Phantom Lover. Rebecca York

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      The ploy had been deliberate and nasty, to make her land on her face. But she kept her footing, set down her suitcase with a thunk and straightened. As she lifted her head she found herself facing a tall, thin woman wearing black slacks and a black blouse. She was standing with her arms folded tightly in front of her.

      She appeared to be in her mid-forties, with short brown hair threaded with gray strands. Her face was long and angular, and her dark eyes focused on Bree as though she were studying an insect that had crawled under the door.

      “Mrs. Martindale told me you were on your way up here, of all things! What took you so long getting from the gate to the house?”

      “In this weather I was driving cautiously,” Bree responded. Then she asked, “Are you Mrs. Sterling?”

      “Yes. Did you see anything strange?”

      Bree waited a beat then asked, “What do you mean, exactly?”

      Mrs. Sterling shrugged. “I simply want your impressions.”

      “Well, the drive is kind of spooky in the dark, with the fog rolling in.”

      The woman gave a curt nod, her lips pressed together, her eyes unnerving as they remained pinned on her unexpected guest.

      Trying to ignore the unpleasant sensation, Bree deliberately changed the focus of her gaze, looking around at the antique furniture, then craned her neck upward so she could take in the crystal chandelier.

      “Oh, it’s so good to get inside. This place is so lovely,” she gushed, drawling out the syllables like Scarlett O’Hara on her best behavior.

      “Before you make yourself at home, let me see that fax from Helen London,” Mrs. Sterling snapped, still not bothering with polite pleasantries such as, “Hello. How are you?”

      Pretending not to notice the rudeness, Bree bent, hiding her face as she opened her purse and produced the paper. She was badly off balance, but she was determined not to let it show.

      Her unwilling hostess took the fax to an elaborately carved side table and thrust the paper under the light cast by a small Tiffany lamp.

      After reading through the authorization she demanded, “And your ID. I’d like to make sure you’re who you say you are.”

      Bree’s heart was still thumping in her chest, but she calmly pulled out her wallet and extracted her driver’s license, which got the same treatment as the fax.

      With a scowl, Mrs. Sterling handed them both back. “So is your name Bonnie or Bree?”

      “Bree is my legal name now. I haven’t gotten around to changing my license.”

      “Why the switch?”

      “Bonnie is so old-fashioned,” she drawled. “Bree is so much more charming.”

      “If you want to sound like a piece of French cheese.”

      Bree blinked, wondering how to respond. But Mrs. Sterling was still speaking.

      “Yes, well, it’s inconvenient that I can’t pick up the phone and call Ms. London. As I understand it, she’s off on a special assignment and out of contact with the civilized world. Did she say why she has the authorization to hire a teacher?”

      Bree put on her best innocent face. “I’m so sorry if I’ve stepped into an awkward situation. I just hate to be a bother.” She stopped and fluttered her hands. “She mentioned that Dinah has always been home-schooled. And since her mother died—” She stopped and gestured helplessly again. “Since her mother died, teachers have taken over the job. But Ms. London seemed concerned about her niece. I mean, she said that her brother had been, uh, wallowing in grief over his wife’s death, and he hadn’t been paying adequate attention to his daughter’s welfare. So if he wasn’t going to hire a new teacher, she was going to do it for him.” She stopped abruptly, looking like she was surprised to have delivered such a long speech.

      “This is highly irregular.”

      Bree’s only reply was a helpless look. She was relieved of the obligation to answer when Mrs. Sterling’s gaze suddenly shot to the hallway on the left. “Dinah, come out here!” the woman demanded. “How many times have I told you not to sneak around?”

      Several seconds passed before a little girl stepped out from behind a display case and walked slowly into the entrance hall, stopping several paces from the adults.

      Helen had told her Dinah was six. She looked younger, small and fragile with huge, pale eyes, pale skin and a riot of unruly chestnut curls falling around her shoulders.

      It wasn’t difficult for Bree to imagine her in a long Edwardian dress, but the girl was wearing more prosaic blue jeans and a light yellow T-shirt. One arm was held stiffly at her side. The other cradled a fuzzy stuffed animal, its identity hidden by the girl’s close embrace.

      Lifting her head, she looked toward Bree, her expression expectant. “You’re my new teacher,” she said in a low voice.

      “Yes. How did you know?”

      “Daddy told me you were coming. So I’ve been waiting for you.” The small, wistful voice made Bree’s heart squeeze.

      Mrs. Sterling’s face contorted. “He couldn’t have said that! I didn’t even know she was coming.”

      Dinah gave a small, dismissive shrug. “He’s smart. He knows things you don’t.”

      The woman in black stared at the child, apparently struggling for a response. Then she imitated Dinah’s shrug. “Have it your way,” she snapped. “I think you’re lying. I think you heard us talking just now.”

      Bree tried to work her way through the exchange, the spoken part and the subtext. Helen had told her that Dinah was a very clever, very imaginative child. Was she making up the conversation with her father? Or was Troy London being held captive somewhere and Nola Sterling was angry that Dinah had managed to talk to him?

      Putting her own questions aside, Bree knelt so that she was at the little girl’s eye level. “My name is Bree Brennan,” she said, holding out her hand. “And I’m very glad I’m going to be your teacher.”

      Her face grave, Dinah extended her free arm, and they shook.

      “Who’s your friend?” Bree asked.

      “Alice.”

      “Can I see her?”

      After a short hesitation Dinah freed the stuffed toy and held it out. Bree saw gray and white fur, pointed ears and button eyes. The fur was slightly matted and worn, as though the child had been clutching the animal over a long period of time.

      Like a security blanket, Bree thought with a pang. She heard the child’s voice quaver slightly as she said, “Alice is a kitty.”

      “Yes.”

      Mrs. Sterling interrupted the exchange with strident words to Bree. “My husband and I eat quite late—too late for the little girl. СКАЧАТЬ