Jenna Ryan - Darkwood Manor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jingling her keys, she turned for her car.

“No assistance to be had, Ms. Ross?”

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

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

“I didn’t take her, Isabella.”

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

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

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

“Possibly a little of both.”

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

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

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

“My stairs, Mr.…”

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

“So you are a cop.”

“Of sorts.”

“Friends with the local sheriff?”

“Good friends.”

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

“I might.”

“All I want—”

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

“Which you won’t do because…?”

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

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

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

“So you eavesdropped through a closed door.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m thinking about it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why me?”

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

“We’re having company?”

“One other person.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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