Darkwood Manor

If it turned out Haden was right, something should probably be done. Maybe by him, maybe by someone else. The who here depended on how the local authorities reacted to a hot blonde in a long, black leather coat, with skin that shouted peaches and cream and eyes so blue he’d been struck by the color fifty feet away.

The woman had courage. He admired that. She was determined, likely stubborn. Couldn’t fault those qualities. She also had a body under that black coat…

Blanking his mind to the fantasy, he watched her from his crouch on the sheltered side of the house.

Purposeful strides carried her along the driveway to the front gate and through it to the other side. She didn’t use an umbrella, and she didn’t bother to belt her coat. She had the shoulder bag he’d rifled, her 2K camera and, he imagined, an expression on her face that matched her body language.

A reluctant smile tugged on his lips the longer he watched her. Too bad nothing would come of it, but then he was used to nothing, and what he did have—primarily his uncle—more than compensated for the lack.

Her car engine roared. The tires spit wet gravel as she turned it toward Mystic Harbor, Maine, a town where he and more than one of his ancestors had been born.

His name was Donovan Black. Like it or not—and he definitely did not—he was connected to Darkwood Manor. Which was why, no matter how tempting Ms. Isabella Ross might be, he would never be connected to her.

“YOU’RE NOT GOING TO do anything, are you?” Isabella stared down at a thirtysomething man with a crooked nose and very large teeth. “You have more important matters to attend to than searching for a woman, a stranger, that no one, including you or your deputies, has seen. In any case, Darkwood Manor is situated on the fringe of your jurisdiction, so maybe she’s crossed the county line by now. Problem solved. Have a nice night, ma’am.”

The man’s smile didn’t falter. “Could be you’re right there, Ms. Ross. Could also be you’re inventing a crime to drum up publicity for a new hotel.”

Exasperation won out. “That’s ridiculous. My family doesn’t stoop to publicity stunts. We go about things the old-fashioned way. We advertise. And we only do that when a hotel is up and running. Not only is Darkwood Manor not in that category, it isn’t even a hotel.”

“Yet.”

Isabella held fast to her Irish temper. “Sheriff Lucas, I’ve had a really crappy afternoon. I’m not asking you to launch a full-scale search for Katie, I just want you to take a few minutes and look into her disappearance.”

“Can’t do much in a few minutes, now can I, Blondie?”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry. Ms. Ross.” His smirk belied the apology. “Now, I’ve been patient, and I’ve listened to your story with an open mind.”

So open, Isabella thought, that it had drained from his head.

“You say you and your cousin drove up here this afternoon from Boston.”

“I said we drove up from Portland.”

“Via Portland, but you live and work in Boston. You also said you came here then drove to Darkwood in separate vehicles. Why is that exactly?”

Isabella refused to let him rattle her composure. “I’ve already explained. Katie was going on to Bangor. I was stopping here. Two destinations, two vehicles.”

“And your cousin’s vehicle, like your cousin herself, is currently unaccounted for?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t suggest anything to you?”

Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “It suggests that both Katie and her car are missing.”

The sheriff’s smile grew strained. “A stronger suggestion would be that something at Darkwood Manor spooked her. When she couldn’t find you, she gave in to her fear and ran.”

“She’s not answering her cell phone.”

“Maybe she dropped it in her rush to escape. People have been known to leave all manner of personal possessions behind as they scramble back through those gates. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a believer myself, but more than a few folks hereabouts swear the manor’s haunted.”

“Oh, good.” Isabella mustered a false smile. “Here comes the ghost story. Katie wasn’t spirited away, Sheriff, and she didn’t run out on me.”

“You think someone kidnapped her and stole her car.”

“I think that’s a more plausible explanation than believing she ran from a ghost.”

Yet, in spite of herself, her conviction wavered. To bolster it, she jammed her hands in the pockets of her coat. “Whose spirit is supposed to haunt the place?”

“Take your pick. Aaron Dark, builder and owner. Aaron’s wife, Sybil, who ran off with another man. The unborn child some swear she was carrying. Hell, it could be Dark’s sister took up residence after she died, as penance for having her brother locked away.”

“Interesting. But you don’t believe any of those stories, so it can’t be fear that’s stopping you from driving out there with me.”

