Jenna Ryan - Darkwood Manor

“The man was a fool with more money than brains. Said he wanted to turn the manor into a spa.” Although he didn’t spit, she sensed he wanted to. “Sweet-talked the geezer who owned it into selling for a song.”

To hide her amusement, Isabella glanced away. Then did a double take and knelt to regard an abstract canvas carelessly propped against a stack of logs. “David’s partner said he paid over nine hundred thousand for the place. Is this a Kandinsky?”

“You’ve got good eyes.” Haden grunted his approval. “No taste in men, though. Nine hundred thousand’s peanuts for a cliffside manor with acreage. Tell her, Donovan.”

“It’s worth more,” his nephew agreed. At Isabella’s upward glance, he chuckled. “That being said, the transaction was legal and probably fair enough, considering the owner just celebrated his ninety-third birthday, has been predeceased by all his heirs and planned to put the place on the market for less than half of what your boyfriend paid.”

“Former boyfriend.” Isabella tipped another canvas forward, stared in disbelief. “You have a Van Gogh?”

“Got a Picasso kicking around somewhere, too.”

“On the floor.”

Haden shot her an aggravated look. “No room for ’em on the walls now, is there. Tell me, Ms. Corrigan-Ross, what are your plans for the house?”

Standing, she dusted off. “To tear it apart piece by cracked plaster piece until I find my cousin. My name’s Isabella. And I think your dinner’s burning, Mr. Black.”

“Haden.” He shook a potholder at her. “Are you one hundred percent sure this cousin of yours didn’t turn tail and run because something scared her?”

“Something as in Aaron Dark’s ghost?”

He set belligerent fists on his hips. “Are you a nonbeliever, then?”

She summoned a placid smile. “My grandparents on both sides are Irish. I have to buy in to some extent.”

“But?” Donovan prompted.

“My father’s father was a hardcore New York businessman. His mother was a city councillor. Ghosts don’t exist in their world, even in theory. So to answer your question, when asked, I tend to take the Fifth.”

“You sound like a politician.”

“You sound like my grandma Corrigan.”

“Woman has sense.” Haden shook the potholder again. “Hang around here long enough, you’ll believe in spooks, spirits, poltergeists and probably Elvis come back from the grave.”

“If you’re saying I’m going to bump into Aaron Black at some point in my search, good. When I do, maybe he’ll help me find Katie.”

“Don’t count on it,” Donovan said behind her. “Aaron Dark wasn’t the helpful sort.”

Prepared for the sexual punch, Isabella faced him. “You know, for a cop, you’re awfully cryptic.”

“He’s a sharpshooter.” Haden headed for the now-smoking oven. “Boy has the best eyes in the business.”

No argument there, she thought. However, it was the Aaron Dark reference that interested her. “The notes David left with his partner spoke of a philanthropic man, active in politics, the business community and the local church.”

“The details of which were neatly set down in the family history.” Donovan’s lips curved. “What wasn’t mentioned anywhere in those notes was that Aaron Dark wrote the bulk of that history. Other, less biased accounts suggest a Jekyll and Hyde personality.”

She smiled. “That would just make for a more colorful story.”

“It would, unless you had dealings with him.”

Curiosity had her studying his expression. That and she couldn’t drag her gaze from his face. “Are you a history buff, then, Donovan?”

He glanced away, smiled a little. “Nothing quite so easy.”

“You just love a good ghost story, huh?”

“A good one, yes. Unfortunately, this story isn’t.” He came closer, kept his eyes locked on hers. “Aaron Dark was a monster, Isabella. He imprisoned his wife at Darkwood Manor. When he discovered she was pregnant with another man’s child, he killed her and threw her body from the cliff behind the house.”

Although something about his demeanor had changed, Isabella couldn’t have said what it was. “Pretty sure none of that was in David’s notes. Was Dark arrested? Hung? Run out of town?”

“He went mad,” Donovan told her. She swore his brown eyes deepened to black. “And to answer your unspoken question, I know that because Aaron Dark’s sister, his sister who many believe went as mad as Aaron, was my ancestor.”

If he’d intended to shock her—and he probably had—the attempt fell flat. Her eyes danced as she curled a finger around the front of his shirt. “Second reminder, pal. Someday I’ll tell you about my ancestor Connell Ross who went on a bloody post-death rampage after his land was gutted by an enemy army that, like every army in the dark days of Ireland’s history, decided to make what was his, theirs. Long story short, anyone who tries to build on Connell’s land is doomed to failure. We all have our skeletons, Donovan. Some are just more recently formed than others.”

Haden was no help. The smug “Told you so” that wafted out of the kitchen made Isabella laugh and Donovan want to say to hell with both of them and return to his life in New York.

He liked living on the edge; he’d lived there for most of his thirty-six years. The way he saw it, if he didn’t explore the dark side of his nature, he’d never know how deep his ancestral tendencies ran. Or so the childhood theory went.

He was spared the necessity of a reply when his uncle marched in with two heaping platters of food and a bottle of wine.

As it turned out, the meat was only slightly charred. A Cordon Bleu chef, Haden set a table bountiful enough to feed half the population of Mystic Harbor. To her credit, recognizable or not, Isabella sampled every dish, and only seemed mildly puzzled by the meat.

“This isn’t rabbit, is it?”

Busy chewing, Haden shook his head, motioned for her to eat and nudged the arugula-and-anchovy salad closer to her plate.

The lights above them flickered. The big man swallowed, stood. “Leave room for dessert,” he warned and clomped out to check the fuse box.

Spearing a piece of meat, Isabella lifted it for a closer inspection. “Why do I think this never had feathers?”

Donovan kept his expression neutral. “It’s squirrel.”

Her eyes came up. “Squirrel,” she repeated. Her fork went down. “As in Rocky the Flying?”

“Or a close relative.” Resting his forearms on the table, he snagged a bottle. “More wine?”

“I fed peanuts to park squirrels when I was growing up.”

“If you can eat Thumper and Chicken Little, Isabella, why a problem with Rocky?”

Still staring, she moved her glass forward. “I was being polite. I prefer not to eat any of them. I’ll be a little more rude next time.” Ignoring the lights that surged and faded overhead, she slid her gaze to his face. “Insanity isn’t an inherited trait, you know.”

He swirled his wine, swallowed a bitter mouthful. “Do you want to tell my mother that, or leave it to the doctors who are treating her?”

“For what?”

“Paranoia mostly, with a little ADHD thrown in on the side. And then there was my grandmother who, depending on which day of the week it happened to be, saw herself as Eleanor Roosevelt, Mary Pickford and, toward the end of her life, Anna McNeill Whistler.”

“Your grandmother thought she was Whistler’s mother?”

“Until the day she died. She wanted to be buried in North Carolina, where Anna was born. During a rare moment of lucidity, my mother denied the request and had her remains interred in the family crypt.”