"Serena."
She didn’t make it fast enough. With her hand on the doorknob, her head dropped. A willowy figure in blue jeans, looking frail despite shoulders pinned back stiffly.
"I’ll be down around the same time tonight." He hesitated when there was no response. "I’ll help with the dishes again."
Only a brief nod indicated Serena even listened. The door opened, and the Atlantic gust assaulted Brett with a chill that stole his breath.
And into that cold fist, Serena disappeared.
CHAPTER VII
Brett focused on the slick stretch of blacktop, the drone of the windshield wipers hypnotizing him as he maneuvered the Jeep around a sharp turn. His constant badgering of the police had finally paid off by providing a list of names involved in Alan’s muddled business ventures—the endeavors that had landed him in jail. Both victims and benefactors were obtainable only because he argued that since Alan was dead he certainly bore no threat to these people. When asked what possible reason he would want such contacts, Brett simply indicated it was to express regret over his brother’s business strategy, and to apologize. What he had though, was something tangible to research—a potential source for Serena’s ghost.
A steady rainfall pooled with dusk, making visibility virtually nil. Brett flipped on the fog lights. All he could discern in the murky glow was the sinister profile of the lighthouse. As he passed by it, he contemplated the history of the statuesque structure. It conjured up images of tall ships evading the craggy obstacles of the cove. He imagined what it would have been like to live in that time, to have a woman with long fawn-colored hair, waiting for his ship to return.
It was near dark as he pulled into the parking lot behind O’Flanagans. Head hunched against the onslaught of rain, he approached the back door of the tavern.
For a moment he stood outside and listened to the muffled sounds of music and laughter. He was anxious to get in there and be a part of it.
He was eager to see its owner.
Brett was behind the bar, stacking dishes and loading the sink, conscious of Serena inserting a plate between his crooked arm. Over his shoulder he talked against the flow of water.
"Why don’t you hire anyone to do this?"
Pausing in her torrent of activity, Serena shrugged and smiled. "Don’t think of me as a martyr. I’ve got plenty of staff, but they’re all young, and I like to see them on their way home by ten. I can handle what’s left after that—and now I have you."
"That you do. But—"
"I know." She looked away, emptying the cash register into a cloth bag with a padlock secured to the zipper. "It’s a temporary thing."
"I don’t like the idea that you’re in here alone, dealing with money like that—late at night."
"I’ve been doing this for years, Brett. The only person to ever come in here and take money out of the register was my husband, and I certainly shouldn’t have been afraid of him, should I?"
Serena seemed to want to pick a fight. Perhaps she too felt the shift of balance between them.
He frowned, angry with her for being so stubborn and not seeing the danger she placed herself in every night. Who was going to look after her when he was gone?
And when had it become his job?
"I’m sorry. I’ve just been a little tense." Her soft voice beckoned.
Brett glanced over and caught her defeated look.
Who was he kidding? He had readily taken on the job.
"I’ve just been so edgy." She busied her hands by stacking pitchers beneath the bar. "My imagination is out of hand lately. Why, if it weren’t for you hearing my ghost, I’d probably be locked away by now."
"Your ghost is pretty clever," He mused. "I couldn’t find anything in your loft this morning. I’ve got a few leads on some of Alan’s deals which went sour—people who could potentially hold a grudge."
"And that grudge would extend to me?" Serena’s eyes narrowed. "Guilt by association, is that it?"
"Who’s on this list?" She pushed. "Parker Banfield? He’s the one who sold his land for ten grand only to watch Alan make a hundred and fifty percent profit on it. Or is it John Morse?" A shiver coursed through her. "I’m not even going to go into what Alan got involved with there. Or is it—"
"What did Alan do with this John Morse?"
Serena visibly fretted.
Brett leaned his hip against the sink, crossing his arms in anticipation until she submitted. "John is from the Pasamaquoddy Tribe.
His nod prompted her to elaborate.
“The Pasamaquoddy receive federal dollars in order to acquire their own land back. Alan hooked up with John, hoping to pull a scam on the government. Because the tribe has sovereignty over tribal land, they are exempt to certain laws. Alan just saw this as a great opportunity—for what, I was never privy to the details. But when he was gone for those month-long spells, more often than not he was with John Morse."
“I need to start on these dishes.” His voice came out brusque.
Hands ensconced in foamy liquid, Brett tried to focus on the information Serena just detailed. He accepted that he had turned a blind eye to Alan’s private endeavors. Now he must face the repercussions of that ignorance.
"What are you thinking about?"
He glanced up from the pan he was taking all his frustration out on. If anything, the copper bottom sure shined.
"I was thinking about that name—John Morse. I heard Alan mention him."
"I’m sure you did," Serena said. "He’s Alan’s best friend."
"If they’re so chummy, why hasn’t he been around here? Did he show up for the service? If they’re such good friends, has he stopped by to offer you any assistance, any insight on what might have happened?"
"No. I wouldn’t want him around here though. He always made me uncomfortable. I mean, the man has a permanent sneer stitched on his face."
