Daring Time

"This professor guy must have liked you a hell of a lot to leave you a mansion," Ramiro muttered, a hint of envy flavoring his tone.

"I was knocked flat on my ass when Alistair told me what he planned, but there was nothing I could say to change his mind. He insisted I was doing him a favor by taking it.

The value of the house is appreciating hugely because of the real estate development in this area. Alistair's lawyers advised him to reduce his taxable estate with a gift."

"Some gift. Better he'd left you some cash, though."

Ryan stepped into a room and flipped on a light. He studied the large, spacious bedroom suite, the plaster ceilings and intricately carved mantel. Alistair knew Ryan loved Chicago history. He must have guessed how much Ryan would appreciate the mansion.

"Cash's got nothing on this place."

Ramiro snorted. "They broke the mold when it comes to you, Daire. Six feet and four inches of pure pushover. At least to little kids and stray animals.

Can't say the same about you when it comes to assholes like Jim Donahue."

"You wouldn't want me any other way."

"Who wants you? I'm shackled to you," Ramiro grumbled.

They stepped into the bedroom. Ryan ran his hand admiringly over the carved mahogany mantel. Unlike the majority of the house, this room retained some furniture—stuff that looked to be the same vintage as the house, Ryan realized with a sense of amazement.

The green-and-white floral wallpaper beneath the wainscoting had faded but still retained a fresh, feminine charm. Obviously the bedroom had once belonged to a woman.

The foot- and headboard of a brass bedstead leaned against the wall between two antique mahogany tables. Ryan fingered the cool metal thoughtfully. The brass needed to be cleaned but the bed was perfectly intact. An image of himself polishing the brass and putting together the bed for his own mattress flashed vividly into his mind's eye.

He'd be nuts to even consider moving into this place.

"Look at this. Looks like something you'd have your nose buried in." Ramiro held up an old leather-bound book that he'd found in one of the table drawers. The color of the once-crims

on leather had faded to a dull dark red.

"Shakespeare's sonnets," Ryan murmured. He owned a copy of his own, nearly as well read as this old tome. Ryan had cultivated a love of Shakespeare from his father that had been nourished by Alistair. The book parted to a well-worn gold-leafed page when he opened it. He immediately recognized the 116th sonnet.

He raised the book toward his face and inhaled. His brow furrowed at the scent of gardenias mixing with the odor of leather and mildew.

"I'll bet you can get a couple grand for this old chest, Daire. People pay out their asses for antiques. Holy shit, check it out."

Ramiro moved aside from the opened door of the massive mahogany wardrobe so that Ryan could see the full-length mirror attached on the inner side of the door. The frame had been carved into a meticulous iris design beneath the gilt. Time had taken its toll on the mirror itself. Six or so inches all along the exterior had gone foggy with age. Only the center portion reflected true. Still, the mirror was so huge that Ryan didn't have to stoop his tall frame to see his face in the reflection.

Only it wasn't his face that he saw. He started in surprise.

"Jesus."

He whipped around so fast that Ramiro jerked back in alarm.

"What?" Ramiro asked. The whites of his brown eyes showed as his gaze shifted warily around the room and then back to Ryan. "What's wrong, man?"

Ryan turned back to the mirror, this time seeing his own bloodless face and greenish-blue eyes staring back at him.

"You didn't see her?"

"See who?"

"That woman. She was just right here, standing in front of me. I saw her in the mirror."

He quickly inspected the empty wardrobe, scanned the bedroom and rushed to the door.

The hallway stood empty and silent, the dozens of closed doors along both walls reminding him of watchful eyes.