Magic

NINE

Rachel stood outside the door to her mother’s bedroom, as nervous as she had been at fifteen when she had needed to ask permission to go on her first date. She was freshly showered, debugged, and looked as presentable, in her black dirndl skirt and lavender cotton blouse, as any voice teacher she had ever encountered. Her hair was secured in its knot at the back of her head and only a few tendrils had as yet escaped to frame her face.

It occurred to her that she shouldn’t have had to go to such pains to see her own mother. A mother wasn’t supposed to care about appearances. A mother was supposed to be accepting of her children whether they were in rags or designer wear. But it was that line of thinking that had caused the problems between her and Addie in the first place, so Rachel stopped that train of thought before it ran out of control.

It was a new day, a day for beginnings. She felt fresh and strong, rested despite the precious little sleep she’d had. Spending the night in Bryan’s arms had revitalized her, recharged her. She was brimming with energy and ready to take on whatever the day had in store for her. As she had showered the flower petals and ants from her skin, she had come to the conclusion that she would redouble her efforts to solve the problem with Addie.

Rachel raised her hand to knock at the door, but it suddenly fell open as if someone on the other side had jerked it back. Addie, however, was standing across the room in a yellow flowered housedress, scowling into her mirror as she struggled with the task of braiding her hair. She crossed one strand over, twisted it around again, pulled another across, then swore and let go the entire mess to start again.

It was clear to Rachel that her mother had either forgotten how to braid or the message from her brain to her hands was getting lost somewhere along the way; apraxia was the term the doctors used for it. In either case, it was sad, and it reminded Rachel yet again of how their roles were being reversed. She could easily remember Addie painstakingly plaiting her long hair on her first day of kindergarten, how she had sat very still on the wire vanity stool in her mother’s bedroom, staring wide-eyed into the mirror as her mother’s fingers had magically tamed her wild locks.

“Mother?” she asked softly, forcing herselt to step into the room before her memories could steal her courage from her. “Can I help you with that?”

Addie stared at her daughter, wondering just how much Rachel had seen. “Don’t you know how to knock?”

“It was open.”

Addie muttered, “Wimsey. Meddling old coot.”

Rachel ignored the odd remark. Taking a brush from the cluttered dresser, she went to stand behind her mother and began working on the hair that had once been as golden as her own, but had now paled to silver.

“I can do my own hair,” Addie said, staring at their reflections in the mirror.

“I know you can. I just want to help. Like you used to help me.”

Their gazes met in the glass, and Addie’s heart lurched. She had done everything for Rachel. She had been both mother and father. She had raised her daughter without help from anyone. She had held down two jobs at a time and had never run out of energy or drive. Now that daughter was standing behind her, braiding her hair because she suddenly wasn’t able to manage so simple a task herself.

“I believe I’ll wear it down today,” she said, moving away from the dresser. In the mirror she could see Rachel standing with her hands still raised, the hairbrush in one, reaching out toward her. Her daughter’s eyes were filled with hurt. Rachel let her arms fall to her sides as Addie moved another step out of reach.

She found a black sweater tying at the foot of the bed and put it on inside out. “I’m going down to breakfast. Hennessy should have the toast done by now.”

Rachel stood by the dresser, twisting the hairbrush around in her hands. Every ounce of that newfound strength had drained out of her. “Why won’t you let me help you?” she asked softly, hurting in a way that is peculiar to mother-daughter relationships-a deep, sharp hurt, like a needle piercing her heart.

“I don’t need any help,” Addie replied, squaring her bony shoulders with stubborn pride. “Not from you or Wimsey or anyone. I have managed quite well on my own for some time now, as you well know.”

With that she clomped out of the room, her boots thumping on the wood floor. Rachel closed her eyes and counted to ten, wrestling her temper and her tears under control.

“No luck?”

Startled, she looked up to find Bryan standing not two feet away. She shook her head, at a loss for words. She wasn’t sure she would have trusted herself to say them anyway. Her emotions were running dangerously close to the surface, muddied and churning like floodwaters. She had the strange feeling that if she let them out, they would swell up and drown her.

