Oberon Boxed Set (Books 1-3) Welcome to Oberon

by P. G. Forte

  A moment later, he felt her bubble of laughter burst against his lips, and she finally succeeded in wrenching her mouth away.

  “Jeez, Dan! Cut it out!” she mumbled. This time when she pushed against him, he did loosen his hold on her, just a little.

  “What?” He gazed down at her with feigned innocence.

  “You know, Cavanaugh,” she said, using the mock-scathing tone that always made him smile. “In general, when you ask a person a question, it’s customary to wait for a response before you begin mauling her.”

  “Ahh, but you’re looking so very maulable just now,” he answered, looking her over appreciatively. Her dark, wavy hair was bundled loosely on top of her head, all except for the stray wisps that clung around her neck and down the sides of her face. She was wearing an old thermal top that stretched tightly across her full breasts and barely reached her waist over an even older pair of his discarded sweatpants. The pants rode low on her hips, emphasizing the curve of her butt. In between the two articles of clothing lay several inches of delectably bare skin.

  “Maulable, huh?” Lucy looked skeptical.

  “Mmm.” He smiled, keeping his hands tight on her bare waist. “Very.”

  “You tryin’ to tell me that’s a word now?”

  “Absolutely. And I would know. I majored in English Lit, remember?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Right. Except that was about a thousand years ago. So, I’m thinking you could have forgotten a thing or two since then.”

  “Yeah. Or... just maybe I’ve learned a thing or two.” He pulled her close again, enjoying the little tremor that ran through her as he whispered in her ear. “Wanna take a test with me and find out?”

  “Mmm.” She sighed, relaxing against him for barely a heartbeat, then he felt her pushing him away again. “Sounds wonderful. But later, okay? Seth and Mandy are gonna be home soon, and I’ve barely gotten dinner started.”

  “Oh, just send ‘em out for pizza. They’re old enough now,” Dan growled as he watched her move away. She looked tense and distracted – and, hell, her folks hadn’t even gotten here yet. He moodily contemplated what the next few weeks would be like. “Don’t the kids have any friends they could spend the night with? It’s been months since you and I had an evening alone.”

  Lucy snorted. “Yeah? Well, get used to it, babe. It’ll probably be months before it happens again.

  “I’m serious, Luce. I want some alone time – just you and me.” Before the deluge.

  She sighed. “I know, Dan, and I’d like that, too. But ... we can’t right now, so—” She reached for a mixing bowl on the island counter and picked up the whisk that was inside it. “D’you want to hear about Joey or not?”

  Dan opened the refrigerator door and reached for a beer. “You’re kidding. I get a choice? Then definitely not.”

  “Dan!”

  “Oh, fine.” He sighed as he leaned against the counter and twisted off the cap. “Tell me what h – oh no, wait, let me guess. This has gotta be about Nick again, right?”

  “He’s not going to be at Scout’s tomorrow.”

  “Who’s not? Nick?” Dan paused with the beer halfway to his lips. “How’s he gonna manage that trick? I thought he was all moved in over a month ago.”

  “No, not Nick! Damn it, Dan, could you at least try to pay attention?” Annoyance flashed in her dark brown eyes and she slammed the whisk down on the counter. Dan folded his arms across his chest and fixed her with a reproachful gaze.

  “Sorry,” Lucy muttered, taking a deep breath. “It’s just... it really pisses me off the way everybody’s trying to turn this wedding into some big drama. You know they’re not gonna be happy until there’s a fight.”

  “Well, that’s your family for you, babe. What’d you expect?”

  “Oh, and that makes me feel so much better. Thanks a heap.” She picked the whisk up again, but stood looking at it, as if she wasn’t sure what it was for.

  Dan came around behind her and began to massage the tight muscles of her neck, sliding his thumbs back and forth across her shoulders, thrilling to the smooth feel of her skin against his palms. Hoping against hope that neither of the kids would need to be driven anywhere tonight.

