Chaste Kiss (3 page)

Once she managed to find a comfortable position in bed, Constance placed the breakfast tray over her lap.

"Did you sleep all right?” the older woman asked.

"Wonderful. I don't think I've slept that well in months.” Isabel paused. “Heck, years. There's something about this house, this room, that seems to make me feel, oh, I don't know. Safe."

Constance glanced warily around once more. “You didn't have any weird dreams or nightmares or anything?"

"Now that you mention it, I did dream about the truck that ran me off the road, but then it faded away into a very pleasant dream."

Isabel smiled, remembering her discussion with her imaginary childhood friend. Those were some pretty serious painkillers. What a shame they couldn't make William real. He would be just what the doctor ordered, she thought with a shameful grin.

Constance shuddered, still glancing at the shadows as if they were alive. “I've never gotten anything but the creeps from this room."

"Oh, I love this room. I used to play in here when I was a little girl.” She took a swallow of coffee, savoring its richness along with the warmth of her memories. “I remember bouncing on this very bed. But don't tell Uncle Jerome. He'd have a fit."

Constance laughed. “I won't. Now I'd better get back downstairs before your uncle tries to fix his own breakfast. Lord help me if he's messed up my kitchen again.” Mumbling to herself, she hurried out of the room.

Isabel shook her head and went back to her meal. After savoring every bite and setting aside the tray, she let her mind drift back to her dream. Oh, if only William was a real live man—but then no man could ever be that handsome.

Her head snapped up and her brow furrowed painfully. How unattainable could she get—wanting a man that didn't exist? No wonder she had trouble finding that special someone. All these years she'd subconsciously compared every male prospect with William. A gorgeous, imaginary man who thought her beautiful, captivating, and naturally wanted the same sort of lifestyle she did.

"I am pathetic,” she mumbled, dropping her head back to the pillow. But her thoughts continued to dwell on him, ignoring the commonsense God gave her.

Isabel remembered everything about her imaginary friend. He had the deepest blue eyes she'd ever seen, an amazing set of shoulders, and hair as black as midnight.

Smiling broadly, ignoring the pull of bandages against her skin, she imagined slipping the leather tie from his hair, letting the raven-colored locks fall forward, brushing against his shoulders.

"Mmm, heaven,” she whispered, and settled deeper into the bed letting her mind wonder down a dangerous, yet deliciously sinful, path. Her experience may be limited, but not her imagination.

"I see that busybody brought you breakfast,” her uncle said, as he strolled into her room.

Embarrassed at being caught in the beginnings of a rather titillating daydream, she concentrated on cooling her heated cheeks. “Yes she did, and it was wonderful."

"Well, as long as you're happy and comfortable.” Jerome moved the tray off the bed and onto the nightstand.

She quickly switched her thoughts from a certain imaginary Renaissance man to something she'd been thinking about since she woke up in the hospital several days before. “Uncle Jerome, do you still get involved in business? I mean, do you invest in businesses like you used to?"

"I still have a few in my portfolio, but haven't planned on adding any new ones. Why do you ask?” He sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hand in his.

"Well, I have this friend and—” She broke off at the pointed look on her uncle's face. “Okay, not a friend. Me. I was wondering if you'd be interested in investing in an antique shop. I know you don't want to be really involved, that you prefer to be left alone to your studies, but I thought maybe a silent partner. You know the one with the money?"

Sadly, Isabel was broke, or she wouldn't ask her uncle. Her parents had left her with nothing but bills when they died, and as it was, she barely made ends meet working for Mrs. Hastings. But having a near brush with death tended to put things into perspective, and she didn't want to waste another minute of her life. She had a dream and was determined to do whatever necessary to make that dream a reality.

Jerome chortled. “I'll make a deal with you. You get well, and we'll discuss it."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to discuss it now. It's not like I have any plans for the next few weeks, and I think I'll go crazy if I just sleep and eat all the time.” Although she could do with a few more dreams about William, imaginary or not.

