Harrison Investigations 2 Ghost Walk (18 page)

"Andy would have loved you," she murmured. She shook her head. "Exactly how do I introduce you to my ghosts? I never actually had a conversation with your dead agent. I saw him at Madame's—either dead or alive—and again in the street when he was definitely… dead. And as to Andy… I never actually know when I'm going to see her."

"We can look for her. Together," he said. "If she knows that you trust me, maybe she'll trust me, as well."

"I don't know that I do trust you," she said.

"I think you do," he chanced.

That brought an uneasy flush to her cheeks.

She stood. He thought she intended to run.

"I don't need more coffee, and I don't need a drink. Walk me home," she said.

"Of course," he told her.

 

Julian was definitely nervous about Nikki going off with the stranger. Not that he controlled Nikki's social life, but something about the man bothered him.

And Nikki wasn't in her right mind. Not since Andy's death.

When they had walked away, he'd watched uneasily.

Paced in front of Madame's.

Then Madame herself had come out. "What's going on?" she asked.

"Um… Nikki… uh, kind of has a date," he told her.

"I see," she murmured, staring down the street. She was silent for a minute. "I don't think Nikki should have a date right now, do you?"

"I can't tell Nikki what to do," he said.

"You might have discouraged her."

"I tried."

"So… she's seeing ghosts, huh?"

"She's really upset about Andy."

"Of course." Madame studied him. "Do you know the guy?"

"Kind of. We met him the other night, then saw him at the police station."

"Cops have been known to be… "

"Be what?" Julian demanded.

"Dirty," Madame said softly.

"Think I should follow them?" Julian asked.

"Yeah."

Julian stared at Madame, then sped off after Nikki and Blackhawk.

He didn't like it. He didn't like any of it. The strange guy… the talk of ghosts. It was far too unnerving.

It wasn't healthy. Not for anyone.

Especially Nikki.

 

"This is a great apartment," Brent Blackhawk said, eyeing the place from the porch.

"I know. I love it," Nikki said. They stood awkwardly before the door for several seconds.

"I'll wait until you're in and the place is locked up," he told her.

She felt the breeze brush by her hair. The light scent of whatever cologne he wore drifted along with it. The solidity of his presence was ridiculously reassuring.

And frightening. She didn't really know him. He was definitely beyond the ordinary. She wondered idly what this moment would have been like if they'd been on a date. She'd always had her personal set of rules. A first date was a get to know you, and that was that. She was a big fan of
Sex and the City
, had all the episodes on tape, but that wasn't her lifestyle. In everything, personal and business, she had a tendency to be slow and careful.

But if it
had
been a date…

Her heart was racing as if this was the moment for a first kiss. The whisper of the breeze was perfect, seeming to urge her to step closer. Revel in the feel of his skin. The heat of his body. She was almost tempted to tilt her chin, close her eyes, smile, part her lips… wait.

Except, of course, it hadn't been a date.

Even so, her pulse was erratic, and she wondered how he would look without his shirt, how it would feel to just lie against him.

Her mind took things even further. She was sure he would be an aggressive lover, but a good one. Tender at times, but passionate. He would know his way around a woman's body. He would…

She took an instant step back, praying he couldn't really read minds.

"Um… we didn't really finish talking. You're… welcome to come in. I'm sorry, I just didn't want to sit in a bar anymore. My sanity is a little fragile at the moment, you know."

To her surprise, he hesitated.

"Nikki, I don't want to force anything on you."

Force
? She was ready to…

"I need you to trust me, to believe in me. And if that means I should walk away now, that's what I intend to do."

This was all business, she reminded herself. He saw ghosts, she saw ghosts. They were like detectives, comparing notes. Not potential lovers.

"Well," she said, and managed an awkward half smile, "I can go inside and lock up, but that doesn't do much against ghosts, does it?"

"It will do a lot against real-live killers, who apparently got hold of both your friend and a government agent."

"Yes, I definitely have to be careful," she assured him. "Julian has been great, staying here with me a lot."

