A Girl, a Guy, and a Ghost

by Patricia Mason

  When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw the prisoner. Ry “The Blackhearted” Leland, captain of the queen’s frigate Savannah, stretched out naked, ready for torture. His arms and legs were shackled to the mahogany four-poster bed with pink fuzzy handcuffs. His eyes glinted with angry fire. No doubt he would be shouting a string of obscenities except for the red silk scarf stuffed into his mouth. As it was only stifled, grumblings emerged.

  “So, my scurvy knave.” She strode inside and slammed the door closed behind her. “You have been rude to me.” Swaggering forward, she stopped near the chest at the foot of the bed and then drew out a riding crop with a cluster of feathers tipping the opposite end. “You must be punished.”

  In the dim candlelight, his body—naked except for tight black trousers—gleamed, gloriously tan. She admired the tight, long, lean muscles bulging under the skin. His chest, free of hair, was broad with sculpted pecs.

  “Mmmmmmmrrrrrgggggggg.” Ry furiously bucked against the mattress. The bed frame creaked but held.

  “What is that you say?” She moved to the side of the bed, level with his chest. “You apologize for treating me like a prostitute?”

  He shook his head with vigor.

  “You wish you hadn’t thrown me out of your office?”

  “Mmrmmrrrrrggggg.” He bucked again.

  “Thank you. Your heartfelt repentance touches me but…” Giselle placed the feathered end of the riding crop on Ry’s naval. “It’s too late.” She tickled at his lower abdomen. “You’ve already been sentenced to one hundred strokes of the lash, and my crew would lose respect if I didn’t carry out all discipline to…completion.”

  Giselle swept the feathers down his lower stomach and he quivered. A flick of the crop brought the feathers up again, past his naval and then up to his breastbone.

  “One,” she said. Her voice trembled. This punishment might be just as torturous for her as it was for him.

  Stroking the feathered tip, she moved to a point beneath his right arm and then slowly down his side. He shuddered.

  Licking her lips, Giselle whispered, “Two.”

  “Perhaps crew moral wouldn’t suffer if some of the strokes were with my tongue.” She glanced up at Ry’s face. “What do you think?”

  He nodded.

  “I want to be certain you don’t think such punishment cruel.” She took the gag from his mouth.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “Say, please.”

  Anger glinted in his eyes again but his words were pleading. ”Have mercy.”

  “Have mercy, who?”

  “Please, Queen Giselle. I need you.”

  Climbing onto the bed at his side, Giselle bent over her captive to kiss his rock hard chest. The prisoner moaned. Swirling her tongue around, and then biting gently. He gasped.

  Licking and nibbling, she trailed down his chest to his abdomen before bringing her head up again.

  The prisoner’s eyes still gleamed.

  “Ummmm. I think I’ve lost count,” she said. “Was that five or six? Or maybe seven.”

  “I don’t know, my queen,” he said, stomach undulating with his irregular breathing.

  “Do you want me to continue?” she asked.

  “Oh yes, please,” he begged.

  She did want to continue. In fact, she longed to continue to lick him like the most delicious lollipop.

  * * * * *

  The guidebook fell from the bed, crashing heavily to the floor, waking Giselle in a start. Damn. She’d been dreaming something… Something wonderful and exciting and… She couldn’t quite remember. Something about feathers. But why would she be dreaming of birds? The details slipped away.

  How had she fallen asleep anyway? She needed a ghost. Oh yeah. The Pirates’ House restaurant was the next stop. Aura photography at the restaurant might be the way to go. Giselle had read on the internet that taking photos in haunted areas sometimes caught ghosts on film. Usually, the ghost consisted of an unexplained orb or a misty wisp of light. Not the firmest evidence, but it would be something. Would she be able to find a ghost without any ability to feel their presence?

  She extracted the magazine’s Polaroid camera out of her suitcase. A digital camera would have been better, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Only the most up-to-date ghost-hunting equipment for her boss.

