It Started At Christmas…

He saw the muddy footprints as soon as he entered the lobby on his way to the front desk. What the hell? The sun was shining outside, but this looked like someone had walked through here after swimming in a ditch somewhere. He caught a glimpse of pink ahead, stepping inside the elevator. Well, he’d be damned. The blonde he’d almost mowed down in town was a guest at the resort.

It seemed she’d rewarded his behavior with a trail of mud across the lobby carpet, almost as if she knew it was his place. Blake couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his mouth. It served him right for not stopping to apologize.

Chapter Two (#ue07cc01e-077a-5315-956d-800791bb16e1)

Amanda paused by the lobby windows to settle her nerves. The resort’s lawn swept down to the lakeshore. A morning mist rose from the water still in the shadows of the mountain. Resting the palm of her hand against her stomach, she focused her energy on pulling air in and letting it out. In with the good air, out with the bad. She’d hardly slept all night, and her nerves were jangling so much she could practically hear them rattling in her head.

She held a cup of coffee in her other hand—one last boost of caffeinated courage. Counterintuitive to her attempt to calm down? Maybe. But she needed to be sharp. It was almost time for her to meet Blake Randall and inform him that he’d been corresponding with someone other than her ex-boss. That he’d sent blueprints for his historic mansion to her, not David Franklin. His request for proposals asked for suggestions on how to put the building to use, preferably as a commercial space, with no indication where it was actually located or what the exterior looked like. It was all very mysterious. When she “accidentally” intercepted the RFP and intentionally responded, she’d provided plans for residential use instead. She loved period architecture and felt the home should be used for its original purpose.

Randall had liked her plans enough to request a meeting to discuss them. Her shoulders straightened. They were her ideas, and they were good ones. What did it matter who they came from? She tried to dismiss the panic fluttering in her chest. She could do this. She had to do this. This job was the key to her being able to start her own design firm. One where she didn’t have to rely on lying, cheating bosses who preyed on their employees.

Her summer had been almost laughable in its horridness. The panic attacks were happening more frequently. Nightmares left her afraid to go to sleep. She jumped at every little thing. No wonder her nerves were on a razor’s edge. She felt like a canvas left out in the sun too long—stretched and dry and brittle.

She turned away from the windows and nearly collided with a guy in a Gallant Lake T-shirt and shorts. The twentysomething came out of nowhere, arguing loudly on the phone with someone about a canceled flight and a job he needed to get back to. Even though he’d nearly knocked her on her ass, the guy barely mumbled an apology before he continued on his way.

The brief, but forceful, male contact set off all kinds of alarms for Amanda. Black spots swirled at the edge of her vision.

A panic attack, her all-too-familiar companion these days, was prowling just under her skin, like a shark smelling blood. Crap. This was the last thing she needed this morning, but ignoring it would only give it more power. She set down her coffee and closed her eyes, trying to relax her muscles one group at a time, from her toes to her head, the way her therapist, Dr. Jackson, taught her.

In with the good air, out with the bad.

Shake off the negative while embracing the positive. So very much easier said than done. But she worked at it, picturing clean, fresh, strong air filling her lungs. She wiggled her fingers and rolled her shoulders. The monster quieted. It was time for her to get going.

Randall’s cryptic instructions said to ask for directions to “Halcyon” at the front desk. She was surprised to get walking directions to a place right next door to the resort. She headed outside and up the clearly marked path into the woods and through a gate in an old iron fence. A few minutes later, she stepped into a clearing and froze. Set high on a hill to her right was a castle. An honest-to-goodness castle, right there in the Catskills.

Her mouth fell open. She blinked. Then blinked again, as if she expected the sight to vanish. Another strange emotion swirled through her amazement, creating a wave of goose bumps across her skin. She couldn’t believe what she was looking at. And yet…it felt as if she’d been here before. That was crazy. Randall had kept the location a deep dark secret in his proposal request. All she’d seen was the first floor blueprint.

The sense of déjà vu was overwhelming. The big house called to her so strongly that she could feel it in her bones, drawing her in like a siren call.

