Charon's Crossing

He was a ghost, and it was reassuring to find that he could still react to the sight of a gently rounded bottom waggling in the air as its owner bent over to get a tool from the little stack of them at her feet.

But how in hell had Kathryn known he was here? She was looking straight at him now, as if she could see him. Had he forgotten and materialized without planning to do so? He wasn't expert at this stuff yet.

Last night, after he'd had time to calm down, he'd wanted to, well, to talk with her. Not to apologize. He had nothing to apologize for. He'd simply thought it might not hurt to tell her that his anger was nothing personal.

But she'd been locked in her bedroom by then—as if a lock meant anything to him, he'd thought with a smile. But then he'd thought it over and decided that it might not hurt to be a gentleman about it. If she wanted to pretend she could escape him by locking her door, he'd go along with the game.

And a good thing he had, if just watching her work in the garden had his britches feeling snug. Heaven only knew what would have happened if he'd strolled through the door and into her room.

He watched as she tossed aside the shears and glared into the garden.

"I suppose that's one of the pleasures of being a ghost," she said coolly. "Voyeurism must be a blast."

He materialized instantly, just where she'd thought he'd be, leaning against a tree with an insolent half-smile on his handsome face, though it pleased her to see him flush.

"I have never had need to be a voyeur, Kathryn. And though I won't bother asking you what blasting and watching on the sly have to do with each other, I would dearly love to know if it is ever your habit to wear more than your smallclothes."

"Smallclothes?"

"Your undergarments." His eyes raked the length of her body, leaving her feeling as if she weren't wearing anything when, in fact, she had on an oversized T-shirt and a pair of denim shorts. "Do all women of your time garden in such outfits?"

It was her turn to blush. She felt the color rise from the tips of her sneakered toes straight up to her face but she didn't blink.

"Did all men of your time stand around watching instead of working?"

The gibe hit home. Matthew's jaw set. His eyes fixed on hers as he unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged it off, and tossed it across a bench.

"Move over," he snapped.

Kathryn grinned, sat down on her heels in the midst of an overgrown flower bed, and watched as he set to work.

* * *

He was a pleasure to watch, that was for certain.

She spent a few seconds wondering how she'd explain Matthew if Elvira happened to come out and caught sight of him. But the last she'd seen of Elvira, she'd been taking apart the library, book by book. It was doubtful she'd turn up for hours. Besides, Kathryn was too busy enjoying the view to worry about Elvira putting in an appearance.

Matthew was gorgeous. There just wasn't any other word that could describe him.

His skin was a pale gold, almost the color of the wildflower honey she sometimes spread on her breakfast toast. Beneath it, his well-toned muscles moved with a smooth assurance.

His shoulders were broad and powerful; in a few minutes, they glistened under a light sheen of sweat. His biceps were rounded and his forearms firm. He worked with an economy of motion that was at once elegant and beautiful to see.

Her gaze drifted down his body. Those trousers of his, black, tight and clinging, made the most of a trim bottom, powerful thighs, and long, great-looking legs.

A flush swept into her cheeks again. What sort of woman got turned on by watching a ghost?

Not that she was getting turned on. It was just that, well, she'd been raised by an artist. Admiring the human body had been as natural as...

Her breath caught as Matthew turned and began working on another tumble of rose branches. His front was even more impressive than his back. She had never liked men who had overdone pecs; guys with breasts bigger than hers were not guys she found attractive.

Matthew's chest was perfect. The muscles were long and pronounced, the skin overlaid with a light covering of chestnut curls that arrowed down an abdomen as ridged as washboard to disappear beneath the waistband of those devastating trousers. For the first time, she noticed that they didn't have a fly. Didn't fly fronts exist in 1812? She couldn't remember, or maybe she'd never known. Either way, she approved of the looks of his tights, the way they buttoned down each hip so that the fabric was taut across his groin...

For God's sake, Kathryn!

She shot to her feet. "Aren't you finished yet?" she said sharply.

"Almost."