When the Spirit Is Willing Read online

  "I seem to make you nervous," he said with a slightly cocky smile.

  "Not at all. It's just that I—you—" She took a breath. "I'm afraid you're… interested in me."

  "You've noticed. Good."

  "What exactly do you have in mind?" she asked.

  He looked taken aback. "Are you always this straightforward?"

  "It saves a lot of time."

  "I see." His dark eyes glinted. "Then I guess I'd have to say I'm interested in a friendly relationship."

  "That sounds like a euphemism to me. What you really mean is you're interested in getting me into bed." She smiled tightly. "You look quite shocked, Mr. Kincaid. I've noticed men don't really like women to lay the cards out on the table. They prefer the little woman to appear innocent until wham—opportunity strikes and she's taken unawares before she realizes what is happening."

  Laughter gleamed in his eyes. He could not be disconcerted for long, this man. "You certainly know how to take the romance out of a situation," he said.

  "Remember that," she said, then added, "remember this, too. I'm not about to get involved with you."

  He smiled lazily. "Ever?"

  "Ever," she repeated firmly.

  The smile faded, then returned with all its cheery wickedness. "If you're not careful, I might take that as a challenge."

  "You have no idea how much of a challenge I can be," she said, then deliberately changed the subject before he could try to cap that statement. "Did Sly tell you what happened yesterday?"

  Carter frowned. "He said Jessica was a spunky little thing and he was sorry he'd upset you by taking her out for ice cream. He'd been quite sure they'd get back before we did, he said."

  "He didn't tell you about the black car and why he huddled down in the taxicab?"

  Carter groaned. "He did not, but I've an idea you'd better lay it on me."

  She did.

  By the time she was done, he had slumped in his chair and was staring into space, frowning, his hands hanging between his knees. After a minute or two, he shook his head and straightened up. "It sounds as if somebody's after the old boy," he said.

  Laura felt a slight tremor of fear go through her. "Is there any reason why anyone should be? Could it be the police?"

  "In a '51 Merc?" He guessed he owed it to her to tell her the truth about Sly's previous adventures with gambling and women. She became frostier by the second as he did so. "The old boy's quite a character," he concluded, hoping to lighten things up.

  Laura let out her breath explosively. "Would you please tell me what it is people find so damned attractive about men like your uncle Sly? From what you say, he's a cheat and a liar and a womanizer and he gets away with all of it because he's also glib."

  There didn't seem to be a whole lot he could say in Sly's defense. Given the current climate, saying anything would probably be a waste of time, anyway.

  Laura was on her feet. "I guess I'd better be getting back to work," she said. "I've been taking too much time off lately."

  "I'm sorry, Laura," he said.

  "You should have told me about your uncle's licentiousness. I would never have left Jessica…"

  He couldn't let that pass. "Sly's hardly licentious. A bit of a rascal, maybe. An overage scamp. As for Jessica's safety—there was never any possibility of her coming to harm. Sly is absolutely trustworthy with children. I told you that."

  She frowned, then looked apologetic. "Perhaps I did overreact. I'm sorry. It's just that your uncle…reminds me of someone." She paused. "So do you," she muttered.

  Priscilla had said she'd overheard Laura talking about her ex-husband's flaws to some friend in California. What had Laura said a moment ago? That Sly was a cheat and a liar and a womanizer.

  Oh, boy.

  Had she actually said he reminded her of this guy, too? What the hell had he done to warrant that? In silence, he walked with her out into the hall. Jessica darted a look at her mother's face and took hold of her hand. Sensitive child. As they descended the stairs, Carter tried desperately to think of something to say that would bring warmth back to Laura's face, but he was brain dead.

  "I'll talk to Sly, see if I can find out what this mysterious car is all about," he promised.

  "That's up to you," she said. "I just thought you should know about it in case he's in some kind of danger."

  "Oh, I hardly think—" He broke off, remembering the homicidal logger he'd tangled with on Sly's behalf two years ago.

  "I'll call you," he said as they reached the foyer, and realized he always seemed to part from her with those words.

  He realized something else as she walked stiffly toward the main door, holding Jessica's hand. She never had called him by his first name. And it didn't look as if she ever would. He wasn't getting very far, very fast, with Laura Daniel.

