by Jill Jones
If she’d had lingering doubts about buying Dewhurst Manor, they melted away with each lap. Swimming was her peace, her meditation, and wherever she lived, she knew she would have a pool. This was divine, she thought, keeping her eyes open as she did the backstroke down the center lane, watching the lightning flicker in the skies high above the thick, glassed-in roof. More than ever, the old country manor felt like home.
But she hadn’t bought Dewhurst as a home, she reminded herself, a momentary frown creasing her brow. It was supposed to be an investment, and she was still at a loss as to what to do with it that would be profitable.
Outside of Drew Hawthorne, she had no one to ask for advice, and she wasn’t about to give that nincompoop any more information about her private affairs than possible. Nor was she sure she would listen if somebody else, no matter who or how well-meaning, tried to advise her about what to do with the old manor. This was something she had to work out on her own. Well, she sighed, turning for a lap of the sidestroke, maybe something would come to her.
For the time being, she needed to finish her business with the ghost, and get rid of it, as well as Drew Hawthorne and Jeremy Ryder. Sort of a major housecleaning. Hawthorne was an easy matter. She’d give him the old heave-ho in the morning, with the help of the local constable if necessary. He had absolutely no right to be there.
With Jeremy, it wasn’t so easy. He had a contract with the bank.
As she swam, Alison focused her thoughts on Jeremy Ryder. Had his madcap search through the library been successful? Had he found the memoirs? No, she decided, reaching the end of the pool and pushing off for another lap, he must not have uncovered them yet, for she fully expected him to make a hasty exit once he had the treasure in hand. He was probably out there now, snooping around right under her nose, trying to find—and steal—what rightfully belonged to…to whom? The ghost? The estate of Julia Chillingcote? Herself? None of the above? Certainly not to Jeremy Ryder, but she had no doubt that if he came across them, possession would be nine-tenths of the law as far as he was concerned.
Jeremy Ryder seemed to be everything Alison had always disliked in the men who had professed to care for her, when all they cared about was her riches. He was a user, of that she was certain. He was using Dewhurst Manor and Lady Julia’s estate and Coutt’s Bank to make money off the sale of the treasures that had accumulated over centuries in the old manor house. He seemed to have no qualms whatsoever about disposing of these antiquities for a tidy gain. He was using Alison, too, knowing that his residency here depended upon remaining in her good graces.
And yet, she didn’t completely distrust him, although she didn’t understand exactly why. Was it because she was infatuated with him? She couldn’t deny she was physically attracted to him. Her self-control vanished like a ghost when she was in his presence. But that wasn’t totally it, she knew. Rather, her feelings for him had something to do with the sweater he’d put around her in the dead of night when he’d felt her chilled skin. The one-on-one discussion in the library, when he’d treated her as if she was an intelligent human being with a point of view to be considered. The way he’d stepped between Drew Hawthorne and her tonight, and put his arm around her, backing her up. It was hard to distrust a man who treated you with respect, like an equal.
Alison hadn’t met many men like that before.
And yet, it could all be an act. It had certainly seemed that way from his abrupt departure last night. The kisses, the flowers, everything, could all be part of his deliberate design to use her to get at the memoirs. She reached the shallow end and stood up, her muscles twitching slightly from the unaccustomed exercise.
“I declare you have fallen in love with him.” The voice echoed hollowly in the cavernous room. Startled, Alison jerked her head around, but saw no one.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, watching a mist gather at the edge of the pool. “Have you come for a swim?”
“Ghosts do not swim,” it informed her emphatically. “No, I came to tell you something important.”
“You remember where you hid the memoirs?” Alison asked hopefully.
The ghost, who now hovered just above the wet deck, sighed pensively. “No, not exactly. I thought perchance they were in the library, but I looked and did not find them.
“You!” Alison hadn’t considered that the destruction could be the work of her little ghost. “You’re the one who threw all the books around. How could you do such a thing?”
