“Get away while you still can,”
Zachary warned.
“Excuse me?” Stunned, Willa couldn’t have budged now if she wanted to.
“You heard me. It’s dangerous for someone like you.”
“Someone like me? You’re going to have to spell that one out,” she said, growing more angry every second. “Exactly what are you driving at?”
He nodded as though she’d satisfied some private question. “Yes, you look like a woman who wants to hear men say it. Beautiful. And alone.”
A surprisingly cool breeze blew in through the screen door, and Willa shivered. It felt like phantom hands stroking her arms.
“But I’m hardly alone, am I, Mr. Denton? After all, I have you to watch over me.”
Something mesmerizing and yet untamed flared in his eyes. “That’s your biggest danger.”
Helen R. Myers satisfies her preference for a reclusive lifestyle by living deep in the Piney Woods of east Texas with her husband, Robert, and—because they were there first—the various species of four-legged and winged creatures that wander throughout their ranch. To write has been her lifelong dream, and to bring a slightly different flavor to each book is an ongoing ambition.
Admittedly restless, she feels this trait helps her writing. “It makes me reach for new territory and experiment with old boundaries.” In 1993 the Romance Writers of America awarded Navarrone the prestigious RITA Award for Best Short Contemporary Novel of the Year.
WATCHING FOR WILLA
HELEN R. MYERS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER ONE
He sat motionless behind the faded blue net drapes and watched his new neighbor dash from the house to the van for another box. Thunder rumbled endlessly, as only spring thunder could, underscoring the assault of rain as it machine-gunned the gutters. The combination of sounds sent something rattling precariously behind him. The racket compounded an already brutal three-aspirin headache; still, he took considerable pleasure in seeing the woman getting drenched. She deserved to be miserable, and he hoped trip from van to house added to her disgust. It would serve her right for buying the vacant Miller place. Little fool…she wasn’t asking for trouble, she was provoking it.
It had been her arrival, the slam of the driver’s door that had roused him from yet another drunken nap. His third…or was it the fourth of the morning? It didn’t surprise him that he’d lost count of how often he’d drifted in and out of consciousness; when he worked himself to the point of exhaustion, he could sleep through a tornado. Once he’d done just that. But the sound of another human presence always put him on the alert. Ignoring the need to brush the foul taste of Scotch from his mouth, to shower and get a potful of coffee into his system, he gripped the chair’s padded arms and leaned forward to peer outside, keenly aware that the time he’d been dreading had come. Actually, he’d been waiting for it, aware of its inevitability ever since the For Sale sign disappeared from the front of the empty two-story house. And now he had another reason to dread the event because everything about her was right, which made her wrong, dead wrong to be here.
As he exhaled, the sheers shifted subtly, his vision blurred and a wave of nausea swept through him. Those reactions, however, had less to do with his hangover than with fury. He knew what this intrusion meant, what she was forcing him to do, and he resented her for putting him in this predicament. But heaven help him, she was something to look at…as perfect and stunning a target as those first teasing glimpses of her had led him to believe.
Fair and shapely, she was a shimmering woman who became more so courtesy of the rain drenching her and plastering her tank top and leggings to her body. The fact that both were white, and that she wasn’t wearing a bra fueled his imagination, and forced him to remember cravings he preferred to forget, and anticipate horrors that might be even too terrible for one of his books.
Despite the distance and the downpour, he could see the full delineation of her breasts, the tautness of her nipples. He could also see that she wore bikini briefs beneath her leggings. Not much of a pair, he thought, his mouth going dry as she stretched to reach for something from deep inside the van.
Out came a plastic pail loaded with what he figured were cleaning products, followed by a mop. The head of the mop got stuck on something and she had to jerk it free. That sent her ponytail swinging across her shoulders; several shades of blond, it made him wonder about the color of her eyes. When he’d first seen her, he’d guessed aquamarine blue, pale and aloof like the business suit she’d been wearing. Now he wondered if they weren’t the vibrant green of the lush shrubbery she momentarily disappeared behind. By the time she reappeared, hurrying along the sidewalk and up the stone steps to the porch, he decided that whatever color they were, she looked and moved like money. Some women were gifted that way, born with an indefinable quality, an aura of elegance, even when dressed in something someone else might use as a polishing cloth.
All the more reason to resent her arrival.
What had possessed her to move into that relic next door? The question so agitated him that he wanted to rip down the drapes and shout at her through the screen. The old-fashioned house was all wrong, totally out of character for someone like her—and didn’t she read the papers? Listen to rumors? Was she that naive to think living away from town, down a dead-end street, would protect her from what was going on? She must be, otherwise she would have realized how, instead, she’d placed herself in the path of danger. No, directly at hell’s doorway.
