him something to do. When
Jamie saw Grace, though, his standard evening plans with Nadine had been abruptly
cancelled.
That
twinkle of knowing had told him to follow Grace.
That
she was special.
She
was also a bloody horrible tour guide. Grace missed the romance of the
ghost stories, delivering the information like she was lecturing to bored
twelfth graders. She was uncomfortable under all the attention, uncomfortable
with the Colonial dress, uncomfortable in her own skin. Jamie had been offering
her advice, because talking to himself was the only way to break the
unrelenting solitude. He had absolutely no idea that she’d even know he was
there.
No
one else ever had. Not since 1789.
When
Grace lost her temper and snapped at him, it had been the most wonderful moment
of his life. And death. She saw him. For the first time in over two
hundred years somebody saw him. If that didn’t prove this neurotic girl
had magic in her blood, he wasn’t sure what did.
“Overall,
I think you’re taking this quite well.” He assured her. “Many people would be
having vapors if they saw a specter.”
“Last
time I had ‘vapors,’ they put me in a straightjacket.” She muttered dourly.
Jamie
had no idea what that meant. “A what?”
“Never
mind.” Grace ate another spoonful of ice cream, apparently forgetting that he
wasn’t supposed to talk to her. “I come from a family that’s used to weirdness.
My cousin Faith once tattooed her face because a hibiscus told her to. This is
probably a lot less freaky than it should be.”
“Fortunate
for me.”
She
grunted. “So, what’s it like being a ghost? Is it terrible? I bet it’s
terrible.”
“It’s
terrible.”
Grace
nodded as if she’d expected as much. “What’s the worst part? Never being able
to change out of that outfit?”
Jamie
frowned and glanced down at his ensemble. It had been the height of fashion
when he died. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”
Chocolate
brown eyes widened. “Oh… Nothing.” Grace said quickly. “Nothing, at all. It’s
very… bold . Colorful.” She took another gulp of wine and licked a drop
from her lower lip.
The
woman had bloody perfect lips. Lush and pink and delicately shaped.
She clearly had no damn idea what to do with them, given she was forever
chewing on them and twisting them into frowns, but Jamie could think of at
least a dozen places he wanted to feel that soft, unpainted flesh. Sadly,
there was no way that would ever happen.
Dying
played hell with a man’s sex life.
Not
being able to touch women was so fucking unsatisfying that he’d given up
voyeurism back in the 19 th century. It was too depressing to watch
what he couldn’t have. Grace Rivera was making him reconsider that stance.
The
pirate in him wanted to seize every piece of her that he could get. Jamie had
always been a possessive man. What he’d stolen, he didn’t give back. Grace
was his now. Every instinct in his ghostly body wanted to claim her
before some other Robert showed up and tried to steal her away. His eyes
slipped down to the collar of her robe, already picturing what was underneath.
“Right.
Um. So,” she cleared her throat, not even noticing that he was mentally
undressing her, “why are you still here? Like on Earth, I mean. You’re
not --like-- a vengeful spirit or something, right? Out to destroy the living,
like in Poltergeist? ”
“Of
course not. I couldn’t hurt anyone, even if I wanted to. I’m not corporeal.”
He waved a hand through the arm of the hideous chair to prove his point.
Grace
appeared relieved. “Did you not walk into the light or something? Like in Ghost? ”
She paused. “That’s a movie. You know that, right?”
“I
know. I’ve seen it.” For a man born before electricity was harnessed, Jamie
had a fairly good knowledge of films and television. Over the years,
Jamie saw Grace, though, his standard evening plans with Nadine had been abruptly
cancelled.
That
twinkle of knowing had told him to follow Grace.
That
she was special.
She
was also a bloody horrible tour guide. Grace missed the romance of the
ghost stories, delivering the information like she was lecturing to bored
twelfth graders. She was uncomfortable under all the attention, uncomfortable
with the Colonial dress, uncomfortable in her own skin. Jamie had been offering
her advice, because talking to himself was the only way to break the
unrelenting solitude. He had absolutely no idea that she’d even know he was
there.
No
one else ever had. Not since 1789.
When
Grace lost her temper and snapped at him, it had been the most wonderful moment
of his life. And death. She saw him. For the first time in over two
hundred years somebody saw him. If that didn’t prove this neurotic girl
had magic in her blood, he wasn’t sure what did.
“Overall,
I think you’re taking this quite well.” He assured her. “Many people would be
having vapors if they saw a specter.”
“Last
time I had ‘vapors,’ they put me in a straightjacket.” She muttered dourly.
Jamie
had no idea what that meant. “A what?”
“Never
mind.” Grace ate another spoonful of ice cream, apparently forgetting that he
wasn’t supposed to talk to her. “I come from a family that’s used to weirdness.
My cousin Faith once tattooed her face because a hibiscus told her to. This is
probably a lot less freaky than it should be.”
“Fortunate
for me.”
She
grunted. “So, what’s it like being a ghost? Is it terrible? I bet it’s
terrible.”
“It’s
terrible.”
Grace
nodded as if she’d expected as much. “What’s the worst part? Never being able
to change out of that outfit?”
Jamie
frowned and glanced down at his ensemble. It had been the height of fashion
when he died. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”
Chocolate
brown eyes widened. “Oh… Nothing.” Grace said quickly. “Nothing, at all. It’s
very… bold . Colorful.” She took another gulp of wine and licked a drop
from her lower lip.
The
woman had bloody perfect lips. Lush and pink and delicately shaped.
She clearly had no damn idea what to do with them, given she was forever
chewing on them and twisting them into frowns, but Jamie could think of at
least a dozen places he wanted to feel that soft, unpainted flesh. Sadly,
there was no way that would ever happen.
Dying
played hell with a man’s sex life.
Not
being able to touch women was so fucking unsatisfying that he’d given up
voyeurism back in the 19 th century. It was too depressing to watch
what he couldn’t have. Grace Rivera was making him reconsider that stance.
The
pirate in him wanted to seize every piece of her that he could get. Jamie had
always been a possessive man. What he’d stolen, he didn’t give back. Grace
was his now. Every instinct in his ghostly body wanted to claim her
before some other Robert showed up and tried to steal her away. His eyes
slipped down to the collar of her robe, already picturing what was underneath.
“Right.
Um. So,” she cleared her throat, not even noticing that he was mentally
undressing her, “why are you still here? Like on Earth, I mean. You’re
not --like-- a vengeful spirit or something, right? Out to destroy the living,
like in Poltergeist? ”
“Of
course not. I couldn’t hurt anyone, even if I wanted to. I’m not corporeal.”
He waved a hand through the arm of the hideous chair to prove his point.
Grace
appeared relieved. “Did you not walk into the light or something? Like in Ghost? ”
She paused. “That’s a movie. You know that, right?”
“I
know. I’ve seen it.” For a man born before electricity was harnessed, Jamie
had a fairly good knowledge of films and television. Over the years,
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