  Wouldn’t it be perfect if she could get photographic evidence of ghost pirates? Pirates were hot in the media right now. Ghost pirates would be even hotter. If she could get photographic evidence of ghost pirates it would make a great article. Even Willie wouldn’t complain…much. An uncomplaining Willie would mean her job was safe.

  Giselle got halfway down the hotel hallway before she stopped and looked down at herself. Dammit. She turned and went back into her room where she quickly took off the hated shorts, ugly shirt and clunky shoes. She threw on a white peasant blouse, flouncy skirt and strappy sandals. No way she’d be caught in a matronly outfit again. A bit of makeup, a brush through her curly hair, and she could safely go out in public.

  She looked good, even if a little pink from the hot Southern sun. Good enough to see any guy in the world. Even Mr. Scrumptious, correction Mr. Meanie. Not that she hoped to see Mr. Meanie. Absolutely not. If she saw him, she would spit in his meanie face. She wasn’t dressing up for that jerk. No way.

  The restaurant, wood clapboard construction with fading gray paint, sported a Jolly Roger flag on a pole outside, playing up the pirate theme. After a quick lunch, Giselle started with a photograph of the Buccaneer room. The image developed in a few minutes. Nothing. It might qualify as a nice travel photo of the restaurant interior, but it contained no evidence of a ghostly image.

  Wandering around, she found a fascinating series of small rooms set up in a rambling mazelike manner. One room led into another but without straight paths. A number of narrow hallways led into small nooks and crannies before emptying into yet another small room.

  She took photos in each room. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. In the nooks and crannies. Nothing again. Near the old rum cellar, she found the now-blocked entrance to the tunnels. Still nothing.

  Giselle had just admitted to herself that she would have to give up when she found herself in a room with a bar. Thank goodness. She needed a drink. The only question was whether she should order one drink or just go for two right away.

  Before she could decide, she observed a familiar figure in the corner of the room. Ry Leland, Mr. Meanie himself sat at a table at the farthest reaches of the bar. Scrumptious and mean, he leaned toward a blonde woman seated across from him. The bleach blonde was probably in her late thirties and had a pretty, Southern beauty queen style. Skinny, skinny, skinny with big breasts. Obvious boob job.

  Her lips moving nonstop, the blonde’s eyes darted about, glancing first to one side of the room then to the other then back at Ry. The blonde gestured with two hands in supplication toward the ceiling. Then the blonde put her hand on the arm Ry had resting on the tabletop.

  Giselle saw red…or perhaps green. Not a rational or reasonable reaction, but she gave in to it. She knew she shouldn’t. Raising her camera, she snapped a photo of Ry with his blonde. The flash on the camera popped and lighted the darkened room briefly.

  Ry and the blonde both turned startled heads toward her, each with a deer-in-the-headlights expression. Giselle pulled the picture from the camera. Flash. Giselle took another picture. After a few seconds, Ry stood, knocking his chair back in one motion. He stalked toward Giselle, the blonde following closely on his heels.

  Giselle pulled the second photo from the camera. Putting the photos behind her back, she deliberately stiffened her legs to keep her knees from knocking together.

  “Give me those photos, Ms. Hunter.” Ry reached around and behind her.

  Giselle brought the hand with the photos to her chest and held them there. “No.”

  “Give them to me.” He grabbed at her chest area.

  “No,” she said in a petulan
t tone as she backed away from his grasp. Giselle couldn’t explain her childish behavior, even to herself. She knew she wasn’t being reasonable. But to heck with reasonable. Jealousy had reared its ugly, belligerent head.

  “Ms. Hunter. Giselle. I’m warning you.” Ry’s jaw clenched and his eyes had darkened to stormy sea color.

  In response, she smiled sweetly. Then she tucked the photos down the loose front of her peasant blouse and into the cup of her bra. “What ya gonna do about it, Mr. Meanie?”

  Ry’s deep green eyes darkened even further and narrowed. He lunged at her.

