Amanda Stevens Bestseller Collection: Stranger In Paradise/A Baby's Cry Page 3

  After Mike dropped her off at the inn, Emily went out back to cut some chrysanthemums from the garden and gather fall leaves from the maples to make an arrangement for the table in the foyer. But, on impulse, she carefully laid the flowers and leaves in the front seat of her car and headed out to the cemetery. She had the strangest urge to see Jenny Wilcox’s grave, to pay her respects and maybe even to grieve for a moment for the young woman who’d had no one come forward when she died.

  Emily parked the car near the wrought-iron gate and got out. She hadn’t been to the cemetery in years, not since the day her parents were buried. That day had been overcast, too, with a misty rain blowing down from the mountains, making the whole scene seem surreal. Emily had stood between Stuart and her grandmother and watched as her parents’ coffins were simultaneously lowered into the frozen ground.

  Emily tried to shake the memory as she walked through the gate. Still, a cemetery was a natural place for gloomy thoughts, she decided.

  The wind kicked up, blowing dead leaves across the graves as she made her way to the section in which she vaguely remembered Jenny Wilcox had been buried. The grave was marked by a flat, nondescript headstone that Emily might easily have missed, except for one thing. A man was standing over Jenny’s grave.

  Emily hesitated, not quite sure what to do. The man’s head was bowed, as if he were deep in contemplation, and even though she couldn’t see his face, Emily recognized the dark hair and the leather jacket. The man standing next to Jenny Wilcox’s grave was the stranger who called himself John Doe.

  A shiver of apprehension coursed down Emily’s spine. Suddenly, though she couldn’t have said why, exactly, she didn’t want him to see her there. Didn’t want him to know that she’d seen him.

  She started to turn away, but before she could, the stranger looked up and Emily found herself trapped by his stare, found herself left breathless once again by the intensity of his beautiful gray eyes.

  “So we meet again,” he said.

  Emily managed to shrug, even though her heart was pounding inside her chest. Keep it light, she told herself, and forced a smile. “I brought flowers,” she said, looking down at Jenny’s grave. “For her.”

  “Did you know her?”

  His question was casually spoken, but Emily sensed something in his voice. A hint of the same intensity that simmered in his eyes. “No, I didn’t know her,” Emily admitted. “But I…feel sorry for her.”

  “Because she was murdered?”

  “Yes. And because she died all alone.”

  Her answer seemed to surprise him. Something moved in his eyes, a flash of pain that was gone in an instant. He let his gaze fall back to Jenny’s grave.

  Emily stood silently by, unable to keep her own gaze from straying to the stranger’s face. He had such striking features—high cheekbones, dark brows and lashes that were in dramatic contrast to the lightness of his eyes, and lips that were neither thin nor thick, but somehow sensuous nonetheless.

  Emily took a deep, shaky breath. “Did you know her?”

  Droplets of mist glistened on his leather coat and in his hair as he moved a step or two away from the grave, as if distancing himself from a memory. “I like old mysteries,” he said with a shrug. “You might say I have a fascination with unsolved crimes. I read Mike Durbin’s article in a Memphis newspaper—it must have been picked up on the wire—and decided to come here, out of curiosity.”

  “You’re from Memphis?” Emily asked, out of her own curiosity.

  He looked up, and his gaze held hers just long enough to start her heart pounding again. Then he glanced away. “I’m originally from Memphis, but I’ve lived here and there.”

  “Where do you call home now?”

  “Wherever I happen to be at the moment.”

  “You just roam around the countryside on your motorcycle, looking for old crimes to solve?” Emily asked skeptically.

  A faint smiled touched those sensuous lips. “Sometimes.”

  Emily looked around. “Speaking of your motorcycle, I didn’t see it when I drove up.”

  “I parked it over there,” he said, indicating the side of the cemetery next to the road.

  Emily saw the big bike parked at the curb, near the iron fence. “What did you do, climb the fence?”

  Again, the hint of a smile. “Something like that.”

