“The mind can do amazing things,” he told her. “Then, face it, you’ve had horrible nightmares since your friends were murdered on Haunt Island—and you found them. There are all kinds of wonderful defense mechanisms in the mind.”
“What if the spirit of Dona Isabella is lurking in the water?” Vanessa asked. “Or…worse! What if Mad Miller is a decayed old pirate like Geoffrey Rush in Pirates of the Caribbean?”
He laughed.
Then he realized that she was serious.
“I remember one time, when Katie and I were small, and we were at the old cemetery, bringing flowers to the grave of one of my mom’s friends. Katie was acting nervous. My dad told her that the dead were the safest people in the world—that they couldn’t hurt anyone. He told her that she had to learn to be very smart and wary and savvy—it was the living who hurt one another.”
She nodded. “Of course. I didn’t think that Mad Miller or Kitty Cutlass rose out of the sea to kill and dismember Georgia and Travis.”
“Of course not. It’s sad to say, because I know you liked him, that most probably Carlos Roca was responsible.”
She seemed to start, and to shudder.
He set his arm around her and pulled her close.
“Hey, sorry!”
“It’s all right,” she murmured. “I just— I doubt it. All right, I know that there have been horrible serial killers who had neighbors who had sincerely believed they were just nice, quiet people. But I knew Carlos. And I don’t think so—no matter how it looked.”
They had reached the house and he opened the door, drawing her in. He locked the door and asked, “Do you want something to drink? A shot of…something. Kahlúa and cream, cup of tea, water, cola, soda…?”
She laughed. “Hmm. Tea and whiskey.”
“The old Irish remedy for anything that ails you,” he said. He walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
As the water boiled, he tried to casually look around the house for Bartholomew. The ghost was nowhere to be seen.
Probably out with his lady in white, Lucinda, the new love of his life.
Probably still angry with him.
That was all right; he didn’t want to be haunted that night.
The water boiled. Vanessa got out two cups and he procured the tea cups and the whiskey. When both were prepared, he suggested, “Let’s take them up to bed.”
She nodded. “Works for me.”
He meant to have a little finesse. Give her a few minutes, watch a bit of a late-night comedy. But they were still too new to one another. Once they had shed their clothing, they made love. He couldn’t bemoan his lack of subtle courtesy, because she was so passionate, so urgent, and completely and erotically seductive. She seemed to come beneath his very skin. It was one thing to feel the ultimate in climax and satiation. Sex was instinct, it was breathing, it happened all the time. But it was something else to feel the wonder when he lay with her after, something else to feel that nothing in the world could ever be so complete, so fulfilling…even so necessary.
They drank their tea then, cold, and though she kept drifting to sleep at his side, she would awake again and again with a start.
He found the remote and at long last turned on a late-night talk show. The noise seemed to soothe her.
She slept next to him as if he were a bastion against the edge of eternal darkness.
Waking with Sean was amazing; she had felt his body and warmth throughout the night, and she had slept deeply. She opened her eyes and felt wonderful. He had been on his stomach at an angle, and she had been sleeping against his back. Great back, broad shoulders, long clean lines, bronze flesh. She drew her finger down the length of his spine delicately, waking him immediately.
He woke well, too. It was all so new and amazing, of course. He turned and took her into his arms, a wicked look in his eyes, and they made love to start the day.
Afterward, Vanessa headed to Katie’s room to shower and leave Sean in his own space, and once she was dressed, she came downstairs and to the back of the house where he’d set up his office. He was there already, telling her that coffee was poured and that when she was ready, they’d go over the shooting schedule and she could tell him anything that she thought he might have missed.
Walking into the kitchen while reading the schedule that Sean had printed for her, she stopped, stunned—as if she’d been hit by a brick.
For a moment—just for a moment—she thought that she saw the pirate again. Tall, lean, dashing, rich black hair, plumed hat, standing thoughtfully by the dining-room window, staring out at the day.
She saw him in such detail!
And then he was gone.
She blinked. There was nothing there. Sun streaming in played on the dust motes in the air.
She hurried over to the coffeepot and poured a large cup. She nearly scalded her throat in her hurry to drink it down.
Now she was seeing things nearly on an hourly basis. And after such a miraculous night of deep and undisturbed sleep.
Sean walked into the kitchen to pour himself more coffee. He frowned, looking at her. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”