Sacramento California, present day
"You have two minutes to come rescue me before I scream."
What in the... Nicholas Marshal tightened his grip on the cell phone, bringing it closer to his ear. He moved away from the window overlooking Capitol Street—one of the busiest thoroughfares—as the street was clogged with traffic, making it difficult for him to hear the caller. In the distance, thunder boomed as if trying to compete with the honks and roars of car engines from outside. The ominous weather soured his mood almost as much as the crazy woman on the phone.
He scowled. Who could possibly be calling him on the first day of his new law practice and say something like that? Perhaps it was a prank.
"I think you have the wrong number," he snapped.
"Nick, I mean it. I need your help. Now!"
It only took him a second before he recognized the voice. "Vanessa? Is that you?"
"Of course it is! Who else would be calling you in a panic this early in the morning?"
What she said was true, but he still wondered why she was up at eight o'clock in the morning to begin with. Thankfully, the call wasn't a reporter from one of the tabloid magazines that had been hounding him for the past six months. After refusing an interview for so long, he hoped they had given up on him.
"What are you up to now, Vanessa?"
Another grumble came from the other end. "Nick, I don't think we have time for small talk right now. Although, I'm glad you recognized my voice, how did you know it was me?"
"Because I've only been back in town one week, and you're the only woman I know with the canine senses to track me down so quickly."
She released a horrific gasp. "Are you calling me a dog?"
He held back a laugh. Vanessa was anything but a dog; in fact, she'd always been a perfect 10...at least in the physical sense. However, her personality was a different matter. "No. It just means you can track me down no matter where I go."
Nick grabbed the chilled bottle of water off his desk and took a long drink. He wasn't kidding, either. He and Vanessa had dated over five years ago, but they remained friends, and she always knew where he was and what he was doing.
"So, Vanessa, what do you need?" He sat behind his desk and leaned his elbows on the oak top.
"I'm in the elevator down the hall from your office, and I'm stuck."
He nearly choked on his water. "Stuck? How did you accomplish that?"
"Well, if you'll stop yakking for a minute and come to the elevator, you'll see."
Chuckling, Nick set down the bottle of water, pushed away from his desk, and hurried out of his office. "All right, I'm coming." He ended the call and slid his cell phone into the pocket of his suit jacket.
Finding out Vanessa was in town explained why things were already going wrong. This past week disaster after disaster happened in the old building, worrying him that he might not reach his goal in opening his doors the day he had advertised to be open for business. If it wasn't the air conditioner breaking down, it was the water leak in the bathroom that threatened to ruin the new carpet inside his office.
Now another disaster was here...Vanessa Westland. Her arrival only meant mayhem. He didn't expect clients to be lined up at the door on the first day he opened to the public—not yet—but he definitely had a bad feeling about his ex-girlfriend scaring off any clients if they did happen to arrive, seeking his services.
As Nick strode down the hallway, his shoes clipped on the hardwood floor the building owner had newly-installed a month ago. Other offices along the way had not been rented yet, and the lack of people in the hallway made his footsteps echo.
When he neared the elevator, Vanessa's grumbling alerted him of her presence. She stood between the opened doors, bracing each one with a hand, as she wiggled her spiked heel, which was caught on the doors' tracks. Holding back a laugh, he shook his head.
She raised her gaze and looked at him. "My hero." She batted her long, fake eyelashes at him and pouted her heavily glossed lips. The swimsuit model knew how to make men weak in the knees. Thankfully, Nick was immune to her charm now. It had been an adventure dating her, but it didn't take him long to realize how selfish she was.
"I'm so glad you're here. I can't get my heel out of the wedge."
He arched an eyebrow. "You can't bend over and take it out?"
"Of course not." She rolled her eyes. "If I let go of the doors, they close on me and it hurts." Proving her theory, she let her hands drop away from the doors and they started to close.
He reached out, stopping one. "Point taken. You can resume your position."
Nodding, she braced her hands back on the doors.
"Do you know," he knelt in front of her and reached for her ankle, "if you wouldn't wear such spiky high heels all the time, this wouldn't happen?"
She giggled. "Oh, Nicky, you know I only want to look good for you."
He carefully loosened the heel from the doors' tracks so her shoe wouldn't break.
She smiled. "I think you enjoy rescuing damsels in distress."
Silently, he agreed with her. Perhaps that was his biggest weakness. If he could only stay away from damsels in distress, his life would turn out better. It seemed lately that his life had taken on a catastrophic pattern, like one car wreck after another.
