Roberts,Nora - Key 1 - Key of Lights

NORA ROBERTS Key of Light

Chapter One

The storm ripped over the mountains, gushing torrents of rain that struck the

ground with the sharp ring of metal on stone. Lightning strikes spat down, angry

artillery fire that slammed against the cannon roar of thunder.

There was a gleeful kind of mean in the air, a sizzle of temper and spite that

boiled with power.

It suited Malory Price's mood perfectly.

Hadn't she asked herself what else could go wrong? Now in answer to that weary,

and completely rhetorical, question, nature—in all her maternal wrath—was

showing her just how bad things could get.

There was an ominous rattling somewhere in the dash of her sweet little Mazda,

and she still had nineteen payments to go on it. In order to make those

payments, she had to keep her job.

She hated her job.

That wasn't part of the Malory Price Life Plan, which she had begun to outline

at the age of eight. Twenty years later, that outline had become a detailed and

organized checklist, complete with headings, subheadings, and cross-references.

She revised it meticulously on the first day of each year.

She was supposed to love her job. It said so, quite clearly, under the heading

of career.

She'd worked at The Gallery for seven years, the last three of those as manager,

which was right on schedule. And she had loved it—being surrounded by art,

having an almost free hand in the displaying, the acquiring, the promotion, and

the setup for showings and events.

The fact was, she'd begun to think of The Gallery as hers, and knew full well

that the rest of the staff, the clients, the artists and craftsmen felt very

much the same.

James P. Horace might have owned the smart little gallery, but he never

questioned Malory's decisions, and on his increasingly rare visits he

complimented her, always, on the acquisitions, the ambience, the sales.

It had been perfect, which was exactly what Malory intended her life to be.

After all, if it wasn't perfect, what was the point?

Everything had changed when James ditched fifty-three years of comfortable

bachelorhood and acquired himself a young, sexy wife. A wife, Malory thought

with her blue-steel eyes narrowing in resentment, who'd decided to make The

Gallery her personal pet.

It didn't matter that the new Mrs. Horace knew next to nothing about art, about

business, about public relations, or about managing employees. James doted on

his Pamela, and Malory's dream job had become a daily nightmare.

But she'd been dealing with it, Malory thought as she scowled through her dark,

drenched windshield. She had determined her strategy: she would simply wait

Pamela out. She would remain calm and self-possessed until this nasty little

bump was past and the road smoothed out again.

Now that excellent strategy was out the window. She'd lost her temper when

Pamela countermanded her orders on a display of art glass and turned the

perfectly and beautifully organized gallery upside down with clutter and ugly

fabrics.

There were some things she could tolerate, Malory told herself, but being

slapped in the face with hideous taste in her own space wasn't one of them.

Then again, blowing up at the owner's wife was not the path to job security.

Particularly when the words myopic, plebeian bimbo were employed.

Lightning split the sky over the rise ahead, and Malory winced as much in

memory

of her temper as from the flash. A very bad move on her part, which only showed

what happened when you gave in to temper and impulse.

To top it off, she'd spilled latte on Pamela's Escada suit. But that had been an

accident.

Almost.

However fond James was of her, Malory knew her livelihood was hanging by a

very

slim thread. And when the thread broke, she would be sunk. Art galleries weren't

a dime a dozen in a pretty, picturesque town like Pleasant Valley. She would

either have to find another area of work as a stopgap or relocate.

Neither option put a smile on her face.

She loved Pleasant Valley, loved being surrounded by the mountains of western

Pennsylvania. She loved the small-town feel, the mix of quaint and sophisticated

that drew the tourists, and the getaway crowds that spilled out of neighboring

Pittsburgh for impulsive weekends.

Even when she was a child growing up in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, Pleasant

Valley was exactly the sort of place she'd imagined living in. She craved the

hills, with their shadows and textures, and the tidy streets of a valley town,

the simplicity of the pace, the friendliness of neighbors.

The decision to someday fold herself into the fabric of

Pleasant Valley had been made when she was fourteen and spent a long holiday

weekend there with her parents.

Just as she'd decided, when she wandered through The Gallery that long-ago

autumn, that she would one day be part of that space.

Of course, at the time she had thought her paintings would hang there, but that

was one item on her checklist that she'd been forced to delete rather than tick

off when it was accomplished.

She would never be an artist. But she had to be, needed to be, involved with and

surrounded by art.

Still, she didn't want to move back to the city. She wanted to keep her

gorgeous, roomy apartment two blocks from The Gallery, with its views of the

Appalachians, its creaky old floors, and its walls that she'd covered with

carefully selected artwork.

But the hope of that was looking as dim as the stormy sky.

So she hadn't been smart with her money, Malory admitted with a windy sigh. She

didn't see the point of letting it lie in some bank when it could be turned into

something lovely to look at or to wear. Until it was used, money was just paper.