He gave her an insulting once-over. “Do you drink, Ms. Ross?”

She wouldn’t react, she told herself, would not lose it because some pasty-faced sheriff was either too lazy or too jittery to help her.

So instead of answering his question, she tipped her head to the side. “Tell me, Sheriff Lucas, is there something untoward going on at Darkwood Manor? Some illegal activity that might necessitate Katie’s removal from the house and cause me to be warned off?”

The sheriff’s open mouth closed with a snap. “You didn’t mention that you were warned off.”

“You didn’t give me a chance, and I’m mentioning it now.”

“Who did the warning?”

“I have no idea. A man on the cellar stairs. He told me to leave Darkwood Manor and not come back.”

The smile returned. “There you go, then. He probably told your cousin the same thing. Only unlike you, she took his advice.”

“At a dead run. Dropping her cell phone in the process. And since then, hasn’t bothered to stop and contact me. She wouldn’t do that, Sheriff—as I’ve already said.”

“What did this man of yours look like?”

“Again, no idea. He stopped me from falling down the cellar stairs, told me to leave and disappeared. If you won’t help me find Katie, you could at least help me track down this mystery man. It’s possible he saw what happened to her, and that’s why he warned me to leave.”

The sheriff’s brow furrowed. Rain streaming over the station windows gave his face a streaky look, as if it were melting.

When he didn’t speak, Isabella tried one last time to reason with him. “Sheriff Lucas, all I’m asking—”

“Is that I drive out to a deserted house with inadequate lighting in search of tire marks that will have long since washed away—if they ever existed—to look for a woman and or a mystery man that only you saw and or heard, and in the process risk breaking my neck the way you almost did in broad daylight.”

Isabella’s eyes glittered. “I take it that’s a no.”

“On all counts.” Rolling back from his desk, he stood. “Your cousin doesn’t contact you by tomorrow, I might have one of my deputies take a drive out there with you. If she shows, you’re welcome to come in and apologize for jabbering at me over nothing when I should be home eating my wife’s crab cakes and helping my kid with his algebra. Hotel charges eighty bucks a night off-season. Turn left at the end of Harbor Road if you’re looking for the highway. Your choice, Ms. Ross. You have a good night one way or the other.”

To Isabella’s astonishment, instead of ushering her out, he snatched his raincoat from a peg, crushed his hat down onto his head and stalked through the door of the small station house.

She stood there for a moment, stunned, until a thread of humor slithered in.

“Okay, then. No worries to you, too, pal. And apparently none to whoever’s in your cell block.”

Because there was definitely someone snoring away in the back. Whether deputy or prisoner, however, she didn’t care. Bottom line? Lucas was an ass. And he wasn’t going to help her find Katie.

Following the sheriff’s lead, Isabella let herself out. The street was virtually dead. The rain had let up and fog had moved in, a great swirling bank of it. Water droplets plopped onto the sidewalk behind her. To her left, a woman’s high heels tapped in the opposite direction.

She thought about the hotel across the street. Their brochures read Come Inn to the Mystic, which would have been a good tagline if the place hadn’t been a cardboard cutout of every generic hotel in rural America.

Oh, there was plenty of room for competition in this town.

Jingling her keys, she turned for her car.

“No assistance to be had, Ms. Ross?”

The silence was so pervasive, it made the words, spoken from the fog in front of her, sound like cannon fire. But even with her heart in her throat, Isabella’s restraint held.

“The ghost thing won’t work on me. I’m not in the mood for games, and I’m not leaving, so if you’re planning a repeat performance of our cellar staircase encounter, you can save your breath. My cousin was here. Now she’s not. I’m going to find her. End of conversation.”

“I didn’t take her, Isabella.”

“Yes, I reasoned that one out, although given the circumstances, it’s possible you came to my assistance at Darkwood Manor to throw me off.”

Amusement colored his tone. “You’re being too clever, and giving me way more credit for that quality than I deserve. I told you to leave because a man I trust insists there’s something going on at the manor. Since he’s not prone to hallucinations, there probably is. Hidden agendas frequently go hand in hand with crime.”

“Spoken like a true cop.” When he didn’t respond, she arched her brows. “Would that be a silent confirmation or the silent voice of criminal experience?”

