Abigail held her breath and closed her eyes, focusing on feeling his hand. She had to feel him! For so many years, loneliness had filled her heart because of her uncertain future. Nicholas Marshal must be the one to save her from the unknown.
As he drew near to her, his musky, masculine cologne created a sensation inside her unlike anything she'd experienced before. Between that and his overwhelming powerful good looks, her stomach was in a constant flutter around him. Still, she'd met too many men in her lifetime that looked like perfection but were far from it. By now she knew the true beauty of a person came from within. She would watch carefully to see if Mr. Marshal was as beautiful on the inside as he was on the outside.
"No...way," he muttered. "I can't believe this."
Abigail's heart sank to her stomach. It had been a long time since she'd felt the warmth of another person's touch, and right now she wanted that more than anything. She wanted to experience the rush of heat from a mere stroke of a person's fingers on her skin. Feeling alive was on the brink of her memory, and she craved that again even knowing it would never happen.
Tears spiked her eyelashes, so she blinked them away. "Believe it, Mr. Marshal. I'm a ghost."
He stepped closer and swept his hands over her arms. Nothing solid touched her, not even a faint breeze. His hands kept moving as if to find a connection, but she knew he would feel nothing. "You can stop now, Mr. Marshal. You are not going to feel a thing."
"I know, but...it's so unbelievable."
When his hands moved in the direction of her chest, she gasped and crossed her arms. "Mr. Marshal, I can assure you that you will not feel anything there, either!"
He dropped his hands as a roguish smile broke across his face, making his green eyes sparkle. "Sorry. Guess I got carried away." He inhaled deeply and shook his head. "I still don't believe this. I don't believe in ghosts."
He loosened his tie a little more and unfastened the second button on his shirt. He stretched his neck as if something tight squeezed around it.
Feeling helpless, Abigail asked, "If you don't believe in ghosts, how do you explain your hands passing through my body?"
"Easy. I'm hallucinating. For some reason, I've conjured up a beautiful woman from the past. I still don't know why the woman in question is wearing clothes from the early 1900s, though..." he mumbled.
He thinks I'm beautiful? His statement surprised her, especially because she didn't dress as the women of his time. She looked nothing like that lady who had her hands all over him yesterday.
Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. "The stress over the past couple of years has caught up to me, and I'm going loony. That's the only explanation for all of this."
Abigail tapped her foot and huffed. "Mr. Marshal, you are not very humorous."
"I happen to think differently."
He turned and sank into his chair, threading his fingers through his thick black hair. She wished she could touch his locks—they looked so soft. She fisted her hands by her side, reminding herself she would never be able to touch anyone or anything again. Nervously, she chewed on her bottom lip, a bad habit she'd had since she was a little girl.
He lifted his gaze, and she noticed the deep lines etched around his eyes. So adorable!
"I must still be dreaming," he said. "I woke up this morning from a weird dream, and now I don't think I'm really awake."
She scooted to the edge of the desk and leaned closer, reaching out to touch him. Then, realizing the gesture was futile, she stopped her hand in midair. "I wish I could convince you this is not a dream."
"How?"
"I don't know. There has to be some way I can persuade you."
Mr. Marshal brought his face closer. Nervously, she sucked her bottom lip again. His emerald green eyes dropped to her mouth, making her heart beat slightly faster.
"You do that a lot." His voice came out husky and rich.
Dumbstruck, her mouth turned dry as if she'd been chewing on cotton instead of her lip. Her pulse quickened, the beat of her heart pounded in her ears. Strange to think she could still feel her heartbeat even when she was dead.
He drew an invisible line around her lips with his finger. "You do that when you're worried."
"I know. I've done that since my mother died."
"When you chew on your lip, it leaves a raspberry color. I've been studying you really hard this morning."
She smiled. "Just as I have been analyzing you."
Nick arched an eyebrow. "And how long have you been doing that?"
"A few weeks—since you started setting up your new office, anyway."
Nodding, he pulled at his collar again. Was he panicked or just nervous? She wished she could ease his mind in some way. Being afraid of her wasn't a good thing at this point. She must earn his trust.
He returned his gaze to her mouth. "I think it's cute the way you suck on your bottom lip. It makes me want to nibble on it, too."
