by Anne Stuart
"Did you feed her?"
"No, sir. I thought you'd be wanting her to eat with you."
Katie half expected him to say "Why would I want that?" in his chilly Irish voice, but he said nothing, emerging from the shadows with slow grace.
"When's supper?"
"Half an hour. And what room would you be wanting me to put her in?"
"It doesn't matter. Wherever you see fit," he said.
Katie was not enjoying herself. She had a temper to go with her red hair, and she hated being talked about as if she weren't even in the room.
She took a step toward him. "I don't want to be a bother."
"It's too late for that," he said coolly. "If you didn't want to be a bother, you shouldn't have tried to drive over the cliff."
"I didn't! It was an accident." She was beginning to find Mr. Brooding-Master-of-the-Mansion O'Neal to be highly annoying. "If that damned ghost hadn't popped in front of my window…"
She hadn't meant to say that. The temperature of the room dropped ten degrees, and the man opposite her, still shrouded in shadows, seemed to turn to ice.
"You believe in ghosts, Miss…?"
Oddly enough, it was a question, not another accusation of stupidity. "Flynn," she said. "Katie Flynn."
"Oh, God," he murmured. "Irish."
"Indeed," she said. "And would you be having anything against the Irish?"
He came out of the shadows. He'd changed, as well, and he was wearing faded jeans and a thick wool sweater against the damp chill of the room. His long hair had dried, and it was the deep, rich brown of a seal, so thick and lustrous that some foolish woman would want to put her hands on it. Fortunately Katie Flynn was no fool.
He raised his head to look at her, letting his eyes run over her body with cool disinterest, but Katie was beyond caring. She knew what she looked like in her bulky, hand-me-down clothes, and besides, vanity was not one of her many weaknesses.
She was too busy staring at his eyes in wonder. They were the color of the sea—there was no other way to describe them. Green and blue and stormy, translucent, deep and endless, they touched her and she was lost. There was no fairness in a world that would give a man a glorious face and present him with such mesmerizing eyes as well.
"I left Ireland to get away from the Irish," he said.
"You came to the wrong country then," she shot back. "We're all over the place."
"Most people leave me alone out here."
"Aren't you lucky that I'm here to break your boredom?"
He paused, startled. "I beg your pardon?"
"And you can give me a glass of that brandy," she said, taking the bull by the horns. "And I think if you try to exert yourself you could probably manage to be pleasant long enough for me to eat dinner. And then I promise I'll go away to whatever attic room you intend to lock me in. I'll leave first thing in the morning and you'll never have to be bothered with me again," she said. "But in the meantime I'm not in the mood to replay Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre, I don't want you glowering at me, and if you can't manage to be pleasant I can always eat in my room."
He stared at her, clearly unimpressed. "Mrs. Marvel hasn't had time to prepare a room for you. And your hair's still wet. Go sit by the fire, and I'll see if I can find another brandy snifter. I'm not used to guests."
"I never would have dreamed." Like most strong-willed, cantankerous creatures, O'Neal seemed to respond best to a firm hand. He was rather like a huge, Maine coon cat she'd once been owned by. Puska had muscled his way into her life, simply showing up one morning at the farmhouse where she was staying. He'd bullied her, tormented her, graciously allowed himself to be fed and petted when the mood struck him and had done his best to run her life. It had been a permanent battle, and when he'd finally died of old age she'd mourned for months.
She didn't want to be thinking of Puska, or anything that made her vulnerable. Instead she headed for the fire, sinking down on the floor in front of it and shaking the excess water out of her hair. "What is this place?" she asked, busy trying to finger comb her hair.
A brandy snifter appeared in front of her, held in one particularly elegant hand. For a moment she didn't move, caught by the beauty of his hand, the long fingers cupping the globe of the snifter. He had to be gay, she thought morosely.
She took the glass, careful not to touch him, but it was warm from his hand, and the sensation was unnerving. "It's a house," he said, moving away from her with unflattering haste.
"I mean, what did it used to be? Who lived here before you did?"
