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“I’ll bet you never break the rules.”

“I try not to,” she said.

“You use the turn signal even when there aren’t other cars behind you.”

“Yes. And I tip twenty percent, even if the waitress is surly. I don’t cheat on my taxes. Don’t jaywalk. I follow the recipes exactly when I cook,” she admitted.

“No risks. No adventures.”

“I like order.” She took a step towards him. Her voice softened to a whisper that made those solid values resonate with a purely sensual undertone. “I’m not a risk-taker. Sorry if that disappoints you.”

His arm slipped around her slender waist and pulled her snug against him. “Who says I’m disappointed?”

He nuzzled her ear and felt her body respond with a quiver. At this moment, he wanted to give her all the stability her heart desired.

She kissed him with a passion that seemed at odds with her need for order. Messy and wild. And he enjoyed every minute of it. He wanted more.

Breaking away from her, he said, “We should get back to the manor.”

To his bed.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For Cassie Miles, the best part about writing a story set in Eagle County near the Vail ski area is the ready-made excuse to head into the mountains for research. Though the winter snows are great for skiing, her favourite season is autumn when the aspens turn gold.

The rest of the time, Cassie lives in Denver where she takes urban hikes around Cheesman Park, reads a ton and critiques often. Her current plans include a Vespa and a road trip, despite eye- rolling objections from her adult children.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Blake Monroe – This world-famous architect has been hired to oversee the renovations of Beacon Manor and the lighthouse. A widower, he still mourns the death of his wife, Kathleen.

Madeline Douglas – A proper schoolteacher from Boston, she’s hired to be the live-in tutor for Blake’s son. She comes to Raven’s Cliff with secrets of her own.

Duncan Monroe – Blake’s six-year-old son has been diagnosed with high-functioning autism.

Alma Eisen – The Beacon Manor housekeeper was once a foster mother for Madeline.

Dr Teddy Fisher – The Beacon Manor owner whose scientific experiments might have caused an epidemic.

Helen Fisher – A librarian, this old maid resents the wealth of her brother, Teddy.

Perry Wells – Mayor of Raven’s Cliff who lost his daughter on her wedding day.

Beatrice Wells – The Mayor’s wife.

Grant Bridges – The ambitious Assistant District Attorney also coaches the local T-ball team.

Detective Andrei Lagios – Homicide investigator.

Sofia Lagios – Sister of Andrei, recently murdered by the Seaside Strangler.

Detective Joe Curtis – Newly transferred from the LAPD, he works with Lagios.

Alex Gibson – A local fisherman.

Marty Todd – Madeline’s ne’er-do-well brother.

In the Manor with the Millionaire

Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Lee Carr, the world’s greatest gothic writer.

And, as always, to Rick.

Chapter One

“One, two, three…” Duncan Monroe counted the steps as he climbed the stairs, not touching the banister or the wall. “…four, five, six.”

That was how old he was. Six years old.

“Seven, eight, nine.”

Here was where the staircase made a corner, and he could see to the top. Daddy had turned on the light in his bedroom, but there were shadows. Dark, scary shadows. Outside the rain came down and rattled against the windows.

Duncan shivered. Even though this was the middle of summertime, he felt cold on the inside. So cold it made his tummy hurt. Sometimes, when he touched people or things, he got creepy feelings like spider legs running up and down his arms. And he saw stuff. Bad stuff.

But he wasn’t touching anything. His feet were in sneakers. He had on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He shouldn’t be scared.

“Duncan.” His dad called to him. “Are you getting ready for bed?”

“No.” He hadn’t meant to yell. His voice was too loud. He covered his open mouth with both hands. His fingers pushed hard, holding back an even louder yell. His skin tasted like salt. Usually he wore gloves to keep from feeling things.

“Duncan, are you all right?”

His dad hated when Duncan was inappropriate. That’s what his teacher used to call it. Inappropriate behavior. The doctors had other words for him. Trauma. Autism. Hyper-something. They all meant the same thing. He was a freak.

He yanked his hands down to his sides. “I’m okay.”

“Get into your pajamas, buddy. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The shadow at the top of the stairs was as big as a T-Rex with giant, pointy teeth. Duncan wasn’t going there. He turned around on the stairs and quietly counted backward. “Nine, eight, seven…”

He was at the front door of the big house they had just moved into. Though he didn’t like touching doorknobs, he grabbed it and pulled.

Outside, the rain wasn’t too bad. Big, fat drops splashed on the flat stones leading up to the front door. He stuck out his hand to catch them.

He walked out into it. Five steps. Then ten.

The light by the front door didn’t reach very far into the dark. The thunder went boom. He heard the ocean smashing on the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.

He turned around and stared at the big house. On the first floor were four windows and one door, exactly in the middle. Five windows, all exactly the same size, on top. All exactly balanced. He liked that. What he didn’t like was the big, old, wrecked-up tower that Daddy said used to be a lighthouse.

He looked toward it and saw a girl in a long dress and a red cape. She skipped toward the trees in the forest.

She giggled. Not the kind of mean laugh that kids used when they pointed at his gloves and called him Dunk the Skunk. She waved to him as though she wanted to play.

He heard her singing. “She sells seashells by the seashore.”

MADELINE DOUGLAS gripped the steering wheel with both hands and squinted through her glasses at the narrow road winding through the thick Maine forest. Her headlights barely penetrated the rain and fog that had turned the summer night into a dense black shroud.

She opened her window to disperse the condensation on her windshield; the defroster in her ancient Volkswagen station wagon had quit working. This cranky old rattletrap always chose the worst possible moment to be temperamental. If the skies had been clear—the way normal weather in July ought to be—the defrost would have been fine.

How much farther? The man at the service station in Raven’s Cliff where she’d spent her last ten bucks on gas told her that this road led to Beacon Manor. “Can’t miss it,” he’d said.

“We’ll see about that,” she muttered. Thus far, everything about her drive from Boston to this remote fishing village in Maine had gone wrong. An accident with a logging truck had clogged the highway. Then, she’d missed the turnoff and had to backtrack several miles. Then, her cell phone died. And now, the weather from hell.

At five minutes past eight o’clock, she was more than half an hour late for her interview with world-famous architect Blake Monroe. Not to mention that she was a mess. Her green-patterned blouse didn’t go with the bright red cardigan she’d dragged out of her suitcase when the rain started. Her khaki skirt was creased with wrinkles. Her black hair, pulled up in a knot on top of her head, had to be a frizz mop.

Somehow, she had to pull herself together and convince Blake Monroe to hire her as a tutor for his six-year-old son, Duncan, who had been diagnosed with a form of high- functioning autism. Though she had no formal training in handling kids with special needs, Madeline had been a substitute teacher for the past two years in Boston’s inner-city schools. She had first-hand experience with a wide range of behaviors.

She’d convince him. She had to.

If Blake Monroe didn’t hire her, she had a serious problem. With her meager supply of cash spent and her credit cards maxed, she couldn’t even afford a cheap motel room for tonight. Sleeping in her car would be difficult; she’d crammed all her earthly belongings in here, including the potted ficus that sat beside her on the passenger seat.

The rain died down, replaced by gusts of fog that slapped against her windshield like tattered curtains. The tired old engine coughed on the verge of a breakdown as she emerged from the forest.

In the distance, perhaps a half mile away, she saw the glimmer of lights. Beacon Manor. Huge as a fortress, the mansion loomed in the foreboding darkness.

She maneuvered around a sharp curve that circled a stand of trees. On the opposite side, the shoulder of the road vanished into nothingness at the edge of a cliff. A dangerous precipice with no guard rail.

