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  He’d waited ten years for this….

  When he’d last made love to Marie she’d been a girl. Now the naked body before him was that of a woman. And she kissed like she had in his dreams. She was so precious to him, so perfect. He wanted to hold her forever, never wanted to lose her.

  To lose her….

  He pushed the morose thought away, trying to be happy for once in his life. But he knew he wouldn’t be, not if something happened to Marie. Not if he lost her. In his arms he had everything he wanted—right here, right now—yet he was more conscious than ever of how quickly it all could be taken away. How quickly Marie could be taken away.

  In his mind, the eerie voice spoke again. All that you love will die….

  ANN VOSS PETERSON

  CHRISTMAS AWAKENING

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  To Rebecca, Norman and Patricia and our wonderful

  time exploring Maryland’s eastern shore.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ever since she was a little girl making her own books out of construction paper, Ann Voss Peterson wanted to write. So when it came time to choose a major at the University of Wisconsin, creative writing was her only choice. Of course, writing wasn’t a practical choice—one needs to earn a living. So Ann found jobs ranging from proofreading legal transcripts to working with quarter horses to washing windows. But no matter how she earned her paycheck, she continued to write the type of stories that captured her heart and imagination—romantic suspense. Ann lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband, her two young sons, her border collie and her quarter horse mare. Ann loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at [email protected] or visit her Web site at www.annvosspeterson.com.

  Books by Ann Voss Peterson

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  745—BOYS IN BLUE

  “Liam”

  780—LEGALLY BINDING

  838—DESERT SONS

  “Tom”

  878—MARITAL PRIVILEGE

  925—SERIAL BRIDE*

  931—EVIDENCE OF MARRIAGE*

  937—VOW TO PROTECT*

  952—CRITICAL EXPOSURE

  981—SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT

  1049—WYOMING MANHUNT

  1095—CHRISTMAS AWAKENING

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Marie Leonard—The butler’s daughter, Marie returned to Jenkins Cove to bury her father and bring his murderer to justice.

  Brandon Drake—After his wife died in a fiery car crash, he became a recluse. Was it due to grief…or guilt?

  Charlotte Drake—The beautiful and accomplished lady of Drake House had everything, except the one thing she wanted most.

  Edwin Leonard—The butler of Drake House died under suspicious circumstances.

  Aunt Sophie Caldwell—A batty old woman who believes in psychic phenomena.

  Police Chief Charles Hammer—Is the police chief of Jenkins Cove lazy or hiding something?

  Ned Perry—Would he kill to get his hands on prime real estate?

  Clifford Drake—How far will he go to get his hands on Drake House?

  Phil Cardon—A young man who does odd jobs in town.

  Josef Novak—The chauffeur came to America to find his fortune. But when he tried to bring his betrothed wife over, his dream went horribly wrong.

  Shelley Zachary—After Edwin’s death, Shelley took over running Drake House, and she loves the power. How far will she go to keep it?

  Isabella Faust—How far will she go to wear Brandon’s or Cliff’s ring?

  Doug Heller—The manager of Drake Enterprises seems to have his eye on, and hand in, everything going on in Jenkins Cove.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Prologue

  Edwin Leonard’s heart beat hard enough to break a rib. He adjusted his reading glasses and studied the sketch’s deft lines. So much detail. So much planning.

  This was proof. Proof of murder.

  He slipped his glasses into his pocket. He’d been butler at Drake House since he was a young man, yet he never would have guessed such hatred pulsed within the borders of his beloved estate. Such a malicious, murderous force. The paper rattled in his shaking hand, fear adding to the tremor he’d acquired with age.

  He needed to hide the sketch. Stash it away until he could get it to the police. If the killer found it and destroyed it, the only evidence of murder would be Edwin’s word.

  And that of a ghost.

  He circled Drake House’s south wing and followed the freshly laid oyster shell path through the south garden. The soles of his shoes crunched with each step. Too loud.

  He paused, scanning the area, making sure no one had heard. The old mansion’s grounds were quiet; only the lap of waves on rock along the shoreline reached him. He was alone. Even so, he found himself holding his breath.

  Stepping along the edge of the path, he continued. He had to stash the sketch and get back into the house before anyone noticed his absence. He knew just the hiding place. A spot where no one would think to look.

  He quickened his pace, following the white shells into the redesigned east garden. He stopped at a bench nestled among holly bushes and grasped the seat. Grunting with effort, he shifted the seat to the side, exposing a hollow space in the concrete base.

  A space just the right size.

  He rolled the sketch in trembling hands and slipped it into the crevice. He shifted the seat back into place.

  It would be safe there. Safe until morning when he could turn it over to Police Chief Hammer. Still, something didn’t feel right. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe it was some sort of sixth sense. Maybe it was related to what he’d experienced in the candlelit room in Sophie’s attic. Whatever caused the feeling, it bore down on him, thicker and more invasive than the humid, late autumn night.

