Leslie hardly realized what she was doing—but the next thing she knew, she’d thrown herself into Declan’s arms. It was as if she’d been waiting for it: waiting for someone to hold her, someone to listen, someone to comfort. And with that, the dam tumbled down.

His arms came around her immediately—protective, supportive, comforting. And every bit of grief she’d controlled for weeks and months in her iron-fisted CEO mind came pouring out in deep, wrenching sobs as he held her close.

“People…don’t…under…stand,” she bawled into his shoulder. “They think”—sniffle—“since the baby…was never born…it shouldn’t”—sob—“affect me…so much…”

He patted her on the back, his fingers touching the ends of her messy hair, as he tucked her head beneath his chin. “Of course it would affect you,” he said quietly. “You carried that baby inside you. You lost part of yourself, and another person as well. Someone died. A little defenseless creature is gone.”

That made her bawl even harder. How could he understand so well when even Aunt Cherry couldn’t get it? She knew Leslie had been grieving, and she was kind and supportive…but she didn’t really seem to understand that a miscarriage was losing a baby…not just the hopes and dreams of a baby, but an actual child. Someone she’d spoken to, nurtured, planned for…felt. She’d felt Ella, held her deep inside, connected with her.

“Shh…shhh,” he murmured, stroking her back in a long, easy slide. “I’m here, Leslie. I’m here.”

“I was five months pregnant,” she said. “Well past the danger zone. I started to wear maternity clothes. I—I ordered a c-crib…”

“I’m so sorry, darling. So, so sorry.”

Leslie didn’t know how long she sobbed messily into his shirt, but when she pulled away, there was a huge wet spot that went from shoulder to halfway down the soft, brushed cotton.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a little hiccup and a short, pained laugh. She batted at the massive wet spot. “I ruined your sh-shirt. I hope you didn’t have plans tonight.”

Now that she’d emerged from the storm of grief and anger, she felt as if she were coming back to herself—back to reality. Here in her kitchen, with a soft, comforting glow, the smell of popcorn and old pizza—and, most of all, the smell of Declan: fresh, clean, male, delicious.

And in the very same position he’d been in the last time she was in his arms: up against the island, holding her close.

“Plans? Well, I was sort of in the mood to watch Gilmore Girls,” he said, reaching casually for a big handful of popcorn.

Leslie burst out with a short, surprised laugh and looked up at him. Good grief, he looked delicious. Just…good enough to eat: all tall and sturdy, with his dark green eyes settled on her, a glint of humor and warmth in them. And a big wet spot on his dark blue and green diamond-patterned shirt.

“I’d have to make some more popcorn, at the rate you’re going there,” she said nonchalantly.

“Okay.” He jumped on that immediately, a smile twitching his lips.

“But you have to promise you won’t judge me when you see how much butter I put on it.”

“Well, it’s not like it’s a whole stick, is it?” He was still munching away.

Leslie spun away neatly without answering, suddenly ridiculously, crazily lighthearted. Smiling.

“Is it?” he asked again, his tone lilting with laughter.

“What do you want to drink?” she asked, purposely sounding evasive. “Have you even ever watched Gilmore Girls?”

“Do I have a teenaged daughter and Netflix?” he replied. “And beer or iced tea works.”

Leslie poured a scoop of popcorn into the hot air popper and turned to assess him closely. “Then tell me if you’re a Jess or a Logan shipper, and a Luke or a Christopher shipper. Beer’s in the fridge. So’s iced tea.”

“Shipper?”

“You said you had a teenaged daughter. Shipper—meaning, relationship. Who are you rooting for in the relationships with the various Gilmore girls?” She shook her head, arms crossed over her middle. “See, I knew you were making that up—”

“Jess and Christopher,” he said as he emerged from the fridge with one of the longnecks and the iced tea pitcher. “Jess because he’s misunderstood, and Christopher because he should be with his daughter. And I’m glad you didn’t even put Dean in the mix.” He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms, giving her a “so there” look.

