Catch Me in Castile

When the mother of all panic attacks prompts Erin Carter’s boss to pass her over for promotion, her mind doesn’t just crack. It explodes like an egg in a microwave, shattering her career along with the company car she crashes into the office building.

The death grip she’s kept on her sanity slipping, she takes a friend’s advice and flees to Spain. There she finds comfort in the healing arms of surgeon Santiago Botello—until a fifteenth-century ghost warns her that being with Santiago is dangerous, possibly even lethal.

Santiago has his hands full protecting his sister from a dark curse and his family from a very modern-day psychotic killer. The last thing he needs added to his plate is a neurotic American. Yet something about Erin tugs at his heart so hard he wants to wrap her in his arms and never let go. No matter the risk.

Erin’s attraction to Santiago makes her the killer’s next target. Survival means she must face her greatest fear, solve an ancient murder mystery—and hang on tight to the one man she’s fallen crazy in love with.

Warning: This book contains a woman willing to lose her mind for love, a hot Spaniard with hands a girl could die for, deadly family curses, a ghost with memory disorder, and a really mad killer.

Deborah Nemeth, my coach, my editor was one in a million.

My beloved, Carlos. Love you, sweetheart. Thanks for the strong shoulders to lean on and for lifting me up when I ate dirt.

The greatest sons a mother could ask for gave sustenance-hugs to keep Mama going.

Mom and Dad paved the way, cheered from the sidelines and bought up tickets to every race. No daughter could be prouder of her parents.

Kori read this story more times than should have been humanly possible and became a great cyber-cheerleader.

My second parents set my feet in the starting blocks by taking me to Spain. They’ve also been an endless support of strength and pep-talks.

C.C. Wiley read all my stuff—the good, the bad and the ugly—and ran beside me.

Cynthia Appel, Leslie Dinaberg, Malena Lott, Leonard Tourney, Chicklit Writers of the World, Fiction that Sells, Romance Divas, and the Solvang Writers Group all kicked my butt down the track and offered water bottles when necessary.

My friends provided PowerBars, shoulder rubs and clean towels when the going got tough.

Thank you one and all.

Serena clapped her hand over her mouth to strangle the scream clawing up her throat. Someone was coming into the tower. Frantically, she searched for a way out, only to discover she was trapped. Voices boomed up the stairwell—her only means of escape.

¡Madre de Dios!
Her mind flashed with terror and confusion.
They will kill me.

She flew to the dark alcove behind the stairwell and pressed her back against the weathered stone wall. Holding her breath, she hoped against hope she had disappeared in the shadows.

“Careful, the steps are narrow,” a Spaniard said.

“Is this the tower where the queen was beheaded?” a lady asked in a language both foreign and familiar to Serena.

“No, sugarplum. That was the castle in England,” another man drawled.

“
Señores
, no queen lost her life in this tower.”

Who are these people?
Serena thought, and then a more important question exploded in her brain.
Dios mío
… Who am I?

“You say this tower is haunted?” The woman’s voice echoed up the narrow, twisting flight of stairs.

Serena’s eyes widened.
Haunted?

“
Sí
, a ghost is here,” was the answer.

What?
Serena gulped. Itching to peek out from her hidey-hole, she forced herself to remain still. She did not have the luxury to fear spirits when her own life was at stake. She had been hiding in the tower for…days? Weeks? She frowned. Why couldn’t she remember? Her mind was as heavy and slow as churned lard.

The clomping on the stairs produced a rather plump woman huffing from exertion. Her orange blouse was short in the sleeves and tight across her bosom. Serena wondered what sort of lady wore men’s light blue hose.

After catching her breath, the woman exclaimed, “Holy Jiminy. The last time I was in a castle like this was at Disneyland. Ain’t it pretty? Like steppin’ into a fairy tale.”

A man’s pink face popped up the stairs behind her. He wore hose similar to the woman’s and the largest hat Serena ever saw.

“It’s somethin’, ain’t it?” The man—perhaps her husband, for he spoke like the woman—wiped his brow with a kerchief. “The brochure says Walt copied this castle, especially them blue spires.”

“Lordy, look at all those red roofs down there. And there’s the aqueduct thingy the Romans built. My oh my, we’re on top of the world.”

Serena’s gaze followed the woman’s pointing finger. An entire city had sprouted across the grassy fields. How was that possible?

