Thunderstruck

by Amanda McIntyre

  The soft rustle of the shower curtain sparked a fire in his soul. He looked over his shoulder and smiled as he drew her in. His body craved her, couldn’t seem to get enough of her. As he framed her sweet face, she gazed into his eyes. Was that love he saw? He sighed, holding her gaze as she slid her fingers over his erection. His back teeth clenched as he fought for control. Pulling her face to his, he met her mouth in a hungry kiss, tasting the spice on her tongue in an erotic dance.

  She turned in his arms, rubbing her ass against his cock, then leaned down to brace her hands on the wall. “Take me, Nash,” she said, glancing back at him. Her hair spilled over her face.

  He had no protection, but she needed him. The water drizzled over her heart-shaped butt, making it easy to slide in deep. He grabbed her rounded hips, unable to control the need blazing inside him. He wanted her to remember him, to remember this. To spoil her for anyone else. He leaned over her, pressing his hand over her mound, her sighs driving him faster. Water cascaded over his body, drenching his upturned face. She was so tight, so sweet.

  “Never leave me, Nash.” Her words were broken by his insistent thrusts.

  “No, darlin’, never,” he breathed.

  “Mr. Walker?”

  The stern voice jarred him to a full alert. He looked down, seeing his hand wrapped around his semi-aroused state. The water poured down over him, as did guilt and confusion. He swallowed, staying behind the curtain. “Doctor Ingler?” he said, once he was able to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth. What the hell?

  “Yes, Mr. Walker. Were you expecting someone else?” she asked.

  “What was in your coffee cup the day I ran into you?” He needed to be sure this wasn’t a fever-induced hallucination. He’d had enough of those for one day.

  “A coffee from Café du Monde…why?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I came back up. But I noticed your clothing is scattered throughout the rooms. Is everything quite all right?”

  Satisfied it was truly her this time, he considered now the distinct possibility that he was going bloody mad. “Fine,” he said. “I’m fine,” he repeated, more to convince himself than her. He wrenched off the water and realized too late that the cold water was still on. All at once, a great surge of power rattled the pipes and a spray of frigid water riddled his body. He raked his teeth over his bottom lip, stifling a scream.

  “You’re quite certain?” she asked.

  “Y-yes,” he answered, scrambling to shut off the faucet. He glanced at his dick. At least the cold water had at least aided one of his issues.

  “I wanted to speak with you about the journal I found in the floorboard. It appears to be from our resident female specter.”

  His body felt as though he’d been through a round of boxing. He stood naked in the shower, gaining back his strength.

  “I’ll be down in a moment,” he said.

  “Very well. Can I get you anything? There doesn’t seem to be…oh, look here. There are towels right here in the linen cupboard.” The rustle of the curtain startled him and he grabbed it to prevent it opening further.

  “In all fairness, I’ve seen everything there is to see, Mr. Walker.” The towel, shoved inside the curtain, dangled from her hand.

  He grabbed it, wrapped it around his waist, and tore open the curtain. “You have immaculate timing.”

  Somer blinked in surprise, her gaze drifting over his chest, stopping short of going any lower—to her benefit, since the towel was thin, at best. She adjusted her glasses, spun on her heel, and left.

  He toweled off and dressed quickly, not trusting the hallucinations he seemed to be having. As he picked up the towel, a handful of withered petals fell to the floor. He picked up a few and, upon further examination, caught a whiff of jasmine. Such bushes grew outside the house, and according to Micah had been planted in memory of the young woman who’d once tutored the owner’s younger children. The story went on to say that she’d died there—centuries ago now. He’d never thought much about it, but Dr. Ingler’s presence seemed to conjure up several things he’d set aside in his life.

  Nash drew the shower curtain shut and hung the towel, mentally making a note to retrieve it when he did laundry next. He heard another low rumble roll across the sky and realized through the stained-glass window that it had grown darker outside. It was going to be a bumpy night and he’d best be prepared for it.

  Chapter Four

  Nash appeared a few moments later and stood at the sun porch entrance. He glanced at her as he walked over and stood looking out of the French doors leading to the garden. “I had a call from my foreman. He said that New Orleans was under the gun for an unexpected severe thunderstorm. A bit odd, but with the way things are going with climate change, not too surprising.” He turned around, eying the ceiling and walls. “This old girl survived Katrina. I imagine she can handle a little rain.”

  She eyed him, trying not to let her gaze linger too long on his muscled torso.

  “My shirt’s drying. I hope this doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

  She averted her eyes to the journal sitting in her lap. “I always felt women were at a disadvantage in that regard.”

  “How’s that?” he asked.

  Outside, the rain had been falling off and on throughout most of the day. It had provided a calming background as she leafed through the woman’s diary. Now it seemed only to conjure images of tangled sheets and stolen kisses. She shoved those thoughts aside and faced him, keeping her eyes level with his. “The fact that it’s acceptable for men to walk about without a shirt and think nothing of it.”

  He raised a brow and smiled. “I’m all about equality, Doc. Feel free to do the same.”

  Her face warmed.