"All right. You figure out what you want, and we'll do something about it when you're well. I'm assuming you want your shop in High Point."

"Actually, no. I've decided that I want my shop here, in Brantley. The tourism is pretty good here, and the local ski resorts and golf complexes have the kind of clientele who can afford antiques. Of course, I'd do interior decorating as well. That's where the real money would be and most of the fun. What do you think?"

"I think it sounds very plausible. Would you live here, or do you insist on getting a place of your own?” He didn't bother to hide his scowl.

"I'd love to live here. In this room, but I couldn't ask it of you. I'd just be in the way."

His grim expression brightened. “Don't be ridiculous. This is your home. Consider it done. As soon as you're well, we'll begin the hunt for your new shop."

She eyed her uncle suspiciously. “That was too easy. Why do I get the feeling there's a catch?"

"There's no catch, sweetheart. You have an exceptional eye for antiques and a good business head on your shoulders.” He paused and stroked his moustache. “And I want you here where I can keep an eye on you."

"Ah, the truth comes out. You don't think I can take care of myself."

"That's where you're wrong. I know you can take care of yourself. I just don't like all this mess that's been going on. And anyway, I rather enjoy your company."

"Uncle Jerome, you are a pushover.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, disguising her grimace at the sharp stab of pain in her side with a smile.

"Don't let Constance hear you say that."

"Oh, Uncle. Why do you insist on teasing her? It's obvious you like her and she likes you.” She grinned. They were meant for each other. Why didn't they see that?

"Like her? Are you daft? That woman drives me insane. She interrupts my studies, pesters me about my eating habits, and insists on nagging me to death about the hours I keep."

"Uh-huh. So, you're saying that if she left today, you wouldn't miss her. You'd actually be happy about it."

"Leave? Did she say she was leaving?"

His grim frown prodded her to drive the point home. “No. But if she did, you wouldn't miss her one bit. Right?"

He cleared his throat. “Right."

She watched him ponder the possibilities before he abruptly picked up her tray. “I imagine you'll be wanting some legal pads and such to get started on your plans?"

Perhaps she should've kept her mouth closed. Her uncle seemed almost depressed with worry. When would she learn to keep her nose out of other people's business?

"Um, legal pads, right,” she said. “Those would be nice, but actually, I was wondering if you happened to have brought my laptop home.” One of the few luxuries she'd allowed herself.

"Yes I did, but I hid it. I didn't want you working, but I see that's a lost cause now.” He expelled an exaggerated sigh. “Constance or I will bring it to you. But don't over do it, or I'll pull the plug. Understand?"

"Absolutely."

Jerome left to retrieve her laptop, leaving Isabel with a twinge of regret for upsetting him. But the feeling quickly faded. Excitement engulfed her with thoughts of her very own shop, and she could hardly sit still. She wanted to get up and run around the room, but had to settle for wiggling her toes and smiling like the proverbial cat that swallowed the canary instead.

It was finally going to happen. A quaint little store all her own in her favorite place in the whole wide world. Why had she never considered it before?

Oh, she'd always wanted her own business, but she never thought about opening one in Brantley. Her boss had taught her a great deal about running an antique shop, and with Isabel's degree in interior design and a minor in business, she felt certain she could make a go of it.

A smile spread across her face. She felt complete in a way she hadn't experienced since she was a child. Not since she stayed with her uncle at Derrington Manor while her parents toured abroad. Oh, what a glorious feeling.

Now, if only she could find the man to go with it. She shook her head as William's visage stole back into her thoughts. She needed to concentrate on her shop, not sexy, imaginary men.

Chapter Two

William had listened to their conversation and nearly yelled for glee. His poppet was going to stay. Perhaps someday she would remember. Perhaps then they could be friends as they once were. Watching her smile and fidget in the bed, he could tell she was about to burst with joy. Oh, how he wanted to share in it with her.

The wench with silver hair appeared with an odd looking black case and placed it on the bed. Isabel opened the case and pulled out a black box and several black cords. After attaching them to the back of the box, she handed the ends to Constance who then shoved them into a pair of holes in the wall.

