The Unmistakable Scent of Gardenias (Haunted Hearts Series Book 6) Read online

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the author in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved including the right of reproduction, distribution, or transmitted in whole or part in any form or means, or stored in any electronic, mechanical, database or retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

  Contact information: [email protected]

  THE UNMISTAKABLE SCENT OF GARDENIAS

  The Haunted Hearts Series: Book Six

  Copyright © 2016 by Denise Moncrief

  Electronic Edition

  Paranormal Romantic Suspense

  Cover design: Linda Pitts

  Background image: © 2014 michael.lucas via https://www.flickr.com/luke67/22948761144, Creative Common Attribution Generic License, cropped and filtered

  Gardenia image: © 2013 Muffet via https://www.flickr.com/photos/calliope/8752010510

  Creative Common Attribution Generic License, cropped and opacity adjusted

  Cover is copyright and trademark of the author, used under license owned.

  THE UNMISTAKABLE SCENT OF GARDENIAS

  Content with the direction her life takes…

  The temptation to earn a sweet payday and collect enough money to start her own interior design business is too much opportunity for Sophia Cannon to ignore, but working for her new client, Les Wakefield, is like working for a creepy stalker. He seems to be everywhere she goes.

  Until trouble walks around the corner and into her life again…

  Dylan Hunter almost turns down the Wakefield Manor restoration job until Les Wakefield tells him Sophia is the interior designer hired to oversee furnishing the old plantation house. Sophia has been the ghost in his life since the day she left him, haunting his heart with her memory every day and every night.

  Stirring up more than just the spirits of the dead…

  Sophia and Dylan fight with each other until a much bigger threat puts both their lives in danger. Discovering that generations of Wakefields have restored the plantation only to disappear months after moving in to the manor house stirs up spirits that would rather remain undisturbed.

  Can love survive the long nights at Wakefield Manor with the unmistakable scent of gardenias hanging so heavily in the air?

  ACKNOWLEGEMENTS

  Special thanks to my long-suffering family, Larry, Katy, and Eric, who have put up with my many writing moods and encourage me to pursue my publishing dreams anyway.

  I’d like to acknowledgment all the readers who enjoyed the first five books in The Haunted Hearts Series: Arkansas Hauntings and gave me encouraging feedback. I write because it’s an obsession. I publish because I want someone to read what I write. My readers are why I do what I do. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  THE UNMISTAKABLE SCENT OF GARDENIAS

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Other Titles By Denise Moncrief

  Bonus Material:

  Chapter One of the Haunted Hearts Series Book #7 – The Curse of a Single Red Rose

  Chapter One

  Wakefield, Louisiana

  Late May 1967

  The dirt track wound through a stand of centuries-old oak trees hung with draping wisps of gray-blue-green Spanish moss. Like dark sentinels with drawn swords, the trees arched their limbs over the newlyweds as they drove deeper and deeper into the heart of the plantation.

  On a humid, south Louisiana evening, the moisture-heavy air rushed through the open windows and expanded in the interior of the car. A trail of sweat rolled down Celia Wakefield’s backbone. She shivered as the first glimpse of the house came into view, and the meal she’d consumed miles up the road rumbled in the lower regions of her stomach. Despite the heat, chill bumps prickled on her forearms. An inexplicable reaction, really.

  She glanced at her husband Les out of the corner of her eye and cringed. An intense tightness defined his jaw line, which meant he was in one of his dark moods.

  His fingers curled around the steering wheel. “There’s no telling what condition the main house will be in when we get there.”

  He had warned her of its disrepair repeatedly since the day he first told her that he’d inherited the old Wakefield Plantation. It was as if he was apologizing in advance for the state of their first home. She had, of course, wanted something newer, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. She was lucky Les Wakefield had found her appealing enough to overlook her past.

  He drove the car through a gap in the bedraggled hedges and rolled to a stop barely two feet from the front steps. She was thankful for the reprieve from forward motion.

  The house appeared to float several feet above the ground in a bed of vines with no other visible means of support. Six steps fanned out from the middle of the porch that spanned the length of the front of the house. The top step was probably four feet long, the bottom at least six. The white stucco used to cover the exterior was crumbling, leaving gaps that revealed the red brick beneath. Wrought iron banisters edged each side of the steps, embellished with graceful curlicues and ivy leaves. More decorative ironwork enclosed the porch and top floor balcony connecting a series of tall Doric columns. One corner of the front porch sagged, the column on that end tumbling over onto the ground.

  Celia drew in a sharp breath as Les hurried from his brand new Ford Galaxie and flew up the steps, seemingly without even touching them. He stood at the edge of the porch, staring at the front door for so long she wondered if he’d fallen into some sort of trance.

