by Trisha Telep
He remembered the crash of her body against his. “It was just your fear. You spooked yourself.”
She shuddered, then took a deep breath. “Sure,” she said, stepping out of his embrace. “Of course, you’re right.”
“Let me open your bedroom door for you,” Troy said.
“No. I can do it. I can handle everything on my own.”
Telling himself it was for the best, he watched her move away from him. Her fingers reached for the brass knob. He saw her wrist turn, but only the slightest bit.
She looked over her shoulder at him, her expression strained. “It’s locked.”
“Locked?” He frowned. “Let me.” But it was locked. And so, weirdly enough, were the doors on either side of hers. All the others were too, they then discovered. Every single bedroom door on the second floor wouldn’t budge. The lone exception was Troy’s. It still stood open, the warm glow from the bedside lamps leaking into the hall.
They both looked at the inviting light and then at each other. “I’m going downstairs,” Jemma said hastily. “I’m going to make some tea and then camp out on the couch in the parlor for the night.”
“I can break the locks. Force open a door—”
“No! I mean, we shouldn’t do any damage. In the morning, it will be up to the caretaker to get me back in my room for my things.”
“Then I’ll take the couch.”
“Absolutely not.” She was shaking her head. “I’m smaller. I’ll be fine down there by myself.”
Not that he believed in premonitions, but something cold and prickly cruised along his spine as he watched her hurry down the stairs. “Be careful,” he heard himself call out as she reached the landing.
The staircase turn took her out of sight and swallowed any reply she might have made. Troy stood there for several more moments, torn between keeping his distance and the eerie urge to keep her safe. Surely they were both better off apart?
He scrubbed his face with his hands, then sighed, and turned toward his bedroom. As he neared the threshold, a cold breeze rushed past him. The door to his refuge slammed in his face, leaving him in the hall.
Three
Jemma had left her purse in the kitchen downstairs. Her hands were shaking as she rifled through it for her cell phone. Once she established the call to her best friend, she roamed the downstairs, turning on every light she could find. It wasn’t that many, because she discovered that nearly all the doors on the first floor were locked as well. She had access to the kitchen, the smallish parlor, and the downstairs powder room.
It was a draft, or the weather, or some odd trick of the security system, she told herself, but as soon as Vicky picked up she blurted out an idea that was scaring the heck out of her. “There’s a ghost here, Vick. I swear to God I think this place is really haunted!”
The line went quiet. They’d discovered over the course of the weekend that the cell phone coverage was sparse and sporadic. Had she already lost her best friend? “Vicky? Vicky?”
Her voice came through, tinny. “Haunted?”
Jemma pushed her hand through her hair. “That can’t possibly be true, can it? Something has me unbalanced.”
“Someone,” her friend said. “You know it’s Troy who has you messed up, not to mention those feelings for him that you’re keeping bottled inside.”
Jemma groaned. Troy again. But Vicky’s assertion had some truth to it. She remembered saying she loved him out loud and the next thing she knew, she’d been tossed from her room – and then into his arms.
She wasn’t going to think about that. His embrace had felt so warm, so right – no, she wasn’t going to think about that at all. He was upstairs, she was down, and it was better that way. In the kitchen, she put on a kettle for tea. “I’m sorry I bothered you on your honeymoon, Vick.”
“Oh, we’re still miles from the airport.” The connection was clearer now. “You could entertain me, if you want, by telling me what you think you saw.”
“I didn’t see anything. I just felt . . .” She thought of those creepy cherub/devil figures in her room. The roses and thorns on the headboards of the bed. “This place is creepy, Vick.”
“Of course it is. That’s why it has a reputation. And the ghost legend. Lovely Lily haunts the place because her jealous twin pushed her down the stairs.”
Twins? Jemma’s skin seemed to shrink against her bones. “I don’t think I want to know any more.”
“Didn’t you listen the first night when I read the story? Oh, no, that’s right, you were upstairs repairing the hem of my little sister’s bridesmaid’s dress.”
