In the Midnight Hour (18 page)

And Val thought he had rotten luck?

Okay, so Val’s luck was definitely worse than Ronnie’s.

She admitted that as she stood in the basement of the Louisiana State Archives building in Baton Rouge and stared at the death certificate on the microfiche screen. After doing her research on Claire, she’d decided to look up a few records on Val. Namely, his death certificate.

Murdered. Val had been
murdered
.

She felt as if someone had landed a sucker punch to her gut.

A voice chimed in, reminding her that this had happened one hundred and fifty years ago. Practically ancient history. Everyone had to die sometime, and murder was an everyday occurrence. The newspapers were filled with it.

The fact did little to console her. This wasn’t some unknown someone she’d read about in the newspaper. This was Val.

A ghost, she reassured herself. Just a ghost.

But one hundred and fifty years ago he’d been real. A living, breathing man. Until…

“Murdered. You were
murdered
.” She walked into the apartment late that night, after eight hours of shelving books, and speared him with an accusing gaze.

He sat in her recliner, long legs stretched out in front of him, booted ankles crossed. He looked so handsome, so vital, so
real
….

She shook away the disturbing thought and focused on the anger roiling inside her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The television set flipped off as he shifted his attention from the screen to her. “
You never asked, chérie
.”

She hadn’t. From the moment Val had first appeared to her, she hadn’t asked a thing about his past, about the man he’d been before …
before
. He’d started out as a dream, progressed to a ghost, and Ronnie had been determined to stop things there.

The more she knew of him, the more real he seemed.

The more distracting and all the more dangerous.

Don’t ask, she told herself. Just leave things alone, keep your mouth shut, and stick to your own problems. School, work, and the future
. “What happened?” Was that her sad, concerned voice? Geez, it was. Worse, it mirrored what she felt inside.

“
Do you really want to know?
”

“No, but I need to know.”

He stared at her long and hard before unfolding from the chair and pacing to the French doors. The handle clicked, glass swung aside, and Val stared at the street below.

“
It was a night just like this one. Clear. Hot. I was alone in my bed at Heaven’s Gate
.”

“Heaven’s Gate?”

“
My plantation. At one time, it was the biggest in all of Louisiana. It’s gone now, burned to the
ground
before the turn of the century. That bit of information was listed on the plaque
naming
my bed and its owner at the museum where I spent several years
.” He closed his eyes. “It’s
been so long, but I still remember Heaven’s Gate as if I’d just ridden across the grounds or sat down to dinner in the dining room. In my mind it’s
still
so clear. So beautiful
.”

“I’m sure it was.”

A sad smile curved his lips. “
My father put his life’s blood into that house. He came over from France in 1800, to make his fortune and keep my mother in the manner she was accustomed to. She was French royalty and she’d gone against her family, fled her home, to marry my father. He’d been a scholar, from a titled family, highly educated, and financially secure, but a far cry from royalty. My maman made him feel like a king and so he wanted to build a castle, and he did. The main house was beautiful, with twenty bedrooms and a grand ballroom
.”

Ronnie closed her eyes, and in her mind she could picture what it might have looked like. Rich brocade drapes, marble fireplaces, intricate friezework.

“Heaven’s Gate
seemed so huge and empty after my parents passed on and my sisters married
,” he went on. “
I became master of a thriving plantation. I grew tobacco aplenty, but that was the only thing these hands could cultivate
.” He shook his head as if trying to push away something better forgotten.

Ronnie couldn’t say she blamed him. He’d been murdered in his bed, according to the death certificate. This bed. “Oh my God,” she blurted out as the realization hit her. “I’ve been sleeping in a dead person’s bed!” She rubbed her arms, eager to dispel a sudden feeling of complete paranoia.

Val flashed her a grin. “
A ghost’s bed, and no need to worry, I didn’t bleed on the sheets. I fell to the floor. My hand was the only contact with the bed when Death claimed my body
.”

She blew out a deep breath and tried to calm her pounding heart. “That’s comforting
.”

“
For you, maybe, but I’m dead, remember?
”

If only she could. The trouble was, Ronnie kept forgetting that all-important fact. She kept seeing a man standing on her balcony, his tall, powerful form framed by the open French doors. She heard a man’s voice describing a hot, humid night long, long ago when he’d been awakened in the wee morning hours and ambushed by a group of angry citizens led by the town minister.

“So who actually shot you?”

“
The preacher himself
.”

“
The preacher murdered you?
”

“
He was a father before he was a preacher. I’d deflowered his virginal daughter and left her with child, or so he and the rest of the town thought
.”

“You never told me why they thought such a thing.”

“She made the accusation.
She said we spent one night together, the night of the town’s annual harvest festival. There was a grand ball at a nearby plantation, where I supposedly swept her off her feet and into bed.” He shook his head. “I remember the ball-room being stuffed with people. Women, in particular. I remember many faces, but not hers
.”

“And the great Valentine Tremaine never forgets a woman’s face.”

He nodded.

“Or a name,” she added, reminding him of his memory lapse a few days before.

He cast her a sharp glare. “
Unless I am severely distracted by scantily clad redheads bent on seduction
.”

She fought to hide her smile while he drew a deep breath and turned to stare over the balcony railing. “
I danced a few dances, kissed a delicious-looking woman in the garden, but otherwise
—”

“No Claire?”

