“Who are you? How do you know my name?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He was taller than her, but no more than six feet or so in boots. Worn jeans were topped by a black T-shirt. He had good hands, she noted, and surprisingly long hair. Far too long for your average cop.

“It does to me. Look, I appreciate you saving my life, but I’m fine, now, and I really don’t have time to play games.”

He drew her closer until his mouth moved against her temple. “You need to go back to New York. No questions, no detours, just get on the highway and drive.”

He used the fingers of his other hand to capture her chin. “Do it, Isabella. Now. While you can.” Then he drew her closer still, set his mouth next to her ear and added a soft, “If you want to live, you need to get as far away from this house as possible.”

Darkwood Manor
Jenna Ryan

MILLS & BOON

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In Memory of Sheena

You were a strong, brave girl all through your life.

Now Heaven has a beautiful new angel.

Fly fast and free, sweet Little Pea.

We’ll always be with you.

We’ll always love you…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jenna started making up stories before she could read or write. Growing up, romance always had a strong appeal, but romantic suspense was the perfect fit. She tried out a number of different careers, including modeling, interior design and travel, but writing has always been her one true love. That and her longtime partner, Rod.

Inspired from book to book by her sister Kathy, she lives in a rural setting fifteen minutes from the city of Victoria, British Columbia. It’s taken a lot of years, but she’s finally slowed the frantic pace and adopted a West Coast mindset. Stay active, stay healthy, keep it simple. Enjoy the ride, enjoy the read. All of that works for her, but what she continues to enjoy most is writing stories she loves. She also loves reader feedback. Email her at jacquigoff@shaw.ca or visit Jenna Ryan on Facebook.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Isabella Ross—Her ex-boyfriend left her a haunted mansion in Maine.

Donovan Black—He is a descendant of Darkwood Manor’s malevolent original owner.

Katie Lynn Ross—Isabella’s cousin disappears from the manor soon after their arrival.

Darlene Calvert—Donovan’s cousin is desperate to get out of town.

George Calvert—Donovan’s aunt feels like a prisoner of her own father’s will.

Orry Lucas—The acting Sheriff has aspirations and more than a few secrets.

Gordie Tallahassee—The local Realtor sees a gold mine in the shadowy manor.

Robert Drake—The developer is hungry to purchase Darkwood Manor.

Contents

Prologue

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Prologue

The road that wound northward along the rocky Maine coast felt slick beneath the tires of David Morris Gimbel’s vintage Corvette.

He grinned as the car jumped forward. You couldn’t do speeds like this in the city, and a vehicle needed to stretch its legs every now and then. Plus the text message he’d received that afternoon had sounded urgent. He was considering the implications when his cell phone interrupted.

He glanced at the screen. “I’m twenty miles away, Haden. More problems?”

“Lights winking off and on,” the man on the other end responded. “I’ve been hearing moans and thumps, too. Then, not five minutes ago, a wail that made every hair on my body stand up. Saw a shadow on the cliff, but it disappeared when the wail started.”

David navigated a hard corner one-handed, squinted into the misty night. “Shadows are made by people. So are noises and light switches. Wail could’ve been a dog hunting for a mate.”

“I’ve had three dogs in my time, Gimbel. None of ’em ever made a sound like that.”

“Nineteen miles.” David scoped the road before him. Unless his mental GPS had been thrown off by the moonless September night, he was two wide turns away from Cemetery Point. He gunned it through number one and strove for patience.

“Lock your doors, draw your shades and pour a couple fingers of whiskey. The next sound you hear will be me screeching to a halt in front of your cottage.”

“I can hear you screeching from here,” the man retorted. “Aw, hell, I should’ve called my nephew instead of a nonbeliever like you.”

The tires slipped, but David didn’t back off the gas. “Since when do federal sharpshooters buy into the woo-woo scene? Pour the whiskey, Haden, and wait for my head—”

He broke off, swore sharply.

He heard Haden’s gruff “Gimbel? You there?” right before his cell phone landed on the floor.

The silhouette of the guardrail was a blur, but he figured the nose of his car hit it at more than three times the posted limit. If ghosts existed, he was about to find out.

Closing his eyes, he prayed his death wouldn’t be painful.

Chapter One

“Was he out of his mind? Are you?” Katie Lynn Ross crouched slightly to peer through the peeling wrought-iron gate in front of her. “That’s not a picturesque New England house up there—it’s spook central.” She scratched at the rusty bars. “Someone’s playing a Halloween prank on you, Bella. And don’t start with the ancestral thing. Contrary to Grandma Corrigan’s belief, the children of her bloodline are not mortal links to the spirit world and therefore drawn to areas where such specters appear. This is David’s idea of a final joke. Places like Darkwood Manor don’t exist.”

“Unless we’re sharing a hallucination—unlikely—yes, they do.” Going down on one knee, Isabella Ross snapped several pictures of the distant house. “Apparently.”

“You’re visualizing a shriveled-up corpse, aren’t you? Some creepy-bird lover’s mommy, stuffed and propped in the attic.”

“Cellar.” Isabella stopped snapping. “And what I’m imagining is the kind of hatchet job David would have done if he hadn’t driven his car over that cliff last month.” The sadness that swept through her brought a sigh. “I just wish he were alive so someone could talk him out of it.”

Katie cast her a shrewd look. “Someone you, or someone else?”

Standing, Isabella shouldered her camera strap. “David and I were done. It wasn’t the worst breakup, but it wasn’t pretty, either.” She studied the vaguely Gothic structure at the end of the driveway. “Not sure why he left this place to me, but he did, so there you are. Grandma C’s delighted on a visceral level while Grandpa C and Aunt Mara have dollar signs in their eyes.”

“Don’t you love the dynamics of a family business?”

Isabella smiled. “Actually, I do.”

“Well, hell, so would I if I got to search out and develop prospective hotel sites. I crunch numbers, Bella. My job’s not as glamorous as yours.”

“It is when you get to descend unannounced on one of our hotels for the express purpose of exposing an embezzler.”

“Yeah, that is kind of cool.” Her cousin tapped out and lit a cigarette. “But are you telling me you had no inkling that David was going to leave you his—ha, ha—country house?”

“Nope. All I know is I got this place, and some distant blood relative got the rest.”

“Lucky relative.” Katie rattled the bars. “At a guess, I’d say your ex was worth at least…uh, okay.” She released her grip as the gate stuttered inward. “I suppose this means welcome.”

“Or run if we’re smart?”

Katie drew a triangle with her cigarette. “Sherlock, Watson, Baskerville Hall, aka Darkwood Manor.”

The gate gave an ominous creak. Not exactly a warm welcome, but Isabella was used to that. The people she met in her line of work weren’t always eager to part with the structures her family wished to acquire.

Leaves swirled by a strong breeze blew around her booted ankles, and for the first time since the reading of her ex-boyfriend’s will, a shiver danced along her spine. It wasn’t so much a sense of foreboding, she realized, as a feeling of uncertainty.

David Gimbel had possessed many odd qualities, with quirky riding high on the list. Why he’d left her this recently purchased property in Maine might not make particular sense, but the intrigue factor far outweighed any doubts she might have. And Isabella was nothing if not easily intrigued. Her cousin—not so much.