“You’ll work it out,” Bryan said gently, taking the hairbrush from her fingers and setting it aside. He gathered her into his arms and hugged her close, pressing soft kisses to her hair. “It’ll all work out. You’ll see.”

Rachel let her hands sneak inside the old cardigan he wore unbuttoned. Her arms slid around his lean waist. She nuzzled her cheek against his Chicago Cubs T-shirt, taking comfort in the solid muscle beneath the soft gray fabric. She noticed he didn’t say “give it time.” Time was not on their side. A little bit of Addie slipped away with every grain of sand in the hourglass. But he offered her his strength and his comfort, and she loved him for that.

“Here now, enough of this,” Bryan said, standing her back from him. There was a devilish twinkle in his eye. Rachel realized with a start that he was wearing a bedraggled black top hat. “I know you can’t get enough of me, but I won’t spoil you-unless you beg me to,” he added with a wicked grin.

“Conceited man,” she said, fighting back a chuckle. “I should beg you to have your head examined. Why are you wearing that ridiculous hat?”

“Ridiculous?” he questioned, highly offended. “I’ll have you know this hat was given to me by Anton Figg-Newton, master magician of England.”

He rolled the hat down his arm Fred Astaire-style and presented it to her upside down.

“Just reach in there and see what you find, girlie.”

Cautiously, Rachel leaned over and peered into the hat, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. “There’s nothing in there.”

Bryan made a great show of looking into the hat himself, turning it over, and shaking it.

“I think you got taken on that one, Merlin,” Rachel quipped.

A gleam came into Bryan’s eye. “Oh, ye of little or no faith. I merely forgot to say the magic word.”

“The magic word,” Rachel parroted flatly. She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot in mock impatience.

“Marshmallows!” he intoned dramatically, and tapped the brim of the hat three times with the fingers of his left hand. This time he reached inside, and when he withdrew his hand, he was holding a brooch of intricately worked silver filigree set with a translucent stone of deep purple.

Rachel’s mouth dropped open as he handed it to her. It was an exquisite thing that looked to be very old and very valuable. The stone gleamed as it caught the morning light that streamed in through the window.

“Bryan, it’s beautiful,” she whispered reverently. “Where did you find it?”

“In my hat. Jeez, Rachel, I think your memory is worse than mine.”

“Really,” she insisted, fingering the brooch lovingly. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Is it an heirloom or something?”

He cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. “I came across it in a country that frowns on exporting such things. You’re probably better off not knowing.”

She gave him a suspicious look, wondering, not for the first time, just who Bryan Hennessy really was.

“Legend has it that when a man gives this brooch to the lady of his heart, shell love him into eternity,” he said, taking the gift from her and pinning it carefully to the throat of her prim blouse. The stone picked up and intensified the color of her eyes, making Bryan’s breath catch. A crooked, self-deprecating smile tugged up one corner of his mouth. “It’s a custom also known as hedging your bets.”

“Thank you,” Rachel whispered, smiling at him. She rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek. Practically in the blink of an eye he had lifted her mood out of the doldrums. He was amazing and wonderful, and if she could tell him nothing else, she could at least tell him that. “What an extraordinarily sweet, bizarre man you are.”

Remarkably, he blushed, and Rachel’s heart swelled a little more with love for him. Grinning, she plunked his magic hat upon his head, grabbed his hand, and pulled him toward the door.

“Come on, Hennessy. Let’s go get some breakfast. I’m starved.”

“What’s your hurry?” Bryan asked, patting her bottom with a loving hand. “Ants in your pants?”

“Very funny.”

They sauntered down the grand staircase together, hand in hand, smiling at each other the way only lovers do, arguing amicably over how they would spend the day. Rachel insisted there was no time for anything other than marking prices on the antiques that would be offered at the tag sale in two days. Bryan insisted there was more than enough time for a stroll along the beach. But as they neared the kitchen, he broke off in mid-rebuttal and held a finger to his lips, suddenly alert to something going on in the next room. Together they inched toward the door, listening.

