A Haunting Obsession

What was it about Bonnie that had bewitched him so? About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN Teaser chapter Copyright

What was it about Bonnie that had bewitched him so?

It couldn’t be just her physical beauty. She was lovely...yes....

No, it was something else, something...intangible. A vulnerability perhaps? The thought made him almost laugh. The coolly competent Mrs. Merrick vulnerable? The clever, conniving Mrs. Merrick...?

She was a witch, a sorceress, a caster of spells....

MIRANDA LEE is Australian, living near Sydney. Born and raised in the bush, she was boarding school educated and briefly pursued a classical music career before moving to Sydney and embracing the world of computers. Happily married, with three daughters, she began writing when family commitments kept her at home. She likes to create stories that are believable, modern, fast-paced and sexy. Her interests include reading meaty sagas, doing word puzzles, gambling and going to the movies.

A Haunting Obsession

Miranda Lee

CHAPTER ONE

JORDAN VINE-HALL sat at his large leather-topped desk, drumming the fingers of his right hand and glaring down at the phone. It had taken all of his control not to slam the damned thing down after speaking with that woman. Even now—several seconds later—his temper was still frayed around the edges.

Who did she think she was, treating him like that? Didn’t she know the adage that the customer was always right? Any real-estate agent worth his or her salt would have been fawning all over him, not giving him the proverbial cold shoulder.

OK, so he’d been a bit brusque initially, and he’d probably piqued her undoubtedly feminist nature by saying he’d asked for a salesman. But so what? Her job was to sell him a house, not make snap judgements on his possible chauvinism. She should have hidden her irritation, not snootily told him that she was, in fact, a valued member of Coastal Properties’. sales staff, but if he insisted she would pass him on to one of her male colleagues.

Perhaps he should have let her do just that!

Hell, he had a good mind not to go at all. Let her wait and sweat for nothing. No doubt, underneath, she thought she was on to a sure sale with his having said money was no object. Serve her right if he didn’t turn up. God, she hadn’t even had the decency to crawl a little once she’d known she had money on the line.

A wry but somewhat reluctant half-smile curved one corner of Jordan’s normally serious mouth and he leant back into the deep leather chair, elbows on the padded arm-rests, his long fingers steepled in front of his chest. He supposed he had to admire her for that. It was even a pleasant change in a way. And rather intriguing. He was used to people kowtowing to him, especially women.

Closing his eyes, he tried to put a face to the coolly competent voice and came up with one which looked suspiciously like his mother when she’d been younger, his black-haired, black-eyed beautiful mother, his sleekly sophisticated and treacherously adulterous mother!

Jordan scowled, then snapped forward on his chair, determined to get his mind back on work, and off Mrs Merrick of Coastal Properties. But it was no use. His curiosity over the woman was far too aroused.

Or was it something else?

He frowned, then swore. Yes, dammit. That was it. That was definitely it. Somehow, Mrs Merrick’s voice—or was it her challenging attitude?—had sparked a sexual response in him. God knew how. It was crazy, really. Quite crazy.

But, crazy or not, he couldn’t sit in his damned office another moment. He had to see for himself the face behind the voice, had to see if reality would live up to fantasy.

And if it did?

His conscience stabbed at him as he put on his jacket and felt for his car keys in the pocket. The woman was married. He himself was on the verge of becoming engaged, to a very beautiful young lady who gave him everything he’d ever wanted from a woman. Total attention. Adoration. Sex—when he had time for it. She never complained or demanded. She was sweet and accommodating. She was perfection.

She wouldn’t change if he married her, either. He was confident of that. Erica was one of those females who considered being a wife a career in itself. Exactly his cup of tea.

So what the hell are you doing, jumping up and running off to see some woman, just because she has a sexy voice? You don’t mean to do anything about it, do you? Do you?

Suddenly, he wasn’t at all sure of that, either.

His grimace reflected this highly uncharacteristic inner torment. It wasn’t like him to be unsure of anything. He’d always known exactly what he wanted in life, and was on the verge of having it all.

