by Jenna Ryan
Unsure what to make of her, Isabella offered a cautious “Maybe. Is this your lodge?”
Darlene snorted, struck a match, inhaled.
“It’s her mother’s,” Donovan said.
“Only a masochistic fool would want to rent rooms to the public.” She adopted a whiny tone. “The bed’s too hard, the food’s too cold, the bathroom’s too small. Goldilocks should have been so picky.” She lowered spiky lashes. “So, what’s your line, Isabella?”
“Apparently I’m a masochistic fool.”
“Hotel worker?”
“My family’s in the business.”
“Ross, huh?” A sly smile appeared. “As in the Corrigan-Ross Hotel Group? And now you’re eyeing Darkwood Manor as a destination for supernatural thrill seekers.” She blew a line of smoke. “Sweetie, if that’s your intention, you wanna scuttle it here and now.”
“Why would I do that, Darlene?”
The woman strolled closer, let her gaze travel in the direction of the distant manor. “Because I drove past your recent acquisition this afternoon. Saw a man at the gate.”
“What did he look like?” Isabella asked with care.
“Tall, thirtysomething, dark haired, might have had a ’stache. I stopped for a moment, because—well, because I was curious. I shouldn’t have, though. I could tell, not sure how, that he wanted me to keep moving.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“No, he just glared.”
“And then?”
“Then he started walking toward me. He came through the gate and headed straight for my car. That’s when I took off.”
With Katie missing, Isabella had no time for theatrics. “Did you feel threatened by him?”
“You could say that.” Blowing more smoke, Darlene sliced a hand in front of her. “I said he came through the gate. Thing is, the gate was closed at the time.”
“I’M SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE a ghost walked through a closed gate.” Isabella strode into the partially lit lodge ahead of Donovan. “The ghost glared, Darlene left and, after the shock wore off, went about her usual business.” She stalked back to him. “Is she on meds, or do I just look like someone who believes in the tooth fairy?”
Donovan turned her back around. “You own Darkwood Manor, Isabella. Ghost sightings come with the territory.” Setting his head next to hers, he nodded at a woman in jeans and a plaid shirt who was delivering a round of beer to a group of poker players at one of five tables strewn about the lobby. “That’s George.”
“Of course it is.” But Isabella worked up a pleasant expression when the woman wiped her hands and came to join them.
“Haden called, said you’d be wanting a room.” She pushed at a mop of salt-and-pepper hair, winked at Donovan. “Don’t let these noisy hooligans losing a month’s wages to each other put you off. They pay me for the space, so I let them pick each other’s pockets twice a week. Sorry about the bad light, but the generator’s old. I’ve got a room upstairs or a cabin if you’d prefer. Both come with lanterns. Cabin has a fireplace and a fridge.”
Isabella’s smile had a dangerous edge. “Does it have a ghost as well?”
The woman named George laughed. “Ran into Darlene outside, did you? Now, honey, you forget about her. My girl’s a frustrated journalist is all. Had a job lined up south of here, but lost out to the editor’s niece. She’s back working for our local Realtor and being pissy about it. The cabins are clean, private and ghost free. You can see Darkwood Manor up on the cliff from number three.”
Unable to sustain her irritation in the face of George’s friendly manner, Isabella relaxed. “Your lodge is lovely, and I know all about pissy moods. It’s been a long day.”
George squeezed her wrist. “Why don’t I let Donovan show you the way. If he remembers, that is. Our boy left us right after he graduated high school. Only comes back to visit Haden and me and old Gunnar Crookshank…when the damn fool’s not off recovering from a gunshot wound that wouldn’t have happened if a certain deputy—Orry Lucas—had better aim.”
Orry Lucas? Isabella’s head swung to the tables. And there he was, half-hidden behind a rough beam, out of the main pool of light, the man she’d spoken to in town.
“Evening, Ms. Ross, Donovan. Didn’t know you two were friends.”
Isabella’s lips tipped up. “I’d have mentioned it,” she lied, “but you were so anxious to get home and help your son with his algebra that I didn’t want to hold you up.”
