She left her bags and slid between the door and the frame. Once inside, her lungs were accosted with a deep mildew scent. A string of cobwebs attached itself to every inch of her exposed skin. She resisted the urge to scream.
Ivy concentrated on the house as she turned, flashing the light around the hallway. Even in its state of decay, it was magnificent. She guessed the hallway, with its antique wood flooring and dark wood trim, was once grand. A stunning glass chandelier hung from the tall ceiling. She’d never seen anything like it before. She wondered if it still worked. She found the switch and lifted it, jiggled it twice, but nothing. Not even a spark. She hoped it only needed a change of bulbs.
She continued her perusal as she moved along the shadows like a thief in the night. It was so quiet she found herself instinctively walking on tiptoe.
Stopping at the next doorway, she peeked in and shined her light around the small space. She stepped into the room with caution. A ratty-looking settee, a small wooden chair and a wooden table on its last three legs filled the area.
She wandered down the hall. The next room was absolutely gorgeous. A huge stone fireplace covered one wall. The massive wooden mantel was lost beneath years of dirt, but a swipe of her finger told her it remained in good condition. There was another spectacular chandelier, not in working order–no surprise–but there was enough light filtering in through the two large windows that she could shut off the flashlight. She dropped it back in her purse.
Faded and shredded drapes hung from bent rods. She pushed them open and a huge cloud of ageless dust exploded. She stepped back, coughing, and covered her mouth and nose until she could breathe again.
The sun flowed in, giving the room a golden glow, a new life. The house had so much potential. It was a shame it had stood empty for so long. Her mind conjured up a list of possibilities. It would have made an elaborate bed and breakfast accommodation or the home of a wealthy historical enthusiast, maybe even a home for a family.
When Marcus Thornton built the house in the early eighteen hundreds it had been a grand place, designed for beauty and wealth. During Marcus’s first marriage to Sarah Mitchell, there had been many social gatherings and parties with the most prestigious invited. When Sarah died, so had the social gatherings.
Ivy headed toward the modern French doors, guessing they were added by the most recent owner. Through the dirty glass panels she caught a blurry vision of the overgrown remains of a flower garden and a huge oak tree. There were several more small rooms, stripped of furniture, with no hints of past life.
Back in the hallway, she stopped and looked up at the winding staircase that seemed to sweep upward for miles. She couldn’t wait to explore the upstairs. She climbed each step as anticipation made her heart beat faster.
In the upstairs hallway the carpet was faded and threadbare. The four bedrooms were beautiful and spacious. One room tucked away at the end of the hallway was locked, which ignited Ivy’s curiosity. She tugged and pulled on the knobs of the double doors. They creaked but didn’t budge. She pushed. No movement.
Frustrated, she shook the knobs harder. Still nothing. On the verge of giving up, she tried again. It turned. Her mouth dropped open. A prickly sensation coursed through her as she stared at the door in bewilderment. Had it been locked? She checked the knob for a keyhole. There wasn’t one.
She opened the doors wide and looked in. She held her breath. The master suite. It was without a doubt the most elaborate, beautiful room of the house. The pink walls were faded but remained pretty. The three large windows overlooked the garden and out over the rolling hills. She wasn’t sure how much work the current owner had done, but the massive four-poster, cherrywood bed remained, covered in a green satin comforter. She couldn’t understand why it hadn’t been sold or destroyed along with the rest of the furniture in the house.
The entire bedroom was in good, moderately clean order. It held a certain warmth–something she couldn’t quite pinpoint.
She found the bathroom through a set of thin-glassed windows. It was fit for a queen. She could have fit her home bathroom into this one three times. The fixtures were lovely in bronze, the ceramic tiled floor and walls decorated with hand-painted flowers. The bath was vast. In curiosity, she turned the knob of the bath faucet. It gurgled twice, spat awkwardly, and then spurted a stream of water. The water was tainted a tan shade but she was sure if it were left running a short time it’d run clear.
She glanced at her slender watch. Her company would be arriving soon. With a twist of the faucet knob to off, she headed back into the bedroom.
Downstairs, Ivy turned the corner into the corridor. She stopped when she heard a creak. She listened. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a shadow sweep across the wall. She turned and looked as it disappeared. “Hello?” she called out. No answer. Was it Max Shepard? Hadn’t he heard her? She stomped down the hall and burst into the room. “Hello–”
The room was empty.
Ivy swallowed the taste of fright. A shiver raced across her skin. She had seen someone, or had she? She rubbed her eyes and sighed. Maybe the shadows were playing tricks on her.
Another loud crack in the flooring behind her sent Ivy twisting in alarm. The sun coming through the window blinded her. All Ivy could see was the flash of bright light before she acted on impulse. She drew her fist back and punched–landing on something solid. The force behind her connection with skin and bone sent her off balance, flailing backward. A hand on her wrist pulled her hard against a steely frame.
She brought her eyes up and met a dark stare, just as she felt wobbling. The impact of her body had sent him a step back. He lost his balance and together they fell to the wooden floor. The air whooshed from his chest as Ivy landed on top of the stranger.
Ivy cringed as she closed her eyes. She remained very still. She wanted nothing more than for the floor to swallow her whole. Several long seconds floated by. Neither of them said a word. She finally opened her eyes.
Embarrassed and confused, Ivy laid her palms against his shoulders, pushing herself up. She looked directly into his not-so-pleased expression and gulped. Enchanting green eyes, prominent cheekbones, midnight hair...and a pissed-off set to his jaw. She’d made a mistake–a huge one. “Max Shepard.” It wasn’t a question. She already knew the answer.
He narrowed his eyes. “Ivy Kennedy, journalist and amateur boxer?”
She couldn’t tell whether it was sarcasm or anger. She did notice the deep, rich tone of his voice did funny things to the pit of her stomach. His voice wasn’t the only toned part of him. Their bodies being pressed together gave her an up close and personal testimonial of his physical assets. From broad chest, tight abs to long legs, she could feel tight muscles and a curious bulge behind his zipper. She scooted her hip around the swelling in his jeans. Heat spread through her body.
One corner of his mouth lifted. “It’s my cell.” Could he see straight through her?
“Cell?”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out something and held up his phone. Ivy was certain her skin changed into the perfect color of mortification. She wondered just how bad this could get. She could handle this. Pasting a smile on her face, she said, “Nice to meet you.” The temperature rose between them into the triple digits. Their bodies seemed to melt together. Ivy’s nerves made her heady, making her feel like she floated on a cloud. He didn’t look like the pictures she’d seen on the internet. He looked more distinguished in person. “You’re older than I thought,” she blurted.
He curved his brow. “Older?”
Damn. “Older, I mean, in a good way.” All humor left his face. She licked her bottom lip and nervously pushed her hair behind her ear. “My mother said I have a bad habit of saying the most awkward things and rambling–” She swallowed. “–like I am now.”
She felt his heart race