Читать книгу No Holding Back - Isabel Sharpe, Isabel Sharpe - Страница 7

HANNAH PRESSED HER FOOT gingerly on the accelerator, peering through the windshield into a curtain of sleet, bouncing tzap-tzap off the glass and tinkling on the roof of her beloved bright red Mazda, which she’d named Matilda. Hannah considered herself a very persistent investigator, but even she was questioning how smart it was to be out here so late in this mess with no one around. Pennsylvania’s gentle rolling countryside surrounded her car. Despite the beauty of the fields, forests and sloping hills, she did not want to slide off the road and end up spending the night in any of them.

Amazingly, Dee-Dee’s directions had held up so far, which fueled her determination to keep going. Hannah had found “the stone thing” and she even recognized the “amazing tree.” The woman might not radiate brainpower, but, whether or not Hannah found the Jack Brattle pot of gold at the end of this rainbow, Dee-Dee obviously had a sharp eye and a killer memory. All Hannah had to do now was turn down a driveway where the gates were “kind of creepy and jail-like.” Not to mention, “not very visible from the road unless you were looking.”

She was looking; she just wasn’t seeing.

The sleet fell harder. A driveway crept by; Hannah peered toward it. No gates.

“Come on, Jack’s house.” At this point, she just wanted to see the damn thing, mark the address so her BlackBerry could find it again, and come back when the weather wasn’t intent on killing her. Of course hindsight was now sitting on her shoulder whispering that she would have done a lot better to come back later in the first place.

Next driveway. No gates. Phooey. Properties weren’t exactly close together out here in Billionaireland. Everyone needed his own private stable, pool, tennis court, golf course…all the basic necessities of survival.

Her BlackBerry rang. She dragged it from her bag, which she’d flung onto the passenger’s seat, and glanced at the screen. Dad, calling to wish her Happy New Year. If she didn’t answer, he’d worry. She eased Matilda over to the side of the road and turned on her flashers.

“Happy New Year, Dad.”

“Happy New Year to you, sweetheart.” His rough slow voice crackled over the tenuous connection. “Why don’t I hear party noise, you didn’t go? Or do fancy parties not make noise?”

“I left after midnight. Wanted to get home before the weather turned bad.”

“Is it bad now? I haven’t looked outside in a while.”

“Uuh, no. Not bad yet.” The tinkles of ice crystals on her roof turned to sharp taps. In the white beam of her headlights pea-sized balls bounced and rolled on the asphalt. Hail to the chief. “The roads are fine.”

“Okay. But call me when you get home. The storm is supposed to come on fierce.”

Tell me about it. “I’m…seconds away, Dad. In fact, turning on my street now. How’s Mom?”

“Better, still better. Always better, thank God. I don’t know what we would have done without Susie.”

“She’s a blessing, for sure.”

“Mom even fed herself part of her dinner tonight. I made lasagna.”

“Good for her! Her favorite. That’s wonderful.” She smiled, ashamed of herself for not being grateful enough as the clock ticked toward midnight for the few good events of the past year. Dad’s latest employer, The Broadway Symphony, on the brink of collapse, had been saved by a generous donor who wiped out the orchestra’s debt and allowed her father to keep the first job he’d ever held down this long—going on five years now. And Susie, a nursing angel of mercy, had showed up at their door, highly recommended by Mom’s doctor, offering to help out with Mom’s rehabilitation right there in their home for practically slave wages, saying she needed the experience.

Before those miracles, Hannah had gone through agonizing feelings of helplessness with her own bank account in no shape to help. Prey to addiction and poverty, her parents hadn’t done much to give her a secure childhood, but especially now that they’d climbed out of the pit, she wanted them to have a secure retirement. “Tell Mom I love her and that I know this year will have her back to her old self. I’ll call tomorrow.”

“I’ll tell her. I hope it’s a good year for you, too, Hannah-Banana.” He coughed to clear his throat—a legacy of lifelong smoking. “Maybe a nice young man will come along.”

“Maybe.” She rolled her eyes. Yeah, maybe. Maybe he’d even stick around longer than a few weeks or a month. And maybe cancer would start curing itself and global warming spontaneously reverse.

“You take care of yourself. Drive safely.”

“I will. Love you, Dad.” She ended the call with another pang of guilt as the sleet continued to bombard Matilda, collecting on the roads at an alarming rate. This was crazy. If anything happened to her, what would it do to her poor father who’d already had his relatively new sobriety and stability threatened with her way-too-young mom’s shocking stroke and his livelihood nearly yanked out from under him?

