The Haunting of Josie (11 page)

She fell asleep around four
A.M
., having finished the biography of Luke Westbrook and having spent half an hour after reading it staring at the ceiling above her bed.

Luke’s bed.

Her dreams were unsettled, which was hardly surprising. Keys were everywhere, hung by faded loops of ribbon from doorknobs and light switches. And then there were the men. If it wasn’t a handsome lawyer trying to kiss her in every dark corner of the house, it was a handsome ghost beckoning urgently—and all the time an enigmatic black cat kept appearing suddenly wherever she happened to be and grinning at her like a cross between the Grinch and the Cheshire cat.

By nine Josie was up and in the shower, trying to wash away the gritty-eyed feeling of fatigue that came from too little sleep and too many problems chasing their own tails. She was drinking coffee and eating toast in the kitchen when the crunch of gravel alerted her to the arrival of a visitor, but by the time she made it to a front window, all she saw was a rather nice Jeep Cherokee parked near her van.

After an anxious moment she realized it must be one of Marc’s friends, and when she returned to the kitchen and looked out the back window, she saw a tall, casually dressed blond man passing through the garden toward the cottage. She thought, but wasn’t sure, that he carried a little black bag.

The doctor friend? It seemed likely.

Josie would have liked to meet him, but she was a long way from being ready to face Marc. The vulnerability of last night was still very much with her, and she was no closer to understanding how he could have such an overwhelming effect on her.

There was a large part of her that shied away from even considering the matter, a part that reminded her she had a task to complete and couldn’t allow any distraction—even a devastating lawyer or an insistent ghost—to sidetrack her.

Which was all very well and good, but an hour or so later, as she attempted to work in the front parlor, Josie discovered that she had filled a page of a legal pad with doodles of keys, quill pens, and—most surprisingly of all—a rather good sketch of a handsome, dramatic face with a widow’s peak and light, striking eyes.

“This is absurd,” she told Pendragon, who was sitting companionably at the other end of the couch. “Three men fighting for my attention, and two of them are dead.”

“Yaaa-woo,” the cat said softly.

Sensing commiseration, Josie smiled at him. “Thanks, pal. But something a little more constructive would be nice. Like a suggestion.”

Apparently, all Pendragon could offer was sympathy, since he began washing a forepaw methodically.

Josie sighed and studied the legal pad. She certainly didn’t need an expert to tell her that her mind was indeed filled with turmoil. She also didn’t need that same expert to point out that, given a choice between the grim task of reliving her father’s tragedy and exploring the mystery of Luke and her growing fascination with Marc, Josie was naturally leaning toward the Westbrook men.

Even if Marc left her confused and unsure of herself, there was also more than a thread of exhilaration and the inescapable temptation to experience a kind of passion unlike anything she had ever felt before.

As for Luke, the puzzle of what he required of her was intriguing enough even without the eeriness of his being a ghost, and she
did
want to get that situation resolved.

“It’s very simple, really,” she told Pendragon, this time in a tone of relief. “The short-term problems should be dealt with first. That means Luke. At least, I hope he’s short-term. Anyway, he’s obviously not going to leave me in peace until I do whatever it is he wants me to do. Right?”

“Yah,” the cat replied.

Josie eyed him suspiciously.

Pendragon blinked, then said, “Mmaaarrc?”

After a startled moment Josie said, “Cats
never
use
k
sounds or hard
c
’s. Never.”

“Mmaaarrc,” Pendragon repeated, quite distinctly, almost coughing the difficult hard
c.

Josie decided that she had spent entirely too much time talking to the cat. Because she was sure he had said “Marc,” and that was, naturally, ridiculous. Even so, she heard herself ask uneasily, “What about him?”

“Prruptt,” Pendragon replied, lapsing back into cat.

She was about to ask him to clarify that, when he started suddenly and jumped down from the couch, hurrying from the room as if he had abruptly remembered an appointment.

Josie shook her head bemusedly as she gazed after him, then looked back at the legal pad. Well. The logic definitely made sense. She would temporarily postpone the work of putting together the case to vindicate her father; she had a year, after all. And she would concentrate on solving the mystery of Luke Westbrook.

