Dark Garden Read online

  Synopsis

  Two sworn enemies who can’t resist each other. Something has to give

  The Blakes and the Cavenders have been going at it since 1870 and Vienna Blake keeps up the family tradition, gunning for the Cavenders at every opportunity. All the same, she’s shocked when Mason Cavender confronts her in her office and accuses her of murder. Vienna has the stunningly sexual Mason thrown out by security, but she can’t rid herself so easily of her powerful, instant attraction to the woman she’s been groomed since childhood to destroy.

  Last in a long line of “Cursed Cavenders,” as the media describes them, Mason has just walked away from the small plane crash that killed her brother. Now in charge of her family’s crumbling business empire, she suspects sabotage and believes beautiful, ruthless Vienna Blake is responsible. Fearing for her life and grieving for her brother, Mason hires a private investigator to get evidence she can take to the police. She is frustrated when the man finds nothing but makes the bizarre suggestion that she hire a psychic to undo the “curse” on her family. He gives her a name. Phoebe Temple. Phoebe’s dreams have always centered on the victims of crimes, and she isn’t surprised when the woman steps from her dreams into her life, asking for help.

  Exposing family secrets always comes at a price. With passion and family honor in the balance, Mason is willing to pay her dues. But can she persuade Vienna to accept a truce before it’s too late? Dark Garden brings together two powerful women who must confront the past if they want to seize the future.

  Dark Garden

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Dark Garden

  © 2009 By Jennifer Fulton. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-309-9

  This electronic book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,

  New York, USA

  First Edition: June 2009.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  ROMANCES as Jennifer Fulton

  From BSB:

  Dark Vista Series

  Dark Dreamer

  Dark Valentine

  Dark Garden

  Standalones

  More Than Paradise

  Other:

  Moon Island Series

  Passion Bay

  Saving Grace

  The Sacred Shore

  A Guarded Heart

  Standalones

  True Love

  Greener Than Grass

  CONTEMPORARY FICTION as Grace Lennox

  From BSB:

  Chance

  Not Single Enough

  MYSTERIES as Rose Beecham

  From BSB:

  Jude Devine Series

  Grave Silence

  Sleep of Reason

  Place of Exile

  Other:

  Amanda Valentine Series

  Introducing Amanda Valentine

  Second Guess

  Fair Play

  Acknowledgments

  This story, like my earlier Gothic hybrid, Dark Dreamer, had its roots in my childhood. Among the novels and poetry I loved most growing up, Gothic works were disproportionately represented and I always wanted to draw some of those themes into my romances. It also helped that I lived for some years in a huge, creaking, isolated house without television and with rather poor electrics. This led to many evenings of solitude in my bedroom, overlooking a dark garden and creepy orchard, reading by candlelight, and listening to the stories of Edgar Allan Poe on a decrepit radio.

  You’ll find in the pages that follow, a recognizable homage to various authors of the Gothic persuasion: Charlotte and Emily Brontë, Ann Radcliffe, Elizabeth Gaskell, and of course Daphne du Maurier, whose novel Rebecca made me want not just to read, but to write something Gothic and creepy. My tip o’ the nib to that author can be found in Dark Garden, in both the title, and the last scene of Chapter Ten.

  My family and friends, as always, gave me love and support. Connie Ward provided helpful encouragement and thoughtful comments for my early chapters, and my patient publisher, Len Barot, kindly allowed me to delay this work when the time to get it written was unavailable. Getting any book published is quite an undertaking when everyone involved cares a great deal about the final product, as the crew at Bold Strokes do. Once this book was finally in their hands, it got a lovely cover—thanks to Sheri, and Stacia Seaman took pains to make the text free of typos and other blunders, under pressure of time, for which I am thankful.

  Lastly, I’d like to thank the many readers who’ve been writing to me over the almost twenty years in which I’ve been publishing lesbian romances. It’s been an honor and a pleasure to write stories for you. I hope this one brings pleasure, too.

  Dedication

  For JD

  Chapter One

  “The gun is loaded,” said the woman with the rifle aimed from her hip. She was tall and disheveled. Her lank coal-black hair fell heavily around her face. She locked the door behind her. “Move and I swear I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

  Vienna Blake hit the security alarm under her desk. Not that anyone could have missed the fact that a crazy woman had invaded their building. A SWAT team was probably en route already. “What do you want?”

  “You know why I’m here.”

  The intruder was sullen and suspicious, like a wild thing peering out from behind iron bars. Her clothes belonged on the set of a period movie, not in a downtown Boston office. Who wore a three-quarter length velvet coat and a white shirt with some kind of cravat at the throat? Only Mason Cavender. Vienna supposed the coat had provided camouflage so she could smuggle the rifle. But the black breeches and riding boots?

  “Can you lower your gun?” she requested. “It’s making me nervous.”

