by Adrianne Lee
“Only everything. The actress I hired to play Theresa can’t be found. Seems she skipped with the airfare Olivia put out for her at my behest.”
“That’s too bad.” Nikki relaxed a modicum.
“I don’t suppose you’d save my bacon and fill in? Please.”
Nikki shook her head, hating to deflate the hopeful look in the older woman’s eyes. “I’m no act—”
“Oh, the role doesn’t require acting, only reacting.”
“Sorry, I’m much too busy with my own work.”
Dorothea sighed and nodded toward the camera dangling from Nikki’s neck. “So I see. Would you like a shot of me? Then you can take another after Olivia kills me.” She struck a pose, inadvertently splashing some of the liquid from the cup onto the hip of her jumpsuit. Dorothea swore and brushed at it. “Now there’s a waste of good Russian vodka.”
Nikki couldn’t help thinking this woman’s high voice made her sound too young to be drinking alcohol, and that she must really be upset, drinking before noon. “Surely, there are other actresses. Seattle has to be a great resource and you wouldn’t have the outlay of more airfare.”
“Yes, I know. But the actress we were flying in from California looked like Theresa. Not as much as you, of course.” She gave her a regretful half smile. “Authenticity is very important to this play.”
Inexplicably her words chilled Nikki. Dorothea retreated into the ballroom, and Nikki hurried for the stairs. Her mind whirled to the publicity stunt Dorothea had planned a few hours earlier, and she realized the woman wasn’t merely presenting an enactment of the De Vega tragedy, she was exploiting it. Why? In order to titillate an audience of prospective guests? Or to ensure Wedding House had no future?
Nikki glanced at the open ballroom door. What was Dorothea getting out of her part in this? A huge salary? Or something less obvious? Perhaps some personal satisfaction that no one suspected? How well did Olivia know this woman? Could she be the one sabotaging the mansion? Was she crying “poor me” about the actress and the airfare to throw suspicion from herself?
Or was Nikki on the wrong track altogether?
Frowning, she stepped outside. The clouds had gone and the sun shone like a heat lamp, warming the morning with brilliant rays of golden light The air tasted briny, yet fresh, and rang with the clamor of a pair of squabbling seagulls. Nikki felt her dark mood lifting with the soft breeze from the bay. She pulled her camera from its case, removed the lens cap and peered through the viewfinder, first at the gulls, then at the pleasure craft knifing through the glittering waters.
She snapped a couple of shots, then pivoted, swinging the lens over the landscaping and redbrick driveway. Two cars were parked there, one a rental, the other licensed locally. Probably belonged to Dorothea. Again, she wondered about the woman. Should she mention her misgivings to Chris? At least mention the séance?
She had no idea where to find him. Had no proof, just suspicions—that might well be unfounded. She forced her attention to the house. Her practiced eye swept from roof to portico, from turret to turret, her inner focus on camera angles. Within moments, she’d plotted how best to visually capture the aura that would most appeal to travelers, and she set about committing the images to film.
“It’s interesting, don’t you think?”
Nikki swung her camera toward the speaker. Diego Sands. The architect. Her mouth dried. She lowered the camera and forced a smile. “And very beautiful. But I suppose you’re talking from a structural angle, while I’m referring to the visual.”
“Sadness.” Diego Sands’s dark eyes bored into her like beacons searching her soul He lifted his hand as though he might touch her hair.
The thought sent a cold shiver down her spine. She shifted a step away from him.
He dropped his hand and smiled at her. “I’ve always been sensitive to the pervasive influences of happiness and sadness. Like this house, you seem to have some deep sadness in your heart.”
Nikki flinched as though he’d struck her, as though he’d touched that icy spot inside her. But she didn’t answer him. The secrets of her heart were none of his business. She raised her camera again and snapped his photo. “You find the house sad, then?”
He laughed, looked away, then back at Nikki. “So, are you related to Theresa Aznar?”
