Aquamarine

“W
HY DO YOU ALWAYS DO THAT
?”
SHEA ASKED WHEN
she caught Teague staring at her for the second time in five minutes.

“I like the way you look when you’re eating, as if every bite were an adventure.”

She put her fork down. “But when you stare like that, I feel self-conscious. Like I have a milk mustache or something.”

He stroked her upper lip with his forefinger.

She shivered in response.

“Nope,” he said. “No full moon.” He covered her hand, twining his fingers with hers. “I’m sorry if I make you feel uncomfortable, though.”

Heat shot up her arm. She swiveled around to face him, intending to say, “Thanks for lunch. I’d better be going now.” Only when she saw his eyes, smoky with desire, she swallowed the words and brought her free hand up to caress his cheek.

When he licked his tongue inside her mouth, a jolt of raw desire rocked her like a surge of electricity.
Lightning strikes
, she thought, dizzy with wanting him.

Kissing Teague was good, no doubt about it. Kissing Teague was very, very good, but kissing Teague wasn’t enough. Not this time.

WHAT ARE
LOVESWEPT
ROMANCES?

They are stories of true romance and touching emotion. We believe those two very important ingredients are constants in our highly sensual and very believable stories in the
LOVE-SWEPT
line. Our goal is to give you, the reader, stories of consistently high quality that may sometimes make you laugh, sometimes make you cry, but are always fresh and creative and contain many delightful surprises within their pages
.

Most romance fans read an enormous number of books. Those they truly love, they keep. Others may be traded with friends and soon forgotten. We hope that each
LOVESWEPT
romance will be a treasure—a “keeper.” We will always try to publish

LOVE STORIES YOU’LL NEVER FORGET BY AUTHORS YOU’LL ALWAYS REMEMBER

The Editors

To Warren

Dear Reader,

Happy Fifteenth Anniversary, Loveswept! I’m proud and happy to be part of the celebration. To be part of the magic.

I remember when the first crop of Loveswepts hit the market fifteen years ago. I thought they were the best invention since sliced bread. Until that time I hadn’t read much romance, but when my friend Doris loaned me my first Loveswept, I was hooked. Back then, though, I never dreamed I’d be writing Loveswepts someday. Who, me? Follow in the footsteps of Kay Hooper, Tami Hoag, Sandra Brown, Iris Johansen, Fayrene Preston, Helen Mit-termeyer, and Janet Evanovich? No way.

Yes way. This month marks the release of my third Loveswept. So I guess the moral of the story is: Sometimes, if you wish hard enough, dreams really do come true. (Of course, working your tail off helps too.)

Loveswepts have always been different, special—category romances of substance. One avid romance reader from Ohio told me she reads Loveswepts because in addition to a terrific romance, they provide a memorable story. This month is no exception as Loveswept introduces a group of EXTRAORDINARY LOVERS, love stories with a little something extra. Extrasensory, that is. You know, “ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties/and things that go bump in the night.”

I grew up reading Barbara Michaels, Naomi Hintze, and Marlys Millhiser, talented writers with a gift for combining paranormal elements with romantic suspense. So when the Loveswept editors first proposed the EXTRAORDINARY LOVERS theme month, I was excited,
though as a new kid on the block, I never dreamed one of my stories would be chosen. But miracles do happen. (Or maybe it had something to do with my heretofore unsuspected telepathic powers.
Choose mine. Choose mine.)

In
Aquamarine
, Teague Harris convinces Shea McKenzie to pose as his fiancée, missing heiress Kirsten Rainey. But when does the masquerade end? Shea soon finds herself falling in love with Teague. The problem is, she’s not sure if Teague’s in love with her or with Kirs-ten.

And she may not live long enough to find out. Someone on the Raineys’ private island knows she isn’t the real Kirsten because Kirsten isn’t just missing. She’s dead.

Or is she? An aquamarine crystal cluster may provide the answer and help these extraordinary lovers find their happy ending.

May 1998

Kirsten Rainey had been dead for almost seven years, dead and buried too, until an hour before, when Beelzebub dug her up. Luckily, despite his name, the black Lab was not in the least diabolical. He was, in fact, both sweet-tempered and intelligent, intelligent enough to understand and act upon the simple telepathic suggestions Kirsten planted in his brain. First
Dig
and then
Take me home
.

He crept up the stairs of the Raineys’ summer home on Massacre Island one careful step at a time, a master spy of the canine persuasion. Three-quarters of the way to the top, he froze for a second or two in response to a muted howl of rage from the back of the house. Ruth Griffin, the housekeeper, must have discovered his muddy pawprints marring her immaculate kitchen floor.

