Rendezvous at Midnight

by Lynne Connolly

  “Well, it’s a reasonable version of the story. Truth is, my mother was more than a masseuse to certain select passengers. Masseuses on board these ships were pool attendants and physical training instructors, too, not the other kind of masseuse, but my mother was an exception. She’d met and married my dad on a voyage, and at the beginning, he thought he was the one and only. It was only later, about six months before she died, that he realized the truth.” Lisa sighed, but it wasn’t a happy sound this time. Michael continued to rub her feet and stayed silent. “She told him. She’d met Cory Selhurst on another voyage, and she planned to dump dad in favor of Selhurst. Dad was prosperous, but not on the Selhurst scale.”

  “What about you?”

  She gave a sharp laugh, no humor evident in it. “Why should she care about me? I favored my Latino father, and she was blonde and beautiful. She didn’t want me any more than she wanted my father.” He wished she wouldn’t keep her eyes closed. He felt her pain, a pang new to him, telling him Lisa didn’t usually let herself dwell on the past. “Dad met the woman I always consider my real mom about two months before my mother died, so they’d agreed to divorce. It suited both of them. But something happened. I think I know what it was.”

  She opened her eyes. Michael winced at the blankness there; the absence she forced on herself so she could tell her story. “Cory Selhurst had someone else, too. He married about a year after mom died, and his wife-to-be wasn’t on the ship that time. There’s no evidence he even met her until a few months afterward. But there was someone. Mom sent a letter to Dad from on board. It wasn’t sent until the ship reached shore, so there’s no record of it. In those days, letters were sent by telegraph. You’d give it in to the office, and they’d radio it to the shore, so there would be a record of it, but this one was paper, signed and sealed and posted in one of the boxes on the ship. That way, it got a ship’s frank. Tourists used them for postcards. Nobody’s seen it but Dad and me. Dad just wanted the case over with; he didn’t want any more enquiries, so he never produced it. In any case, it doesn’t prove anything.”

  “So what does it say?”

  She stared at him as if he was her lifeline, and he felt the turmoil in her head, confusion, and distress. “It says she knew Selhurst had someone else, and she planned to surprise him with her. She taunts Dad, telling him Selhurst has more money, more class and a bigger dick than him, so it’s not a nice letter. She said she’d get him, if it was the last thing she did. Dad could kiss her goodbye.”

  He said what she didn’t, what they both knew. “She was found on the floor, not on the bed. Blunt force trauma. She could have been hit with something, not fallen against furniture, and forensics wasn’t as sophisticated or as thorough then as it is now. They found her on the floor, and the corner of the nightstand was bloodstained. The bed wasn’t marked.” He paused. “Rosanna Perez was murdered.”

  Chapter Three

  If he hadn’t said it, she would have, but Michael hated the expression his words brought to her face.

  Total shock. He continued to rub her feet, trying to soothe her, and himself.

  “Do you think we’ll find out who did it?”

  He heard the tears in her voice but knew she wouldn’t let them fall. “Maybe. I can’t say. More important at the moment, do you want to go on with this? If I give Ayesha the word, we can ignore the spirits from this case. There are plenty of others here, by all accounts, to make the special worth doing. An engineer died in an accident in the pump room downstairs, for instance. We can make him the star.”

  “Could you do that?”

  “If you want.” He’d prefer it. The whole case made him uncomfortable, from the personal connection to the vague sense of uneasiness he’d felt when he’d researched it. Now he knew the cause of the feeling. Some facts just didn’t sit right. Like why would an ambitious politician want to marry a nobody? A cash-strapped masseuse? What did Rosanna offer him other women couldn’t? Michael didn’t for one moment believe it was true love, although poor Rosanna probably had. It was one of the worrying details that had made him suspect this even before they’d seen the vision. A lovely woman, golden brown hair coming loose from its pins, a neat figure dressed only in a white swimsuit, the forehead a nightmare of crushed bone and blood.

