by Dani Wade
One
Sabatini House. Finally.
Willow stared up at the imposing, impressive castle-like residence through the windshield of her car. The thunderstorm raging around it was only appropriate. A structure as mysterious and unique as Sabatini House deserved an atmospheric introduction.
Unfortunately, since the intercom hadn’t worked when she’d stopped at the gates, Willow now had to figure out how to get inside. It took concentrated effort to relax her fingers on the steering wheel.
The rain pounded her little car, at times completely obscuring the view. Willow had been fascinated with Sabatini House for several years, since she’d discovered mention of its owners, the Kingston family, in her great-grandmother’s journals. But they contained very little about its history, which had only whetted her appetite for more.
According to the rare articles she’d found about the house since then, it was said to have been built by a Spanish pirate for his lover. It featured underground caves that allowed the ocean to actually flow underneath the house to create a swimming cove. In her journal, Willow’s great-grandmother had described the cave from her one and only time sneaking into a party in the house, declaring it a truly magical tie between the land and the sea. As a descendant of pirates herself, that would be something her great-grandmother would have appreciated.
From the outside it still looked like a magnificent castle, with turrets and peaks and arched windows. But Willow was dying for a glimpse of the inside. She hadn’t been able to find any photos or documentation in her research. The current reclusive owner had never allowed anyone else inside besides his caretaker, Murdoch Evans, and the occasional trusted workman.
Until today.
Taking a deep breath, Willow pulled her raincoat around her as best she could. There wasn’t any point feeling wimpy about the rain. She needed to get inside. The sooner she settled in, the sooner she could start looking for clues. As much as the house fascinated her, the secrets it held were what truly drew her here. Secrets about the Kingstons, and one fateful night generations ago, that could change her own history forever.
Her umbrella would be useless in the strong winds blowing off the water. On the count of three, she jumped out of her car and ran for the side door where Murdoch had told her to enter.
With Murdoch gone to Florida to visit his daughter after she’d had a baby, there was no one to cook and clean for the current resident of Sabatini House. She and Murdoch had gotten to know each other well in the year she’d been pestering him for information about the house. When he’d known he was leaving for the summer, he’d hired her to come in on her summer break from teaching at the local college to take care of the place.
Hiring on without even meeting her employer hadn’t seemed that odd at the time. Right about now she was second-guessing that choice.
She’d been due to arrive midafternoon today, but the thunderstorm had blown in early. Packing and driving had become a complicated mess. Living in required she take quite a bit with her, even if she’d be going home to visit on Sundays. Loading the car in the rain had left her and her luggage soggy.
The island would normally have been about a forty-five minute drive from the house where she lived with her sisters in Savannah. Instead she’d been struggling with poor visibility and winds rocking the car for a good hour and a half. So she was now arriving after dark with no warning, since the weather had knocked out the power and phone lines on the island, preventing her from letting her new employer know of the delay.
The rain pelted her with angry pellets as she ran. The flashlight in her hand was her only guide. Reaching the small covered porch was a relief, although not much of one. She fumbled for the key Murdoch had given her.
Excitement shimmered in her belly, even as the effort to get inside exhausted her. She was about to walk into Sabatini House…and hopefully discover all of the mysteries it held.
She knocked hard as she inserted the key and turned it, eager to get out of the rain blowing in under the small porch awning overhead. Giving her new boss a heart attack wasn’t on her agenda, but the heavy streaks of lightning splitting the sky didn’t encourage her to linger. Fumbling with the keys, flashlight and doorknob, she finally got herself inside and out of the blowing rain. Conscious of the unlit alarm keypad on the wall to her right, she allowed herself to lean back against the now-closed door for only a brief moment. Her heart raced.
“Hello? Mr. Kingston?” she yelled.
Considering the constant barrage of thunder and rain, the odds of him hearing her were slim unless he was close by. She hated to burst in like this, but what other choice had she had? The lines had been down when she’d tried to call earlier in the evening, and there wasn’t a cell tower close enough to allow them to work out here. Murdoch had warned her about that. The house was huge, and with the power out there were no lights to guide her.
But that uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach told her to find him quickly, announce her presence, and make sure he was safe and sound. The fact that he was out here by himself only woke her curiosity. As she tiptoed through the empty room, she wondered where his family was and why he was all alone, even though that was absolutely none of her business.
“Mr. Kingston? It’s Willow, your new housekeeper.”
Her voice seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness and rain, though the sounds from the storm were muted in this part of the house. The flashlight illuminated the path out of the mudroom where she stood. Thank goodness she’d grabbed a good, sturdy one on her way to the car.
Even inside, the smell of the ocean permeated the air. It mixed with the rain, salty and wet with a slight undertone of some kind of flowers.
