by Lila Dubois
“Done?” His voice was lower than normal, tone rougher.
“How have you turned eating dinner into foreplay?” Melissa licked her lip and looked at what was left on the tray. If they went on like this for the rest of the meal, she would end up saying and doing some very embarrassing things.
“Food is like sex.”
“You’re a better cook than lover?”
He laughed. “Non.”
“That’s what your note said.”
“Mais non. I said that food is not better than sex, unless it’s my food. The only thing better than my food is how I make love.”
“I’m hanging up now.” Melissa ended the call and tossed her phone down next to her. That man was seriously dangerous.
She finished her dinner, practically licking the salad and entrée plates clean. Clearing away some of the papers on the bed, she lay down on her belly, placing the dessert on the pillow. She poured the cream over it, then licked the spout of the tiny pot.
“That man can seriously cook.”
Her phone buzzed and Melissa propped it up on the pillow to read the message.
Enjoying yourself?
Biting her lip, she typed out a reply. Dessert.
You’re a chocolate girl.
Dessert without chocolate is pointless.
Fruit with honey cream would be good on you.
She frowned, assuming it was a bad auto correct. On me? You mean for me?
On you. So I could eat it off.
Melissa sucked in a breath and started giggling. There was something wrong with her. She was a grown woman, a well-respected scientist, humanitarian and scholar. She’d faced things most people couldn’t even dream of, up to and including the life-altering revelations of this afternoon.
And she was giggling like an idiot while sending sexy text messages with the man whose hand had been down her pants ten hours ago.
I’ve never been a dessert plate.
You would be the dessert, the fruit garnish.
She’d never considered garnish a dirty word until this moment.
You make me feel young, she texted.
You are young.
Not really.
Why do you feel young?
Because I’m sending dirty text messages. Melissa’s thumbs hovered over the screen as she debated adding something provocative to the message. Hoping she wasn’t making an idiot of herself, she added, While lying on the bed in nothing but a shirt and panties.
That wasn’t precisely true—it was a sweatshirt, not T-shirt, and she had on socks.
Show me.
Melissa blushed, hiding her face against her shoulder, though there was no one to see her. Rolling off the bed, she took off the sweatshirt. Wearing nothing but a tank top and panties, she examined herself in the mirror. The most noticeable thing about her was her damaged arm. Turning so she could see her shoulder blade, she examined the white scar that cut across her back. It was one of many smaller scars and burns that she’d accumulated. No longer feeling flirty anymore, she returned to the bed. Taking the last bite of cake, she posed with the spoon halfway to her mouth, took a picture and sent it to Tristan.
Very sexy, but not what I expected.
Naked Melissa isn’t pretty, she replied.
Lies.
She put the dessert plate on the tray and wheeled it to the door. Opening it quickly, she started to shove the cart into the hall when the sound of voices caught her attention.
“I didn’t choose her.”
Melissa held her breath and leaned forward, straining to hear. The voice was male and seemed to be coming from the end of the hall, close to the stairs to the second floor. She couldn’t see who was speaking unless she leaned out the door.
“She’s already started digging up the graveyard. I can’t stop her now, too many people are involved.”
Melissa’s stomach rolled. Whoever was speaking was talking about her.
“I wouldn’t have started this if I knew everything would be exposed. You said—”
The voice stopped abruptly, and though Melissa strained, she couldn’t hear a second voice.
A dog barked. Melissa jumped, then pulled back, easing the door partially closed. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and a dog barked again, the sound closer. Holding the handle down, she closed the door the rest of the way. Her heart was in her throat.
It had to be Seamus, the owner of Glenncailty. He’d been talking about her. Melissa scrambled to put her clothes back on. It sounded like he’d been talking to the mysterious Elizabeth. She now had no doubt that the general manager was real—or as real as a ghost could be. The mystery was how no one knew that she wasn’t alive. After seeing Jacques, she could understand how everyone could mistake a ghost for a living person for a little while, but even Tristan, who knew more than most about the ghosts thanks to his brother, had been fooled. That was a mystery that needed solving, and the man with the answers was right here. All she had to do was follow him.
