Dangerous Attraction Romantic Suspense Boxed Set (251 page)

“It’s not like Jordan Campbell can’t afford to do it right.”

“He’s not making the decisions.”

She was brought back to her immediate reality as another fork of lightning split the sky directly in front of her. In the sudden brightness, she spotted the small sign announcing Campbell’s Reach. The lamp above it was off, and she realized that if the lightning hadn’t illuminated her surroundings, she would have missed the entrance to the property and ended up at a town called Fort Bragg, another fifteen miles up the coast.

Apparently someone had forgotten to turn on the light, or they’d deliberately left it off. But she wasn’t exactly surprised.

“Decorah Agent Andrews reporting for duty,” she muttered under her breath as she turned in at the access road to the estate.

“It’s an isolated location,” Frank had told her. “The only large privately owned property left along this stretch of coast. All of the other big estates have been turned into hotels, subdivided into plots for tract mansions, or converted to state parks. But Jordan had the funds to hang on to the house and grounds.”

Hannah clenched the wheel as she drove up the winding access road. She’d seen pictures of the plantings, and she knew they were gorgeous, but they were only blobs in the darkness now. Taking this job had made sense when Frank had talked to her in San Francisco. And to be truthful, something about Jordan Campbell had compelled her to accept. It wasn’t his background. Really, he could be characterized as a ruthless businessman. But every time she looked at a picture or video of him, something in his eyes drew her. He might be smiling, but there was something below the surface that made her think of a little boy who had never gotten what he really wanted for Christmas.

She made a dismissive sound. That was certainly taking the holiday season and weaving a fantasy around Mr. Campbell.

She’d seen Frank breathe a sigh of relief when she’d accepted the job and realized that the assignment meant more to him than the client’s fee. But she hadn’t asked about that because she sensed that Frank was a very private person, and he wasn’t going to reveal more than he wanted her to know about himself.

Once she was on board, Frank had called in two other Decorah agents, and she’d realized they’d come to San Francisco with him, waiting on standby for her decision. One was Rafe Gascon who was based in New Orleans. The other was Ben Walker, from the Maryland office. She was surprised to find out that, like her, each of them had paranormal powers. Ben could focus in on the last memories of a dead person. And Rafe could hold an object belonging to someone and go back to an important scene in that individual’s life.

But they didn’t rely exclusively on those abilities. They and Frank had given her an intensive three-day course in covert operations which had also included shooting lessons at a local range. She’d felt a lot more confident when the training was completed, and Frank had given her a Glock model 19 that was now in her luggage.

This evening she wondered if she’d been fooling herself. Was she really ready for this?

When she came to a gate across the road, she rolled down her window, and reached to press the button on an intercom. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she felt herself being studied through the camera lens above the speaker, but nobody acknowledged that she’d rung. After several moments, she was about to try again when a woman’s voice finally asked, “Yes? Who is it?”

Probably the housekeeper, Anabel Estes, an older woman who had been taking care of the estate for more than ten years.

“I’m Hannah Andrews,” she answered, “The nurse Mrs. Campbell hired.” She kept her gaze steady, hoping her carefully calculated image would disarm Mrs. Estes and the other people in the mansion. She had pulled back her shoulder-length blond hair into a no-nonsense bun, and she wore no makeup. Probably the frumpy woman in the camera lens looked ten years older than her real age—twenty-eight.

“I’ll need some identification,” the voice over the intercom answered.

Hannah held up her driver’s license, glad that the picture was less than flattering, trying to calm the pounding of her heart.

“All right,” came the grudging response. As the woman spoke, the gate creaked open.

This was it. There was no turning back now. And once she drove inside, she would be a virtual prisoner at Campbell’s Reach. She knew that there was no cell-phone service out here. And there was only so much she could say to Frank in a coded e-mail. With a sigh that was part trepidation and part relief at getting past the dragon at the gate, Hannah drove through. As the barrier clanked shut behind her, she couldn’t help thinking of a maximum security facility. Which this was, as far as Jordan Campbell was concerned.

