Pull of the Moon
Sylvie Kurtz

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Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

About the Author

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

Epilogue

Copyright

Flying an eight-hour solo cross-country in a Piper Arrow with only the areorplane’s crackling radio and a large bag of M&Ms for company, Sylvie Kurtz realised a pilot’s life wasn’t for her. The stories zooming in and out of her mind proved more entertaining than the flight itself. Not a quitter, she finished her pilot’s course and earned her commercial licence and instrument rating.

Since then, she has traded in her wings for a keyboard, where she lets her imagination soar to create fictional adventures that explore the power of love and the thrill of suspense.

You can write to Sylvie at PO Box 702, Milford, NH 03055, USA. And visit her website at www.sylviekurtz. com.

For Chuck – for telling me I’m wonderful no matter what. For Ann, Joyce and Lorrie – for your continuing friendship. I would like to extend a special thank-you to the following people for their help: Jennifer LeDuc Cusato, Marianne Mancusi, Denise Robbins and Jared Shurtliff.

Prologue

October brought out the ghosts. Not that they weren’t always there for Rita Meadows, but in October, they crowded her, pressured her, demanded she set them free.

Alone in her big bed, she couldn’t sleep. Returning home to Moongate tended to do that to her, especially now that the anniversary was fast approaching. She had to readjust to the mansion, to the eerie weight of the leaden memories its wooden facade held prisoner. This was her first night home since her secret trip to Chicago—one Nicolas wouldn’t approve of—and already she wished she could leave again, if only for a little while longer.

Maybe she should just skip October this year, come back in November when the ghosts’ grip lost its fierceness. After all these years of vigil, her aging bones deserved a rest. She could spend October bobbing on a yacht in the Caribbean or tasting her way through Napa Valley.

Oblivion. That would be nice.

She bolted up at the renegade thought. “No, baby, I didn’t mean that.”

Her fault. Her cross to bear. She hadn’t given up hope; she never would. But sometimes, she just wanted the pain to end.

Outside a storm boiled over Mount Monadnock and down into the valley, spilling into Moonhill. Like a brew bubbling over from a witch’s pot, rain flooded against the roof and deluged the windowpanes with waterfalls. Wind pounded against the walls, and thunder reverberated through the empty halls. A tomb would feel much like this: cold, dark and empty.

The plague of insomnia had her staring at the ceiling, finding the face of evil in the plaster as a necromancer might in a scrying bowl. One answer to one question. That’s all she wanted. Why was it so hard to find?

The storm’s fury ebbed, and the faint whimpers of a baby’s cries imprinted themselves on the air. She slid under the covers as the frightened pitch increased. Closing her eyes, fisting her hands against her ears, did nothing to vanquish the child’s terror.

Only one thing would.

Tears coursing down her cheeks, she rose from her bed. As she’d done on countless other nights, she crept into the hallway and wound her way toward the third-floor tower room. There she pressed the plunger of the antique iron latch. The door creaked open and the cries instantly ceased.

The cries weren’t real. They were just a trick of her mind, giving form to her guilt. There were no babies here, dead or otherwise—only her misguided hope.

Wrapping one arm around her stomach, she stepped into the yellow pool of artificial light burning from the night-light that had made Valentina feel safe. An expectant hush weighted the room as if the walls were listening for the missing four-year-old’s return.

Nothing had changed in this room. For twenty-five years the tic-tac-toe play rug, the child’s bed with its princess-pink canopy, the pile of stuffed animals on the butterfly-stenciled storage chest had remained as they were on the day Valentina had disappeared.

The static landscape her daughter had left behind stared back, ripe with accusation, and a lightning jag of pain, raw and deep, clawed at Rita’s heart. “I’m so sorry, baby, so sorry.”

If she could do it all over again…But no, there was no rewinding time.

As Rita turned to leave, a gray shape formed along her peripheral vision.

A sigh, no more than an exhale, seemed to sough against her ear. Mama.

Breath held, Rita stopped and pressed a hand to her thundering heart. “Valentina?”

The hope, so sharp in her voice, cut through the thick fog of memories. Of course not. What had the doctor called it? Projection? The disappointment of reality resettled heavily on her shoulders.

“No, Rita. It’s me, Holly.”

Rita swiveled toward the doorway where her faithful friend and housekeeper stood, her long gray braid a beacon in the night.

“I thought I heard—” Rita’s hand fluttered like a surrender flag toward the window. “I thought Valentina was…home.”

Holly’s solid arm wrapped around Rita’s waist, supporting her, and gently led her away from the center of her agony.

“You must think me a fool.”

“No, of course not, Rita. It was just the storm. Let me walk you back to your room.”

“I’m okay.” Shoulders stooped, Rita shook off Holly’s helping hands and made her way back into her bedroom alone, fading into the shadows of the house…just another ghost.

Chapter One

Pewter shrouded the October afternoon as Valerie Zea and Mike Murakita—her photog and soundman for the shoot—made their way to Moonhill, New Hampshire. Here and there a red maple leaf or a yellow beech leaf, still clinging stubbornly to a limb, flickered like a tongue of fire.

Valerie had seen photos of the White Mountains blazing with fall color, of the misty lakes like milky beads of moonstone wreathing the endless vistas from high atop the mountains, of the bellowing moose that required warnings to motorists every few miles on the highway. And she’d wanted to see all that rugged beauty, so different from the lush flatness of Central Florida she was accustomed to.

She’d been disappointed enough when she’d read that the Old Man of the Mountain—a nature-made Indian head of stacked boulders perched precariously on the side of a mountain for centuries—had fallen a few years ago and no longer watched over Franconia Notch. Just the name—Franconia Notch—conjured up a grand and magnificent picture. Not that they were anywhere near the White Mountains, since Moonhill was located in the southern part of the state. But the fog was cheating her out of her anticipated sense-stunning experience.

She compared the MapQuest directions she’d gotten online against the road signs popping up out of the low clouds on the narrow road. “Turn here.”

Mike jerked the car onto the country lane. “A little more warning next time.”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

On the right side, a low stone wall framed a cemetery whose granite headstones and statuary poked out of the mist. Not quite on the scale of a mountaintop view, but filled with mystery, suspense and intrigue.

On the left, a Stick-style Victorian with a wraparound porch glared through the murk like some sort of movie set haunted house. Orange fairy lights dripped from the eaves. Giant glow-in-the-dark spiders and webs clung to the decorative trusses. A life-size mummy with arms out-stretched seemed poised to lumber out of the six-foot tall black coffin leaning against the oak by the front walk. On the lawn, strobes blasted on and off at intervals, lighting up red-eyed bats, moaning zombies and shrieking gar-goyles. There were enough special effects there to make a Hollywood techie jealous.

“Talk about overkill,” she said. The overblown drama of the scene would make an interesting segment of its own, though, especially if she could find a Florida angle to it. Maybe the owner’s parents were part of the snowbirds that flocked to the Sunshine State every winter. She made a mental note to look into the possibilities before she pitched the idea to Higgins, her executive producer. He’d appreciate maximizing the bang for his travel-expense buck.

She peered at the web-encrusted mailbox by the entrance for the address. “We’ve got a way to go yet.”

Mike warbled his voice to make it sound spooky, but it came out sounding more like the Count on Sesame Street. “Maybe it’s the local haunted house for Halloween.” He shot her a mischievous grin. At thirty, he still looked like a kid with his boyish face that couldn’t grow a beard, except for a sparse tuft on his chin that looked like a smudge of dirt. “Want some B-roll of that for your segment?”

