Phantom Lover

by Rebecca York

  “It’s nice,” she murmured, then crossed the room and laid her suitcase on the double bed.

  Dinah gave her a small smile. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Did Miss Carpenter like it?” Bree asked.

  The girl considered the question. “She did at first, then she said it was spooky.”

  “Oh.”

  “I think that’s why she left. It didn’t have anything to do with me,” she added quickly.

  “I didn’t think so,” Bree agreed, even as she digested the new information. Had Miss Carpenter made the decision to leave because she was afraid to stay at Ravencrest? Or had the Sterlings sent her packing?

  In this unfamiliar environment, inconvenient questions were piling up like unpaid bills, and it was impossible not to feel overwhelmed. Bree was in over her head and she’d been here less than an hour.

  Suddenly unsteady on her feet, she reached to brace her hand against the bedpost, her fingers closing around the carved wood. She’d set her alarm for four in the morning to get through airport security and catch her flight. Now she was jet-lagged, stressed and worn out.

  Although she desperately wanted to make friends with Dinah, she was afraid that if she tried to do it in her present condition, she was going to make some crucial mistake that would set the wrong tone for their whole relationship.

  Keeping her voice even, she turned toward the girl. “I’ve had a really long day and I don’t think I’m going to be very good company tonight. Would you mind very much if I just go to bed, and we start off fresh in the morning?”

  Dinah looked down, dragging her foot in a small half circle over the rug.

  Bree felt her heart squeeze as she watched. “I’m probably disappointing you,” she said. “I’ve just gotten here, and you want to get to know me.”

  Dinah hesitated for several seconds, then gave a small nod.

  “Well, I’m really eager to get to know you and Alice, too. But I’d probably fall asleep as soon as I sat down in a chair.”

  “I understand,” the child answered, sounding much older than her years, and Bree had the feeling she’d learned some strategic coping skills in the past few months.

  “We can see each other at breakfast. I’m looking forward to that,” Bree added, using her last store of energy to sound enthusiastic. Then another thought struck her. “That Mr. Graves—you’re not afraid he’s going to be in the hall, are you? Do you want me to walk you to your room?”

  “No. He never stays up here long.”

  “That’s good.”

  Dinah hesitated for a moment. “You don’t have to worry about me, because my daddy takes care of me.”

  Bree held back any reaction. “So your daddy’s okay? Can I talk to him?”

  “Only if he wants you to.” Perhaps to forestall more questions, the child darted from the room, and Bree was left staring at the closed door.

  What did Dinah’s assurance mean? Maybe Troy wasn’t a captive, after all. Maybe he was in hiding, watching out for Dinah. Or had the little girl made it all up?

  Her hand closed around the door frame to keep herself from running after the girl. She wanted answers, but at the same time, this child tugged at her heartstrings. It was a little girl a lot like Dinah who had started Bonnie Brennan on the road to her new life. She’d been a timid, guarded person when she’d been teaching in Baltimore. Now she realized that teaching had been a safe place for her—where she could deal with children instead of adults. But one afternoon just as class was letting out, a man named Harvey Milner had stormed into the room and demanded that she turn his child, Cathy, over to him. Only Bonnie knew from conversations with his ex-wife that the father didn’t even have visitation rights and that he’d threatened to take the girl and flee the state.

  Milner’s aggressive tactics had scared her, but she’d taken Cathy in her arms and marched down the hall to the principal’s office, the angry father trailing behind her, shouting threats.

  Afterward she’d been amazed at what she’d done. It had made her see herself in a different light, made her realize that she’d been selling herself short. But still, she hadn’t figured out what she’d wanted to do with the rest of her life until she’d read about a kidnapping case in the Baltimore Sun, a kidnapping thwarted by the Light Street Detective Agency.

