White Mountain. Dinah McCall

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СКАЧАТЬ a thing about Frank Walton’s family. He’d always spoken of his past in vague references and of his family in the past tense, so she’d just assumed that he had outlived them all. But what if he hadn’t? What if there was the odd family member somewhere—a cousin, an in-law—someone who, if they had but known, would also have mourned his passing?

      At the thought, she had looked up at the others and realized she knew little to nothing about them, as well. They had always been such constants in her life that she had taken them for granted, but she’d been jolted out of her complacency with the passing of her father and now her Uncle Frank. When this was over—when they could all think without wanting to cry, she was going to rectify her lack of knowledge. Family was everything, and now, except for five elderly men who were no blood kin at all, she had none.

      The digital readout on her alarm clock read 12:10 a.m. She sat up with a sigh and swung her feet off the side of the bed. Maybe a glass of warm milk would help her sleep. It didn’t sound appetizing, but it still beat the chemical hangover that a sleeping pill always gave her. Grabbing her long white robe from the closet, she stepped into her slippers and headed for the door, confident that she would be able to slip in and out of the kitchen without disturbing anyone else’s sleep.

      The soles of her slippers scooted silently along the polished hardwood floors as she moved down the hall. Seconds later, she circled the staircase and entered the lobby. Out of habit, she paused at the desk, checking the security of the hotel that was also her home. Satisfied that all was well, she started toward the kitchen. About halfway across the lobby, a hint of movement in the corner of the room caught her eye. Then, as the movement became mass and the mass became a man, her heart skipped a beat.

      “Hello…who’s there?” she called.

      She heard a catch in his breath, and when he spoke, the husky timbre of his voice made her shiver.

      Jack was still prowling about the premises in search of a vending machine when he heard a door open, then close. Instinctively he stepped back into the shadows, waiting to see who was coming, only to find himself face-to-face with a ghost. Not trusting what he thought he was seeing, he blinked, then rubbed his eyes. But the image didn’t waver or fade away. For the first time in his life, he understood the life-altering fear of being unable to move.

      It was the woman from the portrait, and she came out from behind the staircase and into the lobby, pausing at the desk as if in search of an unseen foe. The expression on her face was drawn, and although he knew it wasn’t possible, he imagined that he heard her sigh. But that didn’t make sense. Ghosts didn’t breathe.

      What was her name? Oh yes, Isabella. The clerk had called her Isabella.

      Her beauty was evident, but it was the heartbreak in her expression that made his gut knot. What terrible tragedy had she endured in life that would carry over to the grave? She started across the lobby, then suddenly stopped and looked into the shadows where he was standing. When she called out, he nearly jumped out of his skin. From all he’d ever read, ghosts didn’t carry on conversations, either. Hesitating briefly, he moved toward her without taking his gaze from her face and didn’t stop until there was less than six feet between them.

      “Isabella?”

      The man’s voice was barely above a whisper, yet her name on his lips echoed in Isabella’s ears as if he’d shouted. She was used to strangers, but she’d never seen this man before. How had he known her name?

      “How do you know me?” she asked.

      Jack took a deep breath and reached for her hand.

      Isabella flinched at the unexpected intimacy.

      The shock of solid flesh beneath Jack’s hand was as surprising to him as his touch was to Isabella.

      “You’re real!”

      Isabella frowned. “Sir…are you drunk?”

      Jack combed a shaky hand through his hair.

      “No, but I’m thinking I might like to be,” he muttered.

      “Are you a guest here?”

      He nodded. “I checked in this afternoon.”

      “Ah,” Isabella said. “That must have been when we were all at the funeral.” Then she pulled her robe closer around her body and tightened the tie even more. “I’m Isabella Abbott. Is there something wrong with your room? Is there anything that you need?”

      Jack couldn’t stop staring at her. Even though he now knew his first impression of her had been nothing more than a midnight fancy, he turned to look over his shoulder to the portrait hanging over the stairs.

      Suddenly Isabella understood.

      She hid a smile. “Did you think I was a ghost?”

      Jack looked back at her and then shrugged, unwilling to admit where his thoughts had taken him. Government agents should believe in facts, not ghosts.

      “Actually, I came down to look for some sort of vending machine. It seems I slept through dinner and everything else.” When she smiled, Jack felt his stomach tilt, and was pretty sure it had nothing to do with hunger.

      “I was on my way to the kitchen to heat some milk. I don’t much like it, but it does help me sleep. If you don’t mind a little potluck, I’m sure I can find something to make you a sandwich.”

      “Thank you, ma’am. I would certainly appreciate it.”

      This time her smile shot straight to his heart.

      “I said I’d feed you, but not if you’re going to call me, ma’am.” She extended her hand. “Please…call me Isabella.”

      Jack hesitated, then clasped her hand. It felt soft and warm and fragile. He looked straight past her smile into her eyes and saw a wellspring of such sorrow that he was overwhelmed with contrition. He’d come here under false pretenses, and making friends with anyone, especially this woman, didn’t set well with him. Then he took a deep breath and readjusted his thoughts. He wasn’t making friends. He was simply getting himself some food.

      “All right…Isabella, you have a deal.”

      “This way,” she said, and led the way into the kitchen, flipping a switch as she entered.

      Suddenly the room was bathed in light, and Jack was struck anew by her beauty. Her hair was thick and straight and black, and her eyes were the color of dark caramel. When she smiled, her eyebrows arched in an impish manner. But she was thin—almost too thin—and when she began to take food from the refrigerator to make his sandwich, he wanted to tell her to make one for herself, as well. Instead he made himself remember why he’d come and began a quiet but pointed questioning that would have made his supervisor proud.

      “So, you said earlier that you were at a funeral. I hope it wasn’t family.”

      Her posture stiffened, and then she paused in the act of putting mayonnaise onto the bread. When she answered, he had to strain to hear the words.

      “Yes, actually, it was.”

      “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

      She reached back into the refrigerator, took out a platter СКАЧАТЬ