insanity. “I meant Groucho Marx, not Karl,” he said instead.
She didn’t say a word. She just spun on her heel and stalked toward the door.
Realization hit like a fist in his gut. She was going to walk out and leave him like this, drawing on his face, watching the SyFy Channel and doing God-knows-what-else every time he fell asleep.
“Jo!” He stood and came around the desk, moving toward her quickly, even though he doubted he’d be able to intercept her before this became a scene for the viewing pleasure of his entire office.
To his surprise, she stopped before she even reached the office door, though she didn’t immediately turn around. “Groucho Marx,” he heard her say pensively as he came up behind her. “What decade was Groucho Marx popular?” she asked.
“What, you don’t know Groucho Marx? Don’t you have any culture?” Her shoulders stiffened at his sarcasm and he immediately felt like an ass—not his most tactful moment. When she gave her head an irritable shake and took a deliberate step toward the door, he spoke hurriedly. “1930s? I don’t know. The Marx Brothers made most of their movies in the thirties, didn’t they? But he was also the host of You Bet Your Life, which was on in the forties and fifties, I think. Why?”
She turned to face him, and he could see her puzzling over something. Jo was about as opaque as a sheet of glass. Every thought, every emotion, showed right there on her face. The openness seemed out of place when matched with her biker chic wardrobe and badass posturing.
Although it was possible it was all an act. Part of Wyatt still desperately wanted to believe that he was the victim of an elaborate con. Jo would make a hell of a con artist. Reeling him in with her killer body and suckering him into admitting he believed in ghosts with her open, honest face. It would be so much easier to blame this all on her and explain it away as a hoax if another part of him—the irrational, hormonal part, probably—didn’t want so badly to believe her.
Jo spoke, completely unaware of his internal debate over her trustworthiness. “How many kids do you know nowadays who have the faintest idea who Groucho Marx is, let alone would think to draw his face onto yours as a prank? I’m thinking your inhabitants might not be such recent arrivals into the spirit world as I initially thought.”
“Does that change anything? You can still get them out, right?”
She pulled a face and fidgeted just enough to make him extremely nervous. “Okay, so here’s the thing. About getting them out. It might not be quite as straightforward as just pulling them out, you know?”
Dread congealed in his stomach. Or maybe that was the ghosts. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Jo squirmed a bit as he frowned down at her. “Yanking a ghost out of a host can be sort of, ah, uncomfortable, or so they tell me. I’ve never actually… Okay, technically I don’t think anyone has ever actually yanked one out. Pushing them out as a medium when they don’t want to go is supposed to be pretty, ah, unpleasant, shall we say? So I can only imagine that the pulling… you don’t look so good.” She reached out to brush her fingers against his arm. “Are you okay?”
He probably looked like he was about to lose his breakfast, which was how he felt. Although, considering that his breakfast had been scotch, it was probably a good thing to get it out of his system. “Why can’t you just do what you did last night?”
She pursed her lips, irritation suddenly flashing in her eyes again. “Yeah, my little show . You didn’t see anything? No lights? No glimmers? Nada?”
“You fell.”
Jo rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Sherlock. I’ll be sure to put that in my report.” She shook her head, visibly exasperated. “I cannot imagine why the ghosts went into you unless I somehow—” She broke off suddenly and coughed into her hand. “That is, it doesn’t make sense that you would host them. You’re
She didn’t say a word. She just spun on her heel and stalked toward the door.
Realization hit like a fist in his gut. She was going to walk out and leave him like this, drawing on his face, watching the SyFy Channel and doing God-knows-what-else every time he fell asleep.
“Jo!” He stood and came around the desk, moving toward her quickly, even though he doubted he’d be able to intercept her before this became a scene for the viewing pleasure of his entire office.
To his surprise, she stopped before she even reached the office door, though she didn’t immediately turn around. “Groucho Marx,” he heard her say pensively as he came up behind her. “What decade was Groucho Marx popular?” she asked.
“What, you don’t know Groucho Marx? Don’t you have any culture?” Her shoulders stiffened at his sarcasm and he immediately felt like an ass—not his most tactful moment. When she gave her head an irritable shake and took a deliberate step toward the door, he spoke hurriedly. “1930s? I don’t know. The Marx Brothers made most of their movies in the thirties, didn’t they? But he was also the host of You Bet Your Life, which was on in the forties and fifties, I think. Why?”
She turned to face him, and he could see her puzzling over something. Jo was about as opaque as a sheet of glass. Every thought, every emotion, showed right there on her face. The openness seemed out of place when matched with her biker chic wardrobe and badass posturing.
Although it was possible it was all an act. Part of Wyatt still desperately wanted to believe that he was the victim of an elaborate con. Jo would make a hell of a con artist. Reeling him in with her killer body and suckering him into admitting he believed in ghosts with her open, honest face. It would be so much easier to blame this all on her and explain it away as a hoax if another part of him—the irrational, hormonal part, probably—didn’t want so badly to believe her.
Jo spoke, completely unaware of his internal debate over her trustworthiness. “How many kids do you know nowadays who have the faintest idea who Groucho Marx is, let alone would think to draw his face onto yours as a prank? I’m thinking your inhabitants might not be such recent arrivals into the spirit world as I initially thought.”
“Does that change anything? You can still get them out, right?”
She pulled a face and fidgeted just enough to make him extremely nervous. “Okay, so here’s the thing. About getting them out. It might not be quite as straightforward as just pulling them out, you know?”
Dread congealed in his stomach. Or maybe that was the ghosts. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Jo squirmed a bit as he frowned down at her. “Yanking a ghost out of a host can be sort of, ah, uncomfortable, or so they tell me. I’ve never actually… Okay, technically I don’t think anyone has ever actually yanked one out. Pushing them out as a medium when they don’t want to go is supposed to be pretty, ah, unpleasant, shall we say? So I can only imagine that the pulling… you don’t look so good.” She reached out to brush her fingers against his arm. “Are you okay?”
He probably looked like he was about to lose his breakfast, which was how he felt. Although, considering that his breakfast had been scotch, it was probably a good thing to get it out of his system. “Why can’t you just do what you did last night?”
She pursed her lips, irritation suddenly flashing in her eyes again. “Yeah, my little show . You didn’t see anything? No lights? No glimmers? Nada?”
“You fell.”
Jo rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Sherlock. I’ll be sure to put that in my report.” She shook her head, visibly exasperated. “I cannot imagine why the ghosts went into you unless I somehow—” She broke off suddenly and coughed into her hand. “That is, it doesn’t make sense that you would host them. You’re
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