GHOST OF A CHANCE Read online

  With yet another deep yawn, she leaned back on her elbows and let her heavy eyelids drift shut. Most men wouldn't kick her out of bed, but she didn't ever have to worry about being mistaken for a sex symbol. The very idea made her chuckle. Still, tonight she felt … attractive.

  She lifted her lids for a moment and watched a flirtatious smile spread across her face in the mirror. Hmm. Maybe there was a cute bartender in the village who'd invite her to dinner and a movie, or a hunky docent at the museum, or—

  Suddenly she was staring right into the reflection of a pair of black, seductive eyes. Well, one eye—the other being covered by a black leather patch. But all the more alluring for that.

  It was also an eye that knew exactly what she was thinking.

  With a loud gasp, she whirled.

  A man lounged against the bed's headboard, watching her.

  A really, really handsome man.

  Dressed as a pirate.

  Oh, Lord. Did fantasies actually come true?

  She blinked once, then again for good measure. Yeah, right. Stuff like this didn't happen. Not to her.

  "Who are you?" she demanded, leaping to her feet. "And what the hell are you doing in my bed?"

  * * *

  She could see him.

  Tyree froze where he lay propped against the bed pillows. She wasn't supposed to be able to see him.

  "Well?" the woman demanded, taking a step backward. Hardly anyone could see him—one of the few real blessings of his benighted state. It was a one-in-ten-thousand occurrence. Not unheard of, but very rare.

  Devil take it. Once again his unruly hormones had landed him in an indefensible situation. He should have known better, spying on the woman just because she made his head spin with lust. He should be doing his best to scare the bejeezus out of her, not enjoying the sight of her stripping off her clothes.

  He had to get out of this. Fast.

  "If you don't tell me who you are and what you're doing in my bedroom, I'll call the police!"

  Tyree happened to know there was no phone in the bungalow. But maybe she had one of those cellular jobs. He grimaced. Police would be a disaster.

  He rolled off the bed, his mind reeling. And said the first thing that popped into it.

  "A dream."

  Her brows snapped together. "Excuse me?"

  "I'm a dream. More precisely, your dream."

  The woman's bow-shaped lips parted and her Caribbean-blue eyes widened.

  Speechless, thank God.

  He pressed his advantage by levitating several feet off the floor and allowing himself to drift through the solid mahogany bedpost. It took a bit of concentration under the circumstances, but achieved the desired effect. Her eyes widened even farther.

  "You see? A dream. A real person couldn't possibly do that, could they?"

  He drifted back. She just gaped.

  More than grateful for the undeserved reprieve, he touched down and eased toward the French doors. "But as you don't seem to be in the mood for a pirate dream, I'll just be—"

  "No!" she exclaimed, her voice cracking on the word. "I, um… You're really a dream?"

  Damn.

  "Aye, but I really mustn't—"

  She took a halting step toward him. "Please, stay."

  His mouth opened and shut like a beached halibut.

  Dear God, do not do this to me. Not again.

  "I am in the mood. Honest." She looked at him hopefully, her expression a portrait of virginal skittishness. "For a pirate dream," she added, as though assuring herself that's what this really was.

  Pure temptation of the sweetest variety warred with a century and a half of dogged determination. Lord have mercy on his wicked nature. This could only end badly. Especially for her.

  "I—I—I shouldn't," he finally forced himself to stammer. She took another step, bringing her tantalizing body to within inches of his. She was no classic beauty, but everything about her appealed to him. Long, shapely legs, a willowy form with enough generous curves to drive a man mad. Pretty face, soft, rosy lips just made for kissing. An impish sparkle in intelligent eyes. Just like Rosalind.

  He felt his resolve slip a notch.

  "Why not?" she asked.

  He backed away from the alluring scent of her, struggling to remember the thousands of reasons why not. But all he could think of was the desire swelling painfully in his—

  "Blast it, because … well—"

  "This is my dream. You said so, right?"

