Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Colleen Gleason

  Tall trees made a dark, forbidding fringe along the shoreline, and there were occasional splashes of light from houses or docks. But most of the illumination came from the quickly darkening western horizon. A streak of bright red glazed the sky where the sun had just dropped behind the forest, and then it, too, faded.

  A loon called out, sending a shiver of familiarity down Ethan’s spine, and its cry was joined by a whippoorwill and chirping crickets: the sounds of Maine in the summer.

  They moved silently through the water, the oar cutting into its blackness with clean, smooth strokes. After awhile, he drew the paddle from the water and rested it across his thighs, letting the canoe drift. He was, he realized, in no hurry to get back.

  Diana’s silhouette only hinted at her features in the dim light, but he could picture the wide, full curve of her mouth with no trouble at all. The moonlight gleamed over her ivory shoulders, and earlier, he’d admired the slender line of her back bared by the halter dress as she walked away with Reardon. Now she sat on the canoe bench, facing him with her knees drawn up and her feet resting on one of the boat’s struts. He could see the soft ripples the breeze made, playing with her skirt and that thick, sexy hair.

  She’d surprised him yesterday with her integrity, apologizing for thinking the worst of him—perhaps even restoring a bit of his faith in the female gender. Watching her tonight talking passionately and intelligently about her work, and the way she kindly yet firmly managed the abrasive Helen Galliday had further eased his misgivings about her. And the exchange in her kitchen yesterday, when they were talking about his divorce...there’d been something there.

  Something he hadn’t felt for a woman in a long time. Ethan drew in a long, deep breath.

  When he shifted in his seat, the boat rocked slightly, making a soft little splash. He hadn’t felt this depth of attraction for a woman since he first met Jenny, and the knowledge that Diana was with another man was the only thing that kept him from making a move. Moratorium or no.

  Rerouting his thoughts, he reminded himself that he was spending time with her only to further his research. “Would you like your sweater?” he asked, breaking the silence as he donned his scientist’s hat.

  Diana turned from her contemplation of the stars, bringing her classic profile into a full-faced view. Now he could make out the dark recesses of her eyes and a hint of chin and lips. “I am a little chilly, thanks.”

  She didn’t ask him why he’d stopped paddling, nor did she seem to mind that they simply drifted—odd for a woman so hesitant about taking the canoe in the first place. Not that he minded in the least. She was a lot more approachable now that she’d mellowed out a bit.

  “Did you enjoy yourself tonight?” Ethan asked as he picked up the sweater and leaned toward the center of the boat to hand it to her.

  She shifted in a delicate shrug. “The food was good, the atmosphere was beautiful, and Marc was an interesting host.” She draped the sweater over her shoulders, Jackie O-style, and clasped her hands in her lap.

  “He’s more uptight than a robot. I’ve never seen the man unbend.” Ethan laughed quietly, but the sound still carried over the water.

  Diana’s smile gleamed in the darkness. “I think that’s an understatement. For someone who’s making a pass at you to sound as though they’re chatting with the queen over tea is pretty bad.”

  “Reardon made a pass at you?”

  She giggled—an unlikely sound coming from the Diana he’d come to know—and he was charmed. Maybe that glass of wine she’d been holding had loosened her up a bit. “I guess you’d call it that. It was pretty formal to be called a come-on. I think it went sort of like, ‘if all of your affections haven’t been spoken for, may I have the opportunity to try for some?’ or something pompous like that.” She drew the sweater closer about her throat. “I can’t say I’ve ever been hit on so politely before.”

  “You shut him down ruthlessly, I’m sure,” he teased.

  She turned so that the wind caught her full in the face, allowing the breeze to lift and toss her thick hair. “I told him that I was with Jonathan.”

  He zeroed in on the odd note in her voice. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Of course. That’s why I said that.”

