The Perfect Gift Read online

  Gray ears perked forward. A long, liquid meow rippled through the room as Jared worked a hand over the intelligent head.

  “I didn’t even hear him come in.” Maggie studied the French doors, still rocking in the wind. “I suppose one of the latches came loose.”

  “I’ll check for you.” Jared just kept petting.

  Maggie crossed her arms. “So.”

  No answer.

  “Was there something you needed to see me about?”

  “Nothing in particular. Just to see if you needed anything.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She studied the gleaming silk walls. “But there’s a sort of feeling here. Something I can’t put my finger on.”

  “Welcome to the club.” Jared pushed to his feet with silent grace. “The more you see of the abbey, the tighter it will hold you. No one ever understands all its secrets, not even Nicholas.”

  Maggie’s brow rose. “You don’t have to do the haunted manor routine with me.”

  “I’m not.” His voice was dead sober.

  “Whispers in the corridors? I didn’t like it here before, but that had nothing to do with ghosts or strange lights in deserted wings.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What did it have to do with?”

  She locked her arms across her chest. “Too much beauty. Too much mood and history, I suppose.” She gave a crooked grin. “I’m an artist. Things like that are supposed to set me off.”

  “Still no memories?”

  Maggie shook her head. Some part of her hoped that lost chunk of memories stayed buried.

  “After a while, you might change your mind about this house.” Jared moved to the open balcony doors and peered out into the darkness, then closed the doors and latched them securely. “Most people come to love it here.” He turned, studying the cat on Maggie’s bed. “So are you staying or going, my friend?”

  The cat’s tail flicked once. He looked from Jared to Maggie, and she could have sworn those keen unblinking eyes were searching for the answer to questions she couldn’t even imagine.

  As Jared closed the door with the cat close behind him, Maggie heard faint bells echo over the dark hills. For some reason the sound made her uneasy.

  It took longer than it should have to quiet her mind and slip free of the house’s spell. As she eased down into sleep, Maggie swore to control her restless imagination. There would be no more dreams of flying horses against a wild sky.

  Muttering softly, Jared bent forward and tapped a command on his keyboard. In disbelief he watched the screen flicker as this query, like all his others, brought no answer.

  All official accounts declared Daniel Kincade dead of an air mishap over Sumatra, and nothing had changed to call that statement into question. There were no secret financial transactions, no pending legal actions, and no covert attempts to tap into the savings account he had left for his now-deceased wife.

  All was as it should be, at least on the surface.

  But Jared had never settled for surface appearances or easy answers, though on occasion that particular trait had nearly gotten him killed.

  Beside him the gray cat purred companionably and rubbed his head against the edge of the flickering screen.

  “No luck. The bloody man is either truly dead or he’s a genius at burying himself deep. And his daughter can be almost as irritating.” But far more intriguing, especially when her eyes flash and her laughter fills a room like sunlight.

  The cat gave a low purr, his tail flicking from side to side. Jared slid his hand over the sleek fur.

  “I know. She also twists me up in knots every time I touch her.” He remembered Maggie’s face when he’d kissed her in the car and the hot, sweet storm of her desire. His body responded instantly to the memories.

  But thinking of Maggie made him remember the father who had almost certainly betrayed her by feigning his death.

  “Damn it, nobody’s that good. If he’s alive there’s got to be a record of him somewhere and a base for his movements.” Experience had taught Jared that no one lived without resources. If Daniel Kincade was alive, he needed financial assets and human help, and both of those could be traced.

  He tapped the keys again, using the passwords to a secure government database, the gift of a high ministry official who owed him a favor for rescuing his son from a messy political situation in Thailand. Once again Jared found no trace of Daniel Kincade.

  Finally he sprawled back against the couch and nudged the knotted muscles in his neck. Tomorrow he would see what Izzy could do. Just possibly he had missed something in his search. If so, Izzy would spot the mistake instantly.