Her heart leapt to her throat. What a bold—and improper—thing to say! So why did she like it so much? And why did her head fill with images of his lips on hers... "You are talking nonsense, Mr. Marshal." Her voice quivered. She tapped her fingernail on the desk. The longer he stared at her lips, the faster her finger tapped. She nibbled on her lips again.
"I think I know a way for you to prove you're not a figment of my imagination," he said.
She stilled her hand and inhaled slowly. "Indeed? How?"
"By...um...well, you can suck on your lip to make it a raspberry color, so perhaps you could do the same to me?"
Blood rushed to her cheeks and she thought her face would ignite into flames—a feeling she hadn't experienced since she'd died. Her heartbeat danced an unsteady rhythm, hammering like a runaway train. Yet, the idea wasn't that far-fetched.
His eyes twinkled as if improper thoughts swam in his head, also. Indeed, he was a rogue of the first order.
"You...you want me to...suck on your lip?"
Nick pushed away from his desk and stood. She rose with him until they were face to face. He pulled the shirt collar away from his neck again, exposing more skin. Oh heavens!
"As much as the thought of kissing you sounds enjoyable," he said, "I was thinking about something entirely different." He pointed to his neck and chuckled. "Go for it, honey. Give me a hickey. This ought to be interesting."
"A hickey?"
"Yes. Suck on my neck until you bruise my skin."
"Oh, that is utterly ridiculous." She released an uneasy laugh even as his deep voice sent heated tingles up her spine. As improper as the suggestion seemed, she still wanted to do it with every fiber of her being...or in her case, semi-being. "Why, I cannot even touch you. How am I supposed to draw forth a bruise?"
"I just want to see if it works." He shrugged. "What could it hurt?"
Fear and anticipation made her hands moist. She shouldn't do it, but she wanted to prove to him she was not a figment of his imagination. Would it work? What if it didn't? He'd think she was just a hallucination.
No matter how insane the idea sounded, she had to try. She had to prove to him she was real...well, as real as possible, anyway.
Taking a deep breath, she concentrated on her goal. While she'd been dead, she'd moved papers and objects just a little heavier, but could she do this? Would her newly-acquired ghostly skills allow her to make a mark on his neck?
She stepped closer. Once again, butterflies jumped wildly in her stomach. Swallowing hard, she leaned toward his neck. His masculine spice encircled her.
Closing her eyes, she smiled. Never in her life—or death—had she imagined doing this to a man, but if it would prove to him she needed his help, she'd try anything.
She opened her mouth slightly, putting all her concentration on bruising his neck. She sucked, just as if she was trying to draw juice from a stubborn melon. Although she couldn't feel a thing, she prayed something good would come out of their little experiment.
A low growl shook his chest. "Hmm...I feel tingles."
Her heart sped with excitement, and she concentrated harder, putting all of her effort into it. Her cheeks ached with the strain, but she continued.
A deep groan rattled in his chest. "It kind of tickles, too."
That's a good sign!
She pulled back and looked into his face. His eyes were closed, his mouth stretched in a grin. "Well?" she whispered. "Did you feel anything?"
He opened his eyes and touched where her mouth had been. Immediately, she noticed a red mark. Happiness shot through her, but she tamed it. Although she saw it, she needed him to see it, too.
Nick moved to the adjoining bathroom and looked in the mirror hanging on the wall. She followed behind him. When he caught his reflection, his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.
"I'll be damned... You gave me a hickey!"
She sighed. I did, didn't I? She relaxed her stiff shoulders. "Will you believe me now?"
"I...I..." He shook his head. "I should believe you. It's there, but..."
"But what?"
He met her gaze through the mirror. "But if you remember correctly, I think I'm loony, so maybe I'm just imagining seeing it there."
She growled and bunched her hands into fists.
A knock came upon the door, and he moved away from her and into his office. Her heart sank, and she wished she could convince him he wasn't losing his mind.
"My next appointment must be here." Nick glanced at his wristwatch. "Early."
Grudgingly, she sat back in one of his leather chairs. She wondered if she should disappear for his meeting. Although it didn't matter since nobody but Nick could see her, she knew it might be uncomfortable for Nick to see her, knowing his associates could not.
Then again, maybe this was exactly what she needed to do to make him believe he wasn't dreaming.
Nick opened the door and greeted the man standing in the hallway. "You're early, Mr. Moore."
The tall, portly, balding man nodded. "Is it an inconvenience? If so, I could return later. I just needed to see you now, since I've learned something about my wife that's important for my case."
