But he was the one who made the first move. He reached out and trailed a finger down the sleeve of her sweater. “You look good in blue. It brings out your eyes.”
She shook her head, pushed her long hair back from her face and managed a throaty thanks. If anyone else had given a casual compliment like that, she would hardly have noticed. Now she was feeling a glow that reached from her toes to the tip of her head.
He leaned over and touched her lips with his. Quick. Gentle. More like a hint than an actual kiss, yet she felt as if her insides had melted and turned inside out.
“Why did you do that?” she asked when her breath came back to her lungs.
“Because in spite of what the people in town say, I’m just a man.”
Only he wasn’t. She was sure of that now, at least he wasn’t like any man she’d ever kissed before.
He picked up his near-empty glass and twirled the remaining liquid for mesmerizing moments before meeting her gaze again. When he did, his dark eyes seemed to whisper of secrets and regret. “I shouldn’t have kissed you, Becca, but I do have a proposition for you.”
“What kind of proposition?”
“If you’re going to be working at the Bluffs, you should live here as well. It will save you travel time. Besides, why should you be cramped in a tiny room at the Cavendish home when we have so many rooms going unused?”
The idea was chilling, incredible. She’d walk out of her life and into David Bryson’s—a world so linked to the past, it was as if he had become a ghost of a man lurking in candlelight and shadows.
“I can’t possibly live here.”
“You’d be safe from the kind of man you encountered last night.”
“I’m not looking to run from life, David. I could never lock myself away behind stone walls, never give up my friends or the sunlight.”
“I would never ask you to.”
“It’s out of the question. I’m willing to work for you, but that’s it. I can’t even consider living here.”
“I’d hoped that you would. It would be better for all of us.”
She stood and dusted bread crumbs from her jeans. “I don’t know what you want from me, David, but whatever it is, I can’t provide it. Perhaps I shouldn’t take the job at all.”
He stood. “Is that what you want, to just walk away and never return?”
She was trembling now, inside and out, part of her wanting to step into his arms and say she never wanted to leave, but the little bit of rationality she had remaining urged her to get out while she could. Leave before she was completely bewitched by David Bryson.
“I can’t think about this now. Please, have Richard drive me home.”
“Very well, Becca.” He stood and walked toward the door. Before he opened it, he leaned against it, staring at her in the eerie grayness of the room. “If you ever change your mind, your room is waiting.” With that, he opened the door and walked away.
She struggled to swallow past the lump in her throat. Her room was waiting. Bizarre images swam through her mind. A four-poster bed plump with feather mattresses, covered in an exquisite quilt. A crystal vase of white roses atop a polished mahogany dresser and silver picture frames of her and David. No. Not her. The snapshots were of David and Tasha.
Becca’s lungs burned, and her legs grew wobbly. This place was haunted. There was no other explanation. Perhaps it was Tasha’s ghost that filled the rooms and kept David chained to her even though she’d been dead for years.
The door opened again, but this time it was Richard. “Dr. Bryson says you’re ready to go home.”
“Home?”
“Back to the Cavendish residence.”
She exhaled sharply. “Yes. I’m ready.” Slowly her body and mind began to function in a halfway normal manner as she followed Richard down the long hall and toward the front door. The halls were empty, yet she sensed David’s presence, felt he was watching her every step. And already she missed him.
Bewitched by a man with dark eyes and a voice that crawled inside her very soul? Just as Claire had predicted.
DAVID PACED THE LAB, unable to work, unable to think of anything except Becca. He didn’t give a damn about having her work at the Bluffs. He merely wanted her there, wanted to watch her walk, listen to her talk, run his hands through the silky strands of her hair. Finish the kiss he’d barely started a few minutes earlier.
No. He shouldn’t even think such inane thoughts. But Becca was like a drug that had gotten into his system and short-circuited his reasoning powers. He would have to meet a woman who affected him like this, now, of all times, when he was finally making progress in reaching the goal that drove his life.
He’d spent five years prowling lonely streets in the wee hours of the morning and hanging out in the shadows that obscured the wharf, searching for any clue as to the identity of the murderous rat who had caused the explosion that ruined his life and stole Tasha’s. The police might call it an accident. He knew better.
But now he had the records Dr. Leland Manning had kept on the workings of the Moriah’s Landing secret medical society, meticulous records outlining the many unethical research projects the society had conducted over the years and the way the members of the society had destroyed anyone and anything that got in their way.
Manning wouldn’t be needing the records, not in the dirty cubicle of a prison cell where he would spend the rest of his life for illegal medical practices of his own. But, based on Manning’s notes, David was almost certain that the society was connected to the explosion. The police had classified the explosion as an accident, but he’d checked the boat too thoroughly to buy that theory. He’d wanted to make certain nothing marred their honeymoon sailing trip.
Now it was only a matter of time until he unearthed the deadly secrets of hate and revenge and found the answers to his search. When he did, nothing in heaven or earth would stop him from getting his own sweet revenge, not even if it meant winding up in prison.