What about Marc?

Her mind wanted to shy away, but she held it firmly as though it were a skittish horse. Marc. She thought Marc would be every bit as insistent as his ancestor; it seemed to run in the family. He wanted her, and he’d made her admit she wanted him. Out loud, so she could hardly deny it now.

Did she even want to?

Think it through.

In no more than two or three weeks Marc would return to his law practice and his apartment in Richmond. He might come out here for the occasional weekend, but it was really too far from the city to be a convenient weekend retreat. So…even if they became lovers, time would end it eventually. Gradually, inevitably, he would be occupied by his busy life in the city.

Inevitably, there’d be no room for her.

Josie felt her lips twist in a painful smile. Ironic. She had no room in
her
for the consuming demands of a love affair, no emotional energy to spare, but if she gave in to what he made her feel and accepted at least the overwhelming physical passion he offered, it would very likely be the demands of
his
life that would ultimately end it.

Give him the benefit of the doubt and say he really wasn’t interested in a brief affair; his definition of “lasting” could be anything more than a long weekend. And certainly, no matter what aberrant fixation he’d developed on her, it was highly unlikely that a dramatically handsome, sinfully charming, and irresistibly sexy lawyer would be at all interested in someone like her once he could return to his normal life.

The thought of endings hurt, and Josie told herself sternly that it shouldn’t. They were both adults, after all. Both past the age of disguising perfectly normal and healthy lust beneath the pretty wrappings of euphemisms. He wanted her; she wanted him; and there was certainly a spark between them.

So—why not? As long as they were both responsible, as one had to be these days, and as long as both of them understood that nothing lasting would come of it, then…why not?

She forced her mind into a matter-of-fact mode. Being responsible, now, that might prove difficult under the present circumstances. She certainly hadn’t come out here prepared for an affair, and she doubted that Marc had. Of course, after last night Marc could have no doubt that he would, eventually, wind up in her bed, and he was undoubtedly a responsible man. And his friend the doctor was visiting him now, and doctors were rabid on the subject of protection.

As they should be.

Her matter-of-fact mode slipped away, and Josie sighed a bit raggedly. Why did it all have to be so complicated? She didn’t want to
feel
anything, not deep inside where all the painful, raw emotions already lived, taking up so much room and demanding so much of her energy. All she wanted to feel were the simple physical pleasures of a healthy young body.

And why did that seem so wrong?

She put the legal pad facedown on the couch and left the parlor, taking her coffee cup back to the kitchen. Not because she needed the caffeine, but because she simply needed to move. Her restlessness drove her to move about the house aimlessly with another cup of coffee, until she was drawn to a front window by the crunch of gravel.

The Jeep was leaving—with two men inside. The doctor friend was apparently taking Marc somewhere. For the first time Josie wondered where Marc’s car was. Surely he hadn’t been out here without a car?

When the Jeep was gone, she felt unexpectedly lonely. Even when Marc hadn’t been with her, she had been aware of his nearness just across the garden in the cottage, and apparently she’d gotten used to it during the last week. Only a week…

She got a grip on herself. What time was it? A little after noon. Lunch first, and then she’d study the last couple of chapters of Luke Westbrook’s biography and try to figure out what he wanted of her.

It was around four that afternoon that Josie’s phone rang, startling her. The phone number here was unlisted, and she’d given it only to the school where she’d taught in case they needed to get in touch. Then she reminded herself that Marc undoubtedly knew the number, and besides, it was probably just somebody misdialing.

“Hello,” Marc replied cheerfully to her guarded hello. “Have you missed me?”

She considered pretending she didn’t know it was he, but discarded that for the next best thing. “Oh, have you been gone? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Now you’ve cut me to the quick,” he said, nonetheless sounding completely unperturbed. “In fact, I’m so hurt I just may take back my offer.”

“What offer?”

“Chinese takeout. I’ll be leaving Richmond shortly, and thought I’d bring home Chinese takeout. But that was before you insulted me.”

“Touchy, aren’t you?”

“Sensitive: The word is sensitive.”

