Baldwin, Barbara - Indigo Bay.txt

by Indigo Bay (lit)

responsible job? Finding loopholes for large corporations to

  take advantage of the law could not compare to the excitement

  she had always felt as a law student working for the public

  defender’s office.

  Even in the elite social circles that now drew her into their

  inner sanctum, the excitement had disappeared. The glamour

  and glitz of rubbing shoulders with Charleston’s upper crust

  and being recognized at high society parties held little appeal.

  Mica realized she didn’t need the glamour, but she did yearn

  for the excitement. She wanted to feel she made a difference.

  She turned her back to the ocean, content for the moment

  to watch the sun set behind the houses lining the shore. Sea

  Crest stood majestic among the smaller private dwellings and

  single story resorts. She was glad the island council had set

  down strict rules as to what could and could not be built here.

  She would have hated to see the trees and gardens dug up for

  some high-rise. That had been Richard’s plan when she had

  brought him here for a visit several years ago.

  The sun dropped behind the island, allowing the night to

  slowly claim the shore, just as dark thoughts of Richard Norden,

  her ex-husband, claimed Mica’s thoughts. She had thought their

  marriage would last a lifetime, even if her father had been the

  one to arrange their meeting and push her into marriage. Richard

  had been funny and bright, and most important by her father’s

  standards, he came from an upstanding Charleston family.

  In the three short years of their life together, however,

  Richard had drained his trust fund, invested in and bankrupted

  three businesses, and had started in on Mica’s savings. When

  she made it impossible for him to access her accounts, he had

  become abusive, something her parents did not know to this

  day. Her father had never understood why she divorced him,

  and her mother? Well, Mica’s mother came from a long line of

  happy marriages and couldn’t see beyond that.

  Mica rested her chin on jeans-clad knees, glad she had

  grabbed a flannel shirt to throw over her sleeveless shell because

  the breeze off the ocean became cooler as the night closed in

  around her. She closed her eyes, allowing her other senses to

  absorb the sea breeze, the tang of salt in the air, and the cry of

  a lone gull down by the water’s edge. But her mind refused to

  rest as the lulling of the waves suggested she should.

  The very characteristics her father so admired in her as a

  lawyer had been the downfall of her marriage—her

  outspokenness, her tenacity and her honesty. Richard had not

  liked her questions about his expenditures. He applauded her

  career since it put money in the bank, but at home and social

  functions, he still expected her to be a quiet, Southern lady

  with feathers for brains and no opinion of her own.

  While Mica didn’t mind being pampered once in a while,

  she didn’t want someone who bought her expensive presents

  and flowers instead of showing her love and understanding.

  And she definitely didn’t need a man who told her what her

  opinion should be. She wanted honesty, and a relationship with

  someone who could love as strongly as she could, but who

  would not try to change who she was.

  She sighed and glanced around her, realizing the lateness

  of the hour by the rise of the tide and the coolness of the night

  air. Oh, well, the tide wouldn’t come as far as where she sat,

  and no one was waiting for her and dinner at the apartment.

  For once and all, she wanted to exorcise Richard from her mind,

  just as the divorce had rid her of his presence in her life.

  As she watched residential lights wink on one by one,

  Richard’s fair face didn’t come to mind. Instead, a faint melody

  drifted across the beach, carrying the image of dark brown

  eyes, glistening black hair, and a body that was pure sensation.

  How could a dream be so real—the man, the words he spoke,

  his hard body pressed against hers in the study?

  Mica closed her eyes, her senses sharpened in the night.

  Once again she could smell the freshness of the leather-bound

  law books, feel the linen softness of his shirt, and see the twinkle

  in his eyes as the oil lamp reflected his awareness of her.

  Oil lamp? How strange that she would dream of oil lamps

  instead of electric lights. She supposed her profession would

  fill her dreams with law books, but there had been something

  peculiar about the books. What was it that now stirred

  restlessness inside her?

  She focused on a shadow shuffling along the back side of

  the inn toward her aunt’s private gardens. Shaking off thoughts

  of dream men, she rose and brushed the sand from her jeans,

  walking up the path towards the inn’s lights.

  “Professor Bigley?” Her question brought a squawk from

  the little man, who spun around to face her, clutching a metal

  box against his heaving chest.

  “Ms Chadwick, you scared the dickens out of me!” He

  gasped the words even as he shuffled the box into one arm and

  shoved his glasses back up his nose with the other shaking

  hand.

  Mica tried not to laugh, because she realized the man was

  intent on his investigations. He just didn’t look like a ghost

  buster. “I’m sorry, but what if I had been a ghost? You wouldn’t

  have heard me coming then, would you?”

  “As a matter of fact I would have, young lady. Besides,

  ghosts are not nearly as mean as people have been led to believe.

