Haunted

A man and woman walking toward them jumped, as though startled by the sound of her voice. The pair gave her a strange look before passing her. So she was in her winter pj’s, like Lana. So the heck what!

“So where we go?” Lana asked.

After a moment’s thought, a heavy sigh left her. “Let’s go to the place that started us on this journey. Maybe if I figure out what happened to me, I’ll stop hearing screams of pain in every single one of my dreams.”

REMAINING IN THE SHADOWS, Levi kept pace behind the two females. What a striking pair they made. The tall redhead and the petite blonde, both feminine beyond imagining. Nearly every guy that passed them stared at the redhead, dismissing Harper as if she just couldn’t compare.

Idiots, he thought. There was a delicacy to Harper, a fragility, yet when she opened her mouth you discovered just how much of a ballbuster she was. The contrast was exhilarating.

But those blue, blue eyes of hers—those haunted eyes with their secrets and pain and a thousand questions waiting to be answered—continued to, well, haunt him. As much as they would have turned him off any other woman, and should have turned him off her, he wanted her more with every second that passed. The shame and guilt were completely gone, and now, every time he caught sight of her, an urge to protect her rose up, one stronger than before, nearly overwhelming him.

A man had to touch a woman to protect her, and he really wanted to touch Harper again. That softness … that heat …

Figure out her mystery first.

He’d walked into her apartment, and for a second he’d seen crumbling walls, even a rat racing across his feet. But then in a snap, he’d seen freshly painted walls of bright yellow and blue, colorful furniture and every surface scrubbed clean. The momentary hallucination had freaked him out, but he’d said nothing. Then, after viewing her painting, a gruesome thing to be sure and exactly as she’d described it—a man standing over a bound, battered and naked female, a knife in his hand—he’d needed a moment to collect himself. Part of him had wanted to gather Harper close and make sure she was kept safe, even from the past. The other part of him had wanted to shake her for not coming to him sooner.

If what she’d painted hadn’t sprung from an overactive imagination, the only way to have witnessed such a scene was to have been in the room with the killer. A room like that wouldn’t have windows. So, discarding the overactive imagination argument for the time being—something he would do until proven otherwise—she had either aided and abetted the killer or had been captured herself and had somehow managed to escape. Levi doubted the first. Harper’s aversion to blood was real; no one could fake the draining of color from their face. And that, of course, left the second option ….

Actually, there was a third possibility, he realized. She could have been captured and killed.

Death wasn’t the end of life. He knew that beyond any doubt. Knew spirits existed eternally. Only problem was, he’d never developed the ability to see the spirits in the unseen realm, and at thirty-four, he doubted he ever would.

He’d been told only specifically gifted people could see into the invisible world around them. He’d also heard that with specific exercises, the gift could be developed over time, but he’d never tried any of them. Now he kinda regretted that. Two of his coworkers possessed the ability and they always uncovered answers pertaining to the worst of cases, even those deemed unsolvable, when no one else could.

Levi could have used some of that uncovering now.

He’d get his answers soon enough, though. He always did. And yeah, he should be on the phone, finding out what he could about Harper and her past, as well as her roommate’s past, but he’d heard the pair stomping and chattering down the hall and he’d decided to follow them instead. He was glad he had.

A few interesting tidbits he’d already picked up. They loved each other, were comfortable together. They talked and laughed, teased each other good-naturedly. Yet ninety percent of the people who passed them eyed them as if they were certifiable, even the males drooling over Lana. And as beautiful as the redhead was, and as fragile as Harper appeared, not a single male approached them.

Of the remaining ten percent, well, five percent eyed them with amusement, but the other five eyed them with fear. That same remaining five-and-five eyed him with sheer terror. He was used to people turning away from him, or outright running from him, as if he were a mass murderer with a blood vendetta or something. But usually those people were criminals, and he’d just caught them committing heinous crimes.

Finally the two women stopped in front of an art gallery, their happy moods draining and leaving only grim expectation. The place was small but open, with big glass windows staring into an elegant space with columns and hanging lights.

Harper flattened her hand on one of the panes. “I was here, I remember that much.”

“Yes, and you sold bazillion paintings that night.”

The accent … Czech, maybe.

