GHOST OF A CHANCE

by Nina Bruhns

  "Um…" Clara considered evasion, but before she could come up with a suitable diversion, Mrs. Yates broke out in a wide grin.

  "That sailor's diary must have been quite something. You'll have to let me read it. I could use a little … entertainment."

  Clara giggled at the irrepressible twinkle in the older woman's eyes. "It wasn't the diary," she admitted with an answering grin. "It was a dream."

  "Well, aren't you the lucky one! My husband's been gone for nearly ten years now, and not once have I awoken with such a sublime expression on my face."

  Clara chuckled. "Trust me, this is a first for me, too."

  "So, tell me about this dream. I need the vicarious thrill." Mrs. Yates turned off the burners and slid ham and eggs onto two plates, along with a scoop of grits for each.

  Clara cleared her throat. "I'm not sure—"

  "Oh, do tell. You may not believe it, but I was quite a handful in my day."

  "Oh, I do believe it," Clara said, then dug into the savory breakfast, as ravenous as if the exhausting events of the night had really happened. "All right, I dreamed I met a pirate."

  Mrs. Yates glanced up from her plate. "A pirate?" A sudden frown creased her forehead. "I suppose that's natural," she said slowly, "considering where you are and what you're doing here. What happened with this … pirate?"

  Clara felt her blush return with a vengeance. "What didn't?" she muttered. "He was unbelievable." And from the tight, barely leashed desire in his expression to the musky, slightly mysterious scent that floated to her senses on his body heat, the man had seemed vividly, scintillatingly alive. "Handsome, sexy as hell and a body to die for. He literally swept me off my feet."

  "Indeed."

  She blew out a breath. "Oh, Mrs. Yates, you just wouldn't believe how incredible he was! He made me feel like an enchanted princess being awakened by her true prince. We spent the entire night in the bungalow—" She caught sight of the older woman's expression. "What?"

  Not curiosity, suspicion. "The bungalow was in your dream? Rose Cottage?"

  Clara nodded. "And it was so realistic," she said with a sigh. "I could even smell the roses and the salt marsh."

  Mrs. Yates looked at her sharply. "Clara, dear, did this pirate have a name, by any chance?"

  Clara brushed aside a spurt of unease at the unexpected change in her demeanor. Her hostess appeared almost … upset.

  "As a matter of fact, it was Tyree St. James."

  A crash resounded through the kitchen as Mrs. Yates's knife and fork clattered onto her fine china plate.

  "Tyree St.

  —" Her brows beetled in consternation. "He didn't! He simply couldn't! Oh, dear, this is all my fault."

  "What is? Mrs. Yates, is something wrong?"

  "Why, the old scamp! I would never have believed it of him!"

  "Who?"

  With a rattle of dishes, Mrs. Yates rose from the table and paced the uneven kitchen floor, clearly distraught. "This is unforgivable!"

  Clara stared in astonishment as her hostess suddenly called out in a reedy, but surprisingly loud voice, "Captain! Captain St. James, you come here this minute!"

  Okay, this was now officially weird. Had the old lady completely lost her marbles?

  "At once, do you hear me?"

  Maybe she had a thing for St. James and didn't want anyone else dreaming about him. "Look, um—"

  "What did you expect me to do when you install a sweet young thing like Miz Fergussen in my bedroom?" drawled a deep, honeyed voice directly behind her.

  At the all-too-familiar accent, Clara whipped around in her chair.

  No! It wasn't possible!

  "What the—" She froze at the sight of her dream pirate lounging against the kitchen door frame as though that were perfectly plausible and possible.

  Which it wasn't. Because the man wasn't real.

  She had to be hallucinating.

  "Hello, sweeting. I trust you slept well after I left?" His gaze prowled over her like a wolf sizing up his prey.

  Her chair crashed to the floor as she rocketed to her feet. "You!"

  He bowed slightly. "As you see."

  Omigod.

  "You can't be here!"

  One black eyebrow rose in that knowing way that had been so arousing last night, but now set her teeth on edge. There was something very, very wrong here.

  He was real.

  But … how?

