by Meg Benjamin
Biddy gazed around the grimy room. “It’s not that.” She grimaced. “Well, not just that. It’s like there’s something off here. Don’t you feel it? Bad karma or something. To tell you the truth, that’s why I waited outside.”
Danny narrowed his eyes. “Okay, you can say that to me and maybe to your sister, but don’t ever say that to a client.”
“Of course not!” She raised her chin commandingly. “I’m not that dim.”
Danny fought back a totally inappropriate grin. No way was he finding his assistant cute. He moved around the room, telling himself he didn’t feel anything like unease. He’d seen worse. Hell, he’d sold worse.
An alcove opened off the room at the back. “Looks like the bedroom. Does the place have electricity?”
“It’s supposed to. There’s a switch box over there,” she gestured toward the far wall, “but I don’t see any overhead lights.”
He checked the baseboards for outlets. One. In the corner. “Probably needs some rewiring.”
Biddy pulled open another door at the side. “Eew. This we do not want people to see until it’s been cleaned up or something.”
“What is it?”
“Bathroom. Theoretically.” She backed out quickly, then leaned into the bedroom alcove, surveying the walls. “No closets.”
“There wouldn’t be. Closets are a modern invention.” He nodded toward a door on the far wall. “Did you check in there?”
“Not yet. Maybe it’s the kitchen.”
Danny took hold of the doorknob and turned. “Locked.”
“Why would they lock the kitchen? I don’t know if we have a key. Maybe the front door key works here, too.” She started toward him.
Danny rattled the knob again. “Probably just stuck. I don’t see a keyhole.” After a moment, he put his shoulder against the door and pushed, gritting his teeth at the thought of his recently cleaned Hugo Boss jacket. The door opened with a tooth-jarring creak.
He stood in the doorway staring at another filthy room. A utility sink stood against one wall, an ancient wood-burning stove on the other. “At least it’s got plumbing. Not all these places do.”
Biddy peeped in the door over his shoulder. “Do you think the stove is worth anything? Maybe it’s an antique.”
He glanced at the stove—black metal with a steel top, covered with a half inch of filth. It looked like it weighed a ton. “Could be valuable. Assuming you could actually get it out of here. You’d have to use a crane or something.”
He walked across the dusty floor, stepping over the occasional piece of trash, then ran his fingers across the scalloped edge at the top corner of the stove.
And suddenly his hand was on fire.
Electric sparks seemed to flow up from his fingertips to his shoulder. The surface of his palm throbbed with heat, as if the stove were flaming. “What the hell?” Danny gasped, snatching his hand away.
His shoulders ached, his back, his neck. Danny grabbed hold of his burning hand and the sparks flowed to the other side of his body. “Jesus Christ!”
“Mr. Ramos?” Beside him, Biddy frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Christ!” He shook both hands, trying to cool them. Slowly, the heat began to recede.
“Don’t touch the stove,” he gasped. “It’s got some kind of electric charge or something.”
“The stove?” She gave him an incredulous glance, reaching her hand toward the stove top.
“Biddy, no!” Danny grabbed for her, missing her hand, so that his palm landed on the burner again.
His hand rested upon cool metal.
Biddy stared at him with real concern. “Mr. Ramos? It’s okay, really. There’s nothing here. I don’t feel anything.”
Danny took a deep breath, willing himself not to snatch his hand away again. The stove top felt cold. There were no electric sparks. “I must have touched something else. Something hot.”
“Up here?” She glanced around the room. “But it’s not hot here at all. I mean, actually it’s cold. I wish I’d brought a sweater.” She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her shoulders.
Danny stared around the room again. Dust. Trash. Two dirt-stained windows. He stared down at his hands, but they looked perfectly normal. No burned skin. Nothing.
His jaw clenched. Too much coffee. Too little sleep. Nothing freaky going on. “Anything else to see? Any other rooms?”
She shook her head, watching him with narrowed eyes. “Just the downstairs. The garage part.”
“Okay.” He blew out a breath. Time to head back to the real world. “Let’s go down there and check it out.”
He took the key from her fingers, feeling a quick brush of warmth as their hands touched, then shooed her out the front door, leaning back to lock it. His fingers still tingled slightly. He glanced down.
His hand was stained crimson, his fingers dripping blood.
Danny stood frozen in the doorway, staring. He didn’t feel any pain. How could he be bleeding?
“Mr. Ramos?” Biddy called to him from the bottom of the stairs. “Okay?”
He glanced down at her, then back at his hand again.
His clean, dry hand.
He closed his eyes. Trick of the light. Just a trick of the light. Nothing to worry about here. Nothing at all.
Right. Time to go downstairs and finish the goddamn walk-through. The story behind this house must be a real beaut. Assuming he could find it.
Meg Benjamin writes contemporary romance for Berkley InterMix and Samhain Publishing. Happy Medium is the final book in her Ramos Family trilogy after Medium Rare.
