“Like what?”
“Just the other day men's menopause. Not that it's something you would know about, not yet, young man in his prime like you.”
She thought he wriggled his hips as he unlocked the massive bronze doors and led her inside.
She said, “I am just thrilled to death to have my own private tour of this incredible monument. Look at the marble detail and the black-and-white marble floor in harlequin pattern. Exquisite.”
She looked around, at the circular walls. Her gaze landed on the white marble plaque on her left. She went to it and read the engraving. “Cape Hatteras Light House. Erected A. D. 1870; Latitude 35o 151 14”; Longitude 75o 30' 56”
“Interesting that they put that on there,” she said, touching the latitude line.
“It's the lighthouse's address.”
“Well, well. Wonder what my address would be in those terms?”
Spence grinned. “Ships used lighthouses as navigational aids. When they'd pass this lighthouse, the captain could coordinate its particular design – the black and white stripes – with what they expected to see and what was on their charts, which would have been the latitude and longitude you see here. If they expected to see a white lighthouse like the one on Ocracoke, and saw this one, they'd know they were at the wrong address.”
She looked into his eyes and laughed. “I'll take your word for it.”
“You'll have to,” he said, grinning back at her.
Turning away, she said, “It would cost the earth to build this thing today. Makes you wonder why they built something this marvelous when only a few fisherman and the keepers would see it?”
“Not to mention thousands of ships that passed every year.”
“Well, of course …”
“But I know what you're getting at. Back when lighthouses were invented, they didn't know GPS was just around the corner, so to speak, so the materials and workmanship were meant to last for eternity.”
She felt his immense pride in the tower. “Like the eternal sea,” she said. “Reminds me of a hymn. I forgot how it goes.”
She sensed a change in him. Looking into his face, she noticed his uncertainty, and, yet, there was a yearning there. She rotated her head away from his stare, and saw a sign. She read it aloud, “The Climb is Strenuous. Seriously consider your health and physical ability to climb two-hundred-fifty-seven steps, equal to a twenty-story building.” She turned back to him. “Yikes.”
He pulled his nervous hands apart. “Still think you could do it in stilettos?”
“Only red ones.”
With a hand at her waist, he urged her toward the red iron steps. Part way up the flight, she pointed to a red drum. Spence said, “That was used for storing lantern oil.”
She looked back at him. “Lanterns and the sea. It's all so romantic.”
“Yes.” The word hung in the air like a whisper of desire.
She continued to climb. “You're a romantic, aren't you?”
He cleared his throat. “I don't consider myself a romantic, no.”
“But others do, I bet.”
“Some have said.”
“Girlfriends? Wife?”
He seemed looser now. “I'm not married, and if you asked my ex-wife that, she'd tell you that hell no he's not a romantic. He's an ass.”
“That's an ex for you.”
“You married?”
“Used to be. Twice. But don't hold that against me.” Rounding the stairs, she looked down the spiral to the marble floor below. “Ooooh, ohhhhh,” she faced Spence. “I didn't bargain for looking down like that.”
“Touch of vertigo?” Both hands touched her waist.
“Let me look away and get that image out of my mind.”
They climbed to a landing, one of his hands trailing down her butt. She wasn't winded, but acted like she was. Drawing in a deep breath, she stepped to a narrow window that was fitted with panes and covered by fine steel netting.
“Would you just look at that view,” she huffed. “It's so majestic.”
He was behind her, and she felt his body heat.
She looked over her shoulder, up at him. He shaded his eyes with a hand. The sunshine was brilliant, but she thought he was hiding the lust in them. He turned abruptly. “Onward.”
At another landing, she looked out a narrow window, down at the parking lot and the buildings. “Look at the shadow this ol' thing casts.”
He squeezed next to her and explained, “This lighthouse is pointing to her old home. See the sea beyond the driveway and the road there?”
“I surely do.” She touched his arm. “You know it seems to me that a lighthouse should be next to the sea and not in a pine forest.”
