"Listen to me, you can't keep walking yourself straight into danger the way you did tonight."
"I don't go walking into danger," she protested.
"I told you to tell me the second you saw a ghost."
"I would have—"
"Forget would have. You can't let this happen again. You might have been killed. If I'd known… "
"If you'd known… what? Tom Garfield probably would have disappeared a whole lot faster," she responded. She pulled away from him. "Excuse me, will you? I'm still wearing half an alley."
He let her go instantly. His head was lowered, and she couldn't see his eyes, couldn't ascertain what he was thinking. But his body language was still tense.
She walked up the stairs and felt the distance escalating between them with each step she took. She hesitated, looking back. She could go downstairs, of course, and ask him what he thought about the fact that the victim of another purse snatching had been certain she had seen Tom Garfield just before the crime.
But that would just be an excuse. She didn't want to play games.
She held on to the railing at the top of the stairs and called down to him.
"Hey!"
"Hey what?" Startled, he looked up at her.
"Um… I don't have to see a bug again, do I?"
"Pardon?"
She let out a soft sigh of aggravation.
"I don't have to scream to get you to come up here, do I?" she asked softly.
His smile was instantaneous, and he threaded his fingers through his hair, pushing a dark lock back from his forehead.
"I'm on my way," he told her.
"I really do need a shower."
"Nothing wrong with cleanliness," he agreed, taking the stairs two at a time. She waited for him. And when he reached her, she forgot everything that had haunted her during the day.
Contessa saying she was surrounded by a dangerous purple aura.
The cemetery… his wife's tomb.
The ghost of Tom Garfield, now clean shaven, still walking the streets…
A very real man in black in the alleyway, attacking her…
In his arms, she was alive and life was good. The hold he had on her was powerful, the touch of his lips electric and combustible, eliciting a flow of heat that sped through her veins.
There on the stairway.. just his kiss… the feel of his arms around her…
Tangled together, they moved toward her room, toward the bathroom, casting away the clothing they stripped from each other as they went.
His lips were still locked with hers as she fumbled for the shower spray.
Their tongues were entwined as they stepped beneath the cascading water.
Then there was the feel of his lips and tongue sliding down her naked flesh, along with the fall of the steaming water. There was the mist of heat that rose around them, creating a sheer physical eroticism that gripped her, the excruciating carnal feel of his hands, fingers, tongue… delving.
Here a brush, a touch, an invasion…
She very nearly collapsed atop him, but the urge to cling was great, the urge to respond greater, and her hands were suddenly wild as they played against the flesh and muscle of his body, teased with ever greater abandon, tormented him.
She had never imaged that simple soap could become such a stimulant, that bubbles could become so wickedly erotic. She was trembling and limp, yet ready to be aroused anew, when they stepped out, groping to turn the water off.
They left a double trail of damp footprints from the bathroom to the bed, where they began all over again. In those blissful moments the world receded, and nothing was real but the blatant sexuality that rippled and pulsed with the strength of his every movement, the power of his muscles, the depth of her hunger. They twisted, they moved, and in the end he fell to her side, heart still racing, breath rasping.
And then he pulled her close, and she felt as if all was right with the world when she lay there with him.
Soft light fell from the bathroom, but the bedroom itself was in darkness. Nikki basked in the sense of safety that came with lovemaking, and despite everything that had happened, she found herself drifting to sleep.
It meant something.
But what?
Brent lay awake in the night, glad of the feel and warmth of Nikki's body cradled against his own, relieved that she had drifted off.
He couldn't sleep himself. His thoughts kept racing. Why the hell would the ghost of Tom Garfield keep showing up at the sites of purse snatchings?
It made no sense. None at all. Maybe the woman who had given Officer Robinson the description had merely been agreeing with what the officer had drawn, and maybe it was just coincidence that the resemblance was so great.
He adjusted his position, loath to get up and leave Nikki, aware that he was restless and afraid that he would wake her.
He needed to lie still, to rest, to find the sense of serenity he could usually summon. There was nothing he could do now. Tomorrow he could go back to the police station, find out more about the woman who had worked with Robinson on the drawing, somehow finagle a name and address from Massey so he could talk to her himself. If he spoke with her, he might find out what the connection was, or decide there wasn't really a connection at all.
