Somer leaned against the wall of the elevator, watching it climb to the fourteenth floor. It was only a little after ten, and though the carousel bar was packed with patrons, the hotel lobby and elevator were quiet. This day had been anything but normal—which for her was a stretch no matter how you looked at it. First, the flickering lights, the little boy, then the tall cowboy whose smile alone had caused her panties to get wet. And there was the old, blind woman warning her about an impending storm. Could the day possibly get any stranger?
The elevator jerked to a stop and the polished brass doors opened. Stepping around the corner, she was startled to see the little boy she’d seen earlier darting down the hall. “Hey,” she hollered.
One door after another opened down the long hallway. Guests who’d retired for the evening peered at her, completely unaware of the bitch of a day she’d had. “Sorry, it’s just”—she waved her hand toward the empty hall—“the little scoundrel was in my room.” Somer was keenly aware of the looks she was receiving, having seen them many times before—those ‘you’re-one-of-the-crazy-ones-they-warn-us-about’ looks. “I’m sorry. Go back to…whatever you were doing. Peaceful dreams.” She smiled and gave a jaunty wave to her onlookers. “Here’s hoping someone’s living in your closet,” she muttered.
Opening the door, she wasn’t the least surprised that the light was off. She diligently turned it on and looked around the room. What caused her heart to falter a wee bit was the sight of her laptop, sitting open in the middle of her bed. Nothing else, as far as she could tell, had been disturbed. Tossing her bag on the second bed, she pressed her computer on, discovering it in sleep mode. A blueprint of Evermore Plantation showed up on the screen as the last image looked at. But that hadn’t been her. This was the first time she’d seen the image. She stared at the screen and the old woman’s words filtered back into her brain. “She knows.”
***
“Come on, sugah. I’ve been good all night. Give me a little something to at least take the chill off. Daddy’s had me riding all day, watching over the fence-mending. And I’m powerful cold.”
He knew what worked on her like a charm to get into her bloomers. She watched him smile as she undid the laces of her dress’s bodice. His dark eyes danced in the flickering candlelight.
“If your daddy—my employer—ever caught wind of our tawdry actions, he’d skin us both alive.”
She flashed him a coy smile and let her top fall from her shoulders, revealing the thin cotton camisole beneath.
Her midnight lover licked his lips “He’s not going to catch us here, my sweet. The garçonnière is reserved for his son. And his son alone decides who are his guests. An, further, I am of age,” he turned her, pulling her against his hard body. His hands came around her, clamping over her pale breasts.
Heat filled her belly. She sighed at the exquisite pleasure of his caresses. It was not proper, she knew, that she should enjoy his hands on her, or the exquisite sensations she felt as he moved his hand between her thighs, pressing the fabric against her womanhood, until she was nearly crazed with lust. Offering no protest, she let him remove her corset, as well as her skirt and underpinnings. No man had ever given her such attention. She was not herself around him. Instead, she embraced her wicked behavior, eyeing him as she sauntered toward him wearing nothing but a smile.
“Come here, you, and sit here on my lap.” He sat down, sheathed himself for the protection of them both. and motioned to her with a wicked grin. His erection jutted from his lap, thick and proud. Their secret liaisons were extraordinary for a woman sheltered by books, sequestered by her profession. Though they were the same in age, her lover’s experience was by far greater than she could imagine.
He smiled up at her as she slipped one leg over his hip. Stopping her progress, he held her knee bent and pulled her forward, his mouth teasing as his fingers had done. She grew dizzy, forced to brace his head until her body broke into a thousand prisms of light.
He tugged her to his lap, entering with patient reverence until they were as one.
His mouth, warm and moist, teased one breast and then the other, igniting a furious flame that only he could extinguish.
“Sweet, sweet girl,” he breathed, capturing her mouth as he carried her to the bed. He dropped her on the feather mattress and pulled her to the edge, driving into her, his face upturned in his task as the storm raged outside.
She clawed at the bedsheets, fisting them between her fingers, lost in an exquisite oblivion—barely aware of the pounding on the door….
“Room service,” the voice issued from the other side of the door.
Somer woke, her brain muddled, her pajamas clinging to her skin still damp from the erotic intensity of her dream. Her body, tense from the dream, demanded attention, but her electric boyfriend would have to wait.
