Breathless (2 page)

She was a sexual being again! A woman who needed and wanted. A woman with a man at her back, kissing her neck, his hands taking her where her need beckoned.

Breathless and in full orgasm, Blue McCann slid to the floor, and the gaslight overhead flickered out.

H
ours later, back at Perdition House, Faye called out to thin air, “You didn’t tell me what would happen when she put on the corset, Belle.” She ran her hand through her hair, distraught at the turn of events. “What’ll happen to Blue McCann? What have you done to her?”

Belle floated down the staircase from the widow’s walk and slid with a guilty glance to her favorite perch on the dresser. Her color went to monochrome beige. Faye had figured out months ago that beige meant her great great aunt, decades dead, was distressed.

“You have no idea what will happen to Blue, do you?” she demanded.

Belle threw a glance to the ceiling. “Not exactly. It depends on her.”

“How could you mess with someone’s life?” The horror of finding Blue crumpled on the floor of the fitting room flashed through her. Her pulse had been faint, her breathing thready and weak.

Emergency first responders had looked grim when they’d taken her vitals, and grimmer still when they’d loaded her unconscious body into the back of the ambulance. “How could you do this? You had me encourage her to try on that corset knowing this would happen. I just don’t see why you think you had that right.” If Blue died because of this, Faye would never forgive herself.

Belle pursed her lips. “It all happened because other lives are at stake, Faye.”

“Not
today
they’re not. Have you forgotten you’re dead? You’re all dead! Have been for decades.” She swept both arms up and around to indicate the walls of her room, of her house. “This whole house is full of dead people, and you say lives are at stake?”

An angry red appeared in Belle’s dressing gown. Oops! “Think of the generations, girl,” she snapped. “Lives lost decades ago have a trickle-down effect.”

That stopped Faye short. If someone had died prematurely all those decades ago, then of course it would affect today. She forced herself to think. Whom would Belle do this for? Whose life could be so important that Belle would—“Whom did you make a pact with, Belle?” She tilted her head toward the floor and gave her aunt a very pointed glance downward. “Was it you know who?” A cold chill ran through her at the thought of how far Belle might go to survive as a specter.

“I’m not a fool!” her decades-dead great aunt chided. She conjured a nail buffer and used it. “Arrangements were made,” she said through a put-upon pout. “But it’s anyone’s guess how things will turn out. We have to see if this is a good fit. One soul doesn’t necessarily fit into another’s life.”

Faye closed her eyes. When would she learn that her long-departed aunt survived by her own rules and kept her plans to herself. “If I didn’t feel so responsible for the souls in this house, I’d sell it out from under you all!” The threat was old and useless, but Faye issued it on a regular basis anyway.

Belle smiled, a mere lift of the lips. A knowing light burned in her gaze. “But you do feel responsible, Faye. Just the way I knew you would.”

“I’m going to the hospital to check on Blue.” She raised her finger and jabbed it into the chill of the spirit’s chest. “And she’d better be alive when I get there.”

Belle shrugged. “Why would you assume that decision is mine?” She had the nerve to look huffy.

Faye threw up her hands and headed out into the wildest windstorm the Seattle area had seen in years.

“Miss? Miss!” a woman’s voice called to Blue. She groaned. “Are you all right? Bart, she’s coming around now. Oh, thank heavens.”

Blue considered her condition before answering. She moved her arms and legs, wiggled her toes, took a deep breath and held it, while she took stock. Her lungs held the breath and used the oxygen the way they should. She felt strong again, vital. She sighed, loving the absence of pain. Good drugs. Good, good drugs. She wanted to let them hold her for a moment longer, but the woman kept talking, prodding her awake.

Blue opened her eyes. Grass, weeds, rocks filled the dressing room. And rain! She felt rain on her face.

It was not the dressing room, she saw as she peered past her hands to the muddy ground. Not a hospital room, either. “Crap, where am I?”

“Miss?” The woman’s voice sounded shocked. “You’ve had a bump on the head. That speedster of yours liked to kill you.”

Strong arms reached under her and tugged her to her feet. Her head hurt and she held it, felt something thick and sticky. She checked her fingers. “I’m bleeding.” Probably concussed too.

“Yes, miss. A bump on the head, like the wife said,” a man responded. His voice sounded gravelly and kind, even concerned.

