Glamour Girl (West Coast Girlz: Book Two) (4 page)

“So is that it?” he asked. “The big to-do?”

“To-do?”

“My range of vocabulary is astounding, isn’t it?” He put on a serious face, and that set Rosanna to laughing. He pulled her to him, fully into his lap.

“So you’re not mad at me?” She gazed up at him.

“No,” he said with a gentle shake of the head. He gave her a soft smile and then leaned in to kiss her. The touch of his lips filled her with delicious sensations. “You sure you have to leave?”

“No. Not entirely,” she whispered.

“Good.” He gathered her in his arms and snuggled her close. “In case you didn’t hear, your masquerade party idea is a hit.”

“It does sound like fun, doesn’t it?”

“Only if you’ll agree to be my date.” He reached for her, pulling her back to his mouth for more of his slow, drugging kisses.

“You’re very persuasive.” She giggled. “How could a girl say no after that?” Rosanna almost had to pinch herself to prove she wasn’t dreaming.

But if she was, she hoped she never woke up!

*Thank you for taking the time to read
Glamour Girl
. If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review at your favorite online retailer. Don’t miss the masquerade party in the final novella of the
West Coast Girlz
trilogy,
Party Girl
, where Casey Roberts will dance with a masked man who sweeps her off her feet. The trouble comes when she learns his true identity.*

*If you’d like to read an excerpt of my book
Incredible Dreams
, please turn the page*

INCREDIBLE DREAMS

by

Sandra Edwards

CHAPTER 1

THERE WASN’T A SINGLE GHOST
in the entire joint. But spirits—now that was another matter. Izzy Miller was well-acquainted with both. In her experience, the latter was harder to handle.

She paused in the doorway of the abandoned hangar and surveyed the vast, near-vacant interior. Dull, dingy windows smeared with grease and grime from years of neglect lined the top of the back wall and blocked out most of the sunbeams.

Slow, guarded steps led her just inside the entryway. Adjusting to the darkened interior took a few seconds. She fine-tuned her surroundings and blurry images of ancient aircraft flickered inside the hangar. The ghost planes disappeared before she could identify the aircraft, but she took them for World War II era, military.

Excitement surged through her veins and settled in her lungs. If there was something in here, it had been around a long time. Longer than the sprites and fairies that had begun to dive-bomb her head.

Shoo
. Izzy swatted at the pesky little creatures. They were worse than gnats. She hated sprites. Hated that they were present on ninety-five percent of her cases. Hated their meddling, interfering, disruptive ways.

Her cell phone vibrated inside the bag hanging off her shoulder. She let it go to voice mail. Whoever it was could wait. Nothing was more important than her current project. The United States Air Force had offered a big fat bonus if she cleared the hangar by the end of the month. Not that money was her driving force. The challenge fueled her motivation. Always had. Always would.

Izzy wandered through the deserted hangar, soaking up every inkling, letting everything, seen and unseen alike, penetrate her senses.

Dust and cobwebs covering the remains of old furniture tickled her nose. The musty scent of neglect threatened to bring on a sneezing attack.

Her escort Lt. Harry Stark had been quietly transferring several boxes from his car to the hangar’s interior. Now, back by her side, he let out a noise that sounded like a cross between a cough and a gurgle.

“So, you’re a ghost-buster?” The lieutenant’s laughter rippled through the air and chafed her ego. Why would the Air Force send her a skeptic?

“If you mean like in the movie
...
no,” Izzy said between intermittent nasal spasms and turned her back on her companion. The sneeze swelled inside her head and exploded. She covered her face. A loud, hearty kerchoo echoed around the hangar like a racquet ball.

The lieutenant whipped out a handkerchief. Taking it, she wondered if he was always this efficient.

A wave of light shimmered and swirled behind him. Damn sprites. The lieutenant’s face paled, and Izzy suspected the nymph had tapped him on the shoulder. He stiffened and jerked around, inspecting the space behind him. The sprite twisted with him, staying at his back. He pivoted around, tugged at his uniform and let out a stretched sigh.

She wiped her nose, shot an over-practiced glare at the nymph, and beckoned the lieutenant to follow. “What I do isn’t quite so dramatic, nor do I have the aid of technological equipment that borders on science fiction.” Izzy kept her tone calm, constant and methodical. Strolling through the hangar, she gravitated toward a partition along the back wall. “I’m a spiritual therapist. I remove ghosts or apparitions, and convince spirits to cross over.”

“So you’re like that girl on TV? The one who talks to the dead and gets them to go to the light...all in an hour.” His eyes narrowed and his tone hinted at mockery.

Izzy let it go and focused on his paranormal education instead. “Sort of. But they don’t come to me. I go to them.” The sprite circled his head and she ignored it. “I’m surprised you’ve never heard of me. All branches of the United States military have been using my services for nearly five years.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of you.” Doubt shuddered off his tone. The sprite shot through his head. Lieutenant Stark let out a sharp gasp and spun around like a speeding top. Of course, there was nothing for him to see. She almost felt sorry for him as he wound down and stopped in front of her, looking like a helpless child in a playground full of bullies.

Izzy knew he hadn’t seen anything. The sprites weren’t going to reveal themselves to him, and that warranted a smile. “You okay, Lieutenant?” False concern masked her amusement.

“Y-yes.” His voice cracked, his stance straightened and his chest inflated in a manner that suggested—no, insisted—he was not spooked.

Izzy turned away from the lieutenant to keep from laughing in his face. Her gaze drifted to the far wall displaying a group of old black and white photographs, images of pilots long since forgotten. She moved from picture to picture, a step at a time, and stared into the face of each flyer.

