The Curse of a Single Red Rose (Haunted Hearts Series Book 7)
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Authors: Denise Moncrief
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COPYRIGHT
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This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved including the right of reproduction, distribution, or transmitted in whole or part in any form or means, or stored in any electronic, mechanical, database or retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.
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THE CURSE OF A SINGLE RED ROSE
The Haunted Hearts Series: Book Seven
Copyright © 2016 by Denise Moncrief
Electronic Edition
Paranormal Romantic Suspense
Cover Design: Linda Pitts
Background Image: © 2013 mrpolyonymous
Via
https://www.flickr.com/photos/mrpolyonymous/5739506709
Creative Commons Attribution Generic License, cropped and filtered
Rose Image: Public Domain
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http://all-free-download.com/free-photos/download/rose_and_white_fur_background_204814.html
Cover is copyright and trademark of the author, used under license owned.
THE CURSE OF A SINGLE RED ROSE
Seeking a life filled with adventure…
For Elsa Madsen, being the project manager for the renovation of the super luxurious Royale Chateau Hotel is a dream come true. Rumors of hauntings that have surrounded the old hotel for over a century don’t bother her. Not at all. In fact, those rumors are why she moved to New Orleans.
Falling in love isn’t an option…
When Elsa hires a handsome and very charming Irishman named Collin McVey as the construction site foreman, her instincts warn her that the man could be a dangerous distraction, and she might be right. Collin indulges his growing feelings for the energetic blonde, while his inner voice keeps reminding him that getting involved with the woman is only a means to an end.
Until she meets a man who dares to face the unknown with her…
Unexplained disturbances have always rocked the peaceful existence of the hotel, but exposure of a long dormant secret stirs up more paranormal activity than either of them can handle without help.
Can Collin and Elsa overcome the curse of a single red rose before dark forces from the past kill the hope of new love?
Special thanks to my long-suffering family, Larry, Katy, and Eric, who have put up with my many writing moods and encouraged me to pursue my publishing dreams anyway.
I’d also like to acknowledgment all the readers who enjoyed the first six books in
The Haunted Hearts Series
and gave me encouraging feedback. I write because it’s an obsession. I publish because I want someone to read what I write. My readers are why I do what I do. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
DEDICATION
For my Katy, who is the most beautifully elegant inspiration in my life.
My goal was to be the kind of woman I wanted you to grow up to be, but you have taught me how to be graceful, kind, and selfless while still being strong, courageous, and steadfast. Now, you are the kind of woman I want to be when I grow up.
THE CURSE OF A SINGLE RED ROSE
CONTENTS
Other Titles By Denise Moncrief
Chapter One of the Haunted Hearts Series Book #8 – The Trail of Crushed Azaleas
French Quarter, New Orleans
September 1965
Nowhere was safe. If Delia remained in the hotel, she would surely die. If she rushed out into the high winds, she would find no shelter from the approaching storm. She should have evacuated with the rest of the staff, but she had remained at the hotel making sure the last of the guests had found a way out of town.
She stood in the middle of her room, trembling from head to foot, and flinched when another burst of high winds and heavy rain buffeted the hotel. The building shook from the onslaught, so she grabbed the tall spindle on the footboard of her bed and held on tight. Her heart raced, though it wasn’t the approach of Hurricane Betsy that threatened her ability to remain calm.
A single red rose lay on her pillow. Anyone who had ever stayed at the Royale Chateau Hotel and had been gifted with the rose on a rainy night had met a tragic end. Some said the unknown gifter was not a living being, but rather a disturbed soul who empowered the flower with a mortal curse.
The bloom’s heavy smell assaulted Delia’s nose. Should a single fresh rose have such a strong fragrance? The perfume was cloying rather than aromatic. Not a beautiful scent at all. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the vivid red against the bright white of her pillowcase.
Odd, the flower seemed real to her, not a figment of her imagination or a hallucination. Would a spirit leave a real rose?
She suddenly hated roses.
Her rational mind found its voice for a moment. Of course, there was no curse. That was just a legend. “It’s obvious that someone is playing a trick on me.” She laughed at the absurdity of speaking her thoughts aloud. Since no one was with her, whom was she trying to convince?
She reached for the flower, intending to toss it into the trash, but then stopped before touching it. Maybe if its petals never touched her skin, the flower would have no affect on her. Despite the logical discussion with the voice in her head, she couldn’t quite shake the idea that the curse was not a myth.
Delia had heard of the curse’s powers since she was a little girl. When she applied for the job, her mother had reminded her of the legend, warning her about working and living at the old hotel, repeating stories of violence and death suffered by unfortunate guests who hadn’t checked out soon enough. Just like all of the curse’s victims, Delia hadn’t left soon enough.
She yelled at the empty room. “Why me? What have I done to deserve this?”
Maybe it had been a mistake to live on the premises, but she had wanted to leave home and live on her own. Just for a little while. Just until her boyfriend asked her to marry him. Her intention had been to quit as soon as they were married, but she found she liked the freedom of living the way she chose. Making her own money had given her a newfound sense of independence that her mother never had.
If she knew anything about her boyfriend, she knew he’d want to control every aspect of their lives together. Would she be content with that kind of existence? No. She had a mind of her own. The thought of staying single awhile longer gained more appeal the longer she stayed away from home.
