Blackwood Read online

  Blackwood

  Celia Aaron

  Contents

  Free Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Counsellor

  1. Sinclair

  2. Stella

  3. Sinclair

  4. Stella

  5. Sinclair

  6. Stella

  7. Stella

  8. Sinclair

  9. Stella

  10. Sinclair

  11. Stella

  12. Sinclair

  13. Stella

  14. Stella

  15. Sinclair

  16. Stella

  17. Stella

  18. Sinclair

  19. Stella

  20. Sinclair

  Also by Celia Aaron

  About the Author

  Celia Aaron

  Copyright © 2017 Celia Aaron

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Celia Aaron.

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  WARNING: This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language.

  DIRE WARNING: If you pirate this book, your soul will rot in hell.

  Cover art by Perfect Pear

  Cover model Adam Joseph Chase

  Cover image by Aoife McCartan, www.aoifemccartan.com

  Content Editing by J. Brooks

  Copy Editing by Spell Bound

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  Chapter One

  The grand house rose from the ground as if it grew in that one spot, nurtured for years by the sun and rain. Trees encroached from all sides, their branches leaning toward it, as if seeking to gain some of the same sun and air. Despite time and neglect, the building remained strong, the corners sharp and the roofs perfectly angled. Whoever had built the Victorian masterpiece in the woods had done so with painstaking precision. It was meant to last.

  The Blackwood Estate was the last stop on my survey, and I intended to get permission to search the extensive grounds and do a few digs. Acres and acres of woods, unused farmland, and various creeks and river branches would provide months—if not years—of interest. But my main focus at that moment was the immense home hidden in the dark forest.

  I’d pushed the main gate open, the hinges screeching in disrepair. The driveway was mostly clear, the cracks in the concrete streaking like dark lightning. I’d rolled steadily forward, eyeing the gentle hills and wondering what archaeological treasures lay buried beneath the fertile Mississippi Delta dirt.

  At the end of the drive, I’d found the faded mansion, vines growing along the sides and a front porch swing rocking in the breeze. Despite its strong bones, time had worn away much of the home’s superficial beauty—the gray and white paint peeled, dark green shutters along the first floor hung askew, and the windows carried a film of dirt, making it hard to tell if someone lurked inside, watching.

  A shiver ran through me at the prospect. Slowing, I took in the house’s worn façade and maneuvered around a fallen limb. I eyed the second floor windows, but nothing moved. It was as if the house was holding its breath, waiting for something. For me?

  I drove to the side of the structure, the driveway continuing further into the dark property. Gathering my notepad, I climbed out of the car and took the full brunt of the winter wind. Fall had come and gone, leaves littering the ground and crunching beneath my feet. A surprisingly cold winter had followed in its wake, the low temperatures often the first subject of any conversation I’d had with the locals.

  The sun flirted with the tops of the trees to my left, throwing dappled shadows against the turret that rose three stories along the side of the house. A weather vane sat atop it, though it seemed frozen, the direction signifying nothing.

  Pulling my red pea coat closed, I climbed the front steps and knocked on the dark brown front door with as much authority as I could muster. The wood was too thick and seemed to absorb the sound from my knuckles so that only someone standing right next to it would even hear it.

  “Hello?” I banged on the door with the side of my fist. A solid thunk of flesh on wood was my only reward.

  I glanced around for a doorbell or a knocker. Nothing.

  The wind picked up again, whistling along the eaves of the house like an unruly ghost.

  I swore under my breath and knocked again. “Is anyone home? I’m Elise Vale from the university. I just have a few questions.”

  No luck. The house remained silent, watching me. Turning, I walked along the front porch, past the rusted swing, and to a set of dusty windows. I bent over to peek inside.

  The interior was so dark that what little sunlight filtered through the surrounding trees was still too much. The gold reflection blinded more than it illuminated. I dropped my note pad onto the swing and cupped my hands on the chilly glass to peer inside.

  When I saw a face only inches away from mine, I shrieked and stumbled backwards, falling on my ass with a thump.

  Chapter Two

  The front door creaked open, but not enough for me to enter or the man to come out. Relief flooded my veins. The man I saw through the window wasn’t someone I wanted to meet face to face, not when I was out in the boonies alone.

  I scrambled to my feet and clutched my notebook. The county records indicated the land was still in the Blackwood family, now owned by Garrett Blackwood, thirty-two years old. Could this be the same man? Surely not.

  “Mr. Blackwood?”

  “What do you want?” The voice was low and gruff, scratchy from disuse.

  “I’m Elise Vale from the university.” I brushed off my pants.

  “I’m not deaf, Red.” His voice boomed through the crack in the door. “I heard that part. What do you want?”