She paused a little longer on the boldly handsome man who stood out amongst the others. His mouth curled into an attractive smile, forever on the edge of laughter.

Sadness slammed Izzy. Sorrow stole her breath away. She tried to recover, struggled for every hard-earned mouthful of air, each eclipsed by the fear that it was her last.

The flyer’s eyes, dark and intriguing, gave the impression of lighting up. An invisible gleam trailed out, enveloping Izzy in a blanket of comfort.

“Who is he?” She pointed to the flyer’s picture.

Lieutenant Stark lingered at her side and shifted into an
at ease
stance with his legs apart and his hands crossed behind his back. “Captain Jack Baker,” he said with clout. “A flyer during the Second World War. He was quite the hero.”

The sprite danced around the lieutenant’s head, teasing Izzy with threats of piercing the man’s body again.

She disregarded the creature and remained fixated on the man in the photograph. “What happened to him?” Loneliness swept through Izzy and stalled inside her heart where it intensified with an emptiness she’d never experienced but felt she knew just the same.

“I believe he was killed during a training exercise.”

“Details?” She tried to pull her gaze from the flyer’s picture. She wanted to look at the lieutenant now instead of catching glimpses of him in her peripheral vision. She managed to direct her attention to the man before her, but her thoughts remained on the one in the photograph.

The lieutenant wavered as he rocked on his heels. “Well, I’m not privy to all the particulars, but the United States military is known for its record-keeping.”

The thought of not wanting to leave the hangar washed over her like a warm summer rain. While scintillating at first, once she got used to it she welcomed it, embraced it, reveled in it. “I’d like to read the records here, please.”

“That much was anticipated.” He gestured toward an office on the other side of the wall of photographs. “They’re on the desk.”

“Thank you.” She stepped toward the office door and stopped to look back at the lieutenant. “May I?” she asked, nodding at the flyer’s photograph.

The lieutenant folded his arms over his chest; his indifference emerged in a quick, tilting shrug. “Be my guest.”

Izzy reached for the picture and a nameless energy rippled through her. Her legs congealed as if she were stuck in quicksand.

She had her phantom. His will was strong, stronger than anything she’d ever encountered. Raw, primitive grit pushed her trembling hands to remove the photograph from the wall.

“Are you all right, Miss?” The lieutenant’s brow crinkled with lines of concern, fatigue and fear.

Izzy didn’t have time to worry about his state of mind. Thanks to the government’s deadline she had no time to give, no energy to waste. When it came to spiritual therapy, no energy—neither mental nor physical—could afford to be divided. Even a smidgeon focused elsewhere could prove disastrous.

“I’m fine.” She clutched the picture frame to her chest, fighting the urge to look into the eyes of the ill-fated flyer. The lieutenant was a meager alternative, if not disheartening. But she concentrated on him anyway, needing a distraction from the spirit’s powerful influence. “There’s definitely something here...someone.” Not to mention all those damned sprites and fairies.

“You mean, like a ghost?” As if he wasn’t already frazzled enough, the mention of the word
ghost
sprouted perspiration on his forehead. He retrieved another handkerchief from his pocket and began swabbing his brow.

“No, not a ghost.” Izzy shook her head. “It’s a spirit.”

“There’s a difference?” He followed her into the office.

“Yes.” Sitting in a chair by the door, she let her senses relax and get a feel for the spirit, his motives, his desires. His whole life—at least the part that led to his death—must have been encapsulated in the three boxes sitting on the desk, all dust free.
The flyer’s records
?
Wow, he must’ve been some kind of hotshot
. Obviously, the Air Force knew the identity of the spirit, getting rid of him was another matter. She drew a breath, long and deep, in hopes of tempering the awestruck feeling her target had generated. “Ghosts or apparitions are what I like to call reruns.”

“Reruns?” The lieutenant raised his bushy eyebrows.

“The deceased’s presence isn’t really here. It’s more like a memory.”

“A memory?” he echoed, but not nearly as confident.

A second sprite joined the first and they swarmed around the lieutenant’s head. Damn nuisances. Irritation crept up Izzy’s gut. She cleared her throat as if she could cast it and the sprites aside. The willful creatures bounced off each other and zipped around the lieutenant. Izzy damned them with silent curses. Curses that could send them to the deepest, darkest neighborhood of nonexistence.

Go ahead, have your fun. I’ll deal with you later.

The sprites vanished.

They left, but she doubted for good. They never gave up easily. They’d be back.

For now, she settled on the lieutenant. “Sometimes, we become so attached to the place we lived that a piece of our existence remains there. But it’s not live
,
it’s like a recording. It’s as if someone snapped a picture and placed it on an airwave that not everyone can see.”

Lieutenant Stark snorted. “So how do you explain lights turning on and off? Or doors opening when no one’s there?”

“Spirit.”

“Spirit.” Wide eyes became permanently stretched upon his weary face.

“The deceased’s soul stays behind. They have unfinished—” Her words stopped, brutalized by sadness. Sadness that stabbed at her head and her heart, and strove to get to her core. The blade of sorrow felt sharp and she doubted her composure could last much longer.

The flyer’s unfinished business must have been a doozie, it had kept him there all this time. She looked at the photograph, captured by his penetrating eyes. So lonely. So lovely. So lost. The world around her faded just outside cognitive awareness.

Izzy ached for the man in the picture. Ghost-busting had always drained her strength of mind, but never her strength of character. Until now. Now, it sapped her wisdom and sucked it out through her pores. Anguish gathered in watery pools around her eyes, stinging them at first and then raining down in hot, hushed tears. The thought of this man’s death shattered her heart like a powerful wind scattering the delicate blossoms of a dandelion.