by Trisha Telep
“It would explain why we both woke shocked.”
She didn’t want to think that it wasn’t him that had been touching her so intimately, or whose kisses had spiked her passion like never before. She didn’t want to believe that it was a ghost who had aroused her like no other man had ever done, for how could she ever find a man who could compete with a ghost?
They sat in relative silence the next morning sharing breakfast, if you can call a slice of toast breakfast. It seemed that neither of them had an appetite. The weather didn’t help any either – torrential rain falling with a rumble of thunder now and again.
Neither of them made mention of last night’s incident and that was fine with her, though it certainly lingered on her mind. When she had finally fallen asleep it had been restless, and she had woken alone in bed.
“Are you ready to start investigating?” he asked.
She stood. “Do I look ready?”
He smiled. “Like I said last night – sexy.”
She grinned at his teasing, since grey yoga pants, an oversized, red knit top and her long black hair pulled back in a ponytail didn’t exactly fit sexy. Why then did she detect a glint of interest in his eyes? While she hadn’t dated recently she still could tell when a man was interested and Mitch Connell was definitely interested.
They made their way to the attic. It was a bit creepy, like most attics. After all it was similar to a graveyard: pictures, objects and, definitely, memories were brought here and forgotten.
“Where shall we start?” she asked.
“Let me have a look around and see if anything speaks to me.”
“Speaks to you?”
He nodded as he began exploring. “Ghosts that linger are usually attached to certain things. It could be as simple as a picture that gives me a clue to the identity of the ghost. Once I make the connection the ghost usually appears.”
“But ghosts do appear without you doing anything.”
He turned and smiled. “You read my book.”
She liked his smile; it made her smile. “All four of them, and enjoyed each one.”
“Then you know that some ghosts can be stubborn. The most stubborn ones are the ones with issues to settle, and they can be more of a challenge.”
“My ghost is a challenge.”
“Not for long.”
As soon as his hand touched an old steamer trunk he said, “Let’s start here.”
Amanda joined him, patiently waiting while he cleared some space around the trunk, taking the time to admire his firm, round backside that looked so good in his black jeans. Though recalling last night, she preferred seeing it naked.
She cringed at her thought. This wasn’t the time or place, but then when was a good time or place to admire a man’s backside? She should just be glad that she finally found one that she did admire, whether the time proved right or not.
Her logical reasoning allowed her to keep watching him without guilt; though she did pay a price – she got aroused. Damn if it didn’t please and annoy her all at once. It continued to prove that her dormant hormones had finally been roused.
“Ready?”
She had to grin; she definitely was ready. She nodded.
He eased the trunk open and the attic flooded with the musty scent that develops when something has been shut away for years. There were men’s clothes and an Army uniform from World War II, and, wrapped in a man’s white silk scarf, which had yellowed with the years, were old black and white pictures.
“Do you think the things in this trunk belong to our ghost?” Amanda asked.
“I think something in here connects with him,” he said, and sat in front of the trunk. He patted the spot beside him for her to join him.
She didn’t hesitate. She sat down, though much closer to him than she had intended – or had she? She had to stop thinking about him sexually. He was here to help her; perhaps afterward . . . she felt a brush of hot breath along the back of her neck.
Her hand clamped down on Mitch’s arm and she whispered, “He’s here.”
The breath grew heavier and she wondered if the ghost’s touch would follow. She scooted closer to Mitch and his arm went around her, tucking her against him.
“How can we help you?” Mitch asked calmly.
She listened, as if expecting to hear a reply, but was met with only silence.
The hot breath on her neck suddenly vanished and she turned to Mitch and whispered, “He’s gone.”
She hadn’t realized how temptingly close their lips were, or how much closer she wanted them to be. She began to turn away from him when, suddenly, his hand cupped the back of her head and swiftly brought her lips to meet his.
He kissed her like a man who knew what he was doing. He didn’t hesitate or hold back. He kissed her hard and decisively and sent a tingle rushing through her body that left her shuddering.
She didn’t know how or when it happened but she found herself on her back with Mitch nearly covering her. And she didn’t care. His kisses were too intoxicating to give a damn about anything. She wanted only to lose herself in the moment and make memories.
His hands began to explore her body, touching places she had never paid mind to but that he made come alive. Who would have thought that the stroke and squeeze of her shoulder could send her hormones into frenzy?
Her hands rushed beneath his grey sweatshirt, eager to touch his naked chest. His hard muscles felt ever so good. They rolled around on the dusty attic floor, mopping up cobwebs along the way but not caring, so lost in the need for each other. Until Mitch abruptly stopped.
“Did you hear that?” he asked with a whisper.
She started to ask what when he shook his head.
She listened but couldn’t hear anything. And then she heard it . . . a faint chuckle.
They both lay perfectly still, though it wasn’t easy with his hard arousal digging into her side. She would have much preferred it digging in where it belonged . . .
Belonged? Where had that thought come from?
