GHOST OF A CHANCE

by Nina Bruhns

  No, she wanted to shout back. It isn't true. It couldn't be. It was simply too preposterous to be true.

  "Ah. Here it is. Put those down and turn toward me. Close your eyes."

  She realized she was trembling as she did so. She sucked in a breath as he placed something cool and slippery around her neck and clasped it in place. It dangled across her chest and tumbled down her breasts. "Can I look now?"

  When he didn't answer, she cracked open an eyelid. He was staring at her breasts again. Hungrily. As if he were the Big Bad Wolf contemplating the possibilities when Red walked through the door at Grandma's wearing nothing but a jade lace bra.

  She shivered and looked down. Her breath caught deep in her lungs. Resplendent against her pale skin was a necklace of sparkling blue-green gems so beautiful she'd never seen anything like it. Not in a museum, not even in her imagination.

  "I knew they'd match," he said huskily.

  "Match what?" she asked, too stunned to think.

  "Your eyes. I was saving this necklace for a woman. A special woman whose eyes would be the exact color of the stones. I knew I'd find her someday. And now I have."

  She looked up at him, her heart at once swelling with love and aching with regret. "I can't accept this, Tyree. I'm not that woman."

  If she were, he'd stay with her. He wouldn't leave her with a handful of cold stones rather than his own warm body.

  "Wear it while we make love," he murmured, dragging his lips across her temple and down her cheek, seeking her mouth. He found it and her will deserted her. Not that she'd ever had any willpower when it came to this man. He'd been a pirate from the first and would be till the last, sweeping into her life to plunder and take everything she had to offer.

  But she'd given it all willingly. And knew she would do so all over again if given the chance. For how could one deny one's own deepest fantasy?

  His mouth claimed hers and she moaned in pleasure.

  He must have sensed the change in her, for he scooped her up and carried her to the bed, leaving a trail of her clothes along the way. All but the necklace.

  He lay her on the mattress, gazing down at her as he tossed away his own clothes.

  As always, he was gorgeous naked. Hard-muscled and broad-chested, slim-hipped and magnificently aroused. His long pirate hair lay across his shoulders, freed from the band that kept it civilized.

  Good. She didn't want civilized. She wanted wild and savage and something to remember for the rest of her life.

  Her breasts tightened deliciously at the scrape of the necklace across them. She opened her thighs, slowly, deliberately exposing herself to his view.

  Never in her life had she acted so wantonly. But she intended to live out every fantasy daydream she'd ever harbored about this man, before and after she'd actually met him, for as long as she possibly could.

  Until he left her tomorrow.

  Please don't let him leave me, she begged in silent prayer as he lowered his weight onto her. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

  * * *

  How could heaven possibly be better than this? Tyree lay spread-eagled on his back in the bed being tortured by Clara's lush lips and cunning teeth as they grazed over his flesh seeking his body's most sensitive spots.

  He tried not to groan too loudly when she found yet another, in a hollow just beside his hip bone. Who would have thought a hip could be so vulnerable to a woman's touch?

  No doubt it was anticipation. He knew in which direction she was headed.

  She found her mark, and he dissolved into a blinding white mass of pleasure.

  "Clara," he moaned. "Sweeting, you must stop."

  "Why?" she asked. She used her tongue and he lost the answer to her question. In fact, he nearly lost consciousness.

  He gathered his wits enough to roll them over as one, pinning her beneath him. "Because it's late afternoon already and we have much left to do today."

  Her answering smile was worthy of the most seasoned Cyprian. "Yes, we do."

  How could he resist a smile like that? He couldn't, so he gave up and slid into her, joining their bodies as he would join their souls if he could but find a way. He covered her smile with his own, finding a taste of himself on her lips, a singular and reassuring confirmation of his continued existence.

  For the time being.

  So for the time being, he immersed himself in her warm flesh, drowned himself in her eagerness, surrounded himself with her love. And forbade himself from thinking about what would happen tomorrow.

