The Haunting of Josie (9 page)

“Sure, why not. I’ll even supply the popcorn and marshmallows.”

“Terrific.” Marc handed over his empty cup. “Thanks for the coffee. I’m going to go away now and let you get to work.”

“Work?”

“Your writing. Remember?”

Josie felt her face getting hot. “Oh, right. Luke’s visit sort of pushed everything else out of my head.”

“Understandable.” Marc’s voice was grave.

She had a feeling he knew very well that it hadn’t been Luke but his descendant who had pushed work out of her mind. She found herself looking at him and feeling peculiarly exposed for an instant, almost frighteningly vulnerable, as if something, some curtain, that had been hanging between them was suddenly stripped away.

There was too much of him. It wasn’t just that he was tall and powerful and so impressively handsome; it wasn’t only the intelligence and humor in his tarnished-silver eyes or the charm of his smile; it wasn’t even the deep and beautifully liquid voice that surely must have swayed more than one jury. No, what overwhelmed her most of all was something far more elusive in him, something she could only sense.

He was…

Whatever he was, whatever she felt about him was thrust away violently as Josie looked away from him. She wondered if she was breathing, and her voice sounded shockingly normal when she said, “See you tonight, then.”

Marc didn’t appear to notice anything peculiar, or at least didn’t comment if he did. He merely said, “I’ll be here,” and then headed back toward the cottage.

Far more unnerved than she had been by the appearance of a ghost, she nevertheless couldn’t help watching him as he crossed the garden. Maybe that was the worst of it. That she couldn’t fight the urge to watch him.

If she hadn’t known he had injured his leg, she wouldn’t have suspected anything; his stride was steady and even, she thought absently. And convalescence certainly hadn’t robbed him of his athletic build, that was for sure. He was definitely a man people—especially women—would always notice. Powerful shoulders, a narrow waist, obvious strength. Despite forced inactivity, he still looked as if he was physically capable of doing just about anything he wanted to do….

Josie felt her face get hot as, totally unbidden, sensual images filled her mind. It was something that she could not remember ever happening to her before, and she was even more unsettled when pushing them out of her head proved difficult. Very difficult.

Pendragon jumped up onto the railing just then, balancing easily, and sat down to regard her with feline inscrutability.

“What’s wrong with me?” she demanded of the cat with more than a trace of panic.

For once, however, the very responsive Pendragon had nothing to say. He just sat there, tail curled neatly around forepaws, and looked at her. And surely it was her imagination that his permanent cat-smile curled at the corners even more than usual and his china-blue eyes gleamed with an almost human amusement.

Surely.

By the time Marc came over at slightly before nine-thirty that evening, Josie had all her walls up. She’d spent most of the day in the front parlor working, and between that grim task—so far, she hadn’t been able to summon any kind of detachment—and her uneasy awareness of her growing attraction to Marc, she was feeling decidedly upset.

“Here’s the book,” he said cheerfully when she let him in.

“Thanks, I’ll get it back to you as soon as I’ve read it.” Josie led the way into the den, where a brisk fire and a number of lamps provided a warm and cozy atmosphere.

“There’s no hurry. Hello, cat.” He paused at the overstuffed chair to stroke Pendragon briefly and looked around the room with an appreciative gaze. “This is nice.”

Josie didn’t ask whether he meant the general ambience of a crackling fire on a chilly evening or the very few things—some needlepoint pillows, scattered knickknacks, and two casual arrangements of colorful fall foliage in vases—she had used to give the room a more personal feel.

“Have a seat,” she invited, setting the book he’d brought her on the wooden coffee table. “I’ve made some spice tea; I thought it would go well with popcorn or marshmallows. Would you like some?”

“Please.” Marc watched her retreat to the kitchen, then frowned down at Pendragon and muttered, “She all but called me Mr. Westbrook.”

“Yaaa-woo,” the cat commented, just as softly.

Marc sensed commiseration and scratched behind the cat’s ear fleetingly before going to sit on the couch. She wasn’t freezing him out, he thought, but Josie had definitely withdrawn behind walls of polite blandness.

