At the Edge of a Dark Forest Page 2

  Thank goodness this was only an information session. Cole Harrison had finally agreed to try out her prototype prosthetics. It had taken her father much cajoling of the man over breakfast those many months ago, and repeated phone calls since. Why had Mr. Harrison resisted using prosthetics for so long? And why had he relented now? She shrugged. If he liked them, maybe he’d invest in a new company, giving at least part of the Rose family a chance at redemption.

  “Am I okay here?” she called to the guy in the garage as she closed the door to her car.

  His head bobbed, swinging his dark hair into his face. “Yup.”

  She poked the doorbell, straightened the still-damp shirt under her drenched raingear and waited. Her toe tapped with the nervous energy that buzzed through her. She fingered the gold cross at her neck.

  A fiftyish woman opened the door. “Come in.” She motioned for Carly to take off her coat. The woman called to the young man with a Hispanic lilt to her voice, “Beautiful, Manny. Mr. Cole will be very pleased.”

  Funny. When talking to her father, Carly got the idea that Cole Harrison was not one to be easily pleased. She’d asked her dad why he thought Mr. Harrison would invest in her designs and he’d answered with a far-away look and said, “I don’t know, Carly. What other choices do we have?”

  Choices. Was the only choice to start a new company? Did Carly want to run a business? That would mean more time with sales figures and less with clients. She didn’t want to end up like her brothers, not caring for the people she served.

  “Mr. Harrison will be right with you.” The woman never asked Carly’s name. He must not get many visitors out here.

  Carly’s gaze rolled over the expanse of the foyer, down several long halls decorated with gold-framed portraits and ornately carved tables, and into a living room housing couches littered with embroidered throw pillows.

  The woman pointed. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”

  Carly might have been soaked on the outside from standing in the rain, but the exertion of changing tires left her parched. “Water.”

  The woman nodded and hustled away.

  Carly took a turn about the living room, running her finger along the mantel above the fireplace, noting the crystal set atop it. Pricey. Her eyes drew up to catch her reflection in the mirror above. Wet, straggly blond hair, wrinkled top, black smudges hither and yon—she looked like a mongrel dog. Or maybe the forest animal the mongrel caught up in his teeth. She chuckled. A step up from the ordinary that usually identified her.

  Rhythmic thumping and clanging sounded from behind. It stopped. “You’re quite the Beauty.”

  Carly pivoted to see the source of the sarcasm-laden tone, catching sight of the man missing alternate limbs, leaning on a metal crutch. Dark circles ringed his eyes and a scar split the left side of his closely-shaved head.

  His gaze scanned her attire with a smirk. “Your father never mentioned you were so … lovely. A fashion plate.”

  She stifled a comeback about his own appearance, but chose the higher road. “My father never mentioned you were such a wit.”

  His eyes widened and his lips almost twisted into something one might call a smile.

  “Did you get my message?”

  He hobbled closer. “Yes. Something about waiting on roadside assistance to change your tire.” His gaze rolled over her. “It appears you didn’t wait.”

  She pulled a packet of papers from her case and sat in an armchair. “How about we get started?”

  “Certainly.” He dropped into the overstuffed sofa.

  “I have a number of questions I need you to answer, forms for you to fill out and I’ll need to tour the manor’s exercise facilities.”

  “Of course.”

  “Once you’re fitted with the prosthetics, we’ll begin rehab.” She organized papers on the coffee table.

  “Who’ll be doing the fitting?”

  “I will.”

  He stared. Was he looking at her or the wall behind her? His arrogance dripped from him like an oozing sore.

  “I assure you, I am skilled both as a prosthetist and a physical therapist. I wanted to know all aspects of my field in order to get my designs right.”

  “Would you like to see your room?”

  Was he even listening to her?

  “Yes. As I mentioned, I’d like to tour the manor’s exercise rooms. I assume that’s where most of the rehab will take place.”

  “Not for rehab. Your apartment.” His eyes were a steely blue, softened only by his thick lashes. It seems those and his eyebrows were the only hair he allowed on his entire head.