An hour later, after a lengthy shower and a pot of coffee, she called one of the names she’d gotten from the PROOF agency in Louisiana. Since she’d first heard of the paranormal investigations agency after her arrival in the states, they’d grown to have local agencies in nearly every major city in America.
“PROOF Investigations, Jeremy speaking. How can I help you?”
“Good day. My name is Doctor Somer Ingler. I’m a parapsychologist researching for a book I’m writing on southern plantation legends and lore. Would this happen to be the same Jeremy that two years ago did a documentary in Salem?”
“It is. How are you doing, Somer? I recognized your voice immediately. How are things going?”
“Good, thanks. All the spirits in Salem are alive and well.” She laughed.
“That was quite an experience. Especially for your friend—Devin? Who knew the guy was such a ghost magnet, huh?”
“It appears the ghosts do like my Devin,” Somer agreed. She was anxious, though, to get to the point of this conversation. “Listen, I’m wondering what you might be able to tell me about your experience with investigating Evermore Plantation. I’m heading out there tomorrow to scout around. Thought maybe you could fill me in.”
“I’d be happy to, Doc, but it might be wise to call out there first. I heard it’s under new ownership and they’ve temporarily closed it to the public due to damage to the roof. Not sure what caused it—maybe lightning hit the widow’s walk, or a tree branch fell.”
She pressed on. “I was curious to hear what you might know about the woman who died there, the one allegedly seen by guests over the years.”
The man chuckled. “Alleged? Oh, she’s there all right. Caused serious havoc with our equipment. Lights going on and off. Cold spots. Full-scale apparitions. Tons of energy in that house.”
Somer thought back to the way her lights flickered during the rainstorm. Typically, that was not an extraordinary occurrence. In fact, it probably happened with greater frequency down here, where storms blew in and out within an hour, at times. “Is there any history, any research, on what happened to her?”
“Only that she was a frequent visitor of the house back in the mid-1800’s. There are rumors, of course.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“That she had a secret lover. Possibly a slave. Or one of the neighbor’s sons. Seemed they’d had a falling out over where the property lines were drawn. There was another that it had been the owner’s oldest son from a previous marriage. You know how these things are—rumors, but most unsubstantiated.”
Somer frowned. Having found precious little about this woman other than the surface facts made her more determined. The blind woman’s words came back to her. “Is there anything documented about an unusual storm around that period of time?”
“Let me check something,” Jeremy said.
She waited as she looked down over the tops of the buildings in the Quarter. Tightly wedged together on narrow cobbled brick streets, the boutiques, eateries, and street musicians seemed to fill every available space. Some found it stifling, but Somer reveled in its history.
“Well, it looks like it wasn’t a hurricane, but there is documentation of a tropical depression that came in fast and furious. That was closer to the end of the 19th century, though.” There was a pause. “Hey, you know there was a gal who helped us on our investigation—seemed to know a lot. Said she had ties to the place. Let me check, yep. Her name was Savannah Doucet. I think I heard that she works for the Louisiana Cultural Society. Actually, now that I recall, it was the society who called us up in the first place to check out the place. We met Savannah at the plantation. At the time, she was trying to connect with her husband—his name…O’Rourke, yeah, Patrick O’Rourke.”
Somer jotted down the names. “Thanks a lot, Jeremy. I appreciate your help.”
“Anytime. Where are you staying?” he asked.
“I’m at the Hotel Monteleone. At least until tomorrow.”
“Oh, man. I love that place. Have you seen the little boy yet?”
“Fourteenth floor?” she asked
“That’s his playground. Take it you’ve met?”
“A couple of times, yes. He seems as curious about my plantation research as I am.”
“Hmm, kind of strange,” Jeremy said. “Well, listen, if you need anything, let me know. And, hey, stop in if you have time. Let me know if you find anything new out at Evermore.”
“Will do.” She hung up, checked the Evermore number, and called. A man answered. By the tone of his voice, she’d not been the first to call him that morning.
“Evermore Plantation,” he stated in a clipped tone.
“Hello, my name is Somer Ingler—”
“I’m sorry, but the tours have been temporarily suspended while the house undergoes some minor repair and restoration.”
She had to get in there. “Yes, I was made aware of the restoration going on. However, I am not interested in a tour, per se.”
“Oh?” the gentleman responded. “What, per se, are you interested in?”
