“Don’t go.”

The stranger’s face screwed into a grimace with those words as once again pain wracked his body. “Meeting him will only put your life in danger. I’m not going to let that happen. I’m willing to lose it all, even the memories. I can’t die like this, with you looking at me as if I were a stranger, Rachel.”

He knew her name.

Though his pain had to be excruciating, he struggled to reach toward her. As soon as Rachel understood that he meant to touch her, she backed away, but it was too late.

She felt his touch, a ghostly caress of air against her cheek. Fleeting and eerily cold as it was, she felt a burning awareness.

Then he began to disappear.

Helen R. Myers, a collector of two- and four-legged strays, lives deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas. She cites cello music and bonsai gardening as favorite pastimes, and still edits in her sleep—an accident learned while writing her first book. A bestselling author of diverse themes and foci, she is a three-time RITA nominee, winning for Navarrone in 1993.

Night Mist
Helen R. Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

Stepping out into the night, Rachel quickly turned her back on the darkness and slipped her key into the door’s mortise lock to secure Nooton’s Medical-Surgical Clinic for another day. For four hours and twenty-some-odd minutes, to be more accurate. Until Sammy arrived at six in the morning for his ten-hour shift.

A demanding schedule, she thought again. As demanding a schedule as any she’d been subjected to since earning the right to call herself Dr. Gentry. Not that she really minded. After all, it wasn’t as though she had someplace else to be. Usually. Tonight, however, was different. That’s why she’d been compelled to close early.

But as though to challenge her, the lock refused to budge. Disgruntled, Rachel set down her medical bag and used both hands and a few whispered expletives, determined to offset the effect the Louisiana humidity had on everything in this middle-of-nowhere town. There were, of course, more practical solutions. For instance, she could get the can of petroleum-based lubricant Sammy kept in the janitorial closet. But she’d already lost too much precious time arguing with Cleo and didn’t think she could afford to risk any more.

“Come on, you stubborn…”

Finally, reluctantly, something inside the cylinder yielded and the key slid all the way to the locked position with a rusty, grating sound that cut into the night’s melancholy drone of tree frogs and other, less identifiable nocturnal creatures. Beneath her doctor’s jacket her skin tingled the way it used to during those mystery and horror movies her college roommate had insisted on watching after their late-night study sessions.

More aware of her solitude than ever, she wondered again if maybe she’d been wrong not to confide in Cleo. Her senior night nurse hadn’t approved of closing early. What’s more, instead of explaining, Rachel had simply reassured her that, despite their other nurse being on vacation, there wasn’t anything happening tonight. No one would get into trouble for this, she’d added, and Cleo had seemed okay—until Rachel turned down the offer of a ride home.

“You plan to do what?” the nurse had snapped, her hands fisted on her size-eighteen hips. “A woman’s got no business walking around here at this hour, especially not somebody who don’t yet know who’s who and what’s what around here. Why, you got them oil trucks speeding back and forth from the rigs. You got folks coming out of the lounge hardly able to stand, let alone drive. And we ain’t gonna get into discussing the kind of trash that’s been known to jump off one of the freight trains rambling through town. Just what’re you up to, anyway?”

Rachel had assured her that she simply felt the need for some fresh air, which the walk would provide. Cleo hadn’t bought the story for a second.

“This is on account I couldn’t drive you on Monday and Tuesday, ain’t it? I knew it. You’ve been acting weird ever since. Trying to make me feel guilty.”

It hadn’t been easy convincing Cleo that she wasn’t trying to do anything of the kind; nevertheless, Rachel had held firm to her decision to get herself home her own way. Suspicious and openly offended, the older woman had sped away with a burst of spinning tires and spitting gravel, leaving Rachel to finish turning off all but the security lights.

It was just as well, Rachel decided, drawing the key out of the door. She picked up her bag and squared her shoulders. Right now she had too many questions of her own without having to answer someone else’s.

Come on, Gentry, she cajoled as she found herself hesitating. You know the plan, and it’s too late to turn chicken now. Move. If nothing happens this time, no one need ever know besides you. If something does…well, how much stranger could things get?

Either way she would be safe in her bed in another twenty minutes or so. Safe, although not necessarily asleep. She sighed, not relishing the prospect of lying wide awake for the rest of the night analyzing what she’d seen and what it meant, while mice, or who knew what, scurried around within her bedroom walls.

Well, don’t forget you came down here because you also wanted some adventure in your life, remember?

What a thing to remember. Cleo was right; Rachel had been foolish to insist on walking alone at this hour, even though the boardinghouse stood just across Black Water Creek Bridge. And to do it repeatedly? She had to be tempting fate. How she wished she still had her car; having that sleek curve of steel and fiberglass wrapped around her would be a comfort right about now.

On the other hand, how could she regret selling her parents’ graduation gift? She’d accepted it under duress, anyway, and selling it had cut in half the balance she owed on her medical school loans.

Stop wasting precious time, Gentry. Make the one-eighty.

She executed a quick pivot, and her heartbeat accelerated to a stronger thump against her ribs. She forgot about Cleo, the red sports car, even that her feet and back were killing her. She simply stared at the veil of gray obliterating the night sky, along with almost everything else, and knew her instinct to experiment one more time was going to yield results. Exactly what kind, she didn’t know, but there would be something.

Mist…as it had for the first two unforgettable nights of the week, once again it hung in the air, consumed it. Bone-dampening, vision-blurring, spring mist. Fog. Floating rain.

Before Monday, she wouldn’t have given the soggy weather much thought beyond the fact that it made everything in the boardinghouse smell like moldy bread or overripe cheese, caused her clothes to stick to her body as though they were a decayed layer of skin, and made hard-to-curl hair like hers borderline frizzy. Droll musings. Trivial reflections. But Monday had changed everything, as had Tuesday—and she was losing her ability to remain dispassionate.

She drew a slow, calming breath and reminded herself that she couldn’t afford to get too caught up in the atmosphere. She was a doctor. Maybe she had a lot to learn, as Sammy had pointed out, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t approach this with logical, methodical and, above all, scientific thinking.

This time she wouldn’t overreact. This time she wouldn’t make any mistakes. This time she would determine what was happening on the single-lane bridge linking one side of the rural community to the other. Oh, yes, she would. Even if it meant being drawn deeper into what was beginning to feel like a bad dream.

With a death grip on her medical bag, and her hand already damp from nerves and the fine moisture hanging in the air, Rachel pocketed her keys, then switched the bag to her right hand. Rubbing her left palm against the side of her jean-clad thigh, she started walking.

As she eyed the spans on the cantilever bridge, illuminated by the lights from Alma’s Country Cookin’ on the near side and Beauchamp’s Gas and Body Works on the far side, an eighteen-wheeler rumbled by. It prompted her to accelerate her pace. If the driver saw anything while crossing, she reasoned, surely he would stop.

But she had just stepped onto the single-lane bridge when she heard the change of tone signifying tire rubber meeting solid ground. The truck had reached the other side and was speeding away. Obviously, the driver hadn’t seen anything unusual at all.

No Dr. Watson award for you, old girl.

Somewhere in the distance a bloodhound bayed. Beneath her, bullfrogs croaked their night songs in somber bass, and the indolent creek flowed with barely a murmur. She’d heard it would take several days of heavy rains and severe flooding north of Baton Rouge to rouse this swarthy stream, but mid-July wasn’t exactly monsoon season in Nooton, and in the few weeks since she’d moved here the rain they did have had been light.

She swatted at a mosquito and then two more, deciding a gully washer would be welcome if it rid them of at least a percentage of the pesky bloodsuckers. She’d heard that when they got bad this high up on the bridge, you knew the population was at epidemic proportions. Local trivia fact number eighteen, she thought, making a conscious effort to keep her growing tension in check.

