over her marble-pale shoulder.
Fixated as a drowning man watching a life belt drift away, he stared through the window at her shimmering crimson heels as she skittered down the driveway to her car.
Chapter 2
Stunned by his dismissal, Sian got into her car. A shiver of relief ran over her. She’d never been so glad to leave anywhere. Shoving the prickly sensation the house’s owner induced aside, she dug her phone out of her bag and hit the key to bring up her boss’s number. “The Gothic’s a goer, Franklyn. I’ll email you more details for tomorrow morning and send shots of the main rooms we’ll probably use.” She left the message, her tone confident as usual. But right now, with the sense of unseen eyes boring into the back of her head, she didn’t feel so self-assured.
Since joining Franklyn’s company at seventeen, and learning his ways with those in the business, she’d grown used to dealing with temperamental artists and others like them, but in all her four years working for the business, she’d not once met anything like Johansson’s dark gaze. He’d proven almost too much, too intense, too... She couldn’t find a word for it.
His look when she arrived had held more than the usual male appreciation for her body. The bold, assessing glances were reminiscent of a caged wild cat she’d once seen as a child, as though he’d been looking for a weak spot, a point of attack. Though terse, he’d been polite enough. Apart from when the suggested date for the shoot riled him. The sheer vehemence of his reply shook her. Under normal circumstances, she’d have told him to think of the money and not make waves, but him, she simply couldn’t. The moment his sophisticated veneer dropped, he’d given her chills. No one had that effect on her, not ever. Even Franklyn, in one of his formidable bouts of stern master of the workforce, couldn’t freak her out so much.
Franklyn was a pussy cat in comparison to Mr. Johansson.
The look of him had changed too. The flash in his dark eyes, a sudden flush of color on each cheek and his jaw had thrust outward in a savage line. The gaunt, though some might say handsome, features had taken on the look of living granite. No one had ever made her back down so quickly. But he was a client, and Franklyn wanted this house for the shoot. If she got this wrong, he wouldn’t be pleased. And if Franklyn wasn’t happy, he could make her life miserable with his petty rules and reprimands.
Maybe she’d misread Mr. Johansson. Yet from the second she stood in the hall, his every move had forced reaction from her. She licked her dry lips. Not forced. The words formed in her mind, though the voice wasn’t really her own. Not forced. Compelled. She shook her head so her long earrings rattled. Oh, for goodness’ sake! Now that was just being pathetic. She’d really lost it today.
The mausoleum he called home had gotten the better of her, maybe. Or perhaps she’d prodded him with a verbal stick, and as most men backed down when she challenged them, she’d been surprised he hadn’t, and couldn’t help but dislike his response. Well, he’d have to deal with people making demands. There’d be a lot more when the shoot took place.
Sometimes she wondered at Franklyn’s wisdom in using existing buildings for sets. Wouldn’t it be easier to have a set built? She’d suggested it, but only once, about four years ago in her first months at work. Franklyn’s response, she’d never forgotten.
Rather like the way Mr. Johansson had swallowed her into his gaze in the ballroom. If he’d admitted to x-ray vision, she wouldn’t have been surprised. What the hell was wrong with her? A very attractive–if somewhat unusual–man looked her over, and she’d gone to jelly? Normally, she accepted the kind of looks he’d given her as her due. Most guys at least gave her one more than a second glance, but him...
“Rubbish, hon.” She ran her hand through her hair. “You’ve been alone way too long, little lady,” she drawled the words to herself, John Wayne style. She started the car and the CD of Timeless roared, shaking the windows. This song had the potential to be a rock classic.
Her tires skidded as she drove down to the monumental black gates. She shook her head. Everything about this place seemed designed to give someone the chills.
Had the house ever been used for commercial photography before? From the imperious way he’d shown her around, she thought not. No amount of money would make it so. His words brought a grin. Everything, everyone had their price. He just hadn’t found his level yet.
The low mist swirling around the entrance gates almost made her laugh, now she’d gotten a safe distance away from the property’s owner. Hammer House of Horror. This place could be straight off one of the lots. The automatic gates swung open, and she checked the clock on the dash. If she put her foot down, she could be back at the hotel in less than an hour. She’d get most of the stuff written up before dinner and then email it with a selection of the photographs to Franklyn. A large Scotch would be sure to help her over the surprise of Count Johansson.
As her car sped down the road, she couldn’t help but chuckle. Count Johansson suited him, brass buttons on that blue blazer and all.
At the hotel, after she’d kicked off her shoes, she settled on the comfortable couch with her feet up, sipped a small splash of whisky from the mini-bar and took out the iPad, downloaded her photographs and let her imagination romp through the masked ball idea she’d had in the ballroom. Eighteenth century costumes, masks, white wigs, satin and lace and the beginning of the story of the love Timeless spoke of.
The terrace steps would be a wonderful backdrop for the quarrel between the couple. Maybe, they could use the library for the death scene?
The scarlet drapes would be a fabulous echo of the spread of blood. The bedroom for the romantic, ghostly make up scene would be perfect, of course. She stared at the screen, visualizing the other parts of the house, the kitchens, the portrait lined corridor. Perhaps Count Johansson was right and the kitchens wouldn’t be part of the shoot. A flash of hostility sparked, that he’d influenced her in any way. She clicked to save her first draft, and went down to the dining room.
Though the small restaurant was pleasant enough, dinner wasn’t a gourmet experience, and she returned to her room to work in less than an hour. By eleven, the whole scene played out in her head, and certain Franklyn and the lead singer of Dreams, Niko, would love her ideas, she clicked Send with satisfaction. Before undressing for bed she peeked out the window. The rain still beat down. She’d be glad to get back to town, and it would be at least a month before she returned here. There’d be plenty of time to put the magnetic but unsettling Mr. Johansson from her thoughts.
The oppressive temperature in the room woke her three or four times in the night. Sweat ran between her breasts, and heat seemed to radiate from her skin. Frustration thumped through her. The clock said four thirty, and she needed some sleep.
In desperation, she rose and opened the window, hoped the drapes wouldn’t end up sodden by the rain. She dropped back to the bed and lay under only the top sheet. Sleep came, but she didn’t relax.
* * * *
In her dreams, the darkened corridor strung out in front of her seemed to go on to infinity. Odd glimmers of moonlight reflected from open doors, but all her instincts told her not one of them led to sanctuary. Only the closed double doors at the far end of the corridor beckoned her to safety. A painful, icy numbness burned into the back of her neck and told her she wasn’t alone.
She glanced behind her but saw nothing in the wavering darkness. Deep, low panted sounds reached her, almost stilling her rapid breathing, and she fought the sudden urge to pee. More rasped breaths followed, and
