Читать книгу Blackmailed Bride - Sylvie Kurtz - Страница 11

A paper-thin moon hung in the ink-blue sky, mutating grotesque shadows behind the three crosses in the courtyard of the Ste-Croix monastery in rural New Hampshire. But Alana Chandler Shades didn’t care. The creepy place with its eerie shadows and haunting chantlike winds had ceased to frighten her a long time ago.

Now, it merely bored her.

At thirty, she’d wasted almost half her life in this godforsaken place. As she hurried over the courtyard’s cobblestones, she smiled, ignoring the ominous whispers of fall leaves from the nearby woods. Soon she’d be free. She threw her head back and laughed, defying the morbid sounds of night. She’d waited a long time for this freedom—a freedom she’d earned with her filial duty; a freedom which would now be greatly enhanced by her coming inheritance. She’d have plenty of time to make up for all the deprivation she’d endured over the last thirteen years.

As she opened the garage door, it creaked. For now, she’d settle for the simple pleasures of the flesh. Her latest conquest was strong and virile, and Alana licked her lips in anticipation of the feral passion they’d share. She hopped into her red Miata and roared into the bleak night.

Too bad that husband of hers had found the papers and ruined his Christmas surprise. He’d been amiable enough about the whole situation, with her conditions. But with him, who knew?

Their love had died a long time ago, hadn’t it? Had they ever truly been in love? She’d been too young. Her dreams hadn’t had a chance to gel yet. She’d realized too late the price she’d paid for her father’s approval. And he’d made sure with his manipulations of her trust fund that she couldn’t undo the damage until too late. All this sacrifice and for what? A miracle cure that would never happen; a marriage that was doomed to fail before it began.

And the differences in their backgrounds, the five-year difference in their ages so exciting at first, had soon grown into rifts, then chasms. The fool, he’d turned such a brilliant future into nothing with his misguided vision and his righteous anger. An anger that had grown over the years, and sometimes managed to frighten even her.

But not tonight. Tonight was her weekly escape from tyranny, and she was determined to make the most of it. The car rattled over the loose boards of the old covered bridge, echoing like thunder into the oppressive night. Alana hid the Miata in the thicket of pines and slipped into the small one-room cottage.

She sensed movement from the bed. “You’re here already. Why didn’t you light the lamp?”

She lit the hurricane lamp, blew out the match and turned to her new friend. A black-robed monk stepped forward from the shadows, his face hidden by his cowled hood, his hands buried in opposite sleeves. She smiled when she saw the way the robe strained over broad shoulders, the way the thick cord at his waist defined his trim hips.

“Ah, so you like to play little games, do you?” Alana laughed. She unbuttoned her coat and flung it on the bed. She started toward him, shedding her scarf, then her sweater. “Shall I play your sacrificial virgin?”

The monk’s hood fell back. Malevolence burned in his eyes. Laughter froze in her throat. Her fingers went rigid against the zipper of her tailored pants. His hands came into the light. A rope snapped between them. Fear paralyzed her limbs, her voice, her breath.

The rush of adrenaline came too late.