Ghost for Sale

Caitlin King can’t believe that her shopaholic cousin
actually
bought two ghosts off of eBay. But she can’t ignore the truth when she starts seeing sexy Liam O’Reilly, who’s been dead for over a hundred years. He’s a fascinating specter, and the more time Caitlin spends with him, the closer they become—sending them both spiraling into a star-crossed tailspin. No matter how desperately they long for each other, there’s just no future with a guy who’s already stopped breathing.
In order to help Liam and his twin sister, Anna, leave their earthly limbo and cross over into the light, Caitlin must find the ghost of Anna’s fiancé. But a malevolent spirit is dead set against Anna moving on. Now Caitlin will have to unravel the mystery surrounding the twins’ past lives in order to keep Liam’s spirit safe—
even if it means sacrificing her heart in the process.

Visit us at
www.kensingtonbooks.com

Mutants Series

Love, Lattes and Mutants

Love, Lattes and Danger

Ghost for Sale

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Sandra Cox

LYRICAL PRESS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

Lyrical Press books are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2015 by Sandra Cox

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund- raising, and educational or institutional use.

To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:

Kensington Publishing Corp.

119 West 40th Street

New York, NY 10018

Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

First Electronic Edition: September 2015

eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-773-2

eISBN-10: 1-61650-773-X

First Print Edition: September 2015

ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-774-9

ISBN-10: 1-61650-774-8

Printed in the United States of America

For Mike, who always supports my literary efforts,

And Camille, whose mission has been to fatten me up and change my politics

As always, thanks to my editor Paige Christian

Renee Rocco, Managing Director

And to my agent Joyce Holland

Brring
. The shriek of the doorbell caused me to jump, interrupting my first morning jolt of caffeine, as hot liquid sloshed over the sides and burned me. “Crap.” I thumped the cup down and trotted to the door, shaking my stinging fingers.

My irritation faded when I opened the door.

A young delivery man dressed in standard tan gave me an appreciative once over. I returned the favor. “Miss VanLier?” He held a box in one hand and a clipboard and pen in the other. Lust turned my brain to mush. I reached for the clipboard and scratched my name.

“Miss King?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. But I need Miss VanLier’s signature.”

“Oops. Wait right there.” I held up a finger and walked backward till I was out of sight, then sprinted for my cousin’s bedroom. “HDM at the door, Marcy.”

“Hot delivery man?” She sat up.

“Yup. A Mr. Hottie.”

“What’s he want?”

“He’s got a box that I can’t sign for. Did you order those red stilettoes?”

She looked at me and mumbled, “They didn’t have them in my size.” Her eyes widened. “My ghosts!”

“What?”

“My ghosts. I bought two on eBay.” She jumped out of bed.

“What?”

“Caitlin, you’re repeating yourself. I bought two ghosts on eBay.”

“No. Really? How much?”

“Three thousand apiece.” She reached for the robe at the foot of her bed and threw it on.

Pressure began to build at my temples. “Why would you spend six thousand dollars for ghosts?”

“Why not?” She trotted out of the room and raced down the hall.

Good question. Marcy’s parents were richer than God. Spending a few thou on a whim was no big deal. My parents weren’t exactly poor, but their fortunes paled in comparison to my mom’s sister’s family.

I hauled butt after her. “You don’t really believe that stuff, do you?”

“Why else would I have bought them?”

Why indeed?

We made it to the door in a dead heat.

“Are you Miss VanLier?” HDM asked.

“Yes, that’s right.” She reached for the pen and clipboard. His glassy gaze traveled back and forth between the two of us, lingering on my short-shorts.

“She inherited those legs from her momma. At least that’s what Aunt always tells us,” Marcy put in helpfully as she intercepted the look.

Mr. HDM reddened, thrust the package at her, and beat a retreat.

She studied the return address. “It’s my ghosts. But the package is ripped.”

“I’ll say.” The box was busted, split at the seams. “We should have been paying more attention to the package and less to the delivery boy.”

“It doesn’t matter. I can’t wait to see my specters.” She clutched it to her breasts like a long lost child and headed to the kitchen, leaving me to shut the door. I watched the HDM drive away, then trotted after her.

“You opened it,” I said, disappointed I’d missed the reveal.

“No, the tube was cracked and the cork out. My ghost escaped somewhere between here and Florida.” She rubbed her forehead as if warding off a headache.

A chill swept down my spine. Then sanity returned. Ghost indeed.

“Jonas Bromwell is going to reimburse me for this purchase. I’m not paying three thousand for a cracked test tube. My daddy taught me the value of a dollar.” Hands splayed on her waist, she glared at the broken cylinder.

“Yeah, and I wonder if your idea of value is going to equal his.”

“Say what?”

