Secrets Rising

“I was just about to clean that up.” She disappeared for a minute into the next room then came back with a broom and dustpan. She bent down, picked something up, and he saw what he’d missed at first—some sort of small package. It was wrapped in silver foil and he read the label.

“Somebody’s birthday?” There, his contribution to chitchat.

“Mine.”

She glanced up from sweeping the shattered bits of cream and blue pottery. Her eyes looked huge in her slender face, and as he watched, she chewed on her full, unpainted lip. He looked away from her, to the box. Happy Birthday, Baby. She had a gift from somebody who called her Baby.

He carefully returned his gaze to Keely. “It’s your birthday today?” he asked, and told himself he was not going to look or even think about her nibble-on-me lips. Maybe she was married. He didn’t know why he’d assumed she lived way out here in the sticks alone. It didn’t matter to him anyway.

“Tomorrow. The present was inside the cookie jar. It fell down off the shelf.” She waved her hand vaguely toward the ledge over the cabinets. It was full of decorative glass items and various pieces of pottery. “I guess he was hiding it there. My husband, I mean. A branch must have hit the roof. I guess the jar was too close to the edge of the shelf. The house really shook and—” She stood, the pottery bits tidily swept into the dustpan in one hand. “I forgot. I need to get up in the attic and check it out. If rain’s coming in, I’m in real trouble.”

So she was married.

“You’ll be in trouble when your husband finds out you stumbled onto his surprise.” He was feeling suddenly much lighter, more in control.

She propped the broom in the corner of the kitchen and dumped the shards of pottery in the trash before replying. “He’s not going to find out. He’s dead. And he left me plenty of surprises. Most of them weren’t good.”

The look she gave him was flat and emotionless, then a shadow slid across her expression. She looked away quickly, as if afraid he had some kind of laser vision that would see something she didn’t want him to see. Jake felt more uneasy than ever, and he wasn’t certain if it was because she wasn’t married after all or because he wanted to know what her deceased husband had done to hurt her, and he shouldn’t want to know anything about her at all.

The muted patter of raindrops on the roof filled the kitchen. The storm was slowing down. Or at least, the rain was slowing down. Wind gusted against the house, strong as ever. The clapboard farmhouse creaked a bit in the storm.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shook her head. “No, I am. I shouldn’t have said that. You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.” She grabbed the wrapped box off the table and turned away, pulled open a wide kitchen drawer, shoved it inside and slammed the drawer shut.

He heard a noise like thunder and suddenly the house shook so hard, he felt the floor move under his feet. The drawers in the kitchen banged open and Keely stumbled on her feet. Automatically, he shot up, grabbing hold of her upper arms. Glass hit the floor around them from the shelves over the cabinets. He heard pictures fall in the parlor.

“Oh, God, I knew I should have had that maple tree taken down.” She sounded panicked. “It’s too close to the house.”

“I don’t think that was a tree.” He hadn’t heard anything strike the roof.

There was no sound for a long beat, as if even the wind held its breath, and then came a roar. The house seemed to roll under them in waves. Jake fell against the table, still holding Keely, and together they crashed onto the floor. The sting of glass cut into his back. He could feel her breasts against his chest, her quivering belly and thighs, her breaths coming in shocky pants near his cheek. He stroked his hand down her spine, only meaning to soothe. She was soft—

The floor rocked violently beneath them. “We have to get out of the house,” he grunted, pulling her up with him, both of them staggering as if they’d been transported to the deck of a storm-tossed ship. At the same time he realized the roof was coming down over them, the floorboards beneath them ripped apart and all he knew were eerie flashes of blinding red light, then plunging darkness.

Chapter 3

Darkness closed in on her with terrifying completeness. Keely heard the boom of her heartbeat, the harsh sound of her breaths, in the sudden, awful quiet. Oh, God, oh, God. She waited for the rest of the kitchen, the rest of her house, to fall down on top of her.

Something shifted overhead, and crashed a foot away. She nearly jumped out of her skin.

