The Montoros Affair. Charlene Sands
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might be even too terrible for one of his books.
Despite the distance and the downpour, he could see the full delineation of her breasts, the tautness of her nipples. He could also see that she wore bikini briefs beneath her leggings. Not much of a pair, he thought, his mouth going dry as she stretched to reach for something from deep inside the van.
Out came a plastic pail loaded with what he figured were cleaning products, followed by a mop. The head of the mop got stuck on something and she had to jerk it free. That sent her ponytail swinging across her shoulders; several shades of blond, it made him wonder about the color of her eyes. When he’d first seen her, he’d guessed aquamarine blue, pale and aloof like the business suit she’d been wearing. Now he wondered if they weren’t the vibrant green of the lush shrubbery she momentarily disappeared behind. By the time she reappeared, hurrying along the sidewalk and up the stone steps to the porch, he decided that whatever color they were, she looked and moved like money. Some women were gifted that way, born with an indefinable quality, an aura of elegance, even when dressed in something someone else might use as a polishing cloth.
All the more reason to resent her arrival.
What had possessed her to move into that relic next door? The question so agitated him that he wanted to rip down the drapes and shout at her through the screen. The old-fashioned house was all wrong, totally out of character for someone like her—and didn’t she read the papers? Listen to rumors? Was she that naive to think living away from town, down a dead-end street, would protect her from what was going on? She must be, otherwise she would have realized how, instead, she’d placed herself in the path of danger. No, directly at hell’s doorway.
Her laugh, spontaneous and breathless as she dropped everything and shook rain from her hair, cut off his brooding and had him shifting to peer through the slight part between the draperies. He wasn’t used to laughter, at least not this lighthearted and happy. What had elicited it? he wondered, frowning because it made no sense. The weather was lousy, the house a white elephant…. He’d overestimated her, all right. The woman wasn’t merely guilty of bad judgment, she was a fool with the survival instincts of a moth.
Once again he glared at her new home. Some investment. It couldn’t be considered a smart one under any circumstances. Over fifty years old, the place was what people in the real estate business generously call “quaint,” a “fixer-upper.” He saw it as approximately eighteen-hundred square feet of stone-encased trouble. Granted, the roof had been reshingled, and the foundation cracks repaired—he’d been forced to suffer through the interminable racket and could bear witness to a job well-done—but considering how long it had remained empty, he had a hunch a great deal more needed attention.
A woman all alone in the world had to be nuts to take on such responsibility. As he thought of her marital status, which he’d first suspected and later confirmed, a pain seared through his head—but most unwelcome was the surge of heat that shot into his loins.
Alone…alone…alone.
Yes, that was the ultimate temptation.
It was a relief when she unlocked the front door and disappeared inside. Slumping back in his chair, he waited for the tension inside him to ease. It took its damned time. Long enough for a seed of an idea to germinate in the barren wilderness that was his mind these days. Grow…and…expand, until he forgot about the craving for coffee. “My God. Yes!”
With the grit of sleep and the sting of too many wasted hours at the computer burning his eyes, he spun around his wheelchair to face the computer monitor’s blue screen and began typing with feverish zeal.
Despite the several thousand dollars she’d already invested, the inside of the house still resembled a nightmare: scratched and dirty walls, filthy hardwood floors, cracked or missing chandeliers, and more. But she loved the place because it was now officially her nightmare. Besides, she’d always had an imagination to match her energy; she could handle this.
Glancing around with more optimism than intimidation, she knew that given a few days, she would perform miracles. It wasn’t only the feminine form that she had a talent for enhancing.
Pushing the pail of cleaning supplies farther into the small entryway, she elbowed the door shut behind her, and once again wiped at the rain streaking down her face. “Well, Willa,” she drawled to the room at large, “you’ve taken on a handful now.”
Back when she’d first opened Whimsy by Willa in downtown Vilary, her family, as well as legal and accounting advisers, had insisted that a woman’s intimate apparel shop could never survive in the county seat’s town square, even though many of the community’s residents were upscale commuters who worked in Houston. Yuppies or no yuppies, economic recovery, or outright boomtown, they’d argued, Vilary remained staunchly conservative. She would lose the insurance money she’d received after A.J.’s death, maybe end up having to file for bankruptcy.
Eleven months later, when she’d moved the increasingly popular boutique to its larger facilities at the new mall on the fringes of town, the lecturing started all over again. But this time she hadn’t bothered pretending to listen. She’d known that taking the slot next to the Vilary Vantage Health Club and Spa was financially a wise move, despite the intimidating rent. And now, six months later, she was proving herself right.
She planned on being as on target about her new home, too, regardless of everyone else’s pessimism. Yes, the place would need a great deal of her attention, but the condition of the house was primarily a result of neglect, and the minor vandalism that had occurred was thoroughly understandable. The old woman who’d owned it had spent her last years in a nursing home, and her children had lived out of state. It had been impossible to watch over the house as closely as anyone would have liked.
Willa didn’t intend to be swayed or frightened by the criticism over her new home’s isolated location, either. Who cared if there was only one other house at this end of the dead-end street and that except for it she was surrounded by woods? That just made the setting more appealing to her.
After spending so much of her day dealing with employees, customers and suppliers, she’d been yearning to move from her rented duplex, to find someplace where she could relax, and rejuvenate both her energy level and her creativity. This secluded property promised to give her that, and she refused to feel threatened because of the unfortunate stalkings going on in the area. Yes, like every other woman in town, she was taking precautions. She double-checked all doors and windows, carried tear gas, tried to be observant and aware of what was going on around her.
But the police were doing their part, too. They had increased and intensified their presence in the community, and in their last statement they’d sounded reassured that perhaps the stalker had left the area. At least there hadn’t been any report of him since the third incident almost ten days ago.
At any rate, she wasn’t alone, not really. Thinking of the house that stood only a few dozen yards from her own, she went to the double window in the small dining room and considered the two-story, vintage Victorian.
Willa shook her head. Her accountant had dubbed her place “The Eyesore,” but that monstrosity was nearly as spooky as its celebrated occupant—and ugly enough to scare off the dead, let alone some demented soul bent on terrifying women.
But neglected mess or not, she still couldn’t believe it. She, Willa Leeds Whitney, was living next door to Zachary Denton, the most successful horror writer since Stephen King! Mr. Denton, however, was the true recluse, and for good reason.
He was confined to a wheelchair, the result of a flying accident three years ago. Although news about the crash had received media-wide coverage, her real-estate agent had been eager to repeat everything she’d ever heard about the incident. Willa had changed the subject as soon as possible, though, not wanting to seem like a snoop, or to be reminded of her own loss. Plus, she figured that if she was meant to know anything else, fate would see she found out soon enough. Who knows? Zachary Denton might tell her himself. Then again, probably not. Mrs. Landers did mention he was worse than ever these days, a certified misanthrope. Willa certainly wasn’t about to begrudge him his right to privacy. She did, however, hope