When the chuckle wasn’t heard again, Mitch jumped up and began pacing in front of the trunk, just as he had paced last night in her bedroom.
“Something’s not right,” he said with annoyance. “I can’t keep my hands off you.”
“Am I that repulsive?” she asked, hurt by what sounded like an accusation.
He stopped pacing and shook his head. “No, you’re beautiful, but I never allow anything to interfere with business.”
“You’re attracted to me?”
“I’m not sure.”
Again his words hurt and so she was blunt. “Then why kiss me as if you never want to stop, or touch me like you want to make love?”
“Because the need to do both came after you felt the presence of the ghost. And so it makes me wonder if . . .”
“It was the ghost who wanted me and not you.”
“Exactly.”
“Does that mean I want the ghost and not you?” The very idea upset her.
He looked upset himself, and it gave her small comfort to think that the thought might have actually disappointed him.
He went straight for the photos and scooped them up where they lay scattered on the floor. “We need to find out who this ghost is and get him to move on.”
She wanted to ask what happens afterward, but she didn’t think she was ready to hear the answer. This growing attraction, this lusty need for each other wasn’t something she wanted to let go of just yet – or maybe never, if she were honest with herself.
Her previous relationships hadn’t come anywhere near to being as passionate and exciting as what little she had shared with Mitch so far. And if this were just the beginning, she wouldn’t mind finding out what would happen if they spent more time together . . . without the interference of the ghost.
“This man had an exciting life,” Mitch said, as they sat at the kitchen table looking over the photos.
Amanda had to agree with him. There was one man that appeared
in almost all the pictures. He was a good-looking guy, and she couldn’t help but think of her grandmother. “Gram would have referred to him as debonair, like some of the movie stars of the forties.”
“I can see that,” Mitch agreed. “He looks the confident and charming sort. He was also a world traveler. Look at the different locales in these pictures.” He pushed a few toward her. “I believe this is Cairo, another is London and I’m certain one is Cuba as well. He certainly got around.”
“I wonder who he is,” Amanda said. “It really is a shame that people don’t put names, dates and places on the backs of pictures.”
“Let’s see what we can find out on the internet about this house,” Mitch suggested. “We may get lucky and come across a picture of him.”
“That’s a good idea.” Amanda stood to go get her laptop from her bedroom when thunder sounded as if it rent the sky in two. The lights flickered and she wasn’t sure if it was caused by the storm or the ghost. She remained where she was and looked at Mitch.
“I’ll go with you.”
She grinned, glad that she didn’t have to ask.
She switched on the hall lights and, as they climbed the stairs, the lights flickered on and off again.
This time Amanda chalked it up to the storm rather than the ghost, since thunder rumbled loudly outside, and headed to the bedroom, the door open just as they had left it. She approached it without trepidation and, as she turned to enter the room, the lights went out, plunging them into dusky darkness.
“A lot of good the computer will do us now,” she said, turning her head to look at Mitch as she entered.
His focused stare warned her that there was something in the room she might not want to see. As much as she didn’t want to turn around, she did. In the far corner floated an apparition that slowly formed into the full-fledged ghost of the man in the pictures. He was transparent, though his identity was quite clear. He stood there staring at them, as if letting them know he purposely allowed them to see him, and then stretched his hand out, pointing to Amanda, and smiled.
Mitch stepped in front of her protectively. “Let me help you move on.”
The ghost nodded and then vanished.
“He’s gone, that’s it. It’s over?” Amanda asked.
“No, it’s just beginning,” Mitch said and, to her surprise and delight, he wound his arm around her, yanked her up against him and kissed her like a man claiming his territory.
A few minutes later they found themselves rolling around on the bed together, his shirt and her top quickly discarded along with sound reason. It got hot and heavy fast, his kisses driving her insane.
The man was a virtual Casanova in bed; she simply could not resist him.
The thought was like a splash of cold water in her face. Was it Mitch or the ghost making love to her?
She pushed at Mitch, though he didn’t respond at first. Only shouting his name got him to stop. It made her think that perhaps he was possessed, and not just with a hungry need for her.
He bolted off the bed, grabbing his shirt, and disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
She quickly slipped her top on and readjusted her ponytail. She couldn’t help but feel a sudden loss. Her heart ached, as if she had just lost a loved one. This was driving her mad. She had always dreamed of falling in love – young foolish dreams, though Grams had always encouraged them.
“Don’t settle,” she would say. “Wait for the man that makes your heart beat madly and who can’t keep his hands off you. Wait even if it takes a lifetime, and then you’ll never have any regrets.”
Amanda had always accused her grandmother of being a romantic, and her grandmother would laugh and agree. “Romance is everything, my darling. It’s an indication of whether a man loves you more than he loves himself.”
Mitch hadn’t hesitated to step in when the ghost had reached out to her. He had held her close when they had entered the house and had immediately taken her out when he had seen how upset she was. He was tender, kind and attentive to her.
Why wouldn’t he be? You hired him, you idiot.