“All right, then, you can stay,” she told him, unable to hold back a delighted grin. Partly because he was here, partly because he was acting normally, and partly because…well, he hadn’t asked any of the questions she knew he had. What a guy. “Even if I don’t completely agree with you.”

“Well, that’s what makes things interesting, isn’t it?” His voice dropped a little. Just enough to send a little frisson of awareness through her. He was watching her with those green eyes…very closely, very steadily, but without demand. Just…letting her know he was noticing her.

And she was certainly noticing him: all warm and bronzy and coppery, with his dark mahogany hair and the generous brush of freckles that made his skin look richer and duskier than a mere tan. The memory of the way his damp shirt clung to the muscles beneath had her mouth going dry. She wanted to touch that skin, feel the slide of those muscles and the warmth of him against her. And she wanted to taste him again. Taste, and lick, and nibble and more.

Leslie tucked away the delicate flutter in the base of her belly and savored it like a neat little secret as she made the rest of the popcorn. It was nice to have someone here—besides Rufus, anyway—even though she hadn’t thought she wanted anyone around. And it was even nicer that it was someone like Declan, around whom she felt amazingly comfortable and relaxed.

And even more, it was a blessing that he not only listened and comforted her, but that he wasn’t trying to move them back to where they’d been five days ago—plastered against each other, her butt on the island, hands everywhere.

Not that she wasn’t interested in it, but she appreciated him taking it easy for the moment.

“I’m just starting season three,” she said, drizzling an obscene amount of butter over the popcorn in a shallow twenty-four-inch-wide bowl. “It’s my favorite.”

“Ah. You must be a Jess shipper, then,” he said, pouring two glasses of iced tea. He winked when she looked at him in surprise. “I told you I watched it! Between that and Glee, Stephanie and I have really done some father-daughter bonding.”

She laughed, but said nothing as she led the way out of the kitchen into her bedroom/office/living room suite.

“This is really nice,” he said, looking around. “Very cozy.”

She smiled with delight. “I love this suite so much. It’s really the first time I’ve ever had my own space, designed from top to bottom, if you will. Before, I just moved into an apartment or condo and…well, I didn’t spend the time or energy to make it much of my own. I was too busy working. But since I plan to be here a long time…”

She looked around, seeing the well-lit space though his eyes. The main room was like a neat, compact library, with a desk and credenza at one end, shelves lining the walls wherever there wasn’t a window, and a sitting area. The last had the most comfortable leather sectional she’d ever known in front of a television that raised and lowered on its own shelf from inside a cabinet.

The decor was eclectic, leaning toward spare and professional, with leather seating mixed with glass and mahogany tables and shelves, brightly colored throw pillows and area rug, and some eye-catching artwork. The lighting was fun: fancy and feminine with lots of crystals and unique textured shades, but also functional for work.

There were two doors leading further into the suite: one to a master bathroom, small but luxurious, and to a postage-stamp-sized bedroom that just fit her queen-sized bed with room to move around it. However, she had a large walk-in closet (the reason the bedroom was so small) that was lined with shelves and organizers. The closet was nearly the size of her bedroom.

“I see you’ve found a roommate.”

Leslie laughed when she realized he was talking about Rufus, who’d made himself extremely comfortable in the exact center of the L of the sectional. “Yes, and you’ll be glad to know he’s been de-flea-ed, considering where he’s chosen to ensconce himself.”

“Wow. You two sure moved fast. A few dinners, and all of a sudden you’re living together?”

“Well, why waste time? He’s a great roommate—he sleeps a lot, doesn’t drink my wine or eat my cupcakes, and he has yet to borrow any of my clothes. Of course, he does like to carouse and come in late at night. He had an extended visit at the vet Monday, and I only brought him home yesterday. He seems to like it here.”

“I can see why.” Declan’s eyes slid around the room once more, then settled on her just long enough for her belly to flutter happily.

Leslie realized she was a little flustered—but in a good way. “Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the sofa. Sitting in it was like lowering oneself into the palm of a big hand: you were cupped comfortably in all the right places, and could lean back with neck support exactly where you needed it.