  Someone must have arranged the scene, gotten rid of the ruined bedding and laid Rosanna carefully on the floor before calling for help. With a bedroom like that, there must be any number of white coverlets to replace the ruined one. It did mean they might have had help from a member of the crew, another potential witness.

  Lisa lifted her head and looked at him, biting her lower lip, determination in her eyes. “No. I want to go where this weekend takes us. Don’t hold back.”

  He still wasn’t sure he’d go that far. The atmosphere here was like nowhere else he’d visited, crackling with tension. Something waited for him and for Ayesha.

  The tension had other effects. He’d wanted her for a while, but now the thought of holding back was almost unbearable. Michael knew part of this was the place and the time, but not all of it.

  “Do you hear me, Michael?”

  He nodded. “I hear you.” Not that he didn’t mean to use his own judgment. Not every spirit was a true ghost, or even well meaning. Some were evil and would do anything to confuse and upset the mortal in front of them. Just because they could. “I’m no detective, Lisa, and nothing we saw this afternoon is admissible in court. You know that, don’t you?”

  She nodded yes. “I always knew it. So did Dad. But there wasn’t anything he could do. Selhurst was rich and powerful, and even if he didn’t do it, he was involved somehow because she died in his suite. She had quarters of her own. Perhaps we should go there, too.”

  “Perhaps,” he murmured, noncommittally.

  “I don’t want revenge or anything stupid like that. Selhurst got what was coming to him, in any case. His little financial deals turned bad and after he lost all his money, he killed himself. Remember?”

  “A historical footnote.” Michael kept his voice deliberately soothing. Not what he was feeling inside, but that was his problem, something he’d have to take care of for himself. “The reports say Rosanna’s death was the turning point. Up until then, all his projects turned to gold, but after, his luck deserted him.”

  “He was a dirty politician and an embezzler.”

  “Of course.” Although, from what he’d read, the case wasn’t that straightforward. Selhurst took many of the shortcuts other financiers got away with, but his came back to bite him in the butt. Almost as if someone had cursed him. Michael believed in the power of curses and if Rosanna hadn’t died immediately, she could have laid one on him good.

  “Anyway, it was over a long time ago. Thirty years, so I won’t be able to lie about my age any more. I never knew her. I was eighteen months old when she died, and they were careful not to clue me in until I was much older.” She paused. “I’m tired.” The little sigh she gave played havoc with his senses.

  “You should sleep. We have an all-nighter in front of us, and we only flew down this morning. Get some rest.”

  “You, too.”

  He had to get out of there before he did something that might blow his chances with Lisa forever. Like grabbing her and kissing her senseless.

  Somehow his hands had crept up to caress and rub her calves. Time to stop before he got somewhere more interesting. Not that it wasn’t a pleasure to smooth his hands over her silky skin.

  She wasn’t helping. Lisa stretched out on her back and made a sound of deep appreciation. “Mmm. Do you charge for this?”

  He should, and he knew just what he would charge. Perhaps he could just massage her legs and feet until she fell asleep and then creep out to his own room. Yeah, right.

  “Lisa, I have to stop.” His hoarseness surprised him.

  Her eyes snapped open. It must have surprised her, too. “Why?”

  She wanted it all laid out for her, just as she lay on her bed, laid
out for him. No, not that. He wished. “You must know I want you, Lisa. But you’re exhausted; you can’t tell me you don’t need to rest.”

  She gave a tiny shake of her head, her hair sliding around her shoulders. “I’m tired, sure, but I’m keyed up. I won’t sleep if you leave me alone.” He watched her lift one slender hand and held it out to him in an unmistakable gesture of invitation. “Lie down with me. Let’s see where this takes us.”

  He stared at her, stunned before he thought to enter the forefront of her mind and read her emotions. She meant it. She wanted him, as he wanted her. Not pity, and not as a convenient way to get to sleep.

  He didn’t intrude any further but bent to undo the laces on his shoes. The gesture of acceptance seemed to ease some of the tension in the room, tension coming from their shared need. For each other, for contact, for simple comfort.