“Yeah, Higgins would go for that. He’s already ticked off Krista’s doctor wouldn’t let her fly, and he had to send second-choice me to do the job.” The assignment was high priority since it had come down as a special order from Edmund Meadows, the station’s owner. He’d requested a package about the kidnapping of his great-niece twenty-five years ago in hopes of stirring up some new evidence that could lead to finding the missing girl.

“On the plus side. He put you above Bailey.”

Bailey-the-Beautiful who had Higgins wrapped around her long legs. Valerie snorted. There was too much at stake for Higgins to risk needing to mop up after Bailey. “Efficiency won out over looks.”

“Either that or he couldn’t give her up for four whole nights.”

“There is that.”

High on Windemere Drive, Moongate Mansion materialized out of the shifting mist. First the six-foot granite wall and the black iron gate, canted open, daring intruders to trespass. Then the estate itself, a gray nineteenth-century Victorian with an eclectic mix of Italianate and Queen Anne. Each generation of Meadowses, seeking no doubt to stamp their mark, had added to the original two-story, four-room house until it sprawled over 13,000 square feet, looking like some sort of Frankenstein creature.

Valerie couldn’t imagine living in such a dreary place, especially with its constant bruise of painful memories. But she also understood why Rita Meadows stayed. For Valentina. If she came back, her home would be there, waiting for her, lights shining bright, and her mother would be there, too, arms open wide.

Valerie swiped surreptitiously at the moistness in her eyes. Her mother called Valerie’s tendency toward the melodramatic maudlin. But what could she say, she liked happy endings. There were so few of them in real life.

Mike crunched the rental up the gravel drive. She rolled the window down for a better look at the house. The scent of decomposing leaves and wood smoke infiltrated the car. Dark trees on each side of the lane swayed and whispered as if in warning. Ahead light gleamed from what seemed like a hundred windows, brightening the gloom of the day with their glow. But even that wasn’t enough to dispel the aura of decay that clung to the house’s wooden boards like ivy.

Her blood quickened as the voice-over wrote itself in her head. Cohost Dan Millege’s deep bass vibrated with gravity in her brain, hitting just the right emotional tone for the introduction to a twenty-five-year-old kidnapping. She ripped out her portfolio and scratched furious notes to capture the inspiration before it vanished. “Can’t you just feel the mystery in the air? We have to get the fog on tape before it lifts.”

Off to the side of the house, Mike shoved the rental into Park. “Don’t you ever look at anything without seeing it from a story angle?”

Valerie shrugged. The story was everything. She couldn’t explain it to Mike—or to her mother—but some inner force drove her to ferret information, any information, about everything. Her mother called it a disease and, although Valerie preferred to label her flaw as curiosity, she couldn’t quite disagree. She couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t looking for something, anything, to fill the hollowness in her soul.

We give you everything, Valerie. Isn’t that enough?

It should be, and that it wasn’t, truly pained her.

This curiosity had landed her the job as coordinating producer for Florida Alive, a half-hour magazine format program that aired Monday through Friday at seven, right after the nightly news, and showcased people, places and things of interest in the state.

So, okay, Florida Alive was considered soft news and didn’t exactly hit life-altering issues. That didn’t mean she couldn’t find the deeper meaning in a sand sculpture competition or the creation of pastry masterpieces or the raising of camels. What fired up other people, what gave their lives purpose, what made them feel alive fascinated her. Passion fascinated her. And traveling all over the state to see new places and meet all sorts of different people was an amazing bonus for a girl with wanderlust who hadn’t traveled more than fifty miles from home until after graduating from college.

Mike peered at the massive house, no doubt gauging shot angles. “So, you think she’s dead?”

Valerie’s gaze climbed up the polygonal tower, and a shiver rippled down her spine. Crazy, but the child’s frantic cries seemed to vibrate against Valerie’s chest and the child’s panic to shudder down Valerie’s limbs, making her hands cold and clammy.

She reached for the French vanilla coffee she’d bought at the Dunkin’ Donuts a few towns back and warmed her hands against the paper cup. With a fervor that rocked her, she wanted that baby to be safe somewhere. Who took a child from her own bedroom? Who could purposely cause such grief? And why?

Valerie swallowed and ripped her gaze back to Mike. “After twenty-five years…”

“It’s kind of sad to think of this lady pining away for her dead kid for so long.”

But what else could a mother do? Without proof of death, she couldn’t give up. As much as Valerie and her mother didn’t see eye-to-eye on practically anything, her mother would search the ends of the earth to find her, and Valerie would do the same for her mother. Recalling their argument that morning, Valerie winced and made a mental note to call once she got back to the inn and apologize. “That’s why we have to do the best job we can with the story.”

Mike slanted her a knowing grin. “You just want Krista’s job when she goes off on maternity leave.”

Valerie had eyed the news producer’s job ever since Krista had announced her pregnancy. It was a stepping-stone to producing harder-hitting stories, one Valerie had to cross if she ever wanted to get to New York. “So what if I do?”

Mike cranked off the engine and shot his hands up. “Hey, I’m just saying, word is, you’ve got competition for the spot.”

Bailey-the-Beautiful. “Sure and steady wins the race.”

“Only in fables, babe.”

“Don’t call me babe.”

Racking up a mental to-do list, Valerie juggled her cell phone, purse, portfolio of notes and cup of coffee. “I’ll introduce myself to Ms. Meadows and set up a time to look through her archives tomorrow. I’ll see if I can find more potential witnesses. I have that prison interview set up for Thursday. Then we can shoot Ms. Meadows’s interview on Friday.” Which would mean spending the whole weekend editing to get the package ready to air next week. No wonder she didn’t have a social life. That wouldn’t be so bad, except for the coming-home-to-only-a-dog part. “You can get started on the exteriors. Can you get a tracking shot coming up the drive? Low angle so the house seems to pop out of the fog? Maybe a Dutch angle to make it look spooky?”

“No problem.”

Mike had a great eye. She could count on him getting her the shots she needed. She pointed at the third-floor room of the turret. “That’s where she disappeared from. Make sure you get some shots from all angles. And this living room window, too. That’s where the party was held. I want the window to look as if it’s glowing so the viewer can imagine the party in full swing.”

“Got it.” Mike got out of the car. “Keep it short, will ya? I haven’t eaten anything all day, except for those stale airline pretzels.”

Valerie nodded distractedly. She’d add festive sounds during editing for the full effect. Sipping on her coffee, she stared at the window. What was it like to realize that while you were entertaining guests someone had sneaked upstairs and stolen your only child while she slept? Her heart tripped on a beat. The guilt had to crush poor Rita Meadows.

Mike was sorting through his gear in the trunk of the rental by the time she reached the solid-oak front door. She was about to ring the antique bell when the door blew open and the hard body of a man, carrying a briefcase and an air of hurry nearly crashed into her.

“Who are you? What do you want?” The timbre of his voice was deep and vibrant, echoing in the cavern of the foyer behind him. Costumed in a thousand-dollar suit and a hundred-dollar haircut, he exuded the righteous bearing and win-at-all-costs menace of a corporate sharpshooter. At the sight of those eyes, so dark and primal, a flash of awakening skittered through her brain and a choked jolt of something more acute than simple recognition made her catch her breath.

Nicolas Galloway. The man Rita Meadows had hired to run her father’s investment firm after Wallace Meadows’s death.

And, wow, Nick-the-Pit-Bull certainly lived up to his reputation as a rabid guardian. Voted most eligible, yet most elusive bachelor of New England by Boston Magazine. Smooth, charming and appealing. And definitely effective, if his investment track record was true. Although why anyone would want to pursue a man who ran his love life like an investment was beyond her understanding.