Melissa shoved a torch into the pocket of the sweatshirt, then grabbed her phone. She had three messages from Tristan, but she didn’t read them. As she opened the door and peered out, Melissa sent him a quick reply.
Seamus in ww. Talking about me. Elizabeth here. Following.
Hoping that was excuse enough for abandoning their sexting, Melissa eased her door closed. She had no idea which way Seamus had gone. She crept up the stairs to the second floor, checking the hallway. There was no one there, and the caution tape she’d fastened across the door was still in place.
She caught the distinct scent of wet dog and looked down. There were wet patches on the carpet. It must have rained. Flicking on the torch, she followed the trail back to the first floor, through a small utility closet, to an exterior door. Ignoring the Emergency Exit Only sign, she opened the door, slipping out into the garden.
Seamus in ww. Talking about me. Elizabeth here. Following.
Tristan sat up, his erection subsiding as he read Melissa’s message. He’d been prepared for an evening of teasing, and hoping for some pictures. Melissa probably hadn’t meant the photo of her eating cake to be erotic, but she clearly had no idea how much he’d been fantasizing about her lips.
Seamus in ww.
He assumed “ww” mean west wing. Seamus was back in the castle and apparently talking to Elizabeth about Melissa. That was alarming in and of itself, but the fact that Melissa was going to follow Seamus had Tristan very, very worried.
Jumping from the couch, he pulled on his clothes. “Jacques!”
There was no answer.
“Jacques!”
His brother’s appearances and disappearances were seemingly random, and there were times—such as during high-stakes card games—when Tristan could use his brother’s help. In the past, calling Jacques hadn’t worked. That didn’t stop him from trying now. It would take him twenty minutes to navigate the winding road at the top of the valley that connected Cailtytown with the castle.
“Tristan?”
“You came! Thank you. Go to Melissa.”
“What’s happening?” Jacques watched Tristan jerk open a drawer. “What are you looking for?”
“A torch. I need you to protect her.”
“Protect her? She can’t even hear me.”
“Seamus is back, and she’s following him.”
“Why is that dangerous?”
“I don’t know, but it is. I feel it.” Tristan found the torch he’d been looking for, grabbed his keys and ran for the door.
“I’ll try, brother.” Jacques disappeared.
Tristan couldn’t explain why he was so worried about her, but he was. The drive to Glenncailty seemed very long. He screeched to a halt at the front steps, not bothering to park in the lot. This late at night, the main door would be locked. Rather than ring for the night clerk, he used his key to let himself into the pub on the ground floor of the east wing and then backtracked through the castle to the west wing, and Melissa’s room. He knocked, but there was no answer.
<
br /> “Fuck.” He looked around, with no idea where to start looking.
“She’s in the garden.” Jacques’ voice was faint, and he was shimmery and transparent. That was odd, because in darkness, particularly at night, he looked as solid and real as he had when he was alive.
“Where?”
“Going to the graveyard. Seamus is already there.” Jacques’ voice faded.
“Jacques?”
“I can’t keep this up.”
“It’s fine, brother. Thank you.”
Tristan took his phone from his pocket, prepared to call Séan for backup, but he stopped. Séan and Sorcha had finally gotten together. He’d seen what they went through in the nursery, and he wouldn’t risk them, and what they had, by asking them to be a part of whatever was about to happen.
Instead, he scrolled through his phone and called Rory. He’d gotten to know the Irishman better when Caera left and Rory took over the special events business, particularly the booking of Finn’s Stable, the castle’s music venue. Though it operated separately from the hotel, Tristan catered any and all events that required food. Rory was outgoing and funny, able to deal with even the most irritating people. More than once a funny comment from Rory had forestalled Tristan telling a client that they were a philistine and wouldn’t know good food if it came to life and bit them.