Now here he was, being besieged by the most ridiculous—and potentially dangerous—impulse. Common sense warned him to buy a weekender from another real-estate agent in Blackrock Beach; there were several listed in the phone book. But somehow common sense had no power against his intense desire to see the woman he’d just hung up on in the flesh. No power at all.

He mocked himself with a dry laugh as he hurried towards the lift. With a bit of luck, Mrs Merrick wouldn’t be anything at all like the coolly beautiful creature she sounded. Voices could be very deceiving. She would probably turn out to be a hard-faced middle-aged hag with about as much sex appeal as Ma Kettle.

Jordan hoped so. He really did.

A glance at his watch showed ten past ten. He’d told her he’d be there by lunchtime. If he put his foot down, he might make it before twelve...

Bonnie heaved a weary sigh, shaking her head as her eyes wandered back to the phone, now lying silent on her desk.

I didn’t handle that at all well, she thought regretfully. I let the man niggle me from the first moment, when he assumed I wasn’t one of the sales staff, merely because I was a woman.

Training had stopped her short of being rude, but there was no denying the coolness in her voice, or the pique behind her offer to transfer him over to one of the men.

Fortunately, he hadn’t called her bluff. She could do with an easy sale to start the week, after spending the whole weekend in bed with a tummy bug. Bonnie had topped the sales figures for the previous month, and had been hoping to repeat the performance for November.

Which meant she could hardly afford to look gift-horses in the mouth, and Mr Moneybags had sounded like a gift-horse.

What was his name, now? Vine-Hall. Yes, that was it. Vine-Hall. The name suited him. Pompous and arrogant!

‘That’s quite a scowl, love. Are you sure you should have come back to work this morning?’

Bonnie smiled up at the tall, lean man standing beside her desk. Gary was the only one of her male colleagues not at all undermined by her recent sales success. Forty-five and happily married, he was a genuinely nice man with a very relaxed personality and no ambition to do anything but make enough money to live on. Which he did nicely.

‘I couldn’t bear another minute in that house by myself,’ she answered truthfully. She hadn’t realised till yesterday how much she hated the place, forty-eight hours without a break within its walls bringing back that claustrophobic feeling of imprisonment which had swamped her during the last year of her three-year marriage.

Gary was frowning down at her. ‘You’re awfully pale,’ he said. ‘And you have dark rings under your eyes. Come on, I think you could do with a fortifying cup of coffee.’

‘I’ll go for that,’ she said, and stood up to accompany Gary down to the back room and the coffee-machine.

‘You’ve lost weight as well,’ he said as he went about making coffee for both of them.

‘Now I really like the sound of that.’

‘You’re not fat, Bonnie,’ he chided.

Maybe not, she thought, but having a womanly shape did have its drawbacks. Bonnie had found that in the male-dominated business world of real estate voluptuous curves could be more of a burden than an asset. When buying clothes nowadays, her first consideration was always whether the outfit would minimise her figure, not emphasise it.

The linen suit she was wearing that morning was a typical choice. A bland cream colour, it had a straight but not too tight skirt and a long, gently shaped jacket which could be kept buttoned up without restriction, the deep V-neckline filled modestly with a gold silk camisole the same colour as her hair.

‘I could do with less in certain areas,’ she said ruefully as she took the steaming mug Gary offered her.

‘Not from a man’s point of view.’

A reproachful glance from Bonnie only brought a nonchalant shrug. ‘I might be married, but I can still look.’

‘Just so long as that’s all you do.’

‘I’m not Neil, love.’

Bonnie sighed and sipped her coffee.

‘Is he still bothering you?’ Gary asked.

‘Not for the moment.’ He’d temporarily stopped asking her out, but only after she’d turned him down a zillion times. But Neil was the persistent type. He was also under the illusion that a widow was always a good mark, especially a young, attractive one who, to all intents and purposes, had not had a man in her bed for three years.

‘I’d watch him if I were you,’ Gary murmured.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I’ve come across blokes like Neil before. They don’t like losing... at anything.’

Bonnie nodded wryly. ‘So I’ve gathered.’

‘He was most put out at the meeting this morning when the boss spent more time fussing over your health than praising him for his weekend sales.’

