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What the hell was that noise?

Matty hadn’t locked Turner in her wardrobe in a fit of pique much as she’d wanted to. Besides, the banging wasn’t coming from inside the house. She moved her mother’s chair under the skylight and balanced on the rocker so she could reach to push the window open. A short scramble onto the roof into another dull, overcast day and Matty stood looking down on a hive of activity.

Trucks were parked in the nearest field, sections of fairground rides exposed on their backs like gaudy skeletons. Men were hammering marquee supports into place and Diana Rolfe, who had to be freezing in that short skirt, tottered around with a megaphone, her high heels sinking into the turf with every step.

A loud wolf whistle almost sent Matty tumbling from her perch. It couldn’t have been aimed at her, even though she was stark naked, but she scrambled back inside and pulled down on the frame to seal the opening.

Matty refused to think about Turner.

Only it would have been nice to wake up lying next to him, to feel his chest pressed against her back, his strong arms around her. But no matter how often they fucked and how good it felt, ultimately, he wanted her gone.

Stop thinking about him.

She washed and dressed in jeans that were too short and an old blue sweater. No point cooking for him, he had no interest in food. He’d only eaten a tiny bit of the birthday cake. She hadn’t smelled food cooking or found any food in the fridge. Matty assumed he lived on take-out, though where were the containers? Maybe he put them straight in the bin outside. She couldn’t even offer to help with his work because she had no idea what he did for a living.

Think of something else.

What if he was right? Could she really be dead?

Oh God, not that.

But Matty couldn’t help herself. Had she been so vehemently fighting the thought of being dead that she’d convinced herself it couldn’t be true? Was she caught up in some sort of hysterical delusion? Maybe that’s what George had meant about Turner helping her. Was Turner a psychiatrist? Or did he have some sort of psychic ability? But then he’d have known straight away that she was a ghost.
Arrgghh.

Matty was doing a good job of tying herself in knots. She needed a distraction. Turner was probably asleep, but she didn’t want to risk bumping into him. She crept down the stairs and ran out the front door into the bedlam of the hall’s grounds.

When she’d been a kid, she’d loved Winterval. Her parents had thrown themselves into the celebration and opened up their home to the village. A lump erupted in her throat at the thought of them. Just over a year ago, her mother had gone to sleep and never woken up. An aneurysm. A week later, her father had been taken to the hospital with a pain in his chest, had a massive heart attack and died the same night. Matty didn’t remember him ever being ill in his life. Together in heaven, the vicar had said at their joint funeral. If Matty believed in heaven, that might have been comforting, but she didn’t, so it wasn’t.

Wheels and cogs turned in her head. Was she stuck here because she didn’t believe in an afterlife? No, that didn’t work. If that were the case, there would be lots of others like her around. Unless being invisible was a punishment for not believing, though that didn’t explain why Turner and George could see her.

She leaned against the wooden surround of the ice rink and watched a group of men erecting a hut. Could Turner skate?
Damn.
Matty stalked away. She really didn’t want to think about the jerk. A tall blond guy was walking straight toward her and Matty glared. She was tired of being invisible, tired of people walking through her. She clenched her jaw, kept going and collided with a hard, leather-jacketed chest.

Astonishment felled her as much as the collision. She landed on her butt and stared up into spectacular green eyes. The guy had a mouthful of pearly-white teeth and a crooked smile. A large hand reached down and hauled her to her feet.

“Steady, princess. Hard to know how you missed seeing me. You lost your guide dog?”

He had the most astonishing eyes she’d ever seen, only they seemed darker now. His blond hair was cut in a shaggy style similar to hers and he looked like the baddest bad boy she could ever imagine. Matty’s chest tightened. He hadn’t let go of her hand. His thumb stroked her palm.

How slow am I?

“You can see me,” she whispered.

“Not enough of you.” He winked. “You’ve dressed. How disappointing. I worried you were going to jump. Not sure I’d have gotten there in time.”

Oh crap.
Matty jerked her hand free.
“W-w-wolf…”

His smile vanished and his eyes opened wide.

“Whistle,” she blurted.

The smile came back. “Guilty. I couldn’t resist. Not every day I see a bird perched on a roof with no feathers. What’s your name, angel?”

“Matty.”

“Catch.”

“What? Oh… Why?”

His brow furrowed.

“Why are you called Catch?”

His jaw twitched. “Ah. When my brothers and I played softball with our dad, he was always yelling at me to catch the ball, and I nearly always missed. My brothers wanted to call me Drop.” He grinned. “So good thing you didn’t jump.” He gestured to the activity around them. “What’s happening here?”

“You’re not one of the workers?”

“I just wondered what all this was in aid of.”

“Winterval. Milford’s annual winter festival. It’s held in the grounds of the hall and raises money for charity.”

“Who lives here?”

Matty thought about the bolts Turner had installed, the metal shutters, how he wanted her gone, how private he was and for once in her life understood the importance of keeping quiet. “No idea.”

His green eyes darkened further. “So what were you doing on the roof—naked?”

“It was a dare.” Her heart pounded. “So don’t tell anyone.”

“Give me a kiss and I won’t.”

“Would a kick in the balls work instead?”

Catch chuckled. “How did you get into the hall?”

“Secret.”

“Want to show me?” He twirled a lock of her hair in his fingers and stared straight at her.

“No.” Except she did. Matty wanted to show him everything, including her naked body—again.
Oh God, what’s the matter with me?
Before she opened her mouth and blabbed, she ought to run.

“Go on. Make my day,” he whispered.

“How?”

He let go of her hair. “Run.”

The feeling in Matty’s chest wasn’t one of fear but excitement. She turned and fled.

