The Raven Master

As Janine poured a dollop of detergent into the loaded machine, she considered how she’d have enjoying living in that era. She even liked the fashions, flowing and feminine, with yards of shining fabric swirling over mounds of ruffled petticoats and…

Her hand hovered over the controls. Suddenly uneasy, she glanced toward the unlighted portion of the basement and had the eerie sense that she was being watched. Something didn’t feel quite right. Beyond the bright laundry area, the thickening darkness exuded an aura of charged danger, like the heavy air preceding a summer storm. Her scalp tingled. A fine mesh of gooseflesh tickled her arms.

As she moistened her lips, her nervous gaze landed on the light-switch at the base of the stairs. She flexed her fingers, eyes darting from the switch to the abysmal darkness.

A figure stepped from the shadows.

Gasping, Janine backed into the washer and froze until the silhouette emerged into sunlight. She exhaled all at once and relaxed slightly.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Quinn said quietly. His right arm was sharply angled behind him, half-hidden by the drape of a hip-length khaki vest that seemed an odd complement to faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt.

She waited until her heart had resumed a quasi-normal rhythm. “I didn’t realize there was anyone else here.”

Without responding, he tucked something behind his back, then emerged into the fully lit laundry area, crossed his sculpted arms, propped a slim hip against the clothes dryer and stared in a manner that she would have considered rude had she not been rendered momentarily senseless by his mesmerizing gaze. He had the pale eyes of a snow leopard, cunning and wise, glowing with predatory intent.

Suddenly feeling like a trapped hare, Janine rubbed her upper arms. “Why are you here? In the basement, I mean.”

A vague wariness clouded his eyes while he considered a response. Since Janine had already noted the enigmatic stranger’s tendency to weigh words carefully, the hesitation was expected.

“My van needs washing,” he said finally. “I was looking for a bucket.”

“There’s a stack of five-gallon buckets in the storage area across from the boiler. They’re difficult to find in the dark.” She took two steps and flipped the switch. A half-dozen fluorescents fluttered to life, illuminating the entire basement.

His expression remained impassive. “Thank you.”

Acknowledging him with a jerky nod, Janine was unduly irritated by a nagging feeling that she was the intruder.

That peculiar sensation wasn’t her only source of discomfort. In Quinn Coulliard’s presence, she felt a heightened sense of awareness, an exquisite sensitivity that bordered on pain, as though every nerve in her body was burrowing to the surface.

There was something about him, a renegade quality that was both unnerving and strangely compelling. The wild mane of espresso-colored hair, so tightly bound yet never quite controlled, seemed a silent metaphor for the man himself.

Averting her gaze, Janine turned on the washing machine and feigned interest in sorting the remaining laundry. “There’s liquid detergent in the overhead cupboard and a box of rags if you need them.” She slanted a glance over her shoulder. “I imagine your van gathered a pretty thick layer of road dust during that long trip from California.”

After a long moment, he responded, “Actually, I drove down from Washington.”

“Really?” She straightened, still clutching the hem of a rumpled sheet. “Since your van has a California license plate, I naturally assumed—”

“Assumptions are dangerous.” The softness with which he spoke belied the warning glint in his eye. Then he smiled, a vague tilt at the corner of his mouth that did little to warm his guarded gaze. “I once lived in California.”

“So did I.” Dropping the linens, Janine leaned against the agitating washer and regarded him curiously. “San Diego. And you?”

He stared into her eyes without blinking yet she perceived that his mind was working quickly, analyzing the ramifications of every conceivable response. Finally he slid his hand beneath his vest and hooked a thumb in the waist-band of his jeans. “I’ve spent time in that area.”

The man’s evasiveness was beginning to irritate her. If he was this secretive about something as mundane as mentioning where he was from, he’d probably endure torture rather than reveal the really important stuff, like whether he preferred his coffee black or with cream.

Normally Janine would have respected such an obvious desire for privacy, but for some unfathomable reason, his deliberate attempt to embellish an air of mystery just brought out the devil in her. “So, Mr. Coulliard, may I assume that you and I might once have been neighbors?”

This time he answered with barely a pause. “It’s possible.”

“San Diego is a beautiful city.”