Somewhere over Virginia, she’d decided that he was going to be a problem. Meeting him did nothing to change her mind. But she could put personal prejudices aside. She pinned on a smile, freed one hand and stuck it out. “Hi, I’m Val—”

He fired a poison eye-dart at her. “Good God, don’t tell me you’re one of them—”

“I’m—”

“How did you get past the security?”

“The gate was—”

“I don’t have time for this today. Go away and don’t bother coming back. We won’t even talk to you unless you agree to a DNA test, and you’ll need to contact our lawyer’s office for that.”

He tried to bulldoze his way past her, posture straight, a relentless quality on a face with an unsmiling mouth and a strong bone structure. Armored with her portfolio, purse and cup of coffee, she stepped in front of him, blocking his path. She may look small enough to squash, but he wasn’t going to step all over her that easily.

Their eyes connected like lightning, and Valerie had a sense of space rushing dizzily. Wow, those eyes. Beneath the power, they bore a scar of pain. And sadness. How could that be when his bio spelled out an idyllic childhood?

Get real, Valerie. She shook her head. Figuring out what made Nicolas Galloway tick wasn’t on her busy agenda.

“I’m Valerie Zea, like sea.” Her name—like her life—seemed an abbreviation of something bigger. “I’m the coordinating producer for WMOD-TV in Orlando, Florida. Ms. Meadows is expecting me.”

“What for?” His icy calm chilled the already cool air and made her wish she’d put on more layers under her blazer.

Stay professional. You were invited. You have the right to be here. “We’re producing two segments on her daughter’s kidnapping twenty-five years ago.”

Without a word, he pulled her inside.

“Hey, let go of me!”

He slammed the door shut behind them. Panes in the narrow windows framing the door reverberated in their casings. Light glazed the walls of the foyer with false warmth, clouding details, reviving that dizzy feeling. For a moment, her system went haywire at the thought of being caged with him inside this house. Reaching for the closest solid thing, she steadied herself on the firm bicep of her captor, then recoiled with pinball speed at the thought of seeking safety there.

She yanked her arm to free her elbow from the hand he’d clamped around it and frowned at him when he didn’t immediately let go. “I’d say a refresher course is in order.”

“Pardon me?”

“Manners. Last time your style was in, men wore mammoth skins and carried clubs.”

He jerked her arm down as if to plant her in place and gave a sharp growl. “Stay here and don’t move.”

Movements tight and controlled, he spun on his heel and headed into the bowels of the house.

“Sure thing, Mr. Galloway. I’ll be right here when you come back to apologize.”

NICK FOUGHT HIS TEMPER all the way to Rita’s sitting room on the second floor. He hated that the mere sight of the intruder had saturated him with a sense of fullness the way food, water and air never could, just because she looked like Valentina would, and part of him was still searching for his childhood friend.

A mask. A fraud. Just another scam artist out to separate Rita from her fortune. How could his brain let itself get fooled so easily?

Valentina was dead.

The woman’s pale blue eyes had met his straight and clear, dancing with eager life and a streak of stubborn resistance. She’d done her homework, all right. Hair the color of moonlight. Natural, not bottle-bought like so many others. He’d noted things about her he hadn’t wanted to notice—like the gingery smell of her skin, like the crescent scar at her temple, like the heat of certainty that she belonged in this house.

He liked even less the twitch in his chest that had been much too close to panic. Just the thought of her now shocked him all over again.

Valentina. When would she stop haunting him?

And pseudo-Valentinas, would they ever stop showing up on Moongate’s doorstep preying on Rita’s hopes?

He hung on to his control long enough to stop and knock on Rita’s door rather than barrel right through.

Rita looked up, a flush creeping over her too-pale skin, like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Her hands folded over the age-progressed image of Valentina that had arrived in that morning’s mail. His heart sank. Why did she insist on torturing herself like this every October?

“Did you forget something, Nicolas?” Though still regal in bearing, she seemed to have shrunk in the past few years, as if the burden of hope was finally getting too much to bear. He wanted to ease her pain, but she wouldn’t buy any of his proofs—the blood, the DNA, even the conviction.

Hand still on the brass doorknob, he squeezed it with all his might to keep his irritation out of his voice. “There’s a woman downstairs who claims you’re expecting her.”

“From Edmund’s television station?”

He nodded.

“Yes, she’s the coordinating producer who’ll help me air Valentina’s story.” Rita’s spine straightened and her chin jutted out as if she were readying for a fight. That wasn’t how he wanted things to stand between them.

How could Edmund Meadows have let his niece talk him into this folly? “I wish you’d talked to me.”

“Why? So you could tell me I was a doddering old fool?”

“She’ll hurt you. Like all the others.” Nick had gotten good at sniffing out frauds. He knew this woman’s type. The kick in the gut he’d gotten when he’d seen her outside determined to get in only proved she was nothing more than another opportunist.

He jerked his chin at the photo beneath Rita’s hand. She’d be embarrassed if he told her he knew about her nightly supplications with God in the tower room. But if he told her, then he’d have to admit his own guilt, and he couldn’t bear the look of disappointment in her eyes. “She looks just like the picture.”

Rita’s gaze went wide and a little desperate. Her hands flattened over the photo, covering it completely. “She works for the station.”

“This pretender’s good. I’ll give her that.” Patient and resourceful. Hitting just the right notes to instantly win Rita’s confidence. The worst kind of con artist. He should know; that same blood ran through his veins. “She could’ve been using her job to dig deeper into your past.”

“You’re reaching, Nicolas.” Rita searched through the Notes section of her red leather agenda and tapped a paragraph on the page. “Valerie Zea has worked at WMOD for six-and-a-half years. She started as an intern right after college and has moved up to coordinating producer. She took a year off after her father died, but came back. Last year she won an Emmy for a segment she produced on a private investigator who specializes in missing children. Simon Higgins, the executive producer, tells me she’s the best person for the job.”

Was Higgins in on this farce? What would he gain by it? Time to run some background checks and stop this before the situation got out of control. “I’m trying to protect you from another fraud.”

“I understand.” Rita glanced at her notes. “She’s requested access to the archives for research, and I’ve agreed to let her sort through my collection.”

A growl formed at the base of Nick’s throat, but he swallowed it back. “You’re inviting trouble, and you hired me to keep you out of trouble.”

“You do your job well, Nicolas. This time, though, you’re wrong.”

“Rita—”

Rita closed her agenda with a snap. “She’ll want to interview you and Holly, as well.”

Something in Nick froze. “No, that’s not going to happen. I’m not going to put my mother through public humiliation again.”

Rita’s lips quivered into a tremulous smile. “It’s the twenty-fifth anniversary. I have to do something. Someone knows where my baby is. I just want to bring her home.”

And like that, a mountain of shame swamped him. Rita had exhausted every possible avenue to find Valentina—the police, private detectives, offering exorbitant rewards for information and promising no questions asked if only her daughter was returned. She’d followed every lead, no matter how thin. Once, on another anniversary, she’d even admitted she’d take a body just to know for sure what had happened to her precious daughter.

“Rita,” he started, but had no idea what to say to ease her grief and make her see that her desperation would only add to her pain.

Her pale blue eyes turned to him. “I know you think I’m a fool, but I don’t care. I know Valentina is alive.” She banged her chest with a fist. “I can feel her in my heart.”

How could he argue with that? Which didn’t mean he had to set her free with the wolves. “Okay, but I’m not leaving you alone with her.”

Rita stood, tucked her agenda against her chest, blood-red against her ice-blue blouse. “Don’t you have a meeting with Emma Hanley and Carter Stokke about the Valentina Pond project?”

Another scam as far as he was concerned, but Rita’s friend, Emma, had made a killing on Phase One, and Rita thought that, if she got in on Phase Two, it would add value to the acreage she owned on the back side of the pond. So he’d run the numbers for her and give her the black-and-white proof of his initial gut feeling. “It’ll wait. You’re more important.”

