Haunting Ellie Read online

  She looked away from his eyes, over his shoulder, at the facade of the Victorian she’d purchased. “You could replace the roof, fix the banister, and apply a coat or two of paint to this place.”

  He smiled finally. It wasn’t just a grin cocking one side of his mouth, but a wide, white-toothed smile. Even those sapphire eyes of his smiled, filling with glints of sparkling light. “It’s not exactly what you expected, is it?”

  “No,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head. “I thought I was going to have a little work to do, not a major overhaul.”

  “This place was boarded up for a good sixty, seventy years. A few months back, someone came in and did a little work, but not much.”

  “My brother,” Elizabeth divulged, feeling an uncommon need to explain. “Buying it was his idea. He put in new wiring and got the lights working. He said he put in a stove and refrigerator, too, but that’s about it. He was going to come here with me.” She shrugged slightly. “He got married instead.”

  “So it’s all up to you now?”

  “It’s all mine. Every creaking board, every broken window.” She laughed for the first time in weeks, maybe even months. “I don’t mind hard work.”

  With her left hand still wrapped around the railing for support, she stuck out her other. “I’m Elizabeth Fitzgerald.”

  He moved easily from the door to stand right in front of her. He took her gloved hand in his and she liked the way it felt—not too tight, not too loose. That hand was just as powerful as the rest of him. “Jonathan Winchester,” he said, and for the first time she noticed the deep baritone of his voice. She also realized that in spite of the freezing temperatures, in spite of the chill that had run through her body earlier, she now felt warm: her toes, her fingers, the tip of her nose.

  He was still holding her hand in that just right way and the warmth began to spread. “Do you go by Jonathan, or John?” she asked, prolonging the introduction, prolonging the way his gloved thumb absently circled the back of her leather-covered hand.

  “Jon, without the H. And Jonathan when I’m being chewed out, but no one’s dared do that since I was a kid.”

  Elizabeth laughed again. No, she couldn’t imagine anyone daring to confront the man who stood in front of her. He had a strong chin and a broad, cleanly shaved jaw, tanned a rather nice bronze from many days in the sun. She couldn’t see his shoulders and chest through the coat he wore, but from sheer size alone she figured he was a cross between Paul Bunyan and Hercules. And she had to look up at him, something she rarely did with a man because she stood just over six feet in heels. But looking up at him now, she assumed Jon Winchester must stand at least six-foot-six, and that didn’t include the inch or two added by the heels of his boots.

  If she hadn’t sworn off photographing men, especially the emaciated-looking models who'd come to her studio, she might have grabbed her camera out of the car and asked him to pose.

  “Is it the coat you find interesting?” he asked, his voice interrupting her thoughts and drawing her attention from his chest back to his face. “Or maybe you’re wondering just how many sheepskins it takes to make a coat this big?”

  He was laughing, and she felt heat rush up her neck and come close to flowing into her cheeks. Blushing was something entirely new. She’d photographed nude men and women alone, in pairs, even in triples, and in all sorts of compromising positions. Yet she’d never blushed. She’d never even felt uncomfortable, because it was all part of the business, all part of the game.

  But Jon Winchester, with his hot, mesmerizing sapphire eyes, made her cold body turn warm and her face feel as if it had been hit with a blowtorch.

  She pulled her hand out of his and wrapped it around the rail right next to the other. “In my former life I was a fashion photographer,” she told him, trying to redeem herself and make up for her unconscionable stare. “A lot of underfed people paraded in front of my camera. There weren’t many like you.”

  The lopsided grin returned. “Do you have a preference in size?”

  “No,” she lied, and realized if this conversation continued, she’d dig herself into a hole she’d never climb out of, so she sought a topic that would change the conversation completely, and Jon’s last name came to mind.

  “I bought this place from Matt Winchester. Are you related?” she asked.

  “Cousins.” Short. Clipped, as if uttering that word bothered him. She didn’t know Jonathan Winchester well enough to ask him if there was a problem between him and his cousin, but she planned to ask anyway.

