Was her house haunted? Was Grandma Tahlula hanging around protecting her? She shivered, not sure she liked the idea of sharing the house with a ghost. Not even a benevolent one.
A loud report echoed through the marble and oak foyer, and Tracy jumped, thinking the noise sounded like a... sneeze? She swiveled her head, searching for Missy—the poor dog might be catching cold—but she didn’t see anything except Hale.
Hale?
She blinked, and when she looked again he was gone.
Okaaay
. She really needed to get her mind on something else. Clearly, she had Hale on the brain.
Shaking her head, she banished the foolishness. The house wasn’t haunted, but it was drafty. She’d probably left a window open, and a cross-draft gust of wind had burst through the open door.
Sure. Right. That had to be it.
There were no ghosts, no guardian angel, in this house. And now no boyfriend. Just her and these drafty old rooms. She was all alone, and she might as well get used to it.
With that thought, Tracy slid down the wall until her butt hit the cold marble floor. Then she gave in to the flood of tears.
* * *
Claritin, Sudafed,
something
. He really needed to get his allergies under control. Only pure luck had saved him— that and the fact that Tracy was too upset by Leon to wonder about why she was seeing things.
At the moment, though, Pharmaceuticals were the least of his worries. Tracy was miserable, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Hale hated being powerless—hated it—and nothing in the world made him feel more useless than a crying woman. Especially when the woman in question was one he’d begun to care about. Even if the caring was an illusion, brought on by a magic belt.
Frustrated, he paced in front of Tracy, careful to tread softly so she wouldn’t hear him. Already, he’d almost given himself away: first when he’d rushed Leon, and then again when he’d materialized from that monster sneeze. He’d managed to catch the sneeze and disappear before Tracy got too clean a look, but he hadn’t experienced nearly as much restraint where Leon was concerned.
When he’d rushed the buffoon, he hadn’t meant to yell, too, but somehow the sound had just burst forth. He’d had to swallow it, ending up gurgling more like a strangled ferret than a righteous defender of the downtrodden. He hadn’t actually intended to bloody Leon’s nose, either, but considering the way the little worm treated Tracy, it was the least he deserved.
No, Leon’s injuries weren’t his problem. He was much more concerned with making sure Tracy was all right. At the moment, he wasn’t so sure.
She was still sitting on the cold floor of the foyer, her knees pulled up to her chest and her head bent over. He couldn’t see her face, but he could tell from the way her shoulders were shaking that she was crying.
The need to put his arms around her and rock her nearly overwhelmed him, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself. Instead of holding her, he sat on the tile next to her, hoping that somehow she’d feel he was there, even if she couldn’t really know.
Maybe someday he could truly be there for her. Until then, this would have to do.
After a few more heaving sobs, Tracy lifted her head. Black mascara tracks snaked down from her red, puffy eyes. She sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand as she pulled herself up to lean against the wall.
“Get a grip, Trace,” she whispered.
He isn‘t worth it
, Hale thought, wishing he could squeeze her hand.
“He’s not worth it,” she said to herself.
Hale smiled invisibly.
After a few minutes, Tracy pulled herself up and headed down the hall.
For the briefest of moments, Hale wanted to call it a night; but he couldn’t leave Tracy alone to fend for herself. Allowing himself a single moment of hesitancy, he followed Tracy up the stairs into her bedroom.
First thing, Tracy headed for her bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. She looked as miserable as she felt, and she hated that even a man such as Leon would have that kind of power over her.
The cold water wasn’t making any progress with her mascara-induced raccoon eyes, so she ended up breaking down and going for the full treatment, taking off her makeup with cold cream and a warm washcloth. Washing her face didn’t seem natural unless she followed it up with brushing her teeth, and by the time she’d finished the whole bathroom routine, she was in her ratty old Disneyland T-shirt and ready for bed.
So what that it wasn’t even nine o’clock? She’d had a crappy day and she deserved to lounge in bed with another glass of wine and a good book. With
Hale’s
book, she thought, letting a tiny shiver of anticipation run up her spine.