Her headlights shone on a dark-colored SUV parked smack in the middle of the road. His lights were off. There was no way around him.

She cranked the steering wheel hard left—away from the cliff—and slammed on the brake. Though she couldn’t have been going more than twenty miles an hour, her tires skidded on the wet asphalt.

In slow motion, she saw the inevitable collision coming closer, inch by inch. Her brakes screeched. The fog whirled. Her headlights wavered.

Her right fender dinged the rear bumper of the SUV, and she jolted against her seat belt. Though the impact felt minor, the passenger-side airbag deployed against the ficus. Great! Her plant was protected from whiplash.

But not herself. The driver’s-side airbag stayed in place. Like everything else in her life, it was broken.

She slumped over the steering wheel. A nasty, metallic stink from the engine gushed through her open window. A car wreck would have been disaster, and she ought to be grateful that her car wasn’t a crumpled mass. Instead, hot tears burned the insides of her eyelids. In spite of a lifetime of careful plans and hard work, in spite of her best intentions…

A hand reached through the window and grabbed her upper arm. “What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you see me?”

Startled, she stared into the stark face of a smallish man with a goatee. A sheen of moisture accented the hollows beneath his eyes and his angry, distorted snarl.

He shook her. “Don’t think you can run away. You’ll pay for this damage.”

Enough! She shoved open her door, forcing him back. Justified rage shot through her as she leaped from the car into the drizzle. “You’re the one at fault. Look where you’re parked. There’s no way I could get around you.”

“You’re trespassing.” With his left hand, he pulled his collar tight around his throat. His right arm hung loosely at his side. “This is my property.”

Her hopes sank. “Blake Monroe?”

“Monroe? He’s the architect I hired to fix this place up.” His skinny neck craned. Even so, he wasn’t as tall as her own five feet, ten inches. “I own Beacon Manor. I’m Theodore Fisher. Doctor Fisher.”

He announced himself as if she should be impressed, but she’d never heard of him. “All right, Doctor. Let’s take a look at the damage.”

The deep gouge on her fender blended with other scrapes and nicks. Dr. Fisher glanced at the scratch on his SUV, then turned his back on her. Clearly agitated, he walked wide of the two vehicles with tense, jerky steps. His brow furrowed as he peered into the darkness at the edge of the cliff. Watching for something? For someone? As he paced, he muttered under his breath. Though she couldn’t make out the words, he sounded furious.

Madeline didn’t want that crazy anger turned in her direction. Speaking with the measured voice she used to calm a classroom full of second-graders, she said, “We should exchange insurance information.”

“Not necessary,” he snapped.

“I agree.” She wouldn’t bother with this repair, couldn’t afford to have her insurance premiums go up. “I’m willing to forget about this if you are.”

His head swiveled on his neck. He focused intently on her. “Not trying to pull a fast one, are you?”

“Certainly not.” She removed her rain-splattered glasses. His face blurred.

“Why are you here?” he demanded.

“I’m applying for a job as a tutor for Blake Monroe’s son.”

“So you’ll be staying at the Manor. At my house.” Very deliberately, he approached her. “I’ll always know where to find you.”

The wind wailed through the trees, and she heard something else. A voice? Dr. Fisher turned toward the sound. His arm raised. In his right hand, he held an automatic pistol

SHE SELLS seashells…

In her long dress, she was the prettiest girl Duncan had ever seen. Her hair was golden. Her skin was white. She looked like the marble angel on Mama’s gravestone.

“I would like to be your friend,” she said. “My name is Temperance Raven.”

“That’s the name of this town,” Duncan said. “Raven’s Cliff.”

“Named after my father,” she said. “Captain Raven.”

He knew she was telling a lie. The town was founded in 1794. He remembered that date, just as he remembered all numbers. So what if she fibbed? He liked the way she talked, like an accent. “Where are you from?”

“Dover in England.”

They were standing under the trees, and his clothes were soppy. But she hardly seemed wet at all. “Come inside, Temperance. I’ll show you my computer games.”

Maybe he’d even let her win. Her smile was so pretty.

Seashells, seashells. By the seashore.

She held up her hand. “I brought a gift for you.”

Before he could tell her that he never touched anyone or anything with his bare hands, she placed a glowing white shell on the ground before him. “It’s for you, Duncan.”

If he didn’t pick it up, she’d think he was scared. Then she’d laugh at him and run away. So, he leaned down and grabbed the shell. It burned his hand. He couldn’t let go. Shivers ran up his arm. There was a roar inside his head.

“Temperance.” He gasped.

“I am here, Duncan. I will always be here for you.”

His eyes closed and he fell to the ground. In his mind, he saw a whole different place. A different time: Sunset. He was at the bottom of the cliff, near the rocks that stuck out into the waves.

He moaned and tried to get up. Something very bad had happened in this place and time, something that had to do with the shell.…

He saw a pretty lady with curly black hair. Sofia, her name was Sofia. She had on a long white dress, kind of like the one Temperance wore, and she was lying on the rocks. Duncan felt her fear. Inside his head, he heard her silent screams for help, but she was too weak to move. Couldn’t even lift a finger.

Someone else chanted. In a low voice, he sang about the sea. The dangers of the sea. The curse of the sea.

Duncan couldn’t see his face. But he knew. This man was very bad. Very strong. Very mean. He put a necklace of seashells over Sofia’s head.

“No,” Duncan cried out. “Stop him. No.”

The bad man pulled the necklace tighter and tighter. He twisted hard. Duncan felt the shells bite into his own throat. He couldn’t breathe.

Lying on the wet grasses, he shook and shook. He was crying. He heard grunts and whimpers, and he knew the sounds were coming from him.

His eyes opened.

There was a lady kneeling beside him. She wore glasses. Her hair was pulled back, but some had got loose. It was black and curly. She looked kind of like Sofia. He whispered the name. “Sofia?”

“My name is Madeline,” she said, reaching toward him. “Are you—”

“Don’t,” he yelled. “Don’t touch me. Never touch.”

She held up both hands. “Okay. Whatever you say. You’re Duncan, right?”

He sat up and looked around for Temperance. She was gone. But he still held the shell in his hand. It was a warning. Temperance had warned him about the bad man.

He scrambled to his feet. Where was Temperance? Where was his friend? “She sells seashells…”

“By the seashore.” The lady smiled and stood beside him. She was tall for a girl. “She sells seashells.”

“By the seashore,” he said.

She pointed. “Do you see that light over there? I’ll bet that’s your father’s flashlight.”

“He’s going to be mad. I was inappropriate.”

Madeline looked down at the sopping-wet boy in his jeans and T-shirt. A terrible sadness emanated from this child. She longed to cuddle him in her arms and reassure him, but she’d promised not to touch.

“There’s nothing wrong with being inappropriate,” she said. “I’ve often been that way myself.”

He stared up at her. “Are you a freak?”

“Absolutely.” She took off her glasses, tried wiping the lenses on her damp shirt and gave up, stowing them in the pocket of her skirt. “It takes someone courageous to be different. I think you’re very brave, Duncan.”

The hint of a smile curved his mouth. “You do?”

“Very brave indeed.” She bobbed her head. “Let’s find your father.”

When the boy took off running toward the flashlight’s beacon, Madeline had a hard time keeping up. The two- inch heels on the beige leather pumps she’d worn to create a professional appearance for her interview made divots in the rain-soaked earth.

The flashlight’s beam wavered, then charged in their direction. In seconds, a tall man in a hooded rain poncho was upon them. He held out his arms to Duncan, but the boy stopped a few yards away and folded his arms across his skinny torso. “I’m okay, Daddy.”

