Hearts Through Time

by Unknown

  She nodded but kept her eyes on his hand.

  He hated to admit that he wanted to touch her more than anything, and not just to find out if she were a ghost. As she’d told her story, her green eyes hinted of a great sadness, and he wanted to comfort her. And since she would never be his client, he saw no reason not to flirt with her. Suddenly, Nick frowned. What if Travis and Steve were really behind this prank? Was this a test? Were they trying to see if he could withstand such a charming woman?

  “What do you think will happen if I touch you, Miss Carlisle?”

  She swallowed and backed up until she came to the edge of his desk, then sat. “I—I—don’t know. So far, nobody has been able to touch me.”

  “Have people walked through you?”

  “Yes, but I feel nothing, not even the whisper of a breeze.”

  His hand was almost there, close to her cheek. He wanted to cup her face and sweep his thumb across her skin. His hand inched closer and her jaw tightened.

  Three

  Abigail held her breath and closed her eyes, focusing on feeling his hand. She had to feel him! For so many years, loneliness had filled her heart because of her uncertain future. Nicholas Marshal must be the one to save me from the unknown.

  As he drew near to her, his spicy, masculine cologne created a sensation inside her unlike anything she’d experienced before. Between that and his powerfully good looks, her stomach was in a constant flutter around him. Still, she’d met too many men in her lifetime that looked like perfection but were far from it. By now she knew the true beauty of a person came from within. She would watch carefully to see if Mr. Marshall was as beautiful on the inside as he was on the outside.

  “No . . . way,” he muttered in amazement. “I can’t believe this.”

  Abigail’s heart sank to her stomach. It had been a long time since she’d felt the warmth of another person’s touch, and right now she wanted that more than anything. Feeling alive was on the brink of her memory, and she craved that again, but it was not to be.

  Tears gathered in her eyes, so she blinked them away. “Believe it, Mr. Marshal. I’m a ghost.”

  He stepped closer and swept his hands over her arms. Nothing solid touched her, not even a faint breeze. His hands kept moving as if to find a connection, but she knew he would feel nothing. “You can stop now, Mr. Marshal. You are not going to feel a thing, I assure you.”

  When he stopped, a roguish smile broke across his face, making his blue eyes sparkle. “Sorry. Guess I got carried away.” He dropped his hands to his side. “I still don’t believe this. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  He loosened his tie a little more and unfastened the second button on his shirt. He stretched his neck as if something were squeezing it.

  Feeling helpless, Abigail asked, “If you don’t believe in ghosts, how do you explain your hands passing through my body?”

  “Easy. I’m hallucinating. For some reason, I’ve conjured up a beautiful woman from the past.”

  His statement surprised her, especially because she didn’t dress as the women of his time. She looked nothing like that lady who had her hands all over him yesterday.

  Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. “The stress over the past couple of years has caught up to me, and I’m going loony. That’s the only explanation for all of this.”

  Abigail tapped her foot and huffed. “Mr. Marshal, you are not very humorous.”

  “I happen to think differently.”

  He turned and sank into his chair, threading his fingers through his thick black hair. She wished she could touch his locks—they looked so soft. She fisted her hands by her side, reminding herself she would never be able to touch anyone or anything again.

  He lifted his gaze, and she noticed the deep lines etched around his blue eyes. “I must still be dreaming,” he said. “I woke up this morning from a weird dream, and now I don’t think I’m really awake.”

  Abigail scooted to the edge of the desk and leaned closer, reaching out to touch him. Then, realizing the gesture was futile, she stopped her hand in midair. “I wish I could convince you this is not a dream.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. There has to be some way I can persuade you.”

  Mr. Marshal brought his face closer. His eyes appeared darker, and his skin looked smooth from a close shave.

  “There isn’t,” he said.

  A knock came at the door, and he looked away from her and stood. Her heart sank, and she wished she could convince him he wasn’t losing his mind.