  “My apartment?” Her heart beat against her chest. What had her father signed her up for? How desperate was he to land this investor?

  “Yes, upstairs, where you’ll be living for the next several months.”

  Carly placed the pen atop some papers and fingered her cross necklace.

  “Didn’t your father mention my expectation that rehab be daily? He said you live two hours away.”

  Carly thought of the lonely drive up the forested mountain road. She suspected there were few, beyond the wildlife, who actually lived within hours of this place.

  “I won’t have you working with me exhausted after a long drive,” Cole’s eyelids hung as though he were bored, “possibly losing tires along the way.”

  She took in several cycles of breaths, gauging his expression. Could she trust this man—to live with him—in such a remote location? He was a complete stranger to her. An obviously bitter one. She thought about her father’s excitement at the prospect of an interested investor. She knew her father’s car hadn’t met the tree only because of a storm. He’d gone out looking for death. And this hairless man offered him a chance at life.

  Why?

  “You’ll have several rooms to yourself—a bathroom, kitchenette, patio and office. But I will expect you to eat dinner with me every evening.”

  Her eyebrows shot up of their own volition. “With my imprisonment here, this is beginning to sound like a dark retelling of a Disney flick.”

  His blink was heavy. “You mean Beauty and the Beast?”

  She shrugged.

  His lips curled higher. “I guess that makes me the Beauty.”

  Insolent man.

  His tone grew serious. “I suggested you live here for a number of reasons. First,” he ticked off a finger from his intact hand, “you live too far away. Second,” he ticked off another finger, “we will need lots of time for rehab sessions. Third,” his ring finger joined the others, “I’ll want to process how things are going with the product at dinnertime. After all, I may be sinking a load of dough into it eventually.”

  Carly looked around, wondering how much of that “dough” he’d actually miss.

  “And lastly,” he placed his hand on the stump of his left leg, “given your family’s recent dealings,” he hesitated, likely for effect, “you will need to earn my trust.”

  Her fingers balled. “Earn your trust?” The words came out in force. She almost growled, holding in the names she wanted to heap at him. Maybe she was the beast. But he was right. He had no reason to trust her family and more reason not to. Both as a client and an investor.

  She wished she could wash away the stain of what her brothers had done to her father’s business. It didn’t matter he’d had an impeccable reputation for years. All people would remember is how it ended. She had to change that with something new. Cole Harrison was the means with which to do that.

  But would she be safe living under the same roof as him?

  He must have read the question on her face. “You may call a locksmith to come and change the locks to all your rooms—my expense.”

  She speared him with her eyes. Carly never liked people answering the thoughts she hadn’t voiced.

  “And Mrs. Rivera will be here with you, not to mention the rest of the manor staff.”

  “Yes, I will.” Did Mrs. Rivera appear at his word? She placed a
tray with plates of cookies, a soda and a glass of water on the table between them.

  She looked harmless enough.

  Carly would do anything for her father. Especially after her brothers had destroyed his dream. She needed to rebuild it, even if it meant taking some risks. Someone needed to look out for him. “When do I move in?”

  “As soon as you wish.”

  COLE LIKED THIS woman. She’d taken every inch of him in when she first turned his way, and never flinched. Must be a hazard of the trade—seeing limbless, disfigured wretches on a regular basis.

  Not a trace of pity in her eyes. Good. He deserved none. He wasn’t the hero.

  Carly also had a spark of something else. A hint of spice. Cole liked spice. Too bad spice didn’t like him back. Nothing could.

  Should he have Jurvis look into her? His man-of-business, who sensed the housing bust months before it happened, had a financial sense none could match. Jurvis could smell a parasite a mile away.

  Not necessary. Cole could figure this one out. Either her products worked or they didn’t. He’d give her the opportunity to prove herself. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  Besides, Carly intrigued him. The only time she’d flinched during their meeting was at the moment he’d mentioned her looks. What had she been thinking? Did it bother her that she was plain? Had her vanity been pierced? He regretted his sarcastic jabs once the totality of them tumbled from his lips. It’s what made the men of his Marine unit hate him.

