by Adrianne Lee
As she hung the last of her clothing in the closet, she heard water running in the bathroom. Chris? Visions of him flooded her mind, and she found her knees going weak. She sank onto the bed and drew a deep breath. What was this overwhelming attraction she felt toward the man? The very thought of him set her heart pounding, her pulse racing like a teenager with a crush. She was too practical and too old for such foolishness.
And yet she’d never reacted to any man like she’d reacted to Chris Conrad the first second she’d laid eyes on him. Her whole body, her whole mind, seemed to know him instantly. Intimately. She shook her head, trying to make sense of it. She couldn’t blame it on her shock over the portrait, because she’d met Chris before she’d seen it. Then what was this unbalancing ache to be with a man she’d known less than two hours?
Nikki rose from the bed and placed the bag containing her computer and disks on the desk. Whatever it was, she didn’t have room for it in her life. Didn’t have room for a man in her life. Any man. Except her father. An old bitterness reared inside her.
All of her life she’d known her father had abandoned her mother and her before she was born. From the time she’d been old enough to understand what that meant she’d felt as though part of her were missing, something vital to her very identity. Over the years it had produced a cold spot in the center of her heart.
But every time she brought up the subject of her father, her mother reprimanded her. Carmella refused to tell her one thing about him, even his name. This had led Nikki to ask if he were in jail. Carmella’s face had blanched at the suggestion—as though it might be true—and she’d insisted Nikki forget him.
But Nikki couldn’t.
The more stubborn her mother grew, the more curious Nikki became. The more determined. She learned genealogy, made contacts on the Internet with others seeking parents, with organizations that specialized in finding lost relatives, even searched newspaper morgues.
Then she’d met Gary. And eventually they’d gotten engaged. He wanted her to forget finding her father. He claimed she was preoccupied with it. Obsessed, even. Giving more time to a man she’d never met than she gave to him. The suggestion still riled her.
Nikki pulled the laptop from the bag and set it on the desk. She wasn’t obsessed. It was just that chasing leads took time. If Gary had really loved her, he’d have understood that. Wouldn’t he? Instead, he’d sought solace in the arms of her roommate. Her best friend, Linda. They’d eloped.
She squelched the aging hurt. Her need to find her father had doubled then. Her need to know why she wasn’t lovable. Was it something she’d inherited from him—a man so awful her mother wouldn’t even speak his name?
But even this argument hadn’t convinced Carmella to tell her one thing about him. If anything, the question had frightened her. Why? The cold spot in Nikki’s heart ached like a sore that wouldn’t heal.
She placed the hard plastic case containing her disks to one side, zipped the bag and set it on the floor. Carmella was dead now. She could no longer object to Nikki finding her father. And he, Nikki thought, was the only man she could deal with at the moment. Maybe forever.
The running water shut off, startling her out of her dark musings. She spun toward the wall that divided her room from the bathroom. It might as well not have been there for the clear vision of Chris that filled her mind’s eye. She pictured him at the sink. With his shirt off. Washing. Shaving. Yearning feathered through her.
She shook herself. This was insane. She would not act on these feelings. Would not encourage any kind of physical relationship between herself and Chris Conrad.
But sleep would be impossible if she couldn’t get her mind off this attraction and the million unanswered questions about her connection to Theresa De Vega. Even though it meant braving the eerie hallway, maybe she should find a book to occupy her overactive imagination. She remembered the two mysteries Marti had just donated to the mansion library. She’d quickly snatch one up and hurry back to her room.
As she opened her door and stepped out, Chris emerged from the bathroom. His unbuttoned shirt gaped over his faded jeans. Ebony hair sparsely sprinkled his broad chest, his flat belly. Nikki’s mouth watered. She hadn’t meant to look, hadn’t meant to notice, hadn’t been able to stop herself.
She pointed toward the library. “I’m just going to get something...to read.”
