The Haunting of Josie

by Kay Hooper

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PREVIEW OF BLOOD DREAMS

  ALSO BY KAY HOOPER

  COPYRIGHT

  Dear Reader,

  The Haunting of Josie serves as a sort of bookend in my career, marking the place of the last Loveswept I wrote and, indeed, the last series romance, and was originally published in 1994, a little more than ten years after CJ’s Fate, my first Loveswept.

  The Haunting of Josie was also one of the handful of romances I wrote in which paranormal elements figured prominently, and in that way also served as a preview of how my career would evolve. I always did love mystery, romance, and just a touch of the supernatural.

  So, in The Haunting of Josie, I give you Josie Douglas, who has come to the isolated house called Westbrook to solve a mystery that has cast a shadow over much of her life—and finds far more than she bargained for in the property’s owner, Marc Westbrook, an enigmatic cat named Pendragon, and a restless spirit with a desperately important message to pass on. I hope you enjoy their story.

  Kay Hooper

  PROLOGUE

  FROM HIS POSITION at the top of a small rise, he could see the house clearly. It was a nice house. An interesting house, with the definite possibility of lots of nooks and crannies. The roof was angular with peaks and gables, and the numerous windows gleamed redly from the light of the setting sun. A wide porch, complete with aging wicker furniture, ran along two sides of the house and enticed with a view of the surrounding countryside.

  In the fall the view was rather cheerless. The vibrant, colorful leaves of the hardwood trees had dropped long before, leaving their branches bare, and the grass of the hills looked bleached and curiously flattened. He could see a sprawling, overgrown garden in back of the house, the paths hardly more than rabbit trails winding among ragged hedges, ivy-covered benches, greenish birdbaths, browned and dried flowers, and naked rosebushes in desperate need of pruning.

  Still, it was an oddly inviting place, placid in the momentary pause between hot weather and cold, solidly there as if its roots were planted deeply. Though the garden and surrounding land was obviously neglected, the house itself showed signs of recent repairs: new shingles covered the roof, a thick layer of pristine gravel coated the driveway, and the scent of fresh paint lingered in the still, cool air.

  Just beyond the overgrown garden, he could see the roof of another structure, perhaps a small cottage that, in a richer age, might once have provided living quarters for a housekeeping couple or the gardener. Or it might have been designed for guests, an elegant—if inconvenient—attempt to provide privacy. He could see nothing else of the building, but since the shingles covering that roof also appeared new, it looked as if the cottage had seen the same recent repairs as the house.

  He returned his gaze to the house, studying the rather battered van that was parked at the end of the sidewalk and was packed to the brim with boxes and bags. As he watched, a slender, redheaded young woman in jeans and a sweatshirt came out of the house and went to the van. He couldn’t see what she was doing since the bulk of the vehicle blocked his view, but in just a few minutes she returned to the house heavily laden with several small boxes, one garment bag, and a closed umbrella.

  Ah. Obviously, she was moving in.

  When she disappeared through the front door, he made his way down the hill toward the house. The gravel of the driveway crunched pleasantly under his feet, and he paused a moment to examine the small white pebbles. Then he continued on until he reached the remains of what had once been a picket fence surrounding the small front yard; there was only a single post now where a gate had once stood, and the post that had once held a mailbox now provided only a crooked platform where the box would have sat.

  He jumped up on that and sat, waiting.

  When she came back down the sidewalk, the woman paused and regarded him in surprise. She looked tousled but not at all tired. Her bright hair was caught in an untidy braid, with escaping wisps of red that framed her face, and there was a smudge of something sooty on her nose. Her unusual violet eyes were very bright and vivid with energy.

  “Well, hello. Where did you come from?”

  He liked her voice. It was quiet yet lilting, and vibrant with the same interest that filled her eyes. He replied to her politely, offering greetings.

  Her smile widened, and she reached out to touch him, careful until he raised his chin and purred happily. Then she scratched him in just the right way, her slim fingers deft and knowledgeable as they moved beneath his chin and behind his ears.

  “The realtor said the owner was living somewhere on the place in a cottage,” she remarked to him, still gently scratching. “I suppose you live with him?”

  He ventured a somewhat muffled response, his eyes half-closed and chin still raised in bliss.

  “Well, you’re not a stray, that’s for sure. You’ve obviously been fed and brushed on a regular basis. And then, there’s this.” With a last scratch, she reached for the silver tag hanging from his decorative collar and read the single word silently. She raised her eyebrows as she met his limpid gaze. This time her voice held definite surprise. “Pendragon?”

  He affirmed this cordially.

  She laughed. “Forgive me, please, but that’s an odd name for a cat—even a black one. Are you somebody’s familiar?”

  He expressed scorn for this.

  She laughed again, obviously understanding—his tone if not the actual language. “All right, I was just asking. Well, Pendragon, my name is Josie. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Since she accompanied the words with a luxurious stroke all the way down his back, his throaty response was more than usually delighted.

  “You’re welcome to check the house for mice or bugs,” she told him agreeably. “And you can even sleep on my bed as long as whoever else you own doesn’t mind.”

