Happy Medium: (Intermix) (17 page)

“Make it by Saturday,” Gabrielle snapped. And then she was gone.

Emma turned back toward the house, staring at the darkened upstairs windows. If just retelling Amina’s story had been enough to cause a significant drop in temperature, what would happen if they actually tried to contact Amina directly with a séance? She had a feeling the next few days weren’t going to be a lot of fun.

She wandered back to the storeroom, rubbing her arms for heat. “Does it seem cold in here to you?”

Ray glanced up from where he was digging through one of the cartons. “Maybe a little. I’ll check the thermostat.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s the air-conditioning. Maybe Amina took the opportunity to give us a little reminder that she’s still around.”

“Amina.” He blew out a breath. “Well, if she chills the house, at least it’ll save on utility bills. What’s up with Gabrielle?”

“More good news. They’re coming back next weekend. She thinks they’ll film a week from today.”

Ray stood slowly. “Which means it would be a good idea to get this ghost problem under some kind of control by then.”

“At least. Did you find anything?”

“Not much. How are you on dating pictures?”

“I know a little bit about art history. I can try.”

He picked up a painting in a heavy frame, extending it to her. “Looks like something old, but I don’t know how old.”

Emma studied the landscape—dark trees and grass, threatening sky, white blobs that might have been sheep. The wooden frame was gilded, the edge so jagged with scallops it almost looked dangerous. “The frame looks like it dates from the early twentieth century. It’s probably worth more than the picture is.”

“Yeah. I don’t see that as a keepsake, but at least it shows that some of the things in this room predate Hampton.”

“What else is in that stack?” She knelt beside him again, turning the pictures over to look at them.

“Other landscapes.” He pointed at a black-framed picture of a couple of Scottish terriers. “That one looks like it came off a calendar. And this. I don’t even know what to call it.”

He handed her a large frame with raised glass like a shadow box. The spiky thing inside looked almost like an insect. “It’s a hair wreath,” she said. “Women made them out of hair they collected from their brushes. They had
hair collectors
—these china boxes they kept on their dressing tables to put the hair in. Then they wound it around wire frames to make flowers.”

He shook his head. “That is seriously fucked.”

“It was just a hobby—like embroidery or crochet.”

He didn’t look convinced. “I guess we keep looking.”

Emma sighed. “Want me to go through the other boxes?”

“Sure, go to it. I should get some work done on the walls upstairs. I need to get the demolition finished before Gabrielle and company show up. Once they’re here, I figure I’ll have to knock off for a while—the noise and the dust wouldn’t be good for filming.”

“Right.” She glanced around the room again, counting boxes. At least four, with maybe more behind the furniture. And so far they’d found nothing in any of them.

“What happens if we don’t find it?” she blurted.

“The love token?”

She nodded.

“When do they usually film these things?”

“A lot of it can be done during the day—and that’s easier,” she said. “They might be able to do the séance during the day since it’s shot inside. But they’ll have to film part of it at night. There’s always a shot of Gabrielle outside the house, telling the story of the place. And that’s always shot at night. I mean, it wouldn’t have the same effect if she told a spooky story standing outside in broad daylight.”

Ray’s jaw firmed slightly. “If she films during the day, I doubt much is going to happen. Not much has happened here to us during the day, aside from a little climate adjustment.” He gave her a dry smile. “If she films at night . . .”

Emma raised her eyebrows. “If she does?”

His lips moved into a grimace. “Then it could get very interesting.”

Emma sighed.
Interesting
wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear.

She watched him walk away from her, his broad back slimming down to a narrow waist and hips, his thigh muscles outlined by the worn jeans.

You don’t deserve that. You’re not pretty enough.

She sat very still. Where exactly had that thought come from? Maybe she wasn’t exactly a beauty, but . . .

You’re nothing. You’ve got nothing any man would want.

Her throat felt tight. She’d always been hard on herself and never had a lot of self-confidence. But that idea seemed . . . harsh. Even for her.

You’re nothing.

She took a shaky breath.
Time to get back to work.
She turned toward the stack of pictures leaning against the wall.

Nothing. You’re nothing. You don’t deserve him.

She took a breath, closing her icy fingers into a fist. “Maybe not. But I’ve got him. For now, at least.”

***

Before he began prying off wallboard in the last room, Ray checked the wards he’d installed on the bedroom. The nails looked as solid as ever. He ran his fingers along the threshold at the bottom of the doorframe. Rosie had said she had a trough for salt on her front and back doors. He wondered how much trouble it would be to cut one here.