Arms she hadn’t realized were holding her tightened, as if ready to shield her from anything. She couldn’t see a thing, not even the man she was clinging to. Fingers reached up, touched her face. She was on top of him, she realized. They’d hit hard, him protecting her with his body.

“Are you all right?” He was little more than a deep, disembodied voice in the terrible blackness.

“I think so.” Her voice wobbled. Was the world still shaking? She bit her lip to keep from hyperventilating.

Jake Malloy grunted in pain, and she scrambled off him, pulling him up with her till they sat on debris. She could feel nothing but debris surrounding them.

“Where are we?” he asked her. “We fell into some kind of basement. Is this a cellar?”

She nodded, swallowed thickly, realizing then he couldn’t see her.

“Yes. It’s the cellar.” Her head reeled. The kitchen ceiling had started coming down and the floor had opened up. The cold dampness of the cellar seeped through her then and she shivered. Shock. Maybe she was in shock. The cellar was low-ceilinged. They’d only dropped maybe seven feet.

And the ceiling boards from the kitchen must have covered the gap in the floor above. She felt as if her heart might pound out of her chest.

“There’s a door, over here.” She pushed to her feet, stumbling slightly on the uneven piles of wreckage she couldn’t see. “The ground slopes down this way and the cellar’s reached by a door below the rear of the house.” In the thick darkness, she felt him reach for her hand. His hold felt strong and warm on hers. Oddly safe. Together, they took baby steps across the debris, guided only by her sense of direction, which was, at the moment, rocky.

She reached out with her hand, feeling her way. Her fingers brushed against the rough, peeling paint of the wooden door to the cellar. She pulled her other hand from his, heart thumping as she grabbed the handle. Debris in the cellar made opening the door nearly impossible.

“Wait.”

She could feel the brush of Jake beside her, hear the sound of broken boards being tossed out of the way.

“Try now,” he said.

The door creaked as she pulled it inward, still scraping across smaller bits of rubble. She pushed around it, reaching forward into the pitch-black. And stopping short at the sensation of rough, jagged material blocking the way.

No, no, no. There had been no light around the door, it hit her suddenly. No light not because it was dark outside but because part of the house must have fallen this way!

And who knew how much weight there was in wreckage blocking them from climbing back up into the kitchen. “We’re trapped,” she whispered in horror.

“We’ll be all right. We’ll get out of here.”

He sounded so sure of himself, she almost believed him for a minute.

She swallowed hard. “How?”

“Rescue workers will be coming—”

“Do you know how long it will take them to get here, this far out of town?” If they even could. They’d have to wait to even try if the low water bridge was flooded. What was happening in the town? What about her store? What about her house? It was gone, clearly gone. And yet she still found that impossible to grasp. She loved her house in all its faded glory, from its American gothic farmhouse architecture to its walls teeming with family history. “Gemini” tea roses were her grandmother’s favorite, that’s why she was planting more of that specific variety. She was supposed to be planting roses right now. A normal day, planting roses, waiting for her truck to be done at the shop. She’d have fixed herself a sandwich for dinner, maybe a bowl of soup, and watched the news, followed by the latest season of her favorite amateur singing competition, and the new medical drama. She’d have gone to bed in her antique spool feather bed covered by a hand-sewn block quilt and read a magazine till she went to sleep.

Her life was boring, maybe, but she liked it. It was quiet and sensible.

Nothing made sense right now, especially how much she didn’t want this stranger to let go of her. She clutched blindly at his shirt as she felt him turn.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did you cut yourself on anything?”

She felt his hands moving down her shoulders, her arms, as if checking. “No. I mean, yes. I’m all right. What happened? What could do this to my house?” She could barely stretch her mind around the horrifying reality of it. “Oh, God. That was—”

“An earthquake.”

We don’t have earthquakes in West Virginia. She hadn’t realized she’d said that out loud till he answered her.

“Not very often. But if we weren’t just at the epicenter of that one, I don’t know what it was.”

Her mind stumbled from the realization. That first time she’d felt the house shake and the cookie jar had fallen off the shelf had just been a precursor of what was coming.

There had been no tree hitting the roof at all.

