Heart Stealers

by Patricia McLinn

  “The cannonball struck the wooden vessel broadside, igniting the cargo of gunpowder. The Freedom sank quickly, taking Captain Kingsley and most of his crew down with her to a watery grave. Only a few were able to swim to shore and tell the story that has become a favorite Galveston legend.

  “In fact”—Rory turned back to her audience—”we’re passing over the wreckage of the ship now. If you look straight down, you might be able to make out the main mast and crow’s nest.”

  The pontoon boat rocked as the passengers bent over the rail.

  “Where’s the ship, Mommy?” A little girl leaned way out to peer into the water. “I don’t see it.”

  “Careful, sweetheart,” the mother said, holding the girl’s waist.

  Rory made her way back down the aisle. “Another intriguing aspect of the tale is that Captain Kingsley’s grandfather sailed with Galveston’s most famous pirate, Jean Laffite. Some believe Jack Kingsley had Laffite’s legendary ‘missing treasure’ on the ship when it went down. As you can imagine, this has made it difficult for the owners of the island to keep scuba divers out of the cove, even though no one has ever found any evidence of a sunken treasure.”

  “You said the house is haunted?” asked a burly man wearing a hot pink T-shirt and black dress socks.

  Rory nodded. “Many believe the ghost of Marguerite remains in the house waiting for her lover, and that Captain Kingsley haunts these very waters, searching for a way for them to reunite.”

  “Is the house occupied?” another man asked.

  “No, it’s been empty for about fifty years. Although it is still owned by descendants of Henri LeRoche, through his nephew,” Rory explained with a slight edge to her voice, “not his daughter by Marguerite—the rightful heirs.”

  “Careful, Rory, your jealousy is showing,” Captain Bob teased her, for he knew her family descended directly from Marguerite Bouchard’s daughter and had an ongoing grudge against the LeRoches.

  “Not my jealousy,” she told him. “My sense of injustice.”

  “Is that one of them there?” the young mother asked.

  “Hmm?” Rory looked toward shore. As the pontoon moved past a line of palm trees, she saw a man standing on the overgrown lawn, just outside the chain-link fence that protected the house from vandals. He appeared to be hammering a sign into the ground. Surprised to see anyone on the island, she grabbed the binoculars from the wheel pulpit and held them to her eyes. The man had his back to her, but he was too blond and slender to be John LeRoche, the current owner of Pearl Island. Her gaze moved to the words on the sign, and the air left her lungs: Bank Foreclosure—Property for Sale.

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed and felt the hair on her arms stand on end. “Bobby, pull closer to the pier.”

  “What for?” he asked.

  “Just pull closer, will ya?”

  “You’re not going to get out or anything, are you?”

  She lowered the binoculars as conviction swelled within her. “Yes, actually I believe I am.”

  “No way, Rory. That’s private property. And we’re on a schedule.”

  “Fine. I’ll swim.” She kicked off her deck shoes and prepared to strip down to the swimming suit she always wore beneath her tour guide uniform.

  “You would, too, wouldn’t you?” He shook his head as she tugged the shirt from the waist of her shorts. “All right, all right, I’ll let you get out. But what are we supposed to tell them?” He nodded toward the tourists.

  Putting her shoes back on, she raised the mike to her mouth. “If you folks will sit tight for just one minute, we’re going to pull up to the pier so you can get a good look at the house.”

  Bobby snorted but eased the boat alongside the dock. Grabbing a mooring line, Rory jumped out and secured the boat before she took off at a jog. The pier gave way to sandy beach, then a rutted path that led up toward the house. As she approached from behind, the man continued to swing the hammer, each stroke moving the shoulders beneath a white dress shirt.

  “Spineless wimps!” he cursed. “Get me to do their dirty work, will they?” Bam! The hammer came down on the stake, driving it into the sandy soil. “Cowards!” Bam, bam! “Make me look like a traitor. What do they care?” Bam, bam, bam!

  “Excuse me,” she said from behind him.

