by Ariana Dupre
Using a long branch, she removed the remaining web, including the spider, and tossed the stick under the tree.
Aunt Martha's favorite rocking chair sat on the front porch, gently swaying back and forth.
That's odd, thought Angie. How is it moving? There's no breeze.
Dismissing the chair, she sorted through her keys for the one to the store; but before she could place it in the lock she heard a voice behind her.
"Angelina."
Angie froze, feeling a cold chill quake through her body. Impossible!
"Angelina, sweetie,” the voice said again.
Angie forced herself to turn around.
And there in front of her stood Aunt Martha. She was smiling at her as though her ghostly appearance were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Oh God! Oh God! Breathe Angie!
Angie pressed her back against the door in shock and inhaled deeply. Good ... Breathing's good.
Sweat broke out on her forehead and her stomach clenched.
Aunt Martha looked beautiful. Her long dark hair flowed unrestrained around her shoulders.
She never wore her hair like that in life. Well, maybe when she was young, but she always worn it in a bun around me.
The apparition seemed to be waiting for her to speak, but Angie, her throat tight with fear, couldn't form any words. Geez ... what do you say to a ghost anyway?
Angie cleared her throat. “H-Hi.” The word was a mere whisper.
"Oh, honey, I scared you.” Her aunt smiled, but made no move to hold or comfort her as she had always done when she was alive.
"Yes, you did,” said Angie, finding her shaky voice, struggling to remain calm. She couldn't take her eyes off the woman in front of her, the woman she'd loved like a mother.
"I'm so sorry. Look, sweetie, I don't have much time.” Martha's smiling face darkened. “You must be careful, Angelina. Danger is near."
"What do you mean, Aunt Martha?” Angie said frantically, losing the battle for calmness. Why would she, of all people, receive a warning from the dead?
"Remember your dream and be careful,” Martha replied, her face still serious, her voice low. “Things happen in threes, Angelina. You must be aware of what's going on around you. That's all I can say. I love you, sweetheart."
"I don't understand, Aunt Martha."
Angie blinked. In that split second, her aunt disappeared.
Angie looked to either side of the porch. Nothing. She was frozen, unable to move, shaking with fear. What would come next?
But no more apparitions appeared, and no strange sounds met her ears. The air around her was unusually still.
Then the realization hit her full force. A real ghost had just visited her!
Angie turned around quickly, tried to unlock the door. The keys fell from her trembling hands and clanked onto the porch. Scooping them up, she used both hands to steady the store key as she placed it into the lock. Finally it turned and she scooted inside, slammed the door behind her and leaned against it.
As her heart hammered repeatedly against her chest, Angie began to feel faint. She took several deep breaths in a desperate attempt to calm herself.
Exhaustion. That must be it. Her beloved aunt had died three months ago and, since then, Angie had taken on so many new responsibilities. All those late nights and long hours were finally affecting her, causing hallucinations.
Bewildered, she walked down the hallway. Dropping the briefcase on her desk, she fell into the leather executive chair and rubbed her eyes.
"It must be Friday the thirteenth or something,” she muttered, looking at her desk calendar, looking for any reason not to believe in Aunt Martha's visitation. Nope, it was Monday, the eleventh of June. She shook her head to clear it.
No, she couldn't dismiss this as easily as she'd dismissed the rocking chair. Aunt Martha had returned to warn her that she was in danger. Angie knew in her heart it was true. But what kind of danger would bring her aunt back from the dead?
Pull it together, girl, she thought after several minutes. You have work to do.
She got up, went behind the register and began taking jewelry out of the storage bins.
After spreading the pieces across the floor behind the counter, she started counting. At first she jumped at every little noise, but the work was exacting, and soon she was immersed in it.
Slow, deliberate steps thudding against the wooden floor brought her back to the present with a jolt. Had she been so engrossed that she hadn't heard someone come in? She looked at her watch. Eight-thirty.
