False Family. Mary Anne Wilson

and golden garlands looked oddly formal sitting directly opposite the front doors. A simple star topped it, and white linen swaddled its trunk, spreading out onto the black marble.

      “I will be right back,” Myra said as she went past Tony and Mallory and headed for the staircase. Her low-heeled shoes clicked against the hard floor.

      When Myra reached the top of the stairs and went to the right through an arched opening, Mallory turned to Tony. “You didn’t have to come inside with me.”

      “Of course I didn’t,” he said as his dark eyes narrowed on her. “Tell me, what do you think of all of this?”

      She shrugged, wishing she could get out of her damp coat and away from him. He made it difficult to focus on anything when he was this close to her. “It’s incredible. I think I read in a magazine or something that Mr. Mills built it, but it looks as if it’s been around for centuries.”

      “Some of it’s new, some of it’s old. This is part of the original house, probably built a hundred and fifty years ago by one of the area’s great vintners. Then Mills took over the estate about forty years ago and started tearing out vineyards to make room for expansion, from extra wings to stables and guest cottages. He even had stones from a quarry in Ireland shipped over for the newer construction. In all the time he’s been here, he’s never stopped construction.”

      He looked around the area, his dark eyes roaming over the vast foyer. “He believes that if he quits building, he’ll die.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      Mallory knew her mouth must have dropped. “He really believes that?”

      Tony cast her a slanted look. “I don’t think he really does, not anymore than I believe the place is haunted.”

      “It’s haunted?”

      “I’ve never actually seen a ghost, but there are stories about night wanderings and strange happenings.”

      She looked for a hint of humor in his expression, but there was none, just that brooding sensuality that made her feel slightly off-balance. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

      He motioned to the area with one hand. “Doesn’t this place conjure up ideas of strange things going bump in the night? Even the new parts—the south wing that’s being built right now—supposedly has had incidents that can’t be explained. A perfect atmosphere for hauntings, I’d say.”

      The house definitely was different and a less-than-homey place. As she looked at Tony, she had the passing thought that he really looked as if he fit here, in a place of dark shadows and strange happenings. And his words were making her nerves even worse.

      “That’s ridiculous,” she muttered to stave off the uneasiness that prickled at the back of her neck.

      “You don’t believe in things you can’t see, that can’t be explained?”

      She’d retreated into the world of make-believe for a lot of her life. That was probably why she went into acting, taking whatever parts she could just to be able to create illusions and magic on the stage. And it had helped her survive foster homes and loneliness after her mother died. But right now she wanted reality and facts. She wanted this job. A chill in the air brushed her face and made her shiver.

      “What I believe is that I’m cold and damp and probably not going to get my meeting with Mr. Mills.”

      A flash of movement at the top of the stairs drew her attention, and she glanced up to see Myra standing by the top newel post, fingering a holly leaf. For some reason she had the feeling that the woman had been there, just watching, choosing her time to move and draw the attention of the two of them.

      “Mr. Mills will see you now in his suite.”

      Mallory was relieved that the man wasn’t just turning her away. “That’s great.”

      The woman flashed Tony a glance. “Perhaps you can tell William where Miss King’s car is, and he can take care of it?”

      “Of course,” Tony said.

      “And your luggage?”

      “My car’s right out in front. Everything’s in the trunk. The key’s in the ignition.”

      Mallory frowned at Tony as a part of the riddle of this man became clear to her. “Mr. Mills is the business associate you were talking about in the car, isn’t he?”

      “As a matter of fact, yes.”

      “You never said.”

      “There’s a lot you didn’t say, too,” he murmured, a certain tightness touching his expression.

      Strangely, she felt as if he had duped her someway, and she turned from him to go to the stairs. As she took the steps one by one, she could feel Tony watching her, the way she could at the theater, his eyes boring into her back.

      When she reached the top of the stairs, she chanced a look back down into the foyer. But the space was empty. Tony had vanished as quietly and completely as if he had never been or as if he were a ghost. She could still feel the tingling in her wrist where he’d touched her in the car, and she shook her head as she turned to follow Myra through the arched doorway. The man certainly wasn’t a ghost.

      As Mallory followed Myra into a broad hallway, she pushed the ideas of ghosts and hauntings out of her mind and focused on what lay ahead of her. The interview with Saxon Mills.

      She went down the hallway, past closed doors on either side, which were heavy wooden barriers set into stone walls and were partially covered by faded tapestries. Thick Persian carpeting underfoot muffled any noises, and gas lanterns wired for electricity were spaced every twenty feet or so, casting a yellow glow over everything.

      The chill Mallory had felt in the lower level was more pronounced up here, and the mustiness of age that had only been hinted at in the foyer was stronger. Mallory followed the housekeeper to the end of the corridor, where highly polished wooden doors barred the way. Without knocking, the woman pressed an ornate latch and opened the doors. With a glance back at Mallory, she motioned her to follow her inside.

      Mallory stepped into a dimly lit room that matched the rest of the house perfectly. It looked as if it occupied one of the turrets, with a domed ceiling overhead, multi-angled stone walls and heavy plank flooring partially hidden by individual Persian carpets and runners. A massive fireplace set into the wall to the right had five-foot-tall marble horse statues at either side, rearing into the air.

      The fire in the hearth radiated welcoming heat, and the dancing flames reflected off the polished surfaces of furniture that, even to Mallory’s untrained eye, were obviously priceless antiques. In the center of the room was a huge sleigh bed set on a marble platform that raised it ten inches above the floor.

      Mallory turned to speak to Myra by the door, and came face-to-face with a man who she didn’t have to be told was Saxon Mills. Tall at about six feet, he had a wiry leanness to him, and thick, snow-white hair brushed back from an angular face. In a bloodred smoking jacket, dark slacks and leather slippers, he stared at Mallory with deep blue eyes partially shadowed by shaggy brows.

      He didn’t speak as he came closer and slowly circled her, looking her up and down as if she were livestock to be bid on. When he came back to face her, he asked in a rough, well-used voice, “Your coat?”

      Mallory quickly slipped off the damp coat, and the housekeeper came forward to take it from her.

      “Myra, bring Miss King some hot tea,” the man said without looking away from Mallory. “And prepare dinner to be served at eight sharp. Tell the others to be punctual.”

      Silently the housekeeper turned and slipped out of the room, and Mallory heard the door click shut after her. Thankful for the feeling of warmth from the fire at her back, she said, “I’m sorry I’m late.”

      “You’re here,” he said quickly.