Malory tended to use a great deal of paper.

She was overdrawn at the bank. Again. She'd maxed out her credit cards. Ditto.

But, she reminded herself, she had a great wardrobe. And the start of a very

impressive art collection. Which she would have to sell, piece by piece and most

likely at a loss, to keep a roof over her head if Pamela brought the axe down.

But maybe tonight would buy her some time and goodwill. She hadn't wanted to

attend the cocktail reception at Warrior's Peak. A fanciful name for a spooky

old place, she thought. Another time she would've been thrilled at the

opportunity to see the inside of the great old house so high on the ridge. And

to rub elbows with people who might be patrons of the arts.

But the invitation had been odd—written in an elegant hand on heavy,

stone-coloured paper, with a logo of an ornate gold key in lieu of letterhead.

Though it was tucked in her evening bag now along with her compact, her

lipstick, her cell phone, her glasses, a fresh pen, business cards, and ten

dollars, Malory remembered the wording.

The pleasure of your company is desired for cocktails and conversation

Eight p.m., September 4

Warrior's Peak You are the key. The lock awaits.

Now how weird was that? Malory asked herself, and gritted her teeth as the car

shimmied in a sudden gust of wind. The way her luck was going, it was probably

a

scam for a pyramid scheme.

The house had been empty for years. She knew it had been purchased recently,

but

the details were sparse. An outfit called Triad, she recalled. She assumed it

was some sort of corporation looking to turn the place into a hotel or a mini

resort.

Which didn't explain why they'd invited the manager of The Gallery but not the

owner and his interfering wife. Pamela had been pretty peeved about the

slight—so that was something.

Still, Malory would have passed on the evening. She didn't have a date—just

another aspect of her life that currently sucked—and driving alone into the

mountains to a house straight out of Hollywood horror on the strength of an

invitation that made her uneasy wasn't on her list of fun things to do in the

middle of the work week.

There hadn't even been a number or a contact for an R.S.V.P. and that, she felt,

was arrogant and rude. Her intended response of ignoring the invitation would

have been equally arrogant and rude, but James had spotted the envelope on her

desk.

He'd been so excited, so pleased by the idea of her going, had pressed her to

relay all the details of the house's interior to him. And he'd reminded her that

if she could discreetly drop the name of The Gallery into conversation from time

to time, it would be good for business.

If she could score a few clients, it might offset the Escada mishap and the

bimbo comment.

Her car chugged up the narrowing road that cut through the dense, dark forest.

She'd always thought of those hills and woods as a kind of Sleepy Hollow effect

that ringed her pretty valley. But just now, with the wind and rain and dark,

the less serene aspects of that old tale were a little too much in evidence for

her peace of mind.

If whatever was rattling in her dash was serious, she could end up broken down

on the side of the road, huddled in the car listening to the moans and lashes of

the storm and imagining headless horsemen while she waited for a tow truck she

couldn't afford.

Obviously, the answer was not to break down.

She thought she caught glimpses of lights beaming through the rain and trees,

but her windshield wipers were whipping at the highest speed and were still

barely able to shove aside the flood of rain.

As lightning snapped again, she gripped the wheel tighter. She liked a good

hellcat storm as much as anyone, but she wanted to enjoy this one from someplace

inside, anyplace, while drinking a nice glass of wine.

She had to be close. How far could any single road climb before it just had to

start falling down the other side of the mountain? She knew Warrior's Peak stood

atop the ridge, guarding the valley below. Or lording itself over the valley,

depending on your viewpoint. She hadn't passed another car for miles.

Which only proved that anyone with half a brain wasn't out driving in this mess,

she thought.

The road forked, and the bend on the right streamed between enormous stone

pillars. Malory slowed, gawked at the life-size warriors standing on each

pillar. Perhaps it was the storm, the night, or her own jittery mood, but they

looked more human than stone, with hair flying around their fierce faces, their

hands gripping the hilts of their swords. In the shimmer of lightning she could

almost see muscles rippling in their arms, over their broad, bare chests.

She had to fight the temptation to get out of the car for a closer look. But the

chill that tripped down her spine as she turned through the open iron gates had

her glancing back up at the warriors with as much wariness as appreciation for

the skill of the sculptor.

Then she hit the brakes and fishtailed on the crushed stone of the roadbed. Her

heart jammed into her throat as she stared at the stunning buck standing

arrogantly a foot in front of the bumper, with the sprawling, eccentric lines of

the house behind him.

For a moment she took the deer for a sculpture as well, though why any sane

person would set a sculpture in the centre of a driveway was beyond her. Then

again, sane didn't seem to be the operative word for anyone who would choose to

live in the house on the ridge.

But the deer's eyes gleamed, a sharp sapphire blue in the beam of her

headlights, and his head with the great crowning rack turned slightly. Regally,

Malory mused, mesmerized. Rain streamed off his coat, and in the next flash of

light that coat seemed as white as the moon.

