The Gift (7 page)

“Don’t you want to know if I like what I—”

“Stop right there.” He held his hand up, palm toward her. “My male ego can’t take another word.”

She leaned back on her arms, her breasts nicely displayed against the filmy fabric. “Okay, back to business, then. I’m stuck here while the rest of my clothes are at the Brubaker Arms.”

I’ll say.
“Pearl will find you some things.”

Beth plucked at the pink froth in her lap. “More like this? I think not.” She aimed a thumb at his jeans. “What size are your jeans?”

He lifted one corner of his mouth, and his gaze dipped to her slender hips. “They’d fall off of you.”

“I’d rather take my chances with your jeans than Barbie-doll hand-me-downs, if you don’t mind.” She grimaced and crossed her legs. “Now…about my backpack.”

“I’m sure it’s still in your car. I’ll get it.” Hell-bent on escape, he crossed the room, pausing with his hand on the knob to look back over his shoulder. “You’re welcome to continue your investigation fulltime, since you’re here, of course.”

“Thanks.” She grinned. “I fully intend to.”

Chuckling, he left the room and closed the door behind him. He glanced down the hall to ensure he was alone, then tugged on his belt to ease the pressure on his “package.”

Having Beth Dearborn in such close proximity was going to wreak havoc with his libido. Hell, he’d probably walk around like a sixteen-year-old with a never-ending hard-on.

But he couldn’t do that. He drew three deep breaths, reminding himself with each one why Beth was here: to learn the truth about Lorilee at long last—not to fulfill his sexual fantasies.

Sexual fantasies, my ass.
Ty Malone wasn’t a man who indulged in that crap. Self-disgust slithered through him.

For seven years he’d mourned his wife, raised his kids, and dealt with a town full of gossipmongers. One long-legged insurance investigator wasn’t going to change his life, even if she did like his “package.”

He paused on the landing and stared out the window at the bright morning. The rain had washed the air and left everything dazzling. Clouds skated along the mountain ridge to the east, but the rest of the sky was clear and bright.

No, Beth Dearborn wasn’t going to change his life.

That was what he wanted. Wasn’t it? Truth.

No matter what it is,
she’d said.

But were they ready to hear it?

Beth waited until the door clicked shut, then flopped back on the mattress with a groan. “Beth, you slut.” Why hadn’t she just grabbed the man and torn off his clothes when she had the chance?

She had enough to deal with already, without the ramifications of seducing a client. Or was he the subject of an investigation? Lord, she hoped not. Whatever. It all amounted to mixing business with
pleasure, any way she looked at it. And that was wrong with a capital
W.

But—whew!—the way he’d looked at her. Liquid heat swept through her, pooling low in her belly. When she’d walked over to the window, she hadn’t thought about the consequences of the sun spilling around her in the flimsy Barbie getup. Until she’d turned around and noticed the look in Ty’s eyes and the condition of his anatomy…

When she’d realized he could see right through the pink froth, she should have moved away from the window like a good girl. Or draped a sheet around her shoulders to cover herself. Like a lady…Yeah, right.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows and glanced down at her dark nipples, clearly visible through the tissue-thin material. “You hussy, you.”

No, she hadn’t moved away from the light or made any effort to cover herself. Instead, she’d flaunted her attributes right in front of Ty. Advertising.

Beth Dearborn smorgasbord—take what you want and leave what you don’t.

Oh, and he’d clearly wanted. A smile curved her lips as she recalled the blatant bulge in his jeans, the dangerous glitter in his eyes. This lusting problem was definitely not one-sided.

So just what the hell were they going to do about it?

She pushed to her feet, her headache and dizziness nothing but a memory, and returned to the window. Ty had the driver’s door to her car open and leaned across the front seat to grab her backpack. She always left it in the passenger seat when she drove, so she knew that was where he’d find it.

His jeans stretched nicely across his butt as he leaned into the car. A girl could do worse than a wild fling with a sexy farmer built like Ty Malone.

Resisting temptation, with temptation in her face day in and day out, would be damned near impossible. For both of them.

So maybe they shouldn’t resist. Get it over with and move on with the investigation. Was that the answer? Slake their lust and get it out of their systems?

“What the hell are you thinking, Dearborn?”

Of course, she knew damned well what she was thinking. The same thing she’d been thinking ever since he’d stopped to change her tire.

She wanted to have mind-numbing sex with that man. Tyrone Malone. Rhyming name or not. Damn.

