Forever Hidden (Forever Bluegrass #2) (4 page)

No lights were on, but the white mansion seemed to glow. Six two-story columns stretched across the front of the square house. A veranda ran the length of the dwelling on both floors. As Sydney grew closer, she saw that the columns and the verandas wrapped all the way around the house. It was simply stunning.

She parked her car to the side of the house, pulled out her flashlight and a shovel, and looked around the property. “Shit,” she whispered into the night. There was no well, but there was a big oak tree. In fact, there were about twenty of them. Letting out a sigh, Sydney decided to start with the first one. She approached the big oak, turned toward the house, and took five paces. She stabbed the ground with the shovel. It had to be here somewhere, and there was a one in twenty chance it was in this vicinity.

CHAPTER FOUR

Deacon McKnight’s eyes popped open as he reached for the gun strapped to the side of his nightstand. A sound not natural to the chilly Georgian night had woken him from his sleep. He closed his eyes and focused on opening his ears to the sounds of the night. There it was again. He slipped all six-foot-three inches of his body silently from the bed and crept to the master bedroom window. He pulled back the curtain slowly and let his eyes scan the backyard.

“What the hell?” he whispered to himself as the glint of moonlight reflected off a shovel. A person in black was digging up his backyard. The person reached for the knit winter hat on her head and pulled it off. Golden blond hair cascaded from the hat and Deacon’s eyes went wide in surprise.

As a private investigator, he had seen a lot of things that surprised him, but a beautiful woman with long, blond hair and a shapely athletic build was truly unexpected. Her face was all smooth angles. Even from where he stood, he could see that her generous lips looked perfect for kissing.

Deacon smiled as he watched her look at the row of oak trees, move to the next tree in line, and count off five paces. When she dug the shovel back in the ground, Deacon decided to enjoy the show. After his last case, he kind of expected the intruder to be someone wanting to kill him before he could testify at the murder trial of the cold case he’d solved.

Deacon was a private investigator, but he wasn’t your normal PI. He didn’t handle cheating spouses or disability fraud cases. He didn’t need to. He was “old money” to his utter disappointment growing up. He’d hated the debutante scene, the society functions, and definitely the country club crowd. He’d followed in six generations of McKnight men’s shoes and attended Emory University. Unlike prior generations, it wasn’t economics and business that caught his attention. Criminology was his passion.

His father owned and ran the family’s investment firm and refused to hear of a major that had nothing to do with money, so Deacon had double majored in economics and criminology. Upon graduation, he had served his time at the family’s firm, making lots of money. At night, he got lost in cold cases his buddy in the Atlanta PD secretly passed along to him. The morning of his twenty-fifth birthday, Deacon headed to the bank, transferred the trust from his grandfather’s estate into his name, and quit his job. His father had barely spoken to him since that day.

That same day, Deacon filed for his PI license and opened his own company. Since he had plenty of money, he didn’t take any case he wasn’t invested in personally. He could take missing-persons cases from people unable to afford their own investigator, or the cold case murders that the police had long ago forgotten. He’d found missing siblings, missing heirs, murderers, and rapists. And he’d never been happier.

He’d had his car keyed and his tires sliced. He’d been shot at, egged, flour bombed, tased, kissed, and then stabbed after the kiss. But never had he found a beautiful woman digging holes in his backyard.  His amusement heightened as she moved to the next tree, turned, walked five paces, and began digging again.

Deacon grabbed the jeans he’d flung over the back of the chair and stepped into them. He slid his feet into a pair of running shoes and quietly headed downstairs. He didn’t want to spook his mysterious digger. He headed for the side door off the formal sitting room and slipped soundlessly into the night. He stopped behind the woman and smiled as she bent over and cursed at the shovel. He had been right; this woman was a knockout. Deacon just hoped she wasn’t here to kill him.

His smiled widened as the woman drove the shovel into the ground and talked to herself about family obligations. She stabbed the ground again and jumped on the shovel to dig it deeper into the cold earth.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Deacon asked with an amused drawl in his deep, southern voice.

The woman let out a shriek, spun, and lashed out at him with the shovel. Deacon ducked his head and the shovel sliced through the air where his head had been just seconds ago. Okay, maybe she
was
here to kill him.