At least her long-sleeved jacket protected her arms, and her jeans saved her legs from all but the most persistent insects. But how appalled her mother would be if she could see her. “No self-respecting Gentry woman would allow herself to be caught wearing such attire in public,” she would say, her aristocratic nose angled to insinuate just the right amount of disdain. Well, none of her “genteel” relations would be caught dead in Nooton, anyway, and they certainly would never have given up two years of their lives to fulfill anything as archaic and austere as a two-year “moral commitment contract.”

Almost halfway across the bridge the mist grew thicker. It swirled as warmer air rose from the creek and mossy banks to merge with slightly cooler air currents. Rachel narrowed her eyes, searching each shifting mass. Her heartbeat raced faster, until it seemed one constant thrumming. Was that something? Was that? The phantomlike mist played trick after trick with her vision, making her feel as though she was part of some middleworld and had to wrestle for control of her imagination.

Oh, God, what was she doing? With another twenty-two months on her contract, what right did she have to go on some wild-goose chase that took her attention away from caring for those who relied on her? Suppose an emergency arose and Sammy learned she hadn’t been there to handle things as she should have? How would she explain? What person in their right mind would accept the flimsy excuse that she’d been following a theory—one based on mathematics to be sure, but still weak?

“Help me.”

She jerked to a halt, the rubber soles of her jogging shoes squeaking against the cement sidewalk, and just as abruptly, all doubts and concerns vanished from her mind. Peering through the writhing mist to the other side of the bridge, she saw it. Him.

So, this wasn’t a fluke after all, she thought with a contradictory sense of satisfaction and trepidation. He was back, as he had been on Monday and again yesterday.

She studied the vision that initially had made her doubt her overtired eyes. A moment later she heard it again—the desperate words which had been haunting every waking and sleeping hour since she’d first heard them.

“Help…me.”

As before, the hairs at her nape and on her arms lifted. Nevertheless, she slowly, cautiously started toward him.

He stood in the darkness and fog, visible only because of his white T-shirt, yet blending in as a result of it. The same man from the other nights, but it struck Rachel that there was something different about him tonight, and it took her several more seconds to realize what it was. He was standing.

Amazing. Impossible. On the first night she had come upon him lying sprawled on the narrow sidewalk, his back braced against steel girders, his long legs stretched out onto the pavement. The moment she’d reached his side, he’d expelled his last breath and vanished into the mist, leaving her stunned, horrified, and concluding she was on the fringe of some kind of breakdown. Yesterday’s experience had been much the same—except that it had lasted longer somehow. Neither episode had made any sense.

And tonight he stood. Actually, he was leaning back against a steel truss. As before, his hands were wrapped around his middle. But what made this moment equally tragic, or perhaps even more so, was that this time the terrible flow of blood seeping from between his fingers had only begun.

“It’s me.” She cleared her throat, disgusted with herself because she thought her voice sounded unsure and shaky. “Please don’t disappear. I think I know the drill now. I’m not supposed to touch you, right?”

“Rachel.”

She almost dropped her bag, nearly lost all courage and ran. Her name was the last thing she’d been expecting to hear. How did he know it?

“Who are you?” she forced out.

“Rachel…”

The agony and concern in his voice tore at her heart, even as his use of her name unnerved her. No, she decided firmly, he had to be delirious and was confusing her with someone else called Rachel. But his pain-glazed eyes focused on her, and his expression, his entire being, reflected that of a man who knew the end was near…a man who wanted to go while gazing at the one thing he valued most in life. But how could that be?

“Ah…jeez. It hurts, Bright Eyes. Hurts bad.”

The endearment had her insides doing an unfamiliar flip-flop; nevertheless, she didn’t let it intrude on her determination to help—and to get more of her questions answered. “I know it does. I’m a doctor. Maybe I can—”

“Don’t touch!” he warned, anxiety overriding his pain. But the expenditure of energy proved costly and he began sliding to the ground. “Just…don’t touch.”

Barely holding back a cry of despair, Rachel followed him down, landing hard on her knees. She set her bag beside her. “All right, all right! I won’t touch.” But it meant restraining everything she was, everything she had trained to be, particularly when he looked so tormented. “Look, if you can feel pain, there has to be something I can do.”

“Do…yes. I know…I know you have to get out of here, Rachel. If they find out you know me, I think they might…”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

Instead of answering, he screwed his face into a tight grimace as once again pain racked his body. Rachel bit hard on her lower lip. Stomach wounds were ugly business, and his challenged her resolve to honor his request.

“Please,” she said, leaning as close as she dared without risking accidental contact. “Help me to understand this?”

“N-not sure I get it myself.”

“At least tell me your name?”

This time he was the one who looked shocked. “You don’t…?” He swore. “Joe. Joe Becket. Say it, Bright Eyes. I need to hear you say it…one more time.”

He sounded so desperate, Rachel never considered refusing him. “Joe,” she whispered. But his aggrieved expression told her that he knew the name meant nothing to her.

A sound broke from his lips. It may have been an attempt at a bitter laugh, but it sounded more like a sob. “You’re not getting it at all, are you? Listen…I’ve figured out this much. You can’t go back.”

“Back where?”

“Leave. Tonight. Now. You can’t…I can’t let you meet…Damn.”

“Who? Meet who, Joe?”

“No good. It’ll only put your own life in danger. I’m not going to let that happen, understand? I’m willing…willing to lose it all, the memory of you…of us, if it means…”

“Hush now.” He wasn’t making any sense, and he was using up precious strength. “Try to lie still. Let me think.”

He rocked his head back and forth. “No. Won’t go like this. Not with you looking at me as though I was some stranger.” The pain had to be excruciating, yet he struggled to sit up. Then he reached for her. “Once more. I have to just once more….”

As soon as she understood what he meant to do, Rachel tried to back away from him. But it was too late.

She felt his touch, a ghostly caress of air against her cheek. Fleeting and eerily cold as it was, it left her feeling a burning awareness she knew she didn’t dare examine too closely.

Then he began to disappear.

CHAPTER TWO

“No!” Rachel lurched forward—to do what, she didn’t know since on some level she understood that any action she took would be pointless—and as expected, he vanished before her eyes.

She balanced herself by resting her palms on the cement, felt something warm and wet, and inspected her hands. They were smeared with blood. Real blood. Closing her hands into fists, she searched through the mist swirling around her. “I don’t understand this! Do you hear me? I don’t understand.”

As if in reply, Rachel found herself illuminated by a pair of fast-approaching, blinding lights. Through the din of a roaring engine a horn blasted her. Certain the wide-bodied beast was broad enough to sweep her up in its path, she spun around and pressed herself flat against the steel beams where Joe Becket had reclined only moments ago.

The eighteen-wheeler raced by. Although it didn’t come close enough to hurt her, she decided it had added enough impact to the moment to shock a decade or two off her lifespan.

With her heart thudding in her throat, chest and head, she gulped for air. Brilliant place to catch your breath, Gentry, she chastised herself. Keep it up and you’ll become a ghost yourself.

It was the first time she’d admitted to herself what she might be dealing with, and the thought had her shaking her head in instant rejection. She was a sensible, logical person, she reminded herself, an educated professional. She’d never had cause to believe in the possibility, let alone the plausibility, of such things in all her twenty-nine years. Even while she’d been gauging the chances of succeeding in this encounter, she hadn’t allowed herself to put a label on it. Him.

Then she inspected her hands. To reassure herself, since she’d never heard anything about ghosts bleeding. Only, the blood was gone. Except for a few grains of street grit stuck to her skin, her palms and the pads of each finger were clean.

