Baldwin, Barbara - Indigo Bay.txt

by Indigo Bay (lit)

  to her ear, where he nibbled on her lobe before sucking gently.

  She vaguely recalled a novel where the author wrote, “The

  heroine felt devoured.” She had laughed at the time, but now

  understood, as his lips scorched a path back to her mouth to

  communicate his desire once more.

  Her body melted into a puddle of heat. She ached with

  pleasure so intense it hurt. Her fingers curled into his shirtfront

  as her legs threatened to turn to jelly. She could feel his heart

  beat against her breasts, pounding in answer to her own erratic

  beat.

  “What is your name, midnight minx?” His husky whisper

  reached her through a haze.

  “Mica.” She moaned as he rained kisses against her closed

  eyes.

  “Mica? That’s too masculine a name for one so delicate. Is

  there more?” Each word was punctuated with butterfly kisses

  along her brow and nose.

  “Michaela Marie.” His kisses were driving her crazy;

  otherwise, she would never have told him her middle name.

  “Ah, a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” His kiss

  stopped any reply she would have made, the heat from his lips

  traveling through her to turn her blood to fire. She stood on

  tiptoe to get closer.

  “Come to bed with me,” he whispered, pulling her tighter

  against him.

  His suggestion brought Mica to her senses, astounded that

  the man’s sensuality had carried her away.

  “No!”

  She pushed away from him, and his arms dropped to his

  sides, but he remained close enough to block her escape. He

  no longer touched her, but Mica could feel his heat and passion

  as though he did.

  “I don’t think...I really shouldn’t be here.” It was all she

  could think of in way of explanation.

  “I know that, sweet thing, for this is Indigo Bay, and I

  know all who belong here.” His full lips lifted in a sensuous

  smile. “But that is of no consequence, for tonight, if you will

  allow it, you will be my guest.”

  He executed a bow, and Mica felt the urge to curtsy as a

  lady would when a gentleman asked for a dance. It only

  deepened her chagrin to glance down and realize she was not

  wearing a dress, but silk pajamas. She needed to get out of

  here before she lost the rest of her dignity and begged him for

  something she had thought she no longer needed. She glanced

  around for an excuse, her gaze settling on the drink decanters

  he had reached for earlier.

  “May I have a glass of...water, please?” She gave him what

  she hoped was an enticing smile.

  “Water? I have sherry and brandy, but no water.” He now

  seemed in no hurry to continue his seduction, and that made

  Mica more nervous. When he moved towards the table, all fluid

  grace like a wild animal on the prowl, she knew she was in

  trouble.

  Except for his kisses, which she couldn’t blame entirely

  on him, he appeared to have the integrity of a gentleman. She

  used that to her advantage and allowed her Southern drawl to

  slip into her words, aware of its effect on men. “I really would

  like water, please. Sherry and brandy will make me wilt right

  on the spot, I assure you.”

  He gave her a sideways glance, and she fluttered her lashes.

  “Well, if you insist on water, I’ll have to fetch it, for all the

  help are beyond hearing in their beds at this hour.” He stopped

  to whisper close to her ear. “As we shall be, just as soon as I

  return.”

  Mica sagged against the desk and gave him a weak smile

  before he turned and walked out of the room. In the next instant,

  she sprinted to the library door. When a quick glance assured

  her he was nowhere in sight, she raced down the hall to the

  door through which she had come.

  In her haste, it slammed behind her, but she didn’t care as

  she twisted the key in the lock. Heart pounding and knees weak,

  she rested her head against the wood’s cool surface. What in

  the world had come over her to make her act the way she had?

  And with a perfect stranger no less! She could only blame it on

  his overwhelming sensuality. She’d never met a man with such

  seductive power.

  As she made her way down the stairs to her rooms, she

  recalled just how perfect he had been. He had a lean, muscular

  body, silky hair and laughing eyes. The best part had been his

  searing kisses—hot, sweet and more than adequate to send even

  the most sensible woman into ecstasy.

  She fell into bed exhausted, but determined to find out the

  next day exactly what kind of rooms Sea Crest’s second floor

  contained. More importantly, she wanted the name of the

  stranger who not only inhabited those rooms but also had

  managed to breach all the defenses she had so carefully

  constructed since her divorce.

  Two

  Mica woke the next morning tangled up in the sheets and

  feeling disoriented. It took a few minutes to remember she was

  in Aunt Theo’s bed at Sea Crest. As she lay staring at the ceiling,

  she recalled her strange dream. At least she thought it was a

  dream. Her body immediately tingled, and her lips throbbed as

  though the kisses had been real.

  “Hogwash!” she muttered, sliding from bed. As she walked

  to the kitchen, she recalled Katie’s wish that Mica would meet

  a man while on vacation. That must have been the impetus for

  her dream. A tour of the inn would dispel any imaginings of

  handsome men who lived upstairs.