  Jared closed his eyes, one hand on his neck, the other on the cat curled at his side. As always, the abbey left his senses humming. With each creak of the stairs and sigh of the wind against a leaded window, he imagined pacing feet and restless spirits from a distant age.

  Warriors and poets.

  Statesmen and fools.

  They had all walked the abbey’s silent halls. Even now their secrets lived on, part of the heart of this magnificent old house.

  At his side the computer screen flickered to life. Deep in restless dreams, Jared did not see. Only the great cat saw, amber eyes unblinking on the night.

  Over the downs came the faint peal of church bells, low and sad. The sound made the cat ease to his paws and stare intently out into the darkness.

  He came as he always did, in a flutter of white lace and black satin while light swirled above the abbey’s restless moat.

  As the figure gathered shape and form, the scent of roses grew, dense and sweet. Wind swayed the branches climbing over the weathered granite and brushed at the tall French doors.

  Adrian Draycott studied his lace-clad arms, then smoothed his waistcoat of black satin. In full, imposing form he paced the balcony.

  The clouds shifted. A single beam of moonlight touched the abbey, glinting over the rippling waters of the moat. Somewhere a night creature cried, low and shrill.

  The abbey ghost raised his head, waiting. Listening.

  Behind him the glass doors opened, and a gray form ghosted onto the balcony.

  “So there you are, Gideon. Is aught amiss inside?”

  The cat meowed once, eyes alert.

  “Asleep, is he? Hardly surprising, given the sort of night they’ve both endured.” He rubbed his jaw, white lace agleam. “His sight has grown since last he walked these halls. I only wonder that he cannot feel it himself.”

  In one powerful movement, the cat leaped to the ornate grill atop the balcony.

  Adrian Draycott, the deceased eighth viscount Draycott, smiled at his companion. “Because he is distracted, you say. When did a beautiful woman ever fail to distract a mortal man?”

  The cat’s tail flicked.

  “History between them? Far too much, I fear.” The abbey ghost stared out over the moat into the black woods to the north. “They would both feel that past now, Gideon. If only they allowed it.”

  A meow drifted from the scrolled balcony edge.

  “You propose that I should stir those memories? You know the price of interference, my friend. It is nothing to be undertaken lightly—alive or dead.”

  Light seemed to flicker deep within the cat’s amber eyes.

  “I know well that she already remembers. Aye, but see what pain it brings her. And her pain becomes my pain.”

  The abbey ghost stood rigid, elegant as his priceless portrait standing at the foot of the Long Gallery. He leaned close to the balcony, his face as weathered and cold as the granite walls of the house he had loved so much in mortal life—and even more in death.

  Suddenly his hands tightened. “Do you feel it, Gideon? Out there past the Witch’s Pool?”

  The cat paced along the balcony until he flanked the ghostly viscount. His ears slanted forward.

  “Danger,” Adrian whispered. “Always it comes. Old debts must ever be repaid, I fear.”

  The cat meowed softly, shoving against Adrian’s fist.


  “Let them try, by heaven. Let them seek an entrance. They’ll rue the cold midnight that they attempt it, as I live and breathe.”

  The cat stirred softly on the rail. Beside him Adrian drew a slow breath, then laughed grimly. “As usual, you are entirely correct, my old friend. I neither live nor breathe. But my power of protection remains. Whoever watches in the night will find their dark games more difficult than they imagine.”

  He toyed with the lace at one cuff.

  “Yes, perhaps some interference is in order. Nothing crude, of course. Perhaps…a dream or two.” A smile touched his arrogant mouth. “As I recall, the dreams worked well enough before, when that fellow Dickens came to visit. In the height of winter it was.”

  The cat’s tail flicked from side to side.

  “Of course I remember it was your idea. Yet in three nights he envisioned the greatest story of his career, and he had you to thank for it. I did think the summoning of Christmas Future was a stroke of true genius on my part, however.”

  Though the abbey ghost chuckled softly at his recollection, the tension did not leave his tall form. He could stir a dream or part a drawn curtain without the slightest strain, but he knew with cold certainty that more would be required of him than dreams or legerdemain.

