A Match Made in Hell

by Terri Garey

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  A Match Made in Hell

  By

  Terri Garey

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  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  EPILOGUE

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  "AM I JUST IMAGINING SOMETHING BETWEEN US?"

  Sammy's voice was low, his fingers warmly persuasive. He wore heavy silver rings, a thumb ring and two others.

  "I'd like to get to know you better, Nicki." He squeezed my hand, not letting me pull away. "I'd like to make love to you."

  My body throbbed, bringing a surge of guilt along with a surge of juices.

  What was it about this guy that made him so sexy?

  The old Nicki would've jumped his bones in a heartbeat and worried about guilt and explanations later.

  Those blue eyes were incredible, and he smelled like forbidden fruit—juicy, and just within reach. I could stretch out my hand …

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  By Terri Garey

  A Match Made in Hell

  Dead Girls Are Easy

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  AVON BOOKS

  An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  10 East 53rd Street

  New York, New York 10022-5299

  Copyright © 2008 by Terri Garey

  ISBN: 978-0-06-113616-0

  www.avonromance.com

  First Avon Books paperback printing: July 2008

  Avon Trademark Reg. U.S. Pat. Off. and in Other Countries, Marca Registrada, Hecho en U.S.A.

  HarperCollins® is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

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  For my sisters,

  Who always make me laugh,

  Sometimes drive me crazy,

  And forever keep me grounded.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I'd like to thank the people in my life who've held my hand as I reached for the stars: my husband, my children, my fabulous agents Annelise and Christina, my immensely talented editor Erika, and some very special friends at The Writer's Playground.

  I think it was the late John Lennon who said, "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." The part he left out is that death happens, too.

  Just ask John.

  I used to find the idea of an afterlife intriguing, but a near-death experience changed all that. I now find the world of spirits unavoidable, in more ways than one. Not only can they see me, but I can see them.

  My name is Nicki Styx. A few weeks ago I went from worrying about business and boyfriends to worrying about spooks under the bed. Skeletons in the closet. Bones in the cellar, and… well, you get the idea. When the lights went out, the psychic lightbulb went on, and I became an unwilling "ghoulfriend" to the dead.

  Ask me about vintage fashions and I know all the answers. Ask me how to save a lost soul, and all I can do is play it by ear.

  I have a feeling I'll be lucky to save my own.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  "Too many freaks, not enough circuses."

  The fat old man in sandals and socks didn't seem to care if I heard his rude comment. The old woman with him craned her neck to check out the pink streaks in my hair, widening her eyes at my heavy eyeliner and Midnight Blue lipstick.

  Okay, so maybe the lipstick was a bit much, but I'd been feeling funkier than usual this morning. A little outrageousness never hurt anybody.

  Besides, in Little Five Points, Georgia, I fit right in.

  I gave the old man and the old woman a cheerful smile as I finished unlocking the door to my shop, Handbags and Gladrags. There was nothing freakish about my outfit—white vintage ruffled blouse with a vee neck, worn with jeans, cute sandals, and some clunky jewelry.

  Let the old couple eat fashion cake.

  I stood for a moment on Moreland Street, taking in the laid-back scents and sounds that defined Little Five Points. Tourist trap by day, party place by night, surrounded by picket fence neighborhoods full of quaint old homes. The smell of coffee drifted out the open door of Moonbeans—most of their sidewalk tables were already filled. Dreadlocked rastas chatted in the sun with tattooed punks, while freaks and stoners rubbed elbows with pudgy tourists in socks and sandals.

  It was all good.

  Unlocking the front door to the shop, I propped it open to the street, then flipped on the overhead lights with my usual thrill of pride.

  Every item in the store had been handpicked, of course. My friend and business partner Evan and I love nothing more than finding timeless fashion gems among the dross of thrift stores and estate sales, cleaning them up and sharing them with those cool enough to appreciate them. The gorgeous gowns of the thirties and forties, the sparkling jewelry of the forties and fifties, the funky jeans and tie-dyed T-shirts of the sixties and seventies—Handbags and Gladrags stocked them all.

  Five minutes later I had the register open and coffee brewing. I was busy giving the display cases a quick wipe-down, when I glanced up to see the second "looky-loo" of the day; a middle-aged woman was staring at me through the front window.

  I gave her a friendly smile and went back to my counter polishing; we'd had a gaggle of teenage girls come in yesterday and they were all over the glass of the jewelry section. When I looked up again, the woman had entered the store.

  "Good morning." It never hurt to be friendly with the customers. "Let me know if you need any help."

  She didn't answer, and she was still staring.

  Whatever. I turned away to stash the cleaning supplies and find my favorite coffee mug, certain the pot was ready by now. When I turned back, she was standing on the other side of the counter, two feet away. Late forties maybe, unnaturally black hair, carefully styled and hair-sprayed into place. Her pink sequined blouse was a bit gaudy, but to each her own.

