by Sandra Cox
“Don’t you ever do what you’re told?” He eased me to his side, then cautiously walked the enclosure. The gray clouds had lifted. The sun dropped in the sky in a bright red orb that threw garnet sparkles on the water. A few early stars began to make their appearance. The scent of chlorine mixed with Clayton’s expensive aftershave. I relaxed. No limes and cinnamon. The presence was gone.
We circled the pool and then the house. “I don’t see anyone.” Clayton took one last look around.
“Maybe it was my imagination.” Not.
“In this case, I hope so.” He glanced at his watch.
I could take a hint. “Why don’t you go back to the party?”
“I’ll stay for a little while.”
“Really, I’m okay.” Pricks of discomfort tightened my chest. I was so not okay.
“Tell you what. I’ll take one more look around, then check the house before I go.”
“Deal.” My taut muscles loosened. While he checked the property, I grabbed a soda. He walked in as I popped the top. “Want one?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’ll just do a quick check of the rooms.”
I swallowed a giggle. Clayton might not be getting lucky with me, but I had a feeling the evening wasn’t going to be a wash for him. He went through the bungalow in record time.
He came into the kitchen and pecked me on the cheek. “I’ll call you soon.” He stopped me before I could trail after him. “I can see myself out.”
“Sure.” He didn’t sprint for the door, but he disappeared through it pretty fast. I’d bruised his ego. Again. “I’m going to stop dating altogether.” I’d never met a guy who melted me like molten lava, and I didn’t intend to settle for less. “I’m a freak.”
“That’s the damn silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Chapter 2
The scent of tart limes and cinnamon assailed me. I opened my mouth to scream so loud Clayton would hear me a mile away, which he probably was by now. Nothing came out but a dry croak.
The apparition stood in my kitchen as if he belonged there, tall, his coal black hair with a tint of blue sheen to it. He looked at me from stormy gray eyes that had a trace of devilment in them, partly hidden by bewilderment. The black suit jacket he wore came nearly to his knees. Beneath it, a beautiful silk, cream-colored vest covered a white shirt with a stiff standup collar.
“You can see me?” His storm-flecked eyes widened.
“Wh...” The spit dried in my mouth. I swallowed and tried again. “Who are you?” It came out a croak, but it came out.
“Your roommate’s ghost.” He grinned.
My knees buckled. Rear hit wood with a thump as I sat down on a kitchen chair. “Umm.” I rubbed my posterior.
“I can’t believe you can see me,” he marveled.
“Yeah, me either.” My heart banged in my ears. My clammy hands trembled. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name?”
“Liam O’Reilly. And you are Caitlin?”
“Yes.” I tried to get my breath under control before I hyperventilated. “What are you doing here?” I gripped the table and scooted my chair under it, so that the table rested between us. The muscles in my neck rigid, I concentrated on the pristine white ruffled curtains that framed the window and counted to ten before I glanced back. He was still there.
The ghost looked around the room and appeared as bemused as I. He glanced at my top, then quickly averted his gaze. I’d thrown on a black, cross-front bra tank-top over tan shorts. I watched in fascination as red stained his throat. It flooded his face and replaced the translucent honey-colored tan. His old-fashioned attire made my outfit look skimpy. I cleared my throat. “Um, what year are you from?”
“I died in October of 1866 in Ruby Falls, Virginia.”
That accounted for the clothes.
“Now if I might ask you, what year is it?” He took a restless turn around the room.
“2015.”
“Sweet Jesus,” he breathed. “I beg your pardon.”
“For what?” My brain, like my legs, had gone weak.
“For blaspheming.” He rocked on his heels and added under his breath, “Just my luck I’d end up in a high-toned brothel after my death.” He shook his head, his glance regretful.
Brothel? “Excuse me?”
“Isn’t this a brothel?” He waved his hand around to encompass the room. “Of course, I’ve never been in the kitchen of a bordello, but I imagine they have them. This is the kitchen, isn’t it?” He looked at the shiny stove, the spotless counters, and the black and white ceramic floor.
