Declan was beginning to feel slightly foolish. “So, administrative work is what you hired her for?”
“Why, yes. You didn’t think…” Her eyes suddenly lit with humor. “I see. You had a completely different scenario in mind, didn’t you? I assure you, Mr. Zyler, I want experts like yourself doing the work on this house—not a fifteen-year-old girl. That’s not to say I wouldn’t hire a bunch of teens—boys, but girls too if they were interested—to haul away debris and help with some of the demo, but that wasn’t why I hired your daughter.”
“I admit, I was pretty mad on the way here, figuring you were taking advantage of a young, star-struck girl. My apologies.”
“Star-struck?” Leslie seemed genuinely perplexed.
He shrugged and sipped his water. “You were on the cover of Fortune magazine. You’re almost as famous as Marissa Mayer, she told me.” His lips quirked in a smile. “We don’t get many celebrities here in Sematauk.”
Her own mouth turned up at the corners, and she gave a short laugh. “Well, I’m flattered. But the days of boardrooms, shareholders, and press conferences are long over for me. And apology accepted. I’m sure if I were in your shoes, with a daughter to protect, I would have been similarly concerned and upset.” The smile faded from her expression, and Declan had the impression she’d just thought of something sad.
There was silence for a moment as she drank from her water, and Declan tried to figure out how he could finagle staying here a little longer now that their business was done—and then he was surprised at himself for that very crystal-clear thought.
But he realized, suddenly and surprisingly, that he didn’t want to leave. Maybe because he didn’t want to walk back through town and stop for something to eat alone, or, worse, try and find something to make for dinner at home. Or maybe because he liked the feel of this house, the homey comfort of this astonishingly large kitchen with its sleek appliances, fancy urban lighting, and chop-block wooden table. Or maybe he simply wanted the company. Her company.
“Is there anything else I can tell you that would alleviate your concerns?” she asked, sounding once again like a cool, impersonal businesswoman. “I hope you’ll give your permission and allow Stephanie to keep the job, Mr. Zyler. She was very excited, and to be honest—it would be a great experience for her. Working with a celebrity and all.”
Declan looked up sharply and was relieved to find her eyes sparkling with humor and her mouth curving again. She was quite a gorgeous woman, he realized with a start—especially in person. Much more attractive than when she’d appeared perfect and well groomed in the photos he’d seen online. And even more lovely now that she wasn’t covered in dust.
Her hair was down and smooth except for a soft curl at the ends hanging in a sleek, inky swath around her shoulders. She’d tucked one side of it behind an ear, and a diamond the size of his pinky nail (surely it wasn’t real, was it?) glinted on her earlobe. There might even be some mascara or eyeshadow or whatever that was called—the stuff around her blue eyes that made them look larger and darker.
Perhaps that was why he wasn’t in any hurry to leave.
“Yes, Stephanie can work for you. Thank you for alleviating my concerns. And—it’s Declan. Not Mr. Zyler, all right?”
“All right.” She stood abruptly. “I know it’s too soon to ask you how things are going with the railing, but—”
“I was actually working on it today.”
“You were? Already?” The surprise and delight on her face washed away the crispness of Ms. van Dorn, celebrity CEO, and replaced it with a softer, more approachable version of herself. “I didn’t think you’d be able to get to it so quickly.”
“Well, I had some spare time this afternoon,” he lied, suddenly feeling sensitive about how he’d pushed aside two other projects to work on this one—just so he’d have an excuse to see her again soon? Nah, that was silly. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake he’d made with Bethany Hamberg—getting involved with a client only to be discarded when the job was finished.
“It’s a beautiful piece,” he continued, “and I was looking forward to working on it. So I started tinkering around when I had some extra time. Drew a few sketches so I could finalize a rubric.” Don’t read anything into it, he told her and himself. “It’ll still be a few weeks before it’s done.”