Nikki’s throat seemed to close. She straightened and peered over the camera at him. Was she Theresa’s daughter? Or perhaps Theresa was her aunt? Her father’s sister? With difficulty she said, “I didn’t even know I looked like her until I saw the portrait last night.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I have no reason to believe so,” she lied. She disliked his questioning, suspected it was more than curiosity. But why? He’d called Theresa by her maiden name. Had he known her? Known Luis? Could he answer any of her questions?
“The resemblance suggests a connection.” He looked hopeful in a way that echoed something deep inside Nikki. That disturbed her. “Perhaps a blood tie.”
“Did you—”
“Yoo-hoo, Mr. Sands.” Lorah Halliard was emerging from the gardens.
Diego grimaced, then with a resigned smile, excused himself and trudged toward the psychic as though fearing she might see something dreadful in his future.
“We aren’t finished with this conversation, Mr. Sands,” Nikki whispered. “Especially if you have information about my relatives.”
She forced herself to finish the shots she wanted of the house, then decided to inspect the pool. She hoped to be able to use it during her visit here. In high school, she’d been a champion swimmer, and laps were still her favorite form of exercise. Considering the tension in her muscles, she should use it now.
As though a cloud had crossed the sun, Nikki felt the flesh rising on her neck, that eerie sense of being watched...again. She glanced back at the house. She couldn’t see anyone, but the sensation loomed with a life of its own, clinging to her like an itchy robe. She was beginning to hate this mansion. She thought of the secret sadness in Theresa De Vega’s eyes. Had she, also, come to hate Wedding House?
The ground leveled suddenly as Nikki approached the six-foot-high white wrought-iron fence surrounding the pool. The water gleamed a brilliant false shade of aqua, reflecting off the glass doors of the cabana.
She scanned the building. It seemed to have a basement or second story below, accessed by the path leading to the beach. The boathouse maybe? She raised her camera and began snapping photos. Through the viewfinder, the cabana had an old-fashioned elegance like something out of a Lana Turner movie. Lana had been her mother’s favorite actress.
Or was that a lie? Had Carmella Navarro actually been her mother? Would she discover that everything she knew about the woman who’d raised her was false? The cold spot in her heart was spreading like ice on a winter pond.
A man walked across her vision. Her pulse jumped, and her finger came down automatically on the shutter. Chris Conrad. He seemed to fill the viewfinder, to crawl into her head like an unwanted virus blasting her nervous system, robbing her of logic and resolve, leaving her vulnerable to the mysterious and compelling attraction that seemed to grow between them with each encounter.
She would not respond. Would not let her feelings for him mature into anything more than mutual respect. And, after this morning, she did respect him.
He looked slightly taken aback, slightly amused. “Changed clothes, huh?”
“Yes.” But he hadn’t. He wore faded jeans and a faded blue denim shirt with the sleeves rolled to mid-forearm—glorious forearms with dense ebony hair emphasizing his tanned skin. Her pulse skipped pleasantly, and she lowered the camera. Their gazes met and held.
Chris felt as though the air had been sucked from his lungs. She was as breathtaking in those jeans and T-shirt as she’d been in that sexy dress earlier. And that hat, hell, it made her look like a kid. Almost. He inhaled raggedly, clutching the metal No Lifeguard On Duty sign he’d been about to hang, until the edge dug into
his palm.
He didn’t want to notice the way the sun danced off the golden tendrils of hair peeking from her cap, the way it kissed her bronzed skin, warmed her aquamarine eyes. Didn’t want to acknowledge his body’s reaction to her, the ache to pull her into his arms and ravage her lush mouth.
She gestured toward the cabana. “Did you restore this, too?”
“A coat of paint inside, some new furniture.” He glanced at the building. “The outside was a mess, though. In places the stucco was chipped off completely, exposing the chicken wire mesh. Gulls can do a lot of damage.”
She nodded toward the sign he held. “Does that mean the pool is available at all hours?”
“I suppose it does. Are you a swimmer?” She had a swimmer’s body—long, lean and firm in all the right places.
“Actually, yes. It’s my favorite way to unwind and I’m feeling in real need of unwinding.”
“Oh? Anything ‘new’ I should know about?”
