“Thank you, Paul.”
The look on her face was relaxed and full of trust. She closed her eyes, and in a moment he could see her even, shallow breathing, indicating that she was asleep.
He pulled up a chair and sat down next to her, watching her as she slept. He felt an odd stirring in the region of his heart, which perfectly complemented the way his gut was churning at his deceit.
He should be rejoicing; he was finally on the informant’s trail. In the next few days, Paul was sure, he’d be able to find him and complete his goal, the one he’d set in motion by coming here to work for Kayla.
What he was thinking about instead was something that gave him no joy whatsoever. He was starting to care about Kayla Thorne. To care about her a lot.
God help him. And her.
Whispers in the Night
Diane Pershing
DIANE PERSHING
cannot remember a time when she didn’t have her nose buried in a book. As a child, she would cheat the bedtime curfew by snuggling under the covers with her teddy bear, a flashlight and a forbidden (grown-up!) novel. Her mother warned her that she would ruin her eyes, but so far, they still work. Diane has had many careers—singer, actress, film critic, disc jockey, TV writer, to name a few. Currently she divides her time between writing romances and doing voice-overs. (You can hear her as Poison Ivy on the Batman cartoon.) She lives in Los Angeles, and promises she is only slightly affected. Her two children, Morgan Rose and Ben, have just completed college, and Diane looks forward to writing and acting until she expires, or people stop hiring her—whichever comes first. She loves to hear from readers, so please write to her at P.O. Box 67424, Los Angeles, CA 90067 or online at [email protected]. You can also visit Diane’s Web site at www.dianepershing.com.
To Tom Gale, social visionary, poet extraordinaire and genial host. Thank you for the lovely week on your porch and the two books that came about as a result. Ain’t serendipity grand?
And to the small but vibrant artists’ colony of Cragsmoor, New York. I borrowed liberally from your history, edifices and geography; I also invented some history, edifices and geography, which is why it’s called fiction. If I offend, I apologize in advance.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 1
Creak.
The noise woke Kayla from a much-needed, dreamless slumber. Her eyes popped open and she sat straight up in bed. The bright red numbers of the bedside clock read 2:30 a.m. For several moments she remained frozen, trying to listen over the pounding of her heart. When nothing more happened, she figured—hoped—it had been her imagination, and slowly, she sank back down into her down-filled pillow, her lids drifting shut.
Cre-e-eak.
There it was again, coming from the porch directly below the bedroom. Not the high-pitched squeaking of the old chains that supported the double swing there, nor the cracking sound of tree limbs swaying in the wind. No, this was definitely creaking, and definitely coming from the porch, which had several loose wooden slats that protested loudly when someone was walking on them.
Like now.
All thoughts of sleep evaporated as fear coursed coldly through her veins.
Oh, God, Kayla thought. Something or someone was on the porch.
Quickly, her mind composed several explanations, none of them good. The likeliest was an animal. Of course, it would have to be a pretty heavy animal to make that noise. What kind of wildlife was up here? Deer? Coyotes? She shuddered. Bears?
She would ask some of her neighbors, although she used the word loosely; there was nobody around for a couple of miles. Maybe she was making a big deal out of the whole thing.
Cree-ee-eak.
Or maybe she wasn’t.
Her heartbeat accelerated. Were the doors locked? Yes, of course. The other times she’d been here at the cabin with Walter, he’d laughed gently at her city-girl fears and told her no one in the little mountain community of Cragsmont bothered locking doors. They all trusted one another. But without having Walter on this visit, she’d been unwilling to be quite so trusting herself. And the noises were getting louder.
What to do? Kayla’s mind raced frantically, keeping time with her pulse. She could hide under the bed. Throughout a nightmarish childhood, she’d discovered that the way to stay out of danger was not to call attention to herself, to avoid becoming a target.
But she didn’t do that anymore. For the past few years, she’d forced herself to meet danger and fearsome challenges head-on and deal with them. Not happily or easily, and not that the inner fear went away—no, she was pretty sure she was one of the most frightened people in the world—but, as best she could, she tried not to let the fear defeat her.
And she wouldn’t let it defeat her now.
Despite the dread, despite her rapid pulse rate, she summoned up reserves of strength. Throwing back the covers, feet dangling over the side of the bed, she ordered her imagination to rid itself of horrific fantasies while she considered her next move.
At that moment, Bailey woke up. The aging, partly deaf, one-eyed Yorkshire terrier began to bark. Not because of the noise below, but because Kayla had dared to disturb his sleep. Not much of a watchdog, old Bailey, but company, at least. The sound of his bark was high-pitched and annoying, and automatically, Kayla tried to shush him. Then she changed her mind. Maybe barking was a good thing; yes, in fact, Bailey’s barking might scare off the intruder.
Whoever or whatever that was.
Licking her suddenly dry mouth and shivering from more than the chilled night air of early autumn, she put on her robe and her ridiculous-looking-but-oh-so-warm bunny slippers, then grabbed the poker from the fireplace in the corner. Ancient wood floors protesting under her feet, she left the shelter of the master bedroom and, scooping