She looked up, then up again to a giant’s face. “You’re huge,” she said, then looked around. She pulled herself to her feet none too steadily, and he clasped her gently by the elbows to help. Rain pelted them, sharp and insistent.

They were next to a ditch filled with a car—an ancient car. The two wire-spoked tires that stuck up in the air were still spinning. She’d had an accident.

“You were thrown clear when that thing slid into the ditch and hit a tree.” The woman pointed to a huge fir.

Blue looked up toward the top of the tree, felt woozy, and quickly leveled her face again to save herself from toppling over.

She looked from the giant man to the woman who’d spoken. She was a tiny woman with lively eyes and a warm smile. “Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m Lizzie, and this is my husband, Bart Jameson.” She looked worried and waved a hand in front of Blue’s face. A blur of movement. “Miss McCreedy, surely you know us?”

Blue shook her head. “Should I?” One minute she’d been in TimeStop, trying on a corset, and the next…

She felt her ribs. Yes, the corset was there, under heavy layers of cloth. She looked down and saw that somehow, some way, somebody had dressed her for the weather. She wore a heavy cloak and black boots. A wide-brimmed hat lay in the mud, the fine silk ties trampled.

“Bart, let’s get her back to Perdition. Belle will call the doctor.”

With nothing more than a sigh, the giant of a man hoisted her gently into a carriage—a carriage!—pulled by a pair of black horses. Wedged between Lizzie and the giant man, Bart, she sat, bouncing and jiggling on the way to wherever they were taking her. Perdition. Another name for hell.

Maybe that’s where she was. Or where she was going. Her time had come and obviously she hadn’t lived right, or for long enough. She’d lived with a religious family when she was ten. This was what they’d warned her about. If only she’d listened instead of screaming like a brat in church.

But the optimist in her wondered, if she wasn’t in hell yet, maybe she could change things. Sleep pulled at her, and concussed or not, Blue closed her eyes, determined to go back to sleep and wake up again in her own apartment, in her own clothes.

In her own body.

When she woke later, it was to the feel of a man’s hands on her face. She batted at him. “Go away, leave me sleep.”

“Stella, wake up, woman, and stop being difficult.”

Patty cheeks again. She peeped one eye open.

“That’s a girl, now stay awake!” Concerned chocolate eyes widened as she tried to shove herself to a sitting position. She was in a bed at least. Soft, though, not like a hospital bed. She would recognize one of those.

“Who’s Stella?” she asked. Someone had called her Miss McCreedy earlier. She’d never heard the name Stella McCreedy in her life.

The man looked over his shoulder at a woman who came around him to stare down at Blue. “Don’t know your own name?” she asked.

“Faye! How did I get here? I remember a carriage and a giant man.”

“That was Bart. He and his wife Lizzie were right behind you when that speedster you drive went off the road,” Faye said. “You pitched straight over the front of the car and into a tree. It’s no wonder you don’t know your own name.” She frowned. “Or mine. I’m Belle, honey. Belle Grantham. Your…friend.”

“But you look just like Faye, a woman I met in a store not an hour ago.”

“There’s no Faye here. Not in Perdition House.”

Finally, a name she recalled. Faye said she lived here. Blue was sure of it, but these people were pretty confused, so she kept quiet. She had an excellent memory, always had.

“This is enough for now, Stella,” the man broke in. “You need to rest, but I want you to stay awake, just the same.” His voice flowed over her. The tone was deep, well-modulated, and intimate. Thrills chased through her chest and down to her belly.
Let go for me.
It was him! The man from the fitting room. The man who’d turned her into a woman again.

She heated through at the memory. Sure,
that
she recalled with crystal clarity!

“I’ll try to stay awake, but I’m so sleepy.” She wanted to drift again, slide into the deep quiet of unconsciousness, but the man’s eyes lured her to wakefulness.

“I’ll have one of the girls sit with you,” Belle suggested, but it sounded more like an order. “And it’s no wonder you’re sleepy. You were up all night with Mrs. Barker. You don’t remember telling me that?”

“No.” Blue looked at the man. A stethoscope hung from his neck. He was a doctor. The one that couple had said would come to the house for her. She wanted him, not someone Belle ordered up.

“Doctor? Do I know you too?” Had she dreamed of him or had he really been with her in the fitting room. Crazy thought.

She tried for a peek at his hands, but they were buried in a deep black leather bag, his medical kit. “Will
you
stay?” she asked.

