Duck Duck Ghost (4 page)

His very lonely, odd summers during a time when he couldn’t make heads or tails out of the people only he could see and hear, and his family certainly wanted to have nothing to do with his infernal nonsense.

To be fair, Tristan’s adult summers and winters were pretty much repeats of his childhood ones, and there’d been no change in sight until a little over a month ago when hell came knocking at his door. Or rather—Hellsingers.

Doctor Wolf Kincaid of Hellsinger Investigations had turned everything upside down, then handed Tristan back his loneliness, its dusty corpse sucked dry like a dead fly on a windowsill in the summer. Wolf’d shoved his way into Tristan’s life, screwed up his perfectly safe, bland existence, and then left him—alone and hurting all over again.

God, he
missed
Wolf. He missed everything about the man—from arguing with him about what a ghost really was to sharing a cheese omelet in bed after a long morning of sex. Sure, Tristan missed the sex—Wolf was his first and only partner—but most of all, he missed the connection, because he’d never
had
one before, and from all accounts, what he and Wolf experienced was almost magical. Or so he’d thought—until Wolf Kincaid walked out of the Grange’s front door, his anger leaving a hot trail behind him.

“Fuck him,” Tristan muttered, and Mara lifted her eyebrows. “Kincaid. Not Boris. And hell, him—not Ophelia Sunday.”

“I didn’t think you were talking about the hound, even if throwing you over for a pretty girl is that dog’s modus operandi.”

“That’s a new one.” He contemplated the phrase. “What? You’re reading Mickey Spillane? Wait, he’s dead. Have you been
talking
to him?”

“Silly thing. Detective shows. Investigative shit. You learn a lot on those. They don’t tell you all of it, but enough. I can probably hide a body better now, but it’d be useful if they’d share the chemical cocktail some of those crazies use to boil down the flesh. That would be mighty useful. I was thinking lye, but really, there’s got to be better.”

“Good,” he grunted. “Maybe between the two of us we can hide Kincaid’s body when I kill him.”

“That’s how you know you love a man.” Mara reached out to pat Tristan’s shoulder. The touch was a brief, feathery contact, but it made him feel a little bit better just the same. “You want to murder him as often as you want to fuck him. Maybe more. And from the sounds you two made in that bedroom of yours, I’m guessing you want to kill him a hell of a lot.”

“Mara!” He gaped at her. “
Jesus! You watched us?
”

“Well, I’m dead, not…
dead
! Your doctor’s got a nice ass, and God’s sake, he’s hung like a bull.” Mara snorted. “But if you’re going to be like that….”

She was gone when Tristan turned to look at her. Staring at the empty spot where the housekeeper’d been standing, he grumbled under his breath. “Would it kill you to stick around until
after
I came up with a snappy rejoinder?”

A damp red ball rolled across the terrace toward him. He couldn’t see where it’d come from, but that never really mattered. Leaning down, Tristan picked it up and flung it out into the garden, then waited, anticipating its return to his foot.

The ball never came back.

Sighing with disgust, he brought his cup back up to his lips, hoping the coffee would warm up the cold lump forming in his chest. Swallowing, Tristan saluted the missing ball’s owner and said, “Thanks, Jack. You might as well leave me too. Just like he did.”

H
OXNE
G
RANGE
looked the same as it did the first time Wolf drove up to it. This time, however, his anticipation of its inhabitants had less to do with the spectral and everything to do with one pretty blond man whose hazel eyes turned a jade color when angry. And the last time Wolf’d seen Tristan Pryce, his gaze was Mayan jaguar green—and just as hard.

There were no guarantees it would be any different now, but Wolf knew he had to make an attempt to smooth over what he’d done. Because damn if he didn’t miss Tristan.

The Muir Woods mansion seemed like it’d been built specifically to star in an episode of
Groovie Goolies
. Its
Gilded Age
extravagance and long wings boasted a luxury many people only dreamed of, but there was an air of still oddness about the estate. Even with a score of gardeners and a small cluster of household crew, the place seemed empty, because the staff seemed more shadow than people. The only spot of vibrant life in the place was Tristan.

