Drifter's Revenge

By Catherine Spencer

Matt Daniels’ return to town has everything to do with vengeance, and nothing to do with love. But passion flares between him and Persia Sullivan, leaving her caught squarely between him and neighbours who have no use for home-town son Matt. What happened in the past to cause such hostility, and can Persia heal Matt’s wounds and persuade him that home and happy-ever-after aren’t an impossible dream? Contemporary Romance by Catherine Spencer writing as Kathy Orr; originally published by Dell Candlelight Ecstasy

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belgrave House
• Release date: Jan 1, 1987
• ISBN: 9781610844819

Catherine Spencer

In the past, Catherine Spencer has been an English teacher which was the springboard for her writing career. Heathcliff, Rochester, Romeo and Rhett were all responsible for her love of brooding heroes! Catherine has had the lucky honour of being a Romance Writers of America RITA finalist and has been a guest speaker at both international and local conferences and was the only Canadian chosen to appear on the television special, Harlequin goes Prime Time.

Book preview

Spencer

Chapter One

The day Jasper Daniels dropped dead of a coronary in Persia’s kitchen, the heart went out of The Haida Falls Herald. It was as if all fourteen employees were waiting for their turn at the guillotine, and heads would roll instead of the presses.

There’s going to be changes, Persia, Clem Anthony predicted gloomily, and popped another antacid into his mouth, one of the many he consumed in the course of a normal day. You mark my words: thing’s go downhill fast, now the Old Hellraiser’s gone.

Persia paused in the act of collecting the week’s mail in response to her column, and regarded him sympathetically. Not yet thirty, she nevertheless understood something of what he was feeling. He and Jasper had been the same age, and with the loss of his old crony, Clem’s own mortality was now thrust into sharp focus. Well, it won’t ever be the same again, Clem, but we owe it to jasper to try to keep things going.

Clem glowered. It’s not up to either him or us anymore, Persia. That young whippersnapper of his’ll be making the decisions from now on, and you can be damned sure he’s not interested in a small-town operation like this.

He’s probably right, Persia thought. Jasper had never made any secret of his disappointment that his only child hadn’t shown a speck of interest in taking up where his father left off. Matthew Daniels had shaken the dust of Haida Falls from his heels within weeks of graduating – reluctantly – from the local high school, and he hadn’t been back since.

Too busy chasing around the Caribbean and South Pacific, playing with rich divorcees, I guess, Jasper had commented, his tone ambiguously neutral. Then rolling his habitual cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, he had added, Sorry about that, Persia. There’s divorcees, and then there’s divorcees.

Yes, she’d privately agreed. There were those who lolled idly around the tropics living on fat sums of alimony, and then there were those like herself who worked hard to pay the rent, not to mention the bills left behind by a delinquent ex-husband.

In any event, Matthew had never come back to Haida Falls when his father was alive, and it was unlikely he’d do so now. Which was rather a pity, she thought. A resident of Haida Falls for only three years, she was more than a little curious to have a firsthand look at the town’s most notorious black sheep. And just what would happen to all Jasper’s business holding around town, now that the son had inherited them, was anybody’s guess.

You’re late today, Clem observed, raking his dark brown eyes over her critically. Things hopping down at the clinic, are they?

No worse than usual, but I was out at the school all morning. It made for a long day.

See what all that education’s gone and done? He grinned, revealing a set of china-white dentures. Now when I was a kid, nobody my age had any use for a person like you. Don’t know when you find time to tend your mail.

In the evenings. She smiled at him. It keeps me out of trouble, Clem.

He surveyed her again, screwing up his eyes until the skin around them pleated into leathery wrinkles. Young woman like you should be out raising hell or home raising babies, he grumbled fondly. All this isolation ain’t good for a body. You keep this up, Persia, and you’re gonna turn into a lonely old woman before your time.

* * * *

Well, he was right about the isolation, she thought, stepping out into the street and holding the collar of her coat close under her chin. The wind howled in off the Pacific and whipped her hair into her face.

With Jasper no longer living upstairs, she was rattling around that old Victorian house and imagining she heard and saw all sorts of things at night, from bats hanging upside down in the gingerbread fretwork over the eaves to burglars prowling the front porch. How she missed the old rascal, with his smelly cigars and ancient, stained coffee mug! It still hadn’t really penetrated that he wasn’t ever coming back. She still half expected to hear him slam the front door and come stomping up the stairs, cursing the weather or the government or Miss Jeanie Ellis, the librarian.

