by Jenna Ryan
“Your faith in me is staggering.”
“And your plan is starting to suck. What did you do?”
“I played on a weakness you told me about and put a snake in her bed.”
She tapped a cigarette out with agitated fingers. “Was it a constrictor?”
“You’re such a girl. A rattler’s far more affective.”
“You bastard. I warned you—”
He moved as fast as the reptile he’d sicked on Isabella, jumping to his feet and whipping the knife up. “You were saying?”
With the tip of the blade pressed against the underside of her chin, she was half afraid to swallow. But she held his gaze, took a drag from her cigarette and angled the smoke toward the ceiling. “Jerk her around, and you jerk him even harder. Screw up once, and he’ll be all over you.”
“What, you think that scares me?”
“He’s a fed, a sharpshooter. He hit that suit I propped up dead center before I could blink. Do you really want to mess with that?”
He scraped the blade across her skin, glowered for a minute, then backed off and tossed the knife aside. “The goal hasn’t changed, only the numbers. We’re dealing with two now instead of one.” An ugly grin split his face. “Looks like we’ll have to be a little more inventive. And a whole lot more mean.”
Chapter Eleven
Consequences, repercussions and second thoughts…
Every word was a lash on Donovan’s conscience. The damage was done. All he could do now was make sure any blood spilled belonged to him.
“You’re as stubborn as ten mules,” Haden accused. “Maybe twenty.” He waved a whisk at the fridge. “Get me some milk and eggs, then sit down and drink your coffee while I finish this French toast for Isabella. No arguments—you’re taking it to her if I have to follow you back to the cabin. You mad yet?”
Donovan shot him a look as he reached for the milk. “Getting there.”
“Good, now hit me.”
“What?”
Haden stuck his bushy chin out. “Take a swing, hard as you can. Don’t matter where. Jaw, stomach, lower if you’re feeling as cranky as you look.”
“Haden, I’m not—”
His uncle stepped forward. “You want me to go first?”
“No, I—”
“Fine, I will.” And drawing back a big ham fist, he went for the head.
Swearing, Donovan ducked, caught his uncle’s wrist and swung him around with his arm locked firmly behind him. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Could be,” Haden growled. “I’m a Dark, aren’t I? Just like you and your ma and George and Darlene, too. We’ve all got the blood, so it follows we’re all genetic time bombs, ticking toward insanity.” He jerked his trapped arm. “Am I making my point here?”
“Yeah. You’re ready to join my mother in Bellevue.”
“Make that thirty mules,” Haden muttered. “Aw, hell, let go of me before your breakfast burns.”
Releasing him, Donovan picked up his coffee and aimed a venomous look at his uncle’s back.
“I felt that, Donovan. Funny thing, though, I got you smoking mad, and yet here I am with all four limbs still working. Do I hear thunder?”
“Maybe. It’s raining. Are we done with the drama for now?”
“You promise to take this breakfast to Isabella?”
“Dammit, Haden, yes, I’ll take it to her. You know it’s possible she has her own reservations about last night.”
“You mean because of that shyster ex of hers?”
Irritated but calm, Donovan poured more coffee. “Did you like the guy on any level?”
“About as much as I like that bloodsucker who’s staying at George’s lodge.”
“Drake.”
“D’you know he’s already bought a hundred acres of land north of the manor? Heard he’s haggling for two hundred more to the south.” Haden gestured with his spatula. “You mark my words, he’s gonna make a move on Isabella at some point. I can’t figure out why he didn’t jump on her the minute she came to town, but I figure he’s got some strategy going. Any ideas what all the moaning and groaning we’ve been hearing is all about?”
“One or two. Nothing concrete.”
“What about Isabella’s missing cousin?”
“Same answer, less definite.”
Haden slid the French toast into a hot-pack, sealed the lid and popped a bottle of syrup on top. “Go, eat, talk. Think family tree. Remember, it’s George and Darlene who’re direct descendents of old Aaron. No one ever proved his sister was crazy.”
