Aquamarine Read online

  “WHY DO YOU ALWAYS DO THAT?” SHEA ASKED WHEN she caught Teague staring at her for the second time in five minutes.

  “I like the way you look when you’re eating, as if every bite were an adventure.”

  She put her fork down. “But when you stare like that, I feel self-conscious. Like I have a milk mustache or something.”

  He stroked her upper lip with his forefinger.

  She shivered in response.

  “Nope,” he said. “No full moon.” He covered her hand, twining his fingers with hers. “I’m sorry if I make you feel uncomfortable, though.”

  Heat shot up her arm. She swiveled around to face him, intending to say, “Thanks for lunch. I’d better be going now.” Only when she saw his eyes, smoky with desire, she swallowed the words and brought her free hand up to caress his cheek.

  When he licked his tongue inside her mouth, a jolt of raw desire rocked her like a surge of electricity. Lightning strikes, she thought, dizzy with wanting him.

  Kissing Teague was good, no doubt about it. Kissing Teague was very, very good, but kissing Teague wasn’t enough. Not this time.

  WHAT ARE LOVESWEPT ROMANCES?

  They are stories of true romance and touching emotion. We believe those two very important ingredients are constants in our highly sensual and very believable stories in the LOVE-SWEPT line. Our goal is to give you, the reader, stories of consistently high quality that may sometimes make you laugh, sometimes make you cry, but are always fresh and creative and contain many delightful surprises within their pages.

  Most romance fans read an enormous number of books. Those they truly love, they keep. Others may be traded with friends and soon forgotten. We hope that each LOVESWEPT romance will be a treasure—a “keeper.” We will always try to publish

  LOVE STORIES YOU’LL NEVER FORGET BY AUTHORS YOU’LL ALWAYS REMEMBER

  The Editors

  To Warren

  Dear Reader,

  Happy Fifteenth Anniversary, Loveswept! I’m proud and happy to be part of the celebration. To be part of the magic.

  I remember when the first crop of Loveswepts hit the market fifteen years ago. I thought they were the best invention since sliced bread. Until that time I hadn’t read much romance, but when my friend Doris loaned me my first Loveswept, I was hooked. Back then, though, I never dreamed I’d be writing Loveswepts someday. Who, me? Follow in the footsteps of Kay Hooper, Tami Hoag, Sandra Brown, Iris Johansen, Fayrene Preston, Helen Mit-termeyer, and Janet Evanovich? No way.

  Yes way. This month marks the release of my third Loveswept. So I guess the moral of the story is: Sometimes, if you wish hard enough, dreams really do come true. (Of course, working your tail off helps too.)

  Loveswepts have always been different, special—category romances of substance. One avid romance reader from Ohio told me she reads Loveswepts because in addition to a terrific romance, they provide a memorable story. This month is no exception as Loveswept introduces a group of EXTRAORDINARY LOVERS, love stories with a little something extra. Extrasensory, that is. You know, “ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties/and things that go bump in the night.”

  I grew up reading Barbara Michaels, Naomi Hintze, and Marlys Millhiser, talented writers with a gift for combining paranormal elements with romantic suspense. So when the Loveswept editors first proposed the EXTRAORDINARY LOVERS theme month, I was excited, though as a new kid on the block, I never dreamed one of my stories would be chosen. But miracles do happen. (Or maybe it had something to do with my heretofore unsuspected telepathic powers. Choose mine. Choose mine.)

  In Aquamarine, Teague Harris convinces Shea McKenzie to pose as his fiancée, missing heiress Kirsten Rainey. But when does the masquerade end? Shea soon finds herself falling in love with Teague. The problem is, she’s not sure if Teague’s in love with her or with Kirs-ten.

  And she may not live long enough to find out. Someone on the Raineys’ private island knows she isn’t the real Kirsten because Kirsten isn’t just missing. She’s dead.

