A Valentine Wish Read online

  “Anna,” he murmured.

  Books by Gina Wilkins

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  “Anna,” he murmured.

  “Dean,” she whispered in return, her voice that musical, far-off litany that haunted him, waking and dreaming. She caressed his face, then moved her hands to stroke his shoulders, his bare chest, his stomach. She explored every exposed inch of him, anointing him with those fleeting, stimulating kisses.

  “Anna,” he bit out from between his teeth. “I want you.”

  “I know,” she murmured sadly. “I wish—”

  He fought the encroaching drugged sleepiness. “Don’t go,” he muttered. “Stay with me.”

  She laid her fingertips against his lips. “I can’t. I have to go now.”

  Before he could respond, she was gone. He groaned and covered his eyes with his arm.

  God help him, he’d fallen in love. With a ghost. Perhaps that was only fitting for a man who’d never believed in either.

  “I’ve always wanted to write a book around Valentine’s Day,” remarks bestselling author Gina Wilkins. “Not just a regular Valentine’s book, but one with a twist.” In A Valentine Wish, Gina has done just that. This story has everything: romance, gothic twists, mystery and suspense and terrific characters. Enjoy Dean and Anna’s story. And be sure to watch for Ian’s story, #592 A Wish for Love, coming to Temptation in June.

  Books by Gina Wilkins

  HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

  445—WHEN IT’S RIGHT

  458—RAFE’S ISLAND

  470—AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT

  486—JUST HER LUCK

  501—GOLD AND GLITTER

  521—UNDERCOVER BABY

  539—I WON’T

  567—ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS

  Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for Information on our newest releases.

  Harlequin Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erle. Ont. L2A 5X3

  Gina Wilkins

  A VALENTINE WISH

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN

  • MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  Prologue

  There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved.

  —George Sand

  February 14, 1896

  IT WAS dark outside, and cold. The wind moaned around the walls as though begging to be allowed inside and tiny pellets of ice tapped incessantly against the heavily curtained windows. In contrast, the bedroom was stiflingly warm, with an enormous fire roaring in the hearth and lamps burning brightly on the papered walls.

  The woman in the bed lay limply against the pillows, cradling a sleeping baby in each arm. Her eyes wet with tears, she looked from one tiny, innocent face to the other. This was the first time since their birth several hours earlier that she’d been alone with them, and she’d had to almost beg to be granted this brief respite from all the well-intentioned assistance.

  “Ian,” she whispered, kissing the downy soft forehead of her firstborn, who lay nestled in her left arm.

  She turned her head to the right and placed another loving kiss against the second tiny forehead. “Mary Anna,” she murmured. “My angels. How I love you both. If only your dear father—”

  She choked on her words, and the tears overflowed, cascading down her pale cheeks. She was twenty-three years old, widowed three months and left with a bustling inn to run and two tiny babies to raise. She did not know how she would manage, but somehow she knew she would.

  She must.

  She lifted her teary gaze to the portrait that hung on the wall opposite the bed, the first thing she saw each morning, the last she looked at every night before she slept. “I’ll take care of them, James,” she promised her beloved late husband. “I will raise them to be strong and honorable, just as you would have wanted them raised.”

  She looked down at her babies once more. “I have no magical powers, my darlings,” she murmured to them. “But if I did, I would say an incantation for you now. My gift to you would be that of true love—the pure and lasting love I found so briefly with your father. I would cast a spell that would guarantee you would not leave this earth until you each found someone who would love you the way James loved me—and whom you could love that deeply in return.”

  Again, her gaze rose to the portrait. “Help me, James,” she whispered. “Help me give them that gift, above all others.”

  The words were a prayer.

  In the fireplace, the flames suddenly intensified—fanned, perhaps, by a stray breeze. Whatever the cause, the resulting light glowed bright and hot on the portrait, making the painted man’s dark eyes gleam as they had in life, with intelligence, humor and a deep, abiding love.

  His wife let out a faint, longing sob. And then the flames subsided, the portrait dimmed and little Ian stirred, whimpering softly. His mother turned her attention to her son, but she would never forget that brief, magical moment when her wish seemed to have been heard and acknowledged.

  February 14, 1921

  IT WAS COLD in the garden, and dark. No moonlight or starlight was visible through the gray clouds overhead. The only illumination came through the windows of the inn. Inside, a party raged. Faint strains of music and laughter filtered through the glass, underscoring the contrast between the gaiety inside and the peacefulness of the garden.

  Mary Anna Cameron shivered as she stepped outside. She hadn’t had a chance to get her coat, but had slipped away from the party at the first opportunity, afraid that someone would detain her. Jeffrey, her fiancé, would soon notice her absence, and would come looking for her. She hoped to have a chance to talk to her brother in private before they were interrupted.

