Authors: Christine Warren
Heart of Stone
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Contents
Praise for
New York Times
bestselling author
CHRISTINE WARREN
Chapter One
Ella Harrow fully supported the notion that people with excessive amounts of money should donate large sums of it to worthy causes, and she counted her employer—the Vancouver Museum of Art and History—as among the worthiest. She just wished the donors would hand over the cash without wanting to
talk
to her first.
Five minutes after the last guest of the Friday evening fund-raising gala had exited the front doors of Georgia House, the historic building that housed the main museum gallery, Ella gave in to the pressure she’d felt building all through the evening. She rolled her eyes, blew a raspberry, and thumbed her nose simultaneously. It was childish of her, but satisfying.
Béatrice Boucher, the only other staff member still present, said, “Now, Ella, tell me how you really feel about these little events.”
Ella shot her boss a narrow-eyed glare. “They’re my favorites, Bea. Really.”
Drinking wine and nibbling canapés might not sound like a year in a Stalinist gulag, but having to do it in the midst of five hundred elegantly dressed strangers while maintaining a polite smile in the face of their inane conversations and pretending to laugh at their lame jokes ranked even worse in Ella’s mind. She’d rather volunteer for the hard labor.
“I never would have guessed,” Bea said, locking the heavy antique entrance doors. After rattling the knobs once to check the bolts, she turned to Ella and waved her hands in a shooing motion. “Fly. Be free. You’ve done your penance for this fiscal quarter. I’ll hustle the caterers out through the kitchens and lock up that side. You can sneak out the garden gate the way you usually do and lock the terrace doors on your way out.”
“You sure?”
“Don’t look a gift horse,
mon amie
. Run while you can, before I come up with some new programs to spend all those lovely donations on and put you back to work.”
“I’m already halfway home.”
Ella listened to her friend and colleague’s laughter follow her through the hall and into the historic mansion’s stately ballroom, which now housed an impressive collection of paintings, antique furniture, and historic objets d’art. She’d worked for the assistant curator for more than two years now, and Bea knew her well enough to understand that when Ella said she hated crowds and that making small talk with strangers gave her hives, she wasn’t kidding.
She scratched absently at her arms beneath her embellished cardigan—her halfhearted nod to the event’s formal dress code—and stepped out into the crisp night air. Pausing on the paving stones, she took a moment to savor the silence. The solitude. For the first time in hours, her nerves began to unwind.
For some people, Ella knew, shyness made interacting with strangers an uncomfortable and embarrassing experience, but Ella wasn’t shy; she was terrified. Crowds scared her—more than spiders, more than the threat of global war, more than the boogeyman.
With people all around her, she could never predict what might happen, and the constant tension of holding on to her self-control made her head pound and her nerves fray. Being an antisocial hermit just made life easier.
Unfortunately, the hermit gig didn’t pay much, and Ella was addicted to living indoors and eating regularly, so she had to work, which meant dealing with people on a daily basis. At the museum at least, most of the people she met were on their best behavior, and being surrounded by the art made the unwelcome company almost bearable. When she gave tours as a docent, she could concentrate on her speech and on the works she pointed out to visitors to the collection; when managing the gift shop, she could smile politely and use professionalism to keep people at bay.
Most days, things went perfectly smoothly. It was only at times like this, when she had to deal with a special event and potential donors, that Ella ended her day feeling as if she’d been dragged behind a car over a field of broken glass.
A few minutes of peace, she told herself. A few minutes of quiet and isolation, and she’d be fine again. The ache in her head would ease. She’d even be able to face the bus ride home; at this hour, it wouldn’t be crowded, and in twenty minutes, she could lock the door of her apartment and wallow in her Fortress of Solitude.
Bliss.
Taking a deep breath, Ella drew in the autumnal scent of drying leaves and cool breezes. Her head fell back as she closed her eyes and rolled her shoulders against the tension knotted there. She’d take a minute, just a minute, to herself on the ballroom terrace, her favorite spot in the entire museum, before she locked up and headed home. Just a minute to collect herself, to shore up her defenses for the short trip home.
The lighting out here was dim, especially with the caterer’s lamps removed and the museum shut down for the night. A full moon partially obscured by drifting clouds made it possible to see, but somehow the silvery sheen it cast only made the quiet of the gardens deeper and reminded Ella of the lateness of the hour. She enjoyed these hours of the night, enjoyed the play of the moonlight on the artful plantings and graceful sculptures scattered through the museum garden.
She enjoyed that she’d survived the ordeal of the party and wouldn’t have to do anything else so annoying for at least another three months. Until, as Bea had hinted, the next fiscal quarter.
“I think this is the first time I’ve seen you alone all evening, Ella.”
