The Mammoth Book of Hot Romance

by Sonia Florens

  Breathing hard, she rolled on to her back. Her limbs tangled in her discarded clothes and mussed-up bedding. Her heart thudded hard in her chest and sanity took a long time coming back. Helen stared at the ceiling, barely seeing it. The best sex of her life had been with a ghost who came so hard he’d disappeared. She gave a slight laugh, unsure whether or not she should be worried.

  Three

  Helen glanced around the living room to make sure she was alone before she quickly finished her purchase. She’d done her research and according to the ghost-hunting websites she’d found, a device called an EMF pump would work as an energy source for ghosts. The theory was that entities could use the electromagnetic field to manifest more easily. It might be a long shot, but if she put one in her bedroom, maybe Gregory could …

  She didn’t finish the thought. Hearing an unfamiliar scraping noise, she frowned and shut the lid to her laptop. Someone was dragging something heavy across the floor. Suddenly, she was hit with a cold blast of air and her breath turned into a white puff as she exhaled. It had been a while since the spirits affected her in such a way. Shivering, she rubbed her arms.

  “Who is that?” she called. The hairs on the back of her neck pricked up. Remembering the conversation she’d heard earlier, she asked, “Samuel? Rebecca? Is that you?”

  The lights flickered. The dragging noise stopped.

  “This isn’t funny!” Helen yelled, making her way into the dining room. “Stop! I mean it.”

  Everything stopped for a brief couple of seconds. But, just as she was starting to breathe a sigh of relief, the lights began to turn on and off. Cabinets and doors opened and closed, banging loudly. The chandelier’s crystals crashed together as the fixture swung violently on its base. A chair lifted off the ground, spinning in slow circles. Helen watched it as she edged towards the nearby stairwell. Suddenly, it was launched at her. She screamed, ducking as she ran. The chair crashed into the wall, splintering into several pieces.

  “Who is this?” she cried stumbling to crawl up the stairs. Beneath her the first storey floorboards creaked. “What do you want?”

  Though, Helen suspected she knew what this was about. Gregory. They’d taken their relationship to the next level, defying the laws of mortality and afterlife. Even as they’d made love she’d worried about what it would mean. She hadn’t seen him since it happened. Had the others dragge something to him because of her? A knot of fear and worry tightened in her stomach.

  The midnight hour fast approached and the spirits would only become stronger. A bitter wind whipped through the house as the front door flew open. The only thing she could think to do was get to the protection of her bedroom. Outside the country would go on for miles and the spirits could follow her if she tried to make a run for it.

  As she neared the second-floor hall, the noise suddenly stopped. The silence was even eerier than the noises. Each of her steps was punctuated by the harsh sound of her breath. She pressed her arm against the wall, stepping as lightly as she could. A light glow appeared, slowly growing to form the lady in white. The ghost stepped silently through the hall. The midnight hour was here. When she reached the end of the hall, she disappeared, only to reappear and begin the walk again. The loop of her walk would last for about an hour. Though she knew the lady wouldn’t deviate from her stroll, Helen pulled away from her as she passed.

  The bedroom door was closed. Helen reached for the doorknob. She studied the lady’s serene face as she passed. The woman’s eyes shifted, finding Helen against the wall. That had never happened. Without warning, the woman’s mouth opened in a blur of movement. A loud screech blasted from the ghost’s mouth as shadowed hands emerged from her chest. Whoever looked at her was not the lady. The lady in white kept walking as another figure emerged from within her.

  Helen reached for the doorknob, shaking it as she tried to get it open. At first, the door didn’t move. When she let go, it swung open. Gregory stood on the other side. His features suddenly turned white. A loud thwack sounded, denting his skull and sending blood streaming down his face. She automatically reached for him, but she felt something holding her back. He stumbled, falling to his knees and tipping over on to the floor. Helen breathed hard as his lifeless eyes faded. The door slammed in her face.

  Helen stumbled to try to open it again, but the shadow creature flew towards her, hitting her body hard enough to knock her over as it passed through her. Dizzy, she grabbed her head, trying not to throw up as a wave of nausea washed over her. The shadow came at her again and again, draining her energy each time it passed through her body.

