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* * *
Edith’s skin was chilled—from the cold shower she’d taken. She had needed it to bring her to her senses, though. She couldn’t believe she’d been ogling River Colton like she had. The man was wounded; he had very obviously been through hell. And she’d been attracted. Of course she had been concerned, too.
But then she’d noticed his body—his hard, muscular body. She had never seen so many sculpted muscles, his slick skin stretched taut over them. Her pulse quickened even now, thinking of them.
Or maybe her pulse was quickening because she was about to unlock the front door of La Bonne Vie. It shouldn’t have been as scary now, in the bright light of morning, as it had been last night, cloaked in darkness and full of shadows.
But now she could see the neglect of the last ten years—in the paint peeling away from the door and the fascia and the window frames. Moss clung to the brick walls. The landscaping was overgrown, vines climbing up the lattice in the windows to cover them—like that black leather patch covered River’s right eye. Trees overhung the roof, some big limbs even lying across it.
She’d told Declan it was going to be a big job to get the place ready. But even she had underestimated the amount of work it would take. She wasn’t going to undo ten years of neglect in a few weeks’ time. But Edith had never shied away from work before. She would get the job done—just like she’d told Declan she would, just like she always did.
Of course working as hard as she did left little time for anything else—like a personal life. Like friends. Like men...
She thought of only one man, though—of River Colton, his chest bare and heaving with his pants for breath. He was the last man with whom she could get involved even if she had time. He had issues she wasn’t prepared to deal with again.
And she had La Bonne Vie.
She slid the key in the lock, but before she turned it, the knob turned—easily. The door hadn’t been locked. But she was certain that she had the night before when they’d all left together.
Why wasn’t it locked now?
“Damn this house...” She pushed open the door but hesitated before stepping inside the foyer. She reached into her purse instead, but her fingers fumbled across notebooks and pens, her wallet and plastic makeup containers. She couldn’t find the hard metal of the pepper spray canister. Then she remembered she had dropped it last night. It was under the basement stairs.
“Not going to do me a whole hell of a lot of good down there,” she murmured.
She peered around before stepping across the threshold. “Hello?” Her voice echoed throughout the two-story foyer—off the marble floor and the ornate plaster ceiling. The paint was peeling off the plaster like it was the exterior and several crystals in the chandelier were shattered, fragments lying on the scratched marble floor.
What were Declan’s plans for the house? Did he want it restored?
From estimating previous projects, she had an idea how much money it would take to return the mansion to its former glory. More than Declan would probably be able to get out of it—if he intended to flip it, like he had other properties. He wasn’t just CEO of SinCo; he’d built the company from the ground up. So maybe he was going to develop the land instead. The three hundred acres might get him a return on his initial investment if he turned it into a housing subdivision or something. But she grimaced at the thought of Uncle Mac’s ranch adjoining a real estate development.
“Hello!” she called out again. Nobody else’s voice echoed back at her. She heard nothing else. No creaking. No footsteps. Not even the scurry of rodent feet.
She shuddered at the thought of dealing with rats or mice. But no doubt animals had moved in when the humans had moved out. That was probably what she’d heard and seen the night before—some nocturnal creature like a raccoon or possum.
She probably hadn’t actually locked the door last night, either. As rattled as she’d been, she might have turned the key the wrong way before pulling it out. Maybe instead of locking it, she had unlocked it.
She expelled a slight breath of relief at the rationalization. Of course she knew that was what she was doing—trying to convince herself that everything was fine. She had been doing that most of her life, so it was second nature to her now.
It was also how she had survived. So she wasn’t about to change her ways. Even though she was only twenty-seven, she was still too set in them. Or maybe, as some people including Mac and Declan had accused her, she was too stubborn to change. Instead of being insulted, she’d always taken that as a compliment.
She was tenacious. As she glanced around the damaged house, she was glad that she was. A less tenacious woman might have turned around and walked back out.
As damaged as the house was, though, it was still apparent how beautiful it had once been. The foyer was quite grand, with French doors opening off it on the left to a parlor and living room and an arched hallway to the right leading to the dining room and kitchen. And in the middle of the space wound a grand staircase to the second-story landing.
She could almost hear the music from the parties she’d heard had been held here. The murmurs of conversation, the tinkling of laughter...
What had it been like to grow up here? It was a far cry from the overcrowded foster home where she and Declan had grown up. Was that why Declan had bought it? Did it represent some sort of accomplishment to him?
She knew it was important to him. She just didn’t know why. But because it was important, she had to get it ready for him. He couldn’t see it like this or he might be horribly disappointed—in the house and in her.
She turned around again, surveying the damage. “Where do I start?” she murmured.
