Читать книгу Darkwood Manor - Jenna Ryan - Страница 12

If he’d intended to shock her—and he probably had—the attempt fell flat. Her eyes danced as she curled a finger around the front of his shirt. “Second reminder, pal. Someday I’ll tell you about my ancestor Connell Ross who went on a bloody post-death rampage after his land was gutted by an enemy army that, like every army in the dark days of Ireland’s history, decided to make what was his, theirs. Long story short, anyone who tries to build on Connell’s land is doomed to failure. We all have our skeletons, Donovan. Some are just more recently formed than others.”

Haden was no help. The smug “Told you so” that wafted out of the kitchen made Isabella laugh and Donovan want to say to hell with both of them and return to his life in New York.

He liked living on the edge; he’d lived there for most of his thirty-six years. The way he saw it, if he didn’t explore the dark side of his nature, he’d never know how deep his ancestral tendencies ran. Or so the childhood theory went.

He was spared the necessity of a reply when his uncle marched in with two heaping platters of food and a bottle of wine.

As it turned out, the meat was only slightly charred. A Cordon Bleu chef, Haden set a table bountiful enough to feed half the population of Mystic Harbor. To her credit, recognizable or not, Isabella sampled every dish, and only seemed mildly puzzled by the meat.

“This isn’t rabbit, is it?”

Busy chewing, Haden shook his head, motioned for her to eat and nudged the arugula-and-anchovy salad closer to her plate.

The lights above them flickered. The big man swallowed, stood. “Leave room for dessert,” he warned and clomped out to check the fuse box.

Spearing a piece of meat, Isabella lifted it for a closer inspection. “Why do I think this never had feathers?”

Donovan kept his expression neutral. “It’s squirrel.”

Her eyes came up. “Squirrel,” she repeated. Her fork went down. “As in Rocky the Flying?”

“Or a close relative.” Resting his forearms on the table, he snagged a bottle. “More wine?”

“I fed peanuts to park squirrels when I was growing up.”

“If you can eat Thumper and Chicken Little, Isabella, why a problem with Rocky?”

Still staring, she moved her glass forward. “I was being polite. I prefer not to eat any of them. I’ll be a little more rude next time.” Ignoring the lights that surged and faded overhead, she slid her gaze to his face. “Insanity isn’t an inherited trait, you know.”

He swirled his wine, swallowed a bitter mouthful. “Do you want to tell my mother that, or leave it to the doctors who are treating her?”

“For what?”

“Paranoia mostly, with a little ADHD thrown in on the side. And then there was my grandmother who, depending on which day of the week it happened to be, saw herself as Eleanor Roosevelt, Mary Pickford and, toward the end of her life, Anna McNeill Whistler.”

“Your grandmother thought she was Whistler’s mother?”

“Until the day she died. She wanted to be buried in North Carolina, where Anna was born. During a rare moment of lucidity, my mother denied the request and had her remains interred in the family crypt.”

Isabella set her chin on a fisted hand. “You’re going to tell me I own the crypt, aren’t you?”

“Inasmuch as anyone can own such a thing.”

“What about this place? I heard it was the coach house for the manor.”

“It was, but you don’t own it. The cottage sits in the middle of the only acre of land the Darks held on to when the manor was sold early in the twentieth century. The buyer was a shipbuilder from Portland. Your ex bought it, sans acre, from the last of the builder’s descendants.”

“Well, I’m fascinated.” She pushed her plate away as the lights winked off and on. “Does this disco ball effect happen a lot?”

Donovan took another sip. “Haden rewired the place last year. Answer’s yes.” When she continued her speculative regard, he let his lips curve, considered the wine in his glass. “Something else?”

“I’m not sure.” Leaning in on her forearms, she twirled a strand of his hair around her finger. “You’re a strange sort of cop, Donovan Black. And don’t say it runs in the family.”

He let her touch, made a point of not lowering his gaze to the vee of her dark red sweater. “It doesn’t,” he answered. “I’m an aberration in that regard.”

“In lots of regards, I imagine.”

“With one exception.”

She gave his hair a tug. “Nice try, Black, but my uncle’s a Park Avenue shrink. Insanity doesn’t walk, run or gallop in families.”

“A shrink, huh?” Even knowing he shouldn’t, Donovan found himself wanting to sample her mouth. One brief taste to satisfy the hunger in his belly. Then he’d remove himself from the moment and from temptation. From Mystic Harbor as well, if he was smart—which he could be or not, depending on the situation.

The lights dimmed again. He heard Haden swearing on the back porch, but his eyes remained on Isabella. On her soft, striking features, her long, rain-curled hair and her bluer-than-blue eyes.

He wasn’t sure who actually moved, but he figured it was probably fifty-fifty. However it happened, his mouth was suddenly on hers, not to taste now, but to dive in and explore.

Catching her jaw between his thumb and fingers, he angled her head to deepen the kiss. She made a sound of approval in her throat, tangled her own fingers in his hair and pulled him closer.

At their first meeting, she’d shoved him away. He should have left it at that. Left her to face whatever demons lurked inside Darkwood Manor alone. Instead, his tongue was on a voyage of discovery in her mouth, fencing with hers, then sliding past it, until the pulse hammering in his head threatened to strip away decades of control.

