by Adrianne Lee
“Oh, no, Dorothea.” Twin dots of color leaped onto Olivia’s cheeks. “No one sent Ms. Navarro. She’s a guest.”
Dorothea blinked and stepped back. “Oh. Mea culpa. But, it is a pity. She’d be perfect for the lead. Wouldn’t she, Liv?”
“Well, I—”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Miller,” Nikki interrupted, sparing Olivia further embarrassment. “I’m a photographer and writer, but I’ve never aspired to acting.”
“Maybe you should. If only for this week. You would be perfect.”
Perfect? Nikki wanted to ask why, but Olivia spoke first.
“You’re only saying that, Dorothea, because you’re desperate. No one else is going to arrive tonight. You’d best call it a day.” Olivia gestured for the stairs. “Let me show you to your room, Ms. Navarro. I’m sure you’d like to get settled.”
“Yes,” Nikki said. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Miller.”
Dorothea nodded, but something serious churned behind her shrewd eyes, and Nikki feared she might try again to recruit her into her play—if the wayward actress didn’t show up. Nikki felt Dorothea’s gaze drilling into her back as she continued up the last few steps and gained the landing above.
On this floor the first door stood open. “This is our library. As you can see, it is extensive and comfortable. Feel free to borrow any book you’d like during your stay.”
The double doors of the next room hung open, the entrance barred by a velveteen rope. Gold and turquoise tapestry covered chairs, walls, windows and bed. The massive cherry wood suite of furniture was fit for a king and queen and, Nikki estimated, was straight out of the early 1800s.
Olivia beamed. “This is where the notorious Luis and Theresa slept. In that very bed. On that very mattress. We’re considering only using it for special guests like the president and first lady. If we get lucky enough to have them visit.
“And this is your room.” Olivia opened the first of the last three doors. “The bathroom is between this room and the last.”
As she pointed to the door it swung open. A man emerged, a workman in blue denim shirt and jeans, carrying a tool chest. His ebony hair was brushed off his high forehead in thick waves. Nikki noticed immediately how sexily his wet shirt cleaved his flat stomach, his muscled arms.
But it was his face that arrested her. All planes and angles, his skin a deep golden tan, his nose bold, his mouth wide in a sensuous way that intrigued her almost as much as his crooked smile. He’d make a great subject.
“It’s fixed good as new, Liv.” He grinned at Olivia, then turned his attention to Nikki.
The second his warm brown eyes met hers, she felt a jolt, a zinging connection as though she’d stuck her finger in a live socket—as though she knew this man. Intimately. If not in this life, then some other. So acute was the shock she wanted to run. She couldn’t move.
Her blood ran hot through her veins at the look in his eyes. Instinctively she knew this was a man of fiery emotions. No halfway measures for him. Everything would be extreme. His control. His temper. His lovemaking.
The realization shook her hard. She hadn’t come to Wedding House for a sexual encounter with a plumber. She turned toward her room and heard his tool chest hit the floor with a loud thudding clatter.
His hand landed on her shoulder. Her skin felt burned beneath his touch, and a shivery chill swept through her. Swallowing hard, she steeled her nerves, reined in her wild emotions and glanced back and up at him.
He was gaping at her, his face pale beneath his tan. He seemed as rattled as she felt “Wh-who are you?”
“Nikki Navarro.” She wrenched free of this disturbing stranger and plunged into her room, hitting the light switch on her way to the bed. She plunked her heavy bags onto the comforter without really looking at the room. The man still stood in her doorway.
She strode toward him and signaled to Olivia to hand her the carry-on. Nikki gave the man an indulgent smile. “This is my room, you’ll have to speak with Ms. Conrad about getting one of your own.”
Again Nikki signaled to Olivia for her bag. But Olivia made no attempt to comply. She stared at the two of them as though at a loss. Her eyes looked glazed. Nikki wondered if she was on medication of some kind.
“I already have a room of my own,” the man said, bracing his hip against her door so she couldn’t close him out. “The one at the end of the hall.”
Nikki’s mouth fell open. She’d be sharing a bathroom with this rude plumber? She felt like laughing, but the way he continued to stare at her sent the urge fleeing. “Why are you gawking at me?”
