shrugged and looked at me like it was none of my business. (Which it wasn’t – just call me nosy.)
‘She needs something to occupy her, and it won’t do any harm – I’ll see to that,’ he said firmly. Subject closed.
* * *
So I spent the night with Dante Chase, although I expected to see nothing more scary than him, because any self-respecting wraith would have given up and gone away by now.
(And from Dante’s fancy dress I suspect that they will soon have some competition, since I think he intends to appear on guesthouse weekends as First Ghost: the Most Haunted Manor in Britain, featuring Britain’s Most Haunted Man.)
I was dying to ask about his relationship with Emma, and what she died of, because he’s practically guilt-edged. I don’t even need to look into his mind to feel it, and it’s so like the Keturah/Sylvanus situation that it would be really useful stuff to know … but better not.
Checking the inventory took ages, Miss Kedge having been devoted to expensive knick-knacks, but I do not think she was devoted to brandy, so the bottle (or was that perhaps bottles? ) Dante produced must have been lying forgotten in the cellars.
He carried it round with us, though a cuddly St Bernard he is not, and I got so cold after a while that I had another little nip … though I’m positive it was Dante who finished it.
Almost positive.
And I might hate the taste, but it certainly warmed us up on our Quest for the Questionable.
‘I doubt you’ll ever track most of this down,’ I said finally. ‘Fifty small items of Tunbridge Ware? A collection of porcelain cockatoos?’
‘It’s all under the insurance so I don’t care it they don’t find any of it, except the family miniatures. I’d really like those back,’ he said, removing the list from my grasp and ticking off yet another missing memento.
When we’d finished the survey (and a lot of brandy) and given up on the ghosts, it was nearly morning, so we retired back to Dante’s bedroom, the only warm place in the house, to wait for old rosy-fingered Dawn.
* * *
I woke up stiff, tired and headachy, curled up in a four-poster bed next to a stranger.
The unfamiliar room was fuzzy with grey early-morning light, and it took me a few heart-thumping minutes to remember where I was, and even then I couldn’t for the life of me recall how – or why – I was back in Dante’s bedroom.
It must have seemed like a good idea at the time.
Under the old eiderdown that covered us his naked arm lay warmly and heavily across me, but his face was half-turned away and masked by long, dishevelled dark hair.
As I stared at him, some confused memories began to bubble disturbingly to the surface.
At least, I think they were memories.
Hadn’t I been woken at some point from the pounding terror of my cupboard nightmare, and taken into a warm, comforting embrace? And surely I knew – remembered – how the muscles of his broad back moved under my hands … and how his lips felt on mine.
Or maybe it was the feel of mine on his? For I began to have an awful feeling it was me doing most of the kissing, and desperately wanting him, even urging him, to—
Oh God: it was all coming back to me!
Shivering (but not from cold, for the world’s most efficient hottie was right in there with me), I took a quick horrified peek under the eiderdown … and then a second, more admiring one.
I must have been possessed – and I don’t think brandy agrees with me, so clearly I do not take after Pa in that respect either, which is something, I suppose.
Dante was still breathing deeply, so with infinite caution I slid out from under his arm and off the bed, nearly falling when my foot landed on an empty bottle.
He moved restlessly and murmured something, then turned over and settled back to that regular breathing. Reassured, I tiptoed round the bed, collecting clothes as I went, and took a good look at him.
He seemed a lot younger than I’d
‘She needs something to occupy her, and it won’t do any harm – I’ll see to that,’ he said firmly. Subject closed.
* * *
So I spent the night with Dante Chase, although I expected to see nothing more scary than him, because any self-respecting wraith would have given up and gone away by now.
(And from Dante’s fancy dress I suspect that they will soon have some competition, since I think he intends to appear on guesthouse weekends as First Ghost: the Most Haunted Manor in Britain, featuring Britain’s Most Haunted Man.)
I was dying to ask about his relationship with Emma, and what she died of, because he’s practically guilt-edged. I don’t even need to look into his mind to feel it, and it’s so like the Keturah/Sylvanus situation that it would be really useful stuff to know … but better not.
Checking the inventory took ages, Miss Kedge having been devoted to expensive knick-knacks, but I do not think she was devoted to brandy, so the bottle (or was that perhaps bottles? ) Dante produced must have been lying forgotten in the cellars.
He carried it round with us, though a cuddly St Bernard he is not, and I got so cold after a while that I had another little nip … though I’m positive it was Dante who finished it.
Almost positive.
And I might hate the taste, but it certainly warmed us up on our Quest for the Questionable.
‘I doubt you’ll ever track most of this down,’ I said finally. ‘Fifty small items of Tunbridge Ware? A collection of porcelain cockatoos?’
‘It’s all under the insurance so I don’t care it they don’t find any of it, except the family miniatures. I’d really like those back,’ he said, removing the list from my grasp and ticking off yet another missing memento.
When we’d finished the survey (and a lot of brandy) and given up on the ghosts, it was nearly morning, so we retired back to Dante’s bedroom, the only warm place in the house, to wait for old rosy-fingered Dawn.
* * *
I woke up stiff, tired and headachy, curled up in a four-poster bed next to a stranger.
The unfamiliar room was fuzzy with grey early-morning light, and it took me a few heart-thumping minutes to remember where I was, and even then I couldn’t for the life of me recall how – or why – I was back in Dante’s bedroom.
It must have seemed like a good idea at the time.
Under the old eiderdown that covered us his naked arm lay warmly and heavily across me, but his face was half-turned away and masked by long, dishevelled dark hair.
As I stared at him, some confused memories began to bubble disturbingly to the surface.
At least, I think they were memories.
Hadn’t I been woken at some point from the pounding terror of my cupboard nightmare, and taken into a warm, comforting embrace? And surely I knew – remembered – how the muscles of his broad back moved under my hands … and how his lips felt on mine.
Or maybe it was the feel of mine on his? For I began to have an awful feeling it was me doing most of the kissing, and desperately wanting him, even urging him, to—
Oh God: it was all coming back to me!
Shivering (but not from cold, for the world’s most efficient hottie was right in there with me), I took a quick horrified peek under the eiderdown … and then a second, more admiring one.
I must have been possessed – and I don’t think brandy agrees with me, so clearly I do not take after Pa in that respect either, which is something, I suppose.
Dante was still breathing deeply, so with infinite caution I slid out from under his arm and off the bed, nearly falling when my foot landed on an empty bottle.
He moved restlessly and murmured something, then turned over and settled back to that regular breathing. Reassured, I tiptoed round the bed, collecting clothes as I went, and took a good look at him.
He seemed a lot younger than I’d
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