It Started at Christmas...

by Jo McNally

  “But you already have a family.” Nathan was a father. A questionable one, perhaps, but still. At least he wasn’t as clueless about kids as Blake was. “Why can’t you add one more?”

  “Not happening, Blake. Tiffany named you in her will. Not me.”

  “Only because she and Michaela hated each other.” Tiffany used to refer to Nathan’s wife as Butt Stick. Blake’s lips twitched at the memory of him and his sister laughing over that name.

  “And yet you think Michaela should raise Tiffany’s kid. What sense does that make?”

  Nathan had a point. Blake had qualms about Michaela raising her own children. As if Blake was some kind of expert.

  “He shouldn’t be at Beakman Academy by himself, a week ahead of the other kids.”

  “The upperclassmen are there this week,” Nathan sighed. “The headmaster said he’d be fine.”

  Blake slowed to pass a farm tractor driving up the road. Was that thing even legal? He stepped on the gas after he passed it, going too fast for being this close to the village. Sheriff Adams must have been busy somewhere else because Blake didn’t see any flashing lights. Benefits of a one-cop town.

  “So Zach’s at school with a bunch of kids four grades ahead of him? That’s perfect, genius. What could possibly go wrong?”

  “Jesus, Blake, I’m not an idiot. He’s not in the dorm—he’s staying with the headmaster and his family for the week. Feel free to drive over and get him if you don’t like it.”

  Blake chewed his lip. Zach was ten years old. He’d lost his mother less than a year ago. Blake had a feeling everything was a big deal to the poor kid. But still...being at school gave him more structure than he’d have with Blake, or even Nathan and Butt Stick.

  “Can you guys at least take him for the holiday break?” Tiffany had died at Christmas. Zach deserved a much happier holiday this year.

  “No way. We’re taking the girls on a cruise for Christmas, and Michaela already said—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I can imagine what Michaela said.” Blake let off the gas pedal and hung up on his brother. He reached for his coffee and bit out a curse when some spilled on his pants. What a perfect freakin’ day. He saw a flash of pink when he looked up and swore again. A petite blonde stepped off the sidewalk, directly into his path.

  Blake swerved. The engine on the big vehicle roared. He’d drifted pretty damned close to the curb, scaring the daylights out of himself and no doubt her. After he passed, he glanced in the rearview mirror and winced. He’d hit a puddle and sent a tidal wave of water over her. She was stomping her feet and gesturing to the taller woman behind her, pushing long, wet hair out of her face.

  A nice person would have stopped and apologized. But Blake had learned the hard way that being nice in Gallant Lake got him nowhere. He was not popular, and he’d only attract an angry mob if anyone saw him stopped in the middle of town. He felt bad about ruining the woman’s afternoon, though. Driving away without stopping made him feel uncomfortably similar to the ogre some of the locals painted him as. He didn’t like it.

  Speaking of angry mobs, there were five or six picketers just setting up at the entrance to his resort. The small Gallant Lake Preservation Society liked to show up with their handwritten signs, especially if they knew Blake was in town. They loved telling him, loudly and often, that they “weren’t giving up the fight” when it came to his plans for the casino. They didn’t seem to realize the town had given up on itself years before. That had nothing to do with him. Their signs proclaimed the same old mantra.

  Save Gallant Lake!

  No Casino!

  Leave Our Lake Alone!

  They were usually well behaved and didn’t interfere with resort traffic. But guests would be asking questions. He saw a scruffy pair of guys at the edge of the group. They didn’t fit in with the generally older protesters, but it wasn’t the first time he’d seen them hanging around. The two always looked ready to take up torches and pitchforks rather than neatly lettered signs. Their anger simmered a little closer to the surface, like it was personal, but Blake had no idea who they were.

  The group recognized his vehicle and pressed closer to the entrance, forcing him to slow down to avoid hitting them. He could call the sheriff, but that wouldn’t do any good. The protestors always stayed back off his property lines when the guy they affectionately called “Sheriff Dan” was around. Blake had a sneaking suspicion the sheriff supported the locals more than him when it came down to it.

  Once past the entrance, he parked in the employee lot and came in the side door. The old place had character, along with a stellar view. The previous owners had maintained the resort well, even if the interior needed updating everywhere. Those updates would be pointless now since it was slated for demolition as soon as the state senate gave its blessing to the casino plans. He was only a few votes away.

  When he’d made the purchase originally, sight unseen, he’d assumed the resort was one of those tired old Catskills resorts whose glory days ended with the Dirty Dancing era. It was a pleasant surprise to see the place actually making a little money with a modest marketing campaign, which took some of the sting out of waiting for those last few votes.

  It was smaller than his other hotels, but he ran it with the same attention to detail. He was known for his No Surprises approach to business, and the employees here had been quick to catch on—they took care of little problems before they became big ones.

  He saw the muddy footprints as soon as he entered the lobby on his way to the front desk. What the hell? The sun was shining outside, but this looked like someone had walked through here after swimming in a ditch somewhere. He caught a glimpse of pink ahead, stepping inside the elevator. Well, he’d be damned. The blonde he’d almost mowed down in town was a guest at the resort.

