Harrison Investigations 1 Haunted (15 page)

Darcy felt as if she melted against him, as simply as dew
against the grass when the sun rose, and she was grateful for and
almost oblivious to the arms that held her, lifted her then, and
carried her through the balcony doors.
His
room, not the
Lee Room, she noted vaguely, too aware of the feel of his sinew in
his arms, the cut of his face as he made his way to the bed. The
surroundings didn't matter. The sheets were cool and clean
and smelled of fabric softener, and the mattress was deep and
inviting, but not even that mattered; steel at her back wouldn't
have mattered because his lips had trailed from hers to her
throat, and she was still in the sheer gown, which seemed no
barrier. The feel of his mouth closing over her breasts, the
searing wetness over and through the fabric, and his tongue
chaffing her nipple sent streaks of lightning ripping through the
length of her. Her fingers tore through her hair as he leaned
against the bed, lowering himself against her, she was aware of his
hands at her side, long, powerful, handsome hands, as arresting
as...

The feel of his mouth, almost agonizingly erotic over the fabric
of her gown, lowering over her abdomen, lowering still. And then
those hands, those glorious hands, slipping at last beneath the
fabric, and his touch on her thighs, so intimate, too intimate, and
yet all that they must be for this insanity, stroking and caressing
into the core of her. And then the touch of his tongue, blazing
with intensity, arresting every vein and muscle within her,
creating fire within every fiber of her being. And at that moment,
there wasn't the least surge of hesitance, of inhibition, within
her, not a thought that they were not seasoned lovers, that
this kind of shattering contact should take time, knowing,
caring....

There was simply response, for every action, a reaction, and she
followed every law of physics, Spiraling, arching, twisting, and
gasping with every electric jolt of lightning that filled and
awakened her. She had to touch, stroke, taste, caress and evoke in
return, and in minutes, they were tangled flesh and limb. She
flourished, as if long accustomed to an arid life, her world
had suddenly been filled with the thrill of a waterfall, and in the
end, she wanted so much that it couldn't be, that a hoarse and
gasped out cry of impatience ripped from his lungs, and they were
truly melded together. The shock of his body thrusting fully into
her own sent another wave of climactic ripples tearing through her,
and then the night became nothing but movement, urgent, yearning,
fast and spinning. Man and flesh, bed beneath, the world rocking,
and vague impressions of the tension in his face, the fire in
his eyes, the hunger...and then...a catapult stiffness,
ejaculation, and her climax, so violent, volatile, complete and
almost devastating that she cried out, shuddering like leaves
blown in winter, again, ripples of aftermath sweeping over her
again and again until they subsided slowly to nothing more than the
gasps of breath that still tore from her lungs.

And then...

The truth of shadows. The balcony doors, still open to the
night. The massive size of his bed, the books on the shelves
nearby, the very real feel of the person beside her, the one who
had mocked her, who didn't believe in ghosts, who had stared at her
in such horror when she had found me skull.

She stared at a mote of shadow dust, almost like a
miniature star, dancing in a pale ray of moonlight. He
stroked a hand through her hair, brushing it from her face, and
despite what she had always thought of as the honesty of her life,
she curled against him with a soft groan, burying her face against
his chest, far from the gray eyes that seemed to see far too much
within her, in daylight, shadow, and even darkness.

"Sh!" he murmured softly, and she realized that reality had come
back far more quickly to him, or perhaps, it had never left
him.

"What?"

"I think someone is downstairs."

"Someone...up to something?" she asked a little anxiously,
and rose against him enough to see his face. He was smiling, a
slow, lazy, rather self-satisfied smile. He cast an elbow behind
his head to rest against
it as
he studied her.

"Actually," he murmured politely, only a trace of amusement in
his tone, "I think that we might have awakened the living and
the dead."

Shadows could never hide the flood of crimson that came to her
cheeks. "Lord! I'm sorry," she mumbled quickly, suddenly thinking
to escape.

His arm was around her. She wasn't moving.

"Are you?" he asked quietly. "I'm not." For a moment, he
was sincere, and there was something in his face and in his tone
that caught at her, heart and soul. But then he added, "Do you
really think we might have awakened the dead?"

And she knew that in his way, he still laughed at her.

She pushed away from him, meaning it, and he released her. It
was frustrating to discover that she couldn't find her nightgown,
it had become so entangled in the covers.

"Hey!" he said softly, drawing her back. And she was forced to
meet his face, and he asked,
"Are
you sorry? Because, most
sincerely, I am not."

"You do think I'm a fake," she informed him, a frost of ice
coming to her words.