  Or is she? An aquamarine crystal cluster may provide the answer and help these extraordinary lovers find their happy ending.

  PROLOGUE

  May 1998

  Kirsten Rainey had been dead for almost seven years, dead and buried too, until an hour before, when Beelzebub dug her up. Luckily, despite his name, the black Lab was not in the least diabolical. He was, in fact, both sweet-tempered and intelligent, intelligent enough to understand and act upon the simple telepathic suggestions Kirsten planted in his brain. First Dig and then Take me home.

  He crept up the stairs of the Raineys’ summer home on Massacre Island one careful step at a time, a master spy of the canine persuasion. Three-quarters of the way to the top, he froze for a second or two in response to a muted howl of rage from the back of the house. Ruth Griffin, the housekeeper, must have discovered his muddy pawprints marring her immaculate kitchen floor.

  Hide, Kirsten told him. Hide before she comes after us with the broom.

  The Lab’s ears went down, suggesting he was well acquainted with the business end of Ruth’s broom. He tiptoed up the last few steps—or at least the dog version of tiptoeing—then padded stealthily toward Kirsten’s room.

  The door was open.

  Silent as a shadow, Beelzebub slipped inside.

  In the adjoining bathroom, someone was singing a slightly off-key version of “Bringing in the Sheaves” to the droning accompaniment of a vacuum cleaner.

  Under the bed, Kirsten told the dog.

  He dropped to his belly and wriggled beneath the bedskirt.

  At last, she thought exultantly. After seven years of limbo, she was home.

  The vacuum whined to a stop, but the singing continued, growing steadily louder until it too died away. “Holy moley! Look at that mud! Mama’s gonna throw a fit. Beelzebub, you bad dog, are you hiding under Miss Kirsten’s bed again?”

  Mama? The singer must be the housekeeper’s little girl, Glory, Kirsten realized. Not so little anymore, though. She’d be what? Fifteen? Sixteen?

  “Turn my back for five minutes to suck up a few cobwebs and you sneak in.” The eyelet dust ruffle was pushed aside and Glory’s face peered in at Kirsten and Beelzebub. Not surprisingly, she didn’t seem to recognize Kirsten in her present form. “Bub! What’re you doing under there?”

  The Labrador retriever cowered just beyond her reach.

  “Come on out of there, you.”

  As Glory lunged forward, he sidled backward to slither out from under the bed on the far side.

  “Doggone it, Bub!”

  The Lab whipped around the end of the bed, toenails clicking like a family of woodpeckers on the hardwood floor. He lost his grip on Kirsten in the fracas, but she knew he’d escaped when she heard the click-clack of his retreat down the stairs.

  “You better run, you worthless mutt. Better hope Mama doesn’t catch you, either.” Glory wound the vacuum cleaner cord and trundled the heavy machine toward the door.

  She can’t leave yet, Kirsten thought. I’m too vulnerable here on the floor. Suppressing a flicker of panic, she focused her mental energy. The crystal cluster vibrated, producing a low hum. Look down.

  “What’s that?” The girl spun around so fast that she tripped over her own feet and went down heavily on one knee. “Is someone there?”

  Nobody but us ghosts. Not that Kirsten was a ghost in the traditional sense. She couldn’t rattle chains or even appear as a chilly column of ectoplasm. She was, instead, a lost soul, the essence of her being transferred to the heart of the aquamarine crystal she’d clenched in her hand at the moment of death.

  As Glory shoved herself to her feet, she noticed the crystal, half hidden by the bedskirt. “Hey, where’d this come from?” She nudged
it with one finger. “Guess Bub must have dropped another treasure. Beats his usual decaying bird or half-eaten gopher.”

  Glory carried the stone to the window, where the late-afternoon sun sparkled off the crystal’s many facets. “Same color,” she mused. “Same exact color as Miss Kirsten’s eyes.”

  “Glory!” Ruth’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Have you seen that wretched dog?”