  Eventually, the fires of their passion burned down to a warm glow, and they collapsed in each other's arms and Clara fell into a light slumber. Tyree held his lover close to his heart and finally couldn't stop the unwelcome thoughts from invading his contentedness.

  Unless he could figure out some means to prevent it, tomorrow he would be dead and gone. Dead for good. Only it wasn't good. How would he ever find the courage to look her in the eyes and say goodbye?

  But what could he do?

  He'd tried the voodoo, and it hadn't worked.

  Sully? Captain Sullivan stubbornly refused to admit being Fouquet despite the uncanny resemblance and repeated attempts to prod him out into the open. Maybe it really wasn't him.

  Then there were the tangled mysteries of the fires and the treasure. And now the new information about Sully's betrayal. What did it all mean? Were these things related, or just a bundle of unlikely coincidences? More importantly, did they have any consequence for tomorrow? How could he find out?

  He must unravel them. That was his only chance.

  Clara stirred and opened her eyes. She smiled up at him, so warm and adoring. "What are you doing?" she murmured.

  "Holding my woman and thinking."

  She reached up and kissed his jaw. "About what?"

  He gave her a squeeze. "How amazing you are."

  "Uh, no. You're the one who's amazing." She sighed. "Where do you get the stamina?"

  He winked. "My supernatural powers."

  She didn't laugh as he expected, just canted over him and propped her chin on her fist on his chest. "Hmm."

  Not a good sign. "I was also thinking about our various investigations."

  "Figure anything out?"

  "I think we've got the treasure thing solved. Don't we?"

  "Well, let's see. The missing chest was taken by John Peel, who followed you to the island. Then he started a lumber mill with the gold, but died shortly thereafter."

  "And his descendant was Maybelle Chadbourn, penny dreadful novelist and founder of the Magnolia Cove Pirate Museum."

  "Don't forget insipid gravestone poet."

  He smirked. "Right. And malicious despoiler of my own reputation."

  She cupped his cheek. "All lies."

  "Thank you, my love." He gave her a kiss. "Are we forgetting anything?"

  Her pretty lips pursed, distracting him. "The drawing."

  "Hmm? What drawing?"

  "Of the island, from the hidey-hole."

  "Ah. What of it?"

  "John Peel must have drawn it."

  He shook his head. "Nay, it's Thom Bowdon's work. I recognize the style."

  "Thom Bowdon? You mean—"

  "Aye," he said. "Same as the paintings. Sully must have had Thom follow us earlier and draw him a map to the island."

  "So he could find it without you."

  "Aye."

  "But wouldn't he have been worried Thom would go after the treasure himself? Didn't you say the artist was always broke?"

  "That he was," Tyree admitted thoughtfully. He reached around and smacked her lightly on the bottom. "Time to get up. Put that necklace somewhere safe. We've got work to do."

  Half an hour later, they were in his office, sitting together in front of the computer.

  "It doesn't make sense," she said, reading over the short bio of Thom Bowdon they'd found on the Internet. "He lived for another ten years but never showed any signs of having money. Why wouldn't he have gone after the treasure?
And don't tell me about some old dead man's superstition. If your children are hungry, you don't worry about that kind of thing."

  Tyree drummed his fingers on the desk. "All I can think is he must not have known what he was drawing. He wasn't told the treasure was buried on that island."

  "Which proves he couldn't have been in cahoots with Sully," she said triumphantly. "I knew it."

  "It proves nothing," Tyree said grumpily, "except that Sully was extremely clever."

  "Runs in the family," she said, deliberately bumping him with an arm. "And don't forget it."

  He sensed it was time to change the subject. Besides, they seemed to have hit a dead end with the drawing.

  "All right, Miz Clever, tell me who's setting the fires."

  She leaned back and steepled her fingers. "We should be able to figure it out. We have all the clues."

  "Do we?"

  "Okay, let's work with what we have. First, his pattern. His victims are old historic houses with local pirate collections, specifically Thom Bowdon paintings and Davey Scraggs diaries. Our guy is stealing all the paintings, but seems to be looking for a specific diary. In both cases, why?"