Serena reached for a towel near Brett. Perhaps it was her close proximity that set him on edge. Suddenly, the pile of dishes slipped from his slick fingers and crashed into the water. A wave erupted and surged in an arc that splashed Serena from neck to waist. Her scream of surprise quickly turned to a peal of laughter as she stared down at her drenched shirt.
Brett couldn’t resist a laugh, but his gaze turned heated as he fixed on the results of the mishap. Serena had removed her sweater earlier, the kitchen still hot from the ovens. She now wore only a simple cotton top with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Completely sodden, the material was sheer. Curse him to hell for staring, but he could see her nipples and the sight made him growl. He tried to conceal it with a cough.
The affect she had on him was staggering. The cravings she triggered were insatiable. He was a condemned man for wanting something that had belonged to his brother.
"Well," Serena announced with a chuckle as she reached for one of the napkins to dab uselessly at her soaked shirt. "On that note, I guess we’re done here for tonight."
She glanced up, amused, but her humor faded as she caught the naked desire in Brett’s eyes. Held immobile by his stare, she gulped and clutched the damp napkin tight to her chest.
Brett looked lethal, with long black lashes lowered across stormy eyes. Those eyes roved over her with yearning. It was as bold a caress as his large hands could have produced, and she felt it as surely as if his fingers branded her.
Brett cleared his throat.
"Sorry about that," his voice came out husky. "You’re right, that should do it. I know it’s a quick jaunt upstairs, but you better put a jacket on."
Brett was trying to sound gruff, authoritative, but the note of concern was evident to her. She secreted a smile and turned her back to him while hoisting her thick sweater over her head. "All set."
Any awkward discomfort was dispelled as soon as she switched off the lights of O’Flanagans and faced the prospect of going upstairs where her ghosts−be they real or products of failing sanity, awaited. Brett held her up in the doorway with a splayed hand as he insp
ected the shadows beneath the stairwell. Satisfied, he prompted her ahead.
Serena replaced the soaked shirt with a blue knit top, and stood on the warped corner of the throw rug, wringing her hands. She stared at the long arch of Brett’s back, watching the fire glow over wide shoulders and muscular outstretched arms. Eclipsed by that golden glow, he looked like a deity sent down to protect her.
"Do you want some coffee?" she asked.
Brett rose, turning towards her with the fire radiating off his frame. She drew in a breath and battled the urge to retreat.
Measuring her reaction, he shook his head. "I’m not going to bite."
"Of—of course not. I’m just jittery, it happens this time of night."
Some of the heat in his eyes abated. He approached her and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Why don’t you curl up on the couch, and I’ll make us that coffee?"
For the briefest moment she wallowed in that tone of tenderness, wanting to believe it was real.
Insecurity settled in.
"Don’t treat me like an invalid. I’ve been dealing with this by myself for a month now, and I’ve been just fine."
"Have you?" Brett challenged quietly. "You weigh next to nothing. You have circles under your eyes. Every morning your eyelids are swollen from crying. Are you fine?"
She broke his gaze and sought the flames as a diversion. "Well, doesn’t that just paint a flattering picture of me? Poor ole Serena, looks like death herself."
Surly with exasperation, Brett sighed. "Dammit woman, sit down and relax.”
Realizing how ridiculous they both sounded, he relented with a grin and released his grip. Serena dropped onto the couch.
"Are you sure I can’t help?" she offered wearily, her head already sagging against the arm of the love seat.
“Just stay there."
Familiar now with the kitchen, Brett moved efficiently, all the time berating his behavior. Serena needed protection. She needed answers. She didn’t need a lecherous brother in-law. He had to stay resolved to the fact that there would never be anything between them.
Brett rested his hands on the counter, regrouped, and returned to the living room with two steaming cups in hand.
Serena was asleep.
In some way he felt victorious that she succumbed to this one weakness in his presence.
Sinking onto the adjacent love seat, he sipped his coffee and stared at the smoldering logs. He considered feeding the charred pit with more kindling.
Lost in thought, replaying in his mind the facts he had learned today and the list of people he intended to visit tomorrow, he jolted as Serena sprang erect.
Her eyes shot wide open.
"What is it?" Such was the panic in her gaping stare, he felt dread clench his stomach.
"He’s here," she whispered in a detached voice.
Instinctively, Brett came to his feet, listening for any trace of the invader. The loft was silent apart from the crackling of the fire and the distant rumble of the ocean.
Serena’s gaze was unfocused and he considered touching her to see if she was truly awake, but then he heard it−the methodic footfalls emanating from behind her. Their path was deliberate. He was already certain of their destination as he hastened towards the front door.
There seemed no mechanical source for this unsolicited visitor. It stemmed from the very floor beneath him, crossing wooden planks out into the night. With a growl, he hurled open the door and raced down the steps, determined this time to catch the culprit.
At the base of the stairwell, he wavered. The haunting memory of Serena’s oblique gaze troubled him. And the sound that ensued from above made him sick.
"No!" He tried to deny the sound.
With dread he vaulted up the stairs.
CHAPTER VII
Alan was gone.
Serena was relieved to hear him leave. In fact, that that had always been the case.
