he answered, and this time his voice was harsh and grating.

  All the questions bottled up inside her burst out. “Oh, Lord, Troy. What happened? What’s wrong? Nola told me you’re supposed to be locked in here. Is that true? Or is she lying to cover something up? And if you’re not locked in, are you using another secret passage? Please, you have to tell me.”

  Again she tried to turn so that she was facing him, but he only clamped his fingers more tightly onto her shoulders, pulling her back so that her body rested firmly against his.

  “We can talk here,” he said. “Like this.”

  Talk, she thought, trying not to focus on the sensation he was creating. He was warm and solid and strong. The man she remembered from their summer together. He’d been clever then, he was more clever now. He knew exactly how to distract her, but she wasn’t going to let him get away with it. “Answer my questions. Did they lock you in your room?”

  He gave a short laugh. “Yeah, I heard that story. It’s a lie.”

  The assurance buoyed her. He wasn’t locked in here. Yet what about the rest of it? “But you’re in trouble. Is it financial trouble, or something worse?” she pressed.

  There was a long hesitation, during which every muscle in her body tensed.

  “Something worse,” he finally answered.

  When he didn’t elaborate, she almost screamed, “You have to tell me!”

  He made a strangled sound, then answered. “Okay. I killed Grace.”

  Bree gasped. “Oh, no, Troy. That can’t be true.”

  “I killed Grace,” he said again, as though the memory had just surfaced in his mind and he was trying to decide what to do with it.

  “No!” she repeated. “You loved your wife.”

  “Did I?”

  “Helen told me how happy you were.”