“You’re a meddling, bone-headed Democrat, Wimsey,” Addie said. “Just keep that long nose of yours out of my affairs. I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody.”

There was silence then. Bryan held his breath as he tried to tune in, hoping for anything-a sigh, a vibration in the air, anything.

“Keep your opinions to yourself, you blithering British idiot,” Addie snapped.

The rattling of pots and pans blocked out whatever response she might have gotten, and Bryan frowned in frustration. Rachel rolled her eyes in impatience.

“She’s just talking to herself,” she insisted in a harsh whisper.

Bryan ground his teeth. If only he had enough equipment to monitor every room in the blasted house. He had chosen to concentrate on the study and the foyer. Of course, Rachel wouldn’t have believed Wimsey was in the kitchen if the ghost had walked up to her and kissed her on the nose.

“This is ridiculous,” Rachel muttered. “Every sensible person knows there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

As soon as the last word left her mouth, the kitchen door swung inward so quickly neither of them had a chance to brace themselves, and they both went sprawling across the cracked linoleum. On the far side of the room Addie stood staring at them, a gray cloud billowing around her.

Bryan’s eyes widened at the sight. “An apparition,” he whispered.

“Apparition nothing,” Rachel said, clambering to her feet. “The kitchen’s on fire!”

Smoke rolled out of the old cookstove, an appliance that hadn’t seen action since Thomas Edison was in short pants. Rachel grabbed her mother’s hand and jerked her away from the thing while Bryan, who had scrambled to his feet, grabbed the fire extinguisher and blasted the blaze with white foam.

“Hennessy! You’re ruining my eggs!”

“Mother,” Rachel said between her teeth, “you were ruining the house. That stove doesn’t work.”

“Of course I know that,” Addie grumbled, but there was uncertainty in her eyes as she looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

“You should have waited for us to come down,” Rachel said, her temper rising like steam in a pressure cooker. Why couldn’t Addie accept her help? Was she going to cling to that damned stubborn pride of hers until she burned the house down around them?

Addie bristled like a cat. “I don’t take orders from you, missy!”

She hauled back to punch Rachel on the arm, but Bryan caught her fist in his hand and pulled her into his arms.

“Come on, beautiful. Let’s go dance in the fresh air while Cinderella cleans up the kitchen. Maybe we’ll run into Wimsey.”

“Pompous, presumptuous pinhead,” Addie said with a snarl, though it wasn’t clear whether she was referring to her invisible friend or to Bryan. She dug the heels of her rubber boots into the floor and gave him an amazed look. “Why on earth are you wearing that ridiculous hat?”

“There’s a rabbit in it,” Bryan said, coaxing her toward the door as Rachel began flinging pots off the stove in a rage. “I thought you might want hasenpfeffer for breakfast.”

“You’re an idiot, Hennessy,” Addie declared, but followed him out of the room nevertheless.

“I’ll second that,” Rachel grumbled, poking at the debris inside the cookstove with a tongs. “Ghosts. What intelligent man with degrees from two major universities believes in ghosts? What intelligent woman falls in love with a man who believes in ghosts? Ghosts. The man must have been hit over the head with something when he was young.”

She bent over to look inside the oven, and an enamel pot tipped off the cooking surface and bounced off her skull. She stared at the pot as it rolled across the floor, sure she had knocked it over during her initial burst of fury. Dismissing it, she turned her attention to the mess her mother had made.

“Oh, no…” she said on a long groan.

With her tongs she fished out a stack of half-burned mail. She flipped through the ruined envelopes, her heart sinking. Bills. Bills that had never been opened. Bills that had certainly never been paid. She bent over again and tugged out another long envelope, this one only slightly charred, and her heart dropped from low to the pit of her stomach, where it lay like a rock.

“Ooooh, noooo…”

“What is it?” Bryan asked, returning to the kitchen without his dancing partner.