She rounded her desk and squeezed him into a quick hug. “Thank you, Nicolas, for indulging me.”

Stepping back, he nodded. She was no more than a small and fragile bird in his arms. “I’ll go get her. We’ll meet you in the library.”

Nick’s steps ate up the Oriental runner lining the hallway. Cripes, he didn’t need this.

Loyalty to Rita as much as love for this place kept him rooted at Moongate. Though he was raised at the mansion, he didn’t mistake himself for something he wasn’t. And although Rita treated him like a son, he was ultra-aware he wasn’t family. He was CEO of Meadows Investments. Nothing more. He understood that his value here was in his achievements. Which was why he’d worked at building an identity for himself outside the mansion walls with the soccer and the tutoring and the carpentry. Yet he was determined not to let Rita down, to prove she could count on him to watch out for her best interests—just as she’d once watched over him and his mother when they were helpless.

Mostly, he needed to prove that his will was stronger than the tainted blood that ran through his veins.

He wouldn’t let anyone con Rita out of a single penny. He knew all the tricks. After all, he’d learned from a master.

No pseudo-Valentina with dreams of easy riches was going to get the best of him, no matter how realistic her mask.

Chapter Two

Valerie waited, as ordered, in the foyer. Not because she was afraid of Nicolas Galloway, even though his dark look and sharp bite were enough to intimidate anyone, but because there was no point in stirring up trouble until she absolutely needed to.

Save your spit for the important stuff, kiddo, Higgins had told her early in her career. Learn to pick your fights.

She was expected at Moongate. After all, Rita Meadows had requested the interview. She would allow Valerie to do her job.

The station could always send someone else, Valerie supposed. Bailey, for example. But there wasn’t enough time. Not if the package was going to air in time for the anniversary as Ms. Meadows wanted. And in a time crunch, Valerie could get things done that would send Bailey in a tizzy.

Valerie glanced at her watch, then sipped the last cold drop of the French vanilla coffee, clinging to her otherwise empty cup, and wished for more. Her restless feet paced the foyer, and her gaze speared into the hall, anticipating Nicolas Galloway’s return.

The slow bong of a grandfather clock reverberated from somewhere far inside and echoed in the chambers of her head. The baneful peal shot her back to the middle of the night when she’d woken up a prisoner in her tangled sheets, bitter terror clinging to her skin along with the sweat. She had an overpowering urge to rub the hairs writhing on the back of her neck, to run.

It’s just a house. And she wasn’t stressed. Tired because of the early flight, maybe, but not stressed. So there was no reason for her to think of the dream.

But the hall boring into the dark heart of the house had the cold breath of a mausoleum. The smell of dusty funeral roses drifting from it plucked at her memory. “One too many creepy black-and-white movie, Valerie.”

She toyed with the empty coffee cup, looking for a place to dispose of it. What was taking Nicolas Galloway so long? How long did it take to say, Hey, the person you’re expecting is here?

Faraway giggles echoed somewhere over her shoulder. Well, it was about time. Valerie turned toward the stairs and the foyer shifted before her, setting off a jerky projector-like run of memories she had no right to own.

As if the outside fog had crept inside, the edges of the room blurred. The cream paint on the walls darkened to caramel. A cut glass vase filled with pumpkin-colored mums appeared on the small marble-topped table. A gilded mirror reflected the bouquet, making it pop. A red kick ball sailed in from the open front door, bounced with a wet thwack on the polished pine floor and right into the vase, knocking it to the floor. Water, broken flowers and jagged pieces of glass spread over the floor like some sort of modern art mosaic. Two sets of children’s hands reached for the shards.

“It’s okay. Here. Nobody’ll know.”

One pulled open the drawer of the decorative table and hid the broken glass inside. The other gathered the flowers.

“Shh, don’t tell.”

Valerie shook her head and the smoky scene vanished. The table and mirror were still there, but the bouquet and vase were gone. She looked down at her coffee cup. “Wow, that was some potent stuff.”

Before she could stop herself, she stepped to the table and opened the drawer. Empty. “What, you expected to find broken glass?”

With a half laugh that rebounded against the ceiling of the foyer, she closed the drawer. She stopped midslide when the chandelier’s light caught the glint of something shiny trapped in the seams.

She ran a finger along the inside edge and gasped an “Ouch” when something pricked her skin. On the tip of her index finger stood a splinter of clear glass. She drew it out and sucked on the bead of blood left behind.

Doesn’t mean anything, she told herself. Could be from anything—a mirror, a lightbulb or a glass. Pocketing the bloody splinter, she willed her racing heart to slow. She left her hand balled inside the pocket of her blazer to dampen its shaking.

“Obviously, you’ve had too much coffee.” She shouldn’t have stopped for that last large cup. Bad for her nerves. Bad for her heart. Hadn’t the doctor warned her just last month to cut back to stop the palpitations?

She’d probably read about the vase incident during her research and it had stuck in her mind. Wouldn’t be the first time. This feeling of déjà vu happened to her more often than she liked to admit. She’d read something, see a photograph, and then, once she got on location, she’d have that feeling of having been there before.

But never this real. A tight feeling coiled in her gut.

“Get a grip.” Nothing to get spooked about. One of her high school teachers had called this ability of hers to recall almost everything she’d ever seen eidetic memory and seemed fascinated by it. Of course, that was after he’d accused her of cheating on a test, and she’d had to prove to him that everything on the page had come straight from her brain and not Mark Peach’s paper.

Spinning away from the scene of the mirage, she forced herself to concentrate on the collection of Currier & Ives prints, showing off the same scene of a country lane and pond in four seasons. The house in the background looked remarkably like Moongate Mansion. Maybe she could use them as a montage to show the passage of time.

“That’s better.” Work was her salvation. When it came to work, her fate was in her hands, not in some monster’s from a dream. She could do this. She’d done it hundreds of times before. The only pressure on her was the one she was putting on herself. “Stick to the plan.”

Houses, according to a psychologist she’d once interviewed for a segment on dream analysis, were a metaphor for the human psyche. This one seemed rusted in time. Haunted almost, like a restless mind. Maybe that’s what Rita wanted by looking back into the past—a cure. If she understood what had happened to Valentina, then she could let go of her child and finally find peace.

The floor of the hall thundered, and Nicolas Galloway reappeared, long, determined strides making short work of the distance between them.

“About time,” she mumbled, tugging her blazer back in place with her free hand.

His expression remained frozen in the feral position, and instead of an apology, he barked, “Follow me.”

Sheesh, he didn’t even pause to see if she followed, just assumed she would. She was used to following directions, but unbending commands were another thing. And she’d had just about enough of going through an intermediary to get to her appointment. “I really need to speak with Ms. Meadows.”

“You’re in luck. You’re getting your wish.”

As she scrambled after Nick, the raspberry brambles on the hall wallpaper shifted as if rustled by a breeze. The smell of burned toast stung her nose. The scraping of a knife against dry bread scratched at her brain.

“It’ll be just fine. See?” A woman’s voice. “Now, which do you want, strawberry or blueberry preserve?”

Valerie stopped and peered into the dining room, set with Lenox china, Pairpoint crystal and silver-plated dinnerware.

“What are you doing?”

At the boom of Nick’s voice, the image vanished, leaving behind an empty table and chairs. Valerie swiveled her head to look at Nick frowning at her from the library entrance. At least this time she remembered where the flash of memory had come from—the photograph from Victorian Homes of a Thanksgiving dinner at Moongate the year before Valentina disappeared. “I thought I smelled toast burning.”