  “Stop,” she croaked. Helen crawled towards the stairwell leading to the third floor. She reached the bottom stair and the entity stopped. Tears streamed down her face. She tried to lift her body, but it was too hard to move. The hallway floorboards creaked. Helen pulled her knees towards her chest. Above her, someone stepped down the stairs, coming towards her head. A frozen breeze brushed over her, stinging her eyes.

  “I knew you didn’t fit here.” Rebecca leaned over her, a dark-red slash across her throat. Helen felt more than saw the others gathering around them. Samuel’s dirty, transparent boots appeared by her head. “Gregory belongs to us. You are not one of us.”

  “So, what? You’re going to kill me and make me one of you?” Helen asked, finding her strength. She pushed up. A horrifically disfigured gathering stared back, crowding into the hall and stairwell. It was hard to see past burned flesh and bleeding gunshot wounds to the people beneath. Each one’s story could be seen in their gaunt expressions and markings of death.

  “Kill you?” Rebecca frowned. “We want you to leave here. Go. We don’t need you. Gregory belongs to me. He’s …”

  “You?” Helen finally understood. Rebecca’s jealousy washed over her. She’d suspected it once or twice, but Gregory never paid the woman much mind.

  “Us,” Rebecca corrected. It came a little too late. Fiona and Bella giggled. Jerry grunted her again stumbled from behind Rebecca’s back, falling through a wall. A young boy threw an invisible ball and ran away, chased by his ghostly parents.

  “You’re losing them,” Helen said. A few of the grotesque figures mended, replaced by the peaceful countenance of the ghosts who normally roamed her halls.

  Rebecca looked at the others, her throat reddening as she shouted, “She’s trying to take Gregory from us. She trapped him in her room. She’s using him!”

  Rebecca’s anger washed over Helen and she grasped at her chest. “Don’t listen to her. Look at her. She’s jealous. Don’t let her hatred fuel you.” Then, turning her full attention towards Rebecca, she stood, getting into the woman’s transparent face. “You want Gregory for yourself. You’re mad that he chose to come to my room. You’re mad that he chose me. You want me gone, but I’m not leaving. You’ll have to kill me first. But then you know I’ll only be with him. He chose me, Rebecca.”

  “I can make your life here hell,” Rebecca hissed. “You think tonight was bad, just wait.”

  “It’s not right, caretaker,” a normally quiet farmer said from behind Rebecca. He’d been shot in the chest. “You ought to stick to the living.”

  “Rebecca?” Samuel questioned, the sound slow. “What does she mean you want Gregory?”

  Helen almost felt sorry for the brute. She heard the heartache in his voice.

  “Shut your trap,” Rebecca ordered the man.

  Helen still felt weak but tried not to let it show. She stepped forwards, past Rebecca into the remaining crowd of onlookers. The air was chilled, but not as bad as before.

  “Let me by,” she demanded, keeping her voice low and exact. “This is my home now. If you want to remain welcome here, you will act with civility and respect towards me and each other. Otherwise, pack your supernatural bags and get out.” A few bowed their heads and disappeared. A young woman in a party dress and an old man in his long pyjamas stepped out of Helen’s way.

  “Then you must respect us and leave Gregory alone,
” Rebecca said. Samuel stared at Rebecca, his face a strange blue as water dripped out of his lips. Helen turned, meeting the woman’s eyes.

  “I can’t do that,” Helen answered. “I love him.”

  The door to her bedroom opened. The sound caused her to glance over her shoulder. More ghosts disappeared, clearing a pathway to her room.

  “No!” Rebecca screamed, but the sound wasn’t sustained as she disappeared.

  Helen walked towards the room and peered through the opened door. Gregory stood on the other side. The late hour had given him enough energy to take shape. He looked as he had when she first saw him, standing with a crooked smile on his lips, hat in hand. He took a step as if to come to her, but stopped, staring at the floor. She glanced down to the line of salt, realizing he was indeed trapped.

  Helen didn’t step past the threshold.

