In the Midnight Hour

by Kimberly Raye

  It is its own form of hell, his raw voice echoed through her head. But you can ease the frustration and give me peace. I will lend my expertise, you will help me, and all of our problems will be solved.

  Help him? Now what could a twenty-six-year-old virgin possibly do for the ghost of a legendary lover?

  She tried to come up with some possibilities as she crawled into bed, her bed, and pulled the covers up tight to her neck, but the champagne quickly lulled her into a deep sleep. No thoughts. No worries. Just him.

  A wicked, gorgeous man who smiled and teased and touched her just so …

  Hmmm … Maybe needing someone wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  After all, he wasn’t really a he. He was a ghost.

  She was dreaming about him again.

  As maddening as the knowledge was, it filled Val with a strange sense of satisfaction. Joy.

  He was standing clear across the room, away from her body, her thoughts, yet she still dreamed of him, of her own accord.

  The knowledge stirred a powerful ache in his groin, and the vision she made … ah, the vision …

  The long nightgown she’d donned now tangled at her waist, revealing her long legs and silk-covered bottom. His gaze moved upward, to her luscious breasts hidden beneath the buttoned-up gown. One small pearl had worked its way undone at her throat, giving him a glimpse of her tanned neck. But just a glimpse. Her lips were parted, her eyes closed, flame-colored lashes fanning her silky cheeks.

  He’d certainly bedded more attractive women.

  Her eyes were set a bit too far apart, her lips were too full, her face a tad too round. There was nothing classic about her beauty. No aristocratic features, such as high cheekbones or a sculpted nose that marked good breeding.

  Ah, but when those tiger eyes were open … they were so expressive, whether glaring daggers at him or burning with skepticism. Her lips were full and moist when she drank champagne, her face smooth and flushed when she dreamt of him.

  Like now.

  Valentine strode back toward the bed and sat down on the edge. Her warmth reached out to him, her scent filtered through his head to tease his senses. He couldn’t help himself. He reached out, trailed a fingertip along her smooth cheek. She was so soft, so warm, so … innocent, he reminded himself.

  He snatched his hand back and contented himself with drinking in the sweet scent of strawberries and fragrant female, soothing in itself to a man who’d been so lonely for so long.

  Too long without company, without peace.

  Without the truth.

  One hundred and fifty years, and he was no closer to answering the question that burdened his soul than he’d been when he’d taken his last breath. Being a ghost didn’t exactly facilitate the search for answers. His spirit was linked to the bed, doomed to haunt whatever dwelling the bed resided in. First, he’d been isolated in a strange shed, then in the museum, then in storage again, this time the warehouse. His spirit couldn’t leave the dwelling where his bed resided and so he’d never had a chance to search for answers on his own, never had access to anyone who might be willing to help.

  But now …

  “You need me, chérie, and I need you,” he whispered into her ear. She arched toward him, greedy for another touch, another dream, but Val wasn’t going to indulge her. Not yet. Not until She’d agreed to his terms and the first lesson began. Then he would proceed with the utmost care, because Val had no intention of forfeiting his chance at eternal peace.

  No matter how tempting.

  “Tomorrow night,” he promised. “Tomorrow night.”

  Chapter Six

  Maybe she’d just imagined the entire thing.

  Ronnie considered the possibility the next evening as she started her shift at the library. With each book she shelved, the notion seemed more likely, particularly since She’d found no evidence that the ghost of Valentine Tremaine had made an appearance at all. The apartment looked spotless, as if the angry tirade still vivid in her memory had never happened.

  Had she really gone ballistic in front of a ghost?

  There wasn’t a bit of supporting evidence. Not a book out of place, a shard of glass from the shattered champagne bottle. Only a large trash bag sitting in the corner. She’d meant to look inside, but she’d been running so late for class she hadn’t had the time or energy to plow through it.

  She’d seen no proof of his existence.

  But she’d felt it. A strange sense of … something. A presence.

  A ghost.

  Maybe. And maybe George Clooney would drop down on one knee and pop the question any time now. And even more unlikely, she’d accept.

