The Path Read online

  Standing again, I moved into a large open space which I decided must’ve been either a dining room or some kind of reception hall. The windows here went nearly to the floor. It would’ve been something to see in its time, I mused, even though now not one pane of glass remained. There wasn’t even a decent frame left. That was okay. We’d bring them back.

  A cool breeze blew through the room, and despite the stifling heat in the hotel, I felt goose flesh raise on my arms. I glanced out the gaping holes that had once been French doors leading to the side porch. For a moment, just a split second, I could’ve sworn I’d seen a movement, something more than just the swaying of the trees. But although I stood frozen for a while, I didn’t see anything again.

  “Ghosties.” I muttered the word to myself, shaking my head. All of us who worked this job, who spent hours and days and weeks and months inside ancient buildings that wanted to come back to life, were familiar with the feeling that we weren’t always alone. It didn’t surprise me anymore; after all this time, I was now convinced that certain experiences, both traumatic and ecstatic, left an imprint on the walls of the building where they happened. I’d never seen a ghost or even suspected one might be haunting a house I was working on, but it didn’t mean I didn’t believe. It didn’t mean I thought they didn’t exist.

  And right now, in this place, I had the distinct sense of being . . . observed. As though someone were keeping an eye on me, not yet sure whether I was here for harm or for help. I stuck my hands in the front pockets of my jeans and spoke out loud, not shouting but not whispering, either.

  “Hey, there. Just in case you’re wondering, I’m here to make this place live again. My crew and I want to restore the hotel, make it just as beautiful as it once was. And as long as you’re on our side, not messing with our stuff or our work, you’re welcome to stay. We won’t bother you.”

  My voice echoed in the empty hallway, but once the last word had died away, I could’ve sworn I heard something like . . . a sigh. Like the patient breath of someone who’d heard it all before. Well, this time I was going to make sure it really happened.

  “We’re going to make her shine again, just you wait and see.” I turned and stalked deeper into the hotel, suddenly more eager to get in and out than I’d been a few minutes before.

  On the other side of the airy lobby, a corridor lined with guest rooms stretched around. I paused for a moment to snap a picture with my camera phone of the remnants of the staircase that opened behind the reception desk. It looked like it might be marble underneath the old rug. If it had had a bannister at some point, the wood was long gone. I wondered if Cooper could handle that kind of project.

  Just as I stepped out of the hallway into one of the first rooms on the right, I heard a noise. My body tensed, going alert; besides the obvious structural dangers, another reason we didn’t let anyone venture into an empty building project alone was that often, depending on the location, we might run across a squatter or even a group of homeless people. The last thing I needed was to surprise someone who might act—and act violently—if surprised.

  I leaned against the inside wall of the room I’d just entered, waiting and listening. And a few minutes later, I heard it again—the sound of a step, a footfall. It wasn’t loud, which made me think I might be safe from a vagrant; in my experience, they didn’t tend to sneak around. A moment later, there was a soft noise, as though someone had brushed up against a wall. I froze, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. That same sense of someone or something watching clutched me.

  I gritted my teeth. What the hell was wrong with me? I wasn’t afraid of being alone in a falling-down building, and I damned sure wasn’t scared of a noise that might or might not be a spook. Muttering a curse under my breath and trying to ignore the unease I felt, I stepped back out into the hall, ready to laugh at myself for being a wuss.

  The scream hit me first. It was Jamie Lee Curtis-worthy, and I swore the exposed studs in this part of the hotel shook with the vibration. The sound almost stopped my heart, giving my brain less time to register the figure standing in front of me.

  It was a woman. That fact filtered through first. And she looked pretty damn solid, so chances were good she wasn’t a ghost. She was shorter than me by four or five inches, I guessed. Her jeans and T-shirt were more evidence that she was likely a trespasser instead of a lost spirit; anyone haunting this old place was likely to wear clothes from fifty years ago or more, since the hotel had been empty so long.

