Ready & Willing (15 page)

“You haven’t lived here long,” he concluded.

“Just over a month,” she said. “I moved here specifically to open my business. I like the location.”

He looked at her face again, and only then did Audrey realize how close he was standing. Mostly because she had to crane her neck back to meet his gaze.

He opened his mouth and hitched a breath, as if he were going to say something, then seemed to change his mind and closed his mouth again. But his gaze never left hers, and the longer the two of them looked at each other, the faster Audrey’s heart began to beat, until her pulse was fairly pounding in her ears, and she grew hot all over. Good heavens, the man was potent.

“I,” he finally said, very softly.

She narrowed her eyes curiously. “You what?”

“You said, ‘I,’ ” he told her. “ ‘
I
moved here,’ ” he echoed. “ ‘To open
my
business.’ ”

“Yes.”

He dropped his gaze to her left hand, then looked at her face again. “Is there no Mr. Magill then?”

As she did whenever she thought of Sean, Audrey automatically tugged on the gold chain around her neck and pulled free its sole decoration—a man-sized high school ring that had belonged to Sean. He’d been buried wearing the wedding ring identical to Audrey’s, and she’d wanted something of him to keep on her person at all times. The way she kept her wedding ring on her at all times. Whenever loneliness, sorrow, or grief overcame her, she pulled out Sean’s ring and cradled it in her palm, and she felt a little better, as if he were here with her. Even if he wasn’t here with her. Even if he would never be here with her again.

Nathaniel watched her completion of the gesture with great interest, and when he saw the object she fingered with such care, his dark brows arrowed downward.

“There used to be a Mr. Magill,” Audrey told him. Then, because she’d learned a long time ago that it was better to be blunt about it, she added, “He died. In the line of duty. He was a cop. He was only thirty-six. It was completely unexpected.” The words came out in choppy, uneven sentences. Because choppy and uneven was still how Audrey felt whenever she thought about her late husband.

Nathaniel’s expression changed not at all as she told him of her loss. When she was finished, he only asked, “How long ago?”

“Three years,” she said.

He glanced down at her left hand again. “But you still wear your wedding ring.”

She lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “That’s because I’m still married.”

Again, he seemed to want to say something, but decided not to. Instead, he only nodded slowly, as if he understood. But how could he? Audrey wondered. A man like him didn’t seem capable of falling in love with someone. Certainly not with the depth of emotion that she and Sean had felt for each other.

She suddenly began to feel uncomfortable under his scrutiny—mostly because instead of diminishing upon her revelation that she still felt married, his scrutiny had only intensified—so she turned around to look at the portrait of his ancestor. “Captain Silas Leyton Summerfield,” she announced, tucking Sean’s ring back under her collar. And she told herself she only imagined the way her voice suddenly sounded all thready and rough. “Someday I’m going to have to sit down and figure out how many greats your grandfather he is,” she added with a chuckle that was obviously forced.

Nathaniel moved forward a few steps, until his body was aligned with hers, and tipped his head back to look at the portrait, too. Audrey braved a glimpse in his direction, long enough to see the look of astonishment on his face.

“My God, he does look like me,” he said.

“Especially around the eyes,” she told him, lifting a hand to point to his ancestor’s painted features. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes as brown as his or—”

She turned to look at Nathaniel, only to find that he was already looking at her, and in a way she hadn’t seen a man looking at her in a very long time. The way Sean used to look at her when he was feeling especially hungry. Not sexually, but emotionally. On those occasions when he just needed to be close to her, needed to hold her, as if he needed to reassure himself that he wasn’t alone in the world, that no matter what might go wrong in his life, he would always have her.

“Or . . . or yours,” she finished in a much softer, much less certain, voice. Then, because she didn’t like how she was beginning to feel a little hungry herself, she hurried on, “So, um . . . so what happened that made my status of nut job change from present tense to past tense?”

For a moment, he only continued to look at her in that strangely needy way. Then he slung his gaze back to the portrait.

“Do you remember how I told you I was feeling so cold?”

She nodded.

