by Sheedy, EC
“Perhaps Mary and Dinah were friends,” she insisted. “Maybe that was it.”
“Nobody’s that friendly.”
“You’re cynical.”
“And you’re stubborn.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Look, none of this matters. What matters is keeping you and this house safe until I can figure out what the hell’s going on around here.”
Her eyes snapped to alert—and direct. “Add presumptuous to cynical. I can take care of myself and Mayday.”
Gus left the room to silence for a time, decided what card to play. “Can you also take care of those two women we had dinner with—one of which looks about twelve months pregnant?” He pushed his point. “Can you keep them safe from some creep hired by Marsden who does his best work after midnight? And is that a chance you’re willing to take?”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being honest.”
“And why should I trust you, a man hired to get dirt for a blackmailer?”
“Truth? I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here, but Hagan Marsden is a determined man who’s dangerously short in the scruples department. If I’d turned him down, he’d hire someone else. Then someone else.” He met her eyes. “In the end he’d get what he wanted, any way he had to. Dinah would go down, and this place right along with her. He’d make sure of that. Like I said before, you’ve got trouble, Farrell. Big trouble.” He stopped. “So, make your choice, me or brand X.”
He expected an argument; instead Keeley glared at him, then turned her back and again walked to the window. She stood in front of it, staring into the rain, her back plumb-line straight, and said nothing.
Her silence finally spoke to him, so he took the few steps to reach her and stood behind her. “You’ve already had a preview of that trouble, am I right?”
This close, she smelled like cloves and lemon … and woman. And her hair, a crazy mop of red, needed a brush—or his fingers.
Shit! He shoved the thoughts aside, took a step back.
When she turned to face him, her expression was grim. “Yes, there’s been some situations. But we’ll talk about that in the morning. For now I’d suggest you go back to the Jasper Inn and get your things. There’s an empty room across from mine, here on the main floor. The best place for you, I think. It used to be Mary’s room. She said she liked it because she could hear every noise in the house.” She was all business now.
And so was he. “Sounds fine. Tomorrow, I’d like a complete tour of the place—but maybe you can give me a quick verbal sketch. I need to know exactly where everyone sleeps.”
She nodded, the gesture curt. “You’ve seen most of the main floor. All the usual: entry hall, kitchen, dining room, living room, this office—once a music room. Other than that there are nine bedrooms in Mayday, three on the main floor, five on the second, and one in the turret, but it hasn’t been used in years. Mostly storage now. Erica and Bridget are both on the second floor.”
“Anything else?”
“An attic”—she made a wry face and arched a brow—“no doubt where the bones are kept. And a cellar.”
“Outbuildings?”
“A couple of sheds for storage, gardening tools, that sort of thing. The house sits on a couple of acres, maybe more. It used to have a big garden. St. Ivan’s church is on the other side of the back hedge.” She glanced away and for the first time looked worried. “I was born in this house, lived here until I was almost seventeen. It’s a good place, a helping place. A place of love and caring. I can’t begin to imagine what this threat is all about.”
“With luck we’ll find out before anyone gets hurt. For now I’ll get my stuff. I’ll be back in under an hour.” Gus headed to the door. He didn’t want her to leave the door unlocked for him, and it was getting late. His hand was turning the old crystal knob when she said his name. He turned.
“I’m still not sure about this whole thing, but there is one rule for as long as you’re here. And it is absolute.” The worry was gone from her face, replaced by a fierce doggedness.
He cocked his head, waited.
“You will not—under any circumstances—bring a gun into this house.” She took a step toward him, never taking her eyes from his. “Do we understand each other?”
He nodded. “Fair enough. No guns.”
She eyed him a second or two longer. He figured his quick agreement had raised more suspicion than it had allayed.
After a second or so, she gave him a brusque nod, then walked past him through the open door. “I’ll make up your bed.”
CHAPTER 8
Christiana stared at the contracts on her desk, pushed aside the vase containing a single blood-red rose, and centered the paper carefully in front of her. Duke had insisted she didn’t need to read them, that he’d taken care of everything, but she should at least take a look.
At the first whereas and hitherto her mind wandered, and she pushed the papers aside.
Minutes later, she stood staring into the dying embers of the fire she’d built earlier, now sputtering down to sparks and small bursts of heat and light. Only a trace of its warmth remained.
The Oregon night was cool, so she prodded the weak flames to renewed life and put on another log. One of the joys of working at home was her office. She felt more comfortable here than in any other room in the house. It was here she made a difference, helped people. And it was here where her first show for local cable was filmed.
She remembered that day—the nerves, the excitement, the sense of accomplishment. The feeling of doing something worthwhile. She’d worked like a dog, true, but she’d felt so energized, so … new, the recognition for her work both fresh and satisfying.
Then she’d met Duke.
Now, two years later, barely a trace of that person remained. Now all she thought about was Duke. Her obsession.
When he was with her, he filled her mind, stoked her ambition—owned her body. Christiana swallowed, ran a hand across her breasts. She lifted a hand, idly stroked, then turned, one of the blue votive candles on the mantel.
