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Greenwood Manor by Shannon Leigh
Monday, November 27, 2006
Rated "R" by the Author.
Laura Flannery needs a vacation from her boring life and a break from nosy neighbor. So when a postcard arrives in the mail announcing the grand opening of a bed and breakfast in New Orleans, she decides to give it a try. Deposited on the doorstep of what appears to be a beautifully restored mansion, Laura finds it odd the cab driver is so eager to drive away; and that’s just the beginning.
From a butler who seems to avoid any physical contact what so ever, to a housekeeper who floats rather than walks, Laura can’t help but start questioning her sanity. Then, when a man she’s never seen before appears before her and claims he’s her dead husband, she has to decide if it’s time to head for the hills or stay and discover what secret past she has with Greenwood Manor and it’s handsome, albeit deceased, owner.
With shaking hands, Laura pried open one of the warped gates and slipped inside. After dusting her palms off on her jeans, she stared out at the extensive plot before her. A full moon illuminated the cemetery in a strange, ethereal glow, outlining each gravestone with chilling clarity. Many were broken from years of abuse by inclement weather and the passage of time; others were perfect in shape, as though just recently placed.
Not knowing which way to go, Laura started for the first stone. The top of the marker had completely eroded, erasing the name. But the date had managed to evade attrition. Born April 15, 1842, Died November 29, 1845. A child; a young one at that. Barely three and a half years old.
Grief tore through her insides and she felt a sudden sense of inexplicable loss. “My little Karey…” She’d died of pneumonia at age three.
Laura squeezed her eyes shut, an image of a bubbly child with bouncing red curls and porcelain skin flashed through her mind. Hot tears stung her lashes and she felt as through she’d been punched in the stomach.
Gasping for air, she stumbled back a step. She didn’t know how she knew, and at the moment, she didn’t want to. Laura wiped the moisture from her cheek with the back of her hand, then moved past the small headstone and started toward the next one.
Other grave markers brought similar pangs of sorrow. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, even an elder sister lay sleeping in decrepit boxes beneath the cold, black soil. Who were these people? And why did their deaths cause her so much heartache?
At the opposite end of the graveyard, she came across two headstones placed side-by-side. Their edges nearly touched, as though the couple lying beneath refused to separate, even in death. The lifeless gray exteriors brightened as she approached, suddenly illuminated by the parting of clouds above. Icicle moonbeams cast a sinister blue light upon the markers, spotlighting the names engraved upon their stony surfaces.
The first belonged to a man. Barnabas Flannery, born March 21, 1809, died December 23, 1845. Grieving husband. A blow of anguish nearly knocked Laura to her knees. With a shaking hand, she reached out and traced his name with her fingertips.
When her gaze shifted to the next stone, Laura felt the air escape her lungs in one big whoosh! Her legs grew weak, her mind swooned, and it took every ounce of strength she had not to faint. Laura Flannery, born November 8, 1810, died December 22, 1845. Grieving mother.
“Oh dear God. This can’t be.” She choked on a strained sob. But just as she’d known to whom all the other markers belonged, Laura knew this one was hers. And the one next to it was her husband’s.
Enjoy twists and surprising turns in this erotic collection of sexy love stories based on seven classic fairy tales. There are romantic interludes to touch your heart and plenty of scorching sex to warm your coldest nights.
With shaking hands, Laura pried open one of the warped gates and slipped inside. After dusting her palms off on her jeans, she stared out at the extensive plot before her. A full moon illuminated the cemetery in a strange, ethereal glow, outlining each gravestone with chilling clarity. Many were broken from years of abuse by inclement weather and the passage of time; others were perfect in shape, as though just recently placed.