In the background she heard the distant sound of hammers and a variety of other construction noises.
“I’m doing research for a book I’m writing. It features predominantly the plantation homes along the river road.” She paused, then tossed in, “My field is in parapsychology. I’ve been published in several notable science magazines, both here and abroad. My degree is from Edinburgh University. I’m sure you are aware of its renowned studies on paranormal psychology.”
“In Scotland?” he asked, his voice tinged with awe.
“Yes. I was hoping to come out and take a look around?” Pleading to what she hoped was his sense of reason, she continued. “Actually, the fact that you’re closed to the public would make it an excellent time for me to visit. Sometimes, those who reside permanently are often shy and stay hidden around large groups.”
“And this is for a book, you say?”
“Indeed, and it’s my hope that with my findings, it could put Evermore and the other plantations down here in the limelight again.” She gazed out across the city rooftops. “It’s so easy for people to forget the rich history that resides just outside your own doorstep, don’t you agree?”
“We’d certainly take any free publicity we could get. I’ll have to check with the owner first, of course, but so you know, I’ll be around as well to take any questions you might have.”
“Of course, that would be wonderful if you would,” she said.
“May I have your number, and I’ll call you back shortly?”
Somer gave him the number, hung up, and started packing her backpack. She detected the man’s interest in gaining some type of notoriety in her book. The scent was not unlike a vampire able to sense a pulse—figuratively speaking, of course.
A few moments later, her cell phone rang.
“Miss Ingler?” the man asked.
“Yes? This is Doctor Ingler,” she added for good measure.
“Mr. Walker has agreed to have you at the house. But you must limit your research only to the rooms not currently being restored.”
Somer nodded. “Absolutely. I can’t see that being an issue. I’ll be out this afternoon. May I ask if you can tell me where I might find a place close by where I can stay? My research quite often is done after dark—you understand.”
“Let me check, but I believe the guest house could be made ready in short time. The rate is two hundred a day.”
Somer swallowed. It would eat up her budget, but it would be well worth it for the chance to be right there. “That sounds reasonable.” They exchanged information, and in short time she was registered.
“Mr. Nash is the only other tenant on the property,” the manager said. “There are no maids and currently there are no cooks during the restoration process. The guest house, however, does come standard with a microwave and coffee-pot.”
“No refrigerator, then?”
“No.”
“Understood.” She’d simply stop at the first market she saw and load up on peanut butter, jelly, and bread. Somer saw a movement in the reflection of the window. Behind her, just a few feet away, stood the little boy. She said her goodbyes and hung up. She held the young boy’s gaze. “Are you lost?” she asked, not turning around.
He shook his head, and then looked at the undisturbed bed. A small ribbon lay atop its covers.
Somer took a quiet breath. Spirits, in her experience, were much like animals—they sensed fear. “Is this a gift, then?” she asked, locking her knees to prevent them from buckling. The tension in the room enveloped her, making it hard to breathe.
Again, the boy shook his head ‘no.’
“But you want me to take it…give it to someone, perhaps?”
He nodded.
Somers attention was drawn to the street below where a white horse-drawn carriage had just dropped off a newlywed couple. When she turned back to the boy, he was gone.
The ribbon remained.
***
“If you don’t need me for anything, Mr. Nash, I’ll go see to readying the guest house for our distinguished visitor. It’s not every day we get a doctor from Scotland on the premises.” Micah, the man he’d kept on along with much of the staff who’d worked at the plantation home for years, stood at the door to the bedroom. A yawning hole appeared in the ceiling’s corner, where the damaged roof had been stripped down to the frame and rebuilt. Several of the floorboards, rotted with time, had also been taken up, leaving large gaps in the flooring dropping the nearly twenty feet to the room below.
“You explained about the restoration?” he asked, slipping a hammer in his tool belt.
“I did, and she found no issue with your conditions.”
Nash nodded as he watched Mickey from the opening in the roof above.
“Ready to close it up?” he yelled through the hole.
Nash had been up on scaffolding, the only way possible to repair some of the damage to the cross beams above. He’d need to get up there and drop in some insulation and a new floor before they could finish off the bedroom ceiling. The previous owner had done a simple textured ceiling to best match the Greek Revival style of the early 1800’s—that was fine with Nash. He had enough going on with the upkeep of the other buildings on the property. He realized Micah was still standing at the door. “Is there something else?”
