Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) (15 page)

She uncrossed her legs, slapped her hands on her thighs, and got to her feet.

Her days of being a prisoner in paradise were about to come to an end.

* * *

Taking a shower in Charon's Crossing was almost a duplicate of taking one back home.

You got undressed, you put on your robe, you went into the bathroom, you turned on the hot water... and you waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Eventually, the water got warm enough and you stepped beneath the spray.

Then you shampooed and soaped and scrubbed and rinsed without wasting so much as a second because you knew the hot water wasn't going to last much longer.

Talk about destiny! Was she going to go through life plagued by heating systems that just plain didn't want to do what they were supposed to do?

Kathryn sighed, shut off the water, and shoved the shower curtain back just far enough so she could reach out and fumble for her bath towel. Even drying off wasn't easy. Whoever had mounted the towel bar had either never bothered measuring the distance from it to the tub or he'd had arms like a gorilla. The towels hung just two or three inches too far to be reached easi...

She froze.

The towel had just about leaped into her hand.

Either her arms had grown longer—or someone had handed the towel to her.

Goose bumps rose all along her skin.

"Don't be crazy," she whispered.

She was alone in the bathroom. And in the house. Every door was locked, even this one. She knew it was silly but ever since Olive had come into the house unannounced, she'd made it a point to lock doors. The front one. The rear ones. The one to her bedroom at night and to the bathroom, any time she was in it.

Okay. So there was a rational explanation for what had just happened.

She wrapped the towel around herself and held; it together with one hand. Then she took a deep breath, pulled open the curtain...

... and burst into gales of relieved laughter.

She wasn't alone after all.

A tiny green chameleon, looking more like a lapel pin than a lizard, clung to the wall beside the sink. It was basking in the sun spilling through the open window along with a warm, lazy breeze—a breeze that, even as she watched, playfully lifted the edge of the remaining towel on the rack so that it flapped towards the shower.

So much for the Great Towel Mystery.

"You see?" Kathryn said to the chameleon. "There's always a rational explanation." She sighed. "I knew that, when I got off that plane the other day. My problem is that I've been trapped in this crazy house too long."

The tiny lizard fixed her with an unblinking stare and bobbed its head. Kathryn grinned.

"Thank you," she said, "I'm glad we agree."

Humming softly under her breath, she hurried down the hall to her bedroom to get dressed.

* * *

The shaft of sunlight that illuminated the bathroom blazed brighter and brighter, until it was a shimmering sweep of quicksilver.

The little green chameleon lifted its head, then scuttled away in terror as Matthew emerged from the light's pulsing heart.

"Hell," he growled.

What a damned fool game for a grown man to play. Well, maybe that was the wrong description, all things considered.

"Hell," he said again, shooting a hand through his hair.

Man or spirit, spying on Catherine had been stupid. It had been childish. It had even been dangerous. If Cat had somehow seen him, there was a damned good chance she'd have stumbled in fear, fallen down and, perhaps, snapped her pretty neck.

He was reserving that pleasure for himself. No slippery bathtub was going to cheat him out of his revenge!

A slow smile eased across his mouth. Still, it had been worth the risk. The sight of her, wearing nothing but that towel as she stepped from the tub... Her long legs, the thrust of her breasts, the water beading like tiny jewels on her creamy shoulders...

An all-too-familiar tightness curled through his loins.

"Hell," he said again, folding his arms over his chest and glowering.

Catherine wasn't the only one who'd been in this damned house too long!

He was behaving like a boy, and for what reason? That Catherine was beautiful had never been in dispute. That she could make a man want her in the same way he wanted to draw breath into his lungs was a given.

Delilah must have been beautiful, too, and desirable, to have talked Samson into that fatal haircut.

Beauty and desire weren't worth a damn when they were masks for that which was evil. And Catherine was evil; there was no doubt about that.

He took a deep breath, then another. He would have to be more careful from now on. He had been the soul of discretion since she had found his journal in the attic. It was important to him that she read the rest of it, before he put an end to the farce they'd been playing.

So he had kept his distance, watching and waiting...

But for what?

It was clear that she was in no rush to read the rest of his journal. His mouth twisted. Why should she, when she knew the ending?

Dammit, he wanted her to read it! Otherwise, how could he be certain she knew what it was that drove him? She had to understand that the memory of her treachery had not been dimmed by time.

Matthew frowned.

How much time, exactly? He had no way of telling. Had a year passed since his death? Two? More?

He was beginning to think it might be far more than he'd imagined.

There were changes in this house that baffled him.

There was no oil in the lamps, yet they blazed with light when night came.

There was no cooking fireplace in the room that was clearly the kitchen, but there was a white iron box on which Catherine cooked food. There was another box, too, one that kept things icy cold.

As for this room...

It was extraordinary. Water gushed from the tub and from a basin set in the washstand at the twist of a knob, and there was a porcelain chair whose function he thought he was beginning to comprehend even though logic told him such a thing could not exist.

Catherine's father was rich, but not even the King of England had such contraptions. Matthew thrust his fingers through his hair and paced the room. Some said George III was crazy, but he doubted if even a crazy man could imagine such wonders as these.

And that wasn't all of it.

The most astounding thing was the simplest.

Catherine had come here without servants.

