“Yeah, they’re unruly as hell.” He kissed the top of her head.
“I wonder what would happen if I destroyed the canvas.”
“Nothing. Whether or not you paint the scene will have no effect on this person. Get that straight, sweetie. Whatever . . . vibes, or whatever the hell they are, that you’re picking up, you’re the one being affected, not the other way around.”
“I wish I could be sure of that.”
“You can, because you painted Elijah Stokes after he was dead, not before.”
Startled, she jerked her head back to stare at him. “How do you know?”
“I talked to his son David. Mr. Stokes died late in the afternoon. You didn’t do the painting until that night.”
She mulled that over, feeling relieved but as if there were some questions she should ask, if only she could think what they were. Sighing, she slid her arms around his waist and was comforted by the feel of his body. He was so solid and strong. Had she held him before? She had touched him and stroked her hand up his back, but she didn’t know if she had actually put her arms around him before now. Her conscience twinged. She had been taking and taking, while he had been doing all the giving, but even strong people needed to be held. She had always considered herself strong, and look how much she had needed him.
He leaned back a little so he could peer down at her face. “Feel better about it?”
“Relieved. Still worried.” She managed a smile, pushing away her uneasy feelings. “And hungry. Have you had breakfast?”
“A long time ago, but I could eat again. Would you like to go out for breakfast? It’ll be our first date.”
“Wow, a date. I don’t know if we should do that.” She grinned at him, thinking of all the things they had done—and the things they had yet to do.
His answering grin was both amused and rueful. “My day will come, sweetie. When I finally get you flat on your back, just remember that I have a lot of built-up frustration that will have to be worked off.”
“You say the sweetest things,” she purred, and laughed because she had never done this kind of love play before, never teased a man and felt his desire for her like a tidal wave about to break over her head. It was heady, and exciting, and . . . and wonderful.
He turned her to the door and urged her on with a small push. “Put on some shoes—and a bra, while you’re at it. That little jiggle is hell on my self-control.”
She did more than put on shoes and a bra. She exchanged her gray sweatshirt for a blue sweater and did the mascara-and-lipstick thing. She frowned at her hair, blew a curl out of her eyes, and decided to leave it alone. Grabbing her purse, she went out into the living room, where Richard sat reading one of the books on ghosts.
“I’ve been researching ghosts since all this started,” she said. “I keep hoping I’ll find some explanation of what caused me to start seeing them, but so far all the books are just about the ghosts themselves. Some spirits leave immediately; some hang around for a little while; some never leave at all.”
“So why would any of them hang around?” He stood up and walked with her to the door.
“There are all sorts of theories. Maybe there are loose ends to be tied up, maybe they’re just confused and don’t cooperate—who knows? One book said that only unhappy spirits become ghosts, so technically the ones who stay just a little longer aren’t really ghosts, they’re just on a layover.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” he murmured.
Sweeney locked the door behind them, and they walked to the elevator. She noticed Richard looking around him, studying the building for signs of decay. The apartments weren’t luxurious, or even upscale, but everything was usually in good repair. If the elevator malfunctioned, the tenants didn’t have to wait weeks for it to be repaired. Lightbulbs were replaced and the plumbing was maintained. The building was old, but the tenants, herself included, generally considered themselves lucky
They stood waiting for the elevator, watching the old-fashioned dial at the top with the needle that indicated at which floor the car was stopped. The needle was coming up. Richard put his hand on her waist, his fingers flexing slightly as if he savored the feel of her. Sweeney tilted her head to smile at him just as the elevator chimed and the doors slid open, and Candra stepped out.
She froze when she saw them, her face blanching of color. She took in Richard’s hand on Sweeney’s waist, the way they were standing close together, and angry color flooded back into her face. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said to Richard, her hands clenched into bloodless fists.
The elevator closed behind her. Richard leaned forward and punched the button again, and the doors obediently reopened. “Where would you like to go for breakfast?” he calmly asked Sweeney, ushering her into the car and hitting the button for the lobby. Sweeney blinked at him, admiring his cool unconcern; she felt almost paralyzed by the awkwardness of the situation.
Infuriated, Candra stepped back into the elevator as the doors began to close. “Don’t you dare try to ignore me!”
“What Sweeney and I do is none of your business.” His voice was still calm, his demeanor completely unruffled. His hand was firmer on Sweeney’s waist, however, keeping her anchored at his side.
Sweeney noted the linking of her name with him, and so did Candra. “The hell it isn’t!” She was so furious her voice was shaking. “You’re still my husband—”
Standing so closely to him, Sweeney felt the sudden tension in his body, and his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. For the first time in his presence she felt a frisson of fear, and that look wasn’t even directed at her. “You don’t want to go there,” he told Candra, very softly.