  Okay, so maybe she would. After all, George Clooney…

  She’d definitely had too much to drink last night. Liquor-induced hallucinations and lots of wishful thinking. She needed a way to ace Guidry’s class, so she’d invented some fictitious form—and what a form—of help after reading the provocative love letters.

  His image pushed into her mind—long, whiskey-blond hair, tanned skin, a killer smile, and bluer than blue eyes that stripped her bare and enjoyed every moment.

  Valentine. Definitely an appropriate name for a lover of such gigantic proportions. In stature as well as deed. Her face heated as she rememembered the sight of him, six feet plus of naked male, heavily muscled, with the same whiskey-colored silk sprinkling his chest, swirling down his abdomen, surrounding his …

  Tomorrow night. Words whispered in the dead of night. Real or imagined?

  Ronnie blew out a deep breath. Imagined. Just like the ghost himself, because Ronnie Parrish didn’t believe in anything she couldn’t see and touch and explain. No mysterious forces working in the universe, no unexplained phenomena. For everything there was a nice, sane explanation if one looked long and hard enough.

  Wasn’t there?

  She wanted to think so. The trouble was she’d seen and touched Val last night and, while she couldn’t explain his existence, she couldn’t quite disprove it either.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” she asked Danny as they sat in the campus cafe, sharing a pizza and a pitcher of soda later that afternoon.

  Danny stopped in mid chew and eyed her suspiciously. “This coming from the woman who blew the whistle on the tooth fairy to my twelve-year-old niece during her last visit?”

  “That was an accident. How was I to know a junior high kid who’d stopped believing in Santa Claus still carried a torch for the tooth fairy?” She took a sip of diet soda. “So do you?” she pressed.

  “Is this your roundabout way of saying you saw a ghost? A real, house-haunting Casper?”

  “Of course not.” She busied herself brushing crumbs off her lap. “I mean, I thought I might have heard a little noise last night, that’s all.”

  His face lit with excitement. “Like chains rattling?”

  “Um, not really.”

  “Moaning?”

  Only her own, she thought, remembering last night’s dream. “Nuh-uh.”

  “Screaming?”

  “You’ve been watching too many of those late-night horror flicks.”

  “Well, if it wasn’t moaning or screaming or rattling chains, what was it doing?”

  She leveled a stare at him. “He was talking to me.”

  “He?” He arched an eyebrow at her. “I’d say you’re definitely hard up for some action.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I’ve got a friend in the chess club, Herbert Michaels. He’s not that great looking, but he’s a grad student, perfect GPA, and his first year’s earning potential is off the charts. I know he’d die to go out with you. To go out with anybody.”

  “As exciting as this guy sounds, as financially promising, I think I’ll pass.”

  “You sure as shootin’ won’t at the rate you’re going.” She glared and he grinned. “Sorry, you walked right into that one. So have you figured out the first position yet?”

  “It’s step, Mr. Smarty-pants. Fifty steps to ultima
te sexual fulfillment, and I’m working on it.”

  Tonight. Hopefully. If Valentine Tremaine turned out to be real and his proposition more than wishful thinking.

  Not that Ronnie needed him, mind you. She didn’t need any man to be successful. But want him… Now, that was a different story altogether.

  Ronnie wasn’t leaving her future up to chance. While Valentine Tremaine might be Plan A, Ronnie intended to have a backup plan, just in case she’d had much more to drink than she thought, and he had been a hallucination. After she’d finished up at the library, she stopped at an after-hours grocery and loaded up on plenty of caffeine for an all-night session of brainstorming ways to approach the Guidry paper. She also bought a copy of Playgirl which she discreetly slipped into a thick copy of Good Housekeeping.

  Later, when she was rounding the corner of her apartment building, groceries in hand, she spotted Professor Guidry exiting his apartment across the street. He climbed into his drab brown Volvo and Ronnie entertained the fleeting thought—maybe a better Plan B—of throwing herself in front of his car. She’d be out of commission and he’d be apologetic for hitting her.