Donovan chuckled. “Algebra, Orry?”
“I was riled. I meant homework.”
“Your kid’s in preschool. How much homework does he have?”
“Any amount’d be over Orry’s head,” a man with a cigar in his mouth chortled. “Truth be told, our deputy was probably worried his wife would bean him for talking to a pretty stranger. She’s a bit jealous, that one. I should know—she’s my niece.”
Isabella regarded Donovan, now perched on one of the empty tables. “Is everyone in this town related?”
“Mostly.” He raised his voice. “Isabella’s cousin’s still missing, Orry. You planning to do anything about that?”
“Adults are free to come and go as they please in these parts. I’ll look into it when the time’s right.”
Assuming he could tell time, Isabella thought, firing up.
Reading her body language, Donovan shook his head. “Let it go. He can make himself an object of ridicule without our help.”
George sniffed. “It’s no more than he deserves. Oh, here’s more beer coming. You think for a minute, honey. Let me know what you’d like.”
Isabella ground her teeth. “A real-life sheriff would be nice.” But she kept her voice low and her eyes on Donovan, who somehow managed to fit in yet be removed from his surroundings at the same time.
“Excuse me, Ms. Ross, Mr. Black.” A man with slippery black hair and a prominent widow’s peak approached them. He wore a white shirt, jeans and loafers, had long, narrow features and looked completely out of place in the New England lodge. “My name’s Robert Drake. Deputy Lucas tells me you’re in the hotel business, Ms. Ross. I built a number of town homes in Brunswick last year. I’m thinking of doing the same thing up here.”
“Did the deputy also happen to mention that the lady’s got herself some prime property?” Donovan asked in an easy tone.
“Property, yes. Prime’s open for debate.” Drake’s mouth smiled; his eyes didn’t. “I can’t say I’d be eager to get mixed up with a ghost, and I’m told you’ve got a nasty one.”
Isabella matched his smile. “I’ll let you know when I meet him.”
He raised his palms. “You’ve got more courage than I do. I’m not a fan of ghosts myself.”
Curious, she thought, since, with his black eyes and pale skin, he resembled one.
The cigar man stabbed a finger across the table. “I’m a fan of anyone human or vapor who’s got money in his pocket. Get your butt over here, Donovan, and take friggin’ Orry’s place, will ya? He antes up once, then folds.”
“Raise the stakes,” Donovan suggested.
Isabella glanced at his profile. She could see what Robert Drake probably couldn’t. The developer was being thoroughly assessed, from slicked-back hair to Gucci loafer.
In a practiced move, Drake produced a card from his shirt pocket. “On the off chance you decide to part with some of your land, here’s my name and number. Far from the haunted manor would be best, but that’s a personal aversion. As a businessman, I try to be open-minded.”
George returned to shoo him away. “The other players are waiting, and my new guest’s had a long day. Cabin or room, Isabella?”
“Cabin three,” Isabella decided. “I like a view.”
“In that case, key’s behind the desk, Donovan.” George rolled her eyes as the poker player with the cigar swore. “God’s sake, watch your mouth, Milt. I’m sure Isabella’s not looking to color up her vocabulary.”
“She won’t need me to help her with that if
old Aaron’s on a tear,” the man countered. “My first mate swears he heard the screech of the damned while we were sitting a mile off the Point last month. I was below asleep, so he chugged over to check it out. Suddenly, a Corvette shot over the cliff, crashed and burned like hellfire. And so Darkwood Manor changed hands again. I don’t mean to scare you, lady, but my feeling is it’ll keep changing hands until it’s a Dark who owns it again.”
“Or someone with Dark blood,” Orry mumbled behind his cards. At Donovan’s look, he showed his teeth. “Just saying.”
George swatted Donovan’s arm. “Rescue the poor girl, for heaven’s sake.”
“Actually…” Isabella began, but George cut her off.