“I suppose you want me to apologize?”

“I am,” he said, “willing to forgive.”

“Well…”

“Waiting patiently to forgive.”

Trying not to laugh, Josie said, “I’m terribly sorry I didn’t notice you were gone today.”

Silence. Then, Marc said, “That lacked something.”

“Oh? Like what?”

He sighed. “Anything to stroke my ego.”

“Was
that
what you wanted? I thought you just wanted an apology.”

“Do
you
want Chinese takeout?” he demanded awfully.

She caved in. “I’m sorry. Really and truly sorry. And, actually, I noticed you were gone all day. I even noticed you leaving. In a nice Cherokee with someone I presumed was your doctor friend.”

Gratified, he said, “Do I hear a longing for egg rolls in that dulcet voice?”

It was Josie’s turn to sigh. “You’re an evil man. Don’t forget those little things with the crab meat and cheese inside.”

“No Chinese meal would be complete,” Marc told her solemnly, “without those little things with the crab-meat and cheese inside. I should be there between six and seven. Good enough?”

“I’ll be here.”

“One day,” he said casually, “I’ll tell you what it means to me that you’re there. See you soon.”

Josie listened to the dial tone for a moment, then cradled the receiver. How was it possible, she wondered dimly, that a few words spoken casually could make her go hot and then cold with strange, shivery sensations she’d never felt before? And, dammit, why did she want to cry?

Slowly, she went back to the couch where she’d been making notes on a fresh legal pad. Notes about Luke Westbrook’s death and the months leading up to it.

“Mmaaarrc?”

“Yes, he’s coming home,” Josie replied absently. Then she looked at the cat, who was sitting squarely in the middle of the coffee table, and frowned. “Stop doing that. I know you can’t possibly be saying his name, but stop it.”

“Yaaah,” Pendragon agreed amiably.

“I wonder if this is what he meant about you doing uncatlike things. Have you been talking to him, cat? Have you been saying my name to him?”

Pendragon blinked and sort of murmured a little sound that had no discernible meaning.

Josie rubbed her forehead fretfully, then shrugged the matter off. Talking cats. What would be next? Not mysteriously moving keys, anyway, not if she had anything to say about it. She fished the little brass key from the pocket of her flannel shirt and stared at it. Since last night, the blasted thing hadn’t been out of her possession. She’d put it under her pillow while she slept and had been carrying it around all day.

But what did it mean?

She looked at the notes she’d made, and they were just as unhelpful. According to his publisher, Luke Westbrook had exhibited no signs of depression in the months before his death. Oh, he’d been moody, sure, but no more than was usual for him. Secretive about the manuscript he’d said he was working on, and that was normal too. For him. He’d been a secretive man in many areas of his life.

The police had found the ashes of burned papers in the fireplace of the front parlor, enough for a good-sized manuscript; his publisher verified the fact that he was in the habit of burning anything he was displeased with. Forensic techniques then had not been much to shout about; the ashes had been sifted to look for unburned pages, but none had been found. Luke had been thorough in his destruction.

He had, apparently, shot himself through the left temple with a handgun from the collection he’d kept in his study. Had, apparently, fallen backward; he’d been found with his head on the hearth, the gun inches from his fingers. The police had been satisfied that the wound was self-inflicted, and Luke had left a suicide note.

His biographer had reproduced the note, verbatim, and Josie opened the book to read it as she had read it already several times. It certainly sounded like the last gasp of a deeply disturbed man, she thought. Rambling, disjointed sentences that attempted to explain why he couldn’t live if he couldn’t write. Why he couldn’t trade on past glory. Why his life was so obviously worthless. Self-pity and paranoia. Bursts of irrational rage directed at a mysterious “they” who had “fed like parasites” off the work he had produced.

Josie found that part of the note particularly jarring.

Who were “they”? His publisher? Critics? That didn’t make sense. As the biographer noted, his contracts had been fair from the beginning and lavish toward the end when his sales had climbed into the stratosphere. Luke had certainly never complained publicly—or privately as far as anyone could say. As for critics, they had adored his work; not even his first book had been trashed, as first books often were.