During the walk from gate to front door, Katie bombarded her with questions. What had David planned to do with the multiwinged monstrosity before them? When had he purchased it? And again, why had he left it to Isabella rather than one of his much-despised stepsiblings?

“Face it, Bella, if a person wanted to get back at an evil step, what better way to do it than by leaving him or her a white elephant that I swear no one except maybe Edgar Allan Poe would call home?”

“So Baskerville Hall’s become the House of Usher, huh?” She made a crushing motion with her foot as she spoke.

With a last deep drag, Katie ditched her cigarette. “If this place had turrets and a tower, I’d call it Dracula’s castle. I can see the possibilities, though—if only from your and Grandpa C’s perspective. A hoard of contractors, electricians, plumbers, painters and cleaners later, you might make a lifestyle hotel out of this. Or to use Aunt Mara’s preferred term—a boutique hotel. Although why any sane person would go for Early American Gothic on vacation is…”

“Yes, I get it.” Isabella surveyed the grimy windows of the second and third floors. “You won’t be booking a room here.”

A reluctant smile crossed Katie’s lips. “Book a room on two, and you’ll wind up on one. Unless you’re a ghost and you can float over floorboards that are bound to be rotted through.”

Isabella gave her head an amused shake. “Your glass isn’t half-empty, it’s bone dry.”

“Only until I get back from Bangor. Once I light into those hotel ledgers, my glass’ll be overflowing. Maybe I’ll quit smoking for good, give you and Aunt Mara a mid-October Christmas present.”

“We nag you because we love you, Katie.” Isabella gave the support beam at the base of the porch a tentative poke. “Not sure about this.” However, when her finger didn’t penetrate, she set her foot on the first tread. It groaned but held.

A gust of wind sent a scatter of leaves across the sagging stoop, and caused a tattered screen to flap like bat wings. The shadows shifted accordingly.

Scraping her midlength hair into a stubby tail, Katie offered a flat, “So my vision won’t be obscured.”

“Did I ask?” Isabella regarded the cockeyed double doors. “We might need a battering ram to get inside.” Backing up, she snapped another picture. “For the photo wall.”

“That’ll be some fun wall.” Katie glanced skyward. “Why is it getting dark at three in the afternoon?”

“Because there’s a storm brewing?”

“Now there’s a promising answer.”

Isabella inserted her key and twisted the ancient lever. To her surprise, the door moved. Only ten inches, but there was room for them to squeeze inside.

“The lawyer said it was wired,” she remarked over her shoulder.

“By Thomas Edison?”

Isabella flicked the first switch she spied while Katie ventured in deeper. When a bare bulb crackled overhead, she smiled at her cousin. “Original fixtures to match the original plaster falling from the ruins of a coffered ceiling.”

“And a six-inch layer of dust on every visible surface.” Katie yelped as her ankle turned on a piece of broken board. “The word visible not being applicable to the floor. This isn’t a project, it’s a death trap.”

“It has good bones, though.” Isabella zeroed in on the staircase. “That banister’s spectacular. Carved mahogany.” She took two shots. “The newel post’s some kind of leaf and vine depiction. And don’t say poison oak.”

“I was thinking hawthorn. Bella.” Katie caught her arm. “You can’t seriously plan to stay here.”

If this was the habitable section David’s lawyer had mentioned, even Isabella wasn’t that adventurous.

When her cell phone rang, she answered with a preoccupied “Isabella Ross. Hi, Aunt Mara…Yes, we’re here…. Uh, well, it’s—”

“Amityville,” Katie declared. “And I’m being generous.”

A protracted creak overhead had both women raising their eyes.

“Not sure—maybe,” Isabella allowed in response to her aunt’s question about ghosts. She squinted into a cobwebbed corner. “Either that or a really big rat.”

“Like there’s a difference?” Several yards away, Katie blew on a carved molding, then stood back, triumphant. “Behold your resident gargoyle, Bella, trapped in a sea of hemlock.”

Grinning, Isabella returned to her call. “It gets better the deeper you go inside, Mara, which suggests a secondary entrance.” A parlor drew her forward—until she caught a movement on the floor. “I’ll get back to you when I’ve seen the rest.” Slapping her phone closed, she dropped it in her pocket. With a wary eye on the rubble to her left she hopped onto a length of rolled carpet. “Why is there always a snake?” she muttered, shivering. “Katie, can you hear me?”

A branch scraping the window was her only response.

“Oh, good, so it’s you and me, snake, and I’m betting you’re poisonous.” She backed along the dusty roll until it ran out. “Katie?”

Her cousin didn’t reply.

Spying the movement again, Isabella gauged the distance between her and the stairwell. Grandpa Corrigan said she should face her fears. No problem, she could do that. She’d face the spot where she’d seen the snake from the far side of the entry hall.

She glanced over her shoulder. It wasn’t in Katie’s nature to play games. If her cousin wasn’t answering, that meant she couldn’t hear, ergo, she’d probably left the house for a smoke.

Still walking backward, Isabella retraced her steps to the front door.

“Going on a diet tomorrow,” she decided, squeezing through. “Katie, are you out here?”

But there was no one on the porch or in the weed-choked yard. And nothing to see or hear except gusts of wind, a sky full of purplish clouds and several thick branches pressed against the windows to her right.

“Terrific,” she murmured and ran the list of possibilities.

Katie never smoked indoors, so, yes, she’d have come out here to light up. But she wouldn’t leave the property without a word, and they’d only been apart for a few minutes, so she couldn’t have gone far. On the other hand, the floor inside was a minefield of rubble and broken furniture. She might have ventured into a room, tripped and hit her head.

Isabella slid damp palms along the sides of her pants. Grandpa C swore snakes wouldn’t bite unless distressed. But then Grandpa C had marched up to and fearlessly across enemy lines numerous times in the Korean War. His idea of danger varied greatly from that of his granddaughter.

Easing back inside, she hung her shoulder bag and camera on the newel post and started for the room with the carved molding. It wasn’t a gargoyle as Katie had suggested, but an angel, one with vacant orbs for eyes and an expression that sent an unexpected chill fluttering over her skin.

Because the space ahead was shuttered, she had to feel for a wall switch. A weak light appeared at the far end of the room. Directly ahead, however, the shadows remained virtually impenetrable.

“Not quite so much to love about my job at the moment,” she reflected, then raised her voice. “Katie, can you hear me?”

Something shifted behind her, and she spun. But there was no one in the doorway or beyond that in the entry hall.

Exasperated by her overreaction, she regrouped and made her way carefully along the wall.

Wind whistled through cracks in the shutters. A branch banged against the siding at random intervals. The floorboards sagged and protested.

Ahead of her, a chunk of plaster toppled from a mound she could barely make out. Next to it, she spied what looked like a huddled body.

Her heart spiked. Keeping her hand on the wall and her sights fixed, she approached it.

A door at the far end of the room creaked, causing her to look up.

She realized her mistake instantly. With her concentration thrown forward, she had no time to react when her foot landed on air—and her momentum sent her tumbling into the blackness below.

