Endless Night Read online

  Every one of her instincts screamed to get him out of here. Surely he was sent by Gordon. There simply was no other excuse for a man of this size, with this portent of danger, to be on her doorstep.

  He was her executioner.

  “Nice place,” he said in awe as his wandering eyes returned to hers.

  Gold. Definitely gold.

  “Yes.”

  All it would take was one quick thrust of her hand and she could reach the gun and regain her control. “Now tell me who you are, and what you’re doing here.”

  He seemed to measure her with equal intensity and Megan felt her knees begin to quake under his gaze. She curled her free hand into a fist, determined to go down with a fight if he beat her to the gun.

  “Jake Grogan.” It appeared he was going to offer his hand, but he hesitated. “I told you yesterday why I was here. I’m looking for the woman I believe is my grandmother.”

  “And I believe I told you where to find her,” she reminded him.

  “That you did. Bluntly—but that you did.”

  He grinned at her, and for a moment she felt the gesture tug at her lips. But she hadn’t smiled in over a year. She was not about to start today.

  “So, then why are you here, Mr. Grogan?”

  His grin fell. “Jake, please. And though you haven’t introduced yourself, I know your name.”

  Megan’s stomach clenched. She pried her fingers apart and dusted them across her abdomen and the nausea that surged behind it. For a harrowing second the foyer turned cylindrical, as she felt herself sucked into a vortex.

  “Megan?”

  Megan heard the sharp tone of concern and blinked. The hallway righted itself again. “How do you know my name?”

  “I met two charming women last night at O’Flanagan’s.” Jake used the wall for support as he yanked off one boot. “Umm, Harriet and Rena—no, Serena. They seemed to want to grill me as much as you do. I take it Victory Cove doesn’t get too many strangers?”

  Knowing that Jake had survived the Harriet Morgan inquisition, Megan saw the first signs that his presence here might be innocent. Still, her fingers remained on the drawer handle.

  “I’ve heard Harriet called many things. Charming is not one of them.”

  Jake laughed at that. It made him look really attractive. Perhaps a lifetime ago, she might have been tempted.

  What the heck was she doing? Looking at him that way? She must have been cooped up in this house too long. Her thoughts were so muddled it was hard to concentrate on the most crucial matter. Self-preservation.

  The next boot came off.

  “And as for what I’m doing here,” he explained, “I tried to take your advice and go to Candlelight Center, but apparently they don’t take visitors on Fridays.”

  Damn. That was true. On Fridays, the physicians from Bar Harbor came down for patient examinations. Only people with money made it into Candlelight Center, and only clientele with such clout could lure the staff from Bar Harbor to Victory Cove.

  But Megan had long since lost track of the days of the week and had no idea that it was Friday. All she knew was that this week marked a year since she had witnessed a murder. A year since she’d gone on the run. A year of living in fear that someone would find her here in the most remote location she could find.

  It was not remote enough.

  “I don’t suppose you’d have another towel I could borrow. This one seems to be soaked.”

  Getting another towel meant leaving the gun behind. Her eyes hefted up from Jake’s socked feet to the leather jacket that dripped on the floor. Self-conscious, he stared at the expanding puddle, but she didn’t care about that. Megan was focused on his jeans, which were soaked and clung to long, muscular thighs.

  There seemed no visible bulge of a weapon on his body.

  None of the metal variety.

  “Yeah, a towel, I’ll be right back.” She nearly stumbled in her haste to retreat.

  As she reached the downstairs bathroom, Megan’s chest heaved. Nerves. That accounted for her reaction. The man made her nervous. Even if his reason to be here was legitimate, she still needed to find a way to make him leave. Whoever Jake Grogan was, he proved too much of a distraction at a time that she could afford none.

  Megan rushed back, but drew up short when she found Jake propped against the hutch. His arms were crossed and he was staring up at the ceiling, at the ornate chandelier with cobwebs intertwined between its spokes, and yellowed bulbs casting an amber symmetric pattern across the ceiling. Her eyes trailed the arch of his throat, and she jumped when he looked at her.