Pink granite walls rose from the ground as if the structure had just grown there. It seemed a natural part of the landscape, in spite of its soft color. It was at least three stories tall, with a sharply angled slate roof dotted with dormers. Two round towers anchored the lakeside corners, complete with pointed roofs like upside-down ice cream cones. There appeared to be another larger tower in the front of the house. A stone veranda stretched across the back, with five sets of French doors opening onto it.

The floor plans hadn’t done this place justice. Halcyon was breathtaking. Amanda walked around to the front, noting signs of decades of neglect—overgrown shrubbery, dusty windows with no drapes and a general air of abandonment. The driveway circled around a long-forgotten and empty fountain. She walked up the stone stairs to the covered porch. The scale of everything made her feel like Alice in Wonderland, especially as she approached a massive wooden door. There wasn’t a doorbell. She smiled to herself. The only appropriate doorbell for this place would be one you rang by pulling on a long velvet cord.

Amanda knocked, but there was no answer. She looked to the driveway. There weren’t any cars there. She knocked again, using the side of her fist this time. Still nothing. She walked back around to the lake side of the house, looking for any signs of life. It had to be the right place, but why wasn’t anyone here?

Up on the veranda, she paused to take in the view. The huge yard was surrounded by trees all the way to the water, and the only sound was that of the wind and the birds. It gave the feeling of being far removed from the world. When she turned to face the house, she noticed one of the doors stood ajar. Her skin prickled.

Maybe Mr. Randall was running late, and left the door open for her? Or maybe this was an elaborate ruse for someone to get a defenseless woman into an abandoned house, the monster whispered. Her pulse ratcheted up another notch.

No. She’d been corresponding as David Franklin, so no one was expecting a female. As long as she was here, and the door was open, why not explore? If Randall didn’t show up, she’d head back to the resort and consider the missed appointment as karmic retribution for all of her lies.

Her footsteps left prints in the dust on the floor. She crouched down to wipe the dust away. The floors were honey-colored marble. The high coffered ceilings were made from mahogany. The walls bore some truly hideous Victorian wallpaper with flowers and gazebos and birds and…just way too much stuff. The massive fireplace was topped with a wooden mantel that stretched to the ceiling with an ornate carved scene of Saint George slaying a dragon. There were only a few pieces of furniture in the large room, and they were covered with drop cloths.

She wanted to see more of the house, and she had been invited—sort of—but she still felt like she was trespassing. She caught a glimpse of massive iron chandeliers in the large room in the center of the house. Maybe just one quick look.

This house was sensory overload for a designer like her. Light flooded through tall leaded windows in the center hall. Twin iron chandeliers hung above her, with their curving black metal forms arching over the hall like protective birds of prey. The fireplace here was more subdued than in the other room, covered in the same golden marble as the floor and carved with a rose motif. She traced her fingers along the mantel, wondering what stories it could tell.

That’s why she loved old homes so much—each one held a unique story. New homes had “potential,” but she preferred a house with history. Someone had spared no expense a hundred years ago to create this beautiful space. And now it stood empty and smelled of dust and disuse. She absently patted her hand on the roses carved in marble, feeling sympathy for the sad old house.

She heard something that sounded as if it came from inside the house. Footsteps?

“Hello? Mr. Randall?”

There was only silence in reply. It must have been the wind she heard. Or perhaps it was just her overactive imagination kicking into high gear. She shrugged it off and continued exploring. Next to the front door, a stairway wound its way up the inside of the large tower. On the far side of the room, a semicircular glass atrium stretched across the end of the house. The glass was cloudy with age and neglect, and the mosaic floor covered with long-undisturbed dirt, but the atrium had been spectacular at one time.

The sketches she’d sent with her proposal were in black and white, created in a software program specifically for that purpose. They were filled with structural and furniture dimensions, accompanied with detailed lists of required supplies. They were accurate. But she knew now they weren’t enough. Not for this house. Plans for this house needed color and emotion.

