The Raven Master

The raven responded with a shattering screech and flapped its good wing. It cocked its ebony head, fixed Janine with a jonquil stare and emitted an ominous hiss.

Eyeing the raven’s sharp beak, Janine retreated even farther. “Edgar is a fine name, just fine.”

Diverted by his new surroundings, Edgar hopped around the dresser, pecked at the mirror, then turned his attention to the goosenecked lamp a few feet away. With a hop and a flutter, he wrapped his claws around the comfortably curved stem and claimed his new perch with a raucous squawk.

Quinn slid Janine a furtive glance. “He shouldn’t be released until the wing has healed.”

“No, of course not.”

Leaning lazily against the dresser, Quinn regarded her thoughtfully. “Are guests allowed to keep pets?”

“I’ve never thought about it. Actually, the subject of pets has never come up.” She cleared her throat. “Perhaps if we could locate some kind of a cage—”

Edgar screeched a protest.

Frustrated, Janine folded her arms and glared at the bird. “Keep that up and you’ll be headquartered in the basement.”

With a shriek that seemed unnervingly responsive, Edgar pivoted on the perch and turned his back on her.

When she turned her stunned gaze on Quinn, he merely shrugged. “I think you’ve hurt his feelings.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She shook her head and chuckled, willing to go along with the gag. “All right, Edgar. Forget the cage. You can stay in the room but only if you’re quiet, understand? One midnight screech, and you’re outta here.”

On cue, Edgar turned to face her and calmly settled himself on the flexible column.

Sighing, Janine turned to Quinn. “Could you at least spread newspapers under the lamp?”

His eyes crinkled. “Consider it done.”

She fidgeted for a moment. “I should get back to work.”

Straightening, he gathered the remaining first-aid supplies and handed them to her. “Thanks for the help.”

“You’re welcome.” She balanced the loose objects in the crook of her arm, shifted nervously and wondered why she was so hesitant to leave. “Do you need anything else? I mean, birdseed or something?”

He regarded her quizzically. “Do you have any bird-seed?”

She nearly groaned aloud. Of course she didn’t have any birdseed. What on earth was the matter with her, anyway? “Well, no, but I was planning to go to the market later…” The lie caught in her throat. She coughed it away and smiled brightly. “So I could pick some up and anything else you might need.”

After considering that for a moment, he gave her the tolerant smile usually reserved for fools and small children. “Actually I’m going into town myself this afternoon. If you tell me what you need, I’ll save you a trip.”

“That’s very nice of you.” Her cheeks ached. “I’ll make a list.”

She backed awkwardly out of the room, wondering what it was about this man that made her feel like a clumsy adolescent. He was an enigma, unsettling, almost frightening, yet his unique abilities contradicted her own sense of uneasiness. Animals and children instinctively recognized inner kindness. They trusted Quinn; why couldn’t she?

The answer was clear. Quinn Coulliard was a dichotomy—a cultured rebel with the tortured eyes of a person at war with himself. He was also the most fascinating man she’d ever met.

Balancing fresh linens on one arm, Janine used her master key to enter Quinn’s room. To avoid inconveniencing the guests, she tried to schedule routine cleaning while they were away. So after Quinn drove into town—ostensibly for birdseed—Janine took advantage of the perfect opportunity to complete her chores.

As she closed the door behind her, the raven sidled along the curved lamp stem, cocked his head and eyed her suspiciously. She tossed the key onto the dresser and put the linens on a nearby chair. “Hello, Edgar. Are you feeling better?”

Edgar said nothing.

She was oddly disappointed. In his master’s presence, the bird had seemed, well, almost human. That was silly, of course, but Quinn Coulliard had a knack for creating illusions of reality from the most implausible scenarios. Perhaps the man was a mystic. Or a magician.

Or a con artist.

Not that it really mattered. To Janine, he was simply another tenant. Yet as she absently stripped sheets from the mattress, she couldn’t suppress a bit of curious speculation. She wondered if he was married. He wore no wedding ring but that wasn’t necessarily proof that he had no wife. And if there was a woman in his life, what was she like?