“Yes.”

“Most people fall in love with the place and wouldn’t dream of living anywhere else.” She hesitated, hoping he’d elaborate. He didn’t. She posed a blunt question. “Why did you leave?”

A disturbing gleam warmed his eyes. “For the same reason you did.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. God, how could he know? Her breath backed up in her lungs as she fought to maintain her composure. She told herself that he was just fishing and prayed it was true. There was no way on earth this man could know a secret that had been too shameful to share with her own family.

Clasping her hands together, she faced him squarely. “I doubt we left for the same reason.”

To her surprise, his eyes warmed and he regarded her with something akin to respect. “Not specifically, perhaps, but in spirit.”

She exhaled slowly. “Forgive me, but deciphering ecumenical vagaries has never been my strong suit.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, as though he was faintly amused by her response. “Life is a journey, Miss Taylor, one each of us must travel, physically and spiritually. In that context, we’d be soul mates, wouldn’t we?”

Caught by his penetrating gaze, Janine heard a whispered voice that sounded very much like her own. “Yes, I suppose so.”

Peculiar waves of warmth washed over her, an odd floating sensation that settled like a fluttering bird to nest in her feminine core. In spite of a cultured manner, there was a primitive quality about this mysterious man that awakened an ancient part of her own soul. Like a magnificent warrior, Quinn Coulliard exuded an aura of strength and leashed savagery that was deeply disturbing—and incredibly erotic.

Confused and unnerved, she glanced away long enough to take a deep breath and clear her fuzzy mind. She managed a tight laugh. “Well, regardless of metaphysical consequences, it seems that Darby Ridge is a gathering point for displaced San Diegans. Marjorie Barker once mentioned that she’d owned some kind of business outside of Mission Bay.”

“And your other tenants, are they from Southern California?”

The underlying urgency of his question gave her pause. “I’m not certain.”

His smile wasn’t particularly pleasant. “So of all your guests, only I have been singled out for your intensive interrogation. Should I be concerned or flattered?”

Her face warmed. “It wasn’t my intent to interrogate you, Mr. Coulliard. I was simply making polite conversation.”

A victorious smile played on his lips. “So was I, Miss Taylor.”

Decidedly uncomfortable, Janine fidgeted with the detergent box. He was right, of course. She hadn’t grilled her other guests about their pasts. Quite frankly, she hadn’t been interested, and that realization opened an entirely new area of thought. Obviously she was interested in Quinn Coulliard yet was unsure as to exactly why. She’d have to think about that later.

At the moment, however, she offered a conciliatory smile. “Jules and Edna are originally from Massachusetts, but from what I understand, they most recently lived in Seattle. They’ve been in Darby Ridge a little over a year. As for Althea, she’s lived here longer than any of us.”

“Ah, yes, Ms. Miller. She’s quite an interesting woman.” He absently rubbed his index finger along his angled jawline. “Ms. Fabish and her grandson are also…rather unique.”

Janine straightened and said nothing.

Quinn pursed his lips thoughtfully. “All of your guests are so colorful, I can’t help wondering what has brought them to such a secluded place.”

She forced a nonchalant shrug. “I wouldn’t know. Maybe they’re soul mates, too.”

He regarded her for a moment, then posed a blunt question. “Don’t you find their peculiarities to be unsettling?”

Shifting nervously, she fingered a rusted scratch on the washing-machine lid, remembering the horrible things Jules had said about poor Marjorie and how his eyes had gleamed with perverse pleasure. “No one is perfect, Mr. Coulliard. We have to accept people as they are, not as we’d wish them to be.”

“But if such wishes could be granted, what changes would you make in the people living under your roof?” The moment the question slid from his lips, Quinn knew he’d pushed too hard.

Janine’s shoulders squared stubbornly. She suddenly grabbed the detergent box, shoving it in the overhead cabinet with unnecessary force. “I don’t care for hypothetical questions, Mr. Coulliard, and I make it a point not to discuss my guests’ personal lives.”

One look at the angry spark in those liquid amber eyes and Quinn knew that he had to act quickly or he’d lose the advantage. He took her hand, ignoring her startled expression as he expertly guided the conversation to a more intimate level. “I’m concerned about you, Janine.”