“Possibly a little of both.”

That did it. Yes, the man had a great voice. She liked the way he smelled, and what she’d seen of his eyes in the cellar had mesmerized her for a moment. But her love of a good mystery paled next to her concern for Katie’s life. So…

She took a challenging step forward. “Did you go through my purse or my car to find out who I am?”

“I didn’t see your car until later. Your purse was hanging at the bottom of the stairs.”

“My stairs, Mr.…”

“Black. Donovan. And I’m aware that you own Darkwood Manor.”

“So you are a cop.”

“Of sorts.”

“Friends with the local sheriff?”

“Good friends.”

Why that surprised her, she couldn’t say, but as long as it was there, she might as well seize the opportunity. “In that case, would you do me a favor?”

“I might.”

“All I want—”

“Is for me to persuade the sheriff to search for your cousin.”

“Which you won’t do because…?”

Again, the suggestion of a smile. “Sheriff’s in Florida, recovering from a gunshot wound to the chest. The man you talked to is his replacement, Senior Deputy, aka acting sheriff, Ormand Lucas. Genuine-article sheriff won’t be back until after Halloween.”

Pressing the fingers of both hands to her temples, Isabella murmured a disbelieving “Remind me to get my Aunt Rose to put a curse on this town.” She dropped her hands. “Let’s cut the small talk, okay? How do you even know about my cousin? Did you see us at Darkwood Manor?”

“I saw you. Searching for your cousin there and talking to Orry here.”

“So you eavesdropped through a closed door.”

“From the back room. Mystic Harbor’s a small town, less than a thousand residents at this time of year. Alley doors are seldom locked. Have you had dinner?”

Was he joking? She squared up. “Why are you hiding in the dark, Mr. Black?”

“I’m not hiding, I’m leaning on a lamppost having a conversation with a beautiful woman. Dinner?”

Part of her wanted to laugh. The rest… “It might have escaped your notice, but I’ve had a few more important things on my mind. Katie wasn’t spirited away by the ghost of Aaron Dark. She didn’t bolt in fear or lose her cell phone, and she doesn’t play practical jokes. She’s gone, her car’s gone, and your soon-to-be-cursed acting sheriff couldn’t care less about any of it. Forget food. My question is, as a cop of sorts, are you going to get involved or not?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

It was more than she’d expected, but not enough for her to trust him. “Okay, second question.” She waved at the fog, thought she could almost make out a figure in the darkness ahead. “Am I ever going to see you?”

She knew he hesitated. However, after a few seconds, a man wearing a black coat similar to hers emerged.

He was taller than her, but no more than six feet or so in boots. Worn jeans were topped by a black T. He had good hands, she noted, and surprisingly long hair. Far too long for your average cop. It was mid-brown, shoulder length and somehow sensual. His face intrigued her, too. More than nice, but not quite remarkable, his features were nonetheless riveting.

Then she saw his eyes, and both her assessment and the breath in her lungs stalled.

“Whoa.” She reacted unthinkingly, paused, then drew back. “You have great eyes.” It took a few seconds for her brain to roll with the sexual punch, longer still to recall what they’d been saying. When she did, she moved a finger between them. “You mentioned something about dinner?”

His slow smile almost caused a full meltdown, but this time she was prepared for it and braced.

“I know a place,” he said. “We can talk there, maybe strategize to some extent. How much will be up to you.”

“Why me?”

His smile widened. “You might not like the company.”

“We’re having company?”

“One other person.”

“Ah. Would that be your wife, Mr. Black?”

“Uncle. I’m not married. And it’s Donovan.”

“Okay, Donovan. Why should your uncle, or any other man, affect our conversation?”

“He shouldn’t.” Donovan turned her around. “As long as you’re not afraid of bears.”

HADEN BLACK WASN’T A bear. Not quite. Bigfoot was closer, but even legendary beasts had claws. Donovan’s uncle had potholders. And bifocals. And a rustic cottage crammed to the rafters with reading material, art and vintage electronics.

She counted three televisions, two turntables, a serious sound system, a reel-to-reel tape deck and the worn covers of at least a thousand LPs.

