Waiting For You (3 page)

The oddly dressed lady cleared her throat and stepped closer. “Forgive me for interrupting.”

Despite the musical lilt to her voice, the trace of British intonation brought to mind the high-and-mighty aristocrats Nick had rubbed elbows with at his last firm. With quick fingers, he straightened his tie and came forward.
“Uh, no, ma’am.
You didn’t interrupt anything important. I’m sorry you had to witness that, um, display just now.”

Her lips remained stretched in a thin line and he couldn’t quite tell if she was irritated at him—and at the situation—or not.

“Are you Mr. Nicholas Marshal?” she asked in a choked voice, almost as if she was holding her breath.

He maintained a professional smile, but after what she’d caught him doing, it was hard not to feel like digging a hole and sticking his head inside…then covering it up. Maybe Vanessa set out to sabotage his first day in a new town after all.

“Yes, I’m Nick.”

“The solicitor?”

Solicitor?
Who uses that term anymore?
“I’m a lawyer, yes. And you are…”

She took another step toward him. “I’m Abigail Carlisle.”

He approached to shake her hand, but when her eyes widened and her face paled, he stopped. Maybe she had some kind of phobia of germs and didn’t want to get close to people. He could respect that. “Nice to meet you, Miss Carlisle…or is it
Mrs
?”

“I’m not married.”

“All right then, Miss Carlisle,
are
you seeking my services?”

Her brilliant blue eyes flashed, and color crept into her cheeks. “I’m seeking your professional—I mean your services as a solicitor.”

He tried not to grin over what he supposed she’d misinterpreted.
Curse Vanessa’s hide for making me look this bad!
Unfortunately, he still felt the need to clarify what really happened with Vanessa so Miss Carlisle didn’t think badly of him.

Nick motioned toward the chair. “Please, then, have a seat.” He straightened his suit jacket as he walked around the desk to his chair. “I want to apologize again for that scene a few minutes ago. She was an unexpected visitor. We haven’t seen each other in a little while, and—”
Good grief, I’m stammering! Just shut up, already!

“No need to explain, Mr. Marshal.” She arched an eyebrow. “I understand perfectly.”

As she sat, he slid his chair closer to the desk. “I’m surprised I didn’t see you,” he said. “I can’t remember passing you in the hall.”

Her expression remained solemn, and he dropped his gaze to the delicate shape of her mouth. This woman was definitely a looker, although so different than Vanessa. He returned his attention to her eyes. They were such an amazing color—so brilliantly blue—and he wanted to stare into them forever. He wanted to get to know her, and…

Back to reality, Nick,
he told himself silently.
Clients are off limits!
Period.
Hadn’t he learned his lesson from the last client he dated? He definitely could
not
go down that path again.

She cleared her throat. “Mr. Marshal, you didn’t see me because going unnoticed is something I have become accustomed to as of late.”

Unnoticed?
Not dressed like that.
Once more he took in Miss Carlisle’s garb. The woman would definitely stand out in any crowd. And that beautiful face…her gorgeous looks could stop traffic. Even old men at a nursing home would straighten up and pay attention if she walked by.

He opened the drawer, took out his mini voice-recorder, and pressed the
on
button. “I hope you don’t mind, but I always record my sessions.”

“That is permissible.”

“What can I do for you, Miss Carlisle?”

Her stiff, aloof behavior pricked Nick’s curiosity. In an attempt to draw her out, he flashed his most charming smile. She did not so much as bat an eyelash in return. It stung his ego just a bit, since women usually melted beneath that smile. Nonetheless, he wasn’t here to make her weak in the knees but to gain her trust and represent her.

She repositioned herself on the chair, pulling her shoulders back primly as she faced him. “I have searched a long time to find you. You are the only person who can help me.”

What an odd thing to say.
The urgency in her tone made him curious. It was in total contradiction to her outward, ice-queen appearance. “Really?” he asked. “Why do you think I’m the only person who can help?”

“I don’t
think
, Mr. Marshal. I
know
.”

Nick cocked a skeptical brow. “How do you know?”

A flash of hesitation, or perhaps embarrassment, skirted across her face.
“My maternal grandmother,” Miss Carlisle paused to draw a short breath, “—told me that one day I would find the man who could help me.”

Nick should be amused at the absurdity of her story, but instead the little she’d said so far—and the desperate pleading in her voice—intrigued him. “And she actually said my name?”

“Well, not exactly,” Miss Carlisle replied, “but it was close enough. She gave the initials N.M., and she said you would be a solicitor.”

“Solicitor?
When you use that word, you are referring to an attorney?”

She shrugged, her head bobbing to the right. “They mean the same thing, do they not?”

Disturbing tingles crawled up his back, the sort of sixth-sense sensation one experiences while walking through a cemetery in the pitch dark of night or after a scary movie. Nick shook off the feeling. Was her grandmother some kind of fortune-teller? “So how do you know N.M. is me?”

“She was a gypsy—a spiritual woman in her day.”

“All right, but how do you know I’m the man she had spoken about?”

Finally, a timid smile touched her mouth.
“Because you are talking to me right now.”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, Miss Carlisle.”

She closed her eyes as though in pain. “I knew explaining my situation,” she spoke the words carefully, as though testing its meaning, “would be difficult, but I’m at quite a loss for how to clarify myself.”

“Please try, Miss Carlisle, because you have me confused. Why exactly do you need
an
attorn
—
er
, a solicitor? And why do you believe I’m the man your grandmother spoke of?”
More to the point, why are you dressed like someone from the Titanic?
The last question would have to wait until he ascertained her reason for seeking him out.

