The Haunting of Josie (10 page)

“You want me to tell you what you’re feeling right now?”

She almost flinched away from that, as if he’d struck her or threatened to, and stared fixedly into the fire with color burning in her face.

Marc wanted to touch her, to somehow reassure her that he wouldn’t hurt her, but he was even more determined to hold on to this moment long enough to understand her. “Josie, why do you have to push me away? Why can’t you let me get close to you?” He kept his voice quiet.

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that I’m just not interested?” She obviously tried hard to sound cold, but her voice quavered.

“No,” he replied. “Because I know that isn’t the answer. I knew the night I kissed you. I’m not a kid, Josie. I know when a woman wants me.”

Still without looking at him, she said tightly, “Do you notch your bedpost?”

He shook his head. “Don’t try to convince yourself that I’m just out for what I can get. I’m not into one-night stands
or
brief affairs—if I were, do you really think I would have kept my hands to myself all this time?”

“How do I know?”

“You know. For God’s sake, trust your instincts. I’m no plaster saint, but I’m not a monster either, you must know that. I’ve never knowingly hurt anyone in my life, and the last thing I want to do is hurt you.”

“That’s not—” She broke off abruptly.

“That’s not what you’re worried about? Then, what, Josie? If it isn’t me?”

She turned her head finally and looked at him, only a little color in her cheeks now and her glorious eyes darkened. “It’s me.” Her voice was soft, almost inaudible. “There’s no…no room in me, don’t you understand?”

He matched her grave tone. “No, I don’t understand.”

She shook her head helplessly. “There’s no room. I have all I can handle, more than I can handle sometimes—” She steadied her voice. “I can’t take anything else in my life. Not now. I came out here to—to simplify everything, not to make it even more complicated.”

“I’m a complication?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Because I want you?”

Color came and went rapidly in her cheeks. “Marc…haven’t you ever been…consumed by something going on in your life? A case that was incredibly difficult or—or something in your personal life that took all your energy to resolve?”

“A few times,” he said slowly. “Cases that seem to demand every waking moment.”

She nodded slightly. “It’s like that. My—my writing. I’ve given myself a year, and I worked very hard to make that possible. Now I have to focus, to concentrate. I can’t afford any distractions.”

“You can’t write twenty-four hours a day.”

“You know that isn’t what I mean.”

It was his turn to nod, but what he said was, “That friend of mine—the one who got interested in the paranormal—is also a rather well-known writer. He tells me that some writers make the mistake of believing they have to isolate themselves in order to hear their muse. But it doesn’t work that way. A writer has to be like a sponge, soaking up information and experiences.”

“Maybe some writers—”

“Josie, if you can’t tell me the truth, then just say it’s none of my business. Tell me to go to hell or otherwise get lost. But don’t lie to me.” He knew his voice had roughened, but he couldn’t seem to do anything about it.

Her eyes widened. “Lie? I’m not—”

“Yes, you are. I think you are
consumed
by something, but it isn’t writing. There’s no joy in you when you talk about it. No excitement or uncertainty. No frustration or anxiety. Just…resolution. And that’s all wrong. If you were a writer who’d reached the point of taking a year to find out if you were any good, your whole attitude would be different.

“But if you aren’t a writer—then what are you? What
did
you take a year off to do? What is it that takes up so much of your energy and yourself that you have…no room left?”

SIX

F
OR A MOMENT
, gazing into tarnished-silver eyes that saw too much, Josie was tempted to tell him the truth. But it had become a conditioned reflex to shy away, to avoid talking about what had happened to her father. Definitely once and probably twice in the past twenty years, confiding had cost her a romance, and it had definitely cost her at least one friend.

She had learned to be wary.

Slowly, carefully, because she had a notion something would break if she wasn’t cautious, she said, “I don’t think Luke is going to show up tonight. Perhaps you should go.”

A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Perhaps I should. But I’d like you to answer something—honestly—before I go.”

She didn’t say she’d have to hear it first; both of them knew that. So she merely waited.

“Are you so sure there’s no room in your life for me? So sure that you aren’t even willing to give us a chance?”

“I’m sure.” But she wasn’t, and even she could hear that in her voice. Already, he’d gotten too close, and she didn’t even know how he’d done it.

“Are you?” Without another word, Marc leaned over and covered her startled lips with his in an abrupt kiss.

He didn’t hold her in place; his unencumbered right hand lifted, but only to lie gently against her neck while his thumb brushed her jaw. Yet she couldn’t escape him.

She didn’t want to escape him.

If the first kiss between them, days ago, had shaken her, this one was devastating. It was as if her body, stirred awake by his touch, recognized him as its master in some deeply primitive way she hardly understood. All she knew was that she could no more prevent her response than she could willfully stop the beating of her heart.

