The Haunting of Josie (13 page)

When the culmination finally came, it caught her completely by surprise, and she did cry out as waves and waves of throbbing ecstasy flooded over her. She was still caught up in the fiery wash of pleasure when she heard Marc groan harshly, felt him shudder under the force of his own release, and then felt herself drifting into blissful peace.

“You’re a very silent lover,” he said.

Josie didn’t want to move. In fact, she didn’t want to open her eyes, but pried them slightly open anyway to find him raised on an elbow and looking down at her gravely, something tender that was not quite a smile curving his lips. He had gotten them both under the covers, although she didn’t remember it.

“Does it bother you?” she murmured.

“No.”

She opened her eyes the rest of the way and looked at him more closely. “That sounded like yes.”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “I guess I was wondering why. I mean, I would have thought you’d have plenty to say. You usually do.”

Josie had to smile at that, but she nevertheless saw that his question was a serious one. Searching for words, she said slowly, “I don’t know why, except…I felt so much. I’ve…never felt anything like that before.”

“Never?”

“Never,” she replied honestly. Compelled by something in his eyes, she added an explanation she’d had no intention of offering. “I—the only other man I’ve ever slept with was my high-school steady, and then just a few times before we went in opposite directions to college. We were just kids, and…well, I didn’t think too much of the whole thing.”

“Sex?”

Josie nodded. “I guess he didn’t know much more than I did, or maybe I was just too young. Anyway, it wasn’t something I missed afterward.”

Marc smiled. “And now?”

She eyed him ruefully. “How do I answer that?”

He leaned down and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly, then murmured, “I’m not looking for a critique, sweetheart. I just want to know you’d…miss me if I went away to college.”

Since the kiss had left her feeling dazed, it took Josie a moment to absorb and understand what he meant. Then, solemnly, she said, “I’d miss you very much if you went away to college. I’d probably call you every night and breathe heavily into the phone, and write you long letters filled with indecent suggestions, and climb the walls until Christmas vacation.”

Chuckling, he kissed her again, briefly this time. “Good. A man likes to know he’d be missed.”

Almost against her will, she said, “I knew from the first time I saw you that you’d be…memorable.” Had he called her sweetheart?

Marc looked at her for a moment, then leaned down again and slowly pushed the covers to her waist, his mouth trailing downward between her breasts. “I wish,” he murmured, “you’d said unforgettable.”

Josie knew why she hadn’t; not because it wasn’t true, but because she was unwilling to admit to him that she knew she’d never forget him as long as she lived. But even if she’d been willing to correct her remark then, she wouldn’t have been able to; just as before, desire was burning in her and she couldn’t say anything at all.

Five minutes before, she would have sworn she lacked the energy to raise her head off the pillow, but by the time Marc pushed the covers lower, his mouth at her breasts and his fingers sliding down over her belly, her energy level had increased dramatically.

He made her forget everything except him and the way he could make her feel, carrying her away on a tide of sensation so intensely overwhelming she was almost afraid of it. Almost. But her body, it seemed, had surrendered at his first touch, and that was something Josie simply couldn’t fight—even if she’d wanted to.

And she no longer wanted to.

Vaguely remembering that her silence had seemed to disturb him, she tried to say something while hunger coiled in her body, but all she could manage was his name, hardly more than a whisper of sound. It seemed to have a strong effect on him, which would have surprised her if her mind had been capable of thought just then, but since he chose that moment to enter her body with almost rough and urgent haste, she was too occupied with raw sensation to care about anything else.

There was no time for thought after that. All she could do was try to hold on to sanity—and even that slipped away from her at the end, when the pleasure peaked in a stunning eruption of ecstasy….

“Yahhh.”

She’d been drifting, Josie realized, already awake but unwilling to open her eyes. The feline greeting, unusually soft, roused her, and she opened her eyes slowly. The room was bright, which told her it was morning—probably around eight o’clock, though she didn’t know for sure because Pendragon was sitting on the nightstand on her side of the bed, hiding the clock.

