wheel so tightly that Mallory thought he would snap it. “That’s a PR release, not the facts. The old man’s known publicly for what he’s made work in this world. But privately he’s known for destroying anything that gets in his way or doesn’t measure up to his standards. Everything and everyone is expendable for Saxon Mills. Everyone.”
Intensity vibrated in his deep voice, and Mallory knew that to say this man didn’t like Saxon Mills was akin to saying the Grand Canyon was a little hole in the ground. He obviously hated the old man. “Is that all?” she asked.
“Yes, it is.”
She hesitated, then quickly turned from Tony and made her escape. Even under the protection of the portico, the wind drove the rain along the ground, and the stinging mists whipped around her legs. She hurried to the stone stairs, but as she reached the bottom step, she was shocked to sense Tony near her.
He didn’t speak as he passed her and strode up the steps, taking them two at a time with his long stride. Mallory glanced back at the sports car to find its lights out and the motor off. She turned and hurried up after Tony, and when she caught up with him at the front doors, she looked up at him. His height was intimidating, and it made her feel at a distinct disadvantage.
“You don’t have to see me in,” she said as she tugged her coat more tightly around her.
“I know.” He reached for a door knocker that was fashioned like a gargoyle head, the perfect touch to go with this house. With just a fleeting glance at Mallory in the glow of the lanterns by the doors, he released the knocker and the metal struck the barrier with a resounding crack. Even before the sound died out completely, the door clicked, then opened.
The glow of interior lights spilled out into the night and a woman looked out. She was tall, almost six feet, and dressed in a high-necked gray dress that wasn’t quite a uniform, but was severely plain on her lanky frame. Her gray-streaked brown hair was pulled back from a long face touched by fine lines and decided paleness. Sensible wire-rimmed glasses reflected back the low lights and effectively hid her eyes, but Mallory didn’t miss the way the woman’s lips thinned as she looked at her.
“Good evening,” she said with a nod to Mallory.
“Myra,” Tony said.
“Mr. Carella.” She inclined her head slightly, and the light shifted so Mallory got a glimpse of the woman’s eyes. Gray eyes, the color of fog, were framed by pale lashes and looked as drab as the woman herself. But the distaste in them as they studied Mallory was vivid enough. “You are with Mr. Carella?” she asked, and Mallory realized that the woman had a slight accent.
“No, I had a six o’clock appointment with Mr. Mills. I’m Mallory King.”
“When you were not here at the correct time, we thought you were not coming,” Myra murmured.
“I wouldn’t have made it without Mr. Carella’s help. My car’s down the road, stuck. I hope Mr. Mills will still see me.”
“Do come in while I go up and tell Mr. Mills you are here,” she said in her oddly annunciated English.
Mallory was thankful not to be sent away, and she turned to tell Tony goodbye for the second time. But he simply stepped past her and into the house. His coat brushed her arm, and the fleeting feeling of his body heat barely materialized before he was past her. A shiver came involuntarily, then she stepped inside, making sure to keep some space between herself and Tony.
In the glow of three massive chandeliers that illuminated a vast entry foyer, she got her first good look at Tony. In a long, dark overcoat parted to show a pale shirt and charcoal slacks, the man looked as big, dark and intense as she remembered from the theater. And the edge she felt then was still firmly in place. But now it seemed that it was touched by a certain nervousness that he hadn’t shown before.
She didn’t understand him—not why he was at the theater, on the road in the storm, or in this house with her—and she averted her eyes from him. She chose to look at the foyer, with its natural stone walls that soared up through three stories and had carvings of horses fashioned into the hard surfaces. As Myra closed the door and shut out the night, Mallory looked up at the heavily beamed ceiling, then down to the reflected light from the chandeliers on polished black marble floors.
A sweeping staircase to the right was framed by intricately carved banisters and turned posts twined with boughs of holly, and it led up to a second-floor balcony. Twenty-foot-high doorways, both right and left, arched over carved wooden doors, and the air was touched with the pungency of woodsmoke, lemon wax, pine and a lingering cool dampness. A Christmas tree decorated with crystal globes and golden garlands looked oddly formal sitting directly opposite the front doors. A simple star topped it, and white linen swaddled its trunk, spreading out onto the black marble.
“I will be right back,” Myra said as she went past Tony and Mallory and headed for the staircase. Her low-heeled shoes clicked against the hard floor.
When Myra reached the top of the stairs and went to the right through an arched opening, Mallory turned to Tony. “You didn’t have to come inside with me.”
“Of course I didn’t,” he said as his dark eyes narrowed on her. “Tell me, what do you think of all of this?”
She shrugged, wishing she could get out of her damp coat and away from him. He made it difficult to focus on anything when he was this close to her. “It’s incredible. I think I read in a magazine or something that Mr. Mills built it, but it looks as if it’s been around for centuries.”
“Some of it’s new, some of it’s old. This is part of the original house, probably built a hundred and fifty years ago by one of the area’s great vintners. Then Mills took over the estate about forty years ago and started tearing out vineyards to make room for expansion, from extra wings to stables and guest cottages. He even had stones from a quarry in Ireland shipped over for the newer construction. In all the time he’s been here, he’s never stopped construction.”
He looked around the area, his dark eyes roaming over the vast foyer. “He believes that if he quits building, he’ll die.”
CHAPTER THREE
Mallory knew her mouth must have dropped. “He really believes that?”
Tony cast her a slanted look. “I don’t think he really does, not anymore than I believe the place is haunted.”
“It’s haunted?”
“I’ve never actually seen a ghost, but there are stories about night wanderings and strange happenings.”
She looked for a hint of humor in his expression, but there was none, just that brooding sensuality that made her feel slightly off-balance. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
He motioned to the area with one hand. “Doesn’t this place conjure up ideas of strange things going bump in the night? Even the new parts—the south wing that’s being built right now—supposedly has had incidents that can’t be explained. A perfect atmosphere for hauntings, I’d say.”
The house definitely was different and a less-than-homey place. As she looked at Tony, she had the passing thought that he really looked as if he fit here, in a place of dark shadows and strange happenings. And his words were making her nerves even worse.
“That’s
