Rebecca York - Phantom Lover

Once more, her skin prickled. She wanted to cling to the dream theory, but she knew that would be dangerous.

Just as it was dangerous to get all wound up with memories of Troy—or to mix them up with the present.

She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to talk herself out of the feeling of intensity he’d created within her. Intensity she’d seldom experienced in her lifetime.

Of course she’d had relationships with other men since her almost affair with Troy. In fact, she’d done her best to forget Troy London and to get serious about someone else. But none of her other boyfriends had seemed like the soul mate she’d wanted for a marriage partner. And she’d known deep down that she was comparing each of them unfavorably to Troy.

She snorted. Talk about carrying a torch! Obviously the man had gotten over her. He’d married not long after that sweet summer encounter. And Helen had said that his wife’s death had devastated him.

Yet tonight he hadn’t come to her like a man still pining for his lost wife. He’d come to her like a lover. And now she struggled to figure out what that encounter meant.

Again she touched her lips, remembering the kisses in the darkness. She was making assumptions about his identity. Could she be sure he was the same man who had held her in his arms seven years ago?

She couldn’t answer that question. Maybe if she’d seen him tonight she would know for sure. But she was forced to rely on her other senses—on the memory of his long-ago kisses and caresses. She’d been a lot younger then. So had Troy. His kisses had been different, less skillful back then. But she could put that down to his lack of maturity and experience. And her own immaturity, too.

Resolutely she reentered the bedroom and switched on the overhead light. Then she turned to the closet. The door was closed, and she hesitated for heartbeats as she stared at the dark wood as if trying to penetrate it with her gaze.

If he was inside, she should clear out. Yet he hadn’t hurt her. He hadn’t demanded anything. He’d only taken as much as she’d wanted to give. And he probably wasn’t anywhere around now.

She recognized all those thoughts as rationalization. Still, before she could stop herself, she grasped the knob, turned it and pulled the door open. The closet was empty—and as dark as she remembered.

She breathed out a small sigh, then kneeled on the floor, felt around in her suitcase and found the flashlight that she’d brought along for emergencies. When her heart rate had calmed a little, she began investigating the closet, shining the light along the walls, over the ceiling and down to the floor, which was made of the same wood boards as in the bedroom. The walls and ceiling were old-fashioned plaster, except for the back of the closet, which was wood paneling. Holding the light in one hand, she shone the beam over the surface. With the other hand, she ran her fingers and palm lightly over the wood, taking care not to pick up any stray splinters in the process. She thought she detected a line where two pieces of paneling came together—which proved nothing more than that the surface had been applied in sections.

Making her hand into a fist, she rapped her knuckles lightly against the wood, first on one side, then on the other, and finally in the middle. The sound seemed different—more solid in the middle and on the right side, more hollow on the left.

Unsure of how to proceed, she tried pressing on various parts of the panel, disappointed when nothing happened. Exasperated, she put down her flashlight and pressed with two hands, trying different random patterns. When she pushed with one hand near the top of the panel and the other near the middle, there was a soft click. In the next second the wall swung inward, revealing a dark, yawning cavern.

She stared into the blackness, automatically wishing the door hadn’t opened. Then, firming her jaw, she picked up the flashlight again and shone it into the opening. A long, dark passage stretched in front of her. The old Bonnie Brennan would probably have shut the door again, gone back to bed and pulled the covers over her head. The old Bonnie Brennan had been passive and timid. The new Bree Brennan knew she had to find out where the passage led because there was no safety in her room as long as someone could sneak in at will.

But the new Bree Brennan was no fool. She wasn’t going to do it dressed in her nightgown. And she wasn’t going to act like the dumb heroine of a Gothic novel. She was going to get her gun.

Digging through her suitcase, she began to pull out the separate parts of the weapon. The barrel was a narrow flashlight. The clip was a waterproof box filled with “medicine capsules.” The stock was a soap dish.

After finding all the components, she sat on the bed and put the gun together.

Carefully she tested her construction skills, then loaded in a clip and got comfortable again with the feel of the weapon in her hand. Before she’d left Baltimore, she’d trained with this pistol on a firing range until she’d felt confident that it would protect her if she needed it.

Turning back to her suitcase, she found a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. After pulling them on, she got out socks and running shoes. When she was better outfitted for exploring, she picked up her gun and the flashlight and faced the tunnel again.

As she played the beam over the walls, she saw that they were made of the same paneling as the back of the closet. The floor, however, was stone.

Spiderwebs blurred the line where the ceiling met the walls, and she braced for musty air. But it had an unexpected freshness, as though there were some access to the outside. When she licked her finger and held it up, she detected a faint breeze.

Some part of her thought it might not be a dumb idea to turn around and go back. At the same time another part of her wondered if she was being compelled to sneak down this tunnel by some outside force. The same force that had held her captive in bed when she’d first awakened.

Just to prove she could, she stopped in her tracks and thought about what she was doing. It made sense that the man who’d come to her room was long gone. But if he’d gotten into her bedroom through this tunnel, she wanted to know what lay at the other end.

“Troy?” she called.

He didn’t answer, and she hadn’t expected him to. Still, calling out to him made her pulse beat faster.

Gun in one hand and flashlight in the other, she moved along the passage, feeling the floor slope slightly downward as she went. She stayed close to the right-hand wall, and about ten feet into the tunnel, the surface changed from paneling to stone.

After about twenty paces, the tunnel curved to the right, abruptly turning a corner so that when she swiveled back, she could no longer see the closet where she’d entered.

If she turned off the flashlight, she knew she would be in total darkness. A jolt of claustrophobia grabbed her by the throat and she had to pause and press her arm against the rough stone. Closing her eyes, she took several deep, steadying breaths. When she felt more in control, she started moving forward again, still counting the paces.

She had taken perhaps ten more steps when disaster struck, overtaking her so suddenly that she had no preparation. One moment she was standing on solid ground, the next, the floor of the tunnel fell out from under her feet.

A scream tore from her throat as she dropped the flashlight and the gun, clawing at the wall with both hands. But there was no way she could stop herself from tumbling into space like a rag doll tossed over the edge of a cliff.

The gun clattered to the stone floor. The flashlight plummeted farther downward, the glass smashing and the light going dark as it hit something solid far below her.