Confused and scared, Serena wondered if she had awakened from a long slumber and found herself imprisoned in a foreign land. And yet…she squinted, slowly turning to take in her surroundings. No, not everything was different.

Her heart beat wildly.
Why am I still in the tower?

She didn’t dare question the strangers. She couldn’t remember much but knew, deep down in her soul, that she was in terrible danger. Someone was trying to kill her.

If only I could remember who.

Making herself as small as possible, Serena peeked through a crack in the stone masonry and forced herself to be still. Perhaps these strangers could provide some answers.

“Built in the eleventh century by the Moors,” the Spaniard recited, “the Alcázar was originally a fortress. Situated perfectly on the rocky banks of two rivers, the Eresma and Clamores—”

The husband waved a folder paper. “We can read, son. Tell us somethin’ that ain’t in the brochure.”

The guide paused. “Queen Isabel and King Fernando were married here in the fifteenth century. And Columbus came to this very castle to request permission from Queen Isabel to sail to—”

“Yep, here on page two.” The husband tapped the paper. “Tell us somethin’ different, like why on earth there are no bars coverin’ this here winda? I’m an insurance man, son. Your winda is a liability. I could drive our Cadillac through that hole.”

“
Señor
, please do not stand so close. It is dangerous.”

The thick, gloved hand of terror grasped Serena’s insides and squeezed.
Stay away from the window!

“Not the Caddy, your Chevy maybe,” his wife attested.

“Has anyone fallen out the winda?” the man asked the Spaniard.

“
Sí
. Five hundred years ago. A nursemaid in charge of Queen Isabel’s heir was so overcome with grief when the young prince lost his life, she took her own.”

Serena clutched her heart.

“You mean she jumped? Holy moly, that’s one heck of a fall.” The woman gripped her husband’s arm and scooted toward the window. Slowly, carefully, she looked down.

Serena shut her eyes. She couldn’t watch the woman lean over the ledge. A wave of horror rolled through her like a belly illness. Her head fell back against the cold wall with a jolt, ricocheting pain through her skull.

She saw stars for a moment and then…she began to remember. Rusty as an old blade, the memories slashed through her groggy brain—longing, lost love, betrayal. Each vision stabbed and stabbed until she was fully awake. And dying.

“Oh, Andrés,” she wailed.

The woman, who was still bent at the waist over the window ledge, jerked up straight. “Did y’all hear that? I swear it sounded like a woman cryin’.”

“Many have heard the nursemaid’s cries,
señor.
A few have seen her.”

The husband puffed up his barrel chest. “Ain’t no such thing as ghosts.”

“Don’t be silly. Of course there are. We’ve got us one here, don’t we?” Intensity burned in the woman’s blue eyes.

“So says the legend.”

The woman fisted her hands on her hips. “Why is the nursemaid still here? Ghosts don’t stick around for five hundred years unless they’ve got some unfinished business. Hasn’t anyone tried to help her move on?”

Serena fell silent.

“
Perdón
? I do not comprehend.”

“My daughter, Erin could do it. We had us a ghost in the attic. A little séance and wham-bam-thank-ya-ma’am, no more moaning in the night.”

Her husband slapped his forehead. “How many times do I have to say it? It was no ghost. The house was just settlin’.”

“I’m sure Erin could help the cryin’ spirit go on to the folks who love her. My Erin is smart as a whip. She’s a stockbroker, you know.”

The Spaniard shook his head, his face suddenly pale. “No,
señora
. Do not get too close to the ghost, or you will lose your mind.”

“Whaaa—?” The woman’s mouth fell open with such force the layer of fat under her jaw shook.

“Legend says one touch from the ghost will make you
loca
.”

“
Loca
? You mean…oh no, crazy? Aaak!” The woman grabbed her husband’s arm and yanked him toward the stairway. “Sorry, Mr. Tour Guide, we best be going now.”

“Hey, slow up. We ain’t finished the tour,” the husband complained.

“I ain’t stickin’ around to end up like nutty Aunt Lulu, no sir.”

Serena watched them leave with a sense of relief. She was alone. Now, where was she? The tower. Where it all happened. Her memories were fine goose down, floating on the wind. She had to do something before they blew away and she fell back into deep slumber. More than anything she longed to find Andrés. But how?

“Erin, Erin, Erin,” she chanted softly. If fortune were with her, the next time she awoke she’d remember the name of her savior.