When her crazy Aunt Belinda dies, leaving her a big old house in Maine along with a box of Tarot cards, Diana takes the opportunity for a summer get-away away from the rat-race of Boston and the painful memories there.
She doesn’t expect to meet up with Ethan Tannock, the handsome neighbor next door who seems to be some sort of eccentric ghost-buster—along with his big, black Labrador Retriever.
But when the old house becomes the scene of vandalism and a number of break-ins, and it begins to appear as if Aunt Belinda’s death was not as it seemed, Diana finds that life isn’t always black and white and filled with logic.
And then there are Aunt Belinda’s Tarot cards...which seem to be trying to tell her something from beyond the grave.
Diana began to walk up a slight incline to Main Street. It was early on Thursday morning, and although it was still early June, summer tourists were already filling the town.
After turning in her parcels at the post office, she made a beeline for a small cafe, whose painted sign proclaimed the availability of lattés and cappuccinos and espressos. Real coffee! Maybe this was a more civilized little town than she realized. Diana ordered a double cap to go and continued down the street, sipping the heavenly drink with relief.
It felt odd not to have to go anywhere or be on a schedule. And although there was work waiting for her back at Aunt Belinda’s—both professional and personal—the quaint town of Damariscotta lulled her into allowing herself a reprieve, and Diana strolled beyond the post office and past a small camera shop.
Next, there was a small structure set back from the sidewalk with a tiny yard and an open, narrow doorway. Used Books, its sign read. Before she knew it, her feet had propelled her down the cracked and shifting sidewalk, up the single step, and into a musty bookshop.
An oscillating fan blew in the direction of the shop’s proprietor, who sat at a table laden with books and was surrounded by even more stacks and shelves of tomes upon tomes. The woman looked up, frowning slightly at Diana’s large paper cup, and said, “Hello. Let me know if I can help you find anything. The shelves go all the way into the back and up those stairs there.” Then, with a smile, she returned to her work.
“Thank you.” Diana walked past her, careful not to jostle a particularly tall stack of books, not exactly sure what she was looking for. She didn’t want to be rude and turn around before at least skimming through some of the shelves, so she pressed on to the back of the shop, noting the faded, curling handwritten labels on the shelves: Fiction, Mystery, Science Fiction, Romance, History, Business, Biography, Religion, and, finally, a newer tag that read New Age.
Catching a glimpse of some of the books, which had titles like Find the Angels in Your Life, and Out of Body Experiences for Everyone, Diana rolled her eyes. Aunt Belinda would have a field day in this section. Runes, read another one, Palmistry Made Easy, and The Tarot Explained were lined up along with them.
Before she knew what she was doing, Diana reached for the last title. Setting her cup down on a half-empty shelf, she flipped through the yellowed pages of the book. They were brittle and stained with what looked like coffee, and several of the corners were torn off. She paused at a chapter entitled “The Major (or Greater) Arcana.”
She ignored the fact that her heart thumped wildly as she turned the fragile pages, and refused to consider why her fingers trembled. The Fool, Number Zero. The Magician, Number One. The High Priestess, Number Two.
“I never pegged you for a New-Ager,” drawled a voice from behind her.
Diana stifled a shriek and whirled, dropping the book. “You—you startled me,” she said to the man standing there. Despite her shock, she noted his height (tall), his brown eyes (twinkling with humor), and his face (chiseled and incredibly handsome). The moisture evaporated from her mouth and sprang to her palms.
“I can see that.” He had bent down to retrieve the book. “Hmm … The Tarot Explained.” He straightened and offered it back to her. “Your aunt would be astonished.”
Diana didn’t take the book. Instead, she stared at him. Had they met? At the funeral, maybe? But then suddenly his voice and easy smile connected with her memory. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, at once recognizing Ethan Tannock. She couldn’t help that her tone was unenthusiastic.
And what else would he expect, having walked into her house uninvited twice?
He had shaved and cut his hair, and although it added years to her estimate of his age—he was definitely mid-thirties—it did wonders for his looks. His shorn face was very attractive, with high cheekbones and a firm, square jaw. It made his eyes look bigger and darker, and his lips, which had settled into a sort of smirk, were no longer hidden by mustache overgrowth.
She swallowed hard, feeling suddenly at a loss in the presence of this tall, attractive stranger—who’d been in her house twice. Somehow now, especially in this small, crowded space, he seemed more intense, with more presence and confidence. Irritated with herself, she turned to pick up the cup of cappuccino.
A hand smoothed over that clean jaw line, then dropped to sling loosely on his hip. “I forgot you haven’t seen me shorn.” He continued to lean against the shelf, holding the book, and grinning down at her. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Forget it,” she told him coolly. “I was just—deep in thought.”
He glanced down at the book. “From everything your aunt has told me, I’m sure you aren’t really interested in the Tarot.”
The certainty and hint of accusation in his voice caused her to bristle and she pulled an invisible cloak of haughtiness around her for protection. “Although I can’t imagine why my aunt should be discussing me with you, I admit you’re right. I don’t believe in this foolishness.” Just how well had he known her aunt?
