Shadow Lover (Siren Publishing Allure)

  Shadow Lover

  Chyna Marsh surrounds herself with men. Perfect men. Dark, blond, tall, muscled or dimpled, she loves them all. Being a romance writer, she creates perfect men for a living. But when her dashing paper hero steps from between the scorching pages of her latest novel, she thinks the rush of the big city is getting to her and relocates to a slow-moving coastal town.

  It's here that she meets two men. Quinn Grayson is dark and devilishly handsome, but his brother Kirk has a severely scarred face and hides deep in the mansion's cellar. Even though she has been warned to stay away from him, Chyna is helplessly drawn into the midnight shadows where he lurks.

  What is there about this elusive phantom that fascinates her--this sinister silhouette whose glowing eyes burn with hunger when they look at her--this hulking creature she has come to know as--Frankenstein!

  Sensuality Rating: SCORCHING

  Genre: Gothic/Paranormal

  Length: 90,700 words

  SHADOW LOVER

  Audrey Godwin

  EROTIC ROMANCE

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  A SIREN-BOOKSTRAND TITLE

  IMPRINT: Romance

  ABOUT THE E-BOOK VERSION: Your non-refundable purchase of this e-book allows you to one LEGAL copy for your own personal use. It is ILLEGAL to send your copy to someone who did not pay for it. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner of this book.

  SHADOW LOVER

  Copyright © 2008 by Audrey Godwin

  E-book ISBN: 1-60601-032-8

  First E-book Publication: October 2008

  Cover design by Jinger Heaston

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2008 by Siren-BookStrand, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  PUBLISHER

  www.BookStrand.com

  DEDICATION

  I’d like to dedicate this book to my mother who has been gone now for several years. I sometimes think back to the day I accidentally found a diary lying on her dresser. Stupid little adolescent that I was, I didn’t realize it was private and began reading. I was absolutely and totally surprised. Not at what she wrote, but how she wrote it. My mother was a typical country girl who wore feed sack dresses and got married at the age of fifteen to my father who was fifteen years older than she was. The closest she came to living her dream was expressing her thoughts and feelings in an old, worn out diary. I’m so sorry that she didn’t have the opportunity that I had of letting her imagination soar while creating other worlds and then seeing them come to life in a published book. I do hope that wherever she is, she can still have that joy, for you see, out of four children who went in other directions, she left that fabulous gift with me. Thank you. Mom!

  SHADOW LOVER

  AUDREY GODWIN

  Copyright © 2008

  Prologue

  Storm clouds hovered low, and rain battered against the windshield.

  Kirk squinted through the downpour trying to keep the car in a straight line. Taking a chance, he cut through the traffic, and felt a jarring bump, sending the car into a fishtail. He frantically turned the steering wheel to straighten it up, but lost control. The next thing he knew the car was careening across the freeway at breakneck speed.

  “Oh, God!” he shouted when he saw a cement wall rising up before him. He stomped on the brakes, but it was too late. A crashing jolt tossed him around while the horrible sound of tearing metal filled his ears. It was accompanied by a loud sound—like a bomb bursting—and his windshield shattered sending knife-like shards of glass toward him. Kirk screamed in torment as the glass particles cut a slashing trail across his face, the hot, searing tear of his flesh so painful he passed out. When he finally awoke, his heavy lids blinked against the curtain of rain and blood as it gushed freely into his eyes.

  Within seconds two squad cars screeched to a grinding halt, their flashing blue and red lights reflecting on the wet pavement. Car doors slammed, and running feet splashed through puddles to get to the demolished car. An ambulance bumped up alongside the pile of metal, its screaming siren giving way to shouting orders being issued from uniformed officers. The white-clad ME's pulled a gurney from the ambulance. Moving swiftly, they pried the car door open and saw gushing blood and hanging flesh, making their stomachs heave.

  Somewhere, through the pain and haze were the words, “I’m sorry, Mr. Grayson, but your parents didn’t make it.” These horrible words pushed Kirk over the brink, and he sank into a deep depression making it impossible for him to withstand extensive surgery on his face at this time. Having no choice, he accepted the punishment of a grotesque face, and the darkness of a living grave.

  Ten Years Later

  Kirk Grayson’s essence was ebbing low when he peered out an open window of the dark basement and looked into the silver rays of an icy moon.

  “God,” he agonized, his soul troubled, and his heart breaking. “I…I’m no damned good…hell, I know that, but if…if you’d just hear me this one time…” His voice broke, being silenced by a surge of choking tears. After a few deep, gritty sobs, his rasp continued. “God, I…I…need…something…someone. I…I’m going crazy in this hole day after day…nothing…no life.”

