LEAD ME ON by Julie Ortolon (find a book to read TXT) 📕

and I live on premise. Right downstairs. In the basement. Well, in an apartment in the basement. What I mean is, if you need anything, there’s always someone here.” Was she babbling? Surely not. She never babbled. Straightening her shoulders, she composed herself. “We lock up at night, so you’ll need the gold key to get in the front door after dark. The silver key is to your room.”

“Got it.” He gave another lopsided grin and butterflies danced in her stomach. God, he was so gorgeous when he did that, like a movie star who would play nothing but villains and still have every woman in the audience swooning.

Trying to appear casual, she led the way back into the hall, describing the inn’s policies. He nodded absently, seeming more interested in looking about than what she was saying.

“You’ve really fixed up the place,” he said as they started up the stairs. “I never would have imagined it could be this ... inviting.”

Startled, she paused on the landing, where the stained-glass windows bathed them in colored light. “You’ve been here before?”

He shrugged. “My family vacationed in Galveston a lot while I was growing up.”

“Really?” she asked, fascinated.

“It was a common enough dare for kids to sneak out here and see if they could stay all night without running scared from the ghost. My sister and I took it a step farther and broke into the house with sleeping bags and seance candles.” As if realizing he’d just admitted to breaking and entering, he quickly added, “This was, of course, long before your family owned the place.”

“Ghost Island,” she breathed in awe. “Your first book.”

“My first published book,” he clarified.

“It was about three boys who broke into a haunted house on a dare, and wound up discovering a storeroom for international art thieves.” She looked about, seeing the house through different eyes. “You based that house on this one?”

“Pretty much.”

“Can we tell people that? I mean, would you mind?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

“Oh, this is wonderful. I think guests will be fascinated. So, did you make it the whole night?”

“Barely.” He chuckled. The sound was even more appealing than his lopsided grins. “Although once the sun was up, I’m not sure if we were relieved or disappointed that Marguerite never put in an appearance.”

She laughed nervously, suddenly aware of how closely they stood together—so close that she caught the faint scent of soap and his freshly laundered shirt.

“So, what about you?” he asked, tipping his head to study her. “Did you ever sneak out here as a kid to see if Marguerite would reveal herself?”

“No, actually none of us, Adrian, Rory, or I, ever did.” To gain some distance, she started up the stairs again. “That probably sounds odd, since Marguerite is our ancestor and we had more reason than most to want to see her. I guess it was just too much of a sore spot for all of us.”

“What do you mean?”

“The house wasn’t ours by right of inheritance, as it should have been. We still wouldn’t own it if it hadn’t come up for sale on a bank foreclosure a year ago. Marguerite’s husband, Henri LeRoche, left the island and all his wealth to his nephew rather than his daughter, Nicole.”

“Except Nicole Bouchard wasn’t Henri LeRoche’s daughter. Otherwise, why would she have taken her mother’s maiden name?”

Surprise stopped Alli at the top of the stairs. She knew people said such things behind their backs, but rarely to their faces. “I see you did spend a lot of time in Galveston to have heard that bit of old slander.”

“We writers are a curious lot,” he said, not sounding the least contrite. “Which is probably the answer to your question about where ideas come from.”

“Well, you can let your curiosity rest on that subject. The rumors are nothing more than vicious lies against Marguerite, invented by the LeRoche family to justify keeping Nicole’s inheritance.”

“It can’t all be lies. After all, Marguerite was trying to run off with her pirate lover the night she and her husband fought on these very stairs and she fell, breaking her neck.” He gestured down the grand sweep of stairs.

Alli straightened, ignoring a sudden rush of vertigo. “First of all, Marguerite didn’t fall. Henri pushed her down these stairs. And secondly, her lover, Captain Jack Kingsley, was a Confederate blockade runner, not a pirate or a Yankee spy, as Henri claimed.”

“But he was her lover.”

“That hardly means Nicole Bouchard was illegitimate. She was born years before Marguerite even met Captain Kingsley.”

Scott started to argue the point further—amused to see the kitten had claws when her fur was rubbed the wrong way—but the scent of lemon polish and fresh flowers distracted him. Glancing around, he found the upper hall had been turned into a sitting room with comfortable chairs and a sideboard for serving coffee and hot tea. “Impressive.”

“Thank you,” she said in a crisp voice that made him hide a smile. What a shame Allison St. Claire was too sweet for him to even think about seducing, since she apparently had a spark of passion beneath the surface.

Turning, she headed across the sitting area, her back rigid.

“So, have you ever seen her?” he asked as they reached the door to his room.

She shook her head. “Marguerite never actually shows herself. She makes her presence felt in other ways.”

“How so?”

Allison looked up in the process of unlocking the door. “I’m surprised you don’t know, since you seem knowledgeable about everything else.”

“Amuse me.” He leaned against the doorjamb, which brought him closer to her eye level.

“Marguerite is considered to be a good-luck charm, because of a blessing from the voodoo midwife who birthed her.”

“Well, I knew that. I was hoping you could offer some proof that the charm really works. Or at least tell me if it works for anyone staying in the house, or only the owners.”

Confusion replaced the anger in her eyes. “Is that why you’re here? To borrow some of Marguerite’s good luck?”

“Maybe.” He