  “A Blake with a sense of humor, whadaya know.” Mason strode across the office and halted a few feet from the imposing cherrywood desk. Eyes dark with menace swept over Vienna. “You think this is funny?”

  Vienna refused to allow her alarm to show. She’d be damned if a rifle pointed at her gut would turn her into a crybaby. “You’re only making things worse for yourself.”

  “Worse? Your family has destroyed mine. And now you’ve murdered my brother. Was that your finest moment? Or did you prefer seeing my father wet himself the day he had his stroke?”

  Vienna assessed her chances of extracting the Smith & Wesson she kept in her top drawer before Mason could fire her weapon. Forcing herself to remain calm and think carefully, she said, “I’m truly sorry about your brother.”

  The long barrel inched toward her chest. “Sorry? My brother isn’t cold in his grave and you have the nerve to send me that takeover offer?”

  Mason looked like she hadn’t slept since the funeral. Vienna recognized that the situation was dangerous, but she refused to allow herself the luxury of panic. People who panicked made mistakes. She belonged to a different ilk—people who made mistakes, survived them, and would never surrender their control again. She forced herself to breathe evenly as she analyzed her options. If she could get the revolver
from her drawer, she would only need a single shot. Self-defense. Any competent attorney would ensure no charges were ever laid.

  But shooting Mason could only be a last resort. Apart from anything else, Vienna would draw no satisfaction from such an end. She wanted Mason present to witness the final destruction of the Cavender legacy. She wanted her to take that offer because she had no other choice.

  “With Lynden gone, there’s only one of us left,” Mason said hoarsely. “And one of you. The last of the Cavenders takes out the last of the Blakes. Poetic justice, don’t you think?”

  Vienna sighed. “I had nothing to do with that accident, and if you’d bothered to research your facts you’d know it.”

  Mason’s fist smashed down on the desk. A stack of files toppled sideways, spilling their contents on the floor. “Liar,” she chanted tonelessly, as though talking in her sleep. “Murderer.”

  “The police will be here any minute.” Vienna eased the drawer open a few more inches. “For God’s sake, you’re going to be hurt. They’ll shoot you. Do you want to die for nothing?”

  Breathing hard, Mason snarled, “Do you think I care? I held my brother in my arms while he took his last breath. I promised him revenge.”

  “Then at least select the right person for your retribution,” Vienna said with disdain. “I suggest you start with the aircraft mechanic.”

  “Why? Is that who you hired? So it would look like an accident?”

  Vienna could almost get her hand into the drawer. She kept her shoulders still to disguise her intentions. Softening her voice, she said, “Mason, I had nothing to do with the crash. I swear it, on my mother’s life.”

  Mason studied her closely for a long while, then lowered the rifle. Her eyelids drooped with exhaustion, but those black, savage eyes still gleamed vengefully from beneath long, dense lashes. “Why is it that when beautiful women lie, it’s so easy to believe every poisonous word?”

  “Wow, you must knock ’em dead with flattery like that.”

  The heavy eyelashes swept up and a very different Mason suddenly stared out. Vienna’s stomach dived and her pulse climbed sharply. A prickling chill spread its feelers beneath her skin, as though she were being delicately licked all over. Her nipples reacted, pressing against the thin lace of her bra. Vienna bit her lip so she wouldn’t gasp, but Mason must have glimpsed the reaction. An insolent heat invaded her gaze and she gave a sensual, cynical smile that bothered Vienna more than the gun.

  There was something raw and untamed about Mason that always unsettled her. That hadn’t changed since the last time their paths had crossed and, maddeningly, Mason had become even more physically attractive as the years passed. Her coltishness had given way to a long-bodied muscularity unsoftened by feminine curves. The lingering traces of childhood had fled her face, leaving the lean planes and hard jawline more sharply defined. Vienna took in the strange, sinewy beauty of the hand clamped around the rifle stock, the odd combination of elegance and artisan practicality. She knew how those hands felt. Sometimes it seemed she’d spent her whole life trying to stamp out that particular memory. She still couldn’t make sense of Mason’s effect on her.

  Their first disturbing encounter flashed through her mind. The Blakes had held a wedding that day at Penwraithe, their home in the Berkshires. After the formalities the guests were enjoying a tea dance and picnic, hoping an impending summer storm would come to nothing. Everyone fell back in disarray when a huge black horse thundered through the proceedings and halted in front of the picnic blanket where seven-year-old Vienna sat with her dolls. From the frozen faces of her aunts and cousins, Vienna understood she was in danger and slid slowly backward on her butt away from the restless hooves.

  Once she was at a safe distance, she scrambled up and brushed off her fancy flower-girl dress. A spatter of rain landed on her top lip as she looked up into the darkest eyes she’d ever seen. Licking the water away, she asked, “Can I have a ride?”

  The rider looked surprised. “Do you know who I am?”