“Sure. To read.” His voice was husky, and he seemed unable to pull his gaze from her mouth. Her body tingled with unbidden sensations that were so tempting, so intense that in that moment, she’d gladly have given the advance money from the new book to act on them. Instead, she forced herself to turn away, slowly moving one leaden foot then the other toward the library. The trek seemed to take an hour. All the while she felt his gaze on her. But she dared not look around for fear of getting swept up in a sea of emotions she didn’t fully understand and would not encourage.
Once in the library she sank into the nearest chair and stared at the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books without registering so much as one title. Chris’s door closing was like the snap of a hypnotist’s fingers, releasing her from his spell.
Cursing herself and the power he seemed to wield over her senses, she rose from the chair and crossed to the bookshelves. Books were categorized by author. She found the Ws and scanned the row. “Wochek, Woden, Woods. Nothing by Marti MacAllister Wolf. Hmm. Maybe Marti had misfiled the books. She started at the beginning of the Ws. Nothing. She glanced at the tables beside the reading chairs. Not there either. Nikki frowned. Had someone visited the library while she unpacked and taken the two books Marti had just donated?
Or had Marti lied to her about the books? She thought for a second, recalling the way the woman had stumbled over the reason she’d been in the library, and decided Marti had been lying. But why? What had the mystery author really been doing in this room?
Puzzling that, she hurried back to her room, spent a few brief moments in the bathroom, then crawled into bed. The mattress was firm, the pillow soft, and her mind faded from too much new information. She snuggled into the covers, imagined Chris nuzzled into his own pillow just down the hall and fell asleep in seconds.
But she didn’t sleep well.
Her dreams began with portraits of brides and one elusive groom, who looked exactly like Chris Conrad. Too soon the groom changed into an older man with blond hair and blue eyes, whose features she couldn’t quite see. She spent the night chasing the man down one dark corridor after another, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.
She awoke exhausted. Needing coffee. Unfortunately they offered no such accommodation in her room. She’d have to make an appearance at breakfast.
The bathroom showed signs that Chris had already showered: a towel tossed carelessly into the laundry chute, droplets of water in the tub. She could smell the warm, soapy scent of him on the steamy air. But she didn’t want to think about him. She locked the door, hung her robe on the hook, stepped into the tub and pulled the shower curtain around her. As the warm water beat down on her she could fill her mind with nothing except Chris Conrad standing beneath the same spigot a short while earlier.
Curse the man. He was a distraction. She had to keep her attention on business. Not on him. She lathered her hair and rubbed her scalp hard, as though she could massage him from her thoughts. Nothing worked.
Finally she gave up in self-disgust. She slid back the curtain. The fan whirred overhead but had little effect on the steam lingering like an unwelcome mist. Nikki dried herself, donned her robe, then wrapped the towel, turban style, around her hair. As she lifted her head to gaze into the mirror, she froze.
Someone had left a message on the steamed-over glass. A warning. “Leave Wedding House or die.”
Chapter Three
Nikki’s heart leaped with surprise. With terror. She scooted back. Bumped the wall. Her gaze flew to every corner of the oversize bathroom. She was alone. The door was still locked. Then how...?
She forced
down several deep breaths. She had to think. Had to reason this out. Calmer, she stared at the handwritten message. She couldn’t tell whether a man or a woman had printed it. But only she and Chris shared this bathroom. Had Chris written this—after his own bath—knowing when she showered the steam would make the lettering visible again?
It was the most likely scenario. But why? He hadn’t struck her as a man who’d deliberately scare women—and certainly not in such a cowardly way. She’d have thought he’d come right out and tell her to leave, if that was how he felt.
If not Chris, then who? Olivia? Marti? Dorothea? She didn’t know. Couldn’t guess. She dried her hair, anger blowing away her initial fright. Little might be known about the De Vegas, but there had to be something to hide, or someone wouldn’t be trying to frighten her off.
Deciding to use a bit of shock therapy herself, she donned a wedding like, lacy white summer dress, fixed her hair about her face as much like the woman in the portrait as possible, then started down to breakfast. Maybe her appearance would startle someone enough to tip their hand.