She had an itch that demanded to be scratched, and she knew he had the same problem. They were both consenting adults, and—at least for now—they were stuck together under the same roof. Of course, there were the rug rats to consider, but they weren’t always underfoot.

Were they? Perish the thought.

Beth chewed the fingernail on her index finger as Ty straightened and slammed her car door. She was so confused—an unusual state for her, which pissed her off even more. Would sex with Ty really be as irresponsible as it sounded?

Probably. With a sigh, she returned to the bed and wrapped a sheet around her to wait for Ty and her backpack. She’d call her cousin Sam in Chicago on her cell phone. He was the only family she had left, and if ever she needed advice, it was today.

Not only was Sam Dearborn the only person close enough to her to confide in about Ty, but he was also
the only human on the planet who understood her family gift and why she had worked so hard to suppress it.

Furthermore, he was the only person on the planet she could tell about the spirit in the Malone entryway.

“Where the hell’d I put my glasses?” Sam Dearborn muttered as the phone rang for the third time. He squinted at the caller-ID display on his breakfast bar, then lunged for the cordless handset before voice mail answered. “Shit for timing, as usual, Cuz,” he said.

“Great to hear your voice, too, Sammy.”

He cringed. “That’s Professor to you.” He reached up to rake his fingers through his unruly mop, but encountered an obstacle. “Aha, my glasses.”

“Wearing them again and forgot?”

He could hear his cousin’s laughter across the miles, even after he’d set the phone down on the counter to retrieve his glasses from the top of his head and put them on his face, where they belonged. He picked up the receiver and said, “Let there be clarity.”

“Okay, now that you can see, can you also pay attention?” As usual, Beth’s tone said light-years more than her words.

“What is it, Beth? And where are you, anyway?” He shoved a pile of books off a bar stool and sat. “Did it ever occur to you that I’d like to know your whereabouts once in a blue moon?”

“You sound like my mother.”

Sam’s gut clenched. “Perish the thought.”

More laughter, but with a note of sadness this time—one Sam recognized far too well. “Come on, Beth. What’s up? Something’s wrong. I can tell.”

“Gee, you psychic or something?”

“Or something, and you damn well know it, smart-ass.” He leafed through the papers he’d graded before dawn, then slid them into his portfolio. “So give me a synopsis—I have a lecture at eleven.”

“I’m on assignment in Brubaker, Tennessee.”

“Where’s Brubaker?” Sam glanced at the digital clock on the microwave. He had forty minutes. He’d make it on time or die trying. “Near Memphis?”

“Other side of the state, near Knoxville.” She sighed into the phone.

“So, only a few leagues from civilization.” He listened to her breathe for a few seconds. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Someone is trying to make contact. You know. To engage me?”

“Aha!” Sam leapt off the bar stool and punched the air with his free hand. “So your gift isn’t gone. I
knew
it!”

“Don’t sound so frigging happy about this, damn you. I’m sure as hell not.”

“So you say,” Sam said, though he continued with his now-silent victory dance around his tiny kitchen. “Tell me what happened.”

He listened as his cousin described her two empathic encounters in the farmhouse foyer, and how at first she hadn’t been sure it was a spirit. “But now you’re certain?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah. Positive after last night.” She cleared her throat. “There’s more.”

“I’m listening.”

“You always do. That’s why I called.”

“I know.”

“A storm washed out the bridge, and I’m stuck out here until it’s repaired.”

“Fascinating. Fate steps in once again.”

“Fate, my ass.”

“Are you sure we’re related?”

“Ha. Ha.”

Sam rubbed his chin, remembering his cousin’s years on the Chicago police force. “Beth, you’re one of the best. If a spirit is trying to contact you, that means he or she—”

“She.”

“She…died violently. I don’t have to tell you that.” He set his portfolio and backpack by the front door and returned to the kitchen to turn off the lights, glancing again at the clock.

Twenty minutes. Shit.
“If you allow her to contact you, her cause of death may be resolved.”

“Sam, don’t you think I know that? This is exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid the last three years.” Her voice broke. “Sorry. Sorry. This isn’t your fault. I’m sorta wrung out.”

“I can tell. That storm you mentioned rattled you. Didn’t it?”

“Big-time.”

He scowled at the clock. He’d never get tenure if he didn’t make his classes on time. But this was only one class, and Beth needed him. Besides, she
never
asked for help. Not anymore. Not since she’d stopped drinking. He wasn’t about to turn her away when she needed him. Resigned to missing his class, he drew a deep breath and said, “Wait a minute.”