  Clara clenched her fists at her sides, anger coursing through her. She'd obviously been played for a royal sucker. "Very clever. How did you do it? Smoke and mirrors?"

  "Do what?"

  "Don't even try." She raised an accusing finger. "Just who the hell are you, anyway, and what's with that ridiculous outfit?"

  Blandly, he glanced down at the pirate getup from the night before, which he was still wearing—except for the hokey eye patch.

  "I gotta say, it loses its effect the morning after." She grimaced at a sudden thought. "God, don't tell me, you work at the museum, right? What was the plan? Thought you'd get a big laugh playing dress up for the gullible Midwestern hick?"

  "Oh, dear," Mrs. Yates mumbled from the corner, wringing her hands.

  "I assure you, I do not work at the museum, and was not—"

  Clara held up a palm. "Never mind. I really don't want to know. Just get out of here. Now."

  The pirate leaned back on his heels, folding his arms over his broad chest. The broad chest she'd collapsed on in exhaustion more than once the night before…

  "That could be a problem," he said in those smooth-as-molasses tones, thankfully interrupting the memory. "Since this is my house."

  "What?" Clara sliced a disbelieving glance at Mrs. Yates. "This guy lives here?"

  "Well, in a m-manner of s-speaking," the old woman stammered.

  Great. Just great. "And you didn't think to tell me about him?"

  "Or me about her?" the faux pirate chimed in.

  Mrs. Yates looked thoroughly flustered, but Clara was too embarrassed to feel sorry for her. She wanted to sink straight through the kitchen floorboards and never come up again. How could she possibly face this man after the scandalous way she'd behaved with him last night? After the things they'd done together?

  Damn.

  "This isn't happening." She covered her face with her hands and groaned. "You told me you were a dream."

  "It was the only thing I could think of."

  She heard him take a step toward her and she jumped away, tearing her hands from her eyes. "How about the truth?"

  A peculiar expression came over his face and his mouth quirked. "The truth?"

  "Oh, dear," Mrs. Yates echoed again, wringing her hands even harder.

  "Well?"

  He assessed Clara with narrowed eyes. But his words were obviously for the older woman. "Shall we tell her the truth, then? It seems you had that in mind all along, or you would never have invited her to stay here. Isn't that so, Mrs. Yates?"

  "I just thought … you only have a week left, and she seemed so nice." Mrs. Yates drew herself up. "But frankly, Captain, I expected you to act like a gentleman, not a—"

  "Pirate?" His expression was mocking, but Clara thought she detected an odd sadness to it. Then he sighed, the sound spiced with weariness like salty air from the sea.

  "Captain?" Clara questioned, picking up on Mrs. Yates's words. "You're a captain? Of what?" She'd absolutely die if he was a cop.

  He leveled his near-black eyes on her. "Believe me, you don't want to know."

  A tingle of foreboding trickled down her spine. "Oh, but I do," she said, despite the growing certainty that she really, really didn't. Mrs. Yates looked like she was about to expire, and the pirate's expression was growing more stormy by the second. "Just who are you?"

  "You know who I am," he said quietly. "I'm the man you spent the night—"

  "Captain!" Mrs. Yates exclaimed.

  "Captain who?" Clara asked with dawning dread.

  "I told you before. My name is St
. James. Captain Tyree St. James."

  She just stared. First at him, then at Mrs. Yates, praying a rational explanation was forthcoming.

  It wasn't.

  Her heart sank. Oh. My. God.

  Not only had she slept with him, but the man was a certifiable fruit loop.

  And evidently Mrs. Yates was just as batty as he was.

  Clara started backing toward the door, and let out a nervous chuckle. "Don't be silly. Tyree St. James died two hundred years ago."

  "That's right."

  She laughed again, sounding just the slightest bit hysterical, even to herself. She took another step backward, remembering the story she'd read in her travel guide about Magnolia Cove's several haunted houses. "Ha ha. And I suppose you're going to tell me you're his ghost."

  "Nay." A muscle ticked in his cheek. "I am not a ghost."

  What a relief. Not completely delusional.

  "I am a cursed soul, caught between mortal life and heaven."

