by Rebecca York
“Then Helen was mistaken. Grace and I had problems from the start.”
She struggled to process what he was saying, even as she tried to twist out of his arms, but he held her where she was.
In a shaky voice she asked, “If you didn’t love her, why did you marry her?”
“I got her pregnant.”
“Oh.” The one clipped syllable was all she could manage.
“And then I killed her.”
“How?”
“In the car.”
“You mean, an accident?”
He dragged in a breath and let it out. “Technically.”
“Then—”
Ruthlessly, he cut her off. “We were having one of our fights. At the end we were fighting all the time about how much money she was spending on the house. I told her we had to cut back or she’d bankrupt us, and she just kept pouring on the money—maybe because the house had become a symbol to her.” He stopped and heaved a sigh. “I can’t always remember that night. Sometimes it goes away and leaves me alone.”
He wouldn’t permit her to turn and hold him close. All she could do was reach back and close her hands gently over his forearms, silently lending him her strength. He bent his head, pressed his cheek against her hair.
“Let me help you,” she murmured. “Tell me what happened.”
He was silent for several moments, then continued. “It was foggy, and the road was slick. She was yelling at me, and she took a curve too fast. The car hit the rocks, then bounced over the cliff. I was thrown out—I guess because I’d forgotten to buckle my seat belt. She went into the ocean with the car.”
“Oh, my God.” Bree gasped. “Troy, you didn’t kill her! She was driving.”
“But we were fighting. She was focused on me, not on the road. If I’d kept my mouth shut and just let her concentrate on what she was supposed to be doing, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“The hell I can’t!”
“Troy.” This time his name sighed out of her. She felt his chest rising and falling, felt him match the rhythm of his breathing to hers.
“Thank you for telling me,” she murmured.
“You have the right to know.”
“Why?”
“Because in Montana, after you left, I met Grace. And I was lonely. We…got close too quickly. She wasn’t like you. She wasn’t sweet and innocent. Then she told me she was going to have a baby. I couldn’t leave her like that. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she breathed. Finally, after all these years, she did understand why he’d married someone else when it had looked as if they’d been heading toward something incredibly good.
She heard the anguish in his voice as he continued. “God knows, I tried to make the marriage work. For a little while things were okay. And she gave me an incredible gift—Dinah.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then…Grace and I started getting on each other’s nerves. We should have gotten divorced. But she told me she’d take Dinah away and I believed her. She would have done it to punish me.”
She heard his shallow breathing. He had just confessed his deepest sins and she knew he was waiting for her reaction.
She clutched at his forearms, angled her head so she could soothe her cheek against his shoulder.
“Punish you for what?”
“Taking away the lifestyle she’d come to love.”
“Then don’t blame yourself,” she murmured.
His confession had released her from her own secret guilt. She’d wanted this man for so long, and she’d told herself over and over that it was wrong because he was happily married. She’d tried to substitute other relationships, but her memory of him had always gotten in the way. Now he had told her the truth, and she knew she hadn’t imagined the feelings between them all those years ago.
Still, a tiny kernel of doubt niggled at her. The last time she’d talked to him, he’d claimed he couldn’t remember the recent past. Now he had come out with this fully formed story. How much of what he’d said was true?
She wanted to believe him. And there was one thing she absolutely had to believe. She had missed him all these years, and he was telling her that he had missed her, too.
More than that, he needed her. She knew that if he let her, she could help him heal his soul. By allowing her to share his sadness and his guilt, and by building on the feelings that she’d struggled so hard to repress because she’d thought they were wrong.
She stood there, leaning back against him, just breathing, just tuning herself to something fundamental that seemed to grow from the contact between them.
She had been frightened in this house, unsure. But now that she was with him, and they were actually communicating, everything seemed different.
He had the power to make it different.
He bent his head and brushed her hair aside, so his lips could find the tender place where her jawline met her neck. She had told herself they were simply giving each other comfort, but there was no denying the sensual undercurrent to his touch.
His lips inched upward and she heard a small sigh ease from her own lips.
She knew he heard, too, because the sound led his finger to her lips, where he touched her with a feather-light stroke.
Her neck arched, giving him better access. He was weaving a sensual web around her again, the way he’d done so easily in her bedroom. He was a magician who had learned just the right tricks to bring her under his spell.
She struggled to fight the fog wafting through her brain. She told herself that she had to make herself think, make him keep communicating in words instead of touches. But now that everything had changed, she had lost the will to protest. Instead, she opened her mouth so he could stroke the sensitive tissue of her lips. Then, with a small sound, she went from passive to aggressive, trapping his finger between her teeth, nibbling on him, playing with the skin.
Behind her, he caught his breath, and she felt as though the rules of the encounter had changed.
“Let me turn around,” she pleaded, the request coming out high and breathy.
“I’ve decided it’s better like this.”
She’d been drifting on a cloud of sensuality. Now the impact of his words was almost a physical blow.
“You decided! Do you make all the decisions?”