And Wolf’s angry parting words had been harsh enough to bleed that out as well.

“Shit, I should have brought flowers or something.” It was too late to turn back. At least Wolf thought so. His mea culpa would have to be done sans bribe, and it probably was better that way. “Because he’s a creepy fuck. I wouldn’t know where to get black roses.”

Down in the city, the morning fog was already gone, but up in the hills beyond where the Grange sat nestled among tall trees and brutally manicured lawns, a misty cloak clung to the mansion. Drifts of gray dew caught on the estate’s elaborate cornices, creating paisley swirls in the deepening fog. The SUV’s lights came on automatically nearly half an hour before, and the light blue beams caught on the piscine fountain situated in the circular driveway’s greenscape. The flowers around the pool’s base were now a raspberry hue, with a few dots of white at the petals’ edges, a shimmering ring of color bright enough to serve as a beacon in the monochromatic scene.

The Grange was a wash of grays and shadows. Even the enormous wooden doors seemed to be muted down to a warm dusky tone, as if the only color allowed to the mansion’s exterior was the wild beet ring around the fountain’s marble base.

Parking his SUV in front of the mansion’s front steps, Wolf counted to three before he got out. He had a short debate with himself about whether or not he should bring in his duffel bag filled with spare clothes and toiletries.

“Just do it. He’s too polite to kick your ass out. Go with that.” Wolf snagged the bag from the backseat and slung it over his shoulder, staring up at the Grange’s grand front entrance. Squaring his shoulders, he took the steps two at a time. “Okay, Wolf, time to own your fuck-ups. Let’s just hope Tris is in a forgiving mood.”

The enormous green vase was gone from the foyer’s massive table. Broken in the exorcism, it’d been replaced by a low scoop bowl nearly two feet across. Filled with roses and other flowers probably cut from the Grange’s garden, the arrangement gave off a sweet, pleasant scent that mingled well with the lemony wood polish the house staff used on the mansion’s walls and floors.

One thing the cerulean bowl also did, it gave Wolf a clear view of the Grange’s mahogany reception desk Tristan’s uncle had brought in from a hotel demolition. It was a gorgeous piece, heavily worked and massive enough not to be swallowed up in the mansion’s main hall.

It’d been one of the places Wolf could find Tristan when he wasn’t working on a book. Today was different, and Wolf stopped short, blinking at the woman behind the counter. Instead of the hot, innocently seductive blond man he’d been expecting, there was someone else instead, a young, slender woman with long black hair pulled back into a ponytail and blue eyes as bright as his own. She had the damned nerve to wiggle her fingers at him, as if he found his baby sister standing in his lover’s place every day.

Clearing his throat, Wolf cocked his head at his sister, then asked peevishly, “What the fuck are
you
doing here?”

O
UTSIDE
PROVED
to be too cold for Tristan. Especially after he ran out of coffee, and a steeped melancholy seemed to burrow down into him. Taking his cup inside, he debated getting another refill, then thought about Ophelia Sunday and wondered how long she’d been in the foyer. He’d lost track of time staring at the garden, and other than potential frostbite, Tristan hadn’t come out of the experience any wiser.

Even as excited as she’d been about seeing a specter, ghosts were hard to come by in the Grange, and she probably was bored out of her mind.

“Probably should tell her we don’t get anyone in the afternoon, usually. Maybe she wants something to eat. I should at least feed her.” As he padded down the hall to the front of the house, Tristan’s heart jumped in alarm at the familiar sound of a man’s voice.

He stopped, wondering if he was going insane—finally—but no, it was definitely the arrogant rumble of the asshat who’d left him nursing a bruised heart after accusing him of drugging a batch of pastry.

“Oh no, not him. Not today. I can’t—” Tristan’s stomach gurgled, but he couldn’t ignore the gleeful dance going on in some parts of his brain—and his dick and ass seemed to be quite happy at the thought of Wolf Kincaid being in the immediate area. It was annoying, this not-virginal thing, because now that Tristan knew what he was missing, his body could give him all kinds of ideas about what he and Wolf could be doing instead of fighting.

