by Diane Story
BEWITCHING MY LOVE
by
Diane Story
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Published by
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
P.O. Box 726
Lusk, Wyoming 82225
307-334-3165
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Copyright 2004 by Diane Story
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN 1-59374-133-2
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To my husband Ron, for loving me and believing in me. And for supporting me through endless hours of writing and research.
Chapter One
“Jerk,” Fern hissed quietly to herself. Only a jerk would dare to creep up and steal her wardrobe. It was hers and nobody, not even Rowen Nichols would take it from her. At least that’s what she told herself when the bidding war first started, now she wasn’t so sure.
She hadn’t seen it for over five years, until last week when it showed up in her monthly catalog of antiquities. Her work as a rare antiques dealer gave her the advantage of seeing what would be coming up for auction before the general public. So she took out a loan against her condo, not realizing the price would go this high, or that she’d have to bid against the wealthiest bachelor this side of Salem.
“Seventy thousand going once.” The auctioneer’s hammer hit the podium. “Seventy thousand going twice.” Nodding, he acknowledged the young woman’s acceptance of the bid then turned with her to wait for the inevitable reply. The bidding had become more interesting than he expected. After all, who in their right mind would want an old broken down wardrobe, the thing was worthy of kindling for the fireplace at the most. “Mr. Nichols! We now have a bid of seventy five thousand sir, will you give me eighty thousand?”
As she waited for his black-gloved hand to rise again, Fern swallowed back her frustration and winced in pain when she found herself grinding her teeth too hard. It was beginning to look like she might lose the wardrobe. There weren’t many buyers in the small room, and she thought she was a shoe-in until Rowen Nichols showed up at the last minute, forcing the price tag to unexpected highs. The bidding had started at ten thousand and had somehow made it to this point before she knew it.
Fern’s light auburn brows creased tightly together over her eyes as she stared across the small room. It was strange how he sat hidden under the rim of his black hat and matching black Chester Barrie suit as if he were afraid someone might recognize who he was. The tanned skin of his neck and the shoulder-length wavy black hair was all she could see to tell her he was actually human. When his hand came up to accept the bid, she vowed to go over and yank that black hat from his head and scratch his eyes out.
Without taking her eyes off his dark profile, Fern didn’t allow the auctioneer time to say the words. With a flip of her wrist she accepted the bid at eighty five thousand then quickly turned back around in her seat when she saw his lips curl into a smile. “From the deepest pits, you are the scum of the earth,” she hissed again.
Rowen frowned slightly with irritation; she was beginning to grate on his nerves. This tit for tat game of bidding over the wardrobe had to end. Fern Abbott was even more stubborn than he’d realized. Good thing, he thought to himself, she’d need to be stubborn by the time he got through with her. With a sidelong glance he smiled at the angry pout of her full lips then cursed himself for letting her beauty sidetrack him; it was time to end it.
Which he did, with one final flip of his wrist. “I’ll raise the bid to one hundred and ten thousand dollars,” he acknowledged the auctioneer. The wardrobe would be his, no matter what the cost. By the look on her face, he could tell he’d finally out-bid her. Tipping his hat, he tossed her an indignant smile, satisfied that he’d won.
“The bastard,” Fern swore under her breath as she flung herself back against her seat.
“He might be a bastard, honey, but he’s a good looking one, you’ll have to admit.”
Fern frowned at the busty platinum blond sitting next to her. “I suppose so, if you consider egotism good looking.” She smiled when the overly lipsticked red lips puckered into a frown then turned away to plant a kiss on the shiny bald head of the man sitting on her opposite side. Fern thought he must be three times her age.
What did Rowen Nichols want with a rickety old wardrobe? Reluctantly she stood to leave, but couldn’t bring herself to go without one more look at it. He owned it, that was certain, but she could at least have one last look before he took it away. She walked over to where it stood, and stared at it. It was made out of some of the most beautiful old mahogany she’d ever laid her eyes on. Sure, it was falling apart, and even the feet had lost any semblance of what the original carvings were, but it was still magnificent to her.
Fern remembered the first time she’d seen it. It was during a field trip with her college professor. They went to the Peabody Museum to study antiquities from the seventeenth century when she spotted it in the corner, all covered with dust. It had a strange allure about it back then, and it still held that same allure now, even in a room filled with items a hundred times its beauty, or worth.
“If you don’t mind.” He stared down at her with a sneer. “My men will be taking it now.”
Fern turned and came face to face with the dark eyes of the man who had stolen her wardrobe. His hat was still planted firmly on his head, but she could now see his face under the silhouette of its shadow. His looks matched his attire. Dark, yet wickedly handsome. “You gave me quite a run for it, Mr. Nichols, why didn’t you just say what you were willing to bid and save us both the trouble?” She took note of his equally wicked smile.
“What fun would that have been? Besides, you would have ended up going home feeling completely defeated. Don’t you think the chase is more erotic?” He was amused with her look of disgust. “I’ll tell you what, Miss…?”