When he stood, Vanessa wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss on the lips. Nick pulled away, knowing all too well what she really wanted. The last thing he needed was his ex-girlfriend plaguing him while he rebuilt his reputation and finished scraping the tattered pieces of his life back together. Especially now, establishing himself as a top-notch lawyer took priority over everything. Allowing Vanessa into his life again would no doubt put a swift and painful death to his career.
Flashbacks of his previous humiliation plastered across the front page of the tabloids passed through his mind. Scandal rocks Hollywood. Renowned Hollywood attorney, Nicholas Marshal, fired from the case of the century because of his illicit affair with client. Never again would he go down that road.
"You really are a hero, Nicky," she purred; the sound seductive.
Nick withdrew and shook his head. "I didn't do that much, Nessa. Any man would have helped you."
"Do you see any other man around?" Vanessa laughed and hooked her arm around his elbow. "So, are you going to show me your new office, now?"
"Sure." He led the way, back down one hall before turning down another.
In the back of his mind he wondered how she'd found him. Confusion filled his head, threatening to suffocate him if he didn't discover answers soon. "So, how did you know I was here? And how did you know my new phone number? It's a private number."
She stroked his arm as she continued to hang on him. "You forget, darling Nicky, my father owns Capitol One Associates, this very building where you chose to set up your office...and he owns pretty much the whole block along with it."
Nick suppressed a grimace. How could he have forgotten such a vital piece of information? "You're right."
Back when Nick was dating Vanessa, her father had approved of them as a couple. Nick was relieved to know the businessman held no harsh feelings for him now that he and Vanessa weren't dating. Of course, Nick now wondered if the only reason he obtained an office here in this building was because of Vanessa.
"Oh, Nicky. I have a crazy idea." She clutched his arm tighter. "Why don't you hang up the "CLOSED" sign, and we can hit the town and spend time together, just like we used to do."
Releasing his breath slowly, Nick tried to calm the irritation slowly rising inside of him. "Vanessa, it's my first day on the job. I can't close up."
"I don't see any customers yet."
"Not yet, but they'll come. I've been advertising this for a few weeks. It would be irresponsible of me to close the doors on the very day I'm open."
She turned the full force of her practiced pout on him. "What's happened to you, Nicky? You used to be so spontaneous and fun."
"Life's cruel lessons have changed me."
She leaned her head on his arm. "Yeah, I read about what happened when you represented Leslie Blake, the Hollywood producer's wife, in their divorce." She shook her head. "I don't think there was a single person in the United States that hadn't heard about that scandal."
Nick shrugged off her arm and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Thanks for reminding me. Vanessa certainly knew how to rub vinegar in his open wound. "Don't believe everything you read in the tabloids."
"How can I not? Especially when I know you, Nicky. I just can't believe you got caught with Leslie Blake."
His irritation grew by leaps and he clenched his jaw to keep from saying anything he might regret later.
"Oh, look...here's your office." She touched the frosted glass and ran her fingers across his name printed in bold black letters on the door's window. She glanced over her shoulder at him, grinning. "I'm so proud of you for starting your own firm. A lot of men would have crumbled if they went through what you had."
A slight ache pounded behind his eyes. How he hated stress...and her words were not comforting in the least. "Then I must be a lot stronger than they are."
She turned the doorknob and walked ahead of him into his office. He followed behind, and the moment he stepped in, she spun and grasped the lapels of his suit coat and shoved him against the wall, pressing herself next to him. Using her black stilettos, she kicked the door closed. She wrapped her fingers around his tie and gazed into his eyes, seductively. "Nicky, do you know how much I've missed you?"
She leaned up to plant a kiss on his lips, but he refused to accept it. "Stop it, Vanessa. I've got to get to work."
A deep frown marred her face. "Dinner tonight, then?"
"Can't. I'm busy."
"No, you're not." She scowled. "You're trying to avoid me."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Do I need to remind you that my father owns this building?"
He tilted his head as he narrowed his gaze on her. "Vanessa, dear, that almost sounds like a threat, and I don't surrender to them."
"I'm not threatening you. But whether you know this or not, I was the one who made it possible for you to get an office in my father's building."
"What are you talking about?" His hopes sunk. He didn't need to hear what she had to say. He already knew why.
"My father was going to refuse your lease application because of your public fall from grace. He wasn't sure he wanted someone with a scandalous reputation renting from him, but I convinced him to give you a second chance."
Nick bunched his hands into fists and tried to hold in his frustration. Why couldn't people forget the past? Now he felt obligated to take Vanessa out on a date. He probably owed her dinner, but nothing more. "Okay, we'll go out, but not tonight. How about tomorrow night? I'll pick you up at seven o'clock."
She lifted on tiptoes to kiss him again, but he turned his face so her lips grazed his cheek. She pulled back and glared.