It shrugged, undaunted by Alison’s wrath. “It is the only way I could summon sufficient energy for the search. Someone had to do something,” it added cynically.
“And just what do you mean by that?”
“My dear, you have been here three days now, and I have seen you make no effort to find the memoirs,” the ghost chided. “It seems to me you are rather more interested in kissing the enemy.”
“Why, you little…”
The image of the ghost melted into the thick, warm air that surrounded the pool, but Alison knew its presence was still there. “Where are you?” she demanded. “Show yourself. What important thing did you come here to tell me?”
But the only reply was distant laughter. Then, “He is in love with you.”
“Who is?”
“Mr. Ryder.”
“He is not.”
“He is. And you are in love with him in return.”
“I am not.”
“Then why have you lost interest in the search?” the ghost demanded.
“I haven’t,” Alison argued, sinking back into the water, trying to calm herself, to keep her thoughts straight. She was surprised at the impact the ghost’s words had on her. In love? As the ghost had pointed out, she’d only been here three days. How could she be in love? “It would help matters if you’d try a little harder to remember what you did with the memoirs,” she retorted, avoiding any mention of love. “It’s not my job to find them, if you’ll recall. I’m just your human vehicle to get them to the reading public, remember?”
A violent wind whipped suddenly around the room, although no windows were open. “You vowed you would help me,” the ghost whined, winding down somewhat. “I am depending on you.”
Alison was disgusted at the ghost’s continued petulance. “Maybe you shouldn’t,” she said, deliberately baiting it. She’d grown tired of its impetuous ways, and she wanted it to go away. “Maybe you should show yourself to Jeremy Ryder and lead him to your precious memoirs, and see where that gets you.”
As if on cue, the double door to the pool annex swung open, and Jeremy stepped inside.
“Isn’t it dangerous to swim alone?” he asked, frowning at Alison.
She started to point out that she wasn’t alone, but thought better of it. “I’m a good swimmer,” she replied instead. She saw the ghost taking a long, dreamy-eyed look at Jeremy and wondered just who had fallen in love with whom. Turning her back to Jeremy, Alison goaded the ghost. “Go ahead,” she whispered. “Now’s your chance. Show yourself to him, get him in on your little caper,” she dared, hoping to heckle it into behaving more responsibly. But to her horror, the ghost did as she directed.
The mist swirled, turned to a golden hue, and headed straight for Jeremy, who from the look on his face, clearly saw it coming at him. “What the hell!” he exclaimed just before the spectral energy hit him, knocking him sideways and right into the pool. He hit the water hard, sending a spray almost to the ceiling, while ghostly laughter rang among the metal rafters.
Before he could recover from the shock, Jeremy stood up, soaked, and watched with chlorine-glazed eyes a sound and light show like he’d never witnessed in his life. Hollywood couldn’t have staged a better one. Sparks flew around the room like small, golden comets, followed by a woman’s laughter. Then a fierce wind blew across the water, strong enough to create waves on the normally serene pool. It was a cold wind, a biting wind. Then the wind and the light seemed to bundle into one essence, a whirling dervish of energy that swept toward him, barel
y missing the top of his head as it passed over him. Another shrill laugh.
And then, as he watched transfixed, the room grew peaceful, and the sound and lights calmed and melted into a figure he recognized instantly, an unclothed figure, like a statue, of an alluring and beautiful young woman. “You!” he murmured in disbelief. He felt the familiar sexual stirring this particular dream-creature had been evoking within him for the past few weeks, and he took a step backward. He turned to Alison, almost expecting her to have vanished, to have somehow become the woman of his erotic dreams, but she stood breast-deep in the water, her eyes reflecting fascination, but not surprise.
“What is going on here?” he managed, shaking the water from his hair and taking a step toward her.
“Can’t you guess?” Alison asked with an annoying grin on her face.
“I have no idea how you do this kind of thing,” he snarled, “but I do not find it funny in the least.”
