Нора Робертс - The Last Boyfriend

“Oops.” It choked a laugh out of her, and everything just fell away. All the guilt and grief, the apologies and worries.

You and me, she thought again. It’s you and me. So she wrapped around him and nipped her teeth at his shoulder.

“I’ve got a taste for you now.” She rolled him over, nipped again.

“Want to play rough?”

“You already did. Hauling me up here, throwing me down on the bed. Let’s see how you like it.” Mindful of his hand, she clamped his wrists, ranged over him.

“I like it fine.”

“Because now we’re naked.”

“It’s a factor.”

She lowered her head, stopped a breath from his lips, pulled back, lowered again. Pulled back.

“You’re asking for trouble.”

“Oh, I can handle you.”

She leaned in again, then slid down to glide her tongue over his chest.

Okay, he thought as his blood surged, she could handle him.

She owned his body, every inch, teasing, inciting, seducing, exciting. Quick and rough one moment, slow and tender the next, leaving him off balance, off rhythm, and totally possessed.

“Owen, Owen, Owen.” She whispered it again and again as she rose over him, drunk with power and lust.

She took him in, deep, deep, clamped her hands on his shoulders as triumph and surrender catapulted through her system. He took her breasts, pressed his hand against her galloping heart.

She lowered again, and this time let her lips take his in a long, trembling kiss.

And she rose again, let her head fall back, let everything that was the two of them fill her.

Then she rode them both empty.

Later, she doctored his hand, kissed the little wound. In her blue-checked robe she heated soup in the kitchen while he poured them each a glass of wine.

On impulse she lit candles for the table. Not quite a midnight supper, she thought with a glance at the time. But pretty close.

“It’s snowing hard now. You should stay.”

“Yeah, I should.”

Content, she ladled soup into thick white bowls while the snow fell on the rest of the world.

For as long as he could remember, Owen liked to figure things out, find the answers, wiggle out details. His innate propensity for schedules, agendas, bottom lines, and solutions made him a natural as coordinator of Montgomery Family Contractors. He’d never imagined, not seriously, doing anything else, and couldn’t imagine anything else giving him the same level of satisfaction or pride.

Working with his brothers suited him. They could and did disagree, piss each other off, bitch and complain. But they always came around. He understood their rhythms as well as he understood his own. He knew the weak spots in each, which could be handy if he was pissed off and wanted to needle.

Solving problems in a way that presented the facts, offered possible compromises and the occasional ultimatum was his thing.

He approached the situation with Elizabeth as a problem.

They had a ghost at the inn. Weird fact, yes, but fact. To date she’d proved mostly amenable, somewhat temperamental, and she’d put them all in her debt by warning Beckett when that asshole Sam Freemont assaulted Clare.

She’d only asked one thing. For Billy.

The problem was, who the hell was Billy? When the hell was Billy? What connection did he have to the woman they’d dubbed Elizabeth?

The ring indicated a relationship, possibly an engagement. But that, in Owen’s world, wasn’t fact.

Their resident ghost wasn’t saying either way.

It seemed to Owen the best place to start would be to identify Elizabeth, and to pin down when she’d died.

Where, though it wasn’t verified fact but logical supposition, was the inn.

“Makes the most sense, right?” He’d set up his laptop in The Dining Room on the theory Elizabeth might give him more direction if he worked the problem on location.

“That’s how it strikes me,” Hope agreed, and set coffee at his elbow. “Why else would she be here?”

“I’ve been poking around paranormal activity sites. You pick up all kinds of wild stuff, and a lot of it has to be crap—but what I’ve pulled out is most people who haven’t, you know, passed over, tend to stick around where they died, or go back to a place that was important or significant to them. If she died here, she could’ve been a guest, could’ve worked here, could’ve been related or connected to the owners.”

“Death records would be a starting point, but where to start?”

“That’s part of it, yeah?”

“Well, the way you described what she wore, it makes me think after the start of the Civil War, and before 1870. Not the wide, wide hoopskirt, but still a wide skirt.”

“Yeah. Kind of . . .” He held his arms out. “It was a pretty quick look.”