"I hope you're in a better mood tomorrow night," she snapped before walking out the door and slamming it behind her. The sound of her high heels pounding on the hardwood floor of the hall echoed loudly.
Nick exhaled a relieved sigh, and then closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Leave it to Vanessa to make the dead aware of her departure. Thankfully, he didn't have close neighbors in the building.
"Excuse me if I'm intruding."
Another feminine voice broke his concentration, and he swung around. A woman rose from the brown leather chair in front of his desk. Confused, Nick glanced from the woman to the closed office door and back again. When did she get here? His face heated from embarrassment. She must have been in the office waiting for him when he'd arrived with Vanessa. But why hadn't he noticed her until now?
Not believing his eyes, he blinked and ran his gaze over the strange woman again. She definitely didn't look like a model from a style magazine, like Vanessa did. Instead this woman looked as if she had stepped off the set of a motion picture from the early 1900s—or a historic magazine.
His visitor smoothed a hand down the side of her ankle-length dark brown skirt decorated with entirely too much lace. Her silk blouse was the darkest purple he'd ever seen, and the color brought out her amazing eyes. Her clothes contoured her body nicely yet were modest, especially in this day and age. Her dark brunette hair was swept up beneath a flat purple hat decorated with an outlandish matching bow-shaped flower in front. White-laced gloves encased her slender hands, adding to the olden-day glamor style. Even her proper posture spoke of an old-time society dame. Yet her smooth, youthful face told him she wasn't old at all—probably somewhere in her mid-twenties. And her eyes... He'd never seen such intriguing chocolate brown eyes before.
The oddly dressed lady cleared her throat and stepped closer. "Forgive me for interrupting."
Despite the musical lilt to her voice, the trace of British intonation brought to mind the high-and-mighty aristocrats Nick had rubbed elbows with at his last firm. With quick fingers, he straightened his tie and came forward. "Uh, no, ma'am. You didn't interrupt anything important. I'm sorry you had to witness that, um, display just now."
Her lips remained stretched in a thin line and he couldn't quite tell if she was irritated at him—and at the situation—or not.
"Are you Mr. Nicholas Marshal?" she asked in a choked voice, almost as if she was holding her breath.
He maintained a professional smile, but after what she'd caught him doing, it was hard not to feel like digging a hole and sticking his head inside...then covering it up. Maybe Vanessa set out to sabotage his first day in a new town after all.
"Yes, I'm Nick."
"The solicitor?"
Solicitor? Who uses that term anymore? "I'm a lawyer, yes. And you are..."
She took another step toward him. "I'm Abigail Carlisle."
He approached to shake her hand, but when her eyes widened and her face paled, he stopped. Maybe she had some kind of phobia of germs and didn't want to get close to people. He could respect that. "Nice to meet you, Miss Carlisle...or is it Mrs?"
"I'm not married."
"All right then, Miss Carlisle, are you seeking my services?"
Her brilliant chocolate eyes flashed, and color crept into her cheeks. "I'm seeking your professional—I mean your services as a solicitor."
He tried not to grin over what he supposed she'd misinterpreted. Curse Vanessa's hide for making me look this bad! Unfortunately, he still felt the need to clarify what really happened with Vanessa so Miss Carlisle didn't think badly of him.
Nick motioned toward the chair. "Please, then, have a seat." He straightened his suit jacket as he walked around the desk to his chair. "I want to apologize again for that scene a few minutes ago. She was an unexpected visitor. We haven't seen each other in a little while, and—" Good grief, I'm stammering! Just shut up, already!
"No need to explain, Mr. Marshal." She arched an eyebrow. "I understand perfectly."
As she sat, he slid his chair closer to the desk. "I'm surprised I didn't see you," he said. "I can't remember passing you in the hall."
Her expression remained solemn, and he dropped his gaze to the delicate shape of her mouth. This woman was definitely a looker, although so different than Vanessa. He returned his attention to her eyes. They were such an amazing color—such a brilliant brown—and he wanted to stare into them forever. He wanted to get to know her, and...
Back to reality, Nick, he told himself silently. Clients are off limits! Period. Hadn't he learned his lesson from the last client he dated? He definitely could not go down that path again.
She cleared her throat. "Mr. Marshal, you didn't see me because going unnoticed is something I have become accustomed to as of late."
Unnoticed? Not dressed like that. Once more he took in Miss Carlisle's garb. The woman would definitely stand out in any crowd. And that beautiful face...her gorgeous looks could stop traffic. Even old men at a nursing home would straighten up and pay attention if she walked by.