  I took a few hesitant steps closer. “I’m working on my Ph.D. in archaeology, and my focus is on Choctaw culture.” Usually that was enough to shake loose a question or an expression of interest from the landowners I spoke with. Not this one. I continued, “The woods and fields here in the Delta are littered with artifacts, and the university has made some great finds over the past few years in several of the areas near here. I was hoping you’d allow me to survey your land and perform a few digs—all with your express permission, of course. I wouldn’t do anything or dig anywhere without first gaining your approval.”

  A few beats went by. I tried to see into the dim interior of the house, but the darkness was all-consuming. Only his voice and the tips of his fingers—the nails dirty and black—along the e
dge of the door proved that a man stood just inside.

  “Go.” He pushed the door, closing the narrow pathway between us.

  I put my hand out and stopped the door before it closed all the way, only a sliver of space left. “Please. I’m counting on this to finish my Ph.D. Most of the land around here has already been searched and studied. The Blackwood”—I gestured to the skeletal forest encroaching on the house—“is the only untouched site in this part of the eastern Delta.”

  A harsh laugh cut through the air. “Untouched? Nothing here is untouched. Everything is spoiled, ruined. You want to hunt for remains of a murdered civilization? Look around; you’re surrounded by ghosts. No digging necessary.” He pushed the door all the way shut, and the clink of a lock sounded from within the thick wood. “Leave.” His voice barely made it to my ears, though I suspected he leaned against the door when he spoke. It was as if I could feel him through the surface, the fibers separating at microscopic levels to carry his cruel voice to my ears. “Stay off my land or I’ll call the sheriff.”

  My stomach sank. I needed to dig on this property.

  And not just for my Ph.D. project.

  “Please reconsider, Mr. Blackwood. I’ll leave the papers in the letterbox out here if you change your mind.” I opened the rusted letterbox next to the door, the hinges squeaking angrily, then slid the permission documents inside. “My phone number is on the first page, and you can call my thesis advisor, Dr. Stallings, if you have any questions. His number is there, too.”

  “Go!”

  I jumped as the door rattled and boomed. He must have banged his fists on it.

  The sun hid behind the trees as the chill wind picked up again. I turned, disheartened, and trudged down the stairs and back out to my car. After one more glance at the faded mansion in the woods, I backed up and headed down the driveway toward the road. The windows remained empty in my rear view, no sign of life or hope to light any of them.

  I gripped the steering wheel hard, too hard, and came to a stop at the main road. This had been my chance, my one chance to find the truth. I stared into the woods ahead of me, my headlights barely penetrating the surface of their shaded depths.

  Blackwood had taken the truth away from me, along with so much more. I knew without a doubt those documents would rot in the letterbox, and I would never be allowed to dig on the property.

  I was so close. I looked at my stack of signed permission papers in the passenger seat and chewed my lip. I had to have express approval from each landowner before Dr. Stallings would release funds for my digs. I’d hyped up the Blackwood site so much—too much—that it was pivotal for me. Dr. Stallings warned me that the university wouldn’t pay for me to dig in tracts that had already been surveyed unless I had something fresh to investigate.

  It was Blackwood or nothing. I slapped my palm on the steering wheel, the resulting ache in my hand letting me know I was still alive, still in the game, and still able to continue my search.

  I pulled a copy of the Blackwood permission papers from my stack and took a pen from my bag. Putting pen to paper, the name “Garrett Blackwood” flowed out easily in black ink. His property was expansive. I could dig without him ever knowing, Professor Stallings would have his paperwork, and I would finally be able to discover the truth about my father’s disappearance.

  Chapter Three

  Dr. Stallings flipped through my approval papers, his sandy blond eyebrows drawn down as he checked each signature.

  “They’re all there.” I tucked my hair behind my ear and tried to calm my skittering nerves.

  “I see.” He glanced at the last page—Blackwood’s page—then leaned back in his chair. “I see you got the Blackwood permission.”

  “Yes.” I dropped my gaze to my sensible flats. “I think I’ll start there.”

  “I’ve tried for years to get permission to dig out there. No dice.” He gave me a half-smile. “I should have realized all I had to do was send a sexy student to ask.” His light brown eyes scanned me with a cursory sweep. I used to think they were the color of honey, and the man who owned them just as sweet. Not anymore. “Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you on some of the scouting?”

  “And interrupt your classes?” I shook my head. “No. I can handle this.”

  He narrowed his gaze and motioned toward the door, silently telling me to close it. I stood and pushed it shut, even though acid began to rise in my throat. Even though I knew what was coming next.

  “Are you okay?” He crossed his arms over his chest as he asked, the buttons on his light blue dress shirt straining.