She dripped on the tile floor as she made her way through a modernized kitchen, narrow and long like an oversize galley with all the amenities. Murdoch had mentioned the kitchen had been updated about five years ago.
Lightning flashed outside, brightening the entire room through the long row of arched windows along one side. Willow winced, trying to concentrate on her surroundings so she didn’t get spooked. Sweeping the flashlight around, she noticed more arches. Every doorway, every window. Some were outlined in brick. Some plaster. Hopefully cleaning the windows wasn’t her purview, because there seemed to be a lot of them.
Determining that the room was empty, Willow pushed forward through the kitchen and found a wide hallway at the other end. The whole time she called for Mr. Kingston. The darkness, as well as the thought that he had no idea she was in his house, left her with antsy feet and a churning stomach. And she was increasingly uncomfortable not knowing he was okay.
Hopefully he would forgive her intrusion. Murdoch hadn’t said anything about her boss being incapacitated, but in a storm like this anything could happen. A fall. A bad cut. A concussion. All alone, he could lie on the floor injured for hours with no help. He could bleed to death. And there was no way to contact the outside world because the landline was down.
She cautiously made her way down the wide hallway. Everything here was built on a majestic scale. She flicked the beam of light over the various rooms as she went, checking for Mr. Kingston.
Most of the doors were open, some of them revealing empty spaces. Other rooms held furniture covered in sheets. Only a formal living room boasted carefully placed antique furniture, but it still lacked a lived-in look.
If she hadn’t known better, and the kitchen hadn’t appeared to have been recently used, Willow would have suspected the house was unoccupied. Empty of all life. But she knew Mr. Kingston had to be here somewhere.
Her uneasy feeling grew until Willow’s stomach cramped. Yes, the house was huge. Three stories that she knew of, though the turrets suggested more. Still, what more could she do to be heard? The storm seemed to absorb her calls and footsteps.
The hallway finally opened into a large, two-story rotunda-style room centered on an incredible staircase leading upward. The sound of the storm outside now resounded in her ears. The staircase drew her eye as far up as she could see in the darkness. No lights shone on the upper floors, offering no clues as to where her employer might be.
“Mr. Kingston?” she called again, her voice suddenly echoing loudly back from the walls. Guilt snaked through her. Even though she needed him to hear her to answer, it felt wrong to yell in a house that wasn’t her own.
A noise, like something small had fallen, barely reached her across the rotunda. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
No response. Only the sound of the rain beating at the house.
Willow swung the flashlight around in a circle, taking note of the numerous doors leading off this room and on the upper floors. A strong sense of uncertainty crept over her. She had no idea where to look, and no idea which direction to go. With this many rooms, she could look all night and possibly never find this man.
Had she made a mistake coming here so late?
Her excitement at finally being inside the house had now given way to more uncertainty, mixed with rapidly rising fear.
A metallic rattle came from the hallway opposite her, ramping her pulse to high speed. Was that a normal noise for the house? She had no idea. Her light reflected back from the ocean-blue tile outlining the bottom of the plaster walls. She took a tentative step forward, struggling to think logically.
The bedrooms were probably upstairs. She’d start on the second floor. He would most likely be there. If she could just find some light. Surely, given how often the power went out on the islands, he would be well equipped with lanterns.
Or a generator. Though if he’d already gone to bed, he might not have bothered starting it. She couldn’t remember if Murdoch had mentioned one in his instructions.
Her wet tennis shoes squeaked on the tile as she made her way to the bottom of the staircase. Reaching out, she grasped the wooden balustrade. Her light trailed upward, showcasing the stairs’ brilliant blue tiles with a mother-of-pearl glaze. The silver filigree in the blond wooden rail looked delicate but remained firm in her grip. As her light reached the next floor, she caught a shadow move out of the corner of her eye.
Startled, Willow dropped the flashlight from her hand. The clatter echoed through the massive room.
“Hello?” She tried to project her voice, but fear made it tiny. She almost couldn’t hear it herself over the rain and rumble of thunder.
Just as she bent forward for the light, a strong arm snaked around her neck, forcing her back against a hard wall of muscle and heat that she recognized as human…and huge.
The size and strength of her attacker told her it had to be a man, but she was too busy trying not to wet her pants to figure out more than that.
The arm around her neck tightened, almost cutting off her air. Then she felt the man’s face near hers, his breath harsh in her ear. “Want to explain what you’re doing in my house?”
Tate Kingston felt a surge of adrenaline like he hadn’t felt in years.
He’d thought there was a burglar. When he first heard the sounds, he knew they didn’t belong in the house where he’d lived his entire life. His brain had automatically drifted down dark alleys with nefarious characters. Not surprising for a horror fiction author.