“Nothing. What about the other one?” I pointed at the still intact tube. Her face brightened. She looked at me, grinned, and picked it up with perfectly manicured nails.

Slowly, she pulled out the cork, drawing out the moment, then
pop
. “Welcome to your new home, ghost.”

A current of electricity traveled along my skin and trailed down my arms in a slow, sensuous slide. Heat escalated and my arms burned. “Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.” As I flailed around, the smell of cinnamon and tart limes teased my senses. The hairs on my neck stood on end. Goose bumps roughened my skin.
What the…

“Caitlin, what is wrong with you?”

“I have no idea,” I wailed. “My arms feel on fire. Do you smell that?”

Marcy dutifully lifted her nose and sniffed. “Smell what? Your arms have just gone to sleep. That’s happened to me before. Just keep shaking them and they’ll feel better in no time.”

Right.
I ran to the sink, turned on the cold water, and stuck them under it. The heat disappeared as quickly as it had come. The smell was gone too.
This is weird.
I touched my arms, for any lingering warmth, but they were cool from the water. My skin looked perfectly normal, no blisters.

“Are you better?”

“Yes.”

“I would have never thought about running water for a muscle cramp. I’ll remember that next time.”

I opened my mouth to correct her, then promptly shut it. What was the point?

Marcy’s attention turned back to the test tube. She waited expectantly, her eyes wide. As the minutes ticked away, the look of expectation turned to disappointment. “That thief, I’m going to ask for all my money back. He sold me empty test tubes.”

I tried to work up a “well duh.” But I couldn’t quite do it, maybe because I was shaking like a leaf.

When I didn’t respond, my cousin looked at me. The frown on her lovely features deepened. “What’s wrong with you? You’re white as a sheet and trembling.”

Not for a million bucks or a thousand pair of shoes would I admit I might have just experienced my first ghostly encounter. I croaked the first thing that came to mind. “Sugar.”

She pulled out a box of donuts, tossed them on the table, just missing an empty juice glass, and I fell into the chair.

“Want a Pepsi?”

“Please.”

“I can’t believe I got scammed. I was so sure I was buying ghosts. The seller seemed so sincere.” She pulled a can out of the fridge and handed it to me. I drank it so fast I choked, and she slapped me on the back.

“I’m fine.” I waved her away.

“Here, have a donut.”

I reached for a glazed, inhaling the yeasty confection before brushing my palms together to get the sticky icing off my fingers.

“There, you’re looking better.” She beamed, then turned and walked out.

I loved my cousin, and her abrupt mood changes were just part of her charm, but this one left me a bit off balance. Clearly, she was already over her ghost disappointment and had moved on to her next obsession.

As soon as she left, I slipped out of the room and went to the little study off my bedroom, opened my laptop, and googled paranormal activity. In moments, I was immersed. Time disappeared as I tried to find a rational explanation for the strange scent that had appeared when the top popped on the tube, along with the kilowatt voltage that had fried my skin without leaving a mark.

“I’m leaving now.” Marcy spoke from the doorway.

My breath caught and I clutched my heart. “You scared me. What time is it?” I looked at the tick-tock cat clock on my wall, disoriented. “Six o’clock,” we said in unison, me in disbelief.

“Have you been networking all this time?”

“Yeah.” I took the coward’s way out and didn’t try to explain I’d been researching paranormal activity—ghosts in particular—not chatting socially. I’d be totally humiliated if my sophisticated cousin thought I was a geek. “You look great, Marcy.” She wore faded jean capris and a crimson silk shirt over a red halter, topped off with chunky red jewelry. “I didn’t think the party was till later.”

“Cookout on the patio.”

“Gotcha. Have fun.”

“Sure you don’t want to go?” A set of bangle bracelets jingled on her arm as she shifted her little red clutch to her other hand.

For a moment, I considered it. But I had a headache I couldn’t shake, and the nerves under my skin were twitching. “I’ll catch the next one.”

“All right. Feel better.” She gave me an airy wave of her fingers before she strolled out of the room.

“Have fun,” I called after her, then winced as it notched up my headache. I shut my laptop and stretched. Maybe a swim would clear my head. I put on my black one-piece and headed for the pool, my cork thongs clopping against the warm cement. The glistening liquid beckoned. After toeing off my footwear, I dove in.

The cold splash of water shocked me and cleared my head. I floated on my back, buoyant, mindless. The sun still had an hour before it would set, but already the sky had turned a lovely shade of red. My body went limp and my headache disappeared.

Interspersed with the smell of chlorine, a light scent drifted toward me. For a moment, I enjoyed the sensual masculine fragrance. The next instant my body went rigid.
Cinnamon and tart limes!
Stiff as a board, I lost my buoyancy and went under. I kicked to the surface, coughing and choking. As I dog-paddled and pushed my streaming hair out of my face, a shadow fell across the pool.