“Someone’s bringing tea.” He disappeared into the room.

Valerie hurried to catch up with him. Tea was good. Tea meant Rita Meadows would let her see the archives. Tea meant that Nicolas Galloway owed her an apology—not that she was holding her breath for one. And maybe it also meant food. Which made her think of Mike. He was going to be royally cranky that she was taking so long. A well-fed Mike was a happy Mike, and a happy Mike got her good footage. Payback from Mike, on the other hand, was never a good thing.

“Sit,” Nick ordered.

Arguing right now would be a waste of breath, so she chose a wing chair that gave her width and height, and deposited her portfolio and purse on the floor at her feet and the empty coffee cup on the side table. She didn’t play games, but she didn’t make easy prey, either.

Nick paced the marble hearth of the fireplace as if he was drawing up some sort of war plan, and she pulled back her shoulders readying her defenses.

“We need to set some ground rules,” he said. “One, you are not to wander unaccompanied on the grounds or in the house at any time. That goes for your friend with the camera outside, too. I’ve already sent someone to detain him.”

Detain Mike? Good luck to anyone who tried to separate Mike from his camera. “Ms. Meadows has already given her permission to shoot.”

“This is nevertheless Ms. Meadows’s private home and intrusion into her privacy will not be tolerated. We do not want a tabloid exposé that will exploit Ms. Meadows’s pain at the tragedy of her daughter’s kidnapping.”

What bug had crawled up his butt? “Look, you’ve made it clear you don’t want me here, but if you think you can intimidate me into leaving, you’re wrong.”

He rounded on her with High Noon intensity. “Right now, I’m cooperating, but don’t cross me, or you’ll regret the day you showed up on our doorstep.”

Jeez, Louise, what did he think she was going to do? Blow her career by ticking off the man who paid her salary? “An exposé is certainly not our intention. At his niece’s request, Mr. Meadows asked his executive producer to put together these segments on Valentina’s kidnapping. Mr. Meadows expects clean and true reporting any time his station airs a package. This will be no exception.”

“Ms. Meadows is the constant target of people who would prey on her pain for gain. There are certain facts we would rather not make public in order to protect the family from scam artists.”

Okay, she could see why he might be a tad touchy on the subject. Her task was to mollify him and wow him with her ability to present a fair and balanced portrait of the family’s misfortune. “I understand your point, Mr. Galloway. As I said, we’re not out to prey on Ms. Meadows. But she was the one who asked that we tell her daughter’s story with the hopes of bringing her home.”

“It’s been twenty-five years.” The statement sounded remarkably like a trick question.

“I understand. But finding the child’s…location would allow Ms. Meadows closure, don’t you think?”

His presence was an iceberg in a room too small to contain him, and she was uncomfortably aware of his proximity, of his stark and grim gaze—of his pain. Then, like the incidents in the foyer and the dining room, for a flash, his face wavered. A play of light and shadows had her chest heaving with a sweet ache of longing and her arms yearning to loop themselves around his neck.

A chill pierced her skin, raised a crop of goose bumps. Her fingers clawed around the arms of the chair to keep herself from slipping into the unwanted fog once again. Her breath hitched in her throat and a pang of loss nearly swallowed her. How could that be? She shook her head and, when her gaze reconnected with his, the same un-yielding glower glared back at her.

Nicolas Galloway was no friend.

Yet his eyes stirred dark echoes of her recurring dream and spiked her blood with unease. Why?

“Are you okay?” he asked, frowning.

“Too much coffee.” She flashed him a smile that, to her horror, wobbled.

With a sudden jolt as if she’d hit him, he turned his back on her and resumed his pacing. “Two, we’ll need approval over the final product.”

Valerie shot to her feet. With the amount of blood, sweat and tears she spilled to write, shoot and edit a package, there was no way she was going to let him mess with her baby. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“We have to be sure you haven’t inadvertently leaked privileged information.”

She had the station owner and the interview subject on her side. Why was she letting him get under her skin? She forced a smile. “Well, then, you’ll have to take that up with the executive producer. Keep in mind that I do have a tight production schedule to adhere to if Ms. Meadows’s story is to air in time for the kidnapping’s anniversary.”

Wrong tactic, of course. She knew that the second she uttered the words. Keeping the package off the air was exactly what Nicolas Galloway wanted.

“That, of course, is your problem.” Nick’s pacing came to an abrupt halt and his gaze fixed on the doorway.

Rita Meadows paused at the entrance to the door, holding on to the door frame as if she were dizzy. There was a lot of that going on today. Someone needed to check the furnace and see if the carbon monoxide level was okay.

Rita’s recovery was quick. She pasted a work-the-room smile on her sculpted face, extended a hand and welcomed Valerie with the practiced ease of someone used to dealing with people. “You must be Valerie. Mr. Higgins speaks highly of you.”

“As he does of you.” Rita’s hand was cold and brittle in Valerie’s and a wave of sympathy made Valerie squeeze warmth into her grip.

Close-up, even with her understated makeup, Rita looked hollow-eyed, a little too thin, a little too pale. Her hair, the color of expensive champagne, was twisted ele-gantly at her nape, giving her a fragile kind of beauty that seemed somehow tragic to Valerie.

Nick rushed to Rita’s side, cupped her elbow and led her to the sofa, where he stood beside her on guard like the pit bull of his reputation. Stray out of line, get too personal, his cutting expression said, and I’ll rip you to shreds.

Aye, aye. Message received, she telegraphed back, and his frown deepened.

She could see why some women might fall for him. The primitive quality he exuded told a woman that, as long as he was there, she would be safe from predators. For many—her friend Sheree among them—that promise of savage protection was the fodder of dreams. Personally, Valerie already had too much overprotection in her life. The last thing she needed was to add a man’s shadow to the one already stalking her.

Rita looked up at Nick, touched his arm. “Is Holly bringing tea?”

Nick gave a sharp nod, but his quick eye shift toward the door betrayed his uncertainty. He wasn’t going to leave to check on tea when there was an intruder sitting in his employer’s library waiting to pounce on her.

Chill, she wanted to say. I don’t bite.

“I know you must be tired from the flight,” Rita said to Valerie, “so I won’t keep you long.”

“I just wanted to introduce myself and set up a convenient time to go over your archives. I have another interview on Thursday, but I’d like to tape yours on Friday.”

“You may come by to look at the archives at any time.”

“Eleven.” The sharpness of Nick’s voice coated the air with rime. “It’s the only time I have available.”

“I’ll be here, Nicolas,” Rita said. “I can walk her through my collection.”

His jaw tightened and antagonism bristled from him, but he didn’t say a thing. What was it costing him to keep silent? She was starting to understand just how much Rita Meadows meant to him, how far he’d go to protect her. How could Valerie reassure this many-times-bitten pit bull she meant no harm?

“Eleven will be fine.” Valerie injected light and air into her voice. “My photographer will also need access to Valentina’s room and the living room, as well as the grounds.”

“Yes, of course,” Rita said.

“We’ll keep our visit as short as possible.”

“Take all the time you need. I want Valentina’s story retold in all its details. You never know what will trigger someone’s memory.”

As Rita explained what she wanted to accomplish by airing Valentina’s story, Nick stared at Valerie until the room was sucked dry of air and her head grew light.

“Nick! Nick! Watch me!” A splash of water.

“I have better things to do than watch a baby play.”

“I’m not a baby.”

“Are, too.”

“Well, forget it, then. I’m not telling you my secret.”

A lakeside gazebo with green-and-white striped awnings. Green water. Green trees. Eye-hurting blue sky. Valerie remembered seeing a picture of Nick and Valentina sipping lemonade at Rita’s feet on a dock. Why was that picture coming back to her now?

