TWELVE
Chiara
I dressed and went hunting for Jack. Of course, he was in his command center.
“What kind of problem?” I asked, as I strolled into the room.
Jack turned around, his blue eyes capturing mine. Everything about him was exactly the same as it had been yesterday and the day before that and the entire year before that.
Part of me marveled that Jack actually looked different in my dreams. That was one of many things that baffled me about them. Every shifting scene had him wearing something unexpected, something new. It was backwards from my expectation. Why did my subconscious want Jack to change his clothes so badly? Was it just that I empathized with his frozen state and wanted him to find some freedom? Or was it something more?
If Jack noted my extra-hard staring at him, he graciously ignored it. Instead, he pointed to the far right screen and answered my question.
“The kind of problem that wears a black leather jacket and carries a long lens,” he said.
Sure enough, there was a man creeping through the trees and brush to the left of the house, a large camera with a telephoto lens clearly visible. Not to be judgy, but it did seem as if the man’s large lens was compensating for his bald head and doughy middle.
Ugh.
Paparazzi.
It hadn’t taken them long to track Jack here. How had they found him? I scowled, thinking about the ridiculous number of phone calls I had received this week from news outlets and paps. Phone calls that anyone with access to the right corrupt government official could trace.
Grrrr. I hated the thought of Jack’s privacy being invaded like this. Despite my teasing, I knew he was one of the good ones. He deserved so much better than the half-life he was currently living.
“Will he go away, do you think?” Jack asked.
Sure. Once the paparazzo got the photo he was looking for. Namely, a shot of the handsomely mysterious Jack Knight-Snow. But the guy was about to discover that trespassing was an extremely bad idea.
All my frustration with the current situation spilled over into red-hazed rage.
“He’s going to get a piece of my mind.”
“Pardon?”
I stomped out of the room.
“Chiara, are you insane? You can’t march out there. The man could be anyone with any intent.” Jack caught up with me. “The lens could simply be a ruse, a gun in disguise. A way to lure you out and kill you.”
“Seriously?” I stared Jack down. “I think you’ve watched one too many James Bond films. You know those gadgets aren’t real, right?”
Jack darted around me, planting himself between me and the door. “You’re not going out there.”
I smirked, met his gaze, held it . . . and then walked right though him.
“Chiara!” His voice thundered behind me.
Still smirking, I paused long enough to fish a can of mace out of my purse in the entryway. “Feel better?” I waved it in Jack’s irate face.
“No. This is madness.”
Meh.
A little neurotic, but hardly full on madness. Trust me. I was a D’Angelo. I knew madness. This wasn’t it.
The guy was a nosy pap, not a hit man. And no one was going to harass Jack on my watch. Harassing Jack was my job.
Ehr . . . or something like that.
“Stay inside, Chiara. Call the authorities.”
“You’re not talking me out of this, Jack.” I walked toward the front door.
“Madam! He must be three times your size.”
I froze. And then sloooooooowly turned around.
“What did you say?” My voice soft, deathly quiet.
Even Jack understood my tone presaged a violent eruption.
Okay. So maybe I was hyper-touchy about my height. It was kinda hard not to be when it was all people seemed to focus on.
I’m short. I get it. It doesn’t make me incapable. Let’s move on.
Jack gestured futilely toward the door.
“He’s bigger than you, Chiara.”
“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock.”
“Don’t be like this.”
“Like what?”
“There’s nothing to prove here.”
“I’m not trying to prove anything, Jack. I’m just going to tell the paparazzi to go away.”
“Calling the police will have the same effect. Why don’t we do that?”
“I don’t need the police. I’m perfectly capable of doing this on my own.”
Jack rolled his eyes. It was a decidedly exasperated motion. I had that effect on men.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he said.
The lonely little girl part of me sat up at his words. He cares, she whispered. I know he cares about me. I’m special.
I shook the thought away and waved my mace again. “I’m not going to be.”
Jack clearly did not know me as well as he thought he did. I could handle this. Besides, no one came creeping around Jack’s house when the poor guy couldn’t defend himself. I was the only one who could defend Jack against the outside world. And I took my commitment to my ghost guyfriend very seriously.
I threw open the front door and walked outside, knowing full well that Jack couldn’t follow me if he wanted to avoid being photographed transparent and ghostlike.