  Ho-kay, then. Not delusional. Totally out of his mind.

  "Sure you are. Well, it's been swell running into you, Captain, but I have a lot of work to do today. Research, you know. At the library." She pointed at him and forced a smile. "About you as a matter of fact. Isn't that a coincidence?"

  Damn. She was babbling. If only she could make it out of the house before—

  Before what? Jeez! What were they planning to do to her? Her butt hit the screen door. Whirling, she hurled herself through it. And ran smack into a solid barrier. St. James.

  Or whoever the hell he was. She screamed and leaped away. He grasped her arm, preventing her from running down the steps.

  "Let go of me!" she cried, trying to break free. But he was strong. Unnaturally strong.

  "I'm afraid that won't be possible."

  Suddenly, it struck her. He'd been in the kitchen… No way. "How'd you do that?"

  "Do what?"

  "Get out here on the porch before me."

  Setting his jaw, he turned to Mrs. Yates, who was now standing next to the open door. "This was your bright idea. You explain it."

  "Come back inside, Clara dear," Mrs. Yates said. "I know it all sounds crazy. But please. Before you do anything rash, give us a chance to explain."

  The pirate released her arm but didn't move away from the stairs. She wasn't frightened exactly; neither of them struck her as the serial killer type. She was more mortified that last night she'd actually fallen hook, line and sinker for this handsome nut ball. But if she listened to another word either of these Looney Tunes said, she'd be as crazy as they were.

  She closed her eyes. What should she do?

  He was standing close. Way too close to think clearly.

  God, he smelled good. Last night, she'd loved being surrounded by his distinctive, musky male scent. And by him. Her breasts ached remembering how he'd lavished them with his lips and tongue, suckling them like a babe starving to be nurtured. Touching them like a man who desperately needed to be loved back. And not just physically. The emotions that had poured from those hands and lips had taken her breath away.

  But it had all been a sham. Hell, an outright lie. He'd told her he was a dream, and she'd actually believed him.

  Was she really so desperate that she'd fall for a setup so transparently absurd? How could she have been so stupid?

  Because … because he'd proven it. With her own eyes she'd seen him do things, things no living person could do.

  So how had he managed his little demonstration of levitation and gliding through the bedpost? And how had he gotten through the kitchen door, just now, before she did?

  A cursed soul, caught between mortal life and heaven.

  No. Not a ghost of a chance. There had to be a logical explanation. One that didn't involve cursed souls. He must be some kind of performer. A magician. Or…

  "It was hard for me to believe at first, too," Mrs. Yates said kindly, interrupting Clara's desperate thoughts. "Took me almost a week to acknowledge with my mind what my eyes were clearly showing me."

  "This is insane," Clara murmured, appalled she would even consider such a preposterous assertion. This was not the kind of excitement or adventure she'd had in mind when she came to Magnolia Cove. Definitely not.

  "Go inside," the pirate ordered softly. His midnight eyes, accented by a thin blue scar running just below the left one, commanded her from a face sculpted with severe planes and rugged angles. A face that was used to being obeyed.

  Last night, she had. Willingly. Her knees went liquid, remembering. Truth was, she'd been thrilled to obey his every whispered demand.

  Reluctantly, she acceded now, too. "All right. But just for a minute. Then I really must get to the library."

  "We'll see," he said.

  She stepped into the kitchen, rubbing her arms. Had it suddenly grown chilly?

  "Close the door," he said, still standing on the porch outside.

  "But—"

  "Do it."

  She had a bad feeling about this. Nevertheless, she closed the door, leaving him on the other side.

  "What's going on?" she asked Mrs. Yates.

  "Look." The old lady indicated the door.

  "Wha—" The word congealed in Clara's throat as she watched in disbelief. The shimmering image of St. James filtered through the closed door like a bad special effect from an episode of Star Trek, then came to a halt right in front of her. The door hadn't budged. Not even a fraction.

  All thought drained from her head like blood from a corpse.

  Bad analogy. She resisted the urge to laugh hysterically. Or run like hell. Oh, Lord. What was going on? She knew darn good and well there were no such things as ghosts.