  It seemed she’d rewarded his behavior with a trail of mud across the lobby carpet, almost as if she knew it was his place. Blake couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his mouth. It served him right for not stopping to apologize.

  Chapter Two

  Amanda paused by the lobby windows to settle her nerves. The resort’s lawn swept down to the lakeshore. A morning mist rose from the water still in the shadows of the mountain. Resting the palm of her hand against her stomach, she focused her energy on pulling air in and letting it out. In with the good air, out with the bad. She’d hardly slept all night, and her nerves were jangling so much she could practically hear them rattling in her head.

  She held a cup of coffee in her other hand—one last boost of caffeinated courage. Counterintuitive to her attempt to calm down? Maybe. But she needed to be sharp. It was almost time for her to meet Blake Randall and inform him that he’d been corresponding with someone other than her ex-boss. That he’d sent blueprints for his historic mansion to her, not David Franklin. His request for proposals asked for suggestions on how to put the building to use, preferably as a commercial space, with no indication where it was actually located or what the exterior looked like. It was all very mysterious. When she “accidentally” intercepted the RFP and intentionally responded, she’d provided plans for residential use instead. She loved period architecture and felt the home should be used for its original purpose.

  Randall had liked her plans enough to request a meeting to discuss them. Her shoulders straightened. They were her ideas, and they were good ones. What did it matter who they came from? She tried to dismiss the panic fluttering in her chest. She could do this. She had to do this. This job was the key to her being able to start her own design firm. One where she didn’t have to rely on lying, cheating bosses who preyed on their employees.

  Her summer had been almost laughable in its horridness. The panic attacks were happening more frequently. Nightmares left her afraid to go to sleep. She jumped at every little thing. No wonder her nerves were on a razor’s edge. She felt like a canvas left out in the sun too long—stretched and dry an
d brittle.

  She turned away from the windows and nearly collided with a guy in a Gallant Lake T-shirt and shorts. The twentysomething came out of nowhere, arguing loudly on the phone with someone about a canceled flight and a job he needed to get back to. Even though he’d nearly knocked her on her ass, the guy barely mumbled an apology before he continued on his way.

  The brief, but forceful, male contact set off all kinds of alarms for Amanda. Black spots swirled at the edge of her vision.

  A panic attack, her all-too-familiar companion these days, was prowling just under her skin, like a shark smelling blood. Crap. This was the last thing she needed this morning, but ignoring it would only give it more power. She set down her coffee and closed her eyes, trying to relax her muscles one group at a time, from her toes to her head, the way her therapist, Dr. Jackson, taught her.

  In with the good air, out with the bad.

  Shake off the negative while embracing the positive. So very much easier said than done. But she worked at it, picturing clean, fresh, strong air filling her lungs. She wiggled her fingers and rolled her shoulders. The monster quieted. It was time for her to get going.

  Randall’s cryptic instructions said to ask for directions to “Halcyon” at the front desk. She was surprised to get walking directions to a place right next door to the resort. She headed outside and up the clearly marked path into the woods and through a gate in an old iron fence. A few minutes later, she stepped into a clearing and froze. Set high on a hill to her right was a castle. An honest-to-goodness castle, right there in the Catskills.

  Her mouth fell open. She blinked. Then blinked again, as if she expected the sight to vanish. Another strange emotion swirled through her amazement, creating a wave of goose bumps across her skin. She couldn’t believe what she was looking at. And yet...it felt as if she’d been here before. That was crazy. Randall had kept the location a deep dark secret in his proposal request. All she’d seen was the first floor blueprint.

  The sense of déjà vu was overwhelming. The big house called to her so strongly that she could feel it in her bones, drawing her in like a siren call.

  Pink granite walls rose from the ground as if the structure had just grown there. It seemed a natural part of the landscape, in spite of its soft color. It was at least three stories tall, with a sharply angled slate roof dotted with dormers. Two round towers anchored the lakeside corners, complete with pointed roofs like upside-down ice cream cones. There appeared to be another larger tower in the front of the house. A stone veranda stretched across the back, with five sets of French doors opening onto it.

  The floor plans hadn’t done this place justice. Halcyon was breathtaking. Amanda walked around to the front, noting signs of decades of neglect—overgrown shrubbery, dusty windows with no drapes and a general air of abandonment. The driveway circled around a long-forgotten and empty fountain. She walked up the stone stairs to the covered porch. The scale of everything made her feel like Alice in Wonderland, especially as she approached a massive wooden door. There wasn’t a doorbell. She smiled to herself. The only appropriate doorbell for this place would be one you rang by pulling on a long velvet cord.

  Amanda knocked, but there was no answer. She looked to the driveway. There weren’t any cars there. She knocked again, using the side of her fist this time. Still nothing. She walked back around to the lake side of the house, looking for any signs of life. It had to be the right place, but why wasn’t anyone here?

  Up on the veranda, she paused to take in the view. The huge yard was surrounded by trees all the way to the water, and the only sound was that of the wind and the birds. It gave the feeling of being far removed from the world. When she turned to face the house, she noticed one of the doors stood ajar. Her skin prickled.

