скачать книгу бесплатно
Startled, Willow dropped the flashlight from her hand. The clatter echoed through the massive room.
“Hello?” She tried to project her voice, but fear made it tiny. She almost couldn’t hear it herself over the rain and rumble of thunder.
Just as she bent forward for the light, a strong arm snaked around her neck, forcing her back against a hard wall of muscle and heat that she recognized as human...and huge.
The size and strength of her attacker told her it had to be a man, but she was too busy trying not to wet her pants to figure out more than that.
The arm around her neck tightened, almost cutting off her air. Then she felt the man’s face near hers, his breath harsh in her ear. “Want to explain what you’re doing in my house?”
* * *
Tate Kingston felt a surge of adrenaline like he hadn’t felt in years.
He’d thought there was a burglar. When he first heard the sounds, he knew they didn’t belong in the house where he’d lived his entire life. His brain had automatically drifted down dark alleys with nefarious characters. Not surprising for a horror fiction author.
Then again, he’d never experienced an intruder in this house. Just to be sure, he’d slowly made his way down the back stairs. Spying what he thought was a young man, he stalked him as he came into the center rotunda. A teenager, he’d thought. Maybe someone who’d been dared to sneak inside Sabatini House, the place of legends.
Instead, Tate found a woman pressed against him in his tight grip.
She came only to the hollow of his throat, even though she had to be taller than average. She froze in fear. Not that he blamed her. He’d be scared stiff, too, if he’d just broken into what he assumed to be an empty house.
Only this one was occupied.
He pressed his forearm down against her collarbone, careful to avoid the more fragile area of her neck. Though his knowledge of this hold was completely cerebral, he wanted to instill simple fear. Not find himself with a lawsuit on his hands.
“I asked you a question,” he said, letting his voice drop even deeper. He carefully emphasized every word. “What are you doing in my house?”
“Your house?” she squeaked, trying to get her words out even though he could tell she was short of breath. From fear? Good. When she walked back out that door, he didn’t want her or her friends to even think about coming back here.
“What are you talking about?” she gasped.
He loosened his hold, giving the impression of leniency even though he had no intention of giving in to whatever she wanted. But if he wanted answers, he needed her to talk. “How about you answer the questions?” he demanded. “Who are you?”
Her sudden lunge forward took him by surprise. He loosened his grip and let her go, not wanting to injure her just to keep her contained. After all, she couldn’t escape. There wasn’t a place in this house he couldn’t find her.
But she went only as far as the stairs, sinking down to grab her flashlight. From her crouch against the railing she let the beam slowly travel up the length of him. “You can’t be Mr. Kingston,” she breathed as the light paused right below his face.
“Clearly I am.”
“No...” That breathless quality distracted him more than he cared to admit. “Mr. Kingston is...um...”
“Is what?”
This time she didn’t answer.
“Look, I don’t care why you’re here. But if you leave right now, I won’t contact the police.”
Behind her flashlight he could barely make out a frown.
“But I’m supposed to be here,” she said.
What? “I don’t think so.”
“I am,” she insisted, her voice quickly firming up. “I’m the new housekeeper.”
For a moment Tate’s very active brain froze. Somehow this scenario had never occurred to him. “Absolutely not.”
Now it was her turn to ask. “Why?”
“You cannot be my new housekeeper.”
Murdoch would not have done that to me.
Tate let his own powerful flashlight travel up her body, till the beam hit her full in the face. His author brain kicked in automatically, narrating the view. Pale, creamy skin. Hair that glinted fire, even in the strong light. And a thin, soaked T-shirt that outlined her curves perfectly beneath an open rain jacket.
She eased to her feet, blinking to adjust her sight. “I am the new housekeeper,” she insisted. “Murdoch hired me.”
“You can’t be. The new housekeeper is a man. Will Harden.”
She slapped her hand on her hip. “Uh, no. It’s me. Willow Harden.”
Damn Murdoch.
“I know I was supposed to be here earlier,” she explained, “but things got pretty complicated with the storm moving in early. The power was out here and I worried, um, that you were okay.”
