roof panes of the greenhouse beyond the front door. Massaging
the back of her neck, she headed in the direction of the staircase.
She was about to ascend when an unfamiliar grating bell detonated,
echoing discordantly in the hall. Wincing with the pain the sound
magnified in her head, she bewilderingly looked about
her.
Again the bell called for
her attention.
“The door,” she muttered,
rapidly walking to the end of the hall. She opened the door on the
right to find a man standing on the top step of the
greenhouse.
“Good afternoon,” he
greeted, running a hand over his dripping dark hair. He eyed Beth
through rain-speckled, horn-rimmed glasses. “I wasn't expecting
anyone to be here,” he added in his cultured English
accent.
To Beth's chagrin, he
squeezed past her and entered the hall, where he delighted in
having a look at the decor.
“Marvelous,” he beamed,
inspecting the tiles on the fireplace.
Beth gave herself a mental
shake and finally released the doorknob. For a moment there, she'd
thought he might be David, but it soon became obvious that this man
had never seen the inside of Baird House.
“I must say, I wasn't
expecting anything quite so elegant.” He reached for the door to
the parlor. “I'll just show myself around.”
“Wait a minute,” Beth said
breathlessly, walking up to him. Of average build and height, a tan
raincoat belted about his middle, he turned a smile on her, which
didn't waver when she peevishly asked, “Who are you?”
“I do beg your pardon.” With
a low laugh, he briefly shook Beth's limp hand. “Stephan Miles.
I've been checking into this property. I was led to believe the
house was vacant. Pleasant surprise finding you here.”
“Really,” she said dryly.
“Despite what you were led to believe, Mr. Miles—”
“Stephan.”
“— this house is definitely
occupied.”
“Are you the
owner?”
“No. I'm
visiting.”
Stephan Miles stepped past
Beth and stood at the bottom of the staircase, looking up. “I would
love to see the rest of the house.” He flashed Beth a toothy smile
over his shoulder. “Have you time?”
“I must ask you to
leave.”
Turning to face her, he
slipped his hands into the pockets of his raincoat. “I would like a
word with the owner, if it's not inconvenient.” He reached into the
front of the raincoat and produced a small, white card. Passing it
to Beth, the hand went back into the pocket.
“I'm prepared to make a
sizeable offer for this estate.”
Beth looked up from the
palmed card and leveled an irritable look on the man. “The owners
are out of town.”
“I've come a long way....”
His words drifted off. A crooked grin twitched one corner of his
mouth. “Are you alone?”
Beth stiffened as a warning
red light went off in her brain. “No, I'm not. There's a burly
groundskeeper about. I've been led to believe he fertilizes the
gardens with the body parts of trespassers.”
A short burst of laughter,
incongruent of the man's tailored appearance, knotted Beth's
stomach. “Dear lady, I'm interested in the estate.”
“Then I suggest you come
back at another time,” she said coolly.
A moment passed in silence.
Then he turned, stepped up onto the first step of the staircase,
and gripped the banister. “When do you expect them to return?” he
asked, not looking at her.
“Any time. I want you to
leave, Mr. Miles.”
Facing her, he absently
smoothed a hand along the mahogany rail. “You're
American.”
Beth heatedly headed for the
front door. The sound of a gasp gave her pause. Looking at the
intrusive stranger, she saw that he was frozen on the step, his
eyes wide with something akin to consternation. She returned to her
former position, a frown questioning his odd behavior. His face was
deathly pale, his jaw slack. Beth was about to ask him what was
wrong when she noticed his wet hair was moving, as if he was
standing in a strong draft. But the coat remained still, and she
could not detect anything,
the back of her neck, she headed in the direction of the staircase.
She was about to ascend when an unfamiliar grating bell detonated,
echoing discordantly in the hall. Wincing with the pain the sound
magnified in her head, she bewilderingly looked about
her.
Again the bell called for
her attention.
“The door,” she muttered,
rapidly walking to the end of the hall. She opened the door on the
right to find a man standing on the top step of the
greenhouse.
“Good afternoon,” he
greeted, running a hand over his dripping dark hair. He eyed Beth
through rain-speckled, horn-rimmed glasses. “I wasn't expecting
anyone to be here,” he added in his cultured English
accent.
To Beth's chagrin, he
squeezed past her and entered the hall, where he delighted in
having a look at the decor.
“Marvelous,” he beamed,
inspecting the tiles on the fireplace.
Beth gave herself a mental
shake and finally released the doorknob. For a moment there, she'd
thought he might be David, but it soon became obvious that this man
had never seen the inside of Baird House.
“I must say, I wasn't
expecting anything quite so elegant.” He reached for the door to
the parlor. “I'll just show myself around.”
“Wait a minute,” Beth said
breathlessly, walking up to him. Of average build and height, a tan
raincoat belted about his middle, he turned a smile on her, which
didn't waver when she peevishly asked, “Who are you?”
“I do beg your pardon.” With
a low laugh, he briefly shook Beth's limp hand. “Stephan Miles.
I've been checking into this property. I was led to believe the
house was vacant. Pleasant surprise finding you here.”
“Really,” she said dryly.
“Despite what you were led to believe, Mr. Miles—”
“Stephan.”
“— this house is definitely
occupied.”
“Are you the
owner?”
“No. I'm
visiting.”
Stephan Miles stepped past
Beth and stood at the bottom of the staircase, looking up. “I would
love to see the rest of the house.” He flashed Beth a toothy smile
over his shoulder. “Have you time?”
“I must ask you to
leave.”
Turning to face her, he
slipped his hands into the pockets of his raincoat. “I would like a
word with the owner, if it's not inconvenient.” He reached into the
front of the raincoat and produced a small, white card. Passing it
to Beth, the hand went back into the pocket.
“I'm prepared to make a
sizeable offer for this estate.”
Beth looked up from the
palmed card and leveled an irritable look on the man. “The owners
are out of town.”
“I've come a long way....”
His words drifted off. A crooked grin twitched one corner of his
mouth. “Are you alone?”
Beth stiffened as a warning
red light went off in her brain. “No, I'm not. There's a burly
groundskeeper about. I've been led to believe he fertilizes the
gardens with the body parts of trespassers.”
A short burst of laughter,
incongruent of the man's tailored appearance, knotted Beth's
stomach. “Dear lady, I'm interested in the estate.”
“Then I suggest you come
back at another time,” she said coolly.
A moment passed in silence.
Then he turned, stepped up onto the first step of the staircase,
and gripped the banister. “When do you expect them to return?” he
asked, not looking at her.
“Any time. I want you to
leave, Mr. Miles.”
Facing her, he absently
smoothed a hand along the mahogany rail. “You're
American.”
Beth heatedly headed for the
front door. The sound of a gasp gave her pause. Looking at the
intrusive stranger, she saw that he was frozen on the step, his
eyes wide with something akin to consternation. She returned to her
former position, a frown questioning his odd behavior. His face was
deathly pale, his jaw slack. Beth was about to ask him what was
wrong when she noticed his wet hair was moving, as if he was
standing in a strong draft. But the coat remained still, and she
could not detect anything,
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