tion id="u67f2f30d-c767-5509-a040-6e1e5f4e901a">
He was beautiful.
It was not a word Stella usually associated with men, but it suited him. Don’t keep staring at the gorgeous mouth, she told herself firmly. It was his eyes that drew her most strongly. They were every bit as mesmerizing as she remembered. In the shade they were the color of a faded eucalyptus leaf. As he looked away into the sunlight, they shone like silver coins.
Forcing herself to focus, she asked the first of the many questions that jostled for a place on her lips.
“Why have you appeared to me now?”
That broke the spell. A slight frown creased his brow and he pulled his eyes away from hers. “Because you are in grave danger.”
JANE GODMAN writes in a variety of genres including paranormal, gothic and historical romance, and erotic romantic suspense. She also enjoys the occasional foray into horror and thriller writing. Jane lives in England and loves to travel to European cities, which are steeped in history and romance—Venice, Dubrovnik and Vienna are among her favorites.
A teacher, Jane is married to a lovely man and is mum to two grown-up children.
Otherworld
Protector
Jane Godman
While writing this book I was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I’m one of the lucky ones. My tumor is low-grade and slow-growing. I’d like to dedicate this book to my fellow brain tumor fighters and those who care for and support us.
Contents
Stella Fallon was in the process of discovering that there is nothing so hysteria inducing as the realization that you have given up your job and traveled to a new country, spending every penny of your savings in the process, in pursuit of a dream that doesn’t exist. Okay, so it had been a crap job. And the savings had just about covered her plane ticket. As she stared up at the vast crumbling mansion, these extenuating circumstances did not provide Stella with one single morsel of comfort. If the house was empty—and it certainly looked that way—she was officially homeless, jobless and, once she had paid the taxi fare, had exactly one hundred euros to her name.
“This is the right house, senorita. For sure.” The driver repeated the statement he had made a few minutes earlier. While his tone was patient, his eyes were wary as they met hers in the rearview mirror. Possibly he could sense her rising panic. He might even have been cursing the fact that, from the long line of eager tourists and experienced businessmen waiting for taxis at the airport that night, he was the one who ended up with this quirky-looking girl. Whatever his emotions might be, he was clearly fearful of not getting his cash and impatient at being kept waiting now that he had delivered her to her destination.
“It can’t be.” Although the driver had spoken in Spanish, she responded in English and he made a helpless, uncomprehending gesture. Stella corrected her mistake. “No es posible.”
“Sí. This is the address you gave me. La Casa Oscura—” he gestured into the pitch-blackness beyond the car windows “—it is well-known in this city.”
La Casa Oscura. The Dark House. Except it shouldn’t be dark. According to the emails Stella had received, it should be lit up in welcome for her. Or, if “lit up” might be construed as an overenthusiastic approach to greeting a new junior employee, there should at least have been some sign of life. There was none.
“You want me