“I think that took ‘saved by the bell’ to a whole new level,” Joe said as she dropped the phone back into her pocket. His tone was light; his eyes were anything but. They still gleamed hotly at her in the moonlight. He had, she saw, finished his cigarette. At least, it was nowhere in evidence.
“Joe,” she said, and stopped. Her legs were rubbery, she still felt flushed and way too warm, her breasts tingled, and there was an ache deep inside her that had not yet had the decency to even begin to subside.
“Yeah.” He moved toward her then and picked up her hand and carried it to his mouth. While she watched, faintly mesmerized, he pressed his lips to her palm. The heat of them made her fingers curl so that her fingertips just brushed his cheek. His skin was hot, and the faint stubble there was prickly to the touch. The tiny contact sent heat shooting through her body. Her heart started beating faster again. The steady blaze in his eyes told her that he, too, was still feeling the glow.
“So-o,” he said, drawing the word out, “how do you feel about sex on the beach?”
Okay, knock off some points in the romantic department .
Nicky narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re taking a lot for granted, aren’t you?”
To her surprise, he lowered her hand and grinned a little at her.
“That’s what I thought. In that case, maybe you better tell me what your mother wanted.”
Nicky sighed. The night was bright with stars, waves were crashing toward the shore, and the beach was bathed in moonlight. He was looking like the embodiment of every erotic fantasy that she had ever had, she was feeling sexy as hell, and the thought of simply taking up where they had left off was extremely appealing.
On the other hand, it was a public beach—with sand, which, if she followed through on her imaginings, was probably going to end up in some very uncomfortable places. And, besides, she really didn’t know him all that well.
Wrong time, wrong place. Maybe not the wrong man, but jumping in the sack on a first date was never a good idea. She could almost hear her mother saying it: Be careful, or he’ll think you’re easy.
She practically ground her teeth. Being back on the island was causing her to regress. It had been years since she’d heard her mother’s voice in her head like that.
Forget sex on the beach. For her, it was clearly destined to forever remain just a drink.
“Marisa—my mother’s assistant—made an audio recording of the program Sunday night,” Nicky said, knowing as she did so that she was probably doing the verbal equivalent of shooting the remainder of the evening in the foot. “There are voices on it. They say ‘He’s back’ a couple of times, and my mother says that by ‘he’ they mean the man who murdered Tara Mitchell. And the other girls, too. Which means that their killer is probably Karen’s killer, because whoever he is was at the Old Taylor Place Sunday night.” From the corner of her eye, she saw a couple—elderly, from the shape of them—silhouetted by moonlight as they walked toward the hotel. They were still a little distance away, down near the edge of the surf. But if she could see them, they almost certainly could see her and Joe. It was a good thing she had decided against sex on the beach.
Joe frowned. “Wait a minute. Whoa. Back up. Whose voices are on the tape?”
Nicky sighed again. “Tara and Lauren and Becky’s.”
A beat passed.
“Ghost voices?” There was so much incredulity in his tone that Nicky stiffened and glared at him.
“Yep.”
Pulling her hand from his, she turned and started marching away down the beach, toward home, passing the elderly couple on the way. Chalk the last little interlude up to the triumph of sexual chemistry over innate incompatibility, she thought angrily. Okay, make that sizzling sexual chemistry.
Not that it made any difference.
“Wait. Hold on. Okay.” Joe caught up with her. A sideways glance told her that he was smiling. Her visceral reaction was, not a good idea. “Let me get this straight: Your mother’s assistant has ghost voices on tape.”
“Are you laughing?” She shot him an outraged glance.
The smile vanished. His face was immediately as solemn as a judge’s.
“No, I am not laughing. See me not laughing?” He pointed at his own face. Nicky caught the teasing gesture from the corner of her eye.
“It’s good you’re not laughing,” she said in a dangerous tone. “Because if you were, I might just have to deck you.”
At that he did laugh, unmistakably, and she made a furious sound under her breath and stalked on.
“I was joking, all right? Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls—women, whatever—who can’t take a joke? Damn it, Nicky, quit walking away from me. You have to admit that ghost voices on a tape sounds pretty far-fetched.”
“Go screw yourself,” she said pleasantly. A playful little wave shot spray at her as if in reprimand, and she dashed the droplets from her face with an impatient hand, even as she kept on trucking—and at a pretty brisk pace, too.
“Nicky. Honey.” He caught up with her again. He was looking at her; she was looking straight ahead—though she was monitoring his expressions out of the corner of her eye. Lucky for the length of his life span, he looked—sort of—contrite. “If you say there are ghost voices on tape, then I am absolutely willing to believe there are ghost voices on tape.” There was the briefest of pauses. One corner of his mouth quirked up. “What, you can hear them but not see them?”
For a man who was not laughing, there was a hell of a lot of amusement in the question.
“Sometimes,” Nicky said, shooting him a killer glance.
“I’ve got to admit, that’s a new one on me.”
“But then, you don’t know much, do you?”
“So ghosts aren’t my area of expertise. Sue me.” He grinned at her. “Are we quarreling again?”
“Yeah, I think we might be.”