  “My next appointment must be here.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “But he’s early.”

  Abigail wondered if she should disappear. Although it didn’t matter since nobody but Mr. Marshal could see her, she knew it might be uncomfortable for him to see her, knowing his associates could not.

  Then again, maybe this was exactly what she needed to do to make him believe he wasn’t still dreaming.

  Mr. Marshall opened the door. “You’re early, Mr. Moore.”

  The tall, thin, balding man nodded. “Is it an inconvenience? If so, I could return later. I just needed to see you now, since I’ve learned something about my wife that’s important for my case.”

  Mr. Marshal’s gaze darted back to Abigail. She held her breath, waiting for his reaction.

  “Um, well . . .” He looked back at his client. “No, this isn’t an inconvenience.” He opened the door wider. “Please come in.”

  The man walked in and sat down in the chair next to Abigail. Of course, he didn’t even know she was there.

  As Mr. Marshal slowly walked to his desk, his gaze moved from his client to Abigail. Confusion creased the attorney’s forehead. He sat behind his desk and linked his fingers, resting them on the desk.

  “So, Mr. Moore, what kind of information did you discover that would help me with the case against your wife?”

  As Mr. Moore explained how he’d followed his wife and caught her meeting with another man—he even had the pictures to prove it—Mr. Marshal seemed to try to focus on his client, but his gaze kept moving from the man to Abigail.

  Mr. Moore stopped and glanced her way, then looked back at his attorney. “Is everything all right? Do . . . do you want me to sit in that chair? You keep looking in that direction.”

  Mr. Marshal blinked and shook his head. Straightening his shoulders, he met his client’s eyes. “Of course not. Someone is already sitting there.”

  Inwardly, Abigail groaned. Why had he said it like that?

  Mr. Moore looked at the chair again, then back at his attorney. “Really? Who?”

  Mr. Marshal’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t see her?” He lowered his voice. “Do you see anyone sitting there?”

  “No, Mr. Marshal, I don’t,” replied Mr. Moore. “Am I supposed to see someone?”

  The attorney closed his eyes and shook his head. He chuckled, though Abigail knew it was more out of confusion than merriment.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Moore. I’ve had a strange morning, and I think I’m still dreaming.” He stood and walked by the window, leaning against it as he crossed his arms. “Never mind that. Tell me more about your wife. I think we will be able to use those pictures in court.”

  Annoyed at Mr. Marshal’s attitude, Abigail stood grumbling to herself. If he thought he was dreaming all of this, he certainly wouldn’t help her. Quickly, she disappeared from his sight but remained standing by the chair.

  He blinked, then scanned the room in obvious confusion. Soon, the lines of tension around his eyes and mouth softened, and he released a long sigh. Abigail felt the anger building inside her, making her want to scream. She had finally found the man who was supposed to help her, and yet she couldn’t convince him that he wasn’t losing his mind. Desperate times called for desperate actions.

  The file on the top of his desk drew her attention. Being dead had taught her a few things, and one of them was that she could still move things arou
nd as long as they weren’t too heavy. Mr. Marshal was far enough away that he wouldn’t think he had bumped the file.

  Keeping a close eye on him, she concentrated on moving the folder with her hands. Finally, the file shifted and then opened, and papers scattered across his desk. Mr. Marshal turned toward the sound.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Marshal,” Mr. Moore said as he placed the papers back in the folder. “I didn’t think I had bumped it that hard.”

  Abigail frowned. Bad timing! Indeed, Mr. Moore had moved at just the wrong moment. She would have to try something else.

  Mr. Marshal moved around his desk toward his chair. Abigail concentrated hard, hoping she’d be able to move something larger. Two steps before he reached the chair, it moved toward him, rolling right around him and toward the window. He gasped and fell back against his desk, his eyes not leaving the moving chair.

  “What? How did that happen?” Mr. Moore asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Marshal muttered. “There’s no way I moved it, and there’s no way you could have moved it.”