  I wouldn’t have been frightened by a ghost.”

  Mica’s arched her brows. The man really believed what he

  was doing. As though he read her mind, he held out the metal

  box in his arms. “I know you’re skeptical, so let me show you.

  This is my own design, guaranteed to pick up the beta impulses

  known to be associated with ghosts. The spirit, you might call

  it, is made up of energy, instead of basic matter like you and

  me. This energy pulsates at a phenomenal rate—too fast and

  too high-pitched for human eyes and ears to pick up.” He turned

  one of the knobs on the machine, and Mica could hear a faint

  click, click, click, like a Geiger Counter. The needles of the

  dials, however, stayed flat against one side.

  “It doesn’t appear to be working.” She tentatively reached

  a hand out and tapped a fingernail on the glass cover of one

  dial.

  “Of course not, because there are no ghosts in the vicinity.

  If there were, an alarm would go off to alert me. Then I could

  activate the camera, here, which would automatically take a

  photograph every five seconds.”

  Although Mica watched as he pointed to the devices on

  his ghost detector, she remained skeptical that it would do

  anything at all, much less photograph a ghost. “I thought you

  said the energy impulses were too fast for us to see. How can

  you photograph them?”

  “This is a special film, developed for NASA’s use. It is

  much, much more s
ensitive than what you or I would normally

  use.”

  “I see.” Mica didn’t, but she wouldn’t destroy the

  professor’s illusions. She cocked her head to the side. The music

  she had heard earlier drifted towards them again. It sounded

  close by, but Mica couldn’t recall a piano anywhere on the

  premises. “Do you hear that, Professor?”

  She watched him quickly adjust the knobs of his machine,

  his eyes flickering from the dials to the area around them. “I

  don’t hear anything. What do you think you hear?”

  “I hear a piano, but then, it couldn’t be played by one of

  your ghosts, could it, for your machine isn’t telling you

  anything.” She couldn’t help the laughter that crept into her

  voice.

  The professor took her joking with good humor. “Perhaps

  they aren’t out and about just yet, Ms Chadwick. Would you

  like me to come get you should I find one? After all, this is

  your residence.”

  “Thanks, but no. I don’t need part-interest in any ghosts.

  My portfolio is quite full at the moment.”

  He laughed with her. “But think of the publicity—the

  notoriety—the adventure!”

  “Good night, Professor Bigley,” Mica said as she turned

  toward the private gardens.

  “Aren’t you ready for a little adventure in your life, Ms

  Chadwick? A little excitement?”

  She didn’t answer, but kept walking, her heart pounding

  in cadence with her rapid footsteps. She stepped through the

  French doors, locking them behind her, but she could not lock

  out the echo of his question. Regardless of what she had told

  the man, she did long for an adventure. She had grown tired of

  her responsible, sensible life. But where, on sleepy little

  Cameron Island, could she possibly hope to find any

  excitement?

  As if in answer to her question, the music she had heard

  earlier rose to a crescendo before returning to a soft, haunting

  melody. She knew without doubt the source of the music lay

  directly above her, and yet hadn’t last night been a dream?

  Didn’t Mrs. Harris confirm that this afternoon when she told

  Mica the door led nowhere?

  Then why did her heart pound with anticipation? Why did

  her palms itch to touch the doorknob again, to see if the same

  electric tingle gave way to sensations she could not describe

  now that she was awake? And why, if it had all been a dream,

  did her feet lead her through the darkened corridor to the stairs?

  Her breath came in short gasps. Her hand trembled on the

  banister as she ascended the steps and turned to face the door.

  She had to know. She had to find out for herself. Was the man

  she envisioned last night a dream? Or someone real?

  The key turned in the lock, sending a frisson of excitement

  racing through Mica. The door swung open to a corridor exactly

  as she remembered from last night. Her hand trembled so badly,

  she dropped the key. As she stepped through the doorway and

  bent to retrieve it, she felt the zipper in her jeans pop.

  “Damn!” She put a hand to her stomach and turned. She

  would have to return to her room and change. But then she

  heard it—the beautiful strains of a waltz played with such

  emotion she felt wrapped in warmth and caressed by invisible,

  soothing fingers.

  Though her heart beat quicker, it wasn’t from fear, but

  from the same sense of anticipation she had felt downstairs.

  She wouldn’t go back, not now. Some inner sense told her the

  stranger waited just ahead, past the flickering wall candles to

  where the light spilled from an open doorway.

  She placed the key in her pocket and pulled the door shut

  behind her. Pulling her flannel shirt closed to cover her broken

  zipper, she stepped down the hall and into the room. Her gaze

  focused on the man, elegantly attired in a black tuxedo, though

  his tie hung askew and his jacket had been left abandoned in

  the center of the floor.

