Northern Moonlight

  Northern Moonlight

  A Romantic Suspense Novel

  Anisa Claire West

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events depicted in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, either living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Mount Hollow, Vermont, 1966

  Freshly fallen snow gleamed in the moon’s reflection and blanketed coarse terrain. Whistling as he drove home in his father’s shiny blue pick-up truck, the eighteen year old boy felt invincible. He thought dreamily of the toasty winter’s evening he had spent sipping hot cocoa and kissing by the fireplace with his sweetheart. The handsome, raven-haired boy curved the truck around a sharp corner, approaching the serene neighborhood he called home.

  In the distance, he was startled to hear sirens blare alarmingly. The raucous emergency noises seemed grossly out of place in the eerily still New England night. Troubled by an uncomfortable stirring deep in the pit of his stomach, the boy accelerated as the sirens became louder. As he approached the snaking stretch of road where his family home was located, he gasped to see bright orange cones blocking entrance to the entire street. The teenager bolted out of the vehicle, abandoning it on the side of the road so he could proceed on foot. Long, brisk strides quickly became breathless sprints as the sirens wailed, red lights flashed, and the booming voice of a police officer echoed on a radio.

  Sights and sounds were overwhelmed by a gagging stench of smoke, soot, and ashes. He blinked disbelievingly, rubbed his eyes, and realized with mounting horror that his house had burned to the ground.

  He ran forward to a fireman, screaming and sobbing, “I live here! This was my family’s house---where are they?!”

  The firefighter looked sadly at the young man and said, “I’m sorry. Kid, I don’t know how to tell you this.” The fireman wrung his hands anxiously. “If your family was in there, they perished. There’s nothing left of the house but burnt rubble.”

  “No! That’s not possible---my mom, dad, my brother…they were all in there!” He shouted in agonized denial.

  “Are you sure? Maybe one of them could have been out?”

  “It’s three o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday! Where else would they be? My parents go to sleep by eleven. Oh God…” The boy’s voice trailed off in grief.

  “We believe that’s the problem, young man. They were sleeping and didn’t even know the house was on fire. We received a call from a neighbor who apparently woke up for a late night snack, looked out the window, and saw the flames. As of now, we’re investigating the cause of the fire and will need to interview you at some point for possible clues.”

  The fireman’s words seemed utterly foreign to the boy’s painfully ringing ears, just as the scene was a nightmarish blur to his stinging eyes. In too much shock to grasp the reality of what had happened, he was nonetheless acutely aware that his family was gone as he surveyed the incomprehensible damage. Nothing was left. Bewildered and wracked with unspeakable grief, the teenager fell to his knees and sobbed from the depths of his soul.

  Several Hours Later…

  A cold, murky dawn shrouded the earth as the grieving boy emerged from a night of unbearable interrogation. Though the boy had been ruled out as a suspect, Chief Investigator Glen Cooper initially suspected arson and was merciless in questioning him. Relentlessly, Chief Cooper asked about the teenager’s family life, the parents’ relationship, his fifteen year old brother Carlo’s personality, and anyone with whom the family might have had unfinished business. But young Giovanni assured the balding, middle aged man that his family had lived an upstanding life without drama.

  During the questioning, Giovanni voiced concern over some unfriendly neighbors, Bert and Cathryn Shanty. He explained how the Shantys rarely left their home and never looked anyone in the eye. Chief Cooper noted this on his pad, cleared his throat, and began a different, but equally excruciating line of questioning.

  Cooper stated that the inferno’s destructive force had obliterated any possible evidence of mechanical failure or other accidental cause. He asked Giovanni to consider his family’s habits and appliances---did they cook at night? Was the stove in need of repair?

  Giovanni explained how his mother kept a treasured collection of floral-scented tea light candles. Each night, Laura Salvatore would light them all around the house before bringing up a mug of warm milk to her husband, Marcello. Could she have forgotten to snuff them out last night?

  Chief Cooper seemed satisfied by Giovanni’s theory, and authorities officially closed the case a few weeks later. The cause of the blaze was listed as unknown, but most likely an accident originating from Laura Salvatore’s candles.

  Chapter 1

  11:54 PM, December 31, 1979, Vermont

  The winter sky was black as onyx above the jagged dirt road as the rusty blue pick-up truck rumbled and clattered its way along. The man inside ran a hand through his dark hair, letting a frustrated breath out in a slow, ragged gust. He had just made his escape from a farce of a New Year’s Eve party at a ski lodge. Now as he drove home to Burlington, bracing himself for the hour-long trek through slippery, snow-covered landscape, he thought about how everyone would react if they knew he had left before midnight. That’s Giovanni, they would say. Why in the world hasn’t he married? So handsome and yet so lonely…how odd. Thinking of the gossip and whispers, Giovanni sneered, focusing his attention on the open road and pumping the accelerator pedal in an impatient effort to gain momentum.