  “Sorry, didn’t intend to make you uncomfortable.” He shifted in his chair and leaned forward, clasping his hands over his knees. “However, we do need to talk.” He raked his hand through his hair. “You know how I said I didn’t believe in ghosts and shit?”

  Somer watched him, aware of his unease. Clearly, something had happened. “I do. Has something happened to change your mind?”

  He let out a snort, leaned back in the chair, and looked up at the turquoise-blue wainscoting. “Yeah. That’s putting it mildly.”

  A palpable tension rose suddenly in the room, very similar to what had happened between them last night. She fought to keep her head clear. Somehow the remnant energies of this scandalous affair she’d been reading about were still at large in the house, searching for one another—landing, it would seem, on any viable energy they could find. “Keep talking. Tell me what happened.”

  He nodded and continued. “I finished my work upstairs and was talking to Mickey on the phone when, I swear to God, I thought you’d come into the room and brushed your hand over the back of my neck.”

  “And you saw no one, right?”

  He nodded. “I thought, you know, it was the heat and humidity getting to me. Maybe I was dehydrated. So, I drank some water, but I felt like I was burning up. That’s why I stripped and got in the shower. I thought it’d help.”

  Somer took a quiet breath, hoping to still the wild thrum of her heart at the thought of Nash standing naked in the shower, water cascading over his work-honed body. Smoke curled low in her belly.

  “I heard a sound, saw the curtain move and then…” He glanced away and then back at her. “I turned around and saw you get in the shower.” His gaze grew dark. “At least, it looked like you.”

  Somer’s heart jumpstarted to a full gallop as she held his stormy gaze. She found it hard to swallow. “There’s no need to go into detail. I can figure out the rest.”

  He swiped his hand over his mouth, pausing to let it linger there, as though debating his next words. He straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “I sure as hell would like to know what’s going on.”

  “I understand your concern.” She held up the book. “I think I’ve discovered at
least part of what’s happening.” She considered one theory that had taken shape in her mind as she’d been reading. “I believe this is Lucille Chapman’s diary. The woman who once was the resident tutor in this house.”

  His gaze narrowed. He was listening and, though she’d never experienced anything like this before, she needed to find a way to explain that what was happening between them might not be “them” at all.

  She squared her shoulders and flipped through the book, trying to organize her thoughts. “According to Lucille’s journal, there was once a great deal of turmoil in the house. She’d been trying to avoid a scandal—to avoid getting caught with her lover.”

  “Teach was engaging in a little hanky-panky?” He frowned. “Isn’t that kind of weird.”

  “Well, it seems she was having a secret affair with the owner’s oldest son from a previous marriage. He was old enough that his father had urged him to enlist in the ‘war of northern aggression.’ But it seemed that his son had not wanted to leave.”

  “And I’m guessing papa didn’t approve?”

  Somer shrugged. “That’s what I’m getting from the entries. The son apparently lived in the garçonnière—which, if my research is correct, was originally the cabin I’m now staying in. Lucille lived in the bedroom upstairs.”

  Nash frowned and tipped his head. “Did the old man have a thing about Lucille?”

  Somer sighed. “She eluded to that in a couple of passages. Nothing overt. Apparently he showered her with small gifts, saying they were tokens of appreciation for her work.”

  “And the wife? What did she think of these little ‘tokens’?” Nash asked.

  “He was a widower. The younger children were from his second wife who died shortly after their arrival here. As to the tokens, she doled them out, never letting the son know what was going on, fearful that there would be a feud. So she passed them out among the servants, making them vow never to show them to the master.”

  Nash chuckled, but shook his head with a look of disgust. “This is better than any novel.”

  “I’m afraid there’s more. And this is where it takes a strange turn.”

  “Believe me, nothing would seem stranger than what happened in that shower.”

  She shot him a look.

  He seemed flustered. “Meaning, had it really been you—that wouldn’t have been so bad. I mean, well, you know.”

  “Stop while you’re ahead, Nash,” she offered. “What I’m about to read may change your view.” She found the page and began to read. “My mind is befuddled.”

  “Befuddled?” he asked.

  “It means confused,” she answered.

  “You just don’t hear that word used much.”

  Somer looked at the date of the entry. “It reads, May 16, 1864. My mind is befuddled,” she started again. “Every time he is near I find myself completely enamored. Due to our indiscretions, I am no longer a lady, but a scarlet woman. Scarlet because I cannot wait until our next liaison.”

  Somer paused, images of what had happened between her and Nash—how demanding she’d been with him, how nothing mattered more than having him buried inside her—flashing across her mind. She closed her eyes, shoving the emotions aside, then opened them again and continued with the passage.

  “I cannot with any of my education, express in words what happened between us last night. I was not myself, lost in the heat of lust so powerful that, even as I write this, I feel my face warm at the memory. I barely recognize the actions of this woman—wanton with desire—that I’ve become. His wicked smile, those haunting eyes, and his hands—oh, his expert and exquisite touch! The rapture of when he took me then and there on his writing desk.”

  “Stop.” Nash held up his hand. “This just got weirder.”

  Somer searched his face. “Then you recognize the similarities?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, but it makes no sense.”

