kingdom for a window she could open or a door leading outside, she thought ruefully.
She reached the sleeping quarters. All done just as lavishly as the rest of the house and in varying colors. She passed a blue, green, lilac and pink room.
She paused at the end of the hall and ducked in a yellow and gold room. She didn’t dare turn on a light, but from the hall sconce she could see it was a beautiful room, with brocade gold and yellow curtains and a four-poster mahogany bed with a canopy that matched the drapes. The posters were as large as her waist: hand-carved and museum-quality.
She hurried past an armoire and matching writing desk; they looked as if Marie Antoinette herself had used them. She paused before the windows, miniature versions of the hulking stained-glass window she’d just seen. She gazed outside. At least two stories up. It had started to snow, too. She could see the flakes within theglobes of lights that stretched along a vista of manicured lawn and an English garden. Was this the front of the mansion? She tried the latch.
Locked or frozen from age and lack of use.
With a heavy sigh, she gave up and returned to the corridor. In minutes she reached the end and another set of stairs, much grander, wider and spiraling downward. She peered over the carved railing. The staircase swept into a huge entrance hall, the likes which could make Donald Trump jealous.
Cautiously, she made her way down, her footsteps loud in the immense silence. The space was something to behold. She’d only seen one other to rival it, and that was in the Biltmore Estate. She had visited the North Carolina tourist attraction one summer with her grandmother and sisters. The Vanderbilts had nothing on the Van Cleaves.
The floor was solid white marble. In the center three steps led down to a monumental fountain. It gurgled and spewed water from the mouths of four full-size lions. A small rain forest of potted ferns and palm trees and flowers was nestled strategically around the base. Embedded lights shined up through the fronds and cast eerie shadows around the fountain. Over it all stood a black wrought-iron gazebo.
She counted four huge cathedral-type doors, spaced equally apart on the points of a compass, each leading off from the grand entrance. They were all closed. Kane Van Cleave could be behind any one of them, in beast mode, those predatory eyes waiting for her.
The hairs at the back of her neck prickled, everynerve in her body screaming at her to choose correctly if she wanted to get out of here. She took a chance on the nearest door.
She tugged on the massive thing. The hinges creaked like dry, brittle bones. The sound drowned out the steady gurgle of the fountain and sounded like gun blasts. She cringed and slipped inside.
Humidity and warmth hit her right away and felt wonderful to her chapped skin. She was in a conservatory. There had to be a door for the gardener to get inside. Maybe she’d chosen the right way after all.
The scent of lush earth, moss and growing things filled the air. All she could see were green leaves and orchids of every variety. A waterfall babbled and trickled somewhere within the tropical forest of leaves, but she couldn’t see it. It was too dark, and there were only dim solar lights along the pathway. The beauty had to be stunning in daylight—if you weren’t being held prisoner in it, she thought dolefully.
She passed a sphinx statue covered in moss, then spied the glass door that led to the outside. Finally, salvation. Freedom. She could taste it and feel it. She headed down the narrow brick walk, carefully picking her way through the shadows.
A low, rumbling growl sounded behind her. It prickled the skin on the back of her neck.
Then something grabbed her from behind, and she screamed.
Chapter 5
N ina’s back plowed into a muscle-bound brick wall.
A massive arm clamped around her rib cage. The other hand gripped her neck in such way that if she moved her attacker
She reached the sleeping quarters. All done just as lavishly as the rest of the house and in varying colors. She passed a blue, green, lilac and pink room.
She paused at the end of the hall and ducked in a yellow and gold room. She didn’t dare turn on a light, but from the hall sconce she could see it was a beautiful room, with brocade gold and yellow curtains and a four-poster mahogany bed with a canopy that matched the drapes. The posters were as large as her waist: hand-carved and museum-quality.
She hurried past an armoire and matching writing desk; they looked as if Marie Antoinette herself had used them. She paused before the windows, miniature versions of the hulking stained-glass window she’d just seen. She gazed outside. At least two stories up. It had started to snow, too. She could see the flakes within theglobes of lights that stretched along a vista of manicured lawn and an English garden. Was this the front of the mansion? She tried the latch.
Locked or frozen from age and lack of use.
With a heavy sigh, she gave up and returned to the corridor. In minutes she reached the end and another set of stairs, much grander, wider and spiraling downward. She peered over the carved railing. The staircase swept into a huge entrance hall, the likes which could make Donald Trump jealous.
Cautiously, she made her way down, her footsteps loud in the immense silence. The space was something to behold. She’d only seen one other to rival it, and that was in the Biltmore Estate. She had visited the North Carolina tourist attraction one summer with her grandmother and sisters. The Vanderbilts had nothing on the Van Cleaves.
The floor was solid white marble. In the center three steps led down to a monumental fountain. It gurgled and spewed water from the mouths of four full-size lions. A small rain forest of potted ferns and palm trees and flowers was nestled strategically around the base. Embedded lights shined up through the fronds and cast eerie shadows around the fountain. Over it all stood a black wrought-iron gazebo.
She counted four huge cathedral-type doors, spaced equally apart on the points of a compass, each leading off from the grand entrance. They were all closed. Kane Van Cleave could be behind any one of them, in beast mode, those predatory eyes waiting for her.
The hairs at the back of her neck prickled, everynerve in her body screaming at her to choose correctly if she wanted to get out of here. She took a chance on the nearest door.
She tugged on the massive thing. The hinges creaked like dry, brittle bones. The sound drowned out the steady gurgle of the fountain and sounded like gun blasts. She cringed and slipped inside.
Humidity and warmth hit her right away and felt wonderful to her chapped skin. She was in a conservatory. There had to be a door for the gardener to get inside. Maybe she’d chosen the right way after all.
The scent of lush earth, moss and growing things filled the air. All she could see were green leaves and orchids of every variety. A waterfall babbled and trickled somewhere within the tropical forest of leaves, but she couldn’t see it. It was too dark, and there were only dim solar lights along the pathway. The beauty had to be stunning in daylight—if you weren’t being held prisoner in it, she thought dolefully.
She passed a sphinx statue covered in moss, then spied the glass door that led to the outside. Finally, salvation. Freedom. She could taste it and feel it. She headed down the narrow brick walk, carefully picking her way through the shadows.
A low, rumbling growl sounded behind her. It prickled the skin on the back of her neck.
Then something grabbed her from behind, and she screamed.
Chapter 5
N ina’s back plowed into a muscle-bound brick wall.
A massive arm clamped around her rib cage. The other hand gripped her neck in such way that if she moved her attacker
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