In the Manor with the Millionaire

“I hadn’t noticed.”

She returned to the sink and dug into the stack of dirty dishes with renewed vigor. After she’d cleaned up the kitchen and grabbed an energy bar for breakfast, she trailed Duncan into the family room. He spoke not a word, went directly to his computer and turned it on.

Like the kitchen, this room was a mess. Sunlight gushed through a wall of windows, illuminating a cluttered worktable where Duncan sat at his computer. Though the wall had a neat row of storage bins and shelves, everything had been heaped on the floor—played with and then discarded.

The chaos didn’t make sense. Every hour of Duncan’s day was regimented, but here—in the place where he was supposed to learn—he was surrounded by disarray.

Obviously, she needed to put things in order. One of the earliest lessons taught in grade school was “Putting Things Away.” Getting Duncan to participate in the clean-up would have been good, but she didn’t want to disrupt his schedule. This hour was for quiet time.

While he fiddled with his computer, she picked up a plush blue pony and placed it on the shelf labeled Stuffed Animals. Then another stuffed toy. Blocks in the bin. Crayons back in their box. Trucks and cars on another labeled shelf.

Eventually, she found a place for everything. “All done,” she said. “I’m going out to my car to bring a few things inside.”

He didn’t even glance in her direction. No communication whatsoever. A cone of isolation surrounded him. No one was allowed to touch.

After running up to her bedroom to grab her car keys, she stepped outside into the sunny warmth of a July day. Her beat-up Volkswagen station wagon with the brand- new dent from her collision with Dr. Fisher was parked just outside the front door. When she unlocked the back, she noticed that the flaps on a couple of boxes were open. She hadn’t put them in here like that. Everything had been sealed with tape or had the flaps tucked in. Had someone been tampering with her things? When Blake got her suitcase, did he also search her belongings?

Before she built up a full-blown anger at him about his callous intrusion into her privacy, a more ominous thought occurred. What if it was someone else?

Last night, she’d sensed that someone was in her bedroom. She hadn’t actually seen anyone; it was just a fleeting impression. But what if it were true? Dr. Fisher had said that he’d “always know where to find her.” He owned this house. Surely he had a key. But why would he look through her things?

“Need some help?” Alma called from the doorway.

Madeline slammed the rear door. “I’ll worry about this stuff later. But I need to get the ficus out of the front seat before it wilts.”

She unlocked the passenger-side door and liberated the plant. The ficus itself wasn’t anything special, but the fluted porcelain pot painted with rosebuds was one of her favorite things.

“Heavy,” she muttered as she kicked the car door closed and lurched toward the house, not stopping until she reached her second-floor bedroom where she set the plant near the window. The delicately painted pot looked as though it belonged here—more than she did.

Had someone crept into her room last night? There was no way to prove she’d had an intruder unless she contacted the police and had them take fingerprints. Even then, Dr. Fisher had a right to be in the house; he owned the place. If not Fisher, who? The serial killer. His last victim, Sofia, had looked like her.

Madeline plucked off her glasses and wiped the lenses. She didn’t want to raise an alarm about a prowler unless she had tangible evidence. Tonight, before she went to bed, she’d push the ficus against the door so no one could enter without making a lot of noise.

She hurried down the staircase toward the family room. In the doorway, she came to an abrupt halt. The room she had so carefully cleaned was ransacked. Stuffed animals had been flung in every direction. Books spilled across the floor. The toy trucks and cars looked like a major highway collision. Little Duncan stood in the midst of it, oblivious to her presence.

Either she could laugh or cry. She chose the former, letting out her frustration in a chuckle. Now she knew why the room had been a mess.

Duncan paced toward her. When he held out his hand, she saw that he was wearing latex gloves. In the center of his palm was the white seashell he’d shown her last night.

“Temperance,” she said.

He marched past her into the corridor that led to the front door. His clear intention was to go outside. And how could she stop him? From the information she had on autistic kids, she knew that corporal punishment often led to tantrums. Arguments were futile.

The key, she decided, was to gain his trust. Maybe she could impart a few bits of knowledge along the way.