“Thank God,” his father murmured. “I was worried.”

“I’m okay,” Duncan shouted.

Blake Monroe dropped to one knee. He reached toward his son. Without touching the boy, he caressed the air around him with such poignancy that Madeline’s heart ached.

Before she’d set out on this journey, she’d taken a couple of minutes to check out Blake Monroe on the Internet. An internationally renowned architect and designer, he’d worked in Berlin, Paris and all over the United States, most notably on historic renovations and exclusive boutique hotels. His international fame was somewhat intimidating, but right now he was a frightened parent whose only concern was the safety of his child.

Blake stood, whipped off his poncho and dropped it around his son’s shoulders.

When he turned toward her, a flash of lightning illuminated his high cheekbones and the sharp line of his jaw. Even without her glasses, she realized that he was one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen.

The rain started up with renewed fury, lashing against his broad shoulders, but he didn’t cower the way she did. His powerful presence suggested a strength that could match the raging storm. His fiery gaze met her eyes, and a sizzle penetrated her cold, wet body.

“Who are you?”

“Madeline Douglas. I’m here about the teaching position.”

“What were you doing out here with my son?”

There was an unmistakable accusation in his question. He blamed her? Did he think she’d lured Duncan out of the house in this storm?

Fumbling in her pocket, she found her glasses and stuck them onto her nose, wishing she had a ten-inch-thick shield of bulletproof glass to protect herself from his hostility. “I was driving along the road, just coming out of the forest. And I had a bit of an accident with Dr. Fisher.”

“The owner of the Manor,” Blake said. “Nice move.”

Though Madeline had done nothing wrong, she felt defensive. “We decided that the damage was too minor to report. Then we heard something from the forest. Voices.” With Duncan standing here, she decided not to mention Dr. Fisher’s gun. “I followed the sound of Duncan’s voice. Found him at the edge of the trees.”

“She did,” Duncan said. “She’s pretty. I thought she was Sofia.”

Blake tensed. He hunkered down so his eyes were level with his son’s. “What name did you say?”

“Poor, poor Sofia. She’s with Mama and the angels.”

“Did you see something, Duncan?”

“No,” he shouted. “No, no, no.”

“Let’s go inside,” Blake said.

Duncan spun in a circle. “Where’s Temperance? She’s my friend.”

“Time for bed, son. Back to the house. You can count the steps.”

The boy walked toward the front door in a perfectly straight line, counting each step aloud.

Without saying another word to her, Blake walked beside him.

“Hey,” she called after them. “Should I bring my car around to the front?”

“I don’t give a damn what you do.”

A scream of sheer frustration crawled up the back of her throat. This trip was cursed. Every instinct warned her to give up, to turn back, find another way.

But she was desperate.

Through the driving rain, she heard Duncan counting and singing. “She sells seashells…”

Chapter Two

Gathering up the remnants of her shredded self-respect, Madeline chased after Blake and his son. If she didn’t follow them into the house, she was certain that the door would be locked against her. Not only did she need this job, but she wanted it. She’d connected with Duncan. In him, she saw a reflection of her own childhood. She knew what it was like to be called a freak. Always to be an outsider.

As the daughter of a drug-addicted mother and an absent father, she’d been shuffled from one foster home to another until she was finally adopted by the Douglases when she was twelve. In spite of their kindness and warmth, Madeline still hadn’t fitted in with other kids. Her adopted family was poor, and she grew too fast. Her secondhand clothing never fitted properly on her long, gangly frame. And then there were the glasses she’d worn since first grade.

Most of the time, her childhood was best forgotten. But, oddly, her past had brought her here. Standing in the doorway of Beacon Manor, Madeline saw someone she had once lived with. Alma Eisen.

Eighteen years ago, Alma had been a foster parent for Madeline and her older brother, Marty. They’d stayed with her for a year—a dark and terrible year during which Alma had decided to divorce her abusive husband. Unlike the other fosters, Alma had stayed in touch with Christmas cards and birthday greetings, which Madeline had dutifully responded to.

It was Alma—now employed as Blake’s housekeeper and cook—who had told Madeline about the tutoring position. At the door to the manor, she greeted Madeline with a smile but held her at arm’s length, not wanting to get wet. “What on earth happened to you?”

“Long story.”

The years had been kind to Alma Eisen. Her hair was still blond and elaborately styled with spit curls at the cheeks. Her makeup, including blue eye shadow, almost disguised the wrinkles. Madeline figured that this petite woman had to be in her fifties. “You look terrific.”

“Thanks, hon. Wish I could say the same for you.”

Blake had followed his son—who was still counting aloud—to the top of the staircase.

Madeline called to him. “Mr. Monroe?”

He glared. “What is it?”

“I came all this way, sir. At the very least, I’d like to have an interview.”

“After I get my son to bed, I’ll deal with you.”

He turned away. Though Madeline wasn’t a betting woman, she guessed that her odds of being hired were about a thousand to one. A shiver trembled through her.

“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” Alma said, “before you catch your death of cold.”

“I don’t have anything to change into. My car is parked way down the road.”

“Come with me, hon. I’ll take care of you.”

Though Alma had stayed in touch, Madeline didn’t remember her as a particularly nurturing woman. Her phone call about this job had been a huge surprise, and Madeline couldn’t help wondering about Alma’s motives. What could she hope to gain from having Madeline working here?

She trailed the small woman up the grand staircase and looked back down at the graceful oval of the foyer. She couldn’t see into any of the other rooms. Doors were closed, and plastic sheeting hung across the arched entry to what must have been a drawing room. Signs of disrepair marred the grandeur of the manor, but the design showed a certain civility and elegance, like a dowager duchess who had fallen on hard times.

Alma hustled her past Duncan’s bedroom to the far end of the long, wainscoted hallway with wallpaper peeling in the corners. She opened the door farthest from the staircase and hustled Madeline inside.

The center light reflected off the crystals of a delicate little chandelier. With dark wood furnishings, somewhat worn, and a four-poster bed with a faded gray silk duvet, this bedroom was the essence of “shabby chic.”

“Guest room,” Alma said as she rummaged through the drawers of a bureau. “This is where you’ll be staying after you’re hired.”

“Hired?” She scoffed. “I doubt it. Blake Monroe can’t stand me.”

“In any case, you’re staying here tonight. It’s not safe for you to be out.” She tossed a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt toward her. “These ought to fit. They were left behind by one of Blake’s friends who spent the night.”

Madeline picked up the ratty gray sweatpants. “I really appreciate this, Alma.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” She lowered her voice. “This little town, Raven’s Cliff, comes with a curse.”

“Superstitions,” Madeline said.

“Don’t be so sure. There’s a serial killer on the loose. A couple of weeks ago, he murdered two girls on the eve of their senior prom. One of them was the sister of a local cop. Sofia Lagios.”

Sofia. Duncan had looked at Madeline and spoken that name. “What did she look like?”

“I’ve only seen photographs. But she was a bit like you. Long, curly black hair.”

Duncan must have heard people talking about the serial killer. But why would a six-year-old remember the name of a murder victim?

“Get changed,” Alma said. “I’ll tell Blake that you’re too pooped to talk tonight. In the morning, you can have a nice, professional interview.”

“Great.” She dropped her car keys on top of the bureau. “Nothing sounds better right now than a good night’s sleep.”

BLAKE LINGERED in the doorway of his son’s bedroom, gazing with all the love he possessed at Duncan’s angelic little face. So beautiful. So like his mother. Often, when Blake looked into his son’s bright blue eyes, he saw Kathleen staring back at him. On those rare occasions when Duncan laughed, he heard echoes of her own joy, and he remembered the good times. Only three years ago, cancer had taken her away from him forever.

