GHOST OF A CHANCE

by Nina Bruhns

  But how he craved to take her body in his arms and make her his once more! Make love to her again and again, as they'd done that first night. Quench this overwhelming thirst for the taste of her he'd had from the moment he'd laid eyes on her in Mrs. Yates's kitchen. And rid himself of the heavy aching in his loins so when he left his body behind forever he could do so in a state of sated contentment.

  Of course, it would probably take another two hundred years to reach that state with Clara. The only satiety he'd felt when they'd made love was purely temporary. All it would take was one look at her and he'd be needy again.

  Too bad he didn't have another two hundred years to spend with her.

  Then again, he knew how badly that scenario went. He'd lived it with Rosalind. Loving her so much in the beginning he didn't foresee the harsh reality of their situation. As the years passed and she aged while he remained exactly the same, it had ended up tearing him to pieces inside. She'd taken it philosophically—what choice did she have? When she turned thirty, he'd swallowed his selfish pride and encouraged her to leave him, to find a man of her own age and marry, have children. But she never would, insisting the years they'd spent together as lovers were happiness enough for a lifetime. But by the end of her life, their relationship had devolved into one of platonic affection.

  He'd never told Rosalind about the provision in the curse, even then deathly afraid she'd sacrifice her life to release him from his purgatory. Hers was that kind of love. Clara's would be, too, he was sure.

  On the other hand, it occurred to him that two factors were very different this time around. In a few days, the curse would be over, regardless of any woman's love or sacrifice. And after that he would be gone for good, so Clara wasting her young life on him was impossible.

  Aye, perhaps … perhaps he might risk it.

  Just the physical. If she agreed.

  She didn't want a relationship. She was worried a relationship would interfere with her plans to win the contest and travel the world. But he wouldn't interfere. He couldn't. And he knew she wanted him. Her body had told him in a thousand different ways. It would be easy to breach her defenses and take what they both wanted.

  Aye, tonight he'd do it.

  Meanwhile, he wanted to clear up the mystery surrounding the arson case so he could leave knowing there would be no unforeseen complications. The whole thing was probably an uncanny coincidence, but the timing still made him uneasy. He wanted to be sure.

  He tied up the Sea-Doo at the Pryce-Simmons dock and made straight for the house. Two young police officers guarded the crime scene from inside their cruiser parked out front. Other than that there was no one about, which was exactly what Tyree had hoped for. He could easily avoid their notice.

  He approached the back of the house, climbed in over the lowest spot on the burned outer wall and found himself standing in the remains of the library. Picking his way over the charred beams and piles of debris, he did a quick visual inventory.

  Someone had gathered the valuables off the still-damp floor and grouped them on tables according to category. Silver items on one, vases and sculptures on another, books spread out on the largest one to dry. He spotted what he sought, a stack of paintings propped against the wall on top of a sideboard.

  He went over and flipped through them, looking for the Thom Bowden paintings listed in the owner's insurance records. There should be three. There were none.

  Damn. Usually he liked being right. Not this time.

  He glanced around, hoping for some reason the paintings had just been separated from the others. No such luck.

  But way back in a corner, almost obscured by a fallen lamp, he saw something that caught his attention. A small book lay sprawled open on a low ottoman, pages akimbo. It looked like a diary. The same kind in which Davey Scraggs wrote.

  Leaping over a sodden couch to reach the corner, he snatched it up. As soon as he saw the handwriting inside, damaged as it was by water and flame, he knew it was one of Davey's.

  Foreboding licked at Tyree's insides. What was going on here?

  Torn, he waffled between taking the diary with him and leaving it for the police. Obviously, whoever had arranged the other things in piles had missed the diary. Tossed into the corner in disarray, it was almost as if it had been thrown there in anger or disgust. But by whom? And why?

  He decided to take the diary for now, sliding it into the roomy upper part of his boot.

  Suddenly, someone behind him yelled, "Hey, what are you doing there?"

  He spun. And nearly fell over.

  Sully!

