He groaned and moved against her, kissing her hard. The kiss deepened, demanded more, promised everything. He laid her on the bed, inching her nightgown over her head, moving the material slowly, kissing each new inch of exposed flesh-the inside of her knee, her thigh, dark slick shadows, and all the soft feminine places pirates like him loved to ravish. He watched her arch under his kisses, her breathing shallow, her eyes following his every move.
“Steph, are you sure? We could stop here…” Not easily, he thought, but he could manage it.
“I’m sure.”
Lord, how he loved her. The strength of it almost took his breath away. He was taking something very special from her, and he wanted to make sure he was replacing it with something equally wonderful. In his heart he offered her everything he valued-fidelity, trust, respect, affection, passion.
“I love you,” he whispered, his hand sliding across her belly, dipping lower, stroking, inflaming.
She whispered the words back. “I love you.” And she really did love him, she thought. And she loved what he was doing to her.
“Do you like this?” he asked, his finger circling the center of her universe.
“Yes,” she said on a sigh.
And then it happened… her universe exploded.
It was dark when she awoke. The wind had slowed and rain pelted the windowpane. It was a good thing Ivan had gone back to her room to tack plastic over the broken window. After he’d secured the plastic they’d showered together and made love again-for a very long time. They’d talked in hushed voices, enjoying the easy intimacy their loving had brought. They’d teased and explored and found preferences, finally losing themselves to the desire they’d created, and they’d fallen asleep with legs and arms entwined. It had been the nicest possible night, she thought. If it had followed an elaborate white-gowned ceremony, it couldn’t have been any more perfect.
She snuggled closer and swept her hand the length of him, almost as a reassurance that he was real. He stirred in his sleep and wrapped his arms around her, his touch renewing the now familiar pulse of desire.
Ivan wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or if he was awake-and didn’t care. He rolled over, and in one smooth, swift movement made her gasp at the speed of his reaction, leaving no doubt in her mind that he was the direct descendant of a pirate.
Stephanie mustered her reserves and gingerly eased herself onto a chair at the breakfast table.
Ivan looked up from his plate of pancakes and couldn’t resist teasing. “Have a rough night?”
She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the dining room was empty. “Why am I the only one walking funny?”
“Because you’re the one who got greedy and woke me up in the middle of the night,” he said, covering her hand with his and smiling at her with such unabashed affection that she was sure anyone watching would instantly know they’d shared a bed.
“Don’t men get sore?”
“I try to keep in shape,” he bragged, polishing off a tumbler of fresh-squeezed orange juice. “Practice, practice, practice.”
Mr. and Mrs. Platz came in and took seats at the table. “It’s raining,” Mrs. Platz said morosely. “First no leaves, and now rain. And this is a lovely inn, but I hardly slept last night. The wind was howling, something terrible. And there were thumping noises and crashing noises. Lord, for a while there it sounded as if something was banging on my window.”
Melody served them pancakes and sausage and glasses of juice. “Must have been Tess. I warned you about putting Mr. and Mrs. Platz in that room.”
Eileen Platz put her hand to her throat. “Who’s Tess?”
“Tess is our ghost,” Melody told her cheerfully. “She’s really a nice old lady, but she only likes to have Ivan sleep in her bedroom.”
“Well,” Mrs. Platz said, sizing up Ivan, “I don’t suppose I blame her.”
Ivan tipped back in his chair. “Tess was the wife of Red Rasmussen, the pirate. She predates this house by about 150 years, but the current Haben was built directly over the foundation of the original Haben, and some believe she’s taken up residence here. Legend has it that Red died at sea, and Tess died waiting for him.”
“How romantic,” Mrs. Platz said. “How sad.”
“It wasn’t Tess that was at the window last night,” Stephanie said. “It was-” She paused and poured herself a cup of coffee. “It was the wind. It blew one of the branches from the oak tree into my window and smashed the glass. We’re going to have to trim that tree back,” she added lamely, looking at Ivan.
Mr. Platz dug into the sausages. “These are terrific. Are they homemade?”
“I get them from the butcher down the street,” Stephanie said. “He makes fresh sausage every Thursday.”
Melody brought herself a plate of pancakes and took her place at the table. She eyed the sausage critically.
“Does he add nitrates? Is the meat cured?” She opened her dark eyes extra wide. “I read about nitrates. They’re chemicals that they put in the meat to make it change color and stuff, and they give you cancer. They make your pancreas rot away, and you die writhing in pain. And if you drink beer while you eat the nitrates, you get huge cancerous tumors that grow all over your body. And do you know what they make sausage out of? Ground-up pigs. Have you ever seen a sausage pig? They’re big. We’re talking really big-”
“Excuse me,” Stephanie said, “I think we’ve already had the discussion about pigs.”
