In the Air Tonight (19 page)

Why was the wind whistling? Had the damn door opened again?

I drew back, opened my eyes, saw a shadow shimmer in the corner, then another near the door.

Ghosts.

The thought of being watched nearly made me put a stop to something I wanted more than I’d wanted anything, anyone, in … well … ever. Then I remembered the rosemary in my pocket.

Bobby’s eyes were still closed, but they wouldn’t remain that way if I didn’t continue. I blew on the moistness left by my mouth, and he shivered. Apparently he hadn’t felt the wind.

“Keep your eyes closed,” I whispered.

“Mmm,” he agreed.

“Don’t move. I’m just going to lock the door.” I removed the rosemary bottle.

In more ways than one.

I sprinkled the tiny leaves across the doorway. I tossed some of the herb into the air for good measure, then flicked the lock. I hoped that worked. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if it didn’t.

I glanced around the room, afraid of what I might see. But the shimmers had receded. The only shadows lay in Bobby’s now open eyes. Either the rosemary had done the trick, or the ghosts didn’t want to watch. Fine by me.

I went to him, and his thumb stroked my lip, pulled it free of my teeth. “We don’t have to,” he said.

“You’re wrong.” I lifted my mouth.

“About?” His lips hovered a breath from mine.

My fingers curled around his neck. “We have to.”

I felt his smile when we kissed. But the humor soon fled, along with any gentleness. Laughter was for later, as were both slow and soft. Right now I wanted fast, hard, and serious.

His thumbs slid beneath the waistband of my jeans. He ran them along the hollow between hip and stomach. I went onto my toes, arching; my pelvis bumped his erection, and he hissed. I lost the jeans and the underwear. At least I’d remembered to put on a pair without holes. Not that it mattered now.

“Bedroom?” he asked.

I wrapped my legs around his hips, wiggled, desperate to feel him inside. “No time.”

“Whoa.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “Give me a sec.”

He set me on the table. I came up on my elbows as he leaned over and grabbed his jeans. Protection. At least one of us had a brain.

I was naked from the waist down, displayed like an offering to the gods and oddly enough … I liked it. I lay back and waited for the tear of the package, the snick of the condom. Instead, his shadow blocked the waning sun. Next thing I knew, he put his mouth to me.

Though my body shouted,
Shh!
my mouth said, “Wait.”

“No.”

“I can’t.”

“You will.” He kissed the part of me that screamed for it. “Now.”

He licked that part, tickled it with the tip of his tongue. Not only did that part scream, so did I.

“Then you’ll come again when I’m here…” He put his tongue inside of me, then out. “I promise.”

He continued until that promise was fulfilled, and I checked a few items off my to-do list.

He worked his way upward, shoving my shirt ahead of him, running his lips along my skin. My nipples were as hard as he was, and he spent a bit of time making them harder. By the time he lifted his head, I thought he was probably right about coming again.

“How about a shower?” he asked.

I blinked, my mind full of sensation, not sense. “Uh, sure. Go ahead.”

That he could walk away for a shower—no matter how badly he wanted, and needed, one—kind of hurt. Was it only me who was crazy for this? For him? For us?

He stepped back, held out a hand, which, dazed, I took. Then he led me to my own bathroom, drew me inside, shut the door.

My gaze caught on my reflection in the mirror over the sink. Color bloomed in my cheeks, making my eyes shine very dark. My hair was tousled. I kind of liked it that way. My shirt had caught above one breast but hung over the other. I had beard burn on my neck, probably everywhere else too.

The water started. I turned away from the new me in the mirror.

One foot in the tub, one foot out, he offered his hand, curled the fingers inward. “Lose the shirt.” His lips tilted. “You didn’t think we were through.”

I had. Silly me.

*   *   *

For an instant Bobby thought Raye would run. Then she lost the shirt, and her dark hair tumbled over one of those exquisite breasts. She’d been chewing on her lips and they were red, causing him to think again of Snow White. Did that make him the Huntsman?

She put her hand in his and stepped beneath the water, lifting her face to the stream, arching her long, slim, white neck like a doe worshipping the moon. He was so star-struck by the sight that he didn’t shut the curtain until the sound of water peppering the tile made him snatch the end and drag it closed.