  Tyree stood rooted to the spot as the man who'd killed him two hundred years ago climbed over the burned-out wall and strode toward him. Oddly, he was dressed as a modern-day firefighter.

  "This is a crime scene and no unauthorized personnel are allowed on the premises!" he said.

  Impossible. Tyree didn't believe it. A thousand emotions burst through him. Disbelief, anger, fear.

  "Sully?" he managed to squeeze through his paralyzed throat.

  Sully came to a stop in front of him, hands on hips and feet spread in the authoritative pose Tyree had seen him strike at least once a day for the last ten years of their lives.

  The firefighter narrowed his eyes. "Do I know you?"

  God's Teeth.

  Chaos flooded Tyree's mind like a tidal wave as he took a deep breath and a closer look at the man. Wearing a denim-blue T-shirt under his yellow firefighter's pants, suspenders and rubber boots, Sully had the same brawny physique, same square jaw and coal-black hair Tyree remembered as though they'd parted just yesterday. And the same piercing look in his brown eyes, which were now regarding him with suspicion.

  Tyree swallowed heavily. "You don't recognize me?"

  "Should I?"

  Only if you're a dead man come to wreak revenge or…

  Or what?

  "I thought we might have worked together. A long time ago. It's Sully, right?"

  The fireman skeptically inspected Tyree. "Captain Andre Sullivan. You a firefighter?"

  Andre? So this wasn't Fouquet? A whisper of reprieve blew through him. "Na-No. I'm in … antiques. The name's Ty-Tyler. James Tyler." The name on his driver's license.

  "Antiques?" Sully asked with a scowl. "Looting is a serious offense, Mr. Tyler. How'd you get past the cops out front?"

  But how could it not be Sully? He was a dead ringer. Tyree raised his hands, too shell-shocked to deal with anything except getting out of there. Fast.

  "I'm not here to loot," he said. "Just checking on the missing paintings. That the ones listed as being stolen are really gone and not hidden somewhere beneath the rubble. For the insurance claim," he added as the fire captain continued to scowl suspiciously. "It's important to be accurate."

  "Did you get permission from Inspector Santee?"

  "My assistant spoke to him," Tyree said, stretching the truth almost to the breaking point, along with his nerves. "Everything seems to be in order. I'll be going, then."

  He slid past Sully, careful not to touch him. He had a terrible feeling if he so much as brushed this doppelganger's hand, something unexpected and unpleasant would happen. Really unpleasant. Like maybe he'd be struck dead on the spot. Truly dead. And never get the chance to say goodbye to Mrs. Yates and Rose Cottage.

  Or to Clara.

  He hurried back to the Sea-Doo, feeling Sully's eyes boring holes through his back the whole way. He sped his steps.

  Because suddenly he realized he wasn't ready to say goodbye. Not to his home, not to his life. And most especially not to Clara.

  A sharp, agonizing certainty razored through him.

  He didn't want to go. He didn't want to leave her.

  He didn't want to die at midnight on Saturday.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  Clara half woke when the mattress dipped and she sensed someone next to her.

  "Tyree?" she whispered, sitting up.

  "Aye,"
he said, and she heard the plunk of boots hitting the hardwood floor.

  "What are you doing?"

  "We need to talk."

  "Now?" It was pitch-dark and the middle of the night. She hadn't seen hide nor hair of him since he'd left the graveyard, but suddenly he couldn't wait to chat?

  "Now."

  She detected the whisper of fabric sliding over flesh. "Since when do you need to undress to talk?"

  "I'm just taking off my T-shirt. It rained earlier and I got caught in it."

  She dimly recalled the patter of raindrops on the roof as she fell asleep. "And your pants are wet, too, I suppose," she said caustically.

  The mattress dipped again and his hands grasped her shoulders. "Clara. I'm not here to seduce you. Listen to me. You aren't going to believe what happened."

  She squelched a slight stab of disappointment. All right, a big stab. Despite everything, she couldn't help herself. She wanted him badly. But she tried to concentrate.

  "Okay, tell me. What happened?"