At the front door, she stepped ahead of him, blocking his way and creating the illusion that she was in control. “We’re going to take a walk. Across the yard to the forest. And we’ll gather pinecones. Six pinecones.”

“Ten,” he said.

“Ten is good.”

Outside, he started counting his steps. “One, two, three…”

“Uno, dos, tres. Those are Spanish numbers.”

He repeated the words back to her. She took him up to ten in Spanish, then started over. At least he was learning something.

Halfway across the grassy stretch leading to the forested area, Blake jogged up beside them.

“It’s such a beautiful day,” she said. “We decided to do our lesson outdoors.”

“Couldn’t stand the mess in the family room?”

“I might be a bit of a neat freak,” she admitted. “Anyway, we’re learning numbers in Spanish.”

He fell into step beside her, and she surreptitiously peeked up at him. Definitely taller than she, he moved with a casual, athletic grace.

Near the woods, Duncan scampered ahead of them.

“It’s good for him to be outside,” Blake said. “Gives him a chance to work on his coordination.”

“His fine motor skills are okay. He didn’t seem to be having any problem with the computer.”

“It’s the big stuff that gives him problems. Running, skipping, playing catch.”

Duncan had entered the trees but was still clearly visible. She glanced over her shoulder at the house. In daylight, the two-story, beige-brick building with four tall chimneys looked elegant and imposing. “What are your plans for the Manor?”

He was taken aback by her question. “How much do you know about historic restoration?”

“Very little. But I looked up some of your other architectural projects on the Web. Many seemed more modern than traditional.”

“That’s one reason why this project appealed to me. I plan to restore the American Federalist style while totally updating with new wiring, plumbing and insulation. I want to go green—make it ecological.”

“Solar panels?”

“Too clumsy,” he said. “The challenge in this project,” he said, “is to maintain the original exterior design and restore the decorative flourishes of the interior. At the same time, I’m planning modern upgrades. Maybe a sauna and gym in the basement.”

As he talked about architecture, she caught a glimpse of a different Blake Monroe—a man who was passionate about his work. Still intense, but focused. And eager to have an adult conversation.

She liked this side of his personality. Liked him a lot.

“SHE SELLS SEASHELLS…” Duncan repeated the rhyme again and again. “Temperance, where are you?”

“Here I am.”

She stood with her back against a tree. He could see her, but his daddy and Madeline couldn’t. And that was good. He didn’t want to share his new friend.

He held out the shell. “You gave me this to warn me about the bad man.”

She bent down and picked up a pinecone. Her shiny golden hair fell across her face. “There is something dangerous in the Manor.”

“What?”

“Perhaps the basement. I cannot enter the Manor.”

“You don’t have to be scared, Temperance. I won’t let anybody hurt you.”

She placed a pinecone into his gloved hand. “You need ten of these. For your teacher.”

He was happy to have a friend who didn’t tease about his gloves. “I’m very brave. Madeline said so.”

“Duncan, you must not forget the danger.”

“Danger,” he repeated.

Chapter Four

Half an hour before the scheduled time for lunch, Madeline was pleased with their progress. She and Duncan had arranged the ten pinecones for an afternoon art project. And they’d read an entire book about trains.

Her initial assessment of his skills matched the reports from his previous tutor. Exceptional mathematic ability. Reading and writing skills were poor.

Duncan jumped to his feet. “I want to explore.”

“So do I,” she said. “We could get your father to give us a tour. He knows a lot about the Manor.”

“No,” he shouted. “No.”

His loud, strident voice had an edge to it. She hadn’t figured out how to deal with disagreements, but it couldn’t be good to continually back down to his demands. She replied with a statement, not a question. “We’ll explore one room.”

“Basement,” he said.

Not what she was hoping for. She should have been more specific, should have told him that they would explore his father’s studio, which would give her a chance to spend a bit more time with Blake. Unfortunately, she hadn’t specified a room, and she needed to be unambiguous with Duncan. “The basement it is.”

The door leading to the basement was off the kitchen where Alma should have been preparing lunch. She was nowhere in sight.

Madeline turned on the light, revealing a wooden staircase that descended straight down. “I’ll go first,” she said. “You need to hold tight to the railing.”

Duncan followed behind her, counting each step aloud.

