Kindred Spirits

by Beth Ciotta

  “That would be impossible. I’m practically kissing the pane.”

  “Try another window.”

  “I’ve tried every window in every room. Upstairs. Downstairs. Just press the phone closer to your ear.”

  Rufus padded to the closet in his socks and selected a pair of new trousers. “The reception’s worse than this morning.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Bookman said, voice tight.

  “Maybe if you—”

  “Wrapped my head with aluminum foil? We’re wasting time here, not to mention your battery juice. You were telling me about the death dive, which I beg to differ, was not ‘freaking awesome.’ Stop flirting with death, Sinclair. What happened after you landed?”

  “Mick Mahoney showed up.”

  “Tread lightly with that man. I spent the day at the Atlantic City Press, researching their newspaper archives. The man has mob connections. Don’t get on his bad side.”

  “Too late.”

  “Figures. What’d you do?”

  “Kissed Grace.”

  “Again?”

  “I couldn’t help it.” He grinned in remembrance while pulling on his pants. “She’s hot, Professor. I mean really hot. A bundle of pent-up sexual energy. Wild yet completely innocent. I could have kissed her all day. All day would’ve been nice. But then I grabbed her fanny. Dumb. Really dumb. I scared her off. I was caught up in the moment, and—”

  “Caught up in the moment?”

  “Major fireworks. And this time I was sober. Of course, now she’s not speaking to me. Not because of the kiss. Because I suggested . . . or maybe I announced . . .” He stuffed his starched white tails into his waistband. “I did announce. I should’ve discussed it with her first.”

  “Announced what? For God’s sake, stop babbling, man.”

  He zipped his trousers, then positioned the phone between his shoulder and ear and began knotting his new dove-gray tie. “Did you say ‘babbling’? I never babble.”

  “Except when you talk about Grace. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were in love.”

  Rufus cinched the tie and nearly cut off his breath. “Yeah, right. I’ve known the woman two days.”

  “It only takes an instant.”

  He cupped the phone in one hand, pulling up his thin black suspenders with the other. “I’m not in love.”

  “What if you’re picking up where you left off before?”

  “There was no ‘before.’”

  “Did the drifter show up today?”

  “No.”

  “That’s because he showed up yesterday. That’s because he’s you. You are he. At the very least, you’re in his shoes.”

  He glanced down at the black Oxfords purchased that afternoon by Isadora Van Buren. A woman who died in 1928 yet, at that moment, was dressing for dinner downstairs. And here he was, wearing these shoes. He no longer had the energy to argue with Bookman. Maybe because he wondered himself . . . and didn’t like it. “I’m not in love,” he repeated.

  Okay, so Grace affected him differently than other women did. He’d taunted a man carrying a gun. Invited a punch for the sole purpose of swinging back because he didn’t like the way the man tried to control her life. He wished she hadn’t interfered. He’d wanted to knock Mahoney’s block off. His insides had clenched every time the thug touched her this afternoon, no matter how innocently. But that didn’t mean he was in love. He was . . . concerned.

  “Sinclair? Hello? Can you hear me?”

  “Barely.”

  “Stay the course.”

  “What?”

  “Spend more time trying to figure out Izzy’s regret and less time trying to get into Grace’s pants!”

  “Watch how you talk about her, Bookman.”

  Pause. “Listen. I know what I’ve been preaching—that maybe you’ve been there, done that—but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Don’t get emotionally involved. Whether you return to the present or not, you don’t have a future with Grace.”

  “How the hell do you know?” Rufus cringed and smacked his forehead. Of course he didn’t have a future with Grace. Grace wasn’t in the future.

  “I spent the day . . . through . . . newspaper . . .”

  “You’re breaking up again.”

  “Archives . . . article . . .”

  Rufus pressed the earpiece closer and moved toward the window. Damned spotty reception. “You read an article about Grace?”

  “ . . . married . . . Mick.”

  His heart skipped. “She married Mick?”

