GHOST OF A CHANCE

by Nina Bruhns

  "Right." She took off up the boardwalk toward the badly, damaged house. Most of it was still intact, but the outer wall of one wing had burned, exposing the gaping innards of a study or library which she recognized from the video they'd shown on TV.

  The arson inspector met her at the edge of the garden.

  "You from the Historic Society?" he asked without preamble.

  She stuck out her hand. "No. Clara Fergussen. I'm—"

  "Where the hell is the Historic Society person? She was supposed to be here an hour ago."

  "Can't help you there." Clara let her hand drop. "Listen, I was—"

  "So who are you?" he asked, and scrutinized her as though it were the first time he'd really noticed her. His eyes were a clear, hard gray, like the color of a tornado cloud just before it mowed down some unsuspecting trailer park. Set in a tan, ruggedly good-looking face topped by thick, chestnut hair, he should have been handsome. Very handsome. But there was something about him, a menacing quality that sent a cold shiver up her spine. Any minute now, she expected lightning to strike around him.

  Batting her eyelashes would probably not be a good idea.

  She repeated her name.

  "What are you doing on my crime scene?" he asked.

  "I'm writing an article, and I was wondering if you could give me a little background on the fire."

  "An article for who?" He gave her another one of those glaring stares.

  "Ah." Busted. "Well, Adventure Magazine, actually."

  He continued to glare. Silently.

  "It's about pirates. Sullivan Fouquet and Tyree St. James. They were from Frenchman's Island, you know. In my research I ran across, um…"

  He wasn't buying it. No doubt about it. The silent glare didn't budge. This guy probably had people confessing to setting fires who'd never lit a match in their lives. Heck, she wanted to confess, just to make him stop glaring at her like that.

  He grunted and turned on a heel. "Get lost," he said, and strode back toward the house.

  Drat. "Wait! Mr., um, wait a second! I noticed a connection between Sully and Tyree and the three houses that burned down. Something you may not be aware of."

  He halted, slowly turning. His eyes sharpened. Like those of a bird of prey. "Sully and Tyree?"

  She felt herself flush from head to toe. "Fouquet and St. James. Captain Fouquet was my great-great-great unc—anyway, I know it's probably not anything, but—"

  "What kind of connection?"

  She cleared her throat and stuck her hands under her armpits. This was definitely the last time she'd ever, ever do Tyree any kind of favor.

  "According to my research, they did business with all three of the original owners."

  "What kind of business?"

  "Fencing their booty, from what I gather."

  "Is that so."

  "Yeah. So I wondered if the thefts had anything to do with that. It would make a great angle for my article." She stopped talking to give him an opportunity to comment. Which he didn't. After a prickly silence, she asked with a bright smile, "So do they? Have a connection?"

  A full ten seconds ticked by, then he said in a clipped voice, "Know anything about paintings?"

  "Um, sorry, no."

  He set his jaw. "In that case I'll have to ask the Historic Society lady." He grunted again, said, "Thanks for the tip," and once more turned on a heel and strode away toward the house, calling over his shoulder, "Call me in a couple of days and I'll tell you what I find out."

  She blinked. "What's your name?" she called back.

  "Jake Santee."

  "Any luck?" Tyree asked when she got back in the speedboat.

  She relayed what had happened blow by blow as she settled behind the wheel and followed his directions through the maze of channels and inlets back to Frenchman's Island. She kept the speed low so they could talk without shouting.

  "Paintings, eh?"

  "It would seem so."

  "In other words, nothing related to me or Sully."

  "Nope."

  "That's a relief. Now I can concentrate on other things for my last week on earth."

  She darted him a look. "Don't say that. It's so morbid."

  He gave her a half smile. "I know it must sound that way to you, sweeting. But I've been looking forward to Saturday for a long time. These years have been hard on me. Very hard."

  "How so?"

  "Being isolated, deprived of the things I love most in the world."

  "Such as?"