  Maybe they could get to bed nice and early for a change.

  But first, since they were going to have this conversation anyway, they might as well get it over with. “So, tell me,” he said, his hands still resting lightly on her shoulders. “What’s up with your brother?”

  “I’ve been trying to tell you. Janice just called to say they’ve decided they don’t feel comfortable going to a family gathering at Scout’s house, her not being family and all. Yet.”

  “You mean Joey’s decided, right? So, why’re they calling you?” Once again, the answer hit him before she had a chance to respond. “Oh, hell. Don’t tell me they expect you to break the news?” he demanded, incensed. “No way, Luce. I mean it. Make them do their own dirty work.”

  She turned to face him. “I know I should, but they just thought that since I know Scout better, and all—”

  He stared down at her angrily. “That’s crap and you know it. You’re saying Joe couldn’t call Nick and make up some bullshit excuse if he wanted to? Hell, babe, the two of them have been like brothers their whole lives. You trying to tell me they don’t know each other as well as you know Scout? Gimme a break. I never woulda figured your brother’d act like such a jerk.”

  “Shit, Dan, what do you want him to do? He really doesn’t think they’re right for each other, you know. He never has.”

  “Well, then, he needs to get over it,” Dan answered. “Nick’s a big boy. He can make his own decisions. And besides, you know he’s gonna do whatever he wants to anyway.”

  “I know, but Joey just can’t forget how it was before—when Nick first got together with Scout.”

  “Babe, that was years ago. Isn’t the statute of limitations just about up on whatever the hell it was she did?”

  “What can I say?” Lucy answered with that obstinate shrug that Dan often thought could have been patented by the Grecos. “Some of us just have longer memories than others.”

  “Yeah. And don’t I know it,” Dan grumbled as he felt the last shreds of his good mood leave him. “I swear, sometimes I wonder how in the hell I’ve managed to stay off your family’s shit list as long as I have.”

  Back to Top

  * * * *

  Chapter Three

  * * * *

  Sam Sterling navigated the road to the cabin he had rented with a growing sense of satisfaction. It was perfect. Anyone who came looking for him would have to look very hard to find him here. At the very least, it would be difficult to take him unaware.

  As the name suggested, Hidden Canyon was not an easy place to locate. Especially on a day like today when stray clouds of mist rose up out of the canyon at odd intervals to partially obscure portions of the landscape. The turn-off was unmarked, and located mid-way through a climbing switchback along the larger San Domingo Canyon road, very easy to miss. The narrow rock-lined passage peeled off from the main road in an abrupt U-turn that reversed both the direction and the inclination of the switchback. From there, the road descended through successive layers of chaparral and coastal scrub, down to the cool, shady, tree-lined, riparian environs of the canyon floor, where it followed the torturous course of the little creek for several miles.

  As Sam made his way through the canyon, he caught passing glimpses of several houses along the way. They were all set back from the road and surrounded with trees, but those were the only similarities between them. He noted quite a few log cabins, two or three A-frame chalets, a geodesic dome, a tiny Queen Anne cottage – replete with gingerbread trim – and one house that was shaped like a gigantic snail shell, all before he reached the cabin for which he was headed.

  A small cedar shake and river rock fairytale creation reminiscent of Goldilocks or Red Riding Hood, it was set in a small clearing with the creek at its back.<
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  Sam rode the motorcycle up the narrow dirt drive and around behind the cabin where it could not be seen from the road. He noted the heavy wooden shutters at each of the windows with approval. No one need ever know he was here unless he wanted them to. And he definitely didn’t want them to.

  Two weeks earlier, after making several unscheduled, off-hour stops at his business partner’s Manhattan office, he’d taken his motorcycle out of storage, headed west and just kept going ‘til he’d run out of road. Not that he was panicking or anything, but he’d wanted to put as much distance between Harry and himself as he possibly could. Just to be safe.

