Kismet's Kiss: A Fantasy Romance (Alaia Chronicles)

by Cate Rowan

  Lieutenant Stark snorted. “So how do you explain lights turning on and off? Or doors opening when no one’s there?”

  “Spirit.”

  “Spirit.” Wide eyes became permanently stretched upon his weary face.

  “The deceased’s soul stays behind. They have unfinished—” Her words stopped, brutalized by sadness. Sadness that stabbed at her head and her heart, and strove to get to her core. The blade of sorrow felt sharp and she doubted her composure could last much longer.

  The flyer’s unfinished business must have been a doozie, it had kept him there all this time. She looked at the photograph, captured by his penetrating eyes. So lonely. So lovely. So lost. The world around her faded just outside cognitive awareness.

  Izzy ached for the man in the picture. Ghost-busting had always drained her strength of mind, but never her strength of character. Until now. Now, it sapped her wisdom and sucked it out through her pores. Anguish gathered in watery pools around her eyes, stinging them at first and then raining down in hot, hushed tears. The thought of this man’s death shattered her heart like a powerful wind scattering the delicate blossoms of a dandelion.

  “Miss Miller, are you all right?”

  Izzy’s lethargic carriage made it hard to pull herself to her feet. She lumbered across the room in slow-moving, measured steps toward the desk on the other side. She nodded, blinked the tears away and dropped into the chair. Having someone watching her, judging her on-the-job moments of weakness was not good. Aside from the shame her failings might bring, the sprites could reveal themselves at any time. The lieutenant was already nervous. She doubted he could handle a close encounter of the paranormal kind.

  “You don’t have to stay. It’s probably best if you don’t.”

  “You sure?” He stepped back with each word in his half-hearted show of courtesy. His gallantry was well-intended, but not genuine. She knew he couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  “You should go.” She rose and strolled around the desk.

  The sprites reappeared but didn’t make themselves known to the lieutenant. That meant trouble. Big trouble.

  Damn it.

  The sprites emitted iridescent tones of silver and gold, hovering inches from the lieutenant’s face. Izzy cringed when their brightness intensified and inflated like an electrified bubble bursting into pointed edges. She knew what was coming, even if the lieutenant didn’t. The nymphs squealed and exploded, their remnants shooting through his body.

  He stumbled back. His face paled so fast she was sure he’d pass out. Instead, he raced around the corner and disappeared. The sound of a slamming door told Izzy he wouldn’t be back.

  At least he didn’t have a heart attack.

  “Okay. Are you guys done?” She perched her hands on her hips. “You’d better scram before I banish you into oblivion.”

  Silence fell over the hangar, followed by emptiness. The sprites and fairies had vanished, leaving behind an unmistakable stillness, quiet and eerie.

  Izzy wasn’t used to the effects of the beefed-up emotions. Loss and sorrow had begun suffocating her the moment she entered the hangar.

  Or was it just a fascination with Captain Baker?

  Her talent for ghost-whispering had been with her since childhood, but she couldn’t remember a time when a spirit had so thoroughly drawn her in, captivating her, making her forget everything except this one time and place. Right here. Right now.

  Remorse blasted Izzy. The flyer’s consuming allure bathed her in vulnerability. Not the best mindset for a ghost-whisperer.

  Jack Baker glided across the room toward the US Government’s latest exorcist. He’d never known there was a difference between a ghost and a spirit. She’d labeled him as the latter. Well— He chuckled. It’s good to know I’m not a re-run.

  Hovering on the edge of the desk, his legs breezed through hers. She shuddered, and he knew she’d felt the connection. Jack straightened and sighed with a wisp of anticipation.

  Her gaze traveled around the room as if she were studying every inch of it, taking in every ounce of information, reviewing every minute of his seclusion.

  Jack tried to nudge her toward the boxes on the desk. He peered into the closest carton. A brown folder, tattered and faded, lay on top. His name had been scribbled at the top right corner. Was that his handwriting or someone else’s? Ideas swarmed his mind and he contemplated what could be inside that folder.

  What he wouldn’t give to take a look-see. He’d come to accept that he was dead long ago. He just couldn’t recall how it happened.

  “Go ahead, darlin’,” he encouraged her in a soft persuasive voice, anticipating reading over her shoulder.