Her laugh, spontaneous and breathless as she dropped everything and shook rain from her hair, cut off his brooding and had him shifting to peer through the slight part between the draperies. He wasn’t used to laughter, at least not this lighthearted and happy. What had elicited it? he wondered, frowning because it made no sense. The weather was lousy, the house a white elephant…. He’d overestimated her, all right. The woman wasn’t merely guilty of bad judgment, she was a fool with the survival instincts of a moth.
Once again he glared at her new home. Some investment. It couldn’t be considered a smart one under any circumstances. Over fifty years old, the place was what people in the real estate business generously call “quaint,” a “fixer-upper.” He saw it as approximately eighteen-hundred square feet of stone-encased trouble. Granted, the roof had been reshingled, and the foundation cracks repaired—he’d been forced to suffer through the interminable racket and could bear witness to a job well-done—but considering how long it had remained empty, he had a hunch a great deal more needed attention.
A woman all alone in the world had to be nuts to take on such responsibility. As he thought of her marital status, which he’d first suspected and later confirmed, a pain seared through his head—but most unwelcome was the surge of heat that shot into his loins.
Alone…alone…alone.
Yes, that was the ultimate temptation.
It was a relief when she unlocked the front door and disappeared inside. Slumping back in his chair, he waited for the tension inside him to ease. It took its d
amned time. Long enough for a seed of an idea to germinate in the barren wilderness that was his mind these days. Grow…and…expand, until he forgot about the craving for coffee. “My God. Yes!”
With the grit of sleep and the sting of too many wasted hours at the computer burning his eyes, he spun around his wheelchair to face the computer monitor’s blue screen and began typing with feverish zeal.
Despite the several thousand dollars she’d already invested, the inside of the house still resembled a nightmare: scratched and dirty walls, filthy hardwood floors, cracked or missing chandeliers, and more. But she loved the place because it was now officially her nightmare. Besides, she’d always had an imagination to match her energy; she could handle this.
Glancing around with more optimism than intimidation, she knew that given a few days, she would perform miracles. It wasn’t only the feminine form that she had a talent for enhancing.
Pushing the pail of cleaning supplies farther into the small entryway, she elbowed the door shut behind her, and once again wiped at the rain streaking down her face. “Well, Willa,” she drawled to the room at large, “you’ve taken on a handful now.”
Back when she’d first opened Whimsy by Willa in downtown Vilary, her family, as well as legal and accounting advisers, had insisted that a woman’s intimate apparel shop could never survive in the county seat’s town square, even though many of the community’s residents were upscale commuters who worked in Houston. Yuppies or no yuppies, economic recovery, or outright boomtown, they’d argued, Vilary remained staunchly conservative. She would lose the insurance money she’d received after A.J.’s death, maybe end up having to file for bankruptcy.
Eleven months later, when she’d moved the increasingly popular boutique to its larger facilities at the new mall on the fringes of town, the lecturing started all over again. But this time she hadn’t bothered pretending to listen. She’d known that taking the slot next to the Vilary Vantage Health Club and Spa was financially a wise move, despite the intimidating rent. And now, six months later, she was proving herself right.
She planned on being as on target about her new home, too, regardless of everyone else’s pessimism. Yes, the place would need a great deal of her attention, but the condition of the house was primarily a result of neglect, and the minor vandalism that had occurred was thoroughly understandable. The old woman who’d owned it had spent her last years in a nursing home, and her children had lived out of state. It had been impossible to watch over the house as closely as anyone would have liked.
Willa didn’t intend to be swayed or frightened by the criticism over her new home’s isolated location, either. Who cared if there was only one other house at this end of the dead-end street and that except for it she was surrounded by woods? That just made the setting more appealing to her.
After spending so much of her day dealing with employees, customers and suppliers, she’d been yearning to move from her rented duplex, to find someplace where she could relax, and rejuvenate both her energy level and her creativity. This secluded property promised to give her that, and she refused to feel threatened because of the unfortunate stalkings going on in the area. Yes, like every other woman in town, she was taking precautions. She double-checked all doors and windows, carried tear gas, tried to be observant and aware of what was going on around her.
But the police were doing their part, too. They had increased and intensified their presence in the community, and in their last statement they’d sounded reassured that perhaps the stalker had left the area. At least there hadn’t been any report of him since the third incident almost ten days ago.
At any rate, she wasn’t alone, not really. Thinking of the house that stood only a few dozen yards from her own, she went to the double window in the small dining room and considered the two-story, vintage Victorian.
Willa shook her head. Her accountant had dubbed her place “The Eyesore,” but that monstrosity was nearly as spooky as its celebrated occupant—and ugly enough to scare off the dead, let alone some demented soul bent on terrifying women.
But neglected mess or not, she still couldn’t believe it. She, Willa Leeds Whitney, was living next door to Zachary Denton, the most successful horror writer since Stephen King! Mr. Denton, however, was the true recluse, and for good reason.
