Quinn turned on her, eyes black with fury
Suddenly his hand was at her throat. For one terror-stricken moment, Janine feared he might strangle her.
Instead, he caressed the soft flesh below her jaw, a gesture that was undeniably dangerous, yet exquisitely erotic. “I understood you didn’t intrude on your guests’ privacy. Was I misinformed?”
“Not at all,” Janine said shakily. “I was simply curious.…”
He slid one fingertip slowly down her throat—more a lover’s caress than a warning. “Curiosity,” he murmured. “Fatal to felines, and unhealthy for humans, as well.…”
All she had to do was take a step back, and she’d be free. But she couldn’t move. She was trapped by his penetrating gaze, his mesmerizing touch. She was frightened, yet the fear was not for her physical safety.
The fear was for her soul, and for the power this man had over it. Over her…
Diana Whitney loves “fat babies and warm puppies, mountain streams and California sunshine, camping, hiking and gold prospecting. Not to mention strong romantic heroes!” She married her own real-life hero twenty years ago. With his encouragement, she left her longtime career as a municipal finance director and pursued the dream that had haunted her since childhood—writing. To Diana, writing is a joy, the ultimate satisfaction. Reading, too, is her passion, from spine-chilling thrillers to sweeping sagas, but nothing can compare to the magic and wonder of romance.
DIANA WHITNEY
THE RAVEN MASTER
To Christine Rimmer, who so generously shares
her sympathetic ear, absorbent shoulder,
unending support and cherished friendship.
Thanks, pal!
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
Flames leapt toward the night sky, a devouring conflagration of carnage and death. Only a moment earlier the small frame structure had been someone’s home. Now it was a fiery tomb, mocking heroic efforts of frantic volunteers.
Torrential blasts from firehoses arched into the inferno then evaporated into impotent clouds of sizzling steam. Nearby dwellings, engulfed by wind-whipped smoke and undulating waves of radiant heat, appeared to tremble in contemplation of sharing the building’s grisly fate.
The steepled chapel across the street was engulfed by eerie reflections, a holy site perched on the precipice of purgatory, surrounded by the hellish flames. From the shadows an observer glanced away from the visual heresy, refocusing attention on the raging blaze. It had been so long, so painfully long. The waiting was over now. This was the place.
Dawn crept through a gray pall of lingering smoke and early spring fog that frequently shrouded the Pacific North-west. From the kitchen of her Victorian boardinghouse, Janine Taylor parted hand-stitched gingham curtains and gazed at the pristine forest surrounding the remote village of Darby Ridge. Normally she took great pleasure from the picturesque view. On this dismal morning, however, the swirling mist smelled of burned wood and scorched earth and death.
The fact that she had barely known the victim didn’t ease Janine’s distress. Over the past three years she’d met relatively few of Darby Ridge’s two thousand residents and knew only that Marjorie Barker had been an attractive, middle-aged woman who lived across from the Presbyterian church. When Janine had passed the house en route to the corner grocery, the woman had occasionally been outside tending her roses, and they would exchange casual greetings. Marjorie had been pleasant and soft-spoken with delicate eyes and a ready smile. Now she was dead.
Janine turned away from the window and shivered, rubbing her arms against the dampness. Upstairs, warped floor-boards vibrated a warning that her guests were awakening. They’d be down soon, and they’d be hungry.
Shaking off her sad mood, she returned to the comforting breakfast routine by filling the dual-carafe coffeemaker and sliding a pan of homemade biscuits into the black iron oven. She arranged a pound of bacon in an oversize skillet, flipped on the antiquated gas burner, then methodically cracked two dozen eggs into a large ceramic bowl and beat them with a wire whisk until the mixture was fluffy enough to fly.
By the time Janine heard footsteps on the stairway, the enticing scent of brewed coffee and sizzling bacon had dispelled the chilly gloom. She felt better now, not good, but better.
Hushed voices filtered in from the foyer. A moment later, Jules Delacourt solicitously escorted his grandmother into the spacious farm-style kitchen.