  Mr. Moore jumped to his feet, the color draining from his face. “I . . . I saw it move, but nobody was pushing it.” He gulped noisily and backed away from the desk. “If I didn’t believe in ghosts, I would think you had one in this office.”

  The attorney rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You know, Mr. Marshal, I just realized I have another pressing appointment. I’ll contact you later to reschedule.”

  Satisfied, Abigail folded her arms and smiled. When Mr. Marshal scowled, she realized it was too soon to feel excited.

  Nick clenched his jaw as he swept his gaze around the room, and he noticed his head was pounding again. “Miss Carlisle? You can come out now.”

  “I’m right behind you.”

  He jumped and spun around. True to her word, she stood by the window, looking just as real as Mr. Moore had. A sheepish grin stretched across her face.

  “I’m assuming you believe me now?” she asked softly. He nodded. “I do.”

  “You don’t believe you are still dreaming?”

  “Not when Mr. Moore saw the same thing.” Nick released

  a gush of air in a heavy sigh and sat on his chair, then rolled it closer to the desk.

  He really didn’t want to believe her, especially since he’d never believed in ghosts. For now, he’d pretend to go along with her story, and later on he’d call his psychiatrist friend to have his head examined.

  Miss Carlisle walked around his desk and sat in the chair she had occupied before she vanished. Nick looked into her eyes that seemed so bright with life, wondering how that was possible, since she was dead. He gave his head a mental shake. “So, Miss Carlisle, now what? How do we proceed from here?”

  She shrugged. “That I don’t know.”

  “It’s so difficult to believe you’re a ghost. I mean, you look real. You’re as clear to me as the people I meet on the street.”

  “I also feel real inside, Mr. Marshal. I don’t feel dead.” She sighed and placed her hand on her chest. “I can still feel my heart beating. I breathe like I’ve been doing all my life. When I get embarrassed, the blood rushes to my cheeks like it did when I was alive. But inside, I feel empty, cold, hollow. And I don’t experience pain.”

  He stood and paced the floor, running his fingers through his hair. The forlorn tone in her voice tugged at his heartstrings, and he wanted to assure her he’d find out who killed her. But how could he solve a hundred-year-old murder?

  Nick cleared his throat. “Perhaps we’d best get back to business. So tell me, who inherited your father’s estate after you died?”

  “I assume it went to my uncle.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “You assume? You mean you don’t know?”

  Miss Carlisle shook her head. “After the funeral, my body— or my spirit, rather—was forced back to this building. I have been here ever since.”

  “So you have no idea what’s happened to your father’s money?”

  “No. A little while after my funeral, different people moved into this building. I had no clue what happened to my father’s business. It was turned into some kind of jewelry store. I assumed it was given to his brother, Alexander Carlisle.”

  Nick sat on the edge of his desk, his leg mere inches from hers. “Just out of curiosity, can you leave the building?”

  “No. There is an invisible force keeping me here.”

  “Where do you sleep? Do you have a room?”

  “I go to the attic. As of late, I have kept myself entertained by sitting in on meetings in the other offices.”

  Nick cocked his head. “How about mine? Were you here watching me after I’d thought you’d left?”

  She nodded as her cheeks flamed. “You are more interesting than those others.” She motioned toward the hall.

  He chuckled. “Why couldn’t I see you then?”

  “Because I chose to stay hidden.”

  “Do you mean that invisible thing you did a few minutes ago when Mr. Moore was here?”

  “Yes.” She grinned. “Sorry I made your client leave.”

  “I think he believes my office is haunted.”

  “No, I don’t haunt.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. To ‘haunt’ means to scare people because the ghosts don’t want them on our premises. You, on the other hand, I want here to help me.”

  Nick cupped his chin with one hand as the other supported his elbow. “What does it feel like to be dead?”

  The sparkle in her eyes disappeared and she frowned. “You know the feeling right as you are drifting off to sleep?”

