Distracted, Sam Gregory took a sip of his scalding coffee and nearly spit it all over the windowpane. Swallowing painfully instead, he leaned toward the glass and stared out the window into the dawnlight of the village street.
Pedaling a bicycle with all the determination of Dorothy’s Wicked Witch of the West was a slender, fair-haired, stark-naked woman.
Stark, he marveled, forgetting his coffee.
Naked.
He moved right, nearly overturning a table lamp, to look out the next window as she sped past.
Her hair streamed out behind her in long, damp curls, some clinging to her naked back, some bouncing past her shoulders. A few strands adhered to her face. Her trim legs pumped hard, and he realized she wore the barest of panties in the palest of pinks—an odd concession to the perception that nudity might not be appropriate for a bike ride.
Sam craned his neck and let his temple touch the windowpane as he watched her cycle past the house.
Other than the panties, she was quite obviously naked. Firm, perky breasts pointed forward as she pedaled, her eyes looking neither left nor right but trained on the street in front of her as if willing herself invisible.
That she was beautiful was abundantly clear. As was the fact that she was nuts.
It only occurred to him after she’d rolled out of sight that she might have needed assistance. Like a robe, he thought, looking down at his tattered flannel. Or a car, he thought, glancing at the faded Nissan pickup in the drive.
It was too late, however. She was gone. Like a bizarre dream. The ghost of Lady Godiva, he thought with a smile. On a Schwinn.
Gray Gilliam nearly flung the bicycle into the shrubs at the end of the driveway and sprinted to the back door. She’d left it unlocked, but it balked as she pushed before she turned the knob, then refused as she turned the knob and pulled, then opened with a bang against the inside wall as she turned, pushed and stumbled into the mudroom.
She panted, a stitch in her side so sharp she pressed it with one hand and bent forward.
She had never been so humiliated in her life. Though she’d kept her eyes forward as she’d ridden home, she was sure somebody somewhere along the way had witnessed her disgrace. Now she’d have to wonder every time she got a strange look from someone if they’d seen her naked.
Breath finally slowing close to normal, she flip-flopped out of the mudroom, across the kitchen, and headed for the stairs. Despite the fact that she was inside, goose bumps rose on her naked skin. She decided it was because of the chill inside the house and not because she felt as if she were being watched. The house was always cold, she reasoned.
And she always felt like she was being watched, another voice in her head volunteered.
While it was true, it was silly, she told herself. It made no sense to feel watched in this house. For one thing, the place sat on close to ten acres of private beachfront land, so no one was looking in the windows. And if there’d been someone inside the house, the creaking floorboards and unoiled door hinges would have alerted her to their presence immediately.
She shivered. Her thin Virginia blood was simply unused to June in Massachusetts.
She had just donned her fat white terry-cloth robe when the phone rang. She sprinted to the kitchen where the lone receiver was.
“Do you love it?” her friend Rachel asked.
Rachel almost always started a phone conversation in the middle, something Gray both enjoyed and wondered if she should disapprove of. She’d been taught to ask politely if someone was otherwise engaged before assuming a conversation was mutually agreeable.
“The house,” Rachel elaborated. “Isn’t it perfect for a summer away?”
“Of course it is! But oh, Rachel, you won’t believe what just happened to me!” She hunkered down into the plush leather armchair in the music room. It was her favorite chair, even though it put her in mind of how it must feel to sit in a giant leather baseball glove. “This morning was so beautiful I decided to go for a bike ride. And I was standing on the shore, over by the bay outside of town, and it was gorgeous and the water felt so warm, and I was thinking I really needed to be more like you—”
“Gray, I hate it when you say things like that.” Rachel’s voice showed her displeasure.
“I know you do, but it’s true. I’m way too self-conscious, for one thing, so I decided what you would do would be to—”
“Wait! Let me guess. You stripped naked, went swimming, and got bitten by a shark.”
Gray laughed, almost wishing that had been the outcome. “All but the last bit.”
Rachel gasped. “No way. You? You got naked. In public.”
“It wasn’t exactly public. There was no one around. But yes, I went swimming. Skinny-dipping.”
There was a pause. Then, “All right, who are you really and what have you done with Gray?”
Gray laughed again. Leave it to Rachel to cheer her up even on the heels of her biggest mortification. “Very funny.”
“So, how was it, acting like me? Rewarding? Or did something bad happen?” Rachel’s voice was wry.
“It was very rewarding,” Gray said, realizing she’d gone about this story the wrong way. “At first it was positively divine, and I could see why you follow your impulses, why physical freedom is so exhilarating. But then…” She felt breathless anew at the embarrassing memory, flushing hot again. “Oh Rachel, you won’t believe this, but a dog stole my clothes!”
“A—what?”
“As I was swimming, I saw this beautiful white dog running up the beach. I’d seen the dog before, actually. In fact, I saw it just yesterday on the beach, with a guy in a long, heavy coat. I remember because I thought it was strange that the guy was wearing a winter coat in June. Anyway, before I could do anything, this dog picked up my sundress and ran off. Just…ran off. I couldn’t believe it. I started whistling for it. Calling it. But it disappeared up the beach without a backward look.”
“Oh my God.” Rachel paused, and was obviously having a hard time restraining laughter. “What about the guy in the coat? Was he around?”
“I didn’t see him, but I did wait for him for quite a while. ’Til my fingers got pruney, and I thought I’d freeze to death. Then I ran out of the water, grabbed my underpants—thank goodness he didn’t take those too—and pedaled home as fast as I could.”
Rachel was openly laughing now. “Did anyone see you?”
“No! At least I don’t think so. I didn’t see a soul, thank God. Not that I was looking.”
Rachel hooted. “And you had to go through town, didn’t you? What other way is there?”
“I don’t know! I went through town. It was mortifying. Imagine it.”
“Oh I am,” Rachel said through guffaws, adding, after Gray moaned, “Come on. It’s funny. And nothing bad happened, did it? I mean besides being embarrassed.”
“No, I just kept my eyes on the road and my feet on the pedals.” Gray hesitated, struck by the idea that being embarrassed didn’t really qualify as something “bad” happening. “I guess I was only embarrassed.”
“And seen by no one, as far as you know.”
“As far as I know,” she repeated ominously.
“Gray, I promise you, if anyone saw you, they were struck dumb by your beauty. It’s not like you know anyone anyway.” She chuckled again. “Besides, you were probably pedaling so fast you were invisible.”
Despite herself, Gray laughed. “It was the fastest I’ve ever ridden.”
“The fact is, I should try to be more like you,” Rachel said. “This is exactly the kind of thing that would happen to me, except the town would have been throwing a parade, and everyone would have seen me.”
Gray scoffed. “You don’t want to be like me. I’m sick to death of who I am. Uptight and cautious and—well, my students call me the Gray Ghost. That should tell you something.”
“It tells me they remember the time you caught them drinking beer in the woods.”
“No, it means I’m practically invisible. I’ve spent a lifetime actually striving to be invisible. God forbid I ever made a show of myself, as my mother used to say. And now look at me. I’m scared of my own shadow.”
“You are not.”
“Trust me, I am. Coming up here was the gutsiest thing I’ve done in years, and right off the bat I do something stupid.”
“What you did, Gray, was—was make a show of yourself! And wasn’t it kind of fun? You’re already getting out of your shell, not even a week into your summer.”
“Maybe,” she conceded thoughtfully. Out of her clothes, out of her shell…same thing. “But mark my words. I’m going to change myself this summer. I’m determined. I’m going to loosen up. Follow my impulses. Be brave.”
“Gutsy Gray! And you’re off to a great start!”
Gray laughed. “I don’t know about great. But getting naked in public was a start.”
Rachel cracked up again, before getting down to the reason for her call. “Listen, I’m wondering if you’ve seen any sign of the so-called ghost yet.”
“Not unless the ghost is an obnoxious sundress-stealing dog.” Gray crossed her legs and picked at a terry-cloth pill on her robe. She wished Rachel hadn’t brought up that damn ghost. She had just been starting to feel comfortable. If it weren’t for all the talk about this place being haunted, she was sure she wouldn’t be imagining herself watched at every turn.
“Nope, the ghost is the Duke of Dunkirk. At least according to legend. Supposedly, he’s buried right where our house was built.”
One of the reasons Gray was house-sitting this summer was because Rachel and her husband, Robert Kinnistan, were trying to sell their house in the Cape Cod town of Wellfleet, Massachusetts. The trouble, according to their Realtor, was that the place was old and rumored to be haunted. Rachel thought that if someone were living in it, that might prove to the squeamish it was both comfortable and ghost-free.
Before Gray arrived, she hadn’t believed any of those reasons were why the house wasn’t selling, most particularly the ghost. She’d thought their Realtor was lazy. Or maybe the squeamish one herself. But the opportunity to get out of DC and reinvent herself was more than she could pass up. Though she hadn’t told her friends, she was thinking of moving there if she could find a job.
It wasn’t until she’d gotten to the house that she’d been consumed by creepy feelings. Talk about the power of suggestion. She didn’t even believe in ghosts, so it was ridiculous to feel spooked.
“Why would a ghost haunt the place it was buried?” Gray asked, exasperated. “I mean, really, you’d think they’d haunt the place they died. Or the people who were responsible. These things never make sense.”
“I know, ghost legends are all the same. Although I think some people say he didn’t actually die until he reached the shore. And where he reached the shore is supposedly right where our house is. Others say he died in a house that stood where ours is. I just don’t know.”
“So have you ever noticed anything odd when you’ve been here?”
“Well…” Rachel’s tone was reluctant. “I haven’t, but Robert says he has. I can’t remember what, exactly.”
Gray swallowed. “Ask him if he’s ever noticed this: every now and then I smell something burning. Not like the house is on fire but like a pipe or a cigarette. But when I look around, I can’t find anything. It’s weird.”
The line went silent. Gray wondered if they’d been cut off. A chill swept through her again.
“Hello? Rachel?”
“I’m here,” she said. “I’m thinking. You know, Robert might have mentioned something about a pipe smell…”
Despite herself, Gray shivered. This was stupid. She wasn’t the superstitious sort. She was more interested in figuring out why the house was considered haunted than whether or not it really was. Because she knew the answer to that. There were no such things as ghosts.