In a daze, Rachel handed him the envelope. “Yon know how you keep saying something will turn up? Something just did.”

Bryan took the letter out, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and began to read to himself. He paled a bit beneath his tan and handed the piece of stationery back to Rachel, muttering, “Oh, no…”

Feeling as if all her bones were dissolving, Rachel sank down on a chair at the kitchen table and stared across the room in a trance. It wasn’t the first time she had seen a letter like this one. It was, however, the first time she had felt dizzy because of it.

The IRS was going to audit Lindquist Antiques.

Visions of Leavenworth danced in her head.

She looked up at Bryan and forced the corners of her mouth into a parody of a smile. “Got anything in your magic hat for this one, Mr. Hennessy?”

“I am not moving from this house.” Addie pressed her lips into a thin line and crossed her arms over her meager bosom. She leaned back into the worn red velvet of an enormous thronelike Victorian chair, settling in for the battle.

Rachel and Bryan had spent the day working their way through the huge maze of rooms that made up Drake House, tagging the antiques that would be offered at the sale. It had been a long day of building tension. Addie had trailed after them, pulling the tags off the furniture and complaining incessantly about the way Rachel was treating her. Twice she had called the police to tell them she was being robbed. Twice Rachel had had to call them back and tell them it was another false alarm. Meals had been stilted affairs seasoned with sharp remarks. Addie’s mood had darkened with every hour, and Rachel’s control on her temper had worn down to the last frayed threads.

Bryan watched both women with a terrible sense of foreboding. He could feel Rachel’s tension, the hurt and anger that had been simmering just under her lovely surface for days. Her jaw was set at a mutinous angle and trembled with the emotion she was struggling to keep in check. And Addie, who had been on a rampage all day, showed no signs of backing down.

He pulled his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes. He was exhausted from intercepting Rachel’s feelings all day and from running interference between the two Lindquist women, but it was clear there would be no rest for the weary this evening.

“Addie, you look like a queen in that chair,” he said, flashing one of his inane smiles. “Did I ever tell you about the time I met the queen of Sweden?”

“Could she sing?” Addie asked. “Rachel used to sing, you know. She had a voice like an angel, but she wasted it, and now we’re destitute.”

“Addie, that’s not fair-”

“No, she’s right, Bryan,” Rachel said with a frightening smile. She threw her hands up in the air in a gesture of surrender. “I screwed up the whole flipping world because I didn’t become an opera singer. I’m sure they would have found a cure for cancer by now if only I had gone on to perform Aida. And anyone with a brain in her head knows, there would have been an end to world hunger long ago if I had toured with the Metropolitan Opera. Certainly, Mother and I would be wealthy beyond our wildest imagining, living in a state of bliss if only I had played Carmen.”

“Rachel, don’t be flip,” Addie snapped. “Carmen was never a role for you.”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she said without a hint of remorse. “How could I have been so foolish?”

“You take after your aunt Marilyn. She never had any sense of responsibility either.”

Rachel staggered back as if she’d been struck a savage blow. No sense of responsibility? She had always been responsible! She had given up much of her childhood and adolescence to her responsibilities for her singing talent. She had given up her dreams to take on the responsibility of managing Terence’s career. Now she was giving up all hope of a happy future, taking on responsibility for the very person who sat in judgment of her.

“Rachel,” Bryan said softly, reaching out for her.

She could see him out of the corner of her eye, could easily read the concern in his expression. She could have gone to him for comfort, but she didn’t. The pain she was feeling was too personal. It went too deep for comfort, too deep for tears. She stepped away from Bryan and nearer her mother, isolating the two of them in the aura of her pain. She stared into Addie’s pale eyes and spoke softly in a voice that trembled with the strength of the emotions underlying it.

“I’m sorry, Mother. How many times do I have to say it? I’m sorry for the disappointment I caused you. I’m sorry I wanted something more in my life than training and practice and performance. And most of all, I’m sorry I wanted you to love me regardless of what I did, because obviously you weren’t capable of it.”

