by Jo Goodman
The distinction seemed important to her, and Walker let it pass.
"Why didn't you want to tell me that you remembered?" Skye asked.
"I have more practice keeping secrets than sharing them."
"I can keep secrets, too."
"You'll have to." His tone was flat. His eyes were serious. He leaned toward her. "Otherwise you'll be dead."
A slip of air passed between Skye's parted lips. The centers of her eyes darkened, widened. He was going to kiss her, and this time she welcomed it.
His mouth moved gently over hers, sipping, tasting. Skye's hands unfolded on her knees and lifted to the level of Walker's shoulders. They hovered there, fluttered, then alighted. She gripped the lapels of his robe between her thumbs and forefingers. The fabric was soft. The warmth was Walker's heat.
The damp edge of his tongue touched her mouth. She opened to it. Her body unfolded beside his as he stretched out on the bed. They were on their sides, mouths cleaving. He explored her mouth, the fullness of her lower lip, the peaked curves of her upper one. He kissed the corner of her mouth and traced the edge of her jaw. He nuzzled her ear and his teeth caught her lobe and tugged. His fingers threaded in her hair, tangling in the silken flames. The fragrance of her drew him closer. There would be a tiny mark on her skin later where he sipped at the curve of her neck.
He felt the pulse in her temple against his mouth, the thrumming of her heart in the sensitive cord of her throat. She made a tiny sound of wanting when his lips traced the rounded neckline of her gown. Where his tongue dampened it, it clung to her skin. He nudged it aside and kissed her. She was warm, supple. The entire length of her body was pliant.
He palmed the inward curves of her waist and twisted until he was under her. Skye's slight weight pinned him to the mattress.
She raised her head a fraction, breaking the kiss. Walker's hands stilled on her waist. "What is it?" he asked. The grip of his hands was warm and solid.
"I thought I would be afraid," she whispered. "But I'm not."
"Good," he said. "Because I'm terrified."
His lie made her smile and the firelight gave it warmth. It washed over Walker. Skye bent her head and this time it was she who initiated the kiss. Her nose nudged his as she found the comfortable slant. She pressed her lips against his. They shared the same breath. At the small of her back his thumbs brushed back and forth against the fabric of her nightgown. She could feel the rubbing pressure on her skin and knew an urgency to thrust herself against him. Her thighs cradled the hard, rigid length of him. It was the most natural thing in the world to deepen the kiss and accept the soft groan at the back of his throat.
Walker tugged at Skye's nightgown, raising the hem past her calves, the backs of her knees, her thighs. The rise of the fabric, the flimsy, insubstantial brush of it against her skin, caused Skye to shudder. Her short gasp was unlike Walker's, tinged with alarm, not desire. She raised her head and pushed at his shoulders in the same motion, twisting away from him with her entire body.
Walker made no attempt to pursue her. His breathing was short and ragged. The struggle was to steady it. He raked his hair with his fingers and exhaled slowly. Skye was sitting up on the edge of the bed, hugging her midriff, her shoulders hunched.
"This was a bad idea," he said finally. His voice was husky, gritty with his efforts at denial. "I shouldn't have—"
"No," she said quickly. Her voice was raspy as well. "It's not your fault." She straightened and pressed her fists against her middle. It helped her take a breath. "It's something about me. Something that's wrong with me."
Wondering if she could put it into words, Walker waited for her to tell him. He let the silence stretch between them for so long that he was certain she wouldn't explain herself. He was ready to say she didn't have to when she turned her head to look at him. Her warring thoughts were etched in the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She pressed again on her middle with her fists and the words spilled out.
"Do you believe in ghosts?"
Chapter 8
Walker pushed himself up so he could rest on his elbows. He didn't ask Skye if she was serious. He could see that she was. "Ghosts," he said flatly. "You're asking about ghosts."
She was earnest. "Yes. Do you think it's possible?"
He hedged. "Anything's possible."