“Then it must be something explainable. Like a light socket overheating or something caught in a radiator,” she reasoned. “So who was the Duke of Dunkirk, and what was he doing here?”
Rachel sighed. “I don’t know. Robert could tell you. All I know is, the duke is supposedly our ghost, and that bar in town, Dunkirk’s Den, is named for him. Personally, I think it’s Covington Burgess.”
“You think someone named Covington Burgess is haunting your house?” Visions of an old sea captain or a long-dead fisherman pacing the crow’s nest filled her head.
Rachel laughed. “No, he’s all too alive, in my opinion. I think he’s the one who took the legend of this duke and attached it to our house, saying it was haunted. He’s also the rat who bought the Neely home for a song after claiming it was sinking into the marsh, and he’s been after Robert’s house for years. I guess we should feel lucky he hasn’t sicced his engineering firm on us yet. No doubt he’d get them to claim four hundred feet of cliff face is getting ready to give way and send the place into the ocean. Though that would be easier to refute than the ghost thing.”
“Covington Burgess,” Gray repeated. “I’ll remember that name.”
“Do. And if you hear anything about him wanting to buy, let me know. Oh darn. Gray, the baby just woke up. I’ve got to go. I thought we’d have more time to chat.”
“Don’t worry.” Gray felt a pang. She missed her friend. “I’ve got to shower anyway. We’ll talk soon. And I’ll let you know what I find out about this supposed ghost.”
“Good,” Rachel said, then finished, laughing, “And remember: go with guts.”
The swelling strings of a Puccini aria were spilling out of his stereo speakers when Sam heard the scratching at his back door. No doubt the dog had finally realized he’d taken off this morning without getting his breakfast first.
Sam finished wiping the windowsill where he’d spilled his coffee and glanced outside once more as if the woman might still be there.
Strange things happened all the time once the summer people came to the cape, but he had to say he’d never seen a woman riding naked through town on a bicycle before. In his opinion, it was an improvement over the typical tourist problems of drunkenness, litter, noise, illegal parking, and a formidable line outside The Lighthouse for breakfast.
Wadding up the paper towel in his hand, he headed for the back of the house and pushed open the screen door. The large white dog trotted in manfully, for all the world as if a fanfare of trumpets heralded his arrival.
“Good morning, Duke. Up to no good?” Sam asked conversationally.
One of Duke’s ears flicked in Sam’s direction, the only sign that he’d heard.
Sam had found the dog a year ago on the beach up near Truro. He’d been wearing no collar and sported neither a tattoo nor, as the shelter discovered, a microchip. Sam posted signs all over the cape and checked in with animal shelters from Hyannis to Provincetown, but nobody ever claimed him, so Sam decided to keep him. Or the dog had decided to keep Sam. One way or the other, they’d stayed together.
The name Duke had come easily. For some reason it was the first one that sprang to Sam’s mind, and the dog responded to it immediately. Ever since then, however, Duke had acted as if Sam were born to serve him. With his thick white coat, pricked ears, and high, curling tail, the dog had an attitude of authority that one found oneself obeying before giving it any thought.
Duke, indeed, Sam had thought on many occasions. Still, he was a gentle animal, who rarely caused trouble. He just went where he wanted, when he wanted, and nobody could stop him.
Sam studied the dog’s coat for evidence he’d been rolling in dead things, but aside from a shower of sand from his feet and a few bits of seaweed clinging to his fur, he appeared as white as when he’d left.
Grabbing the broom, which was always at the ready, Sam swept the offending grit out the door. Then he stepped onto the porch to sweep the sand into the grass behind the house. The yard was small, only about fifteen feet deep, but it was enough to buffer the house from the marsh beyond. He stood for a moment, looking at the morning sun on the water, the fresh smell of salt water mixing with the warmth of the soil making him take a deep, lung-expanding breath.
Between the view and the Puccini, he felt like the day promised something special. Something the bizarre spectacle of the morning had only portended. He smiled, surveying the yard. He was proud of the new bronze sculpture he’d bought that spring, an abstract that stood near the edge of the marsh, echoing the feel of the cattails and grasses. He planned to add more art pieces when he had the funds, maybe some iron and stonework, too.
As he turned to go inside, something on the grass near the short gravel drive caught his eye. For a moment Sam thought the white heap was a plastic shopping bag, but it looked too big for that. He stepped off the porch and strode toward it, thinking, Sure enough, litter hits the town the same time as the tourists. It was like clockwork.
But when he reached the mass he saw that it wasn’t white, but pale yellow. And it wasn’t a plastic bag but an article of clothing. He plucked it from the ground with two fingers and held it aloft. Covered with sand and sporting bits of kelp, he saw that it was a dress. A woman’s sundress, to be precise.
He looked from the dress in his hand toward the back door of his house, putting two and two and two together. And getting a mess.
Low laughter started in the back of his throat. A runaway dog, a naked bicyclist, and the sudden appearance of a dress all pointed to one thing: somehow Duke had stolen that poor woman’s clothes. No wonder she’d been pedaling so fast. She wasn’t an exhibitionist; she’d been robbed.
He took the thing up in both hands and shook it. Much of the seaweed and a lot of sand showered onto the ground at his feet. It was a flimsy little affair, made of some knit material with spaghetti straps and a three-button vee at the front. Pale yellow. Like the woman’s hair.
He folded it over an arm and headed back to the house. The chances of his figuring out where she was staying were slim. For one thing, he didn’t have a lot of time this week to be searching out the rental houses along the oceanside. He had three articles to write for various publications on the latest classical music releases.
For another thing, something he’d noted in the woman’s posture told him she’d probably rather be without the dress than know that someone had seen her riding naked through the streets at the crack of dawn.
What the hell, he thought. He’d wash it anyway. She’d probably be gone at the end of the week, and he’d never see her, but just in case he ran into her, he’d have it ready. Why should she care if some stranger had seen her panicked flight this morning? It wasn’t as if she’d ever see him again.
Gray stood looking at the sign for Dunkirk’s Den, the bar where all the locals reputedly hung out. Had she been interested in being herself, she would have gone to Aesop’s Tables in the middle of town. With a lovely front lawn filled with tables, and the cozy lounge upstairs, it was just the type of place Cynthia Gray Gilliam of McLean, Virginia, would have patronized.
But tonight she was just Gray, of Gull Cottage Lane, Wellfleet, and despite her friend’s protests, she was still convinced that trying to be more like Rachel was a good idea.
Look at this morning, she told herself. So what if she’d had to ride home naked on a bicycle? She’d had twenty minutes of exhilaration first.
She briefly put a hand to her forehead to forestall the automatic blush the memory incited. It was only embarrassment, she reminded herself. And embarrassment did not count as something bad happening.
She’d had an incredible, early-morning swim, learned what it felt like to be naked out-of-doors—something she was sure she hadn’t done since she was a toddler, if then—and she had a hilarious story to tell her friends. No harm, no foul, as her ex-boyfriend Lawrence would say.
She shook her head to rid it of Lawrence. It had been over a year since their breakup, and in that time he’d gotten married. It was past time to get him out of her mind.
Still, her stomach somersaulted at the idea of going into the basement bar. It looked dark and seedy. She bet it sold only Budweiser. The bathrooms were probably disgusting. But music blared happily from within, and if she wanted to be different than herself, well, this seemed to be the place. Not to mention that somebody here might be able to tell her the story of the Duke of Dunkirk.
Go with guts, she thought, straightening her shoulders.
She doubted if even Rachel or Robert had ever come here.
In deference to the venue she’d chosen, Gray had dressed down. She wore jeans with her Etienne Aignier flats and carried a small, Coach clutch purse. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore only the barest of makeup with her white Ralph Lauren sweatshirt. Simple diamond studs adorned her ears, her only jewelry other than a Cartier watch.
It was as casual as Cynthia Gray Gilliam got. And while she knew it was not what some would consider Dunkirk’s Den material, she had to content herself with the fact that her mother would have tackled her at the front door if she’d been around to know her daughter was actually going out in these clothes and not painting the house.
Not that her mother was here, of course. No, she was home in Virginia, disapproving of Gray telepathically, as usual.
Inhaling deeply—go with guts, go with guts—Gray headed for the door just as a large man in a small tank top pushed out of the bar and belched into the balmy evening air.
“Oh, excuse me,” Gray said automatically, as if she’d interrupted a private moment.
The man grunted as she took the weight of the door from him. He gave her a look as if he meant to turn around and follow her back in, but she scooted past him into the bar.
“No problem,” he slurred belatedly, as the door shut in his face.
The place was dark and undistinguished. Chrome stools with black vinyl seats surrounded a horseshoe bar, around which tables lined the dark-paneled walls. On the far side was a tiny dance floor with, incongruously, a dartboard on one side. Gray had a moment of imagining the mishaps that could occur if the two activities went on simultaneously, then reminded herself that she was not the Safety Inspector or anyone else who needed to care about such things.
She made her way to the bar and sat gingerly on one of the stools, half-hoping the enormous sumo wrestler behind the bar wouldn’t notice her.
He did.
He sauntered over, pushed a cocktail napkin in front of her, and asked, “What can I get for yah?”
She licked her lips. “Um. Could I, uh, get a glass of wine?” Her voice rose at the end as if expecting the man to scoff at anything other than an order of beer, or maybe a piratesized shot of rum.
“Sure. What kind?” He looked at her passively.
She smiled in return. Of course they had wine. She was being ridiculous. Every place had wine. “Oh, let’s see. Maybe a chardonnay—or wait, a Pinot Grigio, I think.” She smiled again. “If you’ve got it?”
He chewed for a second on what she hoped was a piece of gum, studied her, then said, “What kind, white or red?”
Gray flushed from head to foot, wished she could flee, then said in a small voice, “White, please.”
He leaned toward her, music bouncing all around them. “Did you say ‘white’?”
She nodded and glanced around so self-consciously she didn’t actually see anyone as much as hope to make them look away from her.
The man took a glass down from a rack overhead and filled it from a tap with a white handle. Next to it was a tap with a red handle. And below the taps Gray was sure were two large boxes of something labeled WINE.
He deposited the full glass in front of her, and asked, “Want to start a tab?”
