Double Dating with the Dead (10 page)

“Mom…”

She was gone before he could reprimand her again. He loved his mother, but sometimes she made him want to stick his head into a sink full of water and drown himself.

A few minutes passed, and Selena returned to the kitchen. “I really liked your mother.”

“She's gullible.”

“She's curious. There's a difference. Besides, my mother doesn't charge anything for her services.”

“Probably because she doesn't talk to the dead or read tea leaves.”

“You're right, she doesn't.”

That took him back, and he couldn't think of anything to say. Was Selena tired of staying at the hotel and ready to throw in the towel?

“You're admitting your mother is a fake.”

She grimaced. “I don't think I'd put it quite like that. Mom thinks of herself as a psychic, but no, she doesn't talk to the dead. Her heart's in the right place, though.”

Finally, she admitted this was all a hoax. That ghosts didn't exist.

Suddenly, throwing Selena to the wolves didn't feel quite as good as it had when he'd first come to the hotel.

He drew in a deep breath, knowing what he was about to say would probably cost him his next book deal, but how could he completely destroy her? Maybe she wasn't one of the actual shysters he'd run up against in the past. She was just…misinformed.

“I think if you walk away quietly, it will cause you the least amount of embarrassment. I'll tell my agent and publicist not to make a big deal out of you admitting there are no such things as ghosts.”

“How nice of you and to what do I owe this act of kindness?”

Trent had the strangest feeling that she wasn't the least bit grateful. He couldn't quite put his finger on what was keying him to that fact.

Maybe it was the way she'd stiffened her spine, crossed her arms in front of her and raised a sardonic eyebrow in his direction. He'd give her the benefit of the doubt. She might just be feeling a little awkward.

“I think we've gotten to know each other, and I don't believe you would deliberately bilk the public. You just don't know any better.”

Now what had he said? She looked ready to spit fire.

“When I said my mother would like to be a psychic, I spoke the truth. She's fascinated by the paranormal, but she doesn't have the gift. Not everyone does.”

He had a feeling he wasn't going to like what she was about to say.

“I
do
have that gift.”

Damn, he'd known she was going to say something like that.

She marched over to him, pointing her finger at his chest. “When our two weeks are up, I'll have made a believer out of you, too.” She narrowed her eyes. “And the next time you eat the last chocolate doughnut, your ass is mine. Got it? You have no idea what a woman without chocolate will do.”

He reached into the grocery sack and brought out a box of chocolate doughnuts, handing them to her. “Replacements.” Her anger fizzled right in front of him.

“Oh.” She took the box. “Thanks. But that still doesn't let you off the hook.” She strode to the table and set them down, then seemed to think about what she was doing and scooped up the box and marched out of the kitchen.

“Well, hell,” he muttered. He reached into the sack and brought out the extra box of doughnuts. He'd already guessed she wouldn't share. His eyes narrowed. No, she'd been way too territorial about that last box. She'd offered him one, but she damn sure hadn't liked it when he'd eaten the last doughnut.

His mother would have practically shoved it down his throat. Most women were like that. They liked to make sure a man was taken care of. Not Selena. No, she was feisty, mean-mouthed…and sexy as hell.

He smiled. He'd have to think of a new way he could annoy her. He bit into the doughnut and chewed. It shouldn't be too hard coming up with something.

H
ow could one man aggravate her so much? Selena wanted to have sex with him one minute and kill him the next.

First he said he was
willing
to quietly ruin her career—as if she'd ever let that happen. Not in this lifetime. And if it ever did, she would so haunt him after she croaked. Then, when she was ready to kill him, he gave her chocolate glazed doughnuts.

He remembered.

Okay, it was only yesterday, but it was a well-known fact that men didn't have brain storage capabilities for things such as remembering what a woman liked. No floppy disk to put everything on. Not that she could complain a bit about his hard drive, though. He had a very nice hard drive.

Except Trent had fooled her and remembered she liked chocolate glazed doughnuts. Damn, he'd given her the warm fuzzies. That wasn't good.

Exercise. That was what she needed. Then she would eat a couple of the doughnuts guilt free, and she wouldn't think about the fact Trent had remembered the exact kind she liked.

He was the enemy.

He was out to destroy her.

Take a career she loved and rip it away from her.

Her foe.

Her opponent in a war he'd started, but she would finish!

But his mother was nice. And she owned an antique store. Anyone who surrounded herself with the past every day and loved her work that much was someone Selena could relate to.

It didn't hurt that she was interested in the paranormal. A closet believer. Trent had unknowingly forced his mother to hide her fascination with the supernatural. She'd have to change his mind. She planned on changing his mind.

She donned her jogging shorts, a loose T-shirt and running shoes, then left her room and trotted down the stairs. She didn't see Trent as she went out the front door. Maybe that was for the best. She was still ticked at him.