“Time for sleep, Duncan.”

As usual, no response.

To get an answer, Blake used the rhyming repetition that his son enjoyed. “Nighty-night. Sleep tight…”

“And don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Duncan said.

Sometimes, the kid scared the hell out of him. Tonight, when he’d disappeared, Blake had feared disaster. A fall from the precipitous cliffs near the lighthouse. An attack by wild dogs or animals. Worse, a confrontation with a serial killer. Why had Duncan spoken the name of one of the victims? The boy must have known that Sofia Lagios was dead because he said she was with the angels. But how? How had he known?

Life would be a lot easier if Blake could ask a simple question and get a simple answer, but his son’s brain didn’t work that way.

Duncan stared up at the fluorescent stars Blake had attached to the ceiling in a precise geometric pattern. “I have a friend,” he said. “She sells seashells.”

“That’s great, buddy.” It had to be an imaginary friend. He hadn’t been around any other children. “What’s her name?”

“Temperance Raven. She wears a red cape.” His tiny fingers laced together, then pulled apart. He repeated the action three times. “I like French fries.”

“Where did you meet Temperance?”

“By the lighthouse. She wanted me to play with her.”

Blake didn’t like the sound of this. The lighthouse was under construction, dangerous. “Was Temperance outside? In the rain?”

Duncan turned to his side. “Seashells, seashells, seashells…”

“Goodnight, son.”

Blake left the door to his son’s bedroom ajar. Duncan wanted it that way.

Blake wanted to find out what had happened tonight, and there was one person who could tell him. He’d seen Alma escorting that very wet young woman down the hall toward the guest room. What was her name? Madeline? She might be able to give him information about Duncan’s supposed new friend. Blake tapped on her door.

“Alma?” she called out. “Come on in.”

Blake strode inside. “We need to talk.”

Wearing baggy sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt, she stood in front of the mirror above the antique dressing table. Her long black hair fell past her shoulders in a mass of damp tangles. As soon as she spotted him, she grabbed her black-framed glasses and stuck them on the end of her straight, patrician nose. “Mr. Monroe. I thought we might have our interview tomorrow.”

He’d almost forgotten that she was here to apply for a job as his son’s tutor. “I need to know what happened tonight. Duncan mentioned someone named Temperance.”

“I didn’t see anyone else,” she said. “There aren’t any other houses nearby, are there?”

“We’re isolated.”

“That could be a problem.” She pushed the heavy mane away from her face. Her complexion was fresh, with rosy tints on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Behind those glasses, black lashes outlined her eyes. An unusual color. Aquamarine.

“Problem?” he asked.

“Not having neighbors.” She gave him a prim smile. “Surely, you’ll want Duncan to have playmates.”

“He doesn’t do well with other children.”

“I know,” she said. “He told me.”

Like hell he did. His son’s conversations were limited to discussions of simple activities, like brushing his teeth. Or repetitions. Or numbers.

She continued, “He was worried that you’d be angry because he was…how did he say it? Inappropriate.”

That sounded like Duncan. “His teachers said his behavior was inappropriate. The word stuck in his mind.”

“Everybody’s like that. We all tend to remember the words that hurt. To let criticism soak in.”

His son wasn’t like everybody else. Far from it. But he appreciated the way she phrased her comments, and Duncan seemed to like her. Maybe Madeline Douglas would be a suitable tutor, after all.

He crossed the room and took a seat in a carved wooden rocking chair, one of several handmade pieces in the manor. “Show me your résumé and recommendations.”

When she gestured toward the window, the graceful motion of her wrist contrasted the baggy black T-shirt. “All my papers are in my car, which is still down the road.”

“Where you ran into Teddy Fisher.”

“I didn’t want to mention this in front of Duncan,” she said, “but Dr. Fisher had a handgun.”

Not good news. He hated to hear that the local loons were armed. Fisher had tons of money and a decent reputation as a scientist with his own laboratories in Raven’s Cliff. He came from a good family; his father had been a Nobel Prize winner. But Teddy’s behavior went beyond eccentric into borderline insanity.

The main reason Blake had taken this job—a step down from his typically high-profile architectural assignments— was because he wanted to get Duncan out of the city into a small-town environment where the pace was slow and distractions were minimal.

“Teddy Fisher owns the Manor,” he said. “But he’s not supposed to visit without notifying me. I’ll remind him.”

She gave a brisk nod. “If you like, I can tell you about my qualifications.”

“Do it.”

She started by rattling off her educational achievements, special recognitions and a bachelor’s degree from an undistinguished college which had taken six years because she’d been holding down a job while going to school. For two years, she’d taught second grade at a parochial school. “Then I started substitute teaching in some of Boston’s inner-city schools.”

He held up his hand, signaling a stop. “Why did you leave a full-time position to be a sub?”

“Alma might have mentioned that I grew up in the foster-care system.”

Vaguely, he recalled some comment. “She might have.”

“I was a throwaway kid. No one expected me to amount to much. But I had a teacher in third grade…a wonderful teacher. She wouldn’t let me shirk on my assignments, made me work hard and kept after me to do better. She noticed me.”

Behind her glasses, her eyes teared up. “She changed my life. By working in inner-city schools, I felt like I might make that kind of difference.”

He liked her earnest compassion. She sure as hell had the empathy needed to work with his son. But did she have the training? Blake wasn’t accustomed to settling for second best. “How much do you know about autism?”

She picked up a straight-back wooden chair and moved it close to his rocker. When she sat, she leaned forward. “What can you tell me about Duncan’s behavior?”

“On the behavioral range of autism, he’s considered to be high-functioning.” Blake had taken his son to a cadre of doctors and therapists. “Initially, we tried drug therapy, but Duncan didn’t respond well. The specialists call his condition a form of hypersensitivity.”

“Which is why he doesn’t like to be touched.”

“When he touches someone, he says that he knows what they’re thinking.”

“Like a psychic.”

“Don’t go there,” he warned. It was difficult enough to manage Duncan’s illness without the extra burden of some harebrained, paranormal philosophy.

“I’m trying to understand,” she said. “When I found Duncan in the woods, we had a coherent communication. More important, he reacted to me. He looked me in the eye, and he smiled. That behavior isn’t consistent with what I know about autism.”

Her presumption ticked him off. For the past three years, since his wife had died, he’d struggled with his son’s condition. They’d gone through brain scans, blood tests, physical and psychological diagnostics…. He rose from the rocking chair. “Are you an expert?”

“No, but I can see the obvious.” Instead of cowering, she stood to confront him. “Duncan is smart. And he cares about what you think. He wants you to love him.”

Her words were a slap in the face. Tight-lipped, he said, “This interview is over.”

WITH THE ECHO of the door slamming behind Blake still ringing in her ears, Madeline collapsed onto the bed. Disaster! She’d infuriated Blake and blown her chance at this job. Truly a shame because she thought she might work well with Duncan, and she found herself drawn to his father. What red-blooded woman wouldn’t be? Blake was gorgeous and intense. Unfortunately, he despised her.

She shifted around on the bed. Before she went to sleep, she needed to use the facilities.

Since there was no adjoining bathroom with this bedroom, she had to go into the hallway. Poking her head out the door, she checked to make sure Blake was nowhere in sight. One doorway stood ajar and light spilled into the corridor. Duncan’s room. She tiptoed past.

“Madeline?”

Peeking into his room, she said, “You remembered my name. Hi, Duncan.”

“Will I see my friend again?”

