His mouth dropped open again, but still no words emerged. He did loosen his grip on her hand enough for Audrey to yank it free, however, which she immediately did. And then, because she was too agitated by now to linger, she muttered a hasty good-bye and fled.
Truly. Fled. There was no other way to describe what she did but flee. From a man she’d been so determined she would make understand the gravity of his problem.
Gravity
, she echoed to herself as she punched the elevator button in the hallway outside his office. She bit back a chuckle she feared would become hysterical. The man’s ancestor had returned from the grave to reclaim his grandson’s soul, a soul Nathaniel didn’t even think existed, let alone was missing. Yeah, that was a problem, all right.
But it wasn’t Audrey’s. Not anymore.
She didn’t care what Silas Summerfield said. She was finished with his great-great-however-many-greats grandson. She’d take the portrait back to the antique shop, donate it to the Speed Museum, list it on eBay if she had to. Whatever it took to rid herself of the Summerfield men. Because Audrey was done. With
both
of them.
NATHANIEL LOOKED AT THE DOOR THAT HAD JUST
closed behind Audrey Magill and waited for all the short circuits in his brain to stop
snap-crackle-and-popping
and reconnect. For the moment, the only recognizable concept he could grasp was heat. Because that was what he had felt when Mrs. Magill closed her hand over his. And not regular heat, either. Not the kind of warmth that spreads slowly when you come in from the cold and hold your hands in front of a fire. But an unnatural—even supernatural?—all-consuming kind of heat that had overcome his entire body within nanoseconds of contact with hers.
For the first time in two days, Nathaniel had felt not just warm, but . . . normal. Better than normal. Better than warm, for that matter. The coldness that had plagued him for the past forty-eight hours had thawed instantly after Audrey Magill touched him. And even beyond that, he’d been overcome by a feeling of well-being unlike anything he had ever experienced before. As if there were nothing in the world that would ever go wrong again. As if everything in his life was perfectly balanced. As if . . .
As if his soul had not only returned, but suddenly “fit” him in a way it never had before.
Ridiculous, he immediately censured himself. He’d thought the woman was a nut job yesterday, and she’d only cemented that conviction in their conversation today. Even if he did buy into her whole ludicrous fantasy, which he absolutely, unequivocally did
not
; even if he had lost his soul two days ago only to have it return today, however temporarily, which it absolutely, unequivocally had
not
, the new soul had felt different from the old one.
But there was no such thing as a soul, Nathaniel emphatically reiterated to himself. So there was no way he could have lost his.
Then why, he asked himself further, did he suddenly feel cold again, now that Audrey Magill was gone? And why did he feel empty again? And why had he started feeling that way the minute she removed her hand from his? Why was that feeling of well-being and balance gone?
He opened the door she had closed behind herself and, after only a moment’s hesitation, stepped through it. His outer office was populated by his assistant Irene and three other people who, presumably, had appointments to see either him or one of his associates. At the moment, Nathaniel couldn’t have recalled his day’s agenda, even if he’d wanted to. Instead, he went straight to Irene’s desk and stuck out his hand.
In her burnt-orange suit and red cat’s-eye glasses, the fifty-something redhead reminded him of a plump pumpkin. A plump pumpkin who was obviously startled by his gesture and peered at him curiously over the rim of her glasses. “What?” she said.
“Shake my hand,” he told her.
Her curiosity turned to suspicion. “Why?”
“Just do it,” he told her, his voice edged with his impatience.
Gingerly, she lifted her hand and clasped it against his, then gave it a wary shake.
Nothing, Nathaniel thought. Not even a hint of warmth. Irene’s hands weren’t cold, but neither did they do anything to dispel the chill of his own.
“My God, your hands are like ice,” she gasped.
Nathaniel ignored the comment, dropping her hand with much frustration. “Who’s my next appointment?” he asked.
“Mr. Reinholt,” Irene told him.
She gazed around Nathaniel at a man who looked to be in his early thirties, with hair as dark as his suit. Without having to be told twice, Reinholt rose, buttoning his jacket with one hand as he extended the other toward Nathaniel.
