Kelly Wallace-Sensual Romance Author

 

PROLOGUE

 

 

            “Sonofabitch!”  Ian Holt awoke just as the explosive sound of a gun went off … right against his temple.  Searing pain ripped through his skull and the smell of black powder hung in the air.

            All of his senses were on red alert, telling him to fight, willing him to move, but his body would not obey his brain's commands.  His eyes remained stubbornly closed, his legs useless.  And he was cold.  So cold.

            Lethargy set in.  As if from a vampire, he felt his life's energy being drawn from his body. 

            Within seconds the burning sensation in his head vanished and a feeling of tranquility settled over him.  He felt himself floating up to the ceiling, looking down at his lifeless form as his murderer cattily slipped out the back door.

            Before he had time to wonder what the hell had just happened, something began pulling at him.  He felt himself hurtling toward a distant bright light.  Blackness lay all around and stars seemed to race by at such a dizzying pace they appeared like so many comets with long, fiery tails trailing behind them.

            As Ian approached closer to the comforting orb of brilliance, he was strangely at peace.  Being in complete possession of his faculties, he knew he had just been murdered and who had done it, and that he was being transported to some unknown place.

            Heaven?

            Had he been so virtuous in his thirty years to be straightly promoted to heaven?

            He doubted it, but knew he hadn't done anything so bad as to be cursed with a one way ticket to hell.

            He hoped.

            Experiencing sensations so acute it nearly blew his mind, he became aware again of the pulsing sphere ahead, and a comforting voice, neither male nor female, spoke. 

            "Ian … it is not your time."

            Ian was slightly disappointed.  Life hadn't been exactly exciting or fulfilling for him.  Only his architectural work kept him going most days.  That and constructing his beachfront home on the Monterey peninsula.  He had just finished it four weeks prior.  Looks like somebody else would be enjoying his dream now. 

            "So … I'm not dead?"  He heard his question aloud before he had even spoken the words.  Evidently they were using mental telepathy.  There went all of his cold, hard criticism regarding psychic phenomena!

            "You are indeed dead, but your destiny has not been fulfilled."  The words were impressed upon his mind.

            Destiny?  What the hell was that supposed to mean?  "So…do I get a second chance to fulfill this destiny?"

            "In time…and you must find the way."

            "Okay."  Ian shrugged invisible shoulders.  "No sweat.  What happens?  Do I get resuscitated or something?"

            "You will be on earth again, existing on a different plane."  The Voice was all around him.  "A spirit in the material world.  In the material world is where you will find your destiny."

            "Uh‑huh."  Ian listened, wondering if he was having an acid trip flashback.  He'd read about those.  People who'd done drugs only to have them experience the narcotic's effects once again ten or twenty years down the line.  That had to be the answer to all of this.  This was just too frickin’ weird. 

            Or maybe the bullet that plowed through his gray matter hadn't really killed him, but instead left him insane.  Maybe he was laid up in a hospital somewhere on life support, destined to be a vegetable the rest of his life.  How else could he explain the fact that he had just been told by an ominous entity that he'd be a … a ghost!

            "There are advantages of being in spirit form as opposed to human."  The Voice continued, "Powers which you will in time discover for yourself.  There are also rules."

            "Go ahead."  Ian was greatly amused.  If he had to be a raving lunatic for the rest of his existence, at least he'd have an interesting time of it.

            "You cannot leave the location from where you met your demise—"

            "Glad I didn't buy the farm on the freeway at rush hour."  He made light of the situation.

            The Voice sighed, not entertained by his remark.  "You must also remember to never possess another's body."  The warning was firm.

            "No problem," Ian promised.  Like he'd know how to do it in the first place?

            "It could cause irreparable damage to the human world, and bring irrevocable consequences upon you.  Do not break these rules, Ian Holt.”

            "Got it."  Ian smirked.  Don't break the rules?  What a thing to say to a man who who'd bent and broken every one that had come his way!  "Okay," he decided to placate The Voice, "so how do I go about completing this unfinished business?"

            "Learn from your past mistakes and … follow your heart…" With that The Voice faded as Ian was drawn back to earth and the confines of his newly built home perched before the Pacific Ocean.

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

            Paige Stanfield heaved the last box out of the back seat of her blue Celica.  Turning, she leaned against the car to catch her breath and gazed up at her beachfront home in satisfaction.  The ocean crashed and rolled to shore behind her in an even cadence, adding to the much-welcomed serenity she felt at the moment. 