  In dreams it had begun, Adrian thought, and in dreams it would end. For once again the old treachery was upon them. But perhaps in dreams two stubborn people would find the peace an earlier age had denied them. Unmoving, he studied the ripples of the moat, seeking the restless patterns of the future that lay before them all.

  Beneath his hand the cat stirred.

  Adrian sighed. Like the dreams, hate did not die. Old betrayals ran before them now—just as they had long ago.

  Maybe he could send them away. The woman already felt the chill of the past within these walls, and the Scotsman would be easier to touch than she, for the sight burned in his blood. Yes, he could try, Adrian thought.

  Wind scoured the courtyard, tossing dry leaves against the gray walls. Anger filled the air, heavy and churning while Adrian Draycott stood caught in his tangled planning.

  And all the while the whisper of betrayal rode the cold wind. Already Adrian knew it was too late. They could not leave—not in time.

  Lace rippled. Satin gleamed, though the moon was locked behind banked clouds. A bell rang once, low and sad.

  And then the balcony above the moat was empty.

  WARMTH POURED ACROSS MAGGIE’S FACE. WITH A SIGH she snuggled deeper into the cool sheets.

  The smell of roses filled the air.

  Roses?

  One eye blinked open. A crystal vase with red blooms gleamed on the side table. Maggie heard the soft trill of birdsong beyond the sun-kissed French doors, where water murmured, swept in restless patterns against banks of green.

  Draycott Abbey. A place of magic and secrets.

  As she sat up slowly, images darted like small, quick fish. For a moment there was cold wind with the smell of peat smoke locked in fine old wool.

  Just a dream, she thought irritably, tugging on her long robe. One of Chessa’s creations, its shimmering satin was dotted with handpainted designs of whimsical moons and clouds. Chessa’s taste was excellent, and Maggie knew that the rich peach hue sent a glow through her skin, setting off her caramel-colored hair. The heavy silk lay warm against her skin, like a lover’s kiss.

  Like a lover.

  The memory of Jared’s touch flashed in her mind. His tension after their arrest. His icy calm during the drive from her hotel.

  The heat of his hands when he had touched her in the cramped car.

  With a low, angry sound, Maggie shoved away the memories. She wasn’t looking for a fling, and she certainly wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship. Work was all that mattered in her life now.

  Not men. Not sex, no matter how original or intoxicating.

  Muffling an oath, she slid from the bed and was relieved that a quick shower did wonders for clearing the last fragments of her restless dreams. She slid a brush through her hair and tugged on one of Chessa’s soft, clinging sweaters with a matching skirt of pale gray cashmere, then went in search of her tool case.

  Last night the intricate scrollwork on the leaded windows had left her imagination racing, and she wanted to try a new design in silver wire against hammered gold. Inside it she would center a single cabochon aquamarine. Or maybe one perfect black pearl.

  Maggie went very still as she studied her small metal case with its neat rows of tools and wire. Something was wrong. Just as in her hotel room, something had been moved.

  Slowly she ran her fingers over the dozen narrow compartments.

  Silver alloy. Pliers. Wire. Cross-lock tweezers.

  Her breath caught. The wire was upside down, her tweezers had been shifted, and the silver alloy was in the wrong compartment.

  Someone had touched her case. While she’d slept, someone had slipped inside, invading her privacy. She locked her fists, fighting a wave of panic. Who had come into her room? How had he breached all the abbey’s defenses?

  Then Maggie saw a ragged edge of white shoved beneath her flat-nose pliers. With trembling fingers, she slid the folded envelope free.

  And read the single word scrawled in bold black letters.

  Her name.

  No figment of her imagination now. No dream or illusion. Inside the envelope she found her camisole, one she realized had been missing from her hotel dresser. The lace was crumpled, as if hard fingers had molded and stretched it with violent strength.

