There wasn’t a sound. Even the wind and rain had died down. “Miss? Where are you?”
Still nothing. Not a hint of a sound. No sign of movement, no face appearing in the jagged hole overhead.
Well, hell! If it hadn’t been for his aching nose and skull he’d have thought he’d imagined her. Without taking his gaze off the ceiling, he backed into the adjoining bathroom. After soaking a washcloth in cold water, he cleaned the blood off his face and neck.
Before calling downstairs to the front desk—he could only hope there’d be someone on duty at this time of night—he tugged on his jeans and shook the plaster dust from his hair.
What the hell had Ken seen in this place? It had clearly gone downhill from the time his buddy had visited fifteen years before. For a nickel he’d leave. The weather had been lousy since his arrival on Wednesday, and now the place was collapsing around his ears. Wrestling a few fish into a boat simply wasn’t worth it.
In her fear and fury, Lissa all but flew down the service stairs that led from the attic to the storage room at the back of the office, and burst through the door to the reception area. Rosa stood behind the counter, ostensibly keeping an eye on the front entrance to the Madrona Inn.
“Dammit, Rosa,” she demanded, “I thought you were going to stall him? Tell him about my ghostly great-grandmother? Offer him a cinnamon roll or something?”
“Huh?” Rosa whirled around to gape at Lissa. “What happened to you?”
Lissa started brushing the plaster dust off her blouse, then smoothed down the cotton skirt that had been crumpled up under her armpits while she hung in midair. “Jackson’s in his room! A wolf spider pounced on my hand and scared me half to death. Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, I fell through the damn ceiling! I lost one of your sandals up there somewhere.”
“I’ve had those sandals since 1968!” Rosa wailed. “How could you lose one?”
“How could you let Jackson slip by you?”
“He didn’t! I swear he didn’t come in. I never even blinked my eyes. I couldn’t have missed him.”
“Then who do you suppose is in his room?” Lissa asked, but Rosa only shook her head, gnawing on her lower lip, her brows drawn tight over her small nose. “He must have come in before your dad and I got back,” Rosa said defensively, “though Gertie didn’t mention it.”
Gertie, the afternoon shift desk clerk probably wouldn’t have, Lissa knew. Gertie saw little and said less. “Did you ask her?”
“Well, no, but your dad came right over and I only stopped off at Reggie’s for the stuff. When we left the bar, Ginny was singing straight to Jackson. I can’t believe he’d walk out on that.”
Neither could Lissa. Ginny, her best friend since they’d both been six, had an enviable way with males that she’d begun practicing in the cradle and by now had perfected. Even as a child Lissa had been awed by Ginny’s captivating manner, and had long ago given up trying to match it. Men followed Ginny like lovesick puppies.
“Well, obviously, he did walk out on Ginny,” she said. “Or someone else is in his room.”
Of course, she had slipped into the kitchen for the carafe of coffee Jock, the dinner cook—and Ginny’s father—always left for her, but that had taken mere seconds! Still, she supposed that would have been long enough for Jackson to come in and go upstairs.
Oh, heavens! Had he heard her father tinkering up there? If so, had he thought anything of it? She grinned. Maybe he had. And maybe he’d thought it was a ghost. One could always hope …
“Now, who do you suppose that will be?” she asked rhetorically as the phone on the desk rang its two distinctive chirps, indicating a call from one of the guest rooms.
The phone chirp-chirped again. Lissa drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, then picked up the phone. “Front desk,” she said smoothly. “How may I help you?”
“A woman and a trunk just fell through my ceiling,” said a very irate male voice she had no difficulty recognizing.
A trunk? Had she knocked it through the hole in her scramble to grab the equipment and run? “I see,” she said, managing to keep her astonishment out of her tone. Make like you don’t believe him, she told herself.
“A woman and a drunk just fell through your ceiling. Are they two separate people, or one and the same?”
“Not a drunk, a trunk! Tango, Romeo, Uniform—”
She interrupted. “I get it. A trunk, not a drunk.” Oh, lordy, she had knocked it down! “And a woman. They, uh, fell through your ceiling?”