  “I am sorry for this. I tried to warn you but I couldn’t leave this room.” He lifted his hand, but couldn’t touch her. “I didn’t mean to leave you earlier. I couldn’t maintain form. If I hurt you, I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t hurt me,” she said, nervous.

  “If you command it, I will leave and not come back, not during your lifetime. I have no right to steal the years of your life with my death. You deserve more than I can give you.” He stepped away from the door. “First you must release me from this room.”

  “Did you hear what I said in the hall?” she asked, stepping carefully over the salt. She shut the door behind her, trapping them both in.

  “I tried to warn you—”

  “I said I love you, Gregory know this isn’t conventional, but I love you. I don’t know where we go from here, or how we make it work, but I do know I want it to work.” She closed the distance between them and reached for his jacket. His body solidified as she touched him. “I’ve tried to deny any pull I feel towards you because I didn’t know if you could feel anything for me. But, after today, after what we shared, I never want to be without you again.”

  “I’m dead,” he said hesitantly. “You’re alive.”

  “No relationship is perfect.” She gave him a small smile. “Besides, I won’t always be alive. Eventually, I’ll die and then you’ll be stuck with me for an eternity.”

  “Eternity,” he repeated, dropping the hat. It landed with a thud on the floor. He pulled at his tie, loosening it. “I like the sound of that.”

  Helen backed slowly to the bed, beckoning him with her eyes. “People are going to think I’m a crazy recluse just like my aunt.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I’ve finally found a place to call home. Let the world think what it likes about me.” Helen pulled him into her embrace. “This is what I want. You are what I want.”

  “And I want–” he glanced down “–you to be sure when you do die that you’re wearing that green lacy thing you had on earlier.”

  Helen gasped, hitting his shoulder as she pretended to be shocked. Grabbing hold of him, she fell back on to the mattress taking him with her. His body settled against hers and she felt his interest poking against her hip. She nipped at his ear lobe. “Oh, I think you might change your mind when you see the other options available. Underwear has changed a lot since your time.”

  Gregory captured her mouth with his, silencing her with his passionate kiss. Happiness bubbled inside of her. Everything she could ever want was right here within the stolen hours in his arms.

  Coming Home

  Justine Elyot

  The village had always worn Christmas well and, although Felicity had not been there for over ten years, the illuminated candles and stars on the grey stone walls gave her the impression of stepping back into her late adolescence, when possibilities had been as endless as the dark skies above.

  Once the taxi driver had been duly tipped and sent on his way, she let herself into the tiny cottage she was renting for the fortnight, shivering as she lugged the suitcase over the threshold into the low-ceilinged living room, then felt about the side of the door for the light switch.

  It was not furnished the way her parents had had it any more; it was over-chintzy and anonymously old-fashioned, as if to satisfy the tastes of a person whose idea of English country living had been gleaned from costume dramas and romantic comedies. But then, her parents were long gone, having given the place over to a letting agency and fled to the Costa del Sol, to live the expatriate karaoke-bar dream.

  A big basket of logs lay next to the open fireplace, but Felicity was too tired from the journey to contemplate anything so strenuous as the setting of a fire. She looked around at the tiny shelf-mounted television, the fan shape of horse and dog magazines on the coffee table, the unfamiliar watercolours depicting hunting and fishing scenes on the wall. It was home, but not home. It needed adjustment. Adjustment was best achieved at the Bevis Arms, with the aid of a glass of wine or two.

  “It’s as if I never went away,” she said to herself, walking slowly along the winding street to the village square, noticing the same curtains in the windows, or a Christmas ornament familiar from times past. “Are all the same people here? Will anyone recognize me?”

  She threw off the disquieting thought. Young people never stayed in the village – they had all gone off to university, or to Bournemouth or Poole, to make their fortunes. And a considerable fortune it would have to be, if they ever wanted to own property in their childhood playground, for the village was fiercely expensive and the new breed of villager was the London weekender with money to spend in the delicatessen and knick-knack shops that had replaced the butcher’s and the post office. She supposed she was just such a person herself now.