  “Thanks.” His smile was disarming, complete with a dimple that took away from the severity of his image. Even in the rank air trapped within the house she could smell the musky scent of his leather jacket.

  “Look, Mr. Grogan—”

  “Jake.”

  Uneasy, Megan eyed the drawer made inaccessible by his slouch. She thrust her hands into the front pockets of her jeans to try to still them, but the containment only made them sweaty.

  “Look, I don’t know how I can help you. I don’t know Estelle that well.”

  Whisky-colored eyes shifted in another slow appraisal of the foyer. “You live in her house.”

  “She put it up for rent. Everything was handled through a real-estate agent. I’ve hardly ever had the opportunity to see Mrs. Wakefield.”

  He probably thought she was rude. She should offer coffee or act somewhat hospitable, but she wanted him to leave. She had things to do.

  Today she was going to extend the firing point in her backyard shooting range. She had already mastered consecutive bull’s-eyes on targets fifteen yards away. After that she was going to spend a session in the cellar with her recently acquired weight set. Her arm and leg muscles were now well toned. If she should she lose possession of the gun and have to resort to direct combat she wanted to make sure her body didn’t fail her. And after that there was another mirror to mount outside the living room window, a trick of light to detect motion along the outside wall.

  “You want me to leave, don’t you?”

  “Wh-why would you say that?”

  For such a hard-looking man, Jake’s eyes momentarily softened. When they traced her, they felt like the brush of a freshly cleaned sheet across goose-bumped skin.

  “I-I’m not that comfortable with strangers,” she explained.

  “You don’t say?”

  Jake watched her for a prolonged moment, and then his smile fell. Under that weighty silence she was aware of the rain battering the eastside windows. The noise had an ebb and flow to it with each surge of wind. She felt cold to the bone in this house, but up until that phone call, she thought she was safe here.

  “Okay, Megan. I’ll go.”

  Good.

  Jake stooped to fasten the sodden laces of his boots. Big hands. Powerful hands. As he stood, her eyes swept up to take in the dark intensity of Jake Grogan. The power was there in the steely set of his jaw and the dip of his dark brow—features that intimidated. She was intimidated. Yet when he flashed that dimple, all bets were off.

  He reached the door, but the hand on the knob hesitated.

  “Look.” His voice was husky. “If you should find anything—anything that might shed light on Estelle’s daughter—” He turned and frowned. “What was her name?”

  Megan swallowed. “Excuse me?”

  “What was Estelle’s daughter’s name? I don’t even know my moth—” he swallowed, “—her name.”

  “Ummm—Gabrielle.”

  “Gabrielle,” Jake whispered. “That’s pretty, don’t you think?”

  Megan nodded, speechless.

  Jake reached into the pocket of his jacket and extracted a card. “Anyway, if you should ever come across anything—” his voice dropped off, “—could you call me?”

  He didn’t wait for her response. He opened the door, eyed the sky warily and then squared his shoulders and started down the steps.

  “
Wait!”

  My God, what was she thinking?

  Megan watched Jake pause at the foot of the steps. He turned around and looked up at her. Stoic in the downpour, he waited. With rain dripping onto his black eyelashes, he blinked away the assault.

  Something about Jake tempted her with haunting images of pleasure she would never be privy to. Whoever Jake Grogan was—whether he was innocent or a foe, Megan knew that she would not let him cross that bridge in this weather.

  She had the gun.

  She would be safe.

  He waited for her to pronounce sentence.

  “Come inside,” she whispered.

  The steady stream of rain made it impossible for her voice to carry, but he must have read her lips.

  For every step he climbed, Jake held her eyes. He reached the top and loomed a head above her, looking down with dark force. Paralyzed by that compelling whirlpool of colors, all Megan could do now was pray she made the right decision.

