JanesPrize

by Margrett Dawson

  It took about twenty minutes to film the whole house. Nothing was there that wasn’t supposed to be there, although some of the shrouded furniture did look a bit spooky. When she came downstairs again she switched the lights back on, quickly used the bathroom and returned to her nest. She stuck an old Donald Duck nightlight that she’d found in her bottom drawer at home into a wall socket. The idea was that if she had to get up in the night she wouldn’t be fumbling around in pitch-blackness to find unfamiliar light switches. She pulled on a cotton sweatsuit, clicked off the light and slid into her camping cot, pulling the sleeping bag up to her neck. She closed her eyes.

  Immediately her head filled with the image of the young man in the oil painting. In her imagination his deep-set, knowing eyes gazed at her with a melting look of invitation. His lips curved in an enticing smile. His face was all sharp planes and square jaw. Only his mouth was soft, tender. She remembered the zing of the tiny shock when she touched his face in the portrait. Too bad he was long dead, murdered or not. She wouldn’t have minded being holed up in a mansion with young Mr. Pierce.

  She opened her eyes again. Her body was tired. She just had to settle her mind so she could rest.

  The solution was at hand.

  She slipped out of bed by the light of the nightlight and rummaged in her duffle bag to find her handy-dandy fluorescent pink vibrator.

  Back in bed, she slid her track bottoms down her legs and lay for a moment anticipating the pleasure to come. She opened her legs a few inches and touched herself with two fingers, finding and massaging her clit. She sucked in breath as the tingle snaked through her belly and moisture began to dampen her probing fingers. Pushing her hand further between her legs, she parted the lips of her pussy and spread the creamy liquid.

  With her other hand she clicked the vibrator on and heard its gentle buzz signaling that it was ready to do her bidding, to pleasure her as long and as hard as she wanted.

  Sometimes she inserted the vibrator quick and strong, thrusting as high and deep as she could, bringing on a climax almost immediately. This time she chose to ease the shivering tip between her spread lips, teasing her vulva, tantalizing the opening to her vagina.

  She closed her eyes and lifted her knees, moving one hand to her breast, tormenting the nipple with rhythmic pressure that matched the thrust and parry of the vibrator between her legs. The image of Pierce filled her mind’s eye once more. She seldom thought of men she had known when she used her mechanical friend, since most of them had been a disappointment in bed. She preferred to imagine a lover, a man who would take her with passion and tenderness, would bring her to the edge of ecstasy and play with her until she could bear it no longer…

  The vibrator snaked deeper into her and she began to massage her clit again, feeling the lovely shock waves build inside her until she exploded.

  As her body relaxed the vibrator slipped from between her thighs. She sighed and closed her eyes. Her limbs felt boneless and warm, her mind cleared of all those nagging thoughts. Her vibrator did the trick every time but she couldn’t help imagining how it would be with a real flesh and blood guy beside her every night. She lived with her mom to save money and her bank account was growing nicely. When she had her own apartment at last maybe she could find the man of her dreams. With that hopeful thought she drifted into sleep.

  The sounds seemed at first to be in her dream. She was having coffee with Annice and some people at a nearby table were arguing. Their voices grew sharper and she turned her head impatiently to give them the hairy eyeball. It worked with grade five, and often worked with adults.

  But the movement snapped her out of sleep. For a moment she had no idea where she was. The faint light from the direction of the wall socket outlined her backpack and clothes thrown over a chair. Memory flooded back. The Newland mansion! She sat up, trying to get her bearings. Her heartbeat slowed. It was only a bad dream. Her mother had been right. Junk food before bed will give you nightmares. Heaven alone knew what dire consequence she’d predict if she knew about her daughter’s addiction to a vibrator.

  The luminous dial on her watch showed one-thirty in the morning. Damn, she must have forgotten to pull out the little button to set her alarm. She’d been supposed to film again at one. She pushed her hair back from her face and prepared to get out of bed and do another tour of the house.

  The rise and fall of voices came again. Her fingers froze on her cheek.