  He was surprised to discover that this mattered to him a great deal.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Usually, after work, Carter took Max for a run, but today he was anxious to get things straightened out with Sly. Max, however, was a creature of routine. Plunking his rear down on the veranda, he assumed his "how can you do this to me" expression and refused to enter the condo until Carter reminded him his meals depended upon his master's goodwill. Groaning, the big dog finally consented to saunter inside.

  Sly was cleaning Carter's bedroom, dressed in jeans and a WSU T-shirt. He looked fragile without the padded shoulders of his usual suit jacket. Deceptively fragile. Single-handedly, he'd yanked Carter's mattress and bedspring onto the floor and was busily flapping an ostrich feather duster over the bed frame. Sly swore by ostrich feathers.

  His smile was saintly. "Did you have a good day?" he asked. "I'll have dinner on in a jiffy, soon as I get through here. Chicken and polenta. A green salad."

  Carter's mouth watered. He loved polenta, especially with the tangy cheese Sly put in it. But he wasn't going to let himself be distracted. Leaning against the doorjamb and folding his arms, he said, "You and I have some talking to do, Sly."

  Sly glanced brightly at him, then started dragging the vacuum-cleaner canister toward him. "Let me just clean under the bed. That dog must be shedding. Look at all the dog hair that's blown in."

  "The vacuuming can wait," Carter said sternly, unable to see a single hair. "I want to know what happened yesterday. Jessica told her mother you got seated about a black car that parked across the street and you fudged her off with a story about playing cops and robbers. Who's after you, Sly?"

  Sly's brow crimped with apparently serious thought. Giving him time, Carter looked around the room, then straightened abruptly as his glance fell on his closet shelves. "What the hell have you done to my sweaters?"

  Sly looked offended. "No need to take that tone, my boy. I merely tidied them up."

  Outraged, Carter had gone to stand in front of the closet. "You've sorted them by color!"

  "Alphabetically by color," Sly said proudly.

  "What's the green one doing this side of the blue, then?"

  "That's not green—that's avocado."

  Carter groaned. "You've rearranged the whole damn closet!"

  "Shirts and jackets should be hung with their left sleeve out," Sly said firmly.

  "Who says?"

  "I learned that in the army."

  "You were never in the army."

  Sly looked puzzled for a moment. Probably he'd told so many people he was in the army that he'd come to accept it as truth. "Well, they do that in the army," he amended. Then he switched on the vacuum cleaner and started poking around with the nozzle under the bed.

  Carter strode across the room and pulled the plug. "Sit," he said sternly, pointing to the chair Sly had piled with bedding. Sly sat. So did Max, which almost made Carter destroy the suddenly taut atmosphere by laughing.

  "Who's after you?" he demanded again.

  "No one that I know of, my boy," Sly said.

  "A black Merc-'51 model?"

  Sly's eyes flickered. "Nice car," he said. "The
y don't make 'em like that nowadays. Lots of leg room. Strong body."

  Carter held his gaze steady.

  Sly shrugged. "Sorry, my boy. Can't help you on that one."

  "And the cops-and-robbers game?"

  "Just wanted to amuse the little girl. No man around that house, but she likes cars and trucks and trains and boats." His face brightened. "Figured she liked boys' games, don't you see? So I suggested cops and robbers."

  All very reasonable. Carter didn't believe a word. "Her mother came to see me at the museum this morning," he said. "She's very upset."

  "A very attractive woman, Laura Daniel," Sly mused aloud, then looked alertly at Carter. "Got the hots for her, have you?"

  "Don't be coarse, Sly."

  "Uh-huh."

  "I do like her very much," Carter admitted.

  "Uh-huh," Sly repeated. Smiling, he started to say something more, then he frowned and went silent.

  They were getting off the subject, Carter realized. Sly was good at ducking issues when he was the object of criticism. "What's it all about, Sly?" Carter demanded. "An irate husband? Someone you ripped off? Did you palm a few aces? Shortchange the pot? Or is it someone you owe money to?"

  Sly looked at the floor.

