spare pillow to her chest as sadness overcame her. Terence wasn’t going to make it big. He didn’t have plans, he had dreams, and he spent his time expecting them magically to come true with little or no effort on his part. Rachel had learned the hard way that there was no such thing as magic.
In the end her choice had been clear. In fact, there had been no choice to make. She had known the instant after Dr. Moore had told her the news that she would go to Addie.
Now she was there and Addie didn’t want her.
They would get over that hurdle somehow. Beneath the hurt and the uncertainty, Rachel had bedrock determination, no doubt inherited from her indomitable mother. She would reconcile with Addie somehow. She would deal with the reality of Addie’s condition somehow. As they had after Verne Lindquist had been killed, the two of them would get along … somehow. It wasn’t going to be fun. It wasn’t going to be easy. But they would manage it. Somehow.
And what about Bryan Hennessy?
A sharp pang ran through her, and she hugged her pillow a little harder. Bryan Hennessy was a stranger. He had nothing to do with their situation. He couldn’t. She had all she could handle with Addie. A relationship with a man was out of the question. Why she was even thinking about it was beyond her. She didn’t know Bryan Hennessy from a goose. He might have been a con man or a killer or another Terence Bretton. Judging from all his nonsensical piffle, he was probably worse than Terence. At least Terence aspired to something. To what could a ghost hunter aspire?
She was just overreacting to him because she was exhausted and he had been gallant enough to offer her his shoulder to cry on and his bed to sleep in. He wouldn’t want to get involved with her, at any rate. What fool would volunteer to take on the problems she was facing?
You have to help her .
Bryan scowled. He shifted positions in the blood-red leather wing chair. The study was located in grid nine of his chart of the first floor of Drake House. Addie had told him she’d seen things move in this room—move with the assistance of Wimsey. According to her, Wimsey had twice rearranged the furniture because “he likes it the way he likes it.” She had moved it all around once, just out of stubbornness, but Wimsey had put it back.
Bryan had chosen this room to spend the night in because he knew damn well he wasn’t going to sleep, and he was hoping against hope for a distraction—the appearance of Wimsey, a book falling off the shelf by itself, a sudden cold breeze, anything. Anything that would help get his mind off Rachel Lindquist sleeping in the same bed he had slept in, wrapping the sheets around her slender body, burrowing her angel’s face into his pillow.
He groaned as his blood stirred hot in his veins. He could just imagine what she looked like sleeping: soft and tempting with her wild honey-gold hair mussed around her head. She was probably wearing a T-shirt, and the soft fabric would mold around her breasts the way his hands wanted to mold around them. The thought had him more than half turned on.
He swore under his breath. What kind of depraved creep was he turning into? There was poor Rachel, exhausted, frightened, hurt, trying to manage a few hours rest and escape from her troubles, and here he was lusting after her!
She’s very pretty .
“Yes, she’s pretty,” he grumbled. “She’s very pretty. And she’s got a lot of problems, and I don’t want to get involved.”
For the first time he wondered about the folk singer Rachel had run off with five years before. Where was he? What kind of jerk was he that he would send Rachel to deal with this crisis on her own? Clarence something. “A common tramp” Addie had called him. Somehow, Bryan doubted Rachel would run off with a common tramp. Despite her casual style of dress, she radiated class. It was there in the way she held herself, in the way she moved, in the way she spoke.
There was
In the end her choice had been clear. In fact, there had been no choice to make. She had known the instant after Dr. Moore had told her the news that she would go to Addie.
Now she was there and Addie didn’t want her.
They would get over that hurdle somehow. Beneath the hurt and the uncertainty, Rachel had bedrock determination, no doubt inherited from her indomitable mother. She would reconcile with Addie somehow. She would deal with the reality of Addie’s condition somehow. As they had after Verne Lindquist had been killed, the two of them would get along … somehow. It wasn’t going to be fun. It wasn’t going to be easy. But they would manage it. Somehow.
And what about Bryan Hennessy?
A sharp pang ran through her, and she hugged her pillow a little harder. Bryan Hennessy was a stranger. He had nothing to do with their situation. He couldn’t. She had all she could handle with Addie. A relationship with a man was out of the question. Why she was even thinking about it was beyond her. She didn’t know Bryan Hennessy from a goose. He might have been a con man or a killer or another Terence Bretton. Judging from all his nonsensical piffle, he was probably worse than Terence. At least Terence aspired to something. To what could a ghost hunter aspire?
She was just overreacting to him because she was exhausted and he had been gallant enough to offer her his shoulder to cry on and his bed to sleep in. He wouldn’t want to get involved with her, at any rate. What fool would volunteer to take on the problems she was facing?
You have to help her .
Bryan scowled. He shifted positions in the blood-red leather wing chair. The study was located in grid nine of his chart of the first floor of Drake House. Addie had told him she’d seen things move in this room—move with the assistance of Wimsey. According to her, Wimsey had twice rearranged the furniture because “he likes it the way he likes it.” She had moved it all around once, just out of stubbornness, but Wimsey had put it back.
Bryan had chosen this room to spend the night in because he knew damn well he wasn’t going to sleep, and he was hoping against hope for a distraction—the appearance of Wimsey, a book falling off the shelf by itself, a sudden cold breeze, anything. Anything that would help get his mind off Rachel Lindquist sleeping in the same bed he had slept in, wrapping the sheets around her slender body, burrowing her angel’s face into his pillow.
He groaned as his blood stirred hot in his veins. He could just imagine what she looked like sleeping: soft and tempting with her wild honey-gold hair mussed around her head. She was probably wearing a T-shirt, and the soft fabric would mold around her breasts the way his hands wanted to mold around them. The thought had him more than half turned on.
He swore under his breath. What kind of depraved creep was he turning into? There was poor Rachel, exhausted, frightened, hurt, trying to manage a few hours rest and escape from her troubles, and here he was lusting after her!
She’s very pretty .
“Yes, she’s pretty,” he grumbled. “She’s very pretty. And she’s got a lot of problems, and I don’t want to get involved.”
For the first time he wondered about the folk singer Rachel had run off with five years before. Where was he? What kind of jerk was he that he would send Rachel to deal with this crisis on her own? Clarence something. “A common tramp” Addie had called him. Somehow, Bryan doubted Rachel would run off with a common tramp. Despite her casual style of dress, she radiated class. It was there in the way she held herself, in the way she moved, in the way she spoke.
There was
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