Table of Contents
Prologue
Epilogue
An Important Note from the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Updates!
About the Author
Also by Colleen Gleason
Sinister Secrets
Wicks Hollow
Colleen Gleason
Avid Press
Contents
An Important Note from the Author
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Updates!
About the Author
Also by Colleen Gleason
An Important Note from the Author
Sinister Secrets was previously published under the title The Gems of Vice and Greed. The book has been mildly revised to make it part of the Wicks Hollow series.
If you’ve read The Gems of Vice and Greed, I hope you find this updated, revised, and (I think) improved edition even more enjoyable.
Thank you for giving it a read!
— Colleen Gleason
February 2018
Prologue
Leslie Nakano had never in her life done anything so impulsive and impetuous. By all rights—especially in light of what had happened in the last year—she should have been clammy and sick to her stomach as she signed the papers, transferring more than three-quarters of a million dollars out of her account.
Three-quarters of a million dollars.
What was I thinking?
But when the realtor handed Leslie the keys, she felt a rush of anticipation, freedom, and only the tiniest tingle of apprehension. After all, she still had a good chunk of money left from the sale of her managing shares of InterWorks. And if this new project of hers didn’t work out, she knew she could find another job.
Not that she wanted to be back in the cutthroat corporate rat-race that was the world of technology, but if her dream didn’t come to fruition, she’d just drag herself back up, dust herself off, and move on to Plan B. Whatever that was. If nothing else, the last two years proved she was both resilient and resourceful.
But as she looked down at the handful of old metal keys, Leslie could no more tamp down the surge of excitement and delight than she could turn out the sun, for Shenstone House—the turn-of-the-century mansion she’d been in love with since she was a teen—was now hers.
Located in quaint Wicks Hollow, on the west coast of Michigan, the brick mansion sported turrets, dormers, a widow’s walk, narrow winding staircases, and a wraparound porch—and now it all belonged to Leslie Nakano, the founder and former CEO of InterWorks Corp.
As she walked out of the realtor’s office in Center City, Philadelphia—seven hundred miles away from the biggest impulse purchase she’d ever made—Leslie drew in a deep breath and expelled it slowly. Less than a year ago, she’d been a single, career-driven businesswoman, engineering the successful public offering of the technology company InterWorks…and unexpectedly pregnant.
She’d had a short fling with a colleague from Denver—meeting up a few times during conferences and other business travel—which was quite unlike her anyway. But she and Eric hadn’t been involved other than superficially and when it was convenient, and though he pressured her to marry him, she refused.
Whether she would have ever regretted her decision, Leslie didn’t know—and never would find out, for at five months into the surprise pregnancy, on October 15, she miscarried.
Even now, ten months after that awful day at the Bryn Mawr Hospital emergency room, a wave of grief washed over her at the memory. The baby had been a girl. She would have been named Ella, after Leslie’s grandmother.
Maybe that was why Leslie decided to upend her life, give up—no, change—her career (she’d still have a career; just a different one), and move back to Michigan. Back to the beautiful west side of the state where she’d spent so many summers with Grandma Ella and Aunt Cherry. It felt right to start over, and to start over there.
Thanks to the IPO for InterWorks, she had the money and resources—though certainly not unlimited—to invest in something she’d often dreamed of doing: a bed and breakfast in the small, trendy tourist town she remembered visiting a few times in her youth. Located barely an hour from Grand Rapids (the largest city on the “west coast” of Michigan), and several hours from Chicago, Wicks Hollow was a tourist destination from May through September.
Leslie had been intrigued by Shenstone House the moment she first saw it at age thirteen—which made her new purchase even more fulfilling. She felt as if she would be coming full circle, returning to the town of her summer memories for a softer, quieter life.
Leslie hadn’t seen the house in person for more than two decades, but she was a shrewd businesswoman and had done her due diligence before making the purchase—at a well-negotiated price. She knew exactly what she was getting into. The place needed a lot of TLC, some renovations to keep its historical building designation, and some updating as well, but she was more than ready to dive in and give herself something new to focus on.
The fact that Shenstone House was supposedly haunted didn’t bother her in the least.
One
Leslie was headfirst inside an alcove in one of the bathrooms digging out old insulation and rotted drywall when something shifted and a bunch of stuff came tumbling down on her. Pieces of drywall, plaster, and insulation—fortunately, nothing really heavy, but it was a mess nonetheless.
Coughing and rubbing the back of her head, she backed out of the crawlspace where some old pipes had been laid to run water for an ancient bathroom. It was the only one that had never been fully modernized, probably because it was in the farthest corner of Shenstone House and accessed only by a narrow hallway that led to the back—likely servants’ area—of the house. That was another reason the bath had never been updated. Whose servants needed hot running water, after all?