  His breathing became loud, labored, and as his fingers brushed at the tears, he could feel the ugly mass of jagged scars zigzagging horribly across his face. “I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’ I have some nerve. Why…why would anyone…my face… Hell,” he argued, his voice a tormented growl. “I know what it looks…I’m just sayin’ if there’s a way…a way that I could somehow get out of this hole, I…”

  A feeling of hopelessness gnawed at his insides, and he stopped abruptly and looked up, his voice lowering to a desperate rumble. “God,” he prayed, “hear me now, and hear me good, because if I have to stay here, then I…I don’t want to live. Hell…send a bolt of lightning, anything…b-but kill me.” He hesitated, fresh tears creeping down over his hideous face. “Because God—” He hesitated, his choking sobs filling the darkness, “—I…I’m afraid…I’m afraid…if you don’t do it…I will.”

  He became silent for a moment, then lifted his gaze, stared out into the night sky, and spoke as if looking into God’s face. “Hey, I know it’s wrong, but who would miss me, huh? My sister, my brother…hell no. They’d be free at last. F-Free to live. It’s because of me they’re still here, trapped in this place just as surely as I am. They need a life the same as I do. Maybe more. It’s unfair, what I’ve done to them. I’ve tied them to this miserable mansion long enough. Maybe I deserve this hole. Hell, maybe I deserve anything You give me, but they don’t.”

  He was silent for a moment as if listening for the voice of God. When all remained silent, his misty gaze stabbed the skies as if trying to penetrate the heavens, and the sound of his voice became a croaking roar. “God! Do you hear me? Where the hell are You? Are You out there?” A force of anger surged through him, and he kicked the furniture, slicing his arm across a bureau, and tearing pictures from the walls. When he finally became exhausted by his outburst, a sense of shame filled him, and fresh tears fell down his horribly disfigured face as he stared out into
the night. “I don’t know how much longer I can take it, God. I don’t—”

  A crash of thunder took his words, and a blaze of lightning revealed something in the mist. He ran to the window and grasped its edges while his gaze speared the darkness like a scorching arrow. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He squinted, stared, making sure what he saw really was—a woman!

  * * * *

  Chyna dozed in her own bed until the toasty warmth she enjoyed turned to a chilly wind and woke her up. She slowly opened her eyes to a cold darkness, the wind rushing around her, making her aware that she was dressed in nothing but a thin, short nightgown of lace and satin. She looked around, wondering where she was, and how she got here. She hugged herself, rubbing her arms and feeling a hard, cold ground full of sharp rocks beneath her bare feet.

  And then a vague outline came uninvited out of the mist.

  Her eyes narrowed, trying to see through the murky haze at a sinister structure as it loomed forebodingly against the raging ocean. Curling, snake-like tendrils crept around her feet, then up the gnarled trunks of the weeping willows whose branches hung almost to the ground. Hearing the slurping sounds of the ocean, she moved her eyes to a strip of beach, and then to a lighthouse. A small flame undulated eerily in the window. The vaporous night softened the sharp edges of the light that revolved at the top of the tower, piercing the mist while searching for lost ships in the night. Chyna shuddered in her sleep when the drifting fog took the shape of ghosts dancing on the water’s surface. The scene was so chilling it caused a tingling sensation of damp, cold fingers to caress her neck.

  Her eyes shifted back toward the mansion, and a slice of dim light that seemed to come from deep within a cave-like structure beneath the mansion. At that very moment a loud crash of thunder ripped across the sky, and a blaze of flickering lightning illuminated a hideous face that seemed to float in the darkness. She gasped, not at the shocking face, but at what she saw within the scorching intensity of those eyes.

  The torment—

  The terror—

  The misery—

  The agonizing existence of a trapped animal, that knows if he doesn’t escape—he will die.

  Suddenly she was caught up in a whirling wind spinning about wildly, becoming dizzy and disoriented, then she fell—

  Down—down—down.

  She lunged forward in her bed, the freezing fear still caught in her throat. Her chest heaved as she took several deep breaths, then she glanced down at her thin nightgown noticing tiny droplets of mist covering her breasts. Her trembling hands caught the lace of her gown and examined its dampness curiously. It seemed as if something was pushing its way into her memory.

  She recognized it as the dark place of her dream.

  She lifted her head, remembering the crashing thunder, a blaze of lightning and the flickering horror of a floating face, and then—a pair of eyes—scorching eyes.

  She lowered her head and clawed at her hair, wanting nothing more than to drive the picture out of her mind, but it was too late. Already icy chills were creeping along her spine—like the cold, scampering feet of a grave mouse.

  Chapter 1

  Still being haunted by the mysterious flood of nightmares, Chyna stood at the big front window of a local market, rubbing the bridge of her nose and silently willing her headache to go away. The pain was jarring. It hit her with the power of a steam engine, and speared through her head like a burning javelin. She closed her eyes, thinking back to when the strange dreams had started, and got a mental picture of her latest book, Rogue of Love. It had just hit the stands. Night after night she would find herself wrapped in a velvety cocoon of sleep, only to have it cruelly ripped away by a chilling nightmare. She’d tried to deal with it for a while, even considered seeing a therapist, but finally decided the fast pace of the big city was getting to her. That’s when she made the decision to relocate to this little island getaway.

  Just then the sun came out from behind a cloud, and its instant warmth poured over her, stinging her skin like liquid fire. She saw her ghostly image appear in the clear glass. The words, Cheney’s Market arched above her head like a crown—or was it a shroud?

