Christmas Spirit

by Rebecca York

  She shrugged. “It was pretty typical.”

  Except for seeing a ghost, he thought.

  “So why did you agree to take me to the old warehouse?” he asked.

  “The place has always had a bad reputation. I want to find out why. And I don’t want to go alone.”

  “You’re trying to prove something to yourself?”

  “Maybe. Are you?”

  “Maybe,” he admitted.

  “Were you trying to prove something by going into the psychomanteum?”

  “I was curious.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “People really think they’ve communicated with loved ones?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think it’s true?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He didn’t press his luck by asking about her personal experiences with ghosts. He’d come to Jenkins Cove prepared to interrogate her. Since arriving, he’d been having a lot of second thoughts.

  She wasn’t what he’d expected at all, and he was struggling to adjust his thinking.

  They drove along the highway toward Tilghman Island. A few miles outside town, Chelsea slowed, then turned right onto a one-lane gravel road.

  It was an isolated location. Trees grew close on either side, and he saw there were places where the ends of branches had been hit. “The warehouse is not used?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But someone has been down here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “A vehicle lopped off the ends of some branches.”

  “Maybe it was teenagers looking for a deserted place to have—” She stopped before she said the word sex. “You know what I mean.”

  She clamped her hands on the wheel, and he had the feeling she wished she hadn’t brought up the topic.

  “I thought that this place had a bad reputation,” he said.

  “Kids would ignore it.”

  He wasn’t so sure, but he wasn’t going to argue with her. The road took a bend, and when they emerged from the foliage, he saw the blue gleam of water in the sunlight and a building ahead of them. It was constructed of weathered wood, with some of the boards missing on the sides. From what he could see, it was partly on land and partly sticking into the cattails that lined the shore.

  She drove up to a weed-strewn parking area and cut the engine.

  They were facing a wide doorway, covered by a sliding door.

  Michael eyed the building. “This place is pretty run-down. What was it used for?”

  “Fifty years ago, it was a shipping depot and a warehouse. But there’s not much direct shipping to Jenkins Cove anymore.”

  They climbed out, and he slipped his hands into his pockets as they stood facing the building, bracing against the wind that had sprung up.

  This was just a run-down warehouse, he told himself, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more here. When he glanced at Chelsea, he saw that she had her arms wrapped around her shoulders. Either she, too, was reacting to the place, or she was reacting to being alone with him.

  “I want to see what’s inside,” he said.

  She gave him a startled look, and he saw her swallow. “Okay.”

  The sun had gone behind a cloud, and wind buffeted them as they walked toward the double doors.

  “Is it safe to go in there?” he asked.

  “I guess we’ll find out.” She marched up to the door and gave it a tug. Nothing happened.

  “It’s probably rusty.” He stepped to the barrier and pulled on the handle. The door gave a little, and when he kept up the pressure, it rolled to the side.

  The interior was mostly in shadow, although there were patches of weak sunlight shining through.

  For long seconds, neither of them moved, and he felt his nerves jumping.

  “There’s something in there,” Chelsea whispered.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  “No.” She grabbed his arm, but he pulled away and took a step forward, then another.

  He didn’t turn, but he heard Chelsea following him.

  The floor of the old building was made of cracked cement, with a few hardy weeds growing up through the cracks.

  Something on the floor glinted in the sunlight, and he walked forward to see what it was.

  As he reached the center of the room, a white and gray cloud of whirring, flapping ghosts came rushing toward them.

  Chelsea gasped. Michael caught her in his arms, covering her head with one of his hands as a flock of seabirds flapped around the interior before finding their way out through the holes in the roof.

  The large room was suddenly silent again. But everything had changed in the space of a heartbeat. Once again, he was holding Chelsea in his arms. And once again, he marveled at how good that felt.

  He murmured her name, and she raised her head. Their eyes met, and he silently asked her the question.

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t kiss me.”

  He ached to cover her mouth with his, but he wouldn’t go against her wishes. Still, he kept his arms around her. “Why not?” Male arrogance had him adding, “We both want to.”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged. “But not here. They’re watching.”

  He looked around. “There’s nobody here.”

  “Can’t you sense it?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  He stood very still, feeling the beating of his own heart and imagining he could feel hers, too. Above that rhythm of life, he detected something else.

  The air in this place was thick. Not with dust or any kind of man-made particles. It was thick with a kind of energy that seemed to swirl around him and press in against him, making it hard to breathe.

  Like the night he’d walked along Center Street, he felt a coldness in the air.

  He could explain that part, though. In here, the roof of the building was keeping out the sun, so naturally it was colder.

  “The air,” Chelsea whispered. “It’s cold and thick. And there are voices.”

  “Voices?”

  “Don’t you hear them?”

  He went very still, listening. He thought he heard the whispering of the wind, but that was all.

  “What are they saying?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Not for sure. But it’s important.”

