For a moment she had thought Lucien was wrong about the exhaustive properties of channeling, but no… he was right. In spite of the charge that shot through her, the presence of a spirit was indeed draining. All of a sudden she felt oddly weak, her legs and fingers trembled. She wanted nothing more than to fall against Lucien’s chest and stay there.
No, she didn’t want to stay here. She wanted him to pick her up and carry her to that bed where they’d lain, so briefly, that very morning. She wanted him to take off every stitch of clothing, hers and his, and caress her everywhere the way he touched her breasts and her throat.
This was so confusing. Excited and drained, she didn’t know what she wanted.
It was Viola who did this to her, Eve reasoned in the back of her muddled mind. This was Viola’s passion for Alistair, nothing more.
Unexpectedly bold, realizing this was a chance that would never come again, she reached down and touched Lucien intimately, found him hard, stroked his length. It was Viola doing the touching, Eve reminded herself, but still… she liked it. She liked the power of making this man want her; she liked knowing that even if he didn’t love her, even if she would never come first in his life, he did desire her.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
Eve brushed her lips against Lucien’s chest, tasting him. Inhaling him. And for a moment he held her there, close and tight.
And then he leaned her over backward, across his lap, so that she was exposed before him, half dressed and rumpled and wanting. For a moment he stared at her, at her face and her exposed breasts, and then he lowered his head to take one nipple between his lips. He cradled her in his arms while he touched her in a way she had never expected, drawing her deep into his mouth. Sparks shot through her body, tugging at her spirit, her desire, the center of her being.
“I didn’t forget you,” he whispered as his mouth barely lifted from her breast. A tongue flicked there. “I could never forget you.”
Her fingers stroked his erection, dragging along the length, wondering how it was possible that…
Forget her? “Lucien?”
He murmured something she could not understand, his mouth busy as it worked its way up to her throat once again.
“Where’s Alistair?”
Lucien lifted his head and shifted his dazed eyes to the other side of the room. “Over there, with Viola.” He put his mouth on her throat again, and his fingers continued to tease her bare breasts.
Eve’s caressing fingers rose up slowly. She placed her hand against Lucien’s chest and pushed, just a little. “Lucien,” she murmured. He did not respond at all. “Lucien!” she said, a bit louder.
He lifted his head and smiled at her, wicked and gentle at the same time.
“How long has Alistair been gone?”
“A few minutes,” he said.
“And you continued to… to…”
He laid a finger over her lips. “Don’t blame me. Viola left first.”
“Oh.” Eve felt slightly deflated. “How long was she with me?”
“No more than a minute or two. She left as soon as she told Alistair that she thought he loved her.”
Disgusted with herself and with Lucien, Eve stood, trembling legs and weak knees fighting her all the way.
“Don’t feel bad. You haven’t had much practice channeling. A minute or two is a fine start. Viola must trust you to come to you so easily.” Lucien grabbed her wrist and pulled her back onto his lap. She fell there, realizing as she landed with a bump that her breasts were still uncovered. She very quickly began to remedy that situation.
“You took advantage of me,” she said softly.
“I did not,” he argued. “If I had been intent on taking advantage of you, we would be in that bed right now, and we would not be talking.”
“I had no idea you were so… so unbearably crude,” she accused.
Lucien grinned. “And I had no idea you were so passionate.”
Eve left his lap with an indignant huff, and stalked from the room without a shred of her dignity intact.
She didn’t dare ask Lucien who’d been in control when he’d said I love you.
*
A man could not possibly survive a constant state of arousal. It was unnatural. Painful. Distracting. Lucien cursed as he sat on the parlor floor and tinkered with the specter-o-meter. Anything to take his mind off Eve. Stubborn woman.
He smiled as he adjusted the spring mechanism. Stubborn, yes, but also very passionate. And she tasted like honey. Warm, sweet honey. No, she tasted better than honey.