“Dr. Ingler is new to the area, sir.”
Nash raised his brows and waited. He had no time to baby-sit this ghost-hunting woman and her coffee table book she hoped to retire on.
“Well, with the kitchen closed to the public, sir, I thought you might wish to be aware of the situation. It’s not as though we have a burger joint down the road.”
Nash held Micah’s gaze. “So, now I’m supposed to cook for…who’d you say this woman was again?”
“Dr. Somersby Ingler,” Micah repeated calmly.
Nash focused on the ceiling above his manager’s head. He probably should be impressed, but he wasn’t. Those interested in the history, the strides in architectural design, the exquisitely ornate decadence of the era, the sharp contrast between wealth and nothing—that he had an interest in. But someone stomping around, beating two sticks together hoping to flush out spirits? Oh, brother.
“She is certified—” Micah began, but Nash cut him off.
“No doubt,” he said with a grin.
“—in paranormal studies, sir.”
He laughed. “Yeah, but has she seen Elvis?”
Micah, however, did not laugh. His manager had been there for several years and, as an experienced tour guide, needed to believe in such things. It was part of his job description.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” Nash dismissed the topic with a wave of his hand. “I’ll see she doesn’t starve.” He glanced at Micah, unable to stop himself. “But she damn well better like mac and cheese…from a box.”
Micah eyed him warily. “You know she will visit you, eventually.”
Nash frowned. “Miss, uh, Dr. Ingler?”
“Lucille.” Micah did a sweep of his hand to the room. “The very woman whose bedroom you’re standing in,” he said.
Nash noticed then that Micah had stayed outside the room. And, okay, hearing a name tacked onto the superstition maybe caused a jitter, brief though it was. “This was her bedroom?” Nash asked looking around. Most of the furnishings had been moved to the parlor that separated the two massive bedrooms on the second floor. All except the massive four-poster bed that had taken five men to scoot to the corner farthest from the restoration work.
Given his background in period furniture, Nash had noticed that many of the furnishings in the house were not original, but period reproductions. “It appears Lucille had it quite cushy for a tutor in those days, if all this furniture is anywhere close,” Nash remarked with a smile. “I can see why she didn’t want to leave.”
Micah offered him a tolerant look. “Mr. Walker, from what we’ve been able to determine, Miss Harris was the epitome of the humble, southern woman. And as you know, most of the furnishings throughout the house are reproductions.”
Nash nodded. “And quite beautiful.” He tried to soothe Micah’s ruffled feathers.
“All except one,” Micah added, his finger poised in midair for a dramatic pause.
Nash, a true Texan, was a patient man, the advantage of growing up a country boy. Micah’s tour-guide-like gift for storytelling often included long pauses. The attribute, while theatrical for storytelling, currently made him want to throttle the man. He had work to do. He kept his gaze to Micah’s in blessed anticipation. Finally, he tipped his head and pinned the man with a narrowed gaze.
“The bed,” Micah continued as though Nash was on one of his tours. Above, the thump of shingles being laid and the firing of the pneumatic nail gun in rapid succession only fueled Micah’s spiel. His voice rose dramatically. “It’s hers. The entire thing—mattress, frame, right down to the original slats beneath. It was said that the owner had it made especially for her in way of gratitude for her loyalty to teaching his children.”
Nash held his hands up in defense. “Okay, okay. I promise to be a gentleman, should I run into Miss Lucille.”
His manager, seemingly satisfied with Nash’s promise, offered a brief nod. He glanced then at his pocket watch. “I’ll see to Doctor Ingler’s room and then be on my way. I’ll be in tomorrow at the usual time to dust.”
“You probably wouldn’t…” Nash started to remind the man that he’d dusted twice today already, then decided against it. Micah prided himself on serving this house and its history. Nash was grateful for his loyalty. “See you tomorrow, Micah,” he said to his departing form.
Glancing around the room, he noted the pale peach walls—painted within the last five years, if he were to guess. That would save a little after the extensive and unplanned floor restoration, along with the leak issue that had been happening for quite some time in the roof.
He stepped carefully over the open holes in the floor and decided to take care of some finish work on a window they’d had to replace. The nearly six-foot windows had their original pulley-style runners, which thrilled Nash to the marrow. True to its original structure, there were no screens on any of the windows, except those of the newly renovated sun porches on the main and second levels at the back of the house.