  The sounds around him had taken on an urgency. Then, once again, he tried to put down the uneasy feelings to his overactive imagination.

  He dragged in a breath and caught a faint odor wafting toward him. The odor of unwashed bodies. Or was his imagination working overtime again?

  Chelsea had turned into him, burying her face against his chest.

  He stroked his hands over her back and shoulders, comforting her and drawing comfort in return.

  When he felt her shiver, he clasped her more tightly.

  “It’s okay,” he said, not actually sure what he meant. All right to hear the whispering voices? Or all right to dismiss them?

  “I can’t stay in here any longer.”

  He nodded, unwilling to voice his agreement. “Give me a second.”

  “What?”

  He stepped away from her, then strode to the place where he’d seen something on the floor. Stooping, he picked up a shiny piece of metal. A woman’s earring.

  “Someone was here,” he said.

  “Kids,” she said again, but she didn’t sound perfectly sure.

  Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he snapped several pictures, wondering if they’d come out like the strange ones from his trip around town.

  He didn’t tell Chelsea about those, as he slung his arm around her again and led her back toward the door.

  They stepped into the open air, and he took a deep breath. A dark cloud had slid across the sun, so that the adjustment from the gloom wasn’t as sharp as it would have been.

  That was probably why Michael saw a flash of movement in the bushes. And then
a figure was running away from the warehouse.

  “Stay here,” he shouted, calling the order over his shoulder as he took off after the fleeing figure.

  “Come back!”

  “I’ll be okay.” As he ran, he tried to see where the watcher had gone.

  It had looked like a man, but he couldn’t be sure. Michael headed for the spot where the guy had disappeared into a screen of vegetation. No one was there, but the weeds at the side of a pine tree were crushed down, as though someone had been standing there.

  He thought he detected a path the person had made through the underbrush. He followed it, trying to catch up with whoever had been watching them.

  Then he stepped on a patch of ground that gave way under his feet—and he was falling into blackness.

  Chapter Eight

  Chelsea heard Michael call out. It sounded as though he was in trouble.

  With her heart blocking her windpipe, she went dashing into the woods, heading for the place where he’d disappeared into the underbrush.

  She heard him shouting at her, but she couldn’t see him.

  “Chelsea. Stay back.”

  She stopped in her tracks, her heart pounding. “Michael, where are you?”

  “I fell into a trap. Watch out.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “Where?”

  “Over here. Be careful. There could be more of them.”

  “I can’t see you. Keep talking to me. Are you all right?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “Yes.”

  “You’re not sure.”

  “Nothing major.”

  Her stomach knotted. Was he lying to her? She wasn’t going to find out until she got to him.

  “Keep talking.”

  “I’m below ground level. Be careful not to fall into another trap—” His breath caught.

  “What?”

  “That guy. He could still be here.”

  She stopped short, wanting to protest. But he was right. “What should I do?” she called in a harsh whisper.

  “Get out of here.”

  “No.”

  She scanned the woods. Someone could leap out of the bushes at any time, yet she couldn’t leave Michael. It sounded as though he was hurt. And if the guy came back, he’d be a sitting duck.

  She waited for several moments. It seemed as though they were alone. Of course, the man could simply be waiting to grab her. But if so, why hadn’t he already done it?

  She’d figured out Michael’s approximate location. Following a narrow trail, she kept walking until she came to a place where she saw a mat of leaves on the ground and a ragged hole at one side.

  Creeping closer, she went down on her hands and knees and peered into the pit. Michael was at the bottom, looking up at her.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I whacked my knee on the way down. No big deal.”

  “Can you climb out?”

  “Not on my own. The wall crumbles when I grab it.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t suppose you carry rope in your car.”

  “No.”

  He sighed. “See if you can find a fallen branch. Something I can use to pull myself up.”

  She stepped away, surveying the area, and saw that the covering of the pit was partially made of pine boughs. “Maybe we can use these,” she said. As she spoke she reached out to grasp one of the branches and almost lost her balance.

  “Watch out,” Michael shouted.

  “I am.” This time she was more cautious, tugging on the end of a branch and pulling it toward her. It slid forward, and she maneuvered it over the hole where he could see it.

  “Will that work?” she asked.

  “I hope so. Can you turn it the other way, so the branches are facing upward?”

  “Yes.” She eased it down into the pit, then tugged at another branch, which she lowered to Michael.

  He arranged the two branches, propping them against the wall of earth. Then he looked up at her. “Better stand back. I’m going to do this fast.”

  She took a step back, watching as he tested the horizontal branches sticking out from the main boughs. Then he began to scramble upward, using the two sets of limbs as a ladder.

  He had almost made it to the top when she heard a crack and saw him drop back down. Leaping forward, she reached over the edge and grabbed his jacket, pulling upward.