Yet it was at this moment, this dreadful silence before the arrival of her next phantom that she recognized the icy tendrils of fear. When her ghost arrived today, it assaulted her not with the anticipated wails of anguish, but something much more dramatic.
Laughter.
Serena’s hands lashed out before her to hold the sound at bay, but the child’s echoes of mirth dipped into her soul, permitting a glimpse of a life taken. She moaned, but the childish giggles prevailed, a singsong laughter that had her teetering on the edge. Incoherent pleas fell from her lips as she hugged her arms about her and rocked back and forth, ignorant of the tears coursing down her cheeks.
That was how Brett found her as he paused at the doorway, shocked by an infant’s sound of merriment interlaced with Serena’s weeping. He launched at her, landing hard on his knee, cupping her face in his hands.
"Serena!"
She was lost to him.
"Goddamn you," he cursed the source of this hoax.
His fingers bit into Serena’s shoulders in a vain attempt to break through to her.
"Serena, look at me!"
Moist eyes stared through him. It was a vacant gaze he would never forget.
She was crooning to the infant.
"Honey, look at me." Helpless, his thumbs brushed at the tears coursing down her cheeks.
Powerless to stop this torture, he searched in vain for a way to invade her distress—a way to penetrate her torment. The invasive ring of laughter thwarted all his efforts. Distraught, his fingers wound into Serena’s hair.
Any indecision was lost to this sense of urgency. In a move fueled by despair, he yanked her mouth to his.
Brett thought the shock of the act might pierce Serena’s anguish. Initially, she was cold and unresponsive. He swiped his lips against hers and tasted her tears, licking them away, using his roaming hands and unleashed passion to distract her.
If God struck him dead for this, so be it. If Serena herself wanted to kill him as a result of this, that was understandable. If she was coherent enough to hate him—that would be satisfaction enough.
But right now he still tasted her sobs.
Rough and insistent, his kisses became a constant. His hands tangled in her hair, capturing her into compliance until gradually he felt her respond. When the soft tip of her tongue emerged to graze his bottom lip, Brett jolted, but he held her steady. Serena’s mouth opened under his as he heard a soft rumble of desire purr deep in her throat. The warm invitation was just too much to pass up. He greedily partook.
Cool white fingers caught his collar as she kissed him back. Tiny whimpers of despair or yearning were the only discernable sound, while he distantly acknowledged the child’s laughter had ceased. He was not gallant enough to withdraw yet, and couldn’t have done so if he wanted to; such was Serena’s hold on him. Taut fingers gripped his shirt, her soft lips responding to his every touch.
Brett’s knees spread apart as he hauled her between his thighs, pulling her closer, nearly onto his lap. The wanton embrace made his kiss intensify and it also altered Serena’s whimper into a husky groan.
He had to stop.
If he didn’t stop, he would lie her down on the floor and kiss her until there were no more ghosts, no more pain—just him.
Instead, he brushed a last stroke across her mouth, a gentle caress that made his stomach clench with desire. His forehead rested against hers, the sounds of their uneven breath united. Once Brett felt his heart slow down to a safe enough pace, he scooped Serena into his arms and carried her to the loveseat, nestling her onto his lap.
A sob wrenched from Serena’s lips. She ducked her head against Brett’s throat, her fingers still clutching the fabric around his collar. Weeping anew, she clung to him, expelling all the tears that had been trapped inside since that dreadful day aboard O’Flanagans Stew. Her cries extended to the grief she had not permitted herself after Alan’s death—these tears healthy and cleansing.
Dreamily, she was conscious that she was not alone. She was warm, secure, comforted−and seized a hold of those sensations,
using them as steps to climb back to the present.
"Brett?" Drops clung to her eyelashes as she pushed against Brett’s shoulders in order to search his face.
"I’m here," His voice was hoarse.
Disoriented, briefly catching familiar scents—the fireplace, the sea, and the rugged combination of musk and soap that was uniquely Brett’s, her eyes opened fully.
Serena acknowledged her position collapsed against his body, feeling his arms encircle her protectively.
She should run from this embrace. It felt too good.
Instead, she relaxed against Brett’s chest. For just a moment—just a moment to subdue the racing of her heart, and the lingering traces of panic. She knew only that in this haven she felt a remarkable sense of relief, and a tingling in the pit of her stomach—akin to anticipation. These new sensations muddled her thoughts.
"Wh-what happened? Did you catch him?"
She remembered that much. Brett storming out the door—the distant echo of his steps fading down the stairs.
Brett reached up to brush a tear off her cheek.
"No," he said. "But I did hear your other ghost."
When she would have retreated, Brett’s arm prevented her, locking her against him. He continued softly. "Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why did you live through that hell by yourself?"
"I—it—I thought it was all in my head." Fumbling for the words to describe the pain, Serena managed to add, "Guilt."
"Guilt?" His voice was hoarse. "You are guilty of nothing. You are a victim. I see that, and I’m sorry I didn’t recognize it sooner. You’re second ghost isn’t real either, Serena. And now you aren’t dealing with it alone anymore."
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