“I think I’m glad I missed out.”
“Well, you know most of it now,” Vicky replied, cheerful, and Jemma figured it was because she was moving in the opposite direction of this hair-raising house.
Lovely Lily. Jemma swallowed, hard.
But then the kettle began to sing. The happy whistle some-what eased her nerves. Nothing could be really terrible when there was a hot cup of tea in the offing, right? She sighed. “You might as well tell me the whole story.”
“Two sisters, twins as I said, Lily and Rose, who lived in the house about 140 years ago.”
Jemma thought of those matching photographs in the room upstairs. Two women in old-fashioned dresses. “Go on.”
“Lily had a suitor, but Rose didn’t want to lose her twin and was adamantly against the match. When the man came one last time to argue his suit, he was sent away. But Lily had second thoughts and made to go after him. Rose was so angry that she pushed Lily down the stairs and she broke her neck in the fall. It’s said she haunts the house, forever waiting for her beau to return.”
Lovely Lily, Jemma thought, watching steam rising from a thick white mug as she poured the boiling water over a tea bag, forever waiting.
But with the scent of cinnamon and cloves in the air, she was starting to believe she’d imagined the whole episode upstairs. Though the Lily–Rose story was both sad and a little scary, it was just a story. Surely those suddenly locked doors had some innocuous explanation. Why, she could probably head up there right now and discover the door unlocked and her room once again available.
But those weird angel–devil faces would be looking down at her. And then there was Troy. He was upstairs too, in tempting proximity. Safer to stay below, farther away from him.
Before she could wrap up her conversation with Vicky, the call dropped. With another sigh, Jemma flicked off her phone and set it down, then brought her tea to her nose. The relaxing scent eased more of the tension in her shoulders.
She’d been overreacting. Of course the house wasn’t haunted. It was just a story.
Then movement caught her eye. Her spine snapped straight. Hot liquid sloshed over her fingers and a little bleat escaped her lips as a figure suddenly appeared in the doorway.
Oh. Troy.
That it was him didn’t relieve the renewed jangling of her nerves. “W-what are you doing down here?”
His expression was grim. “It’s cold as a witch’s . . . nose up there. And it just so happens that now I’m locked out of my bedroom too.”
“Um . . .”
“Yeah,” he said, as if she’d replied with an articulate answer. “I’m afraid we’ll be spending the night together, sweetheart.”
Four
Troy built up the fire in the parlor, determined there’d be no need for them to huddle together to stay warm. They both avoided the subject of the locked doors – at the moment he had no reasonable explanation – as they made a meal of wedding reception leftovers.
Afterward, they sat side by side on the rug in front of the hearth, each staring into the flames. A few moments passed, with only the pop and hiss of the fire interrupting the quiet. Then Jemma cleared her throat.
Troy glanced over at her, and then continued staring, fascinated by the lines of her profile. “What?”
Her gaze cut his way, then shot forward again. “Maybe we could call a taxi. Find another p
lace to stay for the night.”
The idea had occurred to him as well, but then practicality had squashed it. “Even if we could find a driver willing, the ride here and back would take at least three hours. We’d have to turn around and do it all over again at dawn.” He worked to insert a light, teasing note into his voice. “C’mon, are you that nervous about being alone with me?”
“We just don’t . . .”
“What?”
“Have anything to say to each other. Not anymore.”
He shouldn’t deny it. “Sure we do. We haven’t seen each other in six months. Lots to catch up on.”
She drew her knees to her chest. “Oh, sure. I can’t wait to hear about all the pretty girls in bikinis you spent time with at Ipanema.”
“Brazil has the famous Ipanema Beach. And I didn’t date while I was in Argentina. I had . . . other things on my mind. What about you? Vicky hinted about some, uh, private parties that you had?” It was stupid to see red and feel green when he thought about them, about her with anyone else, but there it was.
“I was too busy working to do any . . . private partying.”