  With a start, the man whirled around, dropping the hammer on his foot as the wind sent the sign flying against his back. He yelped, ducking his head and clutching his shin.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” She rushed to push the sign off him. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine! Splendid! Argh!” he shouted as he toppled backward to land on his backside at her feet.

  Rory struggled not to laugh as she stared down at the man. Behind wire-rimmed glasses, he had a boyishly handsome face. His blond hair was cut short on the sides, but long enough on top to fall across his forehead. He straightened his glasses as he stared at her long bare legs, then his gaze traveled upward past her blue shorts and white shirt to her face and the unruly hair that whipped about her on the wind. “Aurora? Aurora St. Claire? Is that you?”

  “Do I know you?” she asked as she gathered her hair in one hand to get it out of her eyes. He did seem slightly familiar. Although no one but her teachers back in school and her aunt Viv called her Aurora.

  For a moment, he just gaped up at her, then he swallowed hard as if to clear his throat. “I’m Chance,” he said as he scrambled to his feet, dusting dirt from his trousers. “I went to school with your brother.”

  “Chance?” She thought for a moment, then remembered. “Oh, yes! Short for ‘Chancellor,’ as in ‘Oliver Chancellor,’ right?” She blinked in amazement when he straightened, for he topped her own height of nearly six feet by several inches. “Wow, you grew.”

  “Yeah, into my big clumsy feet,” he grumbled.

  Not only had he grown taller, he’d filled out—well, a little bit. From what she remembered, he’d been a gangly kid none of the girls would even have noticed except that his family was one of the wealthiest in Galveston.

  She was surprised he remembered her, though, since prominent families like the Chancellors didn’t exactly run in the same circles as the disreputable and outrageous descendants of Marguerite Bouchard, many of whom had inherited Marguerite’s passion for the stage.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I saw you putting up the sign—Oh! The sign!” She turned and lifted it so she could read it. “Foreclosure! Is this for real?” She scanned the sign for details, but the words jumbled together in her excitement.

  “Unfortunately, yes.” He took the sign from her and thrust it back into the soft ground that refused to hold it upright.

  “The bank is foreclosing on a loan to John LeRoche?” she asked in disbelief.

  “Do you think I’d drive all the way out here to put up a sign if we weren’t?” Bam! Bam!

  “But when? How? Why?”

  “The same reason we foreclose on anyone who doesn’t pay their loan back.”

  “Oh, my god,” she whispered, trying to take it all in. The house that should have belonged to her family was actually for sale. “How much will it go for?”

  “Depends on how much the bank is offered.” He shrugged.

  “I want to buy it.”

  “What?” He glanced at her. “Are you kidding?”

  “No, I’m serious. In fact”—she took a breath to calm her racing heart—”I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  “Aurora.” He frowned. “I don’t mean to be nosy but, well, what I mean is ... can you qualify for a home loan of this size?”

  “Qualify?” She blinked at him. “I don’t know. But I have good credit.” Actually, she had no credit, but she figured no credit was better than bad credit.

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid, for a mortgage loan this big, you’re going to need more than good credit. You’ll need proof of income, collateral, or a co-signer. Trust me on this, I grew up in banking.”

  “That’s rig
ht!” She snapped her fingers. “Your father owns the bank.”

  “My father used to own the bank. Now it belongs to an East Coast banking chain, like every other bank in this country.”

  “Rory!” Captain Bob’s voice floated up from the pier, barely audible over the wind. “Hurry it up, will ya!”

  “Hang on!” she shouted, then turned back to Chance. “What about a business loan? Could I qualify for one of those?”

  “It depends. Do you have a business?”

  “Well, no.” She squirmed. “Not yet.”

  “How about a business plan?”

  “Of course I have a plan.” She looked through the chain-link fence as images from a lifetime of daydreams superimposed themselves over the neglected structure. She saw the mansion fully restored, the storm shutters thrown open so the windows gleamed in the sunlight, people lounging in chairs on the veranda, colorful flowers spilling from the flower beds. Oh, yes, she had a plan. A plan so near to her heart, she’d never dared to speak of it aloud. “I plan to succeed,” she said at last. “That’s what I plan to do.”