Leon was real, but as Melissa had warned, he sure as hell didn’t live up to his fantasy potential. So far, at least, Hale hadn’t let her down. Maybe she only had fantasies, but right then, her fantasies were beating the heck out of reality.
With a deep sigh, she headed out of the bathroom and into her bedroom. She turned on the lamp, poured herself one last glass of wine, then clicked on her ocean CD. Grabbing the novel off the chaise lounge, she dove into bed and slid under the covers. She plumped a couple of pillows to put behind her, then settled back, ready to spend a few delicious hours lost in someone else’s romance.
The story sucked her in, and after a few minutes, she was lost in the Middle Ages. No longer was she plain old Tracy. Instead, she was Ariana: the proud daughter of a besieged nobleman, forced to accept the help of her father’s enemy.
Especially considering the image on the cover of the book, she had no trouble imagining Hale as the hero— arrogant, proud, protective. Fiercely loyal to the woman he loved.
Using her finger to mark her page, she closed the book and took a sip of wine as she examined the cover one more time. “Why couldn’t you have asked me out instead of Leon?” she whispered.
Not that it would have mattered. She seemed to be cursed where men were concerned. If Hale had shown up at her door, tonight, Hale probably would have snubbed her.
She frowned, not liking that thought at all. Leon might recently have jumped up higher on her list, but it was Hale who had starred in her fantasies for a long time. And in those fantasies, he had always been the perfect gentleman. Well, maybe not entirely gentlemanly. She bit back a smile, remembering some particularly vivid fantasies.
Heck, already she was feeling hot and bothered—not to mention tipsy—and she hadn’t done anything but lean back against her pillows and read a book with his picture on the cover. With a little moan, she closed her eyes and slid down into the bed. Hale’s image floated above her, and she imagined his lips brushing against hers, his hands stroking her aroused flesh.
Suddenly too warm for comfort, Tracy pushed aside the bedcovers and ran her hands over her body. Her fingers dipped under the V-neck of her pajama top, and she caressed her own breasts. Closing her eyes, she imagined his fingers were tracing over her skin. Her nipples peaked, and she moaned with pleasure, feeling both naughty and a little bit drunk.
She wanted the real thing. Still, she could at least pretend this was the real thing. She could almost see Hale bending over her, his breath hot against her ear. His hands, hot and rough, caressed her body, skimming over the thin cotton of her shirt.
Shivering, she raised her hands above her head, her fingers gripping the polished wood of her headboard. Turning, she lost herself to the moment, her eyes drifting open dreamily.
Through a haze of passion, she saw him over her. She saw him right there in the mirror over her chest of drawers. He was still dressed in the sexy black T-shirt he’d been wearing earlier, but he’d lost the sportcoat. His strong arms were just as she’d imagined. Which made sense, of course; her imagination was running the show.
Even though she knew there was no way he could be in her room, the pragmatic part of her turned her gaze from the mirror to the bed. Nothing. She was all alone. It was just her, a romance novel, and one heck of a vivid fantasy.
Not too bad an ending for a perfectly awful evening, she thought. Then she turned her head back to the mirror, wanting to see again the fantasy she’d conjured.
She imagined his fingers touching her cheek, grazing over her skin, his face so close she could feel the heat of his breath against her neck. She watched, fascinated, as her imaginary lover traced the tips of his fingers up her leg, his touch softer than a whisper.
“Hale, oh, Hale.”
The faintest of murmurs touched her ears, and she delighted in the completeness of her imagination. This man, this fantasy, was everything she’d imagined and more.
Smiling, she nestled down into her pillow and comforter. She wanted the real thing—now, more than ever. But all she had was a fantasy to make love to her. At least her fantasy complied.
Goose bumps tingled on her skin as he stroked and caressed her. A shiver wracked her body and she tensed, surprised at the force of her reaction. The dream Hale’s onslaught didn’t even slow. Instead, his lips brushed her cheek, then the hair at her temple, while his hand crept higher, seeking the dangerous, wonderful places beneath the hem of her short nightshirt.