  "I saw Sully."

  For a moment she just sat there. Stunned.

  Oh, God. Just when she didn't think things could get worse, they did.

  "Sully?" she asked carefully. "As in Sullivan Fouquet?"

  "Aye. Nay. I— It was him. I know it was."

  She let out a sigh. "His ghost, you mean?"

  His fingers dug into her shoulders, then abruptly they were gone. He swore and dropped onto the bed beside her. "I don't know why I thought you'd believe me about Sully. You don't even believe me about me."

  She reached for him in the darkness, finding him stretched out, his hands covering his face. Gently, she removed them and laid a palm to his cheek. "Tyree, I believe you're a lost soul. I do. Now, tell me about Sully."

  The silence stretched and she let her fingers move over his face, exploring the features she could barely see. His angular cheekbone, the windswept creases at the corner of his eye, the well-defined eyebrow. The rough stubble on his jaw scraped against her palm. She sketched her thumb over his lips and he gave it a tentative kiss.

  His hands grasped her shoulders again and started pulling her down, toward him. Only when their lips were almost touching did she resist.

  "I thought you didn't come here to seduce me."

  "I didn't."

  "Then what are you doing?"

  "Changing my mind."

  She smiled and let him steal a small kiss. "What about Sully?"

  "Damn," he said, and pulled her the rest of the way down into his arms. "I saw him, today, Clara. I swear I did. I even spoke to him."

  She settled onto Tyree's bare chest, trying vainly to ignore how good it felt to be there. "Where? What did he say?"

  "It was at the Pryce-Simmons House. He found me there poking through the burned-out library." Tyree rolled and suddenly she was on her back. She could make out the silhouette of his face looking down at her as his body canted over hers. "Clara, he could see me."

  She swallowed. "So can I, Tyree. That doesn't mean anything. Did he recognize you?"

  Tyree shook his head. "I even asked."

  "Then how could it be Sully?"

  "It was him. I know it. His name was Sullivan, Captain Andre Sullivan."

  "Captain?"

  "He's the fire chief at Old Fort Mystic."

  "He's working on the arson case?"

  "Apparently."

  She shifted, but that only brought their bodies into closer contact. His leg was thrown between hers, his broad chest practically blocking the ceiling. Her breath caught when it lowered to within a shadow's width of her breasts.

  "Clara, I'm worried."

  "Me, too," she choked out.

  "What shall I do?"

  She could think of a whole bunch of things, unfortunately none of them relevant to the conversation. "Um…"

  "What if he's here to lengthen the curse? Or change it somehow?"

  His body, half-naked and arousingly masculine, was cool compared to the sleep-warmed sheets beneath her.

  "Maybe he came to free you from it," she softly suggested, sliding her arms around Tyree's neck. Could this be his way of telling her he wanted to move on with his life, rid himself of these paralyzing delusions? Her heart tripped with hope.

  He didn't move a muscle, but she felt a change in the air around them. Like the crackling of electricity.

  "Sweeting," he whispered. "If only that were true." She buried her fingers in his long, black hair, and urged him closer. Knowing it was the last thing she should be doing. Wanting him too much to care. "Oh, Tyree."

  "Don't do this unless you mean it," he murmured, sliding his hand up her thigh, under her sleep shirt.

  "I do," she said, and kissed him. "I want you."

  He groaned and his mouth covered hers, drinking in her words, plying her with the promise of bliss in return. He deepened the kiss, filling her mouth with the taste of him, his tongue plying her with erotic sensation.

  "Are you sure?" he asked, trailing wet kisses across her lips. His hand slid between her thighs, seeking to persuade.

  She trembled. "Yes."

  "Even knowing this is all it can be? Just a few days of mutual pleasure?"

  His brutal honesty brought tears to her eyes. Either that, or the blinding pleasure when he touched and circled her need. She gasped, spread her legs wider and surrendered to the intensity of feeling he invoked.

  "Yes," she affirmed. Even knowing that.