Sunlight stole in through the windows at the second-level landing, dappling the dark carpet with splotches of light. But even the golden rays couldn’t warm the chill from the house, nor erase the tension poking between her shoulder blades.
Nikki hurried down to the second floor. Voices inside the ballroom slowed her steps. A man and a woman. She craned to hear, caught the unmistakable tones of Chris Conrad, and her feet ground to a halt. The hysterical note of the woman belonged to Olivia. Nikki would recognize it anywhere.
She glanced up and down the hall. Deserted. She retreated a step toward the open doorway and brazenly eavesdropped, hearing Olivia say, “But what if she is?”
Chris sighed. “She’s not...but if she is, I promise, I’ll take care of any problems. Now, don’t worry.”
Ice glazed Nikki’s heart. Were they speaking about her? Did Chris’s promise to take care of any problems mean he’d actually do something underhanded to her? Had he scrawled the threat on the bathroom mirror after all? The cold spot inside her began to spread. Footsteps. They were coming toward her.
With her heart leaping to her throat, she ducked into the TV room and hid behind the door. The buzz of their voices reached her as they strode the length of the hall and descended. Shaken, Nikki emerged from her hiding place and sank onto one of the chairs facing the television. The black screen reflected her image. The woman staring back at her looked as pale as her dress, her eyes too wide, her expression too distressed.
The fact revived her anger. They were wrong if they thought they could chase her away. She wasn’t leaving until she knew what her connection was to Theresa. She took a full five minutes to calm down, to regain her composure, then she hurried to the stairs and started down.
Fresh roses adorned the entryway table, the scent sweet and rich, but not strong enough to eclipse the alluring aromas of hot coffee and warm cinnamon rolls wafting to her from beyond the large parlor.
“Ah, good morning, Ms. Navarro.” Dorothea Miller strode through the front door, as spry as Nikki recalled from last night. She wore another jumpsuit, this one hot pink, as much in contrast with her flame-red hair as her little-girl voice was with her shrewd brown eyes. She studied Nikki’s appearance with raised eyebrows, then nodded toward the dining room. “Good, I’m in time for breakfast. Smells delicious, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Nikki answered with false enthusiasm. Food wasn’t her objective at the moment. And no matter how friendly this woman seemed, she worked in theater, around actors, was probably an actor herself. She could be playing a carefully staged role.
“Olivia’s cook is a gem,” Dorothea gushed. “Dining room’s this way.” She pointed in the direction Nikki had been intending to go.
Across the parlor Nikki spotted a pair of French doors. Through the glass she saw three people seated at an oblong, claw-footed oak table. None of them was Chris Conrad. A tangle of disappointment and relief swept through Nikki. She wasn’t sure which she dreaded more, seeing the man or not seeing him.
Muted conversation grew loud as Dorothea thrust open the doors. All heads turned toward them. Alert for reaction, Nikki could have sworn Olivia sucked in a sharp breath. Or was it one of the others? She couldn’t be certain.
She didn’t recognize either of the people seated beside Olivia. But both were obviously acquainted with Theresa De Vega and had been told of her resemblance to the ill-fated bride. She’d planned on having the upper hand. But under their collective curiosity, she felt self-conscious, as if she’d committed some faux pas.
Apparently Dorothea had already met these guests, for she wished all a cheery good-morning, then headed straight for the sideboard hugging the wall behind Olivia. Silver servers were spread across its surface, and Dorothea began lifting lids and filling a plate.
Olivia, again dressed in solid black with her ebony hair swept into a tight chignon, introduced Nikki, gesturing first to the man on her right. “This is Diego Sands. The architect?”
She said the last questioningly, as though Nikki might have heard of him. She hadn’t. Nor did she like the way he studied her. Nearing fifty, Diego had jet-black hair, graying at the temples. His face was more interesting than handsome, his nose large, his black eyes intense yet warm. He seemed someone who would conquer whatever he set his sights on, and that he’d do it without his target knowing what had hit them.
Right now she felt targeted.
“And this—” Olivia swept her hand toward the woman “—is Lorah Halliard. The psychic.”