Just one more reason why he had to let Becca go. He had nothing to offer her. But still he felt the loss grinding away at what little was left of his soul. Becca had no past. He had way too much.
CARSON MEGHAM PULLED a half-crushed cigar from his pocket and poked it into his mouth. If Prissy saw him with it, she’d lay into him like the wildcat of a woman she was. Married thirty-five years and she still didn’t give him a damn bit of room to cultivate his bad habits. But even Prissy might resort to a little comfort prop if she had to deal with the press in Moriah’s Landing now that word had leaked out that the body found two days ago had been branded with the initials M.L.
He stood, stretched and walked to the door. If he’d been the chief, he’d find and fire the man who’d leaked the information. A bunch of hype about a murderous ghost was the last thing the investigation needed.
But it wasn’t his decision to make. In spite of his years with the Kansas City police force, he was the new man on the totem pole in Moriah’s Landing. Just a guy who’d finally given in to his wife’s pleadings to retire and move back to the town where she’d grown up, only to find that life without a gun and a badge didn’t cut it for him. This time he’d work until they forced him into retirement.
McFarland Leary? No way. This guy who’d cut the jugular on the Old Mountain Road body was flesh-and-blood and likely walking the streets right now looking for his next victim. Someone young and pretty. Someone like Becca Smith. She might have been seconds away from a body bag last night. The killer might even be someone she knew, someone who knew she’d be walking that route and passing the wooded lot.
Someone crazy. Out of control. Demented. Someone like Dr. David Bryson.
BECCA HAD RICHARD DROP her off at the corner nearest the Cavendish home, just in case Claire was on the porch or watching from a window. She’d been through enough last night and there was no reason to get her upset over Becca’s being with David, especially since chances were good she wouldn’t be seeing him again. The attraction she felt for him was
dangerous and unrelenting. The only cure would be to put him out of her life completely.
That bit of news should make everyone in Moriah’s Landing happy—Claire, Brie, Larry, Geoffrey, all the Pierces for that matter. So why couldn’t she shake the terrible sense of loss, the ache that was already building inside her to see David again?
She groaned as she neared the house and realized that the dark green sedan sitting in front of the Cavendish home belonged to the same guy who’d come out to interview her last night. Not the nice uniformed officer who’d arrived first, but Detective Megham, the old goat who looked as if his face had been baked in a brick oven, though he was probably no more than sixty.
Hopefully he wasn’t back here trying to interview Claire. Mrs. Cavendish had told him last night to leave Claire alone, that she wouldn’t be able to tell him anything Becca hadn’t. If that was why he was here, he’d find out quickly enough that he was no match for Mrs. Cavendish. A mother grizzly couldn’t have been more ferocious at protecting her cubs than Mrs. Cavendish was at sheltering her emotionally wounded daughter.
Becca climbed the steps, preparing herself to go through last night’s ordeal again when it was this morning’s that seemed to have taken the biggest toll on her own emotional state. Just as she expected, the first thing she saw when she slipped through the front door was the detective sitting on the sofa, his arms spread over the back as if the seat were made for one instead of three.
Mrs. Cavendish was in the wooden rocker next to the hearth, her usually cheerful face drawn into a distinct scowl. They both looked up and fastened their gazes on her when she stepped inside.
The detective stood and extended a hand. “Hello, Becca. Do you remember me? We met last night.”
“Yes, I remember. Has something else happened?”
“No, I just needed to ask a few more questions, try to make sure I have everything straight in my mind.”
“I told you everything I knew last night.”
“I realize that, but sometimes people tend to forget a few details when they’re so close to a situation. When the smoke settles, they sometimes remember little things that slipped their mind during the first questioning.”
Mrs. Cavendish planted her feet firmly on the floor and stopped her chair from rocking. “He came here to talk to Claire. I’ve told him that’s out of the question. She’s practically catatonic today, just sitting in her room and staring out the window.”
“It would help if I could talk to Claire, but I can wait,” he answered. “But I want to talk to Becca again as well—alone, if you don’t mind.”
“If she says she’s told you all she knows, then I’m sure she has. You shouldn’t harangue the victims, Detective, especially a nice young lady like Becca.”
Becca walked over and laid a hand on Mrs. Cavendish’s shoulder, her fingers sliding into the loose weave of her oversize cardigan. The poor woman had enough to handle just taking care of her own brood without taking her on, as well. “It’s fine, Mrs. Cavendish.”
“Are you sure? Because I can sit right in here with you if you need me.”
“No. I don’t mind answering his questions, especially if he thinks it will help arrest the right man.”
“Okay, dear, but if you need me, you just call.”
She stood, and Becca could see that this latest trauma in Claire’s life had left her mother’s shoulders more stooped, as if the weight of watching her daughter’s stability take its latest nosedive weighed almost more than she could bear. Becca took the rocker Mrs. Cavendish had previously occupied. “Fire when ready, Detective Megham.”
He crossed his left foot over his right knee. “Why don’t you just tell me exactly what you saw again? Try to place yourself back in the situation. I know it’s not easy for you, but make it seem as real as possible.”