“Who are you?” he asked again, his tone more demanding.
Her temper shortened. “I told you already. Nikki Navarro!”
“Who are you really?” He ground the words between clenched teeth as though she were torturing him.
But he was the one torturing her. Who are you really? That question was the bane of her existence. Who was she, really? The daughter of Carmella Navarro, deceased. Father, unknown. Maternal and paternal relatives, unknown. She had no more roots than that. A family of one. Unless Wedding House held a clue to her father, she would remain an enigma even to herself. But she could hardly tell these two that. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” His tone, his look held sarcasm. He motioned toward the hallway. “Come here and I’ll show you.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Olivia protested.
The plumber ignored her. “Come on.”
Reluctant, yet curious, Nikki followed him, stepping over the velvet cord into the De Vega bedroom suite, and up to the fireplace. He pointed to an oil painting hanging over the mantel.
Nikki gasped.
Behind her Olivia moaned, murmuring something unintelligible.
Nikki paid her no heed, her gaze riveted on the painting. It was the portrait of a bride, caught for posterity in her wedding finery. Her golden blond hair peeked from beneath a snowy, bejeweled veil, the white lace pristine against a face as rich with natural color and beauty as a summer sunset. The artist had been skillful, for the bride’s aquamarine eyes shone with pride, defiance and a touch of some secret sadness.
A loud roaring started in Nikki’s ears. Although she would never describe herself as a natural beauty, she could not deny the resemblance between herself and the bride in the portrait, They might be twins.
The plumber demanded again, “Who are you really?”
Nikki’s knees wobbled. Who was she really? Excitement tangled with confusion inside her, spurring a million questions and one tiny germ of hope that at long last she’d found a clue to her true self. She didn’t know how, but it was impossible she and this woman weren’t related. “Who is the bride in the portrait?”
But she knew even before the plumber said the name.
“Theresa De Vega.”
Chapter Two
“Is this your idea of a joke, Liv?” The plumber growled. “Or did Dorothea put you up to hiring her?”
Nikki swallowed her shock over the portrait. She resented his tone and the way he kept poking his index finger at her. She stepped to within a quarter inch of his touch, her hands planted squarely on her hips. “Excuse me, Mr...plumber...no one hired me for anything. I’m a guest at this establishment.”
His raven eyebrows arched like devil wings as he spun fully toward her. “Are you saying it’s only a weird coincidence that you look like Theresa De Vega’s long-lost twin?”
Coincidence? No, she wouldn’t say that. But what the relationship was needed investigating. “I have never seen a photograph of Theresa De Vega. I certainly didn’t know we resembled each other and I can’t explain it.”
He looked as though he thought she could explain but wouldn’t. The scowl on his captivating face darkened to something akin to a thundercloud. He shifted again toward Olivia Conrad. “Come on, Liv. What gives?”
Crimson blotches appeared on Olivia’s pasty cheeks. She seemed terrified of something. “I...I have no explanation. I was as
surprised as you when I saw her.” She glanced at Nikki, looking as though she’d just remembered something vitally important to her. “Good grief, Christopher. I would appreciate it if you would cease embarrassing me and our guest.”
Our guest? Nikki started. Her gaze darted to the plumber. She’d shared an intense, unnameable energy with this disturbing man from the first moment their glances met. Was he married to Olivia Conrad? The possibility caught her breath.
“I do apologize.” Olivia fluttered, looking as though she feared Nikki would not accept the apology and as though she could throttle the plumber. “In his other life, my rude brother bossed around a rowdy crew of carpenters. Apparently he misses that life.”
“Your brother?” Nikki released the air trapped in her lungs as she now saw the slight family resemblance between brother and sister that had eluded her earlier. She supposed she hadn’t noticed immediately because Christopher was healthily tanned while Olivia had the sallow skin of someone recovering from a long illness.
“Chris, this is Nikki Navarro.” Despite Olivia’s continuing distress, her voice held a reprimand. “The writer I told you about? The one who is considering putting Wedding House in her new coffee table book?”