“Well, I’m glad you started on it already. I’ll try to be patient, but—it’s just that it’s such an important part of the house. The staircase is the first thing you see when you come in. I want it to be right.” Then she sobered. “After working with the wrought iron, do you have any further ideas about what that discoloration might be? I have to have a mold expert come out and sample it, but…”
He shook his head. “No. But it’s not rust. That much has become clear, as it doesn’t seem to be able to be removed.”
“Can I show you something?” Leslie gestured in the general direction of the front room.
“Sure.”
He followed her out into the foyer and saw the tarp on the floor, with a small bit of debris on it. A broom lay nearby.
“I was cleaning out the opening beneath the railing,” she told him, picking up an old piece of something pink. “And look what I found inside.”
He accepted it, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. “It’s like a mink stole—but it’s pink. It was down inside there?”
“Yes. Isn’t that a strange place for something like that to be hidden? Look how pretty its big crystal button is—I’m sure it’s not made of real diamonds, but it’s very elegant. And there was an evening glove in there too.” She showed him an elbow-length white glove with gold buttons that had seen better days. It was dirty, moldy, and…
“It’s got that same discoloration on it.”
Leslie nodded. “I’m going to try and wash it off. It’s on the velvet wrap too. But what I don’t understand is how it got inside there.”
Declan walked over to take a closer look at the situation. “So it was tucked inside this hole. Someone either had to dismantle the stair railing in order to put it down there, or they had to open up the side of it—the outside of the side of the stairs—and put it there.”
“I was thinking the same thing. But either way—why? What a hassle that would be. Why not just…I don’t know, burn it? Throw it away? Put it in the attic if they wanted to get rid of it?”
“Hell if I know. How old do you think they are? Any ideas? Maybe that will help answer the question.”
“There aren’t any tags on either of them, so that doesn’t help. The fabric of the wrap, though…it seems like it could be pretty old. It’s real velvet, I think—not a polyester blend. So it could be from the early part of last century. And with it not having a tag, that might also be an indication—I don’t know if they were regularly putting tags on clothing until at least the twenties.”
“There’s a vintage clothes store in town—you could have them look at it. Gilda Herring’s the owner. She’s a little intense, but she knows her stuff.” He handed it back. “I mean, if you really want to find out.”
“Well, I think I do. It’s just so strange—such a strange place. It’s not as if it were a closet… Wait. What if it was a closet, that place under the stairs? That would explain it.”
Declan peered down into the hole again, shining the flashlight she’d obviously been using. “It’s only that narrow space, Leslie. It doesn’t appear to be attached to a larger space like a closet. Besides, at this height of the stair rail, it’s much too low to be a closet. It’s only a few inches off the ground up to two feet. Not really closet space.”
“True. But it could be a hidey-hole sort of thing. Not a full-fledged closet. But you’re right.” She smiled up at him, a little bit of bashfulness in her expression. “I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much, but it is. I guess I’m a Nancy Drew at heart.”
“Well, the only way to know for sure would be to take a closer look at the wall here, on the outside of the
stairs. Looks like the wallpaper is pretty old—been here a long time. If it was put over it to cover up a closet—or hidey-hole door,” he added with a sudden grin at her, “it was a while ago.”
“Right. Well.” She stepped back. “Thanks for your help and thoughts on this. I’ll— Oh, wait. There was something else down there. I was just getting a hanger to try and fish it out when you arrived—”
“You mean when I scared the shit out of you?” he said dryly.
“Yes. Guess I’m going to get some motion-detector lights out there in the back so you don’t do that again.” She grinned, holding his eyes for just long enough that he felt a definite sizzle of attraction. Then she pointed to the hole again. “It looked like something metal down there. At least the space isn’t big enough to hold a skeleton.” Leslie laughed, but there was a tinge of nervousness in her chuckle.
“Want me to try?” he asked.
“Your arms are longer,” she replied.
“That they are.”
“But a little more…muscular,” she added, and her voice dropped slightly on the last syllables. “Maybe you won’t fit.”