“Mr. Summerfield,” he said with an ingratiating smile. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
Nathaniel said nothing as he grabbed the man’s hand and gave it an unceremonious shake, holding onto his fingers longer than was necessary—or businesslike. But there was no warmth to be had from Reinholt, either. Damn him.
Turning from Reinholt, he looked at the woman seated nearby, who wore a suit not unlike the one Mrs. Magill had been wearing, except that she didn’t fill it out nearly as well, and the dark color only washed out her pale hair and eyes, where it had made Mrs. Magill even more striking.
“And you are?” he asked the woman, dismissing Reinholt completely.
“Daphne McManon,” Irene announced, her tone of voice indicating she was more than a little worried about Nathaniel at the moment. “She’s here to see Eric.”
“Ms. McManon,” Nathaniel said, even though she wasn’t waiting to see him, extending his hand to her before she even had a chance to stand up.
When she only looked at him with clear puzzlement and began to raise her hand slowly, he snatched it in both of his and held fast. Again, her skin was warm enough, but none of that warmth spread to Nathaniel. Even when he tightened his hold—and even after she stood and tried to tug her hand free, hard enough that there should have been some kind of static electricity or
something
generated that would heat his flesh—nothing changed within him the way it had the very second his hand had made contact with Audrey Magill’s.
Hastily, he dropped the hand of . . . whatever her name was . . . and without even waiting for an introduction, he moved on to the fourth occupant of the outer office and grabbed
both
of the man’s hands in his.
“Hey!” the guy objected, jumping to his feet. He, too, gave his hands a good, hard tug, yanking them free from Nathaniel’s. But not quickly enough that Nathaniel knew with certainty there was no warmth to be had from him, either.
He was still cold. And he was getting colder by the moment. By now, Audrey Magill was, at the closest, walking down Main Street toward her car. At worst, she was already in that car, driving away from the narrow iron-front building that housed Summerfield Associates. It was almost as if the farther away she traveled from his office—and from Nathaniel—the deeper the cold sank into his body. He was practically shivering with it now. How bad would it be by the time he got home tonight? Especially if his house was in the opposite direction of hers?
And what the hell was he going to have to do to get warm again?
Six
CECILIA HAVENS STOOD ON THE BUCKLED SIDEWALK
in front of her next door neighbor’s big brick Victorian and gazed at the third-floor windows of the turret on the left hand side. The windows were straight across from her own bedroom windows on the top floor of Finn and Stephen’s house, and looked into a room in Audrey Magill’s that was, at present, empty. Except for one thing.
The shadow Cecilia could have sworn she’d seen moving around behind those windows a few minutes ago.
But she could see no shadow behind those windows now, if indeed there had ever been one there at all. It wouldn’t be the first time her imagination had gotten the better of her. And she’d overreacted to more than her fair share of shadows in the past few years, many of which had looked like great looming hulks poised to attack her one minute, and like the coatrack or ironing board or shower curtain they actually were the next. But that was only because, for some of those years, the great looming hulk had been none too shadowy and all too real.
This time, though, the shadow hadn’t seemed particularly looming or hulky or bent on attack. It had just sort of . . . been. She had strode into her bedroom after showering, her robe belted snugly around her waist, half bent over as she scrubbed a towel over her hair to help dry it. When she straightened and pushed the towel away from her face, her gaze had automatically fallen on the window. She was about to turn away when, through her own lace curtains and the sheers on the house across the way, she’d seen something move. Something significantly larger than Audrey Magill.
Before Cecilia had even realized it, she was walking cautiously toward the window, narrowing her eyes to bring whatever it was into better focus. But when she’d pulled her curtain to the side to afford herself a better view, the shape had . . . disappeared. Not moved away from the window. Not bent down out of view. Just . . . disappeared. As if it had never been there at all.
Not sure why she did it—probably because Audrey’s frantic visit of a few mornings ago was still fresh in her mind—Cecilia had quickly dressed in faded blue jeans and an even more faded black T-shirt, had tugged on her black Converse low-riders, and had come over to make sure her neighbor was okay. She knew nothing about the woman who lived here, save what Finn and Stephen had told her. That Audrey Magill, a woman in her late thirties, was a widow, and that she made Derby hats, and that she was trying to get a home business as a milliner off the ground, even though Cecilia had thought the word “milliner” was one that only showed up in historical romance novels these days. She’d met Audrey herself only a handful of times. They’d made the occasional small talk when they’d encountered each other outside, but Finn and Stephen had also had her over for a wine-and-cheese party a few weeks ago. And then, of course, there was the other day, when Audrey came running over because her house had been broken into.