They were a peculiar pair, obviously devoted yet so contradictory in appearance that it was difficult to believe they were related. Edna Fabish was a squat, bucket-shaped woman, heavily jowled, with a petite nose and saggy, blue button eyes. A ruffled mass of gray-streaked, ecru curls framed her paunchy face like the corkscrewed pelt of an ungroomed poodle.
Physically her grandson was the diametric opposite, tall and exceptionally thin, although he carried himself with the fluidity and grace of a danseur noble. With lazy dark eyes and meticulously groomed ebony hair slicked into classic European style, Jules was quite handsome although a porcelain-pale complexion and refined features gave him a pinched, somewhat effeminate appearance that Janine found unappealing.
This morning, as always, Jules was impeccably attired in a freshly starched dress shirt with a tasteful silk tie tucked under a V-necked argyle pullover. Janine guessed that his wool trousers, fashionably pleated and hemmed precisely one-eighth inch above the gleaming toes of his wing tips, probably cost more than the austere boardinghouse earned in a month.
Extravagant business apparel notwithstanding, Jules hadn’t worked since arriving a year ago and apparently was supported by his grandmother, who held a nursing position at the town’s small medical facility. Janine had always found that rather peculiar but respected the privacy of her guests and would never be so crass as to question their source of income. Edna and Jules were tidy, undemanding and, most important, paid their rent in a timely fashion. For that Janine was deeply grateful and willing to ignore their eccentric and occasionally disruptive personality foibles.
When Jules and his grandmother reached the kitchen table, Janine pasted on her cheerful hostess facade. “Good morning, Jules, Edna.”
Ignoring the polite greeting, Edna dabbed her red eyes with a tissue. “God’s wrath is upon us,” the woman lamented, settling heavily into the ladder-back chair that her grandson held out. She blew her nose and tucked the soggy tissue into the polyester pocket of her white uniform. “Praise be to the Lord.”
Jules sympathetically squeezed the older woman’s shoulder. “Grand’mère is quite upset. She was very fond of Marjorie.”
Startled, Janine laid down the spatula and looked over her shoulder. “I didn’t realize that you were acquainted with Miss Barker.”
Edna stoically lifted her chin. “She was a godly woman and a valued member of our congregation.”
“I’m so sorry.” The words sounded trite but not knowing what else to say, Janine returned her attention to the eggs she was scrambling.
“I must call the Reverend Mr. Weems about the services,” Edna murmured sadly, lifting a china cup from her place mat and handing it to her grandson. “Such a horrible thing to happen.”
Jules nodded somberly. “Yes, horrible.” He dutifully placed a chaste peck on his grandmother’s upturned cheek, then crossed the room and set Edna�
�s cup beside the coffee-maker.
As Janine transferred scrambled eggs from the frying pan into a serving bowl, Jules glanced warily over his shoulder then whispered, “Did you see the flames?”
“Excuse me?” A spoonful of congealed egg hovered in midair.
“The flames,” he repeated impatiently, his eyes glittering strangely. “They were positively immense. Did you see them?”
Unnerved, she slowly set the spoon in the bowl. “Yes, from my bedroom window.”
Jules poured two cups of steaming coffee and continued in a hushed voice. “It was a magnificent spectacle, wasn’t it?” Before she could respond, he’d returned to the kitchen table and set a steaming cup in front of his grieving grandmother, who patted his arm and smiled up gratefully.
Sighing, Janine shook her head. Appearance notwithstanding, Jules Delacourt was definitely an odd duck, a twenty-three-year-old man with the emotional development and bizarre imagination of a child. He seemed harmless enough, although Janine was occasionally unnerved by his propensity to read a sinister intent into ordinary events.
A raspy female voice suddenly demanded, “Who the hell do I have to kill to get a cup of coffee?”
With a glance toward the doorway, Janine set the bowl of eggs and a platter of crisp bacon on the table. “Good morning, Althea. You’re up early.”
