by Cara Summers
Really hot sex with all recriminations, all repercussions, all the angst of worrying about the long-term relationship taken away. Who could top the appeal of that? And what they’d just shared in the stairwell had been the hottest almost-but-not-quite sex she’d ever had. What would the real deal be like?
Just the thought triggered a near meltdown of her entire system. She had to press her palms harder against the wall behind her to keep herself upright. And now that the question was there, the seed of future possibilities planted, how was she supposed to concentrate on what she’d come to Haworth House to do?
I’m taking a rain check.
Okay—so she had a lot on her plate. She usually did. But she knew how to make room for one more. She closed her eyes, reminded herself to breathe. Before she threw caution to the winds, she had to think. And she was going to have that talk with Hattie.
Pushing herself away from the wall, she hurried down the hall and punched the code to open the tower room door. After flipping a switch, she ran up the circular iron staircase. A Tiffany lamp glowed on a small end table. Tall windows filled the circular walls, making a perfect frame for the stars pinwheeling in a black sky.
How Hattie must have loved this room, she thought. But she and her sisters had decided against using it as bedrooms. Instead, they’d built their suite on the first level of the tower. This was the room they’d all wanted to work in.
As part of the rehab, the architect had built a partial wall that divided the space into two areas. One side held three desks. The other side, she’d furnished as a sitting room, using the Queen Anne desk and the Louis the Fourteenth chair that she’d originally found in Hattie’s boudoir.
Tomorrow, she’d spend the early morning here, preparing for her meeting with Colonel Jenkins and his son. And the tower rooms would be the finale of the tour she would take them on. But for tonight, she went directly to the lever in the wall that opened Hattie’s secret room. The light went on automatically when the panel slid aside.
She lifted the hatbox, carried it to the beveled mirror and sat down cross-legged on the floor. Only then did she look at her reflection.
“Okay, Hattie, I need some help here.”
Nothing.
She stared into the mirror, hoping for the flash that she’d seen the first time she’d ventured into the room, the one that she and her sisters had also witnessed on the day that they’d toasted their future. Still nothing.
“Look. Revealing this fantasy box to me was your idea. I would never have known about it if you hadn’t sprung that door open for me the first time I came up here. I may have read every Nancy Drew book in print, but it wouldn’t have occurred to me to feel along the walls, looking for a secret panel. And why did you need to hide it, anyway?”
Jillian shifted her gaze to the hatbox. Why had Hattie hidden it away? She and her sisters hadn’t had much time to theorize about that since that day when they’d toasted the success of the hotel and drawn out their parchment envelopes.
She thought again about the day that she’d shown the secret room and the hatbox to her sisters. They’d deferred to Naomi as the oldest to draw out the first envelope. But Naomi had insisted they share the honors by choosing simultaneously on a count of three.
Reese had reacted to hers by saying, “Well, they’re pretty carnal in nature.” Naomi hadn’t said anything at all. And she’d never admitted to them that she’d drawn one out on that first day when she’d discovered the box.
Naomi had finally shared hers—and it had been the most forbidden one of all—making love with a priest. Not that Dane had been a priest, but he’d come to the island in the guise of one to catch Naomi’s swindling exfiancé. And now he and Naomi were in love. So Naomi’s fantasy had come true, but Jillian and Reese still hadn’t revealed what was on the parchments they’d chosen. Secrets.
She glanced back at the mirror. What was Hattie’s secret? “Were the fantasies we drew out that day somehow custom-made? But how could you possibly know what our fantasies were?”
Before she’d drawn out her parchment envelope, she hadn’t thought about her secret fantasy in years.
“You know, scholars are actually researching women’s sexual fantasies now. Maybe I should turn the box over to them.”
There was nothing in the mirror, but she could have sworn that the sounds of the sea below suddenly increased in volume.
She glanced down at the box. “Were these your fantasies or someone else’s?”
One of the things that she’d briefly thought, considering the original decor of the boudoir, was that Hattie Haworth had run some kind of private and exclusive house of ill repute. The fantasy box could have been something that she’d used for, well, the most delicate way to put it was commercial purposes. Illicit sex had been going on for a long time. And small towns weren’t immune. But if that were true, then Hattie and her clients must have been very discreet.
But why hide the fantasy box? Why was it behind a concealed panel? Jillian slid her gaze to the secret room. It had to have been built to protect something.
Or someone?
Annoyance streamed through her. These were not the questions she’d come to answer. She shifted her gaze back to the mirror. “Okay, don’t tell me why you hid these away. But I’m going to figure it out. And I’m going to discover why you built a secret room and all you hid in it was this box.”
She drew in a deep breath and let it out. “I’m also going to figure out what to do about the fantasy I chose.” If Hattie wasn’t going to help her, she’d just help herself.
“But first…they say the third time’s the charm.” Lifting the lid of the box, she stirred the envelopes and drew one out.
She didn’t see that her hands were shaking. Nor did she notice the little flash in the mirror. All of her concentration was focused on the paper as she unfolded it.
You will experience all the sensory delights and adventure that come with being swept away by a stranger.