  “It doesn’t sound like you and Matt are the best of friends.”

  He laughed, just as short and clipped as when he’d said the word “cousins.” “We live in the same town. We run into each other occasionally. That’s enough.”

  “Then I suppose he hasn’t told you we’ve formed a type of partnership?”

  A slow frown crossed his face. His answer came even slower. “No. I hadn’t heard.” He backed against the peeling paint on the side of the house and folded his arms over his chest—again. But this time he didn’t have a grin on his face, nor a smile, and his eyes didn’t twinkle with laughter. “What kind of partnership?”

  “My brother and I send would-be hunters in his direction; he lodges his clients here as part of his outfitting packages. I’ve been exploring other ways to entice guests to this place once I get it up and running, but Matt’s idea intrigued me.”

  “I take it you don’t have a problem with hunters staying here?”

  What a crazy question. They were in Montana; everybody hunted in this part of the country. “My brother’s a hunter so, no, I don’t have a problem. I might even get some venison or elk as partial payment.”

  “Is that what you plan to feed your guests?” Jon asked.

  “Maybe on occasion. Not bear though. I tried it once, and that was more than enough. Matt plans to take me hunting in the spring. He’s got some wild game recipes he wants me to try out.”

  Jon pushed away from the wall and paced across the porch. He stood right next to Elizabeth and gripped the banister, staring off in the distance where wind picked the snow up from the ground and tossed it around and around. Finally he turned, looking her straight in the eye. He was close, much too close for comfort, and she leaned back into the post behind her. “What are you going to hunt in the spring?” he asked, as if he were an attorney and she the witness he was grilling.

  “I don’t know. Deer. Antelope. Does it really matter?”

  “Of course it matters,” he exploded. “The only things you can hunt legally in the spring are turkey and black bear. Is that what you want? Do you plan on putting bearskin rugs on your floors? Are you going to stuff a turkey to stare at and show off to your friends?”

  “I don’t plan to do any of those things,” she fired back, confused yet angered by his words and tone. “And I don’t plan to do anything illegal.”

  “Then I suggest you find another outfitter to be partners with.” His coat brushed hers as he moved away and stalked down the stairs.

  “Why?” Elizabeth called after him.

  He turned when he reached the street, tilting his Stetson low on his forehead. “Because,” he said, his blue eyes pools of cold, hard anger, “if you stick with Matt, one of these days you’re going to find yourself in a whole hell of a lot of trouble.”

  Chapter 2

  Elizabeth could almost hear the earth quivering as Jon stomped away. If his boots came down any harder, she thought for sure the resultant pressure would put dents in the earth’s core.

  She laughed softly. How many times had she been accused of having an easily combustible temper? How many times had she exploded over the years? Too many to count, in both instances, although she’d made a promise a year ago to try and curb her fiery emotions. She’d done a pretty good job of it, too, but she had the feeling if she spent much time around Jon Winchester, a man whose passions appeared to match her own, she might have to forget all about that promise.

 
; She laughed again, crossed her arms over her chest, and tried to rub some warmth back into her body. Funny, how she’d turned cold the moment Jon had stormed away.

  Without giving it another thought, she eased her way to the door, pulled out the key, and easily turned the knob. The door pushed opened with a soft, wailing groan.

  A strong, musty odor smacked Elizabeth in the face, and she quickly covered her nose and mouth with one gloved hand, inhaling leather instead of decay. The entrance was dark and oppressive, dusty, and strewn with spider webs, what she imagined it might be like if she’d stepped inside a crypt. She pulled a heavy, tarnished brass hat rack across the entryway floor and propped it in front of the door to let in clean air. She didn’t care if drifts of snow and icy wind accompanied the freshness, because the stale air inside made it nearly impossible to breathe.

  Stepping out of the doorway, she searched for a light switch to brighten the room, finally finding it hidden behind a long strip of wallpaper that had peeled away from the top of the wall and now lay haphazardly over the wall plate. She muttered a silent prayer for the room to fill with light when she switched it on, crossed her fingers, and flicked the lever.