FROM THE SHELTER OF a damaged shutter, the man outside watched the woman inside stumble and fall. Served her right, he thought, twitching an irritable shoulder. Now maybe she’d leave.

He couldn’t do business with a snoopy female hanging around. Bad enough that big galloot from the coach house kept tromping around the perimeter of the property. With luck, he’d topple off a cliff and, if she didn’t die here, take the blonde and her camera with him. Maybe some clever third person could make that happen.

On the other hand, he might not be thinking this through quite right. Lose the woman, lose the chase rabbit. Was that the best-case scenario for him?

A slow grin lit his face and made his black eyes glitter. Bad luck for the rabbit might be a lucky stroke for him. Let the woman be the focus, the diversion, the target. Leave him free to go about his business.

As he melted into the thickening twilight, the man found himself hoping the pretty blonde rabbit wouldn’t die too soon.

ISABELLA’S MIND REELED. What kind of moron put a single step in the middle of whatever this room was? Ballroom, grand hall, dining room? More to the point, why hadn’t she brought a flashlight from the car?

As her vision cleared and the pain of her hands-and-knees landing receded, the shape ahead resolved itself into a filthy tarp. Which relieved her because it wasn’t Katie and set her nerves back on edge because there was still no sign of her cousin.

An obvious thought occurred as she pushed herself upright. Katie never went anywhere without her cell phone.

She pulled out her own cell phone and punched in Katie’s number. Waited. Hissed at the pain in her left ankle when she stood, then reminded herself she deserved it for not paying attention to her surroundings.

Four rings later, Katie’s voice mail picked up. Frustrated, Isabella left a message, closed her phone and, walking carefully, picked her way to the back of the room.

The door to her left stood ajar. It screeched like an angry crow when she moved it. As she crossed the threshold, she told herself the feeling of being watched came from her mind, not from the premature darkness that had begun to spread throughout the house.

Beyond the weathered walls, purple clouds had given way to brooding black, and she could hear the wind picking up. The first raindrops hit the windows as she started along a dusty corridor toward—what else—another door.

A veritable maze of interconnecting hallways, the ground floor seemed to go on forever. She passed through two kitchens, a pantry, a massive library, three dining rooms and a dozen other spaces whose purposes eluded her.

Part of her could visualize Darkwood Manor as a Corrigan-Ross property, but a much larger part was struggling with the certain knowledge that Katie wouldn’t have ventured in this deep alone.

Spotting a thin door, she wedged it open. Uneven stairs topped by a rickety wooden railing descended from dusky shadow into fathomless black. Welcome to the cellar, she realized. Yuck.

Hesitating, she tapped her fingers on the jamb, then hit the light switch. “I can’t think of a single reason why you’d be down there, Katie, but on the off chance you’ve lost your mind, I’ll check it out. And be really pissed off if I find you.”

From a point far below, she detected a scrape, possibly a trace of smoke. When she leaned forward, a moaning floorboard blotted the sound out, but she knew what she’d heard, and it hadn’t been the foundation settling.

A bulb at the bottom provided only a weak wash of light, barely enough to make out the mud floor. Although the stairs looked sturdier than the railing, she’d encountered dry rot before and fully anticipated it here. Still, what choice did she have?

She set her foot on the first step. When it didn’t splinter, she moved to the next. And the next.

Her scraped palm stung against the stone wall. Her breath wanted to hitch. She wouldn’t let it, but couldn’t stop the prickles that raced over her skin.

“Not going to freak,” she promised herself. “Just please don’t let it be a snake pit down—”

She broke off, sucking in a startled breath as the handrail and one of the treads cracked in tandem.

Her foot shot through the plank, forcing her to grab the portion of railing still attached to the wall. That it held surprised her—but not as much as the arm that hooked her waist and hauled her upright before her trapped ankle snapped in two.

For a moment, Isabella’s head swam. Then her brain clicked in and she swung her head to face a man. Possibly young. Definitely strong.

He smelled good, she noted, like soap and skin and the rain outside. While she couldn’t make out his features, she spied the glimmer in his eyes.

“You don’t want to go down there, Ms. Ross.”

Suspicion crowded out fear. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.” She pushed on his arm. When he refused to release her, she twisted sideways. “Look, I appreciate the rescue, but I’m fine now, and I really don’t have time to play games.”

Instead of slackening his grip, he drew her closer until his mouth moved against her temple. “Best use of that time you don’t have would be to get in your car and leave.”

She gave him a determined shove. “I’d love to if you’d let me go.”

“Stop squirming and listen. You need to go back to Boston. No questions, no detours, just get on the highway and drive.”

When she continued to struggle, he used the fingers of his other hand to capture her chin. “Do it, Isabella. Now. While you can.” Then he drew her closer still, set his mouth next to her ear and added a soft, “If you want to live, you need to get as far away from this house as possible.”

Chapter Two

He vanished before she could question him further. Vanished as he’d been trained to do by the government. As he’d been able to do long before anyone had thought to train him.

He knew the melodrama hadn’t worked. He hadn’t expected it would. But short of tying a blanket over her head and tossing her on a southbound train, it was the best he could manage.

He wasn’t supposed to be in the house. He’d promised his uncle he would look around discreetly, without fuss. Fuss led to attention, and that would send the rats scurrying.

If they’d been ordinary rats, he wouldn’t have cared. He still wasn’t sure why he did, but his uncle was concerned, so it wouldn’t hurt him to skulk for a while.

If it turned out Haden was right, something should probably be done. Maybe by him, maybe by someone else. The who here depended on how the local authorities reacted to a hot blonde in a long, black leather coat, with skin that shouted peaches and cream and eyes so blue he’d been struck by the color fifty feet away.

The woman had courage. He admired that. She was determined, likely stubborn. Couldn’t fault those qualities. She also had a body under that black coat…

Blanking his mind to the fantasy, he watched her from his crouch on the sheltered side of the house.

Purposeful strides carried her along the driveway to the front gate and through it to the other side. She didn’t use an umbrella, and she didn’t bother to belt her coat. She had the shoulder bag he’d rifled, her 2K camera and, he imagined, an expression on her face that matched her body language.

A reluctant smile tugged on his lips the longer he watched her. Too bad nothing would come of it, but then he was used to nothing, and what he did have—primarily his uncle—more than compensated for the lack.

Her car engine roared. The tires spit wet gravel as she turned it toward Mystic Harbor, Maine, a town where he and more than one of his ancestors had been born.

His name was Donovan Black. Like it or not—and he definitely did not—he was connected to Darkwood Manor. Which was why, no matter how tempting Ms. Isabella Ross might be, he would never be connected to her.

“YOU’RE NOT GOING TO do anything, are you?” Isabella stared down at a thirtysomething man with a crooked nose and very large teeth. “You have more important matters to attend to than searching for a woman, a stranger, that no one, including you or your deputies, has seen. In any case, Darkwood Manor is situated on the fringe of your jurisdiction, so maybe she’s crossed the county line by now. Problem solved. Have a nice night, ma’am.”

The man’s smile didn’t falter. “Could be you’re right there, Ms. Ross. Could also be you’re inventing a crime to drum up publicity for a new hotel.”