He opened the drawer, took out his mini voice-recorder, and pressed the on button. "I hope you don't mind, but I always record my sessions."
"That is permissible."
"What can I do for you, Miss Carlisle?"
Her stiff, aloof behavior pricked Nick's curiosity. In an attempt to draw her out, he flashed his most charming smile. She did not so much as bat an eyelash in return. It stung his ego just a bit, since women usually melted beneath that smile. Nonetheless, he wasn't here to make her weak in the knees but to gain her trust and represent her.
She repositioned herself on the chair, pulling her shoulders back primly as she faced him. "I have searched a long time to find you. You are the only person who can help me."
What an odd thing to say. The urgency in her tone made him curious. It was in total contradiction to her outward, ice-queen appearance. "Really?" he asked. "Why do you think I'm the only person who can help?"
"I don't think, Mr. Marshal. I know."
Nick cocked a skeptical brow. "How do you know?"
A flash of hesitation, or perhaps embarrassment, skirted across her face. "My maternal grandmother," Miss Carlisle paused to draw a short breath, "told me that one day I would find the man who could help me."
Nick should be amused at the absurdity of her story, but instead the little she'd said so far—and the desperate pleading in her voice—intrigued him. "And she actually said my name?"
"Well, not exactly," Miss Carlisle replied, "but it was close enough. She gave the initials N.M., and she said you would be a solicitor."
"Solicitor? When you use that word, you are referring to an attorney?"
She shrugged, her head bobbing to the right. "They mean the same thing, do they not?"
Disturbing tingles crawled up his back, the sort of sixth-sense sensation one experiences while walking through a cemetery in the pitch dark of night or after a scary movie. Nick shook off the feeling. Was her grandmother some kind of fortune-teller? "So how do you know N.M. is me?"
"She was a gypsy—a spiritual woman in her day."
"All right, but how do you know I'm the man she had spoken about?"
Finally, a timid smile touched her mouth. "Because you are talking to me right now."
He shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand, Miss Carlisle."
She closed her eyes as though in pain. "I knew explaining my situation," she spoke the words carefully, as though testing its meaning, "would be difficult, but I'm at quite a loss for how to clarify myself."
"Please try, Miss Carlisle, because you have me confused. Why exactly do you need an attorn—er, a solicitor? And why do you believe I'm the man your grandmother spoke of?" More to the point, why are you dressed like someone from the Titanic? The last question would have to wait until he ascertained her reason for seeking him out.
Her breathing quickened as a touch of trepidation etched in her stony expression. "Mr. Marshal, the reason I know you're the man who can help is because you—you can..." She cleared her throat. "You can actually see me."
Nick stifled a chuckle. "Of course I can see you. You're sitting right in front of me."
"True, but your lady friend could not."
He silently cursed Vanessa again. "I don't think my friend was paying much attention at that moment."
"When she walked into the room first, she looked my way, but she didn't see me."
He flipped his hand. "I do apologize for that. Vanessa can be a little self-absorbed at times."
"No, you don't understand. The reason she couldn't see me is because, well..." Her brown eyes locked on his with something akin to fear shadowing their depths. It brought about a surge of protectiveness Nick was not entirely used to experiencing, especially with a woman he just barely met.
"I'm a ghost," she ended in a whisper.
Nick's jaw dropped. "Did you say...ghost?"
She nodded.
He scrutinized Miss Carlisle's solemn expression and decided there were only three possibilities. She was either telling the truth (not likely), completely and utterly insane (which he hoped not), or pulling some kind of joke on him.
Nick's mind settled on the third option. Vanessa had known exactly where and when to find him, which meant Steve and Travis must know, too. Nick had a sneaking suspicion this was his fraternity brother's way of welcoming him to his new life. Those jokesters!
Nick tapped a finger on the desk. His so-called friends had set him up royally, first with Vanessa, and now the ghost lady. He'd play along and see how far Miss Carlisle would take the joke.
He bit his lip to hold back his laughter, scratching his chin instead. "You think you're a ghost?"
"Yes, sir, I do."
Leaning back in his chair, he steepled his fingers against his lips. "Can you tell me why you think you're a ghost?"
Lips pursed, she stared at the ceiling and expelled a heavy sigh. "Mr. Marshal, I don't think I'm a ghost, I know it."
He nodded. "Go on." Now he sounded like a psychiatrist—just like the one he'd send his so-called friends to after this meeting concluded.
"I was murdered in 1912."
Nick clenched his jaw to stem the laughter building in his chest. She was one heck of an actress. Not once since she'd started talking had she cracked a smile. Her eyes didn't twitch with a hidden laugh; in fact, her azure gaze almost looked sad. He even felt sorry for her for half a second. "Who killed you?" he asked.