  He chuckled. “I’m afraid planning to ‘succeed’ isn’t a business plan. It’s a goal—and a good one—but if you want someone to loan you money, you need an in-depth, written plan with demographics, cost analysis, projected growth and income.”

  Panic welled at the thought of putting her dream down on paper for other people to scrutinize, but she let the sight of the house give her courage. “If I get one of those, a business plan, your father’s bank will loan me the money?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He gave her an odd smile, partly amused, partly intrigued.

  “Rory!” Bobby shouted from the boat. “Move your tail! We have a schedule to keep here.”

  “I’m coming!” She gave Chance a pleading look. “I gotta go. I’ll come see you tomorrow. At the bank.” She grabbed his hand and gave it a good businesslike handshake. “We’ll talk more then.” Her voice floated behind her as she jogged down the path. “Oh, I can’t wait to get home and tell Adrian and Allison. They’re just gonna flip!”

  “But—” Chance held out a hand as she dashed to the pier on long tanned legs, the wind plastering the white shirt to her tall, curvy body. He felt as if a whirlwind had just knocked him over as he watched her climb into the boat beside the muscle-bound driver. With a cheerful smile, she waved at him while the boat pulled away from the dock.

  Chance returned the wave numbly as he willed his pulse to slow. Aurora St. Claire. Heaven help him and all mortal men, but didn’t the woman have a clue what that body, that face, and all that flame-bright hair could do to a man!

  He shook his head hoping to clear it. It didn’t work. There was no shaking off the effect of Aurora. Once she bowled a guy over, he was down for life. Chance should know. He’d been in lust with the girl since he was a boy. Only, he wasn’t a boy any longer. And God have mercy, she definitely wasn’t a mere girl.

  The ringing of the phone clipped to his belt brought him slowly out of his haze. “Yes, Chance speaking.”

  “Oliver, where are you?” His father’s deep voice pricked a hole in Chance’s euphoria. “I expected you back at the bank an hour ago.”

  “I know, I’m sorry, sir.” He glanced uneasily at the sign, wondering if his father had seen the paperwork on the foreclosure yet. Since his father sounded more curious than angry, he guessed not. “Brian had an... um... errand he wanted me to do.”

  “Since when does the vice president of operations run errands for the loan department?” his father asked.

  Since the bank was taken over by a bunch of out-of-town wimps who don’t have the guts to get between you and the new owners back East, Chance thought bitterly. Although he couldn’t blame Brian Jeffries, the senior vice president of loans, for asking him to put up the For Sale sign. If anyone else did it, Chance’s father would fire the person on the spot for embarrassing the LeRoche family in so public a manner.

  “Never mind,” his father sighed. “I was about to leave for the day and wanted to remind you about Paige’s welcome-home dinner tonight.”

  “No need to remind me. I’m looking forward to it.” Chance smiled, thinking of Paige Baxter, the girl he intended to marry. Now that she had graduated from college and returned to the island, they could finally start dating in a more official manner. When summer was over, he’d ask her to marry him, they’d have a respectable engagement of six months or so, and marry next spring. He imagined his mother and Mrs. Baxter were already planning the wedding.

  “We’ll expect you at the house by six-thirty, then?” his father said.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be there.” Hanging up, Chance felt his smile fade as the tension of the day settled back over his shoulders. He glanced at the cove and saw the tour boat had disappeared. Odd how the wind seemed calmer now. While Aurora had been there, the air had been charged with electricity as if lightning were about to strike.

  He picked up his hammer and returned to pounding the sign into the ground. In the back of his mind he wondered if Aurora was serious about coming to see him at the bank. A smile tugged at his lips. Now wouldn’t that be a sight— Aurora St. Claire sweeping through the bank in a swirl of energy and light? He could almost see the portraits of the bank’s founders crashing to the marble floor of the lobby in her wake.

  Chapter Two

  “Adrian! Alli!” Rory shouted as she burst into the small house in the historic district where she lived with her brother and sister. She’d run all the way from Pier Nineteen hoping to catch both of them at home.