  Not all of it on her side.

  Michael slid onto the bed. She moved into his arms as if she’d been there before, many times, not just once this morning.

  His first kiss was a greeting, closed mouth and sweet, savoring the texture of her lips, smooth and silky under his. He drew back.

  “Lipstick.”

  “Sorry. I probably look pretty awful.”

  He touched her nose with the tip of one finger. “I wouldn’t say that.” He bent to kiss her again. This time he pressed her lips open with his own and she let him in.

  Smooth, hot and wet. He touched her tongue, felt hers slide around his and explore.

  Control became almost impossible. Opening his mouth wider, he plunged in. If she’d withdrawn, shown any hesitation, he would have gentled his caresses but she was as eager as he.

  When he felt her fingers undoing his shirt buttons, his excitement increased tenfold. He ordered himself to calm down, take it easy. She wanted comfort and company.

  But the bitch about being telepathic meant other people leaked their emotions. He felt them all the time and constantly wished they could be trained to keep their feelings to themselves. Not this time.

  She poured out desire, even need, so much he longed to tell her to take care, not to show him all this, because he didn’t know if he could control himself.

  When she arched up to him, he felt her hands on his bare chest, caressing his nipples, tweaking them, and he couldn’t stop. Not that he wanted to.

  Lifting up, he looked down to where she touched him and then smiled. “You’re ahead of me.” He slid the button on her blouse open but stopped when she twitched nervously. “What is it? Is there anything wrong?”

  She huffed. “Let me up.”

  His heart sinking, he leaned to one side and watched as she sat up. She gave him a wry smile. “No, not that.” Glancing down, she began to undo the buttons herself. “Continuity.”

  He rolled on to his back, laughter taking him. “I forgot. You only brought one?”

  “Yes. I brought another outfit to do the intros in, and I have two of those, but we’ve started to shoot, so I’ll have to keep these reasonable.” She chuckled, joining in with his amusement. “I could send them to the laundry, but it’s probably closed.” She slipped the blouse off her shoulders and his laughter died. She shot a look back at him, over her shoulder and caught his expression and she stopped laughing, too.

  He saw her swallow before stepping across the room to the closet and pulling out a hanger, which shook a little. Good. This encounter made him nervous, too. He desired her more than he could remember wanting any woman before, and if it went wrong somehow, he didn’t think he could live with himself.

  When she unzipped her pants and slid them down her legs, it was his turn to swallow. She kept her back to him while she draped the pants carefully over the crossbar of the hanger and settled the crisp white blouse over the top.

  With every sinew he possessed yearning to leap off the bed and grab her, Michael forced himself to lie back and enjoy the view. There was a lot to enjoy. Smooth, fair skin, curves he ached to run his tongue over and cup in his hands, only separated from him by the length of the room and her underwear. A white satin bra and matching panties. He doubted they would be as smooth as the small amount of skin they covered, but he’d enjoy taking them off.

  She came back to him and his whole body sighed in relief, as though afraid she might have carried on, walking out the door. Her smile said otherwise.

  “Oh baby,” he managed, before dragging her back into his arms, where, for now at least, she surely belonged.

  Before he could kiss her, she put two fingers across her lips. He reached up and took them into his mouth, caressing them with his tongue. “Have you got any protection?”

  His mind raced. Yes, he had, thank God. He made a sound of assent, but didn’t answer because his mouth was full. Even her fingers tasted good. He ran his tongue over her smoothly buffed nails and released them reluctantly. He could eat her up.

  Perhaps he would. He lifted up on one elbow. “In my pocket. Not that I usually—well, maybe I do, but I wouldn’t want you to think—”

  She laughed again, a small huff of breath touching his face. “I know. I carry them, too. These days you can never tell. It’s okay, I’m just glad we’re both careful.”

