P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

Walking into the kitchen, she noted that Amanda was already at work, pounding in stakes and marking off quadrants in the garden with red string. Promising herself she’d get the upper hand in the Amanda situation at some point, she made espressos for the movers, then carried a book on home repair and Seavey’s papers—the ones Holt Stilwell had tossed at her the night before—out to the porch, sitting down in the swing where she would be available for questions.

Curious, she flipped through a chapter on tools in the home repair book that included useful pictures and clear explanations, hoping to find a picture of a hand auger. No such luck. Evidently, they weren’t considered a necessary purchase these days.

She was about to flip the book shut and move on to Michael Seavey’s papers when she spied a row of pictures of hammers. There really was a wide range of hammers. Framing hammers looked like they could do serious damage, making them her favorite. She was fairly certain Jase had had her buy one the day before. The hammers with the big, curved claws looked more elegant but equally deadly, which appealed to her aesthetic sensibilities. But the cutest ones were the little ball-peen hammers with their round heads, which Jase had failed to have her purchase. She was puzzling over that when she was interrupted.

“Where do you want this?”

She looked up to find a mover standing on the porch, the mattress to her prized king-size bed bent over his shoulder. He sported a short, spiked black haircut and enough prison tattoos to resemble a mass murderer, but if he could set up her bed and she didn’t have to sleep a third night on the floor, she was willing to worship at his feet. “Upstairs, master bedroom around to the front. The one with the window seat.”

He didn’t move. “You sure? Because I could prop it out in the hallway, you know, until you decide.”

She raised a brow.

“That room has a weird feeling, is all,” he explained. “The boss mentioned a lot of homes in this town are maybe haunted.”

“You don’t say.”

“Well, I couldn’t sleep in there.”

Her gaze narrowed. “It has a window seat.”

He shook his head, his expression indicating he thought she was nuts, then headed inside without another word.

She set aside the home improvement book, picked up Seavey’s papers, removing the string that held them together, and settled in to read.

The Invitation

MICHAEL Seavey was under no illusion that he had ever possessed the virtue of patience. In the more than two decades he’d ruled the waterfront, making a comfortable living off the misfortune of others, he’d never tolerated anyone standing in his way.

Fortunately, he no longer had to handle the disposal himself—he employed loyal enforcers who understood it was their job to use whatever methods were required. If anyone encroached upon his business holdings, they were warned. If they didn’t heed the warning, they quietly disappeared. Michael had long ago gotten in the habit of simply taking what he wanted. Which was why, as he stood in the offices of Longren Shipping, watching Clive Johnson pace, he couldn’t understand his reticence with regard to Hattie Longren.

He’d had other women in his life, of course. In the past, his tastes had run the gamut from young, frightened virgins to older, wiser women who knew not to cross him. Even his late wife, who’d shown a talent for wielding a bullwhip against rebellious sailors, hadn’t had the courage to stand up to him. He’d found her quite amusing until she’d turned that bullwhip on him after he’d discovered her in bed with one of his bodyguards.

He most decidedly didn’t find Hattie Longren amusing, however. Stubborn, enthralling, and exasperating, but definitely not amusing. And at the moment, she held enough power to damage his business holdings, which he had no intention of condoning.

Michael leaned over, striking a match against the pointed toe of his ankle boot. He held the flame to the tip of his cigar, slowly rolling it while drawing to create an even burn. The Cuban crackled and hissed, and he breathed its potent fragrance in deep, taking a moment to appreciate one of the many perks of having access to high-quality smuggled goods: cigars, opium, fine liquor, and willing women. Women far more willing than Hattie.

He felt a rare anger take hold. He simply couldn’t understand why he was giving her any leeway. Or, for that matter, why he’d backed off from the threats he’d planned to deliver during last week’s visit. He must’ve been momentarily disarmed by that business with the dossier Charles had compiled. Michael should’ve found Hattie’s refusal to read the contents hopelessly naïve, yet he’d found himself thinking it was … admirable.

Damnation! The entire affair had him feeling as if he no longer comfortably fit inside his own skin. If he wanted Hattie in his bed, he should simply put her there—he’d never balked before at taking a woman.

She was a widow and, as such, without protection. It would be child’s play to abduct her and keep her at his hotel. He doubted Greeley would care or even bother to look for her. After all, Michael would be doing Greeley a favor, removing Hattie so that he had unimpeded access to young Charlotte.

Clive Johnson continued to pace in front of his desk, trying—and clearly failing—to deal with his impotent fury over Hattie’s visit to the office. If the man weren’t so useful, Michael thought with genuine regret, he would’ve figured out a way to make him disappear long ago.

The business manager was crass and stupid, but unfortunately also good at following orders, which was probably why Charles had kept him around for so long. However, since Charles’s death, Johnson had been running wild, extorting increasingly larger kickbacks from the boardinghouse owners, and when he didn’t get what he wanted, exacting brutal retribution when he didn’t get what he wanted. Though Michael had always run his businesses efficiently, he’d never employed—or admired the application of—senseless violence. If Michael’s enforcers showed up on a man’s doorstep, that man knew why.

“You handled her all wrong, you know,” Michael finally said, keeping his tone mild. “A spirited woman such as Hattie requires more … finesse.”

Johnson halted long enough to glare at him. “If we’re not careful, that bitch’ll take us all down.”

Michael sighed inwardly. He found it tedious to have to explain the obvious, though he supposed there was a certain comfort in knowing that Johnson didn’t have the imagination to double-cross him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about—the worst she’ll do is order you to stop using my services.”

“And if she does, what then?”

Michael shrugged. “We’ll figure out a way to hide the transactions, of course.” He pushed away from the wall and tapped cigar ash into Hattie’s teacup, which Johnson hadn’t bothered to clear from his desk. “I never understood why Charles was so willing to openly document the payoffs.”

“Charles was obsessive about more than his women.” Johnson scowled. “You read the paper. She’s makin’ public statements about the fire, for God’s sake. It won’t be long until she puts that together with the boardin’houses, and makes the connection to Longren Shipping. Once she does that, the trail’ll lead right to us.”

Michael detected a whine in Johnson’s voice. “I warned you to have a care in your dealings with Taylor’s establishment. The loss of one boardinghouse to union sailors wouldn’t have given us any trouble—we could have used the tunnels for the overflow of crews until we found more suitable lodgings. Setting that fire was a grave error in judgment.”