  "You left Spokane owing somebody money? And whoever it is wants to collect? Gambling debts, I'll bet. That's it, isn't it? Money."

  "Well, I'm perennially short of the glorious green stuff. You know that. Do you suppose you could see your way clear…?"

  "Not until you tell me what the hell is going on."

  Sly sighed gently. "Then I guess I'll have to stay broke. Nothing's going on, Carter, believe me."

  "I don't," Carter said flatly.

  Sly's face showed a wonderfully complex mixture of wounded vanity and disappointment. Silently getting to his feet, he stalked out of the room. Max was still sitting, looking hopeful, evidently expecting some kind of reward for obeying the "sit" order.

  Carter patted the dog's head, then looked at the torn-apart bed and groaned. When Sly went into one of his high dudgeons, he didn't show up for some time. Which meant not only that polenta was no longer on the menu, but Carter was going to have to put his bed back together himself.

  Maybe he'd been too high-handed, he thought a half hour later when he wandered into the kitchen to see if he could find anything edible. Sighing, he reached into the refrigerator for the jar of coffee beans, which wasn't in its usual place on the bottom shelf. It was on the top shelf, snuggled next to the apples and butter.

  He closed the refrigerator and his eyes. In the space of a few days his well-ordered universe had expanded to include a compulsive, possibly fugitive uncle, a nubile wench who batted her eyelashes at him and insisted on sitting thigh to thigh with him at the computer, a lovely gray-eyed woman who turned his hormones inside out but would barely give him the time of day…and a nineteenth-century ghost. It was more than any man could bear.

  "Is your mother still angry?" Priscilla asked.

  Jessica nodded. "I don't think she's mad at me. I think it's Mr. Kincaid."

  "Sly, you mean? Or Carter?"

  Jessica thought for a minute. She didn't really want to talk about it; she'd much rather get on with the racetrack layout. They were in her bedroom and she'd finally worked out how to get the cars to go uphill—it all had to do with getting them to come downhill fast enough. But Priscilla had a way of insisting on answers to questions. "Both of them."

  Priscilla sighed. "That's too bad. I want her to like Carter."

  Jessica's stomach knotted. "Well, I don't."

  Priscilla studied her face. "You don't want Laura to like him or you don't like him."

  "Both."

  For a minute she thought Priscilla was going to push for more answers, but then a weird expression came on her face and she just nodded. "Ah, yes, I begin to understand."

  Jessica had no idea what her friend Priscilla understood, but she'd lost interest, anyway.

  The kitchen was finished. Laura looked around with pride, waiting for the usual satisfied feeling to surface. Somehow it seemed to be missing this time. All this work, for someone else to enjoy. And nobody to even say well done.

  Nonsense. She was tired, that was all. Tired and…lonely. Ever since Priscilla had made the suggestion, she'd come to realize it was true, no matter how hard she denied it.

  But the kitchen was done. She should celebrate. She would celebrate. She'd cook lasagna, Jessica's favorite meal.

  Once she had the ingredients for the sauce mixed and simmering in the electric skillet, she squatted to pull the electric pasta maker out of the cabinet. The doorbell rang. Hastily tucking her blouse into the waistband of her jeans, she went to answer it.

  Carter Kincaid was looking in through the etched window next to the front door, complete with ingenuous grin and dog. She felt a lift of spirits that was totally out of proportion.

  Carter saluted her through the window. He was wearing chinos and a navy polo shirt that hugged his biceps very nicely. It was the first time she'd seen him in casual clothing. It added a subtle sexiness to his lean and natural elegance. Deep inside her, something primitive stirred.

  For a moment, she hesitated. It was becoming obvious that Carter Kincaid wasn't going to give up on the challenge she represented. In order to protect herself, she would just have to be rude. Determined not to give him an inch he could turn to his advantage, she pulled open the door. "Really, Mr. Kincaid," she began, "you've got to stop dropping in whenever you—"

  "Carter," he interrupted.

  That crooked, decidedly wicked smile he flashed was so dangerous to her peace of mind.