Her sexual need for Duke had begun to frighten her. Relentless and constant, it was a shimmering heat beneath her skin waiting for his touch. When she was with him, that heat made her feel alive, vibrant, wanted. When she wasn’t with him—like tonight—she felt arid, itchy, and strangely frail, like a dried flower, dulled by too much heat and held too tight.
Everything about her and Duke was wrong, had been from the beginning.
Her body flushed.
The beginning … when he’d taken her against the wall of this office, hastily, roughly, with neither finesse nor tenderness. And she’d loved it, come alive under his hands in a way she’d never done before.
A week later he became her manager.
Stupid, stupid woman, falling in love with a married man. So stereotypical, so hypocritical, and now, faced with the light of impending public exposure, incredibly dangerous. It could ruin her career.
Duke told her not to worry, to work hard and keep what was between them quiet No one would find out, he assured her, as if saying the words repeatedly made them true. He’d get his divorce, they’d get married, with no one being the wiser. And by then, she’d be such a big star, if some bad press developed, she’d easily survive it.
At first she’d believed him, wanted desperately to believe him, but two years later, Duke was still with his wife; nothing had changed. Except her guilt at being the worst kind of fraud, and the nagging fear her obsession with him would ruin everything.
He was another woman’s husband.
She was dancing on the edge of a razor.
Pacing her office, she wrapped her arms around her middle, then straightened her shoulders. Her damn head hurt as much as her aching heart.
Something else happened when Duke wasn’t around: her brain switched on, told her to end it, say good-bye, and get on with the life she’d planned, a life of discipline, honesty, and professionalism—the perfect public im
age, like the one she’d had before falling in lust with Duke.
Television, her new talk show, Christiana, with the tag line, How to live a life of love, honor and compassion, would finally give her the forum to reach people, motivate them to become more than they’d ever thought they’d be. She wanted that, believed in that.
She rested an arm, then her head against the fireplace mantel, and let the new bright flames send their heat to her face.
It was crazy. She owed Duke for getting her to this point in her career, and yet it was Duke who imperiled everything.
Her relationship with him wasn’t her only problem. Another lurked somewhere in the dusty files of Mayday House. Even in her frantic state, she saw the bizarre humor in the relationship of the two. Jeans and genes. Duke in one, Mayday House in the other. Somehow she had to shake loose from both of them.
“Christiana?”
She turned to see her assistant standing in the door with her coat over her arm. “I thought you’d left, Terry,” Christiana said.
“I was on my way when the phone rang, and I hadn’t switched you over yet,” she replied. Christiana kept her phone ringer off during the day while she was in sessions, leaving Terry to take her calls. Unless the world was coming to an end, or Duke called, she never interrupted. “It’s Duke. About the setup for the Seattle tapings.”
Christiana went to her desk. “Thanks. Now get out of here.” She smiled along with the order and made a shooing motion with her hand. “That new husband of yours will be waiting.”
The young, trim girl put on her coat, grinned, and flicked her long hair from under her collar. “Color me gone. And good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” Christiana waved as she picked up the phone.
“Hi, lover.” Duke’s silky voice poured down the line, pulling strings that, until he’d come into her life, Christiana hadn’t known were there. “Are you missing me?”
She was, damn it, she was! She swallowed, hoping it wasn’t her meager pride. “I always miss you, Duke,” she said, adding quickly, “Is everything ready for tomorrow?” She walked back toward the fireplace where the flames were again snapping brightly.
“Everything’s set. KVOS at ten. KING5 at noon, and a visit to Everwood High at two. They’re planning a full assembly. KING says it will cover, but because we can’t count on it, I’ve hired an independent for some video.”
“Sounds good.” Her stomach curled, half in excitement, half in early stage fright. Kids, she loved talking to kids, but they were always a tough audience.
“I think the high school thing will be great. You can’t have enough of that kind of PR.”
“Yes. It’s very good.”
Silence dripped down the line.
“Chris, what’s wrong? You don’t sound excited at all. Hell, I’ve been working on this Seattle thing for weeks.” Irritation spiked his tone.
“Of course, I’m excited.” It wouldn’t do her or him any good to talk about the nervousness that preceded these kinds of appearances—or her confused thoughts about their relationship. “I’m tired, I guess, and still anxious about the first taping. New York still rattles me.”
“They’re airing it next week, by the way. Stop worrying, will you? I’m with you every step of the way.” He still sounded annoyed as if he were exhausted by the sound of his own voice giving her support.
“You’re right … as always. Like I said, I’m just tired. I’ll see you tomorrow. I should be there at least an hour before the first interview.”
“Why not come tonight, baby?” His tone lowered again. “It’s barely a three-hour drive. If you left right away, you’d be here before ten.” He paused. “We’d have the night together—and you know we’d make good use of it.”
She felt his smile, the draw of him, and her mouth went dry. “I don’t think so, Duke.” She looked at the contract, the lump of files on her desk, uncharacteristically askew—exactly like her brain cells. “I’ll be in my office until at least midnight.”
“My loss, sweetheart.”
If only you meant that.
“Mine, too, darling. See you tomorrow.” Christiana hung up the phone, hesitated, then picked it up again. She took the deepest breath of her life and dialed.