  She found her twin furiously pacing the brick path, his lethally graceful movements held under such tight control, she knew his temper must be close to explosion point. She’d expected to find him here. Ian always came to the gardens when his vexation got the best of him. Anna was probably the only person who wasn’t afraid of his notorious temper.

  “Ian?” she said softly.

  He turned to face her. Like the heavy clouds above them, the frown that creased his dark face threatened a potential storm. “Go back inside, Anna. Find your devoted fiancé. Enjoy your party.”

  “It’s our party, Ian. Yours and mine. Please don’t spoil it.”

  He exhaled impatiently. “I’m in no mood for a birthday party.”

  “Ian, please. The rumors don’t matter.”

  “How can you say that? Haven’t you seen the way people have been looking at me this evening? Whispering behind my back? Don’t you know what they’re saying? It doesn’t bother you that I’m being accused of bootlegging? That I’m being labeled a murderer?”

  “Of course it bothers me,” she said sharply. “I hate it that anyone could think so low of you. But I keep reminding myself that no one who really knows you could believe such drivel.”

  “I’ve seen the way people have been watching me the past two weeks. There are quite a few of them who do believe the drivel.”

  “They’re wrong.” Her chin lifted with loyal obstinance. “Sheriff Fielding will find out who killed that revenue offic
er. Your name will be cleared, and everyone who ever suspected you will be forced to apologize.”

  He shook his head. “Sheriff Fielding would just as soon lock me up as not. As for the others—most of them would rather choke than apologize to me for anything. You seem to forget that I’m not the most popular guy around these parts.”

  “If only you’d give them a chance to know you,” she said wistfully.

  “They know me, Anna. They just don’t like me.”

  She sighed, unable to argue with him. Her brother’s prickly temper had gained him too few friends and all too many adversaries. It bothered her that Ian always seemed so alone, that she was the only one who truly understood him. And, though he would never admit it, she suspected that it sometimes bothered him, too.

  She moved to Ian’s side and slid her hand through the crook of his arm, keeping her voice soft, gentling. Calming him as only she could. “Forget about the gossip mongers. They don’t matter. Today is our twenty-fifth birthday and the inn is now ours to manage as we choose. You no longer have to sit back and watch Gay-Ion make decisions that you don’t like. You can make those changes you’ve been dying to make for the past five years, and there’s nothing our stepfather—or anyone else—can do to stop you. Doesn’t that make you feel better?”

  He slowed his steps, matching them to hers as they wandered down the path, unhindered by the lack of light. They’d been born in the back bedroom of this inn, had lived every day of their lives here. Both of them loved the place with an intensity that few others had ever understood. They could have made their way blindfolded.

  Anna could feel some of the tension leave Ian’s arm as her words sank in.

  “Yes,” he admitted. “You know how I’ve looked forward to this day.”

  “How we’ve both looked forward to it,” she corrected him. “Mother thought she was making the best decision for everyone to name Gaylon the executor of her will until we turned twenty-five, but it has been difficult watching the mistakes he’s made running the inn. I’m sure he’s tried his best, but—”

  “But he’s a fool.”

  She sighed at her brother’s curt interruption. “He’s simply not particularly skilled at management,” she said. “At least, not in the way you and I would choose to run our inn.”

  “At a profit, you mean?”

  “You can make the inn profitable again once you’re in charge. Providing, of course,” she added with an indulgent smile, “you don’t turn away all the guests with your tantrums.”

  “I don’t throw tantrums,” he protested, sounding a bit stung by the gentle criticism.

  She chuckled. “Of course you do, darling. Why, Jeffrey is half-terrified of you.”

  Ian’s snort effectively expressed his opinion of her somewhat timid fiancé, an opinion he’d never made much effort to conceal. Anna knew Ian thought she could do better than Jeffrey Parker, a mild-mannered young banker with soft hands and a nervous habit of clearing his throat. But Anna was fond of Jeffrey, and thought he would make a loyal, biddable husband and a doting father.

  She had informed Ian that she’d grown tired of waiting for that mythical, passionate love their mother had spoken of so often. Anna was twenty-five years old now, and she’d had few other offers to choose from. She loved children, and wanted several of them. She couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

  Besides, she had added tersely, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be desperately in love with anyone. Their mother had apparently loved their father that way, and she’d never truly recovered from his untimely death. She’d married again, several years after James Cameron died, but though she’d been a good wife to Gaylon Peavy, she’d never gotten over her grief for her first husband.

  Anna was much too independent to allow herself to become that attached to anyone—except, perhaps, her beloved twin.

  The inn was well behind them now, the sounds of the party muted. The two were content to be alone, strolling the grounds where they’d spent so many happy hours as children. This was their home, their legacy from the father they’d never known and the mother they’d adored. From the day they’d been born, it had been theirs, though only now could they fully claim it.