  He lifted and she felt her sleep shirt swept away. Then he closed the gap between them again, his hard chest and thighs pressing her into the softness of the bedding. She moaned in pleasure at the weight of his body on hers.

  He spread her legs with a knee and slid between them. He still wore his jeans, but she could feel his steel-hard length pulsing beneath the denim, barely controlled.

  "I wish it could be more," he whispered.

  "Do you?"

  There was a snap; the nightstand lamp came to life, spreading its dim light across the bed.

  "I want to see you," he said, and raked his eyes over her. "So I can remember."

  "When I'm gone?" she asked, frustratingly disappointed that he hadn't changed, after all. Angry with herself for still wanting him, at any price, if only for a few days.

  She reached down for his waistband.

  "Nay," he said, and brushed her away, then his other hand slid back between her thighs.

  His fingers circled over her again, making her cry out. Or was it the cruel unfairness of the situation, finding love only to be forced to deny it?

  "I'd come with you on the trip if I could. You must believe me," he said, his voice cracking, and she almost did.

  He kissed a path down her throat to her breasts, where he lingered, licking and suckling as his fingers brought her right to the trembling edge of forgetfulness.

  "Do you believe me?" he whispered, replacing fingers with tongue in his persuasion.

  He held her fast, pressing her thighs apart with his powerful hands. With each deliberate stroke of his tongue she writhed and moaned, aching for him to relieve the need for him exploding inside her.

  "Tell me," he demanded softly as she felt the first tinglings spill through her.

  "Yes," she whispered, and reached for him. "Yes," she said again as the shudders claimed her, swallowing the lie with their sweet oblivion.

  And then he was over her, in her, moving with her, and for the moment, it didn't matter if she believed him or not. He was exactly where she needed him and there wasn't enough heartache in the world to make her want him to stop.

  She wrapped her arms and legs around him and held on as he thrust into her over and over. For now, he was hers. She would face tomorrow when it came.

  His climax joined hers with a roar. He clung to her, whispering her name as the tremors subsided for both of them.

  "I'm sorry," he said softly after a few minutes, holding her close.

  She shook her head. She wasn't sure what he was sorry about—making love
, being the way he was or leaving. All she knew was she didn't want to think about any of those things right now. She just wanted to enjoy the few, precious moments they had together.

  He kissed her and she kissed him back, deep and long.

  And prayed for a night without end.

  He kept her under him for hours. He made love to her, catered to her, kissed her and cuddled her. But never let her out from under him. Two nights ago, he had encouraged her boldness and delighted in her initiative. Tonight, he seemed afraid to let her stray from the covering protection of his body, determined to be the one to give, not receive.

  Clara didn't mind. She basked in his attentions, reveled in the sensation of his body in hers, drowned in the stunning pleasures he gave her. And for a little while, she let her dream pirate sweep her away from the real world to one of just Tyree and Clara. No past, no future. Only now.

  It was wonderful.

  And when she finally slept, she dreamed of him. He captured her and spirited her away on the Sea Sprite, sailing over the endless oceans, never to return to dry land.

  Dawn came and she awoke to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in his pirate clothes, his bucket-top boots in a pile on the floor.

  "Leaving?" she asked, hurt blooming that he would desert her so soon. Had regret come with the dawning light?

  "Nay, just taking off—" He halted. "I couldn't sleep. Didn't want to wake you."

  She sat up, clutching the coverlet to her breasts. "Suffering from insomnia or a guilty conscience?"

  "Both."

  She sighed. "Well, do me a favor and don't." She had no regrets about what had happened, but couldn't deal with it if already he was trying to backpedal. "What's done is done."

  He regarded her for a moment, then crawled back onto the mattress, grabbed the coverlet and yanked. She gasped.

  Suddenly she was under him again, his blue-black eyes gazing down at her.

  "Sweeting, who said anything about being done?"

  * * *

  "You're mine now," Tyree whispered in her ear. "Mine."

  Clara kept silent and still. Something had changed. Something about Tyree. The way he spoke. The way his muscles rippled under his skin. Something was different.