  He gave a lusty sigh. "Wine, women and sailing the high seas."

  His eyes filled with merriment and she nearly fell for his attempt to divert her from the topic. Nearly. It just didn't follow. Despite his hang-ups, Tyree was so full of joie de vivre, the thought that he wanted to die was even less comprehensible than his hermit-like lifestyle at the estate.

  "What's really happening on Saturday?" she asked.

  "I've told you. The curse is up."

  Lord, the man was stubborn about this creepy curse thing. "Just so you know, I'm not going to let you out of my sight the whole day."

  "Wouldn't have it any other way." He took the wheel from her. "Hang on!" With a little-boy grin, he set the throttle to full and the boat skipped over the waves with a roar.

  As she watched his face light up with pleasure at steering the speedboat among the sandbars and reeds, she resolved to find out more about Rosalind Winters. His unhappy love affair with Rosalind must be the key to whatever was going on.

  Not that Clara wanted to pry into his love life. Just because she'd slept with the man once didn't give her license to meddle. Still, if she could somehow help him get past that painful memory, maybe he could move on with his life in a more normal way, giving up this crazy ghost obsession and getting out into the world.

  That would be a good thing, wouldn't it?

  Unfortunately, helping him would mean getting more involved with him. Something she should avoid. Despite everything, she already felt more drawn to Tyree than she wanted to admit. Getting any closer would only mean more pain when she left Sunday morning.

  Five days were not long enough to fix his problems. It was just long enough to get herself into big trouble.

  So what was she doing spending the whole day with him? She should be avoiding his company like the plague! That would be the best thing for both of them.

  She had to be strong. From now on, no more fun trips together. No more confidences. No more cozy evenings in front of the TV. No more hugs or near kisses. And definitely no more thinking about him naked.

  If she avoided all those things, maybe, just maybe, she'd survive the next five days with her heart intact.

  * * *

  What was up with Clara?

  Tyree sat brooding at his computer, watching the colorful fish swim by on his screen saver and listening to fake diver bubbles. He should put on a CD, but he wasn't in the mood.

  He never should have told Clara about Rosalind. That's when everything had gone south.

  Or was it when she'd brought up Saturday again? He would have to downplay the importance of Saturday in future conversations. Maybe he should just forget about the truth and tell her he's going on a business trip or something.

  He exhaled heavily. Today had been so much fun and they'd gotten along so well. He loved how she jumped into things with both feet, unafraid. Aye, she was as yare as the Sea Sprite. If he'd met Clara while he was alive, he'd have swept her away and sailed her till sunrise every chance he got.

  But that wasn't possible now. Not when there was so little time. And when it might put her in danger. Devil take Mrs. Yates for bringing her here!

  He was getting in over his head. He needed to back off, as she had so obviously done since their return this afternoon. She'd barely spoken to him. Which was good, because Lord knew what could happen between now and Saturday. If she found out the particulars of the curse, about a woman in love being able to release him from it, she might take it into her head to do something fooli
sh. Women could be so irrational when it came to love.

  Not that she was in love with him, not by a long shot. Nor would she ever be, if he had anything to say about it. He must preserve their distance, keep an aloof and businesslike manner in his dealings with her.

  But God's Bones, how was he to do that when every time he looked at her he wanted to taste her?

  He pounded a fist on the keyboard and the fish disappeared, replaced by his Internet sign-on screen. He pulled the keyboard toward him. Nothing like the endless blind passages of the Internet to distract a man. Besides, there was something he wanted to research.

  Paintings.

  He was still curious about the arson case, even though he'd given up the idea there might be a connection with him and Sully. The inspector had implied the thief was taking paintings from the houses he burned. Tyree wanted to know which paintings.

  Surely somewhere on the Internet he could find out what was in the collections of those three houses. They were all on the historic register, and therefore had to have been carefully inventoried by the Historic Society. Not to mention insurance records. Shouldn't be too difficult to find the information he sought.