  “Yeah.” For the first time, Michael wished he was a shape-shifter like Gareth. Their possession of two forms, human and mythological beast, meant they were immune to most diseases. Or rather, they caught them, but a couple of shape-shifts cured them. He pressed a soft kiss to her throat and felt her pushing at his shirt, which she’d unbuttoned earlier. He shrugged it off, careless of where it fell. Her hands went to his pants, and he closed his eyes briefly when her fingers brushed across his erection. She unbuttoned and unzipped, and unable to wait any longer for her, he shoved them down his legs, taking his underwear and socks off at the same time.

  Her gasp told him she was pleased with the view. So was he, but he wasn’t looking at himself.

  “I’ve wanted you since we met,” he confessed, joining her on the bed again, only just remembering to rescue the three foil packets before he dumped his pants over the side of the bed. He slapped them on the nightstand without looking. The view in front of him was much better.

  “I’ve wanted you for a while. But I was stupid. I nearly let you go.”

  “You were with someone else.”

  “Not really, not for the last six months or so. He lost interest. I kept going because I was lazy, I guess.”

  He frowned. “Lazy?”

  “Or scared.” She shrugged, a delicious movement, which brought her breasts into motion. “Don’t ask. Not now.”

  “No, not now.” He drew her closer and touched his lips to hers in greeting. “Hello.”

  “Hello.”

  The movement of her lips against his was agonizing. He wanted her to carry on talking, teasing, but he wanted to make love to her, possess her completely. Both. Everything. He wanted all of her.

  Sliding his arms around her, he found the clasp of her bra. It slipped open as though it had been waiting for him, only him, to undo it.

  He pushed it down her arms and off, watching her flesh become exposed. Pink. Her nipples were pink. Not dusky rose or pale chocolate, but a rich, inviting strawberry pink. His favorite.

  Unable to stop himself, he bent and took her into his mouth. Luscious, the softest skin, the most delicious mouthful he’d ever had in his life. Rolling the nipple over his tongue, feeling it harden even more for him, gave him a sense of power he knew was transitory, but no less delectable for that.

  Sliding his hand down over her waist, the delightful curve between breast and hip, the sharp line of her panties offended him. They might be attractive, but they didn’t feel the same. No warmth, except borrowed warmth, no reality.

  He slid them off. She moaned, and he answered with a soothing sound in the back of his throat. Dare he? Could he?

  He dared. He spoke to her in the most intimate way he knew. Mind to mind. I feel as though I was made for this. I can’t explain properly, in any o
ther way.

  Her reply humbled him. No words, just a warmth that suffused him, filled him with need and pleasure. She wasn’t psychic, but every mortal had some ability to communicate, whether they knew it or not. And she was trying to reply to him.

  No longer capable of waiting another moment, he touched the sweet thatch of hair between her thighs. She was hot, wet, and ready.

  No more touching, no more wanting. Fumbling the packet, he never knew how he managed to sheath himself; the fever was on him now. But he did and in the next minute, he slid between her thighs and came home.

  Entering her made him feel powerful and powerless, at the same time. She owned him, but he controlled her, because she allowed him to do so.

  She’d closed her eyes, but her arms went around him and her knees came up, widening her legs for his penetration. They gazed at each other, the contact as intimate, more intimate, than their joining.

  “You were made for me,” she whispered. She’d heard him then, his words in her mind.

  “I was made for you,” he whispered back and began to move. Inside, she quivered, her ultra-sensitive flesh accepting and returning sensation back to him.

  “Michael, what’s happening?”

  Ever alert to danger, he scanned her mind rapidly. No invasions, except his, and he didn’t go beyond the first level. “What do you mean?”

  He pulled back and drove in, penetrating deeply, and felt her hands cup his buttocks, urging him on.

  “Ah!” She closed her eyes and then opened them again, staring up into his, her attention centered on him. He felt it all, entering her mind shamelessly as he entered her body, pushed deep, waiting to sense her reaction to him.

  As though a map opened up in his mind, he saw himself sliding past the sweet spot inside her, just missing. She loved what he was doing, but he could do better.