As her eyes widened, she touched her throat in a gesture that could have been interpreted as an expression of shock or vulnerability or both. She managed to stammer a single word. “Why?”

With slow strokes of his thumb, Quinn lightly caressed the back of her hand. “Surely you’ve noticed how Jules looks at you.” The fear in her eyes hit him like a body blow.

She withdrew her hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Surprised by a visceral reaction to her distress, Quinn took a moment to compose himself and scrutinize the woman who had evoked the unexpected response. There was a purity about her, an air of innocence that he found oddly appealing. Hers was a quiet beauty, fresh and natural, her face framed by silky strands of chestnut hair cut in a simple style that complemented her dainty features. She neither used nor needed cosmetic enhancement but her exotic eyes, so delicately tinted with flecks of gold, reflected a vague sadness that he found strangely unsettling.

Quinn looked away, breaking the spell and refocusing his mind on what had to be done. After a moment, he faced her again to gauge her reaction. “Jules appears to be an emotionally fragile young man.” As her perfect complexion faded, he deduced that Janine was well aware of her tenant’s emotional problems.

To her credit, however, she defiantly lifted her chin and met his eyes without blinking. “To make such a denigrating statement about a man you’ve just met is presumptuous to say the least, and unless you have a psychology degree tucked in those ragged jeans, I suggest you keep your pompous opinions to yourself.”

Quinn arched a brow and regarded the gutsy woman with a combination of admiration and renewed wariness. Under ordinary circumstances, he’d have appreciated such chutzpah. These, however, weren’t ordinary circumstances, and at the moment he’d have preferred the exquisite young lady to be less perceptive and more compliant.

To obtain what he needed, Quinn had to establish her trust, and since she could not be easily manipulated, he’d have to open his own life just far enough to gain her empathy and confidence. He hadn’t wanted to do that but she’d left him no choice.

Sighing, he rubbed his forehead. “Actually I do.”

The cryptic statement appeared to knock the breath out of her. “Do what?”

Dropping his hand, he smiled in what he hoped was a modestly endearing manner. “I don’t keep it in my pocket, though. Sheepskin tends to wrinkle.”

She frowned, tilted her head and eyed him skeptically. “You’re a psychologist?”

“I was.”

Folding her arms, she aimed a pointed glance at his unconventional attire, dubious that a ponytailed man in torn denim could have ever held such a position. At least, that was Quinn’s assumption, so her next statement took him by surprise. “I should have guessed,” she murmured. “Especially after watching how you calmed those terrified children. You were wonderful with them.”

Taken aback by such unexpected praise, Quinn covered his discomfort with an impassive shrug. “The children needed to express their fears in order to face them. I just asked the questions.”

“Perhaps, but I recognized something deeper in the way you related to them—an affinity and concern that can’t be taught at a university.” She smiled and a dazzling warmth settled inside Quinn’s chest. “Do you specialize in working with children?”

“No. I had hoped to but…” He hesitated, unwilling to expose such a painful part of his life. A quick glance confirmed her interest. He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I couldn’t afford to open my own practice, and since a depressed economy limited the number of positions available in my area of expertise, I ended up in a state clinic counseling adults with drug and alcohol problems.”

“You didn’t find that fulfilling?”

“At first I did.”

“And something changed that?”

He shrugged. “My patients were only there because treatment had been mandated by the courts.”

“But you still helped them.”

“No, I didn’t. When their probation ended, nearly all of them returned to self-destructive behavior.”

“Oh.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “That wasn’t your fault, you know.”

“Then whose fault was it? My patients were broken people, with lives destroyed by an addiction they were powerless to control. They wanted help—my help—and I failed them.”

A dusty sadness clouded her dark eyes, an exquisite empathy that jolted him to the core. She laid a slender hand on his arm. “So you gave up your career?”

His skin tingled beneath her soft touch. “It seemed a good time to reevaluate my life and my priorities.” After accepting her sympathetic nod, he offered a poignant smile. “Now that I’ve revealed all my innermost secrets, perhaps you’ll return the favor.”