  But that strange tone was still there. Ethan couldn’t help but recall that he’d noticed some remoteness between Diana and her companion at the Grille on Saturday night. At the time, he’d chalked it up to her general aloof demeanor, but now he wondered. And he wondered how to broach the subject without sounding predatory or accusing.

  Silence reigned between them for a moment. Again, there was only the cry of the loon and the occasional plop of the oar sliding into the water as he adjusted their path. He would have been lulled by the peacefulness if he weren’t so damned aware of her.

  At last he spoke. “Have you looked up the meaning of those two cards you have lying out in the den?”

  Diana’s shoulders drew up and he felt the tension emanating from across the boat. “Of course not. I told you, I don’t pay any attention to those things.”

  “Would you like to know what they mean?”

  Diana didn’t respond. Ethan continued to paddle, debating with himself. Was he pushing her too hard? He’d looked up the two cards when he got home after mowing the lawn yesterday. They’d still been sitting out in the den today when he picked her up for the barbeque, and he knew although she wouldn’t admit it, she’d been messing around with them.

  “The Wheel of Fortune indicates a turning point in one’s life,” he spoke quietly, suddenly realizing that he very possibly was broaching the subject of her relationship with Wertinger. It gave him the determination to gently persist. “It suggests that one is experiencing a change—such as in a relationship—or becoming aware of a larger picture...or even learning one’s true role or purpose in life.”

  When Diana didn’t speak, he continued, trying to keep his tone conversational. “The interesting thing is that the Two of Swords is an opposing card—it’s very odd that you should pull those two up together.”

  “I didn’t pull them up.” Her words were defensive, but he detected a note of uncertainty in them. Her body language confirmed it, as her shoulders rounded and her hands fidgeted, drawing the sweater closer about her.

  “The Two of Swords alludes to someone being at a stalemate, or having blocked emotions and denying one’s true feelings. It can even mean that someone is avoiding the truth.” He let those words sink in for a few moments, struck again at how oddly appropriate those two cards could be for her now. A little zip of excitement skittered down his spine. There could actually be something to this. Were the cards actually guiding her without her conscious participation? “What were you concentrating on when you drew those cards, Diana? Think about it.”

  She bent forward, resting her head on her raised knees. “I didn’t draw them, Ethan.” Her voice wavered, muffled in her skirt. “I didn’t!”

  He noticed with a shock that her shoulders were quaking. “Diana, are you all right?” he asked, setting the oar aside and moving toward the other end of the canoe. He balanced himself with one foot on either side of the gunwale, holding onto the sides of the canoe. Crouching, he took careful steps until he reached her. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  Any other words he may have uttered froze in his throat as he became wholly, startlingly aware of her—her nearness, her scent, the soft brush of her skirt against his legs. Ethan tentatively touched her head, his fingers sinking into the depths of her hair and sliding down the back of her skull. “Diana, I’m sorry.”

  She raised her face, inches from him, and he could see tears glittering in her eyes. He was shocked that the cool facade had been stripped from her face, and naked emotion—fear, pain, confusion—shone in her moonlit features.

  “My head hurts,” she managed to say, agony lacing her voice. “It’s pounding...so badly...and I think I may be going to get sick.”

  Guilt surged
through him. All the time he’d been badgering her, the migraine had been working its way to the surface. Why hadn’t she said anything? “Honey, I’m sorry,” he said again, taking another excuse to touch her. “Can I get your meds out of your purse? Can you take them without water?”

  She shook her head, huddling back into her lap. “No.” Her voice was muffled with pain.

  Ethan turned quickly, gingerly, and hurried back to the end of the canoe as the boat rocked with his haste. But he was careful—the last thing she needed was to get dumped in the lake. He picked up the paddle and began to make clean, strong strokes. The boat surged through the water.

  Fortunately, they weren’t far from Belinda’s dock and only moments later, he was helping her out of the tipsy canoe. “This way,” he said, putting an arm around her warm, bare shoulders.