  All, but one.

  He’d vowed to become more likeable after the IED, but it was too late. His looks had been the only thing that attracted people to him before, especially women. Now his appearance matched what had always been inside—useless flesh.

  Chapter Two

  AT THE EDGE OF A DARK FOREST

  by Connie Almony

  The ornately carved mahogany door opened in front of Carly.

  “Hola, Ms. Rose.” Mrs. Rivera’s eyes twinkled as she gestured for Carly to enter. “Are you moving in today?”

  “No, but I’ve brought a few things with me. They’re in my car. I’ve also come to get a casting of Mr. Harrison’s residual limbs. It’s how I make the socket fit him properly for the new prosthetics.”

  “Ah. Our Beauty is here.” The sardonic tone echoed through the long hall.

  Carly rolled her eyes and turned to him. So she’d never have the model looks of her brothers’ wives, but did this man need to continually mock her?

  Cole Harrison hobbled closer. “You’re looking tidier today. No tires to change?”

  Her faux-smile muscles ached from overuse. “Mr. Harrison, I—”

  “Please, call me Cole. Think of yourself as a guest here.”

  Funny. That was not at all how she’d characterize their relationship. “Cole,” she said with special emphasis, “I believe I mentioned you’d need to wear shorts for the visit when I called earlier.”

  His brows drew together. He looked down to the slacks that, no doubt, Mrs. Rivera had ironed that morning. “Of course.” Did he just stammer? His turn was too wobbly, like he’d done it more quickly than he ought. He righted his balance and limped away.

  “Let me show you to your room.” Mrs. Rivera hurried up a long, curving staircase. “I’ll have Manny, the chauffer, bring your things from the car.”

  Carly shook her head. “No need to trouble him. I can handle it.”

  The housekeeper chuckled. “Trust me, it’s no trouble. El chico es probably looking for an excuse to pull his head out of a college text. It’s a wonder how much he’s paid. Mr. Cole rarely leaves the estate.”

  “Then why does he keep a chauffeur?”

  Mrs. Rivera continued down a long hall of the upper floor. “Mr. Cole hasn’t driven since he lost his limbs. Although, I suspect, it gives him cause to provide the homeless college boy a place to live until he earns his online degree.”

  Homeless boy? Could the ogre have an actual, beating heart?

  They traveled on. The lush carpet stretched before them. How long was this hall?

  Mrs. Rivera seemed to read Carly’s mind. “This mansion was built by Cole’s abuelo—I’m sorry, grandfather—with the express intention of entertaining a large number of guests over a period of days. Your suite was for the most honored—movie stars, political people and the like.” Nearing the end of the hall she pointed to a door. “This used to be the master suite. Only Mr. Cole doesn’t use it. He doesn’t like the stairs, so he’s refurbished his father’s old study past the kitchen on the first floor for his bedroom.”

  She turned. “And if you hear the scr—I mean, him calling out in the middle of the night, just ignore it, por favor. He’s just having one of his nightmares.”

  Nightmares? Carly’s mind conjured dark forests, full moons and shrieking goblins. She shivered the images away.

  Mrs. Rivera pushed open a door across from the master suite. “The locksmith will be here shortly to install the locks, bolts, chains—anything you desire—and give you a key.”

  Carly scanned the expansive suite. “That isn’t necessary. I could have—”

  “Oh, no. He inseested.”

  Carly liked the way Mrs. Rivera’s accent intensified when she became adamant.

  “Mr. Harrison thinks people fear him because of his looks. He wants—no, needs—to put your mind at ease.”

  Carly marveled at the state-of-the art refrigerator and stove on one side of the apartment. Was this what he called a kitchenette? “Has anyone ever mentioned to him it’s his winning personality that sets our hearts a-flutter?”

