She frowned and jacked upright. Then rubbed her eyes.
She couldn't be seeing what was on the screen correctly.
It wasn't possible. . . was it?
Scrambling for the right button on the remote, she turned up the volume. ". . . Rathboone's ghost haunting the halls of his Civil War mansion. What secrets await our Paranormal Investigators team as they seek to uncover. . . "
The narrator's voice faded from hearing as the camera drew closer and closer upon a portrait of a male with dark hair and eyes that were haunted.
Murhder.
She'd know that face anywhere.
Leaping up, she rushed at the TV--but like that was going to help?
The camera panned back to show a beautiful parlor and then shots of the grounds of a white plantation house. They were talking about some kind of live special. . . during which they were going to try to flush out the ghost of a Civil War abolitionist who so many maintained still roamed the halls and the grounds of where he'd once lived.
Tuning in to the commentary again, she desperately tried to catch where the mansion was located. Maybe she could. . .
Just outside Charleston, South Carolina. That's where it was.
Stepping back, she hit the bed with her calves and sat down. Her first thought was to flash there and see for herself whether it was her former lover or a real live ghost or just some talented television producers making a lot of noise.
But logic overrode the impulse. The last time she'd set her eyes on Murhder, he'd made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her. Besides, just because there was an old oil painting that resembled the male didn't mean he was taking up res in that old manse playing Casper.
Although that was a helluva portriat. And terrorizing humans actually did sound right up his alley.
Shit. . . she wished him well. She totally did. And if she wasn't convinced she'd be as unwelcome as the secret she should have told him about after they'd gotten involved, she would have made the trip.
The fact was, however, sometimes the best thing that you could do for someone was stay away from them. And she'd given him her address on the Hudson. He knew where to find her.
God, she hoped he was okay, though.
The knock on the door brought her head around. "Hello?" she said.
"Is that a come-in?" a deep male voice answered.
She got to her feet and frowned, thinking that sure as hell didn't sound like a doggen. "Yeah. It's unlocked. "
The door swung wide to reveal. . . a trunk--as in a wardrobe trunk. A Louis Vuitton wardrobe trunk from back in the day. And she assumed the guy holding it was a Brother--given the shitkickers and leathers showing down below.
Unless Fritz had eschewed the vanilla lifestyle for something out of V's playbook. And put on a hundred pounds.
The LV lowered enough so that she got a clear shot at Tohrment's face. The Brother's expression was serious, but then, he wasn't a Lite-Brite kind of guy. Never had been. . . and given where his life had ended up, never would be ever.
He cleared his throat and then inclined his head toward what was up against his chest. "I've brought you something. For your mating. "
"Um. . . well, John and I haven't registered anywhere. " She motioned for him to come in. "Not like Crate and Barrel carries handguns. But thanks. "
The Brother stepped through the jamb and put the trunk down. The thing was five feet tall and about three feet wide and seemed to be the kind to split wide down the middle.
In the quiet that followed, Tohrment's eyes traced over her face and yet again she had this odd sense that the guy knew too much about her.
He cleared his throat. "It is customary upon the mating of a female for her family to proffer vestments for the ceremony. "
Xhex frowned again. Then slowly shook her head from side to side. "I have no family. Not really. "
God, that grave, knowledgeable stare of his was freaking her out. . . and in a rush, her symphath side reached out to thread through his grid, assessing, measuring.