The Raven Master. Diana Whitney
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the kitchen, Janine passed through the formal dining room to the small foyer at the base of the staircase. She absently tucked a stray strand of nondescript brown hair behind her ear, smoothed her oversize fleece top, opened the door and felt the breath back up in her throat.
A stranger was lounging lazily against the doorjamb. “I was told you might have a room for rent.”
She took a step back, uncomfortable with the man’s nearness and the disturbing familiarity his casual stance displayed. There was something unnerving about his gaze, a primal stare that made her instantly wary.
But the man had obviously been directed here—the antiquated Victorian manor was separated from town by a wilderness ravine and accessible only by a rickety wooden bridge—and a paying guest was always a welcome sight. Assuming, of course, that a person dressed in worn denims and black leather could afford the price of a room.
As she glanced beyond the porch, however, she noted a dusty beige minivan parked on a grass flat at the end of the rutted gravel road. If the man could afford a vehicle, he probably wasn’t a vagrant.
Managing a strained smile, she finally found her voice. “You were correctly informed, Mr….?”
“Coulliard. Quinn Coulliard.” He regarded her intently, with magnetic eyes the color of polished steel. “Are you the proprietor?”
“Yes. Janine Taylor.” She cleared her throat and offered her hand. His palm was firm, warm and surprisingly soft. After a lingering moment, she withdrew it and clasped her hands together. “What brings you to Darby Ridge, Mr. Coulliard?”
His smile was forced, guarded. “Will my answer affect the availability of a room?”
A familiar heat crawled up her throat. “Of course not. It’s just that we’re so far off the beaten track that we don’t receive many visitors. I was simply curious.”
Without responding, he gazed over her shoulder, and as he scrutinized the spacious foyer, Janine took the opportunity to scrutinize him. The coffee-colored hair tied at his nape extended nearly to his shoulder blades, and although a bulging duffel sat on the porch by his feet, she instantly realized that Quinn Coulliard wasn’t a typical drifter.
The man’s purposeful gaze was tough, a stark contradiction to his surprisingly soft voice and articulate speech. All in all, he exuded a palpable aura of strength, which was unsettling, to say the least.
Suddenly he hoisted the stuffed bag and gazed deep into her eyes. “May I see the room, Miss Taylor?”
Janine hesitated. There was something about the man—and her own breathless reaction to him—that made her uneasy. His gray gaze was hypnotic, seeming to penetrate and probe the darkest recesses of her mind. For one heart-stopping moment, she wondered if he’d somehow entered her thoughts, observing the secret shame that she’d meticulously concealed from the world.
Of course that was impossible.
Mentally reprimanding herself, she shook off the disquieting notion. The man wanted a room, and she desperately needed the money. “Payment is requested in advance, Mr. Coulliard. Would you prefer the daily or weekly rate?”
He smiled and pulled out a tattered cloth wallet. “How much for the week?”
“Seventy-five dollars.”
When the bills were safely tucked in her jeans, she smiled thinly and stepped back to allow him access. “Right this way.”
After closing the door, Janine retrieved a key from a nearby closet, then suppressed her uneasiness and guided the enigmatic stranger upstairs to her last vacant room—the one next to her own.
“Breakfast is served at 7:00 a.m. and dinner is at six,” Janine told him. “There’s no television in the rooms, but a color set in the parlor is available for guest use. You may also use the stereo, although I do ask that the volume be kept down so that the other residents aren’t disturbed.”
Coulliard’s eyes warmed, just a little. “Anything else?”
“There’s a bathroom at the end of each hall.” Janine handed him the key. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”
He bounced the key on his palm. “I’m sure I will.”
She licked her lips, nodded curtly, then turned and strode quickly down the hall.
When she reached the stair landing, a stain on the faded carpet caught her eye and she paused to investigate. She rubbed her fingertip over the gritty brown spot, then noticed another muddy smear a few feet from the first.
As she searched for other mud stains, a shrill voice from the kitchen distracted her. Making a mental note to add carpet cleaning to her list of projects, she hurried downstairs to referee the rest of her squabbling tenants.
After closing the door, Quinn examined the interior locking device and was annoyed to discover that the security lock automatically engaged each time the door shut. It was not an easy lock to jimmy. If the other rooms were as well protected as this one, that segment of his mission would be more difficult than he’d hoped.
The security arrangements were an unfortunate surprise. Quinn had counted on the trusting nature of rural residents to make his job easier. Although the Darby Ridge towns-folk had greeted him warmly, cheerfully answering personal questions about their neighbors without suspicion or hesitation, it appeared that his lovely landlady wouldn’t be as obliging.
In spite of a polite demeanor, she’d scrutinized Quinn as though committing his features to memory and the fact that she’d also paid meticulous attention to his vehicle hadn’t escaped his notice, either. He wondered if the woman would be astute enough to check the license number with the Department of Motor Vehicles. That could be a problem.
In fact, Janine Taylor herself could be a problem. The leery woman had watched him as a sparrow might watch a stalking cat, a surprising—and unpleasant—contradiction to the guileless welcome he’d received from her Darby Ridge neighbors. Apparently she wasn’t a native of the area, yet she seemed rather young to have deliberately cloistered herself in such a remote location. Quinn had also noted a peculiar apprehension in those golden brown eyes, a secret fear that he might have found intriguing under other circumstances.
At the moment, however, his speculation wasn’t born of idle curiosity. It was crucial that he understand exactly with whom he was dealing. A mistake in judgment could be fatal.
Dropping his duffel on the tidy bed, he glanced around the sparsely furnished room. A frameless oval mirror was positioned over a plain pine bureau, unadorned except for an ashtray and a thin stack of magazines. A goosenecked floor lamp was positioned beside the dresser and a wobbly wooden chair sat under the room’s only window. There was also a narrow closet containing an extra pillow and a few bent hangers.
After a cursory inspection of the accommodations, Quinn rolled up the yellowing vinyl shade and was pleased to see that the second-story vantage point offered a clear view of the smoldering ruins several blocks away. That was an added bonus.
After reclosing the shade, he extracted a snub-nosed .357 revolver from his duffel, spun the cylinder to check load, then tucked the weapon into his jacket pocket and walked out of the room.
By late afternoon, the sun had broken the fog’s gray grip, and clouds billowed like cotton mushrooms in a field of cornflower blue. The breeze was cool, not chilly, but as she walked the familiar sidewalks of the quiet residential area, Janine paid no attention to the pleasant weather. Instead she clutched the empty canvas tote, stared at cracked concrete and plodded up the hill toward the place where only yesterday Marjorie Barker had tended her roses.
The acrid smell of smoke clung to the air, becoming even more pungent as Janine crested the rise. She didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to see the carnage. Swallowing hard, she focused on the brisk movements of her own sneakered feet and busied her mind by identifying the various weeds that flourished between the sidewalk’s concrete slabs.
Suddenly