“Do you have another place in mind where you would rather see me naked in the middle of the night?” His voice was the low purr of a very large cat. “I would be happy to give you a close, personal showing of any part—”
Heat rushed up Ana’s neck and filled her cheeks. “You have problems!” Afraid she would melt into a puddle of embarrassing goo, Ana quickly added, “You have a girlfriend!” before he could think to finish his torture.
“Tina?” He grinned. “She’s not my girlfriend. We’re…” He rubbed his chin, something he did a lot when he was thinking. “Friends of sorts.”
Something about that wasn’t nearly attractive. If anything, the offhanded way he said it, completely turned her off.
Ana took a step back, then side stepped him. “Thanks, but I’m not interested.”
He let her take two steps away from him before calling after her, “The offer is ongoing for whenever, tigress.”
She stopped and whirled on him, snarling, “My name isn’t tigress!”
His teeth flashed in a broad smile. “I know.”
Her fingers tightened around the plastic basket handles. “Then stop calling me that!”
He slicked his tongue over his bottom lip, slow and sensual. I won’t look! I. Won’t. Look! Yet her gaze followed the slow, smooth glide and her stomach clenched. Damn it!
“Would you prefer mi Rosa?”
Ana blinked, surprised out of her tempted agony. “What?”
He closed the space between them with a single step. “It’s your name isn’t it? Roseanna?” He rolled the R, she noted, so her name literally came out a low, husky drawl the way Hispanic people pronounced it — Rrrrosannaaa. Damn if it didn’t sound sexy as all sin rolling off his lips.
Her eyes widened. “How did—?”
“Oh, I know plenty about you.” He stepped lazily around her in circles, caging her in like small prey in the sights of a panther. “Roseanna French from Toronto, Ontario. Only child of Caroline and Richard French. Owner of Bitzy—”
“Mitzy,” she corrected without thinking.
His grin broadened as if she’d just proven his point. “Mitzy.” He ran his tongue over his lower lip. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he squinted at her. “What kind of name is Mitzy for a male cat anyway?”
Too offended by the insinuation, she didn’t think to ask how he knew the gender of her cat.
“It’s a perfectly normal name,” she retorted defensively. “The kind a little girl would give her pet kitten if she didn’t know she was actually a he and her parents didn’t have the heart to tell her until it was too late.” Which probably explained why the cat was so grumpy all the time. But she wasn’t going to tell him that.
His teeth flashed in an enormous smile. “That’s adorable.”
Her cheeks burned. “Shut up!”
He laughed.
“How do you know any of this anyway?” she demanded.
He stopped in front of her and set a finger mere inches from her lips. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”
Ana glowered, batting his hand away. “You mean a stalker.”
He shrugged carelessly. “Tomato. Tomäto.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean anything,” she said definitively, hating that she actually felt like she’d lost some unspoken challenge between them. It felt worse because all she knew about him was his name and that he was impossibly gorgeous and unbearably arrogant. “You could have heard all that just walking into town.”
He jerked a shoulder again. “Possibly, but it’s going to drive you nuts trying to figure it out.” And it really was.
She straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “I have to go. It wasn’t a pleasure.”
“I’ll see you around, mi Rosa.”
Her teeth gritted together. “My name is Ana. Just Ana.”
His eyes twinkled down at her. “Not when you’re blushing like that, which you do a lot around me I noticed.”
She tried not to add to the blush she could feel rising in temperature beneath her skin, but it was impossible when he kept staring at her with that daring smirk on his face.
“I’m not blushing.” She wet her lips before adding. “It’s bad lighting in here.”
He snorted. “I’m Rafe.”
She planted her hands on her hips a little too triumphantly. “I know.” It was a sick sort of satisfaction knowing at least one thing about him. “Is that short for something?”
“Rafael.”
A brow shot up. “Like the angel?”