“Okay,” he shrugged. “Would you like me to put this back, or were you going to buy it?”
“No,” she said sharply, too quickly. “No.” She softened her tone, ignoring the throb that was just beginning to tom-tom at the back of her temples. Not again. Not here. Not in front of him—again. “I wasn’t going to buy it. As I told you, I haven’t any use for it.”
“I’ll just put it away, then.” Ethan turned, sliding the book onto the shelf in an approximation of where it had been. “Hmm. Palmistry. My sister might like this,” he mused, pulling out the book next to it. Not that Fiona needed a book to tell her how to read palms—she was quite gifted in that regard, just like their mother. He, Ethan, was the one who didn’t possess any real sensitivity. Maybe it was a gender thing.
Holding the book, he glanced up at the woman in front of him and noticed that her face had seemed to tighten with pain. Clearly physical pain. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked, shoving the book back onto the shelf.
“Yes,” she told him, obviously lying. Then, she looked up at him for the first time with honest eyes. Misery and pain showed in them. “No, actually, I’m not. I get these debilitating migraines, and—”
“What can I do for you?” he asked, taking her slim arm and urging her to sink into a well-worn armchair. She looked as if she were going to keel over, or else be violently ill. Or both.
“A glass of water,” she said in a thready voice. “I have medication in my bag.” Her brows furrowed and her mouth tightened with pain.
Ethan hurried to the front of the shop where Maggie sat going through her books. “Hey, Mag, I need a glass of water for Belinda’s niece—she’s got to take some medicine.” He slipped past her nod, into the private bathroom, and filled a small cup with water.
When he returned to Diana, she was reclining in the armchair, eyes closed. Her features were ashen and sharp. He pressed the water into her hand and she half sat up, drinking greedily. “Thanks. I’ll be better in a few minutes.” She sank back into the chair and closed her eyes.
He wondered what she had been doing, perusing a book on the Tarot when she professed non-belief, and he reflected on the combatant look in her eyes when she denied her interest in the car
ds. Had she come to recognize her Gift, or was she just interested in the cards because of her aunt? Or—the thought made him shudder—could she be considering selling Belinda’s cards or books?
He stood next to her, looking down at her lidded eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. The hardness had melted from her face, leaving only the starkness of pain over her classic, Grace Kelly features, and he was surprised by sudden raw attraction.
It wasn’t mere objective, appreciation of her beauty. The sizzle of attraction was strong enough to supersede the anger and irritation he felt toward someone who would ignore an old lady for years. Most of all, however, the surprise and inappropriateness of his reaction to her pissed him off.
Her eyelids fluttered and she opened them fully. “I’m sorry,” she said in a soft sort of groan that didn’t help his surge of awareness, “that one came on fast.” She looked a bit sleepy and bewildered, but as he offered her his hand, the glaze cleared from her eyes.
“Listen, Diana, why don’t you let me drive you home, hmm?” he heard himself say as a thought—a really clever, rather brilliant idea—popped into his head. He could tell she was about to refuse, which, he was later to reflect, might have been for the best.
But then she surprised him and said, “That would be great. Really great.” Her smile was forced, but her gratitude seemed genuine.
He assisted her to her feet, but when he tried to support her by holding her arm, she slid out of his grasp and tottered toward the front of the bookstore. Ethan followed, mulling over the brilliant thought that had just lodged in his scientist’s brain.
One of his current research projects had originated from a conversation with Bee. She’d always asserted that her niece had psychic abilities, but, of course, denied them. And Ethan had been studying families where psychic aptitudes seemed to be more prevalent than the average—related either to genetics or a more open-minded philosophy. Recently, he had begun to focus on the psychological aspects of hereditary ESP and how it affected different people within a family.
Diana Iverson, with her black and white, logical ways and, according to Belinda, the suppression of her gift, would be a perfect subject to round out the study. He already had enough data on Belinda to compare the two of them. Or—his interest spiked higher—she could be a candidate for a different project, about how the suppression of precognitive abilities manifests itself physically.
The dimness had edged from her eyes by the time they came outside into the mellow Maine sunlight. Diana took a deep breath and Ethan’s gaze dropped automatically to the rising swell of her breasts outlined by the red shirt she wore. “I’m feeling better already,” she told him, and he drew his attention back to her wan face.
“I’ll drive you home anyway,” he told her firmly, holding out his hand for the keys. “Where are you parked?”
He thought a flicker of relief flitted across her face. She jerked her head to the right. “In the lot behind the drugstore. But what about you? How will you get home?”
He started across the street, forcing her to follow him. “I can walk home from your house and pick up my car later. Don’t worry about me.”
She was quiet in the car until he turned onto the narrow dirt road that led to their respective homes. “I really appreciate this,” she said.
He glanced at her, but she’d tilted her head back and had her eyes closed. “It’s no big deal. I’m glad I was there to help.”