Summer sun hit, a blast furnace of heat and light. Cicadas buzzed, white noise background against the chirp of birds and the far-off rumble of a tractor.
I gripped my mace tightly and moved around the side of the house, feet crunching softly on the gravel. The house cast a deep shadow on this side, the shade dropping the temperature at least fifteen degrees. The gravel extended around the villa, but here ivy and night jasmine climbed over the stone walls with planters of lemons and oranges tucked against the shelter of the building.
The unknown photographer was peering through a window into lower rooms that had once housed the old kitchens and wine cellars. Nothing to see there, that was for sure.
“Hey!” I yelled.
He flinched, whipping his camera around, body tense and ready for a fight.
Yeah. This was one of the über-aggressive ones.
Registering my small size, his snarl turned into a sneer. His eyes roamed over me, blatantly lurid. He took a step away from the villa, walking toward me.
I swallowed. The slightest thread of unease trickled through me. Jack wasn’t going to be any help if this guy decided to do something. The police wouldn’t arrive soon enough.
Maybe this hadn’t been my brightest idea ever.
Another classic example of my impulsive behavior sabotaging me.
“Hello, beautiful. Lost your mommy?” His Italian was saturated with Naples and innuendo.
Blind fury flushed any trace of concern straight out of my body. I would eat this guy’s liver for lunch.
“I am officially asking you to leave this property immediately,” I replied. “The owner has not granted you permission to be here.”
“So glad you’ve come to play. Smile for me.” He held up his camera and took a shot of my face.
Did he have to be so stereotypical?
I gritted my teeth. “You are trespassing on private property, and I have called the police.” Fine. Now I would be calling the police. Jack had probably already called them, for that matter.
“I’ll leave, but first I need to get what I came for.” The man snapped another photo, closing the distance between us. I forced my feet to stand still, not taking a step back.
Damn. What I wouldn’t give to be six feet tall and Amazonian. A presence. Why had my mammoth personality been stuffed into a pipsqueak body?
I stood there contemplating my options. Mace first, then run? Both simultaneously?
Then the unthinkable happened.
Jack drifted out of the wall and ivy behind the paparazzo.
No. Just no.
Jack glared at the man’s back. Not a trace of teasing Jack on his face. No. His expression was nothing short of murderous.
Didn’t he know I was doing this to protect him? What was Jack going to do? Poke the guy to death?
More likely, this doofus photographer would snap a photo of Ghost Jack and then what would we do? Say it was a weird prank? Enjoy the media circus that would erupt?
I studiously avoided looking at Jack. But I sent him super strong please go back inside mental vibes.
Jack ignored me.
The paparazzo took another photo of me. Advanced a step forward.
“You need to leave. Now.” I swept a hand to the side, indicating the way the guy should go. “If you don’t, I’m going to have to stop asking so nicely.”
“Or what?” The guy snorted. He shot me another leer. “You gonna place those sexy little hands on me?”
Gag.
“For a lone man, you’re stupidly brave.”
“For a lone woman, you’re stupidly naive.”
Jack’s expression morphed from murderous to homicidal.
Don’t do it, Jack. I mentally pleaded. Let me handle this.
“I’m serious about the police,” I repeated. “Leave. Now.”
The paparazzo let go of his camera, tucking it behind him on its neck strap. He walked toward me, casual but definitely crowding into my space. I tightened my grip on my can of mace.
The man stopped within arms’ reach. The smell of stale cigarette smoke, garlic and cheap cologne eddied out from him. Sweat beaded on his bald head.
“I’ll be going,” he said, “but I believe you owe me a kiss for all this trouble, don’t you think?”
Double-gag.
Jack darted closer, coming right up behind the man’s shoulder, brows drawn down into a thundercloud. Involuntarily, my gaze flickered to him.
The paparazzo wasn’t stupid, his eyes followed mine. He whipped around.
But Jack was faster. He moved with stunning quickness, melting into the shadows beside the house, disappearing entirely into the climbing jasmine. How had he done that?
The man scanned the area behind him, seeing nothing. Thank goodness. “What are you seeing, sweetheart? Ghosts?”
Hah! That was funny.
The guy whirled back around. “You can’t trip me up that easily.”
I was still staring behind him, trying to figure out where Jack had gone. That’s when I saw it.
