DANGEROUS, Collection #1

by Patricia Rosemoor

  Keelin was wondering if a loose flotation cushion could do any damage when Helen ordered, "Just stay put," as her lover pounded her ex-husband with his fists.

  "Is that what you want?" Keelin asked, revolted by the brutality. "You want to see Tyler dead because he divorced you?"

  "He stole my child from me!"

  "He paid you to stay out of your child's life because he wanted to protect her. And you readily took his money."

  The gun wasn't even pointing at her anymore, Keelin realized. Helen's heart wasn't in this. Cheryl's mother might be greedy, but she obviously wasn't given to violence. This time, she'd chosen the wrong man to partner.

  "Weaver's been working for Feldman for a while." Keelin yelled to be heard. The fireworks display was coming to a dramatic climax, layers of color building on one another. "He made a few adjustments in one of Tyler's buildings that was being renovated. The result was a child's death."

  "You're lying!"

  "He would have killed Cheryl if he'd had to!"

  Helen's mouth gaped, but she couldn't seem to force out a denial.

  "Perhaps he'll kill you for the money."

  Suddenly Weaver cried out. Keelin saw his head snap back and his body jerk. Tyler took the advantage, grabbing the man by his shirt front and heaving him into the windshield. A panicked Weaver scrambled over the glass and onto the hood of the prow. Tyler vaulted onto a seat and followed.

  Keelin held her breath as the men tightly circled one another around the confined space. Tyler found an opening. He clipped Weaver in the jaw, stunning and pummeling him until the younger man fell prostrate over the bobbing prow.

  Appearing ready to pass out himself, Tyler stumbled toward them.

  "Are you all right?" Keelin yelled worriedly, rushing between the seats to meet him.

  Tyler leaned forward, hands against the windshield, gasping for breath. "I'll survive."

  She reached up and touched his bruised and bloody face. "Foolish, foolish man."

  "I wasn't about to chance living without the woman I love," he said, the unexpected declaration thrilling her.

  "She may have to live without you!" came a raspy voice from behind him.

  Under a canopy of colored brilliance combined with smoke that shadowed the sky as far as the eye could see, the scenario played out in slow motion before Keelin's horrified eyes.

  Weaver was on his feet, hand raised and grasping something gleaming and sharp. His energy spent, Tyler obviously had to force himself to turn around to face the aggressor once more. He exposed his chest even as the man's arm began its downward arc.

  Suddenly Jack Weaver jerked and froze, a surprised grimace distorting his features. His chest bloomed dark against his lighter shirt. His fist opened and the weapon fell, clattering and slipping into the lake.

  And, like a felled tree, Weaver followed.

  Keelin didn't even hear the splash.

  Then her gaze flew to a dazed Helen, still pointing the gun straight where her lover had stood.

  "OUR FINAL REPORT IS AN UPDATE on the disappearance and recovery of North Bluff teenager Cheryl Leighton," Skelly McKenna told his television audience. "A fantastic story of greed and violence. A complex and far-reaching plot was allegedly hatched by businessman Nate Feldman, seen here as police arrested him early Sunday morning."

  Snugged in the crook of Tyler's arm at his home, Keelin watched The Whole Story with him, nervous about his reaction to her cousin's coverage. Skelly focused on Feldman himself, leaving out the exact details of Tyler's twelve-year monetary arrangement with Helen as well as Keelin's own paranormal connection with Cheryl. His discretion surprised and pleased her, though Keelin knew at least some of the details were bound to come out during Feldman's trial. Helen had already pleaded guilty to kidnapping and extortion, but also pleaded self-defense to her lover's death. Lake Michigan's waters still cradled Weaver's body.

  As far as anyone had been able to tell, Vivian and Brock had only been involved peripherally, and while in love with Brock, Pamela had remained professionally loyal both to Tyler and L&O Realty, so Skelly never even made reference to them.

  "In a bizarre twist," Skelly went on, "Feldman is also allegedly responsible for the unsecured porch railing that caused the death of Harry Smialek, the Wicker Park boy who died on an L&O Realty renovation site..."

