GHOST OF A CHANCE

by Nina Bruhns

  "Not this time. It's a new MP3 player with— Never mind," he said, grinning at her long-suffering mien.

  "You already have three of those!"

  Gadgets of any kind, especially kitchen and electronic gadgets, were his weakness, but they were the bane of Mrs. Yates's existence since she had to find room for them all in the cottage. She liked to run a tight ship.

  "One can never have too many MP3 players, Mrs. Yates."

  "If you say so, Captain," she said with a sigh.

  "Why don't you send a box of things over to the women's shelter?" he suggested as he bounded up the stairs. "I'm sure they can use another toaster or two."

  "We sent them three boxes last month," she called after him.

  "The retirement home, then," he shouted back, closing his office door behind him. She'd work out where the donations could best be used. She always did.

  He took a seat in front of the computer and turned it on. As he waited for it to boot up, his gaze once again traveled through the bank of mullioned windows overlooking the path to the village. From the second floor, he could see much more of it, winding its way through the estate toward the small hamlet of Magnolia Cove.

  Clara would have reached the village by now. It wasn't far, maybe a mile or two, and she was in good shape. Very good shape. His body tightened recalling just how good her shape was. Trim and fit, yet soft and curvy in all the right places.

  Staring out over the palmettos, oaks and saw grass, he tried to pin down a rising sense of discomfort—besides the obvious. And realized it stemmed from a sudden gnawing desire to go to the museum library and check on her.

  Which was ridiculous. He hardly ever left the estate. Certainly not to go to the village. He hadn't gone there for years. Decades.

  He folded his arms over his chest. What could she be doing now?

  She'd come to the island to find his and Sully's lost treasure, so she was probably cuddled up in the pirate museum library with some obscure dusty volume she'd excavated from deep in its bowels, searching for clues to the gold's location. A harmless enough task.

  Or was she instead drinking coffee with the docent, asking questions about the crazy recluse at Rose Cottage who dressed as a pirate and walked through walls?

  He set his jaw. Who was on duty at the museum today? Mrs. Yates volunteered on Thursdays, but today was Monday. Clara had thought Tyree worked there, because of his clothes. He frowned. Why would she think that?

  She'd spent yesterday afternoon at the museum. Maybe they'd hired someone new. Maybe some young stud who liked to dress as a pirate to amuse the tourists. His frown turned to a scowl. Or to attract the attention of pretty, inquisitive women…

  He rose, stalked out of his office to the top of the stairs and bellowed, "Mrs. Yates! Have they hired anyone new at the museum lately?"

  She appeared at the foot of the staircase looking puzzled. "Why, no, not since Miss Dalrymple."

  "Good," he muttered.

  He stalked back to his office, clapped the door shut and strode back to the windows. Still, maybe he should—

  What in blazes was wrong with him? He couldn't believe he was actually considering going to the village to spy on her.

  Shaking his head, Tyree returned to his desk and logged on to the Internet auction site. He'd been outbid on the MP3 player, so he registered a new bid. Then he logged off. Usually, he surfed the other auctions for a while to see if there was anything interesting, or checked in at the various online news services to find out what was happening in the world. There was one story in particular he'd been following, about an arsonist who had burned down two historic houses in the area. But today he couldn't concentrate.

  The only thing on his mind was the image of Clara rushing down the path to escape him, her embarrassment over their night together and his fantastical story about being dead.

  Suddenly he came to his feet. What a fool he was!

  She was after treasure, and what better treasure existed in this day and age than a story you could sell to the ever-gossip-hungry media? A tale of ghosts and pirates and curses and treasure? A sharp woman like Clara would know exactly what to do to cash in on a story like that. Even now, she was probably on the phone to the National Stargazer or another one of those tabloid papers pitching it.

  The last thing Tyree wanted or needed was for Rose Cottage to be invaded by reporters, curiosity seekers and ghost hunters. He had to put a stop to it. Now, before she could bring a disaster down on their heads.