Was he imagining it, or had her cheeks turned a little pinker?
“Only one way to find out,” he said cheerily.
Declan wasn’t an ass—he knew (and appreciated) that women noticed the way he looked, the way his occupation had caused his arms and shoulders to develop into smooth, sleek muscles. He’d made certain he had the legs and an ass to match by biking and running as well. That was part of the reason he was more than a little uncomfortable with Stephanie’s girlfriends being around when he was shirtless—or even in a tight tee. It just didn’t feel right when they gawked at him.
But Leslie van Dorn was a grown woman, and he didn’t mind it at all that her eyes seemed to linger on his arms. Not that he only wanted to be appreciated for his muscles. But it wasn’t a bad way to start.
He turned his thoughts from this unexpected path and focused them on the opening. Shining the flashlight down inside, he didn’t see much of anything but debris and shadows.
“Maybe it would be easier to look behind the wallpaper, just to see if there’s an old door or cubbyhole,” Leslie said. “It’s going to be a big project—there’s no need for you to waste your time. I’m sure you have other things to do.”
Declan paused. Here was the opportunity to excuse himself, escape, grab a bite to eat, meet up with Brad for an IPA…think about—maybe even work on—the other project that awaited him back home. Instead of doing the logical thing, he heard himself saying, “I don’t really have much else going on. I don’t mind helping, and I’m a little curious too. But didn’t you say you had to meet your aunt for dinner?”
Way to go. Now he was giving her the chance to escape. A good idea, that, to be fair.
“Oh, right. Well, I could invite her up here—she’d probably bring pizza if I asked—and if she knew the guy who thinks she looks like Helen Mirren was in residence, I have a feeling she’d be here in a flash.”
He’d turned to look at the wallpapered area just below the empty section of the balustrade. The triangular shape of the wall angled down to its lowest height of six inches, studded at the end by the now-missing post.
“It’s all one piece of wallpaper,” Leslie said, standing very close and shining her flashlight over the area, following its path with her hand as if to feel for a seam beneath. With her nearly brushing his shoulder with hers, he could smell some essence emanating from her…something very pleasant that had his hormones springing to attention.
“Lord, I can’t wait to get rid of these huge cabbage roses,” she added, clearly referring to the fussy hand-sized white and blue flowers splashed over a dark pink background. “I know it’s historically accurate, but yuck.”
“This area is too small to be anything like a cubby. But maybe here…” he said, and rapped his knuckles against the wall at an area that was two feet tall.
They both paused, because his knocking had sounded hollow. Neither spoke as he rapped in random spots along the wall, both toward the bottom of the stairs and toward the top.
“It only sounds hollow here,” he said, pausing at the section that was barely hip-high on him.
“Too small and short for a closet. And it’s a little higher up the stairs than the rusty discoloration. But…” She stepped back, and he saw that her blue eyes were sparkling. “I want to see what’s behind there.”
Her enthusiasm was infectious—or maybe it was just her. “Well, let’s take a look. You said you wanted to get rid of the wallpaper…”
“Yes. It’s got to go anyway. Might as well start it tonight.” She produced a utility knife. Crouching in front of the wall, she made a wide slice down the center of the area, then began to pick at the open edge of the wallpaper.
She didn’t really need his help, it became clear, so Declan stood there and watched the Fortune magazine cover girl as she tore off a big swath of paper and tossed it behind her to rest, curling, on the tarp. Her glossy black hair shifted, slid, and glinted in the light, and the back of her snug t-shirt rode up a little in the back as she crouched there, exposing an elliptical section of skin the color of champagne.
Declan found his attention fixated on that teasing glimpse of skin, wondering if it was as soft and sweet as it appeared. If it had notes of melon and peach, or cinnamon and ginger when one pressed one’s lips and tongue to it. He swallowed and tried to regroup, reining in the sudden fanciful path of his thoughts. But then he noticed how the yoga pants hugged her ass—a heart-shaped one that was nicely outlined due to the squatting position in which she crouched.