Emotions flooded her—a mix of fear, anticipation, excitement. Jillian struggled to tamp them down.
A little voice in the back of her head taunted: three strikes and you’re out. Three strikes and you’re out. Three strikes and you’re—
This time when she tucked the parchment into the envelope, she slid it into her pocket instead of the box. Then she carefully replaced the hatbox in the secret room and closed the door. Molly had been dead-on. The fantasy had a powerful allure.
So did the stranger. No one had ever made her want the way he did. There was something about him that spoke to her in a way no one else ever had. She’d be a fool to walk away from it. So she wouldn’t.
A plan was already forming in her mind as she raced down the stairs.
6
AN HOUR LATER, IAN STROLLED into the now-deserted lobby. A walk in the garden hadn’t gotten Jillian out of his mind or his system. While the breeze off the ocean had allowed him to access some part of his rational brain, logic wasn’t providing the touchstone that it usually did.
Jillian Brightman was so different for him. He’d wanted her from the first moment he’d met her on the road, and his desire for her had only increased each time he’d seen her, touched her. He wasn’t an impulsive man, but she pulled at something inside him that he hadn’t known was there.
With one kiss she’d taken him so far beyond anything he’d ever experienced before. The searing heat, the piercing pleasure. The draining of control. Choice was important to him. But there’d been those few moments in the stairwell when he wasn’t sure he’d had one. Wouldn’t have one where she was concerned.
Even now he couldn’t rid himself of the memory of what it had felt like to have her body wrapped around his, her hands gripping his shoulders, her mouth making demands. Nor could he stop wondering, anticipating how much further she could take him when they finally made love.
He could lecture himself, and he had, as he’d paced along the cliffs. There were lots of shouldn’ts.
Top
of the list—she didn’t even know who he was. And Avery, who’d hired him, didn’t want her to. Then there was his gut instinct that was telling him she was in danger. A fairly ambiguous danger at this point. But it could escalate. All the more reason to keep his distance, do his job.
Ian strolled to the wall of windows in the lobby that offered a view of the back gardens all the way to the edge of the maze. He wasn’t quite ready to trust himself to go back to his room. Wasn’t quite sure that his was the room his feet would take him to once he climbed those stairs.
The biggest reason he shouldn’t go to her right now was that she was different for him on an emotional level. He’d managed so far in his life, especially with women, to keep a certain distance. He didn’t need a therapist to tell him why.
The day when his family had been literally ripped away from him was burned into his mind. He could still picture the sober-faced people who’d marched into their apartment and herded them off to social services.
A kind lady had tried to explain what had happened. His mother had been taken from them. In spite of his questions, she couldn’t or wouldn’t tell him how or why. It was only in the first foster home he’d been placed in that someone—an older woman with patient eyes—had given him details.
His mother had died of a brain aneurysm. The woman used the big word because she’d somehow sensed that he needed that. She’d even provided a dictionary with the definition.
She’d also explained that in order to ensure the best possible future for his brothers and his sister, it was better to separate them. Adoptive families would panic at the idea of taking on four children.
That he hadn’t understood. All he knew was that he’d never seen any of his family again until last year when Dane had tracked him down at the CIA and offered him a job.
Oh, he understood very well why he’d always drawn a line to distance himself emotionally from women. If he didn’t get too involved, the eventual parting of the ways was something he could handle. But he was pretty sure that line had already begun to blur with Jillian.
And he was also sure that he was going to step right over what was left of it. Analysis was his strength. He knew how to calculate probabilities. Could and would were going to prevail over those shouldn’ts.
The only thing he could hope to do was to postpone what was going to happen between them until he’d figured out just what was going on at the hotel. On that thought, he turned and strode through the dining room. According to the information Avery had given him, the young chef who ran the kitchen came early and stayed late.
After pushing through the double swinging doors, Ian stopped short to simply take the place in. His impression was that some kitchen designer had had a field day. The room was longer than it was wide and a stainless-steel work counter bisected the space. More stainless steel gleamed along a wall lined with refrigerators, ovens and cabinets. The other wall offered large sinks and three eight-burner stoves. Though he wasn’t versed in culinary devices, what he saw lining the shelf that ran beneath the counter looked to be state-of-the-art.
The room’s lone occupant sat on a stool at the far end of the counter and glanced up as Ian approached.
“May I help you?”
The young man—Ian guessed him to be in his mid-twenties—wore glasses and a serious expression. He had an open notebook in front of him, a pen in his hand and a menu. The name on his chef’s jacket read Jarrell.
Just the man he wanted to talk to. Ian walked forward and extended his hand. “I’m Jack Ryan. Mr. Cooper may have mentioned me.”
Jarrell shook the offered hand. “The writer. You’re doing research on Haworth House.” He waved Ian onto a stool. “My experience here is limited to the kitchen. So if you’re here to get details about our in-house ghost, I’m not your best source.”
Ian smiled. “I’ve got the ghost covered.”
Jarrell set down his pen. “I’m not sure how I can help.”
