Anne Stuart's Out-of-Print Gems by Anne Stuart Page A

Ruth was her best chance so far—she had a good heart, even if it came with a misplaced loyalty to the Phantom of Oak Grove. Meg simply had to keep working on her.
    â€œReady,” she said. “Unless…”
    â€œYeah?” he demanded impatiently.
    â€œI’d really like to spend some time outside.” She could hear the sounds of construction from the left side of the house. If Sal would just leave her alone on the porch, she could go in search of the workers. The day she couldn’t talk to a construction crew and get them to do what she wanted would be the day she’d give up.
    â€œThey won’t help you,” Salvatore said, reading her very clearly. “They know where their paycheck is coming from.”
    She resisted the impulse to make a face at him. One person had her interests at heart, one person would help her, she knew it deep in her heart. “As a matter of fact, I’d like to spend some time in the rose garden I saw from my window. Got any problem with that?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’ll have to check with Ethan….”
    â€œIsn’t he asleep in his coffin? Come on, Igor, take some responsibility on your own shoulders.”
    He glared at her. “He’s not going to like your attitude.”
    â€œTough. Let me go to the rose garden and I’ll be docile.”
    There was a long pause. “Can’t see the harm in it,” Sal said finally, surprising her. “Just one word of warning.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œWatch out for ghosts.”

Chapter Seven
    The rose garden was cooler than the front porch. The grass was wet and green beneath her sneakers, and the rich scent of spring earth was almost erotic in its intensity. Salvatore left her there, muttering something about returning in an hour, and she was alone.
    The garden was lovingly tended, the roses very old and just beginning to bud. Ruth had told her the sullen townspeople of Oak Grove came in daily to take care of the house—one of them must have a green thumb to keep such ancient roses in such healthy shape.
    But it wasn’t a townsperson, she knew that instinctively. It was the old man who’d found her that night, the old man she’d glimpsed less than an hour ago from her window.
    She turned and looked back at the house, shaking her head in amazement. From every angle, the building was a wonderment as one architectural style gave way to another, a crazy quilt of building styles that was both bizarre and oddly appealing. She could only guess which windows were hers. The turret rose above her, made of solid stone, and she knew with a pang that it must have been built exactly as the old castles of Europe had been built. The old castles she should have been visiting, instead of being trapped in a state like Arkansas. A place where nothing was as it seemed.
    She crossed the damp grass and stepped up into the gazebo, sinking down on one of the wooden benches, hiding behind the greenery. Ever since she’d arrived at the Meredith place, she’d felt as if someone was watching her, following her every movement. She knew that no one could see behind the tangle of rose bushes. For a few minutes, she was going to sit back, alone, away from everyone, and try to figure out what in the world she was going to do to get away from there.
    She wrapped her arms around her body. She should have worn something a little heavier than the soft cotton shirt she’d unearthed from her suitcase, but it hadn’t seemed that chilly. She leaned back against a post, closing her eyes for a moment, and wondered whether she ought to shed a few tears of self-pity.
    She decided against it. She was quickly regaining her health and no one had actually done her harm. Certainly she was trapped in this place against her will. She was also becoming more and more fascinated with its occupants, Ethan Winslowe in particular. If he were suddenly to capitulate, to let her