  "Obviously, one of the diaries contains information he wants or needs for some reason."

  "But what?"

  "Maybe he's looking for the lost treasure and thinks Davey wrote down the directions in one of them."

  "But again, if Davey knew where the treasure was, he'd have gone after it himself."

  Tyree sighed. "True enough. Davey was never one for silly superstitions."

  Just then, they heard the phone ring downstairs, and a moment later Mrs. Yates called up, "Clara dear! That nice Inspector Santee would like to speak with you!"

  "Phone?" Clara asked, casting around the desk for one.

  He resisted the urge to growl. "In the hall," he said as politely as his gritted teeth would allow.

  He didn't know why the inspector ticked him off so badly. He knew Clara wasn't really attracted to the guy; she had only flirted with him to get Tyree's goat after he'd been a jerk. But he still didn't like the man. Probably because the bastard'd still be around on Sunday and he wouldn't. Too many possibilities. Tyree knew Clara would end up with another man one day, but he'd be damned if he wanted to know who it was. And he'd be double-damned if it was someone in his own backyard. Let her go back to Kansas to find her future husband. Or better yet, Alaska.

  "Guess what!" she cried, bursting back into the office a moment later.

  "What?" he snapped, then caught himself and sent her a smile. "Good news?"

  "They know who set the fires!"

  "Really? Who?"

  "You are not going to believe it. His name is Wesley Peel, and—"

  "Don't tell me. He's John Peel's descendant."

  "Exactly!"

  "Why does Santee think it's him?"

  "It was the diaries that led to him. That's why Jake called, to thank us for pointing him in that direction. Peel had apparently put out inquiries to a bunch of antique book dealers and even a few Internet auction sites, asking about more journals. And this is the weirdest part."

  "What's that?"

  "You'll never guess which one he was looking for."

  Tyree chuckled at the little-girl excitement on her face. "Let's take a wild stab. Yours? From the year of my death?"

  Her mouth opened. "How did you know?"

  He winked. "Cleverness runs in my family, too."

  "Hrumph. Well, now you've spoiled it. Mrs. Yates wants us downstairs for supper at once. She said she made all your favorites."

  And there it was. Suddenly, his whole desperate situation came crashing back on him. He forced a laugh. "The last supper for the condemned man, eh?"

  All the color drained from Clara's face. "Don't say that, Tyree. It's not funny."

  He rose from the chair and opened his arms, folding them around her when she ran to him. "Hush, sweeting. It'll be okay."

  "No, it won't. Please, Tyree. Wherever you're going tomorrow, don't go. If it's a business trip you can cancel—"

  "It's not a business trip. You know where I'm going, Clara. And you know there's nothing to be done."

  He wasn't sure exactly when it had happened, but sometime in the past day or so her disbelief had begun to crack. He didn't know whether to be relieved by this development or tell her it was all a big crazy lie. Thinking the man you love is insane was hard enough; believing him to be a walking dead man was unimaginable.

  "No," she said fiercely, grabbing his shirt in her fists. "It's not true. It's not. It can't be."

  Gently, he pulled her away from his chest and kissed her quavering lips. Obviously, she hadn't come completely to terms with it, if that was even possible. Best to let it alone for now.

  "Come. Mrs. Yates is waiting for us. Last supper or no, she'll have my hide if it gets cold."

  "I thought you didn't eat," she said, adorably stubborn to the end. God's Bones, how he would miss her!

  "I think I'll make an exception tonight. Come now." He wiped the single tear that wet her lashes and kissed her eyes. "We must both be brave, for Mrs. Yates's sake."

  * * *

  All three did an admirable job of maintaining good cheer throughout the meal, much due to several bottles of wine and champagne that Mrs. Yates carried up from the cellar. She had outdone herself on the menu, as well, preparing every one of the dishes Tyree had mentioned being fond of during his life or occasionally lamented missing. He made himself eat a hearty portion of each and, indeed, it was no hardship to drink the wine, though he passed on the champagne after he realized Clara was partial to it and witnessed the mellow mood it put her in.

