responsible job? Finding loopholes for large corporations to
take advantage of the law could not compare to the excitement
she had always felt as a law student working for the public
defender’s office.
Even in the elite social circles that now drew her into their
inner sanctum, the excitement had disappeared. The glamour
and glitz of rubbing shoulders with Charleston’s upper crust
and being recognized at high society parties held little appeal.
Mica realized she didn’t need the glamour, but she did yearn
for the excitement. She wanted to feel she made a difference.
She turned her back to the ocean, content for the moment
to watch the sun set behind the houses lining the shore. Sea
Crest stood majestic among the smaller private dwellings and
single story resorts. She was glad the island council had set
down strict rules as to what could and could not be built here.
She would have hated to see the trees and gardens dug up for
some high-rise. That had been Richard’s plan when she had
brought him here for a visit several years ago.
The sun dropped behind the island, allowing the night to
slowly claim the shore, just as dark thoughts of Richard Norden,
her ex-husband, claimed Mica’s thoughts. She had thought their
marriage would last a lifetime, even if her father had been the
one to arrange their meeting and push her into marriage. Richard
had been funny and bright, and most important by her father’s
standards, he came from an upstanding Charleston family.
In the three short years of their life together, however,
Richard had drained his trust fund, invested in and bankrupted
three businesses, and had started in on Mica’s savings. When
she made it impossible for him to access her accounts, he had
become abusive, something her parents did not know to this
day. Her father had never understood why she divorced him,
and her mother? Well, Mica’s mother came from a long line of
happy marriages and couldn’t see beyond that.
Mica rested her chin on jeans-clad knees, glad she had
grabbed a flannel shirt to throw over her sleeveless shell because
the breeze off the ocean became cooler as the night closed in
around her. She closed her eyes, allowing her other senses to
absorb the sea breeze, the tang of salt in the air, and the cry of
a lone gull down by the water’s edge. But her mind refused to
rest as the lulling of the waves suggested she should.
The very characteristics her father so admired in her as a
lawyer had been the downfall of her marriage—her
outspokenness, her tenacity and her honesty. Richard had not
liked her questions about his expenditures. He applauded her
career since it put money in the bank, but at home and social
functions, he still expected her to be a quiet, Southern lady
with feathers for brains and no opinion of her own.
While Mica didn’t mind being pampered once in a while,
she didn’t want someone who bought her expensive presents
and flowers instead of showing her love and understanding.
And she definitely didn’t need a man who told her what her
opinion should be. She wanted honesty, and a relationship with
someone who could love as strongly as she could, but who
would not try to change who she was.
She sighed and glanced around her, realizing the lateness
of the hour by the rise of the tide and the coolness of the night
air. Oh, well, the tide wouldn’t come as far as where she sat,
and no one was waiting for her and dinner at the apartment.
For once and all, she wanted to exorcise Richard from her mind,
just as the divorce had rid her of his presence in her life.
As she watched residential lights wink on one by one,
Richard’s fair face didn’t come to mind. Instead, a faint melody
drifted across the beach, carrying the image of dark brown
eyes, glistening black hair, and a body that was pure sensation.
How could a dream be so real—the man, the words he spoke,
his hard body pressed against hers in the study?
Mica closed her eyes, her senses sharpened in the night.
Once again she could smell the freshness of the leather-bound
law books, feel the linen softness of his shirt, and see the twinkle
in his eyes as the oil lamp reflected his awareness of her.
Oil lamp? How strange that she would dream of oil lamps
fill her dreams with law books, but there had been something
peculiar about the books. What was it that now stirred
restlessness inside her?
She focused on a shadow shuffling along the back side of
the inn toward her aunt’s private gardens. Shaking off thoughts
of dream men, she rose and brushed the sand from her jeans,
walking up the path towards the inn’s lights.
“Professor Bigley?” Her question brought a squawk from
the little man, who spun around to face her, clutching a metal
box against his heaving chest.
“Ms Chadwick, you scared the dickens out of me!” He
gasped the words even as he shuffled the box into one arm and
shoved his glasses back up his nose with the other shaking
hand.
Mica tried not to laugh, because she realized the man was
intent on his investigations. He just didn’t look like a ghost
buster. “I’m sorry, but what if I had been a ghost? You wouldn’t
have heard me coming then, would you?”
“As a matter of fact I would have, young lady. Besides,
ghosts are not nearly as mean as people have been led to believe.
I wouldn’t have been frightened by a ghost.”