She still had an hour and a half before the store opened and no meetings were scheduled for this morning. Her brow knit into a frown of concentration as she tried to remember if she had locked the front door.
She heard the footsteps again, closer now, as though someone were approaching the counter. My God, they sound like the ones in my dream. Angie put her hands over her ears for a moment. Stop it. Stop it! she admonished herself. Don't be so silly. This has nothing to do with your dream. She closed the storage bins, certain now that she had forgotten to lock the door and would find a customer waiting at the counter behind her. Wanting to look her best, she pulled the scrunchie from her hair and laid it under the counter.
"How can I help you?” she asked automatically as she stood, and turned around, wearing her most welcoming smile.
She was alone in the room.
"Hello?” she called. “Is anyone in here?"
Angie ventured into the hallway of the old house. Her heart beat faster—her palms began to sweat.
When she saw the man in the art room, his back to her, she froze and held her breath. His build reminded her of the man who stalked her in the dream. But he was admiring one of the paintings on display.
God, Angie, now you're getting paranoid. She let out her breath as the panic ebbed. He's just an early customer. She had left the door unlocked, that's all.
"Good Morning. Welcome to The Variety Vine. If I can help you find anything just let me know,” Angie said to the man's back.
"This is an exquisite piece,” he replied, admiring an oil painting of a winding river bordered by large trees. The magnificent colors of the changing leaves were captured in the glistening hues of the artist's paint.
"I think so, too. That part of the Dan River, with those large stones, is near the bypass and Memorial Park. Are you familiar with that area?"
Angie waited, but the man didn't respond. Must be the quiet type, she thought, taking in his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His white tailored shirt was tucked into tight blue jeans that hugged his round behind and long, muscular legs. He stood about six inches taller than her five foot nine inch frame.
Great body, she thought. Wonder if his face is as striking?
"Local artists made all the pieces in this room,” she said in hopes that he would look at her. “I like to showcase their work, and of course, offer them the supplies they need to do it."
Now the man wandered over to one of the tables, and, still with his back to her, picked up a picture of Angie, taken by a local photographer. “Interesting,” he muttered.
Was he responding to her statement or the photo? As he studied it, Angie's stomach gave an odd flutter.
"Are you looking for anything special?” she asked, rearranging the paints and brushes behind him. Why hadn't he looked at her yet? Maybe he was just rude. The way he held the framed picture made her uneasy, and she really wanted to finish the jewelry inventory before opening the store.
I'll just tell him we're closed and to come back after ten, she thought, Taylor, her assistant manager, would be in then and Angie wouldn't be alone with this man.
"No, but I think I'll take this,” he said, turning to her.
Angie gasped. The paintbrushes slid from her hands and crashed onto the floor.
Aunt Martha was right. Everything always happened in threes. The dream, Aunt Martha's spirit, and now—this.
The blue eyes weren't angry now, but sparkl
ed with humor as a grin inched toward those chiseled cheekbones. His sandy hair was dry, not wet from sweat; the blonde highlights were even more noticeable as strands slipped across his forehead toward his eyes. His lips were full, his nose straight. She hadn't noticed either of them in her dream.
Unable to move or speak, Angie just stared at him.
"You're the woman in the picture.” It was more of a statement than a question.
Angie nodded her head, tried to take a breath. Oh God, I can't breathe. She would suffocate before he could kill her. And her eyes felt like they were going to pop out of her head at any second. Ripping her gaze from his face, she bent down to pick up the paintbrushes only to drop some again.
He walked to her side, and knelt to help her. “I must say, you're more beautiful in person."
Angie used her hair as a shield against him. Her hands trembled, betraying her fear. Maybe he didn't notice, she thought. When she gathered the last of the brushes, she forced herself to look at him and smile.
He's a customer handing me paintbrushes, nothing more.
"Thank you,” she said, more calmly than she felt, as she accepted the items he held out to her.