Stretching relaxed her as she let go of any remaining bad vibes. She stood on the porch and bent at the waist, legs spread apart, bouncing her upper torso and reaching forward—until she heard a distinctive cough behind her. She leaned down a bit more and looked between her legs. Even an upside-down Trent looked pretty damned sexy.

She frowned when she realized where her thoughts had strayed…again. She straightened and faced him. “I was stretching.”

“I could see.”

His gaze slowly roamed over her, causing a definite heat inside her.

“You stretch very well.”

“Funny.”

But she couldn't stop the little thrill of pleasure that shot through her. He was flirting, and it felt kind of nice, even if it was a ploy on his part to make her drop her defenses. He probably hoped she'd say something revealing. Not that she had any idea what she could say that would prove she was a fraud since she wasn't a fraud.

Now she was confusing herself. He had a way of making her feel confused.

What he was wearing didn't help her stay focused, either. He'd traded in his jeans for shorts. He had nice legs: tanned, muscled. Very buff.

Her mouth watered.

Duh! Enemy!

He stretched his leg in front of him, then brought it in and repeated the stretch with the other leg. Umm, nice squats and lunges. But then, he'd lunged pretty good in her dreams, too.

She had to wonder if it was okay to lust after the enemy if you didn't actually act upon the desire. Sex dreams didn't really count. They were a…bonus, sort of.

“I take it you're going jogging,” he asked in the middle of another delicious stretch that raised his T-shirt an inch or so above the waistband of his shorts.

Breathing: The act of respiration. To keep one alive.

She inhaled a ragged breath and attempted to pretend she wasn't reaching her target heart rate without even starting her run. Not easy when she was practically drooling over Trent. Damn, he'd think she had rabies or something equally disgusting.

“Jogging?” he repeated.

He's talking to you, you idiot
. “Um, yes. Jogging.” Damn it, she'd wanted to clear her mind. Get away from him for a while.

“Mind if I go with you?”

“It's a free country.” She tried for nonchalance as she trotted down the steps and toward the street. He was beside her, but she refused to look at him.

The park wasn't far and had a great running trail. She breathed in, inhaling the crisp morning air—and Gio. Okay, stop breathing. Well, not exactly stop breathing, but maybe she shouldn't breathe quite so deeply. Maybe she should just focus. But as hard as she tried to block out Trent, the easier it was to let him invade her space.

They didn't speak, but he kept up with her. He was in good shape. Not that she set a grueling pace, but after three miles he was still beside her and he wasn't breathing hard. She, on the other hand, felt as if she'd run twice that distance. Normally, she would be a little tired, but exhilarated.

She came out of the park and slowed to a walk.

“If you want to continue, go for it. Three miles is my limit.”

“And your reasoning is?” He slowed to her pace.

She relaxed just a little. “I want to do just enough to get my heart pumping, to feel alive and to offset the chocolate doughnuts I plan to eat when I get back to the hotel.”

He laughed. Different from the way he'd laughed since she'd been around him. There wasn't an ounce of sarcasm in it. In fact, she liked the rich warmth of the sound. It sent shivers over her. Trent wouldn't be such a bad guy if it weren't for his hardheaded convictions. Why did he have to think that anyone who believed in the paranormal was out to rip off the public?

“What are you thinking?”

Could he tell she was thinking about him and his beliefs? No, of course not. She was the psychic, not him. But why shouldn't she tell him what she thought?

She glanced in his direction. His hair was damp, mussed from the run. Damn, it only made him look more attractive, more disreputable. She quickly looked away. Temptation wasn't a good thing.

“I was thinking how wrong you are,” she told him as she went up the steps of the hotel.

“About the books I write?”

“Yeah.” She opened the door and went inside, going toward the kitchen. When she reached the refrigerator, she got out a bottle of water, started to close the door, but instead, handed it to Trent, then reached for another.

She drank a third of her water before heading back to the front porch. He followed. As she stepped outside, a light breeze fanned her heated skin. Nice.

“And why should I believe what you're doing is right?” he asked. “Am I supposed to take your word for it?”

“Sometimes the first step is an act of faith,” she told him as she set her water down and stretched her arms above her head. For just a second she closed her eyes and let the world move forward without her.

“But your mother believes and she doesn't see ghosts.”

“Mom tries too hard. She wants to see a spirit around every corner. She believes what she thinks should be there.” She'd tried to teach her mother meditation, but it hadn't worked. Her mother was always thinking of what she needed to do or what she wanted to do. She probably had a million mental sticky notes.

“Tell me about your visions,” he prodded.

She chuckled, looking in his direction. He was humoring her again. “They're not visions. They're people who for one reason or another are earthbound.”

“Why don't you tell them about the white light?” He sat down in the rocker.

Since he seemed at least a little interested, she made herself comfortable on the rail, leaning against the post. “It's not that easy. Some haven't finished what they're supposed to do, some are afraid to cross and some just plain don't want to.”

“And you know this how?”

“It's actually my own theory, mixed with a little fact, that I've put together over the years.” She frowned. “Why are you so interested all of a sudden?”