Deacon’s amusement fell to the wayside as he rolled backward and sprang to his feet. Warm puffs of breath escaped his mouth as he raised his gun and pointed it at the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The odd part was she looked faintly familiar to him.

“Okay, we’ll do this the hard way,” Deacon said with steel to his voice.

The woman gasped, dropped the shovel, and put her hands on her hips. “Are you seriously pointing a gun at me right now? It’s the middle of the night. You’re trespassing, and I’m not having the best day.”

Deacon’s lips twitched in bemusement. The woman was pissed off. Her hazel eyes flashed with gold streaks. If she was scared, she wasn’t showing it. Which, somewhat worried him. Assassin? The case he had just solved had put a very powerful music executive in jail for killing his second wife and causing the death of his first wife to be reopened. Could he have sent this woman as retaliation?

“I’m not trespassing, you are. What are you doing in my backyard, and who sent you?” Deacon demanded, his voice growing as cold as the night air.

“I’m not the one trespassing. I own this land.”

Deacon gave her a hard smile. “Sorry, darlin’. Wanna try again before I call the cops?”

“How dare you threaten me? This is my property, and I can prove it. Go ahead and call the cops, but it won’t be me they are arresting. It’ll be you,” the woman threatened as she pointed a finger at him.

Deacon grinned at her, and her mouth fell open in disbelief. Her hands went inside her jacket, and Deacon’s grin flatted as he moved his finger to his trigger. “Hands up,” he ordered.

“I’m getting proof that I own the property,” she shot angrily back, but she raised her hands into the air anyway.

“Darlin’, I’ve lived here for five years, and I can guarantee you don’t own this property. And if you did, why would you be dressed in black, digging around the backyard with a shovel in the middle of the night?”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s none of your business,” she said haughtily. “And if you would let me get the paper in my inside pocket, I’d prove I own this land and have you kicked off it.”

Deacon looked to the partially unzipped jacket and back up to her determined face. “Okay, hands laced behind your head. I’ll get the paper, and you don’t move.”

“Like hell,” she spat at him, her hands balling into fists.

“So, you
are
armed. Did Max send you?” Deacon questioned as he kept the gun trained on her heart.

“Max who?”

“Max Salem, the president of Salem Studios.”

The woman shook her head. “Never heard of him. Look, my great-grandmother sent me. This really is my house. I don’t know who you are, but will you please lower your gun. I’m tired, I’m cold, and I just want to fulfill my promise and get out of here.”

“Then with one hand, slowly unzip your jacket and open it so I can grab this proof and make sure you aren’t armed.”

The woman rolled her eyes in annoyance. He was surprised she didn’t stomp her foot, but she didn’t seem the type to cry and throw a fit to get what she wanted. No, she seemed way too sure of herself for that, and that’s what had him worried.

“Fine,” she spat as she unzipped her coat and with one hand, held one side of it open. A piece of paper stuck out from the inside pocket, and for a minute Deacon wondered if she really did have proof. He slowly stepped forward.

“Would you hurry it up already?” she scolded.

He closed the distance and slipped his hand slowly along her waist where her shirt skimmed the top of her jeans. His fingers danced along the hem of her shirt and she sucked in a breath when his fingers touched flesh. Their eyes met and held at the feel of his fingers moving along her skin. She was soft, warm, and very feminine. His fingers felt the indention of her waist and the flare of the top of her hips as he reached behind her to check for a gun before reaching for the paper.

He put his gun in the back of his waistband as he opened the folded papers and scanned the paperwork. His eyes stopped on the two names listed. The previous owner was listed as Ruth Elizabeth Wyatt, and the copy of the last will and testament stated that the new owner was to be Sydney Elizabeth Davies. His eyes shot up to hers. He didn’t just recognize her name; he recognized both names on the legal papers.

“You!” he gasped in surprise.

“Yeah, yeah, you used to have a picture of me in my bra in your dorm room,” she said with annoyance.

“No. I mean, yes. But you’re
the
great-granddaughter Mrs. Wyatt always wrote to me about,” he said with astonishment.

