Nine Lives (Lily Dale Mystery #1)(55)

Probably. If her journey through the guestrooms this afternoon has taught her anything, it’s that everyone has secrets. Everyone.

For example, she never would have guessed that Bonnie Barrington’s long blonde hair isn’t her own, but there’s an empty Styrofoam wig form sitting alongside the collection of bone china teacups on the bureau in her room. The staid Piersons seem to have quite the active love life, judging by the kinky black lace lingerie hanging on the back of the bathroom doorknob. And the Tooklers, well, they’re in the opposite situation, judging by the self-help book and medication—prescribed for Jim by a urologist—on the nightstand.

Unaccustomed to glimpsing such intimate details in virtual strangers’ lives, she’s taken it all in with a twinge of voyeuristic guilt. It’s not as if she’s been snooping through drawers, though. She can’t help but notice what’s been left in plain sight.

As she finishes the hospital corners on the bed, she marvels that you never know what goes on behind closed doors, or even in people’s private thoughts.

That doesn’t mean Bella suspects any of the guests of having something to do with Leona’s death. None of them were even here when it happened . . .

Unless someone had sneaked into town, killed her, and sneaked away again, only to show up two weeks later feigning shock at the terrible news.

She supposes that isn’t out of the question, but why?

What if it was because—

“Hello?”

Startled by the voice behind her, Bella cries out. She whirls around to see a man standing in the doorway.

“Sorry,” he says.

She’s never seen him before, yet he looks very much at home, leaning against the doorjamb as though he belongs here and she’s the interloper.

She knows the hammering in her rib cage is because he scared her and not—no, of course not—because he’s incredibly good looking.

He is, though. Dark and slick and clean-shaven, he’s wearing a well-cut suit and polished shoes. His devil-may-care elegance reminds her of the Gatsbyesque dandies she glimpsed the other night in the vintage photo albums.

He’s quite the suave, seductive charmer . . .

What if Odelia’s “Rudy” Valentino showed up at the wrong house this time?

Even as the thought crosses her mind, she acknowledges the utter ridiculousness of it.

She starts toward him and slams her thigh squarely into the bedpost. Ouch.

“Are you okay?” he asks mildly, watching her wince and rub the spot with her burnt fingers.

“I’m fine.” Just clumsy. “Are you . . . ?”

She can’t quite decide how to finish the sentence. Are you . . .

A ghost?

A crazy psycho killer?

Or maybe, Are you . . . checking in?

Or . . . checking me out?

Judging by the appreciative look in his black eyes, the last part is entirely true.

He completes the sentence for her: “Grant Everard.”

“You’re Grant Everard?” Her gaze shifts immediately to his wrist, but she can’t see the fancy watch Odelia mentioned—the one that’s a dead giveaway just how wealthy he is.

It’s his turn to offer a fragmented question: “And you’re . . . ?”

He obviously has no idea who she is, but he doesn’t look as though he wonders whether she might be a ghost, a killer, or checking into the guesthouse. He may, however, believe she’s checking him out.

Probably because you are.

“I’m Isabella.”

“Nice to meet you, Isabella . . .”

“Jordan.” She crosses over to shake his extended hand with her sore one. “I’m taking care of things around here for a few days.”

His gaze flicks from her face to the erotic novel on the nightstand, waiting to be slipped back under the pillow when she finished making the bed.

He raises those decidedly masculine brows and flashes her a look that brings instant heat to her cheeks.

“That’s not mine,” she tells him quickly.

“That’s what they all say.” He flashes a lazy grin, and she resists the immediate urge to reach up and smooth her hair, wondering whether she remembered to brush it this morning—or her teeth, for that matter. Not that it matters, because she certainly isn’t going to be kissing anyone, but . . .

Kissing? Since when is she thinking about kissing?

It’s been a long time since she felt this kind of flustered.

No, he’s not the first good-looking man to come along since Sam died. Not even the first one since she started her new life.

She thinks of Doctor Bailey, Troy, and Luther, too. She isn’t blind; she’s not immune to the opposite sex.

Grant, though, seems to have ignited a spark in the cool, dim place inside her where something warm and vibrant once glowed.

Yes, but look what happens when you play with fire, she reminds herself.

And for that matter, look at how you look.

She may never have been beautiful, regardless of what Sam called her.

My Bella Angelo.

No, but she’d been pretty enough, in a sporty, casual kind of way. Now whenever she looks in the mirror, all she sees are dark circles and worry lines and sad blue eyes.

My Bella Blue.

“How did you get in?” she asks Grant abruptly, determined to focus on the throbbing ache in her fingers and not the one in her heart.