About the Author

RITA® Award Nominee CARA SUMMERS has written more than thirty books. She has won several awards, including an Award of Excellence, three Golden Quills, and two Golden Leaf Awards. She has also been honored with a Lifetime Achievement Award from RT Book Reviews. She loves coming up with stories—from Gothic romance and mystery adventures to romantic comedies. When Cara isn’t creating new stories, she teaches at Syracuse University.

Taken Beyond Temptation

Cara Summers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To my editor Brenda Chin who continually inspires me

to write better stories. thanks for always encouraging

me to take on new challenges. And thanks for your

never-wavering and never-ending support.

You’ve made me a better writer.

Dear Reader,

Have you ever had a secret fantasy that you’ve never shared with anyone? I’d forgotten mine until my editor suggested I write a story for Blaze®‘s FORBIDDEN FANTASY series. Then I ended up writing three books!

When interior designer Jillian Brightman and her sisters buy Haworth House and turn it into an exclusive hotel, they fulfill a dream that they’ve shared since they were children. But they get more than they bargained for, including a former resident who tempts them to unearth their most secret and forbidden fantasies …

Jillian’s purpose in visiting Haworth House is strictly business. Pursuing a fantasy, no matter how tempting it might be, is not on her agenda. Until she meets him. Posing as a writer, ex-CIA analyst Ian MacFarland’s goal is to investigate the series of disturbing incidents that have been plaguing Haworth House. But once he meets Jillian, all he can think about is fulfilling any and every fantasy she has.

I hope you enjoy Ian and Jillian’s seductive adventures, and that you’ll look for the other books in this series. Reese will find her fantasy in Twice the Temptation later in the year. Please visit me at www.carasummers. com.

Happy reading,

Cara Summers

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

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

Copyright

1

Fourteen months earlier

THE MOMENT JILLIAN STEPPED into the tower room, she knew she wasn’t alone. It wasn’t just the steady dip in the temperature as she’d climbed the circular iron staircase. Although that was a big clue. According to the research she’d done, haunted houses were known for those cold spots.

Another big clue was she suddenly had goose bumps and the hairs on the back of her neck were snapping to attention like soldiers at the first sound of reveille.

Jillian peered into the gloom. The grime on the windows that circled the outer wall cut down on the amount of sunlight. But there was definitely someone else here.

“Hello?”

The only answer was the muted sound of the Atlantic sweeping into the rocks below.

“I’m not a trespasser,” she said. “The real estate agent gave me the key.”

No response.

“She gave it to me because I’m one of the new owners. My sisters and I put in a purchase offer and it was accepted today.”

The air shimmered. She was certain of it. Encouraged, she took another tentative step.

Sensing the presence of an incorporeal being was a first for Jillian. And it kicked up her heartbeat considerably. A ghost-buster she wasn’t. Or at least she never had been.

What she had been was an avid reader of the Nancy Drew mysteries when she was a child. She’d always admired Nancy’s fearlessness and her ability to take on challenges. At one point in her life, she’d wanted to be Nancy Drew. Right now, she’d settle for a little of the teenage sleuth’s luck.

Because there was a ghost in Haworth House, and Jillian was sure she was here in the tower. Hattie Haworth was her name. Belle Island’s top real estate agent Vivian Thorley had told her the story when she’d given her a tour of the property and Jillian had asked why the door to the tower levels was boarded up.

Vivian’s tone had been prim and proper. “I’m bound by full disclosure to let you know that the second owners of Haworth House believed that the place was haunted.”

The original owner, Hattie, was a successful silent-film star who’d been dropped by her studio and her husband when she’d failed to make the transition to talkies. According to Vivian, Hattie had sought refuge at Belle Island and had lived in seclusion at Haworth House before she’d passed away.

“And ever since the tower room was boarded up, there haven’t been any complaints,” Vivian had assured her. And she’d quickly steered Jillian back into the sunny open courtyard at the center of the old stone mansion—where the view of the Atlantic could work its magic.

Drawing in a deep breath, Jillian moved a little farther into the tower room. When the agent had told her the story, she’d felt an instant empathy for the silent-film star. “I think it’s awful that they’ve kept you boarded up all of these years.”

Of course, she hadn’t mentioned the ghost in her phone calls to her sisters. Why muddy the waters? The important thing had been to sell them on the idea that Haworth House was the perfect spot for their business venture. And she had.

Nerves danced in her stomach as she glanced around the room again. She’d taken risks before, but never one this big, and never one that had involved anyone but herself.

Still, she’d known from the first instant she’d seen the stone tower rising into the sky that this was the perfect place for them.

Now, all she had to do was convince Hattie Haworth. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I wanted to give you a little heads-up. My sisters and I plan on turning Haworth into a luxury hotel.”

No response.

“We’ve had this dream of going into business with one another since we were in our teens. In fact we took a vow to do just that.” And turning Haworth House into a hotel would allow the Brightman sisters to fulfill that vow.

Naomi had been a senior in high school, applying to colleges, when she’d come up with the idea that they should go into business together one day. Her older sister had been four, she’d been two and Reese had been a baby when their father had left them with the nuns who ran the boarding school.

It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. He was still recovering from their mother’s death, and he needed some time. He’d been on his way to collect them when his car had gone off a cliff near Monte Carlo. The nuns had kept them, and she and her sisters had grown up inseparable. But Naomi, always practical, had foreseen that their career paths were going to separate them. She’d chosen business and law, Reese had already known she wanted to be a chef, and Jillian’s heart had been set a little more vaguely on travel and art.