“Tristan?” Rory sounded sleepy.
“We have a problem.”
As Tristan circled around the castle to the gardens he filled Rory in on what had happened. He was silent while Tristan explained.
Tristan flicked on his torch. Ignoring the paths, he took a direct route to the back wall.
“Rory, are you still there?”
“I’m coming. You’re right. This is more dangerous than you could know.”
Tristan cursed as he shoved his phone into his pocket. As he reached the back wall, he heard dogs barking—a low, rough barking that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
“Melissa!” His cry was caught by the wind, the words slipping away. He grabbed the door in the wall and shoved.
“Stop digging!”
Melissa took a half step, and one of the massive Irish wolfhounds growled at her. She glared at the dog but retreated.
“You aren’t qualified to excavate,” she shouted at Seamus.
The owner of Glenncailty didn’t even pause. He looked different than he had when she presented her findings. Gone was the wealthy, quiet man she’d met. Wearing a long overcoat that swung around his legs, his hair glinting silver in the light, he looked like a bandit, a grave robber, a mercenary.
She’d wasted time wandering around the gardens looking for him. Her gut had said that he was coming here, but she’d wanted to be methodical.
She’d wanted to be wrong.
There was no good reason for anyone to come back here. When she’d slipped through the door, she’d seen him—a hunched silhouette, arms swinging as he planted his shovel into the ground. The dirt was soft from the rain, and he’d already made a sizable hole by the time she got there.
His wolfhounds stood guard and hadn’t let her get close enough to stop him.
“Why are you doing this?” she yelled in frustration. “I’m tired of this place. Nothing makes any sense around here.”
At that he paused, shovel half-raised.
“It doesn’t have to make sense to you. It’s better if it doesn’t.”
She barely heard him over the howl of the wind. Seamus looked up, and even from a distance she could see the shudder that ran over him.
“Mr. O’Muircheartaigh.” Melissa softened her voice, hoping to reason with him. “I think I know why you’re doing this. And I respect the fact that there’re things I don’t know or understand.”
He didn’t acknowledge her comment.
“You know, I didn’t get to finish my presentation. I’m very good at what I do, and I was able to trace your family’s lineage—”
“Enough.” He snarled the word, and the dogs reacted to his tone, barking at her, forcing her back another step. Melissa waited until the dogs had calmed before speaking again.
“Can you see ghosts?” she asked, desperate to keep him talking. If he was talking, he wasn’t digging. “Everyone around here seems to be able to.”
“I hear you don’t believe. I know you can’t see them.”
“I believe. Tristan…Chef Fontaine showed me. I saw one.”
“Look around. What do you see?” Seamus straightened.
Melissa held up her hands and took a tentative step forward. The dogs didn’t react. “I see you digging up a graveyard that you shouldn’t be.”
Seamus raised a brow.
Melissa collected herself. “I see two large, scary dogs. An old church.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. I’m guessing that Elizabeth is here? Earlier I heard you talking to someone, so I assume that was her.”
Seamus nodded once and didn’t take his eyes off Melissa.
“What is Elizabeth?” she asked. “I know that Tristan and Séan and Sorcha all believe in ghosts, and they saw the ghosts of the woman and children whose bones I cared for.”
“Cared for? Is that what you do to the bones? I heard you boiled them in the kitchen.”
“Yes, that’s true. That’s how I clean them. A clean bone is like a page in a book to me. I can read it, understand it.”
“Why do you care so much if you don’t believe?”
Melissa crossed her arms as the wind cut through her clothes. “I do believe. I believe every life, and every death, deserves acknowledgement.”
“And what of secrets?”
“Death should never be a secret.” Melissa knew her tone was harsh, but she couldn’t stop anger from leaking into her words. “No life is so inconsequential that the body they leave behind should be treated as garbage. Flesh and bones will disintegrate, but they represent a person who can no longer speak for themselves.”
“You’re young and idealistic.”
“What does my age have to do with anything?”
