The Raven Master

by Diana Whitney

  The raven responded with a shattering screech and flapped its good wing. It cocked its ebony head, fixed Janine with a jonquil stare and emitted an ominous hiss.

  Eyeing the raven’s sharp beak, Janine retreated even farther. “Edgar is a fine name, just fine.”

  Diverted by his new surroundings, Edgar hopped around the dresser, pecked at the mirror, then turned his attention to the goosenecked lamp a few feet away. With a hop and a flutter, he wrapped his claws around the comfortably curved stem and claimed his new perch with a raucous squawk.

  Quinn slid Janine a furtive glance. “He shouldn’t be released until the wing has healed.”

  “No, of course not.”

  Leaning lazily against the dresser, Quinn regarded her thoughtfully. “Are guests allowed to keep pets?”

  “I’ve never thought about it. Actually, the subject of pets has never come up.” She cleared her throat. “Perhaps if we could locate some kind of a cage—”

  Edgar screeched a protest.

  Frustrated, Janine folded her arms and glared at the bird. “Keep that up and you’ll be headquartered in the basement.”

  With a shriek that seemed unnervingly responsive, Edgar pivoted on the perch and turned his back on her.

  When she turned her stunned gaze on Quinn, he merely shrugged. “I think you’ve hurt his feelings.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She shook her head and chuckled, willing to go along with the gag. “All right, Edgar. Forget the cage. You can stay in the room but only if you’re quiet, understand? One midnight screech, and you’re outta here.”

  On cue, Edgar turned to face her and calmly settled himself on the flexible column.

  Sighing, Janine turned to Quinn. “Could you at least spread newspapers under the lamp?”

  His eyes crinkled. “Consider it done.”

  She fidgeted for a moment. “I should get back to work.”

  Straightening, he gathered the remaining first-aid supplies and handed them to her. “Thanks for the help.”

  “You’re welcome.” She balanced the loose objects in the crook of her arm, shifted nervously and wondered why she was so hesitant to leave. “Do you need anything else? I mean, birdseed or something?”

  He regarded her quizzically. “Do you have any bird-seed?”

  She nearly groaned aloud. Of course she didn’t have any birdseed. What on earth was the matter with her, anyway? “Well, no, but I was planning to go to the market later…” The lie caught in her throat. She coughed it away and smiled brightly. “So I could pick some up and anything else you might need.”

  After considering that for a moment, he gave her the tolerant smile usually reserved for fools and small children. “Actually I’m going into town myself this afternoon. If you tell me what you need, I’ll save you a trip.”

  “That’s very nice of you.” Her cheeks ached. “I’ll make a list.”

  She backed awkwardly out of the room, wondering what it was about this man that made her feel like a clumsy adolescent. He was an enigma, unsettling, almost frightening, yet his unique abilities contradicted her own sense of uneasiness. Animals and children instinctively recognized inner kindness. They trusted Quinn; why couldn’t she?

  The answer was clear. Quinn Coulliard was a dichotomy—a cultured rebel with the tortured eyes of a person at war with himself. He was also the most fascinating man she’d ever met.

  Balancing fresh linens on one arm, Janine used her master key to enter Quinn’s room. To avoid inconveniencing the guests, she tried to schedule routine cleaning while they were away. So after Quinn drove into town—ostensibly for birdseed—Janine took advantage of the perfect opportunity to complete her chores.

  As she closed the door behind her, the raven sidled along the curved lamp stem, cocked his head and eyed her suspiciously. She tossed the key onto the dresser and put the linens on a nearby chair. “Hello, Edgar. Are you feeling better?”

  Edgar said nothing.

  She was oddly disappointed. In his master’s presence, the bird had seemed, well, almost human. That was silly, of course, but Quinn Coulliard had a knack for creating illusions of reality from the most implausible scenarios. Perhaps the man was a mystic. Or a magician.

  Or a con artist.

  Not that it really mattered. To Janine, he was simply another tenant. Yet as she absently stripped sheets from the mattress, she couldn’t suppress a bit of curious speculation. She wondered if he was married. He wore no wedding ring but that wasn’t necessarily proof that he had no wife. And if there was a woman in his life, what was she like?