Latching the lock, his eye caught a movement in the dusky November shadows below. Drawing aside the chiffon drape, he peered down into the garden maze, its hedges standing more than four feet high. Just beyond was a grove of oak trees that led to more structures on the property. He swore he’d seen someone disappear into the shrouded branches of the trees. He narrowed his gaze, searching the murkiness below. Perhaps it was his new visitor taking a quick look around before it got dark. He frowned, still searching the garden when Mickey walked in the bedroom.
“Roof’s up.”
Nash turned, startled by his foreman’s presence. He glanced at his boots to recover from the shock, blaming Micah for his damn dramatic ghost tales.
Mickey hadn’t noticed. “The shingles on that damaged corner have been replaced.” His foreman rubbed the back of his neck as he eyed Nash. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but I think you’re looking at an entire roof replacement not too far down the road.”
He glanced back out the window and started to ask his friend if he’d run into anyone on the way in, but shrugged it off. It was likely his new guest scouting the premises before dark. “Thanks, Mick. We’ll take a look at it in the morning. I want to get these floorboards in first thing.”
Mickey nodded as he checked his phone.
“Things going okay with your new bride?” Nash asked over his shoulder as he stepped around Mickey and they headed down the steps to the main floor.
Mickey chuckled. “Seemed to be when I left her this morning.”
Nash held up his hand. “Spare me. Get on out of here. Go on home to your wedded bliss.”
Mickey laughed as he marched toward the front door. The lights of several trucks switched on, shining through the front wall of tall windows on the main level. Several years ago, it had been remodeled to house a dining room, library, living room, and the sun porch that stretched the length of the back of the house. “Hey.” Nash turned and pointed to his friend as he spoke. “I don’t want to see your ass in here before nine a.m., got it?”
Mickey’s grin widened. “You’re the best, boss. I’ll tell the guys.”
Nash smiled and nodded. “Yeah, and stop calling me boss.” But his words fell on deaf ears with the slamming of the front door. He glanced around the house, suddenly quiet without a soul in it. He’d been staying nights in the garçonnière, away from the main house. It was smaller and had a few amenities, like a small kitchenette. The original kitchen—a separate building from the main house by design to keep the heat and smells away from the residents—sat off to one side of the garden. It, too, was on Nash’s lengthy list of repairs and restoration work.
He started toward the back of the house, hoping to meet his ghost-hunter guest, and had just stepped onto the dark sun porch when he heard gravel crunching under tires on in the parking lot on the side of the house. Doing an about face, he assumed Mickey had come back to pick up something he’d forgotten.
Nash flipped on the new electric lanterns he’d installed. He’d seen them in many of the businesses in the Quarter and liked the ambience of the lifelike flickering bulb. He tugged open both doors, ready to lambast Mickey’s memory, when he saw a petite figure, head down, dragging a giant suitcase on wheels across the brick pathway—and not so easily, at that. She paused and he heard her sigh before she shrugged off her backpack and dropped it to her feet.
He knew that bright, apple-green backpack.
She looked up then, startled to realize that he was standing there, his hands still glued to the door. It was the second time his heart had had a jumpstart in less than thirty minutes.
Her expression unreadable, she stared at him. “You’re kidding,” she said dubiously.
Now Nash wasn’t exactly a woo-woo kind of guy. Superstitions didn’t faze him. He didn’t really believe in ghosts or vampires or werewolves. Aliens, jury was out. But what were the odds of running into the same woman twice—this making it three times—in less than twenty-four hours? Whatever it was, he was for damn sure going to make the best of it.
He offered a congenial smile. “It appears we meet again.” He walked out and placed his hand overs hers on the suitcase handle. “Let me get that for you.” He held her stunned gaze as she relinquished her hold on the suitcase. “You have a small pony in here?” he joked as he lugged it over the threshold.
She followed in apparent stupefied silence.
He glanced at her as she took in the enormity of the front hall. “My name is Nash Walker. We met last night?”
“Wait, you mean you’re the—”
“New owner and head of restoration at Evermore.” He nodded. “Guilty as charged.”
She eyed him warily as he allowed her to step into the shadowy foyer. “You own this?” She seemed a tad skeptical.
