Shrouded in Darkness

by H. D. Thomson

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  The Shrouded Series

  Excerpt of Shrouded in Mystery

  Excerpt of Shrouded in Illusion

  About the Author

  SHROUDED IN DARKNESS

  H.D. THOMSON

  BELLA MEDIA MANAGEMENT

  PEORIA, ARIZONA

  SHROUDED IN DARKNESS

  By H. D. Thomson

  Copyright © 2011 by H. D. Thomson

  All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced in whole or in part, scanned, photocopied, recorded, distributed in any printed or electronic form, or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without express written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Bella Media Management.

  13-Digit ISBN: 978-0-9835121-4-1 First Edition eBook

  Acknowledgements

  I'd like to thank the Three Musketeers for which this novel would not have been possible: Linda Andrews, Kerrie Droban and Kim Watters.

  Chapter 1

  Fear of self is the greatest of all terrors, the deepest of all dread, the commonest of all mistakes. From it grows failure. Because of it, life is a mockery. Out of it comes despair. — David Seabury

  Margot Davenport should never have opened the front door. She should have just kept on getting slowly and thoroughly drunk that night. But the pounding on the door went on and on, reverberating throughout the house and inside her skull. Stumbling from the couch in the living room, Margot knocked over her glass and an empty wine bottle, and grabbed onto her throbbing head with a hand.

  “Damn it!”

  In the hall, she tripped over her calico cat, Marmaduke, who streaked past her and up the stairs. She swore again. The banging continued. The crazy fool outside had given up on the doorbell long ago.

  “John! Come on. Open up! It’s me, Jake!”

  At the mention of Johnny’s name, Margot’s stomach twisted and rolled with sudden nausea. “Okay! Okay! Give me a second.”

  She groped for the light switch to the hall. Nothing happened.

  “Damn, stupid thing!” That’s what she got for not replacing the house’s ancient wiring.

  “John, I’m freezing my ass off!”

  “What do you expect,” Margot muttered, wondering if this guy was playing some sick joke at her expense.

  Margot hit the outside light switch and peered through the glass panel beside the door. A man stood on the front porch. She didn’t recognize him, but then again, the sheet of snow and the light’s glare against the night backdrop didn’t help matters.

  A gun or pepper spray for protection sounded pretty nice right now, but Margot hated guns and had never expected the need, living on the outskirts of Greyson, Arizona. It wasn’t like this town up in the White Mountains was loaded with crime. The worst incident had been a case of disorderly conduct last winter, and that had been from a drunken tourist.

  “Who is it?”

  A pause on the other side followed—almost as if she’d surprised him.

  “Margot? Is that you? It’s Jake Preston.”

  Though muffled, his words were clear enough to make out. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t recall what Johnny had said about him.

  Margot frowned and winced as pain cut across her temple, brow and the base of her skull. She should have stopped at one glass of wine. “How do you know Johnny?”

  “I worked with him at Miltronics for several years on the outskirts of Boston.”

  Margot debated about turning this Jake away as she watched him stamp his feet against the porch. He must be freezing—what with the wind and snow.

  “I know it’s late, but I need to talk to John. Please. If you could just get him, you’ll see I’m harmless.”

  The urgency in his voice made her decide. He obviously didn’t know about her brother. She sighed heavily. What she had to tell him wasn’t going to be easy.

  Margot unlatched the lock and opened the door.

  An angry gust of wind burst into the house, tearing the knob from her grasp. The door flew wide and crashed against the wall. Gasping, she reeled back as snow flew in, stabbing her face with icy spikes.

  “Here, let me.” He stepped inside and shoved the door closed with his shoulder. He turned his back against the light from the kitchen, casting his face in shadow. His baseball cap further shielded his features—along with sunglasses of all things.

  How very odd. Sudden apprehension curled up her spine as Margot stepped away from Jake and the doorway. Topping a good six-feet, he appeared far larger than when he’d stood behind a locked door.

  “What are the sunglasses for?” she asked.

  “The light.”

  “What?”

  “My eyes. They’re sensitive to light. I injured both corneas as a child.”

  “Oh.” She must have been staring at him like an idiot, but something about him made her uneasy. And it wasn’t just the glasses and pale complexion.

  He must have sensed her disquiet, because he explained further, “It’s called traumatic iritis. It’s something I’ve had to live with for as long as I can remember.” He shrugged a large canvas backpack from his shoulder and placed it on the floor. “Can you get John for me?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Margot never intended the words to come out so abrupt and final, but...it hurt. Balling her hands into fists, she fought against the sudden tears that burned the back of her eyes. Please no. Not now. She couldn’t fall apart in front of this stranger.

  “He can’t be. That’s impossible.”

  “His—” Margot cleared her throat. “His funeral was today.”

  He flinched, stumbled, and hit a shoulder against the front door. A muscle in his square jaw clenched and unclenched, and his ragged breathing magnified the tension filling the foyer. He said something under his breath she didn’t catch.