His eyes looked into hers, and after a few moments, he said, “You're not the only one who thinks that way.”
“Well, sir, how do you feel?”
His grin was pure come-on. “Same as you.”
She nudged her elbow into his rib. “Oh go on with you, Mr. Park Service.”
After several more landings, they climbed the last flight of steps to the gallery.
“Let's not get too close to the rail,” she said. “I can get goofy over heights.”
“Don't you worry, Missi. I'm here.”
“Thank the Lord, or I wouldn't be.”
He walked her around the circle. “Just take it in.”
Looking some two-hundred feet down at the forest, and toward the sand and the sea, she was so overwhelmed she couldn't speak. And he was so close.
He said, “From here you can see how fragile The Banks are.”
She replied softly, “It looks like they could be swamped by that sea in a heart beat.”
He touched her shoulder, The intimacy in his touch was unquestionable. “It happens,” he said, urging her to look to his right. “Now over this way is Ocracoke Island. If you like lighthouses, you'd like the quaint one there.”
“Is it like this one? You know, seen one, seen 'em all?”
“Nope. It's whitewash over cement and brick. And it isn't open to the public because the steps are so wobbly. When it was built in 1823 the steps were wooden. In World War II they took them out and put in metal ones that circled a middle metal post. The whole thing is attached to the walls by tinny poles.”
“I don't think my stilettos would do.”
“Then I won't invite you to take a tour, but the ferry ride over there is neat. People like to feed the gulls that fly over their heads.”
She reached up and touched the blonde curls atop her head. “Ooooooh, white wash of a different type.”
He laughed.
She asked, “Do these lighthouses still give off light at night?”
His arm lay across her shoulder. “They sure do. We're in charge of the land and the lighthouses, but the Coast Guard operates the beacon. The two in this lighthouse are powered by thousand-watt light bulbs and turn on automatically at sunset. As they rotate, they flash every seven seconds.”
“How far away can you see them?”
“About twenty five miles in a circle, until sunrise. Now the beacon in the Ocracoke lighthouse is smaller, and it looks like a honeycomb so it casts a softer glow, sort of reminiscent of Ocracoke itself.”
“It sounds verrrrry warm,” she said, scrunching her shoulders.
“It is. Like the look of your lips.”
She swayed into his side. “You're a big ol' flirt,” she said, and walked ahead and looked out at the ocean. “My lands, look at that. You drilling for oil out there?”
“That's the Diamond Shoals light tower.”
“Looks like an oil drilling platform.”
She faced away from him and he hung his hands over her shoulders, hovering just above her breasts. He said, “Essentially that's what it is. Now look at those ruffles out in the sea.” He directed her vision with a hand. “That's Diamond Shoals. Those ruffles are dunes that mark where the warm Gulf Stream waters meet the cooler Labrador Current.” His neck pressed into the b
ack of her head, a hand perilously close to her boob.
“Diamond Shoals,” she said. “The infamous Diamond Shoals.”
“You're looking at the Graveyard of the Atlantic.”
She shivered elaborately. “Looks like the oil platform is the headstone in the graveyard.”
“A very good observation, my sweet.”
His voice was like liquid caramel and chocolate, oozy and delicious.
Easing her body around, her breasts rubbed across his chest. His chin touched her hair and she tilted her head back as he wrapped his arms around her. Staring at him through her black eyelashes, she'd never seen such hunger on a man's face. Her lips parted. He clutched her tighter and his mouth came to hers.
My God. Such a delicious flowing sensation …
Suddenly, he drew away, and pulled her arm toward the door. Inside, their lips and bodies came together as if they'd just discovered lust.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
--
What in hell was Missi McNamaral up to? As if I don't know.
