Haunted (Harrison Investigation #1)

Haunted (Harrison Investigation #1) Page 46

“And is she this Arabella you read about?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then…?”

“I don’t know. But I almost know. I will know.” She turned again with precision and started up the stairs. He stayed at the landing, watching her for a minute. She had almost reached the door to the Lee Room when she realized that he had come behind her.

Once again, she felt his hands on her shoulders. She felt force in them, and anger. But once he had turned her into his arms, she saw his eyes again, and she was startled to realize that his anger was directed more at himself than at her.

“Darcy, you can be the most incredibly stubborn fool. You’re playing with fire. You’re going to wind up hurt!”

She opened her mouth to speak, but never did so. His fingers left her shoulders, fell upon her cheek, and the tension left his touch. He pulled her against him with a volatile emotion that sent shards of shimmering crystal desire racing through her in a matter of seconds. She wished she had the strength to know that it was all a loss, to push him away, but she didn’t offer so much as token resistance, but slipped her arms around his shoulders, opened her lips to his, and pressed her body close, savoring the hard feel of muscle, heat, and life, and the extent of his arousal. They clung together there, in front of the door to the Lee Room, entwined in a building passion, kisses wet, searing, openmouthed and desperate, until Matt at last pushed at the door. He walked into the room, his fingers then braided with hers, until he reached the recording equipment and yanked the plugs from the walls.

Then he turned to her, wrapping his arms around her and tilting her chin upward. “If anything happened to you…” he breathed.

“Nothing will happen to me.”

“How can you be so damned certain?”

“Matt!” she stared up at him, drawing her fingers through his hair. “I know what I’m doing, honestly. And you mock me, you don’t believe any of it, so why…”

“I have a feeling,” he said, and mockery sounded in his voice, bitterness against himself, “I have a feeling. One of your fucking intuitions, if you want. I have a feeling, and the feeling is fear. Darcy, you should just let this go!”

She didn’t have a chance to answer, because once again, it seemed, the desperate need to meld together swept over him, and his mouth crushed down on hers, almost violently, but it didn’t matter. His hands were on her shoulders, still a little rough, the white gown that might have belonged to the spirit fell from her body to the floor, and she felt the fire and ice of his heat and the room’s coolness, and she found her own hands on his chest, found that she was pressing him back until they both fell on the bed and she was in a fever to touch and kiss every inch of his length, sinking into the heat, into the fire, into the need which had become stronger than any sensation which had ever touched her before, in either the physical or metaphysical sense. Insanity might have even created the depths of the hunger just to touch, the knowledge that there was so much hostility between them, in all that their thoughts ranged in such disparate patterns. His flesh was vibrant with life, a heartbeat pulsing against her lips wherever they fell. His fingers ravaged her hair as she moved against him, and his whispers were hoarse and taut and curt, sound, shadow, light, anger, need, determination, all creating the most vital sense of arousal. She dragged the length of her body against him, fingers, lips, tongue, a starting point, an ending point, and a need, somehow, to make him realize that she was a part of him, within him, burned against him, never to be forgotten. He swept her beneath him with a surge of power that caught her breath, thrust into her with raw and vivid drive and emotion, and seemed to take her flying into a world of heat, of dampness, where everything physical, the scent of him, the feel of his arms, brush of his palm, ragged, searing, movement, cotton of the sheets, seemed extravagantly wild and real, and still, somewhere else, she was soaring, and the ecstasy for which they arched and pounded was far beyond earthly pleasure. The world exploded and rocked, and she felt the depth of him like fire and steel inside her, and a slow withering that remained, for they were loathe to part from one another. And yet, all in the same moment, she found herself thinking of the dream, of the near-desperate passion that had ranged between the two….

And then, how the man had killed the woman.

Chilled, she almost threw him off her.

She closed her eyes, fighting the sudden wave of recall. This was Matt. She had lived a past life, seen murder, and the memories lingered, and still…

All that anger. All that passion. All that hatred.

“Darcy?”

“Matt.” She lowered her head against him, chin against his cheek, not wanting him to see her eyes.

“Is something wrong?”

His knuckles brushed down the side of her face. Featherlight. Erotic, sweet, tender. Her breath caught again. The lightest movement caused a quickening in her.

“Everything is right,” she murmured.