  Above her, dim light beamed from the few unbroken bulbs in a chandelier draped with strings of crystal teardrops and dusty cobwebs. The immense fixture hung lifelessly from the high stucco ceiling, sculpted in intricate patterns of swirling leaves and vines. The plaster had yellowed, but as with the chandelier, she could see the beauty beneath the thick coat of grime, and she knew if the rest of the hotel was just one-tenth as spectacular as this room, Eric’s decision to purchase the old place hadn’t been such a bad one.

  Slowly she moved from the entry to the parlor, surveying the grandeur and formulating a plan of attack. The room needed a good scrubbing from floor to ceiling. The drapes were in tatters and would have to be replaced, but the many Aubusson and Turkish carpets of deep gold with kaleidoscope patterns of red, green, and blue could be salvaged with a thorough cleaning. She’d have to strip away all the wallpaper, and sand and refinish the woodwork, but it would be a labor she’d love. She’d carefully wash and dry thousands of cut-glass teardrops and icicles to make all the chandeliers shine. So far she’d counted three—one in the entryway, one in the parlor, and one in the library, and when she had them sparkling clean, she’d turn on every one and fill the rooms with as much light as possible to show off the beauty within.

  And she imagined the hotel—the Sapphire Inn, she’d call it—constantly filled with guests—more than just hunters. Honeymooners would come from far away, looking for a memorable setting for their first days together. Long-married couples would renew their love in one of the bedrooms upstairs. And others would come just seeking a quiet, beautiful setting for a romantic tryst. No, the rooms of her inn would never be empty.

  Nor would her life. Not again.

  After she quickly assessed the downstairs, she marched from one room to another, ripping rotten fabric from the windows and dusty covers from tables and chairs. The place was a veritable treasure trove of antiques: French art nouveau tables and chairs in mahogany and walnut and fruitwood, carved cherry wood armoires, side cabinets, and secretaries, just waiting to be stripped, sanded, stained, and polished—something she’d loved doing in her spare moments. Scattered about were porcelain and ceramic figurines and vases and plates, nearly all in mint condition except for the layers of grime.

  She couldn’t understand why so many valuable pieces littered the hotel, why the place had been unoccupied for over sixty years and no one had taken these treasures. They were worth a small fortune—she knew because she’d filled her place in L.A. with dozens of similar priceless pieces. They’d looked ugly and forlorn when she’d found them in thrift stores and out-of-the-way antique shops. She’d haggled and bargained and gotten her finds for a steal. And she’d lost them all in a matter of seconds.

  Well, now she had the chance to turn another place into a living, breathing museum of beautiful antiquity.

  It felt so good to be in Sapphire, Montana, population 372. Her life had been spared a year ago and she had the chance to start all over again. This town and this hotel seemed the perfect place for new beginnings.

  She began to hum as she uncovered sofas and chairs upholstered in worn purple velvet and faded tapestry patterned in multicolored roses and ferns. She smacked one of the cushions and dust billowed out of the fabric. She couldn’t help but laugh. It would take an army and endless amounts of time to get this place fit for paying guests. Fortunately, she had the time, and the money; unfortunately, from the looks of Sapphire, Montana, she doubted she’d find the army.

  When all but one dust cover had been heaped in a pile in the middle of the room, she grabbed the edge of the last one that hugged the high back and arms of a soft, comfortable-looking chesterfield. She pulled, but the dust cover wouldn’t budge. She pulled again and frowned. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear someone was sitting smack in the middle of that sofa, laughing at her predicament.

  Casually, she moved around the couch, inspecting the sheet, looking for pins or tacks or something that could be holding it in place, but she found nothing. She could lift the corners, the edges, but one strip about two feet wide stuck to the back and the seat, as if Crazy Glue had been applied, or as if, she laughed to herself, someone invisible sat there, refusing to move.

  oOo

  Alexander Stewart slouched in the dusty chesterfield and twiddled his thumbs. Haunting a hotel without any guests had been a miserable way to kill time, and boredom was a pain in the rump. Finally, someone had invaded his turf, but he hadn’t yet worked up the energy or desire to kick up a ruckus. He wanted to wait, to give this person time to settle in, and then...