Right.
That would really help the resale value. He pulled on his work gloves and settled the dust mask over his nose and mouth. For the next two hours he was going to pretend that this damned house was just like any other rehab project. He was going to pry off as much wallboard as he could, then grab Emma and head off to Rosie’s for dinner and some recreational downtime after that.

Because in a couple of hours it would be close to sundown. And they needed to get out of the house before then.

He blew out a breath. Okay, so it wasn’t really a normal rehab project at all. He still needed to finish it. One way or the other.

He worked steadily for around an hour, pulling wallboard off and stacking it in the corner of the room. A fine powder of white dust covered his chest and arms. He paused to wipe the sweat from his face with his forearm and then heard a noise, the faint ping of something metallic.

For a moment he froze, but he didn’t hear anything else. He moved forward carefully, running his fingers down the stud he’d just uncovered.

Something flashed in a wayward beam of afternoon sunlight. He knelt in front of the remaining chunk of wallboard, sliding one hand behind the remnant still attached to the adjoining stud until he felt something cool beneath his fingertips.

It seemed to be a chain. He followed the fine links with his fingers, trying to find an end he could catch hold of, but he couldn’t reach it. After another moment of trying, he picked up the pry bar, carefully levering the final scrap of wallboard off the stud.

The sunlight flashed on the metal again, and he reached for it, bringing the thing into the light where he could see it. A small square locket on a chain, the front side carved with leaves and flowers, the back side covered with shallow parallel grooves.

He tried to slide his fingernail into the catch at the side, but he had too much dust on his hands to open it. Maybe if he washed up.

Maybe if he showed it to Emma. Who had slimmer hands and longer fingernails.

He stood slowly, staring down at the golden square in his hand.
Keepsake. Love token.

Somewhere down the hall a door slammed shut.

“Bingo,” he whispered.

Chapter 16

Emma stared down at the locket Ray had handed to her. It seemed remarkably small to be as important as she thought it might be. Maybe Livingston was a miser along with being a jerk. “It was in the wall?”

Ray nodded. “Behind the wallboard.”

“How could it get there?”

He shrugged. “Got me. Maybe somebody hid it there. Or maybe it was dropped there by accident. I don’t know when this place was renovated last.”

“And you think it’s the keepsake?”

He ran his hand through his hair, leaving a smear of gray dust on his forehead. “I don’t know. Could be. I mean, it fits my idea of a love token.”

“Yeah, mine too, sort of.” She dropped down on the ancient couch in the storeroom, staring at the locket.

“I can’t open it,” he said. “My hands are too dirty and my fingers are too big. You want to try?”

She nodded, wiping her damp palms on her thighs. She slid her thumbnail into the catch and felt the leaves pop apart.

“What’s in it?” He leaned forward, staring over her shoulder.

She held up the locket for him to see. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” He took it out of her hand, sighing. “Shit.”

“It still could be Amina’s,” she said quietly. “If she had pictures of Livingston inside, he might have emptied them out. He might not have wanted to have anything around that could link him to her.”

“Yeah.” He handed it back. “I was still hoping, though. Plus I’m kind of curious to see what they looked like.”

“I think I can help you there. At least where Amina is concerned.” She leaned across to the wall and picked up a picture she’d propped there.

“What is it?”

She turned it over so that he could see.

The woman who stared back at them from the framed rectangular portrait was smiling faintly. Her large dark eyes had a slight tilt, emphasizing the perfect oval of her face. The fair hair was parted precisely in the middle, falling in loose curls on either side, the back gathered into a braid that dropped along her shoulder. The soft folds of her dress fell back to expose her collarbones and slender throat.

Emma stared at the photo for a long moment, feeling that same tingle of recognition she’d felt when she’d first seen it. “It’s Amina,” she murmured.

“We don’t know that,” he said slowly. “It could be anybody who’s lived here.”

“It could. But it isn’t.” She shook her head. “It’s Amina. It’s the right period, the late teens or early twenties. And I know it’s her.” She wasn’t sure how she knew for sure, but she did.

He sighed, taking the portrait from her hands. “If that’s Amina, Grunewald was a real idiot. She was a babe.”

“Even if that isn’t Amina, Grunewald was an idiot. And a loser.” Emma pushed herself to her feet. She was already sick of Livingston Grunewald.

“True.” He picked up the locket again, staring at the empty leaves. “This could be hers. It looks old enough. Too bad she didn’t wear it for the portrait.”

Emma frowned. “If it is Amina’s what are we supposed to do? I mean, what do we do with the love token when we find it? Look for another medium to undo the spell?”

He glanced up at her, shaking his head. “If it’s the real thing, we destroy it. That’s how we get rid of the ghost.”