His voice grew even softer as he told her, “It’s gotten worse. It’s not like anything I’ve ever felt before. It goes beyond bone deep. It’s like it’s . . . it’s . . .” He looked at her again. “Soul deep,” he finally concluded. “Except that I’m actually beginning to think . . .”

He continued to gaze at Audrey’s face but didn’t finish that last statement. Not that it really needed finishing. He was starting to believe her. He was beginning to fear that he really had lost his soul. He lifted a hand, palm down, fingers rigid. “Feel this.”

Audrey eyed him warily, but, reluctantly, lifted her hand to his. She didn’t touch him right away, however. Certainly there was nothing untoward in his command, under the circumstances. All he’d asked her to do was take his hand. For some reason, though, she didn’t want to. She just wasn’t sure she wanted to think too hard about why.

So she stopped thinking and did what he’d told her to. She turned her hand palm up, her fingers pointing in the opposite direction of his own, and pressed it against his. As it had been in his office the last time she saw him, his skin was like ice. But he was right. It was even worse now.

Before she realized what he intended, Nathaniel slid his hand forward, off of hers and over the bare arm revealed by the rolled-back sleeve of her shirt. A shiver rippled through her entire body as his fingers crept over the sensitive flesh between her wrist and elbow, but it had nothing to do with the coldness of his hand, since it began to grow warm against her skin. She told herself to pull her hand away, that he
had
overstepped the bounds of propriety now, but for some reason, she couldn’t make herself do it. She could only watch as the big, blunt hand peppered with dark hair moved with such gentleness over her smooth, slender arm, and she did her best to ignore the swell of heat inside her that seemed to be spilling over to him.

Because the longer he touched her, the warmer his hand grew, until it felt almost hot running over her flesh. This despite the fact that he wasn’t touching her hard enough to create any kind of friction, nor was her own skin warm enough under his to generate such a response.

Well, her own skin wasn’t warm enough
yet
. If he kept this up much longer, though . . .

Just as that thought unwound in her brain—and just as the implication of it began to unravel her—he slid his fingers back toward her hand and curled them gently around her wrist. Immediately, Audrey tried to pull her hand away, but he tightened his grip just enough to make that impossible without her having to violently snatch it back. What really kept her from doing that, though, was the soft, pleading way he said, “Don’t. Don’t let go of me. Please, Audrey.”

Her mouth went dry at the husky timbre of his voice and the desolate way he spoke her name. When she snapped her attention back to his face, she saw that his eyes were desolate, too, and that the black of his pupils nearly eclipsed the brown irises surrounding them.

Somehow, she managed to ask, “Why not?” But her voice was barely a whisper, as if he’d sapped every ounce of strength she had.

His grip loosened a little, but he still clung to her with something akin to fear. “Because touching you is the only way I can feel warm.”

She shook her head, the comment making no sense. “What are you talking about?”

He lifted his other hand and, after only a small hesitation, reached for her free one, moving slowly, as if he wanted to give her time to pull it behind her back. Audrey told herself that was exactly what she should do. Instead, she began to lift her free hand toward his, meeting him halfway. This time when he touched her, his skin wasn’t cold, like it had been before. This time, it was warm and welcoming, and when he wove his fingers between hers, she did nothing to stop him.

He looked both surprised by and grateful for her concession. But all he said was, “That’s why I came over here to talk to you. Just before you left my office yesterday, when you shook my hand, for one too-short moment, I felt warm. I’d been freezing ever since signing the contract with Edward, but the minute your hand connected with mine, that cold started to be replaced by warmth. Then, the moment you let go, the coldness came back. And I haven’t been warm again since then.” He looked down at her wrist and hand, both still enclosed in his own. “Until now. Please, just let me touch you for a few more minutes.”

She shook her head slowly again, confusion muddling her thoughts.

“Please, Audrey,” he said again. “I’ve been
so cold
.”

He sounded so desperate, she didn’t know what to do. Nothing he’d said made any sense. How could he be suffering from relentless cold for days on end when the weather had been so mild? And why would touching her make him feel warm again?

“The boy is cold because his soul has gone missing.”