“You let Haden tell you what you need to know. Or Donovan if he’s in the mood.” She swatted him again. “He won’t be, but who could object to having a sexy-as-hell man evading her questions?”
Isabella thought this might be one of the most surreal evenings of her life. God knew her emotions were all over the place. She needed to collect her thoughts and regroup.
Donovan was removing the key to cabin three when her cell phone beeped. Digging it from her coat pocket, she glanced at the screen.
“What?” he asked when she stopped.
Her brow knit into a frown. “I just got a text message.” She looked up at him. “From Katie.”
Bella. Had to leave. Sorry. Emergency. Details ASAP. Katie.
ISABELLA ROLLED THE WORDS through her head during the walk to the cliff-side cabin. The more she rolled them, the more suspicious she became. When was the last time Katie had texted her? The word never sprang to mind.
“Katie’s not a texter,” she maintained. When Donovan didn’t slow down, she caught his arm. “Did you…?”
“I heard you, Isabella. You don’t believe she sent the message. Someone could have sent it for her.”
“Why?”
“You know your cousin better than I do.”
“Exactly. Which is why this makes no sense. If Katie did leave the manor without a word—highly unlikely—she’d have needed to drive somewhere. She could have contacted me anytime between Darkwood and her destination.”
“Not if she was talking to the person who called her.”
“You’re being obtuse.”
“I’m being a cop.”
“Is there a difference?” She dug in. “This feels wrong, Donovan.”
He regarded her for several seconds, then finally asked, “How many times have you tried to contact her since the message came through?”
“Four. She’s not answering.”
“Yeah, I got that part.” He gave the latch a whack, pushed the door open and let her precede him inside.
Even after they lit a lantern, the shadows remained deep enough to rival anything Isabella had encountered at Darkwood Manor. She took in what she could of the room—a sofa with cushions and throws, a tub chair, a writing desk, some kind of table, two braided rugs on a wood floor and three closed doors. To her surprise, most of the opposite wall was comprised of windows.
The current view was shrouded in fog; however, when the layers shifted she glimpsed Darkwood Manor, looming like an evil fortress on a ragged jut of cliff. Below, she heard the relentless pounding of the surf—the sound of which momentarily diverted her.
“Why the Hang Ten Lodge?” she asked over her shoulder. “Do people actually surf in these waters?”
“Not that I know of. Ten people were hung on the spot where the lodge was built.”
“Once again, it’s all about death. Any of those hanged ten stick around, or am I the only one who’s haunted?”
“Far as I know, you’re it.”
“I see. Details on that?”
His lips curved. “Haden’s the details guy.”
Resigned, she glanced through the bank of windows, turned, then halted and snapped her head around for a second look. “Someone’s out there.”
Donovan leaned over her shoulder. “Where?”
“On the cliff. Right…” She waited until the fog swirled apart. “There. At the edge of the cliff behind the manor.”
The fog closed in again, like a cloud across the moon. Isabella dipped lower. Several seconds later, the layers separated.
But while the rocks and trees remained, the figure she’d seen had vanished.
Chapter Four
Murky night fog bled into a sullen gray dawn. The low overcast gave Mystic Harbor and the cliffs surrounding it an eerie pall.
Or maybe it was his mind, Donovan reflected, re-creating a world of childhood shadows to block the all-too-harsh reality of his mother’s delusions.
His uncle was snoring like a grizzly when he left the cottage. He’d already contacted a cop friend in Boston who’d promised to check out Katie Lynn Ross’s cell phone records. Why he’d done it, he couldn’t say, or if he could, didn’t want to.
He hadn’t seen the figure on the cliff, and he didn’t know a damn thing about Isabella Ross except that she was beautiful, her eyes continued to haunt him and kissing her had been the biggest mistake he’d made in years.
Zipping a leather jacket over jeans and a gray T, he stuffed a gun into his waistband, capped the coffee Haden had preset to brew and hiked to the top of Darkwood Ridge.