The kitchen. She would need the plumbing and appliances functioning in order to stay there while she did inventory of the furnishings, and Declan would need it working for his visit, as well. La Bonne Vie was too far from town to order takeout. They would have to be able to prepare their own meals. When he came, he would have to tell her what he intended to do with the estate. Maybe he just hadn’t said yet because he wanted to assess the property in person before he decided.
She passed through the dining room, with its elegant coffered ceiling, to the kitchen. Sunlight worked its way through the vines and grime covering the many windows to gleam off the stainless steel counters that looked like they had begun to rust. The wooden floor had buckled near where the sink must have leaked. The doors to that cabinet stood open, as if they’d rotted off their hinges. She could smell the dankness of water damage and mold.
She would need a plumber for certain and definitely a carpenter. She moved toward the stove, about to check the gas, when she heard the noises again. The basement steps creaked as if beneath someone’s weight.
Instinctively she reached for her purse again, but then remembered the pepper spray was gone. So she reached instead for the metal pot holder dangling over the island, and she grabbed a heavy iron skillet. Declan had taught her how to swing a bat. She suspected this wouldn’t be much different.
It would do for protection.
Drawing in a deep breath, she opened that basement door again. But she didn’t see anything this time. Was it just the sounds of a neglected house settling into disrepair?
Something scraped across cement, and she knew it was more than the house. Something—or somebody—was down there. But she was the only one with a right to be in this house—in Declan’s house.
So she started down the stairs with the frying pan held over her shoulder like a bat. She was ready to swing. But when she reached the bottom step, she couldn’t tell where that scraping noise had come from.
It was farther away than the stairs, than the utility room. She had no idea how big the basement was or where the dark hallway might lead. She needed more than the frying pan. So she moved around the stairwell until she stood beneath it. Cobwebs brushed across her face and clung to her hair, but she felt around in the shadows until she found it—the can of pepper spray.
Its metal was dented and dirtied with dust. As she reached for it, she noticed a bright patch of color lying in the dirt next to it. She picked up the piece of pink lace along with the can. The handkerchief must not have rolled around in the dirt like the pepper spray because it wasn’t nearly as dirty.
Where had it come from?
She doubted River had had it on him the night before. But Mac could have; it might belong to the woman he’d started dating, Evelyn. Edith had met her at Thorne’s wedding. She dropped it into her purse so she could ask him about it later. But she held on to the pepper spray yet because she heard that noise again—that scraping noise...
Someone else was down here. This time Edith would find the intruder and deal with him once and for all.
* * *
Why had it taken ten years after seizing the estate for the FBI to sell it? Why now? For a decade, it had sat empty—abandoned.
Now there were too damn many people coming in and out, poking around.
Trembling fingers reached for the volume on the speakers, turning them down. It wouldn’t do for anyone to hear that echo—of that damn scraping noise.
What the hell was going on?
The person didn’t tremble with fear but with rage. With fury.
Those shaking fingers reached for other things now—for the gun lying atop an old bureau. Or the knife...
Even from down here, in one of the secret rooms, someone might be able to hear a gunshot. And if they came to investigate...
He or she would have to die with whoever was investigating now. That scraping sound was against one of the walls of the secret room. Too close.
So close that whoever it was might accidentally trip the switch to open the door. And if they did that, they would have to die.
The person picked up the knife and gripped it tightly. Yes, it would have to be the knife.
It would be quick and quiet. And there were other rooms where a body could be hidden...where it might never be found.
Chapter 5 (#uc4f71e6a-1e93-580d-849c-83f28c2e0100)
Excitement coursed through River. He was so glad he’d rushed over to the estate while Edith had been in the shower at Mac’s, so he’d had time to investigate before she showed up. This had to be one of them—one of Livia’s secret rooms. The wall wasn’t thick enough to be an exterior one. It wouldn’t have been installed to support anything, either. He’d found it at the back of the wine cellar. Maybe it was just a place to store more expensive bottles.
But Livia wouldn’t have hidden those. If she had anything of value or beauty, she had put it on display. She’d only hidden her dirty money and her secrets and the evidence that had eventually put her away.
His paternity was one of those. Who was his father that Livia had hidden his identity? One of the drug dealers or human traffickers with whom she’d associated?
The thought turned River’s stomach. He pulled the crowbar back from the wall. He’d been shoving its end between the bricks of the cement wall, trying to get them to budge. He hadn’t wanted to knock them down; he suspected instead that one of the cracks between the blocks hid a lever—something that would open the entire wall.
He could see where the dust on the ground had been disturbed around it. Maybe the FBI had done it when they’d searched the house again. But that had been a few months ago, long enough for the dust to have settled again.