  He switched on the radio dial, as the sounds of an asinine disco song wafted vapidly onto the airwaves. Giovanni listened with disinterest, contemplating the past decade of his life, in five short minutes about to be swept away by the inevitable tidal wave of time and the onslaught of a new era. The 1980’s, he mused with a slight shiver.

  Born and bred on the outskirts of Vermont, thirty-two year old Giovanni Salvatore was an outdoorsman to the bones. He had grown up the son of a hard-working carpenter father, Marcello, a Sicilian immigrant, who had taught his son practical skills like woodworking, fishing, and mechanics. Giovanni’s mother, Laura, had been an expert homemaker who made Sunday feasts of spaghetti with fresh tomato sauce and bread steamy and crisp from the oven. Giovanni’s younger brother, Carlo, had been his best friend during those idyllic years. Until the horrific fire…

  Tears threatened to brim his eyes. Giovanni forced himself to concentrate on the road before him, as conditions became more treacherous, and the disco song faded into the decade in which it was born, just as midnight struck. How anticlimactic, Giovanni thought, it’s 1980, and I’m the same as I was a minute ago in 1979! Just driving along, reminiscing and half-listening to the stupid radio. He shook his head, and unavoidably his thoughts roamed back to his beloved family.

  Clenching his deep brown eyes shut for a moment, then refocusing on the road, Giovanni recalled the night that his life had changed forever. That night was fossilized in the most carefully concealed recesses of his mind. At eighteen, he had been a carefree high school senior with a beautiful girlfriend and boundless hope for the future. But his world had tilted on its axis that fateful night, whirling around him dizzyingly until it smashed into a million shards with the realization that his parents and brother had died in a fire.

  When the fire investigators had concluded that it was Mrs. Salvatore’s numerous candles that had set the house ablaze, Giovanni had gone to live with his uncle Stefano in New York City. He quickly found that he detested not only his disingenuous salesman relative, but also the disturbingly frenetic pace of city life. It didn’t help that Stefano’s wife, Helena, had the most frigid disposition he had ever encoun
tered, and together the childless couple made him feel like an outcast.

  At eighteen, longing for the simplicity and rugged nature of his home state, Giovanni dropped out of high school and returned to Vermont, becoming a fireman in honor of his lost parents and sibling. Nearly fourteen years later, he was still a fireman and proud of that fact. His career was a point of honor and self-definition, but his private life was something of a shambles.

  Still a bachelor, with a string of emotionally detached liaisons behind him, Giovanni scoffed at the idea of love, firmly believing that everything in this life was borrowed and hopelessly impermanent, liable at any moment to erupt into choking smoke and leave heart-wrenching destruction in its wake.

  The powerfully built, six feet two inch Giovanni had never had any trouble finding his share of “swinging seventies” encounters that so many disco tunes glorified, but he was none too proud of them. Indeed, as his aging truck sputtered along the slick roads, now perilously laced with hard sheets of ice, he had never felt lonelier.

  *****

  Paris, France, December 31, 1979

  There---that’s the perfect angle, Sabrina Montrouge thought as she positioned her camera and snapped a shot of the Eiffel Tower in the waning afternoon sun. The twenty-seven year old photographer was in Paris on assignment for the glossy travel magazine that graced every bookshelf in the United States. Her weeklong stay in the glamorous city had been even more magical since it coincided with the holidays.

  The lights of Paris were more luminous than usual in December. Metallic-colored decorations blended with the scents of cinnamon, apples, and nutmeg while the joyful strains of street carolers completed the dazzling scene.

  Soon, though, Sabrina would have to return her small cape house in Burlington, Vermont. Majestic Lake Champlain and the rugged Green Mountains made an arresting backdrop for any serious photographer. Sabrina had not hesitated to move there after earning her bachelor’s degree in photography five years ago. But it could get so lonely…

  Shrugging off nagging thoughts about returning to an empty house, Sabrina contented herself with the fact that she still had three more carefree days to explore Paris. Then she would worry about going home. For now, the air was growing chillier as the sun made its final descent of the decade into the horizon.

  The city began to illuminate and vibrate with palpable energy as Sabrina snapped a few more photographs of her glittering surroundings. With a wistful sigh, she slipped the camera into her handbag and began walking toward the metro station that would bring her to her hotel in the fifth arrondissement. Passing by walls papered with glossy film posters and abstract art, Sabrina validated her ticket in the machine and hustled over to the subway train that was poised to speed away.

  Inside the subway, there were no seats left, so Sabrina hung onto one of the overhead straps, staring curiously at her fellow passengers. To Sabrina’s eyes, every face told an enthralling story. As much as she would have loved to whip out her camera again and capture this historical moment, she decided not to draw unnecessary attention to herself. Her light but discernable American accent, along with her unassuming beauty, already garnered enough attention.