  It sounded like a radio or a television show but that wasn’t possible. Was it someone outside? Voices carried a long way in the empty countryside. There was definitely a man and a woman. Arguing. Surely the patrol hadn’t come back and entered the house?

  Jane slid out of bed and picked up the cell phone. Damn! The little icon on the side indicated no service. Either she was out of range or the network was down. She hadn’t checked it earlier, just assumed it would be available. Leaving the useless phone on the bed, she picked up both the pepper and the bear spray. Except that with one in each hand she couldn’t carry a flashlight. She glanced at the window. The moon had risen and it was a clear night. There was enough light in the room to be able to navigate obstacles. On the whole she preferred the semi-darkness with two cans of spray.

  She crept silently from the room and padded toward the sound of the argument, stopping outside the big room with the fireplace and the oil painting.

  Gripping her cans with a finger on each of the nozzles, she peered around the half-open door. Two shadowy figures stood under the painting, facing each other across a massive oak table.

  She froze in shock. Her first thought was of burglars but she dismissed the possibility. Burglars would be busy stripping stuff from the house, not having a loud conversation that could be heard several rooms away. Besides, one was a woman by the sound of the voice. She crept closer.

  As she moved, she checked all the possibilities in her head. She had been sure all the doors and windows were secure. If the law firm had kept their word there was a security patrol at regular intervals outside. How then could anyone be in the house?

  They couldn’t be.

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again. She wasn’t dreaming. The figures were still there in the faint moonlight. Was this some kind of practical joke? Some actors dressed up like the people in the picture? Because these two characters were wearing the exact same costumes as in the oil painting. Pierce Newland and the young wife.

  That still didn’t explain how they had made their way into the house or why.

  The two were totally absorbed in their conversation, paying no attention to her. Or maybe they couldn’t see her? Whatever they were, they seemed harmless enough. Okay, let’s suppose they are ghosts. What do I do now?

  If Anita Blake could face rampaging vampires surely Jane Chartraine could handle a couple of ghosts. For a moment Jane let herself enjoy looking at Pierce. He was even better in the flesh. Flesh? How could it be flesh? Weren’t ghosts supposed to be insubstantial? A flush of color highlighted his jutting cheekbones and his head was flung back, shoulders square. His eyes were slightly heavy-lidded and dark, set beneath straight black brows. One arm was raised and he pointed a finger at the woman. Jane followed the direction of his hand. The woman was dressed in a pale floaty chiffon kind of gown that reminded her of old silent movies. Her short blonde hair was tightly waved to her head. She brandished a cigarette in a long holder and her nails were bright scarlet. Talk about your stereotypical vamp!

  “I know what you’re up to!” Pierce’s angry tones rang out in the large room. Jane was pleased to hear that he spoke well, his voice was deep and clear. He turned away, hands tightly clenched behind his back, and strode to the window.

  The woman took a drag on her cigarette. “You are wrong, dear Pierce, I assure you. This family has to stay together. Please let me fix you a drink. I know we can settle our differences.”

  She turned away and went to a sideboard filled with bottles and glasses. Jane blinked. How come she had
n’t noticed that earlier? Because it hadn’t been there, that’s why.

  The woman poured from a cut glass decanter into a tall glass. At the last moment she took something tucked inside the bodice of her gown and dropped it into the drink. Jane gasped. Poison. She was going to poison Pierce. Had it all been true? Had he really been murdered?

  Whether she was seeing ghosts, hallucinating, or these were real people playing a trick on her, Jane’s instincts took over just as they had when Melanie Brown had choked on a peanut butter sandwich at the end of term picnic. She took three running strides into the room and flung herself on Pierce. She dropped one of her spray cans and grasped his arm. “Don’t drink it! She’s poisoned it.” Still holding on to him, she swung around to the woman who was standing close, drink in one hand cigarette in the other, mouth open in astonishment. Jane held her breath and her finger exerted pressure on the nozzle. A stream of pepper spray hit the woman directly in the face.