The predatory glint returned to his eyes as he did the I’m-in-your-space-and-stealing-all-your-air thing and loomed over her. He dropped his head until their noses almost touched.
“Oh no, my darling little Rosa,” he purred, washing her cheeks with cool, mint scented breath. “I am much too naughty for heaven.” Biting his lip, he eyed her parted mouth with a dark glint of hunger before meeting her gaze again. “But I’d be happy to take you there. You only have but to ask.”
At her strangled inhale, he snickered. He gave her a sly wink before slipping around her and strolling out of sight.
Chapter Three
Ana
Ana left the store weighed down with two paper bags brimming with enough groceries to last a few days. She squeezed through the automatic doors and picked her way carefully down the sidewalk to the truck. In her hand, the truck keys jingled as she flipped to find the right one. Several times her thumb poked the panic button, sending the alarm bursting to life in the quiet afternoon. Heads turned in her direction. She tried to ignore the stares as she popped the locks.
With her things safely tucked into the backseat, she hurried to the driver’s side. She had one hand on the handle when blaring music had her glancing back over her shoulder. What she saw had her blood pressure spiking.
Several parked cars down, black paint gleaming in the sunlight, was the Firebird that had nearly ran her off the road. But what was more shocking — or maybe not shocking enough — was the figure leaning against the driver’s side door, a pretty blonde in his arms. Rafe. He was impossible not to recognize with his black t-shirt, dark jeans and impossibly messy hair. The person Ana didn’t recognize was the girl pressing her assets into his chest like an offering to the Gods as she leaned up on her tiptoes and whispered something into his ear. It was not the girl from the previous night. This girl, although shockingly blonde, was shorter, rounder and had a face littered with freckles. She was hands down prettier than Tina, which begged the question, who was she and was she about to get a free ride to heaven on Rafe’s broomstick?
Ana bit her lip with a building sense of annoyance. Granted, he wasn’t really touching her back, but in Ana’s mind, that didn’t matter. He wasn’t exactly pushing her away either.
Neither glanced up when she slipped into the truck and slammed the door closed with more force than was necessary. She cursed at the bitter tang of something cold and nasty clogging the back of her throat. She told herself it was anger towards him for nearly getting her dad’s car wrecked, but there was more to it than that and it annoyed the crap out of her.
“Whatever,” she muttered grudgingly. Let him be with every girl in town … the world. She didn’t care. Why would she? “I don’t!”
She started the truck and eased from her spot. It took a lot of berating not to peek through the rearview mirror as she drove past the pair.
There was a van parked outside the house when she got home. A man was standing beside it, peering at the house with a very annoyed, confused furrow on his brow. He glanced up when Ana pulled in beside him and killed the engine.
He was a short man with a pregnant woman’s belly straining the front of a worn, green t-shirt. There were tufts of greasy black hair curling all over his body and he had a large, flat nose that made his face appear much rounder than it was under the brim of his tattered baseball cap.
She rolled down the passenger’s side window. “Can I help you?”
The man consulted his
clipboard again before answering, “I’m looking for Richard French?”
“That’s my dad,” she told him. “Did you need something?”
“I’m Jacob Whiley. I’m here to install the cables.”
Ana threw open her door and hopped out. She circled the truck and faced the man. “My father said you’d be by today.”
Jacob Whiley held open his arms as if expecting a hug. “And here I am.”
Ana didn’t comment. She motioned for him to follow her to the house. But he didn’t move. He was staring at the house again, a contemplating look on his face.
“Something wrong?” she asked, fidgeting with the keys in her hands.
He ran a large, hairy hand over his mouth, watchful eyes still glued on the house. “I … I just … I haven’t been here in a long time.”
Ana looked at the house as well. “Did you know the people who lived here?”
A stained handkerchief was freed from the pocket of his pants and used to mop the sweat from his brow and the back of his neck. “Yeah. I used to go to school with the kid. That was way back when though. There have been other families.” He hesitated. “But they never lasted long.”
