by Adrianne Lee
Nikki noticed immediately how his wet shirt clung to his flat stomach, his muscled arms...
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Dedication
CAST OF CHARACTERS
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
Epilogue
Copyright
Nikki noticed immediately how his wet shirt clung to his flat stomach, his muscled arms...
The second his brown eyes met hers, she felt a jolt, a zinging connection—as though she knew this man. Intimately.
She couldn’t move. Her blood ran hot through her veins. Instinctively she knew he was a man of fiery emotions. Everything would be extreme. His temper. His lovemaking,...
His hand touched her shoulder. Her skin burned, and a shivery chill swept through her. He seemed as rattled as she felt. He asked, “Who are you?”
“Nikki Navarro.” She tried to turn away, to be free of this disturbing stronger He wouldn’t let go. He led her to the master bedroom suite and pointed to the painting hanging over the mantel.
Nikki gasped. She might have been the twin of the bride in the portrait.
He demanded again, “Who are you, really?”
Dear Reader,
Hi, all. As far back as I can remember, my mother was an avid reader of mystery, and her tastes in books helped shape my own. So I think it is only fitting I now have her reading and enjoying Harlequin’s wonderful Intrigue line. Thanks, Mom.
I wish you all a happy, carefree summer, with just a sweet pinch of mystery to keep it interesting, I love hearing from readers. You can reach me at: P.O. Box 3835, Sequim, WA 98382. Please enclose a SASE for response.
Adrianne Lee
The Bride’s Secret
Adrianne Lee
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
To Larry, who is always my hero. To Kim, Karin and
Krissa, and to Brandi and Savannah—you are my heart.
THANKS
Fred Yilek, for giving me the Guide 98; Denise Royal;
Susan Abraham; and always, Anne Martin,
Kelly McKillip, Susan Skaggs and Gayle Webster
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Nikki Navarro—She comes to Wedding House seeking her heritage and finds danger—and the man of her dreams.
Chris Conrad—His passion for Nikki is outweighed only by the secret he can never reveal.
Olivia Conrad—Chris’s sister has secrets of her own.
Lorah Halliard—Is the psychic for real, or a fraud of the deadliest kind?
Dorothea Miller—The play director wanted Nikki for the part of Theresa—how desperate was she?
Jorge Rameriz—The groundskeeper knows something about a baby.
Diego Sands—The architect knew the bride in the portrait years ago—how well?
Marti McAllister Wolf—The famous mystery writer is always snooping in forbidden places.
Luis and Theresa De Vega—What secret did Luis learn that caused him to kill Theresa and then himself?
Chapter One
It might have been a ransom note, the irregular letters cut from various printed material. But her father had not been kidnapped. Nikki Navarro stared at the note she’d received last month and shivered. “The answers you seek can be found in Wedding House.” Hope stirred in her chest, sped her heartbeat.
Hope...and a skittering, inexplicable fear.
She lifted her gaze from the note to the wrought-iron gates. The huge black barricades connected white stucco walls that seemed to heave from Discovery Bay below like mammoth icebergs, stretching the length of the road in both directions, solid barriers that blocked all view of the grounds and the house.
Wedding House—the infamous mansion Luis De Vega had built as a gift for his bride, Theresa. Nikki could not imagine eliciting such love from a man that he’d bestow gifts as lavish as this incredible estate upon her.
Theresa De Vega must have been a special woman. A shiver traced down Nikki’s spine. So special Luis had murdered her and two servants then killed himself two years after the wedding. Why? What sin had Theresa committed?
“And what does that tragedy have to do with my father?” Nikki murmured to herself, the words lost in the purr of the idling taxi engine. Her driver stood near the gates, conversing with a man on the other side of the fence. She could see next to nothing of the man. Nor, although her window was ajar, could she make out what was being said. Edgy, restless, she shifted her attention to the sky.
The sun hovered low at the edge of the horizon, tainting the skyline the ochre and purple of a fresh bruise. It would soon be dark. Nikki glanced at her driver again, silently willing him to hurry. Now that she was here, she was anxious to get inside.
From the information she’d managed to garner, she knew Wedding House had sat empty, a groundskeeper the only resident, for the past twenty-five years. But eighteen months ago it had been claimed by Luis’s relatives, who were turning it into an exclusive bed and breakfast
For the rich and famous.
And for the ghoulish minded—anyone wanting to believe the place was haunted by the tragic Theresa.
Nikki fit neither category. Her reasons for coming here were two-fold: business and personal.
The cab driver scrambled back inside and plopped onto the seat. “That groundskeeper is one spooky man...like something out of the Addams family.”
“Oh?” Nikki glanced at the gate. The man had disappeared, and the gates were gliding apart. “I didn’t see him.”
“Consider yourself lucky.”
The hair on her nape prickled. Had the groundskeeper sent her the note? The note about her father? Spooky or not, he was one person she intended to speak with during her visit here. She tried catching a glimpse of him as the taxi lurched forward. But he’d vanished as though he’d never existed.
