Chapter 1I Can See His Dead Wife

Everyone knew Donovan Blackwood, the king of Manhattan real estate, was devoted to his wife.

The day she died in a car crash, his hair turned white overnight.

From that day on, a darkness settled in him, a violent temper that drove a wedge between him and his son until they were like strangers living in the same gilded cage.

Eventually, Donovan relented. He would find a stepmother for his son.

And somehow, I was one of the candidates.

For the culinary test, the others presented gourmet dishes. I served a greasy chili dog from a street cart on 53rd.

For the talent portion, they played concertos and recited poetry. I performed a strange, modern dance routine I made up on the spot.

For the test of their knowledge of Donovan Blackwood, the others sang his praises, listing his accolades and business triumphs.

I leaned in close and whispered, "Mr. Blackwood, you have a mole on your left ass cheek."

Donovan went silent.

That night, I was the one who was told to stay.

He pressed a gun to my temple, his expression as cold and hard as the steel.

"Tell me who sent you."

I dropped to my knees, my eyes darting to the empty space beside him.

There, a ghost who’d been dead for ten years was flying around in a panic. "This doesn't make any sense," she wailed. "Everything I told you was right!"

Bullshit. She also told me her husband was a big softie under that cold exterior.

* * *

The moment the muzzle of the gun pressed against my temple, I’ll admit it: I was terrified.

"Wait!" I knelt on the plush rug, all my pride gone. "Mr. Blackwood, you've got this all wrong."

Donovan tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. The wrist of his gun hand twitched, and the cold metal kissed my skin with more pressure.

"Wrong?" He let out a short, humorless laugh. "I clawed my way to the top of this city, Sloane. Do you really think I'm some fool you can play games with?"

I nervously wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead, daring to meet his gaze. His features were sharp, chiseled, a face that belonged on a magazine cover but was terrifying up close. At forty, he held New York in the palm of his hand. He was right. No one could fool this man.

He paused, then suddenly pulled the gun away. He retrieved a cigarette from a silver case on the table and lit it with a casual flick of a lighter. He took a long drag, the smoke curling from his lips as he exhaled, his gaze distant.

"You knew the first thing Eleanor and I ever ate together. You knew her favorite way to exercise. And you knew…" his voice hardened, "…that. It must have taken a lot of work to dig all that up."

He locked his eyes on me. "You have three minutes to tell me everything. Otherwise, I have countless ways to make you talk."

My heart hammered against my ribs. This man was far more dangerous than I had imagined. Deep, gut-wrenching regret washed over me for ever taking this job.

My eyes flickered again to the empty space beside him.

Donovan couldn't see her, but the ghost of his dead wife was spinning in frantic circles.

She kept muttering to herself.

"It shouldn't be like this, what happened?"

"I swear, everything I told you was right! Donovan loved those chili dogs, and he always said my dancing was beautiful…"

"What went wrong?"

The problem, lady, is that a normal person wouldn't know about the mole on his left ass cheek! It was my own damn fault for not thinking it through, for just repeating everything she told me. The second the words left my mouth, I knew I’d screwed up.

The ghost, Eleanor, floated over to me, offering a weak, apologetic smile. "Don't worry, sweetie. I'll think of something. He's probably just trying to scare you."

Scare me?

I glanced over. Donovan was calmly loading a fresh clip into the handgun.

Thump.

I scrambled forward and wrapped my arms around his leg.

"Mr. Blackwood," I blurted out, "I have a secret."