  The Bevis Arms was warm and cosy, smelling of wood smoke and mulled wine spices. It was busy too – Christmas was a few days away and all the rental cottages and weekend residences were full, even though the campsites were closed. Glancing around as she waited to be served at the bar, Felicity was heartened to recognize nobody. Smartly dressed city types, mainly, plus a few bearded old men, listening to a fiddle and squeezebox duo cramped up in a corner.

  She bought a glass of red wine, passing on the spicy festive variety, and perched herself on a windowsill, seats being at a premium. Sipping and listening vaguely to the folksy music, it was hard to resist the temptations of nostalgia. The last time she had been in this pub she was a starry-eyed eighteen-year-old, waiting for a boy who never turned up. Well, not a boy – she had thought of him as a man, for nine years was quite a gap at that age. She pretended to forget his name, but it burned at the back of her mind all the same. In her protective memory, he was the Man from Poole Quay. It had been nothing really. Half a dozen dates, a few hand-in-hand walks on the beach, a trip around the harbour on a sunny, windy day. Just a silly, girlish thing. Oh, and her virginity. There had been that, of course. But men were men and she had offered, after all. It was silly to feel hurt, particularly after all these years.

  It was just that she was vulnerable, that was all. The divorce had been heartbreaking and soul-destroying and she needed recovery time, alone, somewhere with no memories of Tom. She could not have envisaged that her stupid sentimental brain would play this trick on her, replacing the bad memories of Tom with the earlier bad memories of Richard. Not that they were all bad. Just that last one … waiting at the table, spinning the beer mat, looking over to the door, once, twice, three times a minute. Checking her phone – those old ones with the bleeping ring tones and hardly any decent features. No messages. Still no messages. His number going straight to voicemail, every time. God, why did young girls do this to themselves?

  The red wine was a large one, and Felicity could feel her eyelids slipping down, lending an even more golden glow to the twinkle-lit bar room. She ought to go back and face the fireplace; unpack; run a nice long hot bath. Nostalgia was strictly for the birds. She needed a long sleep, a hearty breakfast and a good brisk walk, in that order.

  In the doorway, she stood aside to allow a group of carousers through, the fi
rst of their number so tall that his cold-smelling waxed jacket brushed her cheek, followed by his scarf. The scarf didn’t smell of cold, though, it smelled of something that triggered a sudden and shocking response along the line of every nerve. She looked up and almost screamed, clapping a hand over her mouth to prevent the rogue exclamation. Then she shoved past the rest of the group and crossed the square at a run. As she pelted around the corner to the winding main street, she thought she heard a cry of “Fliss! Fliss?” but she kept up her pace, arriving at the cottage breathless and red-faced, having to double over and clutch her stomach for a long time before the cold reminded her that she needed to sort out the fire.

  In her dream, he came to her, as he had done on certain nights for the last eleven years. Brushing that hank of dark hair that hung eternally over his brow back with an irritated hand, grinning, eyes full of the devil. Richard Wainwright, the bad boy, the latter-day smuggler, no longer wrecking ships off the rocks like his forebears, but carrying on the modern equivalent of their trade. She should have known he’d let her down but he was so … salvageable. A bad man she could have made good, in time. But only eighteen-year-olds thought like that, didn’t they? It served her right for being so hopelessly naive.

  In her dreams, though, he was Just Bad Enough. They rolled on the heath as they had done, breaking the heather stalks, getting them in their hair and stuck to their jeans, noticing nothing until the kissing and touching and wheedling and half-hearted coy refusing was over and the sun setting to a cold clear dusk. He would drive her home in time for tea, lurking on the corner out of sight of her parents to make sure she got home safely.

  Felicity gave her head a vigorous shake to dissolve the dream, then filled the kettle and set it on the hob to boil. From the farm shop next door she had bought bacon and eggs and butter, enough to clog her arteries, even if it didn’t quite push out the intrusive thoughts of her lost lover. She pottered about with the frying pan, making plans for the day, which was cold, clear and sunny. Perhaps a day for going up to the castle, or maybe a trip into Poole to look at the shops. The fry-up gave her the energy she needed to negotiate the steep climb up to the ruins that lowered over the village like a sinister giant, so she dumped the plate in the sink, pulled on boots, scarf, coat and gloves and flung open the front door.