‘Yes, I noticed that.’

‘Edgar did too, and he didn’t seem too happy with Neil’s attitude. Why do you think he kept him back afterwards?’

Bonnie grimaced. ‘He’ll only make things worse if he says anything.’

‘My feelings exactly. That’s why I thought I’d give you a quiet warning. Neil’s not likely to take a dressing-down too well. Thankfully, he’s heading the figures this month so far. It might be better if he stays there,’ Gary finished with a meaningful look.

Bonnie blinked her astonishment. ‘Are you suggesting I deliberately let him win?’

‘It might be the wisest course of action. Edgar isn’t going to fire Neil, love. He’s a top salesman. Life could get very awkward for you around here, however, if you keep making our young stud feel a failure in more ways than one. He’s only a baby, you know, and not used to rejection in the female department.’

‘He’s twenty-five, same as me,’ she grumbled. ‘About time he grew up a bit: Despite Gary’s suggestion sounding sensible, something very strong within Bonnie rebelled at the idea of holding back in deference to male ego. She’d spent her entire marriage doing that, and the damage to her self-esteem had been enormous. It went against the grain just to let Neil win. It really did!

Gary took her silence for agreement. ‘You could waste a nice lot of time trying to sell that dear old house which just came on the listings this morning. You know... the one perched on the bluff between here and Cairncross Bay.’

‘That monstrosity! It would take a magic wand to sell that place!’

Gary laughed. ‘Exactly. I’ve actually got the photo in my pocket here, since it’s my unenviable job to write a spiel for the window display. How shall I describe it?’ he joked as he held it out in front of him. ‘A handyman’s delight?’

She glanced down at it and shook her head. Lord, it looked like something out of The Munsters! Two-storeyed and wooden, the house had odd turret-like projections, large black chimneys, and small pokey windows. Add to that its ramshackle condition and the overgrown garden surrounding it, and images of ghosts weren’t far away.

Edgar had told them it was reputedly haunted. Bonnie didn’t wonder. And shuddered anew.

‘Who on earth is going to buy a dump like that?’ she mused aloud as she stared down at it.

‘An eccentric recluse with a passion for Frankenstein?’ came Gary’s mocking suggestion.

‘Very funny. We could have easily unloaded it to a developer for the fifteen fantastic acres it’s sitting on if it hadn’t been for that stupid covenant on the title stipulating that the house and land have to remain intact.’

‘True,’ Gary agreed drily. ‘We might even have gotten the ridiculous three hundred thousand they’re asking for it.’

‘Edgar said they might accept two hundred and fifty thousand.’

The house was a deceased estate, the current owner having inherited it from his aunt who’d dropped dead of a stroke in a local supermarket only the previous week. A Mrs McClelland. Seventy-five years old and batty as they came, according to the nephew and heir. He’d informed Edgar it was just as well she didn’t die in the house because no one would have found her for months. Apparently she was something of a hermit. Refused to leave the place because she said the spirits of her dead husband and baby lived there. The nephew wanted the place sold as quickly as possible. He’d cleared away all the personal effects, cutlery, crockery and such, but was willing to sell the rest as was, with the furniture inclusive.

If the furniture was anything like the house, Bonnie thought ruefully, it would hardly be a selling factor.

‘No one could sell this place for that price,’ she pronounced firmly.

‘Just the thing, then,’ Gary said drily, ‘to waste your time and ensure your figures don’t pass Neil’s. Daphne has the keys at Reception. Why don’t you fill in the morning having a look at it?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Gary. I’m not sure I could stomach just letting Neil win.’

‘Suit yourself. But don’t say you haven’t been warned.’

Gary had just wandered off back to his desk when the object of their discussion strode into the backroom.

There was no doubt Neil was handsome, Bonnie conceded. But brother, did he know it. A real peacock, he was always preening himself by combing his thick blond hair or straightening the loud ties he favoured. On spotting her standing by the coffee-machine, his blue eyes narrowed. He stared, first at her body, and then at her hair.