  He shut off the engine, and at once an almost unearthly silence folded itself around him. Although it wasn’t that late, the canyon walls were too high to allow the sun much access at this time of day and the cabin was already set in shadow. The rattle of water over rock in the creek behind him was the only sound he heard. The air was clean and cool, sweetly scented with some fragrance he could not quite name or identify, but which seemed at once both hauntingly familiar and utterly foreign.

  This place is perfect, he thought again. Absolutely perfect. And completely unexpected.

  Both he and Harry put a lot of faith in patterns and habits. And for years the gray bodies of water surrounding the island of Manhattan – the East River and the Hudson River – were the boundaries that circumscribed Sam’s life. He had sworn oftentimes that he could never be truly happy living anywhere but in The City and that there was no place even remotely habitable anywhere beyond the East Coast. Except, perhaps, for Paris. So, if Harry were to go looking for him, he would expect to find him somewhere in town or, at the very least, close at hand. But there really hadn’t been any good reason for Sam to stay in New York. Once he’d put together the evidence he needed, he could just as easily take it to the Pacific Coast Stock Exchange as anywhere else.

  On the other hand, there was one exceptionally noteworthy reason for dropping off Harry’s radar as quickly and completely as possible: he wanted to live to see his next birthday.

  But would Harry really come after him? Or, to be more exact, would Harry send someone to take care of the danger that Sam represented?

  People like Harry played for high stakes. Generally, they didn’t scruple to go to extreme lengths to protect themselves. But they seldom stooped to getting their hands soiled either – not when they could hire someone else to do their dirty work.

  The harsh cry of a raven broke the stillness; once again, Sam fought down the icy fear that had first seized him when he had heard the news about Lou Petroni, Chief of Accounting for his and Harry’s firm. There was no need to panic, he reminded himself fiercely. He had no real reason to assume a connection between Lou’s death – Lou’s murder – terrible as it was, and the fraud they had been working together to uncover.

  No matter how coincidental the timing.

  To suggest otherwise was to suggest that Harry knew they were on to him and that Sam might very well find himself the next victim of some seemingly random act of violence. The whole idea was ludicrous, he told himself as he unstrapped the saddlebags from the bike. He’d been telling himself the same thing for almost two weeks now. But as the saying went, just because he was paranoid didn’t mean they weren’t out to get him.

  He took a few minutes to cover the bike with an old, paint-spattered canvas tarp he found stored in the small shed behind the house. Then he walked around to the front of the cabin, up the worn stone steps and across the scuffed wooden porch. The hinges of the heavy wooden door squeaked faintly as he pushed the door open and let himself inside.

  The interior of the cabin was as strange and mysterious as its exterior. Cool. Dark. Quiet. There was a huge river rock fireplace in the living room and the walls that surrounded it were painted a pale sandy-taupe. He saw a futon couch, two bent twig armchairs, and an old library table piled with books and what looked like a small shrine to some eastern deity.

  A newish looking stereo and a wicker basket filled with CDs occupied a stripped pine armoire in one corner of the room. Several large, chenille-covered cushions were stacked in the corner opposite.

  In the adjoining dining room, a large bay window complete with a cushioned window seat took up most of one wall and looked out at the clearing and the creek. The other three walls were buried behind built-in oak shelves, packed with more books and topped with rows of framed photographs.

  The preponderance of personal belongings surprised him. While there was nothing to suggest that anyone had been here for several weeks, neither did the place feel in any way unlived-in. He looked around curiously. He’d known he was renting the place furnished, but this seemed to be pushing the concept a little farther than was usual. And while the realtor he’d dealt with this morning had definitely struck him as being more than a little eccentric, he hadn’t thought she was so confused she would have rented him a house that was already occupied. At least, he certainly hoped she hadn’t.

  He took another look around. He would definitely need to move some of this stuff out of here. He’d at least have to clear off the big table in the living room to make space for all the computer equipment he’d be renting. But he felt oddly disinclined to make too many changes.

