Somewhere I'll Find You (2 page)

But that had been during his lifetime – which had ended decades before
.

The spectral man’s lips curled into a smile when the dog moved to Erik’s feet, settling down with a great sigh.  Guardians they had been, guardians they would still be through times yet unseen.

The dog gazed up at his master, a silent question in his ey
es that the ghost read easily.

“You feel it too, don’t you, old friend?”  He stared out the window, his form a mixture of bl
ack and silver in the moonlight.
He was a
man and yet not quite a man.  “Something’s not quite right.”  His proud, sensual lips moved to form a grimace as he continued searching the night.  “What it is, I cannot say, but it feels familiar.  It feels . . . it feels like
her
.”  Again, that eerie feeling burst forth, bringing with it memories of a time long since past.  Catching his reflection in the glass, his dark eyes
burned
with a painful longing.  Time may have soldiered on – but he and the dog stayed the same.

In an industry filled with handsome men, Erik Fletcher had
once
been considered one of the most handsome.  There were few in Hollywood that could match his striking looks.  H
is features were evenly defined by
a high forehead, narrow
nose,
and square chin.  A thin wisp of a mustache gave him a roguish air that women found irresistible.  He had never lacked for female companionship. 
That
had never been his problem.  The problem was finding one who understood him when he rarely understood himself.

And then there was Jenny.  Jenny
,
with her smoky
gray
eyes, hair the color of gilded silver, and lips that always seemed to be on the verge of a smile.  Even when she’d been standing with her hands on her slender hips, using words more befitting a Marine, the corners of her mouth seemed always to hint at a smile.

Turning away, Erik slowly shook his head, his silhouette a hard profile of grief in the moonlight.  He was trapped.  Trapped in a world of darkness and misery that no mortal could ever understand.  And she was a luxury he couldn’t afford to remember.  A memory that mocked him – an insult to the vow that had kept him trapped for so many years.

Slowly shaking his head, Erik turned once more to the living room.  In his eyes, he saw it as it had once been.  Clean white sofas and chairs invited one to sink into their depths.  Tan and peach accents soothed the eye while a spectacular mirror spanned the length of one wall, bathing the room with the incredible light and color of the sun.

Looking out again into the darkness, he saw, instead of his faint reflection, a woman, her hair a streaming cloud of golden light, her eyes wide with fear.  Behind her were glittering lights that no mortal could see, and a hatred that coiled through the air like smoke.  Her hand stretched out in supplication, reaching out until her fingers
were
barely inches from his. 

Just as s
uddenly
,
she vanished, leaving only the sound of the wind scraping against the glass.

“I’ve lost her, Argo.”  The black clad figure cursed harshly.  “I’ve lost Jenny yet again.”

Wh
ining, the dog moved against his
master’s booted feet.

High overhead, a shooting star gleamed over the dark hills, a pinpoint of light against the velvety sky.  And in its passing came something cold and faceless.  An evil over a half-century old crept forward in silence toward the quiet house.

It took six rings from his cell to reach a corner of his sleeping brain.  By the eighth, he managed to slide a hand out from under the blankets.  He smacked wildly at the annoyance, finally gripping the phone on the walnut nightstand and pulling it under the covers with him.

“Lo.”

“It rang ten times.”

In the dimness provided by the blankets still tucked over his head, Michael Sinclair winced at the smug tone of those four words before a yawn swallowed most of his handsome face.  “Did?” he responded, foggily certain that most of his brain was still fast asleep.

“Ten times,” the voice affirmed, with more of that
complacent
amusement which Michael’s jet-lagged brain did not appreciate.  “One more ring and I’d have been calling hotel security.  I was seeing you lying in a pool of blood.”

“Not likely,” he managed as he snagged a pillow under his head.  “Was fast asleep and bolted in.  I’m not sure what time zone I’m in.”

“It’s nearly eight o’clock.”

“Where?”  His voice was dark and husky as it rumbled deep in his throat.

“In the sunny state of California.”

By then
,
Michael
had
recognized the voice as that of Miles O’Brian, his oldest friend – and a man who was currently number one on his shit list.  He yawned hugely again, and exhaled without bothering to cover the receiver.  “All right then, now that you’ve identified both my present location and, presumably, your own
…
what are you doing in California, anyway?
…
I assume that you had a very good reason for waking me so early.”  Smothering another yawn, Michael wished vehemently for a large cup of coffee, his hand sneaking out from beneath the covers to grab at the menu for room service that had been conveniently placed on the nearby bed stand.

“I should think I do
,” Miles replied smoothly
. 
“
The way I see it, you have exactly forty-five minutes to meet me for breakfast.  That is, unless you’ve given up on finding that girl of your dreams.”