  "Can I help you?" The way she was looking at me was starting to creep me out.

  She finally spoke. "You can see me?"

  My heart sank.

  "You can, can't you?" The woman smiled in relief, pressing a hand to her chest. Her nails were long, painted bright red. "You can see me. Thank goodness."

  Oh, I could see her. I could hear her, too. She had a broad Southern accent—the word "can" was stretched into two syllables. I could even smell the scent she used… a mixture of fruit and flowers, like peaches.

  "I've been at my wit's end," the woman said, with a flutter of fingers. "I didn't know what to do, but the good Lord hasn't abandoned me, after all. I need your help."

  "Oh, crap," I muttered, flattening my hands on the counter.

  It was déjà vu all over again; I'd been here
before, and it always started the same way.

  I need your help, Nicki.

  The old man on the sidewalk had been right—I was a freak, because I knew something most people didn't; despite the red fingernails, the pink sequins, and the smell of peach body lotion, the woman on the other side of the counter was not a living, breathing human being.

  Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, Nicki.

  Double crap. My unexpected trip to the Light may have been canceled, but here I was, still paying the cost of the return ticket. And yet… being allowed to survive heart failure was no small favor, even if survival came with strings attached.

  As if reading my mind, the woman blurted, "In spite of everything I've done, the Lord has put you here to help me. You're a good person. I just know it."

  I had no idea what she'd done, and I could hardly argue with her about what kind of person I was, but I wished I had her certainty. Having had run-ins with at least four spirits in the past month, all with varying degrees of intensity, the only thing I knew for certain about seeing the dead was that it sucked.

  The only question left was whether this lost soul was going to go gently into the Light, or be an undead pain in the ass.

  "My daughter is hurt." The woman's statement took me by surprise. "But I don't know where she is."

  I eyed her narrowly, hoping against hope she was just a crazy person. Of course I'd do my best to help a troubled spirit move on, but I'd much rather let the cops handle the loonies.

  "We were in an accident," she said. "The car went off the road and down a hill…"

  Yep. Dead. She was dead.

  "… I could hear my daughter screaming and glass breaking…"

  Goose bumps rose on my arms, and my guilt level rose along with them. Why did I always have to be such a smartass, even to myself?

  "… and when I woke up I was wandering the streets." The woman gestured toward the front window. "I've tried to talk to people, to get help for my daughter, but everybody acts like I'm invisible."

  Damn. My perfect morning had been perfectly ruined, but this lady had an even bigger problem than she thought she did.

  She didn't know she was dead.

  How was I supposed to tell her?

  I sighed, feeling sorry for her and sorry for me at the same time.

  One of the hardest parts about dealing with spirits was that there were no manuals for this type of stuff. I had to dance on the head of a pin, every time.

  Hard enough for an angel, and I was no angel.

  "Um… maybe we should call the police." I was stalling, of course. The local police would never buy the "I see dead people" routine. "What's your name?"

  "Lila," she answered. "Lila Boudreaux."

  I picked up the phone. "Where should I tell them to look for your daughter?"

  Lila made an impatient noise. "I don't know! That's the problem! I've never been here before… I'm not even sure where I am!" She was clasping her hands now, long nails crossing and uncrossing. She wore a big opal on her right index finger, a pinky ring with a dangle on the left.

  "You're in Little Five Points, near downtown Atlanta."

  She frowned, obviously confused. "Atlanta? That's right! I came to Atlanta to…" Her face paled, looking very white beneath her rouge, emphasizing the inky blackness of her hair. A little less makeup and better quality hair dye would've done this lady some good—but it was too late to make fashion suggestions.

  Lila had gone silent, and was staring at me again. A thought occurred to me, and since I was very busy going with the flow, it seemed as good a thought as any. "Why don't you talk to the police yourself?" I held out the phone.

  Lila started to take the receiver, but hesitated. Her fingers hadn't quite reached the phone before she closed them, letting her hand drop. "I can't," she said, and her eyes filled with tears. "I've already tried to use the phone." Her voice trembled. "What's happening to me?"

  I took a deep breath, hoping she was ready for what I had to say.

  "It doesn't matter." She cut me off. "My daughter's still out there. You have to help her."

  A brief beep sounded as the back door opened, then Evan's voice. "Good morning." The happy trill told me my partner had enjoyed a good night.

  My head swiveled automatically in his direction, and when I turned back, the woman was gone.

  "Lila?" I was speaking to thin air. "Ms. Boudreaux?"

  I scanned the store, certain I'd never get used to the way the dead could come and go. Leaning way over the counter, I even checked the floor where she'd been standing. Nothing.