Drywall dust coated Leslie’s shoulders, arms, and torso, and still hung in the air, waiting for a place to alight. She brushed ineffectively at the powder, coughed some more, and berated herself for not wearing eye protection because she knew better. Her baseball cap had kept most of the dust from her face, and of course she’d been wearing gloves and jeans, but she still had some grittiness in her eyes.
It had been a very busy month since she’d arrived in Wicks Hollow on the tenth of September and dug into her new life. She’d moved into her Aunt Cherry’s guest room for the first week—just until she made certain the house was livable and the wiring was up to code. It was, and since then, she’d been living in a comfortable bedroom suite just off the kitchen, which was where the previous owner had lived.
&nb
sp; It had taken working with contractors that first week, plus the help of her aunt and her aunt’s best friend Orbra, to do a major update on the living suite (which included a luxurious bathroom, bedroom, and small office/sitting area): a hardwood floor, freshly painted walls, and new hardware and vanity in the bathroom. But that cozy corner of Shenstone House, right off the kitchen, was now her little sanctuary amid the rest of the construction and renovation. Hopefully before spring, the rest of the house would be updated and ready to be lived in—or, more accurately, rented out as bed and breakfast rooms. Contractors had been coming and going erratically, but Leslie, who felt the need to be hands-on as well as keep herself physically busy, was doing a good portion of the demo and cleanup work herself.
She suddenly became aware of an irritated voice in the distance.
“Helloooo? Anyone here?”
She frowned and grabbed her cell phone from the table where she’d left it for safety, and saw five missed calls and two texts. Oh crap. It was the guy for the wrought iron on the stairs. She’d been waiting a week to get him in here. Who’d have thought a blacksmith would be so busy in this day and age?
“I’m here,” she called back, then coughed again as she began to hurry from the back of the house, creating a cloud of drywall dust around her like Pigpen.
“Hello?” The voice was even less pleased now, and it sounded further away.
“Wait! Don’t leave!” she shouted, pushing through the double maple doors that connected the kitchen and dining room. They swung back into place behind her with gusto and a pleasant squeak.
“Ms. Nakano?” the man called back.
“Yes, sorry,” she said, rushing into the hall that led from the parlor to the guest rooms. “I lost track of time. You must be Declan Zyler.”
“Yep.” He looked her over just as frankly as she was looking at him, though Leslie doubted he could see much beneath her coating of drywall and dust, baseball cap, and worn jeans.
How far I’ve come from the boardroom. She controlled a gleeful smile. And thankful for it every day.
But that thought went out of her mind as quickly as it came, for it was followed by the realization that Declan Zyler looked exactly like she’d pictured a blacksmith to look…back when she had time to read those historical romance novels about young ladies of the gentry who fell for the inappropriate groom, tutor, or—most titillating of all—the muscular, sweaty, lowborn blacksmith. Forget the dukes and earls…she liked the stories about star-crossed lovers from different “sides” of society.
Leslie just hadn’t expected a metalworker in the twenty-first century to look so…raw and wild. His hair was the color of mahogany—a dark, rich red that was nearly black—and he needed a shave, for gold and red stubble glittered over his chin and jaw. He had the build of her imagined blacksmith too, for he wore a white t-shirt, which clearly showed the muscles of his pecs, and an open red and blue plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The flannel shirt obstructed the shape of his biceps, but his golden brown forearms—freckled, lightly scarred and burned, and very powerful looking—were bare.
Those were not the kind of muscles a guy got from working out at Gold’s Gym.
“Well? You going to show me the stairway?” Zyler was looking at her as if she were a toddler. Or a damned mess, which, in this case, wasn’t too far from the truth.
“Of course.” She responded without flickering an eyelash. Working in a high-powered, fast-paced business world and interacting with her fair share of supposedly intimidating men (and women) had taught her how to turn on a dime, hide her feelings, and communicate clearly and effectively even when taken off guard.
So what if the man standing in her house was the most amazingly male creature she’d encountered in person in years? Leslie was cool and collected and businesslike as they came.
A lesser woman might have taken off her ball cap and yanked the fastener out of her ponytail, or brushed off her shirt—a dirty, baggy tee—or even apologized for her appearance. But Leslie didn’t bother. He might look hot as sin and right out of her fantasies, but she wasn’t in the market for a man at the moment. Not only that, she had absolutely nothing to prove to anyone…except maybe the bank that had given her the small business loan to help jump-start the inn.
“You probably saw it when you came in—it’s the one leading to the second floor.” She gestured back down the hall, the obvious way from which he’d come.
