Kay Hooper - The Haunting of Josie

Contents

She was a woman of secrets in a house of shadows and he held the key....
Marc Westbrook would have made a good warlock, Josie Douglas decided--with his raven-dark hair, silver eyes, and even a black cat in his arms! She'd chosen the isolated house as a refuge, a place to put the past to rest, but now her gorgeous landlord insisted on fighting her demons ...and why did he so resemble the ghostly figure who'd beckoned to her from the head of the stairs?
In a novel that sparkles with her unique blend of romantic mystery and spicy wit, Kay Hooper once more demonstrates her talent for seduction and suspense. Will her bewitched hero succumb to his lady's sorcery or enchant her forever with a spell of his own?

PROLOGUE

From his position at the top of a small rise, he could see the house clearly. It was a nice house. An interesting house, with the definite possibility of lots of nooks and crannies. The roof was angular with peaks and gables, and the numerous windows gleamed redly from the light of the setting sun. A wide porch, complete with aging wicker furniture, ran along two sides of the house and enticed with a view of the surrounding countryside.

In the fall the view was rather cheerless. The vibrant, colorful leaves of the hardwood trees had dropped long before, leaving their branches bare, and the grass of the hills looked bleached and curiously flattened. He could see a sprawling, overgrown garden in back of the house, the paths hardly more than rabbit trails winding among ragged hedges, ivy-covered benches, greenish bird-baths, browned and dried flowers, and naked rosebushes in desperate need of pruning.

Still, it was an oddly inviting place, placid in the momentary pause between hot weather and cold, solidly there as if its roots were planted deeply. Though the garden and surrounding land was obviously neglected, the house itself showed signs of recent repairs: new shingles covered the roof, a thick layer of pristine gravel coated the driveway, and the scent of fresh paint lingered in the still, cool air.

Just beyond the overgrown garden, he could see the roof of another structure, perhaps a small cottage that, in a richer age, might once have provided living quarters for a housekeeping couple or the gardener. Or it might have been designed for guests, an elegantif inconvenientattempt to provide privacy. He could see nothing else of the building, but since the shingles covering that roof also appeared new, it looked as if the cottage had seen the same recent repairs as the house.

He returned his gaze to the house, studying the rather battered van that was parked at the end of the sidewalk and was packed to the brim with boxes and bags. As he watched, a slender, redheaded young woman in jeans and a sweatshirt came out of the house and went to the van. He couldn't see what she was doing since the bulk of the vehicle blocked his view, but in just a few minutes she returned to the house heavily laden with several small boxes, one garment bag, and a closed umbrella.

Ah. Obviously, she was moving in.

When she disappeared through the front door, he made his way down the hill toward the house. The gravel of the driveway crunched pleasantly under his feet, and he paused a moment to examine the small white pebbles. Then he continued on until he reached the remains of what had once been a picket fence surrounding the small front yard; there was only a single post now where a gate had once stood, and the post that had once held a mailbox now provided only a crooked platform where the box would have sat.

He jumped up on that and sat, waiting.

When she came back down the sidewalk, the woman paused and regarded him in surprise. She looked tousled but not at all tired. Her bright hair was caught in an untidy braid, with escaping wisps of red that framed her face, and there was a smudge of something sooty on her nose. Her unusual violet eyes were very bright and vivid with energy.

"Well, hello. Where did you come from?"

He liked her voice. It was quiet yet lilting, and vibrant with the same interest that filled her eyes. He replied to her politely, offering greetings.

Her smile widened, and she reached out to touch him, careful until he raised his chin and purred happily. Then she scratched him in just the right way, her slim fingers deft and knowledgeable as they moved beneath his chin and behind his ears.

"The realtor said the owner was living somewhere on the place in a cottage," she remarked to him, still gently scratching. "I suppose you live with him?"

He ventured a somewhat muffled response, his eyes half-closed and chin still raised in bliss.

"Well, you're not a stray, that's for sure. You've obviously been fed and brushed on a regular basis. And then, there's this." With a last scratch, she reached for the silver tag hanging from his decorative collar and read the single word silently. She raised her eyebrows as she met his limpid gaze. This time her voice held definite surprise. "Pendragon?"

He affirmed this cordially.

She laughed. "Forgive me, please, but that's an odd name for a cateven a black one. Are you somebody's familiar?"

He expressed scorn for this.

She laughed again, obviously understandinghis tone if not the actual language. "All right, I was just asking. Well, Pendragon, my name is Josie. It's nice to meet you."

Since she accompanied the words with a luxurious stroke all the way down his back, his throaty response was more than usually delighted.

"You're welcome to check the house for mice or bugs," she told him agreeably. "And you can even sleep on my bed as long as whoever else you own doesn't mind."

He appreciated the delicacy of her invitation; only cat people understood that cats were never owned; if there was any belonging, it was on the part of their humans. He accepted her offer with dignified pleasure.

She chuckled and scratched him briefly under his chin. "Okay. The front door's open, so you can explore inside, but I'd appreciate it if you stay out of my way while I'm carrying stuff in. The last thing I need is to break something falling over you. Got it?"

He indicated that he got it.

"Good. Then welcome to Westbrook. That's the name of the house, they tell me. It's named after the writer who built it back in the thirties."

She stepped to the van and began pulling more boxes out, still talking casually to the watching cat.

"I didn't know about the writer until after I signed the lease, but it seems a good omen to me. I mean, Luke Westbrook is supposed to have said this place inspired him to write, so maybe it'll help me with my work. Think it might, cat?"

Pendragon replied with a suitably ambiguous opinion, and watched as she gathered up two file boxes, a small suitcase, and another umbrella, to carry inside. When she staggered up the sidewalk toward the house, a hint of movement from another direction caught his attention, and he raised his gaze to one of the high windows to search out the source of the motion.

It was hardly more than a flicker, as though a curtain had been twitched back into place.

Pendragon watched for a moment longer, but there was no further movement. He murmured something in the back of his throat and jumped off the mailbox platform. Tail held high, he strolled up the sidewalk toward the house.

Where there were lots of nooks and crannies.

"Excuse me, but"

Josie nearly jumped out of her skin. Not only was the deep masculine voice unfamiliar, it was totally unexpected. Though there were houses scattered about the countryside, none was close enough to invite curious neighbors to stroll over, particularly on a dreary fall afternoon.

But even as she turned quickly away from her van to face him, she remembered that the owner of Westbrook was also staying "on the place" in a cottage, as the realtor had offhandedly explained. He hadn't explained a few other vital bits of information, however, and she was suddenly very conscious of her faded jeans, sloppy sweatshirt, and the disastrous state of her once-neat braid.