She went through the story again, let the fear creep back inside her, relived the desperation when she realized that Claire couldn’t even stand, much less run. And once again the grotesque image of a man who seemed to be born of the darkness—a man with no face—wormed its way into her mind. She didn’t realize she was shaking until she finished the story.
Megham exhaled slowly, his mouth drawing into a disgusted sulk. “And that’s all you remember? You can’t describe the man at all.”
“No. I never got a good look at him.”
“That’s too bad. If you could identify the man, it might all be over.”
“You’d still have to catch him.”
“If he’s someone you know, that would probably be as easy as getting an arrest warrant and ringing a doorbell. If we could make an arrest, this town would sleep a lot easier tonight.”
“If you arrest a man based on what I saw, you’d likely be arresting the wrong man.”
“That’s not what I’m aiming to do. I just want a killer off the street and behind bars before he strikes again.”
“Then you think the man we saw last night might be the man responsible for killing the woman whose body was found two nights ago?”
“I think there’s a good chance. Isolated, unprovoked attacks on women are rare in this town.”
“There have been other murders this year.”
“All solved and none of them involving chance victims.”
He was right, and it wasn’t as if she hadn’t had the same thought. Still, it bothered her to have her suspicions voiced by a detective. “Are you working the murder case as well?”
“Yeah.” He uncrossed his leg, rested his elbows on his knees and leaned in close. “Just a couple of more questions, Becca. Do you know David Bryson?”
She felt a throb in her right temple, quick, pulsating, like a yellow caution light blinking a warning. “Why do you ask?”
“I take that as a yes.”
She could lie, though she had no idea why she should. Only, Detective Megham’s question sounded way too much like Geoffrey’s had last night. It was one thing for a Pierce to think David might be involved in anything as abhorrent as frightening her and Claire half to death. It was another thing entirely for a police detective to be trying to tie him to a would-be attack and possibly a murder.
“I know him well enough to know that it wasn’t him that Claire and I encountered last night.”
“You just told me you didn’t get a good look at the man, that all you saw was his outline in the shadows. The facial features were totally indistinguishable. That is what you said, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I guess that’s all for now, though I may have some more questions later. In the meantime, I suggest you not go out alone after dark.”
“Surely you don’t expect the man to come looking for me.”
“I’m not ruling out anything at this point.” He stood and walked toward the front door. “And I’d definitely stay away from David Bryson.”
“He’s not the man you’re looking for.”
“I may know a lot more about that than you do. So take my advice. Stay away from him.” With that he pushed through the door and stepped onto the porch.
She walked to the window and watched the detective saunter down the steps and climb into his car. He was only doing his job, trying to protect her and the other citizens of Moriah’s Landing. Yet she disliked him immensely, beyond all reasonable explanation.
He was out to get David Bryson, to pin a murder on him that she knew David could never have committed. She had to warn him. No matter what had happened between them this morning, or maybe because of what had happened, she couldn’t let him just fall into Megham’s trap.
But what if she was wrong? What if she only saw in David what she wanted to see, let her fascination for the strange recluse from the castle on the hill color her judgment? What if her infatuation was leading her into the very kind of situation Detective Megham had just warned her about?
She knew nothing about David Bryson except that he was strange and moody and that he spent most of his life shut off from the rest of the world. All she rea
lly knew of herself right now was that she was infatuated with a man who seemed to hold strange powers over her. If there was such a thing as warlocks and magic, then he might well possess all the abilities that would bestow on him.
But he was not a killer. She’d stake her life on that. Even if it meant going back to the Bluffs to warn him that he might be the number-one murder suspect.
Go back to the Bluffs and face David again. Face him and then walk away. Walk away—if she could. Or else stay in his arms, locked away in a world of darkness and passion forevermore.
Chapter Seven
Not many bars were open on a Sunday night. Wheels was the exception, and it was doing a booming business on this particular evening. The customers were mostly bikers or fishermen and guys who sold bait or tackle along the wharves, but there were always a few guys from town who came down to drink and swap stories over a plate of onion rings and a burger.
Still, it wouldn’t have been Becca’s choice of a place to meet Larry. But since she was the one asking a favor, she didn’t balk at his suggestion.
Larry leaned against the front bumper of his car while Becca climbed behind the wheel. “So where are you going on this mystery trip?” he asked.
“It’s not a mystery. I told you. I just want to get away for a while, take a drive up the coast.”
“I don’t know why. It’s practically dark now.”
“I can still catch the sunset. Besides, I just need to get out of the house for a while.”
“Yeah. I guess it’s pretty depressing to watch Claire sliding back into the black hole she was in after the abduction.”
“It is when there’s nothing I can do to help. Worse, I almost feel to blame. I was the one who asked her to dinner, and I was right there when she fell apart.”
“No one blames you. You were just lucky Geoffrey Pierce happened by when he did. Otherwise you might be…” He pushed a faded baseball cap back on his head. “I don’t even want to think about it. I don’t feel great about your going off on your own tonight, either.”
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