"I gather it was built in the 1800s by some wealthy ship owner. It's had a checkered history—it was a school for a time, and a private sanitarium."
"You mean like for TB patients?"
"Not in this damp climate, Katie Flynn. It was a private mental clinic. If we look we can probably find some old straight jackets in the attic."
"Not Wuthering Heights," she muttered. "Jane Eyre."
"I have no mad wives in the attic, I assure you. And as long as you behave yourself I won't have Willie lock you up."
He was probably being facetious, but it was hard to be certain. She took a sip of the brandy, savoring the warmth as it slid down her throat. "Don't you have any family?" she asked.
It was the wrong question, but she'd already accepted the fact that in O'Neal's presence she could do no right. "They're dead. Drowned in the deep salt sea, every one of them."
Unbidden, the memory of her car, tumbling over the cliff into the black and roiling ocean, came back to haunt her. "I'm sorry," she said.
"Don't be," he dismissed her sympathy rudely. "It was fifteen years ago. I got over it."
"Not if you've been a hermit ever since."
He moved closer, and he clearly wasn't pleased. Katie took another hasty sip of her brandy. "Mrs. Marvel has been talking," he said, and there was no lilt in his Irish voice. "And you've been prying."
She tilted her head back to look up at him, way up the length of him as he towered over her. He was probably trying to intimidate her, an easy enough thing since she was sitting on the floor, but Katie Flynn wasn't a woman who was easily intimidated.
"Chill out, Mr. Rochester," she said flatly. "There's nothing wrong with simple human curiosity."
"I'm not a romantic hero," he snapped.
"I'm more than aware of it. You may be pretty but your personality could use some major improvement." She took a deep breath, then shook herself. "Sorry. I get carried away sometimes. I guess you're wishing you let me tumble into the sea."
"No," he said. "I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Even you." He stared down at her. "You have blue eyes. Very Irish blue eyes."
"So?"
"Mary Mother of God, your hair is red, isn't it?" He sounded truly horrified by the notion.
"All natural," she responded in an exaggeratedly perky voice. "And I've got pale skin and freckles. I'm Irish. I'm superstitious. I'm feisty. So what's it to you?"
He stared at her, a lost look in the back of his eyes. "Nothing but trouble, Katie Flynn. Nothing but trouble."
Chapter Three
« ^ »
Dinner was conducted in almost complete silence. Willie served them, and the food was heavenly, but Katie's few attempts at initiating conversation were met with monosyllabic answers or nothing at all.
"You know," she said, determined to lighten the atmosphere, "this is probably the first time since I've been in Maine that I haven't had seafood for dinner."
"I eat enough fish," O'Neal said.
"Oh, I'm not complaining," Katie said hastily. "This chicken is delicious. I was just surprised—"
"Do you always prattle?" he interrupted her.
"When I'm the only one making dinner conversation, yes," she said.
"Have you ever heard of eating in peace?"
"Is that like resting in peace?"
He flinched, and belatedly she thought of his family, all drowned in the rough ocean. It must have been in a storm like this one, she
thought. No wonder he was less than cheerful.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'll be quiet."
"Good."
She preferred not to look at him. His fine-boned face was distracting, disturbing to her. She had never reacted to male beauty in such a way. She was not a vain woman, and tended to respond to people's behavior, not their looks. The few men she'd been even slightly involved with had been ordinary enough, and she'd never even been particularly vulnerable to movie-star crashes.
But O'Neal was different. It was more than mere good looks, though he had them in abundance. There was something mesmerizing about him, something that called to her, something that had nothing to do with a pretty face and everything to do with a lost soul.
She shook herself mentally, concentrating on the hot rolls Mrs. Marvel had provided, rather than on her host. She needed to remember the old adage: Handsome Is As Handsome Does. Judged by those standards, O'Neal was a troll.