No one had ever disproved it, either, Donovan thought, jogging through the wind and rain to his truck. He had to plant that thought firmly in his mind and not let the memory of a night spent with Isabella sway him.
Yes, he cared. More than he should or had for any other woman. All the more reason not to take a chance on the future state of his mental health.
Flipping his jacket collar up, he regarded the mist-shrouded manor. That look didn’t falter when a low, keening wail joined briefly with the wind, rose to a mournful crescendo, then faded to eerie silence.
He might believe in the possibility of genetic insanity, but he sure as hell wasn’t buying into any ghost.
It was past time for the manor to reveal its deep, dark secrets.
ISABELLA EMERGED FROM the bathroom to the sound of someone’s fist hammering on the door.
A voice called from the other side. “Honey, it’s George. I’ve got a message for you.”
She started across the room barefoot, in her robe, towel-drying her hair.
No surprise, Donovan hadn’t been here when she’d woken up on the floor under layers of blankets in front of the still-glowing hearth. She’d expected him to be gone by first light. Truthfully, she’d expected him to leave before that, but she supposed she’d given him good reason to stay.
“Honey? I see your car out here. Are you home?”
Isabella spied a hot-pack on the island with a note that read:
Hope you like French toast. Haden sent enough to feed everyone at the lodge. Working on your cousin’s disappearance. Don’t imagine there’s any point telling you to stay put. Donovan.
“It was great for me, too, Black,” she said with a grin. Still toweling her hair, she continued on to the door.
“Isabella…? Oh, good, you are there.” George lowered her hand. “I saw the lights on, and you always turn them off when you leave.”
Isabella drew her inside, glanced at the ominous black clouds and shook off—she wasn’t sure what. Possibly one of those feelings that struck when certain elements seemed a little off. Like the way George was dressed, in a pale blue dress with a white vest and bright red pumps.
“Well, hey there, Dorothy. Where’s Toto?”
George regarded her shoes. “They were on sale. I click my heels together every time I put them on, but so far, no Oz.”
“The shoes don’t take you to Oz, George, they take you home. Coffee?”
“No, thanks. I have an appointment with a loan officer at the bank which I’m not looking forward to. I stopped off because I have a message for you from Donovan. He’s somewhere up on Dark Ridge—possibly broken down, I didn’t quite get that part—and he wants you to meet him at the manor.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am. Last time we arranged to meet, things—well, never mind. Did he say when?”
“ASAP was my understanding.” Clasping her hands, George glanced into the wall mirror. “Wish me luck today. I’m going to need it.”
“Should I say break a leg, or is that only for…” The smile on Isabella’s lips faded. “You’re wearing lipstick.”
“It matches the shoes. Is it too much?”
“No, it’s nice. Would you, uh, call the color poppy red?”
“I guess so. Look, hon, if you want some, just go on in to the drugstore on Vermont. They’re giving out free samples this week.”
“To everyo
ne?”
“To all their female customers.” She waved a hand in front of Isabella’s face. “Are you feeling okay?”
“What? Yes.” Isabella recovered quickly. “Meet Donovan at Darkwood Manor.” And go to the drugstore before it closes. “Thanks for the message. Good luck at the bank.”
She drummed her fingers on the door after George left. Lipstick warning on a napkin; free drugstore samples in town. Someone wanted her gone. She could come up with a few names that worked, but what about Katie? How did her disappearance fit into this?
Determined, she started for the bedroom, pausing only long enough to snag a piece of Haden’s French toast. Her cell phone beeped while she was cramming a big bite into her mouth.
Swallowing with difficulty, she regarded the screen, then slowly pressed the message button.
Sorry, Bella. Big mess here. See you soon to explain. Don’t call Killer. Katie.
THE CLOUDS WERE LOWER, thicker and somehow more forbidding up on Dark Ridge. Isabella suspected her mind was embellishing the atmosphere, but not by much.