  Mrs. Rivera’s lips twitched. “Jes, jes, my dear. He is well aware he turns people away. But now he sees his looks and demeanor as one and the same.”

  Now?

  She patted Carly’s arm. “Somehow I think you will be very good for him.” Was she talking about the prosthetics?

  Mrs. Rivera hustled out into the hall. “Now let me show you how to get to the exercise facility from here.”

  Carly ran to keep up as the woman traveled the vast floor space. Until she learned the way, she’d need a tour guide. She didn’t want to open the wrong door somewhere and find a chamber of secret horrors. She giggled at her over-active imagination until she remembered Mrs. Rivera’s words. Unease slithered up her spine. What kind of nightmares did the likes of Cole Harrison experience?

  COLE TOOK A SWIG from his thermos. His Coke had just the right zing from the Vodka he’d been spiking it with. He could feel the constant tease of gunfire and explosives fade as the liquid fire descended his esophagus. Sweet relief.

  The Rose woman entered carrying a tray topped with gauze rolls, a tape measure, a pen and a sweating can of soda. Mrs. Rivera hustled in close behind.

  The housekeeper patted the cushion of the therapy table that woman insisted he purchase. “Have a seat, Mr. Cole.”

  A crazy metal contraption sat beside it, looking like a torture device used to rip out body parts.

  Mrs. Rivera opened an overhead cabinet and pulled out some towels. She stood waiting patiently as the Rose woman knelt on the floor and arranged her utensils by his one, intact foot.

  What was her first name again? Some days his hippocampus just didn’t want to work at all. He absently touched the scar near his left temple. He’d already forgotten about the need to wear shorts and now even her first name was beyond reach. All he could pull up was an image of the Disney princess in the yellow ball gown.

  “Beauty.”

  She jerked her attention to him, her eyes burning.

  “Now, Carly, don’t you mind him.” Mrs. Rivera to the rescue—always knowing when he needed help with a name.

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Rivera. It’s only that I’m a little confused. Last week, it seemed, Cole had our roles reversed.”

  “Ah, yes, but I think I’ve changed my mind. Beauty didn’t really suit me. I think I’ll let you keep it.”

  Carly sat back on her heels and took a sip of her soda. “After I take some measurements,
we’ll fit you into the imager over there to get a sense of the general shape of your leg.” She gestured to the torture device. “Then, I’ll apply the plaster and put you in it again allowing time for it to harden into a cast.”

  “Yes, Beauty.” He liked to watch the fire ignite in her when he used the moniker. It distracted his mind from his more life-threatening imaginings.

  She held fast to the soda can with her left hand as she picked up the tape measure in her right. What was that look on her face? He didn’t trust it. She placed the soda on the floor and palmed his thigh.

  “Argh!” Cole thrust her backwards. “Your hands are like ice.”

  Carly only smiled as she blew into her fists. Mrs. Rivera placed the towels beside the ice queen and chuckled. “I’ll leave you now. It appears you can handle Mr. Cole on your own.” Her mocking laughter trailed her down the hall.

  Cole’s nostrils flared as he struggled to recover his breath. “You did that on purpose.”

  His forehead tensed. “Please do not handle that soda can until you are done here.”

  Carly’s fingers, only slightly warmer now, probed the bony structure of his thigh and stretched the tape measure around it. She didn’t make eye contact. “Well, at least we know the nerves in your limb are working.” Her lips tugged up. “Quite well in fact.”

  Cole was not appeased. He pulled at the nozzle on his thermos and sucked down a few gulps of his brew. Why did he agree to try these fake limbs again? He’d hated the ones he’d had before. The image of Henry’s eyes as he pleaded with Cole to give them a chance softened his ire. It was more than a business proposition. To one of them, he sensed, it meant life.

  “Why do you get to drink and I don’t?” Her eyebrows held a challenge.

  Cole’s limbs, residual and otherwise, began to feel heavier. “Because you will use your icy fingers as a weapon, whereas I,” he wiggled his right-arm stump, “cannot.”