Amanda rested her hand on the paneled wall near the atrium, then closed her eyes and tried to get a feel for what the house might have looked like originally. It was a trick she’d used before to get a sense of the older apartments in the city she’d been hired to decorate. If only walls actually could talk. She pictured the atrium sparkling with candlelight, the metalwork along the roof painted bright white and the colorful floors restored. Exotic rugs scattered across the floor of the salon, creating cozy sitting areas by the fireplace and in front of the library. Lush but comfortable furniture filled this room and the living room. Everything she pictured reflected a sense of family and love.

None of that had been reflected in her proposal to Blake Randall. She pulled her ever-present sketchbook out of her bag, along with a fistful of colored pencils. She didn’t have a lot of time, but she had to try to capture the personality of this home.

She lost herself in the drawing process, letting her creative muse take over. Flipping the pages hurriedly, she sketched the salon, then the dining room, which she’d envisioned as a home office. Eventually she went back to the living room, imagining it with touches of modern technology mixed with classic colors and…oh, wouldn’t sailcloth curtains be perfect in here!

She heard another noise, and stopped her frantic sketching. She was sure it came from inside the house. Was it from upstairs, or the room next door? She tucked her sketchbook back into her bag and headed for the open door to the veranda, ready to flee if needed. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Was that a footstep behind her?

“Hey!” The loud male voice stopped her in her tracks.

Panic slammed her heart against her ribs, and her vision blurred. Before she could force her feet to move, a large hand gripped her upper arm and a deep voice growled at her.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?”

Sometimes her panic manifested itself as rage, and she was thankful for that rage right now. It was the only thing keeping her on her feet. Instead of fainting dead away, she yanked her arm free and turned to face the man who’d just sent her panic levels into the stratosphere. Her knees threatened to buckle. Breathing felt like a battle between her lungs and the air she needed.

“Don’t touch me!” she said with a hiss.

He released her immediately, but he was now blocking her exit. He was older than her—maybe midthirties—and tall. She was wearing heels, and still her head barely reached his shoulders. His features were sharp and his jaw strong. His eyes were the color of espresso, and thick black hair curled down the nape of his neck. He was dressed casually, as if he’d been working outside and just walked in.

She swallowed hard and tried to control her pounding pulse. She’d read once that the tiniest animal, when cornered, could become ferocious beyond its physical size. She drew herself to her full height, ignoring the barest hint of a smile that flickered across the man’s face when she pointed her finger and started lecturing.

“You’d better get out of here while you still have the chance, because Blake Randall will be here any minute now to meet me!”

His right brow arched sharply, but instead of leaving, he leaned back against the door frame and folded his arms on his chest, a wide smile on his face.

“Is that right? Blake Randall? Well, that’s interesting. Because my appointment is with a gentleman, not a nosy, trespassing woman.”

Amanda’s mouth fell open. This was Blake Randall. And she was an idiot. She’d just blown any possibility of getting the job that was her last hope. The thought of crawling back to Kansas in defeat made her skin tight and clammy. She stepped back and bumped against the door, stumbling when it swung further open behind her. She hated this feeling of her feet being encased in cement every time she panicked, leaving her clumsy and slow.

“Jesus, relax.” His voice lost some of its growl. “I’m just sick of people trying to sneak into this place like it’s some shrine instead of being private property. What do you want?”

Amanda’s lungs were rapidly constricting. In with the good air, out with the bad. She was having a hard time envisioning anything good in this situation.He ran long fingers through his hair, clearly running out of patience. She blew out another breath and her vision cleared. Her voice only trembled a little.

“You’re Blake Randall?” She did her best not to grimace when he nodded once in reply. “The door was open, Mr. Randall. I assumed you were inside. I’m your ten o’clock appointment.” She knew she should hold her hand out, but her aversion to touch made her avoid handshakes at all costs. Maybe he wouldn’t notice. “I’m Amanda Lowery.”

He barked out a laugh. “Do you think I don’t know who my appointment is with? It’s with—”

“David Franklin of Franklin Interiors. Yes, I know. I used to work with David. I was an associate at the firm. I’m the one who responded to your email.” Someone at the office had taken a little too long closing her email account after she’d left. Randall’s email had seemed like a gift—an answer to her prayers—when it showed up in her inbox a month ago.

“You responded as David Franklin.”