Exasperation won out. “That’s ridiculous. My family doesn’t stoop to publicity stunts. We go about things the old-fashioned way. We advertise. And we only do that when a hotel is up and running. Not only is Darkwood Manor not in that category, it isn’t even a hotel.”

“Yet.”

Isabella held fast to her Irish temper. “Sheriff Lucas, I’ve had a really crappy afternoon. I’m not asking you to launch a full-scale search for Katie, I just want you to take a few minutes and look into her disappearance.”

“Can’t do much in a few minutes, now can I, Blondie?”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry. Ms. Ross.” His smirk belied the apology. “Now, I’ve been patient, and I’ve listened to your story with an open mind.”

So open, Isabella thought, that it had drained from his head.

“You say you and your cousin drove up here this afternoon from Boston.”

“I said we drove up from Portland.”

“Via Portland, but you live and work in Boston. You also said you came here then drove to Darkwood in separate vehicles. Why is that exactly?”

Isabella refused to let him rattle her composure. “I’ve already explained. Katie was going on to Bangor. I was stopping here. Two destinations, two vehicles.”

“And your cousin’s vehicle, like your cousin herself, is currently unaccounted for?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t suggest anything to you?”

Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “It suggests that both Katie and her car are missing.”

The sheriff’s smile grew strained. “A stronger suggestion would be that something at Darkwood Manor spooked her. When she couldn’t find you, she gave in to her fear and ran.”

“She’s not answering her cell phone.”

“Maybe she dropped it in her rush to escape. People have been known to leave all manner of personal possessions behind as they scramble back through those gates. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a believer myself, but more than a few folks hereabouts swear the manor’s haunted.”

“Oh, good.” Isabella mustered a false smile. “Here comes the ghost story. Katie wasn’t spirited away, Sheriff, and she didn’t run out on me.”

“You think someone kidnapped her and stole her car.”

“I think that’s a more plausible explanation than believing she ran from a ghost.”

Yet, in spite of herself, her conviction wavered. To bolster it, she jammed her hands in the pockets of her coat. “Whose spirit is supposed to haunt the place?”

“Take your pick. Aaron Dark, builder and owner. Aaron’s wife, Sybil, who ran off with another man. The unborn child some swear she was carrying. Hell, it could be Dark’s sister took up residence after she died, as penance for having her brother locked away.”

“Interesting. But you don’t believe any of those stories, so it can’t be fear that’s stopping you from driving out there with me.”

He gave her an insulting once-over. “Do you drink, Ms. Ross?”

She wouldn’t react, she told herself, would not lose it because some pasty-faced sheriff was either too lazy or too jittery to help her.

So instead of answering his question, she tipped her head to the side. “Tell me, Sheriff Lucas, is there something untoward going on at Darkwood Manor? Some illegal activity that might necessitate Katie’s removal from the house and cause me to be warned off?”

The sheriff’s open mouth closed with a snap. “You didn’t mention that you were warned off.”

“You didn’t give me a chance, and I’m mentioning it now.”

“Who did the warning?”

“I have no idea. A man on the cellar stairs. He told me to leave Darkwood Manor and not come back.”

The smile returned. “There you go, then. He probably told your cousin the same thing. Only unlike you, she took his advice.”

“At a dead run. Dropping her cell phone in the process. And since then, hasn’t bothered to stop and contact me. She wouldn’t do that, Sheriff—as I’ve already said.”

“What did this man of yours look like?”

“Again, no idea. He stopped me from falling down the cellar stairs, told me to leave and disappeared. If you won’t help me find Katie, you could at least help me track down this mystery man. It’s possible he saw what happened to her, and that’s why he warned me to leave.”

The sheriff’s brow furrowed. Rain streaming over the station windows gave his face a streaky look, as if it were melting.

When he didn’t speak, Isabella tried one last time to reason with him. “Sheriff Lucas, all I’m asking—”

“Is that I drive out to a deserted house with inadequate lighting in search of tire marks that will have long since washed away—if they ever existed—to look for a woman and or a mystery man that only you saw and or heard, and in the process risk breaking my neck the way you almost did in broad daylight.”

Isabella’s eyes glittered. “I take it that’s a no.”

“On all counts.” Rolling back from his desk, he stood. “Your cousin doesn’t contact you by tomorrow, I might have one of my deputies take a drive out there with you. If she shows, you’re welcome to come in and apologize for jabbering at me over nothing when I should be home eating my wife’s crab cakes and helping my kid with his algebra. Hotel charges eighty bucks a night off-season. Turn left at the end of Harbor Road if you’re looking for the highway. Your choice, Ms. Ross. You have a good night one way or the other.”

To Isabella’s astonishment, instead of ushering her out, he snatched his raincoat from a peg, crushed his hat down onto his head and stalked through the door of the small station house.

She stood there for a moment, stunned, until a thread of humor slithered in.

“Okay, then. No worries to you, too, pal. And apparently none to whoever’s in your cell block.”

Because there was definitely someone snoring away in the back. Whether deputy or prisoner, however, she didn’t care. Bottom line? Lucas was an ass. And he wasn’t going to help her find Katie.

Following the sheriff’s lead, Isabella let herself out. The street was virtually dead. The rain had let up and fog had moved in, a great swirling bank of it. Water droplets plopped onto the sidewalk behind her. To her left, a woman’s high heels tapped in the opposite direction.

She thought about the hotel across the street. Their brochures read Come Inn to the Mystic, which would have been a good tagline if the place hadn’t been a cardboard cutout of every generic hotel in rural America.

Oh, there was plenty of room for competition in this town.

Jingling her keys, she turned for her car.

“No assistance to be had, Ms. Ross?”

The silence was so pervasive, it made the words, spoken from the fog in front of her, sound like cannon fire. But even with her heart in her throat, Isabella’s restraint held.

“The ghost thing won’t work on me. I’m not in the mood for games, and I’m not leaving, so if you’re planning a repeat performance of our cellar staircase encounter, you can save your breath. My cousin was here. Now she’s not. I’m going to find her. End of conversation.”

“I didn’t take her, Isabella.”

“Yes, I reasoned that one out, although given the circumstances, it’s possible you came to my assistance at Darkwood Manor to throw me off.”

Amusement colored his tone. “You’re being too clever, and giving me way more credit for that quality than I deserve. I told you to leave because a man I trust insists there’s something going on at the manor. Since he’s not prone to hallucinations, there probably is. Hidden agendas frequently go hand in hand with crime.”

“Spoken like a true cop.” When he didn’t respond, she arched her brows. “Would that be a silent confirmation or the silent voice of criminal experience?”

“Possibly a little of both.”

That did it. Yes, the man had a great voice. She liked the way he smelled, and what she’d seen of his eyes in the cellar had mesmerized her for a moment. But her love of a good mystery paled next to her concern for Katie’s life. So…

She took a challenging step forward. “Did you go through my purse or my car to find out who I am?”

“I didn’t see your car until later. Your purse was hanging at the bottom of the stairs.”

“My stairs, Mr.…”

“Black. Donovan. And I’m aware that you own Darkwood Manor.”

