Candlelight Conspiracy

  Candlelight Conspiracy

  Dana Volney

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2015 by Dana Volney.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-9174-1

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9174-7

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-9175-X

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9175-4

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © iStockphoto/slobo

  To Mary Billiter and Jami Wagner: because we all need (and I’m grateful to have) people in our lives who push us to be better; achieve crazy, self-imposed goals with us; and do it all while laughing.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, Crimson Romance, for being such an awesome publisher! You are a fun and accomplished group of people who make the process enjoyable every step of the way. Thank you for continuing to let me be a part of your business. The lively and professional environment you’ve cultivated is one of which I’m proud to be a part.

  Julie Sturgeon, you are my favorite. I always look forward to your comments and camaraderie throughout the editing process and after. Someday I promise I will use a transitive verb correctly. Someday.

  Mary Billiter, I can’t even start to tally up all the reasons I adore you. Pep talks, uncanny understanding, humor, and tenacity are just a couple of reasons we click. Even though you are moving miles away (yes, that’s how I’m phrasing your change of towns), I have every confidence that track changes and a whole slew of technology will help bridge the gap and it’ll be like you’re still down the street.

  Jami Wagner, our writing sessions were a little extreme this year but the best. Who knew so much could be written in thirty minutes? We do now! Your enthusiasm, brainstorming, and persistence make me glad every day we are friends. We are going to have so much fun at RT 2015 together!

  To my unfailingly supportive family, thank you for embracing the path I’ve chosen for my life. You help me through the ups and downs, talking out ideas and ways to succeed in life. I appreciate your support. Chris, thank you for brainstorming Marc with a “C” at our favorite lunch spot. And, Mom, I do love the random calls with ideas you have (from a reader’s point of view, of course, as you always preface).

  Holla to all my Wednesday night writing mates: our lively discussions, laughter, and friendships go a long way!

  Thank you to my friends and family who have and continue to support my dreams. You inspire me every day and are appreciated!

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Author Bio

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sophie Graystone stepped out of the shower as steam burst past her, filling the tiny bathroom. Her achy muscles finally relaxed after a day spent working at Kiss from a Rose flower shop and playing a full set at the Bombay Club. Her routine didn’t lend itself to strain, but shoveling her car out of a three-foot mound of snow on the day after Christmas wasn’t normal. If there weren’t a city ordinance that said she had to move her car so the downtown streets could be plowed, she would’ve had Candace pick her up and used her car for deliveries.

  Why don’t I live in a tropical climate? I was made for sand and eighty-degree weather. Not ten below.

  She’d just pulled on her dark gray sweatpants that bunched at her calves and a hunter-green V-neck t-shirt when the buzz of electricity stopped. Everything went black. She jerked her head to the bedroom door and sucked in a breath. Darkness and silence surrounded her. Stupid wiring. She fumbled for her smartphone on her queen-sized bed and turned on the flashlight app. A 5-percent battery-charge warning surfaced on the screen.

  Perfect. No power and, soon, no phone. She should probably invest in one of those extra battery packs for her phone sooner rather than later. She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust then carefully found her way out of her bedroom, through her living room, and to her front door.

  Fourth blackout this month. I’m moving as soon as the ground thaws. Her threat relieved some frustration, but it was empty. She loved the charm of the newly remodeled one-bedroom apartments in the Old Frontier building and, more importantly, its location. Being close to her day job and most of her night gigs had perks. Casper, Wyoming, wasn’t a huge city by normal standards, but even still, she was usually running late. The apartment’s proximity to her life made moving a moot point. Blackout or not, she’d planted roots in apartment 202.

  She opened her front door into more darkness. Cripes. The building still didn’t have emergency hallway lighting. Breathe, Sophie—this is why rent is so low.

  The door across from her suddenly swung open.

  “Ah!” She pointed her phone’s flashlight straight into the eyes of her reclusive next-door neighbor.

  “Ah!” He held up his forearm to shield his eyes. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  She pointed her phone to the ground. He speaks. “Whoops. I’m just jumpy. Sorry.” She slouched on her door frame, propping her right toes on her left foot. “Guess we’re out of power for the night. Last time, it took them ten hours to fix it.”

  For three months, she’d greeted the tall, dirty-blond who stood barefoot before her. Usually in jeans and a black jacket with a white t-shirt peeking out, her neighbor would barely nod a hello. Sophie made greeting him in the stairwell and hall a game. She’d tried different tones, head nods, and almost bumping into him to get a reaction, a hello, something. Nothing worked. Last week she gave up, merely mirroring his motions. Some people just weren’t friendly.

  “I’m Marc.”

  He extended a large palm, and they shook. He had a firm grip and soft skin—both excellent qualities. What am I doing? She didn’t care about his qualities or how nicely his jeans fit him. There was a time when she thought every guy she met was a potential soul mate. But after Steve, she’d squashed that habit. Her pact to remain single and focused on music was alive and well.