The French Quarter had enticed her with its unique vibe and multi-cultural flavor. She hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity when she’d been offered residency in the old servants’ quarters on the third floor. The former manager, Clarice Dupuy, had left the hotel only a few months after Delia had started her job as front desk clerk. When Clarice quit without giving notice, the new owner had stepped into the managerial role.
Delia wished Clarice hadn’t gone. A strange heaviness had hovered over the hotel ever since Les Wakefield took over the management. Not that he had done anything wrong. He just hadn’t done anything right either. Everything he said and did seemed to unsettle Delia. She had stayed on at the hotel, refusing to be intimidated by Les’s odd behavior, but maybe that had been another mistake.
Delia’s bedroom door flew open, and her new boss stood in the threshold, his hair wet and his eyes glassy. “Celia, get your things together. It’s time to leave.” His tone commanded her obedience as if he owned her.
The man’s behavior had seemed peculiar from the first time she’d met him, but at that moment, he appeared downright menacing. She pressed her back against the wall behind her, as far away from Les as she could get. Fear rose within her, surging up from her insides with as much fury as the storm that was certainly pummeling the Gulf coast. They were alone. Would anyone hear her scream for help?
She stiffened her backbone and dared to correct his error. “My name isn’t Celia. It’s Delia with a
D
.” How many times had she told him her name wasn’t Celia? He never seemed to hear her.
Anger flared in his dark eyes for a brief moment before his expression turned manic. “There aren’t many woman named Celia any longer. You will be my Celia.”
She shook her head so hard a pain stabbed her in the neck. Was this the way the curse would get her? “But I’m not Celia.”
His countenance changed again. He pointed toward the rose and smiled. “It looks like it’s your turn.”
A horrifying thought emerged out of her fear. Had her boss left the flower on her bed? Was he the gifter? Was she cursed to end her days pretending to be Celia for a crazy man?
“I don’t believe in the curse, Mr. Wakefield. Why would you try to scare me like that?” She wanted to add that he was a horrible man, but what if this was all a misunderstanding and she still needed the job after the hurricane had passed?
“You shouldn’t have left me.” His raspy voice grated on her already jerky nerves causing her to twitch with every syllable.
She hadn’t left him. Not yet. She would if she got the chance. His last comment had made up her mind for her. Once this ordeal was over, she was not working at the hotel any longer. She’d go back home to Pointe Coupee.
“I’m going to leave. Right now.” She sounded braver than she felt.
He closed the gap between them and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her toward the open bedroom door. She gasped as the sudden movement jerked her arm in her shoulder joint.
Leaning against his weight, she struggled to get free of him. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You will do as I say.” His voice shot around the room, rising above the howl of the wind outside her bedroom window. “Phillip can’t help you now.”
Who was Phillip? She rummaged through her memory. No, she didn’t know anyone by that name.
Her gaze strayed to the world outside her window for a moment. The rooflines of adjacent buildings were no longer visible through the deluge. The rain slashed sideways across the cityscape, obliterating the view of New Orleans that she had loved so much.
Les Wakefield was giving her no choice. Curse or no curse, she couldn’t remain in the hotel with a crazy man. She’d have to take her chances out in the wind and the rain.
“I don’t have to do anything you say. I…I quit.” With more strength than she realized she had, she threw his hand off, making a noise of disgust as she did so.
She rushed past him, out the door, and down the hallway until she reached the double French doors that opened onto the exterior walkway that ran in front of the guest rooms. Unsure of where she could go to shelter from the storm and get away from Les, she ran headlong down the walkway. The rain-heavy wind flung pieces of debris at her, whipping her hair about her head and stinging her cheeks. She dodged a chunk of wood that flew past her.
A flash of light caught her attention, and she braked to a sudden stop. She rubbed her eyes, wary of the image. No, it couldn’t be. It was just her imagination. No one was dancing in the wind just on the other side of the walkway railing. No one beckoned her with the crook of a bent finger. The vision of a woman in white calling to her was just an illusion. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she concluded her over-stimulated mind had been playing tricks on her. The woman had disappeared.
She glanced over her shoulder. Mr. Wakefield barreled down the walkway toward her. The stomp of his heavy boot heels rattled the floorboards. He closed the gap between them, only a few steps behind her.
“You will not leave me. You will stay with me forever.” His words rang in her ears over the roar of the rising wind.
Without slowing her pace, she continued running down the walkway until she came to another set of French doors. She jerked them open and raced toward the landing at the top of the winding staircase. Before she descended the stairs, she looked back through the doors toward the walkway. The man wasn’t running, but his long strides meant he was gaining on her.
She rushed down the steep, curving wrought iron steps. How many times had she warned guests to take the stairs slowly and carefully? Too many people had tripped when they hadn’t paid attention to where they placed each step. High heels often got stuck in the ornamental cutouts.
“Celia, you can’t leave. You belong to me.” His voice sliced through her, slivers of dread settling into her soul. For the first time in her life, she felt the presence of death.
When strong fingers curved over the top of her shoulder and dug into her flesh, a scream dislodged from the bottom of her gut and erupted from her mouth. She swung around, intending to plant her fist square on the end of his nose. But when she spun on her heel, there was no one behind her. Les Wakefield had disappeared, or maybe he hadn’t followed her down the steep staircase. Maybe she had imagined it all.
Panic compelled her to get out of the hotel as quickly as possible. In her haste to make an escape, her high heel snagged in a cutout in the wrought iron, and she lost her balance, leaving her shoe behind and toppling down the remaining stairs, rolling end over end until her head hit the banister railing at the bottom step. The impact snapped her neck.