She touched the locket resting in his palm. Her shoulders felt tight. “Oh.”

“Oh what?”

“Just . . . it seems like a shame to destroy it. It’s so beautiful.”

“Beautiful or not, if it’s the thing that binds the ghost to the house, we need to smash it up and melt down the pieces.”

She took the locket into her hand, weighing it, trying to feel . . . something. “Could we wait a little at least?”

“For what?”

Good question.
“To see if any other kind of keepsake turns up. Anything that might be a better candidate.”

He gave her a dry grin. “You want to save it because it’s pretty?”

She shook her head slowly, rubbing a finger across the carved surface, wishing she felt some kind of electric shock or something. “I just don’t get any . . . vibe from this. It doesn’t feel like something connected to the ghost. With the picture, I knew as soon as I saw it. With this . . . nothing.” She sighed, shaking her head. “I’m not making any sense, I know.”

Ray’s expression was oddly blank, as if he didn’t want her to see what he was thinking.
He’s probably thinking that you’re a prize nut case.
She handed the locket back to him again. Her palm felt cool without it.

He stared down at the golden oval. It glowed dimly in the gathering shadows of late afternoon. “I guess we don’t have to do anything right away. I’m leaving it here, though. I’m not going to take it inside Rosie’s place.”

She shook her head. “No. If it’s the thing that binds the ghost to the house, that might be dangerous.”

He slid the locket onto the drop-leaf table. “We need to go. It’s getting dark.”

“Right.”

She gathered up her purse and the printouts from the book about the Riordans. She had no idea why she’d brought them. Maybe she wanted to give Great-grandma Siobhan a firsthand look. Or maybe she’d thought having Great-grandma Siobhan’s picture around could keep ghosts at bay. Given that Great-grandma Siobhan was a ghost herself, that didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

She started down the hall after him.
You’re nothing. You’re worth nothing.
The voice echoed in her mind again. At least she’d managed to ignore it for the afternoon.

Ray locked the door behind them, then straightened and glanced at her, his lips moving into a faint smile. “Well, we made a start.”

She nodded. “We did.”

He slid his arm around her shoulders. “And now I’m hoping the locket will be the end of it, but I’m guessing that’s not going to happen.” He moved her down the front steps and across the yard, heading for his truck parked in the driveway.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” she murmured, glancing back at the Hampton house.

For just a moment she thought she saw something pale move across one of the upstairs windows. A curtain blown by the wind maybe.

Except there were no curtains anywhere in the upstairs, given that the place was in the process of being renovated.

Her pulse accelerated, and she glanced up again. The windows stared back, dark and empty.

“What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

She kept her gaze resolutely ahead as he drove the truck back down the street toward Rosie’s place.

***

Ray sat at the table, watching Emma work around the kitchen. There was something crisp about the way she moved, something graceful and efficient. As if her body used just the right amount of effort to do whatever needed to be done.

Sexy as hell
.

He picked up his glass quickly. The idea that he was getting turned on by watching a woman cook was simultaneously funny and a little scary. He was beginning to feel that watching Emma do just about anything was likely to be a turn-on.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to feel that way.

Emma Shea was supposed to be a week-long fling. Something to get them both over the rough patches involved in setting up a haunted house for what would probably be a disastrous séance. He hadn’t really thought any further than that because he’d never had to think further than that with anybody else.

Danny and Rose had both found Significant Others. He was still a free agent. And he liked it that way. Hell, he needed it that way. He wasn’t ready to settle down with anybody for anything more than the aforementioned week-long fling. Week-long flings were great. No strings attached. Everybody’s happy and when it’s over, so long, it’s been swell.

Riordans tend to attract and be attracted to people like them.
His gut tightened. Okay, so she saw the dog. So she saw the things the ghost did. So she saw Great-grandma. So what? She’d be heading back to Houston right after the damned séance. Even if he wanted something more serious, she probably didn’t.

Does she? Do you?

Emma turned, a plate of cheese in one hand and a breadbasket in the other. “I want to go to the grocery store before Rosie comes back. We’re cleaning her out.”

“Yeah. Maybe we can do that tomorrow after we finish at the house.”

He was suddenly aware of just how often he used
we
around her. But they weren’t a
we
, were they? He should probably be more careful about that. Or something.

“When is Rosie due back?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. Probably depends on how much fun she’s having following Evan around.”

“She has her own business?”

His shoulders tightened again. “She’s a consultant.”

“Oh.” Emma sliced off a crumb of cheese. “That must be good. Not having a boss to answer to. Being able to set your own schedule.”

He could imagine that answering to Gabrielle DeVere was no fun at all. “Is that what you’d like to do—go out on your own?”