Bonnie groaned silently, regretting her decision to leave her hair half down that day. Over the years, her hair had caused her as much, perhaps even more trouble than her figure. A flamboyant gold colour, its naturally tight curls made it impossible to style. She hated it short yet, long, it grew in a wild spiralled abundance which, when left totally out, gave her an untamed look that men were quick to misinterpret.

‘I suppose I should have guessed,’ came Neil’s cryptic mutter as he stalked over to snatch a mug down out of the automatic dispenser.

‘Guessed what?’

“That you’re having it off with the boss.’

Bonnie was speechless. OK, so Edgar Gray was a womaniser. Everyone in Blackrock Beach knew that. Even at fifty, with his receding hairline and spreading waistline, he still had considerable success with the opposite sex. Women liked him and he had three ex-wives to prove it. Even Bonnie liked him, but only as her boss. Edgar had always had the good sense not to cross the invisible line she had drawn up the day he’d hired her.

‘You might think you can pull the wool over everyone else’s eyes around here with your cool touch me-not act,’ Neil swept on nastily, ‘but I used to drink at the same pub as your hubby on a Friday night, and I know just what you are. He used to worry himself sick that you were seeing men behind his back. Men, honey. Not a man. You’re a closet nympho, Bonnie Merrick. I know it and you know it. I just didn’t think you’d sleep with an old geyser like Edgar. I thought a hot-looking bird like yourself would be more selective.’

All the blood had drained from Bonnie’s face. She tried to say something, tried to deny Neil’s appalling accusations, but she could not seem to find her voice.

Neil laughed at her shocked expression. ‘You’ve got it down pat, haven’t you? That wide-eyed innocent look. I’ll bet you fooled your husband real good to begin with, just like you fooled me here for a while. You know, I always wondered why Edgar hired you, a girl with no sales experience at all. But you had the experience he was looking for, didn’t you?’

‘You’re mad!’ she blurted out. ‘Do you realise if I told Edgar what you’ve just said he’d fire you?’

‘You think so, honey? I doubt it. Even if by some remote possibility I was wrong, dear old Edgar would be so flattered. After I apologised sincerely then told him it was all an honest enough mistake, he’d give me another lecture while underneath he’d be cock-a-hoop that people still thought he was such a stud.’

‘You’re insane!’

‘Heck, no, honey, I’ve never been saner. I knew there had to be a good reason why you kept turning me down. Now I know why. It’s nothing personal. It’s just business, isn’t it? I reckon I’ve also finally figured out how come you’ve become such a whiz at selling houses. When a guy buys a place from you, he gets a bonus, doesn’t he? One thing I’d like to know, though: do you screw the sucker before he signs on the dotted line or after?’

Bonnie almost threw her coffee all over him. At the last second, she gave him a contemptuous glare then whirled away to pour it down the sink. Without looking back, she marched back to her desk where she snatched up her bag and car keys before sweeping on to Reception.

‘Daphne, has Edgar given you the keys to the McClelland place yet?’ she asked the receptionist whose job it was to keep all the keys.

‘Yes, I think so. Yes, here they are. The address is written on the tag. I have no idea where that road is, though, do you?’

‘Edgar gave us all detailed directions so we wouldn’t get lost. Apparently, it’s only five minutes from here but tucked away down a deserted bush track.’

‘Is that where you’re off to now?’

‘Sure is.’

It was only ten-thirty. Mr Plum-in-the-mouth Moneybags Vine-Hall wouldn’t arrive before twelve at the earliest. She’d make sure she was back by then with her best the-client-is-always-right smile in place, plus a possible decision over what she was going to do about Neil.

Meanwhile, she badly needed a breath of fresh air.

‘Going to show it to that man who rang from Sydney a little while ago?’ Daphne enquired eagerly.

‘Good lord, no. No, I’m not expecting him till lunchtime. I should definitely be back by then but if, for some weird and wonderful reason, I’m delayed, look after him for me, will you? His name’s Vine-Hall.’

‘My pleasure,’ Daphne cooed. ‘His voice was yummy.’

