Cassie Miles - In the Manor with the Millionaire



“I’ll bet you never break the rules.”

“I try not to,” she said.

“You use the turn signal even when there aren’t other cars behind you.”

“Yes. And I tip twenty percent, even if the waitress is surly. I don’t cheat on my taxes. Don’t jaywalk. I follow the recipes exactly when I cook,” she admitted.

“No risks. No adventures.”

“I like order.” She took a step towards him. Her voice softened to a whisper that made those solid values resonate with a purely sensual undertone. “I’m not a risk-taker. Sorry if that disappoints you.”

His arm slipped around her slender waist and pulled her snug against him. “Who says I’m disappointed?”

He nuzzled her ear and felt her body respond with a quiver. At this moment, he wanted to give her all the stability her heart desired.

She kissed him with a passion that seemed at odds with her need for order. Messy and wild. And he enjoyed every minute of it. He wanted more.

Breaking away from her, he said, “We should get back to the manor.”

To his bed.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For Cassie Miles, the best part about writing a story set in Eagle County near the Vail ski area is the ready-made excuse to head into the mountains for research. Though the winter snows are great for skiing, her favourite season is autumn when the aspens turn gold.

The rest of the time, Cassie lives in Denver where she takes urban hikes around Cheesman Park, reads a ton and critiques often. Her current plans include a Vespa and a road trip, despite eye- rolling objections from her adult children.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Blake Monroe– This world-famous architect has been hired to oversee the renovations of Beacon Manor and the lighthouse. A widower, he still mourns the death of his wife, Kathleen.

Madeline Douglas– A proper schoolteacher from Boston, she’s hired to be the live-in tutor for Blake’s son. She comes to Raven’s Cliff with secrets of her own.

Duncan Monroe– Blake’s six-year-old son has been diagnosed with high-functioning autism.

Alma Eisen– The Beacon Manor housekeeper was once a foster mother for Madeline.

Dr Teddy Fisher– The Beacon Manor owner whose scientific experiments might have caused an epidemic.

Helen Fisher– A librarian, this old maid resents the wealth of her brother, Teddy.

Perry Wells– Mayor of Raven’s Cliff who lost his daughter on her wedding day.

Beatrice Wells– The Mayor’s wife.

Grant Bridges– The ambitious Assistant District Attorney also coaches the local T-ball team.

Detective Andrei Lagios– Homicide investigator.

Sofia Lagios– Sister of Andrei, recently murdered by the Seaside Strangler.

Detective Joe Curtis– Newly transferred from the LAPD, he works with Lagios.

Alex Gibson– A local fisherman.

Marty Todd– Madeline’s ne’er-do-well brother.

Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Lee Carr, the world’s greatest gothic writer.

And, as always, to Rick.

Chapter One

“One, two, three…” Duncan Monroe counted the steps as he climbed the stairs, not touching the banister or the wall. “…four, five, six.”

That was how old he was. Six years old.

“Seven, eight, nine.”

Here was where the staircase made a corner, and he could see to the top. Daddy had turned on the light in his bedroom, but there were shadows. Dark, scary shadows. Outside the rain came down and rattled against the windows.

Duncan shivered. Even though this was the middle of summertime, he felt cold on the inside. So cold it made his tummy hurt. Sometimes, when he touched people or things, he got creepy feelings like spider legs running up and down his arms. And he saw stuff. Bad stuff.

But he wasn’t touching anything. His feet were in sneakers. He had on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He shouldn’t be scared.

“Duncan.” His dad called to him. “Are you getting ready for bed?”

“No.” He hadn’t meant to yell. His voice was too loud. He covered his open mouth with both hands. His fingers pushed hard, holding back an even louder yell. His skin tasted like salt. Usually he wore gloves to keep from feeling things.

“Duncan, are you all right?”

His dad hated when Duncan was inappropriate. That’s what his teacher used to call it. Inappropriate behavior . The doctors had other words for him. Trauma . Autism . Hyper-something . They all meant the same thing. He was a freak.

He yanked his hands down to his sides. “I’m okay.”

“Get into your pajamas, buddy. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The shadow at the top of the stairs was as big as a T-Rex with giant, pointy teeth. Duncan wasn’t going there. He turned around on the stairs and quietly counted backward. “Nine, eight, seven…”

He was at the front door of the big house they had just moved into. Though he didn’t like touching doorknobs, he grabbed it and pulled.

Outside, the rain wasn’t too bad. Big, fat drops splashed on the flat stones leading up to the front door. He stuck out his hand to catch them.

He walked out into it. Five steps. Then ten.

The light by the front door didn’t reach very far into the dark. The thunder went boom. He heard the ocean smashing on the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.

He turned around and stared at the big house. On the first floor were four windows and one door, exactly in the middle. Five windows, all exactly the same size, on top. All exactly balanced. He liked that. What he didn’t like was the big, old, wrecked-up tower that Daddy said used to be a lighthouse.

He looked toward it and saw a girl in a long dress and a red cape. She skipped toward the trees in the forest.

She giggled. Not the kind of mean laugh that kids used when they pointed at his gloves and called him Dunk the Skunk. She waved to him as though she wanted to play.

He heard her singing. “She sells seashells by the seashore.”

MADELINE DOUGLAS gripped the steering wheel with both hands and squinted through her glasses at the narrow road winding through the thick Maine forest. Her headlights barely penetrated the rain and fog that had turned the summer night into a dense black shroud.

She opened her window to disperse the condensation on her windshield; the defroster in her ancient Volkswagen station wagon had quit working. This cranky old rattletrap always chose the worst possible moment to be temperamental. If the skies had been clear—the way normal weather in July ought to be—the defrost would have been fine.

How much farther? The man at the service station in Raven’s Cliff where she’d spent her last ten bucks on gas told her that this road led to Beacon Manor. “Can’t miss it,” he’d said.