“As you can see, I’m neither old nor in need of assistance.” Yet. Though some days he felt every one of his thirty-eight years and more. He ignored the discomfort of that thought and continued, “I’m perfectly prepared for the weather. I certainly didn’t need you to break into my house to check on me.”
“I didn’t break in. Murdoch gave me the keys.”
Of course he did. “And the codes?”
“Yes, sir.”
As her voice grew small, Tate recognized that the bully method of questioning wasn’t helping anything. Obviously he’d been fed incorrect information on purpose. Murdoch knew Tate would view a woman as a threat. An unwanted intrusion to a life spent making amends for his mistakes. Deadly mistakes.
Heck, that was probably why Murdoch had done it. He’d been different since finding his daughter again, since deciding to visit her for the first time. But that didn’t mean Tate had to live with his friend’s decisions.
This woman had to go.
They stood there in the dark, flashlights trained on each other like weapons. Tate would have found the situation amusing if he wasn’t faced with the complications she represented. There was no way he could tolerate this intrusion.
“Well, I appreciate your concern, Ms. Harden—”
“Willow.”
“—but I’m well equipped for this kind of thing. If you’re a Savannah native, you know that the power goes out on these islands quite easily. I have lanterns, a portable cookstove, stored water, a generator—everything I need.”
Her light dipped. Tate wondered what she was thinking. Why the hell would Murdoch hire a woman to come in and take care of Sabatini House while he visited his new grandchild? Granted, Tate hadn’t specified gender when they’d discussed Murdoch’s stand-in, but it should have been a given considering his history.
When she didn’t speak further, he figured he needed to spell it out. “Well, Willow, since I’m not what you wanted. And you aren’t what I...”
He caught the lift of one eyebrow. Somehow he could read the warning for him to choose his words carefully. The fact that he understood that unspoken communication, and the earlier joy that had streaked through his body as he’d been pressed against her softness, convinced him she definitely had to go.
Joy was the last thing he deserved...and having her in this house would be nothing more than a temptation.
He continued carefully, “You aren’t what I expected, so I think it would be best if we called this whole thing off. Don’t you?”
He wasn’t certain, but he thought she mumbled Are you sure about that? under her breath. The sound of the rain doubling down outside made it hard to tell.
“Obviously Murdoch made a mistake,” he said.
“Nooo,” she countered, shaking her head. “No, he didn’t. He was very specific in his instructions. And after all this time, he knew I would follow them to the letter.”
Tate tried to squelch his curiosity, but the words slipped out anyway. “How long have you known Murdoch?”
He could see her muscles loosen a little, softening her stance. “We met early last year. He’s such a sweet man, once he lets you get to know him.”
That’s exactly how Tate would describe the man who’d been with him through the last twenty years of self-imposed exile from most of the world. Murdoch had been with him through the death of both his parents, the sale of his first book, but mostly he’d been there for Tate as he dealt with the grief that seemed never-ending. Murdoch had mentioned on more than one occasion that Tate’s lifestyle wasn’t healthy, but that simple opinion wouldn’t change the choices Tate had made.
Couldn’t change them.
Then Murdoch had said he was leaving...and now here Tate was facing the only woman to be in this house since his mother died.
“Look,” she said, taking a step closer. “Murdoch would never forgive me if I walked away after all of the trouble he went through to make sure this place was taken care of while he was gone. Please. Just give me a chance.”
Tate let his eyelids slide shut. The first thing that came to mind weren’t words, as was often the case, but the memory of her body against his. The close heat. The sweet scent. The softness of curves.
Nope. Bad idea. He crossed his arms over his chest, knowing full well his bulk could be intimidating.
Probably reading the rejection in his stance, Willow continued, “Besides, how will you hire someone else? Phone calls. Interviews. How many will it take before you find the right person?”
“No.”
No more intrusion. Anger rose as Tate tried to think, quickly. This woman was way too smart, and well-armed with info. Uneasiness slithered through him as he wondered what else Murdoch might have told her.
But the aggression in his tone didn’t seem to faze her. “Or you could just accept the inevitable,” she continued.
