Dream Nights With the CEO (7 page)

“We’ll figure this out,” she said softly.

Bethany turned away, but when she spoke, her voice was strong. The woman had mettle beneath her exhaustion. And that said a lot about what it had taken to get her to this place.

“There is nothing to figure out. The ghost and I don’t get along. I can’t financially cut all ties here, but I can move out. I can give him what he wants.” Then she started showing them the small apartment. “This is the sitting room. There are others down the hall that can be renovated. Right now they’re just storage for Aunt Miranda’s junk. There’s an attic, too.” She pushed open another door. “The bedroom’s in here. I’ll have the bedding changed and my important stuff out of here before the sun’s down.”

Clearly the woman wasn’t wasting any time. In fact, she already had a suitcase open and mostly packed, not to mention a half dozen already sealed boxes ready for the movers.

Wyatt stepped in and frowned down at the taped boxes. “Just how long have you been thinking of leaving?”

“Since the middle of the night two days ago.”

“Right before you called me,” he said.

Bethany turned to look at him, her spine straightening and her stare level. “Yes, Mr. Monroe, I’m desperate to leave, but I’m not a fool. I’ll declare bankruptcy before you gut me or destroy the legacy here. Just because I’m not wanted by the great ghost Captain doesn’t mean I’ll let you turn this into a box motel.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. Oddly, he didn’t seem insulted or angry. More like impressed. “B&Bs need character to survive, Miss Clark. It’s good that you recognize that. And it’s much easier to build on an existing legacy than to create a new one out of whole cloth.”

She blinked. “You’ll return this place to the majesty it once was?”

He shrugged. “Was there majesty before? Or was it the hodgepodge that exists today?”

Bethany shook her head and walked over to a portrait on the wall. It was a watercolor of a house—this house—done by an amateur hand. From the looks of it, the house had been 1820s Edwardian elegance, very old world and absolutely stunning.

“Aunt Miranda thinks this was painted by the pirate’s wife. I wanted to bring the house back to its old glory, but…”

“But the restoration would cost a fortune,” Wyatt murmured.

Megan sighed, picturing this strange hotel in that style. It was what a B&B should look like: magnificent as it presented a bygone era. A way to touch what had once been, while still having clean sheets, good food, and an excellent staff.

“I could do this,” she said softly as she reached out to stroke the picture. Her hand connected with the old gilt frame. A single touch and a sizzle shot through her. Electric. Wild. It set her heart to singing even as she jumped backward with a gasp.

“Megan!” That was Wyatt, his voice sharp with alarm.

Megan looked at her finger and frowned. Nothing wrong there. No redness, no swelling, and yet a feverish intensity still hummed in her blood. “I’m fine,” she said, resisting the urge to close her eyes and revel in the surging emotions within her. Sadly, the feeling was fading fast. A moment later, she wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing. “Is there…um, some sort of live wire behind the picture? I got a kind of electric shock or something.”

Bethany shook her head, and her expression abruptly closed down. “The wiring has been checked multiple times. By experts. The last one was just a month ago. No irregularities.”

Wyatt folded his arms. “How many times?”

Bethany’s eyes widened. “What?”

“How many times has the wiring been checked in the last five years?”

The woman swallowed, obviously caught. “Seven times,” she said. “Full house inspection.”

Megan felt her eyebrows rise. “That’s a lot of checking.”

Wyatt nodded. “Must be a lot of people get electrical shocks here.”

“Just me,” Bethany said as she grabbed a stack of papers. “I’ve got all the reports right here. Nothing is wrong with the wiring. It’s the ghost making things unpleasant.”

Wyatt grabbed the pages, flipping through the stack in rapid succession. He would absorb everything written there in less than three minutes, which left Megan to study Bethany.

“How many times have you gotten shocked?” she asked.

The woman’s eyes were haunted. “Every night, ever since I first came here.”

Well, that certainly gave Megan goose bumps, especially since she’d just gotten shocked. Did that mean the ghost didn’t want her here either? Then Wyatt crossed to the frame, touched it, and shook his head. Obviously no shock for him. He felt all around the frame before carefully lifting the picture to inspect its back and the wall.