She hadn’t spoken to him since they’d channeled Viola and Alistair. The encounter hadn’t gone exactly as planned, but he wouldn’t call it a waste of time. Aside from the more obvious benefits which had led to his current state, he knew Alistair, now. He was more certain than ever that the man had not killed his wife.
The sofa scooted, the chair leg scraping across the wooden floor. The needle on his specter-o-meter jiggled just slightly. Lucien lifted his head, wondering if Eve had come silently into the room while he worked. But the sofa was unoccupied.
And then it wasn’t. The needle on the device he was working on jumped. Twinkling lights hovered above the sofa. Lucien glanced at the mantel clock. Eight-forty-five.
“Evie!” he shouted.
He heard her skirt swishing long before she ran into the room. “What?” she snapped. “Is something wrong?”
“I thought you said your lascivious ghosts never appear until ten-fifteen.”
“They don’t,” she said, wide-eyed.
“Then what are they doing on the sofa?” The last thing he needed was to watch and listen to those two, when he knew Eve was out of reach and probably always would be.
“I don’t see anything,” she said innocently.
“You will,” he said darkly. He always saw and sensed things before others did. Usually he thought of his abilities as a gift. Tonight, as the energies that were Viola and Alistair Stamper came together on the sofa, he felt like they were a curse.
Viola sighed, and the sound washed through the room like a gentle wave.
Eve stood in the doorway. Still, she saw nothing. “Why does she continue to love him?” she asked, shaking her head slightly. “He… he killed her. How can she forgive that?”
Lucien stared at her, glad to have an excuse not to look toward the sofa. “I don’t believe he did kill her.”
“He said as much.”
“No, he apologized. He did not say for which mistake he offered his regrets.”
“Obviously…”
“No.” Lucien shook his head. “He was inside me, Evie. I felt him. He’s not a murderer. I sensed a woman’s involvement.” Lucien frowned as he tried to recall each sensation he’d experienced earlier in the evening. Yes, he was getting better at remembering what happened when he channeled, but he lost a lot, too. It was as if he wasn’t supposed to remember.
“He was unfaithful?” Eve snapped.
“Perhaps.”
She seemed uncomfortable, there by the entrance to the foyer. She actually fidgeted a little. Evie rarely fidgeted. This afternoon had shaken her. And him. “Do you… remember everything that took place when Alistair was with you?”
“Of course. Don’t you remember what it was like when Viola entered your body? And after?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure. The entire afternoon is rather a blur.”
She did remember, he suspected. At least, she remembered everything that had happened after Viola left her body. Every word. Every touch. “Close your eyes and think,” he urged. “Was she afraid?”
“Yes,” Eve whispered, eyes wide open and locked on him.
“Of Alistair?”
Now she closed her eyes. “Yes.”
“And yet she came to him when he was with me.”
Eve’s lips parted slightly. “She loves him, still. No matter what he’s done, no matter…” She swallowed hard. “Oh, Lucien, it’s tearing her apart. She lov
es him and she doesn’t understand.” Two lonely tears ran down her cheeks. “She wants to understand, but… she can’t. She remembers the love and she remembers the pain, and…” Her eyes flew open. “How did I know all that?”
Lucien grinned. “Ordinary, my ass. You have a gift.”
Eve shook her head. “No. I document. You dazzle.”
How could he convince her that she was dazzling? That to live the ordinary life she thought she wanted would be a waste of talent and intelligence and beauty?
The sofa moved, and Eve’s eyes flew there. “Oh, no,” she said. Viola and Alistair took shape, there on the sofa. They had color tonight. Color! They remained transparent, but still… two fully manifested spirits who had actually achieved color and sound were presently fondling one another on Evie’s parlor sofa.
“Do you… see that?” he asked, wondering if tonight’s vision was for him and him alone, or if Eve shared this experience.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Lucien watched, fascinated. This was another instance of reliving that night thirty years ago, he imagined. Viola was happy, her smile wide and carefree. She had so much joy within her, so much love.