  There was never any doubt they'd wind up back in bed at evening's end. Together.

  * * *

  "Tell me where you would most like to sail on your trip," he urged much later, as they snuggled after making long, sweet love. "What faraway lands and sights do you want to see?"

  She'd drunk just enough champagne to make her think only of her dreams and not remember her nightmares, so he listened contentedly as she told him of all the exotic places she longed to visit and the articles she would write for Adventure Magazine, and how her friends and family would read them and finally understand her insatiable wanderlust and approve of her choices. He didn't correct her when she unconsciously began including him in her plans and ruminations, just murmured his approval and gave her kisses of support. Tomorrow, reality might dim the light shining in her eyes, but tonight he didn't have the heart.

  They made love again, achingly sweet and tender. And when it was over and they lay in each other's arms again, he had to squeeze his eyes shut with all his might against the overwhelming emotions that welled up inside him. Fury, helplessness, misery, love. Most of all love. His heart broke with it, shattered into a million pieces over the life they would not share, the children she would not bear him, the years they could not spend together working and fighting and laughing and growing old together.

  It was not fair. It was not fair.

  But he had to resign himself. There was no way to stop what was coming. No way to regain that which would be lost.

  He had tried, and failed.

  Peel and the fires had nothing to do with the curse. Andre Sullivan was not Sully and therefore could not help him. Voodoo spells had had no success.

  His fate was sealed. He may as well accept it.

  Tyree held his sleeping love in a close embrace by his side and spent the rest of the night gazing up at the deep black moon shadows that crept slowly across the bungalow ceiling. Rather than going mad thinking of what would be denied him, he forced himself to remember all he had done in the generous years he'd been granted on earth. All the good.

  One last time, he went over in his mind the final arrangements he'd made for his fortune. For a brief moment, he considered canceling them all and giving everything to Clara.

  But nay. She'd have plenty with the gold bullion and the sapphire necklace. In the end,
she'd have no choice but to accept his gifts, unwilling though she was.

  The rest would go as planned to the orphanages, women's shelters, soup kitchens and other charities he'd founded and maintained over the many years. Rose Cottage, with everything in it, would go to Mrs. Yates for her loyal service. On Monday morning, he'd have nothing left.

  Because he'd need nothing.

  Once more, all would be as it should with the universe.

  With one small exception. Clara. He'd be leaving her behind with a broken heart.

  The only living legacy of Tyree St. James would be pain. And as the last black shadow crept down the far wall and softened to gray, the most extraordinary thing happened.

  For the first time in two hundred years, he wept.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  « ^ »

  Clara's eyes jerked open to blinding sunshine. Instantly she knew what day it was.

  Instantly she began to tremble.

  A solid, cool weight burrowed into her from behind, tugging her back against it when she tried to move away.

  "Let's stay in bed all day," Tyree murmured, holding on to her tightly. As if he guessed she was planning to flee.

  The tingly chill of his body had always been welcome before, a delightful contrast to the sultry South Carolina heat, soothing her inner fires, tempering the white-hot passions that constantly arced between them. This morning, it made her shiver.

  "I can't," she said, wriggling to get away. "I promised Jake I'd drop by the fire station."

  "When did you make that promise?" Tyree's voice was icier than his body.

  "Last night. On the phone."

  She scrambled from the bed, stopping in her tracks when she caught sight of him. Leaning against the headboard, hands linked behind his neck, he was dressed in full pirate regalia, bucket-top boots, eye patch and all. The very image of the first time she saw him.

  She swallowed heavily, suddenly aware of her nakedness. "Already dressed for the festival?" she asked. "I thought you wanted to stay in bed."

  Slowly, he crossed one booted ankle over the other. "Not too many hours ago, wearing these clothes would ensure I did. Along with your company."

  Her cheeks warmed, along with her memory. She swallowed again. "Yes, well…"