The fire escape ladder dangled about seven feet up. She’d just have to jump for it. Or she could continue to stand there like some kind of crazily dressed prostitute turned damsel-in-distress at three in the morning. Someone might come along and help her; then again, the way her night was going, she’d probably end up a statistic. Or arrested.
But her heels were freaking five inches high. And she hated climbing, boots or not.
“Come on, Jules,” she sang to herself as she plowed her hand through the contents of the bag for the third time. How could she not have her keys? She might be directionally challenged but she never forgot them. Ever.
A nearby streetlight flickered off, then on again, casting a dull yellow glow.
She shuddered; goose bumps rushed up her arms but it wasn’t cold. That could only mean one thing: she wasn’t alone. She listened for whoever—or more likely,
what
ever—it was to make its presence known.
Nothing. Not a sound except the ocean waves washing against the sandy shore a block away. The gentle lapping water soothed her and a small, relieved sigh slipped from her lips.
“Who, whoooooo!”
A barred owl swooped low and she let out a small yelp of alarm.
Crazy bird.
Jules laughed softly at her own paranoia and rubbed her weary eyes. She hadn’t seen a ghost in six months. Why did she think she’d see one in Tidewater now?
She refocused on finding her keys. She shoved aside the bags of dried lavender and oregano she’d picked up from the herbalist. Skipped over the Waitress Red lipstick she’d bought for tonight’s party. Dug beneath her first prize blue ribbon. And came up empty.
She shook the purse. It felt oddly heavy, but it contained nothing else.
Even her cell phone was gone.
Dang it! Another fabulous blunder to add to an already freakish night.
How was she supposed to find her missing sisters if she couldn’t even find her flipping keys? Finding lost things . . . now
that
would be a gift! Instead she’d inherited the freakish ability to talk to the dead. Unless a dead person could tell her where she’d left her keys, or help her find her lost sisters, she considered it more of a
crift
—cursed gift. She shook her purse one last time.
Stupid ghosts.
She glared at the ladder’s twenty rusted stairs leading to her bedroom window. Hitching the purse strap up to her elbow, she heaved a sigh and jumped twice before her fingers connected with metal. The ladder lowered with a screech. The sound echoed against the brick as she stepped one precariously high-heeled foot on the first rung.
Man, tonight totally bites.
First, Mason Hart, that overgrown jock, tried to cop a feel at their college reunion. Now, she was wriggling up a fire escape in a skirt and bustier so tight, they squeezed all the breath from her body.
I’m burning this outfit tomorrow.
Finally on the second level, she pulled up the ladder behind her and latched it in place. Every other step, her boots snagged in the grooves of the metal deck. She started past her neighbor’s partially opened window when the goose bumps returned.
An incredible sense of anger and sadness swept over her. Someone else’s pain. The feelings smothered her sense of self and stole her breath. Bracing herself against the brick, she fought to erect the mental shields that she used to block out a spirit’s projected emotions.
She visualized gray castle walls rising around her, the same mental image she’d used since childhood. Castles were strong and safe . . . impenetrable. With her mental shields in place, her breathing eased and she rested against the wall.
Below, the street sat eerily quiet and dark. Even the owl stopped hooting. As far as she could see she was alone, but her senses screamed she had company.
Minutes ticked past and nothing moved. A warm ocean breeze carried the sound of the rushing shore. Otherwise, silence.
Home and her bed waited less than a foot away.
“Help me . . . please . . .”
The high-pitched voice grated against her senses.
“Not now,” Jules whispered, wishing she could just ignore the girly-sounding disembodied voice.
And a fresh one at that. New specters hadn’t yet mastered the ability to communicate without rubbing against the corporeal plane. The effect on her body was like fingernails on a chalkboard. Unlike the dead, living people didn’t make her skin crawl just by speaking.
Jules tried to open her window. It didn’t budge. She eyed the lock but it was open. Why wouldn’t the darn thing open?
“I . . . need . . . you . . .”
Frustration tinged with a healthy dose of fear whipped through her. She shoved at the window again. It still didn’t move. Rubbing at her goose bump–covered arms, she turned to her neighbor’s window. It was open and dark inside. She dismissed the fleeting thought. She’d sooner scale down the building naked than . . .