Something was not quite right with Alistair, though. When Viola was looking at his face, he smiled at her and seemed as happy as she. When she turned away or closed her eyes, his smile faded. The mistake he had spoken of earlier haunted him. A woman, Lucien suspected. He wasn’t certain, but it seemed right.
And yet, he could not imagine a man who loved his wife as much as Alistair loved Viola having an affair. That most definitely did not feel right.
Alistair unbuttoned his wife’s dress and peeled the fabric away to reveal her breasts. There was no annoying corset in his way, nothing beneath that dress but bare flesh, as if she had been expecting this. Viola dropped her head back and closed her eyes, allowing her husband to love her, to touch and caress her, to whisper words no one else could hear into her ear.
Eve watched, wide-eyed and utterly fascinated.
Of course she was fascinated. The scene unfolding before them was so real. They saw Viola breathe, saw her breasts rise and fall as Alistair caressed her.
Eve knew what that felt like, now. She knew how powerful it was to touch and taste, to lose yourself in sensation. Lucien had no doubt that he was the first man to touch Eve as she had been touched earlier today. He wanted more. He wanted everything. And he wanted to be the only man to ever make her shudder and moan.
He could still taste her, he could still smell her. Would she always be inside him this way?
The spectral lovers moved slowly, unbuttoning, unfastening, touching, and even laughing. Alistair lifted Viola’s skirt to reveal bare legs that parted at his touch. He stroked a thigh, feathered kisses over Viola’s face and her chest while he stroked her bare thigh. Her eyes drifted closed.
Alistair kissed his way down her partially clothed body, moving slowly, pushing her skirt higher until he knelt before Viola and his head rested between her spread legs. He ran his hands up the length of her legs, kissing her inner thigh long and slow. Viola breathed deep and reached out to touch her husband’s head, to pull him closer.
Eve’s eyes got wider.
Lucien jumped up from the floor. “I’m hungry,” he said. “Why don’t we grab a bite to eat in the kitchen. And tea!” he said. “I would really love a cup of tea. Please, for the love of all that is holy, tea.”
As he reached the doorway, Eve cocked her head to one side and carefully studied the all-too-clear ghostly lovers. “Lucien, what is he… oh!”
He reached out and placed his hand over her eyes. “Really, Eve. It isn’t proper for you to watch.”
She didn’t slap his hand away, not this time. Beneath his hand, she smiled. “Are you protecting me or them?”
“I’m not sure,” he grumbled.
He had endured tests in the past. Tests of strength, of faith. This was surely another test, one he was not sure he could survive.
Eve grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand down. The lovers continued, noisily as usual, but Eve didn’t so much as glance in that direction. She looked Lucien squarely in the eye. “Knowing what I now know, having Viola with me for such a short time, it makes this so much harder,” she whispered.
“What’s that?”
“Every day, I know her a little better. And every night when she dies it hurts a little more.”
He touched her face, trying to comfort her. “I know.”
“Viola Stamper’s been dead thirty years; she died before I was born. You would have been a new baby. My mother was alive and my father had not yet started his… his crusade to find proof of life after death. Viola comes from a world that existed before I was in it, and yet I grieve for her. I ache as if her pain is my own. I even wonder, sometimes, if maybe we can’t stop her murder from ever taking place.”
“We can’t change what happened to Viola,” he said. “That’s the one thing we can never do.”
Her nose wrinkled. “I know, but, Lucien… we have to send her on. You have to send her on, to a place where she can find lasting peace. I can’t bear the thought of Viola stuck in this cycle forever, dying every night, wondering why the man she loved would hurt her.”
“Together we will send her home,” he assured her.
Viola cried out, practically screamed, and across the room the sound of a spring giving out—that damned unreliable specter-o-meter—came on the tail end of the ghost’s cry. Lucien tensed. Because this was a private moment between two lovers thirty years dead? Or because he wanted to make Evie scream like that and he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance?
Eve’s eyes were drawn to the sofa once again, as she leaned to the side to peek past him. “Mrs. Markham was right, Lucien. Alistair does look a little bit like you.” Her hand brushed against her own cheek. “Something about the shape of the face, perhaps, and the hair is definitely similar. He could use a haircut, too.” She frowned. “Good heavens, what is she doing to him?”