  He nodded.

  “That is what I feel like, almost as if I’m the same, yet it’s like I’m floating on air. Time passes quicker, too. I can go to sleep and when I awake, several months have passed. Even years.” She heaved a heavy sigh. “I have been very lonely.”

  Nick shook his head. “Miss Carlisle, we need to make a list of every person closely related to you or your father—anybody that would have gained something from both your deaths.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I don’t have very much time before my next appointment arrives, so we have to hurry. I promise while I’m in between clients, I’ll check into this.”

  Her grin widened, and she clasped her hands together. “Thank you, Mr. Marshal. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

  He winked. “Well, until I find out if I’m really having a nervous breakdown and going crazy, I’ll enjoy putting my investigation skills to work again.”

  Four

  The next morning, Nick closed his eyes and dropped his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on the desk. That woman wouldn’t leave his mind no matter how much he tried to dismiss her. Was she really a ghost? Had he been hallucinating? As hard as he’d convinced himself otherwise, no other logical explanation came to mind.

  Yet Mr. Moore, who hadn’t called back to reschedule, had seen Abigail’s trick—had seen the chair move as if of its own accord. So perhaps Nick wasn’t having a mental breakdown. After all, he could still function, and he still remembered the law and could assist his clients.

  Could he consider Abigail his client? There would be no way to collect payment from her, but learning about her murder interested him, and he enjoyed gazing into her pretty face. Thankfully, having a relationship with her was out of the question. Even if she were real, he didn’t have relationships with his clients. Nick would not ruin his career over a woman.

  Earlier, he’d run an Internet search for the Edward Carlisle estate, but nothing of value came up, certainly not Abigail’s uncle’s name. The only other possibility was that Alexander Carlisle had changed his name or the name of his brother’s company.

  Nick blew out a loud breath and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he leaned back in the chair and glanced out the window. The sun had already set, and night crept in. So much to do, so little time. He glanced at the clock. It was seven thirty—past
dinnertime. His stomach growled. He’d have to order Chinese takeout and eat while working late.

  From down the hallway, the click of heels echoed and grew closer. He looked toward the closed door. A woman stopped in front of the door, her shapely silhouette visible through the frosted-glass window. Inwardly, he groaned. Vanessa! He’d forgotten about their date.

  Nick braced his hands on his chair and rose as she walked in. Her face looked freshly made up, as always, but tonight she wore a pout on her glossy red lips.

  “I can’t believe you’re still working,” she whined.

  “I’m sorry, Vanessa. I’ve been so busy with clients today, I forgot about dinner. Will you take a rain check?”

  She slinked across the floor and stopped in front of him, her short dress clinging to her every curve. “I don’t know. I’m very mad at you.”

  “And you have every right to be.”

  Within seconds, the lines around her mouth and the corners of her eyes disappeared, and she grinned mischievously. Nick’s hopes of getting out of dinner flew right out the door. As long as he’d known Vanessa, only one thing had occupied her mind. Now he’d spend the rest of the evening fighting her off her advances.

  “I suppose we could have dinner right here. A private room for two. Sounds perfect, doesn’t it?” she said in a low voice.

  Nick groaned. “Vanessa, I’m too tired for company tonight. Not only that, but I have a lot of work to get done before tomorrow.”

  She ran her hands over his chest once before stopping to tease the buttons at his neck. “I won’t take up too much of your time. I promise. I’ll be more help than a hindrance, you’ll see.”

  If he didn’t take her out to dinner, she’d continue to hound him. “Fine. Why don’t you run down the street and get some Chinese takeout? I could use your help on a few things. You have done research on the Internet, I’m assuming.”

  Her eyes widened. “What? You expect me to help you with your cases?”

  “Of course. I just told you I had a lot of work to do, and since you insist on being with me tonight, I figured you wanted to help.” Nick wanted to pat himself on the back for thinking up that excuse.