He was keeping pace with her without any visible effort at all, despite the fact that she was now striding along like a power-walker on a mission, which was annoying. There were two other couples in view now, youthful silhouettes splashing through the surf in a close, laughing quartet as they headed in the direction of the hotel, and Nicky skirted closer to the undulating rows of sea oats that lined the dunes in an effort to stay well out of their way. She had always loved walking along the beach at night. Despite everything, it was still a joy to feel the ocean spray on her face again, to taste the salt in the air, to watch the waves surge toward shore. Without Joe’s solid presence, she would have been afraid tonight, she knew—certainly too afraid to venture out onto the beach. Generally speaking, though, she couldn’t ask for a more reassuring bodyguard than a cop with a gun. Specifically speaking, Joe with a gun was even better. The fact that he was tall and dark and handsome was not the point. The fact that with him beside her, she felt safe was. Even if, at the moment, she kind of wanted to throttle him.
“And by the way,” she added, “while we’re quarreling, did I mention that I’m getting plenty tired of the way you practically roll your eyes anytime anybody says anything to you about ghosts or spirits or psychic phenomena?”
“I do not roll my eyes.”
“You do. Practically. Anyway, you know what I mean.”
“You mean I exhibit healthy skepticism when somebody tells me they’ve seen a ghost?”
“Not somebody.” Nicky narrowed her eyes at him. “See, that’s the thing. We’re talking about my mother here. And me. Take, for instance, earlier. When I told you I saw Tara Mitchell in her bedroom window, you quite clearly didn’t believe me. What, do you think I made it up?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I do not think you made it up. But . . .”
“But what?” Her tone dared him.
He grimaced. “Okay, you want the truth? I think it’s possible—mind you, I’m only saying ‘possible’—you were mistaken. I mean, how likely is it that dead people are just hanging around out there in the atmosphere somewhere, poppin
g up to show themselves to the living whenever they feel like it?” “I don’t think that’s quite how it works.”
“So how does it work?” He sounded genuinely curious. “Explain it to me. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that there are such things as ghosts. Why would only certain people be able to see them, for instance? You’d think they’d want everybody to know they were there.”
“All I can tell you is that some people are more sensitive to psychic phenomena than others.”
“What about the people who aren’t sensitive to psychic phenomena? What does it mean if they see a ghost? Like that kid on your TV show, for example, who was cutting grass at the Old Taylor Place and supposedly saw Tara Mitchell. I talked to him the other day. He seemed pretty normal.”
“He is normal,” Nicky said, exasperated. “Normal people see ghosts all the time. It could be an accident, a onetime thing, sort of a disturbance in the atmosphere, so to speak. Or it could be the ghost is trying to give that person a message. See, the thing is, a lot of times ghosts—and, just for your information, ‘spirits’ is the term my mother would use—don’t know they’re dead, especially if they passed suddenly, like in an accident—or, like Tara Mitchell, in a murder. Other times, they have unfinished business.”
“Such as?”
Nicky glared at him. “How do I know? It could be anything.”
“So, exactly how sure are you that you saw Tara Mitchell’s ghost in that window?”
“Sure,” Nicky said.
“No possibility of mistake?”
“There’s always the possibility of mistake,” Nicky conceded reluctantly. “But I don’t think I’m mistaken. I think she was there, and I think it’s a bad omen.” Like I think the howling dog is a bad omen, she almost added, but she didn’t want to muddy the issue. As far as ghosts and Joe were concerned, the best policy was clearly KISS: Keep it simple, stupid.
“You don’t think you just could have . . . imagined it? Especially considering the fact that your mother is always going around seeing ghosts everywhere, you might be more susceptible than most to things like that.”
The look she threw him sizzled.
“Before today, I have never in my life seen a ghost, or imagined I saw a ghost, and the reason my mother sees ghosts is because she’s a psychic medium,” Nicky said with bite. “If you would take the trouble to check her out, you’ll find that police departments all over the country call her all the time for her input on cases. She’s amazingly accurate. She finds people who are lost. She picks up on clues that help solve crimes. She saves lives. And yes, she does see ghosts. If you’re a psychic medium—and sometimes even if you’re not—it happens.”
“Actually, I did check your mother out.” Joe’s tone was mild. “I have to say, she seems to have a pretty impressive track record. Of course, she has some misses, too.”
“Nobody’s right one hundred percent of the—You checked my mother out?”
“Crime investigation 101: I had everybody who was at the Old Taylor Place the night of the murder checked out. You included.”
Nicky drew in a breath. “Did you? And what did you find out about me?”
He grinned tantalizingly. “Besides the fact that you’re beautiful, and an amazing kisser, and—?”
“Yeah, besides that.” Her voice was tart.