He stared at her, but there was nothing of fear, nothing of surprise in those

glinting eyes. There was, if such things were possible, a kind of amused

disdain. Then he simply walked away, through the curtain of rain, the rivers of

fog, and was gone.

"Wow." She let out a long breath, shivered in the warmth of her car. "And one

more wow," she murmured as she stared at the house.

She'd seen pictures of it, and paintings. She'd seen its silhouette hulking on

the ridge above the valley. But it was an entirely different matter to see it up

close with a storm raging.

Something between a castle, a fortress, and a house of horrors, she decided.

Its stone was obsidian black, with juts and towers, peaks and battlements

stacked and spread as if some very clever, very wicked child had placed them at

his whim. Against that rain-slicked black, long, narrow windows, perhaps

hundreds of them, all glowed with gilded light.

Someone wasn't worried about his electric bill.

Fog drifted around its base, like a moat of mist.

In the next shock of lightning, she caught a glimpse of a white banner with the

gold key madly waving from one of the topmost spires.

She inched the car closer. Gargoyles hunched along the walls, crawled over the

eaves. Rainwater spewed out of their grinning mouths, spilled from clawed hands

as they grinned down at her.

She stopped the car in front of the stone skirt of a wide portico and

considered, very seriously, turning back into the storm and driving away.

She called herself a coward, a childish idiot. She asked herself where she'd

lost her sense of adventure and fun.

The insults worked well enough that she soon was tapping her fingers on the

car's door handle. At the quick rap on her window, a scream shot out of her

throat.

The bony white face surrounded by a black hood that peered in at her turned the

scream into a kind of breathless keening.

Gargoyles do not come to life, she assured herself, repeating the words over and

over in her head as she rolled the window down a cautious half inch.

"Welcome to Warrior's Peak." His voice boomed over the rain, and his welcoming

smile showed a great many teeth. "If you'll just leave your keys in the car,

miss, I'll see to it for you."

Before she could think to slap down the locks, he'd pulled her door open. He

blocked the sweep of wind and rain with his body and the biggest umbrella she'd

ever seen.

"I'll see you safe and dry to the door."

What was that accent? English? Irish? Scots?

"Thank you." She started to climb out, felt herself pinned back. Panic dribbled

into embarrassment as she realized she had yet to unhook her seat belt.

Freed, she huddled under the umbrella, struggling to regulate her breathing as

he walked her to the double entrance doors. They were wide enough to

accommodate

a semi and boasted dull silver knockers, big as turkey platters, fashioned into

dragons' heads.

Some welcome, Malory thought an instant before one of the doors opened, and

light and warmth poured out.

The woman had a straight and gorgeous stream of flame-coloured hair—it spilled

around a pale face of perfect angles and curves. Her green eyes danced as if at

some private joke. She was tall and slim, garbed in a long gown of fluid black.

A silver amulet holding a fat, clear stone hung between her breasts.

Her lips, as red as her hair, curved as she held out a hand sparkling with

rings.

She looked, Malory thought, like someone out of a very sexy faerie tale.

"Miss Price. Welcome. Such a thrilling storm, but distressing, I'm sure, to be

out in it. Come in."

The hand was warm and strong, and stayed clasped over Malory's as the woman

drew

her into the entrance hall.

The light showered down from a chandelier of crystal so fine that it resembled

spun sugar sparkling over the twists and curves of silver.

The floor was mosaic, depicting the warriors from the gate and what seemed to be

a number of mythological figures. She couldn't kneel down and study it as she

might have liked and was already struggling to hold back an orgasmic moan at the

paintings that crowded walls the colour of melted butter.

"I'm so glad you could join us tonight," the woman continued. "I'm Rowena.

Please, let me take you into the parlour. There's a lovely fire. Early in the

year for one, but the storm seemed to call for it. Was the drive difficult?"

"Challenging. Miss—"

"Rowena. Just Rowena."

"Rowena. I wonder if I could take a moment to freshen up before joining the

other guests?"

"Of course. Powder room." She gestured to a door tucked under the long sweep of

the front stairs. "The parlour is the first door on your right. Take your time."

"Thank you." Malory slipped inside and immediately decided that "powder room"

was a very poor label for the plush, spacious area.

The half dozen candles on the marble counter streamed out light and scent.

Burgundy hand towels edged in ecru lace were arranged beside the generous pool

of the sink. The faucet gleamed gold in the fanciful shape of a swan.

Here the floor mosaic showed a mermaid, sitting on a rock, smiling out at a blue

sea as she combed her flame-coloured hair.

This time, after double-checking to make certain that she'd locked the door,

Malory did kneel down to study the craftsmanship.

Gorgeous, she thought, running her fingertips over the tiles. Old, certainly,

and brilliantly executed.

