Chapter Two

Alice secured Marigold in her crate in the back of the old and battered minivan, then made her way through the midnight-painted streets of her adopted hometown. Savannah was beautiful in the moonlight, taking on the magical shadows of a city that embraced its haunted past, took pride in its golden present, and looked forward to a brilliant future.

Best of all, it held no painful memories for her.

She caught a flash of deeper shadow in the darkness along the edge of the street in her peripheral vision. Something—a furtive movement?—out of the ordinary that tickled the edge of her mind. Or maybe that was only the remnant of her encounter in the hotel.

She’d never seen a ghost that real before.

Usually they were more…hazy. Edges not clearly defined. Sort of wavery. Shimmery.

Some of them—the ones that had been dead the longest—were almost hard to see in certain light. There was a feeling of transparent impermanence to them, as if a strong breeze would blow them to wherever they should be going.

Which, in her opinion, was never:

In her house, or

In her rescue, scaring the animals, or, really,

Anywhere she happened to be.

The ability to “see dead people,” The Sixth Sense and Ghost to the contrary, was highly overrated. Anyone who looked like Patrick Swayze had never once appeared to her. Nobody sang the Ghostbusters theme song when she arrived.

Although, admittedly, she had hummed it to herself on occasion.

This man, though, and man he was, no matter if he’d been dead three weeks, as he claimed, or a hundred years, this man had sparked electricity—or magic—in her that had crackled and sizzled across her skin. His aura had been strange. Caught somewhere on the spectrum between the colors that formed human auras—or the colors she’d learned characterized human auras; the living were not her specialty—and the darker hues that comprised a ghost’s aura.

She’d caught her breath in surprise and a feeling harder to characterize than mere surprise when he’d put his arm around her, pulling her against his hard, muscular body.

His hard, muscular body.

His very much not ghostlike body.

And his eyes. They’d been so blue, and they’d shone as if lit from within, blazing as they stared down into her own.

She shrugged, trying to put it out of her mind. He’d show up for her office hours, or he wouldn’t. More than likely, she’d never see him again.

She wondered at the feeling of regret that pinched her chest at the thought. She’d only spent a few minutes in his company. It didn’t make sense that she’d care if she saw him again or not.

And yet…

She punched the radio on, determined to put the encounter out of her mind, and sang along with Billie Eilish for the rest of the short drive to the small property that held both her home and her pride and joy: the Little Darlings Rescue.

No more than a ten-minute drive due west from Savannah’s historic district, Little Darlings occupied a space on Kollock Street almost equidistant between two cemeteries.

Being a person who not only saw but also spoke to ghosts on a regular basis, Alice had no fear of either cemeteries or of their occupants. People were people, dead or alive, and although some of those she’d encountered had been nastier than others, she’d never met one who truly scared her.

Yet, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered.

But she dismissed that, too, since she was absolutely a person who could put unpleasantness out of her mind, after what she’d endured.

Unpleasantness, her mind jeered.

Okay, the Institute had been about more than unpleasantness.

But the word torture, even just whispered in her darkest memories, brought too much pain.

Someday she’d bring them down.

Someday.

But for now, she had animals to feed and care for. “Forever homes” to find for society’s most helpless creatures. In a little less than a year, Little Darlings and Alice herself had earned a reputation for having a way with the most desperate cases, and the rescue facility was at its maximum capacity.

She stopped at the curb to unlock the gate to the driveway—drunken tourists had the ability to show up in the strangest places, so locked gates were common in the city—and climbed into the van, feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She knew better than to ignore the feeling.

Someone or something was watching her.

“No ghosts until Wednesday at ten,” she called out. “I’ll see you in order of appearance then, okay? And I’ll help if I can. But right now, I need to work and get some sleep.”

She sighed, drove carefully into the driveway, and then jumped out and relocked the gate. If any of her neighbors were up, they’d think she was paranoid. Luckily, Savannah was filled with so-called “paranoid” people, and those who claimed to see ghosts, and even psychics and mediums, and charlatans and con artists. So, at best, they’d believe she had a gift. At worst, they’d think she was a con artist or in need of medical attention.

She’d dealt with far worse. In fact, she’d picked Savannah as her own forever home for exactly that reason. A city that made part of its living from ghost tours was just about the most welcoming place she could imagine.

And, even better, Savannahians loved their animals. Her rescue organization had benefitted from their love and benevolence from the first day it had opened.

She pulled up in front of her lovely home and parked in the driveway. The garage had long since donated its space to become a pet food and supply storage room, but it wasn’t like the ancient minivan would be harmed by Savannah’s mild weather.

