Diane Pershing - Whispers in the Night

The look on her face was relaxed and full of trust. She closed her eyes, and in a moment he could see her even, shallow breathing, indicating that she was asleep.

He pulled up a chair and sat down next to her, watching her as she slept. He felt an odd stirring in the region of his heart, which perfectly complemented the way his gut was churning at his deceit.

He should be rejoicing; he was finally on the informant’s trail. In the next few days, Paul was sure, he’d be able to find him and complete his goal, the one he’d set in motion by coming here to work for Kayla.

What he was thinking about instead was something that gave him no joy whatsoever. He was starting to care about Kayla Thorne. To care about her a lot.

God help him. And her.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

cannot remember a time when she didn’t have her nose buried in a book. As a child, she would cheat the bedtime curfew by snuggling under the covers with her teddy bear, a flashlight and a forbidden (grown-up!) novel. Her mother warned her that she would ruin her eyes, but so far, they still work. Diane has had many careers—singer, actress, film critic, disc jockey, TV writer, to name a few. Currently she divides her time between writing romances and doing voice-overs. (You can hear her as Poison Ivy on the Batman cartoon.) She lives in Los Angeles, and promises she is only slightly affected. Her two children, Morgan Rose and Ben, have just completed college, and Diane looks forward to writing and acting until she expires, or people stop hiring her—whichever comes first. She loves to hear from readers, so please write to her at P.O. Box 67424, Los Angeles, CA 90067 or online at diane@dianepershing.com. You can also visit Diane’s Web site at www.dianepershing.com.

To Tom Gale, social visionary, poet extraordinaire and genial host. Thank you for the lovely week on your porch and the two books that came about as a result. Ain’t serendipity grand?

And to the small but vibrant artists’ colony of Cragsmoor, New York. I borrowed liberally from your history, edifices and geography; I also invented some history, edifices and geography, which is why it’s called fiction. If I offend, I apologize in advance.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Creak.

The noise woke Kayla from a much-needed, dreamless slumber. Her eyes popped open and she sat straight up in bed. The bright red numbers of the bedside clock read 2:30 a.m. For several moments she remained frozen, trying to listen over the pounding of her heart. When nothing more happened, she figured—hoped—it had been her imagination, and slowly, she sank back down into her down-filled pillow, her lids drifting shut.

Cre-e-eak.

There it was again, coming from the porch directly below the bedroom. Not the high-pitched squeaking of the old chains that supported the double swing there, nor the cracking sound of tree limbs swaying in the wind. No, this was definitely creaking, and definitely coming from the porch, which had several loose wooden slats that protested loudly when someone was walking on them.

Like now.

All thoughts of sleep evaporated as fear coursed coldly through her veins.

Oh, God, Kayla thought. Something or someone was on the porch.

Quickly, her mind composed several explanations, none of them good. The likeliest was an animal. Of course, it would have to be a pretty heavy animal to make that noise. What kind of wildlife was up here? Deer? Coyotes? She shuddered. Bears?

She would ask some of her neighbors, although she used the word loosely; there was nobody around for a couple of miles. Maybe she was making a big deal out of the whole thing.

Cree-ee-eak.

Or maybe she wasn’t.

Her heartbeat accelerated. Were the doors locked? Yes, of course. The other times she’d been here at the cabin with Walter, he’d laughed gently at her city-girl fears and told her no one in the little mountain community of Cragsmont bothered locking doors. They all trusted one another. But without having Walter on this visit, she’d been unwilling to be quite so trusting herself. And the noises were getting louder.

What to do? Kayla’s mind raced frantically, keeping time with her pulse. She could hide under the bed. Throughout a nightmarish childhood, she’d discovered that the way to stay out of danger was not to call attention to herself, to avoid becoming a target.

But she didn’t do that anymore. For the past few years, she’d forced herself to meet danger and fearsome challenges head-on and deal with them. Not happily or easily, and not that the inner fear went away—no, she was pretty sure she was one of the most frightened people in the world—but, as best she could, she tried not to let the fear defeat her.

And she wouldn’t let it defeat her now.

Despite the dread, despite her rapid pulse rate, she summoned up reserves of strength. Throwing back the covers, feet dangling over the side of the bed, she ordered her imagination to rid itself of horrific fantasies while she considered her next move.

At that moment, Bailey woke up. The aging, partly deaf, one-eyed Yorkshire terrier began to bark. Not because of the noise below, but because Kayla had dared to disturb his sleep. Not much of a watchdog, old Bailey, but company, at least. The sound of his bark was high-pitched and annoying, and automatically, Kayla tried to shush him. Then she changed her mind. Maybe barking was a good thing; yes, in fact, Bailey’s barking might scare off the intruder.

Whoever or whatever that was.