  Maybe Mr. Randall was running late, and left the door open for her? Or maybe this was an elaborate ruse for someone to get a defenseless woman into an abandoned house, the monster whispered. Her pulse ratcheted up another notch.

  No. She’d been corresponding as David Franklin, so no one was expecting a female. As long as she was here, and the door was open, why not explore? If Randall didn’t show up, she’d head back to the resort and consider the missed appointment as karmic retribution for all of her lies.

  Her footsteps left prints in the dust on the floor. She crouched down to wipe the dust away. The floors were honey-colored marble. The high coffered ceilings were made from mahogany. The walls bore some truly hideous Victorian wallpaper with flowers and gazebos and birds and...just way too much stuff. The massive fireplace was topped with a wooden mantel that stretched to the ceiling with an ornate carved scene of Saint George slaying a dragon. There were only a few pieces of furniture in the large room, and they were covered with drop cloths.

  She wanted to see more of the house, and she had been invited—sort of—but she still felt like she was trespassing. She caught a glimpse of massive iron chandeliers in the large room in the center of the house. Maybe just one quick look.

  This house was sensory overload for a designer like her. Light flooded through tall leaded windows in the center hall. Twin iron chandeliers hung above her, with their curving black metal forms arching over the hall like protective birds of prey. The fireplace here was more subdued than in the other room, covered in the same golden marble as the floor and carved with a rose motif. She traced her fingers along the mantel, wondering what stories it could tell.

  That’s why she loved old homes so much—each one held a unique story. New homes had “potential,” but she preferred a house with history. Someone had spared no expense a hundred years ago to create this beautiful space. And now it stood empty and smelled of dust and disuse. She absently patted her hand on the roses carved in marble, feeling sympathy for the sad old house.

  She heard something that sounded as if it came from inside the house. Footsteps?

  “Hello? Mr. Randall?”

  There was only silence in reply. It must have been the wind she heard. Or perhaps it was just her overactive imagination kicking into high gear. She shrugged it off and continued exploring. Next to the front door, a stairway wound its way up the inside of the large tower. On the far side of the room, a semicircular glass atrium stretched across the end of the house. The glass was cloudy with age and neglect, and the mosaic floor covered with long-undisturbed dirt, but the atrium had been spectacular at one time.

  The sketches she’d sent with her proposal were in black and white, created in a software program specifically for that purpose. They were filled with structural and furniture dimensions, accompanied with detailed lists of required supplies. They were accurate. But she knew now they weren’t enough. Not for this house. Plans for this house needed color and emotion.

  Amanda rested her hand on the paneled wall near the atrium, then closed her eyes and tried to get a feel for what the house might have looked like originally. It was a trick she’d used before to get a sense of the older apartments in the city she’d been hired to decorate. If only walls actually could talk. She pictured the atrium sparkling with candlelight, the metalwork along the roof painted bright white and the colorful floors restored. Exotic rugs scattered across the floor of the salon, creating cozy sitting areas by the fireplace and in front of the library. Lush but comfortable furniture filled this room and the living room. Everything she pictured reflected a sense of family and love.

  None of that had been reflected in her proposal to Blake Randall. She pulled her ever-present sketchbook out of her bag, along with a fistful of colored pencils. She didn’t have a lot of time, but she had to try to capture the personality of this home.

  She lost herself in the drawing process, letting her creative muse take over. Flipping the pages hurriedly, she sketched the salon, then the dining room, which she’d envisioned as a home office. Eventually she went back to the living room, imagining it with touches of modern technology mixed with classic colors and...oh, wouldn�
�t sailcloth curtains be perfect in here!

  She heard another noise, and stopped her frantic sketching. She was sure it came from inside the house. Was it from upstairs, or the room next door? She tucked her sketchbook back into her bag and headed for the open door to the veranda, ready to flee if needed. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Was that a footstep behind her?

  “Hey!” The loud male voice stopped her in her tracks.

  Panic slammed her heart against her ribs, and her vision blurred. Before she could force her feet to move, a large hand gripped her upper arm and a deep voice growled at her.

  “What the hell are you doing in my house?”

  Sometimes her panic manifested itself as rage, and she was thankful for that rage right now. It was the only thing keeping her on her feet. Instead of fainting dead away, she yanked her arm free and turned to face the man who’d just sent her panic levels into the stratosphere. Her knees threatened to buckle. Breathing felt like a battle between her lungs and the air she needed.

  “Don’t touch me!” she said with a hiss.

  He released her immediately, but he was now blocking her exit. He was older than her—maybe midthirties—and tall. She was wearing heels, and still her head barely reached his shoulders. His features were sharp and his jaw strong. His eyes were the color of espresso, and thick black hair curled down the nape of his neck. He was dressed casually, as if he’d been working outside and just walked in.

  She swallowed hard and tried to control her pounding pulse. She’d read once that the tiniest animal, when cornered, could become ferocious beyond its physical size. She drew herself to her full height, ignoring the barest hint of a smile that flickered across the man’s face when she pointed her finger and started lecturing.

  “You’d better get out of here while you still have the chance, because Blake Randall will be here any minute now to meet me!”