“Whoa.” She almost fell backward onto said ass, barely catching herself with a well-placed palm behind her. “Look at this!”
Jolted from his thoughts, Declan crouched smoothly, his shoulder bumping hers as he looked where she was pointing, down at the base of the wall. He felt a spike of interest that didn’t have anything to do with Leslie van Dorn this time. “Whoa is right.”
He reached out to trace a finger over the exposed section of wall, where there was a seam in the wood that had been camouflaged by the wallpaper and a thick layer of plaster beneath.
It was a rectangular shape, near the floor, not big enough for anything but maybe a pair of boots—completely innocent looking until you gave a closer look at the hardwood floor beneath your feet.
“There’s something strange here,” he muttered, shouldering his way closer. “The seam of the wood’s off—like it’s been replaced—and see the way this piece of wall doesn’t quite fit against the floor like the rest of it…”
“I’ll get some tools.” Leslie scrambled to her feet, leaving more space for him to poke and pry.
Declan rapped on the floor near the rectangular shape. Hollow. He rapped to the left and then to the right, near the base of the stairs. A duller noise, less hollow sounding. It could be anything. He’d seen hundreds of old houses, patched together, slapped into a semblance of shape, then their cosmetic changes hidden beneath superficial facades of wallpaper and paint…but this felt different.
This seemed like something more than just a patched piece of drywall.
Leslie was back, her grape-painted toenails appearing next to his cross-legged thigh. She had small feet, white, and they were pretty, as feet went. Nice arch. Her toes were straight and slender—
“Do you want this?”
She was dangling a small crowbar in front of him, and he took it without looking up. “It’s going to make a mess,” he warned, but didn’t hesitate—she clearly knew what the results would be.
Leslie stood behind him, close enough that he could almost feel her shins brushing against the base of his back as he set the crowbar into place and pried.
The rectangular piece of drywall pulled loose at the floor, and he felt a rush of air escaping at the opening. Declan put the tool aside and pulled up on the bottom of the patch, prizing it away to reveal a dark space.
“Oh my Go
d,” Leslie said from above him, her knees bumping the side of his arm. Her voice was high and excited. “It’s a hidden stairway!”
~ SIX ~
* * *
Leslie could hardly contain her delight, and she was on her knees, practically pushing Declan out of the way before he could even look through the opening.
“I can’t believe it,” she exclaimed. “You buy an old house, and you always dream about finding hidden stairways and tunnels and lost rooms, but when it actually happens…”
“You do?” he asked, amusement in his voice.
Leslie, crouched next to him and balancing on the balls of her feet, looked over and found his face very close to hers. For a moment, her thoughts hitched as she became aware of his warmth and the pleasant scent of him, then went on full steam ahead. “Yes, you do—if you grew up reading Nancy Drew and Lois Duncan and the Chronicles of Narnia! I mean, I always wanted to find a wardrobe that led to a secret world.”
“Apparently I missed out on all the fun.” His voice was wry and tinged with humor, and he graciously moved out of the way so she could get a better look, steadying her by the arm when she nearly lost her balance in her eagerness. “I wasn’t much of a reader.”
“No wonder the wall patch was so small and low to the ground—it’s just the top of a spiral staircase, right beneath the main stairway!” She shined her light down inside a hole the size of a trapdoor. The iron-railed steps curled down into the darkness like a strand of DNA. “Do you think it’s safe? I want to go down there.”
“Not afraid of what you might find?” he asked in that same amused voice. “There might be spiders.”
“I’m sure there’ll be spiders.” She hesitated, warring with herself. It was one thing to encounter spiders in the light, where she could see and avoid them…but it would be a totally different ballgame to be climbing down a stairway in the dark and potentially walking into spider-laden cobwebs. Or having the arachnids lowering themselves onto her head or shoulders—
The Gems of Vice and Greed (Contemporary Gothic Romance Book 3) Page 6