The slow innocent brush of his fingers against hers made her stomach tighten. But it wasn't in fear. Not this time. Never in her twenty-six years had such a slight touch confused her so.
Oh, no. Am I attracted to him? The sudden thought made Angie cringe. I must be out of my mind! How could I be attracted to someone who stalks me, terrorizes me, night after night, in my dreams? Sure, the nightmare man had saved her from a bullet, but he'd shot her himself at the end, hadn't he?
But was it really he?
"Did you want the picture?” she asked abruptly, standing up.
"Do you come with it?” He too stood and smiled, revealing brilliantly white straight teeth. He moved towards her.
"Uh, no.” She chewed on her bottom lip and took two steps backward. He is handsome.
Stop it, Angie, stop it! a voice inside her said. Stay away from him! He's dangerous!
Through her renewed terror, Angie heard the man say, “Then I guess, for now, I'll just take the picture. Perhaps it will be different some other time. Unless, of course, you're married."
"I'm not,” she said, and then instantly regretted revealing anything about herself. She shoved the paintbrushes in a mug, took the picture from him—making sure their hands didn't touch again—and walked down the hall to the register.
"Boyfriend?” he persisted, following her.
"Maybe."
"My name's Jared Maxwell."
"Angie,” she replied, stepping behind the counter to ring up the price of the picture. She collected his money, and then folded the top of the bag. Holding it out to him by a corner, she forced yet another smile. “Thank you, Mr. Maxwell."
Jared wrapped his large hand over hers as he took the bag. Their gazes locked and, suddenly, against her will, against her fear, Angie felt drawn to him. Those ocean blue eyes smoldered. Her gaze dropped to his full lips.
Wonder if he's a good kisser? she thought, her pulse quickening. Oh, no, stop it, Angie.
Jared reached out with his free hand to caress her cheek lightly. Angie stilled at his touch. Then he ran the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. A festival of butterflies danced inside her as she watched Jared's blue eyes darken even more.
What was wrong with her? Fantasizing about the man who attacked her nightly in dreams.
Jared leaned toward her.
He's going to kiss me!
No, this cannot happen. Angie jerked back, pulled her hand from underneath his, releasing the bag, ending the moment and breaking the spell.
The clock ticked. Time hadn't stopped after all.
Jared grinned as he picked up a business card from the counter. “Angelina Benton, Proprietor of The Variety Vine. Well, thank you, Ms. Benton. I hope we'll meet again soon."
"Angie,” she spoke on a breath, “everyone calls me Angie."
"Until next time, Angie.” He smiled, lightly running his fingers down her forearm. Then turning away, he walked quickly down the hall and out the door.
As soon as he left, Angie ran over and turned the lock. She sank into a nearby chair, one hand absentmindedly caressing the place where his fingers had trailed down her arm, the other to her lips. A soft smile briefly lifted the corners of her mouth before a frown took its place.
She didn't know what to think. Every night, she ran in terror from this man and she certainly never expected to see him in her store.
Who am I kidding? She sat back hard in the chair. I've always known he'd come after me one day.
The electric current of his touch. His smoldering blue eyes. She had to put these things right out of her mind. Because they drew her to him—to the one person in the world who absolutely terrified her...
If she had anything to do with it, Angie decided, the “next time” he had mentioned would be never.
* * * *
Chapter 2
Jared Maxwell jumped into his red Mustang convertible, slammed it in reverse, and backed out of the driveway.
What in the hell just happened back there? He had never been so entranced by a woman before, especially one he'd just met. God, he had wanted to taste her lips, and almost did before she'd pulled away. What were you thinking, Maxwell? You, Mr. Confirmed Bachelor, put those playboy ways behind you a long time ago.
It was her eyes ... they captured him, connecting him to a long lost friend. Could this be the woman he had searched for his entire life?
Had he even been searching?
A boisterous laugh exploded from him, full and unrestrained. Love at first sight? Nah, it couldn't be, could it? He'd never believed in it before, but now he was certain that this was another secret he'd have to keep.
