Haunting Ellie (33 page)

She sat up straight in the chair and frowned, wondering what had brought on this sudden change. “He’ll think I’ve lost my mind if I tell him I’ve been communicating with a ghost.”

“He won’t.”

“Why?”

“He’s known about me since he was a boy. He knows I’m here now.”

Elizabeth sat motionless, trying to fathom the words Alex had just uttered. Was he telling the truth? Surely she would have sensed it if Jon had known about Alex. “Why hasn’t he said something to me about you?”

“Because a long time ago he told people about me and no one believed him. Because he’s never seen me, and he’s not even sure I exist. I think he halfway believes he’s crazy.”

“You think that’s funny, don’t you?”

Alex nodded. “I’m a ghost. I’m supposed to scare people, or at least make them think they’ve gone plumb loco.”

Elizabeth frowned. “And the fact that he’s a Winchester made it ten times as enjoyable?”

Alex shook his head. “Some twenty-odd years ago that big oaf was my best friend. He came here every day. We’d play games, we’d talk. He’d sit up in the attic for hours at a time and draw pictures
while I watched. I managed to forget he was a Winchester, but when he told those other men about me I was afraid this place would be overrun by people trying to exorcise me. I didn’t want to leave this place—not till I knew I could be with Amanda. So I didn’t talk when he asked me to. They laughed at him and Matt, lily-livered buzzard, said he was crazy.”

“Didn’t you feel sorry for him?” Elizabeth asked.

Alex nodded. “I hated what was happening to him, but I had to think of myself first. Maybe I was wrong, but I can’t change any of that now. Your Jon’s a good man. I still find it hard to believe he’s a Winchester.”

The grandfather clock struck.

Once.

Twice.

Six more times.

Elizabeth bolted out of the chair she’d been sitting in for too many hours. “It’s eight o’clock! I’m supposed to be at Jon’s.”

“Two hours ago you told me you never wanted to see him again. Let’s see, what were the exact words you used—”

“I lied. As for the words I used, I’d appreciate it very much if you never told a soul. I was angry.”

“So, do you plan on lollygagging around here all night, or are you going to get down the street and apologize?”

Elizabeth laughed. “I don’t know if a mere apology will get me back in his good graces. I was pretty mean.”

“Thunder and tarnation, woman! Apologizing
doesn’t have to be done with words alone. Now, you’d best get moving.”

Elizabeth rushed down a flight of stairs to the entry. She pushed the diary into her coat pocket and slipped into the sleeves. “I’ll be home—” Her words trailed off as she looked at Alex. “I won’t make any promises about when I’ll be home,” she said. “Apologizing might take a while, but when I get back, I hope to have a plan that will get you out of here.”

It didn’t take more than a moment for Elizabeth’s combat boots to hit the road, and she ran for the first time in years. Icy air stung her cheeks and burned her lungs, but none of that mattered. She had to get to Jon. She had to beg forgiveness, and she had to say she loved him.

There were few lights on in the buildings lining the street, but a small bit of moonlight squeezing through a hole in the clouds lit her way. Even the lights that usually shone in Jon’s turret room were darkened—and that frightened her. Had he gone away? Had she lost her chance to say she was sorry?

She pushed through the iron gates and rushed up the steps. She knocked. And waited.

She rang the bell. And waited.

Finally, she turned the knob and entered the unlocked house. Every room downstairs was dark, silent, and empty. She ran upstairs to the third floor and into Jon’s bedroom, hoping against hope that maybe he’d just gone to bed. But that big old mattress was just as empty as the rooms downstairs, the covers just as mussed as they’d left them that morning.

Could he be in his studio? In the dark?

She ran down the hall, her boots thudding against the boards. She climbed the narrow stairs, around and around, until she reached the top of the house and the circular room where he practiced his craft and put all his emotions into works of art. Yet even surrounded by beauty, the room felt lifeless without his presence.

Where can he be? she wondered, as she walked around the room, peering out the tall, narrow windows. She saw a thread of light beaming through the storm shutters in a building behind the house and felt her heart beat a staccato rhythm against her chest.

She left the room, running down the stairs, step after step, and exited the house through the kitchen door. The building was at least a hundred yards from the porch and appeared to have once been the stables or carriage house. Slowly, she pushed on the thick oak door, opening it just a crack so she could peer inside.

What she saw took her breath away.

Jon stood silhouetted before the open doors of a furnace, the flames leaping high inside. He was pouring molten metal, and the yellowish-brown liquid flowed easily from the long-handled crucible into the mold she’d seen before in his studio—the first mold he’d made of her face and shoulders.

She leaned against the doorjamb and watched him at work, doing the thing he’d described to her at one point during their long night together. His chest was bare, his hands and forearms covered in thick insulated gloves. Sweat glistened on his flexed muscles, and Elizabeth wished she had her
camera so she could capture this moment, where bronze flowing from the vessel looked like an extension of Jon’s bronzed and beautiful skin.

She sighed deeply and Jon’s eyes fluttered up through long blond lashes and looked at her. His jaw hardened, and he looked back at his work once again.

When the last of the metal flowed from the crucible, Jon set it aside, closed the door on the furnace, and removed the gloves. He looked at her again, and the flames she’d seen leaping in the kiln now sparked in his sapphire eyes.

He stalked toward her, his deep, penetrating stare never once leaving her, not for a moment. She swallowed hard. Was he angry? Was he going to tell her to leave and never come back again?

He stood in front of Elizabeth, his chest heaving in time with hers.

She looked up.

He looked down.

Elizabeth swallowed again.

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” he said.