  Excitement coursed through her as she’d read the article. And she’d known she’d wanted to work for that agency. She wanted to help other children, and adults. As soon as the school year was over, she’d contacted them. They’d needed a new secretary and were willing to hire her for that job and to start training her to be a lot more than that.

  She’d learned a great deal in the past two years— enough to know that she was now way over her head.

  Her mouth twisted as she crossed the room on unsteady legs to lock the door. Then she turned around to study her surroundings. Besides the entrance from the hall, there were two other doors—one on the wall opposite the bed and one at the back of the room. She tried the closer one first and found a dark, cavernous closet.

  The other led to an opulent bathroom. The idea of soaking her tired muscles in the deep, claw-footed tub was suddenly very appealing. But afraid that if she lay down in hot water, she’d fall asleep, she settled for a quick shower.

  After drying off, she pulled on a simple cotton nightgown. In the act of turning off the light, she stayed her hand. Although she’d never been particularly afraid of the dark, Ravencrest had spooked her from the moment she’d driven up the access road. Feeling slightly paranoid, she kept the light on in the bathroom and left the door open a crack, so that a shaft of light slanted across the floor.

  In the dim light she drifted toward the window and looked out. She’d approached the estate from the land side, where tall pines and probably redwoods had blocked her view. From this angle, she could see that the mansion was perched on the edge of a high cliff overlooking the sea. Moonlight gave her a view of waves rolling in, crashing against hidden obstructions and dark spires of rocks that poked up from the foam.

  Far below she could hear the ebb and flow of the surf.

  All at once the realization hit her that this was Troy’s house. He had loved this place. Maybe he’d even stood at this very window looking down at the rocky coast. Until this moment she hadn’t allowed herself to think much about what coming to his home would mean for her. But suddenly she felt close to him, closer than she had in years.

  Seven years ago he’d told her about his home. He’d entranced her with his stories of exploring the cliffs and the sea caves that were accessible only at low tide and of his sailing expeditions into the wild waters offshore. She’d wanted to come here with him. She’d even secretly dreamed of living here—as his wife.

  “Troy,” she breathed, wishing that he was with her in this room. She remembered him so well, remembered how her first sight of him had taken her breath away. He’d walked into the parlor to greet her and Helen, and she’d found herself facing a tall, handsome man with tanned skin and wind-tossed hair that was just a beat too long. She’d taken him in in one swift draft, then focused on his eyes. They were vibrant hazel, fringed by dark lashes. And they’d turned warm when he’d looked at her.

  “I’m Troy. And you must be Helen’s friend Bonnie,” he said.

  “Yes. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  He smiled. “And I’ve heard about you. But I wasn’t prepared for that charming Southern accent.”

  She’d blushed then, but he’d put her at ease immediately. Over the next few days they’d spent a lot of time together. Maybe too much time, as far as Helen was concerned, because she’d complained that Troy was monopolizing her friend.

  One of her most vivid memories was of dancing with him, instinctively following the subtle signals of his body as he’d led her around the front porch of the London summer home.

  Then there was the time he had come up behind her, turned her in his arms and shocked her by lowering his mouth to hers.

 
The thought made her skin tingle. Then she realized that in fact she was shivering from the cool air.

  Don’t get all wound up with fantasies, she told herself. Troy may not even be here. And if he is, he’s not the same man you knew all those years ago. And you’re not the same, either. Maybe he liked you better the way you were. Or maybe not. Back then, she hadn’t had the gumption to reach out for what she wanted. She wasn’t going to repeat the same mistake again. Not if she could make things come out the way she wanted them.

  Pulling the drapes firmly across the window, she quickly crossed to the bed and climbed between the sheets, tugging the covers up to her chin. For a moment she felt as though she had let Helen down. Almost everything that had happened since she’d arrived had been out of her control. But she’d change that in the morning, she vowed.

  In a few minutes her own body heat began to warm her and her mind began to drift. Soon sleep claimed her.