Silas’s voice came softly from behind Audrey, and she automatically spun around when she heard it, something that jerked her hand free of Nathaniel’s. But he continued to hold onto her wrist. And she continued to let him.

Silas stood at the other end of the hallway, his legs spread defiantly, his arms crossed over his chest resolutely. His black boots were polished to a high sheen, his black trousers were crisp and pleated, his white shirt as starched and billowy as ever. Although he had spoken to Audrey, he was looking at Nathaniel. And he continued to look at him as he made his way down the hall.

“And he feels warm again when you touch him because you’re currently the caretaker of his soul.” When he came to a stop in front of his great-great-blah-blah-blah grandson, he added, without a trace of modesty, “He’s a handsome lad. Takes after me in that regard.”

Audrey ignored that comment and asked, “What do you mean, I’m currently the caretaker of his soul?”

“What?” Nathaniel asked, his voice puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

She looked at Nathaniel, then back at Silas. “He can’t see you, can he?”

“Or hear me, either,” Silas confirmed. “Once the soul is gone, that makes any contact with the other side impossible.”

“Audrey, what are you—” Nathaniel began. But he halted when it became clear. “Are you telling me he’s here now? My great-great-whatever grandfather? Is that who you’re talking to?”

His voice had reverted back to its usual arrogant baritone, and he suddenly released Audrey’s wrist. She felt strangely used, as if he’d only wanted one thing from her and, having gotten it, was now rejecting her.

“Still don’t believe he exists?” she asked.

She thought he would assure her that no, of course he didn’t believe that, that he found such a suggestion ridiculous. But what he actually said was, “I’m not sure what to believe anymore.”

She saw Silas smile at that, with a smug satisfaction that was more than a little reminiscent of his grandson’s smile. “Ask the boy if he remembers a girl from school named Monica Baranski.”

“Why?” Audrey asked.

“Just do it,” Silas told her.

She turned to Nathaniel. “Your grandfather wants to know if you remember a girl from school named Monica Baranski.”

His entire body seemed to tense up at the question. “How do you know about Monica Baranski? She was in my third grade class.”

“I don’t,” she told him. “Silas does.”

Nathaniel looked at where Silas stood, but obviously didn’t see him. “How do I know you didn’t do some digging into my past yourself?”

“Why would I bother?”

“Because—” he began. But once again, he didn’t finish.

“Because I’m a nut job?” she finished for him. “I thought you said that was all in the past tense.”

He turned to look at Audrey now. “Look, you have to concede this is all pretty hard to swallow.”

“I will happily concede that,” she said. “But
you
have to concede that it’s at least possible.”

He drew his head back a bit, then tipped it forward in consent. “All right. I’ll concede that.”

She looked at Silas. “What else should I tell him?”

Silas grinned. “Tell him that Monica Baranski knew it was Nathaniel who put the dead cricket in her milk, but she told the teacher it was Paul Delaney because he’d called her best friend Rhonda fat, and because Monica fancied Nathaniel. Up until the dead cricket incident, I mean. After that, her emotions were, shall we say, mixed.”

Audrey smiled at that, related the story to Nathaniel, and took a twisted delight in seeing the color drain from his face.

“And tell him, too,” Silas added, “that Monica Baranski now makes even more than he does as something called an anesthesiologist”—he stumbled a little over the word, but hurried on—“who has an excellent eye for investments.”

Audrey told him that, too, and took even more pleasure in the way his mouth dropped open. “Guess the dead cricket wasn’t such a good idea, huh?”

He snapped his mouth shut at that. “Oh, please. Monica Baranski was unbearable even in third grade.”

“Look who’s talking.”

When Audrey realized that it was she—and not Silas—who made the comment, she slapped a hand over her mouth. Nathaniel seemed not to take offense, however, because he only muttered, “Touché,” and went back to staring at Silas, whom he couldn’t possibly see. When he lifted a hand toward his grandfather, Audrey started to warn him against it, but he pushed his arm through the ghost before she was able to do so. Just as had happened with Cecilia, his arm went right through Silas’s chest. But where Cecilia had had a powerful reaction to the contact, Nathaniel showed none.