“I promised I’d be here. I may get angry and say stupid things, but I always keep my promises.”

She hoped that he’d smile, but he didn’t.

“If you’ve come for an apology, you’re not going to get one.”

“It’s my turn to say I’m sorry,” she said. “Not yours.”

He gently brushed
wisps of hair from her cheek. “Just saying you’re sorry’s a damned poor attempt at making up.”

“I thought of a few other ways, too,” she said softly, pressing her hands to his chest and sliding
them upward to wrap around his neck. “I only hope you’ll give me the chance to try.”

“One chance. That’s all you get, so you’d better make it good.” He swept her into his arms. He smelled of fire and smoke and felt slick and hot, and she buried her face into the cords of his neck and kissed him.

He carried her outside through the cold winter chill. He carried her into his home and up the wide circular staircase. He carried her into his bedroom and stood her on the floor, and without saying a word, peeled off her coat, her gloves, the red knit shirt she’d been wearing all day long as they’d searched the house. He snapped loose the hook of her bra and pulled it away, freeing her breasts.

She fought for every breath as he watched her, studied her, and touched her skin with only the power of his unwavering stare.

He lifted her again and carried her to the bed. His fingers easily released the laces of her boots and slipped them from her feet. Her socks followed. Her jeans. The tap pants she loved to wear.

And then he stared at her again.

His chest rose and fell. He kicked off his boots and shoved off his Levi’s.

He was hard with need and want.

And Elizabeth wanted him.

She opened her arms, and he bent just low enough for her to wrap her hands around his neck, her legs about his waist, and he lifted her once more, carrying her to the bathroom. He opened the shower door, turned on the water until it pulsated fast and warm from the nozzle, and he stepped inside.

His mouth covered hers with passion and possession. She felt his hands gripping her bottom and her legs, his fingers just beginning to explore. She felt the cold, wet tiles at her back. She felt him hot and hard against her legs.

And she cried out when he entered her with one swift and easy stroke.

Jon threw his head back and the warm water slipped over him and between them. She combed her fingers into his hair and drew his face to her, kissing him with a hunger she’d never known existed. She didn’t care at all about the roughness of the grout between the tiles as it scraped against her back; all she cared about was the rhythmical beat as Jon moved within her, higher, deeper, harder, stronger. He seemed out of control, lusting to possess everything he could touch, everything he could reach.

Again and again Elizabeth moaned with need and screamed with pleasure, wanting him to stop, wanting him to go on and on. And slowly the heavy beat of his movements turned into a soft, lilting rhythm of tenderness and care. He turned her from the wall and into the warmth of the water, holding her tight, tighter, until his tempo built again.

Again he kissed her, his mouth wild and hot. Beneath her fingers she could feel the muscles of his shoulders, his neck, and his back tighten. She felt her own muscles grabbing hold, not wanting to let go of him now or ever as he filled her completely, and together, mind, body, and soul, they skyrocketed into the heavens.

For the longest time, Jon rested his cheek on her
shoulder. The rapid rise and fall of his chest slowed, and finally he tilted his head and whispered into her ear, “Damn fine way of apologizing.

Elizabeth smiled. “I haven’t done a thing yet.” “

All in good time, my love. All in good time.”

And he picked up the soap and began another erotic adventure
along the curves of her body.

oOo

Morning came and went, and when afternoon rolled around, they stirred from sleep and crept downstairs, filling a tray with crackers, salami and cheese, the only worthwhile things they could find in Jon’s kitchen other than beer and coffee.

He told her the housekeepers came just once a week, and since his grandfather had pass
ed away he’d made a point of eating most of his meals at Libby and Jack’s. They were old friends and good company. Jack didn’t talk much, but Libby had always kept him entertained.

They ate in the middle of Jon’s massive down-filled mattress, talking and laughing about nothing important, both of them staying far away from the subject of her brother and his association with Matt and Floyd.

An hour later, an empty tray sat at the end of Jon’s bed, and Elizabeth sat to one side, wrapped in the same blanket she’d worn the day before.

She studied Jon’s form as he stretched out on his side with only a sheet draped over his hips, and once again she wanted him. She wondered if that need would ever subside. They hadn’t talked about a lifetime together. They hadn’t talked about marriage or children or even living together. They’d
made love, not so plain, not so simple, and they’d done it again and again.

She leaned over and kissed his nose, stroking away a lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. It seemed the best way to begin a discussion she’d dreaded all morning long, a discussion that had haunted dreams that should have been peaceful after a night of so much love.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Jon asked, and she wondered how he could tell. Did her face give away her secrets, her fears?

She grabbed a pillow and tucked it close to her stomach. Jump in with both feet, she told herself. Get it out in the open just as fast and as easily as you can. She’d never hesitated telling people things in the past, but this wasn’t your normal, everyday topic of conversation.

“I’ve seen the ghost,” she finally blurted out. “I’ve talked to him. I know all about him.”

Jon didn’t move, not a finger, not an eyelash, not a heartbeat.

“He told me you’ve seen him, too.”

He rolled onto his back and crossed his hands behind his head, staring straight up at the ceiling.

“I didn’t believe it at first,” she continued, when Jon said nothing. “I thought it was the house making noises. But it’s not.”

Jon’s
failure to admit he’d talked to Alex, that he’d played games with him when he was a child, made her doubt her sanity. She brushed her fingers through her hair. “You have seen him, haven’t you?”

“I’ve never seen him.
” Jon shook his head. “I’ve heard him. I’ve talked to him. Years ago I thought I was crazy; so did half the people in this town. That’s why I know so much about psychiatrists. The teacher, the principal, my uncle—they all insisted I see one.”