“Who are you?” Rachel murmured, staring at her hands before gazing up into the night. “Who are you?”

She didn’t get a reply. At least he was going back to being consistent, she thought, grasping at whatever seed of sanity she could. But he did have a name. It was a start, she decided, pushing herself to her feet and collecting her bag.

For the rest of the crossing she found herself constantly looking over her shoulder, torn between wishing she would see him again and being relieved when he didn’t reappear. Recurring visions of some past tragedy were one thing—if that was indeed what she was dealing with, and it was the one explanation that made the most sense at this point—but being warned that she could be in danger put a flaw in that theory, didn’t it?

How had he learned her name? And what about the intimate way he’d spoken to her? Bright Eyes. She’d received enough compliments about her brown eyes to accept that people thought they were her best feature. She’d attributed that to having a fast, inquisitive mind and a clear conscience. Right now, however, she was less than enthralled with her fascination for pursuing mysteries.

As she walked, she struggled to recall if and when she might have met Joe Becket, but try as she might, it proved useless. They were complete strangers, no doubt about it. With his lean, hard face and probing eyes, he wasn’t a man a woman would be apt to forget; her own reaction to him—and she’d been known as a bookworm through school—proved that. Yet she’d done more than notice this injured, brooding being; she’d let him get inside her head…and now she didn’t know if she could get him out.

But at the same time, she couldn’t miss the irony in that. What safer way to avoid dealing with real human beings, and her sexuality, than by focusing on someone, or rather something, that vaporized the instant she got close to it? Her mother, who for years had assumed the role of relentless matchmaker, would probably find the situation completely understandable.

No, her phantom was nothing like the smooth-talking, power-hungry men who’d moved in her family’s social circle, or even the financially or intellectually aggressive ones she’d met through her own studies and work. There was a harder edge to him; she’d seen it in his deep-set, piercing eyes and in the sharp planes of his face. He seemed the sort you wouldn’t relish having as an enemy, and when muted by his sensitive, vulnerable side…well, anyone would find him intriguing.

Not that she couldn’t handle it, she thought, giving herself a mental shake. She stepped off the end of the bridge onto the rocky shoulder of the road.

“Oh!” She gasped, landing awkwardly on the uneven ground. Pain shot through her right ankle. In the next instant she was rattled by a splash as something jumped or fell into the creek, which was followed by vicious barking not far downstream.

Spooked, she rubbed at the pain, and, assuring herself that the leg would take her weight, set off again. All she wanted was to get to her room.

Still, her step was more cautious this time as she made a left down the dirt road that ran behind Beauchamp’s and parallel to the creek. The meandering path ran through some of the lowest-lying property in the area, and the farther down she went, the denser the fog grew. It increased Rachel’s awareness of her solitude and her unease with the dank, dark aura of her surroundings.

When she’d first arrived in Nooton several weeks ago, she’d thought this portion of town evoked an atmosphere perfect for the set of a horror film, the kind with a cast of no less than three dozen corpses. The idea had ceased to be amusing.

Someone obviously had committed a murder here. Joe Becket seemed to be proof of that. She couldn’t figure out what else was going on, but that part seemed devastatingly clear. The question was, when had it happened? Who had done it? And why? Her thoughts flowed one after the other like the lonely toll of a church bell.

Mrs. Levieux’s boardinghouse rose out of the fog. Three stories tall, it was a gothic-style dwelling nestled within a giant’s grasp of ancient oak trees. The fog muted the effects of the peeling paint, but at the same time turned it tombstone-white, emphasizing the starkness of the numerous windows. They seemed to stare at her like the hollowed eyes of a skull. Lifeless yet watchful eyes.

Rachel shivered. For all she knew, Joe Becket’s killer could be renting a room in there, as she did. As she squinted to see each black rectangle through the mist, she focused on the side of the house, specifically the one at the top floor on the far right corner. Her neighbor’s room. The reclusive Mr. Barnes.

If anyone deserved to be a prime suspect, he was the man. No one knew anything about him except that he worked at Beauchamp’s and avoided speaking to anyone if he could help it. He wasn’t a Nooton native, either. In fact, Mrs. Levieux—Adorabella—had made a point of telling her more than once how he’d moved to town not long before she did.

The pale chintz curtains framing the screened window shifted slightly. Rachel sucked in a quick breath, then reminded herself that after what she’d been through, it was perfectly understandable for her to get a little paranoid—but unnecessary. As eccentric as her neighbor seemed to be, there was nothing going on up there except the night air stirring the curtains. A quick scan of her own window proved hers were fluttering, too.

She was about to turn onto the sidewalk when her gaze was drawn back to her neighbor’s window. At that instant she saw the tiny dot of reddish-orange. It grew brighter, and then dimmed…like the burning tip of a cigarette, she concluded, with renewed unease.

Mr. Barnes smoked. Sometimes, when she walked in the hall, she smelled it, and at other times, as well, like when she was in the bathroom they shared. Which meant…?

That was him up there watching her.

For the second time that night, the hairs at her nape and on her arms lifted, radioing messages of fear. What was he doing awake at this hour? From the darkness of the room, it didn’t look as though he was trying to watch TV or read.

Maybe he’d seen what had happened on the bridge. She glanced back and decided otherwise; the mist was too thick. But then what was he doing standing there in the dark?

Whatever the reason, Rachel told herself, she didn’t need to stand down here and blatantly advertise that she’d spotted him. Ducking her head, she walked briskly the rest of the way to the front steps. It took supreme effort not to break into a frantic run. But at the door, she needed a moment to lean back against the wall, and press her hand against her heaving chest.

Coincidence. That’s all it was. There could be any number of innocent explanations. The man probably suffered from insomnia. What with their stuffy rooms and the lack of air-conditioning, why shouldn’t he seek the coolest spot—the window?

Even so, she regretted not having asked Mrs. Levieux more questions about him when she’d learned the two of them would be the only tenants on the third floor. Recalling the casual comments— “such a quiet man” and “so private”—which her landlady had volunteered during her initial tour of the house, Rachel now found them oblique and hardly reassuring.

If she sought out Adorabella tomorrow and made a point of bringing him up in conversation, could the old woman tell her more? Would she? It hardly seemed likely—not if she hadn’t seen fit to share the news about the murder on the bridge. No, the wily old fox had kept silent—probably for the sake of gaining another boarder.

Listen to yourself. You’ve practically got the poor soul tried and convicted along with your neighbor.

This proved she needed to calm down and figure things out, she thought, digging her keys from her pocket. She opened the screen door and unlocked the glass-and-wood one behind it.

Once inside, she gingerly set the bolt. The extra care wasn’t necessary, since there was no great threat of rousing Adorabella. Although the woman normally ran the house like a dowager queen, keeping track of everything and everyone in her tiny kingdom, Rachel suspected that at night a burglar could carry off the antique cast-iron stove in the parlor without waking her. She attributed that to Adorabella’s affection for her “medicinal” peach liqueur and an equally potent stash of sleeping pills obtained from who knew where.

But that didn’t mean Jewel’s antenna was shut down, even if her room was farther back in the house. Adorabella’s housekeeper, cook and confidante made the lady of the house look like an innocent. Deciding there were enough watchful souls around here as it was, Rachel proceeded with caution, tiptoeing as she began climbing the first flight of stairs.

There were eight bedrooms on the top two floors of the house, and only four were currently occupied, two on the second level and two on the third. Every night since taking a room here, Rachel had felt it both a blessing and a curse that hers was on the top floor; however, at the moment, all she remembered were the negatives—like how with almost every step the stairs creaked, and how so far she’d managed to avoid only a percentage of them.