  Several more notches slipped away. "I, um, aye, I suppose I did—" Witless idea. What a blunder.

  "So, I get to decide what happens next, right?"

  "Ah. Not necessarily?"

  She moved closer. Put her hand on his sleeve. "Just a kiss. That's all I ask of you."

  It was his turn to swallow. Damnation. How could he resist such an innocent appeal? He was only human. "Just one?"

  Her lips parted slightly and she gave a nod.

  He lost the battle and reached up to touch her cheek. "What is your name, sweeting?"

  "Clara. Clara Fergussen," she whispered, then closed her eyes and tipped her face up to his expectantly.

  He should have run. Sprinted out the French doors and up to the main house, awakened Mrs. Yates and demanded she evict this tempting young morsel from his bed, from his property and from what was left of his pathetic existence on earth.

  Instead, with a sinking sense of awaiting fate, he took a deep breath, leaned down and pressed his lips softly to hers.

  As they came together, his whole body sighed in pleasure. So good. With a low groan, he gathered her to him, tunneled his fingers through her hair and put his arm around her waist. More than good. He'd forgotten how incredible a woman felt with her curves fitted to his.

  "Open," he murmured, and she did.

  The taste of her exploded through him, saturating his senses, filling him with a need that nearly brought him to his knees. Her soft breasts pillowed up against his chest; her hips leaned into his. His traitorous arousal gave a lurch of alacrity at the intimate contact. She moaned, and her body shuddered beneath his fingers.

  It had been so long. So very long.

  He couldn't help himself. He deepened the kiss. Pulled her tight. Reveled in the feel of the living, breathing woman cradled in his arms. She wound her wrists about his neck, clinging to him with a fervor that equaled his own. She returned his kisses, tangling her tongue with his, sweetly yielding to his growing ardor with soft mewls of surrender.

  This was too much to resist. Far too much.

  He growled and ripped her T-shirt over her head, tossing it aside. She gasped.

  He paused in his task of ridding himself of his own shirt. "I frighten you?"

  "No," she whispered, looking delectably terrified.

  "Shall I stop?"

  She shook her head. "No. I've always dreamed about, um, kissing a pirate."

  He dropped his shirt on a chair and gently drew her back into his arms. "Have you now."

  She nibbled on her lower lip. "Mm-hmm. It's been a sort of … fantasy of mine. For as long as I can remember."

  "A pirate fantasy, eh?"

  "Mm-hmm." Her eyes sparkled up at him, innocent and guileless.

  "And what happens in this fantasy?" he murmured, wanting to know every single detail so he could fulfill them all, and give her a dream she'd remember for the rest of her life.

  "I've always wondered what it would be like," she said in a low whisper that sent hot quivers up and down his body, "to be captured and ravished by Sullivan Fouquet."

  Tyree's head snapped back as though she'd smacked him. Indignation swept through his veins and he jerked away from her.

  Did the man have to steal everything? Every damned scrap? He drilled his fingers through his hair and swore roundly.

  Her jaw dropped at the virulence of his reaction. "What's wrong? What did I say?"

  "I am not," he ground out, "nor will I ever be, Sullivan Fouquet."

  She reached
for his hand. "Okay. That's fine. Who would you like to be instead?"

  His mouth compressed into a thin line. This had gone far enough. "Nobody. I'm afraid it's time for you to wake up."

  Before he had a chance to pull away, she wrapped her arms around him. "Not yet. Please?" She raised her lips so they were within a hair's breadth of his. "Don't you like kissing me?"

  She came closer. His arousal pressed into her and he saw stars. A rumbling moan squeezed from his throat. Not fair.

  "Aye," he murmured, hopelessly captured by her innocent seduction. "You know I do."

  Her cheeks reddened and she whispered, "Then don't go."

  He held her shivering body, buried his face in her hair, breathing deeply of her warm woman's scent.

  This was wrong. He knew it well. He was no dream, and though he knew no harm would come to her physically, if she were to find out the truth about him, what emotional toll would she pay?