He shouldn’t feel so relieved. “Lots of dresses to make?”
“Mm. And my aunt is cutting back on her hours and giving me more responsibility.” She made a sucking-on-lemons face. “I’m actually using my business degree, emphasis on accounting.”
He smiled, because she always said it that way, as if the words tasted bad in her mouth. Business degree, emphasis on accounting. “You like the design and dressmaking best, though.”
“We have that in common – the creating of things.” She was silent a moment. “How about you? Was it all work, work, work, or did you take some time off to explore? Did you see penguins? The famous waterfalls?”
Huh. If she knew about the penguins and the waterfalls, then he figured she’d been blowing smoke with that Ipanema remark . . . An offhand way to find out if he’d been seeing other women? “So, you’ve been reading up on Argentina?” Over the last six months, had she been thinking about him too?
“I have the internet, I can spell.”
He’d never once emailed her. A thousand times he’d considered it, but he’d wanted a clean break. A painless one. He settled back on his elbows instead of grabbing her in his arms like he wanted to, reminding himself of all the reasons they shouldn’t be together again. “My youngest half-brother came to visit me for a few weeks. We toured around then.”
She looked at him now. “You have a half-brother?”
“Step-siblings too, actually.”
Pivoting on her cute little ass, she turned to face him, her back now to the fire. “You said your mom and dad were divorced, that you weren’t close.”
“They are. We’re not. It’s sort of hard to keep the connections tight when they both moved on to other spouses, other kids, more divorces. The latest victim of the fallout is twenty-year-old Evan. Poor kid took a leave of absence from college to get away from our mom’s most recent debacle. She goes into marriage like a lamb and gets out like a lion. Lots of carnage.”
“Carnage?” Jemma shivered.
He laughed a little, the sound not really amusement. “No actual body parts. But she used Evan’s SUV to run over her husband’s golf cart – though her spouse wasn’t in it at the time.”
“That’s . . . awful.”
“Yeah. Puts my own loss into a little perspective. I was eleven when she divorced my dad. She went after the model of the Golden Gate Bridge the two of us had been working on for nearly a year. One thwack with a baseball bat and all I had left were a couple of buckets of toothpicks and a robust aversion to marriage.”
She scooted closer. “Oh, Troy.” Her hand touched his thigh and her voice lowered. “No wonder you worry about how things will break apart.”
Her words didn’t sink into his consciousness. All he was aware of was those small fingers of hers, just inches from his groin. Blood rushed to meet them, getting waylaid at his cock. It went hard, and all his other muscles tensed, trying to restrain the urge to yank her on top of him. Jesus, he wanted inside of her, just like that. Inside of Jemma.
Now.
“Troy . . .” She shook her head.
“What?” He nearly groaned the word. If she didn’t do something soon, move away, move back, distract him, damn it, he was going strip her naked and take all night to slake his desire for her body.
“Talk to me, Jem.” About thread or fabric. Better yet, ice and snow. His pulse was pounding. Demanding. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I . . . I . . .” She looked down. “I can’t. I promised myself I wouldn’t.”
“Please, Jemma.” Troy jackknifed up, his fingers curling into fists to stop himself from grabbing for her. He was supposed to be keeping his distance! “If you don’t—”
“Kiss me,” she commanded, her head coming up. “I don’t want to talk anymore about anything. I just want you.”
There was no thought of refusal. In a crash of torso and mouths, they grasped each other. Lips fused, arms entwined, they tumbled together onto the rug. Troy shifted, rolling on top of her and using his hips to make a place for himself between her legs. Her pelvis pressed upward, into his, and she moaned.
He tilted his head and thrust his tongue deeper into her mouth. She tasted like cloves and cinnamon and the sweetness of something too long denied. “Jemma,” he said against her lips. “God, this is so good.”
One hand found its way beneath her stretchy T-shirt. Her midriff was silky and warm and he splayed his hand over her bare skin, just absorbing the pleasure of her flesh beneath his palm. She squirmed, her lower body abrading his cock, and a rush of hot chills dashed up his spine.