  “ . . . moved . . . California.”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “Grace married Mick and moved to California?” His heart started beating again, but double time. “When? What year?”

  “1923.”

  Jesus. “Month?”

  “June.”

  This month. That didn’t make sense. She’d said she didn’t want Mick. “Did the article say why?”

  A loud knock on the door drowned out whatever Bookman said. “Just a minute!” he called. Then he growled into the phone, “Say that again?”

  “Who are you talking to? Why are you holding your ear?”

  Rufus froze, his back to Izzy, the phone concealed in his palm. Thank God for mini-cells. He coughed as he hit the power button, slid his hand and the phone into the pocket of his trousers, and turned. Tried for casual and failed. “Are you completely lacking in manners?”

  She blinked at him, kohl-rimmed eyes wide with hurt. “What do you mean? I knocked.”

  “And I said just a minute.”

  “Oh. I thought you said come in.”

  He had no patience. “What do you want, Izzy?”

  She stepped back at his harsh tone. He mumbled a curse, unable to stop thinking about what Bookman had said. Grace married Mick. How could she marry that thug?

  He felt more squeezed for time than ever. He didn’t need to be wasting it with Izzy.

  “Spend more time figuring out Izzy’s regret.”

  Bookman—detached, observant, scientific. He wouldn’t get caught up in a paranormal love triangle. No doubt he’d be sniffing the air and scribbling discreet notes or whatever it was a paranormal professional did. He wasn’t Bookman, but if he listened to the professor’s advice, Grace was the key to Izzy’s regret. So by spending time with Grace, getting to know her, learning more about their friendship, he was figuring out Izzy’s regret. Which would also give him time to . . . what? What did this all mean? What was it with that photograph? The connection? What was he supposed to do?

  “I finished getting ready a few minutes early,” Izzy said, nervously skimming the long pearls looped around her neck. “I thought . . . I’m looking forward to dinner, and I thought if you were ready, too, maybe we could get a head start and . . .”

  “I’m not going to dinner,” he said. He’d only agreed to go to dinner because it meant spending less time alone with her. Grace had made it clear she needed her space. James had gone to New York. Lincoln and Mrs. Potts had disappeared. A crowded restaurant and an after-hours party had sounded damn good. Up until a minute ago.

  “But you’re dressed. And . . . and . . .” Her fingers curled around the pearls. Tightened. She pressed her lips together. Blood-red lips on a ghostly white face.

  Only this wasn’t Izzy the ghost. This was Izzy the woman. A living, breathing woman who suddenly struck him as vulnerable. He’d never thought of Isadora Van Buren as vulnerable, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like how he felt a pull to comfort her. “I’m sorry, Izzy. Really, but . . . but something suddenly came up.”

  Great, he’d stolen his excuse from Marcia Brady. Next, he’d be quoting Lucy Ricardo. The thought didn’t amuse him. Confused and impatient, h
e headed for the stairs. It was one thing to lie about time travel, it was another thing to lie and hurt her feelings. Beneath the sex-soaked aggression lurked a very lonely woman.

  “What do you mean?” Izzy said, chasing after him. “Today you said—”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Car. He needed a car. He stopped cold at the bottom of the spiral staircase and spun around.

  Izzy faltered, tumbling into his arms. She instantly took advantage, wrapping her lanky arms around his neck, nibbling his earlobe. “I know just the thing to work up an appetite.”

  He untangled himself from her hold. “For chrissake, Izzy, you’ve been all over me like a cheap suit for months.”

  Her eyes widened. “What do you mean? I’ve only known you for two days.”

  Right. He gave himself a mental shake. This was Izzy the woman, not Izzy the ghost. Somewhere along this wild ride the two had melded in his mind. She no longer creeped him out. Laguna Vista no longer creeped him out. He realized with a start that living and breathing in 1923 no longer creeped him out. Common sense told him he should be no less upset today than yesterday. Yet he felt oddly . . . adjusted. What did that mean?