  "Do you have any idea what you've gotten yourself into, Clara Fergussen?"

  Her head shook minutely. "No."

  He held her for a long moment, savoring the silken slide of her bare skin on his, the mingling moistness between their bodies, the thunder of her heart hammering his chest as she nestled against it. Giving her the chance to change her mind.

  But then her mouth found his, kissing away any thought of playing the gentleman. He was a pirate through and through, and God help this innocent maiden, for he would not stop save she begged him with her own tongue.

  She kissed him again and he let her. Encouraged her. Made sure her tongue was too busy to protest anything his hands might do.

  Her nipples tightened as he brushed his palms hungrily over her breasts, fingering the delicate lace edges of her bra. He'd seen such garments in advertisements, of course, but had never touched a real one before. Now was not the time to learn its art. He needed her under him.

  "Take it off," he softly ordered, tugging at the wisp of fabric. "I want you naked."

  Her fingers fumbled badly on the tiny hooks as he slid off her panties. But finally her body was bare.

  "Beautiful," he whispered, and for a second couldn't move. Neither a thousand pictures in a magazine nor a million images on film could ever capture the beauty of a living woman in the flesh. And it had been a century and a half since he'd beheld such a vision.

  She smiled shyly, and the figure that hovered at the fringes of his memory vanished.

  He kicked off his boots, peeled off his breeches and held out his arms.

  "Come to me, my sweet."

  She came into his embrace, warm and willing and all woman. He put his lips to hers, flicked his tongue across them and tasted her.

  He groaned and lifted her onto the bed, needing more. Much more. He laid her down, drinking in the sight of her. Letting the anticipation build within him that soon he would possess her, possess every part of her. He wanted it all. Every luscious inch and every wanton thought. He crawled above her and ran his hands over every enticing dip and curve of her satin body, until she moaned with need for him.

  "What shall I call you?" she whispered when he moved to cover her body with his. "If not Captain Fouquet, then who are you?"

  "The name's St. James," he answered, spreading her legs with a knee, holding himself just above her as he watched her reaction. Suddenly wanting her to understand exactly who she was giving herself to. "Captain Tyree St.

  James."

  Her eyes grew as big as saucers and she sucked in a breath of shock. "Tyree St. James? The Blackbeard of Magnolia Cove?"

  "One and the same."

  Slowly he trailed his fingers up her trembling body. When he found her wrists, he grasped them and brought them above her head. She whimpered but offered no resistance.

  "This is just a dream," she whispered. "It's not real."

  He slid a hand onto her breast, pinning her with his one-eyed gaze. "Dream or nightmare? Would you like me to leave, Clara Fergussen? Or shall I stay and play out this fantasy of yours?"

  "What will you do to me?" she timorously asked, her naked body burning under his.

  He caressed her breast, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the pebbled tip so her breath caught. And answered with a lazy wink, "Anything I want."

  She swallowed heavily, and met his steady gaze. "In that case," she said breathily, "I'd like to finish the dream."

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  Clara woke the next morning with a smile on her lips and a blush on her cheeks.

  What an incredible dream! Lord, have mercy. For being her own creation, it had certainly had been imaginative…

  She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see her dream pirate's indigo eyes glittering at her in sensual invitation. He was, of course, not there. But she'd swear she could still smell him on the sheets, on her skin. The bed was rumpled beyond repair, evidence of how embarrassingly realistic her dream had been. A wave of searing heat burned across her face just remembering the things she'd done last night with her amazing pirate captain.

  Tyree St. James!

  She couldn't believe it. What sort of dark, forbidden desires lurked in the hidden recesses of her subconscious, that when she finally dared to conjure up an erotic dream, it starred a demon like Tyree St. James instead of her own charming, romantic and comfortably distant ancestor? Best to blame it on the influence of the diary and not think about its meaning too closely.