Was there anything more powerful than the ability to create beauty?

She straightened, washed her hands with soap that smelled faintly of rosemary.

She took a moment to admire the collection of Waterhouse's nymphs and sirens

framed on the walls before digging out her compact.

There was little she could do for her hair. Though she'd drawn it back and

anchored it at her nape with a rhinestone clip, the weather had played havoc

with the dark blond curls. It was a look, she thought, as she dusted her nose.

Sort of arty and carefree. Not elegant like the redhead, but it suited her well

enough. She reapplied her lipstick, satisfied that the pale rose had been a good

investment. Subtle worked best with her milkmaid colouring.

She'd paid too much for the cocktail suit. Of course. But a woman was entitled

to a few weaknesses, she reminded herself as she straightened the slim satin

lapels. Besides, the slate blue was right for her eyes, and the tailored lines

pulled it all together into a style both professional and elegant. She closed

her bag, lifted her chin.

"Okay, Mal, let's go drum up some business."

She stepped out, forced herself not to tiptoe back down the hall to drool over

the paintings.

Her heels clicked briskly on the tile. She always enjoyed the sound of it.

Powerful. Female.

And when she stepped through the first arch to the right, the thrilled gasp

escaped before she could block it.

She'd never seen its like, in or out of a museum. Antiques so lovingly tended

that their surfaces gleamed like mirrors; the rich, deep colours that

demonstrated an artist's flair; rugs, pillows, and draperies that were as much

art forms as the paintings and statuary were. On the far wall was a fireplace

she could have stood in with her arms stretched out at her sides. Framed in

malachite, it held enormous logs that snapped with tongues of red and gold fire.

This was the perfect setting for a woman who looked like she'd stepped out of a

faerie tale.

She wanted to spend hours there, to wallow in all that marvellous colour and

light. The uneasy woman who had huddled in her car in the rain was long

forgotten.

"It took five minutes for my eyes to stop bugging out of my head after I walked

in."

Malory jolted, then turned and stared at the woman who stood framed in the side

window.

This one was a brunette, with dense brown hair skimming between her jawline

and

shoulders in a stylish swing. She was perhaps six full inches taller than

Malory's compact five-four, and had the lush curves to match the height. Both

were set off with trim black pants and a knee-length jacket worn over a snug

white top.

She held a champagne flute in one hand and extended the other as she walked

across the room. Malory saw that her eyes were deep, dark brown and direct. Her

nose was narrow and straight, her mouth wide and unpainted. The faintest hint of

dimples fluttered in her cheek when she smiled.

"I'm Dana. Dana Steele."

"Malory Price. Nice to meet you. Great jacket."

"Thanks. I was pretty relieved when I saw you drive up. It's a hell of a place,

but I was getting a little spooked rattling around by myself. It's nearly

quarter after." She tapped the face of her watch. "You'd think some of the other

guests would be here by now."

"Where's the woman who met me at the door? Rowena?"

Dana pursed her lips as she glanced back toward the archway. "She glides in and

out, looking gorgeous and mysterious. I'm told our host will be joining us

shortly."

"Who is our host?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. Haven't I seen you?" Dana added. "In the

Valley?"

"Possibly. I manage The Gallery." For the time being, she thought.

"That's it. I've come to a couple of showings there. And sometimes I just wander

in and look around avariciously. I'm at the library. A reference librarian."

They both turned as Rowena walked in. Though glided in, Malory thought, was a

better description.

"I see you've introduced yourselves. Lovely. What can I get you to drink, Miss

Price?"

"I'll have what she's having."

"Perfect." Even as she spoke, a uniformed maid came in bearing two flutes on a

silver tray. "Please help yourselves to the canapés and make yourselves at

home."

"I hope the weather isn't keeping your other guests away," Dana put in.

Rowena merely smiled. "I'm sure everyone who's expected will be here shortly. If

you'll excuse me just another moment."

"Okay, this is just weird." Dana picked a canapé at random, discovered it was a

lobster puff. "Delicious, but weird."

"Fascinating." Malory sipped her champagne and trailed her fingers over a bronze

sculpture of a reclining faerie.

"I'm still trying to figure out why I got an invitation." Since they were there,

and so was she, Dana sampled another canapé. "No one else at the library got

one. No one else I know got one, for that matter. I'm starting to wish I'd

talked my brother into coming with me after all. He's got a good bullshit

barometer."

Malory found herself grinning. "You don't sound like any librarian I've ever

known. You don't look like one either."

"I burned all my Laura Ashley ten years ago." Dana gave a little shrug.

Restless, moving toward irritated, she tapped her fingers on the crystal flute.

"I'm going to give this about ten more minutes, then I'm booking."

"If you go, I go. I'd feel better heading back into that storm if I drove to the

Valley behind someone else."

Roberts, Nora - Key 1 - Key of Lights

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