Chris Conrad’s arresting features twitched as if he was a man with a rock-solid mind-set, a man who didn’t like anyone chipping away at the notions he’d formed. But there was something so tender in the look he now sent his sister, Nikki knew he had a soft side. How she’d love to have a sibling. Siblings.
But she felt nothing sisterly toward Chris Conrad.
He shoved a lock of his wavy ebony hair from his forehead. His damp shirt clung to his muscled belly, his formidable arms; sexuality wafting from him like a heady fragrance.
Nikki grappled with the effect it kept having on her: the heating of her blood, the sweet tingling deep in her belly, the urge to sink into his arms. The compulsion was so powerful it threatened to engulf her. He took a step toward her. She wanted to move back, but she might as well have been standing in ankle-high sand.
His smoldering brown eyes bored into her. “I’m sorry, Ms. Navarro. I didn’t mean to...” Words seemed to fail Chris. He appeared more embarrassed than contrite. His neck grew red. Finally he extended his hand. “I’m sorry. Of course we’re both glad to have you as our guest.”
But neither looked particularly glad, Nikki thought, studying their faces. Chris still had his hand out to her. She eyed it warily. Recalling the sensation of that hand on her shoulder, she wasn’t sure she wanted to touch him again. But why should she be rude? Hesitantly she offered her own hand. And immediately wished she hadn’t.
The contact once again felt electric. Her mouth dried. “You’re forgiven, Mr. Conrad.”
“It’s Chris,” Olivia said, seeming a bit more nervous than she’d been earlier. Nikki couldn’t decide if the woman was worried about Wedding House’s inclusion in her new book, or about what her resemblance to the bride in the portrait might mean. Olivia’s smile faltered. “We needn’t be formal, need we?”
“Of course not,” Nikki said, trying to ease the woman’s distress, though she couldn’t ease her own. In ten short minutes, everything she’d known about herself had been shattered into a million tiny pieces.
Olivia sighed noisily. “Well then, I’m sure Nikki would like to get settled in her room, now that the bathroom is fixed. It is fixed, right, Chris?”
“Right.”
“Good. I’ve got to see that everything is ready for breakfast. Oh, it’s served between seven and eight-thirty in the morning, Nikki. In the dining room. Just follow your nose.”
Nikki and Chris trailed Olivia into the hallway. As Nikki retrieved her carry-on and turned toward her room, she felt Chris watching her. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to so discomfit him, that he would quickly look away. Apparently Chris Conrad didn’t play those games. He stared at her with bold curiosity. And with a flicker in the depths of his eyes that she would swear was fear.
“Chris?” Olivia beckoned from the top of the stairs. “Are you coming? I really need to speak to you.”
“I’ll be right there.” He gathered his toolbox and moved away, muttering beneath his breath, “I swear this opening is one disaster after another.”
Nikki shivered and glanced after him as he descended to the floor below, wondering if he meant she was the latest in a string of disasters. Or had her first impression of Wedding House—that it held both beauty and evil—been more on the mark than she knew? Was there malice afoot? Was someone sabotaging the Conrads’ grand opening?
“What’s the matter this time?” The softly asked question jolted Nikki. She jerked toward the first room along the hallway. The library, if she recalled correctly. A woman of about thirty-five, tall and lean with a shock of white-blond hair the color and texture of a scoop of French-vanilla ice cream, was eyeing her curiously. “Another tragedy?”
A shiver scurried down Nikki’s spine. “Another?”
“Seems like one thing after the other is vexing that sexy man.” She started toward Nikki.
“He does seem to have a temper,” Nikki said, recalling the trouble Chris Conrad had had apologizing. As the woman neared, Nikki thought she looked familiar, but was unable to say why.
“I’m Marti McAllister Wolf.”
Nikki blinked, recognition flashing into her brain. “The mystery writer?”
“In the flesh.”
Nikki laughed. In The Flesh was the title of Marti’s third book, the one that had lifted her from literary obscurity onto the New York Times Bestseller List. “I’m a big fan of yours. I’ve read all ten of your Bambi and Bruno mysteries.”