  AS HE HAD SO OFTEN in the past few weeks, he stood on the cliff. Dangerously close to the edge, yet he felt no fear. Heights had never bothered him, and the sound of breakers crashing against the shoreline had always soothed him. Those were some of the things he remembered.

  Mist swirled around him as he gazed down at the water pounding against the rocks fifty feet below. He had been drawn back to this spot, again and again. Below him was the stairway that led to the landing dock.

  He had climbed that stairway a few weeks ago. He remembered that much. Then…

  Suddenly it seemed important to grasp on to that memory, but it flitted away, as had so many of the thoughts that drifted through his mind like autumn leaves floating on a slow-running stream.

  A man and a woman had come here. He remembered that.

  They had told him… What?

  Done what?

  He didn’t know. Perhaps he didn’t want to know. Because on some hidden level, he sensed danger in the memory. It could hurt him badly. Like the blow on the head.

  He remembered the pain and the blackness that had swallowed him up.

  He shoved that memory aside, too. There was a strange kind of comfort in the blank space that took its place. A cold comfort. If he didn’t know, perhaps it wasn’t true.

  And then there was the guilt. It was always with him. But it didn’t choke off his breath now, because he couldn’t remember what it was he had done. He just knew it was something very bad. He could feel it trying to sneak up on him and he clenched his eyes closed, willing it not to capture his mind.

  As he’d prayed it would, the wisp of a memory flitted away. He stood very still, lifting his face to the wind, welcoming the chill.

  Again, by force of will, he brought his attention to the present. To the newcomer, the woman who had arrived by car.

  He had seen her, touched her shoulder. And for a little space of time, the tight, cold place inside his heart had loosened.

  She had told them her name was Bree Brennan. Or was it Bonnie?

  That sounded more familiar. Or maybe his memory was wrong.

  His damn defective memory. Sometimes it was a curse and sometimes a blessing.

  Another image worked its way into his mind. The child. Dinah. He had talked to her, drawn solace from her, given her comfort. At least he thought he had, though he couldn’t bring any of their recent conversations into sharp focus. But he sensed a connection with her. A longing. A need to keep her safe and to protect her.

  It was part of the guilt.

  But that wasn’t why he had gone to her room. Over and over. He needed to see her, to watch her sleep and to assure himself that she was still safe.

  Quickly, he found his way down from the cliff, into the house, into the child’s bedroom, where he stood beside her bed, gazing down at her.

  She stirred in her sleep but didn’t waken. He reached out a hand, then let it fall back to his side. Better not to disturb her now. He would let her be.

  But the woman…

  He would go to the woman. She had come back to him at last. The thought of her set off a humming in his head. An eagerness. An urgency. A need to recapture the past.

  BREE’S EYES SNAPPED open.

  Fear leaped inside her chest as she fought to remember where she was. Then, from below her, she heard the crashing of waves against solid rock, and recent events flashed through her mind: the flight from Baltimore, the drive from San Francisco, Ravencrest and everyone she had encountered since arriving at this cold, massive house.

  Her jaw clenched. She made an effort to relax and almost succeeded, until it registered that the room was dark, except for a small beam of moonlight filtering through a crack at the edge of the drapes.

  But she’d deliberately left the light on in the bathroom. Why wasn’t it burning now? Had the electricity gone off all over the house, or had someone turned off the light in her private quarters?

  A tremor rippled across her skin as her gaze shot to the door that led to the hallway. It was closed.

  Mentally, she went over her actions before going to bed. She’d been so tired she could barely function, but she did remember locking the door.

  Under the covers, her nails dug into her palms as her hands clenched. Maybe that had awakened her—the small noise of the latch springing open. Or had someone come in another way?

  Silently she damned herself for falling into bed without thinking things through. She should have checked the closet for hidden passages. And she should have fetched the gun from her suitcase.

