Lead Me On (2 page)

"Really?" she asked, fascinated.

"It was a common enough dare for kids to sneak out here and see if they could stay all night without running scared from the ghost. My sister and I took it a step farther and broke into the house with sleeping bags and stance candles." As if realizing he'd just admitted to breaking and entering, he quickly added, "This was, of course, long before your family owned the place."

"
Ghost Island
," she breathed in awe. "Your first book."

"My first published book," he clarified.

"It was about three boys who broke into a haunted house on a dare, and wound up discovering a storeroom for international art thieves." She looked about, seeing the house through different eyes. "You based that house on this one?"

"Pretty much."

"Can we tell people that? I mean, would you mind?"

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter to me."

"Oh, this is wonderful. I think guests will be fascinated. So, did you make it the whole night?"

"Barely." He chuckled. The sound was even more appealing than his lopsided grins. "Although once the sun was up, I'm not sure if we were relieved or disappointed that Marguerite never put in an appearance."

She laughed nervously, suddenly aware of how closely they stood together—so close that she caught the faint scent of soap and his freshly laundered shirt.

"So, what about you?" he asked, tipping his head to study her. "Did you ever sneak out here as a kid to see if Marguerite would reveal herself?"

"No, actually none of us, Adrian, Rory, or I, ever did." To gain some distance, she started up the stairs again. "That probably sounds odd, since Marguerite is our ancestor and we had more reason than most to want to see her. I guess it was just too much of a sore spot for all of us."

"What do you mean?"

"The house wasn't ours by right of inheritance, as it should have been. We still wouldn't own it if it hadn't come up for sale on a bank foreclosure a year ago. Marguerite's husband, Henri LeRoche, left the island and all his wealth to his nephew rather than his daughter, Nicole."

"Except Nicole Bouchard wasn't Henri LeRoche's daughter. Otherwise, why would she have taken her mother's maiden name?"

Surprise stopped Alli at the top of the stairs. She knew people said such things behind their backs, but rarely to their faces. "I see you did spend a lot of time in Galveston to have heard that bit of old slander."

"We writers are a curious lot," he said, not sounding the least contrite. "Which is probably the answer to your question about where ideas come from."

"Well, you can let your curiosity rest on that subject. The rumors are nothing more than vicious lies against Marguerite, invented by the LeRoche family to justify keeping Nicole's inheritance."

"It can't all be lies. After all, Marguerite was trying to run off with her pirate lover the night she and her husband fought on these very stairs and she fell, breaking her neck." He gestured down the grand sweep of stairs.

Alli straightened, ignoring a sudden rush of vertigo. "First of all, Marguerite didn't fall. Henri pushed her down these stairs. And secondly, her lover, Captain Jack Kingsley, was a Confederate blockade runner, not a pirate or a Yankee spy, as Henri claimed."

"But he was her lover."

"That hardly means Nicole Bouchard was illegitimate. She was born years before Marguerite even met Captain Kingsley."

Scott started to argue the point further—amused to see the kitten had claws when her fur was rubbed the wrong way—but the scent of lemon polish and fresh flowers distracted him. Glancing around, he found the upper hall had been turned into a sitting room with comfortable chairs and a sideboard for serving coffee and hot tea. "Impressive."

"Thank you." Her crisp voice made him hide a smile. What a shame Allison St. Claire was too sweet for him to even think about seducing, since she apparently had a spark of passion beneath the surface.

Turning, she headed across the sitting area, her back rigid.

"So, have you ever seen her?" he asked as they reached the door to his room.

She shook her head. "Marguerite never actually shows herself. She makes her presence felt in other ways."

"How so?"

Allison looked up in the process of unlocking the door. "I'm surprised you don't know, since you seem knowledgeable about everything else."

"Amuse me." He leaned against the doorjamb, which brought him closer to her eye level.

"Marguerite is considered to be a good-luck charm, because of a blessing from the voodoo midwife who birthed her."

"Well, I knew that. I was hoping you could offer some proof that the charm really works. Or at least tell me if it works for anyone staying in the house, or only the owners."

Confusion replaced the anger in her eyes. "Is that why you're here? To borrow some of Marguerite's good luck?"

"Maybe." He shrugged as if the matter were of little importance.

"I'm surprised a man with your talent would feel the need for magic." Her gaze flickered over his face.