He chuckled. “Don’t let the tattered T-shirt and tool belt fool you, darlin’. I’m loaded, and I happen to have master’s degrees in architectural history and design. I also happen to have a good eye for things worth my time,” he said, assessing her from head to toe.
She blinked, seemingly not the least impressed. “Does that line work for you often?”
He shrugged. “Depends.”
“Well, save your southern charm, cowboy.” She looked around. “Your manager?”
“Yes, that would be Micah.”
“Yes, Micah. He indicated I’d be staying in the guest house?”
“He certainly did. Come on, I’ll walk you over. It’s getting dark out there with the rainclouds rolling in.” Nash ushered her out to the breezeway. The brick path stretched in both directions from the main doors, connecting the garçonnière at one end of the path and the guest cabin on the other. He switched off the lights, plunging them into an inky blackness in the shadow of the porch above them. “Watch your step.”
He glanced up as he emerged from beneath the second story. A cool breeze kissed with humidity brushed over his face. Above, the moon played peek-a-boo with the dark clouds. “Oh, I forgot to ask—have you had anything to eat?” he said over his shoulder. The path, only wide enough for him and her suitcase, meant she had to follow a few paces behind.
“I stopped a few miles back and picked up some things at a market.”
Nash smiled. This woman had the word ‘prepared’ written all over her. “You’ll find the previous owners stepped it up in the guest cabin. You’ve got your running water, electricity—there’s even an indoor facility.” He dragged her heavy suitcase up the short flight of wooden steps, tempted to ask if she’d packed a ton of bricks. “You basically have everything you need.”
He dug in his pocket to open the door. “Micah left clean sheets and towels for you.”
He stepped inside and switched on the light, illuminating a floor lamp near the fireplace. The light flickered a few times, eventually staying on. His gaze landed on the unmade bed, with all the bed linens and bath linens stacked in two neat piles. “I apologize. I was under the impression that Micah would have your room ready.” He made a mental note to speak with the man tomorrow. “I’ll just get this ready for you, if you want to have a seat.” He grabbed the towels and hung them in the bathroom. It wasn’t like Micah to leave things done half-assed. The light flickered again as Nash stepped into the one-room cabin. His guest was already leaning over the bed, tucking in the bottom sheet.
He stepped up to take the top sheet from the pile and her hand met his. “I know how to make a bed.”
He stared for the briefest of moments into her blue eyes—eyes the color of a dusky-indigo Texas sunset. The light flickered once, then stopped. He pulled himself from her gaze and walked over to check the lamp. “I’ll see to that tomorrow. Probably needs a new bulb.”
“There’s no need. It actually happens quite frequently.”
“In old houses, you mean?” He watched her drop the sheet and move through the room in silent inspection—picking up objects, laying her palms flat against portions of the wall, almost as if listening.
“If walls could talk, huh?” He grinned.
She glanced back at him. “Quite often, Mr. Walker, if you’re careful to listen—they do.”
Okie dokie. “All right, then. By the way, I’ve yet to hear what I should call you.” He held out his hand. “Where I come from we introduce ourselves properly.”
She sighed, and grabbed his hand in a quick shake. “Doctor Somersby Ingler.”
“Somersby? British?” he asked with a cock of his head. Yeah, he was baiting her. But honestly, he wanted to hang out a bit more and take in the scent of her perfume—an intoxicating scent of woods and flowers with a splash of sunshine.
“Scotland, actually. I’ve been in the states for seven years. My home is in Salem, Massachusetts.” She stopped then and held his gaze. “If there’s nothing else, then? I’d like to unpack.”
“Oh.” He mentally chastised himself. “I’m just across the way, at the other end of this path, in the garçonnière. That’s French for—”
“I know that it’s a bachelor’s apartment, Mr. Walker. Where the young men in a family were shipped off to once they reached a certain age, I believe, if my research is correct.”
He nodded, caught again in the color of her mesmerizing violet-blue eyes.
“I wonder if I might impose on you and ask for a key to the main house? I’m rather a nocturnal sort,” she asked suddenly.
He blinked, pulled back his brain, and cleared his throat. Digging into his pocket, he removed one of the keys off his ring and handed it to her. Not a single brush of nail polish on those fingers. He’d bet his lucky dollar—the first currency he ever made mowing lawns—that she had none on those toes, either.
“So, did you see anything earlier?” he asked, making conversation.
