Dead People In Love (Haunted Hearts) (2 page)

“I’ve only been here a few minutes.”
 

“If there isn’t a ghost, we understand,” Olivia said in a voice like butter. “Donovan visits Rose often and he hasn’t once seen a ghost.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s senile.” Donovan half turned to his fiancée. “She told me about the ghost when I was young and she was as sharp as my crosscut saw. After my grandfather died, she supported herself and my father with her own stock picks.”

“Honey, didn’t you tell me you thought she was joking about the ghost? But now...” She shook her head. “The things she’s saying about your grandfather and the ghost...”

 
Cassie blinked but kept her mouth shut. Finally this was getting interesting. Donovan glanced at her, and she tried to make her expression blank. As if she weren’t committing every word they said to memory.

He took his arm from Olivia’s shoulder. “She’ll have to know.”

“Then let your grandmother tell her,” Olivia said.

“You know she won’t. She’ll pretend she never said it.”

“Never said what?” Rose’s entry into the living room was steady, though she carried a tray with a teapot, two cups and a plate of cookies.

Donovan hurried over to her and took the tray. “Grandma, you didn’t need to bring all of this.”

“You didn’t answer me.” She frowned. “I never said what?”

His features contracted into a painful toothache look.
 

“That your ghost is confused and you don’t like to talk about him,” Olivia said.

Donovan sent her a look of gratitude.

“What they’re trying
not
to say,” Rose said, her voice acerbic, “is that my husband killed my ghost.”

Cassie shifted her gaze to the disruptive air in the corner. The outline of a man nodded and smiled at Rose.

“Grandma,” Donovan said, “it’s crazy to think that Grandpa could’ve killed a ghost.”

“Not a ghost.” Rose’s face scrunched and she slowly sat on the couch. “Not a ghost,” she repeated in a murmur.
 

“A man!” a voice shouted from the ceiling. Cassie glanced up and saw the outline of a man but none of the others looked up. He peered down at Cassie, becoming more opaque by the second. Color flushed his heavily lined face and high forehead.
 

“Tell them,” he demanded. “Tell them I was a man when he killed me.”

This was becoming stranger and stranger. Cassie turned to the others. “The ghost was alive when Rose’s husband killed him.”

Olivia’s eyebrows contracted. “And how do you know that? You said you were only here for a moment.”

“The ghost just told me,” Cassie said, resigned to their disbelief. If she’d said “God just told me.” Or “Jesus,” Olivia would be nodding.

Jesus and God were much more socially acceptable than dead people.

“The ghost is talking to you, too?” Olivia’s gaze darted around but she shook her head. “I don’t hear or see anything.” She looked at Donovan. “Do you?”

He shook his head, peering around the room.

“Talking to ghosts is what I do,” Cassie said. She could see they didn’t believe her, but she was used to nonbelievers and no longer cared. The only thing she cared about was getting paid.

The ghost floated downward. “Tell Olivia I saw her looking for the manufacturer mark at the bottom of Rose’s Wedgewood vase last week. If it had been smaller, I don’t doubt that she would’ve slipped the vase into her purse and walked out with it. Tell her.”

“The ghost says you took an interest in Rose’s Wedgewood vase last week,” she said.

Olivia started, her breath sucking in, her eyes widening.

The next instant her skin was smooth, her eyes normal and she smiled slightly.

“I’m an interior decorator. I’m interested in beautiful items. I like to touch them.” She rested her hand on Donovan’s arm. When she spoke, her voice lowered to a steely caress. “And own what I can afford.”
 

“And what she can’t afford, she steals,” the ghost said. “Tell them.”

Cassie didn’t glance up at him. She didn’t let live men boss her around. She sure as hell wouldn’t take orders from a dead one.

“Tell them she has a gun in her purse,” the ghost said.

“The ghost says you have a gun in your purse,” Cassie said, unable to pass that up.

Olivia gave Donovan a startled glance. He shook his head, giving her an I-didn’t-say-anything gaze before turning to Cassie.