            The simple, two story cabin style home was planted on a lone strip of sand along the Monterey coast.  Her nearest neighbor lived a half mile away.  Tranquil and unimposing, this home invoked a sense of steadfastness and security within her she hadn't known in a very long time.

            "And it's all mine," she breathed to herself in awe.  It was still difficult for her to believe the abrupt turn around her life had taken in just a few short months, though she didn't want to think of the steep price she may have to pay for her newly found freedom.

            As she blinked the sobering thought away, something at the upstairs window caught her attention.  There was a flicker of movement, a shadowy outline of head and shoulders at the uncurtained glass.  A silhouette that was definitely male stood looking down at her!

            Her blood ran thin and quick through her veins, but before she had a chance to decide whether her feelings were of intrigue or fear, the figure was gone and the window empty again.

            She gave a small laugh and hefted the box more comfortably in her arms.  Probably just a trick of the sun as it reflected off the glass.  "Or an overactive imagination."  She chided herself.  There was nobody near this place, and she had been in and out of the house enough times this day, exploring every nook and cranny, to know that nobody except herself occupied it.

            Shrugging off the incident, she carried the last of her belongings into the house, up the flight of stairs and into her soon‑to‑be art studio.  Her easel occupied one of the corners on the eastside, the picture window welcoming the early afternoon sun.

            After setting the box on the floor, she stood upright, brushing her damp bangs off her forehead with the back of her hand.  Looking around the nearly empty room, she smiled.  The lighting in here was perfect.  She'd have many hours of painting pleasure—if the inspiration ever crept up on her again.

            Looking down at the dusty crate containing her painting supplies, she sighed, certain this beautiful house could work miracles. 

            Though she knew it was crazy to feel so passionate over a structure of wood and stone, the house literally throbbed with positive energy.  Its open airiness was a stark contrast from the dark and stuffy one bedroom condo she and Rex had lived in for the past seven years.  His black demeanor had been imprinted in every corner.  But now she was free, and she was making this home hers.

            She had fallen in love with it the moment she saw it two months ago.  Situated right on the Pacific's doorstep, she was surprised the price had been so reasonable.  For a house of this size and such a prime location she had expected to pay three times as much, yet the realtor seemed happy to get it off her hands, saying it had been on the market for over four years. 

            Paige supposed it was because the previous owner had died in it, but she didn’t care.  She knew all too well that it wasn’t the dead who could hurt you, but the living. 

            Besides, her bank account was dwindling swiftly; she simply couldn't afford to be anxious or superstitious.            

            Pulling open the flaps on one of the cardboard boxes sitting at her feet, she reached in and gently lifted out a small newspaper wrapped figurine.  Carefully unraveling the object, her most prized possession lay in her hands: A six-inch pewter wizard holding a multifaceted crystal ball in the palms of his tiny hands.

            She had purchased it at the Los Angeles County fair when she was just sixteen.  It held a special place in her heart and always had a special place in her homes.

            Walking over to the eastern window, she placed the statuette on the sill.  As expected, the sunlight struck the crystal ball, sending a thousand miniature rainbows all over the room and on her.  The ceiling, walls and floor were sprinkled with prisms of festive light.  Paige heard a soft sigh echo around her, as if the house itself was pleased with the cheery effect.

            She smiled wistfully.  This was the only bit of fantasy she allowed herself.  The wizard and the crystal figurines still wrapped in the box on the floor.  She cherished them as dearly as a piece of her soul.

            Wiping the dust off her palms and onto her jean clad thighs, she went back to work at emptying boxes. 

             

* * * *

            Ian stood near the kitchen counter, arms folded over his chest, watching on as Paige went about making dinner; green salad and cold, fried chicken.  Pretty paltry fare, he mused, trying to recall the taste of chicken, or any other food for that matter, but came up blank.  How he missed eating.  Not that he needed to anymore, but even liver would taste good right about now—and he did remember he'd hated the shit.

            He inhaled deeply, but chicken from the icebox and lettuce leaves didn't give off any appealing aroma he could detect.  Quickly finding himself disgruntled at Paige's poor excuse for a meal, he shifted mental gears and let another topic occupy his mind and time.

            Paige Stanfield. 

            He had read her name on a piece of mail sitting on the coffee table the other day.  He rather liked the name.  It was simple and unadorned, just as he found her to be.  She wasn't really his type, though.  The women he used to go out with spent as much time on their appearance as they did with him—a couple of hours.  Any longer and he was bored, itching to move on.