  His evasiveness was beginning to disturb her. Emily huddled inside her denim jacket as the wind rattled leaves across Jenny’s grave and a deep silence fell between them.

  She suddenly became aware of how alone the two of them were, how isolated the cemetery was. It was growing colder, too, colder and foggier, and she was starting to have that feeling again that the entire scene was somehow unreal.

  A chill seeped through her jacket, and she shivered as she bent to lay the flowers on Jenny’s grave. Her fingers shook slightly as she straightened the arrangement to her satisfaction, then stood.

  “I should be getting back,” she said, shoving her hands into her pockets.

  For one brief moment, Emily could have sworn the stranger’s gaze lingered on her lips, making her feel warm and trembly all over. Then his eyes darkened, and her stomach clenched.

  “See you at six,” he finally said.

  “See you,” Emily echoed, then turned to leave. She could feel the stranger’s gaze on her as she made her way back to the car, and by the time she climbed inside, her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly turn the ignition.

  HE WATCHED HER climb into her battered Volkswagen, admiring the long legs beneath the short skirt, the slender waist and hips beneath the denim jacket. Emily Townsend was a very attractive woman. Not drop-dead gorgeous, as Jenny had been, but undeniably appealing in an offbeat sort of way, with that funny little haircut and those big brown eyes that looked as if they could peer right into a man’s soul.

  He shifted uncomfortably, making himself look down at Jenny’s grave again.

  A woman like Emily Townsend could be a dangerous thing for a man like him.

  For one thing, he’d gone a long time without female companionship. A very long time. He was lonely and vulnerable, and it would be very tempting to forget the past in a woman’s arms. To block out the nightmares with a woman’s kisses.

  A woman like Emily Townsend.

  But he’d already hurt too many people as it was. He didn’t need a new notch in his belt, and instinctively he knew Emily Townsend had had enough pain to last her a lifetime. He wondered if the faint shadow of hurt in her brown eyes had something to do with the subtle white circle around the third finger of her left hand.

  His guess would be that she was recently divorced, and judging by the wounded looked in her eyes, it hadn’t been her idea. Funny how that notion filled him with regret and maybe just a little bit of jealousy. What kind of jerk had let her go?

  None of your business, he thought with an inward curse as he stared at Jenny’s grave. He had business to attend to. Old scores to settle. He didn’t need a distraction right now. Couldn’t afford one. Because this might be his last chance to put things right.

  And maybe then, after fifteen years, they could all finally rest in peace.

  Chapter Three

  As Emily pulled into her driveway and parked, her thoughts were still on the stranger she’d seen at the cemetery. She couldn’t get over the shock she’d felt, finding him standing over Jenny Wilcox’s grave.

  And she still wasn’t quite convinced that his presence there had been due solely to curiosity, his interest in old mysteries, as he’d claimed.

  His eyes were what gave him away, Emily thought. They were too intense. Too deep and dark and full of secrets.

  She shivered now, just thinking about him, thinking about the way he’d looked at her. The way those eyes had lingered on her lips…

  Stop it, Emily told herself firmly as she got out of the car and walked across the yard to her porch. She couldn’t afford to let her imagination get the better of her, or to think thin
gs that just weren’t so. The man was a stranger. He had no interest in her except as the owner of the bed-and-breakfast where he was about to spend his first night in Paradise.

  Assuming, of course, that he came back.

  Emily started up her porch steps, but as she did so, something—a feeling of being watched—made her glance quickly over her shoulder. Her gaze was caught by a movement across the street, at the This Side of Paradise Inn. A curtain at an upstairs window in Cora Mae’s house fluttered, and Emily knew without a doubt that the old woman was up there, watching her.

  Cora Mae had been watching every move Emily made ever since she’d moved into the Talbot House. Cora Mae had even threatened to sue when Emily named her bed-and-breakfast the Other Side of Paradise Inn.