“This hotel idea is not some kind of harebrained scheme,” she continued as she strolled around the room. Up close, she could see that the toile in the faded silk draperies could only have been imported from France. Delighted, she moved on to inspect some of the furniture, continuing to talk as she went. Keeping up the one-sided conversation was easing her nerves.

“Naomi works at this law firm in Boston and she’s handling the business side. Reese, my younger sister, is a five-star chef. Amazing. She’ll handle the kitchen. And I’m going to handle the interior design.” She might not have been as focused as early on as her sisters had been, but she knew what she wanted now. And Haworth House would be the perfect place to launch her career.

Pausing, she ran her hand over what she was sure was a Queen Anne desk. “Some of the pieces you have here are lovely.”

There was another little shimmer in the air.

She moved even farther into the room and discovered that what had appeared to be only a dark shadow was a huge, four-poster bed in hand-carved mahogany.

“This was your bedroom. No, your boudoir. The word bedroom is way too pedestrian.”

This time there was more than a shiver. Jillian could have sworn she heard something. A laugh?

It was only as she turned in the direction of the sound that she saw the beveled mirror, gilded in gold.

“Oh, my.” Hurrying toward it, Jillian reached out to run her fingers gently down part of the frame. “This is beautiful.”

Then she stepped back two paces. Had there been a tiny flash in the mirror? Or had she imagined it?

This time the flash was brighter and an image of a woman appeared. She was beautiful—tall and willowy. Her red-blond hair tumbled in loose waves below her shoulders and a filmy white dress billowed around her.

Jillian’s heart skipped a beat, and for the first time since she’d stepped into the tower, she couldn’t think of a thing to say. Not that she would have been able to make a sound around the hard ball of fear lodged in her throat. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she was looking at Hattie Haworth.

Sensing the presence of a ghost was one thing. Seeing one was quite another. But just as she was getting used to it, the image began to fade.

“No. Wait,” she managed as she placed a hand on the mirror.

Then Hattie was gone. All that remained was her own image in the glass. As Jillian stared, willing Hattie to reappear, she saw something move in the wall beyond her reflection. Whirling around, she watched a panel slide open.

Drawing out her flashlight, she approached the opened space and discovered what every Nancy Drew enthusiast dreamed of—a secret room. A small one—no larger than five by seven. And the only thing inside was a hatbox. It was covered in faded linen and there was a parchment label on the top.

Picking it up, Jillian carried it back to the mirror and sat down cross-legged on the floor to study it. The label read Fantasy Box: Choose carefully. The one you draw out will come true.

Jillian glanced into the mirror. “What have we here, Hattie?”

For a few seconds, she hesitated, weighing her options. The label was a clear warning. And maybe she should wait until her sisters could come and they could look inside together? But patience had never been her strong suit.

Very carefully, she lifted the cover off the box. Inside, there was a pile of envelopes. She didn’t hesitate as long this time. But she didn’t choose the top one. Instead, she dug deep and drew out one near the bottom of the box.

After all, what could be the harm? In her life experience, fantasies were nice, but they didn’t come true all that often.

Opening it, she read it and her head spun. As fast as she could, she stuffed the parchment back into the envelope, returned it to the box and closed the lid. Jumping up, she walked on legs she couldn’t feel to return the hatbox to the secret room. Then she pushed the lever that slid the panel back into place. Because she still had a bad case of jelly knees, she leaned against the wall.

It had to have been a coincidence. Who could possibly have known about the fantasy that had fueled several of her adolescent dreams?

Perhaps all the envelopes held the same fantasy. But she didn’t have the courage left to reopen the hatbox to find out.

And it was ridiculous to feel so … unsettled by a silly parchment. What she’d read, after all, was just words pure and simple.

Lifting her chin, she turned and strode to the mirror. All she saw was her own reflection.

“What were you doing with that box, Hattie? And why is it the only thing in your secret room?”

No answer. Except for the words that flashed as bright as a neon sign in her mind. The one you draw out will come true.

Heart pounding, she whirled and barely kept herself from running down the iron staircase.

2

AS HER CAR HIT THE OIL slick and went into a spin, Jillian kept her foot steady on the brake and gripped the steering wheel for dear life. It badly wanted to jerk out of her hands, but she fought it just as one of her ex-boyfriends had taught her.

The hairpin curve she’d been negotiating had blocked the oil slick from view until she was nearly on it. Still, she might have sailed through it without incident if only the SUV hadn’t appeared out of nowhere….

Sounds assaulted her ears—the squeal of tires, the whir and rat-a-tat-tat of gravel as it struck the car. Her heart thundered like a freight train speeding its way through a tunnel.

In a distant part of her mind, she waited for her life to flash before her eyes.

Nada.

All she saw was a rotation of freeze-framed images—the ditch at the side of the turn, the tall tower of Haworth House shooting into a cloudless blue sky, a row of tall pines, followed by the large vehicle blocking the road ahead. And all the while the pavement beneath her screamed.

With one final shudder, her car stopped spinning and the noises stopped. She drew in a deep breath, felt it burn her lungs, and then finally focused on the view through her windshield. Only then did her heart shoot to her throat. Even through a haze of dust, she could see the front of the large, silver-toned SUV only inches away.

Inches.

She pried her hands from the steering wheel and noted they were trembling. Beyond them she saw a figure unfold himself from the driver’s seat of the SUV and move toward her.

Because of the glare of the sun on her windshield and the fact that her sunglasses had flown off while she was in ditch-and-tree-avoidance mode, she got only a dim impression of a tall, lanky figure. A man?

“Are you all right?” Definitely a man. The deep voice clinched it.