He gave a curt nod. “If you want me, I’ll be here.”

“I want you.”
Please and thank you.
She shifted her legs under the covers. Thank goodness her body moved the way it should. This talk about her not remembering things frightened her. “I do remember some things,” she said, just not the things they expected. The corset! Somehow, this weirdness was connected to the corset she’d tried on.

Belle gave them an assessing glance, her gaze swinging from Blue to the man and back again. “Can she have soup? I’ll have Henry bring some up.”

Blue’s stomach growled, making the man chuckle. “I’d say that’s a good sign. Send up a bowl, Belle. I’ll see she eats it all.”

The moment the door closed, he turned back to her. A strong jaw and intelligent brown-black eyes set his face in the highly attractive range. Yum. “I told you that automobile could be the death of you. You’re lucky to come out of this alive.” His face flattened with stern anger.

“When did you tell me?” Whatever was happening, it was up to her to figure it out. These people were clueless that she wasn’t the woman they saw. She glanced at her hands. Nope, not hers. These hands were larger, stronger looking, and competent. She wasn’t sure how she knew about the competency, but she did.

“I told you every time I saw you racing that thing. Women aren’t meant to drive automobiles, Stella. Especially not ones that have been modified for speed.” His self-righteous tone set her teeth on edge.

“Could you refresh me on the date, please?”

“June twentieth, nineteen thirteen,” the man said. “It’s Friday.” The corset it was, then. That would be about the age of the thing. The date also explained his ’tude about women driving. But if Stella was a speed demon, it would explain the edginess between them. He might not appreciate a forward-thinking woman.

“Am I healthy?” she asked. “I mean aside from the bump on the head. I feel so strong.”
Alive!
As if she’d been renewed, given another chance. She looked around the room. Everything looked antique, and the room was overstuffed with furniture, lamps, and bric-a-brac. The heavy drapes and sheers blocked the daylight.

“You’re one of the healthiest women I know, Stella.” His smile finally made an appearance. It was crooked, as if one side of his mouth didn’t work properly.

It was the most appealing, masculine smile she’d ever seen and cemented her belief that he’d been the man in the mirror. The man who’d kissed her neck, who’d used his hands to bring her to ecstasy. She hoped he would again. She recalled thinking how sexy his mouth looked quirked up that way.

“But you should give up the cigars,” he suggested. His mouth dropped back to even.

Oh, crap. Cigars? “No problem.” Healthy, huh? Maybe that was why she was so warm under these sheets. A healthy body had healthy needs. The orgasm in the dressing room had only whetted her appetite.

She lifted the covers for a look down her body. Boobs! Heavy ones from the lumps she saw. The corset was gone now, replaced by a white muslin nightie. “No more cigars for me,” she said around a smile, as she tucked her blankets around her.

He frowned. “You’re mighty agreeable.”

Maybe Stella had a mind of her own and didn’t fret about speaking it. Cool! Blue had always been too quiet for her own good. The foster system could have that effect on a kid.

“I must look a mess, could you pass me a mirror? And maybe a comb for my hair?”

“You must be better,” he said, and went to the bureau top to retrieve a long-handled mirror and brush. He was tall and had a slender build. He’d taken off his jacket and old-fashioned suspenders held up his pants. His shirt was white as snow. The suspenders lifted his waistband so his pants cupped his tight ass. The doctor had a great build. He was trim and fit looking.

When he settled on the bed again, he reached for the top of her head. She felt her hair being released from several pins and let him minister to her as he let masses of reddish hair fall to the pillow and down her chest. From mousy, lifeless brown to luscious red in one fell swoop. She could live with that.

Her nipples peaked under the covers, and she felt heat suffuse her cheeks. She was happy to feel sexual again, but if Stella McCreedy didn’t want him, Blue didn’t feel right acting on her attraction. She needed to ignore the heat in her belly and the desire in her heart.

His hands on her hair were gentle, the delicate tugs creating waves of relief along her scalp. Was a scalp erogenous? And then she felt it. Definitely erogenous. His fingers massaged her entire head, then combed through the unfamiliar, heavy strands of hair.

She closed her eyes and let out an unwilling sigh at his touch. The man was gifted. First, in the mirror, when he was still a phantom, and now, in flesh and blood. Another sigh rose and escaped, and he stopped massaging and held his fingers still.