  Goose bumps crawled along her spine. She needed another drink. Seeing how her brother’s death ate at this man was like witnessing her own pain.

  “How did he die?” Jake finally asked.

  Outside, a metallic crash resounded as a gust of wind hit the house. They both jumped, and Margot swallowed a scream. A faint clang immediately followed. Then nothing but the howling wind.

  “I think that was a trash can,” she said, and tried to form her thoughts into something coherent. Then she realized her lack of manners and how she couldn’t thrust him back out in the storm without explaining more about Johnny, but she wasn’t about to bring him back into the living room and broadcast her drinking with an empty wine bottle and glass on the floor. “Why don’t you put your coat on the post behind you, then we can talk in the den.”

  After he took off his down jacket, he removed his hat to reveal very dark, almost blac
k, shoulder-length hair, a shade lighter than her own. He had a blunt nose, square jaw, and a strong, stubborn looking face. She wondered about his eyes, and if they were just as inflexible, but she saw only her face reflected in his lenses.

  Margot led him across the hall and was about to hit the switch by the door of the den when Jake caught her wrist, his gloved fingers cool and smooth against her skin. “Don’t.”

  At the harshness of his voice, her breath hissed into her lungs and her heart jerked inside her chest. He stood directly behind, so close the warmth of his breath whispered across the nape of her neck.

  Only when she pulled away from the light switch did he release her wrist. “It looks like there’s a lamp on your desk,” he said in a smooth, warm baritone. “I’ll get it instead. It might be too bright otherwise.”

  She exhaled, feeling a fool. There’d been no reason to act the neurotic. He’d just been concerned with his vision. Nodding, she folded her arms across her middle and followed him into the darkened room. He reached the desk and turned on the brass lamp, throwing the room into muted shadows.

  Looking around, he slowly walked the length of the large room. “You must like to read.”

  “I do, but not as much as it appears.” Books from ceiling to floor lined two walls. Along the third wall, more books filled every available space in the cherry wood shelves on either side of a deep red, brick fireplace. Other than the two chairs and sofa grouped to one side of the room, the only real relief, her desk, a Chippendale replica, sat facing a huge bay window bracketed by thick, forest green velvet drapes. Margot loved this room, the bold, rich colors, the faint musty smell of old books, the feeling of being surrounded by so much knowledge. “It’s my business—selling rare books over the Internet. At least it has been since I left the corporate world, but now with everything going electronic I’ve been forced to start looking into doing e-book conversions for authors.”

  “John mentioned you had a store.”

  Margot’s arms tightened around her middle. She didn’t know if she was up to discussing her brother with this stranger without cracking. Johnny’s death was still too fresh, too painful.

  “Did you want a drink?” she asked. “I’m having wine.”

  “Just water.”

  Margot escaped into the kitchen. After she poured Jake’s water, she fixed herself a fresh glass of Merlot. She took a deep drink, savoring how the liquid, warm and full-bodied, slid over her tongue and down her throat. Oh, how it eased the pain and dulled the senses.

  Finally gaining some control of her ragged emotions, Margot squared her shoulders and returned to the den to find Jake had moved to a book-lined wall.

  “Here’s your water.”

  “Thanks.” He took his drink, his black-gloved fingers flexing over the etched glass. The leather looked supple as it molded over the knuckles and tendons of his hand. Strange. But if he wanted to hide his hands, it was no business of hers. Still, she did wonder.

  His hands might be scarred and ugly, but the rest of him looked anything but. A thick black belt wrapped around a pair of narrow hips encased in faded jeans. The material molded over his long, lean legs, while a long-sleeved, black turtleneck hugged his tight, muscular chest and stomach. Not many men could get away with such a shirt, but he could.

  So he had a nice body. That didn’t mean she had to stare as if she hadn’t seen one in a long while.

  “Please. Tell me more about John. How did he die?”

  She walked over to the high-backed, wing chair in forest green velvet, but couldn’t bear to sit down. Instead, she moved to the window and turned away from the night sky and falling snow to find him facing her. The desk lamp behind Jake thrust him in deep shadow while his glasses, more effective than any imaginable shield, masked his expression.

  She swallowed down the sudden tightness in her throat. “It was a car accident. It looked like he didn’t have the car under control when he hit the turn. He was going way too fast and couldn’t make it. The railing gave and he fell into the ravine. He didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Do they know why the car went out of control?”

  “No.”

  “Did you talk to him that day? Did he seem upset?”

  Clenching the glass to her chest, she raised her chin and straightened. “It wasn’t suicide.”

  “Of course not,” Jake quickly assured. “He wasn’t the type.”

  The stiffness in her fingers and spine eased. “Some people thought differently.”

  “Then they didn’t know John.” The corners of his mouth dipped downward as he rested a hand against a bookshelf. “So he didn’t act odd before the accident?”