“Nothing that I can see,” he murmured. “But there’s got to be a logical explanation.”

“There never is,” Bethany said.

Megan ignored the non-believers. Instead, she slowly turned, looking around at every corner of the room. She tried to ignore the furniture and the decoration. Her mind went to the bones of the house, reconstructing in her mind the entire building to its absolute core.

Something is lonely here
, she thought. Wild, alive, and so bitterly alone that it ached. Which meant that Bethany with her tired eyes and her core of steel ought to fit perfectly here. She seemed almost a living embodiment of this house. And yet, she was leaving. It made no sense.

And what the hell was Megan doing imagining the emotional core of a building? Not of a marketing plan or a decorating scheme, but deep down in the earth of this land? She needed to squelch this wild, imaginative side of her personality. She knew Wyatt had no acceptance of the paranormal, but she loved everything about it. Always had since she’d seen the movie
Ghost
. Then her phone rang. The tone was abrupt and jarring, making her jump. She snatched her phone, an apology on her lips, and answered without thinking. It took barely a second before she realized her mistake.

Oh hell. She’d just answered the phone during a work day. Not a big mistake unless a certain person was on the line. A certain person with a wheedling voice and layers of guilt built into every word. But there was no stopping it now. She’d answered. She’d said hello. So she grimaced and leaned against the wall trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

“Hi, Mom.”

Chapter Six

Wyatt watched Megan’s whole body pull into itself as she listened to her phone. He knew it was her mother even before she spoke. No other person called Megan at all hours—work day or not. No one else made his otherwise amazing assistant slump or caused her skin to go pink with embarrassment. And frankly, the whole thing pissed him off.

Mothers and daughters always had their issues, and he certainly wasn’t an expert on the topic. But what could possibly have poisoned the relationship enough that Megan dreaded her mother’s calls? The possibilities rolled through his mind, each more tragic than the next. It was at times like these that he desperately wanted to be a superhero, able to wipe away anything that scared Megan.

But he wasn’t a superman, masked or otherwise. All he could do was watch in helpless frustration while he respected her privacy. He was her boss, not her savior, and if she needed help telling her mother to go to hell, she would ask him for it.

So he cursed under his breath and turned away, his gaze going to the supposedly haunted suite of rooms. Bethany was busy changing the linens of her massive king-sized bed. He quickly looked away, unable to think about tonight with anything approaching a professional attitude. A night spent with Megan? Hell, he’d been dreaming about her for almost a week now. What was he going to do when she was right here? In bed with him?

He couldn’t do it. He had a good thing going here with Megan. Last night had showed him better than anything how perfect their professional relationship worked. He’d never had such sync with anyone. She covered his weaknesses and made him better. With her beside him, his business future looked very bright indeed.

He’d be a thousand times a fool to mess that up. Which meant that tonight was going to be a trial of gargantuan proportions. But he could do it. He’d just have to man up and keep his hands to himself and his thoughts completely non-sexual. Besides, he reasoned, they’d started working this morning at three a.m. They were both exhausted. He’d call it an early night and drop into…not the bed. Not the soft, enticing bed.

“Do you have an extra blanket and pillow?” he abruptly asked Bethany. “I’ll sleep on the recliner in your sitting room.”

Meanwhile, Megan snapped her phone shut. “You don’t have to do that,” she said. “You’re the boss. You should get the bed.”

“Boss
and
gentleman. I’ll sleep on the recliner—”

“I’ll get what you need,” Bethany interrupted, her tone clipped. “You can figure out the whos and the wheres later. Meanwhile, I’m sure there are documents you want to see. The bookkeeping and the like. If you give me another hour here, we can meet for lunch and start talking.”

Megan nodded and Wyatt was pleased to see her body coming back to her. Now that she was off the phone, she was straightening her spine and her voice grew stronger as she reoriented herself with the business details. “Should we meet you downstairs—”

“No,” Bethany said. “I don’t want anyone else to see. Not yet.”