He opened his hands. “I'm interested.”

“In something you don't believe?”

“But then, aren't you trying to convince me otherwise?”

He had a point.

“When did you first start seeing ghosts?” He leaned back in his chair, looking quite comfortable.

Get out the couch. Therapy was about to start.

She didn't quite trust him. And why should she. On the other hand, she wanted to educate people. It was okay that he didn't believe the same way she did, but he didn't have the right to condemn her because her beliefs were different from his.

So, okay, she'd tell him more. “I was about six. My mother was having a séance.” Selena laughed. “Mom might've even called the ghost forward accidentally. Whatever his reason for being there, no one could see him except me. When I pointed him out, the women practically fell all over themselves running out of the house.”

“And the ghost?” he prodded when she paused.

“I never saw him again. Maybe they scared him toward the light. Who knows?”

“And after that you…saw ghosts all the time. What, do they just appear?”

She didn't think she liked his attitude. It was getting snarky again. “Wesley is standing near your chair.”

“Should I be afraid?” He smiled.

Wesley pulled out his gun and twirled it a few times before popping it back in his holster. “Want me to shoot him?”

Not a bad idea. “You can't.”

“I can't be afraid?” Trent asked.

“Not you.” She frowned at Trent. She really hated these double conversations.

He glanced around. “The ghost is here? Which one? Whistle or Ditsy?”

Please don't let me get caught in the crossfire
, she silently prayed. She cringed when Wesley pulled his gun and fired. Trent slapped his arm, then looked around.

“Mosquito,” he said.

“Wesley shot you.”

He looked at her with raised eyebrows. Why had she even told him? Ghosts couldn't do any really damage—most of the time. Unless you crossed paths with a really bad and powerful spirit.

“He shot me?” Trent laughed.

Oh, this wasn't good. She looked at Wesley. His aura was turning red. Damn, he was really pissed. She came to her feet and eased behind the post.

Trent grabbed his chest and pushed the rocker back with his foot, still laughing. “Quick, call an ambulance before I bleed all over the porch.”

In a burst of flame, Dixie appeared and swung her arm wide. The rocker Trent was sitting in collapsed beneath him, and he went to the floor with a loud crash.

Oh, no, she'd been afraid of something like this. “Are you okay?” She ran to him and knelt down. He looked a little dazed.

“That'll teach him!” Dixie looped her arm through Wesley's, and they were gone in a streak of blue light.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Trent grumbled. “I should've known not to trust these old rockers.” When she looked at him, his expression turned grim. “I guess you're going to tell me it was Wesley. What'd he do? Shoot me again?”

She shook her head.

“Good.” He came to his feet.

“It was Dixie.” She stood. “You pissed her off.”

“Damn, I really hate that.”

He didn't believe her. She'd figured as much. It didn't stop her from trying to warn him. “You really have to watch what you say.”

He put his hands on her shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. Damn, he had really beautiful eyes.

“There are no such things as ghosts,” he said.

For just a second, she forgot about Wesley and Dixie and let the warmth of his hands heat her skin. His touch was even better than in her dreams. Apparently, he was feeling something, too, because his eyes dilated and he quickly moved away.

“The rocker was old. That's all there was to it, so don't make more out of it than there was.”

She stomped her foot and planted her hands on her hips. “Trent Sanders, you're an idiot!”

He backed up a step.

She sought words that wouldn't come. They were all twisted like a pretzel inside her head, and she was afraid if any words did come out of her mouth, they'd just be a bunch of gibberish. Then he would call for the men in white coats. She settled for a glare and a snarl. Turning on her heel, she stomped into the hotel and up the stairs, muttering all the way.

 

Couldn't she see he wasn't going to fall for her so-called ghosts? Hell, if that were the case, he could blame everything bad that had ever happened to him on spirits that were caught between earth and another realm.

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered.

He picked up the pieces of the rocker and carried them to the end of the porch where he tossed them over the side. When he turned around, he paused thoughtfully.

It was strange that she hadn't sat in one of the rockers, but chose to perch her sexy little bottom on the rail. His eyes narrowed as he went to the other rockers and checked them out. They seemed to be okay.

But he'd sat in the same one as he had the other night. There were four other rockers on the porch. Had she known it was human nature to go back to the same spot? A territorial type response. There was only one way to find out.

Damn, if what he suspected was true, Selena might not be as sweet as she looked. Did she hide an evil streak? Maybe what he'd told Tye wasn't far off the mark. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and ran a hand across his neck. No, surely she wouldn't slit his throat.

Just to be on the safe side, he hurried down the steps and around the side of the house. He carefully examined each piece of the broken rocker. The legs were intact and hadn't been partially sawed or anything that he could see.

Tossing the leg he'd been looking at, he stood and slowly walked to the front again.

“You didn't hurt yourself, did you?” Matilda asked.

He pulled himself from his thoughts. Great, he'd had an audience.

“No, I'm fine.”