Quinn turned on her, eyes black with fury

Suddenly his hand was at her throat. For one terror-stricken moment, Janine feared he might strangle her.

Instead, he caressed the soft flesh below her jaw, a gesture that was undeniably dangerous, yet exquisitely erotic. “I understood you didn’t intrude on your guests’ privacy. Was I misinformed?”

“Not at all,” Janine said shakily. “I was simply curious.…”

He slid one fingertip slowly down her throat—more a lover’s caress than a warning. “Curiosity,” he murmured. “Fatal to felines, and unhealthy for humans, as well.…”

All she had to do was take a step back, and she’d be free. But she couldn’t move. She was trapped by his penetrating gaze, his mesmerizing touch. She was frightened, yet the fear was not for her physical safety.

The fear was for her soul, and for the power this man had over it. Over her…

Diana Whitney loves “fat babies and warm puppies, mountain streams and California sunshine, camping, hiking and gold prospecting. Not to mention strong romantic heroes!” She married her own real-life hero twenty years ago. With his encouragement, she left her longtime career as a municipal finance director and pursued the dream that had haunted her since childhood—writing. To Diana, writing is a joy, the ultimate satisfaction. Reading, too, is her passion, from spine-chilling thrillers to sweeping sagas, but nothing can compare to the magic and wonder of romance.

The Raven Master
Diana Whitney

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To Christine Rimmer, who so generously shares

her sympathetic ear, absorbent shoulder,

unending support and cherished friendship.

Thanks, pal!

CONTENTS

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

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

Flames leapt toward the night sky, a devouring conflagration of carnage and death. Only a moment earlier the small frame structure had been someone’s home. Now it was a fiery tomb, mocking heroic efforts of frantic volunteers.

Torrential blasts from firehoses arched into the inferno then evaporated into impotent clouds of sizzling steam. Nearby dwellings, engulfed by wind-whipped smoke and undulating waves of radiant heat, appeared to tremble in contemplation of sharing the building’s grisly fate.

The steepled chapel across the street was engulfed by eerie reflections, a holy site perched on the precipice of purgatory, surrounded by the hellish flames. From the shadows an observer glanced away from the visual heresy, refocusing attention on the raging blaze. It had been so long, so painfully long. The waiting was over now. This was the place.

Dawn crept through a gray pall of lingering smoke and early spring fog that frequently shrouded the Pacific North-west. From the kitchen of her Victorian boardinghouse, Janine Taylor parted hand-stitched gingham curtains and gazed at the pristine forest surrounding the remote village of Darby Ridge. Normally she took great pleasure from the picturesque view. On this dismal morning, however, the swirling mist smelled of burned wood and scorched earth and death.

The fact that she had barely known the victim didn’t ease Janine’s distress. Over the past three years she’d met relatively few of Darby Ridge’s two thousand residents and knew only that Marjorie Barker had been an attractive, middle-aged woman who lived across from the Presbyterian church. When Janine had passed the house en route to the corner grocery, the woman had occasionally been outside tending her roses, and they would exchange casual greetings. Marjorie had been pleasant and soft-spoken with delicate eyes and a ready smile. Now she was dead.

Janine turned away from the window and shivered, rubbing her arms against the dampness. Upstairs, warped floor-boards vibrated a warning that her guests were awakening. They’d be down soon, and they’d be hungry.

Shaking off her sad mood, she returned to the comforting breakfast routine by filling the dual-carafe coffeemaker and sliding a pan of homemade biscuits into the black iron oven. She arranged a pound of bacon in an oversize skillet, flipped on the antiquated gas burner, then methodically cracked two dozen eggs into a large ceramic bowl and beat them with a wire whisk until the mixture was fluffy enough to fly.

By the time Janine heard footsteps on the stairway, the enticing scent of brewed coffee and sizzling bacon had dispelled the chilly gloom. She felt better now, not good, but better.

Hushed voices filtered in from the foyer. A moment later, Jules Delacourt solicitously escorted his grandmother into the spacious farm-style kitchen.

They were a peculiar pair, obviously devoted yet so contradictory in appearance that it was difficult to believe they were related. Edna Fabish was a squat, bucket-shaped woman, heavily jowled, with a petite nose and saggy, blue button eyes. A ruffled mass of gray-streaked, ecru curls framed her paunchy face like the corkscrewed pelt of an ungroomed poodle.

Physically her grandson was the diametric opposite, tall and exceptionally thin, although he carried himself with the fluidity and grace of a danseur noble. With lazy dark eyes and meticulously groomed ebony hair slicked into classic European style, Jules was quite handsome although a porcelain-pale complexion and refined features gave him a pinched, somewhat effeminate appearance that Janine found unappealing.

This morning, as always, Jules was impeccably attired in a freshly starched dress shirt with a tasteful silk tie tucked under a V-necked argyle pullover. Janine guessed that his wool trousers, fashionably pleated and hemmed precisely one-eighth inch above the gleaming toes of his wing tips, probably cost more than the austere boardinghouse earned in a month.

Extravagant business apparel notwithstanding, Jules hadn’t worked since arriving a year ago and apparently was supported by his grandmother, who held a nursing position at the town’s small medical facility. Janine had always found that rather peculiar but respected the privacy of her guests and would never be so crass as to question their source of income. Edna and Jules were tidy, undemanding and, most important, paid their rent in a timely fashion. For that Janine was deeply grateful and willing to ignore their eccentric and occasionally disruptive personality foibles.

When Jules and his grandmother reached the kitchen table, Janine pasted on her cheerful hostess facade. “Good morning, Jules, Edna.”

Ignoring the polite greeting, Edna dabbed her red eyes with a tissue. “God’s wrath is upon us,” the woman lamented, settling heavily into the ladder-back chair that her grandson held out. She blew her nose and tucked the soggy tissue into the polyester pocket of her white uniform. “Praise be to the Lord.”

Jules sympathetically squeezed the older woman’s shoulder. “Grand’mère is quite upset. She was very fond of Marjorie.”

Startled, Janine laid down the spatula and looked over her shoulder. “I didn’t realize that you were acquainted with Miss Barker.”

Edna stoically lifted her chin. “She was a godly woman and a valued member of our congregation.”

“I’m so sorry.” The words sounded trite but not knowing what else to say, Janine returned her attention to the eggs she was scrambling.

“I must call the Reverend Mr. Weems about the services,” Edna murmured sadly, lifting a china cup from her place mat and handing it to her grandson. “Such a horrible thing to happen.”

Jules nodded somberly. “Yes, horrible.” He dutifully placed a chaste peck on his grandmother’s upturned cheek, then crossed the room and set Edna’s cup beside the coffee-maker.

As Janine transferred scrambled eggs from the frying pan into a serving bowl, Jules glanced warily over his shoulder then whispered, “Did you see the flames?”

“Excuse me?” A spoonful of congealed egg hovered in midair.

“The flames,” he repeated impatiently, his eyes glittering strangely. “They were positively immense. Did you see them?”

Unnerved, she slowly set the spoon in the bowl. “Yes, from my bedroom window.”

Jules poured two cups of steaming coffee and continued in a hushed voice. “It was a magnificent spectacle, wasn’t it?” Before she could respond, he’d returned to the kitchen table and set a steaming cup in front of his grieving grandmother, who patted his arm and smiled up gratefully.

Sighing, Janine shook her head. Appearance notwithstanding, Jules Delacourt was definitely an odd duck, a twenty-three-year-old man with the emotional development and bizarre imagination of a child. He seemed harmless enough, although Janine was occasionally unnerved by his propensity to read a sinister intent into ordinary events.

A raspy female voice suddenly demanded, “Who the hell do I have to kill to get a cup of coffee?”

With a glance toward the doorway, Janine set the bowl of eggs and a platter of crisp bacon on the table. “Good morning, Althea. You’re up early.”

The sullen woman shuffled across the linoleum and slid onto an empty chair. “One of the waitresses called in sick,” she muttered peevishly. “Good old Al gets to cover the morning shift again.”

Always the caregiver, Edna was instantly concerned. “The poor woman. I do hope it’s nothing serious.”

Althea shrugged. “Could be a case of the clap, for all I know.”

Janine rolled her eyes, wishing to heaven that Althea wouldn’t deliberately bait the other guests. The sharp-tongued woman wasn’t likely to change tactics, however, and since she obviously enjoyed shocking people, poor pious Edna was a particularly tempting target for Althea’s crude comments and tawdry wit.

Now Edna glanced quickly at her grandson, who was busily filling his plate, a crimson streak below his ear the only indication that he’d heard the coarse remark. The older woman returned her attention to Althea and frowned disapprovingly. “That was quite unkind, dear.”

Ignoring the rebuff, Althea yawned and stretched luxuriously, seeming unconcerned that her silky peignoir had spread apart, exposing considerable cleavage above the lacy bodice of her gown. Unconcerned, but not unaware. The subtle tilt of her freshly glossed lips indicated that she’d noted Jules’s discomfort and was amused by it.

In spite of the overbleached hair and exaggerated, chorus-girl makeup, Althea was an attractive woman. To her, however, only adjectives like stunning, gorgeous and breathtaking were acceptable.

Embittered and emotionally bruised by several failed relationships, Althea flaunted her fading assets with the terrified desperation of a woman still grieving for her lost youth. Each new crow’s-foot sent a dagger into her heart; every sagging muscle was a personal tragedy of gigantic proportions. After all, she was only forty-four, still in her sexual prime. It wasn’t her fault, Althea had once complained, that society valued a tight butt over the wisdom gained by experience.

And Janine suspected that Althea Miller was nothing if not experienced.

At the moment, however, Janine hoped that a caffeine fix would temporarily silence the woman’s disruptive tongue, and handed her a steaming cup of coffee. Althea gurgled in delight, downed the hot liquid as though it were a shot of whiskey, then unceremoniously held out the cup for a refill. Janine complied without comment.

“Ahh.” Althea took a healthy swallow, then set down the cup and lazily raked her fingers through a shoulder-length mass of brittle, strawberry-blond hair. “Nectar of the gods.”