  Anger. Evil.

  He had to get a hold of himself. Straightening, he combed his hair into place with his fingers. He brushed off his suit, pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and dried his palms. Extracting his timepiece from his pocket, he tilted the face to catch the light of the moon.

  Mr. Brandon would wonder what had happened to him if his bed wasn’t turned down when he chose to retire. That certainly wouldn’t do.

  Edwin slipped the watch back into his vest pocket. It clinked against the skeleton key he’d stolen along with the sketch.

  The key. He’d forgotten to stash the key. Turning back toward the bench, he reached into his pocket.

  The blow hit him before he could react. The force shuddered through his skull and down his spine. He dropped to his knees on the sharp shells.

  Another blow brought darkness. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. He felt his legs being lifted, his body being dragged down the path. Out of the garden. Over the lawn. To the pier jutting out into the bay.

  No. Not the water.

  He tried to move, to fight, but his body wouldn’t obey. Rough hands pushed him. He rolled into the water. Salt filled his mouth. Cold lapped at his body. His hea
d went under.

  Then he felt nothing.

  Chapter One

  “When a loved one dies, it’s normal to want answers, Miss Leonard,” the police chief drawled. He stopped near the break in the boxwood hedge that opened to the Jenkins Cove Chapel’s redbrick walkway, as if he couldn’t wait to get out of the graveyard…or maybe just away from Marie. “But sometimes you got to accept that accidents happen.”

  Accept? Marie gripped a damp tissue in her fist. Maybe she could accept, if her father’s death really was an accident.

  She focused on the arrangement of holly and poinsettia draping Edwin Leonard’s casket. It was all wrong. The sunny day and cheery Christmas greenery. The sparsity of the black-clad crowd that wandered away from the graveside now that they’d offered their condolences. And most of all, the words coming from the chief’s mouth. “I know you’ve ruled my father’s death an accident, Chief Hammer. I’d like to know what led you to that conclusion.”

  “What led me?” The police chief drew up to his full height, what little there was of it.

  A squat, bulldog of a man, Charles Hammer had struck Marie as lazy, ever since he’d poo-pooed her report of boys smoking marijuana back when she was a sophomore at Jenkins Cove High. His quickness to dismiss her father’s death as an accident before he knew all the circumstances just underscored that impression. Obviously nothing had changed in the ten years since she’d left Maryland’s Eastern Shore. “Why do you think it was an accident?”

  His mouth curved into a patronizing smile. “The evidence of accidental death is pretty clear in your father’s case. In fact, nothing suggests it was anything but an accident. He was walking on the dock at night. He slipped and hit his head on the rocks along the shoreline. Accidental drowning. Pure and simple.”

  “It couldn’t have happened that way.”

  “I know.” He shook his head slowly, his bald scalp catching the sun’s rays. “It seems so random.”

  Tension radiated up Marie’s neck, fueling the headache that throbbed behind her eyes. “No, that’s not it. It couldn’t have happened the way you said. It’s not possible.”

  He peered down his pudgy nose. “That’s what our evidence indicates.”

  “The evidence is wrong.”

  “Evidence is never wrong.”

  “Then the way you’re looking at it is wrong.”

  He drew in his chin, making himself look like an offended old lady. Or a turtle. “What do you do for a living, Miss Leonard?”

  “I’m a philosophy professor.”

  He grinned as if that explained everything. “Well, I’m a police chief. I deal in hard evidence, not silly theories. I’ve investigated deaths before. Have you?”

  She let out a frustrated breath. Her father had always warned her about her lack of tact. She should have tiptoed around the chief’s ego. Flattered him. Buttered him up. Then he would probably be more open to her ideas. Instead, she’d turned him into an enemy.

  She stared up at the spire of the gray stone church she’d attended as a kid. “I’m sorry. There’s just something you don’t understand.”

  “I understand the evidence. And in your father’s case, that evidence clearly says accidental drowning.”

  She leveled her gaze back on the chief. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. My father never would have accidentally drowned.”

  “Your father hit his head. Even Olympic champions can’t swim when they’re unconscious.”

  “My father couldn’t swim. Not a stroke.”

  “Then how can you find accidental drowning impossible?”

  She tried to swallow the thickness in her throat.

  “Because he was deathly afraid of the water. He never would have gone near it.”

  The chief looked unimpressed. He edged closer to the redbrick path between the boxwood. “I’m sorry, Miss Leonard. Facts are facts. Your father did go near the water that night. The case is closed. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  The finality of his words struck her like a kick to the sternum. She watched him amble down the path and join the last of the funeral-goers milling along Main Street.

