Janice Macdonald - The Man On The Cliff

A car’s yellow hazard lights drew close, fog curling around the lamps like ghostly ballerinas. Out on the footpath, Kate saw two figures. A moment passed, and the smaller of the two broke away and began to run. The tall one followed in swift pursuit, both moving, wraithlike, in and out of the fog. When it cleared again, she saw only the larger figure, motionless, before it, too, disappeared, leaving the footpath as empty as if Kate had imagined the whole thing.

Teeth chattering, she started her car. The tall one had done away with the little one, she decided. He was probably out there somewhere looking for his next victim.

Really panicked now, she let out the clutch. The car shuddered to a halt. Cursing manual transmissions, Kate started the engine again and let it idle. Her hands on the wheel were shaking. Get a grip. There’s no one out there. This is Ireland, not Santa Monica.

Then she looked up to see a man at her window.

Dear Reader,

The Man on the Cliff is set in one of my favorite places in the world, western Ireland. I love the wildness of the Connemara coast, the absolute hush of silence that falls over the countryside and the warmth and hospitality of the people. And, as the Irish say, the craic (Gaelic for a good time) in the pubs is first-rate. I made extensive notes for this book during a vacation in Ireland where we stayed in a converted coast guard cottage in Clifden, County Galway. We also washed down our fair share of Guinness as we listened to the music. I am, incidentally, a huge fan of Irish music and particularly enjoy a ballad singer by the name of Christy Moore, whose lyrics I think are poetry.

Kate Neeson, the heroine of this book, is a California writer who arrives in Ireland to do an investigative piece on a young folk singer who fell to her death from the Connemara cliffs. Kate is cynical and a little world-weary. She doesn’t trust men. When she finds herself falling in love with a man no one trusts, she’s definitely disconcerted. From signposts that point in the wrong direction and hovering mists that make her doubt her eyes, to the secrets and hidden agendas of the villagers, Ireland seems oddly unreal and slightly off-kilter. Before long she’s doing things she wouldn’t dream of doing back in Santa Monica. Personally, I think Kate just fell under Ireland’s spell. As I have myself.

I hope you enjoy the book.

Janice Macdonald

P.S. I enjoy hearing from readers. Please e-mail me through my Web site, www.janicemacdonald.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

IF THERE WAS ANY correlation between bad luck with men and a poor sense of direction, Kate Neeson thought it might explain a whole lot about her life.

She was lost. Again. She turned off the ignition and peered gloomily through the window of the rented Peugeot at the unfamiliar Irish countryside. Isolated cottages, stunted windswept trees and stone walls. Endless stone walls. Around the twists and turns of the road, she’d caught glimpses of pale ocean merging into pale sky. Before the road started climbing again, she’d heard the low roar of waves breaking. On the coast, obviously, but in Ireland that wasn’t much help.

With a sigh, she reached for the map and spread it out over the passenger seat. Cragg’s Head, the village where she’d arranged to meet a local reporter, was barely more than a dot on Connemara’s ragged coast. She’d set up the meeting before she left the States, but had forgotten to ask him for directions. Jet-lagged and cold, she rubbed her eyes. On the map, the area looked like a piece of china, picked up and hurled to the ground in a tantrum.

Moruadh had fallen from Connemara’s steep cliffs nearly a year ago. Kate tucked her hands under her arms, chilled by the damp air seeping into the car. Moruadh, the young Irish folksinger whose songs of love, doomed, lost and unrequited, rang uncomfortably true to life. Or at least to her own life. Moruadh was why Kate was in Ireland, but she didn’t want to think about Moruadh right now. Specifically, she didn’t want to think about Moruadh’s death. Tomorrow would be time enough for that. Tomorrow—after a decent night’s sleep—she wouldn’t be plagued by a spooked feeling that had her glancing over her shoulder and checking door locks.

Tomorrow, she would wear down the widower’s resistance. If Niall Maguire had something to hide, she would ferret it out. Reluctant interview subjects didn’t discourage her.

Unable to stop herself, Kate again glanced over her shoulder, but a drifting fog only heightened the sense of isolation. Did anyone actually live in the west of Ireland? With her palm, she wiped away condensation from the windshield and tried to decide whether to plough on, in the unlikely hope she was headed in the right direction, or turn back to the last village.

Through the swirling air, she saw two figures out on a narrow footpath. She rolled down the passenger window to ask for directions, then changed her mind. Irish advice on such matters, she’d discovered, was picturesque, convoluted and usually wrong.

A car’s yellow hazard lights drew close, fog curling around the lamps like ghostly ballerinas. Out on the footpath, the two figures merged briefly. A moment passed and then the smaller of the two broke away and began to run. The tall one followed in swift pursuit, and both moved wraithlike in and out of the fog. When it cleared again, she saw only a tall, dark silhouette, motionless before it, too, disappeared, leaving the footpath as empty as if she’d imagined the whole thing.

Teeth chattering, she started the car. The tall one had done away with the small one, she decided. He was out there now looking for his next victim. A deranged woman hater. She could feel his eyes boring into her head. Probably deciding whether to drag her out of the car or just roll the car with her in it over the cliffs.

Panicked enough to convince herself that the scenario might not be that far-fetched, she let out the clutch. The car shuddered to a halt. Cursing manual transmissions, she started the engine up again and let it idle for a moment. Her hands on the wheel were shaking. Get a grip. There’s no one out there. This is Ireland not Santa Monica.

And then she looked up to see a man at the window.

She screamed.

His face, like an apparition in the swirling fog, was narrow with dark eyebrows and light gray eyes. For a moment he stood motionless at the open passenger window, evidently immobilized by her scream. Then, hands up at his chest, palms out, he slowly backed away from the window.

“God, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Kate stared at him. Even as the adrenaline rush of fear slowly faded, the scream still rang in her ears. She took some deep breaths. He was probably about her age, mid-thirties, tall and slender. He wore a rough woolen jersey, unraveling slightly at the neck, and an open sheepskin jacket, dark with moisture. A couple of cameras were slung around his neck, a leather gadget bag over one shoulder. A smile flickered tentatively across his face.