"Julian," he repeated.

"So are you coming in?"

He didn't reply.

She was both exasperated and a little offended. "You can check out the place for the undead as well as the living criminal element."

God, she loved his smile. Loved the way it softened the hard contours of his features. The light in his eyes, the slightly wicked curve of his lips… she loved it all.
Too fast
. She didn't know him.

She realized she was holding her breath. Because she was willing to take her chances. Right when the world was the most dangerous she'd ever known it to be. Right when she shouldn't.

"Please, I'd appreciate it if you would come in. I know there are living criminals in this city, but at this particular moment, it's those who aren't living who frighten me the most."

"Miss DuMonde, I would be delighted to come in," he informed her.

She turned away quickly, alarmed to realize that she was trembling.

She fitted the key in the lock, and he followed her in, surveying the downstairs.

"Living area downstairs, bedrooms up?" he inquired.

She arched a brow. "You didn't know that?" she asked.

He shook his head, smiling. "I'm not a psychic."

"No," she said. "You just talk to ghosts."

He didn't reply, as he made note of the art she had on the walls. Most of it was local. Scenes of the streets, the river, the people. She liked to buy from the local artists. A few pieces were of scenes from around the country, and she had a set of watercolors of Florence.

There was one oil of St. Louis Number I that he especially liked. It had captured both the beauty of the architecture and the decay. A young woman, head bent, was touching a tomb with a winged angel. The painting seemed to evoke the line between life and death, and it held a sense of mystery and possibility, as well.

"You know the artist?" he asked, coming closer to it.

"No," she said. "I think she was a grad student at Tulane. I bought it near Jackson Square."

"Nice," he said.

"Thanks. I love it. She captured something… It sounds strange to say it, but there's an aura about that picture. Maybe that's not so strange to say to you. I didn't mean that offensively," she added. Lord, this was strange. She couldn't speak normally or casually. When had things changed between them? There had been something about him from the beginning, but she had probably been smarter when she had been angry, and when she had wanted him to stay as far away from her as possible.

He laughed. "There
is
an aura to that painting," he assured her. "Whether you see ghosts or not. That's what creates art, don't you think? Not so much the perfect reproduction of a face or an object, but infusing the subject with emotion or warmth or something special."

"Yes… I guess you're right. But then again, we all see different things, don't we?"

"Absolutely. I have one friend who has a huge painting of dogs in a bar. He thinks it's one of the most underrated masterpieces in the world. So, yeah, we all see different things."

She felt flushed. "Yeah, like dead people walking around." She winced. "I'll, uh, make tea. Do you like tea?"

He arched a brow. "Is there a reason I shouldn't like tea?"

"No." She winced again. "I… I guess I never knew what India—Native Americans drank." Oh, God, she was sounding worse and worse.

"You mean, besides firewater?" he queried.

"I—" She broke off, realizing that he was teasing her.

"I think there's actually more Irish in me than Lakota," he told her dryly, "so on the ethnic side, tea is cool. But for future reference, some of the Lakota I know love tea, some hate it. Matter of taste."

She forced a smile and a nod. She lived in one of the most mixed-race cities in the world. Her friends were white and black and every shade in between, gay and straight, Catholic, Jewish, voodoo and Wiccan. She'd never fumbled around like this before.

He was staring at her, smiling. She was staring at him, feeling like an idiot who couldn't keep her foot out of her mouth.

She waved a hand toward the kitchen. "I'll go boil water."

"Thanks."

In the kitchen, she felt the first sense of unease. Everything was as she had left it. Counters neat, wiped down, coffeepot…

Just a little different. Out farther, closer to the edge of the counter than she usually left it.

Or was she just… searching for something to wonder about, to see differently?

She began opening cabinets and drawers. The silver set was exactly where and how it should be, in the farthest left drawer. Through the glass panes of the cabinets, she could see her good china, none of it moved in the least. She gave herself a shake. No one broke into an apartment to move a coffeepot out a few inches. The kettle was on the stove, just as she'd left it.