  “I’m Sophie.”

  A flickering light bounced behind him, and his skin danced in shades of tan. A smile played at his lips, and she returned the sentiment.

  “I should’ve bought some candles after the first, or ya know, third time this happened. Someday I’ll learn.” Tomorrow she’d be picking up said candles, matches, and an extra power source for her phone. A girl had to have a phone available.

  “My food!” His words were barely audible, and in a flash he was gone, his door wide open.

  She stepped out into the hall and heard metal clunking and a loud “shit” from inside his apartment. The rich aroma of French bread and spicy meat filled her lungs and made her mouth water.

  “Anything I can help with?” Should I just go into his place?

  “Practically ruined.” He reappear
ed, shaking his head.

  The simple act of an over six-foot man, with a nicer body than she’d ever given him credit for, walking straight for her was a little unnerving. She took a step back.

  “Food?” she asked.

  Her stomach rumbled. Please don’t be hearing my tummy grumbles. Her flower deliveries for Candace, her friend and the owner of the floral shop, had extended her day, barely giving her time to change and make it to the club on time. Despite the fact that yesterday was Christmas, tonight’s Friday crowd had been good, and loud. The adrenaline from her night had worn off, leaving her hunger to be heard.

  “I was trying out a new recipe,” he said. “With no power to heat, my sauce can’t cook properly.”

  She mentally scanned the contents of her cupboards and fridge. Cereal didn’t seem as enticing now.

  “Better luck next time with dinner,” she said.

  “It’s not dinner, not really. I’m trying to perfect a couple of menu items.” Marc rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes tightly for a moment.

  “If you ever need a taster ... ” She winked.

  Why am I making weird offers of eating food in the dark? She rolled her eyes at herself. His food smelled amazing, and he did look clean. There probably wouldn’t be cat hair in the meal—he didn’t look like a crazy hoarder collecting pets. Her cooking skills amounted to three perfected dishes: cereal, mac and cheese, and salad. And by salad, she meant the type that came in a bag.

  A faint chill crossed her body, and she rubbed her upper arms. “I better … ”

  “Would you like … ” He pointed his thumb behind him toward the delicious scent.

  “Uh … ” Her cell phone light started to dim. “Shoot.” I may need this later. She powered off her cell and looked back into her apartment. Still dark. Eff those wickless candles. She could go to sleep, but the excitement of performing onstage still coursed through her veins. Besides, Candace had closed the flower shop until January second, so Sophie had planned a glorious seven-day vacation that included staying up late, sleeping in, and writing lyrics in between. She wouldn’t have had to go into work today, but there were standing weekly orders to fill, the back room to tidy, and what few flowers they had left needed to be properly stored for the break—there was no need for flowers to go to waste if it could be helped, that was just throwing away money.

  She faced him again, attempting to meet his gaze in the dark. “I couldn’t impose.”

  “It’ll all go to waste, and it would be nice to have someone else’s opinion.”

  Ideally, she would have her cell phone fully charged when going into a stranger’s home. Still, there were neighbors around who would hear her scream, and the handful of self-defense classes she’d taken in college would probably kick in. Her stomach growled again.

  “Yeah, okay.” It might be fun to see how many buttons she could push with her uptight neighbor. “Thanks. I haven’t had dinner yet.” Cap’n Crunch would have to wait until tomorrow.

  “It’s ten o’clock.” His eyebrows knitted together.

  “Late night.” She shrugged. “I’m going to grab a jacket and slippers.”

  “Okay.” He shifted and leaned on his door frame.

  Navigating as quickly as she could, she rounded up her hooded jacket and slipped on her furry padded slippers. Hopefully the heat would come back on before they froze to death. Her long, red hair smacked her face when she bent to grab her keys. Holy crap. My hair is wet, and I have no makeup on. She thought about running to the bathroom, but her apartment was pitch-black; not even a streetlight shone through the window. She’d likely stub her toe and smear blush all over her face. I’m going all natural tonight. Hopefully the candlelight works wonders. Through all of the greetings, there had to be at least one when he’d witnessed her with makeup. Eh, whatever, I don’t care what this guy thinks.

  When she returned to her front door he was waiting in the same spot. A dim light twinkled from his apartment, and a chill rolled up her arms despite the warmth she suddenly felt between them. Hopefully, the company would be as good as the food smelled. If not, she could at least write a song about the experience.

  • • •

  Marc Sizzo closed the door to his apartment gently behind Sophie. His guest was taller than he’d initially surmised—the top of her head reached his chin; she probably stood at five-nine. He’d seen his pushy neighbor for months now, always trying to get him to notice her.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asked. I just had to mention I was cooking and have tons of food.