“
Not that I can recall
.”

“And no flannel-wearing redheads?”

“
Thankfully, no
.”

“Then it’s safe to say your memory was probably intact,” she said. “What happened after the ball?”

“
I remember settling down to play cards in the library with the usual group, a few nearby plantation heads, men I knew through business dealings. I won a few hands, tossed down several drinks, and the rest is a blur. I awoke the next morning in a rundown cabin on the edge of my plantation
.”

“Alone?”

“
With the exception of one hellacious headache and a distinct impression on the sheets next to me where a woman had been
.”

“How do you know it was a woman?”

He gave her a heated look. “
The scent, chérie. I know a woman’s scent. But, alas, I did not know the identity of the woman, and there was no evidence that she’d been a virgin
.”

“Evidence?”

“Blood.”

“Oh.” She blushed, despite the fact that it was the nineties and she was a modern woman. Val made her feel so naïve with his vast experience. Worse, he made her feel hot. Bothered. Turned on. And with nothing more than a glance.

She cleared her throat. “Maybe it wasn’t her.”

“
That’s what I told the preacher when he demanded the truth. That there was a chance I’d done the deed, but also a chance I had not, and that I could not recall
.”

“And then?”

“He
shot me in my bed
.” He said the words so matter-of-factly, as if the past didn’t mean a thing.

It didn’t, not to her anyway. She cared only about the future. Her future. Her career.

That’s what she told herself, but she couldn’t help the ache that stirred in her chest at the sight of him, the rigid set to his shoulders, the sadness that haunted his expression.

“
So how did you find out about my untimely demise?
” he asked after a long silent moment.

“At the archives in Baton Rouge. I did some research on Claire, and while I was there, I looked up your death certificate.”

Hope lit his eyes as his gaze met hers. “Claire? Did
you find anything?
”

“A birth certificate. Val, there
was
a child born to a Claire Wilbur eight months to the day after your death.”

“
Mine
?”

Disappointment welled inside her. “I’m sorry. There was no father listed. Just the mother.”

He bolted to his feet and started to pace. “But
I need to know
. Merde! I have
to know. How can I rest with something like that hanging over my head? I cannot. I simply cannot!
”

“There’s nothing you can do to make amends, Val. It was a long time ago. You can’t let the guilt eat you up this way.”

“
Guilt?
” He turned an incredulous gaze on her. “
Is that what you think this is about?
”

“Isn’t it?”

“Bon Dieu, non!” He smiled. “It’s
hope, Veronique. Hope
.”

“You mean you want this child to be yours?”

His smile faded into serious contemplation. “Make
no mistake, I regret the circumstances surrounding the conception, but a child
. My
child
.” Sheer joy chased the sadness from his rugged features. “I could
never regret such a wondrous miracle. Tell me, was it a boy or a girl?
”

“A girl.”

“
A daughter?
” He closed his eyes as if relishing the information. “A daughter.”

“
I was the only son
,” he went on. “
The last hope to carry on my father’s name, but I failed. Until Claire. Maybe Claire
.” He shook his head, stark desperation creeping across his features. “
My spirit cannot rest until I know whether or not I did, indeed, sire a child
. My
child
.” He stared at her. “
Then I can cross over and finally be at peace. Then and only then
.”

The idea should have thrilled her. Val was temporary. Here today, gone tomorrow. Safe. Instead, the notion of his leaving left a dull ache in the pit of her stomach.

Because of her project. She couldn’t let him go until she’d finished her paper, and despite the fact that they’d reached step twenty with all the flirting techniques and the ten different kisses, they still weren’t even halfway to the Ultimate Fifty, and she had practically zero experiments to support what she’d learned.

She needed Val. In more ways than one, she added when he stared at her lips a fraction too long and she felt that funny tingling in the pit of her stomach. Anticipation. Excitement. Hunger. Full-blown, desperate, I-want-you-here-and-now hunger.

“
So what do we do now?
” he asked.

She took a long, deep breath and fought for control of her rebellious hormones. “It’s possible there are local records that might list Claire and/or Emma.”

“Emma?” He smiled, saying the name again as if testing it. “
Emma. That’s nice
.”

“I’ll drive over to Heaven’s Gate and see what I can find out next week. I’ve got Saturday morning off.”

His gaze met hers. “
Thank you, Veronique
.” The words, so quiet and desperate, tugged at something deep, deep inside her, beneath the lust and the raging hormones.

She fought the feeling back down. “Don’t say that.”

“
Why not?
”

“Because this arrangement is mutually beneficial. I help you, you help me. This is strictly a business arrangement.”

No sympathy. No compassion. No real feelings for a real man—make that
ghost
.

Just a ghost. A here-today, gone-tomorrow, no-strings-attached ghost.

“So what’s on the agenda for tonight, Professor Love?”

A wicked grin spread across his handsome face, and Ronnie’s blood rushed in anticipation. “
Kissing
,” he declared.

“But I thought we did kissing last night.”

“Oui,
but tonight’s the demonstration
.”

“This isn’t what I had in mind,” she said ten minutes later when Danny knocked on her door and Val said, “
Time for the demonstration
.”

“So what’s the emergency?” Danny asked when she let him in.

“Emergency?”