A series of bare bulbs lit the huge space that was divided with heavy support pillars and walls. The ceiling was only eight feet high. Like most unfinished basements, it was used for storage. There were stacks of old boxes, discarded furniture and tools. A series of notched shelves suggested that the basement had at one time been a wine cellar.

A damp, musty smell coiled around them, and she shuddered, thinking of rats and spiders. As far as she could tell, there were no windows.

“I’ve seen enough,” she said.

Duncan reached out and touched a concrete wall with his gloved hand. “Danger,” he said.

The word startled her.

He zigzagged from the walls to the stairs and back. In spite of her rising trepidation, Madeline noticed a geometric pattern in his movements. If she could have traced his steps, the pattern would form a perfect isosceles triangle. Under his breath, Duncan repeated, “Danger.”

She took the warning to heart; his father said that he sensed things. And Alma had mentioned a curse on the town. “Danger means we should leave. Right now.”

He ran away from her and disappeared behind a concrete wall.

She started after him. “Duncan, listen to me.”

“Danger,” came a louder shout.

The door at the top of the stairs slammed with a heavy thud. Fear shot through her. She spun around, staring toward the stairs. Though she saw no one, her sense of being stalked became palpable. That door hadn’t blown shut by accident.

The lights blinked out. Darkness consumed her. Not the faintest glimmer penetrated this windowless tomb. Trapped. She thought of Teddy Fisher. Of the serial killer who liked women with long black hair.

Terror stole her breath. Where were the stairs? To her right? Her left? Her hands thrust forward, groping in empty space.

If she’d been here by herself, Madeline would have screamed for help. But Duncan was with her, and she didn’t want to frighten him. “Duncan? Where are you?”

“Right here.” He didn’t sound scared. “Thirty-six steps from the stairs.”

“Don’t move.” She listened hard, trying to discern if anyone else was here with them. The silence filled with dark portent. She moved forward with hesitant steps. Her shin bumped against a cardboard box. Her outstretched hands felt the cold that emanated from the walls. She pivoted and took another step. Was she going the wrong way? “Duncan, can you find the stairs?”

Instead of answering, he started counting backward from thirty-six. His strange habit came in handy; the boy seemed to know his exact location while she was utterly disoriented.

She bit back a sob. Even with her eyes accustomed to the dark, she couldn’t see a thing.

“I’m at the stairs,” Duncan announced.

She took a step toward his voice and stumbled. Falling forward to her hands and knees, she let out a yip.

“I’m okay,” she said, though Duncan hadn’t inquired. The only way she’d find the stairs was for him to keep talking. “Can you say the poem about starlight?”

Instead, he chanted, “She sells seashells…”

Crouched low, she inched toward the sound. When her hand connected with the stair rail, she latched on, desperately needing an anchor, something solid in the dark.

“Danger,” he shouted.

Shivers chased up and down her spine. She had to get a grip, had to get them to safety. “I’m going up the stairs, Duncan. I’ll open the door so we have enough light to see. Then I’ll come back down for you.”

“I can go. I’m very brave.”

“Yes, you are.” But she didn’t want to take a chance on having him slip and fall on the stairs. “That’s why you can stay right here. Very still.”

As she stumbled up the steps in the pitch-dark, the staircase seemed ten miles long. By the time she reached the door, a clammy sweat coated her forehead. Her fingers closed around the round brass doorknob. It didn’t move.

She jiggled and twisted. It was locked.

Panic flashed inside her head. A faint shimmer of daylight came around the edge of the door, and she clawed at the light as if she could pry this heavy door open.

Drawing back her fists, she hammered against the door. “Alma. Help. We’re trapped in the basement. Help.”

Behind her, she heard Duncan start up the stairs. She couldn’t allow him to climb. In the darkness, balance was precarious, and Duncan wasn’t like other kids. She couldn’t hold his arm and keep him from falling, couldn’t touch him at all.

“Wait,” she said. “I’m coming back down.”

Quickly, she descended. They’d just have to wait until they were found. Not much of a plan, but it was all she had. She sat beside Duncan on the second step from the bottom. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll count to five and you call for help. Then you count for me. Start now.”

He yelled at the top of his lungs.