She had no right to be here, no justifiable reason to talk with Blake’s son. But she couldn’t turn away from this troubled child. Slipping into his room, she pulled a rocking chair near his bed. “Is her name Temperance?”

“Temperance Raven.”

“Like the town,” Madeline said. “Raven’s Cliff.”

“Temperance lied to me about the town being named after her daddy in 1794. But I don’t care. Lots of people lie. Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

“Hang them up on a telephone wire,” she responded. “You like rhymes.”

“Temperance gave me a present.” He rolled over on his bed and picked up a smooth, white shell.

Madeline grinned. “She sells seashells.”

“By the seashore,” Duncan concluded.

Though their conversation scattered in several directions, they were communicating. Instead of telling him that she liked his room, she pointed up at the ceiling and recited, “Starlight, star bright. First star I see tonight.”

He watched her with an intensity that reminded her of his father. “Finish the rhyme.”

“Wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.”

He parroted the rhyme back to her perfectly. Not once, but three times. Then he laughed.

Hearing a sound near the door, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Blake standing in the hallway. He stepped away too quickly for her to decide if he was angry about her talking to Duncan. And, frankly, she didn’t care. This wasn’t about him.

“Duncan,” she said, “I know a very long rhyme. A poem about baseball.”

He nodded for her to continue.

“You’d like baseball. It’s all about numbers.” She drew a diamond in the air as she talked about the bases and the pitcher and the batter. “Four balls and three strikes.”

“Three strikes and you’re out,” he said.

“You’re right,” she said. “This poem is called ‘Casey at the Bat.’”

He lay back on his pillow to listen while she recited the poem she’d memorized in fifth grade. The rhyming cadence lulled him, and Duncan’s eyelids began to droop.

When she had finished, he roused himself. “Again.”

She started over. By the time she finished, he was sound asleep.

Leaving his door ajar, exactly the way she’d found it, she went down the hallway to the bathroom. Like every other part of the house she’d seen, the room was sorely in need of fresh paint. But it seemed clean and had an old- fashioned claw-footed tub. Fantastic! One of her favorite pastimes was a long, hot soak. And why not? It wasn’t as if she could make Blake Monroe dislike her even more. Besides, she didn’t know when or if she’d ever have the chance to luxuriate in a tub again.

As she filled the tub, fears about her uncertain future arose. No money. No job. No home. She had only enough gas to get back to Raven’s Cliff. That would have to be where she started her new life, maybe working as a waitress or a short-order cook. She had experience at both from when she was putting herself through college.

Stripping off the sweatpants and T-shirt, she eased into the hot, steamy water.

Damn it, Marty. This is all your fault. Her brother had popped back into her life just long enough to wreck everything. When he’d showed up, she should have thrown him out on his handsome butt. Should have, but didn’t. Water under the bridge.

After a nice, long soak, she climbed out of the tub, somewhat refreshed, and padded down the hallway to her “shabby chic” room.

The door was open, just the way she’d left it. But something was different. At the foot of her bed was the canvas suitcase that had been in the back of her car. Had Alma trudged all the way down the road to get it? She opened the flap and took out a nightgown.

“Madeline Douglas.”

She turned and saw Blake standing in the doorway. He tossed the keys to her car to the center of the bed. “You shouldn’t leave these lying around.”

“I didn’t.” The keys had been on top of the bureau in her room. Inside her room! Even if the door was open, he shouldn’t have barged in uninvited.

“You’re hired,” he said without smiling. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

The door closed behind him.

Chapter Three

The next morning, the skies outside Madeline’s bedroom window were clear, washed clean by the rain. And she tried to focus on the sunny side. She had a job and a place to live. Working with Duncan provided an interesting challenge. For now, she was safe.

The dark cloud on her emotional horizon was Blake Monroe. A volatile man. She didn’t know why he had changed his mind about hiring her and decided it was best not to ask too many questions. He didn’t seem like the type of man who bothered to explain himself.

Entering the high-ceilinged kitchen, she smiled at Alma, who sat at the table, drinking coffee and keeping company with a morning television chat program on a small flat- screen.

“I’m hired,” Madeline announced. “I can’t thank you enough for telling me about this job.”

“Congrats.” Using the remote, Alma turned down the volume. “How about lending me a hand with breakfast?”

“Sure.”

She turned and confronted a mountain of dirty dishes, glasses, pots and crusted skillets that spread across the countertop like a culinary apocalypse. It appeared that Alma hadn’t wiped a single plate since they’d moved into this house.

How could anyone stand such a mess! Madeline rolled up the sleeves of her daisy-patterned cotton shirt, grabbed an apron that was wadded in the corner of the counter and dug in.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Alma said. “Even as a kid, you were good about cleaning up.”

Maybe even a teensy bit compulsive. “Is that why you thought of me for this job?”

“I don’t mind having a helper.” Alma shuffled toward the butcher-block island and leaned against it. Though she was completely dressed with hair and makeup done, she wore fuzzy pink slippers. “Did you sleep well?”

“Took me a while to get accustomed to the creaks and groans in this old house.” Once during the night, she’d startled awake, certain that someone had been in the room with her. She’d even imagined that she saw the door closing, which made her wonder. “Does Duncan ever sleepwalk?”

“Not as far as I know, but I wouldn’t be surprised by anything that kid does. Or his father, for that matter.”

“Is Blake difficult to work for?”

“A real pain in the rear.”

Yet, he put up with the mess in the kitchen. “How so?”

“In the past year, he went through two other housekeepers and four nannies.”

“Why?”

“His lordship is one of those dark, brooding, artistic types. Real moody. Gets caught up in a project and nothing else matters. He forgets to eat, then blames you for not feeding him.” She patted her sculpted blond curls. “It’s not part of my job description to keep track of his phone calls, and most of the business contacts go through his office in New York. But if I forget a phone call, he blows a gasket.”

“He yells at you?” Madeline was beginning to feel more and more trepidation about this job.

“Never raises his voice,” Alma said. “He growls. Real low. Like an angry lion.”

With Blake’s overgrown dark blond mane and intense hazel eyes, a lion was an apt comparison. As Madeline rinsed glasses and loaded them into the dishwasher, she said, “I looked Blake up on the Internet. He does amazing restorations. There were interior photos of this gorgeous hotel in Paris.”

“Paris.” Alma sighed. “That’s what I expected when I signed on as a housekeeper four months ago. Trips to Europe. Fancy places. Fancy people. La-di-dah.”

“Sounds like a lovely adventure.”

“So far, I’ve been at the brownstone in Manhattan and here—Maine. I mean, Maine? The whole state is about as glamorous as a lumberjack’s plaid shirt.” She paused to sip her coffee. “Let’s hear about you, hon. How’s your big brother, Marty?”

At the mention of her brother’s name, Madeline almost dropped the plate she was scrubbing in the sink. “We’ve kind of lost touch.”

“Good-looking kid. A bit devilish, though. Didn’t he get into some kind of trouble with the law?”

She heard Duncan counting his steps as he came down the hall to the kitchen and assumed his father wasn’t far behind. “I’d rather not talk about Marty.”

“It’s okay.” Alma patted her arm. “I won’t say a word.”

Duncan preceded his father into the kitchen. His clothing was the same as last night: a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt and jeans. At the table, he climbed into his chair and sat, staring straight ahead.

Alma went into action. She measured oat-bran cereal into a clear glass bowl, then measured the milk. She placed them in front of Duncan, then fetched a pre-chilled glass of OJ from the fridge.

Neither she nor Blake said a word.

