Your Magic Touch (6 page)

When they arrived, he threw the door open so she could see if
his
room was suitable for whatever her nefarious purposes were.

Maybe she was irate because the Princess Room didn’t have any private documents or photos she could go through. She wouldn’t be any more satisfied with his bedroom. He stayed here infrequently, during term breaks at the university. “Is this more to your liking?”

She shot him a suspicious look, stepped into his bedroom, then halted abruptly in her tracks. “You’ve got to be kidding, right?”

“Kidding?” He looked around the familiar room and nothing seemed to be out of place. Of course, seeing it through new eyes, it
was
a bit gothic with the dark walnut carved crossbeams supporting the arched plaster ceiling, and the matching walnut paneling. Or maybe she didn’t like the 17th century tapestries upholstering the walls. “Kidding about what?”

“This is right out of some horror flick. How can you get any sleep here without nightmares?”

“I’m rather
fond
of my bedroom, thank you so much.” He smoothed his shirt. “You don’t have to insult me merely because you don’t like the decorating scheme.”

“Are you telling me this really
is
your bedroom?”

He glared at her, then pointed to the small sitting area across from where they stood. “I often sit on that chair and work on research notes. If you’ll notice, there’s a stack of files beneath the coffee table.”

“Excuse me. I missed the files thanks to the damn 12th century spun-gold and maroon satin tapestry draped over the incredibly antique table.” She gave a quick shake to her head. “This whole room is red, black and gold. Are you kinky or something?”

Sinclair’s jaw tightened. Dealing with this maddening female, he suspected, would give him TMJ. “My kinks are none of your business—” he took a step closer and then gestured toward his bed “—unless you’d like to make them yours?”

Frannie backed up a pace.

He didn’t know what had gotten into him. One minute he was annoyed—and the next picturing her snuggled in his arms. He opened his mouth to form an apology, but he was interrupted. By an ear-splitting female scream.

Frannie followed Sinclair as
they ran toward the source of the screams. Half of her wondered what the hell was going on with the screaming, and the other half couldn’t believe that all the bedrooms at Haliday Hall were ridiculously over-decorated. If she’d said anything more, she feared she’d have been waist deep in dog-doo with Sin Boy.

And there was her reaction to his outrageous suggestion regarding her exploring his kinks. Whoa. She’d taken a step back for fear she’d be tempted to dive into his bed.

Thank goodness she’d been saved by the screams.

More and more, though, she felt as though she’d fallen into the pages of a gothic romance novel. What next? The electricity would fail? At least she wouldn’t be stupid enough to go exploring basements, dungeons or catacombs alone.

Eventually, they reached a corner, and she almost skidded on the slick, medieval floor tiles. The orange, red, yellow and black tiles gave a warm, albeit dangerous, feel to the hallway.

It was lit by a final glow of daylight beaming in through a window just out of sight, and faux candelabra she’d noticed in almost every room in the house. On her immediate right was a life-sized marble statue of a nude woman and just past her was a set of stairs Frannie hadn’t seen before.

As intricately carved as all the other woodwork in this house of horrors, the stairwell turned abruptly to the right, then paused in a landing. There stood a screaming housemaid, pointing at a wall hanging at the far end of the landing. The stairs continued at the housemaid’s left at a steep angle, ending on the second floor.

“Merry,” called Sinclair as he rushed up to comfort the housemaid by pulling her into his strong arms.

The maid instantly hushed her screaming. Frannie probably would, too, if Sinclair pulled her into his arms. No matter how much she actively disliked him, her journalist objectivity and powers of observation allowed her to notice that his were, indeed, strong, masculine arms.

She climbed the few steps up to the landing and joined them.

Merry clutched a feather duster as if it were a sword in one hand, and a polishing rag in her other. Cleaning products and tools lay at her feet, scattered away from a wicker basket.

Thanks to a gentleness Frannie hadn’t expected Sinclair to possess, Merry calmed down.

He released her, then bent to pick up a toilet brush. “What happened?”

“Oh, Mr. Haliday, you won’t believe me. Honest you won’t.”

“Try me.”

She whimpered as she pointed at the portrait on the landing. “He stepped out of the painting.”

“He who?” asked Frannie.

“The ghost!” Merry looked as if she might start screeching again. Frannie prepared to cover her ears.

Just as she made the move, the three ghost hunters stumbled into the hall. Emphasis on stumbled. As Frannie watched them trying to stay on their feet, she turned and asked Merry, “What do you use to wax the tile? Butter?”

Merry snickered, but then seemed to realize she’d forgotten herself. She rearranged her expression back into one of fright and clutched more forcefully at Sinclair’s arms.

Frannie shook her head and turned back to watch the Keystone ghost hunters’ antics.

Maury righted himself and moaned. “A gh-ghost?”

Thomas, however, wasn’t so fortunate. He lost his balance and fell, butt first, on the floor. She heard a crack as his Einsteinesque head connected with the naked marble statue.

The statue, of course, wobbled. In slow motion it teetered and toppled to the floor.

Whack.