  The ghost-who-wasn’t-a-ghost had long hair that was dark, nearly black, setting off skin so pale that it almost glowed. She had the silky strands in a high pony tail, though a few pieces had gotten loose and curled around her face. Her green eyes were startling in their intensity, especially because at the moment, they were wide with shock and fear.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” The words came bursting out of my mouth as soon as I had enough breath to speak again. “What the hell are you doing skulking around here? Didn’t you notice the, oh, fifty or so NO TRESPASSING signs?”

  “Me?” The chick planted both hands on her hips and glared up at me. “I’m not trespassing, buddy. I’m supposed to be here. This is my project. What the hell are you doing here?”

  I thrust my hands into my back pockets and rocked on my heels. This girl was something else. The eyes that had been terrified a few minutes ago now snapped with a strong mad. Her tongue darted out and licked the full lips, and I’d have been lying if I’d said that didn’t distract me just a little.

  But I managed to bring my attention back around. “Nice try, sweetheart. Now listen, you just get out of here and don’t come back again, and I won’t call the cops. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but—”

  “You won’t call the cops? Oh, that’s rich. Tell you what, you go ahead and call the police. They know me. They’ll tell you I have every right to be here. Or call Logan Holt.” She stopped talking, and her brows knit together. “Why am I even trying to justify myself to you? You’re the one who’s in the wrong here. How about you hit the road?”

  She had balls, I had to give her that. Or whatever the female equivalent of balls was. I thought about that for a second and then shook my head. I was getting off track again. But one thing she’d said did make me wonder. She’d mentioned Logan and said this hotel was her project. She seemed so certain, I was starting to question my own sanity.

  “How do you know Logan?” That seemed like a reasonable place to start.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I know Logan because I’ve been working for him and for his wife, Jude, for the last three years. How do you know him?”

  Okay, this was getting weirder. “He hired me to do the restoration on this hotel. I just signed the papers on Wednesday.”

  Understanding dawned on her face. “You’re the contractor?”

  I didn’t roll my eyes, but I wanted to. God, did I want to. “I’m the restoration specialist.”

  One of her eyebrows arched, and the corner of her lip curled. “Oh, pardon me. Restoration specialist.” She all but made the air quotes, and I wanted to hit something. Not her, of course—I wasn’t a dick—but something.

  “Yeah. That’s right. And just who are you, if you don’t mind?”

  She straightened, as though she was trying to make herself look taller. “I’m Abigail Donavan.”

  “Okay, and . . .?” I rolled my hand in a keep-going gesture.

  “This is my hotel.”

  It was my turn to quirk an eyebrow. “I was under the impression this place belongs to Logan and Jude Holt. At least their names were on the papers I signed.”

  She nodded. “Logan and Jude own the hotel. But they hired me to run it. They gave me carte blanche to make it work. So for all intents and purposes, it’s mine.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I was ready with a smartass response, but something niggled at my memory. I had a vague recollection of Logan mentioning someone who’d be dealing with me during the rehab. I couldn’t remember if he
’d referred to her by name, but unless this lady was bat-shit crazy, it was probably her. Shit.

  I knew, logically, that I needed to make nice with her if she was going to be calling the shots. Restoring a property like this was a delicate balance of delivering the client’s vision without compromising my own artistic ideals and historical values. Getting off on the wrong foot wouldn’t be a good idea.

  But no one told my mouth that, apparently, since it started yammering of its own accord. “If you’re so important with your carte blanche and all, why weren’t you at the meetings I had this week with Logan and Jude?”

  A delicate pink stained her cheeks. “I had a few days of vacation, and I had to go out of town. Otherwise, of course I would’ve been there.” She swallowed, and I knew that I’d hit a sensitive spot, even though I had no clue what it was. “Trust me when I say that Jude and Logan didn’t have a problem with me missing the meetings. They know me. They know I’m fully capable of running this place and making it into a showpiece. Like I said, I’ve been working for them for three years, and I’ve never let them down.” There was considerable pride in her tone.