  “Yes.” I sank into the leather chair in front of his desk and silently prayed he wouldn’t ask me to chat with him on the couch. I’d heard too many stories about that couch.

  The wrinkles around his eyes tripled as he gave me a look of faux concern. “I wish you’d let me take you to dinner where we could talk quietly.” He glanced at the door. “More privately. I know it’s hard for you to share your feelings in this setting.”

  I had to play this carefully. One wrong move and he’d think I was interested in his advances. A move too far in the other direction and he’d threaten funding for my digs again. Subtlety wasn’t his strong suit.

  “I’m still not ready. I’m sorry.” I sank into my chair with a sigh.

  He stood and walked around his desk. The skin on the back of my neck crawled as he hovered behind me. “Your mother would want you to be happy.”

  Don’t you dare talk about her. “You’re right.”

  “I can make you happy.” He slid his hands onto my shoulders, the fingers digging into my flesh like tenterhooks.

  “Doctor—”

  “Call me Frank. You know you can talk to me.”

  I remembered the last time he wanted to “talk.” The memory of his hot breath on my neck made me shudder. “Frank—”

  “Come sit with me.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek, the sting of pain keeping me grounded. “I’m fine here.”

  He squeezed my shoulders hard, too hard. “Come on. You’ll feel better.”

  I bit my lip and rose as he released me. He sank onto his couch, one arm slung along the back. He was handsome, his sandy hair and clean-cut features screaming “All-American guy.” I’d never seen him with so much as a shadow along his jaw. Never a hair out of place, his clothes always perfectly pressed. He wore a uniform, a costume designed to lull me into a false sense of security. It failed to hide the fact that he was forty, married, and a known student-fucker.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get close to me. But I’d heard plenty of stories about his conquests, and I wouldn’t be the next. All the same, I had to do this. For Dad. One last gauntlet before I could investigate his disappearance.

  I eased down next to him, but not close enough to touch. “It’s going to take time. I still think about her a lot.”

  “I know.” He grabbed my upper arm and pulled me into his side. “Shh.” He kissed my hair. “I know it hurts.”

  I stared at the door, willing someone to knock. “I think getting out and doing the surveying will help me. Maybe once I get back…” I shrugged and let the carrot dangle in the air.

  He ran his hand through my hair, then down to my waist. “You think you’d be ready to talk about it then?” His thumb stroked the bare patch of skin between my pants and my shirt.

  I swallowed hard. “I think so, yes. Doing the legwork will help me clear my head.”

  “But that will be months.” He sighed and slid his fingers under my shirt.

  I froze. “I know.”

  “I just thought I’d have the chance to help you through your mother’s passing while it’s still fresh. It’s only been a few months. Is being alone really the best thing for you right now?” He inched his fingers along my skin, sliding up my stomach.

  I pulled out my last card. Bursting into tears, I buried my face in his chest. “I just can’t stop thinking about her. Time alone would help
me let her go, you know?”

  “Shhh.” He rubbed my back, and I could almost feel him smiling. “I’ve got you.”

  Not even close. I fake cried with hiccupping sobs as he wrapped his other arm around me.

  “I understand.” He kissed my hair. “I can wait. How long will your surveys take? A month?”

  “I’ll need at least three.” I could do it in one, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “Three?” The frown in his voice iced my insides.

  “I want to be thorough, especially since my Ph.D. is riding on this. I hope that’s all right?” I kept my voice meek.

  “Well, I suppose that could work. Three months is a long time, but if that’s what you need to get your head clear so that I can help you, then I can live with it.”

  I nodded and blinked hard so a tear would wet my cheek, then looked into his eyes. “Thank you.”

  His gaze flicked to my lips. “Once the surveying is done—”

  “I’ll be back.”

  He leaned forward, and I let him brush his lips across mine. Then I buried my face against his shirt again. I hoped my nose would run and leave snot all along the designer check pattern.

  “Good.” He held me close. “I want to help you as soon as I can. I care about you so much.”

  I sniffled. “I know. You’re so good to me, Frank.”

  “That’s my job.” His chest puffed up. “Caring about students and their personal wellbeing is part of it.”

  “Thank you.” I lay my head on his shoulder. “I owe you so much.”

  “My pleasure.” His erection poked against his khaki pants, fanning out the pleats. He seemed to have no qualms about it. “I’ll get the funds all set up this afternoon. The sooner you get the surveying done, the better. Once it’s all laid out, you can come back. We can…talk through it all until you’re feeling better. Then we’ll both go out and oversee the undergrads on the digs.”

  The mental image of him grunting and grinding all over me in a pup tent was a particularly disturbing visual.