  Glancing at her watch, she saw it was five-thirty. Perfect. Her sister would be home from her job at the antiques shop and her brother had mentioned that morning that he’d be going in late today for his shift as assistant chef at Chez Laffite.

  Sadie, her sister’s sable and white Sheltie, trotted in from the back of the house, swishing her sassy tail with glee.

  “Hey, there, girl, where is everyone?” Rory asked as she obeyed Sadie’s demand for an ear scratch.

  Sadie offered a happy bark that was no help at all. The front parlor was empty, except for the usual clutter. Old daguerreotypes vied for space on the walls with framed playbills, hand-tatted doilies graced the arms of their great-grandmother’s red velvet sofa, newspapers and novels sat in piles everywhere. The living room and front bedroom had once been the entire cottage, but more rooms had been added over the years.

  With Sadie at her heels, Rory maneuvered past the piano stool through the dining room and bounded into the kitchen at the back of the house. “There you are!”

  “Rory!” Allison turned from the counter with a start, a mixing bowl in hand. Soft black curls framed Allison’s delicate face and blue eyes. While Aurora had inherited their father’s height and their mother’s bright hair, Allison had the bones and coloring that spoke of their French lineage. “Must you always make a grand entrance? Can’t you simply arrive home quietly, like a normal person?”

  “Of course not. I’m a Bouchard,” Rory said, claiming the maiden name of their famous ancestor. “Ooo, is that a chocolate cake you’re making?” She snitched a sample with her finger, barely escaping a swat from the handle of the wooden spoon.

  “I hear Rory’s home.” Her brother entered the kitchen in her wake. He occupied the front bedroom since their aunt, “the Incomparable Vivian,” was starring in a long-running production of Hello, Dolly! on Broadway. The three of them had moved in with Aunt Viv after their parents died in a car wreck while touring with a theater troupe when Rory was a toddler.

  “I trust you have dinner under control,” Adrian said as he came forward to sniff the steam rising from a pot on the stove. Wearing a white chef’s jacket, he looked wickedly handsome with his black ponytail and gold earring. Wrinkling his nose, he pinched a bay leaf from the bundles of herbs hanging overhead and tossed it into the pot.

  “Go away, Adrian.” Allison bumped him aside with her hip as she continued to stir her cake batter. “That’s my leftov
er gumbo you’re messing with.”

  “And I’ll say what I said on Saturday. It needs more file.”

  “It does not,” Allison protested.

  “Guys!” Rory interrupted before they launched into a full-blown argument about cooking filled with French passion and offended egos. “You’ll never guess what I found out today.”

  “What’s that?” Adrian said as he reached over Allison’s head toward the spice rack.

  “I’m warning you, Adrian.” Allison clutched her wooden spoon like a sword. “Stay away from my gumbo. Unless you want to go back to doing all the cooking around here.”

  “No, no, you’re doing a fine job,” he hastened to say, even as he added a pinch of spice to the pot.

  “Would y’all listen?” Rory pleaded. “This is really big news. The old mansion on Pearl Island is for sale!”

  Adrian and Allison both went still. In concert, they turned to face her.

  “You’re joking, right?” her brother said.

  “No, I’m serious. There was a For Sale sign posted and everything.”

  “Well,” Allison said, “there’s obviously been some sort of mistake. We all know the LeRoche family would never sell the house, even though they moved out of it years ago. As long as Marguerite’s spirit is trapped inside, they’ll keep it. ‘The Pearl’ is their good-luck charm. Whether that’s true or not, whether there’s even a ghost or not, is beside the point. All that matters is that the LeRoches believe it.”

  “Maybe it is true,” Adrian said. “I mean, you have to admit, they’ve certainly led charmed lives when it comes to making money.”

  Allison shrugged. “Too bad their personal lives aren’t as successful.” While the LeRoche family no longer lived in Galveston year round, they maintained a beach house and were a favorite topic of gossip—not just locally but in newspapers and tabloids nationwide.

  “I, for one, would pick happy over rich any day,” Allison said.