Then the fingers of bone and rot began to twitch, reaching out for her, as a chant from her childhood echoed on the air.
“Don’t fear the Reaper,
Just the Harvest Man.
When he steals a soul
It’s a keeper, so
Don’t fear the Reaper,
Fear the Harvest Man,
For when he steals a woman’s soul
She’ll go to hell or deeper….”
Rowenna Cavanaugh jerked up to a sitting position in bed, gasping, startled…and scared.
She took a deep breath and reached for calm. What a nightmare. She was surprisingly shaken by it, and she couldn’t allow herself to be. She told herself that she had simply drifted off to sleep while thinking about home, even though she wasn’t going back for a few days and Halloween would come and go with her here in New Orleans.
She missed home. Massachusetts was always so beautiful this time of year. And Salem…Salem was still just a small town in so many ways. She’d been elected harvest queen in her absence. At least that gave her something enjoyable to look forward to after the upcoming debate with Jeremy Flynn, scheduled to raise funds for Children’s House, the charity he ran here. Besides, her appearance would help her to sell books. And she had been adrift since Jonathan, the man she’d planned to marry, had died—had it really been three years ago?—so she’d welcomed the chance to get away. Not that she really needed an excuse for coming to New Orleans, because she loved the city. But she was ready to go back home now, nightmare or not.
When she’d been a kid, they’d played games like harvest man. The Puritans had believed that the devil lived in the dark forests surrounding their settlements, just waiting to steal unwary souls. Superstition and fear had reigned supreme then, but she knew better, no matter what nonsense her subconscious had decided to dredge up.
Still, she had to wake up, had to get out of bed before she fell into another dream that was as bad or even worse.
She was living in the real world, the world of today. She had to pull herself together—and somehow manage another day in the company of Mr. Jeremy Flynn.
Ah, yes, Jeremy Flynn. Ex–police diver, now a partner in a private investigations firm with his two brothers, intelligent, articulate, charming, gorgeous…and not in any way shape or form attracted to her. In fact, he seemed to actively dislike her, but maybe it was just her opinions he didn’t like. To be fair, he was never rude or actively hostile. Of course, he probably didn’t dare, since his sister-in-law, Kendall Flynn, was one of her best friends and had been for years. Tonight there was going to be a Halloween party at the Flynn mansion, which Kendall and her husband had moved into a year ago, and where they now managed a community theater and hosted various charity events. It would be a great party, and Jeremy would politely greet her, then find a way to be on the other side of the room all night.
She got along just fine with Aidan, Kendall’s husband, and the youngest brother, Zach, was unfailingly friendly.
Unfortunately, she was attracted to Jeremy and had been since they first met. She had been stunned, because she hadn’t dated at all since Jonathan’s death. Not that she believed in some archaic mourning period, she simply hadn’t met anyone who attracted her enough to want to go out with him, or even to wonder what it would be like to have sex again, to touch another person intimately. But with Jeremy, she all too often found herself watching his mouth when he spoke, or his strong hands, with long fingers, the tips calloused because he played guitar. And he was a phenomenal musician. She knew, because she had seen him play.
But he clearly wasn’t interested, so she kept her dreams of wild, rampant, in-the-dark-at-first sex with Jeremy Flynn a complete secret. She wondered if her hidden fantasy meant she was being disloyal to Jonathan’s memory or merely human.
She wondered how he could ignore all the heat and electricity whenever they met. It was as if sparks filled the space between them, as if all they needed to do was touch and the very air would burst into a beautiful sizzle of mutual desire.
Or did that feeling exist only in her own mind?
She knew she needed to get up and take a shower, but she couldn’t stop thinking about him. It wasn’t just the vision of sex, either. It was like a yearning in her heart.
I admire you. I love listening to the tone of your voice. I love the passion in your eyes when you talk about a cause. I would love to spend just an hour in real conversation with you, without being on a show, when your attention was all for me, when I could honestly know what was going on in your mind, what makes you tick….