His arms tightened around her. She was startled when he said, “I’m afraid now, when I leave you alone.”

“Matt, I can take care of myself.”

“Then why am I so afraid?”

“You don’t trust in me.”

“Maybe I do. More than I imagine. And maybe that’s why I’m so afraid.”

“There is a ghost, Matt.” She was quiet for a minute. The thought of the violence done in this room, in this bed, still haunted her. She fought the memories. This was Matt.

“You scare me, Darcy.”

Tonight, for a moment, you terrified me, Darcy thought.

“Some things never can be,” she said flatly. “But I’m glad I’ve known you.”

“Darcy—”

“Please, let’s not talk. Not tonight. Just hold me.”

“Trust me. I’ll be here. Holding you. Until I’ve gotten you out of this house,” he said, his tone harsh, hoarse, and determined.

But his touch belied his tone.

A touch, a whisper, a breeze.

As seductive as a dream.

And yet, later, as she moved against him, she found herself asking, “Matt…did you follow me out as far as the smokehouse?”

She thought that it took him a while to answer.

“No. When I reached the porch, you came flying into me. Why?”

“I just wondered,” she lied.

He didn’t say anything more.

She lay awake, absurdly afraid to sleep, afraid that the dream would return, and that it would be relived….

All that passion. All that hatred.

She would be the woman.

And he would be the killer.

Somewhere in the wee hours, she slept, and she did not dream. When she woke, Matt was gone. The hour was still early.

Darcy rose, showered, dressed quickly, and hurried down the stairs. She was in time. Matt was at the breakfast table along with Penny, Clint, Carter, and Adam. Clara Issy saw her, smiled, and poured her a cup of coffee.

“You’re still sleeping in that awful room?” Clara said.

“It’s actually a beautiful room,” Darcy said.

Clara sniffed. “Anything eventful happening in it?”

Darcy looked at her for a moment, praying that Matt wouldn’t say anything, and that her cheeks wouldn’t flood to a brilliant red.

“There is a ghost there,” she said, “and we’ll understand her problem soon enough.”

“Tell her to quit hitting people!” Clara said.

“I’ll try,” Darcy assured her.

“We’re burying the skull in the churchyard today,” Penny said. “Poor Amy! At one this afternoon, she’ll be all together again. Well, in a way. One ghost down. But then, this place is riddled with ghosts, really, right, Adam?”

Adam set his coffee cup down. “Benign ghosts. Some aren’t miserable, you see. They linger because a place meant something to them. And only those with truly acute senses ever know that they’re about. So…actually,” he said, and paused, winking at Penny, “some should be more than welcome to remain.”

“Do you think they ever party together?” Carter mused.

“The ghosts?” Clint said.

“Well, I was wondering, if they all haunt the place, do they become friends? And do they talk to one another? Like, ‘Hey, Beau, you there, Civil War guy? You spook out the parlor today and I’ll take the upstairs rooms?’ Whoops, sorry, Adam,” Carter apologized. “I know how serious this is to you.”

“Maybe they do correspond. I don’t really know,” Adam said, hiding a smile.

“Hey, I wonder if any of them can beat Darcy at pool,” Clint said, smiling at Darcy. “Boy, kid,” he told her. “Can you play pool.”

“Thanks.” She was grateful. It seemed that he was trying to take the attention away from a subject that always turned uncomfortable when Matt was in the room.

“I have to admit, I was amazed,” Carter told her. “Who knew? She’s gorgeous, she sees the future and she’s a pool shark!”

“I like the game,” Darcy said, sliding into her seat.

“You should play Matt. He’s the best,” Penny said.

Matt set his napkin on the table. “We’ll have a tournament one day,” he said, rising. “I’ve got to run into the office. I’ll see you all at the church. And Penny, please tell me you didn’t call every newspaper in the state.”

“No, Matt, I didn’t,” Penny said.

“See you there,” Matt said, waved a hand, and left them.

“I only called a few of the newspapers,” Penny said softly when he was gone.

“Penny, Penny, Penny!” Carter chastised.

“They weren’t that interested, I’m afraid,” Penny said. “Except for the obnoxious guy that Matt already hates. And Jason Johnstone, of course, will do a piece. But the town will be gearing up. The reenactment of Stone Gorge is this Saturday. Carter, are you taking part in that?”