Rain, driven by a punishing north wind, slanted down in sheets. The thunder that rolled in the distance was punctuated by flickering bolts of lightning. And lurking beneath it in her mind, a second text message from Katie.
There was no sign of Donovan or his vehicle, but the door to the manor was ajar, so she dropped her keys in the pocket of her long coat. Given the state of the windows and the webwork of underground tunnels, the lock was a token in any case.
The air in the great hall felt damp and oppressive. Plaster crunched under her boots. Wind whistled through gaps in the walls.
Talk about setting a mood.
She managed not to jump when her cell phone rang, however, her heart refused to leave her throat, and that surprised her.
She picked up. “Isabella Ross…Grandpa, hello. How are you?”
That was all the opening her grandfather needed. There were a number of I wants and you shoulds before the dreaded question arose.
“Katie’s not here,” she hedged. “I haven’t seen her since Monday. What? Really? You got one, too? No, it isn’t like her.” She suffered the usual lecture until her brain simply got tired of listening. “I’ll call Killer again tonight. It’s possible she’s with him. Yes, I know, he can be secretive. I’m going into the cellar. No signal there. I’ll be in touch as soon as possible. Love you. ’Bye.”
Slapping her phone closed, she turned it off and slipped it into her pocket with her keys—and the Black family tree, she realized when her fingers brushed the folded paper.
It reminded her that Donovan was a Dark, with either Romanian royal or more likely Gypsy blood mixed in. Whatever the combination, he knew how to make love.
Now, why would her mind go there? Not that a hot man she might very well be falling in love with wasn’t preferable to the creaks and groans of a crumbling cliffside mansion, but she’d been assaulted here before and could be again if she wasn’t extremely careful.
Pivoting, she started for the ballroom. She stopped short when her ears picked up a scuttling sound overhead. “That’s not the wind,” she said out loud.
As it had her first day there, a storm pounded the manor’s old walls. Thunder continued to rumble outside. When the scuttling sounds repeated, Isabella made her decision. Switching on her flashlight, she headed for the stairwell.
Pictures of a man who looked like a nineteenth-century gold miner kept her company as she climbed.
She knew it wasn’t a smart thing to do, but these constant attempts to frighten her were ticking her off. So was the endless stream of questions running through her head.
Why would Katie text her instead of calling? Who in the area knew about her snake phobia? Why couldn’t she find Donovan when George said he’d asked her to meet him here? Why had George been wearing the same shade of lipstick as the one used to write a warning on a napkin…?
Her ears picked up a snatch of high-pitched laughter. Now that, she decided, was creepy, as creepy as walking toward it was foolish, especially with every nerve in her body screaming at her to beware. Walls might not have eyes, but something in this house made her skin crawl and her palms go damp. Time to abort.
It occurred to her as she worked her way back through the rubble that Donovan had a cell phone, too. Not always on him, but worth a shot.
She had the first three numbers pressed when a new sound underscored the storm. What started as a whisper began to ripple and swirl through the musty air.
Her heart gave several hard thumps. The feeling of being watched was acceptable, even understandable, but a full-blown hallucination was not.
And still, the sound grew.
Swinging around, Isabella backed away from a female voice that had the thunder fading into obscurity.
“Run, Isabella,” it warned. “Get out of this house and don’t come back. Don’t let what happened to me happen to you.”
And then the wail began….
“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR mind?” Donovan shot from his truck to take her by the arms at the front gate. “Standing out here during a thunderstorm?”
In no mood to be lectured, Isabella jerked free. “I’m not in the open, and I’ve been pacing, not standing. George said you wanted me to meet you here. Judging from the fact that you were in town when I called, I’m guessing she lied.”
“Calm down, Isabella.”