Still frozen with embarrassment, Gray could not imagine fishing into her purse for money at that moment. “Uh, sure.”
He nodded and moved to the register.
Gray exhaled a long, slow breath.
Across the bar, Sam Gregory eyed the young woman with great curiosity. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in this bar. Which was saying nothing. But she might also be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in Wellfleet. Or in Massachusetts. Hell, maybe anywhere.
In the light from the neon Budweiser sign over the bar, her skin glowed like a white sand beach in moonlight. Her wide eyes shone like sea glass under elegantly lean brows. Add to that her thick wavy hair and ballerina bearing, and he was turning into a poet trying to justify why he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Then there was that demure little smile with the upraised lashes she’d given Roy. Roy, who’d thought she’d ordered “some Grecian formula” when she’d said “Pinot Grigio.”
He chuckled to himself. She was a fish out of water, all right. Though not as out of water as she had been that morning.
For unless he missed his bet, he was certain this was his Schwinn-riding Lady Godiva. And he’d be a fool not to come to her aid now that he’d been given a second chance.
The question was, how did you go about mentioning to a woman you’d never met that you had her clothes?
Gray sipped her wine fast, eyes darting around the bar, trying to pick out who wouldn’t scare her to death if they came over to talk. Or who, if it came to it, she might consider going to talk to herself. She hadn’t really considered what to do once she’d braved the door, and was wondering if perhaps throwing out one’s entire personality was really the route to take to become someone new.
But really, didn’t she owe it to her commitment to change to give it everything she had? Surely riding naked through town on a bicycle had been the start of something momentous.
Then again, it might have been enough for one day.
A stringy-haired woman in the corner nursed a brown drink in a short glass, but she looked glassy-eyed and despondent, and seemed already to be talking to someone despite the fact that no one was near. It seemed naïve to think she might be wearing a Bluetooth when her shoes didn’t match.
There were two men drinking and watching ESPN on the TV, but neither of them looked particularly friendly. In fact they both looked a little tough, with their thin hard faces and sinewy tattooed arms.
There was a guy playing a pinball game, and another playing video poker, and then there was the sumo-wrestler bartender, who had not indicated any sort of interest in a conversation with her beyond “red or white.”
Finally, there was a tall thin guy in worn khaki shorts and a faded red tee shirt coming around the bar with a beer in his hand. A Budweiser, of course.
Where had he been? she wondered. She hadn’t noticed him before, but then half the bar was so badly lit it was hard to see beyond the glare of the oversized TV hanging in the corner of the well where the liquor bottles were.
He was normal-looking, she thought, eyeing him covertly. Which was a good thing because it looked as if he were coming toward her.
Sure enough he sat down next to her, straddle-legged on the stool, facing her.
“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this?” he asked pleasantly. His voice was low and had a husky quality to it that made the cheesy come-on seem more intimate than it would have otherwise.
Make up that line yourself? she wanted to ask, but that would have been rude. And despite the fact that Rachel would have said it, Gray smiled, and said, “Do you think this is a dump?”
His eyes, light-colored and sharp in a face that was otherwise friendly, made a slow loop around their surroundings and lit back on her. “I think it defines ‘dump.’ Don’t you?”
People were awfully blunt here. Must be a northern thing, she guessed, and chalked it up as something else she needed to try. Bluntness.
“I suppose I do,” she said, her tone emerging primly.
She picked up her wineglass. The beverage was more like grape brine than wine, but for Gray it beat cheap beer.
“But it’s fun. You know, kind of.” She looked uncertainly around again. “Is it always so empty? I thought there’d be more people here.”
“It’s early.” He placed his beer on the bar next to him. “This place doesn’t really get going until after ten or so.”
He didn’t have the same hard edges as the rest of the patrons, and from what she could tell from their brief exchange, he seemed educated. She wondered if he was a tourist or a resident.
“So what are you doing here, if you think it’s a dump?”
He grinned, and Gray was struck by the thought that he was nice-looking. Strange thing not to notice right off. The smile did it, though. Deep dimples and appealing crow’s-feet made him distinctly handsome.
“I like dumps.” He tilted his head. “But I don’t think that’s true of you. Which leaves only one conclusion.”
She eyed him while sipping her wine again. “Which is?”
“You’re slumming.”
“Slumming?” Gray tried unsuccessfully to look surprised. It was exactly how she felt. Still, she didn’t need to admit it to this guy. Something told her he’d hold it against her. Heck, everybody in the room would hold it against her, but she got the feeling this guy was testing her. And she’d never failed a test in her life.
He cocked a grin at her. “Aren’t you?”
“Are you judging me, Mr….?” She knew calling him “Mister” anything was ridiculous, but it was the closest she could come to his cheeky banter.
He laughed, and she thought again that he was nice-looking. In a Jekyll-Hyde kind of way. “Sam. My name is Sam. And I am being something of a jackass. I apologize. It’s just that I’ve never seen a woman who looked like you in this place.”
She looked at her drink, unwilling to be flattered, if that was indeed what he meant. It was hard to tell. “So you were judging me.”
“Aren’t you judging me? Aren’t we all judging each other?” He flagged the bartender.
“Sounds like barroom philosophizing to me.” She took another sip of her wine, which she was pleased to note had become almost palatable. It meant she could finish it and leave. She’d gotten out of her comfort zone, been gutsy for one full drink; maybe she could give herself a break and have a nice dinner at Aesop’s Tables.
“Sometimes that’s the only kind of philosophizing that makes sense,” Sam said.
She picked up her purse to retrieve her wallet when the bartender placed another drink in front of her and one in front of Sam.
“Oh, I didn’t order that,” she protested.
“I know.” The sumo wrestler pointed to Sam. “He did.”
Sam picked up his beer and saluted her. “Cheers,” he said. “Ms….?”
She gave him a brief, undecided look, then picked up the glass. What the heck, she thought. It beat going back to her haunted home. Besides, if she couldn’t be gutsy with this brazen fellow, who could she be gusty with?
“My name is Gray,” she said with a smile.
“Gray?” He started to chuckle.
She shot him a warning look that had no effect on him whatsoever. Oddly, this made her feel better about his teasing.
“I’d’ve pegged you for more of a Saffron. Maybe even a Magenta. But Gray?” He shook his head, smiling. “No way.”
“It’s a family name.”
“The Crayola family?”
“My first name is Cynthia,” she explained, trying to clarify—what? That she was not in fact a crayon? He was joking, for pity’s sake, and she was acting like the schoolmarm she was.
“Ah.” He nodded, picked up his beer, and took a long pull from it.
She was boring him. She was a humorless snob. He was thinking her name suited her perfectly.
“So what’s a nice guy like you doing in a dump like this?” She straightened her shoulders and tried to look confident.
He smiled slyly, looking at her from the corners of his eyes. “Slumming. What else?”
She laughed—see? I get jokes—and her glance grazed him from tee shirt to sneakers. “You don’t look like you are.”
He burst out laughing, and she blushed. She hadn’t meant to insult him, but of course she had. Lord, she couldn’t play this game. She had no idea how to flirt. When she’d met Lawrence, she’d been set up by friends. At a wine tasting. At the National Gallery. All she’d had to do was talk coherently about the Impressionists, and that was easy.
“Touché, Gray. You’re tougher than you look. So, are you here on vacation?”
“I’m summering here.” She twisted her glass in the condensation on the bar. The bartender had forgone the formality of a cocktail napkin with drink number two. “What about you?”
His smile curled ironically.
She shook her head, sighing. “What did I say this time?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re looking rather…condescending again.”
One long-fingered hand touched his own chest. “Me? Condescending? I promise you, Gray, I didn’t mean to…” His words petered out, and he laughed at her skeptical look. “Oh okay. It was ‘summering.’ That word. Nobody but debutantes and doctors’ wives use seasons as verbs.”
“And nobody but reverse snobs throw ‘debutante’ around as an insult.” She socked away another gulp of wine and felt proud of herself. It was an awkward parry, but still. She wasn’t taking any of this guy’s guff. “Not to mention that you were wrong. I was neither a debutante nor am I a doctor’s wife.”
The look he gave her kicked up a surprising team of butterflies in her stomach. Appreciation and amusement. It made her feel that not only was he looking at her, but he was really seeing her.
“I’m very glad to hear that.”
The words made her feel hot. She took a calming breath. “Okay, so, what does one typically do in a place like this?”
Sam gave her a conspiratorial smile. “I’ll tell you what ‘one’ does,” he said, “in a place like this.”
She looked up quickly to find him laughing at her again, but this time it was overt, not smug. She chuckled.
“One does clams.” He motioned for the bartender again.
“Clams? What do you mean?”
“I mean fried clams. The Den may not do much right in the way of food, but they have some of the best fried clams on the Cape. And the onion rings are first-rate.” He put one foot up on the lower rail of her stool. “Besides, it is what one does here. Can I order you some?” She hesitated, and he took the opportunity to flag the bartender. “Two clam plates with onion rings. And put it on my tab.”
Gray smiled. It was chivalrous, in a way. And because she didn’t want to drink two glasses of wine on an empty stomach, she was grateful. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Don’t want you leaving the Cape without trying all the delicacies.”
“You’re actually a nice guy, aren’t you?” She looked at him quizzically.
He laughed. “Was there ever any doubt?”
Sam looked at that perfect porcelain-doll face, smiling up at him with lips that cried out to be kissed and eyes that challenged, despite something naked in their depths, and felt a tightening in the pit of his stomach. This girl was uncomfortably beautiful. And she was a helluva lot sharper than he’d given her credit for, even if he was still certain she was former debutante material.
But hey, she wanted slumming, he could give her slumming. And maybe be entertained in return. After all, any woman who would be in a position to have her dress stolen by a dog had to have some wildness in her.
The clams arrived, and they feasted, then had another round of drinks. She was looking just the slightest bit tipsy when she held up a hand, and said, “Enough. I can’t consume another bite or take another sip of anything. Except maybe some water.”
Sam ordered a couple of waters.
“So what do you do up here?” Gray asked him, her eyes glowing in the dim bar light. “If you’re not just ‘summering.’”