“So you are a cop.”

“Of sorts.”

“Friends with the local sheriff?”

“Good friends.”

Why that surprised her, she couldn’t say, but as long as it was there, she might as well seize the opportunity. “In that case, would you do me a favor?”

“I might.”

“All I want—”

“Is for me to persuade the sheriff to search for your cousin.”

“Which you won’t do because…?”

Again, the suggestion of a smile. “Sheriff’s in Florida, recovering from a gunshot wound to the chest. The man you talked to is his replacement, Senior Deputy, aka acting sheriff, Ormand Lucas. Genuine-article sheriff won’t be back until after Halloween.”

Pressing the fingers of both hands to her temples, Isabella murmured a disbelieving “Remind me to get my Aunt Rose to put a curse on this town.” She dropped her hands. “Let’s cut the small talk, okay? How do you even know about my cousin? Did you see us at Darkwood Manor?”

“I saw you. Searching for your cousin there and talking to Orry here.”

“So you eavesdropped through a closed door.”

“From the back room. Mystic Harbor’s a small town, less than a thousand residents at this time of year. Alley doors are seldom locked. Have you had dinner?”

Was he joking? She squared up. “Why are you hiding in the dark, Mr. Black?”

“I’m not hiding, I’m leaning on a lamppost having a conversation with a beautiful woman. Dinner?”

Part of her wanted to laugh. The rest… “It might have escaped your notice, but I’ve had a few more important things on my mind. Katie wasn’t spirited away by the ghost of Aaron Dark. She didn’t bolt in fear or lose her cell phone, and she doesn’t play practical jokes. She’s gone, her car’s gone, and your soon-to-be-cursed acting sheriff couldn’t care less about any of it. Forget food. My question is, as a cop of sorts, are you going to get involved or not?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

It was more than she’d expected, but not enough for her to trust him. “Okay, second question.” She waved at the fog, thought she could almost make out a figure in the darkness ahead. “Am I ever going to see you?”

She knew he hesitated. However, after a few seconds, a man wearing a black coat similar to hers emerged.

He was taller than her, but no more than six feet or so in boots. Worn jeans were topped by a black T. He had good hands, she noted, and surprisingly long hair. Far too long for your average cop. It was mid-brown, shoulder length and somehow sensual. His face intrigued her, too. More than nice, but not quite remarkable, his features were nonetheless riveting.

Then she saw his eyes, and both her assessment and the breath in her lungs stalled.

“Whoa.” She reacted unthinkingly, paused, then drew back. “You have great eyes.” It took a few seconds for her brain to roll with the sexual punch, longer still to recall what they’d been saying. When she did, she moved a finger between them. “You mentioned something about dinner?”

His slow smile almost caused a full meltdown, but this time she was prepared for it and braced.

“I know a place,” he said. “We can talk there, maybe strategize to some extent. How much will be up to you.”

“Why me?”

His smile widened. “You might not like the company.”

“We’re having company?”

“One other person.”

“Ah. Would that be your wife, Mr. Black?”

“Uncle. I’m not married. And it’s Donovan.”

“Okay, Donovan. Why should your uncle, or any other man, affect our conversation?”

“He shouldn’t.” Donovan turned her around. “As long as you’re not afraid of bears.”

HADEN BLACK WASN’T A bear. Not quite. Bigfoot was closer, but even legendary beasts had claws. Donovan’s uncle had potholders. And bifocals. And a rustic cottage crammed to the rafters with reading material, art and vintage electronics.

She counted three televisions, two turntables, a serious sound system, a reel-to-reel tape deck and the worn covers of at least a thousand LPs.

The man stood a burly six feet seven inches, sported a bushy beard and had a wild head of hair that skimmed his massive shoulders. He spoke in a growl, looked like he could bench press her weight and Donovan’s combined, and made no attempt to disguise his contempt for her ex.

“The man was a fool with more money than brains. Said he wanted to turn the manor into a spa.” Although he didn’t spit, she sensed he wanted to. “Sweet-talked the geezer who owned it into selling for a song.”

To hide her amusement, Isabella glanced away. Then did a double take and knelt to regard an abstract canvas carelessly propped against a stack of logs. “David’s partner said he paid over nine hundred thousand for the place. Is this a Kandinsky?”

“You’ve got good eyes.” Haden grunted his approval. “No taste in men, though. Nine hundred thousand’s peanuts for a cliffside manor with acreage. Tell her, Donovan.”

“It’s worth more,” his nephew agreed. At Isabella’s upward glance, he chuckled. “That being said, the transaction was legal and probably fair enough, considering the owner just celebrated his ninety-third birthday, has been predeceased by all his heirs and planned to put the place on the market for less than half of what your boyfriend paid.”

“Former boyfriend.” Isabella tipped another canvas forward, stared in disbelief. “You have a Van Gogh?”

“Got a Picasso kicking around somewhere, too.”

“On the floor.”

Haden shot her an aggravated look. “No room for ’em on the walls now, is there. Tell me, Ms. Corrigan-Ross, what are your plans for the house?”

Standing, she dusted off. “To tear it apart piece by cracked plaster piece until I find my cousin. My name’s Isabella. And I think your dinner’s burning, Mr. Black.”

“Haden.” He shook a potholder at her. “Are you one hundred percent sure this cousin of yours didn’t turn tail and run because something scared her?”

“Something as in Aaron Dark’s ghost?”

He set belligerent fists on his hips. “Are you a nonbeliever, then?”

She summoned a placid smile. “My grandparents on both sides are Irish. I have to buy in to some extent.”

“But?” Donovan prompted.

“My father’s father was a hardcore New York businessman. His mother was a city councillor. Ghosts don’t exist in their world, even in theory. So to answer your question, when asked, I tend to take the Fifth.”

“You sound like a politician.”

“You sound like my grandma Corrigan.”

“Woman has sense.” Haden shook the potholder again. “Hang around here long enough, you’ll believe in spooks, spirits, poltergeists and probably Elvis come back from the grave.”

“If you’re saying I’m going to bump into Aaron Black at some point in my search, good. When I do, maybe he’ll help me find Katie.”

“Don’t count on it,” Donovan said behind her. “Aaron Dark wasn’t the helpful sort.”

Prepared for the sexual punch, Isabella faced him. “You know, for a cop, you’re awfully cryptic.”

“He’s a sharpshooter.” Haden headed for the now-smoking oven. “Boy has the best eyes in the business.”

No argument there, she thought. However, it was the Aaron Dark reference that interested her. “The notes David left with his partner spoke of a philanthropic man, active in politics, the business community and the local church.”

“The details of which were neatly set down in the family history.” Donovan’s lips curved. “What wasn’t mentioned anywhere in those notes was that Aaron Dark wrote the bulk of that history. Other, less biased accounts suggest a Jekyll and Hyde personality.”

She smiled. “That would just make for a more colorful story.”

“It would, unless you had dealings with him.”

Curiosity had her studying his expression. That and she couldn’t drag her gaze from his face. “Are you a history buff, then, Donovan?”

He glanced away, smiled a little. “Nothing quite so easy.”

“You just love a good ghost story, huh?”

