Jenna Ryan - Darkwood Manor

“Darlene Calvert.” She gestured at the building behind her. “My mother and Donovan’s are tenth or twelfth cousins. Means we’re related, but hey, life sucks on lots of levels. You looking for a room?”

Unsure what to make of her, Isabella offered a cautious “Maybe. Is this your lodge?”

Darlene snorted, struck a match, inhaled.

“It’s her mother’s,” Donovan said.

“Only a masochistic fool would want to rent rooms to the public.” She adopted a whiny tone. “The bed’s too hard, the food’s too cold, the bathroom’s too small. Goldilocks should have been so picky.” She lowered spiky lashes. “So, what’s your line, Isabella?”

“Apparently I’m a masochistic fool.”

“Hotel worker?”

“My family’s in the business.”

“Ross, huh?” A sly smile appeared. “As in the Corrigan-Ross Hotel Group? And now you’re eyeing Darkwood Manor as a destination for supernatural thrill seekers.” She blew a line of smoke. “Sweetie, if that’s your intention, you wanna scuttle it here and now.”

“Why would I do that, Darlene?”

The woman strolled closer, let her gaze travel in the direction of the distant manor. “Because I drove past your recent acquisition this afternoon. Saw a man at the gate.”

“What did he look like?” Isabella asked with care.

“Tall, thirtysomething, dark haired, might have had a ’stache. I stopped for a moment, because—well, because I was curious. I shouldn’t have, though. I could tell, not sure how, that he wanted me to keep moving.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“No, he just glared.”

“And then?”

“Then he started walking toward me. He came through the gate and headed straight for my car. That’s when I took off.”

With Katie missing, Isabella had no time for theatrics. “Did you feel threatened by him?”

“You could say that.” Blowing more smoke, Darlene sliced a hand in front of her. “I said he came through the gate. Thing is, the gate was closed at the time.”

“I’M SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE a ghost walked through a closed gate.” Isabella strode into the partially lit lodge ahead of Donovan. “The ghost glared, Darlene left and, after the shock wore off, went about her usual business.” She stalked back to him. “Is she on meds, or do I just look like someone who believes in the tooth fairy?”

Donovan turned her back around. “You own Darkwood Manor, Isabella. Ghost sightings come with the territory.” Setting his head next to hers, he nodded at a woman in jeans and a plaid shirt who was delivering a round of beer to a group of poker players at one of five tables strewn about the lobby. “That’s George.”

“Of course it is.” But Isabella worked up a pleasant expression when the woman wiped her hands and came to join them.

“Haden called, said you’d be wanting a room.” She pushed at a mop of salt-and-pepper hair, winked at Donovan. “Don’t let these noisy hooligans losing a month’s wages to each other put you off. They pay me for the space, so I let them pick each other’s pockets twice a week. Sorry about the bad light, but the generator’s old. I’ve got a room upstairs or a cabin if you’d prefer. Both come with lanterns. Cabin has a fireplace and a fridge.”

Isabella’s smile had a dangerous edge. “Does it have a ghost as well?”

The woman named George laughed. “Ran into Darlene outside, did you? Now, honey, you forget about her. My girl’s a frustrated journalist is all. Had a job lined up south of here, but lost out to the editor’s niece. She’s back working for our local Realtor and being pissy about it. The cabins are clean, private and ghost free. You can see Darkwood Manor up on the cliff from number three.”

Unable to sustain her irritation in the face of George’s friendly manner, Isabella relaxed. “Your lodge is lovely, and I know all about pissy moods. It’s been a long day.”

George squeezed her wrist. “Why don’t I let Donovan show you the way. If he remembers, that is. Our boy left us right after he graduated high school. Only comes back to visit Haden and me and old Gunnar Crookshank…when the damn fool’s not off recovering from a gunshot wound that wouldn’t have happened if a certain deputy—Orry Lucas—had better aim.”

Orry Lucas? Isabella’s head swung to the tables. And there he was, half-hidden behind a rough beam, out of the main pool of light, the man she’d spoken to in town.

“Evening, Ms. Ross, Donovan. Didn’t know you two were friends.”

Isabella’s lips tipped up. “I’d have mentioned it,” she lied, “but you were so anxious to get home and help your son with his algebra that I didn’t want to hold you up.”

Donovan chuckled. “Algebra, Orry?”

“I was riled. I meant homework.”

“Your kid’s in preschool. How much homework does he have?”

“Any amount’d be over Orry’s head,” a man with a cigar in his mouth chortled. “Truth be told, our deputy was probably worried his wife would bean him for talking to a pretty stranger. She’s a bit jealous, that one. I should know—she’s my niece.”

Isabella regarded Donovan, now perched on one of the empty tables. “Is everyone in this town related?”

“Mostly.” He raised his voice. “Isabella’s cousin’s still missing, Orry. You planning to do anything about that?”

“Adults are free to come and go as they please in these parts. I’ll look into it when the time’s right.”

Assuming he could tell time, Isabella thought, firing up.

Reading her body language, Donovan shook his head. “Let it go. He can make himself an object of ridicule without our help.”

George sniffed. “It’s no more than he deserves. Oh, here’s more beer coming. You think for a minute, honey. Let me know what you’d like.”

Isabella ground her teeth. “A real-life sheriff would be nice.” But she kept her voice low and her eyes on Donovan, who somehow managed to fit in yet be removed from his surroundings at the same time.

“Excuse me, Ms. Ross, Mr. Black.” A man with slippery black hair and a prominent widow’s peak approached them. He wore a white shirt, jeans and loafers, had long, narrow features and looked completely out of place in the New England lodge. “My name’s Robert Drake. Deputy Lucas tells me you’re in the hotel business, Ms. Ross. I built a number of town homes in Brunswick last year. I’m thinking of doing the same thing up here.”

“Did the deputy also happen to mention that the lady’s got herself some prime property?” Donovan asked in an easy tone.

“Property, yes. Prime’s open for debate.” Drake’s mouth smiled; his eyes didn’t. “I can’t say I’d be eager to get mixed up with a ghost, and I’m told you’ve got a nasty one.”

Isabella matched his smile. “I’ll let you know when I meet him.”

He raised his palms. “You’ve got more courage than I do. I’m not a fan of ghosts myself.”

Curious, she thought, since, with his black eyes and pale skin, he resembled one.

The cigar man stabbed a finger across the table. “I’m a fan of anyone human or vapor who’s got money in his pocket. Get your butt over here, Donovan, and take friggin’ Orry’s place, will ya? He antes up once, then folds.”

“Raise the stakes,” Donovan suggested.

Isabella glanced at his profile. She could see what Robert Drake probably couldn’t. The developer was being thoroughly assessed, from slicked-back hair to Gucci loafer.

In a practiced move, Drake produced a card from his shirt pocket. “On the off chance you decide to part with some of your land, here’s my name and number. Far from the haunted manor would be best, but that’s a personal aversion. As a businessman, I try to be open-minded.”