Текст книги "Stranger on the Shore "

Twenty years ago, little Brian Arlington was kidnapped from his family’s Long Island estate and was never seen again. The trail went cold, but investigative journalist Griff Hadley has always thought there was more to the story—much more. When the Arlingtons’ patriarch invites him to stay at their estate to research his true crime book, Griff can’t say no. It’s the story of a lifetime.

But not everyone is happy about Griff’s presence. Relatives and staff alike regard him coldly, including Pierce Mather, the Arlingtons’ attractive lawyer, who is more than a little wary of Griff’s motives.

When a stranger shows up claiming to be the long-lost Brian, Griff and Pierce are united in their suspicions. Startled to have found an ally in the buttoned-up lawyer, Griff soon realizes it’s hard to keep a professional distance. Even in the midst of a groundbreaking investigation, even in the face of a shocking family secret...

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Dear Reader,

If there’s one thing that’s sure to tickle me every time, it’s when I ask for book recommendations via social media, and readers come back to recommend books I’ve edited or published. Most recently, readers have given me recommendations for Saved by the Bride by Fiona Lowe, Wild Ones by Kristine Wyllys and Goddess with a Blade by Lauren Dane. I’m always pleased when this happens and I think our batch of May books will be next on readers’ recommendation lists!

We’re thrilled to welcome fan favorite Josh Lanyon back to Carina Press with Stranger on the Shore. Journalist Griffin Hadley shrugs off lawyer Pierce Mather’s objections to his investigation of a decades-old kidnapping, but it might not be so easy to shrug off the objections of someone willing to do anything to keep the past buried.

Bestselling author Stephanie Tyler returns with another sexy, unique story set not too far into our possible post-apocalyptic future. In Salvation, when Luna leaves Defiance to rescue Bish from a rival gang, she doesn’t realize she’s the one who will end up needing saving—both from the gang and from Bish, the man who can’t wait any longer to claim her and make her his. Though this book can be read as a standalone, be sure to check out both Defiance and Redemption as well!

There’s No Accounting for Cowboys in Leah Braemel’s sexy contemporary cowboy romance. Jake Grady relies on family accountant Paige Reynolds to bring order to his life, when family secrets throw it into chaos. Check out our new reduced-price bundle of Leah’s erotic romance duology, Texas Tangle and Tangled Past, available now.

And speaking of sexy contemporary romance, the only woman Grand Duke Armand ever desired is her, but not every girl dreams of marrying a prince. Anna doesn’t want prince charming, she loved the man behind the crown. Can they overcome their mistakes and reclaim a love neither forgot? Don’t miss this Going Royal book by Heather Long, Some Like It Scandalous.

Tamara Morgan joins us with the start to a new contemporary romance series in If I Stay. In this kickoff to a modern-day Downton Abbey series, the nanny to a rich hotelier family must choose between the hard-edged chauffeur who gets her pulse racing and the profligate playboy she’s loved her whole life.

Another author kicking off a new series is Sheryl Nantus. If you’ve been looking for a unique futuristic romance series to enjoy, In the Black is being described as Firefly meets Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. What’s more unique than a heroine who’s captain of a bordello spaceship?

Male/male author KC Burn also offers up a futuristic romance this month. Falling in love with an alien exotic dancer forces a prejudiced fleet captain to reevaluate who he is and what he believes in Voodoo ’n’ Vice.

May is a month packed full of science fiction, fantasy and futuristic books. Cindy Spencer Pape is back with a new book in her Gaslight Chronicles, Dragons & Dirigibles (I love this title!). Airship engineer Melody MacKay is exactly the kind of emancipated woman Victor Arrington wants to keep away from his impressionable niece—that is, until smugglers start trying to kill the girl. Then Victor turns to Melody for help. If you’re new to the Gaslight Chronicles, you can start the series now with a new, reduced-price bundle of the first three books in the series. Available wherever ebooks are sold.

Author T.D. Wilson returns to Carina Press with book two in his space opera series. In The Epherium Chronicles: Crucible, only one more jump to the new colony in the Cygni star system, but what will Captain James Hood find when he arrives—a thriving colony, dangerous enemies, or will it be in ruins?

We’re pleased to welcome four authors to Carina Press this month. Debut author April Taylor brings us a tale of fantasy and alternate history. In Court of Conspiracy, book one of The Tudor Enigma, ordered by Anne Boleyn to protect her son, can apothecary and elemancer Luke Ballard overcome the evil sunderer who seeks to kill Henry IX at Hampton Court Palace?

Also with a debut novel this month is historical paranormal romance author Kari Edgren. Selah Kilbrid would sacrifice everything for her birthright, except the one kiss that could destroy her in Goddess Born.

For our mystery offering this month, debut author Rosie Claverton brings together an agoraphobic hacker and a streetwise ex-con to hunt down a serial killer in Cardiff. Don’t miss Binary Witness, the first in a new mystery series.