  And with any luck the search would keep him occupied all night.

  * * *

  Hours later, Tyree sat back in his leather office chair and grabbed a small stack of color printouts from the printer tray. He passed a hand over his stubbled chin.

  Unbelievable.

  He'd been right all along.

  * * *

  Clara sighed in pleasure.

  He was finally kissing her. Tyree had been practicing unhooking her bra for hours, but for some reason every time he almost had it off, suddenly it was back on and they had to start all over again. It was maddening. And frustrating. She wanted his hands on her. She wanted his lips on her. She wanted him on her.

  She moaned and went to put her arms around his neck, to pull him closer, but found only air.

  "Tyree," she whimpered softly.

  "I'm here, sweeting."

  Sweeting. She sighed. She loved when he called her that. So romantic.

  "Where?" Reaching for him again, she opened her eyes. And realized she was in bed. Alone. In the bungalow, the misty light of dawn painting the gray night shadows with yellow.

  "Here, in the chair by the window."

  She bolted upright. Sure enough, there sat Tyree, the biggest shadow of all, a strange expression clouding his uncovered eye.

  She grasped the coverlet to her breasts. "What are you doing?"

  "Waiting for you to wake up," he said, tossing his eye patch onto the windowsill and unfolding his long, booted legs. "I have something to show you."

  She glanced at the clock and groaned. "At 5:30 a.m.? I can't believe you woke me up this early."

  "I didn't. You called out for me and I answered."

  "Yes, well, I was dreaming," she said in as reproving a tone as she could muster under these conditions.

  The shadows on his lips shifted. "Without me?"

  Ho-boy. No way was she going there. "I could have sworn I bolted the door," she muttered.

  He got to his feet and strode over to the bed, waving a small sheaf of papers in his hand. "Clara, look at these. I was right about the fires."

  "Seriously?" She rubbed her eyes and peered at the papers. "What are they?"

  "Inventories of the collections at the houses that burned. And photocopies of the paintings the families owned."

  She took the papers and leafed through them. "There are several paintings of you and Sully, but I don't see—"

  He sat on the edge of the bed. "Look at the lists of books."

  Each of the arsonist's victims owned an assortment of books on the subjects of Tyree and Sully, and pirates in general.

  "And check out the collections," he prompted, pulling three other papers to the top.

  The owners also each had a respectable collection of pirate artifacts—knives, guns, pennants, coins and the like.

  "Okay, I'll grant you they're all interested in pirates. But where's the connection with Sully and St. James?"

  He spread out a dozen or more of the color printouts on the bed, surrounding her with them. "Thom Bowden."

  "Who?"

  "Remember the painting of me in the book at the museum? The one I didn't like?"

  Definitely. He'd thought he looked angry in it, but she just thought he looked handsome as hell, all broody and Lord Byron-arrogant. She'd hang that portrait over her bed any day of the week.

  She squirmed under the sheet and decided he was sitting a little too close in his sexy pirate outfit. "I remember," she said, and scooted out of bed, heading for the bathroom. "Keep talking."

  "Thom Bowden painted it," he called over the running water. "Thom never had a coin to his name and was always hanging out at the Moon and Palmetto sketching portraits for ale and grocery money. Sully and I were frequently his subjects, along with our ships and crew. We all liked him and felt sorry for his wife, so we put up with his oils and canvas."

  She tried fitting the pieces together as she freshened up and brushed her teeth. But it was still too early to think. She needed caffeine.

  "You think those are the paintings the thief stole? Thom Bowden's?" she asked when she came out.

  "I taped the news footage from the Pryce-Simmons House. I couldn't see any of the listed paintings among the debris."

  "But even if they are the ones he stole, maybe he just likes that particular artist."

  Tyree gathered up the papers and followed her into the main room, where she started a pot of coffee.

  "Maybe. But then explain the fires."