Her breathing quickened as a touch of trepidation touched her stony expression. “Mr. Marshal, the reason I know you’re the man who can help is because you—you can…” She cleared her throat. “You can actually see me.”

Nick stifled a chuckle. “Of course I can see you. You’re sitting right in front of me.”

“True, but your lady friend could not.”

He silently cursed Vanessa again. “I don’t think my friend was paying much attention at that moment.”

“When she walked into the room first, she looked my way, but she didn’t see me.”

He flipped his hand. “I do apologize for that. Vanessa can be a little self-absorbed at times.”

“No, you don’t understand. The reason she couldn’t see me is because, well…” Her blue eyes locked on his with something akin to fear shadowing their depths. It brought about a surge of protectiveness Nick was not entirely used to experiencing, especially with a woman he just barely met.

“I’m a ghost,” she ended in a whisper.

Nick’s jaw dropped. “Did you say…ghost?”

She nodded.

He
scrutinized Miss Carlisle’s solemn expression and decided there were only three possibilities. She was either telling the truth (not likely), completely and utterly insane (which he hoped not), or pulling some kind of joke on him.

Nick’s mind settled on the third option. Vanessa had known exactly where and when to find him, which meant Steve and Travis must know, too. Nick had a sneaking suspicion this was his fraternity brother’s way of welcoming him to his new life. Those jokesters!

Nick tapped a finger on the desk. His so-called friends had set him up royally, first with Vanessa, and now the
ghost lady.
He’d play along and see how far Miss Carlisle would take the joke.

He bit his lip to hold back his laughter, scratching his chin instead. “You think you’re a ghost?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

Leaning back in his chair, he
steepled
his fingers against his lips. “Can you tell me why you think you’re a ghost?”

Lips pursed, she stared at the ceiling and expelled a heavy sigh. “Mr. Marshal, I don’t
think
I’m a ghost, I
know
it
.”

He nodded. “Go on.” Now he sounded like a psychiatrist—just like the one he’d send his so-called friends to after this meeting concluded.

“I was murdered in 1912.”

Nick clenched his jaw to stem the laughter building in his chest. She was one heck of an actress. Not once since she’d started talking had she cracked a smile. Her eyes didn’t twitch with a hidden laugh; in fact, her azure gaze almost looked sad. He even felt sorry for her for half a second. “Who killed you?” he asked.

“I don’t
know,
which is why I need your help.”

Nick shook his head, hoping to put an end to the charade. “I’m a lawyer, Miss Carlisle, not a private investigator. Perhaps I could refer you to a good PI or agency.”

“But you were a private investigator at one time.”

He sobered.
How did she know that?
He hadn’t done PI work in a good ten years, closer to eleven. Nick didn’t think Steve and Travis even knew about it. “I don’t do PI work any longer, Miss Carlisle. I’m a lawyer now.”

“But you’re the only one who can help me,” she said with a hint of desperation.

He frowned. “You keep saying that. Is it because your grandmother said a man with the initials N.M. could help you?”

She nodded.

“Come now, Miss Carlisle, you must speak to ten different men a day with those initials. Sacramento is a large city with many attorneys, and there have to be several N.M.’s. Any one of them could be the man you’re looking for.”

“You’re the only man with those initials that has been able to hear and see me.”

The serious look on her face stole all humor from the moment—that and her knowledge of his past. Maybe she was a reporter with some newspaper, here to get a story. Wouldn’t they ever leave him alone?

Nick’s head throbbed, so he pinched the bridge of his nose and took in a deep breath. Miss Carlisle still sat in front of him, looking very proper. If she were from a newspaper wanting to do a story on him, would she have taken on the role of a 1912 dame?
Probably not.
So why was she here and dressed like that?
Steve and Travis.
It had to be them.

Enough was enough. Nick didn’t know how his fraternity brothers knew, but it was time to end this and force her to confess. He slapped his hands on his desk, making the woman jump. “Listen, Miss Carlisle, I have to be honest with you. You look like a nice person, but you have to admit what you’ve told me is pretty unbelievable.”

She frowned, and the spark of excitement in her eyes disappeared. “But I haven’t even told you the whole story.”

She was harder to break than he’d expected. He pushed away from his desk and walked to the door. “Please, don’t make this any more difficult. You don’t need a lawyer—you need a psychiatrist, which I’m not. If you’d like, I could give you the number—”

“No, thank you.” She rose from her chair, keeping her back perfectly straight, and walked toward him. Mere inches away, she stopped and stared him in the eyes. “I’m not insane, Mr. Marshal.
Just dead.”

Even though his head still pounded with confusion, Nick couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Lady, I don’t know where Steve and Travis found you, but I have to admit, you’re good.”

Her hands rested on her small hips. “I assure you, nobody
found
me. I will give you one day to consider this, and I shall return tomorrow. I cannot put this off any longer. I need to discover who killed me so I can stop living in this…this…” She swiped a hand down the length of her.
“This ghostly existence.”

“Really, Miss Carlisle.
The game is over. Where are Steve and Travis?” He peeked around the door into the hallway. Empty. But he was sure his friends were close by. He looked back at the woman, expecting her to give in. Instead, her expression remained impassive.

She scrunched her brow. “I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by those names.”

“Then who paid you to come here and tell me this story?”

She stomped her foot. “Mr. Marshal, I can promise you, this is not a story, and I was not offered money. I’m truly in need of your help!”