N. Walters: The Seduction of Shamus O'Rourke

The dim glow from the overhead chandelier didn't help much. It was as if the house preferred to stay in the shadows. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes. From what she could tell, the house hadn't changed at all. She could almost hear the echo of her father's voice, scolding her, taunting her, belittling her.

Opening her eyes, she closed the door behind her. A part of her wanted to run screaming from the place from which she'd escaped all those years ago. The more mature part of her insisted she had to deal with her past if she ever hoped to find some happiness in her future. The house was just stone and wood. It couldn't hurt her. The person who had done that was dead.

Her sneakers made little sound on the hardwood floor as she made her way down the hall. There was a small parlor off to the left, used for more casual meetings with guests. To the right was the larger, more formal living room, complete with fireplace and several huge picture windows.

Shadows crept in through those windows, reminding her that it was getting late. She turned on more lights as she went further down the hall. Her father's office was off to the left, the door shut tight. She didn't bother to open it. A shiver skated over her skin as she passed. She'd deal with that particular room in the light of the day.

The library was next, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves barely visible due to the thick, dark curtains drawn over the tall, thin windows. The formal dining room was on the right, the antique table large enough to seat two dozen comfortably. A heavy, oak sideboard placed against one wall held the china and crystal necessary to set the table. Again, the color was dark. In this room, it was a hunter green.

She hurried past that room and on to the kitchen. It was the one room of the house that didn't bear her father's stamp. He'd probably never set foot in the place his entire life. They'd always had a cook and a maid, and meals were always taken in the formal dining room. Mr. Harris had informed her he'd let the staff go immediately after her father's death.

Cyndi flicked on the light, and her breath caught. This room had obviously been remodeled at some point in the past few years. Gleaming stainless steel appliances waited to be used. Granite countertops seemed to go on forever. Banks of crisp white cupboards filled the space. It would have been a cold room, except that the floors were oak and the walls were a buttery yellow.

She found herself drawn into the room. She didn't even want to contemplate the cost of the granite countertops. The sum would be shocking. She couldn't believe that the floor was hardwood and not tile. But that was her father. He'd want the best money could buy even if he never stepped foot in the place. He would have seen tiles—even slate—as cheap. Reaching out, she stroked her hand over the countertops. The stone seemed almost warm beneath her palm and for the first time, she felt a sense of welcome from the house.

Sighing in pleasure, she made herself move on. She had the entire upstairs to explore. She didn't bother to look in the downstairs powder room, laundry room, pantry, or utility room. Those could wait. Striding quickly, she went back to the main staircase and walked up. Portraits of family members who had long since died, lined the walls. Stern visages seemed to watch her every move as she made her way to the top.

She ignored her father's suite, just off to the right of the stairs, which included a bedroom, sitting room, and full bath. As with his office, she'd deal with it after she'd had a good night's rest. The doors were open to the six guest rooms that graced the top floor. Each room had an attached bathroom. Some just had shower stalls, while others had full baths. Her father often had business associates staying over and, as always, he had an image to upkeep. Only the best would do.

Her room was the first one to the left with the door closed. Her hand shook as she reached out and turned the handle. A musty smell assailed her nostrils, as if the room had been shut up for a long time. She reached for the light switch, illuminating the space where she'd spent most of her childhood and early adulthood.

Cyndi froze as she viewed the scene in front of her, her blood turning to ice. It was exactly the same. Exactly. Nothing had changed from the day she'd fled Jamesville. The dress she'd worn that morning to have breakfast with her father was still lying in a heap on the floor at the end of the bed. Dresser drawers were open from where she'd stuffed a change of clothing into her small knapsack. Her jewelry box was upended on the bed, diamonds, emeralds, and rubies scattered across the carpet. She'd taken the two pieces of her mother's jewelry—a silver locket and a silver bangle given to Cyndi when she was still a very small child—and left everything her father had ever given her. Most of it was ostentatious and not to her taste at all.

Her hand automatically went to her neck and the small silver chain tucked beneath her sweater. She'd bought this for herself after she'd gotten her first job. It was the very first piece of jewelry she'd owned not bought or given to her by her father. The gem on the end of the braided chain was an amethyst set in silver. Her father would have deemed it inappropriate, torn it from her neck, and tossed it into the trash. Then he would have lectured her as he beat her.

Cyndi sucked in a breath and tucked her necklace safely back below her collar. “He can't hurt you anymore,” she whispered, hoping that saying the words aloud would make them feel truer. The man was dead, and she couldn't bring herself to be sorry.

The room seemed to mock her with its pristine white decor. The only color was artful splashes of red, deemed “the latest thing” by the decorator her father had hired to do her room. Cyndi had always hated the room, but she hadn't been consulted. Her opinion hadn't mattered.

She had to get out of here. Her heart was pounding, her breathing was fast and shallow, and she was beginning to feel lightheaded. Turning from the dark reminders of her past, she fled, slamming the door behind her.

Pounding down the stairs, she tore open the front door and raced toward her car. She slid on the slick leaves and tried to catch herself. Her foot twisted and she threw out her hand to break her fall as she felt herself go down. She cried out, hitting the ground hard, and scraping her hand on some twigs and rocks. Breathing heavily, she lay there for a moment and assessed the situation. Nothing seemed broken or permanently damaged. Carefully, she rolled onto her knees, cradling her hand against her chest. It was bleeding, but the cut didn't seem to be too deep.

Pushing herself to her feet, she staggered to her car, her purse bumping against her hip. She yanked the door open and slid into the safe confines of her vehicle. Behind her, the house was lit up like a beacon. All the lights were on downstairs and she could even see the hall light from upstairs. The front door was gaping open.

"Great.” She rested her head against the steering wheel and took a deep breath, then another. Her heart was still racing, but she felt slightly better.

She jumped and struck her head, yelping in pain when her phone suddenly rang. Swearing, she grabbed her purse and rummaged around inside until she found it. “Hello."

"Are you all right?” The voice, no-nonsense and female, came across the line like a comforting caress. “Cyndi?"

"I'm fine, Aunt Verna.” She hesitated, knowing the other woman didn't believe her and would wait until she spilled her guts. “Okay, so I'm not fine."

"Where are you now?” She could hear the concern in her aunt's voice.

"I'm just outside the house.” She bit her bottom lip and stared at the light spilling out the front door. “I've already been inside."