He hesitated perceptibly, then chose a spot just past the center of the L-shaped sectional. Close enough to touch Rufus if he liked, but far enough away that she’d have room to decide where to sit. Leslie smiled.

Touché, sir, she thought. Now it’s up to me to decide how close to sit to your handsome self.

Then her smile faded. Something was bound to happen between them if she sat anywhere in his vicinity. Maybe it was best to clear the air first.

“So…” she said, picking up the remotes for the TV. “How was your dinner with the Deltons Monday night?”

His attention snapped to her; he even put the popcorn bowl on the table in order to look up at her. “To tell the truth…it was pretty awkward.” He looked chagrined yet determined, and plowed on. “My daughter seems to think I need her help with my love life. So she’s been doing her best to…ah…encourage Emily…ah…in my direction. Not that Emily has needed any encouragement anyway.”

Leslie managed to smother a laugh. Well, that explained a lot. “I see. I guess Stephanie’s a big fan of The Parent Trap?”

“Maybe…I don’t know. Is that a movie? But I told you…I told you Friday night, there’s nothing going on with me and Emily. Even if Stephanie has indicated otherwise.”

“I have to admit, I wondered about that when I walked past Trib’s Saturday night and you and she were sitting there in the front window, looking rather cozy.” Leslie sank down on the couch, on the other limb of the L, and used the remote to wake up the video streaming device. Rufus apparently didn’t like having his sleep disturbed, and he gave an abbreviated, irritated yowl before leaping lightly off the couch.

“Yeah. Well, I sort of didn’t have much choice in the matter. Emily’s car broke down and she needed a ride to the pre-Homecoming festivities, and then she needed a ride home, and she wanted to join the other parents for dinner at Trib’s, and—”

“And you’re too nice of a guy to say no, even when you know you’re being—shall we say—managed.” Leslie was grinning by now. Poor thing. It was amazing how powerful and strong and assertive men could be…and how completely and utterly clueless when it came to women and their machinations.

Females really were the stronger sex.

He laughed uncomfortably as Rufus slunk along between Leslie’s legs and the coffee table. She bent to pet him, careful to avoid his tail—which had been carefully mended by Doc Horner.

“Yeah, I guess,” Declan said. “But I had a nice little talk with Stephanie and let her know she didn’t need to interfere anymore. I didn’t tell her the reason,” he added hastily.

“The reason? What reason is that?” Leslie asked, her voice light and teasing.

His cheeks colored a little but his eyes narrowed with warning. “I think you know, Leslie Nakano.” A tiny bit of a smile teased his lips. Then he eased back, leaning against the couch. His expression lost the bit of levity and became closed off. “But I’ve been wondering whether you had a good time Saturday night yourself. I heard you were at the Roost.”

“I was.” Rufus settled on a puffy ottoman and turned around in four circles as Leslie replied. “With Aunt Cherry and Orbra and Iva. And that author—John Fischer? He stopped by too, and so did Baxter. I’ll be honest…I thought I might hear from you on Saturday sometime, but I didn’t. And then I saw you with Emily and…well, I thought I’d misread things on Friday.”

“You did not misread anything,” he said in a sort of annoyed, growly voice. “Unless you don’t know what it means when a guy can’t keep his hands—or his thoughts—off you.”

Oh. Well. Leslie subdued the sharp stab of lust that took her by surprise at his very honest, primitive words. She smiled a little. “It’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure I have an idea about that.” She turned toward the television and lifted the remote. “Now that we’ve got that settled…”

And she clicked play.

Declan gave a short laugh, relinquished the popcorn bowl to her, then settled back to watch Gilmore Girls.

And that was the moment Leslie fell hopelessly in love.

* * *

Declan probably wouldn’t have gone around telling Baxter or his other guy friends how much he enjoyed the evening—watching what amounted to a chick-flick television series with four feet of space between him and the woman he was dying to get with—but damned if he didn’t have a good time.