  The blonde threw up her hands, sending the liquid from the drink everywhere, and crumpled, coughing and spluttering. The glass rolled on the carpet.

  “Quick,” Jane said, tugging on Pierce’s arm. “Close your eyes, don’t breathe.” She pulled him from the room down the hallway and unlocked the front door. She shoved him out into the clear air and let go the breath she’d been holding.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “But you have to get out fast with that stuff.”

  Pierce had pulled a large white handkerchief from somewhere and mopped his face.

  “Whatever it was you did, I guess you thought it was the right thing. Your intentions were good.”

  “Oh yes, my intentions were exactly right.”

  The tears cleared from her eyes and she took a good look at him. Close up he was just as much a hunk as he’d seemed in the portrait.

  The portrait.

  “Just a minute,” she said. “I saw your picture in there.”

  He nodded. “That’s right. My father commissioned it before he died.”

  She cleared her throat. “When was that exactly?”

  “July 1927.”

  She had to ask the question. “So what are you doing here? Who are you?”

  He gave a little bow. “Pierce Newland at your service. Strictly speaking, I’m a ghost.” He rubbed his hands down his arms. “Or I was a ghost. I feel pretty solid right now. You touched me. If you touch a ghost you bring it into the present as flesh and blood.”

  Jane felt faint. “I didn’t know that about ghosts. Remind me not to touch another one.”

  He laughed. “Not very likely. How many ghosts do you encounter in a lifetime?”

  “Not too many.” She put out her hand to steady herself and Pierce seized her fingers. His were warm and firm.

  “You need to sit down. It’s a bit of a shock resurrecting a ghost and being responsible for him.”

  “Responsible?” She was beginning to sound like an echo.

  “You know the saying that when you save someone’s life you’re responsible for them forever?”

  Did she? She couldn’t remember if she’d known that or not because Pierce had pulled her against his side and his arm was now around her waist. She breathed in a lovely aroma of tweed and soap and man.

  He was still talking as he led her to a stone bench set into some bushes. “Do you have a name?”

  “Jane.”

  “That’s it?

  “Right. Just plain Jane.”

  “Well, plain Jane, I’m pleased to know you, although you’re anything but plain. You’re quite beautiful in fact. As I was saying, it’s the same with a ghost. You touch, you own.”

  She had an insane desire to giggle. It was like one of those notices warning about breakages in souvenir shops. The heady perfume from the bush mingled with Pierce’s scent, making her dizzy and disoriented.

  He sat her down on the bench and she bent forward to put her head between her knees. His hand was on the nape of her neck, his fingers stroking up into her hair. God it felt good.

  What was she thinking? She sat up. “So what’s it like being a ghost?”

  He sat next to her, his hand still on her. “Pretty damn boring. You have to come back at least once a month to your assigned haunt and go through the last hour or so of your life. Over and over again.”

  “Really? I had no idea there were rules.”

  “Of course. How do you think ghosts keep from running into each other? Some places, like dungeons, might have half a dozen spirits wandering around. They have to take their turn.”

  “I see. So who is the woman?”

  “My stepmother. She really did poison me, so she’s in a different category.” His hand moved from her neck to her shoulder and he pulled her against him. “She’s condemned to haunt. I do it because I’m supposed to be looking for rest.”

  “And are you?”

  “I guess I am. Was. I’m not sure what happens now. Not too many of us get to come back as real people.” He stroked her hair with his other hand, pushing it back from her face. “I guess I’ll know if I stay around. I’m very grateful to you. You know the worst thing about being a ghost?”

  “I couldn’t begin to imagine.” She breathed the words and her pulse quickened, a delicious fog seeping into her mind. This was pure fantasy, divorced from real life. Whoever heard of a ghost becoming a flesh and blood man? If this was a hallucination she’d make the most of it. Her body was no longer under her control, her limbs heavy, her whole being concentrated on the warmth, the scent, the feel of him. She leaned into him, his chest a solid, warm wall at her side. Suddenly she was conscious of the thin cotton of her pull-on top sliding over her breasts, and her nipples puckered. The same delicious ache as when she used her vibrator began in her belly. The cotton pants grew moist between her legs.