  When Vienna shook her head, the dark-eyed girl leaned down and offered her hand. Ignoring the protests of those around her, Vienna allowed herself to be pulled up onto the front of the saddle. The strange older child wrapped an arm around her waist, doubled the reins in her free hand, and kicked the horse into a gallop.

  As Vienna laughed into the wind, the girl said in her ear, “I’m Mason Cavender. Your family wants me and my brother dead.”

  Vienna recognized the name instantly and her heart skittered, but even at seven years of age she knew exactly what was expected of her. A Blake never backed down in front of a Cavender. Leaning back to make herself heard, she replied carelessly, “So what?”

  Mason’s laughter warmed her cheek. “Hold on tight,” she warned. And then they were airborne, jumping a stream and racing down a slope toward a pair of towering wrought iron gates.

  For a few terrifying seconds Vienna thought they were going to attempt the impossible jump over the obstacle, but Mason slowed to a trot and a man emerged from the gatehouse. As he opened the gates Vienna studied the design on each: a lion, twin crescents, and a serpent.

  Mason flourished an arm. “This is where I live. It’s called Laudes Absalom.”

  Huge oaks overshadowed the broad avenue they followed. On the right lay a dark belt of unkempt woods from which drifted the scent of decay and fungus. On the left, beyond the stalwart oaks, a small white temple stood on the brow of a grassy slope just in sight of a lake bordered by pines. Ahead loomed a house unlike any Vienna had ever seen, a baleful fortress rising against the leaden sky. Stone towers loomed, angels propped up archways, demons lurked beneath the eaves. One wing of the monstrous residence was falling down, the roof gutted and the masonry crumbling. Slabs of stone and broken statuary were piled up at the base of a wall jutting from the damaged building. Rambling roses made their way over this barrier like fugitives from the other side, spilling across the rubble in a riot of crimson and pink blooms.

  Mason paused on the rise of a bridge halfway along the drive and guided her horse in a semicircle so they could look toward the shadowed lake and the temple. A gust of wind blew the rosebud wreath from Vienna’s head and caught at her hair. Mason plucked a long coppery wisp away from her face and smoothed it back behind Vienna’s ear. For a few seconds her hand rested on Vienna’s cheek.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

  Vienna smiled, thrilled by that wicked truth. She never got to have any fun. Her nanny or some bossy female relative was always tagging along, reminding her of her duty as her parents’ only child. “I don’t care. Anyway, you shouldn’t have crossed the boundary.”

  “That land where you were having your picnic,” Mason said with a note of satisfaction. “It’s Cavender land. Your family has to give it back to us next year.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the judge said so.”

  Vienna had no reply to this unfathomable fact. It came to her in that moment that she was on a dark, fast horse with the very child she’d been warned never to talk to, and they were inside the towering gates she’d been told never to enter. Her father always slowed the car when they drove past Laudes Absalom so he could deliver various lines from a litany of condemnation for their neighbors. A curse upon their vile hearts and craven souls.One day, we’ll see that house reduced to dust.Never trust a Cavender.

  Mason jumped down, telling Vienna to hold the cantle. She took the reins and led the horse the rest of the way toward the house, where she yelled, “Mr. Pettibone,” and a man ducked his head to pass through one of several small archways along the front of the house. He lifted Vienna down and led the horse away.

  “Don’t say anything till we get to my room,” Mason instructed as they climbed the steps to the main doors. “That’s if you aren’t too sissy to come inside.”

  Vienna paused to stare up at a statue, a sorrowful marble angel with a strange-looking dog at her side. A phantom wind buffeted her, molding her filmy
robes to her sleek thighs and firm breasts. One hand clutched at the dog’s scruff, the other trailed behind her, the fingers barely brushing the door pillar. She was not so much guarding the entrance as stealing away, looking back as though afraid of being followed.

  Mason trailed her fingertips over the statue’s hand. “This is my great-great-grandmother, Estelle.”

  “Was she an angel?”

  “No, they gave her wings because she’s in heaven. She drowned in the lake.”

  “Did the dog drown, too?”

  Mason gave her an odd look. “You’re asking baby questions. Come on.”

  She took Vienna’s hand and escorted her indoors, into a huge wood-paneled hall crisscrossed with fragments of light from rows of high leaded windows on either side. Swords, axes, stag heads, and paintings cluttered the walls, and long, dusty red drapes were tied with fraying golden cords. A gigantic staircase rose in the center, leading to a gallery walkway high above. The floor creaked as they walked and Mason kept tugging at Vienna’s hand to make her hurry.

  Before they could reach a far-off door, a man’s voice ordered them to stop. Vienna heard a cuss from Mason, and they turned around. The man was big and his face seemed to be etched from stone, just like the house. His eyes burned into Vienna.

  “What’s your name, girl?” he asked.

  “Vienna Blake.”

  “Take her back,” he told Mason.

  “But I don’t have anyone to play with. Why couldn’t I go to camp with Lynden?”