“I am calm.” However, she probably didn’t sound it, so she raised her hands, fingers spread. “I am. I just want to know what the hell’s going on. Who would think I’m naïve enough to believe that a ghost wants me to leave Darkwood Manor or die? I’ll admit the dying part freaks me out, because God knows bullets and venomous snakes can kill, but the Sybil Dark impersonation’s too off the wall for even my Irish blood.”
Donovan regarded the distant manor. “Did the voice sound familiar?”
“No, it sounded wispy. There was an echo around the words, but, come on, Donovan, most people can change their vocal pitch to some extent. Run it through a computer and poof, instant ghost.” She walked away from him, then back. “Look, I know she needs money, but I don’t think George would be part of something like this.”
“Did I say she would?”
Isabella thought about it. “Red lipstick’s popular this season. I could also be wrong about the shade. It might not be a match for the writing on the napkin.”
He intercepted her as she circled, taking her by the shoulders this time and nudging her head up until she looked straight at him. “I’ll pretend I know what you’re talking about, because for the most part I probably do. But no one’s exempt, even if I wouldn’t put George at the top of the list.”
“She said you were on Dark Ridge, and you wanted me to meet you at the manor.”
“All right, maybe a little closer to the top than I thought.”
“It’s too blatant a lie,” Isabella decided. “Too obvious. Too…”
“Amateurish?”
She held his stare. “I want to go back inside. I heard noises upstairs—footsteps, I think, and maybe someone laughing, although that could have been my imagination…” A sigh slipped out. “Why are you smiling?”
“I’m relishing the moment.”
For some ridiculous reason, she almost laughed. “What could there possibly be about this particular moment that you would want to relish?”
He propelled her through the front gate. “I wasn’t referring to this moment. The one I’m talking about involves a twisted perp, my fists and a whole lot of blood.”
Isabella started to make a reference to Aaron Dark, but stopped herself and regarded the manor instead.
“This place really would make a great hotel.” In an attempt to restore her emotional balance and his humor, she bumped his arm. “Honeymooners would love it. Great way to de-stress after the wedding.”
“Yeah, nothing like a good murder mystery coupled with a mad ghost story to start a marriage.”
“It’s a tragic
love story, Donovan. That makes it romantic.”
“There’s romance in the fact that Aaron threw his wife over a cliff in a fit of jealous rage?”
“Well, we’d put a slightly different spin on it, bring Sybil into the picture a little more, and—” A loud bang from the manor cut her off and had Donovan shoving her behind him.
He already had his gun out and was scanning the east side of the house.
“There.” Isabella pointed through the rain to the overgrown yard.
Two people were running toward the deep woods. And the bigger one appeared to be carrying a rifle.
Chapter Twelve
“Be happy, Donovan.” Isabella walked ahead of him on the muddy path. “At least be relieved. Two kids with a stick is better than two shooters with a rifle.”
“They know this is private property.”
“And no teen has ever ventured into forbidden territory before.” Turning, she grinned at him. “Halloween’s coming, remember? They wanted to scare themselves, maybe look for a place to have a party, like you probably did once upon a time.”
“No comment.”
Turning back, she avoided a pothole, only to wind up squishing through a mound of decomposing pine needles. “Yuck. You sent those kids home for dry clothes, Donovan. I think we should do the same—with a stop in town so I can pick up some lipstick samples.”
He slanted her a canny look. “Thought you didn’t suspect George?”
“I don’t, but she can’t be the only person who got a freebie. I’ll see what’s available, take the closest color to poppy red and compare it to the writing on the napkin.”
“And in doing so, hope to prove what?”
“You’re the cop, you tell me.”
A faint smile tugged on Donovan’s lips. “It’s the actual tube we need, Isabella. Even if the colors match, we’ll be no further ahead than when George showed up at your door.”
“With a message from you, or so she claimed.”
His smile widened. “So you do suspect her.”
“No. Well, maybe. A little… I really hate this.”
He surprised her by tugging on her hair, then dropping an arm over her shoulders and giving her a long, lazy kiss. “Good morning, Isabella.”