“Yes, it is. Why would you call this a brothel?” My knees unlocked, and I sagged deeper into my chair, more fascinated than frightened, everything surreal. I couldn’t possibly be carrying on a conversation with a ghost. No doubt, I was in the middle of a dream, but I’d hate to see it end. Marcy’s ghost intrigued me. For a man well over a hundred years old, he was a major hottie. The HDM paled in comparison.
“Well, you don’t object to my language, you wear next to nothing, and you were in a very torrid embrace with that man who visited you a little while ago. Though to be fair, you did turn him down, and no coin changed hands.”
No coin changed hands. Good one. “Times have changed.” If this was a dream, it was the best one I’d had in ages, if I didn’t count the sex dreams.
“Then I shouldn’t be addressing you so informally, Miss…?” He arched an eyebrow, waiting.
“King. But Caitlin is just fine.”
“Miss King.” He gave an abbreviated bow. “I must say, your outfits are scantier than any bordello I’ve been to.”
“And have you been to many bordellos, Liam? Or should I say, Mr. O’Reilly?” My insides warmed. I shifted toward the ghost, gave him a long look and my best sultry smile. Good Lord. Was I flirting with Marcy’s ghost? Yes, it appeared I was.
“I’m nineteen, a man full grown. Of course I’ve been to brothels. But whatever era I’m in, this isn’t a fit topic to discuss with a lady.” Once again, his gaze drifted over my attire, or at least what he could see of it from across the table, his expression dubious.
“You’re having a problem with my outfit, aren’t you?”
“No problem at all. I like it very much.” His lips tipped upward. His gray eyes sparkled like the sun on the ocean.
“You just don’t think a lady would wear it.” My throat tickled, and the muscles in my mouth twitched.
“Not in my time.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “Though now I think of it, a grown man wouldn’t go outdoors in short pants either.”
That one took me a moment. I remembered the khaki short’s Clayton was wearing and burst out laughing. “What a dream.” I didn’t realize I’d spoken out loud until he nodded.
“I feel the same way. Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Be my guest.” I motioned to the chair across the table. It glided smoothly out from the table, and Liam drifted into it.
“Caitlin, who are you talking to?”
I jumped. Liam hopped out of the chair and stared at me wildly. Then he turned and bowed to Marcy. “Good evening.”
“You must not have heard me come in.” She walked to the refrigerator, grabbed a bottle of water, and looked around. “You’re talking to yourself again, aren’t you?”
“Don’t you…” My brain turned to mush. I flapped my arm wildly in Liam’s direction.
Marcy stared at my flailing arm in bewilderment. Liam looked back and forth between us, lifted his palms, and raised his eyebrows.
I regained my voice and my cognitive powers. I was having a breakdown. “What are you doing home so early?”
“Clayton claimed you thought you saw an intruder. I came home to check on you.” She pulled out the chair Liam had vacated and plopped down.
“That was sweet of you.”
“He shouldn’t have left you alone. You need to find someone else. He slipped out the door with
that Hathaway slut.” She screwed up her nose as if she’d smelled something distasteful.
“We aren’t an item.”
Liam stood with his arms crossed, his face unreadable.
What was he thinking?
“Why do you keep staring over my shoulder?” Marcy twisted to look behind her before she shifted back toward me.
“Sorry.”
“So why did you think someone was in the house?” She set down the bottle and leaned toward me.
“Must have been all that talk of ghosts.” I bit my lips together to hold back the hysterical giggle lodged in my throat.
Marcy looked around, then whispered. “Do you think it was the ghost?”
My nerves jumped. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of anything to say or why I was so hesitant to tell her the truth. She would have believed me. “Who knows,” was all I could manage.
Liam looked relieved. Then his eyes crossed as Marcy’s breasts lifted when she stretched her arms over her head. She glanced at her watch. “It’s barely nine o’clock. Let’s go to Jimmy’s.”
I looked at my ghost…er, Marcy’s ghost. Would Liam O’Reilly be able to go? I couldn’t wait to see his reaction to Jimmy’s. “Sure, why not.”