  As she fixed her coffee, she noticed that two buttons on

  her pajamas had fallen off.

  “That’s weird.” She plucked at the fabric. She knew she

  had tossed and turned most of the night because of the condition

  of the sheets, but to have torn off the buttons on her favorite

  pj’s?

  More disturbed by her dream than by two missing plastic

  buttons, Mica showered and dressed. She wanted Anna to give

  her a tour before breakfast, where she hoped for the opportunity

  to meet the guests.

  Anna sat at the reception desk just inside the main door.

  “We’ve only got one guest this morning, but we’re expecting

  another couple tomorrow,” she replied cheerfully when Mica

  asked about the guests. She provided a running dialogue as

  they climbed the steps to the second floor, the polished wood

  railing gleaming in the early morning light.

  “It appears you keep a tight rein on the housecleaning staff,”

  Mica commented.

  “Yes, I try. Since we only have five guest rooms, it’s not

  hard to keep things clean with two regular maids. I help when

  I can get away from the desk. Ah, here we are.”

  Mica experienced a sense of déjà vu when they reached

  the top of the stairs. It appeared exactly as it had in her dream.

  Even the silk flower arrangements on the wall tables were the

  same colors. She hadn’t been upstairs since she was a little

  girl. Could a person remember such small details from that

  long ago?
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  The stairway divided the hall in half, and a person could

  go left or right along the corridors that flanked the stairwell. A

  beautiful, scrolled-wood railing enclosed the stairwell to

  prevent accidents.

  Each of the doorways had ornately carved door frames, all

  alike. “These lead to guest rooms,” Anna stated, pointing to

  the doors directly in front of them at the top of the stairs. She

  moved along the east corridor, where there were two doors

  similar to the west side. “Not all of these are guest rooms. As

  you know, South Carolina law limits the number of guest rooms

  a small inn such as this can maintain. One room at the end of

  the corridor is a reading room available to the guests.”

  Mica noted the small lights on the walls that cast the

  hallway in a warm, mellow light. Their design replicated the

  earlier gaslights that had been popular before the advent of

  electricity and gave the hallway a turn-of-the-twentieth-century

  air. Odd, but she recalled the lights in part of the inn flickering

  like real candles, not burning with the steady glow of electricity.

  Why would she dream about a time before electricity?

  “What about these two?” Mica asked about the doors at

  the end of the hall.

  Pointing to the right, Anna stated, “This opens to a large

  linen closet. I can show you how we keep it if you’d like.”

  “That won’t be necessary. From what I’ve seen, you keep

  everything spotless.” Mica was curious what the housekeeper

  had to say about the rest of the inn. “What about this door?”

  “Oh, that doesn’t go anywhere.”

  Mica cocked her head to the side and glanced at Anna to

  see if she were teasing. It would appear the answer to her dream

  lay in this woman’s knowledge. “Why on earth would there be

  a door that goes nowhere?”

  Anna laughed lightly. “I asked your aunt the very same

  question when I began working here. She simply stated,

  ‘Because it’s the Georgian style, that’s why.’”

  Mica arched her brow, but before she could respond, Anna

  said, “That’s all your aunt would tell me, but Cook gave me

  the whole story. Seems there was a fire generations ago, and

  the manor house, which was connected to this section by a

  hallway past that door, burned beyond repair. It was never

  rebuilt.”

  “But the door wasn’t taken out?”

  Anna nodded in confirmation. “The way I understand my

  history, the Georgian style meant everything had to be balanced.

  Notice the rest of the upstairs—the stairs are right in the middle.

  There are two doors on each side, each doorway is exactly the

  same in height and style, and there’s a table right in the middle

  of each wall. Your aunt was a stickler for tradition and

  preserving the past.”

  Mica could surely attest to that. However, it seemed odd

  to have a door that led nowhere. Glancing down, she saw an

  old-fashioned skeleton key inserted in the lock. “Why is the

  key still there?”

  Anna shrugged. “The key turns, but the door won’t open. I

  assume it’s been welded shut somehow.”

  Mica reached down to turn the knob, just to see for herself.

  The same tingle she remembered from last night immediately

  shot up her arm, this time even stronger. She jerked her hand

  away from the knob and stepped back, colliding with the railing

  that circled the stairwell.

  Obviously, Mrs. Harris didn’t notice Mica’s astonishment

  because when a chime sounded from below, she turned and

  walked to the top of the stairs. “Coming?”

  “Where?” Mica asked as she rubbed her hand up and down

  her jeans leg, still feeling the strange tingles from her contact

  with the doorknob. She swore she heard the rasp of a voice

  beyond the solid wood barrier.

  “Why, to breakfast, of course. We have a fascinating guest

  you’ll enjoy meeting.”