Madeline assumed this was some sort of ritual and didn’t interfere until Duncan had taken his first bite of cereal. Then she took a seat opposite him and watched as he chewed carefully before swallowing. She smiled. “Good morning, Duncan.”

He said nothing, didn’t acknowledge her presence in any way.

Blake cleared his throat. When she looked at him, he shook his head, warning her not to rock the boat. She rose from her seat and went toward him. Seeing him in the morning light, she noticed the lightly etched crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the unshaven stubble on his chin. He dragged his fingers through his unruly dark blond hair. His careless grooming and apparent disarray reminded her of an unmade bed that had been torn apart in a night of wild, sexual abandon.

She intended to discuss her plans for Duncan’s lessons. After his interest in the “Casey at the Bat” poem, she’d decided to use baseball as a learning tool. There were other things she needed to ask Blake about, such as her salary, rules of the household and teaching supplies. But being near him left her tongue-tied.

She pushed her glasses up on her nose and said, “Do you have a baseball?”

“I can find one.”

Her cheeks were warm with embarrassment. Seldom was she so inarticulate. “Other supplies? Pencils and paper?”

“Everything you’ll need is in a room at the end of this hallway. It was once a conservatory so there’s a whole wall of windows. Until the renovations are done, we’re using it as a family room. Alma can show you.”

She stammered. “I-is there, um, some kind of schedule?”

He lifted an eyebrow; his expression changed from arrogant to vaguely amused. He stretched out his arm and pointed to the wall beside her. “How’s this?”

Right in front of her nose was a three-foot-by-two-foot poster board with a heading in letters five inches high: Duncan’s Schedule. The entire day was plotted in detail.

“I’ve found,” he said, “that Duncan does best when we stick to a consistent routine.”

She pointed to the slot after breakfast. “Quiet Time in Family Room. What does that mean?”

“Exactly what it says. Duncan likes to spend time by himself, and all his toys are in the family room. Usually he plays computer games.”

The next slot said Lessons. “How do I know where to start?”

“Duncan’s last tutor left a log that detailed her teaching plans and Duncan’s progress. She wasn’t a live-in, and I can’t say that I was happy with her results.” He glanced toward the housekeeper. “Is that coffee hot?”

“Piping.”

He went to the coffeemaker and filled a mug. “Well, Alma, it’s nice to see that you’re finally cleaning up in here.”

“I aim to please,” she said. “Breakfast in your studio?”

“Eggs over easy, wheat toast and bacon.”

With a nod to Madeline, he left the kitchen.

Though his back was turned, she made a “bye-bye” motion with her hand. Oh, good grief. Could she possibly be more of a dork?

Alma chuckled. “Got a little crush on his lordship?”

“Of course not.”

“He’s a handsome thing. And he’s even taller than you are. Probably six foot two or three.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

She returned to the sink and dug into the stack of dirty dishes with renewed vigor. After she’d cleaned up the kitchen and grabbed an energy bar for breakfast, she trailed Duncan into the family room. He spoke not a word, went directly to his computer and turned it on.

Like the kitchen, this room was a mess. Sunlight gushed through a wall of windows, illuminating a cluttered worktable where Duncan sat at his computer. Though the wall had a neat row of storage bins and shelves, everything had been heaped on the floor—played with and then discarded.

The chaos didn’t make sense. Every hour of Duncan’s day was regimented, but here—in the place where he was supposed to learn—he was surrounded by disarray.

Obviously, she needed to put things in order. One of the earliest lessons taught in grade school was “Putting Things Away.” Getting Duncan to participate in the clean-up would have been good, but she didn’t want to disrupt his schedule. This hour was for quiet time.

While he fiddled with his computer, she picked up a plush blue pony and placed it on the shelf labeled Stuffed Animals. Then another stuffed toy. Blocks in the bin. Crayons back in their box. Trucks and cars on another labeled shelf.

Eventually, she found a place for everything. “All done,” she said. “I’m going out to my car to bring a few things inside.”

He didn’t even glance in her direction. No communication whatsoever. A cone of isolation surrounded him. No one was allowed to touch.

After running up to her bedroom to grab her car keys, she stepped outside into the sunny warmth of a July day. Her beat-up Volkswagen station wagon with the brand- new dent from her collision with Dr. Fisher was parked just outside the front door. When she unlocked the back, she noticed that the flaps on a couple of boxes were open. She hadn’t put them in here like that. Everything had been sealed with tape or had the flaps tucked in. Had someone been tampering with her things? When Blake got her suitcase, did he also search her belongings?

Before she built up a full-blown anger at him about his callous intrusion into her privacy, a more ominous thought occurred. What if it was someone else?

Last night, she’d sensed that someone was in her bedroom. She hadn’t actually seen anyone; it was just a fleeting impression. But what if it were true? Dr. Fisher had said that he’d “always know where to find her.” He owned this house. Surely he had a key. But why would he look through her things?

“Need some help?” Alma called from the doorway.

Madeline slammed the rear door. “I’ll worry about this stuff later. But I need to get the ficus out of the front seat before it wilts.”

She unlocked the passenger-side door and liberated the plant. The ficus itself wasn’t anything special, but the fluted porcelain pot painted with rosebuds was one of her favorite things.

“Heavy,” she muttered as she kicked the car door closed and lurched toward the house, not stopping until she reached her second-floor bedroom where she set the plant near the window. The delicately painted pot looked as though it belonged here—more than she did.

Had someone crept into her room last night? There was no way to prove she’d had an intruder unless she contacted the police and had them take fingerprints. Even then, Dr. Fisher had a right to be in the house; he owned the place. If not Fisher, who? The serial killer. His last victim, Sofia, had looked like her.

Madeline plucked off her glasses and wiped the lenses. She didn’t want to raise an alarm about a prowler unless she had tangible evidence. Tonight, before she went to bed, she’d push the ficus against the door so no one could enter without making a lot of noise.

She hurried down the staircase toward the family room. In the doorway, she came to an abrupt halt. The room she had so carefully cleaned was ransacked. Stuffed animals had been flung in every direction. Books spilled across the floor. The toy trucks and cars looked like a major highway collision. Little Duncan stood in the midst of it, oblivious to her presence.

Either she could laugh or cry. She chose the former, letting out her frustration in a chuckle. Now she knew why the room had been a mess.

Duncan paced toward her. When he held out his hand, she saw that he was wearing latex gloves. In the center of his palm was the white seashell he’d shown her last night.

“Temperance,” she said.

He marched past her into the corridor that led to the front door. His clear intention was to go outside. And how could she stop him? From the information she had on autistic kids, she knew that corporal punishment often led to tantrums. Arguments were futile.

The key, she decided, was to gain his trust. Maybe she could impart a few bits of knowledge along the way.

At the front door, she stepped ahead of him, blocking his way and creating the illusion that she was in control. “We’re going to take a walk. Across the yard to the forest. And we’ll gather pinecones. Six pinecones.”

“Ten,” he said.

“Ten is good.”

Outside, he started counting his steps. “One, two, three…”

“Uno, dos, tres. Those are Spanish numbers.”

He repeated the words back to her. She took him up to ten in Spanish, then started over. At least he was learning something.

Halfway across the grassy stretch leading to the forested area, Blake jogged up beside them.

“It’s such a beautiful day,” she said. “We decided to do our lesson outdoors.”

“Couldn’t stand the mess in the family room?”

“I might be a bit of a neat freak,” she admitted. “Anyway, we’re learning numbers in Spanish.”

He fell into step beside her, and she surreptitiously peeked up at him. Definitely taller than she, he moved with a casual, athletic grace.

Near the woods, Duncan scampered ahead of them.