  Before today, Emily hadn’t paid much mind to the old woman’s threats or to her open hostility, but now Emily couldn’t help shuddering as she remembered Miss Rosabel’s parting words. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to learn Cora Mae Hicks killed that poor girl herself, just to drive me out of business.

  PROMPTLY AT SIX, Emily heard the motorcycle pull up out front. Even though she’d been listening for it for the better part of an hour, the sound still startled her, and in her nervousness, she dropped the bowl of rose-scented potpourri she’d been carrying. Luckily, the crystal bowl didn’t break, but the potpourri flew in every direction.

  Emily was down on her hands and knees, scooping up dried rose petals and throwing them back into the bowl when the front door opened and the stranger walked in. From her vantage, she saw his boots first, then his jeans, then the leather jacket, and finally his face as her gaze traveled slowly upward. He stared down at her for a moment, then squatted, putting their eyes on a more even keel.

  “Have an accident?” he asked in that deep, liquid voice of his.

  “As usual,” Emily admitted, feeling the butterflies in her stomach start to flutter. She’d never been this close to him—close enough to smell the leather of his coat and the wind in his hair and the faint, irresistible scent of after-shave. His eyes, striking from a distance, were positively magnetic up close. Emily found herself unable to look away.

  Or was it simply because she didn’t want to? The view, after all, was pretty spectacular.

  “Let me help you,” he said, reaching down to scoop a handful of potpourri from the floor.

  “Oh, don’t bother,” Emily said, putting her own hand down to stop him. Their fingers touched, then jerked apart. “I’ll…get the vacuum,” she finished. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get settled in.” She got awkwardly to her feet, and he followed her, rising in one smooth movement that left Emily marveling at his grace.

  “Did you get to see much of the town this afternoon?” she asked, walking over to the antique mahogany desk she’d placed near the foyer. What she really wanted to know, of course, was how long he’d stayed at the cemetery after she left, and how long he’d been there before she arrived. And what he’d been doing out there in the first place.

  “I saw enough,” he said, gazing around with obvious interest.

  The large, airy front room, with its hardwood floors and French doors, made a wonderful first impression, Emily thought. She’d placed a small grouping of furniture near a cozy window alcove, another in front of the fireplace, and yet another overlooking the gardens. Here, guests could come and read the paper in relative solitude, or chat with fellow travelers, or simply sit quietly and stare at the magnificent scenery of the Ozarks.

  “This is nice,” he said. “Very impressive. Somehow I hadn’t pictured it as quite so—”

  “Normal? Homey?” Emily smiled. “That’s exactly why I wanted Mike Durbin to do the article. I wanted people to know that the Other Side of Paradise Inn is a far cry from the dark, sinister murder scene written about in the past. Well,” she said briskly, trying to ignore the commotion of her heart as she looked at him. “If you’ll just sign the register, I’ll show you up to your room.” She pushed the book across the desk and waited for him to sign.

  He hesitated for a moment, then picked up the gold pen and scrawled his name across the blue line. Emily almost expected to see John Doe written across the page, but when she turned the book around, she saw that he’d signed the register as Matthew Steele.

  She looked up at him. “I thought you said your name was Doe.”

  “I said you could call me that.”

  “Why would you want me to call you that, if it’s not your name?” she asked in confusion.

  Matthew shrugged. “It’s a private joke. You wouldn’t understand.”

  What was it Caroline had said? Isn’t that what they call a corpse?

  “You’re not a ghost, are you, Mr. Steele?”

  He leaned against the desk. “Do I look like a ghost, Emily?” His gray eyes stared deeply into hers. Too deeply for such an ordinary conversation. But nothing seemed ordinary about this stranger, Emily realized. Quite the contrary.

  “How did you know my name?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I read it in Durbin’s article.”

  “Oh, yes. I’d forgotten. Well, shall I show you to your room?”

  Emily led the way up the stairs and opened the first door off the landing. In her opinion, it was the best room in the house, with a south window that allowed plenty of light, and a spectacular view of the gardens in back and the mountains in the distance.