Jules, who apparently was desperately trying to avoid looking at the woman’s partially exposed bosom, laid down his fork and delicately dabbed his lips. “Have you heard about last night’s fire?”

Althea emitted an annoyed snort. “Damned sirens kept me awake half the night.”

“Marjorie Barker died,” Jules intoned, his eyes glistening with barely suppressed excitement. “It was tragic, simply tragic.”

At the mention of her friend’s name, Edna twisted her linen napkin. “Such a dear woman. She volunteered at the hospital, you know.”

Leaning forward, Jules lowered his voice. “I heard that the authorities suspect arson.”

Edna sniffed loudly and murmured an obtuse biblical quotation that seemed irrelevant to the discussion.

“What if it really was arson?” Jules insisted. “That means that Miss Barker was actually murdered. Think of it! A real killer loose right here in Darby Ridge. Why, we could all be in mortal danger.”

Althea made an impolite noise. “Bull. The man-stealing slut got what she deserved.”

Edna gasped and turned as white as her uniform.

Janine looked up from the toast she was buttering. “That was a very cruel remark, even for you.”

Shifting uncomfortably, Althea fidgeted with the cup handle. “I was just trying to convince the paranoid prophets that nobody’s going to skin them in their sleep, that’s all. I mean, everyone knows the Barker broad wasn’t particular about bed partners, and she probably ended up boinking somebody else’s man.”

“How dare you defile a virtuous woman?” Edna’s eyes flashed blue fire. “Mark my words, Althea Miller, your evil tongue is an abomination to God, and He will have His revenge.”

Jules pushed his plate aside. “Perhaps Miss Barker was mixed up with the mob.”

Janine frowned. “Excuse me?”

“She could have been a gangster’s moll,” Jules suggested, obviously enthused by the grotesque theory. “Perhaps she was killed because she knew too much, or she might have had gambling debts, so the mob hired a hit man to, ah, off her.”

Smirking, Althea propped an elbow on the table. “You been watching the ‘Untouchables’ again, honey?”

Jules stiffened indignantly.

Janine pinched the bridge of her nose and moaned. The young man’s macabre speculation made her skin crawl, and when the door bell rang, she was relieved to excuse herself from the unpleasant conversation.

Exiting the kitchen, Janine passed through the formal dining room to the small foyer at the base of the staircase. She absently tucked a stray strand of nondescript brown hair behind her ear, smoothed her oversize fleece top, opened the door and felt the breath back up in her throat.

A stranger was lounging lazily against the doorjamb. “I was told you might have a room for rent.”

She took a step back, uncomfortable with the man’s nearness and the disturbing familiarity his casual stance displayed. There was something unnerving about his gaze, a primal stare that made her instantly wary.

But the man had obviously been directed here—the antiquated Victorian manor was separated from town by a wilderness ravine and accessible only by a rickety wooden bridge—and a paying guest was always a welcome sight. Assuming, of course, that a person dressed in worn denims and black leather could afford the price of a room.

As she glanced beyond the porch, however, she noted a dusty beige minivan parked on a grass flat at the end of the rutted gravel road. If the man could afford a vehicle, he probably wasn’t a vagrant.

Managing a strained smile, she finally found her voice. “You were correctly informed, Mr….?”

“Coulliard. Quinn Coulliard.” He regarded her intently, with magnetic eyes the color of polished steel. “Are you the proprietor?”

“Yes. Janine Taylor.” She cleared her throat and offered her hand. His palm was firm, warm and surprisingly soft. After a lingering moment, she withdrew it and clasped her hands together. “What brings you to Darby Ridge, Mr. Coulliard?”

His smile was forced, guarded. “Will my answer affect the availability of a room?”

A familiar heat crawled up her throat. “Of course not. It’s just that we’re so far off the beaten track that we don’t receive many visitors. I was simply curious.”

Without responding, he gazed over her shoulder, and as he scrutinized the spacious foyer, Janine took the opportunity to scrutinize him. The coffee-colored hair tied at his nape extended nearly to his shoulder blades, and although a bulging duffel sat on the porch by his feet, she instantly realized that Quinn Coulliard wasn’t a typical drifter.

The man’s purposeful gaze was tough, a stark contradiction to his surprisingly soft voice and articulate speech. All in all, he exuded a palpable aura of strength, which was unsettling, to say the least.

Suddenly he hoisted the stuffed bag and gazed deep into her eyes. “May I see the room, Miss Taylor?”

Janine hesitated. There was something about the man—and her own breathless reaction to him—that made her uneasy. His gray gaze was hypnotic, seeming to penetrate and probe the darkest recesses of her mind. For one heart-stopping moment, she wondered if he’d somehow entered her thoughts, observing the secret shame that she’d meticulously concealed from the world.

Of course that was impossible.

Mentally reprimanding herself, she shook off the disquieting notion. The man wanted a room, and she desperately needed the money. “Payment is requested in advance, Mr. Coulliard. Would you prefer the daily or weekly rate?”

He smiled and pulled out a tattered cloth wallet. “How much for the week?”

“Seventy-five dollars.”

When the bills were safely tucked in her jeans, she smiled thinly and stepped back to allow him access. “Right this way.”

After closing the door, Janine retrieved a key from a nearby closet, then suppressed her uneasiness and guided the enigmatic stranger upstairs to her last vacant room—the one next to her own.

“Breakfast is served at 7:00 a.m. and dinner is at six,” Janine told him. “There’s no television in the rooms, but a color set in the parlor is available for guest use. You may also use the stereo, although I do ask that the volume be kept down so that the other residents aren’t disturbed.”

Coulliard’s eyes warmed, just a little. “Anything else?”

“There’s a bathroom at the end of each hall.” Janine handed him the key. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

He bounced the key on his palm. “I’m sure I will.”

She licked her lips, nodded curtly, then turned and strode quickly down the hall.

When she reached the stair landing, a stain on the faded carpet caught her eye and she paused to investigate. She rubbed her fingertip over the gritty brown spot, then noticed another muddy smear a few feet from the first.

As she searched for other mud stains, a shrill voice from the kitchen distracted her. Making a mental note to add carpet cleaning to her list of projects, she hurried downstairs to referee the rest of her squabbling tenants.

After closing the door, Quinn examined the interior locking device and was annoyed to discover that the security lock automatically engaged each time the door shut. It was not an easy lock to jimmy. If the other rooms were as well protected as this one, that segment of his mission would be more difficult than he’d hoped.

The security arrangements were an unfortunate surprise. Quinn had counted on the trusting nature of rural residents to make his job easier. Although the Darby Ridge towns-folk had greeted him warmly, cheerfully answering personal questions about their neighbors without suspicion or hesitation, it appeared that his lovely landlady wouldn’t be as obliging.

In spite of a polite demeanor, she’d scrutinized Quinn as though committing his features to memory and the fact that she’d also paid meticulous attention to his vehicle hadn’t escaped his notice, either. He wondered if the woman would be astute enough to check the license number with the Department of Motor Vehicles. That could be a problem.

In fact, Janine Taylor herself could be a problem. The leery woman had watched him as a sparrow might watch a stalking cat, a surprising—and unpleasant—contradiction to the guileless welcome he’d received from her Darby Ridge neighbors. Apparently she wasn’t a native of the area, yet she seemed rather young to have deliberately cloistered herself in such a remote location. Quinn had also noted a peculiar apprehension in those golden brown eyes, a secret fear that he might have found intriguing under other circumstances.

At the moment, however, his speculation wasn’t born of idle curiosity. It was crucial that he understand exactly with whom he was dealing. A mistake in judgment could be fatal.

Dropping his duffel on the tidy bed, he glanced around the sparsely furnished room. A frameless oval mirror was positioned over a plain pine bureau, unadorned except for an ashtray and a thin stack of magazines. A goosenecked floor lamp was positioned beside the dresser and a wobbly wooden chair sat under the room’s only window. There was also a narrow closet containing an extra pillow and a few bent hangers.

After a cursory inspection of the accommodations, Quinn rolled up the yellowing vinyl shade and was pleased to see that the second-story vantage point offered a clear view of the smoldering ruins several blocks away. That was an added bonus.

After reclosing the shade, he extracted a snub-nosed .357 revolver from his duffel, spun the cylinder to check load, then tucked the weapon into his jacket pocket and walked out of the room.

By late afternoon, the sun had broken the fog’s gray grip, and clouds billowed like cotton mushrooms in a field of cornflower blue. The breeze was cool, not chilly, but as she walked the familiar sidewalks of the quiet residential area, Janine paid no attention to the pleasant weather. Instead she clutched the empty canvas tote, stared at cracked concrete and plodded up the hill toward the place where only yesterday Marjorie Barker had tended her roses.

The acrid smell of smoke clung to the air, becoming even more pungent as Janine crested the rise. She didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to see the carnage. Swallowing hard, she focused on the brisk movements of her own sneakered feet and busied her mind by identifying the various weeds that flourished between the sidewalk’s concrete slabs.

Suddenly she jerked to a stop. From the corner of her eye she saw the smoke-stained pickets at the edge of the burned-out property. Hesitantly, she raised her eyes. The sight turned her stomach.

Beyond the fence, thorny stalks stood barren amid the clutter of shriveled blossoms and dead leaves—all that remained of Marjorie’s beloved garden. A brick chimney rose from an elongated heap of charred and blackened debris; everything else had been completely consumed by the raging flames.

Both repulsed and ghoulishly fascinated, she was unable to look away. That scorched skeleton had once been a home, a safe haven that had suddenly and inexplicably turned deadly. The grim scene was a bleak reminder of how fragile life was, how easily destroyed.

As Janine contemplated that sobering thought, a movement beyond the ruins caught her attention. She shaded her eyes and was stunned to see her newest tenant lurking in the shadows beyond the burnt hulk of Marjorie Barker’s house.