Whatever else Miles had to say was lost when the cell slammed to the floor as Michael bolted from bed and sprinted into the nearby shower, praising the hotel gods as he did for providing the complimentary coffee pot and enough accessories to make a meager cup.

Allowing the hot water to beat the last of travel exhaustion from him, his mind drifted back to the dream woman who had haunted him for the past six months.  A beautiful woman with dark hair that swept over her shoulders and brown eyes flecked with gold.  Someone that haunted his dreams
, whom h
e only knew
by her name.
As determined as he was to discover if this woman had a presence in reality, finding her had proven to be a task even Hercules would have declined. Of course, being caught in the jungles of Brazil and then having to take a brief stint in S
omalia hadn’t helped matters, either
. 

His talent and training for security detail had been farmed out over the years to Interpol, the CIA, as well as other alphabet agencies.  He had helped with his skill but now, he had both the reputation and the finances to do whatever he pleased.  And what pleased him was finding this woman.

The irony that it had been
Miles,
who had finally found her
,
was not lost on Michael while he quickly dressed. Only once, over a night of sour mash, had he ever divulged his secret of the dreams that persisted.  It had been a confidence that he knew Miles would never breach – and
now Miles was assisting him in putting this mystery to rest once and for all.

A curious hush fell over the hotel restaurant when Michael strode in, a scowl creasing his brow. 
Filled with tourists
, as the room was
,
Michael’s well-tuned radar turned their happy faces into possible hostages and casualties instead of the innocent pictures they provided.
The scowl suited his face, with its sculptured lines and the slight imperfection of a nose that had been broken twice, the hard edge of his chin.  Behind shaded glasses, under arching black brows, his eyes were cool and jade green.  Those unusual eyes could hypnotize a woman with just a blink of dark
-
fringed lashes.  Sliding into a booth, he looked
curiously
at his old friend.

Despite the cool air, there was a flush to Miles’ florid face, while his watery blue eyes looked in disgust at the cup of tea that currently sat nearby.   “One of these days,” he moaned, dipping a soggy bag, “the Americans may learn to make a proper cuppa.”

“You should have ordered coffee instead.”  Gazing casually at the menu, Michael gave the hovering waiter his order before leaning back against the leather
booth
.  Years of experience had taught him that Miles had never been comfortable leaving his beloved country
. A
nd he never,
would
ever change.  The lure of exotic places, or even crossing the pond to the U.S. was something he abhorred.  So he could only be here now for one thing
– the information Michael had been seeking. 
But did he have to wake me up so bloody early to share it?  And if he
had to
, I don’t want any
blathering
.
   “Now,” Michael said aloud, humor and impatience battling in his eyes, “either you fill me in on why you chose to ruin any chances I might have had at lying-in today in a
real bed
, or I’m going to quietly, painfully, and with exquisite pleasure, strip the flesh from you until you beg for death.”

A weak smile creased Miles’ thin lips.  Although he knew that the threat was meaningless, he also knew that Michael was quite capable of carrying it out, and he wasn’t prepared to test the limits of his old friend’s patience.  Reaching into a well-worn briefcase, Miles slid a folder across the slick surface of the table.  “I believe you will find this interesting reading.”

Lifting a brow, Michael’s thumb ran gently over the manila colored dossier.  Flipping it open, his eyes narrowed in confusion at a photograph.  A plethora of roses rambled about a gracious home, weathered with age, wreathed in an almost mystical elegance.  “And why is this important to me?” he asked as he continued scanning the printed pages.

“It’s where your dream girl lives
. T
hat is, when she’s home.  While you were . . . out of touch, I did some checking of my own.  Your mystery woman is Paige O’Neal, a writer.  Her accolades and awards have her in quite high demand, as well as attracting the attention of important people on both sides of the pond.”

“What kind of attention?”  His words were quiet, even casual, as he sipped the coffee the waiter had placed at his hand.
 

As a large platter was set before him, Michael gazed at his breakfast only to discover that the omelet he had ordered had suddenly lost its attraction.  Closing the folder, he toyed with his fork, holding on to the fragile leash of his patience, watching as Miles dove into his own meal.

Miles chewed quietly for a few minutes, aware and pleased by Michael’s growing impatience.  “I’ll tell you what is
not
in that folder.”  Placing his fork carefully down, his eyes were suddenly grim.  “She seems to have knowledge  . . . information to which the average person has no access.  Oh, it’s glossed over in her cinema scripts, and in the novels she’s published, but . . .”

“But what?”  Toying with his knife, Michael thought of the various ways he could use it to torture Miles. 
Dear God, will the man get to the point before the end of next week?