Old Virgin Ellis, he’d called her, and had taken fiendish delight in leering at her between the shelves each time he went to check out something in the reference section.

You’re making her blush, Persia had scolded him once, after witnessing his act.

Blush, hell! he’d snorted. Hot flashes, more like!

He’d been irrepressible and outrageous to the end, and he kept his big, generous heart well hidden from outsiders. Few people knew he’d financed Persia’s clinic or had founded the scholarships that sent three native high school graduates to university each year.

But Persia knew, just as she knew why Clem was feeling so low. Men like Jasper Daniels didn’t happen along every day of the week.

It was late November and, at four thirty, was already dark. Huddling down inside her coat, she turned onto Mayflower Avenue and let the wind buffet her downhill to Cherrytree Lane and up the path to her front porch. She’d forgotten to leave the outside light on. Again. Jasper had always seen to it for her. Ohm Jasper...!

The stranger emerged silently out of the deep shadows cast by the street lamps as she opened the front door. One minute she was alone, and the next he was there behind her, the width of him blocking her from the street as effectively as a wall. The blood curdled in her veins – suddenly, she knew exactly what that expression meant – and her scream strangled on its own terror to emerge as a throat-scraping gasp.

Who are you? he said, stepping over the threshold and forcing her farther into the house. Farther away from the street, and safety.

Me? she squeaked. Me! She sounded like a deranged field mouse. She pressed her hand to her mouth to still her shaking lips and stop any more betraying evidence of her fear.

He was a giant, blond-haired and bearded and – oh, God help her! – wearing a black leather jacket and black jeans and black boots. A thug, if ever she saw one. Or a rapist. Or a murderer.

But didn’t murderers always wear gloves? Terrified, she let her gaze slip to his hands. She might be communing with Jasper sooner than she’d thought.

But the hands that were unzipping the jacket were bare and refined. Surely not a killer’s hands, although, she noted, her eyes widening fearfully, there was strength in the elegant fingers. Don’t take your clothes off, she begged hoarsely, then added hastily, You’ve got the wrong house.

His dark blond brows rose questioningly over eyes the color of a summer sea.

Keep them talking. Hadn’t she read that somewhere? Distract them with rational conversation uttered in calm, soothing tones, and above all, show no fear. Or was that the way to handle rabid dogs?

But that’s all right, she babbled. "I know everybody – everybody, you understand – on the block and in this town. And they know me. I can help you find whoever it is you’re looking for. Or ...."

His stare was more than disconcerting; it was hypnotizing. Unpleasantly so. Like a snake confronting a rabbit. Her spate of words dribbled into silence.

I’ve got the right place, he eventually informed her. The zipper was all undone now, revealing a black turtleneck sweater tucked into jeans that positively embraced him. How come the lock’s been changed?

The old one finally fell apart, and Jasper had a new one put in. He wants me to feel safe. Maybe he’d think Jasper was her husband, due home any minute.

Probably rusted out in all the rain, he said dismissively, and eyed her appraisingly.

She was the most exotic creature he’d ever come across, and that was saying plenty. She easily stood five nine and, judging from the way her soft suede boots clung, she had legs that would stack up beside any he’d seen displayed on the beaches of Martinique or Petit Saint Vincent. But it was her face that held his attention the most. A perfect oval, the warm olive skin chafed by the wind into dusky rose across the high angle of her cheekbones. Hair, lustrous and rich as black satin, fell without a hint of a wave until, at the last moment, it hugged the curve of her jaw. It was a breathtakingly lovely face made utterly unforgettable by the most extraordinary eyes he’d ever seen. Not quite Asian, but tilting slightly at the outer corners, they were the color of lapis lazuli.

A stream of grudging admiration laced with envy swept through him. The Old Hellraiser had done okay for himself, though how he’d gotten away with it in dull, conservative, rainy old Haida Falls, Matt couldn’t fathom.

How did you know the lock had been changed? Startled curiosity nudged aside Persia’s terror. Who are you? And what do you think you’re doing, pushing your way in here uninvited?

He slung his jacket over the newel post at the foot of the stairs with the ease of long practice. Matt Daniels, he informed her succinctly and answered all three questions with the one answer. And I still don’t know who you are or what you’re doing in my father’s house. My house, now.