She gave him a saucy look, and he marveled at the flawless ness of her features. Strands of hair had come loose from her ponytail and trailed next to her face, framing it as if planned for a photo shoot. One of the longer tendrils caressed the slender column of her neck, and he reached a finger up to touch it, felt the softness of her skin. A corresponding heat filled his core.
“I’ll tell you what I’d like to do,” he said. “I’d like to take your picture. Right here, right now, just the way you are.”
Unplanned perfection, that was what she radiated.
He was unprepared for her burst of laughter. “Oh my, that’s almost as good a line as your first one!”
He took back his hand and put it in his pocket. “My first—?”
“‘What’s a nice girl like you…?’” She dissolved into laughter.
He couldn’t help smiling with her. She was tipsy, no doubt about it. “Now who’s judging whom?”
She reached a hand up to touch his cheek and sobered, looking deeply into his eyes. Sam swallowed as the blood stalled in his veins.
In a low, fake accent, she asked, “Would you care to look at my etchings?” She fell into laughter again.
This time he couldn’t stop himself. He took her hand from his face, held it tightly in his, and leaned toward her, his lips capturing hers.
In the time they had eaten, the bar had filled with people, and the music had grown correspondingly louder as the night had worn on. But Sam hadn’t noticed. And now, as Gray’s lips opened under his, the whole place could have blown away around them, and he wouldn’t have known the difference.
She leaned toward him, which surprised him, and one hand grasped the front of his tee shirt. He stepped into her, the barstool hitting him in the thighs, and ran a hand around her back. His fingers felt the trim curve of her waist and tightened around it.
After a second he pulled back and looked into her pale blue eyes, pupils huge in the dim bar. “Want to get out of here?”
For a moment she appeared suspended in time. Her lips glistened from his kiss, and she gazed up at him as if momentarily stunned. Then the corners of her mouth curved, and she dropped her head. A second later she put a hand to her mouth, and he realized she was laughing.
“Sorry! Sorry!” She looked up through her lashes at him, eyes alive with mirth.
“Let me guess. Another cliché you’ve heard a thousand times.” He tilted his head and looked at her, at once amused and mildly embarrassed.
“‘Want to get out of here?’” she repeated. “‘What do you say we get some air?’ ‘How about we go someplace more comfortable?’ ‘Did I tell you I have all of Sinatra’s albums on vinyl?’” She giggled again.
“Okay. How about, Let’s blow this pop stand. Whaddya say, Gidge?”
“Much better!” She beamed and stood up, her body lengthening along his in the crowded space. Her barstool tipped over behind her but was righted by someone who immediately occupied it. She fumbled on the bar for her little purse and grabbed his arm hard enough to make him totter. “Okay, Moondoggie, let’s go.”
They went up the stairs and out into the star-flung night. It was so much darker there than at home, Gray noticed, and the air smelled heavily of sea salt, tinged faintly with decaying fish. She breathed deeply as the breeze lifted the hair from her neck.
She felt good, she realized. More relaxed than she’d been in years. Of course, she’d had a little more to drink than she’d intended, but so what. She was of age.
“‘I’m just mad about Saffron,’” Sam sang under his breath, “‘Saffron’s mad about me…’”
Gray laughed and looked up at her companion as they headed toward the harbor. Sam’s long-legged steps were easy beside hers, and she envied the way he seemed so at home in his own skin. Casual, yet in control at the same time.
Interesting, she thought. And interesting that she was there beside him. She, Gray Gilliam, who never went out on a date without first getting a résumé and references on whoever the lucky man happened to be, was walking beside some guy named Sam she had met in a bar.
On the heels of that thought she realized that she had done it. She had done the gutsy thing. She had come to a place that was outside her comfort zone, met a guy who was totally not her type, and had managed to come out of it feeling more like herself than ever before.
She tucked her purse under her arm and pushed her hands into her pockets, glancing at Sam again from the corner of her eyes. He was definitely not the type of guy she would fall for. He was challenging and lively and a little bit unkempt. She’d had to be tough and on her toes as never before just to talk to him. But she’d done it! She’d verbally sparred with him, and she had not come out feeling like a ninny. Instead, she felt triumphant. Gutsy!
She inhaled deeply again and turned slowly around in a circle as she walked, looking up at the stars. From the harbor came the clink of riggings against masts and the soft splash of water on rocking hulls.
“Oh I could just drink this air in forever. Isn’t it wonderful?” She beamed up at him.
He looked down at her, his eyes crinkling with his smile, and she thought what a pity it was he wasn’t her type.
“It’s damn near perfect,” he agreed, but his grin was ironic.
She shook her head. “Too bad you don’t really appreciate it.”
“What do you mean? I’m the one who may actually end up drinking this air forever.” He half faced her as they walked. “You’re only drinking it for the summer, remember?”
She liked the way he did that, the way his shoulders angled toward her as he talked. He really did have an innate kind of polish, perhaps even some chivalry. He had, after all, bought her dinner and ordered water after they’d had those drinks. She caught herself staring at him a moment too long and looked down the street.
“That’s true,” she said, opting not to tell him of her tentative plans to stay. “So maybe you just take it for granted.” She shrugged, fearing she was losing the energy to keep up with his banter. She was, after all, a beginner.
A corner of his mouth lifted. “That’s a little presumptuous, don’t you think?”
“According to you, that’s what we do, isn’t it? Judge each other all the time?” She lifted a brow in his direction and was gratified to hear him laugh.
He had a terrific laugh.
She could notice things like that, she reasoned, despite the fact that she would never fall for him. She could appreciate his appeal. His gait, for instance. It was agile and aloof, like a Thoroughbred that could take off at any moment with great speed, even though at the moment he was simply walking along beside her. She wouldn’t want to be the one with her hands constantly on the reins, however. She had the feeling she’d end up with leather burn.
“It must be wonderful living here all the time.” She sighed, impulsively linking her arm through his. “It’s so…free.”
She heard him chuckle and turned to look up at him.
“That might be the person, more than the place.” Sam squeezed her arm gently with his own. “You seem to be getting into the swing of your summer vacation pretty well.”
Gray shook her head. “No, it’s the place. I’ve taken vacations at other places and never felt like this. Like I’ve shed something heavy I’ve been carrying for a long time.”
A broken heart, for example, she thought. She could just imagine what Lawrence would say about her walking along so chummily with a guy she’d just met. A guy wearing un-pressed khaki shorts and running shoes that had obviously seen many miles.
Though it was more than that. It was something heavy within her that she’d lost. Inhibition, maybe. A claustrophobic sense of self.
“So what do you do? For a living, I mean,” she asked, kicking a rock ahead of them and watching it bounce into the scrub grass by the side of the road.
He paused and looked down. Gray stopped walking before her arm slipped out of his.
“I have the feeling what you would consider a living and what I would are considerably different.” He reached out a hand to her other arm and drew her toward him.
“I don’t know about that.” Gray let him link his hands behind the small of her back. “If you’re eating and have a roof over your head, I’d consider that a living. And we know you’re drinking.”
He laughed.
She placed a hand on his tee-shirted chest and was surprised by the solid feel of the muscle beneath. She was also surprised at how comfortable she felt in his arms, despite knowing that he wasn’t her type, that this wasn’t a romantic evening, that he surely didn’t think she was the right woman for him either.
“I—” he began.
“That you, Sam?” The gruff voice came out of the darkness and startled them both.
Sam exhaled slowly a moment, then said, “Yeah. Covington?”
Gray’s head whipped around in the darkness at the name. Covington Burgess. Hadn’t Rachel said that was someone to look out for?
A small man, with wild white hair and glasses on a cord around his neck, stepped from the shadows. He wore baggy dungarees and rubber boots, with a thick, nubby sweater.
“What ah you doin’ out heah?” The old man’s voice, in addition to being laced with a strong New England accent, was distinctly annoyed.
“I could ask you the same thing.” Sam stepped back, ending the embrace but sliding one hand down Gray’s arm to catch her hand in his.
“Me! I live here, dammit, that’s my house right there as you well know.”
Sam chuckled. “Yes I do. I’m wondering what you’re doing out here in the middle of the night.”
“Seeing what all the ruckus is about, obviously.” One gnarled hand clutched the glasses at his chest and put them to his face. “Who’s that with you? I don’t know this person. Who ah you, young lady?”
Sam looked down at Gray, and she could see the light of amusement glittering in his eyes. “This is Gray…uh…”
Embarrassment flooded her. She’d been caught canoodling with a guy who didn’t even know her last name, and it couldn’t be more obvious to the little man standing in front of them. She dropped Sam’s hand and stepped toward Covington Burgess, extending her right hand to shake.
“Gray Gilliam, Mr. Burgess,” she said, perhaps a bit too forcefully. She’d been in too many moods this night. “I’m house-sitting for Robert and Rachel Kinnestan. At Gull Cottage—”
“I know the house,” he grumbled, looking suspiciously at her hand. Or at least it seemed suspicious to Gray, the way shadows fell over his grizzled eyebrows to mask his eyes. He took her hand and shook it once in a warm grip. “Place is a terror, you ask me. They oughta do somethin’. Thought they had it up for sale.”
She straightened. “They do. And I don’t know what you mean, the house is perfectly lovely.”
“Hmph. You ain’t heard it yet, I gather.” Covington turned to Sam. “You two should go home. It’s the middle of the night. Guess I’ll have to drive you, young lady, seein’s how you both been drinking.”
“What? No, I have my car.” Gray shook her head. “I can give Sam a ride.”
“Uh, Gray,” Sam said, “I live right there.” With a motion of his head he indicated the building behind them, directly across the street from Covington Burgess’s.
Gray looked at the frame clapboard house with the little front porch. Behind it lay the water, calm and gleaming in the moonlight like a spirit.
“You live there?” She turned fully to take the place in.
“I drink it in day and night.” His voice was tinged with humor.
For some reason, seeing his house made him seem more like a real person and less like someone useful on her road to personal change.
“It’s lovely,” she said wonderingly, gazing at the wraparound porch. Beyond it, marsh grass dark as pen-and-ink slashes stood against the canvas of water. A silent black pier stretched out from the shore.
As she stared, a white dog appeared from behind Sam’s house and trotted up the street, away from them.
“Hey!” she said, recognizing the plumed tail from the morning’s clothes-robber. She started to point, then thought better of it.
