remarkable about her. What would it be like to have the kind of looks that men found irresistible?
Although there was no sound behind her, a sixth sense caused her nerves to tingle. Sara whirled around. No one was there. Cautiously she straightened her spectacles and told herself that she was being foolish. Wandering further into the gallery, she looked closely at the sumptuous paintings. Like everything else in the club, they seemed to have been chosen for their ability to impress. A man like Mr. Craven would probably spend his life collecting valuable artwork, elaborate rooms, beautiful women…They were all earmarks of his achievement.
Slipping the notebook back into her reticule, Sara began to wander from the gallery. She thought of how she might describe the club and its fictional owner in her novel. Perhaps she would romanticize him just a bit. Contrary to those who assumed he was completely without grace or virtue, she might write, he concealed a secret love of beauty and sought to possess it in its infinite forms, as if to atone for—
All at once a powerful grip compressed her arm, and the wall seemed to open in a blur before her eyes. She was pulled off her feet, dragged sideways, so quickly that all she could do was gasp in protest as the unseen force yanked her from the gallery into a place of stifling darkness…a secret door…a concealed corridor.Hands steadied her, one wrapped around her wrist, one clamped her shoulder. Blinking in the darkness, Sara tried to talk and could only make a fearful squeak. “Who…who…”
She heard a man’s voice, as soft as frayed velvet. Or rather, she felt his voice, the heat of his breath against her forehead. She began to tremble violently.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“Mr. Craven,” she whispered shakily. “I-its very dark in here.”
“I like the dark.”
She fought to catch her breath. “Did you really f-find it necessary to give me such a start?”
“I didn’t plan to. You walked right by me. I couldn’t help myself.”
Sara’s fear gave way to indignation. He was not at all sorry he had frightened her…He had intended to. “You’ve been following me,” she accused. “You’ve been watching me all morning.”
“I said last night I didn’t want you here.”
“Mr. Worthy said it was all right—”
“ I own the club, not Worthy.”
Sara was tempted to tell him how ungrateful he was, after what she had done for him last night. But she didn’t think it wise to argue with him while she was trapped here. She began to inch backward, toward the crack of light where the secret door had been left ajar. “You’re right,” she said in a subdued voice. “You’re absolutely right. I-I believe I’ll go now.”
But he didn’t release his grip on her, and she was forced to stand still. “Tell me what made you decide to write about gambling.”
Blinking in the darkness, Sara tried to gather her wits. “Well…there was a boy in my village. A verynice, intelligent boy, who came into a small inheritance. It would have been enough to keep him comfortable for many years. But he decided to try and increase his wealth, not by honest means, but by gambling. He lost it all in one night. At your club, Mr. Craven.”
He shrugged indifferently. “Happens all the time.”
“But it wasn’t enough for him,” Sara said. “He continued to gamble, certain that with each roll of the dice he would regain what he had lost. He gambled away his home, his horses and possessions, what was left of his money…He became the disgrace of Greenwood Corners. It made me wonder what had driven him to such behavior. I asked him about it, and he said he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He was reduced to tears as he told me that after he had lost everything at Craven’s, he sold his boots to someone on the street and played cards barefoot at a local gaming hell. Naturally this made me wonder about the other lives that have been ruined by cards and dice. The