It was baffling. She was baffling. She seemed determined to keep him guessing. Or something. This morning she had been a bit wary, but only—he’d thought—because she’d been describing another ghostly visitation and was apprehensive of disbelief. And just before he’d left her on the porch, he would have
sworn
there had been something else. A surprising moment when he’d been sure she had really looked at him, had seen him—maybe for the first time.

And now all these walls. So…either she hadn’t liked what she’d seen, or something else had driven her to hide from him. Which presented him with something of a choice. He could pretend her manner was completely normal and just wait to see what would happen next, or else he could ask what the hell was wrong.

Logic told him the former would be preferable if he didn’t want Josie to feel pressed in any way, but a miserably wet weekend spent alone in the cottage with only brief visits from Pendragon had inexorably worn away his patience. Why shouldn’t he ask what was wrong? Something obviously was. And he of all people should certainly know that you couldn’t find answers if you didn’t ask questions.

Josie came back into the den, offering him a mug of steaming spice tea and a smile so impersonal he might have been the man who’d just put gas in her car. She took her own mug and sat down in the overstuffed chair with the black cat curled up behind her bright red head.

Marc tried to be charitable. Perhaps that was just her favorite chair—and never mind that less than a week in a place was arguably not enough time to develop such habits. Maybe she just liked sitting near the cat. Or maybe it was something else.

He sipped his tea, nodding enjoyment of the tangy blend of cinnamon, orange, and other spices. Then, looking steadily at Josie, he spoke in a reflective voice, like a man ticking off important points on his fingers.

“I am an officer of the court. I’ve practiced law in Richmond for some time now, and any number of intelligent, respectable people would probably be willing to vouch for my character. My doctor has known me since college—and he knows me inside out even in the most literal sense—so he could certainly allay any doubts you might have as to my general health, physical and mental. I’d be glad to furnish my sister’s phone number; sisters are brutally honest, you know, unlike mothers who do tend to be biased. I imagine I could even get my school transcripts—”

“Marc, what are you talking about?”

He gave her his best guileless expression. “Wasn’t I being clear? Sorry. It’s just that you obviously view me as a potential ax murderer or, at the very least, a threat to your virtue, and I thought I might need to produce character references.”

“I never suggested you were anything like that,” she said uncomfortably, the wall beginning to crack.

“You didn’t have to say a word.” Deliberately, he allowed his gaze to examine the three quarters of the couch stretching out emptily beside him. When he looked at Josie again, the walls were definitely coming down; a delicate color had spread over her cheeks, and her dismay was obvious.

She’d never be able to hide embarrassment, self-consciousness, or anger even behind her walls, he thought, watching her. Nature had made that impossible by stamping a strong blush response into her genes. He liked it—not because it made her feelings so obvious, but because the extra color in her face turned her eyes the most incredible shade of pale violet….

He got a grip on himself and kept his voice gently reflective. “If you’d prefer a more detached opinion, I’m sure the president of my bank would—”

“Stop it.” She didn’t quite snap the words, but almost. And she wasn’t hiding at all now, behind walls or anything else. Those lovely, fierce eyes regarded him with resentment and annoyance and no little indignation.

Marc had spent too much time learning to read witnesses not to know that most of her emotions stemmed from sheer embarrassment, so he didn’t hesitate to keep gently hammering away.

“I’m sure you’re right to discount my attempts to prove I’m perfectly safe. Family and friends, even business associates, can hardly be counted upon to provide accurate testimony about a man’s character. Why, even the most malevolent serial killer can produce dozens of shocked neighbors and relatives to exclaim, ‘But he seemed so normal!’”

Glaring now, Josie said, “Now,
there’s
a reassuring thought.”

“Isn’t it? And it leaves me in the painful position of not knowing how to convince you I can be trusted. You obviously don’t believe me. In fact, I have the impression that even if I had a visible halo, it wouldn’t cut any ice with you.”

Josie gnashed her teeth almost audibly, but then frowned in a new way. “Why am I letting you put me on the defensive? Dammit, I haven’t known you a week.”