Her brows pulled together. “Why?”
Images of rodent infestations piled high in her mind. Images of little scurrying legs in the dark, scuttling up walls, falling from the ceilings … onto her face while she slept. With a gag, Ana shuddered, breaking out of that nightmare. She could almost feel little legs creeping up her spine and she shuddered again, rubbing the goose bumps crawling up her arms.
Mr. Whiley didn’t notice her reaction to his ominous declaration. He seemed mesmerized by the house looming over them.
The house was a two story saltbox, freshly painted burgundy with white trim around the roof, doors and windows. Someone — the realtor, Ana guessed — had taken great pains to make the house appear welcoming by planting geraniums in the window boxes beneath every frame on the main floor and there was a jungle of bright flowers strategically placed along the curving path to the front porch. Bushes lined along the bottom of the railings stretching from either side of the house. It looked to Ana as though someone had taken great care of the place. There was nothing remotely ominous about it so she couldn’t understand why Mr. Whiley was watching it with such apprehension.
Then, he turned to her, so suddenly she jumped in surprise. “Why did you folks move here?”
Ana blinked. “Excuse me?”
Around them, the trees rustled. A wind peppered with wildflowers, moist dirt and summer swept through, tangling Ana’s hair. She pushed the knots back and stared at the man watching her. A war was raging behind his squinty eyes like he had something on his chest that, as much as he wanted, he couldn’t dislodge.
“Nothing,” he said at last, turning his head away. “Lead the way.”
On the porch, Ana wondered if letting this guy into the house with her was a good idea. He was creepy, and what’s more, he kept glancing around as if expecting the house to grow fangs and take a chomp out of him. But she was forced to follow through by letting him through the front door; her parents were expecting the guy and her mom would be furious if the phone lines and fax machine weren’t set up by the time she got home. Inside, she showed Mr. Whiley her mom’s office, her parent’s bedroom, her bedroom, the kitchen, the living room and the basement.
Mr. Whiley paused, removing his battered green baseball cap and scratching the top of his balding head. “You want a phone line in all these places?”
Ana nodded. “Yes, please.”
She didn’t know about the rest of Chipawaha Creek, but judging from the surprise on Mr. Whiley’s face, the French family was the only one who had that many lines running through their house. It was clear that Mr. Whiley and the rest of Chipawaha Creek didn’t know her mother, or how impossible to be around she got if she wasn’t within two feet of a phone at all times. Ana didn’t tell Mr. Whiley that. Instead, she gave him a small smile and left him to finish the job.
While he went to the van to get his things, Ana brought in the groceries and squeezed her way through the jungle of boxes into the kitchen. She put the items away, stepping around things to reach the fridge and cupboards. Although her miserly purchases made no dent in the vast tombs of the cupboard, she was satisfied that she wouldn’t starve until one of her parents made time to do a proper shopping trip. Folding up the paper bags, she stuffed them beneath the sink, dusted her hands and was about to leave. Instead, with a resigned sigh, she turned on the boxes hiding the pea-green cupboards, marble counters and white tiling. It needs to be done eventually, she mused.
Upstairs, heavy footfalls thundered along the ceiling as Mr. Whiley roamed from room to room. Occasionally, the scuffles erupted in a shrilling buzz followed by more scuffling, scraping and cussing. Thankfully, Ana unearthed the kitchen radio in the first box she opened. She wasted no time plugging it in and finding a rock station. The sound of Pink Floyd crooning about receding pain filled the silence. Ana didn’t know the lyrics, but she hummed along as she ripped newspapers away from neatly wrapped dishes. When Mr. Whiley entered the kitchen, she had most of the boxes emptied and collapsed in the corner. She showed him where her mom wanted the jack put in and left him to it while she went to fix herself a sandwich. She took it into the living room and sat on the armrest of the sofa to eat.
