Quinn turned on her, eyes black with fury
Suddenly his hand was at her throat. For one terror-stricken moment, Janine feared he might strangle her.
Instead, he caressed the soft flesh below her jaw, a gesture that was undeniably dangerous, yet exquisitely erotic. “I understood you didn’t intrude on your guests’ privacy. Was I misinformed?”
“Not at all,” Janine said shakily. “I was simply curious.…”
He slid one fingertip slowly down her throat—more a lover’s caress than a warning. “Curiosity,” he murmured. “Fatal to felines, and unhealthy for humans, as well.…”
All she had to do was take a step back, and she’d be free. But she couldn’t move. She was trapped by his penetrating gaze, his mesmerizing touch. She was frightened, yet the fear was not for her physical safety.
The fear was for her soul, and for the power this man had over it. Over her…
Diana Whitney loves “fat babies and warm puppies, mountain streams and California sunshine, camping, hiking and gold prospecting. Not to mention strong romantic heroes!” She married her own real-life hero twenty years ago. With his encouragement, she left her longtime career as a municipal finance director and pursued the dream that had haunted her since childhood—writing. To Diana, writing is a joy, the ultimate satisfaction. Reading, too, is her passion, from spine-chilling thrillers to sweeping sagas, but nothing can compare to the magic and wonder of romance.
The Raven Master
Diana Whitney
To Christine Rimmer, who so generously shares
her sympathetic ear, absorbent shoulder,
unending support and cherished friendship.
Thanks, pal!
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Flames leapt toward the night sky, a devouring conflagration of carnage and death. Only a moment earlier the small frame structure had been someone’s home. Now it was a fiery tomb, mocking heroic efforts of frantic volunteers.
Torrential blasts from firehoses arched into the inferno then evaporated into impotent clouds of sizzling steam. Nearby dwellings, engulfed by wind-whipped smoke and undulating waves of radiant heat, appeared to tremble in contemplation of sharing the building’s grisly fate.
The steepled chapel across the street was engulfed by eerie reflections, a holy site perched on the precipice of purgatory, surrounded by the hellish flames. From the shadows an observer glanced away from the visual heresy, refocusing attention on the raging blaze. It had been so long, so painfully long. The waiting was over now. This was the place.
Dawn crept through a gray pall of lingering smoke and early spring fog that frequently shrouded the Pacific North-west. From the kitchen of her Victorian boardinghouse, Janine Taylor parted hand-stitched gingham curtains and gazed at the pristine forest surrounding the remote village of Darby Ridge. Normally she took great pleasure from the picturesque view. On this dismal morning, however, the swirling mist smelled of burned wood and scorched earth and death.
The fact that she had barely known the victim didn’t ease Janine’s distress. Over the past three years she’d met relatively few of Darby Ridge’s two thousand residents and knew only that Marjorie Barker had been an attractive, middle-aged woman who lived across from the Presbyterian church. When Janine had passed the house en route to the corner grocery, the woman had occasionally been outside tending her roses, and they would exchange casual greetings. Marjorie had been pleasant and soft-spoken with delicate eyes and a ready smile. Now she was dead.
Janine turned away from the window and shivered, rubbing her arms against the dampness. Upstairs, warped floor-boards vibrated a warning that her guests were awakening. They’d be down soon, and they’d be hungry.
Shaking off her sad mood, she returned to the comforting breakfast routine by filling the dual-carafe coffeemaker and sliding a pan of homemade biscuits into the black iron oven. She arranged a pound of bacon in an oversize skillet, flipped on the antiquated gas burner, then methodically cracked two dozen eggs into a large ceramic bowl and beat them with a wire whisk until the mixture was fluffy enough to fly.
By the time Janine heard footsteps on the stairway, the enticing scent of brewed coffee and sizzling bacon had dispelled the chilly gloom. She felt better now, not good, but better.
Hushed voices filtered in from the foyer. A moment later, Jules Delacourt solicitously escorted his grandmother into the spacious farm-style kitchen.
They were a peculiar pair, obviously devoted yet so contradictory in appearance that it was difficult to believe they were related. Edna Fabish was a squat, bucket-shaped woman, heavily jowled, with a petite nose and saggy, blue button eyes. A ruffled mass of gray-streaked, ecru curls framed her paunchy face like the corkscrewed pelt of an ungroomed poodle.
Physically her grandson was the diametric opposite,