  He slowly turned his head toward her. A manic light flickered in his eyes. “Come on, Celia. I don’t want to cross the threshold without you.” He made it sound like an obligation rather than a pleasure.

  She swept her unruly black hair from her face with a white-gloved hand. It was too late to turn back now. She’d made promises she had to keep.

  She popped the door open and placed one foot on the ground. A thick layer of ground cover carpeted the area in front of the steps. The spongy earth gave a little with her weight, and the distinctive aroma of decaying vegetation permeated the air around the house, giving the atmosphere an oppressive nightmare quality. She pressed her hand to her chest, dragged in a heavy breath, and wrinkled her nose. A sickly sweet smell further tumbled her already nauseated stomach.

  Forcing one foot to move, and then the other, she trudged the few feet to the steps. The long ride on rural back roads from Nashville, Tenne
ssee, to Wakefield, Louisiana, had strained her limited strength. She was so tired. Would she even have a place to lay her head tonight?

  What time was it? How could she tell with the massive oaks obscuring the sun? The tent of limbs arching above the front of the property made the long drive disappearing toward the rural parish road resemble a dark, dank cavern. She shivered again, despite the layer of moisture covering every inch of exposed skin.

  Before she took the last step, Les reached his hand out to her. He was a handsome man with dark eyes and a sardonic smile. A fedora tilted sideways on his neatly trimmed hair. His suit jacket hung unbuttoned, a bit loose across his shoulders. A pack of cigarettes peeked out the top of his white dress shirt, the one with the black embroidery up and down the front panels. He’d ditched his tie miles up the road toward Jackson, Mississippi.

  She took his hand, and with one fluid motion, he lifted her off her feet and carried her toward the front door. To the left and the right, porch boards warped up from loosened nails, sticking up like curling fingers. Vines pushed through cracks, wrapping delicate tendrils around every solid object within reach, almost obscuring the ironwork on the lower balustrades.

  He stopped right before he opened the door, and his eyes caught hers. “Are you ready?”

  No, she wasn’t, but would she ever be ready?

  She nodded anyway.

  Just as swiftly as he’d lifted her from her feet, he flung the doors open, carried her over the threshold, and delivered her into the grand front hall of Wakefield Manor.

  Her feet landed on what must have once been polished hardwood floors. Like the decking on the front porch, the flooring was warped and in need of serious repair. She would have to step carefully to avoid sinking her foot into a hole. An enormous staircase curved up the right side of the room toward the upper floor. A column like the ones on the front porch had been constructed to create a center post for the staircase. More wrought iron railing edged the upstairs balcony.

  She smoothed the back of her dress—the only nice dress she owned—as she absorbed the former grandeur of the house. Could this place once again be livable, let alone a tourist showcase? Les had big dreams, and she wondered if they were just that…dreams. Unreachable hopes for the future, soon to be shattered. She knew all about destroyed hope.

  “Welcome home, dear.” He smiled and waved his hand in a wide motion in front of him, but his tone seemed empty of sunshine.

  He had stepped back from her, and she regretted the loss of his proximity.

  “Are you glad to be here, Les?”

  His smile disappeared. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? This is a tremendous opportunity. You know I couldn’t pass this up.” There was more than determination in his tone. The bright white heat of urgency sparked behind his words.

  She turned on her heel, surveying the double white doors to the left. “What’s in there?”

  “The parlor.” After a few steps, he flung the doors open. He disappeared into the room, and his voice boomed through the door toward her. “We can restore the place to its former glory. Can you imagine a house filled with visitors? People are starting to travel more. Tourists eat up stuff like this.”

  She tried to lift one foot, but the heel of her pumps had caught in a loose floorboard. After she had yanked it free, she followed him and peeked through the door he had rushed to enter. To her surprise, the room was furnished.

  He busied himself dragging dingy yellowed cloths from furniture. Dust floated about the room, trailing through rays of dim light struggling to pierce dirty glass except where a random pane was missing from several of the windows. No drapes blocked the light or afforded them privacy. The dark green shutters on the outside of the house probably served the purpose.

  Her throat clogged with dust. She coughed and placed a hand over her mouth. Les didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. He never did.

  “Everything’s here.” His face radiated delight.

  She swallowed hard to remove the dust from her mouth. “Did you know?”

  He turned toward her, his face emptied of his former pleasure. “Know what?”

  “That the place was furnished.”

  “Of course not.” His anger only flickered in his dark eyes for a split second before he masked it.

  She didn’t understand. Why did that make him angry? “What’s that sweet smell?” It wasn’t really sweet, but she didn’t know how else to describe it.

  He lifted his head and sniffed. “Gardenias.” He smiled and held his hand out to her. “It’s getting late. We need to find a bedroom.”