  Obviously the fortunate woman would have to be very special. Since nothing about Quinn Coulliard was ordinary, Janine couldn’t imagine he would be attracted to someone plain, a woman with—she glanced at the mirror—mousy hair, dull brown eyes, a flat chest and a flabby bum.

  Disgusted, she turned away from the mirror, angrily dragged the soiled sheets from the mattress and tossed them in a heap on the floor. The notion that a man like Quinn Coulliard could ever be attracted to her was ludicrous. After all, Janine was well aware of her physical limitations. Once, she had believed herself to be reasonably attractive—a fantasy that Charles had effectively quashed on their honeymoon. Now she no longer deluded herself and reluctantly accepted the sad fact that she had the sex appeal of road kill.

  But since Quinn Coulliard had entered her life, Janine had found herself staring into the mirror with an increasing sense of disappointment. Last night she’d actually pushed her drab hair on top of her skull, wondering if a fluffier coiffeur would make her more attractive. She’d caught herself, of course, and had been both embarrassed and depressed by such futile speculation. She was a plain woman. Everyone said so. At least, everyone who mattered.

  But there was something in the way Quinn looked at her that didn’t make her feel the least bit plain, and she’d been bothered by strange sensations, an undefinable longing that made her restless and itchy.

  Janine was still considering the implications of these odd feelings while she shook out the fresh sheets and absently continued her chore. She tucked in one side of the bed-clothes then rounded the bed and accidentally bumped the goosenecked lamp, sending Edgar into an indignant flurry. Janine whirled and grabbed at the tilting perch. The bird squawked and aimed a painful peck at her wrist.

  “Ow!” She yanked back her hand.

  Although the weighted base kept the lamp from falling, Edgar continued to screech and frantically flap his good wing.

  “Oh, good Lord.” Fearing that the frenzied animal would reinjure itself, Janine attempted to calm the bird by emulating Quinn’s soothing manner.

  “There, there,” she cooed.

  Edgar cocked his head, beak ajar, and regarded Janine with an expression that could only be described as one of absolute disdain. The bird did seem calmer, though, so Janine was encouraged enough to extend a tentative hand. The creature emitted a raucous shriek and instantly attacked. Before she could so much as gasp, a flapping ball of feathered fury leaped at her face, pecking and screeching.

  Folding her arms as a shield against the raven’s needle-sharp beak, she stumbled backward. The bed blocked her way. “Ouch! You stupid bird. Stop it!” She swatted wildly. “Do you hear me? Stop!”

  She finally fell onto the bed, then rolled frantically until she fell off and hit the floor with a painful thump. Panting, she rose to her knees and shoved a wad of hair out of her face. The raven gave her a hard look, apparently decided that she posed no further threat to his perch and placidly began to groom himself.

  Standing shakily, she blew out a breath. If Quinn wanted the left side of his bed made, he’d damn well have to do it himself. No way was she going to get within pecking distance of that blasted bird again.

  She scooped up the soiled linens, piled them in the hallway, then dragged in the vacuum and began cleaning the carpet. The nozzle struck something under the bed. After bending to investigate, she pulled out Quinn’s deflated duffel, tossed it o
nto the mattress and finished vacuuming the room.

  As she was cleaning the base of the dresser, she noticed the white square that had fallen while Quinn was tending the raven’s wounded wing. After retrieving the scrap, she turned it over and took a sharp breath. It was a tattered, finger-smudged photograph of the most stunning woman Janine had ever seen.

  The woman in the photograph had sparkling, ice blue eyes shaded by lashes long enough to braid and a sensual mouth puckered into the kiss-me pout favored by models in fashion magazines. As if those endowments weren’t enough, a thick blond mane framed her perfect oval face. The woman was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous.

  Janine was so engrossed in studying the image that she didn’t hear the bedroom door open.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She jumped and whirled around. “I…cleaning.”

  Quinn stood in the doorway, taut as a gate spring with his right arm twisted strangely behind his back. After a moment, his hand emerged from beneath the loose khaki vest and he slammed the door. His narrowed gaze swept the room, lingering briefly when he noticed the floppy duffel on the bed, then moving to the oversize key ring on the dresser and finally settling on the photograph clutched in Janine’s rigid fingers.