  “I don’t know. I never got a chance to see him. He must have been on his way here. He was only a couple of miles from home when his car went off the road. Why do you want to know?”

  “No reason in particular. Just thought he must have had his mind on something. He was a damn good driver.”

  She stilled. Something in his tone didn’t ring true. He’d been asking a lot of questions. People asked questions for reasons, not out of a sense of politeness.

  “John talked a lot about you.”

  Heat fired into her cheeks. “Really? That doesn’t sound like Johnny.” What the hell had he told this—Jake?

  “Yeah. I even have a photo of the two of you.” He pulled his wallet from his jeans pocket. After some difficulty, he slipped out a crinkled paper, walked over and showed her a picture.

  She glanced down at it and tensed. The photo had been taken over three years ago in Boston on her twenty-fifth birthday. Just before her divorce. She stood between Johnny and Malcolm, an arm around each. She looked happy. What a lie. She’d been anything but. That morning she’d had her last fight with Malcolm before moving out.

  She polished off the rest of her wine and walked over to the fireplace to set her glass down on the mantel with a surprisingly steady hand. “Why the photo?”

  “It’s not just the photo. He also gave me this.” Jake pulled something else from his pocket. Gold glittered against the lamplight. A necklace with a large circular medallion.

  Margot sucked in a lungful of air. Not just any necklace. Johnny’s. A gift she’d given him on his birthday. She raised a trembling hand, and Jake draped the chain across her palm. She lifted the medallion of a bull, signifying Taurus, John’s zodiac sign. She turned it over and read the inscription on the back. “To the hero in the family. Love, Margot.”

  A deep wave of emotion caught against Margot’s chest as she squeezed the medallion. “I...” She cleared her throat. “Where did you get this?”

  Once again, shadows deepened around Jake as he stepped away from the light and Margot. He tucked the picture and wallet back into his rear pocket. “John gave it to me. He said that if I ever needed time to myself or needed a place to stay, I’d be welcome here. That I could rent a room for a while. He thought that if you couldn’t reach him for some reason, the picture and medallion would assure you I was legitimate.”

  Questions, doubts swirled inside her head. She blinked as a fresh wave of pain pounded into her skull.

  What did it mean? Was Johnny’s car accident something more? Impossible. Too crazy to even contemplate. No, for Johnny to give Jake his medallion told her just how much he trusted this man.

  Unless, Johnny didn’t give it to Jake. She frowned. Which didn’t make any sense. Why would this man show up at her door with a stolen medallion? She had nothing to offer, no money, no fame...

  “What about the motels in town?” she asked, stalling.

  “I tried the two, but they’re both booked solid because of ski season.”

  Margot opened her mouth to say something, then shut it. She didn’t like this. Didn’t like it a bit. What had Johnny been thinking? He knew she liked her solitude, that she’d come back home to get her life back together after the divorce, that she’d claimed the house as her own, even going as far as getting the paperwork together to buy out Johnny’s share. He�
��d never really been interested in the place. Other than the lab outside in the barn, which Johnny had built a couple of years before he’d joined Miltronics, everything else was pretty much her own.

  When it came down to it, she could see Johnny making the offer. He’d always been the type to get caught up in someone else’s troubles. Now Johnny was gone, and it was just her. She could tell Jake no and it would be the end of it, but part of her wanted to say yes. After all, he’d known another side of Johnny. A side Margot never had the opportunity to see. Johnny’s work had been so important to him at Miltronics, yet he’d been so reticent on the subject.

  “How long would you be staying? That is, if I decide to rent you a room.”

  “One week. Two max.”

  She rubbed the back of her neck. Two weeks. Not very long. At least she tried to tell herself that. She’d do one last favor for Johnny. Yes, and she’d also get a chance to add a few more precious memories of him. “I have a room on the ground floor in the back by the stairs. It’s not very big.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Fine. It’ll be a hundred twenty-five a week plus meals.”

  He nodded and placed his glass on the desk. “I’ll get my things.”

  Margot led Jake into the hall. In the foyer, he hunched down on one knee by his canvas backpack and swore.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I must have left a zipper partially opened. It looks like some snow seeped inside. Can you show me the room? I need to check if my laptop’s okay.”

  “Sure.”

  As he followed her to the back room, she grew conscious of him directly behind, of his heavier steps, of his much larger frame, but most importantly, of his masculinity. Other than Johnny and the men at the gathering after the funeral today, it had been ages since she’d been alone with a man.

  She was about to turn on the room light by the door, then thought better of it. Being touched once tonight by Jake was enough. She stepped away from the threshold to give him plenty of space to enter. “Here it is. If you need anything...”

  “Thanks,” was all he said as he walked inside. Not bothering with the light, he closed the door, leaving her in the hall to wonder how he could see inside there without bumping his shins on everything in his path.