  He strode to the upstairs bedroom where he kept his small collection of street clothes. Except for ridding himself of the annoying eye patch, these days he seldom bothered changing out of his pirate gear. Even if he did, he always ended up right back in them somewhere in the wee hours just before dawn, when his consciousness was at low ebb and drifting. The garments never aged, as he didn't, his physical manifestation always reverting back each day to the precise moment of Sully's curse.

  Rosalind had made him change clothes during those years they were together. She'd buy him the latest fashions and dress him up like a proper dandy, even though she was the only one who ever saw the fruits of her labors. Once in the beginning, he'd tried to stay alert for several days straight to see if he could avoid the reversion. He'd lasted about seventy-two hours. They'd laughed about that. Young, carefree and in love, clothes had been the last thing on their minds.

  When she died, he'd stopped changing again.

  But he always maintained a small wardrobe of current menswear along with an up-to-date driver's license and passport in the name of James Tyler. Just in case. Thank goodness jeans and T-shirts never went out of style.

  Quickly, he pulled on a pair of blue ones, still a little stiff despite their age, along with a white T-shirt and boots, and checked his reflection in the cheval mirror. If anyone in the village actually saw him, he'd blend right in, even with his overly long hair caught in a queue at his neck. Those who weren't able to see him wouldn't see the clothes, either. Anything he wore or carried on his body disappeared into the same dimension that he himself occupied.

  "I'm going out for a while," he called to Mrs. Yates, taking the stairs two at a time. He ignored her astonished face when she saw what he was wearing, and her even more shocked expression when he added, "To the village."

  But he could have sworn he saw the beginnings of a smile as he headed out the door.

  Whatever that was supposed to mean.

  * * *

  Tyree made it to the pirate museum in record time, not running but striding at that double-time pace he and Sully had used for evading the odd French or Spanish militia who didn't take kindly to American privateers relieving their Caribbean merchantmen of their cargoes. Sully always was a cocky devil; after a job, he could never resist putting ashore for a pint or two before pushing off for home. Tyree grinned at the memory. His own weakness had been the ladies, so naturally he hadn't objected too strenuously to a tavern visit before a long voyage. But it did tend to land them in the kettle.

  He puffed out a breath. It seemed his weakness had struck again. Would he never learn?

  Nobody noticed him as he swiftly made his way down Fouquet Street—it still made him grit his teeth when he saw the street sign—past the quaint village antique shops, the lone filling station and the coin-op Laundromat. He rounded the corner at the historic Moon and Palmetto, the very tavern where he'd received his fateful blow. Miraculously, the inn was still in business. He hurried along the short block to the pirate museum.

  Slipping in the front door, he prepared to duck right out again if anyone spotted him.

  Behind the reception desk the bespectacled, blue-haired Miss Dalrymple looked up expectantly when the bell over the door jangled. He winced, but she just adjusted her glasses when nobody came through it before it closed again.

  The museum was housed in a stylish Georgian town house which had been renovated and refurbished years ago by an enterprising city council looking for ways to attract the trickle of tourist
s who'd begun to discover the delights of South Carolina's sea islands. Using the romantic legend of Sullivan Fouquet as a hook, they'd achieved moderate success with day-tippers heading for the more popular beach and golf resorts. Today, however, none of them were in evidence.

  Tyree did a quick glance through the lobby, tearoom and small museum shop on the first level. No Clara. He glided up the main stairway to the second floor, where the library was situated. He didn't see her there, either. She wasn't sitting at the old wooden library table, or in either of the leather armchairs flanking the fireplace. Where the hell was she?

  With growing panic that his fears would prove correct, he ran down the hall and searched one by one through the several small rooms that had been fitted with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. In the last one, at the very back of the building overlooking a manicured French-style garden, he found her. Folded into the window seat, she held an open, oversized folio on her bent knees and was staring at one of its pages with an odd expression.

