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FOR a heart-stopping second, Sara’s breath caught in a shocked gasp. The light from the helicopter illuminated a fiery scarlet flow over the ancient stone walls of the castle; they looked as though they were awash with blood.
Another, closer survey revealed the outline of leaves and long ropy stems. The violent colour was merely autumn shades in an ancient vine.
‘Get a grip,’ she muttered, trying to quell a sudden, primitively superstitious sensation. Into her mind popped memories of vampire stories she’d read as a teenager, vivid enough to make her lift uneasy eyes to the mountains surrounding the valley.
This was ridiculous. Since PrinceAlex had been restored to the throne of Illyria some years previously it had become a civilised state, open to the world. Besides, weren’t vampires supposed to live in Rumania? Her mouth tilted in an ironic smile. She’d grown up on a small Pacific island, and her knowledge of their natural habitats was limited to the books she’d borrowed from her mother’s employer.
Anyway, she wasn’t going to be here long; all she had to do was check out three bedrooms and bathrooms and come up with a brilliant plan to redecorate them, one that kept the medieval ambience intact while incorporating modern plumbing.
If only it were that easy, she thought, fear gnawing beneath her ribs. She was desperate to get this commission. Winning the approval of the elegant American heiress who owned the castle might set her career back on track after the disaster of the past year.
Don’t go there, she commanded herself instantly, but pain came rolling in like a grey cloud, smothering everything in the aching misery she knew so well. Sightlessly she stared down at a green lawn sheltered within the castle walls.
If the past months had taught her anything, it was that, no matter what happened, life had to go on.
The chopper touched down with a slight bump. She shivered and blinked, dragging herself out of her sombre recollections. Frowning, she peered into the dusk. She’d known the owner wasn’t going to be there, but she hadn’t expected the castle to be deserted. No lights shone from windows flanked by shutters painted with some heraldic outline.
‘A wolf?’ she muttered.
Yes, it looked like a wolf—ears, teeth and a very red tongue stood out prominently. Very rampant, she thought mordantly; definitely a wolf to be reckoned with! Sensation crawled between her shoulder-blades, setting every sense strumming.
She turned her head to inspect more blank, dark windows climbing a turreted tower. Of course she felt as though she was being watched; that was what the castle had been built to do! It loomed over the valley to guard the trade route through the mountains.
Stop letting it get to you—right now! she ordered herself sturdily, but followed the words with a muffled laugh that sounded too much like a sob. It didn’t matter. The pilot was busy doing whatever helicopter pilots did just after they landed, and he didn’t speak English anyway.
All she needed to finish off this interminable day was the appearance of a servant called Igor!
The door slid back, the noise of the blades assailing her ears, then easing. ‘Madam?’
Ah, a human being—a short, stout man who had butler written all over him. And, far from being an Igor, he was an Englishman, if she’d heard his accent correctly above the roar of the rotors.
Relieved, she smiled and unclipped her seat belt and swung long legs out onto the grass, automatically ducking as he urged her away from the helicopter.
A safe distance from the rotors, he indicated an arched door in the massive stone wall. ‘This way, madam.’ When she hesitated he added, ‘Your luggage will follow.’
He held out his hand for her heavy tote bag. Reluctantly, Sara handed it over.
The door led into a courtyard. Sara could see flowers glimmering in pots, and her tension eased as she drew in a deep breath. Fresh and wholesome, free of the mechanical taint of whatever fuel powered the chopper, the air was still suffused with warmth from the brilliant autumn day. Subduing her foolish fear, Sara straightened her shoulders and followed the butler, determined to give this commission her very best.
The cobblestones came as a surprise, their rounded, uneven surface tossing her off balance.
She recovered quickly, but the man beside her murmured solicitously, ‘Not very far now, madam,’ and indicated another large, solid door, clearly built to repel any invaders foolish enough to attack.