  He appreciated the delicacy of her invitation; only cat people understood that cats were never owned; if there was any belonging, it was on the part of their humans. He accepted her offer with dignified pleasure.

  She chuckled and scratched him briefly under his chin. “Okay. The front door’s open, so you can explore inside, but I’d appreciate it if you stay out of my way while I’m carrying stuff in. The last thing I need is to break something falling over you. Got it?”

  He indicated that he got it.

  “Good. Then welcome to Westbrook. That’s the name of the house, they tell me. It’s named after the writer who built it back in the thirties.”

  She stepped to the van and began pulling more boxes out, still talking casually to the watching cat.

  “I didn’t know about the writer until after I signed the lease, but it seems a good omen to me. I mean, Luke Westbrook is supposed to have said this place inspired him to write, so maybe it’ll help me with my work. Think it might, cat?”

  Pendragon replied with a suitably ambiguous opinion, and watched as she gathered up two file boxes, a small suitcase, and another umbrella, to carry inside. When she staggered up the sidewalk toward the house, a hint of movement from another direction caught his attention, and he raised his gaze to one of the high windows to search out the source of the motion.

  It was hardly more than a flicker, as though a curtain had been twitched back into place.

  Pendragon watched for a moment longer, but there was no further movement. He
murmured something in the back of his throat and jumped off the mailbox platform. Tail held high, he strolled up the sidewalk toward the house.

  Where there were lots of nooks and crannies.

  ONE

  “EXCUSE ME, BUT—”

  Josie nearly jumped out of her skin. Not only was the deep masculine voice unfamiliar, it was totally unexpected. Though there were houses scattered about the countryside, none was close enough to invite curious neighbors to stroll over, particularly on a dreary fall afternoon.

  But even as she turned quickly away from her van to face him, she remembered that the owner of Westbrook was also staying “on the place” in a cottage, as the realtor had offhandedly explained. He hadn’t explained a few other vital bits of information, however, and she was suddenly very conscious of her faded jeans, sloppy sweatshirt, and the disastrous state of her once-neat braid.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Josie looked up into apologetic gray eyes, and for an instant couldn’t say a word. He had a slight southern accent, which she liked, and the words were certainly sincere enough—but neither was responsible for her silence. She wasn’t a woman who judged someone on first appearances and, in fact, tended to be so cautious that she made up her mind only after knowing someone for quite a while—but her initial impression of this man was so positive it was bewildering.

  It had to be his looks, she thought dazedly. Now she knew what “drop-dead gorgeous” really meant. He was a couple of inches over six feet with the wide-shouldered, powerful build of a natural athlete, ruggedly set off at the moment by jeans and a mostly blue flannel shirt. No wedding ring, which might or might not mean he was single. He had black hair—not dark, not sable, and not any shade of brown, but raven black—cut in a layered, neat style of medium length with short sideburns and a natural widow’s peak as rare as it was dramatic.

  His eyes were such a light gray they appeared almost silver, very sharp and vibrant, and they were set beneath winged brows as dramatic and memorable as the widow’s peak. The rest of his face was just as striking, gifted with high cheekbones, a perfect nose, and a mouth that was utterly masculine and filled with sensuality and humor. He had a strong jaw that showed a great deal of character and perhaps just a touch of stubbornness.

  All in all, it was a remarkable face.

  Josie knew she stared up at him for only a few seconds, but it seemed much longer. Clearing her throat, she managed to say, “It’s all right—I’d just forgotten you were staying at the cottage. That is, if you’re the owner?”

  He nodded and smiled. “Marc Westbrook.”

  “Westbrook?”

  “An ancestor built the house back in the thirties,” he explained. “It’s been in the family, one way or another, ever since.”

  “I see.” Gathering her scattered wits, she noticed two things then. One, that he was carrying Pendragon, and two, that his left arm—the one he was using to cradle the cat—was in a cast from elbow to knuckles. And since she had missed both those rather obvious facts while she’d stared at him like an idiot, it said a great deal about the effect he had on her.

  For heaven’s sake, she had noted the lack of a wedding band while completely missing the cast and the cat!

  Belatedly recalling her manners, she extended a hand. “I’m Josie Douglas.” She no longer expected people to react to the name; Douglas was fairly common, after all, and without the singularity of her father’s name to stir memories, few knew who she was.

  “Welcome to Westbrook, Josie Douglas,” he replied.

  His grip was firm but careful, the touch of a powerful man wary of his own physical strength. It was probably usual for him to be cautious because big men often were, she thought, but she also knew that she did look a bit fragile.

  She had long considered it her curse that she frequently roused protective instincts in the men she met; she assumed it was because she was slender, small-boned, and always pale. She looked helpless, apparently. Never mind that she seldom needed help and even more rarely wanted it; few males asked, they simply tried to help her.

  The handshake lasted just a bit longer than necessary, and Josie could have sworn her flesh actually tingled when the contact with his was broken. Ridiculous. Of course it’s ridiculous. What on earth was wrong with her?

  Conjuring up what she hoped was an impersonal smile, she said, “I met Pendragon a couple of hours ago.”