“Yes, dammit, and if you don’t believe me, there’s blood, plaster, and old clothing all over my bed as proof. I’d like the matter taken care of at once.”
Blood? Had she scraped her legs when she fell? She didn’t feel injured—except dignity-wise. “Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. What room did you say you were in?” Oh, you’re good, Lissa.
“I didn’t.” The words were chiseled in ice. “There’s no number on my door. I’m on the top floor.”
“Oh yes. That would be …” She hesitated, as if she had to check the register. “Mr. Jackson?”
In as soothing a tone of voice as she could muster, she added, “I’ll be right up to investigate the incident, sir.”
The receiver smashed down on the other end. Steve Jackson was definitely not impressed by the Madrona Inn, which was, of course, exactly what they’d been aiming for.
She winked at Rosa, who grinned in approval, apparently forgiving the loss of the sandal. Good, that was a relief. After all, Rosa was her de facto stepmother. Her dad and Rosa’s so-called clandestine affair, which they blithely and erroneously believed to be a secret in Madrona Cove, had been going on for years.
“Good, he’s ticked off.” Lissa laughed, gave Rosa a high five and kicked off the one remaining sandal. She shoved her feet into her own shoes, which would have been impossible for navigating the floor of the attic. Hauling up her skirt, she checked herself for scratches that might have bled. Nothing. Maybe he’d exaggerated to get faster action.
“Okay, here I go,” she said, satisfied she wasn’t marked with any evidence. “Desk clerk, chambermaid, and general apologist for the Madrona Inn’s dreadful deficiencies. Maybe Reggie’s masterpiece of Halloween horror won’t be necessary after all.”
Lissa checked herself in the mirror for telltale signs, saw streaks of plaster chalk on her green silk blouse and quickly shed it, glad of the T-shirt she wore under it. She put on her “apologist’s” face and mounted the main staircase to the third floor.
Chapter Two
WOW! SHE CAME CLOSE to saying it aloud. Ginny’s rave description hadn’t prepared her for Steve Jackson. Nothing could have prepared her.
Six-foot-three if he was an inch, his tight, faded jeans riding low on lean hips, his broad chest bare except for a golden cloud of hair down its center … Lissa gulped. His shoulders nearly filled the doorway. Dark blond hair curled over his forehead, begging for a woman’s hand to brush it back.
She fought the urge to reach up, clenching her fists behind her while trying to look relaxed, professional, and concerned all at the same time.
The frosty glare faded from his blue eyes as his gaze swept over in clear, masculine appreciation and, she saw, speculation. He gave her a complete once-over—twice. From the top of her head, slowly down over her bosom, to her hips and legs, now mercifully hidden by fullness of her skirt. His gaze was so piercing Lissa felt as if he could see through the gathers of the fabric. She caught her breath and spoke.
“Mr. Jackson?” She held out her hand. “I’m Lissa Wilkins, night manager.” A minor promotion wouldn’t hurt her credibility and after all, she was in charge tonight.
He took her hand, wrapping his around it. His grip was firm and his fingers and palm so callused it was obvious he was accustomed to doing hard work. Would the older son of a hotel magnate work so hard at anything? Suddenly, she wanted with a terrible intensity for Steve Jackson not to be who they thought he was.
But he had to be. Th
e laws of coincidence stretched only so far and no farther.
“Hello, Lissa,” he said, in a deep, husky voice that sent tingles down her spine. She gently pulled her hand free. Though they were at arm’s length, she still detected a whiff of a spicy aftershave or maybe shampoo, and a malty odor of beer. Everything about him—his mesmerizing blue eyes, his tall, lean, muscular body and that sexy voice, plus the sensations his hands had produced were sending her into sensory overload.
He stepped back three paces. Like a dinghy in tow, she followed him into the room. With difficulty, she forced her gaze from his eyes to the mess on his bed.
Sure enough, there was that damned little steamer trunk spilled open, and blood was spattered all over his bedding.
There was no sign of Rosa’s Birkenstock. Her knees went weak with relief. It must be in the attic. He had no proof that half a woman had ever been in his room.