Bonnie laughed at her youthful optimism. Daphne was only nineteen. ‘My experience with yummy male telephone voices,’ she informed the bubbly brunette, ‘is that they’re connected to very fat, very bald and very un-yummy men. Mr Vine-Hall, I can assure you, will prove to be a very disappointing specimen of the male species.’

CHAPTER TWO

BONNIE’S frustration was momentarily forgotten the second she stepped out of the office on to the pavement and glanced across the main street to the beach beyond.

Blackrock Beach on a clear sunny day was something to behold. The sparkling blue sea, the clean white sands, the stately Norfolk pines in the foreground, the rugged cliffs curving round at each end of the beach—it was a view bar none. Bonnie had lived most of her life here and she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

Sighing, she turned and strode round to the car park behind the office, wishing as she went that Neil Campion lived somewhere else. Today, he’d moved from being a minor irritation in her life to a major problem. Bonnie wasn’t sure what to do about him yet, but she knew one thing. She wasn’t going to let him win this month’s sales competition. No, siree. The pewter mug for November was going to sit on her mantelpiece alongside October’s if it was the last thing she did.

Her decision to visit the McClelland house this morning was not just to get away from Neil. Neither was it to waste time. She was determined to find some waysome angle—of selling that monstrosity. They had few enough new listings this month and she couldn’t afford to waste a single opportunity.

It was to be thanked for that she hadn’t totally alienated Mr Moneybags earlier on. Imagine having stupidly handed him over to someone else. Daphne would probably have put him through to Neil. Bonnie shuddered at the thought.

Five minutes later, she was turning her Ford Falcon on to the narrow dirt track which led down to the McClelland house, grimacing when a cloud of dust rose from under the wheels to settle over the shiny green paintwork. Darn. Now she would have to take Mr Vine-Hall around in a dirty car. How irritating!

Bonnie automatically eased her foot off the accelerator, which was just as well because the surface was like corrugated iron. The thought of bringing clients down this excuse for a road was daunting enough, but when it came to an abrupt end in front of the oldest, tallest and rustiest pair of iron gates Bonnie had ever seen she just stared in disbelief.

Edgar hadn’t mentioned the gates. Or the crumbling stone wall. Neither were they in the photograph. Bonnie could well understand why. The house beyond was bad enough but, combined with the Count Dracula gates, the whole caboodle would give anyone the willies.

Shaking her head, she climbed out of the car and peered through the rusty rungs at the house itself. Under a bright November sun it didn’t look nearly as spooky as it had in the photograph, but still, it was hardly inviting. The once white walls were a grimy grey, with paint peeling off them. Something green and fungusy was growing all over the roof. The guttering was drooping in places and the garden, if one could call it a garden, was an overgrown disaster area.

A small laugh bubbled up in her throat as she imagined what Mr Vine-Hall would say if she showed him this place as a possible weekender. Still, it did have his two stated requirements. It was sure to have an ocean view from the upstairs windows, and Edgar had said there was a cliff trail somewhere which led down to a small private cove.

Since money was no object, then Mr Moneybags could pour plenty into having the place done up and the grounds restored. Actually, if one had some imagination, it might not look half bad. The house itself had a quirky sense of character which was missing from modern homes. As for the grounds...well, at least there was plenty of them!

Of course, not everyone wanted to live with a couple of ghosts, Bonnie conceded ruefully to herself. Maybe there were three of them, now that the lady of the house had passed away as well.

When the gates creaked alarmingly as she pushed them open, Bonnie decided it was as well she didn’t believe in ghosts. Otherwise coming here alone might have unnerved her.

Actually, she didn’t feel totally calm as she drove the car through the gateway and up to the house. All those small dark windows. Maybe someone was watching her through one of them.

Shrugging off her fanciful thoughts as ridiculous, she climbed out of the car and walked up the three cracked stone steps on to the wide but rickety front veranda. One of the planks creaked ominously underfoot, sending a shiver running down her spine.

Now stop this, she told herself firmly, and, squaring her shoulders, stepped up to the front door. Bonnie resisted the impulse to clang the iron knocker up and down to frighten away anyone or anything that might be inside. Instead, she inserted the large brass key and prepared herself for a fight to get the old lock open.