  She wouldn’t have been able to hold him up by herself. But he must have still had one foot on a branch, and her grip was enough to keep him from falling back into the pit. He plowed ahead, practically leaping the last few feet so that they tumbled together onto the ground.

  Michael landed atop her, panting and wincing.

  “Are you okay?”

  “The damn knee. Did I hurt you?”

  “No.”

  He rolled to his side and looked into her eyes. “That’s the second time you saved me. I mean, if you hadn’t been here, I would have been stuck in that trap until whoever dug it and covered the pine boughs with brush came back to see what he caught.”

  She winced, alarm written on her features as she stared at him. Lifting her hand, she touched his cheek.

  That touch, and the look in her eyes, undid him.

  Without giving her time to protest, he leaned forward, finding her mouth with his. The kiss was a celebration. A celebration that he’d made it out of the pit, and that she was here in his arms.

  He turned his head first one way and then the other, devouring her with an urgency that no longer surprised him.

  No matter why he had come to Jenkins Cove, no matter what he had started out thinking about her, everything had changed.

  He had assumed she was running some kind of scam. Or at the very least, trying to make herself seem important. But nothing could be further from the truth. She was so totally open and honest that the knowledge made his guts ache.

  She could have walked away from him a few minutes ago. Instead she’d almost tumbled into the trap as she tried to help him get out.

  That was the kind of person she was. If she thought she’d seen a ghost, then that was what she truly thought. He still didn’t know if he believed in phantoms, but he understood that strange things had been happening to him since he’d arrived in Jenkins Cove. Things that he couldn’t explain in any of the rational terms that he’d used all his life.

  Falling for her was no exception. He’d never let a woman sweep him off his feet. But it had happened with Chelsea Caldwell. And it had happened totally against his will.

  He kissed her with an urgency that might have surprised him, except that he had given up fighting what he was feeling. He hadn’t known her long, and maybe the realization that he had been unfair to her fueled his need. He wanted to apologize. But there was nothing he could say without getting himself into deep trouble. He could only show her what he was feeling.

  So he devoured her mouth, using his lips and teeth and tongue. He slipped his hands under her coat, moving them possessively over her as he drank in her sweetness.

  He felt her breathing accelerate. Felt her move her body restlessly against his, wordlessly telling him that they were in perfect harmony.

  Flames leaped inside him. Flames that threatened to consume him. He wanted her with an urgency that took his breath away. With an unsteady hand, he pushed her coat out of the way, so that he could cup her breast through her shirt and slide his hand back and forth across the hardened tip while he nibbled at her jaw, then the slender column of her neck and her collarbone.

  She tasted wonderful. Felt wonderful. He knew he had been aching to do this since he’d kissed her in the kitchen.

  “Michael,” she murmured, her hands just as restless as she ran her fingers through his hair, then under his coat and shirt, stroking his ribs, his back. Her intimate touch almost sent him over the edge.

  Though they were racing rapidly toward the point of no return, he allowed himself to revel in the heat of their passion for a few mo
ments longer. Then he lifted his mouth and forced himself to put a few inches of air between them.

  Her eyes had been closed. They blinked open, and she stared at him, looking dazed and confused. That look tore at him.

  “Michael?”

  “I’m taking advantage of you,” he said, hearing the raw sound of his own voice.

  “No.”

  “We’ve only known each other for a few days. This is going too fast—for you.” Her wounded look made him gather her close. “I want you,” he whispered. “More than I’ve ever wanted any other woman. But I’m not going to make love to you out here in the woods. Certainly not when someone could be out there watching or coming back.”

  Her sudden look of alarm made his insides twist.

  “You’re right. What was I thinking?” She sat up and glanced around as though she expected someone to leap out of the bushes.

  He sat up, as well, then stood, testing his knee and wincing.

  “Michael!”

  “I just need some ice to keep it from swelling up.”

  “Which we won’t get here. We’d better go home.”

  “Yeah. But first…” He pulled her into his arms again, sliding his hands down her body, cupping her bottom so that he could press her against his erection. He needed to feel her there. And he needed her to feel what she had done to him.

  “I’m going to make love to you,” he said in a gritty voice. “That’s a promise. But not until you know me better. I’m not going to sweep you along on a tide of passion. I want you to make a conscious decision about what we’re doing.”

  She tipped her head back, staring up at him. “Did I have the misfortune to get tangled up with a gentleman?”

  “I hope so,” he muttered, feeling the weight of the confession he should make to her. But not yet. Not until he had time to think about what he was going to say.

  She reached to stroke back the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “I think I can cope with that.”

  “Good.” He knitted his fingers with hers and started back the way they’d come, trying not to limp.

  And as he walked, he scanned the ground and woods around them, watching for sudden movement and for more traps. There were none on the way back to the parking area.

  As they stood beside the car, she gave him a critical inspection. “Your jacket’s dirty.”