When she reached her floor, she paused. Her room was at the end of the hall, opposite Mr. Barnes’s. She had chosen it because she’d wanted the view of the creek rather than the barn at the other end of the house, or the woods out back. She’d assumed—perhaps too naively—that Mr. Barnes had chosen his for similar reasons.

The most she’d ever seen of her neighbor was his back as he slipped into his room after using their shared bathroom, or the top of his dark head when he hurried down the stairs. To be fair, there were logical explanations for their lack of contact. Their work schedules were complete opposites. That didn’t exactly enhance their chances for striking up a conversation. But fairness wasn’t an issue at the moment; her sanity, if not her safety, was.

Suppose he decided it was time they did meet? What if he challenged her the moment she tried to reach the sanctuary of her room? Who could she rely on for help? Mr. Bernard, the retired railroad conductor on the floor below? The poor soul was practically deaf, and Celia Nichols, the sloe-eyed divorcée who had her eye on her boss, the married owner of the Black Water Creek Lounge, spent most of her time over there.

Don’t be a fool. The man has never bothered you, and he’s done nothing to suggest anything will change.

She was overtired and stressed, that’s all. Her job kept her steeped in responsibility. And she couldn’t forget the added pressure brought on by her alienated relationship with her family. Even without the burden of the past three nights, she had a lot taxing her mind.

It would do her a world of good to try to let go of everything—including this last episode on the bridge—and start fresh in the morning. She doubted she would get much sleep, but simply relaxing might help. In the morning she would consider confiding in Sammy. He was, after all, her sponsor, advisor and friend, as well as her boss. Most important, he had more background in psychiatry than anyone between here and Baton Rouge; as real as the episode on the bridge had seemed, it wouldn’t hurt to make certain she wasn’t fabricating the whole thing in her mind due to emotional overload.

But even with her new resolve, Rachel was cautious as she circled the balustrade and entered the bathroom. In fact, she found herself holding her breath until she set the lock.

She placed her bag on the side of the tub and faced her reflection in the mirror, wincing at what she saw. It was worse than she’d expected, worse than when she used to pull marathon shifts as an intern. Her eyes were bloodshot and rimmed in red, as though she’d been crying, and her face appeared as pale as a cadaver. Her dark brown hair, her personal vanity point, was no longer styled in a sleek pageboy cut, but rather a frizzy tangle. Add to it that her jeans and lab coat were stained with who-knew-what she’d picked up from crawling around on all fours on the bridge, and she was a visual horror herself.

A shower would be heavenly, but it could wait until morning when she knew she would be alone on the floor. Instead, she settled for a quick scrub of her hands and face.

When she was done, she leaned over to retrieve the jacket she’d laid beside her bag. At that moment she heard the doorknob twist.

Jerking upright, she inadvertently knocked her bag into the tub and several items fell out.

“Damn it, are you still in there?” a familiar voice growled.

“Yes, but…but I’m almost…”

“I need in. Now.”

Strange, Rachel thought. Five minutes ago, the prospect of having to face the man had filled her with dread. Indignation, however, provided a blissful swell of courage.

She released the lock and swung the door open, her first impulse being to tell the impolite jerk what she thought of bullies, not to mention voyeurs. Then she met the piercing dark eyes that the light revealed were midnight-blue, stared at the face that was etched forever in her memory and felt the room spin like a child’s top gone haywire.

“Hell, lady, whatever you do, don’t faint, because I’m in no mood to play gentleman.”

His voice, but without the aching tenderness. His face, once again grim with pain—but also with frustration and resentment. Joe Becket, but a Joe Becket who was very much the flesh and blood of this world.

What was going on?

“I need to use the sink,” he continued, holding up his wrapped left hand. “This has started bleeding again.”

Seeing the blood on the thin, filthy rag saved her. Whatever doubts Rachel had about her ability to cope as a woman, or as a specter’s medium, they were insignificant in the face of a medical emergency. Drawing herself straight, she reached for his injured limb.

“Let me see.”

He jerked back. “I can take care of it myself. It needs to be rinsed off, that’s all.”

“From the amount of blood soaked through that unsanitary rag, I think it’s going to need substantially more. I’m a doctor,” she added when he simply glared at her.

“I know who you are.”

Rachel wasn’t sure whether it was the fact that he could be so blatant about spying on her or that he was rudeness incarnate and a disappointment; whichever, it prompted her to lift an eyebrow and affect a cool hauteur that was poles apart from the wariness and tension she actually felt. “Then you have the advantage, Mr….?”

She wanted him to say it. She already knew what she was going to hear and that it was already compounding the mystery she’d let herself get caught up in, but she wanted the words to come from his own lips.

“Barnes,” he ground out. “Jay Barnes.”

CHAPTER THREE

Rachel stared, certain she’d misunderstood. When she’d first opened the door, she’d been shocked. She was just as shocked by not hearing him say, “Joe Becket.” Of course, if he had said it, it would have made things more bizarre and creepy than they already were. But it would also have given her the next piece of the puzzle—clarifying what, or rather, who Joe had meant when he’d warned her not to come back here. For an instant she’d believed she had her answer; instead she had a deeper mystery.

Joe Becket…Jay Barnes…J.B. What was going on?

“You going to stand there and let me bleed to death, or are you going to get out of my way?”

This time she almost welcomed Joe’s—Jay’s rudeness. It helped remind her that until she knew more, she couldn’t afford to let him see her confusion.

Hoping he didn’t sense her nervousness, too, she reached out again, waiting for him to give her his hand. “As I said, Mr. Barnes, I’m a doctor. By the looks of what you deem as ‘care,’ it would be in your best interest to let me help.”

He seemed on the verge of refusing—and not politely. Beneath his pronounced five o’clock shadow, the naturally taut muscles along his long jaw worked as he ground his teeth together; his midnight-blue eyes narrowed with suspicion, not to mention disapproval.

Maybe he was one of those relics who believed women couldn’t be as good as men in any profession, let alone the sciences. She was used to their small-mindedness, and to the type who found her youth disconcerting.

But was that what she felt emanating from Jay Barnes? She didn’t think so. She had a hunch he would have been reluctant and rude no matter who was offering him help. It allowed her not to take his rejection personally. It also raised her initial question all over again: Why was he behaving this way?

As pain seemed to win out, he slowly extended his left hand toward her, while the look he shot her warned she better be all she’d advertised.

Rachel ignored that. “Come in here so I can work with better light,” she said, stepping back to make room for him.

Once again she sensed his unwillingness, an almost palpable sensation, but at least this time he didn’t take forever to make his decision. When he did step forward, she found herself with yet a new problem—she had to deal with the room itself.

Converted years ago from a closet, the bathroom was narrow and cramped, clearly a room designed for no more than one person at a time. Despite the decorating wisdom of crisp white walls and fixtures that helped add a slight sense of space, she had to work to close herself to a surge of claustrophobia.

Hoping he didn’t sense her uneasiness, she began unfolding the rag. “Are you in a great deal of pain?”

“Only when someone reminds me of it.”

She didn’t bother glancing up at him. Didn’t dare. “There are reasons for the question besides a concern for your comfort, Mr. Barnes.”

“I’d be fine if I hadn’t accidentally bumped it.”

As the final covering fell away and she saw the angry tear of flesh across the outer edge of his palm, Rachel winced inwardly before replying, “No, you wouldn’t. In another twelve to twenty-four hours infection would have set in. What’s more, a simple bandage won’t get it. You need stitches.”

“No stitches.”

Neanderthal, she thought, and shot back, “All right, have it your way. I’ll do what I can with a pressure bandage and an injection of—”

“You’re not giving me any shot, and I’m not paying for one.”