  Matthew stepped inside and looked around, taking in the handmade quilt on the bed, the lace curtains at the window and the framed watercolors hanging on the walls. Emily hadn’t noticed what an undeniably feminine room it was before she saw how undeniably masculine Matthew Steele looked standing inside.

  He said, “It’s very nice, but do you have anything facing the street?”

  “Facing the street?” Emily echoed with a frown. “Well, there’s the blue room, but the view isn’t nearly as good—”

  “That sounds fine.”

  Dutifully Emily led the way down the hallway, but before they reached the blue room, Matthew stopped at the room across the corridor. The door was open, Emily noticed. She could have sworn she’d closed it when she finished hanging the curtains that morning.

  “What about this room?” Matthew asked, shoving the door open wider.

  “I’m…not really finished in there.”

  Matthew stepped inside. “It looks fine to me.”

  “But I—”

  “Is this where it happened?” He turned to face her, his gray eyes capturing hers in a gaze so intense, Emily felt her breath leave her in a rush.

  She managed to nod as she followed him into the room. Though Emily didn’t believe in ghosts, she always had a strange feeling when she entered this room, a rush of conflicting emotions she couldn’t have begun to explain.

  “The furniture has all been changed, of course,” she said quietly. “The wallpaper’s new, and the floors have been sanded and refinished. There’s nothing left of that terrible tragedy in this room.”

  “Do you really believe that?” He was looking at her again, staring at her in that most disturbing way he had. Emily found herself growing even more nervous.

  “They say houses have personalities,” he said. “They take on the emotions and feelings of those who have lived in them. The more violent the emotion, the longer it lingers, until the house itself becomes almost a living, breathing entity.”

  “A house is wood and brick and mortar,” Emily said, not quite as convincingly as she would have wished. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Matthew walked over to the bed and stood staring down at it, as if he could see something Emily couldn’t. She shivered at the dark, absorbed look on his face. “This house has secrets,” he said softly, so softly Emily wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. Then, as he lifted his gaze to hers, he said, “I intend to find out what they are. If it’s the last thing I do.”

  EMILY TRIED to put the conversation out of her mind as she drove to the town council meeting that night, but something about M
atthew Steele, about the way he’d looked in that tragic room, wouldn’t let her forget him. Or was it what he’d said that disturbed her so much?

  This house has secrets. I intend to find out what they are. If it’s the last thing I do.

  Emily shivered, just thinking about Matthew Steele. Who was he, she wondered, and why had he come to Paradise?

  “Why do you care, Emily?” she muttered as she pulled into a parking space in front of the town hall. Matthew was a customer, her first one, and her only one at the moment, and he should have no more significance to her than that.

  But why had he been standing over Jenny Wilcox’s grave? Why had he looked so sad, so intense?

  Maybe for the same reason Emily herself had felt compelled to take flowers to Jenny’s grave. Maybe the story had touched them both.

  But whatever Matthew Steele’s reason for being here, Emily couldn’t afford to waste time worrying about it now. She had other, more pressing concerns at the moment, and she knew she’d better clear her mind of everything else before facing her brother and the rest of the town council. Not to mention Trey Huntington.

  At the mere thought of Trey’s name, Emily squirmed. During the time she’d been back in Paradise, she’d made a point of avoiding him. Their parting had not been an amicable one, and she dreaded seeing him again.

  Emily sighed as she stared out the window of her car. The Huntingtons were practically worshiped in these parts, and no one, least of all Trey, could understand how Emily Townsend, who had never accomplished anything in her life, could have turned down his marriage proposal.

  So what if she’d only been nineteen at the time and he’d been thirty-three? She’d obviously needed someone to take care of her.

  So what if she and Trey had hardly seen eye-to-eye on anything? Trey would bring her around in no time. With the Huntington and Townsend history, theirs would be a match made in heaven.

  So said everyone in town, and then Emily had up and eloped with Eugene Sprague, a wannabe country-and-western singer who’d known about as much success in his life as Emily had in hers.