“Maybe. I used to think I wanted to be in show business. Now I’m not so sure. I like doing the research, though.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Does
American Medium
count as show business?”

“Sort of. In a low-grade way. There’s not a whole lot to choose from in Houston when it comes to TV production.”

He leaned forward to pour some wine into her glass. “So what would you do if you could do exactly what you want?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, I love doing the research part of the show—finding background stuff, telling stories.” She sighed. “I’m just not as excited by the production part of things as I used to be.”

“That’s sort of what Rosie does,” he said carefully. “She used to be a librarian. Now she’s a private researcher.”

“Maybe I’ll talk to her about it sometime.” She divided her crumb into tinier crumbs, staring down at her plate. “Did you always know what you wanted to do? Did you always want to renovate houses?”

He shook his head. “In college I majored in football and minored in beer, which is a polite way of saying I was a moron. I had no idea what I wanted to do when I got out, except that I didn’t want to work in an office like everybody else in the family. I did some road work, was part of a construction crew after that, and it all started making sense to me.”

She took a sip of her wine. “What part of it?”

“I don’t know exactly. Working with my hands maybe. I always liked doing stuff in my dad’s shop, fixing things around the house. Turns out that was just the kind of skillset I needed to do home renovation.” He shrugged. “Who knew?”

That was, of course, the short version. But he figured she wouldn’t be interested in hearing about all the months spent learning the job, working for low pay and a chance to see how a good construction man went about doing what he needed to do himself. Or the money invested in tools that sometimes went missing on site. Or the nights he’d spent staring into the darkness, wondering if he had the money and the skill to make any of it successful.

He figured he’d be spending a lot more of those nights on the Hampton house, even if they could get rid of the damned ghost.

She gave him another of her smiles. “I think you made the right choice. You do good work.”

“All you’ve seen me do so far is tear up stuff. That’s fun, but it’s not exactly hard.”

She shook her head. “No, I checked out some of the pictures you had on your Web site. The one in Sisterdale was really neat.”

“You went to our Web site?” He fought back a grin of his own.

“Well . . . yeah. I mean, I wanted to see what you did. Back when we started, you know, working together.” Her cheeks had turned a warm pink and she seemed to be concentrating on her wine all of a sudden.

He cut a substantial slice of cheese for himself. “I looked you up too. Only you weren’t on DeVere’s site.”

She grimaced. “No. The only one on Gabrielle’s site is Gabrielle.” For a moment, she stared at the wine again, then she raised her gaze to his. “You looked me up?”

“Tried to.”

“Because we were working together.”

He gave up fighting the grin. “Among other things.”

“That’s . . . neat.”

“Neat?” He reached across the table, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead. “Neat?”

Her cheeks were back to pink. “Well, yeah, you know.”

“I know.” He stared at the minuscule bits of cheese on her plate. “You need to eat more than that.”

She shook her head. “I love cheese, but it’s not part of my diet. I’m really cheating.”

He frowned. “Diet? Why are you on a diet?”

Her cheeks flushed pink again. “When I went to work for Gabrielle, she told me I needed to lose twenty pounds. So far I’ve lost sixteen.”

He narrowed his eyes. “DeVere made you go on a diet?”

“Like I said, we’re in show business. Size and attractiveness matter a lot more than in other businesses.” She sighed. “Gabrielle said that I represent the show, and I need to look good.”

Ray shook his head. “You
do
look good. Hell, you look sensational.”

Her lips curved up. “Thanks. I’m working on it.”

He paused for a moment, wondering just how he could get from his side of the table to hers with minimum effort. He pushed himself to his feet, extending his hand. “Let’s go.”

Her forehead wrinkled. “Where?”

“Upstairs.”

“Now?”

He stared at her—the wisps of red hair curling around her neck, the pink cheeks against the milk white of her skin, the sapphire eyes. The body that curved in all the right places, no matter what Gabrielle DeVere might think. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Right now.”

***

Emma stood in the half light of the bedroom watching Ray undress. She never quite got used to him—the firm slabs of muscle, the golden hair sprinkled across his chest and abdomen, the way his hips angled down, the jut of his arousal from the golden hair. He ought to be a painting or a statue, something that caught the perfection of his body.

A body she was going to have for herself within the next ten minutes. Unbelievable.
What’s wrong with this picture?

She was the wrong part. Somebody who looked like she did wasn’t supposed to end up with somebody who looked like Ray Ramos.

Of course, that was what that voice had been trying to tell her at the Hampton house.
You’re nothing.
Her jaw tightened.
Quit it. Stop thinking. Just stop thinking.