Skye nearly removed the fist clenched against her own midriff and plunged it into his. "Don't do that. Don't humor me." She let her feet slide off the bed rail and stood. When she picked up her robe, she was near enough to the mantel clock to read the time. It was almost six o'clock, time for her to be up anyway. "I'm going back to my room to get ready. There's no reason for others to know I spent the night here."
Walker got up. He lighted the bedside lamp. "Parnell already knows," he reminded her. "And Corina will find out from him. I suspect it will be common knowledge among the staff by the end of breakfast. Besides, I'm not letting you out of my sight. I still have to protect Parnell."
That stopped Skye. "I thought you were protecting me."
"I am."
"And yourself, no doubt."
His grin appeared as he came to his feet. The single dimple marked one corner of his unrepentant smile.
"That's right." He cornered her at the washstand and placed one arm on either side of her. His smile faded as quickly as it had come.
Startled, Skye braced her shoulders defensively. She raised her chin. He wasn't touching her anywhere, but she was as aware of him as she had been when her body had been pressed to his.
"Now, suppose you tell me why you asked about ghosts."
Skye's mouth flattened.
"Don't," he said, shaking his head. "Don't go tight-lipped now. You raised the question. You're the one who leaped out of our bed."
Our bed. Skye blinked hugely, dumbstruck by his phrasing. Walker Caide took a lot of liberties.
"Well?"
"I trusted you," she said on a thread of sound.
His eyes locked on her accusing ones. "And you still can. I haven't lied to you."
"You haven't told me the entire truth, either."
"Fair enough."
She hadn't expected him to admit it so easily. "Are you going to?"
"I don't think so."
"And you still expect me to trust you?"
"Your safety depends on it. I can't say it any plainer than that." He searched her features and knew the moment she resigned herself to accepting his words at face value. "Now tell me why you asked about ghosts."
It didn't seem to matter that he hadn't answered her question. He was determined to get an answer to his own. "I asked because there was one in my room last night." She waited for him to laugh. When his expression didn't change, she continued. "And I think it's happened before."
"What makes you think that?"
Skye struggled to find the right words. Her efforts were inadequate to her own ears. "It seemed vaguely familiar," she said. "I have this... sense—I don't know any other way to say it—that something was touching me. Last night the feeling was stronger."
Walker removed his arms from either side of Skye and took a step backward. He thought she was probably unaware of the relief that shaded her eyes almost immediately. He considered her actions in their bed a few minutes earlier and then he considered his own. He couldn't have said he understood, but an idea was forming in his head. "Tell me about last night," he said. "Tell me what you can remember."
Skye glanced at the clock again. She needed to get ready, yet she was reluctant to return to her own room. She turned her back on Walker and began washing at the basin. Behind her, she felt him return to the bed, where he sat on the edge. "Last night the feeling was stronger," she explained. "If I could have just opened my eyes a moment sooner I would have seen him."
"Him?"
The washcloth was cool against Skye's hot face. It would have been more comfortable to stay buried in it than answer Walker's question. She let it slip away and wrung it out. "It's a he
," she said softly. She could almost feel his skepticism and she shrugged. "I just know."
Walker didn't argue. "Why didn't you open your eyes?"
"I couldn't." Skye picked up her brush and began pulling it through her thick hair. "It's true I was afraid, but that isn't why I didn't look. I didn't because I couldn't."
"There was something over your eyes?"
The brushing stopped for a beat. Skye turned toward Walker, her eyes distant with thought. "No," she said. "It wasn't like that. They were just so heavy I couldn't lift them. I tried. I know I tried." She resumed brushing her hair and looked at Walker. "It sounds mad, doesn't it?"
Walker was reserving judgment. "Tell me about the touching."
Skye would have turned from him again, but his eyes held hers and she found herself unable to look away. Her voice was only a thread of sound. "It's soft. Feathery. Fluttering. Like butterfly wings. It beats against my skin sometimes. Sometimes it just slides over me. It's barely a touch at all." She forced herself to tell him all of it. "Last night... he touched me everywhere."