Nikki flinched. She’d been wrong. She did recognize this woman. She had not only heard of Lorah Halliard, she had seen her once or twice on a local Seattle TV show.
Lorah, swathed in loden silk, her dramatic brown eyebrows drawn downward toward her small nose, stared at Nikki with narrowed, eerie eyes of such a pale green as to be almost translucent. Her makeup seemed applied with an artist’s brush, in fine, deliberate strokes. Nothing by mistake. She had to be close to sixty, but could pass easily for forty.
Lorah specialized in helping people locate family members who’d mysteriously disappeared. For the first time in hours, Nikki’s hope stirred. If she could speak to Ms. Halliard alone, maybe the woman could answer some of her questions about her father. About her mother.
Nikki acknowledged the introductions, then helped herself to coffee and a small amount of scrambled eggs and bacon. She sat next to Diego, across from Lorah and Dorothea. Diego hadn’t stopped watching her since she’d walked into the room, and she felt less like a bug under inspection beside him than she would have sitting across from him.
Oddly, Olivia, reed thin, was rapidly devouring a meal fit for a man twice her size. Between bites she said, “I hope you slept well, Nikki.”
“The ghost didn’t disturb you, did she?” Lorah asked before Nikki could swallow her own mouthful of egg and respond to Olivia.
Nikki choked over her food. “Ghost?”
“Yes.” Diego sighed. “Before you and Ms. Miller arrived, Ms. Halliard was telling us she believes Theresa De Vega’s spirit haunts Wedding House.”
Nikki eyed the psychic. Maybe she wouldn’t help her after all, once she learned they held opposing tenets. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Ah, another skeptic.” Lorah gave a dismissive wave of her hand. The charm bracelet on her left wrist tinkled loudly, reminding Nikki of a belled cat. “But I didn’t say I ‘believe’ she haunts this house, I said she does. I’ve seen her.”
“Phooey.” Diego dropped his napkin onto his plate. “You probably just saw Ms. Navarro, here.”
“I assure you, Mr. Sands, the specter I saw was not Ms. Navarro.”
“Specter, smecter.” Diego shoved his chair back and stood. “Excuse me, ladies, I want to explore this wondrous estate, and I don’t expect to encounter any phantoms.”
“You don’t have to believe me, Mr. Sands.” Lorah also excused herself and stood, placing her na
pkin beside her empty plate. She strode to the door with Diego. “But ignore my warnings at your own risk.”
Warnings? Nikki blanched. What warnings?
As the door shut, Dorothy leaned toward Alluvia. “I’ve had the best idea, Live. We could use this ghost angle to enhance the opening festivities.” Dorothea stuffed the last wedge of a sticky cinnamon roll into her mouth. “Maybe get Madame Halliard to hold a séance.”
“Oh, no, Dorothea. Chris wouldn’t stand for it.” Olivia glanced nervously at Nikki, as though she’d rather this conversation were kept private, as though she’d have leaped at the séance idea if Nikki hadn’t been privy to it and would know it was nothing more than a publicity stunt.
Nikki concentrated on her food, pretending to ignore the two women. The general public was attracted to the notion of bed and breakfasts being haunted. It could well be a draw to a place like Wedding House. But Nikki had a feeling that Olivia didn’t believe in ghosts any more than she did. That Olivia knew Theresa didn’t haunt this mansion.
Dorothea insisted, “If we set it up before he finds out about it, then his objections would be moot.”
“Please, Dorothea.” Olivia gave her a stern look. “We have more important things to settle today. Perhaps we’d better talk in the ballroom.”
Dorothea frowned, her brightness dimming with the soft reprimand. “Of course. I’m ready, if you are. I’ll take some coffee with me, though. Need my java today.”
The two women excused themselves and moments later were gone. Through the glass of the French doors, Nikki saw their heads lean together, as if they were discussing something in earnest. She recalled Lorah Halliard’s mention of “warnings” and wondered if impending disaster were being orchestrated even as she watched—by these two diametrically different women, one as colorful as a carnival, the other as dark as the shadows in her own gardens.