Even if he did give up the rest of that sinful popcorn to her. It was more than worth it to see the expression on her face when he made such a sacrifice.

Even if he was completely and utterly aware of her the whole time. Her slender, pale feet were propped only a few inches away from his on the ottoman they shared with the cat. He swore he could feel the heat radiating from her toes.

Even if she looked pretty adorable, sort of bedraggled and frumpy after her long cry into the front of his shirt—which dried before the end of the second episode, by the way. Despite the fact that he thought Leslie looked delicious, he suspected if she saw herself in a mirror, she’d be horrified.

She’d pulled out the ponytail at some point, so her shiny black hair fell in a messy waterfall over her shoulders. Her nose was red from crying for quite a while afterward. Her eyes were still puffy from crying and lack of sleep. Bags under them too, and some dark circles. And her fingers were a little greasy from the popcorn, since she’d drowned it in butter.

Even so, he itched to pull her close, to slip an arm around her shoulders and have her scooch up next to him, especially now that he realized Baxter had been totally wrong when he said Leslie had “been with” someone the other night. Clearly, she’d just been sitting at a table with this John Fischer person—which reminded him…

He’d been meaning to call his cousin Teddy about the guy. She’d know any scoop there was to know about the novelist Jeremy, aka John, Fischer—whoever he was—being a big bestselling author herself. Whether the guy was a player, whether he was married. Anything important.

But for now, Declan just settled in quietly, enjoyed the show, and, even more, enjoyed the anticipation that sometime soon, he’d be doing exactly what he wanted to be doing. Sometime when the time was right. When she wasn’t dealing with her grief so strongly.

Much as he wanted to move in, he didn’t feel like it was right. Not tonight. Not when he was there just to comfort.

But man oh man…he really wanted to kiss her. To get closer…especially since he was pretty damn sure she wasn’t wearing a bra.

The very thought of that…the temptation…the knowledge was just about enough to kill him.

* * *

When Leslie got up to use the toilet and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she nearly shrieked.

Oh my God, I look like a hag!

She brushed her hair, brushed her teeth, put on some lip gloss, and snagged a bra from her bedroom—good thing her hoodie was loose; surely he hadn’t noticed—and even shucked her sweats to pull on a pair of leggings. No wonder Declan was keeping his distance.

She checked her pits—thank God she didn’t stink; she had showered early this morning before she decided to be schlumpy all day. Finally, she returned to the living area.

“I’m hungry. Are you? Do you want something to eat?”

He looked up at her and she felt rather than saw a flare of definite interest—and a very improper mental response to her question—and then he smiled. “You’re hungry? After eating almost that whole bowl of popcorn?”

“Come on out to the kitchen. I feel like I could pull together the energy to make something to eat that doesn’t have a whole stick of butter on it.”

“Shit, really? A whole stick? I can feel my arteries clogging as we speak.” He stood, giving Leslie the opportunity to admire the way his rugged jeans hung just perfectly: fitting closely in the right places, and relaxed in others. She’d been too busy sobbing earlier to notice.

“So I’ve been getting almost nightly visits from my ghostly friend,” she said, opening the fridge to see what she could throw together.

“You have?”

She glanced over her shoulder. He looked utterly stunned. “Yes. And no, I haven’t gone running away. I’ve slept here every night—well, almost every night in the last week. I spent Saturday at Cherry’s because I had a couple too many beers at the Roost.” She pulled out some queso fresco, cilantro, and fresh corn tortillas. “I hope you like Mexican. Juanita’s been giving me all sorts of pointers.”

“It goes great with beer,” he said, eyeing her—or maybe it was the tortillas—with appreciation. No, it was her.

She smiled to herself. Patience is a virtue, and anticipation is a gift.

“Have you figured out anything about what it wants? The ghost?”

“I’ve asked her. She hasn’t really answered me other than to point angrily at me—or down the stairs. I’m not sure which. And there’s that sound of something rolling downstairs, so I think she fell down and that’s how she died.” Leslie found two ripe avocados and a couple of beefsteak tomatoes in her fruit bowl. Then she went back to the fridge to retrieve some cooked chicken she had left over from the other night.