  Chapter Three

  Possibly more wet and miserable than he had ever been in his life, Jake measured the woman beside him. Her slim frame quaked like someone had stuck a jackhammer in the very ground she stood on. She drew the bottom of her sleeves over her fingers and then wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Come into the kitchen.” Megan managed a semblance of a smile. “At least there I can mop up the mess.”

  Now see, he thought, that wasn’t so bad. She was trying to joke and ease up the tension. But as he followed her down the hall, he could tell how rigid Megan’s shoulders were beneath the thick knit material.

  The kitchen was a remarkably cheerful oasis in this bleak, Victorian dwelling. The hall was depressing, with mottled wallpaper and faded burgundy brocade carpet, but the kitchen bore fresh yellow paint and bright floral accents. Fat pillows and potted ferns filled a box bay window, and distracted from the fact that the glass was matted with rain. The tiled floor was white and glossy, with a sunflower rug thrown beneath a butcher-block table. Sunflower rugs also lay before the kitchen sink and refrigerator. In here the pervasive stench of mildew and ocean was not as evident, filtered by the scent of cinnamon from a source he could not locate.

  “My little sanctuary,” Megan admitted, casting him a side look.

  Jake noticed the laptop and printer on the table, and the half-filled cup of coffee. He also saw the garbage can heaping with crumpled newspapers, some tumbling onto the floor.

  “I take it this is all your touch.”

  She nodded. “Oh, goodness, forgive me—here.” She reached into a drawer and yanked out an armful of kitchen towels and, with a twitch of her hip, closed it again.

  The gesture made Jake’s glance latch on to her slim waist. “Thanks.”

  As he started to towel himself off, Jake caught Megan’s eyes wrenching away from the motion.

  “Yes, I tried to visit Estelle and ask her if I could start doing some renovating.” Her hand swept toward the arched doorway into the bleak shadows of the dining room. “I guess you can see what shape this place is in. But she—she wasn’t doing well that day. She has no relatives that I can contact to ask—” Megan looked at him.

  “Don’t look at me,” he injected. “I’m still trying to find out if she’s a relative, remember.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “The changes you’ve done in here…what’s not to approve of? It’s nothing major. Just some new paint, new rugs, a new table and some bright accessories. With very little effort you transformed this kitchen, I’m guessing.”

  “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  Outside the rain tortured the façade, while inside Jake stared edgily up at the ceiling, expecting to see the dark hue of moisture pool there.

  “Don’t worry,” Megan reassured him. “She’s held up to much worse than this.”

  “Doesn’t it scare you? I mean being in this old house all alone?”

  Blue eyes rounded. Megan took a step back.

  “Whoa, hey. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was just—” Frustrated and alarmed, Jake rubbed a hand through his hair. “I just… Well hell, if I knew you better, I would be worried about you being out here by yourself. There’s no one nearby if you’re in trouble, there’s—”

  Every word Jake said only heightened Megan’s look of horror. He sighed and tried to regroup. “Okay, forget about all that. None of my business, right? So let’s get on to what is my business.”

  Again, Megan took a retreating step until the backs of her knees hit the frame of the box bay.

  Jake had to get out of here. This woman was a wreck and she looked at him as if he was going to attack her at any second. He was tempted to reach for her shoulders, and say don’t worry, you’re safe with me, but his mere touch would probably make her pass out from fright.

  “Estelle.”

  Air seemed to slump from Megan’s body, and with it she sank down onto the yellow cushion. “Oh yes,” she said weakly.

  The towel only did so much. Jake was starting to feel uncomfortable. He took his jacket off and threw the soggy lump of leather on the tiled floor. He felt Megan’s eyes on him. They traced over his flannel shirt and down to the line where his jeans had been exposed to the rain.

  Megan probably wasn’t even aware that she was staring, but he wasn’t going to stop her. That look warmed the damp traces from his body.

  “You said you tried to see her—that she wasn’t doing good.” He probed, “Tell me, in your honest opinion, do you think I’ll learn anything here?”