Then it was her turn. Screaming felt good. Her tension loosened. After she caught her breath, she said, “Now, we wait. Somebody will find us.”

“My mama is already here,” he said quietly. “She takes care of me. Whenever I get in trouble, my mama is close. She promised. She’s always close.”

His childlike faith touched her heart. “Your mama must be a very good woman. Can you tell me about her?”

“Soft and pretty. Even when she was crying, she smiled at me.”

“She loved you,” Madeline said. “And your daddy loves you, too.”

“So do you,” he said confidently. “From the first time you saw me.”

In spite of her fear, Madeline breathed more easily. She should have been the one comforting him. Instead, this young boy lightened the weight of the terrible darkness with his surprising optimism. “You’re very lovable.”

“And brave.”

“Let’s yell again. Go.”

At the end of his five seconds of shouting, the door at the top of the staircase opened. Daylight poured down with blinding, wonderful brilliance. Silhouetted in that light was the powerful masculine form of Blake Monroe.

“What the hell is going on?” he growled.

“Danger,” Duncan yelled.

She heard Blake flick the light switch. “What’s wrong with the lights?”

Duncan scrambled up the wooden staircase, and she followed. Stepping into the kitchen, she inhaled the light and warmth. This must be how it felt to escape from being buried alive. As she stepped away from the basement door, she wiped the clammy sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. She and Duncan were free. No harm done.

When she saw the expression on Blake’s face, her sense of relief vanished like seeds on the wind. The friendly camaraderie of this morning had been replaced by tight- lipped anger. “I want an explanation,” he said.

She pushed her glasses up on her nose and cleared her throat. “Duncan and I decided to explore one room of the house before lunchtime.”

“And you chose the basement.” His hazel eyes flared. “There’s all kinds of crap down there. Damn it, Madeline. What the hell were you thinking?”

She wouldn’t blame this dreadful excursion on Duncan’s insistence that they go to the basement. She was the person in charge. “We were fine until the door slammed shut. It was locked.”

His brows arched in disbelief. He went down a step to test the doorknob, and the horrible darkness crawled up his leg. She was tempted, like Duncan, to warn him. To shout the word danger until her lungs burst.

Blake jiggled the knob. “It’s sticking but not locked. You must have twisted it the wrong way.”

She hadn’t turned the knob wrong. That door had been locked. “Then the lights went out.”

“There’s a rational explanation. I have a crew of electricians working today.”

She glanced toward Duncan, who stood silently, staring down at the toes of his sneakers. She didn’t want to frighten the boy with her suspicions about Dr. Fisher or being stalked by the serial killer, but they hadn’t been trapped by accident.

Blake yanked the door shut with a resounding slam and took a step toward her. Anger rolled off him in hot, turbulent waves.

Frankly, she couldn’t blame him. It appeared that she’d made an irresponsible decision. When he spoke, his voice was low and ominous, like the rumble of an approaching freight train. And she was tied to the tracks. “You’re supposed to be teaching my son. Not leading him into a potentially dangerous situation.”

“All of life is potentially risky,” she said in her defense. “Children need to explore and grow. New experiences are—”

“Stop.” He held up a hand to halt her flow of words. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“Perhaps I’m not explaining well.”

“You’re fired, Madeline.”

“What?” She took a step backward. Perhaps she deserved a reprimand, but not this.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. Peeling off a hundred-dollar bill, he slapped it down on the counter. “This should cover your expenses. Pack your things and get out.”

Looking past his right shoulder, she saw Alma enter through the back door with a couple of grocery bags in her arms. The housekeeper wouldn’t be happy about Madeline being fired. Nor would Duncan.

But Blake was the boss. And his attitude showed no willingness to negotiate.

Though she would have liked to refuse his money, pride was not an option. She was too broke. With a weak sigh, she reached for the bill.

“Daddy, no.” Duncan rushed across the kitchen and wrapped his skinny arms around his father’s waist. “I like Madeline. I want her to stay.”

Blake’s eyes widened in surprise, and she knew that her own expression mirrored his. They were both stunned by this minor miracle. Duncan was touching his father, clinging to him.