Marcy did a quick glance at my shorts and tank top. “Better throw on some jeans. The temp has dropped.”
“Good idea. I’m going to do that now.”
When I reached the bedroom, I unsnapped my shorts, thought better of it, and spun around. Sure enough, Liam leaned against the wall, his ankles and arms crossed. “Get out! I’m getting ready to change clothes. And don’t go in Marcy’s room either.”
He grinned and gave me an appreciative once-over before he disappeared through the wall. Not so much as a ripple marred the smooth surface where he’d just vanished.
This couldn’t be real. I’d just ordered a ghost out of my bedroom. I pulled my hair. Ouch. I was awake. And even though I had vivid dreams, I doubted if they included the scent of cinnamon and limes that lingered in the room.
I shook off my unease and threw on jeans and a pink tee, then shrugged into a pink and black plaid jacket and headed out to wait for Marcy. Wonder of wonders, she was ready.
We walked out, Liam at our side. When we got in the car, he balked. Unobtrusively as possible, I motioned for him to get in. He shook his head. As Marcy started the engine, I opened the door. “Just a minute. I forgot my debit card.”
“Okay.” She leaned forward and fiddled with the radio.
I jumped out of the car and jerked my head in the direction of the sidewalk. Liam followed me as I trotted back into the house.
“Where’s the buggy?” he demanded, his arms crossed, chin jutted.
I desperately wanted to reach out and touch him, to confirm I wasn’t hallucinating. Instead, I said as calmly as I could, “We don’t ride in buggies. We drive automobiles. Come on. It’ll be fun. You’re a guy. You’ll like it once you get used to it.”
I was trying to talk a ghost into a car. What was wrong with this picture? I gave myself a mental head slap. On the other hand, on the off chance I was hallucinating, I might as well go ahead and enjoy myself.
“All right, all right,” he grumbled as we walked to the convertible. I got in the passenger side and slid into soft leather. Feet planted on the driveway, Liam glared at me. I made a motioning gesture with my hand.
“What are you doing?” Marcy twisted toward me, a puzzled frown on her face.
“Fanning myself. It’s not nearly as cool as you said it was.” I flapped my hand back and forth in front of my face.
“You’re acting strange tonight,” Marcy remarked as she fastened her seat belt.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“For one thing, the way you’ve been flapping your arms around like a deranged chicken. Never mind. Clayton has that effect.”
Liam hadn’t moved. I twitched my head to the left. Finally, he shrugged, put his hand on the side of the car, and leaped into the back seat of the convertible.
Marcy barreled out of the drive and tore down the lane.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God.” The words were a whisper on the wind.
I squelched a giggle, and Marcy threw me a perplexed look.
When her attention turned back to the road, I threw a quick glance at Liam. His jaw was clenched, and his fingers dug into the leather upholstery. He looked white as a ghost. The mental analogy hit me and I laughed.
“Did you break into Daddy’s liquor cabinet?” Marcy demanded. She cut me a look before she turned her attention back to traffic. A jeep drew alongside. The good-looking guy in the passenger seat winked at Marcy before the sport utility vehicle zipped around and cut in front of her. For a moment, she lost her train of thought, but not for long. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Did you bribe Lulu to bring you a bottle of Daddy’s finest?”
“No! I haven’t touched a drop. I haven’t broken into Uncle Leon’s liquor cabinet. And I haven’t coerced Lulu to do so either.” I huffed and flopped back against the seat.
Lulu was my aunt and uncle’s long suffering, but well-paid, housekeeper who now had the extra duty of cleaning up after us. Marcy’s parents had allowed us to move into their guesthouse until college started in the fall. No way would I screw up that arrangement by taking further advantage of their generosity.
“Hope you haven’t been smoking anything. Mommy and Daddy would have a cow.” Marcy pulled up to the stoplight and waited for the light to turn green.
“You know I never use drugs You’ve said yourself I’m so straight arrow I’m boring.”
“No, what I said was it wouldn’t hurt you to loosen up occasionally.”