Last, we’re thrilled to have author Vanessa North join us with her new male/male romance High and Tight. Deeply closeted Navy pilot Adam returns home, planning to convince his longtime lover he’s ready to commit at last, only to find Harris has moved on without him.

Coming in June: novels from Lynda Aicher, Ava March, Christi Barth, Dana Marie Bell and more, along with a fabulous male/male contemporary romance anthology from three talented authors.

Here’s wishing you a wonderful month of books you love, remember and recommend.

Happy reading!

~Angela James

Editorial Director, Carina Press

Dedication

To the Goodreads gang. Here’s to sharing morning coffee and One Word a Day.

Acknowledgments

Sincere thanks to my editor at Carina Press, Deb Nemeth.

Stranger on the Shore contains several quotes from—and a number of passages inspired by—the classic American novel, The Great Gatsby. It is a book that people seem to either love or hate. It is Griffin Hadley’s talisman, and I am sort of fond of it myself.

Thank you to Keren Reed.

And thank you, as always, to the SO.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

About the Author

Copyright

Chapter One

It was stupid to be nervous.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t qualified. Not like he couldn’t handle this. Not like anyone was expecting him to solve the mystery of what had happened to four-year-old Brian Arlington on that long ago summer’s eve. He was only writing a book—and these days everyone was writing a book.

Griff sucked in a long breath and reached for the car door handle. But he didn’t open the door. He continued to sit staring at the white Italianate façade of the villa, graceful columns, punctiliously flat roofs, balconies with black wrought-iron railings, and all the while his heart was beating too fast in that mix of anticipation and anxiety. More anxiety than anticipation which was just...weird.

The best way to deal with it was to get his ass out of the car and in front of those elegant, imposing double doors.

What was the worst that could happen? The old man might change his mind, might decide he didn’t want to cooperate, didn’t want Griff staying at the estate, didn’t want Griff to write the book at all. All or any one of those would be disappointing, yes, but they would only amount to stumbling blocks, and a couple of stumbling blocks wouldn’t stop Griff. It was unlikely to happen anyway since Griff’s staying at the Arlington estate had been Jarrett Arlington’s idea.

So?

Why was he still sitting here, heart in his throat and hands like ice?

It was a long time, years, since he’d experienced an anxiety attack. He sure as heck didn’t have time for that now.

He was tired, that was all. Bone tired. He’d been driving for nearly two days. Fifteen hours behind the wheel. It was nearly a thousand miles from Wisconsin to Long Island. As the lakes of Madison had given way to the thunderstorms of Illinois, the sooty industry of Ohio, the red bricks, red barns, red cows of Pennsylvania...he had felt further and further adrift from everything he knew and loved, an explorer heading off for the New World only to find that happiness really was in his own backyard.

Yeah, he needed to get out more, that was for sure.

Griff took a deep breath, yanked open the door, and unfolded from the battered Karmann Ghia.

A bird, hidden in the green leaves of the tall hedge, trilled a cheerful greeting and took flight. The sun was bright and warm for Long Island in April. The brisk air was salty sweet with the scent of the sea and newly bloomed lilacs. It steadied him. Ridiculous that he should need steadying, but that was the way it was. Then again, this gig was kind of a big deal. A big deal for anyone, but especially for the crime beat reporter of the Banner Chronicle, paid circulation 4,401.

By rights the story should have gone to a C.J. Chivers or an Ann Rule. It was still hard to believe that he, Griffin N. Hadley, had been tapped to write the account of one of the most famous kidnappings of the last century. So, okay, maybe some nervousness was permissible.

He walked across the courtyard, sparkling white pebbles and shells crunching beneath his chucks, passed between two weathered stone griffins—hopefully a good omen—up the six long, narrow steps to the next terrace, past a water-stained and silent fountain, up six more long, narrow steps, through the columns and arches of the wide portico to the double front doors with their amber-and-black stained-glass panels.

It took a second or two to locate the doorbell buzzer, concealed as it was in a large, bronze sunburst. Griff pressed the buzzer and nothing seemed to happen. Maybe, like the fountain, the bell no longer worked?

He glanced around. It was not that the house or grounds looked shabby, exactly, but the grass was a little long, the lilac hedges were a little ragged, the paint was a little faded.

Had the Arlington family fallen on hard times? Not according to his research. Maybe this was winter on the Gold Coast. Maybe it really was hard to get good help these days.

Griff pressed the doorbell again.

The nearest door swung open and a tall, gaunt woman in a severely plain black dress said, “I heard you the first time.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Griff said guiltily. “I didn’t...” He let that go.

“No, you didn’t.”

In a funny way she reminded him of his mother. His mother when she was in one of her tempers. Same general physical type, same snapping dark eyes and strong features, though his mother had been softer and prettier—and much younger.