  The man from the funeral parlor eyed her from beside her father’s casket, waiting for her to leave so he could lower Edwin Leonard to his final resting place beside her mother.

  Marie pulled the collar of her black wool coat tighter around her shoulders. She didn’t know if murder victims truly rested or not, but she sure wouldn’t. Not until she knew what had happened to her father.

  Not until she made his killer pay.

  MARIE FORCED HER FEET to move up the loose gravel walk to the kitchen entrance of the sprawling white antebellum mansion. Drake House. An uneasy feeling pinched the back of her neck. The feeling she was being watched.

  She spun around, searching the grounds. Waves danced on Chesapeake Bay and the mouth of Jenkins Creek, a body of water ironically broader and deeper than many lakes. Evening shadow cloaked the mansion’s facade, transforming it to a dark hulk against the gleam of sunset on water. It looked austere, empty. The Christmas decorations that blanketed every house and shop in town were nowhere to be found here. No evergreen swags draping the balconies. No wreaths adorning the doors. Dark windows stared down at her like probing eyes.

  She was home.

  A bitter laugh died in her throat. She might have grown up in this house, but it wasn’t home. Not without her father.

  A gust of wind blew off the water, tangling her funeral-black skirt around her legs. Even though it was early December, the wind felt warm to Marie. And the shiver that ran over her skin had nothing to do with temperature.

  Was someone watching her from the house? Brandon?

  A flutter moved through her stomach. She gritted her teeth against the sensation. The last time she’d seen Brandon Drake, she’d been a teenager with delusions of true love. She’d changed a lot since then. Grown stronger. Wiser. Her heart had shattered and mended. Still, she’d been relieved when Brandon Drake hadn’t attended her father’s service. She didn’t want to see him. Not when she was aching from her father’s loss. Not when her emotions were so raw. Not when she was feeling less than strong.

  Unfortunately, if she wanted to find the truth about her father’s murder, she had to start at the place he’d lived…and died. Drake House.

  She tore her gaze from the mansion’s upper floors and the balcony that ran the length of the private wing. Setting her chin, she increased her pace. The quicker she could get into her father’s quarters, look through his things and get out, the better. It was all over town that Brandon had become a recluse since his wife died. He didn’t take visitors. If she entered through the kitchen and dealt with the servants, maybe she could find enough to convince Chief Hammer to reopen her father’s case as a homicide without ever having to face Brandon Drake.

  At least she could hope.

  Unease tickled over her again, raising the hair on her arms. She looked up at the house, beyond to the boathouse, then turned toward the carriage house. A man with the flat and misshapen nose of a prizefighter stared at her from the other side of a long black car. He nodded a greeting, then resumed rubbing the hood with a chamois.

  The chauffeur. She recognized him from her father’s funeral. At least someone from Drake House had come.

  She gave the chauffeur a little wave, circled a gray stone wall surrounding the pool and clomped up the wooden steps. Pressing the doorbell, she peered through wavy glass and into the kitchen where she’d once had milk and cookies after school.

  It looked so much the same. Too much the same. A dull ache throbbed in her chest.

  A woman with the thin, strong look of steel wire bustled across the kitchen and opened the door. Penciled eyebrows tilted over curious eyes. “Yes?”

  “I’m Marie Leonard.”

  “Of course. Miss Leonard. I’m so sorry about your father.” She opened the door with one hand, using the other to usher Marie inside. “I’m Shelley. Shelley Zachary. We talked on the ph
one.”

  Marie nodded. The cook, now housekeeper. The woman Brandon Drake had promoted to take over her father’s job before he was even in the ground.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you. I worked side by side with Edwin for the past eight years, and a day didn’t go by that he didn’t mention you. I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to make it to his funeral. Running a house like this in addition to cooking is very demanding.”

  Marie forced a smile she didn’t feel. “I’m here to go through my father’s things.”

  “Of course. Isabella can help you, if you need it.”

  Marie followed the housekeeper’s gaze to the corner of the kitchen where a young woman with huge blue eyes and luxurious, auburn hair polished a silver tea service. She wore a uniform of black slacks and blouse with a white apron, more covered than the stereotypical French maid, yet because of her bombshell body, nearly as sexy.

  “Isabella? This is Edwin’s daughter.”

  Isabella continued with her work as if she couldn’t care less.

  At one time, the servants at Drake House were Marie’s family, and a caring and tightly knit one at that. Not just her father, but everyone who’d worked at the house back then, from the maid to the cook to the chauffeur, liked to read her stories and bring her treats. They watched out for her, and she never questioned that each cared about her and about each other.

  Clearly that family atmosphere had deserted Drake House in the past ten years.

  That was fine. Marie didn’t need a surrogate family. She needed answers. She focused on Shelley Zachary. “Do you have my father’s keys?”

  “Of course. I’m running the house now.”