He slammed his pillow and tried to sleep.
Purple…
It was surrounding her, just as it had surrounded Andy.
No, she didn't believe that colors could surround people. She didn't believe in palm readings. Ouija boards.
But she believed in ghosts.
No, she merely believed in a sense of the past, of history, of lives gone by…
Nikki twisted, aware that she was half-asleep, and yet she was half-awake, as well. She knew she was in bed, that Brent was next to her. She was in her own home, a place she loved.
A place that seemed oddly invaded, even though nothing was out of place. Yet she had a sense that someone had been here tonight.
A sense.
A color.
Purple.
Brent sat up with a sudden jerk. The cemetery. He'd forgotten that he had told Huey he would be at the cemetery. He'd also forgotten all about dropping off information about McManus for the man's descendant.
"Brent?"
He nearly jumped a mile at the sound of Nikki's voice.
"What's the matter?"
He hesitated. He should have said nothing, gone to sleep and headed for the cemetery the following night. Instead he looked at her in the shadows. "Are you all right here alone?"
"I'm not alone."
"I know. But I have to go out… just for an hour or so. Will you be all right?"
"Brent, do you know what time it is?"
"I'll be all right. Trust me. But I'm worried about you."
"I'm worried about you," she said.
He grinned in the darkness. "You don't need to be. And I won't be gone long. I just made a promise, and I need to keep it."
"A promise to who?"
"A ghost. And I won't go if you don't want me to."
"I'll be all right."
He hesitated.
"Brent, go. I'm all right. I'll double-bolt the door. No one will be able to get in."
"Nikki, what if… "
"I'm not afraid of ghosts," she said.
"But—"
"I used to be afraid of ghosts," she told him quietly. "I'm not anymore. I'll be fine. Honestly."
Brent rose quickly then. The sooner he went, the sooner he'd be back. "I'll hurry," he promised her.
"It might be nice if you explained this a bit further," she said.
"I'll tell you later. Promise."
He dressed quickly and headed for the door. She was out of bed, slipping into a robe. "Right—you need to lock the door after I've gone."
"Take my keys," she said. "I'll probably be sound asleep before you get back."
"You need to bolt the door," he said.
She grinned suddenly, looking sleepy, mussed, beautiful. "I don't think a real human being has been here. I mean, I don't think a living human being has been in here. I think it's just been Andy, hanging out."
"You still need to bolt the door," he repeated firmly.
"All right," she said. "You go ahead. But be forewarned. From now on, you'd better have explanations as to where you're going. And be careful. Do you think you're invincible? I don't see you wearing a gun belt."
"I don't have a gun on me, that's true."
"Then you're just as vulnerable as I am."
He decided not to correct her. Nikki was certainly no coward, but he was a lot tougher than she could ever dream of being.
But she was right. He should go back to the B & B for his gun. No. No time, he decided.
"I stand chastised," he said, and gave her the breath of a kiss on the forehead.
He waited outside until he heard the bolt slide home. As soon as he heard the click, he began to hurry.
As ever, the streets remained alive. Jazz drifting on the air. A few drunks calling out to one another, weaving down the street.
A man stepped out of a strip club and lit a cigar.
On a street corner near one of the major historic hotels, a young woman played a flute. She had a hat set out in front of her for tips. He dropped in a few dollars, even in his haste.
Reaching the cemetery, he hopped the wall.
The place seemed quiet.
Far too quiet.
Brent found a seat next to one of the larger mausoleums and waited, still and silent. In a few minutes, he began to notice the mist.
Not the kind that lay on the ground but startling pools of fog and light, flitting quickly from monument to tomb, around corners, out of sight.
He realized that the ghosts were keeping their own vigil.
The longer Brent sat, the more he began to see. The young woman who had offered to help Huey was on duty, moving like a sylph, eyes wide as she watched.
He saw an old pirate on a peg leg dissolve around a corner. Then a couple in Victorian garb.
But he didn't hear a voice. Or see a living soul.