  Glory crossed her fingers. “No, Mama,” she said. She set the crystal on the nightstand next to a framed photograph of Teague Harris.

  Teague. Darling Teague. A flood of regret colored Kirsten’s thoughts. Attuned to her mood, the crystal emitted a low hum. Sparks of light rippled along its surface like splinters of icy fire.

  Glory, who was horsing the vacuum into the hall, paused on the threshold, whirling around as if she’d caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye. “Beelzebub, did you sneak back in?” Then her gaze fell on the stone and she sucked air in a wheezy gasp.

  The crystal glowed with an eerie incandescence, catching the sunlight and refracting it in a brilliant dazzle. It vibrated, reflecting Kirsten’s sorrow for what could never be. The humming grew louder.

  All the color leached from Glory’s cheeks. Her mouth worked, but no sound emerged. With a whimper, she fled, shoving the vacuum ahead of her. The door slammed shut, and Kirsten heard the key turn in the lock.

  Alone again, she thought. Though death had robbed Kirsten of touch, taste, and smell, it had honed her sixth sense to a keen edge. For some time now, she’d been aware of another, one whose very existence would throw the murderer off balance.

  The final showdown was coming. She could feel it building like a thunderstorm on the horizon. At long last, the murderer was going to pay. Then maybe, finally, she’d be able to rest in peace.

  ONE

  Two months later

  Teague Harris didn’t believe in ghosts or reincarnation or any of that paranormal stuff. So when he saw his former fiancée—his disappeared-without-a-trace-and-presumed-dead former fiancée—sauntering toward him on the carnival midway, he thought he was hallucinating. Or drunk.

  He was tired, no surprise since he’d been up almost twenty hours and had just finished a killer stint flipping burgers at the Kiwanis’ booth, but damned if he was tired enough to imagine things.

  He blinked. Twice. She was still there. Closer now. Which meant he could cross “hallucination” off the list.

  And as for being drunk … okay, he’d admit to a slight buzz. Earlier in the evening, before the fireworks, he and his foreman, Nick Catterson, had split a six-pack to celebrate the new contract. And yeah, that was about three beers more than he was used to drinking these days, but hell, he was a long way from bombed, certainly not so polluted he couldn’t trust his own eyes.

  The woman was scarcely ten feet away and the resemblance to Kirsten was uncanny. Same long dark hair. Same triangular face. Same easy stride.

  Just a few steps closer and he’d be able to make out the color of her eyes.

  “Hey, Harris! Sounds like congratulations are in order. I hear you got the nod on the Massacre Island job.”

  Teague turned to face Joe Merchant, Crescent County’s number one landscape architect and Teague’s main competitor. He liked the older man, respected his ability, but they were still rivals. Normally, Teague would have gloated a little about his victory, but right then all he could concentrate on was the Kirsten look-alike. “Yeah, thanks,” he said, and turned back to the midway. He had to see her eyes. Then he’d know for sure.

  Or not.

  The woman had vanished. He’d glanced away for what? Three seconds at the most? Yet she was gone. Nowhere in sight.

  What the hell was going on? Maybe he had imagined her. Or maybe he was drunker than he thought.

  Joe touched his elbow. “You okay, Teague? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  Shea McKenzie strolled along the midway, nibbling cotton candy and thinking what an idiot she’d been to drive two thousand miles to visit this mountain resort town just because of an old postcard.

  Two weeks earlier, shortly after her mother and stepfather had left on vacation, their home had been burglar ized. While Shea was clearing away the mess the detectives had left behind, she’d found among the papers scattered near the open safe a color postcard of Liberty, Idaho. Addressed to her mother and inscribed with a brief, somewhat ambiguous message, the card had intrigued her, not just because her mother had evidently deemed it important enough to keep in the safe, but also because the picture itself fascinated her. The photograph of the scenic little town nestled beside a lake and surrounded by rugged mountains had triggered a strange feeling of déjà vu, strange since she’d never been west of Chicago in her life.