The driveway, made of brick, wound downward through twin rows of enormous maples, their branches twined into a natural overhead arch. Nikki felt as though she were descending into a tunnel. Hating the tension swirling inside her, she forced her gaze to what she could see of the grounds, catching glimpses of wild-looking rose and lilac bushes, and clumps of rhododendrons.
Beautiful, and yet shadows leaped off the tree trunks, eerie and startling as ghosts in a graveyard, giving the impression of evil in the Garden of Eden. She jerked her gaze to the roadway. Ahead light beckoned—glis-tening blue light.
They emerged onto a flat, open area laid in brick and looking like some tatty red quilt spread on the ground at a picnic for giants. Her breath caught
The blues and greens and golds of the rolling hillside, sparkling bay and velvet sky, washed and blended by the dying sun, reminded her of a life-size watercolor. And in the center, as startling as a pop-up picture in a child’s book—the De Vega mansion, all white stucco, black wrought-iron and crimson roof tiles.
Wedding House.
Nikki hugged herself against an unexpected chill.
The cabby let out a low whistle. “Man, I heard this place was something else.”
Nikki tore her gaze from the house. In the dimming light she sp
otted tennis courts, an Olympic-sized pool, a huge dock and boat house, and what appeared to be a private beach.
Again she had the impression of evil lurking just beyond the beauty. She imagined photographing the buildings in the dying light. It would make for an interesting set of photos, but not for use in her latest project. Not unless she wanted to drive people away from the bed and breakfasts she would include in the new coffee table book.
She exited the cab and inhaled deeply. Salt air slammed into her nostrils, refreshing and sobering, but it did nothing to ease the tension that clutched her. Just the opposite. Did this unsettled feeling arise from her personal concerns? Or her overactive imagination?
Or was there something terribly wrong with Wedding House?
She hoisted the straps to the bags containing her precious camera equipment and her laptop over each shoulder, then clutched the handle of her wheeled carry-on and headed toward the portico.
The double front doors swung open and a brunette slightly older than Nikki stood framed in the archway. She might have been Morticia Addams herself, with her pasty complexion and flowing black gown. “At last,” the woman gushed. “The final guest.”
Nikki swallowed hard. It sounded as though “Morticia” were about to close Wedding House for good, instead of launching its grand opening. “I’m Nikki Navarro.”
“Yes, of course. I’m Olivia Conrad.” A tight chignon held her ebony hair off a face more striking than pretty. Her black eyes flashed, and her smile seemed too bright, too forced.
She began to sweep down the wide step, then froze. She blinked, frowned, her features arrested, startled.
“What?” Nikki’s hackles rose and her heart dropped to her toes. “What is it?”
“WHAT THE HELL?” Chris Conrad swore as he wrenched the pipe tighter and another gush of water sprayed him in the eyes. This grand opening was starting out as more of a grand headache. One disaster after another. Doomed For the millionth time the word slammed his mind. Nerves. That was all. Control, Chris. He drew a deep breath, closed his eyes and welcomed the calm that came slowly, predictably. He’d hate to think he’d given up a lucrative contracting business to restore this lovely old structure if it were doomed.
Another shot of water wet his shirt front. Chris flinched and swore again. He’d turned off the water, why was it still spitting from this joint? He wrenched on the pipe again. The spurting stream slowed to a trickle, dribbling from the shower head, down the long brass tubing into the drain of the old claw-footed tub.
He detested plumbing. But the plumber couldn’t come until next week. Neither this bathroom, nor Chris, could wait that long. Impatient. Short-tempered He ground his teeth, hating the traits he shared with Uncle Luis. His crazy uncle Luis. All his life he had striven to suppress these traits, but this past year he’d felt his grasp on them slipping, bit by bit, month by month.
No, he wouldn’t think of that. This leak was a minor annoyance—as had been most of the restorations to the mansion. Despite the length of time it had sat unoccupied, except for rebuilding the fire-damaged dining room, surprisingly few repairs had been required to bring it up to code.
So, why were these problems cropping up now? It was as though someone or something were sabotaging the house on purpose. As though someone or something didn’t want the house lived in again.
The ridiculous thought made him grin. Lord, he was starting to sound like Lorah Halliard. He shook himself. Next he’d be believing in crystals and karma and ghosts.
The portrait flashed through his mind, dissolving his grin. He swore again and gave the pipe a final twist. The leak stopped. Holding his breath, he reached beneath the sink and turned the water back on, then checked the connection. Drip free. Satisfied, he dried the pipe, shone the length of it with a polish rag, then swabbed out the tub. He stood back to admire his handiwork.
To Chris, houses were like living beings, absorbing the essences of those who inhabited them. This one had a sad, melancholy feel to it. He supposed that would be its attraction to the overly rich and bored.
But he wasn’t sure he approved of Olivia launching their grand opening with a reenactment of their uncle’s murderous rampage. She swore it was her idea, but he suspected she’d let herself be talked into it by that Miller woman, who headed up the local theater group.
