ghosts.” Kendra spoke the lie with the ease of long practice.
Ghostcatchers International drilled their staff to always be discreet. Zack’s favorite credo was never to draw attention to oneself on duty. The business had been built on trust, not sensationalism.
Kendra’s assignments, in particular, were highly sensitive ones.
Most historic societies didn’t want the slightest hint of a haunting to tinge a site’s reputation.
So she didn’t turn a hair when Graeme narrowed his eyes at her, his gaze dark and piercing. “This isn’t your America, lass. And Pennard, this whole stretch of coast, is a powerfully uncanny place.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“So I have, aye.” He glanced down the alleyway, toward the night-blackened water. “There’s aye a grain o’ truth in old folklore and tradition.”
“So you believe in such things?”
“Let’s say I’ve lived long enough to accept that this world holds more than the eye can see.” He looked at her a bit challengingly then, as if he expected her to argue the point with him.
She wasn’t about to disagree.
She knew better than most that sometimes things weren’t as they appeared on the surface. And that mist often held more than air currents.
But she held her tongue. She didn’t trust herself to speak rationally to him.
He’d pronounced
world
as
warld
, his soft, deep voice pouring through her, his sexy Scottish burr getting the better of her.
She tucked her hair behind an ear, trying to keep her gaze steady on his, her expression neutral so he wouldn’t guess that even now, just listening to him speak was enough to melt her resistance.
It was true.
And each word he spoke, every lilting syllable, set off curls of warmth low in her belly. Now, at last, she understood why so many American women swooned over Scottish men. It wasn’t the long, proud history and heritage, all the flashing plaid and swagger. Nor was it the swinging kilts and the age-old mystery of what was or wasn’t beneath them.
Above all else, it was the accent.
Such an accent employed by Graeme MacGrath was beyond distracting.
His dark good looks didn’t hurt, either. Tall and broad-shouldered was always good, but his long black hair and thick eyelashes made him all the more irresistible. The harbor lights glinted in his ponytail, making the sleek strands gleam like ebony silk.
That she noticed, now especially, really irritated her.
But she couldn’t help it.
Graeme wasn’t just a man. He was a force of nature. No one had ever affected her so swiftly. She doubted anyone ever would again. And she couldn’t believe that up until just a short time ago, she would’ve said, if pressed, that an English accent was the world’s sexiest.
Little did she know…
She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. “I don’t see what my comment about lights at sea has to do with all this.” It was the only thing she could think to say. “Surely anyone who heard would have known I was mistaken. As you said at the time, there was nothing out there.”
“Aye, there wasn’t.” He slid his fingers over her cheek, clearly meaning to underscore his words, but serving only to send delicious shivers across her nerves. “Even so, your talk of ghostly ships could stir trouble. I’d warn you no’ to mention the like again.”
“I didn’t say anything about spectral ships,” Kendra reminded him. “Are the locals so frightened of bogles, asyou call them, that one slip of the tongue by a tourist could upset them so badly?”
“So it is, aye.” He was deadly serious. “Mainly because the boats as you described seeing them exactly matched the ghostly herring fleet said to sail these waters. The tales arise now and again, though most folk credit the sightings to phosphorescence in the water. Thing is”—he leaned forward, his handsome face mere inches from hers—“there have been a few odd happenings here lately. Some folk are worried that the
Ghostcatchers International drilled their staff to always be discreet. Zack’s favorite credo was never to draw attention to oneself on duty. The business had been built on trust, not sensationalism.
Kendra’s assignments, in particular, were highly sensitive ones.
Most historic societies didn’t want the slightest hint of a haunting to tinge a site’s reputation.
So she didn’t turn a hair when Graeme narrowed his eyes at her, his gaze dark and piercing. “This isn’t your America, lass. And Pennard, this whole stretch of coast, is a powerfully uncanny place.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“So I have, aye.” He glanced down the alleyway, toward the night-blackened water. “There’s aye a grain o’ truth in old folklore and tradition.”
“So you believe in such things?”
“Let’s say I’ve lived long enough to accept that this world holds more than the eye can see.” He looked at her a bit challengingly then, as if he expected her to argue the point with him.
She wasn’t about to disagree.
She knew better than most that sometimes things weren’t as they appeared on the surface. And that mist often held more than air currents.
But she held her tongue. She didn’t trust herself to speak rationally to him.
He’d pronounced
world
as
warld
, his soft, deep voice pouring through her, his sexy Scottish burr getting the better of her.
She tucked her hair behind an ear, trying to keep her gaze steady on his, her expression neutral so he wouldn’t guess that even now, just listening to him speak was enough to melt her resistance.
It was true.
And each word he spoke, every lilting syllable, set off curls of warmth low in her belly. Now, at last, she understood why so many American women swooned over Scottish men. It wasn’t the long, proud history and heritage, all the flashing plaid and swagger. Nor was it the swinging kilts and the age-old mystery of what was or wasn’t beneath them.
Above all else, it was the accent.
Such an accent employed by Graeme MacGrath was beyond distracting.
His dark good looks didn’t hurt, either. Tall and broad-shouldered was always good, but his long black hair and thick eyelashes made him all the more irresistible. The harbor lights glinted in his ponytail, making the sleek strands gleam like ebony silk.
That she noticed, now especially, really irritated her.
But she couldn’t help it.
Graeme wasn’t just a man. He was a force of nature. No one had ever affected her so swiftly. She doubted anyone ever would again. And she couldn’t believe that up until just a short time ago, she would’ve said, if pressed, that an English accent was the world’s sexiest.
Little did she know…
She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. “I don’t see what my comment about lights at sea has to do with all this.” It was the only thing she could think to say. “Surely anyone who heard would have known I was mistaken. As you said at the time, there was nothing out there.”
“Aye, there wasn’t.” He slid his fingers over her cheek, clearly meaning to underscore his words, but serving only to send delicious shivers across her nerves. “Even so, your talk of ghostly ships could stir trouble. I’d warn you no’ to mention the like again.”
“I didn’t say anything about spectral ships,” Kendra reminded him. “Are the locals so frightened of bogles, asyou call them, that one slip of the tongue by a tourist could upset them so badly?”
“So it is, aye.” He was deadly serious. “Mainly because the boats as you described seeing them exactly matched the ghostly herring fleet said to sail these waters. The tales arise now and again, though most folk credit the sightings to phosphorescence in the water. Thing is”—he leaned forward, his handsome face mere inches from hers—“there have been a few odd happenings here lately. Some folk are worried that the
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