“Yahhh,” he repeated, still softly.

“Hello,” she murmured. There was an arm around her waist. She turned her head cautiously on the pillow, then pushed herself up on her elbows, still careful, so that she could see Marc better. He was asleep, on his stomach beside her with his left arm flung across her middle.

It was the first time she’d seen him asleep. His face was relaxed, the tautness of awareness eased. The dark crescents of his lashes hid his striking eyes, and the faint blue shadow of his morning beard softened and blurred the sharp angle of his jaw. She looked down at his left arm, at the scar that twisted up past his elbow. It would fade in time, like all scars, but right now it spoke of a great deal more pain than he had revealed.

He certainly didn’t hesitate to use the arm. And for a man still supposedly convalescing, she thought wryly, he sure had energy to spare.

Three times. Three times during the night, he had awakened her with hungry kisses. And that had been after they’d finally fallen asleep sometime around midnight.

Josie had the uneasy suspicion that he had, during that passionate night, marked her indelibly as his. In fact, she was half afraid to look into a mirror, because she was sure she’d be able to see the mark.

Tearing her gaze away from him, she looked back at the black cat, who was purring loudly. “Why do I get the feeling,” she murmured softly, “that all of this was somehow your idea?”

Pendragon blinked at her, then stopped purring, said, “Wow,” and looked toward the doorway.

Josie followed his gaze automatically. She heard her own sharp intake of breath, but this time she was more startled than truly surprised.

Wow, indeed. Luke Westbrook, it was clear, disdained the notion that ghosts appeared only at night, and put paid to Josie’s theory that after ten
P.M
. was his time to haunt.

He stood just outside the doorway, looking at her intently. He raised his left hand and, this time, beckoned urgently. Then he backed away, out of her sight.

Josie was on the point of waking Marc with an urgency of her own when she hesitated. What if she shook him awake and dragged him out into the hall to follow a ghost—and the ghost was gone? She’d look like an idiot—or worse. And Marc, who had at least been fairly neutral about her claims, might well begin to question her sanity.

She bit her lip, then slid carefully from the bed without waking Marc. Their clothing had been scattered about the room; the closest thing was his white dress shirt, and she put that on hastily. It smelled of him, a spicy male scent that made her legs go a bit weak and roused dizzying memories of his skin, of his body lying heavily on hers….

With a tremendous effort, she got hold of herself. Luke. She had to follow Luke. She also had to roll up the sleeves of Marc’s shirt several times and was still buttoning it as she padded barefoot out into the hall.

Luke was at the very end of the hall, at the door that led up into the attic. He beckoned again, and faded back through the closed door.

Josie found that sight more unnerving than anything yet, but she nevertheless obeyed his insistence and followed. She hadn’t yet explored the attic in any depth; she had gone up once while settling in just to glance around, and had found a relatively small space under the rafters of the old house that was stuffed with old furniture, a few trunks, and other assorted junk.

Now, treading lightly up the narrow stairs, she wished she’d explored more carefully. The space was unheated, but not especially chilly this morning—but she wished she’d remembered her slippers or dorm socks because the floor was cold. It was fairly dark, the cramped space boasting only one small window curtained in some gauzy material that was almost in tatters. When she reached the top of the stairs and stood uncertainly, the gossamer curtains fluttered strongly, catching her eye.

Luke was nowhere to be seen.

Slowly, Josie approached the window. It was closed—nailed shut, actually—which didn’t surprise her, because she hadn’t felt a breeze. She pushed the dusty, filmy curtains wide open and looked out, assuming there was something important she was supposed to look for.

At first there seemed nothing unusual. The morning was bright, with fleecy white clouds drifting across an almost painfully blue sky; the trees waved their branches lazily; leaves, soaked by the recent rain, lay heavily on the ground.

Then, realizing that only this window was high enough to provide a view beyond the hills immediately surrounding the house, Josie looked farther out. Still, she saw nothing unusual—until a faint movement caught her eye.