Quinn Coulliard emerged from behind a tree not thirty feet away. Apparently unaware of her presence, he walked to the edge of the rubble and bent to examine a charred remnant. After a moment he dropped the object then stared at the cold ashes with an expression of regret and utter despair that touched Janine to the bone.

As she studied the man’s jagged profile, she noted that his features appeared softer, less intimidating than she’d first thought and the subtle slump of his shoulders hinted at an unexpected vulnerability that was oddly appealing.

A breeze swirled through the site, scattering ashes and whipping the few loose hairs that had escaped the binding at his nape. Standing, he absently brushed the long strands from his face, turned into the wind and looked straight at Janine. The grief in his eyes took her breath away.

In less than a heartbeat that intense sadness dissolved into an impassive stare. He nodded an acknowledgment, ducked under the yellow police ribbon haphazardly stretched around the perimeter and sauntered toward the sidewalk. Tucking his hands in his jacket pockets, he gestured toward the fire scene with his head. “How did this happen?”

Janine shrugged weakly. “I don’t know. Since our fire fighters are all volunteers, the investigation team will probably come from Eugene, which is about fifty miles west of here.”

“When is this team expected?”

“I have no idea. Why do you ask?”

“The site is unprotected,” he replied curtly. “When a death is involved, authorities aren’t usually so cavalier about preserving evidence.”

A cold chill skittered down her spine. “How did you know that someone died here?”

“Word gets around, even to newcomers.” His wintry eyes held her captive. “Some say it was arson.”

Although the last comment was issued like an afterthought, Janine was nonplussed by the intensity of his gaze. She moistened her lips, reminding herself that a man so deeply affected by a stranger’s tragedy must be more compassionate than those secretive eyes would indicate. “Small-town gossip tends to be overly dramatic, Mr. Coulliard. The fire was probably started by a spark from the fireplace or an electrical short.”

“It wasn’t.”

“How do you know that?”

Without answering her question, he gazed at the burned rubble. A muscle below his ear twitched. His jaw clenched and beneath his sculpted cheekbones deep hollows suddenly appeared as though the flesh had been gouged away by demonic fingers. Shaded by a thick fringe of darkness, Quinn’s eyes were as cold as frozen ponds and his sharply angled features hardened like a stone mask, revealing a leashed rage that frightened her half to death.

She stumbled backward, her heart pounding wildly.

Suddenly the fearsome expression dissipated and was replaced by one of calm concern. As Janine followed the direction of his gaze, she saw two frightened children cowering behind a tree at the edge of the burned property.

Quinn greeted them softly. “Hello.”

A brown-eyed boy of about nine emerged towing a blond girl who appeared to be a year or two younger. Janine recognized them as Rodney and Sara Drake, who lived a few houses up the block.

The boy nervously returned Quinn’s smile. “Hi.”

After Janine completed the introductions, Quinn squatted down to the children’s level, smiling at the girl who peeked out shyly from behind her brother.

“Sara is a pretty name,” Quinn told her and was rewarded by a happy giggle. He turned his attention to the somber young boy. “I’ll bet you take good care of your sister, don’t you, Rodney?”

The boy nodded. “I have to, ’cause she’s a girl and all.”

An amused twinkle warmed Quinn’s pale eyes and the transformation was stunning. As Janine watched in mute fascination, the man who had terrified her only moments ago now exuded a magnetism that shook her to the soles of her feet.

And she wasn’t the only one affected. Quinn was speaking softly, gesturing toward the burnt house, and both children were listening with a rapt attentiveness that bordered on reverence. “How did you feel last night when you saw the fire?” Quinn asked.

“I was real scared,” Rodney replied quickly, then jammed his hands in his jeans pockets and studied his scuffed sneakers. “Don’t tell my pa, though. He says real men never get scared.”

“Hmm.” Quinn laid a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Well, I certainly would have been scared.”

The boy peeked up uncertainly. “Really?”

“It’s okay to be frightened. Fear is what makes us cautious and gives us the ability to protect ourselves.”

While Rodney considered that, Sara stepped forward with huge eyes. “Miss Barker was real nice. Sometimes she gave me flowers to take to my mommy.” The girl’s tiny lip quivered as a fat tear slid down her cheek. “Do you think she got scared when the fire came?”

“I don’t know, Sara.” Quinn gently touched the child’s face, wiping away her tears with his thumb. “It’s very sad when someone dies, isn’t it?”

The girl hiccuped and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

Quinn smoothed the child’s shiny bangs. “Are you afraid that what happened to Miss Barker might happen to you?”

Sara twisted the hem of her T-shirt and nodded.

“Let’s talk about that,” Quinn said softly, sandwiching the child’s small hand between his own large palms. To Janine’s surprise, the girl responded, blurting out her feelings as though she’d known Quinn Coulliard all her young life.

After encouraging both youngsters to express their feelings, he listened intently then responded softly, calming their fears without mocking them. To Janine it seemed as though he’d actually established a kinetic mind-link with the children, and she couldn’t help comparing Quinn’s perceptive interaction with Charles’s rigid intolerance.

Charles. Even the silent echo of her ex-husband’s name brought exquisite sadness and regret. It seemed a lifetime ago that she’d been deeply in love, looking forward to starting a family with the man who had stolen her heart. During the courtship, Janine had been honest with Charles about her desire for children. In retrospect, however, she realized that he’d never specifically responded to her excited chatter about having a houseful of babies; still, she hadn’t expected that Charles would deliberately deceive her.

But he had deceived her, and the betrayal had been shattering.

A childish voice broke into the sad memories. “We gotta go home,” Rodney was saying. “Ma gets real worried if we’re gone too long. Are we gonna see you again, Mr. Coulliard?”

Quinn stood. “Sure. I’ll be around.”

Smiling, Rodney waved goodbye, then took his sister’s hand and led her up the hill toward their house.

When the youngsters had disappeared from view, Janine tilted her head, regarding Quinn with new respect. “You’re very good with children.”

He shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “I like kids. They haven’t lived long enough to be cynical.”

“Only a confirmed urbanite would be so jaded.” She regarded him curiously. “Obviously you haven’t spent much time outside of the asphalt jungle. Do you have friends here in Darby Ridge?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she forced a teasing smile. “Was that a difficult question?”

He looked at her then, but his eyes were veiled and unreadable. “Will I be evicted unless I can provide local references?”

She flushed, realizing that her probing questions were less than subtle but was unable to quell her mounting curiosity. “Of course not. I just wondered how long you’ve been in town and what brought you here in the first place.”

His gaze never wavered. “I was passing through yesterday afternoon and liked the scenery.”

Janine doubted that. On any map of Oregon’s Cascade Mountains, Darby Ridge was a nondescript dot on a winding broken line and much too secluded to be stumbled across. Besides, despite his transient appearance, the mysterious drifter’s eyes seemed to reflect a higher purpose.

Still, she decided to keep her questions to herself. If Quinn Coulliard wanted to maintain his privacy, she could respect that. After all, Janine had her own sordid secrets.

Squaring her shoulders, she smoothed the canvas tote. “If I don’t get to the grocery store, dinner will consist of packaged macaroni and carrot sticks.”

“That sounds fine.”

She laughed tightly. “Unfortunately the other tenants aren’t as easy to please. Without a three-course meal and appropriate dessert, I’m afraid there would be an ugly revolt.”

“You’re exaggerating, of course.”

“Not at all. The last time dinner was a disappointment, Edna spent the entire meal praying for my salvation, Jules sulked like a thwarted child and Althea cursed my cooking with words that could only be defined by an X-rated dictionary.”

“Well, my new neighbors sound quite colorful.” His eyes gleamed with sudden interest. “Tell me more.”

“Words wouldn’t do them justice. Besides, you’ll meet them all at dinner.” She glanced at her watch and groaned. “Which won’t be served until midnight unless I get to the store.”

“Of course.” Since Quinn was blocking the sidewalk, he took the hint and politely stepped aside. “I’ll see you this evening, then.”

“Yes. This evening.” With a weak smile, she turned away and hurried up the hill.

When she’d disappeared over the rise, Quinn’s smile flattened. He wasn’t the least bit pleased that his lovely landlady had caught him viewing the fire scene. The woman had too many questions, and his evasive answers hadn’t fooled her one bit. He’d seen the curiosity lurking in those soft brown eyes, recognized the skeptical crease of her brow. She didn’t trust him. That was too bad. A curious woman was an annoyance but a suspicious one could jeopardize his mission.

Quinn hoped that Janine Taylor wouldn’t interfere with his plans, but if she did, he’d have to deal with her—and she wouldn’t much care for his methods.

CHAPTER TWO

The memorial service for Marjorie Barker took place on Friday morning, two days after the fire. An overflow crowd packed the tiny chapel while the Reverend Mr. Weems delivered an eloquent if somewhat protracted eulogy. Prayer books were opened. Respects were paid. Amens were spoken. Flowers were laid on a snow-white casket. Finally the congregation spilled into the courtyard, gathered at linen-draped refreshment tables and transformed the solemn occasion into a social event.

Finding shade beneath a flowering jacaranda, Janine alternately fanned herself with the mimeographed remembrance card and sipped sticky sweet punch from a paper cup. After being forced to breathe the repugnant combination of Edna’s overpowering cologne and stale body odor from an anonymous pewmate, Janine decided that fresh air had never smelled quite so wonderful. The service had droned on forever, and she hoped Marjorie would forgive her gratitude that it was finally over.

With a quick glance at her watch, Janine fretted about the chores awaiting her back at the boardinghouse. There hadn’t been time to clean up after breakfast, and if she didn’t tackle the mound of laundry piled in the basement, there would be no clean linens for the weekend.

Although she longed to slip away early, there was a certain decorum to be maintained, and she certainly didn’t want to become fodder for the rumor mill that, if hushed whispers and shocked expressions were any clue, was already in full gear.

Shifting restlessly, she scanned the groups of gossiping matrons and blustering, somber-faced men. Some shook their heads sadly; others touched their throats or covered their mouths in wide-eyed disbelief. Janine didn’t have to hear the muted conversations to know what was being said. Thanks to Jules’s uncanny ability in wheedling information from “informed sources,” she’d heard everything last night at the dinner table.

