Haunting Ellie (20 page)

“What is it you intend to accomplish with all this primping?”

Oh, God! She closed her eyes, afraid to open them, fearing the dark silhouette which had just appeared behind her shoulder.

“Open your eyes, Elizabeth. I will not harm you.”

Something touched her shoulder. Fingers? A hand?

It stroked her hair, and she could feel it lifting one end of the heavy mass of hair. She tensed and pulled air deep into her lungs. What would the spirit do next?

“Please. Go away,” she begged, her voice quivering.

“I’ve told you before: I have nowhere else to go. Please. Don’t be frightened.”

Slowly she opened her eyes, hoping the vision would be gone.

She saw him in the mirror, no longer a transparent thing but something real, with substance and depth. She studied his face, his form, while her breathing calmed. He stood perfectly still, as if he wanted her to take her time and get to know him before he spoke or moved again.

He was clean-shaven except for the droopy mustache trimmed evenly over his upper lip and hanging down at the corners of his mouth. It looked like the tips had just been waxed and curled. His face was slender, his cheeks a bit hollow, and dark blond hair had been parted slightly off center and slicked back behind his ears. It waved over the collar of the black coat that hung nearly to his knees. He wore a stiff-collared white shirt buttoned
tightly around his neck and a black string tie. His fitted black vest was adorned with a silver chain that looped from a button at his chest and disappeared behind the front of his coat. She half expected him to pull a watch out of his pocket and stare at the time, maybe wish her good day, like a proper Western gentleman, and disappear.

But he didn’t.

Elizabeth twisted around in her seat, but the man who stood behind her still didn’t move, not a muscle, not a twitch, even when she stared at the trousers that hung trim and well fit over his legs, all the way down to the toe of his spit-polished and shined black boots.

“I bought these things to get married in,” the man told her.

Her frightened eyes shot back up to his face. This was the man who cried at night, who called out for Amanda. The man who’d asked for help. But who is he? she wondered.

“I kno
w your next question,” he said. “‘Who am I?’ you want to ask, but you’re too afraid to speak.” He tucked one hand in the pocket of his trousers and wandered pensively toward the fireplace. He turned toward her and leaned against the marble. “Just sit quietly,” he said. “Try to calm yourself, and I’ll attempt to explain.”

Elizabeth could see him quite plainly now. She could hear the timbre of his voice, no longer a haunting echo that reverberated through the hotel. She could see the sparkling blue depths of his eyes that gazed at her with humor and warmth and sadness. But she didn’t want to believe he was real, standing in her room looking at her, talking to her.

Maybe she belonged on that psychiatrist’s couch again. But she hadn’t imagined what had happened a year ago; she wasn’t imagining this now. She closed her eyes tightly and wished him away. She didn’t want to live with a ghost; she didn’t want him spying on her, scaring her, or spending his nights pacing her room. She just wanted him out of her hotel, out of her life.

Opening one eye just a crack, she prayed he’d be gone. Unfortunately, her prayer went unanswered. Her visitor leaned against the fireplace with a wide, insufferable grin on his face.

“I’m the late, great Alexander Stewart, at your service, Elizabeth.” His grand and glorious bow made her smile. His name, though, struck a chord of fear within her.

She frowned, and her lip began to quiver again. “I don’t want you here, Mr. Stewart. I know about you.”

He laughed. The walls shook. “I know you’ve heard stories about me, but they’re lies. All lies.” He paced the room, his hands behind his back, his head tilted down, and finally returned to the fireplace. When he looked at her again, she saw fire in his bright blue eyes. “Contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t a thief.” His voice grew louder. “I wasn’t a murderer, either, or a blasted scoundrel. And I didn’t leave my intended standing at the altar.”

“But you didn’t marry her.”

“No.” He looked down, and just as Elizabeth envisioned, he pulled a watch from his pocket, popped open the cover, and stared at the time. Or was he looking at something else inside? He closed the watch again and pushed it back into the small
pocket of his vest. “No, I didn’t marry Amanda.”

“You ran away,” Elizabeth blurted, angry that he could have done such a thing.

“I didn’t run—”

The grandfather clock struck the hour, interrupting his words. “Maybe the stories I’ve heard haven’t been true, Mr. Stewart.”

“Of course they’re not true! I’ve just told you that.”

“I know. But please, could we talk some other time? I’m expecting someone. I need to get ready.”

Oh, Lord! She wanted to know more about Alexander Stewart, but Jon was probably on his way right now. She couldn’t tell him to wait. She couldn’t tell him she had a ghostly visitor she needed to talk with. As much as she wanted to talk to her present companion, she wanted to be with Jon even more. But how could she tell a ghost to leave? Be straightforward, Elizabeth. Don’t let him get the upper hand—not the way you gave it to Matt Winchester.

“Could you please leave, Alexander?” she asked, with as much authority as she could muster, under the circumstances.

He folded his arms across his chest and didn’t move.

She expelled a frustrated breath. Her fear seemed to be leaving—but not her companion.

There wasn’t time to argue; she had to get ready.

Crossing the room, she stopped in front of the antique cabinet where she’d hung her clothes. “Look, I’ve got to get dressed. Could you leave—this room at least? Maybe we could discuss all this tomorrow.”

“Very well.”

She t
urned and he was gone, but his quick acquiescence unnerved her. “Thank you,” she said to the empty space where he’d been just a second before. Had he really been there? she wondered. It all seemed so unreal. She wanted to believe, yet at the back of her mind, once again, were the psychiatrist’s words about stress and loneliness.

No, it had to be real, but she would never admit it to anyone.

