The Ghost Hunter (8 page)

Cristian forced himself to wait thirty minutes for Ashley to return to her room. Thirty extremely long minutes. He’d sensed her consciousness even before he’d heard her tiptoe down the hall, then the floorboards above in the attic began to creak, indicating she’d gone upstairs. What the hell she was doing up there, he hadn’t a clue.

Finally, when he could wait no longer, he’d tossed his sheet aside, pulled on shorts and made his way into the hall. Murmured voices drifted from the attic door. He jerked his head that way and narrowed his eyes. Ghostly voices. Slowly, Cristian made his way toward that door, careful not to make a sound. What the hell was she doing? She might deny her abilities to the entire town, but apparently she made it a practice to interact with the ghosts when she was alone.

His bare foot hit the first step, then the next. Crouched low, he peered through the railings. The attic was large, running the length of the house. Ashley stood between piles of boxes. She was wearing a large blue dress and had powdered her hair white, looking like something that had sprouted from a fairy tale.

Had she finally gone daft?

“My ass looks huge. This is ridiculous,” she murmured the obvious.
 

To anyone else it would have looked like she was talking to herself, but Cristian knew better. A soft murmur whispered through the attic. The sound of wind through the windows that lined the eastern wall, or a response to Ashley’s statement? Definitely a ghostly response. He hadn’t a clue what the spirit had said, but he had no doubt Ashley had understood quite clearly.

The dress had to be something her Aunt Clare had worn to a costume party. As if having a huge ass wasn’t enough, her hips were miles wide, and her chest was threatening to spill from the incredibly low neckline. He loved that bloody dress.

“Aunt Clare,” Ashley whispered, shaking her head. “You naughty, naughty old bat.”

Cristian narrowed his eyes, focusing on that familiar soft shimmer beside Ashley, an energy field that interrupted the already odd scene. The shimmering faded, then reappeared a few feet away. A ghost. Cristian’s hands curled as he resisted the urge to surge forward and get rid of the spirit for good. It was too soon. If he reacted now, she’d never trust him.

“You want me to what?” Ashley demanded, staring hard at that shimmer. There was a long pause, then a soft murmur. “Oh hell, fine. All hail the Magistrate,” she called out, her voice laced with sarcasm.

Cristian stilled as he felt the distinct chill that announced more spirits arriving. A shimmering wave floated from the wall beside him.

“Shite,” he whispered, ducking low behind the stairwell.

Another shimmer followed, and another. They swept across the room, taking their cold air with them. Ashley curtsied low next to a Baroque style chair that was apparently posing as some sort of throne.

Frantically, Cristian tried to remember which ghosts resided in the pub. Clare had told him years ago, before the spirits had been a threat, but he’d barely paid attention. Why would he? They’d been nothing but a shimmer of awareness back then.

“Kind Sir,” Ashley started to rise.

Cristian rolled his eyes.

There was a soft murmur of conversation that Cristian couldn’t understand. He could sense ghosts, but not hear or actually see them. The good Lord had made sure of that. Nothing could be easy.
 

Ashley sighed, then dropped into a curtsy once more, staring at the dusty wooden planks. “Kind Sir,” she said loud and clear. “I am a humble poet and greatly admire your home. Please share tales of your life so that I may add them to my sonnets and honor you wide and far.”

“For the love of God,” Cristian muttered.
 

“Yes,” Ashley said. “that sounds amazing, but I’d really like to know about—”

More soft murmuring. Cristian sighed, frustrated with his lack of understanding. How many had there been? Three, or was it four adult spirits that resided here? A maid from the 1900s, two men from the 1800s…and another…the Constable, that was right. A man from the 1700s and completely delusional. One of those few spirits who had not known he was dead. Clare had talked about the ghost often; she’d had a special fondness for the spirit.

Ashley was silent, her gaze focused on the floor. She was still in that curtsey position and her legs had started trembling, her skirts rustling. They were mocking her, obviously. He knew it, but apparently she didn’t.
 

