Bran seemed to stumble on the threshold. “The, er, ghosts?” he repeated huskily.
She chuckled. “Surely Anna’s told you that the inn is supposedly haunted by a couple of your distant relatives who were murdered by their bootlegging stepbrother. Or at least, it was haunted until Dean and Mark released the spirits by solving their murders and redeeming the Cameron-family name.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Bran said, sounding a bit peevish.
“I’ll have to tell you the story sometime. It’s fascinating.”
“It sounds ridiculous.”
“Somehow I would have expected that reaction from you,” Bailey said a little too sweetly, “You seem much too unimaginative to believe in ghosts.”
With that, she shut the door firmly behind him. He’d deserved that after breaking into her cottage, scaring her half to death, then refusing to tell her anything about himself, even when she’d finally resorted to blatant prying.
As far as helpful meddling went, she hadn’t been particularly successful that day, she thought with a rueful grimace. Neither Cara nor Bran had cooperated with her efforts to assist them.
Maybe it was time for “Dear Bailey” to concentrate on her own problems.
IT WAS ALMOST DAWN. Outside, the sky was a rich, deep purple, the sun still just a hint of brightness toward the east. A few birds chattered in the autumn-bare limbs of the trees, undisturbed by human intruders at this early hour.
Inside the cottage, the silence was disturbed only by Bailey’s even breathing as she slept soundly, blissfully unaware that she wasn’t alone.
Ian stood beside the bed, his hands buried in his pockets, his gaze locked on Bailey’s sleep-softened face.
She’d kicked off the covers, exposing her long, shapely legs. Her T-shirt had twisted around her, baring a couple of inches of slender midriff. Her copper-tinted brown hair was tousled, one lock resting enticingly on her cheek, temptingly close to her parted lips. He longed to reach out and stroke the lock away from her face.
Would he be able to touch her? Feel her?
Anna had once described the sensation of touching Dean; it was as though she were doing it through unresponsive, unsatisfying layers of cloth, she’d said. It was that possibility that made Ian resist the impulse to reach out to Bailey.
It was better to fantasize about how warm and soft she would feel than to be confronted with a cruel reminder that he wasn’t meant to touch her at all.
He knew now what made her unhappy. Though she’d recounted her problems lightly enough, he’d been able to see how badly her confidence had been shaken by her string of misfortunes in Chicago. It must be difficult for a woman who prided herself on helping others to admit she had problems of her own that she didn’t know how to solve.
He smiled wryly as he remembered how confidently she’d informed him that she was out of the “meddling business,” and had then proceeded to probe into what she believed to be his unhappy relationship with his sister.
Her propensity for prying was going to get her into trouble someday. Maybe he could convince her that it would be safer for her to concentrate on her own needs and let others take care of themselves.
If, of course, he ever had a chance to speak with her again.
He still feared that their two conversations thus far had been mere chance, that he would not be granted the opportunity again. Several times during the past few days, he’d been close to her without being able to reach her. With each moment he spent watching her, he grew more fascinated. She was the most intriguing woman he’d ever encountered.
He’d begun to accept that the conversation in the gazebo had been a one-time-only opportunity—one he hadn’t handled at all well—and then she’d opened her bedroom door and spoken to him as he stood in her sitting room, wishing he could talk to her again.
Would she see him now if she opened her eyes? Or would he be as invisible to her as he’d been so many other occasions?
She wouldn’t like knowing he was here, watching her as she slept. Yet he found himself reluctant to leave. Only when he was near her did he feel…anything. It was both pleasure and torture to be with her, knowing how truly far apart they were. Imagining how she would react if she knew the truth about him.
Often during the past years he’d chafed against the restrictions of the half life he was trapped in, but now he found himself more disheartened than ever. Bailey Gates was an all-too-vivid reminder of what he was missing. She was beautiful, bright, impulsive, kindhearted, unpredictable … everything he could have wanted in a woman of his own.
His gaze m
oved from her sleep-flushed face to the pulse that throbbed in the hollow of her throat, that visible evidence of the difference between them. He studied the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the pink T-shirt, and he imagined how they might feel against his palms. Her waist was so small he could span it with his hands, and her hips flared with a soft womanliness that made him ache to be cradled against them. Her long legs would lock neatly around him, her fingers would slide into his hair…
He closed his eyes and swallowed a groan.
He’d forgotten how it felt to ache like this. He’d forgotten how pleasure could so closely border pain. But even the discomfort was almost welcome after years of weary numbness.
At least he would have this to remember when Bailey was gone, when he’d returned to the anesthetic grayness.