The sullen woman shuffled across the linoleum and slid onto an empty chair. “One of the waitresses called in sick,” she muttered peevishly. “Good old Al gets to cover the morning shift again.”
Always the caregiver, Edna was instantly concerned. “The poor woman. I do hope it’s nothing serious.”
Althea shrugged. “Could be a case of the clap, for all I know.”
Janine rolled her eyes, wishing to heaven that Althea wouldn’t deliberately bait the other guests. The sharp-tongued woman wasn’t likely to change tactics, however, and since she obviously enjoyed shocking people, poor pious Edna was a particularly tempting target for Althea’s crude comments and tawdry wit.
Now Edna glanced quickly at her grandson, who was busily filling his plate, a crimson streak below his ear the only indication that he’d heard the coarse remark. The older woman returned her attention to Althea and frowned disapprovingly. “That was quite unkind, dear.”
Ignoring the rebuff, Althea yawned and stretched luxuriously, seeming unconcerned that her silky peignoir had spread apart, exposing considerable cleavage above the lacy bodice of her gown. Unconcerned, but not unaware. The subtle tilt of her freshly glossed lips indicated that she’d noted Jules’s discomfort and was amused by it.
In spite of the overbleached hair and exaggerated, chorus-girl makeup, Althea was an attractive woman. To her, however, only adjectives like stunning, gorgeous and breathtaking were acceptable.
Embittered and emotionally bruised by several failed relationships, Althea flaunted her fading assets with the terrified desperation of a woman still grieving for her lost youth. Each new crow’s-foot sent a dagger into her heart; every sagging muscle was a personal tragedy of gigantic proportions. After all, she was only forty-four, still in her sexual prime. It wasn’t her fault, Althea had once complained, that society valued a tight butt over the wisdom gained by experience.
And Janine suspected that Althea Miller was nothing if not experienced.
At the moment, however, Janine hoped that a caffeine fix would temporarily silence the woman’s disruptive tongue, and handed her a steaming cup of coffee. Althea gurgled in delight, downed the hot liquid as though it were a shot of whiskey, then unceremoniously held out the cup for a refill. Janine complied without comment.
“Ahh.” Althea took a healthy swallow, then set down the cup and lazily raked her fingers through a shoulder-length mass of brittle, strawberry-blond hair. “Nectar of the gods.”
Jules, who apparently was desperately trying to avoid looking at the woman’s partially exposed bosom, laid down his fork and delicately dabbed his lips. “Have you heard about last night’s fire?”
Althea emitted an annoyed snort. “Damned sirens kept me awake half the night.”
“Marjorie Barker died,” Jules intoned, his eyes glistening with barely suppressed excitement. “It was tragic, simply tragic.”
At the mention of her friend’s name, Edna twisted her linen napkin. “Such a dear woman. She volunteered at the hospital, you know.”
Leaning forward, Jules lowered his voice. “I heard that the authorities suspect arson.”
Edna sniffed loudly and murmured an obtuse biblical quotation that seemed irrelevant to the discussion.
“What if it really was arson?” Jules insisted. “That means that Miss Barker was actually murdered. Think of it! A real killer loose right here in Darby Ridge. Why, we could all be in mortal danger.”
Althea made an impolite noise. “Bull. The man-stealing slut got what she deserved.”
Edna gasped and turned as white as her uniform.
Janine looked up from the toast she was buttering. “That was a very cruel remark, even for you.”
Shifting uncomfortably, Althea fidgeted with the cup handle. “I was just trying to convince the paranoid prophets that nobody’s going to skin them in their sleep, that’s all. I mean, everyone knows the Barker broad wasn’t particular about bed partners, and she probably ended up boinking somebody else’s man.”
“How dare you defile a virtuous woman?” Edna’s eyes flashed blue fire. “Mark my words, Althea Miller, your evil tongue is an abomination to God, and He will have His revenge.”
Jules pushed his plate aside. “Perhaps Miss Barker was mixed up with the mob.”