“What?” Sam turned just as the dog disappeared around the bend.
She shook her head. “Uh, nothing. I just thought I saw something. Never mind.”
The last thing she wanted to do was explain to these two what had happened that morning. With a start, she realized she had ridden past this very spot, past both Sam’s and Covington Burgess’s houses, stark naked.
Glad of the darkness, she pressed a hand to one scalding cheek.
“Gray, I think you should take Covington up on the ride. We have had kind of a lot to drink.”
She turned to him, panicked at having to ride with the strange little man. “I know but…Sam,” she finished, her voice urgent.
How could she say she didn’t want to get into a car with the man when he was standing right there?
Sam gave her a reassuring look. “I’ll come with you. Just to be sure you get home all right.”
“Oh yes,” she breathed. “That would be nice.”
“I’m gettin’ the keys.” Covington turned and shuffled off toward his darkened house, looking for all the world like a Hobbit heading back to his Hobbit-hole.
They stood, awkwardly silent, next to each other in the dark. She wondered where the dog had gone. If she came back the next day and found it, would she also find her dress?
Distantly, she heard water lapping at the shore across the street. Did Sam hear that in his bedroom when he went to sleep at night?
“How well do you know Covington Burgess?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. The evening’s chill had penetrated her sweatshirt.
Sam shrugged, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Well, I live right across the street from him, but I wouldn’t say I know him well. He’s got pretty much a hand in everything around town, too, from the school board to the town council, so it’s hard not to have some dealings with him if you live here. How do you know him?”
“I only know of him. Rachel said something about him being…” She hesitated, realizing Sam might consider him a friend. “She, uh, she just said he might be…” Her wine-addled brain couldn’t come up with an alternative to the truth.
Sam laughed, and angled toward her, adding in a low voice, “A pain in the ass?”
She smiled, relieved. “Something like that.”
The rumble of an engine came from behind Covington’s house, and headlights illuminated the driveway. Two widely spaced headlights, Gray noted, before an enormous, seventies-era Oldsmobile crept into the light from the streetlamp.
“Oh my God.” Unconsciously, Gray stepped closer to Sam. “Is he okay to drive that thing? How does he see over the wheel?”
She could feel Sam’s warmth as he took her hand again. “Telephone book,” he whispered.
The three of them sat on the long bench seat in the front, Gray in the middle, leaning heavily into Sam, her hands clutching his forearm as they bounced over the gravel-and-sand road that led to Gray’s house by the sea. When it came into view, the place loomed in the inky night, a hulking, sprawling shape against the shore. Gray blinked, a sinking feeling in her gut. The place couldn’t have looked more ominous. Surely it was the power of suggestion. Though Covington Burgess hadn’t said much, his You ain’t heard it yet, I gather was enough to confirm that if he hadn’t started the rumors about the house being haunted, he at least had heard them.
Why hadn’t she left any lights on? she wondered, feeling trepidation to her core. Then, hadn’t she left lights on? She could swear she remembered turning on the outside floods before she left, knowing she’d be driving home in the dark. Had something happened? She glanced uneasily from window to window as if she might catch a glimpse of Mrs. Danvers from Rebecca in one of the windows, about to set fire to the place.
“Here you go, missy,” Covington said. “Don’t know how you stay here, myself. Place has always given me the creeps. Might want to leave some lights on next time you go out.”
“Th-thank you.” Gray slid across the seat as Sam opened the door and got out, gently pulling his arm out from under her clawlike grip. She glanced at the elfin man beside her. His face, lit only by the dashboard light, looked vaguely malevolent, like the face of the house. “For the ride. It was nice meeting you,” she added, taking Sam’s hand to rise from the car.
“You be careful, now.” Though the words were kind, he said them as if irritated at having to remind her. Covington dipped his head to look out the passenger door. “Sam, you ready?”
The car drifted forward with a groan of ancient brakes, and he threw it in PARK. The machine lurched against the transmission.
She stumbled into Sam as the car moved. “You gonna be all right?” Sam asked, steadying her.
“Would you mind coming in with me?” she asked, voice low, eyeing the darkened house anxiously. “Just for a minute. To make sure everything’s…okay?”
“Sure.” He smiled softly. “Hey, are you all right? You’re shaking.”
She forced a little laugh. “I’m just cold. And it’s so dark.”
He nodded, looked at her an extended moment, then leaned down to look in the open car door at Covington. “Hey, Cov, why don’t you go on back? I’m going in with Gray just to check the place out.”
“I can wait,” the man snarled. “Long’s you ain’t plannin’ on painting the livin’ room or nothin’ while you’re in there.”
“No, no. I don’t want you to wait. I can ride her bike home. It’s not that far. You go on back to bed. I’m sorry we woke you.”
“You didn’t wake me. I was awake anyway. Just ’cause you wah makin’ more noise than a flock a geese don’t mean I wasn’t awake already. Damn arrogant,” he finished, muttering the final words.
“Uh, okay, good. Glad we didn’t wake you. I’ll be fine here, really. You go on.”
Covington’s fuzzy head began to shake, and a sound like wheezing emerged from his throat. A laugh, Gray realized after a moment of alarm.
“I see what yah up to. Young men nevah change,” he crowed. “All right, then. I’ll go on.”
He shifted the car into reverse and nearly took Sam’s head off as the car lumbered backward. He slammed on the brake.
Sam took hold of the door, said, “Thanks for the ride!” and closed it.
Covington pulled backward out of the drive. They were alone, in a pitch-black night, with the sea roaring softly in the background and a possibly haunted house standing sentry in the foreground.
“How do you know that I have a bike?” Gray asked suspiciously.
Was it her imagination, or did he look abashed?
“Everybody’s got a bike around here. Lots of times they come with the rental house.” He took her arm. “Come on. Let’s check this place out.”
They walked down the drive, sand crunching softly beneath their feet and the ocean growing louder as they approached the house. The place was perched high on a cliff, but tucked behind a dune covered in sea grass, making the beach from ground level just the ghost of an idea beneath the sliver of moon.
“I love this old place,” Sam said, as they pushed up the dune on the ocean side of the house by mutual yet unspoken assent.
“You know it?” she asked, as the sea came into view, white-caps folding in on themselves against the shore below.
“I’ve known it since I was a kid. My family used to come here on vacation—I grew up outside of Boston—and we always made up stories about this old place, not that it doesn’t have enough stories all on its own. The fact that it’s situated all by itself on such a big plot of land made it look especially old. Like even time had given it a wide berth.”
“Do you know about the ghost, then?”
He turned, and she caught the flash of his smile in the moonlight. “The Duke of Dunkirk?”
“Yes, exactly! So you know the tale? Rachel thought Covington Burgess had made it all up, to keep them from getting a good price on the house.”
“Cov?” He shook his head. “Nah. That legend’s been around for decades. Not that it isn’t exactly the kind of thing he’d do. But I remember reading about the duke in an old book when I was a kid.”
“But the supposed fact that he was buried here, under this house, that’s just crazy. Why would a duke be buried here?”
“Well, he wasn’t a duke when he got here. Or rather, he didn’t know he was a duke.”
“What do you mean?” She shivered in the cold.
“Do you want to go inside?” He reached an arm out for her, and she tucked herself into his shoulder, smiling.
“No. I want to hear the story.”
They gazed out over the ocean.
“All right, then. The duke was apparently born a younger son. Not, in other words, destined to inherit the title. So, being an adventurous young man, he decided to come to the New World and try his hand at whaling. While he was gone, though, both his father and his older brother died, making him the duke. The sad thing is, he never knew it. He died on a whaling expedition, and his buddies brought him back here to bury him. Legend has it he walks the earth as the ghostly Duke of Dunkirk because he never got the chance to be duke while he was alive.”
“But surely once he died, the title fell to someone else. Making the whole ‘walking the earth as the duke’ thing kind of pointless.”
“That’s just it. When he died, the title died with him. He was the last of the line. So I guess his mission is to keep the Duke of Dunkirk as alive as he’s able to be.”
Gray snuggled into Sam’s side. It was amazing how comfortable she felt with him. His arm around her shoulders felt just right, and their bodies fit together in a lovely, cozy way. She had the brief thought they might fit in other ways, too. She shivered, but not with cold.
“Come on,” Sam said. “Let’s get you inside. You’re freezing. I’ll just check the place out and go.”
As they started to turn toward the house something caught Gray’s eye, and she froze, staring down at the beach.
“What?” he asked.
She peered into the darkness, unsure if she was losing her mind or not, but the beach was now empty. A second ago she could have sworn she’d seen the white dog loping along the sand.
“Nothing,” she said, scanning the beach for the man in the long coat. But whatever she’d seen was gone. Or had never been there. She laughed, looking up at Sam. “I think all this talk of ghosts has gone to my head!”
The house was chilly when they entered, clattering into the mudroom with sand in their shoes and the suddenly still feeling against their cheeks of stepping out of the wind.
“I thought I left the heat on,” Gray said. “And some lights. That’s so odd.”
“Maybe it’s a fuse.” Sam waited a beat while they moved into the kitchen from the side door. “Or the ghost.”
She laughed nervously. “You don’t really believe all that stuff, do you? About the dead duke and all?”
He looked around the kitchen as they stepped from the mudroom. It looked just the way he’d always pictured it. Painted cabinets, high ceiling, old but solid-looking appliances, hardy wood counters. “Hey, anything’s possible.”
She flipped a switch, and the kitchen lights came on.
He raised his brows. “That rules out the fuse.”
She sent him an eye roll. “Reality rules out the ghost. I’m just going to check the thermostat.”
She headed for the dining room, and Sam followed, nearly plowing into her when she stopped suddenly, sniffing the air. “Do you smell that?” She turned slowly in a circle, nose in the air.
“What is it, Lassie?”
She shot him a half-amused glance. “It’s the weirdest thing. Every now and again I could swear I smell smoke. Not like the house is on fire, but cigarette or pipe smoke. It’s happening again now. Don’t you smell that?”
He sniffed.
“See what I mean?” She watched him intently.