  “Water would be nice, thank you.”

  As he moved past her, he lit the candles he still had lying around from the last outage. It would probably be awkward to only have one candle lit with a guest he didn’t know. As he made his way to the kitchen on the right, a sweet soap smell caught his attention. He couldn’t put his finger on the fruity scent. Orange? Honeydew? Berries?

  Since the end of the power outage probably wasn’t in the near future, he grabbed four bottles out of the fridge. The food he’d purchased today would go bad if he kept letting out cold air. Last time the power went out, my beef Wellington was ruined. If he had more free time he’d look into moving, but his clothes were unpacked and the power outages were the only bad thing about his setup.

  “Considering the circumstances, why don’t we eat in the living room?” He set two of the plastic bottles on the counter. “That way we’ll be able to at least see some of our food and utensils.”

  Sophie stood by his couch, jacket in hand. Their eyes locked as he extended a bottled water. The hard edge he normally witnessed on her face and in the way she walked had morphed into something approachable and soft. She’d been gorgeous before, there was no denying that fact, but now she had an innocent, kissable quality. It’s only the candlelight. And maybe her lips.

  “Have a seat anywhere you’d like.” He motioned with his bottle in hand before dropping it on the loveseat, lighting the last of the candles in the living room, and returning to the kitchen. “There’s a blanket on the couch if you get cold. I just need to plate the food.”

  Sophie sat on the couch, her wet, red hair and bangs moving neatly with her, and looked over the back toward him. “Where’d you move here from?”

  Personal questions—they always showed up after saying more than a hello outside of work. Why did I invite her in again? Oh, yes, because I’m a sucker for showing off my cooking. Keeping to himself in Wyoming had worked well so far for his career. The alternative, the friends-making business, wasn’t for him—it wouldn’t get him anywhere at this point in his life.

  “How do you know I’m not from here?” Marc grabbed two white plates and set them on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.

  “It’s a look.” She rested one arm on the back of his cream microfiber couch and nestled her chin on her forearm. “You have it.”

  “A look?” he scoffed as he put the white asparagus on the risotto he’d finished three seconds before he’d lost power. Nothing made him want to smash his plates and pans against the wall like rapidly cooling burners. Stress and this journey to perfection he was always on were challenging his naturally non-violent demeanor lately. “So, from a look, can you tell where I’m from?”

  “A look and three questions.” She nodded.

  “I doubt that.”

  “Wanna make it interesting?”

  He froze, hunched over the plates with the pan of beef medallions in hand, until a couple of heartbeats went by. Is this woman for real? Who in the world was Sophie, and how had he gotten himself into this mess? Maybe mess was overstating the turn his night had taken. She was sexy, and he’d found her attractive from second one, but getting involved with someone wasn’t his plan—especially not his hot neighbor, who could be a psychopath for all he knew.

  Their eyes met in the darkness, and he felt the heat surge between them. No. She’s not in the plan. Friendly and civilized he could offer, nothing more.

  “
I’m already cooking for you. What more do you want?” Okay, so he was a flirt. Some reactions were hard to turn off. Hell, he’d been not flirting for three months now; he wasn’t made of stone.

  “Good point.” She tapped her index finger to her lips.

  “Assuming you don’t have a gambling problem and can move past betting, let’s hear these magic questions.” No human being could move on without knowing the questions.

  Sophie chuckled in a hearty, low tone that made him smile—one he didn’t think she could see with his head down.

  “What age were you when you had your first kiss?” she asked.

  His head shot up, and he squinted in the dim light. “That’s your first question?” He laughed and thought about refusing to answer. What are a couple of innocent questions going to hurt? “Fourteen. Do I get to ask you questions?”

  “Only if there’s something you have to guess about me. Second question. What was your favorite movie growing up?”

  “Do you have a specific age in mind?”

  “Nope. In general, when you were a kid, what was the movie you wanted to watch all the time? Or two. You can give me two answers if you’d like.”

  “Would that count as your third question then?” He wiped the sides of the plates clean like he did before sending all meals out for service. Satisfied, or as much as he could be with his incomplete meal, he picked up the plates.

  “No.”

  “Let’s see … I’ll give you two. Ghostbusters and Field of Dreams.”

  “Interesting. Okay, I think I know the region.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “The Pacific Northwest.”

  He stopped cold in front of her. How in the hell does she know? The plates in his hands suddenly felt like bricks, and he swallowed hard. “What?”

  Months had gone by in anonymity and now, in two questions, a person he’d only just met nearly guessed where he was from. And, surprisingly, he was okay with her presence in his apartment and answering her ludicrous questions. Tomorrow, or when Sophie left tonight, he was going to re-visit all the reasons he’d moved to Casper and embrace the privacy oath he’d taken in the first place. Even though remembering hurt.