"I don't know, which is why I need your help."
Nick shook his head, hoping to put an end to the charade. "I'm a lawyer, Miss Carlisle, not a private investigator. Perhaps I could refer you to a good PI or agency."
"But you were a private investigator at one time."
He sobered. How did she know that? He hadn't done PI work in a good ten years, closer to eleven. Nick didn't think Steve and Travis even knew about it. "I don't do PI work any longer, Miss Carlisle. I'm a lawyer now."
"But you're the only one who can help me," she said with a hint of desperation.
He frowned. "You keep saying that. Is it because your grandmother said a man with the initials N.M. could help you?"
She nodded.
"Come now, Miss Carlisle, you must speak to ten different men a day with those initials. Sacramento is a large city with many attorneys, and there have to be several N.M.'s. Any one of them could be the man you're looking for."
"You're the only man with those initials that has been able to hear and see me."
The serious look on her face stole all humor from the moment—that and her knowledge of his past. Maybe she was a reporter with some newspaper, here to get a story. Wouldn't they ever leave him alone?
Nick's head throbbed, so he pinched the bridge of his nose and took in a deep breath. Miss Carlisle still sat in front of him, looking very proper. If she were from a newspaper wanting to do a story on him, would she have taken on the role of a 1912 dame? Probably not. So why was she here and dressed like that? Steve and Travis. It had to be them.
Enough was enough. Nick didn't know how his fraternity brothers knew, but it was time to end this and force her to confess. He slapped his hands on his desk, making the woman jump. "Listen, Miss Carlisle, I have to be honest with you. You look like a nice person, but you have to admit what you've told me is pretty unbelievable."
She frowned, and the spark of excitement in her eyes disappeared. "But I haven't even told you the whole story."
She was harder to break than he'd expected. He pushed away from his desk and walked to the door. "Please, don't make this any more difficult. You don't need a lawyer—you need a psychiatrist, which I'm not. If you'd like, I could give you the number—"
"No, thank you." She rose from her chair, keeping her back perfectly straight, and walked toward him. Mere inches away, she stopped and stared him in the eyes. "I'm not insane, Mr. Marshal. Just dead."
Even though his head still pounded with confusion, Nick couldn't hold back a laugh. "Lady, I don't know where Steve and Travis found you, but I have to admit, you're good."
Her hands rested on her small hips. "I assure you, nobody found me. I will give you one day to consider this, and I shall return tomorrow. I cannot put this off any longer. I need to discover who killed me so I can stop living in this...this..." She swiped a hand down the length of her. "This ghostly existence."
"Really, Miss Carlisle. The game is over. Where are Steve and Travis?" He peeked around the door into the hallway. Empty. But he was sure his friends were close by. He looked back at the woman, expecting her to give in. Instead, her expression remained impassive.
She scrunched her brow. "I'm afraid I don't know anyone by those names."
"Then who paid you to come here and tell me this story?"
She stomped her foot. "Mr. Marshal, I can promise you, this is not a story, and I was not offered money. I'm truly in need of your help!"
He motioned toward the door for her to leave. "Miss Carlisle, if anything, it was a pleasure meeting you. You've made me laugh, which is something I haven't done in a while."
She grumbled, turned on her heels, and marched out. The gentle sway to her backside—was that a bustle she wore?—made him widen his eyes. He shook his head. Miss Carlisle moved as if she had been born in that dress, as if it was second nature for her to walk without getting the skirt caught in her legs. His friends had certainly gone to a lot of trouble on his behalf to find such a well-trained actress.
He shut the door and ambled back to his desk, shaking his head. Now he had to wait for his friend's phone call. Nick had been one step ahead of them the whole time.
Sitting behind the desk, he glanced at the voice recorder. He clicked it off. Perhaps he'd missed something in their conversation, something that might give him a clue as to who the real joker was.
He clicked rewind. When it stopped, he pressed the button to turn it on and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms in back of his head. His voice boomed clearly, but only dead air space lingered in places where he knew Miss Carlisle spoke. Jumping to an upright position, he glared at the recorder. He turned up the volume and listened harder, but her sweet voice did not come through.
His attention snapped back to the door. A ghost? No way! He didn't believe in them. Besides, hadn't she felt real? Thinking back, he realized he hadn't touched her, but there had to be something concrete to latch onto, something to explain the whole thing.
Nick scowled. Fancy dressed women usually smelled fabulous. He inhaled, but didn't detect a scent. He jumped up from his desk, ran to the door, and pulled it open. The hallway was deserted and the elevator door closed.
There had to be an explanation, because no way was that woman a ghost.