Walker reached out and took the brush from Skye's nerveless fingers. He tossed it to the foot of the bed. His fingers caught the sleeve of her robe and he tugged, pulling her between his open legs. He grasped one of her hands in each of his. Sitting on the edge of the bed as he was, Walker was the one who had to raise his face to Skye. His brown-and-gold-flecked eyes searched her features. His voice didn't hint at the anxiety he felt. "Do you believe it wasn't me?" he asked her.
She didn't hesitate. "I know it wasn't you," she said. "I couldn't have—" Her eyes drifted to the pillows lying side by side on the bed. "I couldn't have..." She trailed off, unable to find the right words.
"You didn't," he reminded her gently. "We exchanged kisses. Nothing else happened."
She knew her face was burning. Walker's stare was frank and unembarrassed. His thumbs were rubbing the backs of her hands. Those kisses, she thought, those kisses were different than anything she had experienced. Which meant they were not like Daniel's and nothing like the ghost's. She would have felt foolish telling Walker that. Instead, her voice just a whisper, she said, "I couldn't even have slept beside you."
Walker could have told her that for most of the night she had been alone. He found it much more difficult to sleep than she had. After tossing and turning for the better part of an hour, he'd left the room briefly. On his return Walker had moved to the chair beside the fireplace. He imagined it wouldn't be so different this evening. "You know I'm not going to hurt you," he said.
Skye thought he probably would, but not in any physical way. "I know," she said.
"All right." Walker's thumbs stopped massaging her hands. "Let me change my clothes, then we'll go to your room so you can get ready. Sometime today you'll have to move your things in here."
"But—"
He shook his head, cutting her off. "In here," he repeated. "This is where I want you."
* * *
Throughout the morning Walker's voice would intrude on Skye's thoughts. "This is where I want you." At different times she caught herself staring at him as her mind wandered from her work. He seemed oblivious to her confusion, treating her impersonally but politely in front of the rest of the staff and even coolly when Parnell was around. He seemed equally oblivious to the looks they received from the others. Skye wished it could be the same for her.
Annie watched her with concern. Corina Reading's expression was smug. The twins exchanged giggly glances with each other and Jenny Adams's mouth was drawn in a line of tart disapproval. Hank avoided making eye contact at all, while Parnell's stare bore right through her.
Although Parnell was the only one who should have known, no one asked her how she had acquired Walker Caide for a shadow. Skye imagined that they had heard some version of the truth from Mrs. Reading, just as Walker had thought they would.
Skye's duties took her all through the house, and Walker, while not quite dogging her footsteps, was always there when she turned. He made himself available to assist her, stripping linens from beds, moving furniture, reorganizing books, but by afternoon Skye was ready to scream in frustration. At lunch she made a point to sit at the far end of the dining room table just to get away from him.
Skye pushed food around on her plate for a while. "What exactly is it you suppose I'll do?" she asked, exasperated. "Mr. Parnell's been in his workroom most of the morning. Why don't you spend time with him?"
Walker pretended to consider that a moment. "You have prettier eyes."
Skye scowled and pointed her fork at him. "Don't flatter me. I'm prepared to plot your murder."
"I'm surprised you haven't already."
Simultaneously they looked toward the door. It was Parnell who had spoken. His eyes darted from one to the other, then he pointed to Walker with his forefinger and made an exiting gesture with his thumb. "I want to speak to Miss Dennehy alone," he said.
Walker didn't move immediately, considering his options. In the end he realized he had no choice. His position in the house was precarious at best. Parnell was merely suffering his presence until he made up his own mind about the threat Skye Dennehy posed. Walker pushed away from the table. "I'll be in the hall, if you need me," he said.
"Go farther than that," Parnell said flatly. "I want a private conversation."
"Very well." Walker didn't look at Skye as he left the room, but he imagined she had changed her mind about not wanting him around any longer.