  A soft lump flowed down Megan’s throat.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. Like I said, I had heard that Gabrielle never had any children. Harriet actually told me she was barren. And when I moved in here, there were no photographs of family, not even a picture of Gabrielle on her dresser—not even Estelle’s husband.” Megan toyed with the hems of her sleeves. “Little things like that make this house as cold as it is. It needs memories. Snapshots of the lives that transpired here. Souvenirs from family vacations. School drawings. Trophies. Hand-knit blankets.”

  As if aware that she was rambling, Megan bit down on her lip.

  “Didn’t that strike you as odd?” Jake prompted.

  “Goodness, do you want a cup of coffee?”

  He grinned at the blatant segue. “Coffee sounds wonderful, Megan.”

  In midstride, Megan stopped to gape at him.

  “What?” he asked, troubled by the look on her face.

  “Nothing—it’s just—,” she paused, “—I’m not used to hearing anyone say my name.”

  Before he could respond, Megan moved to the coffee machine and busied herself spooning grounds into the filter.

  He watched her.

  I’m just not used to hearing anyone say my name.

  There was more of a mystery to Wakefield House than the simple matter of his heredity.

  “Alright, you already mentioned that there are no pictures—no personal items, right?”

  True, Megan thought.

  For a woman who had lived eighty-some years, there was little to show for that existence. The notion disturbed her. Maybe it disturbed her because if someone were to comb her room upstairs they would find nothing of a personal nature either. No photos. No childhood memorabilia. Definitely no identification. That was one of the reasons she moved into this old relic. They accepted cash each month and asked no questions.

  “When I got here, Estelle had already moved into the nursing home. I met her, like I said, but the conversations weren’t always lucid. From what the Realtor told me, there was an estate sale and most of Estelle’s stuff was sold off. They just kept the primary pieces of furniture in hopes of renting out this house.” Quietly, she added, “Gabrielle—Gabrielle had already rented an apartment in Bangor when she started receiving treatments for her cancer. Estelle was not going to be able to take care of her, so she stayed near the hospital.”

  Jake looked at her. “Good thing you came along. I don’t think anyone else would have rented
this place.”

  “Anyone in their right mind?” she snapped.

  “Hey, easy now. You keep decorating like this and you’re going to have yourself one beautiful home.”

  Megan was skeptical.

  “I mean it,” he added. “If you look beyond the faded wallpaper, past the worn floorboards and tarnished windows, you can see that this was once a grand place.”

  Jake walked up to the kitchen window, his knee nearly clipping hers as he leaned to look outside. Megan caught a whiff of his soap. She watched the corded muscle that ran down the length of his neck.

  “Take this porch, for example.” He craned for a better view, but with the heavy downpour the view just didn’t get any better. “Imagine it painted white. And the house—oh, maybe a baby-blue. That swing would be white too. And between each column on the porch you could hang a basket of geraniums…”

  Megan followed that muscle in his neck as it dipped into his shirt collar. Jake’s chest, which nearly loomed over her as she shrank into the corner, was wide enough that a person could get lost in his embrace. The sinewy strength continued through his arms, their sculpted profile evident beneath the warm fabric. He had an athletic build—the build of a man who worked outside.

  “Let me guess.” Megan’s voice was thick. “You do construction for a living. Your card said Engineer.”

  Jake’s grin was beguiling.

  “No.” He righted himself, but didn’t move away from her. “But I’ve been around construction enough.” His eyebrow arched. “Well, on a slightly bigger scale than this.”

  “How much bigger?”

  “Have you ever been to Boston?”

  “Yes, don’t tell me you engineered the Big Dig.”

  Jake chuckled. “No, that new tower in the Back Bay, and the other tower next to the Prudential building—”

  “You built those?”

  Jake laughed at her astonishment and propped his hand on the wall. “Hmm, I could take the credit and you wouldn’t know any better, would you?”