  Her face was clean of makeup because she didn’t want to be recognized. “God, I look awful,” she muttered, smoothing back wayward strands of blonde hair as it crept out of the French braid and curled around her face. Her hand fluttered down and lightly touched her naked skin, wishing she’d at least put some lipstick on her pale lips. Her eyes, normally sky blue and sharp, had become dull and cloudy. She was thankful the people in this tiny little coastal town dressed casually, and hoped her cutoff shorts and white tank top didn’t cross the line into grungy for running errands.

  Hearing a burst of laughter, her attention was taken by a group of men sitting out front on a planked porch supported by nothing more substantial than a tall sand dune. It was squared off by two iron bars painted white. To the left was a wide column of seven steps leading into a parking area large enough for no more than four cars.

  Her gaze shifted, once again admiring the little town of Mystic Islands, a little coastal town in New Jersey. It was part of the mainland, but was interspersed with a number of inlets that coiled throughout the town, giving a false impression of closely knit islands. There were several small boat-hiring operations for those who lived close enough in to cut through the inlets instead of winding around on land. The little town always smelled of salt air and seemed to naturally favor the décor of anchors, ropes, piers, seagulls, and the color blue.

  Beach Drive speared through town, dead-ending at Ocean Boulevard which edged along Mystic beach at the other end. The beautiful, wide carpet of sand stretched for miles both ways. Since the town was so close to the coast, the streets seemed to stay covered by a light dusting of sand whipping through the town on a rogue wind that moaned like the ghost of a dead pirate. Unfortunately, the little town could not avoid commerce which finally invaded Mystic Islands in the form of housing developments, malls, and business centers that spread lazily across the hilly countryside.

  While the cold, impersonal outskirts continued to grow, the tiny, picturesque little shops that made up the center of town stubbornly held on to the past. Small silver bells tinkled prettily at the opening and closing of their doors, and old fashioned street lamps glowed with a lovely golden warmth along the narrow cobblestone walkways when the sun sank behind the constant bank of clouds in the West.

  Chyna was used to cracked asphalt, dirty streets, towering skyscrapers, and crowds stumbling all over themselves in their rush to the subway or in and out of taxis. She smiled to herself. Mystic Islands didn’t even have a taxi service unless you counted the boat operations. And since there were no shrill sirens, car chases, drive-by shootings, muggers, or killings, it caused her to wonder what the Police Department did to earn their pay. The little town was disturbed by nothing more than the noisy lapping of ocean waves, and soothed by the beauty of the sparkling water that seemed to rise like a wall at one end of town.

  In the background Chyna could hear the clickity clack of the old fashioned cash register the clerk used to ring up her grocery order while she gazed up at a distant bluff. The old mansion that sat on it reminded her of a tattered old duchess on a throne peering out over the ocean. It was gloomy, old and sinister—and oddly familiar.

  “That it, miss?” the clerk asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  Chyna turned. “Yes, I think so,” she said, pulling out her wallet as she turned to walk back to where her groceries waited. She leaned over the wooden counter that was badly worn with nicks and scratches to write out a check.

  While she wrote, the clerk leaned back, propped his foot on the edge of a cracked orange crate and watched her. “Name’s Luke Cheney. I own this here store.” His eyes lifted and flitted around the small space. “Sech as it is.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Chyna said, still writing.

  “Thinkin’ about stayin’ here a while, are ye?”

&nb
sp; “Yes,” she said without looking up. “For a while, at least.”

  “That bein’ the case, you might want to think about settin’ up an account here at the store.”

  “No,” Chyna said, smiling as she handed him the payment. “That’s not necessary. I’ll be paying by check.”

  The clerk took the check, frowning down at it as if he’d never seen one. “Most people use credit,” he mumbled. His aged eyes that were surrounded by wrinkled, sagging skin lifted over his wire-rimmed glasses, and peered sharply at her. “You got identification, I take it.”

  “Oh, of course,” she said and began to dig for it. Suddenly a thought came to her, and she hesitated. It would mean recognition, she thought. No, it’s all right, if he hadn’t recognized the name on the check, then he— She shook her head. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not a criminal, for God’s sake, and if being too tired to deal with a bunch of fans right now is unlawful, then lock me up, I’m as guilty as hell.

  Finally finding the small laminated document that would reveal all the secrets she held dear, she pulled it out. “Here it is,” she said, thrusting it forward. She watched him as he took it and peered down at it through his bifocal lenses. Her eyes shifted down to his apron that was once white but now wildly splattered with blood. Chyna shivered, getting a crazy picture of the hawk-faced man heaving a hatchet in his hand. It didn’t help that his hair was the color of dried blood, and the wrinkles on his face criss-crossed each other into a permanent scowl. All together, it painted a pretty gruesome picture. She glanced around nervously, making a mental note to check out the other two markets in town. Just then she happened to notice a large rack of reading material where several of her books had a lovely color photograph of herself. Her eyes immediately darted back at him, wondering what was taking him so long.