  “There’s more,” she said, and turned the page. “I see him daily. See the way he looks at me, then pretends not to. He is but a year my senior, and I know that his father wishes him to join the cause. There is trouble brewing near Atlanta. His father says that the war requires the good sense of every responsible young southern man.”

  Somer glanced up to see Nash looking outside. She continued to read aloud.

  “He claims we must be careful, that his father wouldn’t approve. I fear he may be correct. I see how his father looks at me when I am with the younger children. The man, a widower now, has been seeking a new wife. The servants speak amongst themselves and it is rumored that he has found favor with me. I could not, simply could not, marry him. I refuse to be wife number three—nay, any number, as my heart belongs to only one.”

  She flipped forward to the entry that had prompted her to head upstairs, stopping just short of climbing into the shower with Nash. Fortunately, a call from Devin had distracted her and she’d found her wits. Somer read on.

  “I think about him constantly. How dangerous this game of deception is that we play. The other day, one of the servants nearly caught us together in the bath.”

  “What the hell?” Nash looked at her, narrowing his gaze.

  Somer had realized the dreamlike state she’d been in just before Devin interrupted. “What happened, did it feel real?”

  He stared at her a moment as though trying to make sense of it. “Hell, yeah. It felt real,” he said. “I began to feel dizzy, the heat was suffocating me. I was standing in the shower and…” He looked at her. “It was you, Doc. And it was just as hot as what happened between us in the guest house.” He pushed out of the chair, paced the length of the porch, and blew out an audible sigh. “Hell, Somer, you’re the one with the degree. Can’t you figure this out?” He held his arms out, imploring her for help. “Find some way to fix it?”

  Somer closed the journal. Of course, he had every right to be agitated. But he needed to understand they still had control. “Nash, it isn’t as though you’re being possessed by something,” she said with a shrug. “Other than by your own passion.”

  He swiped his hand over his mouth, crossed his arms, and looked away. “You’re trying to tell me it’s coincidental that twice”—he held up his fingers— “what has happened to us in reality has already happened in that book?” He shook his head and pinned her with a dubious look. “Lady, I’ve been in a lot of old houses in my day and not once has anything like this happened to me.”

  “Nor has anything like this happened to me, Nash. I can only assume it’s because the conditions weren’t the same. You being here. Me being here. The budding attraction that’s started between us.” She shrugged. “I’ve read cases where a restless spirit that has similar unresolved issues at times attaches to that person’s energy.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “You mean, like a signal looking for someplace to land?”

  She nodded. “It’s possible. I think that Lucille is trying to communicate with us through what she perceives is happening between us.”

  He shot her a doubtful look.

  “We don’t know what happened to her. Only that she was to have died here on the property. We don’t know what became of her lover. It’s as though she’s been caught between worlds for more than a hundred years.”

  “And we can’t just…I dunno, burn the journal or something?”

  Somer understood his inability to go beyond reason. “Sometimes things are left unresolved, Nash. We need to understand more about what happened so we can help her.”

  He eyed her, then shook his head. “No offense, Doc, but I’m having a hard time believing all this.”

  “Denial is absolutely normal,” Somer said as she stood. “I’m going to research—”

  He reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her hard against him.

  “Nash?” She held his gaze. “What are you doing?”

  “A test, Doc.” He lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss started slow, tentatively. He held her face, brushing another kiss over her lips,
softly nipping at her lower lip, coaxing her to surrender.

  Her fingers curled against his firm chest, then unfurled, sliding to the back of his neck. She met his hungry, demanding kisses, her bones turning to ash at the heat rising inside her. “No!” She pushed against him, fighting the wild desire to find any flat surface, or sturdy wall—it didn’t matter. This wasn’t her. It was Lucille desperate to be held again. Desperate to be with her lover.

  She skirted around him, needing to put some distance between them, and pushed through the French doors. The light misty rain felt good on her face as she stepped away from the house. Turning her face to the heavens, she let the rain soothe her flushed skin. Eyes closed, she debated what to do, where to go. A hand grabbed her arm and she was spun around to face Nash.

  He peered at her. “What are you running away from? If this isn’t—if I’m not what you want, then say so. But don’t kiss me like that and not expect me to react.”

  Raindrops rested on her lashes. She blinked to clear her vision. “That’s why I left. I don’t want your reaction.”

  His brows knit in confusion, then he framed her face and gently kissed her. “Tell me you don’t feel something,” he challenged.

  “I do, but is it real? Or is it her…Lucille, prompting this?”

  Nash studied her before he answered. “Look, I know we’ve only just met. But right now, looking at you with those damn sexy glasses”—he shook his head— “I’m lost, Somer. I don’t know what’s going on here any more than you do.” His confusion was the same as hers, but he spoke from his heart. “I think it’s worth finding out.”

  Somer searched his eyes. Her entire life had been dedicated to believing in what most people considered impossible. Why, then, couldn’t she believe in what was standing right in front of her?

  She grabbed his face, and he met her mouth in a fierce need. His hands snaked beneath her now-sodden shirt. In the next moment, she found herself in his arms as he strode through the sun porch and headed directly for the stairs. Somer looped her arms around his neck. “How very Rhett Butler of you, Mr. Walker.”