He caught up with her next to the converted stable block. When he appeared in front of her, she skidded to a halt on the gravel and gasped.

Catch smiled. “I do love a game of Kiss Chase.”

Matty put her hands on her hips and glared. She was not that easy. Not quite. “And I love a game of Catch Chase and Kick.”

He took a step back. She’d never get her foot anywhere near his balls, but it didn’t hurt to let him think she could. Her gaze flickered to the side and she spotted three women go into the hall, headed by a mini-skirted blonde.
Shit. I left the door open.

She bolted after the women and found them in the entrance hall.

“I think we ought to ask Mr. Turner if he minds us using his kitchen,” said the vicar’s wife.

Diana nodded. “I’ll go and look for him while you make a drink.”

Kitty frowned. “Perhaps you should shout and let him know we’re in the house.”

“Mr. Turner!” Diana whispered in a voice a bat would have missed.

Matty glared. She could do nothing to stop this.

Except maybe one thing.

Everyone disappeared into the kitchen while Diana, Miss One-Track-Mind-Rolfe, made straight for the stairs. Matty bolted after the others and grabbed the box of matches from a kitchen cupboard.

Chapter Eleven

Turner lay at the bottom of a deep, dark, safe…place. A deep, dark, safe, irritating…place. What the hell was that terrible noise? He struggled to get back to the surface, back to consciousness, but knew he’d not be able to sustain awareness for long. The sun was up. He should be down.

Smoke alarm.

The knowledge was slow to filter through, but when it did, Turner forced his eyes open and struggled to his feet. His brain felt like melting snow—wet and useless.

Get out.

Where to? If the hall was on fire, he needed to find somewhere undercover. George should have prepared a bolt hole.
Crap.
Turner should have, but he’d been distracted.
Fuck, my notes!
Why hadn’t he moved them? He couldn’t smell smoke, but that probably meant the fire wasn’t near. Or maybe he was too out of it to function. He staggered across the room, struggled to open his door and then the noise stopped.

And the screaming started.
Oh Christ.
Turner’s heavy head swiveled from one face to another. A smiling Diana Rolfe. A horrified vicar’s wife with her hand clamped over her mouth, though it did nothing to stop that horrible noise. A guilty-looking Matty. A smirking Catch.

Catch? Oh Christ.

What was he looking at?

Turner looked down at his crotch.
Shit.
Not the best time to find himself stark naked with a rock-hard erection. He did the only thing of which he was capable at that point in time. Closed his eyes and fell over.

“Everyone get out,” Catch snapped, and scooped Turner into his arms.

He kicked the bedroom door closed, shouldered the bolt into place and walked over to the bed. Catch hadn’t expected the imaginary punch in his gut to hit so hard. Everything flooded back, the memory of every touch, every kiss, every fuck. Twenty years of half living. Twenty years wasted. Though Catch suspected the punch in the gut would be all too real when Turner woke.

Catch knew what it had cost Turner to emerge from sleep. He’d seen him do it once before, and that night Turner had awoken ravenous. Catch laid him on the bed and wrapped the duvet around Turner’s body. His cock was still rigid, and Catch sported a twin. His fingers lingered on Turner’s face. He didn’t want to leave. Catch smoothed down the little twist of Turner’s hair that always flicked up, just as it had twenty years ago.

Christ.
If it was this easy to get at Turner, when he was exposed and vulnerable, Catch had arrived just in time. All he had to do was convince Turner of that. He went around the room and checked the shutters, and then stopped when he reached the door. He couldn’t lock it from the outside. On the other hand, Catch didn’t think it was a good idea for Turner to find him there when he woke. He wouldn’t be in the mood to listen. But if Catch left him in bed, even if he stood guard, there was no guarantee Turner would be safe.

One thing he could do. Empty the house of intruders.

When Catch descended the stairs, he found Matty glaring at three arguing women.

“We’re leaving right now, Diana. That was a gross invasion of Mr. Turner’s privacy,” said a woman with rosy cheeks. “We can manage without a drink.”

“If you aren’t out of here by the time I’ve counted to three…” Catch said.

Matty didn’t move. Two of the women fled, but the one in the short skirt fluttered her eyelashes at him.

“Turner and I are old friends.” She emphasized the “old”.

“No they’re not,” Matty said. “Diana only met him yesterday.”

“Is he sick? Shall I make him some soup?” Diana asked.

“No.” Catch glared at her.

Diana frowned. “Who are you, anyway?”

“A mate of Turner’s. And the two of you are leaving.” He caught her elbow, grabbed Matty’s arm and tugged them to the door.

“Two of us?” Diana yelped.

Once he’d pushed them outside, Catch locked the door.

What the hell was Turner thinking, letting his place be used for some winter festival? How was that keeping a low profile? While Catch waited for the sun to set, he’d take a good look at the house and find ways to improve security.

“That was ru…de.”

Catch had a knife at Matty’s throat before she’d finished speaking. “How the hell did you get in here?”

“The door.”

Catch wrapped his arm around her neck and dragged her to it. The door was still locked.

“How did you get in?” he repeated.

“Let me go and I’ll show you.”

He released her. She walked to the door, opened it and stepped outside. His jaw dropped and then he grinned. The bolts were still in place, but he slid them again to make sure. A second later, the door opened. Matty walked back in and closed it again.

It took a lot to shock Catch and she’d managed it twice in one day. He narrowed his eyes and stared at her. “What the fuck are you?”

“What the fuck am I?” Matty glared sharp, pointy daggers at the moron standing in front of her who held a sharp, pointy dagger. “A pissed-off female. Now get out.”

“Is that your secret way of getting into the house? A trick bolt, a fake lock? Does Turner know you do that?”