“I can assure you, I had nothing to do with pushing you in the pool,” Alison said. “That was the doing of the resident ghost you so fervently don’t believe in.”
“Ghost!” Jeremy turned to stare at the specter, which had used up much of its energy and was fading in and out. “You’re right. I don’t believe in ghosts. But I’ll be damned…”
“Help me,” the weakening voice crooned. “Help me. Find the memoirs. Let the world know the truth…” And then the image faded into nothingness, leaving only the sound of the gentle lapping of the pool water against the cement walls.
When she, or it, had disappeared, Jeremy wasn’t certain if he’d witnessed anything at all. Maybe his desire for Alison Cunningham was leading him into dangerous erotic hallucinations such as the one he’d just experienced.
From the dim light of the Great Hall, he’d watched her come back downstairs and head toward the pool, clad only in a tee-shirt over what he assumed was a bathing suit. A craving had shot through him, a painful need he deplored and tried unsuccessfully to deny. He’d gone back to his room, then come out again. He’d walked outside along the semi-protected terrace, oblivious to the storm. But nothing would assuage the fire in his belly for the woman, and he’d at last succumbed and followed her into the large, brick structure that housed the swimming pool.
After that, he quite literally did not know what had hit him.
The ghost had completely disappeared now, and Jeremy shivered in the clammy shirt which clung like glue to his body. He stripped it off and sunk neck-deep into the water, which was warmer against his skin than the air. Only then did he turn again to Alison. He let out a deep breath. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d just witnessed, if anything, but he was sure of one thing—Alison Cunningham knew about the missing memoirs.
He waded over to her and took her wrist, trying to ignore the fact that in her brief bikini, she was next to naked against him. “What kind of game are you playing, Alison?”
He saw fright glimmer for one moment in her eyes, only to be replaced by pure anger. “Game? You think that this is a game?” She wrenched her arm free and swam away from him. “Maybe it seems like a game to you, Mr. Ryder, but that ghost is very real, and she’s…it’s…tormenting me to find…certain valuable papers, which I believe you also know about. No, I can assure you, this is no game.”
Jeremy stared at Alison for a long moment, knowing even without believing it fully that she was telling the truth. This was no parlor trick. He had peered through the glass panes in the door to the pool area and had seen her talking and gesturing in another of the inexplicable one-sided conversations he’d witnessed over the past few days. But now, instead of thinking she was crazy, he knew who she’d been talking to.
The ghost of Lady Caroline Lamb.
“The memoirs,” he said, grasping to make sense of the totally irrational situation. “They’re Byron’s, aren’t they? That’s why you’re at Dewhurst Manor.” He spoke as if he didn’t expect, or need, an answer.
“That makes two of us, I suspect.”
Jeremy’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think that?”
“I saw the letter that dropped out of one of your books when I was trying to move you out of my room,” she confessed. “Where did you get that? Is it for real?”
Jeremy watched Alison swim gracefully, doing the breast-stroke as she talked. She seemed completely at ease in the water, like a sprite, unlike the sometimes insecure, hesitant creature he’d witnessed her to be on dry land. “What difference does it make?” he growled, wishing she didn’t have such an erotic effect on him. His soggy jeans were growing increasingly uncomfortable. “I haven’t been able to find anything that even remotely resembles any memoirs around here, Byron’s or anyone else’s.”’
“But if that letter is authentic, at least I know she…it…the ghost…is telling the truth. I had begun to think perhaps I had lost my mind. I don’t normally go around talking to ghosts, you know. Or undertake a project like this search just because a ghost asks me to.”
Jeremy wasn’t convinced that Alison hadn’t lost her mind. Even now, having seen the ghost first-hand, he thought it incredible that anyone would believe such a ghostly claim enough to move halfway around the world and buy a place like Dewhurst.
“Why should you have to search for them? Doesn’t the ghost know where they are?”
“It forgot.”