“Yeah.” He walked the perimeter of the room. “Actually, yeah. It’s faint but…”
“Do you think something’s burning?”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t smell like wood burning. It’s like you said, more like a pipe or something. You know…” he added, “the Duke of Dunkirk was rumored to be an avid pipe smoker…” He gave her an intense look of doom.
She went motionless, eyes wide. “Really?” Her voice was close to a whisper.
God, I am an ass. He smiled and shook his head. “I have no idea. I was just messing with you.”
She let out a breath, her shoulders sagging, but he could see amusement in her eyes.
“Thanks a lot. I wasn’t even thinking it was the ghost.” She moved to the thermostat. “Here’s the problem. It’s pushed down below fifty. No wonder it’s not on.”
She moved the plastic lever to the right, the furnace kicked on with a thump and a groan.
“Do you mind if I look around a little?” he asked. “I’ve been curious about this place my whole life, always wondered what it looked like inside.”
“Sure, go ahead.” She watched him walk from the room and admired his physique. She was glad he wasn’t in a hurry to go home. Even better, while he was looking around, she’d have the chance to clean herself up a little. She had the feeling her hair was wild, and her makeup definitely needed touching up.
Ten minutes later she found him in the music room. At least, she called it the music room. It was where the ancient stereo and crateful of record albums were. She’d found some old Duke Ellington and Ella Fitzgerald, one with Louis Armstrong, and had been playing them since she got here.
He knelt before the crate, flipping through the albums. When he heard her enter, he turned his head and grinned at her. “Hey, you do have all of Sinatra’s albums on vinyl. There’s some really good stuff in here.”
She knelt beside him. “I know. The old jazz is my favorite.”
“Oh, man, this is great.” He pulled an album from the back and flipped it over, reading.
“What?” She leaned close, brushing his shoulder with hers.
“Rubenstein, playing the Emperor Concerto.” He glanced at her. “Beethoven. Does this thing work?” He lifted the plastic cover over the turntable.
“Yes. I’ve been playing it every day since I got here. I was amazed the needle was still good. The thing looked like it hadn’t been touched in a decade.”
“Okay, go stand over there. Midway between the speakers. This is going to blow you away.”
She looked at him curiously, and he gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Don’t mean to order you around, but trust me, you’ll love this.”
“I didn’t feel ordered around.” She stood and moved to the center of the room. “I just didn’t realize you were a classical music buff.”
“All my life.” He handled the album gingerly, careful not to touch the surface. “My parents told me I was born humming Bach. Now, close your eyes.”
She smiled. “Okay.”
Moments later she heard the low thump of the needle making contact with the record and the pop and hiss of vinyl. The opening orchestral chord made her jump, then the hands of a master descended on the piano keyboard. From the opening arpeggio, she was enraptured. Sam had turned the music up so loud that the notes seemed to travel both up her spine and the keyboard in unison, swelling around her, buoying her upon a wave of sound.
It was marvelous. As the music built to crescendo after crescendo, piano and orchestra merging and dancing against one another, she felt a form of delirium take her. She’d never experienced music like this before, thunderous enough to drown out all her thoughts, yet so beautiful it filled her with joy. As if the strings had been plucked within her, vibrating her emotions.
Behind her, she felt Sam move close, the nearness of his body creating ripples of sensation within her even though he didn’t touch her.
She turned her body to face him and found him looking down at her, eyes gentle in warm light. She was overcome with the desire to touch him, to feel him touch her, to make a connection with this man who really had very little to do with who she was or what she wanted. Yet he felt so familiar, as if she’d known him for years.
Whatever part of herself she had shed earlier in the evening was the part that had determined this man was not her type, and all that was left was the impassioned woman here before him. A woman enraptured by the music, and the night, and his presence, and the very air around them that still trembled with the last notes of Beethoven.
In the silence, her fingers rose to his chest and traced the outline of his breast pocket. “Thank you for that. It was…incredible. I’ve never heard anything like it.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He said it quietly, as if he meant it, really meant it. As if for him it wasn’t just something to say.
“Thank you, too, for coming in with me tonight,” she said, adding, chagrined, “I was nervous.”
Slowly, he reached out, and his hands came to rest on her hips. “Are you nervous now?”
The low tone of his voice set her nerves atremble.
She looked up into his face, complex, changeable, expressive. She felt like she could look at that face forever and never be bored.
With a tightening of his fingers, he pulled her close, his body against hers, and bent his head down to catch her lips.
The fire was immediate and furious. The fire between them, that was. If she’d thought she’d smelled smoke before, this was an all-out conflagration.
His hands moved up to cup her face, his mouth probing, his hips pressing hers. Against his hard body, hers went soft, melting into him, going hot and liquid to her core.
Could she possibly be this reckless? What on earth could stop her? She had never in her life slept with someone on a first date—and this hadn’t even been a date. But she was consumed by a desire so fierce she didn’t recognize herself. Her hands roved up his back, then down to his hips, clutching the taut muscles of his buttocks and pulling his hardness against her.
His hands dropped to her breasts, pushed up under her sweatshirt, then under her shirt. She felt his hot palms on her flesh and moaned with relief. She had to have him, she could not—would not—stop herself.
At first she thought he had moaned in return, and registered it as vaguely odd that she’d seemed to feel it in the floor. But when an inhuman wail vibrated up the walls, she froze.
Sam did, too.
They both looked over at the turntable. It had turned itself off.
“What the hell was that?” Sam’s voice was almost as low a rumble as the furnace.
“I…I have no idea.”
You ain’t heard it yet, I gather.
Fainter now, but still audible was a weary woo-ooo-ooo, a sound for all the world like something a cartoon ghost would make at a Halloween party.
“Do you think this is this what Covington Burgess was talking about?” She gripped his arms with rigid hands.
Sam pulled back and raised one brow. “Let’s not go invoking ghosts just yet. Seems to me it has to be the heating system. Have you used the furnace before?”
“Yes, I’ve had it on most nights since I got here. So, five nights, not including tonight.”
He looked at her in bemusement. “Gray, it’s June.”
“Sam, it’s cold. Don’t forget, I come from Virginia. Where summer means warm weather. Besides, I’ve never heard anything like that before.”
The sound had stopped, but inside Gray’s head it echoed like a threat.
Sam’s eyes scanned the room. “I’ll go check it out. Is there a basement? And a flashlight?”
“Yes to the basement. I’ll look for a flashlight.”
She rummaged through some drawers in the kitchen until she came up with an old but solid Maglite. She watched him make his way down the wooden steps to the basement. It was really more of a cellar, with a packed-dirt floor and rough stone walls that looked as if the long-ago builders had chipped the foundation out of the earth with miners’ picks.
“I’ll wait here,” she said, as Sam opened the door to the basement.
He glanced back at her, amused. “Good idea.”
As Sam disappeared into the dim light of the single-bulbed cellar, Gray sat on the top step. The sound had stopped, but the chill in the house remained. Didn’t they say you felt a chill when a ghost was around?
She laughed at herself. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Besides, it seemed pretty obvious this was a furnace problem. But what about the smoke smell, she wondered, then shook her head against the thought. This was what came of getting way overheated only to be left to cool off on her own.
Which brought her to the bigger issue of Sam. Ten minutes ago she’d been ready to jump into bed with him. Had he felt the same? Certainly he had seemed to.
A puff of air brushed by her cheek, and she smelled smoke again. She sat up straight, put a palm to her face, and sniffed the air, her heart racing. A second later the hairs on the back of her neck rose, as if someone stood just behind her. She twisted, pushing her back against the doorjamb.
The kitchen behind her was empty. Silent.
In fact, the basement was silent, too.
“Hey, how’s it going down there?” she called, peering down the stairs. She was starting to creep herself out. “Sam?”
The ensuing silence sent her pulse racing. She stood, one hand gripping the handrail, and stared at the six square feet of basement visible from the top of the stairs as if she could conjure him.
She heard a rustling, briefly imagined Sam wrestling with an ethereal nobleman, and took one step down the staircase.
“Sam?” Her voice was reedy. She cleared her throat. “Sam!”
A moment later he appeared at the bottom of the steps. His hair was tousled, his shirt collar askew, and what looked like a large spiderweb clung to one sleeve.
“It’s definitely your furnace.” He wiped at the web with one hand, making a face as it clung to his fingers. “The filter looks like it’s been there since the turn of the century, but there’s a valve on it I’ve seen go bad before. That’s what made the woo-woo whistling sound. I can come back tomorrow with my tools and fix it up.”
“Oh good.” She took a deep, relieved breath. Just seeing him put her at ease. She looked at his hands, imagined them taking their time…exploring…She shook herself, dragged her eyes to his face. “It’s strange that it was so loud, though. Do you think that’s why people have said this place is haunted?”
“Maybe. The noise travels up through the ducts, so that probably amplifies it, makes it echo. And then there’s your smoke problem.”
She noticed he held something. “What’s that?”
He grinned and lifted the narrow box in one hand. “The ghostly pipe. An old carton of cigarettes hidden behind the furnace. Somebody here must have been a closet smoker.”
Gray tilted her head. “I don’t think Robert smokes, Rachel would hate that.”
He shook his head. “These are old. The box and a couple of the packs inside are a little singed from the heat, but you can still see that this is not modern packaging. Take a look. They’re probably ten years old.”
“Is the furnace that old?”
He made a sound between a scoff and a laugh. “That furnace is ancient. I’m surprised they haven’t had to replace it. I can patch it up, but it’s a miracle it’s still working.”
He started up the stairs, holding out a deep purple box with the words Pall Mall on it, along with some sort of crest.
“Ooh.” She took the box in both hands. “My grandfather used to smoke these. I was devastated when he died.”
“Lung cancer?”
She gave a dire laugh. “Yeah. Go figure.”
“I guess we’ve solved the mystery, then. Laid the ghost to rest, as they say. You going to be around tomorrow?”
She startled. “Uh. Around? Sure. Maybe not awake, considering it’s going on 2:00 A. M. now.” She laughed, dragging her mind back to the problem at hand. Her brow furrowed. “You know how to do that? Fix furnaces and stuff?”
“Sure, I do it all the time.”
Ah, she thought. He must be some kind of plumber. “Well, great.”
She stepped back from the doorway as he reentered the kitchen, unsure what to do. Gray placed the cigarettes on the counter, and the flashlight, then they stood there for an awkward moment.