The house wasn’t historic—it was around fifty years old, built on the foundation of a much older home that had been condemned and torn down—but it was lovely, and it was all hers. A modest life insurance policy she was sure her family had never known about, or they would have found a way to steal it, had paid its proceeds to her on her beloved great-aunt’s passing. It hadn’t been a huge amount of money, but it had been enough for a down payment, and a friendly banker with a love for animals had helped her get the loan.

Two stories of white-painted coziness with shutters that gleamed darkly now but shone bright blue in the sunshine. An interior that she was slowly but surely making her own with estate sale finds and small furnishings and decorations she built and sewed herself.

Things the Institute was good at: crafting classes and electroshock treatment.

Suddenly impatient with the uncharacteristic bitterness of her thoughts, she blew out a breath and climbed out of the van, slinging her tote bag onto her shoulder and heading for the back to retrieve Marigold, who’d chirped impatiently all the way from the hotel.

But when she rounded the back of the van, it was to discover that Marigold was no longer in her crate.

Or even in the van.

Instead, she was being held in the muscular arms of the man—ghost—from the hotel.

And the normally good-natured raccoon was hissing.

Alice froze and then forced herself forward. “What are you doing? Give her to me.”

He flashed a wickedly sensual smile that caused a ripple of sensation to wash through her, carrying an unexpected heat to every nerve ending in her body. She suddenly felt too hot, too breathless, too…alive.

“She clearly would prefer to be held by you,” he said easily. “I can’t say that I blame her.”

His blue eyes gleamed, glowing in the reflected brightness of the lantern lights affixed on either side of her front door. When he stepped toward her, she automatically took a step back. This man—this ghost—most definitely didn’t belong in her yard, holding her raccoon. He was…too much.

Too tall, too big, too intense, too gorgeous.

Her breath gave a funny little hitch in her throat.

He was beautiful.

Maybe her age? Late twenties? Or early thirties? Tall; he was easily six feet, maybe a couple of inches more. Broad shoulders angled down to a slim waist with no softness showing anywhere. And he had amazing bone structure. She suddenly wanted to dig out the paints she’d tried out a few times when she was enjoying her new freedom and try to capture the strength in his jaw, the sharpness of his high cheekbones, and the glow in his eyes. His face held a slight beard, as though he hadn’t shaved in the days before he’d died, and those long, dark lashes shaded not just his incredible eyes but the shadows beneath them. His dark hair was swept back from his forehead, as if he’d impatiently shoved it out of his way with one of the large, capable hands that currently held an armful of unhappy raccoon.

Marigold hissed again, snapping Alice out of her trance, and she edged forward, took the angry creature, and stumbled back and away from her unexpected visitor. She swallowed, hard, and tried to regain control of the situation.

The only way to deal with ghosts was to take the reins at the very beginning of each encounter. She thought she’d done this at the hotel, but she’d been caught off guard by the man’s—the ghost’s—aliveness. She’d encountered ghosts who could manipulate objects before, of course, but nothing like this.

“Listen. I—” The amusement in his gaze threw her off, and she forgot what she’d been about to say. So, she asked a basic question to give herself time to regroup. “What is your name? I can’t keep thinking of you as ‘that man’ or ‘that ghost.’”

His devilish smile flashed again. “I like that you keep thinking of me.”

“That’s not what I meant! I just—I actually—Oh! Good night!”

What was she doing? The simplest and quickest way to remove herself from the situation was to do just that. She backed away until she was on the other side of the van, and then she ran for the porch, holding a trembling Marigold tightly. When she glanced back, afraid the stranger would be right behind her, he was gone.

“Well, that’s better, isn’t it?” She kissed the top of Marigold’s silky head as she slowed to take the steps to the porch. “I guess he can take a hint, at least.”

The deep voice that answered her was husky with suppressed laughter. “Sadly, no. I’m terrible at hints. Perhaps you should be more direct.”

She looked up just in time to avoid running him down, but not in time to stop herself from plowing right into him. He caught her with those strong hands on her arms and pulled her closer, Marigold between them.

Instead of struggling, though, Alice opened her senses—the ones that comprised what she thought of in her more fanciful moments as her Third Eye—completely, reaching for that icy sense of connection that always opened between her and the ghosts. If he wouldn’t leave, she at least needed to get a more comprehensive understanding of what kind of ghost she was dealing with; then she could determine how to make him go away.