He studied his fingernails to keep her from seeing any hint of desperation in his eyes. "In addition to being curious, writers are notoriously superstitious. If I thought it would get me a number one slot on the
New York Times
best-seller list, I'd write naked in the middle of Times Square."

"You've already done that."

"What? Write naked in Times Square?" He grinned at her.

"No!" A breathy laugh escaped her. "I mean you've made number one on the best-seller lists. Many times."

"Hey, it never hurts to hedge your bets." The vivid pink in her cheeks intrigued him, and he wondered what it would take to make her cheeks go all the way to red. "Who's to say the success of
Ghost Island
wasn't due in part to Marguerite? I did get the idea while staying here."

"I've always thought the power of a charm comes more from believing in it than anything supernatural."

"If it works, it works."

"True." With a jiggle of keys, she opened the door and headed for a bedside table where she clicked on a lamp.

Scott took in the paisley wallpaper, heavy four-poster bed, and other furniture that gave the room a masculine feel. Whoever had decorated the inn had a taste for quality antiques.

She flung open three sets of heavy draperies, revealing a wall of windows that faced the cove. Sunlight poured in as she rattled off the routine for laundry and room cleaning. She opened another set of draperies, revealing a door to the second-floor balcony. He knew a larger balcony, off the ballroom on the third floor, loomed directly above. It was from that balcony Henri had fired a cannon on Jack Kingsley's ship, killing his wife's lover. The remains of the ship and Kingsley's ghost were said to still be at the bottom of the cove ... with the two ghosts forever looking for a way to reunite.

"You'll want to keep this door locked, since you share the balcony with the Pearl."

"The ghost?"

"No." Allison laughed lightly. "The Pearl is what we call Marguerite's old suite in the tower since she was known as the Pearl of New Orleans during her days as an opera singer. Just as we call this suite the Baron, since 'shipping baron' was the nicest term we could think of to describe Henri."

"Makes sense." Scott nodded.

"I think that covers everything." She folded her hands before her, looking perfectly composed except for the color still glowing in her cheeks. "Do you have any questions?"

"Just one." He stepped back to see under the desk. "Where's the modem hookup?"

"Oh, we don't have phones in the rooms. So many people carry mobile phones, we decided it wasn't necessary. We do have a computer set up in the music room, though, so guests can check e-mail."

He stared at her a moment. "No phones in the rooms?"

"I'm afraid not." Worry flickered across her brow. "Is that a problem?"

"Actually"—he smoothed his beard to hide a smile— "that's the best news I've had in weeks."

"Oh." The comment obviously confused her. "Well then, I'll leave you to settle in." He nodded as she made her way to the door. "If you need anything at all, please let us know."

"I'll do that."

The moment she left, he glanced about. "Hear that, Marguerite? If I need anything at all ... Well, right now, I could use a damn good idea for my next novel."

Taking a seat at the desk, he booted up the computer, then stared at the blank screen. His mind remained equally blank. After several minutes he let his gaze drift back to the door. "Although, as long as I'm asking for 'anything,' how about you make your great-great-great-granddaughter a little bit less of a 'nice girl'?"

Allison hurried downstairs to share her news with her brother and sister. When she entered the kitchen, her dog, Sadie, bounded up from her pallet in the corner with a happy bark. The sassy little sheltie trotted over to greet her, while Adrian and Aurora didn't miss a beat in their ongoing food fight.

"Come on, Adrian," Rory pleaded with one hand resting on her pregnant stomach. "I know you have some nuts in here somewhere."

"For the thousandth time, no," Adrian insisted. "And for the millionth time, the doctor told you to cut back on salty food to keep your ankles from swelling."

"It's not the salt I need. It's nuts. Any nuts."

"Still at it?" Alli whispered to Sadie as she hunkered down to ruffle the sable and white coat. Sadie grinned back, her brown eyes twinkling.

"Waldorf salad," Rory muttered as she waddled past them on her way to the refrigerator. Because of Rory's height, her pregnancy had taken a while to become apparent, but now that she'd reached her final weeks her belly expanded daily.

Alli always marveled that she and her sister were so different in both temperament and looks. While she was reserved and petite and had the coloring of their French ancestors, Rory was as outgoing as one would expect of a woman nearly six feet tall with long tumbling curls of golden-red hair. As Rory rummaged through the fridge, their older brother shook his head in amused frustration.