According to Jules, Marjorie’s body had been found in bed with her hands neatly folded on her chest. Since preliminary investigation revealed that the fire had started in the kitchen, it was presumed that the woman had set a pot on the stove, then dozed off and been overcome by smoke as she slept.

The explanation, although perfectly logical, had been deeply disappointing to Jules, who was still reluctant to relinquish the notion that Marjorie had been the victim of foul play. In fact, he’d been quite annoyed that the Barker family hadn’t permitted an autopsy, and he’d stubbornly insisted that a proper medical examination would have proven his theory that the woman had been murdered by the mob.

At that point Althea had called Jules a disgusting ghoul; he had retaliated by pointedly questioning Althea’s lineage. Edna, having experienced a remarkable recovery from her previously inconsolable grief, had ignored the ruckus and solicitously dished a second helping of pot roast onto Quinn’s plate.

Such unpleasant arguments between tenants were unfortunately all too common, although Janine silently conceded that the presence of her newest boarder had probably prevented the discussion from becoming even more volatile. Not that Quinn had said anything particularly soothing. In fact, he’d spoken very little, evading personal questions with nondescript replies and inspecting his tablemates with his trademark intensity.

The other tenants had nonetheless responded to the newcomer by displaying a restraint that for them was significant. Except for an occasional lapse, Althea’s vocabulary had been uncharacteristically civil, and although Jules had basically ignored Quinn, Edna’s nurturing frenzy had barely fallen short of actually tucking a napkin under the poor man’s chin.

It had been an interesting evening, to say the least.

Dabbing her moist forehead, Janine considered another sip of punch, then discarded the notion, stepped behind the jacaranda and discreetly poured the nauseating beverage at the base of the tree. She patted the bumpy trunk, then glanced up and noticed a couple standing apart from the crowd, apparently engaged in an intense conversation.

Although the woman was facing away from Janine, that brittle, red-gold bouffant was unmistakable. Besides, only Althea Miller would be crass enough to wear a leather miniskirt and cropped midriff top to a funeral.

The inappropriate attire wasn’t particularly surprising but the fact that Althea was attending services for a woman she’d professed to despise was a bit of a jolt, and the man to whom she was speaking seemed inordinately uncomfortable. He was a distinguished gentleman, perhaps in his mid-fifties, and would have been quite attractive but for his pained expression. Althea’s spine was as stiff as a broomstick, a desperate rigidity that was quite uncharacteristic.

Janine watched intently as Althea fumbled in her bag then dabbed at her face with a tissue. The man glanced around as if assuring himself that he couldn’t be overheard before bending forward to issue a terse statement. Instantly Althea’s head drooped and her shoulders quivered. The man said something else, then spun on his heel and strode away.

Extending her hand, Althea called after him—it sounded like “please wait”—but he didn’t respond. In a moment he’d disappeared and Althea stood alone, trembling.

Janine was both stunned and alarmed by the emotional exchange, never having seen Althea so obviously upset. Before she could react, however, Edna hurried over and hustled her distressed neighbor away. After a moment’s hesitation Janine followed and found the two woman conversing softly behind a screen of oleander.

“I hate the bitch,” Althea murmured, ineffectually wiping at the wet mascara smudges under her eyes. “I’m glad she’s dead.”

Clucking softly, Edna took the woman’s hands. “Satan covets the righteous and leads them astray with temptations of the flesh. ‘Every tree which bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.”’ Rolling her eyes upward, Edna added a heartfelt amen.

Althea lifted her chin defiantly and uttered a succinct oath.

The older woman paled three shades. “God forgives your blasphemy, child, as you must forgive Marjorie. She is with her Lord now and has been absolved of sin.”

Janine frowned, completely perplexed by the odd exchange. Barely two days had passed since Edna had become apoplectic at the mere suggestion that Marjorie Barker might have been less than saintly, so this unexpected discussion of sin, temptation and rotten fruit was startling to say the least.

The conversation’s content, however, was none of Janine’s business. Even when motivated by concern, eavesdropping was unacceptable, so she quietly backed away from the peculiar scene, turned around and rammed into a male chest.

Gasping, she whirled around and laid a hand over her racing heart. “You startled me.”

“So sorry,” Jules replied uncontritely. “It was a lovely service, wasn’t it?”

“Uh…yes, lovely,” Janine murmured, still distracted by what she’d just overheard.

“And, I might add, so are you.”

“Hmm?”

“You look lovely this morning.”

“Oh.” She self-consciously smoothed the skirt of her teal print sundress. “Thank you.”

Jules dusted his immaculate suit jacket, palmed his slick hair and flashed a Continental smile. “The bonnet is quite fetching, although it seems a shame to conceal those beautiful mahogany tresses.”

Janine managed to stifle a moan. The quaintly described “bonnet” was a straw sun hat with a ribboned crown, and the “beautiful mahogany tresses” consisted of nothing more than a weedy thatch of dirt brown hair cut into a blunt, Buster Brown bob.

Although she really tried to be tolerant of Jules’s penchant for testing out new personalities, the peculiarity grated on her nerves. Last week, for example, the impressionable young man had watched three John Wayne movies on television, then swaggered through the boardinghouse calling everyone “pilgrim.” Today, however, his exaggerated formality and jauntily tilted chin appeared to be a pitiful parody of David Niven.

Of course, lots of people enjoyed performing impersonations, but with Jules the practice seemed more an eerie transformation than a quirky party trick.

At any rate, she was considering the most expedient way to extract herself from the unwanted conversation when she glanced toward the refreshment table and saw the man to whom Althea had been speaking. Leaning to her right, she peered around Jules’ slender frame, hoping for a better view.

He followed her gaze and frowned. “Who are you looking at?”

“That gray-haired gentleman standing beside the punch bowl.”

“Gregore Pawlovski?”

Janine straightened. “Do you know him?”

“Vaguely.” Disdainfully arching a brow, Jules brushed invisible lint from his lapel. “Althea said that he was once a European diplomat but apparently he retired last year.”

“So he’s a friend of Althea’s?”

“Ah, much more than a friend.” Jules leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “They were doing it.”

Blinking, Janine stepped back. “Doing what?”

“You know.” Jules smirked and offered a sly wink.

Janine frantically fanned herself and stared at the ground. “I see,” she murmured, regretting that she’d ever brought the subject up and quite ready to drop the entire matter.

Jules wasn’t. “Althea was quite mad for Gregore and had actually deluded herself into thinking that he would marry her. Can you believe that?”

Curiosity overcame social propriety, and she couldn’t keep herself from asking what had happened. Leaning forward, Jules spoke in a conspiratorial whisper that gave her the shivers. “Pawlovski and Marjorie Barker were having an affair. It was really quite sordid, and Althea was livid, simply livid.”

Janine was appalled by the lurid accusation. “How on earth could you possibly know that?”

“I have my sources.”

“Well, I don’t believe it. Marjorie Barker was a lovely woman.”

He shrugged. “She was a whore.”

“Jules!”

“Marjorie had sex with lots of men. She wanted to have sex with me, too, but I refused because she was unclean.” His dark eyes glittered strangely, as though pleased to have shocked her, yet when she showed her displeasure by turning away, he seemed genuinely grieved. “Have I offended you?”

She didn’t bother to deny it. “Yes, you have.”

“Naturally, a true lady would be distressed by the discussion of such indelicate matters.” He wrung his slender hands. “You have my word that it will never happen again. Please forgive me.”

Sighing, Janine massaged her throbbing temple. “It’s all right, Jules. Let’s just forget about it.”

“Of course.” He tugged his collar. “Perhaps it would be best not to mention this, uh, unfortunate incident to Grandmère. We wouldn’t want to upset her.”

Without further response, Janine walked away, trying to ignore the sinking sickness in the pit of her stomach. She’d always been aware that Jules was different; now she wondered if he was mentally unstable, because only a very sick person would make up such disgusting lies.

It never occurred to her that he could have been telling the truth.

Althea slammed furiously into her room. She flung her purse into the wall, threw herself across the unmade bed and beat the rumpled pillows with her fists. “Damn him!”

Clutching the bedclothes, she sobbed until the pillow slips were stained with runny mascara and soggy blotches of orange Pan-Cake makeup. Marjorie Barker had gotten just what she deserved, and someday Gregore—the two-timing bastard—would burn in hell along with his cheap whore.

Sniffing, Althea sat on the edge of the mattress and grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the nightstand. She blew her nose and wiped melted makeup from her face, then miserably dropped the wadded tissues on the floor. She stared at her bare knees, riddled by guilt and feeling worthless.

In spite of her crude bravado, she’d been sickened by the fire’s fatal aftermath. The worst part was that the Barker woman had died for nothing. It was a shame, a lousy stinking shame. A wasted tragedy. But there was no sense blubbering about something that was over and done with.

With a final wipe of her wet eyes, Althea went to the closet-door mirror and critically examined her full-length reflection. Sucking in her tummy, she turned sideways and inspected her curvaceous profile. Not bad, she decided. Her boobs didn’t droop, her butt was nice and tight, she could still crack walnuts with her thighs and her legs were to die for. Of course, her waist wasn’t quite as sleek as it used to be, but what the hell. All in all, she wasn’t too damned shabby for a broad pushing the big four-five.

So why didn’t Gregore want her any more?

Biting her lower lip, she tangled her fingers in her brassy hair and fought a renewed surge of tears. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Now that his precious mistress was dead, Gregore should have returned to Althea for comfort. Instead he’d called her filthy names and said that he never wanted to see her again.

The rotten son of a bitch. God, she loved him.

Janine propped the basket of soiled towels against her hip and descended the narrow stairs into the damp cinder-block basement.

