space between the refrigerator and stove, just large enough for a medium-sized man. Nothing. Her attention shot to the door, still double-bolted from the inside. Then to the French doors. Both locked, the glass intact. The apartment was completely empty.
Hopefully.
Her gaze fingered on the bed. With its massive frame, it was large enough to conceal a pretty big intruder. But surely she would have seen someone crawl beneath it? Heard the slide of clothing against the hardwood floor? Felt the strange awareness that she wasn’t alone?
She glanced down at the goose bumps chasing up and down her arms. Scared as she was, she wasn’t taking any chances—she had to check everywhere.
Quietly, she retrieved a knife from the utensil drawer. With the knife in one hand and the hairspray still clutched in the other—she could always do his hair after she filleted him—she approached the bed.
A long, tense moment later, Ronnie sat on the edge of the mattress and gave a shaky, relieved smile. Her imagination. She hadn’t actually felt anyone tug at the soap; she’d tossed it. She’d been so relaxed, maybe halfway asleep, and something, maybe the chug of the refrigerator or the air conditioner cycling on, had jarred her. She’d jumped and the soap had taken a hike toward the mirror.
That had to be it, because her apartment was completely empty. Unless she had a ghost living with her…
She laughed. A ghost who hated soap. It made perfect sense, except for the all-important fact that Ronnie didn’t believe in ghosts, or, bogeymen, or things that went bump in the night. She’d never been afraid of the dark. Never spotted a UFO or any little green men, although she did enjoy watching The X-Files every now and then.
Spiders did give her the chills, though, and snakes made her queasy, but otherwise she considered herself a pretty brave soul. A Well-adjusted person. Normal. Sane.
Drunk , she thought as her gaze snagged on the bottle of champagne still sitting by the tub. That was it. She was sloshed and she’d imagined the strange pull on the bar of soap.
From one drink?
Well, she’d never been much of a drinker. A few sips of forbidden beer at one of Jenny’s slumber parties. Three or four of her aunt Mabel’s rum balls at the annual church bazaar.
Drunk? More like tipsy.
Maybe.
Probably.
Satisfied that she’d found the real reason for the flying soap, she summoned her courage and headed back to the bathroom. Water gurgled down the drain as the tub emptied and Ronnie extinguished the candles. Discarding the towel, she pulled on a pair of panties and a nightgown, flicked off the lights, and slid between the sheets.
She closed her eyes, mentally goading herself to relax, but her heart still pumped furiously from her temporary scare. Even fifteen minutes later, she was still too worked up to fall asleep. She gave up the effort and flicked on the television. Two newscasts and a full hour of a psychic hotline infomercial later, she finally relaxed enough to doze off.
So much for wild and wicked dreams, she thought as she drifted into a peaceful slumber filled with visions of her aunt Mabel scarfing down rum balls. Might as well make the best of it, she figured, sidling up to her aunt and helping herself to one of the confections.
As she chewed, savoring the flavor and salving her ego with the fact that food, especially dessert, was the equivalent of sex for many women, she could have sworn she heard a deep, male chuckle and the all-too-familiar hypnotic voice murmer, “ Sleep well , Rouquin.”
Why the heck did he have to keep saying that?
“But I want Cocoa Pebbles,” Randy, the more vocal of her neighbor Suzanne’s twins, declared the next morning. “They’re my favorite.”
“Last week Fruity Pebbles were your favorite,” Ronnie told him. “That’s why Aunt Ronnie rushed out and bought you some. See?” She smiled and held up the box.
Randy threw his spoon into the untouched bowl of cereal. Milk and
Hopefully.
Her gaze fingered on the bed. With its massive frame, it was large enough to conceal a pretty big intruder. But surely she would have seen someone crawl beneath it? Heard the slide of clothing against the hardwood floor? Felt the strange awareness that she wasn’t alone?
She glanced down at the goose bumps chasing up and down her arms. Scared as she was, she wasn’t taking any chances—she had to check everywhere.
Quietly, she retrieved a knife from the utensil drawer. With the knife in one hand and the hairspray still clutched in the other—she could always do his hair after she filleted him—she approached the bed.
A long, tense moment later, Ronnie sat on the edge of the mattress and gave a shaky, relieved smile. Her imagination. She hadn’t actually felt anyone tug at the soap; she’d tossed it. She’d been so relaxed, maybe halfway asleep, and something, maybe the chug of the refrigerator or the air conditioner cycling on, had jarred her. She’d jumped and the soap had taken a hike toward the mirror.
That had to be it, because her apartment was completely empty. Unless she had a ghost living with her…
She laughed. A ghost who hated soap. It made perfect sense, except for the all-important fact that Ronnie didn’t believe in ghosts, or, bogeymen, or things that went bump in the night. She’d never been afraid of the dark. Never spotted a UFO or any little green men, although she did enjoy watching The X-Files every now and then.
Spiders did give her the chills, though, and snakes made her queasy, but otherwise she considered herself a pretty brave soul. A Well-adjusted person. Normal. Sane.
Drunk , she thought as her gaze snagged on the bottle of champagne still sitting by the tub. That was it. She was sloshed and she’d imagined the strange pull on the bar of soap.
From one drink?
Well, she’d never been much of a drinker. A few sips of forbidden beer at one of Jenny’s slumber parties. Three or four of her aunt Mabel’s rum balls at the annual church bazaar.
Drunk? More like tipsy.
Maybe.
Probably.
Satisfied that she’d found the real reason for the flying soap, she summoned her courage and headed back to the bathroom. Water gurgled down the drain as the tub emptied and Ronnie extinguished the candles. Discarding the towel, she pulled on a pair of panties and a nightgown, flicked off the lights, and slid between the sheets.
She closed her eyes, mentally goading herself to relax, but her heart still pumped furiously from her temporary scare. Even fifteen minutes later, she was still too worked up to fall asleep. She gave up the effort and flicked on the television. Two newscasts and a full hour of a psychic hotline infomercial later, she finally relaxed enough to doze off.
So much for wild and wicked dreams, she thought as she drifted into a peaceful slumber filled with visions of her aunt Mabel scarfing down rum balls. Might as well make the best of it, she figured, sidling up to her aunt and helping herself to one of the confections.
As she chewed, savoring the flavor and salving her ego with the fact that food, especially dessert, was the equivalent of sex for many women, she could have sworn she heard a deep, male chuckle and the all-too-familiar hypnotic voice murmer, “ Sleep well , Rouquin.”
Why the heck did he have to keep saying that?
“But I want Cocoa Pebbles,” Randy, the more vocal of her neighbor Suzanne’s twins, declared the next morning. “They’re my favorite.”
“Last week Fruity Pebbles were your favorite,” Ronnie told him. “That’s why Aunt Ronnie rushed out and bought you some. See?” She smiled and held up the box.
Randy threw his spoon into the untouched bowl of cereal. Milk and
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