The female statue lost her head, which rolled around on the tile before stopping at the bottom tread of the stairwell.

Frannie made a mental note not to lose her head in the same manner—or in any manner, for that matter.

Thomas leapt to his feet, rubbing his head with one hand while holding the other up in a stop gesture. He seemed to mean it wasn’t his fault.

“It must be dangerous for statues around here,” muttered Frannie. “At least she’ll match Venus out front.”

Sinclair scowled at her.

So. She’d learned something else about him. He didn’t like smart asses. “Don’t worry. I’m certain my boss will pay for that.”

Willie Jo, ignoring the turmoil, pulled an electronic gadget from his pocket and waved it around the room. “We’ll find the ectoplasm. Where did you see it last?”

Merry pointed at the portrait on the wall.

It was a life-sized painting of a man from at least a century earlier, maybe more. The man in the portrait didn’t look like ectoplasm. And he was rather handsome in a
lord of the manor
kind of way.

Willie Jo climbed the stairs, waving his gadget, which looked more like a TV remote than anything designed to sniff out ghosts. Thomas stood at the foot of the stairs while Maury hid behind him in fear.

She had to wonder why Maury had chosen to look for ghosts. Talk about making a bad career choice.

Sinclair patted Merry gently on the shoulder. “It was probably an optical illusion. Between the dust on the frame and the light coming in through the window …”

Frannie glanced at the window facing onto the stairwell landing and then back at the portrait. Sin Boy’s explanation seemed likely enough. The sun was setting now, and very little light trickled in through the window, but there would have been enough during the period just before Merry let loose with her blood-curdling yodels.

“No.” Merry shook her head, sending her soft auburn curls bouncing. “I know what I saw.”

Sinclair stepped to the portrait, tucked the toilet brush under his arm and ran his fingertips along the outside edges of the picture frame. “Nothing unusual here.”

Willie Jo moved behind Sinclair, waving his gadget at the portrait and Sinclair.

“Find anything?” asked Sinclair. When Willie Jo waved the device in front of Sinclair’s face, Sinclair waved the toilet brush at Willie Jo.

“I’m not sure,” said Willie Jo, taking the brush from Sinclair. “Can you empty your pockets?”

Frannie was sure Sinclair didn’t see it, but she caught Willie Jo winking at Thomas. What was that about?

Sinclair pulled a money clip and an odd bit of change from his pocket. “That’s it.”

Willie Jo looked depressed—but then, he usually did. He ran the EMF meter up and down Sinclair’s body. “I am getting a slight increase on the EMF meter.”

“We should get a baseline reading on the rest of the house and set our instruments up,” said Thomas.

While Sinclair replaced his money in his pocket, Frannie knelt to the floor and helped Merry pick up her cleaning supplies.

With a less than attractive sprawl, Frannie reached for a particularly elusive can of furniture polish. Suddenly, a huge flash of lightning outside briefly lit the landing. Thunder ricocheted loudly enough to make the house shake.

They were abruptly plunged into darkness. She might have expected it in this gothic monstrosity of a mansion.

Merry, of course, resumed her screaming.

Jumping at the racket, Frannie lost her footing. She tumbled sideways, into someone’s leg. As soon as she made contact, she knew exactly who owned the leg. Sin Boy. Sheesh.

As she attempted to regain her balance, Sinclair’s hand encircled her forearm and he helped her to her feet.

“Okay?” he quietly asked.

“I’ve been better.” If only Merry would stop her howling, Frannie would be much better.

Sinclair must have felt the same way. “It’s just that the lights went out, Merry. We’re fine.”

Merry’s screams subsided into hiccups.

“I’m picking up some ectoplasmic activity,” piped up Willie Jo. He still had the meter in his hand, but had apparently lost the toilet brush.

Ectoplasmic activity meant ghosts? Frannie shivered. Sinclair, who hadn’t released her arm, must have sensed her reaction, because he pulled her into his arms. Oh man, his arms really were strong and masculine—and comforting.

Merry’s hiccups increased, and Frannie heard Thomas inch his way toward her to lend comfort—not that his was the masculine comfort she hoped for.

“No need to worry,” Sinclair said. “This happens almost every time there’s a storm in the area.”

Frannie snorted. Great. She’d been making a fool of herself. “This place is right out of a B movie. Instead of Haliday Hall, it should be called Castle Transylvania.”

While she couldn’t see his face, she knew Sinclair was giving her that harsh look again.

So she was a smart ass. Sue her. She shifted out of his embrace, but not too far out of arm range. Another peal of thunder shook the house.

Sinclair laid a hand on her arm, and his touch nearly seared her now sensitized skin. Gauging by the look of horrified awareness that crossed his features, the contact was way out of his comfort zone, too. He pulled back his hand and then administered a number of gentle pats on her shoulder. “I’m sure Mrs. Drundyl will be along any moment now with some candles.”

As soon as the words
Mrs. Drundyl
were out of his mouth, Frannie saw a hint of light dancing from the upper story. Seconds later, the housekeeper, carrying two sets of candelabras, descended the stairs to join them.