She resembled a nymph beneath a waterfall, a mermaid in the surf. And for tonight, at least, she was his.

He reached for the soap; she got there first, holding it out of reach.

“Let me,” she said. Who was he to argue?

She lathered his chest, his arms and legs and what lay between. He had to still her hand before he lost what he’d saved just for her. He faced the water, to rinse and catch his breath. She soaped his shoulders, his spine, a bit lower, but when her fingertips ran over his hip, he flinched.

Her hands stilled. “What’s wrong?”

He twisted, but the area that felt as if it had been scrubbed raw was too far around to see. “Something must have hit me in the explosion.”

She brushed her hand over him again and this time he hissed. She lifted her eyes. There was something in them he didn’t like. Did he have a chunk of the house stuck in him? He would have noticed that before now.

“What is it?”

“Just a scrape.” Her mouth smiled; her eyes didn’t. “I have something for it when we’re done.”

It didn’t occur to him then to wonder how he’d gotten scraped so badly with his clothes on. He had better things to wonder about. For instance, how would her breasts taste beneath the water? How smooth would her skin be in rain? What would she sound like when he entered her? Could he last long enough to make her come again? How, precisely, did one have sex in a shower?

His answers came in a rush. She tasted like heat; she felt like cream. When he entered her, she whispered his name. The sound, the scent, the feel of her all around made him desperate. He had to still his body, move his hand along hers, and recite the Miranda warning lest he finish long before she did.

As for how? Several ways—her back against the wall, then his. Her cheek pressed to the tile as he slipped in from behind. Then atop a pile of towels on the floor, him watching her face bloom in wonder, that sight making him lose his last hold on control and empty himself, body and soul.

He lay with his head against her breasts as the damp slowly cooled them. The shower still ran, the sound like rain, the steam a summer fog.

“We should get up.”

“Mmm,” she agreed. Her fingers stroking his back. Neither of them moved.

He wasn’t sure how long they lay there but when he next opened his eyes, the steam was gone, though the mirror over the sink remained fogged. He’d slid to the side, resting his uninjured hip on the floor, his leg thrown over hers. The color that had been in her face had faded. She appeared as tired as he felt. All he wanted was to climb in bed and sleep for a day.

With her.

He withdrew his leg; she reached for him—lethargic, she missed. He sat up and turned off what must now be ice water. Her eyes opened, and she smiled. His heart went ka-boom.

He stood, grabbed a towel, and wiped the mirror. His reflection looked the same as always. Why was he so surprised?

“You okay?” Raye shoved her wild, dark hair out of her face. The way she sat there, naked, staring up at him made him want her all over again.

“Yeah.”

“Want a drink?” she asked.

“Hell, yeah.”

Her laughter made his gut clench. How could anyone want to remove laughter like that from this earth?

He offered a hand. His palm tingled when it met hers. He released her, and she rubbed hers along her hip as if it stung. When he did the same the slice of pain caused him to crane his neck so he could see his back in the mirror.

“That’s not a scrape,” he murmured. “That’s a bruise.”

“Does it matter?”

“A kindergarten teacher should know the difference.”

“I was distracted.”

Join the club.

She reached past him, opened the mirror, behind which lay a medicine cabinet. He caught a glimpse of aspirin and cough medicine, as well as a circular pill container marked with the days of the week. At least he wouldn’t have to run out for condoms. He thought he’d just used his last one.

Raye withdrew a blue and white tube of ointment. “This will help.”

“What is it?” he asked, but he offered his hip. If she planned to smooth it on with her fingers he didn’t care if she used turpentine.

“Arnica. I use it for my bruises.”

His gaze lowered to her arm, where she’d had some only a few days past. She didn’t any more.

“Stuff must work pretty well.”

“It does.” She spread it on. He felt nothing beyond her touch. Apparently arnica also took away the pain. Or maybe she did.

She returned the cream to the cabinet, wiped her hand on a towel, and opened the door. “I’ve got wine and beer.”

“Beer,” he said, thankful when she shut the door behind her. He wanted to look at those marks again.

The bruises on Raye’s arm had resembled fingers, and her explanation of a child grabbing her had made sense. It still did.