Exasperation won ground. “Who asked you to?”

“Don’t tell me you’d give me a freebie out of the goodness of your heart?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Uh-huh…that’s one way to stay broke.”

There was no admiration or approval in his voice, but there wasn’t any real scorn, either. Relieved, Rachel replied dryly, “It’s been pointed out to me before.”

She dropped the offensive rag into the plastic-lined wastebasket and examined the wound. On a small woman or child the cut would have been critical, but on a man of Jay Barnes’s tall if lanky size it was slightly less severe. Barely medium height herself, she could tuck herself comfortably under his sharp chin. Not that she had any desire to be there, she amended hastily. She’d just thought that if Joe had stood completely straight, he would be close to that height, too.

Disturbed by her wayward thoughts, she retrieved her bag. “How’d this happen?”

“Working.”

“From what I’ve seen of it, Mr. Beauchamp’s establishment is a disaster waiting to happen.” Rachel felt him stiffen and glanced up. His expression, if possible, turned more wary than before. Could he suspect her of spying on him? “It’s a small town,” she said, shrugging. “And you must have figured out by now that our landlady is something of a clearinghouse for all the gossip.”

“Don’t remind me.” Permanent frown lines bisected his straight, stark eyebrows. “So, she mentioned where I worked when she gave you the offical tour of this firetrap?”

His smooth delivery didn’t fool her. She could feel tension radiating from him in powerful waves. It made her own overworked nerves feel like gelatin in an earthquake. “She spoke about everyone.”

Rachel took a sample tube of antibacterial soap out of her bag. “It’s going to sting like crazy, but I need to get the grit washed out of there.” To fill the pulsating silence that followed, she said, “I understand you moved in only a short time before I did?”

He grunted from behind compressed lips.

“Well, that’s what Adorabella, Mrs. Levieux, told me. But I, um, I don’t quite remember where she said you were from?”

“Here and there.”

The response, through gritted teeth, could have been a reaction to her work, but Rachel had a hunch it was also a result of another kind of probing. “Really? I enjoy moving around myself. Ever been to Virginia?”

He shook his head.

“That’s where I’m from.”

“Good for you.”

Resemblance or no resemblance, no way he and Joe Becket could be the same man, Rachel thought, repressing a grimace at his continuing rudeness. Jay Barnes acted as though having to be near her was more painful than his hand! And the way he glared…it was a wonder her face wasn’t singed from all his searing looks. What did he think she was going to do? she brooded, tugging a few tissues from the dispenser. Stab him with the tube of soap or something?

Who was he and what was going on?

Listen to yourself. One minute she was thinking about the viability of ghosts and the next she was weaving her own dark mystery, all because a withdrawn and more than slightly abrupt neighbor bore a striking resemblance to someone whose blood was, then wasn’t, on her hands? Get a grip, Gentry. Your sense of reality is slipping. Fast.

“I think that’s as dry as it’s going to get.”

The terse observation made Rachel stop, look and almost groan. Lost in her thoughts, she’d lingered too long over dabbing away the water from the wound. Embarrassed, she tossed the tissues into the trash and dug in her bag for the ointment and the rest of the things she needed.

All she needed was for the man to think she was coming on to him. With a build like his, he probably got more propositions than he knew what to do with, especially if he spent a lot of time walking around in nothing more than unsnapped jeans. “Sorry,” she muttered, “it’s been a long day.”

He didn’t bother replying.

Creep. Maybe he had the physique to turn heads, but he needed a personality transplant to be regarded as human.

For an instant, a shameful instant, she almost wished he and Joe Becket could change places. Why was it always the good ones who got hurt the worst? But as quickly as the thought came, she was overwhelmed with self-disgust.

“This won’t sting. In fact, it’s quite soothing.” As she spoke, she turned back to him and accidentally bumped into his rock-hard bicep. The tube went flying out of her grasp.

Jay Barnes’s face was a granite mask as he bent to retrieve it. “Are you sure you’re a doctor?”

“Would I be toting this thing around if I wasn’t?” she replied, gesturing to her bag.

“Who the hell knows. In any case, you’re the clumsiest, edgiest one I’ve ever met.”

“I’m surprised you’ve known any,” she shot back. “In fact, I’ve about come to the conclusion that you’re the type to cauterize your wounds over a flame to prove you’re tough and don’t need anyone.”

“At least I don’t put my patients through small-talk hell.”

“Listen to who’s criticizing—Mr. Personality.”

After a slight pause, he replied, “I guess I don’t have any room to complain.”

His quiet response not only surprised her, it made her uneasy. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but for a moment he almost sounded like…No, she told herself, smoothing ointment on the cut. She wouldn’t start that again. “Look, I, um, I’ve been under considerable stress lately.”

“Did it have anything to do with the strange way you behaved when you walked home tonight?”

Her hands shook slightly as she opened a gauze pad and secured it in place with more gauze. “I thought I saw you watching me,” she said, when she could control her voice. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s impolite to spy on other people?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Meaning?”

Indignation made her braver, just as it made her fingers more efficient. “It’s probably residual guilt over all the people you’ve fried with your acidic tongue.”

“Wrong. Unlike you, most people take the hint when I make it clear I want to be left alone.”

“Take heart, Mr. Barnes,” she replied, having had enough of this foolishness. “As soon as I finish this, you can go back to your precious privacy with my wholehearted approval.”

She worked quickly and without mishap after that, despite being acutely aware of his gaze following her every move. Only when she secured the gauze with a last piece of tape did he break the lengthy silence.

“So, what upset you out there?”

Although outwardly casual, something about the repeated question from a man who had no use for small talk had Rachel’s antenna going up again. She decided this time it wouldn’t be wise to meet his intense eyes. As it was, they seemed to have X-ray abilities. “Nothing much. I spook easily, that’s all.”

“People who do don’t usually walk home from work at 2:00 a.m.”

“They do if they don’t own a car,” she countered, hoping he’d been awake those times when Cleo had given her a ride. The less she had to explain, the sooner she could change the subject.

But he didn’t mention Cleo, or other sightings, seeming interested only in tonight. “It sounded as though the last truck that passed you on the bridge came close to hitting you. Or was there something else?”

She was grateful they were no longer in physical contact, and focused on replacing her things in her bag. “What do you mean?”

“Last week somebody lost a wooden pallet off a flatbed trailer and it messed up a truck’s tires before the driver saw it. There’ve been more than a few animals getting run over up there, too. The fog’s treacherous.”

“Yes…and actually, it was me the trucker was warning. I, um, was crossing the road and thought I had more time to get out of his way.” It wasn’t totally a lie. In a way. Even so, Rachel wasn’t comfortable with having to shade the truth. She’d worked too hard to keep her life honest and simplified.

“Better be careful,” he continued, his tone almost whimsical. “You could get knocked off that thing, fall into the creek, and no one would ever think to look for you down there until it was too late.”

“I’ll remember that.” She didn’t know how she got the words out. There was no ignoring that his words could be construed as a slickly phrased threat. Did he have intimate knowledge of such goings-on? Her hand had a fine tremor as she took one last package from her bag. “Well…I’d say we’re through. The bandage should be changed within the next twenty-four hours, and I’ll give you these.” She tried to shove the sample envelope of painkillers into his hand without touching him. “These should take care of any further discomfort you might have.”

“I don’t take drugs.”

“This is very mild. The equivalent of an over-the-counter dosage.”

“I don’t want them.”

She’d had enough. Throwing the pills back in her bag, she zipped it closed. “Fine. If you’ll excuse me, I’m dead on my feet and ready for bed.”

