The Raven Master. Diana Whitney
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and fought a renewed surge of tears. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Now that his precious mistress was dead, Gregore should have returned to Althea for comfort. Instead he’d called her filthy names and said that he never wanted to see her again.
The rotten son of a bitch. God, she loved him.
Janine propped the basket of soiled towels against her hip and descended the narrow stairs into the damp cinder-block basement.
The cavernous space served as the manor’s main storage and service area, housing tools, hardware and miscellaneous supplies along with the boiler, water heater and circuit boxes. A raft of fluorescents suspended from ceiling joists slid into the dungeonous blackness but Janine didn’t bother to turn them on. The laundry corner was situated close to the stairway and cheerful shafts of sunlight from two high windows provided adequate illumination for the task at hand.
After dumping the soiled bedclothes, she absently massaged the small of her back and mentally calculated the number of loads represented by the mountainous pile. With any luck, she’d be finished by midnight. Depending, of course, on how long she chose to stand there feeling sorry for herself instead of loading the stupid washer.
After all, the first residents of this magnificent manor scrubbed sheets on a washboard, lugged wet laundry to a sagging clothesline, then crossed their fingers and prayed that a few minutes of sunshine would break through the dreary clime. From that perspective, stuffing linens into a modern machine and pushing a button didn’t seem a particularly daunting task.
Smiling to herself, she dragged a length of rumpled percale from the pile and daydreamed about how life must have been at the turn of the century. There would have been hardships, of course. Still, she liked to imagine the lazy pace of those times and picture a gentle life-style unaffected by the pressures of a modern culture that espoused expectations so unrealistic that disappointment—and failure—was inevitable.
As Janine poured a dollop of detergent into the loaded machine, she considered how she’d have enjoying living in that era. She even liked the fashions, flowing and feminine, with yards of shining fabric swirling over mounds of ruffled petticoats and…
Her hand hovered over the controls. Suddenly uneasy, she glanced toward the unlighted portion of the basement and had the eerie sense that she was being watched. Something didn’t feel quite right. Beyond the bright laundry area, the thickening darkness exuded an aura of charged danger, like the heavy air preceding a summer storm. Her scalp tingled. A fine mesh of gooseflesh tickled her arms.
As she moistened her lips, her nervous gaze landed on the light-switch at the base of the stairs. She flexed her fingers, eyes darting from the switch to the abysmal darkness.
A figure stepped from the shadows.
Gasping, Janine backed into the washer and froze until the silhouette emerged into sunlight. She exhaled all at once and relaxed slightly.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Quinn said quietly. His right arm was sharply angled behind him, half-hidden by the drape of a hip-length khaki vest that seemed an odd complement to faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt.
She waited until her heart had resumed a quasi-normal rhythm. “I didn’t realize there was anyone else here.”
Without responding, he tucked something behind his back, then emerged into the fully lit laundry area, crossed his sculpted arms, propped a slim hip against the clothes dryer and stared in a manner that she would have considered rude had she not been rendered momentarily senseless by his mesmerizing gaze. He had the pale eyes of a snow leopard, cunning and wise, glowing with predatory intent.
Suddenly feeling like a trapped hare, Janine rubbed her upper arms. “Why are you here? In the basement, I mean.”
A vague wariness clouded his eyes while he considered a response. Since Janine had already noted the enigmatic stranger’s tendency to weigh words carefully, the hesitation was expected.
“My van needs washing,” he said finally. “I was looking for a bucket.”
“There’s a stack of five-gallon buckets in the storage area across from the boiler. They’re difficult to find in the dark.” She took two steps and flipped the switch. A half-dozen fluorescents fluttered to life, illuminating the entire basement.
His expression remained impassive. “Thank you.”
Acknowledging him with a jerky nod, Janine was unduly irritated by a nagging feeling that she was the intruder.
That peculiar sensation wasn’t her only source of discomfort. In Quinn Coulliard’s presence, she felt a heightened sense of awareness, an exquisite sensitivity that bordered on pain, as though every nerve in her body was burrowing to the surface.
There was something about him, a renegade quality that was both unnerving and strangely compelling. The wild mane of espresso-colored hair, so tightly bound yet never quite controlled, seemed a silent metaphor for the man himself.
Averting her gaze, Janine turned on the washing machine and feigned interest in sorting the remaining laundry. “There’s liquid detergent in the overhead cupboard and a box of rags if you need them.” She slanted a glance over her shoulder. “I imagine your van gathered a pretty thick layer of road dust during that long trip from California.”
After a long moment, he responded, “Actually, I drove down from Washington.”
“Really?” She straightened, still clutching the hem of a rumpled sheet. “Since your van has a California license plate, I naturally assumed—”
“Assumptions are dangerous.” The softness with which he spoke belied the warning glint in his eye. Then he smiled, a vague tilt at the corner of his mouth that did little to warm his guarded gaze. “I once lived in California.”
“So did I.” Dropping the linens, Janine leaned against the agitating washer and regarded him curiously. “San Diego. And you?”
He stared into her eyes without blinking yet she perceived that his mind was working quickly, analyzing the ramifications of every conceivable response. Finally he slid his hand beneath his vest and hooked a thumb in the waist-band of his jeans. “I’ve spent time in that area.”
The man’s evasiveness was beginning to irritate her. If he was this secretive about something as mundane as mentioning where he was from, he’d probably endure torture rather than reveal the really important stuff, like whether he preferred his coffee black or with cream.
Normally Janine would have respected such an obvious desire for privacy, but for some unfathomable reason, his deliberate attempt to embellish an air of mystery just brought out the devil in her. “So, Mr. Coulliard, may I assume that you and I might once have been neighbors?”
This time he answered with barely a pause. “It’s possible.”
“San Diego is a beautiful city.”
“Yes.”
“Most people fall in love with the place and wouldn’t dream of living anywhere else.” She hesitated, hoping he’d elaborate. He didn’t. She posed a blunt question. “Why did you leave?”
A disturbing gleam warmed his eyes. “For the same reason you did.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. God, how could he know? Her breath backed up in her lungs as she fought to maintain her composure. She told herself that he was just fishing and prayed it was true. There was no way on earth this man could know a secret that had been too shameful to share with her own family.
Clasping her hands together, she faced him squarely. “I doubt we left for the same reason.”
To her surprise, his eyes warmed and he regarded her with something akin to respect. “Not specifically, perhaps, but in spirit.”
She exhaled slowly. “Forgive me, but deciphering ecumenical vagaries has never been my strong suit.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, as though he was faintly amused by her