  It was a short walk from the metro station to the hotel, and Sabrina waltzed through the charming lobby of the three-story Hôtel des Fleurs. Instead of retreating to her room, she made her way over to the obscenely expensive restaurant L’Étoile de Paris. Generally, Sabrina was partial to the simplicity of a hearty New England meal like clam chowder and heaps of crispy bread. But tonight was New Year’s Eve and she was in Paris. Smiling at the maître d’, Sabrina resolved to treat herself to a decadent dinner, perhaps even a glass of fine champagne to ring in the new era.

  *****

  January 1, 1980, Paris, France

  Sabrina awoke in the hotel room with a jolt. Color flooded her face as she floated out of an intensely sensual dream just as the electric lights of Paris transformed into sunbeams. In her dream, she had been ballroom dancing in the nude with a dark, thrillingly masculine stranger. He had held her at arm’s length, going through the motions of the dance like a well-oiled machine, calculating and calm, while his eyes clearly devoured her and betrayed ferocious desire. They were circling the ballroom, palpable heat between their bodies rising steeply with their elegant movements. They were on the verge of engaging in what promised to be a dizzyingly erotic kiss when Sabrina had woken up.

  Now lying awake in her hotel room, she pondered the dream. The swarthy stranger in the dream was unlike anyone she had ever met. She wiped a damp wisp of chestnut-colored hair from her brow and chalked the dream up to an overly romantic imagination. Being in a city like Paris could awaken one’s cravings for intimacy, she had found.

  For the past week, in between snapping photos, her life had consisted of nibbling on fruit tarts from a corner bakery, marveling over glass-enclosed artifacts at the Louvre, and watching French movies at the cinema. Too many movies, she told herself drolly.

  Mornings in Paris had been particularly charmed when she would fetch a pain au chocolat at a sidewalk café and proceed to comically wrestle with her flimsy umbrella as the persistent rain turned it inside out. Sabrina was enamored with Paris, just as she was with every exotic locale her job afforded her the opportunity to visit. At the same time, she longed for an exciting interlude à deux to ease her loneliness and provide someone special with whom to share these experiences.

  Two Days Later…

  Sabrina dragged her suitcase along the street as she hailed a taxi, pausing to toss an indignant look over her shoulder as a passing car splashed grimy water onto her powder blue overcoat. A cab pulled up to the curb, as the striking brown-eyed brunette, looking disheveled now, clenched her teeth and stepped with dignity into the cab. She looked with dismay at her stained cloak, irritated that she would have to endure a six hour transatlantic plane ride in filthy attire.

  Resolving not to let the incident mar her last few moments in Paris, Sabrina waved a friendly au revoir to the hotel and imagined herself in a hot shower back home. A hot shower, but no pain au chocolat, she acknowledged, shutting her eyes and indulging in replays of her sweet sojourn.

  The cab ride was bumpy and laden with city traffic. When the taxi finally deposited Sabrina at Charles de Gaulle Airport, she was teetering on the edge of motion sickness. As her stomach flip-flopped, she allowed herself one last French shopping jaunt. Sabrina was fascinated by the specialty boutiques that lined the airport terminals. She ventured inside a gift shop and purchased imported Swiss chocolates for herself, along with hand-blown glass figurines to arrange over the mantel back home. Sabrina spent the rest of the waiting period in a bookstore, flipping through French paperback novels.

  To Sabrina’s relief, the flight departed at its scheduled time, and she requested club soda as soon as the stewardess came over to take her drink order. The cold, fizzy liquid helped to avert any further motion sickness. Deeming the in-cabin movie a dud, Sabrina happily buried herself inside the pages of the novel she had picked up from the airport bookstore. Just as she began to read, the middle-aged man seated next to her struck up a conversation, making some inane comment. After a few minutes of obligatory polite discourse, Sabrina turned her head away and returned to her book. She wanted to bask in as much peaceful time as she could until arriving in New York City, where her garrulous sister Cara would be waiting with dozens of spitfire questions.

  Paris was much like London in winter, with hanging mist and falling rain prevailing over ice and snow. Back in New York, the air was clear, but a foot of snow on the ground greeted the arriving passengers. As Sabrina carried her suitcase through Customs, she could see Cara waving in the crowd. Trying to plaster an energetic smile on her face, Sabrina walked into the welcoming arms of her baby sister. At twenty-five years old, Cara could have passed for Sabrina’s twin, except for her noticeably longer physique and crystal blue eyes.

  “Welcome home!” Cara exclaimed, giving Sabrina a European-style kiss on either che
ek.

  “Thanks! It’s good to see you. Let’s go.”

  Sabrina wasted no time, walking quickly past her sister towards the parking area. Before they exited the airport, jet lag had already begun to set in for Sabrina. The five hour ride to Vermont had only begun, and Sabrina was already exhausted from her sister’s well-meaning, but excessive, questions. Completely oblivious, Cara buoyantly chattered away.