  Tyler had already received apologies from the Smialeks and had learned that their lawsuit against L&O Realty had been instigated by one of Feldman's lawyers.

  To Keelin's relief, Cheryl was more resilient than she imagined. The girl hadn't invaded her dreams at all since the rescue. And, even now, Cheryl had insisted on being with her friends since everything was back to "normal." Keelin knew Tyler had made an appointment to take Cheryl to a family therapist, but instinct told her the teenager would fully recover.

  "At least this story has a happy ending," Skelly was saying, the visual a shot of Cheryl wrapped in a battered Tyler's arms.

  And for her a new beginning, Keelin thought, at last free of the guilt that had haunted her. She had finally put the ghost of Gavin Daley to rest.

  Skelly was on camera once more. "Tomorrow, a story on Lily Lang, The Blonde Bombshell, who, convicted of murder, escaped from prison thirty years ago this week."

  Tyler pointed the remote at the television and turned it off. "Maybe your cousin's not quite the sleazoid I accused him of being."

  Equally pleased, Keelin agreed, "I think there's hope for Skelly yet." He'd even asked for their blessing before doing the follow-up.

  "What about us? Is there hope for us?" Tyler asked, the question making her heart leap.

  Though they'd professed their love for each after their night terror had ended, the last two days had been divided up between the police and sleep, Cheryl's well-being and Keelin's family matters. While Uncle Raymond had greeted his long-lost niece with enthusiasm, Aileen had suggested she wait a bit before broaching the subject of the reunion.

  And, amidst all the chaos, she and Tyler had not gotten around to discussing them.

  We do come from different worlds," she reminded him.

  "But not different planets. I'm sure you've heard of jet travel."

  She frowned. "You would be happy with a long distance relationship?"

  "Certainly not." He kissed her nose and tightened his grip on her. "The closer the better. I meant we could be an international family with two homes if that would make you happy."

  Her pulse raced and familiar yearnings filled her, yet Keelin argued, "Then there are more personal differences."

  His eyebrows shot up. "You mean because you're a woman and I'm a man? I believe that's the way it's supposed to be."

  Not smiling at his attempted humor, she said, "I come from a Catholic country."

  He immediately grew serious. "I'm open-minded and flexible. Isn't it possible to work something out?"

  Before meeting Tyler, Keelin had never considered she might fall in love with someone outside of her country, no less someone outside of her faith. Her Aunt Rose had faced the same dilemma, and her determination to marry the man she loved had caused the initial rift between the McKenna triplets. But Keelin understood exactly how her aunt felt, for she was of the same mind. Tyler was a good man – for herself, she could find none better.

  "Two people who love each other can always find a solution," she said solemnly.

  "Like marriage?"

  She softened in his arms. "Are you asking me to marry you, Tyler Leighton?"

  "I am, Keelin McKenna. Cheryl has already given her approval."

  Keelin's heart soared and the differences were forgotten. "Then we must hurry. Make plans immediately–"

  "Whoa." Tyler laughed. "I believe the red tape might take more than a few days. And what about your family? Don't you want to give your parents and siblings enough time to get here?"

  Suddenly dreading what Da would have to say on the subject, not wanting to spoil the moment by discussing his possible wrath, Keelin murmured, "Tis n
early a month after my thirty-third birthday now. I cannot wait if I am to accept my grandmother's legacy."

  "And what legacy would that be? If it's money you're worried about–"

  "Money is the last thing Moira McKenna would have worried over for her nine grandchildren." She quoted, "'I leave you my love and more. Within thirty-three days after your thirty-third birthday – enough time to know what you are about – you will have in your grasp a legacy of which your dreams are made. Dreams are not always tangible things, but more often are born in the heart. Act selflessly in another's behalf, and my legacy shall be yours.'"

  "A lovely thought."

  "Moira was a lovely woman."

  "And has an even lovelier granddaughter."

  With that, Tyler kissed her so lovingly that Keelin realized that the dreams born in her own heart had already come true.

  Look for Books 2 & 3 in The McKenna Legacy -- Tell Me No Lies and Touch Me in the Dark -- both in new digital editions.