Or keep prisoners well and truly incarcerated, she thought with an inward qualm, irritated with herself for letting her imagination run wild. The American who owned this castle had been totally un-sinister, a perfectly groomed, modern woman who just wanted three bedrooms turned into welcoming, elegant havens for her guests.
The heavy wooden door, armoured with an impressive medieval lock, opened onto a large stone-flagged hall.
The manservant gave her a polite smile. ‘Please come in. I hope you had a pleasant journey.’
‘Very, thank you,’ Sara said automatically, following him into the castle.
And of course it wasn’t chilly and dank inside—cool, but she’d expected that; very old furniture and artefacts suffered from central heating.
The place was immaculate. No spider webs hung from rafters, nothing gibbered in a corner…
The butler led her across the hall towards yet another forbidding door. Grim, superbly crafted suits of armour lined the walls, their hard, masculine ambience barely tempered by flowers in great urns and bowls. At the other end of the hall a banner was draped from on high. Although muted by age and wear, Sara’s wondering eyes discerned the outline of a wolf.
Her skin tightened. What the hell was she doing here? Her expertise lay in houses, not this kind of architecture, with its overt statement of power and ruthlessness. She’d decorated apartments in London and the South of France, but never anything as old as a castle.
Well, it would be a challenge, and it would look damned good on her CV.
The butler held open another door and led her along a stone passage that had probably served as part of the defensive structure.
To break the oppressive silence, she said brightly, ‘Does the castle have a name?’
‘Why, yes, Miss Milton. The Castle of the Wolf—or, as the locals call it, the Wolf’s Lair.’
Too much! ‘Then the banner in the great hall must be the crest of the original owners?’
‘Indeed it is,’ he said, opening a small door that led into a lift.
She smiled ironically as she followed him into it. Of course the castle had a lift, which its sophisticated American owner would call an elevator. Sara hoped it wasn’t the only concession to the twenty-first century!
Several floors up, the manservant showed her into a room where painted panelling overpowered a four-poster bed, its head- and footboard carved in a delicate tracery of flowers and vines. With restoration it would be charming.
Not so the rest of the room, all gilt and heavy crimson and stark white, the furniture second-rate reproductions. No wonder Mrs Abbot Armitage wanted the rooms redecorated! Whoever had perpetrated this shoddy travesty should be prevented from going anywhere near a room again, Sara thought vigorously.
Still, at least there was no sign of any wolf here. Perhaps Mrs Abbot Armitage didn’t care for wolves in the bedroom.
Sara could only agree.
The manservant indicated a door in the panelling. ‘Your bathroom is through there,’ he told her. ‘If you would like to rest for an hour or so I will return to escort you down to the drawing room for a drink before dinner.’
‘Oh.’ When he looked at her with an expression of mild enquiry she elaborated. ‘I didn’t think there was anyone here.’ She stopped, because that sounded stupid. ‘In residence,’ she amended.
‘Oh, yes,’ was all he said, putting her bag down on a chair before he left.
Frowning, Sara stared at the door as it closed behind him, and decided there must have been more warmth behind the American heiress’s patrician face than she’d suspected. At least she wasn’t to be given a meal to eat in her room, like a Victorian governess!
But, kindness or not, Sara reminded herself that her future depended on delivering a plan for the rooms that would outdo those submitted by other decorators.
A cool shiver of foreboding tightened her skin. She looked around and noticed a casement open to the evening air.
‘Stop dramatising everything!’ she ordered herself sternly, and leaned out.
It was still light; even now, ten years after she’d left Fala’isi, she found the slow twilights of Europe enchanting. The tropical nights of the Pacific had crashed down like a pall, snuffing out the hot, brilliant colours of the island within minutes.
The air was pure, scented with a ripeness that hinted at harvest and full barns. Because the room was above the ramparts, she could look out across the valley. Small dim clusters of lights marked villages, and high on the bulk of the surrounding mountains the few pinpricks must be from isolated farmsteads.
Craning, she saw several windows glowing in one of the castle towers; as she watched, someone walked across them, pulling the curtains closed.