“A good one, yes. Unfortunately, this story isn’t.” He came closer, kept his eyes locked on hers. “Aaron Dark was a monster, Isabella. He imprisoned his wife at Darkwood Manor. When he discovered she was pregnant with another man’s child, he killed her and threw her body from the cliff behind the house.”

Although something about his demeanor had changed, Isabella couldn’t have said what it was. “Pretty sure none of that was in David’s notes. Was Dark arrested? Hung? Run out of town?”

“He went mad,” Donovan told her. She swore his brown eyes deepened to black. “And to answer your unspoken question, I know that because Aaron Dark’s sister, his sister who many believe went as mad as Aaron, was my ancestor.”

Chapter Three

If he’d intended to shock her—and he probably had—the attempt fell flat. Her eyes danced as she curled a finger around the front of his shirt. “Second reminder, pal. Someday I’ll tell you about my ancestor Connell Ross who went on a bloody post-death rampage after his land was gutted by an enemy army that, like every army in the dark days of Ireland’s history, decided to make what was his, theirs. Long story short, anyone who tries to build on Connell’s land is doomed to failure. We all have our skeletons, Donovan. Some are just more recently formed than others.”

Haden was no help. The smug “Told you so” that wafted out of the kitchen made Isabella laugh and Donovan want to say to hell with both of them and return to his life in New York.

He liked living on the edge; he’d lived there for most of his thirty-six years. The way he saw it, if he didn’t explore the dark side of his nature, he’d never know how deep his ancestral tendencies ran. Or so the childhood theory went.

He was spared the necessity of a reply when his uncle marched in with two heaping platters of food and a bottle of wine.

As it turned out, the meat was only slightly charred. A Cordon Bleu chef, Haden set a table bountiful enough to feed half the population of Mystic Harbor. To her credit, recognizable or not, Isabella sampled every dish, and only seemed mildly puzzled by the meat.

“This isn’t rabbit, is it?”

Busy chewing, Haden shook his head, motioned for her to eat and nudged the arugula-and-anchovy salad closer to her plate.

The lights above them flickered. The big man swallowed, stood. “Leave room for dessert,” he warned and clomped out to check the fuse box.

Spearing a piece of meat, Isabella lifted it for a closer inspection. “Why do I think this never had feathers?”

Donovan kept his expression neutral. “It’s squirrel.”

Her eyes came up. “Squirrel,” she repeated. Her fork went down. “As in Rocky the Flying?”

“Or a close relative.” Resting his forearms on the table, he snagged a bottle. “More wine?”

“I fed peanuts to park squirrels when I was growing up.”

“If you can eat Thumper and Chicken Little, Isabella, why a problem with Rocky?”

Still staring, she moved her glass forward. “I was being polite. I prefer not to eat any of them. I’ll be a little more rude next time.” Ignoring the lights that surged and faded overhead, she slid her gaze to his face. “Insanity isn’t an inherited trait, you know.”

He swirled his wine, swallowed a bitter mouthful. “Do you want to tell my mother that, or leave it to the doctors who are treating her?”

“For what?”

“Paranoia mostly, with a little ADHD thrown in on the side. And then there was my grandmother who, depending on which day of the week it happened to be, saw herself as Eleanor Roosevelt, Mary Pickford and, toward the end of her life, Anna McNeill Whistler.”

“Your grandmother thought she was Whistler’s mother?”

“Until the day she died. She wanted to be buried in North Carolina, where Anna was born. During a rare moment of lucidity, my mother denied the request and had her remains interred in the family crypt.”

Isabella set her chin on a fisted hand. “You’re going to tell me I own the crypt, aren’t you?”

“Inasmuch as anyone can own such a thing.”

“What about this place? I heard it was the coach house for the manor.”

“It was, but you don’t own it. The cottage sits in the middle of the only acre of land the Darks held on to when the manor was sold early in the twentieth century. The buyer was a shipbuilder from Portland. Your ex bought it, sans acre, from the last of the builder’s descendants.”

“Well, I’m fascinated.” She pushed her plate away as the lights winked off and on. “Does this disco ball effect happen a lot?”

Donovan took another sip. “Haden rewired the place last year. Answer’s yes.” When she continued her speculative regard, he let his lips curve, considered the wine in his glass. “Something else?”

“I’m not sure.” Leaning in on her forearms, she twirled a strand of his hair around her finger. “You’re a strange sort of cop, Donovan Black. And don’t say it runs in the family.”

He let her touch, made a point of not lowering his gaze to the vee of her dark red sweater. “It doesn’t,” he answered. “I’m an aberration in that regard.”

“In lots of regards, I imagine.”

“With one exception.”

She gave his hair a tug. “Nice try, Black, but my uncle’s a Park Avenue shrink. Insanity doesn’t walk, run or gallop in families.”

“A shrink, huh?” Even knowing he shouldn’t, Donovan found himself wanting to sample her mouth. One brief taste to satisfy the hunger in his belly. Then he’d remove himself from the moment and from temptation. From Mystic Harbor as well, if he was smart—which he could be or not, depending on the situation.

The lights dimmed again. He heard Haden swearing on the back porch, but his eyes remained on Isabella. On her soft, striking features, her long, rain-curled hair and her bluer-than-blue eyes.

He wasn’t sure who actually moved, but he figured it was probably fifty-fifty. However it happened, his mouth was suddenly on hers, not to taste now, but to dive in and explore.

Catching her jaw between his thumb and fingers, he angled her head to deepen the kiss. She made a sound of approval in her throat, tangled her own fingers in his hair and pulled him closer.

At their first meeting, she’d shoved him away. He should have left it at that. Left her to face whatever demons lurked inside Darkwood Manor alone. Instead, his tongue was on a voyage of discovery in her mouth, fencing with hers, then sliding past it, until the pulse hammering in his head threatened to strip away decades of control.

When the lights above them sparked, a red warning flashed in his brain. If it looked and felt dangerous, it probably was. Even as he tested the limits of his restraint, Donovan knew he should end this now, walk away and not look back.

He wasn’t sure if he could have done it or not. The next time the lights zapped off, they stayed that way, plunging the cottage into full, silent darkness. He let her bite his bottom lip, was thinking about trailing his mouth along the side of her neck when they heard it—a long, keening wail that echoed through the fog and shadow outside.

It started on the periphery of his mind and built, from a thread of sound to a shriek that had Isabella’s fingernails sinking into his shoulders.

“My God, what is that?”

He couldn’t see her clearly, but knew she was staring at the front window.

His eyes slid in the same direction. “Some people say a pack of wolves wandered down from Quebec. A few think it’s a wild dog.”

She didn’t pull back, and his hand still formed a light V around her throat. “Some,” she repeated. As the wail came again, he felt a shiver ripple through her. “What do the rest of the people believe?”

“What you’d expect.” He kept his tone calm. “That Aaron Dark’s spirit has come to reclaim his house. And if he can’t get it using fear, he’ll resort to what he knows best. Death.”

“YOU KNOW I DON’T BUY any of that, don’t you?”

They were the first words out of Isabella’s mouth when Donovan halted his black Tundra behind her on the narrow roadway.