Probably half a mile away, just beyond a hill that would no doubt have provided a particularly good view of the house, a small figure appeared, trudging up a slope along a white rail fence. At the top, the figure turned and stood there for a long moment, seemingly gazing back toward the house. Then the figure bent, slipped through an opening provided by a missing board, and was soon lost among the trees.

“A woman.” Josie didn’t know why she was so sure, just something about the way the woman had moved. And something else, she thought, remembering the slight stiffness, the caution of movement. “An old woman.”

But what does it mean?

There was nothing else out there, at least not that Josie could see. Nothing unusual. So it had to be the old woman. Luke Westbrook, dead for fifty years, had led her up here to the attic so that she could watch an old woman’s morning walk. He had been urgent, so he must think it important…and Josie hadn’t the faintest idea why.

Frustrated, she turned away from the window, intending to return to bed with Marc and try to convince herself she’d dreamed the whole thing. But as she turned, a shaft of bright light streamed through the open curtains and picked out the gleam of wood across the cluttered room in a corner near the stairs. A piece of furniture. A rather large piece of furniture, mostly hidden under a thick linen dustcover…

Josie didn’t know why it looked so familiar, why she felt so drawn to it. Not enough of it was visible for her even to identify it, and it was only when she went over and pulled back a corner of the dustcover that she realized she was looking at a desk.

A desk.

In a flash of memory, she suddenly recalled the portrait of Luke. He’d been sitting at a desk, she remembered. A big, heavy desk made of gleaming dark wood. And some of his furniture was still in the house, so why not that?

“Josie?” Marc, calling from downstairs.

“Up here,” she called back, staring at the desk. There were things on top that had to be moved before she could uncover it completely, and she was wrestling with a rather large box—apparently filled with rocks, judging by the weight—when Marc reached the attic.

“What’re you—”

“Oh, damn,
why
do people pack everything heavy in a single box?” she asked breathlessly.

Marc pushed her gently to one side and lifted the box without visible strain. “Where do you want this?”

“Oh—anywhere. I just need it moved.” She was glad she’d stolen his shirt, because he looked awfully good bare-chested. She watched him set the box to one side on a trunk, then pointed mutely at the two remaining boxes on the desk. While he got those, she moved a dress form and an ancient sewing basket, which left the desk unburdened by anything except the dustcover.

Marc came to her side, tipped her face up, and kissed her quite thoroughly and leisurely. Then he said, “May I ask why we’re moving things around the attic at eight-thirty on a Wednesday morning?”

Josie couldn’t help grinning a little at the infinite patience in his voice. “Well…I wanted to take a look at this desk.”

“Why?” He was still patient.

She found that her hands were on his chest, that she was absently smoothing what was almost a pelt of black hair. “Nice,” she said, without realizing she was going to.

Obviously realizing to what she referred, Marc said politely, “I’m glad you think so.” He was smiling just a little, a very masculine smile.

Josie felt her cheeks burning, but said seriously, “You said some very nice things about me last night, and…”

“And now it’s your turn?”

Realizing she was rapidly painting herself into a corner, she said, “Um…the desk—”

His hands slid down her back and curved over her bottom, easing her against him. “Never mind the desk. I woke up to an empty bed. It was a terrible and most unwelcome shock. My ego needs stroking.”

She eyed him uncertainly. “I got the impression you had plenty of confidence.”

“In most things,” he agreed. “But I seem to be a mass of insecurity when it comes to you, sweetheart.”

Josie was surprised. Somewhat rueful, she said, “One week after meeting, we’re in bed together—and you’re insecure? I can’t imagine why.”

“Humor me.”

“Um…if you keep doing that with your hands, I’m not going to be able to say very much about anything….”

Smiling, he continued to move his hands over her bottom. Almost casual but unmistakably intimate. The touch of a lover. “You look sexy as hell in my shirt,” he told her.

Josie blinked. Already, the ability to utter anything coherent was slipping away from her. The effect this man had on her was terrifying. “I…um…was going to apologize. For stealing it.”

“Don’t. You can have every shirt I own, if you promise to wear them every morning. With nothing underneath.”