Some primal instinct made her cringe back. Eyes wide and strained, she watched the unknown man—probably the uncommunicative manservant—extinguish the squares of golden light.
Above her glittered stars, the constellations alien. Growing up, she’d learned every star—and had known almost every palm tree and person on the island, she thought wistfully.
Homesickness and something more painful washed over her. However much she loved Fala’isi, there was nothing there for her now, and this was her last chance to retrieve the career that Gabe had ruthlessly derailed.
Her mouth twisted into a grimace. Not that she could trace the swift extinction of her career directly to him—he was far too subtle. But although the nouveau riche might have flocked to patronise a woman who’d been engaged to such a powerful man, any hint that she was a thief would have sent them fleeing.
And hint there must have been. The theft of the necklace, the famous Queen’s Blood, had never reached the media, but her employer had sacked her the moment Gabe had broken their engagement.
The necklace had blighted everything she’d worked for, everything she’d loved. The most precious heirloom of Gabe’s family for a thousand years. For her, she thought starkly, it was cursed.
The only time she’d worn it, at the very grand wedding of a cousin of Gabe’s, a superstitious shudder had iced her spine.
Gabe had put it on her himself, and even the touch of his hands on her shoulders hadn’t been able to warm her. She’d asked too quickly, ‘Who made it?’
‘No one knows. Some experts say it originated from a Scythian hoard,’ Gabe had said, eyes narrowed and intent as he’d settled the heavy chain on her shoulders. ‘They were a nomadic people from the steppes, noted for their cruelty and their magnificent work in gold. The rubies are definitely from Burma.’
She’d watched herself in the mirror, half entranced by the necklace’s beauty, half repelled by its bloody history. It had a presence, an aura made up of much more than the fact that it was beyond price, so rare it couldn’t be insured.
And in spite of her heartfelt, desperate protests, Gabe had been so certain she’d stolen it he’d broken off their engagement in the cruellest way. She’d learned of it from his press release.
Even now she felt sick at the memory of the resulting media uproar, the flashbulbs, the sickening innuendoes, the lies and gossip and jokes. For three months she’d frantically searched for a new job and watched her savings dwindle.
Yet nothing had been as nightmarish as realising that the man who’d wooed her with a savage tenderness that had swept her off her feet had ruthlessly used his power and influence to ruin her life.
She’d loved Gabe so much, and, fool that she was, she’d let herself be convinced that this magnificent man loved her, too. But at the first test of his love it had been revealed to be an illusion. Her only buttress against collapse had been her pride.
And her skill as an interior designer, she reminded herself. She was good, damn it!
Fala’isi was as distant to her as the stars, part of a life long gone. Fortunately, after several months of desperate endeavour, one decorator had agreed to give her a chance. She owed it to him to do this properly, even though he’d made it more than clear that if there was ever the smallest slip-up she’d go. So far he’d watched her closely, but the fact that he’d let her off the leash now must mean that he was learning to trust her.
A knock on the door jerked her out of her unhappy thoughts. ‘Come in,’ she called.
The manservant brought in her suitcase and placed it on a stand.
‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling at him.
He gave a stiff nod. ‘If you need anything, madam, there is a bell-pull,’ he said, and left, closing the door silently behind him.
Rebuffed, Sara caught sight of herself in a mirror and shuddered. She needed a shower and she needed it now. Mourning the forlorn mess her life had become wasn’t getting her anywhere; better to summon her energies and make this a success. And the first thing to go, she thought, should be the bell-pull, long and gold and tasselled in the most vulgar way.
The bathroom was just as depressing as the bedroom, an abomination in mock-Victorian style with gilded taps and a marble tub. And the plumbing—well, it needed first aid.
No, surgery—a major transplant, in fact. Grimly Sara washed in water that was barely lukewarm.
Back in the room she looked around, her frown deepening as she realised that her suitcase had disappeared. Heart thumping, she went across to a large armoire against one wall and, yes, there were her clothes, either stacked on the shelves or hanging. Someone—not the man who’d shown her in, she hoped—had been busy while she’d showered.