“It’s not like I even
wanted
to be gay. I could have done without the sex. Okay, no. Not really. Not after Wolf,” Tristan grumbled. “Shit, why did I have to want to be gay with him? Fucking hell. It’s a choice, my ass.”

Hurrying down the passage, Tristan handed his cup to one of the house staff workers heading toward the kitchen, asking her to put it in the sink. The woman looked startled for a second, as if Tristan was more ghost than real, but she nodded quickly and took the mug. His sneakers squeaked on the floor, and Tristan slowed his pace, not wanting to give Wolf the satisfaction of knowing he’d spurred Tristan to a near run.

“Walk. Act like—” Tristan realized he didn’t know how to act. He’d ignored Wolf’s texts, not wanting to give up the righteous anger he’d built up. It’d been one of the few times he’d known he was in the right, and damn it, Wolf owed him more than pixilated sweet nothings and purrings through a phone screen.

Better be careful what one wishes for, the saying went, and Tristan finally realized exactly how damning a wish could be. Confronted with the reality of Wolf Kincaid, he didn’t know what to say or how to act, and he could have really used Mara’s advice on the matter right at that moment.

Hitting the foyer at a good pace, Tristan’s breath froze in his chest at the sight of the wide-shouldered man leaning against the reception desk.

Wolf’s eyes were sharp, a blue deep enough to swim in, and his tousled black hair looked damp, probably from the moist air outside. His strong, handsome features hadn’t changed, although Tristan’d wished someone’d punched Wolf’s nose crooked in the week they’d not seen each other, but the only thing Wolf sported on his face was a light scruff of beard. His dark gray shirt fit in snug against his torso, its long sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing powerful forearms dusted with fine dark hair.

He looked good enough to eat. Hell, he looked good enough to fuck, and if anything, the lick of desire in Tristan’s cock made him madder than ever before. It wasn’t
right
to want the man who pissed him off as much as Wolf Kincaid could. There was a call to be a better man—a man Tristan could be proud of being. Instead, he opened his mouth, and something more visceral fell out.

Tilting his chin up, Tristan growled, “What the fuck are
you
doing here?”

“Funny. I just asked my sister that.” Wolf’s grin was a slow seduction of Tristan’s senses. The damned man had the nerve to look Tristan up and down, his smirk growing lascivious when he finally settled on Tristan’s face. “Damn, you look hot. How’re you doing, Thursday?”

“You do not get to call me that—”

Tristan didn’t get to respond with more because Ophelia Sunday cut in front of him, coming around the desk to shove her brother aside. Her foot hit a red ball lying near Wolf’s feet, and the toy skipped across the foyer floor, bouncing against a nearby wall.

“I need something to eat. Why don’t the two of you go fight somewhere else? You know, so I can have some peace and quiet. I have a lot of exploring to do. And tea. Lots of really cozy places I can tuck into, read a book, and sip tea, so you two go scream at each other some place I can’t hear you.” She studied Tristan with a curious look, then glanced back to her oldest brother. “
You
need to apologize better, Wolfgang. He was always horrible at it, Tris. Too much pride. Even when we were kids.”

“Pride’s not going to help him this time,” Tristan promised darkly. “Seriously, Kincaid, what are you doing here?”

“Kincaid, huh?” Wolf’s expression grew remorseful. “I thought we’d moved beyond that. And for your information, Ophelia Sunday, I
am
here to apologize. I just haven’t gotten to it yet.”

“Really?” Tristan blurted out. “What exactly are you apologizing for? Fucking up what’s between us, or agreeing with my family that I’m nuts?”

“Wait, what?” Wolf pulled back, shock darkening his face. “What are you talking about?”

“Your report? The one to my uncle?” Tristan snapped. “Yeah, thanks to you, they’ve filed to get control over the Grange. They’re trying to get me declared incompetent, Wolf, and it’s all your damned fault.”