As Blake stroked his son’s shoulders with an amazing tenderness, she wondered how long it had been since Duncan had allowed him to come close.

The boy looked up at him. “Please, Daddy.”

Blake squatted down to his son’s level. Though Duncan’s eyes were bright blue and his hair was a lighter shade of blond, the physical resemblance between father and son resonated.

Blake asked, “Do you want Madeline to stay?”

The hint of a smile touched Duncan’s mouth. He reached toward his father’s face with his gloved hand and patted Blake’s cheek. “I like her.”

With the slow, careful, deliberate motions used to approach a feral creature, Blake enclosed his son in a yearning embrace. A moment ago, he’d been all arrogance and hostility. Now, he exuded pure love.

Empathy brought Madeline close to tears. Her hand covered her mouth. Staying at Beacon Manor was like riding an emotional roller coaster. In the basement, she’d been terrified. Facing Blake’s rage, she was defensive and intimidated. As she watched the tenderness between father and son, her heart swelled.

The front doorbell rang.

“Get the door,” Blake said to her.

Hadn’t she just been fired? “I don’t—”

“You’re not fired. You’re still Duncan’s teacher. Now, answer the door.”

Not much of an apology, but she’d take it. She needed this job. Straightening her shoulders, she walked down the corridor to the front door.

Standing at the entryway were two women. A cheerful smile fitted naturally on the attractive face of a slender lady in a stylish ivory suit with gray-blue piping that matched the color of her eyes. Her short, tawny hair whisked neatly in the breeze. Confidently, she introduced herself. “I’m Beatrice Wells, the mayor’s wife.”

Madeline opened the door wider to invite them inside. “I’m Madeline Douglas. Duncan’s teacher.”

When she held out her hand, she noticed the smears of dirt from crawling around in the basement and quickly pulled her hand back. “I should wait to shake your hand until I’ve had a chance to wash up.”

“It’s not a problem, dear.” Beatrice gave her hand a squeeze, then turned toward her companion. “I’d like you to meet Helen Fisher.”

As in Teddy Fisher? Madeline couldn’t imagine that creep had a wife. “Are you related to Dr. Fisher?”

The frowning, angular woman gave a disgusted snort. “Teddy is my brother.”

She stalked through the open door in her practical oxblood loafers. Her nostrils pinched and the frown deepened as she set a battered briefcase on the floor. She folded her arms below her chest, causing a wrinkle in her midcalf dress and brown cardigan. Though the month was July and the weather was sunny, Helen Fisher reminded Madeline of the drab days at the end of autumn. Everything about her said “old maid.” Madeline suppressed a shudder. For the past couple of years, she’d feared that “old maid” would be her own destiny. If she stayed at this job long enough to put some money aside, she really ought to invest in something pretty and sexy. A red dress.

Beatrice Wells twinkled as if to counterbalance her companion’s grumpy attitude. “Helen is our town librarian, and we’re here to talk with Blake about the renovations.”

“Beacon Manor is a historic landmark,” Helen said. “The designs have to be approved by the historical committee.”

“I really don’t know anything about the house. My job is Duncan.” She looked toward Beatrice. “I wondered if there was a baseball team in town. Something I could take Duncan to watch.”

“We have an excellent parks and recreation program. There’s even a T-ball program for the children.”

Though Madeline wasn’t sure if Duncan could handle a team sport, T-ball might be worth a try. “I’ll certainly look into it.”

When Blake came down the corridor toward them, he seemed like a different man. An easy grin lightened his features. He looked five years younger…and incredibly handsome. Even Helen was not immune to his masculine charms. She perked up when he warmly shook her hand. A girlish giggle twisted through her dour lips.

Given half a chance, Blake Monroe could charm the fish from the sea.

Chapter Five

As Blake escorted Beatrice Wells and Helen Fisher into the formal dining room with the ornate ceiling mural, he listened with half an ear to their commentary about the historical significance of Beacon Manor. In their eyes, the painting of cherubs and harvest vegetables rivaled the Sistine Chapel.

His thoughts were elsewhere. When he’d held Duncan in his arms, his blood had stirred. His son had smiled, actually smiled, and responded to a direct question. For the first time in years, Blake had seen a spark in his son’s eyes.