Phantom Lover. Rebecca York
into the classic subject of a dumb blond joke. She’d combed her shoulder-length wheat-colored hair to frame her face in soft waves and carefully outlined her bow-shaped lips. And now she kept her blue eyes wide, as though she’d just walked off the farm.
“Come up to the house.” As the woman spoke, the gate creaked open.
With a sigh that was part relief and part trepidation, Bree drove through. As the barrier clanked shut behind her, she couldn’t help feeling like an inmate arriving at prison.
Hands clamped to the wheel, she steered the car up the winding drive, past pine trees dripping with green moss that fluttered in the wind blowing off the ocean.
Now that she was here, it was hard to catch her breath, and she knew she had good reason to be edgy. When Helen had first contacted her, Bree had proposed that one of the men from the Light Street Detective Agency or Randolph Security, which worked closely with them, should find out what was wrong at Ravencrest.
Her friend had argued against that plan. “The Sterlings are up to something bad. I just know it. If they think they’re being attacked or investigated, they could take Dinah hostage. Maybe they’ve already done it—to keep Troy in line. They could have him locked up somewhere. Or maybe they have him drugged. Or he might already be dead. And if they’ve killed him, what would stop them from killing his daughter?”
Helen had always had a flair for the dramatic.
“Those are pretty serious accusations,” Bree had said carefully. “You think your cousins are capable of something like that? What would their motive be?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never even met them. I don’t think Troy had, either, before they showed up.” She sighed. “Probably I sound hysterical. But I’m so frightened. Before Grace died, I never worried about Troy. But he turned so spacy.” She sighed. “If I could take care of this myself, I would.”
If the plea for help had come from anybody else, Bree wouldn’t be here now. But five years ago, when her mother had needed a kidney transplant, Helen had loaned her the money for the operation. They’d worked out a payment plan, but when Bree had sent the first check, Helen had refused to accept it. Mom had lived three more years after that. And Bree knew that Helen had given her those years. Which was why Bree had gone off to Northern California, without giving anybody at the Light Street Detective Agency a chance to point out all the flaws in her plan.
The impending storm had darkened the sky so that it might as well have been midnight. As she rounded a curve in the drive, lightning illuminated the outline of what looked like a stone fortress. It was almost as though some supernatural force was directing her attention to the house.
Helen had described it as a cross between a medieval castle and a Disney fantasy, built by a great-grandfather, Cecil London, who had made his money in some undisclosed business. Designed as a grand statement of his wealth, it had always given Helen the creeps. But Troy had been charmed by the place. When the estate had been passed to them, Troy had enthusiastically moved in with his wife, Grace, and together they’d started the monumental job of remodeling.
Then Grace had died and Troy had lost interest in life. Well, not everything in life, Helen had said. He’d still been devoted to his six-year-old daughter.
Mist swirled over the road, adding to the sense that Bree was driving into a scene from a horror movie. The old house rose out of the fog, a man-made chunk of rock dominating the darkening skyline.
The long lane was hemmed in by overgrown shrubbery. As she reached the circular drive, the rain finally broke, a burst like machine gun bullets hitting the car roof.
Pulling forward, she was relieved to discover that she could find shelter under a large covered porch. After releasing the trunk latch, she stepped out onto paving bricks, hearing the rain drumming on the roof and feeling a blast of cold air whipping at her hair.
Resolutely, she tried to keep her gaze within the lighted area under the porch, but the foliage swaying in the wind teased the edges of her vision and prickled the hairs on the back of her neck.
“You’re spooked by this place, and you’re not even inside yet,” she muttered, just to hear the sound of her own voice.
Walking to the trunk, she leaned in to retrieve the suitcase. As she pulled it out, she felt a large, warm hand press down on her shoulder.
The touch was so totally unexpected that she screamed. When she whirled to confront the jerk who had snuck up in back of her, there was nobody in sight.
Blinking, she stared into empty space. She was sure she wasn’t mistaken. Somebody had cupped his hand possessively over her shoulder. A man, judging by the weight and size of the touch. Then, before she could turn around, he’d disappeared into the swaying shrubbery. And she was left with the faint scent of spicy aftershave dissipating on the wind.
The shiver that had started at the back of her neck worked its way down her spine as she tried to probe the darkness beyond the lighted entrance.
For several moments she stood beside the open trunk, taking shallow, even breaths, wondering if her imagination was running away with her and thinking she should pull out the jack handle to use as a weapon.
Finally she picked up her suitcase, slammed the trunk shut and marched toward the massive stone facade of the building. She had lifted her hand to knock on the wide wooden door when it suddenly opened, throwing her off balance.
The doorway was broad, and her hand missed the jamb as she made a frantic grab to steady herself. Despite her best efforts to stop her forward motion, she stumbled several paces across a marble floor into a rectangular reception area.
The ploy had been deliberate and nasty, to make her land on her face. But she kept her footing, set down her suitcase with a thunk and straightened. As she lifted her head she found herself facing a tall, thin woman wearing black slacks and a black blouse. She was standing with her arms folded tightly in front of her.
She appeared to be in her mid-forties, with short brown hair threaded with gray strands. Her face was long and angular, and her dark eyes focused on Bree as though she were studying an insect that had crawled under the door.
“Mrs. Martindale told me you were on your way up here, of all things! What took you so long getting from the gate to the house?”
“In this weather I was driving cautiously,” Bree responded. Then she asked, “Are you Mrs. Sterling?”
“Yes. Did you see anything strange?”
Bree waited a beat then asked, “What do you mean, exactly?”
Mrs. Sterling shrugged. “I simply want your impressions.”
“Well, the drive is kind of spooky in the dark, with the fog rolling in.”
The woman gave a curt nod, her lips pressed together, her eyes unnerving as they remained pinned on her unexpected guest.
Trying to ignore the unpleasant sensation, Bree deliberately changed the focus of her gaze, looking around at the antique furniture, then craned her neck upward so she could take in the crystal chandelier.
“Oh, it’s so good to get inside. This place is so lovely,” she gushed, drawling out the syllables like Scarlett O’Hara on her best behavior.
“Before you make yourself at home, let me see that fax from Helen London,” Mrs. Sterling snapped, still not bothering with polite pleasantries such as, “Hello. How are you?”
Pretending not to notice the rudeness, Bree bent, hiding her face as she opened her purse and produced the paper. She was badly off balance, but she was determined not to let it show.
Her unwilling hostess took the fax to an elaborately carved side table and thrust the paper under the light cast by a small Tiffany lamp.
After reading through the authorization she demanded, “And your ID. I’d like to make sure you’re who you say you are.”
Bree’s heart was still thumping