  She leaned her bottom against the counter. "To cover up the robbery, like the news report said?"

  "I don't think so." He straddled a kitchen chair at the end of the table, stretching his already tight dun breeches even tighter. "The guy's not fooling anyone with those fires. Even, the media knows he's robbing the places first."

  His thighs looked really good in those breeches. Buff and muscular.

  "So why, then?"

  "The fires must be personal. My guess is he's angry about something."

  His butt looked even better. Not an ounce of wasted flesh. She did her best to avert her gaze, but failed. "Angry?"

  "It's like he's taking it out on the houses."

  "Maybe he's looking for something and not finding it," she suggested, tipping her head for a better view.

  There was a short pause, then he said, "What about you?"

  "Hmm?"

  He got up, ambled over to the coffee pot and poured them each a cup. "Keep lookin' at my butt like that 'n I guarantee you'll find something." He offered her a cup. "That what you want?"

  She took the cup, feeling the heat from it radiate up her arms and neck. Or so she told herself. "Put it on display, you should expect a little attention," she rejoined. "May as well not be wearing pants at all."

  He took a step closer. "That could be arranged."

  The warmth reached her face. "I know you have jeans. Don't you think they'd be more appropriate for this century?"

  He winked. "Nah. I like it when you look at me like that."

  She marshaled her composure. This was not going well. It was not even 6:00 a.m., and already her plan was going down in flames. Obviously if she was going to make it work, she'd have to avoid him when he was dressed in his pirate gear.

  "Anyway," he said, "I like your idea about the thief looking for something he can't find. That would explain the anger. And maybe why he's lighting the fires."

  Grateful for Tyree's single-mindedness, she focused. "Okay, then what is he looking for?"

  "That," he said, "is exactly what we're going to find out."

  "Oh, no." She raised a palm. "You find out. I've got my own work to do today."

  "Not necessary. I'm familiar with everything about Sullivan Fouquet. Just ask me what you need to know."

  "Tyree, I'm writing a magazine article, not fiction," she e
xplained patiently. "Who would I list as the source of my information? The ghost of his dead partner?"

  She could tell he was about to correct her on the ghost thing, but for some reason changed his mind.

  "I see your point," he conceded. "However, I can steer you in the right direction, show you the appropriate volumes in the library."

  "It's very generous of you to offer—"

  "Yesterday you seemed to want my help."

  Yesterday she hadn't realized the danger in it. Yesterday she hadn't dreamed of him all night until she ached with the need to feel his arms around her and his lips on hers, and more.

  Yesterday she hadn't been afraid she was falling for him. "I have to do this myself, Tyree. If I win the Adventure Magazine contest, I want to know it was because of my own skills."

  He nodded thoughtfully. "I can see that. A matter of honor."

  She took his coffee cup and refilled it along with her own. "I'm glad you understand. I wouldn't want you to think I'm ungrateful."

  "Not at all," he said as he took it from her. "When does the museum open?"

  "Ten o'clock."

  He glanced at the brass clock on the mantel. "Four hours from now." He looked back at her with a slow smile. "How shall we fill the time?"

  "Ah." A light panic trickled through her. Under no circumstances should she spend those hours with him. It was already hard enough to keep her distance. The man was like a magnet pulling her in with his power of attraction, even against her will. "I thought I'd get some work done here. Maybe on the diary."

  His cup halted halfway to his lips. "The diary?"

  Suddenly she realized her mistake. She'd forgotten all about— "Oh!" —the bra lesson.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  Tyree stared at Clara, never so torn as he was in just this moment. Unbidden, his gaze drifted downward. So tempting.

  He should't.

  "You've decided to accept my bargain, then?"

  "No!" she squeaked. "I mean, I forgot about that." She shook her head. "No lesson."

  He licked his lips, remembering the taste of her dusky nipples on his tongue, the feel of their hard tips as he dragged it over them. It had been so long, and one night was not enough. Not nearly enough.