  Giselle jumped back, narrowly escaping his hands. She stomped one strappy-sandaled foot down onto the top of his. Ry grunted. Not waiting to see whether he would take time to nurse his foot, Giselle took off in the other direction. She had no idea where she was headed. After a few steps, she looked back and saw that Ry had closed the distance between them.

  “Is something the matter, Mr. Leland?” a young waiter called as they passed.

  “She saw a rat,” Ry called back. “I’ll catch her and calm her down.”

  “I saw a rat, all right,” Giselle shouted, turning down a narrow hallway. Giselle glanced back again. Ry had closed to within reaching distance. To her right she saw a door with a small sign on it. It must be a ladies’ room.

  She grabbed the knob and pulled the door open. Ry was almost on her heels as she darted inside. She ran into something that clattered and fell. Darn it. Cleaning supplies. She’d run into a closet of cleaning supplies. A small, dark, closet of cleaning supplies. Before Giselle could react and back out of the closet, Ry rammed in behind her. The door slammed shut, closing them inside.

  Ry made a big, tough, inflexible wall pressed to Giselle’s back in the darkness. His breath chugged through his chest, out his mouth, and onto the top of her head like the air from an open oven.

  “What the—” Ry began.

  “We’re in a closet, Mr. Genius.”

  “Why did you come in here?”

  “I was trying to get away from you. And besides, I thought it was the ladies’ room.”

  Ry snorted. “So you led us into a closet, Miss Genius.”

  “Just open the door and let us out.”

  “I’d like those photos first, if you please,” Ry said silkily.

  “I can hardly lift my arm in here without hitting something. Just let us out of here.” The closeness of the closet started to affect her. Her breath shortened to a rasp. “Let me out of here right now.” Her voice had more than a hint of panic.

  Her looming hysteria must have transmitted itself to Ry, because she felt him move. The inside knob clanked in a hollow rattle.

  “Hurry. Open it.” Desperate now, she gasped. There was no oxygen in here. The closet must be sealed. They were going to suffocate. They were going to die.

  “I’m trying, but it’s hard to get a grip from this angle,” Ry grumbled.

  “Let me do it.” Giselle squirmed and wiggled against Ry’s hard body. If only she didn’t feel so panicky. She could be enjoying this.

  She’d gotten her body about halfway facing him when she snagged her skirt on something in the closet. She jerked free and the top of her head impacted something hard.

  “Ow. You got me in the chin,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, but it didn’t feel so good to me either, you know.”

  She twisted again and felt her knee jab him in the thighbone.

  “Ouch.”

  She stepped on his foot.

  “Ow.”

  “Sor—ry,” she sang. “I’ll try not to damage anything important.” Unexpectedly, the exchange left her a lot calmer. Tormenting Ry had dissipated her panic.

  “Open the door already,” Ry said.

  Giselle chuckled. Yeah. Ry’s distress made her feel a lot better. Besides, Mr. Meanie deserved it. Giselle brought her right arm around Ry and grasped the doorknob. She tried to turn it and push the door. The doorknob wouldn’t move. She shoved. No movement in the door either.

  “It opens outward,” Ry said with a dry tone.

  “I know. I turned it and pushed outward. It didn’t work.”

  “Try pulling and then pushing when you turn it.”

  Giselle pushed then pulled while turning the knob. The knob turned this time. Success. But then.

  “Uh-oh,” Giselle said.

  “What?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No, you don’t”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “The doorknob came off.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I told you so.”

  Ry shoved his back against the door. It still wouldn’t open.

  “We’re going to have to raise a ruckus and get someone to open it from the other side,” Ry said.

  “Hey out there, open the door,” Giselle screamed as she pounded her fist on the hard surface over his shoulder.

  “Stop!”

  “What?”

  “You’re breaking my eardrums.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Jeez.” She really was sorry this time. She didn’t want him to go deaf. It was easier to torture someone if they could hear.

  “Let’s yell together this time.” Ry sounded like he was instructing a child. “One, two, three, go.” They yelled, Giselle pounded and Ry kicked the door. It went on forever. At least three minutes.