Instantly wary, Janine retrieved her hand and shielded herself with tightly crossed arms. “I have no innermost secrets,” she lied. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Although he returned her thin smile, his eyes were again veiled, unreadable. “In that case, I hope that you can reassure me that I won’t awaken to find one of your guests hovering over me with a boning knife.”

“You are quite safe,” Janine said quickly, believing that assurance in spite of having been undeniably shaken by events of the past days. “It’s just that everyone has been so jittery since the fire. Although frayed nerves have a tendency to exaggerate eccentricities, I can assure you that we’re all quite harmless. Everything will be back to normal in a few days.” She smiled brightly and fervently hoped that was true. “So you see, no innermost secrets there, either. Unless, of course, you consider the house itself.”

Janine winced, wondering what had possessed her to blurt something so foolish. The words had slipped from her lips the moment she’d noticed Quinn glance toward the stairs, as though preparing to leave. For some odd reason, she hadn’t wanted him to go. Now that he was watching her with renewed interest, she felt silly.

“A house with secrets?” An attractive web of laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Should I keep an eye out for ghosts?”

“The place only looks haunted, but it does have a rather colorful history. It, uh, used to be—” she cleared her throat and smiled wanly “—a bawdy house.”

He arched a brow. “Complete with red velvet wallpaper?”

“I, uh…” She coughed away an embarrassed tickle. “I wouldn’t know. This has been a respectable dwelling for over sixty years.”

“And before that?”

“Before that, this lovely old mansion was the highlight of Darby Ridge social life.” She couldn’t help smiling at his bemused expression and found herself relating the ancient gossip with considerable zeal. “Apparently, turn-of-the-century loggers were quite a rowdy bunch, and when the townsfolk finally got tired of the riffraff, they hired a marshal to clean up the town. The rumor is that the marshal took his job seriously, but after months of nightly raids never made a single arrest.”

“Why not?”

“There was never anyone to arrest. The deputies would stake out the place and see dozens of, uh, clients enter, but when the posse stormed inside they found no one except the ladies.”

A gleam of amusement lightened his gaze. “So where did the men go?”

“No one knows for certain, but there was whispered speculation that when the marshal came through the front door, the brothel’s clients escaped through a secret tunnel leading to the ravine behind the house, then forded the little creek and crept quietly back to their homes.”

The amused twinkle faded. “Where is this tunnel?”

“As far as I know, there isn’t one.” Janine was surprised by his serious tone and sudden interest. “The story is just folklore.”

“Folklore is usually based on fact.”

“Perhaps, but over so many decades, facts are frequently embellished to the point of fiction. Besides, I’ve lived here for three years and can assure you that there’s not a hidden door or secret passage in the entire house.”

He considered that for a moment. “You’re probably right. Still, it’s an intriguing story, isn’t it?” He paused. “Well, I’ve held you up long enough. I’ll leave you to your work.”

As he headed toward the stairs, Janine stopped him. “Mr. Coulliard?”

Hesitating on the third step, he glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

She smiled sweetly. “You forgot the bucket.”

CHAPTER THREE

After rubbing cleaning foam into the stained carpet, Janine dropped the sponge into the bucket and decided that it was a losing battle. She sat back on her heels, disgusted. Even if she got the stupid spot out, the carpet would still be ugly. The putrid color reminded her of rotten lettuce and the original sculpted contour had long ago been tromped flat.

Eventually she hoped to scrape together enough money to replace the matted mess—she’d already managed to recarpet all the bedrooms except her own—but until then there was little she could do to keep the upstairs hallway from looking like a moldy meadow.

With a resigned sigh, she protected the wet spots with colorful plastic barrier, gathered the cleaning supplies and hurried downstairs. Since Jules and Edna were doing volunteer work at the church bazaar and Althea’s shift at the diner ended somewhere around midafternoon, there was little time left to complete her Saturday chores before the tenants returned.

As for the mysterious Mr. Coulliard, Janine hadn’t seen him since breakfast. His van was still parked at the edge of the gravel cul-de-sac so she assumed that he hadn’t gone far. But then the man was constantly disappearing and popping up in the most unexpected places. His random schedule was puzzling. None of her business, of course, but definitely odd.