The moon had come out from behind a cloud, letting her see pine trees dripping with green moss that fluttered in the wind blowing off the ocean.

As she rounded a curve in the drive, lightning illuminated the outline of what looked like a stone castle—perhaps conceived by J. K. Rowling. Probably it had been built as a monument to the Campbell family fortune which had originally been made in mining, railroads, and illegal imports from China. But the illegal part was in the past. Frank had investigated Jordan and found that his business dealings were compulsively honest.

Fog swirled across the pavement, adding to the eerie quality of setting, and the Bing Crosby song Hannah had heard in the coffee shop came back to her. This wasn’t what Bing meant by a white Christmas. As she reached the front of the building, the rain finally broke with a burst of hail crashing onto the car roof.

Pulling forward, she was relieved to discover that she could get out of the elements under a covered porte cochere. As she stepped out, a blast of cold air whipped at her hair, pulling strands from her tidy bun. And the trees swaying in the wind moaned as the rain struck them.

“Hang on Jordan; I’m here,” she said as she walked around to the rear of the car. Unlocking the trunk, she reached in to get her suitcase and felt a wave of cold hit her neck, sending a shiver over her skin.

It was an unexpected welcome, almost like the castle ghost wanted to scare her off before she even started the job, and she took a moment to regain her composure.

Shaking off the fanciful notion, she turned toward the solid oak door, where an evergreen Christmas wreath with a big red bow looked out of place in the fog-shrouded surroundings. Before she could locate the bell, the door was flung open, making the wreath flap against the polished wood.

Hannah found herself facing a short, heavy woman wearing a black skirt and a white blouse. Like her body, her face was rounded, with short salt-and-pepper hair. The effect made her look like a prison matron.

She stood with her lips pressed together, her eyes unnerving as they remained pinned on Hannah.

“You’re Mrs. Estes?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know my name?”

“From Mrs. Campbell. I mean Ethel Campbell.”

The woman snorted. “She’s interfering again.”

“She wants the best for her grandson.”

“Then why doesn’t she come to the estate herself?”

“She’s not in good enough health to make the drive here.”

The woman snorted. “She has enough money to take a medi helicopter.”

The conversation was interrupted by another voice.

“You’re the new nurse?”

“Yes.”

“It’s about time. You’d better come upstairs right now.”

The comments came from a tall man in his early forties who had walked up behind the housekeeper.

“And you are?” Hannah asked.

“Richard Harkness, Jordan’s cousin. You’re needed immediately.”

Alarm shot through her as she took in the tone of his voice.

“Has Mr. Campbell taken a turn for the worse?”

Her heart started to pound as she waited for the answer. She’d just gotten here, and she had no idea what she would be facing now.

“That’s not for me to say, is it?” Richard Harkness snapped.

Chapter Four

Stepping into the house, Hannah got a quick impression of dark paneled walls, high-end antique furniture and portraits in gilded frames as she followed Harkness across the foyer. At the back of the house, she glimpsed a parlor with a massive Christmas tree in the corner. Before they reached it, her guide turned off toward a sweeping staircase. She was tempted to ask the cousin why Mr. Campbell wasn’t being cared for in a hospital, if the family was worried about his condition, just to see what he would say. But she kept the question locked behind her lips. No point in starting off with any more hostility than necessary.

“I assume you were filled in on the case,” Harkness said over his shoulder as she followed him up the stairs.

“Yes,” she answered when she reached the wide upper hall, lined with more paintings, some landscapes and some portraits. There was no time to stop and take a closer look, because Harkness hurried her along to a room about a third of the way down the hall.

Opening the door, he walked inside, and a heavy-set, gray-haired woman in a white uniform rose from the small desk that sat beneath one of the three large windows. Two of the windows flanked a king-size four-poster bed, its beautifully carved posts and headboard rising toward the high ceiling. Beyond it was a fireplace with two comfortable chairs pulled close. Another wreath hung over the fireplace.

The other nurse, presumably Mrs. Fahrenhold, from the description Hannah had gotten, looked her up and down, taking her measure, Hannah thought. She was taller than Richard Harkness, and she looked like she could lift patients out of bed by herself while she changed the sheets.