Parnell waited until the doors had been closed behind him and he heard Walker's steps receding in the hallway. He chose the chair at a right angle to Skye and sat down. "Please," he said amiably. "Finish your meal. I ate earlier. When I'm working, my schedule doesn't seem to fit with anyone else's."
"I've noticed that." She didn't think her food would taste any better than sawdust, but she gamely lifted her fork. Her eyes dropped to Parnell's lean fingers and tapered nails, wondering what it was about his hands that disturbed her. "How can I help you?"
Parnell's smile formed slowly. "Actually, I thought I might help you. If you're tired of Walker's company, that is."
Skye scarcely knew what to say. "He's hardly been a companion. More of a thorn in my side."
"Then spend the rest of the day with me," he said.
It was difficult not to keep her astonishment in check. "But—"
Parnell's expression became earnest. "I'd like you to see what I've been working on."
Now Skye's eyes widened and her disbelief was plain. "You're talking about your workroom?" she asked. "You'd let me see it?"
"That's why you're here, isn't it?"
It was all Skye could do not to nod dumbly. She caught herself and managed to ask calmly, "What do you mean?" She watched a shadow cross his features. Had it been disappointment she'd glimpsed there? "I'm here because you advertised for a housekeeper."
"Yes," he said finally. "Yes, you are." He stood. "But you'd like to see my invention."
"If you're still making the offer," she said. "Frankly, I'd be fascinated."
The smile that returned to his mouth was cynical where it touched his eyes. "Really, Miss Dennehy? What do you know about four-stroke internal combustion engines?"
"Not a thing."
He nodded, satisfied with her response. "At least you can admit that much." He held out his elbow and this time would accept nothing less than Skye taking it.
With a reluctance she was careful not to show, Skye slipped her arm through Parnell's. The only people in the kitchen when they walked through were Corina Reading and Walker Caide. They were talking quietly at the sink while Corina stacked plates. They both looked up and fell silent when Parnell and Skye entered.
"I'm taking Miss Dennehy to the workroom," Parnell said. "I imagine we'll be a while."
Skye expected someone to object. Mrs. Reading looked as if she might, but something made her hold her tongue. Walker merely shrugged.
Parnell carried a lamp and preceded Skye down the stairs. The c
ellar was not so foreboding as it had been on the only other occasion she'd had to visit it. The rough stone walls were whitewashed, which, with the addition of the lamplight, made the area seem less oppressive. There was still the clutter of barrels and jars and papers against the walls, but the path to the workroom was easy to negotiate now.
Looking around, Skye realized that neither of the doors she'd found while trying to escape the cellar led to Parnell's workroom. One was probably the wine cellar and the other might have been for fruits, vegetables, and canned goods. Parnell's workroom was on the side of the cellar she hadn't explored. The door to it was heavy, reinforced with a thin sheet of steel. A metal bar was drawn across it and locked into place. Walker removed the key from his pocket and turned it in the padlock. He raised the bar, pulled on the door, and ushered Skye inside.
Watching Skye's face, Parnell said, "It's not quite what you expected, is it?"
Short of the table in the middle of the room, it was nothing like what she'd imagined. A narrow workbench ran along the perimeter of the room. There were a few tools lying on the top, but nothing that wasn't familiar to her. The floor of the workroom was relatively clean. A small pile of metal shavings had been swept under the table. Her attention no sooner stopped on the pile than Parnell was gathering it up, not with a dustpan and broom, but with a magnet.
"Clever," she said, as he deposited the magnet on the bench.
"Easier than the conventional method."
"I don't suppose it works on dust."
He shook his head.
"Pity." She walked to the table. In the middle of it was an iron and steel contraption she thought must be the engine. It didn't look like much of anything to her. She couldn't identify a front or back, or determine which was up or down. There were pieces that had a squat cylindrical appearance lying on top of the table. An odd-shaped piece of metal protruded from the middle of them like the clapper of a bell. A pool of thick oil had gathered in a depression in the wood. "Is this your invention?" she asked.