Obviously the fortunate woman would have to be very special. Since nothing about Quinn Coulliard was ordinary, Janine couldn’t imagine he would be attracted to someone plain, a woman with—she glanced at the mirror—mousy hair, dull brown eyes, a flat chest and a flabby bum.

Disgusted, she turned away from the mirror, angrily dragged the soiled sheets from the mattress and tossed them in a heap on the floor. The notion that a man like Quinn Coulliard could ever be attracted to her was ludicrous. After all, Janine was well aware of her physical limitations. Once, she had believed herself to be reasonably attractive—a fantasy that Charles had effectively quashed on their honeymoon. Now she no longer deluded herself and reluctantly accepted the sad fact that she had the sex appeal of road kill.

But since Quinn Coulliard had entered her life, Janine had found herself staring into the mirror with an increasing sense of disappointment. Last night she’d actually pushed her drab hair on top of her skull, wondering if a fluffier coiffeur would make her more attractive. She’d caught herself, of course, and had been both embarrassed and depressed by such futile speculation. She was a plain woman. Everyone said so. At least, everyone who mattered.

But there was something in the way Quinn looked at her that didn’t make her feel the least bit plain, and she’d been bothered by strange sensations, an undefinable longing that made her restless and itchy.

Janine was still considering the implications of these odd feelings while she shook out the fresh sheets and absently continued her chore. She tucked in one side of the bed-clothes then rounded the bed and accidentally bumped the goosenecked lamp, sending Edgar into an indignant flurry. Janine whirled and grabbed at the tilting perch. The bird squawked and aimed a painful peck at her wrist.

“Ow!” She yanked back her hand.

Although the weighted base kept the lamp from falling, Edgar continued to screech and frantically flap his good wing.

“Oh, good Lord.” Fearing that the frenzied animal would reinjure itself, Janine attempted to calm the bird by emulating Quinn’s soothing manner.

“There, there,” she cooed.

Edgar cocked his head, beak ajar, and regarded Janine with an expression that could only be described as one of absolute disdain. The bird did seem calmer, though, so Janine was encouraged enough to extend a tentative hand. The creature emitted a raucous shriek and instantly attacked. Before she could so much as gasp, a flapping ball of feathered fury leaped at her face, pecking and screeching.

Folding her arms as a shield against the raven’s needle-sharp beak, she stumbled backward. The bed blocked her way. “Ouch! You stupid bird. Stop it!” She swatted wildly. “Do you hear me? Stop!”

She finally fell onto the bed, then rolled frantically until she fell off and hit the floor with a painful thump. Panting, she rose to her knees and shoved a wad of hair out of her face. The raven gave her a hard look, apparently decided that she posed no further threat to his perch and placidly began to groom himself.

Standing shakily, she blew out a breath. If Quinn wanted the left side of his bed made, he’d damn well have to do it himself. No way was she going to get within pecking distance of that blasted bird again.

She scooped up the soiled linens, piled them in the hallway, then dragged in the vacuum and began cleaning the carpet. The nozzle struck something under the bed. After bending to investigate, she pulled out Quinn’s deflated duffel, tossed it onto the mattress and finished vacuuming the room.

As she was cleaning the base of the dresser, she noticed the white square that had fallen while Quinn was tending the raven’s wounded wing. After retrieving the scrap, she turned it over and took a sharp breath. It was a tattered, finger-smudged photograph of the most stunning woman Janine had ever seen.

The woman in the photograph had sparkling, ice blue eyes shaded by lashes long enough to braid and a sensual mouth puckered into the kiss-me pout favored by models in fashion magazines. As if those endowments weren’t enough, a thick blond mane framed her perfect oval face. The woman was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous.

Janine was so engrossed in studying the image that she didn’t hear the bedroom door open.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

She jumped and whirled around. “I…cleaning.”

Quinn stood in the doorway, taut as a gate spring with his right arm twisted strangely behind his back. After a moment, his hand emerged from beneath the loose khaki vest and he slammed the door. His narrowed gaze swept the room, lingering briefly when he noticed the floppy duffel on the bed, then moving to the oversize key ring on the dresser and finally settling on the photograph clutched in Janine’s rigid fingers.