But he didn’t get out of her way. Instead, he tapped the fingers of his good hand against the doorjamb and eyed her with a mixture of doubt and indecision. “Look, I don’t mean to be ungrateful, okay? I guess I’m just not the kind of guy who deals with people well.”

Whereas Joe Becket had seemed caring and interested. No, no…she didn’t want to think about that, about him anymore tonight and shook her head dismissively. “We all have our weaknesses.”

“I appreciate the first aid.”

“You’re welcome. Goodnight.”

Go, she willed him. But he didn’t budge. Unable to avoid it any longer, she looked up and immediately wished she hadn’t.

Something changed in his eyes—a flickering of doors inching open, guards being lowered, and wistfulness, maybe even yearning, seeping in. It was as though she was glimpsing the face of another person. It troubled her. In a way, it frightened her…every bit as much as his hard demeanor had. But it also did terrible things to her curiosity.

Unable to resist, she blurted out, “Mr. Barnes…do you by chance have a twin?”

CHAPTER FOUR

“What?”

Rachel told herself that maybe it was time to slow down on the amateur sleuthing. What had she been thinking to challenge him this way when she was physically and psychologically in a vulnerable position?

As for Jay Barnes, all expression vanished from his face. “I don’t believe I know what you mean.”

“A twin,” she said, her boldness waning. “Do you have one?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m not sure.” She’d noticed that as she grew more uneasy, a deadly calmness had entered his voice. “I suppose it’s because I keep getting this feeling we’ve met before. Do you? Have a twin, I mean?”

“No.”

He spun around and walked away. She couldn’t say she was disappointed; she simply didn’t breathe until she heard the sound of his door shutting. Only then did she expel the breath she’d been holding, shut her eyes and let her clamoring nerves charge through her body like a pinball machine gone haywire.

As soon as she could be sure her legs wouldn’t buckle beneath her, she hugged her bag to her chest like a shield and hurried to her room, where she shut the door and bolted it. Only then did she allow herself a shaky sigh of relief.

Things were getting far too complicated. What had she been thinking of to ask him that? She’d as good as told him she was onto him—pure foolishness since she didn’t have a clue as to what she was stirring up.

“Well, you’re up to your neck in it now,” she murmured to herself. The gauntlet had been thrown, leaving her little choice but to figure out what could follow.

Wishing for once that she hadn’t been born with a natural curious streak, Rachel placed her bag onto the cane chair beside the door and considered the state of her dubious sanctuary.

When she’d first taken the room, she hadn’t minded that its spareness paralleled that of a convent cell, unlike the more ornate ones below. She’d explained to Adorabella that she would be working so much she only needed a place to collapse and sleep off the inevitable fatigue that would be status quo until she fulfilled her contract. Maybe she’d been too hasty.

What was it she’d once heard or read about the simplest room containing any number of weapons? Right—the floral wallpaper could bore Jay Barnes, or whoever he was, to death if she could get him to stand around and stare at it long enough. The lamp on the single, scarred bedside table might be good for one throw. The equally abused dresser held her few toiletries, but most were contained in paper or plastic. She couldn’t even count on using the twin-size bed as a hiding place. Strange how until this moment she hadn’t noticed its smallness, when even as a child in her family’s summer home she’d had a full-size mattress. It showed how tired she really had to be.

Strange, too, that she’d originally taken this room because she’d liked the idea of having a man across the hall—even an unsociable one. Big houses were creaky, and this one wasn’t any exception; the sounds of aging often resembled footsteps on the stairs and outside her door.

Adorabella claimed they were the spirits of previous owners. Rachel had smiled politely at that, but had decided she would stick with more logical rationale, like settling boards or the weather. At any rate, she’d claimed Jay Barnes as her invisible, but de facto guardian, and let the knowledge of his presence insulate her confidence in her security.

But now that confidence was shattered. Who was going to protect her from him if she had made an exceedingly poor judgment call?

She glanced at the cane chair and, before she could talk herself out of it, moved it under the doorknob. The jiggling and scraping sounds made her wince, but once done she felt slightly better. Confident enough to slip out of her jacket and conscientiously hang it in the starkly bare closet. Then she crossed back to the bed, sprawled onto it and slipped off her shoes.

The cross-stitched bedspread was one Adorabella Levieux had made herself, and it carried the wonderful smell of a fresh laundering. The clean scent also reminded her of the condition of her work clothes. Worried that she might have a drop of blood or street dirt on them, and not wanting to stain the painstakingly made cover, she pushed herself back off the bed. After turning off the light, Rachel stripped off her jeans, blouse and T-shirt in the privacy of near darkness. Then, relying on the faint glow from the security lamps outside, she laid her clothes over the chair and slipped into an oversize shirt.

What now? she thought, facing the shadow-filled room. No way could she go to sleep after the last hour’s upheaval. Her nerves were stretched tighter than piano wire and her mind was racing. In fact, she doubted there would be peace for her before dawn came, and maybe not even then.

Because it took her farthest from the door, she padded across the deliciously cool hardwood floor to the window and curled up on the low, wide ledge. Through the screen and beyond the gnarled fingers of the sentinel oaks, night lingered deathly still, as it had since the mist descended Sunday on Nooton.

From this perspective the bridge took on a surreal quality. It almost resembled some phantom beast out of mythical lore—colossal, yet skillfully cloaked by a vaporous veil of gray. Only a leg showing here, an ear there, a hint of spine and ominous jaw.

Rachel shivered. Strange visions to conjure—considering she’d never been a fanciful person. And, as one who had until recently felt well-acquainted, comfortable, with the night, the changes were as depressing as they were unwelcome.

What a mess she’d gotten herself into this time. She could imagine what her parents would say: “It’s no less than we expected, Rachel. Only you would give up all we’ve provided for you to live in some backwoods swamp town where the roaches are as big as domestic animals. Far be it for us to interfere with your right to live below the poverty line, but did it ever occur to you to once consider how embarrassing these selfish gestures are for your family?”

And yet, if she would ask, they wouldn’t hesitate to do everything in their power to get her on a plane back to the east coast. Even if it meant calling in favors from among their Washington, D.C., contacts, including borrowing a private corporate jet. Nothing would be too good for Phyllis and Earl Gentry’s only daughter and youngest child, because Gentrys, they liked to point out, stuck together.

Especially if there was good press involved, Rachel reflected bitterly.

But she also knew any favor extended to her would come with a price tag. One she wouldn’t pay, regardless of her anxiety over what she might have gotten herself into. She’d worked too hard for her independence to hand it back to them, even if it looked slightly stress-fractured at the moment. Eleven years’ hard, she thought, remembering Roddie. An old, familiar pain gripped her heart. There was another reason to stand firm: if she surrendered and ran home, it would be turning her back on what her brother had died for.

Gestures, indeed. No, she would have to see this situation through on her own. But never had she felt more unsure of herself or about what to do.

Trying to think back to the beginning, she rested her forehead on her updrawn knees. Think about Joe…. Joe warning you about…who? Jay Barnes, who looked like him, but couldn’t be him? It didn’t make any sense! Jay Barnes was no more Joe Becket than she was Princess Whatshername. His unignorable physique versus her sexually deprived status aside, there had been no real chemistry between them.

Except for that one moment when…

None, she argued with herself, repressing her mutinous thoughts. While on the other hand, Joe, with a few simple words, a look and a caress had made her feel…special…needed…wanted.

Bright Eyes. Like a whisper carried on the night’s steady wing, the memory of his voice, as well as his words, floated to her. No one had ever called her that before. Being a woman who’d gone through college, graduate school, medical training and hell’s internship in her own noncomformist way, she was too experienced to fall for negligent flattery. Two affairs had also left her dubious as to whether she was capable of opening her heart again. But how often did a woman have a ghost tell her he needed to touch her more than he wanted his dubious contact with the world?