Ann fumed as she watched the two figures high above her on the platform under the beacon. They'd circled twice, walking so closely that it appeared to be one big person with two heads. She saw Spence’s arms dangle over her shoulders as they spoke and laughed. Then Missi turned into him, and Spence pulled her inside the lighthouse as if he’d gotten an urgent call. An hour later, they came out of the bronze doors. Ann knew what their expressions meant.
Damn, and double damn. When Missi waged war, there were no rules. When Missi had covered hard news, she was famous for disguising herself. Once she'd donned a prison worker's uniform and walked in a federal prison with the daily hired help, flashing her newspaper ID casually like the workers with their prison badges. She'd got her story, but she'd lost her beat. When she covered crime, she got to know several of her FBI sources – intimately. Missi's slogan had always been, “All's fair in love and war.” This, to Missi, was war.
Ann waited for Missi to leave the Visitor's Center, and when she did, Spence was with her. They got into his car and drove away, leaving her rental in the lot.
“Where would you like to have lunch?” Spence asked.
“You live by yourself?”
Flashing his sexy smile, Spence said, “Of course.”
“You got a kitchen in your house?”
“Of course.”
“You got any food?”
He was hesitant. “Quick stuff is all.”
“That's all I want, something quick.”
“But not too quick.”
“What're you doing the rest of the day?”
“I don't know? How about you?”
“Let's decide together.”
“Let's.”
They passed the pier in Rodanthe and turned left onto Lovett Street.
“Love the name.” Missi giggled.
Spence pulled the Suburban into a shell driveway. It wasn't the kind of house Missi would ever live in. Her idea of a home was at least five thousand square feet of solid masonry surrounded by no less than five acres of gardens. Spence's home sat naked on a patch of land no bigger than the house itself. The house was a tall, wooden piece of mish-mash architecture. It had one favorable aspect. It wasn't painted a shade of sea green, deep blue or shocking pink. It was plain wood that was gray as fog. Decks went everywhere. The stilts were covered by horizontal slats. The plaque at the wooden walk told her the name of the place.
“Windswept,” she exclaimed. “How charming, Spence, and appropriate. Just beautiful. I love the name and the natural wood look.”
Spence grinned and grabbed her knee. “Me, too, honey. I don't go for the doll house look.”
“It would spoil it. This isn't never-never land. This is a man's land, rugged and bold. It's life tackling nature.”
“You have a way with words, just like Ann.”
“Ann Gavrion?”
“The magazine editor you wrote about. Didn't she used to be a friend before you wrote that article?”
“We've never been good friends. More colleagues in the same business.”
“Did she tell you that stuff you wrote in confidence?”
“Nope. I wouldn't have printed it if she had.”
“She wasn't off-the-record, like we are?”
“Nope. She never said don't print what I'm telling you, or anything like that.”
“She promised me that she wouldn't talk about Lawrence.”
“She didn't talk about Lawrence.”
“Or Rod.”
“She felt she'd wronged him. What's so bad about mentioning that?”
“To Rod? She used his name. You put his name in the paper, sugar. That was bad to him.”
“Rod needs to give her a break.”
“He likes his privacy.”
“And I lauded him for it in my piece.”
“He doesn't see it like you. Hell, he doesn't even see it like me.”
“Ann is determined to get the investigation re-opened.”
“I know.”
“Look, I don't know how well you got to know Ann, but she's … With Ann you take the good with the bad.”
He opened his truck door, and went around to open hers. When she stepped out, he asked, “What's that mean, the good with the bad?”
“Well, she's just the sweetest thing – when she wants to be.”
“Yeah, I can see she knows how to be sweet.”
“But, then, she wants her way, and she can bust hell to get it.”
“Not a bad trait.”
They walked up the first set of steps. He flicked the door open.
“You don't lock your doors?”
“Here? No. I know everyone around here. A quarter of these houses are boarded up because they're owned by snowbirds. Everybody else looks after each other.”
“Try that in Atlanta.”
