The Seance (15 page)

“Christina, you're scaring me,” he told her.

“I'm sorry.”

She had started walking down the hall, toward the parlor, when his hands fell on her shoulders and spun her around. He was close. She was overwhelmed by everything about him. Not just his scent, which was always clean and somehow richly masculine. There was also his height, the perfect complement to her own. The heat, the vitality, emanating from him.

She'd always had a crush on him, but it was getting worse. Deeper. Sexual.

She caught herself staring at his chest. At the cool striped cotton of his casually tailored shirt. She looked up slowly into his eyes. He had the greatest eyes. Dark. Bottomless. Hard sculpted features that added to the sexual allure of the man. He was clearly concerned as he stared back at her. He wasn't mocking her. Not at that moment.

She opened her mouth, feeling the need to say something to keep him from thinking she was stark raving mad. But he just kept staring back at her, as if…

He tilted her chin, and it wasn't just to look into her eyes.

She felt his mouth on hers, the merest touch, and it was as if intoxicating waves of heat rushed over her, filled her, fused into her body, blood and bone. She strained to reach higher, standing on her toes. She felt his lips brush hers again, not real, too real….

She pressed against the steely heat of his chest, shifting until her lips were fully beneath his. His arms went around her then, crushing her against him. His lips were no longer a whisper of air; they were crushing, like fire, hungering for and consuming her mouth.

In a thousand years, she never could have dreamed of this….

It wasn't real, she thought. This was the kind of thing that happened only in dreams, in fantasies.

But it was real, and it felt as if all the events in her life had led her toward that moment. She was touching him, stroking the incredible contours of his face, warming herself against the fluid heat of his body. She was all but melded against him, except, annoyingly, for their clothing, which neither of them seemed to be getting out of the way fast enough. The moment somehow felt both amazingly graceful and yet ridiculously awkward.

In dreams, in reality, her fingers trembled as she touched him. As she did all those things she had longed to do for so many years. She felt the texture of his skin, traced the structure of his bones. She pressed against him with the entire length of her body, feeling a new weakness wash over her, along with a new strength, a new life. Her fingers played over his shoulders and around to his nape, then down his back. And all the while she tasted his kiss, tasted his tongue, reveled in the power and sweep and naked sensuality of that touch.

His shirt lay discarded on the floor, and she traced her fingers over his bare chest. Her shoes were off, her dress tossed on top of his shirt.

They'd been standing in the hallway, and then suddenly they weren't. At first she was leading him up the stairs, and then it was as if he grew weary of their slow progress and paused long enough to sweep her straight off her feet. She met his eyes as he made his way up the steps. She was preternaturally aware of the intensity of his gaze and barely even noticed the softness of the bed as they fell down onto it. She had ached for this for so long, her feelings submerged beneath pride and dignity and self-preservation.

As his mouth traveled across her flesh, her undergarments seemed to melt away, and she realized she had no idea where they'd gone.

Lights blazed throughout the house, but she didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the amazing sweet fire of his kiss, the heat of his caress against her naked flesh, the pressure of his body, arms, hips, sex…hard against her. She was desperate, starving, to return his every touch. But he was the more experienced lover. There were moments when she lay still, almost like a deer in the headlights, all but paralyzed by the sensations the liquid trail of his tongue and the sweep of his hands aroused upon her flesh.

God, yes, he was good.

God, yes, he knew what he was doing….

The tiniest sensation in itself might have been enough to make her insane, just the feel of his frame next to hers, the brush of his hair against her flesh, his slightest movement. But there was more, so much more: the way his body moved against hers, the friction, the strength, the ease. He was everywhere. Kissing her ankles. Sweeping his tongue on her collarbone. She shivered at the power of his hand stroking down the length of her, at his fingertips on her inner thighs. Then his lips again, caressing her breasts, her abdomen, her hip, followed by a series of liquid caresses low on her belly, high on her thighs, directly between them, a touch of sheer madness, not of this world….

She pressed her own lips against his flesh, tasted and teased, shuddering against him. She felt caught in a whirlwind, riding her tremors to climax, exploding like shards of shattered crystal, then riding that exultant wave again. She slid her ragged touch downward, stroked and caressed as he had done, until he sat up and she felt herself lifted in the steel vise of his arms, then brought down until at last he was inside her.

He held her hands and lifted their arms over their heads, then wrapped her arms around him and held them there, and all the while the dark enigma of his eyes seemed to pin her in place. She thought that she couldn't know a man better, and yet, for just a moment, she had to wonder if, even now, she knew him at all.