  Shea had already been planning to drive to California to visit her godmother. Liberty was right on the way, she’d told herself. Why not spend the Fourth of July weekend enjoying the resort’s amenities while keeping her eyes and ears open for a clue to the identity of the woman who’d written the postcard?

  Enjoying, she thought. What a joke! Ever since she’d arrived in Liberty people had been giving her surreptitious sideways glances that made her wonder if she was walking around with lipstick on her teeth or toilet paper stuck to her heel.

  As she debated whether to return to her motel room—carnivals were no fun anyway when you were on your own—her built-in pervert alert suddenly went wild. Someone was watching her. Again.

  She paused on the fringe of a group in front of the shooting gallery and let her gaze drift casually over the crowd. He lurked in the shadows beyond the knife-thrower’s tent, staring at her.

  Being stared at didn’t usually concern her much. Shea was no busty blond beauty queen, but she’d attracted her share of attention since hitting puberty. There was even, she’d discovered, a select group of males who actually preferred slim, athletic brunettes. So it wasn’t staring, per se, that bothered her. It was the way this man was staring that had tripped her alarm. She felt threatened even though he was a good fifty feet away. His eyes seemed to drill right through her.

  Suppressing a shiver, she told herself she was letting her imagination get the better of her. The man was probably just an off-duty carnival worker with time on his hands. After all, Liberty ran more to wildlife than nightlife. But whatever his motive, that expressionless stare of his bothered her.

  Pretending a sudden fascination with distorted mirrors, Shea ditched what was left of her cotton candy and joined a family heading for the funhouse. She tracked the man in her peripheral vision and was somewhat reassured when he made no move to follow her inside.

  However, her anxiety level rose a couple of notches when she emerged ten minutes later to find him still waiting outside, lounging with a loose-limbed grace against the trailer that housed the taco vendor.

  Broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, he was dressed in faded jeans and a loose white tank top that bared muscular brown arms. His dark hair was cropped short, and a hint of stubble shadowed his jaw. Yeah. Tall, dark, and dangerous just about summed him up. He was the type who inevitably turned out to be the hero in the movies, but in real life probably spent all his free time knocking over 7-Elevens, starting barroom brawls, and making lewd suggestions to women caught next to him at stoplights.

  She wished she’d headed straight back to her room after the fireworks instead of trying to prolong the evening. Single women traveling alone were targets for crazies, according to her mother. And maybe, for once, her mother was right.

  Perhaps if she ignored him, he’d lose interest.

  Then again perhaps he wouldn’t. Even though she wasn’t looking in his direction, she could feel the man’s gaze boring into her. Dammit, what is his problem?

  Shea angled herself so that she could keep an eye on him without being obvious about it. All right, think, McKenzie! But it was hard to think when every nerve ending in her body was playing hopscotch.

  As she hesitated on the bottom step of the funhous
e, the man straightened and started to walk across the midway toward her.

  Adrenaline pumped through her veins. She dove for cover in a knot of lanky middle-schoolers.

  “Hey!” protested a kid she elbowed as she worked her way toward the far edge of the tightly packed group.

  “Watch it, lady!” said another whose toe she’d just stepped on.

  “Sorry.” She couldn’t see her stalker from there, which meant he couldn’t see her, either. She told herself that the thunder of blood pounding in her ears was the sound of opportunity knocking. Now was the time to make her move.

  The kids migrated en masse toward the carousel, but she split off from the group, squeezing between the duck shoot and the ring toss next door. The dimly lit area behind the booths was deserted. She ran toward the far end, dodging hoses and electrical cables.

  Breathing hard, she stopped behind the second-to-the-last booth to risk a quick glance over her shoulder. No sign of Tall, Dark, and Dangerous. With her racing heart still drumming out a hard-rock version of “The William Tell Overture,” Shea edged back between the two end booths and scanned the crowded midway in both directions. Where was he?