“I have to.”
Before she could demand an explanation, a noise in the hall made them both go rigid.
Bree’s heart leaped into her throat. “Somebody’s here,” she gasped.
He cursed under his breath and moved away from her, leaving her standing alone in the closet.
In the next moment the door flew open and she found herself facing Nola Sterling.
“I thought I heard music in here! First I find you scrabbling around behind a curtain in the hall, now you’re in the master suite! What in the hell are you doing in Mr. London’s bedroom?” Nola demanded, standing in the doorway, her hands balled into fists and planted on her hips. Her voice was controlled, but her narrow face reflected a bad case of nerves.
“Is this Mr. London’s bedroom?” Bree asked, using her sweet little Southern belle voice.
“You know damn well it is! That’s why you came here. Don’t hide in the damn closet.”
Nola backed up to give Bree room to follow. She took a step forward but remained a few inches inside the closet doorway, struggling to look innocent, even as her mind scrambled for some other explanation. “I was exploring the house. I was in a lot of rooms. You just happened to find me here,” she heard herself saying, lying through her teeth again. Lord, she was getting good at lying, she thought, hating the way she was bending her moral code. “This place is so stunning. I wanted to look around. I didn’t know what room it was. And since you told me Mr. London has been violent, I certainly wouldn’t have come in here if I’d known it was his room.”
Nola cocked her head, staring at her. “You don’t have permission to explore t
he house. You’re supposed to be with the little girl. And this room is always locked. How did you get in?”
Bree dredged up a befuddled look. “It wasn’t locked,” she said, her voice still all innocence.
Nola’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying you just walked in?”
“Yes.”
“And did you turn on the music?”
“No. I’m not very mechanical. I don’t fool with other people’s CD players.”
“If you didn’t turn it on, who did?”
Bree raised her chin slightly. “Maybe that sexy ghost you told me about.”
Nola blanched, and Bree knew she’d scored a point, although she couldn’t follow the logic of it.
But the woman recovered quickly. “I don’t think so,” she said firmly. “Let’s get back to you. You claim that before you came in here, you were in other rooms. Describe them.”
“Which…which ones?” Bree hedged. “There are so many.”
“Start with the one next door on the right. That is, if you want to keep your job.”
Chapter Eight
Bree had no idea what the room on the right looked like. She was desperately floundering for something to say when a voice whispered in her ear. Troy’s voice, coming from behind her, low and husky, sending a shiver over her skin.
“The room on the right is a little sitting room. There are couches and a television set. The room next to that is another bedroom. It’s bright and cheery—yellow and white. There’s a cut-glass dish of potpourri on the dresser. If she asks you about anything else, tell her you saw too much to remember it all.”
She resisted the impulse to look over her shoulder, to see where he was. His voice had come to her on a whisper, and she wondered if Nola had heard him, too. Yet the woman gave no sign that she was aware of anyone else in the room besides Bree.
“Quit stalling!”
Bree swallowed, took a step out of the closet, then repeated the information Troy had fed her, watching Nola’s face relax somewhat.
“All right. So Helen London hired a first-class snoop. You looked in several rooms,” she conceded. “But that doesn’t explain how you got in here.”
Bree let a look of distress wash over her face. “Nobody said I was confined to one part of the house. And with this room—I told you, the door was unlocked. I just turned the knob,” she said.
“That’s impossible.”
Bree watched Nola. The woman was acting more and more agitated. She looked as if she were standing on a hill of sand and it was slipping out from under her feet.
“I’d like you out of this room,” Nola snapped. “That’s an order, not a request. If I find you in here again, you will be dismissed.”
“Okay, sure,” Bree said weakly.
She would have liked to ask Nola why she had come up to Troy’s room. She didn’t have a tray with her, so she wasn’t delivering a meal. But she knew that asking any question would be a bad idea. Instead she said, “I’m sorry if I stepped on anyone’s toes.”
Somehow she kept herself from looking back toward the closet. She wanted to plunge inside and start pushing clothing aside, so she could look for Troy—or for a hidden passage where he’d escaped after giving her the information that had gotten her off the hook with Nola. But she wasn’t going to get a chance to do that now. Or later, either, since she’d just been warned that this room was off-limits. And if she got caught here, it was all over.
They stepped into the hall, and Nola clicked the lock before pulling the door shut. She waited while Bree made her way along the hall and down the steps before marching away in the other direction.
Bree kept walking, her steps measured but her mind whirling. Now that she was alone, the intensity of the conversation with Troy slammed into her.
He’d said his marriage hadn’t worked out. He’d said he felt guilty about his wife’s death.
Lord, she’d never known that he’d gotten Grace pregnant in Montana. Never known that was the reason he hadn’t sought her out after she’d left to go home to take care of Mom.
She might have headed for the kitchen to see if Dinah was still there, since she’d just been reminded she was supposed to be teaching the little girl, but she needed a few minutes to herself.