“You won’t keep this secret for long, especially if you move out this afternoon.”

“I know,” Bethany said. Her gaze touched on individual pieces throughout the room. A stack of books, a pair of earrings, the contents of her closet. He frowned, looking around. For someone who’d lived here for years, she really didn’t have a lot of stuff.

He was just about to say something stupidly generous—to offer a delay or a compromise or something. He had no problem being ruthless with a real estate shark; bastard or bitch made no difference to him. He could play the game and be as heartless as the next guy. But show him a vulnerable woman, and he crumpled. It was a major flaw in his character, and one he had to ruthlessly suppress—especially whenever Megan’s needy mother called. But it was real, and only a fool would pretend it didn’t exist.

So he forced himself to turn away. To look hard at Megan who had completely recovered from her mother’s call. He leaned down and murmured into her ear. “I’m going to go check out the basement. Why don’t you hang here and talk to her? This just feels—”

“Awkward,” she whispered back. “And it breaks my heart. But maybe there’s a happy middle ground.”

He flashed her a grateful smile. She understood him completely. “This is your project,” he said. “Do whatever you think best within the limits we worked out last night.”

Megan looked up, her eyes suddenly very huge and very vulnerable. “Are you sure about this?”

Damn, she was always this way after one of her mother’s calls. A little more unsure of herself, a lot more unsteady. So he touched her arm, squeezing her elbow. He didn’t know how to do “reassuring,” and that type of strength had to come from within anyway. So he did the one thing he knew would work with Megan. He threw down the gauntlet. “Are you telling me you’re not up to the task?”

He watched her bite her lip, the doubt coiling through her entire body. But then she found her way. He didn’t know how, but she always did. She took a breath, straightened her spine, and got a steely look in her eyes.

“I’ll find the middle ground, Wyatt. And I’ll make this place sing.”

He smiled. “I never doubted it.”

She blinked. “Never?”

He snorted. “Please, Megan. I never double-think you—good, bad, or otherwise. You showed me your number. Is it wrong?”

“Nope.”

“Then do your job. I’m going to look at the foundation. And after that,” he added as he rubbed at his eyes, “maybe a nap. Christ, I’m tired. Been years since I pulled an all-nighter.” And with that, he escaped as fast as his cowardly feet could go.

…

Megan yawned and rubbed her eyes. Bethany was downstairs, showing Wyatt something in the basement. She had wanted to go with—really ought to be there—but she was dog-tired after last night’s work. She tried to resist, but hell, that big king bed was right there covered in fluffy pillows.

With a sigh, she let herself sink into the mattress. Just a short nap. Twenty minutes max. Just enough to get her through the afternoon…

The dream was familiar enough to be welcome. Lonely gravesite, tree and gate, windswept sky. It was where she’d found her masked hero before. Looking down, she realized she was carrying a bouquet of lilies. Huh. With a shrug, she placed them on the grave then looked around. He wasn’t here, so she settled down to wait, her back to the gravestone, her feet stretched out toward the ocean.

It wasn’t the intelligent way to sit. It would make more sense to look the other way. If her hero showed up, he would come through the gate that way. But for whatever reason, she chose to put her back to the sounds of laughter behind her. She would look out at the ocean and be content.

“What are you ignoring?”

She blinked and frowned at the dark silhouette of a man as it emerged from the tree to her right. Was it…?

No, not her caped, half-naked hero. This man had dark hair and a thick beard. His eyes were like sharp agates, bright and hard as they stared at her. Too hard, actually, and she shrank away from the very physical pain of his regard.

“W-who are you?” Her voice came out in a squeak, and she felt the dream world start to slip. She was waking up, and that felt like a really good idea.

“Sorry,” he said as he abruptly moderated his entire presence. It made no sense, but this was a dream. What had been too sharp, too cutting, suddenly turned vague. He became more shadow than form, more vague impression than reality.