  The atmosphere here was so calming, he didn’t want to do anything that might disturb it. Although the blending of natural materials, rustic styling and subtle earth tones were worlds away from the stark sophistication of the furnishings in his co-op, the same cool serenity pervaded both places.

  There was one big difference, though. It was immediately clear to him that this place had been a woman’s home. But how did he know that? It had nothing to do with the way the place was furnished. At least, he didn’t think it did. There wasn’t any kind of frilly, pretty-pink-floweriness to the place. But a very strong, clearly female energy – a nurturing, accepting, embracing power – practically radiated from the walls. He was shocked with himself for indulging in such ridiculous flights of imagination. It was just a house, after all.

  Still, there was no denying that he felt comfortable here. Really comfortable. And what was even more important, he felt safe. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, felt a small smile curl his lips. Tonight, for the first time since he’d left his Manhattan co-op, he might actually get a decent night’s sleep.

  * * *

  Marsha pulled her van into the small parking lot behind the nature center. She groaned when she checked her watch and realized that she was, predictably, late for the meeting. She didn’t need to be psychic to guess that Siobhan would be annoyed about that. Her sister had overcome her own personal tragedy only by the expedient of reducing everything in her life to small, micro-manageable pieces, the people around her being the only parts of the puzzle that still, occasionally, eluded her mastery.

  There were a whole bunch of problems that went with being psychic, Marsha thought, as she hurried out of her van. Not the least of which was the issue of responsibility. She had only recently sworn off interfering in the lives of people who hadn’t asked for her help, but she still didn’t find it easy. She had spent most of her life trying to fix things for other people. Sometimes, even when there was obviously nothing she could do, the temptation to at least try something proved overwhelming.

  The nature center was especially crowded this evening. The glass display cases that held the center’s collection of birds’ nests and sea shells, small stuffed animals and embryonic sharks, had all been shoved up against the walls to make room for several conference tables. Nearly two dozen volunteers sat at the tables, wedged in between cardboard boxes that were filled with T-shirts and posters advertising tomorrow’s event, as well as pencils, gloves and the data cards which would be handed out to participants in the morning.

  Siobhan was at the front of the room gesturing toward an enlarged map of the staging area. She paused briefly as Marsha found an empty seat and then resumed explaining, for the benefit of the newcomers, what was planned for the following day. Mar
sha could feel the tension clear across the room. Behind her calm facade, Siobhan was stressed out to the max. As usual. Reluctantly, Marsha tried to put Siobhan’s unhappiness out of her mind and focus instead on tomorrow’s agenda.

  The Coastal Cleanup took place every year on the third Saturday in September. At dozens of sites throughout the state, volunteers would be organized and put to work picking up trash and recording what they’d collected on itemized data cards. Free drinks and snacks were often provided for the participants by local merchants. In Oberon, these same merchants would also provide a variety of prizes to be raffled off after the event. A separate cash prize was also awarded at each site for the most unusual item recovered there.

  After the Cleanup, the data from the cards would be tallied, and the results phoned in to the California Coastal Commission; which would use the information to press for laws and solutions, and help devise strategies for dealing with various types of pollution.

  Siobhan had been Oberon’s Site Captain for the last eight years. Usually, Marsha never tired of hearing her introductory talk. But tonight she was feeling agitated and out-of-sorts, and her attention wandered away almost instantly.

  She glanced idly around her. She knew most of the people gathered in the room tonight, including Camille Johnson, who caught her eye and mouthed, we need to talk, before returning her attention to Siobhan. Marsha groaned inwardly.

  Camille was a good person, she reminded herself, as she always did whenever she had dealings with her. Camille was one of the true believers: sincere, dedicated, cheerful, energetic, and a zealous crusader for a wide variety of causes.

  Not that Marsha had anything against social justice – she just didn’t like to have it rammed down her throat.