Sighing deeply, she pushed blouse after blouse aside until she settled on a red linen jumpsuit to wear under the white wool Eisenhower jacket with gold military buttons that she’d found in a thrift store on Sunset. The outfit went perfectly with her red leather boots, the ones Jon liked, the ones that weren’t worth diddly when it came to walking outside in the snow. What did it matter, though? Jon Winchester looked like he could lift her in the palm of his hand and carry her across the ice. She halfway hoped that he would.

She slipped out of her robe and hung it on the peg just inside the cabinet door and slid her legs into the jumpsuit, pulling it up slowly over red silk tap pants that she found much more comfortable than bikinis or briefs.

“Nice birthmark.”

Elizabeth slapped her hand over the strawberry-colored crescent moon peaking over the red lace of her bra. She turned around, one hand gripping the waist of her jumpsuit to her stomach, the other attempting to cover her breasts. Alexander Stewart had reappeared, looking just as healthy and real as any warm-blooded American male.

“I thought you’d left,” Elizabeth stammered.

“You thought wrong. I’ve been here all along. Actually, I’ve watched you for weeks. You should dress more warmly, you know. Personally, I prefer ruffled flannel nightgowns to those flimsy bits of silk you wear.”

That did it. She gritted her teeth and forgot all about covering her birthmark or any other part of her anatomy. Instead, she tried shooing him out of her room with a pointed finger. “Out! Now!”

Alex swooped to the top of his favorite marble mantel and stretched out, carefree and smirking. “There’s not a thing you can do to me, Elizabeth.
And, thunder and tarnation, there’s not a thing I can do to you, even if I wanted to—which I don’t. So you might as well continue dressing.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Mr. Stewart,” Elizabeth said, with more calm than she felt. “Personally, I’d prefer it if you left.”

“Even if I followed your suggestion and disappeared, I just might stick around and let you wonder if I'm still here watching. Haven’t had company in too long a time. Don’t rightly think I’m gonna disappear now.”

Elizabeth blew out her frustration and shrugged into her jumpsuit, turning her back to the apparition
resting on top the mantel. This couldn’t
really
be happening. A ghost was one thing, but a ghost watching her dress was another thing completely.

“I suppose you plan on wearing those red boots, too?”

“What difference does it make to you?”

“Not much. But that fellow you’re gussying up
for was taking a mighty keen interest in those boots. Taking a mighty keen interest in other things, too. I don’t think it’s such a good idea, you getting yourself all worked up over him.”

“Why not?”

“I told you before. He’s a Winchester.”

“Yeah, and I wish you were a figment of my imagination.” She sat on the edge of the bed and yanked on her boots, trying her best to ignore the man in her room. But she couldn’t. His glaring eyes beat against her back. She jerked around. “What do you want? Why are you bugging me?”

“Bugging? I’m not quite sure I know that word.”

“It means annoying,” she blurted out. “You’re driving me crazy.”

He nodded. “Yep, just as I intended. As for what do I want from you, well, I want you to help me get out of this place.”

“And how do you propose I do that?”

“I don’t have a clue. I’ve been trying for one hundred years and haven’t yet been successful. But this time I know it’s going to work. You’re the one I’ve been waiting for. I’ve felt it for days now.”

“Felt what?”

Elizabeth jumped at the knock on the downstairs door, and Alex swooped from the mantel to stand right smack in front of her. Again she noticed his eyes... startling blue, and they seemed to burn into hers. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

The knock sounded again. Elizabeth tore her gaze away. Part of her wanted to run down to
the door and throw herself into Jon’s arms and ask him for protection. But she felt no real threat from Alexander Stewart. She sensed his anguish; his desperation.
She knew what it felt like to be trapped, with no way out.

Feeling nothing but compassion for the ghostly presence, she found herself nodding
. “If I can help, I will.”

“Thank you.”

A tear falling from his eye wasn’t any more possible than his being a ghost, but she thought for sure she’d seen water pooling in the comers of his eyes and a drop sliding down his cheek.

She reac
hed out to touch him but stopped inches from his face, realizing the foolishness of her move. She couldn't touch him. Not now. Probably never. She smiled softly. “We’ll talk about this when I get home tonight. I promise. Is that good enough?”

He nodded slowly and faded from view.

Oh, Lord!
she inwardly sighed.
I haven’t helped anyone in a good long time, and I’ve got the crazy feeling this isn’t the place to begin.

oOo

Elizabeth looked like a million bucks when she opened the door. Damn, he liked red. Jon might have told her so if she hadn’t slammed the door behind her. “Are you ready to go?” she asked, a bit out of breath.

“Are you in a hurry?”

“I’m starving. Can’t wait to eat.” She latched onto his arm and pulled him halfway down the stairs. “Where’s your truck?” she asked, stopping suddenly when they reached the street.

“At home. Another storm’s coming in. Thought we should stick around town.”

“Okay, fine. Anywhere but my place. I’ve been there too much lately and really need to get away.”

She put one red hooker boot on the icy pavement and slipped, falling backward right into his waiting arms. The moment couldn’t have been better, he
decided. He lifted her slowly and easily, turning her toward him. He held her tight... very, very tight... and with a gloved finger tilted her face so he could see the warmth in her amber eyes.

“You’re very beautiful, Ellie.” He didn’t waste time listening for a response. He lowered his head and captured her lips—soft, full, gentle. His imagination had drummed up
a thousand thoughts of what this kiss would be like, but his fantasies were nowhere close to the real thing. There was power and desire in her touch—and this wasn’t even a fullblown kiss. This one was tender and only a prelude of what was to come.

Slowly, he moved away, but his gaze stayed on her face, on the eyelids that had closed, on the ebony lashes that rested against porcelain skin, on the tinge of red on her nose and cheeks. “Cold?” he asked.

“No,” she whispered. Her eyes opened, and he saw the depths of the passion he’d just tasted, along with the slow, lovely smile that touched her lips. “I haven’t been cold since you entered my life.”