“And that is?”
“Without me, you’re gonna have a ton of people tromping all through this place. From what Murdoch said, that’s not something you would enjoy.”
“Or I could settle for just you?”
He caught her sneaky smile on the outer edge of his flashlight glow. Then she asked, “Besides, have you driven in this stuff recently?” She flicked the flashlight toward one of the massive windows behind him. “I thought I was going to die trying to get here. I have no desire to go back out into this weather.”
“A little melodramatic, aren’t you?” Even he cringed at his condescending tone. Defensiveness didn’t sit well on him.
But on her... The way she stiffened her spine put other attributes on display. Tate tried not to notice.
“Are you kidding me?” she demanded. “You obviously haven’t tried driving a tiny car over that bridge in fifty-mile-an-hour wind gusts. Have you?”
Tate felt himself automatically shut down. No, he hadn’t driven in this kind of weather...not for many, many years. And he never would. Certainly not over the narrow bridge that connected the island to the mainland.
“I made a lot of effort to get here. It’s at least common courtesy to let me try to do the job.”
Tate clenched his jaw, frustration tightening his tone. “If you stay, you won’t find courtesy to be one of my strong points.”
This time she didn’t respond, but adopted a stance that mimicked his own. In that moment, Tate recognized her.
Oh, he’d never met her before, but he’d described her type over and over in his work. She was the embodiment of the heroines he wrote about in his horror stories. Women with grit, determination and smarts who made it out alive when lesser mortals rarely survived.
That tingling awareness he’d been doing his best to ignore multiplied. All the more reason to get her out of here.
A flash of white lit the room as lightning suddenly streaked across the night sky. Tate saw her jaw clench and shoulders straighten as she braced herself. Admirable. It was a little clue that told him a lot about her. Heck, the fact that she’d made it here in the first place in this weather signified a strength and determination some people never displayed in their lifetime.
The flash was followed closely by a hard clap of thunder. The storm was picking up again. But it was just starting for Tate.
Somehow he knew giving in on this point meant he would lose this battle...and lose the war. But she was right. As a long roll of thunder shook the house, he knew he couldn’t send her back out in this weather. His own feelings about her presence aside, he refused to make an impulsive decision that cost someone their life.
Again.
“Let me show you to a room, then.”
Two (#uaf29149e-ccf7-505c-b22d-47c96151c2b0)
At least he had let her stay instead of forcing her back out into the weather.
The consolation was mild as her overactive brain was assaulted with emotions. First the drive and the storm, then the dark house, and now being led up this magnificent staircase by a tall, brooding man carrying an old-fashioned lantern. If she wanted atmosphere, she’d received it in abundance.
Actually, more than she’d hoped for.
She shivered, though she couldn’t tell if it was because of her still-damp shirt or the continued uncertainty of this entire situation.
Tate led her only a short way down the hall before pausing beside a closed door. As with the ones she’d seen downstairs, there were intricate carvings, swirls and maybe leaves and vines that gave the wood dimension. Even in the gloom it was gorgeous. “This will be your room for the night.”
So, he still wouldn’t concede that she was right?
“Where’s yours?” she asked, only to clamp her lips together in regret.
In the light of the lantern she watched one thick, dark brow rise. “I’m in a suite at the end of the hall,” he answered simply.
Right.
The darkened room beyond slowly came to life as Tate lit candles from a fireplace match. Willow stared in awe as the historical setting came to life. A large silver candelabrum on the dresser provided most of the light, with smaller candlesticks dotted around the room. As Tate’s big body moved through the shadows, fear and fascination mingled inside of her.
A four-poster bed with drapes and some kind of fabric topper dominated the space, the white fabric with navy filigree pattern lending to the old-fashioned feel of the room. Add in the tall man with shoulder-length disheveled hair and she had the makings of a regular Wuthering Heights on her hands. The thought sent another shiver over her.
As he turned to look at her, she became all too conscious of her body’s reaction. She’d love to blame it on the cold, but she feared the tightening of her nipples had more to do with the man standing before her than the temperature. She quickly crossed her arms over her chest.
