Darkwood Manor. Jenna Ryan
features and looked completely out of place in the New England lodge. “My name’s Robert Drake. Deputy Lucas tells me you’re in the hotel business, Ms. Ross. I built a number of town homes in Brunswick last year. I’m thinking of doing the same thing up here.”
“Did the deputy also happen to mention that the lady’s got herself some prime property?” Donovan asked in an easy tone.
“Property, yes. Prime’s open for debate.” Drake’s mouth smiled; his eyes didn’t. “I can’t say I’d be eager to get mixed up with a ghost, and I’m told you’ve got a nasty one.”
Isabella matched his smile. “I’ll let you know when I meet him.”
He raised his palms. “You’ve got more courage than I do. I’m not a fan of ghosts myself.”
Curious, she thought, since, with his black eyes and pale skin, he resembled one.
The cigar man stabbed a finger across the table. “I’m a fan of anyone human or vapor who’s got money in his pocket. Get your butt over here, Donovan, and take friggin’ Orry’s place, will ya? He antes up once, then folds.”
“Raise the stakes,” Donovan suggested.
Isabella glanced at his profile. She could see what Robert Drake probably couldn’t. The developer was being thoroughly assessed, from slicked-back hair to Gucci loafer.
In a practiced move, Drake produced a card from his shirt pocket. “On the off chance you decide to part with some of your land, here’s my name and number. Far from the haunted manor would be best, but that’s a personal aversion. As a businessman, I try to be open-minded.”
George returned to shoo him away. “The other players are waiting, and my new guest’s had a long day. Cabin or room, Isabella?”
“Cabin three,” Isabella decided. “I like a view.”
“In that case, key’s behind the desk, Donovan.” George rolled her eyes as the poker player with the cigar swore. “God’s sake, watch your mouth, Milt. I’m sure Isabella’s not looking to color up her vocabulary.”
“She won’t need me to help her with that if old Aaron’s on a tear,” the man countered. “My first mate swears he heard the screech of the damned while we were sitting a mile off the Point last month. I was below asleep, so he chugged over to check it out. Suddenly, a Corvette shot over the cliff, crashed and burned like hellfire. And so Darkwood Manor changed hands again. I don’t mean to scare you, lady, but my feeling is it’ll keep changing hands until it’s a Dark who owns it again.”
“Or someone with Dark blood,” Orry mumbled behind his cards. At Donovan’s look, he showed his teeth. “Just saying.”
George swatted Donovan’s arm. “Rescue the poor girl, for heaven’s sake.”
“Actually…” Isabella began, but George cut her off.
“You let Haden tell you what you need to know. Or Donovan if he’s in the mood.” She swatted him again. “He won’t be, but who could object to having a sexy-as-hell man evading her questions?”
Isabella thought this might be one of the most surreal evenings of her life. God knew her emotions were all over the place. She needed to collect her thoughts and regroup.
Donovan was removing the key to cabin three when her cell phone beeped. Digging it from her coat pocket, she glanced at the screen.
“What?” he asked when she stopped.
Her brow knit into a frown. “I just got a text message.” She looked up at him. “From Katie.”
Bella. Had to leave. Sorry. Emergency. Details ASAP. Katie.
ISABELLA ROLLED THE WORDS through her head during the walk to the cliff-side cabin. The more she rolled them, the more suspicious she became. When was the last time Katie had texted her? The word never sprang to mind.
“Katie’s not a texter,” she maintained. When Donovan didn’t slow down, she caught his arm. “Did you…?”
“I heard you, Isabella. You don’t believe she sent the message. Someone could have sent it for her.”
“Why?”
“You know your cousin better than I do.”
“Exactly. Which is why this makes no sense. If Katie did leave the manor without a word—highly unlikely—she’d have needed to drive somewhere. She could have contacted me anytime between Darkwood and her destination.”
“Not if she was talking to the person who called her.”
“You’re being obtuse.”
“I’m being a cop.”
“Is there a difference?” She dug in. “This feels wrong, Donovan.”
He regarded her for several seconds, then finally asked, “How many times have you tried to contact her since the message came through?”
“Four. She’s not answering.”
“Yeah, I got that part.” He gave the latch a whack, pushed the door open and let her precede him inside.
Even after they lit a lantern, the shadows remained deep enough to rival anything Isabella had encountered at Darkwood Manor. She took in what she could of the room—a sofa with cushions and throws, a tub chair, a writing desk, some kind of table, two braided rugs on a wood floor and three closed doors. To her surprise, most of the opposite wall was comprised of windows.
The current view was shrouded in fog; however, when the layers shifted she glimpsed Darkwood Manor, looming like an evil fortress on a ragged jut of cliff. Below, she heard the relentless pounding of the surf—the sound of which momentarily diverted her.
“Why the Hang Ten Lodge?” she asked over her shoulder. “Do people actually surf in these waters?”
“Not that I know of. Ten people were hung on the spot where the lodge was built.”
“Once again, it’s all about death. Any of those hanged ten stick around, or am I the only one who’s haunted?”
“Far as I know, you’re it.”
“I see. Details on that?”
His lips curved. “Haden’s the details guy.”
Resigned, she glanced through the bank of windows, turned, then halted and snapped her head around for a second look. “Someone’s out there.”
Donovan leaned over her shoulder. “Where?”
“On the cliff. Right…” She waited until the fog swirled apart. “There. At the edge of the cliff behind the manor.”
The fog closed in again, like a cloud across the moon. Isabella dipped lower. Several seconds later, the layers separated.
But while the rocks and trees remained, the figure she’d seen had vanished.
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