He shook his head. "No. Never a fake."

She arched a brow. ' 'Are you referring to life-or sex?''

Again, that slow lazy smile that might have broken a hundred
hearts. "Both, maybe."

"There's no future here," she said, somewhat primly.

"Does everything have to have a future?"

She shrugged. "No, maybe not. Could you move? You're on my
nightgown."

"Going somewhere?"

She nodded firmly. "Back to the Lee Room."

"Then I'm coming with you."

She was startled, staring at him. He shifted, producing her
gown. Then he rose, found the black knit boxers and a terry robe,
and looked back at her. She stared at him, shimmied back into the
gown.

"You don't have to-"

"Do you mind?"

"I-no."

"Then let's go."

"I'm not sure if this should be...a habit," she said.

He smiled. "Never thought of it as a habit."

"You're incredibly exasperating," she told him.

But he paused then, in front of the balcony doors, and again,
his thumb and forefinger touched her chin.

"May I come with you to the Lee Room, if you find it so
important to sleep there? We will, however, lock the balcony doors.
I don't feel like entertaining any tricksters in the middle of the
night."

"Maybe you shouldn't come. Maybe I make great bait for the
trickster," she said.

Something hardened in his jaw. "You're not bait, and whatever
the hell you do, don't go thinking that way." He turned, drawing
her with him. Inside, he locked the balcony doors.

"You left your balcony doors open," she pointed out.

He shrugged. "No one has ever disturbed anything in my room. I
simply don't want anyone in here. With us."

She was amazed to realize that just the sound of his voice made
her shiver again. Thrill throughout.

Then he walked toward her. "Trust me, no one will disturb us
tonight."

"But-"

She was drawn back into bis arms. "Darcy, let it go, please.
Give us this. Let it be normal. Not normal. Incredible. But
still...let tonight be. Just be...normal."

And then...

The feel of his lips.

And then everything that was raw and real and somehow still
magic started all over again, and yet, this time, a thought crept
into the blindness of passion.

If only..
.

If only this could be a reality...

If only she really
were...

Normal.

______ 7____

The day was a surprise, Penny thought, sipping her coffee and
staring over the rim at Clint and Carter.

But then, all days were a bit different now, and she loved it.
Darcy Tremayne had changed everything at Melody House. This,
however, was amusing.

"How on earth do you think that she found that skull when no one
else ever could?'' Clint said, shaking his head as he added jam to
his English muffin. "Creepy, huh? She must be for real."

Carter shrugged. "It's been out there for a long time. Maybe
it's just that no one else ever really looked for it." Carter
scratched his bearded chin. "Luck, maybe. Pure luck."

"Don't be ridiculous, gentlemen!" Penny protested. "She's the
real thing."

"Oh, come on, Penny. No one really has extrasensory perception,"
Carter argued.

"She sure has a lot else," Clint murmured.

Carter offered a dry laugh. "But I think she's off-limits to
us."

"He definitely has a thing for her," Clint agreed.

"Who?" Penny said.

They both stared at her as if she were totally blind.

"Matt," they said in unison.

"Oh," Penny said, settling back.

"And she's a redhead," Clint said, as if that made it all beyond
comprehension.

"Tall," Carter said.

"Really built," Clint said.

"Regal."

"Really, really, built!" Carter repeated.

Penny leaned closer to the table. "Well, boys, I do think that
you're both out of luck. Because I think that she may have a bit of
a thing for Matt."

"But it's ridiculous," Carter said.

"Absolutely," Clint agreed.

"Why?" Penny demanded.

"Because she believes in ghosts," Clint explained, smiling
broadly. "Matt is like old Stone Mountain. He'll never accept the
idea that she might be psychic. Now me, I'm charming-and I have an
open mind."

"Hell, the whole thing can't be real-can it?" Carter said,
frowning. But then he forgot the main question. "Matt's still in
lust, my friend," he advised Clint. "Lust can last a long
time."

"Yeah, it had to be lust with Lavinia."

"Hey, we were all in lust when she first showed up."

"Lavinia," Penny intervened, "was a bitch."

"Ah, but she had us all fooled," Clint teased.

"Me? Never," Penny assured him. "She didn't have what it took to
hold on to Matt."

' 'Well, sleeping around never did make a marriage work real
well," Clint drawled sardonically.

"I don't think he cared by then," Penny said.

"Still, kind of uncanny-two redheads," Clint said.

"One a bitch-and one a psychic," Carter said amused. "Clint,
surely, this field still has to be open to us."