Melody blinked black mascara-caked lashes at her. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
Mrs. Platz leaned forward. “About this ghost, has anyone ever seen her?”
“I talk to her all the time,” Melody said. She lowered her voice for emphasis. “We be mates.”
Mrs. Platz’s eyes glittered, and she sucked air through her narrow mouth. “Do you think she’d talk to me? I’ve always felt very strong cosmic vibrations, but I’ve never actually talked to a ghost.”
Melody shrugged. “She hangs out on the widow’s walk.”
“Does she materialize? Does she drip ectoplasm?”
Melody’s face was expressionless as she ate her pancakes. “Mostly she just hangs out.”
“Well, how do you contact her? Do you have to go into a trance? Do you need a white candle?”
“She likes cookies,” Melody said. “She has a real sweet tooth.”
Mrs. Platz looked confused. “How can a ghost eat cookies?”
“I eat them,” Melody said matter-of-factly. “Then I tell her about them, and she gets turned on by that.”
“Lord, I would love to see a ghost. My neighbor, Sophia Schroth, would die if she knew I’d talked to a ghost.” She looked at her husband. “I knew I should have gone to the window last night.”
“Ms. Lowe said it was the wind, and that’s what it was… the wind,” Mr. Platz told her.
“It was the wind at Ms. Lowe’s window, but it might have been Tess at ours. We were sleeping in her bedroom.”
Mr. Platz rolled his eyes. “You need to get help, Eileen. You’re beginning to sound like your aunt Rose.” Mr. Platz leaned toward Ivan and spoke in a confidential voice. “Her aunt Rose talks to Walter Cronkite all day.”
Mrs. Platz pinched her lips together. “I believe in ghosts. I always have, and I always will. And I can feel that there’s a ghost in this house.”
“Hah! Some ghost,” Mr. Platz said. “Has to knock on windows to get into her own bedroom. If she’s such a hot ghost, why doesn’t she just waltz through the wall? Any self-respecting ghost can waltz through walls.”
Mrs. Platz dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Don’t pay any attention to him,” she said to Melody. “He doesn’t understand about these things. He has no psychic energy.”
Melody poured more maple syrup on her pancakes and nodded in understanding.
“Do you think if I went up to the widow’s walk, I would get to see her?” Mrs. Platz asked Melody. “Do you suppose you could introduce me?”
“Sure. Hey, anybody who uses Clairol Ebony’s okay in my book.”
Mr. Platz grunted. “You think she’ll be out in the rain? Won’t her ectoplasm get wet?”
“I don’t know,” Melody said. “But she grooves on fog.”
Stephanie kept her eyes averted and concentrated on her mashed potatoes. She felt hideously sorry for Eileen Platz, and at the same time was on the verge of bursting out laughing. The poor woman had maintained a marathon vigil with nothing to show for it other than a red nose and frozen feet. At one point a small crowd had even gathered to watch the two crazy women standing in the rain on the top of Haben. The local cable station had sent a minicam, and a kid from the high school paper had stopped by to get details. The astonishing part was that everyone seemed to know about Tess, and no one disputed her existence. What the people of Camden, Maine, couldn’t understand was why Eileen Platz thought it necessary to talk to old Red’s widow. Stephanie chewed a piece of fried chicken and wondered about the sanity of New Englanders.
Melody looked as if she’d fared considerably better than Mrs. Platz. Her hair was freshly washed and starched and more brilliantly orange than ever. “It’s a shame you didn’t get to see Tess,” she said to Mrs. Platz. “She probably went to the mall.”
Eileen Platz sat a little stiffer in her chair, and Stephanie thought she was most likely trying to decide if she’d been made a fool of. She couldn’t begin to guess why Mrs. Platz had believed Melody in the first place. Because you believe what you want to believe, she told herself. Eileen Platz wanted to believe there was a ghost on the widow’s walk. Just like all those kids in the rehab programs had wanted to believe drugs would help them cope, make them smarter, make them cool, make them sexier, give them energy. She almost wished Mrs. Platz had seen Tess. After standing in the rain for seven hours, Mrs. Platz deserved to see something.
“Cheer up,” Mr. Platz said to his wife. “We’re staying here one more night. Maybe the ghost will come back and knock on your window some more.”