His hand slid toward her breast. She arched into his touch and moaned again as his thumb scraped over the nipple he could feel beneath her bra. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
She ignored this order to tug at the tails of his shirt. He grabbed the fabric between his shoulder blades to yank it up and off, feeling the pop of buttons giving way. One pinged as it hit the floor, and she laughed, the sound giddy.
Bare chested, he stared down at the stunning sight of her. Firelight turned her blonde hair to reddish-gold and illuminated the flush of arousal on her face. Her mouth was wet from his kisses, her features bearing the soft stamp of need. “Troy . . .”
“Tell me what you’re feeling,” he whispered, sliding his hands beneath her T-shirt and letting his wrists draw up the hem as his fingers caressed her warm skin. Lifting his palms to avoid touching her breasts, he peeled away the fabric and threw it to the side. “You’re with me, aren’t you?”
He wanted to hear that she was as turned on as he was. It was only fair. For six damn long months he’d tossed and turned and thought of all the things he wanted to do to her creamy flesh.
She made an inarticulate sound as he unfastened the front hook of her bra. Then, careful not to touch her himself, he lifted the cups from her skin. The heat of the fire caressed her now, and he imagined how hot her flesh would feel against his tongue once he took one of the tightly budded nipples between his lips.
Then he couldn’t wait another second. He bent toward her breast, and sucked the tip, hard, rubbing his tongue around it and pushing it against the roof of his mouth. Her eyes closed, her fingers slid into his hair, and he played with the rhythm, hard, soft, fast flicks, long pulls. Her nails bit into his scalp and he lifted his head to blow cool air on the tortured nipple.
She moaned again, and he went to work on the other, his pulse pounding faster, his lust ratcheting higher. When she called his name he took her mouth again and worked one hand between them to strip away her jeans and panties. She kicked free of her boots and then all the rest, leaving her naked to his gaze.
His heart slammed against his breastbone, the power of his lust paralysing him. Then he was moving again, his gaze running over her curves as he undressed. As she watched him through half-closed eyes, one small foot crept up, op
ening her thighs so he could see the glint of arousal on the petaled flesh between her legs.
His balls drew up, and he was ready, too ready. Clearly she was eager too, but he needed to slow this down or he’d be on her like an animal. With deep breaths, he fumbled with the condom from his wallet and rolled it into place. Then he drew the back of his forefinger from the notch at her throat to the soft curls at her cleft.
“Tell me what you feel,” he asked again.
She shook her head, her lips pressing together as if to keep to herself some great secret.
“Silly Jemma,” he said. “You know you can’t hide from me.” His fingers slid lower, into her slick wetness.
Her breath caught as he toyed with her. “Troy. Troy, please.”
God, that little plea in her voice turned him on. The first time they’d had sex she’d floored him with it – that almost hiccup of sound that was the epitome of vulnerable femininity.
It had made him want to drag her back to his cave, which he’d done, in a manner of speaking. They’d been at her place, but right there and then he’d insisted on a change of venue. Only taking time to bundle her in a quilt, he’d carried her to his condo upstairs. When they’d both climaxed, it had been in his bed.
They’d spent the weekend at his place.
Monday morning, as she went through his front door to get ready for work, he’d been so bereft he’d known they were heading for trouble. But he’d been so besotted he hadn’t cared.
Until that afternoon months later when he’d come home from work early. Thinking he’d surprise her, he stepped onto her little patio that he could access from the walkway. Peering through the sliding glass door, he’d glimpsed her in that mock-up of her best friend’s wedding dress.
And started thinking about marriage. A week later he’d left the country.
“Troy. Troy.”
She was calling his name in that needy way again. He shoved away the old memories and focused on the moment. Jemma, her hips twisting as she tried to get more of his touch. He slid two fingers inside her and her muscles clamped down, the grip causing another round of chills to race over his skin.