It was Addie’s turn to look stricken. Her thin, lined face turned ashen, and she pressed a hand to her chest, as if to see if her heart was still beating.

“How dare you?” she said, her voice as soft as Rachel’s had been, as full of pain. “How dare you say I didn’t love you! I did everything for you.”

“You turned me away. You exiled me. That’s an awfully funny way of showing love.”

Addie said nothing. She struggled to sort through her feelings. They seemed to assail her from all sides and from within-anger, guilt, resentment, regret, disappointment. The present faded, and she suddenly found herself in the past, wishing back the words that had forced Rachel to leave, wishing Rachel hadn’t pushed her into saying them. They were in the little house in Berkeley, and Rachel was backing away from her, moving toward the door with a terrible look of hurt in her wide eyes. It was too late. Her daughter was leaving her. She had pushed too hard, expected too much, laid down one law too many. Her sweet Rachel was leaving her.

“This is all your fault,” Addie said bitterly, turning on Bryan. “You good-for-nothing, god-awful folk singer!”

She pulled a man’s shoe out of the patch pocket of her housedress and flung it at him. Bryan caught it and stared at it, frowning, not quite sure what to say. A cherry tomato sailed through the air and caught him unaware, bouncing off his forehead.

“Mother, stop it!” Rachel ordered. “That’s not Terence, it’s Bryan.”

“Bryan-” The word caught on the end of Addie’s tongue, and she bit it back, but her confusion was already apparent and she knew it. Panic left her only one option-escape.

She pushed herself up out of her throne chair and backed toward the hall. She pulled half of a cheese sandwich from her sweater pocket and held it out in front of her as if it were a gun.

“Stay back or I’ll shoot!” she demanded. “I’m going to call the police!”

“Mother!” Rachel started after her, but Bryan caught her by the arm and pulled her back.

“Let her go, honey. I unplugged the phones after the last call.”

Rachel shook her head and sighed, what little strength she had left draining out of her. This time when Bryan tried to gather her close, she let him. Bryan squeezed his eyes shut and pressed a kiss to her temple. He could think of nothing to say that would ease her pain. Words from him were not going to mend her past with Addie. All he could give her was his support and his love, and he gave them both without reserve, wrapping her in his strength and pressing her head to his heart.

They stood there for a moment in silence, letting the tension settle into the dust around them. Finally, Rachel stood back a little and scrubbed at the few tears that had managed to escape the barrier of her lashes to slide down her cheeks. She took a deep, cleansing breath, gathering herself together, dredging up a little more determination from the deep well inside her.

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” she said evenly. “I know it doesn’t do any good. It only upsets Mother.”

“You can’t always keep it all in.” Bryan reached out a hand to toy with the whisper-soft tendrils of hair that framed Rachel’s face. “Look on the bright side: In ten minutes Addie is liable to have forgotten you had this conversation.”

Rachel managed a wry smile. “That’s true. Too bad she can’t forget the phone number for the police department.”

Bryan’s heart welled with pride and love. She was some kind of lady, his little Rachel. Life wasn’t exactly being kind to her, but she took it on the chin and came back smiling. That she managed to keep a sense of humor through all of this was a real indication of the depth of character she possessed.

He stared down at her in the gloom of the poorly lit room. All around them stood dark, dusty, neglected furniture. The striped paper on the walls was stained and buckling, the draperies, heavy with mildew and age, drooped from their hooks. It was a grim setting, and yet Rachel shone like a gem, so bright, so pretty, her amethyst eyes smiling up at him, echoing the glow of the old brooch he had given her.

“I love you,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her.

She melted against him, all warmth and willingness. She slid back into his arms, fitting there as if she were a part of him. Rachel gave herself over to the kiss, trying to communicate the words that were locked in her heart. She couldn’t bring herself to say them. Somehow she thought that if she said them aloud, it would only hurt worse when the parting came.

“I want you,” Bryan whispered, trailing his lips down the ivory column of her throat as he bent her back over his arm.

“Oh, Bryan,” she said, all the longing she felt dragging the words out on a moan of need.