The interior stunned her. Her first thought was How Horrible. The front room was wide and narrow. A cheap oriental rug hung on the back wall; its red and gold pattern made her think of Elvis and Graceland. Grass rugs were scattered on the wooden floor. In a corner, hanging from a ceiling, a plant basket held a nearly leafless fern. The windows were covered with cheap metal blinds and the furniture was a hodge-podge of castoffs. The only nice thing in the room was a brass ceiling fan. She looked up at it. “Who's your decorator, sugah?”
“You like it?”
“It takes my breath away.”
He moved closer and drew her into his arms. “You take my breath away.”
“You hungry right now? I haven't even seen the kitchen yet.”
“Yeah, I'm hungry.” His mouth sucked at hers as if he would swallow her lips. Her legs threatened to collapse with the weight of his need. He mumbled, “Screw the kitchen.”
They lay in bed, naked. She had her leg over his lower body. He wound his fingers in her golden hair, saying, “You know, I haven't – I hate to admit this – but I haven't felt this way. Ever.”
She scoffed. “Go on with you, Spencer Reilly. You tell every girl that.”
His hand roved to her chest, taking a nipple and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. “Actually, no, I don't. I've had some okay times with other girls, but you… See, you're getting me all worked up again.”
“That's what we're here for, sugah.” She licked her lips. “Can I climb the mountain?”
“Go ahead,” he groaned, “you'll need a step ladder.”
She muttered, “That's good cause all the more fun sliding down.”
--
Now that Ann knew where Spence lived, what good was it? Missi was the one inside pumping him for information and God knew what else.
She drove the Buick straight through town. Now where to?
No doubt, she thought, Missi is closing in on the kill. She'd have him drained in more ways than one, and that meant her column would contain some tasty teasers for the next day or so. Missi never told the complete story in one column. Oh no, entice and romance the readers.
Make 'em come back for more. Like horny ol' Spence.
Time. It was running out. You better get a plan and fast. But first, food. She turned into a Bag-O-Burgers and ordered a six-pack of dollar-size hamburgers and a Coke. The burgers were surprisingly good. She munched as she drove, then called the Sweeneys to tell them that probably she would be staying the night on Hatteras Island.
“You want to come in late, no problem, you got the key,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “No news here, either. Nobody's called for you.”
“Probably won't.”
“You getting what you want?”
“Too early to tell.”
“Don't let 'em run you off.”
“They won't do that.”
“That's my girl.”
--
“What's in this for Poblo?” Missi asked.
Sitting in her bra and bikini undies at the tacky 1950s style early American table, Missi preened, proud that she'd gotten a personal trainer and dropped fifteen pounds in the summer. She was careful that Spence didn't see her disgust at the table and it's tweed-stamped plastic placemats. She fingered the cork napkin holder while Spence cranked open a can of tuna.
“Poblo's got a swelled head,” Spence answered. “Mayo and mustard okay with you?”
“Just mayo, sugah. Do you think Poblo's lying?”
“I think Poblo doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut.”
“If what he's saying is the truth, it's pretty hot stuff.”
Spence looked over his shoulder at her, then walked with a sexy sway to her, making her wonder if another bout of sex was on the menu. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “You're pretty hot stuff.”
“I'm just a little ol' girl reporter.”
He straightened and looked down. “Remember, girl, you're not reporting what we say. This is between us, right?”
“Darling, I already swore on a stack of Bibles.”
“Just one.”
“Big ol' Bible like you got, makes me think I'm going straight to hell for reading my little ol' thing.”
He returned to the sink and his tuna fixings, which Missi made up her mind she wasn't having anything to do with.
He said, “It's an heirloom Bible. Got all our names in it, going back five generations.”
“My mama and daddy didn't write down a thing anywhere,” she said. “I don't think my ancestors had a brain in their heads.” Missi gave a nod of apology to her daddy, a professor at Virginia Tech, and her mama, an epidemiologist at the CDC.
THE GHOST SHIP Page 20