“Oh, cripes,” she said, casting a glance at the hole in the ceiling. “What a mess! Did the trunk strike you on the head? You must have lost a great deal of blood. Please, sit down.”
Solicitously, she tried to steer him toward the one chair in the room. It was like trying to move a three-hundred-year-old cedar. Giving up, she asked, “Do you need medical attention? We don’t have a doctor here in Madrona Cove, but I could get someone to run you to town and—”
“No.” He firmly removed her hand from his arm, the strength of his fingers effectively cutting off both her breath and speech.
“I don’t need medical attention. I don’t need to sit down. Nothing hit me on the head. The blood’s from my nose, the result of that crazy woman kicking me.”
“Woman?” Lissa made her eyes big and round. “Oh, yes. You mentioned a woman when you called downstairs. Where … um, where is she?”
He tilted his head back to stare at the hole. She watched him swallow before he turned to her. “I don’t know.” His brows drew together. “I couldn’t pull her down, so I boosted her back up. At her request.”
His eyes narrowed as he glanced at her. “I use the word ‘request’ loosely. She threw the trunk at me, then disappeared.”
“Of course.” Lissa nodded sympathetically. “This woman who disappeared threw the trunk at you.” She smiled kindly. “Are you absolutely sure it didn’t hit you on the head?”
“Yes, dammit, I’m sure! Listen, if you think I’m imagining the woman, I can give you details. She’s wearing ugly brown leather sandals, has long legs, and some kind of bug tattooed on her butt. This is a small town. Doesn’t that help you identify her?”
Lissa kept her face serene and her tone even. She prayed the tingle of heat she felt in her face didn’t show as a betraying blush. “No, sir,” she said. “Uh, you were at Chuckles this evening, I believe?”
He glared. “I am not drunk.”
“Of course not, sir. I wasn’t suggesting you were.”
He hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his low-slung jeans, his blue eyes narrowing to slits. “You sure as hell were.”
“It’s just that …” She shrugged helplessly and worked up a consoling smile. “Well, sometimes people on vacation feel a little more relaxed than they normally do, and drink more than they intended and then begin to take some of the local legends too seriously, and—”
“Legends?” He snorted derisively. “Oh, you mean the ghost.”
Feeling like an idiot, but knowing it was for a good cause, Lissa said, “I wouldn’t dismiss her too lightly. She was my great-grandmother. She appears to some people or makes her presence known in other ways. Sometimes she laughs, though mostly she cries.”
He gave her a skeptical grin. “Oh? Why?”
“Shortly after my great-grandfather, who built the inn, died, she lost one of the pearl earrings he’d given her for their tenth anniversary. She was distraught, and spent one long, rainy December night outside with a lantern, searching for it all over the grounds. She got pneumonia. The staff put her to bed—the family lived here on the top floor—and she continued wandering from room to room in delirium, trying to find that earring. She died, leaving her only child, my grandfather, an orphan. They say she’s still searching for her earring.”
She rubbed her arms as if a chill had run over her and looked over her shoulder. “I spent my summers in this very room, and I can tell you … odd things happen.”
He bit his bottom lip for an instant, looking just a little uneasy. She had to struggle to keep a straight face. “You own this inn?” he asked.
“My family used to,” she said.
“My father owns several resorts,” he said. “I don’t think any of them are haunted.”
Well! He was certainly up-front about what his father did. Maybe he didn’t realize they all knew exactly why he was here.
“I can’t swear the place is haunted,” she said. “My dad insists the sounds are nothing more than the wind in the limbs of the arbutus tree the inn’s named for.”
“Madrona Inn is named for an arbutus tree?”
“Madrona is the Spanish name for the tree. This is one of the northernmost specimens on the coast, and one of the oldest, I think, judging by its size. You’ve seen it, I’m sure. The big, gnarled, twisted, red-barked tree outside the dining room? It comes right up to the windows on this floor and sometimes makes terrible noises when the wind blows. That’s probably all you heard tonight.” She hoped she’d managed to inject a note of doubt into her voice.
She smiled. “Also, if you’ve had a little more to drink than normal, things might not seem to be exactly as they are.”