“I’m fine.” She glanced down at herself just to make sure. But she had to be fine. There was no time for Jillian Brightman to be otherwise. To emphasize the point, she scrambled out from behind the wheel of her Beetle. Her knees only threatened to buckle. Good news. “How about you? ”

“I’m okay, but I didn’t just bring my car out of a tailspin that racecar fans would have applauded. Nice driving.”

“I didn’t expect that oil slick, and I was in a big hurry. I usually am.” It seemed she hadn’t had time to breathe in the fourteen months since she and her sisters had bought Haworth House and begun work on opening their hotel.

When she used her hand to brush the dust off her jacket, she saw that it was no longer trembling. Good.

“It was a close call.”

“Yeah.” When she glanced up, a wide, solid-looking chest filled her vision. She hadn’t heard his approach. Now they stood toe to toe, only inches separating them.

Move back. The warning flashed into her mind as awareness rippled through her and her heart gave a little thud.

He was big. At five foot two, she was used to men being taller. But as she tilted her head way back, she figured he had to be six-three or-four. Since he hadn’t lost his sunglasses, she couldn’t see his eyes but she noted the shaggy straw-colored hair, the very male face with a slash of cheekbones, the trace of stubble on his jawline. When her gaze lingered on his mouth, her heart gave another thud.

This time when the warning flashed, she drew back and slammed into the side of her car.

He grabbed her arms to steady her. One of his feet had moved between her legs and for a moment, she felt the long hard length of his thigh pressed against hers. Heat arrowed out from the contact point and pooled in her center. A mist settled over her brain, and her throat went dry.

“Are you all right?”

She was still coming down from the adrenaline rush of nearly hitting him. That had to be it. Her senses were still in overdrive. That was why she felt the pressure of each one of his fingers on her arms. That was why she was having trouble finding her voice.

“I’m fine,” she lied. She was going to start to tremble any second.

One of them moved. Jillian wasn’t sure which one, but suddenly he was even closer. She felt the warmth of his breath on her mouth. She could almost taste it, and what shocked her was that she wanted more. Then there was nothing but the torrid, liquid heat of that one concentrated desire.

For a moment, she was incredibly tempted to go on impulse—to rise up on her toes and close that last little distance between them.

No. This was not a time in her life when she could afford to throw caution to the winds. This man was a stranger. And she had … business … Business that had slipped right out of her mind the instant this man had touched her.

She wasn’t sure how she found the strength to raise a hand and press it firmly against his chest. “I have to go.”

He dropped his hands and stepped away. But he didn’t return to his car. Instead, he circled hers. His movements were slow so she had plenty of time to take in the broad shoulders, narrow waist and long legs in tight, tattered jeans. In spite of the distraction, most of her brain cells clicked back on. And by the time he finished his little tour, she could even stand without the support of her car.

He wasn’t local. She’d met almost everyone who was, and she wouldn’t have forgotten him.

Because he was definitely a hunk.

Get a grip, Jillian. Hunks were her particular weakness. And acting too quickly on her attraction to them was something she’d paid the price for again and again.

Mr. Racecar Driver had only been the most recent. It was the main reason she’d vowed to abstain from starting up any new relationships, at least until she met the next goal on her two-year business plan.

“You’re lucky,” the hunk drawled. “Not a scratch. Want to check my car out? ”

She glanced at her watch. No time. She’d wasted all her time checking him out. And he was coming closer again. “Look, I have an appointment in Belle Bay in five minutes. I really have to dash. Lawyers hate to be kept waiting. How about I take your word?” Reaching into her car, she grabbed her purse and fished out a business card. “I’m Jillian Brightman, and if there’s any kind of a problem, you can reach me at Haworth House.”

He took the card, studied it for a minute.

She barely kept from tapping her foot. “Are we good here?”

He nodded. “You’ll be the first to know if we’re not.”

“Great.” She slipped back into her car and started the engine. After first backing up and then edging her way carefully around the SUV, she pressed her foot on the gas pedal. It took three straight minutes of driving for her heartbeat to steady.

IAN MACFARLAND WALKED as far as the sharp curve where he’d nearly met his maker and watched Jillian’s car race down the twisting road to the village of Belle Bay. His heart was still hammering. And he didn’t think he could blame that all on the near miss he’d just had.

Although when he’d rounded the curve and seen the car nearly upon him, he thought he’d bought it. The oil slick had taken her into a spin and if she hadn’t been able to handle it, neither of them would have cheated the grim reaper.

The lady sure could drive.

But part of the reason his heart had kicked into overdrive could be laid at the door of Jillian Brightman herself. He wasn’t a man who normally went with impulse. In the five years he’d worked as an analyst for the CIA, he’d learned the value of taking his time, figuring the angles, not jumping to conclusions.

But from the moment he’d stepped out of his SUV, he’d felt the damnedest pull. Walking over to her car to see if she was all right—that he could understand. What confounded him was the almost irresistible temptation he’d had to touch her, to kiss her. For an instant while the soft curves of her body had been pressed against him, the desire to taste her had become so urgent, so overwhelming that he hadn’t thought of anything else.

Certainly not the possible repercussions.

The question was why? He’d researched the Brightman sisters, so why hadn’t he been more prepared for the impact Jillian would have on his senses? Perhaps because the image on her Web site, one that he’d returned to study more than once, didn’t even begin to do justice to the woman. Oh, it had done a fair job of replicating the large blue eyes, the tumble of gold curls and the pixielike features that could have belonged to Peter Pan’s Tinker Bell. But it hadn’t even begun to capture the energy the woman radiated in person. Jillian Brightman in the flesh had been more than he’d anticipated.

