Phantom Lover. Rebecca York
He’d made sure they saw him heading out into the ocean. But he’d come back sooner than they expected, hugging the coast to keep from being spotted.
And now perhaps he could get the evidence he needed, because he wouldn’t act without proof.
A sick feeling overtook him. It was tinged with his own guilt—over what he’d done and what he hadn’t done, if the truth be told.
Still, he’d expected better than this, and he’d thought long and hard about what to do. He was still hoping he was mistaken. Hoping against hope that he’d read all the signals wrong.
Stopping at a fork in the passage, he listened intently, then moved silent as a panther toward one of the rooms.
He’d laid a trap there the day before. Now he would see what he had caught.
He set down the flashlight, then pressed on a hidden panel and stepped into the back of a closet. Slowly he opened the door, just enough to see into the room. The man was there, just as he’d suspected, just as he’d feared.
“What are you doing?” he asked, keeping his voice low and steady as he walked into the room.
The man’s eyes widened. “Where did you come from?”
“That’s not important. Answer my question.” He walked forward, his gaze focused on the interloper, so that he didn’t see that another person was standing in the bathroom.
At the last second a flash of movement caught the corner of his eye and he realized his mistake. But it was too late. The blow came crashing down on his head. And then there was only blackness.
Chapter One
Fog rolled in from the west, obscuring the rugged coastline north of San Francisco. There was no guardrail, the narrow stretch of road was slick, and Bree Brennan slowed her rental car, thinking that if she plunged into the ocean, it would be her own damn fault.
She’d been acting recklessly when she’d taken a leave of absence from the Light Street Detective Agency. She was still acting recklessly. The new Bree Brennan, she thought with a mental shake of her head. When she’d joined the agency two years ago, she’d been Bonnie. Now she was Bree—a different person. More daring. More in charge of her life. At least in her own eyes.
Only the farther she’d come along California Highway One, the more second thoughts she’d had. Her old persona whispered in her head that she should turn around and go home. But she simply couldn’t do it. She’d be letting down a lot of people, including the new Bree Brennan. And her friend Helen London.
When a shaft of lightning shattered the darkening sky, Bree responded with a quavery laugh. If she’d been the director of a horror movie, she couldn’t have done a better job of setting the scene: the naive young woman driving through the storm toward a spooky old mansion. Except this was no movie. It was real life.
Helen’s distraught phone call from Macedonia echoed in her mind.
“I’m so scared. I’m afraid Troy is dead. I haven’t talked to him in two weeks. And his e-mails are really strange—like somebody else is writing them for him.”
She was talking about her older brother, Troy London, both of them named by an eccentric father with a passion for Greek literature.
Bree had gotten to know Troy seven years earlier when she’d been visiting the Londons’ summer place—their ranch in Montana. She’d been attracted to him, and she’d thought the attraction was mutual. Then she’d been called away abruptly to take care of problems at home. Once she was back in her own environment, she’d told herself a relationship with Troy wouldn’t have worked anyway. He came from a world of wealth and privilege, so different from her own background.
Still, she’d never let go of the memories of a virile, vibrant young man with dark hair, warm hazel eyes and a ready smile.
Like his sister, he didn’t need to work, but both siblings had wanted meaningful jobs. Helen was a Foreign Service Officer. Troy had specialized in taking failing companies, turning them around and selling them at a profit. He’d had exactly the life he wanted, until a year ago when his wife had been killed in a car accident and he had shut himself away at Ravencrest, his estate on the northern California coast.
Bree slammed on her brakes as another fork of lightning split the sky directly in front of her, illuminating the entrance to the property. Great timing, she thought as she turned in at the access road. Ravencrest was one of the few large tracts of property left along the coast. Most of the big estates had been subdivided or turned into parks and other public access areas. But Ravencrest was a throwback to another era.
In a fast and furious exchange of e-mail, after their initial phone conversation, she and Helen had cooked up a plan to get Bree into the house—a plan that would keep her here while she found out what was going on. It had made sense back in Baltimore. Now…
Now she was dead tired and full of doubts. She’d gotten up at the crack of dawn, changed planes twice and driven a hundred and fifty miles along these winding, narrow roads. She was in no shape to sound brilliant. But there was no way to avoid the coming confrontation.
Pulling up in front of the iron gate, she rolled down her window, pressed the button on the intercom and looked up toward the television camera focused on her window.
Long, nerve-racking seconds passed before a woman’s voice asked, “Yes? Who is it?”
It sounded like an older woman. Probably the housekeeper, Edith Martindale, whom Helen had described to Bree. Good. Mrs. Martindale probably wasn’t going to be as tough a gatekeeper as one of the Sterlings, the distant relatives who had moved in with Troy two months ago.
“I’m Bree Brennan,” she answered, exaggerating her native North Carolina accent so that her name came out as a thick, honeyed drawl. “I’m Dinah London’s new teacher,” she added, very glad that she’d taught first grade for the Baltimore County schools before joining the Light Street Detective Agency.
There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. “I didn’t know Mrs. Sterling hired a teacher for Dinah.”
Mrs. Sterling was Nola Sterling. She and her husband, Abner, were supposed to be down on their luck, which was why Troy had allowed them to move into Ravencrest. According to Helen, they’d taken over the place.
Bree dragged a deep breath and held it for a second before answering with a complete non sequitur. “I’ve driven all the way up here from San Francisco, and I can’t go back tonight.”
“Well…”
Bree went on quickly. “I was hired by Helen London when she learned that her niece’s previous instructor, Miss Carpenter, had been dismissed.”
“Ms. London is out of the country. How could she hire you?”
“Didn’t she send you a message?”
Again there was that slight hesitation. “No. I don’t think so.”
Probably the housekeeper was wondering if Nola Sterling had neglected to inform her of the new arrangement. That would make sense, but in fact, Bree and Helen had decided that making her arrival a surprise was the best plan. And Helen had arranged not to be available.
Following their script she said, “She interviewed me by e-mail. And she sent me an authorization by fax.” As she spoke, she pulled out the paper and held it up to the camera.
After half a minute she lowered the fax and stared into the camera again, her blue eyes wide and naive. “Whom am I speaking to?” she asked politely.
“Mrs. Martindale,” the woman confirmed.
“Is Mr. London there?”
“He’s not available at the moment.”
Through the television camera, she felt herself being scrutinized and kept her own gaze steady. Her appearance was a plus, she knew.
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