The voice that answered was soft and sounded young. “Mayday House. Can I help you?”
If you can’t, I have no idea who will.
It was after one A.M. when Keeley took the first step leading to the cellar. Lord, it was like stepping into a tar pit. And what the heck she’d do once she got down there, she had no idea, but she had to start somewhere, and the cellar—the bottom—seemed as good a place as any.
It would’ve helped if Mary had put something higher than a twenty-five-watt bulb down here. She’d take care of that tomorrow, and next time she came, she’d bring a flashlight.
Through the gloom, she saw the stacks of boxes she’d spotted during her quick tour of the house the first week she was here. On that day, they were merely another acre of chaos to be dealt with when she got to it, and easily forgotten in the needs of the upper floors. Unfortunately there were this many cartons again in the attic.
She scanned the stacks of boxes, most of which were crumpled old cardboard, but somewhere along the line Mary had gone high-tech and bought some newer ones, clear plastic storage bins with lids, probably from the Wal-Mart in the next town. Most of the plastic ones were on the top, and a lot of them—at least thirty or more—were propped against the wall farthest from the ancient furnace.
She raised her eyes. “Dear God, Mary, I hope you at least marked them by year.” She said the prayer aloud, but she didn’t hold much hope that Mary’s administrative skills, always horrendous, would yield that kind of order.
Two minutes later, discovering she was right, she let out a long sigh. No neat labels written in black felt pen marked either the year or the contents of the boxes. Not one of them was labeled. Keeley’s next hope was that their order would provide a chronological clue, by running up from the floor, oldest to newest.
She decided to test her theory and started to move the plastic boxes that formed most of the top tier to the floor to get at the cardboard boxes on the floor.
As she shifted the third box, the wall of cartons started to wobble—along with her nerves. She covered her head, sure she was about to be engulfed in a semi-load of cardboard and plastic. “Darn it, Mary.”
A big hand came from behind her and averted the avalanche.
“What are you doing down here?” Gus said, his voice low, his palm flattened against a plastic container to hold it in place against the wall. “It’s the middle of the night.” He sounded annoyed.
Keeley, not over her surprise at his being here, wearing nothing but low-riding sweat pants and chest hair, glanced away and said, “Or very early morning, depending on your point of view.” She got to work, and using her foot, she shoved aside one of the boxes she’d taken from the stack. “Don’t let go for a minute,” she said, then pulled out a mashed cardboard box from the bottom and shoved a plastic one in its place. The stack stabilized. “Thanks.” She risked another quick glance at him before kneeling in front of her quarry and opening the flaps. Oddly, she didn’t want to look at him, ridiculously unnerved by being in the dark with a half-dressed man—in particular this half-dressed man who currently resided in the room next to hers.
“You’re welcome. Even if you are crazy.” He brushed some dust from his hands and gave the box she’d opened a curious look. “What is that?” Looming over her, he put his hands on his hips, utterly relaxed and seemingly unaware of his almost-nakedness.
“Records, I hope.” She coughed, blamed it on the dust, and turned her attention to the overworked file tabs in the box at her knees.
“You’re kidding,” he said.
“About what?”
“Going through these boxes now. Tonight. It’s a good idea but”—he waved a hand around the room—“not in a basically unlit room in the middle of the night.”
“Or very—”
“—early morning depending on your point of view.” He gave her a speculative look. “You don’t sleep.”
“Highly overrated, sleep.” She lifted a file toward the miserable light. “Most of the records in this box are from the seventies. Too early, I think. Dinah’s contributions started in late nineteen eighty—the same year I was born.”
“Get up.”
“Excuse me.” She looked up at him, just as he gripped her upper arms and dragged her to her feet He tried to maneuver her toward the cellar stairs, but she dug her heels in. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Sleep may be overrated but going blind isn’t. You could grow mushroom crops down here. The files can wait.” They faced off, and she caught the hint of a boyish frown. “You said hell. I didn’t think nuns used that kind of language.”
The man, standing there looking like the devil himself with his black hair, his mysterious scar, and his dark-eyed intensity, appeared genuinely surprised.
“I haven’t been a nun for years now, as I’ve already told you.” She looked pointedly at his hands, still grasping her arms. “What I am is a woman who doesn’t react well to orders. And if you think hell is naughty, try giving me another one. I can do much better.”
His lips barely moved, the smile so slight and gone so fast, she thought she’d imagined it. But when his gaze trailed hers to where his fingers wrapped around her poor excuse for biceps, he immediately let her go. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and for a moment that rivaled his smile for brevity, he looked awkward.
Keeley didn’t know why that word sprung to her mind, but it was the only one that fit, because even though she didn’t know Gus Hammond very well— if at all—she was certain being awkward was a new sensation for this purposeful, unnervingly handsome, too-confident man. The idea piqued her curiosity.
She rubbed her upper arms, looked up at him. “I make you uncomfortable.”
He was standing under the low-wattage bulb that dangled from a short cord attached to the low ceiling. It was barely an inch above his head, and its position cast long shadows over his perfect angular features and blackened his scar. “What makes you say that?”