“There was a woman named Dorothy Duchene who disappeared.” She went on to tell him about the missing woman and the theory she and Cherry and the others had discussed at the Roost. “It could be her. The clothing is the right time period.”

“But the ghost isn’t being…destructive, is it? What happens during these—uh—visits?”

“They don’t last very long. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Rufus has only experienced it once—last night—and he wasn’t very keen on it. All that hair of his standing on end was quite a sight.” She chuckled.

“So you don’t believe you’re…in danger. From the ghost, I mean?”

Leslie grimaced. “So far, she just seems to be sort of throwing her weight around. So to speak. Loud, windy, creepy—but so far her bark is worse than her bite. It’s usually around two, two thirty. And there’s this music that’s always playing in the background…I feel like if I could place it, that might help.”

“Can you sing it or hum it? Maybe I can help.”

“I can do better than that—I actually recorded it on Monday night. It’s not great sound quality, but you can hear it if you listen hard.” She went over to stand next to him, maneuvering through her phone to find the voice memo. “Here, listen. Cherry and Orbra didn’t recognize it, but maybe you will.”

He did so, several times, as she mashed avocado, lemon, cumin, salt, and pepper into guacamole.

“It’s definitely familiar. Right on the tip of my ear, so to speak,” Declan finally said. “Maybe it will come to me later. By the way, did you ever find the pink velvet wrap that is missing?”

“No. It’s definitely gone. I just don’t understand why anyone would take that and leave a bunch of other vintage articles in the speakeasy. I found a ladies’ dinner jacket from the 1920s that Gilda Herring said could be worth a thousand dollars.”

“A jacket worth a grand?”

“That’s what she said. So why would someone take the pink stole? And leave that?”

“Maybe they didn’t have time to look through everything in the speakeasy. We might have interrupted them when we drove up.”

“But if they were in the speakeasy, there’s no way they would have heard or seen us arrive.” Leslie shook her head. “No, I’ve done a lot of thinking about it, and I think whoever it was left on their own—either because they were finished with what they were doing, or because the ghost made an appearance.” She grinned. “I’m kind of hoping for the latter, because then I doubt the intruders will ever come back. And so far—to my knowledge, anyway—they haven’t.”

She brought dishes of shredded chicken, guacamole, chopped tomatoes, queso fresco, and plain yogurt to the table. “Et voila—Soft Tacos a la Leslie,” she said, returning to grab the cilantro and the warm corn tortillas.

“Wow. Will you marry me?” he said, looking at the array of food. “Neither Stephanie nor I are all that great in the kitchen.”

“I’ll consider it,” she said, sliding into her chair as he began to heap filling into a folded tortilla.

“I sure hope so,” he replied, glancing at her with an expression pointed enough to make her blush.

“So…anyway,” she said, filling her own taco, “I’ve been searching in the speakeasy when I have some free time to see if there is any sort of hidden cache down there. If Red Eye Sal did have those jewels, it seems a likely place to hide them, right?”

“One would think. And you’re sure they exist?”

“Yes. I’ve dug deep enough in old Chicago Tribune archives—online—to find a few articles about them, and even one photo of the rubies. They did exist. And no one seems to have seen them for almost a century. So the timing is right for them to have been hidden when Sal lived here.”

“Maybe the ghost—if it’s Dorothy Duchene—can help you find them.”

Leslie laughed. “She’s not been much help otherwise, but I guess I could ask her.”

“So you really do talk to her?” He was already loading up a second taco. Good thing she’d made plenty of tortillas.

“Well…it’s more like shouting at her.” Leslie grinned. Then her smile faded. “You know…I was thinking. This is going to sound really weird, but…that sort of corrosion that’s on the iron bars that’s not rust? I think… I wonder if it might be some sort of physical manifestation of the haunting.”