She seemed to want to tell him something, then changed her mind. His curiosity was piqued, but from what he’d learned about her thus far, he doubted push ing was the way to get her to open up. He spun on his heel and strode past her. Plucking a screwdriver from his back jeans pocket, he began bolting the sign to the gate.
“Let me help.” She lifted one corner of the sign.
He gazed down at her, and something warm and erotic reached into him. His throat seemed to shrink. He pulled his gaze from hers and concentrated on the sign, but their fingers brushed and his blood felt hot in his veins.
His gaze dropped to a spot of patched concrete near his left foot. It reminded him of the rift he’d felt inside himself this past year, a sense that he was splitting in two and nothing could patch him together again. He feared the self he knew, wanted to be, would break off and fall away, leaving him as insane as his uncle.
For some reason this woman made his grip on his emotions slip with breakneck speed.
“There we go.” He tightened the last bolt and stepped away from her. The best thing he could do was keep a safe distance between this enticing woman and himself. Starting right now. He’d just retrieve his toolbox and head back to the mansion.
Instead, he heard himself say, “Would you like to take some photos inside the cabana?”
“Yes, actually.”
He slid open the glass door, the only window in the large room. Wicker furniture stood grouped for conversation on a tile floor. The fluffy seat cushions bore bright flowers in rainbow colors and smelled new. A liberally stocked wet bar hugged the left corner wall. “How about a drink?”
“Mineral water, please.”
He stepped behind the bar, gathered two plastic disposable glasses and a bottle of mineral water, then turned toward Nikki. Her inviting gaze landed on him, and Chris felt as though he’d been kicked in the gut. He pulled air into his constricted lungs. What was it about her that had him wanting to run like hell for the nearest desert island one minute, and fantasizing about swimming with her in his pool the next?
She’d bewitched him. From the moment they’d met, the first second he’d laid eyes on her, she’d latched on to his heart, his emotions, his thoughts. Why? Why this woman who so resembled the woman who’d driven his uncle insane? What had brought her to Wedding House? Something about her was eerie and irresistible. As though his blood connection to his uncle had drawn her to him. As though they would have met no matter what. Was that possible? Did things like that really happen?
Terror grabbed him—not because the universe could set events in motion, but at the thought that history might repeat itself. That he might be a threat to Nikki. That he might destroy her as Luis had destroyed the bride she resembled.
Cold fear settled at the base of his spine. No. If Nikki had secrets, they could mean nothing to him. Couldn’t make him violent He didn’t know this woman as Luis had known Theresa. Didn’t love her. Dared not get involved with her.
Damn, he wanted to get away from here. If not for Liv, he’d leave today. This minute.
“How well do you know Jorge?” she asked.
The question rescued him from his dangerous musings. He frowned. “Jorge? My groundskeeper?”
Nikki nodded and reached for her drink. “I had a rather unsettling encounter with him upstairs a while ago.”
“Oh?” Chris felt something odd twist inside him as she related the incident. Something deeper than a proprietor taking offense for a guest. Something akin to outrage. How dare Rameriz? How dare anyone threaten one hair on her precious head?
Heat climbed his neck, and his hand fisted so tightly around the plastic glass it popped, slicing into his palm. Icy mineral water oozed through his fingers. Along with blood.
He swore.
“Oh, my. You’ve cut yourself.” Nikki rounded the counter. Snatching up a dish towel, she grasped his hand in hers and wrapped the towel around it.
“It’s okay,” he protested, trying to pull free, totally embarrassed by the attention. She gripped him harder. She was stronger than she looked. Smelled better than anything he’d been close to in a long while. Her delicate scent filled his nostrils and zinged straight to his heart.
His throat felt too thick, his tongue knotted. Say something, idiot. Anything. “Jorge’s usually quiet. Keeps to himself. Tends the flowerbeds. Keeps the yard workers operating on schedule.”
Why the hell was he defending the groundskeeper? He’d like to ring the man’s neck. “I’ll speak to him. Make certain he stays away from you.”
“Don’t be too hard on him. I suppose I startled him—looking like the portrait and all.”