Gray thought he might move in to kiss her again—pick up where they left off when the “ghost” moaned—but instead he pushed his hands into his pockets and looked toward the door.
“Well, I guess it’s getting late. I should let you get to sleep.”
“Oh.” She didn’t mean to sound surprised, so she covered it quickly. “Yes, definitely. I’m exhausted. It…was nice to meet you.”
She cringed inwardly. If that wasn’t the most clumsy thing she could have said, she didn’t know what was.
He looked at her, brows raised. “Yeah. You, too. Bike’s in the garage?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes. Are you sure you’ll be all right riding back? It’s so late…”
“Oh sure. You should turn that furnace off for the night, probably, just to keep it quiet. Wouldn’t want you getting spooked in the middle of the night.” A grin shot across his face.
She laughed. “Too late. It is the middle of the night.”
“True.” For a second he looked as if he might kiss her again, but he just took a deep breath, and said, “All right, then—”
Steeling herself, she blurted, “You could stay, you know. On the couch I mean. Because it’s so late. If you wanted.”
He pressed his lips together and dropped his gaze. “I appreciate it, but I should probably just take the bike.”
Disappointment sank in her gut as she followed him. “Okay.”
“Hey, what’s your phone number?” he asked. “I’ll call you tomorrow about fixing that thing.”
She nearly stumbled over her feet to write down her number, wondering if she should offer to pay him. She’d cross that bridge tomorrow, she thought, glad that she would see him again despite this awkward ending to the evening.
Once at the back door, he turned and gave her a crooked smile. “It really was nice to meet you, Gray.”
“Yes, it was. Nice to meet you, ah, too. As I said.” She grimaced when he turned to open the door.
What an idiot. How could she be so shy with him now when not half an hour ago she had her hands on his ass while his were under her shirt?
He had just walked down the steps and taken the bicycle from where it leaned against the wall when she felt the prickle of someone watching her again. She glanced behind her into the kitchen, but of course it was empty.
“Hey, Sam?” she called, just before he got on the bike.
“Yeah?” He paused, looking at her with brows raised expectantly.
“What year was it that the duke supposedly died here?”
He furrowed his brow and thought a minute. “Around 1813, I think. Why?”
She swallowed hard. “And when was that Beethoven piece written? The one you played tonight?”
A slow smile started across his face. “Written around 1810, but I don’t think it was performed until close to 1812.”
She nodded, stomach quaking with nerves.
“You’re not thinking we woke the ghost with his favorite piece, are you?” Sam asked with a grin.
She forced a smile in return. “No, no. I was just…curious. Good night, Sam.”
He waved a hand and, with one foot on a pedal, swung his other leg over the seat and took off into the moonlight.
Little had she known this morning when she was cycling madly home naked that the very same bike would be carrying a handsome stranger back to town early the next day.
Once he was out of sight, she moved back into the music room and plopped into the leather chair, frowning. She was tempted to play the Beethoven again because she wanted to remember the feel of Sam’s hands and mouth and body on hers. Had he changed his mind? She’d opened the door to his staying, offering him the couch, which everyone knew could mean anything. But instead he’d chosen to leave.
He’d chosen a cold bike ride at two in the morning rather than staying in her house. With her. Alone.
She sighed. He might have gotten rid of her ghost but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be haunted tonight.
The following day was stunning. Warm and sunny, with a cooling breeze flowing through Sam’s open windows. Summer was finally here.
Duke heard him stir and sat up straight next to Sam’s bed, panting in his face. With his brown gaze trained on Sam, Duke conveyed to him that someone’s needs were not being met, and if Sam were smart, he would attend to them fast. Specifically, Duke wanted outside.
“I know, buddy,” Sam said, stretching. The last thing he wanted to do was get out of bed. Instead, he lay listening to Duke’s breathing and remembering the feel of Gray Gilliam’s body against his.
Had he been foolish or fortunate? It was hard to say.
He glanced at the clock, nearly nine o’clock. He’d better get a move on. Recalling Duke’s early escape yesterday reminded him that he’d left the dress—Gray’s dress—in the washer overnight. He pushed out of bed and padded down the stairs in bare feet. Retrieving it from the washer, he shook it out, then took it out back to hang it on the clothesline. If there was one thing he’d learned from the last woman he’d dated, it was that girl clothes often did not take kindly to the dryer. In addition to having his dog steal Gray’s dress, he was not willing to compound the problem by ruining it.
Not that it would matter if he never got up the nerve to give it back to her. He’d had plenty of opportunities last night to mention that he had it, but it never seemed like the right time to embarrass them both.
Duke trotted around the small yard, content this morning to do his business locally. Sam scrounged up a couple of clothespins and hung the yellow sundress on the line, where it waved like a conquering flag in the freshening breeze. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman’s dress in his house, and he couldn’t help thinking how nice it would be to have the woman who owned this one there, too.
Then again, she could turn out to be a nut. Last night had been a lot of fun, but it was only one evening. He’d misjudged people with more time than that to observe them. Carolyn, to name one. The woman who’d taught him, by throwing an antique vase at him, that women’s clothing should not go in the dryer.
That was one thing that had occurred to him last night as he’d been looking at Gray’s furnace. She was beautiful, and intelligent, and certainly seemed nice, but he didn’t know her at all. If they had slept together, and she’d turned out to be different than she seemed, it would have made for a very long summer.
If he was honest, though, the real reason he had decided not to spend the night was that he was afraid she was everything she seemed to be. That was, the kind of girl he could really fall for, and the last thing he needed was to fall for someone who was leaving in a month or two.
That said, it had been hard to leave her. With her wide blue eyes and kitten-soft hair, not to mention her killer body, he’d damn near had to tear himself away.
From inside the house, Duke barked, and Sam jogged up the back steps to find the dog at the front window, tail sailing back and forth like the white flag of surrender. Inexplicably, his nerves jumped, as if he knew Gray was at the door. He felt the conflict of wanting desperately to see her and yet not wanting to ruin the memory of the night before by seeing her again. What if she wasn’t what she’d seemed?
He was being stupid, he thought, and opened the door. But the porch was empty. He took one step out and saw someone move around the corner of the house, clearly heading toward the back. He caught a fleeting glimpse of blond hair, and excitement rippled through his chest.
It was Gray. Had she gotten a ride in somehow? Was she looking for her bicycle? Or him?
On the heels of that thought, he realized that she was heading for his backyard. The very place her dress hung drying in the summer air.
Laying his head back, he closed his eyes and cursed.
Duke barked and ran for the back door. Sam followed, squinting his eyes as if that might change the view. Out the window he saw Gray, in a short white tee shirt and clamdiggers, standing by the clothesline fingering her dress.
With a deep, bracing breath, he opened the back door. Duke bounded out, tail high and wagging wildly.
Gray turned toward him, and on her face he read shock, then surprise as she spun toward the approaching dog.
“He’s friendly,” Sam called, sensing doom. This was the part where she suspected him of doing something awful. Where he had to explain the unexplainable—really, the dress just showed up on my lawn—with an excuse as flimsy as “the dog ate my homework.”
Duke bounded toward her, but rather than looking afraid, Gray knelt and extended her hand, palm up, for Duke to inspect.
“Is this where you live, you naughty thing?” she said, laughing. She turned a bemused expression on Sam. “This is your dog?”
He shrugged ruefully. “If I say yes, are you going to be mad at me?”
“That depends,” she said, rising. Duke sat on her feet and leaned up against her thigh, snowy head bent back to look up at her adoringly.
Traitor, Sam thought. He should be over there ripping the dress off the line, to show her how he’d done it.
“Why do you think I’d be mad?” She eyed him suspiciously.
Too late, he realized that by admitting he knew this was her dress, he was divulging that a) he’d seen her naked on the bicycle and b) he hadn’t told her. His mind worked furiously, as his face warmed with shame, but all he could come up with was the fact that he was pretty much screwed any way this played out, so it was probably best to stick to the truth.
“Are you blushing?” she asked, eyes wide. Then she closed them, putting one hand to her brow. “Oh my God. You saw me, didn’t you? You saw me riding home yesterday morning. Is that why you came and talked to me at the bar last night?”
“I—well—it’s—the thing is…” There was no way out of this. Yes, he’d seen her, but that wasn’t his fault, was it? And yes, it was why he’d talked to her at the bar, but he’d have talked to her anyway. She was gorgeous. And yes, his dog was the reason she’d had to ride home naked to begin with, but it wasn’t as if he’d trained Duke to do that kind of thing. He’d been as shocked as anyone when he found the thing in his yard.
With both hands, she covered her face and bent over at the waist. For a horrified second he stood frozen, watching her shoulders shake.
Good God, he thought, she’s crying. She’s going into hysterics.
Beside her, Duke stood up, still wagging his tail and hopping lightly off his front two feet to lick her arm.
“Gray, I’m sorry.” He strode toward her, hands outstretched. “I don’t know how it happened. Heck, I can’t even imagine how he got the thing off you to begin with. But I swear, I had nothing to do with it. I—”
She straightened and he saw that her face was wet with tears. But instead of the desperate look of unhappiness he’d anticipated, he saw that she was laughing. She’d been bent over at the waist, convulsed with laughter.
His heart lightened immediately. “What?”
“I can’t believe it.” She giggled through a hand now at her mouth. “Of all the people…” She laughed again, then tried to sober, wiping her eyes and stifling her mirth. “That is why you talked to me last night, isn’t it?”
“Gray, I would have talked to you anyway. My God, you stood out at that bar like an angel in a tar pit. But believe me—”
“Did you even think about telling me you had my dress?”
“Of course!” He threw out his arms. “But tell me, how do you do that? How do you say to someone you just met that, by the way, you have her clothes at your house.”
She arched a brow. “It beats having her find her clothes at your house.”
He inclined his head. “I’ll give you that. I’m sure it looks…odd.”
“I’ll say. Just tell me this. Were you down there? On the beach? Did you watch me…?”
“What? Oh, no. God, no. Believe me, if I’d seen Duke take your clothes, I’d have gotten them back to you right away. I found the dress right over there”—he gestured toward the spot—“late yesterday morning, after he got back to the house covered with sand. But…how did he even get the dress? What were you doing without your clothes?”