"You already picked all the walnuts out of the salad last night," Adrian complained as he slid a batch of lemon

poppy muffins into the oven. He wore a red T-shirt and wildly patterned chef's pants, but the long black ponytail and small gold earring made him look more pirate than cook.

"Pistachio almond ice cream," Rory said, moving from the refrigerator to the freezer.

"Apparently you ate the last pint some time during the night," Adrian said, "because it's all gone."

"Oh." Rory's shoulders slumped. "Chance didn't tell me it was the last one." Narrowing her eyes, she glanced about the massive kitchen with its red brick walls and aged rafters. The room held a homey scent that came from generations of cooking, a fragrance that had captured Allison's heart when they'd first toured the house. Now it held a year of memories as well, of their struggles to buy the neglected old mansion and restore it to its former grandeur. The place was so much more than a business to them. It was a symbol of family. A home where they could stay together, always, rather than scatter as most siblings did.

"Pecans." Rory nodded. "I can melt some chocolate, stir in some butter, sugar, a little cream ..."

Adrian spread his arms to guard the cabinet that held his baking staples. "Don't even think it. I have three orders of brownies to fill for the other B and Bs."

"Beer nuts?" Rory tried, her blue eyes hopeful.

Adrian hesitated a fraction of a second. "Uh, fresh out. Really. I swear."

"Aha! You have beer nuts hidden somewhere." Rory waddled through a door that led to a back hall, where a food pantry was tucked beneath the main stairs. "Where are they?"

"Get out of my pantry this minute, Aurora St. Claire." Adrian hurried after her.

"Aurora Chancellor," Rory corrected.

"Whatever. Those nuts are for my poker game tomorrow night. Touch 'em and you're a dead woman."

"Just tell me where you hid them, Adrian, and no one will get hurt."

Allison buried her face against Sadie's fur to stifle a laugh as she listened to the two of them argue in the pantry.

"No, Rory, they're for the guys," Adrian insisted.

"
Pleeeeease
, I'm begging you. You're dealing with a desperate woman here."

"I said no."

"Okay, if not for me, how about for your niece? You wouldn't deprive an innocent, unborn child of peanuts would you?"

Allison heard a pause before her brother gave in. "Oh, all right, but I swear I'm getting a padlock for the pantry."

"Mmm, thank you. Mmm." Rory returned to the kitchen a moment later digging a hand into a canister with a homemade label. Adrian had written the word "poison" in black marker and even drawn a skull and crossbones, which should have been a dead giveaway.

Adrian reappeared, shaking his head in disgust. "We need to do something, Alli. Enroll her in Nut Eaters Anonymous or something. The situation is clearly out of control."

Allison gave Sadie a final pet before standing. "Somehow I think it will take care of itself once the baby's born."

"Man, I hope so," Adrian said.

"In the meantime ..." Allison let a smile blossom over her face. "Guess who just checked in?"

Curiosity lit Adrian's eyes when he saw her expression. "Are we talking about someone besides the Mr. Scott we're expecting?"

"Nope." She shook her head. "But Scott isn't his last name."

"He showed up? Thank goodness." Rory sighed as she lowered herself into a seat at the worktable. The windows at her back framed the sun-drenched trees and yard behind the mansion. "Although I'm still sorry for doing such a sloppy job taking the reservation. It's just that the day he called, I was about to go down for my afternoon nap."

"More like afternoon coma," Adrian mumbled.

Rory wrinkled her nose at him. "So I get a little tired halfway through the day. I swear, though, I didn't even realize I hadn't taken down his full name until I woke up. Which was when I realized I hadn't asked for his phone number either, so I couldn't even call him back." She settled deeper into the chair with the can of nuts on her stomach. "Sometimes I think being pregnant causes temporary brain damage. At least I hope it's temporary."

"Never mind that now." Allison offered her sister a sympathetic smile. "He showed up, so we didn't lose any money by holding the room. Now, try to guess who he is."

"Give us a hint," Adrian said as he carried the mixing bowl and baking utensils to the sink.

"Okay. One hint," Allison agreed as she automatically moved forward to help with the dishes. "He's an author."

Adrian tipped his head in thought as he grabbed a soapy sponge and started washing. "Well, it can't be F. Scott Fitzgerald, since he's dead."

"Unless Marguerite is inviting ghosts over," Rory pointed out. When Adrian gave her an older-brother-to-irritating-little-sister look she just shrugged. "It could happen."

"He's definitely not a ghost," Allison said, rinsing each item her brother handed her.