Spellbound she pulled the thin cotton up, allowing him better access. Her own hands blazed a path up her leg, and she imagined that his fingers followed, her imagination doing such a fine job that she could actually feel the heat generated by his touch. Moaning, she writhed on the bed, the sheet twisting at her feet, as she lost herself to the fantasy. She trailed her fingertips up, playing with the soft skin of her stomach, then toying with the waistband of her panties.
Bless her parents for giving their daughter such a vivid imagination. Maybe Hale wasn’t really here, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t feel him.
Oh, yeah, she felt him all over—stroking and caressing, making her hotter and hotter, but still not following her lead and exploring her most intimate places. No, his teasing touches were intimate, erotic, but he never touched her where she most wanted to be touched.
Considering he was a fantasy—
her
fantasy—she wondered about his hesitation. She arched her back, silently urging her fantasy lover on. Unsure of what she expected, she knew only that she wanted something. She wanted
more
, but she didn’t know how to get it.
That, of course, was a lie. She knew how to get it, the real deal. But Hale wasn’t there. Not really. And at the moment, she was just thankful that her imagination was so inventive and accommodating.
A wave of pleasure crashed over her and a moan ripped from her throat. She was thinking too much, too hard. She needed to just let go. To forget. To lose herself to everything but this exquisite pleasure.
Tomorrow, she’d concentrate on reality.
Tonight, she would just enjoy the fantasy.
Fire consumed Hale’s entire body. Beneath him, Tracy Tannin was so hot, so ripe, and he longed to taste and explore her. His blood burned in his veins, seeking release, and he knew that she was just as close to the brink as he.
Just one quick thrust and he could satisfy them both. One thrust, followed by another, then another and another, until they lost themselves in a haze of lovemaking that wouldn’t end until he’d taken her to the absolute highest peaks of pleasure.
A nice thought, except that she’d never know he was the one who’d sealed those peaks with her. Except... she’d called his name. He was in her fantasies, in her thoughts, and that knowledge thrilled him. He wanted this woman. And she wanted him. And being this close to her heightened that desire. He longed to sink inside her and give them both what they wanted.
Somehow, reason managed to soak into his brain through the cracks in his lust, and he remembered that he was invisible. It probably was not the coolest move to take Tracy all the way under the circumstances. She couldn’t see him. Wouldn’t know it was real. Would think he was only a figment of her imagin—
He caught his reflection in the mirror.
Hopping Hades
! He hadn’t even considered the possibility that she might see him in the mirror. How could he have been so careless? He
always
scoped out the possibility of mirrors!
Of course, there was a first time for everything, and he’d never made love to a woman while invisible before. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He’d never made love to a woman who didn’t know he was there before. Otherwise, a touch of invisibility could add some definite sparks to an evening of sex.
But in this case, she didn’t know he was there at all. What was he doing? What had he been thinking? This wasn’t a seduction; it was an indulgence. His indulgence. He’d wanted to touch her—no, he’d
needed
to touch her. He’d needed to comfort her. Needed to show her how much a man could cherish her.
But now he needed to stop. Right now, she thought he was a fantasy. How long would it take for her to figure out the truth? Five minutes? Ten? With the next kiss?
But he was too far gone. He couldn’t stop. He could only keep touching her, making love to her. Stifling a guttural moan, he slipped his fingers under the elastic waistband of her panties, then inched his fingers down as the skin on her lower belly tightened with anticipation. Just a little further and he’d—
No
! It was a short burst of sanity, but he managed to latch on. He held tight, and only by calling on every ounce of strength in his body did he manage to wrest back some semblance of control.
Drawing in deep, quiet breaths, he tried to cool the fire in his veins. He shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be touching her, shouldn’t be teasing her. Shouldn’t be tasting her. In his head, he repeated the words over and over, hoping that with repetition would come reason.
Nope. Maybe he shouldn’t, but, oh, how he wanted this.
“Hale,” she whispered, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips.
His stomach knotted and his groin tightened. Damned if he wasn’t lost. Knocked on his ass by one woman’s feathery-soft whisper. Just looking at her had made him harder than he could ever remember being. Now, with her writhing slightly and making those little erotic noises ...