He momentarily put her line on hold and switched to text-message his graduate assistant.
Amy-Can’t come. U R on.
He returned to Beth. “I’m back.” A minute of silence stretched over the line. “Beth?”

“Oh, I’m still here.” She gave a nervous—a very un-Beth-like—laugh. “Well, see…there’s…this…man…”

“Whoa.” He slumped against the bar. “No kidding? Wow! That’s incredible. It must be serious for you to bother telling m—”

“It isn’t serious
that
way, Sam. Serious hormonal overload for both parties, I think.” She cleared her throat. “It’s serious because it’s
wrong.
He’s involved in the case.”

“Ah, now I understand. Perfect Detective Dearborn mustn’t mix business with pleasure.” He rolled his eyes, remembering how uptight she’d always been about that. “Let your hair down, Beth. You only live once. When was the last time you met a man who interested you enough to make you even consider taking such a risk?”

“Oh, gee, let me think. Like…never?”

“My point.” He glanced at the clock. He’d been right to surrender. Amy would do just fine, and she’d been dying to lecture. “And think more about this spirit, too. Will you?”

“Sam…Do you think you could fly down here and contact the spirit—find out what she wants and send her away?”

He released his breath very slowly. “Our gifts are different, Beth. You know that. If she’s trying to contact
you,
she may not have anything to share with
me.
”

“I thought of that, too.”

“I see…” Suspicion slithered through Sam and he stiffened. “Exactly
how
does this man figure into the case you’re investigating? And whose house is it?”

“Give the man a cigar.”

“Ah, so it’s like that.” Maybe good news, maybe bad. Sam needed to check out this guy. “So you’re staying in his house?”

“Yep, along with his three darling children and a housekeeper who rules all. Trust me, we’re well chaperoned.”

“How inconvenient.”

“Or maybe it’s a good thing.”

“I take it he’s single, at least.”

“Well…allegedly.”

“What?” Sam shook his head. “You’re talking riddles now, Cuz. Either he is or he isn’t.”

“Well, it depends on whether or not his wife is really dead.”

“Oh-
ho
! I get it now. This is the case you’re investigating…? Let me guess—he’s having his missing wife declared legally dead after all these long years?” Sam
definitely
had to meet this guy.

“Yup.”

“You certainly know how to get yourself into messes.”

“I do, don’t I?”

He bit his lower lip, hating to ask the next question, but it needed to be asked. “So…you having any trouble…you know?”

“Booze?” Brittle laughter rang over the line. “It’s okay to say it, Sam. I promise I am still clean and sober. Thanks for asking. And for caring…”

“And…can you stay that way while dealing with
the spirit in that house?” He swallowed hard, waiting for her answer.

“Why the hell do you think I asked you to come down here?” Her breathing quickened audibly. “I haven’t had to face anything like this in over three years, Sam. It drove me to Bourbonville once. I don’t want to go back there.”

“Then don’t. Just don’t.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Yes, it was easy for him to say, because he wasn’t powerless over alcohol. He’d gone through the treatment-program sessions with Beth as a family member. He’d read all the literature, taken all the counseling, and vowed to do whatever it took to help her stay sober.

And wasn’t that
exactly
what she’d just asked him to do? Damn.

“Can you hold out three more weeks until the end of semester?”

“That’s a long time to drag out the investigation.”

“Best I can do, with finals and all.”

“Are you saying you’ll come then?”

“Why the hell not? I’ve never been to Tennessee, and I’ll be due a vacation by that point.”

“The spirit seems to be confined to the foyer,” she said. “I’ll simply avoid the foyer.”

Sam had to laugh at that. “Strictly the back door for you?”

“Damn right.”

“Remember, she might not have anything to tell me, Beth. Only spirits with certain types of needs contact me, just as only certain ones contact you.”

Her sigh sounded weary now. “I know, Sam. Trust me, I know. We’ve both always known…”

“And what about the, uh, man?” He cleared his throat. “You, uh, going to be able to hold out on him, too?”

“I…I’m not sure I want to.”

“That’s one hell of a confession, coming from you,” Sam said quietly, no trace of mockery in his tone. “Just be careful. Okay?”

“Promise. Now I have to go to a birthday party. See you in three weeks.”

“Okay, three weeks. Bye, Beth.”

Sam punched the off button and stared for several minutes at the phone cradled in his palm. No sense in denying it. He was worried.