“It’s good for him to be outside,” Blake said. “Gives him a chance to work on his coordination.”

“His fine motor skills are okay. He didn’t seem to be having any problem with the computer.”

“It’s the big stuff that gives him problems. Running, skipping, playing catch.”

Duncan had entered the trees but was still clearly visible. She glanced over her shoulder at the house. In daylight, the two-story, beige-brick building with four tall chimneys looked elegant and imposing. “What are your plans for the Manor?”

He was taken aback by her question. “How much do you know about historic restoration?”

“Very little. But I looked up some of your other architectural projects on the Web. Many seemed more modern than traditional.”

“That’s one reason why this project appealed to me. I plan to restore the American Federalist style while totally updating with new wiring, plumbing and insulation. I want to go green—make it ecological.”

“Solar panels?”

“Too clumsy,” he said. “The challenge in this project,” he said, “is to maintain the original exterior design and restore the decorative flourishes of the interior. At the same time, I’m planning modern upgrades. Maybe a sauna and gym in the basement.”

As he talked about architecture, she caught a glimpse of a different Blake Monroe—a man who was passionate about his work. Still intense, but focused. And eager to have an adult conversation.

She liked this side of his personality. Liked him a lot.

“SHE SELLS SEASHELLS…” Duncan repeated the rhyme again and again. “Temperance, where are you?”

“Here I am.”

She stood with her back against a tree. He could see her, but his daddy and Madeline couldn’t. And that was good. He didn’t want to share his new friend.

He held out the shell. “You gave me this to warn me about the bad man.”

She bent down and picked up a pinecone. Her shiny golden hair fell across her face. “There is something dangerous in the Manor.”

“What?”

“Perhaps the basement. I cannot enter the Manor.”

“You don’t have to be scared, Temperance. I won’t let anybody hurt you.”

She placed a pinecone into his gloved hand. “You need ten of these. For your teacher.”

He was happy to have a friend who didn’t tease about his gloves. “I’m very brave. Madeline said so.”

“Duncan, you must not forget the danger.”

“Danger,” he repeated.

Chapter Four

Half an hour before the scheduled time for lunch, Madeline was pleased with their progress. She and Duncan had arranged the ten pinecones for an afternoon art project. And they’d read an entire book about trains.

Her initial assessment of his skills matched the reports from his previous tutor. Exceptional mathematic ability. Reading and writing skills were poor.

Duncan jumped to his feet. “I want to explore.”

“So do I,” she said. “We could get your father to give us a tour. He knows a lot about the Manor.”

“No,” he shouted. “No.”

His loud, strident voice had an edge to it. She hadn’t figured out how to deal with disagreements, but it couldn’t be good to continually back down to his demands. She replied with a statement, not a question. “We’ll explore one room.”

“Basement,” he said.

Not what she was hoping for. She should have been more specific, should have told him that they would explore his father’s studio, which would give her a chance to spend a bit more time with Blake. Unfortunately, she hadn’t specified a room, and she needed to be unambiguous with Duncan. “The basement it is.”

The door leading to the basement was off the kitchen where Alma should have been preparing lunch. She was nowhere in sight.

Madeline turned on the light, revealing a wooden staircase that descended straight down. “I’ll go first,” she said. “You need to hold tight to the railing.”

Duncan followed behind her, counting each step aloud.

A series of bare bulbs lit the huge space that was divided with heavy support pillars and walls. The ceiling was only eight feet high. Like most unfinished basements, it was used for storage. There were stacks of old boxes, discarded furniture and tools. A series of notched shelves suggested that the basement had at one time been a wine cellar.

A damp, musty smell coiled around them, and she shuddered, thinking of rats and spiders. As far as she could tell, there were no windows.

“I’ve seen enough,” she said.

Duncan reached out and touched a concrete wall with his gloved hand. “Danger,” he said.

The word startled her.

He zigzagged from the walls to the stairs and back. In spite of her rising trepidation, Madeline noticed a geometric pattern in his movements. If she could have traced his steps, the pattern would form a perfect isosceles triangle. Under his breath, Duncan repeated, “Danger.”

She took the warning to heart; his father said that he sensed things. And Alma had mentioned a curse on the town. “Danger means we should leave. Right now.”

He ran away from her and disappeared behind a concrete wall.

She started after him. “Duncan, listen to me.”

“Danger,” came a louder shout.

The door at the top of the stairs slammed with a heavy thud. Fear shot through her. She spun around, staring toward the stairs. Though she saw no one, her sense of being stalked became palpable. That door hadn’t blown shut by accident.

The lights blinked out. Darkness consumed her. Not the faintest glimmer penetrated this windowless tomb. Trapped. She thought of Teddy Fisher. Of the serial killer who liked women with long black hair.

Terror stole her breath. Where were the stairs? To her right? Her left? Her hands thrust forward, groping in empty space.

If she’d been here by herself, Madeline would have screamed for help. But Duncan was with her, and she didn’t want to frighten him. “Duncan? Where are you?”

“Right here.” He didn’t sound scared. “Thirty-six steps from the stairs.”

“Don’t move.” She listened hard, trying to discern if anyone else was here with them. The silence filled with dark portent. She moved forward with hesitant steps. Her shin bumped against a cardboard box. Her outstretched hands felt the cold that emanated from the walls. She pivoted and took another step. Was she going the wrong way? “Duncan, can you find the stairs?”

Instead of answering, he started counting backward from thirty-six. His strange habit came in handy; the boy seemed to know his exact location while she was utterly disoriented.

She bit back a sob. Even with her eyes accustomed to the dark, she couldn’t see a thing.

“I’m at the stairs,” Duncan announced.

She took a step toward his voice and stumbled. Falling forward to her hands and knees, she let out a yip.

“I’m okay,” she said, though Duncan hadn’t inquired. The only way she’d find the stairs was for him to keep talking. “Can you say the poem about starlight?”

Instead, he chanted, “She sells seashells…”

Crouched low, she inched toward the sound. When her hand connected with the stair rail, she latched on, desperately needing an anchor, something solid in the dark.

“Danger,” he shouted.

Shivers chased up and down her spine. She had to get a grip, had to get them to safety. “I’m going up the stairs, Duncan. I’ll open the door so we have enough light to see. Then I’ll come back down for you.”

“I can go. I’m very brave.”

“Yes, you are.” But she didn’t want to take a chance on having him slip and fall on the stairs. “That’s why you can stay right here. Very still.”

As she stumbled up the steps in the pitch-dark, the staircase seemed ten miles long. By the time she reached the door, a clammy sweat coated her forehead. Her fingers closed around the round brass doorknob. It didn’t move.

She jiggled and twisted. It was locked.

Panic flashed inside her head. A faint shimmer of daylight came around the edge of the door, and she clawed at the light as if she could pry this heavy door open.

Drawing back her fists, she hammered against the door. “Alma. Help. We’re trapped in the basement. Help.”

Behind her, she heard Duncan start up the stairs. She couldn’t allow him to climb. In the darkness, balance was precarious, and Duncan wasn’t like other kids. She couldn’t hold his arm and keep him from falling, couldn’t touch him at all.

“Wait,” she said. “I’m coming back down.”

Quickly, she descended. They’d just have to wait until they were found. Not much of a plan, but it was all she had. She sat beside Duncan on the second step from the bottom. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll count to five and you call for help. Then you count for me. Start now.”

He yelled at the top of his lungs.

Then it was her turn. Screaming felt good. Her tension loosened. After she caught her breath, she said, “Now, we wait. Somebody will find us.”