Adrian thought a bit more. "Orson Scott Card, the sci-fi writer?"

"No."

"M. Scott Peck?"

"No."

"Scott Lawrence?"

"Yes!"

"No kidding?" Adrian's eyes went wide.

"Would I kid about something like this?" Allison said. "And, get this, he says he's here to work, which I guess is why he's staying so long."

"So he's really staying a whole month?" Rory asked.

"Yep," Alli answered.

"Well, thank you, Marguerite, for small favors," Rory said, referring to the good luck Marguerite brought. The inn was taking off nicely, but they were still in the first year of business, when every penny mattered. Renting the Baron for a month would definitely help their cash flow.

Adrian let out a laugh. "Scott Lawrence writing a book while staying at our inn. Talk about publicity."

"It gets better." Alli smiled as she dried the mixing bowl. "He told me the house in
Ghost Island
is based on this house. He and his sister broke in here as kids and stayed the night. Which is what gave him the idea for the book."

"Oh man." Adrian looked to Rory. "That has to go in our brochure."

"You got it," Rory nodded since publicity was her department. They each handled a different area of running the business. Rory took care of promoting the inn and renting the rooms, her husband, Chance, served as bookkeeper and business manager, Adrian cooked, and Alli ran the gift shop. When it came to making the guests welcome, though, they all pitched in as needed.

Just then, a dark blue BMW pulled up by the back entrance, and Rory's eyes widened like a kid about to be caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She glanced around for a place to hide the can of nuts. At the sound of the back door opening, she slammed the lid on the can and set it on the floor, then dusted any telltale evidence from her mouth. By the time her husband, Oliver Chancellor, entered the kitchen, she was sitting primly in the chair with a smile of pure innocence. "Hi, honey. How was your trip to the post office?"

"It was ... a trip." Chance shook his head, his expression a bit dazed. With his tall, thin build, wire-rimmed glasses, and neat blond hair, he managed to look like a rich banker's son even when wearing shorts and a golf shirt. When Rory tilted her head back, he bent and kissed her lips, then pulled back with a frown. "Why do you taste salty?"

"Salty?" Rory batted her eyes. "I have no idea."

Allison saw her brother roll his eyes as she struggled not to laugh. Chance just growled playfully and kissed his wife again, longer this time.

In the midst of that perfect moment, filled with such happiness, fear whispered against the back of Alli's neck. She shook it away, determined to ignore it. Her sister and Chance were blissfully married and expecting their first child. Their business was going well and picking up daily. She had to quit looking around corners waiting for tragedy to jump out and destroy everything.

Chance straightened with a weary sigh and Rory's smile faded as she studied his face. "Something's wrong."

" 'Fraid so." He looked at all of them. "Apparently John LeRoche isn't too happy with our refusal to sell Pearl Island back to him. Because now"—Chance held up an envelope—"he's suing us."

"What?"
Adrian and Rory demanded as Allison's stomach dropped.

"He's also suing the Liberty Union National Bank," Chance went on, referring to the bank his family had founded in the mid-1800s, then sold recently to an East Coast banking chain. "He's claiming there was some dirty dealing involved in the bank's decision to foreclose on his loan and seize possession of Pearl Island."

"But he's the one who put the property up as collateral, then fell six months behind on his payments," Rory protested.

"He's also claiming I personally used prior knowledge to help the three of you buy the property before he had the opportunity to rectify the situation."

"That's ridiculous!" Adrian dried his hands, then threw the dish towel on the counter. "You told us yourself that your father tried to give him first right of refusal, but he showed no interest back then. Why the sudden interest now?"

"Who knows?" Chance sighed.

"I think I do." Allison clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. "Chance, didn't you say John LeRoche has had a string of financial setbacks since he lost the house?"

"I've heard rumors to that effect," Chance confirmed. "Apparently it started when he first took out the loan. He used the money for a business venture that failed, and everything he's touched since has gone sour. Still, it'll take a lot more than that to topple a fortune the size of LeRoche Enterprises."

"Even so ..." Allison said. "I think he wants the Pearl back."

"That doesn't make sense." Adrian glanced from her to Chance. "If he believes in the Pearl, why didn't he take steps to keep the house a year ago when the bank started threatening to foreclose?"

"Maybe he didn't believe in the legend back then," Allison offered. "But once his luck with making money evaporated, he may have started blaming everything on losing the Pearl. So now he wants her back."