  She moistened her lips and held out the picture. “It was on the floor,” she explained lamely, more annoyed by her own embarrassment than by his accusatory stare. All she’d done was rescue the photo from being sucked into the vacuum yet she felt guilty enough to have been caught snooping through his underwear drawer.

  With one more glance at the half-made bed, Quinn crossed the room slowly and, she thought, with forced casualness. When he was close enough that she caught the stimulating scent of pine soap, he reached out, but instead of accepting the proffered picture, he captured her bruised wrist.

  Startled, she tried to pull away but he held her firmly, examining the blue welts and bloody scratches scattered across her inner arm.

  Perhaps it was his nearness that made Janine’s heart race wildly; perhaps it was the warmth of his strong palm encircling her wrist. The reason didn’t matter. She was aware of him. Acutely aware—of his maleness, of his distinctive scent and of the radiant, almost incandescent energy that seemed to be emanating from every pore in his body.

  Her lips parted, allowing more oxygen into her suddenly starved lungs. A prickling sensation from her captive wrist crawled up her arm, teased her nape like a lover’s kiss, then slid down her spine with a violent shiver. Janine would have stepped away, except that her legs felt like lead pillars and her feet seemed to have been soldered to the floor.

  Without releasing his grip, Quinn slid the index finger of his free hand delicately over her wounded flesh. “Did the raven do this?” There was an edge to his voice that gave her chills.

  “It wasn’t Edgar’s fault,” Janine assured him. “When I was making the bed, I accidentally hit the lamp. He…was upset.”

  “Was he?”

  Quinn brushed his knuckle over an ugly puncture mark at her elbow and the look in his eyes frightened her half to death. For a brief moment, she had the horrible image of a raven roasting on a spit but she shook off the awful thought, reminding herself that Quinn had rescued the bird in the first place.

  Still, this hard-eyed person bore little resemblance to the gentle man who had tended a wounded bird less than two hours earlier. The ominous transformation was unsettling.

  Janine gestured weakly toward the half-made bed. “Edgar seems to be rather protective of his perch. He wouldn’t let me finish.”

  “I don’t expect you to clean up after me.” To her shock, Quinn brushed his lips across the sensitive flesh of her inner wrist then released her so abruptly that she wondered if she’d imagined the sensual gesture.

  Before she could compose herself, he’d plucked the photograph from her hand and stepped away. Without his comforting touch, Janine swayed slightly, and when he turned his back on her, she felt strangely bereft.

  He spoke again in a voice that was cool, almost harsh. “In the future, perhaps you’d be good enough to leave the clean linens in the hallway.”

  Confused, Janine crossed her arms to quell an annoying tremor. “But I always clean the guest rooms on Saturday.”

  He replied without turning. “I don’t require maid service.”

  The haughty remark rankled her. “I’m not a maid, Mr. Coulliard. I do, however, provide a courtesy that most of my tenants appreciate. Please understand that I did not intentionally violate the privacy that you quite obviously cherish.”

  A heavy silence shrouded the room. Quinn’s shoulder muscles rippled as he crooked one arm. Although Janine’s view was blocked by his body, she thought from the tilt of his head that he was looking down at the photograph.

  After what seemed a small eternity, his arm fell to his side. “You’re right. I do value my privacy.” He turned slowly and laid the photograph on top of the bureau, beside the master key. “I didn’t mean to be abrupt.”

  “And I didn’t mean to intrude.” Janine’s eyes were drawn to the picture of the smiling blond woman.

  Quinn followed her gaze but remained silent.

  A small voice in the back of her mind warned against comment. She couldn’t help herself. “The woman is quite lovely. Who is she?”

  Suddenly the tension was thick enough to slice. Quinn’s jaw twitched as he stared silently at the picture. Seconds ticked away. He closed his eyes. His chest expanded and held steady, then deflated slowly. Finally he posed an abrupt question. “Why do you want to know?”

  A closer examination of his dark expression might have made her reconsider the answer. “I just wondered if she was your wife.”