When the lights above them sparked, a red warning flashed in his brain. If it looked and felt dangerous, it probably was. Even as he tested the limits of his restraint, Donovan knew he should end this now, walk away and not look back.

He wasn’t sure if he could have done it or not. The next time the lights zapped off, they stayed that way, plunging the cottage into full, silent darkness. He let her bite his bottom lip, was thinking about trailing his mouth along the side of her neck when they heard it—a long, keening wail that echoed through the fog and shadow outside.

It started on the periphery of his mind and built, from a thread of sound to a shriek that had Isabella’s fingernails sinking into his shoulders.

“My God, what is that?”

He couldn’t see her clearly, but knew she was staring at the front window.

His eyes slid in the same direction. “Some people say a pack of wolves wandered down from Quebec. A few think it’s a wild dog.”

She didn’t pull back, and his hand still formed a light V around her throat. “Some,” she repeated. As the wail came again, he felt a shiver ripple through her. “What do the rest of the people believe?”

“What you’d expect.” He kept his tone calm. “That Aaron Dark’s spirit has come to reclaim his house. And if he can’t get it using fear, he’ll resort to what he knows best. Death.”

“YOU KNOW I DON’T BUY any of that, don’t you?”

They were the first words out of Isabella’s mouth when Donovan halted his black Tundra behind her on the narrow roadway.

She’d been pacing in front of the Hang Ten Lodge, the only other off-season accommodations Mystic Harbor had to offer, waiting for him to join her and going over his remarks about Aaron Dark’s afterlife agenda.

She didn’t think he really believed in ghosts. In the possibility of genetic insanity, yes, but not in encounters with otherworldly beings.

He was trying to frighten her again, and she didn’t appreciate the repeat performance one bit. Especially when her head continued to spin from a kiss like—well, like nothing she’d ever experienced before. Her lips were still tingling, and sorting through her jumbled thoughts had only become possible in the last five minutes.

Back at his place, Haden’s announcement that the power outage extended beyond the walls of his cottage had barely registered.

“You must be tuckered out,” he’d remarked with a sympathetic tut. “Put that sound you heard out of your mind. It’s a story for later. For tonight, you go to my friend George’s lodge. State it’s in, the manor’s not fit for flesh-and-blood humans. Last owner slept on a horsehair sofa so lumpy it makes my yard look like a putting green. We’ll talk tomorrow about the goings-on up there. Meantime, I’ll call ahead, tell George you’re on your way.”

Horsehair sofas, mad ghosts and one incredible kiss. If Katie had been a weak-minded person, Isabella might have believed she’d run. But they weren’t merely cousins, they were best friends and had been since before she could remember. Katie had not left Darkwood Manor voluntarily.

Isabella kept pacing while Donovan leaned against the hood of his truck and watched.

“Ghosts, whether real or imagined, don’t whisk people and their vehicles away,” she maintained in passing. Cell phone in hand, she tried her cousin’s number again, with the same result as before.

A frustrated sound escaped. Letting her head fall back, she surveyed the misty night sky. “I’m going to wake up soon and discover this is nothing but a nightmare. I figure there’s a sixty-forty chance that no part of it’s real.” Bringing her head up, she regarded the rustic lodge to her left. “Why are there lights inside?”

“Generator’s running. They have limited power.” Locking his eyes on hers, Donovan pushed off from the hood, moved toward her with deliberation. “I wasn’t trying to scare you back at Haden’s place, Isabella. It was a reaction, a verbal shove. Not a fair one, but that’s how self-defense mechanisms work. Anything to keep a threat at bay.”

For the first time since she’d left the cottage, humor sparked. “In other words, kissing me unnerved you.”

“You could say that.” His gaze didn’t waver as he approached. “But a more accurate assessment would be to say it scared the crap out of me.”

“I’m flattered, Black.”

“Don’t be.”

A chuckle emerged from the shadowed front porch. “Trust him, he means it,” a husky female voice drawled. “Hey-ya, Donovan. What brings you to our sequestered neck of the woods?”

Donovan’s gaze remained on Isabella. “Thought you were moving to the Cape, Darlene.”

“So did I. Best-laid plans’ll screw you every time. Who’s the blonde?”

Dragging her eyes from Donovan’s, Isabella smiled. “Isabella Ross.”

“The new owner of Darkwood Manor,” Donovan supplemented.

A tall, thin woman came into the misty half-light. She had an unlit cigarette between her black-tipped fingers and sharp, foxlike features that were neither friendly nor unfriendly. Platinum hair stood up like frosted candy canes, she wore a rock-band T beneath an oversized leather jacket and studded boots over superskinny jeans.

“Darlene Calvert.” She gestured at the building behind her. “My mother and Donovan’s are tenth or twelfth cousins. Means we’re related, but hey, life sucks on lots of levels. You looking for a room?”

Unsure what to make of her, Isabella offered a cautious “Maybe. Is this your lodge?”

Darlene snorted, struck a match, inhaled.

“It’s her mother’s,” Donovan said.