  Through a haze of pain, Diana made her feet move in the requisite direction, and she stumbled as they started up the gravel path. Before she could protest, Ethan swept her up, gathering her against a solid chest. As his strong arms encircled her, she allowed her head to drop onto the front of his shoulder. His steps were sure and smooth, and she closed her eyes, trying to relax against the pain.

  She felt the bob and sway of their progress up the path, the easy ebb and flow that jolted her close to him then lifted her away. Her cheek rested on the nubby material of his shirt, and when she drew in a deep breath centered on diffusing the pain from her temples, she caught his scent—that deep, masculine essence that seemed comforting and invigorating all at once. She was huddled in his arms, one arm around the back of his neck and the other flat on his chest, and she felt his stride changing as they neared the top of the incline.

  “Almost there.” His voice was quiet and steady in her ear, unencumbered by labored breaths, and whispering over the sensitive skin of her cheek. Diana shivered as a sensation zipped down her spine, causing him to ask, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” was all she could say. Her mouth almost brushed the warmth of his neck, and she turned slightly away, acutely aware that beneath her overriding misery was a strong flare of attraction toward him.

  “I’m going to have to set you down,” he said, stepping onto the porch. “Do you know where your keys are?” His voice was more gentle than she’d ever heard it, and he set her carefully, as if she were made of the most fragile glass, on the porch swing. “Are they in your bag?”

  Diana had managed to unzip the small leather pouch and pulled the jangling mass of keys from its depths. Ethan took them as she continued to rummage in the bag, searching for the bottle of medication that she always carried with her. By the time he had the door open, she’d found it and pulled herself to her feet.

  Diana tottered into the house, the nausea welling more strongly now that she was ambulatory. Ethan brushed past her on his way to the kitchen. “Sit down,” he ordered. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

  She turned gratefully into the nearest room—the den—and stumbled over to the settee. She pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from gagging as nausea surged and roiled. By the time she’d settled herself on the sofa, Ethan was there, fitting a glass of water into her palm.

  She gulped two capsules and the water and allowed Ethan to take the glass from her limp fingers. Resting her head back against the couch, she closed her eyes as she heard him turn on the lamp with a soft click. “Thank you.”

  Without speaking, Ethan sat next to her, jolting the small sofa. She became aware of his hand resting lightly on top of hers, and the warm, solid weight was surprisingly comforting.

  There was silence for a long while, and if he hadn’t been sitting next to her, Diana would have thought he’d left. When the pain eased and she opened her eyes, she found him watching her steadily from his end of the settee.

  “Better now?”

  Diana nodded, suddenly very aware of his nearness and the blatant heat in his eyes. In the low yellow glow of the lamp, he looked even more handsome than usual, his even features soft and sensual. She shifted in her seat to shake off the intense awareness, her heart thumping crazily, and looked away from him—anywhere but at those steady, deep brown eyes fringed by thick, curling lashes.

  By some misfortune, her gaze landed on the two Tarot cards that remained in their places on the ottoman, and Ethan’s attention obviously followed hers, for he said, “Those cards are very interesting.”

  “Coincidence,” she said firmly, leaning forward to scoop them up despite the flashes of light still blurring her vision. She bent further to pick up the mahogany box on the floor and, flipping its lid off, slid the cards into the recesses of the small chest.

  “How often do you have migraines like this?”

  “Hardly ever anymore,” she replied, relieved by the change of subject. “But I’ve been having them much more frequently in the last week. And they’ve been more intense, coming on more quickly than I can ever remember. Maybe there’s something in the air up here,” she added with a little laugh that choked off when she realized what she’d said.

  Ethan gave her a significant look. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  But Diana was already violently rejecting the idea—whatever it was. “I’m under a lot of stress,” she explained. “With work, and...other stuff.”

  “Diana...at the risk of infuriating you, I’d like to suggest something.” He grinned crookedly, but his eyes became wary.

  “Infuriating me?”