“She has to go into some bad parts of town for her job sometimes. The gun is her protection.”

“My father insisted,” Olivia said, her voice acerbic, her chin up. “Does the ghost have a problem with that?”

Rose’s mouth opened, a spark in her eyes. “His name is Herb,” Rose said, “and he—”
 

A knock on the hall door interrupted Rose. “Rose,” a young female voice called, “are you busy?”

Rose’s face lit up. “That’s my neighbor. Just a second. I’ll get that.”

While they waited for her return, no one spoke, not even the ghost. As if time were suspended. Donovan frowned at the entranceway to the hall. Olivia watched it with her body on alert in a way that reminded Cassie of a cat expecting an enemy.

A moment later, a woman followed Rose into the room. Black hair, velvet brown eyes, rosebud lips. She was thinner and taller than Cassie, but shorter and with more curves than Olivia. About the same age, Cassie thought. Late twenties, though she had nothing else in common. Wearing a bright red top, purple slacks and no makeup. Her face was wider than Olivia’s and she didn’t have a classic beauty. More like Gypsy Woman met Thrift Girl.
 

Her glance flickered to Cassie then Olivia and onto Donovan. Landing and staying there. Her lips parting.

He stared back at her, his eyes wide, his mouth open as if he was seeing something extraordinary.

Love at first sight,
Cassie thought with a mental groan.
I might have to poke my eyes out.

Chapter 3

Before Cassie could blink her endangered eyes, the woman’s gaze narrowed and her eyebrows slashed down. “Are you Rose’s grandson?” she demanded.

He ducked his head, like a dog caught chewing a favorite shoe. Olivia slid her hand around Donovan’s upper arm and pulled it close to her breast. Claiming ownership.

The woman turned to Rose. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look pale.”

“I’m fine, dear, thank you.” Rose gestured to Donovan and Olivia. “This is my neighbor across the hall, Bridget O’Malley. She’s condo-sitting for Alice, who’s in London with her newest husband. Bridget, this is my grandson, Donovan, and his fiancée, Olivia.

“Grandma’s mentioned you before,” Donovan said. “You’re using her oven.”

“Only until my new oven is installed.” The color in her cheekbones heightened.

“Alice lets you do this?” Olivia’s eyebrows rose.

“She’s thrilled that I’m putting in a new oven.”

Cassie watched them as if they were figures in a play, committing every word and expression to memory so she could repeat it to Luke.

“Olivia,” Rose raised her tone and her chin, “is that your business? Alice happens to be Bridget’s aunt, and she also loves to cook.”

Now it was Olivia’s turn to flush. “I’m trying to protect you.”

The look Rose gave her was not one that Mrs. Santa would ever use. “Really? Then why do I feel like you’re trying to smother me?”

Cassie wished she had a video camera. She glanced at the ghost staring in fascination. He was closer but had floated upward again. Clearly waiting to see what was going to happen next.

Apparently even dead men loved a cat fight.

Donovan shook his head, his mouth anguished. “Grandma, don’t do this. You’re killing me.”

“No, what you’re doing to me...” The fight left Rose’s face, the spark in her eyes dulled, her shoulders drooped, and her voice lowered to a melancholy whisper. “It’s you who are killing me.”

Suddenly the air felt heavy. Thick. Poisonous. Cassie’s stomach pretzeled and she put her hands over her belly. She no longer wished for a camera. She just wanted to get the hell out of this place.

What was happening here wasn’t funny anymore. It was real and it was ugly. Too close to what she’d gone through when she lived with her father, stepmother and half-brother.

Those days were over and she didn’t want to relive them. Even with a ghost thrown into the mix.

She picked up her purse. “Excuse me, but I’m leaving. I don’t have time for this. You’re all wasting my time.”

As they stared at her—a quick glance upward told her even the ghost was staring—she realized she was ready to walk out of the job. Something she’d never done before.

Before she married Luke she’d had more patience. And less money. And nothing else better to do.