Surely his cousin had considered the probable identity of that spirit in the foyer…

One of the farmhands was taking his wife to Knoxville to run errands for several families, and it seemed like Beth’s best opportunity to get out of Lorilee’s Barbie-doll clothes. At Ty’s insistence, Beth gave him a shopping list that included her jeans and T-shirt sizes, a package of simple cotton panties, and a few pair of socks. She could get by with just her Nikes, and she usually went braless anyway. There was no way she would ask Ty Malone to buy her bras.

She’d added basic toiletries, some antacids, and more ibuprofen as well. After meeting Ty’s kids, she had a feeling she’d be needing plenty of those.

Besides Lorilee’s questionable taste, it made Beth more than a little uncomfortable to wear the late wife’s clothes while lusting after her husband. Whether the woman was dead or not…However, until the messengers returned from Knoxville Beth really had no choice. She glanced down at the Western-style
split skirt the wonderful Pearl had brought her this morning. It was a little loose at the waist, and hit just above her knees. She suspected it was intended to be worn midcalf. Obviously Lorilee hadn’t been anywhere near Beth’s almost six feet.

The white blouse had two patch pockets, one strategically placed over each breast. At least that was something. Otherwise, since white and braless was not a wise combination—unless she were auditioning for a wet-T-shirt contest—Beth would have been forced to attend a twelve-year-old boy’s birthday party as a sex-education visual aid.

The mothers of Brubaker would have run her out of town with tar and feathers for sure. Considering how those genteel Southern belles had turned on poor Lorilee, Beth could scarcely imagine their reaction to a damned Yankee, recovering alcoholic, former-detective, gun-toting, probable slut. The thought made her grin at her revolting reflection.

That Beth Dearborn is nothing but a Jezebel.

She chuckled and finished buttoning the blouse. Her Nikes looked pretty lame with this getup, but they’d have to do. Lorilee’s shoes were way too short and wide for Beth’s long, narrow feet. At least this outfit wasn’t pink, and there wasn’t a ruffle in sight.

She glanced at herself in the mirror. Wild hair somewhat tamed after a reviving shower, she didn’t look too bad. The goose egg on her forehead had diminished to nothing but a small purple knot now. It could have been much worse, and her headache was completely gone. No more nausea or dizziness either. All in all, she’d recovered very quickly.

Now all she had to do was avoid the damned foyer.

She bit her lower lip and swallowed the lump in her throat as she finished tucking in the blouse. Of course, it wouldn’t stay tucked with such a short tail.

“Okay, Beth, so ask yourself the question you’ve been avoiding,” she whispered as she retrieved some lip balm from her backpack. She uncapped the tube and smeared it on, then leaned her hip against the edge of the cherrywood dressing table.

Is the ghost in the foyer the long-absent Lorilee?

Beth sure as hell hoped not. How ironic was that? She might be able to shorten her investigation by weeks simply by engaging the spirit and solving the cause of death.

A sigh squeezed through her convulsing throat at the prospect.

But if Lorilee had died a violent death in her own home, and there was no body…

“Don’t go there, Dearborn.” She shoved away from the dressing table.
Wait for Sam. Wait for Sam. Wait for Sam.

She dropped the lip balm into her backpack and noticed her Glock. With kids in the house she had to put that someplace where curious fingers wouldn’t come across it. The Malone gang had already proven their moxie during their morning visit to her room. No telling what trouble they might find if she wasn’t around.

She had a shoulder holster, but that seemed like overkill in Brubaker. Another grin tugged at her lips. She could just imagine Pearl’s reaction, and the Glock didn’t exactly go with her outfit.

Well, that settled it. “Where I go, you go,” she muttered as she slung the backpack strap over her shoulder and headed into the hallway.

She made her way down the stairs toward the parlor, reacquainting herself with the floor plan as she went. Two sets of stairs—one going to the parlor at the front of the house, and one to the kitchen and the rear. No reason for her to ever venture into the foyer again until after Sam arrived.

Three weeks. She could do this.

But what if that spirit really was Lorilee? The fact that she was trying to contact Beth meant she’d died violently.

This is a hundred-and-something-year-old house.

She paused on the landing and stared out the window, drawing several deep breaths. The spirit in the foyer could have been there for a century, waiting for someone with Beth’s empathic gift to cross the threshold. No reason to believe it was Lorilee.

Except for the fact that Lorilee was missing and no body had ever been found.

Knock it off, Dearborn.

“Three frigging weeks. That’s all,” she whispered. Several cars were parked in front of the house, and the sound of kids’ laughter drifted up the stairs.