The housekeeper appeared the moment Katie put down her fork, and she wondered whether the woman had been watching, or if O'Neal himself had managed some unseen, unheard signal. "You'll be wanting to get some sleep, now, won't you dearie," she cooed, sounding bizarrely like Mrs. Doubtfire. "My, but you've a sturdy appetite. It's a treat cooking for someone other than O'Neal…he just picks at his food."
It was a dubious compliment at best, but O'Neal seemed oblivious. He'd already turned away from her, watching the fire through slitted eyes, dismissing her.
"It would be hard not to do justice to such delicious food," she managed, pleased with herself.
Was that a faint curve in O'Neal's perfectly chiseled lips? Surely the man was devoid of humor. He wouldn't be likely to find her fast comeback amusing.
It must have been wishful thinking on her part. Still, she'd been well brought up, and she needed to remember her manners. "Mr. O'Neal—" she began.
Whatever lightening in his mood vanished immediately. "It's O'Neal," he said. "No mister."
She wanted to smack him. Instead she rose, dropped her linen napkin on the table and summoned up a cool smile. "Thank you for your hospitality," she said.
He didn't bother to look at her, as if he found the sight of her disturbing. "You'll want to be leaving here as early as you can, I'm sure. I won't be seeing you in the morning, but Mrs. Marvel will drive you into Sealsboro and help you see about replacing your car."
There wasn't much she could say in response to that, but Mrs. Marvel filled the gap. "And glad I am to do it," she said. "You come along with me, dearie. I've fixed up one of the nicest bedrooms, and Willie's got a fire going. The electricity is out again, but you'll be wanting a good night's sleep. There's no television in the house, anyway, even if we had the power to run such a thing."
"What about a telephone?" she asked belatedly.
"O'Neal doesn't hold with such things. He thinks they're an intrusion on his privacy."
"Like me," Katie said.
"Like you," O'Neal agreed in a sepulchral voice from the wing chair in front of the fire. "Goodbye, Miss Flynn."
He couldn't see her, and Katie had had enough. "Good night, O'Neal," she said. And stuck her tongue out at him.
Damn the girl. Damn her red hair and her freckles and her fearless blue eyes. Damn her temper and her luscious body and her wicked, cruel luck in finding her way to Seal Point.
And damn him, for not being able to ignore her, no matter how hard he'd tried.
It wasn't as if she was the first pretty girl who'd wandered into his life. He'd been able to resist the others, just as he would resist Katie Flynn. But there was something about her that got beneath his skin.
He laughed grimly. A perfect turn of phrase. Beneath his skin indeed. And which skin was it, he wondered? The smooth white flesh that covered him now. Or…?
He didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to think about the night, the ocean crashing in huge waves as the storm flirted with the Atlantic Coast. He didn't want to think about looking up in the darkness and seeing her, standing on the headland, looking down into the sea. Down into his eyes.
He wanted to get drunk. He made it a habit to watch the amount of brandy he drank; he had no desire to drink himself to death. It was too depressing and undignified. If he did choose to end this half life, he'd simply head out to sea one day.
It was going to happen, sooner or later. The solitude was driving him mad. But there was no other choice, given who and what he was. The curse of the O'Neals haunted him, and there was no escaping it.
Not in the blue eyes of a creature who should have been washed out to sea like his family, so long ago. Not in her arms and the soft promise of her sweet body.
There was no escape, and Katie Flynn's blue eyes and red hair only reminded him of how much he wanted to.
Damn her.
The place was a gothic castle at its best. Mrs. Marvel settled her into the corner bedroom with a pile of quilts and the warning to get as much sleep as she could. The heat from the blazing fire barely penetrated the cavernous room, and even the voluminous flannel nightgown she'd been given wouldn't be much help. Katie changed clothes quickly, crawled into the huge old bed and lay there, shivering, staring at the candle that she had absolutely no intention of blowing out.