Yes, he could understand how that might startle Rameriz. Her resemblance to Theresa was startling. Especially to him. But he was impressed with her request for fair treatment of someone who’d attacked her. As he’d feared, Nikki Navarro wasn’t just another pretty face. This woman had compassion. And depth. What would he find if he began peeling back the layers? The question filled him with the urge to run again.
His body resisted. A force he could neither name nor ignore brought his uninjured hand to her face, and he cupped her cheek in his palm, her skin silken and warm against his. She didn’t pull back, but closed her eyes, sighed. His pulse twanged with a note that was clear and sweet, and he lowered his lips to hers. Gently, as though sipping from a honeyed urn, he tasted her lush mouth, the flavor something he’d waited his whole life to savor.
Her response was so delicate, so giving, a wildfire exploded through his veins. He pulled back, shaken by the intensity threatening to overwhelm him and push him beyond the walls of good judgment He saw the look of wonder in her eyes, the same amazement and questioning he was feeling. His breath, quick and shallow, seemed to tangle with hers like delicate, unbreakable threads pulling them together for another kiss.
“Chris? Are you here?” Olivia called.
Chris and Nikki lurched apart. He answered, “Yes, Liv.”
He tossed the towel into the sink and hurried out to meet his sister.
Nikki slumped against the bar, listening to the Conrads. Olivia said, “I need you in the ballroom. Dorothea must have left a window open when she went home last night.”
“What happened?” Chris sounded as though he couldn’t care less. “Did her costumes get damp or something?”
“Worse. A bird flew into the room. We can’t get it out or catch it. Dorothea is hysterical. She’s sure it will soil the costumes or peck her eyes out.”
He cursed. “I swear, Liv, these incident can’t be random.”
Chris’s voice grew less distinct and Nikki stepped from the cabana in time to see that the Conrads were halfway to the house. She couldn’t believe she’d allowed herself to be swept into a kiss with Chris. She didn’t have time for a relationship. Couldn’t make room for one in her life. She had the book assignment, and her family to find. Both would occupy every waking minute.
But she couldn’t forget the protective glint she’d seen at the back of his warm eyes, the ou
trage as she’d related the incident with Jorge. Couldn’t deny her reaction to his kiss. Her desire that he kiss her again.
God, she didn’t need this complication. Didn’t want to get to know Chris Conrad any better. Her nerves felt frayed. Maybe a walk on the beach would blunt some of her edginess. As she reached the next terraced level, she peeked into the boathouse.
The inside smelled of oil and creosote and rotting seaweed. Life preservers and an old pair of water skis hung from the walls, ready for use. There were three boat slips, empty, each fitted with sling like straps which she assumed held boats suspended when the tide was out as it was now. She gazed down into one of the seemingly endless pits and realized a person could break his or her neck if unfortunate enough to fall through one of these openings.
Or were pushed.
The terrifying thought brought her jerking around. But she was alone. No one lurked in the inky shadows waiting to attack her.
Shivering, she hurried out into the warm sun and scurried down to the beach. It was deserted. And suddenly, a walk by herself no longer appealed. She turned back up the path.
Maybe one of her contacts had e-mailed her already. It was early, but she wanted to check.
She scooted past the boathouse, half expecting Jorge to leap out at her. Her pulse boomed in her ears. The warm air did nothing to still the goose bumps rising on her bare arms, nothing to dispel the feeling someone was still watching her. Spying on her. She scanned the grounds, but saw no one. In fact, no one seemed to be outdoors.
Suppressing a shudder and the urge to run, she picked up her pace and climbed the path. She glanced at the house. Her gaze darted from window to window. All she could see was the sun reflecting back at her.
As she neared the pool the hair at her nape prickled. She cast a nervous glimpse through the wrought-iron fence. Deserted. Still, her nerves jarred with every step.
She was breathless when she gained the redbrick drive. She slowed her pace, edging close to the house. Her gaze was riveted to the rhododendron bushes that hid the main gardens beyond the portico.
Would Jorge come scurrying out with his chisel again? Stab her this time?