  Haunted

  Patricia Rosemoor

  Copyright © 2012 Patricia Pinianski

  Cover Design © 2012 Patricia Pinianski

  Haunted was previously

  print-published by Harlequin Intrigue

  Haunted

  PROLOGUE

  All Hallow's Eve

  “What the hell are you doing down here?”

  The deep-timbered response was equally strident and the seven year old boy stirred against snatches of argument that haunted him. A dream, that’s all it was. A nightmare. Aunt Addy said nightmares couldn’t hurt him. But he didn’t like them anyhow.

  “Make it go away, Aunt Addy,” he mumbled.

  “I know her as well as I know myself!”

  But this nightmare wouldn’t go. He squeezed his eyes tight, tried to close his ears from the inside so he couldn’t hear, but nothing worked. He opened his eyes to another darkness, one that scared him because he didn’t know where he was.

  The voices continued. Faint. Hollow. Definitely spooky.

  “Ghosts!” he breathed.

  He tried to rise but something held him fast to the spot where he lay. He couldn’t move. His heart beat faster.

  “I was desperate for a way out...”

  So was he!

  The thing enveloping him was soft and warm. Not a blanket. He wasn’t snug in his own bed. Mind still fuzzy with sleep, he nearly panicked until he remembered: they’d made him wear a dopey velvet cape. When he’d come up here to get away from the yucky music and the painted ladies who’d pinched his cheeks— up to his hiding place secret even from Mother and Father— he’d wrapped the cape around himself against the chill.

  Now he was sorry that he’d ever left. He didn’t like the scuffling and the cries that echoed around him. A sickening thud made him tremble. He began reciting a poem aloud, a verse Aunt Addy had read to him many times from one of his favorite books, every so often checking to see if the ghosts were gone yet.

  Finally, the dark space grew silent.

  All but for his own breathing that felt funny in his chest. He rose from the tattered cot and fought the sneeze the dust motes teased from him. Blindly, he made his way around the boxes and the pieces of furniture in their shrouds. His hands found the wall. Then the shutter. He reached up to unfasten the latch and to swing the slatted wood panel aside on its creaky old hinges. Through a grimy window, he looked out into a night cloaked by clouds and veiled by fog. Tentacles of gray mist curled up the building like fingers reaching for him...

  With a sharp cry, he jumped back, unwilling to be taken.

  Frozen to the spot, he watched the clouds jockey with the moon, and a few seconds later, a blue glow led him back to the window. Tentatively, he peered down. The fog was parting. Another faint beam, this one a dull yellow, cut through the mist. His nose pressed against the glass, he watched, eyes widening at the activity below. His breath lumped in his throat at what he thought he saw, and he needed to pee real bad.

  And then he bolted.

  He had to get down there. To see up close.

  Suddenly, the moon switched off and he was running blind. Something hit him across the shins and sent him flying. His shoulder banged into a dull edge, his head into a sharper one. He landed in a heap on the floor, stunned.

  A warm thick liquid oozed down his nose and into one eye.

  He tried to stand, but his legs wobbled and he settled on his knees, sobs racking his narrow chest. The pain in his head made his whole body throb. He rocked back, fear consuming him.

  Through his tears, he saw a hazy shimmer. Close. Too close.

  No, no. Couldn’t be.

  “Go away!” he whimpered. For one of the ghosts had come to get him! “Leave me alone!”

  The thoughts racing through his head were too much for him to bear. The image wavered and weakened even as his lids fluttered closed. He collapsed once more, his head landing on a rolled up moldy-smelling old rug.

  His mind shutting out what it couldn’t acknowledge...

  CHAPTER ONE

  Thirty years later

  Through the slender fingers of mist rising from Lake Michigan, Dunescape Cottage loomed over the crest of a grassy, tree-encrusted dune like a preening Victorian vulture— cottage being a misnomer for what was in reality a mansion, impressive in its heyday before the building had begun falling victim to the elements. The fierce wind never stopped blowing on this section of the lake, which was also plagued by frequent and intense storms.

