by Julie Kenner
Miranda’s eyes opened slowly and she looked at him. She was rational and clear-eyed, which was good. She was also scared, which was only natural.
“I dreamed about you,” she said, her voice slightly raspy.
Remembering his own odd dreams and visions since he’d come to this house, he started slightly. “Oh,” he responded ineffectually.
“The man in the dream was you but…not exactly you.” She closed her eyes again.
“It was just a dream,” John said, trying to sound cool and unaffected even though he was neither.
“But it seemed so real,” she whispered. “I could almost…” she wisely hesitated. Perhaps she had been affected by tonight’s ghostly threat, but she had not lost her mind completely.
“Go to sleep, Miranda,” he said. “He’s gone.” For now.
“Stay with me,” she responded. “I don’t think Tony can hurt me when you’re here. I don’t know why, but…”
“I’ll stay.”
She reached out as if to grasp the front of his shirt. The problem was, he wasn’t wearing one. Her hand fisted at his chest, just above his heart.
“How do you kill a dead man?” she whispered.
MIRANDA SLEPT DEEPLY for the first time in months. It had been a year since she’d slept so well. More than a year. Since Tony had come into her life, she hadn’t come anywhere near to feeling this relaxed and rested.
Morning sun slanted across the bed. Not her bed, Miranda realized as she came awake. John Stark’s bed. The room was silent, but for the gentle rasp of his even breathing. No ghostly chill cut the warmth of the sunshine, no cold unliving fingers touched her. Tony was not here.
Instead of slipping from the bed as she knew she should, Miranda stayed beneath the covers with a sleeping John Stark lying beside her. Did Tony have some kind of fear of John that kept him away? Had last night’s visit sapped his energy?
Was he gone at last?
She couldn’t make herself believe that Tony was gone for good, but she could enjoy this moment of peace. Peace, serenity, sanity…simple things that were not appreciated until you didn’t have them anymore.
John made a noise in his sleep and rolled over to face her. He snorted, and sighed, and opened his eyes.
And sat up quickly, obviously surprised to find her in his bed.
“Sorry,” he said as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and presented his bare back to her.
A very fine back, Miranda had to admit. John wore flannel pants which covered his legs, and she found herself wondering if his legs were as well sculpted as his back. She had not enjoyed such natural, warm thoughts in a very long time, and they felt good.
“I didn’t intend to fall asleep,” he said. “I just didn’t want to leave you alone.”
“Thank you for staying with me.” Miranda drew the sheet up to cover her breasts. Her nightgown was modest enough, but in the morning light it seemed much too thin for modesty.
John glanced back, and there were a thousand questions in his eyes. He only asked one. “Did you sleep?”
“Very well, thank you.”
He nodded and glanced away, obviously embarrassed by the too-intimate setting. She should be terribly embarrassed herself, but instead she felt relief and ease and an unexpected familiarity.
“Your ghost tried to kill you last night,” John said gently. “Do you remember what happened?”
“I’m afraid so.” She remembered too well what those hands at her throat had felt like.
Just as clearly, she remembered the dream she’d been having before Tony had awakened her. It was silly to hang on to a fantasy when her world was falling apart, but what she remembered was oddly comforting. She felt closer to John than she’d imagined was possible, and if a dream caused the aberration…maybe she should just enjoy the feeling while it lasted.
He turned his head to look at her again, and she was reminded sharply that John Stark was a very fine-looking man, one who was willing to help a woman everyone else had branded as crazy. “I won’t leave you alone until Lara Hilliard and her people get here and she sends Tony away,” he said.
“Can she do that?”
John nodded. “Yes. You really should have called her in the first place. This sort of thing is definitely up her alley.”
“But I didn’t call Lara Hilliard. I called you.”
He turned his gaze to the uncovered window, to study the fine, autumn morning beyond the panes of glass.
Miranda added, “I’m not sorry I called you, John.”
He didn’t look at her as he answered. “Neither am I.”
CHAPTER SIX
JOHN WATCHED Miranda sip coffee. She looked better this morning. A little brighter, a little more well rested. A touch of color rose in her cheeks, and an emerald sparkle danced in her green eyes. Should he tell Miranda that she was Vera Lavender reincarnated? Should he inform her that he’d been channeling her lover—the murdering, suicidal artist/handyman—and that the accompanying visions and dreams had been extraordinary?
He wasn’t sure how much she could take at this point, and until he knew more it didn’t make much sense to upset her, especially when she was so obviously having a good day.
“He isn’t here,” Miranda said softly, her gaze raking over the kitchen from corner to corner. “Some days it seems like he’s always right behind me, or just around the corner, or hovering on top of me. But this morning…” Her eyes met his. “Do you think he’s gone?”
John wanted to be able to tell her yes, he wanted to make her smile. But he had to tell her the truth, above all else. “No. Tony was weakened by last night’s appearance, but he’s not gone.” He suspected using the words “murder attempt” instead of “appearance” would upset her, though she was dealing with the reality well enough.
“I thought you didn’t talk to ghosts,” she teased.