  “What exactly did you do for them before this?” I knew that Logan and Jude owned several different businesses; he was an architect, and Jude ran a beach-front restaurant that had been in her family for generations, but they’d also invested in some local properties. From what I’d gathered, Logan had been in business with Jude’s late husband, a contractor who’d been the Hawthorne in Holt/Hawthorne Enterprises.

  “I managed the Hawthorne House. It’s the bed and breakfast in the middle of town.” She paused, gauging whether or not I knew what she was referring to. “Jude and Logan own it.”

  “I know what you’re talking about.” Jude had explained that they’d never owned a hotel, but that their B&B was very successful. I guessed that meant this Donavan chick was good at what she did. Damn. “So you’re going to manage both of them now? Seems like a crazy idea.”

  She thrust out her bottom lip. “I could do it. Believe me, if I wanted, I could—” She snapped her mouth shut, as though she’d been about to reveal a deep, dark secret to me. “But anyway, I’m not. Jude and Logan hired a couple to take over the Hawthorne House, so I can focus all my energy here.” She smiled, but it was too brittle to be real and didn’t quite reach her eyes. “So lucky you. You get me all to yourself for the duration of this—what did you call it? Restoration. I’ll be here every day, checking out the work. I’ll expect to be consulted on all decisions.” She crossed her arms over her chest, bringing my eyes to her cleavage.

  I’m a guy. I couldn’t help checking out her rack. It wasn’t big by any means; the black cotton that stretched over her boobs outlined what looked like a decent palm full. Of course, a dude would have to wear body armor to get close enough to touch her tits, as prickly as she was. I couldn’t imagine it, and I had a damned good imagination.

  I lifted my eyes and realized by the expression of outraged disbelief on her face that I’d been caught eyeing up her boobs. Great. I needed damage control, and I needed it fast.

  “I’m sure that won’t be a problem.” That’s right, Ry, suck up. Schmooze her a little, get on her good side, and the rest of this job’ll be a breeze. “I’ve never had a problem working with any client.”

  She smiled again, and while it seemed to be a little more genuine, her gaze held a chill. I couldn’t help thinking she reminded me of the Ice Queen from an old story my mom had read to me growing up.

  “But then you’ve never worked with me, have you . . . what did you say your name was?” She frowned. Not knowing my name had thrown her off-balance a little, and I realized I’d just discovered something important about Ms. Abigail Donavan: she didn’t like to be unprepared or in the dark about her work. Not getting my name upfront had been a mistake, and she’d just revealed it.

  I could afford to be a little magnanimous, all things considered. “Ryland Kent.” I stuck out my hand. “Restoration specialist.”

  She stared at my outstretched fingers for the space of two breaths before uncrossing her arms and shaking my hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Kent. I’m sure we’ll get along fine, assuming you remember who’s in charge.”

  I gave her hand a little extra grip, just to make my point. “Believe me, that’s one thing I never forget, Ms. Donavan.”

  Our eyes locked, and neither of us loosened our hands. I wasn’t going to back down. While I always wanted to make the client happy, it was essential to establish my own position up front, and no way was I letting this stubborn woman best me. No fucking way.

  We might’ve stood like that forever, neither of us willing to give up gracefully, but there was a loud and sudden noise from within the room behind me. We both jumped and dropped hands. Abigail wrapped her arms around her middle.

  “What was that?” She was whispering, as though afraid someone might be close by and overhear us.

  I shrugged. “Could be anything.” I took a step backward and scanned the empty room. It looked exactly as it had when I’d been in it a little bit ago, except . . . I frowned. In the middle of the room lay a wrench. It wasn’t mine; it was an ancient tool, rusted and worn, looking like it’d been left here by some repairman decades before. That in itself wasn’t unusual, of course, but I knew it hadn’t been there earlier.

  “What is it?” Abigail stood close behind me, so that I could feel the heat of her body on my back.