But then she was writhing, aware of nothing but the rise of desire and the feel of him within her, the kiss of coolness in the air, the surge of heat that seemed to rise like a ground fog around them. As he thrust and she arched against him, the friction of flesh upon flesh teased and tormented, awakening a desperate and almost unappeasable hunger, until, as mercurial and thunderous as a burst of diamonds in the air, she felt her climax sweep over and through her again, leaving her trembling against him, shaking and…

Cold.

The air was cold.

Her flesh was warm where he touched her, so cold where he did not.

And the light…The room was so bright. She loved the light, but it meant there was no sweet darkness in which to hide. She didn't know whether she should be blasé or embarrassed…whether she'd even done this right….

He shifted and drew her down against him on the bed, fingers smoothing her hair, touching her face so gently.

Oh, God, what should she say now?

Somehow he kept the moment from being awkward. “You do like it bright,” he said softly, with both bemusement and affection.

She tried to match his tone. “Too much?” she suggested, as if they were sharing tea and she had just poured the milk.

“Well, I guess I'd find it a bit difficult to sleep this way,” he told her.

Not if you were going mad, she thought. Not if you believed you had a ghost in your house. The ghost of a vicious murderer. Even then, a little voice inside asked, But had he ever been the murderer people said?

Suddenly she bolted up to a sitting position.

He was leaning back, one elbow crooked behind his head. He stared at her, puzzled.

“I forgot about Killer,” she said. “Where did he go?”

“I closed the bedroom door. He's cute and all, but not…well, you know.”

She smiled for a moment, then swallowed uneasily. “I…uh…”

“Yes?”

She decided to spit it out. “Jed, I was on my way out before because I was…because I didn't want to be here.”

Because I thought I saw a ghost and I was terrified, she added silently.

He smiled, reaching out, touching her hair. “I understand that feeling,” he told her softly.

No. He didn't. He understood how it had hurt to go on living where he had made his home with Margaritte. But she wasn't hurting. She was scared.

His smile turned rueful, and he arched a brow. “That wasn't all just because I, um, happened to be here and make a convenient distraction, was it?”

“Good Lord, no!” she said in horror.

He had dimples in both cheeks, she noticed. They looked really nice when he smiled, and suddenly she was scared again—in a whole different way.

“Jed, could you…would you stay tonight?”

“If you need me,” he said, his eyes on hers again. There was no smile in them.

She felt her own lips curve slightly. “What if I just wanted you to?” she asked.

“That would be fine, too,” he said. “But I get the feeling that you really do need me tonight. And that's okay.”

She curled against him, not daring to speak. She didn't trust anyone enough to tell them how deeply afraid she felt. Certainly not Jed, not tonight.

But fear didn't matter right now. Not when his hand was strong and gentle when he touched her. Not when his arm around her offered security, a bastion behind which she could hide from the world.

She lay there in silence and shivered slightly, feeling the air around them grow colder. He pulled her more tightly against him and reached for the covers.

How strange…She knew that if he stayed, the feel of him against her would arouse her again. But for the moment she heard his words like a whisper, as if from far away.

“Poor thing. You're just exhausted, aren't you?” he murmured.

She nodded. It was true. Sleep had been so lacking in her life. Well, sex had been lacking, as well, but now she felt as if she had feasted and exhaustion was taking its toll. She settled herself in his arms and closed her eyes.

A moment later she felt his breath as he whispered, “Christie…the lights. Will you be all right if I turn just a few of them out?”

She smiled and managed a nod, though she didn't open her eyes. She wasn't afraid of the dark. She wasn't afraid of ghosts. She simply wasn't afraid.

Not with him there.

W
hen Christina woke up, Jed was gone.

There was a flower—a hibiscus she was sure had been plucked from a bush in the front yard—next to her pillow, along with a note.
You were sound asleep, so I set the coffee for eight. Nothing strange—it was me.

She bit her lower lip, hugging the covers close. No
Had a wonderful time
or
See you later
or even a
Thanks for the memories.

But there was a flower on her pillow. And he had stayed until morning.

A short woof drew her attention. Apparently when Jed had left, he'd opted to leave the bedroom door open. Killer was at the foot of the bed, sitting and watching her, his head cocked at an angle she was beginning to recognize and that always seemed to suggest that the terrier knew something she didn't.

“Did he feed you, buddy?” she wondered aloud. “Anyway, I'll just hop in the shower, then get some coffee, and…well, if I'm ever going to get paid, I'd better start working on some ideas.”

She hurried into the shower, where she hugged her arms around herself, dismayed at the occasional bouts of trembling that came on as she stood beneath the water. Sex happened all the time, she was certain. Well, for some people, anyway. She couldn't let herself read too much into it.

Despite that electric attraction she'd felt to him forever…

Was he still in love with his wife?