“Only you don’t believe in the supernatural,” she whispered.

Torn, Rachel leaped to her feet and combed both hands through her hair.

So what was going on? Maybe she needed to focus on things from a different angle…specifically, on someone who didn’t vanish the moment she touched him…which brought her back to Jay Barnes.

She pressed her lips together. Not for a moment did she believe that man. She also didn’t think his reticence had anything to do with a penchant for privacy. He was hiding from something, or someone, she knew it.

How strange his expression had been when she’d asked about a twin. She’d only posed the question because she couldn’t think of any other way to explain his uncanny similarity to Joe. Obviously, she’d touched a tender nerve. All she had to do was figure out what it was.

From the moment he’d first seen her, he’d known she would be trouble for him. It gave him no pleasure to have her prove him right.

As he lay on his bed with sleep farther away than ever, he linked his hands behind his head and swore at the stabbing pain. That damned hand would be his downfall yet!

Shifting to avoid putting any further weight on it, he again berated himself for being a clumsy fool. He’d injured himself trying to keep Mudcat’s building from falling around him, holding up sheet metal paneling as he’d reached for the drill. There was, however, no such thing as a successful shortcut—at least, not for him. He’d discovered that as a kid when he’d written a book report based on the cover jacket and received a failing mark; he’d had the lesson drilled into him every time impatience or pride had lured him into beating around the bush instead of doing something the right way. Now his throbbing hand reiterated the old lesson.

At least the derisive and damnably desirable doctor had been right about the ointment. The burning had about stopped. But the thing was still stinging like a nest of vengeful scorpions.

Dr. Rachel Gentry…what was he going to do about her? He’d never doubted the legitimacy of her credentials; however, just as there were cops who were crooked and politicians who were worse, he figured it was entirely feasible for a doctor—especially one who was so easy on the eyes—to be not quite on the up-and-up. What else explained what a woman with her understated class was doing in a moldy sinkhole like Nooton?

He’d known her name almost from the moment she’d moved in. The Duchess had told him when he’d gone downstairs to pay for another month’s rent. He’d let the drifty old landlady lure him into her parlor—crammed with everything except spiderwebs—and prattle to her heart’s content. It had been a sacrifice considering the god-awful cologne she doused herself with. The mere thought of how the artificial sweetness had conflicted with the strange smells drifting out from the kitchen made him shudder. But he’d sat and listened, her voice reminding him of a scratched-up vinyl record.

“…Dr. Rachel Gentry of the Washington Gentrys. I’m sure you’ve heard of them.” He hadn’t. “Oh, my dear, impeccable lineage. They’re connected to the Georgia Gentrys, you know. Rachel—she insists I call her Rachel, isn’t that sweet?—well, Rachel inherited that delightful complexion that’s become world renown. But I digress…”

She’d about digressed him into a coma. These days he couldn’t afford to give a damn about the hide on peaches, women or anything else; he had been pleased that he’d come away with enough information to justify his uneasiness about his new neighbor.

Rachel Gentry, he’d concluded, might be a legitimate physician, but she was no more a good Samaritan doing her bit for the underprivileged in this parish than he was the pope’s son. He would have to stay alert until she made her move.

Pity she was such a looker, though, and sharp. That had probably been the idea—send in the primo bait to sniff him out. He’d never made it a secret that he had an appreciation for independent women who had as much brainpower as beauty. Someone must have tipped them off and they’d decided to test the theory, since nothing else seemed to be working in their attempt to locate and flush him out.

Well, let them try. He enjoyed a game of cat and mouse as much as anyone, and he’d been getting more than a little restless, anyway. How the devil did Garth stand it around here? he wondered, then reminded himself that the snake lived on an estate surrounded with all the toys other people’s money could buy.

Feeling a new surge of bitterness, he jackknifed off the bed and paced the confines of his room. Room—ha! he thought with a new surge of sarcasm. The price of obtaining privacy had meant taking this man-size version of a toaster oven. Fog or no fog, the temperature remained lethal up here regardless of the hour, and the closest thing to air-conditioning crazy Adorabella provided was the oscillating fan on the dresser. Most of the time he refused to run it, because the ancient thing had almost no safety guard left and sounded as though it was still busy grinding up fingers of previous tenants.

He stopped before it, tempted to turn it on despite all the reasons he shouldn’t. He was drenched with sweat, and the hot, humid breeze would have to feel better than this. Of course, best of all would be a beer.

If he had to stay here much longer, he was going to have to look into getting one of those small refrigerators and a quiet fan…and then he could wile away the hours by wondering if he would live long enough to get his money’s worth out of them.

He reached for his cigarettes and lighter, reminding himself for the umpteenth time that life was easier without complications. Maybe somebody should have told bright-eyed Dr. Gentry that. Hell, she seemed too young to have her license, let alone be involved in this kind of filth.

His cigarettes and lighter lay beside the man-eating fan. Pulling one from the pack, he stopped it inches away from his mouth, then slammed it back onto the dresser. Down to almost three a day and she’d nearly ruined it for him.

He ran his good hand over his hair. Like the rest of him, it was soaking wet, another warning that he was edging toward an explosion.

What the hell, he thought, thinking about the beer again. Hadn’t he already reserved himself a first-class ticket to hell? He might as well make it a worthwhile trip.

He headed for the door.

CHAPTER FIVE

He thought his door might well be the only one in the house that didn’t squeak when opened. Humidity served as the culprit. With all the windows lifted to invite reluctant breezes, it had its run of the place. But he’d offset its effect on the hinges by keeping them oiled. As a result, when he eased out of his room and paused in the hall, he did so in near silence.

As was the case in his own room, the only light came from the blue-gray glow seeping through the window at the end of the hall. Because he lived in the darkness as much as he could in order to develop his night vision, he didn’t mind.

He took a moment to listen at Rachel Gentry’s door. There was a brief rustling and a squeak—as she turned in her bed?—followed by stillness. Without consciously intending to, he found himself picturing her as she slept, or rather the way he preferred to imagine her…wearing only the night’s wet kiss, her slim body graceful in a half twist like a ballerina in midleap, her hands lost in the dark silk of her hair. Just as unintentionally came the stirrings of arousal heating his body.

Like he needed this, he thought, berating himself for his weakness. He couldn’t afford to keep letting his thoughts drift to her, regardless of whether it made the hours of isolation pass more quickly or not. She already had too much of an effect on him, and that could prove problematic if things started coming apart.

Thirstier than ever, he made his way down the hall, treating the carpet runner like a serpent to be avoided. He’d learned that if he stayed on either the left or right side of it, he could usually reach the stairs without making a sound. It had become another game to him—a potentially lifesaving one. He’d taught himself the tone of each creak, too. Now when he heard someone coming, he knew exactly where they were positioned and who they were by their weight displacement on the hardwood floor.

But because of the relentless effects of the dampness combined with the age of the house, it was impossible even for him to get through without at least one squeak, and he found it, a new one, three feet in front of the landing. Silently cursing, he made a mental note of the spot.

The stairs were supposed to be easier because he’d learned to balance the bulk of his weight by resting his right hand on the railing, his left against the wall, and using a variation of a sailor’s method of descent in a ship. Under the circumstances, however, that maneuver was impossible, and the childlike tactic of sliding down on the railing wasn’t going to work, either, if he couldn’t easily stop himself. Deciding he needed the discipline, he started down the hard way.

Once he reached the second floor, he knew he could move more swiftly without having to worry about noise. The codger on this level snored loud enough to block out any noise he made, and no doubt the divorcee had yet to return from her nightly manhunt. But at the first level, he stopped.