She looked at Rose. “You don’t need a ghost therapist, Mrs. Bellington. You need a good lawyer. You sound sane to me. No one should have the right to put you in a nursing home. See your lawyer. I’m sure whatever you signed, you can revoke.”

Her head up, she scooped up her purse and strode away.
 

No one tried to stop her. Behind her, Bridget said, “Rose, one of my friends works at the D.A.’s. She’ll tell me the names of the best lawyer around. I won’t let them harm you.”

As Cassie opened the hall door, Olivia and Donovan spoke at the same time. Donovan’s tone rough and Olivia’s sharp. Then Rose joined them, hers wobbly but growing stronger.

Cassie stepped into the hall and slammed the door shut, the thick wood shutting off the voices. Beneath her blouse, her armpits prickled with heat and her heart was racing. As if she’d walked out of a nightmare.
 

Rose’s nightmare. Her own with her family was over because she’d walked away from them.

The reminder of how cruel families could be made her want to run, run, run. Run until she was at the hotel in Luke’s arms.

Thank God she wouldn’t have to go back to Rose’s place. Nothing Rose said would convince her.

Chapter 4

Cassie peered at her early morning visitors and felt as if she’d climbed halfway out of hell instead of the king-sized bed she’d shared with Luke. The evening with Luke’s friends at the blues bar last night had been surprisingly fun. They’d taken her at face value as the woman who was making Luke happy. That’s all they’d needed to accept her. Especially since he wasn’t normally a happy kind of a guy.

Neither was she. Not this morning, anyway. The third tequila sunrise last night had been a mistake for someone whose usual alcoholic intake was one glass of wine. Even without the throbbing in her right eye, she didn’t think she could bring herself to smile at Rose Bellington or Rose’s young neighbor, whose name she couldn’t recall. Both of them standing in the suite’s ultra modern sitting room, looking at her as if she were their last hope.

She didn’t want to be anyone’s last hope. At least, not any live person’s.

She crossed her arms. Luke was still snoring in their bedroom, in too deep of a sleep for the ringing cell phone to have bothered him. Or the ghost girl who kept telling Cassie to wake up, someone wanted to talk to her.

Right now, Cassie wished she would’ve ignored the ghost instead of picking up the phone and finding out the two women were in the lobby.

So here she was, wearing the black jeans and black top from last night. Easy to pick up from the chair she’d thrown them on, wiggling into them while the two women took the elevator to the eighth floor.

“We woke you,” Rose said. “I’m sorry.”

Her frowning friend didn’t look sorry. “We wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important.”

Rose’s eyes moistened. “I didn’t tell you everything yesterday.”

Alarm slithered up Cassie’s spine, waking her fully even without coffee. “I don’t want to know everything.”

“You have to. Once you do, you’ll understand.”

Cassie didn’t want to understand. She just wanted to get rid of last night’s clothes and crawl back under the covers and spoon up to her handsome and sexy and sometimes irritating but never boring husband. A man who surprisingly loved her, with all her prickles and distrust and a boat load of faults. A man she surprisingly loved, with all his prickles and distrust and a navy destroyer load of faults.

“Why aren’t you at the lawyer’s?” she asked, and immediately knew she’d said the wrong thing. Her question implied she wanted to hear the answer.
 

She opened her mouth to take the question back when Rose swayed. The other woman—Bridget, Cassie thought, her brain cells crawling out of their alcoholic sludge—put her arm around Rose’s back.

“May we sit?” Bridget asked.

“Of course,” Cassie said with a lack of enthusiasm that didn’t stop Rose from tottering to a pale buttery leather sofa. Bridget sat next to her. Both of them looked at her expectantly.
 

She took a chair across from them, the leather soft and welcoming, making it a tiny bit easy to relax. After all, she was the lucky one. Her start in life hadn’t been the smoothest, but she’d put that behind her. She was married to a man that other women swooned over and she had the best stepdaughter ever. Life was good. She didn’t need this kind of headache.