  Mica turned and followed the housekeeper. Maybe it wasn’t

  a dream at all. Regardless of what Anna thought about the door,

  last night’s incident was too vivid for Mica to put the door, and

  whatever might lie beyond it, from her mind. As a good

  homeowner, she felt it her duty to investigate any strange and

  odd occurrences.

  Mica revised her definition of strange and odd upon

  meeting Dr. Joseph Bigley, a professor from Columbia

  University. His bright blue eyes, set in a deeply tanned face,

  twinkled when he introduced himself. An abundance of fuzzy

  gray hair and bushy gray eyebrows contradicted his youthful

  face. Gray sweats completed the picture. However, his strong

  grip when she shook his hand conveyed the impression that all

  the gray didn’t mean the man was old.

  “I hope you’ll excuse my casual attire,” the professor said.

  “I thought I would forego breakfast and jog my daily five miles

  up and down the beach, but when I heard you’d arrived I wanted

  to introduce myself.”

  “I am impressed, Professor Bigley. On a good day, I can

  only jog three.” Mica allowed him to seat her, and since they

  were the only residents at the moment, she nodded for Mrs.

  Harris to commence serving.

  “Please call me Joseph. I’ve been vacationing at Sea Crest

  for many years and was a great fan of your late aunt’s. I offer

  my condolences.” Before Mica could answer, his next words

  sent her head spinning. “I hope to speak with your Aunt Theo

  again quite soon.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mica’s eyebrows arched. Her coffee

  cup clattered back onto the saucer.

  “Oh, dear, I’m sorry. You have no idea on Earth who I am

  or why I’m here, or do you?” The last words were stated in a

  hopeful voice, as though the explanation would be difficult

  and he hoped to avoid it.

  “Professor Bigley, I only arrived yesterday, and I’m afraid

  I don’t know anything about you. But I do know my aunt died

  over two weeks ago, so I’m afraid it would be impossible for

  you to speak with her.”

  “Tsk, tsk, another skeptic,” he said. “Here, have some eggs,

  my dear, and try this delicious sausage. You’re entirely too

  skinny. It’s no wonder you can only jog three miles.”

  The professor continued eating his hearty breakfast in

  silence as Mica stared at him, her curiosity aroused by his abrupt

  change of subject. After several sighs and two cups of coffee,

  he finally acknowledged her presence again.

  “Ms Chadwick, do you believe in the paranormal?” His

  blue eyes glowed with a serious light, and Mica dared not laugh.

  “Do you mean ghosts?”

  “Yes, among other beings trapped in the netherworld

  between life and death—or between lives.”

  “Professor, I’m an attorney. I deal in fact—evidence and

  provable, material objects. I’m afraid I wouldn’t have gotten

  where I am by believing in ghosts.”

  His eyes twinkled as he laughed. “And I, Ms Chadwick,

  am a professor of psychology who has spent his l
ife studying

  people. I’d say from the slight quiver in your voice, and your

  nervous plucking of the tablecloth, that you might not want to

  believe in them, but perhaps you’re not quite sure.”

  The image of a dark-haired, handsome man flashed across

  Mica’s mind. His warm, firm lips touching hers across the

  distance of her dream sent shivers down her spine. She reminded

  herself she was twenty-nine years old. Far too old to believe in

  dreams, much less ghosts.

  “Professor Bigley, I’m well aware of the legacy in the South

  to believe in legendary heroic ghosts from the past, but that

  doesn’t mean I believe in them,” she said, but to convince the

  professor or herself? “Please feel free to conduct your research

  at Sea Crest, but I’d prefer you do it in such a manner that you

  don’t disturb the house or grounds, or any other guests who

  might arrive.”

  His mysterious smile was back, as though he alone knew a

  secret. “I don’t intend to dig up old bones, if that’s what you’re

  thinking. The object of my research doesn’t lie buried beneath

  the earth we live on.”

  Mica eyed him, unsure how to respond. With his fuzzy

  hair and spectacles that kept slipping down his nose, he seemed

  to be an ordinary, harmless old man, but Mica shivered as

  though someone had just walked across her grave. Why did

  she have the distinct impression life would never be quite the

  same around Sea Crest?

  ***

  Early that evening Mica strolled the beach fronting Sea

  Crest. She stretched as she walked, rolling her shoulders to

  relieve the tension. The day had been spent with Anna going

  over the inn’s books and reassuring the woman that she had a

  permanent job for as long as she so desired. While Mica enjoyed

  the ocean and the restful atmosphere surrounding the resort, a

  lucrative law practice awaited her in Charleston. The time

  would come when she would have to resume her life.

  “What life?” She scoffed as she plopped down on the sand

  and stared out over the blue expanse of water. Part of a top-

  notch law firm, she had great job security, considering her father

  and uncle had promised her a full partnership when she turned

  thirty. But was that what she really wanted—a nice, secure,