It was her turn to blush. “Acting totally out of character. For which I was punished severely.” At his confused look, she added, “I was skinny-dipping.”
The visual this statement brought with it made his lips curl into a smile. “Okay, now I have to confess that had I seen that, I would definitely have returned the dress. But I can’t say how quickly.”
Incredibly, she laughed. Then, with one hand scratching Duke’s ear, she reached out and touched her dress again. “Did you actually wash it?”
“Yeah, it, uh, looked a little the worse for wear when Duke brought it home.”
“You named your dog Duke? What is it with this town and the Duke of Dunkirk?”
“I didn’t name him after that duke. I didn’t name him after any duke. It just, well, I don’t know. Maybe I did. Come to think of it, the name just came to me, and it seemed to fit.”
“It does fit.” She leaned down and looked Duke in the eye as she buried her hands in his fur. “So you’re the guy in the long coat I’ve seen walking with him on the beach.”
Sam frowned. “Uh, no. Probably not. I don’t own a long coat, for one thing. And lately I’ve been too swamped with work to walk him much.”
“Does he go with you to your jobs?”
“My, uh, jobs?” He frowned, shook his head. “No, I work at home.”
She cocked her head. “I thought you were a plumber. Because you were going to come fix my furnace. You have—tools. You know what to do with pipes and stuff.”
He chuckled. “No, sorry. I’m nothing so useful. I’m a music reviewer. Classical, for magazines, mostly. CDs, concerts, DVD performances.”
Her expression cleared. “That’s how you knew that Beethoven piece.”
“Everybody knows that Beethoven piece.” When she flushed, he added, “Everybody who’s into classical music, that is. Hey, listen, I was going to call you. How ’bout I come work on that furnace this afternoon, if that’s all right with you.”
She beamed. “That’d be great!”
“I can bring your bike, too, when I come. I’ll just throw it in the back of the truck.” He indicated the pickup next to the garage. “How did you get here this morning?”
“I walked.”
His brows rose. “That’s quite a hike.”
“Oh, I love to walk. And it’s a gorgeous day.”
He gazed at her, knowing that a besotted look had settled onto his features. “Gorgeous,” he agreed.
She smiled. “I was thinking, when you’re done with the furnace, I could treat you to dinner. As a thank-you. I’m a pretty good cook.”
A gratified warmth spread throughout him. It was easy to say he didn’t want to get involved with someone who was leaving, but when faced with this amazing girl, it was getting too hard to say no.
“That sounds perfect.”
She nodded once, smiling, and turned to go. A second later she turned back. “Oh, and Sam? Could you also bring my dress when you come?”
He laughed. “No problem. I’ll send Duke over with it the minute it’s dry.”
Several hours later, Sam emerged from Gray’s basement, a bag in his hand and the heater humming, if not quietly at least effectively, behind him.
Gray turned from the stove where she was sautéing onions and couldn’t help grinning at the handsome, disheveled man before her.
“Have you exorcised my ghost?” she asked.
“That should be the last you hear of him.” He held aloft a bag full of clanking parts. “No more ghostly wailing. No more cigarette smoke. Do you think you’ll be lonely?”
“Hardly. Relieved is more like it. So how do you know how to do all that stuff?” She wiped her hands on the towel over her shoulder.
“Hey, you live in old houses long enough, you learn how old stuff works.” He leaned a hip against the counter. “That smells great. What is it?”
“We’re having shrimp scampi. I hope you like garlic.”
He grinned. “Only if you’re eating it, too.”
Gray blushed with pleasure. “It’s only fair.”
They stood there a moment, both wearing dopey smiles and goggling at each other, before Sam said, “So, you mind if I take a shower?”
“Oh no, not at all. The bathroom’s at the top of the stairs.”
“Great.” He dropped the bag on the counter and headed for the stairs, leaving Gray to cook and think about the naked man being caressed by warm soapy water not fifteen feet above her.
It was only about ten minutes later when Sam called down to her.
She moved to the bottom of the steps and saw his wet head poking out of the steamy bathroom. “Need someone to wash your back?” she teased.
That fabulous smile overtook his face again. “Actually, I was looking for a towel, but if you’re offering…?”
She started up the stairs. Ah, the temptation. The linen closet was right next to the bathroom, and he watched as she retrieved a clean towel and handed it to him.
He took it with one hand, his fingers covering hers on the terry cloth, and pulled her closer, the door shielding all but his head and one shoulder. He kissed her, damply but chastely, and smiled. “Thank you.”
Her gaze caught and held his. “You’re welcome.”
They stared at each other a long moment, then both leaned simultaneously in for another kiss.
Feeling gutsy, as was so easy with this guy, Gray pushed the door wider with one hand and stepped into his embrace. Sam deepened the kiss, pulling her close to his wet body, the length of it hard against Gray’s. She felt his arousal stiffen against her and pushed her hips into his. Her hands held his head, fingers woven through the wet tendrils of his hair.
Heat fired between them, and it wasn’t just because of the hot shower. Sam’s hands rode down her back, then around her waist and beneath her shirt.
Gray let her fingers run down his ribs and around his hips to the hard evidence of his desire. “Let’s go into the bedroom.”
Sam pulled back. Gray had just enough time to worry that he might refuse, when he smiled, and said, “Lead the way.”
They fell onto the bed in a flurry of passion. He pushed at her shirt until she sat up and pulled it swiftly over her head. Sam went for the button on her pants, and a second later she was naked.
“Incredible,” he exhaled.
Gray thought the same thing as she pushed him back onto the bed and lay her body over his, flesh against flesh, the delicious sensation of one body meeting another for the first time. He had the physique of an athlete. Her hands covered his pectorals while his reached up and touched her hair where it cascaded toward her breasts.
“You are…” he breathed, but he didn’t complete the sentence as Gray cupped his hardness and stroked.
He inhaled sharply. “My God.”
She smiled, and his hands moved over her breasts, across her ribs and stomach. One hand tucked itself between her and where she rested atop his hips, his finger immediately finding her center.
She bit her bottom lip. Oh, she needed him. Now. She felt none of her usual inhibition, required none of the usual coaxing to bring the act to fruition. All she felt was hot, naked hunger.
She propped herself up on her knees and his fingers dove inside. She gasped, then sighed, her hands caressing the evidence of his desire.
“I…let’s…” She couldn’t form the words, but her hand directed him toward her heat.
“Jeez,” he exhaled. Then added, “Have you got…?”
She reached over toward the bedside table and opened the drawer. She had just put the condoms in that morning, hoping for this occasion but doubting it would actually happen.
He rolled slightly and took the tiny envelope from her. As he moved, she had the opportunity to note just how well muscled he was, despite being lean. He fumbled with the wrapper, then tore it open with his teeth.
Gray laughed, and a second later his hand was back on her and her head began to spin.
He donned the condom in one swift move, then pulled her decisively over him. She wavered just a second. But when she saw him tilt his head at her hesitation, felt him stroke her thigh like a filly that needed calming, she gave a small smile and rose up to cover him.
She came down slowly, causing them both to moan with pleasure. But before she could turn up the pace, he’d caught her around the waist and flipped them so that she was on the bottom.
“I want to look at you.” His eyes were intense upon her face. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
With that he took her, long and hard, answering her need with his own, her impassioned cries, her clutching hands and gripping legs, with his hunger and need and power. Just as Gray was arching into him, splitting into a thousand spectacular pieces of satisfied desire, he thrust one final time, his arms trembling where they held him above her, and made a sound of release.
Then he lay alongside her, his body warm and enveloping, holding her close.
They’d been silent a while when Gray asked, in a small voice, “Why didn’t you stay last night?”
She felt the breath leave his chest in a sigh. “I thought…I was worried…the truth is, Gray, I was afraid you were just the type of girl I could fall for. And you’re only here for the summer. I wasn’t sure about getting involved.”
She propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him quizzically. “And now, what? You’ve decided I’m not the kind of girl you could fall for?”
He laughed, and his gaze skittered away. “No.” He exhaled again and met her eyes. “Now I realize that I’ve already fallen. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”
She laid her head on his shoulder. “You don’t have to sound so dire about it.”
He laughed, and she could hear it in his chest.
“To tell you the truth,” she said hesitantly, “I’m not altogether sure what my plans for the future are. When I left home, I thought if things worked out here, I’d stay. I have the summer off to decide, but…” She shrugged. “If a teaching opportunity came along, I’d be interested.”
Sam raised his head and looked down at her. “Really?”
She raised her eyes. “Yeah.”
He grinned. “If that’s the case, you should talk to Covington.”
“Covington! What on earth for?” She propped herself up on one elbow again.
“He’s head of the school board. He’ll know about jobs, and he might even recommend you. He was nicer to you the other night than I’ve ever seen him.”
“That was nice?” She frowned. “He’s a strange little man.”
Sam laughed. “You don’t know the half of it.”
They got out of bed and headed back toward the kitchen, Gray feeling lighter and more confident about the future than she’d felt in a long, long time. “I hope you’re hungry,” she said.
Sam grabbed her around the waist as she turned the heat back on under the pan on the stove. “Always.”
She laughed and turned to kiss him.
“Gray Gilliam, I am very happy to have found you.”
“And I you,” she agreed. “Not just because you fixed my furnace and rid my house of a ghost, either.”
They smiled at each other and kissed once more before a scratching at the back door made them both jump.
“Who could that be?” Gray wondered.
Sam moved to the mudroom and opened the back door. In trotted Duke, tail aloft and a wide grin on his canine face.
“The Duke who came to dinner!” Gray laughed.
Sam reached down to pet the dog, then straightened, expression suddenly alert. His eyes scanned the walls and the ceiling.
“What is it?” she asked. Then, with a sniff, she froze.
Sam turned in a circle, nose in the air, and faced her.
At the same time, with identical incredulous smiles, they said, “Do you smell pipe smoke?”
ELAINE FOX grew up in Maryland in a family of avid readers and talented writers. After receiving her B.A. in English, she spent several years working in academic and corporate environments before deciding to pursue her dream of writing a book. Fox is now the USA Today bestselling author of fifteen contemporary and historical romances and four anthologies. She lives in Virginia, where she is currently at work on her next book.
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