She moved as fast as she drove. He recalled how quickly she’d gotten out of and back into the car. Then there’d been that moment when she’d looked right into his eyes. He hadn’t expected the little punch he’d felt right in his gut. Nor had he expected the almost instantaneous emptying of his mind.

She’d surprised him in more ways than one. Ian’s lips curved into a smile. She wasn’t even supposed to be on the island for another week. And the fact that she was might complicate the job he’d come to do. Avery Cooper, the hotel manager who’d contacted him, had stressed that the investigation he’d been hired for had to be done incognito.

Ian recalled Avery’s initial phone call. The first thing out of the man’s mouth had been, “This is Avery Cooper. You may know who I am?”

“I do,” Ian had said.

“Are you as good an investigator as your brother?”

“Hopefully. I don’t have as much field experience as Dane does.” It was something that Ian dearly wished to rectify. “What do you need?”

“First, I need to know that you’ll keep what I tell you in strictest confidence. Not a word—even to your brother. I don’t want to interrupt his holiday with Naomi, and I don’t want the Brightman sisters unnecessarily worried. Not until I know that I’m not just being paranoid.”

“If I think I need to tell my brother, I will. I can ask him to keep it from the sisters. But I can’t guarantee anything until I know what you’re going to tell me.”

There’d been a brief pause on the other end of the line. Then Avery had told him of the incidents plaguing Haworth House in the few weeks since Ian’s brother Dane had captured swindler Michael Davenport on the premises and the story of Haworth House’s resident ghost had received extensive coverage on the twenty-four-hour news channels.

First there’d been a breakdown in the air-conditioning system. Avery had chalked that up to bad luck and the cost of doing business.

Then there’d been the poisonous mushrooms that had nearly made it into the veal marsala, the restaurant’s signature dish. It was a young chef Reese had hired who’d recognized them and saved the day. Avery had had the mushrooms tested in a private lab. The good news was they wouldn’t have proven fatal. The bad news was that whoever had eaten them would have wished they had.

Then there’d been an incident when a guest had taken a tumble on the large stairway leading from the second floor to the lobby. Thankfully, the woman had only fallen down a few steps and suffered no more than a good scare.

But when Avery had discovered the remains of a thin wire he suspected someone had strung across the top step, he’d decided to call Ian.

After hearing Avery’s story, Ian had agreed with the hotel manager on three points. He was right to be concerned, it was too soon to tell if the incidents were related and, therefore, too soon to worry the sisters.

But when he’d offered to come and investigate further, he had to wonder if that hadn’t been related to his own desire to finally become a serious operative in the field. If he was going to be a true partner to Dane, he had to contribute more than tech support. And lately, research work could become a bit tedious and he’d begun to envy his brother’s more active side of the investigative business.

But keeping his investigation under wraps was going to be a challenge now that Jillian Brightman was on the island.

Good thing he loved surprises. And challenges.

As Jillian’s car disappeared from view, Ian returned to his SUV and started it up the hill to Haworth House. Thanks to the last case he and his brother Dane had worked on, he’d done some research on all three of the Brightman sisters.

Oddly enough, the women’s backstory had certain parallels with his and Dane’s. The Brightmans had lost their parents when they were very young and they’d been raised by nuns in a convent boarding school in the south of France. Dane and he had been nine and seven, their other brother four and their sister two when their mother’s sudden death from a brain aneurysm had brought social services down on them with a vengeance. Ian hadn’t seen any of his family after that until a year and a half ago when Dane had tracked him down at his analyst job with the CIA.

Since then, he and his brother had not only begun to appreciate the fact that they were related, but they’d also discovered that their talents meshed. He was the intellectual, Dane the man of action. Ian had left the CIA to go into the security and investigation business with his big brother.

The breakup of their family had been hardest on Dane. He’d been stuck in the foster care system. And although his older brother had been stingy with the details, Ian knew that he’d spent some time on the streets and that the reason Dane had turned to investigative work was because he’d vowed to eventually find and reunite his family.

Compared with Dane’s, his own experiences after he’d lost everyone had been a fairy tale. Within a year, he’d been adopted by a Catholic family who’d wanted to take in a third child after being blessed with two of their own. One of their sons was a year older, the other a year younger, and there’d been adjustments to be made on both sides. JoAnn, his mother, had never made him feel as if he was different or not really hers. But his adoptive father had been another story. Even at seven, it hadn’t taken Ian long to figure out the “rules.” He quickly learned to stay on the sidelines and not to compete or outshine either of his brothers. And he’d still managed to get into MIT and find a career path that he enjoyed. All in all, he couldn’t complain.

Now he had Dane back, and he shared his brother’s goal to find the rest of their family.

The Brightmans had been luckier in a way. They’d never been separated. And just recently Naomi, the oldest, and Dane had found each other. They’d met right here at Haworth House while Dane was on the trail of a world-class swindler, Michael Davenport. The instant Dane had seen Naomi, he’d taken a direct hit from cupid’s arrow, and ever since, Ian had seen little hearts circling his older brother’s head. Currently, Dane and Naomi were on holiday in France.

Good for Dane. It was about time. But a permanent relationship just wasn’t in the cards for Ian MacFarland. He knew from experience that building relationships required time and constant attention. He had enough on his plate. Getting reacquainted with his brother and figuring out how to be the right kind of partner in MacFarland Investigations required all of his focus.

As Ian turned his car into the driveway of Haworth House, he felt a little skip of excitement. He’d seen it on the Internet, taken the virtual tour provided by the Web site, but the place with its gray stone turrets and the tower that rose into the sunny blue sky was something to behold. To the right of the main entrance, he could see the terraced gardens and the maze that bordered them.