Hannah was being selfish. She should turn around now and crawl home, give up this crazy quest until the weather was better.

Except she’d already come this far…And it was Jack Brattle. What if someone else in the business had overheard Dee-Dee? What if Hannah lost this huge long shot at a scoop? What if? What if? What if?

She put Matilda in gear and moved slowly forward, wheels crunching ice. A flash of lightning made her jump and hold on to a wince while waiting for the expected thunder. Thun-dersnow. Whee. This only added to the fun.

Next driveway…No gates.

The wind started whipping in earnest, sending Matilda into a shimmy. Hannah narrowly avoided a largish branch on the road. Snow mixed with the sleet to reduce visibility further.

Oh goody.

Next driveway. She had to turn in and focus her headlights to see…

Gates! Creepy dark jail-like ones! Eureka. She’d found it. Or found something.

Out came her trusty BlackBerry. She called up the GPS system and noted her location. Bingo. Adrenaline rushed out to party. She had Jack Brattle’s address. 523 Hilltop Lane, West Chester, Pennsylvania.

Tomorrow she’d come back to—

More lightning. Close. A mere beat later thunder cracked the sky over her car. Wind gusted.

Hannah went rigid in her seat. The gate had opened a crack, then swung back. She swore it had. Matilda inched forward, Hannah peering through the torrential snow-sleet.

There. There it went again. Unlocked? It certainly looked that way. And, according to Dee-Dee, who seemed to be on the up-and-up since her directions had panned out so far, Jack Brattle wasn’t in residence. Hmm…

Wait, what was she thinking? He must have a full staff living on the estate and security up the wazoo. If she even crossed the property line she’d probably be surrounded by guard dogs and torn to shreds.

But maybe before they quite devoured her, she could get a glimpse of the house. After all, by now she had the perfect excuse. A lone disoriented traveler, lost on her way back from a party and…Help! Where was she? Could she depend on the kindness of strangers until the worst of the storm passed?

And by the way, while she waited, could she whip out her BlackBerry, take pictures of every room in the house and interview everyone old enough to speak?

They’d go for it. Sure they would.

Now. The gates. She fumbled under her seat for the umbrella she kept in the car. Of course it wasn’t there. Where had she lost this one? Who knew?

No umbrella. And since she’d been to a party she was wearing her couple-times-a-year wool coat and not her everyday water-resistant parka with hood. Not to mention open-toed heels instead of warm fleece-lined boots.

Oof.

But okay, for Jack Brattle…

She dashed out of the car, whistling “This Could Be the Start of Something Big,” one arm up to keep from being pelted, which accomplished pretty much nothing. But oh joy, it was worth every thwacking and stinging and drenching moment because, hot damn, the gate was really and truly unlocked!

Not only that, the hinges were beautifully oiled, so the huge structure moved soundlessly and easily with one good shove. Was breaking and entering meant to be or what?

Back in the car, giggling with cold and nervous excitement and residual champagne, she applied her wet foot to Matilda’s accelerator and then…

She, reporter Hannah O’Reilly, gained admittance to what she was starting to dare believe was Jack Brattle’s estate, and got thwacked, stung and drenched pushing the gate nearly closed behind her.

Woohoo!

The long driveway curved through a wooded area thick with tall evergreens that blocked out the worst of the assault. A good thing because otherwise, given the current visibility, she could easily have ended up bumper to bark at some point.

Two or three tensely expectant minutes later—no attack dogs yet—the trees gave way to a large grassy lawn already frosted white. Matilda slid gracefully sideways on the last turn; Hannah reduced her speed, heart thumping even harder than it had been. She definitely did not want to get stuck here.

Another gust of wind rocked the car and sent snow flying nearly horizontal. Hannah pined briefly for her cozy—the politically correct term for tiny—apartment, for sitting safely in bed with her warming blanket heating the sheets, a good book in her hand, a hot mug of tea on her nightstand.

But then…no Jack Brattle scoop. After years of an unsatisfying career fund-raising while writing too-often rejected magazine articles and pieces for her neighborhood paper on the side, she’d managed to land a job in journalism, which she’d wanted since she was a kid and had written and produced her own paper: Hannah’s Daily News, circulation, approximately four, including herself; number of issues: twenty. She still had them somewhere.

Another flash of lightning, a clap of thunder. The sleet rattled her roof in earnest now—could it really hail during a snowstorm?

She guided Matilda around the circular driveway, came to a stop opposite the grand front steps, complete with stone Grecian urns. Snow obscured the view, but it wasn’t hard to tell the house was a colossal Colonial.