He tried, “I’m Griffin Ha—”

“I know who you are,” she cut him off. “Mr. Arlington is waiting to see you.”

Now that was odd, right? Griff didn’t pretend to know how the other half—or, more exactly, the other one percent—lived, but he was pretty sure the help wasn’t supposed to take that tone with visitors. But then he probably didn’t look like the usual visitor to Winden House. Maybe he should have searched around for a trade entrance.

“And you are?” he asked, refusing to be cowed.

Her eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Truscott. I’m Mr. Arlington’s housekeeper.”

Truscott. The name was familiar. Griff was sure she had been employed at the time of Brian’s kidnapping, but not as housekeeper. Back then the housekeeper had been a Mrs. Cameron, now deceased.

Mrs. Truscott led the way through an elegant entryway. Griff looked around and tried not to gawk. It wasn’t easy. Creaking beneath his feet was the much-photographed diamond parquet floor, and stretching right over his head was the low, cream-colored compartmented ceiling. It felt unreal. Dreamlike. To his left curved the famous marble staircase the kidnappers had carried little Brian down that fateful night.

He’d studied this entry hall many times in so many pictures. Now he was here, crossing the glossy walnut-and-rosewood parquet and following Mrs. Truscott up the graceful staircase. It was like walking into a history book—except that Griff was the one supposed to write the history.

Well, he was ready. He’d done his homework. He knew more about Winden House than he knew about the house he’d grown up in. The villa sat on 160 acres and had been built in 1906 by Gold Coast architects Hiss and Weekes. The entire estate was comprised of the main house, two greenhouses, a solarium, a swimming pool, a five-room guest cottage and two barns. Once upon a time the Arlingtons had bred horses, which was the reason for the two barns. What the excuse was for all the rest of it, he couldn’t imagine. He wasn’t here to judge, though.

The ceiling in the downstairs library was gilded in gold leaf; the stained-glass ceiling on the upper level had originally been a skylight. The night Brian Arlington had been kidnapped, there had been a party in the sunken garden behind the house. The party theme had been A Midsummer’s Night Dream. A pretty wild affair according to the news accounts of the day.

A lot of facts, a lot of information, but none of it could compare to three minutes inside the house. There was no substitute for the actual experience of hearing the brisk click of Mrs. Truscott’s sensible heels on the marble steps; for breathing in that unique scent of fresh cut flowers, furniture polish and expensive old age; for the first glimpse of the glittering sea through the Serlian windows, or the sight of gold-framed paintings that ought to be hanging in museums. Yeah, if the Arlingtons were running short of cash, they could always sell a painting or two.

“This way,” Mrs. Truscott said as they reached the second landing and a life-sized oil portrait of a slim young man holding a pocket watch. Mrs. Truscott sounded like someone speaking to a wayward kindergartener. Griff eyed her curiously. She looked to be in her sixties, but she moved briskly and her back was as straight as a yoga instructor’s.

He opened his mouth to ask about the size of the household staff, but stopped himself. She probably had definite ideas about how this process was supposed to go, and getting the final stamp of approval from the old man would be part of it.

Hopefully Arlington would not take one look at him and change his mind. It could happen. Weren’t the rich famous for their whims and impulses?

Their footsteps were buried in the faded roses of the Aubusson carpet. The scent of pipe tobacco drifted from down the long hall.

Mrs. Truscott stopped before a closed walnut panel door and tapped softly.

“Come in,” called a voice. Age blurred gender, but the accent was the distinctive one known as Locust Valley Lockjaw.

This was it. Griff squared his shoulders. Mrs. Truscott opened the door, delivered one final, disapproving look and departed.

Griff stepped inside the room.

It was probably a beautiful room—he had an impression of arched windows and a high ceiling—but Griff’s attention was focused on the spare, white-haired figure staring down at the star-shaped courtyard. Griff had a moment to wonder if Jarrett Arlington had watched him arrive, watched him sit vacillating in his car, watched him finally get up the nerve to knock on the door.

Arlington turned to face him. It seemed a very long moment before he took the pipe from his mouth. “Well? What do you think, Mr. Hadley?”

“The house? It looks exactly like the photographs.”

Grave blue eyes studied him from beneath formidable white brows. Jarrett Arlington was slim, slight and brown from a lifetime of sailing and golfing and whatever else the very rich did when they weren’t counting their money. Despite his considerable age—he was nearly ninety—he still had a full head of hair, which stood up cockatoo-like.

Griff waited for Arlington to say something like...Griff looked younger than his photo on the Banner Chronicle editorial staff page. Or just interrogate him about what he proposed to write and why he imagined he was qualified to tackle this story. One brief phone call wasn’t going to be enough to seal the deal—even if that was how it had seemed at the time.