Sydney had her mouth open ready to unleash a lecture on respecting women and knowing there’s more to a woman besides some photoshopped figure in a magazine when her mouth snapped shut. “Wait, you knew my great-grandmother?”

The man smiled at her with a look of wonder in his eyes. In the dark, they looked brown like his hair, but she couldn’t really tell. What she could tell was his jeans fit in a way that would make the male models she knew green with envy. The black fleece pullover he wore showed his shoulders were wide and his stomach flat. What got her the most was the way his lips quirked as if he knew something funny that she didn’t. But that didn’t mean she was just going to forgive and forget he had held a gun to her on her own property.

“Of course I know Mrs. Wyatt. She’s my landlord. I’ve been renting this property from her for five years.” He paused and Sydney saw him frown. “You said
knew
. Did something happen to her?”

Sydney wanted to curse the tears that burst forth and flowed down her cheeks. She took a deep breath and said the words she’d been denying for the past week. “She passed away a little less than a week ago.”

The man moved so fast she didn’t have time to jump back. His arms were around her, and his hand pushed her head to his chest. Sydney stood stiffly, not knowing what to do.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered against the top of her head. That was unexpected. Syd was five-feet-nine inches and most men were only an inch or so taller than she, but not this man. He was tall enough to look down at her with sympathetic eyes.

“I wish I had known so I could have paid my respects. She was a remarkable lady in the truest sense of the word,” he said softly as he held her tight, not caring that her silent tears were soaking into his shoulder.

Sydney took a deep breath to collect herself. She was not going to fall apart in front of man with a gun she didn’t even know. She pulled her head back to look up at him. Russet. His eyes were russet. They were a warm brown that matched his hair.

“Thank you. I’m sorry. I’m still kind of a mess. We were very close.” Syd’s breath caught as his hands came up to cup her cheeks. Ever so slowly he used his thumbs to wipe away her tears.

“I understand. I feel as if I know you from all of our letters.” He smiled as if remembering them. “She didn’t tell me your full name, though. You were always her very special great-granddaughter who paid your way through school and saved to start your own design business. She certainly never said you were a world-famous model and owner of Sydney International.”

Sydney briefly gave into the warmth of his hands before stepping back. “I feel disadvantaged with you knowing so much about me and me standing here having never heard about you. I don’t even know your name.”

The man’s amused smile was back. “Deacon McKnight. How about we head inside? I have a feeling the story of why you are digging around the backyard in the middle of the night isn’t a short one. Besides, I think you’ll want to see the house. The furnishings are all yours now anyway. I guess that’s another reason I feel as if I know you. Mrs. Wyatt left most of her family heirlooms here. I’m pretty sure I can name every one of your ancestors back to the 1700s.” He laughed and turned toward the house.

Sydney walked with him, shaking her head in confusion. “I don’t understand. How do you know so much about us, and she never told us about you? She didn’t even tell me about the house. The estate lawyer did.”

Deacon shrugged his muscled shoulders. “I don’t know. But if I know Mrs. Wyatt, and after five years of exchanging letters I sure feel as if I do, there’s a reason for it. Maybe it has to do with why you’re digging up the yard?”

Sydney walked through the door he held open and stepped to the side. She was the stranger here. This was his home, no matter what the legal papers said. He walked forward and flipped on a light. A small hall to the right led to a sitting room and one to the left led to the kitchen. She followed Deacon into the sitting room with soft, white cushioned chairs and an exposed brick floor partially covered by a thick rug. Behind him, in the room with the light now on, was what looked to be a large living room. The floors were old hardwood with runners and large area rugs covering them. Dainty antique furniture was mixed with dark leather pieces. Oil paintings of people in clothes from another era hung on one wall. Small sketches and photographs in heavy frames were mixed along another wall. And all of it just felt like her great-grandmother.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll put some tea on and be right back.”

Sydney barely acknowledged him as she started to walk slowly around the room. The paintings were very reminiscent of the one of her great-grandparents over the fireplace at Wyatt Farm. Most were of couples and a few were of young children. There were sketches of Twin Oaks showing the changes over each generation, but even the last one had to have been done eighty years or so ago. There seemed to be nothing modern in the place except for some furniture and electronics she was sure belonged to Deacon.