Because the farther she got from Troy’s room, the more things that had seemed so clear were turning muddy again. Troy had given her reasons for his not contacting her after she’d left. In effect, he’d spun a story—a story she wanted to believe—about why he hadn’t gotten back together with her.
He’d also told her about the car accident. But that wasn’t really relevant to what was going on now. It didn’t explain why he was hiding out—unless the police wanted to question him about the events of that night. Nobody had made that suggestion. And the accident didn’t explain what the Sterlings were up to.
Now that she was alone, she felt her chest tighten. She was scared and confused and in over her head on so many levels.
He said his wife was dead. Yet he was the one who kept appearing and then vanishing like a ghost. Bree stopped short and looked over her shoulder, feeling torn in two. She wanted desperately to go back to his room to make a thorough search of the closet—to find out how he’d disappeared and how he’d spoken to her without Nola seeing him. But under the circumstances, that was simply too much of a risk.
She sighed. When she and Troy had been talking together, he’d done a skillful job of directing the conversation, yet there were so many questions left unanswered. She didn’t know if that was because he was hiding incriminating details from her or because his memory was impaired and he didn’t have all the facts.
Whatever the reason, she knew she needed help, from either the Light Street Detective Agency or Randolph Security. She should have told them she was coming or called when she’d assessed the situation here. But she’d been putting it off for two good reasons: first, she knew she was going to catch hell for coming to Ravencrest on her own, and second, over the past few days, she’d convinced herself she was handling things. Now she knew she’d been fooling herself about that second item, and she was willing to throw herself on the mercy of her friends and colleagues back home.
Once she’d made the decision, it was all she could do to keep from running to get her cell phone. Instead she made her way down the stairs at a reasonable pace, then stepped into her room.
She’d left her purse in the bottom right dresser drawer. Pulling it out, she began searching for the phone.
When she couldn’t find it, she crossed the room on shaky legs and turned her purse upside down, dumping the contents onto the bed. She saw her wallet, her keys, two pens and an assortment of her belongings, but no phone. Carefully she checked all the interior pockets. The phone—her connection to the outside world—was gone.
She couldn’t have lost it; she was sure it had been in her purse when she’d arrived. She took a quick look around the room—under the bed, in her suitcase, under other pieces of furniture.
The cell phone was definitely missing.
Taken by the same person who’d searched her suitcase the day after she arrived, she reasoned. Or maybe the ghost had done it.
All at once she felt the walls close in on her, felt her heart pound in her chest, and it was difficult to take in a full breath.
She’d had panic attacks in the past, when she’d been really worried about her mom, and she recognized the symptoms.
Calm down, she ordered herself. Don’t do this. It’s not going to help. Don’t let this house and the people here get the better of you, she repeated over and over, because deep inside she knew that she couldn’t afford to fall apart. The old Bonnie Brennan might have crawled into bed and pulled the covers over her head. But not Bree Brennan.
By force of will, she brought herself under control, keeping her breathing slow and even. When she was feeling more self-possessed, she thought about the phone situation at Ravencrest. There wasn’t one in the kitchen or in Troy’s room, either. If she wanted t
o make a call, she’d have to ask Nola or find the estate office.
And she certainly wasn’t going to be making a call to the Light Street Detective Agency in front of Nola or Abner Sterling.
Where was Abner, anyway? she asked herself. She’d seen him only once, throwing a tantrum in the hall. Maybe he was really the guy confined to his room, and he’d gotten out the night she arrived.
She sighed, thinking that she was letting her imagination run away with her.
She clenched her teeth, then deliberately relaxed, trying to decide on a course of action.
Someone had made sure she couldn’t use her cell phone. Maybe the thing to do was to drive into town and use a public phone.
She glanced toward the window. Clouds had blown up since she and Dinah had walked outside that morning. The sky looked dark and threatening.
But suddenly it had become important to get off the estate now. Quickly she pulled on her light raincoat, then hurried along the hall and down the stairs. As she stepped outside, the wind almost tore the door from her hand and she had to drag it closed. Turning, she watched the trees and bushes shiver violently in the wind. Was it just the wind? Or some supernatural force giving her a warning?
Supernatural force! Lord, she was the one losing her mind.
Taking a deep breath, she dashed to her rental car, inserted the key in the lock and opened the door. Once she was safely inside, she breathed out a small sigh. She’d shut away the evil influences from the house. She was safe.
Leaning back she closed her eyes for a moment, simply absorbing the sudden feeling of security. But when she inserted the key in the ignition and turned it, nothing happened.
Nothing happened on the second or third try, either.
Reaching down, she released the hood latch, then climbed out, pushed up the hood and stared at the engine.
Of course, her knowledge of machinery would fit into a pillbox. What did she expect—that someone had disabled the car and left a big red sign explaining what they’d done?
For several minutes she stared helplessly at the unfamiliar collection of parts. Then she slammed the hood closed and turned in a circle. The wind had died down and the clouds had thinned, so that the atmosphere didn’t seem quite so ominous.