  It wasn’t an ordinary gun. In today’s climate she never would have risked trying to pack a regular handgun in her luggage. This was a special model designed by Randolph Security, a weapon that came apart into innocuous-looking pieces. She should have put it together, but she simply hadn’t thought she’d need the gun in her locked bedroom.

  Now she lay very still under the covers, her eyes slitted, trying to look as though she was still asleep. Her gaze flicked to the bathroom door, to the closet, probing the shadows, as she fought the feeling that the walls were pressing in around her.

  She saw no one, heard no one, yet she sensed she was no longer alone in the room. The air around her seemed to have thickened so that it was difficult to take in a full breath. And she was sure that somebody or something was watching her.

  Strangely, her body felt drugged, and she was afraid that if she tried to move an arm or a leg, it would be impossible to make the muscles work. All she could do was lie here, waiting for something to happen, her breath shallow.

  Earlier, on the access road leading to the mansion, mist had slithered in white tendrils along the blacktop. Now, somehow, that same mist had crept into the bedroom, spreading across the floor like a white, undulating river of vapor.

  The effect was eerie and so totally out of her experience that she could only stare at the foglike wisps while the edge of panic sank its sharp claws into her.

  She knew a scream was locked in her throat. Yet at the same time, she felt a kind of humming anticipation. Something was going to happen. Was already happening.

  A cloud drifted across the moon and the almost nonexistent light around her faded to black. A small gasp escaped her lips, a mere puff of air. If she could have made her muscles work, she would have sprung off the bed and dashed toward the door.

  But her limbs were heavy, heavy as sandbags. At the same time, a feverish expectation swelled inside her until she felt she would explode if something didn’t happen.

  Please. The supplication was only in her mind. She didn’t have the power to speak out loud as she lay there with her heart thumping inside her chest. Slowly, inexorably, she sensed someone coming toward her. It was a man. She didn’t hear his footsteps, but she detected his clean male scent mixed with the smell of soap and spicy aftershave. The scent she had caught outside on the driveway. Only more potent.

  And suddenly her anticipation was stronger than her fear.

  She knew he had come to a stop beside the bed, knew he was bending over her. In the depths of the darkness she couldn�
��t see him, but she knew very well he was there. She should order him out of her bedroom. Yet the words stayed locked in her throat.

  The air around her stirred and she felt his warm sweet breath against her face. For heartbeats, nothing more happened. Then she felt a gentle pressure against her lips.

  It was a light kiss, butterfly light, brushing back and forth. A caress that teased and tantalized her senses even as it set off a shiver that was part sensual response and part fear.

  For the moment at least, fear won, and she found her voice. “No.”

  He didn’t accept the denial. Instead he absorbed the word of protest from her lips. Deliberately, he intensified the kiss, increased the breathless feeling in her chest as his lips moved over hers with practiced male assurance.

  Her eyes drifted closed. Her heart stopped and then started again in overtime. She wanted to lift her arms. To push him away? To pull him close? She couldn’t say which, and she did neither. She only lay there with her eyes closed, drawn into the experience until she was returning the kiss—tentatively at first and then with more passion as her need for him grew stronger.

  For a long time their lips were the only point of contact. As he sensed her acceptance, his mouth opened, became more possessive. He was a skilled lover who knew what he was doing, knew how to surprise and tease. The kiss deepened, then became momentarily more shallow. His tongue played with the sensitive tissue at the insides of her lips, then probed into the corners.

  When he caught her lower lip between his teeth and gently nipped at her, she heard a small moan escape her throat.

  Her response seemed to please him. He touched her then, his fingers stroking her cheeks, her jawline, her neck, moving downward, sending tingles of sensation over her skin.

  He slid his hands under the covers, his fingers skimming the warm skin of her shoulders, stopping to play with the straps of her gown, which brought another small moan from her.

  She found her voice, enough voice for one word. “Troy?”

  He didn’t answer. She didn’t even know if it was him. The only thing she knew was that this was neither of the other men she had met this evening. It couldn’t be.