She’d been pacing in front of the Hang Ten Lodge, the only other off-season accommodations Mystic Harbor had to offer, waiting for him to join her and going over his remarks about Aaron Dark’s afterlife agenda.

She didn’t think he really believed in ghosts. In the possibility of genetic insanity, yes, but not in encounters with otherworldly beings.

He was trying to frighten her again, and she didn’t appreciate the repeat performance one bit. Especially when her head continued to spin from a kiss like—well, like nothing she’d ever experienced before. Her lips were still tingling, and sorting through her jumbled thoughts had only become possible in the last five minutes.

Back at his place, Haden’s announcement that the power outage extended beyond the walls of his cottage had barely registered.

“You must be tuckered out,” he’d remarked with a sympathetic tut. “Put that sound you heard out of your mind. It’s a story for later. For tonight, you go to my friend George’s lodge. State it’s in, the manor’s not fit for flesh-and-blood humans. Last owner slept on a horsehair sofa so lumpy it makes my yard look like a putting green. We’ll talk tomorrow about the goings-on up there. Meantime, I’ll call ahead, tell George you’re on your way.”

Horsehair sofas, mad ghosts and one incredible kiss. If Katie had been a weak-minded person, Isabella might have believed she’d run. But they weren’t merely cousins, they were best friends and had been since before she could remember. Katie had not left Darkwood Manor voluntarily.

Isabella kept pacing while Donovan leaned against the hood of his truck and watched.

“Ghosts, whether real or imagined, don’t whisk people and their vehicles away,” she maintained in passing. Cell phone in hand, she tried her cousin’s number again, with the same result as before.

A frustrated sound escaped. Letting her head fall back, she surveyed the misty night sky. “I’m going to wake up soon and discover this is nothing but a nightmare. I figure there’s a sixty-forty chance that no part of it’s real.” Bringing her head up, she regarded the rustic lodge to her left. “Why are there lights inside?”

“Generator’s running. They have limited power.” Locking his eyes on hers, Donovan pushed off from the hood, moved toward her with deliberation. “I wasn’t trying to scare you back at Haden’s place, Isabella. It was a reaction, a verbal shove. Not a fair one, but that’s how self-defense mechanisms work. Anything to keep a threat at bay.”

For the first time since she’d left the cottage, humor sparked. “In other words, kissing me unnerved you.”

“You could say that.” His gaze didn’t waver as he approached. “But a more accurate assessment would be to say it scared the crap out of me.”

“I’m flattered, Black.”

“Don’t be.”

A chuckle emerged from the shadowed front porch. “Trust him, he means it,” a husky female voice drawled. “Hey-ya, Donovan. What brings you to our sequestered neck of the woods?”

Donovan’s gaze remained on Isabella. “Thought you were moving to the Cape, Darlene.”

“So did I. Best-laid plans’ll screw you every time. Who’s the blonde?”

Dragging her eyes from Donovan’s, Isabella smiled. “Isabella Ross.”

“The new owner of Darkwood Manor,” Donovan supplemented.

A tall, thin woman came into the misty half-light. She had an unlit cigarette between her black-tipped fingers and sharp, foxlike features that were neither friendly nor unfriendly. Platinum hair stood up like frosted candy canes, she wore a rock-band T beneath an oversized leather jacket and studded boots over superskinny jeans.

“Darlene Calvert.” She gestured at the building behind her. “My mother and Donovan’s are tenth or twelfth cousins. Means we’re related, but hey, life sucks on lots of levels. You looking for a room?”

Unsure what to make of her, Isabella offered a cautious “Maybe. Is this your lodge?”

Darlene snorted, struck a match, inhaled.

“It’s her mother’s,” Donovan said.

“Only a masochistic fool would want to rent rooms to the public.” She adopted a whiny tone. “The bed’s too hard, the food’s too cold, the bathroom’s too small. Goldilocks should have been so picky.” She lowered spiky lashes. “So, what’s your line, Isabella?”

“Apparently I’m a masochistic fool.”

“Hotel worker?”

“My family’s in the business.”

“Ross, huh?” A sly smile appeared. “As in the Corrigan-Ross Hotel Group? And now you’re eyeing Darkwood Manor as a destination for supernatural thrill seekers.” She blew a line of smoke. “Sweetie, if that’s your intention, you wanna scuttle it here and now.”

“Why would I do that, Darlene?”

The woman strolled closer, let her gaze travel in the direction of the distant manor. “Because I drove past your recent acquisition this afternoon. Saw a man at the gate.”

“What did he look like?” Isabella asked with care.

“Tall, thirtysomething, dark haired, might have had a ’stache. I stopped for a moment, because—well, because I was curious. I shouldn’t have, though. I could tell, not sure how, that he wanted me to keep moving.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“No, he just glared.”

“And then?”

“Then he started walking toward me. He came through the gate and headed straight for my car. That’s when I took off.”

With Katie missing, Isabella had no time for theatrics. “Did you feel threatened by him?”

“You could say that.” Blowing more smoke, Darlene sliced a hand in front of her. “I said he came through the gate. Thing is, the gate was closed at the time.”

“I’M SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE a ghost walked through a closed gate.” Isabella strode into the partially lit lodge ahead of Donovan. “The ghost glared, Darlene left and, after the shock wore off, went about her usual business.” She stalked back to him. “Is she on meds, or do I just look like someone who believes in the tooth fairy?”

Donovan turned her back around. “You own Darkwood Manor, Isabella. Ghost sightings come with the territory.” Setting his head next to hers, he nodded at a woman in jeans and a plaid shirt who was delivering a round of beer to a group of poker players at one of five tables strewn about the lobby. “That’s George.”

“Of course it is.” But Isabella worked up a pleasant expression when the woman wiped her hands and came to join them.

“Haden called, said you’d be wanting a room.” She pushed at a mop of salt-and-pepper hair, winked at Donovan. “Don’t let these noisy hooligans losing a month’s wages to each other put you off. They pay me for the space, so I let them pick each other’s pockets twice a week. Sorry about the bad light, but the generator’s old. I’ve got a room upstairs or a cabin if you’d prefer. Both come with lanterns. Cabin has a fireplace and a fridge.”

Isabella’s smile had a dangerous edge. “Does it have a ghost as well?”

The woman named George laughed. “Ran into Darlene outside, did you? Now, honey, you forget about her. My girl’s a frustrated journalist is all. Had a job lined up south of here, but lost out to the editor’s niece. She’s back working for our local Realtor and being pissy about it. The cabins are clean, private and ghost free. You can see Darkwood Manor up on the cliff from number three.”

Unable to sustain her irritation in the face of George’s friendly manner, Isabella relaxed. “Your lodge is lovely, and I know all about pissy moods. It’s been a long day.”

George squeezed her wrist. “Why don’t I let Donovan show you the way. If he remembers, that is. Our boy left us right after he graduated high school. Only comes back to visit Haden and me and old Gunnar Crookshank…when the damn fool’s not off recovering from a gunshot wound that wouldn’t have happened if a certain deputy—Orry Lucas—had better aim.”

Orry Lucas? Isabella’s head swung to the tables. And there he was, half-hidden behind a rough beam, out of the main pool of light, the man she’d spoken to in town.