Ashley’s head snapped upright. “You lied!”
 

Ah, finally she’d figured it out.

She straightened, her wide skirt crinkling with the movement. “You’ve obviously been screwing with me and I don’t appreciate it. Don’t you have any freaking idea what’s going on here? How serious this is?”

She started pacing, her steps hurried, the floorboards underfoot creaking loudly. No longer was she attempting to be quiet; she’d forgotten he was supposed to be downstairs.

“If this happens, if this evil gets out, you’re all gone, done with. You’re already cowering in the attic, where will you go if this thing destroys your house?”

Cristian narrowed his eyes. She knew more than he’d realized. He wasn’t expecting her to admit, albeit to her ghosts, that she knew there was something lurking in the cellar.

“Rachel?” Ashley spun around, staring at the wall. “Rachel!”

Cristian was vaguely aware of the shimmers headed toward the wall. She’d spoken the truth and because of that, her ghosts had abandoned her. Spirits hated to deal with reality. Silence settled in the attic, heavy, suffocating. Ashley sank onto a trunk, her skirt puffing up around her. Cristian had seen and heard enough. He surged to his feet and started up the steps to the floor.

“Ashley, what the hell are ye doing?”

He knelt in front of her. She didn’t respond, didn’t look surprised to see him, merely looked at him with wide, hopeless eyes. His lips parted on a sigh and he shook his head exasperated with the entire situation.

“Honest to God, I don’t know what the bloody hell yer up to, but I suppose it doesn’t matter right now. Come on.” He grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet. Before she could protest, he wrapped an arm around her waist and under her knees, lifting her. Her dress crinkled as he cradled her to his chest. She was a trembling mess. What had the ghosts said to her? How he wished he could demand answers.
   

He carried her down the stairs and didn’t stop until they made it to his room. She didn’t protest when he settled her on his bed. Frankly, he wouldn’t have cared. He had the insane desire to comfort her in some way, yet hadn’t a clue how to help.

Instead, he moved into his bathroom. He didn’t have experience comforting humans. He’d never had to before. He had a job to do on this earth, and that job didn’t involve getting attached. He turned on the shower and glanced through the door. She hadn’t moved.

Damn he felt useless and he hated the feeling. He rested his hands on the pink tiles as the urge to comfort her overwhelmed him. He suddenly wanted to swear to protect her, fight a fucking dragon. He rubbed the back of his neck and when he could stand it no longer, he surged to his feet and moved back into the room. She sniffed, glancing up at him through her lashes. Her cheeks grew red with what he assumed was embarrassment.
 

“Come on.” He took her hand and pulled her into the bathroom so quickly she wouldn’t have time to argue. In the close quarters, with her warm scent catching the steam from the shower and peppering the air, he could barely think. Swallowing hard, he turned her so her back was to him. Shite, if his fingers didn’t tremble as they moved down the back of her dress.

“Where the bloody hell did ye get this gown and better yet, why the bloody hell are ye wearing it?”

She shook her head sending powder sprinkling down around them like snow.

“And yer hair…Christ.” He let the dress drop to the floor so she stood in her underwear and a tank top. Skimpy underwear that barely covered that rounded, lush backside. He forced his attention upward and unpinned her hair. The strands fell down her back, releasing a puff of white powder.

“In the shower,” he demanded.
 

She did as she was told, not once arguing and that worried him more than anything. With a flip of his fingers, he released the button of his shorts and let them pool to his feet. He was wearing black boxer briefs that hugged the bulge between his legs. Did she notice? He didn’t care. All that mattered was the slickness of her curves as water trailed over her body. The way her undergarments became transparent, showing pink skin.

Heat swirled low in the pit of his belly, tightening his insides. He stepped into the shower, the warm water kissing his skin. She merely stood, her back to him, as he squeezed out a dollop of shampoo and rubbed it into her hair. The scent of lilacs invaded the tiny stall.
 