Hide
, Kirsten told him.
Hide before she comes after us with the broom
.

The Lab’s ears went down, suggesting he was well acquainted with the business end of Ruth’s broom. He tiptoed up the last few steps—or at least the dog version of tiptoeing—then padded stealthily toward Kirsten’s room.

The door was open.

Silent as a shadow, Beelzebub slipped inside.

In the adjoining bathroom, someone was singing a slightly off-key version of “Bringing in the Sheaves” to the droning accompaniment of a vacuum cleaner.

Under the bed
, Kirsten told the dog.

He dropped to his belly and wriggled beneath the bedskirt.

At last
, she thought exultantly. After seven years of limbo, she was home.

The vacuum whined to a stop, but the singing continued, growing steadily louder until it too died away. “Holy moley! Look at that mud! Mama’s gonna throw a fit. Beelzebub, you bad dog, are you hiding under Miss Kirsten’s bed again?”

Mama? The singer must be the housekeeper’s little girl, Glory, Kirsten realized. Not so little anymore, though. She’d be what? Fifteen? Sixteen?

“Turn my back for five minutes to suck up a few cobwebs and you sneak in.” The eyelet dust ruffle was pushed aside and Glory’s face peered in at Kirsten and Beelzebub. Not surprisingly, she didn’t seem to recognize Kirsten in her present form. “Bub! What’re you doing under there?”

The Labrador retriever cowered just beyond her reach.

“Come on out of there, you.”

As Glory lunged forward, he sidled backward to slither out from under the bed on the far side.

“Doggone it, Bub!”

The Lab whipped around the end of the bed, toenails clicking like a family of woodpeckers on the hardwood floor. He lost his grip on Kirsten in the fracas, but she knew he’d escaped when she heard the
click-clack
of his retreat down the stairs.

“You better run, you worthless mutt. Better hope Mama doesn’t catch you, either.” Glory wound the vacuum cleaner cord and trundled the heavy machine toward the door.

She can’t leave yet, Kirsten thought. I’m too vulnerable here on the floor. Suppressing a flicker of panic, she focused her mental energy. The crystal cluster vibrated, producing a low hum.
Look down
.

“What’s that?” The girl spun around so fast that she tripped over her own feet and went down heavily on one knee. “Is someone there?”

Nobody but us ghosts.
Not that Kirsten was a ghost in the traditional sense. She couldn’t rattle chains or even appear as a chilly column of ectoplasm. She was, instead, a lost soul, the essence of her being transferred to the heart of the aquamarine crystal she’d clenched in her hand at the moment of death.

As Glory shoved herself to her feet, she noticed the crystal, half hidden by the bedskirt. “Hey, where’d this come from?” She nudged it with one finger. “Guess Bub must have dropped another treasure. Beats his usual decaying bird or half-eaten gopher.”

Glory carried the stone to the window, where the late-afternoon sun sparkled off the crystal’s many facets.
“Same color,” she mused. “Same exact color as Miss Kirsten’s eyes.”

“Glory!” Ruth’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Have you seen that wretched dog?”

Glory crossed her fingers. “No, Mama,” she said. She set the crystal on the nightstand next to a framed photograph of Teague Harris.

Teague. Darling Teague. A flood of regret colored Kirsten’s thoughts. Attuned to her mood, the crystal emitted a low hum. Sparks of light rippled along its surface like splinters of icy fire.

Glory, who was horsing the vacuum into the hall, paused on the threshold, whirling around as if she’d caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye. “Beelzebub, did you sneak back in?” Then her gaze fell on the stone and she sucked air in a wheezy gasp.

The crystal glowed with an eerie incandescence, catching the sunlight and refracting it in a brilliant dazzle. It vibrated, reflecting Kirsten’s sorrow for what could never be. The humming grew louder.

All the color leached from Glory’s cheeks. Her mouth worked, but no sound emerged. With a whimper, she fled, shoving the vacuum ahead of her. The door slammed shut, and Kirsten heard the key turn in the lock.

Alone again, she thought. Though death had robbed Kirsten of touch, taste, and smell, it had honed her sixth sense to a keen edge. For some time now, she’d been aware of another, one whose very existence would throw the murderer off balance.

The final showdown was coming. She could feel it building like a thunderstorm on the horizon. At long last, the murderer was going to pay. Then maybe, finally, she’d be able to rest in peace.