At the large clapboard house, Diana alighted from the car before he was able to come around and help her out, reinforcing his initial impression of her as prickly and stiff. She started up the porch steps, clutching her straw bag, then turned toward him. “I’ll need the keys, please,” she said, holding out her hand.
He dropped them into her palm and watched as she turned to fit one into the lock. She stopped, shook her head, and looked down at the keys, sifting through them one by one. “Oh … no ….” she said, her voice low and frustrated.
“What’s wrong?”
She sighed and looked up at him, sheepishness poorly hidden in her features. “I forgot to take the house keys when I left. I haven’t added them to my car keys yet. I guess I’m locked out.”
“I can fix that,” Ethan explained easily. “Belinda always kept an extra in the birdhouse.” He turned to stride off the porch.
“Uh … wait,” she called. “Never mind, it won’t work.”
“What do you mean, it won’t work?” he grunted, reaching up into the birdhouse. “It’s right here.” He pulled the key from its hiding place, holding it up for her to see.
“I—uh—” She looked embarrassed.
Ethan came back on the porch and brushed in front of her to fit the key in the lock. He stopped, noticing how shiny and new the deadbolt was. He didn’t even have to try the key to know it wouldn’t fit. Understanding dawned and he stepped back as she said, “I changed the locks.”
“I see that.” He looked out off the porch, suddenly darkly furious. “I’m sorry if I imposed upon you in any way. I’ll—if you like,” he flashed a stony glance at her, and was gratified to see a dark red flush on her face, “I’ll open a window and help you get back in, then I’ll just be on my way.”
~*~
To order The Cards of Life and Death for your Kindle, click here.
(Keep reading for an exclusive excerpt from Guarding Suzannah
by award-winning author Norah Wilson)
~*~*~
Colleen Gleason is the international best-selling author of the Gardella Vampire Chronicles, a historical urban fantasy series about a female vampire hunter who lives during the time of Jane Austen. Her first novel, The Rest Falls Away, was released to acclaim in 2007. Since then, she has published fifteen novels with New American Library, MIRA Books, and HarperCollins (writing as Joss Ware). Her books have been translated into seven languages and are available worldwide.
She loves to hear from readers, and can be contacted through her website: http://www.colleengleason.com
Other Titles by Colleen Gleason available on Kindle:
The Gardella Vampire Chronicles
Victoria Gardella: Vampire Hunter (sample short story)
The Rest Falls Away
Rises the Night
The Bleeding Dusk
When Twilight Burns
As Shadows Fade
The Regency Draculia
The Vampire Voss
The Vampire Dimitri
The Vampire Narcise
Siberian Treasure: A Marina Alexander Adventure
The Medieval Herb Garden Series
Lavender Vows
Sanctuary of Roses
A Whisper of Rosemary
Writing as Joss Ware:
(http://www.josswarebooks.com)
The Envy Chronicles
Beyond the Night
Embrace the Night Eternal
Abandon the Night
Night Betrayed
****
Exclusive excerpt from
Guarding Suzannah, Book 1 in the Serve and Protect Series
by award-winning author Norah Wilson
Criminal defense attorney Suzannah Phelps is the bane of the Fredericton Police Department (they call her She-Rex for her habit of shredding cops in the witness box). She is currently being stalked, but is reluctant to report it to the police, whom she half suspects of being the perpetrators of the low-level harassment.
Detective John (Quigg) Quigley has always had a bit of a thing for Suzannah Phelps. When he learns of the harassment, it gives him the perfect opportunity to interact with her. They've struck sparks off each other in the courtroom, and he's burning to do the same in the bedroom. But when the stalker ups his game, Quigg knows it’s not a case of disgruntled cops razzing her. It’s deadly serious, and he’s determined to protect her. To do that, he must pose as her boyfriend, but the closer they get, the more the lines between pretense and reality blur.
Guarding Suzannah
Excerpt
Detective
John Quigley stepped inside Courtroom 2, closing the door quietly behind him. One or two people in the small gallery glanced up at him briefly, then returned their attention to the front of the courtroom where a young patrol officer was being sworn in.
Quigg took a seat, glancing around the drab, low-ceilinged, windowless room. Provincial Court. Nothing like the much grander Queens Bench courtrooms upstairs or the Court of Appeal chambers on the top floor. But aesthetics aside, they did a brisk business here. In the fifteen years Quigg had spent on the Fredericton force, he’d been responsible for sending quite a few customers through these doors. Doors that all too often turned out to be the revolving kind, the kind that spit offenders right back out on the street to re-offend.
On that thought, Quigg glanced over at the accused. Clean shaven and neatly dressed, he sat off to the right, beside the Sheriff’s deputy. His long hair, drawn back into a ponytail, glinted blue-black under the fluorescent lights. If he were conscious of Quigg’s scrutiny, he didn’t betray it with so much as a twitch of a muscle. Rather, he kept his flat, emotionless gaze trained on the witness.
The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) Page 28