“Do ye want to tell me what happened?” he asked, his voice gruff.

He turned her to face him. He didn’t look directly at her, merely focused on his task. No, he didn’t focus on the feel of her warm, soft skin. He lathered his hands with soap and cupped the sides of her face, slowly rubbing the cleanser over her forehead, then her nose and chin. He had the sudden urge to memorize every tiny detail. The way her nose turned up ever so slightly at the tip. The way her lashes were tinged with gold. Hell, she’d touched something deep within, a part of his soul he hadn’t realized he’d had.

His hands slid down the elegant column of her neck, then lower to her upper chest. She sucked in a sharp breath and he couldn’t help but notice the way her nipples tightened, hard beads that pressed against her thin, white tank top.

Those rosy nipples were visible, practically begging for his mouth. His fingers paused there, right above her racing heart, cupping those soft mounds. Still, he didn’t look at her but focused on the pulse beating in the side of her neck, a delicate flutter. He swallowed hard, his nostrils flaring slightly. This was insane. Completely unprofessional.

He dropped his hands. Water rinsed the suds away, making her body clean once more. His body didn’t give a shit about professionalism. With his eyes closed, he gave into his fantasy and imagined his mouth on her skin. His erection pressed painfully hard against his underwear.

Although he no longer touched her, he was fully aware of the closeness of their proximity, fully aware of the way his body trembled with the urge to touch her. The animal inside of him wanted to rip that tank top and panties from her body, to slide fully into her sleek sheath.

Cristian spun her around and pulled her back to his chest. His erection pressed tightly to her bottom. With a groan low in his throat, he nestled his face against her neck. An ache twisted low in his belly and his breath came out in harsh pants. God, he wanted her. Wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone. He reached around and cupped her breasts. With a moan, she rested her head back on his shoulder.

He barely moved, worried that if he did, the beast within would awaken and he would lose control. Blood pounded through his body, demanding he take her up against that tiled wall. He wanted to kiss her lips, see what she tasted like. To take those hard, rosy nipples between his teeth and suckle. He wanted to sink his body into hers, to forget everything.

She turned and directly met his gaze. He saw the desire there in her hazel eyes, desire no doubt mirrored in his own gaze. Boldly, she cupped the sides of his face. Before he could protest, she pressed her lips to his. Cristian groaned against her mouth, a tormented sound of need that he barely recognized. He wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her tight against him. Their tongues met, mating, rubbing in a frenzy that took his breath. It wasn’t enough. He needed her, all of her.

His hands tangled in her wet hair, tilting her head and deepening the kiss. She tasted sweet…like strawberries on a warm summer day. Like memories of home. So sweet. He could get addicted to that taste. She moved her hands to his chest, slipping her fingers over his shoulders. When she stood on tiptoes and pressed her soft breasts to his chest, he was gone.

“I’ve wanted ye since that first moment I saw ye.”

“Then take me,” she murmured against his mouth.

With a low growl, he pushed her up against the cold tiled wall, his body holding her immobile. His mouth was on hers, hard and demanding. Frantic for more, he slid his thumbs under the elastic band of her panties. With her, nothing mattered. Not the house, not the ghosts, only this, here and now. His mouth opened over hers, his tongue slipping inside, rubbing against her own.

His fingers slid underneath the soft cotton and found those curls. She groaned, arching her back, urging him onward. Cristian slid a finger between her sleek, wet folds and he knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Need twisted painfully in his groin, desire tangible.

“Make me forget,” she whispered.

The plea in her voice pierced his foggy reality and gave him pause. She wanted to forget. Yes, she wanted him, but she wanted to forget more. Forget her life. The hospitals? The Doctors? The medication? He knew it all. He knew what she had gone through. Her father had told him everything, including the guilt he felt. He refused to be another thing in a long list of events she’d like to forget. He refused to use her.