Probably drive people away in droves. Not that he cared particularly—except that it would matter to Liv. And that would be the biggest disaster of all. He tucked his polish rag into his tool chest and closed the lid.
If she weren’t so fragile, he’d have kiboshed the whole idea—sent the theater troupe scurrying off his property like a herd of unwanted rats.
In fact, if he’d had a choice, this mansion was the last place he’d be calling home. But Liv needed his support. And the truth was, she might be his only hope of holding on to his sanity.
“WHAT IS THE MATTER?” Nikki asked, wondering if the woman had lost her sanity.
Olivia Conrad blinked and slapped her hand to her chest. “Oh, my, please forgive my rudeness. It’s just that you seem very like... someone.”
Someone? Nikki wondered, her pulse lurching a beat faster. Like her father, maybe? Perhaps Olivia Conrad had sent the note. She stifled the urge to ask her. Before this week was out, she would have the answer to that and several other questions. But she had to handle her investigation with cunning and tact. The straightforward approach had already resulted in the note and an inexplicable sense of danger.
“Please, let me help with your luggage,” Olivia offered in a solicitous tone. Seeming flustered, she reached for the wheeled carry-on. “Wedding House doesn’t have an elevator, I’m afraid, and your room is on the third floor.”
“That’s okay.” Nikki hadn’t expected the mansion to be this huge, but she intended to inspect every inch of it, if necessary, before leaving. She relinquished the carry-on bag, then followed Olivia Conrad inside.
The foyer was as massive as one of the rings in a three-ring circus, but there was nothing transient or bohemian about the cool Italian marble floor or the Ming vase perched dead center on a Louis XIV table.
“This way,” Olivia said, heading for a sweeping, open-railed staircase set against the back wall. The broad steps curved graciously to the landing above, circled the second floor, then continued to the third.
Moving beside her hostess, Nikki lifted her gaze, taking in the spacious view of both upper stories, feeling as though she were seeing it from some bottomless pit. She shook off the ugly thought.
But as they ascended side by side, she barely listened to Olivia, who chattered on about the decor in a flat monotone that reminded Nikki of a tour guide. Her attention spun across her surroundings, her photographer’s eye automatically noting details.
A multifloral runner, in a pattern of alternating shades of forest green and wine-red, hugged the middle of the oak stairs. Its deep nap swallowed every footfall. A delicate, pin-striped wallpaper tracked from floor to ceiling, broken only by wine-red crown molding. Swags of velvet cloth, in the same pattern as the carpet, framed the row of leaded-glass windows at each landing.
The intense hues, obviously chosen for their beauty, left her chilled inside. The green seemed too cool, the wine-red too much the shade of spilled blood. Was the mansion’s tragic history coloring her perception of it? Perhaps with the sun spilling through these windows, she’d feel differently.
Right now, however, night pressed their panes and cast the landing in gloomy shadows. The dim, sporadic lighting encouraged her sense of something amiss.
As they circled the second-floor landing, passing six closed doors, Olivia said, “These bedrooms have their own bathrooms. There are only two bedrooms on the third floor, and I’m afraid they share a bathroom.”
“That’s all right.” Nikki adjusted the weighty strap of her laptop bag. “I’m just grateful you could squeeze me in at the last minute.”
“To be honest, I’d have given up my own room to have Wedding House includ
ed in a coffee table book that is already sold. That kind of free advertising might make us a real success story.”
Which was precisely why Olivia Conrad had offered the room free, Nikki mused. But she wouldn’t be party to taking what amounted to a bribe. Of the twenty bed and breakfasts on her list for reviewing, only ten would make the book. “Like I said, I’m not guaranteeing Wedding House will make the final cut.”
“I understand. But I appreciate the opportunity nonetheless.”
Doors to the last two rooms before the staircase to the third floor stood open. Olivia pointed to the first. “This is our TV room.”
Nikki peeked inside. “Small, but elegant.”
“A necessary evil.” Olivia led on, gesturing with her free hand toward the second much larger room. “This is our ballroom. At the moment it’s being used as a costume-design and dressing room for the play we’re putting on later in the week.”
“You mean—” a female voice like that of a small girl issued from the ballroom “—if that replacement for Anna Jo arrives.”
“Dorothea?” Olivia asked. “What are you doing here so late? It’s nearly 10:00 p.m.”
“Waiting for that new actress to arrive.” Surprisingly, the little-girl voice belonged to a middle-aged woman. She stepped into the hall. She had the lean body of an athlete and wore a form-fitting turquoise jumpsuit that complemented her flame-red hair. Her large brown eyes veered toward Nikki. “Oh, there you are.”
Before she could step backward, Nikki found her chin caught in Dorothea’s hand. She twisted it to one side, then the other. “Well, you certainly do ‘look’ the part. Now if you can act, we’re back in business. I’m Dorothea Miller. Did you bring your credentials?”