“Forgot? How could she…it…forget something like that?” The whole thing was getting crazier and crazier.
“How can a ghost do anything?” Alison replied wearily. “I have given up asking those kinds of questions. All I know is that poor woman needs some peace. And so do I. And the only thing that will accomplish both of those ends is to find the damned memoirs and bring them to the public awareness. She says they will ‘vindicate her tarnished reputation.’”
“Byron’s memoirs,” Jeremy mused absently, his concentration focused mostly on the way Alison’s breasts bobbed out of the water with each stroke. “They were supposedly burned, you know. Somebody said it was one of the greatest disasters that English literature ever sustained. But in Caroline’s letter, she says they burned her copy of the memoirs. That she’d become good at forging his handwriting, and when she had the chance, she substituted her copy for the real thing. Is that what the ghost told you?”
“Exactly.”
Jeremy’s words were about the memoirs, but his body was having another kind of conversation altogether as he watched Alison’s lithe figure cut through the water, her rounded bottom just breaking the surface. At last he could stand it no longer. He slipped out of his wet jeans, taking care that his boxers remained securely in place. He watched her reaction when he threw the wet pants onto the concrete. Her eyes widened. “What are you doing?”
“Getting comfortable.” Their eyes locked as he began swimming toward her, and he saw an expression on her face he hadn’t seen before, as if she actually wanted him to pursue her. He strained to keep the subject neutral, not to think about what he’d do if he caught up with her. “Do you have any idea how valuable such a find would be?”
The enchanting invitation left her eyes abruptly, and Alison stopped swimming, putting her feet on the pool floor. “Leave it to you to think about the money.”
His momentum brought him to within inches of her face. “What’s wrong with that?” he said, his feet also touching bottom.
“What about the fact that the ghost of Lady Caroline Lamb has waited almost two centuries to salvage her reputation? Doesn’t honor count for anything?”
She had her back against the side of the pool, and Jeremy could not resist the temptation. He grinned wickedly. “You’ve never accused me of having any honor. Somehow, you seem to have me pegged for a scoundrel and a thief, although why you should believe either is beyond me.” He put one arm on either side of her, hands gripping the side of the pool, blocking any chance for her escape. “However, if I’m to be accused of such crimes, I think I ought to commit them.” He saw her blink those large, golden eyes twice as he brought h
is lips to hers. “And I think,” he murmured, “I’ll start by stealing a kiss.”
Chapter Nineteen
Not again! Alison had sworn she would not let herself fall under Jeremy’s spell again, but here she was, her insides turning to butter as his lips met hers. Her back was, quite literally, to the wall. She had no place to run, no place to hide.
And no desire to do either.
Instead, she closed her eyes and felt the strength in his arms as he drew her against him. She allowed herself to experience those emotions she had hungered for, the feelings of being protected, sheltered, wanted. Those, and the other strange, new sensations he had awakened in her that had no names.
When he’d taken off his wet shirt, it had required all of her concentration just to keep her thoughts straight. The ghost had been right about one thing…he was more of a man than most. Standing waist-deep in the pool, his bare shoulders—broad and square—and his muscular chest and arms were reflected in the water, doubling the pleasurable image before her eyes. His hair was thick and dark, his eyes black as the night sky overhead, his face surpassing handsome.
And Alison had wanted him with a primal urge she had never before experienced. In spite of her intentions not to become involved with him, a fire had begun to burn somewhere deep within. Maybe the ghost was right. Maybe she had fallen in love.
And when he touched her, it set her skin afire. She’d pulled away and started to swim, hoping to squelch those mysterious, deep longings, and she had been relieved that he seemed satisfied just to talk about the ghost and the memoirs. Safe, distant topics.
And then, he’d removed his jeans. He’d said he was “getting comfortable.” Was that all he had on his mind? And what did he have on his body…anything? Her heart had begun to pound, for she knew if he made any overtures toward her, she would be easy prey.