Automatically she reached for the cross that usually hung around her neck, and once more she felt the loss deep in her heart. It was silly to become so attached to physical things, but she couldn't help it. The cross was her family, her heritage. And it was now at the bottom of the sea
She closed her eyes, trying to relax. Her entire body was a mass of aches, though she wasn't quite sure why. When O'Neal had hauled her out of the car moments before it went crashing into the sea he'd been rough, and she could still feel the jolt of his bones as they'd slammed into hers when they'd tumbled onto the ground. But still, it wasn't as if she'd actually been hurt. And he…and he…
She sat bolt upright in the frigid room, listening to the wind howl outside the leaded-glass windows. "Oh, my God," she said out loud. Miss Katie Flynn, well-brought-up daughter of Charles and Maggie Flynn, had thanked her rescuer for dinner and a bed for the night. She'd forgotten the tiny issue of saving her life.
She scrambled out of bed, cursing beneath her breath. The floor was icy beneath her bare feet, she could almost see her breath in the frigid room, and there was no sign of either the clothes she came in or the clothes she borrowed. Mrs. Marvel had said her own clothes would be dry by the morning, so she must have taken her own baggy stuff with her. Leaving Katie stuck in the room with nothing but a tentlike flannel nightgown to wear.
She ought to go back to bed. O'Neal had dismissed her with his lordly manner, making it clear he had no intention of ever seeing her again. It was his fault that she wasn't able to thank him for the small favor of saving her life.
She could write him a thank-you note once she made it safely back to civilization. That was the sensible thing, and the least intrusive on her unfriendly host. She should jump back in bed, pull the covers over her and plan to handle her social obligations in absentia.
She didn't move, ignoring the fact that she was as cold as hell. She wasn't getting back in that bed—she wouldn't sleep until she'd taken care of the matter. It didn't matter that he'd probably throw something at her if she intruded on his solitude one more time. It didn't matter that all she had to wear was a nightgown the size of a small tent. It didn't even matter that she'd probably never find her way back to that cavernous room through the dimly lit mazelike corridors of this old house. She wasn't going to get a wink of sleep unless she at least tried to complete the unpleasant, self-imposed task.
There was no reason for a house to be so cold this early in October, she thought miserably as she made her way down the narrow hallways. Any more than she should be plagued with the annoying memory of someone once telling her that it was always cold when there were ghosts present. Katie was superstitious, but she wasn't a fool. She didn't really believe in ghosts, goblins, demons or things that wen
t bump in the night. That white apparition that kept appearing was nothing more than a stray wisp of fog, or a piece of litter, or one of a dozen other possibilities.
And the huge old house was cold because it was made of stone, there was no central heating, the night was windy, she was barefoot… There was always a reasonable explanation if you chose to look for it.
Astonishingly enough she made no wrong turns in her quest for the cavernous room where she'd left O'Neal. She made no sound at all with her chilled bare feet, and when she came to the open door she stopped, peering inside. The fire had burned down, there were no candles lit, and the entire room seemed shadowy, almost haunted.
But she didn't believe in ghosts, she reminded herself.
She couldn't see around the back of the wing chair. He might be there, or he might not. He might have fallen asleep watching the fire, and he wouldn't welcome her waking him up. Or he might be dead…
Stop it, she ordered herself sternly. You're letting your imagination run wild.
She tiptoed into the room, ready to turn and run at the first warning. She moved toward the chair in silence, peering around, only to find it empty. He was gone.
She let out a deep sigh of disappointment mixed with relief. At least she'd tried. She turned, and he was there, watching her out of those sea-storm eyes.
She screamed, unable to help herself, and she half expected him to clamp a hand across her mouth. He didn't touch her, didn't come any closer to her. He was close enough.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded. "I thought I'd gotten rid of you."
"What a charming thought," Katie said when her heart started beating again.
"What do you want? If you're looking for more food, Mrs. Marvel keeps the kitchen well stocked. If you're looking for brandy, take the bottle and be gone. If you're looking for companionship I'm not the one to provide it."
"I should say you're not," she retorted, incensed. "I came to thank you."
"Thank me?"
"For saving my life. I forgot to earlier, and since I didn't expect to see you again I wanted to make sure I had a chance to thank you."