Then again, he’d never experienced an intruder in this house. Just to be sure, he’d slowly made his way down the back stairs. Spying what he thought was a young man, he stalked him as he came into the center rotunda. A teenager, he’d thought. Maybe someone who’d been dared to sneak inside Sabatini House, the place of legends.
Instead, Tate found a woman pressed against him in his tight grip.
She came only to the hollow of his throat, even though she had to be taller than average. She froze in fear. Not that he blamed her. He’d be scared stiff, too, if he’d just broken into what he assumed to be an empty house.
Only this one was occupied.
He pressed his forearm down against her collarbone, careful to avoid the more fragile area of her neck. Though his knowledge of this hold was completely cerebral, he wanted to instill simple fear. Not find himself with a lawsuit on his hands.
“I asked you a question,” he said, letting his voice drop even deeper. He carefully emphasized every word. “What are you doing in my house?”
“Your house?” she squeaked, trying to get her words out even though he could tell she was short of breath. From fear? Good. When she walked back out that door, he didn’t want her or her friends to even think about coming back here.
“What are you talking about?” she gasped.
He loosened his hold, giving the impression of leniency even though he had no intention of giving in to whatever she wanted. But if he wanted answers, he needed her to talk. “How about you answer the questions?” he demanded. “Who are you?”
Her sudden lunge forward took him by surprise. He loosened his grip and let her go, not wanting to injure her just to keep her contained. After all, she couldn’t escape. There wasn’t a place in this house he couldn’t find her.
But she went only as far as the stairs, sinking down to grab her flashlight. From her crouch against the railing she let the beam slowly travel up the length of him. “You can’t be Mr. Kingston,” she breathed as the light paused right below his face.
“Clearly I am.”
“No…” That breathless quality distracted him more than he cared to admit. “Mr. Kingston is…um…”
“Is what?”
This time she didn’t answer.
“Look, I don’t care why you’re here. But if you leave right now, I won’t contact the police.”
Behind her flashlight he could barely make out a frown.
“But I’m supposed to be here,” she said.
What? “I don’t think so.”
“I am,” she insisted, her voice quickly firming up. “I’m the new housekeeper.”
For a moment Tate’s very active brain froze. Somehow this scenario had never occurred to him. “Absolutely not.”
Now it was her turn to ask. “Why?”
“You cannot be my new housekeeper.”
Murdoch would not have done that to me.
Tate let his own powerful flashlight travel up her body, till the beam hit her full in the face. His author brain kicked in automatically, narrating the view. Pale, creamy skin. Hair that glinted fire, even in the strong light. And a thin, soaked T-shirt that outlined her curves perfectly beneath an open rain jacket.
She eased to her feet, blinking to adjust her sight. “I am the new housekeeper,” she insisted. “Murdoch hired me.”
“You can’t be. The new housekeeper is a man. Will Harden.”
She slapped her hand on her hip. “Uh, no. It’s me. Willow Harden.”
Damn Murdoch.
“I know I was supposed to be here earlier,” she explained, “but things got pretty complicated with the storm moving in early. The power was out here and I worried, um, that you were okay.”
“As you can see, I’m neither old nor in need of assistance.” Yet. Though some days he felt every one of his thirty-eight years and more. He ignored the discomfort of that thought and continued, “I’m perfectly prepared for the weather. I certainly didn’t need you to break into my house to check on me.”
“I didn’t break in. Murdoch gave me the keys.”
Of course he did. “And the codes?”
“Yes, sir.”
As her voice grew small, Tate recognized that the bully method of questioning wasn’t helping anything. Obviously he’d been fed incorrect information on purpose. Murdoch knew Tate would view a woman as a threat. An unwanted intrusion to a life spent making amends for his mistakes. Deadly mistakes.
Heck, that was probably why Murdoch had done it. He’d been different since finding his daughter again, since deciding to visit her for the first time. But that didn’t mean Tate had to live with his friend’s decisions.
This woman had to go.
They stood there in the dark, flashlights trained on each other like weapons. Tate would have found the situation amusing if he wasn’t faced with the complications she represented. There was no way he could tolerate this intrusion.
“Well, I appreciate your concern, Ms. Harden—”
“Willow.”
“—but I’m well equipped for this kind of thing. If you’re a Savannah native, you know that the power goes out on these islands quite easily. I have lanterns, a portable cookstove, stored water, a generator—everything I need.”
Her light dipped. Tate wondered what she was thinking. Why the hell would Murdoch hire a woman to come in and take care of Sabatini House while he visited his new grandchild? Granted, Tate hadn’t specified gender when they’d discussed Murdoch’s stand-in, but it should have been a given considering his history.