After alighting from his car and turning his keys over to a valet, Ian shouldered his duffel and entered the lobby. He spotted Avery Cooper behind the front desk. The tall, handsome man with the chocolate-colored skin had been Jillian’s college roommate, and the sisters had hired him to run Haworth House. It had been a wise decision in Ian’s opinion. In the years since he’d shared living quarters with Jillian, Avery had earned himself an MBA from Harvard Business School. And if the press was to be believed, business at Haworth House was booming.

Of course, the whole media blitz surrounding the arrest of Michael Davenport along with the rumors that the spirit of silent-film star Hattie Haworth had assisted in the swindler’s apprehension had helped.

The instant Avery spotted him, he shot Ian a smile; then he turned the man he was talking to over to an assistant and signaled Ian to follow him.

Avery waited until he’d ushered Ian into the private suite above his office before he spoke. “We’re in deep shit. Jillian arrived unexpectedly this morning.”

“Yes,” Ian said as he dropped his duffel. “I nearly ran into her on the road up here. We spoke briefly.”

Avery’s eyes narrowed on him. “You talked to her? She knows you’re here?”

“She knows I’m here. She doesn’t know who I am. The cars weren’t damaged—thanks to some pretty fancy maneuvering on her part. And she was in a great rush to get to Belle Bay, so we didn’t get to the exchanging names and insurance companies part. No need. We were fine. The cars were undamaged.”

Avery drew in a deep breath. “Please sit down. Would you like something to drink? Water, beer, wine? I usually know how to greet guests better than this.”

And that told Ian more than each of their previous conversations just how concerned Avery was about the series of unsettling incidents that had recently plagued Haworth House.

“Water would be great.”

He followed Avery into the kitchen of the suite and accepted the bottle of water the man retrieved from the refrigerator.

“Why is Jillian here?” Ian asked.

“She was supposed to return next week to close on a new property she purchased in Belle Bay. She plans on opening her own antique store there. But yesterday, a Colonel Jenkins called her and requested a meeting. He and his son are buying a string of small hotels along the Carolina coastlines. The places are in need of updating and they’re interested in hiring Jillian as a chief consultant. But first they want to see what she’s done with Haworth House. She changed her plans immediately. Haworth House is a testimonial to her talent. What you see in the lobby and the dining room, as well as the guest rooms—she designed it all. She searched for and acquired the antiques herself. When they get here tomorrow, the place will knock their socks off.”

As Avery talked, Ian noticed the admiration and the love in the man’s voice. The two had never been romantically involved, but Avery and Jillian had been friends for a long time. He knew from the original research he’d done that Avery had a long-term relationship with a man named Matt Trudell.

“So how do you want to handle this? Should I just tell her who I am and say I’m taking a little vacation?”

Avery frowned. “The first thing she’ll do is call Naomi. Then Dane will call you wanting to know why you’re really here. I’ve met your brother. He’ll probably want to cut short his trip and join you.”

The scenario Avery was painting was more than a strong possibility, Ian thought.

“I think we ought to go with your original idea,” Avery continued. “You’re a writer, and you’re here to research Haworth House. Your book will tell the true story of why Hattie settled here and why she remained a recluse all those years, etcetera, etcetera. It gives you a good excuse to ask questions and snoop around the place. I’ve already let some of the staff know, and they’re willing to talk to you.”

“Fine.”

Avery met his eyes. “There’s another reason I don’t want Jillian to know who you are and why you’re really here. This meeting tomorrow with the Jenkinses could be a huge turning point in her career. I don’t want her worried about something that may turn out to be nothing. Reese is filming her first TV show in L.A. Naomi is with Dane, and I’ve never seen her so happy. I don’t want any of them distracted if I’m just making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“Got it.” Ian twisted the cap off his water bottle. Posing as a writer would be his first experience masquerading as someone else. It was a technique his brother Dane used all the time, and Ian was looking forward to the challenge.

“I don’t see a problem going ahead with our plan,” he said. “Jillian and I were two strangers meeting after an accident that didn’t happen. I’ll try to keep my distance, keep a low profile. If she asks, I’ll use the cover we’ve decided on.”

“In your favor, you don’t look like an investigator.”

Ian glanced down at his well-worn T-shirt, his threadbare jeans and grinned. “Dane says I’m going through a late rebellion stage. I worked five years behind a computer at the CIA in a suit and a tie.”

“Ah,” Avery said. “A research geek.”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

Avery’s booming laugh filled the room. “Hell, no. I’m an avid fan of Tom Clancy’s Jack Ryan, and that’s what he was.”

Ian grinned. “I’m a fan of Jack’s, too.” He set his water bottle down. “Let’s say you’re not making a mountain out of a molehill. What do you think is going on here?”

Frustration flickered across Avery’s face. “All of the incidents so far seem to have been targeting the hotel. Some guests were upset when the air-conditioning system was off for a day, and it may have resulted in some bad word of mouth. But if the chef hadn’t discovered the poisonous mushrooms or if that woman had seriously injured herself when she took that tumble down the stairs, the publicity could have seriously damaged the reputation of Haworth House. The hotel could have taken a huge hit financially.”

Ian nodded. “So the Brightman sisters may have an enemy who is upset with their success.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. But I can’t think of who that might be.”

“Then the sooner I get started the better. What’s my writer name by the way? You’ll have to register me under it.”

“Any objection to going with Jack Ryan?”

“None at all.” But as Avery moved past him, Ian put a hand on his arm. “Just put me in a room close to Jillian’s. In the event you’re not being paranoid, I’d like to be close in case the threats escalate.”

Avery’s expression hardened. “You think she might be personally in danger?”