What didn’t were the finger-shaped bruises on him.

Chapter 15

I retreated to my bedroom, dug around for a robe I never used, and put it on. Apparently my ease with naked only extended to the actual act and right after. I would have loved to be the kind of woman who could deliver a beer to a man unclothed. But I wasn’t. If I had been I could have made a much better living doing it. Teaching didn’t pay half as well as stripping. A fact that annoyed me daily.

In truth, I needed to get out of the bathroom before Bobby asked about that bruise. I had no idea what to tell him. I’d never seen another like it.

Except on me.

My hand on the refrigerator door, I glanced at my arm, but the bruises that had been there a few days ago—the ones made by the ghost of Anne McKenna—were gone. Arnica cream rocked, though usually not quite that well. However, I’d never had bruises caused by a ghost before. I hoped I never would again, though I figured that hope was doomed.

But now Bobby had them too. I had no idea what his meant either.

I thought back to the basement. Genevieve had been upset; her ghost-child hand had reached out in an attempt to snatch her father from danger. Her fingers had gone through his side—right where those marks were. He’d stopped and shuddered. Which meant he’d felt her, and that was …

Really odd.

According to Bobby, anyone who said they saw ghosts was a thief, a charlatan, or a liar—maybe all three. Considering his behavior today, I had to wonder if perhaps he’d been protesting too much.

I pulled a Miller Genuine Draft out of the refrigerator. I had a few Leinie’s Summer Shandys left, but I doubted Bobby was a lemony-beer type of guy.

I popped the top, glanced at the bathroom door. Was he still staring at the bruises, trying to convince himself they’d come from four thin, short sticks of wood that had rained down from the exploding house, rather than the fingers of his dead child? Why wouldn’t he? He had no idea his dead child, or anyone else, was following him.

And I really,
really,
didn’t want to be the one to tell him.

I considered that ghost bruises weren’t something reserved just for those who saw ghosts. People got bruises all the time that they didn’t know the origin of. They passed them off as a bump they’d been too busy to register at the time, a thump in the night on the way to the toilet, forgotten by the light of day, even acute leukemia. In most cases, they were right—hopefully not about the leukemia. It helped that most mystery bruises were not shaped like fingers.

So why were his? Why were mine? Another question or two for Henry.

I poured some red wine, drank a healthy swallow, then took both it and the beer to the kitchen table, set them down, glanced at the door again, and picked up the clothes I’d promised to wash.

I removed Bobby’s keys, his wallet, and his cell phone from the jeans, tossed them next to the beer and strode to the stacked washer and dryer in the corner of my rarely used kitchen. When I returned to my wine, I saw that his wallet had fallen open. I forgot all about the mystery of the ghostly bruises.

A photo of Genevieve occupied the space meant for a driver’s license. Not a surprise. The surprise was the gorgeous redhead in the photo next to her.

Obviously Genevieve’s mom—they had the same nose, a similar smile. But the woman’s presence in the wallet brought up a question: Was Bobby married?

That would have been a good question to ask before now.

The bathroom door opened. So did my fingers. The wallet dropped onto the table. The leather folded closed on contact. Thank God.

Bobby wore nothing but a towel.
Num.
He picked up his beer, took a sip, smiled. He must not have seen me going through his wallet.

“I put your clothes in the wash.”

“Thanks.”

“I took the stuff out of your pockets.”

“Thanks,” he repeated.

“I…” I had no idea how to broach this subject. I’d never had to. The thing that annoyed me the most about dating in New Bergin, that everyone knew everyone else’s business, meant I did too. No embarrassing surprises in the aftermath. All the embarrassing surprises were out in the open as soon as they embarrassingly happened.

“Remember that cold case?” Bobby sipped his beer. “We talked about it at Thore’s Farm. Locked-room mystery. You suggested we check the floor in the locker.”

“Okay.” I remembered. How could I forget?

“Someone cut a hole in the floor through the ceiling of the room below, threw back the carpet and shot the guy.”

Which explained why the ghost was gone from here. I hadn’t seen that particular spook trailing in Bobby’s wake since that night. Mystery solved. Case closed. The spirit had gone on to … wherever.