  He halted, a peculiar feeling zinging through his insides. She looked angelic. Lit by the yellow sunshine pouring through the window framing her, hair a tangle of spun gold against the cerulean blue of the sky, she reminded him of a painting he'd once seen on the ceiling of a chapel in Italy. All she lacked was a pair of wings.

  He shook off the feeling. He knew better. Last night, she'd been no angel. And today she might very well be plotting to upend everything he'd worked so hard to achieve before going to his own reward. He'd be damned if he'd let her.

  He stepped forward. "What are you doing?"

  She gasped. "Jeez, you scared—" She caught sight of his face and gasped again, jumping to her feet. "You!"

  The large folio landed on the floor, open. To a portrait of him. It had been painted a few years before his demise, for ale money, by Thom Bowden, a friend who fancied himself an artist. A fair likeness, though by no means perfect. He'd been in his cups at the time, and he appeared angry and brooding.

  "I never liked that painting," he remarked, studying it with distaste. He'd forgotten about it. Some collector had bought the actual oil from the owner of the Moon and Palmetto sometime in the beginning of the century, along with another of him and Sully together, and it had disappeared from public view.

  "You look just like him," Clara said, pulling his attention from the portrait. She looked wary.

  "Fancy that."

  "You're his descendant, aren't you," she stated. "That would explain your remarkable resemblance. That's cool," she continued, speaking a little too fast. "I'm a descendant of Sullivan Fouquet. Well, more of a distant relative, really." She stooped to pick up the book. "He's my great-great-great-great-granduncle on my mother's side."

  Taken aback for a split second, Tyree decided he couldn't deal with the irony of having unknowingly seduced Sully's great-great-great-great-grandniece; he'd save that one for later.

  "I died with no offspring," he informed her instead. "There are no descendants."

  She paused, then carefully put the folio down on a piecrust table flanking the window. "What do you want?" she asked evenly.

  "I want to know what you are up to."

  Her brows lifted. "Not that it's any of your business, but I already told you. I'm researching."

  He regarded her. "So I gather. Well, save yourself the trouble, because you'll never find it."

  "Find what?"

  He had to credit her—she looked innocent enough to fool a clergyman. But not him. Suddenly, her being Sully's descendant made perfect sense. "I know why you're here. I heard you talking to Mrs. Yates yesterday. But I'm telling you there is no hidden treasure, so it doesn't matter if you are Fouquet's heir."

  "Heir? What are you talking about?"

  "And if you're thinking of cashing in on any other circumstance—" he gave her a piercing glare "—you can forget about that, too."

  She stared at him and her lips parted.

  Her pretty, berry-red lips.

  Lips still plump from his own kisses.

  He dragged his gaze away from them, up to her eyes, which widened with sudden awareness.

  He took a step forward and her eyes grew bigger still. He crushed the impulse to do what she so obviously expected, and said, "Only three people on earth know about … my condition. I intend to keep it that way. Using any means I must."

  "I—" She cleared her throat. "Don't worry. I won't breathe a word. I swear. And I'm not after your treasure. That was a joke. Honest."

  "Then what, exactly, are you here for?"

  Her tongue peeked out from between her lips, swiped over the bottom one. "Please, just tell me you're not an ax murderer."

  "Why would you—?" He puffed out a chuckle. "Oh, I get it. You think I'm an escapee from some mental institution."

  She peered up at him uncertainly. "Are you?"

  "Nay. I really am dead."

  She closed her eyes. "Sure you are. Silly me."

  Poor thing. She was having a hard time with this. He turned and stepped away from her, making a decision. "Look, let's call a truce. I really don't care if you believe me. If you can ignore what you've seen and think I'm just some guy with paranoid delusions, that's fine. It matters not either way."

  "Then why the threats?"

  He raised his hands, palms out. "No threats. I simply want your word that you will not mention my existence to a living soul. There are things at stake that I don't want jeopardized. Important things. Do we understand one another?"

  After a second, she gave a reluctant nod, and said, "All right. Who you are is none of my business, anyway. Just swear I'm not living with an ax murderer and you, have a deal."