“Only a masochistic fool would want to rent rooms to the public.” She adopted a whiny tone. “The bed’s too hard, the food’s too cold, the bathroom’s too small. Goldilocks should have been so picky.” She lowered spiky lashes. “So, what’s your line, Isabella?”

“Apparently I’m a masochistic fool.”

“Hotel worker?”

“My family’s in the business.”

“Ross, huh?” A sly smile appeared. “As in the Corrigan-Ross Hotel Group? And now you’re eyeing Darkwood Manor as a destination for supernatural thrill seekers.” She blew a line of smoke. “Sweetie, if that’s your intention, you wanna scuttle it here and now.”

“Why would I do that, Darlene?”

The woman strolled closer, let her gaze travel in the direction of the distant manor. “Because I drove past your recent acquisition this afternoon. Saw a man at the gate.”

“What did he look like?” Isabella asked with care.

“Tall, thirtysomething, dark haired, might have had a ’stache. I stopped for a moment, because—well, because I was curious. I shouldn’t have, though. I could tell, not sure how, that he wanted me to keep moving.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“No, he just glared.”

“And then?”

“Then he started walking toward me. He came through the gate and headed straight for my car. That’s when I took off.”

With Katie missing, Isabella had no time for theatrics. “Did you feel threatened by him?”

“You could say that.” Blowing more smoke, Darlene sliced a hand in front of her. “I said he came through the gate. Thing is, the gate was closed at the time.”

“I’M SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE a ghost walked through a closed gate.” Isabella strode into the partially lit lodge ahead of Donovan. “The ghost glared, Darlene left and, after the shock wore off, went about her usual business.” She stalked back to him. “Is she on meds, or do I just look like someone who believes in the tooth fairy?”

Donovan turned her back around. “You own Darkwood Manor, Isabella. Ghost sightings come with the territory.” Setting his head next to hers, he nodded at a woman in jeans and a plaid shirt who was delivering a round of beer to a group of poker players at one of five tables strewn about the lobby. “That’s George.”

“Of course it is.” But Isabella worked up a pleasant expression when the woman wiped her hands and came to join them.

“Haden called, said you’d be wanting a room.” She pushed at a mop of salt-and-pepper hair, winked at Donovan. “Don’t let these noisy hooligans losing a month’s wages to each other put you off. They pay me for the space, so I let them pick each other’s pockets twice a week. Sorry about the bad light, but the generator’s old. I’ve got a room upstairs or a cabin if you’d prefer. Both come with lanterns. Cabin has a fireplace and a fridge.”

Isabella’s smile had a dangerous edge. “Does it have a ghost as well?”

The woman named George laughed. “Ran into Darlene outside, did you? Now, honey, you forget about her. My girl’s a frustrated journalist is all. Had a job lined up south of here, but lost out to the editor’s niece. She’s back working for our local Realtor and being pissy about it. The cabins are clean, private and ghost free. You can see Darkwood Manor up on the cliff from number three.”

Unable to sustain her irritation in the face of George’s friendly manner, Isabella relaxed. “Your lodge is lovely, and I know all about pissy moods. It’s been a long day.”

George squeezed her wrist. “Why don’t I let Donovan show you the way. If he remembers, that is. Our boy left us right after he graduated high school. Only comes back to visit Haden and me and old Gunnar Crookshank…when the damn fool’s not off recovering from a gunshot wound that wouldn’t have happened if a certain deputy—Orry Lucas—had better aim.”

Orry Lucas? Isabella’s head swung to the tables. And there he was, half-hidden behind a rough beam, out of the main pool of light, the man she’d spoken to in town.

“Evening, Ms. Ross, Donovan. Didn’t know you two were friends.”

Isabella’s lips tipped up. “I’d have mentioned it,” she lied, “but you were so anxious to get home and help your son with his algebra that I didn’t want to hold you up.”

Donovan chuckled. “Algebra, Orry?”

“I was riled. I meant homework.”

“Your kid’s in preschool. How much homework does he have?”

“Any amount’d be over Orry’s head,” a man with a cigar in his mouth chortled. “Truth be told, our deputy was probably worried his wife would bean him for talking to a pretty stranger. She’s a bit jealous, that one. I should know—she’s my niece.”

Isabella regarded Donovan, now perched on one of the empty tables. “Is everyone in this town related?”

“Mostly.” He raised his voice. “Isabella’s cousin’s still missing, Orry. You planning to do anything about that?”

“Adults are free to come and go as they please in these parts. I’ll look into it when the time’s right.”

Assuming he could tell time, Isabella thought, firing up.

Reading her body language, Donovan shook his head. “Let it go. He can make himself an object of ridicule without our help.”

George sniffed. “It’s no more than he deserves. Oh, here’s more beer coming. You think for a minute, honey. Let me know what you’d like.”

Isabella ground her teeth. “A real-life sheriff would be nice.” But she kept her voice low and her eyes on Donovan, who somehow managed to fit in yet be removed from his surroundings at the same time.

“Excuse me, Ms. Ross, Mr. Black.” A man with slippery black hair and a prominent widow’s peak approached them. He wore a white shirt, jeans and loafers, had long, narrow 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.