Lingering tendrils of mist slunk around his ankles. Most of the ground was rocky, but there was the odd patch of dirt where bushes and weeds had managed to take root. Although the manor itself was crowded on two sides, trees wisely avoided the cliff. Given the storms that frequently battered this section of the coast, Donovan was amazed that one of them hadn’t fallen and punched a hole in the manor’s roof.
Crouching, he examined the soil and needle beds, checked the bushes for signs of breakage and the weeds to see if they’d been flattened. He was sipping his coffee when a pair of black boots came into view.
“Either your kid’s taken to chewing on leather or you’ve got yourself a dog, Lucas. I’ll go with the dog.”
The deputy’s feet shifted into an ornery stance. “You’re trespassing, Black. I could arrest you for that.”
“Do it, and see how long it takes the sheriff to relieve you of your badge.”
“Until Crookshank gets back, I am the sheriff.”
Donovan examined a soggy cigarette butt. “What are you doing here, Acting Sheriff?”
“Same as you, I expect, only without the perks.”
“Uh-huh. How’s your wife?”
“Not pining for you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
It wasn’t, so Donovan let his gaze roam the rough edge ahead. “You don’t believe her, do you?”
“Not for a minute. Ms. Isabella Corrigan hyphen Ross is looking to drum up publicity for her family’s soon-to-be hotel. First she comes to me, then she moves on to you. Next up, the mayor’s office. Then, what the hell, why not the governor’s?”
“You could be right,” Donovan agreed. “But only about the chain of command, not about her motive.”
“You know that, do you? She confided that to you inside her cabin last night?”
Donovan lost the easy attitude and pinned the sneering deputy with a level look as he stood. “What have you done to locate her cousin, Orry?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Isabella said they drove through town in tandem. Have you talked to anyone who might have seen them?”
“She’s yanking our chains, Donovan. There’s no cousin.”
“Have you been inside the manor?”
“What? No.” The deputy controlled an obvious spurt of fear. “Why would I do that? Anyway, I don’t have a key, and I’m not about to break and enter the place.”
Donovan’s gaze swept the unsettled horizon. “Manor’s right behind us. I’ve got a key and permission to enter. You can come along, run back to town, or try and sell me on the fact that your kid’s a genius and you have to buy him a new chemistry set. Choice is yours.”
Orry opened his mouth to respond, but the sound that ex
ploded across the ridge came from Darkwood Manor, not from him, as three bullets ricocheted off the rocks at their feet.
Spinning into a crouch, Donovan whipped the gun from his waistband, searched for the source. He spotted a rifle and an outline in one of the upstairs windows and fired. Then he lowered his arms and watched as both outline and rifle tumbled over the open sash to the ground below.
ISABELLA WAS INSERTING her key in the front door lock when she heard the shots come from the rear of the manor.
She’d seen a dilapidated garage back there and the remains of a stable, maybe an old icehouse. Someone could be using one of those structures for shelter. A poacher, perhaps?
“Well, that makes me feel better,” she said aloud.
Crossing to the edge of the porch, she tapped her key on the worn siding while she considered her options. Only three came to mind. She could investigate alone, call Donovan, or get the hell out of here and let the acting sheriff handle it.
Okay, scratch the third thing. And who knew where Donovan might be. Halfway back to New York, where Haden said he lived, if he was smart.
Because, in the end, Mystic Harbor was all about ghosts. That and a recurring sense of being watched…
For a moment, Isabella let the creepy sensation slide through her. Did it come from the house, she wondered, or from some other source?
The fresh chill that skated along her spine had her hitching a shoulder and wishing she could ditch everything about this place. Except for Donovan. He was far too hot to ditch, and besides, he believed her about Katie.
When her cousin’s face appeared, Isabella locked her gaze on the courtyard gate. Bolstering her resolve with the assertion that she didn’t believe a word of the stories she’d heard last night, she drew a deep breath and made her way down the sagging steps.
Leaden clouds pressed in on her as she moved. Branches groaned, and whippy gusts of wind kicked up around her legs. An invisible crow began to caw, and more than once, wet leaves formed a whirling funnel in her path.