“May I ask you a personal question?” Rita asked Valerie, changing subjects.

“Sure.”

“How old are you?”

“I’ll be thirty next May.” By then she’d planned on being in New York, working as a producer for a major network in the news division—at least according to the life plan she’d drawn up when she was eighteen. Come to think of it, she’d only checked one item off that long list. “That probably sounds as if I don’t have much experience—”

“Oh, no, dear, I don’t doubt your qualifications. How tall are you?”

Wow, where was this coming from? And what did it have to do with her ability to shoot an interview? “Five-four. ” With three-inch heels. “My mother’s short. That’s where I get it. The shortness, I mean.” Oh, good, now she was babbling. Definitely time to get solid food in her.

Rita’s face crumpled. Her body curled into itself and spasmed in time to a coughing fit. The red agenda she clutched in her lap fell to the ground, spilling its contents. A photograph fluttered and landed upside down at Valerie’s feet.

“Rita?” Moving with speed and athletic grace, Nick knelt at his employer’s side, a glass of water in hand. “Here.”

Rita sipped the water Nick offered her, but the coughing only worsened. Nick gently stood her up.

Not knowing what to do to help Rita, Valerie picked up the agenda and put the pages back in place.

“Stay here,” Nick ordered, glaring at her, then escorted Rita out of the library.

Valerie picked up the photograph, turned it over and gasped. The hairstyle was wrong, and the smile was too stiff, but otherwise, the picture could be hers. “What in the world?”

Why did Rita have her picture? And why didn’t she remember posing for it? What kind of twilight zone had she walked into?

After ten minutes of waiting for Nick’s return, questions running laps in her mind as she studied the photograph from Rita’s agenda, the coffee Valerie had had on the car ride up was putting pressure on her bladder. The tinkling of water in the brass tranquility fountain on an accent table didn’t help.

A middle-aged woman entered the library, looking more like a shadow than a person with her black dress, gray hair and pale skin. Did no one in this house believe in the health benefits of a touch of sun? She carried a silver tray of tea and shortbread cookies—no toast, Valerie noted—and studied the unwelcome guest with decided wariness.

The woman clucked, her dark-brown eyes troubled. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft, but unfriendly. “Ms. Meadows will be down shortly.”

“She was coughing.” Valerie stuck the photograph behind her back. “Mr. Galloway took her up to her room.”

“Oh, no.” The woman’s silver braid snaked over her shoulder as she slapped the tray onto the coffee table and hurried away, her feet making no noise on the rose-adorned carpet.

“Is there a bathroom nearby?” Valerie called after her.

The woman waved a hand vaguely to her right. “Around the corner.” The woman stopped her flight. Her small hand clutched the door frame as if her nails were fangs. Closet vampire? “It’d be best if you left now.”

“I want to be sure Ms. Meadows is okay.”

“No good will come of you digging up bones.”

“We’re taping the segments at Ms. Meadows’s request.” Valerie was starting to feel like a broken record.

“Your act,” the woman warned, shaking her head. “It won’t wash. Nick’ll see right through it.” She turned and vanished into the dark hall.

“Good to know I’m so wanted.” What was going on here? Had Higgins set her up for failure so he would have a good reason to promote Bailey over her? Something wasn’t right. Not just with the room, but with the whole house.

She glanced around the library with its floor-to-ceiling stacks, its comfy chairs and cozy fireplace. Nothing about the elegant decor triggered her unwarranted fear, but she couldn’t help the chill crawling up her spine.

Maybe she should leave and come back in the morning when everybody had calmed down and she’d had some food.

First, though, she had to find a bathroom.

Valerie slipped the photograph into her portfolio. She wanted to study it further, see if she could remember when it was taken. She stepped into the hall. At least this time the walls didn’t ripple. The first door she tried opened into a laundry room that smelled like summer rain. The next door opened into a dark room that looked like a closet, but smelled of rose potpourri and water. Valerie fumbled for a switch and found one in the hallway. Ah, finally, a bathroom.

She relieved herself and admired the painted mural that made it seem as if she were in some enchanted garden—a watercolor background of mossy-green with pink roses, golden grasses and birds. A single blue butterfly hovered on one side of the mirror as if it were going to drink a sip of water from the sink while she washed her hands. She’d always liked butterflies, especially blue ones. As she reached to touch the gossamer wings, the lights went out, leaving her swallowed by darkness.

She sucked in a breath and wrapped her hands around the cold marble of the sink to anchor herself in the pitch-black space. Blinking madly, she tried to orient herself. A power failure? It happened a lot in old houses, didn’t it?

Tamping back her irrational fear of small, dark places, she forced her frozen fingers to let go of the sink. She turned with small baby steps to keep her balance, then groped blindly for the door.

Out of the darkness, a slice of light materialized and crept into the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. She frowned. The power was still on in the rest of the house?

A board creaked outside. She froze. “Hello?” Is anybody out there?”

She stared at the paring of light, but no shadow rippled across its path.

“Just an old house settling into its bones,” she told herself, but the shaky sound of her voice didn’t reassure her. Open the door and get out of here.

Her trembling fingers bumped against the hard wood of the door. With her heart pounding an SOS against her ribs, she patted the smooth oak until she found the knob. Her damp palms slipped on the glass knob. It wouldn’t budge.

She tried again, pulling and twisting. A kind of desperate madness swept over her. “Hey! Turn on the lights! Open the door!”

She panted as she tried to control the sense of impending doom sweeping over her. The burn of tears stung her eyes and, hanging on to the knob as a child would, the craziest need to call “Mama” bubbled on her trembling lips.

Not that her mother was the kind who’d fussed over emotional outbursts. You don’t need a night-light, Valerie. You’re a big girl, and big girls don’t cry.

Valerie blinked madly, survival instinct kicking back in. She banged on the door with the flat of her hand. “This isn’t funny!”

Nicolas Galloway. He’d done this. Did he really think locking her in the bathroom was going to send her crying home? It would take a lot more than that to make her go crawling back to the station empty-handed.

Her grip tightened on the doorknob, and she pushed, turned and tugged with all her might. When she got out of there, she was going to strangle him. “Open the door!”

Chapter Three

Teeth bared, Valerie jammed her shoulder into the bathroom door and grunted. She’d barely connected with the wood when the door burst open, and she tumbled into Nick’s arms.

His hands held her forearms in a vise-tight grip to keep her from colliding with his chest. Even through the wool blend of her blazer sleeves, the vibrating heat of his anger burned her.

“What on earth are you doing?” he asked.

“The door was stuck.” She spied the wooden doorstop in his hand. This little thing was what had caused her full-blown panic attack? She snatched the offending piece of wood from his hand and held it up. “It’s going to take a lot more than locking me in the bathroom to discourage me.”

Even if his cheap bathroom trick had worked at scaring her—momentarily—it wasn’t going to make her disappear.

Guarded tension stretched his features taut. He pushed her away, breaking the heated hum of contact where his hard fingers had dug into her forearms. “Trust me, Val, if I choose to intimidate you, you’ll know.”

“Valerie.” She rubbed her arms against the sudden need to bury herself deeper into his embrace and breathe in the alluring scent of citrus and sandalwood of his aftershave. How crazy was that? One little scare, and like a two-year-old, she was ready to seek solace in the first pair of arms that turned up.

“So if you didn’t lock me in the bathroom, who did?” The woman with the braid? These people’s overprotective-ness of Rita Meadows made Valerie’s mother’s watchful smothering seem like neglect in comparison. “How many people work here?”

“That’s none of your concern. Val.”

“Valerie,” she insisted, narrowing her eyes at him. Had someone bribed the staff in the past? Was that where his wariness was coming from? “And it does concern me when someone locks me in the bathroom. What if you hadn’t come by?”