"Matt will never really get involved with her," Clint agreed.
"I, on the other hand, would not care in the least if such a woman
communed with the ancients on a daily basis. I'd just thank heaven
above that she was mine."

"Clint Stone, that was a lovely thought, and quite
surprising from you," Penny applauded him.

"Yeah, and it's bullshit. You just think she's hot,"
Carter said.

"Hey!" Clint argued.

"Well, let's face it. She may be smooth, intelligent, cool, and
lovely, but Matt is in lust. She's really not his type," Carter
said.

"Really?"

They were all startled by the voice that spoke from the kitchen
doorway. Penny actually jumped up, nearly knocking her chair
over. She hadn't looked out yet, but it was nine in the morning and
Matt was usually long gone by then.

Carter had the grace to flush. He shrugged. "She's a psychic,"
he said again, as if that explained his take on everything.

Penny, anxious to defuse a possible situation, broke in quickly.
"Matt! I thought you'd left for the office long ago. I've never
seen you home so late in the morning."

Clint looked down at his muffin. ' 'Darcy does resemble
Lavinia," he murmured.

"Not in any way, shape, or form," Matt said.

"Coffee?" Penny offered brightly.

"No, I'm late. I'm going in."

"Any word yet on the skull?" Carter asked.

"I'll find out when I get to the station."

"We all know that it belongs to our poor, decapitated miss of
eons past," Carter said.

"Most probably," Matt agreed. "It's still a human skull, and
there are laws regarding human remains."

"Of course," Carter said, looking at Matt. Then he
shivered. "Scary, huh? Maybe Darcy knows things about all of
us that we would just as soon no one knew."

Matt turned around and walked out.

"That is scary," Clint murmured.

"Oh, come on, why?" Penny tsked.

"Because it's quite true, we all have skeletons in our closets,"
Clint told her.

Shirley Jamison was, just like clockwork, at the front desk when
Matt walked into the sheriff's station. She smiled at him,
apparently not at all curious as to why he was late. Apparently,
everyone had known that he'd worked late hours the night
before.

"Hey!" She was a slim, attractive woman of about thirty-five,
and truly pleasant. She loved her job, her husband, her two
perfect little children. She'd been born in Stoneyville, and never
had the least temptation to move elsewhere. Her husband, Ray, was a
building contractor, and just as pleasant as Shirley. Matt used to
wonder if there was something artificial about their constant
cheer, but oddly enough they seemed to be a genuinely happy
couple.

"Good morning."

"I heard you were here until the wee hours," she said. "I didn't
expect you in so soon, but I was actually about to call you at
home. Digger called."

Digger was actually Darrell Jordy, an exceptional
osteo-anthropologist who worked at the Smithsonian museum in
D.C.

"And?" Digger was a busy guy. He was given bones to study by
police agencies across the country, not to mention the FBI.
Matt had never expected him to get to the skull the first thing
when he had walked in that morning.

She shrugged. "Just what you thought. The skull carbon dated at
about a hundred and fifty years. He said he already told you it
once belonged to a young woman, between fifteen and twenty-five
years of age. Seems she fits right in with the old story about the
jealous older sister who hacked up her younger sibling."

He shrugged. "Glad to hear it."

"They've already called from the newspaper, too. They want to
know when you're planning to see that the head gets buried with the
body."

"Exactly who called?"

"Max Aubry."

"Great."

Aubry would sensationalize the whole thing. Granted, they were a
small town. And thankfully, in the local paper, small events were
often given headlines. He still dreaded the kind of attention the
skull was going to receive.

"Oh, come on, Matt! It is a great story. Sad, but now with an
ending."

"Aubry will play up the ghost bit, then hone in on Darcy and
Harrison Investigations."

"Well?"

He threw up his arms. Was the whole place ghost story crazy?

Crazy.

The word ricocheted in his head. He was definitely crazy.
In
lust.
Who the hell had said it, Carter or Cliff? Did it
matter? He wished that was the long and short of it. Every time he
learned something new about her, he only wanted more. There was so
much about her that was an enigma, but then looking into her eyes
he could see the honesty, the fear, and most of all, the terrible
wariness. As if any closeness was an enormous risk. Well, it was.
She was...different. And he did have a guard up against her, it
just wasn't doing him much good. The second he had risen, he had
wanted nothing more than to he back down beside her, feel the cool
silk of her flesh, watch those eyes open, vulnerable if only for a
second. She was truly the most sensuous and incredible lover he'd
ever known, and maybe that had been half to do with him, because
being with her made him just want so much more, and to be so much
more himself. His world had changed because of a ridiculous chance
meeting in the night.