  “Go to dinner. Go to Roy’s. Can you call Mick? Can he pick you up?”

  “Why can’t I drive myself?”

  “I need the Pierce.”

  Her lower lip trembled, and she pointed a shaky finger toward the foyer table. “Where are you going?”

  On impulse he kissed her cheek, then nabbed the car keys off the table. “Crazy.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  GRACE SCRUBBED herself in the tub, eager to get clean and get going. If she were Isadora, no doubt she’d have the light turned off and candles burning and fragrance in her bath. But she hadn’t come to her tub as a prelude to seduction. She’d come to scrub down—as she always did—to wash off the dirt and scratch shampoo through her curls. As she did every night after a long day of dust, sweat, and determination.

  Determination made her sweat as much as the sun did. Except sun sweat trickled away, while determination sweat always clung, burning her from the inside out.

  The tub water made shadowy lines of her figure. Lots of sweat and determination today.

  Despite her haste in washing, she’d become aware of the smooth creaminess of the Ivory soap gliding over her skin and the silky caress of the water. From the moment she’d gone into the bedroom to shed her clothes, she’d felt her every movement in dramatic relief. She’d stood in front of the mirror, imagining Rufus’s fingers as her own as she’d slowly unfastened her shirt, button by button, sliding the material down her arms until she stood in only her trousers and brassiere. It was the first time she’d contemplated the act of undressing.

  She viewed herself as a skinny thing with not much chest or hips. Not as sleek as Izzy. Not as voluptuous as Velma the vamp. She recalled Rufus’s hands sliding over Velma’s black-satin curves, strong and deliberate.

  A flutter of panic rose from her stomach.

  Would he take off her clothes? Rip them off? What would he think of her naked body? What would she think of his naked body? She swallowed, feeling a flush heating her cheeks. Her entire life had been dominated by men. Izzy had been her one and only female influence. Yet in all her twenty-three years she’d never seen a man in his birthday suit. Rufus Sinclair, in addition to being devastatingly handsome, was tall, lean, and fit, his muscular build evident when he’d held her in his arms. The prospect of seeing him naked turned her knees to mush. She was less enthusiastic about his seeing her in kind.

  Maybe they could do it with the lights off.

  She ducked her head under the water to rinse her hair. Three hours ago it had seemed so simple. Have sex with Rufus Sinclair, get him out of her system, then move on with her life. But then she’d started considering the details. Where would they do it? How long would it take? Would they have to spend the night together? She wasn’t a complete idiot. She knew the basics. She’d skimmed the Kama Sutra again. Then she’d started wondering if he would expect her to be that limber.

  She defied death on a daily basis. She was used to taking risks. Every Tom, Dick, and Izzy had sex. A primal activity that required minimal skill. Maybe she—

  A knock at the front door.

  She shot to her feet. Water sloshed in the tub from end to end. Dripped off her naked body.

  Izzy? She wasn’t ready to face Izzy. If she faced Izzy, she might not do what needed to be done.

  Mick? She didn’t want to see him either. She might let this craziness overtake her and let him do the deed. Would anyone suffice? Was it simply that she’d waited too long and, now, her body was rebelling, demanding release? Wouldn’t Mick be the wiser choice? He wouldn’t hurt her. If nothing else, that she knew.

  The front door squeaked open. It had needed oiling for years, but neither she nor Pop Pop had ever gotten around to it. Besides, she’d always liked knowing she’d hear the door opening. Not that she was afraid to be alone, but still, it couldn’t hurt a girl to have some warning.

  “Grace?”

  Rufus.

  Her heart hammered. She leapt from the tub, nearly slipping and breaking her neck. She grabbed the towel hanging on the chair and wrapped it around herself. Holding it closed at her back, she leaned against the bathroom door and listened. Her dirty clothes lay on the floor in the bedroom. Her clean ones hung in the closet.