“And you …”

“Left early on arm of some loser.” Guilt saturated the redhead’s tone.

“Yes, and I failed to come home.”

Neither female knew he was here, listening. The fact that they were searching for answers ruled out the possibility of an overactive imagination entirely. Yeah, people could convince themselves of the strangest things and actually think they were real, but they usually couldn’t get someone else to agree with them.

The hand on the pane, so delicate and tiny in comparison to his, fluttered to Harper’s neck. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, seeming to ponder the fate of the world before a slow smile curled her lips, lighting her expression with a mix of pride and sadness. “I was so happy by the end of the show, my nervousness gone. My first genuine presentation was a raging success, more so than I could ever have dreamed, even as amazingly talented as I am, and every painting sold.”

Yeah, there was no way this woman could have aided a murderer. He knew criminals, had dealt with them on a daily basis for years, and yeah, some of them were good actors, well able to mask the monster within, but that smile … that sadness … combined with her physical reactions, there was just no way this was an act.

If he was wrong, he’d shoot himself in the face.

He was going to find out the truth. He was going to help her.

“What next? You remember?”

He watched as a tremor rocked the curve of Harper’s spine, spiraling into her limbs. Nearly knocked her off her feet. “I … I …” She wrapped her arms around her middle, skin turning a light shade of green.

“You do not do this now,” the redhead rushed to add. “We come back later.”

“No,” Levi said, stepping from the shadows, “you won’t. You do this now, Harper.” As sick as she currently appeared, she might not work up the nerve to return.

In unison, both women spun to face him. Harper reacted first. With a face bathed in panic and a mouth hanging open to unleash a scream, she jacked up her knee—and nailed him in the balls.

4

Deserved this, Levi thought. He never should have snuck up on Harper. He’d known better. Women were more unstable than C-4.

What? They were.

Silence permeated the tension-filled space between Levi and Harper as he struggled to find his breath and forget the fact that his testicles would probably need to be surgically removed from his throat. Even the crickets were too uncomfortable to laugh about what had just happened.

Harper’s eyes were wide, her hand now over her mouth, and the friend was—doubled over laughing, he realized as the haze of pain gradually faded. Okay, so she wasn’t too uncomfortable. Suddenly he was glad he hadn’t gotten around to asking her out. So not my type.

Harper, on the other hand … His fairy with the broken wing and secrets in her ocean eyes had a nasty flight-or-fight response. It wasn’t such a wonderful thing when he was on the wrong end of her knee, sure, but it’d be white-hot sexy when he wasn’t, he was certain.

Still. Lesson learned. Never again would he underestimate her. But next time—and considering the amount of time they would have to spend together, working this case, there would be a next time—if given a choice, he would much rather chase her. Then, at least, he’d get to tackle like the good ole days when he’d played for OU.

Finally oxygen passed through his nostrils, filled his lungs. He smelled car exhaust and sunshine and … cinnamon. Her. He liked the smell of her.

Her hand fell away from her mouth. “I’m not going to apologize,” she said, chin lifting. With the morning sun stroking her exposed skin, flushing her cheeks to a deep rose, she practically sparkled with vitality. “You scared me, and I reacted. Deal with it.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I do.” He rubbed the back of his neck, grunted out a quick “Sorry” and left it at that. It was more than he’d given anyone in years, and you know, it hadn’t left the bleeding, gaping wound that he’d expected.

The stiffness drained from her, and she worked up a beautiful grin that lit her entire face. It was genuine, with no hint of sadness, and she looked as if she’d swallowed the sun. Her hand fluttered just over her heart as she said, “Wow. Never has a more poetic apology been spoken. I’m all warm and tingly inside.”

His body reacted to her words—warm and tingly—heating, tensing. He really had to get this attraction thing under control. He didn’t mind wanting her, liked it, in fact, but he did mind the growing intensity of that wanting. “So you disappeared from this place?”

“I think.” The grin was the next to drain away, followed by that gorgeous light. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I just remember bits and pieces.”

He heard the frustration and anger in her tone and sympathized. Levi knew he’d attacked the serial killer, but didn’t know what he’d done or what had provoked him. He had flashes of flying fists, could even hear grunts of pain, but that was it. And for a man who prized his memory, having never forgotten a locker combination or even a file number, that irked.