The man stood a burly six feet seven inches, sported a bushy beard and had a wild head of hair that skimmed his massive shoulders. He spoke in a growl, looked like he could bench press her weight and Donovan’s combined, and made no attempt to disguise his contempt for her ex.

“The man was a fool with more money than brains. Said he wanted to turn the manor into a spa.” Although he didn’t spit, she sensed he wanted to. “Sweet-talked the geezer who owned it into selling for a song.”

To hide her amusement, Isabella glanced away. Then did a double take and knelt to regard an abstract canvas carelessly propped against a stack of logs. “David’s partner said he paid over nine hundred thousand for the place. Is this a Kandinsky?”

“You’ve got good eyes.” Haden grunted his approval. “No taste in men, though. Nine hundred thousand’s peanuts for a cliffside manor with acreage. Tell her, Donovan.”

“It’s worth more,” his nephew agreed. At Isabella’s upward glance, he chuckled. “That being said, the transaction was legal and probably fair enough, considering the owner just celebrated his ninety-third birthday, has been predeceased by all his heirs and planned to put the place on the market for less than half of what your boyfriend paid.”

“Former boyfriend.” Isabella tipped another canvas forward, stared in disbelief. “You have a Van Gogh?”

“Got a Picasso kicking around somewhere, too.”

“On the floor.”

Haden shot her an aggravated look. “No room for ’em on the walls now, is there. Tell me, Ms. Corrigan-Ross, what are your plans for the house?”

Standing, she dusted off. “To tear it apart piece by cracked plaster piece until I find my cousin. My name’s Isabella. And I think your dinner’s burning, Mr. Black.”

“Haden.” He shook a potholder at her. “Are you one hundred percent sure this cousin of yours didn’t turn tail and run because something scared her?”

“Something as in Aaron Dark’s ghost?”

He set belligerent fists on his hips. “Are you a nonbeliever, then?”

She summoned a placid smile. “My grandparents on both sides are Irish. I have to buy in to some extent.”

“But?” Donovan prompted.

“My father’s father was a hardcore New York businessman. His mother was a city councillor. Ghosts don’t exist in their world, even in theory. So to answer your question, when asked, I tend to take the Fifth.”

“You sound like a politician.”

“You sound like my grandma Corrigan.”

“Woman has sense.” Haden shook the potholder again. “Hang around here long enough, you’ll believe in spooks, spirits, poltergeists and probably Elvis come back from the grave.”

“If you’re saying I’m going to bump into Aaron Black at some point in my search, good. When I do, maybe he’ll help me find Katie.”

“Don’t count on it,” Donovan said behind her. “Aaron Dark wasn’t the helpful sort.”

Prepared for the sexual punch, Isabella faced him. “You know, for a cop, you’re awfully cryptic.”

“He’s a sharpshooter.” Haden headed for the now-smoking oven. “Boy has the best eyes in the business.”

No argument there, she thought. However, it was the Aaron Dark reference that interested her. “The notes David left with his partner spoke of a philanthropic man, active in politics, the business community and the local church.”

“The details of which were neatly set down in the family history.” Donovan’s lips curved. “What wasn’t mentioned anywhere in those notes was that Aaron Dark wrote the bulk of that history. Other, less biased accounts suggest a Jekyll and Hyde personality.”

She smiled. “That would just make for a more colorful story.”

“It would, unless you had dealings with him.”

Curiosity had her studying his expression. That and she couldn’t drag her gaze from his face. “Are you a history buff, then, Donovan?”

He glanced away, smiled a little. “Nothing quite so easy.”

“You just love a good ghost story, huh?”

“A good one, yes. Unfortunately, this story isn’t.” He came closer, kept his eyes locked on hers. “Aaron Dark was a monster, Isabella. He imprisoned his wife at Darkwood Manor. When he discovered she was pregnant with another man’s child, he killed her and threw her body from the cliff behind the house.”

Although something about his demeanor had changed, Isabella couldn’t have said what it was. “Pretty sure none of that was in David’s notes. Was Dark arrested? Hung? Run out of town?”

“He went mad,” Donovan told her. She swore his brown eyes deepened to black. “And to answer your unspoken question, I know that because Aaron Dark’s sister, his sister who many believe went as mad as Aaron, was my ancestor.”

Chapter Three

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.