HAUNTED

an excerpt . . .

The dream came again.

Darcy had dreaded that it would, and she had been anxious as well, desperate to experience what had happened in this room, and see. See clearly, know exactly what had happened.

She entered into the mind of the man from the past. Saw what he saw.

The woman.

She was, the man knew-beneath the rage that had risen within him, a fury in his blood-always urgent, obsessive, beautiful. He had seen in her again everything that he had desired when she had appeared at the upper landing. He had seen the structure of her face, the shadow and light of the night, enhancing the curves of her body, granting moonlit magic to her hair. She could create a fire with a single glance, whisper words that could drive a man to a pure frenzy.

She could touch a man…and do so many things. Bring arousal to life in seconds, manipulate the senses, tear into the mind.

Ah, yes, and she could do so much more.

His head was spinning, torn with pain. And then she was running, but it appeared she did so in slow motion. He rose in much the same way, seeing the wall, the bed, the clock, ticking away the seconds, minutes, hours.

Ticking away the night.

He staggered to his feet. She was running; he had to run, too. She was so gorgeous in flight. Her appearance so fragile, so innocent. She ran…

As if she could escape.

She wasn't so fragile, and certainly not at all innocent.

Still he was far stronger.

And faster.

He followed her out the door.

Captured in the replay of the past, her own resources guilding her blindly, Darcy rose in her sleep, anxious to catch up with the specters of time gone by. She moved like a wraith in the night, sliding across the floor, opening the door-that through which the spirit images had so easily drifted.

She came to the landing, to the rail, and looked down the stairway.

But a sound behind her startled her back to life. She felt a fierce shove, slamming her hard against the upper landing rail, teetering precariously there for several seconds.

She came to full wakefulness in a split second, realized her position and instinctively fought to right it. She was strong enough herself, and quickly maintained her grasp and equilibrium, her mind working quickly with outrage.

Someone real, alive and well, had been on the upstairs landing. She had heard a real noise. And real hands had attempted to push her over!

Righted, she spun around.

Matt's door was ajar.

Opening? Or closing?

She stood against the rail, her heart in her throat, staring. The door seemed to close another inch, and then opened.

In boxers and a robe, Matt emerged, striding out on the landing, eyes touching on Darcy, then looking up and down the second level.

"What are you doing out here?" The question sounded like a bark.

She swallowed hard. She knew him-didn't she? Or did she think she knew him because she had been so tempted to sleep with him?

No. Whether or not they ever again spoke civil words to one another, she didn't believe that Matt Stone was the type of man who would push a woman over a railing to her death. Was he?

"Darcy! What's going on?"

Still, she hesitated. She couldn't tell him. She didn't believe that she had been accosted by a ghost, but then . . . it hadn't been until she had heard the noise, felt herself in extreme danger, that she had really snapped clearly from the force of the vision.

And if she told Matt that she believed she had been attacked-by either a ghost or a living being-he would start insisting again that she was somehow in danger. He would force her from the house. And her instincts were good-she could protect herself.

She hoped.

"I was just trying to . . . imagine what might have happened here," she lied.

"You should never stand leaning against a railing like that."

"No? I suppose not." She pushed away.

He was tense. His hands were knotted at his sides, his features drawn. She was certain he had no idea he looked so fierce.

"You shouldn't run around the house at night," he continued.

"Why not?" She was suddenly indignant.

"You know that I believe there's a person behind all this ghost crap."

"Oh? Who, Matt? You? Penny? Or do Carter and Chris slip into the main house at night? Or could it be the groundskeeper, Sam?"

"I don't know," he said flatly. "The point is, you, of all people, shouldn't be running around the house at night."

"Why me-of all people?"

"Because you've got an imagination that would put a child to shame."

"Really?" she inquired icily.

"Oh, come on, Darcy, that's the point. You believe everything that you say."

"Ah. Damn, I guess I really do need a psychiatrist," she said sarcastically.

"Maybe you do."

It seemed as if the words pained him. His fingers were still balled into fists. A pulse throbbed at his throat.

"Why are you so ridiculously angry with me?" she demanded.

"Because you've let this happen to you!" he exclaimed. "Darcy-"

He started to take a step toward her. She shook her head vehemently, backing away. "No, Matt. I haven't let anything happen to me. You should see the psychiatrist. You're so set in your ways it's amazing that you even agree to daylight saving time. Excuse me, will you? I'm going back to bed."
She walked by him, heading for the door to the Lee Room. As she passed him, it was almost as if he touched her. He didn't move. She could still feel the heat emitting from him in great waves. She could somehow feel his vitality, his tremendous strength, and his emotions.

She walked on by, breathing the scent of him. Not meant to be. She didn't have an overactive imagination, and she wasn't acting. She knew ghosts existed.

Fuck him.

She could bend.

Matt Stone could not.

She wanted to cry. Spin around, beat against his chest. To what end? She had no power to change what lay within a man's mind. What she knew, what she did, had no tangible proof.

"Darcy?" Her name sounded somewhat strangled on his lips.

"Good night, Matt."

She walked into the Lee Room and closed the door.

The dream didn't come to her again that night. She slept easily, yet awoke with a strange sense of fear slipping into her thoughts.

The sense had nothing to do with ghosts.

She had slept on through the night, she had not been bothered again.

And yet, by day, her vision seemed clear, and her mind entirely rational. Someone had been out there on the landing with her last night.

Living, breathing.

And with deadly intent.

© Heather Graham Pozzessere 2003