“Evening, Ms. Ross, Donovan. Didn’t know you two were friends.”

Isabella’s lips tipped up. “I’d have mentioned it,” she lied, “but you were so anxious to get home and help your son with his algebra that I didn’t want to hold you up.”

Donovan chuckled. “Algebra, Orry?”

“I was riled. I meant homework.”

“Your kid’s in preschool. How much homework does he have?”

“Any amount’d be over Orry’s head,” a man with a cigar in his mouth chortled. “Truth be told, our deputy was probably worried his wife would bean him for talking to a pretty stranger. She’s a bit jealous, that one. I should know—she’s my niece.”

Isabella regarded Donovan, now perched on one of the empty tables. “Is everyone in this town related?”

“Mostly.” He raised his voice. “Isabella’s cousin’s still missing, Orry. You planning to do anything about that?”

“Adults are free to come and go as they please in these parts. I’ll look into it when the time’s right.”

Assuming he could tell time, Isabella thought, firing up.

Reading her body language, Donovan shook his head. “Let it go. He can make himself an object of ridicule without our help.”

George sniffed. “It’s no more than he deserves. Oh, here’s more beer coming. You think for a minute, honey. Let me know what you’d like.”

Isabella ground her teeth. “A real-life sheriff would be nice.” But she kept her voice low and her eyes on Donovan, who somehow managed to fit in yet be removed from his surroundings at the same time.

“Excuse me, Ms. Ross, Mr. Black.” A man with slippery black hair and a prominent widow’s peak approached them. He wore a white shirt, jeans and loafers, had long, narrow features and looked completely out of place in the New England lodge. “My name’s Robert Drake. Deputy Lucas tells me you’re in the hotel business, Ms. Ross. I built a number of town homes in Brunswick last year. I’m thinking of doing the same thing up here.”

“Did the deputy also happen to mention that the lady’s got herself some prime property?” Donovan asked in an easy tone.

“Property, yes. Prime’s open for debate.” Drake’s mouth smiled; his eyes didn’t. “I can’t say I’d be eager to get mixed up with a ghost, and I’m told you’ve got a nasty one.”

Isabella matched his smile. “I’ll let you know when I meet him.”

He raised his palms. “You’ve got more courage than I do. I’m not a fan of ghosts myself.”

Curious, she thought, since, with his black eyes and pale skin, he resembled one.

The cigar man stabbed a finger across the table. “I’m a fan of anyone human or vapor who’s got money in his pocket. Get your butt over here, Donovan, and take friggin’ Orry’s place, will ya? He antes up once, then folds.”

“Raise the stakes,” Donovan suggested.

Isabella glanced at his profile. She could see what Robert Drake probably couldn’t. The developer was being thoroughly assessed, from slicked-back hair to Gucci loafer.

In a practiced move, Drake produced a card from his shirt pocket. “On the off chance you decide to part with some of your land, here’s my name and number. Far from the haunted manor would be best, but that’s a personal aversion. As a businessman, I try to be open-minded.”

George returned to shoo him away. “The other players are waiting, and my new guest’s had a long day. Cabin or room, Isabella?”

“Cabin three,” Isabella decided. “I like a view.”

“In that case, key’s behind the desk, Donovan.” George rolled her eyes as the poker player with the cigar swore. “God’s sake, watch your mouth, Milt. I’m sure Isabella’s not looking to color up her vocabulary.”

“She won’t need me to help her with that if old Aaron’s on a tear,” the man countered. “My first mate swears he heard the screech of the damned while we were sitting a mile off the Point last month. I was below asleep, so he chugged over to check it out. Suddenly, a Corvette shot over the cliff, crashed and burned like hellfire. And so Darkwood Manor changed hands again. I don’t mean to scare you, lady, but my feeling is it’ll keep changing hands until it’s a Dark who owns it again.”

“Or someone with Dark blood,” Orry mumbled behind his cards. At Donovan’s look, he showed his teeth. “Just saying.”

George swatted Donovan’s arm. “Rescue the poor girl, for heaven’s sake.”

“Actually…” Isabella began, but George cut her off.

“You let Haden tell you what you need to know. Or Donovan if he’s in the mood.” She swatted him again. “He won’t be, but who could object to having a sexy-as-hell man evading her questions?”

Isabella thought this might be one of the most surreal evenings of her life. God knew her emotions were all over the place. She needed to collect her thoughts and regroup.

Donovan was removing the key to cabin three when her cell phone beeped. Digging it from her coat pocket, she glanced at the screen.

“What?” he asked when she stopped.

Her brow knit into a frown. “I just got a text message.” She looked up at him. “From Katie.”

Bella. Had to leave. Sorry. Emergency. Details ASAP. Katie.

ISABELLA ROLLED THE WORDS through her head during the walk to the cliff-side cabin. The more she rolled them, the more suspicious she became. When was the last time Katie had texted her? The word never sprang to mind.

“Katie’s not a texter,” she maintained. When Donovan didn’t slow down, she caught his arm. “Did you…?”

“I heard you, Isabella. You don’t believe she sent the message. Someone could have sent it for her.”

“Why?”

“You know your cousin better than I do.”

“Exactly. Which is why this makes no sense. If Katie did leave the manor without a word—highly unlikely—she’d have needed to drive somewhere. She could have contacted me anytime between Darkwood and her destination.”

“Not if she was talking to the person who called her.”

“You’re being obtuse.”

“I’m being a cop.”

“Is there a difference?” She dug in. “This feels wrong, Donovan.”

He regarded her for several seconds, then finally asked, “How many times have you tried to contact her since the message came through?”

“Four. She’s not answering.”

“Yeah, I got that part.” He gave the latch a whack, pushed the door open and let her precede him inside.

Even after they lit a lantern, the shadows remained deep enough to rival anything Isabella had encountered at Darkwood Manor. She took in what she could of the room—a sofa with cushions and throws, a tub chair, a writing desk, some kind of table, two braided rugs on a wood floor and three closed doors. To her surprise, most of the opposite wall was comprised of windows.

The current view was shrouded in fog; however, when the layers shifted she glimpsed Darkwood Manor, looming like an evil fortress on a ragged jut of cliff. Below, she heard the relentless pounding of the surf—the sound of which momentarily diverted her.

“Why the Hang Ten Lodge?” she asked over her shoulder. “Do people actually surf in these waters?”

“Not that I know of. Ten people were hung on the spot where the lodge was built.”

“Once again, it’s all about death. Any of those hanged ten stick around, or am I the only one who’s haunted?”

“Far as I know, you’re it.”

“I see. Details on that?”

His lips curved. “Haden’s the details guy.”

Resigned, she glanced through the bank of windows, turned, then halted and snapped her head around for a second look. “Someone’s out there.”

Donovan leaned over her shoulder. “Where?”

“On the cliff. Right…” She waited until the fog swirled apart. “There. At the edge of the cliff behind the manor.”

The fog closed in again, like a cloud across the moon. Isabella dipped lower. Several seconds later, the layers separated.

But while the rocks and trees remained, the figure she’d seen had vanished.

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