The cavernous space served as the manor’s main storage and service area, housing tools, hardware and miscellaneous supplies along with the boiler, water heater and circuit boxes. A raft of fluorescents suspended from ceiling joists slid into the dungeonous blackness but Janine didn’t bother to turn them on. The laundry corner was situated close to the stairway and cheerful shafts of sunlight from two high windows provided adequate illumination for the task at hand.

After dumping the soiled bedclothes, she absently massaged the small of her back and mentally calculated the number of loads represented by the mountainous pile. With any luck, she’d be finished by midnight. Depending, of course, on how long she chose to stand there feeling sorry for herself instead of loading the stupid washer.

After all, the first residents of this magnificent manor scrubbed sheets on a washboard, lugged wet laundry to a sagging clothesline, then crossed their fingers and prayed that a few minutes of sunshine would break through the dreary clime. From that perspective, stuffing linens into a modern machine and pushing a button didn’t seem a particularly daunting task.

Smiling to herself, she dragged a length of rumpled percale from the pile and daydreamed about how life must have been at the turn of the century. There would have been hardships, of course. Still, she liked to imagine the lazy pace of those times and picture a gentle life-style unaffected by the pressures of a modern culture that espoused expectations so unrealistic that disappointment—and failure—was inevitable.

As Janine poured a dollop of detergent into the loaded machine, she considered how she’d have enjoying living in that era. She even liked the fashions, flowing and feminine, with yards of shining fabric swirling over mounds of ruffled petticoats and…

Her hand hovered over the controls. Suddenly uneasy, she glanced toward the unlighted portion of the basement and had the eerie sense that she was being watched. Something didn’t feel quite right. Beyond the bright laundry area, the thickening darkness exuded an aura of charged danger, like the heavy air preceding a summer storm. Her scalp tingled. A fine mesh of gooseflesh tickled her arms.

As she moistened her lips, her nervous gaze landed on the light-switch at the base of the stairs. She flexed her fingers, eyes darting from the switch to the abysmal darkness.

A figure stepped from the shadows.

Gasping, Janine backed into the washer and froze until the silhouette emerged into sunlight. She exhaled all at once and relaxed slightly.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Quinn said quietly. His right arm was sharply angled behind him, half-hidden by the drape of a hip-length khaki vest that seemed an odd complement to faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt.

She waited until her heart had resumed a quasi-normal rhythm. “I didn’t realize there was anyone else here.”

Without responding, he tucked something behind his back, then emerged into the fully lit laundry area, crossed his sculpted arms, propped a slim hip against the clothes dryer and stared in a manner that she would have considered rude had she not been rendered momentarily senseless by his mesmerizing gaze. He had the pale eyes of a snow leopard, cunning and wise, glowing with predatory intent.

Suddenly feeling like a trapped hare, Janine rubbed her upper arms. “Why are you here? In the basement, I mean.”

A vague wariness clouded his eyes while he considered a response. Since Janine had already noted the enigmatic stranger’s tendency to weigh words carefully, the hesitation was expected.

“My van needs washing,” he said finally. “I was looking for a bucket.”

“There’s a stack of five-gallon buckets in the storage area across from the boiler. They’re difficult to find in the dark.” She took two steps and flipped the switch. A half-dozen fluorescents fluttered to life, illuminating the entire basement.

His expression remained impassive. “Thank you.”

Acknowledging him with a jerky nod, Janine was unduly irritated by a nagging feeling that she was the intruder.

That peculiar sensation wasn’t her only source of discomfort. In Quinn Coulliard’s presence, she felt a heightened sense of awareness, an exquisite sensitivity that bordered on pain, as though every nerve in her body was burrowing to the surface.

There was something about him, a renegade quality that was both unnerving and strangely compelling. The wild mane of espresso-colored hair, so tightly bound yet never quite controlled, seemed a silent metaphor for the man himself.

Averting her gaze, Janine turned on the washing machine and feigned interest in sorting the remaining laundry. “There’s liquid detergent in the overhead cupboard and a box of rags if you need them.” She slanted a glance over her shoulder. “I imagine your van gathered a pretty thick layer of road dust during that long trip from California.”

After a long moment, he responded, “Actually, I drove down from Washington.”

“Really?” She straightened, still clutching the hem of a rumpled sheet. “Since your van has a California license plate, I naturally assumed—”

“Assumptions are dangerous.” The softness with which he spoke belied the warning glint in his eye. Then he smiled, a vague tilt at the corner of his mouth that did little to warm his guarded gaze. “I once lived in California.”

“So did I.” Dropping the linens, Janine leaned against the agitating washer and regarded him curiously. “San Diego. And you?”

He stared into her eyes without blinking yet she perceived that his mind was working quickly, analyzing the ramifications of every conceivable response. Finally he slid his hand beneath his vest and hooked a thumb in the waist-band of his jeans. “I’ve spent time in that area.”

The man’s evasiveness was beginning to irritate her. If he was this secretive about something as mundane as mentioning where he was from, he’d probably endure torture rather than reveal the really important stuff, like whether he preferred his coffee black or with cream.

Normally Janine would have respected such an obvious desire for privacy, but for some unfathomable reason, his deliberate attempt to embellish an air of mystery just brought out the devil in her. “So, Mr. Coulliard, may I assume that you and I might once have been neighbors?”

This time he answered with barely a pause. “It’s possible.”

“San Diego is a beautiful city.”

“Yes.”

“Most people fall in love with the place and wouldn’t dream of living anywhere else.” She hesitated, hoping he’d elaborate. He didn’t. She posed a blunt question. “Why did you leave?”

A disturbing gleam warmed his eyes. “For the same reason you did.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. God, how could he know? Her breath backed up in her lungs as she fought to maintain her composure. She told herself that he was just fishing and prayed it was true. There was no way on earth this man could know a secret that had been too shameful to share with her own family.

Clasping her hands together, she faced him squarely. “I doubt we left for the same reason.”

To her surprise, his eyes warmed and he regarded her with something akin to respect. “Not specifically, perhaps, but in spirit.”

She exhaled slowly. “Forgive me, but deciphering ecumenical vagaries has never been my strong suit.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, as though he was faintly amused by her response. “Life is a journey, Miss Taylor, one each of us must travel, physically and spiritually. In that context, we’d be soul mates, wouldn’t we?”

Caught by his penetrating gaze, Janine heard a whispered voice that sounded very much like her own. “Yes, I suppose so.”

Peculiar waves of warmth washed over her, an odd floating sensation that settled like a fluttering bird to nest in her feminine core. In spite of a cultured manner, there was a primitive quality about this mysterious man that awakened an ancient part of her own soul. Like a magnificent warrior, Quinn Coulliard exuded an aura of strength and leashed savagery that was deeply disturbing—and incredibly erotic.

Confused and unnerved, she glanced away long enough to take a deep breath and clear her fuzzy mind. She managed a tight laugh. “Well, regardless of metaphysical consequences, it seems that Darby Ridge is a gathering point for displaced San Diegans. Marjorie Barker once mentioned that she’d owned some kind of business outside of Mission Bay.”

“And your other tenants, are they from Southern California?”

The underlying urgency of his question gave her pause. “I’m not certain.”

His smile wasn’t particularly pleasant. “So of all your guests, only I have been singled out for your intensive interrogation. Should I be concerned or flattered?”

Her face warmed. “It wasn’t my intent to interrogate you, Mr. Coulliard. I was simply making polite conversation.”

A victorious smile played on his lips. “So was I, Miss Taylor.”

Decidedly uncomfortable, Janine fidgeted with the detergent box. He was right, of course. She hadn’t grilled her other guests about their pasts. Quite frankly, she hadn’t been interested, and that realization opened an entirely new area of thought. Obviously she was interested in Quinn Coulliard yet was unsure as to exactly why. She’d have to think about that later.

At the moment, however, she offered a conciliatory smile. “Jules and Edna are originally from Massachusetts, but from what I understand, they most recently lived in Seattle. They’ve been in Darby Ridge a little over a year. As for Althea, she’s lived here longer than any of us.”

“Ah, yes, Ms. Miller. She’s quite an interesting woman.” He absently rubbed his index finger along his angled jawline. “Ms. Fabish and her grandson are also…rather unique.”

Janine straightened and said nothing.

Quinn pursed his lips thoughtfully. “All of your guests are so colorful, I can’t help wondering what has brought them to such a secluded place.”

She forced a nonchalant shrug. “I wouldn’t know. Maybe they’re soul mates, too.”

He regarded her for a moment, then posed a blunt question. “Don’t you find their peculiarities to be unsettling?”

Shifting nervously, she fingered a rusted scratch on the washing-machine lid, remembering the horrible things Jules had said about poor Marjorie and how his eyes had gleamed with perverse pleasure. “No one is perfect, Mr. Coulliard. We have to accept people as they are, not as we’d wish them to be.”

“But if such wishes could be granted, what changes would you make in the people living under your roof?” The moment the question slid from his lips, Quinn knew he’d pushed too hard.

Janine’s shoulders squared stubbornly. She suddenly grabbed the detergent box, shoving it in the overhead cabinet with unnecessary force. “I don’t care for hypothetical questions, Mr. Coulliard, and I make it a point not to discuss my guests’ personal lives.”

One look at the angry spark in those liquid amber eyes and Quinn knew that he had to act quickly or he’d lose the advantage. He took her hand, ignoring her startled expression as he expertly guided the conversation to a more intimate level. “I’m concerned about you, Janine.”

As her eyes widened, she touched her throat in a gesture that could have been interpreted as an expression of shock or vulnerability or both. She managed to stammer a single word. “Why?”

With slow strokes of his thumb, Quinn lightly caressed the back of her hand. “Surely you’ve noticed how Jules looks at you.” The fear in her eyes hit him like a body blow.

She withdrew her hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Surprised by a visceral reaction to her distress, Quinn took a moment to compose himself and scrutinize the woman who had evoked the unexpected response. There was a purity about her, an air of innocence that he found oddly appealing. Hers was a quiet beauty, fresh and natural, her face framed by silky strands of chestnut hair cut in a simple style that complemented her dainty features. She neither used nor needed cosmetic enhancement but her exotic eyes, so delicately tinted with flecks of gold, reflected a vague sadness that he found strangely unsettling.