His hand slid up between their bodies to cup her breast, his gentle fingers kneading her swelling flesh, his thumb brushing across her nipple, teasing it to hardness. Desire surged through her like an electric current, converging in the most feminine parts of her body and intensifying there into pools of heat. She didn’t try to stop the sensations from overwhelming her. There were too many things in her life now that needed rigid control and discipline and self-sacrifice. In these few stolen moments with Bryan she was going to be selfish. She was going to take his passion, as much as he wanted to give her. She was going to revel in the strength of this desire. It was so unlike anything she had ever known, and she knew nothing would ever compare to it.

They sank down onto an old fainting couch, coughing at the cloud of dust that enveloped them but not letting it interfere in the proceedings. Rachel purred her contentment as Bryan settled himself on top of her, his manhood prodding at her from behind the snug barrier of his jeans. She loved the weight of his trim, hard body bearing down on her, loved the masculine sounds of frustration that rumbled in his throat as he tried to get closer to her. Wantonly, she arched up against him, her legs parting so he could press against her more intimately.

“Oh, Rachel.” Bryan groaned. “Oh, Rachel.”

A scream rattled the chandeliers above them.

“Oh, hell.” He uttered the words through gritted teeth, feeling as if he might start sobbing at the agony of thwarted passion. “Oh, hell.”

He levered himself up off Rachel and staggered to his feet, gritting his teeth at the throbbing in his groin. “If there isn’t a ghost upstairs, there will be when I’m finished.”

“If you get violent, can I help?” Rachel asked dryly as she forced herself off the couch.

“Absolutely.”

The second scream kicked them into action. They ran down the hall and bolted up the grand staircase, turning in at Addie’s room only to find it empty. They found Addie at the back of the house, standing in the hall in her nightgown, her face as white as paste.

“Mother, what happened?” Rachel asked, going to her mother’s side but hesitating to put an arm around her.

“It was that terrible ghoul again!” Addie said, panting. Her hair was in a wild tangle around her head. She looked as if she had stuck her finger in a light socket “It was standing down there at the end of the hall with this weird white mist all around.”

All three peered down the corridor, but nothing was there.

“What happened to it?” Bryan asked.

“Poof!” Addie said, flapping her arms at her sides. “He just disappeared.”

Rachel ground her teeth as she followed Bryan to the end of the dark hall. “People don’t just disappear.”

“Ghosts do.”

“There’re no such things as ghosts.”

“ ‘Asserting a statement an infinity of times does not in itself make it true,’ ” Bryan quoted. “Abel J. Jones.”

Rachel scowled at him. “ ‘No matter how thin you slice it, it’s still baloney.’ Alfred Smith.”

Bryan met her look with a determined one of his own. “ ‘There is nothing so powerful as the truth- and often nothing so strange.’ Daniel Webster.”

He stopped at the spot Addie had pointed to, letting his gaze roam over the area, letting his sixth sense listen for any kind of sign. It was one of his ordinary senses, however, that picked up a clue. He held himself very still and sniffed the air like a bird dog.

“Ammonia,” he mumbled, his eyes taking on a faraway look.

“Ammonia?” Rachel questioned, making a face as the scent burned her nostrils. “What does ammonia have to do with anything?”

“Magic,” Bryan said flatly, almost angrily.

“A ghost that does housecleaning,” Rachel mused, leaning back against the paneled wall and crossing her arms over her chest. “I love it. Do you think we could get him to do windows? There are about ninety of them in this dump that all need a good scrubbing!”

She squealed the last of the word as the wall shifted behind her. Startled, she bounded into the middle of the hall, and then did her best to not look embarrassed, straightening her lavender blouse and smoothing her hands over her skirt as if yelping and leaping were not the least bit out of the ordinary.

Bryan was too absorbed in his inspection to notice the instinctive flame of fear that had burst to life in Rachel’s eyes. Following his nose, he moved toward the wall, where he stopped and stood staring down at a smudge of dirt on the wooden floor. His heart sank a little, but he stemmed the rush of disappointment. Ghost or no ghost, there was a mystery to be solved, and solving mysteries was his forte.