“You already have.” Ian glanced around. “I can’t wait to describe this space.”
Jarrell’s face lit up. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? Reese Brightman, one of the owners, designed it.”
Ian glanced down at the notebook in front of Jarrell and at the menu spread out beside it. “You’re busy.”
“We change the menu every few weeks, so I’m always working on that.”
“If you have the time, I’d like to ask you a few questions. Unless you’d prefer to set up another meeting.”
“This will work. Mr. Cooper asked if I would fit you in.”
Ian studied him for a minute. The trick was to gather information about the disturbing incidents without setting off alarms. But he had a feeling that because of his loyalty to Reese, Jarrell would respond best to a direct approach. “In addition to the history of the place and its original owner, I’m also interested in what’s going on here today. Mr. Cooper told me that there was an incident here not too long ago with some bad mushrooms.”
Jarrell’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Cooper told you about that?”
“Yes. He said you were the one who discovered the problem and you’d be the one to talk to for details. You must have a good eye to have spotted them. All mushrooms look the same to me.”
Jarrell frowned. “I was a botany major when I was an undergrad. And I’m still trying to figure out how those mushrooms got into my order. They aren’t something you can buy commercially, and yet they were packaged just like the others I ordered. Luckily, I make a habit of unpacking all of the food that’s delivered. If I hadn’t, some of our customers would have gotten very ill.”
“Where do you get your mushrooms?” Ian asked.
“Grasso Supply in Portland. I checked with them. They say it didn’t happen there. I’m the only person who complained.”
“Any theories on how the switch was made?”
“I’ve given it a lot of thought. It had to be someone who knew the way I run this kitchen.”
“You think it was an inside job?”
“No. There’s no one here who would do something like that.”
But there was a hint of worry in his eyes, Ian noted. “Maybe it was done between the time the order was unloaded from the ferry and it arrived here.”
“That’s all done by someone on the hotel staff. I don’t think any of them would do something to hurt the Brightman sisters.”
Suddenly, Jarrell’s face shut down as if he’d decided he’d already said too much. “If I had anything concrete, any way to explain it, I’d go to Mr. Cooper.”
“I understand,” Ian said. In spite of what he said, Jarrell still suspected that it was an inside job. Knowing he wouldn’t get any more tonight, Ian rose. “Thanks for your help.”
As he strode back to the lobby and climbed the stairs, he tossed the possibilities around in his mind. If he were going to steal packaging materials, he’d get them from the trash. Once the bad mushrooms were neatly packed, all he’d have to do was distract the hotel staff member who made the deliveries for a moment or two, and put the mushrooms in the delivery box.
Piece of cake. He made a mental note to find out which of the staff members regularly met the ferry and delivered orders to the hotel.
When Ian stepped into his room, his foot connected with something and he heard it whisk across the carpet. There was enough moonlight pouring through the sliding glass doors for him to see the envelope lying a few feet away.
One stride brought him close enough to squat down and pick it up. It was old and a bit yellowed. Parchment. And there was nothing written across it. Curious, he opened the unsealed flap and drew out a slip of paper. It, too, was parchment. Unfolding it, he stared down at the message.
You will experience all the sensory delights and adventure that come with being swept away by a stranger.
INSIDE HER ROOM, JILLIAN paced back and forth in front of her balcony. He had to have gotten the message by now. Nerves jittered in her stomach. It had been over an hour since she’d pushed the envelope beneath h
is door.
Her hands had been shaking, her heart pounding so hard that if he’d been in the room, she was sure he’d have thrown open the door to investigate the noise.
She’d done impulsive things before. More times than she could count. But nothing like this. She’d delivered the fantasy parchment right after she’d left the tower room—before she had a chance to second-guess herself. Before she could think of any more excuses.
She wanted him. He wanted her. If they spent just one night together, maybe she could get the fantasy out of her system. Get him out of her system.
That had been her thinking an hour ago. Since then, she’d felt like Juliet, waiting on her balcony praying for Romeo to join her. Except her particular Romeo hadn’t. What had joined her were the nerves and the second thoughts. And the sting of rejection.
A quick glance at her watch told her it was after midnight. He’d had plenty of time to come back to his room and find the message. She’d had time to take a quick shower and dither a bit about what she should wear.
After all, she’d never dressed to be swept away before. She glanced around her room at the candles she’d lit. The scene was definitely set.
All she needed was her stranger.
But he wasn’t here. And the tightening around her heart had become so sharp that she fisted a hand to rub it against her chest.
She’d gotten his room right. No mistake there. It was on the second floor, one balcony down and one to the left of hers. She could picture the small two-bedroom suite in her mind. One of the rooms contained a canopied four-poster bed and a satinwood armoire that were two of her favorite pieces. The larger bedroom boasted a wrought-iron headboard and a king-size bed. He was a large man, so that was no doubt the one he’d chosen. A sudden image of him sprawled across it flashed into her mind. Fast asleep?
She rubbed at her chest again. There were explanations, she told herself. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed the parchment. Or not understood the message. She should have written Rain check on the envelope. Or something.