Mica’s arched her brows. The man really believed what he
was doing. As though he read her mind, he held out the metal
box in his arms. “I know you’re skeptical, so let me show you.
This is my own design, guaranteed to pick up the beta impulses
known to be associated with ghosts. The spirit, you might call
it, is made up of energy, instead of basic matter like you and
me. This energy pulsates at a phenomenal rate—too fast and
too high-pitched for human eyes and ears to pick up.” He turned
one of the knobs on the machine, and Mica could hear a faint
click, click, click, like a Geiger Counter. The needles of the
dials, however, stayed flat against one side.
“It doesn’t appear to be working.” She tentatively reached
a hand out and tapped a fingernail on the glass cover of one
dial.
“Of course not, because there are no ghosts in the vicinity.
If there were, an alarm would go off to alert me. Then I could
activate the camera, here, which would automatically take a
photograph every five seconds.”
Although Mica watched as he pointed to the devices on
his ghost detector, she remained skeptical that it would do
anything at all, much less photograph a ghost. “I thought you
said the energy impulses were too fast for us to see. How can
you photograph them?”
“This is a special film, developed for NASA’s use. It is
much, much more s
ensitive than what you or I would normally
use.”
“I see.” Mica didn’t, but she wouldn’t destroy the
professor’s illusions. She cocked her head to the side. The music
she had heard earlier drifted towards them again. It sounded
close by, but Mica couldn’t recall a piano anywhere on the
premises. “Do you hear that, Professor?”
She watched him quickly adjust the knobs of his machine,
his eyes flickering from the dials to the area around them. “I
don’t hear anything. What do you think you hear?”
“I hear a piano, but then, it couldn’t be played by one of
your ghosts, could it, for your machine isn’t telling you
anything.” She couldn’t help the laughter that crept into her
voice.
The professor took her joking with good humor. “Perhaps
they aren’t out and about just yet, Ms Chadwick. Would you
like me to come get you should I find one? After all, this is
your residence.”
“Thanks, but no. I don’t need part-interest in any ghosts.
My portfolio is quite full at the moment.”
He laughed with her. “But think of the publicity—the
notoriety—the adventure!”
“Good night, Professor Bigley,” Mica said as she turned
toward the private gardens.
Chadwick? A little excitement?”
She didn’t answer, but kept walking, her heart pounding
in cadence with her rapid footsteps. She stepped through the
French doors, locking them behind her, but she could not lock
out the echo of his question. Regardless of what she had told
the man, she did long for an adventure. She had grown tired of
her responsible, sensible life. But where, on sleepy little
Cameron Island, could she possibly hope to find any
excitement?
As if in answer to her question, the music she had heard
earlier rose to a crescendo before returning to a soft, haunting
melody. She knew without doubt the source of the music lay
directly above her, and yet hadn’t last night been a dream?
Didn’t Mrs. Harris confirm that this afternoon when she told
Mica the door led nowhere?
Then why did her heart pound with anticipation? Why did
her palms itch to touch the doorknob again, to see if the same
electric tingle gave way to sensations she could not describe
now that she was awake? And why, if it had all been a dream,
did her feet lead her through the darkened corridor to the stairs?
Her breath came in short gasps. Her hand trembled on the
banister as she ascended the steps and turned to face the door.
She had to know. She had to find out for herself. Was the man
she envisioned last night a dream? Or someone real?
The key turned in the lock, sending a frisson of excitement
racing through Mica. The door swung open to a corridor exactly
as she remembered from last night. Her hand trembled so badly,
she dropped the key. As she stepped through the doorway and
bent to retrieve it, she felt the zipper in her jeans pop.
“Damn!” She put a hand to her stomach and turned. She
would have to return to her room and change. But then she
heard it—the beautiful strains of a waltz played with such
emotion she felt wrapped in warmth and caressed by invisible,
soothing fingers.
Though her heart beat quicker, it wasn’t from fear, but
from the same sense of anticipation she had felt downstairs.
She wouldn’t go back, not now. Some inner sense told her the
stranger waited just ahead, past the flickering wall candles to
where the light spilled from an open doorway.
She placed the key in her pocket and pulled the door shut
behind her. Pulling her flannel shirt closed to cover her broken
zipper, she stepped down the hall and into the room. Her gaze
focused on the man, elegantly attired in a black tuxedo, though
his tie hung askew and his jacket had been left abandoned in
the center of the floor.
