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The derelict ante bellum house in the North Carolina mountains called out to Jill Carey, almost as if living beings compelled her to buy it and restore it to its former glory.
For good reason. It’s inhabited by the ghosts of century-old illicit lovers, trapped in the place where they died until a descendant returns to Bliss House, finds a lasting love he is free to marry.
Kyle Randall, great great grandson of one of the ghosts, hates coming to the haunted house but agrees to restore the place for Jill, only to set in motion a dark, sometimes frightening tale of sexual obsession, ghostly intervention—and the healing power of lasting love.
Excerpt:
Kyle
settled back with a beer and wondered why the idea of going back to
Gray Hollow—to Bliss House—made him feel like his guts were
churning.
Hell,
it was only a house.
What
had gone on there nearly a hundred years ago was ancient history,
doubtless without a bit of meaning to anybody except the Randalls
scattered about the North Carolina mountains. No one now would give a
damn that his great-great grandma had been the infamous Laura
Randall, or that she’d died with her lover at the house that still
bore his family’s name.
Who
was he kidding? Parents in Gray Hollow must still scare their kids
with stories about the ghosts of Bliss House, the same way their
parents had been doing for generations.
He
should call this crazy Jill Carey and tell her he didn’t have time
for her damn pet project. But if he did, he’d regret it. He’d won
the bid to restore the Gray Hollow courthouse, but the commission had
voted to postpone having the work done until next spring. That meant
he had to find a project now.
Earlier
today, he’d told George Wilson he didn’t know any contractor
desperate enough to take on the ghosts of Bliss House. Boy, had he
been wrong! In ten short minutes, Kyle had gone from being overbooked
with work to a state of minor desperation. Big jobs were few and far
between this time of year, especially ones in this part of the
country, where he could work and still be close enough to visit
Alyssa every weekend.
Kyle’s
gaze settled on the child in a picture on his coffee table. His
little girl looked so pretty, laid out on a blanket underneath an old
oak tree, her dark eyes wide open as if she was looking at something
far off in the distance. Knowing Alyssa would never see anything,
never walk or talk or be able to learn her name, ate him alive.
He’d
never have to put on a monkey suit to walk his baby down the aisle to
some guy who wasn’t good enough for her. Or hold a grandchild in
his arms. But one thing was for sure. Alyssa would need the total
care of people like the ones at Angels Paradise School as long as she
lived—and that care didn’t come cheap.
“Damn her to hell!” Tina,
Alyssa’s mother probably was already roasting in the devil’s
fiery flames for having passed the results of her lousy drug habit on
to their unborn daughter seven years ago before checking out on life
with one final overdose. When Kyle thought of Alyssa, he couldn’t
help wishing Tina were still alive. He’d have liked to kill her for
what she’d done to their child.
The
way everybody says Harry Randall killed his faithless wife and her
lover.
Where
the hell had that thought come from? Was the idea of going to Gray
Hollow, bidding on fixing up the house where his great-great
grandmother had died, starting to drive him insane? It didn’t
matter. He had to bid on that job. Winter was coming—and no matter
what the season, Alyssa’s special school expected to be paid.
Draining
the last of his beer, Kyle tried to push those odd, scary feelings
out of his head but they stayed with him, even as he drifted off into
a restless sleep.
*
* * * *
Jill
yawned. Glancing at her watch, she saw it had been nearly four hours
since she had begun poring over the blueprints she’d found tucked
away in a moldy wardrobe. She wanted modern comforts along with
authenticity, yet Bliss House seemed to call out and beg her to
restore it to the way it was when Mortimer Bliss had built it in 1858
for the bride who would arrive the following year from England.
Perhaps
Kyle Randall would be able to suggest how she might bring to Bliss
House the best of both old and new worlds. For a moment, she tried to
picture a face to go with the deep, sexy voice that still rang in her
ears. Then she laughed. She was visualizing young and ruggedly
handsome, while Randall was probably ugly as sin and old enough to be
her dad. Besides, Jill reminded herself, she’d sworn off men—not
just Rob, but everybody of the male persuasion.
Still,
hearing Kyle’s mellow voice had made her tingle. And the effect
lingered in her nipples that now stabbed insistently against her soft
silk robe. Idly, Jill ran a finger back and forth against one aching
nub, gasping when the flesh swelled and elongated with the slight,
warm pressure of her touch.
She
didn’t need this. Didn’t want to give in to that insistent noise
in her head that reminded her she was still a woman with needs.
Sexual needs.
After
washing up and brushing her teeth in the closet—like bathroom of
the trailer, Jill crawled into her narrow bed. Damn Rob for having
taught her never to ignore her own sensual needs, she thought,
stroking her aching sex until the tension inside her broke. When she
finally slept, she dreamed.
*
* * * *
Bliss
House shone bright, and sounds of joy came from within. Jill stood in
the doorway, waiting for a sad-faced butler to take her velvet wrap.
Her gaze wandered from a beautiful chandelier twinkling above her
head to the modest ballroom someone had created by opening the front
and back parlors of this gorgeous old home to create one highly
polished dance floor.
Suddenly
she felt naked. All the other guests looked positively Victorian.
This black silk minidress didn’t cover nearly enough of her. Damn,
had she missed the words “costume ball” somewhere on her
invitation? Dancers twirled gracefully to a distinct three-beat tune
that sounded as if it came not from a stereo system but from a small
live orchestra.
She
looked around. Where had Rob gone? Annoyed, Jill stepped inside the
ballroom and searched for his angel face. She couldn’t find him.
Instead, her gaze settled on a couple whose quaint costumes reminded
her of a Victorian picture post card.
The
woman’s rose crushed-velvet gown featured a bustle and train that
dripped with ecru lace. More of the lace peeked out from a low,
heart-shaped neckline and the cuffs of fat leg-o’-mutton sleeves.
Her partner wore tails, stark black, with pristine white linen at his
wrists and throat—too much for even the most formal of Atlanta
balls. Feeling out of place, she hid behind the French doors that
normally would have separated the two rooms, and searched again for
Rob.
But
her gaze kept returning to that mesmerizing couple who seemed to have
stepped out of yesterday. The way they looked at each other and the
graceful way they moved together kept Jill enthralled. Then a
stranger found her, and the spell broke. He pulled her onto the dance
floor, seemingly unaffected by the sense of the past that surrounded
her.
He
was tall and rugged, oozing raw sex appeal. When he looked at her,
her sex clenched with anticipation. But then he changed, became Rob
again. Suddenly she relived the horror that had sent her running from
Atlanta and her memories of how her marriage had begun and ended.
“No!”
She awakened to the sound of her own screams. Suddenly she couldn’t
stay in her sweat-drenched bed another second. Pulling on a robe as
she ran, Jill sought peace inside Bliss House. For some reason, she
felt that there she’d be safe from the nightmare that tormented
her.
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