Her face clouded. “I had just arrived before you met me at the door.”
“That wasn’t you walking through the garden?”
Damnation. Her eyes lit up like Fourth of July fireworks.
“What did you see? Can you describe it in as much detail as possible?” She quickly fished out a small notebook from her bag, then pulled on a pair of thick, black-framed glasses. “Think carefully. Do you remember the time?” She blinked at him through lenses that only enhanced those eyes a million times.
Hell, he couldn’t remember his own name. Dammit. If he hadn’t already been intrigued by her eyes, that sweet mouth—granted, when it wasn’t yammering—or the spunky swing of her ponytail each time she took a step, she had to go and put on those glasses. His kryptonite—women in glasses. He’d gone for the studious types in college—with glasses, all the better. But he hadn’t found a woman in years that he’d given a second thought to. Now, this sweet woman all but drops in his lap—
“Mr. Walker? Could we please focus?”
I am, he thought, letting his gaze take in the curve of her hips in those tight jeans. She had yet to take off her hoodie sweatshirt, but he smiled at the faded original Ghostbusters logo above her left breast. Focus, man. Focus.
“Uh…” He swallowed, dragging his eyes back to hers. “I didn’t really pay too much attention, to be honest. I just thought it was you.”
She let out an exasperated sigh. Her eyes appeared twice their size as she blinked at him through those horn-rimmed glasses. “Was she wearing clothes?”
Surprised by the question, he nodded. “Fairly certain.”
“Was it…colorful?” she asked.
“Not…really,” he answered, thrown off-kilter by her lightening-round questions. “More like a long coat—like a duster, maybe?” He was clearly out of his element here.
“A trench coat?” She eyed him, but he saw the flicker of skepticism in her eyes. Hell, her eyes fluctuated with every emotion. “Could you see through the coat?”
He rubbed his eye. “I can’t say. It was getting pretty dark by then.”
She sighed—loudly, in fact. “Can you show me where you saw this apparition in a trench coat?”
He was pretty sure it wasn’t an apparition. Not to burst her little ghost-hunting bubble, but there was less of a chance it was a trench coat wandering about on its own. “You mean right now?”
She dug through her backpack, tossing a variety of items on the chair as she spoke. “No time like the present, Mr. Walker.”
He scratched the back of his neck, preferring the idea of opening a bottle of wine and getting to know each other better. “I suppose. Do you really think there’s anything—?”
“Mr. Walker.” She straightened to face him.
Clearly, this was a woman with a mission.
“Are you going to help me or not? I really haven’t the time to waste.”
He blew out a breath and offered a congenial smile, along with the truth. “I have to confess, Doc, I don’t believe in ghosts and all that mumbo-jumbo.” He crooked his fingers for emphasis. “I mean, yes, I know there are stories. But in my experience, the majority are just stories that you tell around a campfire on Halloween.” He hated to sound like a condescending ass, but he felt she should know where he stood.
“If you’re finished?” She handed him a mini-video camcorder. “Turn on the night-vision button and you should be able to see everything quite clearly in the dark.”
“But I just said…”
She tucked a small transistor-looking device in her pocket and held a miniature walkie-talkie in her hand. She jabbed a small flashlight in her mouth as she zipped up her hoodie.
Nash thought his heart might stop altogether at the sight of her perfect pink lips enclosed over the end of the flashlight.
He blinked as she jerked the flashlight out of her mouth and pointed it at him. “Mr. Walker, please understand. Your inability—your refusal, even—to believe in the existence of the paranormal has no bearing whatsoever on whether it exists or not. They don’t need your permission.” She shook the light at him. “In my world, in my experiences, paranormal activity certainly does exist.” She strode to the door and opened it. “Now, shall we go? All I ask is that you follow me and keep the camera running. Do you think you can manage that?”
Nash chuckled. Glasses and bossy. Could this get any better? He sure as hell hoped it would. He trotted down the steps after her, quietly humming the tune of the movie that brought ghost hunting back to life, so to speak. He was about to sing the chorus when she stopped suddenly and spun to face him. He lifted the camera, avoiding disaster as his body slammed into hers.
She pressed up on her toes, pushing her face into his. “One more wise-crack, Mr. Walker, and I may have to use my magic to put a spell on your dick.”
“Sorry.” He smiled. Little did she know she already had.