“My house—”

One hundred years old, and it was in pieces over her head. Everything that had been in her family for generations—Her parents, Howard and Roxie Bennett, preferred their spacious home with all the modern conveniences and close to town. Her older sister and two brothers already had their own homes, too, by the time Granny Opal had died. Keely and Ray had needed a place, and so the farmhouse had gone to Keely, who had gladly accepted it. But now…What was she going to do without a house?

Another thought struck her. “What was that red light? Did you see it? Oh, my God. Was that fire?” No, it couldn’t have been fire. They’d know if the house was on fire above them. So what—

“I don’t know. Probably electricity snapping, who knows. Forget your house.” A beat stretched, taut. “I’m sorry,” he added, gentler. The unexpected kindness in his touch and voice sent her into a panic. She’d been hesitant to so much as ask him for a favor not too many minutes ago. Now she wanted to climb up his powerful, hard body and beg him not to leave her for a second in this pitch-black nightmare. He was the only other human being in her world, her touchstone to reality.

“You’re okay, and that’s all that matters,” he continued. “Come on. You can worry about your house later.”

As if he sensed she was an inch away from royally flipping out, he stroked his hands up and down her arms again. His touch was warm and strong and she didn’t want him to stop. Probably, he didn’t want to deal with a hysterical woman. He hadn’t seemed this kind and patient earlier.

She was on fear overload, and she hated that. She was used to taking care of herself by now. She didn’t need anyone, especially not a man. Get it together.

“I’m okay,” she repeated back to him. The aching of her bones hit her, surfacing through the adrenaline. She was lucky she hadn’t broken anything in the fall, even as short as it had been. Lucky he hadn’t broken anything, either.

“You’re okay, too, right?” she asked, to be sure.

“I’m fine. Tell me what’s in here. Do you keep a flashlight somewhere?” He sounded steady, composed, organized.

“No such luck. But matches—maybe.” She worked to catalog the cellar in her mind, recall what was where. She had to be strong now. Not fall apart.

One wall of the cellar had been lined with glass canning jars. Some empty now, others still packed with the fruits of last summer’s gardening. Some old wooden stools. Boxes and antique trunks filled with forgotten items that had worked their way out of the farmhouse at one time or another. Tools that hadn’t been used in ages. A couple of old tables. Basically, junk. The cellar was full of junk. The wall on the other side was storage. There were some candles somewhere, stashed on one of those over-packed shelves….

Vanilla-scented. They’d been a gift from a Christmas exchange party at church last year. She hated vanilla candles and she’d stuck them in the cellar, not able to bring herself to just throw them out. If they were still here…

She’d absolutely love, adore and worship the scent of vanilla right now.

Hadn’t she left an old box of matches here somewhere? And a can of gasoline. She’d used the matches and gas to burn the brush pile last summer.

“This way.” She moved along the wall to the right of the door. Away from the center of the cellar, there was less debris from above, but there was shattered glass everywhere. She walked carefully, but stumbled anyway when something creaked overhead.

Jake caught her as she made a strangled cry and she found herself dragged up against that hard, powerful body of his.

“Whoa.” He held her for a long beat.

She couldn’t see him, not even his eyes and they had to be only inches away. He smelled good. She hadn’t noticed before, but she did now. He smelled really good. Woodsy and male. She was ready to cling on to him like he was some kind of life preserver. He definitely exuded some kind of raw masculine energy that was messing with her mind, which was hardly stable as it was. Her head was all over the place, reeling.

“Careful,” he murmured.

“I’m trying.” She’d better try harder.

The air in the cellar was suddenly thick with an odd tension. They were practically buried alive down here. He could be the last human being on earth she’d ever know. She was scared, terrified really, of dying before they were rescued. She’d lost her house, maybe her business for all she knew. But in the face of losing her life, suddenly it didn’t amount to much.

Her family and friends—She had no idea what had happened to them. All she could do was desperately hope and pray. Images of her parents, her friends, flashed like photos in a slideshow in her mind.

A sob choked her throat and she swallowed it down. She couldn’t do anything for anyone now but herself and this stranger beside her. She didn’t realize she was crying till she felt something wet and cold trickle down her cheek.