  She sighed, reaching for a faded manila folder. Jack floated into a standing position. If he could find one piece of information in those files, one small detail to remind him about his life, he was sure it would re-establish his memories. Hope distorted his common sense and he forgot his boundaries. He breezed through the girl, the box, the desk—and tumbled across the floor, landing by the door.

  The girl paused, her fingertips barely touching the file. As if some invisible cosmic cord linked the two of them, she scanned the room again, slower this time. She wheeled the chair around facing the wall, and after a brief interlude, peered over her shoulder. Her ocean-blue eyes seized Jack and held him captive.

  Breaking free took most of his energy and all his concentration. He soared to the chair by the door, sat and crossed his arms over his chest and stared at her. He needed to keep his distance, far enough away to be safe. To stay in control. To keep from invading her realm.

  She knew he was there. He was sure of it.

  Was it possible? Could he actually communicate with her? The prospect stimulated his perception and sped through him like a P-51 Mustang chasing the sound barrier. His heart felt like it was pounding in his chest again.

  Who was this girl? Some kind of demon?

  There had been others. Self-proclaimed psychics and spiritual therapists, as she so gallantly called herself. The Air Corps ushered them in like soldiers being inducted into the Army. Their goal—to remove him. None ever could. And neither would she. He was going to have a good time watching her try. This one was a real looker. They didn’t make them like her in his day.

  Her chestnut-brown hair had blonde streaks. It was the damnedest thing he’d ever seen. Yet it suited her, bringing out her vivid blue eyes. Jack marveled at how easy he could get lost in their endlessness, reminiscent of the deepest part of the Pacific on a clear day. Her full lips, the color of pomegranate seed, were ripe for kissing. If only…

  The intoxicating scent of flowers—what was it? Jasmine, maybe—filled the air. Jack smiled. Either she was invading his world or he was breaking through to hers. Now he smelled her perfume.

  This was going to be fun. His resounding laughter echoed through the room and he leaned back in the chair.

  Her head jerked sideways, her eyes darting toward him.

  Anticipation leaned him forward in the chair. “Can you see me?” He waited, hoping for a positive response.

  Nothing.

  “Can you hear me?” Jack wouldn’t give up easily. She may not see him or even hear him, but his exorciser sensed his presence. That could prove disastrous for Jack. If she truly knew he was there, then he had to accept the probability that she could also send him to his maker. Not what Jack had in mind.

  “I know you’re here,” she muttered. She searched the space around her like she thought he’d appear at any moment. “You might as well show yourself.” He wasn’t surprised when she stopped and her stare holed through him.

  Pink fingernails marched a replicated sequence along the desk top and drummed out a song of exasperation. She was as determined to drive him out as he was to stay put. Fascinating.

  “In due time, darlin’. In due time.” He chuckled, amused by her resolve.

  She tilted her head toward the nearest box and grabbed the top file. “It’s going to be a long
night.” She propped her feet on the desk and leaned back in the chair, looked at the front of the folder and yawned. Instead of opening it, she laid it against her chest and folded her arms over it. Her eyes fluttered shut. No doubt, some trick to lure him into a false sense of security.

  “Okay, so you can’t hear me, and you don’t see me, but you know I’m here.” Or she knows somebody’s here, crossed Jack’s mind as an afterthought.

  He flew across the room and landed on the desk. Looking at her, he cocked his head. Communicating with an exorcist was dangerous and he’d never had the desire. Until now. Making an appearance might be risky, but Jack loved a challenge.

  Her head dropped, leaning to one side. He liked the way her curiously-colored hair draped itself alongside her face. She had flawless features, except for a small scar next to her eye. Chicken pox?

  Jack’s failing memories, or the fact that he was dead, didn’t stop him from wanting to make physical contact. He longed to touch her, to feel the softness of her skin. Battling reluctance, he reached up to brush the tresses from her cheek. His fingers slipped through her hair and skimmed the side of her head.

  Her eyes shot open. The once clear ocean grew turbulent as her baby-blues intensified.

  She released a jagged breath and jumped back. The manila folder fell to the floor and her chair slammed into the wall. “Shit!”

  Her brow wrinkled with shock, surprise, then belief. The expression on her face changed, turning pale and patient and somehow pensive, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t.

  Contact.

  ***

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