            He let his appreciative gaze roam over the woman two feet away and felt a familiar heat start to spread throughout him as he visually took her in.  He guessed her to be about five‑foot‑seven, around his age, and maybe a hundred‑and‑thirty pounds—give or take.  She always wore clothes two‑sizes‑too‑big.  He often found himself fantasizing about what she looked like beneath them. 

            In the two weeks she’d lived here, he had seen her hair loose and flowing about her shoulders on only two occasions.  It had been early in the morning as she stumbled downstairs to make a pot of coffee.  He'd caught himself observing her longer than usual those times; all sleep warm and drowsy and sexy as sin.  Those were the few brief moments, before the reality of her life set in, when Ian saw her at ease.  Most of the time her cinnamon eyes held a loneliness to them that was palpable, one he thought about quite often.     

            Ian felt a tug in the area of his heart.  Had she lost someone dear to her?  A husband perhaps?  A child?

            Maybe he’d never know.

            He then wondered why he was wondering at all.  After all, what could he do about it?

            An inaudible breath seeped from his lungs, lodging in his throat as he caught sight of her bending over to retrieve a paper napkin from the floor.  Her loose V-neck T-shirt did nothing to hide the fact that she'd declined to wear a bra today—obviously a temperature factor. 

            Luckily, weather and temperature had no bearing on him, aside from his internal lust thermometer that Paige seemed to be causing to rise into the triple digits.

            Her breasts would fit perfectly in the palms of his hands, he mused.  Her nipples were large and firm.  He imagined what they would taste like if he sucked on them.  How they'd feel in his mouth as he licked each one in turn. 

            Fantasizing.  He laughed at himself.  Look at him behaving like some overly hormonal kid where he could look all he wanted but couldn't touch. 

            For the thousandth time Ian found himself resentful at being a spirit.  It was boring as hell.  While alive he'd always been busy.  Now, all he ever did was think, and Paige was reminding him of his lost physical self with great urgency.

            Being a ghost was a bit like having a leg amputated; the appendage is gone, but still feels as real as it had when it was intact.  So, too, was his existence.  In reality he was devoid of anything but his mind, soul and memory, yet he still had cravings, longings, feelings, just as he'd had when he'd been alive and in a physical body.  He could clearly feel an erection coming on, could feel the insistent throbbing, yet knew it was purely a residual memory and nothing more.  And it was frustrating as hell!

            The phone on the wall by his side rang, bringing him out of his thoughts.  Paige abandoned her task of preparing dinner and walked over to where Ian stood.  If she had continued in her straight path, she would have passed right through him, but she stopped, tilted her head to one side and frowned as if she detected something unseen in her way, and walked around him. 

            Ian felt his phantom heart jolt.  She could sense his presence!    

            Paige answered on the second ring.  "Marge?  How are you doing?"  Her face lit up, but faltered, melting into a grim mask.  "When did you see him?"  She sounded afraid, yet resigned.  "Does he know I'm up here only a half hour's drive from your place?  Good.  That's why I chose this secluded area.  I didn't like our last confrontation before the divorce."  Ian listened as she changed the subject and tried to get into it, but her body stayed tense.  She made an attempt at small talk for five more minutes then said goodbye.

            When she hung up Ian could see her trembling as she slumped into a chair before the small dinette table.  From the one sided conversation he'd heard, Paige was divorced and hiding out from her ex.  What kind of monster was he?  He wondered, feeling a sense of protectiveness race through him.

            Paige covered her mouth with a slim hand and let out a few nervous giggles.  He wondered if the guy was planning on showing up some day.  Would there be a confrontation?  A fight?  Who would protect her?  Surely not himself.  He was a spirit, after all. 

            After Paige picked at her food for ten minutes, she tossed the remains in the garbage, rinsed the few dishes she'd used then went upstairs, Ian following suit.  He didn't go for levitation or wall penetration, so he climbed the stairs as he always had, his admiring gaze plastered to Paige's luscious rear every step of the way. 

            If only he could find a way to reach out and help her.

            True, he couldn't have her, but why couldn't he do something to help this woman?  For half a decade he'd rambled around his house experimenting with newfound powers, waiting to fulfill some unknown destiny.  He'd thought Paige would have brought him some answers, but he was more confused than ever.             

            He watched as she went into the master bathroom and started running a bath.  He then turned around and left, resisting the urge to watch her undress.  He'd never been a voyeur in the past and figured if he acquired the habit now it would just get him all hot and bothered and with no way to relieve the tension.