  “Met him? I thought he was yours,” Marc Westbrook said, with a glance down at the cat in his arms. “That’s why I came over here, to return him to you.”

  She looked into the enigmatic china-blue eyes of the big black cat, then shook her head. “No, he just showed up a couple of hours ago. But he can’t be a stray, surely?”

  “I wouldn’t think so, he’s been too well fed—and he certainly doesn’t have the beat-up, ragged appearance of a stray tomcat. But I’ve been out here for nearly two months, and the first I saw of him was when he rattled my screen door a few minutes ago.” He set the cat on the mailbox platform, and Pendragon curled his tail around his forepaws and regarded them both placidly.

  His eyes were definitely odd for a black cat, Josie reflected. They were Siamese eyes, vibrant blue and just faintly crossed, yet he didn’t show any other sign of Oriental ancestry. He was large-boned and solid rather than slender, and his glossy black coat didn’t have so much as a speck of white anywhere that she could see. And he was unusually large, weighing every ounce of what Josie guessed to be twenty pounds.

  “Do you suppose he belongs to one of the neighbors, then?” Josie suggested, but rather doubtfully.

  “As I’m sure you noticed on the drive out, neighbors are few and far between. Most of the land around these parts is pastured. There’s a horse farm about two miles or so from here—they raise Thoroughbreds—and maybe half a dozen houses within a ten-mile radius, but that’s it.”

  Josie knew; one of the reasons she’d picked this place was its virtual isolation. Of course, that was when she’d imagined the owner of Westbrook as being some elderly man, a widower, perhaps, who was renting out the main house because it had gotten too big for him, or something like that. But she should have asked. She really should have asked. Because she certainly hadn’t expected a devastatingly handsome man somewhere in his mid-thirties with vivid eyes and a lazy voice who liked cats and seemed to have time on his hands….

  What a landlord.

  “He might belong to somebody around here,” Marc Westbrook was going on, “but I wouldn’t know who to ask.”

  Concentrating on the conversation, she said, “Then I guess we should give him the run of the place and see if he sticks around. If he does…an ad in the local paper asking if anyone’s missing a black cat?”

  “Suits me. We’ll give it a few days. As a matter of fact, it’s nice to have a cat around.”

  “They’re good company,” she agreed. “And Pendragon seems very polite.”

  Marc smiled. “Agreed. So, we’ll wait and see. And we’ll let him decide whose bed he takes over at night.”

  There was a brief silence that Josie found a bit unnerving. Casting about, she gestured slightly toward his left arm and asked, “An accident?”

  “So they said. A drunk driver crossed over the median and I couldn’t get out of his way.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So was he.” Marc didn’t seem to think that needed elaboration, because he continued in a lighter tone. “As far as I was concerned, it wasn’t all bad. I hadn’t had a vacation in years, and I hadn’t realized how badly I needed one until I spent most of the first couple of weeks sleeping. The injuries were relatively simple; the ribs knit, and the cast came off my leg two weeks ago, so all I have to put up with is the inconvenience of having a cast on my left arm.”

  “You’re left-handed?”

  “Wouldn’t you know it? Murphy’s law. But even it’s better now than it was; the damn thing started out covering the entire arm.”

  The expl
anation answered Josie’s major question, but she asked anyway. “So you’re convalescing?”

  “That’s the idea. My doctor thought I wouldn’t rest in the city—I work in Richmond—so knowing I owned this property, he insisted I exile myself out here. Unfortunately for me, my doctor also happens to be my best friend from college, so he considers it his right to push me around.”

  Josie had the shrewd notion that nobody pushed Marc Westbrook around, not even his best friend, but she didn’t say so. Instead she said, “I’d say this would be a good place to heal. Quiet. Peaceful.”

  His mouth twisted slightly, and the silvery eyes gleamed with amusement. “Yeah, right. Miles away from everything, and too far out for cable; so far, I’ve resisted the lure of a satellite dish, but it’s only a matter of time until I give in to my lesser self. For the first time since college, I’m caught up on my reading, and I’ve discovered a dozen new ways to play solitaire.”

  “Bored?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way—the arrival of the mailman is the high point of my day; I have all the Richmond newspapers sent out here, as well as several from surrounding cities.” His smile became even more crooked. “Until the accident, I led the very busy, not to say frantic, lifestyle of a criminal lawyer, and all this peace and quiet is driving me nuts.”

  She was amused and not unsympathetic, but also a bit uneasy. While there was nothing wrong with having an attractive man nearby—she was a normal woman, after all—she had an awful lot to do and only a year in which to do it, and she certainly didn’t want anyone looking over her shoulder while she did it. Particularly not a criminal lawyer. Of course, since Marc was obviously recovered except for the arm, he would no doubt be returning to Richmond and work soon.

  Probing as delicately as possible, she asked, “It won’t be much longer, surely? I mean, after two months?”

  “If my friend the doctor has his way, a few more weeks. This cast is due to come off in thirteen days—precisely—and after that it shouldn’t be more than a couple of weeks before he has to admit I’m fit for work.”