Prominently displayed on a hook inside the door were her sleek, ankle-length black skirt, a jetty silk camisole and her discreet, long-sleeved textured top, its transparent black webbed by silver mesh.
Obviously castle owners dressed for dinner. She hadn’t brought high heels, but the skirt was long enough to hide the tops of her black ankle boots.
‘Thank you, whoever you are,’ she said devoutly to the unknown person who’d taken pity on her and hinted at suitable gear.
Once dressed, a quick glance in the mirror revealed that she looked suitably anonymous. She made up with restraint, settling on a faint darkening of her eyes and berry-coloured lipgloss rather than the full armour. She couldn’t afford, she thought cynically, to look like a woman on the make!
Carefully she pulled back her hair, pinning it into a neat, classic chignon at the back.
A tactful knock at the door set her heart slamming in her chest. Calm down, she told herself sternly. No Igor, no vampires; this is a job—and your future depends on it, so go out there and do your best.
The manservant stood back as she came through. ‘This way, madam,’ he said, and took her down in the lift, although not all the way to the bottom floor, then escorted her along another stone corridor.
‘To the parlour,’ he told her in his colourless voice. ‘It is less formal than the drawing room.’
Oh, good, so this wasn’t going to be a formal occasion.
Trying to regulate her heartbeats, she gazed discreetly around for clues to the taste of the owners. In spite of her American client, the original ancestors were still in residence; Sara met the painted eyes of one haughtily beautiful woman and wondered who she was, and why she seemed strangely familiar.
Her companion stopped outside a door and flung it open, announcing, ‘Miss Milton.’
And Sara walked into the nightmare that had haunted her dreams for the past year.
After the tasteless kitsch of her bedroom, the elegant, panelled study came as a shock—but not as much a shock as the man who stood beside the marble Renaissance chimneypiece.
Gabe Considine, the man she’d loved and had been going to marry. Tall, lean, yet powerfully built, clad in the formal black and white of evening clothes, his boldly chiselled features and slashing cheekbones exuding an uncompromising impression of power and authority.
And although not a muscle in his lean, handsome face moved when he saw her, Sara sensed a dark, formidable satisfaction in him that chilled her through to her bones.
For a terrified second every muscle in her body locked into stasis, holding her frozen to the floor.
‘Thank you, Webster,’ Gabe said, his voice cool and autocratic. He waited until the door closed behind the man, then smiled, and drawled, ‘Welcome to my ancestors’ castle, Sara.’
Pride stiffened her spine; pride, and the sick knowledge that a trap had been sprung.
After swallowing, to ease her arid throat, she said thinly, ‘I won’t say it’s a pleasure to be here.’
‘I didn’t expect you to.’ Eyes the colour and warmth of polished steel raked her face, summoned scorching heat to her skin as his gaze drifted downward.
Cynically, Gabe decided that she’d dressed carefully for this. Although her clothes were outwardly demure, the neckline revealed the lovely lines of her throat and her every breath subtly called attention to the curves of the breasts beneath the silver mesh.
As for the straight black skirt, so simple and straight—until she took a step, and the skirt opened just above the knee to showcase a long, elegant leg.
A cold haze of jealousy clouded his brain. According to the firm that was running surveillance on her, she hadn’t gone out with anyone else in the past year, but her salary wasn’t enough to buy clothes like this. Second-hand? Probably; whatever, it didn’t matter.
The classic hairstyle revealed her perfect features, cool and composed except for the luscious mouth, and even that she’d toned down with a mere film of rosy colour. She wore no jewellery at all, yet the overall effect was of a woman confident of her body and her sexuality.
Unbidden memories swamped his mind—of her beneath him, soft and warm and silken, of her little gasping cries as she climaxed around him, the scent of her skin and the silken cloak of her hair, the way her voice changed from crisp confidence to an enchanting husky shyness when he made love to her, the way she laughed—