  And then the dog offered her his paw. Accepting it, she felt that strange softening going on in her bones that she'd noticed before in Carter Kincaid's company. "I had a Shetland sheep dog when I was a kid," she murmured, as though that was the reason for the sudden weakness in her knees. "He was very well-mannered, too." Gently she ruffled the big dog's hair.

  Watching her, Carter smiled. "I brought him to visit Jessica. I promised her, remember?"

  She eyed him sternly, though to her dismay she didn't feel at all stern. "I believe I said I'd see about that."

  "When my mother said 'We'll see' it always meant yes."

  "I'm not your mother."

  "You certainly aren't," he said warmly.

  She was not going to blush. But she couldn't help smiling. What had happened to her determination to be rude? she wondered. "I'll call Jess," she said, without inviting him in.

  Jessica came down grumbling. "Is it dinnertime already? We're ready to start the next race." Spying the dog, she whooped and ran over to hug him. Max looked pleased to see her, too.

  "He doesn't know any children," Carter said. "It's good for him to socialize." His eyes told Laura he wanted to socialize, also.

  "Aren't you going to say hello to Mr. Kincaid?" Laura asked her daughter.

  "Hi, Mr. Kincaid," Jessica said, without looking up. "May I take Max up to my room, Mom? Please?"

  "Well—" She'd hesitated too long. Child and dog were already halfway up the stairs. "For a few minutes," she called after them.

  And now she was left with no alternative but to invite Carter in.

  Looking at the staircase, he frowned. "Are you sure it's okay for Max to go up there? I mean—" He glanced around the foyer. "Is Priscilla in Jessica's room?"

  "She and Jess have been playing with race cars all afternoon," Laura said. "She's really a terrific baby-sitter."

  He was still frowning and she suddenly realized why. "Good grief, you don't suppose…"

  He was hot on her heels as she raced up the stairs. Lately she kept forgetting Priscilla was a ghost. How would Max react to her presence? In any ghost movie she'd ever seen, animals either crouched down and whimpered or else they attacked.

  When they burst into Jessica's room, Max's tail was wagging like a feathered baton as Priscilla, seated in her favorite rocker, scratched his chest. "Such a good boy," she
was crooning. "Did he want to play with us, then?"

  She glanced up at the intruders, her face merry. "Is anything wrong? You both look as if you'd seen a ghost." Laughing heartily at her own joke, she tugged at her corset, as though laughing had made it tighten up. "You thought he'd run howling with his tail between his legs, I suppose," she teased. She rubbed the fuzzy spot between the dog's ears and he showed every appearance of ecstasy. "I told them," she said to him. "I told them once I materialized I was quite ordinary, but would they believe me? Not them."

  "Another myth shot to hell," Carter murmured.

  Laura let out a shaky-sounding breath.

  "It's very nice to see you two together," Priscilla said.

  There was a knowing look on her face that irritated Laura. "Do you mind if Max visits for a few minutes?" she asked briskly.

  Priscilla smiled. Her eyes looked very green. "Not at all," she said. "He's apparently as well-behaved as Buster." She glanced up at Carter. "Your father's dog."

  Carter had forgotten Buster—a large Irish setter with a serene disposition. His formerly dormant memory sent him a glimpse of his father stepping over a recumbent Buster in a doorway, urging the dog to stay put. But Buster was already lumbering to his feet, coming up directly under Carter's father's legs. His father was off balance, grabbing the door frame for support, laughing. He looked young, vital, healthy, happy.

  Carter couldn't remember ever recalling his father so vividly. He smiled at Priscilla. "Thank you," he said huskily through the lump in his throat.

  She smiled as if she knew exactly what he was thanking her for.

  "You and Priscilla seem to be getting along well," he said to Laura as he followed her down the stairs.

  "I don't have much choice, do I?" she said tartly. Then she shook her head. "I don't really mean that. I'm becoming quite fond of Priscilla, annoying as she can be. She's wonderful with Jessica. Though I'm worried about what will happen when I go to sell the house."

  Her words caused a tightening in Carter's stomach, even though he was still mildly bemused by the unexpected memory of his father. Following her into the kitchen, he seated himself at the long harvest table. There were some blueprints spread out on it—along with rough sketches of the various rooms of the house. "Your work?" he asked, gesturing at the sketches.