  Ian’s dark suit blended into the shadows around them, but Anna thought her own long, straight white dress made her look like a ghost gliding down the pathway. The image amused her, and she smiled.

  “It’s you Jeffrey should truly worry about,” Ian said after a moment, interrupting Anna’s fanciful thoughts. “You’re much too strong-willed for him. You’ll order him about and manipulate him for the rest of his life.”

  “I am not a shrew!”

  “No,” he admitted with a hint of humor. “You’ll do it so nicely, he’ll probably never know just how tightly you hold the reins. There’s a good chance that he’ll actually be quite happy, blithely assuming he’s the head of his household.”

  “Of course he’ll be happy. I’ll be a good wife to him, Ian.”

  “Yes. I only hope that you will be happy, as well. You’re absolutely sure you want to commit yourself to this man?”

  “I’m sure,” she said gently, resting her head against his shoulder as they walked. “But thank you for caring.”

  “I do care.”

  She smiled mistily. “Because you love me.”

  “Yes.” His voice was gruff, as it always was when he attempted to verbalize his inner feelings. “You’re the only one in this world I do love, Anna. Nothing is more important to me than your happiness. Not even the inn.”

  She blinked back tears. It was so rare for her brother to express himself that way. The words were all the more precious to her because she knew they’d been difficult for him to say. “I love you, too, Ian. I—”

  He shushed her suddenly, coming to an abrupt halt, his attention focused on something ahead of them.

  “What is it?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

  “There’s a light in the old caretaker’s cottage. Someone’s in there.”

  Startled, Anna peered through the shadows. After a moment, she saw a flicker of light in the direction Ian indicated. A lantern, perhaps. There was no electricity in the old cottage at the edge of the woods. The cottage was at the back of the inn’s grounds and had been unoccupied for the past ten years or more. No one should be there now.

  “A hobo, do you think?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Maybe,” Ian muttered. “Whoever it is, he has no business being here. You go back to the inn. I’ll run him off.”

  Her grasp tightened on his arm. “No. It could be dangerous for you alone. Go back and find Gaylon and some of the others to help you.”

  He shook off her hand and started toward the cottage. “I don’t need Gaylon. I can handle this.”

  “Ian.” She hurried after him, stumbling a bit without his support. “Wait.”

  Both of them saw the three men who emerged suddenly from the cottage. One of them held a lantern, his face clearly illuminated. Anna gasped in relief when she recognized Stanley Tagert, a local police officer. She couldn’t yet identify the other two men, who stood in the shadows behind Tagert, but she was glad to know that Ian wouldn’t be facing a potentially dangerous stranger.

  She didn’t particularly like Stanley—she’d never cared for the way he looked at her—but he was an officer of the law, and surely quite capable of taking care of trespassers on Cameron property.

  “Stanley,” she said, stepping forward. “What are you—”

  Ian moved suddenly, sharply. “Anna, wait—”

  A flash of light, accompanied by a startlingly loud noise, came from the direction of the shadowed man directly behind Tagert. Ian jerked, staggered, then crumpled to the ground.

  He didn’t move again.

  Momentarily paralyzed with horror, Anna hardly registered Tagert’s furious oath.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” he demanded of the other man. “Have you—”

  Staring down at Ian, Anna paid no attention to
the words. Finally finding the impetus to move, she threw herself onto the ground next to her brother’s motionless form. “Ian? Oh, God, no!”

  Kneeling beside him, she touched his face with trembling fingers. And knew the truth.

  “Ian,” she whispered, doubling over in agony. “Oh, Ian. No.”

  She turned then, to find out who had done this inconceivably brutal thing. Two faces were visible in the lantern light now. Tagert and another man, Buck Felcher, a local troublemaker known for his criminal tendencies. She still couldn’t make out the features of the third man, the one who’d fired the shot that had killed her brother.

  “Stanley,” she said, her voice a shaken whisper. “Buck. Why? Why?”

  She heard the second shot even as the impact caught her in the chest and threw her backward, away from Ian’s body. Two angry shouts erupted simultaneously, followed by a third shot and a distant thud.

  Oblivious to the pain and the chaos surrounding her, aware only of the new layers of darkness wrapping themselves around her, Anna strained to reach out, feeling as though she were moving through a pool of molasses. Her fingers brushed her twin’s wrist. She let her hand fall on top of his.

  “Ian,” she whispered, her voice no more than a tremulous sigh. “Ian...”

  Then darkness swallowed her.

  1

  She was a Phantom of delight

  When first she gleamed upon my sight

  —William Wordsworth

  January 3, 1996

  DEAN GATES, new owner of the soon-to-be-restored Cameron Inn, didn’t believe in ghosts. So it was all the more annoying when he saw one less than an hour after moving into his new home.