  Though it felt like she hadn't slept more than an hour, she made herself slide out of bed, then let out a yelp when her thigh muscles protested—along with a few other muscles she'd never felt before. Must have been all the bending and stooping she'd done at the library yesterday afternoon. Surely it couldn't have been last night's dream that had produced such aches. That would be taking the fantasy a bit too far.

  But wasn't that exactly where St. James had taken her? Miles too far. Leagues too far. Light-years too far.

  And she had enjoyed every last millimeter of the journey. For once in her life, she'd lived out a dangerous fantasy, more foolish than anything she'd ever done—or ever in a million years would do—in real life.

  Lord, if a woman could have a dream like that every so often, she'd have little use for a real man. With any luck, this was the beginning of a long relationship with the sexy Captain St. James.

  Most people would be aghast at the thought of having a relationship with a dream. But for Clara, it made perfect sense. She had no time or inclination for the complications of getting involved with a flesh-and-blood man.

  She'd tried it a few times back in Kansas—having a real relationship—but she'd always felt pressured to conform to what her boyfriends and others perceived as the "proper" way for a woman to act in a couple—domestic, obedient, interested only in making her man's life easy and happy.

  There was nothing at all wrong with living like that, if one truly wanted to. Most of her friends did, and were happy as clams. But it wasn't for her.

  Clara wanted something different from her life. At least for the next few years. Which meant no ties or guilt trips imposed on her by a jealous or disapproving boyfriend. Later, when the time was right, she wanted starstruck, earthmoving romance—not to be a trophy on the arm of some underappreciative man.

  What she wanted was breathtaking, passionate love.

  Someday.

  But for now, she simply craved adventure, excitement and the freedom to experience the world to its fullest extent, in all its wonderful variety. Her hometown didn't grow men who'd go along with that kind of behavior from their women, at least not in her circle of acquaintances. Wives gallivanting off to Timbuktu was generally frowned upon, as were jobs that expected them to. Therefore, she'd avoided getting involved with any of the men she knew.

  But Captain Dreamboat might just be the perfect solution to the occasional loneliness she experienced living life solo. She only hoped he'd follow her home to Kansas when she had to leave Magnolia Cove.

  She headed for
the shower, ready to start her first full day of research for her article. In her mind, she tried to organize the day's activities, but the sensual caress of the warm water sliding over her body just reminded her of Tyree's melting touch.

  Suddenly, reading about Sullivan Fouquet lost some of its appeal. How had she ever thought him more interesting than the dark, mysterious Tyree St. James?

  What an enigma that man was. His evil reputation as a greedy, womanizing, murdering traitor just didn't mesh with the generous man who'd held her and loved her all through the night, making her feel as though she were the only woman in the world.

  Maybe she should write her article about him instead.

  It was completely insane and irrational, but she couldn't shake the idea that perhaps Tyree had gotten a bad rap in all the publicity against him.

  Of course, at this moment she was probably badly biased. Lord knew, she'd woken up half in love with the man.

  Get a grip, she told herself firmly. Totally irrational. He was just a dream. A manifestation of her own excessively romantic imagination—not based on any kind of sound research or historical investigation other than a few references in a diary. Naturally, she couldn't admit the object of her nocturnal indiscretions was a bad guy.

  A bad boy, yes. But not a bad man.

  Still, her conjured version of St. James had to be based on some deep inner instinct or unconscious knowledge about the real man and not purely fantasy.

  Didn't it?

  She knew she'd gone over the deep end when, instead of continuing with her work on the diary, she decided to return to the library and look into the legends about St. James. Especially those concerning his alleged betrayal of his partner and best friend, Sullivan Fouquet. It was the least she could do. Besides, if she found out something really interesting, it could only improve her article.

  At least that was what she told herself.

  After dressing, she headed for the main house and breakfast with Mrs. Yates. She smoothed her hands down her shorts and tried to look normal as she walked into the kitchen, but after one glance at her, Mrs. Yates paused in her preparations at the stove and remarked, "You look positively glowing, my dear! What happened to you last night?"