  Or would he?

  Let me be the first to sign your cast, Miss Parrish—with a big fat F since you won’t be able to finish my class or write your paper or graduate.

  The idea quickly dropped to the C slot.

  She was not going to fail Guidry’s class, no matter if she had to visit every adult bookstore in the city, take out a subscription to Playboy, or let Danny fix her up with every nerdy grad student at USL.

  Her thoughts went to the letters, to the very experienced man who’d inspired them, the cocky self-assured ghost who’d propositioned her.

  With trembling fingers, she turned the key in her apartment door, walked inside, and flipped on the light. She swept a gaze at her surroundings, and the breath She’d been holding rushed out in a loud whoosh.

  Just an unmade bed, a kitchen table covered with textbooks, and the leftover cup from the coffee She’d downed that morning.

  No naked ghosts.

  Disappointment welled inside her and she fought it back down. “So you go to Plan B.” She turned to the groceries, unpacked her Good Housekeeping with its hidden cargo, and slapped it on the counter. Tomorrow morning She’d call Danny, accept his matchmaking offer, then comb the local video store. An evening with 9½ Weeks should beef up her sexual education.

  She pulled a pint of melting ice cream from the sack and started for the refrigerator. Of course, if she got really desperate, she could hit the hard-core section of the store for Louise Does Louisiana or some other ridiculous-sounding title—

  “You’re late. It’s a quarter after midnight.”

  The familiar voice shattered her thoughts. She whirled, the ice cream splattered on the linoleum, and her heart beat ninety to nothing as she stood face to face with six feet plus of hunky ghost.

  “You are real.” She couldn’t help herself. She reached out. Warm, pulsing skin met her fingertips and she let her hand finger, absorbing the strange, vibrating heat.

  “That’s because I am.”

  Their gazes locked for the space of a heartbeat and heat flared in his eyes. So hot and bright that Ronnie swallowed. She let go. “I mean, you feel like a real man.”

  “It’s the midnight hour, chérie.” His gaze caught and held hers again. Heat flared in the dark depths of his eyes, and an answering warmth spread through her. She forced her attention away, noticing for the first time that he wasn’t standing in front of her in all his naked glory. He wore a flowing white shirt, fitted black breeches, and knee-high black boots.

  “You have clothes,” she blurted.

  He glanced down and adjusted his shirt. “They are a damned sight uncomfortable—one hundred and fifty years without them tends to spoil a man.”

  “Why are you wearing clothes?”

  “I could take them off—”

  “No, I mean, clothes are good.” Liar. “Just surprising. I didn’t know ghosts could actually wear clothes. I mean,” she swallowed. She was babbling, she knew, but one tended to resort to mindless chatter when confronted with something from out of this world. From another world. The spirit world. “Where would a ghost get clothes? I mean, do you guys have malls or something?”

  “The clothes, like everything else, are a form of energy.”

  “Well, um, you’ve got really great taste in energy.”

  “Merci.” He winked and bent down. Strong, tanned fingers closed around the dropped ice cream carton. Chocolate oozed from inside.

  She watched him scoop up the splattered dessert, his fingers working meticulously, and she realized in an instant that he’d cleaned up the apartment the night before. Despite the fact that she’d given him hell.

  Real.

  Relief snagged through her and the words were out before she could stop them. “Thank you.” Thank you? He flashed her a grin as he cleaned the mess and she shook her head. First she complimented his energy and now she pledged her undying gratitude. She was definitely headed for a breakdown sometime soon. “What am I saying? It’s your fault I’m in this mess in the first place. You should be thanking me, buster.”

  “And why, pray tell?”

  “For not calling in an exorcist and having you exorcised right out of my bed.”

  “My bed.” He handed her the oozing mess.

  “I bought it.”

  “Possession,” he drawled, his husky voice emphasizing the word, “is nine-tenths of the law.”

  “I don’t think this is what our lawmakers had in mind.” She dropped the ruined dessert into the sink.