This wasn’t how the other half lived, this was how the other millionth lived.

So…

Car in Park, she sat for a minute before switching off the engine. She really didn’t want to drive all the way back to Philly in this mess. The roads were dangerous and the trip could take hours. Options were either to wait out the storm right here in Matilda…she had plenty of gas to run the heater periodically…or see if anyone was home. No lamps glowed in any windows, at least not in the front of the house, at least as far as she could see. The light shining over the entrance could be on a timer.

Nothing ventured…

She pulled the handle and nearly had her arm torn off as a gust of wind wrenched Matilda’s door wide open. Her excitement gave way to jitters. This storm took itself quite seriously. Now she hoped someone was home, not only for the sake of her immortality-guaranteeing article, but to make sure she survived this.

Up the steps, she nearly slipped twice, squinting through the sting of ice, finally reaching the front door. Holding her breath, she rang the bell, then crossed her fingers for good measure and crossed her arms over her chest, strands of her ruined upsweep whipping her cheek, earrings turning into tiny daggers repeatedly flung at her neck. Another gust rocked her back on her probably ruined heels. Hannah made a grab at the house’s front-door handle and miraculously stayed upright.

This was not that much fun. At least not yet.

Another poke at the bell, another shivery icy minute or so waiting, though by now she knew it was ludicrous. On New Year’s Eve with the master abroad any remaining staff would have the night off, and if there were some type of butler or housekeeper on duty, he-she would have answered by now.

She stepped away and craned up at the facade to see if any lights had gone on in response to her ring. Though housekeeper-butler rooms would be in the back, wouldn’t they? She wasn’t that up on her mansion architecture.

A horrifically bright flash of lightning, a massive crack of thunder, a truly terrifying assault of wind. Hannah yelled and leapt toward the door, pressing herself against it for the tiny bit of shelter theoretically offered by the ledge above.

Then the odd impression of something dark swooping through the air in her peripheral vision, and the open-mouthed disbelief as the limb of a tree—large enough to be a tree itself—landed on her car.

Crash.

Hannah stared. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Oh, Matilda.

Her roof and hood were crumpled down to the seats, the windshield smashed. If Hannah had still been inside, she could be dead now.

Dear God. Delayed shock hit, funny breathing and all-over-body shaking that wasn’t only from the cold this time. This was really, really not good. Really. When was she going to learn to curb her impulsive behavior? She knew this storm was coming. Jack Brattle’s estate was not going to disappear overnight. Her parents and friends would say it again. How many times do we have to tell you, look before you leap? Think before you act.

Think, period.

Okay, okay. Staying calm. She had other more important things to worry about. Like not freezing to death.

Down the treacherous steps again, she tugged at poor sweet Matilda’s door. It didn’t budge. Slipping and sliding her way around to the other side, she pushed her arm through cold scratching branches to yank on the other door, even knowing the frame was too crunched to be able to open.

Oh Cheez Whiz. Her evening bag containing her Black-Berry was still in that car. Her GPS system would broadcast her location, but not until someone realized she was missing and tried to find her. Why had she told Dad she was already home safely?

Because he had enough to worry about.

She staggered back up the steps, huddled against the house’s cold uncaring door again. Not for the first time she envied her mother and father their renewed commitment to each other after they got their lives back on track, their mutual caring and support. If she had someone now, the kind of man she dreamed about finding, he’d stop at nothing to bring her home safely.

Or he would have stopped her being such an idiot coming here tonight in the first place, and she’d be home safely in bed with him now, ringing in the New Year in one of her very favorite ways.

Tears came to her eyes and she blinked them away in disgust. Okay, game plan. She was responsible for herself and had been as far back as she could remember. Maybe there was a service entrance? Maybe someone in the house would hear her ring or knock from there? Maybe there was a cottage behind the house she could break into, or maybe her amazing luck would hold and there’d be a garage with the door left coincidentally open…

Oh dear.

Another flash of lightning. Hannah turned away from it, burying her face in her hands, shoulders hunched, waiting for the smash of thunder.

Boom. More wind. Sleet pelting her back.

“Stop.” She grabbed the door handle and twisted desperately, knowing it would be locked and the gesture was completely—

The handle turned.

The door swung open.

She tumbled in, gasping with surprise, then relief, slammed the door behind her, closing out the terrible storm.

Did that really just happen?

Who the hell went abroad and left his front door open? More than that, what house of this size and value didn’t have a dead bolt and a security system? She waited with held breath for the ear-splitting shriek of an alarm. Whoop-whoop, intruder alert.