“You made enough racket. Someone would’ve heard you eventually.”

“That’s not the point—”

“I’ll handle the matter.”

She stuffed the doorstop in the kerchief pocket of his suit and gave it a pat. “Fine. See that it doesn’t happen again.” She didn’t really have a choice other than to let him “handle the matter.” She wasn’t here to investigate the staff’s juvenile intimidation tactics. She was here to conduct interviews. “How is Ms. Meadows?”

His eyes softened for a second. “Just a cold. She’ll be fine.”

But something in his expression told her he was more worried than a simple cold would warrant. “I’ll come back tomorrow, then. When she’s feeling better.”

“That would be best.”

Valerie buttoned her blazer, adding an extra buffer between them. “The photograph? From the agenda? Why does Ms. Meadows have it?”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. “It’s an age progression. She has one done every year on Valentina’s birthday.”

Valerie’s heart went out to Rita. Had she had the photo done as a way to watch her baby grow? No, Valerie decided. So she’d know what Valentina would look like if she saw her on the street somewhere. Maybe airing the segment would provide Rita with the resolution she needed.

“It, uh, looks like me.” The resemblance was uncanny and the memory of that likeness sent a shiver prickling over her scalp. Had Rita thought that Valerie was her daughter? Was that why she’d asked the personal questions? Although what height had to do with anything was a puzzle.

Nick’s gaze hardened and bored into her with a warning that seemed to aim straight at her heart. His voice rode a flat line that reverberated with threat. “But it isn’t you, Val. Something you’d best remember. Valentina is dead. I have proof. There won’t be a fat payday. Not if I can help it.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “Is that why you’re being such a jerk? You think I think I’m Valentina? That’s ridiculous.”

“What’ll it take to make you disappear?”

“What?”

He whipped out a checkbook from the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. “How much?”

One hand covered her heart. “You can’t be serious. You think I want money?”

He stepped closer until his breath was a warm flutter against her lips. “That’s all they want in the end.”

Her mind was blurring again. No, Nick, no. You know that’s not true. “They?”

“All the other girls over the years who’ve come knocking at the door pretending they’re the long-lost Valentina. ” He lifted a strand of her hair, rolled it between his fingers, then tucked it behind her ear. She leaned into his hand as if she’d done this very thing before. As if he had. Jeez, Louise, she really needed some food before she went totally over the edge.

His thumb skimmed the outline of her cheek in a way that let her know that he could kill her just as easily as kiss her. Wow, where had that come from? As if she’d ever want a kiss from someone who thought she was using her job to extort money.

“I’m not like all those girls. I’m not like anyone you’ve ever met.” She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She searched the hard planes of Nick’s face, looking for…what? An explanation as to why she thought he would know her? Even stranger, that she should know him? That if she could just squeeze the right place on his waist, he would double over in helpless laughter?

He flattened a hand on the door frame beside her face, caging her against the wall. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve met a hundred girls like you. They’ve all convinced themselves they’re the one.”

A restless menace lurked right beneath the suit. But as much as he growled and barked and bared his teeth, he would never hurt her. The truth of that knowledge resonated soul deep. Which didn’t mean she wanted to test that theory quite yet.

She planted a palm against his chest and pushed him away. “I have a mother and a good life in Florida. I don’t need to borrow anybody else’s. So chill, okay? You said Valentina was dead. That you had proof? What kind?”

“That’s really none of your concern.”

“Well, see, that’s where I don’t agree. Everything that concerns Valentina concerns me.”

“And you think I’m just going to hand you ammunition?”

She tipped her head and squinted at him. “To fleece Ms. Meadows? No. To help me put on the best segment I can? Yes. If you have proof that Valentina is dead, then it means I need to take a different angle with the interviews.”

He refused to yield. “Knowing Valentina is dead doesn’t stop the crazies from showing up for a handout. The body was never found. Until it is, they prey on Ms. Meadows’s hopes.”

She sighed. “I can see your point, but what if she isn’t dead?” As if drawn by a black hole, all she could do was look deep into the impenetrable dark brown of his eyes. Let me in, Nick. Let me see. That he was shutting her out hurt in a way that was beyond crazy. So was the compelling childish urge to pat his cheek and tell him that everything was going to be okay. “What if she is alive?”

“She isn’t.” End of conversation, his tone said. But something flickered in his eyes, leaving her with the impression he was lying. Or at least not telling her the whole truth.

A door slammed somewhere down the hall, startling Valerie out of her strange connection with Nick. Never before had she been so aware of someone. The give-and-take of his breath. The galloping pulse of blood at his neck. The prickly hint of beard along his tense jawline. And that sadness, that heavy sadness that was eating at his soul and made her want to cry.

“It’s time for you to leave now.” Nick straightened, yawning a canyon of space between them, and Valerie ran her hands over her arms to keep warm.

Heavy boots tromped on the floor, heading their way. A stout man with a white lion’s mane poking out from a well-worn khaki fishing hat stepped into the hall. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Took me a while, but I’ve got the gentleman under control like you asked. He’s in the car with the doors locked.” He grinned, showing off square, white teeth. “Chomp is watching over him. He won’t go anywhere he ain’t supposed to go.”

“Thanks, Lionel.”

“My pleasure.” Lionel doffed his fishing hat and swept it in front of him, showing Valerie the way to the front door. “I’ll escort you out now, ma’am. Chomp, he don’t take too kindly to strangers.”

She pointed toward the library. “My things.”

Nick nodded his permission, and she held her breath until she reached the library. She shook her head as if the simple gesture could release her from the grip of Nick’s presence still clinging to her skin. The way he’d short-cir-cuited her usually ordered thinking wasn’t normal. Especially when it came to work.

You only have to deal with him for a couple of days, Valerie. And she’d be too busy with all the details; she’d forget he was even around.

She slipped Valentina’s photograph out of her portfolio, took one last look at the woman who could be her twin and tucked it back into Rita’s agenda. As sick as she was, Rita would need the comfort of her daughter’s picture. “Definitely spooky, though.”

But Valerie Grace Zea was born on May 13, not October 31. She was six months older than Valentina. She owned a baby album filled with pictures that featured Marissa and Ludlow Zea cradling her in the home where she’d spent all of her life, until four years ago when she’d bought her own little shoe box of a house just a mile from her parents’.

Her memory was crowded with snapshots of her life in Florida. No mansion. No fog-shrouded landscape. No Rita Meadows.

A creak made her look up and sweep the room with a glance.

Nothing there to warrant the itch between her shoulder blades, but she couldn’t help trying to roll away the feeling of being watched. Portfolio clutched to her chest, she hurried back into the hall where Nick’s long shadow loomed, waiting for her.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” She adjusted her purse over her shoulder and yearned for a cup of coffee. “To look through the archives.”

“Eleven.”

“Eleven it is.” She slanted her head and gave him her most serious look. “I’ll do a good job.”

His mouth flattened. “Valentina needs to be buried, not revived.”

“To bury her, you have to find her. Someone out there knows where she is, and airing those segments could bring you the information you need for closure.”

“Don’t you think that if anyone knew where she was, they’d have said something by now? Claiming the one-million-dollar reward is much easier than pretending to be a dead child all grown-up.”

“So we’re back to that, huh?” Actions spoke more clearly than words. In the end, he’d see she was true to her word.

His voice, low and rough, rumbled with warning. “Secrets are called that for a reason, Val. And sometimes people want to keep their secrets buried.”

Oh, yeah? What’s yours? “I’m not her. But I’m not one of your pretenders, either. I’m just a woman trying to do her job.” Why was it so important that he believe her?