Licking her suddenly dry mouth and shivering from more than the chilled night air of early autumn, she put on her robe and her ridiculous-looking-but-oh-so-warm bunny slippers, then grabbed the poker from the fireplace in the corner. Ancient wood floors protesting under her feet, she left the shelter of the master bedroom and, scooping up the yipping dog, crept halfway down the stairs.

“Hush,” she whispered to the small animal, briefly covering his snout with her cupped hand. He might frighten off an intruder, but her eardrums couldn’t take much more. Besides, Kayla needed to hear what was happening outside. Bailey, bless him, quieted down, curling his shivering body into a snug little ball. Holding him tightly, she strained her ears.

There was more noise below, only now it came not from the porch, but from the side of the house. There was the sound of rustling leaves, crackling branches, and then a kind of moan-grunt-growl.

Oh, God. Was that how a bear sounded? City girls didn’t know a grunt from a growl from a snarl, or what kind of animal emitted which. Well, one thing was for sure, she was not going outside to check it out. If whatever it was out there wanted her, they’d have to come in and get her, and that was what fireplace pokers were for.

So, still trembling from the icy cold and her jangling nerves, Kayla sat down on the second-from-the-bottom step and peered through the banister rails at the uncurtained windows and beyond. The middle of the night was a very dark time; all she could make out were the tall trees of the forest that surrounded the property and the shadows cast by the full moon.

Full moons and werewolves?

Do not go there, she admonished herself, her teeth chattering as she stifled a nervous giggle. The real world was scary enough without having to bring in the paranormal.

Which she didn’t believe in, anyway…mostly.

Bailey’s whimpering broke off that avenue of thought, and she held the tiny dog more tightly as he buried his face in her armpit. No, not much of a watchdog at all, she mused again ruefully. Poor baby.

Her ears strained to listen for more noises. And they were there—more branches crackling, another growl or grunt, a longer moaning—definitely chilling, but moving farther and farther away.

And then there was silence. Seconds stretched into minutes of absolutely no sound, save for the soft rustling of leaves and a far-off hooting owl.

Kayla’s adrenaline rush of fear receded with the sense of danger. It might return, of course, but for now she felt her body relaxing. Sighing, she reflected that nothing in her life ever went simply, without complications. Even the escape to her late husband’s family cabin, and the hoped-for solitude and peace it offered.

She’d been here for two days, since Friday, and mostly she’d sat on the broad, wood-slatted porch that ran the entire width of the house and stared out at the view: the Catskill Mountains glowing with autumn colors and shifting light. A small valley, with tiny villages nestled among the hillsides. More glorious reds and yellows and oranges. Acres of piercing blue sky above the ridge.

And Kayla hadn’t been happy, not yet. But she’d felt the beginning of healing, at least. Now, if she could just get a good night’s sleep…

Her wish would not be granted on this night, for sure, not with her nocturnal intruder. She was, after all, the only one up here; there was no more Walter to offer shelter and strength. Which brought to mind one fact she had always known: When push came to shove, she was, once again, and always, alone.

Knock, knock, knock. “Miz Thorne?”

Kayla jerked awake with a start, not quite sure where she was. Disoriented, she glanced around at her surroundings. It seemed to be daylight. “What?” she mumbled.

Knock, knock, knock. The repetition caused her to turn her head in the direction of the noise. There were two faces, both male, peering at her through the living room window. She started; her sudden movement woke Bailey up and he began barking again.

“Hush, Bailey,” Kayla said, but the little dog kept it up, so she was forced to resort to “Go fetch Arnold,” the signal for him to hunt for his small rag doll and bring it to her. And to quieten.

As the animal took off, Kayla waved weakly at the newcomers, one of whom she knew, and pointed back where there was a side entrance to the house. Rubbing at her face, she hurried through the living room, into the kitchen, then opened the door.

“Mr. Boland,” she said, nodding, trying to sound awake even though her mouth felt as if someone had injected sour milk into it during the night. Apparently she’d fallen asleep on the stairs, sitting up; her mind felt woozy and her back ached.

“Hank,” the middle-aged, potbellied and balding man corrected her with a smile, one that revealed two gold-capped upper incisors. “None of that ‘mister’ stuff needed.”

“Hank,” Kayla repeated, then added with an answering smile, “Please come in.”

As he walked past her, she shifted her attention to the other man, the one she didn’t know, and who remained outside, a little distance away. The instant she got a good look at him, however, the smile disappeared from her face, and she hissed in an involuntary breath.

Good heavens, he was huge! Fearsome, too. An Incredible Hulk, only better-looking. And not green.

The stranger was several inches over six feet. His dark hair was clipped very short, as if it was growing out after having been shaved off. Olive-colored skin covered a slightly hooked nose, chiseled cheekbones and chin line. His mouth was thin and stern. He reminded her of those early photographs of smileless Native American warriors. His new-looking jeans, scuffed work boots and faded denim jacket over a black T-shirt did nothing to disguise the broad, powerful body beneath. Bodybuilder powerful, a look she’d never cared for.