There was something about this part of the house that bothered him. Something odd. If he put any merit in his landlady’s prattling, he would blame it on the spooks she claimed roamed around here. On the other hand, he’d met the voodoo queen, her housekeeper, and he figured she was the one who left him feeling he had a bull’s-eye painted at the base of his neck.

Even so, he enjoyed his periodic raids down here to swipe something from Jewel’s refrigerator. He never touched the food, though, no matter how hungry he was. Most of it looked strange enough to persuade him to turn down the Duchess’s frequent invitations to “family” dinners. The voodoo queen did, however, share his appreciation for beer, even if hers was a cheap local brand.

That’s what he’d come down for, and upon reaching the refrigerator, conspicuous by its modernness in a kitchen that was otherwise a throwback to forty, maybe fifty years ago, he carefully opened the right-hand door. The room filled with light and, uncomfortable, he quickly reached for a can on the bottom shelf. That’s when he felt it.

It had happened before, although never this powerfully. The only way to describe the intense awareness was that it felt like being in the cross hairs of the scope of a powerful rifle zeroing in on his skull. Without so much as drawing a breath, he dove beside the refrigerator, letting the door continue swinging open. It swept the huge kitchen with a yellow light, and he saw…

Nothing. Nothing at all. Except that the curtains, hung in lieu of a pantry door, were shifting. From the breeze of the swinging refrigerator door, he told himself.

Maybe.

He shifted to a crouch, then rose to his feet. He took a step forward, a knot of tension hardening in his gut, and then took another. With every expectation of a barrel appearing and discharging into his midsection, he grabbed both sides of the curtain and yanked it open.

“Jeez.” He backed away in shock and disgust.

Rachel jerked upright in bed, an unpleasant feeling, at once frightening and disorienting. But knowing the sensations passed more quickly when she didn’t fight them, she leaned back against the headboard and waited, completely still and silent, until the jumpiness and nausea passed. And to gain some insight into why she’d been jarred to consciousness this time.

Her mouth felt as though someone had stuffed it with the down from her pillows. Her shirt clung to her perspiration-dampened body like an unwelcome hand. Convinced that nothing more than the oppressive weather had intruded on her sleep again, she leaned over and checked the time.

Dismayed to see she hadn’t been asleep for even an hour yet, she kicked off the sheet tangled around her legs. At this rate she would be a basket case within the next week, she moaned silently, brushing hair out of her face and climbing out of bed. She went to the window to see if anything had changed—if there was a chance of a shower or a breeze. Something had to give, even if neither of those possibilities looked likely.

What unholy weather. That wasn’t only her opinion—everyone was saying so. Normally, a number of natives had explained to her, something would give one way or another. The logical ones blamed the persistent fog on global warming. A few strange characters pointed to UFO interference, the coming of the Age of Aquarius or Armageddon. Rachel saw logic in the theory about the troubled environment, but her instincts were edging toward a conclusion even stranger than the UFO idea.

“No more,” she moaned, massaging her temples with her fingertips. “Not tonight.”

Maybe a cup of water and two aspirin would relax her enough to get back to sleep. Shifting to massage her neck, she headed for the door. If she didn’t get some rest, Sammy was going to give her heck when she went in to relieve him in the afternoon. That kind of trouble she didn’t need. Up to this point in her career, she’d managed to show all her supervisors that she could handle her share of job stress; she wasn’t about to prove otherwise.

After moving the chair, she was about to free the secondary lock on her door, when she froze. What was that? A footstep?

She pressed her ear closer to the door and listened. For a moment everything remained silent, and then…it wasn’t exactly a step she heard, but a slight shifting of the floorboards, as though someone was trying to hide their movements.

Could it be Jay Barnes? What was he doing up?

The question was, how could anyone sleep in this sauna?

Rachel shut her eyes and tried to think. Maybe his hand hurt him worse than he’d admitted.

No doubt he’s been lying about a number of things, but if you open that door you may find out more than is healthy to know.

It was a risk she felt she needed to take. She’d had enough of trying to answer her own questions. Too many of them were being left unexplained. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be careful.

Ever so cautiously, she slid back the lock. Seeing how her hands were shaking, she quickly released the other lock and swung the door open.

A dark figure sprang toward her, had probably begun to do so the instant he’d heard the door opening. He moved with a speed and agility that Rachel found terrifying. She gasped and fell back against her opened door. With nowhere to go, she waited for the inevitable.

But rather than attack, he rested a hand on the right side of her head and growled, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Fair question—if she’d been in the mood to be fair. “Me? What are you doing? Have you any idea what a fright—You could’ve hurt me!”

“If I’d meant to, you wouldn’t be standing.”

His cold confidence made her stare in mute disbelief. She forgot how hot she was and how brave she’d always believed she could be in the face of adversity. All she knew was that she’d made a ridiculously big mistake by opening the door. “You’re a very strange man, Mr. Barnes,” she replied, deciding to salvage what was left of her common sense and retreat. Fast. “If you’ll excuse me…”

With a mere shifting of his weight, he blocked her with his left shoulder. “Not so fast.”

The maneuver brought him so close she could feel the heat of his half-naked body merging with her own. It created a near-electric aura between them. Barely able to move her lips, Rachel whispered, “Please get out of my way.”

“After you answer some questions.”

“If anyone should be answering questions, it’s you. I’m not the one creeping around out there.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Of course not.”

“You’re saying you’ve been in here all along?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Never mind.”

“Did you hear something before? Please tell me. I’d thought I’d heard something, too.”

“Do you always open your door at night to check on strange sounds?” he asked, his cool sarcasm running over her words.

She drew a deep, controlling breath. “No, of course not. I suppose I assumed it was you. I thought maybe you were feeling worse and might need help.”

“Help.” His gaze slid downward and he curled his lips, but there was nothing amused or congenial about the smile. “Exactly what did you have in mind?”

A scorching fever swept through her, growing less ignorable with each second he continued to stare. Unable to resist, she glanced downward herself and groaned inwardly.

No wonder he was treating her as though she’d propositioned him. During her brief, restless sleep, two buttons on her shirt had opened, leaving a gaping slash that couldn’t look more suggestive if she’d tried.

Well, there was no sense in pretending it hadn’t happened. Forcing herself to match him stare for stare, she buttoned up, drawling, “If you’ve seen enough?”

“Do you really want an answer?”

“No,” she replied coolly, fighting to ignore the sensations churning within her. It was because he looked so much like Joe Becket, she told herself. What she felt for Jay Barnes, however, was sheer, unadulterated dislike. “About your hand, does it hurt?”

“I feel it.”

“And that’s your remedy?” she asked, nodding to the can he lifted to his mouth.

“It beats the stuff coming out of our water taps. You look a little warm yourself—want a swallow?”

She eyed the can, thought about placing her lips where his had been, and her temperature rose another few degrees. “No, thank you.”

“What’s the matter? Afraid? I don’t have anything you have to worry about catching.”

She was afraid, period…of him, of herself, of what was happening every second their gazes held. “I simply don’t care for any, that’s all.”

Jay Barnes gave a brief shake of his head. “Where did they find you?”

Lost, she frowned. “Pardon?”

“Forget it. Let’s just say, I’m game if you are, Doctor.”

She didn’t understand a thing he was saying, but she understood an intimated insult when she heard one. “Mr. Barnes, I’m beginning to believe that if there’s a game being played, so far only you know the rules.”

“And that’s how I intend to keep it. All you need to understand is that if you want to save that gorgeous neck of yours, you’d better beat it while you still have a chance.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I work here!”

His gaze swept over her one more time and lingered on her mouth. “Fine,” he growled, finally pushing away from the door. “Have it your own way.”

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