Quinn looked away, breaking the spell and refocusing his mind on what had to be done. After a moment, he faced her again to gauge her reaction. “Jules appears to be an emotionally fragile young man.” As her perfect complexion faded, he deduced that Janine was well aware of her tenant’s emotional problems.

To her credit, however, she defiantly lifted her chin and met his eyes without blinking. “To make such a denigrating statement about a man you’ve just met is presumptuous to say the least, and unless you have a psychology degree tucked in those ragged jeans, I suggest you keep your pompous opinions to yourself.”

Quinn arched a brow and regarded the gutsy woman with a combination of admiration and renewed wariness. Under ordinary circumstances, he’d have appreciated such chutzpah. These, however, weren’t ordinary circumstances, and at the moment he’d have preferred the exquisite young lady to be less perceptive and more compliant.

To obtain what he needed, Quinn had to establish her trust, and since she could not be easily manipulated, he’d have to open his own life just far enough to gain her empathy and confidence. He hadn’t wanted to do that but she’d left him no choice.

Sighing, he rubbed his forehead. “Actually I do.”

The cryptic statement appeared to knock the breath out of her. “Do what?”

Dropping his hand, he smiled in what he hoped was a modestly endearing manner. “I don’t keep it in my pocket, though. Sheepskin tends to wrinkle.”

She frowned, tilted her head and eyed him skeptically. “You’re a psychologist?”

“I was.”

Folding her arms, she aimed a pointed glance at his unconventional attire, dubious that a ponytailed man in torn denim could have ever held such a position. At least, that was Quinn’s assumption, so her next statement took him by surprise. “I should have guessed,” she murmured. “Especially after watching how you calmed those terrified children. You were wonderful with them.”

Taken aback by such unexpected praise, Quinn covered his discomfort with an impassive shrug. “The children needed to express their fears in order to face them. I just asked the questions.”

“Perhaps, but I recognized something deeper in the way you related to them—an affinity and concern that can’t be taught at a university.” She smiled and a dazzling warmth settled inside Quinn’s chest. “Do you specialize in working with children?”

“No. I had hoped to but…” He hesitated, unwilling to expose such a painful part of his life. A quick glance confirmed her interest. He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I couldn’t afford to open my own practice, and since a depressed economy limited the number of positions available in my area of expertise, I ended up in a state clinic counseling adults with drug and alcohol problems.”

“You didn’t find that fulfilling?”

“At first I did.”

“And something changed that?”

He shrugged. “My patients were only there because treatment had been mandated by the courts.”

“But you still helped them.”

“No, I didn’t. When their probation ended, nearly all of them returned to self-destructive behavior.”

“Oh.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “That wasn’t your fault, you know.”

“Then whose fault was it? My patients were broken people, with lives destroyed by an addiction they were powerless to control. They wanted help—my help—and I failed them.”

A dusty sadness clouded her dark eyes, an exquisite empathy that jolted him to the core. She laid a slender hand on his arm. “So you gave up your career?”

His skin tingled beneath her soft touch. “It seemed a good time to reevaluate my life and my priorities.” After accepting her sympathetic nod, he offered a poignant smile. “Now that I’ve revealed all my innermost secrets, perhaps you’ll return the favor.”

Instantly wary, Janine retrieved her hand and shielded herself with tightly crossed arms. “I have no innermost secrets,” she lied. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Although he returned her thin smile, his eyes were again veiled, unreadable. “In that case, I hope that you can reassure me that I won’t awaken to find one of your guests hovering over me with a boning knife.”

“You are quite safe,” Janine said quickly, believing that assurance in spite of having been undeniably shaken by events of the past days. “It’s just that everyone has been so jittery since the fire. Although frayed nerves have a tendency to exaggerate eccentricities, I can assure you that we’re all quite harmless. Everything will be back to normal in a few days.” She smiled brightly and fervently hoped that was true. “So you see, no innermost secrets there, either. Unless, of course, you consider the house itself.”

Janine winced, wondering what had possessed her to blurt something so foolish. The words had slipped from her lips the moment she’d noticed Quinn glance toward the stairs, as though preparing to leave. For some odd reason, she hadn’t wanted him to go. Now that he was watching her with renewed interest, she felt silly.

“A house with secrets?” An attractive web of laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Should I keep an eye out for ghosts?”

“The place only looks haunted, but it does have a rather colorful history. It, uh, used to be—” she cleared her throat and smiled wanly “—a bawdy house.”

He arched a brow. “Complete with red velvet wallpaper?”

“I, uh…” She coughed away an embarrassed tickle. “I wouldn’t know. This has been a respectable dwelling for over sixty years.”

“And before that?”

“Before that, this lovely old mansion was the highlight of Darby Ridge social life.” She couldn’t help smiling at his bemused expression and found herself relating the ancient gossip with considerable zeal. “Apparently, turn-of-the-century loggers were quite a rowdy bunch, and when the townsfolk finally got tired of the riffraff, they hired a marshal to clean up the town. The rumor is that the marshal took his job seriously, but after months of nightly raids never made a single arrest.”

“Why not?”

“There was never anyone to arrest. The deputies would stake out the place and see dozens of, uh, clients enter, but when the posse stormed inside they found no one except the ladies.”

A gleam of amusement lightened his gaze. “So where did the men go?”

“No one knows for certain, but there was whispered speculation that when the marshal came through the front door, the brothel’s clients escaped through a secret tunnel leading to the ravine behind the house, then forded the little creek and crept quietly back to their homes.”

The amused twinkle faded. “Where is this tunnel?”

“As far as I know, there isn’t one.” Janine was surprised by his serious tone and sudden interest. “The story is just folklore.”

“Folklore is usually based on fact.”

“Perhaps, but over so many decades, facts are frequently embellished to the point of fiction. Besides, I’ve lived here for three years and can assure you that there’s not a hidden door or secret passage in the entire house.”

He considered that for a moment. “You’re probably right. Still, it’s an intriguing story, isn’t it?” He paused. “Well, I’ve held you up long enough. I’ll leave you to your work.”

As he headed toward the stairs, Janine stopped him. “Mr. Coulliard?”

Hesitating on the third step, he glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

She smiled sweetly. “You forgot the bucket.”

CHAPTER THREE

After rubbing cleaning foam into the stained carpet, Janine dropped the sponge into the bucket and decided that it was a losing battle. She sat back on her heels, disgusted. Even if she got the stupid spot out, the carpet would still be ugly. The putrid color reminded her of rotten lettuce and the original sculpted contour had long ago been tromped flat.

Eventually she hoped to scrape together enough money to replace the matted mess—she’d already managed to recarpet all the bedrooms except her own—but until then there was little she could do to keep the upstairs hallway from looking like a moldy meadow.

With a resigned sigh, she protected the wet spots with colorful plastic barrier, gathered the cleaning supplies and hurried downstairs. Since Jules and Edna were doing volunteer work at the church bazaar and Althea’s shift at the diner ended somewhere around midafternoon, there was little time left to complete her Saturday chores before the tenants returned.

As for the mysterious Mr. Coulliard, Janine hadn’t seen him since breakfast. His van was still parked at the edge of the gravel cul-de-sac so she assumed that he hadn’t gone far. But then the man was constantly disappearing and popping up in the most unexpected places. His random schedule was puzzling. None of her business, of course, but definitely odd.

As Janine replaced the cleaning supplies in the sink cupboard, she idly wondered if her newest boarder was a nature lover who enjoyed taking solitary hikes through the surrounding woods. Or perhaps he walked into town and spent long hours warming a bar stool at one of the town pubs.

That was doubtful, though, since he never smelled of alcohol and hadn’t exhibited even the slightest symptom of inebriation. Besides, it seemed unlikely that a man who had once counseled alcoholics would spend his spare time in a bar—assuming, of course, that Quinn had been truthful about his background. That might be a rather large assumption but Janine believed him. At least, she wanted to believe him and at the moment she had no reason not to—except for a nagging intuition continually whispering that Quinn Coulliard wasn’t precisely what he seemed.

Shaking off the disquieting notion, Janine focused on her chores by setting a package of pork chops on the counter to thaw. As she removed the vacuum cleaner from the broom closet, an agitated yowl in the backyard was followed by a peculiar rustling and a hollow wood-on-wood clunking sound. Then there was a horrible, bloodcurdling shriek.

Rushing to the kitchen window, Janine saw the source of the ruckus was a huge black raven perched on a stack of firewood. One of the bird’s massive wings was fully extended; the other slanted down at an awkward angle. A stalking cat circled the woodpile, then flattened into a threatening crouch. The bird screeched, hopped to the edge of the woodpile and tried to intimidate its feline adversary with bristling feathers and a fierce hiss.

The cat was not impressed. As Janine watched in horror, the animal leaped onto the woodpile and tried to bite the bird’s neck. The gutsy raven pecked viciously, forcing the thwarted feline into a temporary withdrawal. Janine feared that in spite of such bravado the injured raven would be hard-pressed to fend off another attack, so she snatched up a flimsy flyswatter and ran out the back door.

An angry male shout greeted her. She jerked to a stop, and glanced around in confusion just as Quinn Coulliard appeared and shooed the frustrated cat away. Then the most extraordinary thing happened. Quinn knelt, extended his hand and spoke softly to the terrified bird. In less than a heartbeat, the raven hopped down from the woodpile and limped toward his rescuer.

Quinn stroked the animal, smoothing the injured wing, then gently gathered up the bird and carried it toward the back porch. When he’d nearly reached the steps, he saw Janine and hesitated.

Awed by what she’d seen, Janine stared at the placid raven nestled in the crook of Quinn’s arm. “How in the world did you do that?”

She hadn’t really expected an explanation and wasn’t surprised when he ignored the question and nodded toward the kitchen door. “Would it be all right to take him inside and tend his wounds?” he asked.

“Of course.” She stepped aside and followed him into the kitchen. “Is there something I can do to help?”