  She swayed, catching herself against the tall oak armoire, and then fought back a whimper of shock and anger.

  He was here.

  He was watching her, toying with her, feeding her fear until he chose to reveal himself and his twisted plans.

  “Jared,” she whispered, arms locked tight. “I need you.”

  The bedroom was in shadow. Jared lay twisted in the sheets, one arm slanting from the bed. Max was sprawled on his chest, a small dark clump who produced periodic soft snores.

  At any other time Maggie would have laughed at the sight of the two of them, but not now. “Jared.”

  His powerful shoulders snapped upward, and Max slid onto the pillow, still snoring.

  “Maggie?” Jared sat up, frowning. “What’s happened?”

  She held out the envelope with shaky fingers, fighting to keep her voice steady. “He was here, Jared. Last night. He came into my room while I slept.”

  “Who?”

  “Read it.”

  Jared shoved a hand through his hair and twisted the sheet around his waist. Dimly Maggie realized there was probably nothing beneath it except solid muscle.

  His fingers locked with hers as he pulled her down beside him on the bed. “Relax and then tell me where you found it.” Every word was slow, thoughtful, calm.

  So calm that Maggie wanted to scream or curse or shake him. “I found it—” She took a hard breath. “I found it with my tools. This was inside the envelope.” She tossed the crumpled camisole down onto the bed and turned away, feeling sick and violated.

  Feeling like a victim, which made her angriest of all. “He…touched it. You can see how it’s pulled out of shape.” Her voice shook. “He did those things as a message. It was some kind of sick warning to me.”

  Jared ran a hand over her arm and she felt the play of his skin, warm with sleep. Then she closed her eyes as his arms enfolded her.

  “He was h-here, Jared. Somehow he got inside.”

  “I don’t think so. I think he left that envelope in your hotel room, Maggie. Did you check your case yesterday?”

  “I looked inside quickly. I suppose this letter might have been shoved beneath a sheet of metal. I wasn’t really thinking. All I wanted to do was leave after I realized he’d been there.”

  His fingers eased through her hair.

  “It is a warning, isn’t it? He’s trying to frighten me.”

  “Maybe.” Jared’s jaw c
lenched as he studied the crumpled camisole. “Or maybe it’s a warning to us. Either way, I don’t like it.” He dropped the lacy fabric. “If you don’t feel safe here, I can make other arrangements.”

  She stared at him. “What kind of other arrangements?”

  “Someplace completely anonymous. Team protection if you want it.”

  “Would that make me any safer? Can you guarantee that?”

  He muttered softly and stood up, tucking the sheet firmly at his hips. “No.”

  He was all muscle and tan skin where the white fabric stopped. Maggie saw his shoulders flex as he stood stiff and angry before her. She realized then that all his cool logic had been an act. Inside he was fighting a silent, white-hot anger.

  Somehow that made her feel slightly better.

  “I’m frightened.” She balled the camisole between her fists. “I still don’t believe my father is alive, but I’ve got to be sure. You and Nicholas were right about that. So I’m staying. If this lunatic can find me here, he’ll surely find me somewhere else.” With an angry sound she threw the camisole down onto the bed, where it unrolled slowly, dangling along the edge of one pillow and hanging from one torn, violated seam. “He’s not going to win.”

  “No, he’s not.” Jared lifted the envelope by one corner and slid it into a manila folder on his dresser.

  “For prints?”

  “If we’re lucky. Paper isn’t the friendliest medium. I’ll need to dust your tool case too. But even if something does show up….” He frowned down at the sheet. “I’d better dress.”

  “Wait. Tell me what you were going to say.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Even if we’re lucky enough to pull a decent print or two, I have a feeling we’ll find nothing on our man.”

  “You mean he’s a professional. He has ways to see he’s not identified.”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “Then how can he be stopped?”

  A muscle flashed at Jared’s jaw. “There are ways, Maggie, but it will take time. Are you prepared for that? Can you stay steady when you know he’s out there waiting, hoping one of us will make a slip?”