“I don’t. I’m not talking to Tony, but I can feel him in the house. He hasn’t gone, Miranda.”
Her easy smile faded some but did not disappear. “I didn’t really think so, but still, this is nice.” She closed her eyes. “I had forgotten what it’s like not to be haunted. To sip coffee without shaking and take deep, even breaths and think of anything other than what my ghost might say or do next.”
Miranda was beautiful this way, eyes closed, heart at ease, lips turning up just slightly into a half smile. If he had met her in any other way, in another place and another time…
The truth washed over him in a shock wave that made him dizzy. He had known Miranda in another place and another time. Not just one, either, but more than he could comprehend at the moment. He had loved her, he had made her laugh and scream and cry.
And he had killed her.
John jumped up from his seat at the table and headed for the coffeepot and a refill, primarily so he wouldn’t have to look into Miranda Garner’s eyes while he regained his composure.
She’d looked at him with those eyes before as she’d taken her last breath, blood covering her nightgown…her apron…her silk gown…her bare body…her corset….
The doorbell rang and Miranda left the kitchen with a quick, easy step. John was tempted to follow her, but it wasn’t as if Tony was going to ring the doorbell before his next attack. The ghost had been seriously weakened; though to be honest John had no idea how long it would take Tony to rebuild the strength that had been sapped last night.
Another female voice drifted to the kitchen, and quickly moved nearer. “I smell the coffee. I swear, Miranda, you make the best coffee.”
Miranda tried to convince the woman that she’d be happy to serve coffee in the parlor, but the visitor would not relent and was soon stepping into the brightly lit kitchen. Her curious eyes immediately lit on John, and her smile brightened.
“So this is the man who belongs to the truck out front? How rude of you not to arrange a proper gathering to welcome your visitor to Cedar Springs.” The woman’s smile stayed in place throughout the lighthearted chastisement
.
John stepped forward to introduce himself, but Miranda intercepted. She circled around the nosy woman.
“This is my good friend Elyse. We used to work together at the library.”
“And will again one day, I hope,” Elyse said as she offered her hand for a shake.
“John Stark,” John said as the woman shook his hand for a moment too long. “I’m…”
“A friend from Dallas,” Miranda said before he could say too much. “I wasn’t expecting him to stop by. It was quite a surprise.”
“And here I was feeling sorry for you because you were out here all alone,” Elyse said, her Southern accent pronounced. “My goodness. No wonder you didn’t want to move in with me and Gordon.”
Miranda looked at John with pleading in her eyes. She silently begged him not to tell her friend who he was and why he was here. The pain he felt was much too deep for something so trivial as her obvious embarrassment. Lots of people denied who and what he was. To be a psychic in a world that valued only that which could be touched and weighed and explained in a logical manner was not always an easy thing. He understood that.
And still it hurt. The more he thought about it, the more the contempt she showed him hurt. It hurt in a way that only an oft-repeated slight can, like salt being poured into an open wound, like he was being pounded in the same sore spot, again and again. She was ashamed of him, she was embarrassed by who he was. So she lied, to her friends and to herself.
When Miranda had denied him in the past—and she had, many times—he always killed her for her disloyalty.
JOHN PACED and muttered and gave her the oddest glances. He had been this way since Elyse had departed, hours ago. No, he had been this way since just before Elyse had arrived. Something was wrong, and he refused to tell her what.
For a moment she had suspected that perhaps he was hurt by her little fib about why he was here, but that didn’t make any sense at all. Like her life made so much sense, these days.
Maybe he hadn’t slept as well as she, or he was picking up something odd from Tony’s ghost. Every time she asked him what was wrong, he waved her off without even looking her way.
“Would you please sit,” she said in desperation. “Just watching you is making me dizzy.”
“Then don’t watch me,” he said absently.
“Fine.” She stood slowly. “I’ll poke around the fridge and see what we have for supper.”
Miranda left the room; John followed her. She stopped in the long hallway and spun to face him. “I can’t watch you, but you’re following me to the kitchen?”
“I’m not leaving you alone. We don’t know when Tony will show up again.”
“This is ridiculous. Why are you so annoyed at me?”
“No reason. Why would I be annoyed? I should be very happy, in fact. After all, I’m just a friend from Dallas stopping by for, what, a little recreational sex? At least, I assume that’s the cover story. Men don’t drive from Dallas to Cedar Springs just to say hello.”
So, that was it. Surely he understood why she’d been forced to lie. “What did you expect me to tell Elyse?” Miranda snapped. “That you’re the psychic I hired to take care of my ghost problem?”
“It’s called the truth,” he said sharply.
She supposed it might look pretty bad, when examined under a certain light. “I can’t let word get out that I hired a psychic. Everyone in town already thinks I’m half-nuts, and if they know you’re here…”
“As soon as Lara gets here, I’ll be gone,” he said. “I certainly wouldn’t want you to be further embarrassed by my presence.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to, and I should be used to it by now.”
She had the oddest urge to kiss John. To touch his face and lay her mouth over his and rest her body against his, to tell him that it didn’t matter who he was. The kiss would take away the pain of rejection, at least for a while. She stood very still and held her breath, waiting for the urge to pass.
It didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the heat of his argument gone in a flash. “I’m just…there’s something going on here I can’t explain.”
“Can’t or won’t?” she asked. She didn’t know John Stark well enough to discern such a subtle distinction for herself, and yet she was quite sure that he was hiding something from her.
“Does it matter?”
A slight, brief chill caressed her neck. Tony. Her response was to take a step closer to John. Her sharp intake of breath told him what was wrong.
“He’s back,” John whispered.
Miranda nodded and moved closer to John. He was warm and alive and real, and he was here to protect her from Tony. As if he knew what she needed, he wrapped his arms around her.
“I am sorry that I reacted the way I did. It’s not important,” he said.
Somehow she thought that maybe it was, in a way she had not expected and John would not admit.
“I won’t let him hurt you,” John promised.
“Thank you.” She hid her face against his chest, and the chill at the back of her neck disappeared.
“He’s not as strong as we are,” John reminded her. “We are alive and he is not. This is our realm, our world, our reality. Tony doesn’t belong in it.”
It was a simple affirmation, and also a true one. Miranda realized that as she held onto John, soaking up his warmth and finding comfort in the strength of the arms that encircled her.
She should feel awkward, to rest in the arms of a man she hardly knew. Then again, they had shared a bed last night, and they’d battled Tony together.
Maybe together they were strong enough to keep Tony away.
Miranda lifted her head, rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to John’s. He was surprised by the move. In a way, so was she. And yet it felt so right, to kiss him. To press her soft lips to his, to hold on a little bit tighter. She responded to the simple kiss in a way she hadn’t even dreamed of in a long while.
Well, she had dreamed….
After the surprise passed, John kissed her well and deeply. Her body responded, and she pressed herself closer to him. She wanted more. She wanted John to take her to the bed they’d shared last night and make love to her, as he had in that dream.
Of course, she couldn’t tell him that. She couldn’t ask him to make love to her and make her forget….
He pulled his mouth from hers and raked his fingers through her hair. “You’re scared,” he said gently. “You don’t know what you want. I won’t take advantage of you.”
Miranda sighed. She had forgotten that she didn’t have to ask John anything out loud. He knew. He always knew. “I feel good here,” she whispered, grasping onto his shirt with one tight fist. “Whole and safe and…” Loved. She couldn’t say that. It was too soon for such a word to be spoken between them. “I don’t want the feeling to go away just yet.”
She didn’t have to be psychic herself to know he was tempted, to know that he wanted her. He wrestled with the decision for a moment. “When Tony is gone for good, if you still want me I’m yours.”
LATE IN THE EVENING, Lara called to check on the situation. She was intrigued by the strength of the ghost…but not enough to leave her current situation. Tony had begun acting up again, in a nonthreatening way. A breeze wafted through the parlor where John and Miranda sat, even though no window was opened. The wind outside was brisk; thunderstorms had been predicted, and it looked as if the weather forecast had been correct. The old house was solid, but it shook under the force of the wind. In the distance thunder rumbled.
Every now and then Miranda swatted at an invisible pest, trying to shoo her pesky ghost away. Still, it was nothing compared to the thick mist that had tried to choke the life out of her.
When Tony regained his strength, what would he try to do? If only Lara and her team could send the ghost on before it got to that point.
John glanced at Miranda, and then quickly lowered his eyes
to the book in his lap—the Vera Lavender biography. To say that things were strained between him and Miranda was an understatement. The dreams, the kiss…the past lives of which she was blessedly unaware….
All along John had believed that he was channeling BJ Oliver in his dreams and visions, but apparently it was more than that. He had been BJ Oliver, Vera’s Johnny, the lover who had killed her and then himself when she’d refused to leave her husband for an uncertain life with him.
It was more than that, he knew that now. They had been re-creating this same scenario, in one form or another, for hundreds of years. Every time he and Miranda came close to happiness, every time they reached for what they wanted and deserved…their lives ended violently.
In Venice, that had been the first life to go horribly wrong. Scotland; Russia; the wilds of a new and uncertain country; on a cold mountainside; in a fine drawing room.
He always died with her blood on his hands.
Miranda had lit several candles earlier, afraid to be caught in the dark if the power failed. Apparently Tony was more solid, at least visually, in the darkness.
Sure enough, a clap of thunder sounded, and the lights flickered and went out. In the soft candlelight, he saw Miranda jump.
“It’s all right,” he said, remaining calm.
“The electricity is usually out for no more than fifteen minutes when these storms move through,” Miranda responded, sounding not quite as confident as she’d intended. “It’ll come back on shortly.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” John set his book aside and watched Miranda in the candlelight. She jumped slightly, as if she’d been touched, and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Head down, she muttered something he could not quite understand. Go away, perhaps. He had heard her say that before.
Fifteen minutes came and went, and the electricity did not come on. The room remained dark, but for the flickering light of the candles. Half an hour, forty-five minutes. The storm arrived at full force, rocking the house and shaking the windows.
And Miranda became more and more scared, as the minutes passed.