He sat at a grand piano, his head thrown back, eyes closed,
oblivious to everything around him. His body swayed with the
rhythm. Mica found her gaze mesmerized by the stroke of his
long, tan fingers across the keys. He didn’t play the piano. He
seduced it, coaxing sounds from the instrument and becoming
part of the music he created.
Wild thoughts took flight with the music. Her skin tingled
at the thought of his hands caressing her skin, bringing her to a
fevered pitch. Together reaching the ultimate pinnacle. She was
so wrapped up in passionate thought, she didn’t realize the
music had stopped until he spoke.
“I wondered if you would appear for me again tonight.”
He swung around to straddle the bench, and Mica noted
that his black vest and the starched white shirt beneath it were
opened to his waist. She had an unobstructed view of his
muscular chest, lightly sprinkled with dark hair. She leaned
against the doorjamb, not sure her legs would support her. His
gaze was more intense than she remembered, his shoulders
broader, and his smile just as inviting.
“Who are you, lovely lady?” His voice seduced her as surely
as though he touched her.
“Michaela.” She, Michaela Marie Chadwick, renowned
attorney who could convince a jury her client was innocent by
her adept use of the English language, couldn’t think of anything
more to say than her name.
“I know your name, Michaela Marie.” Her name flowed
from his lips like the music he played. “But who are you? And
why are you dressed as a farm hand? You could not possibly
hide your femininity beneath trousers and a man’s shirt.” As
he spoke, he reached high, arching his back and flexing his
arms to stretch his muscles. It was enough to make Mica’s
heart stop.
“Who are you?” She might have convinced herself she
wanted an adventure, but this man, so blatantly sexual and
seemingly unaware of it, could end up being more than she
bargained for. It would be best to find out more about him, and
how he came to be at Sea Crest.
He grinned at her as he unwound his long legs from the
bench and walked towards her, all fluid grace and elegance. “I
do apologize, my dear lady.” He gently took her hand and lifted
it to his lips, giving her a bow that came so naturally, Mica
would have thought him a member of the cast of Gone With
the Wind. “T. Logan Rutledge, your dutiful servant.”
The elegance of his words, the gentleness of his gestures,
touched a chord deep within Mica, and she almost curtsied in
return. Her face flushed when she glanced down at her attire.
While she had never been concerned with fashion, she suddenly
felt terribly out of place. He laughed at her frown, touching
her shirt collar’s soft flannel.
“At least you are comfortable.” He spread his arms and
gestured at the layers of clothes he wore. “I have had to torture
myself with a tight tie and too many layers of hot cl
oth. All
this for the unenviable delight of having Miss Sophie
Wainwright, trussed up like a peacock in monstrous feathers
and ruffles of satin, try to break my eardrums.”
She laughed with him. She couldn’t help herself. He painted
a picture as vivid as his music. He captured her hand, and when
he tugged, she followed him to an old-fashioned settee against
one wall of the enormous room.
“You have a delightful laugh, Michaela Marie. Your eyes
sparkle, and your whole face glows.”
She sat facing him, close enough so he didn’t have to release
her hand. Close enough she could feel his heat and the raw
male magnetism surrounding him like some mystical aura. She
tried to concentrate on what he was saying.
“T. Logan Rutledge.” She repeated his name. “That doesn’t
tell me much about you.”
“One night I find you in my study, wearing little more than
silk unmentionables and a very seductive smile. Now, here you
are again, this time with more cloth covering your curves, but
with eyes holding a secret and lips begging to be kissed. Why
must you waste time talking?” As he spoke, he traced her lips
with his thumb, his other arm sliding across the back of the
couch to rest on her shoulders. Just when Mica thought he would
kiss her, he turned, stretching his legs out in front of him and
clasping his hands behind his head.
“What would you like to know?” His eyes and voice were
full of laughter, and again Mica found herself smiling.
Even in the tension of just moments before, she felt
comfortable with this man she barely knew. But now he had
given her the opportunity to remedy that. Trying not to sound
like a lawyer in cross-examination, she said simply, “Tell me
everything.”
“Do you have a lifetime or two to spend on a very boring
recitation? I dare say after five minutes, you’ll wish to be at
Miss Sophie’s instead.”
Mica turned and sat cross-legged on the couch, propping
her elbows on her knees and chin in her hands. The action
brought his black brows together in a frown.
“You are not exactly the conventional lady, are you?”
It was her turn to smile, turning his earlier comments back
on him. “After I have listened to your story, perhaps I will tell
you mine. However, it will require the same diligent attention