            Going to Paige's painting room—his ex‑bedroom—he planted himself on a wooden crate, trying to think of some way to help her … and himself.

* * * *  

            At a quarter past ten Paige climbed between the cool sheets of her bed.  She was exhausted, more mentally than actually physically, but refused to ponder the what‑ifs and why of Rex being seen around town.             

            As she drifted off, somewhere in the haze of semi consciousness, she felt a gentle, masculine hand caress her cheek.  A soft breath whispered her name against her forehead, and she detected a hint of cologne that filled her with sleepy desire.  Mentally she reached out to grasp the soothing feelings.

            Soon the sensations vanished and she sighed with yearning, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

            An hour later the phone on the night table rang, jolting her out of the best slumber she'd had in years.  Her mind foggy, she reached out in the darkness and found the receiver, bringing it to her ear as her head still lay upon one down-filled pillow.

            "Hello?"  No answer came.  All she could hear was breathing; slow, even, deep.

            Frowning, she looked at the phone before holding it to her ear once more.  "Hello?" she said a little louder, preparing to hang up when no answer came for the second time.        

            "Did you think you could get away from me, Paige?"  A low, slurred voice she recognized all too well snaked its way through the telephone line and coiled around her neck, nearly suffocating her.

            "Rex!"  She sucked in a quick breath, sitting upright, eyes darting around the dark room as if he stood in the shadows waiting to attack.  Had he found her?  Was he coming back to make good on his promise of till death do us part?

            "Were you expecting somebody else, darling?"  He gave a rough snort.  "Surely you're not seeing another man behind my back?"

            Paige quickly gathered her senses.  There was no way he could hurt her over the telephone.  Reaping strength from the knowledge, she sat up a little straighter and switched on the lamp by her side.  "Even if I was seeing another man, it's none of your business.  We're divorced, Rex.  We had no further ties as of six months ago.  Longer than that if you want my opinion."

            "I'll get you back.  You'll be mine again someday."  A low, animal like growl followed a short, bitter laugh.  "You took everything away from me.  Everything I worked so hard for."

            Paige sighed deeply, knowing she should just hang up and be done with it.  Rex was always a man of much talk and little action.  Even while they had been married, his abuse had come in the form of mental and verbal anguish, not once had he laid a hand on her.  Still, it sent shivers up her spine knowing he had her phone number.  She would call the phone company come morning and have it changed.  Maybe she’d just stick to using her cell. 

            "The only things I took when I left you were the clothes on my back and the Toyota."  She also received a couple hundred thousand after the divorce, but that was it.  She had even refused alimony payments.  All she'd wanted was enough money to start her life over.

            "You're forgetting yourself, my sweet."  He then whispered roughly, "You ... are ... mine."

            "No," she said firmly, as if trying to make a child understand.

            She heard the deep breathing again.  "I'll be back.  When you least expect it.  When your guard is down and you think I've forgotten, you'll turn around and I'll be there.  And next time … you won't get away."  He laughed darkly then hung up.

            For several minutes Paige sat there with the phone gripped so tightly all blood supply was cut off to her fingers, leaving them cold, her heart hammering in all five digits.  Her eyes saw nothing as she stared across the room wondering if Rex would make good on the promise.  He couldn't possibly know where she lived.  It was rare when she left her home and traveled into the city.  Marge would never tell him.  But he had found her phone number.  It would only be a matter of time before he found her.

            A voice in her head told her to run, to get away while she could, to find safe haven in another city, perhaps another state.  Fly all the way to the moon in a paper airplane if she had to, anything to avoid confronting Rex again.

            In the next heartbeat a determined breath seeped from her lungs.  No.  She was through with running.  For three months after she'd first left him, she had lived out of motels, praying he would never find her.  Afraid to look in back of her for fear he would be standing there, tall and angry and ready to drag her back with him.  No more.  She was here to stay.

            She would do all she could to avoid Rex, but if a confrontation ever arose, so be it—although she didn't want to think of the outcome. 

            The dial tone of the phone brought her out of her musings.  With a shaky hand she placed it back in the cradle, unplugging it so she wouldn't be subjected to any more of Rex's nocturnal calls. 

            Knowing she would never be able to sleep, she rose to unsteady legs and slipped on her lavender chenille robe.  Going downstairs, she brewed a cup of passion flower tea, hoping to get the strong, metallic taste of fear from her mouth and chase away the chill seeping in to her bones.