But she still remembered him as frightening. She should wake up now. She had a job to do and really, she’d only intended on a twenty-minute break.

“Don’t worry,” he said softly. “You’re safe here.”

It was a lie, but not in the normal sense. The knowledge reverberated in the very air, giving her both reassurance and fear. She knew that despite all the urban myths about dying in a dream, she wasn’t in any mortal danger. She would nonetheless wake up before hitting the bottom of a fall.

The danger with this man was different. The fear was that she’d be trapped here forever—insubstantial and unloved. And though that terrified her, his hypnotic voice pulled her back into slumber.

“It’s not what you think. This place is meant to help.”

She shook her head, denying it even as she settled more firmly against Lily’s gravestone. “You shocked me. When I touched the picture frame.”

He huffed out a breath. Odd to see in a ghost, but his chest lifted and lowered just like a normal person’s. “I was trying to talk to you. It didn’t work.”

No kidding. “Who are you?”

He answered her. A word, a breath, a scream—she didn’t know. It was an answer that vibrated throughout the fabric of this world but had no translation into words. He was
something,
and this was his place.

She opened her mouth to demand clarity. To force this vague shadow to answer her specifically, but other words came out.

“Where’s my hero?” she asked. “Where is he?”

“Busy.” Then the man shrugged. “Awake.”

She tilted her head, trying to listen closer. How could her dream lover be awake? Wasn’t that a contradiction in terms? After all, if she were asleep and dreaming, he ought to be here.

“What does that mean?” she asked. Or she
thought
she asked. It was hard to tell, as the kid noise behind her got steadily louder. There was a banging now.

The man answered, but what must be a crowd behind her was roaring so loudly she saw nothing but his indistinct lips working.

“Wait, wait. I can’t hear.”

The man nodded and shut his mouth, and then they both waited with less and less patience. What had begun with the occasional clang was now filled with trucks backfiring, murmurs of a crowd getting increasingly agitated, and then the absolute worst thing ever: a baby crying. A thousand babies crying. Incessant, angry, and screeching. Some child wanted its mother, wanted food, and was beyond furious that it wasn’t getting what it needed.

“Oh my God, that’s awful,” she gasped, pressing her ears to her head.

The man nodded. Then he jerked his chin in her direction. “It’s right behind you. Just look.”

She didn’t really hear his words so much as
know
what he said. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t looking. She wasn’t! Except as the noise got louder, the child gasping in its screaming fury, the whole situation became an infuriating necessity.

Where the hell was the kid’s mother? Or father? Or hell, a friend of the family? Anyone who loved the child would do. But the kid kept screaming until the very grave she sat on seemed to tremble with the fingernails-on-chalkboard type rasp of the starving child.

“Just look,” said the man.

“No,” she said. And just like that, she woke up.

…

Megan sat bolt upright in bed, her hands clutching the pillow around her head. Her body was trembling, her spine still arched in reaction to the noise.

Except there was no noise. Up on the top floor here, there was nothing but the occasional scrape of a tree branch against the outside wall. No baby cries. No insistent shadowy man. And no…no reason for her to be angry to the point of tears.

It was a dream. Just a dream, and not the fun kind.

With a sigh, she pushed out of bed and headed for the bathroom. She needed to get herself together. Wyatt would probably want to work all evening long and she needed to be ready.

She took her time, brushing out her hair, smoothing her clothing, and reapplying her makeup. The familiar routine steadied her nerves. Even so, she couldn’t resist looking over her shoulder. She had the awkward feeling that she was being watched. Not in a threatening way. No, she didn’t sense any danger. Just a presence on the edge of her awareness but never poking through to true consciousness.

Creepy.

There
, she thought with satisfaction as she looked at herself in the mirror. Everything was back in place. Hair, makeup, clothes. Stepping out of the bathroom, her gaze went immediately to the watercolor painting.

Beautiful and lonely. She ached for it without even knowing why.

With a sigh, she did what she always did when confronted with an awkward emotion. She sat down at the desk, popped open her laptop, and started in on one of Wyatt’s spreadsheets.