When he glanced over his shoulder, a tingling sensation brushed her spine and she realized that the man’s Svengali effect was not limited to feathered creatures. “His wing is broken,” Quinn told her. “I’ll need something to bandage it.”

“I have some gauze and first-aid tape. Will that do?”

“That would be fine, thank you.”

As he turned away, Janine called out, “The hall carpet is wet. Watch out for the barrier.”

He acknowledged her warning with a nod, then carried the injured bird upstairs while Janine gathered the supplies.

Minutes later, she entered the open doorway of Quinn’s room and saw that he’d placed the raven beside a folded newspaper on top of the dresser. He glanced up and spoke to her reflection in the mirror. “Would you mind closing the door?”

Assuming he was concerned about keeping the bird confined, she complied without comment and laid the first-aid items on the bed. “I brought antiseptic, in case you found any open wounds.”

“Thank you.” As Quinn tossed the newspaper onto the bed, a small scratch pad-size square fluttered to the floor.

Janine started to mention the dropped item, but became completely intrigued watching Quinn’s expert examination of the injured bird. He carefully stretched the twisted wing to its full eighteen-inch span. The animal hissed a warning, parting its impressive beak to reveal a stumpy round tongue, which was as black as its feathers.

With its peculiar yellow eyes darting wildly, the raven tried to back away but Quinn laid a restraining palm on its back. “I know it hurts,” he murmured softly. “Just a few more minutes.” The raven cocked its head and, seeming somewhat mollified by the reassurance, displayed uncanny trust by docilely allowing Quinn to fold the feathered appendage back into place.

Janine rubbed her eyes. This was without a doubt the strangest thing she’d ever seen in her life.

“I could use those bandages now.”

“Hmm?” Janine blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”

He accepted the cloth roll she handed him, gently bound the injured wing to the creature’s body and secured the bandage with surgical tape. Duly impressed by his expertise, Janine peered over his shoulder. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

Quinn used a fingertip to stroke the shiny black head. “When I was a kid, my dad raised pigeons. He let me help.”

“But those were domestic birds.”

“They weren’t built any differently than Edgar.”

She backed away, feeling stupid. “Well, of course not, but I’ve never seen a wild bird that would tolerate human contact…Edgar?”

The raven responded with a shattering screech and flapped its good wing. It cocked its ebony head, fixed Janine with a jonquil stare and emitted an ominous hiss.

Eyeing the raven’s sharp beak, Janine retreated even farther. “Edgar is a fine name, just fine.”

Diverted by his new surroundings, Edgar hopped around the dresser, pecked at the mirror, then turned his attention to the goosenecked lamp a few feet away. With a hop and a flutter, he wrapped his claws around the comfortably curved stem and claimed his new perch with a raucous squawk.

Quinn slid Janine a furtive glance. “He shouldn’t be released until the wing has healed.”

“No, of course not.”

Leaning lazily against the dresser, Quinn regarded her thoughtfully. “Are guests allowed to keep pets?”

“I’ve never thought about it. Actually, the subject of pets has never come up.” She cleared her throat. “Perhaps if we could locate some kind of a cage—”

Edgar screeched a protest.

Frustrated, Janine folded her arms and glared at the bird. “Keep that up and you’ll be headquartered in the basement.”

With a shriek that seemed unnervingly responsive, Edgar pivoted on the perch and turned his back on her.

When she turned her stunned gaze on Quinn, he merely shrugged. “I think you’ve hurt his feelings.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She shook her head and chuckled, willing to go along with the gag. “All right, Edgar. Forget the cage. You can stay in the room but only if you’re quiet, understand? One midnight screech, and you’re outta here.”

On cue, Edgar turned to face her and calmly settled himself on the flexible column.

Sighing, Janine turned to Quinn. “Could you at least spread newspapers under the lamp?”

His eyes crinkled. “Consider it done.”

She fidgeted for a moment. “I should get back to work.”

Straightening, he gathered the remaining first-aid supplies and handed them to her. “Thanks for the help.”

“You’re welcome.” She balanced the loose objects in the crook of her arm, shifted nervously and wondered why she was so hesitant to leave. “Do you need anything else? I mean, birdseed or something?”

He regarded her quizzically. “Do you have any bird-seed?”

She nearly groaned aloud. Of course she didn’t have any birdseed. What on earth was the matter with her, anyway? “Well, no, but I was planning to go to the market later…” The lie caught in her throat. She coughed it away and smiled brightly. “So I could pick some up and anything else you might need.”

After considering that for a moment, he gave her the tolerant smile usually reserved for fools and small children. “Actually I’m going into town myself this afternoon. If you tell me what you need, I’ll save you a trip.”

“That’s very nice of you.” Her cheeks ached. “I’ll make a list.”

She backed awkwardly out of the room, wondering what it was about this man that made her feel like a clumsy adolescent. He was an enigma, unsettling, almost frightening, yet his unique abilities contradicted her own sense of uneasiness. Animals and children instinctively recognized inner kindness. They trusted Quinn; why couldn’t she?

The answer was clear. Quinn Coulliard was a dichotomy—a cultured rebel with the tortured eyes of a person at war with himself. He was also the most fascinating man she’d ever met.

Balancing fresh linens on one arm, Janine used her master key to enter Quinn’s room. To avoid inconveniencing the guests, she tried to schedule routine cleaning while they were away. So after Quinn drove into town—ostensibly for birdseed—Janine took advantage of the perfect opportunity to complete her chores.

As she closed the door behind her, the raven sidled along the curved lamp stem, cocked his head and eyed her suspiciously. She tossed the key onto the dresser and put the linens on a nearby chair. “Hello, Edgar. Are you feeling better?”

Edgar said nothing.

She was oddly disappointed. In his master’s presence, the bird had seemed, well, almost human. That was silly, of course, but Quinn Coulliard had a knack for creating illusions of reality from the most implausible scenarios. Perhaps the man was a mystic. Or a magician.

Or a con artist.

Not that it really mattered. To Janine, he was simply another tenant. Yet as she absently stripped sheets from the mattress, she couldn’t suppress a bit of curious speculation. She wondered if he was married. He wore no wedding ring but that wasn’t necessarily proof that he had no wife. And if there was a woman in his life, what was she like?

Obviously the fortunate woman would have to be very special. Since nothing about Quinn Coulliard was ordinary, Janine couldn’t imagine he would be attracted to someone plain, a woman with—she glanced at the mirror—mousy hair, dull brown eyes, a flat chest and a flabby bum.

Disgusted, she turned away from the mirror, angrily dragged the soiled sheets from the mattress and tossed them in a heap on the floor. The notion that a man like Quinn Coulliard could ever be attracted to her was ludicrous. After all, Janine was well aware of her physical limitations. Once, she had believed herself to be reasonably attractive—a fantasy that Charles had effectively quashed on their honeymoon. Now she no longer deluded herself and reluctantly accepted the sad fact that she had the sex appeal of road kill.

But since Quinn Coulliard had entered her life, Janine had found herself staring into the mirror with an increasing sense of disappointment. Last night she’d actually pushed her drab hair on top of her skull, wondering if a fluffier coiffeur would make her more attractive. She’d caught herself, of course, and had been both embarrassed and depressed by such futile speculation. She was a plain woman. Everyone said so. At least, everyone who mattered.

But there was something in the way Quinn looked at her that didn’t make her feel the least bit plain, and she’d been bothered by strange sensations, an undefinable longing that made her restless and itchy.

Janine was still considering the implications of these odd feelings while she shook out the fresh sheets and absently continued her chore. She tucked in one side of the bed-clothes then rounded the bed and accidentally bumped the goosenecked lamp, sending Edgar into an indignant flurry. Janine whirled and grabbed at the tilting perch. The bird squawked and aimed a painful peck at her wrist.

“Ow!” She yanked back her hand.

Although the weighted base kept the lamp from falling, Edgar continued to screech and frantically flap his good wing.

“Oh, good Lord.” Fearing that the frenzied animal would reinjure itself, Janine attempted to calm the bird by emulating Quinn’s soothing manner.

“There, there,” she cooed.

Edgar cocked his head, beak ajar, and regarded Janine with an expression that could only be described as one of absolute disdain. The bird did seem calmer, though, so Janine was encouraged enough to extend a tentative hand. The creature emitted a raucous shriek and instantly attacked. Before she could so much as gasp, a flapping ball of feathered fury leaped at her face, pecking and screeching.

Folding her arms as a shield against the raven’s needle-sharp beak, she stumbled backward. The bed blocked her way. “Ouch! You stupid bird. Stop it!” She swatted wildly. “Do you hear me? Stop!”

She finally fell onto the bed, then rolled frantically until she fell off and hit the floor with a painful thump. Panting, she rose to her knees and shoved a wad of hair out of her face. The raven gave her a hard look, apparently decided that she posed no further threat to his perch and placidly began to groom himself.

Standing shakily, she blew out a breath. If Quinn wanted the left side of his bed made, he’d damn well have to do it himself. No way was she going to get within pecking distance of that blasted bird again.

She scooped up the soiled linens, piled them in the hallway, then dragged in the vacuum and began cleaning the carpet. The nozzle struck something under the bed. After bending to investigate, she pulled out Quinn’s deflated duffel, tossed it onto the mattress and finished vacuuming the room.

As she was cleaning the base of the dresser, she noticed the white square that had fallen while Quinn was tending the raven’s wounded wing. After retrieving the scrap, she turned it over and took a sharp breath. It was a tattered, finger-smudged photograph of the most stunning woman Janine had ever seen.

The woman in the photograph had sparkling, ice blue eyes shaded by lashes long enough to braid and a sensual mouth puckered into the kiss-me pout favored by models in fashion magazines. As if those endowments weren’t enough, a thick blond mane framed her perfect oval face. The woman was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous.

Janine was so engrossed in studying the image that she didn’t hear the bedroom door open.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

She jumped and whirled around. “I…cleaning.”