When he'd spoken with the attorney in charge of the estate, Alan Harland, the man had said the property wasn't for sale because the new owner was in mourning. Out of respect, Jared had kept his distance, even though he remained determined to purchase the twenty-acres someway, somehow.
If only he had stopped by three months ago when he'd first inquired about The Variety Vine, he could have gotten to know Angie and convinced her to sell by now.
Jared chuckled again thinking about it and shifted into third gear. Spotting the silver SUV in front of the old converted house, and finding the door unlocked had been pure luck.
Only now he wanted more. Not only did he need the property, he also wanted the woman who owned it.
But why did she stare at me in absolute horror? His brow furrowed as he shifted gears again. Her reaction was one of fearful recognition, but he was certain they'd never met before.
Many times women reacted to his looks with surprise or desire. There was a time when he'd been flattered; now he found it irritating. Until today, he'd never come across a woman who'd been afraid of him. But he realized Angie's fear was genuine, and he just couldn't figure out why.
Angelina Benton in the flesh sure had complicated his plans. He hadn't even considered that he might find her attractive, from the silkiness of her hair, the fullness of her body when it tugged against her shirt, to the gentle curve of slim hips flowing into lean long legs. Or that he would want her more than he'd ever wanted another woman in his life.
It's more than just a physical attraction you know, a small voice murmured in his mind.
Jared shook his head to clear away the thought. In a brief moment, this woman had stirred up feelings he'd never experienced before. But he would have to deal with them later.
Picking up his cell phone, he dialed the office. He couldn't afford to let a woman, even such an intriguing one, distract him from his work. Not now.
"Maxwell Development and Realty,” said a chipper voice.
"Good Morning, Sandi,” Jared said to his secretary. “Do I have any messages?"
"Let me check. How did your meeting with Tom McNichols go?"
"I listed the farm and already have a buyer in m
ind."
Terri Logan, Jared's half sister, always talked about owning land near a small town like Dansburg, away from the hustle and bustle of Richmond. Located just eight miles from his own farm, Jared had decided he would try to convince her to buy it; but if she refused, he'd buy it himself and give it to her as a birthday present. He could afford to, after all, thanks to both his shrewdness in business and an enormous inheritance from his grandfather. Then, once he'd bought the two properties that bordered his land from Sam Slayton and Angelina Benton, the current owners, he would have accomplished all he set out to do when he moved to Dansburg. He'd own the original Slayton estate and he'd have his sister nearby.
"Congratulations, Mr. Maxwell. Let's see, you have two messages from your sister."
"Terri called?” He glanced at the clock on the dash. Eight-fifty. “What time?"
"She spoke with the answering service around ten last night and again at seven this morning."
"Thanks, Sandi,” Jared said, steering the car from the hard surface road onto the mile long dirt driveway to his house. “I'm mending fences on the farm today and you know the cell doesn't work out there. I'll check in when I get back to the house. If Terri calls again make sure you ask her if everything is okay."
"No problem, we'll hold down the fort."
"Oh, I know you will,” Jared said. “Talk to you later."
After Sandi said good-bye, Jared pressed the off button, gripping the wheel tighter with his left hand.
This wasn't like Terri. He couldn't remember the last time she'd called him that late—or that early. Something must be wrong. She had struggled too much since her husband divorced her unexpectedly then left town a year ago.
He dialed Terri's number. If only she'd accept his help. Well, this time she didn't really have a choice. That farm was a done deal whether Terri liked it or not. Besides, he would enjoy having her and the kids close by again.
Jared listened to Terri's phone ring as he drove under large oak trees, whose intertwined branches shaded the road from the sun.
Where the heck was Terri? She still hadn't answered, even after the fourth ring. He rounded the gentle curve to see his two-story home tucked between large oak and maple trees. The deep green shutters blended well with the natural setting, and the rocking chairs on the open veranda surrounding the home seemed to preserve it in an earlier time.