Correction. Because she
thought
her house had been broken into. What she had described sounded more like a run-of-the-mill poltergeist to Cecilia. Not that Cecilia was an expert on the paranormal. She just watched way too much Discovery Channel, that was all. And way too much Learning Channel. And way too much Lifetime TV. And also HGTV, DIY, VH1, HSN, CNN, ESPN, and all those other channels that IDed themselves by letters. She
liked
TV. So sue her. It beat the hell out of having to deal with people on a regular basis. And what else was she supposed to do until she found a job? Or, at least, a job that didn’t involve being around men, since the four jobs she’d managed to find during the six months she’d spent in Louisville had all ended badly the moment she’d had to interact with a heterosexual Y-chromosome.
Inhaling a deep breath, Cecilia smoothed one hand over the close-cropped and still-damp auburn hair she’d forgotten to comb, then made her way through the wrought iron gate at the foot of the front walk. It was never too late to drop in and welcome someone to the neighborhood, right? Even if that someone had lived next door for more than a month. And even if she’d already met her a few times and had neglected to say, “Hey, welcome to the neighborhood.” And even if there might be a great, looming hulk poised ready to attack lurking in the shadows of said neighbor’s home.
And even if, until now, Cecilia had gone out of her way to
not
run into Audrey. It was nothing personal. She went out of her way to
not
run into everyone.
But between the mystery shadow this morning and Audrey’s panic the other day, something had crept into a place inside Cecilia that she’d been battling to keep locked up for months. Worse, whatever it was had started poking around and stirring up things she still struggled to keep battened down tight. She understood panic like Audrey had been overwhelmed by the other day. She understood fear. She understood not feeling—not being—safe. And if there was any chance her neighbor might be in danger, Cecilia felt duty-bound to help her.
But all those things she’d tried to keep locked up started
tap-tap-tapping
at the back of her brain as she studied her neighbor’s third-floor turret windows, and they all urged her to run away. Fast. So she did what her therapist had instructed her to do whenever she felt the fears creeping in. She closed her eyes and reminded herself she
was
safe now. Vincent Strayer was thousands of miles away and would never be able to find her, even if he was looking. She hadn’t just changed her address when she left him and moved clear across the country. She’d changed her name, her appearance, her friends, her job—well, she would change that, as soon as she found something besides pastry chef to which she was suited that didn’t require her to be around men—straight men, anyway. Not that changing her friends had been very difficult, since Vincent had started systematically separating Cecilia from what few friends she’d had in San Francisco virtually from the moment she’d met him.
Besides, he probably wasn’t looking for her anyway. As soon as she’d found her backbone and stood up to him, he’d lost interest in her. Though, granted, not without giving her a send-off she wasn’t likely to forget.
I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe,
she chanted to herself.
I’m strong. I’m independent. I’m self-sufficient. And as God is my witness, I will never date assholes again.
Cecilia knew that, because she would never date
anyone
again. And after what she’d been through with Vincent, a haunted house—hell, even a burglar—was nothing.
She made her way up Audrey Magill’s front walk and lifted the big brass knocker on the door, letting it fall three times before stepping back again. The house had been empty when Cecilia accepted Finn and Stephen’s offer to rent the apartment upstairs six months ago, and it hadn’t been in the best shape. But even after the short time she’d lived there, Audrey had already made some marked improvements to the place. She’d had the whole exterior pressure-washed, had fixed the cracks in the walk and porch stairs, had painted the wrought iron and shutters a cheery white. The front door, too, had been freshly painted, a rich violet color that always made Cecilia smile when she saw it, and which matched the semicircle of variegated stained glass overhead. Newly blossomed bleeding heart spilled from planters beneath the overhang in a tangle of red, pink, and purple, and bright, mosaic pots lined the porch and front walkway, awaiting more spring planting.