With a look of grim determination on his face, he opened the door in the wall, flipped on the light, and followed the scent of ammonia down the dusty servants’ stairs. The step with dry rot was cracked through, and he skipped it altogether, frowning harder. He slipped out of the cabinet in the pantry, careful not to make a sound.

The kitchen was dark, illuminated only by the reflection of moonlight on the fog that hung outside the windows, but his eyes adjusted quickly. He eased along the wall, keeping to the deepest shadows, his gaze taking inventory of every object as he moved toward the back door. Nothing moved. The only sound was the wind outside and the metallic screech and clang of the vent for the stovepipe of the old appliance Addie had set ablaze earlier in the day.

He let himself out the back door and stood on the porch with his hands on his hips. He looked out across the grounds of Drake House, solemn and silent. There was nothing to see but overgrown bushes shrouded in fog. There was nothing to hear except the roar of the wind and the sea But there was something out there. He could feel it. He could sense it-a menace, a threat. There was something out there, and he was determined to find out who or what it was.

After locking up and thoroughly checking the downstairs for any sign of an intruder, Bryan climbed back up the servant’s staircase, going slowly in hopes of picking up some sense of who their uninvited guest had been. Rachel met him at the door in the second-floor hall.

“I got Mother to go back to bed,” she said quietly, wrapping a sweater around her shoulders. “Did you find anything?”

Bryan shook his head. “No, but I have an idea or two.”

“Casper the Cleanly Ghost?” she suggested with an irrepressible smile.

“Very funny,” he drawled, sliding an arm around her and steering her down the hall toward her bedroom.

“Ammonia and hydrochloric acid. It’s an old magic trick,” he explained. “You soak a wad of cotton in ammonia and one in hydrochloric acid. Forcing air through the cotton produces volumes of white smoke. Very eerie-looking stuff. My dad taught me how to do it when I was ten. You can’t imagine the trouble I got into in Sister Agnes’s religion class when Mark Tucker and I engineered a surprise reenactment of the Ascension, using that trick.”

Rachel had a fleeting impression of the adorable little boy he must have been with his serious expression and his glasses sliding down his nose, his bag of magic tricks tucked under one arm. A little more of her heart gave itself over to him.

“So,” she said, forcing herself to stay on the topic, “you’re admitting what Mother saw wasn’t a manifestation from the spirit world after all?”

“Reluctantly. I’m not saying Wimsey isn’t legitimate, but I think our other visitor is a ghost of a different color.”

They stopped at the open door of Rachel’s room. Bryan leaned back against one side of the jamb and Rachel leaned back against the other. He gave her a serious look. “I think someone is trying to frighten Addie into leaving Drake House.”

An automatic shiver ran through Rachel at the thought, but she dismissed it. “Why would anyone do that? It seems to be common knowledge that we’re going to sell the place. Why would anyone bother?”

“Why, indeed,” Bryan murmured, combing a hand back through his hair. He had his theories, but they were only beginning to form. For the moment he had nothing concrete to share with Rachel, and heaven knew she had enough on her mind already.

A sexy smile curving his mouth, he pushed himself away from his side of the door frame. Bracing his hands above Rachel’s head, he leaned close and brushed his lips across hers. “I think we ought to sleep on that.”

“Really?” she whispered, heat sweeping through her. She ran her hands under his open sweater and up his sides, following the outward slope from his lean waist to his solid chest. “I was going to suggest we sleep on the bed.”

“Were you?” He chuckled, a low, masculine sound that rumbled deep in his throat as he pinned Rachel to the door frame with his hips.

“Mmmm…” she sighed, forgetting all about ghosts and goblins as her body melted into his. “Clean sheets, no ants.”

“Sounds inviting,” he said, nibbling at her earlobe. “Can I make one more suggestion?”

“What?”

“Let’s skip the sleep. I can think of better things to do in abed.”