Janine frowned. “Excuse me?”
“She could have been a gangster’s moll,” Jules suggested, obviously enthused by the grotesque theory. “Perhaps she was killed because she knew too much, or she might have had gambling debts, so the mob hired a hit man to, ah, off her.”
Smirking, Althea propped an elbow on the table. “You been watching the ‘Untouchables’ again, honey?”
Jules stiffened indignantly.
Janine pinched the bridge of her nose and moaned. The young man’s macabre speculation made her skin crawl, and when the door bell rang, she was relieved to excuse herself from the unpleasant conversation.
Exiting the kitchen, Janine passed through the formal dining room to the small foyer at the base of the staircase. She absently tucked a stray strand of nondescript brown hair behind her ear, smoothed her oversize fleece top, opened the door and felt the breath back up in her throat.
A stranger was lounging lazily against the doorjamb. “I was told you might have a room for rent.”
She took a step back, uncomfortable with the man’s nearness and the disturbing familiarity his casual stance displayed. There was something unnerving about his gaze, a primal stare that made her instantly wary.
But the man had obviously been directed here—the antiquated Victorian manor was separated from town by a wilderness ravine and accessible only by a rickety wooden bridge—and a paying guest was always a welcome sight. Assuming, of course, that a person dressed in worn denims and black leather could afford the price of a room.
As she glanced beyond the porch, however, she noted a dusty beige minivan parked on a grass flat at the end of the rutted gravel road. If the man could afford a vehicle, he probably wasn’t a vagrant.
Managing a strained smile, she finally found her voice. “You were correctly informed, Mr….?”
“Coulliard. Quinn Coulliard.” He regarded her intently, with magnetic eyes the color of polished steel. “Are you the proprietor?”
“Yes. Janine Taylor.” She cleared her throat and offered her hand. His palm was firm, warm and surprisingly soft. After a lingering moment, she withdrew it and clasped her hands together. “What brings you to Darby Ridge, Mr. Coulliard?”
His smile was forced, guarded. “Will my answer affect the availability of a room?”
A familiar heat crawled up her throat. “Of course not. It’s just tha
t we’re so far off the beaten track that we don’t receive many visitors. I was simply curious.”
Without responding, he gazed over her shoulder, and as he scrutinized the spacious foyer, Janine took the opportunity to scrutinize him. The coffee-colored hair tied at his nape extended nearly to his shoulder blades, and although a bulging duffel sat on the porch by his feet, she instantly realized that Quinn Coulliard wasn’t a typical drifter.
The man’s purposeful gaze was tough, a stark contradiction to his surprisingly soft voice and articulate speech. All in all, he exuded a palpable aura of strength, which was unsettling, to say the least.
Suddenly he hoisted the stuffed bag and gazed deep into her eyes. “May I see the room, Miss Taylor?”
Janine hesitated. There was something about the man—and her own breathless reaction to him—that made her uneasy. His gray gaze was hypnotic, seeming to penetrate and probe the darkest recesses of her mind. For one heart-stopping moment, she wondered if he’d somehow entered her thoughts, observing the secret shame that she’d meticulously concealed from the world.
Of course that was impossible.
Mentally reprimanding herself, she shook off the disquieting notion. The man wanted a room, and she desperately needed the money. “Payment is requested in advance, Mr. Coulliard. Would you prefer the daily or weekly rate?”
He smiled and pulled out a tattered cloth wallet. “How much for the week?”
“Seventy-five dollars.”
When the bills were safely tucked in her jeans, she smiled thinly and stepped back to allow him access. “Right this way.”
After closing the door, Janine retrieved a key from a nearby closet, then suppressed her uneasiness and guided the enigmatic stranger upstairs to her last vacant room—the one next to her own.
“Breakfast is served at 7:00 a.m. and dinner is at six,” Janine told him. “There’s no television in the rooms, but a color set in the parlor is available for guest use. You may also use the stereo, although I do ask that the volume be kept down so that the other residents aren’t disturbed.”
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