He was confined to a wheelchair, the result of a flying accident three years ago. Although news about the crash had received media-wide coverage, her real-estate agent had been eager to repeat everything she’d ever heard about the incident. Willa had changed the subject as soon as possible, though, not wanting to seem like a snoop, or to be reminded of her own loss. Plus, she figured that if she was meant to know anything else, fate would see she found out soon enough. Who knows? Zachary Denton might tell her himself. Then again, probably not. Mrs. Landers did mention he was worse than ever these days, a certified misanthrope. Willa certainly wasn’t about to begrudge him his right to privacy. She did, however, hope he appreciated having survived the crash. Her A.J. hadn’t been so lucky.
Did Zachary Denton know the house had been sold? Did he care? Well, he needn’t have any concerns that she would bother him. As she noted each successive window, how all the drapes or shutters were tightly shut, she thought he might find it reassuring to understand that she valued her privacy, too. True, the consensus that she never met a stranger was accurate—she liked people and found it easy to strike up conversations with just about anyone—but no one had ever called her a star-struck groupie. Nor was she the stereotypical lonely widow. After what she and A.J. had shared in their all-too-brief time together, she would never settle for anything less; and since that wasn’t likely to happen, she was content to live her life alone and expend her considerable energy toward other interests.
Her gaze settled on the top floor of her neighbor’s house, specifically the window directly opposite the bedroom she’d chosen for herself. Unlike the other windows, it was open to the rain, and the mild breeze gently billowed the sheers. Was that a TV beyond them? No…a computer screen.
Could that be his office where he conjured all those twisted stories? Fascinating. But she shivered, too.
It was from being wet and chilled, she told herself, not because of his dark imaginings. A self-deprecating smile tugged at the left corner of her mouth. Goodness, she hadn’t had one of his books around since…The smile withered, and she wondered how she could have forgotten. It had been the night she’d awakened to the sound of the ringing telephone, reached across A.J.’s copy of The Well, only to learn that her husband’s emergency medical helicopter had gone down in a storm.
Willa backed away from the window and rubbed her bare arms. “All right, you had your ten seconds of self-pity, now stop it.”
She had too much work ahead of her to succumb to melancholia. It was Friday and, ready or not, on Monday morning the movers would be transferring her things here from her apartment across town. Even then there would be plenty of projects left to fill a month of weekends, let alone this one. Floors needed to be scrubbed, wallpaper had to be wiped down, and a mile of trim needed to be painted; but before she started any of that she had the kitchen and bathrooms to scour.
For a moment she wondered if she hadn’t been a bit obstinate in insisting on handling everything herself. Then she shook her head and went to get her cleaning supplies. Of course, she could handle this; she had pep and determination to spare. Besides, there wasn’t anyone available to help even if she had wanted it. Her staff at Whimsy was busy with the store’s big spring sale, her parents were on their annual vacation—this time touring Europe—and in a few weeks her sister was going to make her an aunt for the second time. No way would Willa let her drive down from Dallas, let alone consider seeing her overexert herself doing housework. The only option if she couldn’t “solo” this job was to contract help, and that was—
“Oh, no.”
She’d carried the pail, mop and cleaning supplies to the kitchen, and had turned on the water taps, only to fin
d nothing came out. This couldn’t be happening to her! Yesterday, the city water department had guaranteed she would have service by that afternoon!
She glanced at her watch. It was almost nine. Someone down there had to be in the office by now, but she had no telephone service yet, and wouldn’t until later today. That’s if the telephone company proved more reliable than the water people.
What to do…?
She could drive back to town and handle things in person, but she was hardly dressed for taking care of that kind of business, even if she slipped on the oversize shirt she’d left in the van. She could go back to the duplex and call from there, except that it was even farther out of town. It would be such a waste to lose that much time.
Biting her lower lip, she once again looked out the window at the gloomy house only a few dozen yards away. Would Zachary Denton let her use his telephone? From what she’d heard about his zealous protection of his privacy, she doubted it. On the other hand, who would turn away a neighbor in need?
She had nothing to lose by asking.
CHAPTER TWO
The downpour hadn’t eased a bit. Once outside, Willa sprinted across the two overgrown yards trying not to think about snakes and any other crawling creature. What with the lightning getting closer, she told herself she probably had more to fear from it. Concentrating on her neighbor’s home helped, too.
Zachary Denton’s house belonged in one of his books. Not only did it need a new coat or two of paint—and in a color less morbid than the current grim brown—the junipers and Chinese loquats surrounding it had grown past several of the first-floor windows adding to the general aura of wild neglect. As she dashed up the cracked sidewalk, Willa reasoned maintenance would be difficult, if not impossible, for someone who’d been incapacitated. But the man could easily afford to hire someone, several someones, to periodically clean up around here.
Sprinting up the creaking ramp instead of the stairs, she hurried across the wooden porch to search for a doorbell. As far as she could tell there wasn’t any. Ridiculous, she fumed, feeling like a half-drowned rat. About to knock on the outer screen door, she spotted the security camera out of the corner of her left eye.
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