“You’re afraid of that, too,” he said. “That’s part of the reason you don’t want the sisters informed about the threats. If they thought the hotel was really in danger, they’d all come back.”

Avery studied him for a moment. “I’m glad I called you, Jack. Let’s get you registered.”

3

AS JILLIAN STEPPED OUT of the law offices of Bisson and Tanner, she barely restrained herself from doing a happy dance right there on the sidewalk. Ever since she’d decided that interior design was where her true talents lay, she’d been dreaming of eventually opening her own store. But it hadn’t been until she and her sisters had bought Haworth House and turned it into a hotel that she’d started to believe she could turn her particular dream into a reality.

Oh, she knew she was taking a risk—starting a new business venture so soon after opening the hotel. But once she’d seen the Kellys’ bookstore on Main Street and discovered that it was available, she simply hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to buy it ahead of schedule. A whole two years ahead of schedule.

Walking to the edge of the sidewalk, she glanced up and down the main street of the small village that was becoming so familiar to her. The sharp, sudden blast of the ferry’s horn had her turning right to watch it pull away from the dock. Brightly colored umbrellas adorned the patio of a restaurant close to the water. Across the street from where she stood was the crowded coffee shop, Uncommon Grounds, with its green-and-white-striped awnings. In the block up from that was a gift shop and a bank, and directly across from the real estate office was what was going to be her new antique store.

Just thinking about it had her heart skipping a beat. The key in her hand and the papers she’d just signed in Myron Bisson’s office had made it really hers.

The Kellys, a couple in their seventies, had run a bookstore there for over forty years, but they’d wanted to have more time to visit grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Right now they were in Ireland doing just that. They’d signed the papers before they’d left, and the key had just been waiting for her.

Opening her fist, Jillian stared down at it. Risk taking was not new to her. And she’d paid the price for her tendency to rush into things. But convincing her sisters to buy Haworth House had paid off, and she just had a feeling she was on a roll.

This time she gave in to the impulse to do a little happy dance. A part of her wanted to run up the street, open the door of the old bookstore and just look at the place that was now hers.

Another part of her wanted to share the good news with someone. She could call Avery, of course. He would have come with her if he could have gotten away. Instead she started up the street toward Molly Pepperman’s boutique on the corner. Molly had been the first friend she’d made in Belle Bay, and she’d introduced her to the Kellys. And now they would be fellow retailers.

She’d taken a few steps toward her destination when her attention was diverted by a silver-toned SUV pulling into a parking space directly across from her. Something moved through her then—and she sensed who the driver was even before he opened the door. It was him—the tall, lanky stranger she’d nearly smashed into and very nearly kissed.

While she’d been in Mr. Bisson’s office, she’d been successful at putting that memory out of her mind. But as he emerged from the car, the details flooded her system with a vengeance. He took his time locking the car, and all the while awareness prickled along her nerve endings, her pulse raced, and the air seemed to thicken around her.

She couldn’t drag her gaze away from him as he headed down the sidewalk toward the pier. The worn jeans and T-shirt hugged a long, lean body, and the aviator sunglasses added to the appeal. The man had a great deal of eye candy going for him.

Something close to panic bubbled inside her. The eye-candy factor didn’t fully account for the intensity of her reaction to him. On the ride into town, she’d almost convinced herself that her initial response had been the result of her near-death experience. But why was it happening again?

Her heart was thudding, her blood heating in her veins. It was ridiculous. The man was a perfect stranger.

And that was when the memory slammed into her—a bare-fisted punch that had her backing into a nearby planter and sitting down hard on the edge.

Good grief. Could her reaction to this man be related to the parchment she’d pulled out of that damn fantasy box she’d found in Hattie’s secret room?

No. She pressed her hands to her head to stop the spinning. Hattie Haworth’s fantasy box was something that only a very few people were aware of. She and her sisters knew. And Naomi had probably told Dane. In the media blitz surrounding the arrest of Naomi’s exfiancé, Michael Davenport, the fact that Hattie’s ghost was alive and well, so to speak, at the hotel had leaked to the press. But the existence of her fantasy box had been kept private. And she’d never told anyone—not even Naomi and Reese—the fantasy she’d pulled out.

You will experience all of the sensory delights and adventure that come with being swept away by a stranger.

There was no denying it. The hunky stranger had swept her away. For those few breathless moments on the hillside, she’d forgotten everything else.

Closing her eyes, she tried to clear her mind. She’d been working too hard. There was the stress of starting up her first retail venture and the meeting with Colonel Jenkins tomorrow. If the colonel was pleased with what she’d done at Haworth House, he could take her into the big leagues as an interior designer. And that would give her just the boost she needed to ensure the success of her store. Those were the things she should be focusing on.

Instead, the words on the top of the hatbox blinked on and off in her mind like a neon sign. Choose carefully. The one you draw out will come true.

Being swept away by a stranger had been a secret fantasy of hers when she was fourteen. By then, her reading had graduated from Nancy Drew to romance novels—the ones with bodice-ripper covers that she’d had to hide from the nuns. It had been exciting to read them, even more exciting to daydream her own forbidden and amorous adventures.

In the convent school, she’d always felt more confined than her sisters. Naomi was a scholar and focused on her goal of attending college in the States. And as long as the nuns allowed Reese to experiment in the kitchen, she was as happy as a clam.

But Jillian had always fantasized about escape. No wonder she’d dreamed about being swept away to a more adventurous life by slightly dangerous strangers. In her fantasies, she’d often imagined her hero to be Harrison Ford in his Indiana Jones persona.

