Wolf Island

Copyright
© 2012 Cheryl Gorman

Cover
Art by Rae Monet Designs http://www.raemonet.com

All
rights reserved. This e-book is not transferable. No part of this e-book may be
reproduced or shared in any form including but not limited to printing, faxing,
e-mailing, photocopying or by any manner of information retrieval through
electronic means or through the postal service without the express permission
of the publisher. This e-book is a work of fiction and a product of the
author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person or persons living or dead,
places, incidents, locations or businesses is purely coincidental.

Chapter One
 

A
castle in Maine? She’d had no idea they had castles in America.

Abigail
Chapel stood on the massive stone front porch of Morgan’s Keep on Wolf Island.
Around her, the wind sighed, bringing with it the scent of rain-washed pine and
earth. Now sunlight warmed her back and shoulders, but failed to ease the jolt
of nerves edging up her spine.

Where’s the moat and drawbridge with knights
standing guard, or the captured princess calling down in hopes of rescue from
one of the towers?

Abby
smiled at her foolish thoughts and looked at the thick stone walls. “What are
you doing here?” she murmured absently to herself.

The
door appeared impenetrable, made of gray metal with huge silver studs hammered
into its surface. A dark iron knocker carved in the shape of a wolf’s head,
with bared teeth and eyes fashioned of amber-colored stone, stared back at her.

Adjusting
the strap of her purse and lifting her hand to grasp the knocker, she paused as
a cloud passed overhead, blocking the sun. The shadow darkened the wolf’s eyes
until they appeared black and hard. A cold draft of air crept over her slim
body. A tinkling sound like chimes drifted to her ears, along with a man’s
subdued but evil laugh.

Her
hands started to shake, and sweat beaded her brow. The next moment, the sun’s
rays streamed down warm and mellow. She blinked rapidly and swallowed. The
wolf’s eyes appeared golden once again, and the chilling plume of air vanished.

Hysterical
laughter bubbled up from her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth and
breathed deeply through her nose. A minute, maybe two, passed before the giggle
dissipated and her heart stopped flopping around in her chest.

With
a slight tremble in her hand, she touched the wolf’s eyes. They felt solid and
unmoving beneath her prodding fingers. She saw no evidence of a device of any
kind that might project the laugh she’d heard or produce an icy draft.

However,
since she’d been scared out of her white leather flats, Devlin Morgan, the
castle’s owner, had some explaining to do. Abby raised her hand, gripped the
knocker firmly, and rapped on the door. Metal clinked against metal. While she
waited for someone to answer the door, she turned and gazed at the village that
spread in the valley below her.

Peaked
roofs in soft colors huddled closely together along the southernmost shoreline,
and craggy gray rock surrounded much of the island.

She’d
lifted her hand to knock again when the door swung open. A tall man wearing
nothing but a maroon towel filled the doorway.

Impressions
hit her at once. Wet, wavy raven hair dripped water onto his incredibly
handsome face. Brawny shoulders and arms. Broad chest. Thick, dark hair
glistening with water droplets spread over hard, muscled pectorals. Slender
waist. A line of black hair trailed down an abdomen rippled with muscle and
disappeared beneath the edge of the towel. He smelled wonderful, like water and
earth and man.

“Who
are you?” His deep, masculine voice was commanding.

For
a moment, she couldn’t speak.
I’ve never seen such a man in my life!
She
struggled to reply, but only managed to utter a rather pathetic-sounding
squeak. What in blazes was the matter with her?

Dark
brows arched over eyes the color of new leaves, and his full mouth twisted in
irritation. “Well?”

Pull yourself together.
Acting like a bubble-headed
schoolgirl wasn’t going to help her find her sister. Abby cleared her throat.
“Are you Mr. Morgan?”

“Yes.
Who are you?”

“Abigail
Chapel.”

He
straightened his shoulders and frowned at her. “I told you on the phone, your
sister isn’t here anymore.”

“Yes,
I know, but I need to ask you some questions.”

He
grasped the door. “I answered them already. Go home, Ms. Chapel. You’re wasting
my time.”

Before
he could shut the panel in her face, Abby reached out and laid her palm on the
door. “Please, wait.”

He
widened his stance, with his big feet firmly planted and the muscles in his
legs cording with strength. The towel tightened, molding the maroon material to
his genitals and pulling her attention downward. Feeling her cheeks grow hot,
she shifted her gaze back up to his. His scowl gave way to a hint of amusement
in his eyes.

The
sound of a clock tower resonated from the village below and floated on the air.
“I can’t. The last ferry left at four-thirty.” She’d intentionally waited until
after it left to approach the castle. “I received a call from my sister’s boss.
He told me he hasn’t heard from Miranda in several days. She hasn’t checked in
with her workplace or any of her friends. The last time we spoke, she said she
would call me back in a couple of days, but she never did. I’m very worried
about her.”

He
stepped back, as if to close the door, and she gripped his wrist firmly. To her
surprise, the heat from his skin pulsed thick and smooth into her fingers. Abby
sucked in a breath and snatched her hand away. Her heart beat so hard, she
thought it might burst. “Do you have any idea where she is?”

