that his body lost substance when she’d
moved.
“Pity,” he said, sitting back
against the bookshelves. “So, mouse, what are you doing in my
library at night?”
“This isn’t your library.” That was
her best comeback? Pathetic.
He raised his eyebrows again in that
supercilious way that was already annoying.
Supercilious—conceited; overbearing;
smug—in short: this ghost.
Unfortunately, it was also a bit
charming—which was why it was annoying. Why was she attracted to
arrogance? Why? This was why she hadn’t dared to date for two
years. She had such incredibly awful taste in men. However, dead
and six feet under was a new low.
“What are you doing in here?” he
asked again.
“Researching ghost stories,” she
said, trailing off. Okay, well, that did sound ironic
and….
Her ghost laughed, falling back
against the bookshelf and dropping straight through it. His legs
were on this side, but his torso was in the bottom shelf of books.
Her eyes widened. Whoa!
*****
His sweet interloper was bold, and
this was the best night he’d had since he’d died actually. Shane
was losing energy fast, and he wouldn’t even be able to stay for
the full night as he normally did. Still, kissing her had been
worth it. She was a curvy package and fiery. He’d always found
redheads to be so, but she was a warm dream on the cold night of
his existence.
When he sat up, he realized she was
staring at him in horror. The fact that he’d fallen through a solid
object clearly reminded her of things that kissing him
hadn’t.
“You are a ghost,” she
whispered.
He held out a hand. “Yes, I am.
Shane Blythe, resident spook.”
She placed her hand in his clasp and
said, “Analise Franklin,” as he kissed her knuckles. He knew she’d
intended to shake his hand, and he’d thrown her with the kiss, but
leaving Analise off-kilter was entertaining. Even the quick brush
of his lips on her fisted hand cost him energy, though.
“But I don’t believe in
ghosts.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t either,” he
said, releasing her hand. His appearance dimmed, and he winced. He
had minutes left if he didn’t make any grand gestures. It was just
as well they’d stopped when they did. This lack of substance was a
type of impotency few men got to experience. Lucky him.
“Why are you here?” Ana
asked.
Yes, well, that was a touchy subject
he didn’t care to discuss. Death was personal—more personal than
life in point of fact. Death was discussed in the antiseptic rooms
of hospitals and in the undertaker’s offices, not on the floor with
a beautiful redhead who was as warm-blooded as they came. If he’d
had a heart to stir, she would have shook it up with a vengeance.
Those full pink lips, and those big eyes that kept blinking at him,
hoping he’d disappear. She kissed like an angel he’d like to
disgrace. Death was the last thing on his mind.
“Do people call you
Analise?”
She shook her head, sending those
copper curls of hers dancing. “No, Ana.”
“Ana.” It rolled along his tongue
beautifully, and it suited her. “I like that, mouse.”
To his surprise, she reached out,
and her hand slipped through his chest, tickling slightly. “How
come you felt solid earlier when you…?” She swallowed and licked
her lips—those beautiful lips he’d tasted.
She blushed when he continued
staring at her. It seemed she was conservative and old-fashioned
when it should have been him. Though he was never very conservative
in life and, as for old-fashioned, it wasn’t his fault fashion had
muddled on without him. He didn’t generally care for a lot of
modern dress, but her jeans had been soft as suede against his
hands, and they fit her snugly…something he appreciated quite a
lot.
His dimming strength was therefore
quite a pity.
“I’m losing energy, Ana. I only have
so much each night, and I used quite a lot when I…kissed you.” He’d
been tempted to be crude just to make her blush, but tarnishing
this brief
moved.
“Pity,” he said, sitting back
against the bookshelves. “So, mouse, what are you doing in my
library at night?”
“This isn’t your library.” That was
her best comeback? Pathetic.
He raised his eyebrows again in that
supercilious way that was already annoying.
Supercilious—conceited; overbearing;
smug—in short: this ghost.
Unfortunately, it was also a bit
charming—which was why it was annoying. Why was she attracted to
arrogance? Why? This was why she hadn’t dared to date for two
years. She had such incredibly awful taste in men. However, dead
and six feet under was a new low.
“What are you doing in here?” he
asked again.
“Researching ghost stories,” she
said, trailing off. Okay, well, that did sound ironic
and….
Her ghost laughed, falling back
against the bookshelf and dropping straight through it. His legs
were on this side, but his torso was in the bottom shelf of books.
Her eyes widened. Whoa!
*****
His sweet interloper was bold, and
this was the best night he’d had since he’d died actually. Shane
was losing energy fast, and he wouldn’t even be able to stay for
the full night as he normally did. Still, kissing her had been
worth it. She was a curvy package and fiery. He’d always found
redheads to be so, but she was a warm dream on the cold night of
his existence.
When he sat up, he realized she was
staring at him in horror. The fact that he’d fallen through a solid
object clearly reminded her of things that kissing him
hadn’t.
“You are a ghost,” she
whispered.
He held out a hand. “Yes, I am.
Shane Blythe, resident spook.”
She placed her hand in his clasp and
said, “Analise Franklin,” as he kissed her knuckles. He knew she’d
intended to shake his hand, and he’d thrown her with the kiss, but
leaving Analise off-kilter was entertaining. Even the quick brush
of his lips on her fisted hand cost him energy, though.
“But I don’t believe in
ghosts.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t either,” he
said, releasing her hand. His appearance dimmed, and he winced. He
had minutes left if he didn’t make any grand gestures. It was just
as well they’d stopped when they did. This lack of substance was a
type of impotency few men got to experience. Lucky him.
“Why are you here?” Ana
asked.
Yes, well, that was a touchy subject
he didn’t care to discuss. Death was personal—more personal than
life in point of fact. Death was discussed in the antiseptic rooms
of hospitals and in the undertaker’s offices, not on the floor with
a beautiful redhead who was as warm-blooded as they came. If he’d
had a heart to stir, she would have shook it up with a vengeance.
Those full pink lips, and those big eyes that kept blinking at him,
hoping he’d disappear. She kissed like an angel he’d like to
disgrace. Death was the last thing on his mind.
“Do people call you
Analise?”
She shook her head, sending those
copper curls of hers dancing. “No, Ana.”
“Ana.” It rolled along his tongue
beautifully, and it suited her. “I like that, mouse.”
To his surprise, she reached out,
and her hand slipped through his chest, tickling slightly. “How
come you felt solid earlier when you…?” She swallowed and licked
her lips—those beautiful lips he’d tasted.
She blushed when he continued
staring at her. It seemed she was conservative and old-fashioned
when it should have been him. Though he was never very conservative
in life and, as for old-fashioned, it wasn’t his fault fashion had
muddled on without him. He didn’t generally care for a lot of
modern dress, but her jeans had been soft as suede against his
hands, and they fit her snugly…something he appreciated quite a
lot.
His dimming strength was therefore
quite a pity.
“I’m losing energy, Ana. I only have
so much each night, and I used quite a lot when I…kissed you.” He’d
been tempted to be crude just to make her blush, but tarnishing
this brief
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