Some people, even some men, believed there was only one perfectly matched person out there. Only one love to last a lifetime. One that was like a knife embedded in the heart, one soul to match another soul for all time. Interesting theory. What if Jed was that one for her but Margaritte had been that one for him?

She emerged from the shower and dressed quickly, noticing that Killer was no longer waiting for her. As she pulled on a pair of jeans, she heard him barking downstairs. Not a harsh, defensive barking, just one of his excited “woof-woof” things, as if a friend were there.

She felt a strange chill and a sudden desperate need to hurry downstairs.

As she reached the landing, she heard her piano being played. Okay, she thought, apparently Jed hadn't left after all. He was downstairs, playing her piano.

Did Jed even play the piano?

She rushed into the parlor and came to a dead stop.

Killer was actually sitting on the piano bench, next to the man who was playing.

Beau Kidd.

He turned to face her, and she felt the familiar rush of fear—no, terror—sweep over her, like a dark blanket blacking out the world.

No!
something inside her pleaded.

She leaned against the wall to keep from falling. “Who are you really?” she demanded harshly.

Killer wagged his tail. Great. She might have fallen in love with the little terrier, but he was proving to be no guard dog.

“You know who I am,” the man at the piano said. “Please…”

He started to rise, and she lifted a hand to stop him. “No, stay right where you are.”

He did, and though she couldn't stop leaning against the wall for support, she managed not to pass out.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“You let me in,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “Oh, no. No, no.”

“But you did.”

“The Ouija board?”

He smiled. “More than the Ouija board, I think.”

“I don't see dead people,” she said.

He smiled, lowering his head. He'd been a nice-looking man, she thought, with an easy smile. “I've never forgotten the kindness of that flower on my grave,” he told her.

“You're here because of that?”

“Who knows exactly why I'm here?” he murmured, and ran his fingers over the piano keys.

Killer gave a happy bark.

She shook her head again, hoping to clear her vision and find him gone. “You're not here. You can't be here,” she said desperately.

He stood up. “I need your help.”

She inhaled deeply, staring at him. “Because of the murders.”

“I'm obviously not the killer.”

“And what does that have to do with you being here, in my house?”

“You're…unique.”

“Yeah? Well, I don't want to be unique.”

“You have a gift,” he said.

“I don't want any gifts,” she assured him.

“Too bad. It's yours whether you want it or not,” he told her.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked him.

He lifted his hands. “I'm innocent.”

She felt a chill overtake her. “So who is the Interstate Killer?” she asked.

He stared at her in frustration. “I don't know. But I swear to you, that's no copycat out there now. The killer who struck twelve years ago is at it again.”

She swallowed. “I am going crazy. That's the only explanation.”

He was impatient now. “No, it's not.”

“Do normal people see ghosts?” she demanded.

“Define
normal,
” he said.

She let out a sound of irritation. He wasn't there. She was creating him in her mind, just as she had undoubtedly created that vision of her grandfather in her mind, all those years ago.

She turned her back on him and walked down the hallway to the kitchen, where she poured herself some coffee. When she turned around again, she started.

He was in the kitchen with her, leaning against the counter.

“You say you're here because you're innocent and you want me to help you somehow,” she said. “Well, you're in the wrong place. I can't help you. I write advertising jingles for a living. I'm not a cop, and I don't speak to the dead. We're not all that far from Cassadaga. It's a charming little town founded by spiritualists. If you pop on over there, I'm sure there are plenty of people who would just love to talk to you.”

He shook his head. “I can't.”

“Why?”

He shook his head again. “I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with the flower. You did see and talk with your grandfather, you know. He was a great guy.”

“You knew my grandfather?” she asked, skeptical.

He grinned. “We'd have coffee now and then at a doughnut shop down on International Drive.”

“Why didn't I know that?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Why should you have known it? We weren't best friends or anything. We just used to chat some mornings over doughnuts and coffee.”

She studied him closely. He looked real. Flesh-and-blood real.

He couldn't be. But then again, the alternative was just as ridiculous. Why would someone pretending to be Beau Kidd break into her house? Not just pretending to be him, a dead ringer for him.

Admittedly, this was Orlando in October. Costumes and makeup were plentiful. But how could anyone make his face resemble a newspaper photo to a T?

She smiled. “I'm going out now. When I come back, you're going to be gone.”

“But I won't be.”

“If my cousins put you up to this—if this is some kind of a joke, or worse—you'd better be gone when I get back.”

Brave words. If he was a killer, she had certainly provoked him.

“Don't you understand?” he asked her sadly. “I can't go. And I need your help.”

“Don't you understand? I can't help you.”

“But you can.”

“I'm going to burn that Ouija board.”