But after another of those thoughtful pauses, Arlington said, “Hmm. I suppose it does. Did you drive all the way from Madison, Wisconsin, in that Karmann Ghia?”

“I did, yeah,” Griff said.

“And how many times did you break down?”

“I didn’t. Not once.” That was because he had completely rebuilt the engine six months ago, but Arlington wasn’t going to be interested in hearing how Griff had spent two years lovingly and painstakingly restoring a vintage car.

“Hmm.” Arlington continued to appraise him with that keen blue gaze.

It wasn’t his imagination, right? This was a strange interview.

Arlington seemed to come to a decision. He said briskly, “I’d better tell you, the rest of the family is none too pleased about our arrangement and this book you’re going to write.”

Here it comes. Griff opened his mouth, though he wasn’t sure what he could say to convince Arlington over the protests of his nearest and dearest.

But Arlington made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle them. I want this book. I want this case reopened. If anybody gives you any trouble, you refer them to me. I’ve instructed them all you’re to have complete access, complete cooperation.”

“Thank you.” Arlington made it sound like he’d given orders to his corporate staff rather than his children.

“How long do you think it’ll take you to write the book?”

Was Arlington imagining Griff would write the book this week? “I don’t—I’m not sure.” He stopped himself from admitting that he’d never written a book before. Not that Arlington didn’t already know that, but there was no point in emphasizing Griff’s lack of experience.

“Merely curious. It doesn’t matter,” Arlington said.

“I’ll do my best to bring the case back to public attention.”

A light kindled in Arlington’s eyes. “If Brian is out there somewhere, I want him to know we haven’t forgotten him. We haven’t given up.”

“Uh...right.” Brian was dead. Odell Johnson was sitting in prison right now, convicted of Brian’s kidnapping and murder.

“Either way, I want the truth. I don’t care how painful it is.”

Griff liked the courage of that. One of the theories was that the kidnapping had been an inside job. He said, “I’ll do my best to get the truth for you.”

Arlington smiled. “I know you will, my boy. Do you have any questions for me? I mean, before you settle in and start dragging out the family skeletons?” The warmth of that smile transformed him. Griff could see the shade of the heartbreaker Arlington had reportedly been in his youth.

“Is it okay if I take photos?”

“Take all the photos you want. Pierce will have to approve everything anyway.”

Griff repeated uncertainly, “Pierce?”

“Pierce Mather. My, er, man of affairs.”

Man of affairs? Did people really say that?

“The family lawyer.” Arlington chuckled, so maybe it was supposed to be a joke.

“Oh, that Pierce,” Griff said. “The one who told me not to write the book.”

“That’s the one.” Arlington was definitely amused. “Yes, Pierce can be a bit overbearing. He means well. Pierce will look everything over just to make sure nothing damaging or defamatory is inadvertently published.”

Griff had been waiting for the other shoe to drop, and here it was, right on schedule, delivering a hard, swift kick to his ass. “Pierce is going to have final approval of my work?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Arlington said.

“Because we didn’t agree to that. I can’t—won’t—work under that kind of restriction.”

The disappointment was sickening, but no way was Griff going to write some kind of corporate-approved publicity piece or whatever it was the Arlingtons had in mind. If staying on the estate and having access to these people meant he couldn’t write the book he wanted to write, then he’d rent a room in town and get his interviews the regular way, the way he’d planned on writing the book before Arlington had proposed this too-good-to-be-true idea of staying at the estate.

He should have known. Should have realized a wealthy, powerful family like the Arlingtons would try to control the spin of a book like his. He was stupid not to have seen this coming.

“No, no,” Arlington was saying hurriedly in answer to whatever he read in Griff’s expression. “It’s not what you’re thinking. No one is going to censor what you write or attempt to...to restrict the freedom of the press. It isn’t anything like that. Nothing related to Brian’s kidnapping will be off-limits to you, but staying on the estate you’ll be privy to potentially sensitive information that has no bearing on the case or your story. That’s the sort of thing Pierce will be looking for.”

Put like that, it sounded reasonable. Griff still felt wary. He had spoken to Pierce Mather once on the phone—for as long as it had taken Mather to shut him up and shoot him down. The words sue your ass had featured prominently. Griff had a gut feeling he and Mather might not see eye to eye on what constituted information with “no bearing.”

As if reading his thoughts, Arlington said almost coaxingly, “Mr. Hadley—Griffin—you have my word you won’t be asked to sign a non-disclosure nor any kind of contract. This is a gentlemen’s agreement between you and me. Agreed?” He held out his hand.

Griff studied Arlington’s face, considered that charming, part-rueful, part-willful smile. Arlington was a man used to getting what he wanted, no question. But there was something almost kind in his gaze, and he seemed sincere.

Nothing easier than convincing someone who wanted to believe you. Griff grimaced inwardly and reached out to shake hands.