The outlet. He remembered now. The electricity came from there, but what was this odd looking box on Isabel's lap? He had seen many fascinating things in all his years of haunting and was fairly used to electric lights, television, cars, and telephones, but this was something new.

"Thanks, Constance. You're a saint.” The silver haired woman replied with a wave and a broad smile, then left.

"Now,” Isabel said to herself as she lifted the lid. “To send some e-mail and do a little digging on the best spot for my new shop. I bet Mrs. Hastings has a little surplus she wouldn't mind sending my way. Not to mention I need to tell her I'm not coming back."

Invisibly standing beside her, he watched with fascination as colors and images appeared on the lid of the box. A television? No, it was different somehow. She made things change. She sent letters to people who responded within moments, read a newspaper, and even made several purchases all by pressing buttons and moving a tiny arrow across the pictures.

The thought occurred to him that Jerome should have one of these boxes. It seemed very useful to his poppet, and a great deal more interesting than Jerome's books.

William spent a great deal of time with the old scholar, although the gentleman was never aware of his presence. His incessant study of history proved to be quite useful. William learned a great deal about the changes in the world since his death, and over the years had grown fond of the gentleman.

He was an unusual sort, but a kind man with strong ideals. Most of all, Jerome loved Isabel. It was the only thing that kept William from scaring the wits out of him for fun.

Isabel lifted her head and rubbed her neck. Fatigue marred her delicate features. Closing the box, she laid it aside and snuggled down in the bed. Good. She would rest now. It was what she needed to get well.

A while later, her uncle returned with her lunch and gently woke her from her slumber. This sorely displeased William, but he decided she needed food as much as she needed sleep.

"How's your project coming along?” Jerome glanced at several tablets of paper covered with her writings. “I see you've been hard at work,” he said with a glint of humor in his eyes.

"I know. I overdid it for the first day, but I was so excited.” Isabel dug heartily into her lunch.

"Here, I'll put your laptop over here on the desk for now. You've done enough for one day."

She mumbled a reply as she propped herself up against the headboard. They talked a little about her work while she ate, and agreed to investigate some of the stores available for lease she had found once she fully recovered.

Isabel had no qualms about that. She wanted to be in tip-top shape when it was time to start the legwork. Her shop had to be a success, which meant every step had to be taken carefully and precisely.

"Take another nap, and we'll talk about this business venture some more over dinner,” her uncle said.

He left and she closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. At first she thought it was the excitement about her new future slowly taking shape, but as she lay there, she realized it was something quite different.

She felt as if she weren't alone, that someone was watching her. But not in a threatening way, not like the unsettling feeling she got in High Point. This was different. She remembered experiencing the odd sensation during the night and off and on throughout the morning. As though she were being guarded—protected.

Idly shaking her head, Isabel brushed the strange thoughts aside and ventured a trip to the bathroom. After suffering the pains of tending to her needs, she started back across the room then paused, glancing at the window. She could tell the sun was shining from the glow surrounding the edges of the drapes and yearned to see the gardens bathed in sunshine. The heavy material would be difficult to open, but well worth the view.

Carefully she crossed the wide room in a million tiny steps. Grimacing, her brow beaded with sweat, she lifted her arms to open the curtains. Biting back the pain, determined to achieve this one simple task, she pulled with all her pathetic strength, but the curtains wouldn't budge. Isabel considered giving up when slowly they began to part. If she didn't know better she would swear someone had helped her.

She swiped the sweat from her upper lip with the back of her hand and crawled back in bed to enjoy the view. Ignoring her aches and pains from the effort, she gazed out the large window and envisioned walking in the garden before finally falling asleep.

Once again, she dreamed of William and found her heart aching for him more and more as though he were a real man, a real lover. She could almost feel his warm breath brushing her cheek as desire burned brightly in his deep blue eyes. The feel of his hands, the anticipation of him stroking her skin.