“Abbot! Fern Abbot” She responded sharply through clenched teeth to his request for her name.
“Miss Abbot why don’t I send my car for you this Saturday, say around eight. After I treat you to dinner I’ll show you where I’ll be keeping my new wardrobe.” He let his gaze travel over her long neck to rest on the amber flames of her hair; as usual, she wore it up.
“You’re awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you, Mr. Nichols? Why did you have to have my wardrobe? You obviously can afford a nicer one than this.” Picking up her purse, Fern prepared to leave.
“A man of my stature has to be sure of himself, Fern, and yes, I can have a much nicer wardrobe than this. But then I wouldn’t be here today making you angry with me for taking it from you, would I?” She had to come, if she didn’t agree on her own, he might have to resort to kidnapping. And since he wasn’t a rogue, that wasn’t the way he wanted it. “Come now Fern, put your pride aside. I have it now and there is nothing you can do to change that.” Shifting his attention back to the wardrobe, he allowed it to take his mind off the moisture he noticed building on her bottom lashes. He was beginning to hate the day his father forced him to read those damned journals. “If it will make you feel any better I’ll give you directions and you can drive yourself.” He reached into his coat pocket for his address cards.
Setting as
ide her own advice not to accept, Fern smiled sweetly and took the card from his outstretched hand. “All right, Mr. Nichols, I’ll come. And I will drive myself. I was prepared to risk losing my home over this wardrobe, the least I can do is take a look at where it’ll be placed from now on.” She tucked his card in her purse and turned to leave. “Eight o’clock Saturday, I’ll see you then.” As she sauntered away she fought the urge to turn around for one last look, but didn’t because she realized she was more interested in one more look at the devil in disguise and not her precious wardrobe.
But she still couldn’t quiet the little warning voice in her head. After all, what did she know about Rowen Nichols? She’d heard the reputations, the ones that people only spoke about under their breath when he didn’t show up for some social event. He was famed as a recluse, locked away in that great big mansion of his only to come out when society demanded it of him. Yet his friends were always the first to praise him and brag about how much of a gentleman he was, well known for his commitment to the community. In either case, she had to settle her fear of the man and go to his house. A recluse? Maybe, but he still owned her wardrobe. And that was enough incentive to drag her into the pits of hell.
* * * *
Rowen leaned back against the soft leather seat and stretched his long legs out as far as he could. He had the partition up to separate himself from his driver and had pulled the curtains to keep it dark. His Lincoln was black, like most everything else he owned. Saturday was nearly here, thank God. If Fern knew he’d gone to the auction to not only secure ownership of the wardrobe, but also to insure a meeting with her, he wondered how she would have reacted when she met him. He let his fingers drum against the arm of the seat and frowned. Fern Abbott was a little more tenacious than he thought she’d be. His frown turned to a steadily growing grin as he thought about her pouty bottom lip each time he’d out-bid her and the spark of animosity in her hazel eyes every time she looked at him.
When they arrived at his estate he pushed the button of the intercom. “Have the men take the wardrobe to my room, Marcus. Then let Betty know I’ll need her to plan for a visitor Saturday evening. I would like for her to prepare us some of her famous lemonade. Oh, and could you have my Brescian Flintlock Pistol cleaned before Saturday?”
“Do you have a competition this Saturday, sir?” Marcus looked back at his master through the rearview mirror.
“No, not this weekend.” Sitting back, Rowen left the partition down and stared at his estate as it came into view through the thick coastal pines. “Saturday is the fifth of June, Marcus. I have something more important than a pistol competition this weekend, much more important.” His fingers had stopped their drumming and now drew endless circles of worry over the soft leather.
* * * *
Fern sat staring at the spot next to the window she had cleared for her wardrobe. She’d been so positive that it was going to be coming home with her that she sold her piano in order to make room for it. Picking up her glass she slammed the last few drops of wine down her throat in frustration. Rowen Nichols! Of all the people in this God forsaken town to take it from her. She’d never get it now, never. She might have called him the scum of the earth, but his looks certainly didn’t fit the description.
Except for seeing the man’s picture in the newspaper from time to time, she knew very little about him, except that he was he was the wealthiest single man in town. Partly out of inheritance and partly because he was a savvy businessman, with a reputation he built on his own. The Nichols Lumber Empire supplied all of the wood necessary for the finest cruise ships in the world. Most people she knew considered him a recluse, but nothing about his mannerisms displayed today gave her the impression that he didn’t have more than his fair share of beauties just waiting to share his fortune and his bed.
Lying back against one of her favorite purple chenille cushions, she let her mind wander back to that first time she’d laid her eyes on the wardrobe. It was so strange; she had fallen behind the group and got left in the room by herself. She’d heard a sort of soft whispering sound coming from the corner where it stood. Being the curious sort, she crept over to it, hoping to discover what was making the noise. But when she stood in front of it, the sound stopped.