Her gift, once a flickering sense of the “other,” and then, later, a more fully-fleshed-out recognition of the dead, now responded easily and quickly to her call. She stayed right where she was, trying to ignore the strength of his arms around her, trying not to surrender to the impulse to inhale as deeply as possible his wonderful scent of pine and soap and man, and closed her eyes to allow her senses to reach out for that connection to his essence—to what she thought of as the remnant of humanity that sometimes remained after a person died.

Only for her eyes to snap open again when there was no connection. No essence for her to touch, because this man, odd aura or not, was very much alive.

“You’re not a ghost! You’re not even dead!”

The smile still played around the edges of his sensual lips but faded from his eyes. “That’s a matter of some debate, apparently.”

Alice realized she still stood in the circle of his arms and shoved at his hard, muscled chest with one hand. “Get back! I have…I have pepper spray! And an attack raccoon!”

He released her and raised his hands, palms out, and took a step back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I don’t believe you. You followed me to my home. I read books. I know that’s a classic warning sign of a dangerous man. You might be a serial killer, for all I know.”

Those fey eyes seemed to glow with blue flames. “I am no danger to you. I swear it.”

A shiver of awareness at the electrically charged sound of his voice raced down her spine. There was something almost hypnotic about him, and she found herself nodding.

Of course, he was no danger to her. He’d sworn it. In fact, he…

He…

What?

“No!” She shook her head hard, trying to dispel the compulsion she’d been falling into. “What is that? Were you trying to hypnotize me? Do you think that makes you feel like less of a danger? Now, I’m going to call 911, when before I would have just asked you to leave.”

She lifted Marigold to one shoulder and dug inside her bag, searching for her phone.

“Damn. Well, it was worth a try,” he said, raising one shoulder in a casual shrug. “I guess I’m not good enough at this vampire stuff yet. Maybe we could just talk? I find that I’d really, really like to get to know you. And my name is Hunter Evans.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she said automatically, before realizing what an absolutely untrue statement it was. She was not pleased to meet him. He’d invaded her space, tried to hypnotize her, and, and, and…manhandled her raccoon. She was not—

Wait.

“This vampire stuff?” She blinked, captivated by the sudden stillness with which he held himself. It was as if his body had tensed in a fierce readiness; a predator focusing his entire concentration on her. A shiver raced through her at the gleam in his eyes, and she had the overwhelming urge to run fast and far and hide away from this dangerous man.

But she was nobody’s prey. Never again.

“So,” she began gently, changing tactics. “Mr. Evans. You think you’re a vampire. I was sure you were a ghost, but, well, that doesn’t matter. The truth is you’re just a man, and I was tired and confused. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. If you’ll just leave now, no harm, no foul, and—”

He leaned against one of the wooden pillars on the porch, and she could tell he was deliberately attempting to appear nonthreatening, which only made her more wary. He wore a dark, long-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and boots, all of which should have made him seem ordinary, but instead only highlighted his dark, deadly beauty.

If fallen angels tried to look like normal humans, they would look like Hunter Evans.

“Call me Hunter, Alice. But first, tell me I can come back tomorrow, and I’ll go.”

She considered the request. Her instincts shouted at her to say no, but common sense said she could take precautions by tomorrow. Right now, she was vulnerable and in danger. If he’d agree to go, she was better off consenting to his request.

“Fine. You can come back tomorrow. During our normal hours of operation. Ten to six.”

“Thank you, Alice.” His eyes narrowed in lazy speculation. “Now invite me into your home.”

“What? No! You said you’d go!” She took a step back, and then another. “Please, just go.”

“Invite me in.”

A curious warmth settled on her shoulders, relaxing them. Yes, she should invite him in; why would she refuse? He was her guest, he was…

No.

No.

“No!”

“Alice,” he said, her name a sensual caress in his whiskey-rough voice. He took a step toward her, that startling blue gaze hot and fixed on her face, but then he slowly blinked and an odd expression crossed his face. “All right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’ll leave.”

Before she could respond, he leapt off the porch, bypassing the steps entirely, and then turned to take a long, last look at her. “But I’ll be back. I can’t make it during your official office hours. I’m sorry. Will tomorrow evening be acceptable?”

“I—what? Why?”

He glanced at Marigold, then flashed a totally unexpected and boyish grin. “To adopt an animal, of course. Isn’t that why you’re here? I bet Bram Stoker would love a raccoon to play with.”

“I—what?”

“Good night, Alice Darlington. Thank you for making this the most memorable evening of my new life.”

Before she could respond to that, he was gone, and she was left staring after him at nothing but shadows.