Round Robin Chapter 2

Find Chapter One here.

Chapter Two

“I…uh.”

“Who are you?” he asked again, punctuating his demand with another brief shake. “What is your name, and your purpose here?”

His hands gripped my arms like steel bands, but I had a suspicion he didn’t mean to harm me. Maybe because of his sexy Colin Firth accent, which I am not at all ashamed to admit I noticed right away.

“I’m…” I croaked. The words lodged firmly behind the lump in my throat.

“Speak up, girl. What business do you have sneaking into my house? Into my room? Why have you come here?”

His eyes had a wild glint to them, and his obsidian gaze bored into me. Never had I seen eyes that dark, like the blackest of night skies reflected in slate-smooth pools.

Geez, I’m channeling Bronte now? Angry Brit pulls an outburst that would give Heathcliffe a run for his money, and all the sudden I’m waxing poetic about his frickin’ eyes? Can you say issues?

“My…my name is Ashley. Ashley Whitaker. But my friends call me Ash.” Great! Why the hell would he need to know that? “I’m sorry I—”

“What did you say?” His grip loosened, and he took a hasty step back, holding me at arms length, and looking me over from head to toe. The expression on his face was one of disbelief.

“I’m sor—”

“Your name!”

“A—Ashley,” I replied shakily. “Whitaker.”

“Ash? You said your friends call you Ash. Isn’t that what you said?”

I nodded absently. Whatever he was getting at, he seemed to be having trouble grasping it. A deep furrow creased his brow, and he was staring at me like I’d grown a second head.

Give a girl a complex, why don’t ya?

“Look, I’m sorry for barging in here. I didn’t realize anyone lived here,” I lied. “I thought this place was deserted.”

His hands fell away. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Strange occupation for a young chit like you—breaking into homes you believe to be vacant. In the middle of the day, no less. And just what did you hope to find here?” His tone was casual, but his eyes continued to drill into me.

“I’m a writer. This house has been a subject of local lore for over a hundred and fifty years, yet no one has ever gotten a first-hand account of the interior. I just couldn’t resist.”

He laughed mirthlessly and put his hand to his face, finally realizing it was still half covered in shaving cream.

“Stay right there, please,” he motioned with his foam-covered hand as he backed toward the small bathroom adjacent to us.

My first thought was to flee, and he must have read it on my face.

“I insist,” he said. “I have some questions for you. Besides, you’ve already given me your name.” He did a sort of double take at that. “You did give me your true name, did you not? You’re not pretending to be Ashley Whitaker.”

He didn’t phrase it as a question. It was like he was insisting that I must be who I’d claimed. I suddenly felt very foolish for not thinking of giving him a pseudonym to begin with. Why couldn’t I have said, ‘I’m Jenna Jameson’? Something told me this guy didn’t get out much anyway. I didn’t see a computer, or any evidence of one, but if he’d wanted to Google me, he’d probably get a lot more out of the experience if I had.

“Yes, I am Ashley Whitaker.”

He gave a curt nod, and turned abruptly toward the direction of the bathroom. “I’ll not be but a moment,” he called over his beefy shoulder.

Alone, with only a view of his retreating form, I squandered my opportunity to plan my escape by watching him. I couldn’t find it in me to look away. He was easily the most handsome man I had ever seen.

Tall—probably six-three or six-four—and strong. I’d felt that when he pulled me back from the window ledge, but seeing it, in the way his clothes clung to the contours of his body, gave me a new appreciation for his brawn. He was big, not only in presence, but in sheer physical size.

I found myself puzzling over the incongruity of this large man residing in such a tiny living space. The room I was standing in—his room—could not have been much larger than my own in the small cottage Maya, Angela, and I rented on the other end of town.

I should have told them where I’d be.

I hadn’t. I’d left the library, having spent hours researching this house, my determination fueled by my roommates’ riveting tales of the mysterious doings in the house that defied odds simply by remaining intact. Could any of the lore be true? There were whispers of curses, ancient Indian spells, and always a deranged lovechild from an incestuous union.

I looked again at the man, now leaning heavily against the washstand and scraping a straight razor down his cheek. Our eyes met and held in the reflection of the mirror.

Lucid. He was completely lucid. Not an ounce of dementia in that gaze.

And though I’d never claim to be an expert on inbreeding, the man I beheld was undoubtedly not a product of it. Of that, I was certain.

But who was he?

Where did he come from, and how long had he been here?

Considering the possibilities made me feel strangely exuberant. His wasn’t the story I’d expected to find, yet I sensed, as though instinctively, it was one I’d been meant to uncover.

Was I to be part of the legend of Woodbury Manor?