A bizarre incident at that, because she was the ghost catcher,
he was the rational man, and she had been convinced that
there had been a real person out on the balcony, and he sure as
hell hadn't found evidence of anyone when he had searched. When
they'd opened Melody House to the public, they'd had alarms
installed in the main house and the stables. Nuts. It was all
simply nuts, and getting worse. And it was going to get worse. He
simply would not accept the kind of sensationalism the media would
try to put on this latest event. He could not accept that some kind
of doorway to the dead had allowed her to find the skull.

But then, she had said that research had led her to it. Pray God
she remembered that when talking to the papers. But he could see
again the way she had looked, digging frantically, and then
producing the skull. An image that had chilled him...

He should have thought of that before last night. But what the
hell did either of them think that they were doing? It was sex in
the twenty-first century. Most adults indulged on a whim now and
then. He'd had his own share of too-casual relationships. Could be
it was just another. Temptation and hormones and human
instinct.

Except that it wasn't.

"Matt?"

"I'll be in my office," he said, a bit too gruffly. Shirley
looked at him, puzzled. He couldn't explain.

Darcy woke at a quarter of eight, realized that Matt was gone,
and tried to reflect on both the wonder and idiocy of the night
gone by. But thinking about it merely made her head hurt.

Granted, she didn't have much of what could be called a social
life, and as far as a sex life went, it certainly had been
nonexistent for a very long time. That had been mainly her choice.
But her college years had made her feel somewhat punch-drunk, and
since she was afraid of the outcome of any involvement, it had
seemed prudent to be a very private person. She had a loving family
and good friends at Harrison Investigations, who understood what it
was like to be different. She had never imagined such an
overwhelming physical attraction to a man, and she had not
envisioned that she could feel such an emotional pull to someone
like Matt Stone.

The thought that last night had been a serious mistake came only
this morning, when Darcy awoke. And along with it, of course, was
the knowledge that she was going to get hurt, because she didn't
seem able to put the relationship in any kind of perspective. She
felt a tremendous aching for what happened with Matt to be
something that could go on...and on. Amazing, when he had truly
been such a jerk when they had met, how living in a man's house,
knowing those who knew him well, could give so much insight to his
Me, and his true character. She hadn't felt this way since...well,
maybe forever. And it was so foolish. She felt elated, having
pushed so much that could be incredible between a man and a woman
to the back burners of her existence, and also miserable, because a
simple night had created a fantasy, a new excitement, and it was
something that she well knew could never really be. Her bed now
contained the simple, subtle scent of the man within it, memories
of warmth and fire, passion and a closeness that remained
staggering in its brief intensity.

She started to rise, then decided to screw the notion. She
didn't have to be anywhere-other than exactly where she was. The
day might look a little better and everything might make more sense
if she just had a little sleep.

She would close her eyes for a few minutes more, and maybe get,
at the least, just a bit more rest.

Yet even in a subconscious state, falling into a far deeper
sleep than she had imagined, she knew when the dream state came,
when the actions and emotions of the past slipped into her, almost
as if she slipped into the skin of another. And she knew instantly,
on that distant plane, that she had now encountered two people.
First, a man, then a woman, and now a man again. And that what
trauma had taken place between them had reached a heated pinnacle
here, in this room, where she slept. She could see herself, below,
at the door, though she couldn't make out face or form, because she
was seeing from
his
eyes, as if the memories of long ago
had entered her mind as completely as they had, at one time,
touched his reality.

Staring up at the house, he knew that it was empty, except
for
her.
And so he stepped inside, quietly closing the
door behind him.

He knew the house. Knew those who usually peopled it,
surrounded it, called it home, or laid a claim to the place. And he
knew where they all were. Just as he was aware that she would have
come here, thinking she had the right to do so.

She didn't have the right.

She had no rights.

And what she might have imagined had come to her through
him!

There was nothing that night to bar his entry. As he had
known. He didn't care if she had heard the door close. She would
know he was there soon enough. He stood in the foyer, staring up
the stairs, hands rapping idly against his pockets. He felt the
bulge in the one. Ah, yes, the item he had stuffed in it earlier. A
strip of leather from the stables. He pulled it from his pocket,
stretched it out between his hands, tightened it until the
leather was taut...

Easy to do. He was a strong man. Actually, quite
strong.

Stronger even than he appeared.

No...

A protest echoed in his head. A protest against
himself.

He gritted his teeth, and the whole of his body was as taut
as the strip of leather between his hands.

Slowly...

He forced himself to relax.

And he looked to the stairs again....