Devlin
shrugged his shoulders. “How should I know?”

His
obvious unconcern irked her. He must know something. “If you don’t let me in
and answer my questions regarding my sister, I assure you I’ll go straight to
the police.”

He
raised his brows. “The police?”

Abby
lifted her chin. “Yes. I must find my sister.”

Devlin
swept his gaze over her, and his eyes softened. He no doubt took in her
disheveled appearance. “Rough crossing?”

His
gentle query soothed her for the moment. “Yes, rather choppy with deep swells.”
To say the least.

At
that moment, a small orange kitten twined between Devlin’s legs. A pale blue
cast enwrapped one of the animal’s front legs.

Devlin
knelt, scooped up the kitten, then rose to his full height. The kitten nestled
into the crook of his arm while he stroked its head tenderly with his fingers.
The ball of fur closed its eyes and purred loud enough for Abby to hear. “This
one had a rough start, too.” He ran the tip of his finger lightly over the
cast. “Tree limb fell on his leg. No choice but to let the vagabond stay a
while.”

If
he allowed an injured kitten to stay, surely he would let her in for just a few
minutes. “Does that mean I can come in?”

“You’re
not a helpless kitten. If you want to go to the police, go ahead. I have
nothing to hide. Check with Corinne at Wolf’s Lair. She’d love to have someone
from England to talk to.”

With
those last words, he slammed the heavy door in her face.

* * * * *

With
the towel still wrapped around his waist, Devlin looked out the window in his
office on the first floor of the castle and watched Abby as she walked to her
car. Absently, he stroked his hand over the soft fur of the kitten still snuggled
in his arms. Abby tossed her purse inside, then climbed in and shut the car
door. He kept his eye on her until she drove to the end of the castle’s drive
and turned right onto the long, twisting road that led to the village. Devlin’s
mind crowded with the memory of a pair of bright violet eyes and a sweet mouth
made for kissing.

Abigail
Chapel spelled trouble. When she touched him, the strength and warmth of her
hold made him feel something he’d never experienced with another woman.

An
emotional connection. And it scared him to death.

He’d
been careful not to develop any serious relationships with women, especially
women who were interested in love, hearth, and home. He dated occasionally and
slept with a woman or two he met on business trips or vacation. Just a little
fun in the sack and no strings, because no woman could ever accept the shadow
of his past. He headed upstairs to change and tried in vain to put Abigail
Chapel out of his mind.

* * * * *

Abby
stood with Sheriff Jake Dutton outside the castle, waiting for the door to
open. He wore the standard sheriff’s uniform. In his late forties to early
fifties, he was still attractive; he’d probably been quite the ladies’ man when
he was younger. But there was padding around his waist now, and his light brown
hair was thinning on top.

A
feeling of triumph at convincing the sheriff to come with her made Abby
straighten her shoulders in confidence. Devlin would
have
to answer her
questions now.

The
door to the castle swung open, and Devlin scowled down at Abby from his exalted
height. No towel. Jeans covered his hips and thighs, and a dark blue shirt
concealed his upper body. She found him just as appealing with his clothes on.
Not a good reaction to have, considering that he might know something about Miranda’s
disappearance. His green gaze flicked from her face to the sheriff’s. “Jake, is
there a problem?”

Sheriff
Dutton placed his hands on his hips and cocked his head to one side. “Dev, Ms.
Chapel seems to think you know more than you’re telling about her sister,
Miranda.”

Funny,
when the sheriff dropped his
r
’s, it grated on her, but she found it
charming in Devlin.

Devlin
shot Abby an irritated glance, then looked at the sheriff. “Really.”

“Ayuh.”
The sheriff nodded. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

A
muscle worked in Devlin’s jaw. He swung his gaze to Abby and then back to the
sheriff. “Go ahead.”

“How
long was Ms. Chapel here?”

“One
week.”

Abby
crossed her arms over her chest and began tapping her foot.
Ask him
something important.

“Where
did she go?”

Devlin
frowned at her tapping foot, spared her a patronizing look, and then directed
his attention back to the sheriff. “I don’t know. She didn’t leave a forwarding
address. Is that all?”

She’d
had enough. Abby stepped forward. “No, that’s not all. The last time I spoke
with her, she told me you had blood on your hands and chased her. Whose blood?”

Uneasiness
crossed the sheriff’s face as he looked at Devlin. “You had blood on your
hands? When?”

Devlin’s
eyes gleamed with frustration as he glanced from the sheriff to Abby, but his
face remained calm, implacable. “Remember the little kitten you saw earlier?”

Abby
nodded.

“I
found him that night, pinned under a fallen tree limb. On the way back from the
village, I heard the little thing mewling in the grass on the side of the road.
When I wrestled with the limb, I got my clothes dirty and some of his blood on
my hands.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “I’d just brought him home and was
about to call the vet when your sister came barreling in through the front
door -- pale, out of breath and, by the looks of her, pretty spooked. I
went after her to find out why the devil she was so frightened.”