Stifling a shriek, she clenched her fists and spun around.
She also jumped, the ankle straps of her black Mary Janes the only things keeping her from literally coming out of her shoes. Adrenaline rushed through her, making her heart pound in her ears and her hands come up defensively. She focused and caught sight of the person whose words had just scared her witless.
Patrick Stanley.
She should have recognized the voice. Smooth and slick, it simultaneously sent shivers racing across her skin and raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Stanley was rich, handsome, and sophisticated, one of the most sought after bachelors in British Columbia, and a third-generation patron of the museum. He had a movie star’s smile and the kind of charisma that drew people to him like lemmings to a cliff face.
He also creeped Ella the hell out, especially when she caught him repeatedly staring at her the way he’d been doing all evening. She’d thought he left with the other guests. She’d thought she could relax.
“Mr. Stanley. You startled me,” she managed after a minute, once her vocal cords had unclenched and restored her power of speech. “I had no idea anyone was still here. The event ended almost an hour ago.”
Stanley stood less than ten feet away on the darkened terrace, which was about twenty feet too close for Ella’s comfort. Normally, strangers couldn’t get that near her without her sensing their presence, especially the ones who made her uncomfortable. She’d gotten very good at being difficult to surprise.
“I’m aware, but I found that there were still some things around here tonight for me to admire.” He ambled toward her, his hands buried in the pockets of his tailored trousers and his attention fixed uncomfortably on her neckline.
Ella frowned. She’d worn a simple black sheath with a high neck, a modest hem, and the sparkly cardigan over the top. She’d even paired the outfit with dark hose, which she normally loathed, but she knew there wasn’t an inch of exposed skin below her hyoid bone for him to look at. That made the man’s fixation on her even more disturbing, somehow.
She had met Stanley for the first time almost two years ago, shortly after she started working at the museum. He’d come out of a meeting with Bea and the director, Bea’s boss, just as Ella was ending a tour in the mansion’s front hall.
When Ella’s guests had scattered, Bea waved her over and introduced her to both Dr. Maurice Lefavreau and one of the museum’s greatest benefactors. Even with her mental shields still up from interacting with the tour group, something about Stanley had slipped through Ella’s defenses and convinced her that this was a man she’d much prefer to keep at the greatest possible distance in the future.
Until tonight, she thought she’d been doing a pretty good job of it.
Suppressing the slight, irrational discomfort the man’s presence always inspired, she lifted her chin and pasted on her best professional smile—the one with no actual warmth anywhere near it.
“We do have a collection to be proud of,” she remarked distantly, “and the new exhibit of Légaré landscapes is particularly worth an extended study. You should make it a point to come back on another day. The natural light does make quite a difference to the viewing.”
Turning, Ella moved toward the French doors, gesturing for him to join her. “Allow me to walk you to the front, Mr. Stanley. I believe Dr. Boucher has already locked the doors, but I’d be happy to let you out.”
She made a concerted effort to keep Stanley in her vision, but the man seemed more amused by her tactics than inclined to play along with her. He stood where he was until she drew even with him; then with a speed she hadn’t anticipated, his hand darted out and grabbed her arm. He jerked her to a stop, nearly upsetting her balance.
“Don’t be in such a hurry, Ella,” he purred, holding her closely enough that she could feel the clammy heat of his breath against her cheek. “It’s a beautiful night. Surely you can spare a few minutes to enjoy it. With me.”
Her stomach heaved.
At the best of times, Ella avoided touching strangers. Even when she kept her guard up, sometimes she could sense things about them. Right now, she sensed a sickly sort of malevolence that made her want a swift escape and a long, hot shower.
Frozen like a field mouse facing down a hungry fox, she stared into Stanley’s handsome features and fought not to let the panic overwhelm her. This was another of the reasons why she worked so hard to keep people at a distance, because she could never tell when the slightest touch would rip open her senses and let the buffeting whirlwinds of the unnatural energy that surrounded her threaten to send her spinning into the eye of the storm.
And when Ella got swept into the eye, very scary things happened.
Dizziness threatened, but Ella ruthlessly pushed it back. She blinked to clear her vision and concentrated hard on seeing only the stark reality of the objects around her—Stanley’s intense, predatory stare; the majestic old elm tree that overhung the space between the garden stairs; the protective, crouching presence of the medieval gargoyle statue looming in the background.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat when Ella realized that if that ancient French sculptor had really wanted to scare people, he would have carved a statue that looked less like a demonic guardian and more like a feckless, morally bankrupt billionaire. No monster had ever scared her the way this human man was doing.
Swallowing hard, Ella forced back the nausea and fought for control. Her head spun and her ears buzzed with the low drone of a thousand bees, signs that she’d let her guard down.