“Hey. Come on. Let’s find those matches.”

She nodded, then tried to find her voice.

“Okay.” She squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to stop the tears.

A hand touched her face. Jake Malloy’s hand.

“Aww, now,” he said, softer now, brushing at the tear.

Instinctively, she curled her arms around him, her hands sliding under his jacket, letting him pull her tight and comfort her there in that black void under her ruined house. She didn’t understand how she could trust him like this, but it didn’t matter. His arms wiped out that horrific fear.

Her head rested against his chest and she could hear his heartbeat, steady and sure as hers was not. He kept right on being rock solid even with the world falling apart around them.

And in the back of her mind, a crazy thought entered. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. He moved against her, just slightly, as if checking his balance, and she shook herself and started to pull back.

Something cold and hard stuck out of the waistband of his jeans, beneath the cover of his jacket, as she drew her hands down and away. Something cold and hard and metal…

Her heart stopped and total fear slammed back in on her. She felt him freeze, and she moved quickly before he could, grabbed it in one hand and stumbled back, knowing what she held. Not needing any light.

She was holding a gun.

Chapter 4

He felt the cold metal slide away from the waistband of his jeans and before he could move, she was gone, nothing but a ragged gasp in the darkness. He lunged forward then stopped cold at the low, fearful, shaking sound of her voice.

“Don’t come near me. I’ll shoot.”

“No, you won’t.” He hoped she wouldn’t. Hell, he didn’t know. He didn’t move.

He could feel his heart thumping hard against his ribs. And he could have sworn he could hear hers, thumping, too. She was scared and he didn’t blame her, but he needed to get back in control of the situation. Scaring her more wasn’t the way.

“I know how to use a gun,” she said, that soft, low voice of hers still uneven. “What I don’t know is what you’re doing with one.”

“It’s licensed,” he told her, keeping his voice steady, reassuring. “I have a right to carry it. There’s no need to be afraid.”

“I’m trapped here with you and a gun. I think I can decide for myself if I should be afraid or not.”

“You already pointed out that everyone in town knows I’m here. My car is still outside. Rescuers will get here eventually. Why would I want them to find me here, in a cellar with a dead body and my gun? I’m not going to shoot you. I’m not stupid, remember?” Reason, he had to use reason on her. She was already frightened, for good cause, by the quake and the destruction of her house and their desperate situation.

She was silent for a beat and he could hear the house creak over them again. She could hear it, too, and he heard her feet shift on the rubble, knew she was unnerved even more, wondered if she was trying to decide whether she needed to hold his gun, or hold him, to feel most safe.

“Do you think I want to spend God knows how many hours alone down here, waiting for help, with a dead body?” he asked quietly. “I don’t want to shoot you, Keely. I—”

His throat closed up a bit and the next words were hard to admit, but he had to make a choice, too. Risk a little of himself, or risk his life if he let a very frightened woman continue to point a gun at him. Situations got out of hand sometimes. He knew that too well.

“I like you,” he finished finally. “Why would I want to shoot you?”

She didn’t say anything for long seconds. He felt the electric pull of her even through the dark. She was thinking, he knew. Thinking about whether she could trust him or not.

It appeared she wasn’t so naive, after all.

“You walked up to my door with a gun,” she said. “And I want to know why.” Her voice strengthened.

She was pulling herself together. That hadn’t taken long, and it occurred to him that she had a tough spine inside that very sweet, hot, bombshell-quality body of hers.

He did like her, he realized with a shock, even though she had annoyed him quite a bit, from the first time he’d spoken with her on the phone about the rental, with questions he didn’t want to answer. He liked her in spite of himself because she was nice. Even when he was rude to her, she was nice. In fact, she was too nice. Too nice for him. His instinct to get away from her as quickly as possible had been a good one.

Now he couldn’t get away from her and she was going to take her opportunity to ask questions again, and he was going to have to give her answers whether he liked it or not. And he didn’t like it at all.

“I’m a cop.”

The house lay so still around them, he could hear the very low intake of her breath, sense the tension emanating from her body as his words sunk in. His gut tightened, waiting for her to respond.