  He sat at a grand piano, his head thrown back, eyes closed,

  oblivious to everything around him. His body swayed with the

  rhythm. Mica found her gaze mesmerized by the stroke of his

  long, tan fingers across the keys. He didn’t play the piano. He

  seduced it, coaxing sounds from the instrument and becoming

  part of the music he created.

  Wild thoughts took flight with the music. Her skin tingled

  at the thought of his hands caressing her skin, bringing her to a

  fevered pitch. Together reaching the ultimate pinnacle. She was

  so wrapped up in passionate thought, she didn’t realize the

  music had stopped until he spoke.

  “I wondered if you would appear for me again tonight.”

  He swung around to straddle the bench, and Mica noted

  that his black vest and the starched white shirt beneath it were

  opened to his waist. She had an unobstructed view of his

  muscular chest, lightly sprinkled with dark hair. She leaned

  against the doorjamb, not sure her legs would support her. His

  gaze was more intense than she remembered, his shoulders

  broader, and his smile just as inviting.

  “Who are you, lovely lady?” His voice seduced her as surely

  as though he touched her.

  “Michaela.” She, Michaela Marie Chadwick, renowned

  attorney who could convince a jury her client was innocent by

  her adept use of the English language, couldn’t think of anything

  more to say than her name.

  “I know your name, Michaela Marie.” Her name flowed

  from his lips like the music he played. “But who are you? And

  why are you dressed as a farm hand? You could not possibly

  hide your femininity beneath trousers and a man’s shirt.” As

  he spoke, he reached high, arching his back and flexing his

  arms to stretch his muscles. It was enough to make Mica’s

  heart stop.

  “Who are you?” She might have convinced herself she

  wanted an adventure, but this man, so blatantly sexual and

  seemingly unaware of it, could end up being more than she

  bargained for. It would be best to find out more about him, and

  how he came to be at Sea Crest.

  He grinned at her as he unwound his long legs from the

  bench and walked towards her, all fluid grace and elegance. “I

  do apologize, my dear lady.” He gently took her hand and lifted

  it to his lips, giving her a bow that came so naturally, Mica

  would have thought him a member of the cast of Gone With

  the Wind. “T. Logan Rutledge, your dutiful servant.”

  The elegance of his words, the gentleness of his gestures,

  touched a chord deep within Mica, and she almost curtsied in

  return. Her face flushed when she glanced down at her attire.

  While she had never been concerned with fashion, she suddenly

  felt terribly out of place. He laughed at her frown, touching

  her shirt collar’s soft flannel.

  “At least you are comfortable.” He spread his arms and

  gestured at the layers of clothes he wore. “I have had to torture

  myself with a tight tie and too many layers of hot cl
oth. All

  this for the unenviable delight of having Miss Sophie

  Wainwright, trussed up like a peacock in monstrous feathers

  and ruffles of satin, try to break my eardrums.”

  She laughed with him. She couldn’t help herself. He painted

  a picture as vivid as his music. He captured her hand, and when

  he tugged, she followed him to an old-fashioned settee against

  one wall of the enormous room.

  “You have a delightful laugh, Michaela Marie. Your eyes

  sparkle, and your whole face glows.”

  She sat facing him, close enough so he didn’t have to release

  her hand. Close enough she could feel his heat and the raw

  male magnetism surrounding him like some mystical aura. She

  tried to concentrate on what he was saying.

  “T. Logan Rutledge.” She repeated his name. “That doesn’t

  tell me much about you.”

  “One night I find you in my study, wearing little more than

  silk unmentionables and a very seductive smile. Now, here you

  are again, this time with more cloth covering your curves, but

  with eyes holding a secret and lips begging to be kissed. Why

  must you waste time talking?” As he spoke, he traced her lips

  with his thumb, his other arm sliding across the back of the

  couch to rest on her shoulders. Just when Mica thought he would

  kiss her, he turned, stretching his legs out in front of him and

  clasping his hands behind his head.

  “What would you like to know?” His eyes and voice were

  full of laughter, and again Mica found herself smiling.

  Even in the tension of just moments before, she felt

  comfortable with this man she barely knew. But now he had

  given her the opportunity to remedy that. Trying not to sound

  like a lawyer in cross-examination, she said simply, “Tell me

  everything.”

  “Do you have a lifetime or two to spend on a very boring

  recitation? I dare say after five minutes, you’ll wish to be at

  Miss Sophie’s instead.”

  Mica turned and sat cross-legged on the couch, propping

  her elbows on her knees and chin in her hands. The action

  brought his black brows together in a frown.

  “You are not exactly the conventional lady, are you?”

  It was her turn to smile, turning his earlier comments back

  on him. “After I have listened to your story, perhaps I will tell

  you mine. However, it will require the same diligent attention