Her arms were locked around him, her hips rocking with his. His hands cradled her buttocks, pulling her against him, until it seemed they really had become one. She arched, quivered, her heart thundering as she strove to get even closer to him, soaring on a cloud of dreams and ecstasy. His mouth found hers again, melding against it just as she melded into him. He stroked and drove deeper, until the fire seemed to consume her. She wanted it go on forever, wanted to reach the promised climax, to know that shattering moment of completion once again….
Finally it came. She cried out his name, shuddering as the world seemed to explode around her, within her. And she felt him, felt him, as he tensed, frame hard as steel, haunches taut and straining. She heard the hoarse cry that fell from his lips, felt him as he fell against her, drawing her fully into his arms once again, holding her.
“Matt?”
“Shh.”
“But, Matt…”
His arms were still around her. His fingers smoothed back the dampness of her hair. “Sleep,” he whispered. “Dream.”
And there in his arms, she did.
In the morning, of course, she woke alone.
But the dream was fresh in her mind.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Maybe dreams were better than nothing, than the loss, the ache of loneliness, that never seemed to leave her.
Or maybe, as Brad had told her, she needed to come to terms with the past, to get on with her life.
She rose, showered and dressed for a day in the trenches in jeans, a blue denim shirt and sneakers. They were on to a treasure. But even the excitement of discovery seemed to lie dormant in her heart compared to the dream, which, she had to admit, had shaken her badly.
Downstairs, she was greeted by humming. Cheerful humming. Perky, cheerful humming. When she entered the kitchen, she got her first glance of Melissa Turner. The young woman was busy at the coffeepot. She had short brown hair and was a little on the stout side, comfortably dressed in serviceable deck shoes, a calf-length skirt and a white blouse. The tune she was humming was “Yankee Doodle.”
She’d been running the water for the coffee, which was probably why she hadn’t heard Leslie come down. When she turned, she jumped and screamed dramatically, staring with wide brown eyes at Leslie.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Leslie said.
“Startle me? You scared me out of ten years of life,” Melissa replied. She had a death grip on the coffee urn. Probably a good thing. It might have crashed to the floor otherwise.
“But you’re not a ghost,” Melissa said, still staring.
Leslie shook her head, half smiling, half frowning. “No, I’m Leslie MacIntyre. Didn’t they tell you? I’m staying here while I work on the new dig site. You were expecting a ghost?”
“No, they told me. I just forgot. And, well, I think this place has to be haunted.”
“I see,” Leslie murmured.
“Oh, Lord, I’m so sorry,” Melissa said awkwardly. “I meant…ghosts from the Revolutionary War. The gang wars. Old ghosts.”
“It’s all right,” Leslie said. Melissa was trying so hard and seemed so earnest that she almost laughed aloud. “It’s a very historic house.”
“Incredibly historic,” Melissa agreed. “And you—you’re an archaeologist,” Melissa said, her tone filled with reverence.
“Yes. You’ll see lots of them around here.”
“Not of your caliber.”
“I’ve had some luck,” Leslie admitted.
“Luck? You’re a mile above the rest.”
“I’ve just had a few more years at it than some, that’s all.”
Melissa stared back at her, looking unconvinced.
“How about you finish making that coffee? I’d love a cup. And if you’re the one buying the supplies, please let me chip in.”
“I’d be happy to pay for your coffee,” Melissa told her.
Leslie hesitated, certain the Historical Society wasn’t paying the girl much. “Honestly, I’m happy to help out. I mean, you can’t be making—”
“Oh, I make pure shit,” Melissa said, then added quickly, “Oh, Lord, there I go again. I’m sorry. I should just thank God they pay me enough to live on. I’m not here for the money. I’m here because I want to be. I love this place. I’m fascinated by history, especially New York history.”
“Then you should be an archaeologist.”
“School,” Melissa said, grimacing. “I can’t afford it.”
“Well…there’s got to be a way. You know that old saying. ‘Where’s there’s a will’ and all that. I can help you work on it.”
“You’d do that for me?” Melissa asked in awe.
“Sure. And lots of the stuff we do, we use volunteers. That is, if you want to do volunteer work, after all the hours you put in.”
“I’d die!” Melissa said, then gasped. “I mean…”
“Melissa, it’s all right,” Leslie said, stepping past the girl as she realized she would have to finish making the coffee herself.
“Greta said that pretty soon she’ll let me work one day a week as a guide. Thing is, the guides don’t make any more than I do. The other guides are set for money. Tandy’s husband makes a fortune. And Jeff Green is retired military, so he’s got his pension. But I love the history of this place, and I swear, I’d work here for free if I could afford to.”
“I’m sure we can figure things out so you don’t have to do that,” Leslie promised. “Now, do you use cream and sugar?”