There was nothing tentative about Marc, nothing hesitant. He wanted her, and he meant her to have no doubts about that. His mouth plundered hers, not bruising and yet with a hungry intensity that flooded her senses with molten heat. She was hardly aware of turning more toward him until her thigh pushed against the corn popper between them and her hands touched his chest.

The flannel of his shirt was soft beneath her fingers, and beneath the shirt his body was surprisingly hard, with little give to the flesh. He smelled of a spicy musk and woodsmoke, the combination curiously potent. Josie heard a faint sound escape her, shockingly sensual, and his heart was pounding beneath her hand, or maybe it was her own pulse she felt….

The hardness of his cast brushed past her shoulder, and his fingers touched her hair near her temple. His right hand still lay against her neck, those fingers brushing her nape in a whisper touch she found wildly arousing, and his mouth was moving on hers, his tongue a shattering possession.

She wanted, suddenly and violently, to be closer to him, to feel the powerful length of his body against hers. She wanted their clothing gone, wanted them naked together here in front of the fire. She wanted to feel his hands on her bare skin, and his lips, and she wanted to touch him with a longing so vast and overpowering it was dimly terrifying.

Dazed, she opened her eyes to stare at him when he drew away abruptly. Her fingers were clutching his shirt, she realized, holding on as if to a lifeline.

“
Are
you sure, Josie?” he demanded, his normally liquid voice a hoarse rasp. “Are you sure now?”

He was really the most incredibly handsome man she’d ever seen. Dramatically handsome. Striking. And sexy, God knew. And those eyes…

Then his demanding question sank in, and she blinked in confusion. “What?” she managed, making a vain effort to slow her breathing.

“Are you sure there’s no room in your life for me?” Without waiting for an answer, he kissed her again, briefly and a bit roughly this time, and his silvery eyes gleamed at her.

“No,” she whispered.

His jaw tightened. “No, you aren’t sure? Or—”

She forced herself to let go of his shirt and ordered her shaking hands to lie on her thighs. She felt color rush to her face and hoped desperately that he couldn’t read her feelings this time. She didn’t want him to realize that she hadn’t been answering his question at all, that she had been protesting something else entirely.

No, don’t stop. Please don’t stop….

“Josie—”

“No, I—I’m not sure of anything anymore.” Her voice was husky, almost a whisper.

The hardness in his expression softened and he kissed her again, quickly and lightly. “Don’t sound so lost,” he murmured, stroking her hot cheek gently.

She felt lost. And she felt…unfamiliar to herself. Where was her certainty, her resolve to allow nothing to distract her from her plans? For so long, for nearly ten years, everything in her had been so focused, and now…now she could hardly think at all. God, what had the man done to her?

“I have to think,” she murmured.

Marc seemed to hesitate, then said softly, “You want me. Admit it, Josie.”

“No, I—”

“Admit it.”

She couldn’t look away from him. And, no matter how much she wanted to resist saying it, because putting it into words made it too real to be denied, she heard herself telling him what he wanted to hear. Telling him the truth.

“I—I want you.”

He nodded slowly, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “And you know I want you, don’t you?”

The heat of his desire was so indelibly stamped into her consciousness—perhaps even her very skin—that she could only nod a bit helplessly. He was still stroking her cheek with just the tips of his fingers, and she had to fight the urge to lean into the caress, to press herself against him. She wanted him to kiss her again, and she was painfully aware that her longing was as plain as neon to him.

He began to lean toward her, but then stopped himself with obvious effort and slowly took his hands off her. “If I don’t leave right now,” he told her huskily as he rose to his feet, “I won’t leave at all. As much as I want to stay, I don’t think you’re ready to take me to your bed.”

Josie turned her gaze to the fire as quickly as she could, hoping he couldn’t see the disappointment she felt.
Oh, God, what has he done to me?
She didn’t get up because she was quite sure her legs wouldn’t support her, and even if he
could
read her emotions, she wasn’t going to confirm what the man already knew by collapsing at his feet.

“Josie?”

“Good night, Marc.” Her voice held steady, rather to her surprise.

“Good night.” He hesitated for a moment, and she thought she felt him touch her hair fleetingly, and then he left.

She sat there for a long time, her eyes fixed blindly on the fire, then sighed and stirred. She really should get up. Take the leftover popcorn and unused marshmallows to the kitchen. Bank the fire for the night. And then go upstairs. Maybe soaking in a hot tub would ease the tension from her muscles.

But she doubted it.

Still not trusting her legs, she twisted around to use the coffee table as leverage—and then froze, both hands planted firmly. She blinked, carefully. Stared while her sluggish mind grappled with an impossibility.

Lying on top of the biography of Luke Westbrook that Marc had brought in tonight was a small brass key, its loop of ribbon faded. It lay there innocently, winking in the firelight. Just a key. Except that it shouldn’t have been there. Josie was sure it
hadn’t
been there when she had joined Marc on the hearth rug, because she would have noticed the pale gleam against the darkness of the book’s cover.