That caught his interest enough for him to pause, taco halfway to his mouth. “As if whatever happened to Dorothy Duchene—or whoever she is—is a sort of evil growth spreading inside the house? Inside the stairway?”

“Yes. I guess that’s what I mean. Put that way it sounds strange—but what other explanation is there? It’s not anywhere else in the house. And that makes me think that whatever happened to her has something to do with the stairs. Especially that section of the stairway.” She scooped up the last bit of guacamole. “I sent away a sample of a piece of wood with the corrosion on it to friend of mine at a lab at Michigan State University. Just to see what it was. It’s… Well, they’re not sure what it is. They can’t identify it.”

“That is more than a little creepy.”

“I know, right? So I really hope that whatever it is, it goes away once I figure out how to help the ghost settle back into her afterlife.” She looked at Declan, then laughed, shaking her head. “If someone had told me I’d be a cat owner and also be having this very serious conversation about a ghost six months ago, I would have thought they were on drugs.”

“Same here. And I’ve seen a lot of creepy things in my line of work.” He stood and began to clear the empty dishes, sliding them into place in the dishwasher with the ease of a single parent. “So maybe we should take a closer look at that staircase, stair railing, and so on.”

“I was so hoping you’d say that.”

It wasn’t long before they had the kitchen put back to rights and were standing in the foyer, looking at the majestic stairway. The temporary wooden poles Declan had put in while he was working on the railing looked horribly out of place.

“I really need to pull up that carpet. It’s probably a hundred years old,” Leslie said, looking at the swath of dark red Oriental rug that covered the stairs in a long, threadbare strip. It was held in place on most steps by a slender brass rod that fit flush to the back of each one. “I keep putting it off because of all those rods—they’d each have to be unscrewed, and there are twenty-six steps.”

“Except for that one—the broken step,” Declan reminded her. “Was that broken before or after your break-in?”

“If it was broken, I didn’t notice it before. There are a few bars missing in the middle of the stairway, and the carpet is loose. I used a staple gun to punch the rug into place so no one tripped on it while going up and down—just a temporary fix.” She paused suddenly, stilling as a thought struck her.

“What is it?”

“The second time I saw the ghost, and every time since then, she’s no longer standing at the top, along the balcony, but on the stairs. About a third of the way down.” Leslie’s shoulders began to prickle violently. “She’s pointing…and she could very well be pointing at this step. The broken one.”

Just as she said those words, the house moved…groaned and creaked. And the air shifted. It wasn’t a breeze so much as a…maybe an intake of breath. A subtle change. A shudder?

The prickling was strong, and her skin felt as if it were drawing tighter everywhere.

Leslie looked at Declan, her eyes feeling as if they were going to pop out of her head. He looked at her, shocked and aware. So he’d heard and felt it too.

“It sounds,” he said just above a whisper as he reached for her hand, “as if you’ve hit on something very important, Leslie.”

She squeezed his fingers, glad—so glad—someone was here with her. “That broken stair. Maybe…maybe the ghost somehow made it break or shift, so we’d find it.”

Declan frowned. “Or more likely, the person or persons who broke in trod on it and it broke. Maybe the ghost chose that moment to make an appearance and caused it to happen?”

“I don’t know. But let’s take a look at that stair. Maybe that’s how Dorothy Duchene died—she stepped on it and fell to her death.”

“But then why haunt the place if it were just an accident?”

“True. It would have to have been something violent to make her haunt the place. Right?”

At those words, something brushed across Leslie’s cheek…a whisper of wind, a cobweb…a ghostly hand. She stifled a gasp and said into the ether, “Is that it? You fell down the stairs? Or were you pushed?”

A loud roaring filled her ears, reverberating through the foyer: violent, angry, determined. The walls shook, the crystal lights tinkled, windows rattled. The entire house shuddered as if it were being buffeted by a gale…but the gale was inside the walls.

Declan grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her as if to shelter her from whatever it was…but after a moment, it calmed.

She calmed. The ghost.

“It’s all right,” Leslie said, slowly disengaging herself from his embrace. “But obviously we are on the right track.”