“I wasn’t complaining about a ghost.” He pointed one long, tan finger. “That trunk is exactly what it seems to be. So’s the hole in the ceiling, and the crap all over my bed.”
“Yes. Mmm-hmm. The trunk is certainly real.”
“So,” he said, his voice taut, “is my aching nose.” He rubbed its bridge gingerly with two fingers. “The heel that kicked me didn’t belong to any ghost.”
His nose did look as if it had been broken—though not recently. Still, she had the most ridiculous impulse to kiss it better. Get a grip, she told herself. “Those darned termites,” she said with concern. “Must have chewed clear through another beam. I hope we can make up to you for this … inconvenience.” She shook her head in despair as she stared at the damaged ceiling.
Looking doubtful, he raised his thick brows. “Go on,” he invited.
“Tonight, of course,” Lissa said, “I’ll move you to another room, and your stay to date will be on the house.” Then, as inspiration suddenly struck her, she added quickly, “Tomorrow, I can try to book you into another resort.”
Of course! Her dad, the whole committee, would be so proud of her. Her unfortunate fall through the ceiling could be turned to their advantage. Surely, Steve Jackson gone was a whole lot better than Steve Jackson merely uncomfortable and sending home bad reports.
“At this point,” he said, “what I want is another room, preferably one with a firm mattress and an intact ceiling. Tomorrow I’ll decide what I want to do. I’ve paid for three weeks in advance.”
“I understand,” she said calmly. “Naturally, your money will be refunded and if there’s a discrepancy between our rate and that of the resort you move to, we’ll make up the difference.” If she had to make it up out of her own pocket, she’d do it.
Again, his gaze swept over her. “If I decide to leave.”
If? Lissa bit back an exclamation and schooled her face as best she could while she nodded. So much for her inspiration. Clearly, he wasn’t about to go along with her agenda. “Of course. Well, then, if you’d care to pack up your things, Mr. Jackson, I’ll go downstairs and get the key to your new room.
“You may leave your toiletries in the bathroom if you wish. You’ll be moving next door to the adjoining room. Please excuse me for just a few minutes. I’ll be right back.”
She slipped out and closed the door behind her, then stood leaning on it while she collected herself.
<
br /> What did he mean, if he decided to leave? Why would he want to stay? Now that she had the notion of getting rid of him, she couldn’t see its happening any other way. But, he didn’t appear willing to cooperate. Lissa squared her shoulders and headed back downstairs. Okay. She’d offered him an out. If he didn’t take it, if he didn’t leave tomorrow, Steve Jackson’s so-called vacation was really going to get interesting.
As Lissa Wilkins left the room, Steve couldn’t get her out of his mind. Her bright brown eyes and her dazzling smile had hit him somewhere deep and elemental. She was tall, slender, yet voluptuous, and irrationally he believed she was the one who’d fallen through the ceiling.
He frowned. If so, she’d made one damned fast recovery. She’d appeared minutes after the incident, unruffled, serene, and hadn’t so much as blinked when he mentioned that tattoo. Nor was there so much as a single dark mahogany hair out of place in her long, thick French braid.
Still, those brown eyes had widened when he’d said, “If I leave.” However quickly she’d regained her composure, there had been that momentary reaction of pure dismay.
As if she wanted him to leave. But why?
His frown deepened as he began opening drawers to dump things in his suitcase and duffel bag. Nah. It had to be his imagination.
A drawer jammed, and he slammed it with the heel of his hand. After another slam, the drawer finally opened straight, but before he could reach in for anything, it slid smoothly shut. He stared at it, then slowly pulled it open again. This time it stayed that way and he emptied it quickly, keeping a wary eye on it. Then he reached for the next drawer down. It slid open before he so much as touched it.
He stared at it. This place was definitely weird. The building was old. So, more than likely, the floor must have sagged when he shifted his weight, causing the drawer to open on its own. Still, he rushed through the rest of his packing, irrationally wanting out of that room.
He rolled aside the trunk on his bed to locate the T-shirt he’d shucked earlier, and uncovered one ugly brown sandal.
Cinderella Search Page 2