“My mama is already here,” he said quietly. “She takes care of me. Whenever I get in trouble, my mama is close. She promised. She’s always close.”

His childlike faith touched her heart. “Your mama must be a very good woman. Can you tell me about her?”

“Soft and pretty. Even when she was crying, she smiled at me.”

“She loved you,” Madeline said. “And your daddy loves you, too.”

“So do you,” he said confidently. “From the first time you saw me.”

In spite of her fear, Madeline breathed more easily. She should have been the one comforting him. Instead, this young boy lightened the weight of the terrible darkness with his surprising optimism. “You’re very lovable.”

“And brave.”

“Let’s yell again. Go.”

At the end of his five seconds of shouting, the door at the top of the staircase opened. Daylight poured down with blinding, wonderful brilliance. Silhouetted in that light was the powerful masculine form of Blake Monroe.

“What the hell is going on?” he growled.

“Danger,” Duncan yelled.

She heard Blake flick the light switch. “What’s wrong with the lights?”

Duncan scrambled up the wooden staircase, and she followed. Stepping into the kitchen, she inhaled the light and warmth. This must be how it felt to escape from being buried alive. As she stepped away from the basement door, she wiped the clammy sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. She and Duncan were free. No harm done.

When she saw the expression on Blake’s face, her sense of relief vanished like seeds on the wind. The friendly camaraderie of this morning had been replaced by tight- lipped anger. “I want an explanation,” he said.

She pushed her glasses up on her nose and cleared her throat. “Duncan and I decided to explore one room of the house before lunchtime.”

“And you chose the basement.” His hazel eyes flared. “There’s all kinds of crap down there. Damn it, Madeline. What the hell were you thinking?”

She wouldn’t blame this dreadful excursion on Duncan’s insistence that they go to the basement. She was the person in charge. “We were fine until the door slammed shut. It was locked.”

His brows arched in disbelief. He went down a step to test the doorknob, and the horrible darkness crawled up his leg. She was tempted, like Duncan, to warn him. To shout the word danger until her lungs burst.

Blake jiggled the knob. “It’s sticking but not locked. You must have twisted it the wrong way.”

She hadn’t turned the knob wrong. That door had been locked. “Then the lights went out.”

“There’s a rational explanation. I have a crew of electricians working today.”

She glanced toward Duncan, who stood silently, staring down at the toes of his sneakers. She didn’t want to frighten the boy with her suspicions about Dr. Fisher or being stalked by the serial killer, but they hadn’t been trapped by accident.

Blake yanked the door shut with a resounding slam and took a step toward her. Anger rolled off him in hot, turbulent waves.

Frankly, she couldn’t blame him. It appeared that she’d made an irresponsible decision. When he spoke, his voice was low and ominous, like the rumble of an approaching freight train. And she was tied to the tracks. “You’re supposed to be teaching my son. Not leading him into a potentially dangerous situation.”

“All of life is potentially risky,” she said in her defense. “Children need to explore and grow. New experiences are—”

“Stop.” He held up a hand to halt her flow of words. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“Perhaps I’m not explaining well.”

“You’re fired, Madeline.”

“What?” She took a step backward. Perhaps she deserved a reprimand, but not this.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. Peeling off a hundred-dollar bill, he slapped it down on the counter. “This should cover your expenses. Pack your things and get out.”

Looking past his right shoulder, she saw Alma enter through the back door with a couple of grocery bags in her arms. The housekeeper wouldn’t be happy about Madeline being fired. Nor would Duncan.

But Blake was the boss. And his attitude showed no willingness to negotiate.

Though she would have liked to refuse his money, pride was not an option. She was too broke. With a weak sigh, she reached for the bill.

“Daddy, no.” Duncan rushed across the kitchen and wrapped his skinny arms around his father’s waist. “I like Madeline. I want her to stay.”

Blake’s eyes widened in surprise, and she knew that her own expression mirrored his. They were both stunned by this minor miracle. Duncan was touching his father, clinging to him.

As Blake stroked his son’s shoulders with an amazing tenderness, she wondered how long it had been since Duncan had allowed him to come close.

The boy looked up at him. “Please, Daddy.”

Blake squatted down to his son’s level. Though Duncan’s eyes were bright blue and his hair was a lighter shade of blond, the physical resemblance between father and son resonated.

Blake asked, “Do you want Madeline to stay?”

The hint of a smile touched Duncan’s mouth. He reached toward his father’s face with his gloved hand and patted Blake’s cheek. “I like her.”

With the slow, careful, deliberate motions used to approach a feral creature, Blake enclosed his son in a yearning embrace. A moment ago, he’d been all arrogance and hostility. Now, he exuded pure love.

Empathy brought Madeline close to tears. Her hand covered her mouth. Staying at Beacon Manor was like riding an emotional roller coaster. In the basement, she’d been terrified. Facing Blake’s rage, she was defensive and intimidated. As she watched the tenderness between father and son, her heart swelled.

The front doorbell rang.

“Get the door,” Blake said to her.

Hadn’t she just been fired? “I don’t—”

“You’re not fired. You’re still Duncan’s teacher. Now, answer the door.”

Not much of an apology, but she’d take it. She needed this job. Straightening her shoulders, she walked down the corridor to the front door.

Standing at the entryway were two women. A cheerful smile fitted naturally on the attractive face of a slender lady in a stylish ivory suit with gray-blue piping that matched the color of her eyes. Her short, tawny hair whisked neatly in the breeze. Confidently, she introduced herself. “I’m Beatrice Wells, the mayor’s wife.”

Madeline opened the door wider to invite them inside. “I’m Madeline Douglas. Duncan’s teacher.”

When she held out her hand, she noticed the smears of dirt from crawling around in the basement and quickly pulled her hand back. “I should wait to shake your hand until I’ve had a chance to wash up.”

“It’s not a problem, dear.” Beatrice gave her hand a squeeze, then turned toward her companion. “I’d like you to meet Helen Fisher.”

As in Teddy Fisher? Madeline couldn’t imagine that creep had a wife. “Are you related to Dr. Fisher?”

The frowning, angular woman gave a disgusted snort. “Teddy is my brother.”

She stalked through the open door in her practical oxblood loafers. Her nostrils pinched and the frown deepened as she set a battered briefcase on the floor. She folded her arms below her chest, causing a wrinkle in her midcalf dress and brown cardigan. Though the month was July and the weather was sunny, Helen Fisher reminded Madeline of the drab days at the end of autumn. Everything about her said “old maid.” Madeline suppressed a shudder. For the past couple of years, she’d feared that “old maid” would be her own destiny. If she stayed at this job long enough to put some money aside, she really ought to invest in something pretty and sexy. A red dress.

Beatrice Wells twinkled as if to counterbalance her companion’s grumpy attitude. “Helen is our town librarian, and we’re here to talk with Blake about the renovations.”

“Beacon Manor is a historic landmark,” Helen said. “The designs have to be approved by the historical committee.”

“I really don’t know anything about the house. My job is Duncan.” She looked toward Beatrice. “I wondered if there was a baseball team in town. Something I could take Duncan to watch.”

“We have an excellent parks and recreation program. There’s even a T-ball program for the children.”

Though Madeline wasn’t sure if Duncan could handle a team sport, T-ball might be worth a try. “I’ll certainly look into it.”

When Blake came down the corridor toward them, he seemed like a different man. An easy grin lightened his features. He looked five years younger…and incredibly handsome. Even Helen was not immune to his masculine charms. She perked up when he warmly shook her hand. A girlish giggle twisted through her dour lips.

Given half a chance, Blake Monroe could charm the fish from the sea.

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