“A cop?” She didn’t sound like she really believed him.

He figured she’d thought he operated on the opposite side of the law, based on his appearance. He’d worked undercover most of the past few years and his wardrobe had suffered in keeping with his cases. Not that he cared or that it mattered. He was supposed to be resting and relaxing, not dressing for success.

In truth, he was just biding his time. He didn’t need rest and relaxation. He needed to get back to work. The damn thing was, the chief wouldn’t let him. The department shrink had said he wasn’t dealing with his grief. Go to the country, the chief had ordered. Get some perspective. Unwind. One month. Then he’d let him come back to work. He’d suggested Haven. The chief had grown up here.

Jake had thought he was dealing with his grief just fine. How the hell was someone supposed to take it when they were responsible for their partner getting blown up right in front of them? And people had called him a hero. He’d just wanted to get back to work. He still wanted to get back to work. He wanted to bury himself in work. No thinking. No feeling. And certainly no consorting with the locals. He didn’t want any entanglements.

But here he was in Haven, trapped in a cellar with a beautiful woman. How had that happened?

“Charleston Police Department,” he told her.

“And I’m supposed to know that’s the truth how…?” she asked.

“Because I’m telling you it’s the truth….” he said. “I’m one of the good guys, Keely. I promise.” He waited a beat. “If you don’t mind, I don’t really like it when people point guns at me,” he said. “It makes me worry about whether I’m going to get to keep breathing. You stop pointing the gun at me and we find a candle, then I’ll show you my badge and ID. Deal?”

He heard the soft click of the chamber pushing open.

“I’m going to take the bullets out. You don’t mind, do you?” she asked.

“Not at all.”

She hadn’t lied about knowing how to operate a weapon. And she might believe him—or might not—but she wasn’t going to leave the gun loaded. Again, not so naive, after all.

It wouldn’t do her a whole lot of good if he wanted to wrestle the empty gun away from her and find the bullets, but it would buy her time. Better, he supposed she was figuring, than letting him wrestle the gun away from her loaded.

She’d probably just put the bullets in her back pocket. There weren’t a whole lot of other options available.

He heard the gun drop on the debris behind her.

“I know you can pick it up,” she said then. “I know you can get the bullets away from me. But,” she added dryly, “I suppose you’re right. You’re pretty stuck if help comes and I’m laying here in a pool of blood. Wouldn’t be too smart on your part. I just don’t like loaded guns, so let’s not keep it that way. Okay?” She still wasn’t completely trusting him.

“Okay.”

Tentative truce. Fragile, very fragile, he’d guess.

He’d take it.

“They’d know you did it,” she added.

“Yes.”

“You’d go to prison.”

“Definitely.”

“For the rest of your life.”

“Probably.”

“Or get the death sentence.”

“There’s no death sentence in West Virginia.”

She was silent for a long beat. Disappointed, probably.

“You know what they do to guys like you in prison,” she said finally.

In spite of himself, he felt a slow lift to his mouth. He actually almost laughed.

“Are you saying I’m cute?” What the hell was he doing now? Flirting with her?

He heard her blow out an irritated breath. Yeah, she thought he was cute. She probably hadn’t meant to give that away.

“I’m not saying you’re cute,” she said tensely. “I’m not saying you’re anything but on your way to the slammer if you try to hurt me.”

He reminded himself that it wasn’t important what she thought of him as long as she stopped holding a gun on him.

Sobering, he said, “I’m not going to shoot you, Keely. I don’t want to hurt you in any way.”

She was silent for another long stretch.

“I’d probably never find the candles and matches without you,” he tacked on. “Plus, I’d be lonely down here waiting for help.”

“Oh, yeah.”

He heard her move, slowly, carefully, toward one wall of the cellar. Good. Back to business.

“There’s a trunk over here, somewhere,” she said.

He followed the sound of her voice and her footsteps. She’d knelt, was clearing debris from something. He went to work with her, removing boards and bits of plaster and who knew what else.

“This is it,” she said, and her voice rose, confident, hopeful. The trunk lid creaked open and she fumbled around inside. “Here they are.”