Heat burned my cheeks. No way was I discussing this in front of a ghostly stranger. I lapsed into silence before pulling my compact out of my purse and angling it where I could see Liam. Our eyes met. A sizzle of attraction jolted me right down to my sandal-shod toes.
I leaned my head against the headrest and closed my eyes, breaking contact. The whole situation was bizarre. My cousin had bought a ghost off eBay, and I was attracted to him. Whether he was real or a figment of my imagination, I was drawn to him.
Then again, what red-blooded girl wouldn’t be? Even one who up to this point hadn’t been tempted to do the mattress-mambo with any guy.
His thick hair hung nearly to his shoulders. His cheeks were high-boned and his nose hawk-like. Perfectly kissable lips. Not too thick. Not too thin. Yummy.
Before I could continue my inventory, Marcy broke in on my thoughts. “We’re here.”
I opened my eyes. With typical VanLier luck, Marcy had found a parking spot right in front of Jimmy’s.
“I’d give my black and tan stilettos, and throw in my orange polka dot sandals if I could parallel park half as well as you do.” The nose of the Corvette was a mere six inches from the bumper of the car in front of us.
“It’s a gift.” She waved her hand in an airy gesture and opened the door. The rose-peach polish glistened in the lamplight.
“Don’t I know it.”
Liam leaped out of the car and opened my door. I hurriedly put my hand on the handle to make it look like I’d pushed it open. I might as well not have bothered. Marcy was already heading for the entrance. In the blink of an eye, Liam was in front of her and threw open the heavy wooden door.
I swallowed a groan.
She turned to me. “They must have installed automatic door openers since the last time I was here.”
“Must have,” I said to her. “Don’t,” I mouthed to Liam.
He shrugged. “I’m a gentleman.” As he held the door, someone came down the stairs from the tap room. He sniffed the air, and a look of rapture crossed his face. “Ale.”
I sidled up to him and whispered out of the corner of my mouth. “Jimmy’s is an Irish pub. Downstairs is for the under twenty-one crowd. Second floor, Jimmy serves ale and strong
er beverages. Did you notice the separate entrances for the downstairs and upstairs?”
Liam nodded.
“Jimmy can sniff out a fake I.D. a mile away. By the way, can you drink or eat?”
“I don’t know. This is my first time around. But I don’t think so.” For a moment, his sensual lips drooped before he shook off the disappointment and smiled. My knees went weak. “You’ll just have to have a libation for both of us.”
“Not at Jimmy’s I won’t,” I mumbled in a low undertone.
He gave me a confused look. “Why not? And what is a fake I.D.?”
I slapped my forehead. “That’s right. There were no laws against drinking if you were underage in your time, were there?”
“Underage?”
“No one under twenty-one can legally drink, so most kids under twenty-one try to find a way around the law, hence the fake I.D.’s. Marcy and I tried to sneak into Jimmy’s once. Not only did we get busted, Jimmy called our parents. Just let me say, it isn’t one of my better memories. There’s nothing like disappointed parents to make you feel like pond scum. But even without alcohol, Jimmy’s is always hopping,” I said behind my hand.
“Did you say something, Cat?” Marcy called over her shoulder.
“I think there’s an open table up and over to our right,” I yelled back.
“Oh, yeah, I see it.”
We pushed our way through the crowd to the open table. Marcy sat across from me, and her ghost slid into the chair beside me. When three men and a woman walked on stage, the crowd broke into applause and whistled.
“GRIT’s playing,” I yelled to Marcy.
“Cool,” she hollered back.
The guitarist, wearing jeans that rode loose on his hips and a vest with no shirt under it, picked up his guitar, turned on the amp, and tuned up. Liam clapped his hands over his ears, a look of horrified fascination on his face. His gaze traveled from the band to the young women who stood in front of the stage. His eyes crossed when a buxom blonde in a tight, low tee with hip-hugging designer jeans turned in our direction.
“There’s Kendra.” Marcy pointed at the blonde. She waved and motioned her over.