She shook her head, trying to get rid of the sensible thought. She didn’t want to think sensibly; she wanted this to be real between her and Mitch. She wanted the lusty passion, the quick, heart-stopping attraction and the undeniable craziness of taking that first step off a cliff and falling into love.
He came out of the bathroom and she noticed that his hair was damp around his face. Cold water had definitely been necessary for him. She could use a shot of it herself to ease the heat that continued to pulse through her body and torment all those intimate nooks and crannies.
“Grab your laptop and let’s go downstairs. We need to find out who this guy is and get him out of here before . . .” He shook his head and marched out of the room.
Amanda quickly followed, the laptop tucked under her arm.
The house had an interesting history. Blackstone Manor was built at the turn of the century by the Blackstone family. Thomas Blackstone, grandson of the Blackstone patriarch Henry, followed in his grandfather’s footsteps, amassing even more wealth through various businesses and investments. Thomas, when in residence, threw lavish parties for friends and relatives at the manor. He traveled extensively for business and pleasure, often taking the youngest of his five grandchildren, Michael, who also lived with him.
And in no time the two of them sat silently staring at a picture of their ghost on the screen.
“Michael was a good-looking man,” Amanda said, though that was an understatement. The man was drop-dead gorgeous. “I bet many a woman lost her heart to him.”
“He sure looked like he had it all,” Mitch said.
“You think?” she asked, staring at the man who looked happy enough in the photo. “I wonder if he ever found love.”
“Did you hear that?” Mitch asked, quickly scanning the room.
Amanda remained silent and listened.
“I could have sworn I heard that chuckle again.”
They listened for a few minutes more but heard nothing.
Mitch scratched his shaking head. “Let’s see if we can find out more about Michael Blackstone.”
A half-hour later they both sat staring at the computer screen.
“How sad,” Amanda said, “for him and his grandfather.”
“It would seem that after Michael died in World War II, his grandfather lost all interest in life and just locked himself away in the house.”
Amanda cast a glance around the living room; a fire crackled in the fireplace and soft lighting added to the peaceful ambience. But no matter how lovely, she couldn’t imagine shutting herself away here for years on end.
“He lived twenty-five years secluded in this house mourning the loss of his grandson,” Amanda said.
“Or he spent twenty-five happy years here sharing the place with his grandson’s ghost.”
“You think that’s what kept him here . . . his grandson’s ghost?”
“That waitress did mention something about thinking the ghost should have been gone by now.”
“That’s right,” Amanda said, “the ghost would have left with his grandfather’s passing.”
“Something else keeps him here.” Mitch stretched his arms above his head and she couldn’t help but admire his flexing muscles and the way he groaned as he worked the tension out of his back.
She was attracted to him still, and the ghost wasn’t around.
But she spoke too soon, the hot breath once again suddenly at the back of her neck. She jumped up, annoyed. “Damn it, what do you want from me?”
Suddenly Michael Blackstone materialized in a shadowy corner.
Mitch was already standing, his arm reaching out for Amanda and drawing her close.
Amanda asked again. “What do you want from me?”
He pointed at her.
“You can’t have me,” she said. “Tell me how I can help you.”
He continued pointing
at her until he finally drifted away like a puff of smoke.
Mitch immediately stepped away, leaving a chill to run through her. She stared longingly at him.
“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t come near you right now. I want to kiss you and not stop kissing you.”
She wanted the same, though she wanted more than kisses from him.
“We’re going out to eat; get dressed,” he ordered.
She didn’t argue; they needed time away from the house, or perhaps a safe distance from each other. She hurried out of the room and upstairs to her bedroom. She would have liked for him to come with her but that would have been tempting fate. And, at the moment, she feared the consequences of being alone in the bedroom with him more than she feared facing the ghost.
Within a few minutes, she had changed into a red sweater and jeans and black heeled boots. She freed her hair, giving it a good brushing, and left it to fall free. She glanced at the portrait of Gram over the bed and smiled.
People insisted that she resembled her grandmother, but Amanda was nowhere near as beautiful or as elegant as her. Gram had had a grace about her that Amanda lacked. Perhaps it was all those years on stage, her every movement flowing like a lovely melody that captured the attention of the endless audiences she had played to.
When Gram entered a room everyone took notice.
“I miss you,” she said to the portrait, and then fled the room, tears brimming in her eyes.
Mitch waited at the bottom of the staircase. She stopped at the top when she saw him and attempted to collect her fluctuating emotions.
“Damn, but you’re gorgeous,” he said.
He said it with such conviction that her tears spilled over her cheeks. She flew down the stairs and into his arms.
Mitch held her tight, as if he never intended to let her go. “What’s wrong?”
“I miss Gram.”
He kissed her then, a gentle, consoling kiss that soothed her. He kept his arm around her as they walked to the front door, which he opened without incident. Neither of them heard the chuckle that followed them.
They returned to the Chowder House. Susie was working, and they were seated in her section. It was a quiet night, the place almost empty due to the storm, so Susie could linger talking with them.