Nick's gaze darted back to Abigail. She held her breath, waiting for his reaction.
"Um, well..." He looked back at his client. "No, this isn't an inconvenience." He opened the door wider. "Please come in."
The man walked in and sat down in the chair next to Abigail. As she suspected, the man didn't even know she was there.
As Nick slowly walked to his desk, his gaze moved from his client to Abigail. Confusion creased Nick's forehead. He sat behind his desk and linked his fingers, resting them on the desk.
"So, Mr. Moore, before we begin, could I ask you a personal question?"
The chunky man with the receding hairline nodded. "Of course."
Chuckling, Nick shook his head. "It's going to sound ridiculous, but..." he pointed to his hickey, "do you see this mark on my neck?"
Mr. Moore's pudgy cheeks turned red and he grinned. "It kind of looks like, um...well, I can see a small red mark."
"Does it look like a hickey?"
The other man's cheeks went from red to crimson. "Um, yes, a little."
"Well, I'll be..." Nick muttered and shook his head.
Abigail's hopes bounced once again. If she could hug the client, she would.
"All right," Nick continued, "back to what's going on with you." He cleared his throat and lifted his chin. "Tell me what kind of information did you discover that would help me with the case against your wife?"
As Mr. Moore explained how he'd followed his wife and caught her meeting with another man—he even had the pictures to prove it—Nick tried to focus on his client. Unfortunately, his gaze kept moving from the client to Abigail.
Mr. Moore stopped and glanced her way, and then looked back to Nick. "Is everything all right? Do...do you want me to sit in that chair? You keep looking in that direction."
Nick blinked and shook his head. Straightening his shoulders, he met his client's eyes. "Of course not. Someone is already sitting there."
Inwardly, Abigail groaned. Why had he said it like that?
Mr. Moore looked at the chair again, and then back at his lawyer. "Really? Who?"
Nick's eyes narrowed. "You don't see her?" He lowered his voice. "Do you see anyone sitting there?"
"No, Mr. Marshal, I don't. Am I supposed to see someone?"
Nick closed his eyes and shook his head. He chuckled, though Abigail knew it was more out of confusion than merriment.
"Forgive me, Mr. Moore. I've had a strange morning, and I think I'm still dreaming." He stood and walked to the window. He leaned against the smooth wood trim and crossed his arms. "Never mind that. Tell me more about your wife. I think we will be able to use those pictures in court."
Annoyed at Nick's attitude, Abigail grumbled loudly. Why did he still doubt himself, especially when the other man said he noticed the red mark on Nick's neck? Quickly—before he could see how upset she was, she stood and disappeared from his sight though she remained standing by the chair.
Nick blinked then scanned the room in obvious confusion. Soon, the lines of tension around his eyes and mouth softened, and he released a long sigh. Anger built inside of her, making her want to scream. She had finally found the man who was supposed to help her, and yet she couldn't convince him that he wasn't losing his mind.
Desperate times called for desperate actions.
The file on the top of Nick's desk drew her attention. Being dead had taught her a few things, and one of them was that she could still move things around as long as they weren't too heavy. Nick was far enough away that he wouldn't think he had bumped the file.
Keeping a close eye on him, she concentrated on moving the folder with her hands. Finally, the file shifted and then opened, and papers scattered across his desk. Nick turned toward the sound.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Marshal," Mr. Moore said as he placed the papers back in the folder. "I didn't think I had bumped it that hard."
Abigail frowned. Bad timing! Indeed, Mr. Moore had moved at just the exact moment. She would have to try something else.
Nick stepped away from the window and moved around his desk toward his chair. Abigail concentrated hard, hoping she'd be able to move something larger. Two steps before Nick reached the chair, it moved toward him, rolling right around him and toward the window. Nick gasped and fell back against his desk, his eyes not leaving the moving chair.
"What? How did that happen?" Mr. Moore asked as fear laced his voice.
"I don't know," Nick muttered. "There's no way I moved it, and there's no way you could have moved it."
Mr. Moore jumped to his feet, the color draining from his face. "I—I saw it move, but nobody was pushing it." He gulped noisily and backed away from the desk. "If I believed in ghosts, which I most certainly do not," his eyes darted from the desk to the chair, "I would think you had one in this office."
Nick rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous."