On that first night when she’d entered the tower room and Hattie had shown her the secret room, she’d convinced herself that pulling that particular fantasy out of the box was a coincidence. But later when she’d shown her sisters the secret room and hatbox, they’d each drawn out parchments.

And she’d drawn the same one— You will experience all the sensory delights and adventure that come with being swept away by a stranger.

Evidently, the fantasies had struck a personal note with her sisters, too, because they hadn’t shared them. Maybe because of that warning on the top of the box.

Choose carefully. The one you draw out will come true.

The kicker was that Naomi’s already had come true and it had brought her Dane. She’d told them that much on the day after Michael Davenport had shot her. And she’d claimed that Hattie had played a role in saving Dane’s life.

What other kind of role might Hattie be playing? Could a ghost actually engineer which fantasy she and her sisters had pulled out? And what in the world had Hattie used those fantasies for? Why had she hidden them and nothing else in that secret room?

Was the one she’d drawn out going to come true just as Naomi’s had?

Did she want it to?

No. No. No. She was being ridiculous. Opening her eyes, Jillian gave her head a little shake to clear it of the fanciful questions. But as luck would have it, the first person she focused on was the tall, lanky piece of eye candy. Evidently he’d changed his mind about visiting the pier, and he was now directly across the street from her.

As she watched those long legs eat up the sidewalk, her heart gave another little thud, and flames licked along her nerve endings.

He didn’t even glance in her direction.

Good. Because she had better things to do than deal with adolescent fantasies. Or gawk at a man she’d never really met. And didn’t want to meet.

Liar, said a little voice in her head.

Molly’s boutique, she reminded herself as she sprang up from the planter. That had been her destination before Mr. Hunk had come into her range of vision and rudely interrupted her. Turning, she headed toward the corner. Molly probably couldn’t get away to see her new store. But she was always a good listener.

Jillian couldn’t help but stop to admire the window display at Discoveries. Color was everywhere—from the pile of lacy lingerie to the brightly hued sundresses that hung from hangers against a sky-blue backdrop. Molly changed the merchandise frequently, Jillian knew. And it worked. It was just one more marketing technique that she was going to have to talk to her friend about.

Stepping through the front door, she spotted Molly immediately. The petite brunette was standing with a customer in front of the full-length mirrors toward the center of the store. Not wanting to interrupt, Jillian busied herself with one of her favorite pastimes, browsing.

It always amazed her just how much product Molly packed into the space without making it seem overcrowded. The clothing racks that in other stores might offer dresses or pants in a variety of sizes here offered “outfits” complete with shoes, hats, handbags and jewelry. Out of the corner of her eye, she kept track of Molly’s progress with the elderly woman who was carefully inspecting her image in the mirror.

“What do you think, Miss Emmy Lou?” Molly asked. “I like the color on you.”

“You don’t think it’s too young?” the older woman asked.

Tricky question, Jillian thought. Miss Emmy Lou looked to be in her sixties.

“Not a bit,” Molly said. “It’s a classic style—a shirt-dress—ageless. My grandmother use to wear a shirtdress to church on Sundays and she had a couple of decades on you.”

Miss Emmy Lou laughed. “Your grandmother was four years ahead of me all through elementary school.”

Molly placed the flat of her hand against the side of her head. “Right. I must have been thinking about my great-grandmother.”

Miss Emmy Lou turned to face her. “You were thinking of making a sale. Your grandmother would be proud of you.”

Molly cocked her head to one side. “Sale aside, the dress suits you.”

Miss Emmy Lou flicked a glance in the mirror. “Yes, I think it does. But the shoes …?”

“Fisherman’s sandals—another ageless style.” It was just then that Molly caught sight of Jillian and said, “Jillian, come over here and offer my customer an objective opinion.”

Jillian smiled at her friend and found herself enveloped in a quick, warm hug, before they turned to face Miss Emmy Lou.

Molly made the introduction. “Miss Emmy Lou runs our local library around the corner on Whipple Street.”

The older woman held out her hand. “And you must be one of the sisters who’ve breathed some new life into this little village. I read your interview in the Belle Island Weekly Examiner a few weeks ago. Glad to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Jillian found the older woman’s handshake firm and her smile genuine.

“I also heard you bought the Kellys’ bookstore so they could finally retire. They’ve been talking about doing it for the last ten years.”

“I did. In fact, I closed on it today.” She lifted her hand, opened it. “I have the key right here and I was hoping to persuade Molly to take a half hour off and let me give her a tour.”

Miss Emmy Lou glanced around the shop. “I seem to be the only customer, so let’s see if we can hurry this along.” There was a twinkle in her eyes as she met Jillian’s. “What’s your verdict on this outfit?”

“I’d take the dress and the shoes. Molly has a knack for putting things together,” Jillian said.

“My childhood dream was to dress the stars for the red carpet,” Molly told them.

Emmy Lou laughed. “Red carpet, eh? Well, that just might make my day. I’ll take both.”

“It’ll just take me a minute to wrap them up.”

“No need. If it’s such a classic and suits me so well, I’m going to wear it out of the store. You can just pack up what I wore in.”

As Molly hurried to do that, Jillian turned to Emmy Lou. “Would you like to come with us?”

“Love to. We librarians are born nosey. I hear you’ve done a snap-bang job up at Haworth House, and I’d love to know what you have in mind for the bookstore.”

“I’m going to change it into an antiques shop,” Jillian explained. “Haworth House has been a real showcase for me. Many of the guests have commissioned me to find similar pieces for them. So I thought it might be the right time to open my own retail store.”

As the three women left Discoveries, Molly said, “I didn’t expect you until next week.”