  “Stop,” Ry finally said. “Let’s rest for a while and then try again.”

  An uncomfortable silence enveloped them. Giselle’s senses sang with awareness of Ry there in the darkness. His firm body was touching all along hers. He smelled of sandalwood cologne mixed with a male heat. A girl could get intoxicated on that smell. A girl could lose her head with that smell. A guy could go from Mr. Meanie back to Mr. Scrumptious with that smell.

  Ry was affected by her proximity also. His arms slipped around her with his hands pressed against the small of her back. He shifted against her and his breath came faster through his lips, a minty breeze. It didn’t help her.

  “I’ve got to pee,” Giselle blurted out, and the spell broke.

  Ry chuckled.

  “Don’t laugh. This is a serious problem.”

  “I’ve got a solution,” Ry said. “There are cleaning supplies in this closet. In fact, I’m sure I saw a bucket on the shelf before the door closed.”

  “Very funny,” Giselle said. “Distract me. Talk about something.”

  “I could hold the bucket for you.”

  “Something else.”

  More deep laughter. “All right. I’ll change the subject. Are you going to give me those photographs?”

  “Can’t you take your own pictures of your girlfriend?”

  Giselle could feel him bristle. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s a client.” Giselle had the feeling that he’d blurted out the last bit. For some reason the information gave her pleasure.

  “If she didn’t want to be seen with you, then why were you in a public place?”

  He remained silent for a moment and Giselle thought he wouldn’t answer her. Then he spoke. “It was a kind of hide-in-plain-sight plan. Obviously, with you in town, the plan was doomed. The lady has a bit of local notoriety and doesn’t want those photos floating around.”

  She smiled.

  “You’re a menace,” he said.

  She frowned.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Well, what?”

  “For God’s sake. Will you just give me those photographs.”

  “It depends. What will you give me for them? Will you let me hire you to help with my investigation?”

  “That bogus ghost hunt? No way.”

  “Then you’re not getting the photos.”

  “I could just take them,” Ry warned.

  Giselle put her arms protectively over her chest. The movement caused a small collapse of some unknown products on the shelf behind her. “
You wouldn’t dare.” Silence. “Would you?” The words came out with a squeak.

  Silence. And then, “No. I wouldn’t.” His tone was glum.

  Giselle let out the breath she’d been holding with relief and dropped her hands. Then, to her outrage, she felt Ry’s left hand move from around her back, thrust down the front of her peasant blouse and start fishing around.

  “Hey. Stop that.” Giselle slapped at his hand, but it continued groping down into her left bra cup. His hand touched her breast but in a clinical way. Dammit.

  “Find anything interesting in there?” she asked with sarcasm to cover her embarrassment.

  “Yeah a lot…but sadly no photos.” He removed his hand from her breast and it returned to her lower back.

  It was a good thing she’d moved the photos from her bra to inside the band of her skirt as she ran down the hall.

  “Okay. Where are they?”

  “Are you going to help me with my investigation?”

  “No.”

  “Why nooooot,” she whined.

  “Why is it so important? It’s just some ridiculous search for something that doesn’t exist.”

  “Don’t say that. Ghosts have got to exist because I’ve got to find objective evidence of a ghost and write an article. If I don’t, my boss is going to fire me by close of business Monday.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I’m sorry.” Ry’s arms slid gently up her back as he pulled her to him in a hug. His strong hands patted and then caressed her back in circular motions.

  “You’ll help me?” she mumbled into his chest.

  The hands stopped moving. “No.”

  Giselle sighed then wiggled her hands around to the front of her skirt.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “You’ll see. Well, you won’t see…just wait. Give me your hand.”

  “What are you going to do to it?” he asked in a suspicious tone.

  “Just do it.”

  His hand moved and came around in front of her. She grasped it and turned it up. Then she placed the photos on the palm. “Take them.”

  “I’m not helping you with your investigation.”

  “I know, but it was worth a shot. I’m not really a blackmailer,” she said. “Well, maybe I am, but I lack follow-through.”