  She took a deep breath.

  The wood floor creaked in the hallway. “Grace?”

  This was her chance. She’d planned to dress, then drive over to Laguna Vista, essentially throw him down, and get it done. But he was here, in her house. And she was naked. At least, she wouldn’t have to worry about the undressing part.

  She saw the moving shadows of his shoes beneath the door. He knocked. A deep sound that vibrated against her cheek.

  “Grace? Are you all right?”

  “If Izzy sent you to drag me out, forget it.” She winced. Not quite what she’d had in mind.

  “Izzy didn’t send me,” he said.

  Her mind skipped to Pop Pop. He’d taught her to be smart, strong. To rely on her gut. Her gut told her it was time to join the rest of the adult world. It was time to stop letting men get in her way.

  She whipped open the door, then dropped her towel.

  Rufus—dressed to kill—opened his mouth. His eyes roved up and down her body. Hot. So hot she almost felt the water droplets sizzle on her skin. Her gaze wanted to lower, but she forced it to stay on his. She knew she’d made the right choice. She actually burned. Her blood, her skin, her eyes, her breath. She’d never felt anything like it. She wanted him to touch her. Her vision blurred, like summer heat shimmering off the pavement, as she reached for his hand.

  She rested his cool palm on her breast.

  He stared down at his hand, her breast, his eyes darkening. He raised his gaze to her mouth, then her eyes. “Grace,” he whispered. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Warmly. Deeply. She closed her eyes, groaning as she felt herself sinking into something delicious. He’d kissed her before, but not like this. This kiss was slow, deliberate, and vibrating with the promise of something more. Something scary and wondrous.

  Sex.

  His strong hands moved over her bare skin, causing her entire body to tingle. Her heart drummed with nervous anticipation as he stroked her arms, her shoulders, her back. He cupped her bottom, and this time she didn’t jerk away. This time she melted against him, encouraging him by deepening the kiss. Take me, her mind whispered. Let’s do it. Let’s go. Her thoughts scattered, and her soul drifted. Higher and higher. Just when she caught a glimpse of the stars, he eased away, his hands on her arms, his breathing labored.

  Mumbling a colorful curse, he bent over and swiped her damp towel from the floor. He held it out to her, eyes averted. />
  She plummeted to Earth, stunned, speechless. Her cheeks prickled as humiliation spread through her jostled bones.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing, Grace.”

  She tucked the towel tightly around her and glared. “The silly little virgin, huh? I guess Izzy was right. She is more your speed.”

  “Sweetheart, that’s not what I meant. I—”

  “I’m not your ‘sweetheart.’”

  He sighed. “I meant, if we keep this up, you’ll end up on your back. Is that what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  He drew a deep breath, then looked at her as though she’d lost her mind.

  Mortified, she lashed out. “What? I’m not as beautiful as your usual glamour pusses? Or just not experienced enough?” It was a sad moment for Grace LaRue. She’d never cared about her allure to the opposite sex and rarely felt inferior around other women. Mostly she’d felt sympathy for those who were bound by the trappings of femininity. But somewhere deep down, her uncertainty must’ve bothered her, because here it was, rearing its ugly head and making her feel vulnerable.

  She stepped back and slammed the door. Fuming, she swiped a comb off the sink and started yanking it through her curls.

  “You’re different from the women I’ve known, Grace,” he said through the door. “You don’t want to do it this way.”

  “How do you know what I want?” Maybe they shouldn’t fly together. Maybe partnering with him was dangerous to her in ways she hadn’t thought about. No boots. No goggles. No armor. “We can’t work like this, with this tension between us. It’s too . . . distracting. Erratic emotions equal—”

  “—body parts taken away in buckets. I know. But sex won’t make it easier.”

  “Attraction. Friction. Combustion. Nothing personal.”

  “Where’d the hell you get that?”

  “Scientific American.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A magazine.”

  “Doesn’t sound like Cosmo to me.”