  “I don’t see anything. Except that wrench wasn’t there before. I was looking at this room when I heard you coming, and I know it was empty.”

  She bit the side of her lip. “Maybe you just didn’t notice it.”

  “I would’ve seen it. I was checking out the floor, and that wrench is right in the middle of the damn floor. Would’ve been hard to miss it.”

  “Maybe it fell from somewhere. You know, you were messing with stuff. Maybe something came loose and it just fell.”

  “Oh, yeah, because wrenches fall out of thin air all the time. There’s no place in that room it could’ve fallen from. Use your eyes.”

  She was annoyed, I could tell, but this time I realized that it was because she was feeling the same creeped-out jitters I was. I decided to give her an out.

  “Look, it could’ve been anything. You’re right, maybe I just didn’t see it before. But we should probably both get out of here now anyway. We have a company rule about not being in an unsafe structure alone. I don’t think this place is in danger of falling on our heads, but you never know.” I thought about San Francisco and repressed a shudder.

  Abigail didn’t argue with me, which I decided only proved how shaken up she was. We followed the silent corridors around to where I’d come in, at the old service entrance in the back. Once we were clear of the hotel, I noticed that she hesitated, glancing back and up at the windows, unease written all over her face.

  I started to walk back up toward the street side of the property, where I’d left my truck, but she didn’t follow.

  “I’m parked by the river.” She pointed in the opposite direction.

  I bit back a sigh of impatience. It was getting dark, and while I didn’t think there was anything dangerous between here and Abigail’s car, my mom had taught me that a gentleman always saw a lady to safety. I turned and stalked past her, toward the river.

  “I didn’t mean you have to baby-sit me to my car.” She was walking fast to catch up to me. “I was just being polite, telling you why I was going this way.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s getting dark, and old buildings like this tend to attract vagrants. Mostly they’re harmless, but I’d rather not put that theory to the test.”

  She was silent until we reached the old gravel and crushed-shell lot where one dark sedan was parked. Figured she’d drive something like that. It looked like her: cool and reserved. A little stand-offish. But just maybe it was hotter under the hood than anyone might think.

  I gave my head a little shake. Where did that come from? I wasn’t inte
rested in what was or wasn’t under Abigail Donavan’s hood, literal or otherwise.

  “Why were you in the hotel?” The question jolted my attention back to her.

  “I thought we’d established that. Because I’m going to work on it. Restore it.”

  She waved her hand. “Yes, yes, I know that. I meant, if there’s a rule against being there alone, why were you?”

  I shook my head. “I wanted to take another look without anyone to distract me. There were a few things I’d noticed but hadn’t had time to check on more closely.”

  “But it’s against the rules.” The certainty in her voice told me more about the woman who stood in front of me. She was a rule-follower. A good girl. Not someone I should be messing with, and definitely not my type.

  But on the other hand, good girls could be lots of fun, once I brought them around to my way of thinking.

  I grinned and stepped closer to her, just enough that I was in her space. I could tell she wanted to move back, but she didn’t. She stood her ground, daring me to try something. Anything.

  I reached down as though I was going to touch her cheek, but at the last minute, I circled my hand around to grab her pony tail, giving it a sharp tug.

  “Honey, don’t you know rules are made to be broken?” I winked and stepped back, heading up the lawn toward my truck. “See you around, Ms. Donavan.”

  If I thought I’d gotten the last word and left her speechless, though, I was mistaken. Her voice floated through the still air.

  “Oh, you can count on that, Mr. Kent.”

  I chuckled. Oh, this was going to be fun.

  “ . . . AND THEN HE SAID, ‘IF you’re so important, with your carte blanche and all, why weren’t you at the meetings I had last week with Jude and Logan?” I drained my wine glass and set it down on the bar with a little more force than was necessary.

  On the other side of that bar, my friend Emmy raised her eyebrows. “Whoa, there, Ab. Simmer down. You break Jude’s wine glasses and you might lose your, uh, carte blanche.”