  “The worst is not being able to touch people, to feel the flesh under your hands…” His fingers traced a pattern on her back. “Not breathing in the scent of a woman…” He tilted her chin toward him with his free hand. “Touching your lips to hers. I haven’t kissed a woman for eighty years.” The last words were whispered against her mouth. “I’ve dreamed of holding a woman in my arms again. May I?” The pressure of his lips was gentle on hers.

  Chapter Three

  She groaned and melted against him. Her lips opened as if of their own accord as she responded to a man who craved a woman as much as she had longed for a living, breathing man. What had he said? She was responsible for him. He was hers.

  His free hand trailed from her chin down her neck to her shoulder, to her breast. Her back arched, thrusting her chest against his seeking fingers. “Yes,” she breathed again. “Yes.” She didn’t care if she was shameless, driven by primitive lust and instinct. She glued her lips to his, turned more toward him and lifted one leg over his knees. He made an appreciative sound in his throat, dropped his hand to her bottom and lifted one cheek more fully onto his lap.

  She raised her arm to loop it around his neck. Her watch glimmered as the moonlight caught it.

  Shit! She pulled her mouth from his and looked at the time. “Shit!” she said aloud.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s two o’clock. I was supposed to film at one.”

  She thrust herself away from him. “This is lovely, Pierce, and please don’t think I’m not enjoying it but I’ll have to take a rain check. Can we pick this up again later?” She was on her feet already, pulling down the top of her tracksuit to cover her bare midriff.

  “Come with me.” She took him by the hand and pulled him to his feet. “Stay with me. I don’t want you disintegrating and disappearing. We have unfinished business.”

  She led him into the house and picked up the video camera in her room. She switched it on. “Follow me. And I mean follow. I don’t want you in any of the shots.”

  This time it took her less than twenty minutes as she jogged through the rooms, panning around each one of them. As they went through the room with the o
il painting she had time to notice that the blonde woman and the bar had disappeared.

  Pierce strode after her through the rooms that had once been so familiar to him. He still felt stunned at his rapid transfer from ghost to living, breathing humanity and he still had to figure out the woman who had brought him back. She wasn’t like any female he’d come across in his first life. In those days there had been a clear distinction between “good girls” and the ones who would do whatever a man wanted. Jane’s response to his kiss had been surprising to say the least. Yet she didn’t act or speak like a loose girl, despite the strange clothes and lack of corsets.

  She obviously had some kind of job to do and was going about it seriously. In the dim light he could see her face set in concentration, a pale oval with smooth skin. He had already noted the deep blue of her eyes. She was pretty, and young. Getting to know her better would be exciting.

  Back in her room Jane set the camcorder down and turned to Pierce. “We have three hours until the next one.”

  “The next what? You’ll forgive me but I have no idea what you were doing.”

  Her gaze locked on to his like metal drawn to a magnet. The last thing she’d expected in this assignment was to find a man who exuded sexual attraction like she’d never felt before. Her head told her to be sensible but her heart silenced the nagging voice of reason. She was out of her everyday world and in some fantasyland which promised her untold delight if she would only believe.

  “Let’s save the explanations for later, shall we? What were you saying about not having kissed a woman for decades?”

  She stepped close to him and tried to put her arms around his neck. To do it she would have to lift herself almost on tiptoe. She knew he was tall but hadn’t realized how tall. She was no midget, standing a tad over five-six in her stocking feet, but he was a good head taller. That made him about six-three. She gave up on his neck and satisfied herself with slipping her hands inside his open jacket. The tweed was slightly scratchy and the friction sent little shivers up her arms. The lining inside the jacket was silky and cool, the perfect yin to the yang of the hairy tweed. If those feelings were delicious, his body was even better. Her probing fingers traced the swell of hard muscles beneath his linen shirt.