Her mind muddled. She shook her head to clear it. The scent of sandalwood filled her. Warmth suffused her bones and she couldn’t resist the pull to the open window.
The aroma intensified. Never before had anything smelled so wonderful. A warm, gooey, just-ate-the-best-caramel-brownies-ever feeling filled her. She had to get closer. The urge to get inside was overpowering.
The scent wafted through the open window and her body tingled, needing to get closer. The leather skirt hugged her thighs too tight as she tried to step through. Instead, she shifted and pushed through headfirst. Each movement dreamlike. Jules’s belly on the sill and her booted feet still outside, the scent drew her in until she tumbled to the floor. Breaking the trance, the specter whispered one word.
“Finally.”
• • •
W
AS HE DREAMING?
Detective Seth English of the Tidewater Police Department rubbed his eyes. Nope, no question about it. Someone
was
breaking into his apartment.
Criminals are just stupid.
Of all the nights to leave his window open, Seth had to pick tonight. He damned his recent bout of insomnia. Stress always did that to him. The sound of the ocean usually soothed him. Not tonight. His much-needed peace was shattered by a felony in progress.
He sat up. The blanket fell to his waist. Sliding noiselessly out of bed, he grabbed his gun and handcuffs from the nightstand. He slipped into the shadowed corner and waited.
Damn. The last thing he needed was a trip downtown and a night full of paperwork. Lately, it seemed to be one thing after another: his daughter’s engagement, his new partner, their unsolvable case . . . and now this.
Could his life get any more complicated without his head actually imploding?
The window frame groaned then gave another inch.
The streetlamp outside cast her in silhouette. And she was definitely a she. Delicate feminine fingers slipped into the opening and wrapped around the frame, pushing the window slowly upward.
Seth watched, barely breathing, as she wriggled through the window. When she’d made it mostly through, her hands flew wide in front of her as if searching for leverage. Then she tumbled to the floor with a grunt.
“Stay down!” Lunging forward, he planted a knee in her back. He pressed the gun into the base of her skull. His other hand twisted each of her wrists behind her and cuffed them together.
“Ouch! Stop!” she screamed. “Help! Police!”
“I
am
the police.” He ran his finger along her wrists to ensure he hadn’t snapped the cuffs too tight. “You’re fine.”
In the dim light, Seth reached down to help her up. He couldn’t very well leave her on the floor, regardless of the temptation. Fumbling in the dark, his hand brushed the warm satin skin of her bared midriff.
“Get your hands off me! Somebody! Help me!” She shrieked a banshee’s wail next to his ear.
“What the hell are you yelling for?” He tugged her over to the bed and shoved her down.
She thrashed and screamed incomprehensibly.
“Enough! Or I’ll charge you with disturbing the peace too.” When she kept shrieking, he added, “
You
broke into my place, ruining the first night’s sleep I’ve had in a week. I don’t need you bursting my eardrum too. Now be quiet. I’m getting the light.”
Her cries instantly died in the shock of blinding light.
When Seth’s eyes focused, he pinched the bridge of his nose.
The hooker—she had to be a hooker—wore knee-high black patent leather stiletto boots, a black miniskirt that could have doubled as a headband, and a leather bustier. Her legs were long and lean and covered in fishnet stockings. And the swell of her breasts was, in a word . . . succulent. Her short, straight midnight-colored hair was too dark to be real. The woman personified sex, as was her obvious intention. But her green eyes made his pulse thrum.
They were astonishing, as if emeralds were cut and layered around the pupils. The most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, in spite of the appallingly thick black eyeliner surrounding them.
And strawberries? God, she smelled like
strawberries.
His mouth actually watered.
Attracted to a hooker. I’ve sunk so low.
Chalking it up to his sexual drought, he focused on dealing with the handcuffed home invader thrashing around on his bed. He tried to shove his sidearm into his shoulder holster before remembering he was shirtless. Stomping over to the bedside table, he yanked open the drawer and dropped the gun in.
