was here was as disconcerting as the dream. Maybe more so. She sat up slowly, aware that the whisper of cold night air and the sound of the door indicated that Emmett had gone out onto the balcony.
She glanced at the clock. Three a.m. They had gone to bed at one. She had been adamant about restoring order to her apartment before retiring. No one had argued. No one had suggested that the task could wait until morning. Instead, they had all pitched in to help her clean up the mess the intruder had left in his wake. It was as if everyone understood that it would have been impossible for her to sleep in the midst of the chaos. It had taken nearly two hours to get things back into their proper drawers and cupboards.
Three o'clock in the morning was a weird time to go outside for a breath of fresh air. She wondered if her new roommate had any other odd habits.
"Fuzz?"
At the foot of the bed Fuzz yawned and opened his daylight eyes. They gleamed colorlessly in the moonlight.
"Okay, okay, go back to sleep. Sorry I woke you."
She pushed aside the covers and got out of bed. She started toward the door without thinking and then paused to grab her robe. Sharing the small living space with Emmett required a few modifications in her own habits, she thought. She could only hope he didn't get in the way too much.
She slid her feet into a pair of slippers, belted the robe, and padded out into the front room. The curtains were open. Moonlight spilled across the sofa, revealing that the makeshift bed was empty.
She looked out at the balcony and saw Emmett. He had pulled on his jeans, but that was all. He leaned negligently against the railing, gazing out at her sliver-size view of the green Wall. In the light of the moon his shoulders looked very broad.
She hesitated, struggling briefly against the impulse to take a closer look at his back. What the heck? she thought. This was her apartment, her balcony. If he was going to wander around half naked, he had to expect that she would notice.
She hadn't been getting out a lot lately, after all.
She walked closer to the glass door and peered through the window at sleek lines of moon-sculpted masculine muscle. A man's back, at least this particular man's back, said a lot about him, she decided. There was power, both psychic and physical, in him. And a riveting sensuality.
There was also grace. An easy, unconscious grace, the kind that came from full control, the internal kind. Something about the way he held himself—even now, when he was simply lounging against a rail—spoke volumes about that inner control. She searched her brain for the right description.
"Centered." That was as good a word as any. This was a man who knew his own resources, made his own decisions, his own judgments of others. He had not accepted the experts' verdict on her para-psychological health, as Ryan and her other former colleagues had done. He had not bought the usual assumptions about people who had survived forty-eight hours alone in the catacombs. He didn't think she was too delicate to do her job.
Okay, so Emmett was a ghost-hunter, and a strong one at that. No one was perfect.
She opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the balcony.
He did not turn around. "Everything okay?"
She had the uneasy feeling that he had known she was there, watching him through the window, all along.
"Not quite." She joined him at the rail. "I don't think I ever got around to thanking you for what you did for Zane and Fuzz this evening."
"If it makes you feel any better, I doubt that the intruder intended to hurt either of them. He just wanted them out of the way while he went through your place."
"Maybe. But I don't think he would have hesitated to singe them if they had gotten in his path."
Emmett did not deny that. He lifted one shoulder, the movement of muscle and bone fluid in the moonlight.
Take deep breaths, she instructed herself. Lots of deep breaths.
Silence fell. Lydia focused on the dark
She glanced at the clock. Three a.m. They had gone to bed at one. She had been adamant about restoring order to her apartment before retiring. No one had argued. No one had suggested that the task could wait until morning. Instead, they had all pitched in to help her clean up the mess the intruder had left in his wake. It was as if everyone understood that it would have been impossible for her to sleep in the midst of the chaos. It had taken nearly two hours to get things back into their proper drawers and cupboards.
Three o'clock in the morning was a weird time to go outside for a breath of fresh air. She wondered if her new roommate had any other odd habits.
"Fuzz?"
At the foot of the bed Fuzz yawned and opened his daylight eyes. They gleamed colorlessly in the moonlight.
"Okay, okay, go back to sleep. Sorry I woke you."
She pushed aside the covers and got out of bed. She started toward the door without thinking and then paused to grab her robe. Sharing the small living space with Emmett required a few modifications in her own habits, she thought. She could only hope he didn't get in the way too much.
She slid her feet into a pair of slippers, belted the robe, and padded out into the front room. The curtains were open. Moonlight spilled across the sofa, revealing that the makeshift bed was empty.
She looked out at the balcony and saw Emmett. He had pulled on his jeans, but that was all. He leaned negligently against the railing, gazing out at her sliver-size view of the green Wall. In the light of the moon his shoulders looked very broad.
She hesitated, struggling briefly against the impulse to take a closer look at his back. What the heck? she thought. This was her apartment, her balcony. If he was going to wander around half naked, he had to expect that she would notice.
She hadn't been getting out a lot lately, after all.
She walked closer to the glass door and peered through the window at sleek lines of moon-sculpted masculine muscle. A man's back, at least this particular man's back, said a lot about him, she decided. There was power, both psychic and physical, in him. And a riveting sensuality.
There was also grace. An easy, unconscious grace, the kind that came from full control, the internal kind. Something about the way he held himself—even now, when he was simply lounging against a rail—spoke volumes about that inner control. She searched her brain for the right description.
"Centered." That was as good a word as any. This was a man who knew his own resources, made his own decisions, his own judgments of others. He had not accepted the experts' verdict on her para-psychological health, as Ryan and her other former colleagues had done. He had not bought the usual assumptions about people who had survived forty-eight hours alone in the catacombs. He didn't think she was too delicate to do her job.
Okay, so Emmett was a ghost-hunter, and a strong one at that. No one was perfect.
She opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the balcony.
He did not turn around. "Everything okay?"
She had the uneasy feeling that he had known she was there, watching him through the window, all along.
"Not quite." She joined him at the rail. "I don't think I ever got around to thanking you for what you did for Zane and Fuzz this evening."
"If it makes you feel any better, I doubt that the intruder intended to hurt either of them. He just wanted them out of the way while he went through your place."
"Maybe. But I don't think he would have hesitated to singe them if they had gotten in his path."
Emmett did not deny that. He lifted one shoulder, the movement of muscle and bone fluid in the moonlight.
Take deep breaths, she instructed herself. Lots of deep breaths.
Silence fell. Lydia focused on the dark
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