Def Leppard was playing softly from the kitchen. Ana watched the swaying trees outside the large bay window as she nibbled on her sandwich and lost herself in the lyrics. It was only because static claimed the melody and a low buzzing took its place that she jolted out of her thoughts. A cold draft swept through the room, ruffling the curtains and bathing Ana in chills. The plate in her hand trembled as she climbed to her feet, shivering.
“Mr. Whiley?” She padded into the kitchen.
The man was where she’d left him, seemingly untouched by the phantom breeze hanging as thick as arctic air throughout the house. He glanced up when she walked in, a screwdriver clamped between his teeth.
“Did you open a window, or a door?” she asked.
Bushy eyebrows tangling in confusion, Mr. Whiley snatched the device from his teeth. “No. Why?”
Ana shook her head, feeling too silly to actually voice that there was a chill only she could feel. “I … nothing. Sorry.”
He didn’t look like he believed her, but the screwdriver was back in his mouth and he was turning to the task of wiring the jack.
Bottom lip caught between her teeth, Ana shuffled out of the room. The hardwood creaked beneath her feet as she wandered into the hallway. On her left was the living room. On her right was the door to the basement. She stopped in the middle. Ahead of her were the foyer and the front door, which was closed. Across from the door was the stairs leading upstairs. Between the door and the stairs, down a short hall on the left, was the dining room. But Ana didn’t have to go any further than where she was standing, because the freezing draft was blowing through the crack under the basement door.
The door was thick and crafted from cherry wood, a normal door with a normal brass doorknob. Ana had never been down there, but the longer she stood there, her ankles bathed in cold, the more certain she was that she wanted to keep it that way. Nevertheless, her fingers were reaching for the knob. She hissed as it pressed into her palm like a lump of ice. It gave easily beneath her touch. Then, like any good, spooky basement door, it creaked as it swung outward, slapping her in the face with a darkness too black to be real. It was thick. She was sure she could reach out and touch it, and despite the chill wafting up, the dark beat hot like an open wound. Then, as she stared into it, she could have sworn it … or something in it stared back. The feeling struck her dead center, a cold punch that sunk straight through flesh and bones to the very marrow. She gasped, tightening her grip on the knob.
Ana had never been afraid of the dark. She had never been one of those kids who slept with a nightlight or a security blanket. Maybe because her mother had always been a no-nons
ense sort of person and a lot of that rubbed off on her. But she was scared. She was so scared her insides threatened to pour out of her body. Her heart was fighting to climb out of her throat. Her skin was clammy with cold sweat. Logic told her to just shut the door and let someone else handle it, like Dad when he got home in the morning. But it was just a basement. It was just a dark, cold basement with nothing but cobwebs and spiders. There was no such thing as—
“Excuse me?”
Crash! The dish she’d forgotten she was holding, shattered at her feet. The hall exploded with her scream.
Mr. Whiley jumped, giving a startled yelp. The toolbox in his hand dropped, hitting the top of his foot. He cried out, doubling over.
“Oh my God!” Hands squished to her thundering heart, Ana rushed to him, her own terror forgotten. “Are you all right?”
With a grunt, Mr. Whiley straightened, still rubbing the top of his foot through his worn sneakers. “Yeah.” He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out his handkerchief. He dabbed at the beads of sweat puckering up along his brow and upper lip. “I called from the kitchen,” he explained, stuffing the scrap of fabric back into his pants pocket. “I guess you didn’t hear me.”
Slicking her lips, Ana dared a glance towards the basement door, still open, still staring … She shook her head, turning back to Mr. Whiley. “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry. Was there something you needed?”
He picked up his toolbox. “The upstairs wiring and the kitchen are done,” he gestured to the basement. “Just that one left to do.”
“You know what,” Ana jumped in his path when he started around her. “That one is not necessary.”
Mr. Whiley’s eyebrows grouped together. “But I thought you said your parents—”
“They do!” she agreed. “But—”
“Then I should do it!”
Betraying Innocence Page 4