He hoped she’d think the heat creeping up his cheeks was from anger instead of embarrassment. Folding his arms across his chest, he asked, “Do you have any idea where you are?”
• • •
J
ULES SAT DUMBFOUNDED
in the bedroom of a Greek god. He had espresso brown eyes, curly black hair, a long nose that had probably been broken a time or two, and a sexy, dimpled chin. His tan, muscular body was covered by a chest full of springy hair that begged to be touched. Dang! He even smelled good, like soap and the salty Tidewater air.
Ohmigawd, he’s a walking condom commercial.
He scowled at her, waiting for an answer. Although to save her life she couldn’t think of anything. Where
was
she? More important, what was she doing here? Then a mental switch flipped and it all became clear.
That freaking ghost!
Jules couldn’t very well tell a cop she stumbled into his apartment because a ghost made her do it. He’d haul her off to the loony bin.
“Well.” Jules fidgeted against the cuffs and tried to adjust to a more dignified position on the bed. So not happening. “No, not really. I was trying to go home but, uh . . . locked myself out.”
He arched an eyebrow at her but didn’t say anything.
“I know this looks bad but just ask Big Jim. He’ll vouch for me.”
“And Big Jim? Who’s that, your pimp?”
“What? No!” She laughed and shook her head at the absurd thought. “He’s my dad.”
“Is that what they’re calling them these days?” He scoffed but didn’t give her time to respond. “There’s no one named Big Jim in this building. Try again, the truth this time.”
“Ernie Ward!
Ernie
is my dad.”
“I thought his name was Jim.” He shook his head. He made a sound like a buzzer. “Wrong again. I’ve known Ernie for years but I’ve never seen you before. Want to try another name, honey?”
His biceps flexed, arms still folded across his chest, as if he wanted to move but barely restrained himself. The sight was distracting. He wasn’t exactly muscle-bound, just finely honed. He stood fierce and masculine like an ancient warrior. Intimidating but ruthlessly sexy. It made her want to . . . She shook herself inwardly.
Why couldn’t she think straight? This so wasn’t like her. She didn’t go gooey over any guy, regardless of how ruggedly handsome. But her heart pounded at an erratic pace and she’d once again lost the thread of the conversation. What had he just asked?
Think, Jules!
Ignore the instant pull of pointless physical attraction. It had never done her any favors in the past anyway.
Something about him must be repellent. Find it!
She looked at him again, this time skating her gaze past his naked chest and sexy arms and moving down.
Oh, it couldn’t be.
She blinked, astonished.
He wore bright yellow pajama pants, covered in
lambs.
Resisting the urge to laugh, she latched onto righteous indignation and straightened her shoulders. This condescending jerk treated her like a criminal, handcuffed her, and called her a liar. Oh, he was going down.
“My name’s Jules. Not
honey
,” she snapped. “And Big Jim—Ernie—
is
my father. He lives in this building and I live with him.”
“I highly doubt it. Hookers don’t live here,” he said, tugging a red T-shirt over his head.
“Excuse me?” she yelled. “I’m not a hooker, and you owe me an apology!”
“Really?” he said, giving her an obvious once-over, his gaze settling on her bustier.
Her cheeks burned.
“Wait. I can explain.”
“Enlighten me.” He narrowed his eyes, doubt etched on his face.
“See, there was this costume party and . . .” Her words trailed off. How to explain the theme of her college reunion without sounding like an imbecile for dressing in the ridiculous outfit just to win a blue ribbon? Now that she thought about it,
stupid
might aptly describe her decision-making skills tonight. “Well, there was a Pimp and Ho party earlier tonight. I was on my way home from it—”
“And you just happened to climb into my window?”
Jules opened her mouth to respond, but doubted he’d believe her anyway. So she settled on a half-truth. “It was a mistake. I meant to climb into Big Jim’s window, but it was jammed and yours was . . . open.”
“Ah ha!” His mouth twisted into a satisfied grin. “You admit to breaking and entering.”
“Not breaking. Just entering. And who in his right mind sleeps in this city without a screen in his window anyway?” Oops! She hadn’t meant to say that last part, but she pushed on. “If you’ll just let me go find Big Jim—”