  He breathed a sigh of relief. "I promise I've never killed anyone. Well, except during the war, of course. That was inevitable."

  "The war?"

  "The War of Independence. And your obnoxious great-whatever-uncle and his blundering wench. But you already knew about them."

  "Yeah," she said, and sighed. "So I did."

  "And that wasn't with an ax."

  "No." She tilted her head. "You never killed anyone else?"

  "No one." He was very proud of that accomplishment.

  "And yet you say you were a pirate," she said casually.

  She looked so damn cute thinking she'd caught him out. Pirates were supposed to be bloodthirsty. But he knew a thing or two she didn't. He strolled back over and leaned in close. "I'll tell you a secret?"

  She tried to step backward, but hit up against the window seat. "No, that's—"

  "I wasn't a pirate," he whispered in her ear.

  "Oh!" She was obviously surprised by the admission. "There's no shame in admitting it," she whispered back.

  He so hated to disappoint her. "Sully and I were privateers. We had fully legal letters of marque. All that pirate stuff is misinformation perpetuated by Sully. He'd started out as a pirate in Louisiana and saw no reason to correct his ruffian image when he made the switch."

  "Oh," she said again, this time deflated. Then suddenly she recovered. "Can you prove they were privateers? Have you found the letters of marque?"

  The two of them were standing practically nose to nose and he could almost smell her eagerness. He could certainly smell her perfume. Sweet, flowery. He remembered well being enveloped in that scent last night as they— Blast.

  "Aye, I have the letters. Mine at least."

  "Can I see them?" she asked hopefully.

  He couldn't help reaching out and sliding a hand around the nape of her neck, combing his fingers up into her silky hair. "Maybe. But first you have to answer my question."

  She made a little noise. Just like the ones she'd made last night, right before he'd touched her in some pleasurable new way.

  "Wh-what question?"

  He caressed her nape. "Tell me what you're here for."

  "I—" She swallowed heavily and met his gaze head-on. "I'm not here for an affair," she said, her voice shaking slightly.

  "No?"

  "No. I'm no
t blaming you for last night. I was as much at fault as you. But I want you to know, that's not how I am. I'm not … interested. In that sort of thing."

  Oh, she was so wrong. She was interested, all right. He could feel it in the slackness of her muscles, hear it in the breathy way she spoke, smell it in the musky response of her body to his nearness. He could see it in the depths of her soft, glittering eyes. If he kissed her now, she wouldn't even murmur a protest.

  "Good," he said. "Because I'm not, either."

  But he didn't move. Not a millimeter. If he did, he'd be proven a liar.

  "Good," she echoed.

  "Then tell me why you are here."

  She blinked, and said, "I'm writing a story. For a travel magazine."

  "You're a journalist?" He controlled his alarm. Barely.

  "Trying to be."

  "And you're writing a story about the treasure?" Okay. That wouldn't be so bad. They popped up every so often. No one ever got close, though. Because it wasn't there anymore.

  "No, not the treasure. Well, I may mention it, but the article is for a contest. Sponsored by Adventure Magazine."

  "And you're writing about pirates."

  She nodded up at him and their noses brushed. He tightened his grip.

  "Actually, just one."

  It hit him like the business end of a yardarm. "Let me guess. Your illustrious ancestor, Captain Fouquet."

  He spun away from her, getting his unreasonable reaction under control.

  This was a good thing. All of it. She didn't want to get involved, and the article had nothing to do with him. Perfect.

  "Ideal subject," he heard himself say, gesturing around at the rows of bookcases. "Lots of material available."

  He felt her hand on his arm and his skin jolted with electricity. "Yes, but this morning I got to thinking," she said. "I'd rather write about you." She faltered when he turned and speared her with a look. "I mean Tyree St. James. The original one."

  For a moment a battle of ego raged within him. The idea of someone writing a sympathetic article about him—the real Captain St. James, not the usual penny dreadful villain—was seductive.