Blackmailed Bride. Sylvie Kurtz

crosses in the courtyard of the Ste-Croix monastery in rural New Hampshire. But Alana Chandler Shades didn’t care. The creepy place with its eerie shadows and haunting chantlike winds had ceased to frighten her a long time ago.

      Now, it merely bored her.

      At thirty, she’d wasted almost half her life in this godforsaken place. As she hurried over the courtyard’s cobblestones, she smiled, ignoring the ominous whispers of fall leaves from the nearby woods. Soon she’d be free. She threw her head back and laughed, defying the morbid sounds of night. She’d waited a long time for this freedom—a freedom she’d earned with her filial duty; a freedom which would now be greatly enhanced by her coming inheritance. She’d have plenty of time to make up for all the deprivation she’d endured over the last thirteen years.

      As she opened the garage door, it creaked. For now, she’d settle for the simple pleasures of the flesh. Her latest conquest was strong and virile, and Alana licked her lips in anticipation of the feral passion they’d share. She hopped into her red Miata and roared into the bleak night.

      Too bad that husband of hers had found the papers and ruined his Christmas surprise. He’d been amiable enough about the whole situation, with her conditions. But with him, who knew?

      Their love had died a long time ago, hadn’t it? Had they ever truly been in love? She’d been too young. Her dreams hadn’t had a chance to gel yet. She’d realized too late the price she’d paid for her father’s approval. And he’d made sure with his manipulations of her trust fund that she couldn’t undo the damage until too late. All this sacrifice and for what? A miracle cure that would never happen; a marriage that was doomed to fail before it began.

      And the differences in their backgrounds, the five-year difference in their ages so exciting at first, had soon grown into rifts, then chasms. The fool, he’d turned such a brilliant future into nothing with his misguided vision and his righteous anger. An anger that had grown over the years, and sometimes managed to frighten even her.

      But not tonight. Tonight was her weekly escape from tyranny, and she was determined to make the most of it. The car rattled over the loose boards of the old covered bridge, echoing like thunder into the oppressive night. Alana hid the Miata in the thicket of pines and slipped into the small one-room cottage.

      She sensed movement from the bed. “You’re here already. Why didn’t you light the lamp?”

      She lit the hurricane lamp, blew out the match and turned to her new friend. A black-robed monk stepped forward from the shadows, his face hidden by his cowled hood, his hands buried in opposite sleeves. She smiled when she saw the way the robe strained over broad shoulders, the way the thick cord at his waist defined his trim hips.

      “Ah, so you like to play little games, do you?” Alana laughed. She unbuttoned her coat and flung it on the bed. She started toward him, shedding her scarf, then her sweater. “Shall I play your sacrificial virgin?”

      The monk’s hood fell back. Malevolence burned in his eyes. Laughter froze in her throat. Her fingers went rigid against the zipper of her tailored pants. His hands came into the light. A rope snapped between them. Fear paralyzed her limbs, her voice, her breath.

      The rush of adrenaline came too late.

      Chapter One

      Cathlynn O’Connell glanced around the living room of the monastery turned mansion, looking for her treasure with, she hoped, what passed for cool composure. Her heart fluttered with excitement, but she forced herself to present her usual calm professional appearance. People expected that from her; she’d built her reputation as a top-notch antiques dealer with her fairness and levelheadedness.

      Where was the sculpture? What if—But no, she wouldn’t even entertain such a thought. The auction brochure had clearly printed the description, and the picture had left no doubt.

      The Aidan Heart was here—somewhere.

      Cathlynn removed her wool hat and gloves and dropped them on one of the folding chairs. A storm brewed outside. Strong winds pummeled the ancient stone structure—one of three buildings on the grounds. The promised inclement weather hadn’t kept people away from the auction. Cathlynn didn’t blame them. Nothing could have kept her away today.

      She’d raced the dark, billowy clouds all the way from Nashua to the small village of Ste-Croix on the western edge of the White Mountains, and the old Ste-Croix Monastery. Slate skies had met white snow with nothing in between to give the illusion of depth except somber evergreens and the gray branches of winter-bared maples and beeches. Taking a wrong turn along the twisty country road, she’d almost ended up in the treacherous depths of the Ste-Croix River which fed eventually into Lake Winnipesaukee. But she’d made it.

      And ten years of searching for the Aidan Heart would end today.

      Inside the gray stone main house, people milled about, creating a soft buzz with their chatter. Curiosity seekers or competition? The cordial fire glowing in the hearth mellowed the wind’s strong bite, but couldn’t quite keep the chill out of the air. Cathlynn scanned the room once more. The fact the walls’ only adornment was a series of paintings portraying the austere monks of the Order of the Holy Cross in black-hooded habits didn’t help. It almost seemed as if the monks followed her every move, especially the one over the fireplace whose eyes glowed red in the firelight’s trail.

      What kind of person would choose to live in such a bleak environment? An involuntary shiver slid down her spine.

      As she crossed the room, she recognized several rival dealers and nodded a greeting. Noticing a side room from which people emerged, and guessing the auction goods’ location, she headed in its direction.

      On a series of tables a collection of high-quality antiques crowded the small adjoining room. Cathlynn looked at the rich offerings, feigning interest while her heart beat strong with anticipation of finding the Aidan Heart. She spotted a lamp and several glass bowls she could easily place with her clients, but knew she wouldn’t bid on them.

      She’d come to Ste-Croix for one thing and one thing only—the glass sculpture her great-great-grandfather had fashioned for his bride almost a hundred years ago. A gift of love tragically lost when Aidan and Deirdre O’Connell had left Ireland for the United States.

      Now she held the precious gift in her sight.

      As she approached the twelve-inch sculpture, Cathlynn held her breath. Though shaped like the pylon paperweights popular in the late 1800s, the similarity ended there. Rather than tool the glass into shape, the artist had handblown it so the glass folded over itself, forming hanging layers of translucence from light pink to dark purple to pure transparent, with a three-dimensional heart suspended, as if by magic, in its center. The whole rested on a flat square base.

      It was perfect. More beautiful than she’d imagined. The glass spoke to her, flooding her with sensations of the past, of love, acceptance, happiness. She breathed deeply to tamp down the tears of joy threatening to fragment her careful composure.

      With discreet awe and a trembling finger, Cathlynn reached out to touch the object of her intense search. The glass felt warm beneath her finger. She picked it up, feeling its solid weight in her hands for the first time. Turning it over carefully, she inspected every facet. Not a chip, not a scratch in sight. The room grew unbearably warm around her, making the glass pulsate with heat, coating her hands with sweat. Even the walls seemed to shimmer in a feverlike hallucination.

      Her lips trembled. She clamped them down. She had to get hold of herself. She couldn’t let herself be drawn in by emotions. Staying cool, calm and collected—that would get her the prize, not foolish emotions.

      With a deep reluctance, she set the sculpture down on the table once more and turned back to the main room. Maybe the imminent storm would keep most of her competition away. Few people realized the value of the piece, but perhaps some would be drawn into the bidding by its simple yet elegant charm.

      No use worrying. She’d get the Aidan Heart even if she had to sell her soul for