Thinking she must have been hearing things, she turned to leave. But when she heard the faint whispers resume, she stopped and went back. It was behind a rope barrier, but she paid no mind, stepping over it as if she never saw it. The fluttering she felt in her stomach before she opened the doors almost made her giggle. Reaching forward, she let her hands settle on the rickety knobs. Closing her eyes in case a mouse, or God only knows what else, jumped out at her, she pulled the doors wide open.
There in the middle of the wardrobe was...nothing. She’d thought that maybe a radio or a recorder had been planted in it to scare visitors like her, but there was nothing of the sort. Feeling like a fool, she closed the doors and stepped back over the ropes. She’d just reached the door when she heard the whispers again. Louder and louder, as if people were huddled together inside, telling nasty little secrets. Frustrated, she turned to go back for one last look when the voice from behind her catapulted her heart from its place in her chest to lodge in her throat. Leaning against the wall for support and to keep from screaming, she turned to face the ghost from the wardrobe, then breathed a sigh of relief. It was her professor.
“Fern, come on, we’re already three rooms ahead of you.” He noticed her panic and joined her by the wardrobe.
“Mr. Stapleton, did you hear that noise?”
“What noise, my dear? It is as quiet as a mouse in here.” He smiled down at her.
“You didn’t hear those whispers just now?” She looked at him as if he had to be lying. Surely he’d heard them. The entire museum had to have heard, they were so loud.
Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, he escorted her from the room. He hadn’t heard the noises, and neither did anyone else, except her. Many times she went back to visit the wardrobe and every time she heard the whispers. She would have even sworn that she’d heard her own name called out from time to time. She knew she wasn’t crazy, but decided to have her shrink confirm it anyway. He laughed at her, telling her to go home and take a long bath. After telling her she had too much stress in her life, he suggested she find a companion. “Someone to share your life with, my dear,” he had said.
Then one day the wardrobe was sold and she lost track of it. Until almost five years later, when it showed up in her monthly auction catalog. It nearly sang to her from the page of the catalog, and she knew instantly that it was hers when a soft whisper rustled the hair on the back of her neck. She knew the wardrobe had some bizarre meaning for her life; she had hoped she would be able to figure it out once she got it home.
Feeling the soft fur around her ankles she looked down into the yellow green eyes of her pitch-black cat Wicca. She’d adopted him from a homeless shelter for animals after her shrink made the suggestion that she get a companion. He practically called to her from his cage. “Come on Wicca, get up here on my knee.” She patted her knee and waited for him to jump up. “Maybe mommy can get our piano back, hmm?”
****
The cottonwoods were shedding early again this year. It was beautiful the way the white puffs made their journey across the road in front of her to disappear in the dense forest on the opposite side of the road. It felt like a snowstorm in June. He lived on Winter Island, secluded from the main thoroughfare of the small town of Salem and its many tourists.
Fern drove down the long driveway of the Nichols estate frowning at the grotesque wealth it displayed. It was light longer now that it was almost summer, so she was able to see every detail of the monstrosity. Jagged points pierced the sky from several ancient dormers on the roof. It was a historical mansion built in the early seventeen hundreds, and in all accounts quite beautiful. Something someone might see on “life of the rich and famous”.
When she pulled up and walked to the to
wering front doors she couldn’t help but wonder how a person could open them, they must weigh a ton. She smoothed her hands down the sides of her lime green sundress that looked like a throwback from one of the Austin Powers films, then checked her lipstick in her compact mirror before pushing the doorbell button. It sounded like a medieval foghorn, even from here. When the door opened, she had to practically break her neck to look up at the butler. He had to be at least six foot six. She wanted to ask him if his name was Herman Munster.
“Welcome madam, the master is waiting for you on the patio. I will escort you there.”
“Thank you.” She tried to hide her amusement. The master? Who did Rowen Nichols think he was, anyway? She followed him through what seemed endless rooms filled with some of the most beautiful antiques Fern had ever seen until they came to the patio surrounded by ivy-covered walls. She would have loved to stop and get a better look but as it was, she had trouble keeping up with the fast pace of the butler. The Master was standing with his back turned to them. It seemed to take a long time for him to acknowledge their presence and Fern thought it was rude.
“Thank you, Marcus, that will be all,” he finally said.
Fern continued to stand where she was until he turned around to face her. She was used to the probing eyes of men, so his quick rundown of her body didn’t embarrass her one bit. He was dressed in blue shorts with seams pressed into sharp lines down the front. She couldn’t help but notice how they displayed the tanned and hard muscles of his long legs. A matching polo shirt topped it off to display his equally muscled and tan arms. Somehow she’d expected an Armani suit or something like it to show off his wealth. The shorts were an interesting surprise. Reaching out, she shook his hand when he extended it toward her. “You have a beautiful home, Mr. Nichols.”