He hadn’t moved with lightning speed and hidden himself in the jasmine leaves.
No. He had pushed his entire body nearly out of this world in an attempt to avoid detection. He was the faintest outline in the shadows of the house and climbing vines.
Impressive.
Clever Jack.
“So about that kiss . . .” The guy took another step closer, a hand reaching out to grab me.
I evaded and finally stepped back, swinging my can of mace around.
The paparazzo moved quickly, wrapping a meaty hand around my wrist, puckering his lips. I wrestled with him, kicking his shins.
The man chuckled, pulling me closer to him. “C’mon, darlin’.”
As abruptly as he disappeared, Jack reappeared.
Like . . . absolutely and utterly appeared, body flowing into this world.
Jack Knight-Snow was suddenly . . . here. Real. Solid. Breathing. Stealing all the air for at least a mile in any direction.
My jaw sagged. My brain shut down.
For his part, Jack’s gaze was fixated on the paparazzo’s hold on my wrist.
“Unhand her, you fiend!” Jack thundered.
The paparazzo yelped in surprise, nearly jumping out of his skin as he whipped back around.
Jack wrenched the man’s arm off of mine with his left hand, while simultaneously driving his right fist into the man’s jaw. The paparazzo sprawled onto the ground, camera smacking him in the face.
“If you’re here when I turn back around, I will continue my demonstration of fisticuffs and pummel you senseless.” Jack stomped past the man, not even looking at him as he delivered his threat.
No, Jack’s attention was one hundred and ten percent on me. Which was good, as Jack was all I saw.
The tendons in his neck flexing as he stalked forward . . .
The slide of shoulder muscles underneath his billowy shirt . . .
The flex of thigh muscles in his tight breeches as he walked was like . . .
My heart did an odd gymnastics thing, flipping into my throat and then tumbling out the bottom of my ribs. There had been so much talk of kissing the last few minutes that it was all I could focus on.
My hands instinctively reached for him. I swallowed, licking my lips. Jack’s eyes flared, his gaze lowering to my mouth. That’s all it took.
Two more steps and Jack was all around me. One solid hand cupping my jaw. The other in the small of my back, lifting me up to him. My entire body pressed against the solid strength of him. He was heated and warm and so very here.
“Oh!” Every last wisp of air in my lungs scrambled for shore.
His lips met mine. Devastatingly soft. Not an iota of hesitation.
He tasted of wood smoke and fine brandy. Under notes of pine and cream and arrogant British lord.
And . . .
And—
He was kissing me.
All my angst and confusion and scary feelings about him suddenly found an outlet.
I let it all go.
I arched into him, the mace can dropping from my fingers as they suddenly found a better reason to exist. My greedy fingers tangled in his silky hair. Muscled arms tightened around me.
Dimly, I noted the clanking sha-shunk of a camera shutter, the crunch of feet on gravel, the roar of a car motor leaving.
But I couldn’t care.
Jack was here.
Real. Substantial. Strong.
I was holding him. Blood pulsed underneath my hand against his neck. A heart thumped in the chest I was plastered against. Air moved in and out of his lungs, breathing life into me.
I couldn’t get enough. My hands roamed his body, eagerly pressing against ribs and collarbone and flexing biceps. I dipped two fingers inside the open collar of his shirt—possibly popping a button or two—marveling at the texture of him.
And still we kissed. Nip. Press. Repeat.
“ Chiara mia.” His voice rumbled through our combined bodies. “Beautiful. Sweet.”
For the record . . . Jack Knight-Snow was one hell of a kisser. Did they teach kissing at Lord School, too?
I may or may not have moaned.
But . . . could anyone blame me?
I was melting into him. Drowning in glorious Jack goodness.
Abruptly, he released me.
I gasped, lurching forward. My body cried out in protest.
“Wha . . .?” I managed to gulp.
I raised my head, meeting Jack’s translucent pale blues just inches from my own.
Oh.
His gaze held so much . . . tenderness, sorrow, pain.
He lifted a ghost hand toward my face, mouth moving.
“What?” I leaned toward him. “What is it, Jack?”
His voice barely reached me, a whisper of sound:
“I’m going to pass out now.”
And like he had a few days previously, his eyes rolled back into his head and his immaterial body crumpled.