She set the water on to boil and kept looking around. Nothing was out of order.

When she returned to the living room, Brent was still looking around at the art, yet not really seeming to focus on anything.

"She's definitely not here right now, is she?" he asked.

Nikki had carried in a tray with cups, the teapot, milk, sugar and lemon, not knowing how he drank his tea.

It began to rattle in her hands.

"She?" she said, but she knew exactly who he was talking about.

"Andy."

He took the tray from her, setting it on the coffee table between the sofa and the love seat, and sitting down himself on the latter.

Nikki shook her head solemnly. "No."

She sat, as well, and reached for the teapot, ready to do the whole hostess thing, but he said simply, "I'll pour, okay?"

She nodded, too inexplicably nervous to speak.

"She doesn't come every night, does she?" he asked, his words casual as he poured. Nikki added milk and a scoop of sugar to her cup.

He drank his plain, she noted.

"Nikki?" he persisted. "She doesn't come every night, does she?"

"No, she doesn't come every night." She hesitated, taking a long sip of tea. "I'd probably be locked up by now if she did. Maybe she knows that."

"Maybe she does. I'm sure she's not trying to hurt you. In fact, I'm certain she's trying to help you."

Nikki shivered. His knee was brushing hers. Their faces were close. Here she was. She'd met the most attractive man she'd so much as seen in… forever. He was in her apartment. They were touching. Their faces were so close that she could see the flecks of darker emerald in his eyes. Almost feel the texture of his skin. His warmth seemed to reach out and embrace her.

And they were talking about ghosts. Matter-of-factly.

"If she's trying to help," she heard herself say too sharply, "why doesn't she just appear to Massey or Joulette and tell them who killed her?"

"She probably doesn't know."

"How could she not know?"

"She might have been attacked in the dark or when she was sleeping, so she never saw anything. But she knows, or senses, that you might be in danger, as well," he told her. "I need to speak with her. She isn't going to acknowledge me or let me get close to her unless she realizes that I'm trying to help, as well."

Goose bumps broke out on her arms. "Okay, so what about the FBI agent?" she asked. "I never knew him. Why am I seeing him?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. That's something else I need to find out."

Nikki cleared her throat. "Please tell me that."

"That what?"

"That I'm not going to start seeing dead people wherever I go," she whispered.

"Trust in this, Nikki," he told her softly. "You're seeing them for a good reason, and they want to help you."

She sipped her tea again. "A good reason. My best friend is making me see a shrink. All my friends are tiptoeing around me as if I've got a disease. And it's going to get worse. Julian thought he could shock me out of it, so he announced to Madame that I'm seeing ghosts. So now she's worried, too. As for Massey and Joulette, they think I'm off-the-charts nuts."

"They think I'm pretty far gone, too," he assured her.

"Does that bother you?"

"Only if it hinders what I'm doing. Luckily, I don't seem to be as big a pain in the butt as their main FBI liaison. Quite frankly, he does seem to be a pompous ass. But that's working in my favor right now."

Nikki realized that she was still covered in goose bumps.

And she was afraid. Afraid as she had never been before.

She didn't know what she was up to herself when she then said, "Andy shows up in the middle of the night sometimes."

"Yeah?"

"I fall asleep with the TV on. She always liked television."

"She's watching over you."

The words tumbled out of her mouth then in a rush. "I have a guest room. If you really want a chance to meet Andy, you can stay in it, and if she appears… I can call you. I can tell her about you, and you can meet her right there and then." Oh, God! Her words sounded really and truly insane.

"I told you, I don't want to push things with you," he said very gently. "I want you to know me and trust me."

"Dammit," she said, standing. "You want me to know you and trust you. Well, so far, you've managed to scare me half out of my wits. What do you want, an engraved invitation? There's a guest room upstairs. Since I'm now afraid of my own shadow, I would deeply appreciate it if you would sleep there."