  Absolutely not.

  "That was very impressive," she said, pulling herself together and inching toward escape. "But the library calls."

  She'd think about this later. When the two of them weren't standing right there. In the same room. Staring at her like she was actually supposed to believe all this. Crazy old Mrs. Yates and Tyree St. James.

  Captain Tyree St. James, Blackbeard of Magnolia Cove. Cursed soul, caught between mortal life and heaven.

  Lord almighty. She'd slept with a ghost.

  What could possibly happen next?

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  Tyree watched Clara hurry down the garden path toward the road to the village and the pirate museum library.

  "I should have kept her here," he said crossly.

  "Captive, you mean? Like in Beauty and the Beast?"

  "Thank you very much, Mrs. Yates," he muttered, and turned on a heel, heading back into the kitchen. Without thinking, he grabbed half a bagel from the table and ripped off a piece with his teeth.

  "Hungry?" she asked with irritating amusement. She was well aware he only ate when agitated. Or thinking about female companionship.

  "Perhaps I'll even have jam," he retorted, and slathered on a thick layer of blueberry preserve, daring her to comment.

  "My, we did get up on the wrong side of the bed today."

  He glared at her. "What the devil were you thinking, bringing an innocent girl here? A week before I'm to leave!"

  "She's not a girl, she's a grown woman. And obviously a lot less innocent this morning than yesterday afternoon when I met her," Mrs. Yates intoned, clucking at him disapprovingly.

  He ripped off another bite. "Aye, well. That was a huge mistake. She took me by surprise."

  Mrs. Yates harrumphed.

  "I didn't count on her seeing me. Or asking me to kiss her." That widened the old bird's eyes. "Anyway, it won't happen again, I can assure you." He glanced out the window at the oyster-shell path down which Clara had disappeared at a fast clip. "I just hope she doesn't start asking questions about me in the village."

  "You asked her not to," Mrs. Yates stated in a practical tone. She could be so naive. "Besides, even if she does, you'll be gone before anything unpleasant can come of it."

  "I don't
want any trouble, for your sake. If anyone should question your ownership of this estate, or the trusts and charities I've set up…"

  He let the thought trail off. He'd arranged for the final disposition of his vast accumulated fortune as carefully as he could, drawing on two centuries of experience with the sticky legal dealings inherent in his situation. But one curious reporter or prying cop could spoil everything for Mrs. Yates and the other beneficiaries.

  Not to mention potentially making his last week on earth a hellish media circus rather than the peaceful, contemplative ending to physical existence he'd envisioned.

  Mrs. Yates's expression turned tender. "I'm going to miss you terribly, you know."

  He put down his bagel, which suddenly tasted like sawdust. "I'll miss you, too," he said, heart tugging. Lord, he hated goodbyes. Over the years there had been far too many.

  "You've been like a son to me. The son I never had," she said, getting misty.

  He walked over and gave her a hug. "And you've been a wonderful friend and a great help."

  She fished in her pocket for a hankie. "I'm sorry about Clara—"

  "Don't worry about Miz Fergussen," he interrupted. He still hadn't decided exactly what to do about her, so it was best to avoid the topic. "She can stay for now and do her research and I'll steer well clear of the gardener's bungalow." That much he had decided.

  Mrs. Yates tucked away her hankie and straightened. "If that's what you think is best."

  "I just pray she keeps her mouth shut," he said, casting an uneasy gaze back out the window. "I don't suppose you'd want to…"

  "Go to the museum and check up on her?"

  He immediately thought better of it. Mrs. Yates didn't drive, and he didn't want her walking all that way unnecessarily. "No, I'm just being foolish."

  He pulled out his pocket watch and consulted it. "And now you must excuse me. I have to get to my office. I want to check on a bid I put in on an Internet auction."

  Mrs. Yates peered over her glasses. "Now what? Another new toaster?" She swept her hand toward the kitchen counter, where two four-slicers already occupied a corner. "Or a coffeemaker?" Three of those were lined up next to the toasters. In his defense, they all had different features and one was actually a cappuccino maker that steamed milk, too.