There was no one to dress her, to brush her hair, to make her bed and cook her meals...

By God, there was no one to do the common cleaning. Coming upon her yesterday, on her hands and knees with a bucket of filthy water at her side and a scrub brush in her hands like any common housemaid, he'd been so stunned that he'd damn near materialized right in front of her.

Everything was different. Catherine, the house...

How much time had passed since his death?

He leaned back against the washstand, a muscle knotting and unknotting in his jaw.

Years. Far more than one or two. But not too many, for Catherine had not aged. Surely, she would not still be so young and beautiful if... if...

"I am not Catherine,"
she had said, that first time he had come to her in a dream.

But she was. Of course, she was. She was Catherine's image, she was in Catherine's house...

Matthew shut his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. A second later, he slipped through her closed bedroom door. Catherine was standing before a cracked oval mirror, brushing out her hair. She was dressed in a white cotton skirt and a white top. Both exposed far too much flesh but compared to everything else she wore, he supposed you'd call them the height of modesty.

He leaned back against the door, arms folded, and watched her.

Last night, very late, he'd slipped through her closed bedroom, just as he had done a moment ago. The door had been locked, such a pitiful attempt to keep him out that he'd almost laughed. She had been asleep, lying curled on her side in the bed, her features a study in innocence. He had tried, and failed, to recall her ever looking that way in the past they had shared, but he could not.

The sight of her had made his breath quicken. The temptation to draw back the covers and look his fill had been almost overwhelming. Was she wearing that strange clothing in which she'd slept that first night?

He had gritted his teeth and slipped from the room without having satisfied his curiosity. What did it matter what she wore at night? In truth, almost everything she wore during the day had a potent effect on his pulse rate. She spent her days in smallclothes that left little to the imagination.

It angered him, that she would walk around thus. Didn't she give a damn that the sight of her dressed that way would make a man's blood run thick?

Matthew frowned. He was letting his imagination run away with him. Catherine did not think of him as a man. She didn't think of him as anything. Not yet. As far as she knew, he was still only a dream.

She was done brushing her hair. He watched as she gave herself a critical look in the mirror. Then she tossed the brush aside, picked up a purse with a long strap, and headed for the door—and for him.

He caught his breath as she approached. She could not see him. She would not see him, until he permitted it. He knew that. Still, it was folly to let her walk through him. She might sense something. A chill, perhaps; he didn't know...

She passed through him as lightly as a breeze would slip through a handful of flowers. He almost groaned as he savored the feel of her body melting through his. And oh, the scent of her...

He was wrong! She
had
sensed something. She must have. He saw her suddenly stiffen at the top of the staircase. She hesitated and he heard her breath make a catchy little sound in her throat.

"Oh," she whispered, and then she gave a soft, sweet laugh.

Matthew felt that laugh, right down to the marrow of his bones. God, he had to speak to her. To touch her...

"Catherine," he said.

But she was already flying down the steps, racing to the front door and flinging it open.

"Oh, this is terrific," he heard her say, her voice light with pleasure as it had once been only for him. "I thought I heard something coming up the driveway!"

Matthew came down the stairs after her and went through the closed door just as she slammed it.

What the hell was this?

Catherine was standing at the foot of the steps. There was a man at her side, and her laughing face was turned up to his.

And what a specimen the man was. Black hair hung to his shoulders in ringlets and a small golden hoop dangled from one ear. His red silk shirt was undone to the waist; his trousers were torn and ripped, and he wore thick leather sandals.

By God, the bastard was a pirate! Had Cat's passion for dallying with rogues sunk to a new level?

A carriage of some strange sort was drawn up in the driveway. At least, Matthew assumed it was a carriage. It was the strangest-looking vehicle he had ever seen. It had wheels and doors but no horses to draw it.

"Cat," Matthew said sharply, "wait!"

The pirate opened one of the doors with a bow so deep it was ludicrous. Horrible shrieks rushed out, as if of creatures wailing in agony, but Cat ignored them. She slid gracefully onto the seat and the rogue shut the door after her, went around to the other side of the carriage and climbed inside.

A second later, the vehicle rocked with a small explosion. Black smoke rushed out from behind it and then it shot off down the drive.

Cursing, heart pounding, Matthew raced after it.

How could a carriage move so quickly? How could it move at all, without horses to draw it? There wasn't a chance in hell of his catching up.

The thing turned a corner, picked up speed, and rocketed through the gates that marked the eastern border of Charon's Crossing. Matthew charged after it, refusing to acknowledge what instinct warned him would happen.

The empty space between the gateposts might as well have been fashioned of brick. He hit full tilt, with main and stuns'les set. The force of the impact knocked him backwards and he fell, hard, into the dirt.

Slowly, he rose to his feet. He stared at the open gate, then walked towards it, put out his hand... and touched an invisible barrier.

Rage choked him. He drew back his fist, slammed it into the barrier he could not see. He whirled around, grabbed a coconut from where it lay under a palm, and hammered it against the invisible impediment.

It was useless.

The wall could not be seen and neither could it be destroyed.

Panting, he stared down the road. All that remained of the horseless carriage was a fading ribbon of yellow dust.

Matthew groaned, threw the coconut aside and fell back against the palm.