“I got a call from a Colonel Jenkins who wants to meet with me tomorrow at Haworth House. He and his son are opening a string of hotels and they’re interested in seeing what I’ve done. If he hires me as a consultant, it would be an amazing opportunity for me.”

“Colonel Jenkins,” Miss Emmy Lou said. “That wouldn’t be Colonel Sam Jenkins, would it?”

“Yes,” Jillian replied. “Have you heard of him?”

“If he’s the one I’m thinking of, he was born here on Belle Island. He’s Samuel Jenkins the second, I believe. His father died tragically here when little Sam was only about four years old. The family sold everything and moved away from the island then.”

“I’ll have to ask him about it tomorrow.” Jillian stopped in front of the bookstore and took out the key.

Her hand trembled slightly when she inserted it into the lock. The door creaked as it opened and she led the way in.

Dust motes danced in the rays of sunlight that streamed through the windows. The store was just as she’d remembered it—except that the furniture was gone and the bookshelves lining the walls were empty. “The Kellys told me this was originally someone’s home. And as soon as I pictured it that way in my mind, I knew this was the place for me. They kept the rooms intact. This must have been the front parlor. I’ll take some of the bookshelves down, but basically, I’m going to keep the house the same and furnish it with product.”

“Great idea,” Molly murmured. “It will be like turning the house into what it once was.”

Jillian drew them into the second room. “This must have been the original dining room. I figure I can furnish it that way at times or as a library, or even as a bedroom depending on what I have on hand.”

“The house dates back before my time,” Miss Emmy Lou commented. “Even when I was a little girl, this was a commercial store. I can do some research at the library.”

“That would be great.” Jillian opened the door to the kitchen, where she knew that the Kellys had offered tea or hot spiced cider to their customers. But she stopped short on the threshold. The room was in shambles—something, likely a sledgehammer, had been used to put huge dents in the cupboards and red paint had been tossed on three of the walls. On the other a clear message had been painted.

Get out while you still can.

HE’D BEEN RIGHT ABOUT one thing. Jillian Brightman moved fast. So fast that when she shot out of the old bookstore, Ian didn’t have time to avoid the collision. The impact was hard enough to send his cup of coffee flying and had him stumbling back a pace. At least he managed to grip her shoulders and steady both of them before they took a major pratfall.

She looked up at him, met his eyes. “You again.”

For a moment every thought drained out of his head. All he knew was that they were close—so close that he could feel her breath on his lips. And hers were moist, parted and barely an inch away. One taste.

She stepped back, and that sudden movement brought the rest of the world into focus for Ian. When he saw the raw fury in her eyes, he tightened his hands on her shoulders. “You all right?”

“Yes.” She drew in a deep breath and pulled free of him. “No.” Raising an arm, she pointed through the door of the store. “Someone just vandalized one of the rooms in my new store. I have to … I have to go.”

Dragging his gaze away from Jillian, he searched the faces of the two other women he’d seen enter the store with her. Both of them looked frightened and concerned. But they were giving him the once-over. He bet they’d be able to pick him out of a lineup.

Inwardly, he sighed. He was definitely going to have to get better at keeping a low profile. It was the second time today he’d been on a collision course with a woman who wasn’t supposed to know he was even here on the island.

And it was the second time in as many hours that he’d very nearly kissed her—this time on a public street in front of witnesses. Once again, she’d made him lose track of anything else but her. He definitely needed to work on his undercover skills.

The small brunette had a cell phone pressed to her ear. After pocketing it, she took Jillian’s arm. “I contacted Nate. He’s waiting for us at his office.” She held out a hand. “Give me the key.”

Jillian fished it out of her pocket and the brunette locked the front door of the store and passed it back.

“Nate will want to see the damage for himself, but we’ll go up to his office first and file a report.”

As the brunette led Jillian away, Ian found himself stifling an urge to go after her. She was going to the right place. He knew from the research he’d done for his brother that Nate Kirby was the current sheriff of Belle Island, following in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps. Dane had found the local lawman quite capable.

“You know Ms. Brightman?”

Ian jerked his gaze away from Jillian’s retreating back and found himself looking into a pair of intelligent brown eyes that were laced with worry.

“No. That is, we haven’t been formally introduced. This is the second time we’ve run into each other.” And he was going to have to stop doing that. “I’m a guest up at the hotel.”

The elderly woman nodded. “But I can see you’re worried about her. Nate Kirby is our local sheriff. He’ll know what to do about this.”

Was she trying to convince him or herself? “What happened in there?”

She frowned. “A nasty piece of business. It was in the kitchen. Someone bashed in the cupboards and threw red paint on three of the walls. It looked like blood.”

Ian’s stomach knotted.

“There was a message painted on the fourth wall. Get out while you still can.”

Ian glanced up the street. The urge to go to her was even stronger now. So was his gut feeling that she was in danger.

“Nothing like this happens in Belle Bay. And everyone here is grateful to the Brightman sisters. They’ve created an economic upturn for the whole community. I don’t understand why anyone would do something like this.”

In the next block, Ian could see that Jillian, in the company of the sheriff and the brunette, was on her way back. Time for him to exit stage left. He glanced back down at the older woman. He wanted to question her further. But maintaining a low profile was more important right now. “The sheriff is on his way. Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m fine.” She held out a hand. “I’m Emmy Lou Pritchard. I run the library. And you’re?”

He studied her for a moment. A more seasoned operative would have made his getaway without giving away his name. He had a hunch he’d just been out-maneuvered by a librarian. He shook the hand. “I’m Jack Ryan.”

“Jack Ryan.” She beamed a smile at him. “Glad to meet you. You’ve made me feel much better about Jillian’s safety.”

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