  “Ah, but it fits.” He chuckled and indicated a dollop of ice cream on her hand. “What is this?”

  “Chocolate Brownie Delight.” She licked the chocolate from her skin as he watched, his eyes an even deeper shade of electric blue.

  “I should have known from the wondrous smell.”

  “You can smell?”

  “Everything.” He inhaled, his chest heaving, his head falling back as a contented smile crossed his face. “Strawberries,” he finally murmured. “Ripe strawberries with the faintest hint of cream.”

  “I had strawberry shortcake for dessert, but that was hours ago-”

  “Heightened,” he said. “As are all my senses. I can see, smell, hear, touch, taste….” He shook his head, as if pushing away the sudden thoughts that darkened his eyes. “Which brings me to the matter of your schooling.” Before he could go on, a knock sounded on the door.

  “Ronnie, dear!” came Mr. Weatherby’s frantic voice. “Pringles has had a setback and is sick again. I really need you!”

  “Pringles,” she groaned. “Oh, no.”

  A grin spread across Valentine Tremaine’s handsome face. “Duty calls.”

  “Ronnie? Are you there?”

  “No,” she blurted, her head whipping in the direction of the door. “I mean …” She glanced behind her in time to see Val’s image shimmer and fade.

  Shimmer and fade?

  She blinked and he was gone. Gone. “Wait!”

  “I’m not going anywhere, not with a sick cat on my hands,” Mr. Weatherby assured her. “Open up, dear.”

  Thirty seconds later, after two dead bolts and a chain lock, Ronnie held Pringles in her arms and watched her neighbor disappear down the hallway, headed for an all-night pharmacy.

  “You’ve ruined my life, you know that, Pringles?”

  “And how is that?” Val’s deep voice startled Ronnie and she jumped. Pringles screeched.

  Ronnie whirled to find Val grinning at her. “Where did you go?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “But you disappeared—” she started, but her words were cut off by another knock on the door.

  “Ronnie, it’s me!” Danny called from outside. “Open up!”

  “Wait!” she called out to him, then turned to Val. “This place usually isn’t this busy—” she started, but he’d already started to shimmer. A fr
antic blink to adjust her eyes, and he disappeared completely.

  If he’d been real in the first place, that skeptic, I-still-can’t-believe-this part of her maintained. Maybe she wasn’t heading for a breakdown. Maybe she’d already had one, and the hallucinations were just an aftereffect. Ghosts. Ghosts who wore clothes. Ghosts who disappeared in the blink of an eye.

  “Doesn’t anybody sleep around here?” She threw open the door and shoved Pringles into Danny’s arms. “It’s after midnight. What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged. “Wanda had a headache tonight so she canceled our study session.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve started taking early evening naps so I’m raring to go by the time Letterman’s over. Forty-five minutes of shut-eye and ten cups of coffee and a double dose of Excite and Energize.”

  “Let me guess. You’re too wired to sleep?”

  He nodded. “And hungry. Mike hasn’t been to the store.” She knew that Mike, Danny’s computer genius roommate, was the designated shopper. “We’re out of everything except the green stuff that grows in the fridge, and as much as I like health food, that’s stretching it a bit. You’re fifteen minutes closer than the Stop & Shop, and you’ve got a TV.” He sat Pringles on a nearby chair and headed for the kitchenette. “Anything good in the fridge?”

  No. The word was there on the tip of her tongue. Just tell him no, toss him out, and get on with things. With Val.

  “I’m really starved and Alex is hosting the collegiate championships on Jeopardy in about a half hour.”

  She shrugged. “Doritos in the cabinet, sandwich stuff in the fridge.” Sucker, her conscience chided.

  While Danny made himself a sandwich, Ronnie scoured the apartment, peeked under the bed, looked in the corners. Just to be sure. She wanted to give herself every benefit of the doubt before she declared herself absolutely insane.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Uh, no. I just, um, misplaced a book.” She opened a closet and peered inside.

  “I’ll help you look,” Danny offered.

  “No.” She closed the closet. “I’ll find it later.”