"You know, Mr. Marshal, I just realized I have another pressing appointment. I'll contact you later to reschedule."
Satisfied, Abigail folded her arms and smiled. When Nick scowled, she realized it was too soon to feel excited.
* * * *
Nick clenched his jaw as he swept his gaze around the room. His head was pounding again. "Miss Carlisle? You can come out now."
"I'm right behind you."
He spun around. True to her word, she stood by the window, looking just as real as Mr. Moore had, especially when he rushed out of the office only moments ago. A confident grin stretched across her face.
"I'm assuming you believe me now?" she asked in a low voice.
He nodded. "I do."
"You don't believe you are still dreaming...or that you're loony?"
"Not when Mr. Moore saw the same thing." Nick released a gush of air in a heavy sigh and sat on his chair, and then rolled it closer to the desk.
He really didn't want to believe her, especially since he'd never believed in ghosts. Sure, I'll indulge my delusional mind, and then call my psychiatrist friend in the morning.
Miss Carlisle walked around his desk and sat in the chair she had occupied before she vanished not too long ago. Nick looked into her eyes that seemed so bright with life, wondering how that was possible, since she was dead.
He gave his head a mental shake. "So, Miss Carlisle, now what? How do we proceed from here?"
She shrugged. "I don't know."
"It's so difficult to believe you're a ghost. I mean, you look real. You're as clear to me as the people I meet on the street."
"I also feel real, Mr. Marshal. I don't feel dead." She sighed and placed her hand on her chest. "I can still feel my heart beating. I breathe like I've been doing all my life. When I get embarrassed, the blood rushes to my cheeks like it did when I was alive. But inside, I feel empty, cold, hollow. And I don't experience pain."
He stood and paced the floor, running his fingers through his hair. Why was the forlorn tone in her voice tugging at his heartstrings? He couldn't help wanting to pull her in his arms and promise her everything would be all right. He wanted to assure her he'd find out who killed her. But how could he solve a murder that was over a hundred-years old?
Nick cleared his throat. "Perhaps we'd best get back to business. So tell me, who inherited your father's estate after you died?"
"I assume it went to my uncle."
He arched an eyebrow. "You assume? You mean you don't know?"
She shook her head. "After the funeral, my body—or my spirit, rather—was forced back to this building. I have been here ever since."
"You have no idea what's happened to your father's money?"
"No. A little while after my funeral, different people moved into this building. I had no clue what happened to my father's business. It was turned into some kind of jewelry store." She flipped her hand. "I assumed it was given to his brother, Alexander Carlisle, but I never saw him enter the building."
He sat on the edge of his desk, his leg mere inches from hers. "Just out of curiosity, can you leave the building?"
"No. There is an invisible force keeping me here."
"Where do you sleep?"
"I go to the attic. As of late, I have kept myself entertained by sitting in on meetings in the other offices."
Nick cocked his head. "How about mine? Were you here watching me after I'd thought you'd left?"
She nodded as her cheeks flamed. "You are more interesting than those others." She motioned her hand in the direction of the hall.
He chuckled. "Why couldn't I see you then?"
"Because I chose to stay hidden."
"Do you mean the invisible mode that you did a few minutes ago when Mr. Moore was here?"
"Yes." She grinned. "Sorry I made your client leave."
"I think he believes my office is haunted."
"It's not. I don't haunt."
"You don't?"
"No. To 'haunt' means to scare people because I do not want them on our premises. You, on the other hand, I want here in the office to help me."
He cupped his chin with one hand as the other supported his elbow. "What does it feel like to be dead?"
The sparkle disappeared in her eyes and she frowned. "You know the feeling right as you are drifting off to sleep?"
He nodded.
"That is what I feel like. Almost as if I'm the same, yet it's like I'm floating on air. Time passes quicker, too. I can go to sleep and when I awake, several months have passed. Even years." She heaved a heavy sigh. "I have been very lonely."
He shook his head. "Miss Carlisle, we need to make a list of every person closely related to you or your father—anybody that would have gained something from both your deaths." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "I don't have very much time before my next appointment arrives, so we have to hurry. I promise while I'm in between clients, I'll check into this."
Her grin widened, and she clasped her hands together. "Thank you, Mr. Marshal. You have no idea how much this means to me."
He winked. "Well, until I find out if I'm really having a nervous breakdown and going crazy, I'll enjoy putting my investigation skills to work again."