“It’s about time you got here,” she snapped. “I’ve been working all day, and I need a break.”

So that was the emergency, Hannah thought with an inward sigh.

“We’ll pay you time and a half,” Harkness said to the other woman.

“Double time,” she corrected, and Hannah wondered who was really in charge here.

Hannah held out her hand. “I’m Hannah Andrews. I’ll get started immediately,” she said, although she was tired from the drive up from San Francisco, out of uniform, and on edge from this brief encounter with the Campbell household.

The woman ignored the hand. “Ava Fahrenhold. We’ll talk later. My notes are on the desk. You’ll find everything in order.” Without another word, the woman bustled out of the room, leaving Hannah and Harkness standing near the door.

“This way.” He led her further into the room, and as she followed him around the screen that shielded a hospital bed, she forgot everything but the man lying pale and still in front of her. With her heart pounding, she took several steps closer.

Frank Decorah’s pictures and video clips of Jordan Campbell had all depicted a handsome, vital man in the prime of life. He liked horseback riding, skiing, and hiking as well as taking his motorboat out. He’d been smiling, tanned, his dark hair windblown. Unless he was in a tuxedo and his hair was tamed for some formal event. She’d found herself immediately drawn to that man, even though she’d never met him. Now, unaccountably, she was still attracted, even though he looked very different from the guy in the pictures. It was almost like his spirit was far away. And it was her job to draw him back to himself. That wasn’t exactly what Frank Decorah had hired her to do. Frank had wanted information. Hannah wanted the man to return to himself.

Reaching out a hand, she touched his arm, relieved that she could feel muscle tone beneath her fingers. Someone had obviously been putting him through an exercise routine. At least his body was in decent shape.

“Hello. I’m Hannah Andrews, your new nurse,” she murmured, knowing this first contact with him would set the tone for their relationship. Or was that putting too much importance on this moment?

She waited with her breath shallow for some response, but there was no sign he even knew she was in the room. Obviously she had pumped herself up to expect too much.

“He can’t hear you,” Harkness said.

“Perhaps he can,” she answered. “Unconscious patients are often aware of what’s being said around them.”

She caught the uncertain expression on the cousin’s face. Had he said stuff in front of Jordan that he wouldn’t really want him to hear if he were awake?

When Harkness said nothing more, she turned back to the man she’d been hired to help.

He was lying in the high, railed bed, as still as death. She had to look closely at his chest to see that he was even breathing. Her heart ached as she noted the purple smudges that marred the skin under his eyes. His dark lashes made a startling contrast against his pale skin. A growth of beard darkening the lower half of his face only added to his ill and disheveled appearance.

He was dressed in a hospital gown. Dark chest hair peeked out at the top of it. A light blanket hid the lower part of his body. His right arm was hooked to an IV line, and she was glad to see that there was plenty of liquid in the bag.

Hannah swallowed hard around the lump that had formed in her throat.

“Jordan?” she questioned.

Once again he didn’t answer.

“He doesn’t respond when I talk to him,” Harkness muttered.

Maybe he doesn’t want to, she thought.

Trying to stay objective, she picked up Jordan’s wrist and began to take his pulse. Sixty-five—nice and steady. In a hospital he would have been hooked up to monitoring equipment, but she had to use a conventional cuff and stethoscope to take his blood pressure.

Conscious that the cousin was still behind her and that she was being watched closely, she released the bulb and listened for the rush of blood to come back to Jordan’s artery as she watched the gauge.

“How is he?” a female voice asked.

Startled, Hannah turned quickly. Two women were standing at the edge of the hospital screen. One was a blond in her forties. The other seemed to be a few years younger. The older woman wore a holiday sweater set in bold green and red. The younger one was in slacks and an expensive knit shirt with a scarf in a candy-cane motif.

The older woman crossed to Richard Harkness, reached for his hand, and knit her fingers with his. Her companion stood with her arms folded across her chest. Neither of them came close to the unconscious man.