  Quinn turned on her with eyes as black as bruises and lips flat with fury. Before Janine could do more than suck in a startled breath, his hand was at her throat. For one terror-stricken moment, she feared he might strangle her.

  Instead his fingers caressed the soft flesh below her jaw, a gesture exquisitely erotic yet undeniably dangerous. “I was under the impression that you don’t intrude into the personal lives of your guests. Have I been misinformed?”

  Although her heart was pounding hard enough to break through her ribs, Janine managed to stammer a reply. “Not at all. I—I was, uh, simply curious.”

  He slid one fingertip slowly down her throat until it nested at the clavicle juncture. “Curiosity,” he murmured. “Fatal to felines and unhealthy for humans, as well. The woman in the photograph never learned that lesson. But you will, won’t you?”

  She shivered as his palm encircled her throat so delicately that it seemed more a lover’s caress than a sinister warning. He wasn’t holding her, not by physical means. All Janine had to do was take a step back and she’d be free of his touch.

  But she couldn’t move and didn’t want to. Like a doe in headlights, she was trapped by his penetrating gaze, frozen by his mesmerizing touch. She should be frightened—and she was, in a way—yet the fear was not for her physical safety. The fear was for her soul and for the power this man had over it. Over her.

  He bowed his head slightly, bending so close that his hair tickled her cheek and his breath warmed her ear. “Curiosity and carelessness can be a deadly combination. Be more careful about entering a man’s bedroom. You never know what might happen.”

  She closed her eyes, praying her rubbery legs would hold for just a few minutes longer. “I—I trust my guests.”

  “Trust no one.” His mouth brushed her throbbing temple.

  Opening her eyes, she whispered, “Including you?”

  His smile was not reassuring. “Especially me.”

  Before she could assess that unsettling comment, he stepped away. “Good day, Miss Taylor.” With that, he walked to the window and presented his back.

  Janine was so flustered by the brusque dismissal that her shaky limbs threatened to collapse entirely. She grabbed at the dresser to steady herself and her hand grazed the master key. It slid off onto the car
pet a few feet from the goose-necked lamp. Feeling dizzy, she cooled her face with her palm, then turned to retrieve the key ring.

  The raven lifted himself like an ebony phoenix and screeched a furious warning. Shielding her head, Janine snatched up the key and stumbled quickly out of the room.

  When Quinn heard her unsteady footsteps on the stairs, he quietly crossed the room and closed the door. Disgusted with himself, he absently rubbed his aching head. Damn. He’d nearly kissed her. In fact, he’d nearly taken her to bed and she would have allowed it; he knew that even if she didn’t. He’d recognized the passion flaring in those lovely amber eyes, the desire she’d been too naive to conceal.

  There was an inner frailty about Janine Taylor that touched something deep inside Quinn, exposed secret thoughts that he hadn’t faced in a long time. He didn’t like that. In fact, he hated it. That doe-eyed woman was going to mess up everything.

  Quinn blew out a breath, pulled the revolver out of his waistband and laid the weapon on the dresser. He touched the photograph gently, then slipped it into his vest pocket, turned toward the bed and extracted a large manila envelope from his duffel. A meticulous examination of the taped flap assured him that the seal hadn’t been tampered with. This time.

  But he’d definitely been careless. It wouldn’t happen again.

  As he glanced around the room, his gaze fell on the raven. He smiled.

  Ten minutes later, Edgar sat on the dresser pecking at a bowl of birdseed while Quinn finished prying a piece of flat steel from the bottom of the lamp base. He set aside the Frisbee-sized circle, and was pleased to note that the rounded top of the base was hollow, rather like an inverted hubcap. Satisfied, he carefully taped the manila envelope inside and replaced the flat bottom. When he tried to stand the lamp upright, however, it tilted slightly and the flat piece slid off.

  Frustrated, he squatted to inspect the problem and realized that when he’d pried off the round metal, he’d inadvertently broken one of the tabs holding it in place. He sat back on his heels, contemplating the dilemma. If the bottom couldn’t be snapped tight, he’d have to depend solely on the raven’s protective fury to keep intruders at a distance. That wasn’t a perfect solution but it would have to do.