No, it had been hanging in the kitchen, on the cup hook by the cellar door. Where she had left it.

She looked quickly at Pendragon, only to find the cat still curled up, eyes closed, with all the appearance of a cat who hadn’t moved in hours. Which wasn’t to say that he
hadn’t
moved in hours. He could have, she supposed. He could have leaped up high enough to somehow get the key. And then he could have brought it in here and left it on the book.

But why on earth would he have done that?

After a moment she reached across the coffee table and picked up the key. She stared at it, fingers probing, searching out solidity, reality.

Yes, it was real.

Right. And, assuming the cat hadn’t fetched it, it had floated in from the kitchen sometime during the last hour or so, landing on Luke’s bio….

Hardly aware of speaking aloud, Josie murmured, to herself and to the cat, “An odd place to land no matter which of you did it. Coincidence is a fine thing, but I think Luke’s trying to tell me something.”

Well, what the hell. She was reasonably sure she wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight anyway, considering the frustration aching in every muscle and tingling in every nerve. And she’d drive herself crazy if she spent the night agonizing about Marc. So why not just take the book to bed and read about Luke Westbrook?

With any luck at all, she’d figure out what, if anything, one small brass key had to do with a long-dead mystery writer. And why he was haunting her.

With any luck at all…

It was chilly outside, but Marc didn’t hurry as he walked through the moonlight back to the cottage. Neither the cold air nor the exercise had any effect on his frustration. He hadn’t really expected it to. It had taken every ounce of willpower and determination he’d been able to summon to get up and leave Josie, especially after she had looked at him with that heart-stopping yearning in her lovely face.

He was a masochist. It was a hell of a thing to discover about himself after thirty-five relatively blameless years, but he couldn’t ignore the evidence. Any sane man who could walk away from Josie when he knew—
he knew
—he could have spent the night in bed with her making love had to be a masochist.

There was just no other word for it.

If someone had put him on the witness stand and invited him to explain himself and his ridiculous scruples, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to. What, after all, could he say? That he wanted more? That he wanted her to want him with the same unshadowed intensity with which he wanted her?

Dammit, I want to make sure she doesn’t have the slightest inclination to kick me out of her bed and out of her life the morning after!

And that was it, really. He could make Josie want him, make her forget all the doubts and reservations and outright resistance to the mere idea of involvement with him—but he had seen all those things in her remarkable eyes before desire had clouded them, and he couldn’t forget it.

The simple truth was that Josie wouldn’t choose, eyes wide open in the cool light of day, to be his lover. Not now. Not yet. And until she made that choice…

He stirred the dying fire in his fireplace and piled on fresh wood, then sat on the couch and broodingly watched the flames. When the phone rang, he jumped only slightly and was able to reassure Tucker that, no, he hadn’t been asleep.

“In fact,” he told his friend wryly, “I’ve never been farther from sleep.”

“Dare I hazard a guess?”

“You will, no matter what I say.”

“True. In my experience, only two kinds of troubles keep a man from his just sleep. Love or money. And I know you don’t need money.”

Marc stared at the crackling fire until it blurred a bit. He was suddenly aware of his heart beating, slow and heavy, aching in his chest. Another definition of a masochist, he thought dimly, would probably be a man in love with a wary woman he’d met barely a week before.

“No,” he said finally. “No, I don’t need money.”

Instead of crowing in triumph or otherwise giving Marc a hard time, Tucker offered a sober, “If we’re talking about Josie Douglas, then I have a hunch you’ve got your work cut out for you, my friend.”

“Why?”

“Because as near as I can figure, the lady has been through several kinds of hell in the last twenty years. It might be my writer’s imagination, of course, but if she’s a sensitive soul, I doubt she finds it easy to let anybody get close to her.”

“You’ve finished the background search? So quickly?”

Still grave, Tucker said, “Something neither of us expected. She’s not anonymous, Marc. Up until ten years ago, when her father died and she went to the other side of the country to attend college, there was quite a bit written about her in national and West Coast newspapers. And in tabloids.”

Marc drew a breath. “Start at the beginning, Tucker.”

“It was more like an ending. The ending of a normal life.” Tucker sighed. “Seattle. Twenty years ago this past summer, in 1974. A hotel belonging to Matthew Douglas—Josie’s father—was deliberately set on fire. It was late at night and…well, two hundred and thirty people died. The hotel was heavily insured, and Douglas was rumored to be on the verge of bankruptcy. He was eventually arrested and charged.”

“My God.” Marc felt grim. “Matthew Douglas.”

“We would have been about fifteen,” Tucker observed. “I don’t remember the trial. Girls, football, and Watergate had my attention. How about you?”

“The same. But one of my professors in law school liked to review sensational court cases. That was one of them.”

“Remember the details?”

“It’s been a while. Fill me in, will you? And tell me everything you’ve found out about Josie.”