Quinn stood in the doorway, taut as a gate spring with his right arm twisted strangely behind his back. After a moment, his hand emerged from beneath the loose khaki vest and he slammed the door. His narrowed gaze swept the room, lingering briefly when he noticed the floppy duffel on the bed, then moving to the oversize key ring on the dresser and finally settling on the photograph clutched in Janine’s rigid fingers.

She moistened her lips and held out the picture. “It was on the floor,” she explained lamely, more annoyed by her own embarrassment than by his accusatory stare. All she’d done was rescue the photo from being sucked into the vacuum yet she felt guilty enough to have been caught snooping through his underwear drawer.

With one more glance at the half-made bed, Quinn crossed the room slowly and, she thought, with forced casualness. When he was close enough that she caught the stimulating scent of pine soap, he reached out, but instead of accepting the proffered picture, he captured her bruised wrist.

Startled, she tried to pull away but he held her firmly, examining the blue welts and bloody scratches scattered across her inner arm.

Perhaps it was his nearness that made Janine’s heart race wildly; perhaps it was the warmth of his strong palm encircling her wrist. The reason didn’t matter. She was aware of him. Acutely aware—of his maleness, of his distinctive scent and of the radiant, almost incandescent energy that seemed to be emanating from every pore in his body.

Her lips parted, allowing more oxygen into her suddenly starved lungs. A prickling sensation from her captive wrist crawled up her arm, teased her nape like a lover’s kiss, then slid down her spine with a violent shiver. Janine would have stepped away, except that her legs felt like lead pillars and her feet seemed to have been soldered to the floor.

Without releasing his grip, Quinn slid the index finger of his free hand delicately over her wounded flesh. “Did the raven do this?” There was an edge to his voice that gave her chills.

“It wasn’t Edgar’s fault,” Janine assured him. “When I was making the bed, I accidentally hit the lamp. He…was upset.”

“Was he?”

Quinn brushed his knuckle over an ugly puncture mark at her elbow and the look in his eyes frightened her half to death. For a brief moment, she had the horrible image of a raven roasting on a spit but she shook off the awful thought, reminding herself that Quinn had rescued the bird in the first place.

Still, this hard-eyed person bore little resemblance to the gentle man who had tended a wounded bird less than two hours earlier. The ominous transformation was unsettling.

Janine gestured weakly toward the half-made bed. “Edgar seems to be rather protective of his perch. He wouldn’t let me finish.”

“I don’t expect you to clean up after me.” To her shock, Quinn brushed his lips across the sensitive flesh of her inner wrist then released her so abruptly that she wondered if she’d imagined the sensual gesture.

Before she could compose herself, he’d plucked the photograph from her hand and stepped away. Without his comforting touch, Janine swayed slightly, and when he turned his back on her, she felt strangely bereft.

He spoke again in a voice that was cool, almost harsh. “In the future, perhaps you’d be good enough to leave the clean linens in the hallway.”

Confused, Janine crossed her arms to quell an annoying tremor. “But I always clean the guest rooms on Saturday.”

He replied without turning. “I don’t require maid service.”

The haughty remark rankled her. “I’m not a maid, Mr. Coulliard. I do, however, provide a courtesy that most of my tenants appreciate. Please understand that I did not intentionally violate the privacy that you quite obviously cherish.”

A heavy silence shrouded the room. Quinn’s shoulder muscles rippled as he crooked one arm. Although Janine’s view was blocked by his body, she thought from the tilt of his head that he was looking down at the photograph.

After what seemed a small eternity, his arm fell to his side. “You’re right. I do value my privacy.” He turned slowly and laid the photograph on top of the bureau, beside the master key. “I didn’t mean to be abrupt.”

“And I didn’t mean to intrude.” Janine’s eyes were drawn to the picture of the smiling blond woman.

Quinn followed her gaze but remained silent.

A small voice in the back of her mind warned against comment. She couldn’t help herself. “The woman is quite lovely. Who is she?”

Suddenly the tension was thick enough to slice. Quinn’s jaw twitched as he stared silently at the picture. Seconds ticked away. He closed his eyes. His chest expanded and held steady, then deflated slowly. Finally he posed an abrupt question. “Why do you want to know?”

A closer examination of his dark expression might have made her reconsider the answer. “I just wondered if she was your wife.”

Quinn turned on her with eyes as black as bruises and lips flat with fury. Before Janine could do more than suck in a startled breath, his hand was at her throat. For one terror-stricken moment, she feared he might strangle her.

Instead his fingers caressed the soft flesh below her jaw, a gesture exquisitely erotic yet undeniably dangerous. “I was under the impression that you don’t intrude into the personal lives of your guests. Have I been misinformed?”

Although her heart was pounding hard enough to break through her ribs, Janine managed to stammer a reply. “Not at all. I—I was, uh, simply curious.”

He slid one fingertip slowly down her throat until it nested at the clavicle juncture. “Curiosity,” he murmured. “Fatal to felines and unhealthy for humans, as well. The woman in the photograph never learned that lesson. But you will, won’t you?”

She shivered as his palm encircled her throat so delicately that it seemed more a lover’s caress than a sinister warning. He wasn’t holding her, not by physical means. All Janine had to do was take a step back and she’d be free of his touch.

But she couldn’t move and didn’t want to. Like a doe in headlights, she was trapped by his penetrating gaze, frozen by his mesmerizing touch. She should be frightened—and she was, in a way—yet the fear was not for her physical safety. The fear was for her soul and for the power this man had over it. Over her.

He bowed his head slightly, bending so close that his hair tickled her cheek and his breath warmed her ear. “Curiosity and carelessness can be a deadly combination. Be more careful about entering a man’s bedroom. You never know what might happen.”

She closed her eyes, praying her rubbery legs would hold for just a few minutes longer. “I—I trust my guests.”

“Trust no one.” His mouth brushed her throbbing temple.

Opening her eyes, she whispered, “Including you?”

His smile was not reassuring. “Especially me.”

Before she could assess that unsettling comment, he stepped away. “Good day, Miss Taylor.” With that, he walked to the window and presented his back.

Janine was so flustered by the brusque dismissal that her shaky limbs threatened to collapse entirely. She grabbed at the dresser to steady herself and her hand grazed the master key. It slid off onto the carpet a few feet from the goose-necked lamp. Feeling dizzy, she cooled her face with her palm, then turned to retrieve the key ring.

The raven lifted himself like an ebony phoenix and screeched a furious warning. Shielding her head, Janine snatched up the key and stumbled quickly out of the room.

When Quinn heard her unsteady footsteps on the stairs, he quietly crossed the room and closed the door. Disgusted with himself, he absently rubbed his aching head. Damn. He’d nearly kissed her. In fact, he’d nearly taken her to bed and she would have allowed it; he knew that even if she didn’t. He’d recognized the passion flaring in those lovely amber eyes, the desire she’d been too naive to conceal.

There was an inner frailty about Janine Taylor that touched something deep inside Quinn, exposed secret thoughts that he hadn’t faced in a long time. He didn’t like that. In fact, he hated it. That doe-eyed woman was going to mess up everything.

Quinn blew out a breath, pulled the revolver out of his waistband and laid the weapon on the dresser. He touched the photograph gently, then slipped it into his vest pocket, turned toward the bed and extracted a large manila envelope from his duffel. A meticulous examination of the taped flap assured him that the seal hadn’t been tampered with. This time.

But he’d definitely been careless. It wouldn’t happen again.

As he glanced around the room, his gaze fell on the raven. He smiled.

Ten minutes later, Edgar sat on the dresser pecking at a bowl of birdseed while Quinn finished prying a piece of flat steel from the bottom of the lamp base. He set aside the Frisbee-sized circle, and was pleased to note that the rounded top of the base was hollow, rather like an inverted hubcap. Satisfied, he carefully taped the manila envelope inside and replaced the flat bottom. When he tried to stand the lamp upright, however, it tilted slightly and the flat piece slid off.

Frustrated, he squatted to inspect the problem and realized that when he’d pried off the round metal, he’d inadvertently broken one of the tabs holding it in place. He sat back on his heels, contemplating the dilemma. If the bottom couldn’t be snapped tight, he’d have to depend solely on the raven’s protective fury to keep intruders at a distance. That wasn’t a perfect solution but it would have to do.

Holding the flat metal in place with his hand, he carefully raised the lamp, then stood to examine his handiwork. When he was certain that no trace of the concealed envelope was exposed, he sat tiredly on the bed.

Although his foray into town had been an informational bust, the afternoon hadn’t been a total waste. At least he now knew what the master key looked like. Unfortunately he didn’t know where Janine kept it. Since she’d taken his room key from the foyer closet, that had been the first place he’d looked. He’d also checked the kitchen drawers, the pantry, every nook and cranny in both the library and parlor. That left only her bedroom and the downstairs office, both of which were secured by those damnable jimmy-proof locks.

Despite Janine’s protestations to the contrary, her trusting nature obviously had limits but he already knew that from the leery way she watched him. He’d encouraged that, of course. He wanted her to be afraid of him, to keep her distance. Every time she’d gotten too close, he’d momentarily lost sight of his priorities. There was something about her…

As Janine’s image floated through his mind, he was instantly aroused. Her delicate fragrance lingered in the humid air, an enticing combination of floral sweetness and musky excitement that made his head spin wildly. His fingertips tingled with the memory of her softness, the way her creamy flesh had pulsed beneath his touch. And those incredible eyes, filled with a guileless passion that probed the core of his manhood until he’d been nearly mad with wanting her.

She was so fragile, so innocent—

Quinn swore and pinched the bridge of his nose. Had he learned nothing from the past? He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the worn photograph. He studied it again. Cynthia had had innocent eyes, too. Her betrayal had taught him the ultimate lesson—and she had paid the ultimate price.

The mattress vibrated as the raven hopped onto the bed and waddled up beside his master. Quinn absently stroked the glossy black feathers, silently pondering the quest that had brought him to Darby Ridge. The end was in sight. Soon, it would all be over. Then the killing could stop.

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