Nothing.

Maybe he had a system that only sounded at the police station. One could only hope. Rescue would be welcome if the cops took long enough so she had plenty of time to look around. Because it was slowly dawning on her, now she’d escaped the possibility of hypothermia, that she could very well be in Jack Brattle’s house.

Of course it was possible the door was open because someone had already broken in. Maybe some terribly dangerous criminal was right now prowling the floors above her.

She listened, listened some more, kept listening…and heard nothing, besides the distant hum of the heating system. Really, what kind of idiot would be out on a night like this?

Ha ha ha.

Maybe someone was asleep upstairs? Maybe he or she forgot to lock the gate and the front door after a particularly fun party?

“Hello?” She wandered closer to the staircase, barely visible from the light coming in through the front windows. “Hello?”

Nothing. She climbed halfway up, peering into the darkness of the second floor, and prepared to shout as loudly as she could. “Anyone home?”

Still nothing.

Most likely careless—or tipsy—staff or service people were responsible for the unlocked entrances. Maybe they’d intended to come right back and the storm had held them up or held them off. Whoever they were, she owed them a huge juicy kiss for inadvertently offering her shelter. Bless their irresponsibility. She was not only going to survive the night, she was going to survive the night inside Jack Brattle’s house—because she just had to say that again. Inside Jack Brattle’s house.

That was assuming Dee-Dee was telling the truth, which Hannah would, because why would she go to all that trouble to send Hannah anywhere else?

Of course Mr. Brattle would have a phone so she could call for help right away, but…she didn’t need it right away. Later would be fine. Far be it from her to make someone risk his or her life coming to rescue her now in this terrible weather. Right? Right.

Oh, this was a night for her memoirs. First, she needed out of these wet shoes and to hang her coat somewhere waterproof so drips from melting ice bits wouldn’t stain the hardwood.

She fumbled at the wall near the door and struck pay dirt with a light switch that threw a soft chandelier-glow over the breathtaking entranceway. Hannah let her eyes feast in a slow circle around her. Parquet flooring, and thick vivid Oriental rugs that she lost no time in exploring with frozen toes after she kicked off her shoes and stripped off her sodden stockings. Mmm, bliss.

The house was warm—deliciously warm—so obviously whoever left was planning to come back soon. At least when he or she did, the storm, the open gates, open door and Hannah’s devastatingly destroyed car provided the ideal justifiable excuse for her presence.

This could not possibly have been more perfect. Maybe being impulsive hadn’t been so bad for once. Matilda—God rest her engine—would not have given her life in vain.

A promising set of louvered doors slid open to reveal, just as she’d hoped, a vast closet with an array of expensive coats—men’s coats—in conservative shades of brown, black, gray and tan, suitable for the average heir. She brushed her hand over the textures—wool, cashmere, leather—sniffed the lingering hint of their owner’s very nice cologne, then pushed past the wooden hangers for a metal one her damp coat wouldn’t ruin. Down the hall to her left she discovered a first-floor bathroom in whose shower she hung her dripping woolen mess.

And now…to explore. Jack Brattle’s house.

Kitchen first, glimpsed as she’d passed in search of the bathroom. Ooh la la. State of the art, but not detracting from the nineteenth-century feel of the entranceway. She skimmed her fingers over the built-in paneled refrigerator. Wouldn’t she love to microwave a hot dog in a room like this? She bet it had never seen one.

Out of the kitchen, exploring room after room, not unlike Gerard Banks’s house—and hey, how often did she score a two-mansion day?—but here there were no leopard statues, no large-screen TVs or—dare she say—gaudy furniture. Jack Brattle was all dark wood, leather, brick fireplaces, rich subdued colors in rugs, books, cushions. True old-money class.

She had to admit, in spite of her aversion to opulence, the house was incredible. The kind of place that brought to mind every fabulous manor she’d imagined while reading, from The Secret Garden to Jane Eyre. And yet, a home she could imagine someone actually lived in, not redecorated every season to show off to visitors and lifestyle magazines.

Up the curving staircase to a landing with a comfortable-looking burgundy couch and gold patterned chair, another shelf of books and a window seat beside it. Down the hallway lined with portraits and landscapes, passing at least four bedrooms, a workout room, a study, another bedroom, apparently unoccupied like the others, and then, what she suspected was the master bedroom suite. Was this where Jack Brattle slept?

The glimmer of light under the door registered at the same time she pushed it open…

And came face-to-face with the wettest, handsomest naked man she’d ever been startled out of her wits to meet.