I live here.

The dark blond brows shot up again suggestively. Do you indeed? My inheritance grows richer by the minute. Now what do I have to do to learn your name, pretty lady?

I’m Persia Sullivan, she retorted, turning the full force of her brilliant blue eyes on him. And I’m completely immune to smooth talkers, so save the flattery for someone who’ll appreciate it. What can I do for you, Mr. Daniels?

Well, Persia.... He ran the name over his palate, seemed to approve the flavor of it on his tongue, and smiled guilelessly into her eyes. "I’ve been traveling for the better part of two days, and my last shower is a fast-fading memory. I had planned to make myself at home, soak a spell in a hot tub, then maybe light a fire and sit back with a shot of my father’s single malt Scotch and reminisce. So what you could do for me...Persia...." He savored her name again, drawing it out to enjoy every last syllable. What you could do for me is show me where the liquor is kept. The rest I can take care of myself – unless, of course, you feel compelled to offer to scrub my back, in which case I’ll be happy to accommodate your hospitable gesture.

Don’t hold your breath, she advised him coldly, distressed at the way her pulse had leaped at his impertinent suggestion. Sneakily, she cast a glance at his shoulders. If a woman were so inclined, there would be, she estimated furtively, a fair amount of back to scrub. Jasper had his own apartment upstairs, and I’m sure you’ll find everything just as he left it.

Upstairs?

Yes. He could see better up there. If this man was who he said he was, he’d know what she was talking about.

Stargazing and bird watching to the end, huh? His features softened in unexpected affection. Tell me, do the eagles still nest in the Douglas firs down on Lighthouse Point?

As many as ever. Jasper counted twelve gliding in the updrafts, the week before he died.

You were fond of the Old Hellraiser.

Her lingering traces of apprehension vanished. This man was no stranger to Haida Falls with his familiar reference to Jasper. I loved him, she said simply. He was my friend and my mentor, and I miss him dreadfully.

Something in her tone, and the direct blast from those almond-shaped eyes, left Matt feeling somehow lacking. You’re not the only one. I loved him, too.

It was none of her business, but that didn’t keep her silent. Then why didn’t you ever come to visit him? Why did he never see his only son all these years?

Just because you happened to share this house with him, don’t presume to know what sort of relationship I had with my father, pretty lady. There’s more than one way of being close. He paused insultingly and scrutinized her through eyes that were all at once chillingly cool. If you know what I mean.

She stared at him blankly. No, she said. I don’t know what you mean.

He shrugged. "Men my father’s age have been known to form surprising...attachments, shall we say, to much younger members of the opposite sex. Something to do with trying to recapture their own vanished youth, I believe."

Persia drew herself up to her regally impressive five feet, nine inches, plus heels, and stared directly into his eyes. Sleaze bucket! she spat.

For a second, they glared at each other, then Matt lowered his eyes. Ashamed, he vanquished the shaft of intense jealousy that had speared him at the thought of this lovely, vital creature being some old man’s plaything, especially his father’s. It was an unforgivable suspicion that he’d had no business putting into words.

I’m sorry, he said. That was way out of line.

Yes, it was. Your father didn’t deserve it.

His face was suddenly overlaid with grief. What...how did he...? He raised one hand helplessly. Tell me about him, he begged. I don’t even know any of the details.

She almost hated him for the sympathy he stirred in her, and felt an urge to punish him for his neglect of his father. But she was also hopelessly enmeshed in wanting to comfort him. Go take your long hot bath, she scolded him gently, and if you shave off that ragged excuse for a beard, I’ll make dinner for you and we can talk then.

His exhaustion and sadness, and her concern, almost unmanned him. For a horrifying second, his eyes felt all hot and prickly, and he had to swallow furtively under cover of the high neck of his sweater. He hadn’t wasted any energy crying since he was a kid, and he was damned if he was going to break with tradition now, just because a pair of turquoise eyes were misting with tears right in front of him. Okay. He cleared his throat and turned toward the front door, away from that distracting face. It’s a deal. Let me get my stuff off the porch.

* * * *

Cracked Dungeness crab in black bean sauce simmered on the back burner of the stove when he appeared in the kitchen doorway. Tossing a green salad laced with slivers of mushrooms and almonds, Persia felt his presence, glanced up, and almost upended the big teak salad