He smiled. Sadly. “Won't do you any good,” he told her. Then his grin suddenly turned deep and real. “Which is it? I'm a very strange kind of home invader—made up to look like Beau Kidd and put up to these wicked deeds by one of your cousins. Or I'm a ghost, tied to this house because you live here, and I can't just go away.”

“Neither. I just have an overactive imagination,” she insisted.

“You know that's not true.”

“I can't help you. I'm not a cop.”

He was quiet, staring at her. Then he said, “But you were sleeping with one. An ex-cop, anyway. Actually, the ex-cop who maligned me so badly.”

“I'm going now,” she said.

“You can try to run away,” he said. “But you can't really go anywhere. We all learn that at some point.”

“Enjoy your philosophizing,” she told him. “Now…goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” he echoed, then gave her a thumbs-up sign. “You've stopped blacking out on me, at least. We're moving in the right direction. I knew this would work out, because whether you want to or not, you already know that ghosts are real. When you were a child, you weren't afraid. Remember? You need to reopen the door on those memories.”

“Goodbye,” Christina said firmly, then turned to her new pet, who was sitting just inside the kitchen doorway. “Killer, come on. We're going.”

Instead of obeying, the dog walked over and stood next to Beau Kidd, whining mournfully.

“Now!” she snapped to the dog.

When he didn't budge, she picked him up and, without looking back, headed down the hallway, Killer in her arms. She slammed the front door behind her and made a point of locking it.

She got in the car and headed straight for a café, where her first order of business was to pull out her cell and call a locksmith, who agreed to meet her at the house in an hour. Her cousins were in the clear, she decided, but it still made sense to get new locks for the place.

 

The dignified gray-haired man stood stiff and unyielding in the doorway.

Jed wasn't sure just what he had expected. Of course Beau Kidd's father was going to be anything but glad to see him.

“I know who you are. I know exactly who you are,” Forest Kidd said bitterly.

“I'm sorry if I offended you, sir—”

“Offended me? That trash you wrote did more than offend me.”

“It was a work of fiction,” Jed said.

“As if that's any excuse.”

“The thing is—”

“The thing is,” Forest Kidd said angrily, “my son has now been proved to be innocent!”

Jed let out a soft sigh. “Sir, many people think this is a copycat killer.”

The older man swore, then turned and strode down the hallway of his single-story ranch house, but he left the door open, so Jed shrugged and followed him.

He went on back to a pleasant family room. Glass doors led out to a pool area, and an open counter separated them from the kitchen.

“Sir,” Jed said, taking a seat across from Forest Kidd, “you said you were with your son when at least one of the killings took place. Whoever did kill those women—and whoever is killing now—isn't being quick about it. He rapes his victims repeatedly before finally murdering them.”

“You think I don't know every aspect of this case?” Kidd demanded.

“On the contrary, I'm sure you know as much as I do,” Jed said.

The older man shrugged, blue eyes sweeping across his backyard. “I come from one of the real old-time families around here. My great-grandparents were up in Jacksonville during the Civil War.” His gaze fell sharply on Jed. “That's why I've never left,” he said. “Thankfully, it's a transient area now. People coming and going, working at the parks for a while, then moving on. Otherwise, we'd have had to leave. Even though no one ever proved that Beau was guilty of a damn thing. My son was shot and killed, and as far as everyone was concerned, that was it. His partner—Atkins—he was pretty broken up. He came to see us, and at least there was an inquiry, but none of it mattered. Beau was dead—and branded. The killing stopped, and no matter what I said or did…”

“You said your son was with you when one of the women was killed,” Jed said, hoping Forest might be willing to discuss the subject now.

Forest Kidd leaned forward and folded his hands before him and stared hard at Jed. “I said it because it was the truth. My wife said it, and my daughter said it. No one called us liars right to our faces. They just gave us those pitying looks that said they thought we were liars. And that was it.” He leaned back again. “So what are you going to do? Write another book?”

“I'm trying to find out the truth,” Jed said.

“Is that supposed to make me care?” Forest asked bitterly.

Jed stood up. “I think you already care, Mr. Kidd. You have a daughter. A beautiful daughter with red hair. I think you have to care, and that's why you let me in.”

Forest Kidd stood, a tall man, almost eye level with Jed, who rose along with him.

“I care. But I've just told you everything I can, everything I told the police before. My son didn't do it. The police were desperate. They were grasping at straws. The community was terrified, and there was Beau, a perfect suspect. He'd been seeing two of the girls, and he was leaning over the corpse of the last victim. I don't believe he ever drew his weapon on his partner. I don't care how sincere and wounded and agonized that bastard likes to look. There was never any reason for him to pull a gun.” Forest Kidd stared at Jed belligerently.