  She forced a smile. Of course. The bedroom. She could see it in his eyes. He would want her to perform her wifely duty. She would lie still and let him do what he wanted. After all, she was in no position to complain. Les had saved her from her former life.

  ***

  As soon as Les’s breathing slowed into the rhythm of deep sleep, Celia removed his hand from across her waist and edged off the bed. The only working toilet was across the hall. She moved as silently as possible, fearful her footfalls would land on a loose floorboard. She made it all the way to the door before a creak split the quiet night.

  Les mumbled and rolled over. She stood frozen for a half-minute until she was sure he was once again sound asleep, and the tension in her stomach eased.

  She slipped out into the wide upper hall and across to the bathroom. Moonlight shimmered through an uncovered window, sending rays of soft light across the floor and up the far wall, making her cotton nightgown glow bright white. With her heart in her throat, she turned the knob, cracked open the bathroom door on squeaky hinges, and wiggled inside. Before she could take another breath, she had dropped to her knees and retched into the stained toilet bowl. Her whole body ached as she leaned on the porcelain that wasn’t quite bolted tight enough to the rotting floorboards.

  When she flushed, the foul remains of her supper didn’t swirl all the way down. She didn’t want to flush again, but she had no choice. If she didn’t, Les would know about her weak stomach. How could she tell her husband that intimate relations with him made her vomit?

  She waited until the tank refilled and flushed again. The pipes in the old house groaned enough to wake the dead. She rose on shaky legs and turned the tap. A sludge of brown liquid gurgled from the corroded faucet. She used some of the nasty mess to wipe the evidence of her shame from her mouth, careful not to slosh any on her clean gown. How could she get the sick taste out of her mouth? She didn’t dare drink any of the polluted water spurting into the sink, so she spat into the toilet bowl until her mouth went dry.

  Her eyes watered from the physical strain of throwing up and the fear of being caught. When she lifted her head and gazed into the mirror over the sink, she shrieked and then slapped a hand over her mouth.

  Blood covered the face reflected back at her. She pivoted to look behind her, but there was nothing but a blank wall. When she turned to face the mirror again, the face was clean. There was no mistake. She’d seen someone else’s reflection. Who had she seen in the mirror? Why was the woman crying? Why was there a look of abject terror on her face? And why was she covered in blood?

  She glanced at the closed bathroom door. Had Les heard her?

  “Celia? Where are you?” Rage electrified his summons.

  She froze in place, her heart pumping blood through her veins at an alarming rate. The door flew open. Les stood in the hall, his face blotched purple and red with fury.

  He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and yanked her from the bathroom. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I heard you scream.”

  She tried to loosen his grip on her arm. A lie sprang from her lips. “A bug. I saw a bug. It scared me.” She tried a tentative smile. “I’m sorry I woke you. I just needed to go the bathroom.”

  His grip relaxed but not enough for her to pull free of him. “A bug? You’re scared of a little bug?” He smiled, his mouth widening into a sneer. “
Come back to bed, darlin’.”

  She reluctantly obeyed him. Before he shut the bedroom door behind them, she dared to steal one more glimpse of the bathroom across the hall.

  The woman she had seen in the mirror was wearing the same nightgown she wore, a nightgown Les had dug out of an old trunk for her. She had brought very little with her the day she married Les. He had rummaged around the old house until he had found something suitable—in his opinion—for her to wear to bed.

  What had she really seen in the bathroom mirror? Did she see someone else’s reflection… or a vision of her future? Or was this just her tired mind playing tricks on her? She was about to shrug the odd thoughts off when the bathroom door seemed to swing shut of its own accord.

  Chapter Two

  June 2014

  Sophia Cannon stood only a few paces from the front steps of Wakefield Manor. This project was the biggest challenge she’d ever agreed to undertake. It might take all she had in her to help the new owner restore the home to it former grandeur. If she was successful, it meant she was well on her way to establishing her interior design firm as an emerging expert in the renovation of historic homes.

  She tilted her head, studied the upper balcony that stretched across the front of the façade, and then rubbed her eyes. A dark shape had moved across the far left window, just a split second impression of something darker than the darkness behind it. Impossible. The second floor was more than likely uninhabitable and walking across the damaged floor was probably dangerous.

  No one should be on the property, not even Sophia, but the large violators will be prosecuted sign on the front gate wouldn’t keep determined ruin porn photographers from trespassing. She glanced behind her, scanning the front lawn and gazing down the long stretch of drive that disappeared into an arch of overhanging oak limbs draped with moss.

  A chilled wind blew across her, and bumps formed on her arms. The heavy scent of gardenias wafted on the wind. She sneezed from the overwhelming perfume. It reminded her of something from long ago, something she couldn’t quite remember. The impression bothered her enough that she shivered as if someone had taken a gardenia bloom and traced down the back of her bare neck.