Unless it kept getting disturbed.
Edith might have seen something—someone—the night before. If she hadn’t screamed...
If he hadn’t rushed in when he had...
Would that person have done something to her? Hurt her?
His stomach flipped again at the thought of her being in danger or worse yet, hurt. He had to make certain that didn’t happen. And the best way to do that would be to find that person wherever he was hiding.
Whatever he was hiding...
River had had enough of secrets. It was time to learn the truth—no matter how horrible that might be. He lifted the crowbar to the wall again. Just as he began to swing the tip toward what looked to be a bit of metal sticking out between the blocks, he heard it.
The scrape of shoes against the concrete and a soft gasp. He dropped the crowbar and whirled around to face Edith. She had her can of pepper spray grasped tightly in one hand and a frying pan in the other.
“Are you going to blind me or cook me?” he asked.
“You’re lucky I didn’t spray you or hit you,” she said with a snort of disgust. “What the hell are you doing down here again?”
Feigning surprise, he lifted a brow. “I’m checking out the house like I told you I would last night.”
“And I told you that wasn’t necessary,” she said.
“I promised Mac that I’d make sure you’d be safe here,” he said, which wasn’t exactly a lie. They’d all talked about his coming back the next morning to check the place out. “I wanted to make sure there really wasn’t anyone else in here.”
Her big, dark eyes narrowed as she studied his face. “Seems funny the only person I ever actually find inside is you. Why do you keep showing up here?”
If he told her the truth, that he was looking for information, she’d probably toss him out and never allow him back inside. So despite how much he hated them, he’d actually have to keep a secret of his own.
It wasn’t the only one he was keeping, though. There were things that had happened while he’d been deployed that he couldn’t talk about—even if he’d wanted to. He was honor bound to his country and his fellow soldiers. He wasn’t honor bound to Edith.
Something else bound him to her, though—a desire that quickened his pulse and heated his blood every time he was near her. And he wasn’t near enough. He stepped closer to her and lowered his voice as he finally answered her question. “You,” he said. “You’re the reason I keep showing up here.”
Her full lips parted on a soft gasp, and her eyes widened again. “Are you flirting with me?” she asked.
Like her uncle, she was straightforward. He appreciated that. Hell, he appreciated entirely too much about her—like her body and her face and her voice and her sexy-as-sin scent.
He laughed and touched the scars on the right side of his face. “Like you’d be interested in me...”
She gasped again, but it was his name that slipped out between her lush lips. “River!”
“It’s fine,” he assured her. “I’m not looking for pity.” That would be a hell of a lot easier to find, though. He’d just have to go into town or to a family function. They all looked at him like that.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
And he tensed. She wasn’t just straightforward. She was smart, too.
She gestured at the crowbar he’d dropped. “I heard you scraping at something.”
He shrugged. “I was just killing some spiders.”
Her eyes were still narrowed. “With a crowbar? What do you swat a fly with? A shovel?”
“The crowbar was handy,” he said. “And the spiders were big.”
She shuddered in revulsion. She wore more clothes than she had last night or this morning. Now she had on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt—probably because of the bugs and spiders she’d known would be in the house. She glanced around the basement. “That’s all you found down here?”
“I found some rats and a squirrel.” But he knew he’d been close to finding something else. If he’d hit that latch in the wall, he might have opened one of his mother’s secret rooms. He might have found some of her secrets. “Oh, and a snake, too.”
She shuddered again. “Let’s go upstairs, then,” she said. And she hurried down the hall toward the stairs.
He appreciated following her, appreciated the curve of her hips in her jeans, and appreciated how her butt moved as she climbed the steps. Her legs were long and toned—probably from the running. She was slender but not so slender that she didn’t have lush curves.
When she reached the top, she glanced back at him—as if she’d been aware of his staring. As if she’d felt it.
He wanted to touch her, so badly that he curled his fingers into his palms. She was already leery of him. He had to be careful.
But he found himself admitting, “I am looking for something...”
She tensed now. “What?”
“A job,” he said.
“I thought you’ve been working with Uncle Mac on the ranch,” she said.
He nodded. “But like I told you, I’m not looking for pity. And I think that’s the only reason he’s made work for me. Thorne really runs the place. They don’t need me.”
That was true. They didn’t. Nobody did. He’d been gone ten years and they’d all functioned just fine without him. He really had no reason to stay in Shadow Creek—except that he had no place else to go.
He wasn’t about to feel sorry for himself, though. He hadn’t lost nearly as much as some people had. “But I need to do something...” Like find out who the hell his father was. “And it looks like you need a lot done around here.”
Her dark eyes widened, and she blinked her long, thick lashes. “You want to work here? For me?”