“Yep. But I didn’t want to go poking around till I talked to you.” From the tone of his voice, it was clear what he meant to say was I didn’t want to waste my time.
They were in the foyer now, and both looked at the grand, sweeping staircase that started on the right side of the wide, shallow entrance hall and ended up sweeping left across the way in a balcony-like swoon. Two hallways spiked out from behind the balcony, leading to what would become guest rooms. In 1920s art deco style, the balustrade was a design of perfect curves, finial-topped semicircles, and twists and turns. It was very complicated and extremely elegant.
“Nice piece,” he said, though Leslie could hear something more like reverence in his voice. “Some cast iron here in the ornamentals, but the rest of it’s definitely wrought.” He glanced up. “The difference being—”
“Cast iron is poured into molds and wrought iron is pounded into shape in a smithy,” Leslie interrupted with a grin. “I did my research, Mr. Zyler.”
His lips moved briefly; it might have been a smile, but possibly a grimace. The corners of his eyes crinkled a little too. “Can’t tell you how many times I’ve been called to a place only to learn it’s cast metal.”
“My Aunt Cherry says you do a lot of restoration work.”
“Cherry Wilder’s your aunt?”
“Yes. Do you know her well?” Leslie didn’t think he looked like a guy who’d spend a lot of time in a yoga studio, but then again…he’d have no problem balancing himself in Crow with those arms. She swallowed hard at the delightful mental image.
“Well enough. I just moved back a little more than two months ago—I grew up here—and ever since I mentioned in passing last week that she reminded me of Helen Mirren, she’s been on my case to come to one of her hot yoga classes.”
Leslie laughed. Cherry was definitely a cougar on the prowl. “Well, she could be trying to get you into a belly-dance class, so be thankful for small favors.”
His eyes crinkled and those lips moved again. Definitely getting closer to a smile. “Excellent point. And yes, most of what I do is restoration. To comply with historical society requirements, if the iron was originally wrought rather than cast, it’s got to be replaced with same to keep the building’s designation historical. Keeps me busier than I need to be, but busy enough.” He stopped abruptly, leading her to believe he’d been about to say more.
“Which is why I called you,” Leslie said. “Besides the fact that Orbra van Hest said I had to.”
He exhaled a short laugh. “Ah. Orbra. I’ll remember to thank her next time I see her. She’s a piece of work too.”
“I’ve been kind of scared of Orbra since I was ten, so yes, I agree.”
Declan glanced at her with a sudden, full-blown look. “I get the impression you’re not scared of many people, let alone a sixty-eight-year-old woman who serves tea and crumpets.”
For some reason, Leslie felt her cheeks grow warm. “Well, Orbra or a big spider—either will do the trick. And then there’s Maxine Took…but we won’t even go there.” She gestured to the stairway. “So, I could replace the whole thing with wood spindles, or even the iron ones you get at Home Depot or—” She stopped, because she was fairly certain those broad shoulders had actually winced. She hid a grin. Sensitive about his work, was he?
He’d returned to his examination. “I’ve done hundreds of projects, most of ’em for historical buildings, and I’ve never seen anything like this. The workmanship is unique—gorgeous, in fact—but this rust…Wrought iron doesn’t just rust like this unless it’s exposed t
o the elements for a significant amount of time. Cast iron would rust easier, like—see those pieces over there? The—excuse me, but cheap—fleur-de-lis sort of caps on the wall sconces? They’re not rusting at all.” He was frowning now, looking back and forth between the sconces and the spindles. “Was this place ever roofless? Flooded? Destroyed by a tornado? Windows broken?”
Leslie drew closer, her hands on her hips. “No. The building’s been intact, as far as I know—it was even kept up after Alice ver Stahl moved into a nursing home five years ago. I tried to use a hard-wire brush to get rid of that stuff, but…it’s weird. I don’t think it’s rust.”
He was standing at eye level to the bottom of a stretch of the square-on-square railing, about eight stairs from the ground. Silently, he examined the coppery damage that seemed to be growing up from the bottom of the mooring spikes like rusty moss. He scraped at it with a finger, then leaned forward to sniff at it. Pulling away, he frowned, dug in his jeans, and pulled out a pocketknife.
“I don’t know what it is. It’s only on the bottom, too; not spread along the whole thing, as you’d expect rust to do,” he muttered, using the tip of the blade to pick at the damage. “Hmm. Whatever it is, it’s discoloring the metal…but I don’t think it’s from oxidation—the whole spindle would have the damage instead of just the bottom part. And it’s just in this section of the railing. Strange.”
He clicked his knife closed and slipped it into his jeans pocket. When he turned to look at Leslie, she was surprised at how green his eyes were. Wine bottle green.
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