Can't Stop the Feeling (Sinclair Sisters 2)

Prologue

Eighteen months earlier, Kintyre Mansion, Scotland

The sound of breaking glass woke Donna Sinclair from a deep sleep. She lay as still as possible, straining to hear what had caused the noise. As usual, the mansion was eerily quiet. In the three months she’d been living in the housekeeper’s accommodation at the top of the building, she’d become accustomed to the creaks and echoing noises in the old house. Although, she still didn’t feel comfortable in the place, or in her role as housekeeper—a job she hadn’t applied for but had been given because she happened to turn up on the day her boss fired the last one.

She sighed at the thought of her invisible boss. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Duncan Stewart since the day he’d hired her—even though they both lived in the same building. Since his young wife died the year before, Duncan had retreated from the world, leaving his housekeeper to deal with it for him. His grief was a spectre hanging over the mansion. Although, some days she thought it might be the lingering spirit of Fiona Stewart.

Aren’t you going to investigate? Donna wasn’t surprised by the voice only she could hear. She looked over to find a life-size drawing of Hermione Granger standing beside her dresser. You are the housekeeper after all.

“Go away,” Donna said. “You’re a kid. What do you know?” She paused as something else occurred to her. “And you aren’t real.” She probably should have led with the last part.

Hermione was undeterred. Isn’t it your job to take care of the mansion?

“It isn’t part of my job description to put myself in danger.” And yes, she was aware she was talking to an imaginary person. It happened a lot more often than she would ever admit. She had a tendency to sketch in the pages of the books she read, and those sketches had a habit of coming to life when she least wanted them to.

Stop being such a coward, Hermione said. You’re giving girls everywhere a bad name.

She should never have started re-reading Harry Potter before she fell asleep. If she’d been reading Lord of the Rings, Frodo would have appeared and told her to stay under her bed until the problem passed.

Another smash drew her attention to the front of the house. It didn’t sound like a window breaking, more like dishes being thrown against a wall. Part of her, the cowardly part, hoped Duncan would deal with the situation but considering his hermit nature, it seemed unlikely.

Donna! Someone could be breaking in. You need to deal with it.

“Fine,” she grumbled.

After climbing out of bed and tugging on her old terry cotton robe, she grabbed her phone from the nightstand next to her bed and hurried for the door.

Don’t worry, Hermione said. I have my wand. I’ll back you up.

“What a relief,” Donna muttered as she hurried down the stairs into the empty building beneath her. “Go away. I can’t deal with you right now.”

How rude! Hermione disappeared. Thankfully.

The sound of something else smashing made her trip on the stairs, and as she reached for the bannister to steady herself, she heard a voice—an angry, pain-filled wail that echoed through the mansion.

“Damn you to hell for leaving me, Fiona!”

Duncan.

She flew down the stairs. Rushing towards the sound of a man losing control. Donna didn’t spare a thought for the danger involved in confronting him while he was enraged, all she could think of was getting to him. Of helping him. Somehow.

“Forever!” Another crash punctuated his roar. “You promised forever.”

She rushed through the corridors to the main entrance, wishing she wasn’t the only staff member who lived on-site. Wishing someone was there to help her calm Duncan and save him from him

self.

“You lied!” he bellowed. “Forever didn’t happen.”

She ran across the marble entryway and yanked the front door open. A missile flew at her head. She ducked—just in time—and a half-full bottle of whisky smashed on the marble floor behind her.

Duncan stood in the middle of the driveway, at the bottom of the steps leading up to the mansion. His rumpled blue plaid shirt was buttoned up crookedly, his jeans had stains and his feet were bare. An overgrown beard hid his jaw, and tangled hair fell into his eyes. He looked more like a man who’d been living on the streets for months than the owner of Kintyre’s mansion house.

“Liar!” He roared as he lifted his fists to the sky. “Liar!”

Agony came off him with such force that Donna half expected to find a storm raging overhead. There should have been lightning and an answering roar of thunder, but instead, all she could see were the stars.

He staggered back a step before bending over to reach for another bottle. It seemed that in the weeks since she’d last seen him, her boss had been working his way through the liquor cabinet.

A spear of guilt made her stomach clench. She should have checked on him. She’d been selfish, thinking only of her own comfort, when he’d been suffering alone. As far as she could see, there was no one else around to keep an eye on him. Three months and there had been no visits to the mansion. No calls from family. Nothing. She wasn’t sure if he’d driven everyone away, or if his life had revolved around his wife to such an extent that there’d been no room for anyone else. It didn’t matter what caused his isolation. Right now, there was no one to step in and stop the man from killing himself with his grief.

No one but her.

“Duncan!” She raced towards him, down the stone steps and into the night. Aware that it probably wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done. He was massive, enraged and blind drunk. But he was also in pain, and she couldn’t bear it. “Stop, Duncan, please,” she called.

What she planned to do once she got to him, she didn’t know. But, to her surprise, he froze. The intensity of his dark gaze made her stumble. He blinked. Once. Twice. And then frowned.

“Fiona?” The confused whisper broke her heart.

“Oh, Duncan, no.” She approached him slowly, her hand out, as though he were a savage beast.