“How wonderful.” Marti’s intense hazel eyes narrowed on Nikki like twin microscopes. But since Nikki stood in the shadow of her doorway, she doubted Marti had seen her fully yet, not enough to realize she was speaking to a clone of the woman in the portrait. “And does my newly discovered fan have a name?”
Nikki introduced herself. Her name hadn’t the same effect on the mystery author as Marti’s had had on Nikki. Nikki gripped the handle of her carry-on tighter. “Actually I’m a writer, too, though I guess photojour-nalist might be more appropriate. My present project is Bed and Breakfasts of the Northwest. A coffee table book.”
“Really? How interesting. I considered doing a bed and breakfast series once. You know, Bambi and Bruno do the B and B circuit, but I didn’t want to cut in on Mary Dahiem’s territory. Besides, my mysteries are considerably darker than Mary’s. In fact, for my workin-progress I’m borrowing some of the elements of the De Vega tragedy.”
Nikki stepped into the light.
Marti gasped. Her eyes rounded. “Holy Joe, has anyone ever mentioned that you—”
“Resemble Theresa De Vega?” Nikki finished for her. “I’ve only just discovered it myself.”
Marti shook her head. Her thick vanilla hair bobbed slightly. “You could be her daughter.”
“Oh, no. I’m sure I’m not.” But am I? For the second time in twenty minutes, the riveting thought stole through Nikki’s mind like a dank and clammy fog. Carmella’s hair had been black, her eyes coffee-brown. All of her life Nikki had thought she’d gotten her blue eyes and blond hair from her father. Now she didn’t know what to think.
She wasn’t, however, ready to embrace the alien notion of being Theresa’s daughter, couldn’t countenance such disloyalty to the woman who’d raised her, the only mother she’d ever known. And yet, there had to be some familial connection between herself and the woman in the portrait. Would it lead her to her father?
Maybe. Just maybe. For this actually gave her the first ever solid lead. A place to start. “I have to admit, though, that I am curious about the resemblance. Since you’re writing a book on the tragedy, I assume you’ve done some research on the De Vegas?”
“As much as I could. There is very little known about them, actually.”
Nikki’s hope wobbled. Please, God, not another dead end. “Would you k
now Theresa’s maiden name?”
“Ah, an easy one.” Marti grinned. “Aznar.”
“Aznar.” No, it meant nothing to Nikki. She’d never heard her mother mention anyone named Aznar. But it was the one thing she’d never had. A name. A solid lead. Excitement licked through her. If only she could get on the Internet now. But she hadn’t even lifted her computer from its case. She gestured toward her bag. “I hope you won’t think me rude, but I need to unpack....”
“No, of course not. I only came up to...to donate a couple of my mysteries to the Conrads’ collection.” Marti pointed along to the library, stepping back as she spoke, retreating. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I suspect you aren’t through asking questions about Theresa De Vega.”
Before Nikki could respond, Marti spun on her heel and hurried to the stairs. Nikki stared after her for a long moment. Then the silence of the third floor began settling around her, the quiet somehow rife with tension as though the house held its breath.
Shuddering at the creepy sensation, she quickly wheeled the carry-on into her room and shut the door, locking it behind her. She inhaled shakily, her gaze flying over the room as though she expected demons to leap from every corner. But other than the gloomy decor—blues, whites and grays, like the waves of an ocean in turmoil—it seemed a safe, if compact, harbor.
The furniture, as eclectic a grouping of antiques as any other B & B fare, were expensive, well-preserved and well-cared-for pieces. As though each item—an oak headboard, a maple dresser, a walnut rocker, and a pine desk—had been hand-picked, rescued, like puppies from a dog pound. And were just as beloved.
This couldn’t be a regular guest room. It must be Olivia’s room. After all, her brother had the only other usable bedroom on this floor. Nikki sighed and shook her head. The woman was so desperate to have Wedding House in the new coffee table book, she had given up her own room.
Not that that would ensure it would get in.
Nikki searched the walls, noting with a mixture of disappointment and frustration that there was no phone outlet in the room. She’d have to wait until tomorrow to go on-line—providing there was an outlet she could use somewhere in the mansion. She lifted the carry-on onto the bed and began unpacking.