  “Sometimes migraines are the result of an inability, or an unwillingness, to allow parts of the unconscious to surface to the conscious mind.” His gaze searched hers as he continued, “It’s possible you have migraines because you’re suppressing something from your consciousness.”

  Diana drew herself up, a hum of disbelief starting to sing through her veins. “What are you saying?”

  Ethan didn’t mince words. “It’s possible you’re suppressing any precognitive abilities that you may have, and the result is your migraines. Wait, wait, wait.” He held up a hand to ward off her heated reply. “Will you just listen to me for a minute? I’ve never met anyone so stubborn,” he muttered to himself.

  “Look,” he continued, “you seem to be having them more often lately, and they’re stronger. Now, take a look at what’s changed in your life. Your aunt passed away, you’ve come to the country...and you’re trying like hell to believe that what’s happening with these Tarot cards means nothing.” He leveled a steady look. “I believe it’s more than likely these things are related, whether you want to concur or not.”

  “Your theory is absurd, Doctor Tannock—it has so many holes in it, I could use it to drain pasta,” she said coolly. “There are many things happening in my professional and personal life right now that could cause an excess of stress and tension. It has nothing to do with those cards, or anything here. I’ve been having these migraines for years—long before I ever picked up the Tarot.”

  Just then, a shrill brrrringg! cut the silence, causing Diana to jolt. She eyed the ugly black phone, which was on the table next to Ethan.

  It was either Jonathan...or it wasn’t. But it was after eleven o’clock. Who else would be calling here? She remembered the phone call from last night, when there was no one there. It could be another prank call, or the caller could be Jonathan. Either way ….

  “Answer it. Will you?” she said in a rush, fully aware of what she was doing.

  With an odd look of comprehension, Ethan picked up the phone. “Hello.” There was a pause, then he said, “Yes, she’s here. Who’s calling?”

  Diana didn’t need Ethan to convey the message, for Jonathan’s irate tones were audible. Her insides were jumping and twisting, for she knew she’d just crossed a chasm, making a leap from which she and Jonathan might never recover.

  Wordlessly, she held out her hand for the receiver. “Hi Jonathan,” she said.

  “Who is that?” he demanded. “I’ve been calling you all night, and you haven’t answered your cell phone either. What’s a man do
ing at your house this late?”

  “Definitely not the same thing Valerie the Voracious Vixen was doing in your hotel room in Atlantic City,” Diana said much more calmly than she felt.

  “Diana,” he gasped, his shock reverberating over the wire. “When are you going to let that go? I told you, I made a mistake. Is this—is this some revenge play? So you can get even with me?” He heaved a deep, wounded sigh. “I guess I can understand it, Diana-baby. And if that’s what it takes for you to get over this, then I guess I have no choice.”

  She avoided looking at Ethan as she replied, “Think what you like, Jonathan.” Then she lapsed into silence—a powerful place to be. Waiting for him to speak.

  “Diana,” he said again, a little more strongly this time. “When are you coming home? I miss you,” he added, his voice softening. “Please...I don’t know how you think we can work this out with you gone like this.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be here for more than another week,” she said.

  “Another week?” His voice rose. “What’s Merkovitz going to say about you ignoring him?”

  “Merkovitz? I haven’t been ignoring him,” she retorted. Her insides tightened at the unpleasant reminder. “And what does Merkovitz have to do with us?”

  “If he’s not happy, then word gets around,” Jonathan warned. “It could affect your reputation.”

  “Merkovitz’s case is well in hand. Thank you for your concern,” she told him. “Now, I’m tired and ready to go to sleep. Is there anything else?”

  “No,” he said flatly. Then, again, his voice softened, “I miss you, Diana. I love you. Come home soon to me. Please?”

  “Good night, Jonathan,” she said, and reached across Ethan to hang up the phone. Only after the receiver settled into place did she look at him.

  “Valerie the Voracious Vixen?” he asked, raising his brows.