Without another word, they climbed up to the broken step. It was one of the ones where Leslie had stapled the faded rug runner, and it was the only stair missing its brass bar.

Declan moved the loose step, but it was too difficult to pull out from behind the rug runner without cutting the carpet. The runner was tight and stretched almost the entire width of the step, leaving no room to maneuver it free. However, it tilted and slid down behind the carpet, pulling the runner taut from the top of the next stair down, revealing a hollow beneath the top of the step.

“Wait a minute.” Leslie bumped against Declan as she moved shoulder to shoulder with him on the stairs. “You don’t think there’s anything down in that hollow, do you? After all…I did find that pink velvet stole tucked inside the base of the stair rail.”

“You could be right. If Dorothy Duchene was pushed down the stairs, maybe the murderer needed to hide her—or her belongings.” His voice was tense with excitement as they both peered beneath the raised carpet, trying to get a good view down inside the hollow.

“I can’t see anything.”

“We need a better light—and probably to remove the carpet.” He eased back and so did she. “I’m assuming you have one in your toolkit? Something to cut the carpet with. Or I could grab my toolbox from the truck.”

Leslie was already climbing back down the stairs. “Yes, of course.” She headed toward the kitchen, and was somewhat relieved that he followed. Despite her excitement, she was still trembling from the massive supernatural response that had filled the foyer.

She retrieved a mega-flashlight, then set about looking for her box cutter. That would be perfect for slicing through the old rug. When she had them both in hand, she paused and looked at Declan.

“You don’t think there’s a body down there, do you?” she asked. “Like…in pieces?”

His face was sober. “I don’t know. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s possible. Something’s not right.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, biting her lip a little nervously as she leaned against the counter. “I haven’t really told anyone much about all this, and…well, I’m just glad you not only believed me first, but also that you just experienced what I did. Just now. You did, didn’t you?”

“I sure as hell did.”

“Thank you.” She started to walk past him, but he reached out and snagged her arm with a light but firm touch.

She stopped and looked up at him. His brilliant green eyes were steady and serious…and hot. Her heart started to pound a little harder as she allowed him to draw her closer. Their feet, both still bare, bumped against the other—his warm, hers cold.

Leslie was suddenly very, very glad she’d brushed her teeth.

“Something wrong?” she asked, her voice low and teasing. She had to resist the urge to reach up and touch a hank of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Don’t you want to go back out and investigate our ghost?”

“Our ghost?” He smiled, his lips curving into something halfway between a smirk and a pout. “I don’t think so. I think she just belongs to you. And maybe Rufus too.” His arm slid around her waist, easing her up against him without moving to kiss her. “You’re a hell of a woman, Leslie Nakano. Talking to ghosts. Demanding information from them. And just standing there when they nearly blow the damn house down around you. I just want you to know—damn.”

They both looked down, for the phone in his pocket had begun to tinkle with “Brown-Eyed Girl.”

He groaned and released her. “Hey, Steph,” he said as soon as he’d worked the device out of his jeans pocket. “What’s up?” He listened, and his cheeks turned a little darker. “I’m working… On a project—what else? I…” He listened for a sec. “What time? Can’t you get a ri—” His face fell. “All right. I’ll be there in about…ten minutes.” He looked down at Leslie, who’d taken the opportunity to settle her hands right on his chest and ease in once more.

Because when it came to a choice between maybe finding a dead body or getting cozy with her blacksmith, Leslie was going to choose the latter. Every time.

She smoothed her hands up and over his shoulders, her hips settling against his. He was strong. And tall. And hard. And warm. She shivered deep inside. Oh, yes.

“Uh…closer to twenty minutes,” Declan said, and to her ears, he sounded delightfully breathless. “I’ll be there in twenty—definitely by thirty…minutes…”

His voice trailed off as Leslie pressed a light little kiss on his jaw. He tasted warm, a little salty; he smelled like popcorn and delicious man; and she immediately wanted a whole lot more.

A whole lot more than twenty minutes’ worth.