As Janine replaced the cleaning supplies in the sink cupboard, she idly wondered if her newest boarder was a nature lover who enjoyed taking solitary hikes through the surrounding woods. Or perhaps he walked into town and spent long hours warming a bar stool at one of the town pubs.

That was doubtful, though, since he never smelled of alcohol and hadn’t exhibited even the slightest symptom of inebriation. Besides, it seemed unlikely that a man who had once counseled alcoholics would spend his spare time in a bar—assuming, of course, that Quinn had been truthful about his background. That might be a rather large assumption but Janine believed him. At least, she wanted to believe him and at the moment she had no reason not to—except for a nagging intuition continually whispering that Quinn Coulliard wasn’t precisely what he seemed.

Shaking off the disquieting notion, Janine focused on her chores by setting a package of pork chops on the counter to thaw. As she removed the vacuum cleaner from the broom closet, an agitated yowl in the backyard was followed by a peculiar rustling and a hollow wood-on-wood clunking sound. Then there was a horrible, bloodcurdling shriek.

Rushing to the kitchen window, Janine saw the source of the ruckus was a huge black raven perched on a stack of firewood. One of the bird’s massive wings was fully extended; the other slanted down at an awkward angle. A stalking cat circled the woodpile, then flattened into a threatening crouch. The bird screeched, hopped to the edge of the woodpile and tried to intimidate its feline adversary with bristling feathers and a fierce hiss.

The cat was not impressed. As Janine watched in horror, the animal leaped onto the woodpile and tried to bite the bird’s neck. The gutsy raven pecked viciously, forcing the thwarted feline into a temporary withdrawal. Janine feared that in spite of such bravado the injured raven would be hard-pressed to fend off another attack, so she snatched up a flimsy flyswatter and ran out the back door.

An angry male shout greeted her. She jerked to a stop, and glanced around in confusion just as Quinn Coulliard appeared and shooed the frustrated cat away. Then the most extraordinary thing happened. Quinn knelt, extended his hand and spoke softly to the terrified bird. In less than a heartbeat, the raven hopped down from the woodpile and limped toward his rescuer.

Quinn stroked the animal, smoothing the injured wing, then gently gathered up the bird and carried it toward the back porch. When he’d nearly reached the steps, he saw Janine and hesitated.

Awed by what she’d seen, Janine stared at the placid raven nestled in the crook of Quinn’s arm. “How in the world did you do that?”

She hadn’t really expected an explanation and wasn’t surprised when he ignored the question and nodded toward the kitchen door. “Would it be all right to take him inside and tend his wounds?” he asked.

“Of course.” She stepped aside and followed him into the kitchen. “Is there something I can do to help?”

When he glanced over his shoulder, a tingling sensation brushed her spine and she realized that the man’s Svengali effect was not limited to feathered creatures. “His wing is broken,” Quinn told her. “I’ll need something to bandage it.”

“I have some gauze and first-aid tape. Will that do?”

“That would be fine, thank you.”

As he turned away, Janine called out, “The hall carpet is wet. Watch out for the barrier.”

He acknowledged her warning with a nod, then carried the injured bird upstairs while Janine gathered the supplies.

Minutes later, she entered the open doorway of Quinn’s room and saw that he’d placed the raven beside a folded newspaper on top of the dresser. He glanced up and spoke to her reflection in the mirror. “Would you mind closing the door?”

Assuming he was concerned about keeping the bird confined, she complied without comment and laid the first-aid items on the bed. “I brought antiseptic, in case you found any open wounds.”

“Thank you.” As Quinn tossed the newspaper onto the bed, a small scratch pad-size square fluttered to the floor.

Janine started to mention the dropped item, but became completely intrigued watching Quinn’s expert examination of the injured bird. He carefully stretched the twisted wing to its full eighteen-inch span. The animal hissed a warning, parting its impressive beak to reveal a stumpy round tongue, which was as black as its feathers.

With its peculiar yellow eyes darting wildly, the raven tried to back away but Quinn laid a restraining palm on its back. “I know it hurts,” he murmured softly. “Just a few more minutes.” The raven cocked its head and, seeming somewhat mollified by the reassurance, displayed uncanny trust by docilely allowing Quinn to fold the feathered appendage back into place.