“Melissa!” Tristan ran up behind her, his arm slipping around her waist. She felt him stiffen, then whisper a prayer in French.
She didn’t take her eyes off Seamus. “I’m not blind. I know there’s something bad here—sadness clings to the walls of this place. But whatever you think you’re protecting, however horrible the history may be, I assure you, I’ve seen worse.”
She heard someone else come running up, their heavy breathing audible only when there was a lull in the wind.
“Tristan?”
Melissa didn’t turn around as the second person approached.
“What’s happening?” he asked, close enough now that Melissa recognized Rory’s voice.
“I don’t know,” Tristan replied.
“I may be younger than you,” Melissa said to Seamus, “but I’ve stood knee-deep in rotting bodies. If I couldn’t make sense of the putrid mass of biological material, which only months before had been living people, families would never know their loved ones were dead. The world would never know the atrocities being committed.” Melissa was blindingly, almost irrationally angry. “You don’t want me here. I know that, but I am, and I will not let you desecrate these graves a second time.”
Her anger was a suit of armor. She stepped away from Tristan.
“Melissa, no.” He grabbed her sweatshirt, but she shrugged away from him.
“I don’t think they’ll hurt her,” Rory said. “They think she’s…that can’t be right.”
“They’re talking?” Tristan asked.
Melissa ignored the conversation going on behind her. The dogs growled, but she ignored them, brushing past as if they weren’t there. Flicking on her torch, she used it to navigate the uneven ground of the topsoil-free graveyard, carefully stepping over her grid strings.
She stopped in front of Seamus.
“Put down that shovel and get out of my graveyard.”
He exa
mined her face, then looked to each side her. After a moment, he focused on her once more.
“Dr. Heavey.” He climbed out of the hole he’d been digging and laid his shovel carefully aside. “My apologies if I’ve caused you any inconvenience.”
Seamus walked away, whistling to the dogs, who followed him. Melissa kicked some of the loose dirt back into the hole, hoping to protect whatever was down there until she could do this properly.
Chapter Twelve
Tristan sank to his knees in the wet dirt. Beside him, Rory was clenching and unclenching his fists, head cocked to the side as he listened.
Seamus paused, looked over at them and said, “Perhaps there is grace left in this world.”
Elizabeth was walking at Seamus’ side. She looked the same as she always had. A forty-something, slim, blonde woman. She wore a skirt suit, and her hair was pulled back in a twist. She carried what looked like a hardback book, but which he knew was actually a case for a tablet computer. Her rubber boots squelched in the mud. Tristan knew she wasn’t real, or at least wasn’t alive, but he couldn’t reconcile that idea with what he was looking at now. She was solid and substantial in a way that Jacques—who was hard to see in daylight and often walked through walls—wasn’t.
“Rory, join me for a moment.” Her voice was smooth, the words precise.
Rory, who was bare-chested and shivering, jumped when she said his name.
“What?”
“Come with me. I have some notes about the event and I’d like to go over them with you. Plus, you need to come inside.”
Tristan looked at Rory. Did he know? Tristan hadn’t told anyone about Elizabeth, but he assumed that Sorcha had let the other division managers know. Then again, they’d each agreed to keep quiet until they knew what was going on.
“Tristan?” Rory asked, gaze roaming over the graveyard. “I think you’re safe. I can’t hear anything.”
Not knowing what else to do, he nodded.
Then the master of the castle was gone, his hounds at his heels. Elizabeth and Rory trailed behind him.
Tristan steeled himself before returning his attention to the cemetery.
He had seen his share of ghosts. Once he’d seen Jacques and accepted that he wasn’t going mad, he hardly went a day without catching sight of something out of the corner of his eye or coming face to face with someone who seemed real—until he realized they weren’t breathing and their feet didn’t touch the floor. Usually they didn’t scare him, though more than once he’d been startled by a sudden appearance or disappearance. The most frightening experience had been going under the streets of Paris.