  Up to the first story windows, the walls of red brick banded with black boasted crumbling mortar. The full second story and partial third and attic were timber of similar colors where the paint had not yet been sand-blasted away by nature. Cracked terra cotta ridges trimmed the multi-leveled, sloped roof with its broken black slate tiles. Even the multitude of peaks and chimneys appeared crooked, and two bent weather vanes challenged each other, as if to a duel, from different level peaks.

  Not at all what he remembered.

  Then again, he didn’t remember much that counted.

  Bram Vanmatre stared at the impressive if decrepit monstrosity he had once called home, waiting for some feeling of recognition. Of welcome. Nothing. Not even rejection. Just the awful blank he’d learned to live with.

  That had to change. He was here to do it. To find out. To remember. Whatever it took.

  It was time he got on with his life.

  Now he was an adult and he had returned to the place and the voices that had always haunted him. He’d come ostensibly to take care of Aunt Addy. To save her from herself. But, underlying this clear motive was the other...

  And he only wondered who would have the power to save him if he failed.

  WONDERING IF SHE would be able to save the situation, Echo St. Clair stood next to her car, which she’d parked back on the cul de sac at the beginning of the drive, and stared at Dunescape Cottage looming toward her through the dusk. Needing the walk across the grounds to relax her, the few extra minutes to gather her thoughts, she set off on foot.

  Though she’d lived in Water’s Edge for more than a decade, Echo had been inside its most famous edifice only twice before and both times in the past month. Her first visit to Dunescape Cottage had been to introduce herself to the reclusive lady of the manor, Adrienne Vanmatre, to seek permission to use her home for the local youth group fundraiser. Over her ritual afternoon tea, Miss Addy had agreed. The second time, Echo had toured the house with several of the teenagers who were eager to turn the place into their Haunted Mansion for Halloween.

  And why not? The place was odd enough to give her a chill.

  The beach residents of this small town on the Michigan coast already thought Dunescape Cottage was haunted, for they had seen mysterious lights and shadowy forms around the now-crumbling mansion on many a dark, moonless night. In fact, Miss Addy— or Crazy Addy as some of the locals called her— claimed her twin brother’s ghost hung around the place, and that, on occasion, she spoke to him. Donahue Vanmatre had met with an a
ccidental death thirty years before.

  On All Hallow’s Eve to be exact.

  This year’s holiday was less than a week away. The plans for the haunting had been drawn, the costumes made, the building materials purchased. And now it seemed that a fly named Bram Vanmatre had stuck himself squarely in the ointment.

  Echo had been alarmed for more than one reason when she’d heard about the arrival of Donahue’s son that morning. As rumor had it, Bram Vanmatre hadn’t once returned to Dunescape Cottage in all the years since his father’s death. Now, suddenly, the Chicago lawyer not only took it upon himself to visit his aunt, but to put himself in charge of her legal affairs, which, according to gossipy Mrs. Ahern, the town librarian, just might include preventing the youth group from using the mansion for the fundraiser.

  She forced herself to concentrate on that particular issue, not wanting to deal with the more serious implications of Vanmatre’s presence.

  An eerie wind blew from the lake over the grounds as she neared the crumbling mansion, whose base was now swathed in a light fog. Concentrating on how she was going to handle Addy’s nephew, Echo was startled silly when a bulky figure appeared apparently out of nowhere to block her approach. She jumped back and swallowed a strangled cry.

  “And where might you be going, Miss?” the hulk named Uriah Hawkes demanded.

  “You could give a person a heart attack, sneaking up like that.” Her words had no effect on the groundskeeper, who always acted as if he owned the place. “I’m here to finalize plans about the fundraiser, if you must know.” She took a long, shaky breath.

  Beneath the brimmed hat that covered most of his salt and pepper hair, Uriah’s dark eyes bored into her. “Miss Addy expecting you?”

  Echo held her temper and gave the beefy man a thorough once-over in return to let him know what she thought of his interference. As he had been on her last two visits, Uriah was wearing a cotton work shirt with sleeves rolled up, showing off his powerful forearms, one of which was tattooed with a skull and crossbones. Beneath the wide-legged bottoms of baggy trousers held up by suspenders, his rubber boots were caked with fresh mud.