In an interested tone, he asked, “Do you have a set amount of time that must pass before you decide it isn’t necessary to sit on the other side of the room? Or is it a matter of territory? At the cottage, you sat beside me; are things different on your own turf? I’m only asking because a man likes to know these things.”

“You’re asking because it amuses you to make fun of me.” This time she did snap.

Marc shook his head. “Now, you see? There you go thinking the worst of me again. When all I was trying to do was to narrow this chasm you’ve put between us.”

“Chasm? It looks like a coffee table to me.”

“It’s the Grand Canyon.”

“Stop exaggerating. It’s about six feet.”

Rueful, he said, “And lawyers get accused of having literal minds.”

For the first time tonight Josie smiled a real smile. Not as if she wanted to, but Marc was encouraged. “Why don’t we compromise, and meet each other halfway? That’s a nice, thick hearth rug, with plenty of room between the coffee table and the fireplace for us to sit. We need to be closer anyway. To roast the marshmallows.”

He waited, patient and intent, watching her hesitation, seeing the swift play of emotions across her delicate face. With her walls down, the feelings were startlingly naked, stealing his breath with their honesty.

Fading irritation. Uncertainty. Anxiety and longing. Wariness. The fleeting ache of some deep pain. And, finally, a fragile dignity.

She leaned forward and put her mug on the coffee table, then rose and turned to the kitchen. “I’ll get the popcorn and marshmallows,” she murmured.

Marc had all but forgotten he had ostensibly come over here to catch a glimpse of his long-dead ancestor. He wasn’t much interested in ghosts at the moment. He was fully and completely interested in Josie.

Deciding to assume her acceptance of his suggestion, he left the couch and moved around the coffee table. The hearth rug was comfortably thick, and a couple of her pillows made leaning back against the coffee table satisfactory. Absently, he picked up the poker and reached to stir the fire, causing the flames to leap higher.

Did she know how nakedly emotions showed on her face with the walls gone? She had to know.
Maybe that’s where the walls came from. Maybe someone saw what she felt, and used it to hurt her.

From the first day they had met, Marc had been aware of her guardedness, but he had supposed it was only the ordinary caution between strangers. Now he was convinced she had built a wall for herself out of necessity. Without that barrier, Josie was so vulnerable it was almost terrifying.

She would raise it again, of course, if not tonight then tomorrow. Self-preservation would demand it of her. But now that he had seen inside, she wouldn’t be able to shut him out as she had done. Now he knew the way in.

When Josie came back into the den, she joined him on the hearth rug without hesitation or comment—with a careful foot of space between them. She had a bag of marshmallows and two long, thin metal skewers obviously designed for roasting marshmallows or shish kebabs. And she had a long-handled metal basket.

“Did you know this stuff was here?” she asked him. “The skewers and the corn popper?”

“I wasn’t sure, but I knew we’d done this sort of thing as kids here. Where did you find them?”

“In one of the lower cabinets in the kitchen.” She twisted around to put the skewers and marshmallows on the coffee table, then checked the corn popper. “I’ve never used one of these before.”

“Let me,” Marc said.

She handed it over willingly and watched as he leaned forward and held the popper close to the crackling fire. After a few quiet minutes the corn began to pop—at first slowly and then with more enthusiasm. It wasn’t long before they were munching on popcorn from the basket set on the rug between them.

“Very good,” she offered.

“Thank you. It’s all in the wrist.”

“I’ll remember that.” She hesitated, then commented neutrally, “It’s nearly ten.”

Marc didn’t respond for a moment, then asked, “Do we search the house for him, or let him come to us?”

Josie glanced at him and shrugged. “Both times I saw him, I was basically just minding my own business. Searching the house probably doesn’t make sense.”

“Then we wait.” Marc turned a bit more to face her, resting his left arm on the coffee table. “Still mad at me?”

“For what?” She didn’t look at him.

Even with only her profile available, he could see her tension, see her vulnerability. “For needling you,” he replied, completely serious.

“Is that what you were doing?”

“More or less. I could have just demanded to know why the hell you couldn’t sit beside me, but I had a suspicion that wouldn’t have gotten me anywhere at all.”

“And needling did?”