  Thunder and tarnation! What was he thinking? He’d been waiting too long already, and this woman looked like the perfect foil for his games.

  Alex let loose a laugh that shook the walls and made the crystals in the cobweb-coated chandelier clink. What a hoot! The woman dropped the edge of the sheet and rolled her eyes, looking from one wall to the other, then to the swaying light fixture overhead. He’d frightened her, and all he’d done was laugh. What an easy target! This one was bound to be a whole lot more fun than the last occupant, that dandified young man with a ponytail down to his waist and a ring in his ear, who wouldn’t stick around at night and had hightailed it out of town after only thirteen days.

  But that had been a long time ago. Seven months, to be exact. Seven months of roaming the halls and rooms aimlessly, looking for something to occupy his time. It had been a hell of a long time—maybe he shouldn’t get all fired up to get rid of this newcomer.

  He stopped laughing.

  He waited in silence.

  His timing had to be perfect for his next move.

  Alex watched the woman roam around the room, staring again and again at the sofa, at the sheet, at the precise spot where he sat—invisible to human eyes.

  She seemed to have regained her nerve, her drive. The woman grabbed two comers of the sheet into tightened fists. She was going to try it again.

  “One.”

  Ah, she was counting down. A grin crossed Alexander’s face.

  “Two.”

  Alex got ready. Three had always been his favorite number.

  “Three.”

  Alex swooped from the couch to the mantel, stretched out on the cold slab of marble above the fireplace, and watched the woman yank as if she was pulling out an old man’s stubborn and rotten tooth.

  The sheet pulled away. The woman lost her balance, and those highfalutin boots of hers slipped out from under her bundled-up body. She flew backward across the room and landed with a thud on her rump, her legs spread-eagled, right there in the middle of the pile of decomposing sheets.

  Alexander grinned. Ah, life was sweet!

  He watched the woman push up from the floor, dust off her behind, and unbutton her parka. She was going to get down to work. Alex liked that idea. Just what
his old place needed—someone to liven it up a bit, put a broom to the floor, a swat to the carpets, and maybe some water and good old lye soap to the windows. Hell! They were so crusted over with dust and dirt and grime, he couldn’t see out. And he liked looking out at the town. It was the only connection he had to the outside world because no matter how many times or how hard he tried, he just couldn’t bust through the doors, the windows, or the walls.

  Of course, maybe staying inside wasn’t all that bad. At least it seemed a little better, now that this woman had come into his home. She sure was fun to watch, especially when she was falling down.

  Having her around was definitely better than being alone.

  He watched her close the front door and finally shrug out of that big furry coat. She tossed it over a hook on the rack and slowly walked into the parlor. She started to grab an old broom someone had left standing against a wall. She touched it gingerly with the tips of her fingers, peeling away cobwebs wrapped around the handle. Alex came darn close to bursting into laughter at the grimace on her face. Watching the way her body moved when she finally swung the thing was no laughing matter, though. He hadn’t had anyone to haunt and he hadn’t had a pretty woman to look at in a mighty long time.

  He didn’t like the newfangled contraptions like this one was wearing that showed every curve and too much skin. He wasn’t a prude, but he preferred those ruffled and lacy things women wore back in his day, clothes that covered their necks, their wrists, their ankles, and their legs. Made a man wonder what was hidden under all that fabric. Made a man long to peel away the layers to find the sweetness beneath.

  And oh, how he missed that sweetness, every fold and curve, every soft, mysterious spot that reacted so nicely to his touch.

  Just the thought of it made him slink down to the floor and bury his head in his hands. If he could shed a tear, he would. Damn, he missed being alive. He hadn’t touched a woman in over a hundred years—a hundred-plus very, very long years. Not since Amanda.

  Amanda. He silently whispered his lover’s name and a deep sadness encompassed his face. Oh, darlin’. Do you think this is the one? Do you think this woman can get me out of this place and back into your arms, where I belong?