A terrifying flicker of a smile sprang to his lips. “Make sure that’s all you do.”

NICK STOOD TO ONE SIDE of the window, surveying the scene below him. Valerie walked with both a dancer’s grace and a sprinter’s efficiency. Although she couldn’t see him standing in the shadows of the third-floor tower room, she paused before entering the car and looked up. Not at Lionel and the barely controlled Doberman the caretaker held by the studded collar on the doorstep. But at him. Their gazes met across the barrier of glass and shadows, and she seemed to shiver before she disappeared into the safety of the car.

Good. She should be afraid. Fear would keep her from following through on her plan to blind Rita with her likeness to Valentina.

He wouldn’t be as easy to fool.

He’d already paid a hefty price for his mistake. He picked up the floppy-eared dog that had been Valentina’s favorite and buried his nose in the fur that had long ago lost its little-girl smell. In its place came the remembered sweet-and-spicy ginger scent Valerie wore. He hurled the dog back to the storage chest and scraped a hand over his face. His weakness had cost him his best friend and the only person who’d understood him.

Protecting Rita, protecting Valentina’s memory were the most important things in his life. A man had to take care of his own.

He followed the track of the car down the driveway until the fog devoured it. This woman was good. Better than the rest, judging by the instant connection she’d made with Rita.

It’s her, Nicolas. I can feel it. Rita’s words echoed in his empty soul. She’d been ready to open her arms, her home and her heart to the charlatan. That’s why she didn’t come before. She doesn’t know.

He couldn’t bear the toll the inevitable pain would cost Rita. It’s not her, Rita. It can’t be.

His gaze zoomed in on the golden pine of the floor, and that horrible night sucked him back into its darkness. Rita had had the floor sanded and refinished, but Nick could still see the dark stain spreading.

The blood, he’d never stop seeing all that blood.

Or her eyes. Those half-closed, dead eyes.

His fault that she was gone.

Yet there was something about Valerie that seemed to reach back too far to be faked. His chin dropped to his chest and his eyes closed. How could she possibly have learned the quirks that were Valentina’s? Little things like the half dimple that creased her right cheek when she smiled. The way her fingers played unconsciously with the hem of her blazer when she was nervous. How many sweaters had Valentina unraveled with that nasty habit? The way she tilted her head and looked at him with implicit trust. He’d never been able to scare Valentina, except with ghost stories, and then she’d looped her arms around his neck, pressed her cheek against his. Are they gone, Nick? Are the ghosts gone?

And he really didn’t like the way looking at her kicked up his blood.

Could Rita be right? Could Valentina have finally come home? Or was Valerie pulling the ultimate con by pretending she wasn’t Valentina, but seeding all the right clues?

No, Valentina was dead. He had proof—the DNA, the blanket, the deathbed confession of Rita’s former chauffeur. For crying out loud, there was even a guy in prison, serving time for the kidnapping.

And the blood. All that blood.

He rubbed his eyes to blot out the sight.

Damn Valerie for showing up.

And damn him for doubting what his own eyes showed him.

Nick stalked away from the window and marched to Rita’s office. He ripped the phone from the cradle and dialed the P.I. he had on retainer.

Joe Aveni might as well have called himself Joe Average. Brown hair, brown eyes in an unmemorable face. Under the layer of fat he cultivated, he hid hard muscles he exercised five days a week. He dressed forgettably and appeared no threat to either males or females. All of which rendered him incredibly efficient at cajoling information from even the most unwilling of sources. No would-be Valentina had ever been able to stand up to his scrutiny.

“I need a background check,” Nick said when Joe answered.

“Hey, man, I’m backed up. It’ll take me a couple of days to get to it.”

“I’ll double your rate.”

“Ah, shoot, Nick, don’t tell me you got another Valentina.”

“The twenty-fifth anniversary is going to bring out all the crazies.”

“Give me what you’ve got.”

Nick gave the information he’d found on Valerie in the agenda he’d brought up from the library along with the empty take-out coffee cup.

“I’ll have a quick-and-dirty for you by the end of the day,” Joe said.

“Sooner.”

“You realize it’s already past three, don’t you?”

Nick swallowed a growl. “Soonest you can.”

“How deep do you want me to go?”

Nick sought the age-progressed picture from the back of Rita’s agenda. Valerie’s face superimposed itself on Valentina’s dead eyes and stiff smile in a way he didn’t like. Alive, so alive. Her blond hair rippling with light, her eyes blue beams of determination, her teasing mouth taunting him in a too-familiar way. He squeezed the tension at the back of his neck and willed the mirage to disappear. “I want to know everything about her from the first breath she ever took to what she had for breakfast this morning.”

Joe cleared his throat. “Going that deep’ll mean travel and a couple of days’ delay. Maybe a week, depending on what turns up.”

“Bill me.”

The click-click of Joe’s pen pecked at Nick’s eardrum. “Can I ask what’s different about this one?”

What about Valerie had made him fall for the illusion in a way none of the other frauds had?

The con, he realized. Too slick. Too choreographed. “She’s too good.”

Joe bellowed out a laugh. “I’ve got to meet this woman who has Nicolas Galloway all tied up in knots.”

Nick had known only one person who could slide so smoothly through a lie and make anyone believe it was the truth. He still bore the scars of that misplaced trust, and he wasn’t going to let anyone add to them.

Was he back? Because of the anniversary?

A deep, disturbing gush of anger spewed up and shook Nick to the core.

“What you have to do is get me the ammunition I need to stop her cold.” Nick picked up the empty take-out cup that, even through the brown paper bag, still smelled faintly of vanilla and coffee. “Can your DNA guy extract what he needs from a cup of take-out coffee?”

“I’ll find out.”

“And while you’re at it, I’ll need a financial on Simon Higgins. He’s the executive producer at WMOD-TV in Orlando.” Nick took a deep breath. “And find me Gordon Archer’s current whereabouts.”

What Nick needed was facts. Basic, logical, hard facts. With those he could fight them all—Archer, Higgins and Valerie. Especially Valerie.

She’d come back in the morning. And he’d have to be ready for her.

AT THE OTHER END of the phone, the woman burst into tears. “Valerie’s gone.” Was there no end to the river she could cry? “I tried everything, but she still went.”

He slapped a stack of reports into his briefcase. “I’ll take care of it.”

A nervous tick of nails clicked against the phone. “You won’t hurt her, will you?”

He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and shook his head. “What do you take me for?”

After all he’d done for her, the least she could do is show him a little respect and gratitude. He wasn’t an idiot. Why would he want to bring attention to a mistake when he was so close to payback?

“I’m sorry.” She sniffed. “I didn’t mean…”

“Of course you didn’t.” He softened his voice. “Trust me. I’ll take care of everything.”

She swallowed a large bubble of air.

“Everything’s fine,” he insisted.

“But what if—”

“She’s just doing her job.”

“But…” She sighed. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” He hung up, snatched the brochure from the desk and sneered at the mansion used as a logo. They’d airbrushed out the weeds and the neglect, but they couldn’t quite hide the self-important haughtiness. He pitched the brochure into his briefcase, snapped it shut and locked it.

Valerie was at Moongate.

He reached for the custom-tailored suit jacket on his bed. She’d been warned. If she couldn’t take a hint, if she got in his way, she’d have to suffer the consequences.

Then a zing of new possibility burst in his chest. He smiled as he adjusted his tie in the mirror. On the other hand, if he couldn’t keep her away, maybe he could use her to his advantage.

He’d get his chance. He’d always known it would come.

Briefcase in hand, he hummed as he left the room. This time, he’d get it right. This time, no one would mistake him for shoe scum—least of all the high-and-mighty Rita Meadows.

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