“If she’d let me get a look at her, I’d have a better idea.” And why wouldn’t she? Hope wondered. After all they were—as Avery said—inn-mates. “How about the sleeves?”

“The sleeves?”

“Of the dress, Owen. Long, short, snug, poofy?”

“Oh. Um . . . long. Kind of big, I think.”

“Gloves? Did she wear gloves?”

“I don’t know that I . . . you know, I think so, but without fingers on them. Kind of lacy, or like my grandmother’s crocheting. And now that I think about it, one of those wrap things.”

“A shawl—and you said a snood.”

He could only stare. “I did?”

“You said she had her hair up in a net in the back. That’s a snood.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. I’ve got a minute or two. Can I?” she asked, gesturing at his keyboard.

“Help yourself.”

He turned it toward her as she sat, and waited, enjoying his coffee as she typed.

“I’m pretty sure if you put those elements together, you’re talking early to mid 1860s.”

He let her work in silence for a few minutes. Peaceful here, he thought, in the middle of the day. He should get back next door before too much longer, give Ryder a hand. And maybe slip over to Vesta later, see if he could talk Avery into going out—or staying in.

“How about this?” Hope turned the screen toward him. “What do you think?”

Curious, he studied the illustration of a small group of women in a kind of drawing room. “I think I wonder why women wanted to wear something that looks that uncomfortable.”

“Fashion hurts, Owen. We live with it.”

“I guess. This is pretty close, in type, I mean. The skirt was pretty much like this one, and the sleeves, and it had a high neck like this one. Maybe some lace or something on it.”

“This is fashion from 1862. So you could start there. And I doubt you’re looking for a maid or servant,” Hope added as she studied the illustration. “It’s too fashionable. Not impossible as it could’ve been a dress passed to her by an employer or relative, but going with the odds, she dressed like a woman of some means.”

“We’ll play the odds to start. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, and it’s interesting. I’ll be in the office if you need me.”

He intended to give it a half hour, then strap on his tool belt. But he got caught up, poking through old records, old newspaper articles, genealogy sites.

At some point, Hope walked back in, freshened his coffee, added a plate of warm cookies.

He finally sat back, frowned at his screen.

“What the hell is this?” Ryder demanded. “You’re sitting here eating cookies while I’m up to my ass next door?”

“Huh?”

“It’s two-fucking-thirty.”

“Oh. Sorry. I think I found her.”

“Found who?” Ryder snatched the last cookie, and his scowl eased off after he bit in.

“You know.” Owen pointed toward the ceiling. “Her.”

“For Christ’s sake, Owen, we’ve got work. Play ghost-hunter on your own time.”

“Eliza Ford, of the New York Fords.”

“I’m glad we cleared that up.”

“Seriously, Ry, I think it fits. She died here, from some kind of fever, in mid September 1862. She’s buried in New York. She was eighteen. Eliza, Elizabeth, Lizzy. That’s kind of cool, isn’t it?”

“I’m riveted. She’s been here for about a hundred and fifty years. I think she can wait until we finish the goddamn work next door.” He picked up the mug, took a drink. “Coffee’s cold.”

“I’m going to go up, try to talk to her. I’ll make up the time after. Avery’s working until six anyway.”

“Really glad this petty business of the job fits in with your social schedule.”

Because Ryder’s tone put his back up, Owen matched it with his own. “I said I’d make up the time, and goddamn it, we owe her. She warned us about Sam Freemont. He might’ve—damn well would have—done worse to Clare if Beck hadn’t gotten there in time.”

“Shit.” Ryder dragged off his gimme cap, raked his hand through his hair. “All right, go talk to your dead friend, then get next door. Are there any more of those cookies?”

“I don’t know. Ask Hope.”

On a grunt, Ryder headed out.

Owen shut down, but left his laptop on the table as he climbed the stairs. He’d found several women between the ages of eighteen and thirty who’d died in town during the right time frame. And there’d be more yet if he went with the theory that a ghost could pick his or her own age.

But Eliza Ford felt right.

He got all the way up before he remembered standard operating procedure had Hope or Carolee locking all the guest room doors when they weren’t occupied. By the living anyway.

He started to turn, go back down. And the door to Elizabeth and Darcy opened.