“Well, let’s see. Your father died when you were seven. You lived here on the island until your mother remarried when you were ten, and then you moved with your family to Atlanta. Your mother divorced that husband when you were sixteen. You were kind of a wallflower in high school, but you graduated with honors, attended Emory University, where you majored in broadcast journalism, got your first job in television in Savannah. You’ve been working your way up the TV food chain ever since. Oh, and your mother married for the third time somewhere in there. Your personal life hasn’t been all that spectacular, although you’ve had some boyfriends. The last was a lawyer named Greg Johnson. You broke up with him right before you moved to Chicago last August. Since then, you’ve—”
“Stop.” They had reached Twybee Cottage’s boardwalk by that time, and instead of starting up the steps, Nicky turned to face him, stopping him with an up-flung hand just inches from his chest. The dunes rose in undulating waves at her back, and she could hear the sea oats rustling in the wind behind her. The bottom step brushed the back of her calf through the thin knit of her pants, and her other hand rested on the smooth, gray plank of the handrail. Joe blocked a lot of her view, but on either side of him, she could see the blue-tinged beach and the ebony gleam of the sea.
“I don’t think I like the idea of this. I can’t believe you checked me out.”
His eyes slid over her face. He took a step forward so that her up-flung hand rested against his chest. Beneath the smooth cotton of his shirt, she could feel firm muscles and heat. The part of her mind that had trouble focusing in situations like this segued to the whole sex-on-the-beach question again. But nothing had changed—except that she was mad at him now. Definitely not a plus in the sex column, she thought, and clenched her hand into a fist and let it drop to her side.
The gesture, and the hesitation that preceded it, wasn’t lost on him. A faint smile curved his mouth. “Honey, that’s what us cops do. Especially when we’re investigating a murder.”
Okay, so she liked the way he said “honey.” And the way he smiled. And . . . never mind. Nicky gritted her teeth as she did a quick mental review of their previous conversations. Come to think of it, he had really asked her for very little personal information—because he basically already knew everything there was to know about her.
“Okay,” she said, glaring up at him, firmly in no-sex mode now. “So you know all about me. In that case, I think it’s only fair that I know something about you.”
“I have no problem with that.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Anyway, you already know the important stuff. I’m a cop. I’m not married. I think you’re cute.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. He smiled.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Thirty-six.”
“Where are you from?”
“Jersey. Trenton.”
“How long have you been a cop?”
“Twelve years.” There was something in his face that told her she was amusing him. That did not make her feel any friendlier toward him. Quite the opposite, in fact. “You know, it would be easier if I just sent you my résumé.”
She ignored that. “Parents?”
He sighed. “Deceased.”
“Siblings?”
“Deceased, too. Think you could save the rest of your twenty questions for another time? Shouldn’t we be heading on in and listening to your mother’s assistant’s tape about now?”
She ignored that, too. “All your family is dead?”
“That’s right.” There was a sudden underlying hardness in his voice that told her she’d hit on something that he didn’t want to talk about—which, as any reporter worth his or her salt knew, was the place to start digging.
“So you’re—” she began, only to be interrupted by the ringing of her phone.
“I told you we should be heading on up to your house,” Joe said in a smug tone as Nicky, frowning, fished her phone out of her pocket again.
“Mother . . .” she said into it impatiently.
“Nicky.”
The husky whisper shocked her into silence. Everything seemed to be whirling away: the sights and sounds of the night, the feel of the wooden step against the back of her leg, even Joe’s solid, reassuring presence in front of her. It was as if she was alone suddenly in a huge, dark void. Terror, cold and immobilizing as death, shot through her veins.
“Nicky.” This time the voice was Joe’s. She scarcely heard it, scarcely registered his sharp tone or suddenly intent gaze or the fact that he was reaching for her. The world was spinning away fast, and as it receded, all she was conscious of was the voice that
had haunted her nightmares since she had first heard it under the pines the previous Sunday.
“Having fun on the beach?” it asked.
The words seemed to vibrate, echoing through her head as though she was hearing them across a vast distance. Even as Joe caught her by the upper arms, she dropped the phone and sat down hard on the bottom step of the boardwalk.
NOT EVEN THE distorting effect of moonlight could hide the fact that she had gone utterly white. She said “Mother” in an impatient tone into the phone, and then her eyes widened, her lips parted, and her phone fell from fingers that seemed to have gone suddenly nerveless. Joe grabbed her by the arms as she was going down, but she didn’t faint as he had feared. Instead, her legs folded beneath her as though her knees had suddenly given out, and she sat abruptly on the bottom step. Then she bent almost double as her head dropped forward to rest on her knees.
“Nicky, what?” Alarmed, he crouched in front of her, sliding a hand over the silky disorder of her hair to push it out of the way so that he could see her face. Her eyes were closed, but they opened as he touched her, and he breathed a little easier. Even as he ascertained that she was breathing, that she was conscious, that she didn’t seem to have sustained an injury, he knew that something was still horribly wrong. He just didn’t know what.
“It was him,” she said, her voice so soft and shaky that he could barely understand her over the murmur of the waves and wind. “Oh, Joe, it was him.”
It was impossible to mistake who she meant. “Him” could only be the sick bastard who had called her before. The killer. Joe’s eyes cut to the phone, now resting on the sand near her feet. His pulse shot into overdrive as he scooped it up.
“Hello?” he said sharply into it. Nothing. A void. If somebody was there—and he didn’t think anyone was there any longer—he stayed silent. “Hello? Who is this?”
“It was him,” Nicky said again, sounding as if she was speaking from somewhere far away. “He said . . . he said . . .”
She broke off with a shudder.
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