Lucien glanced into the parlor. Alistair was now on the couch, and Viola knelt before him. “Tea,” he said once again.
“Oh!” Eve’s eyes went wide. She was definitely not distracted by his offer of refreshment. “I think she’s”—again she cocked her head to one side. This time she squinted—“doing to him what he did to her.” Alistair moaned. The room shimmered and shook. “Well, not exactly,” Eve continued, “but… mercy! I didn’t know such a thing was possible.” She blushed bright red.
This time Lucien forcibly turned Eve about, his firm hands on her shoulders. “Tea,” he said. “Now.” He didn’t dare look back.
Chapter 7
Eve stared at the ceiling, blaming Lucien for the fact that she couldn’t sleep even though it was well past midnight. Oh, he was the most aggravating man! He’d humiliated her, kissed her, pretended to be possessed by the spirit of a murderer so he could… Well it was best if she didn’t think too much about what had happened this afternoon, even though when she allowed it she could still feel Lucien’s hands and his mouth on her breasts, his warmth seeping through her. If she forgot who he was and that he had left her standing at the altar, she might even concede, only to herself, that she had liked it. She had loved it! Lucien was exciting and tender and she missed him terribly. More than that, she missed what might have been. No, she shouldn’t think of a few lovely moments from an unusual afternoon. It was best to concentrate on Lucien’s many faults.
Lucien Thorpe was easily distracted, forgetful, and socially inept. He stood out in a crowd, even when people didn’t know what he did for a living. Like it or not, he was simply different, and always would be. Mundane matters, and mundane people, bored him. And he talked to ghosts! He not only talked to ghosts, he preferred the dead to the living, found them more interesting. He certainly preferred spirits to her.
After Viola and Alistair had vanished for the evening, Lucien had only grudgingly made his way to town and his own room in the boarding house, leavin
g her here alone as she wished. As she had insisted. He hadn’t wanted to stay here for her sake, she was certain, but wanted to be close by in case Alistair and Viola returned. He didn’t want to miss a moment with her ghosts. Tossing Lucien out on his ear had been a pleasure.
But now the house was so quiet. Too quiet. Eve had lived alone since her father’s passing more than four years ago. Being alone never bothered her, and she normally liked the quiet!
She rolled onto her side and pulled the quilt to her chin. Yes, Lucien had his faults. Many, many faults. So why, as she lay here longing for sleep, did she remember most clearly of all that tonight when Viola had died, Lucien had gathered her to his chest and once again covered her eyes with a large, tender hand.
At the time she hadn’t minded that he shielded her eyes from a sight he thought she should be protected from. The pain of watching Viola die was excruciating, and Lucien knew it. He felt that pain with her, for her, he tried to take away the grief. It was his way of protecting her, she knew, and maybe—in spite of her insistence that she did not need or want the man in her life ever again—that was a good thing. She didn’t have many places to hide, and in Lucien’s arms was as good a place as any. Better than most. The best.
Eve sighed and rolled onto her back again. She only had a few hours until sunrise, and she needed to sleep. She needed to rest her mind and her body.
“Viola,” she whispered, “how do you do it? How do you set aside something so horrible?” It amazed Eve that the woman could pardon her husband for taking her life. That she not only forgave him, she still loved him.
Eve didn’t consider herself to be unyielding, but she didn’t easily forgive and forget. To her way of thinking, it made a woman weak to constantly dismiss transgressions. Why, a man would walk all over a woman if he thought he could! If she forgave something so significant as forgetting their wedding day, he would take advantage of her for the rest of her life. Wouldn’t he? But she found herself asking again, “How?”
She didn’t have Lucien’s gift. She could not see or summon a spirit and demand answers to her questions. If Viola didn’t choose to show herself, Eve would not see her. She would be jealous of Lucien’s gift, if she hadn’t seen him suffer for it too many times.
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