  "Nice ass, Nicki, but you're not my type," Evan said from behind me. "I told you that in middle school." I turned, and he gave me his customary naughty grin. He was wearing his blond hair longer these days, and the look suited him.

  Knowing how frightened Evan was of ghosts, I had no plans to tell him he'd just missed one. Pulling myself together, I gave him a crooked smile instead. "Morning, sunshine. How are things in Peachtree City?"

  Evan grinned happily over the box he was carrying. "We stayed at the Hyatt last night. Butch was working security for some big corporate function and didn't get off until after midnight. Driving all the way out to Peachtree City and back was out of the question." He put the box down on the counter and leaned in for a quick peck on the cheek. "I think he likes me."

  I snorted. "Likes you? You two have been glued at the hip for weeks now. I think he's in love."

  Evan looked thoughtful. "Glued at the hip… what an interesting concept."

  I rolled my eyes. Evan's wicked sense of humor kept me on my toes.

  "What's in the box?" Eager to see his latest find, I reached for the lid, but he slapped my hand away.

  "Patience, devil doll. I picked these up at an auction last weekend. I've barely had time to look through them." Evan opened the box to reveal a jumble of purses, leather mostly, with some velvet and canvas thrown in. "Ooh, look at this one," he crowed, holding up a raspberry velvet clutch. He snapped it open to check the lining. "Perfect condition. Probably never been used."

  "I like this one." I dug beneath the leather, pulling out a gold lame evening bag, studded with green glass cabochons. "Very Sonny and Cher—definitely seventies." There was a small makeup stain on the inner lining, but a little dry cleaning fluid would take care of it.

  Digging for treasure took my mind off invisible women with long red fingernails, so I started piling purses on the counter. There was nothing I could do for Lila Boudreaux unless she showed up again, which hopefully wouldn't happen while Evan was here.

  "What'd you do last night?" Evan asked absently. "Did Dr. Feelgood come over and make you feel good?" He picked up a bag made of tooled leather, inspecting the design before putting it aside and reaching for another.

  "Yes, Joe was over for a while," I said, keeping my tone light. My boyfriend of one whole month, Dr. Joe Bascombe was the man who'd brought me back to life, in more ways than one.

  I smiled just thinking about him. Tall, dark, and handsome just didn't cut it for Joe—dark-haired and handsome, yes, but the naughty twinkle in those green eyes was his most appealing quality.

  Well, that and the way his butt looked in scrubs.

  "We grilled steaks before he left for the hospital. He's on graveyard shift in the E.R. this week." I hesitated, then told Evan the rest. "He expects to hear from Kelly any day now."

  Kelly was Joe's soon-to-be-ex-wife.

  "You sound pretty blase about it," Evan said, giving me a look. "Are you sure you're okay with this? I mean, having a boyfriend who's married to your long-lost twin sister could put a crimp in anybody's relationship."

  "I don't know for sure she's my long-lost twin sister," I snapped, "and how can I lose something I never had?"

  While I'd had a little time to get used to the idea, I wasn't sure which had been more difficult to accept—the fact I might have a twin sister I'd never known about, or the fact that my new boyfriend was married to her.

&nb
sp; "Touchy, touchy." Evan shook his head. "Is it that time of the month again?"

  I gave him the Evil Eye, and he wisely shut up.

  "It could still just be a coincidence," I added. "Joe told me about her before we ever got involved, you know." Surely that wasn't a defensive tone in my voice? "She never said anything to him about having a twin sister, so she doesn't know about me either. They haven't even seen each other in four years. Just because we're both adopted…"

  "Share the same birthday, the same birthplace, the same face…" Evan wasn't gonna let me out of this one.

  "Who says we share the same face?"

  Evan raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow in the manner that had earned him the nickname Queen Supreme.

  "What?" I asked, getting testy. Being spooked first thing in the morning can do that to a girl.

  "You've seen Kelly's picture," Evan said. "I've seen her picture. She looks just like you."

  We'd been over this before, but Evan apparently needed to hear it again. "I haven't had long brown hair since I was in the sixth grade, and I sure wouldn't wear it in such a messy knot if I did. She wasn't wearing any makeup, and her idea of fashion is baggy jeans and oversized T-shirts." I shrugged. "She so does not look like me."

  "You're talking about style, Nicki, not looks."

  "Well, it's not my style to leave my husband and run off to join the Peace Corps, either, so I don't think we have much in common. Joe says it was a mutual split, and since she was on the other side of the world, they just never bothered to sign the divorce papers." I frowned, not liking that particular train of thought. "Anyway, I was perfectly happy being an only child. I'll deal with Kelly Bascombe when I have to."

  He gave me raised eyebrows and a shrug, knowing when to let a subject drop.