When she didn’t speak further, he figured he needed to spell it out. “Well, Willow, since I’m not what you wanted. And you aren’t what I…”
He caught the lift of one eyebrow. Somehow he could read the warning for him to choose his words carefully. The fact that he understood that unspoken communication, and the earlier joy that had streaked through his body as he’d been pressed against her softness, convinced him she definitely had to go.
Joy was the last thing he deserved…and having her in this house would be nothing more than a temptation.
He continued carefully, “You aren’t what I expected, so I think it would be best if we called this whole thing off. Don’t you?”
He wasn’t certain, but he thought she mumbled Are you sure about that? under her breath. The sound of the rain doubling down outside made it hard to tell.
“Obviously Murdoch made a mistake,” he said.
“Nooo,” she countered, shaking her head. “No, he didn’t. He was very specific in his instructions. And after all this time, he knew I would follow them to the letter.”
Tate tried to squelch his curiosity, but the words slipped out anyway. “How long have you known Murdoch?”
He could see her muscles loosen a little, softening her stance. “We met early last year. He’s such a sweet man, once he lets you get to know him.”
That’s exactly how Tate would describe the man who’d been with him through the last twenty years of self-imposed exile from most of the world. Murdoch had been with him through the death of both his parents, the sale of his first book, but mostly he’d been there for Tate as he dealt with the grief that seemed never-ending. Murdoch had mentioned on more than one occasion that Tate’s lifestyle wasn’t healthy, but that simple opinion wouldn’t change the choices Tate had made.
Couldn’t change them.
Then Murdoch had said he was leaving…and now here Tate was facing the only woman to be in this house since his mother died.
“Look,” she said, taking a step closer. “Murdoch would never forgive me if I walked away after all of the trouble he went through to make sure this place was taken care of while he was gone. Please. Just give me a chance.”
Tate let his eyelids slide shut. The first thing that came to mind weren’t words, as was often the case, but the memory of her body against his. The close heat. The sweet scent. The softness of curves.
Nope. Bad idea. He crossed his arms over his chest, knowing full well his bulk could be intimidating.
Probably reading the rejection in his stance, Willow continued, “Besides, how will you hire someone else? Phone calls. Interviews. How many will it take before you find the right person?”
“No.”
No more intrusion. Anger rose as Tate tried to think, quickly. This woman was way too smart, and well-armed with info. Uneasiness slithered through him as he wondered what else Murdoch might have told her.
But the aggression in his tone didn’t seem to faze her. “Or you could just accept the inevitable,” she continued.
“And that is?”
“Without me, you’re gonna have a ton of people tromping all through this place. From what Murdoch said, that’s not something you would enjoy.”
“Or I could settle for just you?”
He caught her sneaky smile on the outer edge of his flashlight glow. Then she asked, “Besides, have you driven in this stuff recently?” She flicked the flashlight toward one of the massive windows behind him. “I thought I was going to die trying to get here. I have no desire to go back out into this weather.”
“A little melodramatic, aren’t you?” Even he cringed at his condescending tone. Defensiveness didn’t sit well on him.
But on her… The way she stiffened her spine put other attributes on display. Tate tried not to notice.
“Are you kidding me?” she demanded. “You obviously haven’t tried driving a tiny car over that bridge in fifty-mile-an-hour wind gusts. Have you?”
Tate felt himself automatically shut down. No, he hadn’t driven in this kind of weather…not for many, many years. And he never would. Certainly not over the narrow bridge that connected the island to the mainland.
“I made a lot of effort to get here. It’s at least common courtesy to let me try to do the job.”
Tate clenched his jaw, frustration tightening his tone. “If you stay, you won’t find courtesy to be one of my strong points.”
This time she didn’t respond, but adopted a stance that mimicked his own. In that moment, Tate recognized her.
Oh, he’d never met her before, but he’d described her type over and over in his work. She was the embodiment of the heroines he wrote about in his horror stories. Women with grit, determination and smarts who made it out alive when lesser mortals rarely survived.
That tingling awareness he’d been doing his best to ignore multiplied. All the more reason to get her out of here.
A flash of white lit the room as lightning suddenly streaked across the night sky. Tate saw her jaw clench and shoulders straighten as she braced herself. Admirable. It was a little clue that told him a lot about her. Heck, the fact that she’d made it here in the first place in this weather signified a strength and determination some people never displayed in their lifetime.
The flash was followed closely by a hard clap of thunder. The storm was picking up again. But it was just starting for Tate.
Somehow he knew giving in on this point meant he would lose this battle…and lose the war. But she was right. As a long roll of thunder shook the house, he knew he couldn’t send her back out in this weather. His own feelings about her presence aside, he refused to make an impulsive decision that cost someone their life.
Again.
“Let me show you to a room, then.”
Copyright © 2018 by Katherine Worsham